Whipped Spelt Bread

BACK IN THE SWING OF THINGS

How long has it been since I have cooked or baked anything? I arrive home from being gone for weeks upon weeks and the chocolate cake I baked just before I left is still on the counter, gone stale amid an army of crumbs and the sausages and lentils I threw together is moldering away, abandoned and forsaken, in the back of the refrigerator, a delicate layer of green creating an eerie, distorted effect on the surface. A conference, a Florida visit and a workshop have carried me away, taken me from hearth and home and the urge to cook or bake, the natural instinct that leads me to the kitchen and crawls all over me in normal times seems to have been left somewhere far away, forgotten along the roadside. I find it awfully difficult to get back into the swing of things.

Yet, when the Babes call, I find I cannot ignore the sound of their melodious, dulcet voices. Another month, another loaf and I must bake. As I pull out a pad of note paper and dig through drawers to find a pen, as I begin to list the ingredients needed to create this Whipped Spelt Loaf, the familiar urging to cook, to chop, measure and stir, the craving for the rich, fragrant odors of a stew simmering on the stovetop or the yeasty, heady odors and warmth of baking bread hits me like a wave of icy ocean spray, knocking me down and filling my lungs. Where has it been hiding so long? A mosey through the market this morning and my refrigerator is now stocked with what it takes to make a warming Lamb Goulash, redolent with paprika and this bread is preparing for the heat of the oven.

I slowly, slowly organize my life. My suitcase is still spilling wrinkled, crumpled clothing onto the livingroom carpet, my laptop is surrounded by the dregs of too many working vacations, power cords, camera attachments, business cards strewn across the tabletop, snacks not eaten in one airport lounge or another… and I make lists of people I need to contact for interviews, scratch deadlines for this article or that into my notepad, scribble down restaurants to visit and ideas for new stories as I try to take charge of my life and quell the disorder. Baking bread or making stew always has the power to calm and soothe even the wildest and most out-of-control of us. It has the power to infuse us body and soul with comfort and a sense of home.

This month’s Bread Baking Babes challenge was selected by my friend and cohort (think From Plate to Page, Plated Stories, American Food Roots among other projects) Ilva of Lucullian Delights. She has the Babes and Buddies baking from a Nordic cookbook called Home Baked: Nordic Recipes and Techniques for Organic Bread and Pastry by Hanne Risgaard, a whipped bread made with spelt flour.

The dough itself, once whipped, was rather like a no-knead dough, very liquid. Ilva says to add more flour so it is slightly stiffer. Once out of the refrigerator the following morning, it was risen/doubled and bubbly. I allowed it two hours to come to room temperature and then scraped it out onto a very heavily-floured cutting board where I rolled it as lightly as possible – to not deflate the dough – in enough flour to add just a tad more body and so it wouldn’t stick. I sliced it in two pieces, again rolling each lightly in enough dough so they would not stick to hands or work surface. I very gently lifted each half onto a sheet of parchment paper, patted into two lengths and twisted together. I very quickly lifted the parchment and slipped it into a long, narrow loaf pan in order to retain the loaf shape.

The resulting bread was well risen and the crumb fluffy and tender yet a tad too sticky or moist and chewy for my liking. I will definitely make this bread again, especially as it is so fast and easy to put together, but I will shape it as does Ilva and the other Babes. Please visit their blogs to see how their breads turned out.

This is rather neutral, earthy-tasting loaf, perfect with savory or sweet toppings such as Wendy’s beautiful, creative, fruity jams from Sunchowder’s Emporia, handcrafted, artisan and unique. Or Ed Hick’s amazing artisan Bacon Jam. Both Sunchowder’s Emporia and Ed Hick were sponsors of From Plate to Page Ireland.

You can join the Bread Baking Babes and earn your Buddy badge by simply baking this same bread by May 26, mentioning and linking to the Babes (ask for the Buddy badge!), linking to the host’s (this month it is Ilva) blog post with the recipe challenge and emailing your link to her. Enjoy!

My fellow Bread Baking Babes – visit each one to see how their loaves turned out:

Karen of Bake My Day
Elizabeth of blog from OUR kitchen
Pat/Elle of Feeding my Enthusiasms
Heather of girlichef
Natashya of Living in the Kitchen with Puppies
Ilva of Lucullian Delights
Tanna of My Kitchen In Half Cups
Lien of Notitie Van Lien
Astrid of Paulchen's Foodblog
Gretchen of Provecho Peru
Katie of Thyme for Cooking

I will share this link with Susan of Wild Yeast for her weekly Yeastspotting!

