Author: Fanny

Glöggmys

We have stars glowing by our windows. And snow when we look over the roofs of Skellefteå.

We have a batch of saffron, almond and orange biscotti in the oven. And one of pepparkaksdeg [gingerbread biscuit dough] in the making: there is cinnamon, ginger, cardamom and cloves infusing in water, along with butter too of course! And soon the dough will come together.

We have two cups of glögg on the table. With almonds and raisins just so.
Yes, a little earlier today, I unwrapped each of the wonderful little cups that I had excessively wrapped in newspaper a few months ago after we had found them at a loppis [garage sale] in Dalarna over the summer.
I remember that day; still early in the morning, we stumbled across the largest collection of Duralex tableware outside of my grand-mère’s house. It was at the small green house that stands on Orsa’s centre square, where we’d ventured on the promise of a gammaldagsmarknad [olden day market]. Of the excursion, these cups and many others are the only things that followed us; like a reminder of a past I find myself recollecting more and more often. And just like the ones I grew up with, I now hope to grow older with them too.

November 21, 2016
Kladdkaka du dimanche

[Swedish chocolate cake, of the Sunday kind]

Everytime I come around here, a whole season has gone by.

There was summer and its endless hours in the kitchen that I now call home. But before we knew it, the time for semester [holidays] came. And went.

Two weeks in our stuga [cabin] in the middle of the woods; and I still stand by my words when I say Åsen is my dream place. A dream that – this time – we shared with my family who traveled the three-thousand kilometres between us.

We picked blåbär [blueberries] and lingon; and my father – who’d never been this up north ever before – spent a day teaching me where to find mushrooms in the Swedish forests, reminiscing the mornings we’d busied up in the lower Alps more than twenty years ago now. We picked mostly giroles, but also ceps and chanterelles, although it was still a little early in the season for the latter.

We visited the small factory where the dalahäst we cherish so much are made, a short twenty minute drive from the stuga, in the heart of Dalarna. My mother bought more horses that she could – literally – handle; and the picture I took on my phone will always be a favourite memory of mine.

We baked traditional Swedish snittar and drömmar [biscuits] that now also have a strong following in a little house of the south of France.

Then came the golden days – that I must admit, I almost wrote as “goldays”, perhaps I am onto something – of autumn.

Long walks by the river to the sound of the wind through birch branches so tall it makes you dizzy. And no matter what, I will always be in love with the peculiar colour of a sun setting through these trees that are now a part of my universe.

There is the smell of rain. And dead leaves too. And of pumpkin roasting in the oven, just so. There is the first frost, which I had predicted to the day. Yes, to the day! And the rönnbär [Rowan berries] we picked and candied; a jar that will probably be forgotten at the back of the fridge for another few weeks before it makes an appearance on our table.

And rather unexpectedly, there was winter too.

The day after we’d moved to our new flat. The view of Skellefteå rooftops from our bed; one minute black as coal, the next covered in a thick mantle of snow. A snow that lasted for a week, even though back then, we did not know that just yet.
The following Sunday, we pulled the suspenders of our warm overalls up and wrapped ourselves in wool. A morning in the snow, and an afternoon by the kitchen stove. And somewhere in the middle, kladdkaka and wine were involved.

My Swedish kladdkaka recipe
This is not a recipe I had planned to share with you, although it’s one that followed us through the seasons.

Served with barely whipped cream and freshly picked berries in the summer; roasted pears and vanilla ice-cream in the autumn, and now made in a cardboard box kitchen as we were unpacking the things we love enough to have taken along on the ride that took us here to the north of Sweden.

Yes, this kladdkaka recipe is just that. An everyday wonder; whipped up in less then ten minutes, it can be as fancy or as casual as you want it to be.

And today, I thought I’d test the halogen builders site light Kalle bought last year for me to be able to take pictures through our long winter. And that perhaps, you’d appreciate to have your Sunday fika sorted out for the weekend ahead.

In case you still have your doubts, you should know Sam’s – 3 year-old – stance on the subject: “De är jättekladdiga!” [They are very sticky*].
* A good thing since kladdkaka literally means “sticky cake”, although I have a feeling chewy would be more of an appropriate translation.

