People never believe me when I tell them, though I think Eli may finally be coming around. This latest event is highly convincing. Practically indisputable. It may, in fact, be the proof I've been waiting for. As for you, friends, you'll believe me, won't you?
I am a real-life conjurer.
Some things I have heretofore conjured:
1. Friends on the street.
This can go down a couple of different ways. First, there's the run-of-the-mill, straightforward, and frankly rather boring conjure. For example, I might stop somewhere on campus and text you to see if you're around and if you'd like to grab a cup of tea or, if you're also headed home, join me for the walk. Mid-text, I'll look up, and who's that bounding down the stairs of Dudley Hall? You! Conjured.
But typically my powers manifest in a far more convoluted way. I'll be walking down the street, thinking about that radio show on Lucy the chimpanzee, or what's for dinner, or my house keys, whether they're in my jacket pocket, or my pants pocket, or the little pocket with the snap stitched into my tote bag where I always put them, except for when I'm carrying my phone in there and I don't want the glass to get scratched so, yes, there they are, in my jacket pocket, as I suspected. What I'm not thinking about is you. But suddenly I round the bend where Mass Ave. becomes Garden Street, and there you are. I know it's you by the slight hunch in your shoulders, and the way your hair falls over the tops of your ears, and by your pea coat and wiry glasses, of course. I'm about to wave hello - sometimes I even do - when I realize that, wait, it's not you at all. So I abort the wave and scratch my chin instead and proceed another block or so, and now I am thinking about you, about how I haven't seen you for a while and how I wish that had been you, how maybe I'll shoot you an e-mail when I get home -- or actually, I won't, because now, for real this time, crossing Mason Street and coming right at me, is YOU. I am not kidding when I say that this happens all the time.
2. Phone calls from my father.
I'm not sure this counts as a true conjure, but it feels somewhat related, and it's pretty cool. Also, Eli has witnessed this one in action: When my father calls on our house line, I know it's him before I pick up. The phone rings once, and I say out loud, "It's my dad." (This is without looking at the caller ID, of course.) I'm not talking about when I'm expecting to hear from him or have any logical reason to believe he should be calling. It's just a feeling I get, a feeling that should be very proud of itself because it is never wrong. (Dad, did you about know this?)
3. My best friend from eighth grade's wedding.
I love this one. Jeremy and I did theatre together when we were kids. He was a few years ahead of me in school and we lost touch when he went off to college, which was almost certainly 100% my fault seeing as how I am the world's worst keep-in-toucher, especially - as incongruous and maddening as this sounds - with the people I care about most. I am working on this. Anyway, it's been a decade, at least, since we last spoke, but a few weeks ago I found myself thinking about him a lot. One Saturday night, I decided to type his name into The Google Machine, and his professional website was the first hit, complete with phone number and e-mail. I called the number immediately. He didn't pick up. I left a message. Then, I sent an e-mail, and a few hours later I got a reply. Jeremy was getting married. THE NEXT DAY. (To the luckiest of ducks, if you ask me.) He had gotten my message on his way up to his hotel room after the rehearsal dinner. It was a strange and wonderful surprise, he said, and yes, yes, we should definitely talk soon.
A few days later, I conjured a recipe.
It was Tuesday, October 16th, and I was floating around somewhere in the swampy, swampy waters of my manuscript, touching a toe down into the muck every now and then, simultaneously recoiling and thrilling at the way it felt against my skin, daring myself to plunge in my fists and grab at it with bare hands. All in a day's work. One memory, one story, one thought led to another, as they do, and then to a morning bun I ate a couple of summers ago in Portland, Maine at a place called the Standard Baking Co. It was made of croissant dough, shiny from caramelized brown sugar and partially encrusted with walnuts. It was perfect. Portland is only a two-hour drive away and this bun is undoubtedly worth the trip, but it occurred to me that perhaps there was a recipe out there that might save me time and gas. I turned once again to The Google Machine and, wouldn't you know, the Standard Baking Co. had just released a cookbook. "Just," as in, that very day. I called the bakery at once, congratulated them on the book and asked if, perchance, the morning bun recipe might be included among its pages. Affirmative.
I rest my case: I conjure.
My copy of the book arrived two days later. It's called Standard Baking Co. Pastries and I fell for it immediately. There's more to say about that - about what's really going on when a cookbook moves us, or moves me, anyway - but the month is long, so I think I'll save that for another day. (Yes?)
You're probably expecting a morning bun recipe right about now, but croissant dough takes time, and when the book arrived I didn't have much of it. So I tried a recipe for something that would come together in under an hour, something called French puffs. From the name I assumed they must be like cream puffs, probably pâte à choux filled with something light. But in fact, they're little cakes, less muffin-like (though you bake them in a mini muffin tin) and more doughnut-y in texture. They're simple and lovely, with brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and plenty of butter; no surprises, no sudden moves. I think you should make them right away, and since I bet you already have all of the ingredients on hand, you can.
I know this conjuring thing isn't real, by the way. ("You don't say!" the entire internet roars back.) But I do love those moments when it feels real, when I move across time and space in lockstep with my people, when coincidence feels like magic.
French Puffs
Adapted from Standard Baking Co. Pastries by Alison Pray and Tara Smith
For the batter:
2 2/3 cups all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon nutmeg
3/4 cup (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for greasing pan
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar
2 eggs, room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup buttermilk, room temperature
For the topping:
4 tablespoons butter
¼ teaspoon vanilla
¼ cup granulated sugar
1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
Heat the oven to 425 degrees and butter a 24-cup mini-muffin tin.
Make the puffs:
Whisk together the flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, and nutmeg in a large bowl.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together the butter, granulated sugar, and brown sugar on medium speed until smooth. Switch to low speed and beat in the eggs one at a time. Add the vanilla and about half of the buttermilk and mix well, stopping occasionally to scrape down the sides of the bowl. Don’t worry if the batter curdles at this point. Mine did, but it all worked out in the end.
Still on low speed, add half of the flour mixture and blend until just incorporated. Add the remaining buttermilk, then the rest of the dry ingredients, and mix until the batter is smooth.
Scoop the batter into the prepared muffin tins, about two heaping tablespoons per cup. (I used a 1½ tablespoon ice scream scoop, piled high.) As you can see in the above photo, the batter should mound up over the tops of the cups.
Bake for 12-14 minutes, rotating the tray half way through the baking time, until the tops of the cakes are firm to the touch.
Cool on a rack in the tin for a few minutes.
Meanwhile, make the topping:
Melt the 4 tablespoons butter, stir in the vanilla, dip the tops of the puffs, and set aside to let the butter absorb. Stir together the sugar and cinnamon and roll the puffs through it. You’re aiming for a thin layer of cinnamon sugar on each puff.
These are best eaten the day they are made, and especially good warm.