It was too hot to bake.
I did it anyway.
The bread started with spite, as most of my best things do. Mae had left the windows open and the whole house smelled like wilted basil and cat breath. The fan was broken. The fridge was doing that loud hum again, like it was warning me about something.
And there she was. Her Highness. Page 82, spine cracked, smug little note about “cool water (55 to 65 degrees)” like anyone’s thermometer reads that.
I wasn’t planning on bread.
But I needed to smack dough around.
So I did.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is civilized. That’s the best word for it.
You stir together bread flour, Gruyère, and those green Spanish olives that come in jars so neat they practically apologize. A wet dough. A long rise. You bake it in a preheated Dutch oven until the whole thing hums golden and crusted like a loaf you’d bring to a dinner party where everyone pretends they know wine.
She tells you to wait. She tells you to cool it. She tells you, gently, firmly, how bread should be.
Mine was louder.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t measure the water.
I poured until it looked like swamp paste.
And I didn’t use just Gruyère. I had a hunk of sharp cheddar with a dried edge from last Thursday and a wedge of something I think was Alpine-style but could’ve been accidental. I chopped them both. Unevenly.
As for the olives—mine were already sliced. Briny and loose and a little sad from last week’s pasta salad. They worked. Sort of.
And the pan.
The Dutch oven.
Still dented. Still mine.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I stirred with the wooden spoon I once melted slightly by resting it too close to the back burner. It still smells faintly like sugar.
The dough came together in under a minute. Sticky, shaggy, smelled like a deli met a storm cellar. I let it sit overnight—forgot it, really. Covered it with a dish towel that still has the burn mark shaped like Maine.
In the morning, it had risen like something alive.
Mae poked it and said, “It looks like your knee.”
Floured the board. Dumped it out. Folded it like an apology.
While it rested, I preheated the oven. The old Dutch oven went in, handle already long gone. I tapped the dent once. Out of habit. Or grief.
I dropped the dough in awkwardly. It hit with a sound I can only describe as “resentful.”
Baked it for 25 minutes. Took off the lid. Forgot to rotate the pot. Got distracted watching Mae try to French braid her own hair. The crust darkened fast. Too fast.
But I didn’t care.
A Few Things I Learned
- Her Highness was right about the flour dusting. Don’t skip it. Unless you want to peel parchment off your bread like sunburn.
- Cheese at the edges crisps into little briny flags. Best part.
- It’s okay if your dough looks wrong. It fixes itself while you’re not looking.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae ate three slices. No butter. Just standing by the sink.
I tore off a corner and dunked it in oil and vinegar. It tasted like someone else’s kitchen. Someone richer, quieter.
The rest?
Wrapped it in foil. Ate it cold at 11 p.m. with a glass of red that might’ve been too old to drink. I didn’t mind.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah.
When I’m angry. Or brave. Or both.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The crust sang when I cut it.
The pan stayed hot long after the bread was gone.
And I went to bed smelling like olives and old cheese.
FAQs
Yeah, But Wrap It Tight. And When You Thaw It, Toast It. The Crust Forgives A Lot Once It’S Warm Again.
Absolutely. Use Whatever’S Sharp And Melty. I Used Cheddar Once And It Still Felt Fancy.
Technically, Yes. Emotionally, Also Yes. But If You’Ve Got A Heavy Pot With A Lid, It’Ll Fake It Just Fine.
Pretty Salty—But In A Good, Briny Way. Like Seaside Air. Skip The Extra Salt On Top Though, Unless You’Re Feeling Bold.
Perfect. That’S How It Should Look. If It’S Too Neat, Something’S Off. Mess Is The Magic.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Olive And Cheese Bread
Description
Sharp, Briny, And Just A Little Chaotic—Like The Morning I Made It.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Mix the flour, salt, and yeast in a big bowl, then dump in the cheese and olives. Stir with a spoon or hand—whatever’s clean. Add water until it’s wet, sticky, unappealing. That’s right. Cover it and walk away for the night.
- Next day, when it’s bubbly and weird, flour a surface and your hands. Scrape it out. Fold it like a letter you’re not sending. Shape into a round. Let it rest on parchment while the oven and Dutch oven heat to 475°F. Yes, preheat the pan. Yes, that matters.
- Drop the dough in (seam-side up because Martha said so and she’s not wrong), cover, and bake for 25 minutes. Then uncover and go by feel—mine needed 18 more. You’ll smell it before you see it.
- Cool it if you can. Or don’t. Tear it. Salt it. Remember something.