Guided Meditation Narrator (13:06)
Is relaxing, going deeper and deeper and even deeper. And because you're so relaxed now, any sounds that are going on around you in your environment are simply moving through you as vibrations as you allow them to pass through you and take you deeper and deeper. And the sound of my voice is also taking you deeper and deeper as you drift and float and dream. And that lovely, relaxed feeling that began up in your eyelids is moving down now into your spine, moving down one vertebra at a time, going down, down, down, moving all the way down to the base of your spine. And your pelvis is feeling very heavy on the bed. And the relaxation has moved all the way down into your belly. And your breath has become nice and deep as you go deeper and deeper. And the relaxation moves up now into your chest and around your heart. And you're letting go now from deep inside yourself. And any tension that may have built up during the day inside of you is evaporating. And you feel at peace, comfortable from the inside out. And now imagine the lovely relaxation moving down deep into your legs now, rolling down your legs into your knees, down deep into your ankles and into your feet, moving all the way down into the soles of your feet. And the soles of your feet may even tingle a little as that lovely, warm feeling moves down into your toes. Every single toe is feeling full and heavy, relaxed, everything, letting go. Imagine now that you are in Paris. You are in a small apartment tucked beneath the eaves of Montmartre. And you look out and see the rooftops stretching like silver waves, each with a chimney pot rising into the evening sky. The windows in the other buildings are tall and the shutters are open. A gentle breeze carries the distant strains of a violin playing somewhere. You are standing in a kitchen with old floor tiles, and before you is a worn wooden table. Copper pots hang above the stove, and a porcelain sink rests under the window with an old, elegant faucet. You put on a clean apron. On the big kitchen table lies a simple porcelain bowl. Sturdy and deep. It contains flour soft as silk. You run your fingers through it. It's cool, almost weight. You add a pinch of sea salt. Your body knows the perfect amount. In another bowl sits butter cut into cubes like golden dice. You lift a piece between your fingers. It's cold and firm and yields slightly to your warm touch. You place the chunks of butter into the bowl of flour. You begin to pinch the butter into the flour with your fingertips, again and again. The rhythm is simple, ancient, comforting. Over time, the mixture begins to feel like breadcrumbs, soft and crumbling, like sand warmed by the sun. And this is where the magic lives in your hands, in the slowness, in the quiet, as you go deeper and deeper. During the Middle Ages French pastries were humble and rustic. Many recipes were created or preserved in monasteries, where monks baked breads and pies to eat, but also to make as offering on feast days. The doughs were simple, sweetened with honey, dried fruits or nuts. You add a trickle of ice cold water, just enough to bring it together. You stir with your fingers, gathering the flour into a shaggy, delicate mass. No need to rush. The dough knows how to come together. By the 12th century, Crusaders brought new ingredients to Europe from the Middle East. Cane sugar, almonds, citrus and spices, which changed pastry forever. You take a sniff of the dough. It has a mild and yeasty smell. You turn the dough out onto a marble slab. It is lumpy, imperfect, still. Finding its shape, and using the heel of your palm, you push it gently away from you, then fold it back again. Push, fold, push, fold. This tender, elegant movement is called push, fold, push, fold. This rhythmic movement is taking you deeper, deeper. The butter begins to streak through the flour, creating layers that will bake into golden flakes. The dough is becoming itself. When it's ready, soft but not sticky, you press it into a round, wrap it in parchment and place it in the fridge to rest. You take a nice, deep breath, and the dough begins to sleep. By the 13th century, pastry making was beginning to specialize. Meat pies appeared and fruit tarts. Bakers, known as boulanger started separating themselves from pastry cooks, les patissiers, and they founded their own culinary guilds. In 1440, the pastry makers Guild was formed and trained Patissier began to elevate pastry to an art. You stand before the wooden table again with your hands on your hips, over your flowery apron, and you see your other ingredients spread before you. Apples, sugar and more butter. Cooking comes in movement, and with every movement, you are going deeper and deeper into relaxation. The apples sit in a shallow bowl, heavy with juice, their skins flushed with pink. You pick one up, feel the cool, smooth weight of it in your hand, and begin to peel it slowly. The skin is unwinding, a perfect ribbon curling onto the cutting board. One by one, you prepare them, cutting them in half, coring them and slicing them. Their scent is rising, sweet, tart, earthy. You breathe it in, and it lands in your body like a memory. You place a copper pan over a low flame and melt the butter, rich, golden and slow. It sighs as it melts, sliding across the metal and velvet rivulets. You sprinkle in sugar, and it crackles softly, caramelizing into amber syrup. You place the apples with care, nestling them into the Bubbling sweetness. And you smell the brown sugar and fruit and butter. It's intoxicating. In the 17th century, during the reign of Louis XIV, food became a performance at court. The kitchens at Versailles were temples of invention, creating delicate desserts for royal banquets. Aristocrats dined on eclair, profiterole and cream puffs. Pastry had arrived. As the apples softened, you take the dough out of the fridge and place it on the slab of marble. With an old rolling pin, you roll out the dough, cool and silky, folding and turning it until it's the perfect round. You lift it delicately and drape it over the apples like a soft blanket. In the late 1800s, in a sleepy town in central France, the Tatin sisters ran a country inn. They catered to weary travelers, hunters and people escaping Paris for the weekend. Caroline greeted guests at the front of house, while Stephanie cooked in the kitchen. Their establishment, called l' Hotel Tatin, was warm and welcoming, but in every other way, quite ordinary. Until one day, something happened. It was an odd autumn afternoon, and as the story goes, and like many great culinary legends, there are multiple versions, Stephanie was rushed and distracted in the kitchen. Some say she forgot to line the pan with pastry before adding the apples to her pie. Others claim she overcooked the apples in butter and sugar and, in an attempt to salvage her dessert, quickly slapped a layer of dough on top and tossed it into the oven to finish baking. And when she turned it out to serve, the pastry had become perfectly golden and crisp. The apples richly caramelized, and the buttery juices soaked the crust in all the right places. It was a triumph of texture and flavor, a happy mistake turned masterpiece. The tart was served upside down, and the guests at l' Hotel Tatin loved it. They asked for it again and again. Before long, it had become the inner signature dessert. And this upside down apple pie might have remained a regional curiosity, except that one day, a chef from Paris arrived at the inn. He worked long nights at Melbourne Maxim's, a legendary restaurant that serves customers from around the world to this day. You place the whole pan in the oven and close the door. You sit down by the open window. Paris is golden now, the sky deepening to Rome and pearl, rooftops catching the last light. You hear the clink of a glass in a nearby apartment, laughter from the street below. And in your kitchen, the tart bakes, its scent wrapping around you like a shawl. Time is slowing down. Your thoughts are fading as you rest in this perfect moment. You remove the tart from the oven and turn it out upside down, gently steaming, the apples glistening like jewels. It is gold, golden and tender. When the great chef tasted the tart, he fell madly in love and brought the recipe back to the city. From then on, it was served at Maxime's as tout tatin, named for the sisters. You take a bite, the warm apple yields to the crisp, buttery pastry, and a wave of comfort rises in you, as soft as a lullaby. Lot El Tatin is still in business. Visitors come not just for the scenery, but to pay homage to the birthplace of this beloved dessert. Although the sisters Teta passed quietly into history, their tart lives on in Parisian patisserie, in home kitchens, in cookbooks, and in dreams. As you take yourself deeper and even deeper, it as you drift and float and dream.
