Category: In my kitchen

  • Kavring, the Swedish summer classic

    Kavring, the Swedish summer classic

    As written on June 20th, 2017:

    I didn’t mean to be gone for so long; from the winter solstice to the summer one. Yes, now a few days shy of midsommar, half a year has gone.

    Can we pretend that winter is barely over?

    In many ways it is. At least for us in the North. Snow has creeped into our sky way into June, and it’s only been a couple of weeks since the birches’ foliage flourished into the lush mantle that now covers every forest. We celebrated the first summer rain a few days ago; and sometimes, I can’t help but wonder how something so mundane can cause such thrill, if it wasn’t for the fact that we almost skipped spring this year, or that our winters are most silent, with the world around us resonating in a felted echo.

    I come to you today with a Swedish summer classic: kavring. A soft, slightly sweet bread, traditionally eaten over Midsommar with sill [pickled herring] or gravlax, and even for Easter and Christmas. Yes, in Sweden, the holiday table stays rather unchanged throughout the annual festivities, with only slight variations, like a stronger focus on meat (köttbullar [meat balls], game, julskinka [Christmas ham]) for Christmas, while Easter and Midsummer are all about herring.

    I would love to delve into kavring‘s origin and history, but then I would probably have to wait for a year or two before I’d be able to share this recipe with you. One that I’ve worked on for the past few weeks as we changed the menu at the café.

    A good starting point, however, is the etymology, which I find especially helpful when it comes to the Nordic countries, where different languages and cultures have inextricably intertwined over the past centuries.

    From Svensk etymologisk ordbok, Elof Hellquist (1922)

    In E. Hellquist’s 1922 Swedish etymology dictionary (Svensk etymologisk ordbok), the origin of the word kavring is a complex one, dating from the early 1500 with the Russian kovríga that became the Danish kavring, which the Swedes embraced with a minor orthographical variation until recent times: kafring.

    “Kavring (in the southern Sweden folk dialect), a sort of twice-baked sourdough rye bread or an oven-dried loaf. Kafring, in early modern Swedish, dated from 1544, possibly originating from Norwegian, while the word kavring was first encountered in the early 16th century in the Danish language from the Russian kovríga, a round bread, literally ring or circle in old Russian.”
    ー Svensk etymologisk ordbok, Elof Hellquist (1922)

    The etymology tells us more than the origin of the word itself, it tells us the story of a bread that travelled through the Nordic countries. Originally a crisp rye bread (which it still is in Norway), kavring then morphed into the soft, sweet and fragrant loaf in the late 1800, mostly in southern Sweden according to Å. Campbell’s The Swedish bread (Det svenska brödet, 1950), a wonderful read that gives an insight into the cultural contrasts in pre-industrial Sweden through bread traditions in its regions.

    While I’m not surprised to see two spellings that eventually became one, I find it interesting to note that the Norwegian-originated spelling kafring was used in Swedish as late as 1915, like in this issue of the Idun newspaper where “Folket stegade till drängstugan för att öppna sina byttor och korgar och förtära sin enkla måltid, surmjölk, kafring och smör.” The people hurried towards the workman’s hut to open their boxes and baskets before consuming their simple meal made of sour milk, kavring and butter.

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    Kavring

    My recipe makes two loaves of this delicious Swedish classic bread, because trust me, you'll want to have one on your counter and one well-wrapped in clingfilm in your fridge where it will keep for up to two weeks.
    A few ways to eat kavring in the morning: butter and thinly sliced cheese (comté is a favourite). Butter and a seven-minute boiled egg. Butter and orange marmalade. Butter. You get it!

