Dark Winter Rye Boule, It Isn't Over Yet

This week has felt like a week of Mondays, strung together.  I interviewed a worker on Misty Brook Farm on Sunday.  (Who was charming.)  And the co-owner of The Wine Bottega on Tuesday.  (Also incredibly charming.)  Did a ton of writing.  (Please note: I am now out of charming adjectives.)  Worked all week, like a regular human.  And cursed at the wind (the wind!) today because it was so cold. 

What I really want right now is for someone to do my dirty dishes, and pour me a glass of wine. 

But that someone will have to be me tonight.  So I hope you’ll forgive me if I'm curt.  In fact, this pretty much sums things up: winter rye boule.  Because it’s (still) winter.  But also because it’s the variety of rye I bought from Misty Brook Farm.  Which they grow themselves and mill at their farmhouse, just down the road from their farm shop in Barre, MA.

Some winter rye, a little molasses, hint of cocoa, and a bit of caraway seeds was all it took to transform everyday bread into a dense and lovely loaf to chase out the end of winter.  While many dark ryes rely on caramel coloring to get their hue, this version uses the cocoa and molasses to impart a milk chocolate tint that deepens as the bread bakes.

The recipe borrows from Jim Lahey’s no-knead method of Sullivan Street Bakery in New York City.  So you can mix it up the ingredients in a bowl on your counter.  And then clean the dishes.  Or do the laundry.  Or—better yet—open a bottle of red.

Dark Winter Rye Boule

Ingredients:

2¼ cups bread flour, plus extra for dusting

¾ cup rye flour

½ tsp active dry yeast

1½ tsp kosher salt

1½ cups cold tap water

1 tbsp blackstrap molasses

1 tbsp plus 2 tsp unsweetened cocoa powder

cornmeal, for the bottom of the bread

2½ tsp whole caraway seeds, divided

Instructions:

In a large bowl, combine the flours, yeast, and salt.  (Start this process 15 to 22 hours before you plan to eat the bread.)  Fill a measuring cup (or small bowl) with the water and vigorously whisk the molasses and cocoa into the water until it turns dark brown.  Add the liquid to the flour mixture and combine the ingredients using a rubber spatula until a sticky dough forms (it will be wetter than standard bread dough), add more water, if needed.

Cover with plastic wrap and let rise 12 to 18 hours in a warm, undisturbed spot.  During this time, the dough will double in size and become puffy.

To start the second rising of the dough, scatter a handful of cornmeal in the middle of a clean kitchen towel.  Add 2 teaspoons of caraway seeds to the dough and, with floured hands, take it out of the bowl and gently stretch the dough by tucking the sides of the bread together to meet at the bottom (if it is too sticky to handle, add a little bread flour); continue this process until the seeds are fully incorporated and the top is smooth.  Shape into a round ball.

Place the dough on the cornmeal, sprinkle the top with the remaining ½ teaspoon of caraway, and cover with the sides of the kitchen towel. Let the dough rest for 1 to 2 hours (until it rises slightly).  30 minutes before you plan to bake the bread, set the oven at 475 degrees and place a 4 or 5 quart Dutch oven or roasting pan with a tight-fitting lid on the middle rack of your oven.  (Be sure your pan can withstand the high heat and avoid pans with plastic parts.)  Preheating the pan helps the dough expand rapidly to produce a chewy interior and a crispy crust.

After 30 minutes, take the pan from the oven and remove the lid.  Gently place the dough into the pan, cover it with the hot lid, and bake for 30 minutes.  Uncover the bread and bake for another 15 to 30 minutes, until the top is golden brown and the bottom sounds hollow when tapped.  (If you are unsure, the internal temperature of the bread should be 190 degrees.) Let cool fully on a wire rack before slicing (1 to 2 hours).

Notes:

-I baked this bread in a BreadPot, which I got for Christmas.  I also found some ceramic pots at T.J. Maxx which have worked well in the past.

-You can find Misty Brook at the Somerville Winter Farmers' Market on Saturdays.

