Two things that I love (and then some)

Sourdough, little artichokes and a few other things

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West Berkshire June 2024

A snapshot of my week

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Tiny Artichokes

Turning the little artichoke around in my hand, as I hold the base of its pale green stem between my fingers, its leaves tightly closed, deep purple, scale-like leaves, tightly furled against each other like pine cones. I pull away the loose leaves at the bottom to expose the yellow and green underneath. These little artichokes are the third harvest from the giant plants that grow here. I have cut these from their stems at a size of not much bigger than a golf ball. If I were Italian I would call them carciofini, but I’m not, so baby artichoke it is. The choke inside has not formed yet as they are so small, so they are perfect to cut through with a knife and cook as they are, on an old metal grill over a spitting log fire.

As I cut them in half, the layers and lines exposed, blushed with violets and golds, tightly packed into folded concentric curls, I squeeze a half lemon over them to discourage oxidization, then a little salt and a splash of good oil so they glisten in the sunshine, the little beads of water released from inside that sit on the surface of the freshly cut edge like tiny glass beads. Placed over the fire, cut side down for a few minutes to char at their edges and soften before I turn them over. I pull out a small handful of thyme with its pink flowers that grow wild between the cracks in the weathered, smooth, old York stone slabs of the sunbaked terrace next to where the lavender and rosemary sway, as the breeze drifts toward me from over the fields. I strip the leaves between my fingers from the stems of wild oregano that stand tall in an old stone trough running my hand upwards to collect them in my palm. I add it to the thyme, crushing and scattering it over the artichokes as they grill, the smoke from the fire instantly fragrant with summer.

Another sprinkle of sea salt scattered over them as they blister and pop on the hot bars of the grill

Grilled

Muscovy Ducks with their black feathery crests and brilliant red wattles watch me from a distance, full of bravado, huffing and puffing along with their cousins, the awkward Runner Ducks, their feathers a mass of different colours, long orange beaks hissing as they walk, wings neatly tucked as they trot past with their peculiar gait, like little old butlers hurriedly carrying out a task, slightly stooped, hurrying past, on whatever quest they’re on.

Bronze fennel, a favourite of mine that I try to leave alone as it’s the green seed heads that I covet later in the year, a handful of the feathery fronds pulled from the edge of a bed, where white and yellow roses, full bloomed, fragrant and pretty, climb the wall near the fire. A couple of lemon leaves plucked from a tree, torn roughly and placed on top of the little artichokes as they curl and smoulder, the smell of burnt citrus along with the fragrant oils from the woody herbs as they catch in the fire. Cooked for not much more than five or so minutes, then left to sit on a plate with a little more crushed sea salt from my fingers, milled pepper, charred herbs and another glug of olive oil to let the little artichokes absorb the flavours from the grill. So small that almost the whole thing can be eaten in one, perhaps just the tip of a leaf or two left on the plate, just that little bit too fibrous. As they grow bigger they can’t be cooked like this as the choke appears and will need to be cut out, the leaves become woody so the tops will need to be trimmed, but for today these little artichokes, no bigger than golf balls are perfect. There is no need for complexity. The herbs, salt and lemon have done their work and the artichoke is allowed to be itself

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Lost in sourdough

I have spent days this last week, scraping thick, sticky clumps of wet dough from my fingers with my bench knife (a particular favourite of mine), a simple tool made in Sweden from birch and steel, blunt and thin with a fine wooden handle that sits neatly in my palm curved on one side to run around the inside of a bowl, the thin flat blade for lifting, scraping and cutting bread dough, an extension of my right hand if you like. I can place my thumb through the hole in the handle, the same as you might with a wooden palette loaded with paint.

It gives me superpowers I think.

Ninety per cent hydration sourdough is generally bothersome to work with, and as I begin, my hands are stuck with the claggy mixture scooped from a large bowl, a thick mass that binds itself to almost anything it comes into contact with. A frighteningly sticky mess, spread on the wooden bench in front of me that is alive with wild yeasts, enriched with raw honey from our hives is waiting for me to turn it into bread. If indeed there is one thing that I might share with you that might embolden you in your breadmaking, and if indeed you have ever reached a point in sourdough making where everything is simply too sticky, then let it be known that patience is your friend.

