Fiddlehead Focaccia

If you think you can’t make this Fiddlehead Focaccia, you’re wrong. Whenever I post any recipe with yeast on this blog I fully expect it to go unmade. Sure, people will look at it, maybe even consider it. But most will chicken out. And it’s not because they’re lame or incapable. It’s just that somewhere down the line they convinced themselves they couldn’t bake a decent loaf of bread. And how do I know all this? Well, I used to be this person. Yes, I’ve had my heart-broken by many a bread. And like so many before and after me, I initially blamed myself. If this sounds like you, read on because I promise it’s not you.

I have a theory that it only takes one bad bread-making experience to hurt you. One loaf doesn’t rise and you’re scared. I’m not sure when this happened, but at some point in our society, we started to believe that baking a loaf of bread was a highly specialized skill. And, of course, it can be. If you’re shooting for absolute perfection or baking on a large scale, baking can be a very complicated and involved process. But I would hazard to guess that the vast majority of my readers are not looking to crank out loaf after loaf of San Fran sourdough with near mechanized accuracy. Just a hunch.

So, is today’s Fiddlehead Focaccia the pinnacle specimen of yeasted perfection? No. Is it a simple bread that you can own with minimal effort? Very much so. Also, it looks real good on a charcuterie platter. And how do I know this? I did the research for you. You’re welcome. But before I leave you to pursue your own charcuterie dreams, I want to let you in on a little secret.

Now, the thing about this secret is it makes the recipe below seem a little counter-intuitive. You see, my secret to owning any yeasted dough is to not follow the recipe. Yeah, I know. It’s controversial. Especially in baking where precision is absolute key, and yes, in most cases that remains a hard truth. But when it comes to yeasted doughs, touch and intuition rule the day. I used to make ultra-dense loaves of the bread that wouldn’t rise because I took recipes as law. I would add as much flour as was written and it would always be way too much. That’s what you get for putting too much trust in a recipe.

The fact of the matter is yeasted doughs have a lot of potential variables that dictate the amount of flour you should use. Humidity, altitude, room temperature, the age of the yeast. All of these things can either rob the dough of its moisture or add to it. So, you have to pay attention to the texture of the dough.

Take this Fiddlehead Focaccia for instance. The day I made it, it was quite humid in my kitchen, so I wound up adding an extra 1/4 cup of flour. I knew what the finished texture of the dough should be, so I was able to assess and troubleshoot the dough on the fly. This is where the practice comes in. It’s not so much about being excessively talented or smart. It’s about recognizing patterns and having good recall.

So, that about does it for the focaccia portion of this Fiddlehead Focaccia, but what about the fiddleheads? You know, the other day, I posted a photo of fresh fiddleheads on Instagram. The photo itself was nothing special, the kind of photo I post all the time. So, I posted it and walked away and when I came back was absolutely shocked. No, it didn’t go viral, it’s not Kim K’s ass. But what shocked me was the number of people that were completely and utterly perplexed by fiddleheads. So many of you had never seen them before. It was strange to me because where I’m from they’re commonplace. Now, I didn’t bring up this story in order to wag a finger at fiddlehead-related ignorance. I bring it up to demonstrate how easily we mistake our bubble for the whole world.

I know, fiddleheads aren’t a pressing issue in the grand scheme of things, but I do think my fiddlehead-scenario can serve as a harmless example of how much time we spend with our heads up our own asses. This is part of the reason I love the culinary world. Every day I learn about some fruit in a far-flung jungle I’ve never experienced. Or, for instance, a method of cooking rice I wouldn’t have thought of in a million years. Food provides a very clear window to similarities in the world, yes. But it also reminds us of how varied our day to day experiences can be. I never ever thought a fiddlehead would make me wax poetic like this, but here we are.

Anyway, fiddleheads are actually young shoots of an ostrich fern. If they were left to their own devices and not eaten by me, they would eventually unfurl to form a new fern. Typically fiddleheads are sauteed with butter and garlic and served as a side dish. In Nova Scotia, we usually serve them alongside fish, which I’m sure is a surprise to no one. Sometimes fiddleheads are roasted, but in all instances, fiddleheads are often boiled as a safety precaution. Because of their delightful curl, fiddleheads are difficult to clean, so washing and boiling them before preparing them is the best defense against foodborne illness.

But there’s no reason to be afraid of fiddleheads. The fiddleheads on this Fiddlehead Focaccia are boiled, sauteed and baked. There ‘ain’t nothing nefarious on them, I promise. But having said that, they are surprisingly toothsome, in spite of being cooked three ways. In fact, they caramelized so beautifully that they kind of turned into fiddlehead jerky.

So, that’s all the deal with this Fiddlehead Focaccia. And if you think you can’t make it, I said it before and I’ll say it again, you are wrong. So so wrong.

Enjoy!

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