It’s 8:13 AM. On the street
below a man is hosing down the entryway to a shrine for Saint
Agrippina, garnished with over forty red roses. There has been an Italian
feast here in Boston’s North End, waging a war of sweets, meats, and
muddied acoustics outside my window for days.
The best way to describe it is to
call to mind a state fair; the Great New York State Fair is my reference
point. Except picture more teeth and truncated consonants and swap out
the secular wine slushies and spiedies for tents filled with blessed
arancini balls and cannoli shells.
The smell of things fried in oil
wafting up to a bedroom window may sound charming. It can be. The
sound of when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie while
cooking dinner may sound romantic. It can be.
The resonance of a cover of Donna
Summer’s “Last Dance” at 10:15 PM when you are trying to sleep is neither
charming, nor romantic. Especially when it is not—in fact—the last dance
of the evening. Under the auspices of broken promises, the age of disco
continues to rage for another half hour.
For most of July, I took things to
the limit traveling up and down the northeastern coast to the Cape, Vermont,
and Rhode Island. Trampling across beaches, up mountains, and settling on
green grass to listen to banjos and acoustic guitars.
I mention this because during these
weekends away from the city I’ve felt stronger, often on less sleep, and more
booze. I also found myself reflecting a good deal as, I think, traveling tends
to nudge. There are things to help this process if you are willing to listen
and open wide.
Recently, this has included a Texas
gentleman who goes by the name Shakey Graves. I saw him in Newport last
weekend at the epic folk festival. His gritty, soulful lyrics
are matched by his lone guitar and suitcase kick drum. And I haven’t felt
this way about music since I was thirteen and discovering The Beatles
for the first time.
The man can sing.
So sit back and watch me go
Bored and lazy
Yeah, watch me go, just passin’
through
Follow me beyond the mountain
Yeah go howl at the ol’ big moon
Oh strip them clothes right from
your body
Dress your skin in sticks and
stones
Doesn’t matter where we’re headed
oh
Yeah cause some of us were built
Yeah, well, some of us were built
Yeah, well you know that some of us
Oh we were built to roam
So there’s that.
There’s also been this here
focaccia that has done its fair share of traveling. To Barnstable County
accompanying pan-fried fish and a tomato casserole. To Newport alongside
smashed avocado and six-minute eggs. To a motor lodge with cheese from a farm in Vermont with rosé drank from Styrofoam cups. To
my beloved
wineshop on Hanover Street because those wonderful folks deserve
good bread.
It goes most places, easily. With
pockets of olive oil in its open crevices. Seasoned with pins from a
spindly rosemary plant I’ve had for a scant decade. It’s soft, and chewy,
and incredibly simple. The recipe is worth holding tightly to and the
focaccia slab is suitable to share with as many people as you can.
I’m not spiritual in the sense of
god, or saints, or shrines. But I do believe in the power of an acoustic
guitar and of things made of flour and of heart. And for me, right now,
that’s enough to fill a soul full.
Rosemary Focaccia
Adapted from The Wednesday Chef and Saltie:A
Cookbook
Ingredients:
6¼ cups (915g) all-purpose flour,
sifted
2 scant tbsp kosher salt
1 tsp instant yeast
3½ cups warm water (a little warmer
than room temperature)
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil, plus
more for the pan and to drizzle overtop
pinch coarse sea salt
pinch red pepper flakes
2 to 3 tsp minced fresh rosemary
Instructions:
In a large bowl, whisk together the
flour, salt, and yeast; add the warm water and stir until all the flour is
incorporated and a sticky dough forms. In a 6-quart container (the bowl
of most Kitchen Aids will do) pour in ¼ cup olive oil.
Pour the dough on top of the olive
oil and scoop a little oil that pools at the sides of the bowl over top. (It
will look like you’ve made a terrible mistake here, the dough will be very
loose, almost like porridge.) Cover with plastic wrap and place in the fridge
for at least 8 hours and up to 2 days (I’ve been averaging about 24
hours). The dough will rise and puff up.
When ready to bake, take the dough
from the fridge, oil a baking sheet (about 18 x 13), and pour the dough onto
your prepared pan. Using your hands, spread the dough gently out to the
corners, or as close as you can get it. Let the dough rise until it
roughly doubles in volume (about 1 hour). It is ready when it is puffed
up and spread out.
Meanwhile, in a small bowl combine
a tablespoon or two of olive oil with a pinch of red pepper and salt, plus the
rosemary.
Set the oven to 450 degrees.
Make a number of indentations in the puffed dough with your fingers, like you
are playing the piano. Give the olive oil mixture a quick stir and
drizzle it evenly over the top of the focaccia, allowing it to pool in the
dimples created.
Bake for about 30 minutes, rotating
the pan halfway through, until the top turns golden brown. Let cool on a
wire rack and then cut into slices in the pan.
Makes enough for 12 sandwiches (or
24 narrow strips for snacking)
Notes:
-Start this recipe a day
ahead. This may seem annoying, but it’s not a lot of work: there's no
kneading.
-The focaccia will last up to 2
days sealed in a plastic bag on the countertop. If you won’t use all of
it right away, it freezes brilliantly. (If you want it for sandwiches,
slice before freezing.)
