Pink of Perfection

Sometimes the mythology of a thing is more prevalent than the actual experience of it. Take, for example, running a marathon: hard, really hard. You and I both know that. In fact, even if we can’t run more than a few miles, we are convinced of its difficulty to the point of impossibility and have a feeling it’s not in the cards for us.

On one hand, this is great: word gets around in our gossipy little world with its love of quickly boxing and defining experience, and we are able to make shorthand decisions about what’s worth our time without even having tried something ourselves. We give a quick no thanks to War and Peace (too long), childbirth (too laborious), Antarctica (too cold, too desolate).

This is where I stood with puff pastry. If Mark Bittman said it wasn’t worth making from scratch, then Pepperidge Farm it would be. Enter book 5 of my Grand Diplôme program, and there it was in black and white: puff pastry. My heart sank. My contrarian side rose up. I resisted for weeks, ignoring the lesson. “Why not skip it?” a friend suggested. Tempting, but what kind of student would I be if I just skipped the lessons that seemed too hard?

And then last night, as I had courage enough and time, I went to the grocery store for butter. Then my phone rang, and it was my mom. “You’re making puff pastry? Oh, I’ve heard that’s really hard.” It is a credit to her mothering, I suppose, that I did not respond, “I know. You’re right,” shelve the butter and head back home for some pasta. I soldiered on, like, well, a marathon runner.

When I stopped long enough to look at the actual recipe I was deeply encouraged by this:

Rough puff pastry originated in farmhouse kitchens where lard from home-butchered pigs and homemade butter were readily available.

Haute cuisine makes me shake in my clogs a bit, but farmhouse cooking? Farmhouse cooking is in my bones. And can you feel what’s coming next?

I could hardly believe how simple puff pastry was. I didn’t struggle with the dough, I didn’t wipe away tears from a flour-streaked face. I pulled out the food processor, measured a little of this and that, rolled and turned and rolled and turned and rolled and turned the dough, and then thought, is that it? It was. Feeling a little too pleased with myself, that doubting voice of mythology was heard saying, “yeah, but just wait to see how it comes out once it’s cooked.” The happy reply was flaky and buttery and as puffed up as I was.

This triumph is exactly why I set out to cook from these booklets. So often we take on expert account what is and is not worth trying for ourselves. But if we have the time and the inclination and the will, we may find that our own opinions differ from those heavyweights of the cooking world. This amateur, for one, thinks puff pastry is more than worth the effort to make at home, if only for the wild sense of triumph from accomplishing what others deem too troublesome.

Rough Puff Pastry
adapted from the Grand Diplôme Cooking Course

The difference between rough puff pastry and regular puff pastry is that in the former, the butter or lard is mixed into the flour in the beginning, whereas the latter involves layering butter into a shortcrust pastry, then completing a process of folding and rolling and folding again, in order to obtain many thin layers of butter spread within thin layers of pastry. When the pastry cooks, the fat in the butter keeps the layers separate, while the water content expands into steam and forces the layer apart (this from WikiAnswers). This happens in rough puff pastry, but in smaller more localized areas causing the dough not to rise quite as much. Even still, I thought it was stunning and delicious.

2 cups flour (I used 1 3/4 cups white flour and 1/4 cup whole wheat as I could not be bothered, apparently, to check the pantry before leaving the store — it stilled turned out marvelously)
pinch of salt
3/4 cups cold butter, cut into small pieces
10 tablespoons ice water

In a food processor, pulse butter, flour, and salt very briefly (about 10 quick pulsed) until butter is cut into the flour evenly. Add water and process until dough comes together (less than 10 seconds). Turn onto a lightly floured surface.

Complete the following action (called a “turn”) three times: roll dough into a rectangle, about 6 x 15 inches. Fold in thirds (like a business letter) — top third down, bottom third up — and make a quarter turn to bring the open edges facing you. Roll out again and repeat process. After three rollings or turns, chill pastry for 15 minutes. Give an extra roll and fold if it looks streaky. Wrap tightly and free for use later or roll out and use.

My First Chicken Pot Pie
Serves 4-6

This was my first chicken pot pie and I pretty much winged it. The filling doesn’t have that super creamy consistency of some — it’s more like a lightly creamy broth. The filling was good, simple, and perfect for a chilly night watching Footloose, but mostly it just seemed like a vehicle for the puff pastry.

2 bone-in chicken breast halves
(peppercorns, herbs, and an onion, for poaching, if you have them)
2 tablespoons butter
1 onion, chopped
3 carrots, chopped
3 tablespoons heavy cream
2 cups chicken stock
1/3 cup chopped parsley
10 ounces frozen peas
1 egg, beaten with 1 tablespoon water

Preheat oven to 425° °.

In a large pot, cover chicken breasts with water, and add peppercorns, fresh or dried herbs, and an halved, unpeeled onion. Bring water to boil then reduce heat to low so that water is barely at a simmer, cover, and poach chicken breasts until done, 20-25 minutes. Remove chicken breasts from pot, let cool, and then remove meat from bones, chopping into bite-sized bits.

In another large pot, melt two tablespoons butter over moderate heat. Add onion and carrot and saute until onion is soft and translucent (carrot may still be crunchy). Add two cups of chicken chicken poaching liquid (now a light stock — save the rest for another recipe), heavy cream, and parsley and let simmer, uncovered, for about 10 minutes. Stir in chopped chicken and frozen peas, season with salt and pepper, and simmer for another 5 minutes until flavors have melded and peas have thawed.

Ladle chicken and vegetable mixture into a 10-inch pie pan and cover with puff pastry. Cut slits in the pastry for steam to escape. Place pie pan on a baking sheet to catch spills, and bake for 20-25 minutes until pastry is golden brown and slightly puffed up.