Holy Grain | Seed Sovereignty | Rye and Root Raised Pie #12

Diary of a Free Ranged Chef

Hi,

It’s a chilly October morning here beside the sea. Not cold enough to stir my tight fisted heart to put the heating on, but enough to warrant making a hot bowl of porridge, bubbling on the hob whilst I wait for sunrise. The smell of hot oats always sends me crashing back into memories of my childhood, and the immense, creamy, rich porridge my mum used to make. My eyes wander to the bookshelf, where the decorative lettering of a book I love glints in the darkness. Oats from the North, Wheat in the South (by Regula Ysewijn). My family is originally from Middlesbrough, which if you aren’t from the UK, is a confusing name. Not only is it located in the northeast of England, just south of Newcastle, so definitely not in the middle, but to most non-Brits, ‘brough’ is also a baffling word to pronounce. T’up north, porridge, and oats, are within our very blood.

But, I grew up in Shropshire, and have now lived in Wales for the majority of my adult life. Doing so has introduced me to many ancient, fascinating grains, highly adapted to the different regions and counties of the land. So, as a teaspoon of Welsh apple blossom honey pools in the valleys of my morning breakfast, I thought I’d share some updates from the farm on a fascinating and ancient oat that we’ve been growing this year, as well as a conversation with Anne Parry, a miller from the Felin Ganol watermill here in Wales, who does a huge amount of work supporting farmers who are willing to grow endangered varieties of wheat, rye, and oats. And, because a newsletter isn’t complete without a recipe of some kind, an autumn vegetable pie, with hand raised shortcrust pastry and an open top.

Topics:

Cook’s Almanac - Oats
A Conversation with a Watermiller
A Recipe for Hand Raised Vegetable Pie

---

Llyr harvesting Dyfed Black oats

Cooker’s Almanac - Oats
Spring and Winter

Earlier in the year, for the second year in a row, we dedicated one of the terraces at the farm to growing a rare, landrace variety of oat called the Dyfed Black (Du-ved) in order to boost seed stock and, along with other farms here in Wales, the Llafur Ni group (meaning ‘Our Grain’ in Welsh), offer protection to this once prized crop.

The Dyfed Black oat is a landrace variety, meaning it is a traditional, locally adapted grain that was developed naturally over time in a specific region. Through a combination of natural selection and farmer-led cultivation (which usually consisted of a farmer noticing an anomaly amongst a crop and selecting it out for certain desirable characteristics), landrace varieties slowly became distinct from one another and highly adapted. Unlike modern hybrid or genetically modified crops, landrace grains have not been subjected to intensive breeding for uniformity or specific commercial traits. Instead, they are more genetically diverse and often well-suited to the climate, soil, and environmental conditions of their region.

A young, green landrace oat

These grains exhibit a wide range of traits, including difference in size, colour, shape, and growth habits, which helps them adapt to local environmental stresses such as drought, disease, and pests, as any one pressure won’t exploit a universal weakness. Unlike a lot of modern crops, which are designed for volume and processing ease, landraces come from a time when distinct flavour and higher nutritional content were prized over uniformity. This not only makes them taste incredible, but offers healthier food in every mouthful. 

There is also something to be said for their cultural and historical significance. Whilst some may dismiss it as overly sentimental, the ability to experience the flavour, recipes, and crops of those who came before is a deep connection to who we are and the cuisine, traditions, and agricultural practices of the regions where they are grown. From durum wheat landraces in the Mediterranean, to einkorn in the Middle East, maize in Central and South America, and Dyfed Black oats and Hen Gymro wheat in Wales. 

It is my personal belief that if a people belong to a culture that celebrates a food, they will protect the environment and ecosystems that makes it possible. As chef Dan Barber wrote in his book, The Third Plate, a love for jamón ibérico has led countless generations in Spain to preserve and care for the Dehesa, the rare and significant ecosystem that makes it possible. However, the risk of such crops being lost is real, largely due to the dominance of industrial agriculture and the spread of modern, uniform seed varieties that rely on chemical fertilisers and pesticides.

Harvesting, bundling, and curing some of the oats

Last year we attempted our first year growing a small patch of Dyfed Black to see if they were suited to the land here at the farm. They grew well, but a flock of hungry critters destroyed them overnight the day before harvest. Tis the way of such things. I only hope whatever ate them appreciated their superior flavour. This year we changed location and planted a larger patch over one of the terraces in a far corner of the field. Once again, to no surprise, they grew incredibly well, despite a tough season, but this time we managed to harvest them before anything else had the same idea. 

