I
am Jess Surtees, of Toronto, Ontario: foody, baker-chocolate master,
poet, artist, academic, travel-enthusiast, caregiver, and
bartender-sans-booze.
My
culinary path has been a surprisingly hesitant one, littered with all
the recalcitrance to be found in an excessively aware bipolar mind. (For
is mania nothing but the pent up burst of an energy too frequently
denied out of the otherwise self-loathing entity?) It has been a path
reached only once all reasonable others were exhausted. Yet it contains
all the obvious hints as in any life story.
Doesn’t
it all begin with a mother? Some of my most conflicted memories are of
my mother telling me to write—the memories of a spoiled, pouting child
who just “doesn’t wanna”. I will forever remain in awe of her deep
understanding and intuition for English Grammar and will forever be
equally stumped by her naturally unnatural femininity and her ability to
have utterly rigid opinions; these are admirable displays of a grounded
perception of the world, a world of common sense. Not to be so dramatic
as to say that I lack such common sense, but certainly it is neither
quite so common nor sensical to me. And so it is that some of my fondest
memories are of baking with my mother. A time at which I could be the
messy, muttering, methodical putts that I truly am—a time that had no
need for frilly crinoline, polite language, or politics, where those
things were notable hindrances to the decadently delicious task at hand.
A
wildly ordered cook, my mother was—and is—filled with a vibrantly
silent, mystic energy. She is a dough guru who has no need for such
contemptuously rigid tools as (dare it even be spake!) measuring spoons.
They were always brought out, used, washed, put away; I had no idea
what they symbolized, other than being rough guidelines not to be
trusted.
Of
all the many things that I have wanted to be “when I grow up”
(linguist, train conductor, singer, editor, hair dresser, painter, poet,
drag king gender fucker, academic, apple) there has never been much to
calm me down during a storm, to distract me from negativity, to content
myself and unite myself with others. Indeed, my two primary passions of
poetry and of academe have borne the unfortunate flaw of keeping me all
too focused, agitated, negative, and distant—a problem that has long
been studied by psychologists who just can’t get enough of calling
Nietzsche a syphilitic manic depressive.
How
does an artistic intellect challenge itself—what will make it happy,
fulfilled, well-fed, active, healthy, worldly and sane? These were the
questions I posed myself over a year ago while I was unhappily
commencing yet another degree, this time in the Principles and Practices
of Editing (having left the first one [Political Science and
Gender-Sex-Culture] pending). Was the solitary act of editing to be a
proper task for an individual who cannot bear to be left alone? Who
needs music, colour, and—to be quite candid—sex? Certainly it is not a
profession for an individual who casts the rules of grammar to the wind…
and despite the many opposing beliefs I have held (and about sex in
particular) grammar, while many things, is not sexy.
Which
brings us to my accidental mentor, the first voice of encouragement I
had received for my foodly endeavors. He was supposed to be my
undergraduate thesis advisor. But a year ago, while twiddling my
grammarian thumbs (and avoiding the thesis, which he, too, was avoiding)
I remembered his words upon tasting some spicy truffles: “If you ever
want to call it quits to become a chocolatier you have my full
permission.” After finally graduating and closing (mostly) the doors
upon an education filled with manic depressions, I may finally be sane
enough to take him up on what now seems the best piece of advice he ever
gave me.
Even
before exercising this piece of perhaps unintentional advice became a
real possibility to me, I joked about this story with my father and
immediately we simultaneously coined the name “The Hungry Poet”—the
perfect name, we laughed, for a young poetess who possessed a ganaching
for a deeper satisfaction out of life. One month later, after enduring
some terrible romantic awakenings, coupled with the slow-burning
academic crisis and a realization of my gradual starvation, I met the
person who makes me draw upon every cliché imaginable—the love of my
life, my partner, my other. Since I cannot conceive and we both treat
children with an affectionate repulsion, what better than to conceive
instead an ornate representation of our passions to the world, in the
form of artistic sharing and nurturing: a bakery-gallery. As our
interests flourished and as our mutual best friend became increasingly
intrigued, we’ve expanded from a little musing to a full-blown plan for a
bakery-café-gallery-venue-home-made-home-grown-production company
multi-hybrid with expansions ever on the rise. These are bold dreams,
representing palpable needs—from every food certification, including
kosher, to an expanded public greenhouse—hello community farming!
But
first, because nothing I do is in sequence, I must away from my home of
Toronto and keep my food education methodical. So, to the land of my
Scots ancestors I will soon go, fulfilling a far more personal journey,
dragging with me whomever will come. Well… First before that I must
acquire funds and spend a bit more time stalling, because what else is
one who was raised in the ‘90s to do? So I begin by reaching out these
interests to you, dear reader(s), to share the recipes and histories
already conceived, the artistic collaborations already underway, those
to come, those to be born out of each entry, and to publicize my
humiliating attempts at city ‘farming’, each to be perfected and shared
along the way.
Enjoy
the meandering wave of musings—for what is life without great food,
great thought, great artistic expression, and traveling great lengths? Here is a song by my partner to set the mood for the beginning of our journey.
(Fantasy Flight Records)
