Mamó's Brown Bread

If you've ever stepped into my mother's kitchen, you already know. There's a smell that hits you before you even get through the door, warm, and unmistakably homemade. Brown bread, usually. Sometimes scones. Always something.

Growing up, I took it completely for granted. It was only when I started visiting friends' houses and finding shop-bought bread in neat plastic packaging that I realised not everyone had this. Their bread wasn't homemade. It just wasn't this.

My mother's brown bread was the thing I missed most whenever I was away. Crusty on the outside, soft and dense in the middle, with a heel that was almost impossible to resist straight from the oven. She'd insist on letting it cool before slicing and I'd insist on sneaking a piece of the crust the moment her back was turned, pressing butter into it and watching it melt. 

The love for her bread spread well beyond our kitchen. In secondary school, I somehow became the unofficial supplier to a classmate who simply couldn't get enough of it. I'd arrive with my extra slices and feel like I was delivering something precious. I suppose I was.

Here's the thing about this recipe though there isn't really one. Not a precise one, anyway. My mother's brown bread comes from my grandmother, passed down through aunts and cousins, each adding their own touch along the way. The measurements are handfuls and fistfuls, a pinch of this, enough of that. My cousin has a theory that as the women in our family aged, their bread changed with them their hands, their instincts, their feel for the dough all shifting imperceptibly over time. I think she's right.

Mam has shared her method with my sisters and cousins, and they've all made it their own. In my humble opinion though, hers is still the best.

Here's as close to a recipe as it gets and don't be afraid of the imprecision. That's the whole point.

Mammy's Irish Brown Bread

The measurements here are gloriously approximate — trust your hands

2 handfuls of plain flour 1 handful of wholemeal flour 1 tsp bread soda Buttermilk — enough to bring it together into a wet, shaggy dough

Preheat your oven to 220°C and put your baking tray in to heat at the same time — a hot tray gives the base a lovely crust.

Sieve the flours together, then sieve in the bread soda. Add the buttermilk gradually, mixing until you have a wet but workable dough — wetter than you think it needs to be.

Turn it out, shape it into a round, and press it down gently — you want it nice and thick, not flat. Score a cross on top to bless the bread (and to help it bake through).

Bake for about an hour, until the crust is deep and golden and it sounds hollow when you tap the bottom.

Cool before slicing. Or don't. I never could.