stacey . smoore . the staceyfish . 
Life in a Northern Town: the exploits of an ecstatic Alaskan
Lens: the adventures of a girl and her camera
Today's post from the Bread Baker's Apprentice Challenge brings you Artos, a Greek celebration bread. The book includes three versions - the standard bread, a Christmas bread, and an Easter bread. They all use the same basic enriched dough recipe that is flavored with spices, zests, and extracts, but the holiday-specific breads include fruit and nut embellishments that are specific to the season. The Easter bread even features red-dyed eggs atop the loaves.
Even though the rough goal of this group is to do one bread a week, when I realized that I don't have to work today and that I probably have a lot of trips coming up that will preclude any bread baking at all, I decided to go ahead and press on to bread #2, even though I just baked anadama bread yesterday. The loaf offers you the choice to either use a sourdough starter or a poolish. I do indeed have a cute little seed culture named Zeke that will one day be a starter (stay tuned for that!) and if I had waited to bake until this weekend he could have been used, but since I was feeling antsy I had to go the poolish route. Poolishes are really simple - the hardest part was scaling the 23-ounce formula down to 7 ounces. This is one of the things that I really like about using starters - they offer such a huge flavor payout for what is essentially zero extra work. All they require is a bit of planning ahead and then you let the enzymes and the yeast do all the hard work making your bread delicious!
So an hour before mixing the dough, I pulled the poolish that I made last night out of the fridge and mis en placed (no, it's not a verb, but I like to wordsmith) everything and began. I've been baking so much these last couple of days that I actually ran out of bread flour, so I threw in a couple of teaspoons of wheat gluten and rounded out the flour's weight requirement with all-purpose. Disaster averted. But, alas, here's when things began to get... sticky.
I am normally a pretty tolerant and patient baker, but as I was kneading this dough (or, more accurately, smearing it across the countertop) I kept thinking that a more accurate name would be Greek Frustration Bread. One of the reasons I start out my knead in a machine is so that I don't end up adding too much flour to try to make up for the stickiness of a freshly-mixed dough, but as I watched the dough resolutely refuse to form into a ball and instead just creep up the hook every ten seconds, it became clear that I was going to need to add more. So I added a little, then a little more, and then before long I was adding amounts of flour that I've never had to add to a dough before. The stand mixer was doing such a miserable job of kneading that I honestly thought the dough would be ready faster if I threw the hook across the room, so I took it out and started kneading by hand with a lot of flour, my bench scraper, and a temper that was barely kept in check. I was pretty furious with myself for skipping the autolyse, but it's pretty clear to me now that even if I had waited 20 minutes after mixing to start kneading, I still would have had to battle sticky, sticky dough.
After kneading for about ten minutes (and adding even more flour), the dough still stuck to my hand when I picked it up and inverted my hand - no gripping involved! This was just the sticky mass of goo resisting the force of gravity - that's how sticky it was!. Oh, Internet, I tried to get pictures of that for you, but it didn't work out this time. Before you complain, next time you're up to your elbows I'd like to see you get this shot without assistance! But I digress.
After adding my entire supply of sprinkling flour (I keep one of those parmesan/crushed red pepper shakers you see in restaurants filled with bread flour for sprinkling the stuff on the counter - makes it so much easier!) the dough finally became merely tacky instead of sticky, meaning that when I pressed my hand on the dough and lifted it off, the dough would very briefly stick but my would hand came away clean. At this point it passed the windowpane test, so an hour and ten minutes after I initially mixed the dough, I declared victory and squirreled away the dough to ferment.
Keeping in mind yesterday's over-ferment, I checked the dough often, but it went the full 90 minutes suggested in the recipe before testing done. The dough was so tacky, however, that it was difficult to test for doneness - if you poked even a wet finger in there, it stuck to your finger when you pulled it out. Now for shaping. The loaf looked huge - and almost every blogger out there commented on its enormous size - so, keeping storage in mind, I decided to divide the dough into two equally-sized boules. The dough shaped beautifully, the top never tearing now matter how tightly I stretched the gluten, and, again, was fully proofed at the end of the recommended time. The dough, covered only in damp kitchen towels, already smelled intoxicating, so I couldn't wait to find out what it smelled like as it baked.
