The Records

There’s a story I need to tell. It’s long, and possibly boring, so bear with me.

“I told Mark and Pete about the records,” I said to Liz.

“Did they laugh?” she asked.

“Yes they did, thankfully,” I said. Liz smiled wryly, and we both went on our way.

I had been in Stroud Brewery when I told them. Dare I, I thought to myself, but heck, what’s to lose but my dignity. Again. Here goes, I thought, as I went in.

“Can I tell you about the records?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Mark and Pete, not knowing what else to say: we were sitting in a pub, what else was there to do but share idle stories. So I began.

“Well, there I was, at the Canal Trust bookshop,” I started. I didn’t tell them why I was there – it was to enquire about whether the bookshop wanted one of those transport cases for albums. Liz was with me, as was Stan, the dog: both were waiting on the path outside, within earshot. Two volunteers, both men, were sitting outside, wearing Canal Trust shirts and by this token good candidates for an enquiry.

“So,” I continued, “I said to these guys, can I tell you about the records?” What I didn’t say, to Mark and Pete at least, was that I had explained it as the funniest moment of my life, a turn of phrase that would come back to bite me. “Sure,” said the two Canal Trust people. At least I think they did, or perhaps it was just a nod, but it didn’t matter, I was going to tell them anyway.

“Okay,” I said, here’s what happened. There I was, walking the dog the other day, and I saw one of your colleagues. We were chatting and I asked him what he did.

“Ah, I deal with the records,” he said.

“Wow,” I said, “that must be really interesting, dealing with all those historical documents.” I was distinctly impressed, thinking to myself that he must be an absolute mine of information.

“Nah,” he said, opening a door. “These records.” He pointed at row upon row of albums of music, LPs stretching from wall to wall.

“Oh,” I said, laughing. I don’t remember him having found it particularly funny, but it tickled me.

So, that’s what I told the two Canal Trust volunteers: I was already laughing as I said it. I got to the end and said, “Nah, these records!” and waited for their response.

Nothing. Not a titter, not a smile. “You see, the records,” I said.

“I don’t get it,” said one.

“You know, albums. LPs. Like, you know, Johnny Cash.”

“Oh,” he said, nonplussed.

“I get it, I think,” said his colleague.

“The records,” I said, desperately. I tried again with an example, before saying, “I will never tell that story again.”

Nothing. Just a slightly perturbed face, as though a coin had appeared on the table for no reason.

“You might want to ask inside, you know, about the box,” said the other volunteer.

Recognising this as an opportunity to exit, I took my leave and did precisely that.

As I re-emerged onto the path, not able to make eye contact with the two, I saw Liz looking at me, her face sparkling with barely suppressed mirth. As we moved away she collapsed into helpless laughter.

“You see, the records,” I said, without any hope left.

“Stop,” she said, bursting into laughter once again.

So that’s what I told Mark and Pete. They laughed, their collective response no doubt helped by the empty pint glasses sitting in front of them. At that moment I didn’t care, I felt nothing but gratitude.

Which is what I told Liz. And now I am telling you. If you have read this far, I can only thank you.

You see, the records.

The Records

A Recipe for Wholemeal Sourdough Bread. With Notes.

Loosely based on BBC Good Food.

Ingredients

1 kilo of wholemeal flour for two loaves, plus enough (500 grams-ish) for the starter and (cough) levain

20 grams of salt

I use flour straight from a mill — I sieve it to remove most of the bran and give the bread half a chance of rising.

Introduction

Sourdough bread is made without bought yeast: it uses a starter, which is a sloppy, semi-fermented paste. It’s dead easy to make a starter: it has to be, as making bread is one of the first things we ever did. Starters are remarkably resilient — check out the US pioneers that would carry a bit of starter in a pouch, then use it to kick off their bread making when they got the opportunity. So, above all, don’t be scared of either the idea, or the process. All these pictures of beautiful bread are largely bread doing its thing, you just need to follow some standard principles and it’ll do the rest. The one thing it does take is time, which, let’s face it, we all have quite a lot of at the moment. And perhaps we always should. But anyway.

In terms of practicalities, a starter takes under a week to kick off; then sourdough bread is best considered over a four-day period.

