Tag: recipes

  • Recipe studies: Brioche

    Recipe studies: Brioche

    In which we explore different aspects of the science behind brioche; from the study of the impact of the egg to milk ratio in the dough, to techniques and further questions.

    Follow the study here or on instagram: #BRIOCHESTUDY.

    Analysing the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in brioche formulas

    CONTENT TABLE

    – Part I: the approach

    – Part II: the ingredients

    – Part III: the process – method, techniques and tips – TO COME

    – Recipe: brioche #1, the control

    – Recipe: brioche #2, the almost Chavot-brioche – TO COME

    – Recipe: brioche #3, the pain au lait – TO COME

    – Recipe: brioches #4 and #5 – TO COME

    – Part IV: impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs – TO COME

    – Ressources: Brioche in literature – TO COME

    Other themes may include: research on flour protein variations, how to knead brioche by hand…

  • Fromage blanc cake

    Fromage blanc cake

    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.

  • Romtårta

    Romtårta

    [Trout roe cheesecake]

    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.

    A note on the gelatin

    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.

  • On pâte sucrée (and my favourite lemon meringue tart)

    On pâte sucrée (and my favourite lemon meringue tart)

    I intended for today’s post to be short – almost-wordless short. Really, it was just meant to be a recipe that I developed for a nut-free pâte sucrée.
    And that what it is, in essence. With a few notes around it.

    In France – or at least at the pâtisseries where I worked, and in books and magazines – pâte sucrée will always call for ground almonds (or some other kind of ground nuts, depending on the finished tart). This gives the dough a short, crumbly texture, and a wonderful roasted aroma. No questions asked.
    But here in Sweden, I’ve found that many people have food allergies, so I’ve had to improvise. And after many trials, I’ve finally worked out a nut-free recipe that I’m happy with, and that stands against the pâte sucrée I grew up making.

    Now, I could tell you a few stories about chefs that I worked with in London and their relationships with customers who have allergies or dietary requirements. But I think it would be 1) too mind-your-French kinda stories and 2) too long to tell them all.
    I must, however, share my favourite of all. Picture a couple of vegetarians asking about options in a very meaty menu. All I heard in response went along the lines of: “Do I go in a *insert swear-word of your choice* vegetarian restaurant and ask for a *insert swear-word of your choice* rib-eye?”.
    Of course, a beautiful vegetarian tasting menu was promptly made, but this sentence somehow stuck with me, and I love to remember it fondly every now and then, and of course, to tell it to anyone who cares enough (or not) to listen.

    The recipes

    Pierre Hermé

    This is the recipe that I started with. It’s absolutely beautiful – a given when it comes to Pierre Hermé, really.
    However, over the years, I’ve come to adapt it into an easier-to-work with dough; which to this day remains my standard and usual recipe.

    Pierre Hermé’s pâte sucrée

    300 g unsalted butter
    190 g icing sugar
    60 g ground almonds
    1 tsp sea salt
    seeds from 1 vanilla bean
    100 g eggs
    500 g plain flour


    My favourite

    This recipe, which I think stems from a combination of Pierre Hermé’s, Valrhona and a few tweaks here and there, is as its name reveals without a hint of suspense, my favourite.
    It’s one I can make with my eyes and my recipe notebook closed.

    Of course, I always make a much bigger batch, somewhere along x5.5, which gives me enough to dough to roll fourteen 28.5x45cm sheets (a format, rather than being practical, obeys the rule of the baking paper that we have in kitchens: 45x57cm, which religiously gets cut in half in the morning, forming large piles that fit into gastros and baking trays, and lasts us through the day).
    For those of you wondering about regularity of thickness between sheets, read further down to Notes, where you’ll find the answer.

    Fanny’s favourite pâte sucrée

    255 g unsalted butter
    190 g icing sugar
    70 g ground almonds
    1 tsp sea salt
    seeds from 1 vanilla bean
    100 g eggs
    510 g plain flour


    A nut free alternative

    When I realised many people here had food allergies, it made me question everything I had learn, heard or done in the past.
    In France, at least, back when I was living there, very few pâtisseries catered to dietary requirements; yes, [to be said with a French accent] eat the tart or don’t. It was not something I’ve ever seen anyone – chefs or customers – think about, let alone be concerned.

    In Sweden, it’s on the literal opposite of the spectrum, so much, that I always make sure to have at least three or four gluten-free options, two dairy-free alternatives, a couple of nut-free pastries, and a lactose-free crème brûlée (flavoured with tonka bean at the moment, because I think tonka and winter were always meant).
    And this is why I had to give up my favourite pâte sucrée. I started working on a recipe, with mixed results – from my perspective only judging by how quick the lemon tarts sell out every time I put them in the display.

