A Single Carrot

“Not only is it merely acceptable for a man to know how to bake, it's almost a prerequisite for appropriate masculine behaviour” The Times reported on Saturday, two weeks into the lockdown measures enforced across the UK as a result of COVID-19. By this point, the sight of smug “newbie” bakers posing next to their crusty loaves and airy cross sections had become almost as disheartening as the flow of daily news created by the virus, and now my masculinity was at stake too!

For two weeks, my pursuit of leavened bread had caused arguments, ridicule, anxiety and stress amongst the lockdown community at my parent’s house in rural Dorset. At times it had been a source of comfort and distraction during the unfolding turmoil of a global pandemic but at others, my flops and failures had compounded feelings of helplessness and despair. However, throughout the repeated mistakes, misfortunes and bags of wasted flour, I always knew that at least one factor remained resolutely on my side: time.

As anyone who has attempted it before will tell you, setting your sights on baking sourdough is like opening Pandora's box. There is an endless amount of information on the internet about how to do everything from creating a starter, to feeding in, kneading (or not to knead?), proofing, shaping and baking loaves. What’s more, there is no consensus between any of the online sourdough gurus on how any of it should be done.

I have jumped around from the UK to New York and San Francisco, books to blogs, forums, faded recollections and unwanted advice from backseat drivers (mostly my mother) in pursuit of a successful formula, often getting lost for days down rabbit holes on everything from feeding schedules to flour mixes.

Much of the online sourdough lexicon is rooted in the free spirited flower power culture of San Francisco, the home of hipster bread baking. Blogs tell you to “connect” with your dough and “tune in” to the pattern of your starter culture. Whilst this has at times had me cursing these pedlars of flaky hippy bullsh*t, the reality is that every person's sourdough method is unique to their kitchen climate, yeast starter, flour and desired pattern of life.

This article is therefore not another guide or recipe for any would be bakers, but simply a journal of how, during a time of great upheaval, uncertainty and scarce resources, I was able to find my baker’s “rhythm.”

Week 1 - getting started

Sunday

I had seen the method for a sourdough starter whilst leafing through my copy of the St John, Nose to Tail cookbook. I am a big Fergus Henderson fan, and love his London restaurant so if I was going to join a sourdough church, this was the one for me. Without my copy of the book to hand, I was able to find the starter recipe online in a Guardian interview with head baker, Justin Piers Gellatly.

The method called for rhubarb strips to be added to a mixture of four and water. Having done a bit of reading online it seemed that the general consensus about the addition of rhubarb or other fruits to starters is that it is steeped in ancient myths without any real scientific backing. Perfect! I thought as I went and picked some from the garden.

Starter Day 1 with Rhubarb strips running through it

Monday - Little visible change. More flour and water added in equal quantity.

Tuesday - As above.

Wednesday - “You will start to see the beginning of active fermentation” the gospel according to St John predicted, and so it came to pass. Bubbles!

Thursday - Even more bubbles! Accompanied by some misguided confidence that this was all going very much according to plan.

The next instruction was to ditch 90% of what I had created and start again with 10% of it. The thought filled me with deep concern. What if it didn't work? I did as I was told but kept the old batch as an insurance policy.

Friday - Bubbles on the new batch. Belief restored. Do the same again.

Saturday - According to St John, it's time to bake! But with lockdown measures still relatively loose and the sun shining, we are off to the beach. Baking can wait until tomorrow.

Week 2 - V, U or L shaped depression?

Sunday - "You can follow whatever sourdough recipe you like”, Gellaty says, "One of mine is in The Complete Nose to Tail cookbook, but I'm sure that Paul Hollywood has got one in his book.” No St John book and no recipe available online, so I reluctantly accept Gellaty’s endorsement of Paul Hollywood, find his “Classic Sourdough” recipe on the BBC Food website and make a start.

After obsessively checking throughout the day, I think my ball of dough has grown. Or has it just flattened?

Before I go to bed, I take it out, re-knead it “knocking all the air out” (really Paul?!) then place in a basket, covered in a cloth on the warm shelf behind the Aga* for its second “proofing.”

“But is it going to be too warm?” I think as I turn out the lights.

Monday - alarm set for 7am. I run downstairs in my pyjamas like a child at Christmas ready to put my loaf in the oven. Mum is already awake and in the kitchen. Her face when she sees me says it all. A solid lump of dough sits heavy in the basket with a hard white crust formed around it. I try to resurrect it by re-kneading and moving it to a cooler spot but feel like I am performing CPR on a corpse.

