good mornings
I stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes after 2am this morning, flicked on the lights, and looked at the thermometer hanging on the side of the cooler. Its become something of a ritual. It is the moment my plans for the day are finalized and set into motion. It’s also the moment I know what can be accomplished and what heartbreak may be suffered, all based on temperature and humidity.
For the past few months I’ve walked in dressed in long sleeve shirts and sweaters, thrilled to tie on my apron as yet another layer. Despite the chill of winter and twice my weight in clothing, I long ago orphaned the kitchen from the heating system. All in the name of good laminated dough. Some of the very best croissants and danishes came when my little good-morning-meter read 56 degrees, long until the sun’s golden rays flooded the windows. Probably crazy, I know. But totally worth it.
Or I’m insane, I’ll let you decide.
Today, however, was quite a different story. My kitchen was 72 degrees at 2am, and I was feeling spring’s fickle little game of chance on dough and butter. While I enjoyed an unfamiliar moment of comfort, I knew hand sheeting croissant dough and controlled proofing were going to become a challenge. So off to crank up the air conditioning I went, dreading the inevitable warm weather electric bills. This, while being covered in flour, is the real life blooper reel of a pastry baker.
When it’s time to release chilly layers of flour and butter from its cold shackles, inspiring the dough to rise to its airy potential, we need to coddle it in just the right amount of warmth. Which is never a frigid 56 degrees. So every day I stack sheet after sheet of carefully rolled dough into our proofer. However, about a month ago, a new drama began.
Growth is a wonderful challenge, but always begins with a crazy moment. The kind of moment where your hands are grasping delicately balanced sheet pans of pastry and you’re trying to open a clasped door with the edge of your foot, only to find the proofer is full. Very, very full. There you are, balancing on one foot, and trying to figure out how to negotiate feet out of inches.
As luck and grace would have it, last week we stumbled upon a kindred spirit who was low on his own kind of space. Trying to squeeze a new oven into a tight kitchen layout, he needed to part with a proofer. The stars aligned, and off we went. Much to our surprise, it wasn’t just a proofer we found.
We pulled into this little bakery we had never seen before, in the quiet of their off hours, and were met with a kind sole holding a loaf of deliciously smelling bread. Daily, Mr. Amazing and I look at each other in a moment of happiness, as someone walks into 1871 and enjoys the smell of baking bread or pastry. We smile, and chuckle a little, because we have long suffered from nose blindness to our own baking. We often forget, reminded only when we see a guest inhale the happiness. But as this man handed me the loaf, I could smell the tender crumb filled with melted gouda cheese and rosemary, and the caramelization of the blistered, umber crust. It was a little bit of heaven wrapped in a paper bag. A small gift, that means so much from one artisan bread baker to another.
We stayed, chatting about everything from baking equipment to inspiration to how-it-all-began stories, for quite some time. As we finally climbed back in the truck, bread in hand, all I could think about was what a wonderful community baking can be. While we all come from very different backgrounds and stories, artisan bakers can always find common ground in the crumb. Passion for the craft that gets us up long before the sun rises, to stand in the frigid cold of lamination or against the firing heat of a deck oven, for the longest of days, in the pursuit of fullfilling inspiration.
When we decided to trade the comfort and stability of our previously normal lives for the craziness of this adventure, I knew I loved baking. What I didn’t know was how amazing it would be to walk into a whole new world, full of people we would have never met before. Sometimes, like my proofer, life is bursting full of surprise gifts.
The next time you happen to be in the Mt. Juliet area, stop by Emeraude Bakery, and taste a little bit of their passion for the craft. Their bread offerings are continually changing with Hunter’s inspiration and his collaboration with other great local chefs. Moreover, you’ll love his story. Almost as much as his gouda and rosemary loaf.
But a word of warning, like really good bakeries, they sell out early.
photo and bread happiness credit to @theemeraudebakery
