Breadsong: How Baking Changed Our Lives

For Albert and Aggie. And for Katie.

HOW BAKING CHANGED OUR LIVES

1 THE BEGINNING

2 THE FIRST LOAF

3 FERGUSON

4 RUTH THE ROFCO

5 CHOP MORE WOOD

6 THE MILK CART OF DOOM

7 WE GET INTO NUMBER 10

8 BERTHA

9 GRASS PESTO

10 ULLA BREAD

11 KRISTIAN AND CHRISTMAS

12 DODO

13 MAN THE BARRICADES

14 THE SCOUTS

RECIPES

BREAD

SOURDOUGH BREAD

SWEET DOUGH

PASTRIES

COOKIES AND CAKES

INDEX

THANK YOUS

HOW BAKING CHANGED OUR LIVES

KITTY The very first post I ever put on my Instagram says Breadsong. It’s a short film of a row of loaves crackling and hissing as their crusts expand after they’ve just come out of the oven. If you lean in closely to loaves on the cooling rack – being careful not to singe your ear – it can sound like distant applause. That’s the magic of bread.

AL The story of the Orange Bakery has been chronicled by films and images taken by Kitty that simply capture the joy of baking. I had no idea where we were going when Kitty started to bake bread, but I knew that I had to be alongside her because it was the only thing that made any sense.

This book is about how my then-14-year-old daughter and I came to open a bakery. The people who helped us and the town that made it possible. The drawings are mine, the recipes are mainly Kitty’s, but the story is ours.

1

THE BEGINNING

THE TWO QUESTIONS people often ask are when and why. Even now, I’m not sure that I can answer either. The when, I suppose, seems easier because there are a few concrete markers. My parents’ golden wedding anniversary party in early spring 2018 stands out. It was the first time in a while that my side of the family had all been together. In the sometimes complicated, nuanced family dynamic Kitty had always occupied an enviously simple slot; she was the funny, chatty one with freckles and red hair who always wore odd socks and made everyone laugh. The change in her had been so gradual that Katie, my wife, and I had failed to realize just how much Kitty had faded into a diminished version of herself. For the wider family, who hadn’t seen her for a while, it was stark. Kitty was so subdued, distracted, pale and sad looking that both my mum and sister rang us afterward to check whether she was okay.

Over the weeks that followed, we tried everything to work out what was happening with our youngest child. We wrapped her up as tightly as we could in family. We talked and listened. But the more we tried, the further she seemed to slip away from us until finally, in desperation, Katie took her to see our GP. As Katie asked for help, Kitty sat there mute and found it impossible to explain what was happening to her. The doctor was worried and said he would refer us on for further support. We were at least relieved that we had put something in motion and Kit seemed reassured that she was going to get help. For a while, it all felt better – but like the Phoney War, we had no idea what was to come.

We slunk into our first appointment at the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS) in Oxford, slightly embarrassed we were wasting their valuable time. However, the trip was a trigger for Kitty. After speaking to the psychologist about how she was really feeling, she could no longer pretend to any vestige of ‘normality’. The wafer-thin veneer of putting on a brave face cracked overnight and Kitty became swallowed up by despair and fear. Anxiety gripped her, often out of the blue, and she became unable to cope with even leaving the house. By June, attending school was an impossibility and receded in importance as Kitty was simply struggling to wake up and get dressed each day.

Tracing back, we realized we had noticed changes over some time, for months maybe. While we both still wish that we had acted on these changes sooner, even now we can see why we didn’t. Having been a child for a long time, adolescence was starting to rush in. The self-consciousness that Kitty had been blissfully free from now hung heavy. But we had been there before with her older siblings. Parental amnesia blocks out many of the more stressful moments, but we had vague memories that life was pretty challenging for Albert and Aggie at 14 too.

We thought maybe ‘self-conscious teen’ was a cruel badge that you just had to wear for a while. There were still lots of pluses for Kit – she was popular, doing well at school and we still had her in the box of our ‘happy’ child. She was the one who literally seemed to bounce through life.

With her huge smile and outrageous laugh, Kitty would bounce into rooms and bounce into our bed each morning. So, she’d stopped bouncing a bit. We thought it would come back.