My main theory for failure is that it was exposed to too much heat. I also consider too much time as a factor - perhaps it peaked and fell overnight? The feeling is one of massive anticlimax having been preparing for this all week.

Tuesday - The ball is buried. In all the excitement of my failed baking attempt, I have forgotten completely about the remaining starter. It looks septic with some murky water sitting on top and has started to smell a little bit funky. I think I must have killed it.

That afternoon, we received a phone call informing us that an elderly family friend had passed away as a result of COVID-19. The trouble around us suddenly feels real and frightening.

I add some flour and water to my starter without much enthusiasm. With the likely prospect of starting again from scratch, I am feeling pretty demoralised by the whole baking project.

Wednesday - The starter looks better. A couple of bubbles. Still doesn't smell great, but perhaps all is not lost. I go online looking for a path forward.

Google: “how do you know if a starter is dead?” It turns out, this life form is less fragile than I had believed.

Google: “how do you bring a starter back to life?” This leads to the entire afternoon being spent getting my head around feeding ratios and timings. I decide to switch from a 1:2:2 to a 1:1:1 and see what happens.

A new theory for Monday’s failure starts to rise: perhaps the day at the beach meant that my starter wasn't in peak condition?

Google: “how do you know if a starter is ready?” Two possible answers: 1. It has doubled in size. 2. It floats.

Whilst I had been visually observing the behaviour of my starter, I had done little to actually measure it. I transferred a spoonful of starter into a small straight sided glass jar, added flour and water following the 1:1:1 ratio then drew a line at the level and started recording its movements.

“The only way to beat COVID-19 is by testing, testing and more testing” the medical experts were reporting. I order new digital scales and a thermometer from Amazon and feel like whilst not completely back on track, there is a plan of action.

Thursday - starter looks good, almost doubled in size. I drop a spoonful into a glass of water and watch as it wavers then sinks to the bottom.

I pour 2/3rds away, and start again. The daily feeding and new ratio is having a positive effect on the starter but my flour supply is dwindling. I no longer have enough to bake a loaf of bread and figure I can only carry on feeding for a few more days. Stocks will need to be replenished.

Friday - I go into town on the pretence of doing an essential weekly shop. I wait patiently in line at Waitrose, two meters behind the customer in front. Once allowed in, I rush to the baking section only to find it empty. Sainsbury’s, same story, only a bigger queue.

I drive around all the smaller local stores in an increasingly desperate search aware that I am maximising my chances of picking up and taking home the virus. No luck. Of course everyone has had the same bloody idea! I am angry with myself for being such a cliche - why didn't I make kombucha?!

Baking section in Waitrose, Sherborne, Friday 3 April

I return home feeling defeated. The baking gods don’t want me to make bread. Mum has an idea though. She teaches cookery at a local prep school, now a ghost town and the cookery room has a store cupboard full of the stuff. We jump in the car and loot it.

Saturday - I am now armed with sacks of wholemeal flour. It's not the “strong white bread flour” I had hoped and most recipes seem to ask for but it's flour which I now see as a precious and scarce commodity.

I drop another spoonful into a glass of water only to watch it sink to the bottom. I start to question the achievability of the float test. Can it really happen?

I give my starter an extra feed before going to bed.

Week 3 - on the rise

Sunday - I wake to the sound of a WhatsApp ping. Mum has sent a picture of the starter. It has ballooned overnight. Double, almost triple. But will it float….

Time to bake. I had already decided that I was going to follow the method of American sourdough blogger, Alexandra Stafford. Her recipe uses wholewheat flour which I have an abundance of. It also has helpful videos of what each stage should look like.

It is clear that mum, who has been watching, supporting and sometimes mocking me throughout this process, does not approve of the method which calls for no kneading of the dough (I later discover that this is also the method used by Chad Robertson at cult San Francisco bakery, Tartine).

That evening when I slap the wet dough ball on an un-floured table (because that's what Alexandra says to do), she tells me it's never going to work. I respond with language you should never use in front of your mother.

The dough is sticky and hard to shape, I think mum might have a point, but push on indignantly leaving it in a cool place to proof overnight.

Before I go to bed, I prepared my next starter, fully expecting disappointment.

Monday - It's still dark outside. I have been dreaming of bread. My phone says it's 4am. Go back to sleep!

I come down at 7.30. Mum has obviously already been in and checked it but pretends she hasn't.

I take it out. It doesn't look that different to when I put it to bed - it wobbles a bit, meaning some air in there, but no dramatic rise. Mum has written it off as a failure and, looking irritatingly smug, suggests kneading it and putting it somewhere warmer.

