Every December, few things fill me with more unnecessary anxiety and obstinate pride than making a bûche de Noël. I am, as a rule, a rather fickle and pernickety consumer of sweets: I’m a great admirer of good coffee éclairs and a multitude of fruit pies, but a sugar content does not, inherently, get my heart aflutter. I need to be cajoled, and I only like what I like.
By some twist of fate, however, by virtue of my twin loves of general cookery and winning people’s affection through my utility and skill, I have become my biological and chosen family’s de facto baker, and so the yearly purveyor of my arch-nemesis, the Yule Log. This ridiculous concoction is a thin slab of genoise cake rolled up with a cream filling and covered in an icing, sculpted and decorated – with leaves, mushrooms, animals – to resemble a magical piece of the forest floor. It’s downright whimsical. But I don’t particularly like cake, or buttercream, whipped cream, ice cream (in the event of a bûche glacée)… or most of the typical flavors of this creation. I don’t like meringue mushrooms. I don’t like chocolate shards. I am the Scrooge of this boulangerie-pâtisserie staple.
Bûche au chocolat (2020) — This post will not include a recipe.
It’s not that I always loathe these parts or their assembled whole, per se. In fact, I blindly malign many other beloved desserts far more: île flottante, Pavlova, marshmallows, most anything sweet with mint or peanut butter, the very concept of most “ice box pies”... But with bûche, the injury is a bit more personal, because I have to make the dreaded thing, regularly enough to have developed a litany of baking traumas and far too infrequently to have actually worked out any of the kinks. I’ve decided that I hate them, a bit like a child does.
The bûche — a complicated creation I enjoy neither making nor eating — is a perfect encapsulation of my sometimes tortured relationship to cooking for the pleasure of others.
I threw no parties last year, and saw no family, but I still made a bûche, to film as a bilingual baking tutorial. Both the cake and video were great successes, and again I flushed with pride and pleasure. I started making more of these tutorials, because they meant I could cook for others again, in a way. Like many people, by my ninth month of pandemic confinement, I was tired of cooking, and I was also tired of eating. Last winter, making French domestic classics for my phone was a way of forcing myself to cook, and so to eat.
If you lived near me last year, you also know that I was eager to give out food. Partly, this was logistical: cutting down recipes can be tricky, and in any case, it’s not terribly gratifying. And I could feel just a little bit helpful, perhaps comforting. It was my way of entering the homes of people dear to me. It wasn’t entirely altruistic, which my cooking has never been: I wanted to be remembered.
I am an efficient, bossy and generous person, so hosting comes naturally to me. I’m able to juggle numerous dishes at once and plan days in advance. I’ve always had the resources – kitchen, dining space, time, money, energy – to accommodate people. I used to host regular “family dinners”: guests could come empty-handed and expect to do no work. The first course would be ready in a timely manner, and things would flow generally easily and smoothly. The only catch was that I imposed a certain discipline. Guests were urged to arrive at the expected time, learn how to cut cheese, leave their dishes at the table as long as people were still eating a course and leave me, in general, to control the traffic pattern of foods and plates. No water glasses on overly full tablescapes: You want water, you finish your wine. Otherwise, people were encouraged to do as they pleased. Eat or not, smoke at the table, change into my clothes, consult my library.
By turns, I cherished and resented my role as matron. At the end of every dinner, I felt exhausted and empty. I fretted over whether I’d done a good enough job. I grew tired of both self-imposed and external expectations. Sometimes I felt taken for granted; sometimes I was. And I was terrified that I’d lose my place in people’s hearts if I stopped being useful. I wanted to be remembered.
I have not made and will not make a bûche this year. I spent Christmas alone in New York and, now in France with my little slice of family, I have fewer kitchen tools at my disposal. I quite frankly don’t have the energy to perform up to my past standards. Contemplating the simplest dinners have become a source of outsized stress. Earlier this month, I told my mother that I had three demands, and only three, for my stay: I want to be allowed to sleep until the afternoon, I want to be allowed to spend any and all of my waking hours at the piano practicing, I don’t want to host. Not much is expected of me. Yet still I bristle at the obligation to cook — once more partly self-imposed, partly external.
I prepare meals because I’m the fastest, the most organized, the most skilled. I’m objectively in better condition than half of my four-person household; I’ve come home to take care of my family. I resent and respect this. I also fall into the same trap of my own making every time it comes to planning food: I hate to see people doing things inefficiently, and as soon as I jump into service, I take over completely. As much as I sigh and complain, I seldom say no. You’ll grant me that this isn’t easy. In turn, I’ll grant you that it’s up to me.
Quite simply, if I want to avoid the stresses of cooking, I’ll have to relinquish control and sit with others’ displeasure. I’ll have to assume they still love me without the succor of gastronomy. Yet I can’t deny the sense of belonging — and even pleasure, lest I forget! — that comes from feeding the ones I love.
Loved every minute this.
I’m not a huge fan of the bûche we get suckered into buying during the holidays. Come to think of it, it’s damn near impossible to find decent French pastry where I am.
Wonderful read. Thank you for sharing, truly felt like I was (for a brief moment) invited to one of your dinner parties.