Some very fine loaves (Title Photo)

Dear Readers, during the first lockdown it suddenly seemed as if every second person that I spoke to was experimenting with sourdough bread. I imagine there were many reasons for this – the extended period at home meant that the starter could be nurtured, for one thing. For another, there’s something about kneading the dough that is very therapeutic – I have certainly gotten Zoom calls out of my system by being overly assertive during bread-making. And then there’s that sense of connection with all those generations of bread-makers who went before. The fact that many of my loaves turned out like slightly-more-porous bricks didn’t take away from the sense of accomplishment – at least the bread had the right smell and appearance (generally).

But what I hadn’t thought about was that sour dough in particular actually gives us a connection not just to our ancestors, but but to the unique microorganisms that live in our houses, and even on us.

In New Scientist, someone raised the question of why sourdough tastes so different in San Francisco compared to the loaves in London. To understand why, it helps to know a bit about the process of making it.

Most bread (including my bricks) is helped to rise using commercial yeast, either fresh or dried. But sourdough is different. Water and flour are mixed together and then exposed to the natural microorganisms in the air. The yeasts produce the carbon dioxide bubbles as they respire – this is what enables the bread to rise during proving and cooking. But other bacteria (particularly from the Lactobacillus genus) produce lactic and acetic acid, which contribute to the flavour. The flour also contains bacteria  – as you might expect, the less processed the flour, the more opportunity for microorganisms to survive, and to contribute to the flavour of the finished load.

Then, there are the bacteria that live on us, particularly our hands (hence all the calls for increased hand washing during the pandemic). Some people swear that the loaves made by a particular baker can be identified purely by the taste that their bacteria impart. This is about as far as you can get from the identical loaves created in supermarkets and commercial bakeries.

The amount and type of water added to the loaf will affect the final result – a wetter loaf makes it easier for the dough to rise, but the flavour of the water will also add its own special twang. Plus, sourdough needs a long, slow fermentation, and during this process different microorganisms will thrive or die, according to the conditions in which the starter is kept – different temperatures will affect different bacteria.

As the loaf containing the starter is baked, the yeasts first go into overdrive because of the heat, producing the carbon dioxide that contributes to the rise. But as the heat continues to increase, the yeast can no longer metabolise and finally they die, along with the vast majority of the bacteria. It seems like a poor reward for all the work that these microorganisms have done, but it’s all the better for us humans.

However, the rest of the starter remains.It’s easy to forget that a sourdough starter is actually a living thing, a community of microorganisms. The starter should be fed regularly and can last for years if properly looked after.  Maybe this is part of the reason for the whole sourdough phenomenon – the sense that what is being made requires careful nurturing and is also completely individual must add to the pride at the finished result. No wonder that, in Sweden, a ‘sourdough hotel’ was set up to look after your sourdough starter when you went on holiday, feeding it with the requisite amount of flour and making sure that it didn’t dry out.

So, over to you readers. Have you been ‘sourdoughing’ during the pandemic, or before? I am tempted to give it a go, but oh! the responsibility. I know that the whole phenomenon has taken on the aura of extreme middle-classness here in the UK, with the notion that sourdough can only be created if you have an Aga and a man-bun (if you’re a chap) and if you holiday in a yurt (presumably taking your starter with you), but I do know some perfectly non-yurty people who swear by the whole process. Let me know what you think!

Dandelions!

Dear Readers, it was a beautiful day for a walk in the cemetery. It’s warmed up a bit, and the dandelions and daisies are open to the sun. When I started this blog, I thought that a dandelion was just a dandelion, but things are much more complicated than that – botanists have identified more than 230 separate microspecies of Taraxacum officinale (the common dandelion) in the UK alone. While some dandelions reproduce in the normal way, by seed, some populations are clones of one another because they spread only asexually. I suspect that the detail is much more complicated than that, but that’s as much as my brain can cope with before it explodes. Let it be said, though, that those butter-yellow flowers are extremely useful for pollinators, and that the dandelion ‘clocks’ that will follow are as much fun now as they were when I was a child.

Incidentally, ‘Taraxacum‘ is thought to come from the Arabic word for a bitter herb, though it might also be related to the Latin word for ‘to disturb’. ‘A bitter herb that grows in disturbed places’ is about as good a description of a dandelion as you’re likely to get. As regular readers will know, whenever a species is designated as ‘officinale‘ it means that it was a highly-regarded medicinal plant, the ‘official’ one to use.

And while we’re on the subject of etymology, on a day like today it’s easy to remember that ‘daisy’ is thought to derive from ‘the day’s eye’. You can almost feel the flowers drinking the sun in on a day like today.

I had to have a quick look at the horse chestnut to see how the leaves and flowers were coming along. Very well, it seems.

And how about this small white butterfly (Pieris rapae), my second of the year? You can tell that it’s a female because of the three spots on the upper wing (males just have one spot), and you can tell it from a large white (Pieris brassicae) because the wing tips are pale grey, rather than black in the bigger species. I suspect it will be off to lay its eggs on the Jack-by-the-hedge (garlic mustard) which seems to have popped up overnight.

