Gluten-Free Focaccia Recipe with Garlic + Tomato

Gluten-free focaccia recipe- with tomato, herbs and garlic.

Italian Flatbread for a Blue Moon

When my husband and I were on our honeymoon we ate focaccia every morning for breakfast. After a few cappuccinos, that is. Six between us. To fortify us for the walk across the piazza to the tiny bakery. After all, we were in Italy. Doing what you do in Italy.

Wake up.

Rub the garlic infused sleep from your eyes.

Pull on your jeans.

Walk to the local espresso bar.

Zip.

Boom.

Buon giorno!

The always smiling owner of the Podere Villuzza would greet us every morning on our way out the door, wishing us, Good day, for your blue moon!

I am thinking about our honeymoon today because our anniversary just passed. March is our month. And this time around marked our eighteenth. [How is that even possible?]

In so many ways we are just getting started. It still feels new. Even through the toughest years- in New Mexico, the most difficult of our marriage. The most isolated. We wonder aloud over root beer and popcorn how we got through it, how we wandered into that commitment, buying that tiny casita in the middle of an empty, windswept desert. On impulse. Investing all we had in curved adobe walls and tile floors tough enough to break a hip on.

We look into each others eyes for answers.

There are none.

We were bewitched, I tell my husband. We were infatuated. With the light. The summer monsoon skies. The smell of roasting chile. It was a seduction. The desert pulled us in and whispered stories in our ear, weaving her magic like a smoke screen, letting us feel as if we belonged there. Soothing our east coast gringo fears that it might be rough giving up our roots, our community, the quick jaunt to fetch the morning newspaper, grab an espresso, or browse in a book store.

We believed in the power of space and sky. We imagined inspiration dripping from our pores in the sandpaper heat. We embraced the notion of alchemy and willingly submitted ourselves to burn, trusting the process.

It worked for Georgia O'Keeffe.

Be careful of your heroes, I've learned. Choose carefully. I identified so strongly with Georgia- her strength, her depression, her stubbornness. Her colors. The way she painted the world. It all felt so intimate and true, so deep down familiar. And so for years I spun a narrative in my associative brain. A dream of the painted desert and her earthy pigments. Images of mud huts and fierce blue sky. A belief these imaginings were destiny, a trust that I was meant to live in New Mexico, that it was here I would find my home.

Because I have never felt at home.

Except in my husband's grasp. The first time I shook his hand I knew. He was my country. And so we sit together and sift through possibilities once more, this time more sober. This time without the flush and dazzle of infatuation. We speak of dreams gingerly now. Step by step. We examine and turn over each impulse looking for the hidden. The unconsidered.

It took almost three years to sell the casita. We lowered our price. And lowered it again. To less than what we paid for it. We swept it clean every time the realtor called for a showing. We baked cookies to fill the kitchen with vanilla and spice. We crossed our fingers.

The truth is we fell out of love- not with each other- but with the desert. Why she clung to us we do not know. They like to say in Santa Fe that the desert pulls you in like a magnet, and if you don't belong she spits you out. The night I fell and broke my hip- the night that changed how I navigate the world- forever- I said to Steve-- She has spit me out.

Today in our Connecticut (rented) barn studio I stack unopened jars of paint next to a bundle of clean brushes and palette knives. I pick through memories. I think about beginnings. Our blue moon in Italy. Biting into tender, fresh baked breads scented with garlic and adorned with fresh tomatoes. I decide it's time to bake a focaccia. Like the ones we ate in San Gimignano. Before we set down roots. Before we ever bought a house.

I turn to my husband and tell him, I'm going to bake a focaccia today.

And from now on?

Let's rent first.


Read more + get the recipe >>

Gluten-free focaccia recipe- with tomato, herbs and garlic.

Italian Flatbread for a Blue Moon

When my husband and I were on our honeymoon we ate focaccia every morning for breakfast. After a few cappuccinos, that is. Six between us. To fortify us for the walk across the piazza to the tiny bakery. After all, we were in Italy. Doing what you do in Italy.

Wake up.

Rub the garlic infused sleep from your eyes.

Pull on your jeans.

Walk to the local espresso bar.

Zip.

Boom.

Buon giorno!

The always smiling owner of the Podere Villuzza would greet us every morning on our way out the door, wishing us, Good day, for your blue moon!

I am thinking about our honeymoon today because our anniversary just passed. March is our month. And this time around marked our eighteenth. [How is that even possible?]

In so many ways we are just getting started. It still feels new. Even through the toughest years- in New Mexico, the most difficult of our marriage. The most isolated. We wonder aloud over root beer and popcorn how we got through it, how we wandered into that commitment, buying that tiny casita in the middle of an empty, windswept desert. On impulse. Investing all we had in curved adobe walls and tile floors tough enough to break a hip on.

We look into each others eyes for answers.

There are none.

We were bewitched, I tell my husband. We were infatuated. With the light. The summer monsoon skies. The smell of roasting chile. It was a seduction. The desert pulled us in and whispered stories in our ear, weaving her magic like a smoke screen, letting us feel as if we belonged there. Soothing our east coast gringo fears that it might be rough giving up our roots, our community, the quick jaunt to fetch the morning newspaper, grab an espresso, or browse in a book store.

We believed in the power of space and sky. We imagined inspiration dripping from our pores in the sandpaper heat. We embraced the notion of alchemy and willingly submitted ourselves to burn, trusting the process.

It worked for Georgia O'Keeffe.

Be careful of your heroes, I've learned. Choose carefully. I identified so strongly with Georgia- her strength, her depression, her stubbornness. Her colors. The way she painted the world. It all felt so intimate and true, so deep down familiar. And so for years I spun a narrative in my associative brain. A dream of the painted desert and her earthy pigments. Images of mud huts and fierce blue sky. A belief these imaginings were destiny, a trust that I was meant to live in New Mexico, that it was here I would find my home.

Because I have never felt at home.

Except in my husband's grasp. The first time I shook his hand I knew. He was my country. And so we sit together and sift through possibilities once more, this time more sober. This time without the flush and dazzle of infatuation. We speak of dreams gingerly now. Step by step. We examine and turn over each impulse looking for the hidden. The unconsidered.

It took almost three years to sell the casita. We lowered our price. And lowered it again. To less than what we paid for it. We swept it clean every time the realtor called for a showing. We baked cookies to fill the kitchen with vanilla and spice. We crossed our fingers.

The truth is we fell out of love- not with each other- but with the desert. Why she clung to us we do not know. They like to say in Santa Fe that the desert pulls you in like a magnet, and if you don't belong she spits you out. The night I fell and broke my hip- the night that changed how I navigate the world- forever- I said to Steve-- She has spit me out.

Today in our Connecticut (rented) barn studio I stack unopened jars of paint next to a bundle of clean brushes and palette knives. I pick through memories. I think about beginnings. Our blue moon in Italy. Biting into tender, fresh baked breads scented with garlic and adorned with fresh tomatoes. I decide it's time to bake a focaccia. Like the ones we ate in San Gimignano. Before we set down roots. Before we ever bought a house.

I turn to my husband and tell him, I'm going to bake a focaccia today.

And from now on?

Let's rent first.


Read more + get the recipe >>