Hearth and Millstone
Four sweater patterns inspired by the simple act of baking bread by Bristol Ivy
In the background on Sundays in my house growing up, there was always one constant. No matter the circumstance, no matter the time of year, my dad would bake bread. Sometimes my older brother and I were interested in the process, sometimes not; it was a ritual that occurred on the periphery of my conscious as I went about my day. But on Sunday evenings, the ritual came home to me: we would curl up in our footie pajamas in the living room, watch vintage Doctor Who on to the local PBS station, and eat slices of fresh, steaming bread topped with butter and honey. It was familiar, and comforting, and kind, and that moment repeated weekly across my childhood is one that remains sweet and formative of who I am today. But I never had the patience for making bread myself. Cookies, cakes, pies, brownies—yes, happily and easily. But the exact temperature of the water needed not to kill the yeast, the (what seemed then to be) endless waiting for the dough to rise, the long baking time—I wanted no part of it. I worked hard to improve my cooking and baking as I left home and went to live on my own, but bread was never part of it. It wasn’t until the last few years, after binge-watching the most recent season of The Great British Bake-Off in a series of dark Maine winter evenings, that I decided I wanted to give it a proper go. I made it my New Year’s resolution: I would conquer bread and add it to my arsenal of baking techniques. I focused on the technical aspects of it: it was one more kitchen technique to conquer, one more thing to master in my quest for proficiency. What I didn’t account for was the visceral, Proustian emotion the first time I pulled a loaf of bread out of the oven. It was slightly burnt on top, slightly raw on the inside, and, to be honest, was pretty much loaf-like only if you cocked your head and squinted, but it was bread, and I had made it with my own two hands. It was an unforeseen connection to my dad and my childhood, and a sudden understanding of the love and intention he put into those pieces of bread we ate in front of the television on Sunday nights. I called my dad and told him that it felt like coming home. Since then, I’ve inherited his battered copies of Beard on Bread and the King Arthur Cookbook, and have tried lots of different recipes and techniques. Some were successes, some were pretty miserable failures. But in the process, I started reflecting on how sympathetic and even symbiotic breadbaking and knitting could be to each other. There are as many different degrees of refinement, of rusticity to bread as there is to yarn, as there are to sweaters. I love the sweet, milky, soft breads like brioche, pao doce, and Hokkaido milk bread; their soft pillowy texture and small crumb reminds me of fine merino yarns, tightly plied to be round, bouncy, and exquisitely cushy. But I also love the bucolic, old, hearty recipes like anadama and rye bread, their rich, dense, coarser texture like rustic farm yarns that only get better with age.
It was inevitable that, as with most things in my life, I started slowly to view the one act of my hands, bread, through the other act of my hands, knitting patterns. And so this collection, Hearth and Millstone, was born. There are many different references in these sweaters to the act of breadbaking, from the extremely nerdy (the motif of branching cable or rib patterns that ties the collection together is a reference to the threads of gluten that stretch and develop during the kneading and rising process) to the practical (I designed all the sweaters to be either sleeveless or have enough ease in the sleeves so you could roll them up during baking, and each yarn is heathered enough to camouflage the inevitable flour splotches). Each sweater is named after a different kind of bread that reflects the heartiness or refinement of the yarn and the sweater itself: Bannock, a top-down pullover in the lush and sheepy Kent Worsted from Barenaked Wools, is named for a flatbread of Celtic origin, typically unleavened in its historical context and a staple food since at least 1000 AD of recorded history; Limpa, a seamed brioche popover (the ridiculous bread puns are not lost on me) in Brooklyn Tweed’s fluffy and cozy Quarry, is named for a traditional Swedish rye bread with flavors of molasses, caraway seed, and orange peel; Fougasse, a bottom-up raglan cardigan in Milla Mia’s bouncy and refined Naturally Soft Aran, is named for the Provencal bread slashed or sculpted to resemble ears of wheat; and Anadama, a seamed and classic cabled pullover in Greenwood Hill Farm’s rustic and earthy 2-Ply Worsted merino, is an old American recipe combining molasses and cornmeal for a deep, dense flavor. Each sweater is very different, but each reaches back to the common thread of honest, classic, nourishing knits, with a little bit of a twist—items that will hopefully become staples in your wardrobe as the bread each is named for become staples in your pantry. My journey with breadbaking isn’t over. I’m refining my technique now, playing with temperature, rise time, moisture content, baking stones, and ingredients to find what the perfect bread is for me. At the moment, in a bit of full circle joy, want to know what my favorite recipe is? An adaptation of the one my dad made for us every week all those years ago. You’ll find a copy of my version of it at the end of this book, and I hope you give it a try. I’ve also included a resource list of handy books and classes out there for anyone wanting to give bread a try for the first time. I hope it brings you as much joy as it’s brought me! Bristol Ivy Portland, Maine February, 2016
Anadama A bottom up sweater with set-in sleeves, knit in pieces and seamed. At first glance, the cables look simple and classic, but occasionally they break the mold and go for a wander. Knit in a fluffy, soft, and comfortable farm yarn, 2-Ply Worsted from Greenwood Hill Farm, with a small bit of positive ease, it has a feel like velvet and a silhouette that you’ll snag from your closet over and over.
