Eventually the excitement wanes.  You go back to your day job having convinced yourself it just isn’t possible.  It’s just not realistic, you say.

I had that experience recently.

Except the excitement never waned.

And no one said it wasn’t possible.

Instead, everyone told us that it wan’t just possible, but that we had their full support.

And that’s how the Elora Bread Trading Company was born.

I only met Sonia Cheng, an immediately likable and vibrant woman, in February of this year.  We both volunteered at a training session for the KIPP Elora community oven and we hit it off.  We liked a lot of the same things in an equally dedicated and passionate way.  We got to know each other better as we continued to volunteer and organize a few KIPP oven bakes.  And then one day over coffee and crepes we dreamt up the Elora Bread Trading Company – a small scale artisan bread production that would operate primarily out of the farmers’ market.  And possibly offering our bread to other small businesses.  And maybe even offering a bread subscription service, somewhat like a CSA…

The ideas kept tumbling forward followed by an intense pause when we looked at each other and realized we were both serious.

That was five weeks ago. Five utterly crazy, whirlwind weeks that remain but a blur in my mind.  Five weeks of repetitively testing recipes, giving out samples and soliciting feedback, sourcing ingredients and equipment, drawing up logos and choosing fonts, learning new ovens and mapping baking logistics.

And it was all worth it because yesterday was the inaugural opening of the Elora Bread Trading Company at the Elora Farmers’ Market.  And I think it’s safe for me to say that it was a smashing success.

Despite all of our fears that something might go wrong—that our starter would die, our bread wouldn’t rise, that we might burn something or… god forbid, that no one would want to buy our bread and we’d be left standing lonesome at the market with all our wares on display—we sold out in the first 75 minutes of the market, with nothing but ooohs and aaahs, and words of support and encouragement coming from every direction, followed by looks of disappointment and then promises to come earlier next week after we erased our chalked price board to read “Sold out!”

I might not be able to remember much from the last five weeks.  My apartment might be in such a state of neglect to be embarrassing and I might have consumed more bread than I’d like to admit (with my increased girth deceiving me and bearing the evidence).  And I might have had only six hours of sleep in three days.  But it was worth it for every single person who laughed, smiled and remarked about how lovely or delicious our bread was.

It still hasn’t sunk in.  But it better soon, because we sure have a lot of bread to make for next Saturday!

www.facebook.com/elorabreadtradingcompany

www.elorabreadtradingcompany.com

When life is busy and all your waking hours (and even some of your sleeping hours) are spoken for, a rare moment of quiet stillness is a moment to revel in.  That hot cup of tea at the end of busy day, well-deserved and therefore sipped serenely without the suffocating pressure of things to-do; those brief moments curled up on the couch, eyes blurring words from stories of magical realism—those are the moments when you muse contentedly before dreamily drifting away that life is indeed good and not a moment of it is being wasted.

And when not a moment is being wasted—when every moment that is spoken for is a moment readily given—then you might find that you want for nothing.  Because even the moments of exhaustion, of physical discomfort (say, when rolling baguettes outdoors in sub zero weather, your fingers frozen and claw-like); moments of confusion, frustration or disappointment—they’re all worth it.  Why? Because you’re doing something you love.

I’ve never been one for idleness, be it idle chatter or idle activity.  I’ve never mastered the ability to engage in small talk or to whittle away time.   Luckily for me I have found myself perfectly positioned along a time-space continuum where opportunities I have dreamed of are within arms reach, seemingly almost too good to be true.  But I’d like to think I’m an optimist, and therefore I can only acknowledge that it really is true.

But all the flowery language, overabundance of adjectives and redundant sentence structures aside, what I’m trying to say is lately I’ve been busy with a number of amazing and exciting projects.  Let me share them with you.

I’ve already told you about Elora’s Kitchen in the Park Project (KIPP).  The first week of April we held an Easter bake-off that took hours of planning and logistical manoeuvring.  I’d be lying if I said everything went according to plan, but regardless it was a great success and we baked and sold over 500 dinner rolls and 75 baguettes to happy customers.

