I once took my ‘mother’ on holiday. I wanted to introduce her to a good friend in Queenstown, and I decided that the clean air and water of New Zealand might do her some good. Unfortunately, she didn’t travel too well. In spite of clearing customs, she couldn’t cope with the pressure on board the plane. She exploded, mainly taking her frustrations out on my luggage, which never fully recovered. It is just as well that I love my mother. Of course, the ‘mother’ is the naturally fermented yeasts that give life to bread. The combination of flour and water is basic but the result is a complex production of organic acids, alcohols and carbon dioxide that give bread its savoury tang and natural rise. I started my mother six years ago using a rye flour base and, as we were living on the Sunshine Coast of Queensland at the time, pineapple juice. The beauty of a mother is that it tells the story of a time and a place with yeasts, flour, air and water that are unique to its environment. Just like the best stories, it can be passed on to friends or family who can make it their own, adding further layers to the story before passing it on themselves.
There is nothing like making bread to make you appreciate the simple beauty of ingredients. Above all others, making bread is a magical process that sees flour and water ferment to transform into cloud-like heavenly bread. I love how the nutty richness of spelt combines with the caramel notes of the malt, and how cooking in a wood fire results in the most incredibly smoky and toothsome crust.