My Swedish kladdkaka recipe

Makes one 22cm cake, serving 8-10.

125 g unsalted butter
250 g caster sugar
1 tbsp vanilla sugar
2 eggs
90 g plain flour
40 g cocoa powder
5 g sea salt

Preheat the oven to 175°C. Butter and line a 22cm tin with baking paper.

Melt the butter in a pan set over medium heat.

Off the heat, add the sugars and allow the mixture to cool down slightly for 2-3 minutes. Whisk in the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition.

Add the flour, cocoa powder, and salt, and mix until just smooth.

Pour the batter in the prepared tin, and bake for 25 minutes, or until domed and cracked on top. Allow to cool down completely before serving.

November 16, 2016
An autumn day

We went for a walk today. And for once, I remembered to take my camera along. Our official purpose was to pick rönnbär [rowan berries], but really, I just wanted to wrap myself in a golden hour that comes everyday a bit sooner.

We walked by the river. And crossed the dam that seems more of a waterfall at the moment, as water gets released before the snow comes.

Every step we took over the bridge left traces in the frost. The first that lasts until the afternoon; only in the shadow of course, but still enough to warm my heart for a winter that I’ve longed after for weeks now.
Yes, winter, you may come now.

When we came home, coffee was promptly made and we picked through our small harvest. I have rönnbärsgele [rowan berry jelly] and syltade rönnbär [confit rowan berries] in mind, so hopefully I’ll share these with you soon.

October 12, 2016
Almond and raisin tea cake

I’ve been thinking about this cake ever since my mum emailed me earlier this week, asking for a good recipe for cake aux fruits confits.

Growing up, cake aux fruits confits was always the last one left on a birthday dessert table. Slices of dry cake, studded with always too little candied cherries, of the bright-red kind, which if you’d asked me twenty years ago were the best part about this loaf cake.

Of course, my dad who’s always been fond of the store-bought kind (same goes for madeleines, go figure!), would heavily disagree. But to be completely honest, as I read my mum’s email, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that good and cake aux fruits confits don’t really go hand in hand. A thought that I’d soon learn how to let go.

As any new recipe I work on, I make a mental list of the things I want and do not want in the finished product.
Here I was trying to go as far away as possible from the fruit cakes I used to make when I first moved to London. Rich with dark brown sugar, many raisins and manier currants, and loaded with so much candied fruits you’d wonder where the cake batter had gone.

What I wanted was a moist sponge with a slightly dense crumb and deeper flavours, studded with plump raisins and delicate candied fruits. A light-golden crust, made soft with ground almonds on the batter and a generous wash of tea-infused sugar syrup on the warm loaf.

I made the cake this morning, as water was boiling for the first of many French-press-fuls of coffee. And I liked it so much that I thought you might too. Et pour toi aussi Maman <3

I had to leave out the candied fruits, because I didn’t have any at home, and really, I’m pretty certain that the Swedes are wise enough to leave them out from their supermarkets’ shelves; yes, I truly think I haven’t spotted any since we moved here, not that I’ve been restlessly looking for fruits confits.
It made for a wonderful almond and raisin tea cake, but if you’re after a cake aux fruits confits, you could most definitely replace some of the raisins with candied fruits, as noted in the recipe below.

Almond and raisin tea cake

Makes one loaf

boiling water
100 g raisins
1 Breakfast tea bag

125 g butter, soft
70 g light brown sugar
50 g caster sugar
1 tsp vanilla sugar
3 eggs
100 g plain flour
80 g ground almonds
1 tsp baking powder
120 g raisins or candied fruits (see note above)

A hour before staring, soak the raisins in boiling water – enough to cover them completely. Add the tea bag and set aside until needed.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (for a fan-assisted oven). Butter and line a loaf tin with baking paper.

Drain the raisins, pressing well to get rid of any excess liquid, and making sure to save the soaking liquid, which we’ll later use to make a syrup to brush the warm loaf with.

Cream the butter and sugars for 5-6 minutes, until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.
In another bowl, mix the flour, ground almonds, baking powder and raisins (or candied fruits, if using).
Pour over the butter mixture and fold gently using a wooden spoon or spatula, until smooth. Finally fold in the soaked raisins and pour the batter into the prepared tin.

