55. Nothing from the Jar Is Ever Wasted

Anton: Picture the cook on a river steamer in the far north-west, long ago. At night he keeps his crock of sourdough under his bunk, wrapped in a blanket so it will not freeze. Every morning he ladles out a little, stirs in flour, egg and a pinch of soda, and fries pancakes for the whole crew.

Vera: And the crock never runs out?

Anton: Never. He feeds it, and it feeds him. He spreads them with syrup when there is any, and with bacon fat when there is not.

Under the Table Lamp

Vera: Zain, sitting under the table lamp with his chin on his fists, has noticed the bowl of grey paste we scooped out of the starter jar this morning. He wants to know if it goes in the bin, because that is where his mother puts hers.

Anton: Never in the bin. That is the discard, and it makes the best pancakes in this book: light, a little sour, with crisp edges like the rim of a frozen leaf.

Vera: But it is not lively. It has not been fed.

Anton: It does not need to be. Tonight the rising comes from baking soda, not from the yeast. The starter brings the flavour, and the sourness. Nothing from the jar is ever wasted.

Vera: Do other lands do this too?

Anton: Wherever people kept a sour starter, they found a use for the extra. In the far north-west it went into pancakes for miners and river men, in the rye villages it went into soups, and in the hot lands far to the south, sour batters are poured onto wide griddles and torn by hand at every meal.

A Guest House on the Cliff Path

Vera: One rainy summer, I took my children to stay with Tess, who ran a guest house on the cliff path, behind a blue door with a sleepy dog lying across the step. It rained for seven days. The sea was grey, the sky was grey, and the children were cross.

Vera: Every evening Tess made supper pancakes from her starter jar, fried in a huge black pan, piled on a plate in the middle of the table. Honey, jam, or a little cheese. The children forgot about the rain. The dog sat under the table, waiting for anyone who dropped one.

Vera: On the last night I asked her how she always had batter ready. She tipped her jar towards me. You throw half away every day, she said, or you cook it. I cook it.

At the Work Table

For about twelve small pancakes: 200 g starter discard (about 1 cup), 120 ml milk (1/2 cup), 1 egg, 1 tablespoon sugar, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 100 g plain flour (3/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon), 1/2 teaspoon baking soda and a little butter for the pan.

Vera: A child whisks the starter, milk, egg, sugar and salt together in a bowl.

Anton: A child stirs in the flour until just mixed. A few lumps are fine.

Vera: Last of all, sprinkle the baking soda over and stir gently. The batter foams and puffs up, like the foam a wave leaves on the sand. Use it within ten minutes.

Anton: A grown-up heats a frying pan over medium heat with a little butter, the handle turned in.

Vera: Pour two tablespoons of batter for each pancake. Cook for about two minutes, until bubbles pop on top and the edges look dry, then flip and cook a minute or two more. Rub the pan with a little more butter between batches. An older child can flip with a grown-up beside them; butter spits.

Anton: Serve them warm with jam, or with honey for anyone over one year old. Keep them under a clean cloth while the rest cook.

Supper, After Dark

Question: Zain asks why the batter foams when the soda goes in.

Answer: The sour starter is an acid. Baking soda meets the acid and gives off a gas, the same gas as the bubbles in fizzy water. The bubbles are trapped in the batter and make the pancakes light.

Three quick questions. One: What makes these pancakes rise? Two: When do you flip them? Three: Who heats the pan?

Answers. One: Baking soda meeting the sour starter. Two: When bubbles pop on top and the edges look dry. Three: A grown-up.

Vera: Zain has eaten four and wants to know if he may have pancakes every night now. He has honey on his elbow.

Anton: Every night there is discard, so every night there could be pancakes. That is how the jar pays you back for feeding it.

Vera: To drink, a glass of warm blackcurrant juice, thinned with a little hot water by a grown-up, dark as a forest pool. It is what Tess gave the children on those rainy nights, and they went to bed purple-mouthed and happy.

56. Bake It Today, Cut It Tomorrow

Vera: You cannot be serious, Anton. We bake it today, and nobody may cut it until tomorrow?

