The loaf leaned to one side. Its surface had split in a place I had not planned, and a small section of crust looked like it had attempted to escape the rest of the bread. I considered cropping the photograph until the evidence disappeared.
Then we cut it. The crust made a pleasing noise. The middle was soft enough for the sandwich I had wanted. Butter melted into a warm slice. Nobody at the table asked whether the profile would perform well in a square image.
I had been using a photograph as the final verdict on a bake. A useful photograph can record shape, color and a crumb I want to compare later. It cannot tell me everything about how the bread tastes, keeps or feels in use. Mine had become a tiny courtroom in which appearance always testified first.
The notebook now has separate spaces for the outside, the inside and the next day. A handsome loaf can disappoint after breakfast. An awkward one can become excellent toast. Both outcomes are worth recording.
I still photograph bread. I enjoy the light on a kitchen board and the irregular pattern of crumbs. I just take the picture after deciding what the picture is for. A record of a useful experiment has different needs from an attempt to impress an imaginary audience.
That lopsided loaf vanished quickly. Its photograph remains in the notebook, uncropped, beside the line that mattered: good sandwiches, try the same mixture again.
There is a peculiar relief in allowing a thing you made to be useful before requiring it to be photogenic. I recommend enjoying that relief with butter.
A thought worth keeping?
