Tag: illustrations

  • Zimtstern à la cannelle

    Zimtstern à la cannelle


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

    Zimtstern à la cannelle

    Makes around 50 small biscuits.

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

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

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

    For the royal icing

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

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

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

  • Les abricots

    Les abricots

    Yesterday, we found a basket on our fence. The third this week. It’s made of osier and hung by a metal hook.

    Inside, we could see apricots. And at times, cherries.

    Most of the fruits have been eaten already. Fresh, torn in halves, with their juices running on our fingers. Really, why mess with perfection?

    But we have still a few kilograms of apricots left. Golden plump jewels. I’ve made an upside-down apricot and camomile cake. It was all sorts of wonderful. A crumb loaded with camomile leaves. The juices of the apricots turning into compote with the heat.

    The recipe will be in the book of course, as most things that happen in my kitchen right now. Really I can’t wait to tell you more about all those words I write and all those cakes I bake. It should be all sorts of wonderful too!

    But in the meantime, I have a question or two. What are your favourite recipes with apricots?

    I have some gathered some notes already, in case you have more apricots that you can possibly eat (is there such thing?).

    – apricot crème crûlée tart.
    – baked apricots with limoncello, from the ever-gorgeous what katie ate.
    – apricot and chocolate baby clafoutis.
    – apricot tart with brown sugar and cinnamon pastry, from BBC goodfood.
    – grilled apricots with honey and olive oil, on Taylor’s beautiful blog.
    – apricot and matcha tiramisu, on – need I say more – my friend’s, Keiko, blog: nordljus which has been an absolute favourite for years.
    – and her roasted apricots with camomile too, a recipe I remember dreaming over six years ago now.
    – rosemary and apricot tarte tatin.

  • Chewy flapjacks

    Chewy flapjacks

    I started collecting objects, to make up for memories I forgot. A blue pool ball, a broken cigarette, a plastic table number.

    I read words. Most of the time, at night. Yes, all it took was a few words. Perhaps, a bad google translation too. In fact, some words don’t translate well into French. But it was cute. And it made me miss him even though I thought he was part of those long gone memories.

    And when the world we both knew started to fold itself and disappear, I employed magical thinking. Of the good kind. Possibly involving flapjacks. Because, let’s face it, they seem to be a bit of a mystery around here these days.
    Some people want them crunchy. Most go for chewy. A pinch of flour or not? And what about condensed milk…

    Chewy flapjacks

    Those are, by no means, the best flapjacks ever. There are in my own world. But then, I wasn’t lucky enough to be brought up on crumpets and marmalade, and had to make the most of croissants and confiture.

    They are those flapjacks with a thin crunchy crust and soft chewy – almost – fudgy crumb. If you’re after the crunchiest kind, I would suggest to use a larger pan (so the overall thickness is thinner) and bake them at a slightly higher temperature. Perhaps, 190°C.
    Here, I bake them at 180°C. But please, as with all baking, keep in mind that I have a diplodocus of an oven. Non fan-assisted. And with all the heat coming from two gas burners at the bottom. If you have a fan oven, it’s good to reduce the temperature by 20°C (and open a bottle of champagne).

    There are two important steps – if they can even be called this way. The first is to line the pan all the way to the top with baking paper. And the second is not to bring the sugar/butter mixture to the boil before adding the oats. You just want the butter and light brown sugar to be happily melted.

    Chewy flapjacks

    makes 10-12

    200g condensed milk
    150g butter
    85g light brown sugar
    60g golden syrup
    5g maldon sea salt
    320g oats

    Preheat the oven to 180°C/fan 160°C, and line a 20x20cm baking tin with baking paper. I like to butter the pan first so the paper nicely sticks to it, without any crease.

    In a large pan, place the condensed milk, butter, light brown sugar, golden syrup and salt, and cook over slow heat until the butter has dissolved.

    Mix in the oats until nicely coated. Spread into the lined tin, pressing down with the back of a spoon to chase any air. Bake for 18-20 minutes, or until the edges just start to brown.

