WW: Old farmhouse

(This old house, near my childhood home, was once the residence of a family who owned and operated a dairy farm on the premises. The farm has long since become a housing estate, and the house effectively abandoned, for about 50 years now.

It's painful to see it slowly crumble, though slightly miraculous that it's still here at all, and entirely unchanged. It's like historical preservation, except the preservation has largely been inadvertant.

Any road, this is pretty much exactly the sort of house I've always wanted. [A more elaborate meditation on old farmhouses can be found here.])


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Hermitcraft: Hermit Bread, Case 2.

'Way back in the first weeks of this blog I posted on the sourdough bread that's been part of my monastic practice since before I became a monk. But seeing as the recipe has continued to develop over the intervening years, and is arguably improved, I reckon I should revisit the subject now.

The big news is that some years ago I stopped using baking soda to raise the sourdough, though that's the traditional Old Settler drill. Soda is good for baking on the fly, because it reacts to the heat of the oven instead of requiring a lengthy stretch of steady, controlled warmth beforehand to raise the dough.

But eventually I succumbed to the richer scent and flavour, and the light, airy crumb, you get from wild yeast.

And it's still a simple and straightforward process, calling for just 20 minutes of hands-on labour, followed by a single rise. So now I do it like this:

YEAST-RAISED SOURDOUGH HERMIT BREAD

1 1/2 cups sourdough starter
About 2 cups all-purpose flour (added by handfuls to optimum texture)
1 tablespoon oil for brushing
shortening or butter for lubrication

Liberally grease a 10-inch cast iron skillet. You can also use a cake pan or cookie sheet, but cast iron gives the best results.

In a large bowl, blend the flour into the starter with a butter knife. When too stiff to stir, continue cutting in flour with the blade until the dough balls easily and is dry enough to work with the hands.

Knead the dough while continuing to add flour as necessary to prevent it sticking to your fingers. (See notes below.) When the dough is smooth, elastic, and dry enough to work lightly without gumming up your hands, roll it into a ball and position it in the centre of the greased skillet.

Pat the ball down to six to eight inches in diameter. Brush the top with oil and perforate the pat in rows with a wooden spoon handle or similar until it's holed all over.

Mark the dimpled pat into 8 wedges with a cleaver, chef's knife, or pastry scraper. Clean up and reseal the edges, cover the skillet, and place the dough in a warm location to work for about 4 hours. (See notes below.)

When the dough has risen sufficiently, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Uncover the pan and bake the bread on the middle rack for 20 minutes.

When lightly browned, unpan the loaf and place it on a rack to cool for a few minutes. Eat as-is or with any of the usual amendments. (Butter, jam, cheese, herbed oil, sugared berries, etc.)

Keep the fully-cooled pat fresh in an airtight plastic bag. Cold pieces can be microwaved for 30 seconds for a credible impression of just-baked bread.

Notes:

• For a richer bread, make your starter out of bread flour, then knead all-purpose into it as usual.

• I never knead this on a board, as is normal with bread. Instead I tip the bowl up on its bottom edge and knead the dough against the side while turning the bowl with the other hand, like a steering wheel. When the dough is sufficiently dry I hold it up and knead it between my hands. I suspect this technique is rooted in the recipe's origins as sojourner food; there's no other place to knead bread on the trail.

• If you lack grease for lubrication, oil and flour will work as well, but don't skip the flour dusting; the oil alone won't cut it.

• The dough must be tightly covered during the rise, or its surface will dry out and prevent the pat from expanding. I put a tight-fitting lid on the skillet. When baking on a sheet, I invert the now-empty mixing bowl over the pat. Make sure to grease an inch or so of the bowl's upper edge, or any dough that touches will stick tight.

• For the rise, place the dough somewhere that delivers gentle heat at 80 to 95 degrees. Good prospects include a water heater closet, a purpose-built proofing box, strategic positioning beside a woodstove, or, on a summer day, in reliable shade outdoors. I've also had success in an oven with the light on – usually with the door cracked a certain distance; the light alone can heat the interior to surprising levels – and a sun-heated car, but monitor the temperature carefully and consistently with both. I've also preheated an oven at its lowest setting, turned it off, and placed the pan on the middle rack, returning once or twice to take the dough out and heat the oven again. And I've put a size-appropriate incandescent light in a closet, tote, disused refrigerator, or large ice chest. Again, be very wary – those bulbs throw a lot more heat than you think – and mind the serious fire danger when placing a heat source in a tight space.

