The kitchen day started in decidedly inauspicious fashion. After loosely reading of some online hoax of hard-boiling an egg in the microwave, I decided to try it, figuring that it couldn’t explode in thirty or forty seconds, the prescribed length to make it happen. And for that first attempt, it did not explode. In fact, as I peeled it open, it hadn’t even cooked anything other than the shell, and the raw egg spilled into the garbage, where it belonged. Undaunted – an attitude that I made a promise to hold throughout whatever happened in the kitchen that day – I tried again, popping another egg into a bowl and covering it with a paper towel. Yes, a paper towel. And just a paper towel. Since thirty seconds didn’t do anything the first time, I let it whirl for a full minute.
And in the event that anyone was contemplating this, don’t: an egg will explode in the microwave in less than sixty seconds. Somewhere around the 45 second mark, a muted explosion startled me from my motions by the oven. I knew what had happened instantly and was afraid to look. Andy, somehow, hadn’t been signaled by the noise, as I peeked in to see him watching television, unaffected. Once I got most of the mess cleaned up, I yelled in to him that it wasn’t possible to hardball an egg in the microwave, just so he knew.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he asked.
“No, you really can’t. It doesn’t work. It exploded.”
And then Andy exploded in laughter.
Luckily, I didn’t need a hard-boiled egg for the ensaymada recipe I had planned on making. While Suzie has been nudging me to try baking some buns, such as the exquisite lemon cardamom buns she made for a brunch many moons ago, I’ve usually shied away from it (except in this one surprisingly successful instance). The idea of dough – and the rising and cutting and rolling out of said dough – frightened me. That was it – I was afraid. While Suzie didn’t trust the yeast part of the process, afraid it wouldn’t rise, I was afraid of the consistency and stickiness and stubbornness of the dough. When I can’t get something off my hands, I get easily annoyed.
On this day, however, Suzie and I texted our new mantra when it came to being afraid: fuck it. (I think it was something we said in relation to something completely different, but it has become a catch-phrase we use for everything, including the hesitation of a yeast-based dough.) I went into the kitchen with an open mind and the intention to enjoy the process of making dough, no matter how challenging or disappointing it might be. Considering the planned recipe, I’m rather surprised I was able to keep that mindset.
Ever since visiting the Philippines in 1997, I’ve been a fan of ensaymada. It was what I had for breakfast most days there – a seemingly simple light and flaky roll, topped with a sweet butter topping and a layer of shredded cheese. Yes, cheese, which sounds weird, but ends up working better than I ever believed it could. When I returned home, I’d occasionally pick up some plastic-wrapped ensaymada rolls every few months to get my fix, and then they stopped being available at the local Asian markets. Looking online, I found a couple of recipes for how to make it, and with some brioche baking forms, a new packet of yeast, and an emboldened spirit of adventure and fun in the kitchen, I got to work with Suzie’s encouragement.
For that first attempt, I used the recipe found here from Foxy Folksy. I liked the way the dough worked, but in my haste and enjoyment of the process, I was less careful than I usually am, forgetting the salt (oops!) and then neglecting the second rise (double oops!) and it turns out the second rise is key to the light and fluffy consistency that is essential to ensaymada. Those first rolls went into the oven uprisen and dense, and when they didn’t puff up to triple their size, I felt a tinge of disappointment, but went on undaunted. That was, after all, the theme of the day. And since I’d only put in half of the dough, I inadvertently gave time for the second half to rise a bit. When that batch went in, they were serviceable. Not great, but decent enough, and Suzie came by to try it out. The flavor was there, even if the consistency was not. We sat on the attic floor, surrounded by candles and light, and had a moment of hygge with this first try at ensaymada. Denmark and the Philippines were colliding in Loudonville, New York, while old friends met for a new experience 46 years into this life.
The next day, fortified by a new confidence in dough, I tried a different ensaymada recipe from Riverten Kitchen. This time I added the salt, and did the second rise properly, and they turned out much better. I’m still going to experiment a bit more to get that chewy yet flakey consistency, but these are pretty good, and the fear of dough has been conquered.
A beautiful new practice to see us through the winter.
