Life has been busy in the cold dry air of late January and early February, a lot of doing even though I have been good at putting big jobs off (apart from the killing, butchering and merguez-ing of the black billy goat), a lot of running errands and around but today thankfully I remembered about my love of naps and I had one small perfectly formed one while the children had gone cycling in the fog.
The last bread (sourdough white spelt) leftover from my last baking on St Brigid’s day (1 February) was dampened and whacked—as we call here the short sojourn in a very hot oven—back to absolute freshness (one of the whys I absolutely love sourdough) for tomorrow’s breakfast and school sandwiches. Time to call it a day.
Winter in the kitchen, and tonight surrounded by freezing fog : slow fermentation under a massive pebble that the children once brought me back from a seaside they had gone to without me. Chillies, garlic and salt : garlic turns bright green and I had to use my favourite search engine, namely duck duck go, to be reassured that nothing untoward was happening (from what I read fermenting or pickled garlic may also turn blue like the tip of my grey hair). This will sit around on the counter top for nine days according to L until it will be processed into a lovely spread.
Meanwhile I just used up another fermenting potion to make one of my favourite soups which, when cold, looks remarkably like dirty wallpaper paste : Zurek. Rye flour mixed with warm water (to be perfectly honest I often start with rye sourdough) with a clove of garlic added. It sits around for a while forming a rather scary-looking skin which, if allowed to come into its own, may be actually lifted in one go and turfed into the compost. A broth is made with celeriac (or Hamburg parsley root), carrots, celery, onion… while forest mushrooms are soaking in warm water. Vegetables are removed (they can be cut into chunks, mixed with mayonnaise and become a salad as is the tradition). Mushrooms and mushroom water are thrown in without the grit and cooked. The fermented flour is added, alongwith marjoram, pepper and salt, and also perhaps sausages or/and strips of cooked bacon. As most soups it likes to sit overnight and be reheated. It is then served with hard-boiled eggs halves floating in and a slice or two of generously buttered (sourdough) bread. It heals and warms my heart, hugs my body and soothes my soul. In one word I recommend it. It is a Polish soup and if you do decide to give it a go herewith (oh yes !) is the lovely song you may like to listen to while devouring it for appropriate resonance.
Back from walking in the snow fallen overnight to bring hay to the goats I sat down and came across this wonderful (touching, thoughtful, funny) talk by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie which will work as a lovely addendum to the succinct exhortation of sorts I posted here yesterday. Just under nineteen minutes of your life I can guarantee you will be grateful to have spent listening to her good voice.
“How [stories] are told… Who tells them… When they are told… How many stories are told… are really dependent on power. Power is the ability not just to tell the story of another person but to make it the definitive story of that person.”
Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign. But stories can also be used to empower and humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people but stories can also repair that broken dignity. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
And an article worth reading by writer and photographer Teju Cole in The New Yorker, pointed out to me by poet Beau Beausoleil.