The Good, the Bad, and the French: With Minted Fava Beans and Peas

It’s about two pm as I write this.  Which means it’s nearly eight in France.  I still haven’t quite acclimated to being back home.  Around this time in Paris my mother and I would start our nightly ritual.  We’d head out for dinner.  We’d be tired.  This would be an early night, we’d say.  And then we’d find ourselves trudging home around midnight.  Sometimes later.

Travel changes you.  Challenges you.  Exhausts you.  But also replenishes you.  Nudges you to see the world a little bit differently.  Stay up a bit longer.  And perhaps drink a bit more wine.  The ten days I spent in France were certainly no exception. 

My trip was filled with little treasures that I carried back across the Atlantic.  I returned to my Boston apartment and put away narrow, petite cake pans from E. Dehillerin; cinnamon gros sel and fleur de sel from the Boulevard Raspail market; green olive tapenade from a winery we visited, Château de St. Martin; Bourgueil and Sauternes from Spring’s wine boutique; and unpacked my new memories.

There is the memory of my mother and I eating lunch at our first Parisian café, near the École Militaire, which served a delicate couscous with a crisp dice of zucchini and cucumber.  And an even better bun curry, a light orange brioche roll with the flavor of curry baked in. I wish I could remember the name of the café. We ate at a long, wooden table. Our waitress wore bright red lipstick and a bare face.  She brought us a basket of chewy sourdough bread.  She was kind and tolerated my very rudimentary French.So I suppose the name of the café matters only in that I cannot sing its praise more specifically. No-name cafés and forgotten carafes of wine remain lodged in the crevice of my vacation mind.

Another one of my favorite lunches was at a little café in the 1^st arrondissement. We sat outside under an awning and ate rich olive oil-laden ratatouille as it poured outside.  I drank a delicate glass of Chinon that cost as much as my mother’s Earl Grey tea.  Later that evening, we dined at Verjus.  I had seven wonderful courses, each paired with wine, and eaten in a dining room lit by candle in a way that only the city of lights could pull off. 

Duck breast with red onion ravioli and a 2009 Nicolas Réau Chinon, “Garance.” Grilled lamb with braised artichoke and gnocchi and a 2010 Domaine Bordes Saint-Chinian, “Les Narys.”  Strawberry tarragon sorbet and salted peanut butter mousse paired with a 2010 Château la Tour Grise Ze Bulles Zéo Pointé Rosé.  I could go on.

Later in the week we drove down the freeway from Paris to the French Riviera, listening to techno versions of Carly Rae Jepsen and Lady Gaga songs that played hourly, while snacking on Poilâne’s pain d’épices: a spice cake that wasn't overly sweet and was good even when dried out and eaten out of hungry desperation days later.  We drove through Burgundy and the Rhône, speeding by old French villages and all-white cows.

We sipped rosé the color of ballet slippers in Provence.  We sat on a dock on the Côte d’Azur, drank in its teal water and walked on sand that I could swear contained actual specks of gold.  We ate roast chicken with olives and lemon prepared by a chef from our resort in Mougins who dripped French charm and took a particular liking to my mother. Though—let me be frank—our trip was not filled with carefree with glasses of vin, charismatic men, and sandy beaches. 

Our Volkswagen broke down in a tollbooth lane somewhere along A6.  The police we talked to spoke very little English and sent us off down the highway in search of an SOS phone.  And driving back into Paris was sheer terror, quickly having to adapt a key French axiom: where I am, you cannot be.  Paris was, at times, quite unkind. The inside of my flats came to look like a murder scene from my blistered and bloodied feet.  We had our fair share of missed streets and crumpled maps.  And I had a near critical incident after consuming a midday cheese plate carelessly followed up by a croque-madame and soupe à l'oignon. (See: lactose intolerance.)

