I Will Then, Said the Little Red Hen
What a morning. Darkly overcast, windy, and rain, lots of it. We had all-night rain following on the previous day's rain. So today is to be yet another acquarium day. Cool, wet, windy. Don't mind, really. If, at some point during the day the rain mellows out a bit so that the ever-burgeoning canopy in the ravine might give us partial shelter, we'll get out there for our usual daily walk-about. The search of the moment is for Jack-in-the-Pulpits, our favourite spring flower.
Today's menu pops into my head. We'll have a tomato-based vegetable soup, chock-full of dried peas, beans, and fresh-cut vegetables. Truth is, the menu didn't just pop into my head; we knew yesterday that today's weather would be a repeat of the day before, so last night I set the legumes in a bowl to soak overnight. The resulting soup, lovingly simmered for hours, gifting the chill house with its delectable promise of an evening repaste will be, for cooking dummies, similar to Campbell's tomato-vegetable soup, but cooked by moi, not some tasteless corporation.
What better to go with that hearty soup than a bread? Not just any bread, but one as stuffed with grains and seeds as the soup will be with vegetables, dried and fresh. After breakfast, I stick a small bowl holding a cup of milk into the microwave and let it zap. I sprinkle a tablespoon of yeast into a cup holding a quarter cup of warm water into which a half-teaspoon of sugar has been melted. And set it aside. Truth is, I've done variations on this particular theme thousands of times; could perform the task blindfolded with one arm tied behind my back. Um, forget the tied arm, otherwise how to knead the dough?
All right, out comes the scalded milk, in goes a splash of olive oil, a scattering of salt, a generous heaping of wheat germ, half-cup of triticale, another of psyllium, of quinoa, and flaxseed, and yes, sunflower seeds. I dump into this mash a cup of whole wheat flour, and stir; more flour, stir, flour again, then dump the mess out onto my floured baking counter and begin to knead. I knead until the dough has absorbed one offering after another of additional flour and it has become a soft, smoothly pliable ball. Finished. Now it will rest and rise, and I put it into a bowl, pour a bit of olive oil over it, roll it about to completely film with oil, then cover the bowl.
I plan to bake the bread Italian style, as a focaccia. I'll smooth it down into a large round cornmeal-sprinkled pan, drizzle olive oil over the top and knuckle it in. Then I'll sprinkle the top with thyme, and grate a nice old cheddar cheese over it. Perfect with the soup. And for dessert, if we've still got room, we can have a slice of the carrot cake I baked on Friday, with its cream-cheese icing.
And then I stare at my sink counter in disbelief. There, sitting in bold defiance of the process I've just completed is the cup holding the yeast, now risen to the rim in expectation of taking its rightful place within the belly of my bread dough. That very same bread dough that has gone through the finishing process, and will never, ever, find it within itself to rise to the occasion. Bloody damn!
Into the garbage with it, and the process starts all over again. The Little Red Hen needs a refresher course.
posted by Pieface @ Sunday, May 14, 2006
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