I drew these on a quiet afternoon, thinking about the tools that are the essence of the bagarstuga [bakers’ cottage] — worn smooth by years of flour and dough. A randkavel and kruskavel for rolling the soft rye dough. A spjälka for flipping the shaped loaves. A wide bunke where dough rises slowly. The fjöla, ready to slide bread into the heat. And the simple degskrapa, scraping, folding, dividing.
Tools that ask for nothing, but carry the stories of every loaf they’ve helped bring to life.
I first made this recipe a few weeks before my mom came to visit from the south of France last autumn. She loves her morning toast – always a baguette, always unsalted butter, thickly spread. I can’t quite agree – I want salted butter, the kind that pushes back against the sweetness of the jam.
Most times, I make my usual recipe, the one I’ve relied on since 2009, back when I first worked with Andrew Gravett. But this time, I felt like trying something different. Christine Ferber’s method – slow and deliberate. Pierre Hermé has always sworn by her jams, and he’s never wrong.
To be used as a personal references, since I can never seem to remember which sizes I have and which are on my wish-list.
Perhaps you’ll find it useful too. X
| Round cocottes | | | Oval cocottes | ||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Diameter | Volume | Length | Volume | |
| 16 cm | 1.3 L | 23 cm | 2.6 L | |
| 18 cm | 1.8 L | 25 cm | 3.2 L | |
| 20 cm | 2.4 L | 27 cm | 4.1 L | |
| 22 cm | 3.3 L | 29 cm | 4.7 L | |
| 24 cm | 4.2 L | 31 cm | 6.1 L | |
| 26 cm | 5.3 L | |||
| 28 cm | 6.7 L | |||
| 30 cm | 8.4 L | |||
I looked down in my basket. Four small Wedgewood Avon cottage dessert bowls, in the deepest shade of blue. A white casserole with a thin blue border and ceramic cracked slightly enough to tell the wonderful story of dinners at an old pine table. An aluminium springform tin, with an opening mechanism I had never seen before; remind me to show you someday. The Phoenix glass sauce boat that I’ve been dreaming about.
Surely that’s enough finds for a day?, I thought. I was wrong.
[heading_right]Surely that’s enough finds for a day?,
I thought. I was wrong. [/heading_right]I ventured to the book section, the one by the far right corner of our local second-hand shop. There are mismatched chairs and thousands of vinyls under the table that stands at the centre of a labyrinth made of bookshelves that have certainly seen steadier days.
And right there, I found these three books. Pages of illustrations and notes about the Swedish wildlife. Pages thatI fell in love with and will soon thumb through. Pages I thought you might like too!
Andersson S., & Svensson R. (1980). Det vilda Sverige. Bra Böcker.
https://www.antikvariat.net/en/search/Det%2Bvilda%2BSverige?bookseller=all&letter=all&product_group=all&period=all¤cy=USD
Brusewitz, G. (1996). Dagbok från en sjö. Stockholm: Wahlström & Widstrand.
https://www.antikvariat.net/en/search/Dagbok%2Bfr%25C3%25A5n%2Ben%2Bsj%25C3%25B6?bookseller=all&letter=all&product_group=all&period=all¤cy=USD
Pettersson, G. (1984). Europas Rovfåglar. Höganäs: Bra Böcker.
https://www.antikvariat.net/en/search/europas%2Brovfaglar?bookseller=all&letter=all&product_group=all&period=all¤cy=USD
There was a day spent in the garden. A rake in the hands, and dead leaves piled high on a wheelbarrow. That day, the sun was high and warm, just like the two eagles we’d seen earlier, right after sunrise.
The following morning was an entirely different story. A story made of snowflakes and a crackling fireplace. Both lasted all day, for the record.
I baked the sourdough bread that I had left to proof on the porch overnight. And although it turned out to be much too big for my cast-iron pot, it was restlessly devoured while still warm, with only a few slices left for the next day.
I painted too. A dalahäst. Although I still need to draw on top of the watercolours, using ink, just like I always do.
And in the afternoon, when it became clear we wouldn’t leave the house, I whipped egg whites and folded them into fromage blanc, to make the one cake that might have possibly been baked weekly in my kitchen for a little over ten years, which I’ve yet to tell you about.
