You have to appreciate- this is after I've taken the exploding container out. This is part of what's left. part. The lid has flown off and dough. is. everywhere. Surprisingly, the dough (in the container) was still ok. It felt air hardened and I worried it would be any good, but mixed it in and gave it a go and it was tasty!
Next discovery- the steam is absolutely crucial to the great crust and must be started immediately. As in, not 10 minutes after the bread goes in (even if it's a 30 minute bake.) You can still eat it the other way, but the crust is much chewier and distinctly less fabulous.
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| failed baguette/awesome batard in process |
Discovery 3: I make a great Bâtard. Alas, what I was trying to make was a baguette. Interesting side note, Bâtard is French for the word it sounds like. This is stolen from the Yankee Pot Roast. It's so beautiful I must share it:
It's the end of our date, that awkward moment where we kiss good-bye and I hope it's not really good-bye.
"Would you like to come upstairs and make sandwiches?" Lucy asks me.
"Oh yes. Yes, I would."
"I have many varieties of meats and cheeses," she whispers. I lick my lips.
We walk up three flights to her apartment and I'm getting hungrier with each step. She unlocks the door and before we even reach the kitchen, I'm rolling up my sleeves.
She opens the fridge. I grab a knife. We slice some Genoa salami, very, very thin. We slice turkey. We slice turkey ham. We slice turkey balogna. Slice, slice, slice. She pulls out some muenster, some Swiss. We're slapping slices on bread. We're squirting mayo, squeezing ketchup, splashing mustard. Spreading everything evenly. We're pushing our top breads onto our bottom breads. We've made great, big Dagwoods. I give her the knife and she slices her sandwich diagonally. Then mine, likewise. And then we raise our sandwiches and, at the same moment, we each take a hearty bite, as much as our mouths can handle.
"Mmmmmm," she mumbles through a stuffed mouth. "This is delicious."
"Mmmm," I say. "Mine too."
- Josh Abraham, Yankee Pot Roast
"Would you like to come upstairs and make sandwiches?" Lucy asks me.
"Oh yes. Yes, I would."
"I have many varieties of meats and cheeses," she whispers. I lick my lips.
We walk up three flights to her apartment and I'm getting hungrier with each step. She unlocks the door and before we even reach the kitchen, I'm rolling up my sleeves.
She opens the fridge. I grab a knife. We slice some Genoa salami, very, very thin. We slice turkey. We slice turkey ham. We slice turkey balogna. Slice, slice, slice. She pulls out some muenster, some Swiss. We're slapping slices on bread. We're squirting mayo, squeezing ketchup, splashing mustard. Spreading everything evenly. We're pushing our top breads onto our bottom breads. We've made great, big Dagwoods. I give her the knife and she slices her sandwich diagonally. Then mine, likewise. And then we raise our sandwiches and, at the same moment, we each take a hearty bite, as much as our mouths can handle.
"Mmmmmm," she mumbles through a stuffed mouth. "This is delicious."
"Mmmm," I say. "Mine too."
- Josh Abraham, Yankee Pot Roast
Now that is just hot. I have to go make bread right now.
I love it! This is something that would happend to me. I have to learn the hard way first.
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