Summer is just too short. Like oversleeping on a Saturday morning and missing half the day, the arrival of August always brings a feeling of who ate my ice cream cone?

Our kids are in and out this summer, squeezing in creemees and country scenes before they return to college and city life. Last week amidst the coming and going my wife and I simultaneously squeezed our middle daughter, capitalizing on her brief proximity. From within our embrace I felt her sob: “I can’t believe it’s August,” she said through tears. I get it.

But why does the transition feel so heavy? It’s not like I dislike fall—harvest rituals ring as loud and lovely as the night whirr of locusts or any cloudless beach day. So what is it?

At a daily level I digest time in bite-sized chunks: Wake, make coffee, work, plan dinner, wrap the day. Hours and my experience of time manifest as tasks and rituals, ticking by. I don’t think too far ahead.

But with the larger shifts—the seasons, the decade birthdays, the things that form the chapters of our existence—it’s easier to perseverate: To dwell, to consider the universe-sized questions like Mary Oliver asking, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

There is a term for looking at the biggest thing of all: cosmic vertigo. Also known as awe, dread, or sometimes cosmic anxiety, it’s the stomach-drop lurch we feel staring into the void.

I’m not saying that the beginning of August hits me like trying to understand the size of space. But I am also not not saying that. With only days left before the summer begins to wrap, we are close to the shift: a quiet house, a change of weather, fall is in the wings.

So, what to do? I go back to time. The minutes it takes for butter to soften, for the oven to preheat, for a measured quantity of grain to fall through my mill. The time it takes for the scent of shortbreads baking to reach a bedroom upstairs where a kid stretches and wonders what smells so good before rising to meet their one wild and precious life. These are good moments. Let’s enjoy them.

I’ve made this recipe enough times now that I need to write it down. The brief back story is that I got some flour from the malting and milling maven, Andrea Stanley (GroundUp Grain, Coastal Queen Milling, Valley Malt). Included in the boxed assortment of bread and all-purpose was a bag of a malted caramel danko rye, grown in the northeast. When I opened the box it was all I could smell. Setting it on the dining room table, it perfumed the room. And then I was fielding questions. “Are you making something?”

The malted rye flour is made by sprouting rye berries (naturally sweetening in the process) and then toasting them to a caramel color and flavor before milling. The resulting flour requires very little to become a delicious cookie, pan of brownies, or loaf of bread.

I decided on shortbreads and mixed a dough with an 80/20 blend of all-purpose and malted rye. I followed the classic 3:2:1 shortbread ratios, adding butter at 66% of flour weight, white sugar at 33%, and 2% salt.

While the cookies baked up snappy, crisp, and delicious, I wanted one more flavor to contrast the malty notes and chose crystallized ginger: sweet, spicy, just enough punch. After rolling and chilling, I added a coarse sugar edge for a little beauty and gave them a full bake. They have become an instant favorite, let’s make them.

Malted Rye and Ginger Shortbread

All-purpose flour, 168g
Malted danko rye flour (or toasted rye, spelt, or whole wheat*), 42g
Sugar, granulated, 70g
Salt, fine, 4.5g (¾ t)
*If you don’t have malted or sprouted flour you can substitute a wholegrain flour of your choice. To add complexity, toast it, stirring constantly in a sauté pan on the stove until it colors and smells nice. Cool before use.

Butter, unsalted, sliced, 140g
Ginger, crystallized, very finely minced, 70g

In a medium bowl stir together the dry ingredients. Add the butter and work in with your fingers until evenly mixed and no lumps remain. Add the ginger, toss to distribute, then press to form a cohesive mass.

Place the dough onto a well-floured work surface. Flour the top side and roll to 9.5” by 9.5” (23 cm), doing your best to square the sides as you go. (Using a rigid bench tool to sharpen the sides will help.)

After rolling, remove a 1/4” border on all sides using a pizza wheel or chef knife then cut into strips roughly 1.25” wide (7 total strips). Then, cut vertically into 3” pieces for a total of 21 pieces. Reroll any scraps and cut to any desired size.

Sugar, coarse, for garnish

Place on a parchment-lined sheet tray (three rows of 7), then prick with the tines of a fork (if desired). Place your rerolled pieces on a separate tray and chill everything until set, 15 to 20 minutes.

While the shortbreads chill, preheat your oven to 350°F (180°C).

After chilling I add coarse sugar to one edge. It’s mostly decorative but it does add a nice crunch. To add the edge, dip one side into water then into the coarse sugar.

Bake on the middle rack until deeply golden and fragrant, about 18 to 20 minutes. In humid months you can let them cool in the oven with the door cracked open to ensure that they are properly dry and “short.” Note that as the base dough begins quite tan, you should keep an eye on the underside of the cookie in the last minutes of baking in order to ensure that they don’t take too much color. (What I’m saying is that judging the bake can be slightly tricky. Check the underside in the final minutes of baking.) In my oven (which can be a little slow) they bake for exactly 20 minutes with a rotation at the midpoint. The tray with your rerolled scraps will bake more quickly as it’s not a full tray.

Cool fully (they will not be crisp until they are fully cool) and enjoy

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Spring is here. I saw flowering trout lilies in the woods yesterday and only just learned that they bloom once every seven years. The next time I see one I should stop and give praise. You did it. We did it.
A quick note before the piece: If you’re in the DC area I’m doing four events (Sur La Table, Fairfax KABC store, Bold Fork Books) in four days starting 5/8. Come say hello, eat some pizza, watch a demo, and get a book signed. Details will be on IG.
Martin

From podcasts to drills and lessons after dinner, I’ve been activating my mouth (and ears) in preparation for a trip to Italy in May. While all the studying might seem like work, it’s actually a labor of love—from my first book to the pizza book to right here on the Curio, Italy is, and always will be, right at the tip of my tongue.

It’s been this way since my first trip overseas: a summer my wife and I spent between Rome and a hill town in Tuscia after college. I came home born again, singing the gospel of land-focused living. In Italy I had seen the alignment between volcanic tufa and everything above it. The earth, the food, places and lives built on the rocks, stacked and ringing as notes of a chord. There, the question of how do we feed ourselves? is answered with cheese from the flock, oil from the trees, and wine from the housecleaner. Praise be.

I still hold that example in small and large ways. And I think of pizza—the dough foundation married to everything above it. Just enough, not too much. Let the ingredients sing.

In recent years I’ve run the bases on global pizza styles but somehow I’m only now plating up some lingue di pizza, the thin “pizza tongues” of Rome. Tied closely to scrocchiarella (tied to the word “scrocchia,” meaning literally the sound your teeth make when biting something crunchy), the lingue are essentially cheeseless tongue-shaped forms of pizza tonda.

And you know I love pizza without cheese. From party slices to classic marinara, pizza rossa, and tomato pie, the lack of cheese heightens what remains: crisp crust and char, jammy sauce, fresh herbs and olive oil. Similar to the way that apple pie without ice cream has more punch, or coffee without cream helps the roast to shine through, red pies simply have more flavor.

To make the lingue, my starting point for the dough (pilfered from The Book of Pizza) is the Roman tonda. This delicate, cracker-thin pizza with a classically charred edge is made with a firm dough amended with semolina and olive oil. While many of the current iterations of the lingue are unleavened, my version has yeast as well as some sourdough. The leavening lightens the crumb while also adding flavor.

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Lingue di Pizza

Yield: 4 lingue di pizza, about 4 to 6 appetizer portions

All-purpose or 00 pizza flour, 110g
Semolina, 41g (if you don’t have it, substitute all-purpose)
Salt, fine, 4.5g (¾ t)
Yeast, instant, 1.5g (½ t)
Water, 49g
Olive oil, 21g
Sourdough culture, ripe or discard, 100g (if you don’t have sourdough, replace the culture with 50g of water and 50g of flour (100g in total) and proceed)

Toppings
Pizza sauce, 480g (about 2 cups) (I like this sauce recipe but use what you like—basic passata or even a jarred pizza sauce)
Oregano, olive oil, pecorino romano or parmigiano reggiano, to taste

To mix:
To a medium bowl add the dough ingredients and stir briefly to combine. Place onto a counter and knead without flour until homogenous, a few minutes. The dough will not smooth out, that’s ok. Round then cover with the mixing bowl and rest for 15 to 60 minutes (or longer, even up to a couple of hours).

Divide the dough into four equal portions weighing roughly 80g each. Shape into tubes then cover and rest. (Note that you’ll roll the dough to a length of 15”. If that’s larger than what your stone, steel, peel, or hearth can accommodate, consider cutting 40g pieces (8 total) and roll them to half the intended length.) The tighter you make the tubes the longer it will take for the dough to relax. Cover and rest the tubes while the oven heats, about 45 minutes.

Before proceeding to the baking phase, decide on your baking method and gather your sauce and any desired toppings while the oven preheats.

For tabletop ovens (my preference), preheat for at least 20 minutes on high (to around 800°F) then turn the oven down to medium (600°F or so). The tabletop oven will give the best blister and char, with a crunchy edge and a slightly softer middle portion.

For home ovens you’ll use either a stone, baking steel or baking sheet. For the stone or steel, preheat at max temperature until the baking surface reaches at least 500°F. For the baking sheet, preheat the oven to 500°F for at least 20 minutes. Note that for all home oven styles, the convection setting will always work better than the traditional bake setting.

To shape:
Working one piece at a time on a generously floured surface (semolina or flour are fine) roll the dough to roughly 16” by 5” (yes, work with a tape measure). The dimensions are important (as they are with all pizzas) as texture is entirely dependent on thickness. A thick dough will result in a bending rather than a snapping, scrocchiarella texture. When you roll, it’s easiest to roll to the width first, then proceed to the length.

A couple notes before you proceed to topping. If you’re hearth-baking (on a stone or steel or in a tabletop oven), you’ll want to build the pizza on a peel that’s sprinkled with semolina. As always, once you place the dough onto the peel you should move quickly and jiggle to confirm the dough isn’t adhered before loading. For the baking sheet version, brush the baking sheet with olive oil and orient the pizza so that it lands on the pan diagonally in order to fit.

Once rolled, stipple the entire surface with the tines of a fork then proceed to topping. For an 80g piece of dough (measuring 16” by 5”) use 120g or about ½ cup of sauce. Spread the sauce over the surface leaving a tiny border then garnish as desired with dried or fresh oregano, and olive oil. (Honestly, I got clams, garlic, and lemon to make a clam version, A la New Haven. Haven’t made it yet but I will. So many delicious options.)

To bake:
Tabletop version: Load the pizza and rotate after 60 to 90 seconds. As always with these ovens, don’t walk away. Use your peel to monitor the rate of cooking, lifting the crust to check underneath. Rotate often. In my oven the pizza takes about 3 to 4 minutes when I load around 600°F. For an even crispier (croccante) version, start with a slightly lower temperature.
Home oven, stone or steel: Load onto the baking surface and bake for 4 to 5 minutes, monitoring progress. Once the bottom has the desired color (this will take longer on a stone than a steel and will vary by oven make and model), move to a rack on an upper rung and broil until charred in spots, 1 to 2 more minutes. Total time in my oven is about 6 to 7 minutes.
Home oven, sheet tray version: Load the tray into the preheated oven and bake until crisp and charred in spots, finishing under the broiler for best color. In my oven this takes right around 10 minutes. Again, use the convection bake setting if you have it.

Just for fun and information, I shot three pizzas with the three baking methods. The differences are clear but honestly, with this type of pizza, I like each of them. Even the sheet tray method (which I never recommend for pizza) works as the longer bake does support a crunchy bite after 10 minutes.

Hey folks, lots to catch up on here after a long pause. So much, in fact, that I’m going to skip the updates. You’re here, I’m here, life (and baking) is happening, let’s just jump in.

Two quick things. My pizza book with (and the invaluable co-author team of , Yekaterina Boytsova, and Ryan Salerno) drops on April 7th (with launch parties happening in NYC, Boston, and Vermont). Information is on Instagram. Also, an in-person event that’s worth mentioning: Fiddle and Flour. The fiddling/banjo/guitar legend Bruce Molsky is a friend; we’re combining my love of old-time music with his passion for baking on April 18th at the Upper Valley Music Center in Lebanon, NH.

Ultimate Peanut Butter Banana Toast

I feel it every year: The most reluctant entrance in all of nature is Spring in Vermont. Maybe that’s hyperbole given periodical cicadas but listen, if you’ve passed a season or few this far north, you know that the unfurling is slow and felt hard by more than just this Southern boy.

Looking through past newsletters, I’ve been here before. The waiting. The doubting. In the chocolate bomboloni piece a cardinal reminded me to sing through the cold. With sesame and black rice sourdough I took you through some winter survival methods. And in the blue blossom pain de mie I found light inside my oven.

And yet, here I am again, wondering if this will be the year that snow on the north side of the house will last until May. But it’s not all cold and gray. Arlo has been home on spring break for a few days and, as is my preference, I’m trying to smother him with food before he returns to high school in Michigan.

And when I say smother what I mean is: New York-style pizza from the Ooni. Seared venison steaks. Fresh Asian dumplings. Breakfast burritos with handmade tortillas, fresh pasta, sourdough pancakes swimming in syrup, and bread. And bread. And bread.

But out of everything I’ve made, the one that surprised him was simply banana toast. “That’s one of the best things I’ve had in awhile,” he told me.” And that made my day. Maybe even my week or month. Do you have a kid home from away, or a parent, friend, or sweetie around who could use some love on a plate? Here’s an option.

Ultimate Peanut Butter Banana Toast

As you might imagine, toast at my house begins and ends with great bread. Here, I’ve been using a pain de campagne-style loaf. The use case for sourdough is supported by the following points: One, it’s sour. Good acid balances sweet and creamy. Two, A burnished crust brings bitterness, and I love that. And three, A beautifully open, lacy, and light crumb supports better bites. Piled with bananas, peanut butter, and butter, it’s obviously over the top. And yet it’s light as a feather.

Ingredients (no amounts, you’ll be ok):

Sourdough, slices cut 1/2” to 5/8” thick
Salted butter, best quality (where I live, that’s Kerrygold)
Peanut butter, natural, salted, chunky preferred
Bananas, ripe but not too ripe, no spots
Honey
Coarse salt
Roasted peanuts, chopped, optional

A small amount of mise en place and detail before you begin:

Peanut butter: Natural almond butter, sunflower butter, peanut butter, whatever you use, it must be cold—room temperature will be too runny. If you’re using the peanut equivalent of Cheez Whiz (Jif, Skippy), those are solid enough to use at room temperature.

Bread: I like two large pieces cut from the belly of the loaf. Small diameter slice sizes need not apply.

Honey: The best versions I’ve made have been with buckwheat honey or chipotle-infused honey.

Bananas: Don’t pre-slice, I’m going to show you a better way, below.

To make the toast:

1. Toast the bread. Now listen, don’t do this like you normally would. Rather than putting slices inside the toaster, place them atop the toaster.* Cover the toaster opening with two large single slices and set the toast setting for a medium toast (2 - 3 minutes). You can also do this over an open flame. Check the progress but don’t invert the slice. You want a tiny bit of black to appear but only on one side. Use the toaster more like a grill, toasting and charring the slices rather than drying them out. Keep toasting until you have some dark spots. (Occasionally I will go too far—that’s ok. Just scrape off any bits that are excessive and proceed with topping.) One last note here, yes, you’re only going to toast/char one side. It’s important that one side be soft, moist, and tender and the other provide the crunch/crispness, that’s intentional.

2. Butter the slice on the charred side. The soft side will be the underside of your toast, that’s by design. Be generous with the butter, it’s key for both fat and salt. (Trust me that this is the right way.)

3. Spread the peanut butter on, avoiding any overly large holes. Full coverage is good but you don’t want it dripping everywhere: A layer roughly 1/8” thick is enough.

4. Add the banana according to the following method: Beginning at one end with the slice running parallel to your counter, place the stem end of the banana on top of the peanut-buttered slice at a 45° angle. While maintaining contact with the toast, cut through the banana creating 1/4” piece. Move the tip to the next spot where you want the slice to go and cut the next slice, and so forth. (It is key that you shingle the slices (see the example, here). Do not place them flat. The shingles are prettier.)

5. Drizzle the honey. As mentioned above, the best banana toast ever was made with buckwheat honey (dark, hearty, strong). A close second used Runamok’s smoked chipotle honey. Wildflower honey is also perfect.

