For starters, let me be clear right up front that it's not about the yeast. My most recent bread failure, that is. I say "most recent" because it was by no means my first, and I'm equally sure it won't be my last.
I speculated the other day that perhaps the reason I baked a brick was because my new jar of yeast was not viable. I have now demonstrated that the yeast was not at fault. I'm still not sure what was, but it's time to move on.
Much was at stake when I tackled Swedish Caraway Bread in Bernard Clayton's New Complete Book of Breads. Yeast viability was just the first thing. Second was in the name of the bread: caraway. I have sworn for years that caraway was one of the few things I truly disliked.
Perhaps that dislike - nay, loathing - of caraway is why, when I went to A Rogue's Garden to buy a couple of tablespoons, I bought cardamom instead. Not only did I buy it, but cardamom is what I wrote on my list and checked the price of at Safeway. As I scooped it into the the little plastic bag, I thought, "why have I always disliked this so much? It smells really good." It wasn't until I got home and pulled out the cookbook to start baking that I realized my mistake.
The third issue to be overcome was another ingredient: orange zest. Now, I love oranges and orange juice, but I tend to not care for orange flavored foods. Those chocolate oranges that are so popular at Christmas time? Revolting! Caraway and orange. I was not looking forward to this recipe. I considered halving it so as to have less to waste when I inevitably threw it away, but since it only made one small loaf to begin with, I forged on.
Despite being a (slightly) sweet bread, this one was made like regular kneaded bread, as opposed to Sally Lunn, for instance, which was more of a batter-style bread. It started differently, however, in that I had to boil the water, caraway, orange zest, brown sugar, and butter for a few minutes and then let it cool before adding the salt and yeast. I was surprised to find that the caraway was much more mild than I expected, and a pleasant aroma suffused my kitchen.
There was no way I was risking using the Kitchen Aid to mix and knead the dough after the last fiasco. I slowly added the first cup of flour and stirred it in well with a wooden spoon before letting it rise for an hour and a half. As I set the mixing bowl in a sunny spot on my dining table, I was delighted to see that the dough was already looking alive and bubbly. The yeast was definitely good.
After the soft dough had doubled in size, I added more flour, bit by bit, until I could start kneading it. This was what bread dough should feel like! It was warm and soft and a delight to knead. I giggled as caraway seeds popped out and speckled my pastry mat. I was not heartbroken to see them jump ship - the fewer the better, as far as I was concerned.
Another hour of rising and 40 minutes of baking and the loaf was done. it was small and light and toasty brown. I sliced off the heel and smeared on a little butter. Not bad. The orange was subtle, and while I could definitely taste the caraway, it wasn't offensive. I didn't want to scarf down the whole loaf, but I didn't want to pitch it either.
There is a whole chapter of rye breads coming up in about 90 pages. Most of them have caraway seeds in them. I have to wait almost 400 pages for the one lone cardamom loaf. I may need to write to Clayton to protest this inequity.
