smitten kitchen

I killed a biga. I didn’t really want to get into it at the time, as I’m not exactly proud of my actions. It’s not like I didn’t know how not to destroy a pre-ferment, it’s not like I don’t like, no love ciabatta bread, yet I made it at the start of one of those weeks that seem easy-peasy from the outset but when the pace picked up, I let it linger, carelessly convinced it would wait patiently for me. It was my neglect that took its life. And yet in hindsight, now that I’m ready to own up to it, it may have also been some passive-aggressiveness on my part.

You see, we were watching Everyday Italian on the Food Network a few Sundays ago, and upon eyeing Giada slicing into large ciabatta loaf in a low-cut blouse, Alex said, “You know what you should make next time? Ciabatta bread.” Except he said in sort of a lingering, elongated fashion, like the tone I might use to say “Baileys on the rocks” or “salted butter caramel.” I know that tone, and I don’t like it in the proximity of television cleavage, television cleavage that I am arrogantly certain I can out-cook with or without a team of food- and hair-stylists. Of course, I didn’t say all of this. I actually said, “Great idea! I’ll start the dough!” And four days later, the biga had been left for dead. Curious, eh?

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A few weeks ago, in my ninth entry into my bread category, I expressed my desire to take this whole yeast/flour/water/tada! thing a step further, and begged for some cookbook guidance. At the end of it, with almost equal votes for Rose Levy Beranbaum’s Bread Bible and Peter Reinhart’s Bread Maker’s Apprentice, I was still torn, changing my mind back and forth until the final seconds of my order, eventually settling on the latter. On the day it arrived, I tore into it, certain that something would jump right off the page, and I’d be up to my elbows in flour, once again, that night. Instead, the opposite happened—I froze with terror. Bigas and poolishes and oh my god, all of these steps and seriously, are there any breads you can make in just a few hours and really, it was very humbling. And just like that, my fairy godmother of cookbooks found a way to deposit Berenbaum’s tome on my front step, equally intimidating. I was certain that I was completely over my head, silly to think that taking something one step further wouldn’t be such an involved process. What did I think it would be? One, two, three and then you’re Poilâne?

Fast forward to this past Saturday night, when my husband had to go into work for just a half-hour for some emergency testing, blah blah (yes, I asked what “her” name was), before we went out but of course something went wrong, he was stuck there for hours and there I was, on the sofa watching a two-hour E! True Hollywood Story about Jessica and Ashley Simpson. It was utterly fascinating, I have no shame admitting, and I learned a lot. (Fine, a little shame, but not as much as I should.) Yet, on a table across the room, my 1,000 bound pages of bread instruction sat sneering at me, and I knew they had my number. I have time to stuff my head with minutiae as the fact that Ashley is a trained ballerina and Jessica was originally a Christian singer but not time to try a pre-ferment? Busted, indeed.

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For months now, my obsession with bread making has snowballed, leaving me eager buy a bread-specific cookbook to further fill our apartment, and my idle hours, with kneaded deliciousness. I believe I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m extraordinarily conservative about the cookbooks I buy. On one hand, it’s a space issue — isn’t it always? — but considering that this hasn’t kept me from buying a pasta-cranker, too many baking pans and, most insanely, six varieties of flours, it’s hard argue that an stuffed apartment is truly a deterrent. More accurately, I find it impossible to make decisions. Berebaum’s Bread Bible? Silverton’s La Brea Bakery? Reinhart’s Bread Baker’s Apprentice? I always thought I wanted this book, but how can one ever know for sure? Thus, I delay and delay, as if owning two bread cookbooks would be a crime against humanity. (Please, speak up if there is a bread book that makes you swoon.)

But it doesn’t mean I’m twiddling my thumbs until new inspiration brings itself home. In fact, I’ve been discovering gems of bread recipes tucked right inside cookbooks I already have. What a concept! Beer breads and cheese breads and oaty fruity rolls and… well, I can’t tell you everything, can I? What suspense is there in that?

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I wish I had something more eloquent to say about the miniature soft pretzels I made for the two Super Bowl parties we attended on Sunday, but every time I look at them, intelligent words escape me: they’re sooo cute! Are they not the fattest, more adorable little things you have ever seen?! They were so plump, all their holes closed up and while I tried to twist them into the traditional pretzel shape, as if all they really wanted to be when they baked up was a dinner roll. With turkey and mustard, I believe they requested.

Ever since I made bretzel rolls (something I just learned are actually called laugenbrötchen, such a cooler name) in October, I have been looking for excuses to do so again (and not leave them to stale and condensate in a plastic bag this time). It hasn’t helped that I am suddenly seeing varieties freshly-baked pretzels in all sorts of places, above and beyond the stale street cart fare. First, there was an impulsive trip to the Schaller and Weber store on East 86th Street two weekends ago, where the most gorgeous soft pretzel sticks were sold in threes, clamoring to be dipped in something fantastic and spicy. Then, I saw them again at the Garden of Eden by us last night. And, could fuel for my pretzel obsession not get any stronger, there is apparently a place called the Columbia City Bakery in Seattle whose charming s-shaped pretzel slits might alone be enough reason to visit.

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Catch-up time! Yet another glorious side-effect of having my nose buried in and my psyche over-identifying with Julia Child’s life in France is that I find myself questioning why so often, we opt for the simple over the fantastic. Why the bagel from Murray’s on a Saturday morning when we could be enjoying our lazy mornings with inordinately good homemade fare? Plus, I tend to wake up hours before my more sleep-skilled roommate, and isn’t cooking a more noble investment of my time than reading the internets and watch the food teevee? Well, we opt for the simple because, unlike Mrs. Child, we have day jobs and I spend my mornings loafing because er, I’m not exactly the most earnest individual, yet sure enough in the last couple weekends breakfast around here had been sublime.

Last Saturday morning, just like my mother did almost every weekend when we were kids, I made pancakes, just plain-old, oat bran, yogurt, nut, seed and dried fruit-free pancakes before running out to catch the last day of the Edward Hopper exhibit at the Whitney. Mark Bittman’s recipe in the New York Times last month was almost exactly like the Joy of Cooking on my mother always used, replete with the confusing step of adding melted butter to cool ingredients, causing odd clumpage, which is of course quickly rectified in a hot griddle, but still. It always made me feel, and still does, like I did something wrong.

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