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.