Around this time every
year I am confronted by the absence of hot cross buns in The Netherlands. Why would
any population deny itself the life-enhancing combination of yeast, cinnamon,
sultanas, obscene lashings of sugar glaze, it’s sweetness perfectly offset when
slathered with salted butter? When questioned,
the Dutch claim that their krentenbollen or currant buns are an appropriate substitute.
Obviously, this is laughably misguided.
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| Krentenbollen are not acceptable as a hot cross bun substitute |
They are insipid, unspiced, unglazed, and
ubiquitous. The buns that is, not the Dutch. Being available all year round, krentenbollen
deny consumers the anticipatory excitement of a seasonal product, to say
nothing of the pious culinary virtuosity that comes with consuming a product
infused with religious symbolism.
I am far more inclined
towards the Dutch Easter bread, which at least recognises the life-enhancing combination of yeast, sultanas and obscene
lashings of sugar glaze. It has no cinnamon or other spices, but it more than
makes up for that with the addition of a core of sweet almond paste and a
generous scattering of toasted almonds on top.
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| Paasstollen |
It comes in a box decorated with
rabbits and eggs. I consume dozens of these Paasstollen every Easter in an
attempt to overcome my sadness at not having ready access to hot cross buns.
However the
Paasstollen loses all credibility as a hot cross bun substitute because as far
as I can see it is exactly the same as the Dutch Christmas bread, which is a delicious
combinations of yeast, sultanas and obscene lashings of sugar glaze. It has no
cinnamon or other spices, but it more than makes up for that with the addition
of a core of sweet almond paste and a generous scattering of toasted almonds on
top. It comes in a box decorated with fir trees and snowflakes. The box seems
to be the only thing distinguishing a kerststollen from a paasstollen.
I admit that having a
backup plan for unsold Kerststollen reflects a certain economic aptitude that is
regarded highly by the thrifty Dutch. It
also shows an awareness of supply chain management that can only come from having
been a mercantile powerhorse for centuries.
But be that as it may,
I would still like a hot cross bun on Good Friday.
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| 4 January in a Sydney supermarket |
This year, I have been
anticipating the joyous consumption of a hot cross bun since January 4. On that day, I walked
into a Sydney supermarket. I had escaped from a surreal world where devastating bushfires raged
and we
were all trapped in an open-air sauna that surely heralded the end of the world. Under
such circumstances, it’s fair to say I was very hot and very cross. So imagine
my surprise when my eyes settled on a shelf which only seconds before had
supported several dozen unsold Christmas puddings. But in place of puddings, I
saw bags of plump and spicy hot cross buns. These particularly premature
buns were laden with chemical preservatives and sealed in plastic bags. They
would have stored perfectly well for three months had I brought some back to The
Netherlands with me. But they would also have inevitably brought culinary disappointment so instead I resolved to make my own when the time came.
And so it came. Good
Friday 2020 in The Netherlands. Outside the coronavirus pandemic rages and we are all trapped in an open-air infectious diseases ward that heralds the end of the world as we knew it. One of few
things that could have got me through Good Friday was a hot cross bun slathered with
salted butter.
Inspired by the many (secretly
really annoying) #isobaking posts on my social media feed, I decided to surprise
my housebound family and make a batch of HCBs. Spoiler alert: a comedy of
errors ensured it didn’t happen.
First, having resisted
the trend to panic buy, and with three supermarkets within a five minute walk
of my house, I maintain a relatively sparce pantry. On Good Friday I could scrape
together a little over a cup of plain flour; the recipe insisted I find three
and a half more. Unfortunately, flour is now a rare commodity. I blame the smug
#isobakers. But I set out on a mission that I was confident fell into the “essential
travel” category.
As I suspected, the
first of my three immediate supermarket options was a flour-free zone. I walked
to the second and much larger supermarket. A man loitering at the door asked me
for 50 cents. I apologised for having no cash. He yelled at me and told me to
go to the cashpoint. I considered the chance of withdrawing a 50 cent coin from
the cashpoint, and instead decided to apply some Corona kindness and purchase
some groceries for him. I was about to ask him what he’d like me to buy
but he strode past me and made for the alcohol aisle. He grabbed a can of beer
and with a distinct absence of Easter spirit, stomped angrily back outside. He
was clearly untroubled by his cash flow situation and felt disinclined to stop
at a checkout. It was 9.30am. I briefly considered picking up a nice bottle of
breakfast wine and an extra-large paasbrood.
Foolishly I proceeded
to the flour aisle instead. Nothing. Someone started yelling. Through my
flourless fog I realised it was a middle-aged fellow customer, and that I was
the object of her yelling. “Where’s your basket???” she screamed. “WHERE’S.
YOUR. BASKET????”. Louder. Frighteningly wide eyes. Getting wider. “YOU NEED A
BASKET!!!!” Exclamation marks were visible above her furious head. I suddenly
realised that I’d been so frazzled by my encounter with Breakfast Beer Man at
the entrance, I’d neglected to collect a coronavirus-fighting shopping basket before
I entered the store. I’m highly sceptical that a plastic shopping basket will shield
us against coronavirus, but Breakfast Beer Man had thrown me off my normally
impeccable coronavirus game. In the face of The Basket Wench’s fury, I scurried
away, flourless. And quite rattled. And thinking that two bottles of breakfast
wine might be a good investment. I decided to persist with the original plan.
It paid off, or so I thought.
At the third supermarket
I was faced with the giddy choice of spelt flour, quinoa flour and …is that…lentil
flour??? Is that even a thing? It’s now beyond obvious that I should have opted
for breakfast wine at that point. But I bought the spelt flour and hurried home
with my last ditch, confidence-sapping, gluten-free gamble.
A failure to froth was
the next sign of impending doom. Yeast plus sugar plus warm milk should
generate a magical foaming and frothing as the yeast activates. It hints at the
pregnant potential for dense dough to become a light and fluffy delight. I
ignored the clearly unreactive yeast. I did not have the emotional fortitude to
return to a supermarket to purchase more and begin the process anew. Big
mistake. Big, big mistake. I melted, whisked, sifted, mixed and then spent a cathartic
ten minutes kneading. I produced a satisfying ball of dough and left it to rise.
The only thing that expanded at all was my own self doubt.
Stubbornly, I formed
twelve balls of dough and put them in the oven, completely forgetting to decorate
them with crosses. Earlier, I’d had the rather brilliant idea of piping angry
faces onto each bun. I was looking forward to posting my own #isobaking photos
with the caption “Prolonged isolation has produced seriously cross buns this year”.
Oh how we would have all chortled. If I’d remembered.
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| My #isobakingfail |
Instead, I produced
twelve hot uncrossed rocks. Twelve hot uncrossed inedible rocks. No paasbrood.
No breakfast wine. It was a very Bad Friday.
It’s now Easter Sunday
and I have absolutely no culinary aspirations whatsoever, other than to eat my
way through the three large bags of chocolate eggs that I purchased yesterday. And
perhaps to figure out what to do with 400 grams of spelt flour. Any ideas, smug #isobakers?
