II
ON A SUNDAY IN L’ISLE-SUR-LA-SORGUE, I SPENT THE entire day at a flea market, picking through piles of artifacts with G trailing behind me. It was like a treasure hunt, an art museum, and an archaeological dig all rolled into one, and I refused to pass up the opportunity to explore it all. As far as I could see were row of stalls, all lining the river. Tables were filled with old linens expertly embroidered with decorative initials, a mystery I wondered about to myself. Who was E. V. or H. M.? Old postcards sending messages of love or regards piqued my curiosity intensely, as did letters in flourished script detailing instructions on how to build a proper wall in an ancient town, an ancient house, or perhaps a church. I discovered antique surgical tools and imagined doctors muddling their way through uncharted intestines and “taking a stab at it.” I flipped through old paintings recording family members and tried to detect in their eyes if they enjoyed sitting for the artist or thought it tedious and uncomfortable. Time-stained books, rows of silverware, serving utensils in elaborate shapes. Inquisitive about it all, I asked the vendors why there were never matching knives with the silverware, and they answered, “Never! People preferred to keep their own knives in those days.”
I fantasized about the beautiful plates, bowls, and pitchers and about restoring and saving green copper pots and pans or refurbishing old furniture for my future home, when one day I would live there in Provence.
Among it all, I looked for something I could bring home with me, a souvenir. It had to be small enough to carry but not a worthless trinket that would be lost in a drawer one day when other memories filled its place in my mind. It needed to be important, a symbol to hold the weight of my time in France, of this moment, this feeling of happiness I’d finally found, a determined reminder to myself of the past and of my determination never to return to it.
Then I walked past an old man sitting on a lawn chair, surrounded by boxes of rusty keys in ornate shapes. There were keys the size of my forearm (they must have been for drawbridges) and ones so tiny they could unlock only secrets. I looked among them and carefully chose one that was delicate, simple but elegant with a thin oval shape.
III
BACK IN VANCOUVER, I HAD THE KEY CLEANED AND plated with gold. I strung it on a subtle gold chain to match, and immediately hung it around my neck. I held it between my fingers and felt its delicate grooves and ridges. In case I ever forgot, this necklace would remind me what it felt like to be free, to be myself.
I slowly walked home along a quiet street. It was an ordinary moment, there was nothing particularly spectacular about it, but I enjoyed it nonetheless—the warm breeze, the sun warming my skin, the cool tingling when I strolled into the shade. As I walked, I felt my blue silk blouse graze my arms and chest as they moved with my gait. My plump and curvaceous hips pressed snug against my jeans from months of extravagant eating and in that moment, I thought to myself, “I feel beautiful.” And I smiled because I knew that the thought itself was just as beautiful.
INGREDIENTS FOR A PERFECT PROVENÇAL PICNIC IN SUMMER:
A BOTTLE OF ROSÉ WINE, chilled with ice cubes in your glass.
SALTY, MEATY OLIVES. The ones with lemon confit are very nice.
FROMAGE DE CHÈVRE FRAIS, a mild, creamy goat cheese usually made that morning.
A PAPER BAG OF FRESH PETITS POIS. You shuck them as you eat them, picking the little green pearls out of their pods and popping them in your mouth.
A HANDFUL OF CHERRIES. The stems aren’t necessary but make them so much more fun to eat.
FOUR APRICOTS, ripe, tender, and blushing slightly.
A BIG RIPE RED TOMATO that looks very juicy. (Bring a knife to cut this.)
A BAGUETTE, bien foncée, or well browned. There is no joy in eating bread that is whiter than an inner thigh in the dead of winter.
LINEN NAPKINS, which you lay on your lap. It keeps you tidy and doubles as a plate too.
A LETTER
{2016}
THERE IS NO GREATER AGONY than BEARING AN UNTOLD STORY INSIDE YOU.
Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Dearest,
I know you’ve been asking a lot of questions lately, poring over a lot of really important decisions about important topics like finding your passions, where to go, whether you should go at all, what to do when you’re there, what is wrong, and what is right.
And it might even seem to you that I’ve got things figured out, having found passions, having gone somewhere or done something that you might consider right. The truth of the matter is that I don’t have the answers either. We are in the same boat. I wonder the same things all the time; I can’t see into the unknown or feel unafraid either.
If there was any difference between you and me, it might be that I have the benefit of the past: evidence. Sounds like a funny word to use, but let me explain. There was a time when I was really afraid. I thought dying would be a safer option than living, but for some reason I chose to live. And it turned out I was not devastated as I thought I’d be. All those horrible things I expected weren’t so bad after all. So, I did it again, tried to be brave the next time I felt afraid, this time not of living, but of failing. And it turned out so beautifully that I laughed and jumped and danced, feeling invincible! So I ran fast and tried it again, and that time I did fail, and it hurt. But after, I was just fine, and it turned out I was wiser the next time I chose to do it again.
And so you see, even though it might seem like I am not afraid, I am, just like you. Only I have collected more evidence along the way that life is good, it is safe to trust, that I will be OK, and I am safe to trust too.
