Like good music or beautiful words . . .

"The noise from good toast should reverberate in the head like the thunder of July."
- E. V. Lucas

Returning to bread, as I mentioned in the last post, my first loaves of sourdough have been drawn from the oven and I now have enough bread to last me through a prolonged siege. It’s kind of ridiculous.  The last batch of starter was more soupy than normal so I ended up adding mounds of whole wheat flour to achieve the right consistency of dough—soft and very slightly sticky.  Even so, perhaps I got impatient and failed to add quite enough flour because the resulting loaves, while wonderfully flavorsome, were slightly too dense and not as voluminous as I’d hoped. Still, it is virtually impossible to achieve a light loaf with only rye and whole wheat flours; these lend themselves to a hearty, earthen loaf instead.

Despite my love of a northern, nut-brown bread, I know that after chomping through a couple kilos of this stuff I’m going to be craving something lighter. So next batch I’m moving on to a mixed, granary style loaf.

Yesterday I had some sourdough for breakfast. As it warmed and caramelized in the toaster, that familiar, inebriating aroma filled the kitchen.  What is it about the smell of toast that is so evocative? Is it merely the bodily recollection—as with many foods—of childhood? And yet there seems something altogether more powerful at work when it comes to toasting bread.

Curious, I scanned the web for leads on these phenomenon and came across an interesting BBC story on the subject (it makes sense that Brits would be particularly attached to toast as it is an all-pervasive part of their breakfast table). "Toast brings out the child in us," say Cardiff experts

Whether chemistry, memory, or other factor is at work, I admit to an undying love of toast, specifically toasted brown bread topped with butter and either marmalade, marmite, or a potent homemade jam.  As the interviewees mentioned, it is warming and comforting to eat.  And then there is that gratifying crunch that E. V. Lucas so wonderfully describes.  Like good music or beautiful words, toast is nothing less than existentially nourishing. 

 

Chutney Mania

Little did I know, stirring together an aromatic mixture of fruit, sugar, vinegar, and spice, that I had stumbled on a family obsession.

“What are you up to this afternoon?” my flat mate Stu asked, wandering into the kitchen.  It was a grey drizzly Sunday, ideal for a leisurely session in front of the stove, steaming up the kitchen and filling the air with fragrant smells, a perfect afternoon for chutney.

“Ah,” Stu exclaimed, “you must be an Adams if you’re making chutney!”

I paused, confused. “Oh yes, “ Stu went on, “the Adams’s are mad about the stuff. They have it with everything. Chutney and pickles, they love ‘em all.”

When I thought about it, I had noticed a prodigious amount chutney and pickles when I last visited my aunt and uncle in Wales. In fact it was there I’d tasted pickled walnuts—unknown to your average American palate—for the first time.  My cousin had about half a bottle’s worth with his meal. It was all beginning to make sense.

Stu’s observation was confirmed when, not a day later, I received an email from my uncle Chris.  It read as follows:

Rachie,

We were very pleased that you are becoming a chutney enthusiast.

The attached is the recipe for probably the best chutney you will ever taste.  A. Mollie is Rosie's Aunty (not a real Aunt) Mollie.  Aspinster, sadly no longer with us who captained the England Ladies cricket team for many years in the 1950s.

Love

Chris

A day later I received an email from my cousin (he of the half jar of pickled walnuts) complaining that, as he is currently exiled from his native England, he is forced to make his own chuntey. There is nothing of sufficient quality in the length and breadth of the United States. Even via mail order from Virginia. Now that is dedication.

So there I was thinking this was a popular British fixation only to discover that my own extended family is perhaps uniquely affected by chutney mania.

Auntie Mollie’s recipe came in the form of a scanned page of loopy writing describing instructions for an apple and tomato chutney.  It looks intriguing and I intend to try it soon. Meanwhile, all I had at my disposal on that rain-washed Sunday were apples, onions, and an impatient urge—clearly genetic I must now conclude—to try my hand at the craft.

The process was wonderfully simple, involving nothing more than chopping the apples and onion, tossing them into a saucepan with all remaining ingredients, and cooking until thickened. And the result, while I’m sure falling short of A. Mollie’s chutney, was definitely satisfying: a pleasant balance of fruit, spice, acid, and sugar . . . perhaps ever-so-slightly too sweet.

Today my chutney and bread making came together at lunch. Simple, quick, and eminently satisfying: a thick wedge of sharp English cheddar and generous layer of chunky apple chutney crammed between two slices of nutty, wholegrain sourdough bread.

Borough Market

In order to begin chutney making in style, I decided to pay a visit to Borough Market. Technically speaking I could easily have bought the necessary ingredients from Sainsburys, but I felt that this option lacked glamour. Besides, I’d heard so many eulogies on this wondrous open air market, it was time to see for myself.

Borough market is situated just south of London Bridge, in the Southwark neighborhood. It is a venerable market, some say dating back to Roman times. Where legend ends and history begins is hard to tell but given the market’s location, nudging up to the river Thames, it is not surprising that it has been a thriving center of commerce for hundreds of years. Today it doubles as both a wholesale and retail market, the former open during the wee hours of morning when only those dedicated and industrious chefs are mad enough to be awake. The retail market however is clearly geared towards a more leisurely bunch, open in the middle of the day and boasting not only produce, meat, and dairy, but also Spanish tapas, artisan coffee, fine wines, posh cheeses, and a plethora of other delectables to tempt the wondering foodie.

