Category: Pâtisserie

  • Birgittas saffranskaka

    Birgittas saffranskaka

    [Birgitta´s saffron cake]

    If you follow me on instagram, you’ll recognise this cake. One that I make year after year, sometimes late november, when the snow starts to settle into a thick coat and paper stars hang at our windows. One that we made, Sienna and I, on a very cold Monday, just a few weeks ago. And filmed the whole process. You can watch our videos here, but it’s a bit of a happy circus!

    On saffron

    In Sweden, ground saffron is readily available at every supermarket in small half-gram enveloppes. And that’s the reason why most Swedish Christmas recipes call for saffron powder instead of the usual saffron threads.
    As always with saffron, it’s fundamental to extract its flavour as much as possible before incorporating it into a batter or a dough. Now, I must admit that I’ve baked cakes and bullar only doing a quick infusion, often by mixing the saffron powder into melted butter or into the liquids of a recipe.

    However, if you have time, I would recommend to make a saffron syrup. It can be made mid to late-November and will keep throughout the Christmas season.
    Start by mixing 3 g saffron (threads or powder) with 1 tbsp vodka in a small jar (I use a 150ml jar). Allow to infuse for a week. Then make a simple syrup by boiling 50 g water along with 50 g sugar, then pour over the saffron infusion and mix well.

    Now, when a recipe calls for 0.5 g saffron, you can easily substitute it with one tablespoon of your saffron syrup.

    Notes on gräddfil

    Gräddfil is a Swedish sour cream made with different bacteria strains than in the yoghurt making process. It has around 10-12% fat content and is best substituted with sour cream, or Turkish yoghurt, but in a pinch, natural yoghurt or even crème fraiche would make a good substitute.

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    Birgittas saffranskaka

    This recipe is adapted from my friend Susanne. Her mother-in-law – Birgitta – used to bake this cake every year around Christmas time. If I recall right, her recipe has a less sugar and she never soaked raisins, one thing that Susanne is also partial too. I also like to add grated almond paste into the batter, and a thick coat of slivered almonds on top of the cake before it goes in the oven.
    Sadly, I never got the chance to meet Birgitta, but I'm deeply grateful that her cake has become a tradition in our house as the very first thing we bake with saffron every year, not unlike a soft step into the Christmas season.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time25 minutes
    Cook Time45 minutes
    Total Time1 hour 10 minutes
    Makes 20 cm cake

    Ingredients

    • 100 g raisins
    • 2 eggs
    • 210 g caster sugar
    • pinch of salt
    • 100 g salted butter
    • 0.5 g ground saffron read notes above
    • 150 g gräddfil Greek/Turkish yoghurt or sour cream (read notes above)
    • 180 g plain flour
    • 2 tsp baking powder
    • 100 g almond paste coarsely grated

    To top

    • a handful slivered or flaked almonds
    • icing sugar

    Instructions

    • Preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 155°C. Butter and line a 20cm cake tin with baking paper.
    • Before you get on with the cake batter, soak the raisins in boiling water and set aside.
    • Whisk the eggs and sugar along with a pinch of salt until light and fluffy. In a small pan, melt the butter. Add the saffron (read notes above) and the yoghurt of your choice.
    • Add the melted butter mixture to the eggs and mix well to combine.
    • In a separate bowl, sieve the flour and baking powder. Drain the raisins and shake them thoroughly to get rid of as much water as possbible. Then gently coat them with a tablespoon of the flour mixture.
    • Now mix in the remaining flour into the batter, folding with a silicon spatula. Add the raisins and grated almond paste, and pour into the prepared tin. Top with slivered or flaked almonds and bake for 35-45 minutes, or until golden-brown and a skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean.
    • Allow the cake to cool slightly on a wire rack then unmould and dust with a thin coat of icing sugar.

  • Siennas chokladbollar

    Siennas chokladbollar

    [Sienna’s Swedish chocolate balls]

    A few things are always on rotation in our freezer. Really, if you’d come over – any day of the year – you’d very likely find the following: lingonberries and blåbär [blueberries] that we picked in the autumn, a bag of store-bought potatisbullar [hash browns] for an almost-instant school-night dinner, a few sausages from my favourite butcher, and Sienna’s favourite: chokladbollar [chocolate balls].

