• Blissed out on bread

    After the flurry of bellies and birthday and some dear out-of-town visitors and a guest post over at Simple Bites (about pizza sauce, three ways—check it out!), things are finally beginning to settle down around here.


    My henna tattoo is fading and now I keep my tummy covered most demurely. I’ve ceased wildly waving veils and tick-tocking my way around the house (though once in a while I’ll triple shimmy down the hall, just for anyhow). The birthday flowers are sprinkling their petals, the birthday balloon (that we tied to the door of the refrigerator freezer so that the kids would be less likely to bop it every time they walked past) is starting to droop, the next to last piece of birthday chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting just slipped down my gullet, yum-yum.


    And it’s cold outside. Or at least it feels that way after the close-to-100 degree temps we had this past weekend. This morning found Miss Beccaboo dressed in her new winter coat (thanks, Grandma!) furiously peddling her bike all over the yard with a skirt stuck on her head.


    Mr. Handsome glanced out the window, saw her, and stated flatly, “There goes the flying nun.”


    But really, what I want to talk to you about is bread.


    A person might wonder just how many bread recipes are necessary to have up one’s sleeve. Seeing as I have a bunch already listed on this blog as well as another whole blog dedicated to the subject of sourdough, my answer is this: there is no such thing as too much bread. Ever.

    I love bread.


    In fact, when we were at my aunt’s soiree and went out to dinner that evening, as we waited for our platters of Indian curry and filet mignon to arrive, we went around the table and took turns listing off our favorite food—something that brought us comfort and joy and unending happiness. My answer was sourdough bread, fresh from the oven and thickly spread with butter and grape jelly.

    So see, bread is my comfort food, the source of unending toothsome pleasure.

    That my belly and bottom are squishy like bread dough is perhaps no coincidence.


    Anyway, let’s talk about bread. A new bread. A bread that will cause you, as soon as you’re done reading this post, to stand up and walk out to the kitchen and mix it up. Because, as you will see, this bread is easier than a two-bit floozy and more delicious than mother’s milk.

    (Not that most of us remember what our mother’s milk tasted like. But we’ve all seen babies breastfeed. It goes something like this: first they wait watchfully, hands wildly a-waving, as the shirt gets hoisted and the bra unhooked, and while they wait, they pant. Take too long unhooking the bra and you end up with a hyperventilating baby on your lap. It’s one of the risks of breastfeeding. And then when the child latches on, well—hold on to your hats people ‘cause that baby is going to town. There’s gasping and snorting, gulping, the I’m-drowning-but-please-don’t-save-me sounds, lip smacking, heavy breathing, and underneath all the ruckus there’s the steady hum, the sound of a contented baby peacefully purring. Yes, babies purr. Considering that I did this thing called breastfeeding for ten years and spent hours upon hours watching as my babies’ eyes rolled back in their heads in contented blissment, I think I might understand the magnitude of the “more delicious than mother’s milk” statement.)


    I got this bread recipe from a friend of mine who borrowed my steam juicer to turn grapes into communion juice. (Loaning it to him made me feel holy, once removed.) In his thank you email he pointed me to a youtube video of a guy making bread. It was the best food video I have ever seen. I showed it to the kids (they were concerned because the dude took the Lord’s name in vain, twice) and then I showed it to Mr. Handsome just because it was so stinkin’ entertaining.

    The gist of the recipe is this: mix together flour, salt, yeast, and water. Let it ferment for 18 hours. Shape it and let it sit for another two. Bake. Eat. The end. If you get up right now and make it, you’ll be pulling a loaf of bread out of the oven come suppertime tomorrow night.

    Well, what are you waiting for? GET MOVING!

    Besides its simplicity and deliciousness, the other cool thing about this bread is its name: ciabatta. I’ve seen the word all over the place, but I’ve never known how to say it. (The curse of the TV-less.) Turns out, it’s a blast to say—cha-BAH-ttah. It means “carpet slipper.” But hey, don’t take my word for it—listen to how the youtube dude describes it. He’s much more entertaining than I am.


    I’ve made this bread nearly a half-dozen times so far. I wanted to see how it handled a higher percentage of whole wheat flour (freshly ground Prairie Gold wheat, for those interested in the nitty gritty). It works, I’ve learned, not all that great. Every time I increased the whole wheat, the bread got a little flatter and a little heavier so I’ve decided it’s best to stick with the original proportions (though maybe you’ll learn otherwise).

    The only other change I’ve made to the recipe is that I sometimes skip the plastic wrap step and just dump it directly onto the baking sheet. And I upped the salt just a tad ‘cause I’m a salt fiend.


    Ciabatta
    From the youtube dude, otherwise known as Chef John (I think)

    3 ½ cups bread flour
    ½ cup whole wheat flour
    2 teaspoons salt
    1/4 teaspoon yeast
    2 cups warm water

    Combine all ingredients and stir. The dough will be wet and sticky and beautiful. Cover the bowl with plastic or foil, making sure there is plenty of room for the dough to bubble and double. Set it aside at room temperature for 18 hours.

    After 18 hours has passed, and 2 hours before baking (or 3 before eating), stir down the dough using a rubber spatula. Grease a baking sheet with olive oil and sprinkle it with cornmeal. Dump the dough on to the pan so that it makes an oblong shape, like a carpet slipper. Flour the dough and cover it with a clean towel. Let it rise for two hours. Bake it for 25-35 minutes at 425 degrees.

    Yield: one loaf that is best eaten fresh, though leftovers make excellent toast.