That, and a light touch.

And don’t be tempted to use flour on the bench for it will make everything one hundred times worse, if not more.

After a night in the fridge

The dough I use for loaves is very high in water content, but one that is very much alive, gassy and light when handled correctly. When first stirring everything together and teasing it gently out of the bowl with the curve of the bench tool, it lays in front of me as almost a puddle of wet dough. Indeed it is a fearsome sight, but with the tips of the fingers, lifting, folding, twisting and stretching, scraping the mass from underneath with the edge of the blade, as the minutes tick by it becomes taught and glossy. There is no flour involved for dusting the bench, just a little water on my hands if I need it. Ten minutes of working the thick wet mass transforms it into a living, light, gassy ball of tight bread dough, still slightly troublesome for those unused to wet doughs but wholly different from the start of the process. The loaf must rest in a bowl dusted with flour for the time it takes me to prepare lunch then when lifted out, the dough is dry and taught, then pre-shaped with neat turns to give structure, building layers in the dough that will when cooked, expand in the heat and swell the loaf. After preshaping, it is rested once more before coaxing the living, puffy ball of uncooked bread from the bowl once again with the curve of the knife, to begin the final folding and rolling, tightening the surface of the emerging boule with a twist of the hands before placing gently in banneton for a night in the fridge to slow everything down, develop the acidity and set the crust before turning out, misting with water, then slashing deeply from one side to the other, or perhaps a spiral or criss cross on another day, cut open to encourage the ‘spring’ before sliding onto the hot stone for the best part of an hour in a hot oven.

Crusty…Wild honey and spelt

A deeply coloured, crusty and blistered loaf is the result, one that crackles gently on the rack as it cools and the crust sets itself. Patience, as always is a virtue with bread, (and with Terrines, but that’s another story), as the loaf must cool before you cut it or it will be gummy.

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Other things from last week

I cooked Palourde clams, great fat ones, placed on a grid over the embers of an oak log fire, with small branches of bay and citrus to give a little hot smoke to finish the cooking, the shells opened and sputtering with hot sweet clam juice as the fire cooks them from beneath, the zest and juice of a lemon spooned over them with a little piment d’espelette, the shells hot to the touch as I pick them from the fire, arranged simply on a plate with the youngest of the broad beans, tiny ones no bigger than a little fingernail, sweet from the pods, picked from the garden

Palourdes

Mackerel from the coast, filleted, scorched and blackened so the skin is crisp, charred, salty and rich with the oily splendour that only mackerel gives when it is fresh, splashed with a little of the elderflower vinegar for that elegant floral note from the vinegar that I put into jars in the spring, with a small dice of sharp apples and salty samphire picked from the estuary. And a few of the little artichokes that I told you about earlier.

Mussels, steamed in a large heavy Staub with a lid that I’m sure weighs ten kilos, cooked with a little vinegar to help open their shells, picked open and then filled with a mixture of toasted sourdough crumbs, garlic, parsley and tarragon. There is lemon zest and chilli to help things along. A spoonful of the cooking juices mixed with a little olive oil splashed over the neat lines of filled shells before being placed under a hot grill for a few moments to give colour and texture.

Mussels for the grill

The buds on the nasturtiums are beginning to form. As I picked my way through the bed of baby leaves that we grow here, pulling out the odd little head of lettuce here and there, cutting single leaves from others to let the plant grow on for another day, the bright companion plants of pale green and bright orange nasturtium and golden marigold tumble over the edges of the raised wooden beds, the leaves and petals of these adding to my haul of green things for supper that I collect on my walk. Dandelion, tree spinach, and wild sorrel along with the lettuce heads, small leaves and young herbs that flourish in a great carpet of colour, miraculously untouched by bugs. The tiny buds of the nasturtium will soon be ready to be picked, brined then pickled and filled into jars. A different type of caper that will add to the larder for the rest of the year.

And this week there will be an extra piece for you.

Until then

William

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