Monday I prepared my first sourdough starter with rye flour. It lived on our bathroom heater, so the wild yeast multiplied like crazy and the sourdough was ready for a test run after four days – it was full of millions of tiny bubbles and the smell had turned from vinegar to freshly cut sour apples.
As recommended I added some normal baking yeast to this first use of my sourdough culture. Apart from that it contains nothing but flour, water, and some salt. I’m looking forward to slicing it tomorrow and eating some of it with butter and homegrown cress :)
The bread weighs more than one kilogramme! I need to find someone to help me eat this, as I won’t be able to eat all of it before the next baking day and our freezer compartment is really tiny (and we don’t own a toaster – I don’t like untoasted defrosted bread).
Next week I’ll try to make a bread without extra yeast. I’d also love to add some spelt flour – I prefer mixed bread over pure rye. Do I have to add yeast when I add flour other than the type I used for the starter?
Because of a lot of stress (master’s thesis, family issues, and health problems) I haven’t had time and energy to bake my own bread this year so far. Today I felt motivated to get back to it – store-bought bread just doesn’t come with a nice crust, and I craved some ‘real’ food. This bread is a very simple one, made from spelt flour (1/2 whole grain, 1/2 white flour) with dry yeast, salt, and water. I added a little bit of baking powder for extra fluffiness and put a bowl of water with salt and herbs in the oven. Top and bottom are sprinkled with pestled flaxseed and amaranth (adding some crunch and nutrients).
One of these days I want to try my hands at sourdough.
The best thing about fresh bread (besides getting to choose the ingredients)? Eating the first, still warm slice with butter.
She’s the graceful dancer, smiling with her eyes,
and always, always moving in a beautiful way.
There seem to be bells around her ankles and stars at her fingertips
(but it’s just bangles and the wind in her hair as she cartwheels, and she brings the water flowing in wide rivers from Africa)
Dark purple flowers seem to be growing on her path,
and lush green moss on sturdy trees lining her way.
There are glossy beetles and singing cicadas following her steps
(maybe it’s just colourful fabrics and musical laughter, and she’s the calm before the storm in tall blades of grass on the riverbank)
In her hands and eyes blackberries might be growing,
ripe from summer sun and providing joy to children dancing in the autumn rain,
she’s rich fresh bread and the bittersweet fragrance of dark chocolate
(or perhaps it’s just giving her love to the hope of a better world, and she’s the woolen blanket to wintery souls)
Another poetry portrait, I hope you enjoy it.