Apostasy (/əˈpɒstəsi/; Greek: ἀποστασία, translit. apostasía, is the formal abandonment of, or renunciation of a religion by a person. It can also be defined within the broader context of embracing an opinion that is contrary to one’s previous religious beliefs.
One who undertakes apostasy is known as an apostate. Undertaking apostasy is called apostatizing.The term apostasy is used by sociologists to mean the renunciation and criticism of, or opposition to, a person’s former religion, in a technical sense, with no pejorative connotation.
So it was, that I found myself caught bang to rights. Spiritually that is.
A few weeks ago, I found myself cheerfully posting a re-purposed blog on the joys of baking a simple Pain de Campagne – the staff of life after all – courtesy Raymond Blanc.
In the article I bemoaned my lack of success, mainly during the recent era of hobby-laden-lockdowns, for failing to nail the trendsetting enigma that was to become ‘sourdough bread proficiency’. Having joined a counsel of despair, the whole procedure being so emotionally charged, I feebly admitted to throwing in the towel. This was followed by throwing in the banneton basket, the offset spatula, the razor-edged lame and the dutch oven. All rashly purchased with a favourable outcome in mind.
But I found the principal barrier to success was my inability to respond sensitively to the optimal peaks as the dough moved through its arcane development. Anyone who has undertaken the feeding cycle, the slow proving, the overnight fridge occupation and the regimental stretching and folding, will know that the daunting task seems to take longer than the entire cycle of the moon.
Anyone who hasn’t, might slip into a light coma if I ran through the complexity of fermentation just now.
Suffice to say, I came to understand that this is bread you nurture, not make. Patience a necessity.
By now I had, apart from an armful of perfectly justifiable excuses, removed myself from the universal sourdough evening classes that litter the web along with the bevy of self-satisfied bread photos on social media. I remained happily clinging to my sachet of dried yeast, and between me, the Kenwood dough hook and a buttered loaf tin, more than capable of knocking out a respectable sandwich loaf in the time it took to walk the dog. Moreover, my wholemeal soda bread remained the talk of the household and my occasional Danish breakfast rolls were consumed in a matter of hours. I was content to shelter in my dried yeast Arcadia. In that place everything worked.
That was until supper a few weeks ago. A number of friends arrived on an unusually warm evening and were duly met with my traditional handout of chilled, dust-clearing, white wine. They in turn offered up the recognised passwords for entry to any country supper – additional bottles of wine, indulgent chocolates or a flower posy. All kind and thoughtful gifts, save for one attendee that is. She (who will remain nameless) offered a crusty plastic beaker with the words, “I thought you might like to give sourdough a try again, I’ve brought some of my starter – it’s been going for more than three years now”.
Having turned my back on airborne yeasts and settled into my self-appointed kitchen lock-down, I felt I had been suddenly forced, much against my will, out into the glare of culinary daylight. Now, thanks to her generosity, there was no place to hide, no credible excuses to offer. And the rest of the guests had become witnesses.
By way of contradiction, I confess that along the way I had felt excluded from humanity’s re-discovered quest. Eye opening research revealed that sourdough – fermented bread that is – is older than metal itself. Simple folk like me, thriving long before the bronze age, were clearly making successful loaves whenever a social occasion demanded. Their guests probably brought them sourdough starters too. Maybe in those beakers they all got buried with.
It was time to recoup some pride, I had been volunteered to become a fully-fledged home baker, and I accepted the challenge once again.
Although the photographs show an eventual level of success, the triumphant path was littered with frustration and catastrophe. You may be, or have already been, lucky in your own sourdough capers, my journey was constantly moderated by trepidation.
My first loaf seemed to display a competence I was correct in not entrusting to any subliminal skill. Beginners luck as it was, I felt compelled to continue. Little did I know that the high point of the day in question may have passed by nine – thirty that morning.
My second loaf, made in quick succession, managed to emulate nothing more than a Moroccan flat bread. The third failed to evolve, showing no sign of life as we know it, the dough emulating a proximity to wet cement and was summarily filed in the Brabantia waste bin. The fourth, moulded and stretched under a cloud of near desperation, was accompanied by an unease probably experienced by that young Dutch scallywag Hans Brinker, as he pressed his finger into the leaking dyke in the Netherlands – any ill-considered movement of the hand could be disastrous.
The fifth however provided unexpected redemption. A perfect loaf, as seen in the photo to support my claim.
Like a man possessed, that same week I made a sixth then a seventh, all successful. Then onwards to a breakfast bread and a loaf with twenty cloves of roasted garlic, all now supported by delivery of various bannetons with which to create shapes and patterns I had only seen in tediously beautiful Californian bread books. I even started buying up the paucity of local strong bread flour nearby. The total cost was alarming, but to provide the family with four classic sourdough loaves in the course of a week, whether they wanted them or not, all now seemed like value for money.
I had also become that apostate – with pride renewed.
I won’t bore you with the evident nutritional advice, the exhilaration apparently experienced by your gut microbiome or the outstanding taste – especially when toasted – that sourdough regularly provides. Much guidance and advice as well as workable recipes abound on the net, so it would be fatuous to include any here. But should you wish to follow my friend’s common sense and apparently foolproof recipe, I would willingly ask her permission to forward it. Just email and I’ll do my best.
But if you are yet to take up the siren call that is sourdough, be warned. It can make a perfectly reasonable and otherwise content human being into a certifiable obsessive. Faith in a deity can do that. Just saying.