Less demanding but sure to ramp up as we approach the day of festivities, I’ve  joined the steering committee for the Guelph-Wellington Local Food Fest, through which I have met a number of marvellous people dedicated to ensuring you have an enjoyable afternoon on June 24^th exploring your local food community.

Similarly, I have joined the steering committee for the Perth-Waterloo-Wellington chapter of the Canadian Organic Growers.  And although my involvement has been minimal, I am already astounded by the number of people I have met who volunteer endless personal effort and time to promoting organics and healthy sustainable food systems, without a political agenda but rather with the goal of creating a flourishing sustainable community.

Even more recently (and very exciting!) I have accepted the role of Regional Ambassador for Ontario (excluding Toronto) for the Food Bloggers of Canada!  I am floored and can’t wait to become more actively involved in building a strong Ontario food blogger community.

And while each and every one of these opportunities is exciting.  There is something even bigger.  Even better.  Something that has to do with many of the images you see here—images of bread, bread, bread.  We spent the weekend testing sourdough recipes.  Some were winners, hands down.  And some were, well, let’s just say insufficient for what we were aiming for.  But why, you must be wondering?  It does seem a bit odd that a regular old home bread baking enthusiast would spend the weekend baking over ten loaves of bread (let’s not even mention the painful fullness that came with testing each and every one thoroughly).  But I can’t tell you just yet!

In the meantime I wished to offer you a recipe, a recipe that played on the phrase waste not, want not.  If you’re at all familiar with sourdough, you will know that you maintain a starter which, in larger quantities, can lead to serious waste as you discard starter to maintain a happy yeast culture.  There are a number of recipes scattered across the web and no doubt in numerous cookbooks that tell you how to use your starter discards.  Only just the other day did one of my favourite bloggers—Tara from Tea with Cookies—write a post on this very topic!

But I wanted to construct my own recipe and I had just the idea in mind: a hearty honey oatmeal bread made in part with sourdough starter.  Unfortunately, as I am sure is often the case with people who are developing recipes from scratch, the first go was less than perfect.  It was good, but it needs work.  So I can only tease you with what’s to come… once I find the time.

Time can be your friend.  It can be on your side.  It can also be your enemy.  Time waits for no one.  Sometimes it seems you can control it.  You can take things fast or take things slow.  Kick it up a notch or drag it out.  Others, it can seem out of control.  Time flies or it stands still.  You can have an abundance of time.  Or not enough. You can spend it wisely, or waste it. You can be just in the nick of time or just out of time.

And sometimes… sometimes… you might find perfect timing.

Time has been on my side.  I’ve stumbled into a community that is inviting, open and exciting.  A community that couldn’t be more appropriate–with a wood-fired oven project known as KIPP, to which I’ve been donating much of my time.

In February there was a call for volunteers.  I heeded the call without expectations.  Leaving myself open and receptive.  There was a gathering of like-minded people.  New friendships were born and re-acquaintances were made.  One of the participants ended up being someone I had worked with at the bread bakery, over 300km east of here and over 6 months ago—someone who had taught me much of what (little) I know.  How’s that for timing?

Indeed, the time seemed ripe for a number of us and we grabbed the project by the reins, tumbling into it head first.  We’ve spent hours meeting, planning and trial baking for our upcoming Easter bake-off.  We’ve held workshops to teach interested members of the community about rolling bread.  We’ve been researching recipes, sourcing ingredients, soliciting donations and rallying volunteers eager enough to take on 75 baguettes and over 500 dinner rolls.

Living above the village pub has a way of ensuring that early evening gatherings spent planning can quickly turn into late nights chattering excitedly over pints about what seem like unattainable dreams.  And in small villages words travel fast.  Personal conversations become shared knowledge. No doubt in many cases this is not a desirable effect.  But in our case… People, places, dreams and desires have collided, and the subsequent explosions have been overwhelmingly positive.

I’ll have some very exciting news to report soon.

All in due time!

