When I started on this silly exercise in challenging myself to live with a Christmas tree for an entire year, I didn't go at it with any expectations. I actually was quite amused and bewildered when it suddenly occurred to me that there was a similarity to the character Julie and the movie Julie and Julia. I am in no way attempting to recreate what Julie did. In fact, I bow my hat to her and the level of discipline she had to maintain in order to reach her goal. For one thing, Julie worked a full time job and regardless of how tired she was at the end of her work day, she had a commitment to fulfill. I only have to prepare something a maximum of 12 times in the changing of the decorations on the tree with each new month...Julie had to prepare an elaborate meal EVERY night of the week. Not just any meal...a FRENCH meal. My french culinary skills are non existent...unless of course french fries count and even those I believe were of an Americans doing. It's not that I don't enjoy cooking. In fact, I can completely empathize with Julie about how the "art" of cooking can and does release stress. It is instant gratification to take on a new recipe and see it turn out somewhat like the picture in the recipe book. I love the challenge and the creativity of it all. I do not however see myself being any where near as adventurous as she. I will admit that with age my taste buds have matured, but I am still quite squeamish about unfamiliar foods. Having spent most of my life in the deep south I have come to the following conclusion...if someone says it "tastes like chicken"...then just give me chicken. I KNOW chicken and I don't need to prove anything to my intestinal track nor impress my fellow table inhabitants by eating something I would step on had I spied it on my kitchen floor. OH...and if someone offers the instructions to just swallow it whole...that's a dead give away to me there's a reason it wasn't meant to make friends with my palette and so it is best left on the serving platter. I will confess to once eating snails...I will also confess to having consumed a bit too much wine before I did. He was very handsome and had the most romantic french accent...he probably could have convinced me ALPO was a delicacy, but that was many years ago!
Okay...so how is this leading to the title of today's post? I mentioned in my most recent post that I have been feeling a bit down. Today I was just plain blah. I don't think it was so much to do with my mood as it was to do with that Nyquil coma I mentioned in yesterday's post. I was feeling tired and realizing that I needed to keep myself moving so as to be able to get through the day. That is when it occurred to me I should make some Italian pastry. I made my first batch of Pasticiottis right before Christmas. I had been pining for their sweet deliciousness, but we have no Italian pastry shops in the south and so for most of my life they have remained but a tasty, distant memory. Right before the holidays I got this crazy idea that I should find a recipe and attempt to make them myself. I alerted my family to my quest and thanks to Google I was able to find what I was searching for. The first time I made them it literally took me hours and I found myself covered from head to toe in flour while surrounded by what appeared to be every measuring cup, spoon and bowl that I owned. I reluctantly took my first bite and although they were edible and a huge hit with my family...they were "missing something." I waited a day or two and made another batch. It is safe to say that by the time New Year's arrived I had made dozens and had perfected the recipe well enough that when a dear friend had offered to have some shipped down to me while she was up North visiting relatives, I thanked her, but declined.
Today, I again gathered up all my ingredients. I must admit I was amazed at the way I breezed through the steps. I have perfected the amount of time each step takes. I can have the custard filling to the exact cooled temperature it needs to be in the time that it takes me to make the dough. OH...and the dough...today as I mixed the ingredients together with my hands it formed in to the perfect soft ball as detailed in the instructions. As I dipped the pastry brush in to the egg wash, I can not put in to words the feelings of accomplishment and pride I felt as I gently coated each of my little works of art in their egg bath. Both my dogs patiently at my feet in hopes that I might drop a morsel or two...I suddenly felt a deep connection to Julie as if she was there with me and together we were enjoying this one special moment in time that nobody else could understand. I got it...and I got her...and I KNEW why she needed to do what she did. I am proud to say I not only had all the bowls and cups washed and put away before the timer on the oven went off...I had enough time left to pour a nice glass of chardonnay and quietly toast a woman named Julie Powell. A women whom I will probably never meet, but feel as though I know intimately. Cheers Julie! OH...and Thanks! : )
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