The Local Food Report: pretzel baguette

I know everything I need to know about Tim Cleland. And that is that he and his wife Lisa are geniuses, geniuses who make pretzel baguettes.

I found this all out within about two minutes of meeting him. I was at the Sandwich Winter Farmers' Market, shopping around, wandering from stand to stand with my bags and cash and microphone in hand. I stopped to talk to Tim, and he started telling me about his wife's business, a bread delivery service called Honey I'm Home, and I confess I had totally tuned him out by the time he was about thirty seconds in. I was too busy staring at the loaf you see Alex breaking in to up above, a golden, salt-crusted baguette that looked moist and chewy and like it was in serious need of a side of golden mustard dip. I interrupted Tim. WHAT IS THAT? He said it was a pretzel baguette, inspired by one of his favorite sandwiches, which was, get this:

                 A pulled BBQ chicken breast 

                 with cheddar cheese and fried onions 

                 on a pretzel bun. 

Enough said. Clearly, I needed to find out how to make this. So I asked Tim about his process. Basically, he makes a yeasted bread, lets it rise twice, and then boils it for two minutes on each side in a pot of boiling water spiked with baking soda. The baking soda is alkaline, which makes the water very basic, and a chemical reaction takes place which gives the bread a golden crust and a chewy texture. 

Then I asked him for his recipe. And he and Lisa very graciously agreed to share it.

PRETZEL BAGUETTE

Tim and Lisa were nice enough to share their recipe with us. Tim recommends using the baguette to make his favorite sandwich: a toasted pretzel baguette with BBQ pulled chicken breast, cheddar cheese, and fried onions.

1 tablespoon instant yeast

2 and 3/4 cups bread flour

1 tablespoon organic sugar

1 teaspoon kosher or sea salt

1 cup warm water

1/3 cup baking soda

kosher salt for sprinkling

coarse cornmeal for sprinkling

Combine the yeast, bread flour, organic sugar, salt, and warm water in an electric stand mixer fitted with the dough hook. Mix until the dough comes together; then knead with the dough hook for 6 minutes. 

Place the dough in a greased bowl. Cover it with plastic wrap and let it rise in a warm place for about 30 minutes, or until the dough ball doubles in size.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Prepare a parchment lined baking sheet and dust it with cornmeal. 

Punch down the dough and on a lightly floured surface and flatten it into a rectangle. Fold the short sides in and shape it into two baguettes by tucking in the sides and gently rolling and coaxing the dough. (You can also make rolls. To do this, divide the dough into even pieces and flatten each into a disc. Create a gluten skin on the top of the rolls by gently folding the edges into the bottom center and working your fingers around the edges a few times.)

Score the baguettes (or rolls) with a razor and place them on a parchment lined baking sheet. Let them rise in a warm place for 20 minutes. 

Bring a pot of water to the boil. (An oval shaped pot works best for baguettes.) When the baguettes have risen, carefully pour the baking soda into the boiling water and gently place the baguette in the water. Boil for two minutes on each side.

Remove the baguettes from the water (a flat metal strainer or two slotted spoons work well here). Place the baguettes on the prepared baking sheet and sprinkle with kosher salt. 

Bake the baguettes for 15-20 minutes, or until they turn a deep brown color. Place them on a cooling rack. Enjoy!

P.S. WINTER FARMERS' MARKETS!

It's that time of year...here are details on the ones near us:

SANDWICH

Every other Sunday 10am to 2pm 

(1/22, 2/5, 2/19, 3/4, 3/18)

349 Rt. 6a, East Sandwich

WAQUOIT

Saturdays 10am to 3pm

1/7 through 5/12

Waquoit Congregational Church, Rt. 28, Falmouth

EAST FALMOUTH

Saturdays 10am to 2pm

1/7 through 3/17

Mahoney's Garden Center, 958 Rt. 28, East Falmouth

PLYMOUTH

1/12, 2:30 to 6:30

Plymouth Plantation

future dates unsure (to read why, go over here)

Local rye, day 3

Hi! Don't worry. We haven't fallen asleep on the job. Or at least one of us hasn't. I can't speak for our littlest baker, who went down this morning for a nap at 9:07.

But if you're still with us, today, put that starter in the fridge. If you peek inside, there will be a lot of whey-like liquid on top, and a soggy flour mixture down below. That's normal. Here's what mine looks like:

While you've got the top off, go ahead and give it a whiff. Does it smell yeasty, and a lot like sourdough bread? Good. You're on the right track. We'll see you Friday for The Big Bake.

Local rye, day 1

Let's start a project. Ready? Ok. Take two cups of all-purpose flour, two cups of warm water, and a tablespoon of yeast. Shake them all together in an old yogurt container or a big Mason jar, put the lid on tight, and set them on the counter. Now walk away.

We'll be back with the next step on Wednesday. In the meantime, if you happen to have some local rye kicking around, say from a grain CSA, grind it into flour. You'll need that for what comes next—that, and some poppy seeds and caraway. See you then!

A new radish keeper

I can't stay for long today. I'm in Maine, sitting on my parents' couch. It's hot and sunny and beautiful, and Fisher's on his bed at my feet, filling the whole room with the smell of wet dog. He just went for a swim at Simpson's Point (the rest of us hardly got our toes in!) and in a little while, we're going to put a batch of pulled pork in the oven for my sister's birthday dinner. But I wanted to stop by, quickly, and remind you about the radishes.

I don't know if you took me up on any of those recommendations a few weeks back, but it's been a radish kind of spring around here. While the sun and the berries and the summer fruits take their sweet time, we've been experimenting with the cold weather crops all kinds of ways. The other day, I added a new radish keeper to my list: radishes washed, greens trimmed, and then greens and roots sautéed.

SAUTEED RADISH SALAD

In the summer, I make a lot of sautés for lunch—usually heavy on the greens, sort of like warm green salads. Recently, I’ve been using radishes—greens and all. If you have extra radish greens (or other braising greens) kicking around, feel free to add them. The greens wilt down pretty significantly, so it’s hard to add too many. This recipe serves two.

2 bunches radishes, with greens

2 slices bacon

4 cloves garlic, minced

a handful of crumbled blue or gorgonzola cheese (I like to use the mozzarella with the gorgonzola dolce inside that Kathleen Kadlik sells at the Provincetown and Falmouth farmers' markets)

olive oil

two slices of rustic bread

1/2 lemon, cut into wedges

Trim the greens from the radishes, leaving about an inch of stem still attached to the bulbs. Wash and dry the greens and set aside. Scrub the radishes, trim their tails, and cut each one in half the long way. Set aside.

