The Measure of My Powers: A Memoir of Food, Misery, and Paris

by Jackie Kai Ellis

  Over the course of developing my croissant recipe, I created a proprietary blend of commercial flours to mimic the ones I had worked with in France. Depending on where you are in the world, you will be able to source different flours and, unfortunately, they will all behave differently than mine. So this is where you must do a bit of testing on your own to find a type of flour that works best.

  A NOTE ON BUTTER: Croissants require a high-quality butter with a percentage of milk fat of 84% or higher. The goal is to roll the butter into thin sheets alternating with layers of dough, so the more pliable it is, the easier it will be to achieve that result. Having less moisture in the butter, leaving more fat, will make the texture more pliable, more similar to the texture of the dough, at a colder temperature and is thus less prone to melting. The higher milk fat butter is also firmer at room temperature than regular butter, which also aids in keeping the right texture for lamination.

  The moisture level alone doesn’t dictate how pliable a butter is when it is cold. Churning butter is a specialized craft in France. You have a multitude of choices in grocery stores and in cheese shops (doux, salé, demi-sel, from different regions, raw milk, pasteurized) and the ones that are well made can be spread onto toast right out of the fridge. The way you can tell it is pliable when it is cold is to poke or squeeze it. Does it give a little, or does it feel like a block of unforgiving ice? Usually French butters with higher moisture will be more pliable at a cold temperature than a Canadian butter with less moisture because they are made with more expertise.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE CHAPTER: Indeed, the process of creating the croissant was arduous for me, probably more so than if I had been a more seasoned chef. Regardless, where this chapter ends was only halfway through the process. So as not to make the reader suffer as thoroughly as I did at the time, I omitted many more failures. And again, I think it would be fair to mention that we still cannot create a perfect croissant each time; it’s precisely why we love and hate the croissant so much. The perfect croissant is rare, so when it comes, we appreciate it that much more.

  MAKES 7–9 CROISSANTS, depending on how much extra dough is cut and how thin you are able to roll it. I scaled this recipe to fit comfortably into a KitchenAid mixer, and it can be comfortably rolled out on a small countertop.

  LETTING GO

  {2011–2014}

  YOU COULD NOT STEP TWICE INTO THE SAME RIVER, FOR IT’S NOT THE same river AND YOU’RE NOT THE SAME MAN.

  Heraclitus

  THROUGHOUT MY LIFE, I’VE FELT POWER IN WATER. SOME people and cultures say it has magical properties or ancient knowledge hidden in its substance, and I tend to agree.

  From a very young age I’ve held a reverence for it, as well as a fear. When I was four years old, I tried to learn how to swim, but I refused to put my head under the water, knowing even then that it had the ability to drown me. An awe-infused uneasiness overcomes me when I look out at vast seas stretching so far that they meet the edge of the earth. Standing feebly near crashing seas on windy days stirs me to imagine the force of a tidal wave on my body, and I often feel a need to cross faraway oceans, or I feel a landlocked longing for familiar shores when I’m searching for something or missing someone from the past.

  We drink when we feel thirsty, and are refreshed. But of all the magic that water holds, I’ve discovered that sometimes a long, hot shower is the best medicine.

  I

  (2012)

  I AM IN A WIDE, RAPID RIVER, TURBULENT IN PATCHES where it tumbles and skips around rocks peeking over its surface, with calmer streams snaking between. The river is forceful, rushing me toward the unknown. I feel afraid. I use every minute muscle, every movement, to swim against the current, but I am still being pulled downstream. Futile…

  That image poured into my mind as my body shook, my stomach clenching and unclenching rhythmically, independently, alien. I was sitting on the floor of my living room. It was warm but my body disagreed, and I felt cold. I tried to get up for a blanket but I couldn’t move and my legs trembled weakly. There was a cold tingling and aching in my eardrums that caused every sound but the one of my heavy breathing to be muffled. I was having a panic attack. Unsure of what else to do, I held myself, waiting for it to pass.

  Why was this happening? I scanned my life. I was in the midst of starting a bakery, something I had no idea how to do. I was smart enough to know that. Meticulously researching statistics on all the potential failures, I made note of them all. Only one in eleven bakeries survive past the first year. Some don’t even make it to opening before they go bankrupt due to unexpected expenses. As the owner, I fully expected to give up traveling, as I heard that I would most likely be tied to the business. As much as I love seeing the world, I was willing to give that up in order for my Beaucoup dream to be realized. I heard that holidays would be overcome by the bakery’s needs, and so Thanksgivings and Christmases, my favorite times of year, would never be the same again. But I was willing to give that up too. I had carefully weighed each pro and con, and in the end, I concluded that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t try opening the bakery, even if I failed. So I jumped in.

  It was something about architects, general contractors, mechanical engineers, and equipment suppliers that tipped me over the edge. It was hard to know whom to trust on topics I knew nothing of, what the “right” thing to do was. I was worried I was going to be taken advantage of, which would cause some catastrophic chain of events. I was worried I was going to fail, my mind swimming constantly with thoughts of everything that could go “wrong.” I was exhausted and frightened, and I simply couldn’t keep up with everything I couldn’t control.

