Harriet Pemberton
Rain on the Window, Dough in the Bowl
There is a particular sort of light on a wet morning in the countryside. Grey and soft, the hills gone to mist, the lane running with water and the gutters of the cottage gurgling away in a pleased sort of fashion. Nothing in the garden is asking to be done. The hedgerows are dripping, the birds have gone quiet, and the day has that shut-in feeling that country folk know well and, secretly, rather enjoy.
It is the perfect morning for bread.
Baking bread on a rainy day isn't really about the loaf, although the loaf matters enormously. It's about warmth and time and the smell that creeps out of the kitchen door and up the stairs, settling into the curtains and the wool of your jumper. It's about having something to do with your hands that isn't a screen. And it's about the fact that a cottage kitchen, with the kettle on and the oven warming, is one of the most comfortable places on earth when the weather is foul.
What You'll Need — and What You Don't
This is a plain, honest white loaf. Nothing fashionable, nothing complicated. You will need:
- 500g strong white bread flour — plain flour will work at a push, but bread flour has the protein for a proper rise.
- 7g fast-action dried yeast — one of those little sachets. Check the date on it; tired yeast is the ruin of many a good intention.
- 10g fine salt — about two level teaspoons. Don't skimp, and don't let it touch the yeast directly at the start.
- 300ml warm water — blood temperature. If it's too hot for your wrist, it's too hot for the yeast.
- A tablespoon of oil or soft butter — optional, but it makes a softer crumb.
What you don't need is a bread maker, a proving drawer, a baking stone, a dough hook or a thermometer. A mixing bowl, a clean tea towel, a baking tray, some cling film if you have it, and an oven. That's the whole of it. Cottage kitchens have been turning out loaves with less for centuries.
The Method, Plainly Set Out
Warm the flour first if the kitchen is chilly — tip it into the bowl and stand it near the stove for ten minutes. Then add the yeast to one side of the bowl and the salt to the other, and rub them through the flour with your fingers.
Pour in most of the water and bring it together with your hand. It will look like a shaggy mess at first. That's exactly right. Add the last of the water a splash at a time if there are dry patches, then turn the dough onto a lightly floured worktop and knead for ten minutes.
Kneading is not a mystery. Push the dough away from you with the heel of your hand, fold it back over itself, give it a quarter turn, repeat. It will be sticky and annoying for the first few minutes and then, quite suddenly, it will become smooth and elastic and slightly warm. That's your signal to stop.
Put it back in the bowl, cover with the tea towel, and leave it somewhere draughty-free and gently warm. An airing cupboard is ideal. So is the shelf above a Rayburn, or the corner of a room with the radiator on low. Leave it for an hour to an hour and a half, until it has roughly doubled.
Then knock it back, shape it into a round or drop it into a greased loaf tin, cover again, and leave it for another forty-five minutes. Meanwhile, heat the oven to 220°C (200°C fan, Gas Mark 7).
Slash the top once with a sharp knife, dust with a little flour, and bake for 30 to 35 minutes. If it's a tin loaf, give it five minutes more. The loaf is done when it sounds hollow underneath when you tap it and slides out of the tin without a fight.
Reading the Dough: The Skills That Actually Matter
Recipes give timings, but dough doesn't read recipes. Learn these three checks and you'll never need to worry about the clock again.
- The poke test. Press a floured finger gently into the risen dough. If it springs back quickly, it needs longer. If the dent stays put, it's ready. If it sighs and collapses, you've gone too far — bake it anyway, it'll still be edible.
- The windowpane. After kneading, stretch a small piece between your fingers. If it goes thin enough to see light through without tearing, the gluten is developed.
- The hollow tap. Turn the baked loaf out of the tin and knock on the base with your knuckles. A dull thud means back in the oven for five minutes.
Cool it on a wire rack, not on a plate, or the bottom will go soggy. And try, if you can, to let it cool for half an hour before cutting. This is the hardest instruction in the whole article.
Rainy Day Variations and the Ends of the Loaf
Once you've made it plain a few times, the loaf becomes a canvas.
- Half and half. Swap 200g of the white flour for wholemeal and add an extra splash of water.
- Seeded. Add a handful of sunflower and pumpkin seeds with the water, plus a scattering on top.
- Cheesy. Fold in 100g of grated mature cheddar after kneading. Excellent with soup.
- Slow rise. Make the dough in the evening, put it in the fridge overnight, and bake it after breakfast. The flavour is deeper and the day feels longer.
As for the ends and the slightly stale slices, don't waste them. Whizz them into breadcrumbs and keep them in the freezer for topping a fish pie. Cube them, toss in oil and herbs, and bake for ten minutes for croutons. Or go the whole hog and make a bread and butter pudding with raisins and a little nutmeg — the finest use of a wet afternoon that has ever been devised. Keep the crusts for the birds only in small amounts, and scatter them well away from the feeder; seed and suet are far better for them.
A Kitchen That Smells Like Home
By four o'clock the rain will still be drumming on the window, and the robin will be sitting on the feeder looking put-upon, and the whole cottage will smell of yeast and warmth. That's the quiet reward of country living: the slow pursuits, the ones that can't be hurried, that ask for nothing more than an oven, a bowl and a bit of patience.
Bread is a good place to begin, because it is forgiving. Even a mediocre home-baked loaf, still warm and thickly buttered, beats anything you can buy. And on a rainy day, with the fire lit and the tea brewing, that is quite enough.
