I lost my Guardian Angel of Bread this month. That wasn’t his name, of course. Jimmy, an old-school Italian gentleman, was (it still seems strange to write that) the father of one of my best friends. I met Jimmy when I was in my twenties, a newly minted adult trying to figure life out. By becoming friends with his son and his wife, I was immediately swept into a wider circle that celebrated all of the most important things — good conversation, good wine, and good food.
Jimmy was a great cook. But it’s his bread I remember the most. On one of my first visits, he pulled four perfect, heavenly-scented golden loaves out of the oven. At that stage of my life, I was still a Wonder Bread girl.
“You baked that?” I asked in awe. In reply, he handed me a loaf and a stick of butter. Both disappeared quickly.
After that, I made sure to come around regularly. There was almost always an extra loaf just waiting for me. But Jimmy was a man who prized self-reliance. After a few months of this, he cut me off.
“It’s time for you to learn,” he said. I ignored him and hoped he’d forget. He didn’t. At last, breadless for several months, I reluctantly agreed, and that’s how I found myself spending a whole Saturday on a crash bread-making course. We started at the beginning, measuring water and yeast, letting it proof, mixing in the flour and salt. Jimmy eschewed recipes, which made following along difficult. He also wasn’t a fan of using a mixer, claiming that bread was all about the “touch.” Easy for him to say — he’d worked construction for years, and had the strength and stamina of someone much younger.
I, on the other hand, was quickly exhausted. Kneading was not my thing. He’d given me my own ball of dough to work with, and looking at its diminutive size and raggedy shape, he shook his head.
“My people come from potatoes!” I protested.
“Not the way you eat bread,” he answered.
I waited, holding my breath, for the bread to rise. Jimmy’s came out perfect, round and golden. My little loaf was flat, misshapen and dark brown — not in the good way, either. How could it be so different from his?
“Some people just don’t have the touch,” he said sadly.
He sent me home with one of his loaves that day — a pity loaf. He never asked me to bake with him again, but over the years he’d often get up as early as five in the morning to have bread ready for me when I visited.
For my part, I gave up on bread baking, aside from one year when my daughter was in third grade. We baked bread every Sunday for two months, and wound up with one acceptable loaf that she took into her classroom. Triumphant, I called it quits.
Until a few weeks ago. I’d been out with Jimmy’s son and daughter-in-law, and they’d told me again what we’d known since the summer: Jimmy was sick, and barring a miracle, unlikely to recover. But he was stable and likely to live at least a few more months. When our friend called home to check on him, he was the same old Jimmy. “Ta-da!” he answered the phone. “I’m still here. Surprised?”
That weekend, still thinking of Jimmy, I pulled out the old bread recipe I’d cobbled together from watching him. I made a loaf, and it turned out the way it always did: flat, misshapen, and slightly burned. As a joke, I posted a picture on Facebook. The reviews were not good.
“If Jimmy’s in any extra discomfort, tell him to blame me,” I texted my friend. “I tried to make bread today.”
I didn’t hear back for a few hours, unusual for him. And when the text came, it was from my friend’s wife. “Jimmy passed,” it read. “The world already feels less joyful.”
****
Under my Facebook post, a friend had shared what she called a fail-proof, no-knead bread recipe. I thanked her and ignored it. I had no heart for failing again, now that there was no way I’d ever learn to make Jimmy’s bread.
But a week or so after the funeral, she posted a picture of a loaf she’d just baked and asked me if I’d tried the recipe. It was easy, she promised, and delicious. Her photo showed a beautiful loaf, crisp and golden, just like Jimmy’s. I decided to give it a try.
The recipe was so simple, I couldn’t believe it. I mixed flour, yeast, and water — no proofing — and left it to rise overnight. I gave it the barest semblance of a knead, let it rest, then stuck it in the oven in a pre-heated bowl. In my head, I told Jimmy that I knew it couldn’t work — it was too easy. He didn’t answer.
A half an hour later, I took out a perfectly round, beautifully crisp and golden loaf. It looked delicious. I thumped it — it sounded like real bread. I sliced it, admiring all the little air pockets, spread it with butter, and passed it around. It disappeared in moments. My family then spent the rest of the evening looking for Whole Foods receipts, convinced, based on past experience, that there was no way I could have actually made it myself. And I thought of Jimmy and wished he could have seen it.
