
Dark rye, and the one bake I cannot rush
A 70% rye loaf with coffee and treacle that needs a full day in the tin before you cut it, which is the hardest instruction in baking.
Bread at night, stars after
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A 70% rye loaf with coffee and treacle that needs a full day in the tin before you cut it, which is the hardest instruction in baking.
When the kitchen is at 29 °C and the oven is unthinkable, a yoghurt flatbread with starter discard, cooked in a frying pan in four minutes a piece.

The dough that takes twelve hours of nothing and twenty minutes of work. It happens to be exactly the shape of an observing session.
Ten weeks after starting a culture from rye flour and tap water, it finally made a loaf I would give to someone else. Notes on what changed.
Twelve Good Friday buns from a yeasted enriched dough, written as baker's percentages so I can halve them next year without a calculator meltdown.

A 40% rye tin loaf for a starter that is barely three weeks old, plus a time-lapse of a rye dough doing what mine does too slowly to watch.
A Christmas stollen raised partly with the starter, written out in baker's percentages, with notes on why rich dough is slow and what I got wrong last year.

Twelve minutes inside an Iranian bakery, then my attempt at barbari in a domestic oven: same grooves, same glaze, a third of the length and a fraction of the heat.

A German-style mixed rye and wheat loaf at 40% rye, worked out after watching a home-baking video filmed in a kitchen as small and untidy as mine.
The plain sourdough I bake most weeks, at 75% hydration with 10% wholemeal, finally recorded in percentages so I stop reconstructing it from memory.