    Swedish chocolate balls are a staple in many homes. I might be wrong but I would say they’re categorised as små kakor [small cookies and biscuit] in Sweden. And thus the perfect companion for a Sunday afternoon fika. Or one that gets eaten after a day at pre-school, or even packed in a ziploc bag for a morning walk through snowy forests, along with our open-fire coffee pot.

    I often make them with Sienna. She will help cut the butter and weigh the sugar, oats and cocoa powder. But really, she’s mostly waiting to roll the dough into small balls. Depending on how festive we want the chokladbollar to be, we then roll them in a variety of toppings. Shredded coconut, sprinkles, cocoa nibs, or the very traditional pearl sugar.

    Sienna’s Swedish chocolate balls

    Makes 25-30 balls.

    200 g salted butter
    180 g caster sugar
    1 tbsp vanilla sugar
    250 g rolled oats
    60 g cocoa powder
    50 g strong coffee or milk

    To coat

    Pearl sugar
    Shredded coconut
    Sprinkles
    Cocoa nibs

    Place all the ingredients in the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Mix until combined. Form into small balls, 25-30g each. Coat in topping of choice. We love coconut and sprinkles! Refrigerate for an hour or freeze in an airtight container for later.

  • Tarte à la citrouille

    Tarte à la citrouille

    [Pumpkin pie]

    Originally published on October 9, 2009

    Tarte à la citrouille
    A strong favourite around our house, pumpkin pie often appears on our birthday table (yay for autumn birthdays!!).
    I make this one with muscovado sugar, which brings lovely caramel undertones, complements the earthy flavour of fresh pumpkin.

    The first step is to make pumpkin purée, by roasting the pumpkin, then blending it with a touch of butter. The roasting helps to get rid of the moisture naturally present in pumpkin flesh, and thus, creates a smooth (bubble free) pumpkin flan. But it also adds a depth of flavour with a bit of caramelising here and there.

    For this recipe, you’ll need a pâte sucrée tart case, which you can easily make in advance from the recipe here.
    I find that it’s best to blind-bake the tart case until golden.

    Tarte à la citrouille

    makes one 24-26cm wide tart
    For the pâte sucrée
    a 24-26 cm wide fond, baked blind

    For the pumpkin purée
    500 g pumpkin, peeled and diced
    1 tbsp butter

    For the pumpkin flan
    2 eggs
    70 g light muscovado sugar
    170 g double cream
    1/2 tbsp cinnamon
    a touch of grated nutmeg
    1/2 tbsp vanilla extract
    seeds from half a vanilla pod
    pinch of salt

    Preheat the oven to 180˚C. Place the diced pumpkin flesh into a baking pan and roast until tender, approximately half an hour. Blend in a mixer, adding the butter. Then allow to cool until it reaches room temperature.

    When the purée is cold, mix in the eggs, sugar, cream, cinnamon, vanilla extract, and vanilla seeds. Pour into the blind-baked tart case, then bake at 175˚C/fan 160˚C for 45 minutes, or until set.

    Allow to cool down completely before serving.

  • Sienna’s first birthday cake

    Sienna’s first birthday cake

    As a keepsake for myself. Vanilla génoise, raspberry and blueberry jam, vanilla crème pâtissière. Mascarpone cream, coloured with a syrup made with wild blueberries, sugar and water.

  • Cake week-end au citron, confit de clémentines à la vanille

    Cake week-end au citron, confit de clémentines à la vanille

    [Lemon weekend cake, clementine confit]

    Originally published on January 29, 2010

    This is a cake I’ve made so many times over the years that I could make it with my eyes closed.

    I remember the first time I posted about it. It was early 2010, and a thin mantle of snow had fallen overnight, just enough to cover the ground.

    I had just started working as a commis pastry chef at the Capital, a small boutique hotel that would become the road map of my seven years in London. Yes, many of the chefs I consider my mentors and friends have – at one point or another – worked in the kitchen where I did my very first service.

