
Chef Dean
Amish White Bread
Pillowy soft sandwich bread from Pennsylvania Dutch kitchens, where generations of home bakers perfected the art of tender, slightly sweet loaves that slice clean and toast golden.
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A crusty, deeply tangy boule with an open, glossy crumb that captures the wild fermentation magic of San Francisco's fog-kissed air. Three days of patient work yields bread worth every hour.
San Francisco sourdough is not simply bread. It is a living connection to the Gold Rush, when prospectors carried bubbling starters across the Sierra Nevada like family heirlooms. The city's cool, damp climate created something remarkable: a unique bacterial culture now named Lactobacillus sanfranciscensis that produces a tang found nowhere else on earth. This is bread with a birth certificate.
I've watched too many home bakers approach sourdough with fear. They treat their starters like temperamental infants, fussing over precise temperatures and timing down to the minute. Relax. Wild yeast has survived for millennia without your anxiety. What sourdough requires is attention, not perfection. Learn to read your dough. Trust your hands. The bread will teach you.
The process spans three days, but the actual work totals perhaps forty-five minutes. The rest is waiting while invisible organisms do their ancient labor. Day one, you build the levain. Day two, you mix, fold, shape, and refrigerate. Day three, you bake. The cold overnight proof develops that characteristic sourness. Rush it and you'll have decent bread. Honor the time and you'll have something that makes people stop mid-chew and ask what bakery this came from.
This recipe assumes you already maintain an active starter. If you don't, begin one now. Equal parts flour and water, fed daily for two weeks until it doubles reliably within four to six hours of feeding. That's your foundation. Everything else builds from there.
Quantity
500g (4 cups)
plus more for dusting
Quantity
350g (1½ cups)
at 80°F
Quantity
100g (½ cup)
Quantity
10g (2 teaspoons)
Quantity
for banneton
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| bread flourplus more for dusting | 500g (4 cups) |
| waterat 80°F | 350g (1½ cups) |
| active sourdough starter | 100g (½ cup) |
| fine sea salt | 10g (2 teaspoons) |
| rice flour | for banneton |
The night before mixing day, feed your starter to build a levain. Combine 25g of active starter with 50g bread flour and 50g water at 80°F in a clean jar. Stir vigorously to incorporate air. Cover loosely and leave at room temperature (68-72°F) for 8 to 12 hours. The levain is ready when it has doubled in volume, shows a domed surface with bubbles throughout, and passes the float test: drop a small spoonful into room temperature water. If it floats, you're ready. If it sinks, wait another hour.
In a large mixing bowl, combine 500g bread flour with 325g of your water (reserve 25g for later). Mix with your hand or a wooden spoon until no dry flour remains. The dough will be shaggy and rough. That's correct. Cover with a damp towel and rest for 45 minutes to 1 hour. This autolyse allows the flour to fully hydrate and begins gluten development without any effort from you. When you return, the dough will feel smoother, more pliable. The transformation happens in silence.
Dissolve the salt in your reserved 25g of water. Spread 100g of your ripe levain over the autolysed dough. Pour the salted water on top. Now use your hand like a claw, squeezing the dough repeatedly to incorporate the levain and salt. This takes 3 to 4 minutes. The dough will feel like it's falling apart, then suddenly come together. Keep working until no slippery patches of unmixed levain remain. The dough should feel tacky but not sticky, pulling cleanly from your fingers after a moment of contact.
Cover the bowl and begin bulk fermentation at room temperature. Over the next 4 hours, perform four sets of stretch-and-folds spaced 30 minutes apart during the first 2 hours. For each set: wet your hand, slide it under one side of the dough, stretch it upward until you feel resistance (not tearing), and fold it over the center. Rotate the bowl 90 degrees and repeat. Four folds per set, north-south-east-west. After the final fold, leave the dough undisturbed for the remaining 2 hours. Watch for a 50% rise in volume, a domed surface, and visible bubbles on the sides when you tilt the bowl toward the light.
Flour your work surface lightly. Turn the dough out, letting it release naturally from the bowl. Using a bench scraper and one floured hand, gently shape it into a rough round by tucking the edges underneath. Don't be aggressive. You're building surface tension, not degassing your fermentation. Let this rest uncovered for 25 minutes. The dough will relax and spread slightly. This bench rest makes final shaping easier.
Dust your banneton generously with rice flour (rice flour prevents sticking better than wheat). Flip the rested dough so the floured top is now face-down on your work surface. Working with the sticky side up, fold the bottom third toward the center, then fold the sides in like an envelope, then roll the whole package toward you to create a taut boule with a seam on the bottom. Use your bench scraper to drag the boule toward you on the unfloured surface, building tension as the friction tightens the skin. Place seam-side up in the banneton.
Cover the banneton with a plastic bag or shower cap. Refrigerate immediately at 38-40°F for 12 to 16 hours. This cold retard slows yeast activity while bacteria continue producing lactic and acetic acid, developing that signature San Francisco tang. The dough will rise slightly but not dramatically. Don't panic. The magic happens in the oven. You can hold the dough refrigerated for up to 48 hours if your schedule demands flexibility. The sourness intensifies with time.
Place your Dutch oven with its lid inside a cold oven. Set the temperature to 500°F. Allow a full hour for preheating, not just until the oven beeps. The thermal mass of cast iron needs time to saturate with heat. The walls of that pot will create steam from the dough's moisture, mimicking professional steam-injected ovens. This is how home bakers achieve that shattering crust.
Remove the banneton from the refrigerator. Cut a piece of parchment paper slightly larger than your loaf. Invert the dough onto the parchment (it will release cleanly if you used enough rice flour). Using a lame or razor blade held at a 30-degree angle, score the surface decisively with one swift motion, cutting about ½ inch deep. Hesitation creates ragged edges. Confidence creates the ear that will bloom in the oven. Carefully remove the screaming-hot Dutch oven, lift the parchment sling with the dough inside, and lower it into the pot. Replace the lid immediately.
Bake with the lid on at 500°F for 20 minutes. Resist every urge to peek. The lid traps steam released from the dough, keeping the crust pliable while the loaf springs upward. This oven spring transforms your scored slash into a dramatic ear of caramelized crust. You'll hear the bread singing, crackling as it expands. That sound means everything is working.
Remove the lid carefully (steam will escape, so protect your hands and face). Reduce the oven temperature to 450°F. Continue baking uncovered for 25 to 30 minutes until the crust is a deep mahogany brown. This is darker than you think you want. Trust me. That color means flavor, caramelization, a crust that shatters. Pale bread tastes like disappointment. When you tap the bottom of the loaf, it should sound hollow, like knocking on a wooden door.
Transfer the loaf to a wire rack immediately. This part requires discipline: wait at least 2 hours before slicing. The interior is still cooking as residual heat redistributes. Cut too soon and you'll find gummy crumb and compressed texture. The loaf will crackle and sing as it cools, a sound that rewards your patience. When you finally slice, use a serrated knife in long, gentle strokes. The crumb should be glossy, open, and slightly translucent. The aroma will fill your kitchen.
1 serving (about 113g)
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