49. Tie It Loosely, Because the Dough Is Still Growing

Vera: Last time we rolled ropes into rings, dipped them in sweet water and sesame, and one of the children went home wearing two of them like bracelets. Tonight the dough turns orange and becomes a pumpkin.

Anton: A small one. Ten small ones, in fact, with string for ribs and a raisin for a stem.

The Armchair by the Coat Hooks

Vera: Wren, curled in the armchair by the coat hooks with her boots still on, has come in from the street holding a real pumpkin, as big as her head.

Anton: Good. We will cook a piece of it and put it in the dough. Pumpkin makes bread soft and golden, and it keeps the crumb moist for days, the way moss keeps a stone damp after rain.

Vera: And the ridges? Real pumpkins have ridges.

Anton: String. You wrap a ball of dough with kitchen string, four times round, so it pinches the dough into eight sections. When it rises, each section swells between the strings.

Vera: Is this from one land in particular?

Anton: Pumpkin breads are baked wherever pumpkins grow, which is anywhere with a long, warm summer. I first saw rolls tied like this in the mountain villages in the east, at harvest time, piled in baskets beside the real pumpkins.

Behind the Mill, One Autumn

Vera: When I was ten, my grandmother lived next to old Radu, whose pumpkin field ran down the slope behind the mill to the edge of the river. Every autumn, after the harvest, he let each child in the village walk into the field and choose one pumpkin, any size, as long as they could carry it home alone.

Vera: I chose one far too big. I carried it, stopped, carried it, and sat on it twice in the road. My grandmother laughed until she cried, then cooked half of it into soup and half into rolls tied with string, just like these. Radu got the first basket.

Vera: I still choose pumpkins too big. Some lessons do not take.

At the Work Table

For ten rolls: 400 g plain flour (3 1/4 cups), 7 g instant yeast (2 1/4 teaspoons), 30 g sugar (2 1/2 tablespoons), 6 g salt (1 teaspoon), 200 g cooked, mashed and cooled pumpkin (3/4 cup), 1 egg, 30 g soft butter (2 tablespoons) and 60 to 80 ml warm milk (1/4 to 1/3 cup).

Also: cotton kitchen string, a little oil, one beaten egg for brushing and ten raisins. Oven: 190°C (375°F).

Anton: A grown-up peels the pumpkin and cuts it into chunks, because the skin is hard and the knife must be sharp, then steams the chunks for fifteen minutes until soft. A child mashes them and lets them cool.

Vera: Mix the dough, adding the milk a little at a time, until soft but not sticky. Knead for eight minutes, cover and let it rise for an hour.

Anton: Cut the dough into ten pieces and shape each into a smooth ball. Cut ten pieces of string, each about 1 m (40 inches) long, and rub them with oil.

Vera: A child lays a ball on a string, crosses the string over the top, turns the ball, and crosses again, four times round, making eight sections. A grown-up ties it loosely on top. Tie it loosely, because the dough is still growing.

Anton: Let the rolls rise on a lined tray for thirty minutes, brush them with egg, and a grown-up bakes them for eighteen to twenty minutes, until golden brown. Oven gloves on.

Vera: Let them cool ten minutes. A grown-up snips the strings with scissors and pulls them out, and a child presses a raisin into the top of each for a stem.

A Quarter to Nine

Question: Wren asks what happens if the string is tied tight.

Answer: The dough swells as it rises and again in the oven. A tight string cuts deep into it, and the roll can split into pieces. A loose string only pinches it into ribs.

Three quick questions. One: How many times does the string go round? Two: How many sections does that make? Three: What is the stem made of?

Answers. One: Four times. Two: Eight. Three: A raisin.

Vera: Ten little pumpkins on the tray, shining with egg. Wren has lined them up by size, the way Radu used to line his up along the wall of the mill. Smallest first, she says, because they are the youngest.

Anton: And to drink, something from the same orchard season. Warm apple juice with a cinnamon stick in it, the colour of autumn leaves in a puddle. A grown-up heats it gently in a pan, never boiling, and pours it into cups. Wren, take your boots off first.

