
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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A proper West Country lardy cake, layered with lard, sugar and currants, folded like rough puff and baked until the bottom turns into a sheet of dark caramel. Harvest in a tin.
This is a September cake. It belongs to the end of the harvest, when the fields are stubbled and the evenings start pulling in early, and someone in a Wiltshire kitchen would have rendered down a bit of lard from the pig and turned it, with sugar and currants and yesterday's bread dough, into something worth a celebration. Nobody much makes lardy cake any more. That seems a shame.
I'll be honest. It's not a fashionable thing. Lard has been out of favour for years, and the word itself does it no favours. But a good lardy cake is one of the more quietly splendid things this country has produced: bread dough laminated like rough puff pastry, with cold lard and brown sugar and spiced fruit folded through it in three goes, then baked until the underside turns dark and sticky and the top crisps into something between a bread crust and a toffee. When you turn it out of the tin, the bottom becomes the top, and that's where the glory is.
Get good lard if you can. A proper butcher will sell you the real thing, white and clean and faintly milky, nothing like the industrial blocks that gave it a bad name. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, so use what you can find, but the better the lard, the better the cake. Same with the fruit. Plump currants, decent peel, a grating of fresh nutmeg.
I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I made one: lardy cake, late August, raining, kitchen smelled like a fairground. I've made it every harvest since.
Quantity
500g
Quantity
7g
Quantity
10g
Quantity
25g
Quantity
300ml
warmed to blood temperature
Quantity
25g
softened
Quantity
1
Quantity
175g
cold and cubed
Quantity
175g
Quantity
200g
Quantity
75g
Quantity
50g
finely chopped
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
a grating
Quantity
1 tablespoon
for the top
Quantity
small knob
for greasing the tin
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| strong white bread flour | 500g |
| fast-action dried yeast | 7g |
| fine sea salt | 10g |
| caster sugar | 25g |
| whole milkwarmed to blood temperature | 300ml |
| unsalted buttersoftened | 25g |
| large egg | 1 |
| good lardcold and cubed | 175g |
| light soft brown sugar | 175g |
| currants | 200g |
| sultanas | 75g |
| mixed candied peelfinely chopped | 50g |
| mixed spice | 1 teaspoon |
| fresh nutmeg | a grating |
| caster sugarfor the top | 1 tablespoon |
| lardfor greasing the tin | small knob |
Tip the flour into a wide bowl. Put the yeast on one side, the salt on the other. They don't get on if they meet straight away. Add the caster sugar, the softened butter, the egg, and most of the warm milk. Bring it together with your hand, adding the rest of the milk a splash at a time until you have a soft, slightly tacky dough. Turn it out and knead for ten minutes, or until it's smooth, supple and springs back when you press it with a thumb. Put it back in the bowl, cover, and leave somewhere warm until doubled in size. An hour, maybe a bit more if the kitchen is cool.
While the dough proves, tip the currants, sultanas and chopped peel into a bowl with the mixed spice and a good grating of nutmeg. Stir them through so the spice clings to the fruit. Have the cold cubed lard and the brown sugar ready in separate dishes. The whole point of what's coming is speed and rhythm, so it helps to have everything within arm's reach.
Knock the risen dough back gently and turn it onto a lightly floured surface. Roll it out into a long rectangle, about a centimetre thick, with a short edge nearest you. Dot the top two-thirds with a third of the lard, scatter over a third of the brown sugar, and a third of the spiced fruit. Fold the bottom third up over the middle, then fold the top third down over that, like a letter going into an envelope. Give it a quarter turn.
Roll out again into a long rectangle. The dough will resist a little and the lard will smear; this is fine, it's meant to. Dot with another third of the lard, sugar and fruit. Fold as before, quarter turn, and roll out one last time. Add the final third of lard, sugar and fruit. Fold one more time. By now the dough will look untidy and feel slightly sticky. Don't worry. It knows what it's doing.
Grease a 23cm round or 20cm square cake tin generously with lard. Shape the dough roughly to fit the tin and press it in, pushing it gently into the corners. Cover loosely and leave to prove for forty-five minutes to an hour, until the dough has puffed up and feels pillowy when you press it lightly. Heat the oven to 200C/180C fan.
Score the top of the cake in a diamond pattern with a sharp knife, going about half a centimetre deep. Scatter the tablespoon of caster sugar evenly over the top. Slide it into the oven and bake for thirty to thirty-five minutes. You're looking for a deep golden top and, more importantly, a smell that fills the house and makes anyone in it ask what's in the oven. The lard and sugar will be bubbling up at the edges. That's exactly what you want.
Let the cake sit in the tin for five minutes only, no longer. The molten sugar at the bottom will set hard if you leave it. Run a knife around the edge, then turn the cake out onto a wire rack, sticky-side up. The underside will now be the top: dark, glossy, lacquered with caramel and studded with fruit. Tear or cut into thick slices once it's cool enough to handle, but not properly cold. Lardy cake is at its best when it's still slightly warm and the caramel is just shy of setting.
1 serving (about 195g)
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