Everybody who ate this bread squirmed and writhed and had to go to the bathroom frequently. I asked myself what went wrong. I made accidental Star Wars pancakes last week that came out great!
I had a jar of Kalamata Olives and a bottle of olive oil, and I wanted to go rogue. I went off the grid. I didn't use a recipe. In hind sight, this was a huge friggin' mistake.
I don't actually know how to make bread very well. I'm great at biscuits. Excellent at cookies. You don't even want to get into it with me about muffins. I'll rock your world.
But bread is something very different. Andrew makes bread. Not me.
It's kind of a schlep to bake. The kitchen is in use from 6 AM to 8 PM every day, so if the kitchen volunteers want to make anything, we use the spaces available to us, and try to stay out of the way. Between cooking classes, meals, desserts and remedies, the kitchens around here are pretty hopping, so I try to keep my baking and cooking to a dull roar. I mixed the bread dough in my bed, and it rose on the desk.
This bread tasted okay, but the side effects were grim. I used baker's yeast that failed to rise, so it was more or less... a toxin. The result of this is that it started to chemically react when it hit the large intestine, home not only to our colon, but also (in macrobiotics) our mental stability.
If I could do it all over again, I would probably not bake a loaf of bread that induced mental anguish in an entire commune.