I know, because I’ve asked these same questions, and know that they are all the deepest yearnings for joy in life. It is like a song inside you that doesn’t yet have notes or a melody, and it feels painful and mournful not to have the words to sing it. It is an honest calling to not only be happy, or rich, or famous, or to even feel loved, but a calling to learn what it means to love with your whole heart, without conditions, not holding back for fear of loss, and choosing to give yourself the experience of the fullness of life in return. It is a yearning to inhabit the true meaning of courage.
And because you read this and know it by heart, you have no choice but to learn what your own song sounds like, and to sing it carefully at first and joyfully and playfully as you go on.
I’m still learning my song too, from the pieces I’ve heard, a verse here or there, an interesting chord or progression. It sounds really pretty and makes me smile when I have the courage to hum it.
I know it seems daunting; I know sometimes it even seems impossible! But, believe me, because if it means anything at all, I believe in you. I want to see you succeed and to celebrate with you when you do. And I know we all need all the help we can get, so I’ll tell you everything I know to be true on this topic. But please have compassion for me. I too am learning, and my perspective often changes as I see more of the picture.
I once read that there were two ways to answer a lingering question: one, with patience, and the other, with action. I try to remember that when I feel stuck.
Joy often comes from choosing the things that bring you joy. Choosing is sometimes difficult and painful because it often means you have to let go of something old to make room for new things. Letting go can be very sad and is often difficult. Be patient with yourself, and do it when you feel ready and not a moment sooner or later. You’ll know it’s time when you want to more than you don’t, and it comes more naturally than you’d expect.
Choosing the things that bring you joy can sometimes be tricky, and what brings you joy can sometimes change as well, making it doubly tricky. But I’ve found that it’s crucial to have a good idea of what it looks like because it makes it easier to spot when you’re making those choices.
There were times in my life that not making any choices at all was helpful too, especially when I wasn’t even sure what joy looked like to me, or when I was extremely tired. Sometimes
my best friend D takes me on a drive. He asks if I am in the mood, and if I agree, he drives to the prettiest places and I relish being passive, watching the beauty outside of my window change from scene to scene, being shown things I would not have otherwise known about: a quiet Japanese garden on the outskirts of the city, a charming garden shop, a patch of autumn leaves like confetti. And it was this fallow space that led me to know my joy in new ways as I took it all in.
Be courageous in allowing yourself to hope for what you truly want. There were times I didn’t allow myself to hope for spectacular things because I was afraid of being disappointed. But try, if you can, to suspend those fears in the times when you are dreaming of possibilities and exploring your truest desires, even if it’s just for five minutes longer than you normally would. Because you will most likely choose not to add every single color to your painting. But, if you give yourself the freedom to be curious, you may uncover something true along the way.
Once, I allowed myself to do this. When I came back from Paris and was beginning to decide what I wanted to do next, I sat down to imagine and allowed myself to write a list of careers that I would want, suspending realism for a moment. I wrote on a piece of paper:
1. Starting a company that did culinary tours in France
2. Starting a bakery
3. Being a food and travel writer
4. Being a cookbook author
At the time, I chose to start the bakery because I was so passionate about the idea, and it was the most practical and realistic option for me at the time. (Even though it was still quite far-fetched!) Years later, after I had started Beaucoup and The Paris Tours, I began to write about food and travel and remembered this list and began to laugh. As I write this, I am smiling and grateful because I see the goodness and a kind of quirky humor in life. Which brings me to the next thing I want to tell you…
Imagine, choose, aim for that direction, work hard to get there, be tenacious, but also let it go and be grateful for what you’re given along the way. Because one of the most precious lessons life has given me is that it can imagine for me much greater things that I can imagine for myself. Sometimes life can be funny: it throws us curveballs or changes directions on us, and unless we are flexible enough to look up and watch for the hidden beauty, we might miss it.
And when things are not going smoothly—because there will be times like this—try your best to be kind and compassionate toward others and, above all, to yourself. I do believe there are reasons and lessons in everything, although I know some people don’t see things this way. I choose to be one of the people who do, because I see lessons all around me, and I don’t see a reason to stop.
And if you are still unsure, because as you know there are very few guarantees, and it is so hard to know what you want before you see it, sometimes to know that you no longer want to be standing where you are is enough to leave. You may never find what you want, standing in places you’ve already looked.
Lastly: love. Love with as much of your being as you can possibly stand, because it will only make you fuller, more compassionate, kinder, more loved, and more courageous. I don’t mean loving just your lovers, but anyone, everyone, the world, or life itself.
“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” When I first read this quote, I only understood that I didn’t understand, and that I wanted to. It had become easy for me to love life; I had grown accustomed to loving the world. But then I began to love where it scared me deeply to love—to love a lover. I’ve retreated many times, and I still do when it becomes too scary, and then I watch, listen, and look for signs that it is safe to try again. And when it is, I try it again, to love as much as my soul can possibly bear. Not for my lover, but because I desperately want to hear how beautiful my voice can sound when I sing my life’s song.
