A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (12 page)
Read A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Online
Authors: Hillary Manton Lodge
I sent the e-mail, clicked the Cancel Account button once again, closed the laptop lid, and went to bed in the hopes that tonight, of all nights, I might be able to find temporary oblivion in sleep.
N
ICO
’
S
M
INI
F
OCACCIA
These make a wonderful light dinner with a salad or a perfect party appetizer if cut into wedges. Make sure they turn golden when you bake them—the flavor is in the color. They do take a while to make, but they’re worth it!
For the sponge:
½ cup all-purpose flour
½ cup warm water (105–115°F)
1 teaspoon active dry yeast
For the dough:
3¾ to 3¾ cups flour
1 cup warm water
2 teaspoons fine sea salt
1 tablespoon (or so) olive oil
To make the sponge, combine the flour and water in a large bowl with the yeast. Stir until smooth. Seal the bowl with plastic wrap and let stand for 2 to 8 hours at room temperature.
After the sponge has fermented, prepare the dough. Add the cup of warm water and salt. Add flour gradually, stopping when the dough begins to pull away from the sides of the bowl.
Prep a surface to knead on, such as a floured pastry cloth, with the remaining flour. Knead the dough on the pastry cloth, folding it, pressing it down with the heel of your hand, and folding again several times, working in just enough of the flour to produce a soft, stretchy dough—about 3 to 5 minutes. Remember—overworked dough is tough dough. Put the dough in a warm spot in the
kitchen, and allow it to rise in a cloth-covered, oiled bowl until the dough doubles in size.
Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Punch the dough down; ignore it for 10 minutes. With oiled hands, divide the dough into eight equal pieces with four pieces on each baking sheet. Press each piece into a 4-inch circle. Brush the tops with oil, then poke them with your fingers to create the indented surface. Cover with plastic and ignore for 30 minutes while the dough rests.
Heat oven to 400°F. Salt and pepper (freshly ground pepper, per usual) the tops. To parbake: bake 6 to 8 minutes, until the rounds have lost their doughiness but haven’t browned. To fully bake: bake 14 to 17 minutes, until lightly golden. To bake parbaked rounds: bake for 7 to 11 minutes, until lightly golden. The joy of parbaked bread is that the bread can be saved—refrigerated or frozen—and baked fresh for another day. You can also wrap up the remaining dough and keep it to bake later, for up to 5 days.
The focaccia is very good plain—perfect for dipping in oil and vinegar—but if you want to put toppings on it, pull out the rounds at the 7-minute mark and finish the baking with the toppings.
For the toppings—sauté shallots in olive oil, add dried figs, a bit of honey, pine nuts, and thyme. Keep on the heat until the pine nuts toast—this doesn’t have to be an exact science. Remove from heat; add some crumbled gorgonzola. Bake on top of rounds for the remaining time. After removing them from the oven, you can also add some slivers of prosciutto. (Don’t bake with the prosciutto—it will turn tough and chewy under the heat.)
Or go another route and add roasted red peppers, feta, parsley, and pine nuts. Top either version with cracked black pepper.
Makes 8 servings.
Don’t let love interfere with your appetite. It never does with mine.
—A
NTHONY
T
ROLLOPE
The next morning I awoke to the alarm on my phone, per usual. I shut off the alarm and tapped to check my morning e-mails as I awoke.
A sale at Anthropologie. I needed to renew my antivirus software. I had an e-mail from Formula1Doc.
I sat up.
That couldn’t be.
I wrapped myself in my terry-cloth robe, shoved my feet into slippers, and marched—albeit sleepily—to my laptop.
Sure enough, when I lifted the lid, I found that my cancellation hadn’t been the done deal I’d assumed, and my computer screen waited patiently with another set of questions to be answered before closing my account.
Who knew that quitting online dating would be more difficult than the process itself?
Curiosity prodded me to open the e-mail from Formula1Doc.
Dear Juliette,
I’m so sorry to hear about your mother’s diagnosis. A cancer diagnosis at any stage can be extremely difficult; a stage III
result even more so. In my real, day-to-day life, I’m a physician. My specialty is immunology, not oncology, but if you have any questions, you can feel free to ask. I don’t mind.