There was something else that stopped us doing anything about Kitty. That one is a bit harder to explain. We didn’t act on our instincts because, as is so often the case, life was complicated. We were juggling the double vortex of A levels with Aggie and GCSEs with Albert and all the baggage that comes with that. Katie was working flat out at her job with the cancer charity Maggie’s, beetling down the M40 into London at least four times a week. And I was coming to a crossroads with my career, hoping to step up both the dyslexic work at Oxford University and my role for Now Teach, a charity to get older people into teaching. I’d had a few years of working part time, earning less but being able to be there for the children and keep the house/dogs/schoolwork vaguely ticking over while Katie’s workload increased. Financially and personally, we needed to work out what came next. So there was this ‘stuff’ just going on, all vaguely moving forward in the right direction. It’s not that we chose to ignore what was happening right in front of us with Kit; naively, we were waiting for a little bit of space to open up to address it. But soon we had no option.

The why is almost impossible to answer and is more for Kitty to say. It’s like a pixelated image that takes a while to sharpen into focus and there are details that will probably only become clear a long time in the future. The why is what everyone wants to get to the bottom of, as if finding the root of the problem means you can change things at the source or somehow remove it through the power of logic. Surely then everything will be fine.

Everyone wanted to know what the trigger was. There was no single obvious cause, although probably a thousand small ones. Maybe there was some simple DNA that made the situation unavoidable. Social media, for once, wasn’t the villain of the piece. Kitty had good friends and there was no sign of bullying. She worked hard at school, our local state secondary that wasn’t known for being pressurized academically. Whatever the reason, something short-circuited. It was a bit like the scene in Apollo 13 where a routine flick of the switch suddenly snowballs into a full-blown disaster.

In the space of a few weeks our lives changed completely. It’s very hard to capture what real despair looks like.

It’s not exaggerated sadness, rather it’s when someone gives up on all the simplest functions – getting up, eating, washing, even sleeping – and it’s terrifying to watch. Kitty couldn’t see the reason for anything and so one of us needed to be with her the entire time, day and night, to reassure her she was safe. Kitty’s mind was so fractured that it was almost impossible to use reason with her. It was upsetting and scary for everyone, but for Kitty most of all. And the weirdest thing was that real life continued to go on around us. People walked down our street, with their dogs on leads and their children in buggies, all enjoying the hot summer sun while behind our front door we struggled to keep Kitty from going under entirely. Katie and I would get to the end of every day and ask each other, ‘How did this happen?’ After a while we stopped bothering with the big how and instead we talked about how we had managed to get through the day.

I WAS CONSCIOUS of Mum and Dad trying to make sense of it all. I knew they felt that they could have somehow prevented it, but they couldn’t have. The length of time between feeling okay and not okay was so short that I think nothing would have stopped it. I went from being confident and sure of things to utterly paralyzed with anxiety and unable to even remember who I used to be.

It was like Jenga, pull one block out too fast, too soon, and my whole tower toppled.

I wanted to tell Mum and Dad what was going on, but it was so hard. I just didn’t want to be me in any form at all. My mind whirred and whirred until I thought I would do anything to stop it. At the anniversary party, I could hardly talk as I was so sad. I knew that wasn’t normal. The cousins, the cake, plates of crisps, family speeches, messing around outside the Town Hall – I couldn’t get hold of any of it.

If I had to give a reason – and I have tried so hard to find one – it was partly because I’d completely lost my way with the character I’d created for myself. I felt like a complete imposter, like at the beginning of Shrek when Fiona turns into an ogre at night and has to hide herself away. I was terrified that maybe I wasn’t this perfect happy person, maybe I was an ogre and I didn’t want people to see that side of me.

As far back as primary school, I always wanted to be the tomboy – the daring one who was a bit cheeky and stood out. I wore odd, fluffy, striped socks pulled up over my calves and handed-down school shorts from my brother Albert. I loved the label of being a bit different, which also meant I didn’t need to be the prettiest or have the longest hair (long hair was ALL that mattered at the age of seven). In fact, my hair was a red nest that could house a small family of sparrows and no hairbrush could conquer. I always wanted to take on the roles that no one else did: the spitting camel in the Nativity, always Neville or Ron in the Harry Potter games in the playground, the one that made teachers laugh out loud. I wasn’t one of the clever pupils. In fact, I did a fair bit of time in the ‘special’ group with one boy, Neil. I loved Neil, even though he disappeared every summer term to sell ice cream with his dad on the Isle of Wight and I had to wait patiently for him to come back to school in September.

Primary school was my kingdom and so moving up to Watlington’s secondary school wasn’t a big deal. Both Aggie and Albert went there and it was only a short walk round the corner from our house. It was scruffy and sat beside the primary school and I loved it. I joined in everything – I was often the smallest and always the one giggling. At parents’ evening the teachers would say, ‘Kitty never stops smiling.’ (I did not have good teeth for that smile – braces were going to play a big part of the next few years.) I was really happy.

