high-bar baking

I don’t even like kettlecorn. So I don’t know why I’m excited about the fact that the ciabatta loaves, fresh out of the oven, smell like kettlecorn. But I am, and they do. Kettlecorn and magic. Bread and sugar and caramelization and happiness. 

Thank goodness I had to run right out of the house as soon as they came out of the oven, because I find it nearly impossible to be in the same room as freshly baked loaves cooling agonizingly slowly. I do laps around the kitchen island. Or, I would, if my entryway wasn’t a mess of my work bag and dancing jacket etc. thrown on the floor. So I do half circles, and circle back. Poking it, smelling it, un-pausing my movie just to pause it again and check the loaves out one more time. All in all, best I stepped out. 

Then I get to come home to fresh bread. And no matter how meh the coffee-first-date is, there’s going to be bread at the end of it. Paper-thin crust crunchy enough at the corners that my mom asked me over the phone what the sound was. And the softest, softest, bendiest, squishiest, gluten-matrix-iest center in the world. You can only get that on the first day with this bread, I’ve found. I’ll freeze it and enjoy the hell out of it later, but resurrection by toasting crisps the top and bottom of the slice just enough to change its character. Still lovely. But only today will it be perfect. 

There’s a metaphor in there, I just know it. 

I made Lagerstrom’s ciabatta recipe here. And I have no notes. Ok, maybe try and get the chibbies close enough together on the baking steel that none of their edges overhang and get squished by the roasting pan. But if it happens (and it always seems to for me), it will all be ok. More crispy bits for the person in your life who always wants the crispy bits. I know you have one. 

It’s bread that’s more air than bread. To paraphrase Lou Holtz, if understand why that’s special, no explanation is necessary. If you don’t, no explanation will suffice. Treat yourself sometime. You don’t even need a sourdough starter.