Tag: animated gifs

  • Kanelbullar croissants

    Kanelbullar croissants

    There was that weekend, many-many months ago. I had told you about the days when blogs were not so editorially perfect and how I miss them; about the two crumpets with raspberry jam that I had had for an early afternoon breakfast; and about how we’d moved the kitchen table by the window and took way too many pictures.

    Because, you see, my book was coming out the day after. And I guess that – as pretty much the entire universe – when I’m about to step in the unknown I like to delve a bit deeper in my comfort zone.
    It might be just a breath. Or as it happened, it might be croissants.

    There is this one thing I know for sure though. It’s that there are many rainy weekends ahead of us. And really, I thought I’d take you with me.
    A time machine of some sorts.

    Making the détrempe under the grey light of a drenched morning.
    Rolling turns later that day during the blue hour.
    And waking up to gold through our windows to finish shaping the croissants.

    By twelve, we had hot coffee – much hotter than I’d usually care for, and freshly baked croissants. And perhaps, you’ll have some too.

    This recipe doesn’t make traditional croissants. But more of a beautiful cross between a kanelbulle and a croissant. Soft and slightly flaky, as I only gave the dough two simple turns, as opposed to my usual croissant routine: three simple turns. In fact, a look at the insides will give it away: the membranes are thicker, and cinnamon speckles dot them throughout.

    Perhaps, if you want to, I could make some regular flaky croissants, just like the ones I grew up on, and show you too. Yes, croissants are nothing new. But I guess, in the constant chaos that surround us all, there is still some wisdom left.

    The ingredients.

    For the détrempe
    300 g strong flour
    200 g plain flour
    80 g caster sugar
    12 g instant yeast
    10 g milk powder
    10 g sea salt
    250 g cold water
    45 g butter    , melted and cooled down

    For the butter
    300 g unsalted butter, at room temperature
    2 tbsp ground cinnamon

    For the glaze
    200 g icing sugar
    boiling water
    seeds from one vanilla pod


    twelve pm.
    Mix the flours, sugar, yeast, milk powder and salt in a large bowl. Add the cold water and butter; and mix until a dough starts to form.


    ten minutes past twelve pm.
    Transfer the dough to a clean work surface and knead for around ten minutes or until the dough feels elastic and smooth.


    twenty minutes past twelve pm.
    Place the dough back in the bowl and clingfilm tightly. Leave in a warmish place for an hour or so, or until doubled in size.


    twenty-five minutes past twelve.
    While the yeast is working in magic, work yours with the butter. In a bowl, mix the soft butter (you could flash it in the microwave for ten seconds at a time until soft but not melted) with the ground cinnamon. Perhaps a pinch of cardamom too.


    half past twelve.
    Scrape the butter onto a piece of piece of baking paper and top with another one. Roll it until you get a rough 40x30cm rectangle. Transfer to a baking tray and chill in the fridge.
    Have a cup of coffee. And kisses. And maybe, even tickles down your neck. I highly recommend the latter. That’s what dream-Sundays are made of.

    half past one.
    The détrempe is proved when it’s almost doubled in size. When you take it, it will be very smooth and elastic.

    half past one.
    Place the détrempe onto a lightly floured work surface and roll into a rough rectangle. Wrap in clingfilm and freeze for twenty-five minutes to stop the yeast. Then transfer to the fridge and let it be for a few hours.

    five o’clock.
    Tea time for some. And feuilletage for others. I can’t help but feel a little sad for the former who’ll never know the calmness only rolling dough can bring.
    Take out the butter sheet on your bench to soften it ever so slightly. Place the détrempe onto a lightly floured work surface and roll to a 40x60cm rectangle. Flour more as needed but always make sure to brush off the excess afterwards.

    ten past five.
    Place the rectangle of butter on the lower half of the détrempe – patching it as you do so to cover any naked corner – then fold the upper half over.

    fitfteen minutes past five.
    Flatten the dough with your hands to get rid of any air bubbles, and rotate counter-clockwise so that you have a “book” its spine on your left hand-side.


    twenty minutes past five.
    Roll the dough before the first turn.

