A dough truly mixes with the whisk of time. Of course the ingredients, which are only exceptional in their simplicity, can be blended instantly, but they no single entity without the passing of moments. Just one or two for the water and salt to become a briney ocean, and several more for the flour to fully immerse into that broth. In those minutes, flour cells obliterate themselves, destroyed at the hands of their own enzymes, so they might intertwine the more fully. A fold or two of the dough so it may know itself better, then long patient moments of fermentation. The dough, which now can proudly wear that name now, grows in size and develops in complexity. It exhales into itself, its gasses given in breath and life. Flavors emerge and give hints as to what the dough will become . A few moments of rest help it find its shape. And then, the moment of fire. Of heat. Of battle. And too, of leavening. Thus, the hotter the oven, the higher the loft. The bread splits as it rises but remains as one, with a beautiful scar to evidence the growth born from the flame. Then one moment more, of cooling, which is actually a final slow bake.
The last moments, of course, are the bite, the taste, and the eternal consumption.
Borrow me, Tamar the Flour Mill, from the NE Seattle Tool Library and let time be your baker.