Tag: cakes

  • Brutaly honest banana cake

    Brutaly honest banana cake

    If you ever thought I’d leave bananas alone for another year or so, please pretend these words never existed while we take care of the cake you see above. No evidence will remain and we won’t even have to tell the universe about it all.

    Case closed.

    But if you’re anything like us, then I guess it’s a whole other story.
    Yes, in our house, banana cake happens (a lot) and – more likely than not – for a reason (black bananas).

    This one – unlike the loaf I told you about* a month or so ago – is my usual straight-to-the-point banana cake.

    With approximately eight minutes from the cupboard to the oven, it’s my favourite for weeknights when dinner has been eaten and the dishes are done; the oven is still hot from the mushroom lasagne we’ve just made; and we have for only music, the sound of the wind through our windows.

    (For the record: yes, the pastry chef in me cringes at the thought – and the act – of baking a cake right after lasagne – or anything savoury, for that matter. But you see, such things are easily overlooked when you have to read/understand/translate fifty book pages for the next day.
    Yes, this whole learning-Swedish side-project sort of turned into a full-time thing. And really, jag kan knappt vänta [I can hardly wait]).

    Brutally honest banana cake

    Over the years, I’ve gotten a lot bowls dirty with this recipe – not that it takes more than one to mix the batter. A lot of mileage too. From the slice eaten for breakfast to the one – microwaved just so and – served with a fat scoop of yoghurt sorbet for dessert.
    In my notebook, I’ve called it brutally honest banana loaf cake. And it is – true to its name – a moist yet with a fine crumb, flavourful loaf cake.

    The batter can take from 3 to 6 bananas (300 to 600 grams, peeled), depending on the state of your fruit bowl. The one you see here was made with only 3 and although I do prefer the custardy flavour of the banana-loaded version, I do love this one too.
    Depending on how many bananas you use, you’ll have enough batter to make one large loaf cake (using a 1L tin) and a few muffins – which are always a happy addition to Kalle’s lunchbox. Just saying…

    For the first time – ever – I made this recipe using filmjölk but you could use buttermilk, natural yoghurt (which I prefer over Greek yoghurt here for its sharper flavour), or even milk.

    The compulsory note on piping a line of butter on top of the cake and my baking method:
    As you must ALL know by now – since I spend around three-quarters of my days telling everyone and their neighbour – I like to pipe a thin line of soft butter on top of my unbaked loaf cake to get a neat crack in its centre.

    When it comes to loaf cakes, I always bake them at high temperature and then reduce to finish the baking. I usually do 5 minutes at 180°C, 10 minutes at 170°C, and 25-30 minutes at 160°C.
    However, for banana cakes, I’ve found I get better results with 20 minutes at 180°C and then around 30 minutes at 160°C.

    *PS. It doesn’t mean I don’t worship the recipe I previously shared with you. I do, but they’re very different. And I love having many solid basic recipes. I hope you won’t mind!

    Brutally honest banana cake

    makes one large loaf

    275 g plain flour
    1 1/2 tsp (7 g) baking powder
    1 tsp (5 g) sea salt
    250 g caster sugar
    50 g vanilla sugar
    150 g butter    , at room temperature
    3 (150 g) eggs
    3 to 6 peeled bananas     (300 to 600 g, see note above), mashed with a fork
    100 g natural yoghurt, buttermilk, filmjölk or milk

    Preheat the oven to 180°C and line a loaf tin with baking paper.

    Mix the flour, baking powder and salt in a small bowl, and set aside until needed.

    In a large bowl, cream the sugars and butter for around 5 minutes, or until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. If your batter splits a little, simply heat it (either over a pan of simmering water – make sure you’re using a heatproof bowl – or by flashing it in the microwave for 10-20 seconds). Mix in the mashed bananas and yoghurt. Then add the flour mixture at once, folding it in until just combined.
    Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf tin filling it 3/4 to the rim – and if needed in a few muffin cases too (which I then bake on the same tray as my loaf, but only for around 20 minutes, see note above).

    Bake for 20 minutes at 180°C and then reduce the oven temperature to 160°C and bake for a further 30 minutes, or until golden-brown and the tip of a knife inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean.

  • Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon


    [Brown butter and bourbon canelés]

    There are stories that never get old, no matter how many times you tell them. Here is a collections of the ones I never-ever want to forget.

    Every evening, we go to the pond by the house on the other side of the path. Just before the sun sets. From there, we overlook the far-away lake. But really, all I care for are the frog’s eggs floating on the surface not unlike tapioca or soaked basil seeds. For some reason I find them absolutely captivating, and I’m crossing my fingers for us to stay here long enough to see them turn into tadpoles.

    One morning, Svante asked me if I had woken up early. I had, but I very well knew that he meant 4am early. Yes, he’d heard some noise coming from the forest.
    After we’d had coffee, and a tartine of sourdough bread smeared with butter and topped with hard-boiled eggs and pickled herring, we put our gumboots on and walked through the moss and woods and snow.
    As we followed the tracks, dipper and dipper into the woods, the three of us knew one thing for sure. It was a lynx.

