I’ve done no baking, and hardly any cooking, since I moved to Missoula nine months ago. I eat cereal, sandwiches, salads (though not enough of them) and prepared meals that are delivered to my door. This is the way I planned things, since I wasn’t sure how much energy I’d have, and my apartment has no kitchen to speak of, just a refrigerator, a sink, and a small countertop.
To compensate for the lack of cooking facilities in the units, my building has three spacious common rooms, each with a complete kitchen. (In fact, one of the common rooms has two complete kitchens in it.) So it’s not that I can’t cook or bake, I just need to do it in a communal kitchen.
This reminds me of graduate school in Ann Arbor (1973-1974), when I lived in a monkish single room with a bed, a chair, and a dresser (I may have had a table too, but I don’t remember it). I ate in a co-op house, though I didn’t live there. At the co-op everyone had a job, of course, and my assignment was to be in charge of dinner once a week. I didn’t do the menu planning or the purchasing, but on Mondays (I think it was) I spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen preparing a meal for the thirty or so members of the co-op. For the last couple of hours I was joined by a couple of assistants, but it was my responsibility to make sure that the meal was on the table by the appointed time.
This arrangement of boarding, but not living, at the co-op suited me perfectly, and I’ve often referred to it since as my ideal living situation. I was a full member of the co-op, so I could hang out there as much as I wanted. When I wanted company or to watch TV, I could walk a couple of blocks to the co-op. When I wanted quiet and privacy, I stayed in my room, where (even though I shared a bathroom with a couple of other people on my floor) I don’t think I ever interacted with any of the other residents.
As Thanksgiving and Christmas approach, I’ve usually gotten a hankering to make Swedish rye bread. And — opportunely — a month ago or so, a new acquaintance at church talked me into signing up to co-host today’s coffee hour. That’s how I found myself baking for the first time since I left California.
“Limpa” is the Swedish term for rye bread. We grew up calling it “vörtlimpa”, “vört” being the cognate of English “wort”, meaning the malt-infused liquid that is the basis of beer. Adding wort to the dough adds a particularly rich flavor, according to the experts. We didn’t know that when we were growing up, of course — there was no beer drinking in our family until later — and whether there was wort in the limpa we ate is anyone’s guess now. As far as I recollect, Grammy never made her own limpa, anyway — she bought it from the local Swedish bakery, Grahn’s (now sadly defunct — I checked).
So I don’t have an old family recipe for limpa, I’m afraid. When I decided to try making it some years ago, I used James Beard’s recipe, since I already had his breadmaking book, “Beard on Bread” (clever title). The recipe is so good that I haven’t been tempted to try another. It doesn’t call for wort as such, but it does call for a pint of beer. (I usually go for a stout.)
Baking in an unfamiliar kitchen is always a challenge, so I didn’t expect much from the first batch of limpa — and indeed it didn’t turn out very well. But it was edible. Even the next two batches, which I served at church, were disappointing to me. I was told that the oven in our common room ran low, so I tried to compensate, but the loaves were still underbaked. On the other hand, all the bread I put out at coffee hour disappeared, and two people actually came and sought me out in the church kitchen while I was making more coffee to say how much they liked it. All in all, it was closer to success than failure. I’m supposed to bring limpa to Thanksgiving dinner, so I’ll be continuing to work on it.
For those who want to try it at home, here’s the recipe.
James Beard Swedish Limpa
Servings: 1 large free-form loaf or 2 small free-form loaves
Ingredients:
1 package active dry yeast
1 tsp. sugar
1/4 c. warm water (100 to 115 degrees, approximately)
2 c. ale or beer, heated to lukewarm
1/4 to 1/2 c. honey (to taste)
2 tbsp. melted butter, plus extra for bowl, baking sheet and brushing
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. ground cardamom (optional)
1 tbsp. caraway seeds
2 tbsp. chopped candied or freshly grated orange peel
2 1/2 c. rye flour
3 c. all-purpose flour
Directions:
In a large bowl, dissolve yeast and sugar in water and let proof for 5 minutes.
In a medium bowl, whisk together ale (or beer), honey, butter and salt. Add beer mixture to yeast mixture and stir to combine. Add cardamom (optional), caraway seeds and orange peel and stir to combine.
In a large bowl, whisk together rye flour and all-purpose flour. Add 3 cups of flour mixture to yeast mixture and beat very hard with a wooden spoon. Cover with a cloth or foil and let rise in a warm place for about 45 minutes to 1 hour.
Stir down and add enough remaining flour to make a fairly stiff, although sticky dough.
Turn dough out on a board, using 1/2 to 3/4 cup additional rye-all-purpose flour if needed to work the dough until smooth and elastic. Knead well, and while the dough will not lose its tackiness entirely, it will become smoother. Shape dough into a ball, place in a buttered bowl, and turn to coat dough with butter on all sides. Cover dough and let rise until doubled in bulk, about 45 minutes to 1 hour.
Punch down, shape into 1 large bowl or 2 smaller balls and place on a greased baking sheet.
Brush with butter, cover loosely with waxed paper or plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 2 hours and preferably 3 hours.
Remove from the refrigerator and let sit, uncovered, at room temperature for 10 to 15 minutes. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Bake bread until it sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom, about 75 to 80 minutes for a large loaf and 40 to 45 minutes for smaller loaves. Remove from oven and cool on racks before slicing.
Phil’s Blog 