    For that, I like to press my rolling pin into the dough to create some indents. This step – if done gently yet with sufficient pressure – allows to distribute the butter evenly.
    I then start rolling the dough in long movements, from the centre up and then from the centre down. Those two techniques can be applied to any laminated dough.
    If the dough starts to stick, don’t hesitate to flour your work bench and reposition the dough.

    twenty-five minutes past five.
    Once the dough has been rolled to – ideally – around seven millimetres, brush off any excess flour, and fold in three, like you would do with a letter.
    This is a tour simple [simple turn].

    Wrap the dough tightly in clingfilm and chill in the fridge for at least an hour.

    twenty-five minutes past five (of the am kind).
    I went for another simple turn as I’ve told you before. Because fluffy meant something special to me that day, or so it seems.
    Of course Karl wouldn’t wake up, so pictures didn’t happen, but here is what I did: I rolled the dough to around seven millimetres thick, then folded it in three, exactly like shown above.
    After that, I placed the dough back in the fridge – again, wrapped in clingfilm.
    If you wanted a flakier texture, I would advise to go for another tour simple [simple turn] now.

    half past six (of the am kind).
    Get two baking trays lined with baking paper.
    Roll the dough on a lightly floured surface to a rough thirty-centimetre-wide rectangle. Cut the dough in half width-wise (if that’s even a thing) and place one half onto one of the prepared baking trays. Chill while you get on with the other half.
    This will make the dough easier to handle and roll thinner, while the other part stays cool.

    Keep on rolling the dough, maintaining a width of around thirty centimetres, until it’s about four or five millimetre-thick.
    Cut triangles using a sharp knife, making sure their base is eight to ten centimetre wide.
    As you cut the triangles, place them onto the prepared baking tray; and keep in the fridge until needed.

    Repeat the rolling and cutting process with the other half of dough.

    seven am.
    Get two baking trays lined with baking paper.

    Take out a couple of dough triangle out at a time. Gently stretch them, then roll without putting any pressure on the layers. And place them with the “point” underneath on the prepared baking tray, generously spaced out.

    twenty minutes past seven.
    Layer two large pieces of clingfilm, chasing any air bubbles and lightly brush with vegetable oil.

    twenty-five minutes past seven.
    Place the layered clingfilm – oiled side down – on top of your croissants, to cover them loosely. Allow to prove at room temperature for around two hours or until wobbly and doubled in size.
    If butter starts leaking, then you might want to find a slightly cooler place to prove your croissants. If I’m at the restaurant, then 26°C is the temperature I go for (with 65% humidity for the ones of you who are lucky enough to have a prover).

    Once the croissants have proved, brush gently with a beaten egg, making sure not to put any egg-wash on the cut edges, which would prevent the rise of the feuilletage.

    Bake at 200°C for seventeen to twenty minutes. Allow to cool down slightly, then transfer to a wire rack.

    ten thirty.
    Make the sugar and vanilla glaze: mix the icing sugar with enough water to form a pourable icing; stir in the vanilla seeds, and drizzle over the croissants.

    THE END. Of life as you knew it.

  • Zimtstern à la cannelle

    Zimtstern à la cannelle


    We found a tree, just a few nights before Christmas. A bit of a happy coincidence. Not that we hadn’t looked everywhere before. Sold out or cheap plastic.

    And there it was, still wrapped in some sort of net. We named it Charlie; forgot about the pizza we’d set off to eat, and proceeded to carry it home on K’s shoulder across London. We stopped at the shop, the one around the corner, and got a pizza there. Twenty minutes later, we sliced into it, and later that night, we let the multi-coloured lights (with a green chord and cone-like bulbs; that remind me so so much of the ones my grand-mother brought back with her and her children when they moved back from Tahiti to France) lullaby us to sleep.

    And at that exact moment. With the twinkling lights and the smell of forest filling our room. That was Christmas. My Christmas.

    But really, I’m not sure why I’m telling you that.

    You see, I had amazing plans for this year. I wanted to share with you my favourite – old and new – recipes for biscuits to bake during those nights made of wool socks and candles and mulled wine and peeks through the window wishing for snow.
    But before I even knew it, Christmas had well gone. Not that we still have Charlie in our bedroom. Perhaps, we’ll go to the park at the end of our street one night, and dig through the earth to make him a new home.

    So we’ll have to make it an extended Christmas this year. Recipes from another time for the one to come maybe; if you don’t mind.