Warm up a cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Add the bacon and fry for a few minutes on each side, until it’s done to your taste (I like mine crispy enough to crumble). Transfer the bacon to a plate to cool.

Add the radishes to the pan with the bacon grease and cook for 5-6 minutes over medium heat. When the radishes are soft and a little bit golden in spots, turn the heat down to low and add the garlic. (Add olive oil or a splash of water to the pan at any point if you feel you don’t have enough grease.) Stir well and throw in the greens. Stir again and cover immediately. Cook for a minute, then take off the lid and stir well. The greens should be just wilted.

Transfer the radishes and greens to two bowls. Crumble a slice of bacon over each, and sprinkle half of the cheese over each salad. Turn the heat back up to medium high under the cast-iron skillet, and fry the bread in olive oil until it’s golden brown on both sides. Either cut the bread into cubes and throw it on top of the greens or serve alongside as a slice. Garnish each bowl with a few lemon wedges, and squeeze the juice over top to taste.

A lot of breads

Uh, hi! I know we've been doing a lot of breads around here lately, but I'm not ready to stop. I'm sorry. If you're in more of a vegetable mood, I won't be offended if you go over and poke around over here, or maybe over here. It's just that with all the local grains from our CSA, we're on kind of a bread kick around here. There's something about grinding our own grains and then baking with them that we can't get enough of. Next up, oatmeal sandwich bread, from Good to the Grain.

This is a truly multi-grain bread—part whole wheat, part all-purpose, and part rolled oats. It's amazing—you put a cup of oats into two loaves of bread, and when you bake them, you get all of their sweetness but none of their texture. Do they just melt? Does the yeast eat them? I have no idea. But I like the fact that even though they dissolve, their essence is there. It reminds me of the feeling I get when I look at recipes written out in my great-grandmother's handwriting. We've never met, but I know she's in there.

Anyway, it's also a fairly easy bread. Like all bread this one takes time—a half hour rest, an hour rise, another rise and forty minutes in the oven at the end—but this time of year, between the cold and the dark, time is what we've got. And the end result—two loaves that actually bloom up, out of the pan—is well worth any scrimping and pinching you might have had to do to come up with the window.

OATMEAL SANDWICH BREAD

This recipe is adapted slightly from the one Kim Boyce lays out in Good to the Grain on page 130. As you might guess, it is a nice soft loaf, and perfect for sandwiches. I find it also makes excellent toast.

E.H. note 11.26.12: I made this bread yesterday with all spelt flour, and it turned out beautifully. 

2 cups warm water

1 tablespoon (1 package) active dry yeast

3 tablespoons honey

2 and 1/2 cups whole wheat flour

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 cup rolled oats

4 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled

1 tablespoon kosher salt

Grease a large bowl and two bread loaf pans. Set aside.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, stir together the water, yeast, and honey with a wooden spoon. Let sit for 5 minutes to proof.

When the yeast is bubbly, use the spoon to stir in the flours, oats, and butter. Cover this mixture with a damp dishtowel and let it sit for 30 minutes.

Attach the bread hook to the mixer. Add the salt and mix on medium speed for 5 minutes. Stay close-by and watch the process carefully; you want the dough to slap the sides of the bowl, not stick to them. If it starts to stick at any time sprinkle in a few spoonfuls of flour.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface, knead it a few times, then transfer it to the buttered bowl. Cover the bowl with a damp dishtowel, put it in a warm place, and leave the dough to rise until doubled in size, about an hour.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divided it into two balls. Gently shape each ball into a rectangle, and place it in the buttered pans. Cover the pans with a damp dishtowel and let the bread rise in a warm place a second time, until doubled in size.

Near the end of the rise, preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Sprinkle the tops of the loaves with rolled oats and bake for 40 minutes, or until the top of the loaves are a deep golden brown and sound hollow when tapped.

The Local Food Report: locally baked snacks

Good morning. Today, I'd like to talk about school snack.

That up there is Tristan Scott. I took his picture last April, during snacktime at Chilmark Elementary School, when I went over to Martha's Vineyard to do some interviews. It's taken me a while, but I've finally gotten through all the tape I collected that day, and this week's Local Food Report marks the first of three episodes on a program called Island Grown Schools.

Island Grown Schools is actually just one program of many run by a non-profit on the Vineyard called Island Grown Initiative that works to increase supply and demand for locally grown food on the island. It was founded in 2005, and in six short years, it's done quite a bit to get more local food into schoolyards and lunchboxes and cafeterias, including revamping snack time.

At most schools, there are two options: bring a healthy snack from home that's cold, or get something warm but generally less healthy from the cafeteria. IGI thought it might be nice if kids could buy something that was both healthy and warm, and locally made. So it started talking with a local baker, Julie Vanderhoop, and a new vision of snacktime was born.

It works like this: two mornings a week, the kids can bring in a dollar and put in an order for whatever it is Julie is making for snack. Then the school office calls Julie with a tally, and she bakes. Sometimes it's muffins—morning glory or blueberry or pumpkin with local fruits and vegetables and whole grains—or even scones or five grain rolls or whole wheat focaccia bread. While the baked goods are still hot, Julie trucks them over to the school, and meets the kids on the playground to hand them out. They wave and holler and thank her as they run around, she pays attention to see if they like whatever it is she's made, and then she waves and hollers goodbye and drives back the seven miles to her bakery in Aquinnah.

It's pretty cool. Ask any one of the kids and they can tell you Julie's name, and that she runs Orange Peel Bakery, and that on Wednesday nights she hosts a gathering for bring-your-own-topping pizza. Since February of 2010, which is when the program started in Chilmark, it's gotten so popular that Julie's started baking for the kids at West Tisbury Elementary, too. She says she gets an order for about 65 baked goods twice a week between the two schools. At a dollar a snack, the program works financially both for Julie and for most families, although she and IGI are talking about getting grant funding so that it's affordable for everyone.

I don't know what your school snack program was like, but mine was nothing like this. I remember danishes in plastic pouches, bagels slathered in cream cheese, and green blueberry muffins.

But the thing that struck me most about snacktime at Chilmark Elementary wasn't just that the snacks were warm and healthy. It was also the way it changed the outlook of the teachers and kids. Snack, for them, isn't something to rush through or forget. On the days when Julie bakes, it's something they look forward to, and appreciate. And when it comes to snack time, I'm not sure there's any better lesson than knowing your baker, and getting your muffin or roll or scone still warm, straight from her hand.

P.S. IGI is doing all kinds of other fantastic things to get local food into Vineyard schools. Read more about what they're doing—including hosting all-local school lunches, gleaning unharvested food from local farms for school cafeterias, and installing school gardens—over here!