Bake for 10 minutes at 180°C, then reduce the temperature to 160°C and bake for a further 30-35 minutes, or until the sponge feels springy to the touch.
In the meantime, weigh out 100 g of the soaking syrup into a small pan and add 70 g of caster sugar. Bring to the boil. When the cake is baked, immediately brush the syrup on top of the warm loaf.
Allow to cool down completely and unmould.

This cake will keep for days at room temperature,well-wrapped in clingfilm.

Cake aux raisins ou Cake aux fruits confits

Pour un cake

100 g raisins secs
eau bouillante
1 sachet de thé anglais

125 g beurre, mou
3 oeufs
70 g vergeoise blonde
50 g sucre
1 càc sucre vanillé
100 g farine T55
80 g amandes en poudre
1 càc levure chimique
120 g raisins secs ou fruits confits

Un heure avant de commencer, placer les raisins secs dans un bol supportant la chaleur et verser de l’eau bouillante pour les recouvrir. Ajouter le sachet de thé et laisser infuser pendant 1 heure.

Préchauffer le four à 180°C (pour un four ventilé). Beurrer un moule à cake et le recouvrir de papier cuisson.

Egoutter les raisins en prenant soin de bien les presser afin d’extraire un maximum d’eau. Réserver l’eau de trempage qui servira par la suite à imbiber le cake.

Battre le beurre avec les sucres pendant 5-6 minutes. Ajouter les oeufs, un à un, en battant environ une minute après chaque oeuf.

Dans un bol, mélanger la farine, poudre d’amandes, levure chimique et fruits confits (ou la seconde pesée de raisins secs pour un cake aux raisins). Verser sur le beurre et incorporer la farine à l’appareil en utilisant une cuillère ou spatule jusqu’à obtention d’une pâte bien lisse.
Finalement, ajouter les raisins secs préalablement égouttés et mélanger brièvement.
Verser l’appareil dans le moule à cake beurré.

Cuire 10 minutes, puis abaisser la température à 160°C et poursuivre la cuisson pendant environ 30-35 minutes.
Pendant ce temps, verser 100 g du liquide de trempage des raisins dans une petite casserole et ajouter 70 g de sucre. Porter à ébullition et réserver.

Une fois cuit, imbiber le cake encore chaud à l’aide d’un pinceau. Laisser refroidir complètement, puis démouler.
Ce cake se conserve très bien à température ambiante, enveloppé dans du papier film.

September 23, 2016
Bonjour juin, rhubarb edition

Let me tell you the story of yesterday. Or rather, of yesterday afternoon.

We stopped at the gas station. Two French hot-dogs and bad cups of coffee later we turned right on the old road towards Kusmark. It had only been a couple of weeks since our last trip and yet, the never-ending sun turned the fields into a thousand shades of green. There is the blue-green of the conifers, and the vibrant tarnished-gold of sunrays through the birch leaves.

A wonderful forest made of apple trees and lilac, bursting and blooming, not unlike a kaleidoscope.

And just like the road, Svante’s garden had become a wonderful forest made of apple trees and lilac, bursting and blooming, not unlike a kaleidoscope.

I took my shoes off as I stepped out from the car and ran to the rhubarb plants, wondering how big they would have grown.
And if it’s anything to go by I’d say that it must have been much warmer this year than last, as they reached a good twenty centimeter above my head.

We picked and trimmed. And picked again.

Two bushes gave us a little over twenty kilograms, perhaps even thirty. All while we left the last plant – the one by the mountain of chopped wood, drying for the winter – mostly untouched.

This is the aftermath. A beautiful mess, of some sort. The bigger-than-I’d-ever-seen leaves went into the compost, and the stalks – at times green, at times red – were washed under ice-cold water, and stuffed into plastic bags.

I might not be the most frequent blogger, but you can be sure to see me at least once a year as rhubarb season approaches.

