The first time I ever made flatbread, I halved every ingredient quantity except the salt. Since then, flatbread and I never quite got along. I found every conceivable way to ruin them—burnt, tough, undercooked, oversalted, bitter—flatbread and I didn’t gel. Then I found this recipe.
In my family, the men all got the bread-baking gene. When my family moved from New Zealand to America when I was five years old, we couldn’t eat any of the bread we found in the supermarkets (what did they put in it, half a pound of sugar?). Kiwi folk are stubborn, but very resourceful, so my father bought a bread-maker. Each Sunday morning, he faithfully measured flour, milk, dried yeast, butter, and perhaps an egg into the machine, and after church, it was a race to the front door to be the first to burst into the kitchen and breathe in the intoxicating scent of a freshly baked loaf.