My first attempt at no-knead bread was serviceable, but, as I noted at the end of the post, I felt it could be better. By the end of the week in which it sat in the fridge, the last of the dough had become so wet that it was almost unworkable. It oozed water during its final rise, which caused to to stick to the peel. I averted an oven disaster by quickly applying a bench scraper and shaping the dough on the fly into something that resembled a ciabatta loaf.

In response to my complaint about the inaccuracy of the master recipe — which used dip-and-sweep volumetric measurements instead of weights — Andrew Janjigian, a baker, blogger, and test cook for America’s Test Kitchen, sent me this:

As a serious baker, I have a kneejerk bias against “no-knead” recipes in general. They work, but the difference between no-knead and a minimal amount of kneading (or folding) is significant. You seem like the type of person who can find more than 5 minutes a day to dedicate to great bread.

In any case, here is my version of that formula:

900g good AP flour (KA is excellent)
675g H₂0 (75%)
2g instant yeast (0.25%)
23g salt (2.5%)

Follow the recipe in the book, or try my way: mix flour, water, yeast in a bowl or sealable container (I do 4x this, in a large fish box). Cover lightly, let sit 20m, then incorporate salt. Cover. Every 30m for the next 2h, fold the dough over itself 6-8 times (grab an edge and pull it up and over the center of the dough; repeat, working your way around it in a circle.) After four folds, seal and place in fridge. After 24h (should be gassy by then) you can bake. Dough without natural starter is best used within 3-4 days, after that it tends to get slack and difficult to work with.

So that’s what I tried next. I weighed out the flour, water, salt, and yest, and ran into my first problem: my kitchen scale is only accurate to 5-gram intervals, so I needed to figure out a way to measure 2 grams of yeast. A helpful hint on the back of a yeast packet — 7g = 2.25 teaspoons — let me calculate that I needed 5/8 teaspoon of yeast. I mixed the four, water and yeast together.

I noticed immediately that the dough was stiffer. When I added the salt after 20 minutes, the dough became much wetter. After another 30 minutes, I folded the dough as described in the recipe.

After a day in the fridge, the dough had risen considerably.

Again, I could tell that the dough was stiffer and drier just by looking at the top.

I followed my original recipe from this point on. I cut off a one-pound piece of dough, dusted it with flour, shaped it into a ball, let it rise for forty minutes, then dusted it with more flour before slashing the top with a knife. I was about to learn that it doesn’t always pay to get fancy with the knife cuts.

After thirty-five minutes in a 425°F oven the loaf was done.

What’s that big lump in the middle? It’s the center square formed by my knife pattern, which rose too quickly relative to the rest of the loaf. Lesson learned: Use a simpler slash pattern next time.

After the bread cooled to room temperature, I cut off the center dome, then sliced the rest.

Compared to the loaves from the previous recipe, this version had a better internal structure: it was airier, less, dense, and had a better chew. The flavor wasn’t that different, but the improved texture made it taste better.

Andrew was right. A few more minutes invested at the start of the process — along with accurate measurements — made all the difference. This “low-knead” method will now become the standard method for quick, tasty, basic bread here in the Belm Research Kitchen.

My new scale arrived today, so there won’t be any more early-morning panicked algebra exercises to calculate weight/volume equivalents. No amount of caffeine makes that pleasant.

While I was cooking lamb tagine last week, I thought this dish could be improved with some preserved lemon, which, unfortunately, I did not have. Now that the peak of winter citrus season is drawing to a close, I figured it was time to remedy the problem before I had to wait another year. I didn’t want to preserve garden variety lemons, I wanted preserved Meyer lemons. (Try as I might, I can’t come up with the requisite Russ Meyer lemons joke. Make up your own.)

The technique is simple: I used a recipe just to get the quantities correct, referring to Well-Preserved by Eugenia Bone. I started with twenty-four Meyer lemons, a cup of kosher salt, and four wide-mouth pint jars.

I sterilized the jars in a pot of boiling water for ten minutes. While the jars boiled, I trimmed the stem end off twelve lemons, then sliced them into quarters from pole to pole. I juiced the other dozen lemons.

I drained the water out of the jars and let them air dry for a minute. I added half a tablespoon of salt to the bottom of each jar, then packed in four lemon wedges, followed by a tablespoon of salt.

I repeated the process twice more, ending up with twelve wedges in each jar, and three and a half tablespoons of salt, which I distributed by shaking the jars. I topped each jar off with a final half tablespoon of salt.

I poured the juice into each jar, making sure the lemons were covered. I pushed down on the wedges a bit to compress them and squeeze out any trapped air. I set the lids (which had been simmering in water to soften the seals) on the jars and screwed on the band until they were finger tight.

The jars will sit on a shelf in the kitchen for two weeks, with me inverting them every other day to keep the salt distributed, until they are fermented. After that, they will keep in my fridge for up to six months. As if they’ll last that long.

From start to finish, including cleanup, this recipe took less than an hour. I encourage you to try it yourself, but do it now if you want preserved Meyer lemons. You can substitute regular lemons, but you’ll need more of them to produce enough juice to fill the jars.

Go. Do it now. You’ll thank me later.

There are as many formulations of ras el hanout as there are families in Morocco,” advised my local spice vendor, “you just have to settle on a version you like.” The blend I found contained galangal, rosebuds, black pepper, ginger, cardamom, nigella, cayenne, allspice, lavender, cinnamon, cassia, coriander, mace, nutmeg, and cloves – quite the aromatic mix. I had lamb leg steaks in the freezer and a new spice to play with: time to make Moroccan tagine.

The recipe I used is a variation on Lamb Tagine with Prunes, found in Mark Bittman’s The Best Recipes in the World. I started with the three lamb steaks, half a cup of red wine, a tablespoon of honey, a teaspoon of minced ginger, a tablespoon of minced garlic, two tablespoons of olive oil, a large chopped onion, a cup of dried apricots, a cup of chopped carrots, and four teaspoons of ras el hanout.

I cut and trimmed the leg steaks onto inch and a half chunks which I browned in the oil over high heat, adding salt and pepper as I turned the meat. While it browned I soaked the apricots in the wine.

I removed the lamb from the pan, lowered the heat to medium, then added the ginger, garlic, honey, and ras el hanout, cooking for about ten minutes until the onion softened.

I returned the lamb to the pan, along with the wine, half of the apricots, and a cup of water. I brought the mixture to a boil, covered the pan, reduced the heat, and let it simmer for forty five minutes, stirring every fifteen minutes. I added the remaining apricots and let it simmer for a final fifteen minutes.

While the lamb simmered I made couscous, substituting chicken stock for water and adding a quarter cup of diced apricots and a teaspoon of ras el hanout. I finished the tagine with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, then served it over the couscous with a chopped cilantro garnish.

I’ve never been to Morocco, but I have been to its facsimile at the World Showcase in Epcot Center at Walt Disney World. I had failed to make dinner reservations at any of the more popular locations (France, Japan, Mexico) – a rookie mistake – but discovered that Restaurant Marrakesh had plenty of walk-in tables available. It was there that I had my first tagine, prepared and served in the traditional clay pot with conical lid that gives the dish its name.

My tagine brought that first one to mind, and now I know that the elusive spice I couldn’t identify back then was the ras el hanout. It was fragrant and warm, with a heat that crept up after a few bites. The lamb was perfectly tender, the apricots and carrots providing two different types of sweetness. On a cold, rainy, night it was more than a simple lamb stew, it was a warm reminder of a warmer locale. Taste and memory: my favorite dining experience.