There is something about it that I can’t quite pinpoint. Most likely one of these cliché childhood memories of my grand-parents potager [vegetable patch] in Fouras.
And just like a forever-carousel of happy recollections, neatly-arranged jars of confiture de rhubarbe [rhubarb jam] and silent wishes, here is my not-so-official June* rhubarb list.

1. Dipping peeled rhubarb stalks in sugar, just like K. told me about a few years ago, on one of the many summer nights we spend on the south bank.
2. Cooking rababersaft [rhubarb cordial], which everyone here freezes in small water bottles to bring a bit of summer throughout the winter days.
3. Maybe, making a batch of rabarberbullar [rhubarb buns].
4. And an upside-down rhubarb cake.
5. I’ve been looking forward to trying Tartine bakery’s galette dough; and really, I think a rhubarb galette needs to happen.
6. Baking my favourite cake: a soft vanilla sponge with bits of chopped rhubarb and a swirl of rhubarb jam, little pockets of cheesecake and a heavy handful of streusel sprinkled over its top.
7. Of course, rhubarb jam. Not a year should go without.
8. I’ve been dreaming of creating a simple ice-cream recipe – with no special sugars (hejdå dextrose and atomised glucose) and no stabilisers (with perhaps, cornflour or gelatin as a thickener). And given the state of my fridge-turned-rhubarb-storage, I might have to start with rhubarb creamsicle ~~ice-cream~~. TBC.
9. Thick sliced of brioches, French-toasted just so, with a generous spoonful of rhubarb compote.
10. What’s your favourite rhubarb recipe? How do you deal with your bountiful plants?

* June because living in the north of Sweden means just that: rhubarb in June. Enough said 🙂

June 6, 2016
Raw carrot cake energy balls

The days are now long again. With the sun setting at ten thirty pm and rising just a short hours later at two thirty am.

And when I told Svante last Sunday “Det känns som sommar idag.”, he was quick to answer “Det är sommar.”, something that went in unison with his rhubarb plants, which have dramatically grown over the span of a few weeks.

So I guess summer has started; on a Sunday afternoon.

With the ice gone from the rivers of north Sweden for what feels a couple of days, K. turned into an almost full-time fly-fisherman. And as the last traces of snow disappeared (although I’ve now seen a little patch, by Bonnstan, which is still covered in a mountain of dirty snow), we packed our car, just so we’d have the essentials ready. All day. Everyday.

A blanket on the back-seat, in case we drop by Kusmark to pick up K.’s brother’s dog Kaiser. Waders, wading boots (for him) and hiking boots (for me), neatly arranged in a banana cardboard box in the trunk. A couple of rods and reels. Many fly boxes and manier flies.

Some days, I happily join him, along with our kaffepanna [Swedish coffee pot], two white plastic mugs, and our favourite kokkaffe; a chunky piece of falukorv [Falun sausage], and perhaps a baguette or a few slices of sourdough bread; a knife; a box of matches; and a few energy balls in a little plastic bag.

Raw vegan carrot cake balls
I love to make a large batch of these and keep them in the freezer for days when we go on a little fishing/hiking trip. And really, they have now replaced the chocolate wrapped in foil that we used to bring along, at times with bits of roasted hazelnuts, other times with salty nuggets of lakrits [liquorish].

The last batch I made was this one: carrot cake-ish, of some kind. But the variations are endless.

You could substitute the carrot for raspberries (a favourite of mine) or bananas. Add a fat tablespoon of raw cocoa powder. Replace the oats for sprouted buckwheat or rye. Add seeds from a vanilla pod, or a grated tonka bean, or a few chopped nuts. And when the stone fruits will be in season, I urge you to try to make these with fresh peach and dried apricots (to replace the dates); and maybe add a pinch of saffron and a small handful of pistachio nuts. Another wonderful option is to use half passion fruit pulp, half grated apples, and roll the balls in matcha powder.