    But after a few batches, I found the one that I’ve now been using for the past few months. A crisp, golden-brown crust that stays so.

    Fanny’s nut-free pâte sucrée

    280 g unsalted butter
    180 g icing sugar
    1 tsp sea salt
    seeds from 1 vanilla bean
    100 g eggs
    40 g egg yolks
    545 g plain flour

    The process

    If you’ve never made pâte sucrée before, I can only recommend you to head over to my old blog foodbeam, where you’ll find a detailed step-by-step.

    Or simply follow this process:
    1. In the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the cold butter (see note n°1 below), icing sugar, ground almonds (if using), salt, and vanilla, until just smooth.
    2. Add the eggs (and yolk for the nut-free recipe) one at a time, mixing well after each addition, a minute or so. If making a larger batch, the eggs can be added a couple at a time.
    3. Mix in the flour (read note n°2 below if making a larger batch) and work on low speed until just combined.
    4. Divide the dough into three pâtons, roughly 350-360g each. Flatten each onto a feuille guitare (cf note n°3) using the palm of your hand and top with another feuille. Roll, always from the centre upwards, giving the dough a quarter turn every time, into a large disk, around 3-4mm thick. Place the dough onto a baking tray and set aside. Repeat with the other two pâtons; and either freeze for up to two months, or chill in the fridge for at least two hours or for up to a week.
    If making a bigger batch, please refer to note n°4.
    5. Line your tart ring and chill or freeze for an hour or two. Blind bake (see ressources below for a link to one of my posts “A few notes on blind-baking”).

    Notes

    N°1. The butter does not need to be at room temperature as many recipes might suggest. Yes, it makes for an easier mixing (especially by hand, which I suspect this rather obsolete step comes from) but it also makes the water contained in the butter more available to bind with the flour proteins, hence developing gluten more than cold butter would.
    The quick mixing of the cold butter with the sugar acts as a mechanical (as opposed to physical) softener. And before you know it, you’ll have a smooth paste, ready to receive the eggs.

    N°2. If making a large batch – larger than 5 kilograms in total weight – I’d recommend adding around 10% of the flour to the butter/sugar/egg mixture and working on low speed until incorporated; and then adding the remaining flour and mixing until just combined. Never overwork the dough as it would make the tart shell tough instead of crisp and crumbly.

    N°3. Feuille guitare, litterally guitar-leaf, is a transparent polyethylene/acetate film that is somewhat rigid. Although it can be replaced by baking paper, I would – if given the choice – always use it to roll dough. It prevents the formation of creases in the dough (which could later results in cracks during baking) and yes, it looks neat.
    They are also amazing for chocolate décors, which i could show you if you’re interested (let me know!).

    N°4. When I make a x5.5 batch, I divide the dough into 14 pieces, around 450g each. And then roll them into 28.5x45cm sheets, making sure to trim the edges into a neat rectangle. This way, I can store my dough in the freezer in an airtight plastic gastro, and take out sheets when I’m making a tart shell mise-en-place.
    By weighing each pâtons and rolling to the exact same size every time, I ensure an even thickness throughout the batch. This produces a dough that bakes uniformly, making sure all the tartelettes on one baking tray will be ready at the same time.

    N°5. My absolute favourite rings when it comes to tarts are not the traditional tart rings that have rolled edges. I like simple entremet rings from Matfer. They’re 35mm-high and are completely smooth, with no welding mark.
    I find that with 35mm-high rings, I get more use out of them. If I want to make a 2cm-high tart, then I simply cut a 2cm strip of dough that will become the edges of the tart. However, if I’d like to make a deeper tart, perhaps chocolate or pecan, then I simply line the ring up to its rim.
    I know DeBuyer has recently come up with perforated rings in collaboration with Valrhona; and although I’ve tried them a couple of times, with great results in term on crumb texture and even baking, I don’t really like the marks they leave on the outer edge of the tart case.

    N°6. I always bake my tarts onto Silpain – a variation oriented for bread bakers of the now-famous Silpat. I find that it gives the quickest and most even baking.

    La cerise Le citron sur le gâteau [The cherry lemon on top]

    Just like I did in Paris Pastry Club (almost its two-year birthday!!), I can’t resist to share the lemon tart recipe that has followed me for years – despite the MANY other lemon curds that I’ve tried to like. Of course, it’s from Pierre Hermé. And really, trust me, it’s the best you could, and will, ever make.

