80 g butter from poaching truffles, divided
170 g yellow onion, roughly chopped (about ½ an onion)
75 g celery, roughly chopped (about 2 stalks)
3 generous sprigs of thyme
1 bay leaf
½ tsp fine sea salt
¼ tsp freshly cracked black pepper
60 g dry white wine
80 g truffle juice (can be purchased at specialty fine foods stores)
675 g fresh sweet summer corn kernels (about 4 ears)
2 tsp apple cider vinegar
Place 50 g of the butter, onion, celery, thyme, bay leaf, salt, and pepper into a medium pot and sweat the vegetables on medium heat. Once the onions are translucent and cooked through, add the wine, then bring it to a boil and reduce it by half. Add the truffle juice and corn, bring back to a boil, and then immediately remove from the heat to stop the cooking. We want to preserve the fresh corn flavor as much as possible. Pour the entire mixture into a good blender with the vinegar and the remaining 30 g of butter and blend until very smooth. Strain the corn purée through a fine mesh strainer, pressing well to extract all the juice. Thin out with water if necessary to create the consistency of whipping cream. Set aside until ready to plate. Can be made 1 day in advance, kept in the refrigerator, and reheated just before serving.
FOR THE POPCORN
20 g olive oil
40 g popping corn
30 g truffle oil
¼ tsp fine sea salt
¼ tsp freshly cracked black pepper
Place the olive oil and popping corn in a medium pot covered with a lid over high heat. When the kernels begin to pop, shake the pan over the heat until the popping stops for 10 seconds. Remove the pan from the heat and transfer the popped corn to a bowl. Season with truffle oil, salt, and pepper. Reserve for garnishing the dish. Can be made up to 1 day before and stored in an airtight container at room temperature.
FOR THE SALAD GARNISH
75 g rocket, oak, and/or shiso leaves
20 g vinegar
20 g olive oil
½ tsp fine sea salt
10 g truffle juice
Submerge the rocket, oak, and/or shiso leaves in an ice bath to refresh. Whisk the rest of the ingredients together in a small bowl to make a vinaigrette. Drain the salad leaves from the ice bath and dress with the vinaigrette. Set aside for up to 5 minutes until ready to use.
TO ASSEMBLE THE DISH
200 g puff pastry
1 egg
20 g whipping cream
½ tsp fine sea salt
Freshly cracked black pepper
Maldon salt
Preheat the oven to 375°F.
Roll out the cold puff pastry to a thickness of 1/16 inch and cut 4 squares, 4 inches on a side. Put a 1½–2 tablespoon dollop of foie gras mousse on each pastry square and place a butter-poached truffle in the center. Top with a sprinkling of cracked black pepper, and fold in the corners and edges of the pastry very well to seal like a little packet. Place seam side down on a sheet tray lined with parchment paper and cut a small slit in the top of the pastry for ventilation. Cut 1/16-inch strips from the remaining pastry and lay them in an X pattern on top of the pastry for decoration.
Mix the egg yolk, water, and sea salt in a small bowl, and brush the egg wash over each truffle parcel. Bake in the oven for 20 minutes until nicely golden. Let cool for 5 minutes.
Pour ⅓ cup of corn coulis on each plate, make a little pile of seasoned salad, and place a truffle parcel on top. Scatter with truffled popcorn and finish with freshly cracked black pepper and Maldon salt to taste. Serve warm.
A NOTE ON THE PUFF PASTRY: This recipe calls for puff pastry, and I think it is always better to make your own. Rose Levy Beranbaum has a wonderful recipe that has been adapted for the home kitchen in her book The Pie and Pastry Bible. However, making your own can be time consuming, and since this recipe uses only a very small amount, consider a good-quality frozen puff pastry, or ask to buy some raw from your local bakery.
A NOTE ON THE MEASUREMENTS: As this is a professional recipe, the measurements have been kept in weight.
SERVES 4.
EVERY SATURDAY MORNING
{2007–2011}
I CROSSED THE ocean FOR A HEART OF GOLD.
