Late to the party, but still well-bread

You think this bread is good?  This is all that's left of a loaf I baked yesterday.  I have more rising now.

About six years ago, Mark Bittman published a recipe for bread that requires no kneading and yet comes out amazingly good.

It's not so much skipping the kneading that makes this bread what it is:  it's the increased water, the reduced yeast, and most of all, baking the bread in a hot, covered pot.  The smaller amount of yeast means that the bread can make a very long, slow rise, which develops texture and flavor.  The high water content means that the bread expands quickly when it's baked, giving the characteristic big holes that you get with artisan bread.  And the covered pot, combined with the steam that the extra water provides when it heats, gives a hearty crust.

I finally found this recipe about six weeks ago, and I think I've baked at least eight loaves since then.  They've all been terrific.  I've made a few slight modifications, so I'll give my formula:

2 cups bread flour
1 cup whole wheat flour (or you could use all white flour if you prefer)
1-1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon dried yeast
1-2/3 cups warm water
(for the rising loaf, wheat bran as needed)

You throw everything but the wheat bran into a bowl and stir it until it forms a very loose dough.  (Be sure you incorporate all the flour into the dough--don't leave any lurking under the dough at the bottom of the bowl.)  Put it in a glass or plastic bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and let it sit in a draft free place for at least 12 hours.  You can let it go up to 24 hours; I would say I usually let it sit for 14 - 16 hours.  (In other words, you do this in the afternoon or evening and plan to bake it the next day.)

When it's risen fully, it will be bubbly on top and will smell a bit like beer.  That's good!  It's the yeast doing its work.  Turn it out of the bowl onto a floured surface.  It will be a bit of a mess, but don't worry.  Work in a little more flour if it makes it easier to handle, but just knead it gently until it forms a ball.

Set the ball of dough on a clean linen towel (not terrycloth--you don't want fuzz in your bread) that you've generously sprinkled with wheat bran.  Sprinkle some bran on top of the dough and fold the towel over the dough to cover it (or use a second towel).  Let that sit someplace safe for a couple of hours.

Half an hour before you want to bake the bread, set a Dutch oven with its lid into the oven and turn the heat to 500 degrees (I like this better than the 450 in the recipe).  The Dutch oven will get very hot, which is exactly what you want.  When you're ready to bake, take the Dutch oven out (use good oven mitts!) and set it on a heatproof surface.  Dump the dough into the pot (bran will fly everywhere, which is why there are brooms), and then shake the pot gently to distribute the dough evenly.  Cover the pot tightly and put the whole thing into the oven.  Bake for half an hour, then uncover the pot and bake for another 10 - 15 minutes to brown the crust fully.

When it's done, slip it out of the pot onto a rack to cool.  Then try to fend your family off while they run for the hot bread.

Bittman later published a modified recipe that takes less time.  I haven't tried it yet, but I'm sure it too would be good.

It only took me six years to find this recipe.  Now I'm baking a loaf more or less every other day, because we like it so much.  Better late than never, as they say.

On imagination

The whole family was in New York City last week as a way of celebrating Miriam's graduation from college and, well, just because we like going to places like New York City.  We visited the Natural History Museum (and got hours of laughter from imagining how a Tyrannosaurus Rex could possibly use those idiotically short arms of his) and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, walked around Chinatown and Little Italy, strolled through Central Park praising Frederick Law Olmstead (the architectural genius behind it all) and generally had ourselves a terrific time.

The highlight for me was seeing the play "War Horse."  On one level, the show, which tells the story of a farm horse that is conscripted by the British crown to fight in World War I, is extraordinarily simple:  most of the time, the stage is nearly bare--there is hardly any set.  The centerpiece is a remarkable machine (you can't really call it a puppet) that evokes the horse of the title.  (If you don't know what I'm referring to, take a moment to look at this.)  Three actors operate the machine so that the horse gives a breathtaking performance.  It is spellbinding--there is no other word.

We first saw the machine/puppet while touring Lincoln Center.  The guide said something about how he, as an audience member, had stopped paying attention to the puppeteers and came to believe it was a real horse.  I didn't have that experience:  I was always aware that it was not a real horse, and that was what made it so remarkable.  I think it was Brecht who pointed out that playgoers don't forget that they're watching actors in a play.  We don't forget that we're watching movies or television.  Part of what captivates us is our awareness that we are experiencing an illusion.  If it were real, or seemed completely so, it would be unremarkable:  reality is all around us, and we don't need reminding of it.

