Whilst we wait for the architects to draw up house plans in readiness for the planning permission application, life goes on.
It’s a blustery, cold March Saturday in London and I am experimenting with my sourdough baking.
I love the crunch of nuts and seeds in my bread, so I’ve added hazelnuts, pumpkin seeds and a few handfuls of malted grains to my dough this morning.
I’m tending towards the “stretch and fold” method of making sourdough rather than regular heavy pummelling of the dough. It seems to trap more air and gives a better crumb texture. I could probably do with the workout, but I’ll sacrifice my fitness for a great loaf…
There’s something very satisfying about a long, slow dough proving. Every time I pass the bowl I can’t help taking a quick peek under the tea towel, and I confess that it’s really gratifying to watch it double in size in a matter of a few hours.
But the real joy is eating big, crusty slabs of warm, freshly baked bread with salted butter, and the satisfaction of knowing that you made this with your own hands. And that you know exactly what has gone into it.
Bread is a very life-affirming thing.
Ravencroft Skye 
There really is nothing like sitting down to a slice of fresh baked bread.
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Making bread is one of those things that stays in our collective memories (I think) and when we make bread it connects us to the long line of ancestors behind us who also made bread. Back through our mother, grandmother, the long series of great grandmothers to the first woman who forgot about the flour and water paste by the campfire for several days and decided to cook it anyway, and so discovered magic.
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That’s a wonderful thought. As is the fact that it must have been a woman who discovered wild yeast, and which I’d never really thought of. Thank you ☺️
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I never questioned that it was a woman… it’s just a womanly craft.
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