JULIE VANDERHOOP'S FIVE GRAIN BREAD

This bread calls for a fermenting period of twelve hours, so start it the night before you want to bake. Julie makes it into rolls when she bakes it for the kids, but it also makes an excellent loaf of bread. (This recipe makes three loaves.) I'm typing this recipe out just as Julie did for me, so the format is a little different than what you usually see around here, but I think it makes the most sense. Enjoy!

In a medium bowl, stir together:

2 and 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 cup water

1 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon yeast

and set aside at room temperature, uncovered, for 10-12 hours.

The next morning, boil 1 and 1/2 cups water and pour into a medium bowl over:

1/2 cup steel cut rye

1/2 cup flax seed

1/2 cup sunflower seeds

1/2 cup old-fashioned oats

Cool.

In a large bowl, mix together:

5 cups all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon salt

1 and 1/8 cup tepid water

1 and 1/2 teaspoons yeast

along with the flour and yeast mixture that's been sitting overnight and the grain and seed mixture. Mix until a wet dough forms. Transfer the dough to a lightly oiled bowl, cover it with a wet dishcloth, and let it rise in a warm area for one hour.

Grease three loaf pans. Working on a lightly floured surface, divide the dough into three equal parts. Shape each piece into a rectangle to fit the pans. Place the dough in the pans and let it rise for another hour; then bake it at 475 degrees F for 40 to 50 minutes.

The Local Food Report: Rein's Real Rye

In 1973, Rein Ciarfella found the perfect loaf of rye bread. It was round, boule-shaped, with a thick, leathery crust and a chewy, toothsome crumb. It had a deep rye flavor with subtle undertones of caraway, and it was excellent plain, and with butter. Toasted alongside a bowl of soup, it took his breath away.

It was from a bakery in Guildford, England, just south of London, where Ciarfella was living at the time. He bought a loaf every day for two years, but then it came time to move home. When he came back to the states, he couldn't find a similar loaf of rye anywhere. He thought about the bread all the time—for thirty-five years, he thought about that bread—and finally, last May, he decided to do something about it.

He found a recipe online—a deli rye bread from Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day, by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois—that he thought looked pretty similar. He played with the flour ratios—rye to all-purpose, even adding a little high-protein flour in, toyed with and abandoned a sourdough starter—in his attempt to get a loaf that was perfect. It took three months—three months of recipe testing and not-quite-up-to-snuff breads—but finally, he got it right.

When he did, he was ecstatic. He was so pleased with his bread, in fact, that he decided to start selling it, as a business: Rein's Real Rye. He bought a 20-quart Hobart mixer and two mini fridges and started mixing up big batches every few days. The bread he developed was a wet bread—one of those no-knead breads that develops its gluten through moisture and time, rather than the stretching action of your hands—and so he mixes it in the afternoon, then leaves it overnight in the fridge.

In the morning, he pulls out the dough to cloak it (a process that involves sprinkling the surface of the dough with flour and stretching it and tightening it in order to give it a strong crust and hold the moisture in), slash the top of it (this helps the loaf expand in the oven), and finally, place it on a cornmeal-covered stone to bake. Then, while it bakes, he uses an expertly jury-rigged steaming system that involves ice cubes in cast iron pans and a hand pump spray system. This helps the loaves get good oven spring, that final rounding rise that takes place in the oven.

It's a lot of work for each loaf, but after thirty-five years without a good rye, Ciarfella thinks it's worth it.

You can find Rein's Real Rye at the Sandwich Winter Farmers' Market, Cotuit Fresh Market, and Amber Waves Natural Foods in Falmouth.

NO-KNEAD RYE BREAD

Ciarfella sent me the link to this recipe, which is the recipe I mentioned above that he started his quest with. Full disclosure: I'm pretty sure I did not make this recipe the way the author intended, but I do not care. It was WONDERFUL. The directions were somewhat confusing, but I think the original idea was to divide the dough up into four parts and bake one part per day over four days, keeping the other chunks in the fridge. I misunderstood that, though, and baked it all at once. It formed a massive country-style loaf, the kind you can buy at PB-Boulangerie & Bistro as a "Farmhouse Loaf," and it lasted us a week. It was fantastic.

3 cups lukewarm water
1 and 1/2 tablespoons yeast
1 and 1/2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 and 1/2 tablespoons caraway seeds, plus more for sprinkling
1 cup rye flour
5 and 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
cornmeal for sprinkling

Mix together the water, yeast, salt, and caraway seeds in a large bowl. Let sit five minutes. Whisk together the flours and mix them in until completely combined. Cover the bowl with a wet dishtowel and set aside to rise at room temperature for two hours.

Sprinkle a baking sheet with cornmeal. Form the dough into a ball and dump it out onto a floured surface. Roll the surface of the ball in flour so that it is very well coated on all sides. Transfer the ball to the prepared baking sheet and let it rest, uncovered, for about 45 minutes.

In the meantime, preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. Fill your oven's broiler tray with water and have it ready to place on the bottom shelf when it comes time to bake. Slash the top of your bread diagonally three or four times—making about 1-inch deep cuts—with a very sharp bread knife. Bake for roughly 30 minutes, refilling the steam tray as needed, until the crust is golden and sounds hollow when tapped.

Of jazz—a riff

My mother is a profound believer in the power of zucchini. A zucchini patch, she says, is a meal. It can feed a family for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner on the grill. You name the zucchini recipe, she's made it. She has four recipes for zucchini bread alone.

That one you see up there—the one with the thick, moist center and the thin green flecks—is her standby, the one she makes the most. She's had it for so long she can't remember where the recipe came from anymore—only that it's a keeper, and that it's equally good as muffins or loaves.

She makes the others every now and again—Chocolate Zucchini Bread from our friend Maddie, this Special Zucchini Bread from Heidi Swanson, Lynn's Spicy Zucchini Bread from the Victory Garden Cookbook.

But it's the loaf up there that tastes like zucchini season to me—the one that feels like sitting on the forest green stools at the kitchen counter with a knife and a stick of butter, carefully slathering one slice, then another, until the bread is gone. My mother's made a few twists over the years—swapped whole wheat pastry flour for all-purpose, thrown in a handful of poppyseeds, left in or out the nuts depending on who was home—but essentially, it's the same tried and true loaf.

The other day, I tried a version of my own. I found a baseball bat growing out from a vine wrapped around the raspberries in the garden and grated it down. I dug out a bag of rye flour from what we got in our grain CSA and added cinnamon, salt, nutmeg. I dug around in the cupboard until I found the apple cider molasses I bought this spring in a tiny store in New York, and a few minutes later, packed the oven with two loaves.

