Parlez Vouz Gougères?

Entering the pantry in our Serbian home (and yes, I still call it home, even after twenty some years living on another continent) feels like entering a time machine. At lightspeed, it pulls me back to my teenage years and I walk around in a haze, smiling like the village idiot, reminiscing about the past, and filling my lungs with the smells of my childhood.

The walls of the “salon” change color once in a while, the swing on the balcony gets a makeover with new upholstery, the sidewalks turn from concrete to snazzy tiles, and new plants emerge amongst the old.

But the pantry stays the same. The three shelves on the left look like a game of Bejeweled proudly exhibiting the sparkling  jars of preserves, jams, compotes, pickled peppers and cornichones. The farthest and darkest spot is still Father’s “lab”, with numerous bottles of wine trying to become vinegar. The shelf closest to the door holds small bottles and jars of spices (once a while I would bring some smoked Spanish paprika or chives, and my sister would abscond with them in no time) and paper bags of tea-leaves and herbs picked on the meadows of Mount Kopaonik.

Underneath the shelves are boxes with kitchen gadgets and small appliances, some dating to the early seventies (I rescued and brought to the U.S. a barely used fondue set, wooden napkin-rings, and two-thronged appetizer forks in bright, primary colors).

The cabinet (a remnant designed by Mother for our bedroom when we were in elementary school) holds mixing bowls, pots and pans, ziploc bags (OK, these are new, provided by yours truly) and various baking supplies.

The corner behind the door hides a carton of twenty-four one-litter bottles of sunflower oil, a twenty-five-kilo sack of sugar, and two fifty-kilo sacks of flour of different types. If it was not apparent before, it should be obvious now: Mother is a baker. And a damn good one.

Nobody walked in the house without trying some of her freshly baked pastries, pies, cookies, or breads (and believe me, between all the neighbors, relatives, our friends, their friends, and Father’s patients, the house was more crowded than a bus station on market day). For every field trip we brought a big box of her croissants (which we fondly nicknamed “guzate kifle” – aka “big-assed-croissants”), which disappeared in minutes, devoured by our classmates. I have tried many variations in my life, but nothing compares with these perfect golden-brown masterpieces, crunchy on the outside, pillowy-soft on the inside, with a touch of cheese in the middle.

I appreciated all the wonderful baked goods that she offered almost every day in a detached and bored teenage manner. I helped her bake because I had to, but learned nothing because I did not want to. I was physically present in the kitchen, but my mind was everywhere but there. All the hours spent by her side did not turn me into a baker. Which was quite all right by me then.

But it is not all right by me now. I am creative enough to produce imaginative, nutritious, and multi-ethnic meals every day. Our mayo is home-made, just like the ricotta, the lard, and the sauerkraut. I make pretty decent breads. I have conquered the pastry crust. But I still dream of Mother’s poppy-seed roll, her strudels (sweet and savory), and her tortes, geometrically perfect, artistically decorated, with every rich ingredient contributing to the overall sublime taste.

I have decided to become a baker. When I started the blog several months ago, I wanted to join the “Tuesdays with Dorie” group, but it was closed. They have finished cooking the recipes from her book Baking: From My Home to Yours by Dorie Greenspan.

But Dorie has written a new book, , and a group, French Fridays with Dorie, was born. Every week we will make a different recipe from the book and blog about it. I am ready to tackle the French cuisine, and especially the baking aspect of it. But I will still use Skype to hear Mother chuckling when I ask for advice.

The first several recipes were chosen by Dorie herself. The introductory one was for Gougères, the savory French cream puffs with cheese. It was a cinch to make, using ingredients I always have in the pantry and fridge. The instructions were detailed, comprehensive, and clear. The result was a light, puffy, cheesy cloud of wonderfulness. The Beasties ate them while still warm. Husband forgot how to speak and groaned for hours. The breakfast today included a couple of the cheesy pastries with perfect two-minute eggs and milk. The lunch boxes contained one of them each. And then there were none…

By popular demand I will have to make these on a regular basis.

The recipe for the GOUGĖRES is byDorie Greenspan, from her newest book .