Perspective: I went to bread camp to take my sourdough loaves to the next level. Here’s what I learned.
On the first day of bread camp, I and six other baking students tied on white aprons with our names stitched on the bibs. We gathered around a long steel table in a room dominated by a wooden grain mill. Pots hung high on exposed brick walls. I wobbled on my ergonomic stool as instructor Tom Edwards passed around spring water and whole-wheat flour.
Bernard Huckestein of Orlando watches as dough is transferred into a mixing bowl. That water and flour Edwards passed around were the makings of our first step, the basis of all our baking to come: sourdough starters. Jozef Zebediah, who cooks at the restaurant he co-owns in Charlevoix, Mich., named his starter Eagle. La Grange, Ky., software engineer Nathan Anderson went with Edna Mode, and Edwards wrote “Mom” on his. Was I betraying my starter, idling back at home? Edwards said no.
Instructor Tom Edwards, right, gives bread-baking pointers. Except for during whiteboard talks, Edwards did not hold still. I have never been less surprised to find out someone was a rock climber. Also, how much fun you have at camp often depends upon your bunkmates, and I had lucked out with a game group who liked to talk bread. We made a lot of happily obvious comments. “They’re on the tray,” we said of the bagels.
Focaccia puffs in the oven. Each afternoon, Edwards loaded us up with loaves to donate. I gave some wheat bread to a Louisville friend and some to a restaurant owner. Plenty of warm focaccia went to the people staffing the desk at the Residence Inn. Other students donated some to a neighbor, and Havlisch handed loaves to a home for families with hospitalized children.
Writer Eliza McGraw, center, examines loaves of Turkey heritage wheat bread. Edwards and MozzaPi baker Robyn McLaurin quarterbacked, parking dough outside to firm up in the February air, doling out bannetons, rescuing overly slack loaves and flinging bread lingo. “That was sitting loose,” Edwards said of one of my attempts. It wasn’t “a lake or anything,” but he still “stitched it,” or pinched bits of dough together to add tautness before it could be baked.
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