REAL REAL LIFE
After a several year hiatus, I've begun baking bread regularly again. Not just any bread, but 100% whole wheat, sourdough bread. It's an involved process, one that requires planning ahead and leaving just the right amounts of time, but the end result is nothing short of perfection.
The process of breadmaking has been nearly eliminated from the lives of most Americans. However, whole-grain sourdough was once an integral part of life in this country. Without easy access to dehydrated yeasts, leavening with sourdough was the only choice available. Refined white flour was also uncommon so the tart, nutty whole grain loaf I am making is probably a fairly authentic reproduction of what our forefathers and mothers ate daily. Starters were handed down from generation to generation. The sourdough starter that I use has been traced back the Oregon Trail days.
Making bread has always fascinated me. It combines the art of baking with the science of microbiology and throws in a little random variation and chaos along with some wonderfully tactile sensations in the form of aromas and touch to give a product that is at once incredibly delicious and remarkably wholesome and healthy.
My Sunday sourdough baking ritual is a process that begins on Saturday morning. In my refrigerator lives a 2-quart jar. Inside this jar is a mixture of water and whole wheat flour in the consistency of thin pancake batter - this is sourdough starter. It's not particularly pleasant to look at. It often separates with a murky grey liquid sitting on top. But inside is magic. In addition to the flour and water there are two other quite essential ingredients: yeast and a bacteria called lactobacillus. So, when I say it "lives" in my refrigerator, I mean that. The yeast provides the leavening effect, making the bread rise and filling it full of the tiny holes that make it light and airy. The lactobacillus excrete organic acids that give sourdough its characteristic tangy flavor.
On Saturday morning I take my starter out of the fridge, mix in warm water and whole wheat flour and then let it sit all day. As the microbes in the starter wake up in the warming jar, they begin to reproduce and respire. The mixture starts to get bubbly and, by night time, the jar fills with a frothy mixture. Right before bedtime, I mix some of this magical porridge with more warm water and flour and cover it with a towel. This is called "the sponge". The sponge sits in a warm spot all night and the yeast and bacteria continue their work, multiplying and excreting and all the other unspeakable things that microbes do when they are kept warm and moist.
Sunday morning, after coffee, writing and reading, I don my apron and set about the task of making the bread. First I take a peak at the sponge. Is it frothy and bubbly-looking, maybe risen up to the top of the bowl? Does it have a wholesome, yeasty smell with a hint of tang? If so, it's going to be a Good Day. I stir the sponge down, mix in some oil, sugar, a touch of salt and more flour. Note that many sourdough recipes out there call for adding extra yeast as a guarantee. True sourdough purists (like *cough, cough* me) turn up their snooty, snobby noses at the very thought of such a thing. If your sourdough starter can't do the job by itself, you are doing something wrong. No commercial yeast allowed!
Okay, back to the bread. As I mix the ingredients, they begin to take on a slightly sticky, doughy consistency. There's a fine line between dough perfection and dough that is too dry or too wet. Too dry and you'll end up baking a brick. Too wet and you'll have a sticky mess that rises to a certain point and then burps and collapses, giving you a very flat loaf that's good to eat but hard to make sandwiches with or fit in your toaster.
Now it's time to knead. Kneading bread is a very big part of the process for me. It's the touchy-feely, tactile bit of breadmaking that is part hard, sweaty work, part thinking time and part therapy. One of the big secrets to baking 100% whole wheat bread is to knead it much longer than white flour bread. There's a rhythm that gets established and soon your mind begins to drift to the week's events. You solve problems. You ponder and wander. It's 20-30 minutes of introspective time, just you and the dough beneath your hands. And that dough isn't just sitting there, either. It's alive. Alive with bacteria and yeasts. And alive with gluten proteins. Ahh...gluten proteins. Without them, bread would just be cake. As you knead the dough, the proteins become tangled and stretched. The dough transforms from a slightly sticky, lumpy mass to a smooth, elastic ball. It smells good. It feels like flesh, maybe a breast or a butt cheek. It is dynamic and transforming under your hands. Developing the gluten in this way is what makes good bread chewy. You can do it with a bread machine or with a countertop mixer. But then you'd miss out on all the wonderful sensations of the transforming dough. As you learn the art and science of breadmaking, you begin to sense when the dough needs more water or flour in order to achieve that perfect balance that gives a loaf that rises tall and stays that way when it bakes.