6. Garnish with chopped peanuts (optional). A little crunch of coarse salt is an extra-special touch.

   

I’m trying to ease back into things here on the Curio. I will tell you that I struggle with balance. I acknowledge that my work is my play, and that my play is my work. I’d like to be regular here and, to allow that to happen, I’m trying to be a little more chill. Some months I’ll offer a couple newsletters, and others you may not hear from me. Sometimes I will share small thoughts and updates, at other points I may write about something I’ve been working at for years. But, whether deep or see-through, light fare or tears in the eyes, I’m here because I like making things and I appreciate you and our shared love for this craft. Happy baking.

Martin

As a person in my 50s, sometimes I say that now is the time to make hay. Decades of work, learning, growth, (flubs), and practice have prepared me for this chapter. The culmination of so much cultivation — cut the hay, it’s harvest time.

That’s not to say that I’m at the end of anything. After high summer, wheat farmers plant for next spring. After the leaves drop in October, limbs form new buds — this is *not* the end.

In most ways, harvest season is good. A packed schedule, commitments, demands — it’s what we have planned for, tried for, and even trained for.

But sometimes the work — the making, sharing, and producing — can get us out of balance. Spread like a too-small nub of butter on an oversized slice of bread, we become translucent where we should be generous. Thin where we should be thick. Occasionally overdrawn.

And that’s where I find myself. So, I’m going to take some time to recharge. And in the process, think about what I want to grow next. It’s likely that the Curio will be back. It’s also likely to change and take a different or even better form. But in order for that to happen, I need to create — and take — a little space.

In order to keep you busy, here are a few recipes in particular I think you should make over the summer. There are almost 50 essay and recipe missives in the Curio archives: nearly three years worth of collected things I love, please poke around.

I guess the last thing that I’d say is that I am so grateful for your engagement. The Curio is a place where, as I wrote in the first post, I can write and bake my heart and document it all with recipes and pictures. To create what you love and send it out into is a gift. I’ll see you out there.

Martin

(And now a couple things you should make this summer.)

Brioche Focaccia

A brioche base, topped with lemon curd, cherries, and sliced almonds. After baking a quick dusting of sugar and voilá, put some coffee on. Seasonally you can switch up the fruit although the frozen cherries work just fine, all year long.

Baguettes

I feel like summer asks for baguettes. Good fermentation, plenty of water, a little wholegrain — getting better at them can be a project. But even crooked, they are crispy. Even without ears, they will sing after baking. And cut and filled with summer produce, glugs of oil, and cheese, they are simply the best.

Discard Crackers

One of my favorite crackers, these bake quickly and use up loads of discard. Included with the crackers is a great recipe for a roasted carrot and whipped feta dip that is at once sweet, spicy, salty, savory and really, really good.

So that’s it for now, bakers.

Be well!

Martin

Great appreciation to my family, my friends, all of you, as well as my dear editor and friend, Posie Brien, who makes everything better — thank you, Posie.

This is a story from the bicycle, biscuits, and banjo adventure I had in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas in 2018. On that trip I cold-called homes, knocked on doors, and baked biscuits for strangers in my home state. If you enjoy this piece, also have a look at Evening in Red Star, and Afternoon in Jethro for more stories from the trip. And, if you’d like to bake something that’s roadshow-inspired, try the spicy, cheesy firecrackers in the Red Star piece or these Sourdough Biscuits which also include a recipe for butter beans. Enjoy the story!

The path to Richard Howard’s house is more tunnel than road. Shag-bark hickory and black oak walls curve to leaf ceilings, shading a single lane of red dirt traffic below. Rolling into daytime darkness I pass orange signs. “No Trespassing,” “Keep Out.”

This land, deep in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, has been in Richard’s family since the 1700s. Bordered by two million acres of national forest, the hills, trees, and scattered residents here form the barely visible town of Mountain Creek, named for a spring-fed crease which falls from Spy Rock and drains out the bottom of the valley into the Mulberry River.

Bouncing down the rutted road is a clanky affair. I have a wicker basket strapped to the back of my bicycle with a pot of beans, corn grits, and a flask of cream: good calling cards out here on the forgotten roads of Arkansas. Each jostle—each bump and swerve—plays the basket like a one-man band.

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I met Richard this morning in front of a canoeing outfitter on the Mulberry River. I was there playing my banjo on the front porch and laughing to myself about the Deliverance-worthy combination of deep woods, canoes, and twangy tunes. Richard pulled in and parked his truck as close to the door as possible. A veteran of Vietnam and 29 surgeries, he recently had a leg removed. Though still mobile, he doesn’t get around like he did as a football star at Ozark High School. A woman ran a doughnut and a cup of coffee out to him. “He’s a regular,” she said.

My dad, who’s never met anyone he doesn’t know, walked over to Richard’s truck and started talking. It turned out that they were in Vietnam at the same time. I watched for a minute then stopped playing and made my way over to introduce myself. “I’m in the area, riding my bicycle, playing music, and collecting stories. Can I make you a meal?”

He balked at the offer—he’d just had work done on his mouth which left few teeth to eat with. I suggested soft beans and grits—he accepted, I got directions.

The how and why of my time down here is complicated. The short story is that this is where I began. This state, these mountains, my accent; junk-piled yards, snaking creeks, greening ponds, all part of me. But years ago, I left. Now, mostly, I feel a million miles away. I’m back to see if it’s really that far.

Riding up Richard’s lane, I pump and strain to make the old bike climb one last rise past cellar holes and rusting tractors until the grade levels and I can coast into the yard, swinging my leg over the seat as I slow.

I see Richard on a deck that overlooks a pond, fishing from his wheelchair. I gather the view. On my right is what looks like the contents of an old homestead. Everything collected and piled, from a wringer washing machine to a millstone, piles of old bottles, farm tools and seemingly one of everything else that was ever useful. Everything but the home itself. As we talk he relates that the homestead had to be torn down because the newer house he’d built next to it was placed too close to be insured by the bank. And so, as it seems to go, the old was kicked over for the new.

I lean the bike against a tree and walk to the deck. Fish and flies at the water’s surface parry and thrust while clouds, pink on their western edge, drag shadows across the peak of Spy Rock. Beyond the pond his teepee sits on a knoll. He explains that he hand cut the log poles and, after several tries, found the proper orientation between the structure and the mountains. “Do you have a spiritual connection to the teepee?” I ask. “There’s something about it,” he says in his gentle drawl. “There are stones and stuff that I have found here on the farm...”

In a hushed voice he goes on to tell of a day when he was walking in the dry bed of Mountain Creek. He stepped over something which, after he passed it, “called me back,” he says. He retraced his steps and found the visible point of something pure black—darker and heavier than the native rocks and silt. He dug it out and cleaned it off—what emerged was a perfect triangle. With his forefingers and thumbs together, he wedged it into the void of his fingers. There was something about it—a power, an energy. He kept it. Years later, he showed it to a Cherokee elder who then pulled him aside to quietly identify it as a healing stone—the largest he had ever seen. It was carved from a star.

My stomach is growling. I think of the pot of beans in my basket. The evening prior I heated garlic cloves and butter over a campfire. I added butter beans and spring water and seasoned them with smoked jalapeños and a cut up beefsteak tomato, both given to me by a farmer I had visited. I banked orange coals under the pot then added meat—pulled off smoked pork ribs. The pot gurgled under bright stars, the beans turning themselves as the tomato melted into the liquid.

“Are you hungry, Ritchie?” I ask. “I could eat,” he says. We go inside and I paw through a sink of dishes to find a pot that will hold grits for two people. I add water, cream, and salt, and bring it to a simmer. I pour in the dry grits and stir as they thicken. I wash two serving bowls and spoon in some of the grits. They pool slightly, and I top them with a ladle of beans, pushing it down to form a well where they can sit. I go back for additional likker from the pot; it breaks the ring of grits, forming a moat at the edge of the bowl. We eat on the deck, overlooking the pond as daylight wanes.

Before I reached Richard’s road, I sensed that I was approaching something. Richard had the energy of a seer. A force. Someone connected to the before and the beyond. Sitting down with two bowls and two spoons, I only want to hear him talk. He obliges.

We eat through seven generations of boom and bust. Murder (a great aunt, four years old, kidnapped as ransom and killed for a gold hoard that was never found), betrayal (a brother sold the family land out from under another brother, generations of fallout), death. War. Richard left upon high school graduation to fight in Vietnam, using skills he learned in the hills and hollows to survive; over 50 years of treatment since and still no healing. Home. His mama’s legendary cooking, especially her biscuits; “Nobody’d made any like that,” he says, “and nobody [has] since.”

Out of this—all the loss and the heartache—the hardest thing is how his world has changed. Like “getting hit in the face with a shovel,” as he tells it. “Cass used to be a community,” he says. “You helped each other out.” He clears his throat, as he chokes up. I pat his back. “People were closer,” he continues through tears. “I hate that it’s gone...it’s like [a] death knell.”

As the light changes from dusk to dark, bats and night birds swoop the pond’s surface. Locusts whirr in arcs of sound as I gather our bowls and head inside. Richard wants to show me a homemade banjo built from a pressure cooker and a piece of hand-carved maple. He won it from the original owner in a trade for 200’ of 4” pipe. I hold it. What could one put through a pipe that’s worth more than this banjo? The ingenuity of construction is a revelation—mountain people have a knack for making everything from nothing.

I twist the old tuners, coaxing rusty strings to order. Richard watches. He doesn’t know how to play, but this banjo—a fixture at family and community gatherings eras ago—means everything to him. It’s a time capsule, hoarding memories of people and days long gone.

I land in an old tuning and brush the strings once, twice. The tone is deep, muffled, muddy; you’ve been asleep so long, I think. But two of the strings retain some vitality and I use them to play a clawhammer version of the Scottish traditional, “Loch Lomond.” The refrain is familiar, “You take the high road, I’ll take the low road, together we’ll meet in Loch Lomond.” I continue, looking for an inner verse. “Too sad we parted in yon shady glen, on the steep, steep sides of Loch Lomond. Where the broken heart knows no second spring, resigned we must be while we're parting.” His smile is as wide as the pressure cooker, which slowly finds its way through dust and years to ring against the walls of his living room.

It’s time to go. I slowly pack up and say, “I’m gonna give you a hug, I hope that’s ok.” I squeeze him hard. The embrace is tearful.

Before I leave he wheels out to his truck and reaches for something in the console. I see that it’s heavy, and precious. His hands unfold the swaddled cloth, and there, black, shiny like obsidian, metallic, and triangular, is the healing stone. Holding it, feeling its weight, I think of the hands before mine, the lives around me, and what I might heal, if I could.

Sadly, Richard Howard passed in early 2020. I only knew him for a single day, but I feel like we made it count. Rest in peace, Ritchie.

Here’s a link to a longer version of the same story which I read for The Kenyon Review.

I’ve said it before, miche is a lifestyle. From oversized slices to eggs on toast, bread with beans, grilled cheese, or even stuffing, and croutons — a large loaf on the counter feels like abundance. Optimism. Opportunity. If you’re new to the lifestyle and wonder about how to handle such a mass of dough or, just want a few tips on shaping, scoring, or loading, you can watch me make something similar here. Before the recipe, a few words on surviving in the age of digital bread. Happy Spring from slushy Vermont.

I became a baker before the era of social media. While the internet was certainly around, most of what inspired me came from books. Basil Kamir’s loaves in Bread Alone, earmarked pages in The Complete Book of Breads, Thom Leonard’s sourdough in Artisan Baking Across America. Books made me a baker.

With their images in my mind, I went in search of loaves I could taste and feel. Living in New York City, I had options: Amy’s, Balthazar, Sullivan Street, Pain d’Avignon, or Le Pain Quotidien, to name a few. But more than simply seeing, holding, or tasting other people’s bread, what I wanted most was to make my own.

And so I began, baking away in my bread vacuum, making humble loaves, growing at my own pace, and taking feedback from my little smiling toast eaters.

In time, away from the pressure of social media feeds, internet forums, and comparison culture, I got better. I knew that I had achieved something when my worldly friend Martha tried my brioche coffee cake and declared it “professional quality.” It was a moment that I tucked under a mattress in my heart to use as fuel for the hope that someday, somehow, I might become a professional baker.

Fast forward to the present and I’m thinking about the young bakers of today. Bread has never been hotter. Every time I think we’ve reached Peak Sourdough, I’ve been wrong. Supporting all the fervor, we have websites, YouTube, social media, podcasts, newsletters (sorry!) and more, where we can learn about hard bread, easy bread, quick bread, ancient bread, or bread that isn’t even bread. Our obsession is active.

But sometimes I wonder how, as a young baker, I would have fared in today’s environment. Could I have run the gauntlet, constantly questioning myself? Asking: Is my loaf open enough? Should I mill all my own flour? Is yeast OK? If my bread doesn’t take three days to make, will it be any good? Could I have built my confidence in the face of what at some points feels like an overabundance of judgement? How would I have felt about my tight sourdough loaves, baguettes with no ears, or misshapen brioche? Could I have weathered it all?

I don’t know. But in thinking about it I’m considering what I might tell my younger self, or my kids, or a new baker that’s trying to navigate everything.

Here’s what I keep returning to:

Bake your own loaves. Remember that food is more than yeasted or open-structured, a perfect sourdough maintenance routine, “ears,” or a “grammable” crumb shot — it’s about giving. It’s about nurturing, sustenance, and sharing. It’s about putting food on the tables of strangers and doing it with heart. So, make your bread, pass it around, feed the toast-eaters, and let a generous spirit represent your loaves.

Define yourself with what you are, rather than what you *are not*. Let’s avoid the dogma of absolutes — rather than yeast vs. sourdough, locavore or strictly imported, stay flexible and avoid the extremes. Most of life is in the gray. There, between the binary poles we remain lithe, porous, inclusive, and accepting of differences. Lord knows we need this in 2025.

Let’s bake.

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This is a two-day bread. On day one in the evening you’ll set a preferment, mixing whole wheat flour, active sourdough culture, and water. On day two you will begin the bread with an autolyse — a mixture of the flours and water. The autolyse will rest, gaining strength and also extensibility, for at least 30 minutes or, up to four hours. After the autolyse, mix in the preferment, salt, and honey then bulk ferment for a total of five hours. During the first three hours you’ll fold once per hour before leaving it untouched for the last two.

Here’s a sample schedule:

Mix autolyse: 8:00 am
Mix final dough: 12:00 pm
Fold: 1:00, 2:00, 3:00 pm
Preshape and final shape: 5:00 pm
Bake: 6:30 pm

Daily Miche

Stiff levain:

Whole wheat, 152g
Water, 122g (room temperature)
Sourdough culture, 30g

In a small bowl or 2-quart container combine the whole wheat flour, room temperature water, and sourdough culture. Stir together then cover and set at room temperature overnight, 10 to 12 hours.

Final mix:

Bread flour, 456g
Whole wheat, 76g
Whole rye, 76g
Water, 448g (In cool months, use warm water, 95 to 105°F. In hot months, use cool room temperature, 60 to 65°F. Desired dough temperature is 78°F to 82°F.)

On day two, begin with an autolyse. In a large bowl or container, combine the flours and water, stirring with the handle end of a wooden spoon before switching to a wet hand, kneading and pressing until the dough is homogenous. Set the dough to rest for at least 30 minutes or up to 4 hours. The time range is for your convenience. Some days I do two hours, other times it’s longer — do what works for you. (My preference is to place the remaining ingredients on top of the dough so that I don’t forget anything. It’s a habit from bakery work and not necessary but, it also speeds things up when I return to mix the dough.)

*Note, try to find a place where the dough won’t lose too much heat. At my house, my microwave is the warmest spot I have unless I get out a heating pad.

Salt, 18g
Honey, 23g
Stiff levain, 304g

After the autolyse, add the salt, honey, and levain then press, pinch, and knead in the bowl or container to combine, working until the dough is fully homogenous but not necessarily smooth. After mixing, check the dough temperature. When I made this recently my dough after mixing was 73°F, a little chilly for my 63°F house. So, “see something, do something”: I made a little proofer in the microwave and kept it there, coddled and not losing any more heat.

Bulk fermentation will last five hours. During that time you’ll give three bowl or coil folds in the first three hours (at 60, 120, and 180 minutes after mixing). After the third fold (three hours into bulk), you’ll leave the dough untouched for an additional two hours. (Remember, there’s a sample schedule, above.)

After bulk fermentation, dump the dough onto a lightly dusted surface and give it a gentle preshape. Place the dough seam-side-down, cover well, and rest for 15 minutes.

After the rest, shape the dough into a boule and place in a 9” or 10” pie pan lined with a lightly-dusted banneton liner. Lacking a liner, use a lightly-dusted tea towel, or apron.