Raw vegan carrot cake balls

Makes 8-12 energy balls

120 g rolled oats
50 g shredded coconut
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1/4 tsp ground cardamom
pinch of salt
130 g grated carrots (approx. 1)
90 g pitted medjool dates (approx. 6)
2 tbsp coconut oil (approx. 30 g)
1 tbsp agave/maple syrup

Place the dry ingredients in a food processor and blitz for a minute until coarsely ground. Add the carrots, dates, coconut oil and syrup, and blitz until it forms a dough.
Transfer to a clean work surface and roll into a log. Cut into 8, 10 or 12 depending on the size you wish your energy bites to be.
Roll each segment into a ball and coat in shredded coconut.
Place in an airtight container and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before eating. The raw vegan carrot cake balls will keep in the fridge for around 4-5 days. You could also make a double batch and freeze them for up to 3 months.

May 25, 2016
Carrés au citron

[Lemon squares]

You can ask any chef; staff meals are a luxury in the restaurant industry. Over the past ten years, I’ve come across almost anything.

The baguettes we’d be sent to buy at the wonderful Des gâteaux et du pain, sliced in half lengthways, and placed on the bench along with a container of Bordier butter, one of home-made strawberry jam, and one filled with fleur de sel. The barely-warm café au lait, drunk standing by the oven. The amazing canteen that had a soft-serve ice-cream machine, a salad bar and one for toasties too, oh and an espresso machine too! The delivery driver slash tarte tatin chef who’d make a pit-stop at the corner boulangerie during his rounds, and bring back warm pains aux raisins to the labo. The leftover chips from an order, eaten with saffron aioli at the end of a dinner service as the kitchen was getting scrubbed. The best poached eggs a breakfast chef placed in your fridge with a little note. The grenadine mister freeze I mass-produced in the summer months. And the watermelons we sliced and left around the kitchen in nine-pans, to be eaten whenever a rare quiet minute appeared.

One of my favourites were the “family” dinners we had every day at four pm when we opened John Salt with Ben Spalding.
I still remember vividly that my turn was on wednesdays. Vividly, because it was perhaps the worst day for it to happen: the usual putting-away of the morning veg and dairy deliveries, the weekly dry-store delivery, the morning deep-cleaning, the 10am kitchen meeting. This meant very little time to prep for service, let alone cook dinner for all of us.

If you’d ask me what I thought about staff meal at around three-thirty pm on a wednesday, you might have heard some French, and yet, four years on, it’s one of my fondest memories from my London years.

Some weeks, I’d make a simple salade niçoise. Or a large pissaladière. Maybe some cheddar toasted sandwiches. And a few crisp leaves dressed in an quick lemon vinaigrette. And, always something sweet: at times cookies, taken out from the oven a few minutes before the table was set; at times, burnt-orange marmalade loaf cakes or lemon squares.

And just like this, I thought I’d introduce a new feature: Feed the chefs. It’s something I’ve had in mind for a while; in fact, I have a draft from 2013 called Feed the chefs: Wholewheat flour and hazelnut cookies.
In this feature, you’ll find simple recipes that can be made at home or for a crowd.
For reference, a gastro is a 53×32.5cm metal tray, which is widely used in professional kitchens.

Lemon squares

This recipe has been in my notebooks – under one form or another – for years. What started out as a curd made with only eggs, lemon juice and zest, sugar, and butter has evolved under the years into what I consider my perfect lemon bar.
I increased the butter dramatically. Added egg yolks to improve the texture. And reduced the amount of sugar, a little at a time. Sometimes, I like to add a dash of cream to the curd mixture as I find it takes the lemon squares to another level, on a par with my best lemon tart. However, if you’re out of cream, the lemon squares can also be made without!

It has a crisp tanginess and is wonderfully creamy, yet it still slices beautifully and holds well.

At times, I’ll make it with the most brittle shortbread, the one I talk about in Paris Pastry Club, but most days I’ll go for a flaky biscuit dough, with light brown sugar and demerara, which I think complements the lemon flavour in the best way possible.

Notes:

– You’ll notice that the “home” recipe below makes a larger quantity of dough than you’ll need; but unless you’re willing to break an egg, whisk it, and use 16g for a third of the recipe – not to mention leave out the amazing cinnamon crisp biscuits you could make with the leftover dough – then I’d suggest you make the large batch, use 275g of it for the lemon squares and roll the rest in between two sheets of baking paper to 4-5mm thick and then proceed as mentioned in this beautiful recipe from Trine Hahnemann.

