Tag Archives: Bluegrass Baking Co.

original works

Fear of Falling

I watched a White-Throated Sparrow follow his cohorts into a bush this morning.  He flitted in fast, grabbed a branch with too much speed.  He couldn’t stick the landing and so launched himself off to the next bush without hesitation.  It was an innocuous event, something that happens without comment all the time.  In fact, had it occurred otherwise I would have been surprised.  Birds routinely launch themselves from this branch to that wire, land or don’t, stay or don’t, with apparent disregard for any consequence.  And this cavalier attitude they have regarding gravity I find intriguing. I have long wondered about the mindset of birds, what it must be like to have no fear of falling.

As a young man, I had the good fortune to work at a self-empowerment program which had an outdoor ropes course element to it.  One of my duties there was to work at the rappel site, sending people of all ages over an 80 foot cliff.  Many of these people had never done anything like this before; some were terrified of heights.  Yet all had taken this program as a way of conquering their fears.  And the rappel was just the exercise to help them with that.

Everything about rappelling challenges core beliefs.  I would take 50 year old people, out of shape and out of their elements, gear them up in harness and rope, then walk them to the edge of the world.  Frequently we would creep the last few feet together, arm clutched hard to arm.  I would them tell them to turn, put their back to the cliff, their feet on the edge, and lean back.  There is something so fundamentally wrong with that that the mind can’t help but rebel.  It goes against everything your momma ever told you to do.  To properly rappel, you basically walk backwards down the cliff, your back parallel with the ground far below.  The rope keeps you from falling and the interplay between rope, feet and rock keep you from face planting, but only if you lean back nearly horizontal.

All your upbringing and instincts scream that this is the wrong thing to do, that you should hug the rope and nestle up to the rock face.  I’m sure there is even some biological imperative shouting from deep within your DNA that stepping backwards off a cliff is a very bad way to further the species.  Yet over the cliff they went, young and old, scared and bold, to safely arrive, jubilant and accomplished, at the bottom 80 feet away.

I had the cherished job of talking them through the technique, through their fears, allowing them to discover a greater sense of capability and freedom.  Initially what was present was fear.  As I worked with them, slowly my voice would penetrate and what would occur was listening followed by trust followed by relationship finishing with love.  There is something embedded in the act of surrendering to another that opens us up.  Its no surprise that we talk about falling in love.  It is scary.  To trust another with your vulnerable heart is like leaning backwards over a cliff.  What comes from that is a release, a joy, a feeling of floating, making you want to bounce down the cliff, gamboling like a mountain goat.  

We celebrate this with our traditions on St. Valentine’s Day.  Bright and shiny, heart shaped and poetic, we express ourselves with candy and flowers.  There is a sweetness to it, rich and enrobing.  True love, like good chocolate, melts in your mouth.

Bete Noire

This flourless chocolate cake, whose name means Black Beast in French, is sinfully rich, tasting like chocolate butter.  It is baked in a water bath ensuring its creaminess.  Simply assembled, it will score you big points with the love of your life!

!/2 cup water

1 cup sugar

12 oz. dark, semisweet chocolate

8 oz. unsalted butter

5 eggs

3 Tbls sugar

In a saucepan, bring water and sugar to a boil. Reduce heat.

Add chocolate and butter and gently warm to melt.

In a bowl, whisk eggs and remaining sugar to combine.  

Stir into chocolate/butter mixture.

Pour into greased 8 inch cake pan.

Place onto a baking sheet pan and put into preheated 350 degree oven.

Pour water onto sheet pan to come halfway up the cake pan.

Bake for about 40-45 minutes, until cake is firmly set and a paring knife inserted comes out clean.

Remove from heat. Take off pan of water, being extremely careful not to burn yourself.

Let cool 30-60 minutes, until just room temperature.

Run a knife around the edge, invert a dish over the pan, flip it upside down and gently tap to release.

Wrap with plastic and chill. May be done a day ahead.  In fact, it works better.

This cake is super rich.  Serve stingy slices floating on raspberry sauce or serve with whipped cream and fresh raspberries.

Enjoy!

original works

Winter Wheat

Winter in Kentucky is slowly becoming my favorite season. Like most people, I find the cold intrusive, the bulky clothes annoying and the gruff transitions from inside to outside and back again disruptive, but once I commit myself to being out in nature, a walk in a park or even around the neighborhood, I find the starkness revealing.

