For the very first time, I have made what I consider a perfect sourdough, in texture/crumb and taste. Visually, a bit unruly, but I was thrilled. Have made a batch since, and it was not as good. I think I know what I did wrong, and will test it again and post my findings.
“Wow, how does a place like this even exist?” mulled my friend aloud, lost in her own luminous reverie. I had seen photos of this beautiful dereliction online, but I was just as awed, as the stagnant cold inside stung my hands.
The early morning wintry cold was still hanging over the misty hills of Bolton flats in a hundred shades of blue as we departed for southern New England. While we drove we sat in silence, with heated seats, coffee and the wonderful sounds of Caspian coming through my iPod. After a few hours, Vermont’s brown frozen hills gave way to eight lanes of interstate traffic and lots of Dunkin Donuts signs.
Thirty-two years of fluctuating New England weather and zero upkeep had rotted out the drafty interior. The metal stairwells became stretches of rusty spiderwebs, some were completely untrustworthy. The snow that fell through between broken roof was so loud that you would have thought it…
Otherwise known as Challah. My 9 year-old daughter asked that we bake it last night, and the store-bought dough was not what she envisioned. At all. So…homemade it was, and Julia came to the rescue with a delicious recipe.