When I first started writing piecurious and publishing recipes, I always attempted to provide the volume measurements in addition to the weight measurements.  The reason behind this was that I wanted to reach out to home bakers who did not have or wish to use a digital scale.  Not only was this process time consuming, since it required me to measure everything twice, the very act of doing so revealed just how problematic volume measurements can be.  Given that I make multiple versions of each recipe I post, I was quick to discover first hand what many bakers have probably already told you: if you weigh by volume the measurements will inevitably vary.

Now, one of the things I learned working in a professional bakery is that with many baked goods, such as bread, quick breads, muffins, etc. exact adherence to weight measurements isn’t always necessary for success.  In fact, what you’ll find (and what is encouraged in many bread books) is that skilled bread bakers often adjust the water and flour based on sight and touch.  That isn’t to say that there aren’t desserts and pastries, not to mention particular ingredients, that require exact adherence to measurements–absolutely there are.  But adding a 1/4 oz of extra flour to a quick bread recipe doesn’t mean your quick bread will be a quick brick.

So why scale out ingredients?

I have three reasons.

First, it’s easier. Not only do you require fewer tools (which means fewer dishes), it erases the uncertainty of determining less obvious ingredient measurements, like what “3-4 medium-sized bananas” amounts to.

Second, it will make you a better baker.  Why?  Because once you start thinking in weights and, as I do, percentages, you will learn how to quickly and successfully make adjustments to a recipe.

Third, it ensures the final product will come as close to the vision the recipe writer intended.  I spoke about vision in my last post.  I choose the ingredients, and the measurements of those ingredients, for each of my recipes in order to support a vision I have.  I share the recipe with you because I want you to experience it as I intended.  That doesn’t mean I discourage you from experimenting and making your own adjustments.  By all means.  But if you look back to reason two, you’ll see that by enforcing my vision, I’m also providing the tools to reframe that vision.

Long story short, my recipes from this point forward will only include weight measurements (except where it is inappropriate to do so (e.g. 3/8th oz of baking soda).

Nostalgia is a fleeting and blurred sensation, our memories inevitably having become milky and obscured with time.  Our imagination, however, often steps in to fill the gaps in the same way that it allows us to feel like we’ve existed within the frame of a film or the storyline of a novel.  On particularly dull and rainy days, when I find myself distracted by faint rumblings of uncertainty, I sometimes recall fabricated memories of meandering down the streets of 19^th century England from Dickens’ Great Expectations.  On a balmy summer’s day when I’m feeling unusually whimsical, I might find myself daydreaming of the 100 Years of Solitude spent in time-warped and magical Macondo.

Food, like many other things, is capable of inspiring nostalgia and awakening dormant memories of people and places, real or imagined.  And it is often through food that I seek to induce these sensations that can, at least momentarily, become all-engulfing.  It begins with an idea—a vision, of sorts—followed by a journey of experimentation, and ending with something edible and appetizing, most likely composed primarily of flour, although in this case it’s banana.

I did not envision this bread being savoured.  I did not want you to lean back in your chair with your eyes closed, overwhelmed by a series of complex flavours.  This bread is not something to be thought of.  Its presence is intentionally muted—you will notice there is no cinnamon or other spice to entice your sensations, leaving you free to dust off the blurry images in your mind of times and people past, while simultaneously leaving you feeling nourished and whole.

This is a bread you eat during the stillness of an early spring morning, toasted with melted butter and maybe even a drizzle of honey, perched on a window sill while the rest of the city sleeps.  Or even out of a brown paper bag, crouched on a dusty, pine needle ridden forest floor during a solitary afternoon hike.

Chunks of fresh banana are roasted from within, imparting a mild sweetness. The whole wheat flour and bran provide texture and earthy wholesomeness,  while the teff and flax offer a satisfying, yet gentle crunch.  Oil, buttermilk and a high ratio of banana to flour ensures the crumb remains moist, but not too delicate.  This is not to be thought of as a cake or a dessert.  But rather a comforting inner thought companion.