    After all, I went to every possible shop to find the perfect star cookie cutter. Buying anything star-shaped that came my way. And I no have many. Possibly six too many.
    One thing I know for sure though, you won’t have too many zimtsterns. Ever.

    Zimtstern à la cannelle
    Adapted from Mingou’s beautiful zimstern (via Pauline, the must-visit source for anything Christmas biscuit related)

    Just like we’re not in Kansas anymore, Christmas is far gone. However, as I write this, a couple of weeks after it all happened (for us, it was a delicious lunch at the pub with a little too much wine and a lot too-much laughs), I’m snuggled in bed with Ash in my ears and the comforting thought of many biscuits – cut and arranged in plastic containers – ready to be baked at any time. In fact, as long as we have Charlie on and a wreath on our door, I’m not planning on giving up on the holidays.


    Zimtstern(s?) are new to me. And really, when I first saw them, I knew they were going to be something special. Beautiful chewy, with a subtle cinnamon flavour. A bit like a macaron and yet not quite.
    Mingou’s recipe isn’t traditional as it calls for flour. I guess it makes them a little bit cakier (in a good way) and way easier to work with.

    I made the soft dough and rolled in – still in between two sheets of baking paper – then cut it and baked it for barely ten minutes. As Mingou says, it’s definitely better not to overbake them as they’ll turn quite hard. The edges will just start to brown slightly when they’re ready.

    As they cool down, make the glaze, a simple royal icing; I wanted to add vanilla, but then I forgot, although it would make a lovely finishing touch. Next time, tomorrow perhaps?

    When it comes to dipping the biscuits in, place them in the icing, then go up and down to get rid of the excess. Finally you can tap the biscuit slightly on your table to smooth the glaze.

    Zimtstern à la cannelle

    Makes around 50 small biscuits.

    200 g ground almonds
    100 g icing sugar
    60 g caster sugar
    3 tsp ground cinnamon
    1 tsp maldon sea salt
    160 g plain flour
    2 egg whites

    Preheat the oven to 150°C and line two baking trays with baking paper.

    In a bowl, combine the dry ingredients. Add the egg whites and mix until it forms a dough. Roll in between two sheets of baking paper to around 8mm thick. Cut out using your favourite cutter, from what I’ve seen, the must is a six-point star, something that seemed to be absolutely unfindable in my corner of the world.
    Arrange the biscuits onto the prepared baking trays and bake for around 10 minutes, or until slightly puffed up and the edges just begin to brown (ever so slightly).
    Transfer to a wire rack and allow to cool down completely.

    For the royal icing

    2 egg whites
    380 g icing sugar
    seeds from one vanilla pod

    Prepare the icing by mixing the egg whites with the icing sugar until smooth. It should be soft to touch, but not too runny. Gently dip the top of one biscuit into it, then remove, allowing the icing to drip for a couple of seconds. Place back onto the baking sheet, iced-side up. Repeat with the remaining biscuits and allow them to set at room temperature for a couple of hours.

    The zimtsterns will keep in an airtight container for a couple of weeks.

  • I’ll be left with cinnamon croissants

    I’ll be left with cinnamon croissants

    I guess like all good things, Sundays have to come to an end too.

    Today was a good Sunday. We went to bed late enough to wake up mid-morning. Crumpets happened. I might have eaten two with homemade raspberry jam from last summer.

    And we braved the rain – the mostest perfect excuse for a lazy day in – for a trip to the corner shop. In our basket: milk and butter, lots of. Yeast too. And strong flour. We also got a bottle of our favourite white wine and some salmon we knew we’d have for dinner tomorrow.

    Croissants were to be made.

    Find the recipe here.


    We moved the kitchen table by the window and took mostly blurry pictures. And in all measures, that’s more than fine by me. Since when did blog have to be so editorially perfect? Maybe, I miss the early days when it was more misses than hits.

    So yes, I made dough for cinnamon bun croissants. Or is it cinnamon croissant buns? I wanted to do a step-by-step. With – of course – gifs as tokens of my love for the old-school.
    It might happen. It might not.

    In the meantime, cross your fingers for me tomorrow. I have a book coming out and I can’t quite believe it! And it case it was all just a dream, I’ll be left with cinnamon croissants. Life isn’t too bad at the moment.