Proof until it feels soft and slightly marshmallowy. The amount of time for the final proof will vary by season and change with starter activity, dough temperature, and rising conditions. In the height of summer it may be ready after an hour or 75 minutes. On a cold day you may wait three to even four hours. When writing recipes I prescribe a time value in the center of a range. Recently, I loaded after 90 minutes. The loaf I made rose well in the oven — slightly too well — which told me it could have gone a little further, probably two hours. So, during the final proof, touch the loaf, see how it yields to pressure from the pad of your finger, and make your best assessment.

Towards the end of proof, preheat your oven to 475°F with a baking stone and steaming system in place.

Invert the loaf onto a sheet of parchment, score, steam the oven, then load and bake until deeply colored — mahogany to even darker in spots — about 45 minutes. Immediately after loading lower the oven to 450°F. As always, every oven is different, keep an eye on it, rotate as necessary, bake to full color.

Remove and cool fully before slicing.

I wrote something short to go here. The gist of it was that the days between frozen winter and thawed spring are the coldest of the year; every hope for warmth and a new season, cancelled by dumps of spring snow and cold fronts. But when I came downstairs in darkness this morning, a cardinal was singing so loudly that I had to stop and listen. To the east, dark sky hugged the horizon, blocking all but a thin sliver of light—a window shade against the growing day. I needed that example. The cardinal, and what I could only describe as optimism, out there in the bush freezing its tail off, loving every minute of it.

Speaking of things to love, what I usually hear about these doughnuts is that they’re “unlike any doughnut I’ve had before.” All the instructions, steps, and pictures are below. Please reach out if you have questions. And please reach out, even if you don’t have questions. Community is wherever we make it, bakers. Holler anytime.
Martin

A couple quick notes about the process. These doughnuts are mixed on day one then placed in the fridge to rise overnight in bulk. On day two, you’ll roll the dough then cut, proof, and fry. To fill, my preference is chocolate pastry cream but any flavor that pairs with chocolate will be great. Make the pastry cream in advance (or buy good chocolate pudding) and have it chilled down and ready by the time the doughnuts are frying. If you like these, you might also consider spiced doughnuts I wrote.

Chocolate Bomboloni

Yield: 16 to 18 small doughnuts

Milk, warm (95 to 105°F), 155g
Butter, soft, 28g
Yeast, dry, instant, 4.5g (1 ½ t)
Sugar, granulated, 48g
Egg, whole, 50g (1 large), room temperature
Sourdough culture, 75g*
Vanilla, 6g (1 t)
Molasses, 6g (1 t)

In a large bowl, whisk everything together until mostly homogenous. Set aside while gathering the remaining ingredients. Mixing these ingredients before adding the flour will ensure that the yeast and sugar are hydrated.

*For the culture, use discard or make a preferment with the following ingredients: 15g culture, 30g all-purpose, 30g water. Set to mature for 8 to 16 hours before use. If you don’t have sourdough, prepare the preferment substituting 1g or 1/4 t of yeast for the sourdough culture. Ferment for 8 to 16 hours before use.

All-purpose flour, 270g
Whole wheat, rye, or spelt flour, 30g
Salt, 6g (1 t)
Nutmeg, 2.5g (1 t)
Pepper, black, 0.5g (¼ t)
Cinnamon, 2.5g (1 t)
Cocoa, dark, 27g

Add the dry ingredients to the wet and stir to combine. The mixture will be soft and sticky. Once mixed, switch to a flexible scraper, pressing and folding in the bowl until fully homogenous. Move the dough to a lightly greased bowl or 2-quart container with a lid and set in a warm spot for bulk fermentation.

After both 15 and 30 minutes of rising, perform a bowl fold or knead briefly in the container. Cover and chill the dough overnight.

On day two dump the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Lightly flour the top then press with your hands to degas and flatten. Switch to a rolling pin, flouring the top and underneath as necessary to prevent sticking, working the dough into a smooth, even circle about 11” in diameter and 3/8” thick.

Cut circles to a desired size. I prefer a 2 3/4” biscuit cutter. For the scraps, press the pieces gently into a single layer, trying to avoid working them too much, then cut into rounds. The later cuts won’t be as nice as the first pass but they will still be delicious. I usually just eat those pieces plain (meaning, I toss in sugar but skip the filling).

Place the pieces on a parchment-lined sheet tray (lightly flour or spray the parchment with pan spray to ensure they will release easily). Cover and set to rise until puffy, 60 to 75 minutes.

Oil, vegetable, 650g (three cups)

Towards the end of the rise, heat the oil in a small pan or pot to 350°F. For this doughnut size I like to use a 9” cast iron pan. A larger pan will work but may require more oil.

Sugar, granulated, 72g
Cinnamon, 2.5g (1 t)
Cocoa, dark 4g (2 t)
Salt, fine, 1.5g (1/4 t)

While the oil heats, stir together the finishing sugar in a small bowl.

Also get your frying setup ready at the stove. I like to use a half sheet tray lined with paper towels with a cooling rack set on top. I place it on the stovetop adjacent to the fry oil to minimize drip or spill. For tools, have a slotted metal spoon or spider at hand as well as a large kitchen spoon.

To fry, load three pieces at a time, gently lowering them into the oil. As soon as they are in I ladle hot oil over the tops—maybe it’s unnecessary but it does seem to help me cook them evenly. Once the bubbling slows, around 1 1/2 minutes in, turn them over with a slotted spoon and fry on the second side for another 1 1/2 to 2 minutes. Prick any large bubbles that might appear on the surface.

Remove from the oil and place on the cooling rack to cool very briefly (10 to 15 seconds) before tossing in the sugar. If you wait too long to toss, the sugar will not stick to the outside. My method for tossing is to place each doughnut into the sugar then shimmy the bowl, turning the doughnuts as necessary to ensure full coverage. After adding the sugar, try to handle them as little as possible in order to avoid blemishes or finger marks on the sugar coat. Cool briefly before filling.

To fill the doughnuts, place the chilled pastry cream (recipe below) into a piping bag fitted with either a small tip or filling tool. Alternatively, if you have disposable piping bags, cut an opening roughly 1/4” to 3/8” in size.

Using a chopstick or similar instrument, poke into the doughnut, moving it around to create a pocket without rupturing the doughnut wall. Next, to ensure that each doughnut receives its portion of cream, place a doughnut on a scale and tare, then fill, then weigh again to confirm a cream amount of roughly 20g per doughnut (again, these were cut to 2 3/4”; if you cut larger, increase the filling proportionately).

Chocolate pastry cream

Milk, whole or 2%, 225g

In a small pot bring the milk to a simmer.

Sugar, granulated, 48g
Cornstarch, 18g
Salt, fine, 1.5g (1/4 t)
Eggs, 75g (about one large plus one yolk)

While the milk heats (keep a close eye on it), stir together the sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a medium bowl. Add the eggs and whisk until homogenous.

Add half the warm milk to the egg mixture to temper it. Whisk vigorously to combine, then whisk the tempered milk and yolk mixture back into the pot.

Return to low heat and stir constantly until thickened. Note that the small batch size will require extra attention to ensure that it remains smooth. If you have any problems, run it through a fine sieve before adding the remaining ingredients.

Butter, 14g (1T)
Vanilla, 8g (2 t)
Chocolate, dark, 57g (I’ve been using a 61% semi-sweet)
Cinnamon, 2.5g (1 t) (optional)

Remove from the heat and stir in the butter, vanilla, chocolate, and cinnamon, whisking until the chocolate melts and the mixture is homogenous. Chill until use.

Cream, heavy or whipping, 15g

Pour the cold cream onto the cold pastry cream and whisk until it lightens, a minute or so. Note that the pastry cream may require some elbow grease to smooth out. The texture is deliberately firm, a better consistency for piping. Place in a piping bag and chill until use.

This is a short excursion into my breadmaking brain. Wanting to bake but lacking any prep other than some discard, this is what I came up with. I captured my process here as it happened from ideation (a scrap piece of paper with baker’s math) to finished product. The recipe and tips are below, but if you want a recipe with a little more direction (process shots and shaping videos), here are two good ones: Good Baguette, Summer Baguette.

Thanks for reading! Martin

Last Saturday night I didn’t make a preferment. I knew that I wanted to make bread the next day but after a full week of baking chores, deciding what to bake, or even writing a formula felt insurmountable. Rather than doing any prep, I went to bed.

When I got up Sunday morning—recharged, caffeinated, counting down the remaining minutes of my weekend—my breadmaking hunger returned with a vengeance. Hey, I’m a baker. 🤷

But, no preferment. While I could have made pane siciliano or many other things that don’t require one, I kept looking. And here is a true confession. During the week my starter maintenance got away from me. I had fed it, but after that it sat on the counter for an uncounted stretch of days.

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After I located the container, I braced a little, expecting to open it and find some pink-hued, funky mess. To my surprise, it didn’t look as bad as I feared, partially due to the extreme cold here. Yes, it was completely thin, runny, and flat, but not yet separated.

Hmmmm, I thought. Maybe I’ll use it and add a little yeast to boost the lackluster activity. I tasted it. Bright, piquant, not bad at all. I might be in business.

The feed I had done earlier in the week included some extra for a video shoot in the studio (coming soon, an intermediate sourdough on-demand course for KABC) so, I had more starter than normal.

Measuring it, the amount was 222g. What can I make with 222g of unhealthy, unfed starter other than crackers, scones, puff pastry, or pie crust? Before I answer that, note that I wanted bread, and I needed it to be done in one day. Also, when I looked at my schedule, I only had time for a couple hours of bulk, an hour or so for final rise, and a bake of about 30 to 45 minutes.

So I decided to make baguettes. Arguably the most finicky, difficult thing possible. Why not? I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and wrote down some numbers for the yet-to-be-christened discard baguette.

The first consideration: What is my batch size? If each baguette weighs 333 grams, the total will be roughly one kilo. That scale weight makes a large home baguette but with a few assumptions about activity and strength, I opted for a slightly larger scale weight.

My next consideration related to dough percentages. I wanted a mostly all-purpose baguette with a little whole grain for flavor. In baker’s math, 95% all-purpose and 5% whole wheat should do. For hydration, I went with 80%. It’s on the high side but I wanted a nice, moderately open crumb. (Note: If you make this, I think you should lower this slightly, down to 75%, for easier handling.)

I honestly wasn’t sure what the impact of the old starter would be. Much of the functional strength had been diminished or eliminated through enzymatic activity and the breakdown of proteins, but acid can also have a firming influence on dough. Lots of questions. As the French bakers say, “la verité sorts du four.” Or, the proof (truth) comes out of the oven.

The other thing in the mix was that in order to hit my timings and get the delicate crumb and crust that I value in a baguette, I wanted a little yeast. (I’ll say it again here, yeast is just a tool. Don’t be too uptight about using it. This is still a sourdough baguette, IMO.) So I add a little, 1/3rd of 1% in baker’s math (.3%).

Here are the total dough percentages (182.3%).

All-purpose flour, 95%
Whole wheat flour, 5%
Water, 80%
Salt, 2%
Yeast, instant, .3%

What about the prefermented flour?

Before I get to the starter numbers, I divide the batch size (1,000g) by the total dough percentage (182.3%) for a total flour amount of 549g. Of that, I want 5% whole wheat. So, the final flour numbers are 522g AP, and 27g WW. With the total flour number I can do the math for my other amounts. (Note that there is a little rounding in the numbers below.)

All-purpose, 522g
Whole wheat, 27g
Water, 439g
Salt, 11g (2 t)
Yeast, instant, 1.6g (½ t)

Now I need to subtract my old starter (which is fed equal parts flour and water). I have 222 grams. I’m hoping that the math comes out, putting me between 15 and 20% prefermented flour. I should also save a small drop to feed.

Doing the math, 549 x 20% = 110. Double that for a total of 220g, leaving me 2g for a build. Perfect.

Subtracting my 110g of flour and 110g of water from the total numbers I have my final mix amounts.

I’ll put shaping videos over on Instagram in addition to the ones that are in the Summer Baguette newsletter. If you’re looking for a more detailed recipe, these are both great: Good Baguette, Summer Baguette.

All-purpose, 412g
Whole wheat, 27g
Water, 329g (I recommend that if you make this for the first time, reduce the water to 75%, changing this number to about 302g. This also means that the dough pieces will weigh about 325g.)
Salt, 11g (2 t)
Yeast, instant, 1.6g (½ t)
Old starter, 220g (You could use healthy levain. Mix 105g of AP and 105 of water with 10g of culture. Set to rise overnight or for roughly 8 to 12 hours before mixing.)

Time to mix.

I dispersed the culture into lukewarm water, added the flours, salt, and yeast, and stirred to combine briefly then switched to a wet hand to fold briefly in the bowl. The dough was soft. Maybe a little softer than I wanted.

I folded four times over the course of the first hour. With each touch it gained strength and elasticity, transforming from weak and slack to beautifully stretchy—a joy to handle, actually.

After the fourth fold I left it for an hour, untouched.

I divided and preshaped into tubes and rested for 15 minutes.

I shaped and placed them seam-side-up on a floured couche and turned on the oven to 500°F with my steaming system in place.

After 40 minutes of rise they were happy. I turned them out, seam-side-down, onto parchment and set them in the fridge for 10 minutes in order to skin, slightly (for easier scoring).

I scored, loaded, and reduced the oven to 475°F, removing them once they were fully golden brown and firm, about 25 minutes in my oven.

But was I happy? Cutting them open, I have to say that the crumb was fine, maybe even good. They opened well and the timings were spot on for this quality of starter and the pinch of yeast. The flavor was excellent, barely sour but also quite malty with a great balance of “mineral” or what I sometimes call a “flinty” quality. As far as detractions, the edge of the loaf where it transitioned from the hearth to the side wall was just a little too sharp. What I mean by that is that they lacked a little strength, they were *slightly* flat. To fix the side wall, giving it a more rounded aspect as it transitions from bottom to side, I might drop a fold and reduce the water by 5%. But that’s a test for another day. Happy baking.

Martin

I know you just got a Curio this week, but here’s a little bonus. This is a large variation on the pretzel buns I did last year. Rather than shaping into shorter tubes for sausages or hot dogs, I’m shaping into large pretzels—a sheet tray can only hold two. If you didn’t make the buns yet, you should. You could even make a blend of buns and these large pretzels if you prefer. Again, details for the buns as well as some context for the recipe is here. The short story is that it’s a soft dough, hydrated with some beer (or all water, you choose) as well as a little sourdough (there is also a no-sourdough option). We ate these this week with a cheddar fondue with chipotle honey on top, I recommend that. But before the recipe, a few words about the game this weekend.

Where I grew up football is a religion. Friday nights, stadium lights—if you ever watched the Peter Berg football series (you should), you might already have a sense of how the ritual of boom and bust, heaven and hell, team and town, plays out in services across America each fall. But even if you don’t know what a pigskin is, elements of our sport-obsessed human condition might still cross your borders. Fanatic fans (looking at my soccer friends) certainly trot the globe.

A couple years ago I was at the Texas Book Festival and heard the journalist and author, Sebastian Junger, speak. Known for works like A Perfect Storm, his Afghan war reporting, and the crushing documentary Restrepo, to say that his stories are riveting doesn’t quite capture it.

My take-away, or the thing that I still find myself turning over, years after I heard him speak, was what he said about purpose. In his time with soldiers, both in war zones and at home, the theme he often encountered when meeting men and women that had risked everything only to return home wounded, scarred, and forever changed was that in almost every case they wanted one thing: To go back.

Regardless of the suffering and in spite of all that time in bunkers under threat, working supply lines, suffering through loss, administering care, or just burning toxic trash, they longed for more. More intensity, more duty, more belonging, more moments spent in tight confines with the company of others.

In almost every way their experiences have nothing to do with football. But, tomorrow is the Super Bowl, and while I have no intention of equating a game with true sacrifice, I am thinking about small parallels, especially the idea of purpose.

As fans, even itinerant ones like myself—whether we grew up playing the game or, still can’t figure out why there’s so much starting and stopping—one reason we watch is the sense of purpose. Commitment, passion, effort, team. One job, one goal, everything outside the seconds between snap and whistle, irrelevant. Purpose. In those moments, to me, it’s not football, or soccer. It’s not chess, NASCAR, glassblowing, knitting, or even seeing patients. It’s flow, it’s focus. It’s connection, community, clarity, and meaning. It’s also baking.

When I run my hand through a bowl of starter and water to start my mix, or roll a laminated dough, I’m directed. My worries, my distractions, my catastrophizing, all pushed away by the task at hand. I belong to the dough and it belongs to me. In spite of all the dropped balls, I have purpose.

So, whether my year is high highs, fumbles, penalties, or successful two-point conversions, what I’m telling myself is to chase my purpose. To honor and take joy in the inspired purpose of others. And, to frame my own struggles with gratitude for the purpose of others. Thank you.

