When my great-grandparents emigrated from St. Petersburg in Russia at the turn of the century, they weren't carrying much more than a couple of suitcases, a sourdough, and the general directions to America. This was to be our family sourdough's first major ocean crossing. But far from its last.
When I picture the sourdough crossing the Baltic Sea, I imagine it neatly wrapped in the St. Petersburg Times, placed inside one of my great-grandmother's socks, and tucked into a dark corner of a suitcase. Somewhere south of Gotland, I picture the little Russian lady feeding her sourdough a spoonful of salty Baltic water. Lying there in the darkness, next to a bucket of freshly caught cod, the yeast starter must have felt quite excited. The taste of saltwater on its lips. The unrivaled thrill of heading to a new life in The Land of Milk and Honey.
Unfortunately, neither my great-grandparents nor their sourdough made it to America. Somewhere in the Baltic Sea they ran out of borscht and patience, and docked instead on a rocky beach in Denmark. Everyone on board was aware that this small Scandinavian outpost is no America. No Dane is covered in milk chocolate or honey-mustard. But to their defense it must be said the descendants of King Harald Blue Tooth do enjoy a good 90 proof aquavit, over-pickled herring, and all amalgamations of baked goods. These vices must have appealed to everyone on the boat from Russia.
Over the next half-century or so, our family sourdough was having a blast in the fairytale kingdom of Denmark. The dough quickly adapted to the Danish tradition of dark, grainy, and sour rye bread filled with sunflower seeds and preferably served with no less than two inches of salted butter. Every week my great-grandmother would bake six large loaves. And every day she would serve it open-face-sandwich-style to her seven sons and only daughter, Sonia.
If the images of an old Russian lady spoon feeding her sourdough Baltic seawater, or a 50-year-old yeast used for baking seem slightly outrageous to you, it is because you do not understand the basic principles of sourdough. Perhaps this is as good a time as any to explain.
A sourdough, or a sourdough starter, is essentially a small piece of raw dough or batter, which captures the wild yeasts and is used for leavening bread. To make new breads, the (starter) sourdough is mixed with water and flour. Before baking, a small piece of the raw dough is set aside as a new sourdough starter.
When kept cool and dark, the raw sourdough can last several weeks. But it is a living culture of lactobacilli and yeast, and if you do not bake with it often, you must feed it often with water, flour, and a little sweet. Or organic yogurt if you're into that sort of thing. And if you treat it right, and bake with it often, it can last forever.
Some parents pass on golden watches and bad habits to their children. In my family, we pass on the sourdough. Quite ceremoniously, on my grandfather Samuel's 18th birthday, he was given his own piece of the dough in a old milk bottle, a not-so-subtle hint that he could move out anytime that week.
That's when the second World War hit the ventilation system. I will not dwell on this unhappy event, just point out the all-out Disney-esque miracle that 99 percent of Danish Jews survived. Apparently, some German officer by the name of Werner (not his fault) got cold feet and told everyone to get the hell out of Dodge before the Nazis arrived. He proceeded to ask for amnesty and a red sports car. This gets us to the family sourdough's second major ocean crossing.
On October 1, 1943, in the dark of night, my grandfather Samuel made a run for it. Standing on the rocky beach with nothing but a small suitcase and a sourdough wrapped in the pages of Copenhagen Weekly, he charmed his way on board a local fishing boat headed for open waters. Hidden under the suspiciously smelly floorboards, he lay quiet, holding on to his few belongings for dear life. Luckily for him and the sourdough, they both made it safely across to the almost-neutral Sweden without encountering any German submarines.
My grandfather waited out the turn of events in Sweden, and joined the Liberation Brigade. I'm sure he also spent a lot of time baking the family rye bread as a form of mental therapy and anger management. Really, when you're chased by the Nazis, there are few things more satisfying than pounding two gallons of dough with the consistency of wet cement. Somehow it all worked out for Samuel, and he returned to Denmark a little while later with the sourdough neatly wrapped in Sweden Today and a new girlfriend on his arm.
After the surrender of the Nazis my grandfather and his new fling Martha used the general happiness of the moment to get married and make some babies. This is pretty much where my mother enters the whole sourdough scenario. Twenty years later my mom left the comforts of home, with nothing but a suitcase and her own piece of sourdough.
Growing up I never gave much thought to the fact that I was served a slice of grainy, cement-like sourdough rye bread with an inch of butter every day (most Danish children succumb to this strange tradition). No one ever told me the story behind the family sourdough, and thus I never realized the 100-year history of my open-faced lunch sandwich.
At the turn of the millennium I did what my great-grandparents dreamed about a hundred years earlier in their small, damp St. Petersburg apartment. I moved permanently to The Land of Milk and Honey. And this brings us to the family sourdough's third major ocean crossing.
As a 50-something public school teacher, my mother is not exactly your typical image of a criminal mastermind. But she, like most people, understands that some things must be done, with or without state approval. And when her only son emigrated to America, she knew in her heart that a piece of the family sourdough had to get there as well. Unfortunately, there are quite strict rules about bringing communism and other dangerous live organisms into the United States of Milk and Honey. As a result, the sourdough had to be smuggled into the country.
On January 12, 2005, almost a hundred years after crossing the Baltic Sea, my mother and the family sourdough arrived in the United States on Scandinavian Airlines Flight SK1209 from Copenhagen to JFK. My mother in an Economy Class leather seat, and the sourdough in a Multivitamin Mud Mask plastic bottle from The Body Shop, hidden in the dark corner of a suitcase.
I don't think that my mother was aware that Homeland Security considers sourdough a biological weapon, and smuggling it across the border is a federal offense, punishable with up to ten years in Alcatraz.
