Of Brook and Bread Trout

by nick sirianno

Of Brook and Bread Trout: I

It’s the cool mornings that call out to me to head to the kitchen, sample the breads, croissants, chausson aux pomme, or slide into waders, tie on a dry fly, and play with the hatch on Chautauqua Creek.  My sister is a baker, she knows all about letting different types of dough rise, how to handle yeasty breads versus baguettes, what surfaces work best for kneading.  She has all the right tools for making trophy scones, perfect crusts, and airy croissants—a nice oven, good rolling pins, and baking sheets heavier than a college chemistry textbook.  She’ll tell you that a bakers morning begins at three a.m. The dough rises the night before, and the morning is spent shaping, kneading, baking, and cooling that days product, or catch might I call it for I am a fly fisherman.  With early mornings, quiet, and filled with the aromas that we have both grown to love, her, the bakery, me, the stream, we share the patient rest of waiting for the rise.

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