Yesterday, I baked our first loaves of bread in the new oven. My fears— or concerns, if you will—turned out to be completely justified. In my old oven, it took thirty-three minutes to bake the bread to golden perfection. I decided to see if the same was true for my new oven. It was not.
The bread, although not burnt, came out a little too dark, a little overbaked, and thus a little dry. As Clif and I mostly think of bread as toast—oh, how we love toast—this dry bread is not as bad as it sounds. However, next time I make bread, I will bake it for thirty minutes and go from there.
The next challenge will be gingersnaps, which I’ll be making on Monday to bring to my friend Esther when I go for a visit on Tuesday. In my old oven, eleven minutes gave you a perfect cookie that had a little snap and a little chew all at the same time. I’ve decided to try nine minutes.
All this fussing about time reminds me that my old oven and I were quite the team. I knew just how long it took to bake family favorites. Now, I will have to recalculate the times for many of the things I bake.
No wonder the old stove seemed like a friend. People and their tools, their equipment, and their appliances can form quite a bond.