  • La rhubarbe

    La rhubarbe

    I remember the rhubarb my grand-père used to grow in the garden. It was thick and green; and would be turned into jar-after-jar of compote which my grand-mère always kept in that little cupboard in the garage. On top of my grand-père’s tools, always neatly organised.
    One day, I’ll show you that garage.

    We would eat the compote on top of yoghurt for breakfast. Or spoon it onto a tart case and cover it with a creamy custard before baking.

    Compote de rhubarbe

    Rhubarb compote is one of those staples you can never have enough of. Wash the stalks under cold water, then chop into 1cm pieces. Weight out the rhubarb in a large bowl and combine with 20% of caster sugar. So let’s say, for 1kg of rhubarb, add 200g caster sugar; and of course, the seeds and empty pod from a vanilla bean. Mix well, cover with cling film and leave to marinate overnight in the fridge.
    The next day or a few hours later (cheeky version), scrape the fruits into a large pan and cook over medium heat – stirring every now and then, more so often towards the end – until the rhubarb has broken down and the syrup has reduced.
    If you’re canning, transfer to sterilised jars, close the lids and turn upside down before steaming for 30 minutes. Otherwise, just transfer to a plastic container and refrigerate until cold. You’ll have to use it within 5 days.



    And then, I moved to London, where rhubarb is pink and only comes when the trees are snowing with blossoms. It’s my favourite time of the year really.
    And my favourite colours too.

    These days my favourite thing to do with rhubarb is to roast it in a vanilla syrup.

    Rhubarbe rôtie

    In a large pan, bring 300g of water and 300g of caster sugar to the boil, along with the seeds and pods from 3 vanilla beans.
    In the meantime, wash and cut 500g of rhubarb stalks into 3cm pieces and place them into a large roasting tray. Cover with the syrup and bake at 200°C for around 10-12 minutes. Allow to cool down to room temperature.


    I like to serve it on top of a cake. Perhaps with frosting, perhaps without.
    But in all measures, it should look messy and naughty. Because that’s what cakes are for.

    For the record – because I’m trying to learn Swedish, one food word at a time, and also because when we were there, I saw the biggest rhubarb bush I had ever seen before, in his dad’s garden, and also because it’s a good-mood word* – rhubarb in Swedish is:

    Rabarbrar
    Rabarber

    * Please tell me I’m not the only one who falls in love with some words. For the way they sound or look.

    What is your favourite way of using rhubarb? And any little stories we should all know about?

  • Mastering white pâtissier fondant, step by step

    Mastering white pâtissier fondant, step by step

    One of the first things you see through a boulangerie-pâtisserie window in France is a herd of glazed éclairs and choux. Pretty in pink, brown, white, and more often than not, green too.

    Fondant can be bought in professional shops, most likely in one or seven kilo buckets. But did you know you can make it at home with just two ingredients?

    It takes around ten minutes to make a kilo of fondant. So get ready to glaze éclairs like there is no tomorrow, because you’re about to learn how to make fondant pâtissier.
    Here I’ve only made 250g because that’s all I needed for a recipe I’m developping for le petit cookbook, but the recipe can easily be doubled as fondant will keep in an airtight container in the fridge for up to a year.

    To make 250g of fondant, you’ll need:
    250g caster sugar
    100g water

    As for the equipement, nothing super-fancy: one large pan, a brush, a probe, a stand-mixer (or failing that, hand-beaters). A plastic scraper is handy too!

    01.

    Place the sugar and water in a large pan. Cook the syrup to 114°C over medium heat. The ideal temperature to make fondant is in between 114 and 116°C, so remove from the heat at 114 an the temperature will naturally reach 115-ish. Perfect!

    02.

    While cooking the syrup, brush the sides of your pan with a wet brush to remove any bits of sugar which might caramelise or even worse, crystallise.

    03.

    Fill the sink with 3cm of cold water and dip the bottom of your pan in it to cool the syrup to 75°C.

    04.

    Pour the cooled-down syrup in the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachement.

    05.

    Beat for approximately five minutes, or until thick and white.

    06.

    Transfer to a clean work surface. Work the fondant, first with a scraper and then with the palm of your hand until cold. Don’t hesitate to really push it to remove any lumps. Form a smooth ball.

    07.

