I decided that when I retired, I would go back to baking bread.  Today I made a couple bricks. They taste good but they are more like bricks than bread.  Here's the story behind my bread making experiences.

 

As you may know, I grew up in a family of nine children.  This was before the "one child policy" but even if it had been after the one child policy, my parents did not live in China.  When we moved to Arkansas, we didn't have much money, so we baked our own bread.  Even in the 1960s it was unusual to bake bread on a wood stove in a wood fired oven.  That's how I learned to bake bread.

 

One day, after I had learned this task, I was in a hurry.  So I started the oven and made a hot fire.  I thought, "I'll watch it closely and this way I will get the job done quickly."  Since the family was large I made six large loaves as usual.  Then with the bread in the oven I started playing in the yard.  After a while I looked at the stove, remembering I had better watch it closely.  One glance told me I had a problem.  Heavy black smoke was pouring out of the oven door. 

 

I ran over and opened the oven door.  Of course, I was too late.  After the bread cooled I thought I'd at least cut open the loaves. Surely they might have some edible bread inside.  I was wrong.  While the outer inch (2.5 cm) was black, the center of the loaves was so liquid it ran out in a small stream.

 

Later, after I was first married, I again made bread.  In truth, I mastered the art.  I could make great bread every time.  But that was the 1980s.  I've lost my touch.  I didn't do it right.  But I practice again and learn all over.