Tag: autumn

  • Red kuri squash pie

    Red kuri squash pie

    The first frost has come, bringing with it days that call for a slice of something warm and spiced. There’s already a pumpkin pie on the blog, but this one feels different – gentler, perhaps, with golden sugar adding its quiet warmth to the filling. The pâte brisée, crisp and buttery, is a joy to work with, and I’ve shared a few notes to make handling it as simple as it is satisfying.

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    Red kuri squash pie

    A silky, spiced potimarron [red kuri squash] filling nestled in a buttery, päte brisée crust – this classic pie is autumn comfort at its finest. Best served with a dollop of lightly whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon.

    Notes

    On squash/pumpkin purée: 
    I almost always make my own squash/pumpkin purée. This time, I used potimarron [red kuri squash], but pumpkin or butternut works just as well in this recipe. To do so, I simply cut the squash in half using a large serrated knife, scoop out the seeds, and place it cut-side down on a tray lined with baking paper. Bake at 175°C / fan 150°C until soft – you can test the doneness using a skewer.
    Once cooled, scoop out the flesh and purée it in a food processor until smooth. For this recipe, I like to cook the purée on the stove for a few minutes to reduce any excess water. This step ensures a thick, velvety filling that holds together beautifully when baked and concentrates the pumpkin’s natural flavour. 
    Mixing the dough in a food processor:
    If you prefer to use a food processor for the pâte brisée, pulse the flour, sugar, and salt together first. Then add the cold butter, pulsing until it resembles coarse crumbs. Finally, add the cold water gradually, pulsing just until the dough comes together. Be careful not to overmix – you want the dough to stay tender and flaky.
    Blending the filling:
    I’ve found the best way to make the pumpkin filling is by using a hand blender. It creates a beautifully smooth texture, but be sure to blend gently and avoid incorporating too much air. 
    More on blind baking: For detailed tips on how to blind bake your tart crust, take a look at my post on the subject here. I find that it’s best to blind-bake the tart case until golden.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time1 hour
    Cook Time1 hour 20 minutes
    Total Time6 hours 20 minutes
    Makes 12 slices

    Ingredients

    For the pate brisée

    • 185 g plain flour
    • 2 tsp golden caster sugar
    • 1/2 tsp flaky sea salt
    • 115 g cold butter cut into 1cm cubes
    • 2.5 tbsp ice-cold water

    For the pumpkin filling

    • 420 g squash or pumpkin purée homemade or store-bought (see note above)
    • 145 g golden caster sugar
    • 1/2 tsp flaky sea salt
    • 2 tsp cinnamon
    • 1 tsp ground ginger
    • 1/4 tsp ground cloves
    • a pinch of nutmeg
    • 330 g whipping cream
    • 3 eggs

    Instructions

    Make the dough:

    • In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, and salt. Rub the butter into the mixture with your fingertips until it resembles coarse rolled oats, then stir in the cold water using a rubber spatula.
    • Turn the mixture onto a clean work surface and gently bring it together – avoid kneading. Pat into a disc about 2cm thick, wrap in clingfilm, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to 2 days.

    Rolling out the pastry:

    • Butter a 23-25cm tart tin and set aside.
    • Lightly flour your work surface, then unwrap the chilled dough and place it on the floured surface. Dust the top of the dough and roll it out to a 3-4 mm-thick circle, roughly 10cm larger than your tart tin. I find it easier to start flattening the dough by making indents in it with my rolling pin, see note above.
    • Carefully roll the dough around the rolling pin and unroll it over the tart tin. Gently press it into the corners and sides so it fits snugly. To trim the edges, roll the pin over the top of the tin for a clean, even finish.
    • Place the prepared tart crust in the freezer for 15–30 minutes while preheating the oven to 200°C/180°C fan.

    Blind baking the tart crust:

    • Line the pastry with baking paper and fill it with raw rice or dried beans. Bake for 15 minutes, then remove the paper and weights. Bake for another 5 minutes, or until the base is lightly golden.