Finished Measurements 32 (36, 39¼, 43¼, 45½, 49½, 53¼, 56¾)” [81.5 (91.5, 100, 110, 116, 125.5, 135.5, 144) cm] bust circumference Modeled with 1¼” [5.5cm] positive ease Yarn 2-Ply Worsted by Greenwood Hill Farm (100% Merino wool; 140 yds [128 m]/59g): 8 (9, 10, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14) skeins or 1040 (1170, 1275, 1405, 1480, 1610, 1730, 1845) yds [950 (1070, 1165, 1285, 1355, 1470, 1585, 1685) m] in color Slate Needles One 32” [80 cm] circular needle OR set of straight needles in size US 9 [5.5 mm] One 32” [80 cm] circular needle OR set of straight needles in size US 7 [4.5 mm] One 16” [40 cm] circular needle in size US 7 [4.5 mm] for neckband or size needed to obtain gauge Notions Stitch markers Locking stitch markers Cable needle Stitch holder or waste yarn Tapestry needle Gauge 16½ sts and 25 rows = 4” [10 cm] in stockinette stitch with larger needle, after blocking 23½ sts and 25 rows = 4” [10 cm] in cable chart with larger needle, after blocking
Bannock A clean and soft cowl-necked pullover, with contracting and expanding ribs at the hem, cowl, and raglan lines. Bannock is knit from the top down in the round, with short rows used to raise the back neck. The cowl is then picked up and knit up from the cast on edge. In Barenaked Wools’ Kent Worsted, it is sheepy, cozy, and perfect for snuggling up in.
Finished Measurements 31 (37¼, 40, 43½, 46¼, 52½, 56, 62¼)” [79 (95, 101.5, 110.5, 117.5, 133, 142, 158) cm] bust circumference Modeled with 2” [5 cm] positive ease Yarn Kent Worsted by Bare Naked Wools (60% Merino wool, 40% Romney wool; 220 yds [201 m]/4 oz [113 g]): 5 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9) skeins or 905 (1090, 1170, 1270, 1350, 1535, 1635, 1820) yds [825 (995, 1065, 1160, 1235, 1400, 1495, 1660) m] in color Beach Glass Needles One 32” [80 cm] circular needle in size US 7 [4.5 mm] One set double-pointed needles (DPNs) in size US 7 [4.5 mm] One 32” [80 cm] circular needle in size US 5 [3.75 mm] One set DPNs in size US 5 [3.75 mm] or size needed to obtain gauge Notions Stitch markers Stitch holder or waste yarn Tapestry needle Gauge 18 sts and 25 rows = 4” [10 cm] in stockinette stitch with larger needle, after blocking
Fougasse
A bottom-up raglan, Fougasse features branching cables that twist and turn across the back to furl into line at the side. With a bit of positive ease, cabled patch pockets, and a high collar, it’s perfect for throwing on every day, and the tight twist and bouncy plies of Milla Mia’s Naturally Soft Aran will mean that you’ll be able to for years to come.
