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# Thicc Bottoms
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/thicc-bottoms/
- Published: 2026-06-19T12:41:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:07:35.000Z
- Description: “Thicc Bottoms,” a slightly hinged ode to miso nori smoked sea salt demi baguettes, written Friday, June 19, poem 170 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo, "Thicc Bottomed Girlies," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Dry Humor, Humor, Long form musings, Loosely Hinged, Poems, Pun-y / Tongue-in-Cheek, Unserious, Baguettes, Baker Bakee Relations, Baking, Brisket, Demi Baguette, Faith, June, Lame, Maldon, Miso, Nori, Patience, Proofing, Sea Salt, Sesame, Smoked Maldon Sea Salt, Sourdough, Sourdough Starter, Summer, Thicc, Thicc Bottomed, This is Funny, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

My first go at baguettes  
ended in tragedy  
  
I did not know   
really know  
what "proofing" meant  
  
So how could I know  
what under-  
or over-  
proofed looked like?  
  
And so I baked  
and baked   
and steamed with ice  
and baked some more  
and my long slender breads  
emerged looking gorgeous  
until I turned them over  
and alas, they were hollow  
like greyish dugout canoes  
mocking me.  
  
And so the next day  
I my husband urges:  
Go again,   
get back on the Baguette  
Dust off your ego  
and flour your mat.  
  
And so it's 11:58 p.m.   
and I am  
maniacally manifesting pastry  
in my dim suburban kitchen  
on a work night.  
  
I pour the precious starter  
I swirl the flours   
I set the bowl to "sponge"   
in an oven warmed   
with boiling water.  
  
I set the timer and wait.  
And when the sponge is ready  
I slide it into the mixer  
and I use the dough hook  
to incorporate more dry flours  
and psyllium *powder*, and  
not the verboten husks this time,  
and I pour the supple dough  
onto the waiting mat  
and I plump and pull   
and round the dough   
into a tight sphere  
and because time is a thief   
and the bed beckons  
I slice it into five wedges   
each of which I roll   
and pull and prod   
into yam-like masses,   
moist and full of promise.  
  
And then roll each little   
tear-drop-ended log  
through a dredge of ground sesame,   
nori and smoked Maldon sea salt  
before I place them   
gently on parchment  
like a quintet of milk-drunk babes.  
  
And then I wait, again,  
for the proofing,   
for the reaping of the oxygen  
for the plumping of the dough  
for the growing of my colonies.  
  
And when I can   
hardly keep my eyes open  
the next timer dings  
and it's time for my   
American Black Walnut-handled   
French lame  
and I slice, quite imperfectly, the   
overlapping "ears" or surgical cuts  
along the top of each yam-y dough.  
  
By now my oven has been running   
at 500 degrees Fahrenheit   
rolling in heat for an hour,  
ready to support a crusty exterior  
— if not my electricity bill —  
my sliced and proofed pieces   
are ready to face the thermal music.  
  
I place them in, "injecting steam"   
in six minute increments   
by dumping cups of ice cubes   
into an awaiting cast iron pan  
on the base of the oven  
to replicate the plumbed steam oven  
I will one day own.  
  
And now —I wait again!   
After changing the oven temp thrice  
the appointed hour,   
the moment of truth has arrived.  
  
I don my silicone-armored oven mitts  
I pull the steaming baguettes from the rack  
and I can tell at first glance,   
these are a premium batch of baggies.  
  
I know I'm to leave them alone.  
But again.  
It's the wee hours   
of a work day  
and so I sing to them:  
  
I take out my cell phone, record myself:  
♫ "*Thicc* Bottomed GIIIIIIIIIIIRLS!!! ♫  
"THEY HAVE BOTTOMS!  
"Look at tha—  
*"OUCH!*  
"They are five hundred degrees—  
"UFGH!" \[Gremlin voice\]  
"Anyway, I had to set four timers—  
"One of which Siri didn't hear—  
"And so I have taken them out  
"On Vibes."  
  
And on camera, I hoist one   
then another  
with my newly singed fingers  
and I thwack it satisfyingly   
on the hot rimmed tray  
and I hear that hollow bellow   
echo back at me  
indicating that all the toil   
was worth it.  
  
I made a freaking flotilla of baguettes  
all by myself  
and I am basically a baking genius  
and nothing can stop me now.  
  
  
I erupt into cheers,   
sleeping family bedamned.