Sometimes the Croissants Are Perfectly Proofed

but usually not

Sometimes the sourdough croissants are perfectly proofed. Usually, they’re not. Usually, they’re proofed enough to puff up, spread themselves out on the tray while baking. They give the illusion of being perfectly proofed, but they are not. They leave little puddles of melted butter on the parchment paper, which then seeps onto the baking sheet. Once the butter cools, I scrape it off before washing the trays, eradicating the traces of leaked butter, of the croissants’ imperfections, of my own perceived mistakes.

I spent much of this winter second-guessing my own knowledge of how to judge a sourdough pastry’s readiness for the oven. There were bakes when I was sure that the croissants were a bit under-proofed, only for them to rise and then completely flatten in the oven, a sign of significant over-proofing. There was a morning when I thought, definitely, that the croissants were far over-proofed, only for them to bake up not quite perfectly, but puffy enough to impress the naked eye. There were frigidly cold nights when I arrived at the bakery at 3 a.m.—the time to get the croissants in the oven, the witching hour—to find that the heat hadn’t kicked on, that the naturally leavened pastries were stunted in their growth in a chilly 65-degree environment. There was a stretch of a few weeks in January when the croissants were continually over-proofing, splaying out into wonky, horned shapes, when I wondered if I’d ever get it right again.

The variables to account for stack up, seemingly without end: I wonder how mature the starter was when the croissant dough was mixed, how warm it was in the bakery when I shaped the croissants, the temperatures outside on the afternoon and evening that the pastries will spend at room temperature (Should we close the bakery windows or keep them open, or maybe just keep one open?), how the quality of the stone-milled flour might have changed (Was the mill cleaned recently? Are we using a soft spring wheat or a hard winter wheat?), where on the speed rack were the pastries positioned (higher, where all of the heat rises and humidity collects, or lower, where it’s cooler and drier), and my mind assumes that there are probably other variables that I’m failing to consider. Thinking about all of this, I’m able to understand why many people shy away from baking with yeast—be it commercial or natural—completely.

On Saturday, I struck this leavening timing perfectly, the croissants puffing up and outward proudly, to their fullest, airiest extent, retaining the butter that I’d worked with diligence and care to create smooth layers of between the dough. Taking them out of the oven, I thought, holy shit, these are perfect, and how?!

In “Food Causts,” Comrade Biscuit writes, “How much longer until I bake myself out of this soulless husk and into a master of the craft? How many more tries before I’m satisfied with how satisfied people are? When will I bridge the gap between ‘this bake defines me’ and ‘fuck it it’s already fucked.’” Most of the time, the majority of customers won’t be able to discern the difference between a perfectly proofed croissant and one that could have used another hour to mature. While I don’t believe that the customer is always right, perhaps I should let the customer’s satisfaction override my frequent dissatisfaction, my tendency to find fault, more often.

I spent December and January in a weekly workshop that explored old Scandinavian pagan connections to and rituals for the deep winter months. The traditions that we were immersing ourselves in and weaving into our contemporary lives outside of the space of the class meetings were often focused on letting go of history and energy that was weighing us down or that wasn’t serving to add a sense of beauty and wonderment to our lives. At the heart of all of this, though, we were learning how to relinquish power to the world around us, to live more in connection with our surroundings than in a position of control. This line of spiritual thinking is a guide for living without hierarchy, and certainly for living in a non-anthropocentric fashion; it teaches us not to aim to be the best, necessarily, but simply for mediocrity. This does not mean performing poorly at what we do, but rather asserts that doing well enough is perfectly okay, too. Under this philosophy, we are part of a complex network of existence, not puppeteers. This is something that sourdough baking teaches me again and again, too: we may be able to manipulate some parts of the process, and there are techniques I’ve mastered that certainly help a croissant’s quality, but so much of the process is beyond my immediate control. It’s environmental and microbial, outside of me and within me all at once.

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