Neil Young
THE RITUALS I CREATED AT HOME BEFORE I WENT TO France were like bolts on a rock face, anchors to secure myself as I climbed out of depression. Visiting farmers’ markets, spending time cooking, baking, and eating; I held on to these moments as I ascended out of darkness, and when I felt comforted or encouraged by them, I made a note to do them again.
On occasion, a spark would pierce through me, and the heaviness was suspended just long enough for me to recall the feeling of delight. And among the most meaningful rituals was Saturday morning. I waited for it all week long. At 8 a.m., I would arrive at a local pâtisserie on the west side of Vancouver just as the doors opened, with a book to read, my journal, and a pen.
Each time, as though I were pausing at the summit of a long mountain climb, I would take in the beautiful scene—rows of croissants, sour cherry strudels, delicately adorned chocolates, and elaborate tarts—and then I’d breathe the beautiful smells of butter, yeast, sugar, chocolate, and coffee deep into my lungs.
I ordered the same thing every time: a double-baked almond croissant and a latte, to stay. And since there were rarely more than one or two people in the café at that hour, I always found a seat in a quiet corner by the window. I had never been much of a reader during my childhood, so as an adult, there were worlds and worlds of books left undiscovered. There, where I could sit unhurried, luxuriously for hours, I lost myself in books, looking into other lives, hoping for answers, or to see bits of myself in a hopeful story. In some, I sought inspiration; others simply led me far away for enough time to regain the strength to tackle the next day. And between words, I took slow sips of coffee and loitering bites of croissant until I felt saturated with all of it and grateful for the reprieve it gave me.
I
AS I SAT IN THAT PTISSERIE, I WROTE IN MY JOURNAL, sometimes for many hours, entries upon entries, desperate to find ways to not be in so much pain; confused, asking why, asking for help, and asking myself if the pain would ever stop.
SEPTEMBER 9, 2007
We fought, I screamed. Sometimes when things get bad, I feel as if I cannot breathe, like there is no way out and it all turns within. Sometimes when he speaks, I can’t even listen, I need to shut off and keep it all out. I can’t handle it any more…
Last night I asked God for help. I said that I know he is there but I don’t know what form he takes or who he is. All I knew was that he had the power to help me and that I needed it. I think (this may have only been me) I heard back, to help myself. I’m not sure why. However, I think to myself that it really does feel like I can’t.
I feel too far gone, too tired, too damaged. It feels too big and too much to tackle. I am burned out, tired, and on the verge of giving up. Is it realistic to say that I can do this?
I remember at a certain point in life when I attended church, random people praying for me kept telling me I was like a flower about to bloom. I’m not sure if I ever did. They would say that God would never put you through something you can’t handle. But people kill themselves all the time.
SEPTEMBER 26, 2007
I’m confused. More than confused, I’m upset and full. I’m up to my neck in negative feelings again. Everything is a fight. I need clarity in my life, decisions to be made. I feel sick to my stomach. I feel sick. I can’t be this anymore. I’m not happy; miserable. No one can tell me I should be happy, or that things will get better. They won’t. Hopeless. What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Until it’s all over, just a waiting game until I die. Why is this worth it again? I keep trying to find some way out of this, but it’s like I’m in a well. High enough to see that there could be something else but deep enough to know I can’t get out. What is the point?? Why the hell am I he
re? If God is supposed to be here in the middle of it all then where is he? Do I have to live the rest of my pointless existence like this? I’m miserable and making everyone around me miserable too while I’m at it.
There were all sorts of lists. I wrote lists for everything, categorizing and making sense of what I felt, and the confusion within it. Lists were a way to put down on paper the things I hoped for. I wrote a list explaining what kind of mother I would want to be one day. There were sixteen points.
MARCH 31, 2010
NO. 1.
Always hugging and kissing my kids. Even when they are teenagers and want me to go away.
NO. 7.
Being quiet when I need to be.
NO. 10.
Empowering them in achieving their goals and desires.
