Men’s rising obsession
When Bill Freese left the world of corporate communications in Seattle 10 years ago to work in a grocery store on the island of Vashon in Puget Sound, he had one goal in mind -- to perfect his artisan bread-baking.
“I decided that since I wasn’t making a living at it, decisions would only be made according to what was best,” Freese explains. He wanted crusty, naturally leavened breads that would still be fragrant from his wood-burning oven when people took a bite. He didn’t care what it cost or how long it took.
That kind of devotion has led to a subscription bread service where people sign up for whatever Freese decides to bake each week, a partnership with a local cook to supply commuters with soup and bread for their evening meal and a rollicking party each summer for 200 to celebrate the patron saint of French bread baking, St. Honore.
It has also pushed aside his other interests -- music, photography and gardening -- because artisanal baking is demanding.
“Bread defines who I am and what I do,” Freese confesses. “There is something beautifully sick about it.”
Freese may be extreme, but according to Michael Jubinsky he is not alone. As Jubinsky travels the country teaching artisan bread-making as a spokesman for King Arthur Flour Co., the retired nuclear submarine safety engineer notices more men with a passion for baking.
Their professions range from truck drivers and metal fabricators to doctors and engineers of all ages. All are men “with a little different perspective on life. When I started teaching about 30 years ago, men sat in the back silently with their arms folded -- the designated drivers,” Jubinsky says. Now half of his students are men, and they are eager to talk about their obsession.
Though the bread machine may have gotten men into the kitchen, according to Jubinsky, once it “went the way of the fondue pot” many men realized the constraints of the machine and wanted instead to dig in and touch the dough. They also wanted to understand the process of baking.
For these guys it’s not enough to follow a recipe, they want to master the chemistry and then experiment with the formulas. They also like to acquire gadgets and compete at the highest levels of this challenging craft.
Many take professional-level classes at places such as the San Francisco Baking Institute, under master baker Didier Rosada. They share tips and techniques at websites such as the Bread Bakers Guild of America (bbga.org) and eventually many build an oven to the specifications of Alan Scott.
Scott, who sells his plans for wood-burning masonry ovens over the Internet and in his book “The Bread Builders,” is at the forefront of a movement that he sees as about much more than just a yen for good bread. In his mind, the practice of artisanal baking has the power to reconnect the baker with his community in an ancient and essential way. The men he meets at his oven-building workshops hunger to make something organic and honest with their hands -- the more work the better.
“Of course, it must be a challenge,” Scott explains, “or it really isn’t worth much.”
A lifelong lover of good bread, stockbroker Howard Kaplan began baking at his country home in Connecticut about 30 years ago. At first he baked because he missed the great bread he was accustomed to in New York and Paris. But now, with better bread available nationwide, he bakes for relaxation.
“I used to be a sailor, and once you leave the shore everything else disappears. Baking is the same. It is always the same pleasure.”
His pleasure has led him to apprentice at bakeries during his vacations in France; to attend Le Coup du Monde de la Boulangerie, the Olympics of bread baking, also in France; and to build a wood-fired brick oven on his Connecticut property. But his need for equipment didn’t stop there. After a few years of tending an oven that took 17 hours to regulate, the 70-something enthusiast went to the next step.
He installed a professional bakery complete with deck ovens and a temperature-controlled proofing unit in the lower level of his home. Mostly self-taught, Kaplan jokes that baking is a good balance to working in the financial markets. “At least with bread baking, I know what I’m doing,” he chuckles. He plans to sell a batch of 130 baguettes at a local farmers market.
Tangible results
For Dr. Lee Glass, 60, of Mercer Island, Wash., baking a batch of artisan breads each week offers a refreshing contrast to his medical practice where “things can go for years without resolution.”
Since discovering Joe Ortiz’s “The Village Baker” and getting hooked on artisan baking, Glass has learned that “bread must be the principal point of attention.” If he focuses completely on the process it provides Zen-like moments.
His process begins with mixing a pre-ferment (the natural starters that replace commercial yeast) on Thursday night and ends with baking off three oblong French batards and a baguette each Saturday afternoon for his wife and two golden retrievers. The dogs are hooked on his artisan breads.
Bread provides an important link to the community for Paul Skeffington, 60, in Colorado. After baking and cooking for his family for 40 years, the software developer now stokes his wood-burning oven once a week to supply not-for-profit pizzas and calzones to his small town of South Park. Townsfolk can place an order on Tuesday for a Friday night pickup, continuing a tradition that began when his kids were small.
“In my mind it’s all about knowledge,” says this lifelong learner who tossed out gender stereotypes long ago. “It’s about managing and manipulating a simple but complex process.” To those starting out, he cautions, “We’re all perfectionists. Let go and really experience the baking more. The results are always great. People love it.”
Rabbi Gary Greenebaum, 55, western regional director of the American Jewish Committee in L.A., agrees. “A fresh-made bread speaks on many levels. A bread that is still warm and fragrant creates more excitement than the most perfect store-bought loaf.”
A longtime home baker, Greenebaum likes to bring his celebrated challahs and breads to dinner parties.
But he doesn’t get the artisan thing. “It’s like those people went into overdrive,” he says of some bread hobbyists.
He knows where an obsession with a simple bread product can lead. One year he grew his own wheat for his Passover Seder matzo -- a step that even he admits was a little meshuga.