• Finally, remember that sourdough will also rise at room temperature if necessary, though it takes longer and results in a sourer, less consistent product.

The history of this bread, as well as traditional ovenless baking methods, is found at the bottom of my original post.

And a last important point: the original soda-raised recipe is still perfectly enjoyable if you've got no way to incubate the yeast; would rather not wait that long; or aren't over-fond of the taste of sourdough, which soda mitigates. It's also good for an upset stomach, among other things.

And I still mix it up for pizza dough.

At some point I'll post a few whole-grain elaborations I've developed over the years. In the meantime, enjoy this simple, thrifty down-home staple, that never fails to bolster my sense of comfort and well-being.

Delate Wawa

The hardest thing in this world, is to live in it.

Be brave.

– Buffy the Vampire Slayer


(Photo of young Iranians standing against the forces of autocracy courtesy of Samoel Safaie and Wikimedia Commons.)

Hermitcraft: Labrador Tea

Last week I was down to the tea bog I've frequented for 50 years, and while there, under dark wet skies, I snapped a few (not very good) photos of its eponymous resident.

Labrador tea (Ledum groenlandicum) is a piece of North Coast heritage tea drinkers should get to know. This knee- to waist-high evergreen, which resembles an azalea that sets sprays of showy white blossoms in summer, monopolises peat bogs across the north of the continent. Its leathery leaves are narrowly elliptical, dark green above and rolled at the edges. Yellow fur on the underside makes this plant a snap to identify, as does the powerful, lemony aroma it exudes when crushed. In fact, your nose is likely to be first to discover Ledum after you unwittingly step on some.

As both the common name and binomial suggest, European sorties to North America encountered L. groenlandicum early on, and while the Woodland nations were already infusing it for medicinal purposes, the newcomers apparently were first to drink it as a beverage. On the North Coast it's particularly associated with the fur trappers and voyageurs of the pre-settlement period, who carried the tea-drinking custom west.

Lab tea is definitely enjoyable for that, though for my money it's even better as an anchor for a mix. I especially appreciate the added tang and colour of rose hips. Grand fir (Abies grandis) needles or sorrel (Oxalis or Rumex ssp.) are also good, as are dried liquorice fern rhizome (Polypodium glycyrrhiza), catnip (Nepenta cataria), mint (Menthe ssp.) ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and orange or lemon peel. A blork of lemon juice is often welcome as well.

My own mix looks something like this:

2 cups Labrador tea leaves, chopped
1/2 cup dried chopped rose hips
1/4 cup dried mint leaves, pulverised
1/2 inch gingerroot, minced
a bit of dried orange or lemon peel
1 cinnamon stick, shredded
1 teaspoon ground cloves

For a single cup, infuse a teaspoon of this mix in boiling water, or a tablespoon for a pot; adjust quantities to taste. Serve steaming hot, with honey and lemon if desired. (I don't add honey to most teas, but appreciate it here.)

Though Lab tea may be gathered year-round, the bright new spring leaves produce the best tea. Look out for poisonous interlopers such as bog rosemary (Andromeda polifolia) and bog laurel (Kalmia polifolia), which grow in the same habitat and vaguely resemble it.

Pick the leaves into a cloth bag and hang indoors for a week or so, tossing from time to time to promote circulation. (Ledum leaves retain their colour, shape, and texture when dry, so may not appear especially "dry" even months later.)

In addition to a warming libation, infusions of Ledum are high in tannin and other antiseptics, and so handy for stanching and disinfecting wounds and sores, particularly of the mouth and throat.

But there's no doubt that a finely-tuned Labrador tea mix is simply a source of great well-being. Sitting by the fire on a blustery November day, sipping this pungent golden brew, it’s easy to see why it symbolised self-sufficiency and contentment to Old Settlers, as indeed it still does in many aboriginal communities.

“I laughed at the Great Depression!” the old Puget Sounders of my youth declared. “Lived like a king on Labrador tea and clams!”

WW: Mountain beaver den

(When I was a kid, the forest floor in my neck of the woods was full of big ragged holes like this one. When I asked the grups what made them, they said "mountain beaver".

I never saw the actual animal, and couldn't find mountain beaver in any book. My teachers – few of whom were of Old Settler stock – were no better help.

I concluded that "mountain beaver" was a cryptid, if not an outright jackalope, and wrote it off. But I still wondered what made those holes.

It would take the advent of Google to solve the mystery at last.

