Week 4. 19:50 on M 27 May 2019. Parque Ambue Ari, Beni province, Bolivia

Attention: it’s something that a lot of people desire. Gaining attention is the motivating factor behind savvy to stupid decisions made by people everywhere. Yet despite the seeming importance of being in the spotlight, attention is something I’ve never wanted.

Obviously I can’t speak for my entire childhood, but I honestly can’t think of big moments in which I wanted the attention on me. In fact, I’ve spent a fair bit of time trying to keep away from anyone’s attention.

While growing up in Walled Lake, Michigan, I played softball in the Interlakes Girls Softball League for 8 years. I never wanted my parents to come watch my games. Once I was at the age when the coaches would give the schedule to us players rather than our parents, I kept my schedule from my parents until they pretty much demanded it.

“Steph, we want to support you!” they’d say.

“I don’t want you there! Support me by not coming!” I’d respond. I wasn’t just being mean to my parents; I truly didn’t want anyone watching my games. Of course, my parents tried to sneak their way into watching by just appearing in the bleachers, but I noticed and deliberately avoided looking their direction. I’m pretty sure I glared at them when they waved.

When my friend Manda got me into running and introduced me to the idea of cross country, I thought it was great. A sport in which athletes run down trails and into the woods, out of sight for most of the race? Brilliant! Did I want to run for track and therefore be seen as I ran in an oval in front of spectators? No thanks.

I even followed my brother’s lead in avoiding the spotlight; I split my time during my years of being a theatre techie between being a spotlight operator and working backstage for productions at my high school. The point of us was to not be noticed.

Tonight was one of the rare exceptions to that predilection for keeping away from attention. With today being Mother’s Day in Bolivia, the request had gone out yesterday for volunteer cooks to prepare today’s meals so that the 2 Bolivian ladies who always cook lunch and dinner for us could have the day off with their families. Being starved of kitchen time in the last 3.5 weeks, I quickly volunteered my services.

I was assigned to lunch rather than dinner duty, so my thoughts of baking bread to go with Antoine’s chili dinner seemed to be disappearing. Then my stubbornness gene that I’ve grown to recognize in recent years said otherwise. We never, ever have fresh bread at here, and the bread we have at breakfast is on the stale side. Talk of bread had been growing in the last week, and I could no longer ignore the talk.

By interrupting the start of the staff meeting, I learned where to find yeast in our extremely sparse kitchen.

“Are you going to make bread??” Gabi asked.

“Maybe? … I don’t know if it’s going to work,” I responded. I was thinking of making my Grandma’s field camp famous refrigerator pan rolls, but I was skeptical of how successful I’d be with limited measuring devices, a drastically different environment, and a completely unknown oven.

“Steph, yes, please make bread!” Dani pleaded.

How could I say no to a room of now hopeful faces? At 13:15 during the lunch hour, I decided to give my bread baking skills another whirl. In theory I wouldn’t end up with anything worse than stale bread, right?

Since I was supposed to be working in quarantine, which is just the name of the area that houses the aviary, starting a little after 14:00, I had to juggle tasks. Combining ingredients for the bread was the first challenge; in such a humid environment, the dough refused to take a “kneadable” shape. No matter how much flour I added, the dough remained a thinner, more sticky substance than I needed to knead. As a result, I’m clueless as to how much flour ended up in the triple batch of rolls I prepared.

“How’s the bread coming?” I was asked as I exited the kitchen at 14:25.

“Ohh, I don’t know. Don’t expect much!” I replied.

I took Elise to quarantine and explained the basic post-lunch clean-up of the area and told her I’d be back after I kneaded the bread.

Kneading was a whole separate task of this bread making process. The kitchen countertop was absolutely not clean enough for kneading dough, so I’d need to knead in the broad-bottomed bowl. Unfortunately the bowl would not stay put on the countertop while I kneaded the still sticky dough. Antoine employed a kitchen trick of twisting a towel to put underneath the bowl, but that didn’t work. I tried sitting on a bench and keeping the bowl between my legs and 2 heavy food buckets, but that didn’t work. Ultimately I put the bowl on a kitchen stool next to the wall and kneaded toward the wall so that the bowl had nowhere to go.