    Notes

    While extremely easy to make, this recipe necessitates a few ingredients specific to the Nordic countries, namely: rågsikt [sifted rye], brödsirap [bread syrup], and filmjölk [sour milk].
    However, I can only think that these can be substituted as follows.
    – Rågsikt is a blend of plain flour and sifted rye flour, usually 60% plain flour and 40% rye flour.
    – Brödsirap is a mix of 80% molasses and 20% malt syrup, with a little salt thrown in. The closest I could think of is to mix 40% golden syrup, 40% black treacle and 20% malt extract.
    Back when I lived in London, my favourite malt extract came from Hollands and Barretts, a small jar with a mustard yellow label.
    – Filmjölk, a cultured milk that is usually eaten for breakfast or mellanmål [literally “a medium meal”, snacks], can be replaced by cultured buttermilk, kefir, or even a runny yoghurt, unsweetened of course.
    I’ll write both recipes down, in case you live as close to the polar circle as we do. If you try the “Anglicised” recipe, please let me know how it turns out <3
    For the spices I decided stayed close to the classic trio of fennel, caraway and anis, only leaving the anis out, although I’ve seen recipes that call for cloves, ground ginger and even bitter orange zest, so it would be interesting to experiment with different flavours. I’m thinking an orange and lingon limpa [loaf] would be wonderful on our Christmas table.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time20 minutes
    Cook Time1 hour 30 minutes
    Makes 2 loaves.

    Ingredients

    Kavring with Swedish ingredients

    • 25 g fennel seeds
    • 25 g caraway seeds
    • 500 g rågsikt
    • 360 g plain flour
    • 20 g bicarbonate soda
    • 20 g salt
    • 275 g brödsirap
    • 1200 g filmjölk
    • coarse rye flour to sprinkle

    Kavring with English ingredients

    • 25 g fennel seeds
    • 25 g caraway seeds
    • 660 g plain flour
    • 200 g rye flour
    • 20 g bicarbonate soda
    • 24 g salt
    • 110 g treacle
    • 110 g golden syrup
    • 55 g malt extract
    • 1200 g filmjölk subsitute read more above
    • coarse rye flour to sprinkle

    Instructions

    • Preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 155°C. Butter and line two 1.5L loaf tins with baking paper.
    • Crush the seeds in a mortar and set aside.
    • In a large bowl, combine the flours, crushed seeds, bicarbonate and salt. Whisk together to combine. In another bowl, mix the syrup(s) and filmjölk; pour over the flour mixture and mix using a silicon spatula until barely smooth.
    • Divide between the two prepared tins and generously sprinkle with coarse rye flour.
    • Bake in the preheated oven for 1h30, at which point the core temperature of the loaf should read 96-98°C.
    • Allow to cool down in its tin for 10 minutes, then unmould onto a rack and leave to cool down completely to room temperature. Wrap in clingfilm.
    • The loaves will keep in the fridge for up to two weeks, or in the freezer for a month or two, although the latter tends to make the crumb slightly drier.
  • Glad Lucia, a lussekatter history (and recipe)

    Glad Lucia, a lussekatter history (and recipe)

    Traditionally eaten for Santa Lucia on the thirteenth of December, lussekatter – also called lussebullar – have a nebulous history. One that’s laced with Christianity and paganism, German and viking heritage.

    In fact, even the origin of the Lucia celebrations is quite elusive.

    Lussi, an evil figure roamed the land along with her lussiferda, a horde of trolls and goblins.

    Lussinatta once coincided with the Winter solstice back in the 1300s when Europe still used the Julian calendar. During that night, the longest of the year, it was said that animals could talk and supernatural events could occur; Lussi, an evil figure (that holds many similarities with the german Perchta or the italian Befana) roamed the land along with her lussiferda, a horde of trolls and goblins, punishing naughty children and casting dark magic. People, forced to remain secluded, would eat and drink in an attempt to fight the darkness.

    And as the years went by in the pre-Christian Norden, farmers started to celebrate the return of the light and the tradition of a goddess of lights took roots in the pagan folklore.
    It was also the start of festivities of some kind – not to say Christmas, although it is believed that both Christian and heathen traditions started to blend from the 1100s . In fact the very origins of the word jul [Christmas] are blurry, with one occurrence dating back to Harald Hårfager who might have said: “Dricka jul!” [drink Christmas!].
    During these celebrations, pig would get slaughtered, both for the gods and for the feast.

    The tradition of a feast and offerings is documented in Erland Hofsten’s unpublished manuscript Beskrifning öfwer Wermeland, dating from the early 1700s. And although no further narrative is given, Hofsten believed in a pagan provenance.

