White Jacket Required (14 page)

My brother was another growing source of stress for me and my family. He had just turned eighteen and seemed to consider himself invincible. The day before I headed back to Orlando, Mom pulled me aside and told me in a worried tone that she had found a few beer bottles hidden in his car. I had feared that he was getting into trouble, and this helped confirm my suspicions, but I knew that my talking to him wouldn't solve anything. To him, I was just the overly anxious big sister. Still, I couldn't help wondering if there was something I could do to help him get back on the right path.

Now, as I sat sipping my tea and practicing my chocolate writing, I let all of that go and just tried to focus at the task at hand. In that moment, I felt confident that John would turn out fine and that Rob would accept the fact that I sometimes would rather spend time alone than with him and his friends. I glanced back up at the clock and saw that it was already almost 8:00 a.m. I squeezed the rest of the still-warm chocolate into a little bowl and balled up my wax paper to throw away. I didn't enjoy my new class, Introduction to Pastries, as much as I had liked Bread 101; the pastry class required a sense of patience and decorating talent that I seemed to lack, no matter how hard I tried. I was much better at the messy jobs, the sticky dough and puffy croissants, than I was at rolling fondant, a puttylike icing used to decorate elaborate cakes and
petits fours
, but I was trying.

That night in school, we were making Opera Tortes, a very traditional French
petit four
made up of thin layers of delicate almond sponge cake that had been soaked in coffee liqueur, sandwiched together with coffee buttercream, and topped with a shiny chocolate glaze. The end result was ridiculously rich and delicious, but it took a steady hand to cut the sponge cake evenly. An uneven cut would result in a lopsided torte, which was unacceptable to Chef.

I brought a small stand mixer over to my station and cracked three eggs into the mixing bowl to start the French buttercream, which is essentially beaten eggs mixed with boiling sugar syrup and butter. (Personally, I prefer Italian buttercream, which uses only the egg whites, creating a lighter, airier frosting.) Once my eggs were thick, pale, and ribbonlike, I slowly streamed in my boiling syrup. Pouring too quickly would scramble the eggs, an issue I had already dealt with on my first attempt at making this frosting at home. When all the syrup was added, I cranked the mixer on high and let it go for a good eight minutes while I prepared the rest of my ingredients: two pounds of soft butter, and pure coffee extract, which smelled nothing like Starbucks. My favorite part of making both French and Italian buttercream was the moment after I'd added the butter, soft chunk by soft chunk, when the frosting looked like it was ruined, with tiny chunks of butter floating in a creamy sea. But then, almost like magic, it would come back together and billow up high around the sides of the bowl. It seemed like a good metaphor for life: just when you think that it couldn't get any worse, suddenly things start to look up.

I added two teaspoons of the dark, strong coffee extract to my frosting and stirred. I wondered what all my friends from college were doing right now, on a late Monday night in March. After we'd all graduated, a few friends had gone straight into graduate schools at prestigious Southern universities like Johns Hopkins, UNC Chapel Hill, or University of Virginia. I had lost touch with most of them, since my schedule was not really conducive to spending hours on Facebook or Google Chat. Still, I wouldn't trade staying up late to make frosting for anything, even if it meant losing touch with a few friends.

I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket, signaling it was time to check on my almond sponge cakes in the oven. I slid out my sheet tray and peeked in the middle. My cake was perfectly golden and pulling away from the edges of the pan. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't a practical night, but we were preparing pastries for the school's open house tomorrow, when all the parents from the area would come in and see firsthand what their children were up to. We worked in groups again, and I was teamed up with a pair of Spanish-speaking twin sisters two years younger than I was. Most of the time I had no idea what they were saying, but they were hard workers and concerned with their grades. Both Jake and Samantha were in my class, too, but were assigned different groups on the opposite end of the kitchen.

