Confessions Of A Barmbrack Beginner
I have to confess, I was hesitant to try a recipe for barmbrack. It was like venturing out into the dark on Halloween, without knowing the footpath. I didn’t even know this mysterious fruitcake existed until a few weeks ago, although I immediately thought it was a fun word to say. So of course, it was my first time baking the traditional fruit bread that is served in Ireland on the ghoulish holiday. I had a lot of learning to do, but at this time of year everyone needs to be a little brave. You’re either fending off the undead or baking with frothing yeast and dough that doubles in size.
“Barmbrack is sometimes called bairín breac. This may be from the Irish word bairín - a loaf - and breac - speckled (due to the raisins in it). Therefore, it means ‘a speckled loaf.” You’re supposed to put items in the bread as part of a fortune-telling game, and the item you draw ( or…ummm…bite into) foretells your destiny. The objects and what they signify are as follows: “the pea, the person would not marry that year; the stick, would have an unhappy marriage or continually be in disputes; the cloth or rag, would have bad luck or be poor; the coin, would enjoy good fortune or be rich; the ring, would be wed within the year; and the bean, would have a future without money.”
Imagine how nervous you’d be, waiting for a slice. I didn’t put any such items in the cake this year. To be honest, I had all I could do getting the raisins, currants and chopped dried fruit peel to stick in the dough. I kneaded and kneaded and kneaded and worried and worried and worried - not only about how it would turn out, but also about keeping the raisins and currants away from my Maltese mix, Carlo, because they are poisonous to dogs. My mom held him while I was squeezing and twisting the dough and shoving the ingredients into and on the loaf while complaining and despairing to the universe. I would look up now and then and see his hurt little face, staring at me, wondering how I could let him down like this. He was supposed to be by my side. I stayed vigilant however and whenever a raisin fell to floor, I rushed to pick it up, like it was on fire.
In between trying to keep the “speckled loaf” speckled and my dog safe, I had to practice patience the two times that I had to wait for the dough to rise. Each time I waited three hours to be sure I waited long enough because I have rarely worked with yeast before. I wanted to be respectful. You don’t rush greatness. So it was a bit time-consuming. In addition, I couldn't find the place in the instructions where I was supposed to use the nutmeg, so I poured it over the top before I baked it. I had gone to the trouble of grating it and had even overwhelmed my mother with the scent while doing so. (She asked me to open the door for some fresh air.) Therefore, I didn’t want to waste my efforts.
After the baking was done, I let it sit for a day and a half. When the big moment came and I cut a piece for myself, a river of raisins overwhelmed the platter, (Carlo was nowhere near.) When I bit into it, my first thoughts were that the cake itself was a bit flavorless and oddly raw, considering the amount of preparation that had gone into it. It is still sitting on our kitchen counter a few days later and I have yet to get up the courage to partake again. My mother tried it when I was out of the room and hasn’t asked for a second piece, merely commenting that it, “has so much fruit.” We go about our day, saying nothing, but are both keenly aware of its presence. It is haunting us.
I have been asking myself what I could have done. I wonder if I should have used one of the recipes that calls for tea or whiskey. The liquid would have kept it from being so dry. In addition, a good swig or two would have calmed my nerves. Still, somehow even without those libations, my interpretation of barmbrack is like a wild witch’s brew that I conjured, using an ancient spell from the internet, only I’m “a wool of bat” off or a “boil and bubble” short. The dried fruit peel, currants, raisins and yeast will not mingle with each other. The raisins inundate the whole untamable thing. I have to be positive, though. Maybe it is an inedible tribute to the restless spirits that roam free on Halloween night, who, by the way, are welcome to a bite. Just please don’t bang the cabinets or slime me. I’m new at this.
This potholder wasn’t in the cake but I wonder if there’s any special meaning behind accidentally burning it. I forgot that the stove was hot because I had been boiling water for the glaze. I wondered where the smoke was coming from. It gave me what I will call a Halloween fright.