Jill of all trades...

I am self-aware enough to acknowledge that there are certain things that I am just terrible at. I know, for example, that I have no natural inclination towards the sciences or maths (unlike my sisters). Nor will I ever excel at anything sporty. But that's OK. This is not an exercise in me-bashing. I'm equally aware of what I am particularly good at, which usually (though not always) coincides with what I am most interested in - namely baking cakes, dealing with the past (history and archaeology - not incredibly useful in daily life unless you're an archaeologist, it has to be said) and all things linguistic (languages, books, writing).

But scattered all along the middle of the road are the many, many things that I'm OK at - I'm happy to have a go simply because I enjoy them, safe in the knowledge that I don't have to master them to perfection (Jill of all trades, master of none?). And as they're not something I have to do well in order to make a living out of them, perform to an audience or ace in an exam, I can remain content in my mediocrity. So I can sing somewhat tunefully along to my favourite songs (I will confess that, although my music tastes are broad, I have a penchant for a Country and Western ballad to sing along to - take it away Dolly!). I can make a half-decent curry for dinner (and no, I don't roast and grind my own spices). I can benefit from my years of yoga practice without ever beating myself up for not managing a headstand unaided or full lotus position. I'm also pretty handy with a paint-brush, though other feats of DIY require a handyman. 

Maltana

This is all by way of an introduction to my recipe for my malted raisin yeast bread. I will confess straight up that I am no Master Bread Baker. I love good bread, but generally wouldn't ever get a yearning for it in the same way that I would for cake, and I don't tend to eat a huge amount of it. So while I have spent years mastering the baking of cakes, biscuits and other sweet treats, yeast bread is a relatively new endeavour. I probably would have left well enough alone had my sister not bought a bread machine a few years ago. Her success led to us buying one for our Dad (already a champion soda bread maker). More than any other bread from the machines (all of which is pretty fabulous by the way), the Maltana made me want to try my hand at bread-making. Yes, you can still buy lovely Maltana in the shops, but it's nice to make it yourself and know exactly what's in it. 

Now my kitchen is small and counter space is tight, so there was no way I'd be investing in a bread machine myself. Armed with the recipe from the bread-machine book, I began the first of what would be many trials. The recipe as it stood turned out OK but was a bit dense (what works in the controlled environment of a bread-machine doesn't necessarily do the same outside). I upped the yeast quotient for the next loaf and added some treacle for colour, but still wasn't happy - too heavy. After a bit of research, I realised one of my fundamental errors was adding the raisins in at the start of the process, instead of kneading them in after the first prove (yes indeed, research first would have been a great idea). Third trial involved a whole new recipe (by Delia), which oddly required no kneading (should have trusted my instincts there) and contained a lot more treacle - this one was funny in texture and had a burnt after-taste from too much treacle (third time was not the charm). 

Finally, a variation on the original recipe worked a treat, with the addition of some melted butter, a touch of mixed spice for flavour, milk instead of water (for a softer crumb), and making sure the dough was wetter than usual and the raisins pre-soaked (to stop them sucking the moisture from the dough). And if you’re feeling a bit lazy like I was, instead of kneading in the raisins, simply roll the dough out flat, press on the raisins and roll the dough up tightly before placing in the tin. This has the added advantage of looking a bit like a pain au raisin, which fools the eye into thinking you’re being bold, when really you’re not.

I'm sure the formidable Paul Hollywood would toss it aside dismissively as an imperfect loaf of bread. And he would be right - it wasn't perfect, but it was pretty damn good and no doubt it will get better with practice. So if, like me, you're no Master Bread-Maker, don't worry about it. Give it a go anyway (I've put the recipe below). There's nothing like the smell of bread baking in the house and the sight of a loaf warm from the oven, cooling on the rack. If at first you don't succeed, try and try again (they do say practice makes perfect, so I live in hope). Or if you're not as tenacious (stubborn) as I am, do as my sister would tell you - buy a bread-machine.

