It’s a bluebird day—finally, after a week of humid, gray days where cool drizzle hung like a curtain over town. I felt my spirits sinking lower with every inch of rain, every sweatshirt I pulled on to ward off the odd May chill, every hour that felt endless, unspooling languidly, like time was some sticky molasses-like substance being poured slowly from a bottle.
The sun is bright overhead, and I could swear it’s suffusing everyone’s very being with light—we’re all thrilled that summer has arrived. Neighbors wave cheerily as they pass with their dogs, live music drifts down the street from the brewery where people sit outside drinking tall pints of summer ale, the golden light filtering through the golden liquid like some dreamy Rothko-esque canvas.
We go to the beach, of course. One mile to the blinking light next to the washed oak-and-glass winery on the bluff, then two miles past the emerald fairway of the golf club, the Greek diner that smells of cooking grease and makes me desperately want French fries regardless of the hour, and the farm stand with the good asparagus. We turn right just before the lavender farm, past a hand-painted sign that reads local oysters in crooked letters.
The beach is empty—the parking lot, which isn’t a lot at all but a small curve of pavement behind the dunes, has no cars. This one is tiny Gillette Beach, a little slice of sand tucked into a hollow along the scalloped coast of East Marion. Sometimes I drive to the rocky beaches on the north side of the island, where smooth boulders peek out of the waves. Sometimes I go all the way to the Hamptons where the sand is white and sugar-fine, the beaches stretching for miles.
I’ve begun to find a rhythm with the solo beach trip: My sturdiest canvas bag is packed already with a single change of clothes, a Yeti water bottle, two kinds of sunscreen, and a hat. I open the back of the car to grab a pail and two shovels and an oversized striped beach blanket that I’ve neatly rolled up.
That’s all in one hand; with the other, I unbuckle his car seat, hoist him onto my hip, lock the car, and step onto the sand.
Shoes stay in the car—you don’t need them. Sunscreen is applied liberally in the car—wait til the beach, and sand gets everywhere, and you try rubbing sandy sunscreen onto a toddler’s soft skin. Anything that can get tipped into the water will: Bring a small zip bag for your phone and keys.
The wide swath of sand is bordered up top by beachgrass, the kind that’s razor-sharp if you run your hand up it instead of down. They wave gently in the breeze, all pale shades of mint and pistachio and seaglass.
Striations of shells line the beach, marking the places where the tide came and went, depositing bits of scallop and blue mussel and whelk shells alongside seaweed and smooth pebbles the size of a dime.
I unfold the blanket, swinging it high above my head which makes him laugh and laugh as the wind catches it. I line up the water bottle, the beach toys, my sunglasses, the snacks. The snacks!
Often I meet my friend Zoe at the beach—she grew up here, and as such, has her beach packing down to a fine science. Her picnics are an art; each snack she pulls from her zip-top bag impresses me more than the last.
A clementine peeled and pulled into segments in a small glass mason jar. A banana, still in its peel but sliced in half, in another jar. A peanut butter sandwich cut into neat rectangles wrapped in foil. Cold pesto pasta and a small container of chicken salad and cinnamon graham crackers next to a frozen water bottle. She remembers forks and spoons and wipes. On one particularly hot day, she reaches into her bag and, like a magician, unearths a chilled bottle of rosé, a cold bottle of watermelon seltzer, and a stack of small plastic glasses for everyone.
I take notes. I spread peanut butter on crackers, sandwich them together, then freeze them ahead of time. I pack a pint of intensely red, very ripe local strawberries, securing the top with mesh and balancing them on the top of my bag. I bring miniature wheels of Babybel cheese, the kind in the waxy red coating.
He toddles to the water, his sturdy body lurching forward, his face determined but impossible to take seriously as he walks tipsily with one foot turned slightly inwards, like a man after one too many gin & tonics at the bar.
He climbs into my lap, damp from the waves with sand clinging to his small, chubby hands. I reach for a wax paper-wrapped package, carefully opening it to reveal a sandwich cut into six inch-long pieces.
Sandwich might be a stretch—it’s a single square of ciabatta bread that I sliced horizontally and toasted lightly before slathering both sides with almond butter and pasting them back together.
