High Tea

I am currently taking a truly divine tea up here in a country that has yet to fully separate itself from the queen. The first true sunlight of the day falls magna cum dignitata on the decrepit shed in our mangy backyard, and to mimic its profusions, there is butter in the corners of my mouth. Outside, someone is appreciating these first few pants of spring the same way my father used to - behind a lawnmower, making a godawful noise that sends the scent of fresh-cut grass wafting around my teacup. I'm punctuating the racket with Tchaikovsky - March, Song of the Lark. It's beautiful.

Quite firmly, I believe that tea should be taken every day at four. I hit a slump around then, and without a half a pot of tea (which for me is quite an abundance) and a nice piece of toast, I go quite listless and insipid and become a perfectly unpleasant character to interact with. Tea at four is perhaps the only thing that keeps me going until then - it's a little something to look forward to. And of course I get to plan magnificent cakes and cookies for it. Which I should bake the night before, so that they're there when I'm too busy slumping to make them fresh. For there are few things in life finer than a good pick-me-up of the Queen's Favorite.

Thus, I'm eating the bread I made this morning (more on that shortly) with copious swathes of butter (the only way to take butter is in swathes - this is a fact of existence, not a matter of opinion) and pure, raw honey, along with some cheddar and of course tea with milk and sugar. The bread did not turn out as planned - it's rather more like a tasteless brick than like some delicious concoction of yeasty goodness. I blame my technique - I have no Dutch oven, which is what this recipe calls for, which I believe keeps the top of the bread moist so that it continues to rise while it steams. Mine sort of got halfway up the available space in the loaf pan and then stopped, hardened. And now, this is where I really don't understand what's going on - you'd think that despite all this, bread that has had 18 hours to ferment would at least taste good, if not being perfectly crumbed. Well, it doesn't. It's bland. And has this odd little reflection of sourness in the back, but nothing particularly interesting. So, what this leads me to conclude is that the flour I'm using is crap. Utter and complete crap. I guess that what I really don't understand is that back in the States, my mother bought plenty of whole wheat flour that did not have bits in it. All the grain was fully ground, and left nothing up to the imagination. It was often a grey-tinted tan, rather than being the reddish-tinted tan that flour here is. And the problem with that is that the flour I have been using lacks the nutty flavor and delicacy of touch that my mother's bread has. I've been trying to recreate her bread, following the recipe to the letter, and it consistently comes out the wrong color and too flat. I dunno. Maybe I'm just really bad at baking. Whatever is the matter, I intend to make a better bread soon. Maybe tonight. But for now, I must throw myself into the perpetuity of devoirs. A pox upon homework! -grumble-

Kate