In Search of the Perfect Loaf: A Home Baker's Odyssey Read Online Free Page A
Author: Samuel Fromartz
edge, just like that.
So when beginning bakers try a “recipe” and get frustrated when it doesn’t work out, they are kind of missing the point. The real recipe is to make bread time and again, until one day it becomes second nature. Beginners can make good, even extraordinary bread. But until they understand the craft, under- and overfermented loaves and misshapen and dense breads will be the rule. That’s what happened to me, but perhaps I saw enough of a promise to keep going. Maybe, too, I knew enough about craft work from my time at Squid to understand the nature of these failures: that they are not ultimately failures. If you take one lesson away from the attempt, then it’s worth it. Maybe, too, I just valued the meditative nature of the work, and the respite it offered.
My own progression as a home baker also mirrored what happened in food culture, as heirloom, handcrafted, and local foods became much more valued. As much as I liked all the bakeries I grew up with—whose breads holds a special place in my memory—I did not try to reproduce their loaves. I’ve moved on, continually trying to find new ways of making bread at home. It was an approach that became clear when I tried, almost in desperation, to make a decent baguette in Paris in the darkest days of the recession.
A Note on the Recipes
W hile this is not a recipe book, I do provide recipes. Many are quite simple, such as flatbread, but others require more commitment and I’ve tried to illuminate this by labeling each recipe
Easy, Moderate,
or
Difficult
. While they were influenced by many bakers I encountered, and the recipes I read, they reflect methods that became part of my baking regime. I continue to make all of these breads today, and I find them endlessly fascinating and flexible. That said, if you’re starting out and really want to learn the craft of baking, I would point you to books highlighted in my bibliography.
In these recipes, I use a scale to weigh ingredients and I measure weights in grams, which can be unfamiliar, especially for someone used to measuring flour in cups or even ounces. While volume measurements are more common, weighing is more accurate. Many baking books also include metric measurements—now the de facto standard at least among artisan bakers. While weighing ingredients might be a foreign concept, it’s not difficult. Nor is it a big investment. The first scale I bought was a small plastic version from a grocery store that cost $9.99. I used it for several years and learned how to bake with it. It broke, and I’ve since graduated to digital scales which can be found for about $25.
I sometimes use the phrase “natural leaven” to refer to the substance commonly known in the United States as “sourdough” or “sourdough starter.” French bakers refer to this substance as
levain
. Rather than pick one term, I use all three depending on the context. But they refer to the same thing: natural leaven, sourdough, and
levain
contain populations of wild yeast and bacteria, which when added to dough cause it to ferment—a process I explain in depth in chapter 2.
Although I provide rising times, they depend on a dough temperature of around 75˚F (24˚C). If your kitchen is 80˚F (27˚C) or higher in the summer, the dough will ferment more quickly. If the rise is moving too quickly, you can add cooler water of around 65˚F (18˚C) when you mix the dough. If the rise is sluggish in the winter, because your kitchen is a cool 65˚F (18˚C), then mix the dough with 85˚F (29˚C) water and ferment the dough in a closed space, such as an oven, with just the light on. The bottom line: you will need to adjust based on your experience.
A word on flours: I use unbleached “all purpose” flour, although all-purpose can mean many things. Ideally, the flour should be milled from hard red winter wheat with a protein level of about 11 to 11.7 percent. Some all-purpose flours aim for protein levels of around 10 percent,
So when beginning bakers try a “recipe” and get frustrated when it doesn’t work out, they are kind of missing the point. The real recipe is to make bread time and again, until one day it becomes second nature. Beginners can make good, even extraordinary bread. But until they understand the craft, under- and overfermented loaves and misshapen and dense breads will be the rule. That’s what happened to me, but perhaps I saw enough of a promise to keep going. Maybe, too, I knew enough about craft work from my time at Squid to understand the nature of these failures: that they are not ultimately failures. If you take one lesson away from the attempt, then it’s worth it. Maybe, too, I just valued the meditative nature of the work, and the respite it offered.
My own progression as a home baker also mirrored what happened in food culture, as heirloom, handcrafted, and local foods became much more valued. As much as I liked all the bakeries I grew up with—whose breads holds a special place in my memory—I did not try to reproduce their loaves. I’ve moved on, continually trying to find new ways of making bread at home. It was an approach that became clear when I tried, almost in desperation, to make a decent baguette in Paris in the darkest days of the recession.
A Note on the Recipes
W hile this is not a recipe book, I do provide recipes. Many are quite simple, such as flatbread, but others require more commitment and I’ve tried to illuminate this by labeling each recipe
Easy, Moderate,
or
Difficult
. While they were influenced by many bakers I encountered, and the recipes I read, they reflect methods that became part of my baking regime. I continue to make all of these breads today, and I find them endlessly fascinating and flexible. That said, if you’re starting out and really want to learn the craft of baking, I would point you to books highlighted in my bibliography.
In these recipes, I use a scale to weigh ingredients and I measure weights in grams, which can be unfamiliar, especially for someone used to measuring flour in cups or even ounces. While volume measurements are more common, weighing is more accurate. Many baking books also include metric measurements—now the de facto standard at least among artisan bakers. While weighing ingredients might be a foreign concept, it’s not difficult. Nor is it a big investment. The first scale I bought was a small plastic version from a grocery store that cost $9.99. I used it for several years and learned how to bake with it. It broke, and I’ve since graduated to digital scales which can be found for about $25.
I sometimes use the phrase “natural leaven” to refer to the substance commonly known in the United States as “sourdough” or “sourdough starter.” French bakers refer to this substance as
levain
. Rather than pick one term, I use all three depending on the context. But they refer to the same thing: natural leaven, sourdough, and
levain
contain populations of wild yeast and bacteria, which when added to dough cause it to ferment—a process I explain in depth in chapter 2.
Although I provide rising times, they depend on a dough temperature of around 75˚F (24˚C). If your kitchen is 80˚F (27˚C) or higher in the summer, the dough will ferment more quickly. If the rise is moving too quickly, you can add cooler water of around 65˚F (18˚C) when you mix the dough. If the rise is sluggish in the winter, because your kitchen is a cool 65˚F (18˚C), then mix the dough with 85˚F (29˚C) water and ferment the dough in a closed space, such as an oven, with just the light on. The bottom line: you will need to adjust based on your experience.
A word on flours: I use unbleached “all purpose” flour, although all-purpose can mean many things. Ideally, the flour should be milled from hard red winter wheat with a protein level of about 11 to 11.7 percent. Some all-purpose flours aim for protein levels of around 10 percent,
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