I cant face a repeat of last week so decided to bake it anyway in a Dutch oven. After 30 mins I remove the lid and catch a glimpse - it looks much bigger, spirits are raised. Another ten agonising minutes later, outcomes what looks to be a perfectly decent loaf of bread!

What’s more the cross section of holes (the acid test for sourdough bakers) looks impressive and it tastes delicious - “too good for toast” - we all agree as we have it still slightly warm with butter for breakfast.

Ok cross section but concerned about large holes at the top. Also a little flat.

Half my phone book receives the gloating photographs. I know however that it could have risen more. There are also large holes at the top which I am sure is some kind of fault. I go back to the internet for more research but this time with a more positive mindset.

I move straight on to the next loaf that evening, this time following the Tartine method, which seems to have many similarities to Alexandra’s with more illustrious provenance. That night I prepared a larger batch of levain - enough for two loaves - and placed it in the cooler utility room as instructed by Tartine.

Tuesday - Tartine’s cool overnight levain hasn't worked. I am angry with myself for not sticking with what I know now yields a result.

I move it back to my tried and tested warm Aga spot and sure enough, by mid afternoon it passes the float test.

Sourdough forum, The Fresh Loaf has led me to believe that the large holes may have had something to do with the shaping technique so I fashion a plastic dough scraper out of an old DVD case.

The rest, by now, seems almost certain.

Loaves put to bed on cool kitchen windowsill

Wednesday - all round, better loaves - much higher rise, lighter and with more even distribution of bubbles. I claim it as victory. Although a huge amount is still to learn (I only started this because I wanted to bake focaccia), I think I have finally cracked the basics of sourdough and will be able to make the next loaves with confidence.

Honestly, without the enforced lockdown, I probably would have given up after the first week, but feel relieved that I stuck with it and happy that a new skill has been gained out of this terrible situation.

It is at the same time both incredibly simple and fiendishly complex. The only way you will get there is trial and error and trusting your own instincts, as opposed to any recipe. But its the errors that make it so satisfying when everything goes according to plan.

With Easter approaching, I am on to the next challenge: Hot Crossed Buns!

Here in the UK, we haven't been as focused on stockpiling since fears of a “no deal” Brexit gripped the nation just last summer. The truth is, whatever the external threat, we are natural hoarders and like nothing better than to fill our store-cupboards, preparing our personal fortresses for a lengthy siege.

Recently it has been the staple carbs - dried pasta and long life bread - that have grabbed the attention of panic buyers. But COVID-19 would seem like a blessing if all you had to improve five kilos of spaghetti and some “ready to bake” baguettes was an oversupply of hand sanitiser gel.

These bulk goods rely on our stores of long life additives: tins, jars and bottles that cluster in disjointed formation at the back of our kitchen cupboards, ready to be called upon at a moments notice to add flavour, texture and enjoyment to food. In these dark times, the difference between having a stock of ordinary and extraordinary store cupboard ingredients could be the difference between surviving and thriving the apocalypse.

There are of course hundreds of store cupboard foot soldiers that no right thinking cook should consider living without. But if you had to pick one from your kitchen armoury, to bring your staples to life, give hope in front of despair and shed light through the darkness, what would that be? It is a tough choice, but there is a strong case to be made for the humble, salted anchovy.

From salads to pizza, pasta sauces, stocks or simply toast and butter, salted anchovies have been around improving food for millennia. Like olives, it's almost an unbearable cliché that everyone hated their first one - myself included - but I am convinced that anyone who maintains this position through adulthood is simply lacking perseverance.

There are over 140 species of anchovy found in the cold waters of the Atlantic, Pacific and Indian Oceans and the Mediterranean. Most species however are small and frail and get damaged in fishing nets, so the only anchovy you’re likely to find in shops is the hardy Engraulis encrasicolus, commonly known as the European anchovy. This small, blue-green fish has an unusually large jaw, hence one of its Spanish names, boquerón, or “big mouth.”

They range in length from 2cm to up to 40cm however these days, due to intensive commercial fishing, few make it to full adult size. Anchovies are attracted to moonlight so boats go out at night to catch them. Nowadays the boats are fitted with large lamps to help attract the fish.

The preserving process is as simple as it comes. The fish have their heads and guts removed and are then packed tightly into containers with coarse sea salt and weighted down. As the salt draws liquid from the fish, a brine quickly forms. The sooner the salting happens after they are fished, the more flavour that gets preserved. This salt curing process takes six to eight weeks, depending on the size of the fish. When ready, the flesh starts to take on a browny pink hue.

