I awoke at 4:30 yesterday morning. Actually, it was earlier, but I forced myself to squeeze my eyes shut until 4:30. Then, I knew there was no hope for sleeping until 6, my usual target “up” time. I took the dog out and as I padded out with her I heard my dear Mom say, “nobody here but us chickens” and, as always, a pang of deep sadness stretched its tentacles out within me. There was nobody like my Mom. And, especially on holidays, I miss her the most. But, beyond the sadness of losing her, is the deep and abiding powerful inspiration of her. I reach for and find her steadfast ability to pervade, her incredible uplifting positive impact upon me, her encouraging words and enduring cheerfulness, love, generosity, encouragement and kindness. And just then, in that instant as I turn back for the house for the day, I am left with all of the positive reflections of her and her steadfast devotion to her family. And, once again, as I pause to begin my own particular tasks of the day, I am inspired by her, and her love of baking.
I made the coffee, took my bowl of sweet potato dough out of the refrigerator, placed it on the counter and sat down at my light box as I try to do for at least an hour each morning during this time of year. Such is the only help for my light deficit issues. I don’t really mind because it gives me pause early in the day to think. I thought of being in a few other places on this morning. One is Cape Cod which is extraordinarily beautiful at this time of year. Another is the east end. And then, there is my heart’s delight of Santa Barbara. No one is up there, I thought to myself. I thought of Chef Sim in Truro, catching glimpses in my mind’s eye of that pristine spot that I, too adore and capturing it just now when it is mostly devoid of other people. Complete raw beauty, solace, serenity and with the energy of elation all wrapped up in one, nearly unknown and at this time of year, a desolate spot. So inspiring.
Well, all of that reflection didn’t last long. Back down into the kitchen I went. I should just get those rolls into the final rise, I said to myself……..
My mind wandered and I wondered if Chef Sim was baking on this day, too. Such is the tendency of instinctive and obsessive bakers. I thought of Pastry Chef Matthew, as he’s tagged, and all of the amazing bakers who have labored so long and hard over the past week or so to provide the breads and desserts for others who prefer to skip over that part of the meal prep and hand it over to those who love to do it. Sim and Matthew’s may indeed be more masterful, each in their own ways, and mine more mundane, but I pause, and imagine the urge and the sense of fulfillment to be the same.
I gave myself a whirl and a nod to all of those I think have the urge like me. It’s kind of a cosmic thing to be in need of the process of baking. I took a quick gander at all the pies on the feed as I sipped my coffee. I went to work.
There is something about the early morning that calls me to bake. I can feel it and I know that others can, too. Not once in a while, but every single day. I don’t know if it is a DNA thing or not, but I find it both instinctive and obsessive. By that, I mean totally natural, easy, fulfilling.
Out came all of the containers: flour, sugar, spices. I divided the dough and weighed it. I flew back to the table in Pastry School and saw myself there with such a great class. Flour flew and a few laughs and tempers as well. A million thoughts came and went as I stood at the counter kneading my dough. Dough, I thought. So very many possibilities. So many delights. The possibilities are endless and so too are the opportunities. Like the garden, every morning is just slightly different and calling.
I rolled, dabbed butter, toasted pecans, diced pears, sprinkled them and spiced sugar, grated zest, rolled, cut and gently coddled the dough into the pan. Round two – divide, weigh, roll out those little orbs of dough, cupped beneath the palm of my hand, into the dinner rolls. Cute as buttons, I said to myself as I wondered, as I always do, if they will really rise as they are supposed to. All of the potential of that dough in my little hand – all of the magical parts – of oven spring.
Ok, I said, maybe I should go back to bed now. But, then, as I looked to see if the sky brightened on the kitchen side just a little bit, I knew, I would not return to bed, I would turn to my pies.
All of the variations on the classics that I’ve seen and been intrigued by over the last few weeks flashed through my mind. “I could do this. I could do that.” But, I knew that I had to stick with the “this is the day for the classics” approach to all the dishes, soup to nuts.
I couldn’t help but sneak in a few changes though as my mind swirled around all the iterations, large and small. What could I sneak in and get away with? I added allspice into the sugar mixture for the Sweet Potato coffeecake along with the cardamom, once again wondering, as I took a whiff into that bottle, whether I really felt a kinship for that particular scent. Decidedly not completely, I went to the pantry for the allspice. Yes, that’s better……
Lemon zest went into the apple mountain and maple syrup went into the pumpkin pie custard. That’s all I could do without having questions hurled my way – like, “what did you do to the pie?”……..hmmm and, yes, I got away with them. I should adorn those little babies of rolls with some nice Caraway seeds, or at least black pepper like I did last year, but I resisted.
This morning, as I reflect upon all the dishes, sink load after sink load, dishwasher ran at least 3 times, I realized that of all the dishes that came and went, the potatoes, turnip, stuffing, gravy and on and on, none of them were as rewarding to me as those earliest endeavors of the morning, the interludes with dough. All of the next parts of the day turned into a list of chores rather than creations. That’s it, I think. Baking is an act of creation like other dishes can be but aren’t, at least on a day like yesterday and at least not for someone as inclined to the work surface as I am. I scrolled through some more recipes in my head and wondered if I should make more side dishes, as I do every year. There are so many I’d like to have on the table. The one that nearly won out was the Sweet Potato and Pear Gratin, which I could make a meal in and of itself. I just love it. But, knowing of all the other food I had, I let it go for yesterday’s menu.
Well, today, is a whole new day. The page has been turned and, now and, as the sky begins to lighten outside my upstairs desk window, albeit gloomily today, I have already begun to imagine what should go into and come out of my oven. There are so many aromas I’d like to smell this morning. It could be scones, of course. They could be cranberry-pear or blood orange and dark chocolate….. And, I’m not over the cranberry thing yet – the mind reels, as my friend Barbara used to say. And, I find myself wishing I had a loaf of plain homemade brioche sitting down there on the counter to make a baked French Toast. Next year I will remember to do this. A Dutch Baby? The Gingerbread one? hmmm…….
In so many ways it doesn’t matter who I’m baking for. It’s the raw act that draws me in and captures me. I imagine it to be like the pull to paint or play beautiful music on the piano. But, alas, I have no talent in those regards. And, once again in the breaking dawn, I am drawn into the kitchen. I imagine bakers the world over, back in the breaking light, rolling, kneading, shaping and brushing – first the excess flour off and then the egg wash on and I feel some odd thread, and kinship there. It must be real for the piles and shelves of baking books adorning my workroom tell me so. Each worker and writer not only has the need to bake but many, also to write. And so now, back down I shall go and create something new and fresh today for those lolling in their beds. I will send aromas up the stairs and see what will stir them.
And so now, I will carefully select the spice jars. I will, once again, embrace all the possibilities of a little mound of dough.