Like I said, it’s a basic kitchen. How on earth could this bread possibly turn out?

Leaving the dough to rise on top of a cabinet in the corner of the kitchen, I headed back to quarantine to see my amazona parrots, other birds at 15:20. Elise and I visited with the birds before heading out to machete some fresh vegetation for their enclosures.

After cutting all the fruits and vegetables for the birds’ dinner, I returned to the bread at 16:40. Although the dough hadn’t doubled in size, I punched it down and prepared two 12”x36” baking pans with over 50 rolls. Back into the corner they went to rise at 17:05, and back out I went to feed the birds dinner.

Elise and I had the birds fed and tucked in for the night by 17:20. More surprisingly, I was showered and in my non-work clothes by 17:45. Usually I don’t even have the time to shower in daylight, which is gone by 18:10! Upon returning to the kitchen I learned the oven had just been lit, so the bread could go in in about 10 minutes.

“Mmmm your bread smells good, Steph!”

“You’re making bread? I’m going to have some anyway and pay for it tomorrow,” the gluten-intolerant Mel (a kiwi!) said.

“Maybe it’ll turn out,” I still responded. The dough was raw, but it had risen in roll form in the pans, so I had some hope. I just didn’t want high expectations to lead to broken hearts.

My final minutes of self-induced torment began when the rolls went into the oven at 18:10. When I looked inside at 18:15, I saw a beautiful sight. The risen tops of the rolls were like the lit beacons of Minas Tirith offering hope. (Okay, maybe I shouldn’t listen to LOTR while writing late at night. Haha) Antoine joined me at the oven to check out the rolls when I removed them from the oven at 18:17.

Beautifully golden brown on top and fluffy insides greeted us as we checked one. “Looks like you did it,” grinned Antoine as he gave me a high five. I breathed a sigh of relief and let the smile slide all the way across my face as I savored my first homemade bread since leaving Antarctica in mid-March. It was sooooo good.

As the first pan of rolls made its way into the kitchen, people began gathering.

“Ohhh, Steph! Those look amazing.”

“How many are there? Can we have one now?” the crowding faces asked.

Before dinner was on the table, Antoine and I received a round of applause. Throughout dinner I heard people call out my name to say thanks. Since there weren’t enough rolls for 2 each, I was asked how we’d deal with doling out the remaining rolls. One person suggested I take them and use them for bribery, but I loved seeing everyone’s happiness too much to do that. Gabi said to cut them into smaller pieces and let people fight for their extras.

“I need to get that recipe from you,” said a few people.

“Can you teach the ladies how to make bread?”

As I finished eating, Gabi sat down next to me and said, “Thank you so much for the bread! People are saying you need to make bread once a week.”

Usually I keep pretty quiet at meals (and all the time) here at Ambue Ari. I let people have conversations around me while I listen. However, tonight it seemed like everyone had a comment for me and was trying to pat me on the back, and I loved it.

At times like these, I don’t mind receiving so much attention at all. I love seeing and hearing people’s satisfaction when they eat what I’ve baked or cooked. I can’t resist bread out of the oven, and yes, I did save 2 rolls for myself to eat in coming days. In general, I bake for everyone else, though. Knowing I’ve fulfilled a desire and done a damn good job of it makes me so proud of what I’ve mostly taught myself about bread baking over the years. My first loaves were dense and unrisen, but tasty; now co-workers ask me to promise that I’ll put my baking to actual use sometime in the future.

Maybe my bread is just good enough to satisfy hard workers who are starved for good bread and will take whatever they can get, but their satisfaction and gratitude make my bread legitimate and make me proud to be recognized as the bread baker.

**Update from 15 June**

Yes, I have been baking bread weekly. I have a half day off from animal care once a week just so I can bake bread for the people. I’ve maybe never felt so appreciated as I do here. 🙂 This week I made a quadruple batch! That’s quite the amount to knead.