Aplodontia rufa – the mountain beaver – is an ancient proto-rodent, with multiple features missing from modern mammals. Last of its genus, the remaining Aplodontia have for the last 10,000 years been confined to the small stretch of the North Coast where I grew up. Hence the silence of the guidebooks, which never covered our stuff back in the day, and the ignorance of my teachers, who had been educated in the same imperialistic Eastern curriculum.

I've since laid eyes on a few of the little guys, which is ironic given that their habitat is vanishing fast and taking them with it. When I was surrounded by them, on ground long since scraped flat for housing estates, they never showed their faces.

I took the above shot last summer, on a cruise through another forest not far from my childhood home. It turned out to be rife with irregular holes scratched out under low vegetation, surrounded by heaps of glacial spoil. Just as I remember.

So I guess there are a few holdouts. Remains to be seen for how much longer. )

Hermitcraft: Pickleweed

Unlikely as it seems, this common plant of the high tide line (Salicornia spp.) is a member of the spinach family, and a righteous edible in its own right. Common names include sea bean, samphire, sea asparagus, and glasswort, but when I was growing up on the North Pacific coast we called it pickleweed.

Salicornia is delicious raw, and adds salty crispness to salads and sandwiches. (Egg salad and hamburgers being two of my favourites.)

The name "pickleweed" may come from the fact that Old Settlers jarred and pickled it; the French, among others, still do.

Or maybe it just looks like pickles. (Likewise, "sea beans" is a reference to its visual and culinary resemblance to string beans.)

The larger, mature stems, which develop a stronger, "greener" flavour, can be steamed, then the entire branch placed in the mouth and the twiggy, woody heart pulled out by the base. This novel dish is a great accompaniment to fish and seafood, and can be enjoyed with or without lemon butter. Salicornia is also one of several marine vegetables layered into New England clambakes for flavour.

In Bretagne, where it blankets whole acres, farmers run flocks of sheep on pickleweed to produce a rare and expensive delicacy called agneau pré salée (salt-pasture lamb).

Finally, the term "glasswort" recalls glassmakers of times past who burned it in large quantities to make soda ash for their craft. And Salicornia may be on the industrial rebound these days, as it's currently being investigated as a biodiesel crop.

Pickleweed is one of those plants many have seen but few have noticed; most only know it as the weed they pass on the way to the tidelands. But because it sets in quantity, is easily identified, and good eating, it's a valuable edible to know.

So keep an eye out for Salicornia in your beach rambles. This uniquely delicious wild food may significantly enrich the experience.

WW: Limit of razor clams

(Silqua patula)

WW: Grilled butterflies

(Fresh-dug that day.)

WW: Aboriginal clam gun

(I recently found this well-used First Nations clam gun [right] in the surf. It's in fine shape; the tape is apparently just padding. I've no idea why it was discarded.

The blade is pitched much more steeply than the boston gun [left]; logical, since these shovels pry sand more than scoop it. And its heavy steel is welded up three ways from Sunday. The store-bought design, wielded by Old Settlers like me, is much lighter, but that's its sole advantage. The physics are clearly inferior, and the flimsy blade cracks after just a few outings.

Fifteen thousand years of experience will tell.)

Hermitcraft: Sourdough Starter

(I just uploaded a hermitcraft article last week, but a reader recently asked about sourdough starter, so I'll go ahead and answer this week.)

"Sourdough starter" was synonymous with yeast here in western North America before the concentrated item appeared in stores. Elsewhere it was called leavings, scrapings, or spook yeast, or just "yeast", for it was all we had for that in those days. Witness Henry David Thoreau, hermit and Walden author, who had to hike to the village bakery to procure "yeast". There he was sold a living batter, susceptible to being scalded to death in overhot water, that raised bread primarily by chemical reaction with sal (baking) soda.

You tell me what that was.

The paste those Concord bakers doled out is properly called sourdough starter, as "sourdough" by itself usually describes the kneeded dough and its products. But in practice, the starter is also often called "sourdough", and this can confuse beginners. For that reason, I will henceforward identify the yeast culture by the word "starter".

SOURDOUGH STARTER

You will need:

Potatoes
Water
White flour (not whole wheat; see below)
A serviceable pot

Such a pot must be nonreactive (that is, not metal) and watertight. Beyond that, anything will do. The best ones are lidded, wide-mouthed for easy scooping in and out, and clear, so you can monitor the health of the occupants. Mine is a one-quart plastic jar that once held mixed nuts.

Pot secured, proceed as follows:

1. Peel, quarter, and boil the potatoes.
2. Strain, reserving the

water.
3. Eat the potatoes.
4. Stir up a batter with the flour and potato water. It should resemble slightly-too-thick pancake batter.
5. Dump this medium into your pot. Leave the lid off to welcome passing yeast.