Fromage blanc cake
This recipe is a classic case of natural selection.
What started with the words tarte au fromage blanc, hastily written with a not-so-steady hand over twenty years ago has slowly turned into a cake – a term close enough, yet, hardly accurately describes the wonder that it really is.
All it took, really, was to remove the pâte brisée base. And just like that, many childhood memories resurfaced. The tourteau fromagé du Poitou; the burnt crust, the pâte brisée I would leave out in favour of the insane texture of this fresh goat’s cheese “cake”. And perhaps also, the soft cake that came from a cardboard box at the supermarket; halfway between a mousse and a cheesecake.
And maybe that’s what I should call it: Fromage blanc French cheesecake. But then, it’d sound much more flamboyant that what it is.
Because it is not. It’s a plain, slightly sour from the fromage blanc (however, Greek yoghurt makes and excellent substitute) and warm with vanilla (by any mean, please use homemade vanilla sugar) cake.
If eaten piping hot from the oven, it’s the softest thing you’ve ever had. And in the morning, after a night spent on the kitchen counter, it becomes firm and yet delicate; a form, which is without a doubt my favourite.
You could also add the zest from a lemon or an orange. Or fold in a light jam right before you pour the batter into its tin. I often don’t. For the sake of its plain, unpretentious character.
Fromage blanc cake
Serves 8-10
4 eggs, separated
a pinch of salt
100 g caster sugar
500 g fromage blanc or Greek yoghurt
100 g cornflour or plain flour
30 g vanilla sugar
Preheat the oven to 175°C (185°C for traditional ovens). Butter and line the bottom of a 22cm cake pan with baking paper, and set aside.
Whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until foamy. Add half the sugar and keep on whisking until they reach hard peaks.
In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks and remaining sugar until light and fluffy. Gently fold in the fromage blanc, cornflour and vanilla sugar.
Then, using a rubber spatula, fold in the meringue until barely smooth: it’s absolutely fine to still have bits of egg whites in the finished batter.
Transfer to your prepared tin, and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until well-domed and golden-brown. The top might have cracked a little and it should feel firm to the touch.
Allow the cake to cool down to room temperature in its tin, then unmould onto a plate. Serve dusted with icing sugar or with berries, just brought to the boil with a spoonful of caster sugar.
This afternoon, I started gathering things I want to bring with us to Åsen (two more days!!). A film camera, and many rolls of my favourite film – Kodak Ektar in case you’re wondering, two bags of stone-ground flour, a glazed ceramic tray, watercolours and brushes.
And in the center of the block of cold-pressed paper, I found these illustrations I made two summers or so ago. Sat on the patio of our cabin in Åsen, to the sound of raining trees.
And I thought I’d tell you about the life-changing way to scan watercolours. A simple trick that I read about on Elizabeth’s blog.
The process, which allows to control the rendered texture of the cold-pressed paper that makes editing a watercolour in Photoshop a pain, has become a favourite. And K. may have had to hear me ramble about it for a week or so, happy-dance included.
But scan it twice, rotating the image to 180° on the scanner bed for the second scan.
Layer both images, align the content, and set the top layer to 50% ( more or less, it’s up to you how much “texture” you want to show).
Which for me means: extracting the illustration using the channel panel, possibly correcting the white balance/saturation/contrast, and exporting.
For a more detailed instructions, please head over Elizabeth’s for a beautifully illustrated tutorial.
One morning, we left for Byske as soon as K. got home; with, for only reason, the two horses that he’d seen and wanted to show me.
In the distance, a farm broke through the wall of björkar [birches] that lines the road. As we approached, it became clear that the horses had been moved.
Instead, we stopped a few hundreds of meters later, way past the runestone that I’m still very curious about (note-to-self: go there again, please). We sat on the car and ate the two apples I had brought along. K. cut some birch branches for the påskris [Easter tree] that was to happen.
