#2 Sourdough: Two Loaves One Banneton
No knead, overnight prove, high (77.83%) hydration, sourdough
I started baking sourdough near the beginning of the lockdown and since, in a strange role reversal, it’s been consuming my life.
Here’s a great no-knead recipe adapted from this very weird YouTube video of a budding bromance. Parental discretion is advised as these bros were about two frames away from When Harry Met Sally level chemistry. It was mildly humorous though. A brom-com, if you will.
Anyway, I said I would never make people wade through a whole article before getting to the recipe. So here we go.
This makes two loaves. I only have one banneton. Sometimes the innovation is simply a product of adversity.
Ingredients
Levain
45g sourdough starter (mine’s name is JP. You’d think Jean-Pierre or John-Paul, but no. Just Prep. It was my wife’s idea. She is ferociously pragmatic. Born on 13 April 2020. JP, not my wife)
35g whole-wheat flour
35g white bread flour
70g water (38° celsius)
Bread
680g water (I only use cooled boiled or warmed spring water because I am a water snob, also at 38° celsius)
810g white bread flour (stone-milled, because that is the sourdough way)
90g whole wheat flour (stone-milled, because some people won’t be able to deduce this from the white bread flour note above)
15g salt (fine sea salt works best)
Bread note: apparently whole wheat flour is to dough what Samson’s hair was to Samson. Strength. Also something about the germ. They mention it in the YouTube video but I missed it because I was too busy watching their romance unfold.
Method
You’re going to need two days for this bad boy. This is sourdough. Things take time.
Day 1
Mix the levain in the morning. It’s easy. Chuck everything under heading “Levain” (45g starter, 35g white flour, 35g whole wheat, 70g water) into a bowl. Mix it together, cover with cling wrap (that’s cellophane wrap for those that didn’t grow up with normal grandparents). Let it sit for 5 hours in a nice warm spot.
4 hours in, mix the flour ( 810g white flour and 90g whole wheat) and some of the water (580g, keeping 100g aside for later). Let that sit for an hour.
Bread note: the hydrating the flour step is called an autolyse. It’s to help develop the gluten. Think of it as a finishing school for dough, but with auto-cannibalism. Yup, it is literally enzymes eating themselves. There’s a paragraph I never thought I’d type.
Pour in the levain. Use some of the water we kept to wet those fat little sausage fingers. Press some dimples into the dough, mix it a little, making sure to get all the levain off of the sides. Then—listen closely—make your hand into a scooping shape, put it under the dough and lift it up and down continuously. The Scoop ‘n Slap. If this description is not clear, skip to 09:11 in the porno above. Everything will start to incorporate and the dough will begin to smooth out and become a little stretchy.
Let it rest for 20 minutes.
Take the remaining bit of water and mix in the salt (18g). Pour that into the bowl. Dimple and mix again, until the brine is incorporated.
Dump it onto a virgin (unfloured) counter and do the Slap ‘n Fold. Which is similar to the Scoop ‘n Slap, but different. Grip the dough in the middle like you’re going to pick up a small yuppie dog. Then, slap it on the counter and fold it over, like what you’d want to do to the small yuppie dog when it’s been barking all night but you would never actually do because you’re not a psychopath. You can watch how they do it at 11:50. To the dough, not dogs.
Put it back in the bowl and let it rest for 15 minutes.
Then we start a series of 6 folds. The first 3 are every 15 minutes, then every 30 for the last 3. Then a nice hour and a half of resting at the end. 4 hours in total. Let it rest in that warm spot in between folds.
To fold, grab a side of the dough loosely, stretch it up until it’s about to break (don’t let it or you have to start all over again), and fold it over. Turn the bowl 90° and then do it again until it’s come round (360° bitches).
Bread note: this is called bulk fermentation. Things happen and it makes the bread nice, basically.
Dump it out on the counter, divide it into two, and, what do you know, let it rest for 3 minutes.
Then shape them into batards. You can google it, this newsletter isn’t for amateurs. Or I am just lazy. You pick.
Bread note: I say “bastards” instead of “batards” almost every time. Mostly because if anyone is eavesdropping, it makes for great sentences. “The bastards are in the fridge.” Or, “give the bastards a gentle dusting”. Or, “put the bastards into the oven." Endless entertainment.
Prove overnight in the fridge. I did one in a banneton and the other in a bread pan. This explains the title, doesn’t it?
Day 2
Score the bastards. The banneton one was beautiful, opened up like a filleted flower. The pan one was terrible, something akin to a Saw movie.
Bake at 260° C for 20 minutes, then lower to 230° for another ~40 minutes for the banneton loaf and ~30 for the pan loaf. Who knows. Basically, go until it’s nice and brown and has the hollow sound when you knock on it. I took mine out a touch early, but after the bastard has been in the oven for an hour, I thought they’d be done.
Notes:
I baked the banneton guy on a preheated baking stone and the pan one, in the pan.
If you let the dough break in the stretch and folds, you don’t really have to start from scratch. But I do enjoy the thought of someone starting again, finishing it, and then reading this. LOL.
The dough is meant to be wet, that’s why it’s no-knead. Kneading wet dough is like trying to carry water in a sieve.
To Dutch oven or not to Dutch oven. Originally, I was going to go Dutch, but I bought a Pyrex dish that was too small. I’ve ordered a bigger one and will try again. This time, though, I put a pan of water underneath and sprayed the shit out of the oven with a water mist sprayer thing. It seemed to do the job.
Oven spring is meant to happen in the first ten minutes, but mine was still rising 30 minutes in.
You’re meant to put the dough in down-side-up in the bannetons and then tip it out. But, with the bread pan, I had to take it out and flip it, which might have skewed the results a little.
The hydration is 77.83375315%.
My father-in-law said it tastes like cake.
I had never typed or written the word “eavesdrop” in my life before this post.
Rate the Bake
Every week my wife rates the bake on a scale of 1 to 10.
1 - “I wouldn’t even put the birds through this”
5 - “Toast, maybe”
10 - “Pass me my sweat pants”
No-Knead, Overnight Prove Banneton: 9/10, downgraded to an 8/10
— “The crust is a little chewy and it’s a bit moist”
No-Knead, Overnight Prove Pan: 7/10
— “Too salty”
Same dough though, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
They have a half-life of about 24 hours, but that can be improved with zip lock bags or freezing.
What’s nice about this verdict is you can trust it. My wife ain’t afraid to speak her mind. Once, after asking her if I had put on weight, she simply replied “yes”. Then, when I tried to ease my ego by saying that it wasn’t that bad, she replied, “I can tell because your back fat is back.” This may or may not have led to a rendition of a Backstreet Boys song.
What’s the Deal?
If you have a recipe that can make it passed my wife’s scathing verdicts, please send it through. She loves bread and I am always looking to win flavour (see what I did there). Just click on “Bake my Bread” and send it through with “Bake my Bread” as a subject line. I’ll respond with an estimated date of bakeage.
This is a once a week affair. Every Tuesday—aiming for before lunch—I’ll send the recipe I made over the preceding weekend with proof of life. Sign up to get them straight to your inbox. Or don’t. I don’t care. But your waistline might. On second thought, you really shouldn’t.