October 07, 2013
It was a gentle tug at first.
I prepped the flour, butter, and eggs. I read the recipe multiple times. Fully absorbing the words. Letting them sink in like a fingerprint in softened unsalted butter.
With only a tablespoon of sugar in the recipe itself, I knew that I could indulge a little once the buttercup yellow dough was firmly tucked around the chocolate.
An egg wash. A dusting of raw sugar.
In fact, the hardest part was the last 40 minute rise.
And, once in the oven, I promised myself that I would retreat. I would not open the light and bend slightly to look inside. I would wait. I could wait.
As the exterior turned golden, and dough puffed, I sank into a kind of euphoria that only comes to those who release their fears of handling flour, butter, and eggs.
And, a day later I found myself mesmerized by Tamar Adler. Only a few pages in and I knew exactly what we'd be eating for dinner. I could forgo a trip to the market, using what was on hand, and be ultimately content.
Spaghetti with anchovies and lemon. Tender mozzarella and soft boiled eggs. Ceci sauteed with onion, garlic and butter. Crusty baguette and a newly discovered Montepulciano. A feast which fell upon our table because I chose to look at what we had instead of what we did not.
This morning while the coffee percolated, I read about aioli and it's virtues. With the freshest of farm eggs and a fine olive oil, it will only be a matter of time.