Sugar-crusted bara brith | BBC Good Food Sugar-crusted bara brith Prep: 15 mins Cook: 1 hr - 1 hr, 15 mins Plus overnight soaking Easy Serves 12 Bara brith (literally 'speckled bread') is a tea-time classic, and it seems that almost every Welsh town and every family has their own recipe Share: A tart, ruby-red coloured berry which grows wild on shrubs throughout northern Europe and North… mug hot strong black tea 100g butter , plus extra for greasing Butter is made when lactic-acid producing bacteria are added to cream and churned to make an… 2 heaped tbsp orange marmalade The ultimate convenience food, eggs are powerhouses of nutrition, packed with protein and a… 450g self-raising flour - try a mix of wholemeal and white 175g light soft brown sugar 1 tsp each ground cinnamon and ground ginger Cinnamon sin-ah-mun A fragrant spice which comes from the inner bark of a tropical tree. When dried, it curls into… Milk mill-k One of the most widely used ingredients, milk is often referred to as a complete food.

While cow… 50g crushed sugar cubes or granulated sugar, to decorate Honey and syrups made from concentrated fruit juice were the earliest known sweeteners. Today,… Method Mix together the dried fruit and cranberries in a large bowl, then pour the hot tea over. Cover with cling film and leave to soak overnight. Heat oven to 180C/fan 160C/gas 4. Butter and line the bottom of a 900g/2lb loaf tin with baking parchment. Melt butter and marmalade together in a pan. Leave to cool for 5 mins, then beat in the eggs. Drain any excess tea from the fruit. Mix the flour, sugar and spices together, then stir in the fruit, butter mix and milk until evenly combined. The batter should softly drop from the spoon – add more milk if needed. Spoon into the tin and level the top. Sprinkle with the crushed sugar and bake for 1-1¼ hrs until dark golden and a skewer inserted comes out clean. Cover loosely with foil if it starts to over-colour before the middle is cooked. Leave to cool completely in the tin and serve sliced.

Recipe from Good Food magazine, March 2006 1000+ images about Welsh Food on Pinterest | Seaweed, Welsh recipes and Teabread Forward Bara Brith translates to ‘speckled bread’ (in Welsh) and is a rich fruit loaf made with tea. Produced all over Wales the spiced fruit loaf is delicious when spread with salted Welsh butter. It can be either a yeast bread enriched with dried fruit (similar to the Irish barmbrack) or something more like a fruitcake made with self-raising flour (no yeast). It is traditionally made with raisins, currants and candied peel. See more A Bread A Day | a year-long adventure in breadmaking | Page 11 A Bread A Day Week Thirty-Seven: Viennoiserie No, I didn’t just make babka. That was baba . Totally different. Well, except for the name: “baba” is Slavic for “grandmother”, and “babka” is the diminutive form, “little grandmother”. That bit is similar.

Oh, and there’s the fact that there is a Polish creation also called a babka, which is rather like a larger (yes, larger) version of a baba. But that’s neither here nor there. Have I thoroughly confused you? Allow me to elucidate. Baba , like the ones I made two days ago, are boozy, soused little yeast-leavened cakes. Polish babka is bigger, shaped more like a kugelhopf , but is iced, not syrup-soaked like a baba. Jewish babka, the bread I’m making today, isn’t a bit like either of those. It’s essentially a marbled brioche, which is to say it’s an eggy, buttery bread, rolled up with chocolate or cinnamon inside, then twisted on itself before baking. It toes that fine line between breakfast and dessert, maybe too sweet for one and not sweet enough for the other… or maybe it’s just right, perfectly suited for both. (Who says you can’t have chocolate at breakfast?) Hailing originally from Eastern Europe, babka has become a firm favorite here in the United States.

It is most commonly filled with chocolate or cinnamon, but fruit fillings are also used (and the appropriateness thereof hotly debated). It can be topped with streusel or left plain. Like most rich breads, it’s most commonly served at special occasions, but is most common around Hanukkah. For this version, I’ve used both chocolate and cinnamon in the filling, since I couldn’t decide which I would prefer. Not to mention, the combination of chocolate and cinnamon is positively enthralling; it’s absolutely one of my favorite pairings. This bread bakes into an impossibly good loaf, not too eggy or buttery, yet as tender and moist as the finest muffin. The bright cinnamon spice with the deep bitterness of dark chocolate swirls through each bite, rendering the idea of spreading butter or jam on a slice unthinkable. And simply because it’s September doesn’t mean you have to wait until December to make it; babka is just as good now as it is at Hanukkah.