It wasn't too different from my mother's—but I was thrilled with the way the squash played off the rye. The shift reminded me of jazz—the way the same chord, played over and over, changes each time. It was a zucchini bread riff—an improv of whole wheat, molasses, spice—the same chord that somehow sounded different, new, just right.

ZUCCHINI-POPPYSEED BREAD

Though I usually make it into loaves, this recipe also makes wonderful muffins. Simply scoop the batter into prepared tins, and shorten the cooking time to about 20 minutes. Also, my mother says it's a good idea to wring out your zucchini after you grate it—otherwise the bread can get too wet.

3 large eggs
1 cup vegetable oil
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 tablespoon molasses or apple cider molasses
3 and 1/2 cups grated zucchini
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 cups rye flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 cup poppyseeds
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour two bread tins. Whisk together the eggs, oil, vanilla, and molasses in a large bowl. Add the zucchini and stir well.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flours, salt, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and poppyseeds. Pour these dry ingredients into the zucchini mixture and stir until just combined. Add the nuts if using, then divide the batter evenly between the two loaf pans.

Bake for 45 minutes to an hour, or until the bread is still moist in the center but just cooked through.

The Local Food Report: Jersey Knight & Mary Washington

Every Saturday in Orleans, the asparagus at Ron Backer's stand is the first thing to go.

Right now, he has only Jersey Knight spears—from a patch of hybrids he planted back in 1998. The plants are sterile, meaning that they are all male and produce thicker, taller spears. Two years ago, though, when Backer realized that the local food movement was here to stay and his supply started having a hard time keeping up with demand, he planted another patch.

This time, he choose a more traditional asparagus called Mary Washington. Mary is known for her purple-tinged spears, although she won't produce as many big, fat ones. (Traditional asparagus has half male and half female plants, and because the female plants have to put energy into reproduction and going to seed, they produce thinner, smaller spears.) But she will make seedlings, and he can sell these at the market, so he figured it was a pretty fair trade. The Mary Washington patch is up and producing, but before he can pick it'll still be another year.

The thing about asparagus is that you have to wait three years before cutting any spears. As Backer explains it, asparagus grows from the stem, which is essentially a grass stem. The bud matures and grows four to six feet high and then turns into a fern. That fern acts like a photo cell: it captures carbon dioxide and water in the presences of sunlight and turns them into sugar. The sugar compounds into starch and gets sent down to the roots for storage. If you cut the spears before they turn into ferns those first few years, they aren't able to store any energy up. They need at least a few years storage to get off the ground; otherwise, there will never be fat spears.

Of course, once you're ready to pick Backer knows exactly what to do:

His recommendation is to blanch the asparagus, cut some toast, soft-poach an egg, mince some garlic, and finely chop a handful of basil. Then he likes to rub the toast with the garlic, layer the basil and then the egg on top, and finally, drape the spears across. Then he drizzles the whole pile with a bit of nice olive oil, sprinkles it with a few cracks of salt and pepper, and digs in.

After I got home from the market the other day with a bundle of Jersey Knights, I decided to follow the plan. Only I didn't, exactly. Instead of rubbing the toast with minced garlic, I made a garlic-anchovy butter that I'd been eying for a while from the April issue of Martha Stewart Living. I fried my egg instead of poaching it, made sure the yolk was nice and runny, and after I'd spread the toast with plenty of briny butter, layered the egg on top. Then I poached the asparagus until just al dente, sprinkled the whole thing with salt and pepper, and sat took a bite. The egg ran all over the plate, the garlic-anchovy butter melted into the bread, and the asparagus sopped it all up.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good plan. So good, in fact, that if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go make it again.

FRIED EGGS AND ASPARAGUS ON TOAST

For the bread in this recipe I used a loaf of sourdough from Pain d'Avignon bakery in Hyannis. You could probably use any rustic loaf; the important thing about this recipe is to make sure the asparagus is fresh and the egg is under-cooked, so that the yolk oozes out all over the plate.

1/2 stick butter (1/8 pound)
1 large clove garlic, peeled
3 anchovy fillets (optional)
1 pound asparagus
olive oil
4 eggs
4 large slices sourdough bread
salt and freshly cracked pepper

In a food processor, combine the butter, garlic, and anchovy fillets. Pulse until smooth.

Cover the bottom of a large sauté pan with 1/2-inch of water and bring it to a boil. Lay the asparagus into the water and cover the pan. Cook for 2-3 minutes, or until the asparagus turns bright green and is just al dente. Turn the heat off, pour the water out, cut the asparagus spears in half, and set aside.

Turn the heat to high under another large sauté pan. When the pan is hot add a splash of oil; once the oil is hot, crack the eggs into the pan. While they fry, toast the bread and get out four plates. Flip the eggs and cook them over-easy; then turn the heat off.

Put a piece of toast on each plate and spread the toast generously with garlic-anchovy butter. Put an egg on each piece of toast and arrange a layer of asparagus spears on top. Sprinkle with a few cracks of salt and pepper, and serve hot.

P.S. My Minolta is back! She arrived last week in excellent condition, and as you can see, I'm happy to have her home.

Very 2010

On Saturday, we had an absolutely enormous tide. The lumberyard went under, like it always does, and Uncle Tim's bridge had water just up to its planks, and the building I'm sitting in right now—the old Mooney grain barn Alex and his brother turned into a little hub of offices on Duck Creek—our wobbly old red frame dipped its whole northeast corner right into the sea.

After I ran up the sidewalk to the marketplace to buy a roll of film and shot all twenty-four exposures in a matter of eleven minutes, Alex and I just stood at the top of the basement stairs, looking down. We watched as the tide swirled old windows and scrap wood and extension cords around the cement, and as the water rocked sawdust in and out through the crack beneath the old garage door. I wondered if we shouldn't be pumping or mopping or scooping, but I realized there was nothing to do, really, besides wait for the water to give up and retreat.

I have to admit, the thought kind of scared me. I wondered, for a few minutes, what it would mean for our little town—which to begin with is hardly more than a pile of sand and visitors anchored with a few churches and roads and locust trees—what it would mean for us if we all end up changing the world in a way where the sea does not retreat. It was the sort of thought that made me want to walk home, to hang out our laundry by the woodstove and curl up on the couch to look up houses for sale downtown and the Flex bus schedule on the Internet. It was the kind of thought that made me hesitate a second at the sugar bowl, put it back on the shelf, and spoon honey into the bottom of my tea.


It was also the sort of thought that made me feel incredibly thankful and a whole lot braver for knowing all of you. We might not know if the little things we do—buying a pig raised on scraps from a restaurant down the street, or avoiding corn syrup and orange soda, or packing our freezers in July with strawberries and spinach and Swiss chard—are enough to keep the water out, but at least it isn't already coming in under the door.