  …My body is drained, and I stop swimming. I sink into the water and my head stays afloat. When I regain my breath, I can feel the water flowing around me, carrying me gently. I look downstream and can see a few miles of patches of turbulence and calm. I discover that the river propels me as I move from one side to the other, helping me toward patches I want to explore and away from ones I want to avoid. Surprisingly, it feels effortless, a letting go, and I close my eyes.

  My body was calm. I began to warm up. I had clarity that everyone choosing to live was in a river too. There was no controlling the direction that it flowed or what came next. I saw the vanity in swimming against the current, as if I could control nature itself. And I was given an opportunity to explore the water, comfortably submerged within it.

  In that moment, I learned to trust life.

  II

  (2011)

  WE WALKED ALONG THE NETWORK OF SHALLOW RIVERS springing to and from Havasu Falls in Arizona. The water flowed, covering just the tops of our feet. At its deepest, we could wade up to our waists, gripping crevices in the river rock with our feet to keep the gentle current from tipping us over.

  The day before we had hiked a few hours down into the Grand Canyon, into the Havasupai Reservation, and the plan was to camp at the base for a few days. The canyon was a beautiful maze of red rock and emerald waters, forming little pools, dramatic waterfalls, and caves just wide enough for us to crawl through. We descended further, clinging to old rope ladders and metal bars that had been drilled into stone walls forty feet high, and for whatever reason, fear was suspended in the entire canyon, and we explored without inhibition.

  We came up to a thirty-foot waterfall that dropped into a tiny pool so deep that I could only see darker shades of greens and blues the farther down my eyes tried to focus. One by one, the eight men I was camping with dove, falling alongside the water and into the blue. There was shouting, cheering, laughing, then quiet for a small moment before they emerged with water still clinging to their faces. They swam to the small copper-colored shore to wait for the others.

  I never learned to swim, so I climbed down the side of the falls to the lowest edge of the water, three feet from the surface. I watched the divers, envious, wanting so badly to feel water on my body. But when I looked into it, searching for a bottom, I found nothing to support my si
nking weight. So I sat as each of the men hiked back to the top to plummet once again.

  My yearning intensified until it overcame my fear and I shouted, “I’m going to jump in.”

  “Are you sure?” yelled one of the guys, brows furrowed.

  “Yes. How can I possibly drown with eight of you watching me?” I yelled back, fighting my fear with logic.

  I stood at the edge of the water, looking into nothingness. I hesitated. I wanted to turn back and unmake a fervent decision, but I knew this chance may never come again. So I took a deep breath and jumped.

  The water was just as deeply turquoise from below as it was from above. I heard no shouting, cheering, or laughing, only the sound of moving water on my eardrums. I saw light above me and moved my way toward it with flailing limbs, mimicking swimming movements. I came up, gasping for air in dead silence. I struggled to shore, as if moving through watery quicksand, and grasped the first rock I saw. I looked up to see every single body poised to rescue me, and when I smiled, they cheered.

  In that moment, I learned to be brave.

  III

  (2014)

  I WAS IN A HAPPY, BUBBLING RIVER, AND THERE I SAT heavy in the center of it, with my body wedged between two large boulders. My eyes were gazing downstream, watching where the sunlight danced and shimmered on the surface. I suddenly felt the gravity of the moment.

  For months I was confused, unsure. It came on slowly and I didn’t notice it right away, but something didn’t feel right to me. I described this vague sense of discontent and confusion to my best friend D. And after taking in all my hazy confusion, he asked me a question, so pure and uncomplicated: “What do you want?”

  “I want to travel,” I replied immediately, surprising myself with my own clarity.

  “OK, well, see you later!” he smiled, waving farewell.

  That night I booked a flight. I wanted to go back to a place where I could remember hearing my own voice so clearly. I’m not sure how else to describe it other than that it was like having a conversation with the most sacred part of me. So I packed my bags, left everything in Vancouver, including the bakery, rented a car, and drove with clarity as a mission.

  I started with a long hike and sat in a river, feeling the current rock me gently and watching the light sparkle through the trees onto the currents. I held in my hand some dried leaves, a symbol of everything I knew I needed to let go of. G and I had divorced years earlier, but memories of him and our marriage were still lodged in me, not always in the obvious ways I expected. I didn’t long for him or have regrets; I guess I expected that letting go would be like finishing a novel you were reading. But letting go turned out to be much more like rereading a poem over time, and seeing different meanings within the words, separate and combined.

  I put out my arm, my fingers holding the memories of G and our marriage, and when they unfolded, the river washed the leaves, and the memories, away. I grasped for them again instinctively, because in some ways they were comforting, but they had drifted too far, so I let them go once again.

  I climbed the same hilltop I had climbed years before and, perched on a rock, I explained to myself, “Look, I have a week, and in this time I need some clarity on what to do.” I had also been grappling with some seemingly larger decisions that loomed in my mind as the culprits for my mental fog. Should I leave my lover? Should I be doing what I’m doing now? What do I want to do next? What makes me happy?

  And I answered myself, “Just relax and enjoy. Everything will still be waiting for you a week from now. Today, do whatever brings you joy, because if you know what gives you joy today, tomorrow will eventually become today and you will have your answers.”