Here’s a snack for the game, whatever match you choose.

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GIANT PRETZEL

Yield: Three giant pretzels

Water, warm, 150g
Beer, room temperature (5.5% abv or less), 150g (Use water or a NA beer if you prefer.)
Sugar, 14g
Yeast, instant, 3g (1 t)
Egg, whole, 50g (one medium)
Butter, melted, 28g (bacon fat, rendered chicken fat, or lard work well, too)
Sourdough culture* (liquid levain), 54g (see my notes, below)

In a medium bowl whisk everything together until homogenous and frothy, then gather the dry ingredients.

*A couple quick notes about the sourdough. While you can set a sourdough preferment (all- purpose flour, 20g, water, 20g, and culture, 14g) and let it ripen overnight, you may also use discard. Or, lacking sourdough culture you can make a poolish (all-purpose flour, 27g, water, 27g, a pinch of yeast) and let it ripen overnight. For those of you who want the full sourdough treatment (you know my feelings on this: with or without commercial yeast — it’s all baking), you may omit the yeast but the bulk rise and final proof should both be extended significantly as the quantity of flour in the preferment is relatively low.

Bread flour, (12.7% protein), 513g
Whole grain flour, 27g (this can be anything from whole rye to whole wheat, spelt, or semolina, even cornmeal, it’s purpose is to bring color, texture, and flavor)
Salt, fine, 8g

Stir the dry ingredients into the wet with the handle end of a wooden spoon, then switch to a flexible scraper. Clean the sides of the bowl as you press and fold the dough. Once homogeneous with no dry spots remaining, cover and rest for 20 minutes. During the rest the dough will transform from a shaggy mass, strengthening as the flours hydrate.

After the rest, using a wet hand, firmly knead the dough in the bowl until smooth, about one minute. Cover and rest until slightly puffy, 60 to 90 minutes. Up to two hours is fine.

There are many options for the divide. In the pretzel roll piece I offer some bun shapes, here, I’m making large pretzels.

To divide the dough, place on a lightly-floured surface and cut into pieces weighing about 333g each.

Roll each piece tightly into a tube then, leaving a bump of untouched dough in the middle, about 4” to 5” wide, roll to a length of 34” to 36”. Here’s a reel of me shaping them. I use the flip method for the final portion, and it’s admittedly hard to see or emulate without practice. There’s another method which keeps the dough on the bench, see Maurizio do it here. The one difference that you’ll note with what I do is that I twist the “arms” twice before pressing the ends gently to adhere—I like the look of that. Last, keep an eye out over on Instagram where I’ll add some additional video content of the boiling process.

After shaping, preheat the oven to 450°F, then prepare the boiling liquid and gather tools. You’ll need slotted spoons for transferring the pretzels after boiling, a baker’s lame for scoring the rolls, coarse salt (pretzel salt, coarse salt, or kosher salt) for garnish, and two half sheet trays lined with parchment and sprinkled with a light, even coating of cornmeal or semolina.

Proof the pretzels covered until they lighten slightly, about 30 to 45 minutes. If you proof them until fully marshmallowy handling will become MUCH more difficult. For easiest handling, after they rise for 20 minutes or so you can chill them in the fridge for up to a few hours, covered. As they chill they will firm up slightly.

Water, 1,800g (about 2 quarts)
Salt, 18g
Baking soda, 57g (about 1/4 cup)

In a large low pot (mine is 10” wide and 3” high) combine the water, salt, and baking soda and bring to a low boil, whisking to combine. Small bubbles are fine, a rolling boil is too much. (The large pot with lower sides will be easier to get these monsters in and out of.)

One quick advisory. Handling the pretzels is tricky. They are large, soft, and challenging. To turn them I’ve been using two fish spatulas. If I had a giant “spider” tool, that would be perfect. I do not. If you fumble them coming out of the water, it’s ok. Do your best to reform them and give the “arms” an extra press if they come unadhered (mine often do!).

Once proofed, working one at a time and gently stretch to enlarge (with your hands, holding them in mid-air). Gently lower the them into the hot water, one at a time. (One note here, I recommend baking two pretzels on the first sheet tray. Get those in the oven after boiling, scoring, and salting, then concentrate on the third. Once they are out of the water you want to score, salt, and load quickly.)

Simmer for about 30 seconds per side, gently turning them at the halfway point. After the brief boil, place them onto the trays, distributing them evenly. Two of these will barely fit on a half sheet tray. Garnish with coarse salt then score with the lame and load into the oven. While the first batch begins to bake, boil and process the remaining pretzel.

Bake until chestnut brown and beautiful, 18 to 22 minutes, rotating as necessary. If you’re unsure about how much color is appropriate, have a look at the photos here for reference. The pH of the baking soda in the water (similar to lye) helps the rolls to brown during baking—don’t be fooled into thinking they are burning, the full bake and robust color is appropriate and optimal. And, they will soften after the bake.

As I note in the opening of the piece, we had ours plain or, one evening my wife made a cheddar fondue. I drizzled a smoky chipotle honey over the top of the warm cheddar and we ate it standing up. Too good to even sit down for.

It’s been cold here in Vermont. In the past month or so we’ve had only a couple days above freezing. I’m watching our wood pile disappear so quickly that I wonder if someone isn’t nicking logs in the middle of night. It might be the raccoon. Or the possum. Or the small red fox with legs that look like she’s wearing black socks. Or it might be that cold air is dumping out of the north pole at a record rate as the ice breaks for the first time in 7,000 years. To combat the chill and also ease my mind as we navigate a turbulent start to the year, last weekend I looked for a mini project. Something pretty. Something delicious.

A couple years ago I started playing with blue pea flowers (the dried blue blossom of the Butterfly Pea plant) as a natural colorant in my baking. I’d used natural or plant-based colors before (turmeric, paprika, spinach powder, rose petals, charcoal, etc.) but had never made anything blue. I started with puff pastry, then quickly moved over to leavened breads, steeping the flowers in the water for the dough. Lured by the effects produced by marbling, stacking, or spiraling two colors together, I now usually mix a white dough and a blue dough, then combine them.

For the base formula here I’m using the simple pain de mie from my book. It’s buttery, easy to work with, and can be scored beautifully right after shaping, adding a nice outward visual to compliment the beauty of the crumb. To make the blue portion I steep the pea flowers in boiling water then strain before adding to the dough. The pea flower water adds little to no flavor—I’m using it purely for the color.

A couple notes about the process. First, I’m not using a preferment. I wanted to make this in an afternoon with no planning. If you’d like a preferment (I heartily endorse this, I love pain de mie with 50% prefermented flour in a stiff, yeasted preferment), some math will be required. Comment below if you’d like more information on a preferment version. As an alternative to the preferment (and the math), after the first rise you can refrigerate the dough overnight. The final rise after shaping will take twice as long but the flavor is improved with the overnight rest. If you go that route, on day two, allow it to warm some then pick up the recipe at the rolling stage.

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Blue blossom pain de mie

Warm the milk (I use the microwave in 20 second bursts until it’s warm, 90°F or so in my 62°F house), and soften the butter. Once those things are in process I take two medium mixing bowls of roughly the same size and scale each dough into its own vessel. First, steep the flowers in boiling water.

Water, boiling, 100g
Blue pea flowers*, 5g

*For the brand of flowers that I have, this is a good quantity. If your bread doesn’t have the color you want (very hard to know in advance), you can increase the quantity of flowers or extend the steep.

Pour the boiling water over the pea blossoms and let them steep for at least 10 minutes. While the flowers steep, prepare the ingredients (enough for to mix both doughs, amounts are below). So, warm the milk, soften the butter, and scale your dry ingredients for each mix (again, remember that you’re making two doughs here, one white, one blue).

White dough*

All-purpose flour, 229g
Salt, fine, 5g
Yeast, instant, 5g
Water, warm, 83g
Milk, warm, 46g
Butter, unsalted, soft, 34g
Honey, 11g

Blue dough*

All-purpose flour, 11.7%, 229g
Salt, fine, 5g
Yeast, instant, 5g
Blue pea water, warm, 83g (Strain the steeping liquid, pressing to remove the required quantity of water. If you are short, add warm water to make up the difference and add more steeping water in subsequent batches.)
Milk, warm, 46g
Butter, unsalted, soft, 34g
Honey, 11g

*One process note, I like to mix these doughs roughly simultaneously. I scale the dry into their own separate bowls, then add the remaining ingredients, working them in succession. One additional tip, if you get your hands or tools in, work the white dough first. A white implement is ok to go into the blue but blue will show up in your white, trust me.

Stir the dry ingredients to combine then add the warm milk, water (or steeping liquid), honey, and butter to each dough. Stir briefly to combine then knead in the bowl for a minute or so, until combined but not smooth. The mixture will be rough with a ragged surface that looks like cottage cheese curds. Take the dough temperature—75°F to 82°F is a good range. Cover with a bowl cover, plastic bag, or cling film, and set a 20 minute timer.

After the rest, knead each dough briefly on an unfloured surface (the stiff, enriched dough shouldn’t require any flour) until smooth. When the dough is fully homogenous, tensioned, and smooth, stop and return to the bowl. The kneading may be as quick as one minute.

Cover the doughs and rest in a warm spot until light, marshmallowy, and doubled in size, about 60 to 90 minutes.

Dump each dough onto a lightly floured surface and press and stretch into a rectangle, roughly 4” by 6”. Working one piece at a time (with the remaining piece covered to prevent drying) roll to 9” by 24”. These dimensions may give you some trouble. To help, I tend to work with two different rolling pins. One is large and has no taper, the other is a tapered “French pin” that allows me to apply pressure in specific places, evening out the dough as necessary. It’s important that the dough be a nice rectangle with an even thickness for the most uniform final loaf. If the dough resists, give one piece a break and work on the other. Lightly reflour your surface as necessary during rolling.

Once both doughs are rolled to the exact size with square corners, brush to remove any excess flour and prepare to make the final shape.

For the final shape, first spray or butter a 9” by 4” pullman pan. An 8 ½” by 4 ½” pan will also work. A 9” by 5” will also work but isn’t as pretty, in my opinion.

To make the final shape, place the blue dough on your surface and confirm the 9” by 24” sizing. Lightly mist or brush the dough with water then place the white dough atop it. Stretch to align the doughs, pressing or rolling gently with the rolling pin to ensure that the layers are adhered. Beginning at one end, tightly roll up the doughs, forming a tube, 9” long. I like to trim the ends, cutting off ¼” to reveal the layers, leaving a log that’s just shy of 9” in length.

Before placing the loaf in the prepared pan, score at a 45° angle with multiple cuts that wrap the upper portion of the loaf. It’s important to follow the contour of the loaf, coming down the sides slightly. See the video for details.

Place in the loaf pan and use a bench knife or scraper to ensure it’s evenly aligned. Cover and proof in a warm spot until the dough is marshmallowy and reaches the top of the pan at its highest point.

Towards the end of proof, preheat the oven to 425°F. (This loaf does well with a little steam during baking but it’s not absolutely necessary.)

Egg wash the loaf before baking.

Bake for 28 to 35 minutes, until deeply golden brown. When you think it’s done, slide the loaf out slightly to confirm that the side walls and bottom are baked and browning.

Depan and place on a cooling rack immediately after baking. Cool and enjoy.

From plans to get honey bees to improving at archery and remembering my vitamins, January has landed as it does—full of hope for great plans and many wishes for a delicious year.

Rather than looking too far backwards, or further ahead than I can see, I’m kicking the tires, checking the mirrors, and considering where to stop for coffee. Let’s get this show on the road.

The winter months always bring me back to citrus: buttery navel oranges, ruby red grapefruit, satsumas, pomelos, and clementines. Two years ago, the season inspired a special crust that led to one of my favorite pies. This year, spurred again, I’ve been sorting out an orange-infused laminated brioche with the flavors of a creamsicle.

Let’s make them.

Creamsicle Cruffins

Yield: 6 cruffins

Note: For the full explanation of this dough and method that I also used in the suprêmes, have a look at what I previously wrote about this process for lamination. In that piece, I go through the full how and why of what I think is a great, manageable method for beautiful layers and relatively easy lamination.

Yeast, dry instant, 9g (1 T)
Water, 20g (In cool months, use warm water, 100 to 110°F. In hot months, use cool room temperature, 60 to 65°F.)
Eggs, whole, 112g (Two large eggs. If you’re a little short on the weight, add warm water to cover the missing portion if you don’t want to crack another egg. In cool months, warm the eggs in hot water, in hot months use cool or cold eggs.)

To the bowl of a stand mixer add the yeast, water, and eggs. Whisk vigorously by hand to combine, this allows the yeast to hydrate before adding the remaining ingredients. If you skip this step you may see flecks of unactivated yeast in the dough after mixing. While the yeast hydrates, measure the dry ingredients and butter.

All-purpose flour, 11.7%, 225g
Salt, fine, 6g (1 t)
Sugar, granulated, 20g
Butter, unsalted, soft, 56g

Add the flour, salt, sugar, and soft butter to the yeast slurry and mix on medium (speed 4 in my KitchenAid 6 qt. stand mixer) with a dough hook for 7 minutes, scraping as necessary. The mixture will begin as a slightly crumbly mess before becoming cohesive.

At the end of mixing the dough will be smooth, elastic, and will clean the bowl. Check the dough’s temperature after mixing: it should be between 70˚F and 75˚F. If it’s warmer than 75˚F, place it in a cool location. If it’s cooler than 70˚F, place it someplace warm.

Knead briefly to form a ball then cover and set to rise at room temperature (72˚F to 74˚F) until puffy and almost double in size, 1 to 2 hours.

After the first rise, dump the dough out of the bowl onto a lightly floured surface. Lightly flour the top then press, stretch, and roll into an exact rectangle, 9” by 15”. Cover tightly, place on a sheet tray, and chill for 10 to 20 minutes.

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Now that the dough has fermented some and you’ve made an initial pass at elongating it, it’s time to prepare for the part that seems to cause the most fear: lamination. In the event you’re concerned, remember that I wrote this method with the express purpose of helping you to achieve great layers while also avoiding common pitfalls that are often written into recipes.

The full back story on this dough and process, as I mentioned above, is in the piece I wrote on the suprêmes. Here are the basics. First, the dough is slightly soft which makes it easier to roll. Second, the butter sheet is very thin, allowing it to change temperature quickly, moving from chilled and breakable to pliable and easy to work in a matter of minutes. (Pliability is key for avoiding breaking or “sharding.”) And third, the folds are performed in succession, without any chilling. This also supports easier rolling and much less opportunity for the butter to break.

A couple additional things to keep in mind. First, roll to the dimensions that I specify and confirm with a tape measure. (At the bottom of the newsletter I summarized the rolling dimensions and steps.) Second, use a minimum amount of bench flour during folds. If you’re having trouble keeping the dough floating on the bench, lightly flour your dough and surface, but do take the time to brush away any excess flour. If things are especially dry I use a mister to add a small amount of moisture, ensuring that my layers adhere well as I fold. And last, when I’m rolling the dough to size, I always begin by making rows of indentations, pressing the rolling pin into the dough, forming ridges. Then, I return to the middle of the dough and roll towards the edges. Ok, back to the action.

While the dough chills, prepare the butter block and zest a large orange. Fold a half sheet of parchment (12” by 16”) to form a rectangle with closed top and sides measuring exactly 8” by 10” (working with the paper running left to right, lengthwise, fold the sides to meet without overlapping, then fold the bottom and top edge 1” towards the middle).

Orange zest, 6 to 8g (one large navel orange)
Butter, unsalted, 168g, room temperature (1.5 U.S. sticks) (Room temperature should be pliable but not soft. In warm months, place the dough in a cooler spot for easier handling.)

Add the room temperature butter to the center of the parchment and flatten to a thin layer using the heel of your hand. Don’t worry about the corners, you’ll take care of those in the next step. Close the paper over the butter and further smear into the corners with a rolling pin, forming an even layer. Again, once folded, filled, and smooth, the package should measure exactly 8” by 10”.

Chill the butter sheet until firm, about 5 minutes.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator. On a lightly floured surface roll to 10” wide and 18” long, doing your best to square the corners (stretch them gently with your hands if necessary). Gently peel open one side of the butter block and place, butter side down, atop the dough, aligning it so that the 10” side fits exactly atop the 10” height of dough. Press gently so that it adheres, then slowly and carefully peel away the parchment paper.

Fold the dough piece to cover the butter and press to seal. After adding the butter and folding in the sides, the dough piece should measure roughly 9" by 10".

Gently and evenly roll the mass to 20” in length along the long axis, being careful to keep the dough piece narrow, roughly 9.5” wide. (If it spreads to 10”, it’s ok.)

