#8 A Woman's Briefs -- CIABATTA BREAD

It won’t take long, the telling of this story, nothing like the time it takes to make Ciabatta bread. 

All I needed to do was carefully follow the instructions of Peter Reinhart, “The Bread Baker’s Apprentice,” page 142ff, refresh my decades old poolish, get the scale, gather ingredients, review the video on “stretch & fold,” and give it two days.

In the case of Reinhart’s recipe, there are options. I chose to “opt.” I included a bit of Olive oil and some buttermilk. 

Some decades ago (some iterations of my life ago), I was in Switzerland for a matter of weeks, studying under the tutelage of Dr. Francis Schaeffer; a work-study program. My work was to assist in the kitchen of Edith Schaffer, the wife, and the Yin to Dr. Schaffer’s Yang; hostess par excellence. 

I walked into her Villars-sur-Ollon chalet early morning, and as we did kitchen work, she told this story.

“My helper yesterday was a college student from the mid-west—nothing wrong with the Midwest, we are Midwesterners ourselves—but she was tasked to make my sponge-cake for dinner. She was about to pour the batter into the pans when I walked in.

“Stop!” Edith had cried. “You should have seen it!” she said to me, “A thick, heavy mess. Not at all my sponge-cake batter. Stop!”

With a flourish, Edith told me about reviewing the recipe with the helper: Flour, yes; eggs, yes; baking powder, salt, water – yes, yes, yes; 

“Sugar?”

“Sugar?” No.

“NO?”

“I’ll add it,” said the student.

“Too late,” said the Edith, who, being off the charts creative, began opting.

“Flour, eggs, salt, water; flour, eggs, salt, water. NOODLES!” said Edith, repeating, repeating.

“Egg noodles!”

That night, dinner guests engaged in conversation about whether ever, or whenever, they last had homemade egg noodles. They marveled, and made sure Edith knew how they appreciated the effort of such a consuming but satisfying endeavor. I have no idea what they had for dessert, but I long remember the sponge-cake lesson.

At some point in the process of my last Saturday-Sunday ciabatta bread-making, I could have benefitted from a visit in my kitchen by engineer-turned-baker, Maurizio (The Perfect Loaf). I’m pretty sure it is the ‘stretch & fold’ step that needs correction.

“It’s really good, Barb,” said husband who waited nearly long enough for the bread to cool before cutting into it. 

“It’s Not Ciabatta! It didn’t Work” came my cry. “Look,” said I, inspecting the interior. Ordinary. No lift. No massive holes. It was nearly worse than Sunday’s Seahawks failed defense. Defeat.

But – “It is good,” said he who worked on his second slice. Flavorful. The crust crisp. The interior soft, moist. It toasted up terrifically. 

“It tastes different from the last ciabatta you made,” he observed.

“Yeah. I used buttermilk.”

“It’s perfect – if you think of it as Sourdough Buttermilk Bread,” said he.

It’s always perspective. That Buttermilk Bread is delicious.