Breakfast Banana Bread
(Makes one 9” x 5” loaf)

Like with all the recipes I post here, I tried numerous versions of this banana bread before sharing the recipe.  I had originally intended to make the bread for the last Daring Bakers’ Challenge, but had yet to come up with a version that satisfied the vision I had of it.  In previous versions I had omitted the bran, used less whole wheat flour and less banana, used yogurt in place of the buttermilk, millet instead of teff, and frozen, rather than fresh bananas.  I have always suspected using overripe frozen bananas to dilute the flavour, rather than enhance it.  I far enjoyed using overripe fresh bananas instead, particularly because you have greater control over the consistency of the banana, and if you leave the mash chunkier you will find the bread punctuated with sweet roasted nuggets of banana, appearing like unexpected gifts.

1 1/2 oz wheat bran
5 oz buttermilk
4 oz olive oil
17 oz overripe banana, not frozen

5 oz eggs (3 large)
5 oz light natural cane sugar

7 oz unbleached all-purpose flour
5 oz whole wheat flour
1 tbsp (3/8^th oz) golden flax seeds
1 tbsp (1/2 oz) teff grain
1 tsp sea salt
1 tbsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda

Preheat your oven to 375F.  Lightly oil and flour a 9” x 5” loaf pan.  In a bowl, stir together the buttermilk and wheat bran, then set the bowl aside.  In another bowl, mix together the dry ingredients.  Cut the bananas into slices, then mash them using a fork, leaving them slightly chunky.  Add the bananas and oil to the wheat bran and buttermilk.  In another bowl, beat together the eggs and sugar.  Add the bran mixture to the eggs and sugar.  Fold in the dry ingredients, being careful not to overmix.  Bake for 50 minutes (rotating the pan half-way through) or until a skewer inserted in the centre of the loaf comes out clean.

I wasn’t born a social butterfly and no one would dare call me much of one now. It has taken me years of silent observation and awkward imitation to cultivate the still somewhat muted level of social grace and tact that I have now. My father is a very independent and inward-focused man, choosing to socialize with books and tools rather than other human beings. He’s an electrician and works with systems. My mother, on the other hand, is very heartwarming and engaging. She excels at customer service.

Needless to say, when it comes to socializing, I’m clearly my father’s child despite having grown up only visiting on weekends. But as I push toward my thirties, I have been overwhelmed by the growing desire to build a strong social network and community. The reason for this, I think, is that I’ve finally developed a pretty accurate idea of who I am and what I value and therefore also the kind of people I’d like to surround myself with. And so it is only natural that I would embark on a journey to find them.

The bedroom may have the bed frame, but the living room has the allure of a constantly roaring fire – the sole source of heat in the apartment.  Well, to be honest, it’s a gas fireplace so it actually doesn’t roar, but silently sends up shoots of flame from behind fake, though surprisingly real-looking, logs. But like many people, I prefer to sleep in a cooler room so the fireplace isn’t the draw.

Rather, it’s the excitement and energy with which I have begun to tackle my hobbies that drives me to the couch instead of my bed each night.  I have stripped the university library of their baking science books.  There are bread books open and scattered across every flat surface of the kitchen and dining room, and some even teetering atop flour scoops, and tart pans, pages gritty with flour and rumpled by careless drops of water.  There have been evenings stretching into the wee hours of the morning where I have awoken every half-hour to turn dough as part of a bread experiment which I had no hopes of success.  And I’ve spent countless minutes sitting entranced in front of the window on my oven, marvelling at the wonder that is oven-spring (my previous oven did not have a window so this is a real treat for me).

Fatigue has become an enemy, slowing me down and muddling my brain, leaving me no choice but to hang up my apron for the night.  But I am so eager to continue that I feel abuzz with an urgent need for the night to pass quickly.  Collapsing onto the couch with flour still caked to my fingers gives me the feeling that I’m not really going to bed, but merely taking a moment to rejuvenate.  No need for such complications as blankets, sheets and pillowcases.  My large couch lures me into a quick, deep sleep and before I know it day has broken and I’m ready to take on a new project, or to continue coddling the one from the previous evening.