    Allow to cool, then slice into rectangles – trimming the edges, as you do so – with a sharp knife.

  • Olive oil jelly

    Olive oil jelly

    Olive oil jelly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    PRINT

    Olive oil jelly

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

    Notes

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

    Ingredients

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

    Instructions

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

    Note: this post was updated in April 2023.

  • Une maryse

    Une maryse

    A maryse, pronounced MAH-REESE, is – what chefs call – a rubber spatula. It is actually a brand, possibly registered by De Buyer, and somehow along the way we started using the name as a utensil.

    There are two kinds. The red ones, which are heat-resistant. In fact, they can take heat up to 260°C. While the white ones – slightly softer and more flexible – are just made for scraping and folding cold preparations.

    I love them for:
    – cooking crème anglaise and ice-creams
    – folding cream or egg whites into a mousse base*
    – scraping a bowl, a pan, or a plastic container

    * That is when I’m not making 20L of mousse, in which case I will go with the hand-and-scraper way.

  • Scallion pancakes

    Scallion pancakes

    There is something about the way flour bonds with water. Something that possibly goes back to afternoons spent sat on the kitchen counter, watching my grand-mother making pâte brisée [shortcrust pastry], which I would – of course – nibble on.

    So the prospect of mixing flour and water to a dough, then sprinkled with a generous handful of chopped spring onions – and a pinch of Maldon sea salt – felt like music to me.

    I followed this recipe. For those of you who prefer to use kitchen scales – and may the gods of pastry bless you for that – I’ve written the quantities I’ve used below.


    The resulting pancakes are chewy and yet flaky. And the drawing above should have given you a hint, but they’re rather delicious when served with a drizzle – or more – of Sriracha sauce.

    Chinese scallion pancakes

    Makes eight pancakes, or four huge ones.

    Mix 300 g of plain flour with 240 g of boiling water using a wooden spoon. After it comes together, invert onto your kitchen counter and and knead until smooth. five minutes or so. Brush with a little vegetable oil, cover with clingfilm and allow to rest for half-an-hour, or overnight in the fridge.

    Cut the dough into four. Lightly oil your work surface and roll out one of the balls of dough into a thin rectangle at least 30x35cm.

    Lightly brush the top of the dough with vegetable or sesame oil. Finely chop a bunch of spring onions and sprinkle on top of the dough along with a pinch of Maldon sea salt.

    Starting from the long end, roll the dough up tightly, then cut in two. Coil each part into a bundle. Let the snails rest under clingfilm while you repeat this process with the rest of the dough.

    And finally roll out the snails into flat disks.

    Heat a tablespoon of vegetable oil into a frying pan and cook the pancake for approximately two minutes on each side, until golden brown.

    Cut into wedges and serve with a dipping sauce. And when I say dipping sauce, I really mean Sriracha.



    Now, what’s your favourite use for Sriracha? And have you tried making your own?

  • My second week as a stagiaire at Pierre Hermé, into the macaron universe

    My second week as a stagiaire at Pierre Hermé, into the macaron universe

    How does one prepare to work in the macaron team? That was exactly what I asked myself on the RER ride home after my first day with the afternoon team – the macaron makers.

    I was exhausted, but also in awe. How could the team be so fast, precise, and professional, while still managing to be funny and kind?

    I arrived at the Vaugirard shop well in advance, around 1:30pm, wanting to make a good first impression. The routine was now familiar: uniform on, aprons tied, hands washed, greetings exchanged. And then, I stepped into the macaron universe.

    The rhythm of macaron-making

    First, the ganaches. I started with jasmine, a delicate and fragrant batch, but by the time I had finished, the others had already made two, sometimes three.

    Then, sorting the coques – the delicate macaron shells. Any broken ones were set aside, baking papers flipped onto racks, and the coques lined up: 12 across, 8 down. It might sound simple, but after a few hours, I felt like a macaron-sorting machine. My tired brain blurred the sizes together, and I realised how quickly repetitive tasks can play tricks on perception.

