Bookends: A Macaron Cake

I danced on a lamppost and smoked a joint on a statue of a snake. I kissed a boy on a stone curb and crammed into the back of a Fiat with four other students. I ate nothing but bread for a week. I thought I was in love with a one-night stand, so I made him tea and milk and lost his number in the morning.  My professor invited me to a roof top party and I got so drunk I sat in a corner, silent, and thought about my uncle’s funeral the next day.

And when fall break hit, I bought a train ticket to Paris. 11 hours, through Lyon. I packed a bag with black t-shirts and a carton of cigarettes. I never made it to Paris, though. There were terror threats in the city that day, so I went to Florence instead. I smoked all the cigarettes in twelve days. I fell in love with every person I saw on the subway home. I got so drunk at the only gay bar I knew about that I ordered two crepes for me and one for my friend who tagged along. I took a shot of vodka from a sweating bottle in the backseat of a cab. I never made it to Paris, but I felt like I was writing a poem during my time in Rome: disconnected, unplanned, high on bummed weed and pills when they were offered. It was a narrative I crafted, harbored in the crawl space of my self-esteem.

It wasn’t so bad, but I wish I had made it to Paris.

Three years later I was unemployed in California. Still hadn’t made it to Paris, though I had promised myself I would when I became a lawyer. I promised myself that every day until I quit law school and couldn’t get a job. I still smoked cigarettes then, and wore a lot of black, but I spent my days on a hammock, thinking about how all my potential was prematurely ejaculated once I graduated high school.

So I fought with my boyfriend about money. About cereal that went stale and if I really needed a lamp next to my bed. About how to raise the dog we bought together in Los Angeles and if love was enough to stay awake in this sleeping relationship much longer.

And in between pretending to learn a language and lying on my resume, I learned to bake. Slowly at first, then gradually I got better.  I watched cooking shows in the morning and stretched a dollar any way I knew how. Egg whites for a meringue cake and then the yolks for a custard. Flour from the dollar store and I’d skip my car payment for a month to buy quality chocolate. I only cooked French food early on, to challenge myself. To prove to myself something. I fucked up a bundt cake pretty bad once and cried about it for an afternoon. When my confidence was so fragile, even that was too much to bear. I didn’t bake for a month after that and I remember I always avoided one recipe in particular: the French sandwich cookie, the macaron.

Since then, I’ve made scones, bundt cakes, and galettes. Cakes, cookies, and ice cream. But never a macaron. Until this week, when I realized how far I’ve come and a thousand of miles in between who I was and who I am now. I don’t wear so much black anymore. I’m writing a new narrative. I use an old Coors Light bottle as an ashtray on my parents’ front porch. I made a macaron cake, pink and tart and nutty because I figured, “Why not?” Because that’s who I am now—someone who isn’t creating identity but poetry. Physical, tangible poetry set between the bookends of an uncle’s death in Rome and a crumbling relationship in California. And who I am now doesn’t say, “No” often, especially when I get the chance to bake or bum a cigarette. 

Macaron Cake with Cherry Buttercream

I am fully aware that this isn't a proper technique and is a more whimsical approach to the French confection. Makes one 6-inch cake.

Ingredients for cake base

• 1 ½ cup almond meal
• 1/3 cup AP flour
• 1 ½ cup confectioner’s sugar
• 4 egg whites
• 1/3 cup sugar
• ½ teaspoon white vinega

Directions for cake base

1. Prep your parchment by drawing your 6-inch circles as your guide for piping. Put parchment on a half sheet
2. Sift together almond meal, flour, and confectioner’s sugar in a large bowl and set aside
3. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, beat the egg whites until they are beyond frothy but not quite solid
4. Begin to add your sugar in a stream with motor still running
5. As you continue to beat, the egg whites should solidify and be a little shiny
6. Add your white vinegar to stabilize the meringue
7. Turn mixer off and add about a half cup of the flour mixture to the meringue mixture. Fold it into the egg whites. When mixed, add remainder of the flour mixture gradually, continuing to fold as you go
8. When fully mixed, put into your piping bag and pipe into your pre-drawn rounds
9. Set out for 30 minutes at room temperature
10. Preheat oven to 300*F
11. Bake for one hour, checking at the 40-minute mark and every ten minutes after until you notice a hard shell that is set
12. While baking, move onto the cherry buttercream
13. Remove from oven and allow to cool completel

Ingredients for the cherry buttercream

• 2 cups cherries, pitted
• Juice and zest of a half lemon
• ½ cup white sugar
• 2 TB unsalted butter, room temperature
• 1 1/2 cup confectioner’s sugar
• 1 TB vanilla
• Pinch of sal

Directions for cherry buttercream

1. In a small saucepan, stir together your lemon zest and juice, cherries, and sugar
2. Boil on medium until juices of the cherry are released and it is reduced by half. You will have a syrupy product
3. Cool completely
4. In a bowl, using either your stand mixer or a hand mixer, beat your butter and confectioner’s sugar together, it will create a thick and dry paste
5. With your mixer still on low, pour a thin stream of syrup into your confectioner’s sugar mixture and beat until it is whipped and a light pink
6. Add vanilla and a pinch of sal

To Assemble: Turn one of your macaron discs over so the flat surface is facing upward. Spread as much of the buttercream as you’d like on top, place second disc on top of first and dust with confectioner’s sugar. Saves for up to two days, even at room temperature.

