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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Sweet Pepper Bread
One
Goat Cheese Spread
Two
Baked Eggs
Three
Green Tomato and Apple Pie
Four
Borscht
Five
Bierocks
Six
Cherry Moos
Seven
Hot Hacked Chicken
Eight
Scones
Nine
Peanut Butter Shortbread
Ten
Heaven’s Panzanella
Eleven
Vegetable Root Bake
Twelve
Mrs. O’Malley’s Meatloaf
Thirteen
Red Cabbage and Apples
Fourteen
Oatmeal Cookies
Fifteen
Butterscotch Brownies
Sixteen
Recipe Index
Also by Lou Jane Temple
Copyright
To my children,
Phillip, Jed and Reagan
with all my love
Acknowledgments
The more books I write, the more I realize how many people help me along the way.
Playwright Ron Megee read the early rough version and gave creative counsel. Margaret Silva and Rozanne Gold gave much needed support, psychic and otherwise. Dean Dixon surfed the net to research biogenetics. My friends at Farm to Market Bread answered lots of silly bread questions. Judith Fertig provided valuable wheat history.
Thanks to David Gibson for taking me on a tour of his grain elevator. Thanks also to the the Kansas City Board of Trade, the American Institute of Baking and Milling, and Baking News for lots of information. Sharon and Gil Nanez loaned me their island retreat to write.
Blessings on all your houses, my friends.
If you are interested in the art of bread baking, here are some books that helped me enormously.
Bread Alone, Daniel Leader and Judith Blahnik, William Morrow.
Brother Juniper’s Bread Book, Peter Reinhart, Addison-Wesley Publishing.
English Bread and Yeast Cookery, Elizabeth David, Biscuit Books.
The Italian Baker, Carol Field, Harper & Row.
Secrets of Jesuit Breadmaking, Brother Rick Curry, Harper Perennial Press.
Prologue
The young man slipped out of the water quietly. He was naked. This little river ran through his family’s farm and he had been swimming in it his whole life. It had never been as amazing as it was tonight, as glorious, as revealing. Everywhere he looked there were shimmering silver disks: they glittered on his body, in the water, on the ground and trees. Inside every silver disk was an entire universe. Tiny spheres orbited around exploding brilliant suns, deep black holes of magnetism so strong he was sucked into every one of them, belts of floating asteroids flickering as they darted along.
The young man laughed. He now knew the secrets of the universe. All those years of Sunday school, of church services. How foolish they seemed. He wished for a moment that his parents were here, his sisters. He would explain to them how everything worked.
Suddenly the ground moved. An ugly crack in the earth appeared right by the young man’s feet. It threatened to swallow him, wanted to swallow him. He cried out for help, rolling as far away from the crack as he could on the flat Kansas ground. This ground that he had worked since he was a child, that had given him calloused hands and strong, muscled arms had turned against him with a vengeance. He was crawling now on his hands and knees, whimpering like a baby, trying to escape the underground that seemed determined to catch him, suck him into its bosom. Then the young man had a brilliant idea. He would climb a tree.
He ran back to the river’s edge where the cottonwood leaves rustled. He shimmied up the broad trunk of an old cottonwood, scraping his thighs. Blood appeared on his legs, his clawing fingers, the blood also glittering with the same silver disks he saw everywhere around him. He arrived at the V in the trunk, where two thick arms of the tree went in opposite directions to the stars. There he rested, shivering, cold, bleeding, but triumphant. The earth hadn’t swallowed him like it had intended.
In an hour or so, the voices became too loud for him to rest any longer. They were calling him. He must find them. He jumped to the ground, a good twelve or fifteen feet below. His ankle twisted and snapped with the impact but the young man didn’t care. He looked around for the voices. The voices were coming from down the train tracks. Down the tracks where the sun was coming up. No, there were two suns, next to each other, coming toward him. And the voices, so loud, calling him. He would go to meet them. Go to the twin suns. What an amazing universe, the young man thought as he ran, dragging his bad leg down the train tracks in the night.