WHIPPED SPELT BREAD
From Home Baked: Nordic Recipes and Techniques for Organic Bread and Pastry by Hanne Risgaard

The original recipe for 2 loaves:

840 g (30 oz) sifted spelt flour
160 g (5,65 oz) whole-spelt flour
10 g (0.35 oz) fresh yeast
20 g (0.70) oz salt
800 ml (scant 3 ½ cups) warm water

My changes for 1 loaf:

400 g (14 oz) all-purpose or French regular flour
100 g (3.52 oz) whole-grain spelt flour (substitute whole wheat, if necessary)
5 g (0.18 oz) fresh yeast
10 g (0.35 oz) salt
400 ml (1 ¾ cups) warm water

Day 1:

Mix the two types of flour in a large mixing bowl. Crumble the yeast and, using your fingertips, rub the yeast into the flour. Add and blend in the salt. Pour the warm water over the flour. Mix the dough at high speed using a whisk attachment until the dough no longer sticks to the sides and bottom of the bowl. Scrape the soft dough off the whisk, put a lid on the mixing bowl or cover well with plastic wrap and let the dough rest in the refrigerator overnight.

Day 2:

Remove the bowl of dough from the refrigerator and let it come to room temperature, at least 2 hours.

Gently turn the dough onto a generously floured work surface and dust the top of the dough with a little flour. Divide the dough into 4 (2 if halving the dough as I did) equal-size pieces. Quickly twist the pieces together in pairs, preserving as much air in the dough as possible. Place the 2 (or 1 for a half recipe) twisted loaves on separate baking sheets lined with parchment paper. Let them proof until nearly doubled in volume.

Before second rise.

After second rise.

Dusted with NoMU's Pistachio & Suma Dukkah (a Plate to Page Ireland sponsor!)

Preheat either a convection oven with baking stone or a regular oven to 250°C (480°F).

Generously mist the inside of the oven with water. Ease the loaves, along with the parchment paper, onto the baking stone – or place the loaves/loaf on the parchment-lined baking sheet into the oven. Spray a little more water into the oven. Repeat after one minute. Alternately, place a pan with water on the lower shelf of the oven, checking during the baking time to refill when the water has evaporated.

After 5 minutes of baking, lower the heat to 210°C (410°F), then bake the loaves for another 20-30 minutes more.
Take a bigger bite ...

The (Book) Adventure Begins

Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; 

 then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. 

 – Winston Churchill 

 I dropped the last of the bulging black trash bags onto that Brooklyn sidewalk and rubbed the palms of my hands down the sides of my jeans; I scrutinized these, my worldly belongings stuffed into plastic and lined up at my feet, waiting forlornly to be carried away to the dump, with a touch of regret. I would have preferred that these mounds of clothes, books and memories went to friends, but there was precious little time for that. Like shedding an old skin, I was cleaning the slate of the old me, finally about to close the door of my troubled life. The most important thing at that place and time was quitting my disappointing job, emptying out my apartment, handing over the keys to my landlord, making my way to the airport and leaving this all behind. I was running away to Paris – with a sharp emphasis on the away rather than the to. My life was going nowhere fast and I was just plain tired of working for barely enough wages to pay a New York rent much less enjoy what the city had to offer. I was leaving behind a string of bad choices muddled with sadness. I needed a new beginning, craved a new life. It was time to move.

 And start over. Again.

 Less spontaneous than impulsive, I’ve never been one to quite think things through before acting. Rather, I have been in a constant state of motion, precipitously leaving one disappointing situation after another, one city after the next, simply grabbing onto any interesting opportunity that placed itself in front of me. My friends jealously saw this as the ultimate in cool bohemian adventure, able to pick up and move on a whim, choose a new city, a new country, slip into a new life with ease and pleasure at will, yet although I have always suffered from some strange strain of wanderlust I tended to move more for lack of anything better to do with my as yet unsettled life than out of some sense of adventure. I moved in order to escape my own existence, the barriers I had set up for myself, and the difficulty I had in working through my own troubles, the discomfort of my life. And that life, eight years of living on my own, had now been reduced to two battered suitcases stuffed with the bare necessities, my life savings of a few hundred dollars in traveller’s checks, a one-way ticket to Paris and a heady mix of elation and trepidation.

A NEW PATH TRAVELLED

The more intensely we feel about an idea or a goal, the more assuredly the idea, 

buried deep in our subconscious, will direct us along the path to its fulfillment. 

