A story about bread.

Sticky dough, crusty loaves, Moon the feral cat, and an apology

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West Berkshire July 2024

I got a little lost for a while, so apologies are due.

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Dough

I set up the wooden bench where I make our bread, lifting out a stack of steel mixing bowls of assorted sizes from a row of large wicker baskets under the table by my knees, clattering them down onto the table against the quiet of the high ceilinged, stone-floored kitchen, summoning shards of sunlight that refract through the edges of the old panes of the windows, sharp and bright, flashing colours against the gleaming metal stack in front of me.

I place a plastic dough scraper and a bench knife to mix, cut and move things around. I lay out folded linen couches for resting the shaped dough to sit neatly in rows, pulled, rolled and folded, along with bannetons, a lame with its neatly held razor blade, spray bottle and scales.

The bench

I select the bowls I need by size for the mixtures I will prepare today, gathering the ingredients for a morning of mixing, pulling, stretching and cutting handfuls of the sticky masses around the tabletop, lifting with my hands, twisting and pulling, folding and creating the layers that will entrap the small air bubbles giving volume to the dough, tacky and thick on my fingers at first with the wet mix, whilst scooping and turning them lightly with my bench knife. I weigh out different flours, dark rye, spelt and wheat, preparing little dishes of yeast, leavens and salt for later, warming enough water for the morning’s baking on the stove, pouring it into a great big glass jug, warm to the skin. I splash my fingers around to check that the temperature is neither too warm nor too cold.

Despite being summer, I turn on the ovens to full, ensuring the kitchen is warm, everything must be warm for bread. Little corners of warmth where I place covered bowls, where the draughts can’t reach from the vast open windows where I look out on one of the finest views I could ask for, a parkland of colours, of old giants that stand unstirring, drooping boughs, full of verdant leaves. The backdrop to my day.

With a wooden handled brush, I sweep out the burnt crumbs of polenta from the baking stones inside and set the shelves into position for the large round boules that will spring open inside here later today. Baguettes with twisted points at both ends, baked deep with colour, torn open along the deep razor slashes where the ears of the crust form as the dough expands, releasing the inner tension inside each loaf. The ovens and stone bases must be truly hot for good bread, to enhance the deep colours of orange, umber and char, loaves that will crackle and pop as they cool on a rack.

A pale baked loaf is not one for me. A loaf must have colour and a thick crust.

Sourdough

Folded

From the fridge, I take out the pot of fermented starter dough along with a small round wooden basket made from concentric hoops of cane that I covered with a cloth and placed there last night. Inside it resting quietly, is a slow-rising sourdough from yesterday with its thick skin developed overnight in the cold of the fridge, wobbly with bubbles of gas. As the oven heats, I turn it out onto a metal peel, dusted with a handful of fine polenta and rice flour to allow me to slide it quickly onto the hot oven stone. I look at its shape, judging what I have in front of me, dust it with a little flour and then with a lame held in my right hand, make a swift deep angled cut across the middle.

I open the door of the hot oven and spray it with water, a dozen pulls on the trigger deep into the back, the water hissing as it mists against the bare metal, quickly shutting the door before waiting for a moment for the oven to fill with steam. With one hand I pick up the handle of the peel, with the other I lower the oven door again and with a sharp sliding movement, I transfer the boule of slashed dough to the hot stone. I spray again quickly with water and then close the door. Now to wait.

Crusty

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Fermented

I take off the lid from the ferment pot. There is around one kilo of thick, living, sourdough leaven, a light-coloured, sour-smelling, wild honey ferment, slowly grown with the wild yeasts from the air, fed twice a week with a one-one-two ratio using a mixture of spelt, wild honey, wheat flour and water to make a thick living dough that will begin the loaves of sourdough that I stretch and pull around the wooden bench every morning.

Most days I bake bread.

Usually one type, perhaps two.

A slashed crusty sourdough or a Pain de Campagne, perhaps bagels, a seed loaf or long thin sticks of chewy, salty olive bread, fougasse or baguette. Alongside these will be a crisp sourdough cracker or a sheet of something brittle made with seeds that I can break into shards. Sticks of dough, pulled and twisted with the tips of my fingers that will stand tall in a glass jar, invariably nibbled by Moon¹ the mysterious cat who seems to like to bite the tops off grissini, amongst other peculiar habits

I am certainly not a baker, but as a chef over the years, I have learned a set of techniques that don’t let me down.

Green Olive dough

I take out two handfuls of the leaven and place it in a bowl, adding water from the glass jug and flour to both, mixing it with the corner of my bench knife to bring it to a cohesive mass, covering it with a cloth to let the magic begin. The beginning of the two-day process to make the sourdough. Dough for baking tomorrow, worked through the day, rested in the fridge overnight, taken out and slashed as I did earlier with the one in the oven. Almost one hour has passed and I open the door once again and lift out the hot, large dark loaf. Well sprung with a thick crusty ear, white rings from the rest in the banneton imprinted on its edge, turning it upside down to knock a hollow sound on its base with my knuckle to tell me it is ready.

It must sit for a while now to cool to let the crust firm.

It talks to me as it crackles away on the bench as it rests.

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Baguettes

The baguettes I shall bake tomorrow must begin next, making a starter dough with yeast, flour and water. A sticky dough that I will let rest for the day and leaven overnight in the fridge. Tomorrow I will pull away a large chunk of the stringy ripe, living dough tearing it into another bowl of strong flour, a little rye and warm water to make a sticky mass, working it on the tabletop till glossy and smooth and leaving it to rise, before shaping and rising once again. This dough will then need to be turned out, folded over and rolled up to a great soft cushion, then cut into equal pieces and rolled into shape. Little rectangles of soft dough folded over and pushed with the tips of my fingers to seal, rolled again to a taught cylinder and tucked in tightly with finger and thumb under tension to create a skin, the ends twisted into little points under the palms of my hands on the wooden table before lining them up in the linen couche to rest for the afternoon.

And then they shall bake till the points on the tips are crisp and dark, the crust brittle and you can tear them open to reveal the soft airy middle, ready to spread with butter.

I think I shall give you the recipe.

Until then,

William

1. ‘Moon’, a street cat from Los Angeles who lives here on the farm, rescued from Beverley Hills, flown across the Atlantic with her kittens for a better life; a beautiful, wise but needy feline, and one that has a penchant for peeing in random objects, often electrical ensuring that fuses are tripped, plug sockets destroyed, fizzing with sparks and upsetting the dogs. The Alexa was a victim, alongside kettles, important paperwork, tote bags, and yesterday afternoon the toaster. Partial to breadsticks and freshly baked cheese straws.

Moon… Note the disdain on her face.