I’ve followed this routine over a stretch of three days as I attempted to coax out a satisfactory red lentil cracker recipe for the Canadian Lentils Recipe Revelations Challenge.  180 crackers later, I think I’ve come up with a pretty addictive (if not colourful!) little cracker, the kind that you sit down with a handful, and then find yourself with only a blurry memory of having gone back to the cupboard to retrieve the rest, evidenced only by the empty box.

Don’t feel daunted by the time it takes to make these crackers (three days).  As with many things, time bestows quality and depth of flavour to these crackers.  You can easily skip the refrigeration step, but I promise that your crackers will taste better if you don’t.

Seedy and Spiced Red Lentil Crackers
(Makes 48 crackers 1.5” in diameter)

1 1/2 oz split red lentils

1 tbsp honey
1 tbsp olive oil

1 oz pumpkin seeds
1/2 oz sunflower seeds
1/4 oz (1 tbsp) sesame seeds
1/4 oz (1 tbsp) golden flax seeds

2 1/2 oz spelt flour
1 3/4 oz whole wheat flour

1 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp coriander
1/8th tsp chipotle chilli powder
1/4 tsp red pepper flakes
1/2 tsp sea salt

2 oz water

Day 1: Measure, rinse and soak the lentils for 24 hours.

Day 2: Drain and rinse the lentils. While they are draining, toast the seeds in a dry skillet until they become fragrant and start to pop. Place the seeds in a small food processor and grind until pebbly. Once the lentils have drained, mix them with the olive oil and honey. In another bowl, mix together the remaining dry ingredients and the ground, toasted seeds. Add the dry ingredients to the lentils. Add the water a little at a time. You want the dough to be dry and manageable, not sticky. If you find you don’t need all the water, then don’t use it. If your dough is too wet, add a bit more flour. It’s ok.

Split the dough in two, roll it into balls and wrap it in plastic wrap. Refrigerate for 8-12 hours.

Day 3: When ready to bake, pre-heat your oven to 425F. Remove the dough from the fridge. Flour your work surface. Flatten the ball of dough out onto the floured counter. Using the plastic wrap as a buffer between the dough and rolling pin, roll the dough out thin – about 1/8th of an inch. The thinner you roll the dough, the crispier and more delicious your crackers will be. Conversely, if you like dense, chewier crackers, leave them thick.

Using a cookie cutter of your choice, cut out the crackers and place them on a lined sheet pan. You can also just cut the dough into squares with a knife, if you wish.

Want super-salty crackers?  Sprinkle them with a flaky sea salt.

Bake for 8-10 minutes, turning the pan once at the half-way point. You want the edges to brown nicely for a crisp finish. Let cool on a wire rack for an hour. They will crisp further as they cool.

Location is everything.

It has taken me many years of living in uninspiring and isolating places to fully grasp the truth of this statement.  To not think of location as an addendum to be ignored and then forgotten, but rather as the first chapter in the book on how to achieve the charmed life.

Faced with another relocation, I was determined not to settle in a place or a space that did not fully resonate with my personality and my thoughts of the future.  I had reached a point in my life where I longed to find a place where my creativity could take root and thrive.

My choices were of course limited to being within an acceptable commuting distance from where I worked.  Having spent the majority of my life commuting via public transit and the last year and half living in a walkable city, I was convinced that commuting, even now with my own car, would be an undesirable characteristic of place.

The country changed all that.

Temporarily stationed with my mother for the month of January as I began my new job without yet having found a new apartment, I was required to commute between cities for work. Despising city driving and traffic, I quickly discovered a number of country backroads that could get me where I needed to go and would allow me to avoid the hassle of traffic lights and other drivers, as well as the lifeless grey industrial paysage that characterizes well-worn highways, the sight of which always induces a dull aching in my heart.  Regardless of the time of day or my fatigue, my commute through the countryside left me inspired and rejuvenated.  I was immediately convinced: I must find somewhere to live which will allow me to see and experience this everyday.