"War Horse" is theater at its best because it is a kind of conspiracy between the actors and the audience.  We in the audience have to work a bit:  as we watch, we have to supply what's missing--although this isn't a difficult task because we're given very good cues.  The actors don't create the illusion for us, they invite us to create the illusion for ourselves.

When it works--and it does, stunningly so, in "War Horse"--the experience is like nothing else.  It is truly life-changing, and that, as Elizabeth gleefully pointed out, is why we do what we do when we create performances.

If you have the chance to see "War Horse" in New York, seize the opportunity.  You will be transformed, and your imagination will be sparked in ways you might not have thought possible.

(PS:  It's worth pointing out that only yards away from the Vivian Beaumont Theater, where they're creating theatrical magic with "War Horse" by making the audience do much of the work, stands the Metropolitan Opera.  In that house, massive sets and stunning costumes cloak the music in a fabric of monumental naturalism.  It is an altogether different way of firing the imagination, but it works just as wonderfully.  Perhaps this is more workable in opera because the medium itself is so removed from reality:  as fun as it is to sing stories, it isn't very much like everyday life.  Surrounding the singing with something that looks like it could be a city street or a ballroom underscores the unreality, just as having a wooden puppet portray the emotions and reactions of a horse takes us farther from ordinary life to a deeper truth.)

Sticks and Stones

There's a reason (well, several, probably) why blog posts have been so scarce here lately.  It's mainly that most of what I'd post would be political rants, and heaven knows we don't need more of those.  But eventually it becomes hard to hold one's tongue.

There have been so many things I could have reacted to:  the various looney doings in the Arizona legislature, for one.   They operate as though Kafka were in charge--actually, even Kafka would find some of what they do too weird.  Then there are the various outrageous statements by politicians who hope you won't scrutinize what they say too carefully--because they don't hold up to any rational or logical examination.

What brings me out of hiding?  Rush Limbaugh, of course, because I think those of us who find what he has said about Sandra Fluke to be so offensive must speak out.  We can all complain bitterly about the loss of civility in our discourse, but if we don't condemn it--if we just watch it as a sort of fight to the death among gladiators--we're at least partly complicit.  Edmund Burke reminded us that evil triumphs when good people do nothing (though it's hard to pin down exactly how he said it--read this interesting compilation).

Rush Limbaugh and others are entitled to believe that contraception shouldn't be part of standard medical insurance coverage.  I passionately disagree with them, but I won't call them names.  In fact, I won't even call Rush Limbaugh names, tempting as it is.  And I won't condone calling anyone names.  (One response to the outcry about Limbaugh's remarks has been to dredge up some really foul things that some liberals have said about some conservatives.  Those aren't right, either, and they certainly don't make this right.  In fact, didn't we all learn as kids that "two wrongs don't make a right"?  I condemn all  hate speech--it is dangerous, vicious, and destructive.)

Apart from the downright mean-spiritedness of the remarks (which was bad enough) Limbaugh made a series of big rhetorical mistakes in his diatribes against Sandra Fluke.  First, he set up a paper tiger or a straw man:  he turned her advocacy for insurance coverage of contraception on its head, claiming that she sought taxpayer support for contraceptives.  Everything else he said flowed from this one great, gaping logical flaw.  He then misconstrued how birth control works (deliberately, I suspect, since it's hard to imagine anyone being that misinformed), suggesting that if she had less sex, she'd need less birth control.  Finally (well, probably not finally--I'm sure there are other sins we can enumerate), he engaged in what is called, ironically in this case, an ad hominem argument.  That's when you don't take on the argument itself, but you attack the person making the argument--an argument "against the man."  This, as Cicero pointed out centuries ago, is basically a distraction.  Yet it's the meat and potatoes of a lot of political discourse.

And that's what I want to condemn.  Disagree with me all you like.  Tell me why I'm wrong and you're right.  Find facts that support your position and demonstrate that mine is misinformed, naive, or just plain wrong.  But don't ignore my argument altogether and just start calling me names.

The sad truth is that ad hominem arguments work.  Mud-slinging works.  Negative campaigning works.  And it will keep working, no matter outraged we pretend to be, so long as we are willing to be swayed by it.

There are websites that check the accuracy of candidates' statements.  Maybe we need one that keeps track of how often they call their opponents names instead of engaging the argument.

So I hereby foreswear all name-calling.  And anyone who disagrees with me is just a stupid jerk.  :o)

(And speaking of Edmund Burke, he also said this:  "All government, indeed every human benefit and enjoyment, every virtue, and every prudent act, is founded on compromise and barter."  Yup.  Something else we've lost track of.)