A City of Wolves

I've lived so many lives in four years, it's hard to count on one hand.  It's grains of sand on a beach.  There are not enough of them to account for every person I've been in these last handfuls of years.  And some of those sand-kernels get stuck in your teeth, crunching down at night, grinding at the enamel of the strongest material in the human body.  So many lives, so many losses along the way.  In four years, there have been hurricanes and oil spills, president elections and a nephew born here and there.  Lives have started, ended, and stagnated in the rich greenery of Western Pennsylvania, the only life I knew and identified as such for twelve years prior. I lived in Italy for a period of time, when I was turning 19.  It happened four years ago today.  I was so young then.  It was when I had no one and didn't shave often.  When I still had a child's face and the innocence of a madame at a brothel.  When I was malleable and agreeable to everyone I met.  How I flirted, how I would enchant people to get a few euros or a cigarette.  I wore all black because I was supposed to, and I revert to that same color palette when the time seems right, when I want to be someone else.  I danced at a discotheque called Coyote and never told anyone that my uncle had just died in Afghanistan the day before.  I was whatever I was needed to be, and it broke me in a way smiles break--around the edges at first, then quickly towards the center.

Rome is a palimpsest of a city, handwritten over and over again by the people who write those kinds of histories.  I drank out of a water bottle where Octavia gave lunches.  I saw the graves of children who died in a fire started by a mad emperor.  I craned my neck and felt dizzy when I saw the hand that made man draw in realism yards above my head.  I never felt the sense of wonder, I never felt the connectivity to the Why's of life.  I faked it.  I would be a palimpsest to myself, too.  I would write over who I was at 19 again and again, sometimes scrawled quickly and sometimes in the perfect cursive my mother uses to sign checks.  I would feel God in every doorway, and breath a sigh of relief when I saw how the Church glorified death.  Or, at least I could hope. I didn't know any better but to seek approval.  To carry conversations for the face-value I gave them, to take the minimal amount of credits to still be a full-time student so I could have a four-day weekend, and to still complain about my classes at 8 in the morning.  I had to buy metro cards and lost two of them.  I phoned my parents for money three times and ignored their emails until the money hit my bank account.  I was ruthless in my need for identity, and molted friends and selves and childhood memories at the chance of living up to a standard I could not identify just then. And so, because nothing fulfilled me at that period of my life, that dark in-between of adolescent and undergraduate, I crawled to the comfort of my bed.  I sat and read my Renaissance art books instead of using my student pass and seeing them myself. I felt foolish to go alone.  And the one time I did go anywhere myself, I met up with a guy and, after growing bored around midnight, wore his shirt home and deleted his number.  I was living through others, and even the majesty of Rome, with all of her womanly hills and curves, were not enough for me.  It was during this period that my friend of ten years, with whom I planned our Italian lives with, decided I was no longer good, no longer purely hers.  She told lies, and they devastated me to my core.  And it was in bed, in men, in other people that I found redemption. And, it was because I was so distracted with my small insignificancies of myself.  How I tried myself into believing that the first person you come out to is supposed to be the most influential.  How this travesty was somehow supposed to outweigh my uncle's death, a country's loss.  How watching movies in the common room of the convent I stayed at, avoiding eye contact with the nuns who fed us prodigal students, was a better idea that the Borghese on a Monday afternoon.  I was childish and took the lazy route and it's because of that experience that I never tried to live in New York, where I would surely hole myself up if anything ever went wrong. I regret it all in Italy.  How I left things with Sam.  How I never tried octopus. How I meant to give the twenty euro I borrowed from a girl named Elizabeth back, but bought condoms and a pistachio gelato instead.  How I wore a necklace made from a mink's foot, given to me by an ex, to the holiest of holy kingdoms.  How I was kicked out of a church for being drunk.  How I smoked weed on the Spanish Steps with boys whose names I stumbled over.  How I drank my espresso with milk and sugar.  How I took the wrong metro and ended up at the beach and, instead of just sitting there for an hour, I cursed Italy and all of Europe.  How I didn't call my mom enough and got an AIDS test on my dad's birthday.  How I took a total of 170 pictures, and most of them were of myself.  How I didn't know the exchange rate when I went abroad and only took half of what I thought I would need.  How everything meant so much to me for all the wrong reasons.  And now, four years too late, I can come to terms with this failure of failures. When people ask if I know Italian, I'll often lie and say I used to.  When people ask how long I lived there, I'll often lie and say, "A year or two."   And it's funny to me how easy it is to lie about the experience instead of just doing it, and I've tried to learn how to handle my fatigued motivation and really begin to do something.  I make lists now to overcome this ennui.  List after list of useless suggestions, but I wish I would have done that four years ago, and I could have crossed each off every weekend. I would have said my prayers at dinner with my eyes closed, instead of one eye open at my friends and giggling.  I would have read my homework more closely, remember the dates in my longterm memory to pull up now.  I would have bought the souvenirs and have the trinkets, because sense memory is stronger than the fictive pseudo-recollection I do to assure myself I was really ever there.  I would have dropped more coins into the Trevi and I would have made the promise to others to meet at that very spot, on the meridian of hill to fallen palazzo, year after year.  I would have learned to say words carefully and not to cry so much.  I would have sat on the roof of the convent and looked at the city I lived in, a city that wasn't Bedford, Pennsylvania.  A city founded by wolves, built by warriors, and nurtured by intellectuals for years and years and years. It should have been my pride that fell, but instead it was the Roman Empire.  Because time has no place in a city of antiqued buildings, and both could have happened at the same moment, but I just can't seem to remember.  And maybe I purposefully forgot.  But I hope, by the grace of some power--whether it's my will or God's--to return to that fabled city just one more time and do the things on my "Would Have" list.  And the image I have of myself in Rome is one that many romantics do, but I would give everything to be 19 and in love with the city, a scarf tied around my neck to keep the witch's breath away, holding a bouquet of flowers, and riding on a bicycle, taking the trail that runs parallel to the banks of the Tiber.  And for each petal that fell off that windswept bouquet, it would be another part of me that was grounded in others and it would have gladly fell to the ground.  I could have found myself during those days of being alone.  And if I ended up at the beach every again, I would stay there for another hour or two, even if I didn't bring anything with me but myself.  It would have been enough. So I want to share my gastronomic memories of Rome, so few and far between.  This was before I knew how deeply I loved food, when my palate was content with vending machine biscotti and fast food meatballs.  Because I used to think the generic was as good as the original--better, even, because of the money I was saving.  But, here is the first food I had in Italy, during orientation.  Two staples I picked up at the buffet line that was catered for the 37 of us, which now have been tailored to my ever-evolving palate.  I give to you Heirloom Tomato and Chèvre Pizza and Lemon-Buttermilk Panna Cotta.

