Hallelujah! The Welcome Table_ A Lifetime of Memories With Recipes - Maya Angelou [39]
I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of good Chardonnay. I had to confront the stress, which kept me from my rest. The truth was my writing was going badly. Or to put it directly, my writing was not going at all.
A sample of my work made me cry:
A RAT
SAT
ON A MAT
THAT’S THAT.
I was working on a fourth book, and although the others had been well received, it seemed to me this one would reveal to the world that I was a charlatan and couldn’t write my way out of a brown paper sack.
I decided to cook a complicated dish, which would take my mind off the exacting task of writing. I chose to make chocolate êclairs with whipped cream and custard filling.
From the moment I decided to cook, I forgot about writing. Gone was my concern with nouns, pronouns, verbs, and dangling participles. I had made cream puffs and profiteroles before but never êclairs, so I had to concentrate.
I finished the dough and measured it for twelve êclairs. I decided to make six with custard filling and the rest filled with whipped cream. I turned on both ovens and put three êclairs on each cookie sheet and placed them on the middle rack of each oven. I made the custard and started the whipped cream.
I put a large block of unsweetened chocolate in the top of a double boiler and turned the fire low so the chocolate could melt.
When the oven whistle let me know that the pastries were done, I opened the oven door and nearly fainted. I had measured dough the size of six large cigars, three on each cookie sheet. They had grown into loaves the size of giant Italian bread. I took them out and put the next load into the oven and was handed back six more giant loaves.
While they cooled, I made more custard and more whipped cream and warmed more unsweetened chocolate. Hours passed as pastries cooled and custard thickened and cooled enough to be placed into the giant pastries. I dusted some of the giant pastries with powdered sugar and drizzled chocolate over them all. After stuffing the refrigerator in the kitchen full of them, I made room for them in the refrigerator outside by the swimming pool. Dawn had arrived bringing its pink and gold clouds before I was finished cooking and filling the êclairs.
When I went back to bed, I was exhausted. I felt as if I had made dessert for an army. When my husband awakened and turned to sit up on his side of the bed, I raised myself and sat up, pretending I had not lain down just one hour earlier.
When my husband sat down for his coffee, I asked, “Would you like a little chocolate eclair?” (I knew he loved sweet pastries in the morning.) I chopped off a huge piece from the custard loaf. “When did you make this?” He ate so happily I didn’t feel the need to answer.
That evening after dinner I offered a whipped cream eclair. He said, “Of course.” The next day we repeated the actions of the day before except that I gave him whipped cream for breakfast and custard for dinner. The next morning he awakened before I did and left the bedroom. He came back immediately.
“Maya, Maya, wake up. What the hell have we got? Come here.”
I followed him to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door. Sliced êclairs were stacked on every shelf. He said, “Come outside.” He opened the refrigerator door on the deck. “What the hell do we have? An eclair cottage industry?”
“Would you have a bite before you go to work?” I asked.
“No, no. And I’ll never eat another eclair as long as I live. I want to see my plate eclair-free when I come home tonight. I know you are having a hard time at your work and I’m sorry. So give them away or you eat them, but I don’t fancy dessert made on a