I don’t know if you are a breadmaker. I thought I was. I used to make bread, I suppose. It was fine.

I put in flour and water and eggs and oil and bloomed yeast and salt and spices, and kneaded and mixed and formed and proofed and baked, and the finished product was OK. It was bread.

That’s the problem with bread, really. It touches a place in our shared biological vocabulary. It speaks to comfort and wholesomeness, and it reminds us of home, even if we came from a generation of TV dinners and gin.

But that recipe up there, that isn’t bread. Bread has four ingredients, and they are really enough. Flour, salt, water and yeast. Which is kind of like saying, cars are just steel, rubber and a computer thing. Sure, it’s true, but the way you slap them together makes all the difference in the world.

Today, I shall address what little I have learned about the world of the preferment.

Under my older method, I did a thing called “blooming” my yeast, even when it wasn’t strictly necessary. I would put the yeast in the water, often with a little sugar or flour, and let it come to life, bubbling and roiling, usually until it burned out and died. I used far too much yeast, and the product I produced was uneven, although edible.

If you take that concept of the “bloom” and simplify it, then take it out to its extreme, you get a preferment. This will often produce a substance called Poolish or biga. I am sure that there is a difference, but I am still unschooled in its nature.

Part one:

Combine one quarter teaspoon of active dry yeast with one pound of water. “Disburse” the yeast into the water. Add one pound of flour. Now, the hard part is done. You should wind up with something which could be mistaken for dough, but is not dough. It is, in fact, a bland, yellowish mixture that, if baked, will produce something kind of gross. Cover this sticky slurry with plastic wrap, and place in a cool, out-of-the-way corner.

Now, wait 12 to 16 hours.

You heard me. Let that sit, unrefrigerated, for 12 to 16 hours. Won’t it get nasty? A little, yeah, but it’s covered, and you didn’t put any fat in it, so it should be safe. You’ll know it’s ready, because it will bubble crazily, and rise into a dome. Once the dome falls, the preferment is too far gone. It’s still usable, but it will produce an odd, beery product. This isn’t always bad, but it’s not the best, either.

What does this do, this sort of souring of the dough? There are two really great effects to be had. It will produce flavors you don’t get with quicker breads. It approaches, but does not equal, the cool weirdness available from actually taking a pet sourdough starter and using it to make breads.

The time spent fermenting produces gluten. I was formerly of the opinion that gluten was formed only when bread was whumped sharply by hand or mixer, that it was entirely the product of violent action. I feel that this misconception is relatively common among young breadmakers. It is not so. Time and yeast will produce, frankly, more gluten than you can use. At the end of the fermentation process, the flour-water slurry will have taken on the consistence of old clothes or spiderwebs. It will send tendrils up when you raise the plastic wrap from the bowl. It will be very much pre-bread. It will still taste like paste, because you haven’t added any salt yet.

That can be easily remedied.

Part two:

One more pound of flour, about a tablespoon and a half of yeast, half an ounce of salt and another 7 ounces of water later, and you’re ready to mix and add your poolish. I find that this is a good chance to pull the stuff apart and really play with it a little, but I am fascinated with that kind of thing. Either way, incorporate your previous stuff with your current stuff. This is a good moment to take note: If, when you remove your poolish from its bowl, you are greeted with the distinct smell of beer, you left it a little longer. If you are confronted with library paste, you either didn’t leave it long enough, or maybe let it get too cold and should have let it grow a little longer. It’s an art, more than a science, but you want to get the stuff to the point that it will be tasty and stringy, but not too tasty or stringy.

The nice thing about this, though, is that your final dough will cover a surprising amount of beery flavor, so don’t panic too hard. You’ll be cooking this. Unless it’s started to grow Things Not Like Bread, you’re probably OK. Remember: if it is green, it is not edible. I’m sorry that doesn’t rhyme, but it is a good thing to remember. Also, if it’s white and fuzzy, it’s gross. And scuzzy? Is that better? Either way, you’ll probably notice if your preferment has gone too long.

Now, you’ve got a slightly sticky mess. Cover this bowl with plastic again, and put it in a cool place for, yes, another six hours. Four to six, I suppose. Deflate it at about one and at about three hours.

Deflate? You mean punch down, right?

No. Punching down isn’t quite right. Fold the dough. Get out the biggest of the bubbles, but don’t punch. Remove the dough to a floured surface and fold gently. This will have two potential effects. It will remove the bubbles, and it will generate a little bit of layering to the dough. No, that layering might not last once you shape the dough, but it can’t hurt, at least in my piddly little experience.

At the end of this latest, or “bench” ferment, take the dough out of the bowl. It will be glutenous and kind of sticky, and, depending on the product you desire at project’s end, you can work it as much or as little as you like. If you beat the hell out of it, you will end up with some bready rocks. If you just split off three little or two loafish chunks, and form them, you’ll get a more delicate product that will stand up to less abuse after baking. If you’re making bread for peanut-butter, go ahead and work it a little. If you’re making bread for consumption out of hand, or to just lay a slice of cheese over, you don’t really have to work it much. Dig?

Either way, after working or not, take your dough apart into two or three equal parts. I don’t like to shape, precisely, but rather to pull the outside to the bottom, sort of like making a reverse clay bowl. Pull gently and fold the pulled dough under. You should get a smooth result , with a sort of rounded bump on the bottom. Smooth this out a little, and place on either an oiled pan or a non-stick mat (or one of them fancy Baker’s Couche things, if you have one). Allow the bread to relax and rise for about another hour.

Then, into a 375 degree oven it goes (again, unless you’ve got a Couche/board arrangement, in which case, do whatever fancy thing you gotta do, there). It has been my experience that it should take about half an hour to cook through and to develop a pretty substantial crust.

Now, to steam or not to steam.

OK, not now. Now the bread’s done. This is one to think about while the oven’s preheating. Steaming produces a very different crust than failing to do so. Both are good. If you want to try it, put a pan of water on the bottom shelf, and then, just before putting in the bread, toss some water on the bottom shelf. It will make a big, dangerous steam cloud, and probably warp the bottom of your oven, unless you’ve got special equipment. This alone is the reason I don’t steam my oven. This, and the possibility that it will put out my oven flame and fill my house with deadly gas. The decision’s yours. Is the possibility that you might die worth a really outstanding crust? I say no. I say, bread is good. It’s your call.

Is there a safe alternative? Sure. Put a jelly roll sheet pan on the bottom shelf, and let it preheat with your oven. Throw the water on that, and it will steam up just fine. I mean, if you want to go that route, that’s fine. It’s not really for me, but it’s fine.

The point is, now you have some bread. You will notice two immediate improvements over not making bread that takes a whole 24 hours. First, the texture is awesome. It is markedly improved, and much more pleasing than its younger cousin. Second, the flavor is different. Is it better? I say so, but I’m also a fan of the Substance Known as Sourdough. This is an easy way to suggest it without all that pesky work, and is the only way I personally know to produce Ciabatta, but not with this recipe. That’s another time, and another set of ratios.