    This reminds me that I’ll have to tell you, one day, about the time where I traveled across town – from Islington to Mayfair – on a vegetable delivery van to meet Chavot for an interview, leaving loaves of sourdough proofing in the kitchen above John Salt, and came back just in time to bake them before dinner service.

    But… this cake. A gâteau de voyage [a travel cake]. It doesn’t translate well, but the name alone suffices to evoke the soft lull of a holiday; the carefully wrapped slice, eaten on the night train; the afternoons at the beach; perhaps even, the long drive through the Massif Central.
    All gâteaux de voyage have the particularity to keep well at room temperature over a week or so. And this weekend cake is no exception, with both butter and crème fraiche to keep it moist, I find that it tastes even better the next day.

    It starts by whisking the eggs and sugar, with just a pinch of salt. The flours gets folded in. Then a third of the batter is mixed with the fats, then delicately folded back into the remaining batter.
    Although, I now often make it by adding the fats to the eggs, then folding in the flour.

    For the sake of staying true to my original recipe, I will leave the former method – as written in 2010, but know that both work fine, the latter leading to a slightly denser crumb, which I like when having cakes with tea or more accurately – and dare I say it – I love when dipping a slice in piping hot tea.
    Please, tell me you also give in to this ritual or am I the only one?

    And although, I can never resist it unadorned, I am rather fond of serving it with a generous spoonful of clementine confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.
    There is something about the suave softness of the compote against the gentle bite of the cake.
    Sometimes I even make it with tea – finely milled to a powder – folded into the batter. Other times, I leave it plain, perhaps with a touch of vanilla or orange blossom water, and we eat it with softly whipped cream and warmed raspberries.

    Yes, more than a recipe this really is blueprint and should be used as such.

    Just a quick note on baking temperatures: while I often bake this loaf cake at 175°C for approximately 45 minutes, I can only remind you of my favourite method for baking loaf cakes.
    5 minutes at 200°C/fan 180°C, 10 minutes at 180°C/fan 170°C, and around 25 minutes at 170°C/fan 160°C.

    Cake weekend au citron, confit de clémentines à la vanille

    Makes one loaf cake.

    For the clementines confit

    350 g clementines, around 3 to 4
    200 g caster sugar
    half a vanilla pod
    100 g water
    20 g cornflour diluted in 40 g cold water

    For the lemon weekend cake

    4 eggs
    250 g caster sugar
    zest from 2 organic lemons
    200 g plain flour
    one tsp baking powder
    150 g creme fraiche
    50 g butter, melted

    softened butter, extra for piping

    To serve

    a generous dollop of crème fraiche for each serving

    Make the clementine confit: bring a large pan of water to the boil. Plunge the clementines in it and simmer for 3 minutes. Sieve, placing the fruits in an ice-cold water bath as you do so. Repeat one more time. Then chill the clementines until cold enough to handle.
    Slice finely, and place in a pan along with the sugar, vanilla pod and seeds, and water.
    Simmer for 30 minutes or until reduced and almost candied. Then vigorously fold in the cornflour mixture. Allow to boil for a couple of minutes, and transfer to a bowl.
    The confit will keep in the fridge for up to 5 days or in the freezer for up to 3 months.

    Make the cake batter: preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 155°C; butter and flour a loaf tin.
    Place the eggs, sugar, lemon zest, and salt in a bowl, and whisk until thick and doubled in size.
    In an another bowl, mix the flour and baking powder, and fold into the egg mixture.
    Pour a third of the batter onto the cream and melted butter, mix well, and transfer back to the main batter mix, gently folding in as you do so.
    Pour into the prepared tin. If you want an even crack in the center of your loaf cake, pipe a thin line of softened butter across the batter; and bake for 45 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the cake comes out clean.
    Allow to cool down 20-30 minutes before unmoulding.
    If not eating right away, place into an airtight container and keep at room temperature.

    Place a slice of cake cut in half lengthwise in a plate. Top with both a spoonful of confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.