    Yesterday, as I was sitting on the front steps of the little house – my favourite morning spot to catch the sun and drink up that mug of too-hot coffee – Svante called me from the path. A few metres from us: two rådjur [deers, don’t ask me for the plural form of their Swedish names as I’m still very confused about it all] were eating the grass that the snow-melt made alive again.

    The shooting stars we see at night. When it’s so dark we can almost make out the Milky Way.

    Every morning, I wake up early. The oven gets turned on and the loaf of bread – of dough, really – that has been slowly fermenting in the fridge overnight, is taken out and left on the counter. Some days, I’ll make coffee. Others, I go back to bed with a book, and – more often than not – I fall back asleep for an hour or so.
    The bread goes in the oven and I patiently wait. One morning, we carried firewood from the shelter where it dries up to the main house. On a wheelbarrow. Another time, we went on the rock at the top of the road, where you can watch the sun rise, almost like no other place I’ve ever been.

    Bonus campagne tale: I’ve found out that it’s actually way easier to drive on snow and ice rather than mud. The rest should probably remain untold.

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon
    Adapted from Pierre Hermé.

    I didn’t grow up eating canelés. In fact, I can’t even remember the first time I ever had one. But if I was to guess, I’d say it came frozen, from a box of miniature ones found at Picard (and if you’re not French, I should add that Picard is a frozen-product shop found everywhere across the country).

    But somehow, they’ve always seemed fascinating. A crisp almost-burnt-but-not-quite crust and custard-like crumb.

    I can’t say I’ve tried a lot of recipes, as when I first tried the ones at Pierre Hermé – back in the summer 2007 during the three-month stage that would change my life – I never even wanted to look back.
    Yes, Pierre Hermé’s recipe is my favourite.
    I’ve made them traditional, with Tahiti vanilla and aged rum. Or at times, with chocolate in the batter too. Even some pumpkin and cinnamon ones, replacing the milk with roasted pumpkin flesh and a large tablespoon of milk powder, and adding bourbon and brown butter.
    I loved this combination so much that I’ve decided to make some simpler ones today.

    I’m not going to lie, it’s not quite easy to get them right. But here are a few notes that will help you get those beauties perfect every single time.

    1. The batter must be made in advance. In a pinch, I’ve made it rest for only an hour with great results, but they are considerably better if the batter is left to rest at room temperature for at least 12 hours or in the fridge for up to 3 days.

    2. As you make the batter, the milk should be around 55°C when you pour it onto your egg mixture. This will start to cook the eggs and the starch, and will prevent the canelés to form too much moisture when they bake, hence reducing the risk of them “growing” out from their moulds as they bake.

    3. No matter what I do, I’ll always have at least one canelé trying to escape from its mould during baking. If you let it be, you’ll end up with a white-topped canelé as the batter won’t be in contact with the mould; you do not want this, trust me. My sauve-qui-peut solution is very simple. As soon as the canelés are set enough – around 20 minutes usually – I’ll carefully take out the faulty ones out from the oven, then turn them upside-down – unmoulding them really – then place them back into their moulds. This seems to do the trick every time and they won’t try to escape again.

    4. Many people stress about using a mixture of oil and beeswax to grease the moulds. Yes it does give them a special matte finish, but more than that, I think the kind and quality of the moulds matter. I know they’re expensive but Matfer copper moulds make the difference for me.
    You see here, I didn’t use any beeswax, just melted butter, brushed inside the moulds, and they came out beautifully. You could also use some cooking spray, I’ve only ever tried OneSpray which worked great.

    5. The most fundamental part is – in my opinion – the baking. In professional fan-assisted ovens, I usually preheat to 210°C, then bake for 10 minutes at this temperature, before reducing it to 190°C to finish the baking for an hour or so. At home, in my traditional oven, I’ve found that they are considerably better if I preheat the oven to 270°C and bake them for 10 minutes then reduce the temperature to 200°C for another 45 to 55 minutes depending on the size of my moulds.
    I haven’t tried baking them in a home oven with fan, but I’m assuming that preheating to 250°C and baking at 190°C would work fine. Let me know if you try 🙂

    But mostly – please please please – have fun while baking. This makes all the difference.

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

    Makes 20 small canelés (4.5cm wide) or 12 large ones (5.5cm wide).

    500 g whole milk
    50 g brown butter
    2 vanilla pods, sliced lengthways
    2 eggs
    2 egg yolks
    250 g icing sugar
    40 g bourbon
    100 g plain flour
    a pinch of salt

    q.s. melted butter, to grease the moulds

    In a medium pan, bring the milk, brown butter, vanilla seeds and pods to the boil. Off the heat, cover with a lid and allow to infuse for at least 15-20 minutes while you get on with the rest.
    In a bowl, mix the eggs and yolks with the icing sugar until smooth, slowly pour in the bourbon. Add the flour and salt.
    Then, pour the warm milk, a little at a time over the egg mixture, mixing as you do so – but trying not to incorporate too much air into the batter. You could pass the batter through a fine-mesh sieve, I don’t.