- Earl Nightingale 

I had a long meeting with Bill Leblond, editorial director of food & wine at Chronicle Books (and cookbook editor of my beautiful friends Nancie McDermott, Jill O’Connor, Domenica Marchetti) during my visit to San Francisco, a meeting set up in order to discuss my various book projects. We sat for a lengthy moment and hashed out each idea. He urged me to begin the process of writing a book, a memoir, by posting bits and pieces of my stories, the book itself, as well as the process and evolution of the writing of it on my blog. This is a daunting, somewhat terrifying plan, revealing myself like this. Yet, he has a point. Feedback is a precious commodity and can help drive a writer’s force and guide a writer’s direction. And what better purpose for a blog? For my blog, which is already the beginning of the story.

We expect famous people, those who have made a public splash, a great discovery, have lived some kind of wild adventure or brave voyage of discovery to write a memoir or an autobiography. We buy them up, ogle more than read them, intrigued by how such a seemingly ordinary life can take such exciting twists and turns or fascinated by those born into luxury, wealth and opportunity. We try and peer deep into their souls and understand how they made it happen; we crane our necks trying to catch a glimpse of their greatness/oddness/specialness/craziness, more like leering at a car wreck than reading about the life of a fellow human being. We close the book, titillated and ready to share a bit of gossip, but we walk away with very little more.

But.

It is the ordinary people we relate to. We all live through the common adventures of life, the personal drama, the tragedies, the successes, the fear and happiness. We work out the kinks in our marriage; we deal with illness and the death of a loved one. We raise our kids, enjoying the hugs and suffering through the adolescent fits. We have our ups and downs, each tinted with humor, nostalgia and bleakness, irony and satire. The joys and the woes of everyday life. We look to see how others have faced the same situations, the same dilemmas we ourselves face and take comfort in knowing that we are not alone. We learn how others have dealt with things that we have been confronted with and understand. We empathize, we imbibe, we learn.

We all have a story to tell.

And here is the beginning of mine.

(a heartfelt thank you to Nancie McDermott, Bill Leblond, Kathleen Flinn and Ilva Beretta for pushing me over the edge)
Take a bigger bite ...

Home Again

WASTELAND

April is the cruelest month, breeding 

lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 

memory and desire, stirring 

dull roots with spring rain. 

– T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land 

Barren lawns where we used to play, yards once filled with rambunctious laughter, ever-moving children, now there is no sign of life other than the well-trimmed hedges and the perfect lawns, the rhythmic splitter splatter of sprinklers dancing across the green, a chill hit of water painting across unsuspecting legs. No sign of life in this city of mine other than the odd car, hermetically sealed, a faceless driver clutched onto the wheel breathing air-conditioned contentment, the occasional jogger enveloped in an ipod haze.

Feet slipped into battered pink sneakers, I wander the neighborhood, up and down the streets, around the curves as the sun splashes across hard cement sidewalks step on a crack, break your mother’s back. I crisscross so many streets where I used to walk with girlfriends, gossiping, talking about boys, giggling and chattering nonsense in sing-songy voices of childhood. I wander over time-worn blacktop of the streets that used to know the wheels of my bicycle as I would circle around and around, going nowhere, a gaggle of grade school kids just for fun. I search for life, the noise and vibrancy, the non-stop activity I once knew. And it isn’t there.

Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, Sunday. Silence. The city sleeps. Every afternoon I lace up those sneakers and trudge outside for my brisk walk. Today’s the day I will finally see children playing outside, I promise myself, old folks sitting on front porches, kids biking up and down the streets. I walk to the end of the block, up and around and trot briskly up the main drag, the one named after the Spanish explorer who discovered this part of the world. I follow the drainage ditch dotted with palms, the same wooden footbridges that still cross over the ditch reminding me of so many afternoons, year after year, that I would sit there, legs dangling over the sides, inches above the meager slither of water. Those bridges are now barren; no ponytailed girls huddle atop the wooden slats, talking about boys, pushing and daring each other to go and ring the cute guy’s doorbell, the one who lives just facing the bridge.

I push my way in the heat, just a few more blocks, sun beating down on my bare shoulders, sweat trickling down my back, my eyes squinting against the glare of the white light bouncing off the sidewalks. No respite. Even in April, the weather is hot and muggy and I wish I could have said it’s 90° in the shade but there is no shade to speak of. No screen doors squeak, few garage doors are flung open to reveal a jumble of junk, bikes and mowers and surfboards and garden hoses. On every other street, I pass the occasional guy in sweat stained t-shirt and grubby jeans trimming a lawn with the monotonous brrrrr brrrrr brrrrr of an electric edger, but no one looks up to say hello. No one to acknowledge my existence.