Another day, we sat in the setting sun; to the sound of a crackling fire, and geese heading north above our heads, not unlike a compass of some sort. There might have been korv and baguette, chocolate and kokkaffe. And before dusk settled behind the trees, Kalle threw his first cast into a river that had lost its winter ice.
Tonight, we heard raindrops against the glass rooftop of our veranda. And really, I had forgotten how wonderful rain can be after months made of silent snowflakes.
Yes, just like that, spring happened.
Romtårta
Adapted from Suss’ recipe in Megafonen n°3 2016.
From what I’ve gathered, romtårta [litterally, roe cake; a savoury roe cheesecake] is a summer classic.
It does, however, get made as soon as the sun makes its return in the north; perhaps, not unlike a rain dance.
This recipe comes from my friend Suss, and I fell in love with it when she made in at the café for an Easter du jour special.
The earthiness of the bread, which I highly recommend to be a sunflower seed-heavy rågbröd, meddles beautifully with the lemon and the sea-saltiness of the roe.
Make sure to top your tårta with plenty of vegetables to add texture and freshness. I went for thinly shaved radishes and cucumber, sliced sugar snap peas, and bits of lemon segments.
You can make it either as a large tart, which I think would look stunning on a dinner table, or like I did, smaller individual tarts.
In any case, I truly think it will become an Easter tradition in our house. And perhaps in yours too.
As you may know, I’ve been trying to write an article about gelatin for – literally – years. And every now and then, I become obsessed with it again.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, as it’s an ingredient that is so tremendously different from one country to another that it makes my job as a chef and a food writer quite difficult.
I won’t get into details about it now, but let me just tell you that in between France, the UK, and Sweden, I’ve had to adjust my recipes a lot to fit the gelatin available in each place.
When I first made this recipe, it called for 4 gelatin leaves. The gelatin we get from the supermarkets here is extra guld [extra gold], so I’m assuming its on the higher end of the bloom spectrum for gold gelatin, perhaps 220-230 bloom.
However, I have found that 4 leaves was slightly too much in this case, so I’ve reduced the gelatin in the recipe below to 3 leaves, bringing it to 5.1g of 220-230 bloom gelatin.
Please, note that the gelatin here in Sweden is much stronger than the gelatin found in French or English supermarkets, so you might need more. In fact, one leaf here seems to be almost the equivalent of a professional gelatin leaf, both in strength and weight.
If in doubt, go by weight: 5 grams; and add a couple of grams if your gelatin has a strength comprised between 160-190 bloom.
However, remember to start with less, as a cheesecake with a creamier texture – although it might look a bit messy – will always be better than an over-set one.
Romtårta
Makes 8 individual tarts or one 24cm.
For the base
200 g rye bread, pumpernickel, or even crackers
75 g butter, melted
a fat pinch of salt
For the “cheesecake”
3 gelatin leaves (around 5g, see note above)
300 g cream cheese
200 g crème fraiche
1/2 red onion, finely minced
juice and zest from a lemon
a pinch of salt
freshly ground black pepper
80 g fish roe
To finish
300 g cocktail prawns, shelled
radishes, sugar snap peas, cucumber, dill, chives
Make the base
Prepare eight 8cm-wide rings or a large 24cm ring on a tray that fits in your fridge, and is lined with baking paper.
Blitz the bread into crumbs, and add the melted butter and salt. Divide the mixture in between the prepared rings, and press to form a base.
Set aside in the fridge until needed.
Make the filling
Soak the gelatin leaves in ice-cold water.
In a large bowl, mix half the cream cheese with the crème fraiche, lemon juice and zest, salt and pepper.
Heat the remaining cream cheese – either in the microwave or over a bain-marie – until around 60°C.
Dissolve the gelatin in the warm cream cheese, and incorporate it into the crème fraiche mixture using a whisk.
Gently fold in the roe, and divide this cream into the prepared ring.
Refrigerate for at least an hour.
Unmould by running a small knife around the rim of your rings and top with prawns and sliced vegetables of your choice.
The Swedish saffron and almond buns you see here were made on the twenty-fourth of November. Perhaps, it was a Tuesday. Or a Monday. But I remember how we made the dough the night before. And topped it with marzipan butter in the morning, just as a trumpet in the distance started playing Christmas melodies. I might have let them overproof as I went for a walk in the snow.