Within 24 to 48 hours the starter will begin, slowly at first and then with gusto, to bubble and work. At full élan it will have a healthy, yeasty, fermented smell.

Sourdough starter is a living thing, with wants and needs and specific rights under federal and provincial law. To be precise, it's a community of microbes – hence the term "culture" – that eat various sugars and fart out carbonic gas. (Sorry; you asked.) The sugars come from the ground grains you put back in the pot each time you use some. Keep this up indefinitely and your little sea monkey civilisation will thrive indefinitely, humming happily along on the kitchen counter, where you will bond with it as with houseplants, pets, and children. The longer it survives, the better it will get; new yeasts will happen by and set up shop, resulting in more active, versatile starter.

In any case, the starter must be fed at least once a week, even if that means throwing some starter out to make room. (This fact helps get me up and baking when I otherwise might slough off, because I hate wasting food.) The more you use it, the more you feed it, and the healthier it becomes.

If however your starter goes too long without recycling, the yeast will suffer moral decay and the pot will be invaded by either a red bacterium or a grey mildew. They're both harmless, but they taste bad. To get rid of them, collect a teaspoon of the cleanest starter you can rescue, use it to start a small temporary pot on the side, and throw the rest out. Then sterilise the pot (a thorough washing, followed by an overnight soak in a bleach solution), mix up a fresh batter, and inoculate it with the reserved starter. The yeast will then handily out-compete any intruders that come back aboard with it.

It's also good to feed other grains from time to time, to encourage a diversity of yeasts. You can stir in whole wheat flour now and then, but not too often, because it's full of oils that go rancid over time. Other effective treatments include corn flour (fine-ground cornmeal), masa or powdered oatmeal (not too much of either), and mashed rice or rice flour.

So this oughta get you started. (Get it?) If you're looking for a good first project, you might try hermit bread. It's an easy enough recipe to build confidence, and a hard enough one to teach you a few things. And it's where I started, too.

"Pioneers all we are bound/To root-hog or die on the Sound"

I had a lot of fun building this structure, which is about a foot and a half long by a little less wide. It encloses an electrical riser at the zendo. Any Old Settler will instantly know it for a split shack, also known as a slab (or slap) shack, or shotgun shack. It's what we lived in before there were trailers.

At its most elemental, the split shack is pole-framed, eight feet by ten, and sided in "splits," rough cedar boards froed directly off the log without benefit of saw. These were free for the taking, especially if you lived on the bay. Where nails were scarce you could knock it up with whittled pegs and an auger, or notch the splits and sew it together with rope, First Nations style. (This is basically just a hillbilly longhouse, anyway.)

Because splits come away thicker at the bottom than the top they impose slightly asymmetrical lines on the whole, for a touch of whimsy, as if brownies lived inside, or maybe hobbits.

Cabins of this lineage also usually had at least one window, in front, opposite the front door. If there was no glass, it was "glazed" with greased rawhide or paper and protected by a wooden shutter. Even glass windows were as likely to be bottle bottoms as plate.

I believe the various names originally referred to different cabins, though they're used interchangeably now. The derivation of "split shack" is obvious, but "slabs" were the round sides of logs ripped off by the head saw as they were squared for milling. As a waste product, slabs were cheap or free; in my day, it was common for families to order up a truckload from the local mill and make one of the kids (I'll call him "Robin") buck them for firewood. I'd bet even money that a true "slab shack" was sided with those instead of splits, and that the term "slap shack," as in something just "slapped up", is just a mutation.

As for "shotgun shack," I know why it's called that (because the front and back door are sited in such a way that you can fire a shotgun straight through without hitting anything), but I have no idea why it's a selling point. Seems a better plan would be not to shoot at the house in the first place.

By the way, the gravel this enclosure is bedded on came from the very beach I grew up on. By purest coincidence, there was a bucketful of this in the house, left over from a large philodendron my grandparents brought with them from the bay. This finally died during the years the house was locked up, and when I liquidated the remains, I kept the gravel the pot was lined with, just in case. The decision to put the two together made itself.

And it really wants a stove pipe. The oversight just glares. But the thing's supposed to be unobtrusive, and not attract attention to itself, so I didn't put one on. But it took all my determination.

Because it ain't home until it has one.

Hermitcraft: Ancestor Gong

This is an ancestor gong I made from an old saw blade I found in my grandfather's shop. Each time you ring it, it sings gratitude for those who went before and made this life possible. Starting with my grandparents, who built the house I'm living in.

