
Chef Thomas
A Bloomer
A proper British bloomer, slashed deep and baked until the cuts open wide and the crust turns deep, glossy gold. The kind of loaf that makes the rest of the day feel deliberate.
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Created by Chef Thomas
A buttery, golden Easter loaf scented with saffron and packed with currants, the kind of bread that turns a Sunday afternoon into something worth marking.
There's a Saturday in early spring when the light starts to feel different. Longer, kinder, with that pale gold quality that promises Easter is coming. That's when I start thinking about saffron bread.
It's a Cornish thing, really, though nobody can quite agree on how it got there. The story goes that Cornish tin made its way to the Mediterranean centuries ago and saffron came back the other way, tucked into the holds of returning ships. Whether that's strictly true or not, the bread is. Vivid yellow from the saffron, rich with butter, studded with currants and candied peel. Half loaf, half cake, entirely its own thing.
The saffron does most of the work, so don't skimp. A proper pinch, steeped in warm milk for as long as you can manage, gives you that astonishing colour and a perfume that's hard to describe: hay, honey, something faintly metallic and old. The rest is just patience. Enriched dough rises slowly. There's no hurrying it. Put the kettle on, find a book, let the kitchen smell start to build.
I wrote it down in the notebook the first year I made it: "Saffron bread. Easter Saturday. Sun out. Worth the wait." I haven't changed the recipe since.
Quantity
generous pinch (about 0.5g)
Quantity
150ml
warmed
Quantity
500g
Quantity
75g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
7g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1
finely grated zest only
Quantity
100g
softened and cubed
Quantity
1
lightly beaten
Quantity
200g
Quantity
50g
finely chopped
Quantity
1 tablespoon
for glazing
Quantity
1 tablespoon
for glazing
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| saffron threads | generous pinch (about 0.5g) |
| whole milkwarmed | 150ml |
| strong white bread flour | 500g |
| caster sugar | 75g |
| fine sea salt | 1 teaspoon |
| fast-action dried yeast | 7g |
| ground mixed spice | 1 teaspoon |
| unwaxed lemonfinely grated zest only | 1 |
| unsalted buttersoftened and cubed | 100g |
| large egglightly beaten | 1 |
| currants | 200g |
| mixed candied peelfinely chopped | 50g |
| milkfor glazing | 1 tablespoon |
| caster sugarfor glazing | 1 tablespoon |
Warm the milk in a small pan until it's just barely hot to the touch, no more. Take it off the heat. Crumble the saffron threads between your fingers and stir them in. Cover the pan and leave it to sit for at least an hour. Two is better. Overnight is best. The milk will turn the colour of a winter sunset and smell faintly of hay and honey. This is the whole soul of the bread, so don't rush it.
Tip the flour, sugar, salt, yeast, mixed spice and lemon zest into a large bowl. Keep the salt and the yeast on opposite sides for a moment, then stir everything together with your hand. Make a well in the middle. Pour in the saffron milk, which should be warm rather than hot, and add the beaten egg. Bring it together with your fingers until it forms a rough, shaggy dough. It will look like nothing much. That's fine.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for a few minutes until it starts to come together. Now begin adding the softened butter, a cube at a time, working each piece in before adding the next. The dough will look broken and sticky and you'll think you've ruined it. You haven't. Keep going. After ten minutes or so it will pull itself back together, soft and silky and the colour of an old gold ring.
Flatten the dough out and scatter the currants and candied peel over the top. Fold the dough over them and knead gently until the fruit is evenly distributed. Some will fall out. Push it back in. Don't worry about being neat.
Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl, cover with a clean cloth or cling film, and leave somewhere gently warm to rise. The kitchen counter is fine if the room is cosy. It needs around two hours to double in size. An enriched dough like this rises slowly because the butter and sugar slow the yeast down. Trust your nose. When the bowl smells faintly sweet and yeasty, it's ready.
Knock the dough back gently with your knuckles. Shape it into a fat oval or, if you prefer, divide it into three pieces and plait them together. Lift it into a buttered 900g loaf tin or set it on a parchment-lined baking tray. Cover loosely and leave for another hour to an hour and a half until the dough has puffed up and feels pillowy when you press a finger gently against it.
Heat the oven to 180C/160C fan. Brush the top of the loaf with a little milk and scatter the tablespoon of sugar over it. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes. The top will turn a deep, burnished gold and the kitchen will smell of butter and saffron and something faintly festive. Tap the bottom of the loaf when you think it's done. A hollow sound means it's ready. A dull thud means another five minutes.
Turn the loaf out onto a wire rack and let it cool. Resist the urge to cut into it straight away. Warm enriched bread tears rather than slices, and you'll lose the structure. Once it's cooled to barely warm, cut a thick slice, butter it generously, and eat it standing at the counter. That first slice is for the cook. Everyone else can wait.
1 serving (about 98g)
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