NO. 11.
Being an example first.
NO. 16.
Going to their games, recitals, plays, and practices.
I listed what I believed all my negative and positive traits were. There were thirty-seven negative and seven positive.
MAY 5, 2010
NEGATIVES:
NO. 3.
I talk too much.
NO. 5.
I eat too much.
NO. 11.
I am not rational.
NO. 17.
I am too dependent on others.
NO. 20.
I am fat.
NO. 21.
I am ugly.
NO. 23.
I cannot communicate.
NO. 24.
I am not strong.
POSITIVES:
NO. 1.
I am kind.
NO. 2.
I like to help others.
NO. 3.
I am honest.
NO. 6.
I am compassionate.
As the rest of the world woke up, I would slowly find myself surrounded in the pâtisserie, everyone needing buttery comfort and a sharp jolt of coffee. And when the café became too crowded, I would seek out the stillness again, driving to the beach and walking along the shore in my gumboots, water meeting sand. I worked hard to “get better” but was unknowingly restored by the simplest, most passive moments, like appreciating the water’s blues lapping onto my feet, the mountains in springtime with snow lagging on their caps, or finding stones in pretty colors and holding them in my pocket, feeling their texture in my palm as I walked. Nature was healing me.
II
WITH EACH PASSING YEAR AS I BEGAN TO HEAL, I WENT faithfully to the very same pâtisserie, sitting in the corner and taking in all the familiar noises and scents of my sanctuary. I observed the bustle of others coming in and out, satisfaction spreading across their faces as they sipped and tasted. I noticed other solitary people looking longingly out the windows, and saw that I wasn’t alone. There they were: others trying to nourish themselves in this place, in this same way.
As my obsession with baking set in, my journal entries moved away from lists of sadness to lists of fantasies, far-fetched musings about what it might be like to have my own bakery one day and what it would look like, smell like, and feel like.
III
THREE MONTHS AFTER I OPENED BEAUCOUP, DURING A trip to France, I strolled through boutiques in the Amsterdam airport to pass the time on my layover. I spotted something that I recognized immediately: a bright red journal, the same as the ones I had filled years before, before I had been consumed with all the demands of starting a new business and stopped journaling. I bought a lined journal and a pen, and on the flight to Paris, I wrote.
MARCH 9, 2013
My desires in life: to enjoy, immerse myself with abandon, to understand the importance of my own opinion, because after all, I am the one that must live with it. Though the hardest part is to decide who I am and what I want to be. Perhaps I’ll start with what I know I am now:
NO. 1.
Smart.
NO. 4.
Friendly.
NO. 5.
Confident.
NO. 7.
Silly.
NO. 11.
Happy.
DOUBLE-BAKED ALMOND CROISSANTS
Double-baked almond croissants were originally created to use up unsold croissants left over from the day before. They were soaked in syrup because they were stale. For this recipe, the croissants must be day-old and stale when soaked in syrup or the texture will be mushy.
FOR THE SUGAR SYRUP
250 g water
340 g granulated sugar
Bring the water and granulated sugar to a boil in a medium pot, and continue cooking until all the sugar crystals have dissolved. Transfer to a bowl or resealable container and cool in the refrigerator until cold. Can be made up to 2 weeks in advance.
FOR THE ALMOND CREAM
200 g unsalted butter, room temperature
200 g confectioner’s sugar
200 g almond meal
120 g eggs
20 g cornstarch
Seeds of 1 vanilla bean
½ tsp fine sea salt
Mix together butter, confectioner’s sugar, almond meal, eggs, cornstarch, vanilla bean seeds, and salt in the bowl of a stand mixer until light and fluffy. Place it in a piping bag and reserve in the refrigerator until you are ready to fill the croissants. Can be made up to 3 days in advance.
TO ASSEMBLE
6 croissants, 1 or 2 days old
90 g sliced almonds
55 g confectioner’s sugar for dusting
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Slice each croissant horizontally. Dip each croissant half into the sugar syrup until well soaked, and place them, evenly spaced, on a rack over a sheet pan. This will help the pastries drain the excess syrup so they are not mushy inside.