We hung the tall golden oats upside down in the greenhouse to cure over two weeks, with a few trays beneath to catch any enthusiastic volunteers, then threshed them by hand into tubs to keep for milling. The oats themselves are dark reddy black and streamlined, with a tough hull that requires a specially made piece of equipment called the Tiny Oat Collider (for which, the instructions are an open source project you can view here). Of course, we had to taste a few straight from the plant. So I pinched the hull away and popped a few, unrolled, raw, oats in my mouth. Even in a raw state, they were packed with creaminess and flavour, that turned gradually into sweetness with every springy chew. The comparison to regular oats was as stark as night and day, and not only because of their dark, reddy colour.

Dyfed Black oats with hull

Once we have a batch dehulled and processed, I’ll share more on cooking trials and taste comparisons should you find it of interest. In previous years, the Llafur Ni group have made tasters of various biscuits and dishes for blind taste testing, and so far, the Dyfed Black has come out on top every time. Last year, in fact, was the first time enough were grown to invite the farmers themselves too, giving them a taste of the oat they’ve worked so hard to bring back.

---

A Conversation with a Miller

Anne Parry, holding Hen Gymro wheat

Anne Parry is a bit of a reluctant hero around these parts. A few years ago, Huw and I had the opportunity to meet her at her watermill called Felin Ganol, and saw the ancient, only one of two commercial working water powered cornmills in West Wales. Located near the ford in Llanrhystud, it first appeared on the 1841 tithe map and was associated with the Moelifor estate which dates back to prior the 16th century.

I first knew of Anne back when I worked at a local bakery that baked with her flour, specifically the dark rye flour that we used to make our sourdough rye loaves. Unlike other flours, Anne’s is ground with the germ intact, the small, living part of the kernel that is the seed embryo. This part of the grain is where the vast majority of the nutrients and flavour are stored, transforming the aroma, taste, and nutritional value of the subsequent flour into something nutty, sweet, and unrecognisable compared to its industrial counterpart. Because the germ is full of essential oils (up to 14%), it also shortens the shelf life of flour if left at room temperature, turning rancid in a matter of 6 months. So, almost all flour these days has it removed, turning flour from a nutritious, delicious ingredient, into a dead one.

Water flowing over the wheel

To emphasise the difference between these flours, I’d like to briefly share with you something that took place at a baking event a good friend of mine, Andrew Neagle, ex-owner and head baker of Anuna Craft Bakery shared with me some years ago. He was invited to a bread convention as one of many artisan bakers, demonstrating the qualities of landrace flours in baking, alongside bakers from Europe and the US. The convention was using British varieties, which are more nuanced and prone to variations harvest to harvest. He described the growing frustration amongst the bakers as loaf after loaf failed, collapsing into a biscuity puddle despite all their best efforts. Andy, who’s bakery specialised in such flours, along with some of the Northern European bakers, were the only people who managed to produce anything resembling a loaf of bread. We are so used to the uniform, repeatable, but comparatively bland flours of today, that even some of the best of our artisan professionals are rendered beginners when faced with a living, landrace flour. This isn’t to scoff or poke fun at their failure, but to draw attention to just how different these crops are and the attention and skills required to work with them, which are more akin to wine makers, who pay close attention to vintage. 

When we met Anne, she showed us around the watermill, sharing the repairs they were constantly making, the adaptations to the building over the centuries, the stream that powered it all, and the various ingenious ways flour was produced. There were even pigsties neighbouring the mill, where the waste would have been sent to feed the animals for food in the winter months. Up in the rafters, there was a double roof, where a newer construction a century ago had covered the old original, leaving just the ghostly rafters like a ribcage over the creaking machinery. Each of these carved with a witch mark, ancient apotropaic markings to turn away demons, witches, and evil. It is a place of sanctuary, of sustenance, that now provides local farmers in the area with a real opportunity to grow more suitable crops for the land, as customers are willing to pay more and support the mill and its network of suppliers.

The original roof beneath the century old extension

From a foodie’s perspective, flour from Felin Ganol (pronounced Ve-lin Ga-nol) offers a seasonal, living ingredient with a huge range of flavour. From a producer’s perspective, they are able to grow crops, often landrace varieties, that don’t require the additional cost of fertiliser, pesticides, and fungicides, that are suited to the soils and form an active part of the ecosystem. Often, nobody owns the seeds either, which can be collected and planted for future harvests (unlike modern varieties where laws tie the hands of farmers under copyright). However, these flours also require more of us in the kitchen. Much in the same way you cannot swap a plain flour and a bread flour and expect the same results, these ancient flours produce vastly different qualities that are reflected in the heritage and culture of the regional cuisines they belong to. Have you ever wondered why traditional breads, cakes, and treats in Northern European countries are more dense, set, and high fat? And the further south you go, the more you tend to find the classic, pillowy white breads, cakes, and pastries? It comes down to, amongst other things, gluten, which only varieties adapted to high levels of sunlight can effectively produce in high enough quantities. When a trend for such cuisines spread into areas who’s crops don’t produce such food, they fall in popularity and such areas start shipping from abroad what they were originally self-sufficient in. Or worse, farmers resort to extreme methods to force unsuitable crops to grow on their land, often at the expense of the local ecosystem.