Chocolate Babka Makes two 9 x 5 inch loaves For the dough: 1 pound (about 3 1/2 cups) unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting 1/2 cup sugar 3 large eggs, lightly beaten 1 tablespoon brandy (optional) 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature For chocolate filling: 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, very soft, but not melted 7 to 8 ounces good quality bittersweet chocolate (about 60% cacao, if marked), finely chopped 1 large egg yolk beaten with 1 tablespoon milk, for an egg wash 1. In the bowl of a stand mixer, whisk together the flour, sugar, yeast, and salt. Beat together the milk, eggs, brandy (if using), and vanilla. Add to the flour mixture. Using the paddle attachment, mix at low speed until a rough dough forms. 2. Increase the speed to medium-low, then beat in butter, one tablespoon-sized piece at a time. Continue to beat until the dough is shiny and forms strands from paddle to bowl, about 4 minutes. The dough will be very soft and sticky.

3. Scrape the dough into a large, lightly-oiled bowl. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and let sit at room temperature until doubled in size, about 1 1/2 to 2 hours. 4. Line two 9 x 5 inch loaf pans with 2 pieces of parchment paper (1 lengthwise and 1 crosswise). Mix together the sugar and cinnamon for the filling. Turn the dough out onto a floured work surface, and gently deflate. Divide dough into two equal halves. 5. Keeping the unused piece covered with plastic wrap, roll the other out on a well-floured surface to a rectangle about 10 x 18 inches in size. Gently spread 3 tablespoons of the softened butter on the dough, leaving a 1/2 inch border on one long edge. Brush the un-buttered edge with a little of the egg wash. Sprinkle half of chocolate evenly over the buttered dough. Sprinkle half of the cinnamon-sugar over the chocolate. 6. Starting with the long side that isn’t brushed with egg wash, roll the dough jelly-roll style into a long cylinder. Pinch the egg-washed seam to seal. Bring the ends of the cylinder together, forming a ring.

Pinch the ends to seal. Twist the ring to form a figure 8… …then twist two more times. Place in one of the prepared pans. 7. Repeat shaping and filling procedure with the other piece of dough. Chill any remaining egg wash, covered, to use later. Loosely cover pans with lightly-greased plastic wrap, and let rise at room temperature until the dough reaches top of pans, 1 to 2 hours. Thirty minutes before baking, place an oven rack in the middle position, and preheat the oven to 350° F. 8. Brush the tops of the dough with some of the remaining egg wash, taking care not to press too hard and deflate them. Bake at 350º F for 40 to 45 minutes, or until deeply browned. Transfer loaves to a wire rack to cool completely before cutting. Notes: 1. Be sure to let the bread cool totally before cutting; otherwise, the crumb will not have fully set and the marbled pattern will be ruined.

Posted in Sweet , Yeast Breads | Comments Off on Chocolate Babka Posted on September 10, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Seven: Viennoiserie I don’t know if it qualifies as a classic Viennoiserie, but for me, pâte à choux (or, choux paste) has always fallen into that same netherworld, not quite bread and not quite pastry. Undeniably, most of the items made withpâte à choux are pastries – éclairs, cream puffs, profiteroles, and the like – but the dough itself is quite bready. Pâte à choux has a reputation for being extremely fussy, finicky, and generally difficult. And considering the multiple recipes needed for most choux-based items (for éclairs, you need pâte à choux, pastry cream , and ganache ?!), it’s certainly easy to understand why the association has been made. But once you get it down, pâte à choux is actually a simple and straightforward creature. It’s a pussycat; treat it right, and it’ll all but purr at you.

Don’t get me wrong, my first batches of pâte à choux turned out as flat as pancakes. Maybe flatter. But then, I was going off a couple of recipes that offered very little in the way of real instruction, assuming a certain level of expertise that no amount of my headstrong confidence could mimic. And there certainly weren’t pictures. I am certain that anyone (yes, even you) can make pâte à choux, if shown how to do it properly. This is my goal for today, because a freshly made choux pastry is like nothing else in the world, and most bakeries just don’t step up. Better to eat no choux than bad, stale, flat, or soggy choux. And really, a choux-less life is hardly worth living. Once you conquer pâte à choux, you’re just a whipped cream or a ganache away from some truly excellent homemade pastries, ones that suddenly won’t seem quite so out of reach of us mere mortals anymore. But for starters, I’m giving you a recipe that needs nothing more than a sprinkling of sugar to be complete – but you’ll be shocked at how good that can be.

They’re called chouquettes, and are apparently common in French pâtisseries, but sadly are all but unheard of stateside. Simple and quite addicitive, they’re nothing but bite-sized puffs of pâte à choux, topped with coarse pearl sugar or miniature chocolate chips. Crunchy on the outside, tender and airy inside, they’re an ideal afternoon snack, as they’re most commonly eaten in France. If you can resist popping one or two (or ten) in your mouth, you’re a better man than I am. My savory palate decided that the sweet faction was generally over-represented within this week’s theme, so I topped half of this batch instead with coarse salt and dried herbs, a choice that proved just as good as the pearl sugar, if a little less than authentic. The only reason chocolate chips don’t make an appearance here is because I was out of them. Still kicking myself for that one. I do hope you attempt this recipe. The only caveat is that a stand mixer is practically required, unless you have bionic arms. I have attempted pâte à choux by hand, but it’s never quite as good.

