Harriet Bennett
Why locally milled flour behaves differently
Flour from a small mill a few miles down the lane is not the same beast as the bag from the supermarket shelf. It is usually stoneground, which means the whole grain is crushed slowly and gently, and much of the germ and bran stays in the bag. That gives you far more flavour — nutty, slightly sweet, with a scent of new-mown hay — but it also changes how the dough behaves in your hands.
The first thing you will notice is thirst. Fresh, stoneground flour absorbs more water than aged commercial flour, partly because the bran soaks it up and partly because it has not had months to dry out. Start with a slightly wetter dough than any recipe suggests and give it a twenty to thirty minute rest before you judge it. What looks like a sticky disaster at first usually slackens into something workable.
Ask your miller what is in the bag: the wheat variety, roughly how strong it is, and whether it is intended for bread or for cakes. A flour with modest protein will still make a fine rustic loaf, but it will want a gentler hand and a longer, cooler rise.
The shortest ingredient list you can manage
Good bread from local flour needs almost nothing. For one respectable round loaf:
- 500g locally milled flour — 350g strong white plus 150g wholemeal is a lovely starting point
- 375g lukewarm water, roughly 75% hydration
- 10g fine sea salt
- Either 100g lively sourdough starter, or 4g dried yeast if you would rather keep things simple
No sugar, no oil, no improver, no vitamin C. The overnight rise does the work that additives pretend to do, and the result tastes of wheat rather than of a factory.
Mixing and the long, cool overnight rise
Tip the flour and water into a bowl, stir to a shaggy mess, and walk away for half an hour. This rest lets the flour hydrate properly and makes the whole process far less sticky. Then add the salt and the starter or yeast, squidge everything together with a wet hand until no dry patches remain, and cover the bowl.
Now the important bit: leave it somewhere cool. A pantry, an unheated porch, a stone floored larder or the least chilly corner of the kitchen, somewhere between 8°C and 12°C, is ideal. Ten to twelve hours overnight is about right. If you use dried yeast, halve the quantity and put the bowl in the fridge for twelve to eighteen hours instead.
By morning the dough should have risen by about half to two-thirds, look domed and slightly puffed, and smell faintly of yoghurt or beer. If it has barely moved, give it a few hours somewhere warmer. If it has collapsed and smells sharp, you have overshot — bake it anyway, and shorten the rise next time.
Shaping without fuss
Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Do not punch it down; you want to keep the gas you have spent all night building. Fold the edges into the middle a few times, turn it over, and cup your hands around it to drag it into a tight round. A minute of this is plenty.
Line a bowl or a proving basket with a well-floured tea towel, settle the loaf in seam-side up, and cover. The final prove takes an hour or two at room temperature, or as little as forty-five minutes if the kitchen is warm. Press a floured finger into the side: if the dent springs back slowly and not completely, it is ready. If it bounces straight back, wait a little longer.
A hot stone and a proper blast of steam
Put a baking stone, a heavy baking tray or a cast iron pot in the oven and heat it to 240°C (220°C fan, gas mark 9) for at least forty-five minutes. A thoroughly hot stone is what gives you that sudden lift and crackling base.
Steam is the second half of the trick. For the first fifteen to twenty minutes it keeps the crust soft and elastic so the loaf can spring upwards before it sets. Put a small roasting tin of boiling water on the floor of the oven, or splash a cupful of water onto a hot tray as you load the bread. Stand back from the burst of steam.
Slash the top with a sharp blade at a shallow angle, slide the loaf onto the stone, and shut the door quickly. After twenty minutes, remove the water, drop the heat to 220°C, and bake for another twenty to twenty-five minutes until the crust is a deep chestnut brown. The loaf should sound hollow when tapped underneath, and a thermometer pushed into the base should read 96–99°C.
Cooling, keeping and the next bake
Resist the urge to cut it warm. The crumb is still setting as it cools, and a loaf sliced too early goes gummy. Leave it on a rack for at least an hour, longer if you can bear it. It will keep three or four days wrapped in a clean tea towel in a bread bin, and slices freeze beautifully for toasting.
Keep a few notes as you go: which flour, how much water, how long the rise, how hot the oven. Local flour shifts with the season and the harvest, so next month's bag may want a splash more water or an hour less on the counter. That is not a flaw — it is the pleasure of baking with grain grown within sight of your own kitchen window.
