Oven Spring

If I were to take all the bread baking failures of my life and load them up on that giant scale in the sky, and on the other side of that scale place all my successes, varied as they may be – I shudder to think how weighty that first side might be. My failures have outnumbered by many times my successes – and yet most people would call me a good bread baker. Most of what I know about bread baking has come from failure – and what I’ve gained more than anything is not foolproof success, but a swift recognition of the cause.

Yesterday I pulled from the oven two heavy, squared off loaves of spelt bread – a recipe which I have made successfully so many times in the past as to be second nature to me. What happened? Its first rising in the bowl had given such promise; the texture was pliant, silky, bouncy, and smooth. I tended the dough into loaves and set them out for a second rising while I went for a long walk. It was a very long walk.

I knew within 10 minutes of baking time that my well tended dough had overproofed – that is, stayed too long on the counter and exhausted itself. The life that was in it had been spent in a lazy afternoon rise while its master was out walking. It had used up all its nutrients; there was no energy left to burst forth into splendid rise.

"Oven spring" is that glorious phenomena whereby loaves of bread will rise dramatically within the first 10 minutes of baking, perhaps increasing in volume by as much as one-third their proofed size. The yeast cells, strong and eager from a slow steady rise, are suddenly shocked by the sudden temperature change – and so squander all their stored energy in one last burst of life – oven spring. Loaves with adequate oven spring are large, airy, and well textured. They show all the signs of a life well spent – and captured at the top of their game.

Loaves placed in the oven too soon, however, will have only a slight rise in the oven, appearing as though their tops had been blown off – cracked, split around the edges, or sporting tumor-like protrusions here and there – this is called “blow out.” They were hurried. They are squat, flavorless, and crumbly too. These loaves have a mean-tempered aura about them – failures – and to those bent on eating them, they will impart the same. I’ve made many such loaves in my early years – youth is too anxious to see the results of a day’s work.

Overproofing, the mistake I made yesterday, occurs when the baker takes a long walk – or bakes on the hottest day of summer while using guidelines from winter – or otherwise causes her dough’s yeast cells to exhaust themselves in a life spent lounging on the kitchen counter. This dough has done nothing out of the ordinary but digest and wile away time. They reach the oven and are too tired to spring forth – much like an old lady who has delayed the dream of adventure too long. Overproofing can happen to the overly confident baker who seems to think that bread will wait for her – or to the timid, novice baker who has little faith in the miracle of single-celled organisms – and so she waits and waits and waits, missing the boat altogether.

After a disappointing breakfast of heavy spelt toast this morning, I’ve taken a look at much writing that was begun last November and has sat to mellow in a folder called “Future Pieces.” I recognize their exhaustion and my negligence.  The energy I once felt and held dear in them is lacking; the luster, the adventure . . . gone. They are rework pieces, not vibrant snapshots. I won’t throw them away just yet. I’ll slice them up, as I did my square-ish bread this morning, put them in the freezer (for unfinished writing bits), nibble at them once in a while out of duty or economy – then one day, with a spring in my step, I will pitch them to the birds.