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Baking a Traditional Farmhouse Fruit Loaf

Baking a Traditional Farmhouse Fruit Loaf

A Loaf Worth Waiting For

Every dales kitchen I have been welcomed into has had a tin of dried fruit near the back of the cupboard and a teapot that is rarely cold for long. A farmhouse fruit loaf is what happens when those two things meet, along with flour, a little spice and an orange. It is not a dainty cake. It is a substantial, tender, faintly spiced bread built to sit on a cooling rack while the kettle goes on, and it improves for a day or two under a cloth.

The method is old and forgiving: no creaming, no whisking to ribbons, no need to be exact about the size of your orange. What it does ask for is time — a night for the fruit to drink its tea, and an hour or two for the dough to rise in a warm spot away from the draught under the door.

The Night Before: Soaking the Fruit

Start with 450g of mixed dried fruit: sultanas, raisins, currants and a decent handful of chopped mixed peel. Tip it into a bowl with the finely grated zest of one orange and a tablespoon of black treacle, which gives the loaf its deep, almost toffee-dark colour. Pour over 300ml of strong hot tea — a good builder's brew, no milk, no sugar — and stir so every piece is wet. Add 25g of butter to the hot liquid and let it melt in.

Cover the bowl with a plate and leave it on the worktop overnight. By morning the fruit will be plump, glossy and heavy, and the liquid will have drawn out colour and tannin. There will be a little tea left in the bottom of the bowl. Do not tip it away; that is flavour, and the dough will take it.

Bringing the Dough Together

In a large bowl, mix 400g strong white bread flour with 100g wholemeal flour, 7g fast-action yeast, 1½ teaspoons of mixed spice and a good pinch of salt, keeping the salt and yeast apart until both are safely in the flour. Make a well and add the soaked fruit, the tea left in the bowl, one beaten egg and 2 tablespoons of milk.

Bring it together with a wooden spoon, then turn it out and knead for 8–10 minutes. It will be sticky at first and will make a mess of your hands; resist the urge to add much flour, because a soft dough gives a soft loaf. The fruit will tear through the surface as you work — push it back in and carry on. Knead until smooth, elastic and only lightly tacky, then return it to the bowl, cover, and leave to rise for about 1½ hours, or until doubled.

Shaping, Proving and Choosing Your Tin

Knock the dough back firmly with your knuckles, then shape it into a fat oval. For a sandwich-style loaf, use a 900g (2lb) loaf tin, greased and lined with a strip of baking parchment. For something more in keeping with a farmhouse table, shape a round cob and sit it on a floured baking tray — it will spread a little, but nobody has ever complained about that.

Cover loosely with a clean cloth and leave to prove for 45 minutes to an hour. It is ready when a light press with a fingertip springs back slowly and leaves a faint dent. If it springs back at once, give it another 15 minutes.

Into the Oven

Heat the oven to 200°C (180°C fan, Gas 6) while the loaf finishes proving, and brush the top with a little milk for a soft, burnished crust.

Bake for 20 minutes, then reduce the heat to 180°C (160°C fan, Gas 4) and give it another 20–25 minutes. With all that sugar in the fruit the top will try to catch, so lay a piece of foil loosely over it if it browns too quickly. The loaf is done when it sounds hollow when tapped on the base and a skewer pushed into the centre comes out clean.

Cooling, Cutting and Keeping

Cool it on a wire rack. This is the hardest part, because the kitchen will smell of warm spice and orange and everyone will find a reason to pass through. Cutting a fruit loaf hot is a mistake; the crumb is still setting, and it will crumble rather than slice.

Once cool, wrap it in greaseproof paper and then in a clean tea towel. It will be better on the second day than the first, and it will keep for three or four days in a tin. Slice it thickly, toast it lightly, and butter it while the butter still melts. A thin slice of Wensleydale alongside is not essential, but it is very good indeed.