* Day 0 is when you take the starter out of the fridge and re-activate it.
* Day 1 is when you make a levain, ready for bread making
* Day 2 is when you’ll do the bread making itself
* Day 3 is when you cook the bread

If this sounds like a palaver, only Day 2 requires repeated effort, and even that is just dipping in and out — a bit of effort in the morning then four lots of 5 minutes, every half an hour, in the afternoon. So, it’s more a case of building it into a routine than any hard effort. Ideally, a nine-to-five worker would have Day 2 on a Saturday, but that’s also when you’d be wanting to get that delicious, freshly baked bread out of the oven… so perhaps reserve a bit of time, between emails, say, on a Friday morning — which puts Day 0 as Wednesday evening. How hard can it be?

First things first: you’ll need that there starter before you can do anything. Again, given the above timescales, you should kick that off at the weekend, then you will be ready to go on the following Wednesday. Good luck!

Making the Starter

The starter makes itself, with a bit of help. Take a reasonably large vessel – a 500ml yoghurt pot with a lid, say – and put in it 50 grams of flour and 50 mls of lukewarm water. Exact proportions aren’t important but you don’t need too much of anything — stir it and you should end up with a loose paste. Put the lid on loosely, then leave it overnight on the kitchen surface. Do the same every day for 4-5 days, and you should end up with something frothing and bubbling of its own accord. Some notes:

1. If you want to be totally hipster, you can use a Kilmer jar or similar but this will make no difference to the starter.
2. You can also give it a name, but come on, be serious. Unless you have kids in which case, totally. Or you just want to.
3. But you can call it Mother. No, I don’t know why either.
4. You can use any kind of plain flour – wholemeal, white, spelt, doesn’t matter. You’re just creating something for yeast to eat as it develops.
5. If it develops a layer of water, you can pour this off if you feel so inclined. You can also throw away half the starter from time to time, as you never need that much.
6. A test, reputedly, is that a teaspoon of starter should float in warm water. I don’t think this works for wholemeal, and if it’s not floating but still frothing, don’t fret.

In any case, a good, frothy starter is clearly doing its thing. Once you have this, you’re ready to make some bread. See below and put what you don’t need in the fridge, unless you are planning on making bread every day.

Making the Levain

Levain is a French word (yeast is ‘levure’), which is of no relevance whatsoever, and nor is the levain itself: all that’s really happening at this stage is that you’re getting the proportions of starter right for a couple of loaves. Levain is the sort of word people use to make bread making sound more mysterious, and therefore less accessible, than it actually is. It’s words like levain that cause snobbery and pretentiousness, and leave normal people, who would otherwise be perfectly capable of producing a loaf, feeling inadequate and unsure of themselves. Levain is a touchstone for all that is wrong with cooking, taking away any concept of initiative or self-belief and leaving us all to be over-reliant on recipes as if we can’t think for ourselves, but have to follow someone else’s steps as though they contain some magic formula that would otherwise be unattainable to mere mortals. It is the fault of levain, yes, levain that we have celebrity chefs, whole shelves full of beautifully illustrated books, and competitive cooking series in which it isn’t enough to make something delicious and nutritious, but it has to be a feat of culinary ingenuity. It is because of levain that we have Paul Hollywood.

Anyway, stick a healthy tablespoon of starter into a bowl, add 100 grams of flour and 100 grams of lukewarm water, and leave it on the kitchen surface, loosely lidded, overnight. That’s it.

Making the bread – Day 2 Morning

The morning of Day 2, you kick things off by mixing the levain into 600 mls of lukewarm water. By now you may be wondering about all this ‘lukewarm water’ business, what’s that about? Essentially, yeast operates best at about 25 degrees Celsius — that’s when it most likes to bud, to eat sugar and turn it into carbon dioxide. As room temperature is (say) 16-20 degrees, you can give the yeast a helping hand with water that is 30 degrees or so, that way, when it makes contact with the flour, you should arrive somewhere around that magic 25. Doing this means the resulting dough is already at the right temperature, within: you don’t need to worry about airing cupboards, warm porches and the like.

You should have a thin slurry of yeasty goodness, into which you can add a kilogram of flour. Note that the proportions that count are of starter to flour: the amount of water is relevant more for how workable the resulting mix becomes. So don’t be afraid to add a bit more if the dough feels too solid: too much water and you can end up with a very sticky and unmanageable dough, but it shouldn’t affect the ability of the bread to rise. (As a digression, half a kilo of flour will make a ‘standard’ loaf. Normal bread making requires 10 grams of (proper, not low) salt and 10 of yeast per loaf, so this is no different).