Sweet Pepper Bread
1 sweet red pepper
1 sweet yellow pepper
2 T. olive oil
2 tsp. dry yeast
1¼ cups warm water
4 cups bread flour
2 tsp. salt
Roast the peppers by placing them in a shallow baking dish, drizzling them with olive oil and kosher salt, covering them with foil. Bake for 40–50 minutes at 350 degrees, until the peppers are soft. Cool, pull the skins off and finely chop the peppers.
Stir the yeast into the water. Let stand until creamy, about 10 minutes. Add the oil and peppers, then the flour and salt. Knead 5 minutes. Place the dough in an oiled bowl, cover with a clean towel or plastic wrap, let rise until doubled, about 1 hour.
Punch down the dough and knead a minute. Divide the dough in two and shape into round loaves. Put on baking sheet sprinkled with cornmeal, let rise again for 1 hour.
Heat the oven to 450 degrees. Place the loaves in the oven and spray the sides of the inner oven with water using a plastic spray bottle. Immediately reduce the heat to 400 degrees. Bake 35 minutes, spraying twice with water. Cool completely before cutting into bread.
One
Heaven Lee was pouting. “They said my gluten network was uneven.”
Pauline Kramer, the baker at Cafe Heaven, looked at her boss sympathetically. Pauline had finished her bread baking for the day many hours before and was now icing a burnt sugar cake with caramel-flavored icing. “That’s why we use the Hobart to knead bread in this day and age instead of brute strength. But you have to learn to do it by hand first, the old-fashioned way. Making bread is very mysterious and very scientific at the same time. Chemistry and all that.” She ended her speech with a smug little smile toward Heaven.
“I know, I know,” Heaven replied crossly. “I guess the perfectionist hiding deep inside me had its ego wounded. No one has ever told me my gluten was unacceptable before.”
Pauline smiled that smile again. It was great having the superior position for a change. “You’re doing fine,” she said grandly. “You didn’t even understand what gluten was six months ago. Maybe one of your arms is stronger than the other and your kneading is uneven,” Pauline offered. “One of mine is. I had uneven gluten too, until I learned to favor my left arm while kneading.”
Heaven had been cradling her loaf of bread in her arms like a new-born baby, wrapped loosely as it was in a kitchen towel. She placed it reverently on one of the work tables. Pauline came over and pulled off a chunk, bit into
it, and chewed. Heaven looked at her expectantly.
“Well, your crust is nice, it’s a good thickness and it’s crisp. But you can see what they were talking about with the crumb, can’t you?” Pauline’s finger was pointing to the center of the loaf. There was a streak of dough that looked like it had been cut with a dull knife, all gummy and stuck together. “And you probably didn’t help matters when you formed your loaf. A lot can go wrong when you’re forming your loaves,” Pauline said with the confidence of someone who had mastered loaf forming herself.
Brian Hoffman, the lunch chef and day prep cook had been taking in this conversation from his station on the other side of the table. He couldn’t stand it another minute. “What are you two talking about? What’s the crumb? I don’t see any crumbs.”
Pauline gave him a withering look. “For your information, the crumb refers to the texture of the interior of a loaf of bread. We judge the crumb by whether it is even or uneven. Does it have big holes? Is it dry or is it gummy? Stuff like that,” Pauline said with the authority of a Culinary Institute instructor.
Brian shrugged, unimpressed. Even if he were interested in the baker’s art he sure wouldn’t let Pauline know it now. “Who knew,” he said nonchalantly. “I thought you just threw together some yeast and flour and water,” knowing that was sure to get Pauline where she lived.
Heaven smiled and pinched off a piece of her crust, popping it in her mouth. She looked more confident and nodded to Pauline, as if to confirm Pauline’s approval of the crispiness. “Brian, gluten is what makes raised bread. The wheat proteins interact to form this loopy chain of molecules, kinda like a slinky. Thanks to the gluten, the wheat dough expands to incorporate the carbon dioxide produced by the yeast. That’s what makes bread rise. Cool, huh? I must confess, Brian, I was almost as stupid about bread as you are. No offense, honey.”
