Fermentation Follies: A Sourdough Story

After many years of not posting we have a new voice here at Quillisascut. Caroline Recker is spending the summer helping around the farm, putting in hours of garden fun, feeding us delightful pastries and helping nurture the many people who visit the farm. Here is a glimpse in her words of life at Quillisascut Farm.

Caroline Recker: summer intern, guest contributor, and goat enthusiast

Quillisascut Day 4—I’ve settled in a bit and I’m getting more comfortable with the kitchen, unspooling like an octopus from a bottle. I’ve been kindly invited to spend the summer at the farm school, weeding, planting, and cooking with hyperlocal, peak season product. We’re gearing up for the first workshop—not Rick and Lora Lea’s, of course, but mine. 6 ladies here to make cheese. They’re only staying for one night, but it’s my job to help feed them between curd cuttings.

I haven’t had time to feel nervous about this, but I know if I think about it too long, I will. So, I go to what I know: I make bread. I choose Jeffrey Hamelman’s Vermont Sour recipe from Bread: A Baker’s Book of Techniques.

I trounce back and forth from the kitchen to the bakery (a little room on the opposite side of the house with cheery yellow walls and a 20-quart Hobart mixer that probably predates me by decades) and gather my mise. My gram scale didn’t make the trip to Rice with me, so I lament the imprecision of my task. No one will know if I round up 1.6 grams of salt to 2, right? A little rye, a lot of bread flour in a bowl, and then I must feed Wilma.

Wilma also predates me by decades. She is a wild yeast cultivar named for Chef Kären’s grandma and has been lovingly nurtured by untold generations of stern Nordic women. Okay, I was once told a precise number of generations, but I’m sorry, Chef, I forgot. Farm workshop attendees get to take a piece of Wilma home if they choose, to feed her for at least a few weeks and then slowly starve her in the back of a too-full fridge where she will eventually suffocate in hooch. (Again, sorry!) I’m worried that she’s too sluggish—I fed her a few days prior, but she’s been taking things slow in the reach-in. Still, I build a levain and hope for the best.

The next day I am rewarded: I can see a milky line where Wilma has risen against the sides of a polycarbonate 6th pan. She’s fallen, too, but that’s okay. She’s ready to leaven. And I’m not taking any shortcuts—there’s no added yeast here. I’ll work the gluten, but Wilma’s gotta bring it to life. I start with an autolyse. Everything’s in the bowl but the salt, mixed until just moistened, and then left to sit and develop a little gluten and begin fermenting. While I wait, I prepare falafel waffles. Exactly what they sound like. As it turns out, there’s a reason we shape falafel in little balls, patties, or even quenelles, but I digress.
30 minutes pass before I return to my bread mix, in need of a win after a heartbreaking failure to grease the waffle iron. Jeffrey (never call him Jeff) tells me to move up to a Hobart speed 2, but I’m making 2 loaves in an 8-quart KitchenAid, so I approximate. And—whoops—almost forgot to add the salt! I tip the contents of a waiting pint container into the mix. In minutes, my dough is ready for its bulk ferment. It’s a little cold outside, but I’m in no hurry. I cover the bowl and head out.

My day outdoors is idyllic: I harvest strawberries in a little bucket, filling an enormous steel bowl with jewel-bright fruits which I’m normally forced to purchase by the overpriced clamshell. As Lora Lea and I stop to deposit our bounty in the walk-in, I peek at my dough on the counter. I think things are moving, but it’s only been an hour, so I’m not worried. I give it a fold, then we join Rick in the garden, passing through the goat pen—idyllic!—before planting some carrots to replace a row that failed to thrive. Rick regales us with stories from the front lines in the gopher wars. It seems they’ve learned to shove dirt in the traps which are buried in the ground. I don’t want to sound like a sympathizer, but I am secretly impressed by their wiles. The most reliable gopher bait is a carrot, which are in scant supply (see aforementioned failure-to-thrive), and even then, a catch is not guaranteed. Lora Lea selects the smallest carrot she can find while I muse about Darwinism and increasingly clever generations of burrowing rodents.

An almost unmanageable strawberry harvest

As we head in for lunch, I’m disappointed to find that my dough hasn’t doubled yet. At Lora Lea’s suggestion, I set the bowl on a trivet above the stove, where the always-on pilot lights keep things cozy. Still, it’s nearly dinnertime before I can divide and shape. I assure my hosts that I can manage so long as the process is over by 9 pm.
I dust my bannetons with a 50/50 mix of rice flour and bread flour. Both will help me avoid sticking in the coming hours of proofing. Or rather, I dust my bannetons with bench flour, deposit the first loaf seam-side up into the waiting vessel, then realize my mistake. I’ve lost a lot of volume to sticky loaves in the past, and I want to do this right, damn it, so I hastily turn out the dough and fix things. I’ve lost the lovely, ridged pattern from the basket, but the loss is small in comparison to the deflation that could have been. I pop one loaf in the fridge to retard overnight, and the other goes back in its warm spot above the stove for the final proof.