– The shortbread base does not need to be blind-baked with weights (or pulses). I like to prick it with a fork to avoid large bubbles and bake it as it is for a flakier result.

– I always rub my zest into the sugar to extract as much essential oils as possible.

– Whenever I’m making custard or curd tarts, I like to cook my curd over a bain-marie until it reaches 70-75°C. This has two purposes: first, it makes the final baking much more even and quick – you won’t find a custard tart with puffed up edges and a runny centre in my house. Secondly, it makes the bubbles disappear, leaving you with lemon squares that can be served without their traditional dust of icing sugar.

Lemon squares

Makes 25 small squares or 9 large ones

Makes one gastro (around 60 squares)

For the shortbread base
100 g light brown sugar
25 g demerara sugar
zest from 3 lemons
375 g plain flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp sea salt
250 g cold butter, cubed
1 egg

For the shortbread base
100 g light brown sugar
25 g demerara sugar
zest from 3 lemons
375 g plain flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp sea salt
250 g cold butter, cubed
1 egg

For the lemon curd
240 g caster sugar
zest from 2 lemons
150 g egg yolks (around 7-8)
110 g eggs (around 2 large)
180 g lemon juice (from approx 3-4 lemons)
120 g unsalted butter, cubed
40 g double cream (optional, read note above)

For the lemon curd
650 g caster sugar
zest from 6 lemons
420 g egg yolks
300 g eggs
500 g lemon juice
300 g unsalted butter, cubed
120 g UHT cream (optional, read note above)

Make the dough

Butter your baking tin (or gastro) and line the bottom with baking paper, leaving 3cm on each side to use as handles to take out the tart from its tin after baking.

Place the flour, sugars, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl, and mix to combine. Add the butter, and rub it in the flour mix until it resembles coarse oats. Add the egg and work the dough until just smooth.
If you’re making the smaller lemon squares in a 25x25cm tin, use only 275g of shortbread dough and keep the rest to make cinnamon biscuits as mentioned in this recipe.

Place the dough in your prepared tin and flatten using the palm of your hands. Prick with a fork and chill for at least 30 minutes or up to 4 days.

Preheat the oven to 175°C.
Bake the shortbread for 20-30 minutes or until golden brown.

Once baked, set aside until needed and reduce the oven temperature to 120°C.
In the meantime, make the lemon curd.

Make the curd

Place the sugar and zests in a large bowl, and rub in between your fingers to extract the oils from the lemon zest.
Add the egg yolks, eggs, lemon juice and butter, and cook over a pan of simmering water until it just starts to thicken and the foamy bubbles disappear; it should be around 70-75°C.
If using, add the cream now and stir to combine.

Immediately, pass the curd onto the cooked shortbread base using a fine-mesh sieve. And bake for 15-20 minutes. The centre should still jiggle slightly.

Allow to cool down to room temperature, then chill in the fridge for at least 2 hours before gently lifting it from the tin and cutting it into squares.
To do this, fill your sink with hot water and dip your knife in it for a few seconds. Wipe the blade clean making sure the sharp edge isn’t facing your fingers, and slice the tart into 5x5cm squares (or 8x8cm if you’re a lemon lover), rinsing and wiping your knife in between each slice.

Serve with a dust of icing sugar or some blow-torched Italian meringue for a faux-lemon meringue tart.

May 15, 2016
Kalkbruket

We passed by this abandoned lime kiln on our way back from Åsen, and I had to stop the car. We parked by the small house across the road. We walked around the beautifully-decayed factory and right then, an almost-alternate reality opened in front of our eyes. It was breathtaking.

Perhaps you don’t know, but I’m fascinated with industrial buildings, especially those that have been deserted. The metal pipes and sheets. The wind through broken windows and the electric silence. The rawness, almost bare.

An art of some sort; a stillness that moves me and makes me reflect on what surrounds us.

What inspired you today?

May 5, 2016
Pastry chef tips – Tour double

Single fold? Double fold?

When it comes to laminated doughs, you find two types of tours (literally turns, although I tend to refer to them as folds in English): the tour simple – or single fold – and the tour double – otherwise known as double fold.