    Cover the bowl with clingfilm and leave at room temperature overnight.

    Preheat the oven to 270°C/fan 250°C (read note above).
    Prepare the moulds. No matter which kind of fat you’re using (read note above), brush a thin layer into the moulds (or in the case of the spray, spray it). Turn the moulds upside-down onto kitchen paper to allow the excess fat to drip, then place in the freezer. If using butter, I like to repeat this one more time.

    Mix the batter for a couple of minute to homogenise. Then fill your prepared moulds almost to the rim, leaving 2 or 3 mm on top.
    Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 200°C/fan 190°C and bake for a further 45 minutes for small canelés or 55 minutes for large ones.

  • Cake à la banane rôtie

    Cake à la banane rôtie

    [Roasted banana cake]

    I once read that the universe didn’t need another banana cake. In that case, the universe and I might have to disagree.

    We don’t disagree often though.
    In fact, most of the time, we’re in a symbiotic agreement that all is in its place.

    Let me tell you about a few nights ago.
    It might have been Monday or Tuesday, I don’t know for sure, although I’d think it was Tuesday.

    K. and I took a walk at dusk. With very diffuse clouds above our heads. And right after K. told me they might – perhaps – be northern lights not clouds, the sky turned into a beautiful firework of magnetic fields. Greens and purples. Right above. Reflecting in the snow around us.

    And just like last week, when I saw norrsken for the very first time, I stayed there. Looking up until they melted back into the sky, leaving place to constellations and satellites.

    On our way back, we could still see them in the distance. And as a truck drove past – carrying wood that would become something else – it smelled of walks in the forest. Those of the kind I cherish so much now that the snow is slowly melting, uncovering – everyday a bit more – grass and bushes. Yes, I never want to forget the snow.

    I don’t want to forget this morning either. When I sat in the sun, with a cup of coffee and a slice of banana cake. I was wearing leggings and a thick sweater, oh, and the scarf my mum gave me right before we left France.
    Because, you see, I had bananas on the kitchen counter – the one made of the somewhat retro plywood – ripe and spotted. And we all know it can only mean one thing: banana cake.

    Yes, perhaps the universe doesn’t need another banana cake. But I did.

    Cake à la banane rôtie
    This cake will keep for days, well wrapped in clingfilm. In fact, I think it’s even better a day or two after. In fact, it keeps so well, that I almost always make a double batch to have cake all week long.

    Some of you might want to skip the roasted banana purée if you’re in a hurry, and although I love the combination of roasted and fresh bananas, it will work almost as well if you choose to use only mashed fresh bananas. In this case, simply use three large ones, around 300-320g.
    You could also make a rum glaze or a mascarpone frosting, but I think banana cake is one of the many things that are better eaten naked.

    A few notes on method, the honey, piped butter, and baking temperature:
    I do not let the butter come at room temperature whenever I cream it, as it will soften as you work it. And especially, in this recipe, because we add the warm banana purée which makes the whole softening process much faster.

    The honey in this recipe, because it is an invert sugar, is used to bind with the water contained in the bananas, and make sure the cake will keep moist but not soggy for almost ever.
    The flavour of honey is fairly subtle and complements the banana well.

    As you now know, I’m very fond of this technique to get a neat crack on top of loaf cakes. I always pipe a thin line of soft butter on top of my unbaked loaf, using either a piping bag or even easier a paper cornet (remind me to show you how to fold one).
    When the batter starts to rise, the butter will sink in, creating a neat crack.

    When it comes to loaf cakes, I always like to bake them at high temperature and then reduce to finish the baking. I usually do 5 minutes at 180°C, 10 minutes at 170°C, and 25-30 minutes at 160°C.
    For this banana cake, given how much moisture there is, I’ve found I get better results with 20 minutes at 180°C and then around 30 minutes at 160°C.

    Cake à la banane rôtie

    makes one large loaf cake

    For the roasted banana purée
    2 large bananas, with skin on
    50 g caster sugar

    For the caramelised roasted bananas
    160 g plain flour
    1 1/2 tsp baking powder
    1 tsp sea salt
    180 g butter
    130 g light brown sugar
    50 g creamy honey
    200 g roasted banana purée
    1 banana    , (approximately 100 g) mashed with a fork
    3 eggs, at room temperature

    10 g butter, at room temperature, to pipe on top of the cake

    Start by making the roasted banana purée.
    Preheat the oven to 180°C and place the bananas – skin-on – on a baking tray lined with baking paper. Prick a few holes into the fruits using a small paring knife and roast for 15 minutes, or until black with juices coming out. Allow to cold down until cold enough to handle.
    In a small pan, cook the sugar over low heat to make a light caramel. While the sugar is cooking, peel the bananas, being careful not to burn your fingers.
    When the caramel is just light brown. Take off the heat and add the bananas. Return to the stove, and cook slowly – stirring frequently to dissolve any bits of caramel that might have seized – until you can see the bottom of the pan as you stir, not unlike jam. Transfer to a bowl and allow to cool down for 15-20 minutes.