    Place in an airtight container. Clingfilm to the touch and close with a lid. Keep in the fridge. Use within a year. Ooh yes!

    Now I just have to show you how to glaze éclairs and choux. And perhaps even a millefeuilles! Next time…

  • Olive oil jelly

    Olive oil jelly

    Olive oil jelly

    It all started one night, when J. mentioned three words. Olive. Oil. Jelly.

    It was last week. Ever since, I haven’t stopped thinking about all the desserts we could make with it.
    I mean, my favourite summer snack is vanilla ice-cream with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of fleur de sel after all.

    So we’ve been working, trying to find out how to turn pungent oil into a clear jelly.

    And somehow, I think we’ve gotten there. After many failed experiments.

    In autumn, with figs, a young brillat-savarin curd, and a warm sponge so full of vanilla seeds it’s almost grey. Perhaps, a few toasted and salted almonds for crunch.

    In winter, with caramelised apples, a white chocolate granita – not unlike snow, crystallised rosemary, and fresh apple bubbles. And maybe, a few baby quenelles of croissant ice-cream. But that’s just a thought.

    In spring, with strawberries and a hibiscus sorbet. Or flapjack ice-cream. Oh yes, flapjack ice-cream sounds good. Maybe with rhubarb and cardamom, Campari fluid gel too!

    In summer, with candied tomatoes. And a simple vanilla ice-cream. Or with an apricot roasted in basil syrup, honeyed kataifi, pistachios, and honey ice-cream.

    PRINT

    Olive oil jelly

    I absolutely adore olive oil in my desserts. A grassy one – almost green – with summer fruits. A sherry-cask aged Arbequina with chocolate and tonka. A matured olive oil with vanilla ice-cream and flaky sea salt.
    Another way to incorporate olive oil in a playful way is this jelly. And although I'm would like to re-work the recipe to make it slightly less sweet, I'm obsessed with it.

    Notes

    This recipe uses isomalt, a sugar that has the property of having a sweetening power of 0.5 – which means it’s half as sweet as caster sugar. 
    It is usually available to buy at specialty shops, but if you can’t get your hands on it, you could substitute it for the sugar of your choice; just keep it mind your jelly might be on the sweeter side. 
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time15 minutes
    Total Time2 hours 15 minutes
    Makes 500 g jelly.

    Ingredients

    • 10 g gelatine
    • 100 g water
    • 120 g isomalt read noter above
    • 90 g caster sugar
    • 30 g glucose syrup
    • 220 g extra virgin olive oil
    • fine sea salt to taste

    Instructions

    • Soak the gelatine leaves into ice-cold water.
    • In a pan, bring the water, isomalt, sugar and glucose syrup to the boil.
    • Take the pan off the heat, squeeze the gelatine leaves and whisk in.
    • Slowly pour the olive oil, emulsifying with a whisk or an immersion blender as you do so. Add salt to taste.
    • Pour into a container or spread onto acetate for a jelly sheet, and refrigerate for a couple of hours.
    • Cut into dices, or use a fork to break it into smaller pieces.

    Note: this post was updated in April 2023.

  • Mastering crème pâtissière, step by step

    Mastering crème pâtissière, step by step

    It was a day at the end of September. A couple of years ago. I put on my pied-de-poule trousers for the first time since the internship I had done the summer before at Pierre Hermé.

    I walked up the stairs, to the biggest, most beautiful kitchen I had ever seen, with the aim to make my biggest, most beautiful dream come true.

    A dream that apparently involved cooking 12L of crème pâtissière. And when I say 12L, I really mean 12L of milk. So if you had up the other ingredients, it makes around 16kg of silky smooth vanilla goodness.

    As a matter of fact, by seven am, the hair, that took me an hour to tame at three in the morning, was wild again. And my cheeks were the colour of bike rides in the wind.

    I don’t want anyone to get hurt by making crème pâtissière, so I’ll just give you the half-a-litre recipe. Which happens to be just enough to fill a tart or a handful of choux, plus a couple of tablespoons for personal consumption.

    This recipe is a basic crème pâtissière. A very simple cream made of milk, vanilla, egg yolks, cornflour, and caster sugar.

    As usual, I can only advise you have all of the ingredients ready and measured before you start. Along with the equipment.

