Amy Choate-Nielsen: The art of baking bread isn't what you think

So there I was, wishing I knew how to make bread.

I was convinced it would be too hard. I didn't have a bread maker. I didn't have a lot of time. And bread was quickly becoming the symbol of an unwanted companion that has lurked — mostly invisible but barely translucent — in the corners of my mothering experience as long as I have had children: the idea that, as long as I spent any time outside of my home being paid to do something other than raise my children, my parenting efforts were deficient.

There were few homemade cookies. Only one or two homemade Halloween costumes. And definitely no freshly baked bread.

Bread was a silver unicorn.

That is, it was, until Sharlene moved into my neighborhood.

She was smart, professional and poised. She travelled. She was a mom. And I admired the fact that she came across like a boss — probably because she had been president of Remember My Service Productions for the last 14 years. I was a little intimidated, but also impressed.

That was before I knew Sharlene Wells was a genuine beauty queen. She was Miss America, even, with a Wikipedia page and CDs and books with her name on them. My Life, LLC, of which I was COO, was small potatoes compared to that.

Nevertheless, one day I was talking to a friend about higher education and I told her I was thinking about getting a master's degree. When I said I didn't know what program to look for, my friend said, "You should talk to Sharlene about that."

And so I did. In our first conversation, Sharlene listened to me and encouraged me. She gave me good ideas on which to follow up. She didn't say anything about the translucent shape in the corner that makes me feel guilty about my parenting inadequacies. She told me how it took her years to finish her degree as a mom, but she did it. And I left the conversation thinking, anything is possible.

That alone is a great gift to give. But months later, she gave me another.

In another conversation, she offhandedly said, "Oh, I make a great artisan bread. It is so good. You'll never believe how easy it is."

At those words, my ears instantly pricked up. Bread? Easy? Not possible, I thought.

But then again — could it be?

Before I could temper my enthusiasm, I blurted, "You know how to make bread? It's easy? Really? You have to show me how. I mean it. I want to learn. Can you show me? You have to show me. Is it really easy? I don't have a bread maker!"

And a week later, she came to my door with a freshly baked loaf of bread, crispy on the outside and warm and chewy on the inside, just like the loaves I'd been sending my husband to get at the grocery store, time and again.

My daughter and I cut into the bread, sopping up vinegar and olive oil with a slice, slathering butter on another, drizzling honey on another. We ate half a loaf in one instant, and I knew I could do this.

Sharlene told me the things I needed: a Dutch oven, parchment paper and Saf-Instant yeast to get started. Then she called me and talked me through each step of mixing up the dough. I added salt, yeast, flour and warm "but not hot" water to a bowl, mixed it until it was combined, put plastic wrap on the top, and put it somewhere warm overnight.

The next day, Sharlene stopped by again to show me how to add flour to the dough to pull it away from the sides of the bowl, and dump it onto the parchment. I wrote on the back of the envelope I'd used to record the recipe, "Do not multitask when putting dough in Dutch oven," just like Sharlene said. And I laughed because trying to do three things at once while handling a ceramic-coated metal pot that had been baking in the oven at 450 degrees for an hour before I added the dought was a distinct possibility. Sharlene had already learned the hard way, by grabbing the lid once with her bare hand, while she held her phone with the other.

I baked the bread, and it was delicious. Then a few days later, I did it again, all on my own. I was so excited, I did it again and again, and my family loved it.

So, as it turns out, the silver unicorn was a myth. My translucent self-doubt is wrong. And, when it comes to being from a so-called loser generation, a helping hand goes a long way.

In fact, it is the gift that keeps giving.

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