Rotate the dough 90°, dust off any bench flour, then perform a letter fold. The dimension of the dough block after the letter fold should be roughly 7” wide by 9.5” high. (If the letter fold (aka “single fold”) is confusing or unfamiliar, there are good videos on YouTube that show the process better than they can be described with words.)

Roll to 10” by 22” along the long axis. Dust to remove any bench flour, then perform a second letter fold and press the layers to seal. After the letter fold the dough should measure 7.5” by 10”.

Gently roll the dough to 11" by 11". Cover well (I fold mine up inside the parchment I used for the butter block), and chill in the refrigerator until cool, 10 to 20 minutes.

After the chill the dough should be firm but pliable.

Roll to 12” by 12”. Cut the dough piece into 6 strips, each 2” wide and 12” long. Cut each strip in half once more, yielding a total of twelve 2” by 6” pieces.

Brush to remove any flour then stack them in pairs, one atop the other, offsetting them by 1.5”. Beginning with the single portion of dough, roll the pieces up, spiraling each piece down the side as you approach the end. Tuck the ends underneath the dough piece and press firmly to seal. (The amazing Jimmy Griffin has a vertical video of how to shape using three pieces of dough. If you want to see the method, here’s the link, just note that I am only using two strips of dough, otherwise the method applies.)

Place in prepared popover pans (I’m using the NordicWare pan with cavities measuring 2.5” deep by 2.5” wide), with the pretty side up, then, moisten or flour a single finger and poke all the way to the bottom of the mold. Cover, and proof in a warm, humid spot, until the rising dough crests the top of the pan by 1/2 to 3/4” (from the top of the pan to the highest point of the pastry). Sadly, in the coldest part of winter here in Vermont (-14°F this morning), this takes 3 to 4 hours. As always with delicate pastries, a warm (85°F maximum) proof with some ambient moisture will produce better layers.

Towards the end of proofing, preheat the oven to 375°F normal bake or 350°F convection. Bake until deep golden brown, 20 to 25 minutes, rotating as necessary. The cruffins should not only have deep golden tops, the side walls should also bake to full color. See my pictures for reference.

After baking, cool briefly then remove from the pans and place on a cooling rack.

To fill and finish.

For fillings you can follow whatever fancy you have. Whipped chocolate ganache with additional whipped cream, banana pudding with toasted meringue on top, strawberry preserves and whipped cream—as with the suprêmes, options are literally endless. Have a look at the fillings piece that I wrote for some inspiration. But really, my favorite way to eat them is to remove them from the pan while still warm and toss in granulated sugar (75 grams or so), orange zest (one large orange, finely zested), and a big pinch of salt (very important!). While still warm they are crisp and buttery, and the orange sugar blooms on the warm pastry in a way that always leave me speechless. But, I also wanted some with orange cream inside and, while a little more work, they are also special.

To make the creamsicle version, after baking, cool fully then fill with an orange-infused whipped cream and garnish with sugar, whipped cream, and additional orange zest.

Heavy whipping cream, 200g
Confectioners’ sugar, 30g
Orange zest, 6 to 8g (one large navel orange)

Stir together the whipping cream and confectioners’ sugar then whisk to soft peaks. Stir in the orange zest and work until semi-stiff but not grainy. Place in a pastry bag fitted with a filling tip and reserve cold until use.

To fill, using a chopstick or similar tool, poke a hole in the cruffin (top or bottom, your choice) and work to create an internal cavity to receive the cream. Make a bigger cavity than you think you’ll need.

Best practice for filling the cruffins is to place each pastry on a scale, tare, and then fill to a desired weight, 25g or so. After filling I garnish with some of the cream as well as additional zest then dust with confectioners’ sugar.

Thanks for reading.

Happy baking,

Martin

Rolling summary:

After fermentation, roll the dough to 9” by 15”. Chill.
After the chill, roll to 10” by 18”. Add the butter and zest and close the dough (dough package will be 9” by 10”).
Roll to 9.5” by 20”. Perform a letter fold. Dough package will be 7” by 9.5” after the fold.
Roll to 10” by 22”. Perform a second letter fold. After the letter the package will measure 7.5” by 10”.
Roll to 11” by 11”. Chill until firm but pliable, 10 to 20 minutes.
Roll to 12” by 12”. Cut 12 strips 2” wide and 6” long.

We’re in the final hours of 2024 and I’m pausing briefly to reflect on a full year of bakes.

As a baker looking at what I’ve made, my questions are often the same: Was the butter cold, did the dough rise well, did I give it my full effort and attention? How was my shaping? Should I change flours, folds, mix method, hydration, or preferments?

When I was production baking, Jeffrey Hamelman introduced me to the idea that at the end of a shift it is our charge as bakers to make the same resolution whether the day had been great, good, or even bad. The commitment was simply this: to return. To step away, but, to come back the next day and try again.

So I guess that’s my note to myself as I consider the year in its entirety. From high highs to low lows, from best bakes to worry for our country and the challenges that lie ahead, to the joy of things I’ve made that surprised, fed, encouraged, or even inspired. My job, my role, my commitment, is simply to return. And in coming back, to continue to bring whatever light that I can and engage with this craft we love in service to myself and others.

So, in the spirit of all that, let’s look at 2024 and get excited for 2025.

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In December of 2023, I didn’t get enough egg nog. Some years that’s just how it happens. So, in early January of 2024 I granted December an extension and treated myself to a nog-inspired version of a suprême (a laminated brioche pastry). If you need a show-stopper to greet the new year, try this or any of the other versions I offer.

In late January, missing my daughters that were away at college (in Boston and Edinburgh, Scotland), I channeled a bake that paired well with black tea and wrote a buttery sourdough currant scone with pan-toasted oats. I cannot type those words without salivating. They are that good.

Early February brought a hearty brunch bialy made with rye sourdough, and a remarkably open crumb structure. Topped with smoked salmon, red onions, cream cheese, capers, and dill, it would be perfect for a New Year’s Day brunch.

For March, still trying to get through the depths of late winter, I was using toast as treatment for seasonally-affective blues. Cinnamon oatmeal sourdough with butter is the best medicine. (And yes, toast is its own food group.)

April brought some shortbreads inspired by the pecan sandies of my childhood and a tribute to the “Mama’s Bread” my parents made each week growing up. Simple, honey-sweet, and packed with whole wheat, it’s a staple.

In May the weather began to warm and I celebrated the arrival of golden days with a sunny Pane Siciliano. Large and light with a yellow hue, it’s a beautifully versatile sesame-crusted loaf.

June anticipated the arrival of summer fruit with a strawberry brioche tart. If pastry cream with berries in a brioche shell doesn’t celebrate the season, is it even happening?

And fruit season’s savory counterpart is grill season. Looking for a bun upgrade, I made pretzel rolls and filled them.

July brought a pivot back to slightly sweet with lemon-raspberry cardamom buns. Later in the month I added a garnished bread baked in a tabletop oven. It eats like a focaccia and is perfected with olives, cherry tomatoes, anchovies, or even Calabrian chiles.

September celebrated the bounty of summer produce with a savory sourdough puff pastry tart and one of my favorite sourdough breads: a bran-crusted loaf from Italy, Pane Genzano. The dark bake and open structure with a lightly acidic crumb to balance the perfectly bitter crust make this a favorite.

October apples inspired a hand pie with a buttery crust and early November arrived with a tender sourdough biscuit that smelled like bread baking.

Late November was a pan of sourdough rolls for Thanksgiving and December brought one of my favorites: a honey-sweetened whole rye and citrus-infused Pain d’Épices.

I rounded out the year with my family, baking holiday boxes for friends. We made brioche buns (Maritozzi) with two different fillings: mocha (espresso, nutmeg, and chocolate whipped cream with espresso ganache) and raspberry-rose (rose whipped cream with fresh raspberries, rose jelly, toasted pistachios, and raspberry powder).

And last, a note of gratitude for all the Curio support. Your engagement, from comments to questions to a tip in the jar over on Kofi, is felt and appreciated. I’m looking forward to returning in 2025.

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It’s two weeks from Christmas and I’m slowly beginning to think about our holiday box. This is a tradition where each year on my birthday I bite off more than I can chew and recruit my family to spend a frenzied 24 hours or so baking, stressing, boxing, and delivering treats. Afterwards, I’m happy.

In prior years we’ve done everything from stollen to gibassier, choux craquelin, small hearth loaves, and cookies, of course. If driving through a cold night on Christmas Eve delivering wrapped treats doesn’t get you into the spirit of love and generosity, I’m not sure what will.

This spice bread is a favorite and also appears in my book. Inspired by a recipe from Richard Miscovitch, it’s a pain d’épices or, literally, “bread of spices.” In this version I use whole rye flour and sweeten it with honeycomb, honey, and molasses. Freshly-ground spices and orange zest bring the seasonal charm. In an interesting process point, I heat everything before adding it to the flour. The warm liquid heats the flour starches giving the resulting bread an incredible mouthfeel and great keeping quality.

This time of year it can be hard to find a moment to pause. I don’t know about you but it’s the quiet moments, rare and cherished, where I slow for a moment and actually appreciate the season. I hope that life can afford a little of this for each of you. Maybe it’s baking, maybe it’s writing a note of appreciation to a loved one, maybe it’s a quiet walk. I’ll be back in a couple weeks with a little retrospective on the year. In the meantime, be well and Happy Holidays.

Martin

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While this bread is relatively quick and easy, it does have a few ingredients to get together. A proper “mise en place” will ensure that you don’t miss anything. So, measure and grind the spices (I have a little mortar and pestle that works very well, it does make a difference), zest the orange, weigh the yolks, chop and soak the apple pieces, etc. I’ve included volume amounts for the most of the small ingredients, remember that our scales don’t do well below about 25g or so. It’s better to play it safe and switch to volume for things like salt and baking soda. Too much cinnamon isn’t so bad, but too much baking soda can be a disaster.

Holiday Spice Bread (Pain d'Épices)

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease two 3 ½ by 5 ½-inch pans.

Rum, 21g (1.5 T) (Use any spirit you like or substitute with vanilla)
Apple, dried, 41g (You could also use currants, raisins, chopped prunes or even candied peel)

Chop the dried apple into 1/2-inch pieces. Place in a bowl and combine with the rum.

Whole rye flour, 204g
Baking soda, 5g (1 1/4 t)
Salt, fine, 3g (1/2 t)

Whisk together the rye flour, baking soda, and salt.

Milk, 123g
Honey, 164g
Honeycomb, 82g (You may also substitute honey for this amount)
Molasses, 82g
Orange zest, 8g (1 T) (about one large naval)
Anise seed, ground, 0.5g (1/4 t)
Nutmeg, grated, 0.5g (1/4 t)
Coriander, ground, 0.5g (1/4 t)
Cinnamon, ground, 0.5g (1/4 t)
Cloves, ground, 0.5g (1/4 t)

In a medium pot combine the milk, honey, honeycomb, molasses, spices, orange zest, and soaked apple pieces (including any unabsorbed liquid) and bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring to combine. When bubbles appear at the edge of the liquid and the honeycomb is melted, it’s ready for the next step.

Egg yolk, 25g (about 1 1/4 yolks)

While the mixture heats, in a small bowl whisk together the egg yolks then, add one cup of the simmering liquid in a slow stream, whisking as you pour.

Add the egg yolk mixture back to the simmering liquid, stirring constantly while pouring in a steady stream. This process tempers the eggs, preventing them from scrambling.

Add the liquid ingredients to the dry, stirring until combined.

Pour the batter into the prepared pans, filling each about 3/4 of the way to the top. Garnish with four whole almonds (optional).

Bake for 15 minutes at 350°F, then reduce the oven heat and bake for an additional 20 to 25 minutes at 325°F. The loaves are done when the crust is set and bounces back when pressed. Loaves should cool for a few minutes in the pan before removing from the pan.

These small loaves keep well for a week or so at room temperature, or for up to a month frozen.

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Greetings from stick season in Vermont. The leaves are down, the days are shorter by the minute, 2024 is rounding the final corner. 

Thinking of Thanksgiving and gatherings this week, I have a new roll recipe. Buttery, with a crumb that shreds like brioche, they have a little whole grain, some sourdough (there’s a yeast-only option, too), and maple syrup. Baked, they land both crusty and delicate at the same time, especially if brushed with additional butter right out of the oven. Start the preferment for the rolls Wednesday evening. On Thanksgiving morning you’ll mix the dough and ferment for a couple hours before shaping. After shaping, give a good long rise followed by a short bake. Plan accordingly, enjoy immensely.

That we are alive with our wits and aware that this flawed world is also overflowing with magic, glory, and grace; that nature, my family, and simple pleasures can lift me from one day to another; that food is a language with more power than words; it is enough. Thanks for being here.

From Breaking Bread: A Baker’s Journey Home in 75 Recipes

Thanksgiving is the best holiday. It holds its mooring against the tide of year-round commercial tsunamis, where drugstore Halloween sales debark in the wake of Labor Day specials, and stale candy corn stares at Santa Claus from the bargain bin. A time to gather and celebrate seasonal bounty with food as centerpiece and spokes of family and friends. 

As the holiday winds its way across the U.S. the course changes regionally and the tradition varies, rightfully reflecting who we are, where we are, and what we come from. Tofurky has yet to eclipse the feathered bird, but almost everything else is up for grabs. In the south we show our colors with cornbread dressing and rice stuffing, in California a spinach salad with olives, blood orange, caramelized almonds and avocado compliment the meal. In Vermont, we may deglaze with maple syrup, make apple stuffing, or serve a salad of roasted beets, blue cheese, and honey. At the heart of tradition is the use of what is at hand, for memories are strongest when tied to places. 

My grandmother’s house was our place. We’d race from the car to her door, entering the aroma envelope of roasting turkey, dressing with herbs and celery, and steaming boiled potatoes. Her large clawfoot table was always expanded to accommodate all auxiliary leaves, then covered with a pressed linen tablecloth and set with silver settings, wedding china, and crystal glassware. Moving deeper into the house offered a glimpse of pies. Pumpkin, pecan, mincemeat, molasses and, somewhere, a mile high strawberry sitting in the icebox until service. I hope that if I can’t take my kids to Thanksgiving at grandma’s, perhaps I am, in my own way, giving them some experience worthy of nostalgia. Some winged wedge of memory which they may return to someday in the same way that I do when seated to bite the point of pie or eat a soft roll.

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Buttery whole grain skillet rolls

Yield: One 10” cast iron pan of rolls (19)

The day before you want the rolls, build the liquid levain preferment. (Note that you can do this using just yeast, too. Substitute 1/8th teaspoon of yeast for the sourdough culture and proceed with the recipe as written.)

Preferment (Liquid Levain):

All-purpose flour, 92g
Water, lukewarm, 92g
Sourdough culture, 18g

Stir together the flour, water, and culture and set to ripen for 12 to 16 hours.

Mix:

All-purpose flour, 369g
Whole wheat flour*, 81g (*I’m using the King Arthur Climate Blend, use whatever you like including varieties other than wheat.)
Salt, 12g (2 t)
Yeast, instant, 9g (1 T)

In a large bowl stir together the dry ingredients. 

Water, warm, 98g
Milk, whole, warm, 109g
Maple syrup (or honey), 38g
Butter, soft, 81g
Liquid Levain, 202g (All)

Warm the water and milk then add everything to the dry ingredients and stir to combine. Once the mixture becomes cohesive, switch to a flexible scraper. Scrape down the side then press, fold, and turn with the scraper or a wet hand until the dough is mostly homogenous. 

Cover well and rest in a warm spot for 30 minutes. This is important: In cool months I always use the microwave as a proofing chamber and for bulk fermentation. Ours sits above the stove and a light underneath ensures that it’s about 80°F, constantly. If you don’t have the light for warmth, microwave a dish of water for a couple minutes and then put the dough inside with the warm water to rise. Alternatively, set the bowl on a heating pad with an airtight cover. Basically, do whatever is necessary to coddle the dough as it rises.

After the rest, knead the dough in the bowl or, on an unfloured surface, until somewhat smooth and springy, two to three minutes.

Cover the bowl with a lid or plastic bag and set it in a warm spot to rise until doubled, about 90 minutes. 

Divide and shape:

Turn the dough out of the bowl onto a lightly floured surface and divide into 19 pieces (45 to 50g each). Round tightly and place in a buttered 10” cast iron skillet. In my skillet I do 12 on the outermost ring, then a ring of 6 and a single roll in the middle. Take the time to distribute them as evenly as possible. 

