
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 loaf of two halves, the smaller perched on top of the larger and held there with a finger pressed through the middle, baked until the crust is deep gold and the kitchen smells like Saturday morning.
There's a particular kind of Saturday that asks for bread. Nowhere to be, the kettle on, the radio playing something quiet in the background. The dough does most of the work, which is the trick of bread baking that nobody quite tells you. You're not really making it. You're keeping it company while it makes itself.
A cottage loaf is two rounds of dough stacked one on top of the other, the smaller crowning the larger, pinned together with a single push of the finger straight down through the middle. The shape used to be everywhere. It's vanished now from supermarket shelves because it doesn't fit a plastic bag and won't go through an automatic slicer, which feels like exactly the sort of reason a bread should still exist. Awkwardness is sometimes a virtue.
The dough is plain. Flour, water, yeast, salt. Nothing else. It needs time more than skill, and an oven hot enough to give it the crust it deserves. The first time I made one I wrote in the notebook: 'Two rounds, one above the other. Saturday. The kitchen smells right.' That's still about all there is to say about it.
Eat it that same evening, torn rather than sliced, with cold butter and good cheese and whatever soup is on the hob. There are few better feelings than putting a warm loaf in front of someone and watching them reach for it without asking.
Quantity
500g
plus extra for dusting
Quantity
10g
Quantity
7g
Quantity
320ml
Quantity
a little
for greasing the bowl
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| strong white bread flourplus extra for dusting | 500g |
| fine sea salt | 10g |
| fast-action dried yeast | 7g |
| lukewarm water | 320ml |
| oilfor greasing the bowl | a little |
Tip the flour into a large bowl. Add the salt to one side and the yeast to the other. Keep them apart for a minute, salt is hard on yeast in direct contact, then stir the lot together with your hand. Pour in most of the water and start bringing the dough together. Add the rest of the water gradually until the bowl is clean and the dough is shaggy and slightly sticky. Different flours drink different amounts of water, so trust the feel of it more than the number. You want a dough that holds together but still tugs at your fingers a little.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Knead for ten minutes. Push it away from you with the heel of your hand, fold it back, turn it a quarter, push it away again. Find a rhythm. The dough will start out rough and slightly tacky and slowly become smooth, springy, and elastic. When you press a finger into it, the indent should bounce back slowly. That's it. Don't over-flour the surface. A slightly tacky dough makes a better loaf than a dry one.
Wipe out the bowl with a little oil and put the dough back in. Cover with a clean tea towel or a plate and leave somewhere warm and out of a draught. It needs to roughly double in size, which takes about an hour and a half in a normal kitchen, longer if it's cold. Don't watch the clock. Watch the dough. When it looks puffy and a little wobbly and your finger leaves a slow-fading dent, it's ready.
Tip the risen dough onto a lightly floured surface and knock the air out gently with your knuckles. Divide it into two pieces, one about two-thirds and one about a third. You can weigh them if you like, but you can also just look at them. Shape each piece into a tight ball by tucking the edges underneath and rolling it on the work surface under a cupped hand until the surface is smooth and taut. The tension in the surface is what gives the loaf its shape later, so don't rush this bit.
Place the larger ball on a baking sheet lined with parchment, dusted with a little flour. Sit the smaller ball on top, centred. Now flour the handle of a wooden spoon, or two fingers if you prefer the old way, and push it straight down through the middle of the top ball, all the way through and into the bottom one, almost to the baking sheet. Twist gently and pull it back out. This is what holds the two rounds together as they prove and bake. It looks unlikely. It works.
Dust the loaf lightly with flour and cover loosely with a tea towel. Leave it to prove for another thirty to forty-five minutes, until it looks puffy and the dough springs back slowly when prodded. While it proves, heat the oven to 220C/200C fan and put a roasting tray on the bottom shelf to heat up too.
Slide the loaf into the oven. Pour a small jug of cold water into the hot roasting tray on the bottom shelf and shut the door quickly. The burst of steam helps the crust stay soft for the first few minutes, which lets the loaf rise properly before it sets. Bake for thirty to thirty-five minutes. The loaf is ready when it's a deep, dark gold all over and sounds hollow when you tap the bottom. If it sounds dull, give it another five minutes. A pale loaf is an underbaked loaf.
Lift the loaf onto a wire rack and leave it alone. I know. The smell is unbearable and you've been waiting hours. But a loaf cut while it's still warm has a gummy crumb because the inside is still cooking from its own residual heat. Give it at least an hour. The crust will sing and crackle as it cools, which is one of the better sounds a kitchen makes.
1 serving (about 63g)
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