    Next came filling and closing. One or two chefs piped the luscious ganache onto the waiting coques, and I followed, closing them as quickly as possible. The ganache sets fast, and if not closed in time, it doesn’t form the perfect little belly. This was my favourite part – until we got to the Ispahan macarons.

    Not only did these need to be closed, but before that, each one had to be topped with a tiny square of homemade raspberry gellant. The sticky fruit jelly, made with agar agar instead of gelatine, added an extra step that required precision and patience. The result, though, was worth it. Biting into a perfectly round, glossy macaron, only to discover a hidden raspberry surprise, was nothing short of magic.

    Pierre Hermé’s signature touch

    This hidden centre is what sets Pierre Hermé’s macarons apart. Each one holds a little unexpected treasure:

    – Olive oil and vanilla – two tiny pieces of green olive.
    – Ispahan – a raspberry gellant square.
    – Mosaic – two griotte halves (this one is my favourite).
    – White truffle and hazelnut – three crushed hazelnuts.

    It’s a brilliant idea, elevating each macaron beyond just a shell and a filling, making every bite a layered experience. And then there’s the ganache itself – generous, rich, the true focus of the macaron.

    Closing time (or so I thought)

    By the time we finished the last of the 6000 to 8000 macarons, it was already 11pm, and I assumed it was time to go home. I was wrong. Totally wrong.

    Cleaning time.

    Surprisingly, I didn’t mind. Cleaning the fridge felt almost refreshing after hours of standing in the heat. I hadn’t realised just how warm the room had become until I stepped inside. Who said macaron-making isn’t a sport?

    The days after

    Despite the tiredness, the heat, the repetitive motions, something shifted after that first day.

    I got faster, more precise. I learned the rhythm of the team, the flow of the work. I made ganache after ganache, filled and closed hundreds of macarons, and worked alongside some of the kindest people I’ve ever met.

    By the time my week with the macaron team ended, I almost didn’t want to leave (almost). The whole experience felt like a blur – a week that somehow lasted a minute.

    The reward

    Of course, I had to celebrate all the hard work. And what better way than with a selection of macarons from the current collection?

    The tasting

    01. Arabesque
    Macaron sprinkled with pistachio, filled with apricot ganache and pistachio praline. The ganache, thickened with dried apricots, contains no cream. The pistachio praline? Absolutely out of this world.

    02. Café fort [strong coffee]
    A clean, well-balanced coffee ganache, wrapped in beautiful shades of brown.

    03. Thé au jasmin [jasmine tea]
    A floral, fragrant ganache with a distinct jasmine taste.

    04. Caramel au beurre salé [salted caramel]
    A rich caramel buttercream filling. Decadent. Impossible to resist.

    05. Chocolat amer [bitter chocolate]
    Dark chocolate macaron with a 70% dark chocolate ganache. The first macaron we make each day, as the high cocoa butter content means the ganache sets quickly. Rich, deep, slightly bitter – a classic.

    06. Mogador
    Milk chocolate and passion fruit ganache. At first, I wasn’t sure. Now, it’s one of my favourites. The sharp tang of passion fruit against the smoothness of milk chocolate is irresistible.

    07. Ispahan
    Rose and lychee ganache with raspberry gellant. I’m not the biggest fan of rose and lychee together, but the sharpness of the raspberry gellant makes this macaron sing.

    08. Mosaic
    Pistachio and cinnamon ganache with two griotte halves. Looks beautiful, tastes even better. The cinnamon warms the pistachio, while the griottes add a sharp contrast.

    09. Olive oil et vanille
    An olive oil and vanilla ganache, with two tiny green olives hidden inside. If you think olive oil in dessert is strange, this will change your mind. The slight bitterness of the oil against the sweetness of the vanilla is unexpectedly perfect.

    10. Rose
    Macaron with rose crème au beurre.
    Tasting notes: Yummy in pink. This macaron is really fragrant and delicate.

