Fingers crossed!

Just before this posting was started, the first batch of artisan sourdough, that includes kernza flour, was mixed by yours truly. "Kernza, whuzzat," you say? Take a look at Perennial Pantry's web site. For a deeper background, check out The Land Institute's page on kernza's commercial development.

We've know about kernza for some time, but hadn't found any local sources of flour, although Birchwood Cafe has been offering a few kernza products for awhile. When we found out about a crowd-funding campaign that offered flour and grain, we signed up. The package arrived a few days ago and today was the first time since its arrival we've anticipated baking some artisan sourdough bread. Recently we've been adding about 10% whole wheat flour to a 50%-50% combination of all-purpose and bread flour, plus water, salt, and home brewed starter. Today we substituted kernza for the whole wheat in the recipe. We'll plan on baking tomorrow or Thursday if the cooler weather arrives on schedule and the dough rises the way it needs to.

recent artisan sourdough boule

Photo by J. Harrington

If all comes together, we'll share some photos and our recipe details. If not, we'll admit "failure" and try a different combination. The folks at Perennial Pantry have an interesting looking Beth Dooley recipe and another piece about how the fineness of the flour grind affects baking. I'm already working on when and how to get more kernza flour so the experiments can continue until we're, or, more accurately, the bread is, successful.

Bread

By Richard Levine

Each night, in a space he’d make 

between waking and purpose, 

my grandfather donned his one 

suit, in our still dark house, and drove 

through Brooklyn’s deserted streets 

following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white 

linen work clothes and cap, 

and in the absence of women, 

his hands were both loving, well 

into dawn and throughout the day— 

kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment 

of yeasty predictability 

in that windowless world lit 

by slightly swaying naked bulbs, 

where the shadows staggered, woozy 

with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again. 

At our table, graced by a loaf 

that steamed when we sliced it, 

softened the butter and leavened 

the very air we’d breathe,

he’d count us blessed.

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