Yes, I might have.
Since then, I’ve made them countless times at the café and twice more at home. For a Christmas fika.
Today, I have a different kind of saffron buns proofing on my kitchen counter: lussekatter. A simple saffron dough, rolled and twirled into shape.
And I’m pretty certain that every house in Sweden also smells like warm saffron. And perhaps, if they’re as lucky as we are, of forest and cinnamon too.
Because it’s St Lucia today. And the third Sunday of advent.
But I’ll have to wait to show you the lussekatter, as the sun set hours ago and it’s now too dark to take pictures.
However, I’m sure that these bullar will make a perfect in-the-meantime treat. And possibly make you wish for a forever in-the-meantime moment.
Saffransbullar med mandelmassa
For these buns, I adapted my usual kanelbullar recipe by adding saffron to the dough. Here in Sweden, saffron is easy to come across and fairly inexpensive – compared to France or the UK. One of the things I find particularly pleasant, is that the saffron comes already ground so you don’t have to infuse it in warm liquid like I’ve been used to with the threads.
Edit 13/12/2018: Nowadays, I always tend to dissolve the saffron in a tablespoon or so of rum. I find it brings out the flavour even more!
If you don’t have any ground saffron, simply bring the milk to the boil and soak/infuse the saffron threads in it for at least 30 minutes. You will have to wait for the milk to be completely cooled down before using in the recipe.
The filling recipe comes from my friend Suss, my one and only reference when it comes to all things related to Swedish baking. She’s an amazing baker and these buns alone prove it!
It’s really straight-forward: butter, marzipan, and the zest of an orange; and yet, it makes for the best saffron buns you’ll ever find.
Saffransbullar med mandelmassa
makes around 14-16
530 g strong flour
70 g caster sugar
16 g fresh yeast
10 g sea salt
0.5 g ground saffron (see note above)
3 eggs (150 g)
190 g whole milk
150 g unsalted butter, at room temperature
160 g salted butter, at room temperature
160 g marzipan
zest from 2 oranges
1 egg, beaten, to glaze
a handful of pearl sugar
75 g caster sugar
75 g water
In a large bowl, combine the flour, caster sugar, yeast, salt and saffron. Add the eggs and milk, and mix with a wooden spoon until a dough forms. Transfer to a clean work surface and knead by hand for around 20 minutes – if you’re making the dough in a stand-mixer, fit it with the hook attachment and knead on medium speed for around 10 minutes, until the dough detaches from the sides of the bowl and feels: – smooth, elastic and barely tacky. If you take a small piece of dough, you should be able to stretch it into a very thin membrane.
Add the butter in three or four times – if making by hand; if you’re using a stand mixer, add the butter, one small piece at a time continuously until all the butter is in – and knead it in for around 10 minutes. The dough will “split” as you do so and butter will smear over your work surface, but keep on adding butter until it’s all used. Then knead the dough until smooth again. Place in a large bowl, and clingfilm to the touch.
You could proof the dough for 1 hour at room temperature and then place it in the fridge for at least another hour before using it, or refrigerate straight away for at least 8 hours and up to 24 hours.
The next day, get two baking trays ready by lining then with baking paper. Make the almond butter by mixing all the ingredients until smooth and spreadable.
Slightly flour your work bench and tip the dough over. Roll into a 30 x 60 cm rectangle, around 5-6mm thick, with the short end facing you. Spread the almond butter evenly over the lower 2/3 of the dough. Then fold the dough into three, first the top part over the centre, then the bottom (and closest to you) over the rest. You should be left with a 30 x 20 cm-ish rectangle.
Cut 2cm wide strips and roll each into a knot, and place it on the prepared baking tray. Keep on going until all the strips are rolled.
Cover loosely with clingfilm and allow to proof for a couple of hours or until doubled in size.
Preheat the oven to 185°C.
Brush the top of the buns with the egg wash and sprinkle with pearl sugar.
Bake for 12-16 minutes or until golden brown.
Transfer to a wire-rack using a palette knife and allow to cool down slightly.