Sure enough, before long, a delicious aroma wafted through the house. It reminded me not so much of bread as it did of Danish pastries, which surprised me not at all because of the common flavors within: nutmeg, lemon (zest in the bread, extract in the pastries), and almond extract. Not that I minded: on the contrary, since Danish pastries are one of my all-time favorite foods, both for taste and for sentimentality's sake. Because of this delicious smell, I had a very hard time not cutting into them right away, and was able to wait less than two hours before I had to put some of it in my mouth!
The loaves browned beautifully. I opted not to put a glaze on them, wanting to taste the flavors of the dough alone, and looking back, I'm glad that I didn't make one of the fancier variations. If it ain't broke, don't fix it! The bread is unquestionably delicious, perfect as a dessert or, toasted, as a treat with coffee. It would also be devastating as French toast! I'll definitely be making this bread again. Just, y'know, with more flour next time.
See also: Heather's Artos.
I've never been a big fan of rice. The way Americans do it is just so... blah. Brown rice suffers even more than the typical white rice. Some inspiration is needed, and fast!
We're not going to even talk about boxed products like Rice A Roni - all I can taste is chemicals, and if you're daring enough to face the three-inch list of ingredients, you'll find MSG or its precursors. Yuck! Many people have tried to liven up rice by adding chicken broth or stock, but this too is problematic. If you use commercial broth, you're left with something unpalatably salty. If you use homemade stock, the gelatin interacts with the grains somehow, leaving a gross, sticky mess that is incapable of absorbing all of its cooking liquid. I have tried many, many times to find a good water-to-stock ratio that will flavor the rice but won't leave it gummy and waterlogged but have failed every time. Clearly, another approach is in order.
First off, I gave up any hope in making plain brown rice interesting. I needed to infuse some other flavors, and fast. So one day at a local health food store, I parked myself in front of the bulk bins and started picking and choosing some different grains to make my rice more interesting and more textured. I was very happy with my chosen blend - brown rice, wild rice, wheat berries, and rye berries - because it definitely had more flavor and it had a marvelous toothiness to it, but I still wanted more.
To find something suitable, I took my cue from a land where rice is actually a staple grain, figuring that they, of all people, would know how to make it interesting. I settled upon some inspiration from spiced Indian rice dishes that I love so well and opted for a pilaf that begins with whole spices. This, too, was better, but it still needed something more. Little by little, I whittled my way down to the solution, adding and subtracting things, until last night, I finally hit upon a solution I loved. Even The Hubs liked it! At long last, rice - and most especially, healthy brown rice - has been delivered from tasteless purgatory.
Today is the first official day of our Bread Baker's Apprentice Challenge! Today Heather and I bring you Anadama bread, a traditional bread from the northeastern United States, reportedly named after a colorful epithet uttered by a jilted (and hungry) husband.
With this in mind, I decided to attempt to make my bread a little more colorful than the typical loaf. Anadama bread isn't so different from most basic sandwich loaves: the only big difference is that it features the addition of some cornmeal. I decided late last night to start the bread and the only cornmeal I had on hand was blue (it really does make the best-ever southern cornbread!), so I decided to make do.
This bread was a first for me in two ways: it features both a soaker and a sponge. A soaker is a sneaky way of coaxing more flavor from grains: water activates enzymes in the grain, which on a molecular level start to peel away the protective coating that hides the really tasty bits that are lurking in the flour or meal. This soaker, just cornmeal and water, couldn't be simpler, but it does need to be assembled the night before. The sponge is a quick pre-ferment, wetter than the final dough, which lets the yeast and enzymes get started doing their thing a bit ahead of time. My sponge took a little bit longer than I expected though, or maybe I was just expecting to see more bubbles than there were. Either way, when I added the rest of the flour after 70 minutes of sponge-ing, it visibly sighed and deflated. I'll have to do some research to figure out whether I let pre-ferment for too long and if maybe that's what caused my problems later on down the line.
I was surprised by how much yeast the recipe called for. 2 teaspoons of instant yeast to 4.5 cups flour is quite a bit! It's so much, in fact, that this is the other prime suspect in the problems I go over later. I thoroughly mixed in the remaining ingredients with the sponge, covered the bowl for 20 minutes (I'm a big fan of the autolyse), then kneaded with the stand mixer for 4 minutes before continuing with my hands. There are plenty of opinionated people on each side of the line in the debate of man vs. machine when it comes to kneading bread, but I tend to take a balanced view of it. I like to let the machine do its thing initially, but I always finish my doughs by hand. It allows the mixer to do the dirty work when the dough is really sticky and it also kneads very thoroughly and efficiently. Finishing manually allows me to feel the dough to make sure it's not getting overworked and it lets me take advantage of the joys and benefits that kneading has always brought me.
