
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 batch of soft, lightly spiced fruited buns made for the ritual of splitting and toasting on a grey afternoon, when the kettle's on and there's nowhere you need to be.
There's a particular kind of afternoon that asks for a teacake. The light has gone flat by three o'clock, the rain is doing whatever rain does in November, and the only sensible response is to put the kettle on and toast something fruited. This is what teacakes are for. They aren't a breakfast, exactly, and they aren't a pudding. They occupy that quiet middle ground where tea is served and the day pauses for twenty minutes.
I made my first batch of these after reading about them in an old Yorkshire cookery book. The recipe was barely a recipe, more like a list of proportions scribbled by someone who'd made them every week for forty years and couldn't quite see why anyone would need to write it down. That's the spirit. A teacake is a soft enriched dough with currants in it, baked flat enough to split, sturdy enough to hold butter without collapsing. There's nothing clever going on. The cleverness is in the ritual: the splitting, the toasting until the currants catch and turn sticky, the butter melting into the cut surface, the first bite while it's still almost too hot to eat.
Make them on a Sunday and you've got teatime sorted for most of the week. They keep well in a tin, and they get better, not worse, on day two. I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I made them properly: "Currants. Cinnamon. Sticky. Tuesday again tomorrow." That's the kind of meal this is. Quiet, useful, the sort of thing you want to have around.
Quantity
500g
plus extra for dusting
Quantity
7g
Quantity
50g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
50g
softened, plus extra for the bowl
Quantity
1
lightly beaten
Quantity
250ml
warmed to just above blood temperature
Quantity
150g
Quantity
50g
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 tablespoon
dissolved in 1 tablespoon hot water
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| strong white bread flourplus extra for dusting | 500g |
| fast-action dried yeast | 7g |
| caster sugar | 50g |
| fine sea salt | 1 teaspoon |
| ground mixed spice | 1 teaspoon |
| ground cinnamon | 1/2 teaspoon |
| unsalted buttersoftened, plus extra for the bowl | 50g |
| large egglightly beaten | 1 |
| whole milkwarmed to just above blood temperature | 250ml |
| currants | 150g |
| mixed peel (optional) | 50g |
| milk for glazing | 1 tablespoon |
| caster sugar for finishing glazedissolved in 1 tablespoon hot water | 1 tablespoon |
Tip the flour into a large bowl. Add the yeast to one side and the salt and sugar to the other. Stir in the mixed spice and cinnamon. Make a well in the middle and add the softened butter, the beaten egg, and most of the warm milk. Bring it together with your hands, adding the rest of the milk a splash at a time until you have a soft, slightly tacky dough that comes away from the sides of the bowl. Different flours drink different amounts. Trust your hands.
Tip the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for ten minutes. It will feel sticky at first. Resist the urge to add more flour. Keep going. After about five minutes the dough will start to change under your hands, going from rough and shaggy to smooth and elastic, with a faint sheen. That's what you're after. Push, fold, turn, repeat. It's a quietly meditative thing, kneading dough.
Lightly butter a clean bowl and put the dough in, turning it once to coat. Cover with a damp tea towel or cling film and leave somewhere warm and draught-free until it has roughly doubled in size. This takes around an hour and a half in a warm kitchen, longer if the room is cold. The dough is ready when you press a finger into it and the dent stays. Don't watch the clock. Watch the dough.
Tip the risen dough back onto a lightly floured surface and gently flatten it. Scatter the currants and mixed peel over the top, then fold the dough over itself a few times to work them through. Be patient here. The fruit wants to escape and you want it spread evenly. Knead gently for another minute until the currants are tucked into every part of the dough.
Divide the dough into eight equal pieces, around 130g each if you're being precise, but eyeballing it is fine. Shape each piece into a tight ball by cupping your hand over it and rolling against the work surface, then flatten gently into a round about 2cm thick. Yorkshire teacakes are flatter than you'd expect. They're meant to split clean across the middle.
Place the teacakes on a baking tray lined with parchment, leaving a couple of inches between each. Cover loosely with a tea towel and leave to rise again for forty-five minutes to an hour, until puffy and almost touching. Heat the oven to 200C/180C fan while you wait.
Brush the tops gently with a little milk. Bake for fifteen to twenty minutes, until the teacakes are deep golden on top and sound hollow when you tap the bottom. The kitchen will smell of warm bread and cinnamon and something faintly fruity. That's the currants doing their work. While they're still warm from the oven, brush the tops with the sugar and water glaze. They'll go glossy and slightly sticky.
Lift the teacakes onto a wire rack and let them cool. They're good fresh, but they're at their best the next day, split through the middle with a serrated knife and toasted hard until the cut sides are dark gold and the currants have caught the heat and turned sticky and sweet. Butter them while they're still hot enough to melt it. That's the whole point.
1 serving (about 125g)
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