Your flight leaves in five hours, and I hate this potato brioche recipe. This is my fifth time making it, and it still doesn’t rise properly, falls in on itself while baking, doesn’t get that nice, fluffy texture you expect from a brioche.
It’s seven a.m., and I’m scowling at this failed brioche, poking at the valley it’s sunk into in my loaf pan. You’re laughing, sitting on my kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, and I’m saying, Hey, it’s not funny, but that only makes you laugh louder.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so pissed at bread. You’re cute when you’re pissed at bread.
I hate this fucking recipe.
Then stop making it.
No! I refuse to lose to a fucking brioche recipe! I say, stabbing my stupid brioche with a fork. I don’t know what’s wrong with the stupid thing! I’ve tried modifying the amount of potato flour because this stupid potato flour is so fine, and maybe it's not supposed to be so fine, and I’ve also tried modifying the amount of liquid because doesn’t potato flour sop up more liquid? And I’ve tried putting the damn dough in a warm oven so it can rise better, and I’ve bought so much new frickin’ yeast, and damn it! You’re a chef! What am I doing wrong?!
You shrug, reach over to break off a chunk of brioche and chew it thoughtfully.
Do you have butter?
Yeah! Nice, bougie butter imported from France! Do you think that makes a difference? I ask, retrieving my butter from the fridge and bringing it over.
Dunno, maybe, you say, and you reach over to open my utensils drawer and pull out a knife. I just wanted butter to eat with the bread.