Découvrir le pot aux roses*

I went to class today because if I miss another one, the Cordon Bleu reserves the right to block me from attending the rest of my classes. So I made a cake called "Dacquoise", which consists of two almond meringue cake rounds, separated by a layer of praliné buttercream, decorated with a marzipan flower.

As I beat and beat and beat "énergiquement," and by hand, the sugar and egg whites into a meringue, and as I stood for three hours in a small room that alternated over the course of the class from close to 85 degrees (with all of the ovens on) to 60 degrees (with the windows thrown open, the glacial northern winds blowing in), I began to feel quite sick. It is now several hours later. I feel fever returning, and my throat is, once again, sore and covered in white.

Perhaps I shouldn't have gone to class after all.

Having said that, I'm very taken with this cake. If this is the one that will throw me back into illness, it will have been well worth it. Aside from being perfectly delectable, the Dacquoise is very feminine and lacy looking, and making the marzipan flower reminded me, in the very very best of ways, of the numerous art kits Amy and I usd to play around with. It was so much fun! But take note, everyone: from now on, the marzipan flower will likely become a permanent fixture on my future cakes. I liked it that much.

I particularly enjoyed the feeling of mastering the recipe and techniques we used; cakes I can produce confidently (I am less sure about tartes and croissants). I was even congratulated by the chef at every step of my cake making for having:

1) the tidiest work-station
2) the most well-whippped and glossy meringue : )
3) the smoothest buttercream
4) the most inventive flower (I tried to make a camelia instead of the conventional rose)

The chef (Patrick, this time) came over to my station as I was finishing my flower and assembling the cake. As he peered over the marble, scrutinizing my pastry, I was quite scared he was going to yell at me for something, though I didn't know what. In preparation, I started offering suggestions like "is there too much powdered sugar? Are the rosettes poorly done? are the edges too uneven? Should I not have made a camelia?" I've noticed that if you recognize your error before the chef says something, the ensuing criticism is less explosive. But instead of making a critique, he looked up at me, expressionless, and softly said, "Mais...vous êtes une vraie artiste, madame." Those were the best words of the week, perhaps even of the month, and the ones I'll mull over when I'm feeling dejected.

Nobody's ever called me an artist before, though I can't think of anything I'd rather be called.

I've always wanted to "be an artist" of any kind. The people's lives I envy, the people whose lives I dream about having myself, are successful artists and creators. So though I've never felt like one, I've always wanted to be an artist.

And here the fiery chef has granted my wish.

*Découvrir le pot aux roses=to discover the secret. Literally, 'to discover the pot of roses'

PS Among other things, the blossoms of camelias are supposed to be, in reality, more flat.