Working carefully, I inverted my sheet cake, then slowly peeled back the parchment paper on top. By itself, the cake was pretty bland. It was a simple sponge cake, using egg whites and powdered almonds folded into a mixture of sugar, butter, and cake flour. The recipe intentionally produced a bland, dry cake because it was meant to be soaked in liqueur, coffee buttercream, and chocolate. A moist, dense cake would crumble under the weight of it all, but a dry cake would be able to absorb everything nicely. I trimmed the edges of my cake and then brushed the liqueur all over the top, followed by a nice big plop of buttercream. Desserts like this seemed so old-fashioned to me, but there really was a special joy in creating them. I felt like anyone could bake muffins or chocolate cupcakes, but assembling a classic Opera Torte really took skill.

As I spread the buttercream across the whole cake with my offset spatula, I thought back upon all the bustling pastry shops on the Left Bank in Paris. Desserts like this one lined the glass cases, and fresh artisanal bread was stacked high on shelves above. Sometimes after school, I would stop in one of the shops on my way home and get a special treat to take home for dessert. Unlike many American women, the French women I met were not concerned with who was the thinnest and who exercised the most. Instead, French women seemed to take much more joy in living a pleasurable life, whether that meant picking up an occasional pastry from the
pâtisserie
or catching up with an old friend for hours over creamy cappuccinos. I missed the Parisian mindset relating to food and life and hoped that after I graduated, I would be able to share it with others.

Later that evening, as my chocolate glaze set up shiny over my torte, I listened to Chef Becker lecture about the next day's events. My dad was coming up for the open house, and I couldn't wait to show off everything I had been working on. The Opera Torte was finished and looking wonderful (only a tiny bit slanted), and my group mates were about to get busy working on the traditional almond
petits fours
and tiny French
macarons
, my favorite. To me, there was not a more perfect cookie than the French
macaron
. Unlike the cloyingly sweet American macaroon, laden with sugary flaked coconut and chocolate, French
macarons
consist of two light almond meringue cookies sandwiched together with a dab of chocolate
ganache
or fruit preserves. I fell in love with these little treats while living in Paris, where they were typically served five to a plate alongside an espresso.

The next day, when my dad arrived, everything was set out perfectly. I had dark circles underneath my eyes from working late the night before, but it was well worth the effort. Our station looked like a mini
pâtisserie
, with all of our pastries arranged over a decorative mirror that Chef just happened to have in her car and let us borrow.

“It seems like you really have found your niche, Jennifer,” Dad said, as he bit into a tiny square of Opera Torte. Right before all the guests arrived, I had carefully written the word
Opera
on every small slice. My wrist felt sore to prove it.

“Yeah, it's a lot of fun, and I feel more at home here than in the regular Culinary Program,” I said. I really did. When I looked back and thought that only two months ago I was breaking down chickens and deboning fish, I shuddered. Here, I was constantly surrounded by freshly baked bread, frosting in every color, and
petits fours.
Dad was right; I
did
feel like I had found my niche.

“There are more pastries across the hall,” I told him, signaling into the next kitchen, which was a more advanced pastry class.

“This is just unreal!” Dad said as we passed rows and rows of perfect lemon tarts, miniature chocolate-chip cookies, and two-inch slices of flourless chocolate torte. In the next kitchen, there were
macarons
of every flavor and color: coconut, lime, licorice, chocolate, vanilla, peach, and rose. All were no larger than a quarter and were filled with bright, creamy fillings. I grabbed a coconut and rose
macaron
to sample, since I hadn't had anything to eat since dinner, and that was hours ago. Usually on school nights I packed a snack, such as a granola bar or some dried fruit and nuts, but tonight I had been too rushed to think of anything besides how to spell
Opera.

As I bit into the rose
macaron,
I was transported right back to France. The exterior crackled on my tongue and tasted lightly of flowers and sugar-sweet perfume. Surprisingly, rose is a very popular flavor in France, and often it's paired with raspberry in candies and pastries. The
macaron
I was eating had a delicate raspberry jellylike filling that went perfectly with the crumbly rose cookie.

Raspberry-Rose Macarons

Makes about 18 macarons

Raspberry-rose is a traditional flavor combination in France, but if you'd rather make plain macarons, substitute the rose extract for vanilla and sandwich the cookies together with chocolate or vanilla buttercream frosting.