My search for a new place expanded beyond the city limits; however, my choices were limited, both in terms of availability and price, and I was left feeling hopeless and defeated.  But hopelessness drives people to do things they wouldn’t usually do—to act on the basis of the exasperated exclamation: “What do I have to lose?”

There was a listing for an apartment that I had read and re-read in gulps—it sounded perfect, but the price was just too much.  So I emailed the proprietor and inquired whether he’d be willing to lower the price.  I could barely breathe when I received a response informing me he was willing to compromise.  And that was it.  The possibility had become too real and I agreed immediately.  When I viewed the place in person, it was everything I had imagined.  The space enveloped me in its nurturing ambience and I felt my ambition swell.  This was it.

Before I had even signed the lease I had, for reasons unknown, a vision of myself perched on the balcony that overhangs the river (!) on a still summer morning, coffee freshly brewed and a slice of poundcake punctuated with summer fruit.  Despite summer being months away, I knew one of the first things I baked in my new space would have to be pound cake.  So I was happy to see that this month’s Daring Bakers’ Challenge was for a quick bread of your choice.

The Daring Bakers’ February 2012 host was – Lis! Lisa stepped in last minute and challenged us to create a quick bread we could call our own. She supplied us with a base recipe and shared some recipes she loves from various websites and encouraged us to build upon them and create new flavor profiles.

Pound cake is of course a cake, not a quick bread. Although the lines between cake and quick bread are routinely blurred, I felt compelled to adjust the recipe both to comply with the Challenge, as well as for my own tastes.  Cakes usually have a much higher fat and sugar content than quick breads, making them sweeter, fluffier and moister.  The fats and sugars are often creamed together, and the eggs are sometimes whipped, to provide a consistent, bouncy crumb.  Quick bread ingredients, on the other hand, are usually mixed straight—dry into the wet—and are less sweet and more dense.

The traditional pound cake takes it name from the fact that all the main ingredients—butter, sugar, flour, eggs—are weighed in a ratio of 1:1:1:1, where 1 = 1 lb.  If you understand the function each of these ingredients play within a batter, the traditional pound cake recipe can act as the launching point for numerous cake or quick bread variations.

The pound cake on the plate in my summer vision was dense and fragrant, but not too sweet.  The fruit accompanying the cake was intended to provide added depth and sweetness.  The version I whipped up fit this role perfectly.  It has a spongy texture which demands the addition of a simple fruit syrup or a light runny jam, and it is moist and fragrant with the warm scent of honey and vanilla.  I served mine with sliced cinnamon-stewed peaches that I put up last season, bringing a hint of summer into this mild winter morning.

Poundcake, Adapted
(Makes 1 loaf)

8oz all-purpose flour (organic, stone milled if possible)
2oz light organic cane sugar
1/4oz (2 tsp) baking powder
A dash of salt for good measure

4oz butter, melted
4oz full-fat yogurt
4oz (4) large eggs, lightly beaten
4oz honey
1 tsp vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350F.  Whisk together the butter, honey, eggs and yogurt.  Add the vanilla extract.  In another bowl, mix together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt.  Fold the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients being careful not to overmix, yet ensuring there are no clumps of flour (sifting first helps here).  Pour the ingredients into a lightly oiled and floured loaf pan.  Bake for 50 minutes.  A skewer should come out clean when inserted in the centre and the top will be a nice golden brown.

Enjoy with fruit or jam in a space and place you find inspiring.

My temporary makeshift office. A bare space on the periphery of the clutter and chaos.

I’m still in the throes of unpacking and re-nesting, struggling with the waxing and waning feelings of dislocation and disconnection, excitement and curiosity, that come with moving into a new space and a new place. I’ve learned fairly quickly what I already knew: my creativity does not thrive in chaos. The cookbooks and bread books that I longed for during our month-long separation are scattered throughout the apartment, but I cannot even conceive of breaching their covers yet. There are boxes to unpack. Nooks and crannies to scrub clean. Curtains to hang and walls to be painted. My sourdough starters are languishing in the fridge as my baguette pans gather dust, having yet to see the interior of an oven. But soon.

Normalcy will return. It has to.