For extra shiny buns, brush the top of your just-baked bullar with a simple syrup made of equal quantity of sugar and water brought to the boil.
pS. If you want to follow my Swedish Christmas adventures, use #fannysjul on instagram. X
Today, it hailed three times. Rained once. And snowed twice. With the sun being at its brightest in between. Yes, I think April showers take a whole new meaning here.
Some other things do too.
In fact, I started this post in my head – perhaps yesterday, or even the day before – by telling you how busy this week has been. But as I’m writing this now – dressed with wool from head to toes, and sitting at the little wooden table that stands by the stacked firewood; hot chocolate in one hand, computer in the other, pink sunset and all – I’m forced to re-evaluate my Swedish version of busy.
Especially when, just a few months ago, busy meant an eighteen-hour day on a three-hour night. A few hundreds of covers and the mise-en-place to match.
These days, busy has been more like taking walks and pictures. An occasional visit to the city we’ll call home from this Monday. Perhaps, a batch of croissants; twelve of them. Or some choux, with a vanilla cream just so. A few hours spent unpacking the boxes we brought from London. And packing the essentials again. A loaf of bread; a large one mind you, but still: one. Uploading all my recipes (well, as of now, I’m about one percent into the process) to – what I think is going to be – the best/easiest/cleanest recipe database ever.
PS. The pictures above were taken when I made half a batch of brioche. So, in case you wondered, that’s why my finished log of dough is only around 30cm long and not 60 as yours would be if you decide to make a full batch.
I’ve been having a bit of a rubber band moment. You see I’ve always used them in the kitchen, in one way or another, but these past few weeks, I’ve found myself reaching for the bundle we keep in – what used to be – an ice-cream tub more and more often.
So I thought I’d share how I use rubber bands in my kitchen. And as always, please do add your own little tips in the comments!
– to keep flour bags closed; I simply roll the top of the bag, then tie the band around.
– to avoid using clingfilm; I’ve been cutting the edges of a freezer bag to form a large square which I place on top of the bowl I want to cover and secure it with a rubber band. Voilà, reusable clingfilm! This is perfect when proofing bread dough as it provides an airtight environment.
I also love this to secure a kitchen towel or a piece of mousseline to “close” my starter jar or my kombucha.
– to drain off the excess chocolate when making dipped bonbons; I place a rubber band across the bowl into which I have my tempered chocolate, and after dipping my intérieur (be it a ganache or some candied fruit or marzipan), I first drain them by doing up and down movements to create some suction which will get rid of most the excess, and then I scrape my bonbon on the elastic which removes the last bit of chocolate; finally, I place my coated bonbon onto a sheet of feuille guitare or acetate, and leave it to crystallise.
– to assess of how much my starter proofs. After its feed, I simply place the rubber band around my jar – at the same level my starter lies at. A few hours later, it’s super easy to notice how much it’s proofed.
– to keep my silpats and baking paper scraps neatly rolled. You know, most pastry shops reuse their baking paper; something I wish we did more often at home!
– to have my notebook open at all time during baking; no more butter finger-prints (no matter how romantic we make it seem). I just slide two elastics on my notebook, one of each side of the page I want to keep open. This way, I can easily jot down notes as I work on recipes.
I’d like to tell you I’ve made macarons today. I had planned to. Really. Last week, we bought mandelmjöl [ground almonds] and florsocker [icing sugar]; mjölkchoklad [milk chocolate] and vispgrädde [whipping cream].
But you see, we’ve been for walks everyday. At times, in the forest. Or by the river. And, always, in the snow.
And the chocolate bars we wrapped in foil – along with kokkaffe and the old kaffekanna [coffee pot], perhaps a square or two of Tatin tart salted caramels too, and a few baconost [bacon cheese] sandwiches that K. loves to make with lingonbröd [lingonberry bread, which I’ve seen an amazing recipe for here, and I can’t wait to go pick lingonberries to make it] – well, they’re gone.
Yes, I wanted to make moka macarons, but we’ve eaten all the chocolate before it even got the chance to be turned into a whipped ganache, just so.
