Ssssh! Don’t all rush at once, but there’s a rumour circulating that a shop in Golders Green has got flour! Unfortunately, although the grocer in question is reportedly Polish and Turkish (and I thought that I was a weird hybrid…), a photograph posted to our online community forum of the stacked bags suggests that the flour is Russian in origin. 

The writing on it looks Cyrillic rather than Polish or Turkish, both of which are written in Roman script (but what do I know? My forebears fled Russia — maybe it was because they found it too hard to read Cyrillic….?). 
So, we have no idea which flour it is: bread or cake, plain or self-raising. Tantalising but frustrating.

I happened to have all the types of flour I regularly use when we hit lockdown: plain white, self-raising, plain wholemeal, strong white, strong wholemeal, spelt, plus polenta. 

But I’m now running dangerously low so am marshalling my resources carefully. I make a lemon cake with polenta and ground almonds instead of flour. My son, reaching for a second slice, says, constructively, “But why would you make this instead of your lemon drizzle?” 

It seems I am not alone in becoming (even more) obsessed with baking during the lockdown. Never have there been so many texts, emails and WhatsApp picture-messages zipping through the ether sprinkling a little flour in their wake. 

I send my sister a picture of my poppy-seed rolls. She responds with one of her amaretti. She lives on the other side of London and when we meet for a sisters’ lunch (now I feel I should say “used to meet” but that makes it sound as if we have fallen out and she remains my favourite sister*), the first thing we do is swap things. She, like our dad, will pass over an envelope containing newspaper cuttings, often pretentious musings from lifestyle gurus. 

So, my sister gives me cuttings because she is brilliant at finding the exact article I should have read but somehow missed. And I hand over something baked because baking is my favourite form of work-avoidance — usually homemade bread, but sometimes a dark ginger cake or shortbread (pretty much the only baking my mother ever did was Scottish shortbread). Occasionally, Jewish hot-cross buns (plenty of mixed spice, plenty of raisins, no crosses).

My nephew, who shares my passion for cooking, sends me a picture of two enormous sourdough loaves, with one cut open. I comment that his crumb structure looks excellent (I watch the Bake Off with something akin to religious fervour — there’s nothing I don’t know about crumb structure; it’s not just because I eat a lot of toast).

Then my sister-in-law squared (that’s my brother-in-law’s sister-in-law) sends a picture of a sourdough loaf she has made. I have bread envy. It looks incredible — really crusty, well-baked, homely yet professional. 

For ages, I have been the person in the family who makes bread while my husband’s family excels at meringues and cakes. I haven’t even had to be particularly good at bread, just gaining kudos for being bothered to do it. But now, in lockdown, everyone is at it, and it’s clear that I’m going to have to seriously up my game. 

My usual bread is a variant of the famous Grant loaf, a delicious, simple wholemeal recipe. I’ve adapted it so my version currently includes a proportion of oatmeal (good flavour, plus reduces the quantity of flour, which is helpful at the moment) and sunflower seeds. It’s good, but also quite worthy. The top crust is very matt, and the whole thing is slightly brick-like — you could possibly knock someone out if you gave them a good clout with it. 

It’s the opposite of challah, with its lovely yielding texture, shiny crust and sinuous plaited form; if eating chollah is like being enfolded in a warm, soft hug, then eating my bread is being told to get your boots on and step out into the wind for a bracing hike. You know it’s good for you but sometimes you secretly feel you’d rather have another option.

I want to make sourdough but I don’t have a starter (sourdough is leavened with a homemade wild yeast starter rather than with bought yeast). My nephew’s starter is an hour’s drive away. Is going to fetch some starter an essential journey? I fear it isn’t. 

I’m wary of making my own from scratch because the initial process of several days involves feeding the starter every day with flour: what if it uses up all I have, then there’s none left for the actual bread? Also, you have to nurture it like a pet, feeding it every day, and, in my family, we have a very bad track record when it comes to keeping pets alive (eg my terrapin, accidentally killed by my eccentric step-mother, when she poured boiling water into its tank as it was looking ‘sluggish’. Tip: always pre-mix the boiling water with cold before adding — similar, in fact, to when making bread.)

Then a friend calls to ask if I could use some strong white bread flour? Her grown-up son has bought a wholesale 16kg sack to share with the family so she really doesn’t need it. It’s almost pathetic how excited I am. She delivers it to my doorstep and waves from the front gate. The flour fairy has been!

*favourite and only sister — obviously! 

@clairecalman