Their daily bread

		The bakers at Farrell Family Breads work 'round the clock so you don't have to The night's frost has formed intricate patterns on car windows. It twinkles in the moonlight, and at 5 a.m. the air still feels like the dead of night. Few cars are out, and even the 24-hour grocery store looks gloomy and cold, the fluorescent lights a harsh interruption in the inky darkness. But next door, when Keith Cheeseman opens the doors to a small bakery, a blast of warmth escapes into the frigid air. Although it's been several hours since the bakers went home, the heat from the huge oven still hangs over the room. Baking is the final stage in this process that Keith begins every morning. His job, at Farrell Family Breads, near 81st Street and Yale Avenue, is mixing the dough for the rough and rustic loaves that are considered some of Tulsa's best. . They make a Tuscan white.
Mykie Simmons scores each loaf before it goes into the oven. The tray can be pushed onto the hot steel shelves, then pulled out quickly, leaving the dough to bake.		Levain -- a French sourdough that's more delicate than the American version. Baguettes. Challah. And dozens of specialty breads, like a feta-cheese focaccia. Today's dough will be formed into loaves this afternoon. But, first, it has to be coaxed. Guided. Folded. Left to rise. Only then will it be baked, starting about 5 p.m. and stretching through the evening. But, for now, it's time to start mixing.
		The Morning -- Mixing Cheeseman glides over the floor on the fine layer of flour that never seems to dissipate. It's like sand on a shuffleboard table or sawdust on a dance floor. Everyone slips through it. It settles on the cash register and on the displays of balsamic vinegars, olive oil and honey. It's on the big mixer that Cheeseman flips on to start blending his flour with yeast and water. The large beater and the rotating bowl make the only sounds in the room. A swishing. Cheeseman isn't a talker. He's a perfectionist, and he doesn't want his process disturbed, especially in these first few hours.
Keith Cheeseman is surrounded by tubs of dough. After mixing the main ingredients, he adds roasted garlic, cheese or peppers, then puts each batch in a separate container to rise.		At any given moment, he knows the temperature in the room. It's carefully noted, next to the temperatures for his water and flour. With a sketchpad nearby, he figures out complex equations for flour-water-yeast ratios. It's not boring, watching him concentrate like this. He's wound so tight, he almost vibrates.
		"It's a runner's high," he says, looking up from his measuring for just a moment. "You can predict what's going to happen before it does, because you're in a flow." He doesn't rush; instead, he's methodical. "The best bakers do the same thing over and over again," he says. "If I stop to think about it, I slow down." It's 7 a.m., and he's just now adding other ingredients to his basic mixture. It's a sensual process, as he sinks his hands into the wet, smooth dough. He adds plump roasted garlic cloves that melt under his fingers, crumbles of aromatic cheese and spicy peppers. He folds the dough from the inside out. Enveloping his hands in it. Over and over again. "We worship the dough," he says. It's an arrogant statement. You have to be arrogant to make great food, he says. Take his boss, Tom Farrell, a good chef who wanted to excel, who wanted to do something better than anyone else. His training came from a respected culinary school. He's worked in fine kitchens. It's where he learned that he could make bread better than anyone else he knew.
On a 75-pound scale, Keith Cheeseman measures ingredients down to the ounce. It's a meticulous process, and he knows the temperature of the dough, the peppers and the cheese and just how long this batch will take to rise.		As he grabs a baguette from a cooling rack, he slices it on the diagonal. "We live for this," he says, pointing out the bubbles that mar the inside surface. Uneven craters speckle the loaf, a sign of a good baguette. "We're like pyromaniacs watching a fire when we see this."
		The Afternoon -- Shaping It's almost time to start shaping the dough, and the sun is coming in so bright that Farrell has to tape a piece of paper to the windows to block the glare. He's still talking about the chemical reaction that can explain those beautiful holes in his breads. But it almost spoils the magic. He points to two different loaves on a shelf. Both round, one has a ragged plateau jutting up from the center. That's what he's after. Sitting on a store shelf, it's the one the customer will pick up. It's the art of shaping. He talks about forming gluten, but the description seems so technical. So maybe this will help explain why his loaves are so pretty. The language of bread is brutal. Kneading. Punching. But not here.
Instead of kneading, Keith Cheeseman gently folds the mixed dough before he lets it rise.		The starter -- a bubbling, shiny mass of flour and water that must be replenished every day -- is called the "mother." Farrell talks about bread only in nurturing terms. "You guide it," Farrell says of his dough, "but it grows by itself and becomes something much more wonderful than its parts." This dough is folded. Not punched.
		"Also saves a lot of carpal tunnel," he says. When it comes time to shape, the dough tells the baker where it wants to go. The baguette dough is so wet that it's merely cut into strips and left to rise in a rough log. All of this is done in front of the customers. Besides that fine dusting of flour, there are tubs everywhere. Some are holding rising dough and some just haven't been wiped out yet. It looks like a home kitchen after a marathon baking session. Times ten. Some customers walk in, wrinkle their noses and walk out again. But this atmosphere is exactly what Farrell was going for when he took over all of this space last year. "It's the kind of place I'd love to walk into as a food person," he says. "It's the back room you never get to see."
Bill Dunning forms the dough into rough shapes in the afternoon. T hese will wait in the refrigerator for the bakers.
		Evening -- The Baking The parking lot is empty again, and it's dusk when Mykie Simmons comes to work. The full moon is back and starting to rise. The heat inside the bakery is more intense this time. The roar of the oven makes itself heard over everything, even the thumping beats from the radio station playing in the corner. The atmosphere here is different at night. Not so quiet. Not so methodical. Not so reverent.
Mykie Simmons takes baked loaves of bread out of the oven at Farrell Family Organic Bread.
Photos by JOE IVERSON / Tulsa World