The blade sings nicely (I chose the best ringer in the lot), and gongs of this type have deep meaning for Old Settlers; time was, all the muddy, isolated villages on the Green Side had a big, worn-out head saw blade hanging in the square, along with some random piece of busted ironmongery to beat on it. That's how you got people's attention for announcements, fires, celebrations, and so on. Where there was no church bell, it called folks to that, too.

The symbolism in this particular blade goes even deeper, as my grandfather, his roots gnarled deep in this glacial till, was a congenital, nay compulsive, woodworker and builder. With this very blade he put the roof over me and the walls around. So with each stroke, this gong pays homage to all my people, conceptual and concrete.

The striker is a piece of hawthorn I cut on the property. The photo at right shows what it looks like now. This was originally finished in classic trinity tar (linseed oil, turpentine, and vinegar), but that mildewed in the rain. So I took the beater back down, sanded off the first finish and re-tarred it, this time with linseed oil, paint thinner, and vinegar, with half a part of asphalt to darken it up. I like the result, and after about two dozen coats of that toxic, no-more-mister-nice-guy tar, well-rubbed and hardened over the woodstove for a month or so, it's looking good out there.

The lanyard is six strand kongo kumihimo: four strands of tarred seine twine, two of gold mason line.

I try to ring this gong every day at noon. I give it one han roll-down, striving for perfect symmetry and tone. It's become part of my mindfulness practice.

Update, 5 November, 2011: It turns out that the saw blade eventually loses the ability to ring in this climate, evidently because of the heavy coat of rust it acquires. Today I replaced the original blade with another from my grandfather's pile, but it too will gradually grow duller. It would be fine for an indoor chime, though.

Growing Up Home: Swimming Lessons

My nephew fishes in the lake I grew up on

(The following is adapted from Growing Up Home, a manuscript of tales from my youth.)

In Olympia, Washington, where I grew up, people who couldn't swim were considered physically, if not mentally, disabled. So to avoid small town censure, and perhaps save our lives, my mother enrolled my brother and me in swimming lessons at the age of six and eight.

Back then, self-respecting Puget Sound kids swam in lakes, and on really hot days, the bay. I still abhor pools, reeking of bleach and God knows what.

But this was pushing it. I don't recall the precise month the course began, but graphic memory of icy grey skies places it closer to the previous Christmas than the next. The venue was Capitol Lake, a former mudflat of the Sound, dyked off in the 50s to make a freshwater reflecting pond for the state capitol dome. Black marine oobleck, stagnant river water, and municipal effluent combined there in a fermenting cauldron of corruption.

One whose temperature hovered just above freezing in that season.

Before our abject refusal even to undress in the dank bathhouse, much less enter the water, my mother bribed us with a Mountain Bar a-piece, payable after each session. And so we fell in with the blue-lipped, shoulder-hugging damned lined up in the pea gravel.

The only sound was the ominous lap of waves, from which we reflexively pulled our toes. We were all shivering too hard even to complain.

Eventually a high school kid appeared, in dry trunks and thongs, carrying a clipboard. A whistle was slung around the hood of his sweatshirt.

"Everybody in!" he ordered, stepping onto the L-shaped swimming dock.

Nobody moved.

As he rounded the corner a whistle split the air. "I said IN!"

A girl of similar years appeared behind us, urging us forward with menacing pushing gestures.

I don't know where Parks and Recreation got those instructors. Possibly they were young offenders working off community service. At any rate, when push came literally to shove, we found ourselves knee-deep in glacial sewage. Our tormentors ordered us to grip the dock and kick, to tread water, to swim across the boomed swimming area. We strove to move as little as possible, and not to put our faces in the water.

Or, God forbid, get any in our mouths.

So it went, week after week. Few images survive today beyond wretched misery; the rest have been firmly repressed. But I do recall huddling with another boy, numbly contemplating some B-movie invertebrate on the dock's slimy undercarriage. I've now spent my entire life on, in, and near water, but never saw its like again.

Mostly, I remember vaulting out of that arctic slough at lesson's end, clutching a beach towel around waxen shoulders, and simply savouring its terry cloth nirvana. Amazing how a slight shift in address can make a cold, soggy morning feel like an August afternoon.

I learned nothing about swimming that spring, but is that really the point? Capitol Lake is off-limits to swimmers now, condemned at long last by a lethargic county health department, so my nephew takes his mandated Old Settler swimming lessons in a heated indoor pool.