    Next week: back to the morning team.

    (First written in July 2007, edited February 2025.)

  • My first week as a stagiaire at Pierre Hermé, rue de Vaugirard

    My first week as a stagiaire at Pierre Hermé, rue de Vaugirard

    Paris, one week in.

    Barely settled from New Zealand, and already I’m on a train to Paris – off to start my long-awaited internship at Pierre Hermé.

    The alarm goes off at 4:30. In the dark, I make my way to the shop in the 15th arrondissement, stepping inside as quietly as I can. It’s empty. Where is everyone? A moment later, I find Sébastien, the head of the morning team, who hands me a set of locker keys. Now, at least, I can head downstairs and change.

    The pâtissier outfit – something I once imagined with so much anticipation – turns out to be more practical than elegant. A loose jacket, high-waisted pied-de-poule trousers, a Pierre Hermé baseball cap. The only redeeming piece: my shoes, white sabots, built for long hours on my feet. Some people manage to make it look good. I am not one of them. If I had any doubt, it vanished when one of the guys saw me in my regular clothes and exclaimed, “Oh mais Fanny, vous êtes beaucoup plus belle comme ça, vraiment.”

    With that settled, I stop looking in the mirror and go upstairs to meet the chefs. Apron first – two, actually: one cotton, one plastic. Things will get messy.

    I step into the laboratoire, wash my hands, shake hands with everyone. So many new faces, so many names. I pride myself on being good with names, but this is another level. I smile, nod, listen. The use of vous is enough to remind me that no matter how quickly I learn, I am still the new one here.

    Pastry kitchen survival 101

    Rule one: vous, always.
    Rule two: say chaud – not necessarily because what you’re carrying is hot, but because it’s heavy, in motion, and you don’t want to hear dégage instead. After a while, shouting chaud every few minutes becomes second nature. And useful – I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be doused in 118°C sugar syrup.

    By now, it’s just after six, and I am wide awake. Not just awake – sharp. Watching hands move, pastry bags squeeze, trays slide in and out of ovens, buttercream smoothed into perfect ripples. This is the morning team. They’re here to produce cakes, entremets, yeasted pastries – every motion precise, every detail considered.

    First week, first lessons

    My role? To move from one station to another, stepping in where needed, absorbing everything I can. In my first week, I’ve done everything from sorting almonds to making candied lemon peel. I start with something simple – measuring ingredients for crème onctueuse au chocolat. Straightforward, a good way to ease in. Then, the unexpected: the manager tells me to help Simon decorate the Ispahan entremets.

    Ispahan. One of the it-pastries at Pierre Hermé. My excitement rises as I stand before the delicate pink creations, ready to arrange raspberries over rose-scented buttercream, tuck fragrant lychees between them, pipe a tiny drop of glucose onto a rose petal before pressing it gently onto the macaron shell.

    Then, the Emotions. Pierre Hermé’s signature glass desserts – layered, spoonable. I make both Mosaic (griotte jelly, pistachio jelly, mascarpone cream) and Celeste (rhubarb compote, strawberries, passion fruit mousse, passion fruit marshmallows). The passion fruit marshmallows – light as air, with just enough chew. Separating hundreds of them, rolling them in icing sugar, takes patience, but the result is worth it.

    At some point, they let me make an entire batch of Sensation Céleste. A glass layered with jellies, topped with a macaron. First, rhubarb compote – gelatine, purée, lemon, sugar. A measured pour into each glass. Time to set, then another layer, another. I pipe tiny rounds of banana and strawberry jelly for Désiré, a dessert that’s just as delicious as it sounds.

    But I can’t just stay at my station – I find myself watching Anna, who handles everything that goes into the oven. Brioche, croissants, canelés, millefeuilles. The canelés are the best I’ve ever had – soft inside, deeply caramelised outside. The Mosaic millefeuille is a dream, pistachio cream playing against the tart griottes.

    Next week: c’est la folie des macarons.

    (First written in July 2007, edited February 2025.)