Gyorgy makes his starter in this big bin which comes up to my waist. Every time we have to feed it, flour and water is added and mixed it by hand. Since the bin comes up to my hip, I have to bend over, head down, reach straight into the bottom to give it a proper thorough mix. And Gyorgy uses dark rye which is a lot more acidic and sour in taste but you can immediately tell at the starter stage. It smells much sharper and a lot more intense.
Depending on how many loaves we are baking the next day, I can be mixing anything from 5 to 10kg of flour with water. Even with my slightly bulked up arm, it takes me a while. It feels like pulling strokes through mud. My arm burns, blood rushes to my head from bending over, I'm breathing hard and I'm breathing in ethanol. Ethanol that has formed by bacteria happily feeding away for the last 24 hours. The more I mix, more seems to be released. I'm getting more and more giddy but I won't let myself stop. Don't stand up, don't be a wuss. This is nothing compared to oven work. Don't be the one who can't even mix up a batch of starter. You can do this. It's just fumes. OK, I can do this.
And then I think this must be what it feels like to sniff glue, to have your entire head engulfed by thick fumes, the heady sensation, the waves of nearly blacking out and coming back again. The only thing that is saving and steadying me is my other arm first resting on the side of the bin, now firmly hooked on so I won't tip over or fall in. Either direction will be highly highly embarrassing.
This is when I start thinking up tricks to look in control. I keep mixing but I look up from the bin as if looking to check if everything else in the bakery is going well and running smoothly. I glance at the oven, I look at what Krystof is doing, I look over at Gyorgy. What?, he says. Nothing.
OK, that was 10 seconds of fresh air. Head down again, I carry on some more. Every time I give it a few more turns, I think I'm done and then I hit some other big lump of flour I've somehow managed to miss. OK, a few more turns. More heady now and more burning. Close your eyes, concentrate. No don't close your eyes. Whoa. Yes, don't close my eyes.That was close.
And then I land on the trick of all tricks.
Gyorgy!
What?
Check this. I think I need more water. Too dry.
And then Gyorgy comes over. I step back quickly and stand against the bench to give the illusion I'm giving him space and time to inspect it. With his huge Hungarian arm, he sticks it into the bin and stirs it around so hard the sludge actually swirls. I think this man can swim through mud if he ever needed to one day.
I change my stance and now casually lean against the bench, as if to suggest he is taking way too long just to check the stuff, so I'll just have to patiently wait over here till he is through.
No. Enough.
Are you sure?
Yes.
Saved.
It's not just me who has had a near incident. In the afterword of Brother Juniper's Bread Book, Peter Reinhart talks about how close he was to being intoxicated and fainting from breathing in the ethanol as he stood bent over like me trying to punch down dough, only breathe in the ethanol he released each time.
(To taste how how much sharper dark rye is, buy a loaf of bread made with dark rye and one made with light rye. And if you really want to, buy a loaf of white spelt bread to taste how much sweeter white flour is compared to any rye. And if you really really want to, buy a supermarket loaf of bread to taste how artificially sweet it is compared to the loaf of white spelt. And since you already have all of these in front of you, you might as well feel how much more rubbery the supermarket loaf is and how it sticks to your teeth and the roof of your mouth as you eat it.).