    Making the pumpkin filling:

    • While the crust bakes, prepare the filling.
    • In a medium saucepan, combine the suqash/pumpkin purée, sugar, salt, and spices. Cook over medium heat, stirring regularly, until it starts to bubble. Continue for 5 minutes to reduce excess moisture.
    • Remove from the heat and transfer to a bowl. Whisk in the cream until smooth, then mix in the eggs with a hand blender, being careful not to incorporate air.
    • When the crust is ready, reduce the oven temperature to 170°C/150°C fan. Pour the filling into the tart shell and bake for 45–55 minutes, or until the centre is set but still has a slight jiggle. A skewer inserted in the middle should come out clean.
    • Allow to cool completely for at least 4 hours before slicing. Serve with lightly whipped cream. A dusting of cinnamon or nutmeg is a lovely addition too!

    Follow along as I add the finishing touch – a dollop of lightly whipped cream to slices of spiced pumpkin pie.

  • Clafoutis aux prunes

    Clafoutis aux prunes

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    Plum clafoutis

    One of my absolute favourite desserts – a twist on the classic cherry clafoutis – celebrates plums at their juiciest. The tartness of the plums balances the custard-like batter perfectly. It’s the kind of dish that feels both indulgent and homey – perfect when plums are in their prime and the weather calls for something warm from the oven.
    If you’ve been following for a while, you’ll know I’m partial to my grand-mère’s recipe. However, after a happy mishap – when I accidentally used half the flour one day – I found myself diving deep into clafoutis studies, exploring recipe percentages and running more than a few tests. The result is this version, my new staple, and a clafoutis that feels just right, as it should.

    Notes

    – Experiment with other fruits, like cherries or pears, but there’s something about plums that gives this clafoutis a lovely balance of sweetness and tartness.
    – Vanilla sugar is a staple in many French and Swedish homes. However, a teaspoonful of vanilla extract will do the trick if you don’t have any on hand. If you wish, you can even make your own vanilla sugar. I always collect used vanilla pods, wash them if needed, and leave them to dry in a pot in my skafferi [pantry] until crisp. Then, I mix 3-4 dried pods with 200-300g of caster sugar, grind them to a powder, and store it in an airtight container.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time30 minutes
    Cook Time1 hour
    Total Time1 hour 30 minutes
    Makes 25 cm cake

    Ingredients

    • 150 g caster sugar
    • 1 tsp vanilla sugar
    • A pinch of salt
    • 100 g plain flour
    • 3 eggs 167g
    • 250 g whole milk
    • 250 g whipping cream 36%
    • 80 g melted salted butter
    • 400-500 g plums cut in half and stoned

    To prepare the baking dish

    • Butter
    • Cassonade or demerara sugar

    Instructions

    • Preheat the oven to 200°C / fan 180°C. Generously butter a baking dish (24-26cm in diameter) – then sprinkle liberally with cassonade/demerara sugar.
    • In a large bowl, whisk together the caster sugar, vanilla sugar, salt, and plain flour.
    • In a jug, weigh out the eggs, milk, and cream. Gradually pour the milk and cream mixture into the dry ingredients, whisking just enough to just bring it all together. Stir in the melted butter.
    • Arrange the plums in the prepared dish, cut-side down, and pour the batter over them gently.
    • Bake for 30 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 180°C / fan 160°C and bake for another 20-30 minutes, or until golden brown and set – with the center still slightly wobbly.
    • Let it cool for a moment before serving – warm or at room temperature.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • The October mood board

    The October mood board


    01. I fell in love with this pattern from Ulrika Gustafsson’s collab with Hemtex.
    02. A chandelier made of rönnbär [rowan berries]. I think I might have to make one for our kitchen table.
    03. I’ve been organising our kitchen cabinets this week and wonder how functional glass jars would be; I have a few that I refill regularly, however, the whole bag/package never fits in the jar so I end up with both a jarful and a random bag/package… Do you have any good pantry tips?
    04. Pumpkins for days.
    05. Katerina Marchenko‘s amazingly beautiful embroideries.
    06. I’ve been thinking a lot about baked apples these days. Perhaps with simple oat crumbs, or like these, with prunes, almonds and amaretto.
    07. The dream kitchen (and a blog favourite too: Babes in Boyland <3)

  • Scenes from a rainy day

    Scenes from a rainy day

    One day last week

    I walked along the river, one second under the yellow light from the lamppost above, the next, swallowed in the darkness of a sky clearer than it’s been in the past month.
    It is cold, somewhere around 1°C. Perhaps not as cold as this time last year, but with the many rainy days we’ve had, cold nights don’t happen often; only mornings made of fog and misty winds.