Finished Measurements 31¾ (35¼, 39½, 43, 47½, 51¾, 55¼, 58¾)” [81 (89.5, 100.5, 109.5, 120.5, 131.5, 140, 149) cm] bust circumference Modeled with 1½” [4 cm] positive ease Yarn Naturally Soft Aran by Milla Mia (100% Merino wool; 87 yds [80 m]/1¾ oz [50 g]): 10 (11, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18) balls or 850 (945, 1060, 1150, 1275, 1385, 1480, 1575) yds [780 (870, 975, 1060, 1170, 1275, 1360, 1450) m] in color Latte Needles One 32” [80 cm] circular needle OR set of straight needles in size US 7 [4.5 mm] One 32” [80 cm] circular needle OR set of straight needles in size US 5 [3.75 mm] or size needed to obtain gauge
Notions Stitch markers Cable needle Stitch holder or waste yarn Tapestry needle 9 (9, 9, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10) 20 mm buttons Gauge 18½ sts and 27 rows = 4” [10 cm] in reverse stockinette stitch with larger needle, after blocking
Limpa A squishy, fluffy, marshmallow-y hug of a sweater. Knit in pieces from the bottom up and seamed, Limpa’s large-scale brioche in Brooklyn Tweed’s Quarry means that the branching shaping at the center neck and back and the shoulder shaping are vivid and clean. Its oversized shape and shawl collar make it ideal for days when you need that extra bit of coziness.
Finished Measurements 42½ (45½, 50½, 53½, 56¾, 61½, 64¾, 69½)” [107.5, 116, 128, 136, 144.5, 156.5, 164.5, 177) cm] To Fit Bust: 30-34 (34-38, 38-42, 42-46, 46-50, 50-54, 54-58, 58-62)” Modeled with 12½” [32 cm] positive ease Yarn Quarry by Brooklyn Tweed (100% Columbia/Targhee wool; 200 yds [183 m]/3½ oz [100 g]): 5 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8) skeins or 915 (980, 1090, 1155, 1225, 1325, 1395, 1495) yds [840 (895, 995, 1055, 1120, 1210, 1275, 1370) m] in color Gypsum Needles One 32” [80 cm] circular needle OR set of straight needles in size US 11 [8 mm] One 16” [40 cm] circular needle in size US 9 [5.5 mm] One set double-pointed needles (DPNs) in size US 9 [5.5 mm] or size needed to obtain gauge Notions Stitch markers Cable needle Locking stitch markers Tapestry needle Smooth, tightly-spun yarn in a similar color to main yarn for seaming 1 button Gauge 10 sts and 34 rows = 4” [10 cm] in brioche stitch with larger needle, after blocking
The Ivy Family Sunday Bread, Second Generation (Adapted from King Arthur Flour’s Oatmeal Bread) - makes 2 loaves Ingredients 1½ cups boiling water 1 cup steel cut oats (rolled oats can be used in place of steel cut oats or in combination, but I love the little bit of chew and crunch that the steel cut oats add) 1 Tbsp blackstrap molasses 7 Tbsp honey (this and the above molasses make ½ cup total sweetener; if preferred, put the 1 Tbsp of molasses into a ½ cup measure and pour the honey on top rather than measuring out 7 individual Tbsp. You can also do what I do and eyeball the molasses amount entirely, or sub another sweetener for a different flavor profile. I personally love the depth that the molasses and honey have together) ¼ cup (4 Tbsp) unsalted butter, cubed 1 Tbsp kosher salt 1 Tbsp instant yeast ¼ cup lukewarm water (I’ve found the right temperature is when I can’t feel any temperature difference from the skin on the inside of my wrist) 1 tsp blackstrap molasses 1 tsp honey 2 cups whole wheat flour 3½ to 4½ cups all-purpose flour (I’ve also made this with only all-purpose flour and no whole wheat; if you’d prefer that then bump this up to 5½ to 6½ cups) In a large mixing bowl, combine the boiling water, oats, ½ cup of molasses and honey mixture, butter, and salt. Let sit until the mixture is lukewarm and the butter has melted. The original recipe recommends leaning your head over the bowl and taking a big whiff of the steam as the oats, honey, and butter combine and I don’t disagree! This is also a great time to get in a few rows of knitting. In a small bowl or large measuring cup, combine yeast, lukewarm water, 1 tsp molasses, and 1 tsp honey. Let sit until yeast is bubbly, about five minutes. (Again, great for a few rows of knitting.) If your yeast doesn’t start bubbling, it might be too old, or the water might be too hot or too cold. When in doubt, start over until you have bubbling yeast! Once the oats mixture has cooled to lukewarm, add yeast mixture and stir to combine. Add whole wheat flour one cup at a time, stirring to combine. I have a rice paddle that I love for this part of the process, when the dough is still pretty liquid but starts needing some oomph behind it. Add the all-purpose flour one cup at a time, until the dough starts to hold together and pull away from the sides of the bowl. This will typically be about 3 to 3½ cups of flour. I err on the side of less flour if I’m ever in doubt, since I’ll be adding more as I knead it. Flour your work surface generously and turn dough out onto it. To keep the dough from sticking to your hands as you work it, either give them a generous spray with vegetable oil (not olive oil if you can help it—it turns very bitter when worked into bread) or flour them as well. Knead the bread, folding it onto itself, turning it frequently, and adding flour as needed, until it’s smooth and elastic and has mostly stopped sticking to you and the work surface. Let rest while you scrape out the mixing bowl and grease it with butter or vegetable oil. Knead the dough a few more times, then place in mixing bowl and coat the top with butter or vegetable oil. Cover with a clean tea towel or dishcloth and place the bowl somewhere warm and dry until the dough has risen to twice its size. A friend suggested heating the oven to 100 degrees F, turning it off, then placing a damp towel over the bowl and popping it in the oven for its first rise. I often forget to turn it off after it hits 100 and only remember when it hits some much higher temperature, but then I just sit the dough on top of the oven with its door open. The residual heat will aid the rise. Sit back and knit for a while!
