The true housewife
makes her bread the sovereign of her kitchen--its behests must be
attended to in all critical points and moments, no matter what else
be postponed.
She who attends to her bread only when she has done this, and arranged
that, and performed the other, very often finds that the forces of
nature will not wait for her. The snowy mass, perfectly mixed, kneaded
with care and strength, rises in its beautiful perfection till the
moment comes for filling the air-cells by baking. A few minutes now,
and the acetous fermentation will begin, and the whole result be
spoiled. Many bread-makers pass in utter carelessness over this sacred
and mysterious boundary. Their oven has cake in it, or they are skimming
jelly, or attending to some other of the so-called higher branches of
cookery, while the bread is quickly passing into the acetous stage.
At last, when they are ready to attend to it, they find that it has
been going its own way,--it is so sour that the pungent smell is plainly
perceptible. Now the saleratus-bottle is handed down, and a quantity
of the dissolved alkali mixed with the paste--an expedient sometimes
making itself too manifest by greenish streaks or small acrid spots
in the bread.
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