    The recipe will leave you with some extra lemon curd – that always tend to disappear on top of ice-cream if my mum and sister are around. Or you could also, divide what’s left in piping bags, tie them tighly and freeze for up to 2 months.

    Tarte au citron meringuée

    Makes one 24cm tart, serving 12-16.

    one 24cm blind-baked tart shell, using the pâte sucrée of your choice (or as I do in my book a lemon shortbread topped with a lemon sponge).

    For the lemon curd
    240 g caster sugar
    zest from 3 lemons
    200 g eggs
    140 g lemon juice     (around 3 large lemons)
    300 g butter, cubed, at room temperature

    Place the sugar and lemon zest in a large bowl, and rub the zest in the sugar for a minute or two. This step, although optional, diffuses the fragrant lemon oils into the sugar, resulting in a deeply flavoured and more complex lemon curd.
    Whisk in the eggs (I like to handblend the eggs before adding them to the sugar as I find it gives the smoothest texture) and the lemon juice.
    Set the bowl over a pan of simmering water and cook the lemon curd until it reaches 81°C, stirring every minute or so.
    remove the bowl from the bain-marie and allow to cool down to 55-60°C. Then whisk in the butter, one cube at a time. Handblend the curd for 6 minutes then pass through a fine-mesh sieve into a plastic container.
    Clingfilm to the touch and chill in the fridge for at least 4 hours or better yet, overnight.

    When ready to assemble the tart, make the Italian meringue.

    For the Italian meringue
    100 g egg whites
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    200 g caster sugar
    60 g water

    Place the egg whites and salt in the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the whisk attachment.
    Place the sugar and water in a small pan, and bring to the boil over medium heat.
    When the syrup reaches the boil, start whisking the egg whites on medium speed.
    Cook the syrup to 118°C and pour over the soft peaks egg whites, making sure to run the syrup along the sides of the bowl to avoid it from splashing around the bowl.
    Increase the speed slightly and keep on whisking until the meringue feels barely warm.

    In the meantime, pipe a generous layer of lemon curd into your blind-baked tart shell using a piping bag fitted with a 12mm nozzle.
    Pipe the meringue on top into a pattern, or simply pile it on and swirl. Burn using a blowtorch, making sure to rotate the tart to get every nook and cranny.

    Ressources

    – The way I roll pâte sucrée.
    – Where to buy feuilles guitare? They deliver in the north-north of Sweden, so I assume the rest of the world is ok!
    – A few notes on blind-baking tart shells.
    – My absolute favourite not-for-tarts-tart-rings: Matfer entremet rings (24cm for 14-16 portions or 8cm for indivdual tartelettes). For comparison: traditional tart rings. The DeBuyer/Valrhona perforated rings.

  • Our favourite cinnamon shortbreads

    Our favourite cinnamon shortbreads

    winter walk-3

    It’s still very much winter here in Skellefteå. In fact, we’ve had a blizzard over the weekend; snow, at times twirling around with the winds; and at other times, falling almost horizontally. A western under the snow. Not unlike the Dyonisos album that lullabied my teenage years.

    Oh love me, Oh kiss me,
    I’m lying on western under the snow
    You’re the sky of my heart
    So come to me and take off your clouds

    But there’s been something different in the air. It might have started on a Monday, almost a month ago.

    There are the birds. And a sun warmer and brighter than it’s been for months. There are the morning walks by the river. And the temperatures that have risen from -26°C to -10°C.

    Today, we opened our windows as the sun rose – the crisp air filled our flat while we were safely nested under the duvet. A make-believe spring of some kind. Something only we know; or perhaps, something only we make up.

    Not much has happened in our kitchen. Dinners made of glass noodle salad with barely-warm roasted salmon. A few nights made of crispy rice and red wine. And Kalle’s wonderful breakfasts; the latest edition involving tomato sauce with plenty of onion and garlic, golden-brown bacon, eggs – with a yolk runny as it should be, perhaps some beans too. But most importantly, the råg or vete-kakor [soft polar bread] that he cuts into four and fry in the rendered bacon fat until almost burnt.
    You’d also find a glass-jarful of biscuits on the counter. Sometimes, drömmar or syltkakor; but mostly our favourite cinnamon shortbreads.

    And just like we were in love with a crispy cinnamon biscuit recipe last year (which you should try too as they’re on the opposite spectrum of the shortbreads I’m showing you today), 2016 has been about kanelkakor.

    Our favourite cinnamon shortbreads
    Adapted from Leila Lindholm’s A Piece of Cake.

    In Swedish, these shortbreads are called spröda kanelkakor; literally brittle cinnamon biscuits. And they are just that. Crisp and golden. With cinnamon just so. And when bitten, they’ll crumble into tiny morsels.