    As I looked up, the norsken [nothern lights] had started their dance; one that I could gaze at for – almost – hours.

    This morning

    We woke up to rain. Coffee, bread toasted in a cast-iron pan, salted butter, and hjortronsylt [cloudberry jam].

    We lit candles around the flat to warm the soft blue tint of the clouds projecting on our walls. And dreamt about an old house with wooden walls and a deep ceramic sink; a kitchen window and unsteady floors that crack at every step.

    One month till the first snow. May it be so! We crossed our fingers under the table.

  • An autumn day

    An autumn day

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

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

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

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

  • 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.

  • My ultimate kanelbullar

    My ultimate kanelbullar

    Tomorrow is the 4th of October. A date that doesn’t go unnoticed in Sweden. Yes, tomorrow is kanelbullens dag [cinnamon roll day].
    I must have felt that this post – which I promised to share with you long before I even knew kanelbullar had their own day – was waiting in my drafts for a reason.

    This is a recipe I first made in Åsen, the summer before last. I kneaded the dough in the evening, as we came back from a day by the lake. And by the time breakfast was ready the next morning, the buns had proofed and were ready to go in the oven for a mid-morning fika.

    Later that day, I realised we’d forgotten my camera charger in Kusmark so I ended up taking some pictures using the film camera Kalle gave me.

    We rushed on the road to Mora – through the forests and the bridge that goes over the lake, through the little stress I’ve come to cherish and the rails by which we always get to see a train pass by – to bring the roll to the only lab we knew of.

    And because it was not fully exposed, I quickly took a few pictures of what was around me. In fact, the one below – of Kalle – is, to this day, one of my favourites.
    Yes, it’s not without a certain sense of both love and reserve that I’m proud to tell you that my 79th roll of film has pictures of bullar, one of K., one of the sky, and one of flowers. The dream roll?

    But let go back to that morning. When I rolled the dough and topped it with a thick layer of cinnamon butter. I don’t always say this, but salted butter really does wonder here.
    Yes, that morning, is to be forever remembered. The table covered in a thick layer of white paint. And the blue chairs around it. The spitting sound of the fire in the wood stove. This is where I learnt how to roll kanelbullar.

    A year has passed since then – days made of snow and walk through leafless trees, a spring that only lasted a second and a summer that is now starting to turn into autumn. Many more bullar have been rolled. At home. At the café.

    And while my rolling techniques have definitely improved, the recipe has received only a few tweaks. That’s how much I’m in love with it. And I hope you will be too.

    Kanelbullar, un peu comme des brioches

    I love my bullar to be soft and fluffy, so instead of using a traditional recipe (which I always find slightly dry), I go for a cross between a doughnut and a brioche dough.

    Although I’ve shared a recipe for kanelbullar in the past, these ones are different. They are my favourites. The ones I make at home and freeze into small plastic containers, ready to be thrown into a lunchbox or popped in the microwave for an almost-instant fika. The ones I make everyday at the café too (when I’m not off – and for the first time in a long time, I shall say: YES to the weekends).

    The old ones were of the spur-of-the-moment kind. Made late, during our last night in Sweden the first time we visited. Eaten by Byske river, just a few hours before our flight back to London. They had whole wheat flour and I remember how long it took to develop the gluten by hand.
    I also remember how wonderful it was to unwrap the not-so-neatly folded foil and dip them into a forever-hot cup of kokkaffe.

    Making a sticky dough by hand is always a challenge; it takes time, a good scraper and hands being cleaned every so often. But trust me, I’ve done it many times and it doesn’t only produce beautiful results, it’s also wonderfully relaxing.