    The first printed description comes a few decades later in 1773 through Erik Fernows’ Beskrifning öfwer Wärmeland: “Man skall den dagen wara uppe at äta bittida om ottan, hos somlige tör ock et litet rus slinka med på köpet. Sedan lägger man sig at sofwa, och därpå ätes ny frukost. Hos Bönderne kallas detta ‘äta Lussebete’, men hos de förnämare ‘fira Luciäottan’.” And now if you please excuse my poor translation/paraphrase (Swedish is hard enough without having to deal with old Swedish): On that day, we should be up early (otta is an old Swedish word akin to night, but really means the time of the day when the night becomes the morning, around 4-5am) to eat, and for some, a shot of snaps would go down. Then we’d lay on the sofa and would later eat another breakfast. Amongst the farmers this would be known as to “eat Lussi’s bait”, but for the more affluents it was called a “Lucia morning celebration”.

    One that spread from Värmland to Västergotland where C. Fr. Nyman encountered the custom for the first time, as described in his unpublished 1764 manuscript: “Rätt som jag låg i min bästa sömn, hördes en Vocalmusique utan för min dörr, hvaraf jag väcktes. Strax derpå inträdde först ett hvit-klädt fruntimmer med gördel om lifvet, liksom en vinge på hvardera axeln, stora itända ljus i hwar sin stora silfversljusstake, som sattes på bordet, och strax derpå kom en annan med ett litet dukadt bord, försedt med allehanda kräseliga, äteliga och våtvaror, som nedsattes mitt för sängarna… det är Lussebete .” That morning he was awaken by songs coming from outside his door. He then proceeded to meet a white-clad lady wearing wings and holding a large silver candlestick, which she placed on the table. And soon after another lady came in carrying a small table lined with cloth and full of food and drinks, which she laid in between the beds. In his story, C. Fr. Nyman, calls it Lussi’s bait, reinforcing not only the heathen terms of the celebration, but also hinting about the origin of the lussekatter.

    It is noted in Nordisk familjebok 1912 that it was common to bake a peculiar bread shaped as a L and called “dövelskatt” [the devil’s tax] in south-western Sweden: “I sydvästra Sverige bakas till L. ett särskildt kultbröd, kalladt ‘dövelskatt’”.
    And with different spellings like the Dutch duyvelskat, or the more common Lussebette, it’s hard not to think how the word we all thought meant Lucia’s cats was actually intended to be an offering to Lussi in exchange for her mercy. Or as it’s described in this interview of Anna Freij that the buns were tinted bright yellow with saffron to scare the devil away.

    With the introduction of the Gregorian calendar in the 16th century, Lucia no longer coincided with the winter solstice, but the customs of December 13th being the longest night of the year remained strong in the farming community throughout the centuries and up to the 1700s.
    And it’s suspected that as Christianity grew in the north, the church tried to associate the pagan tradition with Santa Lucia, mostly based on phonetics and etymology (latin lux: light).

    And just like that, the customs of eating saffron bread, something that was once reserved to the higher classes of southern Sweden, started to spread amongst rural Sweden, where wheat buns would be brushed with a saffron-infused syrup; with each province having their own distinctive shaped bun.

    I hope that what was intended to be “just a recipe” five or so hours ago, brought some insight into this wonderful tradition, which like many others is a complex maze of cultural and historical layers tangled into each-other like morning hair.

    Here are the sources I’ve used to this little research:
    http://runeberg.org/svetym/0512.html
    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harald_Fairhair
    http://www.firajul.nu/julenstraditioner/ordet-jul
    http://www.bageri.se/aktuellt/nyheter/varfor-ater-vi-saffransbrod-till-jul/
    http://malinryke.blogspot.se/2014/12/lussekattens-historia.html

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    Lussekatter

    Come early November, every supermarket launches their annual production of lussekatter, which I suspect are loved by many.
    As soon as you step in, the sweet scent of saffron gives away the trolleyful of golden buns waiting to be wrapped in small plastic bags. I have never tasted one from the shop, but from what I'm told they tend to be on the dry side.
    My lussekatter, although certainly not authentic as their supermarket counterpart, are a dream to work with, to eat warm from the oven, or toasted the next day, to soak in an egg whisked with a dash of cream, milk, and sugar, and then pan-fried until golden, not unlike a French Swedish-toast.
    The recipe itself is a simple enriched dough that some would be tempted to call a pain au lait [milk bread]. As with any rich dough, I recommend using a stand-mixer, althought it's definitely possible to make them by hand, simply follow the instructions given on that post.