Cover with a plastic bag or similar (being careful that the bag doesn’t touch the surface of the rolls) and place in a warm spot to rise until the rolls are at least ½” above the lip of the skillet, 90 minutes, up to 2 hours. (Again, a warm environment is key.)

Towards the end of proof, preheat the oven to 425°F. (Two notes on the oven. One, I like to bake these with steam. It’s not entirely necessary but it will make the crust thinner and support a higher rise during baking. And two, every oven is different. Many factors change the time and temperature requirements for each dough. So, bake to color, not time, but do use my guidelines below as a good starting point.)

Bake the rolls for 18 to 22 minutes, until golden brown and glorious. 

Once they’ve reached their desired color, remove from the oven and rub with a stick of butter for maximum shine and flavor. Serve immediately with butter and honey or, as a side for your meal. Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.

Welcome to November. If this weeks finds you looking for a quiet place with the best aromatherapy on the planet, go to the kitchen, right now, and make these. You will feel better.

While the biscuits bake, I encourage you to read the lengthy, difficult, possibly controversial essay which follows. It’s something I wrote in 2016 but recently updated. It chronicles the ways which I’ve decided to engage with the meat that reaches our table here in Vermont. The deal with the Curio is that I write about what’s close to my heart. Baked, or not. Difficult, or not. So, here it is, here I am.  As always, I appreciate your support.

Martin

Support the Curio

These are butter biscuits made special in three specific ways. 

First, more butter. Increasing the quantity of butter to equal the weight of flour means they are as tender as possible, with extra crispy bottoms. If the mere smell of these baking doesn’t make your insides swirl in the best way possible, get your pulse checked. They are bready and crisp, toasty and the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten.  

Second, rather than using all white flour or the bleached option that people love south of the Mason-Dixon, I’m blending in some whole grain for more flavor. So, pick a whole grain of your choice and we’ll use that for half the total flour amount. You’ll be surprised how much flavor it adds.

Third, I’m using ripe (overripe) sourdough culture for hydration. You’ve seen me do this before in pie crusts, puff pastry, scones, and cornbread. Here, unlike sourdough bread, we don’t need the leavening capacity of the culture, we’re merely taking the flavor components, and the side benefits of its acidity which helps the baking powder do its job. The result is an aromatic hybrid of sourdough and buttery biscuit aromas.

The gist of the recipe is to use equal parts dry (flour), wet (sourdough culture, fed at 100% hydration and set to ripen), and fat (here, I’m using butter — if you have another fat that you like, use that). To that foundation we’ll also add some leavener and a little salt. That’s it. The recipe below makes four medium-small biscuits, if you want eight biscuits, double it. Or sixteen? Quadruple. Just keep the ratio of flour to butter to culture intact and increase the powder and salt, accordingly. 

The Equal Parts Sourdough Biscuit

Yield: Four 2” biscuits, double all amounts for eight biscuits (trust me that 8 will be necessary)

All-purpose flour, 57g
Whole wheat flour, 57g (I’m using the King Arthur climate blend but other whole grain flours like whole rye, wheat, spelt, or even einkorn should be fine for substitutions, just keep an eye on the hydration and if you need a little extra sourdough for moisture, add it.)
Salt, fine, 4.5g (¾ t)
Baking powder, 8g (2 t)

In a medium bowl, combine the dry ingredients. Freeze briefly to chill. 

Butter, unsalted, cold, 113g (one stick)

Cut the cold butter into pats or slices, roughly ¼” wide.

Add the butter to the chilled dry ingredients and toss to coat. Then, working the butter between your thumb and forefingers or pressing the pieces against the bottom of the bowl, massage the butter into the dough, leaving some larger and smaller pieces.

Sourdough culture, very ripe or discard, 113g (The culture is best if it has risen, then fallen, thus lacking any structure. If using healthier, or younger culture, use a little more in order to fully hydrate the flour. Note that the culture I’m using has been fed equal parts flour and water by weight and then sat in a comfy spot for 12 to 24 hours.)

Pour the sourdough onto the flour and butter mixture and stir briefly with a wooden spoon or large spatula to combine. The mixture will resist incorporation, clumping in spots while remaining floury in other parts of the bowl. Using your hand, move the ingredients around, pressing against the sides and bottom, working until the mixture mostly clumps together. 

Move the dough to your work surface and press into a 4.5” square (or bigger if you’re doubling). Compress with your hands to form into a solid mass about 1” thick.

For biscuits with the best, most even-rising forms, using a very sharp knife to cut 1/8” off each side. This will help them to look more uniform and rise straight up. You don’t have to do this — it won’t necessarily change the flavor or eating quality, it’s only about aesthetics. 

After trimming the outside edges, cut the square into four pieces, yielding four 2” square biscuits. Form the trimmings into a single small biscuit which will be your baker’s reward before calling anyone else to the table to eat.

Chill the biscuits while the oven preheats to 425°F with a rack on a rung in the upper third of the oven.

Sourdough culture, 2 t
Cream or milk, 2 t
Sugar, 1/2 t

Once the oven is fully preheated, prepare a glaze for the biscuits. Thin a little sourdough culture with cream or milk then add a few pinches of sugar. Stir until homogenous then brush onto the chilled biscuits, tops only. (One note here, I like to flip the biscuits after chilling as the bottom is always smoother than the top.) As the biscuits bake, the glaze adds an additional layer of flavor.

Garnish with coarse salt and bake for 15 to 18 minutes, keeping an eye on them as everyone’s oven is different. When the tops are colored and a slight shade beyond golden in spots, remove and let them and cool briefly before serving.

And don’t forget, while the biscuits bake, there’s an essay, below.

Butter Beans and Venison Ham (2016)

In the spring of this year my three kids and I piled into the car and drove south out of town on Route 5. After a few miles we took a sharp right turn across from the town dump and bumped, up and up, climbing to views of the valley below us where the wide Connecticut river made its way oceanward with mud season melt.

We were headed to Sunrise Organic Farm for the annual shearing of Sue and Chuck Wooster’s flock, a medium-sized herd of long-haired Navarro Churro and Dorset sheep. Most of the ewes had already given birth, but a few remained, literally sticking out in the crowd.

The sheep were held in close quarters in a corral on the east side of the barn, sorted with mothers on one side and lambs on the other of a make-do fence. The separation created a versicle and response: “I want milk!” and, “Where are you!?” As we entered the corral through the old dairy door the wall of sound was so loud that the kids instinctively ducked their heads.

Our role that day, as directed by Chuck’s shearer, was for me to straddle the ewes and horn-hold them while one of the kids delivered a thick squirt of permethrin (a deworming product) to each neck after shearing. Then we’d pass them to Chuck, who was giving pedicures to their dirty hooves with large metal snips. After the farm-style spa treatment, the ewes were reunited with the waiting lambs. An audience of curious hens roosted on the corral rails, taking it all in.

Sunrise Farm is the right name for this place. Sitting on a grassy bench bordered by hardwood forests, open views extend south to Mt. Ascutney, east to the river, and north to the snowy peaks of the White Mountains. Fields receive the sun as it arcs overhead, lighting everything, dawn to dusk. But it could also be called Full Plate Farm, as everything here — plump chickens, egg-laying hens, muddy pigs, shorn sheep, sweet honey from bees, maple syrup, and organic vegetables — is headed to tables.

As a baker, the scene at Sunrise resonates with my own trade which is in the midst of a renaissance. We are going back to roots and craft, back to hand-shaped loaves and milling, and back to talking about where grain comes from. We want to hear about this year’s crop and we want our breads to carry the character of the field to the mill and onward, through our hands and ovens, all the way to our community. We are more connected than ever to the provenance of our loaves.

As we wrestled our way through the flock, my middle child Anthem asked a question: Would the lambs be slaughtered? She already knew the answer. The question was more of an interrogative, placing emphasis on the dilemma of it all. Beautiful animals — living, breathing things — why would we harvest them?

Well, we eat meat. It rides on plates with vegetables from the garden or Chuck’s farm and bread from my own hands. At Sunrise, not only do animals provide a locally-sourced meat option for Chuck’s CSA members, their manure is also an integral part of a regenerative farming system which cycles nutrients through the animals, back to the soil, and onward into new vegetables or grass for grazing. If you’re not using manure for fertilizer, you’re often using petrochemical-based inputs.

With these Sunrise connections — farmer, farm, field, and food — present as ideals, I began to consider how we might bring this example to our own table. We started with laying hens and modeled Chuck’s system, using their composted manure in our garden. We delighted in each trip to the coop to gather precious eggs. The kids painted chicken toenails and made snowshoes for them in winter. We cried rivers when they were taken by predators or illness. And, following the idea further, using the example of Chuck and many others in our rural state, I began to consider another large step towards connection with the food on our table. I decided to start hunting.

Maybe at this point I feel a need to pause and ask you, dear reader, to adopt a certain amount of amnesia related to some of the negative connotations with hunting, hunters, and the cultural baggage attached to this sector. In my own path, I had to do the same. I narrowed my focus to the aspects which relate directly to what I eat, the quality of life for the animals (in the case of meat), and the impact of my choices on our environment. Back to it.

With the loss of large predators in Vermont, our native white-tailed deer population has no effective controls beyond bad winters, car strikes, and a small amount of predation. While overpopulation isn’t an issue to the degree that it is in much of the country, with effects ranging from disease, to malnourishment, and environmental impacts (over-browsing causes documented issues with forest regeneration), the population does require management and hunters remain our best option. And, if, in the process of improving the quality of both the deer population and our environment we can eat organic, lean, healthy meat, that decision feels right to me. So that’s how it started.

But there is a big distance between walking the meat aisle with a shopping cart and entering the woods with a long gun or bow. On the meat aisle the choice is relatively easy. Natural sits next to free range, grass fed, conventional, or organic. Pick the cut you want and walk out the door with a package of something that matches your values, recipe, or pocketbook, with a minimum of conflict.

Entering the woods requires a different sort of navigation. As I considered it, I had a long list of feelings to confront. I wasn’t raised hunting, and, like everyone else who’s lived in the US in the past 40 years, it’s clear that guns have almost nothing to do with food. In most use cases, they create more problems than they solve. But maybe I could be different? Maybe I could hunt in a way that brought my own ethics to it? Fortunately, I had Chuck as an example of someone with a deep respect for animals, passion for the environment, and a commitment to conservation, at my side from the outset. If, holding everything in his heart at once, he felt that being out there was the right decision, I didn’t need to examine it any further for myself. And so, in spite of the messy emotions of it all, I began.

I got a deer rifle, then, on a trip to the general store I plopped down my money and left with a box of shiny bullets and a gallon of milk. I took my hunter’s safety test and passed the in-person field day practical which included lessons on gun safety and a marksmanship test. I sighted my rifle with Chuck on a cold November afternoon at the farm, shooting at a paper plate 50 yards away. We checked our accuracy with binoculars, made adjustments and, with that, in all practical terms, I was ready to hunt.

Opening day was bitterly cold. I walked in under a sky so clear and dark, yet bright with stars, that I didn’t need a headlamp. I nestled down in a bed of frost-beaten ferns just off the intersection of two old logging roads and waited for the day and whatever it would bring. As I sat, darkness lifted, lightening to blue-gray as chickadees celebrated in buzzing arcs on a mid-air race track above my head. And nothing happened.

This is hunting, I thought. Sitting, quiet, breathing, listening, watching. After two hours I had no feeling in my hands or feet, and decided to move to a south-facing slope to warm up. I knew a thin trail which traversed a very steep hardwood slope which deer used to travel down to the Ottauquechee River, hundreds of feet below. As I sat on the ribbon of flat trail, oblivious to almost everything except my aching hands, I heard movement above me, and froze, as my ears tried to assess the noise as either the hop of a squirrel or the step of a white tail deer on crunchy oak leaves.

I glimpsed a doe trotting down the drainage -— it is not legal to take a doe during rifle season and I couldn’t see the second animal but could tell that something followed her. After they passed, the quiet returned. Squirrels resumed their movement. Chipmunks darted from hole to hole, ferrying acorns to winter storehouses. The sun cut waves of steam rising off me.

I eventually warmed and, lying back against the steep slope, was ready to close my eyes. But then, more heavy movement and the sound of animals running came from below me, over the nose of a rise, out of view.

Adrenaline surged, my heart banged like a hammer — something large was running directly towards me, up the slope. A doe came into view first, and directly behind her, I could see antlers. I raised my gun, already shaking inside. The doe turned and the buck followed, putting him in a perfect broadside position for a clean shot. I squinted through the scope and found him, placing my crosshairs. He paused, I squeezed the trigger, it wouldn’t budge. In my rush I had forgotten to take off the safety. I quickly released it, shouldered the gun, and pulled the trigger again, this time with a deafening explosion and recoil. My ears rang, smoke filled the air, both animals scattered. I was sure I had missed. But, in a matter of seconds the buck raised on hind legs and dropped, a bullet through the heart.

I waited for a few minutes, trying to breathe but still shaking. Thinking back to hunter’s safety advisories, I watched for signs of life but saw none. I eventually climbed down to the spot where he lay, holding trees to steady myself on the slope. Reaching him, I sat, expecting to cry. I had worked hard for this but felt no sense of accomplishment over what had happened. No fist pump, no joy.

Sitting next to him, I surveyed his body. His size. His warmth. His coat — thick, tan and grey-flecked. His white belly. His antlers, as smooth and hard as polished soapstone. His musky, evergreen smell. One of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, dead by my own hands.

Chuck made his way to me after hearing the shot. We squeezed each other in a way that sealed, supported, and affirmed every emotion that I held: the gravity of the experience, my appreciation, my gratitude for the deer, my sadness, and eventually, although it was slow to come, a bit of joy.

We began what’s referred to as field dressing right there on the slope and removed the heart, lungs, stomach, and intestines to lighten our load, then tied a rope to his antlers and pulled him up the slope, off the mountain. After a trip to the game registration station where he was weighed, logged, and aged, we made our way back to the barn where we hung him to chill overnight in the cold air.

The next morning we began the first of three days of processing in a dormant greenhouse at the barn. We skinned him, revealing a thick layer of fat from abundant acorns. Then, with Chuck guiding, we set about butchering.

In addition to cutting steaks, roasts, stew meat, and many pounds of trimmings for sausages and ground, I wanted to make a cured ham from one of the rear legs. I packed it with brown sugar, salt, and pepper, then wrapped it in a pillowcase and tied it tightly with twine to hang.

After almost four months of hanging, I cut open the pillowcase. Slicing into the leg revealed a color which had changed from deep red to purple black. The flavor was strong and salty, not like the mild–colored honey-cured ham available at the deli counter, but more like prosciutto.

We ate the cured meat slowly. It outlasted the steaks which I pan-seared in butter, and many pots of chili, stew, and roasts, all cooked on the woodstove. It was good sliced thinly and served on my sour German vollkornbrot (a sturdy rye loaf) with coarse mustard, or simply cubed and substituted for pancetta in a pasta. But our favorite use was in a dish of garlicky butter beans.

To make them, I heat smashed cloves of Chuck’s garlic, butter, a handful of the diced venison ham, some onion, and many twists of fresh pepper to a large cast iron pan. Once the ham colors and the garlic aroma fills the room, I add cooked butter beans, smoked paprika, and a little stock or water then let it simmer as the flavors meld. Just before serving I add a few drops of cider vinegar. A side of flaky butter biscuits and a green salad with a good, acidic vinaigrette completes the meal.

As we crowd ourselves on small chairs around the woodstove to eat, each course of venison lights some remembrance for me. I see the deer and restart the loop of gratitude, conflict, sadness, and respect. Jumbled emotions run their course. As at Sunrise, my choice and my connection to the rising and setting cycle is out in the open.

November (2024)

Fast forward to the present and it’s early November again. Each year I work hard to harvest enough deer meat to supply our family for the entire year. It used to be feast or famine. Some years I was successful and others I was left with “tag soup,” meaning nothing but my hunting license to cook. It’s very hard to take a buck in Vermont during our short rifle season. Partly due to that, but more largely related to a desire for a different means of take, I started archery hunting. A longer bow season gives me more time in the woods and a way to engage that fits me a little better. It’s also put me back into a position where I’m usually fortunate enough to take more than a single deer.

All of this, the hunting, the difficulties of it, the mental wrangling, has worked its way into me, knitting my desire for connection to food, flavors, and methods, from butchery to braising, with my love of long hours in the woods. As stars fade or brighten, as life opens or folds, as quiet settles, as winds recede, as birds wake or roost, as coyotes call or crickets quiet, for the mysteries of each breath, I take my front row seat, with biscuits, beans, and a full heart.

Thanks for reading.