    EDIT 5 October

    After a few of you reported butter leakage, I’ve noticed I had missed a modification, which I made a few months ago: I now use a reduced amount of butter in the dough – 130g instead of 200g; a leaner dough absorbs the butter better, but I couldn’t remember why I had reduced it as I love the texture of the buns made with 200g of butter so much!
    Thank you for your feedback! Also, make sure the bullar are proofed until doubled in size before baking them. It takes around 2 hours at 24°C but can take 3-4 hours if the room temperature is colder. Lots of love and sorry for the caramelised cinnamon butter 🙁

    EDIT 6 October

    I’ve tried both batches today, with 130g and 200g butter. While I love the texture of the buns with 200g of butter, they do leak during baking; a quick fix, if you’re after melt-in-your-mouth bullar, is to bake them in muffin paper-cases so you won’t end up with a puddle.
    As for the batch with 130g of butter, they’re a bit lighter and almost no butter leak 🙂 Sending you all my cinnamon-love X

    EDIT 8 December 2016

    After having made this recipe daily for well over a year, I think an update is in order.
    I have modified it slightly, mostly because I make it using 3.2 kg of flour, and that the flour here has a slightly higher absorption power.

    Here is my updated recipe:

    PRINT

    Kanelbullar 2.0

    Kanelbullar, un peu comme des brioches
    Every year, on the 4th of October, Sweden celebrates Kanelbullens dag: Cinnamon Bun Day. It feels like the perfect excuse to revisit one of my favourite recipes. These buns have been with me for over a decade now. The first version I baked in the summer of 2014 was a little more rustic.
    Since then, I’ve spent countless hours calculating baker’s percentages, testing variations and tweaking until I found what felt just right.
    What follows is my current go-to recipe (let’s call it version 2.0), followed by the 1.0 recipe for those who want to see where it all began.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time1 hour 30 minutes
    Cook Time15 minutes
    Total Time1 day 1 hour 45 minutes
    Makes 14 buns

    Ingredients

    For the dough

    • 600 g flour
    • 75 g caster sugar
    • 18 g fresh yeast
    • 7.5 g sea salt
    • 4 g hand-ground cardamom
    • 225 g whole milk
    • 150 g eggs
    • 190 g unsalted butter

    For the filling

    • 190 g salted butter at room temperature
    • 150 g caster sugar
    • 3 tbsp ground cinnamon

    To top

    • 2 eggs beaten
    • pearl sugar

    For the syrup

    • 75 g caster sugar
    • 75 g water

    Instructions

    • In a large bowl, combine flour, sugar, yeast, salt, and cardamom. Add the eggs and milk. Mix until a dough forms.
    • Knead by hand for around 20 minutes, or in a stand mixer fitted with a dough-hook for about 10 minutes, until smooth, elastic, and just tacky. The dough should stretch into a thin membrane without tearing.
    • Add the butter gradually. By hand, work it in 3–4 additions, smearing and kneading until fully incorporated. In a mixer, add small pieces one by one. The dough will look split at first – keep going until smooth again.
    • Place in a large bowl, cover, and chill. Either proof 1 hour at room temperature, then refrigerate for 2 hours, or refrigerate straight away for at least 8 hours (and up to 24 hours).
    • The next day, line two trays with baking paper. Mix the filling ingredients until smooth.
    • On a lightly floured bench, roll the dough to a 30 × 60 cm rectangle, about 5–6 mm thick. Spread with cinnamon butter. Fold the dough into thirds (like a letter), giving you a rectangle about 30 × 20 cm.
    • Cut into 2 cm strips. Twist and tie each into a knot. Place on trays. Cover loosely and proof until doubled – around 2 hours.
    • Preheat oven to 200°C / fan 180°C. Brush the buns with egg wash, sprinkle with pearl sugar, and bake 12–16 minutes, until golden.
    • For extra shine, brush with hot syrup as soon as they come out of the oven. Cool slightly on a wire rack.

    Glad kanelbullens dag!

    The 1.0 recipe from my 2014 summer:
    For the dough
    530 g strong flour
    70 g caster sugar
    16 g fresh yeast
    10 g sea salt
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    3 eggs     (150 g)
    190 g whole milk
    130 g to 200 g (read note/edit above) unsalted butter    , at room temperature

    For the cinnamon butter
    250 g salted butter, at room temperature
    170 g caster sugar
    3 tbsp ground cinnamon
    1 tsp ground cardamom