It’s nearly 8 pm, 12 hours since the mix began, before we’re ready. I’m eager. Too eager. I slam the loaf out of the banneton and—hell—realize I don’t know where the lame lives. If you’re thinking I should have gotten the lame first, you’re right, and you should have been there to tell me. I grab a chef’s knife. What should be a fluid slash is handling more like a hacksaw. The whole thing is aesthetic butchery, but the dough is spreading and I’m losing time. Only after my little mutilated loaf is in the oven can I reflect on my failures.
It’s not the right shape. The scoring is scraggy. I should have thought ahead. As a recent pastry school graduate, I ought to be past these rookie mistakes. I’m frustrated. But there is hope: my remaining loaf sleeps in the walk-in. Wilma will be at work all night, munching on sugars and making lots of alcohol and carbon dioxide.
When it comes time to fetch my disgrace from the oven, I comfort myself with thoughts of redemption in the morning. There’s some good to be found: the crust has a nice color, dark like the inside of a walnut shell, and blistered like my skin after an hour in the sun. And the whole kitchen smells of yeast and toasted sugar. Not so bad. Loaf #2 is going to make those cheese women wish they’d signed up for a bread workshop. Those mozzarella mamas won’t know what hit them. I’ll be awash in praise from the feta femmes. These thoughts buoy me up the stairs to bed.

The next morning, I make breakfast and slice into the loaf. It’s not so bad—good crumb structure inside. I nibble on the crusty piece at the end (you know, the bread butt) and it’s hard to say how it tastes because I’m just eating crust. But it’s got some tang and some chew. I toast a few slices and scramble a lot of eggs—the ninety-second dozen produced by the chickens this year—and we all sit down to eat. I pile my toast with eggs and begin my analysis, a now-permanent habit developed in culinary school. The bread is… okay. Wilma brought the acidity and it’s pleasantly crunchy post-toaster. Shouldn’t it be better, though?
Lora Lea asks if there’s anything I would do differently next time. Her tone is masterfully neutral. I cite the scoring as my main regret, but I’m still puzzling over this bread. It’s so bland. I leave my seat, which is probably rude, to go examine the recipe again. A few calculations and… oh. Oh no.

1.6 grams vs. 16 grams of kosher salt

I have committed the worst of culinary sins. I have shamed both my chef-instructors and the dozen plus math teachers who tried so hard to do right by me. I didn’t need 1.6 grams of salt. I needed 16 grams of salt. Three years of culinary education and I’m still misplacing decimals. I’ll have to go into hiding.

My hosts are kind, but I’m mortified. Loaf-the-second waits in the walk-in, and I have no choice but to double down on the mistake and bake it. How can I serve unsalted bread? How can I have under-salted it to begin with? What will the cottage cheese chicas say?
I wish I could say I recover right away. But I’m not a friend to myself for a few hours. Not even a successful second loaf can cheer me up. I chew the problem like a leathery crust: how to hide my mistake? I can make bread pudding. I can fry it in olive oil and saturate it with salt. I can cube it up and make some over-salinated croutons. I can brine it in the tears I’m saving for my next moment alone and make a poorly seasoned pap. I can do anything except serve it like bread.

It’s now the eve of the paneer princesses’ arrival. We’ve flipped the chairs over the long dining table in the kitchen. I have a backpack-style vacuum slung over my shoulders like a generic brand ghostbuster. The sun casts long shadows on the wall and I scoot a hose over the floor. One and a half loaves rest on the kitchen island, hiding a secret, but for now I must consider the hose, the long yellow cord trailing behind me, the debris shooting up a tube whose terminus is uncomfortably near to my head. The work is… working, like a dough hook stretching strands. There’s no great epiphany, only a relaxing, and a leavening. My subconscious needed a full 12 hours to rise, but it fills me like a breath now: It’ll all be fine. It’s just lunch.

It’s not a new lesson, but it’s an important one: I, too, am a bread. I, too, am growing at my own unhurried pace. I, too, will die when my insides reach 140 degrees. And maybe after my untimely roasting, I, too, will be devoured by Lovecraftian nightmare creatures whose physiology is so unlike my own as to be unfathomable. Maybe I’ll be salty enough for them.

The offending bread, pictured here with an unsuspecting strawberry chevre salad

How We Make Walnut Oil at Quillisascut Farm

A photo tutorial on a simple way to make walnut oil at home or on the farm!

