Year: 2018

  • Saffransmazariner

    Saffransmazariner

    [Saffron mazariner]

    Twelve weeks ago, almost to the second, Sienna was put on my chest; pink as a candy, eyes wide open. Twelve weeks that went quickly, and also, twelves weeks when winter came and went more times that I can count.

    There was the night we rushed to the maternity; the air suddenly so sharp we’d forgotten how it felt against our cheeks. There was the first snow, as early as the third of October, which was gone a few days later; and as it did, the longing for a winter as I had known it only became more intense with every morning that passed by without a snowflake. And then, one day, winter was here, not that it didn’t come without a warning.
    The afternoons by the river, frost on every branch. That Sunday when snowflakes were big as cotton balls. And the clear evening skies we had last week when the temperatures dropped to -20°C.

    In our kitchen, there is a bread made of rye and filmjölk [sour milk] on the counter. And every time we open the pantry, the earthy smell of saffron fills the room. We have blueberry cakelets in the fridge, and lussekatter in a jar above it. A mjukpepparkaka [gingerbread cake] on our table, and a baking tray filled with brown butter and cardamom salted caramel, waiting to be cut.

    Yes, there is so much I want to tell you about, but Christmas is only a few days away, and some things cannot wait, like these saffransmazariner.

    Saffransmazariner

    A mazarin is a tartlet traditionally composed of three elements:
    – a crisp pâte sablée case
    – an almond cream filling, not unlike the French crème d’amande
    – a simple icing sugar glaze

    Sometimes, a thin layer of jam covers the bottom of the tart shell, or the filling can be topped with fresh berries before baking, in which case, the mazarin isn’t glazed.

    Its origin – although I haven’t quite had the time to research – seems rather uncertain, possibly linked to an Italian cardinal who moved to Paris and first assisted Richelieu, only to succeed him in the mid seventeenth century.
    Through his regency, Cardinal Mazarin has been thought to popularise pasta and perhaps, other Italian delicacies in France and Sweden (which were rather new allies then). And although there is no evidence of it in literature, mazariner do strongly remind me of the traditional crostata di mandorle, a very similar tart from Italy.

    My saffron mazariner are the festive version of the Swedish favourite. You see, I have the bad habit to buy mazarinformar [mazarin moulds] at every garage sale; so really, I’m always looking for an excuse to bake them under one form or another.
    You can use any tartlet moulds, ideally around 5-6cm in diameter, but in a pinch, I suspect a muffin tin will do fine too. A large mazarin, sliced in thin wedges would also look fantastic on a cake stand!

    The dough – my usual pâte sablée, with a touch of baking powder for an extra brittle shell – will make more than you need, but you can:
    – do as I usually do and line additional moulds (around 40), and keep them in the freezer for up to two months
    – freeze the extra dough, which you can later use to line a 24cm tart tin
    I tend to make it in the food-processor, but a stand-mixer works too. As always, I can only recommend rolling it before letting it to rest in the fridge; however this dough is quite forgiving, and when I don’t want to use up a lot of baking paper or if I’m feeling lazy, I will wrap the dough in clingfilm, and chill it for 20-30 minutes, then roll it onto a lightly floured bench. For more tips on how to handle tart dough, please refer to these posts here.

    Mazariner freeze beautifully. On the day you want to eat them, simply take them out for a few hours, and glaze them with a simple icing sugar glaze.

    Saffransmazariner

    Makes 28

    For the pâte sablée

    360 g plain flour
    90 g icing sugar
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    1/4 tsp baking powder
    200 g unsalted butter
    100 g eggs (2 medium)

    butter, melted to grease the moulds

    For the saffron filling

    150 g unsalted butter
    1 g ground saffron
    300 g good quality marzipan (minimum 50% almonds), coarsely grated
    100 g eggs (2 medium)
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    10 g plain flour (approx. 1 tbsp)

    For the glaze

    250 g icing sugar
    water from the kettle

    Make the dough. In the bowl of a food-processor, place the flour, sugar, salt, baking powder and butter, and mix until the mixture ressembles wet sand. Add the eggs and pulse until it just starts to form a dough.
    Divide the dough in two and roll each piece to 3-4mm thick between two sheets of baking paper. Place onto a tray and chill in the fridge for 20-30 minutes.

    In the meantime, preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 160°C, and brush 28 (or more, read note above) tartlet moulds with melted butter; setting them aside until needed.

    Make the filling. Melt the butter in a small pan and add the saffron. Mix well and allow to infuse for a few minutes.
    Place the marzipan, eggs, salt and flour in the bowl of a food-processor and mix to a smooth paste. Slowly add the butter, mixing as you do so.
    Transfer the filling to a piping bag.

    Take the dough out of the fridge and loosen the top sheet of baking paper. Flip over and remove the other sheet, this way, the dough still is on baking paper, yet doesn’t stick to it (I hope that makes sense).
    Cut out the dough into small ovals or circles, depending on the shape of your tins, and line each with dough, trimming the excess using your thumb or a small paring knife.

    Place the lined moulds onto a baking tray, and fill them with your saffran almond cream, around 3/4 full.

    Bake for 20-25 minutes or until golden brown. Allow to cool down for 10-15 minutes, then unmould.

    Mix the icing sugar with a drop of hot water, just enough to form a thick paste, and spoon on top of the mazariner. Allow to set for an hour or two, then store in an airtight container for up to five days. You can also freeze the unglazed mazariner for up to 3 months (see note above).

  • Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Swedish äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    It was a little over a year ago; we’d brought home a mid-century secretary desk, the kind that received many layers of white paint over the years.

    It had a bookshelf, very much a happy mismatch of cookbooks, jars of kombucha, porcelain figurines, candles and notebooks. And two cupboards.

    The one of the right had draws made of birch reminiscent of an old map storage cabinet, and quite frankly, the very reason we fell in love with the desk in the first place. The one on the left had one shelf; yes, just that, although I’ve since then covered with kraft paper printed with dark green pinecones.

    Swedish äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    If you were to open the left door today you’d find a collection of jars, some old, other recycled or new. And on the top shelf, our treasure, in the form of fruits and sugar. A redcurrant jelly made last year after we’d spent the day picking berries in Kusmark; one I still need to tell you about. Two little jars of blackcurrant jelly that my friend Suss gifted us. Bottles of cordial, redcurrant, rhubarb, even a blueberry and lavender. Fig jam and raspberry jam too!
    There are jars of apple jelly, and two of äppelmos – apple sauce really, made with the small apples K. brought home from work last week.

    And if like me, you made this compote late at night, leaving the jars to cool down on the kitchen counter, and a pot to soak in the sink, then, in the morning, as the coffee brewer hums and cracks, go on and set a pan on the stove. Oats, water and a little milk. A pinch of salt. When it has boiled, pour into your favourite plate – maybe it’s green, or chipped, or as mine, off-white and blue with cracked ceramic glaze-, open a jar of mos and spoon a generous dollop onto your porridge.

    Swedish äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Rather frankly, äppelmos is the kind of things that doesn’t call for a recipe; apples and sugar, a touch of acidity brough by lemon juice – or citric acid, in my case – and perhaps, a few vanilla beans, a grated piece of nutmeg, cinnamon sticks or even a few crushed pods of cardamom.
    And yet, here am I, writing one down, with perhaps more steps than required. And really, I don’t have a good enough reason for doing so, other than I want to remember how long the jars were processed in the water-bath.
    Maybe you’ll want to too, in which case, let me tell you that there are two approaches to äppelmos.

    The first is to peel the apples, core them, and then cook them with a little water and sugar, a squeeze of lemon juice or citric acid, perhaps some spices too. When they’re soft, it’s just a matter of puréeing them using an immersion blender or by passing them through a fine-mesh sieve.
    This method is best – read, quicker – for larger apples.

    The second, that I like to call gammaldags [literally, of the old days] and one I’m partial to when it comes to making mos at home with the small apples that weigh down our apple trees comes early september, is to cook the apples, with their skin, seeds and stalk still on, only to then pass the compote through a fine-mesh sieve. Yes it takes time, but so does peeling very small apples.
    I usually scoop a small quantity of cooked apples, a cup or two, into the sieve – placed over a large stable bowl – then using a slightly rigid plastic bowl scraper, press the apple flesh against the mesh of the sieve, going back and forth until it’s just the skins and peeps left.
    And if you’re lucky enough to have a food mill, then please, go ahead and use it instead of a sieve!

    This approach is also a wonderful way to use the discarded apples that have been boiled in water to make the French classic: gelée de pommes [apple jelly], recipe to come!

    Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Makes three 300mL jars.

    To make the passed apple flesh
    1.5kg apples
    300 g water

    Wash the apples under cold water, then slice in four, leaving the skin and peeps on. Add the water, and cook over low heat for 20-30 minutes, or until the apples are soft and mushy.

    Scoop a small quantity of the cooked apples, a cup or two, into a fine-mesh sieve placed over a large stable bow, and using a slightly rigid plastic bowl scraper, press the flesh against the mesh of the sieve, going back and forth until it’s just the skins and peeps left.
    Repeat with the remaining apples, discarding the skins every now and then so as to not crowd the sieve.

    To make the mos
    1 kg of passed apple flesh or raw peeled and diced apples*
    200 g caster sugar
    1/4 to 1/2 tsp citric acid    , or the juice from 1/2 lemon
    3 small cinnamon sticks
    1 vanilla pod

    Place three 300mL jars along with their lids in a large pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes. Then take them out and invert them onto a clean cloth. Allow to cool down and set the pan of boiling water to the side, while you get on with the mos.

    Place the apple flesh, sugar, citric acid (or lemon juice), and cinnamon sticks into a pan. Flatten the vanilla pod, then slice in half and scrape the seeds into the pan, add the pod too.

    *If you’re using raw peeled apples, place them in the pan along with 300g water, sugar, citric acid (or lemon juice), and cinnamon sticks.

    Cook over medium heat, stirring now and then, until the compote starts to boil.
    If you like a thicker mos, simmer for 5-10 minutes, until the desired consistency. If you started with raw peeled apples, cook them until soft enough to purée with an immersion blender, or you could leave your compote chunky too, perfect to make apple pies.
    When ready, ladle into the sterilised jars, clean their rim if needed using a piece of damp kitchen paper, and screw the lids on.

    Fold a clean tea towel and place it at the bottom of the large pan of water. Set the filled jars on top of it, then bring the pan to the boil. Simmer for 40 minutes, then leave the jars in the pan off the heat for another hour.
    Carefully take them out, and allow to cool down, undisturbed. Use within a year. Once opened, store the jar in the fridge for up to a month.