Preface

My very first real chef job in the early 1990s was in a charming little restaurant located in an old farmhouse on a rural highway in Ontario, Canada. I was the “morning and lunch chef,” and my job included baking all the bread, rolls, and desserts for service. This meant arriving at 4 a.m. five days a week and working solo until the rest of the staff meandered in at 9:30 a.m. I required all that extra time because I kneaded all the dough by hand—and that takes a long time. So, I gathered my ingredients, put a suitably rocking ’80s song on the boom box, and got to work. I can tell you that kneading bread dough is hard work—and excellent therapy if your life isn’t going well. You push and pummel, using every muscle in your shoulders, arms, forearms, and fingers to get the perfect texture. When you stretch it between your fingers, it is translucent. This is called the windowpane test, although at the time I didn’t know it had a name.