How lucky am I to share a kitchen with the wonderful, spicy, confident and talented 12 year old chef in the video below? It took just an hour to film and edit the video but the memory will in fact last a lifetime ... and the 2 minute lesson is really helpful.
Ohhhhhh yeah, she is also my daughter, rises and falls with me when the New York Rangers win or lose and takes no prisoners when she decides she wants something.
I've been eating and making bagels since I was a kid living in New York. This video was shot just about the time when I first plunged my dough into the water.
I dedicate this post to my dear friend Eric who is the sweetest man I've ever met. When I first saw this video I remembered the stories Eric told me of his childhood in New York. A childhood made richer by the deep, rich odor of baking brerad that filled his apartment.
... and as you can see from the photo he's now bringing himself in my children's lives. This is a photo of Eric with Olivia, now the 12 year-old host of her own cooking show called the ABC Cafe. When you're done watching the video enjoy my video titled How to Screw up While Baking Bread.
Wanna shock the people you visit this Thanksgiving. Bring a batch of Olivia's madeleines and before anyone wakes up on Friday morning put them on the breakfast table with the following note.
"This Thanksgiving I give thanks not for the madeleine itself but for Marcel Proust. Why Proust? Take a bite of a madeleine and enjoy it. After you swallow, read the following passage. Then take another bite of the madeleine. See if it was an even more pleasureable experience than came from your first bite. If it was then you'll know why you should give thanks for Proust. If not then just gobble up the rest of the madeleine and enjoy!
No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather thiass essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea. —Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time