And so for the New Year, I decided to make a list. I have always liked lists, and fresh start lists in particular, written on crisp, college ruled paper with my friends Katy and Siobhan in mind, who long ago invented a tradition of calling every list The List in order to give it that fresh start ring. So here, in honor of a new year and good friends and pumping and mopping and scooping before it is too late to do any good, is The List for 2010:

—Don't eat meat—any meat—that doesn't come from a place I trust and can name. This, ahem! includes bites of other people's burgers, late night wings and even, I fear, chicken flavored Ramen noodle broth.

—Get so many people excited about this new grain CSA, that they are full again next year and lots of other ones spring up to feed the demand.

—Keep a freezer inventory. Write down what goes in, and when, during the summer, and what comes out, and when, during the winter. Adjust accordingly—put up more strawberries? fewer crushed tomatoes? more beans?

—Keep a garden book for more than the first three days. Like the freezer, write what goes in, and what comes out, and what we liked to eat the most. Again, adjust accordingly.

—Do not, unless it comes from Pan d'Avignon, buy bread; bake it instead. This should be easier once our share of wheat and rye comes from the folks over at Pioneer Valley, but there's still always the option of baking with this flour from Maine.

—Figure out ways to favor honey over sugar for making things sweet, even though I may be one of the only people on the planet to think that honey is just a little bit gross. I used to feel the same way about rice, and although it took years of coaxing, I now, sometimes, eat stir-fries, so I guess there's hope.

—Finally, at least once, take the Flex bus to the Orleans farmers' market. Really, with a good book and a few tote bags and the promise of a treat from the woman who rings the bell, it cannot be that bad. If I like it, do it again the next week, and if that goes well, do it whenever I can. Maybe, if things go really well, get a few of you to come along, and sit altogether with our tomatoes and leeks in the back.

I think that's enough. If this year is good enough to allow me to accomplish every one of those things, it will have been very kind indeed. Plus, I'm hoping you might have a few suggestions, too, and I'll want to tack those onto the end.

Oh! and here's a recipe from James Beard for no-knead, one-rise, all whole-wheat bread, no-sugar-just-honey bread, in case you want to get on board. When I first saw it I was very kind of skeptical, but as it turns out, it's actually quite good. Not in a white bread, 1950s sort of way, but in rustic, moist-toast-and-sweet-butter earthy way that feels very 2010.

New Year's Beard Bread

adapted from Myrtle Allen's Brown Bread, found in James Beard's Beard on Bread

It is really kind of amazing that this bread is bread at all, considering that what we generally think of as bread involves kneading and two rises, minimum. But somehow, it turns out very satisfyingly—like a slightly denser, moister, meatier version of its kneaded counterparts. All in all, considering it involves five minutes of prep time, just under an hour and a half of waiting, and can be made with all local ingredients, I found it well worth my while, if a little unusual.

3 and 3/4 cup whole-wheat flour
2 tablespoons honey
2 cups very warm tap water
1 and 1/2 tablespoons yeast
1 tablespoon salt

Scoop the flour into a large mixing bowl. Put the bowl in a warm place—a gas oven with a pilot light, or next to the woodstove, or an electric oven on very, very low—and leave it there until both the flour and the bowl are warm. Once they are, dissolve the honey in 1/2 cup of the warm water and stir in the yeast. Let it proof for five minutes, or until the mixture starts to rise up and get bubbly.

Add another 1/2 cup of warm water to the yeast mixture, and stir it into the flour along with the salt. Mix well, adding the remaining cup of warm water and more as needed, until the mixture forms a moist, sticky dough. Transfer it into a buttered bread tin, cover it with plastic wrap, and set it in a warm place to rise. When the dough has increased in size by almost a third, preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. By the time it is warm, the dough should be a third again its original size, but should not spill over the top of the baking tin.

Bake the loaf for 35-45 minutes, or until the top is a deep brown and sounds hollow when tapped. Turn the oven off, tip the loaf from its pan, and return it to the oven to sit on the rack for another 15 to 20 minutes. This will help the bread develop and more distinct crust. Enjoy warm, with plenty of butter, or the next day alongside a bowl of soup.

A nice spot

Well. We're going to try something new around here today. I was invited, a week or two or maybe three ago, to a party. Only it wasn't a party with girls in paisley sundresses and men with freshly shaven beards and real live potato salad and glass bottle beers that sweat in your hands. It was an online party—a potluck for bloggers, organized by my friend Tara.

Here's where I'd like to host my end of things: at the Wellfleet harbor, down on the dock, staring out at the sailboats. Don't you think that'd be a nice spot?

I do.

Anyway, I first met Tara a few months ago, at a food writing symposium in West Virginia. We stayed in a schmaltzy hotel tucked into the Allegheny Mountains and sat around in Dorothy Draper chairs talking about voice and photography and persona and drinking way too much Kentucky bourbon until way past my bedtime. It felt like the kind of friendship you make at summer camp— all fast and furious and then suddenly gone. I knew, though, the day I got a handwritten note on Tara Mataraza Desmond stationary just to say hello, that we were going to make it.

And though I'm not sure an online potluck quite counts as seeing someone again, for now it is just about as close as we're going to get. So Tara gathered up a whole group of bloggers, some from the symposium and some from the other corners of her life, and sent us each a recipe from her new book. The official date is set for Wednesday, but since what we do around here today will still be around tomorrow, I decided it was okay to jump the gun a bit.

Also, to ask someone to wait to talk about a recipe like herbed cream cheese on rye toast with cucumber pickles and smoked bluefish is a little much. Especially on a day when the harbor looks as breezy as it does above, and when the air inland is so heavy it just might melt you if you try to do anything chef-like, like, say, turn on the oven or heat up a pot of soup. Days like today are just meant for sandwiches like this.

The sandwich is from Tara's book, Almost Meatless. It's a stack of toasted rye, a spread of cream cheese that's been whipped up with fresh chives and dill, a layer of quickly-pickled cucumbers, and then just a sprinkling of smoked bluefish. Her book is all about how to eat meat without eating too much of it, and this recipe is a very good representative as far as I can tell. All the recipes are toned down carnivorous dishes, with chapter headlines like a Bit of Chicken and a Taste of Turkey and a Little Fish and Seafood. It's the sort of cooking I tend to do anyways, not really because I don't like meat, but because I get so involved with things like kohlrabi and dinosaur kale and the fact that four strawberry plants will send out enough runners to make a patch that I sort of forget about the chicken and lamb in the freezer.