    For the topping
    1 egg, beaten, to glaze
    a handful of pearl sugar

    For the syrup
    75 g caster sugar
    75 g water

  • Chasing rugbrød, part one

    Chasing rugbrød, part one

    We waked, in the two cabins in those happy days, just before the sun came up, when the birds were in their loudest clamor of morning joy. Wrapped each in a blanket, George and I stepped out from our doors, each trying to call the other, and often meeting on the grass between. We ran to the river and plunged in,—oh, how cold it was!—laughed and screamed like boys, rubbed ourselves aglow, and ran home to build Polly’s fire beneath the open chimney which stood beside my cabin. The bread had risen in the night. The water soon boiled above the logs. The children came laughing out upon the grass, barefoot, and fearless of the dew. Then Polly appeared with her gridiron and bear-steak, or with her griddle and eggs, and, in fewer minutes than this page has cost me, the breakfast was ready for Alice to carry, dish by dish, to the white-clad table on the piazza. Not Raphael and Adam more enjoyed their watermelons, fox-grapes, and late blueberries! And, in the long croon of the breakfast, we revenged ourselves for the haste with which it had been prepared.

    Edward Everett Hale (1869), The Brick Moon, and Other Stories

    If I came to you today with the perfect recipe for rugbrød – which I’ve come to know as danskt rågbröd, literally, Danish rye bread – then I think this story would have no point in being told.

    It might have started on our way to Lövnas. We stopped in the closest town, an hour or so away from the cabin, at the small supermarket facing the gas station. And although I was still dozy from our trip, I remember – with an unusual crispness – picking a small bag, much heavier than it looked, dark and packed with seeds, with five or six thin slices of danskt rågbröd.
    I didn’t think much about it then. Not that it would send me into a relentless search for my favourite homemade rugbrød or that it would be the start of many months (and possibly years, although it’s something I can’t say just yet) of breakfast tartines.

    I also remember Kalle putting two yoghurt cartons in our basket. Perhaps, because they read körsbär [cherry], but more plausibly, because they were called fjäll [mountain], a word I’d heard – and not quite understood – when Kalle spoke it. “Vi ska åka till fjällen”.

    The next morning, we had our first breakfast at the cabin. And while everyone else could only think about what they’d top their bread with, I was studying my deep-dark slice of rågbröd.

    Yes, nobody talks about the bread. The foundation of a tartine, really.
    That one had the colour of wood bark and the smell of roasted pumpkin and sunflower seeds. Whole rye berries barely held together with a sour rye dough. And linseeds dotted throughout.
    The very same that created the obsession I have for rågbröd.

    Danish rye bread #1
    Adapted from Baktips.

    As I’ve told you earlier, I’m not coming today with a perfect recipe. More of the first part of a long study. Eventually, I’d love to be able to make a danskt rågbröd that’s packed with more rye berries than dough, feels moist yet crunchy and has lovely dark-brown undertone.

    Today’s experiment was delicious. In fact, I could only take a picture a few days after I’d baked it and right before it had been devoured.
    I’m not quite happy with how light the crumb came but I made the very stupid decision to bake mine at 150°C (a wrong educated guess as I assumed the baking would be the same as for a filmjölksbröd – my favourite! but I digress) – so I think I’ll definitely have to try the same recipe again with a higher temperature and perhaps a longer baking time as since then, I’ve read tales of breads baked for as long as twelve hours.

    PS. Maman si tu lis cet article, je pense que tu aimerais ce pain!

    Danish rye bread #1

    Makes one loaf.

    For the soaker

    215 g cracked rye
    100 g sunflower seeds
    20 g linseeds
    200 g water
    50 g sourdough

    For the dough

    All of the soaker (above)
    100 g sourdough
    170 g water
    10 g fresh yeast
    130 g pumpkin seeds
    10 g salt
    160 g plain flour
    40 g rågsikt or rye flour

    On the night before the day you’re planning to bake your bread, combine all the ingredients for the soaker; cover losely with clingfilm and allow to rest overnight at room temperature.

    The next morning, butter and line a 1.5L loaf tin with baking paper.

    Add the remaining ingredients (making sure to dissolve the yeast into the water, as the dough doesn’t get kneaded) to the soaker and mix well until smooth. Depending on your flour you might need to add a little more water (or less). The dough will have the consistence of a runny batter, almost like a cake batter with oats inside.

    Scrape the dough into the prepared loaf tin and proof at room temperature for 2 hours.

    About an hour into the proofing, preheat your oven to 250°C/ fan 225°C (and now, it will differ from what I did – bake at fan 150°C, which was silly and really, don’t do it! – I’m leaving the original baking instructions even though I haven’t tried for myself).

