Wild Yeast Does It Bite?

I have a monster in my linen cupboard. Behind the beach towels, pillowcases and sheets lurks an old jam jar filled with a grey brown ooze the consistency of thick paint. Having a mind of its own, it slowly bubbles and releases a sweet, fruity, yeasty aroma. My significant other has become very fond of it, treating it like a beloved pooch affectionately naming it Gruffy. When taken out of hiding and mixed with flour and a bit of water, it transforms into the ultimate king of breads, Sourdough. 

Bread is something a lot of us eat every single day and it’s very disappointing how we simply settle for a mass produced, tasteless, limp loaf. If you are daring enough to glance at the ingredients you will be left confused and perhaps angry at the enormous list of additives and preservatives. What happened to simply making the staple; out of flour, yeast, salt and water? Demand, convenience, affordability? I narrow it down to the loss of a true passion for what we allow passed our lips.

I recently visited a sleepy coastal town. Sleepy was maybe the wrong word to use in the guide book, as it was bustling at seven o ‘clock on this Saturday morning. It was very strange though, as it seemed that the whole town’s population was standing in one queue outside a small bakery. Asking what all the fuss was about, the answer was a single word ‘Sourdough’. Discovered accidently by the ancient Egyptians and later unearthed with the Gold Rush in California, Sourdough has dotted our culinary history throughout time.

Well that was enough to get me curious. Suddenly my curiosity soon succumbed to unimaginable fear, when the recipe finally concluded four pages later, but only contained three ingredients. And yeast wasn’t one of them. What was I getting myself into? Locating an old jam jar under the kitchen sink, I was told to mix warm water and flour together. Resembling paper mache glue, I read that it had to be ‘fed’ daily for seven to ten days until it was foamy and smelling like you want to bake with it. Feeding it meant discarding half the contents of the jar and folding in more flour and water. This allows it to ferment slowly, creating natural yeast called a ‘starter’. On the day before the finale, I combined a cup of the starter with more flour, water and salt to create a ‘sponge’. It was a far cry from any sponge I had ever seen. The creature was then left overnight to slowly double in size. At the crack of dawn the next day I was told to knock the dough down using a tight fist. The next step was shaping the dough into a perfect round mass and slashing it with a pattern to allow a good crust to form, this proved challenging, when you know something alive is under your fingertips. After one final ‘prove’, that’s rising to you and me the Sourdough was finally in the oven. 

Pacing the kitchen floor, waiting for the forty five minute baking time to end, I wondered after an eight day wait, would our pet Gruffy deliver the goods?

Oh yes. The evolving smell was overwhelming. Carefully removing the Sourdough from the oven like a new born babe, I was filled with feelings of pride and admiration. Forgetting about the waiting butter, I tore off a chunk and shoved it into my mouth. The crunchy crust and delicate crumb played wonders on my tongue. It tasted so much better than just bread; with its deeply complex flavours, bursting with beer like undertones. An art in itself. Deciding not to spoil my creation with the likes of apricot jam and cheese, I grab another piece.