I am ineffably sad.

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 

And the dry stone no sound of water. 

– T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land 

Squirrels race up trees, lizards dart quickly across open spaces, I spy the occasional black garden snake as it disappears into a clump of bushes. A graceful heron or plumed egret moves in slow, even, elegant strides across lawns, pecking in the grass. But no children. No adults. No one. Emptiness has swept through my old neighborhood.

Where have all the children gone? No toys in yards. No bikes leaning up against the sides of houses. No hopscotch grids chalked onto sidewalks like the one that was permanently scratched in front of our house, a gathering place for the neighborhood kids, smooth flat rocks scattered across the cement. When we weren’t playing kickball in the street or tag in the yard or throwing hoops in the driveway. 

My last day in Florida and I take a new turning and finally come across a sign of childhood, a sign of life among this cement and palm tree jungle – bright chalk drawings in pink, yellow, white and blue. I smile.
Take a bigger bite ...

Hook Kids on Fishing for Fish Earth Day

HOOKED

All of a sudden, going fishing wasn’t such an imposition. 

– Tim McGraw, Live Like You Were Dying 

Sofia. A tiny handful of a girl, maybe 6 or 7 years old, pleasantly plump with a blazing personality to match her vibrant eyes. She expertly slips a bit of hotdog on the tip of the hook as if she had been doing this her whole life rather than it being her first time. Feet firmly planted in the sandy grass, she flicks the rod forward and watches as the line flies, the hook dropping elegantly in the water, tiny swirls emanating from the landing spot. She waits patiently, talking to herself in one continuous stream of thought. Suddenly, a slight tug on the rod and a tautening of the string and she jumps to action. No girlish squeal, no yelp for help, Sofia simply reels the tiny fish in to the wonderment of her small brother and the excitement, albeit rather expectant (knowing her daughter as she does) excitement, of her mother.

I walk up behind Sofia as she turns in my direction, fingers busy with the squirming fish as she unhooks it to toss it back into the water – as per instructions – and I ask her why she has come here today, why she wanted to learn to fish. Eyes firmly on her business, Sofia in her blue shorts and pink and white princess tee, states ever-so matter of factly: “I want to cook a meal for my parents! They love fish so even though I don’t like fish I want to cook it for them because it’s their favorite thing. So I have to learn how to catch the fish I will cook.” I am, needless to say, thoroughly impressed.

Sofia never mentioned the fish counter at the grocery store nor did the words fish fingers or breaded fish sticks pass her lips. Nope. By golly, the girl wanted to catch the fish she would eventually prepare for her parents. Here I was, surrounded by happy, chattering children, each with a rod and a reel in hand, a cup of bait at their ever-dancing feet, excited to be out under the Florida sun, along the water’s edge, close to the earth and learning to fish on a bright, hot April Saturday morning. This is enough to renew my faith in the next generation. I am in awe.

This was a Hook Kids on Fishing event held at the park surrounding the public library in my hometown of Satellite Beach, Florida. Thirty or so kids, accompanied by either parents, grandparents or, as in the case of nine young ladies, a Girl Scout leader, have come to the park today to learn how to fish. Hook Kids on Fishing was the brainchild of Karen and Rod Smith, founders of Anglers For Conservation *, a group of anglers who set out to save the Indian River Lagoon, one of the most diverse estuaries in the world, and the marine life within. The group’s aim – there are currently 15 chapters - is to teach others, whether young, old or in between, the ins and outs of fishing, create, instill and nurture a passion for angling, boating and other water-related activities and, from there, the outdoors in the hope of giving rise to an awareness of the delicate balance that is Mother Nature and the importance of conservation and living sustainably. Hook Kids on Fishing evolved as a way to introduce kids and, by extension, their families to the Indian River Lagoon. After all, hook a kid on fishing and at least one adult must accompany the child!

Fishing is not an escape from life, but often a deeper immersion into it. 

– Harry Middleton 

Teach by doing is how Anglers For Conservation works. Rather than sit folks in a room and harp on the rights and wrongs of the way we live, rather than force an opinion or a way of doing on the adamantly stubborn just by saying we know best, this group of passionate anglers understands that subtly imparting best practices through doing is the way that works. By creating an interest in angling and instilling the desire in people to get out and get fishing, bringing them in close contact with the water and the earth, AFC hopes to inspire people to evolve and grow their own awareness and knowledge and come to their own conclusion of the necessity of preserving the planet and how to reduce their impact on the environment. And this often starts with the children.

