Leaves change, brioche remains

These last few days have been grey and gloomy, feeling very much like fall. The restaurant is closed on Monday and Tuesday, so I took yesterday to drive upstate and see the leaves. It's been 10 years since I lived on the east coast for all of a split second, and it was this same time of year that I moved to Boston, but I was different then and wasn't very interested in, or appreciative of the beauty and peace in simple things like the changing of leaves, or the ripple of wind on the river.

I'm happy that life moves forward, even if we dig in our heels and are reluctant to adapt to its speed. I'm grateful that nothing lasts forever, even though sometimes I don't recognize it in the moment. There are times when I am compelled to beat myself up for the mistakes of my youth, for not taking advantage of opportunities that were handed to me, for missing out on what was right in front of me. I was (am) a stubborn and strong-willed person, and I have often struggled to find a way to use that to my advantage, rather than allowing it to sabotage my success. These days, the moments of stubbornness and strong-will are often balanced with deep contemplation, hours of analyzation and pondering the merits of one choice versus another. I have found a calm in the kitchen amidst the hectic chaos. I have found a purpose and direction that I always knew was within me, but did not find the patience to steer in the right direction.

Baking has become a metaphor for me. It is dynamic in practice and serves to remind me that nothing is permanent. There are always highs and lows, burned forearms, sliced fingers, emotional and physical breakdowns, an ongoing and endless process that can make you feel overwhelmed with joy one moment and completely despondent the next. You can't count on any two days, even any two hours to be the same.
It takes a strong dedication and perseverance to be a pastry chef. To be anything, really, but to be a pastry chef takes intense dedication so as not to be totally discouraged by the mistakes. The rewards are beautiful and many.
You find your every sense being stimulated all day long- the vibrant, deep, contrasting colors of seasonal fruits and vegetables; the cool, smooth, elastic touch of dough as it rises; the sweet, buttery aroma filling your nose as something is pulled fresh from the oven; and, of course, all the new and sensational tastes that the kitchen brings.

Any who know me know that I am a caregiver. That I seek to care for people as much as I can, sometimes in the past to my own detriment. Cooking allows me the opportunity to take care of people in the most organic way possible. Baking affords me the luxury of being a part of peoples lives, in the most simple and honest way.

I'm moved to share the Killed by Dessert manifesto, written by one of my personal pastry idols, Michael Laiskonis:
We are pastry chefs. We are the red-headed step-children of the culinary brigade. You’ll find us in the basement, or in some hard-fought and carefully carved-out corner of the kitchen. We are protective of that space, our equipment, our atmosphere. We are particular. We strive to be masters of several disparate disciplines. We are sugar burners, cream puffs, the keepers of ‘Candyland’- and to too many who don’t know any better, we must certainly be just plain ‘bakers’ (not that there's anything wrong with that). We are respected, feared, and ignored.

We are pastry chefs. We treasure our autonomy within the rigid structure around us. We are often left to fend for ourselves and we embrace a do-it-yourself spirit. We are part of a community. We band together, share ideas, and push each other. We take full use of modern technology to create a subterranean network, to shrink the physical space between us. We speak a different language. We seek to explain our intentions through references others just don’t understand. We look at things through a slightly different lens.
We are pastry chefs. We find comfort in repetition and sameness. We are precise, clean, and dexterous. We prefer control to chaos. We are also spontaneous and prone to occasional fits of whimsy. We are students of subtlety. We seek to provide maximum impact. We must predict the future as we cook. We cook with clear intention. We are constantly receptive to inspiration, and that inspiration often comes from the unlikeliest of places. We like to break things that aren’t broken, just to see what happens.

We are pastry chefs. We find pleasure in hidden things. We are often most proud of what you rarely ever get to see. We want to let you in on our secrets. We like to speculate as to what your secrets might be. We are in the nostalgia business, and we have a unique opportunity, nay, a responsibility, to tap into your psyche. We recognize the powerful potential of food as a means of dialog. We want to make you happy.

We are pastry chefs. It is up to us to leave a pleasant last impression. Our work is often an afterthought of guests already satiated by savory. We admit that what we provide is mere luxury, yet we know we satisfy your innermost cravings. Each of us, at one time or another, has wished we could simply send dessert first. This is our chance. We just want to kill you with dessert.