Martin

Fall is dessert to the meal of summer. Chilly mornings, warm afternoons, clear nights — it’s the sweetest window for biking in the woods, bowhunting, or just marveling at technicolor tapestries which hang on the hillsides and valleys. And if splendor isn’t enough, our trees are heavy with the best fruit of all: apples.

These hand pies come together quickly with the speedy yet flaky version of puff pastry which we call “blitz puff” or “quick puff.” Easier than classic puff, this version uses sour cream for moisture and extra tenderness. The simple apple filling is made with the most flavorful apples you can buy. I have no allegiance to variety. I eat and bake with everything from early Paula Reds to later ones like Spitzenberg or Calville Blanc d’Hiver. There are no bad apples (other than Granny Smith).  

If you’re looking for a sourdough-specific recipe, you might use the dough from my summer newsletter (sourdough puff pastry tarts) — just omit the paprika and black pepper. And speaking of pastry with sourdough, here’s a very good pie crust for all your holiday pie needs. Still looking for seasonal bakes? The caramel apple buns are here for you, as is the crusty Pane Genzano. Let’s get to the recipe. 

Also, if you want a little time travel, you can watch Arlo and me make these during lockdown — the quality is very homespun but the demonstration is still beneficial.

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Cinnamon-apple hand pies

Yield: Eight 3.5” hand pies

A couple quick notes about this dough. As with many baked goods which involve “cold butter process,” management of temperatures supports a crisper, more tender, and more delicious pastry. Chill the dry ingredients before working in the butter. Cold temperatures prevent the butter from melting which releases moisture into the flour (and develops toughness in the process). Keeping it cool means better flake, and a “shorter” crust.

All-purpose flour, 200g
Irish wholemeal flour, 40g (I’m using the King Arthur Irish Wholemeal but other wholegrain flours like whole rye, wheat, spelt, einkorn, or even buckwheat are fine for substitutions)
Salt, fine, 4.5g (¾ t)
Baking powder, 2.5g (½ t)

In a medium bowl, stir together the dry ingredients and freeze until cold, about 15 minutes. 

Butter, unsalted, 227g (two US sticks) *if you don’t have unsalted, use salted and reduce the addition of salt to about 3g (½ t)

Cut the cold butter into pats or slices, roughly ¼” wide, and chill until you’re ready to mix. *As with many baking chores, this can be done in advance of the bake day, just cover well until use. 

Add the butter to the chilled dry ingredients and toss to coat. Then, working the butter between your thumb and forefingers or pressing the pieces against the bottom of the bowl, massage the butter into the dough, leaving some larger and smaller pieces.

Sour cream, 113g, cold

Add the sour cream and stir briefly. The mixture will clump in spots while remaining floury in other parts of the bowl. Using your hand, move the ingredients around, pressing against the sides and bottom and working until the mixture mostly clumps together but also remains floury in spots. 

Dump the mixture onto your work surface and press into a rectangle that’s roughly twice as long as it is wide, about 12” by 6”, with the long side pointing away from you. Press with your hands to compress and form into a solid mass. 

*Very important, during this rolling process, invert and reflour as necessary in order to keep the pastry floating on the work surface and not sticking. As a reminder, there is an old video that will show my technique.

To fold the pastry, lightly dust your work surface as well as the top of the dough then roll to a length of 16” and a width of 8”. 

Perform a single letter fold. Turn the dough so that the long side runs parallel to the work surface. Fold one side towards the other, 2/3rds of the way, then fold the other to cover it as you would a letter. After the letter fold, roll the dough once more to roughly 10” by 14”. 

Cover and chill the dough in the fridge while you prepare the apple filling. 

Apples, 227g, cubed into ½” to ¾” pieces (about 2 to 2.5 apples, use ones that taste good)
Cinnamon, 3g (1 t)
Cornstarch, 14g (2 T)
Sugar, granulated, 67g
Salt, fine, 1g (1/4 t)
Lemon juice, 14g (water is also fine)

Core and cube the apples without peeling. Stir together the sugar and cornstarch (combining them will prevent clumping) then add everything to a small sauce pot. Heat until the mixture bubbles, the apples are barely fork tender, and the mixture thickens.

Spread the apples on a clean sheet tray or metal pie pan to cool and place in the refrigerator, uncovered. 

To finish and fill the hand pies, roll the chilled pastry into a 15” square. During rolling, reflour as necessary to ensure that the dough piece doesn’t stick. Trim and square the sides so that the piece after trimming is exactly 14” by 14”. 

Cut the piece in half and stack the pieces atop one another (two pieces, 7” by 14”). Cut into half once more and stack atop one another again (now you have a 4 piece stack, 3.5” by 14”) then cut into four squares, each measuring 3.5” square. 

After cutting the pieces, keep the stacks together. You’ll find that the pieces in each individual stack are the best matches (top/bottom) for each pie. Inevitably, even when we do our best, the pieces vary slightly. 

Egg wash, 1 egg, whisked until smooth 

After cutting, place 8 bottom pieces on a parchment-lined half sheet tray. Gather your filling, the egg wash, a spoon for the filling, and a fork for crimping the edges, if desired. 

Egg wash the pieces then place a heaping tablespoon of filling on each bottom. If you have a small leaf cookie cutter or, want to simply make round cutouts or other designs in the top, cut pieces as desired, then place the tops on the bottoms. Press gently to remove air and encourage the pieces to adhere, then go back and gently tine the pieces to seal. 

Cover and place the pastries in the fridge to chill while the oven preheats to 425°F. (The batch that I used for photos I actually froze for 24 hours after shaping. Before baking, let them thaw slightly while preheating the oven. It works very well and allows you to move the baking to another day if it’s easier.)

A couple oven notes. When the oven “beeps” that it’s ready, it’s often not quite there. Make sure that you let it settle or fully preheat before loading. As always, convection setting is your best friend for baking pastry and better browning. With some convections, you might want to reduce the set temperature by 25°F or so.  Every oven is a unicorn so watch it!

Once the oven is preheated, remove the hand pies from the fridge and egg wash thoroughly. Sprinkle with coarse sugar (optional) and cut steam vents. 

Bake until deep golden brown and dark on the edges, about 20 to 22 minutes. Puff pastry is always flakier with more baking — be sure not to skimp or pull when the pastries are still blond. Full bake is best.

Place on a rack to cool. Serve plain, or enjoy with ice cream. Extras can be frozen, then reheated later in a low oven or toaster oven until warmed through and crisp.

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We’re full steam to fall here in Vermont. If you missed the caramel apple buns, now would be a great time to try those out. We had them for a birthday celebration last week — they’re the perfect cinnmon, apple, and creme anglaise aromatherapy for the season.

And speaking of favorites, I’m here with a large, bran-crusted sourdough loaf that is loved at my house. If a classic sourdough miche were raised in Italy by ciabatta parents, it might come out something like this. Abundant in size with an open crumb and crusty vibe that says, wood-fired, and rustic, it’s truly a loaf for the whole week. Or even the whole year.

Remember that you can support the work here — the recipes and methods, the words, photography and video. Your help keeps the content coming, and even more, it’s a way to show that you value what’s happening here. I appreciate it!

Let’s get to a short bit of writing and one of my all-time favorites, Pane Casareccio di Genzano.

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In 2015 I was baking around the clock. In addition to my regular bakery shifts, I was also practicing my competition breads in a bid to be chosen to represent the U.S. at the Coupe du Monde de la Boulangerie (“the Olympics of bread”) in Paris.

Each day when I left for work, or went back in the evening to mix preferments or do set up, my young son, Arlo, would squeeze me as though I’d be gone for a year. “Good luck, daddy! I hope you get to Paris.” His words held the sum of everything: the support, the effort, the hope, and the lengths necessary to pull it off. 

Bear with me here because I’m going to skip a big chunk of the story. The tryouts happened, I advanced to the final round, and I wasn’t chosen.

In some ways I never recovered from not making the team. It wasn’t so much the losing — it was more that all my effort, plus all the support of friends, family, and colleagues, and the countless hours I spent over the course of a few years, wasn’t enough. Everything I could do — all of me — wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. 

But, sometimes things are more complicated than winning or losing. There’s a proverb attributed to Lao Tzu that speaks to this. It’s the story of the farmer that lost his horse. After it happened, the neighbors came by and said, “Oh, that’s terrible that you lost your horse.” And he responded, “Maybe.” The horse returned after a few days with a second horse trailing it. The neighbors came by, “Oh, great news, you now you have two horses.” “Maybe,” he said. His son broke his leg trying to train the new horse. “Oh, not so good,” the neighbors said. But then the military showed up to send healthy men to war. The son stayed home.

Oh, it’s too bad Martin didn’t make the team. Maybe. 

Not being chosen meant that I got my life back. Rather than stepping directly into another long phase of training for the competition, I emerged.

At each round of the tryout process I presented the judging panel with large format photo books (stunningly designed and photographed by Julia Reed) containing my bread formulas, pictures, illustrations, and bits of writing that read like small poems or odes to each recipe. With time on my hands, I started showing them to friends and family.

One person suggested that I might be a decent writer. Another thought what I had could become an actual book. And another — and this was very fortuitous — connected me to a literary agent. And somehow, some way, a miraculously short time later, I was in New York, talking to publishers. And soon after I had a deadline, and a book to write. 

And so I started. Writing wasn’t a practice I’d ever had. With a background in classical music, I had no idea where to begin. I found a writing consultant (Sarah Stewart Taylor, a great author in her own right who made the project successful in 1,000 different ways), and a therapist. I embraced Sarah’s writing advice of “show, don’t tell,” and tried to convey a story. In doing so, I traced a line from where I began, through all the ensuing challenges, and onward to a new life that connected my heart to my hands, and my soul to my mouth.

Breaking Bread was published in 2017 with the goal to help people bake more flavorful, and beautiful things and, more importantly, with the hope that it might inspire all of us to connect our own hands to our own hearts, baking our narrative along the way. 

In looking for a bread to highlight from the book, I came back to Pane Genzano (known by its full name as Pane Casareccio di Genzano, one of only six DOP breads in all of Italy). A large, bran-crusted loaf with a very dark bake and a light, moist interior, it gives off the unique aroma of coffee roasting (caused by the bran crust toasting during baking) as it bakes. Full of sourdough culture, the bread keeps as well as a wholegrain miche, but eats more like ciabatta due to its open crumb structure and white flour.

When I say, dark bake, you don’t have to take it as far as they do in Italy (but you should). Do have a look at the color in this video as a great reference for the style of this gorgeous loaf. The full bake and slight bitterness is the perfect accent to the malty, lightly acidic crumb. I think you’ll love it. No maybes.

Pane Genzano

Yield: 1 large loaf or two smaller rounds

This is a two-day bread. On day one you’ll set a stiff levain preferment. On day two you’ll do the final mix, bulk fermentation, shape, and bake. There is a small amount of yeast in the final dough — if you want to omit it, make sure that you have a sourdough starter in peak condition and adjust your bulk and final proof times accordingly. Part of my joy in this loaf is found with the lightness and ciabatta-like attributes which are, to some degree, afforded by the commercial yeast. Be sure to give it an ample amount of fermentation and rise at each stage; as I always say, watch the dough, not the clock.

Stiff levain

All-purpose flour, 164g
Water, 99g, tepid (75 to 80°F)
Sourdough culture, 33g

In a medium bowl, combine the tepid water and sourdough culture. Mix until combined, then add the flour. Mix briefly, then knead until smooth.

Cover and set at room temperature for 12 to 18 hours. 

Final dough

Water, tepid, 395g
Stiff levain, all
All-purpose flour, 493g
Salt, fine, 13g
Yeast, instant, 3g (1 t)

*Coarse bran for the crust, about 100g or so. Check your local natural foods store, it’s often available and very cheap in the bulk section. Lacking bran, sesame seeds are a decent substitute.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the water and stiff levain. Mix with your hands until the levain is broken up, then add the flour, salt, and yeast. Stir to combine, then work with a wet hand, flexible dough scraper, or wooden spoon, until the dough is homogenous. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and set for bulk fermentation. *For an easier time folding, transfer to a greased container for bulk fermentation.

The dough will rise for three hours, covered, folding as directed below.

Perform a bowl fold at 15, 30, 45, 60, and 120 minutes then leave untouched for the final hour. 

As you perform each series of folds, you’ll begin to notice as the dough transitions to a smoother, stronger, and more cohesive mass. 

Before shaping, gather the coarse bran and prepare to apply the bran crust. On a half sheet tray spread out the coarse bran, forming an even layer. Gather a mister bottle of water or a very moist towel to use for wetting the surface of the loaf. 

To shape the dough.

*One note here, as this loaf benefits from a loose shape which supports a variable and open crumb. Err on the side of gentleness — this shouldn’t be tensioned like a standard boule. Instead, think of this shaping as more like a fold, allowing the loaf to retain some of the larger bubbles. Be gentle!

If making a single large loaf (note that you’ll need a large baking stone or steel, big enough to accommodate a loaf that is at least 13” or 14” in diameter), dump the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Gently stretch from the outside pressing to the middle to seal, using only the force required to keep the dough in place. For two loaves, divide the dough into two pieces and gently gather to shape and seal.

After a few quick strokes to shape, invert the loaf onto its seam side to rest momentarily and further seal, as necessary. Moisten the surface by placing the loaf onto the moist towel or by spraying it thoroughly with a mister. If the loaf feels large and tough to handle, that’s good. 

Once the surface is moist, place the dough onto the coarse bran and apply the crust. I like to add additional bran on the seam side in order to make handling easier. It also adds flavor, as with the top crust. After applying the crust, place the loaf into a large lined banneton or, a mixing bowl lined with an apron, as I show in the video. 

Set the loaf in a warm spot to rise for 60 minutes 75 minutes, or up to 90 or even 120 minutes in cooler conditions. As this loaf will not be scored, it’s key that it be fully risen and delicate before loading, otherwise the crumb will be overly tight and underfermented. Look for a very light feel and even some fermentation bubbles on the surface.

About an hour before the bake, preheat your oven 500°F with a stone or steel in place as well as a steaming system. 

Once proofed, invert the loaf onto a sheet of parchment. If the loaf feels overly rounded or, high in the middle, gently flatten slightly so that the dough is roughly even in thickness, presenting as disc of dough about 2” high. During baking the dough will rise significantly and dome, forming a shape that is more miche-like than boule. 

Bake with steam until the loaf is a deep, very dark brown, like the color of dark chocolate, about 40 to 50 minutes. If the loaf has taken too much color by the halfway point of the bake, reduce the heat to 450°F. It’s important that the loaf has ample time in the oven to dry out. In some ovens it may even be helpful to let the loaf coast to cool in the off oven with the door ajar.

Last, a note of thanks to each of you for reading, for commenting, for sending me notes, and for supporting this endeavor. It’s an indulgence for me, and I appreciate your engagement as an embrace from our community of bakers and eaters. Thanks also to Posie Brien who always has the right advice and edits for my words.

Be well,

Martin

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August has been quiet on the Curio but the house has actually felt more like a NASCAR pit area with kids, summer jobs, and such. I’m here this week with something perfect for the season: a sourdough, blitz puff pastry tart flavored with smoked paprika and cornmeal. Easier than classic puff these come together quickly. Hope everyone is well as we head into baking season. Enjoy these fall-colored beauties! They’re easier than you think!

In the past week our weather has shifted. While the cicadas still grind and whir all night, I ran through a patch of pumpkin-colored leaves on the trail today. My daughters have left for college and, after a few months of slower mornings, we’re back to packing Arlo’s lunch each day. From the kitchen, to the trees, to the quiet of a small house with fewer people, these signs confirm the close of our shortest New England season.

Endings, in many ways, define the change from summer to fall: no more beach trips, less daylight, kids living their lives in other places. But what feels heavy — and where I get bogged down — is in the enlarging of my post-peak dread. I take the annual change and I make it something bigger, tying the seasonal shift to the largest rhythms we have in some grand metaphor: here I am, living the spring, summer, fall and winter of life.

These feelings zip into view like a road sign then remain on my dash for miles: What is left? What is new at the end of summer? If life builds from buds, to fruit, to harvest, what happens next? Renewal, decline?

I was in the woods with all of this on my mind, feeling melancholy about the whole thing, and from nowhere (or from everywhere) an answer came in the form of a refrain. Like a mantra, a phrase, a presence, or feeling, in no uncertain terms, it settled the matter at hand, saying, there is still time.

I’m not sure what that means. But I think it relates to the idea that if I am present, then I am full. If I am present, then I’m still moving. If I am present, as evidenced by my anxiety about the cooler days and a quiet September (which my dear colleague, David, reminds me, is still summer), it’s ok. Just keep baking. Just keep going. There is still time. We’re here, y’all. Let’s cherish every bit of it.

