Reading, Writing, and Sourdough

You need not have ever surfed nor even cared about the ocean to be swept away by the glorious writing of Barbarian Days . I'm guessing that William Finnegan describes more than five hundred waves in this book without using the same terms twice. Every wave is distinct and therein lies Finnegan's definition of a life well-lived. Here is one example from page 356 about waves in Madeira, an island off the coast of Portugal.  "Heavy, long-interval lines marched out of the west, bending around the headland into a breathtaking curve. They feathered and bowled and broke at the outermost point of the horseshoe, and then reeled down a rocky shore...As we got closer to the lineup, the power and beauty of the waves got more drenching. A set rolled through, shining and roaring in the low winter afternoon sun, and my throat clogged with emotion -- some nameless mess of joy, fear, love, lust, gratitude." Finnegan is a lifelong reporter for The New Yorker and could have writte...

A couple of weeks ago I mixed up a dough but did not have time to bake it. This bread had freshly milled, hard spring wheat, sunflower seeds, and flax seeds. I put it in the refrigerator. And left it there for three and a half days. Like a stew or soup that has seasoned with time the flavors that came to life in this loaf were deep, multilayered swells of mellow grains and subtle brews of sourdough flavors. So I tried again. Beginning with my rye starter I added two half-cans of flat Pilsner, coarsely ground corn meal that had soaked overnight, rye, spelt, whole wheat, and white flours. I put it into the refrigerator for 24 hours with the same delectable results. No single flavor prevailed -- after baking the beer was just a faint aroma if you were looking for it -- but the slight crunch of corn, sweetness of rye, and finely milled wheat produced a small sonata.

Now that I have a mill with which to grind fresh, whole-grain flour, my first stage is grinding. Because spring is finally approaching Meadville, Pennsylvania, this week's delivery of our CSA vegetables included freshly picked ramps. A couple of years ago I found David Lebovitz's recipe for scallion flatbreads and I thought that exchanging green onions for the garlicky flavor of chopped ramps would not be a very radical substitution. Once the sourdough did its thing, I gently kneaded in chopped ringlets from the bulbous end of the ramps and fried the flatbreads. We served the breads with salad, beer, and some beef ribs that had been in the freezer since Marty cooked them for the December holidays. The meal was extravagant but could not have been easier to prepare: mix together a salad, thaw and warm the ribs, flatten and fry the breads, and pour the beer.

The fourth in the series of detective stories written for private investigator, Cormoran Strike and his young, intelligent, appealing assistant, Robin Ellacott. Just in case you are not yet aware, Robert Galbraith is the pseudonym for J.K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame. There are too many plots braided through this omnibus of a novel to summarize -- murder, blackmail, greed, love, jealousy, psychosis, tenderness, and rage. Only a writer with the capacity of Galbraith/Rowling could hold it all together, create a page turner, and concurrently press the reader to move beyond the question of whodunnit. Front and center in Lethal White  Galbraith raises questions about the enduring straight jacket of class in Great Britain. Standing upon shaky pedestals are a moneyed gentry of politicians, estate owners, and racehorse enthusiasts. Galbraith doesn't hesitate to lean on those pedestals until the bloviating statues of upper crust England come toppling over. Meanwhile, Galbraith points ou...