Aniseed Loaf — The Brown Bread That Belongs on a Bean Night

The light is going. Sunset before five now and the dark coming on while the kitchen is still warm from the late afternoon, the lamp by the reading chair switched on by four-fifteen on the cloudier days, the woodstove fed at a steadier rhythm because the heat needs to last through a longer evening. I have lived through seventy-one of these Novembers and I still notice the first week the early dark surprises me, the moment I look up from a book and realize the windows have gone to black while I was reading and the world outside has continued without me, which it always does and always will and which is a useful lesson to receive once a year.

Bill called Sunday evening from Connecticut. We had not spoken in three weeks and he had stories from a trip down to Rhode Island for his wife's family Thanksgiving — early, this year, because of how the calendar fell — and he wanted to compare notes on cold-weather bean cooking. He has been working on a navy bean soup with leek and ham hock that he claims is the best soup he has ever made, and he wanted me to try it, and he said he would mail me a quart frozen which I told him was unnecessary and he ignored me, the way Bill always ignores me when he has decided that something is going to happen. The quart will arrive next week. I will eat it. I will tell him it is good. It will be good, because Bill is a meticulous cook who improves by a measurable amount each year, the way a young man should improve and the way an old man rarely does, and I have come to admire him in a way that I would not have predicted when we first started corresponding through the blog four years ago.

Made my own pot of beans Saturday — the navy bean and ham hock variety I have made my whole adult life, no leeks, just onion and garlic and a smoked hock and the patience that all bean cookery requires. The hock from Lyle's neighbor Carl, who raises pigs in Starksboro and trades hocks for maple syrup at a rate of one quart of syrup per four hocks, which is a rate I established with him a decade ago and which neither of us has ever raised. The beans went in soaked Friday night, came up to a slow simmer Saturday morning, and held that simmer for nine hours, the kitchen smelling of pork and smoke and the earthy starch of beans surrendering their structure to long heat. I ate them with brown bread Saturday night. I will eat them with brown bread the rest of the week. The recipe card says baked beans on Saturday is a New England obligation older than the towns themselves, and I do not argue with cards in Helen's handwriting.

Anna called Tuesday from Brattleboro. She has been working on a difficult case and could not say more than that, the way social workers cannot, and she asked me what I do when I am tired in the way that has nothing to do with sleep. I thought about it for a moment and told her: I cook a long thing. A stew, a braise, a pot of beans. Something that takes hours and asks me to be patient with it. The cooking does not solve the tiredness but it gives the tiredness somewhere to live for an afternoon. She was quiet for a moment and then said: that's what I needed to hear. We talked for another twenty minutes about nothing in particular and I made her laugh once, which is hard with Anna because she has a serious mind, and when we hung up I sat by the woodstove with Frost and thought about how much like her grandmother she has become, in the watchful steady way she carries the people she is responsible for.

When I describe that Saturday to anyone — the nine-hour simmer, the woodstove, the bean pot holding its slow heat through the short afternoon — the brown bread is never an afterthought; it is the other half of the meal, the thing that makes the beans a supper rather than just a pot of something hot. I have made brown bread in several forms over the years, and this aniseed loaf has the right weight and crumb for the job: dense enough to hold up to the broth, faintly sweet, with the anise giving it the kind of quiet complexity that suits a contemplative evening. It goes in while the beans are still hours away from done, and it comes out of the oven just as the kitchen has reached its warmest and the windows have gone fully dark.

Aniseed Loaf

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr 5 min (plus 1 hr rise) | Servings: 12 slices

Ingredients

• 3 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for kneading
• 1 packet (2 1/4 tsp) active dry yeast
• 1 cup warm water (about 110°F)
• 2 tbsp unsalted butter, softened
• 2 tbsp dark molasses
• 1 tbsp granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 tsp aniseed, lightly crushed
• 1 tsp fine salt
• 1 egg, beaten (for wash)

Instructions

1. Activate the yeast. Combine the warm water, sugar, and yeast in a large bowl. Stir gently and let sit 5–8 minutes until foamy.
2. Mix the dough. Add the molasses, butter, aniseed, and salt to the yeast mixture. Stir to combine. Add flour one cup at a time, mixing until a shaggy dough forms.
3. Knead. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 8–10 minutes until smooth and slightly tacky but not sticky. Add flour a tablespoon at a time only if the dough is sticking badly.
4. First rise. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl, cover with a clean towel or plastic wrap, and set in a warm spot for 1 hour or until doubled in size.
5. Shape. Punch down the dough and shape it into a smooth oval loaf. Place on a parchment-lined baking sheet or into a greased 9x5 loaf pan.
6. Rest. Cover loosely and let rest 20 minutes while the oven preheats to 375°F.
7. Bake. Brush the top of the loaf with beaten egg. Bake 40–45 minutes until deep golden brown and the loaf sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom. An internal temperature of 195–200°F confirms it is done.
8. Cool. Transfer to a wire rack and cool at least 20 minutes before slicing. The crumb tightens as it cools and slices more cleanly when it has had time to rest.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 145 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 3g | Carbs: 27g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 195mg