I screwed up Jell-O.

It’s funny to think about where we started. Whether you’re a baker, a stone mason, or a CEO, there is inevitably a moment when things went wrong. Sometimes even simple things, making us question our ability and (occasionally) sanity. Because, at the end of the day, we’re all human.  But still, how can anyone screw up Jell-O???

It was in those awkward middle school years, one of my first days in the cooking section of a home economics class. I’m not sure I had ever stepped into a kitchen for anything other than grabbing a snack. But I walked in feeling great about myself because I had just sewn a pillow.  I’d never done that, either. The teacher set us in little kitchen areas, each with a box of Jell-O on the counter. Mine was green. I’d say apple or lime, but I’m still not sure there is any notable taste difference between the bouncy red, orange and green gelatins. Except maybe at our holiday table, where my Nana and mom always filled the green with magically suspended pear halves, but I don’t give that credit to the little green box.

I listened as the teacher went over the instructions. Then I read the instructions. I finally set out to make it, pouring the boiling water and stirring until a vibrant green color abounded.  I popped the dish into my little kitchen fridge and went on to math class, thinking all was well. The next day, however, all I had was cold green liquid. No gelatinated mass, and certainly no way to cut those idyllic bouncy squares.  Yes, I was the only person in class to fail Jell-O.

I recently heard a saying that goes, either we win or we learn. It’s something I wish someone had told me daily in my younger life as, all these years later, it seems like winning is something that often happens after you’ve learned. A lot. The 1871 kitchen is no exception. In some insane quirk, every week I think it’s a brilliant idea to push myself to become better, usually in some aspect or technique that my brain is weirdly fixated on.  Inevitably I fail first. Maybe not non-gelatinized green liquid fail, but I just know whatever it is could be better.

That is what happened with croissants.

Many years ago I had a very good friend who loved chocolate croissants.  Probably as much as I loved baguettes. We would frequent this little shop under the guise of getting a sandwich but always ended up splurging on bread and pastry.  One day she convinced me to try the croissant and, if I’m honest, it left me underwhelmed. How could something not be blissful with buttery layers and chocolate? So, when Mr. Amazing and I opened The Bakery at 1871, croissants were not on the menu for quite some time. When I finally got around to it, it was quite a journey.

I took classes. I listened and watched seasoned pastry chefs. I read recipe after recipe.  I got certifications. But each time they came out of the oven, I was left feeling flat. Don’t get me wrong, they were fine. But that’s all, just fine.

That word, fine, always comes with a distinct tone in my head you would have to know my mother to understand. It’s the word she uses when she is accepting something not to her preferred standard, but trying to convince us (and maybe herself) that it’s good enough. She says it with this tone you cannot unhear. And, you know, fine can never be fine.

So, one day I threw out all the recipes, ignored the teachings, and went completely rogue. After all, this is flour and butter- not Jell-O. I gathered the ingredients I wanted, began the process that made sense in my head and, two days later, I fell in love with the croissant.

Either you win or you learn.

I have always agreed with the notion that, in life, you have to know the rules to know where to break them. The truth is, every once in a while, even the deepest traditions need a little rogue. So, every time I put a croissant in the case, I’m hoping you find more than amazing buttery layers. I’m quietly wishing you the wisdom of good tradition and the inspiration to make life amazing. To make it yours.