So what does this have to do with writing? Simply this: Sometimes even the people who love us the most, who have nothing but our best interests at heart, have a method that isn’t right for us. Sometimes we have to break away from the “recipe” of writing or publishing — the traditional path everyone takes, the hot genre, the stock narrator or story line — and find our own way. If it’s something we really want, there’s a way to get it done — even if that way isn’t the one the experts have laid out. It might not be easy, it might take us years, but eventually we will persevere. And when we do, we can raise a glass (or our published book) to those who showed us what didn’t work, but loved us anyhow.
Your turn — what writing recipe have you followed that didn’t work for you? What advice have you received, given with the best of intentions, that was wrong for what you were doing?
(Also, bonus — bread recipe here. With thanks to Rebecca Burrell for sharing it.)
Now, thanks to tinyCoffee and PayPal, you can!Wish you could buy this author a cup of joe?
About Liz Michalski
Liz Michalski's first novel, Evenfall, was published by Berkley Books (Penguin). Liz has been a reporter, an editor, and a freelance writer. In her previous life, she wrangled with ill-tempered horses and oversized show dogs. These days she's downsized to one husband, two children and a medium-sized mutt.
First, so sorry for your loss, Liz. I was talking to a young writer last fall, and it occurred to me that I was the last person to be offering advice to someone starting out. I wouldn’t wish my recipe on anyone. After all, it takes a freakin’ decade, and involves tossing out a lot of failed loaves.
But it also came to me that perhaps there is one part of it that I can offer up as hard-won wisdom–something I believe every new writer must face (whether they think they must or not). It’s the importance of patience. And a dash of humility always helps.
Thanks for the wonderful read for a blustery Friday morning, Liz. Coffee’s on me.
Thank you, Vaughn. Humility and patience are the best recipe.
Beautiful story and an EXCELLENT analogy. Wishing you many perfect loaves ahead (and thinking it’s time to get out my Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day cookbook again).
Thank you for reading, Erin. Good luck with the baking!
Pity loaf! How I laughed at that. Until I remembered that this bread lover’s best efforts have come out of a bread machine.
It is today a primary intention with each new project to deliberately correct or reverse some trope of the story type I’m following. My fear is falling into a genre trap. The new project must be a critique and answer, a claim of ownership rather than a pledge of servitude to a genre. Otherwise, why write it?
The lesson for me in your post is that solutions can be simple. Others’ ways work for them but those are not my way, cannot be my way.
Gonna try that recipe! We’ve been perfecting biscuits at home with an eye to tackling scones but, heck, why not shoot for bread? Great post.
I think sometimes as writers we overthink, Benjamin. Simple is definitely the solution sometimes — but simple can also be deceptively difficult to implement.
This recipe is a miracle — definitely give it a try.
Oh, this was beautifully written. Thank you for the reminder that there are many recipes- for bread, for writing, for our lives.
Thanks, Lisa. Words of wisdom for these days. No recipe is one size fits all.
What a heartwarming story. I’m sorry for your loss.
Though your Angel of Bread did have your best interests at heart, the worst possible thing he could have said to you that day was, “Some people just don’t have the touch.”
It was your first attempt at baking bread from scratch–of course it fell flat. A “touch” is something you develop with practice. Nobody is born knowing the balance between too wet and too dry, not elastic enough or overworked, under-risen or over-risen. Personally, it took me more than ten solid years of bread-making before I could consistently turn out loaves to my liking.
Similarly, the first time somebody writes a book or a story, it is going to fall flat. I see red when I hear about creative writing teachers telling their students they “just don’t have the talent.” They’re students! They’re still learning! Did you come out of the womb a literary genius, Herr Professor Wonderful? If you did, I want to see those James Joyce knockoffs you scribbled in high school. Go on, hand them over. I’m sure every one of them is worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
Hi T.K. I definitely believe that some people are born with certain aptitudes, whether for writing or baking or what have you. That said, hard work and practice can definitely take you far — in some cases, further than those who are born blessed with certain skills.
That was lovely. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for taking the time to read.
I got so caught up in your story about Jimmy and bread making, I forgot this was supposed to be about writing until the last paragraph when you artfully brought it around. Beautiful way to make such a valid point. Thank you!
My friend has been in my heart and on my mind all week, and I’m so glad I had the opportunity to write this, Densie. Thank you for reading.
You reminded me it’s time to make bread. My last attempts have been sub-par. The sponge is too dense no lovely air pockets. I wonder whether this Vermont air is too dry and I need to add more water?
My creative writing has also been sub-par. It’s time to shake it up a bit. A little dash of something to get to sparkle again.
Thanks for this post, Liz.
My family STILL does not believe I made this bread — they are insisting on a repeat performance they can witness themselves this weekend. (And after what I’ve served them before, I can’t say I blame them.) I hope this recipe works for you!
