A Winter of Slow Bread

I started baking bread last December mostly because the evenings were long and the kitchen was the warmest room in the flat. I had no starter, no proper banneton, and a bag of flour that had been sitting in the cupboard since the summer. The first loaf came out pale and dense, like a brick someone had politely apologised for.

The turning point was giving up on speed. I had been following recipes that promised bread in four hours, which meant warm water, plenty of yeast and a lot of anxious poking. Then a neighbour, who has been baking every Saturday for about twenty years, told me to use a pinch of yeast, cold water, and simply leave the dough in the fridge overnight. It felt like cheating. It was not.

Cold fermentation does most of the work for you. The dough develops flavour slowly, the gluten relaxes, and the next morning you shape it, let it come up to room temperature, and bake. The crumb was more open and the crust actually crackled as it cooled on the rack, which is the most satisfying sound a kitchen can make.

A few things I wrote on the back of an envelope that is still stuck to the fridge: weigh everything, because cups lie. Use a little more water than feels comfortable. Bake in a heavy lidded pot for the first twenty minutes, then take the lid off. Do not cut the loaf while it is hot, no matter how good it smells. That last one is the hardest.

By February I had settled into a rhythm. Mix on Friday night after dinner, fold a few times while washing up, fridge before bed. Saturday morning, coffee, shape, bake. The whole thing takes maybe twenty minutes of actual effort spread across a day, and the rest is waiting.

I think that is what I like about it. Most of my week is about getting things done quickly. Bread refuses to be hurried, and somehow that makes the weekend feel longer. I have given away more loaves than I have eaten, which might be the best part. Next on the list is rye, which everyone tells me is a sticky, humbling experience. I am looking forward to it.