Anyways, regardless of how you feel about meat on a regular basis, I reccomend you give this sandwich a whirl. (Unless, of course, you're a vegetarian, in which case I actually think I'd still give it a whirl, only without the smoked fish. It will still be worth your while.)

There's nothing too tricky about putting it together, although it's a good idea to take the cream cheese out of the fridge first thing. Otherwise you might forget, and between waiting for the pickles to marinate and the cream cheese to soften, you might have a rather terrible low blood sugar moment and threaten to step on your dogs' toes. And it's an even better idea to start the cucumbers pickling in the morning, over a bowl of granola.

Beyond that, there's nothing to it. So bon voyage, and I'll see you at the harbor.

SMOKED AND HERBED CREAM CHEESE ON RYE

adapted from Almost Meatless, by Tara Mataraza Desmond and Joy Manning from 10 Speed Press

I changed Tara's recipe around a little bit to fit what I had on hand. Her recipe calls for smoked whitefish, but I used smoked blue. I absolutely adore bluefish paté, and the fresh smoked blue with the whipped cream cheese, chives, and dill is an absolutely perfect match. Also, Pan d' Avignon in Hyannis makes a killer rye bread. They sell it all over the place—at the Hyannis farmers' market and the Wellfleet Marketplace and I think Hatch's, just to name a few.

1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons cider vinegar
1 small cucumber, cut into paper thin slices
1/4 cup loosely packed fresh dill fronds, chopped
2 tablespoons fresh chives, chopped
4 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature
8 pieces rye bread, toasted
4 ounces smoked bluefish, crumbled
1 tomato, sliced
8 large lettuce leaves or a handful of mixed greens

Take the cream cheese out of the fridge, and set it aside on the counter. Swirl together the sugar, salt, and vinegar in a small mixing bowl, and then dump the cucumbers in. Mix well and put the bowl in the fridge for at least half an hour while the pickles marinate.

Get out an electric beater and the hopefully-soft cream cheese, and spoon half the tub into a bigger mixing bowl. Throw in the dill and the chives and beat everything together until the mixture takes on the consistency of the whipped veggie cream cheese they have at very good bagel places. Toast the rye bread, pull out the cucumbers, and then assemble four sandwiches as follows. Spread half the pieces of toast with a good thick layer of cream cheese, crumble an ounce of the bluefish on top of each, and for every piece of toast with cream cheese stack on a layer of cucumbers and a tomato slice and a broad leaf of lettuce. Now press the four plain piece sof toast on top, slice in half, and enjoy, if you're anything like me, with one of your mother's homemade pickles on a quilt down by the water.

P.S. If you're interested in finding out who else will be potlucking tomorrow, you can head on over to Tara's blog in the morning. She'll be making introductions all day.

Mornings like this

Some mornings start too early, with too little milk, and too far away from home. For instance, this morning. By 4:34 am I had already shampooed my hair, checked my bag, and made it through security to Gate A7 at Boston Logan. Some people, I understand, do things like this routinely, but I am not one of them. Nor do I ever hope to be.

No.

Instead, mornings like this make me wish I could still be at home, asleep, waking up in a few hours to red and yellow tulips and a breakfast spread like the one above. Because that blackened baguette you see up there? That is a very good thing.

It’s a French thing, one that I’d heard my father talk about once or twice—but one that I’d never dreamed of making until we grew a crop of very spicy radishes this spring. They’re black radishes, nero tondo or gros noir d'hiver, from 16th century Europe, and they grow crazy fast. We have to eat at least two a day, otherwise the leaves will completely overshadow the row of scallions next door, and we might never see the spinach again. We bring them in, shower them, and scrub their skins clean. Then, I peel them off, because the other day I figured out that the skin is where the spice lives.

When it comes to radishes, I am no fan of spice.

Actually, if we're being honest, I don’t really love any radishes, spice or not. I like them alright, in a salad or a stir-fry, but for the most part, I don't think they add much. They kind of disappear between the butter lettuce and the dressing without giving even a passing kick.

But that spread above—radishes on toast? It changes all that. Or rather, I should say, very thinly sliced radishes and salted butter and sea salt on toast that is slightly burnt and still warm. The change has everything to do with the details.

For starters, the toast needs to be a little bit black. I burnt it accidentally the first time I made this, but then when I got to the end, to the tiny section of the loaf that was only golden brown, I realized it had been a serendipitous mistake. The butter tastes sweeter on slightly burnt toast, and the radishes do, too. With a sprinkling of salt, the whole thing melds together. The radishes get so bendy they nearly blend in with the butter, the toast stays stiff underneath, and the salt bring the whole thing alive.

It's the kind of breakfast that makes you want to dance around the room. But since I only have 13 minutes more of paid time on Cleaveland International's wireless at&t, I'm not going to stick around for that.

I'll see you Thursday, and you'll just have to let me know how it went.


NERO TONDO ON TOAST

The variety of radishes I used for this, nero tondo, is very spicy. If you're going to buy yours at the farmers' market or grow them yourself, I think I would stick with a pink variety—one that is more delicate, with a little less kick. French breakfast would be nice, or the ones that they call Easter eggs.

half a baguette, sliced in half horizontally and then cut in half again
6 or 7 large radishes, sliced very thin
butter, for shaving
sea salt to taste

Toast the baguette until it is just a little bit black. Shave as much butter as you feel is right over the warm toast in long peels. Layer with radishes, and sprinkle sea salt over top. Eat warm, with a cup of creamy coffee or sweet black tea.

The skeletons are out

I think there's something you should know. This freezer dredging—it's bringing up some heavy stuff—dragging some skeletons out. Banana skeletons, mainly. A whole ten of them.

There, I said it.

Now you know—I have a problem with banana theft. I don't buy them, generally, or at least I try not to, but we have a lot of house-guests in the summer. They come in with bags and bags of groceries, stay for a night or two, and leave their cereal and bananas behind. The bananas start to go brown, I clap my hands with delight, and I tuck them in to the freezer. The real problem, you see, is banana bread.

I really can't live without it.

I don't remember when I made my first batch—I must have been five or six—but it's always been a favorite in my family. We got our recipe from our friend Bonnie, who somehow got all the ratios just right. It turns out the same lovely loaf each time: moist, sweet, and best just slightly undercooked.

My sister and I used to make banana bread on school nights after dinner, mixers whirring and chunks of butter and sugar zinging off in every direction. (I'm sure my mother was just thrilled, but she never said a word. Thank you mom!) We'd stick it in the oven and sit peering eagerly over the counter top toward the stove as we did our homework, waiting for the moment when we could pull it out, slice, and dig in.


I don't know why I held off succumbing to this ritual with all the bananas I'd hoarded into the freezer for so long, but I think it's at least partially because bananas never seemed like something to write about here. They simply can't pass as a local fruit.

