Focacciart

“I like the feeling of being able to confront an experience and resolve it as art.”—Eudora Welty

Eudora Welty is one of my favorite writers. She was a master of the short story and the novella, the brevity of which I, with my ADHD, find endearing. Her backdrop was the mid-20^th century American South, her subjects the (many) eccentric characters to be found there. I direct you to any of her works—there’s the Pulitzer-winning The Optimist’s Daughter, but then there’s also The Robber Bridegroom and The Ponder Heart and Delta Wedding and and and…

I love the above quote, and the image of Eudora doing battle with her experiences (which we all do, no?), trying to wrest meaning and beauty from them. There are times when we are the losers, and we emerge from the conflict bruised, battered, and as confused as ever. But there are other times when we engage with some really tough stuff, and find the nugget of meaning and beauty hidden within. 

So what does this have to do with Focaccia Art?

During the height of the pandemic, a lot of us creative types struggled to make artistic sense of the difficulties we were facing. I know I wrote a lot, including several one-post-per-day blogathons. Others (like my Rose) returned to pursuits such as sewing, or picked up dusty musical instruments to practice. Still others began or continued rigorous fitness regimens, or adopted pets. Many of us emerged from the darkness of COVID lockdowns with new insights; some of us emerged with unwelcome new poundage as well (not ME. Some of us. Well, OK. Me.)

As much time as I spent in my kitchen whipping up calories, though, it never occurred to me to use a slab of bread dough as a canvas for vegetable art. But it was, apparently, a 2020 thing. I recently stumbled upon several Pinterest pages of gorgeous designs crafted with peppers and olives and parsley sprigs. Amazing!! It was like that ephemeral Buddhist sand art (painstakingly created, and quickly destroyed), but edible. I decided to give decorative focaccia a whirl last week when Patrick and Ashlyn came for dinner. The whole process is very Zen: you can’t begin to place your designs until after the second dough rising, and then you only have about 30 minutes to complete your handiwork and get it in the oven (over-risen bread dough is a flop). I sketched out my flower garden, then carefully (but hastily) placed each item. 

I was inordinately proud of my baked result (though it was very “loving hands at home,” compared to the kitchen artistes who duplicate Monet water lilies and Van Gogh starry nights.) And my culinary experiment lacked the poignancy of those created in those weeks and months of isolation (I could run out, unmasked, to buy more yeast any time). But nevertheless I, like my idol Eudora, did confront an experience--in my case, dinner for loved ones--and resolved it as a sliced red onion that looked, if you squinted, if not like art, at least a teensy bit like a tulip.