The almond butter is drippy in the midday heat, and he lets me pop one, then two, then three pieces into his mouth before grabbing at them, smearing my thigh with sticky, sandy fingerprints. No, there’s not a vegetable or protein or fruit in sight, but my goal is less “balanced nutrition” and more “feed him as much homemade food as you can.” [REALISTIC GOALS ARE A PERFECTLY SOLID PARENTING APPROACH.]
This particular ciabatta is my third batch in four days—we eat so much of it, and it’s so impossibly light and airy that an entire loaf seems to be about the equivalent of a single slice of sturdy sourdough bread.
Easy as can be, the dough requires no hand-kneading or shaping and very minimal handling. Most ciabatta doughs—and particularly this one—are incredibly wet, making them very difficult to knead by hand. Use a stand mixer here instead.
Once you’ve mixed the dough, I just leave it right in the stand mixer bowl (no need to grease the bowl) rather than transferring it. When you go to turn it out onto a sheet pan and divide it, don’t worry too much about touching it; you won’t hurt it. Just work gently and when you shape the loaves, simply stretch them as best you can into rough rectangles. The dough will fight back a little and that’s fine.
During the initial rise, you can choose to fold the dough every 45 minutes or so—I’ve done it both ways and I really don’t notice a huge difference, so it’s up to you. This isn’t a bread that will rise very high, so it’s less crucial to build strength in your dough (which is what folding achieves); that being said, a stronger dough will support a more “hole-y” structure, which is what you want.
(Between you and me, I fold when I remember or when I happen to be around during the rising time. And if not, I don’t!)
Ciabatta is traditionally dusted with flour. I drizzle the top of mine with olive oil instead. Why? Obviously, it’s delicious. Also, when my mom makes this bread as she often does, she reeealllly coats the dough in oil and the resulting crust is so golden and soaked in olive oil that you can’t possibly imagine making it any other way.
**I use silicone bowl covers for my doughs—you don’t want an airtight seal, but just something that loosely covers the bowl to prevent the dough from drying out. Plastic wrap works fine, or a shower cap even, or some sort of lid like a metal pot lid or plastic lid. Use what you have!
The Lightest Ciabatta
Adapted from an old King Arthur recipe; makes 2 loaves
Sponge (Overnight)
180 grams (1 1/2 cups) all-purpose flour
227 grams (1 cup) water
1/4 teaspoon instant yeast
Dough
Sponge (from above)
1 teaspoon instant yeast
180 grams (1 1/2 cups) all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon sugar
56 to 113 grams (1/4 to 1/2 cup) water
2 tablespoons olive oil
The night before you want to bake, mix together all of the sponge ingredients. Cover and let rest overnight (about 12 to 16 hours) at room temperature.
The next day, pour the sponge into the bowl of a stand mixer and add the remaining ingredients, starting with the smaller amount of water.
Mix at medium speed using the paddle attachment until the dough comes together. The dough should be quite wet and sticky; it should look impossible to knead but not soupy. If it doesn’t look quite wet enough, add the remaining water, 1 tablespoon at a time. You may get nervous here! Know that the wetter the dough, the more of that big hole structure you’ll get in the final bread. Push the hydration as high as you can go without turning the dough liquidy.
Mix for about 8 to 10 minutes—the dough should look considerably smoother than when you started.'
Cover and let rise for about 1 1/2 hours—it should look puffy.
Generously grease a sheet pan with olive oil (the more the merrier!!!!) and turn the dough out onto it. Divide the dough in half (a bench knife works well here), and gently stretch/coax each half into a rectangle, but don’t worry too much about precision. Try to get them to be about the same size (aim for 10” long and about 4” wide).
Cover the pan (I usually just invert another sheet pan on top) and let proof for 1 to 2 hours—keep an eye on it, and bake when it looks airy and puffy but not too fragile. You should notice some large air bubbles forming on the surface.
Towards the end of the rising time, preheat the oven to 450 degrees F (I’ve baked it at 425 also which is fine).
Uncover the pan and slide it into the oven. Throw a handful of ice into the bottom of the oven and shut the door quickly—this will create steam to give it a nice crust.
Bake for about 20 to 25 minutes, or until golden brown on top. Remove from the oven; to ensure a very crisp crust, you can transfer the loaves immediately to a wire rack, turn off the oven, and place the breads on the rack back in the oven. Sometimes I find that this dries out the bread a bit—you can try it, and see what you think.