LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
of wood. No, it must be mixed soft, and must not lie motionless an instant on the board, or it had to be scraped up with a knife. We remembered hearing that Boston bakers pound the board with the dough, instead of kneading it, and this method we adopted, though it required the alertness and dexterity of an East India juggler. We would clutch the mass, raise it high toward heaven with one hand, with the other dash flour on the board, then bring down the dough, swift as lightning snatch it up again, dash on more flour, whack it down again, and so continue to the bitter end. I tell you, Nell, when bread was mixed in the Ranch of the Pointed Firs the china rattled and the earth trembled.
Mixing was not the only trouble; the bread wouldn’t rise after it was mixed, though swathed and swaddled in wrappings until it assumed such proportions that we had to call upon the men to carry it to the fireplace, where it much resembled an enormous hassock cosily placed in expectation of a call from some Brobdingnagian of the hills. When the time came to make it into loaves, one would naturally expect to find some slight recognition of these warm attentions; but no,—there it was, as inert and unresponsive as a mixture of Portland cement or putty; and when baked it had a crust as thick as fir bark and as hard.
One day while moulding it into loaves, I thought, “I’ll just use some of this for biscuit, and give this
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