I had to knead this dough for longer than I thought I would. The dough was pretty sticky so I had to keep adding a bit of flour to the countertop and I was never truly satisfied with the stickiness vs. tackiness. I eventually got the dough to pass the windowpane test, but I expected the dough to be much smoother. Perhaps it was just the cornmeal making it look less smooth than it really was.
The dough was incredibly soft (maybe this is normal - I'm not sure because this was my first 100% white sandwich loaf) and flattened out under its own weight when I rounded it into a ball before fermenting.
Though the formula called for a 90 minute fermentation, I checked the rising dough at 70 minutes and it had already over-fermented - when I poked it it sighed and sank. Knowing that I was racing the clock now that it had fermented too long, I gave it a quick knead, hoping to re-distribute the nutrients to the yeast but noticing a faint boozy aroma (damn it!), hurried through dividing, gave it a minimal rest, and shaped the dough into loaves and put them in the pans covered with damp kitchen towels (the tree-hugger in me won't let me use plastic wrap!).
The formula called for a 60-90 minute proof, but I was taking no chances this time: I checked at 30 minutes, noticing the loaves had already crested the tops of the pans, but was relieved to see that the dough sprang back when I poked it. When I came back ten minutes later the loaves tested ready, so I prepared a hot kettle, spritzed the loaves, dusted them with cornmeal, slashed them (not strictly called for but with the way this stuff was rising it needed it), popped them in the oven, and poured the hot water into a pre-heated cast-iron skillet with pre-heated lava rocks in it (best method I've found thus far for creating good steam). The bread baked right on schedule, and in less than an hour I had freshly baked loaves on cooking racks, aroma-ing all over the place.
The loaves had excellent oven spring and grew quite a bit in the oven. The slashes opened up beautifully - so beautifully, in fact, that I was wondering why the formula didn't call for it. Surely the forming crust would have inhibited the growth of the loaf. The thin crust stayed fairly soft and it's possible that the top of the loaves shrank a bit as the air within cooled. The loaves were about the same size as my 100% whole-grain sandwich loaves typically are, but with only 75% of the flour.
After waiting a couple of hours, I finally got to slice into the bread! It was delicious, not boozy at all like I had feared, but I think that if it didn't have molasses and butter in it you easily would have been able to tell that it had been over-fermented. Then again, it could be that the soaker and sponge really did their jobs in terms of flavor enhancement! This really is an ideal sandwich bread, since the crust is tender and the crumb is so soft as to be downright squishable. However, you can tell that one of the loaves proofed just a smidge too long since there are overly large air pockets in some sections and the bread is unstable. Despite the deliciousness, I don't know if I will make it again because I really prefer my sandwich bread to be whole-grain, but it was fun this time around!
The next day addendum: I pulled the loaf out again today so I could take photos of the slices since the sun had already gone down by the time the loaf was cool. The taste had changed fairly dramatically: yesterday it was sweet and somewhat creamy on the palate, but today I picked up off-flavors that had developed. They were a mix between boozy and yeasty, so at last, I'm paying the price for the over-fermentation. However, I stuck those slices in the toaster and made some cinnamon toast (a treat I hadn't had in years!) and of course the off-flavors were completely masked. I still think it's exactly what most people think a sandwich loaf should be, but personally, I find it too sweet for sandwiches. Then again, I've already found my perfect-for-sandwiches loaf, and even as good as the anadama is, it's really not fair to compare it to my oatmeal bread. So, again, delicious bread, but best for out-of-hand eating or toasting.
See also: Heather's Anadama bread.
Next up: Artos, Greek Celebration bread.
If you're a bread baker, you know that there are reams upon reams of bread books at any given bookstore. The question will inevitably arise: which one is your desert island bread book? Which book can catapult your bread baking up to the next level without having to spend hundreds on classes? Which book is the definitive bread book for serious home bakers?
For many, many bakers, the answer is The Bread Baker's Apprentice. My mother-in-law gave me the book some time ago, and I had opened it often, ogling and drooling over the bread porn, but as of yet, I still haven't made anything from it. I know, travesty!
So, thanks to a fabulous idea from Nicole of Pinch My Salt, I am going to take the Bread Baker's Apprentice Challenge! I'll make every recipe in that venerable tome in order and, of course, will document it here! I've also recruited my mom Trisha and my Alaskan friend Heather, both formidable bread bakers, serious foodies, and super fun folks all-around.