    This same time, years previous: Butterscotch Cookies, Birthday Minutia, Ballerina Daredevils

  • A jiggle on the wild side

    Me dancing. I still can’t quite believe it.

    practicing

    To understand how far out of my comfort zone I was, you have to understand that I have never worn a bikini, avoided all highschool dances like they were the plague, don’t sport a single tattoo or body piercing, and am not an up-front stage-y sort of person. That I painted my belly with henna and then showed it off in front of a crowd of (mostly) complete strangers is slightly surreal.

    Some people get culture shock when they move from country to country. I get culture shock just living inside my body.


    We did two dances. The first involved only six of us and some gorgeous veils. (For the veils, Rose bought reams of white silk and then she and Terri, another one of the dancers, dyed and edged them. Miss Beccaboo said they smelled like the ocean.)

    We swirled and twirled and tried our best not to let them slip through our fingers or get tangled up in our jewelry—no small feat. Factor in the breeze and it became an event of Olympic proportions.


    The second dance involved the whole group and much shimmying. I had to shimmy for 16 counts. That’s hard, especially when I still don’t know how to shimmy. But I just smiled and pretended I knew what I was doing.


    While I did confuse my left and right arms a couple times and totally lost the beat and stopped early for another part, I mostly kept my act together. I didn’t trip over the sound cables, drop my veil, or stand on the hem of my skirt and cause it to fall down around my ankles. My shirt didn’t come un-pinned and I didn’t smack any of the other dancers upside the head. Considering all that could’ve gone wrong, it was a flaming success.

    A bunch of the other women decorated their hands and feet with henna. It turns out that henna shows up much darker on those parts of the body. The henna on my tummy stayed quite pale in comparison. But then again, maybe it’s just me. As Anna Maria so kindly pointed out, “Your skin just doesn’t take well to any sort of color.” And Mr. Handsome suggested that I could’ve just cut a design in a piece of paper, covered my tummy with it, and laid out in the sun for an hour or so—it would’ve provided the same effect, just with a reddish hue.

    Rose’s hands.

    Here we are pre-dance, sweaty and nervous…


    And here we are post-dance, sweaty and elated…


    I was exhausted.

    Turns out it’s hard work sucking in a belly for hours on end.

    The photos are courtesy of my friend Steve, otherwise known as the husband of Anna Maria The Belly Vandalizer, the guy who helped me decide which camera to order (it’s coming in a couple weeks!!!), and an awesome photographer. To see more of his photos, visit him at stevendavidjohnson.com. Thanks, Steve!

    This same time, years previous: stream of consciousness, my beginnings

  • Painting my belly

    Tomorrow I will turn 35.

    Tomorrow I will also dance in public and show my belly.

    That this has potential to be deeply embarrassing has not gone unnoticed by me. In fact, I’m shaking in my flip-flops.

    Which is okay, as it turns out, because belly dancing is chock-full of the shimmy-shakes. So even if I just stand there and tremble, I’ll still be getting it partway right.

    At least that’s what I tell myself.

    To gear up for the event, I painted my belly with henna.


    Well, I didn’t paint it myself. I just laid on my back and tried not to breathe, let alone laugh or talk or do anything that would make my tummy jiggle, while my friend Anna Maria free-handed the henna. It took her about two minutes and fourteen seconds because she’s a total whiz.

    Then I had to lay flat on my back for an hour while it dried. To get my newly-painted and still-slightly-tacky tummy safely home, I had to hike up my shirt and tuck it into my bra, sit ramrod straight with my tummy sucked in to keep it as flat as possible, position the seat belt most carefully, and drive as gently as possible.

    Thank goodness it was dark outside.

    Even with all my extreme precautions, my belly still rolled and pooched. (It’s what bellies do after they’ve been blown up with babies. Well, except for Rose, our snaky instructor who has four babies and a six-pack. What woman has a six-pack after birthing four boys, I’d like to know? It’s unnerving.)

    So because I had four babies, the henna smeared. As soon as I got home I woke up Mr. Handsome and ordered him to come down and minister to my belly with a toothpick, q-tip, and napkin. He was groggy and confused, but after about fifteen minutes and lots of explaining, he finally caught on.

    Then, to help the henna set, I was supposed to apply a mixture of lemon juice and sugar with a cotton ball. We, however, didn’t have any cotton balls, so Mr. Handsome used a panty liner to daintily dip and pat.

    I slept on my back that night and by the next morning the henna was dry and crusty. I softened it with some olive oil before pulling it off in bits and pieces, yipping every time one of my tender little belly hairs got stuck.


    Bath time is quite the adventure. The stain isn’t supposed to get wet since water can lighten it, so I have to drape my body over the edge of the tub and bathe my body in stages—first the top half and then the bottom half, with the back-washing being outsourced.

    Oh, the suffering I go through just to have fun! I should probably get my head examined.


    I’d like to pretend that my tummy looks so smooth all the time, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I must confess that these pictures were taken first thing in the morning before I ate breakfast or even drank my coffee. (And I may have sucked my tummy in just a little, too.) Because as soon as I chew and swallow that first bite of food, my belly falls to pieces. It swells and slouches, rolls and puckers, pooches and puffs. It goes hog-wild in its unbridled excitement over being fed.

    Therefore, I will not be ingesting anything until after the dance tomorrow.

    Yeah right. Like I could go for eight hours without eating. Now that’s funny. I’ll just have to settle for sucking my stomach in extra hard.

    So if you come to the dance tomorrow and see a henna-ed bellied woman in a black coin belt with a pained expression, that’ll be me.

    Just tap me gently on the shoulder and remind me to breathe, okay? Thanks.

    Sincerely,
    The One Who Is Baring All

    This same time, years previous:
    Roasted Butternut Squash Salad, cross-dressing, and one hot chica