I have apparently lost my baker's touch.
In Arizona, I was baking two loaves of bread a week, every week. Fantastic bread. Incredible bread. Big loaves, little loaves, English muffins, bagels. Beautiful, delicious bread.
In Vermont, I've made bread four times. Saggy, sticky, ugly bricks of bread. Ugly oatmeal bread, ugly millet bread, ugly plain-old-whole-wheat bread, and today: ugly leftover-grain bread.
I even tried not using a recipe, relying on my experience with dozens of loaves of beautiful, delicious bread to guide me. The yeast bubbled, the gluten stretched, the dough was supple and smooth as a baby's ass. I was pleased with myself and my non-recipe-following bravery. After all, I've been making cheese! And pickles! And pie, for goodness' sake. Plain old bread couldn't be so hard - I just had to be brave!
It rose once, rather more than doubling, and big chunks stuck to my hands when I punched it down. Undaunted, I reshaped it into a ball, let it rise again. Big chunks. Put it into pans, put them in the oven, where they sit now, not rising. Not rising at all.
Also: still no job, the cucumbers all turned yellow before they turned into cucumbers, and the last batch of sauerkraut smells funny.