Summary

An individual attempts to bake ciabatta bread following a recipe shared by a columnist, only to end up with a unique and delicious bread they name "NOT FOCACCIA."

Abstract

The author is inspired by a columnist's description of homemade ciabatta bread, which is touted as a key ingredient in a gourmet grilled cheese sandwich. Despite warnings from a loved one about the complexity of traditional ciabatta recipes, the author proceeds with the recipe, driven by a family trait of attempting "impossible" tasks without knowing any better. After completing mundane chores, the author bakes the bread, which fills the house with a wonderful aroma. The final product, while not a ciabatta, has a beautiful texture and divine taste, leading to the creation of a new, unnamed bread they call "NOT FOCACCIA."

Opinions

The author is enthusiastic about baking the ciabatta bread, viewing it as a reward for completing chores.
There is a sense of pride and family tradition in attempting challenging tasks without the hindrance of knowing the perceived difficulty.
The author's loved one is skeptical about the recipe's authenticity as a ciabatta, hinting at the complexity of making traditional ciabatta.
The author embr

Is It Hard Because No One Tries to Do It?

Just because it’s not what you thought you wanted doesn’t mean it’s no good.

The columnist raved about the ciabatta bread her sister makes.

Pictures of fresh-baked loaves steamed their goodness across the page.

Her amazing sister happily shared her recipe so others could wreak this magic. The columnist blathered how fig jam,brie cheese, and this ciabatta created a mind blowing grilled cheese experience.

Sign me up.

I must have this bread immediately.

Saturday afternoon droned epic, important chores including making space for the outdoor furniture in the garage.

I exulted. This bread would be my reward for doing dreaded essentials.

I would haul and sort and clean while the yeast performed serial magic.

That was the idea anyway.

Enthusiastic me measured, combined, and tucked the bowl of dough in a warm place to rise.

A loved one saw what I was doing, admired the flour-dusted counters, and asked what I was making. She read the recipe and cleared her throat.

This recipe was very different from any ciabatta recipe she’d ever seen. Ciabatta can be tricky to make if you don’t know what you’re doing.

I never know what I’m doing, I stated with absolute certainty.

It’s better if I don’t know something is impossible when I do it. That ability runs in our blood, I continued. You come from a long line of people who do impossible things because we don’t know any better.

Chastened, she filled her water bottle and left.

Garage ready for outdoor furniture, I dove into the final stages, forcing myself not to open the oven to peek at progress of three small, hopeful loaves.

The house smelled wonderful.

Anticipating honeycomb holes and amazing texture, I pulled apart a loaf when it was cool enough to handle.

The texture was gorgeous.

It tasted divine.

However, I hadn’t made ciabatta bread.

These lovely loaves were not ciabatta by even the kindest, most generous definition.

This was not focaccia — or baguette — or any beloved bread with a name.

It was its own strange, delicious self.

We dubbed it NOT FOCACCIA and enjoyed it.