I worry about his moral development. Sure, he'll learn the side stroke, the dead man's float, the Australian crawl. But can the boy truly become a man without spending nine consecutive Saturdays waist-deep in a freezing mudflat while Colonel Klink snarls at him from the dock?

And will he ever know the sheer, ecstatic bliss a guy can get from a single Mountain Bar?

Hermitcraft: Hermit Bread

(A soda-free, wild yeast-raised, classic sourdough version of this bread can be found here.

If you landed here looking for the recipe for Scottish Oat Bannocks, it's here.)

This is hermit bread. It's a sourdough recipe with ancient antecedents, among them the skillet bread dear to my Old Settler ancestors; Canadian bannock; Scottish scones; Australian damper; focaccia; and even pizza. (Pizza was originally soldier bread, baked by the campfire by Roman legionnaires. They took to topping it with whatever they could find, so as to add a bit of variety to their dinners. Eventually the toppings got more limelight than the bread, and the rest is pizza.)

All you need to bake hermit bread is a sufficient heat source. It's easiest in a proper oven, but can be made on a range, near a fire, or in a fire. It's the oldest part of my monastic routine, actually predating my vows by several years. This is the food I take on the road, and what I grab when I'm hungry and need something now. It has become as sustaining to my morale as to my body, a physical manifestation of my vows.

As ever with monastic practices, each stage and feature of the production of this stuff has taken on Deep Meaning over the years. The pre-cut pieces emphasise the fact that it's sojourner bread ("Incola ego sum apud te in terra / Et peregrinus sicut omnes patres mei" Psalm 38, verse 15). They also honour my Scottish forebears. I could also find great Buddhist significance in the number 8, but one has to keep a close eye on one's compulsive Zen tendencies. So for the time being, it just reminds me of the Union Jack. Rule Britannia.

Hermit bread is also hands-down the most popular part of my practice with my friends. I once baked it for an old high school classmate who was visiting with her children. When she asked what it was, I said, "It's just monk bread." Today, fresh-baked "monkey bread" has become one of her kids' favourite treats.

Nothing boosts a sagging spirit like hot hermit bread and tea. For all that, it's ridiculously basic, and easy to make. And it still rolls out a great pizza dough.

HERMIT BREAD

2 cups sourdough starter.
About 2 cups flour
1 tablespoon oil
Flour for kneading
1 teaspoon CORRECTION: 1/2 teaspoon soda mixed with 1/4 cup flour

Liberally grease a 10-inch cast iron skillet. (Number 8, in traditional sizes. You can use a cake pan or cookie sheet, but cast iron gives the best results.)

In a large bowl, beat the flour into the starter with a wooden spoon. Switch to a butter knife when it gets too stiff to stir and continue cutting in flour until the dough balls easily and is almost dry enough to knead.

Cut the flour and soda mixture into the dough, then knead it thoroughly in the bowl, adding any flour necessary to prevent the dough from sticking to the bowl or your hands.

Pat the ball flat, place it in the skillet, and pat it down some more until the edges touch the sides. Turn the skillet upside down, catch the dough as it falls out, and put it back in upside down, greased side up.

Poke the handle of the wooden spoon into the dough systematically, all the way to the pan, until the loaf is well-dimpled. Then cut it into eight pieces.

Cover the skillet and leave the dough to work, up to 3 hours; 30 minutes minimum.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. When the dough has worked, uncover and bake it in the middle of the oven for 15 - 20 minutes, or until lightly browned on top and dry in the middle.

When done, unpan the loaf or flip it upside down in the skillet to let it cool and harden up for a few minutes. Eat as-is or with any topping. (Butter, jam, herbed oil, sugared berries, etc.)

Traditional baking methods:

Place the skillet over slow coals until the bottom of the loaf is browned. Prop the pan up near a hotter part of the fire to brown the top, or flip the loaf, return the skillet to the coals, and brown the top that way. (Same procedure for range-top baking.)

Or flour the ball and smack it onto a clean rock at the fire's edge, turning to bake evenly.

Or place the ball in a Dutch oven and bury it in the coals.

Or drop the dough ball directly in the coals and bury it. (Works in wood stoves and fireplaces, too.)

Or roll the dough into a rope, wind it around a stick, and toast it over the coals.

You can 'wave a chunk of cold hermit bread for 30 seconds and it'll taste like it just came out of the oven. (Split the piece first and reassemble it before warming; it will be too soft to work afterward.) You can also reheat it on a plate in a covered skillet, with a little water added to make steam.