I’m planning on making a post describing both types, along with some notes; but today’s pastry chef tip is all about double folds.
On the diagram below – representing both single and double folds – you’ll find the classic double fold most books and online resources will use: the dough gets “sectioned” in quarters, both ends gets folded over the centre “spine”, and finally, to complete the double fold, the dough gets folded in half.

The tip

Today’s tip is the proof that something simple can have a tremendous impact; the beauty of pâtisserie really.

I might be wrong, but I like to think that this tip was given to me by Graham Hornigold – a sensational pastry chef and even better human being who is very dear to my heart, yes, he’s the best – in our basement prep-kitchen at the Mandarin Oriental too many years ago. Thank you Graham!

When doing a double fold, slightly offset the centre “spine” to your right as shown on the diagram below:

Then proceed as normal:
1. Fold the right end toward the offset centre “spine”.
2. Fold the left end to meet the first fold.
3. Fold the dough in half to complete the tour double.

The reason behind it

The “spine”, as I like to call it, where both ends meet is traditionally at the centre of the rolled-out pâton. But when you fold the dough in half to complete the tour, the two ends separate slightly due to the physical action of folding, leaving a thin gap with only one layer of dough instead of two.

By offsetting the “spine”, you ensure that all parts of the dough get laminated, creating a dough with consistent and continuous lamination.

One of our readers, Martin, has a very interesting insight in the comments

Offset folding also helps by moving two of the less well laminated edges into the centre mass of the sheet. If you fold in the regular style, the poorer lamination is never adjusted and remains on the outer rim of the dough.

Notes and resources

-I like to trim the ends, again, to ensure a consistent lamination; but more on that later in another pastry chef tip!

– Always gently brush off excess flour before completing the folds.

– As I’ve mentioned it above, I’m also working on a more general article about lamination, but in the meantime, this post about cinnamon croissants contains many of my tips (and the most wonderful breakfast one could ever have).

– My absolute favourite printed ressource: Advanced Bread and Pastry, by Michael Suas.

– More laminated dough posts and recipes.

May 3, 2016
Recipe studies: Brioche

In which we explore different aspects of the science behind brioche; from the study of the impact of the egg to milk ratio in the dough, to techniques and further questions.

Follow the study here or on instagram: #BRIOCHESTUDY.

Analysing the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in brioche formulas

CONTENT TABLE

– Part I: the approach

– Part II: the ingredients

– Part III: the process – method, techniques and tips – TO COME

– Recipe: brioche #1, the control

– Recipe: brioche #2, the almost Chavot-brioche – TO COME

– Recipe: brioche #3, the pain au lait – TO COME

– Recipe: brioches #4 and #5 – TO COME

– Part IV: impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs – TO COME

– Ressources: Brioche in literature – TO COME

Other themes may include: research on flour protein variations, how to knead brioche by hand…

April 23, 2016
Fromage blanc cake

There was a day spent in the garden. A rake in the hands, and dead leaves piled high on a wheelbarrow. That day, the sun was high and warm, just like the two eagles we’d seen earlier, right after sunrise.

The following morning was an entirely different story. A story made of snowflakes and a crackling fireplace. Both lasted all day, for the record.
I baked the sourdough bread that I had left to proof on the porch overnight. And although it turned out to be much too big for my cast-iron pot, it was restlessly devoured while still warm, with only a few slices left for the next day.

I painted too. A dalahäst. Although I still need to draw on top of the watercolours, using ink, just like I always do.
And in the afternoon, when it became clear we wouldn’t leave the house, I whipped egg whites and folded them into fromage blanc, to make the one cake that might have possibly been baked weekly in my kitchen for a little over ten years, which I’ve yet to tell you about.

Fromage blanc cake

This recipe is a classic case of natural selection.
What started with the words tarte au fromage blanc, hastily written with a not-so-steady hand over twenty years ago has slowly turned into a cake – a term close enough, yet, hardly accurately describes the wonder that it really is.

All it took, really, was to remove the pâte brisée base. And just like that, many childhood memories resurfaced. The tourteau fromagé du Poitou; the burnt crust, the pâte brisée I would leave out in favour of the insane texture of this fresh goat’s cheese “cake”. And perhaps also, the soft cake that came from a cardboard box at the supermarket; halfway between a mousse and a cheesecake.