Heartfelt post, Liz, thank you, and I’m sorry for your loss. Think of how lucky you are though, to have such a connection with someone. Every single time you see bread, for the rest of your life, you’ll think of him. How awesome is that?
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT (Gift of Travel)
Denise, this was such a lovely comment — thank you. I will always, always, think of Jimmy when I bake bread. (But perhaps not every time I eat it, since bread is one of my downfalls.)
Thank you for sharing such a beautiful story, good analogy.
I’m glad I’m writing in this era. It’s so exciting. Genres are blending and there’s no one right way to get your work out there to readers.
You article reminds me to focus on the story. And maybe I’ll bake some bread. ❤😊
Some of my favorite stories are so hard to stuff in a single genre, Val — and that is what makes them so interesting. Good luck with your story, and with the bread!
What a lovely story on all levels!
Thank you for reading it, Dianne!
Bread is one of my favorite things in the world. I love to make it, and I love this particular recipe.
Thank you for such a lovely meditation on your old friend. It was beautiful. God speed, Jimmy.
Bread in any form is one of my favorite foods, Barbara. And if there is a heaven, my friend is there with a great bottle of red wine and a perfect loaf. xxoo
This is a wonderful post, Liz; and I’ve already printed out the bread recipe. Thank you!
There were plenty of times when I let writing advice — about something specific relating to my work or something like a formula meant for many — push me off track. I’m a huge advocate for hearing criticism and new ideas, but at times I’ve let other voices take up majority stock in my creative process, which has always been the wrong choice for me. A writer should always be able to hear her own voice, first — at least in this writer’s opinion.
Thank you for sharing Jimmy with us. I’m sorry for your loss.
This:
“A writer should always be able to hear her own voice, first…”
All my craft immersion has led me back to this basic truth.
So true, Teri. And yet as writers we often manage to let others drown out our inner voice. But their voices are not our story.
You had me at Guardian Angel. I’m so sorry that Jimmy didn’t get to see you bake a beautiful loaf but I have a feeling he’ll pray for you. Requiescat in pace, Jimmy.
This was a beautiful tribute both to him and a good lesson to know oneself. This is why I do appreciate the many voices (both dead and alive) who’ve taught me a little of this and a little of that and helped me to become the writer I am today.
I’m printing out this recipe. I’ve been oven-less since Christmas but as soon as my husband fixes it, this is what I’m going to bake. Thank you for a lovely piece.
I definitely need his prayers for baking bread, so I hope you are right! Good luck with your oven, and thank you for reading.
Oh what a fascinating post. Love it! My mom is the queen of bread baking, every loaf heavenly. She says success has a lot to do with the quality of the flour and the temperature in the oven. Kneading is key; she prays to the bread angels. My mom could show you why the flour is old or too mealy; take a sniff. Testing the oven beyond what the degree says on the dial isn’t enough. Put your hand in the oven and feel it on your wrist. Your analogy of writing and bread baking is a good one. For writing, I have a problem with people giving writing advice on fiction when they’ve never sat down and written a full-length novel. Lots of “teachers” out there but if they’ve not experienced first hand how to create characters, develop plots, and explore the actual execution of writing narration and description, their advice comes off so mechanical. I learn so much more from a writer who has experienced the quality of a storytelling and unafraid to thrust a hand in the oven.
I think there are some people like your mom who are born with — or learn early enough — the skill of baking, so well it becomes intuitive. Others like me have to work harder for it, but that doesn’t mean we won’t succeed. The same holds true with writing.
I never thought in my twenties that I would write and sell a novel — I didn’t feel I had lived enough to have something to say. But being unafraid to ‘thrust a hand in the oven,’ as you so eloquently put it, is an important part of the process. You may get burned, but you’ll be smarter the next time around.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Liz. But what a beautiful memory to have.
You’re memory brought up a memory for me. When we first came to America from the UK, my mother always did the family baking. She had a trusty rolling pin with red handles. One day the rolling pin broke, but being the feisty Irish woman she is, she didn’t stop baking. She took a sterilized glass baby bottle of my little sister’s and rolled the dough out with it. I can still see the sunlight through the window making the bottle gleam as she rolled… the pastry was delicious.
I never thought about that life lesson in the terms of writing, consciously, but I’m sure it has influenced some of my decisions craft-wise.
You’re so right. Writing is not a one size fits all deal. It requires the disciplines of craft, and the innovation of creativity…
What a lovely memory, Bernadette. Thank you for sharing it.