A Woman's Right

Freshly baked malt and fruit loaf 

Apologies in advance - I had intended talking about my lovely malt and raisin yeast bread (recipe next week I promise), but instead this post is going to be a bit of a tirade. There I was last night, having a leisurely browse through the Culture section of the Sunday Times, when I scanned AA Gill's TV review page. In case you’re not a TV food programme addict like yours truly, you might not be aware that the inimitable Mary Berry has a new cookery show on BBC1. I’ve only watched one episode to date, but so far so enjoyable - the subject was afternoon tea, with scones, sandwiches and cakes (you had me at scones, Mary), though the rest of the series covers everything from dinner parties to picnics. But Gill didn't really review the programme. Instead, he decided to launch an attack on baking, which to me seems a bit like kicking a kitten. Why would you? How on earth can baking be so offensive as to deserve this? 

Gill wasn't terribly nice about Mary Berry, which is simply ill-mannered and unnecessary, but he has form.  He was equally, if not more vile about another Mary when he reviewed her show in 2012 – the incredible Professor Mary Beard, one of the most vibrant and interesting presenters I have seen fronting a documentary series about Ancient Rome - and as you can well imagine, I’ve seen plenty, nerdy archaeologist that I am. (Should you want to, you can read Prof Beard's very eloquent rebuttal to Gill here).  Is it the name do you think? Is there something about Mary? (Sorry, couldn't help myself!) Or is it that he’s threatened by two independent, successful women over the age of forty who dare to show their face on prime-time television? But Gill’s insecurities aside, it was his comment about women and baking that really stuck in my craw:

'Of all the kitchen skills, baking is the broadest metaphor for a thwarted and repressed existence - and it's almost inevitably a woman who will make things rise with a lightness that belies the tension, precision and frustration of their construction. They add heat and ice and all their unused creativity, then present it to some man, who will shovel it into his face. And, with luck, it will kill him.' 

I can’t imagine baking for the sole purpose of giving it to a man to ‘shovel it into his face’, as Gill so nicely puts it (though in fairness - and apologies to my male readers here - given a cake and half a chance, a man will often do just that). Baking is usually just for me, either as a therapeutic activity or because I want something nice to have with a cup of coffee. Occasionally it forms part of a social event – making something to bring to a family get-together or to have when friends call. And somehow, I don't think I'm alone in this. Doubtless, there are women who bake to please the man in their life, in much the same way that some dress to impress men. But in the same way that most women in fact dress to impress other women, I’m sure that this applies equally in the arena of baking cakes.

The sturdy but strange Dammit Doll

When I first read his column, I confess to being so infuriated that I had to whack my Dammit Doll against the wall for a solid five minutes. (In case you've never heard of them, they are stuffed dolls made for the express purpose of slamming about to release frustration. Strange looking but very effective - I can't recommend them enough. Mine was a gift so I've no idea where you might get one, though the oracle of the internet could probably tell you.) I am now calm (a combination of Dammit Doll and yoga) and feeling rather sad for Mr Gill. Whatever happened to him that he resents baking  - and women who bake - this much? His comments were filled with such vitriol. At the end of his column he says that 'I have taught all my children to cook, but never, ever to bake', and while I very much applaud teaching children to cook (it should be mandatory), why not teach them to bake too?

I know first-hand the joy and the sense of wonder and achievement that learning to bake can bring. It is a creative activity, whilst also requiring the learning of practical skills, and has a tangible result that is very satisfying for children (which diminishes not one iota for grown-ups like me who continue to bake). Why would you deprive anyone of this? It also means you save a fortune over the years by not having to buy cakes in bakeries and saves you from having to resort to nasty processed supermarket offerings.

Toasted fruit and malt loaf

Women, in most Western or developed countries at least, are no longer tied to the kitchen and forced to slave over a hot stove for lack of any other option. The fact that I can live as I choose, have a career, travel freely and not be trapped by marriage and children, forced to live under the rule of a man, is something that I value immensely. So many women in the world still don’t have such freedoms - an article about women in Saudi Arabia, which also appeared in the Sunday Times last weekend, was a salutary reminder of that. It seems appropriate, given that last week was International Women’s Week, to take the time to appreciate the gift we were given by the women who fought in the 19^th and 20^th centuries for independence and equality. As an independent woman who bakes to please herself, I’m now off to have a mid-afternoon coffee with a piece of delicious, home-made Maltana, toasted and buttered. Mr Gill, you don’t know what you‘re missing.