It has been a little over four years now since the sourdough arrived in New York. Like my great-grandparents, my grandfather, and mother before me, I box the cement-like dough around therapeutically on the weekends and bake big loaves of dark and sour rye bread. Admittedly, I have become a bit of a sourdough fanatic.
Looking at the little glass of bubbly yeast culture sitting on the top self of my fridge door I get quite emotional. Not only is it a slice of family history, it is a member of the family, and in a strange way as direct a descendant as I am. Considering that and the fact that it is a living, breathing organism, in need of constant care and feeding, I have taken the liberty of actually giving it a name. In honor of a distant relative on my mothers side, my sourdough is called Morden-Kai Bimbum.
Having a member of the family living in your fridge is not always easy. Especially not when he has crossed several oceans, have survived two World Wars, and escaped the Nazis. It is a responsibility. But during the last couple of years I've begun to understand his mood swings and desires. Like all sourdoughs, he lives on the basic principle that if you treat him nice, he will treat you nice. So far, Morden-Kai Bimbum has treated me to some excellent loaves of bread. And I'm hoping that he will continue to do so for many years to come.
Uncle Martin,
New York, February 2009
HOW TO TREAT A SOURDOUGH
As I have mentioned elsewhere, a sourdough is a living, breathing culture. You treat him good, and he will treat you good. If you plan on having him around for a while, give him a name. Now, learn his moods, whims, and needs. Make sure to keep him cold when he's resting (in fridge). And warm when he's working (living room temperature). When you handle him avoid metal. Use glass or plastic bowls and wooden spoons. But what I've found to be the most helpful parental advice is to give your baby lots of exercise. The more you bake, the happier he is.
If you don't put him to work once a week, make sure to feed him on the weekend with a spoonful of whole rye flour, a bit of water, and a pinch of sugar. Take him out of the fridge. Give him a few hours of fresh air. Once in a while treat him to something special. On his birthday, once a month, I feed Morden-Kai whole rye flour, a small spoonful of honey, and a spoonful of organic yogurt for his digestion. And a little dark stout for good luck.
THE FAMILY SOURDOUGH RYE BREAD
Let's get to it. This classic rye bread recipe is the one and only family recipe. It makes three very big, dark, and beautifully grainy loaves with a hard, crispy crust. It takes two days to make these breads, but the recipe itself is very easy, and mostly involves watching the breads rise. Personally, I find it quite therapeutic and a great weekend project.
The rye flour can be a little difficult to find, especially the whole rye flour. As an alternative I have with some success experimented with mixing regular rye flour with whole spelt and/or whole wheat. As a rule of thumb the more coarse your flour, the better the bread. Some health food stores carry packs of a 7-10 grain mix, which health-fanatics apparently eat in their oatmeal (!?). I use it in my rye breads – especially if I can't find whole rye grain.
DAY 1: MAKING THE DOUGH
1-2 cups sourdough
2.8 liter (3 quarts) cold water
5 teaspoons of sea salt
2 Kg (4.5 lb) whole-rye flour
400 grams (14 oz) of whole-wheat flour
250 grams (9 oz) of good, dark syrup
Mix whole shebang in a big bowl with a wooden spoon, whilst singing the Danish national anthem.
Cover the bowl with a clean cheesecloth/dishtowel and let it rise for 24 hours. The dough needs a regular room temperature to develop well. Not too warm, not too cold. In the summer, when it's really warm, you can keep the dough down by stirring it, or put it in the fridge for a little while.
DAY 2: MAKING OF THE BREAD
REMEMBER: Before you add any of the following ingredients, set aside a small portion (1-2 cups) of the dough for the next time you bake. This is essentially your new sourdough (you may stick with the name).
1 bottle of good dark stout beer
1 Kg steel cut rye grain (2.2 lb)
400 Grams mixed kernels and seeds (sunflower, pumpkin, flax seeds, etc.)
Add everything to the bowl and mix it well. The consistency of the dough should be soft and wet. Which it is now, unless you drank all the stout. If the dough is too wet, the bread gets sticky. If the dough is too dry, the crust of the bread will break apart.
TIP: If you don't feel the consistency is quite right, add a little water or flour, and remember that the dough should be like a bricklayers mortar.
Fill the dough in three big loaf pans (you can use the cheap foil ones, too), and remember to leave a little room for the bread to rise. Cover with the cheesecloth. Let it stand for two hours at room temperature. If the dough rises out of the pans, you can let a little air out by piercing holes in the dough with a wooden chopstick.
BAKING: THE BREAD IS IN THE OVEN.
Put the bread pans in a cold oven
Start by giving the bread 2 hours at 80C (200F)
Followed by 2-2.5 hours at 180C (350F)
When the bread is done, flip them out of the loaf pans, and leave them to cool off on a cooling rack. Wrap the breads in a clean dishtowel. When the bread has cooled down, I usually keep one in the fridge (lasts about three weeks in a big ziplock bag), and freeze the other two. Cut thin slices of the bread with a good knife, and add whatever topping you like. Just remember, this is an open-faced sandwich, don't destroy your creation by putting a slice of bread on top.
God appetit!
MAKING YOURSELF A SOURDOUGH
If you do not have a sourdough passed down through generations like me, and no local bakery to steal it from, here's how to make one. It takes about a week, and is actually quite fun. But success isn't a guarantee.
2 dl (2 cups) of organic buttermilk
1 spoonful of sea salt
2 dl (2 cups) whole rye flour
Mix ingredients well in a wooden or plastic bowl (no metal), cover the starter with coarse salt. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the warmest place in your kitchen for 6-8 days. When ready, your sourdough starter should be bubbly and smell wonderfully sour – and you may name him.