  So in that moment, I learned again to trust life.

  EGGS

  {1986–2011}

  I LOVE EGGS FRIED over MEDIUM.

  Slick Rick

  EGGS ARE WONDERFUL THINGS. IN COOKING, THEY ARE stabilizers, clarifiers, retarders, emulsifiers, binders, leaveners, among other things. They add color, flavor, and numerous textures. And let’s face it: among the most comforting things to eat are fluffy scrambled eggs on hot buttered toast.

  I

  AT THE AGE OF SEVEN, ONE IS USUALLY OLD ENOUGH TO know how they like their eggs. My uncle asked me how I wanted them cooked for breakfast, and I ran through the options in my mind, deliberately choosing the one that made my mouth water at the thought of it: sunny-side up.

  When I arrived at the table, there sat in front of me a curly mass of eggs, scrambled, beside my toast. I rarely complained or spoke up, knowing it wasn’t the place of a small child, but surely this was a mistake. Perhaps someone else was eating my eggs? Maybe my uncle misheard?

  I looked at my plate and said simply, “But I said sunny-side up.” Everyone began to chuckle, reminding me that this wasn’t a restaurant and that it was easier to make scrambled for everyone.

  Why had they even bothered to ask if they had no intention of fulfilling the request? What kind of games were they playing with me?! I had imagined dipping my toast into the yolk, and then placing the rest of the white on top of the second slice with a good amount of butter and salt. I began crying at the table, at the cruelty of it.

  II

  MY FAVORITE PASTRY AS A CHILD WAS A CHINESE EGG tart. I ate them methodically, taking a small spoon and scooping out the custardy insides, scraping the pastry clean. And then I would split the pastry with my spoon and enjoy each flaky bite until it was gone.

  III

  G AND I WERE AT A BISTRO IN THE 11TH ARRONDISSEMENT. The meal was relatively forgettable, but the dessert, îles flottantes, oh! The experience is still imprinted on the most important parts of my brain, never again to be replicated or relived. This is usually the case with the best of them.

  It was a square, not a mound, of ethereal white meringue, bathing in a shallow bowl of cold crème anglaise sprinkled with a small handful of caramelized sliced almonds and topped with a generous drizzle of tawny caramel. The soft whites disappeared on my tongue like suds in a bath, and when I ate it with a spoonful of cold, heavy, sweet custard, it felt simply…luxurious.

  IV

  IN PASTRY SCHOOL ONE OF THE BASICS I LEARNED WAS that of traiteur, catered foods. One of the dishes was a gently cooked, coddled egg, oeufs en cocotte. It was slowly cooked until the egg began to thicken and come together. I mixed slowly, making sure that no bit of egg ever felt the warmth for long, and eventually the entire mass became just like thick pudding. It didn’t seem like much in the pan or on a plate, but then I topped it with fines herbes and dipped bâtons of toast into the center. It was velvety and it made up for the transgressions of that moment at the breakfast table when I was seven.

  SCRAMBLED EGGS ON HOT BUTTERED TOAST

  This is how I make my scrambled eggs. It’s how my grandmother and mother made them; I think it is how scrambled eggs are made in Hong Kong, where my mom grew up.

  2 large eggs, with the yellowest yolks, from the happiest birds you can find or afford

  2 tbsp whipping cream

  ¼ tsp fine sea salt

  ⅛ tsp freshly cracked pepper

  1 slice of good bread

  2 tbsp unsalted butter, divided

  Crack the eggs into a medium bowl, omitting any shell. Using chopsticks in a whisking motion, incorporate the cream, salt, and pepper until the mixture is smooth and homogeneous.

  Heat a nonstick pan over high heat. In the meantime, toast the slice of bread. When the pan is hot, drop in 1 tablespoon of butter and allow it to melt and foam slightly, swirling it to coat the bottom of the pan.

  Pour in the egg mixture and let it sit for a few seconds, until you can see the edges begin to bubble away from the pan. This means that it has created a thin layer of cooked egg on the bottom of the pan. Tilt and swirl the pan slightly so that the uncooked egg pours into the empty space. Use the chopsticks to push the silky curds to one side of the pan, and swirl the remaining uncooked egg to the empty side of the pan. Continue this process until
the eggs are about 75%–85% cooked and still runny on top, and then remove them from the heat. Transfer the eggs immediately to a warm plate to stop the cooking.

  Spread the remaining 1 tablespoon of butter on the hot toast so that it melts into the bread. Place a bite of scrambled egg on the toast using a fork and take a bite. Stop. Enjoy. Continue this process until both the egg and toast are eaten.

  MAKES 1 SERVING.

  HOW TO OPEN A FINANCIALLY SUCCESSFUL BAKERY

  {2012}

  “WHAT ARE WE?” ISABELLE ASKED ISAAC ONE NIGHT, CURIOUS…“I THINK,” HE SAID CONTEMPLATIVELY INTO THE DARK, “WE ARE EACH a chair and a ladder FOR THE OTHER.”

  Erica Bauermeister, The School of Essential Ingredients