    After 2 hours, brush the top of your loaf with water and bake at 250°C/ fan 225°C for 10 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 200°C/ fan 180°C and bake for a further 50 minutes or until dark-brown and a probe inserted into the centre of the loaf reads 98°C.

    As soon as the loaf comes out from the oven, place inside a plastic bag or wrap in clingfilm and let it cool down for at least 6 hours before cutting the loaf into thin slices. My topping of choice is butter, flaky sea salt and radis!

    The recipe.

    As this is a straightforward dough and all I want to highlight for personal reference is the ratio of ingredients, the percentages shown below are not bakers’ percentages, but composition percentages.
    I had to add an extra 70g of water (in reference to the recipe linked above) as the finished dough seemed on the drier side. And I also left out the raisins (might want them next time) and walnuts – as I didn’t have any at home then.

    Danish rye bread #1, overall formula

    WeightIngredientPercentages
    215gcracked rye18%
    100gsunflower seeds8%
    20glinseeds2%
    370gwater31%
    150gsourdough12%
    10gfresh yeast1%
    130gpumpkin seeds11%
    10gsalt1%
    160gplain flour13%
    40grågsikt3%
    Total
    1205g

    Just a few numbers for keepsake:
    – 22.8% flour (16.6% unfermented + 6.2% fermented flour)
    – 18% cracked rye
    – 12% sourdough
    – 19% seeds (without linseeds)
    – 2% linseeds

    The ingredients.

    The recipe calls for ingredients that might be slightly hard to come across outside of Scandinavia (really, I have no idea, let me know in the comments if you’ve ever seen it), like rågsikt [sifted rye flour], which is a flour blend made of 60% wheat flour and 40% finely milled and sifted rye flour.
    I used the ICA eco rågsikt and also ICA vetemjöl in place in plain flour.

    In case you don’t have any rågsikt available near you, I suggest using 100% rye flour – something I’m planning on trying next time I make this recipe.

    The timing.

    With the addition of yeast, this recipe is almost instant (if you don’t account for the soaker).

    Day minus 3: Two or three days before you want to bake, take out your sourdough from the fridge (if that’s where you keep it, in case you feed it/bake everyday, then jump to the next step!) and feed it twice a day at 12 hour-intervals.

    Day 1 (evening): Mix the ingredients for the soaker. Let to rest at room temperature overnight.

    Day 2 (morning):
    – Add the remaining ingredients and scrape the batter into a 1.5L loaf tin.
    – Fermentation = at room temperature, for around 2 hours.
    – Brush the top of the loaf with water.
    – Bake.

    Notes.

    – I need to find the “right” baking settings for this bread as I’d like its crumb to be darker and also perhaps slightly chewier. Maybe increase the amount of rye berries, add malt extract?
    – As mentioned above, I’d like to try this recipe again using rye flour instead of rågsikt. And raisins too!

    Ressources.

    – A video, which shows the texture of the finished dough and the process of making rugbrød in Denmark. I might try the recipe next time too – if you wanna join me in #chasingrugbrød!

    – The table of Danish rye bread elements.

    – About rye (wikipedia).

  • PS. We picked apples and made cider. Oh and an apple cake too!

    PS. We picked apples and made cider. Oh and an apple cake too!

    One morning, we woke up to lights through the wooden blinds barely covering never-ending windows. Coffee got made. And we sat on the steps overlooking the garden. Early signs of autumn, drawn to the earth in the shape of dew that made our feet wet as we walked to the apple tree.

    Apples as white as snow. His dad said they were called Transparentes blanches. And I really wanted to believe him so I proceeded to do so. I picked a few. Held them in my dress. Peeled them and cored them, with a small knife. Sliced them with the very same knife. And layered them with honey. I whisked eggs into butter and sugar. Eggs paler than the milky-way above our heads the night before. And added wholewheat flour and cinnamon just so. The cake went into the oven and we went fly-fishing by the river. We saw grown-up salmons jump, and tiny frogs too. I was taught how to say liten groda and it meant so much more. We picked blueberries, but you already know that.

    So yes, we picked apples and made cider. Cider for in a few months. And I made an apple cake. For dinner that night. It came with vanilla ice-cream from a tub. And I remember how we cut into it with a knife.

    RECIPE: A cider and apple cake, not unlike a tatin tart.