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...for they are rightly proud, the bakers of Ashkelon, and they would mock me terribly.
Not all my breads - I am devastated to announce, you astonished to hear - are the triumph of experience and skill that you have every right to expect. Sometimes a recipe just doesn't work - and yes, of course we blame the recipe - and sometimes I may make a minor error on my own account.
Sometimes, both.
We are building up to a cooks' playdate tomorrow; I am very keen to expand my repertoire, particularly in the realm of sourdoughs; what with one thing and another, I thought I'd bake a couple of sourdough baguettes that we could use for this and that.
Hey-ho.
The dough rose lovely overnight; it rose lovely again this morning. Moments before they went into the oven, the loaves were light and high and exciting. So I slashed them and sprayed them and slid them into the oven - and before they disappeared from view, they were already subsiding and spreading outward, clinging together on the tray. "Never mind, Chaz," quoth I to myself, "the oven spring will lift them again."
Not so much. Is there a word for flat baguettes? If so, I should learn it. I gazed at them dismally, let them cool, gazed again, cut off an end to test - and lo. The bread is light and flavourful, tho' the shape is dismaying - and I had entirely forgotten to salt the dough.
There is a whole school of thought that holds that one should not salt bread - but that is an Italian school, and the French will have nothing to do with it. And me neither, frankly.
Which is not to say that this stuff is bad, because it ain't; Karen and I are happily chewing through a loaf in our various manners, she with butter and I with oil and prismatic salt*. And the other loaf may yet work for something Cathyn and I have in mind for tomorrow. And yet, and yet. Internet, I am distressed. Everything I do should be immaculate, damn it, or what's a Chaz for?
*Actually balsamic salt, but my handwriting on the label is ... bizarre.
Not all my breads - I am devastated to announce, you astonished to hear - are the triumph of experience and skill that you have every right to expect. Sometimes a recipe just doesn't work - and yes, of course we blame the recipe - and sometimes I may make a minor error on my own account.
Sometimes, both.
We are building up to a cooks' playdate tomorrow; I am very keen to expand my repertoire, particularly in the realm of sourdoughs; what with one thing and another, I thought I'd bake a couple of sourdough baguettes that we could use for this and that.
Hey-ho.
The dough rose lovely overnight; it rose lovely again this morning. Moments before they went into the oven, the loaves were light and high and exciting. So I slashed them and sprayed them and slid them into the oven - and before they disappeared from view, they were already subsiding and spreading outward, clinging together on the tray. "Never mind, Chaz," quoth I to myself, "the oven spring will lift them again."
Not so much. Is there a word for flat baguettes? If so, I should learn it. I gazed at them dismally, let them cool, gazed again, cut off an end to test - and lo. The bread is light and flavourful, tho' the shape is dismaying - and I had entirely forgotten to salt the dough.
There is a whole school of thought that holds that one should not salt bread - but that is an Italian school, and the French will have nothing to do with it. And me neither, frankly.
Which is not to say that this stuff is bad, because it ain't; Karen and I are happily chewing through a loaf in our various manners, she with butter and I with oil and prismatic salt*. And the other loaf may yet work for something Cathyn and I have in mind for tomorrow. And yet, and yet. Internet, I am distressed. Everything I do should be immaculate, damn it, or what's a Chaz for?
*Actually balsamic salt, but my handwriting on the label is ... bizarre.