    In the meantime, butter and line a 1L loaf tin.
    In a bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Set aside.
    Place the cubed butter, sugar and honey in a large bowl, and cream for around 3 minutes. Add the banana purée and the mashed banana, and mix for a further minute.
    Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing for a minute after each addition.
    Add the flour and mix until just smooth. Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf tin, pipe a line of soft butter on top of the cake.
    Bake in the preheated oven for 20 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 160°C and bake for another 30 minutes or until a knife inserted in the centre of the cake comes out clean.
    Unmould immediately, placing the cake on its side. Cool down completely.

  • Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    I wish you were here with me. Sat on the patio. There is a wooden table which I’ve slowly taken over: notes, drawings of mushrooms, a mug holding watercolour brushes, a mismatch of cameras, and a cup of coffee hotter than what I would normally fancy.

    From where I sit, I can see the logs Karl brought from the little shelter down in the garden on the same wheelbarrow we used to collect the hay that his father – Svante – cut on the day we arrived. They’re neatly piled and possibly enough to keep the fire going for a good week.

    There is two pairs of rain boots – my new favourite, as they will take me anywhere.

    And then, there is the forest. All around us.

    This morning, we saw the same hare I fell in love with yesterday. Hopefully, he’ll stick around here a little longer. Svante told me he probably had his eyes on the apple tree that stands right in the middle of the garden.
    But secretly, I think we’ve become some sort of wild friends.

    Yes, right now, I wish you were here with me. Listening to the sound of the forest after a rainstorm.
    It’s, perhaps, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. The lightest raindrops hitting the moss. The cracking branches. The birds’ songs, and the happy merry-go-round of bumblebees. The wind going through soaked leaves.

    The house is quiet. Aside from an old timer ticking seconds like others tick boxes.

    You see, I have a gluten-free chocolate cake in the oven – hopefully cold enough by the time the boys will come back from their fishing expedition. The kind where coffee gets boiled over a bonfire and knee-high neoprene boots make you belong to the river. The kind where, when Karl will be here, he’ll smell of burning wood and will have too many stories to share.

    And just like the house smelled wonderful yesterday as I was baking kanelbullar. It now smells of chocolate. And rain.

    Now a few hours later, I went to pick – tiny – hallon [raspberries] by the pond. And all the times Karl told me to check for worms inside the berries finally made sense.

    I cut myself a thick slice of the still-warm cake, fudgy around the rim and slighty gooey in the centre. And with a handful of my rather small bounty and a tall glass of filmjölk, it was just as delicious as I had hoped for.

    Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    You could make this cake with ground almonds only, but I couldn’t resist to try the gluten-free oat flour I found at the supermarket a few days ago.
    The process is very simple. Not unlike a classic fondant cake.

    The eggs and sugar get whisked together for a few minutes, until the sugar has almost dissolved. Then the melted chocolate and butter get folded in. And finally the flours. A quick trip in the oven; and voilà!

    Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    200 g 70% dark chocolate
    250 g unsalted butter
    5 eggs
    250 g caster sugar
    50 g ground almonds
    40 g GF self-raising oat flour
    8 g sea salt

    Preheat the oven to 180°C, and generously butter a 26cm cake tin.

    In a heatproof bowl, melt the chocolate and butter; either in a microwave or over a pan of simmering water. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar for around 4 minutes, or until fluffy and almost doubled in size. You don’t want to overdo it, it’s just a matter of dissolving the sugar.

    Fold in the chocolate mixture, mixing well. And finally add the ground almonds, oat flour and salt. Pour into the prepared tin and bake for 24-28 minutes, until barely jiggling in the very centre of the cake.

    Allow to cool down completely before slicing. Or scoop while warm, like I did.

  • 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.
  • Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    [A cider and apple cake, not unlike a tatin tart]

    There was a night made of champagne, flickering candles, crisps and smoked salmon sandwiches, the last of the foie gras smothered onto big fat chunky pieces of baguette, an endless game of trivial pursuit where – as it turned out – the one person who refused to play (my father, apparently stuck to his mots croisés) became the one who knew all the answers, our joker – as we called him.

    Yes, there was no electricity in the house after a storm hit the lines, somewhere around Marseille. But we had us. And a dark Christmas tree. And some apple cake.

    Something I’d thrown together with things we had.

    Too-much-butter, as my mum always buys when she knows I’m coming.
    A lot of sugar.
    A touch of honey from this beekeeper my grand-mother became very fond of.
    And winter apples from M. Riouet’s orchard. And really, I say orchard when it really is just a couple of trees, but I can’t help it, his potager is the enchanted forest I grew up in.

    This cake was meant to be nothing but rustic. A mere snack after a day spent with Bruno and his goats in the mountains.
    And yet, that night, it turned into something special. Here is to power cuts! And to the new year too!

    Gâteau aux pommes et au cidre, un peu comme une tarte tatin

    While I wouldn’t necessarily force you to have this cake as a dessert, I must say it makes a pretty decent contender. Especially with a scoop of yoghurt ice-cream or a generous dollop of crème fraiche.

