Sourdough
Yesterday afternoon found nine people grouped
expectantly around an empty counter top. Well, not exactly empty - there was a
cutting board lying in the middle, and though it also was bare, all eyes were
fixed on it. It was in the spotlight, center stage, and set for the feature
presentation.
In a blast of cold air,
Damien burst into the kitchen bearing a steaming golden sourdough boule - the
first loaf of bread ever to have been baked in the brick oven that he and Tom
had built by hand. It was placed reverently upon the board. We oohed and
aahed. Photos were taken. After thirty years, the bread had upstaged the bird
as star of our Thanksgiving
production.
It was a long road to fame
which began early that morning while I was still lounging in bed and other more
helpful (read: less fortunate) souls were gathering wood, stoking the fire, and
engineering the construction of an oven door. Dough making began at a far more
reasonable hour. For leavening, we used a sourdough starter that had been
fermenting since the night before and was now getting frothy. Damien, Mom and I
each mixed an amount of it with various varieties and quantities of flour, salt
and water. I used just white flour; Mom was more experimental and added rye,
wheat, and chewy bits of millet. We kneaded and left it to
rise.
(While we wait, I will tell you a
little story about the history of bread making, which I learned from leafing
through a terrific book called “The Bread
Builders.”)
In 12th century French/Swiss
border towns, communal ovens were called banal ovens after “les bans,”
the rules of their use. Ovens were owned by lords, who both charged townspeople
a fee to use them, and fined them a penalty if they didn’t. These rights
of the nobility, or “banalities,” stringently controlled one of the
most basic and common human needs - bread. Interesting etymology,
no?
Two hours later, we checked on the
dough. Horrors! Almost nothing had happened. I suppose if I was a good little
artisanal baker, I would have patiently waited for that magic moment when the
natural yeasts start reproducing at an exponential rate and lift the dough up
over the rim of the bowl. But I am not, and plus, we had to time it right with
the heat of the oven. So I mixed in some commercial yeast, kneaded again, and
put it near the stove, which was toasty from working overtime on the rest of the
Thanksgiving meal. In another hour or so, it was nicely puffed. I urged it out
onto a long wooden peel and Damien sliced the top, a technique that I had until
now mistaken for decoration - it is actually to maximize the area of crust.
Then he slid it into the oven, threw a splash of water on the hot bricks, and
sealed the door.
There is an incredible
amount of science that goes into bread making. Most of it is beyond me, but the
basic components are good ingredients, temperature, humidity, and time. The key
is in finding the balance, and one could spend a lifetime studying and
perfecting the process. Fortunately, we had a healthy dose of beginner’s
luck.
Less than thirty minutes later we
sliced open that first beautiful boule while it was still steaming hot, and
passed around slices with butter until it was gone. The crust was by far the
winning feature - at once crispy and chewy and a gorgeous golden brown. You
can’t get that kind of crust in a conventional oven (and if you want to
know why, read “The Bread Builders,” don’t ask me). The crumb
was soft and toothsome, but had suffered some from our premature slicing –
it was a bit too dense and would have done better if we had given it time to
steam up. There was a pleasant but not overpowering sourdough tang. It was
good and honest - common, but far from
banal.
Later, sitting around the table,
Tom observed what a remarkable privilege it is to make and break bread with a
group of loved friends. It is the spirit of the Thanksgiving tradition, and I
had a great sense of gratitude for having experienced it once
again.
Posted: Fri - November 28, 2003 at 03:12 PM