Mix the flour into the dough. You can use an implement for this, but doing so misses a trick as your fingers are the best judge of how well something is missing. Top tip: as you start, use one hand to hold the bowl, and the other to mix. You can bring your second hand in once the process is underway. Second top tip: be sure to have already rolled your sleeves up before starting: if you don’t, it will already be too late, as your hands will be coated. You should end up with a rough dough: get as much of the dough off your fingers and back into the dough before you finish, them leave on the surface for between 1-4 hours, in a clear plastic bag. This holds in the moisture and stops the dough from drying out.

Note that the timing is not massively relevant: you’re wanting to let the mixture activate itself over the day, but equally, you have things to be getting on with. I suggest you get this stage done between 9-10, then you have something to work on after lunch. Equally, you could do it first thing, and time lunch around the next stages. You get the picture.

Day 2 Afternoon

Throw the 20 grams of salt over the mix, and add a splash of water, then you’re ready to knead this emerging masterpiece. You’re using your hands, again, and you want to be able to feel the material stretching through your fingers. You should know when it’s done, as it’ll feel consistently stretchy. If it feels a bit tight, add a splash more water but no more.

Leave for 20 minutes. Then take the dough out of the bowl and flip it onto its back, straight onto the kitchen surface – its underside should look a bit pocked. pull the sides over each other then flip it back and stretch the sides down and underneath, to create a skin. Then pop it back in the bowl. Put some flour on your hands to do this if it’s sticking.

Leave for 20 minutes, then do it again. And again after 20 minutes, and again. Once more, timing does not need to be super-accurate. Then leave it in the bowl, bagged, for two or three hours. It should rise, not by much — more important is that bubbles appear under the surface.

At this stage – late afternoon or evening – you should have your dough, proved and ready to go. Divide it into two (super-top tip, which took me years to work out, is that accurate results are best done with scales. Well, duh), then follow the above process of putting each piece onto its back, then folding into the centre before flipping and stretching the skin. This time, stretch tighter than previously, until you feel you have a Jack-the-Giant-killer tight tummy of a skin.

You can now put in a floured basket, if you have one. It isn’t essential. You can just use the bowl you were using — I have two thin laminated plastic salad bowls (barbecue style) that do the job. Sprinkle a bit of flour in first, but don’t worry if you forget. Do the same with the second portion of dough. (Or, if you like, divide it into four and make pizza bases. Follow the same fold and stretch process for each, leave to rest for half an hour or so, then attempt to juggle around your head before giving up and rolling with a bit of flour. This can, but doesn’t need to be, semolina flour. Make sure they’re as thin as possible whilst still supporting the hefty amount of cheese and tomato you plan to load them with.)

Back at the dough, put the bowl(s) in the fridge overnight, back in the plastic bag. I have a large transparent bag I have been using for this purpose, for years.

Cooking the bread

The next morning, haul yourself out of bed, make a cup of tea, take the bowls out of the fridge and put their oven straight on at ‘hot’ – 240 Celsius for a standard oven, bit less for a fan oven or gas mark 9. You want it hot to get that initial quick rise as the trapped air expands. Ideally, put in a casserole dish – we have an old ironware Le Creuset type thing, a Pyrex dish is probably just as good. Use a higher shelf, and leave a lower, loaf-sized shelf free.

When this is up to temperature, we get to the fiddliest bit. You want to keep the oven hot, at the same time as getting the expanded dough, cross-cut, into the dish. No easy answers for this, but my order is as follows.

1. Get the dough bowl ready and scrape the dough away from the sides using a spatula, so it is loose and ready.
2. Flour your hands a bit.
3. Remove the casserole dish from the oven and put it close to your working surface.
4. Turn the dough onto the surface, flip it upright and shape it very carefully. Slice it across the top in an X.
5. Take the lid off the casserole.
6. Pick up the dough with two cupped hands, lift it across and drop it into the casserole.
7. Swear profusely and panic as you realise you have dropped it off centre. Jiggle the casserole and sigh with relief.
8. Put the lid back on and put the casserole back in the oven, on the higher shelf.

