Tell more

'Code yellow' is beginning with a bunch of dry leaves blowing across the bike path and rolling over the glistening sidewalk. The scratching sound they leave behind is the only chord the first badass storm of the season is offering right now. It's 4.30 am. At 4 am, midst my half-burnt toast and coffee for breakfast, I got a warning on my phone of the imminent severe wind – and that users of 'fragile' means of transportation such as bicycles, scooters and caravans may be at risk.

Another duo of leaves perform a circus stunt. A synchronized, uninterrupted somersault from one side of the bike path to the other. At 4.45 am I'm their sole spectator, albeit in a rush to get to work on time. I feel annoyed with my bike – it's stuck on the lowest gear. I take it out on the pedals, push harder on them. A block further it's starting to drizzle, a soft infrequent drizzle for now, and even quite pleasant on the skin.

I take a turn, and suddenly – a loud, low bang of thunder, the next chord in line. I'm about fifteen minutes away from work and the risen loaves of bread (plump and soft, and not unlike a young woman's breast), and the warmth of the bread oven. I push the pedals harder, I can make it, past the light installation that says in tall red electric letters MEMORIES ARE SOUVENIRS, just go go, fast fast.

4 pm. 'Code yellow' ends with a phone call from my parents.

– Are you safe? We read on the internet about the storm, worried now, my mother says.

– Yes, we are fine. I just got back home from work. It's calming down now. I'm making cookies.

– What cookies? Tell more.

Nutbutter Cookies

Adapted from Sourdough, by Sarah Owens

Makes about 60-65 cookies

You know Lebkuchen, that old-fashioned German gingerbread? I bet these nutbutter cookies will remind you of it. And possibly of oatmeal cookies. And most certainly of spice cookies. And if that's not enough, here is more: they are sourdough cookies. Sourdough nutbutter cookies!

I understand that to make and keep alive your own sourdough starter for cookies alone, however delicious, is a big ask. But if you already have one, wouldn't you then want a great breakfast cookie – because it's great for breakfast, crumbled over a bowl of thick yogurt, or along with coffee and a cold tangerine on the side – for winter months at least?

What nut butter to use is the subject of taste. I myself gravitate towards milder nut butters – such as almond or cashew – for these cookies. This way all elements at play are more noticeable in the outcome: earthy rye flour; nutty, nearly milky oats; deep, smoky maple syrup; soothing cinnamon and exotic nutmeg.

By the way, if the presence of sourdough in the cookie evokes the notions of acidity, I'll hasten to say this is really not the case here. The sourdough starter is first mixed with water and rye flour to form such a pre-ferment that leaves no traces of acidity in the cookie dough.

For the leaven (pre-ferment)

20 g sourdough starter

50 g very warm water (40 C)

70 g rye flour

For the cookie dough

140 g leaven (pre-ferment)

2 large eggs

60 g maple syrup

½ teaspoon baking soda

1/8 teaspoon table salt

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg

480 g good-quality nut butter of choice (almond, cashew, hazelnut, etc)

120 g unrefined cane sugar

1 vanilla bean, seeds only

30 g rolled oats

To make the leaven (pre-ferment):

Eight hours before making the cookies, mix together the starter and water in a medium non-reactive bowl (wooden, plastic or stainless steel). Add the rye flour, mix with your hand until hydrated and stiff then cover with plastic. Leave to ferment at room temperature. Once it's puffy and smelling of honeyed fruit, you can mix it into the dough or keep refrigerated up to several days before using.

To make the cookie dough:

Preheat the oven to 175 C (350 F). Add the eggs and maple syrup to the leaven and mix well with your hand. The mixture will look split, but it will come together once the remaining ingredients have been added. Sprinkle the baking soda, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg over the top, stir to incorporate. Mash in the nut butter, sugar and vanilla seeds, and then fold in the oats. If the dough feels a little runny, refrigerate it for about an hour.

Form the dough, about a teaspoon's worth, into small balls, and place onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. Don't overcrowd it, bake about 12-15 cookies at a time. (At this point you can also refrigerate the dough, covered with plastic, for up to two days.) Using a fork, press the balls gently to flatten into 4-cm disks. Dip your fork in (rye) flour before each cookie to prevent it from sticking to the dough.

Bake for 7 to 8 minutes, rotating the sheet halfway through, until the edges just begin to appear firm. Do not overbake. Let cool on a wire rack. These will keep well in an airtight container at room temperature for 4 to 5 days.

Quite near

Downstairs a drama is unfolding.

In my bedroom there is a mosquito on the window, it makes thumping sounds as it runs into the glass, in angular curves, like the ones on a cardiogram, moves from one corner to the next. I'm in bed, arms under a pillow, and I'm watching it. There is not much choice for the mosquito to go elsewhere, the window is closed. I'd give it a moment before it will sense there is warm blood on the pillow, an easy reach. The sky is all grey, thick grey, it makes the mosquito look grey too.

A man with a pistol walks out of the hallway, starts to pace in front of the building.

