experiments in cooking

Posts tagged ‘homemade ciabatta’

Ciabatta for Thanksgiving

The week before Thanksgiving, I froze a dozen homemade rolls and an apple pandowdy, planning to take them to Missouri to share with my family for the big holiday dinner. I happily anticipated my sisters and my brother-in-law and my mom and dad admiring my delicious, homemade food.

Then, the day before Thanksgiving, an hour outside of Lincoln on our way to Missouri, I realized I had left all of my homemade food at home in the freezer.

No matter how carefully I plan, I always leave something behind. Last time, it was my toothbrush. This time: rolls and dessert. It was heartbreaking. Don’t laugh—it was.

I had my heart set on serving homemade rolls to my family. And I have trouble letting go of things I’ve set my heart on doing. But, there were two bright spots: I had remembered to bring some cookies I’d made a few days before, and I’d also brought along the binder where I keep recipes from friends and the internet.

“You could make something while we’re down there,” Chris suggested.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” I said, feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t feel like I could make anything to take the place of the food I’d left behind.

I got even grumpier when our battery died when we arrived at my grandparents’ house for a lunch stop on the way to my sister’s house. We got the car started after letting it sit while we ate lunch, but I was in gloomy spirits.

“Boy, this is some trip!” I complained. “First I forget my food, and then our battery dies!”

Chris got that look he gets on his face when I go a little crazy—the look that says, “My wife is crazy.”

“What’re you looking at?” I said. As if I didn’t know.

We made it to my sister’s house okay, where my brother-in-law could help us change the battery. That should have cheered me up—the fact that my brother-in-law was around to fix the car, when, had we been anywhere else, Chris and I would have been up a creek. It wouldn’t have been much fun finding a mechanic the night before Thanksgiving. But I kept feeling grumpy, because, like I said, I have trouble letting go.

We ate a big family Thanksgiving meal that night, since our other sister wouldn’t be able to join us on Thursday. We had a good time. We ate good food, which my sister and mother had worked on through the whole day. The meal included a 24-pound turkey that my sister had to bake at her neighbor’s house because it wouldn’t fit in her oven. A turkey like that should get any fan of the traditional Thanksgiving meal excited. But, I’m ashamed to admit, I still felt pretty sad. I mean, my niece and nephew had made a little buffet card that read “apple dessert” for the pandowdy that never came and was sitting at home in my freezer. I felt sorry for the poor little buffet card that didn’t get to do its job while all the other buffet cards stood proudly in front of overflowing, fragrant Thankgiving dishes.

And when I had to drive us 100 miles to my parents’ house from my sister’s house that night, through a thunderstorm that had little Neeley screaming in fear and me praying for survival and using the lightning to see by, on two-lane historic Route 66 across southwest Missouri, I was really out of sorts. It even irked me that the radio station we found to follow the tornado warnings was a country station, and I wasn’t in the mood for country music.

“And on top of everything, it’s country!” I exploded.

Chris probably gave me The Look again at this point, but I didn’t see it because there wasn’t any lightning to see by.

We did make it to my parents’ house, although I think was a close call. I’m pretty sure we hydroplaned at least once, and maybe I should have pulled over in decrepit, historic Halltown, Mo., when we heard the tornado sirens, but the deserted look of the place freaked me out—especially the massive ruined barn I looked up at when I pulled off the road once to seek shelter—so I kept driving.

When we finally arrived, I sat a couple of hours on Mom and Dad’s couch, not saying much, staring into space and trying to calm down. It wasn’t easy. I’m not exactly the calm type.

On Thursday, I was exhausted. The events of Wednesday had shaken me up a bit. But then my mother announced we would have turkey sandwiches for supper. A couple of years back Chris suggested my dad try a turkey sandwich with stuffing and gravy on the sandwich, and my parents think it’s a lot of fun to make those sandwiches.

“Can someone go to the store and buy some sandwich rolls?’” Mom asked.

Suddenly I started feeling less sorry for myself.

“I can make some ciabatta!” I said.

“Is that one of your new favorite recipes?” Mom asked.

“Never made ’em before,” I said, “But I’ve eaten them, and I have my friend’s recipe with me.”

Mom gave me the okay. I appreciate the woman’s faith in me. Anyway, here I was, once again making a new recipe for guests, but I felt confident I could do it. My holiday mood came surging back. I spent the next couple of hours happily mixing and kneading dough, letting it rise, forming rolls, and baking. I also cooked up a batch of cranberry compote to spread on the sandwiches.

When, in mid-afternoon, I pulled a baking sheet with five golden-brown ciabatta loaves out of Mom’s oven, I felt pretty good. I felt even better when people actually ate the rolls, and when my dad asked for a second helping of the cranberry compote.

Yeah, I felt good—and thankful. My grumpiness had been smothering some feelings of gratitude that I wasn’t going to bury any longer.

I was thankful I’d thought to bring some recipes along, thankful my mom trusted my ability to make bread, thankful we’d made it through the storm, thankful my battery died while we were visiting my mechanically inclined brother-in-law.

And thankful that when I got home, I’d have homemade rolls and an apple pandowdy to thaw and enjoy during the Christmas holiday season.

Ciabatta (from Iris Goodding’s French bread recipe)

1 package yeast (equal to 2 ¼ tsp yeast)
1 tbsp sugar
1 cup warm water (baby bath water warm — if your kitchen is a little
colder your water can be a little warmer)
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp olive oil
2 ½ cups to 3 cups flour

Place yeast in a bowl. Cover with the sugar. Add the water. Stir and let sit for 5-10 minutes to dissolve (it should look frothy by the end of the time). Stir in salt, oil and 2 cups of the flour. Stir with a spoon until fairly smooth. Add enough remaining flour to form a soft dough. Knead for 3-5 minutes (avoid over-kneading). Let rise in greased (or oiled), covered bowl for 1 to 2 hours. Divide 4–5 parts lumps of dough about the size of your fist. Take each fist-size lump of dough and pat it back and forth between your hands until it is uniformly round and smooth. Grease a baking sheet and place the balls onto the sheet. Press the ball down so that it is fairly flat while still round (1 to 2 inches think). Let dough rise for another hour while covered.

To bake: Preheat oven to 375F. Bake for 17-25 minutes. (Sometimes they cook fast and sometimes slow.) They should have a nice golden brown glow to them when they are done.

Cool loaves on a rack. When loaves are cool, slice each loaf in half and then slice again for use as a sandwich bread.

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