Thicc Bottoms

My first go at baguettes
ended in tragedy

I did not know 
really know
what "proofing" meant

So how could I know
what under-
or over-
proofed looked like?

And so I baked
and baked 
and steamed with ice
and baked some more
and my long slender breads
emerged looking gorgeous
until I turned them over
and alas, they were hollow
like greyish dugout canoes
mocking me.

And so the next day
I my husband urges:
Go again, 
get back on the Baguette
Dust off your ego
and flour your mat.

And so it's 11:58 p.m. 
and I am
maniacally manifesting pastry
in my dim suburban kitchen
on a work night.

I pour the precious starter
I swirl the flours 
I set the bowl to "sponge" 
in an oven warmed 
with boiling water.

I set the timer and wait.
And when the sponge is ready
I slide it into the mixer
and I use the dough hook
to incorporate more dry flours
and psyllium powder, and
not the verboten husks this time,
and I pour the supple dough
onto the waiting mat
and I plump and pull 
and round the dough 
into a tight sphere
and because time is a thief 
and the bed beckons
I slice it into five wedges 
each of which I roll 
and pull and prod 
into yam-like masses, 
moist and full of promise.

And then roll each little 
tear-drop-ended log
through a dredge of ground sesame, 
nori and smoked Maldon sea salt
before I place them 
gently on parchment
like a quintet of milk-drunk babes.

And then I wait, again,
for the proofing, 
for the reaping of the oxygen
for the plumping of the dough
for the growing of my colonies.

And when I can 
hardly keep my eyes open
the next timer dings
and it's time for my 
American Black Walnut-handled 
French lame
and I slice, quite imperfectly, the 
overlapping "ears" or surgical cuts
along the top of each yam-y dough.

By now my oven has been running 
at 500 degrees Fahrenheit 
rolling in heat for an hour,
ready to support a crusty exterior
— if not my electricity bill —
my sliced and proofed pieces 
are ready to face the thermal music.

I place them in, "injecting steam" 
in six minute increments 
by dumping cups of ice cubes 
into an awaiting cast iron pan
on the base of the oven
to replicate the plumbed steam oven
I will one day own.

And now —I wait again! 
After changing the oven temp thrice
the appointed hour, 
the moment of truth has arrived.

I don my silicone-armored oven mitts
I pull the steaming baguettes from the rack
and I can tell at first glance, 
these are a premium batch of baggies.

I know I'm to leave them alone.
But again.
It's the wee hours 
of a work day
and so I sing to them:

I take out my cell phone, record myself:
♫ "Thicc Bottomed GIIIIIIIIIIIRLS!!! ♫
"THEY HAVE BOTTOMS!
"Look at tha—
"OUCH!
"They are five hundred degrees—
"UFGH!" [Gremlin voice]
"Anyway, I had to set four timers—
"One of which Siri didn't hear—
"And so I have taken them out
"On Vibes."

And on camera, I hoist one 
then another
with my newly singed fingers
and I thwack it satisfyingly 
on the hot rimmed tray
and I hear that hollow bellow 
echo back at me
indicating that all the toil 
was worth it.

I made a freaking flotilla of baguettes
all by myself
and I am basically a baking genius
and nothing can stop me now.


I erupt into cheers, 
sleeping family bedamned.