Instead, we made the most of last night snowfall. For K. and Kaiser, the not-so-puppy-anymore you’ve perhaps seen on my pictures, it most likely involved effortless runs over the ice. For me, it means that the one patch of slippery mud will land me somewhere I didn’t decide to. Repeatedly 🙂
Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes
When I realised I had never posted a recipe for macarons, I couldn’t believe it. It’s not like I haven’t spent the last seven years of my life making some almost daily. Pistachio and vanilla were ranking high amongst all. But I’ve also made some with elderflower and champagne, fermented mango, coconut and lime, salted caramel, avocado and chilli, pumpkin and cinnamon, rhubarb and cream. Even beetroot and orange ones. The list could go on for – almost – ever, really.
And that’s what I love about macarons, how versatile they are.
These ones are made with caramelised white chocolate – a love of mine, and roasted hazelnuts.
At times, I like to fill my macarons with a crémeux instead of a ganache to lower the sweetness slightly. However, macarons made with crémeux will only keep for a couple of days in the fridge before getting a bit too moist. They will keep beautifully frozen though, and judging by how many times I’ve seen our container in the freezer getting emptier and emptier, I’m sure some chefs – whose names will remain undisclosed – can vouch for it.
The recipe for the shells is adapted from Andrew Gravett’s beautiful macarons. He’s an amazing pastry chef and person, and I couldn’t be anymore grateful to have followed him in one way or another during my six years in London.
It’s super-foolproof. And trust me, this is something you want your macarons to be.
The stages are quite simple really: start by making a smooth tant-pour-tant, for this I like to use extra fine ground almonds as they give a more flawless finish.
Then make an Italian meringue, which you fold into the almond mixture and the extra egg whites.
After all is incorporated, you’ll deflate the batter slightly. This step, called macaronage, can be done with either a maryse or a plastic scraper. I like to use a plastic scraper and push the batter against the sides of the bowl until I have the correct texture. Now, it’s quite hard to describe the texture of the finished macaron batter: it should almost form a ruban and when the batter drops, it should smooth out into the rest, leaving only the tiniest bump.
If you’d like I could write a little post about macaron troubles and what they mean. Perhaps we’d call it the macaron doctor?
In the meantime, here are a few notes on macarons:
– flat and odd shaped macarons with bubbles mean your batter was over-mixed.
– gritty macarons with a pointy top means your batter was under-mixed.
– cracked shells can mean two things: too much humidity in your kitchen/oven or your oven temperature is too high.
– shells that stick to the silicon mat: try to bake them a minute or two longer.
Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes
makes around 40 macarons
for the caramelised white chocolate
100 g white chocolate
Preheat the oven to 180°C/fan 160°C. Place the chopped chocolate onto a baking tray lined with a silpat. Bake for 8 minutes, or until the chocolate is golden-brown. Take out from the oven, and using an off-set palette knife, work the chocolate to even out the colour and smooth it out. Allow to cool down while you get on with the rest.
for the hazelnut paste
300 g blanched hazelnuts
Preheat the oven to 165°C/fan 145°C and roast the halzelnuts for 20-25 minutes, or until golden-brown. Save 100g to chop for decorating shells. And blitz the remaining 200g in a mixer until you have a smooth paste, around 8 minutes.
This will make more than you need, but you can keep it in a container in the fridge for later use.
For the caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut crémeux
1 g gelatine 200 bloom
50 g hazelnut paste
60 g caramelised white chocolate
50 g milk
50 g 35% cream
a fat pinch of salt
1 egg yolk
Soak the gelatine in ice-cold water. Place the caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut paste in a bowl.
Bring the milk and cream to the boil. Pour onto the egg yolk, whisking as you do so. And return to the pan. Cook over low heat to 80°C, stirring at all times with a silicon spatula. Off the heat, add the squeezed gelatine. Then pour onto the white chocolate in three times, emulsifying well to create a glossy core. Handblend for 3 minutes to emulsify further.
Transfer to a container and clingfilm to the touch. Chill for at least 4 hours or up to 3 days.