  • Saffransmazariner

    Saffransmazariner

    [Saffron mazariner]

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

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

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

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

    Saffransmazariner

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Saffransmazariner

    Makes 28

    For the pâte sablée

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

    butter, melted to grease the moulds

    For the saffron filling

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

    For the glaze

    250 g icing sugar
    water from the kettle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Swedish äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

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

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

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

    Swedish äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

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

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

    Swedish äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

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

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

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

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

    Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

    Makes three 300mL jars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Sunday morning plättar

    Sunday morning plättar

    Last night, we had rökta räkor [smoked prawns] for dinner, with plenty of aioli and sourdough bread, and a bottle of pinot grigio whe’d kept on our veranda to chill. By the time we’d fallen asleep, the clocks had been set backwards and a thin layer of fresh snow had covered the roofs we see through our bedroom windows.
    Coffee, fleece blanket, and Sunday morning plättar [Swedish pancakes].

    Swedish plättar
    Adapted from Kungsörnen’s recipe.

    In Sweden, pancakes can have many forms. There are the larger ones, not unlike crêpes, although somewhat thicker: plättar. There are the small ones, cooked in a special pan: småplättar. And there are the ones cooked in the oven: pannkaka or perhaps more likely, ugnspannkaka.

    These names are, however, subject of a debate; one that has been dividing the country. Yes, what I’ve just told you is only valid in Skellefteå (where we live, and where K. grew up) and above. South of us, even as close as Umeå, which stands just a short 135km drive away, what I’ve come to know as plättar is called pannkakor. And plättar really means the small ones. Rather confusing, no?

    In an insightful episode of Språket, the terminology is examined and the comments make for an even more interesting read (in Swedish).
    One reader states that, to her, plättar are the pancakes that one cooks in a cast-iron pan, eventually, with small holes for små runda plättar [small round plättar]. Tunnpannkakor [literally, thin pancakes] are cooked on the stove in a frying pan, and can be made with the same batter as plättar. Ugnspannkaka is baked in a roasting tin and the batter is thicker than the one made for plättar or tunnpannkakor. She then follows by saying that in any case, plättar cannot be cooked in a frying pan, tunnpannkakor shouldn’t be made in a cast-iron pan, and of course, ugnspannkaka can only be baked in the oven.

    So really, I have no idea which recipe I’m sharing with you today other than it’s one that we love to make – on Sunday mornings or as a quick everyday dinner. One that we eat with jam, most likely the drottningsylt I made with the blueberries and raspberries we picked over the summer. One that I cook over the stove in a cast-iron pannkakspanna, something that changed everything I knew about crêpes.

    These plättar have crisp and salty edges, and are slightly thicker than the crêpes I grew up on.
    You could make them in a regular frying pan, in which case, I’d recommend warming up a generous amount of butter and oil in the pan until it just starts to smoke before cooking them. If you choose to make them in a cast-iron pan, don’t hesitate to use a little more batter than you normally would, perhaps 1 1/2 ladle instead of the usual 1.

    Swedish plättar

    Makes around 10-12 medium pancakes, approx. 22cm wide.

    2 eggs
    500 mL whole milk
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    180 g plain flour
    a generous tbsp     (around 20-30g) melted butter

    Combine the eggs, milk and salt. Pour half over the flour and mix until smooth. Add the remaining flour and the melted butter, whisking as you do so.
    You can use the batter straight away or store it in the fridge for up to 36 hours.

    When you are ready to cook the plättar, heat a lightly oiled cast-iron pan (read note above) over high heat.

    When the pan starts to smoke, pour a ladle of batter onto the pan, using approximately one-third of a cup for each plätt. Tilt the pan in a circular motion so that the batter coats the surface evenly.
    Cook the plätt for about a minute, until the edges start to brown. Loosen with a palette knife, flip over and cook the other side for a minute. Serve hot.

  • Apple pie shortbreads

    Apple pie shortbreads

    On snow.

    The first snow didn’t settle onto the ground. That night, the clouds broke into minute snowflakes as we stepped out from the house. And just like I did last year and the year before that, I stopped and stared into this black and white kaleidoscope for what could have been a nightlong, a lifelong really.

    It’s been snowing every day ever since. Flakes fluffy as cotton balls. At times for seconds, other times for hours. And although it still hasn’t turned our streets white, I have a feeling it won’t be long before it does.

