Of Bees and Bonnets

In the course of my life thus far I have burnt the candle at both ends for many reasons. These range from tossing and turning anxiously over an impending exam or presentation, to other, more pleasant forms of midnight exertions.  Yet until last night I had never before experienced cooking induced insomnia.

It was already late, a waxing moon flitting among cobwebbed clouds, by the time I had tucked my freshly kneaded dough into the pans and left it to rise.  I showered quickly and then tucked myself into bed, hoping for a good night’s sleep before an early start for work the next morning.  Alas, as I shut my eyes and tried to release the day’s care, obsessive thoughts and imaged jostled in my mind. Sourdough . . . bubbles . . . fermentation . . . had I kneaded the dough enough? . . . it was rather moist . . . would seven hours be enough rising time? . . .or too long? . . . perhaps the temperature of the kitchen was too cold? . . . where might the warmest spot in the house be? . . . maybe I should set my alarm for an hour earlier so I could bake the loaves before work? But that would mean I wouldn’t get much sleep . . . a mere . . . five hours!  For the love of Jesus, how is it already 12:45 AM?  So much for that 12 mile run on my training schedule for tomorrow. It would be an awful slog. Damn!

Scowling at the darkened world, I gave up trying to sleep and shuffled into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Glancing at the cloth covering the loaves I did a double take.  Was that a bulge under the tea towel? I hurried over and lifted the blue cotton. Yes! The dough had expanded measurably.  My mind at rest, I returned to bed and somehow slipped through the iron bars of consciousness into a weird world of dreams, most of which featured sourdough loaves in varying states of completion.

Several hours later as a I fumbled for another cup of tea, this one by the slate light of dawn, the dough had risen wonderfully. It bulged over the tops of the loaf tins, jiggling like jelly as I maneuvered them onto an oven rack. “Now please don’t let them over cook,” I begged my mother, as she wafted about the kitchen bedraggled by sleep and ensconced in a dressing gown. I fixed her with a glare that suggested epic tantrums and dramatic accusations should she fail to guard the loaves well. Then I rushed off to work.

One hour later I couldn’t resist. Picking up the phone I dialed home. “So, how are they?” I asked with bated breath.

“You’re calling about your bread?” Mum’s tone was half amused, half defensive. “Well they’re fine, of course.”

“They’re done?”

“Yes.”

“And they didn’t collapse during baking?”

“No.”

“Great. Fantastic. Thank God. I’ll see you later.”

I hung up the receiver and turned around. “My bread. It worked!” I beamed at a bewildered coworker. She gave me an odd look, pregnant with concern for my mental stability.

I shrugged. What's she looking at? Isn’t the pursuit of a heavenly loaf of sourdough cause enough for sleep deprivation, anxiousness, and general obsessive behavior? Well, come to think of it, perhaps that is a debatable question.

On The Rise

I was totally and utterly wrong about one aspect of developing a sourdough starter. The mixture does not in fact become, as I so wildly imagined, stinkier with each passing day.  At least my batch has not proceeded along these lines.  After a few days of building stink, this starter sort of settled down to a gentle aroma, giving off an air reminiscent of wine and damp forests.  When I sniffed it this afternoon, before adding the wheat and kneading it into a dough, the gray-brown liquid smelt almost desirable. Huh? Let’s hope this tamed odor is a sign of life rather than death in the yeast department. There were bubbles, certainly, but these too appeared rather subdued and lethargic.

Tomorrow is judgement day.  I have just finished kneading and shaping the dough and it is now safely ensconced in loaf pans and covered with the inevitable damp tea towel.  As sourdoughs as slow risers—the lazy bastards—I will leave it overnight and hope for the best. If all goes well I should have two magically plumped loaves to bake tomorrow.

Heavenly Stink

The fetid gray slop smells as dubious as it looks. On the surface a sea of bubbles glisten. Dipping a spoon into the depths reveals more bubbles, tiny orbs that hiss gently as they are stirred, like the frothing saliva of a beast lurking at the bottom of the bowl. A sharp sniff is sufficient to inform me that this batch is coming along nicely. Fermentation is most definitely an acquired taste, one I am still learning to love.