For the macarons
150 g icing sugar
150 g ground almonds
55 g egg whites
150 g caster sugar
50 g water
55 g egg whites
15 g caster sugar
100 g roasted hazelnuts, chopped and cooled down
In a small blender, blitz the icing sugar and ground almonds for a couple of minutes, pulsing so it doesn’t overheat the nuts. Tip into a large bowl and add the egg whites. Mix to a smooth paste and cover with a damp cloth.
Place the sugar and water in a small pan and cook over medium het to 118°C.
When the syrup reaches 110°C, start whisking the egg whites on low speed. When soft peaks form, add the caster sugar, a little at a time, keep on whisking until stiff peaks form.
Wait for the syrup to stop bubbling – around 30 seconds or so – and pour over your meringue, whisking as you do so, along the sides of the bowl to avoid splashes. Once all the syrup as been incorporated, increase the speed to medium and keep on whisking until the meringue is around 50°C.
Add the meringue to the almond mixture and fold in using a maryse. Then deflate slightly until you get a ribbon.
Pipe the macarons using a 9mm nozzle onto a baking tray lined with a silpat. Around 3cm wide. Immediately sprinkle with chopped hazelnuts.
Leave the trays at room temperature for around 30 minutes, or until a skin forms and the macarons no longer feel tacky.
Bake at 160°C/fan 140°C for 12 minutes.
Allow to cool down completely, then turn the macaron and fill them with the crémeux using a 11mm nozzle.
Freeze on a baking tray, then put away in an air-tight container.
I like to butter my rings before lining with dough. It will slide down the ring more easily and won’t ever ever stick to it once baked.
These days I always roll my dough in betwen two sheets of feuille guitare, a thin acetate. If you can get your hands on it, it’s much better than baking paper, as the dough won’t crease.
If I’m using pâte sucrée or as I show you here my favourite biscuit dough (any kind of soft dough that patches well, really; I can’t think of any aside from pâte brisée or feuilletée), I like to cut strips to the height I want my tart to be and a disk for the bottom.
This is way easier to handle and creates a flawless tart case with perfect corners.
To calculate how long the strips that goes around the ring should be, it’s very simple.
And then, for the bottom-disk: just cut it one cm smaller than your ring.
To line the ring, simply place the strip of dough on the inside, sealing with your fingers where the two ends meet. And then place the disk of dough in the centre, pushing it slightly so that it reaches the sides. Run your finger to smooth out and seal.
I usually go for clingfilm whenever I’m blind-baking a large tart (bigger than 10cm-wide), as it’s the most convenient.
Simply layer two large pieces of clingfilm, smoothing out with a tea towel, then place over your unbaked tart case and add rice or pulses up to the rim. Press with your hands to compress your baking weights, making sure they go well into the corners of your tart. Loosely close your clingfilm. If you wrap it too tight, the clingfilm as it shrinks a little with the heat, won’t be in contact with the sides of your tart anymore.
This technique is amazing as it bakes the dough much more evenly than any other. But it can be a bit of a pain at times, with the clingfilm breaking and spilling rice everywhere. Yes, it’s happened before 😉
This is my go-to method, one that I learnt at Pierre Hermé, back in 2007. Using your fingers you “break” cupcake paper so that they are the size of your ring. Fill with rice or pulses. And you’re pretty much set. It’s incredibly easy, reusable for almost-ever and the fastest.
This method has only one downside: it will leave imprints on the baked tart case.
At the restaurant I always go for 155°C, but at home, in my not so amazing oven, I’ve found that 165°C works perfectly.
Of course it also depends on the kind of dough you’re using. The best is to experiment, until you’re happy with the results.
As a general rule though, 150-160°C for fan-assisted ovens, and 165-170°C for traditional ovens.
This is my absolute favourite trick to make tart cases neater than neat. Simply trim any bits of dough that might have popped out a little out from the rings, either at the base or the top with a peeler.
Do this when your tart case is completely cold. And ever so gently.
No thank you. They’re too big: don’t get in the corners. Too heavy: break the delicate structure of your dough, leave imprints. Too expensive.
If you have any other question, please leave me a comment and I’ll try to answer. Also, if there is any technique or ingredient you would like to see broken down, tell me. x