Death by Soda Bread

 What made so many of us turn to baking when the earth wobbled on its axis last year? Were we afraid that the only way we'd be 'given our daily bread' was if we learned to make it ourselves? Whatever the reason, it's kind of cliched by now. If you can bear it, herewith - one more tale of baking struggles.

When I was growing up, Francis the Breadman arrived o n our street, every evening, in the bakery van. My mother would send me out with money and instructions for which kind of loaf she wanted. I can still see friendly Francis in his green bakery coat, his curly head disappearing into the back of the van and reappearing as he pulled out a tray of fresh loaves. Most of all, I can still smell the heady aroma of those loaves. My favorite was the cottage loaf. I'm salivating just remembering it.

But, we didn't get bread from Francis every evening. My mother would often bake her own but never with yeast. She'd grown up on my grandmother's soda bread out on the farm, so that was her go-to recipe. Breakfast for us, on school days, was often a big bowl of porridge followed by thick slices of soda bread slathered with butter, washed down with mugs of hot, sweet, milky tea. After that, no matter what challenges the day ahead brought, we were prepared to do battle as we pedaled off to school. Sounds like a recipe for fattening children but we were lean as greyhounds.

I have had, like the rest of the world, my sourdough adventures in recent months, a steep learning curve with some good results, some not so good; a lot of good flour under the bridge to keep it fed. Still working on it. 

But, this past week I was craving soda bread. No starter, no yeast required. I have a few favorite recipes, but any recipe with the main ingredients will usually turn out fine. I found one on Google (I sometimes wonder why I keep all my cookbooks, and folders of clipped recipes, as I so often turn to Google instead!)

Flour? check. Salt? check. Sugar? check. Baking powder. check. Buttermilk? Hmm. Fingers crossed as I go to the fridge. check! There it is, lurking in the back. The sell by date is a few weeks past but the eyes and the nose detect nothing funky. Onward. Toss in a cup of juicy raisins, stir it all together, pop it in the oven, set the timer....

And wait, in confident anticipation.

But....

It was a disaster!

 Instead of rising, and doubling in size, it looked the same size as when I'd popped it in. 

"Here's a job for you, Sherlock," I thought (after I'd finished groaning.)

Sherlock ascertained that we were still well within the 'best if used by' date on the baking powder. Though it was the very dregs, as the can was almost empty. 

I let it cool. Who knew? Magic could still happen.  Wishful thinking -  another of my talents.

Sad to report, no magic happened.

What a surprise.

By and by the OC arrived home. Even though it smelled of baking, I warned him not to get his hopes up. That, even though it might seem I had made soda bread, what I had, in fact, made was a block of cement. 

"Not to worry," I said, "it won't be a total waste. I'll feed it to the birds."

But I wasn't quick enough. The birds never got it. 

Maybe the OC is an optimist. Or a
masochist? Either way, he has been chipping away at that block of cement, grimacing all the while, in spite of me protesting 

 "You don't have to eat that! It's gonna to kill you!" 

"It reminds me of hardtack in the military," he said, with a faraway look in his eyes (and a grimace.) 

Those must be good memories, though, somehow, I doubt it.

Possibly it's a test. If it doesn't kill him, will it make him stronger? 

There are only two slices left. (Maybe I'll sneak them out to the birds... but, will the bird mamas then swoop down and peck me to death for trying to kill their babies?)

 His mother, who learned the hard way in the last world war to never waste a crumb, must be looking down smiling.

  But not at me. 

This would be proof that she was right. That the chances were good that her boy would die, with me in his kitchen. Which makes me love the friends who think I can actually cook and bake, bless their innocence.  Never mind that they only see or taste my successes. The OC suffers through all my disasters. Apparently willingly, or perhaps as penance for his sins.

After fifty years though, he's still alive and kicking.

  One way or the other, I had to redeem myself so I made soda bread again today - with fresh ingredients.

(That's it at the top - I had to start with something tempting. If I'd put those cement slices first you'd never have lasted to here.) 

And this time it is delicious. 

My tiara is on straight again.