The wine last night has left me with the disinclination to get out of bed too early. It was a good red, too good to stop at a glass. I baked a loaf of Russian rye and there were well-aged Dutch farmer's cheese, butter, a couple of soft-boiled eggs that trod on the edge of hard, and the remnants of an OK, store-bought roast chicken. We both agreed we could have made a better chicken ourselves, but we'd been too hungry to wait I suppose. Anyway, all that was dinner, and it was delicious. We had it on the floor, with the balcony door open, 'a picnic'. 

Downstairs police cars are everywhere, a security cordon around the entrance. The man has fired the pistol. Sirens break through the glass, come to a halt quite near. I wonder what may be wrong, eyes tracking the mosquito's ups and downs along the window frame.

The phone buzzes, but it's so far away, on the computer desk. The thought of getting up and out from under the warm blanket isn't so agreeable right now, it's my free day after six days of work. I'll get out of bed when the mosquito has finally reached me, I'm thinking. The phone buzzes again, makes me curious. I'm now willing the mosquito to finally get close enough to be annoying, so I have a good reason to make a move myself. Now it starts ringing. I'm getting up.

It's 12 p.m. on the phone clock, plus two messages and a missed call from Anthony. There is a shooting right in front of our building, says one, and a link to a Dutch news site in the other. I stare at the phone screen, make out that at least no one is injured.

I sit back down on the bed to call back Anthony. We exchange a few incredulous can-you-believe-its. After I hang up I reach for a newspaper by the bed and swat at the mosquito. Got him. Then I open the window and go to the kitchen. I set the kettle on and as I wait I cut a thick slice of the rye bread from last night to go with my coffee. I'll spread honey on it now. It's my favourite most comforting Russian bread -- Borodynsky.

Borodynsky Bread

Adapted from Bread Matters, by Andrew Whitley

Makes 1 large sandwich loaf

This is a beautiful bread: hearty, moist, dark, dense, intensely sour and flavoured with coriander seeds. Somebody I know even compared it to beer, something to do with the floral coriander seeds. It's certainly the most consumed bread in Russia, I grew up on it. Some time ago a great idea descended on me to make my own Borodynsky. Now I have a tub with rye sourdough starter in the fridge, I'm starting to think of it as a pet, I only need to name it. Alriiiiight. 

The process is really straightforward. You need the aforementioned rye sourdough starter that will require four days to fully come to life. Then you make a production sourdough, which is going to be more active than the starter itself, and which will be used, as the name suggests, for the production of the bread. And then you make the main dough. Frankly, it's almost a one-bowl operation, save for a tub and a loaf tin.

For the rye sourdough starter

100 g dark rye flour

200 g very warm water (40 C)

For the production sourdough

100 g rye sourdough starter

300 g dark rye flour

600 g very warm water (40 C)

For the dough

540 g production sourdough (the rest can be mixed into the sourdough starter as a “feed”)

460 g dark rye flour

10 g fine sea salt

40 g unsulphured molasses

180 g warm water

2 teaspoons whole coriander seeds, divided use

To make the rye sourdough starter:

On day 1 mix 25 g of dark rye flour with 50 g of warm water in a large jar or a plastic tub with a lid. Keep out of the fridge. On day 2,3,4 continue adding another 25 g of dark rye flour and 50 g of warm water. The starter will get a little bubbly, and that's of course a very good thing. After the last feeding let the starter ferment for another 24 hours out of the fridge before moving on to the next step to make the production sourdough.

To make the production sourdough:

Mix 100 g of the rye sourdough starter with the dark rye flour and warm water in a large plastic tub. The rest of the rye sourdough starter can be stored in the fridge, and fed with 25 g of dark rye flour and 50 g of warm water once every 2-3 days, and at least 24 hours ahead of your next Borodynsky loaf.

Let the production starter ferment, out of the fridge and for about 12 hours. Place a bowl underneath the tub in the (likely) event the production starter overflows; it will get very bubbly.

To make the dough:

Thoroughly oil a bread loaf tin about 23 x 13 cm. Sprinkle 1 teaspoon of slightly crushed coriander seeds over the bottom of the tin.

In a large bowl, mix all the ingredients together. It will be a very sticky mass. Wet your hands and place the mixture in the tin. Even it out, cover loosely (a clean plastic bag works well) and leave to prove until the dough has increased in size by about one third. This can take up to 4-5 hours.

Preheat the oven to 220 C. When the dough is ready, sprinkle another teaspoon of lightly crushed coriander seeds over the top. Bake for 10 minutes, then turn the oven down to 200 C and bake for further 40 minutes.

Remove from the oven and let rest for 5-10 minutes before turning out onto a wire rack. If necessary, run a sharp knife along the sides of the tin to ease the bread out. Cool completely before storing (wrapped in cling film). Borodynsky is best the day after baking.

The right thing

I'm going to fucking need the ambulance – I want to pick up the phone and shout into the receiver. I'm having a crushing, no – squeezing, no – stabbing, no – burning sensation somewhere there, an inch deep under the ribcage, on the left of the sternum. I take a breath and it gets worse, a sharp pain shoots up my neck and into my shoulders, so I try not to breathe that much. As I wipe my cheeks dry there is a black residue on my fingertips, the mascara. I can't see, but I'm sure I must look like shit right now. Please fucking help me, I want to say.