Love,
JKE
THE CROISSANT
{2012}
I’VE SEEN YOU, beauty, AND YOU BELONG TO ME NOW, WHOEVER YOU ARE WAITING FOR AND IF I NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN, I THOUGHT.
You belong to me AND ALL PARIS BELONGS TO ME AND I BELONG TO THIS NOTEBOOK AND THIS PENCIL.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
THE MORNING AFTER WE RETURNED TO VANCOUVER from Paris, I took a walk in our neighborhood, a residential area with wide roads lined with old maples and low-rise condominiums built in the fifties and seventies with aspirational names like the Villa Paloma, Casablanca, and The Chateau. It was all exactly the same as we had left it months ago, as if time had stood still. I felt alone, because I hadn’t stood still.
I took a few steps along my old route but stopped abruptly. It was as startling as an unexpected clang: the silence. I heard nothing. There were no sounds of markets brimming with life, high-pitched European cars honking and swiveling in dramatic roundabouts, no chattering flâneurs or clinking cafés with their chairs lined up like seats in an auditorium, the bustling street as the performance. Paris missed me, and my heart sunk deep into my chest.
I
G DECIDED HE WANTED TO SPEND HIS PORTION OF OUR sabbatical at home meditating, which left me with a few months of solitude in Vancouver. So I spent my days recreating pastries I’d learned from school and ones tasted during my travels, desperate to bring the memories closer to me.
I hid in my kitchen, making chocolate tarts, tending to my religieuses, and clinging to babas au rhum, unwilling and unready to move forward. When friends inquired about our trip, I knew that they expected to hear romantic stories of life abroad, but I would only answer in monosyllables and then change the subject. I was heartsick, but I didn’t know how much; I just knew I had a sinking feeling in my stomach when Paris was mentioned and couldn’t bring myself to talk about it to anyone.
I hadn’t wanted to leave Paris. It had changed me. The longer I was in France, the more I dreamt of staying forever, and the more I dreaded leaving. I began presenting ideas to G, ones that might tempt him to agree to living in France. Each time we took a food tour, I would suggest that I could start a similar business. I tried to convince him I was capable, and I imagined how wonderful it would be to share my passion and knowledge with others. I told him I could work as a chef in Paris, that I would work hard to support us both. I suggested opening a small North American-style bakery in Paris, since the trend for American foods like burgers, cupcakes, and brownies was becoming popular. But he never did agree, and so we moved home.
So without the hope of staying in Paris, I protected the memories of her, too precious to lose. I mourned a Paris never to be known to me again, not in the same way. I imagined visiting when I was much older, but it would be different, as different as home had come to feel to me. I was once close to knowing her so intimately, yet now I would be a stranger again. So I held this grief in my body, my arms and my hands, and I used it to create flavors and smells that we had once shared. I would cook for her, both to ingrain her more deeply into me and also to release myself from her.
II
AFTER PROCRASTINATING WITH ALMOST EVERY OTHER recipe, it was finally time to tackle the one recipe that gave me shivers at the thought of inevitable failure: pâte à croissants.
It was said that a “true” French croissant was impossible to create outside of France. Magnified with time like a myth, this hazy mystique of butter, water, flour, air, and je ne sais quoi made the croissant seem elusive and unattainable. How could one make a French croissant without French ingredients? I wasn’t convinced either, and certainly didn’t assume I had a better chance than anyone else.
But what galvanized my resolve to try was that I had simply gone too long without the croissant of my Paris. The one that my pastry school instructors made on Friday afternoons, the ones from the salon de thé that I ate with a café crème in the mornings. Warm, intensely buttery, savory, yeasty, slightly sour as with the best breads, light, and airy with a little chew right at the end, a shattering, cinnamon-colored, all-over-your-face-and-clothes-crust, and a nuttiness
that lingers on the palate long after you’ve begun to dream of the next. And even if it were a shadow in comparison to the croissant of my dreams, anything that could satisfy the yearning would be enough. So I began.
My first batches were terrible, indistinguishable from rocks, except for a croissantish shape and color. I tried many variations in the flour, butter, water, and lamination (the ways to layer the butter and dough to create the flaky texture), all of which produced similarly unappetizing results. And to make matters worse, the butter did not cooperate with the dough, or my kitchen was too warm, or the pastries split during proofing, or the dough bounced back too far, making it impossible to roll…and a multitude of other errors that I was embarrassed to admit. The building frustration (and a discreetly worried look on my mother’s face after she insisted on tasting one) fueled in me an obsessive determination. I spent hours, days, weeks, and months researching everything I could on croissant-making. I pored over threads on forums, read every last bit of literature from textbooks, cookbooks, and flour company newsletters about gluten behavior, proofing, water content in butter, when to layer, how much to layer, when to stop mixing the dough…and it went on.
Every source recommended something slightly different, and the only thing I could deduce was that there was no single “right way,” considering how different all the variables were, dependent on the country, city, brand of flour, and season. So I was back at the beginning with my only tool, trial and error.
The Measure of My Powers: A Memoir of Food, Misery, and Paris Page 14