But although they don't grow around here, there is a Wellfleet banana connection you should know about. It might help us come to terms. After all, a Wellfleetian—Lorenzo Dow Baker—started the commercial banana trade in the 1870s. It's only right to pay homage with a loaf of bread every now and again.

At least that's what I plan to tell myself every time I tuck away another stolen piece of fruit.

BONNIE'S BANANA BREAD

This recipe is very, very simple. It can be made in a snap—simply cream the butter, add the sugar and the wet ingredients, and then sift the dry ingredients in. The most important part, in my opinion, is that you under cook it so that the center is very soft, but not everyone likes it this way. After I pull the loaf out of the oven, the center always falls quite a bit, but I don't mind. To me, that's a sign it's perfectly done.

1 stick salted butter (I use Kate's from Maine)
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
3 overripe bananas, mashed
1 teaspoon lemon juice
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup whole-wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Cream the butter in a medium-size mixing bowl. Add the sugar and blend until well-mixed, then add the eggs, bananas, and lemon juice. Continue blending until all ingredients are combined. In a separate bowl, sift dry ingredients together. Fold dry ingredients into wet ingredients, taking care not over mix as it will make the bread tough. Pour batter into a greased loaf pan, and bake until the edges are cooked through but the center is still a bit wet, about 35 to 40 minutes. If you like it a bit drier, about 50 minutes should do.

Tack it on

I can't stay long today. There are too many post-its cluttering my to-do list, too many phone calls to make, and not nearly, nearly enough hours in the day. But before I go deal with all that, I have a task to add to your to-do list for the week.

Try your hand at a sourdough starter.


I know I implored you before, a few weeks ago, when I made my first loaf of sourdough bread. But it doesn't take much, and once you get going — oh! — the bread. We've gotten into a routine around here. One day you feed the starter to build it up, the next day you mix all but a bit of the wet starter with flour to make a firm starter. (You have to save some, so that you'll be able to bake with it again.)

After that's sat overnight, you mix it up with more flour, water, sugar, and a bit of salt, and knead it, and you have bread dough. It takes forever to rise—all, all day at least—and then you punch it down and let it rise again overnight. Then, finally, it's ready to bake, and while it's in the oven, you start the whole process over again.

That way, when you devour the first loaf, you have a new one in hand.

The whole process sounds a whole lot more laborious than it is, because all of these are little baby steps, sort of like emptying the dishwasher or making your bed. Once you have them down pat, they're really no big deal. Plus, unlike yeast bread, you don't have to sit around watching the dough rise. It takes its time, while you're out for the day at work, so you don't have to stay home all day simply to make a loaf of bread. It makes much more sense, if you ask me.


If I've convinced you to tack it on to your list, check out the hilarious chapter on making a starter in this book or read up here or check out the video here—everyone has a little something different to say. Good luck—and please, please keep me posted on what you discover along the way.

In response

Sometimes, bakers get a lucky stroke. They make an absolutely wonderful loaf of bread, parade it around like a show off, and forget about it for many months. Then, they are asked to repeat the experience.

This, I'm afraid, is when the bubble bursts. They have only made it once, they try again, and the results are never quite exactly the same. Particularly with bread. Because it involves flour, and gluten, and yeast, and warmth, and draftiness, and all other manner of hazards, bread is difficult to repeat.

I would know, because I tried today. I tried making the whole wheat baguette I so happily paraded back in August, and was asked for advice about recently. I tried the recipe I'd had such success with before, only to find that this time, it was a flop. I retraced my steps, tried to remember the keys to my happiness, and this is what I've come up with after baking another slightly better loaf this afternoon. First of all, the type of whole wheat matters. I buy mine from Wood Prairie Farm in Bridgewater Maine, mainly because it's the closest reliable source I've found, but also because it's very good. It's especially good for baking, because it's a hard red wheat. Hard wheat is better for yeast baking, soft wheat is better for things like pancakes and banana bread. Still, I use it for both.

Secondly, it helps to add a bit of gluten flour to whole wheat bread. Gluten forms proteins that make bread springy and stretchy, and there's less of it in whole wheat flour than white. The general rule is about a tablespoon per cup, but don't add too much: I've found it gives the bread sort of a gross, fake, Wonder loafy-taste.

Then, there is the balance of salts and sweets. Salty, oily ingredients slow down rising yeast, while sugar and honey cause it to get a bit out of hand. So if you cut out the salt, be sure to cut down on sugar, too, otherwise your bread will rise to quickly and then grandly deflate.

There is also temperature to consider. If the liquid in a recipe isn't warm enough, the bread will take forever to rise. On the other hand, if it's too hot, it will kill the yeast. Same with the oven temperature. While "warm" is a very wide range, as a general rule things should stay below 110 degrees. Any hotter, and a major yeast die-off might take place.

Finally, there is always the option to add a little bit of white. The perfect whole wheat loaf is a very, very lofty goal, and though I had a lucky strike, since then I've had better luck with at least a little bit of white flour in the mix. One day, I very, very much hope to recreate the loaf I so happily happened upon this summer (maybe it was the warm house? the humidity in the air? a particularly intoxicating dab of butter and jam?) but until then, I plan to keep contented with this. Also, in the event of disaster, there is always this to make things taste good:


I'm sorry I can't be more specific. But I'm going to keep trying, and eventually, I promise, I will find a sure and steady way to recreate the perfect loaf. And you will be the first to know.

WHOLE WHEAT BAGUETTE

I think a good way to look at moving to whole wheat is to start out with a ratio of one cup whole wheat to 2 cups white (with 1 tablespoon gluten flour) and very slowly begin to turn the tables. Then, once you master the yeast, the temperature, the gluten, and all that, you can adjust the flours to taste, and eventually move to almost all whole wheat. At least that's what I plan to do.

Makes 2 loaves

1 and 1/4 very warm water
1 tablespooon yeast
2 tablespoons honey
1 tablespoon gluten flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
2 cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt

Warm up oven. Combine yeast, water, and honey in a medium mixing bowl. Let stand 5 minutes until bubbly. Stir in all purpose flour and salt, and mix vigorously, until smooth. Add remaining whole wheat flour and gluten flour. Knead for 10 to 15 minutes, or until dough is elastic and smooth. Put in a greased bowl, cover, and let rise in the warm oven for 2 hours, or until doubled in size.

Punch down dough and separate into two balls. Roll each into a 5 by 12 inch rectangle, then roll along the side to form a long, thin log. Pinch ends shut, slash diagonally several times with a sharp knife, and arrange loaves on a greased baking sheet sprinkled with cornmeal. Cover with a damp cloth and let rise again for about an hour. Preheat oven to 450 degrees, placing a tray of water on the bottom shelf. Bake loaves 15 to 20 minutes, or until golden brown. Enjoy hot, with butter.