    But the way I see it is much more homely. The kind of cakes that’s eaten still warm from the oven, with fingers and a side made of tea in a pot. I think a light infusion of tilleul would do wonders here.

    It’s really quite simple to make. Slice three apples thinly, a knife and your hand are enough, but you can go with the mandolin too, although I didn’t. Layer them at the bottom of your tin and drizzle with honey. Top with the batter and bake. Oh, and eat too!

    Gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    serves 8-10

    6 apples, peeled and cored
    100 g runny honey
    180 g butter
    300 g demerara sugar
    2 eggs
    245 g plain flour
    2 tsp baking powder
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    1 tsp maldon sea salt
    180 g apple cider     (or apple juice)

    Preheat the oven to 190°C/fan 180°C.
    Butter a 24cm cake tin, line with baking paper and set aside.

    Thinly slice 3 apples and layer at the bottom of the prepared tin. Drizzle with honey and pack tightly with your hands.

    In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar.

    In the meantime, chop the remaining apples into 2cm chunks.

    Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. In another bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt.
    Then, alternatively add the dry ingredients and cider to the butter mixture in three times, starting with the flour.
    Finish the batter by gently folding in the apple chunks.

    Pour onto the sliced apples and bake for 45-60 minutes, or until a cake tester inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. Allow to cool for a few minutes, then invert onto a plate and peel off the baking paper.

  • Custard-filled cornbread

    Custard-filled cornbread

    Yesterday, two am.

    Tonight, we ate al fresco. In our garden. Who said you’re not allowed to play make-believe anymore?

    I made dessert. One strawberry tart, only it’s so much more. Black olives, vanilla, and olive oil shortbread. White chocolate crémeux. Strawberries from the little patch that somehow resisted the month of May; or perhaps, I should say the month of rain. Strawberry coulis and jam, just so. I topped it with borage flowers, and basil blossoms. And it was pretty amazing. We had a slice each. And then a second.

    By that time, mosquitos began dancing around us. And every star started to rise into the sky, not unlike a slow-motion time-lapse.

    After dinner, I read. A lot. And sometime, between one and two am, I found the following quotation from We Girls: A Home Story about spider cakes:

    “Barbara got up some of her special cookery in these days. Not her very finest, out of Miss Leslie; she said that was too much like the fox and the crane, when Lucilla asked for the receipts. It wasn’t fair to give a taste of things that we ourselves could only have for very best, and send people home to wish for them. She made some of her “griddles trimmed with lace,” as only Barbara’s griddles were trimmed; the brown lightness running out at the edges into crisp filigree. And another time it was the flaky spider-cake, turned just as it blushed golden-tawny over the coals; and then it was breakfast potato, beaten almost frothy with one white-of-egg, a pretty good bit of butter, a few spoonfuls of top-of-the-milk, and seasoned plentifully with salt, and delicately with pepper,—the oven doing the rest, and turning it into a snowy soufflé.”
    Adeline Dutton Train Whitney (1870), We Girls: A Home Story

    A bit of a rabbit-hole, which Jessica Fechtor entered first, and I felt obliged to follow. Looking up the definition of spider cake seemed like an obvious first step, a word of U.S. origin meaning “a cake cooked in a spider pan”.
    Rather unapologetically, I began scouring eBay for spider pans, a sort of frying pan with legs. And delved into its history, a link shared by Jessica. But perhaps, most importantly, I fell asleep thinking about the custard-filled cornbread she’d made following Molly’s adaptation of a Marion Cunningham recipe. Perhaps, the most food-writing hall of fame-ish sentence I have ever written?

    This morning, eight am.

    I woke up with the sun through curtains so light they seemed to glow. And before coffee even begun to run through the maker, I buttered a 24cm-wide cake tin and turned the oven on.

    Coarse polenta got mixed with flour, sugar, and a lot of milk. And cream was poured with no other explanation than this spider cornbread I’d read about yesterday.

    I didn’t grow up on cornbread. But cornbread grew up on me.
    It might have been because of that guy with deep-blue eyes and the cutest American accent ever. He would make me peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and halve strawberries into salads. But that’s another story, one I will possibly never tell, and rather frankly, this cornbread cannot wait.

    While it was in the oven, I rolled puff pastry and made vanilla crème diplomate. I wrote a little too. And after an hour had passed, I took the glorious bubbling cake out from the oven and let it cool while coffee was finally being made.

    I had a slice, still warm, with plenty of runny honey. And trust me, I think all mornings should be like this.

    Custard-filled cornbread
    Adapted from Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life.

    I did not know what to expect from this cake. Sure, knowing both Molly and Jessica, I knew it’d be good. Even with a picture in front of my very eyes, I couldn’t help but feel like magic is always involved when a batter separates into layers.
    When it was just baked, I could barely wait to slice it. And the cream was still on the slightly runny gooey side. Not that there is anything wrong with it. Now, a few hours later, it’s firmed up into a silky custard (yes, I totally had a pre-lunch slice).

    The edges remind me of canelés. The bottom is rich with corn. And the top feels like a pillow of creamy custard.