Brian grinned as he sliced eggplant. “None taken. I’m a cook, not a baker.” He looked up slyly and added, “A lover, not a fighter.”
Heaven hurried on, not wanting a war to begin between Pauline and Brian over which was more important to humanity in general, cooking or baking. “Pauline is one of the board members of this national bread bakers group, ARTOS, which is Greek or something for bread.” Pauline looked up proudly, and Heaven continued. “So I joined and I’m taking a beginning bread workshop. It certainly has taken me down a peg or two. I thought I knew everything I needed to about the kitchen, but this bread making is really an art. I also feel terrible about the conditions Pauline has to work in.”
With that Pauline adopted a martyred expression. Brian wasn’t buying it. He looked around the small kitchen. It was cramped but Heaven had bought every gadget and piece of equipment they had ever requested. It didn’t look that bad to him. “Pauline, what have you been whining to the boss about now?”
Pauline’s jaw tightened, but before she could answer Brian, Heaven jumped in again. “Brian, it’s a miracle that we have the quality of bread we do. Most of the bakers in the Kansas City chapter of ARTOS have big deck ovens, or wood burning European ovens. Pauline just makes do with the ovens in the stoves and the convection oven and lots of improvisation, like spritzing the loaves with a spray bottle of water and pans of water in the oven and pizza stones to bake on.”
Brian grinned, ready to make peace. “Yeah, ol’ Olive Oyl is a champ. You can’t beat that sweet red pepper bread she concocted. Especially when you slather that goat cheese spread of yours, Heaven, on top of it.”
Pauline, who did resemble Popeye’s animated girlfriend in appearance, smiled but there was still malice in her eyes. Heaven saw more spats in the offing, and she wasn’t willing to referee forever. “Are you two OK with the dinner prep?” she asked. “If you are, I’m going to check out Mona and Sal, see what’s been happening on 39th Street today.”
“We’re cool, H.” Brian said with his head down, concentrating. Pauline was lost in her cakes, icing carefully as she spun the stainless steel wheel the cake was sitting on.
Heaven passed through the empty dining room, poured herself a cup of coffee, and went out the front door. It was the middle of the afternoon, a lazy time in the restaurant, after lunch and before the night crew arrived.
On 39th Street, next to Cafe Heaven, was The Cat’s Meow, a store full of cat stuff; earrings and posters and rhinestone cat collars. Mona Kirk was the store’s owner and one of Heaven’s good friends. Heaven knocked on the window and caught Mona’s attention as she was writing up the ticket for a little blue-haired lady who was buying a bejeweled cat food dish. Heaven jerked her head across the street towards Sal’s Barber Shop and Mona nodded. Heaven didn’t wait but cut across the block toward Sal’s.
39th Street was the heart of midtown Kansas City, Missouri. Neither chic nor slum, the crosstown street had a little of both in the mix of businesses and people who lived and worked there. A business street right in the heart of a residential neighborhood, instead of in a strip mall or designated shopping area, was unusual for Kansas City. In New York this was par for the course; business and residential had always coexisted. In Kansas City, the business owners and home owners struggled to get along.
The businesses that brought lots of cars, like Cafe Heaven, had upset the neighbors who didn’t like strangers parking in front of their houses, making it hard for them and their families to find parking. Heaven and the others had rented a parking lot just down the street from the cafe and across from another busy bar, helping the relationship between business and home owners considerably.
On their part, Heaven and the other business owners wished some of the home owners would spruce up their yards and paint their houses. Many of the homes had been passed down to sons and daughters no longer living in Kansas City. They had become rental houses that didn’t get the love and attention they needed. Recently a new group of young couples were buying property around 39th Street, and gradually lawns were resown with bluegrass seed, roofs were repaired, paint was applied.
In the long run, Heaven liked that the neighbors and the businesses weren’t all gentrified. A new store selling fifties collectibles was next to an old dry cleaners that was next to a bar frequented by the interns and nurses from the medical center a few blocks away. New restaurants popped up often now, but the tattoo parlor stayed open and busy as well. The linchpin of this neighborhood, just east of the dividing line between Kansas and Missouri, was Sal’s barber shop. Sal cut the hair of business moguls and waiters, students and professors. When the famous filmmakers Merchant and Ivory made Mr. and Mrs. Bridge in Kansas City, Sal cut Paul Newman’s hair to give it the right vintage flair.