All you need is a little time and a few pounds of shelled walnuts. Shelling the walnuts is the most time consuming part of the process, but can be fun if you get a group of friends or family to pitch in and help. Make sure to get all the shells and center pith out of the walnuts. Next, finely grind the walnuts, we use our electric meat grinder. The heating step takes some time as you don’t want the nuts to toast, so use a slow oven 200-250*F stir them periodically as they all come to 165*F, while the walnuts are warm place them in a press.

Rick purchased this small antique lard press from a local second hand store. We line it with cheesecloth (it helps when it is time to remove the spent walnut cake) then pack in the warm nuts, this press holds about 6 pounds of of ground walnuts, giving us between 16-20 ounces of oil.

The walnut cake left over can be broken up and used for flour in baking and the lovely oil can be drizzled on salads, in soup or ? What we do know is that you will learn a new appreciation for walnut oil and never want to waste a drop!

Cultivating Success™ At Quillisascut Farm

Introduction to Small Acreage Sustainable Farming
April 30 to May 4, 2014 at Quillisascut Cheese Company


Interested in getting your hands in the earth and your feet on the ground? Learn from experienced value-added producers through a hands-on, multidisciplinary, immersion course in small scale sustainable farming!

This course offers a unique opportunity to spend time at Quillisascut, a picturesque goat dairy located 85 miles northwest of Spokane and 45 miles south of the Canadian border. Lora Lea and Rick Misterly, operators of Quillisascut, have been milking their goats and producing their artisan cheese on 36 acres since 1987.

This fun, informative, and inspiring course will give you actual hands-on farm experience while you gain awareness of the skills necessary for successful farming.

Gain experience in:
– gardening
– composting
– building a raised bed
– transplanting garden starts
You’ll also learn about small livestock care, how to milk goats, how to make four types of cheese, and more.

Leave with the skills to assess your farm goals, personal strengths, soils and site, and product marketing models.

Tuition is $895 includes food, lodging, course materials, and farm tours (transportation to and from the course not included). Early Bird Discount $795 sign up by April 1

For more information or to sign up for this course, visit

Or contact Hannah Cavendish-Palmer, WA Program Coordinator at hacp@wsu.edu

For more information about Cultivating Success™, visit the website at www.cultivatingsuccess.org

This program is supported by the Beginning Farmer and Rancher Development Program of the National Institute of Food and Agriculture, USDA, Grant #2012-49400-19575. To find more resources and programs for beginning farmers and ranchers please visit www.Start2Farm.gov.

Seasons Together Friends Forever

Quillisascut Farm and farmers are lucky to have courageous people to share our dream, to celebrate each step of the journey, and enjoy the seasons of our lives. Our friend Jen Vennes has been on this path with us for years, keeping us calm in times of anxiousness and hydrated when we are in need of a drink. Jen is a fabulous writer and has graciously offered to share her reflection on life with friends at Quillisascut.

Quillisascut Farm, the seasons of time together and the birth of pool boy….

(By Jen Vennes, was the President of the board at Quiilisascut Education Fund, misses her role a lot, but continues to think about the importances of the work and love of the farm. Currently, Jen is a writer at keepthecalm.wordpress.com, typically detailing the experiences of having some really rare and difficult cancer while parenting, living, healing, and maintaining a united front as a peaceful warrior.)

Being away from my family during this unique situation of which my life has stumbled upon, has me processing many levels of emotions, many friendships, words of love and warmth, amongst the difficulties presented. Along with this process, I have the blessings of some time to contemplate not just cancer and its effects, (bright side) now I have time to read! write! and catch up on life around me, which in the beginning didn’t feel exactly like living, but I have realized it is living. We can soak life into our soul without having to leave the room sometimes. My son taught me this over the past weekend. So, I have accepted that it is living to sometimes have to simply sit still and watch it unfold. And how much do we all say we wish we had time to experience our friends more, take a breath, read, love our kids and not race to the next endeavor or rushed dinner out. Anyway, I’m taking this setback of immobility, and catching up. Diverting the healing into the soul, not the next restaurant to try and gets dressed up for…eating soup in bed surrounded by love and stories is a welcome comfort. Each day, I learn. I probably already had that version of sautéed kale out at Quillisascut farm anyway, so who needs to get a reservation. So, my physicality in living is in short supply these days, but my observation of it is just as enticing to feel, realizing this has struck me in a way that has me wanting to add words about one of my favorite places and dearest friends. especially, when reading LoraLea’s amazing blog posts and experiences of her life at Quillisascut Farm. (If she will have me as a guest.)

