I grew up watching mom churn out a good pie crust twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas.  She made it look simple. Cut in the shortening, give it a quick knead, roll it out in under five minutes, place it in the pie plate, crimp, crimp, crimp, pinch, and fill it with ________ (usually pumpkin or pecan custard).

When I asked mom to show me how to piece together a pie crust (perhaps using all butter?), she took me through the steps, reminding me the entire time to cut in the fat until the mixture resembled cornmeal, use a light hand, do not over-handle the dough, do not over-knead the dough — I held my breath throughout the entire process.  One would have though I was handling the ingredients for something as delicate as a souffle or methamphetamine.

No, it was just pie crust.

Only after I was many, many miles away from mom’s Oklahoma kitchen did I try pie crust on my own, handling that first crust as delicately as the one through which I was guided.

Using all butter, I purposefully left a few pea-sized lumps ensuring a flaky crust.

Success.

However, rolling out pie crust has never been a favorite task for me.  When Chef Heidi introduced us to enriched pie dough (the addition of egg along with using all butter, which I had heard about previously, but never tried), I was not expecting much more than my usual difficulties in rolling out pie crust — hard crust that cracks a bit, and one I can never manage to roll into a perfect circle.  I was pleasantly surprised that not only was an enriched pie crust easier to roll, but I was amused to witness Chef Heidi’s hammering of the dough with her rolling pin to make the dough malleable.

Which is a great way to end stressful days.

Not that I have those, ahem.

Orange and Flax Seed Muffins

A Roop Saturday morning breakfast: runny fried eggs, bacon or the occasional breakfast sausage and white toast for dad; pancakes or waffles, or, for a change of pace (a treat in our eyes), muffins — blueberry muffins, of course, born from a boxed powdered mix.  They required only water, oil and a light handed whisk.  Sometimes the muffins had streusel on top, sometimes the muffin mix came with canned blueberries, sometimes the blueberries were replaced with bananas and walnuts, much to my chagrin.  One time the muffins were made from scratch using frozen blueberries. I was not crazy about them.  They did not offer the  sweet, chemical goodness I had grown to love.

Palates change, and I prefer a savory breakfast over anything that comes with syrup or dehydrated blueberries.  But people love muffins.

They are quick.  They are portable. They are a staple in bakeries.  They are a way to ease a beginning student into baking.

So says Chef Heidi.

Want to know how much it is costing me in tuition to “learn” how to make muffins?

Seriously.  You don’t want to know.

I inwardly rolled my eyes as chef explained the well method (sift dry ingredients into a bowl, make a well in the middle, fill with wet ingredients, mix gently, pour batter into muffin tins).

Then the creaming method was introduced.  I was perplexed.

People use stand mixers for muffins? But won’t that make them tough, dense, rock-like weapons of mass destruction?

I got rid of my catapult years ago.

As chef explained the proper way to cream butter and sugar (cream until it doubles in size), it suddenly dawned on me. As muffins are just little cakes we eat before noon, of course they should be treated as one would treat a white cake or any layer cake.

We made muffins using both the well and the creaming method and tried them side-by-side at the end of class (it was near midnight, it was almost morning food).

The muffins made from the creaming method received a unanimous vote of preference.  Tender, much like a slice of well-made white cake, and moist and not a dehydrated blueberry to be found.

People want good muffins, and I will make good muffins again, but only to share with several dozen friends or to sell in my make-believe bakery.

Tonight, while riding home after class on the L, I am testing the Word Press app on my phone.  My apologies if I do not churn out a particularly articulate piece, as I am half-staring at the drunk girl in the Cub’s Jersey who is not at all as quiet as her beer/vodka/car bomb-induced state may lead her to believe.

And apple pie, oh yes. Why is it that I had to ask how to weave a lattice top? I must be the only person in the class who grew up eating only pumpkin or pecan pies – open-face pies, if you will.

(Pay no attention to that wonky edge.)

So now I weave lattice pie crusts with the most mediocre of them — better than the drunk girl on the L, I’m sure.

Animalistic Brioche

Bitter:

Looking inside my stand mixer at brioche dough that should be satiny with a sheen and not greasy with beads of sweat.

“How is culinary school going, Emilie?”

“Fine.  I love it.”

Sweet:

Brioche dough shapes well and bakes up beautifully in taste and texture despite its overheating as I mixed it.

“How was class last night, Emilie.”

“Wonderful. My classmates declared my brioche the prettiest in the class.”

Musing:

There are life situations that are worth makeup-riddled tears. Greasy brioche dough does not make the list.  Neither do overly soft Linzer dough, overflowing tarts, or haphazardly shaped (but very flaky) croissants.

I did not care. I still escaped into the privacy of the walk-in refrigerator, squeezed out a few salty drops, sniffed my slightly drippy nose, asked myself why on earth I am tormenting myself here in this class just outside this refrigerator that reeks of butter and peaches and wobbly custards tucked away on wracks bearing hand-written signs that read “Do not touch!” and “For cafe.”

I did not dare answer my question. I opened the door, half-heartedly ready to start on our next and last project of the night: rolling out strands for pretzels; cutting butter into flour for pie crust; rolling out yet another round of brioche/linzer/laminated dough to squeeze into a tart pan sans the bottom so make sure to use parchment paper on the cookie sheet underneath, or, disaster.

Grit teeth and smile.  Smile because chef keeps reminding me, keeps reminding us, that we are doing a fine job in scaling our ingredients, the texture of our baked products is wonderful, and people in the cafe are awed at the beauty of our zebra-striped, ganache-topped brownies.

And we are still getting the hang of it.

Emilie, forget all you taught yourself, as this is a new and different environment that requires more precision, more attention to timing, more dodging around people and learning patience as all six classmates want to scoop and scale bread flour at the exact same moment and has anyone seen the vanilla, the egg wash, the crystalized sugar?

“I am still using it.”

I am still tired at the end of a five hour evening, every moment on my feet except for the few times I escape to use the restroom, truly using it as a room in which to rest.

I am still tired when I wake up Tuesday morning/Wednesday morning after 5 1/2 hours of sleep.  I put on clothes that feel sloppy, wash my face, attempt a little makeup, and look at my tired eyes and wonder how it is that I suddenly feel like both an adult and the infant who screams and wails out of exhaustion because she does not know that mental rest is a panacea.

I drag myself to the L, and while the force of the wheels on the tracks with alternating speeds of the train make me sway and lurch into my seat mate, I go back and forth between reading the news and staring out the window until the train is eaten by the underground.  Monroe is next and this is Monroe and this is my stop, so I am out the door, up the escalator or stairs, and plodding the half mile towards the office, stopping into a coffee shop on the way. The girl behind the counter who I did not think was very friendly when I first encountered her immediately greets me  with a choice of yogurt, peach or mango, and asks if I am in the mood for iced or hot coffee that morning.

I think she likes me as much as two people with five minutes of familiarity one time a day three or four times a week can like each other.

If I have to wait a moment or two while she waits on other customers, I fixate on the muffins and the cupcakes behind the counter.  I stare at the regulars who seem overly eager for which cupcakes they want to make up their dozen they are bringing into the office as a treat or to a friend as a gift.

And at that moment, all is okay.