Florentine Ciabatta

New Year's 2024. The annual tradition continues in this kitchen that has held every holiday since I started cooking through cancer and came out the other side with a cast iron skillet and a refusal to stop. I am 41 and New Year's means what it has always meant: too much food, the right people, and the gratitude spoken aloud because life taught me that gratitude unspoken is gratitude wasted.

The table is full. Mason (13) and Lily (11) are here, growing taller and more themselves with each passing year. Tom is here, beside me, where he has been since the day he showed up with wildflowers and patience and the quiet understanding that love is not a grand gesture but a daily one.

Brett is here — always here, every holiday, every Wednesday, the constant brother in the wheelchair who has been my anchor since we were children on a ranch that no longer exists. Kyle calls from wherever the Army has him, and his voice on the phone is the voice of the brother who left and came back and left again, and the leaving and returning is the rhythm of this family.

I made minestrone this week, because New Year's demands the food that says: I am here, you are here, we are together, and together is the only word that matters. The recipe is the same as last year and the year before and all the years stretching back to the ranch kitchen where Diane stood at 6 AM making cinnamon rolls for a family that ate them without knowing they were eating love. I know now. I've always known. And I make the food and serve it and watch my family eat and think: this. This is why I survived. For this table. For this food. For these people. For this.

Minestrone has always been the soul of this New Year’s table, but every soul needs something to lean on — and for us, that’s bread. I made this Florentine Ciabatta to go alongside the soup, something to tear and pass and use to soak up every last drop, because a table with Brett and Tom and Mason and Lily doesn’t do anything halfway. It’s crusty on the outside, soft in the middle, and loaded with the kind of spinach-and-cheese richness that makes a cold January night feel like the warmest place on earth — which, for us, it always is.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 large ciabatta loaf, halved lengthwise
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup fresh spinach, roughly chopped
1/2 cup ricotta cheese
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons sun-dried tomatoes, chopped (optional)
Fresh basil, for garnish

Instructions

Preheat. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and place the ciabatta halves cut-side up.
Make the base. In a small skillet over medium heat, warm the olive oil. Add the garlic and cook for 1–2 minutes until fragrant, being careful not to burn. Remove from heat.
Wilt the spinach. Add the chopped spinach to the warm garlic oil and stir until just wilted, about 1 minute. Let cool slightly.
Mix the filling. In a medium bowl, combine the ricotta, mozzarella, Parmesan, red pepper flakes, salt, and black pepper. Fold in the spinach-garlic mixture and sun-dried tomatoes if using.
Assemble. Spread the cheese and spinach mixture evenly across both cut sides of the ciabatta, all the way to the edges.
Bake. Place the baking sheet in the oven and bake for 15–18 minutes, until the cheese is melted, bubbly, and beginning to turn golden at the edges.
Broil & finish. Switch to broil for the final 1–2 minutes for a golden top. Watch closely. Remove from oven, scatter fresh basil over the top, and let rest for 2 minutes before slicing.
Slice & serve. Cut each half into thick slices and serve warm alongside minestrone or your favorite soup.

Nutrition (per serving)

Florentine Ciabatta — The Bread That Belongs on a New Year’s Table