This recipe is quite long, but with something like this, the more information, the better; every step I’ve taken the time to write has a purpose, trust me. I even made a little animated movie for you; that’s how much I care! As always, I am thrilled to answer any questions anyone might have about the process. No time like the present, so let’s get on with it! Chouquettes; Or, Pâte à Choux (Choux Paste) For Dummies Adapted from The Professional Pastry Chef, by Bo Friberg Makes about 100, about 1 inch in diameter 4 ounces (about 1 cup) cake flour 5½ ounces (about 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons) unbleached bread flour 2 cups water, at room temperature 12 tablespoons unsalted butter (1½ sticks) 1/2 teaspoon salt …but will come back together after beating for a few seconds. eggs just worked in You can increase the speed to help them incorporate more quickly; always decrease to low speed when adding the eggs, though. eggs just added Keep adding eggs like this, until the paste has absorbed as many eggs as possible and still hold its shape.

eggs just added; see the lumps? It can be a bit runny, but should not be liquid-y. It will firm up a little after it has cooled more, but not a whole lot. When in doubt, don’t add that last egg or half-an-egg; as long as you get most of them in there, you’re okay. 7. After adding the eggs, beat the paste on high speed for a minute or two. It will cool and become shiny and glossy. shiny and glossy, a tiny bit runny, but still holds its shape At this point, you can relax a little. The paste will keep with no problems for a bit at room temperature, or up to a day refrigerated. If you do delay in piping it out, however, make sure to have no part of the paste exposed to air (put it in a plastic zip-top bag, or leave in the bowl and press plastic wrap directly onto the surface), as an unwelcome skin will form on the top. 8. To shape chouquettes, or any other pâte à choux item, a piping bag is the easiest and cleanest method.

If you don’t have a proper piping bag with tips, you can use a sturdy gallon zip-top bag with the corner cut off, or simply portion and shape with two spoons, or a tiny ice cream scoop. For the most even portioning, draw an even grid on a sheet of parchment as big as your baking sheet, using permanent marker or heavy pencil. Place this your baking sheet, preferably a large one. Put a second sheet of parchment on top of the gridded one; this is what you will pipe onto. You should be able to see the grid through the top sheet. 9. Transfer the paste into the piping bag, if using. Pipe the paste into little rounds, about 1 inch wide. You should need to use light pressure to make the paste come out of the bag; it shouldn’t run. When piping, make sure to hold the bag vertically, not at an angle; piping at an angle will make your choux puff unevenly. Lift the bag straight up as you pipe, to get the tallest mound possible (and therefore the best puff). Release the pressure with your hands, stopping the flow.

If you’re feeling confident, give the tip a little swirl around the top of the mound, preventing the nearly-inevitable “ice cream cone” tips. You can see, in this video, the correct piping technique. The first one came out beautifully (I’m so proud!), while the second one went a little wonky. This is okay! You can fix it later. If you have paste left over after piping (you will), just leave it in the piping bag. Don’t pipe any more out until the first batch is done, as they’ll get a skin while sitting around. 10. With a moistened fingertip, gently straighten any mounds that may have slumped over, and poke down any points sticking up (as they will burn otherwise). If you’ve used spoons to portion the paste out, you will have to poke down a fair amount of points. Do not squish the mounds down; the taller they are, the rounder and less-flat your puffs will be. 11. Slide the lined piece of parchment out from underneath, and reserve for the next batch or batches. Sprinkle the tops of each mound with the pearl sugar, chocolate chips, or salt.

You can press these gently into the paste, but I don’t find it necessary. pearl sugar 12. Bake immediately at 425º F for about 10 minutes, or until they puff up a bit, and are just beginning to turn golden. Without opening the door, reduce the temperature to 375º F, and continue baking for at least 10 to 15 minutes more. While baking, do not open the oven door at any time, for any reason! This will make them collapse, and go all flat. After baking for 20 to 25 minutes total, though, they should be okay to check on. If they look well golden-brown, they’re probably okay to proceed. If they just look pale golden, bake them for another 5 minutes. To be sure they’re ready, pull one from the oven, and tear it open. If it looks shiny and wet, they’re not ready. If it looks dry or barely moist, it’s fine. 13. Remove the chouquettes from the oven, and quickly pierce the side of each one with a sharp knife, to release steam.

At this point, for security, I usually bake them at 375º F for an additional 5 minutes; but it’s not wholly necessary. Don’t worry about overbaking pâte à choux, it’s almost impossible to do. The concern here is underbaking, as the puffs will deflate if not totally set. When in doubt, you can turn the oven off and leave them for up to an hour. 14. When done, transfer to a wire rack to cool thoroughly, or as long as you can stand. Stand back and admire your handiwork; you’ve just made pâte à choux! Notes: 1. These will keep for several days at room temperature, in an airtight container. They will soften when stored like this, but will recrisp beautifully in a 350º F oven for 3 to 4 minutes. Alternatively, they can also be frozen and reheated for about 5 minutes. 2. You can use 9½ ounces of all-purpose flour (about 2 cups plus 2 tablespoons), if you don’t have cake and bread flour; I prefer to use the combination. 3.