But the good far outweighed the unpleasant. Perhaps my favorite memory of the trip was opening (and then later closing) the dinner service at Au Passage.  The first to arrive around eight, we drank a bottle of Le Cousin Rouge and had little plates of food.  A fresh, drippy burrata.  Smoked potatoes with dill and sea snail.  Grilled spring onions with pesto and parmesan.  Along the way we befriended two cute, quirky French men who asked if we cared to split a leg of lamb.  A slow braised lamb arrived that required carving, served with a large plate of mustardy lentils.  After consuming another carafe or two of wine, we were the last to leave, apart from our new French friends and the staff.

And so I have arrived back to Boston both inspired and admittedly a bit overwhelmed with all my new memories.  I have a long list of food to cook and a new collection of French tools to use.  But one of the first meals I made when I came back was this one, which is best explained as a dissected version of our trip.

Many of the restaurants in Paris had fresh ricotta on their menus. Green plants like zucchini, fava beans, and mint also made frequent appearances.  As for the bread, it’s Jim Lahey’s no-knead version with poppy seeds, lemon zest, and coarse ginger gros sel added. 

It's simple, elegant, and a bit of a pain in the ass to make when you are jet-lagged.  But as the coup de grâce for my French vacation, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ricotta with Minted Fava Beans and Peas on Poppy Seed Bread

Ingredients:

A handful of shelled fresh peas (or frozen if fresh is not available)

A handful of shelled fava beans (still in their white outer coverings)

~1 tbsp bacon fat (bacon reserved for another use)

Fleur de sel

Black pepper

6-8 sprigs of fresh mint

1-2 tbsp olive oil

A few drops of lemon juice

Ricotta cheese (see note)

Poppy seed bread (or other variety, see note)

Instructions:

Cook peas briefly (if using fresh) in salted boiling water, for about 1 minute, and then remove them using a slotted spoon; set peas aside.  Add the shelled fava beans to the boiling water and cook until their inner flesh is tender when pierced with a knife (typically this takes less than five minutes).  Once cool enough, peel the white shell of the fava beans.  Add bacon fat to a hot pan and add the fully shelled fava beans; season with salt and pepper and sauté until the beans are crisp and slightly browned; set aside.

Meanwhile, finely chop the mint leaves; mix in the olive oil, lemon juice, and season with salt to taste; toss the fava beans and peas in the mint dressing.  Spread ricotta cheese on a slice of poppy seed bread. Top with minted peas and fava beans.

Notes:

-A recipe for homemade ricotta can be found here.  I halved the recipe and it made about a cup.  (You probably won't want to let it drain for an hour or it may get too dry.)  If you are looking for a little more richness you may want to try this.

-The inspiration for the poppy seed bread came from a jambon et fromage sandwich (on white poppy seed bread) from a French rest stop on the drive down to Provence.  You can find the recipe for making Jim Lahey's bread here.  (Though the original recipe I have calls for 1/2 tsp yeast and 1 1/2 tsp of salt.) I added the poppy seeds, zest of one lemon, and salt before the second rising of the bread.

-This is a very loose recipe. (Please excuse any errors that may have been made due to jet lag and/or excessive wine consumption.)

Can I Make You Love this No-Knead Antipasto Pizza (With Anchovies)?

Dear people that do not like anchovies,

I get it. They smell funny.  They’re untrustingly tiny.  They have gray bodies with hairy little bones.  Sometimes they show up in slick, silvery white coats.  You’d think this costume change would ease things, but it doesn’t, does it? No, it leaves you more suspicious than ever.  Swimming in distrust. 

Anchovies do have a reputation for being shifty.  For sneaking into things.  They’re in your Caesar dressing.  They’re in that Bloody Mary you had a brunch yesterday. And you know Aunt Betty’s famous onion dip you love? Yup. She uses Worcestershire sauce.  So they’re in there too. You feel used now, don’t you?  At least a little bit?

And still, I probably can’t change your mind.  I can’t make you love anchovies.  And this makes me feel a bit like Bonnie Raitt begging to her disengaged lover.  Singing her one last, sad plea. “I can’t make you love me,” she laments.  I feel precisely the same.  I’m powerless here.