    500g milk
    one vanilla pod
    3 egg yolks
    60g caster sugar
    40g cornflour

    one medium saucepan
    two small whisks
    a fine chinois or sieve
    two maryses
    a small bowl
    a shallow plastic container

    01.

    Place the milk and split vanilla pod into a medium saucepan and bring to the boil, whisking every now and then.

    02.

    In a small bowl, mix the egg yolks and sugar with a whisk, until fully combined. This prevents the caster sugar from reacting with the thin skin of the yolks, which would create some small lumps.
    Add the cornflour and incorporate.

    03.

    Temper the egg yolk mixture with the strained milk (to get rid of the vanilla pod). Whisking as you do so.

    04.

    Pour back into the pan – off the heat – whisking continuously. Then over soft heat, bring to the boil, whisking at all time.

    05.

    As soon as the mixture reaches the boiling point and starts to thicken, keep on cooking and whisking for a minute or two.

    06.

    Pour and scrape into a plastic container.
    And clingfilm to the touch to avoid the formation of a skin. Chill for an hour.

  • PS. Une brioche avec un peu plus de beurre

    PS. Une brioche avec un peu plus de beurre

    [PS. A brioche with a tad more butter]

    London, sometime in April.
    I made a brioche. In five minutes; and five days. We woke up early to shape and proof the dough. Well, I did. A couple of hours later, we sat at the table, with our eyes still plein de sommeil [full of sleep].

    And we had a slice each. With plenty of strawberry jam. And a cup of coffee.

    I then proceeded to braid my hair. And for a walk we went. The trees were snowing and no matter how long I will live in London, my dreams will always float higher with the April snow.
    Another coffee was taken, at a café this time; perhaps in Fulham or Clapham. I can’t remember.

    But I recall a phone conversation with my mum. About the brioche. And how she should make it.

    France, sometime in May.
    I flew in wearing UGG boots and a wool scarf. But as we reached the car on the airport parking lot, I switched for those leather sandals I’m so fond of.

    We arrived home. And dropped the suitcases somewhere in the living room.

    Without judging unpacking necessary, we headed to the kitchen. An apron got wrapped around my waist, flour got weighed out, dough was put away in a bowl.

    And before we knew it, we made a brioche. In five minutes; and a five days. Oh and five hundred grams of butter. Perhaps with a couple of hidden chocolate squares. Yes, perhaps…
    It tasted just as good. If not better.



    Process: Five-minute brioche.

    And just so my mum doesn’t have an excuse not to make brioche, here is the recipe in French. Oui!
    Accents included and all. Mum if you knew how long it takes to add accents when you have an English keyboard, you’d already be making brioche as you read this.

    Dans un bol, fouetter le beurre fondu, l’eau, le sel, les oeufs et le miel. Ajouter la farine et la levure. Mélanger à la cuillère en bois jusqu’à obtention d’une pâte souple et homogène.

    Recouvrir le bol avec un torchon et laisser pousser à température ambiante pour un peu plus de 2h.

    Une fois la pâte ayant doublé de volume, mettre le bol – toujours recouvert d’un torchon – au frigo pendant au moins 24h.

    Le lendemain – ou n’importe quand dans les cinq jours qui suivent – beurrer un moule à cake génereusement. Prélever 450g de pâte du pâton. Puis la diviser en quatre. Fleurer (fariner) le plan de travail et bouler (former des boules) chacun des morceaux.

    Placer les boules dans le moule préalablement beurré et faire pousser pendant 1h30.

    Pendant ce temps, préchauffer le four a 190°C. Battre un oeuf pour la dorure. Dorer la brioche au pinceau. Et cuire pour 40 à 50 minutes. Démouler et laisser refroidir sur une grille.

  • Chouquettes

    Chouquettes

    [Sugar choux puffs]

    I could tell you how my dad would take me to the boulangerie after school, as I was smaller than the smallest tree of your garden. In fact, I could barely walk. But making my way to the bottom of the crumpled paper bag handed to me by the lady at the counter seemed easy.

    That paper bag could hold a dozen of chouquettes. Or as I would call them, chouchou. Possibly, a made-up word from my dad.

    Oh yes, I could tell you how my hands would be sticky. And my mouth most likely surrounded by pearls of sugar.