Last week I was lamenting that the lesser celandine has already gone over, but I spoke much too soon – in some places it’s blanketing the ground, making a patchwork with the primroses, the daisies and the aforementioned dandelions. Yellow is definitely the colour at the moment.

Lesser celandine

And here was a real treat. I heard a bird call, and spent some time looking for the songster. The call sounded familiar yet strange, as if I was remembering it from a long time ago.

The stubby tail, yellow-green plumage and chunky beak gave it away as a greenfinch (Carduelis chloris). This was an extremely common garden bird, forever bullying the goldfinches away from the seed feeders and more than holding its own on the bird table. Sadly, a parasitic disease called trichomonosis had a devastating effect on populations in Europe – it’s thought that greenfinch numbers might have dropped from 4.3 million birds to 2.8 million during the period to 2006. As there is less food in the countryside for finches due to more efficient harvesting techniques, the decline of hedgerows and increased use of herbicides and pesticides, they have moved into gardens, where the concentration of birds helped to spread disease. However, the numbers seem to be recovering, and it was certainly a pleasure to see this little chap singing his head off.

Further into the woody part of the cemetery I noticed some yellow archangel (Lamiastreum galeobdolon ssp argentum). This is the garden variety, with its variegated silver leaves – the plain green-leaved variety is a native, but I have a suspicion that this variety has more tolerance for shade, and it also flowers earlier. It’s very pretty but doesn’t seem to be as attractive to insects as white and red deadnettle.

And here is the garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata), just waiting to pop into flower. The kidney-shaped leaves are not typical for a brassica, but the garlicky smell of the crushed leaves makes me think that maybe this was once a useful addition to an otherwise bland diet: many other wild members of the cabbage family also have interesting flavours, be they peppery like mustard or wild radish, or oniony as with this plant. Plus in addition to the ‘cabbage white’ butterflies, this is a favourite foodplant of the caterpillar of the orange-tip butterfly (Anthrocharis cardamines), who might derive some protection from the flavour of the leaves, which probably make it a pungent little mouthful.

Garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata)

And I hope you’ll excuse a few more photos of the lesser celandine. It feels as if they are at their absolute height of perfection this week, and it’s such a joy to see them.

And in keeping with our yellow/green theme, the flowers of the field maple are emerging, so new and fresh. I am really hoping that this is a field maple (Acer campestre) rather than a Norway maple (Acer platanoides) but let me know, readers, it’s the only way I learn 🙂

And finally, as I head back past the War Graves part of the cemetery, I pause to look for the stumpery that I’d photographed on previous visits. But it’s gone, along, it appears, with another tree. I imagine that the stump might be the result of honey fungus, though it was a most interesting and varied spot. Still, in its place is a neat pile of logs, and I suppose I’ll have to be content with that. There are plenty of spots in the cemetery that are overgrown and perfect for wildlife, so I shall have to forgive the powers-that-be for their spot of tidying-up.

The stumpery at the end of January

The stumpery today

Title Photo – Dune Helleborine (Epipactis dunensis)

Dear Readers, on 16th April it was International Orchid Appreciation Day. Who knew? There are 26,000 species worldwide, but for this quiz I am going to concentrate on the European ones. Many of them are named after their physical features, although with some of them I fear that you’d have to squint to see the resemblance. However, I have every confidence that you will be able to match the photo to the species without TOO much trouble.

As usual, answers in the comments by 5 p.m. (UK time) on Thursday 22nd April, and as usual the answers will pop up on Friday. I will ‘disappear’ your answers as soon as I see them, but do write them down first if you are easily influenced (like me). Have fun! I was amazed at how many of these beautiful plants we have in the UK, nearly all of them scarce or rare. How I would love it if some of them popped up in my garden, but as it is I think I’ll have to make do with the green alkanet.

Just match the name to the photo. So, if you think the orchid in Photo 1 is a Military Orchid, your answer is 1)A.

Onwards!

Orchid Species

A – Military Orchid (Orchis militaris)

B – Lizard Orchid (Himantoglossum hircinum)

C – Burnt Orchid (Neotinea ustulata)

D – Dark Red Helleborine (Epipactis atrorubens)

E – Lady Orchid (Orchis purpurea)

F – Heath Spotted Orchid (Dactylorhiza maculata(

G – Autumn Lady’s-Tresses (Spiranthes spiralis)

H – Frog Orchid (Coeloglossum viride)

I – Greater Butterfly Orchid (Platanthera chlorantha)

J – Early Spider Orchid (Ophrys sphegodes)

K – Bee Orchid (Ophrys apifera)

L – Man Orchid (Orchis anthropophora)

M – Early Purple Orchid (Orchis mascula)

O – Fly Orchid (Ophrys insectifera)

N – Pyramidal Orchid (Anacamptis pyramidalis)

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