For a richer pâte à choux, you can use milk instead of water, or an even mixture of the two. 4. Pearl sugar can be found at some Ikea stores (seriously, I got mine there!), Amazon, King Arthur Flour, or many other gourmet shops. Posted in Savory , Sweet , Unleavened Breads | Comments Off on Chouquettes; Or, Pâte à Choux For Dummies Posted on September 9, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Seven: Viennoiserie Today’s Viennoiserie offering is a fairly uncommon food, one that you might spot on the occasional dessert menu. But honestly, there’s no good reason for it. A baba au rhum (rum baba) is so simple, so accomodating of schedules, and so delicious that there’s simply no excuse for any scarcity. Babas were supposedly invented by Nicolas Stohrer, pastry chef to exiled Polish King Stanislas Leszczyńska (who arrived in France when his daughter married Louis XV). Or maybe they were invented by the good King himself. Or maybe by neither one. The true history is a little fuzzy (but you know how people like stories).

Certainly, Nicolas Stohrer’s Parisian pastry shop, opened in 1730, and the oldest continuously-run pâtisserie in Paris, was the first to sell them, and the first to use the now-classic rum, in 1835. Whatever the case, it’s fairly certain that the first baba was another bread or cake (possibly kugelhopf ) that had dried out too much to be palatable. To remedy the situation, it was doused in a liquor-based syrup of some sort, and the resulting creation was a smash hit. The story says it was supposedly dubbed a “baba” after Ali Baba, the famous hero of One Thousand And One Nights, a favorite character of King Stanislas. But, more likely, it was named after the same Slavic word, meaning “grandmother” or “old woman”. (It was quite long ago; you really can’t blame people for remembering the more entertaining version.) A nearly-identical version of baba is called the savarin, named after famed gastronome Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin .

They are made with the same dough, but a savarin is usually shaped like a doughnut, and is the larger of the two. Babas are more often seen in individual sizes, but are always thimble-shaped. Additionally, babas typically have currants or raisins added, whereas savarins do not. Here, I’ve made a plain version, so it’s a bit of a cross-breed. These days, bakers and pastry chefs don’t wait for other items to go stale before making babas; these yeasted pastries are instead baked dry on purpose. Taste an un-soaked baba, and you’ll be left with a mouthful of cottony crumbs. But soak those styrofoam-like breads in a liquor-laden syrup, and they happily drink it in, transforming into saturated cakes. Heavy and nearly dripping with the stuff, one esteemed chef even suggests leaning forward as you bite into one (per his indulgent suggestion of eating one hand-held, on the go), lest you soak your shirt with the runoff syrup. Despite the recommendation, babas are hardly ever eaten by hand, served plated instead, with a traditional cherry garnish.

A bit of whipped cream would not be out of place, but it’s wholly unnecessary, as the pastry itself is so incomparably moist that it’s nearly wet. I found these a bit on the sweet side, but my sous-chef thought them just right. If you like, you can reduce the amount of sugar in the syrup recipe, or you can add some lemon juice to bring in some bitterness. This recipe may look long, but it’s really incredibly simple. If you can make cookies, you can make babas au rhum. The method uses a stand mixer for simplicity, but it can just as easily be done by hand if you don’t have one. Also, I have seen many recipes that soak the babas whole, but I’ve cut the tops off. I tried to avoid it, but the syrup just didn’t soak through the top crust, leaving most of the interior dry as a bone. I imagine that if you have properly slender baba molds (or a popover tin), that problem wouldn’t be nearly as bad; my fat babas were baked in muffin tins, and just would not soak properly left whole.

not fully soaked With the tops cut off, however, the syrup had no problems infusing every crumb with its delectable flavor. just right They may look a little slumped and homely, but one bite will show you that there’s nothing plain about these Janes. Could this be the perfect dinner party dessert? It’s soigné, easily made ahead of time, and simple as can be; I’d say it’s certainly in the running. All I know is I have a fridge full of them, and they’re sure calling my name. Posted on September 8, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Seven: Viennoiserie Maybe I’m the only person in the world who thinks that a classic rugelach has just as much right to be considered a Viennoiserie as a croissant. Maybe I’m not. But I do think that this delightful pastry, too often regarded as a mere cookie, deserves a place in that rarefied world. It’s bready in texture, yeast-risen (traditionally), and not overly sweet, all characteristics of your work-a-day Viennoiserie.

