
Chef Thomas
A Bloomer
A proper British bloomer, slashed deep and baked until the cuts open wide and the crust turns deep, glossy gold. The kind of loaf that makes the rest of the day feel deliberate.
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Created by Chef Thomas
A simple white loaf made from flour, water, yeast, and salt. The kind of bread that fills the kitchen with the smell of a Saturday morning and teaches you, slowly, everything you need to know about baking.
There's a smell that fills a kitchen when bread is baking and it isn't quite like anything else. Yeasty, toasted, slightly sweet, faintly malty. It gets into the curtains. It greets you when you come back from the garden. People who've never made bread don't understand what they're missing, and people who have, never quite stop making it.
This is the loaf I come back to. A plain white tin loaf, the kind your grandmother might have made, the kind that turns into toast in the morning and sandwiches at lunch and the heel torn off and eaten standing up at the counter, butter melting into it, while you pretend you're just checking that it's cooled enough to slice. It uses four ingredients. Five, if you count the pinch of honey, which I do because it helps the crust go a proper colour. There is nothing clever here and nothing to be afraid of.
Making bread is one of those things people convince themselves is harder than it is. It isn't. It's slow, but slow isn't the same as difficult. The yeast does most of the work. Your hands do a bit of kneading. The oven does the rest. What it asks for is your attention, in small doses, across an afternoon: a few minutes here, a glance there, a gentle press of a finger to see how the dough is getting on. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and bread is the most conversational thing I know how to make.
I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I got it right. "Tin loaf. Saturday. Better than the bakery." That was years ago and the recipe hasn't changed since, because there's nothing left to change. Flour, water, yeast, salt, your hands. That's the whole thing. Make it once and you'll wonder why you ever bought a loaf in plastic.
Quantity
500g
plus extra for dusting
Quantity
7g (one sachet)
Quantity
10g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
320ml
Quantity
a little
for greasing the tin
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| strong white bread flourplus extra for dusting | 500g |
| fast-action dried yeast | 7g (one sachet) |
| fine sea salt | 10g |
| honey or caster sugar | 1 teaspoon |
| lukewarm water | 320ml |
| soft butterfor greasing the tin | a little |
Tip the flour into a large bowl. Add the yeast to one side and the salt to the other, then stir each into the flour separately. Yeast and salt don't like meeting directly, so give them a moment apart. Add the honey to the lukewarm water, stir to dissolve, and pour it into the flour. Mix with a wooden spoon, then your hand, until you have a shaggy, slightly sticky dough with no dry flour left in the bowl.
Tip the dough onto a clean, lightly floured surface and knead for ten minutes. Push it away from you with the heel of your hand, fold it back, give it a quarter turn, and push again. It will start sticky and uncooperative and end smooth, springy, and slightly tacky. When you press a finger into it and the dent springs back slowly, you're done. Trust your hands. They know before you do.
Wipe out the bowl, give it a light film of oil, and put the dough back in. Cover with a clean tea towel or a plate. Leave it somewhere not cold, not hot, just somewhere quiet, for an hour to an hour and a half, until it has doubled in size and looks puffed and proud of itself. The kitchen will start to smell faintly sweet and yeasty. That's the bread waking up.
Butter a 900g (2lb) loaf tin generously, getting into the corners. Tip the risen dough onto your work surface and press it gently to knock out the big bubbles, but don't beat it flat. Pat it into a rough rectangle about the length of your tin. Roll it up tightly from the long edge, like a Swiss roll, pinching the seam closed underneath. Lift it into the tin, seam side down. It should come about two-thirds of the way up the sides.
Cover the tin loosely with the tea towel and leave it for another forty-five minutes to an hour. The dough should rise to just above the rim of the tin and feel pillowy when you press it gently with a fingertip. The dent should spring back slowly, halfway. If it springs back immediately, give it longer. If it doesn't spring back at all, get it in the oven now.
While the loaf is having its second prove, heat the oven to 220C/200C fan. When the dough is ready, dust the top lightly with flour and slide the tin into the middle of the oven. Bake for thirty to thirty-five minutes. The top will go from pale to gold to a deep, burnished brown, and the kitchen will smell, frankly, like the best version of itself. Tip the loaf out of the tin and tap the bottom. A hollow sound means it's done. A dull thud means another five minutes.
Turn the loaf out of the tin and put it on a wire rack. Leave it for at least thirty minutes before you cut into it. I know. The smell is unbearable and a slice torn off the warm end with butter melting into it is one of the small, perfect things in life. But the crumb is still setting inside, and a hot loaf cuts gummy. Wait if you can. Don't, if you can't. I usually can't.
1 serving (about 62g)
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