The neighborhood is in bloom. The magnolia trees have burst into clouds of pink. The limbs of the cherry trees are tipped with tightly furled green buds, and any day now, they’ll concede the fight and let go, allowing the pale blush blossoms to emerge. It seems to happen overnight; you fall asleep with wintery-looking foliage and wake up to a village that looks like it’s dotted in puffs of cotton candy.
This is a quiet village among quiet towns. People like to say that ours is the busiest, which is funny when you consider that the next one over doesn’t even have a grocery store and the most activity involves three people standing with their dogs outside the general store that also sells blueberry muffins and a very good chicken salad sandwich.
Quiet is relative, I suppose: Like so many beach towns, this one swells in size in warm weather, when people sit in their hot cars waiting in the ferry line to go explore tiny Shelter Island, or gather outside the oyster shack to drink local beer and eat lobster rolls.
But even then it retains a sleepy, picture book-esque quality. I’m friendly with so many people around me: Our lives—especially this year—are woven together like loose threads. I don’t really know them: I still feel lonely and so far from my people out here on this little spit of land where we tumbled last March and set ourselves down, temporarily.
But I know them all with a casual intimacy that comes from constant daily interaction.
I know that Rosemary, who lives at the end of our block, is almost 84 and has climbed 30 peaks in the Himalayas. I know that Willa, two doors down, used to be a beat reporter at a daily newspaper in Manhattan and that she likes to walk her two dogs early in morning. I drop off muffins for the couple two doors down on the other side—who have a Great Dane and an adorably curly-haired two year old—whenever I have extra, always making them vegan because I know they don’t eat dairy or eggs.
I wave to everyone as I walk around town midday: The UPS driver, our mailman who always carries treats in his pockets to feed the neighborhood dogs when he drops off letters, the manager of the local pizza restaurant with his black standard poodle.
The chef of the pizza restaurant rides his bike down my block on his break from standing in front of the sweltering heat of the wood-fired oven: He waves and calls out a hey, pausing to talk about his latest sourdough bread recipe.
Peter and Richard—both gray-haired, cheerful, sturdy-looking men in their late 60s—walk by like clockwork every day around 3:30 PM. I know that their dog, a beautiful brown-black animal who looks like a cross between a beagle and a Greyhound, is a rescue from Georgia and his name is Noodle. I know Richard has a dry sense of humor and loves village gossip and that Peter admonishes that sort of chatter with a stern but loving look. I know that Peter likes Champagne and that Richard used to work in a flower shop.
I don’t know anyone’s “story”—the stuff you regularly expect to know about friends: Where they grew up and their jobs and their family situation. But I know what made them laugh yesterday and where they like to be outside and who they look at with tenderness.
These relationships are built on ordinary moments; chats on the stoop in the sunshine and by the dock where I walk with my one-year-old to toss rocks into the shallow end of the bay. I tentatively take them a step further sometimes: I drop off biscuits in a basket on Easter to Lorraine, who lives behind me and has a stunning garden with trumpet lilies and climbing pink Eden roses. She returns the basket four days later with a three tiny chocolates tucked inside the napkin and a note in her prettily scripted handwriting.
I like these moments; they make me feel like I’m somewhere, not nowhere. Not adrift. So I keep creating them. Yesterday I dropped off a loaf of English muffin toasting bread for a very nice couple that I’ve just befriended—my age, they split time between Manhattan and a seaside condo on the end of our street—who invited us over on Sunday for wine (me) and frozen blueberries (baby), as we sprawled on picnic blankets out on their lawn and soaked up the nearly shiver-inducing magic of casually being around other humans.
Today I’m making more of this beet focaccia to give to Peter and Richard when they walk by. It’s simply my go-to recipe (from Alexandra Cooks) adapted to use fresh beet juice, which turns the dough a shockingly vibrant pink that remains pretty true even after baking.
The combination of earthy root vegetable flavor + lots of olive oil + salt + crispy edges is VERY reminiscent of potato chips—therefore, this is rapidly becoming a new favorite.
Beet Focaccia
Makes one 9” x 13” pan
512g (4 cups) all-purpose flour
10g (2 teaspoons) kosher salt
8g (2 teaspoons) instant yeast
227g (1 cup) lukewarm water
227g (1 cup) beet juice, at room temperature
4 tablespoons olive oil, divided
flaky sea salt
Mix together the flour, salt, and yeast in a large bowl.
Add the water and beet juice—mix until the dough is well-combined; it’ll be quite sticky.
Drizzle a bit of olive oil over the dough and flip the dough ball around a few times to coat it. Cover the bowl and place it in the refrigerator for at least 12 hours (sometimes I leave it for up to 2 days).
During the refrigeration time, I like to take the dough out and give it a fold every 3-4 hours; this isn’t mandatory but it does help to build strength in your dough, giving the focaccia more structure and chew.
To do the folds, just take the bowl out and uncover it. Imagine that there are four corners to your dough: Pick the dough up from underneath one corner and pull/stretch it upwards, then pull it down towards the opposite corner and fold it over. Repeat for the remaining three corners.
Once the dough has risen, remove it from the refrigerator.
Grease a 9" x 13” pan (you can also make it in two 9” round pans) very thoroughly with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil.
Plop your dough into the oiled pan, then let the dough rest for about 3 hours at room temperature.
After this resting period, preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Drizzle the remaining olive oil over the top of the dough. Use your fingertips to lightly press/encourage the dough out to the edges, and then press down firmly with your fingertips to dimple the entire surface of the dough. Don’t be shy here—you want to create deep dimples.
Sprinkle the top of the dough with flaky sea salt and bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until golden brown on the top. This can be a little harder to tell with the pink dough! Remove from the oven and let cool. Share with someone you like.