    Notes

    A note on the saffron:
    If you don’t have any ground saffron, simply bring the milk to the boil and soak/infuse the saffron threads in it for at least 30 minutes. You will have to wait for the milk to be completely cooled down before using in the recipe.
    Edit 13/12/2018: Nowadays, I always tend to dissolve the saffron in a tablespoon or so of rum. I find it brings out the flavour even more!
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time1 hour
    Cook Time12 minutes
    Makes 20 buns

    Ingredients

    For the raisins

    • a handful of raisins
    • boiling water

    For the dough

    • 250 g unsalted butter
    • 600 g strong flour
    • 75 g caster sugar
    • 18 g fresh yeast
    • 0.5 g one envelope ground saffron (read note above)
    • 7.5 g sea salt
    • 375 g whole milk

    Instructions

    • Soak the raisins in boiling water and set aside to cool down. This can be done up to three days ahead, in which case, keep the soaked raisins in the fridge.
    • Slice the butter into thin 2-3mm thick slices. Set aside until needed.
    • In the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the dough-hook, place the flour, sugar, yeast, saffron and salt. Add the milk and mix on medium speed for around 10 minutes or until the dough detaches from the sides of the bowl and feels smooth, elastic and barely tacky. If you take a small piece of dough, you should be able to stretch it into a very thin membrane.
    • Add the butter, one small piece at a time continuously until all the butter is in – and knead it in for a further 10 minutes.
    • Place the dough in a large bowl, and clingfilm to the touch. Refrigerate for at least 3 hours or up to 12.
    • Line three baking trays with paper and set aside.
    • Scrape the dough onto a lightly floured surface and divide in 50-55g pieces and cover loosely with clingfilm.
    • Take one piece and roll into a thin snake, approximately 30cm long, then form an S shape, curling both ends into a spiral. Place onto the prepared baking trays, making sure to give the buns plenty of space. And repeat with the remaining dough.
    • Cover with clingfilm and leave to proof until doubled in size, around 2-3 hours.
    • Preheat the oven to 200°C/fan 180°C.
    • Brush the top of the buns with the egg wash and press two raisins into each bun.
    • Bake for 10-12 minutes until golden-brown. Allow to cool down slightly.
  • Swedish pepparkakor

    Swedish pepparkakor

    This Swedish pepparkakor recipe isn’t one that comes with many traditions. It was in fact created on the very first weekend of advent earlier this month after days of formula research and calculations.

    We had just brought upstairs two cardboard boxes labelled hastily JUL 2015 [Christmas 2015] from our förråd [storage] and there were candles lighting our house to the most beautiful shade of gold; the sharp and intense smell of resin diffusing through every room, like a morning promenade through the forest.

    I had just unpacked a small pink plastic basket, filled to the rim with pepparkaksformar [cookie cutters] that I’d found last summer at a garage sale at one of the houses we’d cycle by every morning.
    After a quick run under warm soapy water, I left them to dry over my favourite torchon [kitchen cloth], the light grey one with nid d’abeilles [honeycomb] fabric.

    Later that night, we used them to cut through the dough we’d made the night before. And as I pressed each and everyone of them through the softly spiced pepparkaksdeg, I couldn’t help but think about the many Christmases these cutters had known. And just like that, a tradition-less recipe actually perpetuated one that I suspect lasted many decades and created a new tradition for us to hold over the coming years.

    Here is to the next first of advent!

    Pepparkakor

    I chose to make the lighter kind* of pepparkakor, one of many really. In some houses, the dough calls for whipping cream or baking powder. Muscovado sugar and treacle syrup. A pinch of cinnamon and a fat tablespoon of ground ginger.

    That day, I made the pepparkakor that I’d knew I’d love. Light and crisp with just enough bite to hold well when dipped in a cup of coffee – something I can only warmly recommend.

    I might try, next time I make a batch, to replace the caster sugar with light muscovado sugar or even brun farinsocker, a sugar that we have here in Sweden, and which is almost halfway between dark and light muscovado sugars; if you choose that road, you could most definitely substitute the caster sugar in the recipe below with 125 g dark muscovado and 100 g light muscovado.

    I will also perhaps replace the golden syrup for chestnut honey, as a reminiscence of my childhood pain d’épices (which I also need to tell you about).

    * Nowhere as light as they appear to be in the pictures I took here. Yes, I am still in dire need of figuring out this whole winter lighting thing.

