Nigella Eats Everything

The heat wave came without warning. Although I can’t say the same for the focaccia. That came from an all-consuming craving for salt-crusted cushion-soft bread, and no matter how many heat waves we suffer, there will always be a focaccia in this house.

I have not experienced many heat waves in my life. This is fair to say considering I am from a country which is famous for its drizzle. There were two freakishly hot days in 2019 – soaring to the dizzying heights of 32C – and I documented my normal greedy eating habits, but little did I know what a real heat wave can do. How your stomach seems to shrivel from the heat. And how even a sip of water can bloat you. Dear reader, finally my appetite was sedated as I lay as still as possible, partially dressed on slightly damp sheets in a hotel room in the Pyrenees. Sight-seeing was abandoned. Eating was postponed. A breeze was prayed for.

We live in a flat in Toulouse. Its positioning means that it receives a splash of direct sunshine in the early morning only, then for the rest of the day, it is shaded and cool. In winter it’s frigid. Layers and blankets are required.

In the summer though, it’s a blessing. Oh sweet blessing of a flat. And the fan! Beautiful, kind fan, what would we do without you?

We found out. Gaylord and I went into the Pyrenees for the weekend. At first we were seduced by the majestic scenery – towering mountains, green hills, a monastery perched imperiously above the forest, quaint provincial villages full of markets and tinkling fountains, oh and the coffee bowls we drank from in the morning that caused such a frenzy of excitement that I sent pictures to my family – that we thought it would be bearable, pleasant even.

We were naïve. An excursion into the nearby town to buy lunch took our breath away, and we returned to the car looking like we’d had been dunked a bath. We endeavoured to stay cool in our hotel room, the balcony doors thrown open to catch a non-existent breeze, stripping down to just swimwear to lie on our twin beds, no physical contact allowed.

For Gaylord, this proved hopeless, and with him suffering the beginnings of heat stroke, we sheltered under a tree by the hotel’s swimming pool, plunging into the cold water at regular intervals. Meanwhile our middle-aged swimming companion, a guy staying at the complex for a yoga retreat, fell asleep in the 40C sun, his skin frying until it reached a hot-pink well-done. During a desperate car drive just to feel general air movement, we passed fields and soaring eagles seemingly oblivious to the heat, although the neatly stacked hay bales appeared to be sagging, melting into the freshly turfed earth.

Finally, by 8pm there was release. Fresh from yet another swimming pool dip, we drove up and up a winding bumping track, perilously close to a chasm between mountains, to a cliff-top restaurant with a bird’s eye view of the surrounding valley.

We sat in the cooling sun, gulping glasses of iced apple and apricot juice, then feasting on a charcuterie platter full of pâté, chorizo and saucisson from the next door farm, all served with slivers of pickled cucumbers and carrots. As we ate, we kept jumping up to take pictures of the view and the setting sun, which, eventually emerging from behind a cloud, appeared like a brilliant red fireball blazing through the sky.

Heat waves are never easy to negotiate, but we had it much, much easier than those in Barcelona (which had gone BEYOND the traffic light colours and into PURPLE) and Paris, which was 35C at 9pm. Turns out, the weather was record-breaking. Funnily enough, the temperature number, just like the hours in the day, took on a rubber-like quality, bouncing and morphing into heights and lengths undefined by anything as redundant as a numeric marker.

And in a similar way, my appetite bounced right back to normal as soon as the day cooled, and by the time we’d returned to Toulouse, I could have eaten the carpet. Thankfully instead though, I made focaccia.

Salt-Crusted Fluffy Focaccia

This easy focaccia recipe has been life-changing which may sound like a hyperbole but hear me out. It is perfectly formed, fitting snugly in our metal baking dish and rising to beautifully high proportions so it can be sliced in half and filled appropriately. Not only that, but there’s a salt-water brine involved.

Now please don’t shrink back in horror at that. I’m the same. Salt-water brine poured over a focaccia dough always seemed to me, a lazy person, as an unnecessary addition to bread. Isn’t focaccia oily and salty enough? And, maybe I should say this considering I write a food blog with recipes, but wherever I can I try to chop a step off a recipe’s method. What’s the expression about lazy people and hard jobs and easy ways to get things done?

Well, one day I finally surrendered and just tried salt-water brined focaccia already, and wowza – the salty water creates a salt-caked crust all over the surface and down the edges of the bread. As it bakes it thickens and crisps, turning a deep russet brown, while the soft springy texture of the focaccia is still light and as bouncy as a baby’s bottom.

I made focaccia twice last week. On top of all this dough and salt water, I first spread a layer of sweet caramelised onions, and then for the second bake, I sliced traffic light cherry tomatoes, slices of creamy mozzarella and small shards of garlic which were pushed into the focaccia’s pockets. Once baked, it was strewn with basil, then we ate it with fresh tomatoes, cheese and salad. Each slice was so thick and springy, they were just begging to mop up all the salad dressing.

Heat waves will come and thankfully go, but at least some some easy focaccia is here for when we’re hungry again.