Professor Butter Beard and Rembrandt’s “The Mill”
“Without atmosphere, a painting is nothing.” - Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn
How do you teach Rembrandt in a fifteen-minute block? I could teach an entire course on the “Master of Tenebroso,” pontificating the wonders of his brushstrokes, the depth of his textures and color palette, and the soul that never released its pride. But, this semester, I am introducing the genius to a group of young students, intoxicated with spring fever and daydreams, and wondering exactly how much sunlight will be left when I release them back into their realms.
My father was one of my own favorite teachers. And yes, our town was small enough that I was a student in two of my father’s high school history courses. One of the lessons I learned, through his example, was the best way to teach is to tell a story. So I will move that lesson forward and tell you a couple.
Rembrandt painted one of his most famous oil landscapes, “The Mill,” in 1645. Beside a broad shimmering moat, high above the circular cliff of a ruined bastion, stands a windmill surrounded by low cottages. The aged stone path from the mill leads over a little bridge, across a gurgling stream, to a landing-post in the foreground. A mother and child travel down the warn path towards the water as a townsman pushes a wheelbarrow upwards. A solitary woman leans at the water's edge washing linen as a mysterious man casually watches her from behind. The ferry-boat, mast down, approaches rowed by a weary sailor. On the farther bank, amid dense groves of trees, are well-fed cows, and beyond them a humble cottage. The last rays of evening light illuminate the right half of the sky and envelop the mill in a radiant glow as the evening darkness weaves through the clouds.
The artist’s family knew the mills. At some point in the Middle Ages, the Leiden windmills had been moved out beyond the city walls into the surrounding meadows. They were sited facing west, where their sails might catch the strongest winds, and beside canals and bridges where the boatsmen dropped off their loads of grain or picked up sacks of flour for the return trip to the city. One of those windmills belonged to a certain Roelof Gerritzsoon, whose father had been a miller before him, and whose great-grandson was to be Rembrandt van Rijn. These millers somehow always seemed find a means to survive the lean years, whether, they ground flour for bread or, like Rembrandt’s father, barley malt for beer.
In Holland, as throughout Europe, millers in the 15th and 16th centuries were the constant butt of jesting abuse, much of it being based on their reputation as cheats, extortionists, and adulterers, leaning on the scales and helping themselves to women. “He could grind without wind, without wind in his mill. He could grind double quick with his girlie,” sang the Antwerp Song Book of 1544. It is written that when the millers had enough of all these bawdy slanders, they could console themselves by praying for vindication to their patron saint, St. Victor, who had been martyred by drowning, a millstone tied about his neck.
This was the family heritage that flowed through the master’s veins as he lifted his brush to paint “The Mill.” The painting was so well admired that it actually appears in Alfred Edward Cahlon’s “Students at the British Institution,” drawn in ink in 1806, depicting a collection of amateur and professional artists copying old-master paintings that had been borrowed for the purpose. We know that James Ward, Samuel William Reynolds, Nicholas Pocock and even John Constable have studied Rembrandt’s mill and have produced copies of their own. Constable, for example, delivered a series of lectures on “The History of Landscape Painting” at the Royal Institution, where he praised “The Mill,” stating that it “is the first picture in which a sentiment has been expressed by chiaroscuro only.”
For me, “The Mill” fully captures layer upon layer of internal history, atmosphere and passion. This week, I captured that layering within a new recipe I have humbly named “Rembrandt Rye.” I start with freshly milled organic dark rye flour. I mix it with organic bread flour, fresh stream water and some of my ten-year-old sourdough starter and then build atmosphere with toasted black cumin seeds, freshly ground cocoa nibs, local honey and the zest of winter clementines. Rembrandt famously stated that “a painting is not made to be sniffed,” but maybe, just maybe, the aroma of this freshly baked loaf may just change his mind.
Rembrandt Rye
Makes two loaves
3 Tbsp cumin seeds, toasted (I use organic dark cumin seeds)
5 cups bread flour
1 ½ cups dark rye flour (I use Bob’s Red Mill)
1 Tbsp kosher salt
4 tsp active dry yeast
2 Tbsp cocoa nibs, ground in a spice grinder to coarse powder
Zest of one clementine
3 cups warm water
½ cup of your sourdough starter (or use 3 ½ cups total warm water)
2 Tbsp of your best honey
2 Tbsp oil for the rising bowl
1) Toast the cumin seeds in a non-stick skillet until they just begin to pop – set aside to cool slightly.
2) In a large measuring bowl, whisk three cups warm water with the ½ cup of your sourdough starter and then whisk in the honey.
3) In a standing mixer, using the paddle, mix together (on low) the two flours, the yeast, ground cocoa nibs, orange zest and the salt. Change to the dough hook and slowly pour in the liquid mixture. Let the mixer do its work for about 8-10 minutes. You will be tempted to add more flour – don’t.
4) Scrape the dough into an oiled (2 Tbsp oil) large bowl. Turn the dough so the entire surface is glistening with the oil. Cover with plastic wrap and let sit for about 45-60 minutes until the dough is doubled in size.
5) Punch down the dough. Cover again with plastic wrap and let rise until doubled again. This should take another 45 minutes.
6) Preheat your oven to 410 degrees.
7) Lightly oil two bread pans.
8) Punch down the dough and divide in half. Gently press each portion into a 7x12” rectangle and roll (using the short side at the top) into a loaf and then pinch the seams. Place each, seam side down, in the prepared pans. Dust the tops lightly with flour and cover with a clean kitchen towel until double again (about 30 minutes).
9) Remove the kitchen towel and slash the top about ¼” deep with a serrated knife. Place them in the oven and bake for 40 minutes. Remove from the oven, tip the loaves out of the pan and return the loaves to the oven for an additional five minutes.
10) Cool the loaves completely on wire racks.
HINT – When I place the loaves in the oven, I use the middle rack for the breads. On the lower rack, I place an 8” round cake pan filled with 5-6 ice cubes to keep the oven humid during the bake.