    Custard-filled cornbread

    Makes one 24cm cornbread.

    50 g butter
    140 g flour
    120 g coarse polenta or cornmeal
    1 1/2 tsp baking powder
    a fat pinch salt
    2 eggs
    45 g caster sugar
    480 g whole milk
    50 g butter, melted
    1 tbsp vinegar
    1 tbsp vanilla extract
    240 g double cream

    Butter a 24cm-wide cake tin, preheat the oven to 150°C/fan 170°C, and place the tin in the oven to warm up.

    In a large bowl, combine the flour, polenta, baking powder and salt. In a jug, whisk the eggs and sugar, add the milk, butter, vinegar and vanilla extract.
    Slowly pour the wet ingredients over the flour, and mix until just combined.

    Scrape the batter in the hot tin, then slowly pour the cream in the centre of the batter. Bake for one hour. Allow to cool for 30 minutes or longer, and serve in thick slices with maple syrup or honey.

  • Le fondant au chocolat

    Le fondant au chocolat

    [The ultimate chocolate fondant]

    In London, we’ve had winter in July. Air damp with rain. Kitchens warm with soup on the stove. Oven smelling like chocolate cake.

    And now, in the south of France, we’re having summer in September. Walks through the markets. Sirops d’orgeat at the terrace of the village café. Afternoons at the beach. Ice-cream, in a cone, please. Flip-flops at the feet. Deep-fried is a must, especially when it involves fleurs de courgettes. Watermelon; full-stop.

    It seems that whenever I come down here it’s summer. A summer of the out-of-season kind.

    It also seems that whenever I’m down here, I always return to the same cake. A cake of the homecoming kind.

    It certainly is my go-to. Because, let’s be honest, we all need one.

    One we make on Mondays. One we slice when still warm and slightly runny for a late afternoon indulgence. One we have for breakfast – the day after – cold from the fridge and dipped into the latte we overlooked as we were flipping through the pages of the newspaper. One we finish on Wednesdays after a dinner made of crusty baguette with a side of sliced tomatoes in their juices; perhaps with a scoop of yoghurt ice-cream.

    This cake is dark and dense. The very definition of a fondant.

    And since we’re at it, I shall let you know that what we – French – call fondant is somehow different to the fondants I’ve been known to bake à la minute for the restaurant.
    In fact, if you’re thinking about small little cakes with a melted chocolate centre, we call them coulants in good old France.

    So please, mind your French, will you 😉

    Fondant au chocolat

    Fondant au chocolat
    Adapted from Pascal Lac.

    I’ve told you about this cake before. It is, as I’ve mentioned above, a keeper. If you’re after a moist chocolate cake, then this is the one.

    Plus, it’s damn easy to make. Just chocolate, butter, eggs, sugar, and flour.
    Oh yes, ok, eight eggs and four hundred grams of sugar. Just forget about this and bake it in a 28cm pan for thinner wedges.

    It is worth it!

    When it comes to the chocolate, I like to use a slightly bitter, most possibly 70%. And I have to admit Valrhona Guanaja is especially great for cakes of all kinds.

    The only tricky – and when I say tricky, I mean very merely – step is to bring the eggs and sugar mixture to room temperature-ish over the heat.
    You can either do it straight over the gas, making sure to mix at all time while turning the bowl to ensure heat distribution. Or do it over a water-bath (which should not stop you from mixing and turning the bowl!).

    This step is done, as we say in French, to casser le froid [break the coldness]. And it will incorporate a little air in the eggs.

    Fondant au chocolat

    Makes one 24 to 28cm cake.

    200g dark chocolate
    240g butter
    8 eggs
    400g sugar
    130g flour

    Preheat the oven to 170°C, and generously butter a 24 to 28 cm springform pan.

    In a bowl, melt the chocolate and butter.

    In a heatproof bowl, mix the eggs and sugar – using a whisk – and place over medium heat (or as said above, on a water bath). Keep on mixing until not cold anymore. It shouldn’t be hot either.
    Pour the chocolate over the egg mixture, and mix to homogenise. Sprinkle the flour over and using a rubber spatula, gently incorporate it until just smooth.

    Pour the batter into the prepared tin and bake for 30 to 40 minutes (if you’re using a smaller tin) until just set.

  • Cornbread, comme à Caravan

    Cornbread, comme à Caravan

    [Cornbread, just like at Caravan]

    Sometimes, all I want is to put my warmest boots on, and escape to a place outside of time. I would drive there for hours. To the sound of wind and the smell of rain through the open windows.

    I would wake up too early in the morning. And have a coffee; or two. With a side of freshly-churned butter and a piece of toast. It would be cold. And foggy. Perhaps so much I wouldn’t be able to see the coast.

    I would spend my days at a small bakery. Or on a farm. And at night, I would leave the curtains open to watch the stars.

    Cake au maïs, comme à Caravan
    Adapted from Miles Kirby.

    As soon as I came home from brunch Caravan, I knew that the cornbread we’d just had was bound to happen again in my kitchen. And after a quick search, I was lucky enough to find the recipe. And a simple one too.