Rugelach, that most famous sweet from the world of Jewish cuisine, is often regarded as a cookie for good reason: it’s often made just like a cookie, tiny, crisp, and chemically-leavened. But historically, they were yeast-leavened, and in the best bakeries, they are larger and softer, rendering them more pastry-like. The dough contains either cream cheese or sour cream, lending a welcome tangy counterpoint to the sugary filling. They can be made into spirals, but purists might say that the more labor-intensive crescent shape is the only true form for a rugelach. That crescent shape isn’t the only similarity between a classic rugelach and a croissant; they may also share a common ancestor, the kipfel. Rugelach are actually known as kipfel in parts of Germany, but the kipfel itself dates back to at least the 13th century. It’s difficult to ascertain exactly what a kipfel was, but it seems to have been a crescent-shaped, unfilled pastry, made with some sort of sour dairy product.

The deliniation from kipfel into croissant (same shape) and rugelach (similar dough) is easy to see. The rugelach that I’ve made for today uses a yeast-leavened dough made with sour cream, as that is apparently the proper match (cream cheese being usually reserved for the chemically-leavened dough). I filled them with fig jam and an even mixture of pistachios, walnuts, and almonds, purely because I love those flavors together. You could use instead any number of fillings: any flavor jam or preserves, any type of nut, dried fruit, chocolate, poppy seeds, or a combination of all of the above if you’re feeling indulgent. You’re only limited by your imagination. This recipe makes 24 good-sized rugelach, about the size of a small croissant. You could make them smaller, but once you taste one, you’ll be glad you didn’t. These rugelach are tender as can be, with very little gluten-y chew to the dough. The sugar filling is sweet without being cloying, and the finely chopped nuts bring a lovely crunch to the texture.

You could enjoy these just as easily for breakfast, over a cup of tea and a newspaper, as you could for dessert, aside a bitter espresso with a lemon twist (and that glass of wine wasn’t half bad with one, either). Posted on September 7, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Seven: Viennoiserie This week, I’ll be discussing a type of bread that many people may not even think of as bread. The French term for this group is Viennoiserie, and literally translates to “Viennese specialties”. Though many people mistakenly equate the word with “breakfast pastries”, it refers to any baked good made with leavened dough enriched with ingredients like butter, milk, eggs, and sugar. Sweeter and richer than most breads, they’re not quite yet pastry; but if that renders them bread no longer, then I’ll eat my hat. In honor of Labor Day, I’ve made what are quite possibly Plato’s Ideal burger buns. I know, I know, I’ve already made burger buns . And they were pretty good, but these are just exquisite.

To be successful, a good burger bun must be mild-flavored, so as not to overwhelm any fillings, but it must not taste insipid either. It must be soft enough to bite into easily, but must also be sturdy enough to stand up to the juciest burger. Oh, and it should look pretty, too. Does this brioche bun cover all those bases? Yes, and in spades. Previously, my burger buns were a jacked-up, posh version of the sort of bun you find on any grocer’s shelf – quite tasty, but maybe a little too soft. It had a good flavor, but still reminded me a bit of those pale imitators, a bit sweet, a bit too doughy. Today’s buns, however, taste complex but subtle, not overly rich, not too bready. The dough here is a light version of brioche, that queen of all enriched breads. Brioche is typically an unsweet, very rich bread, with a flaky texture and sturdy structure. Made less buttery, then, it is the perfect base for the ultimate burger bun.

Because of the sturdiness, it can easily handle any burger, the crisp-toasted crust providing an adequate barrier for runaway jus. This recipe originally comes from Comme Ça, a restaurant in Las Angeles that I’ve never been to. The New York Times, however, has. They enjoyed themselves so much, in fact, that they dubbed the Comme Ça burger the best in the entire nation. And since you obviously can’t have a good sandwich without good bread, I figured this bun had something going for it. After I saw the gushingly blissful review over at Smitten Kitchen , I knew I had to try it. All the hype is for good reason. This really is an amazing burger bun. The flavor is spot on, neither too mild nor too assertive. That showy, buttery quality of a standard brioche is tamed here, leaving only an accent to pair beautifully with a charred beef burger (think maitre d’hotel butter atop a sizzling filet), yet the “please dunk me in some coffee or something, already!” characteristic remains; these buns beg to be drenched in dripping meat juice. And talk about pretty!

These golden beauties will turn heads, even before you fill them with anything. Personally, I like sesame seeds on my burger buns, but feel free to omit them if you like. However, don’t omit the egg wash on top; it’s what gives them their pretty sheen and rich hue. With their even-textured crumb, excellent flavor, and straightforward mixing method, these buns aren’t just great, they’re a perfect ten, sure to be the ideal accent to any burger. Light Brioche Buns Posted on September 5, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Six: Breads of the United Kingdom In the United Kingdom, people drink a staggering 1,000 cups of tea per person per year. For contrast, the average American drinks about 550 cups of coffee per year. It makes perfect sense, then, that many traditional British breads go so well with tea. No offense to the blueberry muffin, but a blueberry scone is far more appropriate at tea time. The bread for today, bara brith, takes that tea-esque pairing to a whole new level, using black tea to plump dried currants and golden raisins.