Heirloom Tomato and Chèvre Pizza

Julia Child (according to Ina Garten) once said that Italian cooking wasn't cooking at all, but assembling.  Due to this paraphrased fact, the portions for the toppings of this pizza are entirely your own.  I took what I was craving and made it into a pretty amazing pizza (fits a standard baking sheet).  

For the crust

• 1 packet rapid rise yeast
• 1 cup warm water
• 2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons honey
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons olive oil

For the toppings

• 2-3 medium-sized heirloom tomatoes, preferably different varieties or colors for contrast
• 6 TB pesto
• 2/3 cup chèvre
• Basil for topping

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 450 (my oven is kind of permanently on the fritz, so I do this first)
2. In a large bowl, mix water and yeast with a whisk until combined
3. Sift dry ingredients into bowl and add remaining honey and olive oil.  Stir with a wooden spoon until combined.
4. Oil or flour hands and knead dough onto board for a good 4-7 minutes, until gluten begins to get elastic
5. Form into a ball and let rest for 10 minutes
6. While dough is resting, prepare whatever pan or pizza stone you'll be using.  I just greased a baking sheet for convenience and it worked great.
7. After ten minutes, roll out dough and brush olive oil onto dough to brown crust. Bake for 7-9 minutes until just golden and stiffening from heat.
8. While pre-baking dough, cut up tomato and basil.
9. Once dough is pre-baked, take out of oven and assemble pizza toppings.  Brush pesto, then layer tomatoes and dot top and bare spaces between tomatoes with goat cheese.  Drizzle a little more olive oil.  Season if you wish.
10. Place back in oven for an additional 12 minutes.
11. Take out of oven, allow to cool slightly.  Sprinkle fresh basil on top.  Maybe even a little minced garlic.
12. Buon Appetito!

Lemon-Buttermilk Panna Cotta

Ingredients:

• 2 tablespoons water
• 1 1/2 teaspoons unflavored gelatin
• 1 cup whipping cream
• 2 teaspoons finely grated lemon peel
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 cups buttermilk
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Directions:

1. Pour 2 tablespoons water into small bowl
2. Sprinkle gelatin over. Let stand until gelatin softens, about 10 minutes.
3. Lightly spray six 3/4-cup ramekins or custard cups with nonstick spray.
4. Heat cream, lemon peel, and sugar in medium saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring constantly until sugar dissolves.
5. Increase heat and bring just to low boil, stirring occasionally.
6. Add gelatin mixture; remove from heat.
7. Stir until gelatin dissolves.
8. Cool mixture to lukewarm, stirring often.
9. Stir in buttermilk and vanilla; divide mixture among prepared ramekins.
10. Refrigerate panna cotta until set, about 4 hours.
11. Serve with fresh or thawed berries and a little honey and lemon juice.

“She had always been fond of history, and here in Rome was history in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine.” - Henry James