    In less than 10 minutes, you can have a cornbread in the oven. Which makes it even more perfect for breakfast or brunch.

    At Caravan, it was served with a chipotle butter, but I went for the easy way and just served it with a knob of butter topped with freshly-sliced red chili.
    Make sure you have a wedge of lime ready!

    Cornbread, comme à Caravan

    Makes one loaf cake.

    400g milk
    3 eggs
    60g butter    , melted
    250g corn kernels (from approx. 2 corn cobs)
    a bunch of spring onions, finely sliced
    170g polenta
    60g bread flour
    1 tbsp baking powder
    1 tbsp caster sugar
    1 tbsp flaky sea salt

    butter, chili peppers, limes, coriander; extra, to serve

    Preheat the oven to 180˚C and generously butter a loaf tin.
    In a bowl, mix the mix the milk, eggs, and melted butter. In another bowl, combine the polenta, flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar. Add the wet ingredients and mix until smooth. Add the corn kernels and the sliced spring onions.

    Transfer to the prepared loaf tin and bake for 20 to 30 minutes. Or until golden brown and the tip of a knife inserted in the centre comes out clean.
    Unmould and allow to cool for a few minutes before slicing into fat slices, using a serrated knife.

    Serve – toasted opr not – with butter and sliced chili. With a side of limes and perhaps a few sprigs of coriander.

  • Spinach and cheddar muffins

    Spinach and cheddar muffins

    There are things you can never ignore.
    At times, you wish you’d forgotten; crab hunting, kissing in the wind, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, drinking beer by the bottle, killing flies, licking icy popsicles.

    Other times, you’re simply happy to remember; stepping into Pierre Hermé’s kitchen, signing my apprenticeship contract, taking a plane to a new life, biting into a perfectly chewy spinach and cheddar muffin.

    It was a Saturday or Sunday – the day does not matter – of an early autumn morning.
    I had just arrived to London.
    The air was crisp and the sky just turning blue after a night made of blankets and raindrops hitting the windows.

    Somehow, those pretty rustic muffins felt fitting. Right that second, I could smell vanilla frosting and feel the warmth from a just-opened oven door. And by all means, I could hear words from happy people.
    I remember how the first bite burnt my tongue. I remember the heat of pepper, the flavour of onion, spinach, cheddar and perhaps even Portobello mushrooms. And the crumb.

    And then, in between creating desserts and reading books, I forgot about this moment. You know, that everyday-kind of happiness. But as autumn sneaked on us – in a rather unexpected manner – the frosty mornings and dark evenings made our house feel like home.

    A home with soft lights, throws on the sofa, a whistling kettle, and muffins in the oven.

    Spinach and cheddar muffins
    Adapted from the Hummingbird Bakery.

    I could express my love for these muffins through an extended description of their qualities. The bold flavours, the perfect chewy crumb.
    But the fact that they are equally delicious for breakfast, lunch or dinner – preferably with a side of piping hot soup, makes them my favourite in the world.

    Spinach and cheddar muffins

    makes 12

    30g butter
    one small onion, finely sliced
    one fat clove of garlic
    one chili pepper, finely chopped
    350g plain flour
    2 1/2 tsp baking powder
    a good grind of black pepper
    200g cheddar, grated
    250g milk
    one egg
    130g spinach

    Preheat the oven to 170°C. In a pan, melt the butter over medium heat and cook the sliced onion until soft. At the end, grate the garlic and throw the chili into the pan and give a good stir to combine the flavours.
    In a bowl stir the flour, baking powder, pepper and cheddar. In another bowl, whisk the milk and egg together, then pour onto the flour mixture using a wooden spoon to fold.
    The batter will be quite thick, and I must admit I like to use my hands to incorporate the cooled onions and spinach.
    Divide into twelve muffin-cases and bake for 35 minutes. Remove the muffins from the tin and allow to cool on a rack.

  • Brownies fondants au cacao

    Brownies fondants au cacao

    [Cocoa fudge-brownies]

    Brownies fondants au cacao
    Adapted from Alice Medrich’s Bittersweet (thank you Deb).

    When I had my first bite of those insanely fudge-brownies, I felt sorry I hadn’t made them back when I first spotted them on Smitten Kitchen.
    At the time, I thought it would be nice to experiment but wasn’t sure the flavour would be au rendez-vous. But I was wrong. Not only the use of cocoa powder provides the brownies with an intense chocolate taste, but it also is the secret to their amazing texture (along with the high quantity of sugar that is).
    A new favourite at home!

    Edit 29.04.2020

    Over the past few weeks, I’ve received many requests to republish this recipe which I originally wrote about ten years ago. Ten years! I guess everyone could do with a slice of warm fudgy brownies at the moment.

    I haven’t made these in years! Instead, I’ve been baking kladdkaka , a Swedish cake, which is very similar both in terms of formula and texture; so much so that it may not count as different after all. It has become one of my go-tos, and I especially like to serve it with a vanilla anglaise and blueberry compote, which I can only urge you to try with these brownies!
    Or ice-cream that is, one can never go wrong à la mode!