    On nesting.

    There are the lamps on every windowsill, turned on as the sun sets, slightly earlier with every day that passes; for now, around half past four.

    There are the candles we burn, and the evenings spent threading rönnbär [rowan berry] into garlands.

    There is the soup plate that stands on our kitchen counter, by the right of the sink. In it, pinecones I collected during a walk in the forest, perhaps the last one before winter sets in. I turn them around every morning as I wait for my coffee to brew, and they open into an almost fractal pattern as they dry.

    There are the biscuits we bake. An early batch of pepparkakor [gingerbreads] – adapted from this recipe, more to come later -, crisp chocolate drömmar [dreams], made with hjorthornssalt [ammonium carbonate], and of course, cinnamon shortbreads. We keep a small tuperwareful of each in the last draw of our freezer, safely nested among the neverending bags of berries we picked under a summer that never really happened.

    But that’s another story for another day. In the meantime, here is to winter!

    Apple pie shortbreads

    These shortbreads were inspired by K., who suggested on one of our weekly trips to the store that we make biscuits filled with apple compote.

    We put a kilogram of small Swedish apples in our basket, along with a bag of caster sugar, and a block or two of butter.
    By the time we came home, we’d formed a pretty clear idea of these biscuits, even going as far as naming them apple pie shortbreads; because it is, essentially, what they are.

    The dough, made short with a lot of butter and a generous amount of starch is the updated version of this recipe by Leila Lindholm. Depending on what’s in my cupboards, I’ll make it with either potato starch or cornflour, and so should you.
    It’s a dough I use for many biscuits: from cinnamon shortbreads to hallon [raspberry] thumbprint cookies. A firm favourite in our house.

    The compote is cooked quickly over medium heat until the apples have released their juices, and begin to soften.
    You can use any apples that hold their shape well during baking. The list is long, but I’d suggest braeburn, royal gala, fuji, golden or granny smith, just to name a few really.

    You could pass on the glaze, although I think it is a wonderful addition, both in terms of sweetness and texture. As mentioned in the recipe below, I would however leave it out if keeping these in the fridge or the freezer, then glazing them right before they’re ready to be served.

    And as always, I bake my biscuits quite darker than the Swedes usually do; perhaps a French trait I can’t seem to rid of, I truly find that it makes for a better texture and a slight caramel flavour.

    Apple pie shortbreads

    Makes 24.

    For the dough
    300 g plain flour
    80 g potato starch or cornflour
    1 tsp sea salt
    320 g unsalted butter    , diced
    130 g icing sugar
    1 tbsp vanilla sugar

    For the apple compote
    2 generous tbsp unsalted butter
    200 g peeled, cored and diced apples    , around 2-3 medium
    30 g caster sugar
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    a pinch of salt

    For the glaze
    icing sugar
    boiling water

    Line two baking trays with baking paper and preheat the oven to 180°C/fan 160°C.

    Whisk the flour and potato starch to combine, then set aside.
    Cream the butter, icing sugar and salt in a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add the flour mixture and mix on low speed until a dough forms.

    Roll the dough into a log and cut it into 24 even slices.

    Roll each slice into a ball, then flatten it onto the prepared baking tray. Gently dent each shortbread using your thumb or the bottom of a small glass. Repeat with the remaining slices, and chill in the fridge while you get on with the apple compote.

    In a frying-pan set over high heat, melt the butter until it just starts to foam. Add the diced apples and stir to coat. Add the sugar, cinnamon, and salt, and reduce the heat. Cook until the apples start to soften, around 8-10 minutes.
    Immediately transfer to a small plate and set aside to cool down slightly.

    Fill each indent with a fat teaspoon of apple compote.

    Bake in the pre-heated oven for 20 to 24 minutes, or until golden-brown. Allow to cool down completely.

    Make the glaze by mixing icing sugar and just-boiled water until it has a firm pouring consistency. Drizzle the glaze over the cookies and allow to set for 10-15 minutes.

    Stored into an airtight box, these will keep for a week at room temperature.
    Without the glaze you can keep the shortbreads for a little over a week in the fridge and up to three months in the freezer.

