I think it was Flannery O’Connor who wrote “I write to discover what I know.” As a writer, that rings true. But more often this summer, I’ve found a great appreciation for the art of food.
An idealist some of the time, I try to construct histories and narratives of objects, faces, and places to bring me to my present state. All this is too complicated for a college girl wanting rest her brain over the summer months. Well, I’ve decided to ground my self in something as simple: cooking.
It did not take me long to realize how much of a mistake that statement is. “Simple” and “cooking” should not be in the same sentence. All the more “simple” and “baking.”
After sunken soufflés and popped profiteroles I opted for no lesser a difficult feat: la galette.
Fold, fold, fold. Pleat, pleat, pleat. And suddenly it had been three hours. Three hours filled with French Cafe music and twirling around the kitchen while knocking over flour and teaspoons.
I wouldn’t call myself a master baker. But I’m damn well proud of myself for making this piece of provincial yumminess. In any case, I had a blast. I tuned out from the world for a good three hours and rocked out to accordions. Sure I am the ultimate nerd, but hey I can make a damn good galette. Here’s to many more floury failures and tiny culinary victories.