    Brownies fondants au cacao

    Makes 16 squares.

    140 g butter
    280 g caster sugar
    80 g cocoa powder
    1/4 heaped tsp Maldon sea salt
    2 large eggs
    65 g plain flour

    Preheat the oven to 180°C/fan 160°C. Line a 25x25cm baking tin with baking paper.
    Combine the butter, sugar, cocoa, and salt in a bowl and cook over a simmering bain-marie, stirring from time to time until it forms a smooth mixture and feel hot to the touch (around 50-60°C).
    Set aside to cool down slightly, then mix in the eggs one at a time, using a whisk and stirring for a good minute after each one.
    Fold in the flour and spread the batter evenly into the prepared tin.

    Bake for 20 minutes, or until barely set. Allow to cool on a rack, then remove the brownies from the tin and slice into squares.

  • Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

    Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

    [Fromage blanc and raspberry charlotte]

    I haven’t spent much time in a home kitchen – let alone made pastries in a home kitchen – for the past eleven months. That’s what a pastry apprenticeship does to you! And really I must admit I feel a bit lost when all I have on hands are a couple of Pyrex bowls, a hand-held mixer, and an oven.

    But all it took was a holiday in Fouras, at my grand-parents’. I could navigate through this kitchen with my eyes closed. And I did; by the end of the week, we had a nice collection of homemade pastries: a fondant au chocolat, strawberry meringues, a tiramisu, fruit focaccias, and a raspberry charlotte.

    Charlotte is one of those desserts I will never get tired of. Dare I call it my favourite?

    In the summer, I love to make it with whichever berries we have lying around. And when the neighbour, Annie, offered us to come and pick raspberries in her garden, my sister and I probably said the word charlotte in unison.
    It was still early in the evening. Bumblebees doing a last round before the sunset. A warm wind that only summer nights offer; golden light bouncing on every flower. We picked and picked. And ate some too. And as soon as a plump berry touched my lips, it wiped every memory I ever had of tasting a raspberry before.

    When we came home, we whipped cream and folded it into fromage blanc. And a raspberry charlotte was in the fridge before dinner got on the table.

    It’s not perfect by any means, but some things don’t need to be.

    Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

    This is a slightly more elaborate version of the charlotte that my mother made often as we were growing up. It is not a delicate entremet, but one to be sliced for lunch or dinner, when the nights get longer and warmer. As I’ve mentioned it above, I love to make this while berries are in season, but it also make a wonderful winter dessert. Think poached pears and perhaps a touch of chocolate mousse. Or poached rhubarb and orange in the late winter.

    If fromage blanc isn’t available where you live, just use plain natural yoghurt mixed with a little cream cheese instead, a thick Turkish yoghurt would work wonders too.

    EDIT 06/03/2019

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

    Yes, gelatin is a difficult subject when it comes to recipe writing as many factors com ein play: brand, bloom strength, weight of each sheet… Sure, you can find information about how gold leaves weigh around 2g, platinum, 1.7g, and so on. And because of this, it should be the same to substitute one leaf of gold for one leaf of platinum. But then again, it depends on the country too. In Sweden, the gelatin used in professional kitchens comes at 4g per sheet, extra gold! And the same brand gelatin, when bought in supermarkets is only half the size, roughly 2g per sheet. So I’ve learnt the hard way that grams are some how more reliable that sheet counts.

    The original recipe called for 6 leaves of gelatin, and the gelatin used was the French Vahiné, which comes at around 1.89g per sheet.
    I’ve now edited the recipe to include weight too, although note that I mostly use silver and gold strength gelatin leaves, so your gelatin has a strength comprised between 160-190 bloom, you might need to increase the quantity slightly!

    Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

    serves 8

    For the biscuits cuillère
    two dozens of biscuits cuillère, either homemade or bought
    300g water
    210g caster sugar

    For the fromage blanc filling
    6 gelatin leaves, approximately 12g
    500g fromage blanc
    120g caster sugar
    330g whipping cream 35%, whipped to soft peaks

    a couple handfuls of raspberries

    Make a simple soaking syrup by combining the water and caster sugar in a saucepan. Bring to the boil, then pour into a wide container, and allow to cool down while you get on with the rest.

    Soak the gelatin leaves into cold water for at least ten minutes. Divide the fromage blanc into two heatproof bowls.

    In one of the bowls, mix in the sugar until dissolved. Heat the other bowl containing half of the fromage blanc in the microwave until it reaches around 40°C. Then quickly drain the gelatin leaves, and incorporate to the warm fromage blanc. Mix until fully melted. Then, fold this into the sweetened fromage blanc. And finally, gently fold in the whipped cream in a couple of batches.

    When the syrup is cool enough, soak the biscuits into it for a few seconds and arrange in a shallow charlotte mould.

    Pipe half of the mousse into the biscuit-lined tin, then cover with a handful of raspberries and more soaked biscuits. Top with the remaining mousse.

    Chill for a couple of hours, preferably overnight. Unmould and serve.