As well as preserving the fish, the salt breaks down the muscle proteins softening the flesh so that when the preserved anchovies are cooked they dissolve into sauces. Breaking down proteins in this way also releases amino acids that give salted anchovies the intense umami flavour and makes them such a valued ingredient.

They can be sold whole still packed in salt, or more commonly, cleaned of the salt, fileted then put in tins or jars of olive or sunflower oil. Whilst this extra processing makes them more convenient to use, if you are lucky enough to find the salt packed version, they have a punchier flavour and more supple texture when eaten whole. To prepare them, you simply need to wash the salt off in fresh running water, remove the bones then brush with a good, light olive oil.

The landlocked Piedmontese are one of the great users of anchovies in dishes like bagna cauda, a thick oily sauce rich with garlic and anchovy used as a dip for crudités and acciughe al verde where the largest anchovies are eaten whole covered in a parsley and olive oil sauce. They are also used to season the tuna sauce in a classic vitello tonnato. On market days the acciughai (anchovy sellers) in Piedmont’s markets stand behind large metal drums of salted fish selling a range of anchovies by the gram that vary enormously in size, and price. The largest and most expensive fish on offer are always from northern Spain.

The history of salting anchovies in Cantabria on the Atlantic Basque coast of Spain only dates back to the 19th century when a group of Sicilian salters started to fish the Atlantic waters. These Atlantic fish are prized for their large size and meaty texture. As well as being popular for acciughe al verde, they can be found in many of the classic pintxos bites in nearby San Sebastian, including the signature La Gilda, where a large anchovy is mixed with green olives and pickled peppers on a cocktail stick to create an intense, salty and vinegary bite.

It's on the informally named “Costa de l'Anxova'' (anchovy coast) though, that stretches 50 km from the northern Mediterranean coast of Spain through semi-autonomous Catalonia and into southern France, where anchovy salting has its richest history. These Mediterranean anchovies are said to be smaller, leaner and more flavourful than their Atlantic cousins.

Along this stretch of coastline, the towns of L’Escala in Catalonia and Collioure in France both stake a claim to producing the finest product. In L’Escala, the tiny fish have been championed by legendary Catalan chef, Ferran Adrian and were put to creative use in his El Bulli restaurant in many dishes including an anchovy gelato. Since 2004, Collioure’s anchovies have had protected geographical indication status from the European Union. So important were the fish to this small town’s economy that in 1466 King Louis XI of France exempted the town from the hated gabelle, or salt tax. Here the anchovies, which are hand filleted, are used in a classic dish of braised rabbit in a tomato, anchovy and white wine sauce, or whole in an eponymous salad with roasted red peppers.

Their popularity and versatility means however that in some areas, anchovies are in serious danger of being overfished. In 2008 the fish were put on a “fish to avoid” list by the Marine Conservation Society. There are now strict quotas enforced on anchovy fishing throughout the Mediterranean and Bay of Biscay. As with most food, the key to shopping sustainably is knowing where your product comes from. Amber Madley, Ethics Manager and Acting Head of Sustainability at New England Seafood adds that consumers should “look out for labels which point to sustainability. Words like responsibly or sustainably sourced can add some degree of assurance that seafood has been taken from managed fisheries, but the blue MSC (Marine Stewardship Council) logo indicates that the fish have come from a certified sustainable source.”

Anchovies may be an ingredient that you have taken for granted or believed to be homogenous, you may even think you hate their intense salty flavour and oily texture. But like so many things that we use in the kitchen, there is a whole spectrum of taste and quality out there waiting to be discovered. Who knows for how long we are going to be locked inside our homes? Certainly long enough to shop around online for something above the ordinary. And with enough time to wash and bone our own salted anchovies, there is no excuse not to look for the best. With a good supply of this rich, salty, flavour addition and a touch of imagination and creativity there is no excuse not to turn your stocks of bread dried pasta into countless delicious meals, providing some small comfort in these uncertain times.

5 anchovy dishes to brighten up your corona lockdown:

La Gilda

https://eatapas.co.uk/en/blog/gilda-n4

Piedmont Stuffed Peppers

https://www.deliaonline.com/recipes/collections/delias-summer-collection/piedmont-roasted-peppers

Acciughe al Verde

https://www.tastecooking.com/recipes/acciughe-al-verde-anchovies-green-sauce/

Collioure Salad

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/salad_of_peppers_18285

Sicilian Pasta with anchovies pine nuts and currants
https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/spaghetti-fennel-anchovies-currants-pine-nuts-capers