After kneading, the dough is put into an oiled bowl and covered for 60-90 minutes. Now the yeast goes to work. The dough rises up, doubling in size. If you were to cut into the dough ball, you'd see that it's filled with holes like a sponge. These are the gas pockets formed as the yeast breathe and they are what give bread its light texture. The dough is then punched down, divided in half and shaped into oblong free-form loaves. Onto oiled baking sheets that have been dusted with cornmeal they go, covered with moist paper towels to keep them from drying out. They sit another hour or so, rising again. Just before baking, the tops are slashed. Not only does this make the loaf pretty, it also allows the bread to rise up from within. Otherwise, the top of the loaf literally rips away from the bottom, giving a large tear around the base. Slashing the loaves also gives textured edges that are crunchy and good.
The bread bakes for 35-45 minutes. The best ovens are brick-lined and have misters in them to keep humidity levels high. I simulate this by putting a cast iron pan in the bottom and periodically tossing in a cupful of water. It's very dramatic. As the bread bakes, the house begins to fill with one of the most wonderful aromas on the planet. There's something about the smell of freshly baking bread that takes you to a different plane. It's the smell of warmth, of safety, of family. It spells the word "cozy" in your nose. It's the odor version of a down blanket wrapped around you on a chilly day. It's an olfactory hug. It takes the concept of comfort food to a whole new level, the original aromatherapy.
The end result of this two day process are two loaves of some of the finest tasting bread you'll ever eat. It's soft and yeasty and tart. It's good for sandwiches. It's good for toast. It's good with cheese and fruit and wine. And, most of all, it's good for you. One loaf has 48 grams of protein and nearly 30 grams of dietary fiber with very little fat. It will keep you regular and cleanse your digestive tract. The health benefits of whole-grain foods are truly remarkable:
-They help to prevent coronary heart disease and strokes
-Whole-grains reduce the risk of cancer, diabetes, obesity, and other chronic diseases
-Whole-grains are an important dietary source of antioxidants
-They help keep cholesterol levels under control
-They bolster the immune system
But besides all of these wonderful nutritional benefits, making whole-grain bread is simply good for your soul. It connects you to something very simple yet very profound. Laurel Robertson, in her book The Laurel's Kitchen Bread Book puts it like this:
I would add, finally, that our profound attachment to whole-grains has also to do with a feeling that has deepened steadily over many years' experience as bakers and eaters of these splendid foods, and which can only be called, at the risk of sounding somewhat balmy, reverence.
There it sits -- a single kernel of wheat, maybe three sixteenths of an inch long, creased along one side and rounded on the other. At the bottom nestles a tiny oval compartment, the minute beginning of the plant's rebirth, called the germ. Above the germ is the endosperm, a protein- and calorie-rich food reservoir that will fuel the plant as it germinates. Enveloping both is a hard seed coat, impermeable for decades to anything but the warmth and moisture that will bring the seed to life.
What's so marvelous about this simple structure is that everything that helps the grain preserve and reproduce itself also suits the needs of human beings and animals superbly well...
There are those who can look at this kind of arrangement and keep their wits about them. There are others who can't conceive of it as anything but a sure, small sign of some larger benevolence, hidden deep within the appearance of things -- and who feel, too, that nothing could be more fitting in response than to summon up all that is skilled and artful in themselves to bake a fine, high-rising loaf of uncompromising whole-grain bread.
For more information on sourdough and whole-grain breadmaking and nutrition, check out:
*DOWNLOAD* - The Sourdough FAQ - Everything you ever could possibly want to know about sourdough
Carl Griffith's 1847 Oregon Trail Sourdough Starter Page - This is where I obtained my starter
The Whole Grain Council's Consumer Guide - Nutritional information about whole-grains
Article - "Why Whole Wheat is Better" - A Mother Earth News article on whole wheat
Article - "Whole Grains, the Other Carbohydrates" - Colorado State Univ. Cooperative Extension article on whole gains
Photo credit: Anne Savage, www.RevolutionaryViews.com
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