Hook Kids on Fishing is an outdoor classroom for children ages 6 to 16, yet today’s group is notably the younger set and strikingly feminine! Dressed in typically Florida summer garb of flip flops, shorts and tee shirts or delightfully girly frills, spangles and sparkles, the participants grab a rod and reel and gather around the teachers, adults and professional guides and knowledgeable anglers (who) teach casting, fishing safety, knot tying, the tackle box, catch and release tactics, fishing habitat and conservation. Passing from station to station, eagerly tying gut on hooks, a delicate process for little fingers, obediently holding the rods in the correct upright position, standing body lengths apart as they study and practice the right method for casting, listening wide-eyed and attentively to boating safety tips, asking and answering questions about what pollutes and destroys the precious environment and what will not, the kids then file one by one in front of the bait table to collect paper cups with bits of bacon, shrimp pulp and hot dog (these are definitely not kosher fish!) and walk solemnly yet merrily to the edge of the lake to begin.

Kids are incredibly receptive to learning and ecology when put in the right mood and in the right setting. And when they are having serious fun. As the teachers and monitors weave in and out among the children, watching to make sure they hold their poles correctly, get the bait on the hooks and help the fidgety or hesitant ones to pull their catch off the hooks and place the wiggling fish back in the lake, the children concentrate, rows of serious faces turned towards the lake, on every detail. Some kids are in continual movement, bouncing from foot to foot, talking aloud non-stop to younger siblings or parents or whoever will listen, dashing from friend to friend or from parent to sister and back again. Some kids stand stockstill, afraid to move, caught up in the solemnity of the moment, of such an Herculean learning experience. They compare bait, analyzing whether the hot dog or the bacon attracts more fish; they hold aloft each and every catch, from the tiny 2-inch-long minnows to the whopping bass, each as exciting as the other, oohing and ahhing appreciatively over the other’s catch.

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after. 

– Henry David Thoreau 

I wander silently, discreetly among the children, snapping pictures, making every effort not to disturb or distract. Yet after half an hour of observation, it finally strikes me just how many of these young anglers, these eager students are girls. And I just had to understand why. I began with Sofia, whose answer – not the less accentuated by her very serious demeanor – thoroughly impressed me. From there I ask all the girls or their parents. One mother tells me that her young 6-year-old daughter had practically dragged her there, anxious to learn everything she could. The Girl Scout leader, pointing out her nine vivacious pre-teen charges, explains that her troop is largely made up of tomboys, the girls who love camping, climbing, hiking, sports, fishing, absolutely anything and everything outdoorsy and physical. And I speak to the parents of three young ladies, the oldest maybe 13 or so, the younger two closer to 7 or 8, who carefully explain that while boys are almost systematically invited to or brought to events such as this and are more often found fishing next to their dads, girls rarely are. And therefore they make it a point to involve their daughters in as many activities as possible, both traditionally feminine and masculine. And it was they who signed up the three for Hook Kids on Fishing. From the look of their daughters, each enthusiastic member of the family is loving every second of the day.

As I leave the youngsters behind, climbing in my car to head home, I wonder if Sofia will get that chance to cook a fish dinner for her parents and how it will turn out. And I wonder if Anglers For Conservation will next create a Hook Kids on Cooking Fish event. If they haven’t thought about it yet, maybe they should.

I would like to thank the kind and generous folks of Anglers For Conservation * – Rod, Karen, James, Warren and Dom - who invited me to Hook Kids on Fishing for Fish Earth Day and who welcomed me, talked with me and impressed and inspired me. And I tip my hat to all the wonderful kids who I watched, met and spoke with on this day – with awe and respect. This one simple day showed me how enthusiastic children are to new experiences, how they can be pulled away from computers and televisions and brought outdoors with very little effort or coercion. This day showed me how curious children still are, how receptive they are to learning and caring about the environment when showed the ropes and given the chance. And the great people who make up Anglers For Conservation showed me that people do care and can indeed make a difference. One generation at a time.

* Anglers For Conservation is a non-profit organization whose goals are education, applied conservation and habitat restoration through an ongoing series of in-the-field, hands-on events and clinics, both short- and long-term. The group works within recreational fishing communities to create a new generation of marine stewards by establishing Marine Stewardship and Hook Kids on Fishing Programs. Please visit their website for more information about their activities as well as their work and see how you can get involved. It is a wealth of information.

Take a bigger bite ...