I worked hard during those first two years at secondary school. Through sheer determination, I managed to claw my way out of the bottom class. I put my hand up for everything. Mr Rowe, our drama teacher, said I was ‘a force of nature’ and gave me the part of the granny in the school play. Over five performances, I danced with a Zimmer frame wearing thick black glasses, an orange flowery shirt, a baggy tweed skirt and a hair net. It should have been social suicide, but I loved it. I was not at all self-conscious.

It’s so hard to explain, but as I entered year 9, I constantly asked Mum how long education went on for. I panicked that I was trapped in this funnel that might go on for years and, while everyone else seemed to totally get it, I found it harder to understand what the point of all of it was. Slowly, I started to remove myself. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to stay at home. I started to have panic attacks, but I didn’t want to tell anyone. Dementors moved into my brain with heavy iron suitcases and the weight of them pinned me down.

I remember so little of those early days of summer. Leaving school was almost the easy bit. I just drifted away. There were days and days of feeling lost and incomplete and not wanting to exist at all.

When I could get up, I pulled on the same pair of orange soft cord dungarees.

The sensation of washing my hair was painful to the point of impossibility. I was barely aware of what the rest of the family were doing. Mum slept beside me at night, Dad took me on short walks, Aggie and Albert stayed in the house with me, so I was never on my own, and yet I was lonelier than I thought possible. I wanted to take my brain out, wash it and put it back.

I was aware of Mum and Dad trying to find different ways to help me. Our GP had referred me to CAMHS (although for ages I thought it was called ‘Calms’) on the outskirts of Oxford. Somehow they managed to get me there twice a week. On every visit, it always seemed to be suffocatingly hot. We would leave the car parked by TK Maxx and cross a square of scorched earth strewn with rubbish – twice we saw a fat rat in the tufts of grass. At the clinic I sat in a small room with two nice women; they would talk to me and I would nod. I was given a prescription for pills – we called them Flo – and lots of ‘tools’ for coping, including breathing exercises and how to put cold ice under my eyes to stave off panic attacks, but I dreaded each visit. Mum and Dad tried to add in their own therapies at home. Dad painted with me and Mum read aloud Roald Dahl short stories about murders using legs of lamb and babies turning into bees, but my brain stung and I couldn’t hold the words in my head. In the end, they stopped trying. The days ticked over.

WE WERE SO completely consumed with the issue of Kitty that we had no stamina to cope with anything else. We put all our energy into looking after her, but it meant we had nothing left to cope with something that shouldn’t have been a big issue but became one.

The straw that almost broke the camel’s back came with four legs and a short stubby tail – Sibby.

We had made the rather random decision a few months earlier, before we realized Kit was ill, to get another dog. Our elderly, slightly neurotic, but very benign terrier, Sparky, was a perfect family member; affectionate and remarkably well behaved, he would potter along without a lead up to the shops and wait outside patiently. Apart from an embarrassing habit of peeing on other people’s picnic baskets at the beach, he was pretty saintly. He even got on with the cats; the mother, Smudge, who we got from a farm, was beautiful but aloof. Her son, Oddie, however, would curl up on the other end of the sofa with Sparky and they both had a penchant for sunbathing. So, we thought, what could go wrong with another terrier?

The answer to that question was everything, and we only had ourselves to blame. Sibby was a slightly different model of terrier, but still half-Parson, like Sparky. We ticked every box on the checklist of what not to do; we didn’t meet her parents (who were both proper working dogs not given to living inside). We didn’t crack on with her training, somehow thinking she might pick up on Sparky’s good habits through some kind of osmosis. We never managed to stop her chasing our cats, scrabbling through the house to track them down. As a result, we had this wild dog who dug holes over the garden like a Somme trench-builder, bolted from the front door whenever the smallest chink appeared when a parcel was delivered and would try her utmost to dodge out of her collar and lead while on walks. When she escaped, she was like a heat-seeking missile, disappearing off into the distance. On a good day, this disaster would last 20 minutes. On the worst days, it would be over an hour before we retrieved her, voices hoarse from shouting across the hillside.

So, our hot, scary summer was accompanied by a dog we couldn’t control, Oddie who became a ghost cat, occasionally creeping in for food, and Smudge who decided to show her disappointment in our new arrival by peeing on every bed. It would have been easiest – and I think this probably would have been my instinct – to close down completely, retreat into our world, however strange, until Kitty somehow got better. Sometimes I could barely explain the day’s events to myself, let alone anyone else. Katie, though, not for the first time, was much braver than me. She chose to be utterly up front with family, friends and neighbors. Talking about it was her way of sorting things out in her own head.