The soaking liquid is then used as the primary source of moisture in the loaf, infusing every last mote with the light smoke and gentle bitterness of the tea, and turning the currants and raisins into saturated bombs of jammy goodness, waiting like land mines to explode onto your tongue. Bara brith is a popular Welsh treat, readily available at most bakeries and tea shops. It can be either yeast- or chemically-leavened, but both versions are heavily spiced, and dotted throughout – the name translates literally to “speckled bread” – with the aforementioned dried fruit, and often candied citrus peel as well. I decided to make the quick bread version of bara brith, delicious as the yeasted type sounds, purely because of those tea-soaked fruits. Very moist objects such as these are difficult to work evenly into a yeast dough, but cause no problem at all in a quick bread. You could refrain from soaking the fruits, leaving them drier and more easily incorporated; but every Wesh gran from Cardiff to Llandudno will tell you that without the tea soak, it’s simply not a proper bara brith.

Stealing a brilliant trick from one recipe I found, I’ve incorporated candied orange peel in the form of orange marmalade. Candied peel is often hard to find outside of Christmas time, and I found it too time consuming to make separately, but wanted the hit of citrus all the same. I used a bitter Seville orange marmalade, in order to cut the sweetness a jam would certainly provide. The chunky bits of peel brought a fabulous contrast to the sugary currants and raisins, and added a welcome brightness to the loaf. When mixing this batter together, the generous amount of cinnamon, allspice, and clove smelled exactly like Christmas to me, and made me actually crave a glass of eggnog, despite the sunny, late-summer afternoon waiting outside my window. In lieu, however, I made a cup of tea, and dreamily took in the smells wafting expectantly from the oven. After the long, slow baking, when I finally got to sample a slice, it tasted even better than it smelled. Moist, full-flavored, tender, spiced, it was everything I’d hoped.

Though it would be perfect to serve beside a sparkling Christmas tree, it was surely just as good with my summer mug of Earl Gray. Those British sure do know how to make a tea pairing, don’t they? Bara Brith (Welsh Spotted Bread) Makes one 9 x 5 inch loaf 8 ounces water 1 large egg 1/2 cup milk 1. Bring the water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the tea bag, and steep for 5 minutes, covered. After 5 minutes, remove the tea bag and discard. Add the sugar, and stir until dissolved. Mix in the marmalade. In a heat-proof bowl, combine the currants and raisins. Pour the tea mixture over, and add the brandy (if using). Cover tightly, and let stand at room temperature for at least 1 and up to 24 hours (overnight is typical). 2. Preheat the oven to 325º F. Butter a 9 x 5 inch loaf pan, and line with parchment paper. 3. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves.

Whisk the egg and milk together, and add to the flour mixture. Add the soaked dried fruit, and all the soaking liquid. Using a spatula, gently mix together until just combined, and all the dry ingredients are moistened. 4. Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf pan, and bake at 325º F for 2 hours, or until cooked through. When done, a skewer will come out clean when inserted into the center. Start checking the bread after it has baked for 90 minutes, and every 15 minutes thereafter. If it begins to brown too much, loosely cover the loaf with aluminum foil and continue baking. When fully baked, let cool briefly in the pan, then turn out onto a wire rack to cool thoroughly before slicing. Notes: 1. Bara brith will keep several days at room temperature, in an air-tight container. It may also be frozen and reheated in a 350º F oven until heated through. Though not traditional, it is delicious toasted. Serve with butter or clotted cream, and a cup of the same tea used in the recipe.

Posted in Quick Breads , Sweet | Comments Off on Bara Brith (Welsh Spotted Bread) Posted on September 4, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Six: Breads of the United Kingdom Move over, brioche. King cake , step aside. You too, challah . There’s a new lass in my life, and her name is Sally Lunn. She’s a giant fairy of a bread, softer than down, nearly as tall as she is wide, and my heart’s been conquered. This teatime treasure from Bath, England is ubiquitous there, but relatively rare throughout the rest of the country. In Bath, you can visit Sally Lunn’s house, which purports to sell the “original Bath Bun”. This isn’t entirely accurate, however, as a Bath Bun and a small Sally Lunn are two different creatures, despite their similarities. Both are made with a rich, white dough, both are round and tender buns, and both are almost exclusively served at tea.

But Bath Buns typically have a dried fruit and sugar topping; Sally Lunns are plain or glazed simply with sweetned milk, but may be split horizontally and filled with clotted cream ; then, they are generally called Sally Lunn cakes. Additionally, a Bath Bun is nearly always small, in individual portions; a Sally Lunn is more often as big around as a dinner plate, though they can be made smaller as well. A French girl with a name anglicized to Sally Lunn, who may or may not have even existed, was supposedly the namesake of these delectable breads. She is said to have arrived in Bath as part of the Hugenot exodus in the 1600’s, a claim supported by the very brioche-esque quality of the Sally Lunn (brioche, of course, being a thoroughly French bread). However, I am always skeptical of any foodstuff that claims to trace its lineage back to a single person, especially so over the course of 300-plus years. Another etymological suggestion is that the name was bastardized from the French “soleil et lune”, meaning “sun and moon”; which is a more reasonable suggestion, but still uncertain.

