Nancy Meyers Week
Its Nancy Meyers Week at Vulture.
Because itsThe Holidayseason, andIts Complicated.Somethings Gotta Give.
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The sequence is an aspirational fantasy of the highest order; a dream ballet, a fever hallucination.
I wanted to know: Could a layperson make croissants high?
Could anactualpastry chef even make croissants high?
Or was this a skill bestowed exclusively upon Meryl Streep inIts Complicated,inadvertently perpetuating a dangerous myth?
Sarabeth asks me no fewer than four times why I am doing this.
What does this have to do with anything?
she asks, perplexed.
When I explain the concept to her satisfaction, she sighs.
Oh, Jesus, she says.
Then, Let me FaceTime you.
Meryl had never run a machine like this, and she was so cute.
But Meryl, of course, prevailed.
She was fantastic, says Sarabeth.
Also as sort of emotional security with the stupid machine, because its a very big machine.
I know theyre my hands, because theyre more wrinkled and old than hers, she laughed.
But thats another story, which Im not telling you.)
But the shoot also gave Sarabeth a brief and rare window into the mysterious mind of Meryl Streep.
You know what I noticed about Meryl?
she says, mid-sheeter discourse.
She would just hum in between the takes.
Shed just walk around in her own little beautiful world.
I was, like, so taken by her.
A very beautiful human being.
She looks momentarily disturbed.
I would wait and get stoned in the rolling out, she says slowly.
I wouldnt get stoned in the making of the dough.
Because its too complicated, she says.
(Drink every time someone calls something complicated in this piece based onIts Complicated.
)If you get too stoned and youre totally incapacitated, then itll be a mess.
When I ask if shed ever gotten stoned and baked, she balks.
No, I never did it like that.
Id be afraid to trigger the machine if I was stoned.
She pauses, looking thoughtful.
Itmightbe interesting, she muses.
As she snaps the photos, she briefly hovers her phone over the cookbook.
Heres a quick lesson.
Heres the detrempe and this is the beurrage, she says, pointing at a rotund mound of dough.
Meaning, the dough part with the yeast, and the butter.
You cut back the little bird beaks in it.
Already lost, I ask if I can text her with any questions when I actually make my croissants.
I also warn her that she is going to be very disappointed in my efforts.
No, Im not.
This is very hard, she says.
Call me if you have a problem, well do like Meryl does: Wave me in the window.
Before we hang up, her tone turns conspiratorial and a bit flirty.
Do you know who would have been the best croissant maker of the whole group?
Steve, she says.
His hands, because hes a banjo player.
He would be a great baker.
I told him that at the very end.
I ask what he said in reply.
He kind of liked that I said that to him.
I never would have pegged that.
Im just a man, I guess, he says.
hum peacefully to myself and base the measurements on feelings instead of math.
I text Sarabeth in a panic.
How bad is it if I forgot the salt?
Not bad just not tasting great, she replies.
I think Im failing on many levels right now, I text back.
Oh dear, she replies.
Yes, I text back with a smiley face.
Perhaps, I reply.
The butter feels amazing in my hands, soft and creamy, like, uh, butter.
I begin quietly eating the butter off of my hands.
Why dont people eat plain butter more often?
They are so well-behaved!!
I cannot believe this is real, I say to the kitchen.
I gaze upon my butter baby, glowing with pride and platonic love.
I text half of the people in my phone including Sarabeth a photo of it.
This is my literal child, I write.
Finally, I recover my composure.
This is my son, I choke, urgently.
Unfortunately, I must now flatten my plump offspring so you can distribute the butter.
I Google it, and learn that business letters are folded thrice, due to business.
Time begins to stretch like the pliant dough I am not working with.
The fridge door is slick with butter.
I have eaten all of the Frosted Flakes and now have started on peanut butter straight from the jar.
My boyfriend returns to the kitchen.
Why is there flour on your hips?
(It was a sativa.)
I write in my notes, Its complicated hahahaha.
I also write, inexplicably, The dough and I are friends now and we finally agree.
This proves … complicated.
My triangles are fucked to hell, I write cheerfully in my notes.
I remember Meryls serene humming and I press on.
I eat one; it tastes like yeast and nothing.
Its texture, however, is like one fat cloud.
I eat four more, then text Ryan, Is it bad to eat this dough?
Not really, he replies, but its not going to be good like cookie dough.
(Understandably, Sarabeth has not returned my last text from Friday.)
They look likeUrsulas cursed polyps fromThe Little Mermaidand I would die for them.
I place the other tray, humbly, in the dryer.
My boyfriend walks by, looks into the dryer, and says nothing.
After several hours, I check the clock.
It has been 30 minutes.
It produces no oxytocin and I do not bond to it.
I place the dough on various surfaces around the kitchen and study it.
I wonder if it knows itself.
I write in my notes, This dough has fewer vibes.
The raw croissants seem to have risen enough to go into the oven.
My kitchen smells like butter making love to an angel.
Finally, I remove the croissants from the oven and look upon them.
I am tentatively triumphant.
I text a photo to Ryan.
Did you eat one yet?
I take a bite.
The croissant tastes like yeast and nothing.
I coat the next one with a layer of sea salt and hit it one more time.
I hand one to my boyfriend, who chews quietly.
The outside is nice, he says, but the inside is mushy.
I accept this to be true.
Some are spewing little burps of butter while others are stately and professional.
Some have a sense of humor and some seem rude.
They are a family, a family of misfits.
Sarabeth replies immediately, OMG, she writes.
They are so cute and look stoned!!!
I jump from my seat (the floor) with joy, scattering croissant flakes across the room.
They look happy, she adds, and Im sure theyre tasty.
I tell her that they do, in fact, need the salt I so recklessly forgot.
Ha, Sarabeth writes.
Make them again without the weed.