  • Confiture de figues

    Confiture de figues

    [Fig jam]

    We stepped off the plane only to be wrapped by the intense heat. With miles of sea ahead of us and the mountain in our backs, it dawned on me: this is home. A home away from home perhaps, but I could feel it, one deep breath of warm air after another; sea mist, tarmac, and gasoline.

    It had been over two years since our last trip to the south of France. Before we knew it, we’d fallen asleep to the sound of crickets through the shutters we’d left open, and woke up the next day to roosters crowing on the hill across our house.

    Just like a good holiday morning should start, we had breakfast under the pergola at the back of the house. Coffee and spelt milk. Baguette with butter and a generous spoon of vibrant melon des Charentes [cantaloupe melon] jam that my grand-mère made (in 2013, according to the label).

    Yes, of course, I couldn’t leave without a jar.

    If you’re interested, you should know it’s perfectly safe to pack a little over ten jars of jams and pickled mushrooms into your suitcase. Here is how: wrap them with more layers of clingfilm than deemed acceptable, then place them into a zipped plastic bag, and roll them into the thickly knit sweaters you didn’t wear once on your holidays. Cross your fingers and open your suitcase as soon as you get home.

    A few hours later.
    We drove the car down narrow roads until we almost reached the bottom of the valley. And there stood a terraced field, dry from the sun, with at its top the fullest figuier [fig tree] I had ever seen.
    As we walked towards it, the perfume from its leaves left little to wonder about how delectable the fruits would be.

    A little over twenty minutes later.
    Our skin itched from the sap. And our basket was heavy with plump small figs. Naturally we’d eaten a few as we picked them, and oh my!




    Confiture de figues

    There is always something magical about making jam, but fig jam has to be one of my favourites. I don’t know if it’s the slight crunch from the seeds, or the deep red colour. Perhaps, it’s just because I can’t eat fig jam without thinking about our childhood, when towards the end of the summer, we’d ride our bicycle to the nearest tree and pick as many figs as we could eat.

    The recipe here is for 1kg of figs but don’t hesitate to multiply it according to how much fruit you have around. After we’d eaten a good two kilograms of figs and left another in a ceramic bowl by the sink, we had around 3kg left, which we turned into jam, making around 12 odd sized jars.

    For the record, if making big batches, I tend to go for 4-5kg of fruits at a time as I’ve found that if using more, the jam, which will take longer to cook, won’t have such a vibrant colour and flavours due to some of the sugar caramelising.

    As with every of my jam recipes, the sugar – granulated, as it contains less impurities, and thus creates less foam to skim – and water get cooked to 110°C before the fruits are added.
    This step, which I see as fundamental, has one major impact on the jam cooking time, which makes it not only convenient, but also reduces the time during which the fruits are cooked, maintaining a fresh flavour.

    A note on the citric acid: I like to use citric acid powder and not lemon juice, as I’ve found that it keep the fruits’ flavour more intact, however I used lemon juice this time around and was satisfied with the results, although I’ll keep on sticking to my citric acid for the future as it awakens the jam in a way lemon juice doesn’t.
    No matter which one you go for, always add it at the end of the cooking process – off the heat.

    Confiture de figues

    Makes 4 to 6 jars

    1 kg granulated sugar
    300 g water
    1 kg black figs    , quartered
    40 g lemon juice or 20 g citric acid diluted in 2 tbsp of cold water (read note above)

    Sterilise jars by plunging them, along with their lids, in a pan of boiling water for approximately one minute. Then take them out and invert them onto a clean cloth. Allow to cool down, while you get on with the jam.

    Place the sugar and water into a large pan. Bring to the boil and cook to 110°C. Add the figs and simmer over medium heat for approximately 10 minutes, stirring every now and then until the jam reaches 104°C.
    Take off the heat and skim off any scum using a small laddle. Mix in the lemon juice, then using an immersion blender set on the lowest speed, blitz the jam to break off some of the figs.

    Immediately pour into the prepared jars. Screw the lid on and allow the jars to cool down completely, upside-down. Store in a cool dry place.

  • 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