Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: croissant


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Come in, you and your heart sit down.

It might surprise you to know that the best croissant we’ve ever had, was not in Aix en Provence, nor Paris, but San Francisco. We congratulated them. French butter, they said. It was perfection. Nothing added. No cookies or chocolate stuffed in the middle. No pistachio cream. Just a simple butter croissant. When things are done well, no additions are required. 

And isn’t it the same with living? The best that we can offer is often without flare or fanfare. An open door. A seat at the table. An understanding that doesn’t require explanation, only a place, a presence.

We all know people who are struggling. Sometimes I think we imagine that we have to offer an answer. A solution. Most people really only want to know that you care — they want to taste the richness of your simple French butter — to step into the warmth of your heart’s kitchen, and simply sit down. 

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Radical Hospitality.

I am no more or less related to Sara, the co-owner of Pascal’s Patisserie than I am to Dominique’s cousin, Bruno, who completes the “co”. I knew the croissants would be good. He’s French, of course. But I was not prepared for Sara – this force of nature that was so welcoming, I was full before we even started to taste.

When you meet your people, you just know. I was reminded of it watching a repeat of Sex in the City while on the treadmill that very morning. It was Charlotte who asked the other girls, “What if we could be each other’s soulmates…” Walking into the bakery yesterday, not two steps into the kitchen, I knew I had found one of mine. Between directing the workers and leading us through the heavenly scents, it felt like I was home.

First she brought us the Dubai croissant — a pistachio filled croissant that made my eyes roll into the back of my head, where I was able to see the part of my brain that said, “pay attention to this woman.” And I did. We double-dutched through a conversation of delight and I blurted out “I need to paint you!” (As I often do when delighted — to which I am mostly met with a backing up so extreme that you can almost hear the beeps.) Not with Sara. She said YES! Even before I asked to take her photo, she was in mid pose! OH, how I love those that lead with yes! She continued to load our plates and our hearts.

I didn’t have the words for it until later that afternoon. We went north to the Mission in Santa Barbara. I looked under the “about” of it, and the first and only sentence was “Old Mission Santa Barbara believes in radical hospitality.” Is it ironic that I would experience both on such a glorious day, or just my good fortune?

And shouldn’t this be our mission? Wouldn’t life be extra delicious. I eat this morning’s croissant that we were so radically and joyfully gifted, and I lead with YES!

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Uff-da, y’all.



Two of my mom’s sisters ended up in Texas. Being a child in Minnesota, that seemed about as foreign as it could get. (Little did I know…) When my Aunt Sandy returned on her first visit, she already sounded different. I didn’t have the word for it then, but she definitely had a drawl. How strange, I thought. But I wasn’t that worried, until years later when my mom and I took my grandma down to Texas for a visit. Tired from the drive, I didn’t really notice when we arrived, but the next morning, there she was, my full-on Texas aunt, asking my grandma — the one that her northern children only called “mother” — “Mama, do y’all want to go for biscuits and gravy?” Wait! Mama? Y’all? Biscuits and gravy? What was happening???? Perhaps there was a slight emphasis on the word mother when they returned and my mom asked her, “Did you like the biscuits and gravy, Mother?” I was already smiling when she answered, “Uff-da, y’all…”

I can see now how it happens. Living in France. They say I have an accent. There, of course, and even when I return. We all want to belong. Be a part of something. And we gather ourselves in, word by word, bit by bit, to make ourselves whole, to find a place at the table.

Visiting the Starbuck’s in San Antonio yesterday, they were all out of the butter croissants, so I said “I’ll take the pain au chocolat.” She looked at me so strangely… Uff-da, y’all, I thought. “I mean the chocolate croissant,” I smiled. I am a part of it all.

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Little Eiffel Towers in her apartment.


She packed her delight alongside our Walgreens’ provisions. Just a young girl in a red smock in this Biloxi Walgreens, so eager to learn about the world. “Where are you from?” “France.” Gasping, she asked if we lived by the Eiffel Tower. No, we smiled, south. “But you’ve seen the Eiffel Tower?” “Oh, yes, many times.” She was so excited. She said she wanted to go. So desperately wanted to go, and began to count our change again, apologizing. “No need to apologize, it is exciting, distracting even,” I said. “Do you eat croissants?” She asked, wanting to know everything. “Yes,” I replied, “I even make them.” “Oh my! You have to send the recipe!” I told her I would. And I meant it. She already had me, but then she went all the way. “I’m going to make enough money one day to take my mom. She loves Paris. She has little Eiffel towers in her apartment.” My heart spread across the Walgreens store.

I took her email address that she scratched on the back of our receipt. I sent her pictures of croissants I have made. The Eiffel Tower I have stood next to. Kissed under. Dreamed above.

Sometimes all we need to know is that it’s possible. I hope she believes it. If we can give each other that gift, then we have everything.

I carried her delight through the electronic doors. Hope stayed with her. We are all on our way.

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Saying grace.

I never had an alarm clock growing up. Just the thought of it sounds, well, alarming. My mom did though. It was just one of the many things she took on, so I wouldn’t have to. She absorbed the morning jolt, tiptoed to the bathroom, brushed and washed. If I wasn’t roused by the gentle clinking of her makeup, she would come into my bedroom, and start my day with whispered hand on shoulder. Toast popped up in the kitchen. Smiles set the day’s intention. Maybe we didn’t fold hands in prayer, but you’d be wrong to say she didn’t start the day saying grace. 

Of course there was a world of concern around her, around us, but if she woke with worry, it never showed in her hands. I guess she learned that from her mother. I pray I’ve done the same. 

I begin each day now, in another time, another country. But there’s coffee on the table. And kindness in the air. I give thanks, and whisper with the gentle clink of the keyboard — Good morning.

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The patience of croissant.

The patience of croissants.


I eased into baking.  Perhaps I had been waiting for permission, or an invitation into the kitchen, and both finally came when I moved to France.  


I started slowly, a few cookies.  And I always searched for the kind of recipe that didn’t have to be chilled.  I couldn’t possibly wait an hour. I’m not sure what I was in a hurry for, but I was – once started, it had to be done!  I slowly branched out into those that needed to be chilled.  I must admit, at first I didn’t chill the dough for the minimum of one hour, but tried putting the dough in the freezer for 30 minutes.  Oh, patience.  Or was it control?  Either way, I slowly loosened the reins and as the dough chilled, so too did I.  


I started making bread.  This took more patience, half a day.  Then brioche, a full day.  Then croissant, two days.  Two days!  I wasn’t in a hurry. I wasn’t in control. And I was fine.  The dough was in control. It knew what needed to be done and I went along with it.  Rolled with it. Let it chill in between. And rolled with it again.  The first time our home had the scent of a boulangerie, I knew it was worth it! This was the reward. A fresh buttery croissant, that came from hands, both in the work, and the letting go. 
I often have to tell myself to breathe. To do the work, and then let go.  The work has always come more easily to me, but I’m learning each day how to trust the process, trust the time given, trust the “dough.” With that, the process has too become the reward, not the punishment. And the result, each day becomes, well, just a little more delicious!  

Here comes the sun!  Bon appétit!