Prepare your loaf pans (mine are 8½” by 4½”; if yours are much smaller I would suggest dividing the dough into thirds) by greasing them thoroughly and placing a piece of parchment paper the wide way across each loaf pan. The paper isn’t necessary, but it safeguards even further against the bread getting stuck in the pan. Once the dough has risen to twice its size and bounces back slowly if you press a finger into it, punch it down (I go for the vegetable-oil-on-the-hand trick for this part as well) and divide in half. With each half, pull the dough into a snake twice as long as the loaf pan, fold it back on itself and twist into the bread version of a skein of yarn, then place into the loaf pan. This is optional, but I love the lamination and layers it adds to the dough. Let the loaves rise again until they’ve risen to about an inch over the top of the pan. (Even more knitting time. . .) Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F, and once the loaves have risen, place them in the oven for 25 minutes. After this time, I start checking them every five minutes or so, and will often place a sheet of tin foil on the rack above them to prevent browning. Once they’re nicely browned and sound hollow when you tap them (perhaps another 10-15 minutes), bring them out of the oven. Let the loaves cool in their pans on a cooling rack for about ten minutes, and then turn them out to cool completely. It’s best if you wait until they’re completely cool to dig in, but I almost never make it that long. Serve with salted butter, honey, jam, cheese, Vegemite—whatever takes your fancy. Store at room temperature. After the loaves are completely cool, I’ll put them together in a large 2-gallon plastic storage bag (I’ve found the ones that yarn come in are fantastic for bread storage) and leave them on the counter. They typically last about a week and a half, but I would suggest starting to toast them after a few days. Enjoy!
Further Bread Resources The King Arthur Flour 200th Anniversary Cookbook by Brinna Sands (a classic, with recipes for lots of delicious non-bread baking as well) Beard on Bread by James Beard (the bread bible from the 1970s. Short on pictures but long on amazing technical knowledge) Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day by Jeff Hertzberg (a great way to ease into baking with some low-risk recipes) Flour Water Salt Yeast by Ken Forkish (the must-have for rustic, crusty, tear-apart and dip-into-hearty-soup bread) And I’ve linked a few different Craftsy classes, for all of us visual learners: King Arthur Flour’s Essentials of Bread Baking with Amber Eisler: craftsy.me/1Rortp0 Artisan Bread Making with Peter Reinhart: craftsy.me/1QFpmjH The Art & Science of Bread with Michael Kalanty: craftsy.me/20VRcYB
Thanks Huge thanks are in order across the board to everyone who’s been a part of this collection—Milla Mia, Brooklyn Tweed, and Barenaked Wools for their support of my crazy idea, and for Amy Christoffers and Thea Colman for enabling my wild purchase of the Greenwood Hill Farm yarn at Rhinebeck a few years ago. Thea also gets major thanks for taking the photos for the collection, as does the lovely and gracious Julia Farwell-Clay for allowing us into her kitchen to make a large mess. Sierra Roberts and Allie Matthews are the amazing and wonderful ladies who knit the Bannock and Fougasse samples for me. Rachel Atkinson also deserves huge applause for tech editing the patterns in this collection—you’re a saint, Rachel! Most of all, thanks go to my parents, for teaching me that what I love, whether it’s knitting or baking bread until 3 in the morning, is worth fighting for. Love you both and I owe you some bread!