Sal also knew everything that was going on in Kansas City. He could get information out of a CIA agent or a priest if necessary. A mere mortal spilled his guts gratefully to Sal.
“Heaven, where have you been today?” he asked while running the clippers around the sideburn of a young, male art-student type.
Heaven plopped down on one of the many Naugehyde and chrome chairs lining the shop’s walls. She checked out her own bright red locks in the mirror. Sal had cut it short again for her just last week. It was punk spiked but trying to curl. She attempted to straighten it out with her hands, pushing it up into place. “At a bread making class. My gluten was uneven, and I got called down for it.”
Sal smiled without dislodging the unlit cigar in his mouth. “You can get into trouble anywhere, can’t you? Did Pauline quit?”
Heaven shook her head. “Of course not,” she said haughtily, as if no one ever quit their job in her restaurant. “There’s a new movement across America to bake real bread again, and Pauline and I are members of a new bread club and they’re having their annual conference here, starting at the end of the week, what with this being the breadbasket of America and all and…”
“Stop, whoa, I’m missing something. Wait to say another word till I get situated.” It was Mona Kirk, who had put a “back in ten minutes” sign on her door and crossed the street for a coffee klatch. She po
ured a cup of Sal’s inky brew. It poured more like molasses than coffee. Mona sat down next to Heaven, eager for news. “Who’s coming to town?”
Heaven slipped her arm through her friend’s and gave a squeeze. “Cute earrings.” Mona had a mouse earring on one ear and a cat earring on the other. “Well, all over the country, bread bakers are making bread with wild yeasts and baking in old-fashioned ovens fired by coal and wood and they have this group…”
Mona interrupted again. “Old-fashioned and expensive as gold. Why, I went to that La Brea Bakery in L.A. when I was at the gift show last year. They have this chocolate cherry bread that costs eight dollars a loaf. It was good though.”
Sal turned his head on that news. Sal was a master at keeping up with events and conversation through the mirrors lining the walls of the shop. It really took something to get him to actually turn toward a speaker. “Eight bucks for a loaf of bread? Why, that’s how much I charge for a haircut. Is that what they’re teaching you, Heaven? How to make eight-buck bread?”
“No, Sal, I know that would never fly in the home of white bread,” Heaven answered defensively. “I just want to know how to make a good loaf of sourdough. Our chapter is hosting this conference, and we’re having one of the dinners at the cafe. And of course I am from Kansas, where most of the wheat in the world comes from,” Heaven boasted, knowing she was exaggerating. “There’s a field trip to Manhattan, Kansas, one day to some research place. Famous bakers are coming from all over the world, including Germany and Italy.”
Mona couldn’t resist. “I guess that means lots of dough for Kansas City,” she cracked with a straight face.
Sal and Heaven both moaned. “Yeah,” Sal said as he undid the smock protecting the art student’s leather jacket from hair fallout. “A bread convention is about right for this town. New Orleans gets the racy stuff, the lawyers and pipe fitters who want a wild time. We get the bread bakers.”
Heaven stood up and tried to simulate a huff. “Who cares about dumb old lawyers,” she asked, knowing Sal would probably remind her she used to be one. “Bread bakers are good. Kansas City is in the middle of wheat country so we should like bread bakers. And they, the ARTOS folks, need to visit the futures market and experimental farms and see new wheat clones and stuff. They need to know the roots of their art or industry, whichever you call it.” Heaven wasn’t done yet. “And you know, Sal, the largest white bread bakery in the country, probably the world, is right here in Kansas City, BIG BREAD,” she said just the way the Chamber of Commerce would have wanted. Then she realized she’d better qualify that boasting. “Not that any of us artisans care about that kind of bread.” Sal rolled his eyes. Eight-dollar bread indeed.
Bread on Arrival Page 1