 
As I entered the market, I shoved my hands firmly into my coat pockets. “Now look,” I said to myself, “don’t even think about buying anything frivolous. You’re here for a kilo of apples, one onion, and a cup of Monmouth Coffee, for research purposes, naturally.” (Before leaving Whidbey Island and my beloved UBCC coffee, I had done serious research on where to find the best caffeinated brew in London. The answer was clear: Monmouth Coffee Company had, by most accounts, the most beautiful beans in town.

They certainly had an eye for aesthetics, I reflected, standing in the slow moving coffee queue. Doors flung wide, the interior boasted a beautiful layout in rich brown hues. The center of the room was taken up by two long communal tables and in the middle of each were several enormous pots of jams. The tables themselves were littered with crumbs, coffee cups, and papers, and surrounded by customers, chatting, reading, and sipping away.  Pastries jostled for space on a counter at the back, baristas moved rhythmically through the motions of packing, pouring, and steaming milk, while chalk boards behind them romantically depicted the journey of beans from tree to cup.  The scene was admirably constructed and shamelessly alluring. More importantly, I decided, taking a reverent sip off a double short americano (called a “long black” in London lingo), the coffee itself was exquisite. Monmouth, for all its hype, certainly delivered the goods. 

After coffee I wandered wide-eyed around the market, fighting the urge to buy everything in sight. There was a stall selling unctuous olive oils, there was a chocolate shop (I couldn’t resist buying just one bar—silken, midnight-black 85% cacao content).  On one corner a handsome, ruddy cheeked guy was ladling sangria into plastic cups for his customers, two fashionably dressed young women who looked as though they’d already had a few too many, despite the early hour. Overcoming the urge to join these ladies in a midday tipple, I wandered off only to find myself in front of an equally distressing pork pie stand. Panic was beginning to settle in as I scanned the market, desperate to get away from temptation. How easy it would have been to spend half a month’s rent on pork pie, chocolate, and premium Italian olive oil!

 

I withdrew to the relative safety of the produce area, took a few deep breaths and bought my apples and onion. Done. Now all I needed was to make a dash for the exit without any mishaps.  On the way out I was halted by a whiff of something smokey and slightly spicy . . . . chorizo rolls: a soft, floury bap encasing a chunk of hot chorizo sausage, piquillo peppers, arugula, and a drizzle of olive oil, £ 3.50.

It was lunch time after all. Couldn’t argue with that.

Cheers for Chutney

I have not been in England more than a few weeks, but already I have noticed several intriguing peculiarities. Top on my list are a) a penchant for standing in line, or “queuing,” for no apparent reason, i.e. queuing ten deep in front of one ATM while a few yards away another is free; b) apologizing at any and every opportunity, even if the fault is clearly not theirs, and c) a habit of conducting business not in coffee shops, as Seattleites do, but in pubs . . . counterproductive, one might think, but a custom of which I wholly approve.

On the gastronomic front, I must add to the list a vigorous enthusiasm for chutney. They slather it on sandwiches, burgers, and curries of a sorts, and usually provide an army of different chutneys choices to go with chicken or pork. There are the classics, such as mango, apple, cranberry, and onion; then there are more elaborate concoctions such as pineapple, fig, and ginger; spiced beetroot and orange; pear and dried apricot . . . the list is endless.

The British passion for chutney is imbedded in the country’s imperial history. Just as the Brits raided, appropriated, and promptly bastardized such foreign refinements as tea, coffee, and sugar, they did the same to chutney. The word itself comes from the Hindi “chatni,” meaning “to taste” and is used to describe a wide range of sauces and seasoning preparations. From smooth to chunky, sweet to spicy, chutney in its native India was and still is a common accompaniment to many a meal. Traditional chutneys however were freshly made from seasonal fruits and vegetables—a far cry from the often sticky, hyper-sweet versions that you find on supermarket shelves today. And yet before I am too hard on the my forebears, I must admit that sometimes a dab of good quality chutney is ideal for enlivening a meal. The best chutneys seem to me a wonderful fusion of English and Indian flavors—lively and complex, a sophisticated preserve.

So while my sourdough starter is bubbling away, collecting yeasts from the air, I have decided to attempt a few different chutneys. As it is early autumn, this is also the perfect time to preserve some of the season’s harvest for those dour winter days ahead. To begin I’m going for a simple apple chutney, eager as I am to cook with that quintessential English cooking apple, the Bramley.

The London Ferment

After the velvet quiet of Whidbey Island, the slate grey bustle of London was disorienting. Gone were the mist-wrapped mountains and luxuriant forests to be replaced by swarming masses, labyrinth-like streets, and a steady drizzle from leaden clouds.

On the whole I was delighting by the change: To hear ten languages in the space of ten yards, to have a myriad cuisines and cafes on my doorstep, and to have the prospect of this whole marvelous metropolis to explore was heady stuff to a island girl.  And yet the whole rhythm of life is so different from the one I left behind that the shock of change left me bemused and somewhat dizzy. So it is for solace as much as for substance that I have returned to bread making. There is nothing like the gentle, measured making of a sourdough to sooth a case of culture shock.

Before leaving the US, I did toy with the idea of bringing my painstakingly nurtured starter to England, but eventually decided customs might not approve . . . . They don’t specifically bar sourdough starters, but then again, perhaps the issue doesn’t arise often enough to appear on their website’s list of prohibited items?  Alas, I suspect that the horrendous air quality on the plane would have killed the poor little yeasts anyway.

So I had to start from scratch. Yet again. Strangely, its only been a couple days since I began the new starter, but it seems incredibly lively already! Perhaps London yeasts are, like Londoners themselves, a more frantic, hurried bunch? Or is the crucial difference in the flour? The rye I bought looks similar enough, though a little coarser ground. Nevertheless, all that matters it the bubbly and wonderfully putrid smell—all good qualities in a young starter.

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.