50. Hold the Scissors Almost Flat

Vera: A letter came this week, and I promised to read it out. Dear Anton and Vera, my son is four and will not eat bread unless it looks like an animal. Is there a bread for a child like him? From a mother in a house by the railway.

Anton: There is. A hedgehog. A soft roll with a pointed nose, two currant eyes and a back full of spikes snipped with scissors.

Vera: Do bakers really make these somewhere, or are they only for children?

Anton: Bakers in the forest lands of the north make them, and so do bakers in the far east, with little dark seeds for eyes. Wherever hedgehogs snuffle under the hedges, someone has shaped one out of dough.

The Low Stool by the Woodbox

Vera: Quentin, on the low stool by the woodbox, has been waiting all evening for the scissors. He was promised. He has washed his hands twice to show that he is ready.

Anton: Then he shall have them. But first the dough, which is the soft milk dough we have made many times now. The hands know it. Smooth, warm, and quiet as a sleeping cat.

Vera: Will the spikes not melt away in the oven?

Anton: Not if you cut them deep enough and let them rise only a little. They open like pine cones in the sun.

At the Edge of a Birch Wood

Anton: I learned these from Valentin, whose bakery stood at the edge of a birch wood in the forest country far to the north-east. In the evenings, real hedgehogs came out of the trees and drank from the gutter by his back door, and he put out a saucer of water for them.

Anton: Every Friday he baked a tray of bread hedgehogs for the school across the road. He snipped the spikes faster than I could count, and the children pressed their faces to his window to watch. When he retired, the whole school came to his door, every child holding a hedgehog drawn in pencil.

Vera: Did he keep the drawings?

Anton: All of them, pinned along the wall above the ovens, curling in the heat like autumn leaves.

At the Work Table

For eight hedgehogs: 300 g plain flour (2 1/2 cups), 5 g instant yeast (1 1/2 teaspoons), 25 g sugar (2 tablespoons), 5 g salt (3/4 teaspoon), 170 ml warm milk (2/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon) and 30 g soft butter (2 tablespoons).

Also: one beaten egg, twenty-four currants or small raisins, and small, clean kitchen scissors. Oven: 190°C (375°F).

Vera: Knead the dough for eight minutes, cover and let it rise for an hour.

Anton: Cut it into eight pieces and shape each into a ball. Then roll one side under your palm until it narrows into a pointed nose, like a raindrop hanging from a leaf.

Vera: Lay them on a lined tray and a child brushes them all over with egg, gently, so they keep their shape.

Anton: Hold the scissors almost flat. Starting just behind the head, snip small cuts into the back, row after row, so little points stand up. An older child can snip with a grown-up beside them. Leave the face smooth.

Vera: A child presses two currants in for eyes and one on the tip for a nose. Press deep, or they pop out in the oven.

Anton: Let them rise for twenty minutes. A grown-up bakes them for fifteen to eighteen minutes, until golden, and lifts the tray out with oven gloves. Watch the spikes: they brown first, like the tips of grass in a dry summer.

Nearly Bedtime

Question: Quentin asks why the egg goes on before the snipping, not after.

Answer: Egg brushed on after snipping would glue the spikes flat. Brushed on before, it turns the back shiny brown, and the fresh cuts underneath stay pale, so every spike shows.

Three quick questions. One: How do you hold the scissors? Two: Which part of the hedgehog stays smooth? Three: How many currants does each hedgehog need?

Answers. One: Almost flat. Two: The face. Three: Three, two eyes and a nose.

Vera: Quentin has named every one of his. The biggest is called Valentin, and Valentin must wait while Quentin puts the scissors back in the drawer, points down, before anyone eats.

Anton: Good. Evening is over now. The next part of our day is the night, when the slowest breads are made: doughs that rise while we sleep, a jar of sourdough that needs feeding like a pet, and loaves that wait patiently for morning.

Vera: Then we clear the flour off the table and let the hedgehogs sleep first, in a row on the windowsill.