Whatever the origin of the name, I doubt you’ll find a soul capable of resisting the charms of a vrai Sally Lunn. Are you familiar with the texture of an angel food cake? If you’ve ever sliced one, you’ll remember the trepidation as you cut into it, fearful of flattening the diaphinous cake with even the weight of the knife, let along the force needed to separate one piece from another. The same worry will come over you as you slice a Sally Lunn, as the ethereal texture is remarkably similar. But don’t be too afraid; the texture seems to bounce back miraculously. Even after storing slices overnight in a crowded plastic bag, they were hardly damaged. I’m not saying you can sit on it and no harm will come, but cutting won’t hurt it one bit. Though this may be the largest loaf of bread you’ve ever made – it will surely be the tallest – it seems to weigh hardly anything. The egg, milk, and butter, spread out so widely through the loaf due to its airiness, don’t render the same heavy and sometimes even cloying attributes that they can in many similarly-enriched and denser breads.

(Brioche, I’m looking at you.) With the barest suggestion of lemon, and the gentlest gluten-pull in each bite, this may just be the pinnacle of its breed. Here, I’ve used a 10-inch diameter, 2-inch tall springform pan with no problem whatsoever in baking. I dare say the springform pan made the airy loaf easier to remove from the pan as well. The top did “mushroom” a bit, but if you prefer a straighter-sided Sally Lunn, you can use a regular cake pan with a collar (instructions given in note 1 below), or any tall metal pan, such as a bundt pan or angel food cake pan. Individual Sally Lunns can also be baked in muffin tins, if you prefer, and would be an adorably chic addition to any tea party. The best thing about this bread – aside from the impeccable texture and flavor – was its ease in creation. If you have a stand mixer, it’s about as simple as any other yeast bread. It can be made by hand, but take care not to add too much flour in the kneading process if you do. The ingredients are common and uncomplicated, and the results are astonishing.

Who knows? Maybe next year, I’ll have to make a Sally Lunn King Cake. Apologies to my old king cake recipe , but it really was that good. Posted on September 3, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Six: Breads of the United Kingdom Okay, Mr. Smartypants, you who know so much about British culture. You sussed me out. You know that the term “bloomer” is about as precise as the word “loaf”. You know that today’s bread isn’t so much a specific combination of ingredients as it is a method; so you could argue that I’m not bringing you a totally new recipe today. I demur, sir, on the grounds that bread is nothing if not method. Most bread in this world is made up of four basic ingredients – flour, water, salt, and leavener – and results of course vary wildly based on how they’re handled. I suggest that a bloomer is a much a type of bread as the vaunted baguette itself; just because it’s British doesn’t mean it’s automatically disqualified.

For the Americans in the audience, a bloomer is a common term in England for any oblong, rounded loaf of white bread, decorated with a series of diagonal slashes on top. (These are hard to see in the pictures, as I topped the bread with poppy seeds after slashing the dough. Mea culpa.) Other than those basic attributes, it seems like it’s fair game as far as recipes go: bloomers are typically crusty but can be soft, they can be made with a lean dough or can be enriched with butter and milk, can be topped or left plain, and so on. The recipe that I’ve adapted to make my own bloomer relies on a long, slow rise – about 10 hours total. I’ve used very little yeast, and cold water to help limit their initial activity, which means that the first rise (the fermentation) takes as long as 8 hours at room temperature. The salt is kept to a minimum, rendering the flavor of the crumb a little flat, if you’re unused to such a bread.

Such breads are ideal paired with salty foods, such as cured ham or olives; however, I’ve struck a compromise here by topping the loaf with a sprinkling of salt (along with earthy poppy seeds). Feel free to omit the salt topping if you like. All that time spent rising means that this bread has a fabulously complex flavor, as those all-important dough-conditioning acids and enzymes have had plenty of time to develop, resulting in far better taste and texture than you could otherwise achieve. The slightly wet dough creates lovely big holes throughout the bread, and the massive oven spring is a sight to see. The rather flat but fully-risen dough turned into a cheerfully rotund loaf in the oven heat, and when removed to the cooling rack, the crust sang that happy, crackling song that is the rare hallmark of a well-made loaf. Sliced and dipped in a little olive oil, I could see I had a real winner on my hands. Yes, even though it’s not a real recipe.