Set the timer for 30 minutes and enjoy that cup of tea. Once time is up, check the loaf – hopefully it will have done its thing, rising and making a crown out of the cross-cut. Remove it from the casserole – hopefully a jiggle will release it, or you may need to use a spatula – and put it on a lower shelf to brown for a further 10-20 minutes. If you have gone down the two-loaf route, put the empty casserole back in the oven, while you get ready for stages 1-8 once more.

Meanwhile, back at the first loaf. To be cooked, bread should reach a temperature of 94 degrees – we have found that cooked wholemeal sourdough needs another 5 minutes or so even when it has reached this temperature, so it is not sticky in the middle. You can use a thermometer for this (okay, I do have one bit of fancy-pants gadgetry) or keep your fingers crossed — if the latter, I would err on the side of more time, all you will gain is a bit more crust.

When you see fit, remove the loaf from the oven and put on a cooling tray. It should be crusty yet still with some give. Follow the same steps with the second loaf. Leave to cool as long as you can stand before cutting a deep slice of crust and slathering it with butter. You deserve it. Oh, and don’t forget to take a picture and upload it to all the social media channels, as there is nothing people love more than seeing pictures of freshly made bread.

A Recipe for Wholemeal Sourdough Bread. With Notes.

Write about what you know, they said

Write about what you know, they said. What, I thought- my childhood? That continuum of non- descript non-events that somehow went to define me? Of solitary walks to school, collecting Smurf stickers from the garage, feeling no fear atop of the long,- high wall that went for ever, or the terrifying moments crossing the pub car park, head down to avoid the attention of parka-ed mods, proudly astride their scooters. What do I know? The form of pond life under a microscope, the way in which a fine brush can bear just so much enamel paint, the satisfaction of a finely folded origami shape, then the rush to a tap as it becomes a water bomb, the sibling games in the garden on a summer afternoon, the solitary walls in the woods coloured by the one time a grown-up, intentions unknown, took chase… yes, what do I know? Never boredom nor anger. Sometimes fear, confusion at becoming a target for the vindictive wrath of another. Often laughter, occasional pain, that fall from a tree, that tapped finger, more falls, each leaving a small scar like a badge. Always support, always structure, each day planned like the last, night time routines unshifting, but for the occasional , unsatisfying attempt to read under the bedsheets with a torch, the attempts to watch TV from a perch at the top of the stairs, only to be spotted and roundly put to rights. The long, long, long summers, warm days and bike rides and friends’ houses and marmite sandwiches. The occasional shopping trip to the big town, all concrete and sallow faces. The holidays, long walks to the beach carrying an encampment of wind breaks, towels, picnic baskets, the games of dice and cards, the boat trips and donkey sanctuaries. The books, the music, the jigsaws at Christmas, the relatives bringing cream cakes and motor racing stickers. The love and comfort, the fear and uncertainty, the continuity of it all, the sad, hindsight realisation that it could not be idyllic forever, as self-awareness and hormones left only confusion and a constant need to conform, even as everything only became harder. Write about what you know, they said… but there are no stories, only memories, of another, more peaceful time.

Write about what you know, they said

Prologue

His first, jolting scream of horror was followed by a second, then another each overlapping the last as they came, layer on layer, jabbing like mosquitoes at a street lamp, flashing colours spinning faster and faster like a bright-painted fairground ride. His defense from each deadly wave too quickly became a feeble hands on head protection of his inner self, inner soul against the hooligan terror. Deep down he knew what was happening (hadn’t he said this was inevitable?), even now sadly weighing up his glib prediction against the true terror of this onslaught, even through the pain as it stabbed and pecked at the fragile, fraying cord still supporting his thoughts and mind and sanity and oh God the pain … and he felt his grip weaken, and he felt the cord fray and break, and he gave a last scream as he fell into the chaos, as his mind, as his consciousness slipped down to drown in the still, black depths beneath an insane sea.

Prologue

Time is a mirror

Time is a mirror
Reflecting past and future
Testing, testing what we know

Days are a river
Running, fore and after
Moving, moving with the flow

Today’s another day
Tomorrow will have things to say
The future’s going to happen
Anyway

Nights will last forever
On the edge of never
Depths of silence reclaim what we owe

Today’s another day
Tomorrow will have things to say
The future’s going to happen
Anyway

 

Time is a mirror

Snippet

An hour before sunrise. The first, dull half-light of the new day gave silhouettes their dim outlines, pitch against grey slate. A light breeze, chill-edged by the cold cloudless night, was beginning to disperse the rising marsh-mists of morning, picking up a leaf here and there as it cut through the copse.