For the white chocolate-raspberry
ganache

4 ounces white-chocolate chips

¼ cup half-and-half or cream

2 tablespoons raspberry jam (I use Bonne Maman)

For the cookies

1 cup powdered sugar

½ cup ground almonds

2 egg whites, room temperature

5 tablespoons granulated sugar

1 teaspoon rose extract

1 drop red food coloring

First, make the
ganache
filling:
Melt white chocolate and cream using a double boiler (or in a metal bowl set over a pot of simmering water). Whisk chocolate and cream together, breaking up any lumps. Add the jam and stir well. Push
ganache
through a fine-mesh strainer (I use a sifter) to get rid of the raspberry seeds. Let
ganache
cool for at least 2 hours at room temperature before using. It will thicken as it cools.

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Make the cookies:
Combine the powdered sugar and almonds in a bowl and mix well to combine. Using a stand mixer, whip the egg whites until foamy. Add the granulated sugar, rose extract, and food coloring and continue to whip until stiff, glossy peaks form. In two batches, fold in the powdered sugar and almond mixture. Scrape batter into a pastry bag with a ¼-inch pastry tip, and pipe out tablespoon-size mounds of batter onto a lined baking sheet.

Bake the
macarons
for 12 minutes. Let cool completely, then peel
macarons
off baking sheet.

When cookies are totally cool, spread a teaspoon or so of white chocolate–raspberry
ganache
on half the cookies, and sandwich with the other half.

Bloo
d
Orange Tarts

Makes four 3-inch individual tarts or one 8-inch tart

Save any extra curd from these tarts to spread on muffins and scones. The puckery taste and stunning color are wonderful.

For the blood orange curd

Juice of one blood orange

Juice of one lemon

Zest of one lemon

½ cup sugar

3 eggs, plus 1 egg yolk

½ stick (4 tablespoons) butter at room temperature, cut into small chunks

For the tart shells

¾ cup all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon sugar

Pinch of salt

½ stick (4 tablespoons) cold butter, cut into chunks

1 egg yolk

1 tablespoon whole milk or cream

Make the curd
first so that it has ample time to chill and set in the refrigerator: Line a sheet tray with wax paper. Whisk together the blood orange juice, lemon juice, lemon zest, sugar, eggs, and egg yolk in a large heatproof bowl. Place the bowl over a pot of simmering water to make a double boiler and add the butter. Whisk continuously until the mixture begins to thicken, about 10 minutes, then, using a rubber spatula, continue to gently stir until the curd is thick and creamy and coats the back of the spatula completely. (This entire process will take about 15–20 minutes.) Once the curd is thick, take it off the heat and pour onto the wax paper–lined sheet tray, spreading it thin. Press a piece of plastic wrap on top of the curd to cover it completely and transfer to the refrigerator for an hour to set.

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Make the tart shells:
Mix together the flour, sugar, and salt. Cut in the butter with your fingertips until the mixture resembles sand. Add the yolk and cream and combine until mixture forms a ball.

Knead the dough until a smooth dough forms. Roll out the dough on a floured surface and press it into greased mini-tart shells. You could also roll out the dough and press it into a pie dish. Prick dough with a fork. Bake the shells or pie shell until slightly golden, about 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool completely.

Fill the tart shells (or pie) with the curd and transfer to the refrigerator for at least 8 hours to set completely.

13
PIECE OF CAKE

W
EDDING CAKE CLASS STARTED OFF PAINFULLY.
Granted, I was assigned to be in a group with Samantha and Jake, and it was fun to work with friends, spending the late evenings laughing and making fondant, sugar roses, and Styrofoam cake layers. But the class quickly cemented my sense that I had no knack whatsoever for decorating cakes, not to mention zero patience. It made me almost miss the crazy, fast-paced mess of Basic Skills I, where I'd at least been able to release some stress by chopping and sautéing; in Wedding Cakes, I felt stifled and awkward. To make matters worse, I realized just how artistic some of the other students in the class were, including Samantha.