    Pepparkakor

    Makes around 100 small biscuits.

    75 g water
    105 g golden syrup
    225 g caster sugar (read note above)
    175 g unsalted butter
    1 heaped tbsp ground cinnamon
    1 heaped tsp ground ginger
    3/4 tsp ground cardamom
    3/4 tsp ground cloves
    480 g plain flour
    1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
    1/4 tsp sea salt

    Bring the water, syrup, and sugar to the boil in a small pan. Off the heat, add the butter and spices, and allow to cool down to around 30-35°C.

    In a bowl, mix the flour, bicarbonate and salt.

    When the syrup has cooled down enough, slowly pour over the flour, and mix with a silicone spatula until a loose dough comes together.

    Place the dough onto a large piece of clingfilm, and flatten it into a square using the palm of your hand. Cover tightly with clingfilm, and refrigerate for at least 12 hours or up to a month.

    When you’re ready to bake your pepparkakor, take out your dough from the fridge and leave it at room temperature for 20-30 minutes.

    Preheat the oven to 200°C/fan 180°C.

    On a slighty floured surface, roll the dough to 3-4mm thick and cut out into the desired shapes. If you wish to hang your pepparkakor, make sure to cut a small hole before baking them.

    Arrange them onto baking trays lined with baking paper, and do not to mix the larger biscuits with the small ones as they won’t bake evenly.

    Bake for 5 to 8 minutes, depending on the size of the pepparkakor, or until the edges start to turn golden brown.
    When cooled down, decorate with royal icing if you wish, and store in an airtight container for up to a month.


    More Christmas adventures in the north of Sweden on Instagram: #fannysjul <3

  • PS. Time to start baking with saffron

    PS. Time to start baking with saffron

    “Saffran, pepparkakor, lingon och mandel.”

    If you sat on the windowsill, here with me – yes, right now – you’d see many things around us. The stars and advent candles, fluttering in every house. The snow, covering roofs till the horizon and further.

    In my kitchen – and I suspect many others – saffran, pepparkakor, lingon och mandel [saffron, gingerbread, lingon berries and almonds] pervade the air in the way only they can. And we’d watch bullar rise under the yellow glow of the oven lamp, spitting butter and oozing with marzipan just so.

    Yes, it’s time to start baking with saffron, although I might have possibly started a couple of weeks ago.
    And if you’d ever ask me, I’d possibly urge you to start too; most likely with my absolute favourite buns: saffransbullar med mandelmassa.

    My saffron recipes

    Saffranskladdkaka

    [Swedish saffron blondies] Snipp, snapp, snut – så var julen slut. Christmas has come and gone, and I never got …
    Read More

    Birgittas saffranskaka

    [Birgitta´s saffron cake] If you follow me on instagram, you’ll recognise this cake. One that I make year after year, …
    Read More

    Saffransmazariner

    [Saffron mazariner] Twelve weeks ago, almost to the second, Sienna was put on my chest; pink as a candy, eyes …
    Read More

    Glad Lucia, a lussekatter history (and recipe)

    Traditionally eaten for Santa Lucia on the thirteenth of December, lussekatter – also called lussebullar – have a nebulous history …
    Read More

    PS. Time to start baking with saffron

    “Saffran, pepparkakor, lingon och mandel.” If you sat on the windowsill, here with me – yes, right now – you’d …
    Read More

    Saffransbullar med mandelmassa

    [Swedish saffron and almond buns] Sunrise: 9:33 AM Sunset: 1:28 PM Temperature: -11.8°C The Swedish saffron and almond buns you …
    Read More
  • Kladdkaka du dimanche

    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.

  • Almond and raisin tea cake

    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.

  • Raw carrot cake energy balls

    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.

  • Carrés au citron

    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.

  • Pastry chef tips – Tour double

    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.

  • Recipe studies: Brioche

    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…

  • Fromage blanc cake

    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.

  • Romtårta

    Romtårta

    [Trout roe cheesecake]

    One morning, we left for Byske as soon as K. got home; with, for only reason, the two horses that he’d seen and wanted to show me.

    In the distance, a farm broke through the wall of björkar [birches] that lines the road. As we approached, it became clear that the horses had been moved.