Snippet

The Silences

It’s the silences that get to me
The empty spaces in between
The otherwise continuous stream
Of noisy, gung-ho positivity
And unveiled anger, bordering on
The vitriolic

Its the silences that show
The hollow truth behind what we know
To be no more than a protective facade
In this dialectic war, any words
Will serve as ammunition

But then we falter, attempted misdirection,
Distraction, ultimately unsatisfying descents
Into whatabouttery lead only to a realisation
That the barrel is empty, the battle is lost…

…At least, this time, as we emerge
Once again forthrightly on the front foot
Confident of a position that can once again
Ignore, avoid the distraction of either facts
Or purpose.

The Silences

Afterthoughts

And so I’m dead.
By now I’ll know
If after-life has aught to show
Or whether it is nothing more
Than biochemical remains
That you’re consigning down below.

Yes, I’m dead, that’s doubtless true
But nothing else has gone from view
No other lives turned on their heads
Not here, at least.
Which matters more than who’s deceased.

In life I had one goal, to fill it…
Actually, two, if I could will it
Fulfil the many things I could
While being with the ones I loved.

Which all along, was my endeavour.
So never think I didn’t once
Appreciate the smallest moment
Spent alone or with another.
There’s so much that we could have covered
Had I not shuffled from this place…

…I’m dead. But:

The time we had, it was enough
Heady and inspiring stuff, but
Infinitesimally probable
Consequences of events
From Big Bang to birth’s miracle
Godly or godless, heaven-sent.

So could I feel, and if I had
The wherewithal to reveal
A single thought
It would be naught but gratitude
To this, to you
That have imbued
My life as-was.

And if you could, perhaps you ought
Remember that your time is short
Be bold, fear nothing but the thought
That life, a gift that comes by chance
Is only ever given once.

Afterthoughts

We go to the end

We go to the end. together
We stare ahead, toward the void
We stand on the edge of forever
We feel the peace
Where once was noise

We open ourselves to the embrace
Of silence
Hand in hand, with every pace
A step into the unknown.
A moment taking us beyond
What once was, what could ever be

We go to the end, together
We cross the threshold, where beyond
No time, nor space can find us
For a moment, just a moment
We pause
Then we are gone

We go to the end

Bulletin 25 October. On building a firmer foundation, and wibbling

My kingdom for a platform

Humans are magpies: we love shiny things. Trouble is, one of the curses of the technological revolution is that we have become inordinately good at creating them, in both hardware and software, and we can’t help but be distracted by them. 

Consider for example, publishing a book. For hundreds of years, this was the domain of the few: authors such as Dickens relied on magazine publishing first and foremost, whereas now, “why don’t you self-publish” opens the door to a complex and overlapping variety of platforms. In audio and video, the story is the same, as it is in cloud computing: AWS has built a business by offering every possible option.

The result is a feeling of bamboozlement for the few, even as the many succeed. It also distracts from the point: I don’t think technology addiction is as big an issue (though it is big) as time people waste in their billions, lured into low-level procrastination via technological tools.

We want to produce, but in doing so we find ourselves consuming, forgetting what we came here for. At home, we call a certain moment in the supermarket “going into a wibble” when, overwhelmed by options, we end up standing, slack-mouthed, in the middle of the aisle. Completing the shopping becomes the challenge, and meanwhile ‘they’ have us exactly where they want us, helpless in their grasp. 

I’m coming to believe that recognising this phenomenon, and other behavioural displays, is essential to plotting a route through this. Distraction, deflection and false debate has overtaken our politics only because we are not yet sufficiently hardened to it (in a nutshell, we are all being played). We’ll work it out, and when we do, these will no longer be such powerful weapons to be used against us. 

Gosh, that went a bit dark. Meanwhile, I finally managed to scrabble enough… oh wait, I just need to take a phone call from someone who is offering free alarms to people living in my area… that actually did just happen, now where was I? Ah, yes, I finally managed to scrabble enough wherewithal to get the final chapters of Smart Shift online. In a nutshell, technology needs to be handled with care. 

The landing page is here, and you can read my retrospective thoughts on it here.  Bottom line: don’t let anything get in the ay of what you want to do. 

All the best, Jon

Bulletin 25 October. On building a firmer foundation, and wibbling