And maybe that’s what I should call it: Fromage blanc French cheesecake. But then, it’d sound much more flamboyant that what it is.
Because it is not. It’s a plain, slightly sour from the fromage blanc (however, Greek yoghurt makes and excellent substitute) and warm with vanilla (by any mean, please use homemade vanilla sugar) cake.
If eaten piping hot from the oven, it’s the softest thing you’ve ever had. And in the morning, after a night spent on the kitchen counter, it becomes firm and yet delicate; a form, which is without a doubt my favourite.

You could also add the zest from a lemon or an orange. Or fold in a light jam right before you pour the batter into its tin. I often don’t. For the sake of its plain, unpretentious character.

Fromage blanc cake

Serves 8-10

4 eggs, separated
a pinch of salt
100 g caster sugar
500 g fromage blanc or Greek yoghurt
100 g cornflour or plain flour
30 g vanilla sugar

Preheat the oven to 175°C (185°C for traditional ovens). Butter and line the bottom of a 22cm cake pan with baking paper, and set aside.

Whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until foamy. Add half the sugar and keep on whisking until they reach hard peaks.
In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks and remaining sugar until light and fluffy. Gently fold in the fromage blanc, cornflour and vanilla sugar.
Then, using a rubber spatula, fold in the meringue until barely smooth: it’s absolutely fine to still have bits of egg whites in the finished batter.

Transfer to your prepared tin, and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until well-domed and golden-brown. The top might have cracked a little and it should feel firm to the touch.

Allow the cake to cool down to room temperature in its tin, then unmould onto a plate. Serve dusted with icing sugar or with berries, just brought to the boil with a spoonful of caster sugar.

April 22, 2016
The macramé coconut bird feeder

We’re in Åsen for the week. With a very limited internet connection, but this kind of thing doesn’t matter when you have for only alarm, the soft light of the sun through a forest of birches, and the mésanges‘ songs .
There are the woodpeckers too, not unlike a ticking clock.

Yes, we’ve seen many birds perched in the trees that line the forest, but mostly blåmeser [blue tits] and talgoxer [great tits].
And I wanted to find a simple way to feed them as I know for the fact that they’ll be heading north soon.

So this morning, I made a quick coconut bird feeder. Kalle was still asleep. And a loaf of sourdough bread was getting brown in the oven, later to be sliced while still warm (a guilty pleasure of mine) for breakfast.
I took the coconut that Kalle sawed last night, and some string we had in the kitchen; and really, I liked the first one I made so much, that I took some pictures to show you.

Notes

Fresh coconut flesh is ok for birds to eat, but please don’t feed them any desiccated coconut as it can be harmful.

After I took the pictures, I asked Kalle to drill a hole at the bottom of the eye-less shell, pictured here, to make sure water would drain in case of rainy weather.

You could make it way fancier, adding more strings and braiding them; but I just wanted to make something easy, fast and durable. However, I’m pretty sure, I might make more macramé holders soon, perhaps for plants.

Macramé coconut bird feeder

Material:
– a coconut – sawed in half and with holes drilled at the bottom of each half for draining purposes
– kitchen string
– hooks (optional, to attach the coconut bird feeders more easily to branches)

1. Cut 4 strings, each measuring around 60cm.

2.Group the string by 2 and make them meet in their centre.

3. Knot them together tightly.

4. Separate in four strands again and tie simple knots, around 3-4cm from the centre.

5. Place on top of one coconut half. And group two strands from different thread together, as shown above. Tie another simple knot, 3-4cm further. And repeat with the remaining strands.

6. Repeat this process one last time (or more of you have a large coconut) to that the final “line” of knots reaches the rim of the coconut half.

7. Place your macramé coconut bird feeder upright and pull the strings, trying to centre them. Make a knot. Add a hook.

8. When the birds will have eaten the coconut flesh, refill the feeder with seeds and grains of your choice.

Which birds do you have in your garden these days? Lots of love, X Fanny.

April 13, 2016