Krentenbrood (Dutch Currant Bread)

In my grandmother's second notebook, krentenbrood sits on a page worn at the lower corner, the sort of page you turn with flour still on your thumb. It wasn't the ceremonial bread. That honour went to kerststol, Christmas bread with its almond heart, or to the long Twentse krentenwegge carried to births and weddings in Twente. Krentenbrood was quieter: Saturday breakfast, a slice after school, the heel toasted the next day and buttered while the currants woke up again.

The name already tells you the secret, but in a modest voice. Krenten are currants, and krent carries the old memory of Corinthe, Corinth, the Mediterranean trade name for the small dried grapes that travelled north until a Dutch baker could stir them into a rainy-morning dough without calling it grand. But let me tell you a secret: the world calls the Dutch frugal as if that ends the matter. It is exactly frugality that teaches you to notice generosity, and this loaf is so full of fruit that bakers joke the krenten were shot into it with a rifle.

What I want from you is not complicated bread-making. Hou het altijd simpel, always keep it simple. Soak the currants and raisins so they don't steal moisture from the dough, dry them well so the crumb doesn't go muddy, and knead the dough before the fruit goes in, because little dried grapes are charming at the table and badly behaved in gluten. Then let time do what time does. A dish without its story is half a meal, and this one tastes best sliced thick, toasted, and put within reach of the butter knife.