The Power of Words

Whatever you say to me, comes out of you and has very little to do with me.

Virginia Satir

For months, I’ve been trying to write about the lasting impact words can have on a person.

Ironically, I couldn’t find the words.

Until this morning.

I was making pâte à choux for tonight’s meal. It has become a family tradition to eat fondue for dinner and éclairs for dessert on New Year’s Eve. I was incorporating the eggs into the flour, butter, water, and sugar mixture when an unpleasant memory crept into the kitchen and attempted to foul the otherwise comforting moment.

It was June 1996, the summer after Kevin and I had eloped, and we were in South Weymouth, Massachusetts, his hometown. Since we had met in a foreign country and courted on opposite sides of the United States, it was the first time I had visited his home and met his siblings.

I was in my early twenties and suffering from a sad lack of confidence.

Having come from a broken home, I was completely intimidated by his seemingly Leave It to Beaver-esque family. I was in awe of the easy way they all seemed to get along, their boisterous conversations, and the conventional composition of their family.

I feared I, the round peg, would not fit into their square environment.

As history would prove, it was not an irrational fear. But that’s a story for another day.

Somehow, the conversation drifted to baking.

I volunteered that I especially enjoyed French pastries.

A male in-law who had attended culinary school narrowed his eyes and asked, “Which pastries do you bake?”

I said I liked to make pain au chocolat, beignets, and éclairs.

“Éclairs? You make éclairs?”

I nodded.

“I assume you use a cookbook.”

It was a statement, not really a question.

I explained that I actually used a family recipe.

Putting me on the spot, he asked me to recall the recipe step by step.

Intimidated but eager to impress, I tried to remember my grandmother’s recipe.

I faltered.

I floundered.

I flubbed.

Rather than be gracious, this man humiliated me. He ridiculed me. With an éclair recipe tested and honed by my French-born grandmother, I had the serious street cred to eviscerate my officious, pretentious culinary foe. But there was one thing missing from my arsenal: confidence.

All of the clever quips my fertile mind has since given birth to failed to materialize on my tongue. I reddened and remained silent while the conversation flowed on, leaving me sputtering with shame and struggling to keep my head above water.

Occasionally, I would remember the insult and consider concocting a sweet recipe for revenge.

This morning, as I made pâte à choux for the family I adore, I realized I already had my revenge.

By refusing to let his snarky words stop me from making and sharing a recipe I love, I had won.

From now on, when I make my grandmother’s éclairs, I will not conjure the ghost of that memory. Instead, I will remember the dozens of happier moments connected to the pastry.

Memories of Lori Bacon, Kathy Galloway, and Stephanie Gaveau Mounts (yes, she’s French-born) squealing when I presented them with plates of éclairs.

Memories of teaching my daughter to make vanilla-bean-flecked pastry cream.

Memories of my son licking chocolate glaze from his fingers.

And memories of fabulous éclairs eaten in pâtisseries around the world, including Stohrer, the Paris shop that once baked for Marie Antoinette.

I will remind myself that my arrogant, unkind in-law used his words to make me feel small and humiliated instead of welcomed and cherished. As a result, he missed out on me — and my éclairs.

Clearly, I won that match.

It was as I piped cream into the pastries that I realized there was a larger lesson to be learned.

For nearly twenty years, I carried around the pain caused by my in-law’s thoughtless words. What a ridiculously unnecessary burden.

It was as though I had walked to an airport baggage carousel and attempted to claim not only my own luggage, but someone else’s as well.

We cannot control what spews from the mouths of others, but we can control how much of it we carry.

From now on, when some thoughtless fool attempts to wound me with barbed words, I will remember I am wearing armor forged from hard-earned confidence.

Confidence impervious to trifling jabs.

I will carry only my own baggage.

After all, my luggage may be a fabulous set of pink Louis Vuitton, but it is the only baggage I am required to claim.

And I will remind myself that my arrogant, unkind in-law used his words to make me feel small and humiliated instead of welcomed and cherished. As a result, he's missed out on me (and my eclairs).

We must not allow other people's limited perceptions to define us.

Virginia Satir