Bread – that humble food – the food that can be the food of Gods – the food of the worker, and the farm hand and the politician. All the breads of the world – French breads crusty hot long filled with deliciousness – the camenbert, the brie – the gooey runny cheeses. The Italian breads, the pizzas, the panini staple of every meal. And the boring breads the Wonder White, the sliced, tasteless, supermarket breads supposedly fortified with vitamins, but who would know under the plastic printed wrap proclaiming the health benefits, but in reality simply contributing to waste. Oh and the McDonalds burger breads those live for ever baps that never go stale! Filled with the dag ends of the meats no one else would care for but minced and spiced and flavoured with the numbers of the taste laboratory.
Ah and the bread my Mother used to make, up to her elbows in white flour – clouds of it in the kitchen as she pummelled and kneaded and worked the dough – bread pans lined up greased and ready – waiting for the round smooth white balls to be bedded down into the double tins, covered with a cloth and placed gently in a warm spot in the kitchen to rise and rise and rise. And when almost over the top of the tins, the big oven doors would be opened .. the heat puffing out of them and the bread tins pushed into the dark cavernous mouth where soon would issue forth the divinity of the smell of baking bread. And sometimes when we kids were really lucky Mum would make doughboys from the fresh mix.. Rolling it into a long sausage shape – then cutting 1 inch pieces of it – these rounds to be fried in deep fat in a big cast iron frying pan on the top of the slow combustion cooker.. when done, split in two – buttered and slathered with jam. Cholesterol.. nah nobody had heard about that then!
No wonder bread is in my psyche, and pulled me into its world. I was already there – and had been since my school days – home schooling sitting on the kitchen bench – learning my times table while Mum baked the bread for all our family and the ‘men’ who worked with my father on the sheep station. Not for us the shop bought bread – for us my mother worked the dough.
But it took a very long time for me to follow in those footsteps .. it was easy to find a good loaf to eat – as I travelled I explored the world of many different breads – the flat breads of the Middle east, the yeastless chapatti breads of India, the sticks of bread in France – the dark sour breads of Germany – heavy and filling in one slice. And here in Fremantle the boutique bakeries making all varieties of loaves with grains of many type. My favourite a sourdough spelt with seeds.
Then one day a light went on.. I am paying way too much for my daily bread.. I am a cook.. why can’t I make this myself.
And the love affair began.
Time to grow the sourdough – I worked at it .. I really did – watched it .. talked to it, fed it, put it outside where it could get innoculated with wild yeasts – but to no avail. The eagerly awaited bubbling of the gloopy mix simply didn’t happen. Oh yes there were one of two bubbles – but one or two bubbles never rose a loaf! 3 weeks later I asked for help and help came in the form and sharing of a sourdough starter that a friend had nutured for years. He gave me half a jar.. with very precise instructions about how to care for it – after all this is a living thing and in fact a legacy from an iconic bread shop that had been there for 20 years.
I carefully took it home in one of my favourite clean peanut butter jars .. the one with the red star embossed on the lid – I fed it – I kept it without the lid too firmly screwed on so it could breathe and finally I began my first loaf.
But wait.. what came between.. mr Google and I.. many searches – hours of reading – how do you do it.. how to to make the best sourdough spelt bread.. all the tricks of the trade until quite honestly I had recipes for bread coming out my ears – and confusion in my mind about which and what and how.
Bread baskets for proofing – romertopf for baking – autolysing the flour and water first.. all these suggestions – and finally what to do but just to start.
Oh and yes I invested in an old fashioned bread tin like my Mother used.. only a half size smaller.. after all I am not feeding the mob on the station as she was.
I carefully followed three recipes! yes.. mmmm.. I mixed warm water with a 3 tablespoons of organic maple syrup – and some wholemeal spelt flour sourced from my favourite shop – Kakulas Sister.. that treasure trove of whole food treats – bulk foods and paper bags to put things in. I set it aside carefully in a warm spot in the kitchen and the dance began.
Breadmaking cannot be hurried. Who am I to tell the dough to rise? Who am I to even know if it will!
My first loaves rose a little .. not a lot.. the very first one was a somewhat like a housebrick but the taste was good.
I added things, seeds, sunlflower seeds, linseeds, and other experimental things. Once some ground up cashews for extra protein. The loaves smelled good and each time they emerged from the oven it was a voyage of discovery… cutting it.. was it long enough baked, how was the smell, too sour, how was the crumb – too dense?
My car became my proofing ground. I discovered the absolute warmest place in the house was the front seat of the car… the sun streaming through the windows – sometimes even too hot and oh now perhaps I killed it!! The winter time was difficult searching for the spot that would be the perfect temperature – and the times I gave up waiting for the optimal rise and juggled the dough into the tin just before I headed off to bed. Rising in the morning to check the other rising .. had it done anything over night.. lifting the damp cloth from the tin .. ah joy ready to place in the oven.
Bread is a live thing – I have found for myself that I am quite possessive about my bread.. I must confess I talk to it a lot.. the stretching of the dough – the mixing – the coaxing into the tin – it is all a dance called baking bread. And the turning out of the tin – breathing deeply of the fragrance of the fresh creation.
Ah bread – a wondrous thing – a symbiotic dance – the flour, the yeast and I.