Anton: Quite serious. Bake it today, cut it tomorrow. A dark rye loaf is still setting inside when it leaves the oven. Cut it warm and it is a gummy mess. Wait one day and it slices thin and clean, like slate.

The Corner by the Seed Jars

Vera: Ugo, at the corner of the table nearest the seed jars, has lined them up: sunflower, pumpkin, flax. He wants to put in all three.

Anton: All three. This is the bread of the cold, flat lands of the north, dark as peat, heavy with seeds and grain. Sliced thin, with butter and cheese, it keeps a person going through a whole winter morning.

Vera: And we knead it?

Anton: We stir it. Rye is not like wheat. You cannot knead it into a smooth ball; it stays a thick, sticky porridge. You stir it with a spoon, scrape it into a tin, and leave it to the starter.

At the Work Table

For one loaf, about sixteen thin slices: 75 g lively sourdough starter (1/3 cup), 425 ml lukewarm water (1 3/4 cups), 275 g whole rye flour (2 1/3 cups) and 100 g cracked rye (2/3 cup).

Also: 75 g mixed seeds such as sunflower, pumpkin and flax (1/2 cup), plus a handful for the top, 9 g salt (1 1/2 teaspoons) and 1 tablespoon dark syrup or honey; honey is never for babies under one.

A loaf tin for 900 g (2 lb), buttered or lined with baking paper. Oven: 180°C (350°F).

Vera: This bread is full of seeds. Anyone with an allergy should check the ingredients first and leave out any seed they cannot eat.

Anton: In the evening, a child stirs everything together in a big bowl with a wooden spoon for two or three minutes, until no dry flour is left. Cover and leave it at room temperature for twelve to fourteen hours.

Vera: In the morning, stir it once more and scrape it into the tin. A child smooths the top with a wet spoon and presses on the extra seeds.

Anton: Cover and leave it for one to two hours, until it has risen about 1 cm (1/2 inch) and small holes and cracks show on top.

Vera: A grown-up bakes it for about an hour and a quarter, until dark brown. With oven gloves, turn it out of the heavy tin and tap the bottom; it should sound hollow. If the top darkens too fast, a grown-up lays foil over it.

Anton: Cool it completely on a rack, wrap it in a clean cloth and wait a whole day. Then a grown-up slices it thinly with a sharp bread knife.

A Bench by the Harbour Wall

Anton: I learned this bread from Viggo, whose bakery stood by a harbour wall in the north, with a long bench outside where the fishermen sat mending their nets and the gulls waited for crumbs.

Anton: The first time I baked his rye, I cut it hot from the oven, because I was young and hungry. The knife came out coated in grey paste. Viggo said nothing. He wrapped the loaf in a cloth, put it on the top shelf, and the next morning he cut one thin slice, perfect, and handed it to me on the flat of the knife.

Anton: He never told me off. He did not have to.

Vera: What did he eat it with?

Anton: Cold butter as thick as the bread, and for the fishermen, a slice of pickled fish. For me, butter and a little honey. He said rye was the only bread strong enough to carry anything.

The Kitchen at Ten, Lamps Low

Question: Ugo asks why rye cannot be kneaded like wheat.

Answer: Wheat flour holds a stretchy protein that kneading pulls into strong strands. Rye has very little of it. Instead it holds sticky gums that soak up water, so it stays a paste, and only the long bake and the day of rest let it set firm.

Three quick questions. One: How long does the dough rest overnight? Two: How long does the loaf bake? Three: When may you cut it?

Answers. One: Twelve to fourteen hours. Two: About an hour and a quarter. Three: After a whole day.

Vera: Ugo is looking at the dark tin as if it might hatch.

Anton: Then tell him what Viggo told me, in his way, without words. Some things ripen like apples on a branch. You cannot hurry them by staring.

Vera: Then it sleeps on the shelf, wrapped like a baby, and Ugo comes back tomorrow with the butter.

Key Words

Cracked rye: whole rye grains broken into small pieces, which give dark rye bread its chewy bite.

Rye flour: flour ground from rye, a grain of cold, poor soils, which makes a dark, sticky dough that is stirred rather than kneaded.