Lemon Tart

Today's class was the very first complete dessert that we'll be making and I was so excited. But everything seemed to work against us that day.  As we were walking up the stairs towards class, the group ahead of us were coming down with tarts in various stages of incompletion. Some with the almond cream and some with the lemon cream. As luck would have it, we were also working in the kitchens on the 3rd floor for the first time, with gas-powered stoves that no one had used before. I was sous chef and a few tart bottoms had gone missing after the first class, so I had a frenzied dash down to the other kitchen to beg Chef H for more. Now there was an intimidating conversation. He wanted me to scold Chef J for losing the molds... in my 2nd week of class no less! When I returned from that little adventure I had to waste even more time having the Chef explain the kitchen to me again. Definitely not off to a good start.

 Not one of us finished our tarts, except for the girl who will be known as The Wiz. She flies through everything without batting an eye. It's positively frustrating, and awe-inspiring.

All of us were way too slow making the pate sucree and then the double baking with the almond cream took FOREVER. Half of us were dancing in front of the ovens just begging for it to be done. And that italian meringue we'd all made in the previous class proved to be my undoing. I added the syrup too quickly and created a runny mess and had to do it a second time. My arm just about fell off. Should I mention that it was also a double recipe? Try whipping meringue by hand some day. Go on. I dare you! The consistency becomes more and more like glue, but you have to keep on pouring and whisking until it's cool. One poor soul in our class actually had to make it four times.

By the time Chef called stopping time (a full 10-20 minutes late), I had just managed to pipe the meringue on top of the tart. But there was no time to pop it in the oven for it's final browning and then requisite cool-down period. And genius that I am, I hadn't yet realized the importance of documenting my work. Because you're all so eager to see these things, right?

All disasters aside, this was an amazing dish to start the program off with. I took it home and Phil and I just dug into it with our forks. No dainty little slices for us! It was amazing! A sophisticated version of lemon meringue pie. I remade it a few weeks later, just to prove that I could do it. It's composed of a sweet dough with a layer of almond cream, topped with a layer of lemon cream and then italian meringue.

Chef J also made a couple other tarts during his demonstration, which thankfully we didn't have to tackle during practical.

A strawberry tart with mousseline cream:

And a French apple tart with caramelized apples:

Basic Pastry: The Beginning (Lessons 1-3)

I'll spare you the pain of going through each of these first three classes in detail. Suffice it to say they were pretty painful. With all of my home baking experience, I felt like this program would be a piece of cake (that idiom finds no better use than here), but I was so wrong. My blood pressure rose before every practical class to the point where I started to question my reasons for being here. I got so nervous about making a mistake, that I worked painstakingly slowly, to the point where someone watching me would want to scream in frustration. To tell you the truth, I am writing these posts about Basic Pastry months after the fact; from the viewing seat of Superior Pastry. And I can say without a doubt that I was a serious mess when I started.

Lesson 1 was all about different types of dough; we had to make 2 sweet (Pate Sablee and Pate Sucree) and one dry (Pate Brisee) within 2.5 hours. Sounds like a breeze? It wasn't. We didn't even have to roll them out and we barely finished on time. I messed up the first one I tried by not mixing the egg in enough. The sugar started to burn the yolks, so I had to painstakingly work it back together. I don't even want to talk about the pate brisee with it sanding technique. Pah! Chef J said that we could make the sable nantais cookies with the sablee dough, but it didn't even cross my mind.

Lesson 2 was an introduction to sponge: genoise and ladyfinger; dacquoise was only touched upon in demo. It was also an introduction to our balloon whisk, the single most heinous torture device known to basic pastry students. My arm still aches in memory of the whisking I used to do. For everything we do in basic pastry needs to be done by hand. Literally. Just wait until lesson 3 for that to sink in... Anyway, this class I actually had time to make 2 genoise cakes and the requisite ladyfingers. I had made ladyfingers at home and expected it to be just as easy. So wrong. My piping was such a mess!

Lesson 3 was all about different types of creams. We had to make italian meringue, pastry cream, ganache, almond cream, creme anglaise and italian meringue again, if time enough. There wasn't. The thing I mentioned about doing everything by hand? Well, that meant testing the sugar for the italian meringue with our bare hands. No thermometers allowed. And that sugar has to reach a soaring temperature of 121 degrees Celcius. Ouch. We all saw Chef J doing this in demo class and winced in sympathy. It actually wasn't that bad, if you cooled your fingers enough in ice water before submerging them in the hot syrup. And if you're quick enough about grabbing a sample. This class is also a fair example of how slow I was: two girls beside me starting making their creme anglaise at exactly the same time. They scrambled theirs and had to start again and were both finished by the time I finished my first batch. I was so nervous of overcooking it that I kept the temperature ridiculously low.

Preparations

I've finally done what I swore I'd never do: I bought an iron.

Yesterday, P and I went on a little shopping excursion. I mapped out our bus route and we were out of the house bright and early, ready for the day. I'll have to remember never to take bus #14 ever again. Early Saturday afternoon, and already the bus is full to bursting. Wending it's way through the bleak streets of Vanier, we were kept diverted by the squabbling of mothers herding flocks of children, while at the same time pushing immense strollers packed to bursting with toys and diapers. I winced as new passengers had to carefully dodge the rowdy children and squeeze between the army of strollers, while the bus bounced and jerked on every pothole. To make space for the departing mothers and their flock, no less than 8 passengers would have to get off the bus and patiently wait for the herd to disembark. Little wonder when the bus driver had a few choice words with one of the mothers, who simply shouted back at him in self-righteous anger. Is it just me, or does anyone else dislike public transit in Ottawa?