The principle of bread is the symbiotic relationship created between flour, water, and yeast--a threesome made in heaven. The first two create structure while yeast provides the animation, the leavening. Without flour and water we’d have no bread; without yeast it would be a miserable bugger of a brick to eat. Of course there are other forms of leavening, baking soda being the most common chemical agent we use today. But personally I find that one tires of soda bread. It tends to have a marked metallic aftertaste and a predictably boring texture, fine as an accompaniment to lamb stew now and then, but you know what they say about variety? My sentiments precisely.

So we are left with yeast. And so wonderful have these micro-organisms proved that humans adopted them long ago and have clung on passionately ever since. From a crusty French baguette to a loaf of German rye, yeast is present in the million manifestations of this basic foodstuff.

Most of our modern loaves are produced by activating baking yeast and coaxing it to a dinner date with flour and water. Yeast’s preferences are predictable: it loves warmth, moisture, and sugar. Give it these three and it will blossom in minutes. True sourdough, on the other hand, is a more elusive creature, requiring far greater patience and persistence. Courted carefully, however, it produces what is in my opinion a far superior loaf: a complex depth of flavor impossible to achieve with quick-rising cultivated yeasts. Furthermore, as sourdough relies on wild yeasts the resulting loaves are distinctive--their flavors unique to the locales in which they are prepared, capturing the nuances of place. It is a rebellious and poetic bread, defiant in the face of ever more regimented, institutionalized food systems; it resists homogenization.

Back in the kitchen it is day four in the making of my sourdough starter, the first and most important step to creating a good loaf. The “starter” is a simple mixture of rye flour and water. So far the recipe could not be simpler: in a bowl mix equal portions of these two ingredients into a soupy batter, then cover with a damp towel and leave in a cool, dark place. Each day, for the next six days, add a cup of rye and enough water to maintain the soupy consistency. Pour the mixture into a clean bowl, dampen the towel again, cover, and return it to that cool, dark corner. This slow yet simple and virtually effortless process is crucial in attracting wild yeasts and “culturing” the starter. Each day the mixture should appear bubblier and stinkier than before. So it is not wonder that today, upon sniffing my starter, I reeled back shielding my nose and simultaneously danced a little jig around the kitchen. Just a few more days and this slop should acquire a truly magnificent, awe inspiring stench.

Jealousy is the Spur

To honor the launch of this blog, I wanted to begin with a project that epitomizes this particular time and place. It is high summer here in the Pacific Northwest, all sun-burnished grasses, sparkling lakes, and cool evergreen woods. It is the season that compensates for those other nine months of perpetual drizzle and leaden gray. So I cast about for a symbol of summer bounty. It had to be blackberries. They are everywhere, lining country roads, sprawling across patches of wasteland, and clinging to edges of forests. And although they are not strictly Northwest natives, having jostled their way into our ecosystems with their European bearers, they are now a dominant feature of our landscape. If you can't beat them, you might as well eat them!

And so yesterday, after a bleary-eyed, ever so slightly hung-over start to the morning, I set out in search of the ubiquitous Himalayan blackberry. Alas, nature remained stubbornly uncooperative. The bulk of berries are were yet ripe and all I could capture, after a half hour of swearing at thorns and spiders, was a pitiful handful—hardly enough to adorn my breakfast granola.

Back to the drawing board, in this case the kitchen. I sat mulling over a suitable first project . . . something symbolic, something magnificent . . .

“Look at this, darling.” Mother came bustling over. “Look how well it rose.”

I glanced down as she held out a domed, sandy brown loaf. “That’s sourdough?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t.

“Yes! Impressive, isn’t it.”

“Fantastic.” I was seething inside, attempting to keep the jealously from my voice.

This is it. I thought. This is the bloody limit. I am the foodie in this family. I am the baker. I simply must make a better loaf than that! And just like that, fueled by envy and competitive zeal, I found my first project.

Then, with great effort I swallowed my pride and inquired with studied casualness. “So, uh, so which recipe did you use exactly?”