    But instead, I will tell you about what happened a few days ago.

    I brought milk and butter to a rolling boil. With a pinch of salt, just so; because, that’s the way to go. I added a good amount of flour. Off the heat, it goes without saying (and yet, here I am). I placed the pan back over the gas and mixed it with a wooden spoon until it was just dry enough.
    I transferred it to the bowl of my stand-mixer; although arms and a spoon would do a fine job too. And add the eggs, one at a time. Until it was just wet enough.
    I piped. Without a nozzle, because they all seem to be in London. And I am not.
    I brushed eggwash. I scored the top with a fork. Dipped in the remaining egg.
    I sprinkled sucre casson [pearl sugar].
    I baked. And poured us a glass of white wine. Or perhaps it was a rosé.

    And then, we ate them. Slightly warm. And guess what? Sticky hands and sugar around the mouth are a must.

    Just like they used to be. Just like they always will.
    Which reminded me about this sentence from one of my very favourite books: la contemplation de l’éternité dans le mouvement même de la vie [the contemplation of eternity within the very movement of life].

    Chouquettes
    I think there are roughly as many pâte à choux recipes as there are pastry chefs. I remember a place where a mixture of milk and water was used. Sometimes, they would add a pinch of baking powder. Or some sugar.

    My recipe possibly originated from the one we used at school. Except, it called for water only. And perhaps, a touch more flour and less butter.
As I went by, I switched the water for milk. Full-fat, please. Added an extra knob of butter. A pinch of salt. And reduced the flour to 150g.

    As for the baking method, it’s the one Pascal Lac taught me. A foolproof method that worked even in the most sophisticated English ovens. Or failing that, the most plastic toy-ovens at home.

    Basically, you preheat the oven to 250˚C. Quickly get the trays inside. And just as the oven records 250˚C again (the temperature will drop slightly as you open the door), turn the oven off. For 15 to 18 minutes, until the temperature reaches 160-180˚C; at which point, the choux should be puffed up and yet still pale in colour. Then, oven set on 170˚C, without fan, dry them for 10 to 15 minutes, until nice and golden; and making sure you keep the door slightly open with a wooden spoon to let any steam escape.
    However, feel free to bake them all the way at 200˚C if that works better for you. But I’m warning you: an oven has never failed me with this technique.

    Just a note on the eggs. I usually use around 4 eggs and a half. So what I do is to incorporate the first four eggs, then whisk the last one, add a little of this to the dough and keep the rest for a made-up eggwash!

    Chouquettes

    makes 40 small choux (roughly the size of a golf ball*)

    250g milk
    100g butter
    a pinch of salt

    150g plain flour

    4 to 5 eggs, see note above
    q.s. pearl sugar

    Preheat the oven to 250˚C, and lightly butter two baking trays.

    Place the milk, butter, and salt in a saucepan. Bring to a rolling boil over low heat – you want the butter to be fully melted before the milk boils. Take the pan off the heat and add the flour all at once, mixing as you go until combined.
    Return to the heat. And using a wooden spoon, mix until a thin crust appears at the bottom of the pan. This shows that the dough is dry enough. It should not be sticky.

    Transfer to the bowl of a stand-mixer and allow to cool for 2 to 3 minutes. Then using the paddle attachment, add the eggs one at a time on medium speed until fully incorporated.
    Scrape into a piping bag, fitted with a 12mm nozzle. And pipe little balls, around 3cm wide and 2cm high.

    Brush with eggwash, making sure to smooth the tops. Then, dip a fork into the eggwash and score the top of the choux.

    Sprinkle with pearl sugar.

    Place the trays in the oven. As fast as you can. Really. Trust me, oven temperatures drop so damn fast. Then keep an eye on your thermometer and the second it says 250˚C again, turn the oven off.
    After 15 to 18 minutes (see note above), turn the oven back on to 170˚C, without a fan. After a few minutes, keep the oven door slightly open by sliding the handle of a wooden spoon inside.

    The choux are ready when golden-brown and not too moist inside**.

    * Disclaimer: I have never played golf in my life. Even though I must admit, I really wanted too as a child. So much in fact, it’s now affecting me as I’m using a golf ball as a unit!

    ** Even now, I always test them (and by test, I really mean eat one) every two minutes past 10 minutes at 170˚C.