No one could understand how our bubbly, bright Kitty, who they’d seen growing up, could have changed so fast, but they wanted to help. Peter, the gentle, rather buttoned-up man in his seventies who’d moved into the bungalow two doors down, was particularly kind. He’d lost a daughter at an early age and his sympathy and warmth was very meaningful. Lucy and Robin, our earliest friends in Watlington, were a constant, unjudging presence who we felt safe to share the very worst of what we were going through. Others outside our immediate circle were lovely too; teachers, Kitty’s friends who would drop notes through our door, sometimes just very random people.

Kit had gone to the local nursery, primary and now secondary school, so we had a whole web of connections. Watlington claims it’s the smallest town in England. It has a long, winding high street topped at one end by the seventeenth-century Town Hall and at the other by the War Memorial. It’s not a town you would travel to see, but it’s a town where families grow up, and so Watlington has a genuine sense of community with compassion and concern. We were to experience that again and again over the next few years.

2

THE FIRST LOAF

DAD MADE BREAD one day. I was sat on the kitchen stool thinking of nothing while Dad mixed flour, water and salt in a bowl to make a dough. It looked gloopy, anemic and sludgy – a bit like how my brain felt. Dad draped the primary school tea towel (the one printed with the faces of my classmates) over the top of the bowl and tucked it away on a shelf. The next day, when I’d finally made it downstairs, Dad had taken the bowl off the shelf and it was sitting back on the kitchen table. I lifted the tea towel to see if the dough looked as unappealing as the night before. It was now like the surface of the moon.

The dough was gently bubbling and as each bubble popped another opened. It was alive.

I WISH I could remember the first time Kitty and I baked a loaf together. In reality, it was just another activity that I was trying out with Kitty that might provide her with some kind of distraction. TV was no good as she couldn’t concentrate for anything longer than a few minutes. We’d tried gardening, although after choosing a few flowers and planting them out there wasn’t much to do except watch Sibby dig them all up again. We’d experimented with craft, but that proved pretty useless. Sewing briefly lit up a few embers, but our ambitions went way beyond our ability. We painted for a bit and then when that failed, I got a bigger brush and slapped emulsion on a few walls. I was running out of options. Bread baking was pretty far down the list, but I enjoyed it, so we did it.

Bearing in mind how long I had been baking bread, the standard of my loaves was shockingly low. I’d been baking on and off since being a student. I even took a class once, a gift from my siblings for my fortieth birthday, and yet still I seemed to defy Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hours maxim. The more effort I put in, the more inconsistent my loaves seemed to be. Dense, doughy and flavorsome, but never things of beauty and rarely presentable, even to the rest of the family.

Bread baking was something I would do on holidays if I found a bit of yeast and space, or on occasional weekends. The class I had taken encouraged working with a very wet dough – although for me, this meant I never got beyond the stage where the dough stuck to our wooden work surface.

However hard I tried, the kitchen looked apocalyptic after 10 minutes of kneading and scraping dough.

The children occasionally shared my enthusiasm when a loaf was fresh out of the oven, but then half-eaten hunks sat forlornly at the bottom of the bread bin, gradually evolving into rocks, easily outranked by something soft, white, sliced and plastic wrapped.

Then someone pointed me in the direction of Jim Lahey’s no-knead bread method that involves no kneading and, consequently, very little mess. You simply mix flour, water, salt and a tiny bit of yeast (¼ of a teaspoon at most) together in a bowl and leave it overnight. Initially it looks like wallpaper paste but then the dough starts to ferment and, in the morning, it is a slightly sour, bubbling mass. All you do is shape the dough into a vague ball, put it onto some parchment paper and let it proof before baking in a cast-iron Dutch oven that you shove into your oven at its top temperature for 30 minutes or so beforehand. Compared to my usual bread cinder blocks, with this method the end product was semi-professional in appearance and tasted quite different to anything I had made before. These loaves went down well with the family and got eaten fast.

It was this no-knead method that I shared with Kitty. I can’t tell you what time of day it was, what we’d been doing that morning or how it cropped up in conversation. There was nothing planned about it. I just asked Kitty if she wanted to have a go herself. There was no hallelujah chorus or a blinding flash of light. What I do remember, though, was that she actually looked interested when we pulled the loaf from the oven – and that hadn’t happened in a long time. I had no idea just how important that moment was, and I still didn’t when Kitty asked to bake that bread again.

I’D NEVER BEEN a good cook in any way at all. I didn’t bother to follow the ingredients for