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I was in Maine at the Kneading Conference in late July, teaching, catching a couple workshops, and seeing dear friends, old and new. In one class, Arturo Enciso made demi-baguettes using masa (nixtamalized corn, used for making corn tortillas, tamales, etc.) in the dough. Corn is on my list of most-loved grains (did you make the Italian sticks? I also wrote a sourdough cornbread for King Arthur this summer). Even at a relatively low percentage the corn came through in Arturo's baguette, bringing beautiful color and its entirely unique aroma.

Thinking of ways to put some to work in pastry, I remembered a puff recipe I wrote using sifted blue corn flour. Inspired by that, and by a sourdough pie crust I wrote this spring, I came up with this. For the hydration, all the moisture comes from ripe sourdough culture. To that flavorful base I add smoked paprika, black pepper, and plenty of good butter. A full bake maximizes the crispness which is a great contrast to the incredibly flaky and tender pastry. Let’s make them.

Cornmeal, 50g (best quality)
All-purpose flour, 150g
Salt, 4g (generous ½ t)
Paprika, smoked, 6g (2 ½ t) (for more spice use chipotle pepper powder)
Black pepper, 3g (1 t)

In a medium bowl combine the dry ingredients. Put in the freezer to chill while preparing the butter. 

Butter, unsalted, cold, 200g (a little less than two sticks)

Cut the cold butter into thin slices then toss to combine with the chilled dried ingredients.

Working with your fingers, massage the butter into the dry, leaving some larger pieces.

Sourdough (liquid levain)*, 100g

*This should be ripe liquid levain culture comprised of equal parts flour and water by weight. If you’d like to build to bake, combine 40g of all-purpose flour with 40g of tepid water and 20g of sourdough culture and leave at room temperature for 12 to 24 hours. Sourdough’s contribution to the puff is largely flavor — discard that hasn’t separated is also an option here if you have it.

Add the sourdough culture to the mixture, stir briefly, then dump the contents onto a work surface. 

Press, roll, and fold, reflouring and turning as necessary to keep the dough from sticking. In warmer months the dough will soften quickly, requiring more bench flour during rolling and cutting.

Roll the dough into a rectangle, roughly 12" by 8", cover well, and chill until firm, 30 minutes or up to 24 hours. For longer storage, freezing works well (fully defrost until it’s pliable enough to roll before proceeding).

If you've chilled the dough for more than 30 minutes, or if it feels especially firm, let it warm briefly, 30 minutes or so at room temperature for easier rolling. Roll the dough to 12” by 16” or 18”. Rolling the dough to this dimension will help give you the right thickness. 

A quick note on the cutters. I have round cutters which nest and come in diameter increments of 1" or so. They range down to about 2" and up to about 5". They are a great tool for cutting biscuits, crackers, rolled out cookies, chausson aux pommes, and so forth. 

For these tarts I've been cutting mine at 4”, they’re large enough to be a perfect side for a light lunch with a salad or maybe some soup (I eat two!). You can make them as small or large as you like, the main thing regarding the rings is that the smaller ring should be 1” smaller than the larger one, leaving a ½” collar that will contain a variety of filling textures (from loose and flowing to stiff).  

To shape the tarts, cut as many 4" pieces as you can from the initial dough piece. Set them aside while you work with the scrap pieces, gently pressing them or rolling as necessary, cutting as many additional rounds as possible. As usual, refer to the videos for a better picture. 

Once I have 10 to 12 of the 4” circles cut out, I set aside 8 pieces that will become the tops and start cutting 3” circles from the inside of each piece to form the upper collar piece. (During assembly you'll stack the two pieces so that your fillings don't flow over the edge.) After cutting out the circles I reroll the scrap, for a total of 8 collar pieces and 8 bases with a little dough remaining. With any amount of scrap that remains, try your hand at a closed shape like an empanada, it’s a great dough for that use.

Before assembling, chill the pieces briefly, allowing them to firm up for easier handling. To assemble, brush the pieces with water and stack the collars atop the bases, pressing gently to seal.

Once assembled, return the pieces to the fridge to chill again while gathering the toppings and fillings. Also preheat the oven to 400°F or 425°F if your oven runs cool at all.

Egg wash, 1 egg, whisked

Time to bake. Fillings are entirely up to you: Sausage and fig with balsamic glaze and greek yogurt after the bake, buffalo chicken with blue cheese and celery, white beans with smoky cheese and herbs, the options are endless. 

Here, in the video version, I’ve used a base of chipotle peppers in adobo followed by fresh yellow tomato, roasted chicken, and some cheddar cheese. After the bake I finish with fresh sweet corn, shaved cabbage, sour cream, pickled onions, minced jalapeños, and diced tomato. In the photos you’ll see some differences, I made some with hominy and pieces of Morningstar black bean burger. I don’t think you need a full recipe here, just have fun!

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, taking them to full color in order to maximize the amount of moisture loss during baking. As with all puff pastry, a full, full bake is key to flakiness. Underbaking or pulling too early is a surefire way to have a pastry that isn’t crisp or snappy. The top and bottom of the pastries should have full color — look at the pictures here for guidance.

Enjoy the bake,

Martin

Hey friends. A quick, summer-length note here with a bread that’s perfect for tabletop pizza ovens (but, can also be baked in the home oven). I hope everyone is finding some time to recharge. Love from Vermont. Martin

Even when summer lands and the heat is stifling, I bake. It’s hot, I sweat — so what! Let me have my fun. And, in addition to heating up the inside of our house, I bake outside, too, in our Ooni pizza oven. From bagels to roasted vegetables (shishito peppers, zucchini, corn, green beans, charred lettuces — basically everything), fish, chicken, and of course, every style of pizza under the hot sun, we keep the home fires burning, all year long.

A recent favorite that’s perfect for the season has been these Italian sticks (which you sometimes see called “stecca” or “stecche”). They are basically a dough with plenty of olive oil and 20% of the flour coming from the best cornmeal that I can find. With the oil and non-glutinous cornmeal, I’m aiming for the indulgent, golden intersection between maximum tenderness and a beautifully charred crust. To shape, I stretch the dough then simply cut sticks with a pizza wheel, dimple, then top with fresh cherry tomatoes, cured meats, pickled Calabrian peppers, fresh mozzarella, or basically anything I can think of. I bake them hot, just until I see our neighbors waving their noses towards our deck. Let’s make them.

A quick reminder that you can support the ongoing work, recipes, writing, and craft that is the Curio by clicking the link below. I appreciate the support!

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Italian Sticks

Yield: 4 13” sticks

All-purpose flour, (11.7% protein), 247g
Cornmeal, finely ground, 62g
Salt, fine, 6g (1 t)
Yeast, instant, 1g (scant 1/2 t) (double this amount in cool months)
Water, tepid, 216g
Olive oil, 15g (generous T)

In a medium bowl combine the flour, cornmeal, salt, and yeast. Stir briefly, then add the water and olive oil.

Stir the soft mixture to combine with the handle end of a wooden spoon or sturdy spatula until no dry spots remain, about 2 minutes. The dough will be sticky, weak, and beautifully yellow.

Scrape the dough into an oiled container or bowl and rest for 30 minutes. During the rest, the flour and cornmeal will hydrate, gaining strength and extensibility.

After the rest, perform a bowl fold. With a wet hand, stretch the dough upwards from the edge, then press to seal in the middle. Repeat this motion 8 to 12 times, until the dough has begun to tension and smooth out. Invert the dough in the container and rest for an additional 30 minutes.

After the rest, perform a second bowl fold then invert the dough. Cover the bowl and rest for at least one hour, or up to 120 minutes. *Towards the end of bulk fermentation preheat your tabletop oven to 800°F. (If baking in a home oven, preheat a baking stone or steel for 45 to 60 minutes at 500°F.)

*During the last hour of rise prepare any desired toppings.

After the rise, invert the dough onto a surface heavily dusted with cornmeal and let it fall out of the container. (It’s important to be gentle with the dough in order for it to stretch easily during the next step.)

Generously dust the top surface of the dough with additional cornmeal then stretch and manipulate into an even rectangle, roughly 7.5” by 13”. If the dough resists stretching, rest for a few minutes, then try again. It should stretch relatively easily.

After stretching, gently pick up the dough and pat to remove any excess cornmeal.

*Pay attention here as I’m offering a couple options for the bake.

If you plan to bake in your home oven, place the dough on a sheet of parchment and confirm that it’s roughly 7.5” by 13” then proceed to shaping.

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For baking in a tabletop pizza oven (such as my Ooni Karu 16), here are some tips.

For me, the soft quality of this dough makes it so that I prefer to top and bake on a copper grill mat (I use scissors to cut a piece that’s roughly 8” by 14” or so). They are widely available and quite cheap — check your local home improvement box store or hardware store (in the grilling section). It is essentially reusable grill parchment. If you want to try working with the dough directly on a loading peel (as you would a pizza), be aware that the soft dough will be prone to sticking. The other option that you may consider is good quality parchment paper. While the parchment isn’t heat-rated for the tabletop oven temperatures, if you pull it out from underneath the bread after the first couple minutes of baking (once the crust has set), it will be fine. To do so, remove the bread with a peel, pull the paper, then slide the bread back onto the baking surface to finish.

To shape the sticks, cut the dough piece lengthwise in half, then half again, making four strips, about 13” long and almost 2” wide. After cutting, distribute them, creating a 1/4” or so of space between each strip.

Next, using two fingers, firmly dimple your way along the length of each strip of dough, creating divots where your toppings will sit. Dimple firmly. If you don’t dimple firmly enough, the dough beneath the toppings will bubble and rise, giving an odd (but just as flavorful) look to the pieces.

For toppings, I like things that fit well in the small impressions in the dough: large cherry tomatoes, cut in half, small rounds of fresh mozzarella, freshly split figs, Calabrian chiles, olives, and so forth. After adding the toppings press them firmly down, into the dough. Garnish with herbs, coarse salt, chili flakes, olive oil, lemon zest, anything you like, then bake.

For the bake, as soon as I load the pieces into my Ooni (again, preheated to 800°F or so) I immediately reduce the flame to its lowest possible setting. I watch the loaves, turning the whole thing 90° every 30 seconds or so, checking the bottom to make sure that it doesn’t take too much color. If it’s fully baked and the top needs more color, I increase the flame for a few seconds, allowing time for the top to fully bake and darken in spots as a Neapolitan pizza might. Once I reach the color that I like and have a crisp bottom crust with the full kiss of the oven showing in places, I remove and place on a cooling rack to finish setting and cool slightly.

For the home oven, bake for 10 to 14 minutes, rotating as necessary. If the bottom has ample color and the top is light, turn on your broiler and let it sizzle the toppings for a minute or so, watching closely. The broiler will add a desirable color.

As a final touch, brush with olive oil. Serve warm!

Let’s get straight to it. Last spring at Söderberg in Scotland I had a cardamom bun. While I’m not that much of a sweets guy (OK, some exceptions), and, while I already wrote a recipe that I could literally eat every day (toothy, gorgeous, pumping with swirls of cardamom), I keep going back to what I had. Rather than the traditional version, it was a citrusy cardamom-lemon riff on the classic. Slightly sweeter than mine, with a puffier texture, and filled to the brim with aromatics, here I am three months later, still talking about it.

You know what happens next.

After many tests and tweaks, including the addition of raspberry for jamminess and color, I have a beautiful treat perfumed with the most incredible combination of cardamom, raspberry, and lemon. For dough, I tried everything from brioche to milk dough in my search for that puffier quality I remember from the Scottish bun. In the end, I landed on a soft, buttery base with some whole wheat for complexity.

In terms of process, after the first rise I roll out the dough and fold, layering in a mixture of freeze-dried raspberries (for more concentrated flavor than fresh), freshly ground cardamom, and sugar. When the raspberry hydrates it turns a deep crimson. Slightly sweet but not sugary with a barely pillowy texture, the buns feel special while retaining an appropriate level of Scandinavian standoffishness. Let’s make them.

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Lemon-Raspberry Cardamom Buns

A quick note on the cardamom seeds or pods and freeze-dried raspberries. These are most easily ground with a mortar and pestle. If you don’t have a set I do believe they’re an essential tool for spices, you can find them for $10 to $15. If you go with preground cardamom, that’s OK but you’ll need higher amounts in order get a similar flavor.

Water*, 118g
Milk, whole*, 118g
Sugar, granulated, 38g
Salt, 8g (1.5 t)
Yeast, instant, 7.5g (2.5 t)
Cardamom, freshly ground, 3g (about 1.5 t to 2 t)
Bread flour, 330g
Whole wheat flour, 67g
Butter, unsalted, 85g, room temperature
Lemon zest, one large lemon

*For the water and milk temperature, in cool months with flour temperatures in the 60s, warm your liquids to 85 to 95°F or so. In warmer months, 75 to 80°F should be good. If using cold milk from the fridge, I use hot tap water and it averages out well.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook, combine all of the ingredients. Mix on low until no dry spots remain then switch to medium speed (about speed 4 in a KitchenAid). The dough will smooth and pull away from the sides of the bowl. Continue mixing until it’s slightly shiny and elastic, about 8 minutes.

Knead briefly by hand to finish, tightening the dough into a round.

Place the dough in a lightly greased container to rise until puffy, about 60 to 90 minutes in a warm spot. While the dough rises, prepare the filling.

*Note that a portion of the filling mixture will be reserved for use as a garnish after the bake.

Raspberries, freeze-dried, 15g (about 1/2 cup) (Available at a variety of stores, including Target)
Sugar, granulated, 90g
Cardamom, freshly ground, 3g (about 1.5 t to 2 t)
Cinnamon, 2.5g (1 t)
Salt, pinch

Grind the dried raspberries to powder in a mortar and pestle or a small food processor then whisk together with the remaining ingredients. Cover and reserve until use. *Reserve 15g (about 2 T) of the filling mixture for use after the bake.*

To roll the dough, dump onto a lightly floured surface. Lightly flour the top, pat to remove any bubbles, then roll and stretch into a rectangle, roughly 12” by 16" with the long side running parallel to the edge of your work surface. The dough will be soft and slightly sticky. Flour and invert the dough piece as often as necessary in order to keep it “floating” rather than stuck to the work surface.

Place the dough on a lightly-floured parchment-lined half sheet tray, cover, and freeze for 10 min. The cold will make the dough easier to handle.

After the cold period, roll and stretch to 12” by 20” then egg wash the entire surface. *Save the remaining egg wash for brushing the rolls before baking.*

Sprinkle the filling mixture evenly across the dough, gently smoothing it out by hand if necessary.

Fold the dough like a letter. Starting on the right side, fold towards the left, making a crease roughly 1/3rd of the way (around 6.5” from the right edge). Press to adhere.

Repeat the motion with the left side, folding from left to right, covering the first fold. Again, press the layers together to adhere. After folding, the dough block should measure roughly 12” by 6.5". Roll to extend the length of the block and remove any air bubbles, working the dough to about 16” by 8”.

Cut 8 strips 1" wide (18” in length). (If desired, roll the uncut dough piece slightly wider than 8” and cut ⅛” off each long side. This will make for more visible layers, exposing all the raspberry at each edge cut. See the video for detail.)

To make the final shape, working with one strip at a time gently stretch the dough piece to elongate to roughly 24” to 26” then wrap the dough loosely around your fingers, making a 4” loop. As you reach the end of the dough piece, tightly wrap the tail around the midsection of the bundle, tucking the end underneath as you finish. As always, I’ll drop a short video of the process below.

Place the rolls on a parchment-lined half sheet tray, cover and proof until puffy, 60 to 90 minutes in a warm spot. Towards the end of proofing, preheat the oven to 425°F.

While the rolls proof, prepare the glaze.

Water, 28g
Lemon juice, 28g
Sugar, granulated 25g

In a small saucepan, stir together the glaze ingredients. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat while stirring and simmer for 5 to 7 minutes, or until the sugar has dissolved and the mixture has thickened slightly. Set aside until ready to use.

Once the rolls are soft, puffy, and hold the impression of a finger when gently pressed, generously egg wash, covering the tops and sides. Bake for 15 to 18 minutes, rotating as necessary. I bake these to a deep golden brown, but slightly less than my original recipe. The golden brown (as opposed to mahogany) bake keeps them slightly more tender. One note, due to the slightly higher sugar, you’ll want to keep an eye on the underside of the rolls during baking, especially with a gas oven (which heats from the bottom). In my home gas oven I bake on an upper rack — with electric ovens, a middle rack should be perfect.

After baking, brush the rolls with the glaze and immediately garnish with the remaining garnishing sugar. If applied while the rolls are still very warm the cardamom and raspberry aroma will be even more present and intoxicating.

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