From everything you’ve told me, you have every right to feel overwhelmed. The restaurant sounds exciting, though. I have no familiarity in that field, but I think it sounds cool. What kind of restaurant? There’s a place not too far from work that I eat at regularly. They make great macaroni and cheese, and the atmosphere is quirky and homey. When I’m there, it helps me to decompress from work. I admire the people—restaurateurs, I guess, is the right word—who have the insight to create a space and a menu and a place for people to eat and feel better. A different kind of healing than the one I’ve studied, but very effective.
Anyway, you’ve obviously got a lot going on, and I completely understand if you’ve decided not to pursue any romantic relationships for the time being. If you’d like a friend, though, you know how to reach me.
On second thought, if you do cancel your account, that might not be true. My personal e-mail is [email protected].
All the best,
Neil
I read the e-mail three times before I remembered that I hadn’t used the bathroom yet. After a trip to the lavatory and a hot shower, I read the e-mail a fourth time over a breakfast espresso.
He sounded nice. Really nice. And not the least bit intimidated.
Interesting.
I dressed for work, wishing it were a Saturday morning rather than a
Monday morning. My eyes still felt gritty, and my spirits were uneven. A second strong cup of espresso nudged my brain cells into action. As a preemptive pick-me-up, I stopped by the corner bakery for a
pain au chocolat
to have as a midmorning snack.
My phone rang minutes before I stepped inside the threshold of the newspaper. I tensed the moment I saw my mother’s cell number. “Is everything all right?”
“Etta,” she said, her voice gently exasperated, “I have cancer. Everything is not all right, but I still have a life to live and I don’t need everybody thinking I’m at death’s door every time I make a phone call.” She paused. “
Je regrette
. Your father … and your brothers … and your sisters … everyone’s been a little—”
“I get it, Mom. I’m sorry—you’re right. What’s up?”
“Your aunt and uncle are coming down for the weekend, and they’d like to have brunch with us next Saturday morning. Are you free?”
Henri and Margueritte didn’t often make the trip down from Seattle; I sat up straighter. “I’ll make time.”
“Ten thirty. Your father’s cooking.”
“Want me to bring something?”
“You can ask your father.” A thread of exasperation tinged her voice. “He won’t let me plan anything.”
“He loves you.”
A sigh. “I know.”
“I love you, Mom,” I said, being careful not to let my voice catch.
I loved her. And she was sick, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Linn swung by my desk near noon. “I’m out for lunch. Want to come?”
“No, I’m going to be working through lunch.” I offered a smile. “Thanks, though.”
“Are you okay?” She tilted her head. “You look a little peaked.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry. What’s going on?”
“My … my mom is sick.” I looked away and fiddled with some papers on my desk. “We all found out last night.”
Linn’s face turned from teasing to serious. “Oh, Juliette, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Want me to bring something back for you? Soup or something?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to sound more normal than I felt. “Soup would be great.”
“You’ll tell me if you need anything, won’t you?”
“I will,” I promised, with a wan imitation of a smile. “Are you still up for fondue? How does tomorrow look?”
“I am if you are—are you sure?”
I shrugged. “Life goes on,” I said, though at the moment I wasn’t so sure.
I took my laptop out that night for a dinner date. I found a quiet nook at Palio and set myself up with a panino, salad, and one of their signature Mexican mochas. While I came with the intention of working, I found myself typing out a letter rather than an article.
Dear Neil,
I have to admit I did not expect to hear back from you. I admire your fortitude in the face of my typographical meltdown. I assure you that in real life I tend to be one of the most stable people I know.
This might be because I know a lot of Italians.
My closest work friend stopped by my desk this morning and asked how I was (I look a bit wretched today), and I could barely tell her. There was something about
talking
about it that seemed like it would make it more real. This is probably a phenomenon that you, as a doctor, have studied.
Since you seem to know everything about me, it’s only fair for me to ask about you. How did you get into medicine? Do you have any Italians (or Frenchmen) in your family? And—I have to ask—what’s your favorite food?
À bientôt—until later!
Juliette