Posted on September 2, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Six: Breads of the United Kingdom The bread for today, bannock, is one of those delightful breads that has no standard recipe or cooking method, which basically means that you can make it however you want. If anyone complains, you get to protest, “But that’s how I’ve always seen it!” Chances are, no one will challenge that. Bannock is an ancient bread that hails originally from Scotland, and has since spread across the United Kingdom, even finding a foothold in North America via Scottish traders coming to Canada. It can appear in myriad forms: hard and dry, soft and sweet, or flaky and crunchy, depending on the sort of leavening, fat, or liquid used. It can be cooked on a dry griddle, pan-fried, deep-fried, oven baked, or even dropped into a stew and cooked like dumplings (though that last one is more rare). There are certain consistencies from bannock to bannock, however; they are never yeast-leavened, though they may be unleavened, and are usually round, flat breads made with whole grain flours.

They are generally cut into wedges, or farls, which the Scottish also call a “scone”. Yes, this is where scones come from, no matter what the English say. Historically, Scots have relied on the girdle (or griddle, as we Americans call it) for the majority of their baking, rather than an oven. Hence, most of their breads have been round and flat, and were mostly unleavened until chemical leaveners became available in the mid-1800’s. The term “bannock” originally referred to any of these girdled breads, and would’ve primarily been made from barley flour, which surprisingly pre-dates both oats and wheat in Scotland. It seems there’s four major types of bannock in this world, which are regional and based upon the sort of grains available. The Scottish type uses oat flour these days, sometimes exclusively, while the Irish use mostly wheat flour. Wales today brings us the barley flour variation, and the version that grew up across the pond in Canada relies on corn meal. Most types blend their particular grain with wheat flour, to produce a chewier bread.

With so many variations in ingredient and method, it’s nearly impossible to pick a recipe that gives you The One True Bannock; therefore, I’ve decided to give a nod to the bread’s native land, and make a modern Scottish-style bannock. I’m using whole wheat flour mixed with oat flour, made quickly by grinding old-fashioned rolled oats in a food processor. I ground mine finely, but you can leave them a little coarse, if you prefer a more rugged texture. The dough is relatively moist, and is made using the biscuit method (wherein butter is cut into flour, then liquid added). Unsurprisingly, the resulting bread is something like a hearty biscuit or scone, with a rustic and flaky texture. The crust cooks up crunchy and slightly smoky, if you happen to char it in places. Inside, each piece has a remarkably light crumb, despite the grainy flours used, and the relatively little amount of fat. A split-open farl, fluffy and still warm from the pan, was ideal served with a lashing of butter and a swirl of honey on top, the perfect accompaniment for a spot of tea. And that’s the way I’ve always seen it.

Posted on September 1, 2009 by Beth Week Thirty-Six: Breads of the United Kingdom It seemed too good to be true: a 100% whole-wheat, yeast-leavened bread, mixed by hand in about a minute, with hardly any rising time at all. It was the promise of a yeast bread with a quick bread’s method that convinced me to try it, despite any educated misgivings; but it was the result that convinced me to throw the recipe out in the end. Like most things that seem too good to be true, this bread was just that. The text accompanying the recipe assured me that I could expect a moist loaf, one that would stay so for days on end. And, truthfully, it was indeed moist; but moistness alone does not a good bread make. The picture in my cookbook showed domed, pretty, golden-brown loaves in a state of bucolic repose on a wooden table, certainly come upon by chance in some British farmhouse. They looked as much like my loaf as a peacock looks like a chicken. What I pulled from my oven was a morose brick, so flat on top you could serve drinks on it.

In fairness, it did slice easily, and it was quite moist. But this creature between two bready worlds – the yeast-risen one, and the chemically-leavened one – possessed none of the best qualities from either. True, it had mixed together in as little time as any other quick bread, but it lacked the delicate and fluffy texture that marks even a mediocre example of the breed. And though there was no need to worry about overmixing, as the gluten formed by mixing is always desirable in yeasted breads, there simply was not enough formed to capture the gases given off by the yeast, resulting in practically no oven spring at all, and the aforementioned flatness. Additionally, the dough simply hadn’t had time to properly ferment, the step that produces all the complex flavors found in the best yeast breads. Yes, I did end up with a yeast-leavened bread in about one hour; but what’s the point if no one cares to eat it? This bread, created by the eponymous Mrs. Doris Grant, was originally a mistake. Mrs. Grant, the story goes, had been baking her yeast bread for quite some time before she realized she was supposed to knead the stuff.

When she realized her error, she conducted a taste test among her kith and kin, the result of which crowned her unkneaded bread the favorite. Despite Mrs. Grant’s other lifelong achievements, literary and otherwise , I would chalk that preference up to the notoriously bland British palate. (No offense intended; it’s just that they do seem to boil a significant amount of their food.) Generally, whenever a food I make turns out so very different from what was promised, pictured, or expected, I assume the fault must be mine. And perhaps the extra ten minutes I accidentally let the bread rise did, in fact, make all the difference; but somehow, I’m not convinced. I would like to try this one again, being sure to follow the recipe with more exacting precision, though I’m not sure that attempt will be successful either. No matter the outcome, though, I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

Question: The name of which moist Welsh Bread literally means "speckled bread" referring to the fruit it contains?
Answer: BARA BRITH