If you'd like to join our small band of yeast enthusiasts, go buy a copy of the book, read the first hundred pages on deconstructing bread, and then roll up your sleeves and dive right in with anadama bread!
I hardly ever make apologies for my cooking for any reason whatsoever. I take great pride in what comes out of my kitchen and get great joy from sharing that food with others.
With these delectable little cookies, however, apologies might be in order. Don't get me wrong - they're excellent, it's just that they're so rich that unless your ovaries have taken you hostage and are demanding nothing less than a chocolate IV now, indulging in more than, say, two, might be out of the realm of possibility. Even if you find yourself in the midst of a hostage crisis, a chaser of milk (preferably straight from the carton!) is still necessary.
Richness aside, these suckers are delicious. So sinfully delicious, it's said, that if everyone in the world had these, conflict and war would no longer be issues. I'm inclined to agree - these cookies can cure what ails you. Well, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually at any rate, if not physically (unless butter and chocolate are agents of healing now).
As for the world peace bit, I'm doing my part. I've sent these cookies throughout the world, including war zones, as gifts that are meant to bring comfort and happiness to those who needed it, whether it was because they were missing their families or because they had just had their hearts broken. They've also done good domestically, be it by bringing a bit of cheer to shift workers on a dreary Monday or by raising money for charities in need.
I should confess that I'm totally altruistic with these cookies. Not every batch is for a good cause (see previous statement about ovaries taking a certain person hostage) - because, really, sometimes you just gotta keep some of the riches that flow from your kitchen to yourself. Even if you're impeding world peace by doing so, I don't think anyone will blame you!
It doesn't matter how long you've been cooking. It doesn't matter what your favorite cuisine is or whether or not you actually know that you're looking for something: there is a recipe out there for each of us that we have been yearning to make.
In this dish, I found mine: whether I knew it or not, zuppa di farro is the type of Italian food I've been trying to make since I learned how to cook.
No, it's not smothered in tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese. It isn't pasta and there is neither a meatball nor a wine-soaked pan-fried chicken cutlet to be found. But this, folks, is the real deal - it's not Italian-American, it's apologetically Tuscan.
Not that the Tuscans have a single thing to apologize for in their cuisine. The days I spent in Florence and Siena were non-stop food bliss. And though I never tried this soup while I was over there, as soon as I tasted it I knew that zuppa di farro was unmistakably at home there.
Cesare Casella, the author of this recipe's cookbook, said that this soup is like the Italian equivalent of chicken soup - it cures all ills. It screams comfort food, and the moment it hit my lips I wished that the temperature would drop a good forty degrees and that the rain would start falling in sheets from the sky. So the next time a day like that rolls around, take my advice: put on a cozy chunky sweater and lounge around the house with a good book in your hand and a somnolent hound at your feet while a pot of this simmers away on the stove.
Ok, I can't guarantee that you'll never shed a tear cutting up an onion. What I can deliver you from is tears of frustration. Trust me, that's a big deal. After all, what's the least fun part about cooking? The prep. If you can find tricks to make the process easier and faster, you will enjoy the prep more, and you will be more likely to cook more often. Plus, it appears (from observational evidence, not scientific evidence - that I know of, anyway) that when you cut this way, leaving the root end intact, that you are far less likely to cry from stinging onion-y eyes (unless the onion is too old to be cooking with. I can't help you then, sorry).
So, without further adieu, I give you the spoke method of chopping onions!
Everyone needs a recipe that can answer a host of dietary and culinary questions single-handedly. These questions might be along the lines of "How am I going to use this vat of spinach before it goes bad?" or "How can I make canned beans interesting?" or "What can I make that is attractive, delicious, very nutritious, and quick?"
For me, this recipe answers all those questions, plus a few more nagging ones about lean proteins and just how, exactly, one can get all the benefits of spinach without smothering it in salad dressing. It also answers the call when it hears the stomach thinking "Oh my god I am so hungry but I don't wanna cook anything involved and I don't want any meat today" but the tastebuds are all like "Dude, don't forget about us!"
This recipe seriously comes together in a matter of minutes, tastes and feels like genuine comfort food, but packs in a lot of nutrition when you're looking the other way. Serve it alongside some whole-grain pasta tossed with a fruity olive oil and couple of tomatoes you didn't use in this dish, some brown rice, or a whole-grain bread, and you've got a complete lean protein and a satisfying well-balanced meal.
Click here for the recipe for "Cannellini beans with wilted spinach" »