Anne, below ground, collecting freshly milled Hen Gymro flour

A bowl of nutty, aromatic, living flour, fully milled with the germ intact

Through Anne’s work, she has proven that there is a real demand for the restoration of such crops, and a thriving market to support it. Whilst she will be the first to tell you that milling isn’t a lucrative business, I can’t help but wonder if this is because she pays her farmers considerably more than others, reinvesting in the land and future of food. Though that could easily be changed if even a fraction of the subsidies afforded to air travel (for example) were allocated to sustainable food production. But that’s getting dangerously close to politics, a subject I stay well away from. 

---

Rye and Miso Vegetable Pie

A treat to keep you warm during a cold day in the garden. This pie is my mum’s classic, crumbly, shortcrust pastry, with the addition of rolled oats. Filled with root vegetables, pea, bay, and sage, it’s a great way to make a supper that’ll last for lunch the following day.

Serves 2-3
Vegetarian

Ingredients:
Pastry:

150g plain flour (wholemeal or white)*
1tbsp rolled oats
80g unsalted butter
2tbsp whole milk
A pinch of salt

* I used Hen Gymro, which closely matches plain flour in gluten content.

Filling:

1 carrot
¼ celeriac (use 1 large potato if you don’t like celeriac)
1 parsnip
1 small pumpkin
1 small onion
2 garlic cloves
50g yellow split peas
20g rye flakes
2tbsp tomato puree
2 bay leaves
3-4 sage leaves
50ml white wine
A splash of olive oil
1tbsp red miso
1tbsp Worcestershire sauce
Salt and pepper to taste

Extra milk or egg yolk to glaze the pastry

You can also add a couple of fresh tomatoes from the garden if you have any left, green tomatoes work well too.

1. Combine the fridge-cold butter and flour by rubbing them in a mixing bowl between your thumb and fingers until they form a crumb texture. Add a pinch of salt and the rolled oats, mix loosely, then bring the pastry together with a splash of whole milk. By substituting what would normally be water with milk, we include additional fat and make an even shorter, more crumbly pastry. However, cream is too claggy.

2. Once made, without overkneeding, place the pastry in a bowl, cover it with a plate, then place it in a fridge to rest for at least an hour.

3. In the meantime, roughly dice the vegetables, crush the garlic, and slice the onion. Pop a large saucepan on the stove over a medium heat and saute the onion and carrot in the olive oil (or any cooking oil / butter you’d like). Do this, stirring every now and then, for 10 minutes until the sweet juices are released.

4. Add the white wine and let it reduce for a minute, scraping any stickiness from the base of the pan, then top it up with the remaining ingredients. Add enough water to be visible amongst the vegetables, then cover with a lid and simmer for 40 minutes (stirring occasionally). After 25 minutes, remove the lid and let the liquid reduce.

5. Test to make sure the split peas are cooked to your liking, then remove the pan from the heat and let it cool for 30 minutes before assembling the pie.

6. Preheat the oven to 200°C (392°F).

7. Roll out the pastry in a 5mm thick circle and place it on a lined baking tray. Spoon the filling into the middle, then fold the edges up and cover, crimping them as you go. By the time you get all the way round, there will likely be a small opening in the middle, exposing some of the vegetables. This is fine, and in fact allows some of the vegetables to crisp up nicely.

8. Brush the pastry with milk, or mix an egg yolk with 20ml of cold water and brush this on, then place the whole lot in the oven for 30 minutes until golden brown.

9. Serve right away, with a side of steamed broccoli, kale, and cabbage, finished with a healthy glug of gravy.

Note, if you can’t quite fit all the vegetables into the pie and happen to have leftover liquid, save this for a soup the following day.

---

If you’d like to read more about the various projects mentioned in this newsletter, click the links below.

Llafur Ni - Seed Sovereignty

Felin Ganol Watermill

Search for the Holy Grain

And, if you’ve enjoyed this little journey into the world of landrace grain, baking, and sustainable food production, please consider subscribing. Be that as a paid member or free, your support makes what I do possible and I couldn’t be more grateful.

I hope you have a wonderful week,
Sam