Onion soup without tears

When there is a new president, it is important to host a luncheon.

Even if it's only you, and your fiancé, and his cousin and his cousin's girlfriend who can attend. And even if you're cooking frantically, on a break from writing at your office across the street, just as the speech begins. Even if you've broken into his other cousin's kitchen to cook without consent; it doesn't matter the circumstance.


There is a new president, and so there ought to be a new recipe for lunch.

Also, it helps to use a new book. We're starting over, you see. From my Christmas pile, I picked Nigel Slater's latest cookbook to start the new term with. It's a kitchen diary, sort of like this one, except he wrote down everything he cooked, every meal, every day, for a year. The photographs are spectacular, and the text enchanting. The only trouble is, the seasons are a bit adrift. For instance, he starts the year like this:

January 8
The first rhubarb

Clearly, he lives in a much friendlier place. Around here, the first rhubarb appears in oh—say, April, probably May. Fat chance of digging any up today. Luckily, his January 11th entry offered something a little more realistic: namely, French onion soup.

I adore French onion soup. It is the absolute perfect evening winter meal: simple, warm, and just substantial enough to get you through the night. It can be made vegetarian, or carnivorous, and it is salty as the sea. Also, at the same time, it is sweet.

Slater's version is simple. It starts with roasting the onions with butter and salt and pepper in the oven, so that the whole experience is pleasantly tear-free. It then requires you to burn off a little white wine, simmer some vegetable stock, and keep the pot of soup warm while toast and Gruyére melt beneath the broiler. It's so easy that all of this can easily be accomplished, even while you are watching a speech on t.v.

I made a few changes—swapping vegetable stock for beef, and Shy Brother's cheese for Gruyére—but mainly, I stuck with his pot. I feel quite sure we'll be making it again.



ONION SOUP WITHOUT TEARS

adapted from The Kitchen Diaries, by Nigel Slater

5 medium onions
3 tablespoons butter
4 ounces (one glass) white wine
6 cups beef or vegetable stock
a loaf of crusty French-style bread
several ounces good melting cheese

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Peel the onions and cut them in half from tip to root, then lay them in a large, heavy-bottomed pot and add the butter, and salt and pepper to taste. Roast about 30 minutes, or until they are golden and tender. You may want to check on them a few times to see if they need turning.

Put the pot, with the onions, on the stove. Add the wine, and reduce it until the liquid nearly disappears. (As Slater explains, this is because you want the flavor, not the alcohol.) Pour in the stock, bring to a boil, and simmer about 20 minutes.

Just before you're ready to eat, put several slices of French bread beneath the broiler, or in the toaster oven (one slice per bowl of soup). Toast one side, then flip them and toast the other, layering several slices of cheese on top. When the cheese is bubbling and hot, ladle the soup into bowls and rest the cheese toasts on top. Serve immediately, with a spoon and a knife.

Something to wonder at

I made bread the other day. Two big, white, airy loaves, shaped like bakers' hats. They'd been stuffed into heavy bottomed soup pots, rising up in the living room in a parade of bottoms: carmine and orange, handles black.

They came out well, but almost disagreeably so. I'd been banking on sourdough; that's what they were supposed to be, according to the friend who gave me the starter. She'd gotten it from another friend, and had in turn grown enough to share her own and tucked it into the back of my fridge one day. I fed it and fed it and fed it and watered it a bit, and finally I had a fairly good sized hunk of my own. She'd checked me out some books, from the library, and I'd settled on a recipe for farmhouse style bread.

The recipe had promised crusty, earthy, pungent bread, but it hadn't turned out that way. It turned out more like Wonderbread, though I mean that in the best possible way.

It was good, very, very good, but it was not sour, not even in the most hinting of ways. I realized later the recipe wasn't to blame: We simply have mild yeast around here, my friend explained. And in fact, by the time the second loaf was nearly gone (in only a matter of days!), I was pretty much all in for this perfect sandwich 1950s-style bread. It made the lightest toast, and its sandwiches seemed to float around settling into lunch tins like clouds. Plus, I could divide the starter in two, I was informed, and add a bit of acetic acid or orange juice or cider vinegar to some, and develop a punchier strain. Then we could have Wonderbread, or sourdough, either one.

But before I get ahead of myself, I have a starter recipe for you to try. It comes from The Bread Bible, by Beth Henspergers, and it's pretty much a guarantee. It doesn't rely on wild yeast; instead it brings in commercial yeast and yogurt for a bit of a jump start, so it will be less mild than the wild one I inherited several weeks ago, and more reliable at the start. Eventually, I hope to have enough to share, but in the meantime, this will offer some advice on putting together your own. And of coures, I'll want to know how it goes.

CLASSIC SOURDOUGH STARTER

adapted from The Bread Bible, by Beth Henspergers

2 cups lukewarn water (90 to 100 degrees F)
1 teaspoon active dry yeast, or 1/2 teaspoon instant yeast, or 1/3 of a .06 ounce cake of fresh yeast*
1 tablespoon sugar or honey
1/4 cup nonfat dry milk, dry goat milk, or buttermilk powder
1/3 cup plain yogurt
2 cups bread flour

Pour the warm water into a medium bowl. Sprinkle the yeast,* sugar, and milk powder over the surface of the warm water. Stir with a large whisk to dissolve. Stir in the yogurt, then add the flour and beat until well blended. Transfer to a glass jar, ceramic crock, or plastic container; cover loosely with plastic wrap or a double thickness of cheesecloth.

Let stand at warm room temperature for at least 48 hours, whisking the mixture 2 times each day, or up to 4 days depending on how sour you wish the starter. It will be bubbly and begin to ferment. A clear liquid will form on top; stir it back in. On the fourth day, feed with 1/4 cup water and 1/3 cup flour, let stand overnight, then store in the refirgerator, loosely covered. Feed the starter every 2 weeks with equal parts flour and water.

Bring starter to room temperature before using. Remove the amount of starter needed for the sourdough bread recipe. Add 1 cup flour and 1/2 cup water to the remaining starter, stirring to incorporate. Let stand at room temperature for 1 day to begin fermenting again, then refrigerate. The starter improves with age. If a pinkish color or strong aroma develops, indicating undesirable airborne pathogens, discard immediately and start anew (this is unlikely, but something to be very careful of).

*Alternatively, you could not add yeast, and wait to see what strains develop on their own. They will; wild yeast is everywhere, it just requires a bit of patience sometimes.