One of my objections to this land is one of its strongest traits: an almost strangling fecundity. The woods in the summer are so verdant and lush, seeing the forest for the leaves becomes difficult. But in the fall, and especially the winter, the trees reveal their stately countenance. The naked profile of a leafless tree against a snowy backdrop reveals the character of the tree, the story of the tree. In the gaudy greenery of their springtime finery, the trees glow with youthful frippery. But come winter, when the over mantles are cast off, we are left to wonder at the limbs, the heart, the bones.

In the neighborhood next to mine live some trees that are literally hundreds of years old. The architect who purchased the land and first started building houses in the area in the mid-30’s designed the road to wind past the towering Chinquapin Oaks that had settled in that spot long before the coming of us. And they dominate the land even today. Gnarled, broken, they stand in grand testament to perseverance and flexibility. Around them are their newer neighbors: Pin oaks and Sycamores and Tulip Poplars, all stripped to the bone of leaf and flower, all revealing their skeletal structure. I used to feel the trees looked sad, vulnerable in their winter sparsity, but now I see the bold strength, the history, the tenacity of their quest for light, for moisture, for growth. From a distance, the trunk and branch look like the vein pattern of an individual leaf. Up close, the vast strength and solidity of the years is revealed.

So too with the creeks. The record volume of water that has fallen this past year has highlighted their presence, the channels forming on the floor of my leaky basement standing in sodden testament to this. More and more I see how this land is intimately shaped by water. The little and big creeks stitch together the landscape like veins on a leaf, like branches on a winter’s tree. And through the sparse foliage of winter, I am discovering the hidden convolutions of the waterways of the Bluegrass.

On one of the many fine, beautiful country roads which wrap around Lexington, there is a bridge I like to stop at, the intersection of land and water, man and nature being gently revealed. As I step from my car to briefly revel in the gentle glory, I am struck by how accessible the peace of nature is to us here. Today as I walked up to the bridge, at the convergence of two creeks merging to form the Elkhorn, the sun seeped through the clouds and the insistent current seemed to pull the wan sunlight downstream with it. Glassine pillows of water flowed over submerged rocks to fall in a jumble at the bottom of the slope. Heretofore hidden feeder creeks emerged, the gauzy shroud of summer shrubbery dropped to reveal the moist gullies beneath. As I stood there, letting sound and air wash over me, I felt sedation, a slowing of space.

There is a pulling back, a pulling in that comes with winter. The trees stand resolute, their strong, intimate branches revealed in their grand, naked gavotte with gravity. Squirrels shroud themselves in the shawls of their tails. Birds puff up like dandelions, maximizing the insulation of their elegantly efficient feathers. Even our cat is around more, enjoying the warm bath of air from the heater more than his solitude. It is a slower, more languid time; it is a good time for baking bread.

Baking bread at home is one of the most basic and sensuous of pleasures. The smell of the flour and yeast, the sticky texture of the initial mass giving way to the smooth firm ball of properly kneaded dough, the warmth of the oven, the perfume of the baking loaf, all transform a cold winter’s day into a celebration of hearth and home. It is a personal activity which gives richly to all lucky enough to be in the space. And it is easy; with care and patience the alchemical transformation from base ingredients into culinary gold is always achievable, though sometimes with better results than others. And the results keep giving.

The usual recipe for bread gives two to three loaves, allowing for inhalation of the first warm, redolent loaf and the slower consumption of the next over the following days. Like any activity, more practice leads to better results. And in this time of pulling in and nesting, exercising and resolving, it is one which will lead to a greater sense of peace and fulfillment.

Jim’s Recipe for Winter Wheat Bread:

3 cups Whole Wheat Flour

3 cups White Bread Flour

1 packet Instant Yeast

1 tablespoon Salt

2 tablespoons Sorghum or Molasses or Honey

Generous 2 cups room temperature Water.

Combine all dry ingredients into a mixing bowl.

Add sweetener, then water.

Stir with wooden spoon until a shaggy mass is formed.

Turn out onto counter or bread board and knead about 5 minutes, until a smooth, taut ball is formed.

Place ball in oiled mixing bowl, cover loosely with towel and let rise until doubled, about an hour.

Punch down and divide into 2 pieces.

Form into balls and place on cornmeal covered sheet pan, or place into greased bread pans.

Cover loosely with towel and let rise until doubled, 45-60 minutes. (Preheat oven to 375)

Place into oven and bake 30-35 minutes.  When done, the bottom will ring like a drum when thumped.

Remove from oven.  Let cool as long as you can.  Eat with your favorite soup or spread.

When fully cool, wrap other loaf, if you still have it, and store for later use.

Enjoy!