It occurred to me that I had taken advantage of the fact that I know the farm, have spent so much time experiencing all kinds of days with Rick, LoraLea, my family, and friends and the pampered pets of pleasant valley. For years, we have been coming and going, winter, spring, summer, and fall. So admittedly, I gazed past some posts, simply knowing, I did that, I know what she is talking about…and then realized that there is no one way of expressing the kind of love which blooms each spring on the farm. So I began really reading, living the times again, the poses of Libby, and the farm. The Farm (dreamy music now).

Fall of course, always brings harvest time, pig butchering, abundance, and we never miss the visit, and of course we also have the anniversary of our marriage. This can/maybe and I’m sure will be a whole other post….but a short look: Karl and I were wed around the hearth outside of the schoolhouse on a sunny, freezing cold, late October afternoon at the farm. Rick welcomed all, LoraLea married us, we all cooked, we all laughed, toasted, danced in the kitchen, made a bounty of love and community while celebrating our one love. We had so much laughter and beauty together that week, so much so, that nobody had noticed the pies from the wedding day were past the point of eating, even for Libby, and kept on eating them. So, I guess now we are all preserved well, for years to come, by the apples that grow not far from where they were picked, gathered, baked and made into wedding pies. We had wedding cheese, cocktails, songs, chilled shoulders and warm hearts. We had love and each other. Autumn.

Then, comes our Thanksgiving, a tradition I adore and am not letting go of no matter what, no matter how difficult the cancer was this past year, i am not going to lie, it was difficult with a cracked hip, a hard wooden chair, not enough pain meds with me to quell the tears, and yet when I needed an uplift, the moon popped out, my girlfriends held me, Rick and Karl, lead the way in song and cocktail, and into the night we slowly walk arm in arm towards Daisy’s, my beacon at the end of the driveway. I was held so I can breathe the fresh air, held by my friends to breathe beyond the pain into the moonlight. I left the schoolhouse in fear, bundled up and returned with a cleansed tear and a voice knowing that next Thanksgiving will be brighter, if they are all like this, they are bright.

A snowy winter visit because we just miss Rick and LoraLea, this year they came over to us. Things became difficult and the drive maybe a bit to much, but in the winter, Quillisascut is portable. We head to Bella Luna Farms, where Pam and Bob illuminate us with their glow, and Pam and Loralea make cheese, we eat soup, and celebrate friendship, no matter where we all are, usually for Karl’s birthday with a nice bottle of Didier. No matter how tired we all are or get from long drives, days of farm work, cancer, chasing goats and babies, quiet as we unusually were, the love of “the farm” is a carefully chosen family of which we never escape and never want, even when we pick on each other. This was the 2013 winter visit. Our time together changes but is always, just that….together. Winter brings such a blanket of snowy warmth, here or at Quiilisascut, life slows and gives us the time to think about our ideas of bringing the farm and us together.
Because spring now approaches, a memory of late in the winter of 2011 arises, I couldn’t wait for the visit, I just had to make a trip, as it was our son, Milo’s, very first farm visit. Karl couldn’t make it, but I felt the need to bring the baby to Rick and LoraLea’s as soon as I could, (he was about 8 weeks old or so) I had the time, our dear friend Linnet accompanied me as we braved the beautiful drive to ‘christen’ Milo on the land we were married, and with this weekend, the sun shone and pool boy was discovered. Ahh…pool boy…..

….pool boy needs his/her own blog post too. Pool boy means spring is coming, the deck is open, and there is a drink to be made. I believe I was pool boy in the year ’11, (he or she changes) but as I wasn’t drinking, I was feeding my little one and staying healthy, I took the role of mixer. I think I put extra special love into those cocktails, because the myth and story of our beloved pool boy has grown into iconic proportions and can never be let down! There is much to learn, but must be discovered from this elusive character, he shifts and sprouts each sunny day with an idea that it is time to sit and enjoy each other, enjoy the next breath of fresh air, breeze and fantasy of what is to come. The big grief this spring is that I am not drinking, due to the meds I am taking, but given the right situation and right pool boy, I could be persuaded. Though pool boy isn’t just a cocktail maker or hour where it is “past the yardarm” of a work day, when it is time to break out the tonics or a simple glass of wine, he breaks us out of the wistfulness of a day of hard work, no matter what each of us are doing. We honor ‘his’ work at keeping us in smiles, after we have cooked, planted seeds, simply to sit and heal in my case, stack wood, build a deck or dream. It is pool boy who reminds us to acknowledge the labor of loves we have at hand.

I think this spring, when I return from my LA respite, my UCLA drug trial, the trail should take me straight back to that Quillisascut sun spot and soak in some healing juices of the farm. Soon, soon, I hope. That will be living, I can write or read about it after. After all, there is a birthday coming up that needs celebrating, and then it will be time for the hot work of summer, growing the fruits of Autumn’s next bounty. The life on the farm is continuous, similar yet ever changing like each new drink we taste together in the sunshine.