Once they are drained (which should take about 10 seconds), place them on a large sheet pan lined with a Silpat mat or another nonstick surface.
Cut off the tip of the piping bag to expose a hole about 1 inch in diameter. Fill the bottom of each croissant with about 80–100 g of almond cream. Replace the top of the croissant and pipe 30–40 g of almond cream over the top and press about 15 g of sliced almonds on top.
Bake until the tops are deep golden brown and the edges look caramelized and crispy, approximately 30–35 minutes. If you notice the tops sliding off during baking, you can use a fork to slide them back on.
Remove from the oven and allow them to cool on a rack until they are warm. Sprinkle the tops with confectioner’s sugar. Lift them from the pan using a spatula and serve warm or at room temperature.
A NOTE ON THE MEASUREMENTS: As this is a professional recipe, the measurements have been kept in weight.
MAKES 6 CROISSANTS.
A LITTLE KEY
{2011}
IN THE MIDST OF WINTER, I FOUND THERE WAS, within me, AN INVINCIBLE SUMMER.
Albert Camus
THE WAY THE SUN SHINES STRONG IN THE MORNINGS during summertime in Provence would make my heart flutter, warm with contentment. I’d go out into the light in search of breakfast while G would sleep until the early afternoon, and I relished the moments of solitary exploration. I liked having my curiosity lead me, with no agenda, turning down charming cobblestone alleys if my stomach jolted with delight at the idea of it. I liked to observe the locals on their bikes, the clothes hung out to dry by windows, and funny bits of graffiti in French that made me giggle to myself. I felt at peace, at home, as though I’d taken my place in the world.
At each boulangerie or pâtisserie, I stopped to look in, doing my usual scan for signs and signals of quality or mediocrity. Does the crust look crisp? The crumb chewy? Are the viennoiseries high? Do they use good chocolate? Is the glaze on the éclairs cracking? One morning I eventually settled on one place that had good-looking bread. I craved a pain au chocolat, and although theirs were flat and looked ill-treated, stacked one on top of another with no reverence for its art, they had a lovely lacquered cinnamon color, and the chocolate was still warm, oozing out of its sides. I bought two,
one for me and one for G, knowing that everything tastes relatively decent when warm.
They unceremoniously placed two pains au chocolat in a large white bag, and I walked back to the hotel to eat mine by an open window.
The sun warmed my face as I bit into the pastry. It melted in my mouth with a beautiful chew on the crumb and a pleasantly yeasty flavor from properly fermented dough. The melted chocolate coated my palate with sweet complexity and the butter infused me with its aromas, flowing into my nostrils and satisfying every one of my body’s cravings.
I ate and smiled and ate and smiled until the bag was empty.
I
IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING, WE EXPLORED PROVENCE BY car, driving down winding roads with the windows down, and along landscapes dotted with wild red poppies, their fragile petals and furry stems swaying in the breeze. The warm air scented with lavender intermingled with bleached stone rose up to me like fragrant earth, and the little ancient hilltop towns with their crooked doors and streets all swirled upward to a grand church or castle.
I loved collecting my favorite cheeses, fruits, and breads from the farmers’ markets that sprung from the centers of the little towns. I’d find a sunny stone step, lay out a linen napkin, and carefully arrange on it meaty olives, sweet tomatoes, and herb-covered cheese made just that morning. On the best days, I also had rosé with ice cubes floating in the glass.
It was as though I had come back to life. Each precious experience like this one was like the sounding of a deep bell, reminding me, calling me back to myself. Curiosity replaced the fear inside me, and excitement overcame self-consciousness. I was present, engaged, living, and playing in each moment instead of being perpetually lost in my mind, tangled between the regrets of my past and the anxieties of my future. I was learning to live for the things that made me happy, not for my marriage or what made G happy. I was learning to live for me.
The Measure of My Powers: A Memoir of Food, Misery, and Paris Page 13