By Kyle J. Hayes
Some smells don’t just linger—they haunt. Not in the way a ghost knocks a glass off a table, but in the way they slip beneath your skin, settle deep in your chest, and curl around your ribs like something half-remembered.
For me, it’s bread.
The scent of dough rising—warm, yeasty, patient—takes me back to a church that no longer smells like bread and a family that no longer lives above it. The first name I knew it by was “True Faith.” Later, it became Penson Temple Church of God in Christ, named after my great-grandfather, George Penson. It sat sturdy in Chicago, a place where Sundays were long and the sermons longer, but there was always a rhythm to it. Scripture, music, prayer… and the rising of bread.
Upstairs, above that sanctuary, lived my grandparents. And on certain Sundays, before the Holy Ghost stirred the congregation, something else stirred first. A batch of dinner rolls, tucked under a clean towel, warming in the silence. The smell would drift down into the pews, enveloping the base of the pulpit, blending with the scent of lemon polish and the aroma of old hymnals. And somehow, in that mingling, the church felt even more sacred.
That recipe is gone now. Nobody wrote it down. Nobody learned it.
We lose it to time, just as we lose so many things we assume will always be there. We didn’t think to ask, or we didn’t know it mattered. And now, when I bake bread, I am not trying to recreate it exactly. I know I never will. What I am doing is chasing a feeling. Trying to knead memory into flour, water, and salt. Trying to bring back the ghost of a moment I didn’t know I needed to preserve.
In that pursuit, I’ve learned more than I expected. About precision. About patience. About what happens when you try to rush something sacred.
And I found this recipe—a humble, sturdy loaf. Nothing fancy. Just good sandwich bread. The kind that makes you feel like the house is full, even when it’s not.
My Favorite Sandwich Bread Recipe:
- 350g (1.5 cups) warm water
- 3g (1 tsp) instant yeast
- 530g (4 1/4 cups) bread flour
- 12g (1 tbsp) sugar
- 20g (1 1/2 tbsp) olive oil
- 125g (2/3 cup) ripe poolish or sourdough starter
- 11g (2 tsp) salt
To Make the Poolish (Preferment):
- 65g (about 1/2 cup) bread flour
- 65g (about 1/4 cup) water (room temperature)
- A pinch of Active Dry yeast
- In a small bowl, combine the flour, water, and yeast.
- Stir until the ingredients are fully incorporated into a smooth, wet dough.
- Cover loosely with plastic wrap or a clean towel.
- Let sit at room temperature for 24 hours or until bubbly and fragrant.
Once your poolish is ready, use 125g (about 2/3 cup) of it in the recipe above.
Instructions for the Dough:
- Combine all ingredients in the bowl of a stand mixer with a dough hook. Mix on low for 3 minutes until just combined.
- Increase to high and mix for an additional 6 minutes until smooth and elastic. (To mix by hand, knead vigorously on a floured surface.)
- Place the dough into a bowl, cover it, and let it rise at room temperature for 2 hours.
- After 30 minutes, do a strength-building fold. Cover.
- After another 30 minutes (1 hour into rise), repeat the fold.
- Let rise for the remaining hour.
Prepare a 13″x4″x4″ Pullman loaf pan by oiling it with olive oil or butter.
- Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and gently de-gas it with your fingertips.
- Shape into loaf and place seam-side down in Pullman pan.
- Cover and let the dough rise for 1 hour or until it has reached 3/4 of the height of the pan.
- If using the lid, slide it on before baking. If baking uncovered, lightly score the top of the cake.
- Bake at 425°F (218°C) for 40-45 minutes. Remove the lid after 35 minutes if the top is covered and brown.
Cool completely before slicing.
The bread will speak for itself. But it will also say more if you let it.
It might remind you of a kitchen you haven’t stood in since you were eight. Of someone who made space for you in a world that didn’t. Of a church that held both gospel and gluten.
I bake to remember. I bake to reclaim. I bake because the world is loud, but bread rises in silence.
And sometimes, that silence smells like home.
By Kyle J. Hayes
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