That's stupid, so stupid to have wound up like this. I was going to unlock my bike, but I need a moment. I pull my bag off the shoulder, put it down on the pavement and place myself next to it. I pick my phone from the bottom of the bag and look at the black screen like it's a mirror. I do look like shit: the eyelids thicker than usual, especially the lower ones, puffy cheeks under the eyes, the mascara leaks. I search my bag for a napkin—the keys, wallet, lipstick, yes, a bruised ripe peach, a crumpled post-it with a grocery list (three exclamation marks next to 'cherries'), but there is no damn napkin today. I swipe the phone screen and dial Anthony. I tell him I'm sitting on the pavement, tell him about the chest pains. Take a deep breath, he says—but it feels there is a sharp fish bone stuck in my throat, I say back.
 
You are changing jobs, he says, with a very calm voice, and it's a lot of emotions, coping, accepting, and releasing, but you did the right thing. But did I? I ask.  

It's been a long while, Anya, seven whole years. Of course you did, of course. You needed to leave, to go and learn a new thing, you know it.

I baked and shaped my last breads there today, you know, I say and pull out of my bag an oval loaf of sourdough bread -- a batard -- I took from work. It smells sour and creamy, the time-old and visceral smell of good bread, and that's so very reassuring at the moment. The smell of these breads has always reminded me of my grandmother's well-used wooden salt-box (designed as Baba Yaga, the forest-dwelling deformed witch from Slavic folklore; this one was with a mortar, that's where the salt went). It had often been a centerpiece on my grandmother's dining table. I've got a baguette for you as well, your all-time favorite, I say with a stress on 'your'.

That's nice, thank you. But do something nice for yourself too today.

Something nice. I've been meaning to make a cherry clafoutis for a while now, maybe I should do that, I only need to pick up fresh cherries for it, yes, I'll do that. I'll get a kilo of fresh fat near-black staining cherries for a clafoutis. Only I won't make it. I'll eat the full kilo, berry by berry. Because fresh cherries are great like that. They make me very happy.

OK, I guess I'll get going, I say, wipe my cheeks dry again and get off the phone. I peel myself off the pavement, bump into a tourist with a camera a few steps away from my bike. Pardon me. Deep in my skull a headache is unfolding, the dull type. I take a deeper breath, still no better, it only pushes more salt out of my eyes. I put my sunglasses on, so no one sees the tears, unlock the bike to ride off.
 
Quick Flapjack Cherry Granola  
Adapted from Stirring Slowly, by Georgina Hayden

Serves 4

Since I don't trust myself around fresh cherries, I don't bother anymore to try and cook with them, at least for this summer. Dried cherries, however, are no problem, I can manage that. 

Why are you making a pancake granola? Anthony raised his eyebrows on a recent morning. Before I also didn't know that there is such a thing as a British flapjack and that it's not a thick pancake. The British understand flapjack as a chewy oatmeal cookie bar, and that's what the recipe in question refers to – good, chewy, toasty, crispy oats.

I tinkered a little bit with the recipe and came up with a formula (not that much different from the original) I'm particularly fond of. No cinnamon, but lemon zest; no vanilla extract but fresh vanilla bean seeds; runny honey with a neutral taste -- acacia honey works best here. The result is a pure, mild, well-rounded oatmeal flavour, a little savory, not undone by sweet dried fruit, with a few fresh and singing flavours (lemon zest and cherries) in between. 

 
1 Tablespoon flavourless oil
¼ teaspoon fresh vanilla bean seeds (from about half a vanilla bean)
125 grams rolled oats
grated zest of a small lemon (about ½ teaspoon)
50 grams dried cherries
50 grams dried figs
2 Tablespoons mixed seeds (pumpkin, sesame, poppy, sunflower) 
¼ teaspoon coarse sea salt, such as fleur de sel
3 Tablespoon light neutral runny honey, such as acacia honey

Combine the oil, vanilla seends and lemon zest together in a medium-size non-stick pan with a good splash of water (4-5 Tablespoons) and place it on a medium heat. Scatter in the oats and stir it all together. Put the matching lid on and leave the oats to cook for 5 minutes, stirring often. While the oats are cooking, roughly chop the dried cherries and cut the figs into similar-size pieces.

When the oats have softened, remove the lid and add the seeds to the pan. Turn the heat up a little and toasts the oats and seeds for 2 minutes. Sprinkle in the salt and add the chopped dried fruit. Toss everything together and drizzle over the honey. Mix well and cook for 2-3 minutes until you have a golden chewy granola.

Leave in the pan for a few minutes to cool, then spoon over fresh berries and yogurt or leave to cool completely, and store in an airtight container until needed. It will surely keep well for up to 3 days, this much I can tell, maybe even longer, but it never lasts with me that long.

Variation

For a much brighter, sharper taste, use 1 Tablespoon pomegranate molasses to 2 Tablespoons runny honey instead of lemon zest. I must say I can't quite decide which version I like better. Depends on the day, I guess.