Now, in retrospect this probably isn’t the woman to spark your interest in anchovies. (Nothing personal, Bonnie.)  Her reputation isn’t all that great.  She has already confessed she can’t make [you] love her.  So she sure as heck can’t make you love anchovies.  And I get that.  But it’s too late. 

I’ll have to rely on this pizza instead.  It’s the best persuasive device I’ve got.  It keeps all of your taste buds fairly occupied. It has tangy red onions; olive oil and thyme-roasted cauliflower; salty cured olives; and Italian parsley and garlic that imparts just the right amount of bite.  Just enough to distract your senses. It’s like garlic bread crossed with a pizza and an antipasto platter.

Not to mention that the pizza crust is very laid back to make.  It’s a take on Jim Lahey’s no-knead pizza crust.  I’ve been making his no-knead bread for a few years.  And he has recently come out with My Pizza, which features pies like the ones he serves up at his restaurant, Co..  A version of his dough recipe can be found here.  


But I just took his bread recipe, one lazy day, and let it sit for a little longer on the counter top. That’s it.  A ridiculously simple crust with some stuff on it. That’s all I got. All of my pizza toppings are on the table. Because I can’t make you love anchovies, if you don’t.

So consider my shout out to this pensive nineties ballad, and said pizza description thereafter, a formal appeal for you to reconsider your previous relationship with anchovies.  Because this really is a wonderful pizza. Just try it.  Just give me until then to give up this fight.  And I will give up this fight.

Emily 

P.s. or just leave them off.

No-Knead Antipasto Pizza (With Anchovies)

Ingredients:

Pizza dough 

Adapted from My Bread By Jim Lahey

3 cups bread flour

½ tsp active dry yeast

1½ tsp salt

~1½ cups cold water

Pizza topping

1 red onion, very thinly sliced

~¼ cup white vinegar

Kosher salt

~2 tbsp butter

~3 tbsp Italian parsley, very finely minced

2 cloves garlic, minced

~1 cup cauliflower florets, thinly sliced

Olive oil

Freshly ground black pepper

~½ tbsp fresh thyme, minced

~5 cured black olives, sliced

~6 white anchovies

~¼ cup parmesan cheese

Instructions:

Combine the flour, yeast, salt, and water together in a large bowl and stir until it forms a sticky, but cohesive mass.  Cover and let the dough sit on the countertop for a whole day.  After 24 hours, punch the dough down with floured hands and divide the dough in half.  Use the other half for another pizza, or prepare a small bread loaf.  See a technique for doing so here.

Let the pizza dough rise for 1 hour, covered. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Meanwhile, in a small bowl toss the red onion in vinegar with a little salt; set aside. Combine the butter, parsley, and minced garlic by kneading it a bit with your hands; place it in another small bowl and set aside. On a baking sheet, toss the cauliflower with some olive oil, salt, pepper, and thyme and roast until the cauliflower is golden brown, about 20-30 minutes. 

When the dough is ready, generously oil another sheet pan. Stretch and shape the pizza dough into a form of your choosing.  Place the dough in the pan with the oil, stretching it until it's fairly even in thickness.  Drizzle the top of the dough with a little olive oil, spreading it towards the edges (a few teaspoons or so), and then spread on the parsley butter.  Add the red onions, shaking off any excess vinegar so they aren’t too wet.  Cook the pizza at 425 degrees for about 15-20 minutes. Then, add the cauliflower, black olives, anchovies, and dusting of parmesan.  Continue to cook for 15-25 minutes more, or until both the top and bottom of the crust is golden brown.

Makes 1 small flatbread (serves about 2)

Notes:

-You’ll want to start this dough approximately 26 hours before you plan to eat pizza.

-Now, of course you could simply use this dough as a delivery system for any number of your favorite toppings.  I just like fighting for the little guy.  And anchovies don't get no respect.

-I didn’t want to divide the dough amounts in half to make 1 pizza because I wasn’t sure if it would change the fermenting of dough.  Plus, I wanted bread. So you'll have extra.