White Dogwood

I happened upon this quote recently from one of my favorite poets, Anne Morrow Lindbergh: "After all, I don’t see why I am always asking for private, individual, selfish miracles when every year there are miracles like white dogwood." There has been a great paradigm shift within me in the last year. It has been (and continues to be) difficult to become the kind of person I desire to be, to act and behave in a way that accurately represents my ideals and beliefs. It is much easier to speak about values and ideals rather than set to work to become those values and ideals. Yet, there is a slow transformation that began within me some time ago, and each day I continue to be amazed at the progress Nature has made within me. I can't take credit for most of the work; more than anything, I have simply allowed the change to take place. I have become more open to this transformation and have had to call upon reserves of patience that I didn't know I had, in order to continue to allow the transformation. Watching the cycle of life on the farm here has been marvelous. I mean that literally; it has been something at which I will always marvel. Harvesting the fruits of physical labor with reverence and thanks for the sacrifice of Nature in all forms, transforming the sacrifice into a beautiful meal, and sending the scraps back to the land in order to do so again tomorrow is, well, marvelous. The pace of the restaurant is fast, certainly, but the energy is not. The energy is calm and slow and forces you to be a part of the process, not merely an observer. Even the shit here smells beautiful. As I was driving through the country to arrive here, I found myself repulsed by the stench of shit through the plainlands. It was invasive to my senses, offensive, and overwhelming. I wanted to roll up windows and hold my breath until it was gone, fearful that I would breathe deeply in the smell of methane and chemical waste. The shit here smells different. The animals are well fed and happy and taken care of. There is a sweetness that lingers after the shit smell is gone, so much so that you can nearly identify what they've been eating. Reading an interview with Joel Salatin from the latest Sun Magazine, I was pleasantly surprised to see him comment on the same thing. He remarks, "One of the surest ways to know if a wound is infected is if it is unsightly and smells bad. When it starts to heal, it gets a pretty sheen and doesn’t smell anymore. Farms that are not beautiful and that stink are like big wounds on the landscape." I have witnessed first hand the truth in this statement. When I set out on this journey to become a...whatever I am: chef, pastry chef, culinarian, when I set forth on the journey, I had no idea where it would take me. I was open to whichever direction I was moved by the journey itself, and it has led me here. I have always known, deep in my heart, that I am to be a steward of land and food, and I have shrugged off that responsibility as one that will always be there for me to return to after I'm done with my "living". I am now aware, more than ever, that this is my living. This is where I find my peace and contentment, and to separate myself from this, is to create a separation within myself. I have come to realize the great power of small miracles.

Same, same, but different

Eventful few days here. After a nice 3 day weekend and an uncharacteristically beautiful Yom Kippur, I returned to work on Thursday to a busy workload. We had a group touring the farm and treated them to a grain demo (which ended up being super interesting and informative for moi, as well!) and we had a busy night in the restaurant. After spending hours pitting plums for pickling, and scaling loaves of brioche, I set out to make 5000 chocolate chip cookies. Yes, 5000. Scale, mix, scale, roll, cut, bake, and repeat. All night. I wonder if I will always be one of those "the grass is always greener" people, because I found myself longing for the high-demand chaos of dinner service, despite all of the days prior when, in the midst of said chaos, I could be seen daydreaming about the calm, monotony of the bakeshop. Neither are better or worse than the other, and both have their merits, yet I still seem to have a hard time being content or present in the midst of either. Awareness of this distraction made it only slightly easier to refocus and actually complete the task. We'll get back to that...I was also distracted by this worsening pain in my side and back, that eventually got so bad that I left work early to see a doctor. Turns out, the back pain and cramps I had been chocking up to being a muscular issue for almost a year, was actually shingles. I was given some pain medication and an antiviral, and sent on my way. I am not a good patient as it is, but I am especially not a good bed-ridden patient. I already feel inferior at Stone Barns and, as an intern, there is already within me a compulsion to prove myself. Throw in a physical challenge like this and I find that my fear that I will be treated too delicately runs rampant. Having said that, it would be easy for me to give in to this fear and push myself beyond the physical limits that I should, (and I am very compelled to do so) but I have gained the wisdom to know that this just a projection of insecurity and that, in the end, I will do much more damage to my body and my ability to be a pastry chef if I can't honestly assess my situation and rest when it is needed. Back to the bakery...I made a series of careless errors in the last few days, about which I am embarrassed. I burned 3 trays of cookies at the end of my shift, because I forgot to set the timer (a rookie mistake), and I pushed a half sheet of cooling butternut squash off of the speed rack because I was being hasty as I pulled cookies from the oven. I was ashamed to waste the product, but there is no point on dwelling; the best thing in situations like these is to refocus, be more mentally aware, and move on. I am learning the delicate balance of efficiency and quality (key: think less, do more), and after being hounded daily about "the details", I am finally finding success in the details. The time at the farm is flying past, and I am grateful for the lessons that my body is absorbing. Tomorrow the restaurant is closed, but we are in need of so much prep for the upcoming Harvest Fest this weekend, that I will be there for several hours. After taking a couple early days due to the shingles, I am eager to make up my hours and regain some credibility with my pastry chef. Objectives for tomorrow: push myself, but not to the point of exhaustion; stay focused and make fewer careless errors; increase efficiency and ask more thoughtful questions.