    Instead, we stopped a few hundreds of meters later, way past the runestone that I’m still very curious about (note-to-self: go there again, please). We sat on the car and ate the two apples I had brought along. K. cut some birch branches for the påskris [Easter tree] that was to happen.

    Another day, we sat in the setting sun; to the sound of a crackling fire, and geese heading north above our heads, not unlike a compass of some sort. There might have been korv and baguette, chocolate and kokkaffe. And before dusk settled behind the trees, Kalle threw his first cast into a river that had lost its winter ice.

    Tonight, we heard raindrops against the glass rooftop of our veranda. And really, I had forgotten how wonderful rain can be after months made of silent snowflakes.

    Yes, just like that, spring happened.

    Romtårta
    Adapted from Suss’ recipe in Megafonen n°3 2016.

    From what I’ve gathered, romtårta [litterally, roe cake; a savoury roe cheesecake] is a summer classic.
    It does, however, get made as soon as the sun makes its return in the north; perhaps, not unlike a rain dance.

    This recipe comes from my friend Suss, and I fell in love with it when she made in at the café for an Easter du jour special.
    The earthiness of the bread, which I highly recommend to be a sunflower seed-heavy rågbröd, meddles beautifully with the lemon and the sea-saltiness of the roe.
    Make sure to top your tårta with plenty of vegetables to add texture and freshness. I went for thinly shaved radishes and cucumber, sliced sugar snap peas, and bits of lemon segments.

    You can make it either as a large tart, which I think would look stunning on a dinner table, or like I did, smaller individual tarts.

    In any case, I truly think it will become an Easter tradition in our house. And perhaps in yours too.

    A note on the gelatin

    As you may know, I’ve been trying to write an article about gelatin for – literally – years. And every now and then, I become obsessed with it again.
    I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, as it’s an ingredient that is so tremendously different from one country to another that it makes my job as a chef and a food writer quite difficult.
    I won’t get into details about it now, but let me just tell you that in between France, the UK, and Sweden, I’ve had to adjust my recipes a lot to fit the gelatin available in each place.

    When I first made this recipe, it called for 4 gelatin leaves. The gelatin we get from the supermarkets here is extra guld [extra gold], so I’m assuming its on the higher end of the bloom spectrum for gold gelatin, perhaps 220-230 bloom.
    However, I have found that 4 leaves was slightly too much in this case, so I’ve reduced the gelatin in the recipe below to 3 leaves, bringing it to 5.1g of 220-230 bloom gelatin.

    Please, note that the gelatin here in Sweden is much stronger than the gelatin found in French or English supermarkets, so you might need more. In fact, one leaf here seems to be almost the equivalent of a professional gelatin leaf, both in strength and weight.

    If in doubt, go by weight: 5 grams; and add a couple of grams if your gelatin has a strength comprised between 160-190 bloom.
    However, remember to start with less, as a cheesecake with a creamier texture – although it might look a bit messy – will always be better than an over-set one.

    Romtårta

    Makes 8 individual tarts or one 24cm.

    For the base
    200 g rye bread, pumpernickel, or even crackers
    75 g butter, melted
    a fat pinch of salt

    For the “cheesecake”
    3 gelatin leaves (around 5g, see note above)
    300 g cream cheese
    200 g crème fraiche
    1/2 red onion, finely minced
    juice and zest from a lemon
    a pinch of salt
    freshly ground black pepper
    80 g fish roe

    To finish
    300 g cocktail prawns, shelled
    radishes, sugar snap peas, cucumber, dill, chives

    Make the base
    Prepare eight 8cm-wide rings or a large 24cm ring on a tray that fits in your fridge, and is lined with baking paper.

    Blitz the bread into crumbs, and add the melted butter and salt. Divide the mixture in between the prepared rings, and press to form a base.
    Set aside in the fridge until needed.

    Make the filling
    Soak the gelatin leaves in ice-cold water.

    In a large bowl, mix half the cream cheese with the crème fraiche, lemon juice and zest, salt and pepper.
    Heat the remaining cream cheese – either in the microwave or over a bain-marie – until around 60°C.

    Dissolve the gelatin in the warm cream cheese, and incorporate it into the crème fraiche mixture using a whisk.

    Gently fold in the roe, and divide this cream into the prepared ring.

    Refrigerate for at least an hour.

    Unmould by running a small knife around the rim of your rings and top with prawns and sliced vegetables of your choice.