Chantillerie

Behind the Curtain

I was seven when my dreams of being a baker were crushed. It was rare that my mother allowed anyone in the kitchen, let alone her little "achy breaky". Oh yes... that was my nickname. Achy breaky had to drink from plastic cups, eat from paper plates, and handle her food very carefully. Achy breaky broke all her mom's beautiful tableware as she was (and still is) exceptionally clumsy. Unfortunately for her mother, achy breaky also had a passion for baking.

On February 3, a magical morning, my mother allowed me to bake her a birthday cake. My grandmother said, "Don't worry. Let her use the plastic bowls. I'll watch her". I was ecstatic. I was finally going to prove that I was not a hopeless case; that I wasn't a walking disaster. I was going to bake a cake and it was the happiest moment of my life!

With a recipe from Better Homes and Gardens, I set out to bake a strawberry cake. I measured the ingredients diligently and even preheated the oven. Such a "big girl" move! After the batter was mixed, albeit a little grainy and chunky, I put the pan in the oven and set my timer to 45 minutes.

The cake turned out beautifully - perfectly browned on the top. I even waited until the cake cooled to put the strawberry frosting on top so it didn't melt.

After dinner, my mother requested her birthday cake. My face turned red as she gracefully forked her slice and put a piece in her mouth. Then I cringed as her face turned bitter seconds before she ran toward the sink to spit out my cake.

"What happened?!" my dad yelled.

My mom turned to me and said, "Where is the recipe?"

After sheepishly showing her she asked, "Can you show me where it says 2 cups of salt?"

I. Was. Mortified.

I had confused the sugar and salt measurements, ruining my cake and my chance to bake another. At that moment, it didn't matter what my mother said to console me, I never wanted to bake again. Not until a few years later when the wound finally healed, and I got up the courage to make oatmeal cookies.

And they were awful.

Though my love for baking came at a very young age, it wasn't until I was sixteen that I gained the confidence and stamina to really experiment with my passion. And it wasn't until I was 32 that I combined my love of baking with another passion: storytelling.

I worked as a senior writer at a large metaphysical company, writing course material on ancient civilizations. This was my dream job as I spent my days researching ancient rituals, practices, and herbs and oils that were predominately sacred to each civilization. But I knew something was missing. I knew I wanted to do more.

During a particularly mundane evening watching The Great British Bake Off, I was convinced I had to try my talent at macarons. I believed it was the ultimate test of my skill.

It wasn't easy. There were tears, stained aprons, and arguments as I stomped my feet like a child whenever my macarons lost color or fell flat. I couldn't BELIEVE I was back there again - back to that little girl who couldn't tell the difference between salt and sugar. But I did it. And when I finally got the technique down, I didn't stop until they were perfect. I couldn't. I knew I had to keep going.

It was then that I knew what I wanted to do.

I combined my knowledge and passion by incorporating elixirs of ancient civilizations into gorgeous, delectable desserts. They are not only products of ancient magic, but love that comes through every batch. Chantillerie macarons are not just dessert - they're a transcendent experience.