So glad you shared this story about your friend and bread and writing! The no-knead bread was a first, successful loaf for me, as well. For the writing, still working on various ways to approach a couple of stories but this article is encouraging for me & other writers to keep trying! :)
Good luck with both the baking and the writing, Patricia. Glad you found my essay encouraging — as writers, we all need all the encouragement we can find!
Liz, this is exactly the kind of piece I needed to read today. You’ve conjured up memories around nurturing, fellowship, health, and the time to indulge in all three. Plus a lesson on writing. Thank you so much.
Thank you for helping me shape it into a readable ‘loaf’ Jan!
Beautiful post Liz. I lost my mother in August. Your tribute to Jimmy reminds me of my childhood years and coming home to the smell of fresh bread wafting down the driveway. Mom made the best bread, the best pie and the best cinnamon rolls – every Friday. She tried teaching me but I could never achieve her results. Eventually I came up with my own method and knew I had it right when my kids waited like vultures in front of the oven to gobble up the first loaf.
Your post comes at an opportune time. My current WIP is a departure from the familiar and I was feeling a bit hesitant about ‘doing it my way’. You’ve given me the encouragement I need to go ahead with confidence. Thank you.
I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s never the same, baking from a loved one’s recipe after they are gone, but it is a way to keep them close. I’m glad you found your own recipe, and I wish you the best of luck with your writing.
Liz, that is cruel clickbait—to see the image of that loaf, and not to eat some, warm and clothed in butter! Your pal Jimmy sounds like one of the good guys, as warm and fresh as his bread—you do his memory right in this gentle piece.
My girlfriend Alice frequently bakes bread, and that’s how heaven smells (undoubtedly more so, because Jimmy’s in the house). Thanks!
Thanks, Tom. He was a great guy, and I’m lucky to have known him. He raised a great family, so there is still a part of him here. But I will miss him — and his bread!
Oh, yes! This question came just at the right time.
I’m one of those seat-of-the-pants writers. When I get out of my own way the characters come forth, I tap into my raw voice, and sail through a manuscript.
Then: revision.
Oh, how I struggle through revision. I try to mold my work into what the greats advise: the 15 beats, the four plot points, the snowflake method, the…oh, you get the point. And my brain doesn’t work that way. It just doesn’t.
I came to the conclusion that my way of rewriting is to rewrite the whole novel, or specific scenes, from memory. The best parts will stick. The story will start to shape itself. All that reading I’ve done throughout my life is imprinted in my brain. I just need to trust the process, and my voice. It’s the only way my writing thrives.
So thank you for bringing this question to my attention.
I hate revision, Diane, and your method sounds amazing but daunting. But also completely right. I wish you the best of luck with it.
I’ve been making bread for 30 years now. My wife did it when we met, and she taught me, and now I make all of our bread, every weekend. I should experiment more, I have a lot of books.
As for my writing, I’m entirely self-taught. I knew what i wanted to see, I knew what I didn’t want to see, and I developed a technique for creating a book I wanted to read. The biggest problem I had was all the advice about queries focusing on the hero and the conflict and the antagonist and the this and the that, when my style of writing is to have multitudes working on their own plots and somehow braiding it all together. There’s no query advice for books like mine.
Marc, I’m so impressed. You must be a master baker by now. I wish I had that skill.
And writing the book you want to read sounds like the perfect recipe. If you are true to yourself, I don’t think you can do anything else. I wish you the best of luck with it.
How I love bread and hearing stories of amazing people AND fulfilling the desire to write my story the way I WANT TO WRITE IT. Great post. Like others have said, it made my day.
Thanks so much, Beth. I’m so glad it made your day– I was worried it was a little too ‘outside the box’ even for here, but writing it really helped me process how I’m feeling. I appreciate the generosity of the WU community in letting me do that.
I adore this post. Just adored it.
Thank you, Kat!
What a lovely tribute to your friend, Liz! I am so mediocre a cook that my two sons took over the cooking when they were only 10 & 12. My one comfort was that I’ve always been good at making bread, ever since I taught myself using a book when I was only 20.
Learning patience and dealing with failure were good lessons for me. As a bonus, my boys came to believe and have proved that they can learn many things from a book, including how to build a house and make a mandolin.
The least helpful writing advice for me has been the claim that you too can write your book in 30 days or whatever. My process is slower and involves a good deal of spiraling into the story, discovering layers and images and allusions.
Like my boys, though, I’m grateful for help and advice from others, whether I end up using it or not. I’m especially grateful for what I’ve received here at WU.
Thanks, Barbara. I’m so impressed that you can bake bread from a ‘real’ recipe. And I’m grateful for the advice I’ve received from WU as well.