With no further incident, other than P receiving a bite from one of my grumpier moods, we were off to pick up some steel-toed shoes for school. I am sure this is the same store that one of my coworkers had so much trouble returning her boots to last month. At the cash register, the clerk was VERY insistent that I keep a copy of my receipt, in case I wanted to return them.

We then went over to the St. Laurent Centre hoping to make a quick purchase and dash out. I have never liked shopping centres - they are filled with people and noise and chaos, no more so than on the weekends. We had the joy of walking into some sort of Juno event, with over a thousand people all crowding around the stage. P and I rushed through the crowd, dodging people left and right, trying to make our way through as quickly as possible. There was no way I was going to turn away from the mission at hand: to buy an iron.

I never thought the day would come. I've been able to scrape by with nothing more than a steamer, which barely makes it out of the cupboard once a year. But orientation yesterday put the fear of wrinkles into my heart. We were warned ominously by at least two people that we would be thrown out of class if we were not wearing our complete uniform, freshly pressed and wrinkle-free. And that is how we found ourselves bargain hunting for irons on my last weekend of freedom.

It was quite a feat to get that ironing board home, I'm surprised we made it back with our relationship intact. P and I both were getting more and more irritable as we repeatedly had to shift the board to let people by on the bus. I'd like to reiterate: I hate public transportation in Ottawa. I dream sometimes of having my own car and breezing through to the stores, putting all my items in the back seat (not on my lap) and going home. Just like that. No fear of someone braining me with their backpack when they turn quickly or awkward jerky dances with strangers to get to a seat.

And that is how I found myself on Saturday night at 10 o'clock ironing and hemming my pants. It's strange, but there is something so satisfying in a little bit of domesticity. It's always so painful to think about and make myself do it, but once started I can't seem to stop. There's bliss hiding somewhere in a cleanly pressed shirt and tidy room.

Becoming Orientated

I don't know what it is, but that word "orientated" just feels completely wrong to me; the taste of it on my tongue is foreign. One would think that the meaning of the word would shine through the pronunciation of it: to orientate oneself; to get one's bearings; to right oneself... So why does the word sound so uncomfortable?

But that's exactly what I was doing on Friday morning: becoming orientated. I've been looking forward to March 30th for almost a year now because that is the day my term at baking school officially starts - my orientation day. For the last three months I have been trying to prepare everything at work and slowly working myself up into a frenzy of anticipation. In the coming days before, I could hardly sleep and by Friday morning my stomach was in knots. I felt like a child again, starting my first day of school. I made sure to leave the house early to make sure I arrived in time and every minute of that walk was pure agony. I'm sure there were several people I passed who thought I was crazy as I practised some breathing exercises and kept telling myself repeatedly to "calm down".

Once there, the anxiety slowly started to melt away. When I entered the orientation room, I was greeted by one of the student services staff - I could finally put a face to someone I had been corresponding with for the last few months. As I made my way to my seat, another student in my program was next to me and she looked just as nervous as I was feeling. In fact, when I looked around the room, almost every student there seemed petrified and unsure. Some of them looked fresh out of high school; their eyes wide, absorbing everything while shrinking into their chairs, trying not to be noticed. I found their timidity strangely heartening; I felt extremely glad to have waited and worked for a few years before attempting this program. If I can deal with 50 real estate agents clamouring for my attention and help, I can handle this. But it makes me wonder what state I would be in if I had come here first, right after high school...

The director of the school welcomed us warmly and gave a bit of a background history on the school. We were introduced to many of the chefs and staff at the institute. Several more people presented themselves and gave us a breakdown on studies at the school. I could feel myself becoming more and more inspired after every speech. Through it all, everyone was so friendly and, above all, they urged the students to ask questions and seek extra help whenever needed.  A far cry from the uber aggressive chefs on all the "reality" tv shows who bully their staff at every opportunity. It also struck me how incredibly French the chefs are - their accents are going to take some getting used to.

After all of the presentations, we split into groups to take a tour of the school. Even now, my head is spinning. Our guide took us on a very serpentine path and I have no clue where my first class is being held on Monday. I'm just hoping that there will be someone else in my class that I can follow, or at the very least get lost with.

The very end of the tour was total chaos, bringing my anxiety levels back up a few notches. We were left in the change rooms to try on our uniforms and some people left right away to switch sizes (me being one of them). When I finally realized the tour was still ongoing, I rushed over to listen. Slowly noticing to my horror that everyone now had their bags and jackets, which had been left in the orientation room. I snuck out to grab my things not a moment too soon; the next orientation group was starting to arrive and my jacket was one of the few still left. I sheepishly avoided making eye contact with the staff and ducked out of there. When I got back downstairs, the tour seemed to be finished, but no one really knew what exactly was going on.

I finally left the 3-hour orientation feeling slightly less than orientated. Perhaps that's why the word still won't sit comfortably. As I walked home, I felt more and more exhilarated - the feeling only tempered by the growing weight of my knife kit and uniform bag on the long walk. I couldn't wait to get home and really look at my new toys. Try on my uniform and preen in front of the mirror, without 15 other girls vying to see their reflection. The trick now is just to be able to have my tools and uniform in the house for 5 minutes without everything becoming covered in cat hair...