    I like to bake them until golden-brown, which would be considered an offense by any Swedish mormor [grand-mother]. Yes, here, most biscuits are likely to be baked into the palest shade of gold; when the base just starts to brown around the edge.
    But no matter how far north I now live, you can’t take the French in me away from deep-caramel tones.

    The original recipe calls for a tablespoon of water, which I of course replaced with vanilla extract. Yes, vanilla never is a bad idea. And yes, you can forever-quote me on that.

    The dough itself comes together in a minute or so. And perhaps, that’s why we’ve baked these shortbreads more than any other over the winter.
    And although the recipe rightfully suggests to leave the dough wrapped in clingfilm in the fridge for at least an hour before baking, I haven’t found it necessary when I used cold butter. However, if your kitchen temperature exceeds 18°C, I’d recommend going ahead with this step to make sure your shortbreads won’t spread too much.

    Our favourite cinnamon shortbreads

    Makes 12 larges biscuits or 16 smaller ones.

    For the dough
    225 g plain flour
    75 g icing sugar
    60 g potato starch
    1 tsp sea salt
    1 tbsp vanilla extract
    225 g cold butter    , cut into 0.5cm cubes

    For the eggwash
    one egg, beaten

    For the cinnamon sugar
    Combine:
    100 g granulated sugar
    1 tbsp ground cinnamon

    Line two baking trays with baking paper and preheat the oven to 175°C (165°C for a fan-assisted oven).

    Place all the ingredients in the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, and mix on low speed until it forms a dough.

    Roll the dough into a log and cut it into either 12 or 16 even slices, depending on the size you want your shortbreads to be.

    Roll each slice into a ball, then flatten it onto the prepared baking tray. Repeat with the remaining slices.
    Press a fork into each shortbread, then brush with the beaten egg and sprinkle with the cinnamon sugar.

    Bake in the pre-heated oven for 20 to 24 minutes, or until golden-brown. Allow to cool down completely before placing them into an airtight box. These will keep for at least a week; although they’ve never lasted this long in our home.

  • A brioche study, recipe: the “generic” brioche (control)

    A brioche study, recipe: the “generic” brioche (control)

    Analysing the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in brioche formulas

    The formula

    The recipe shown below will make two 500g loaves. I chose, however, to make half a batch, yielding to a single loaf, which is something I’ll carry on doing over the next experiments, as the kneading time of a half-recipe takes longer when done in a stand-mixer; more on that to come in part two: the method (ingredient list, pastry chef tips and techniques on brioche).

    Brioche #1: Control formula

    quantityingredientBAKERS %
    500gflour100%
    70gcaster sugar14%
    15gyeast3%
    8gsalt2%
    180gmilk36%
    180gegg36%
    150gbutter30%
    1103gtotal weight

    Notes

    I haven’t finished writing about the method and techniques associated with rich doughs, so in the meantime, please refer to this article for detailed instructions on how to make brioche.

    I ended up making the control brioche twice: after I baked brioche 2, I was amazed by the differences in between the two batches. So much in fact, that I thought something had gone wrong with the control brioche (I mostly suspected slow yeast or underproofing). So I went ahead and made the control brioche again, only to find out the differences were the result of the formula substitutions; and in no way related to the other ingredients or the method.

    The difference in crumb colour on the pictures above is due to lighting (natural versus halogen) as I’ve just gotten an industrial halogen lamp so I would be able to take pictures at night – also known as 2pm here, hehe – and I’m still trying to figure it out.

    Results

    The oven-spring isn’t tremendous.

    The crust is very thin and soft. As the loaf cools down, it wrinkles.

    The crumb is light and soft, with a slight moistness to it. It’s has a beautiful texture and a lovely chew, almost reminiscent of a doughnut.

    This “generic” brioche turned out amazing. I fell in love with its crumb and soft crust. The loaf stayed beautifully soft on the second day too; as we topped it with a thick layer of hjortronsylt [cloudberry jam].
    I’ll definitely be making it again and again.

    READ MORE ABOUT THE BRIOCHE STUDY

    – Part I: the approach

    – Part II: the ingredients

    – Part III: the process – method, techniques and tips

    – Recipe: brioche #1, the control – this is where you are.

    – Recipe: brioche #2, the almost Chavot-brioche

    – Recipe: brioche #3, the pain au lait

    – Recipe: brioches #4 and #5

    – Part IV: impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs

    – Ressources: Brioche in literature

    Explore the feature: A brioche study and follow our discoveries on instagram: #BRIOCHESTUDY.

    FROM THE 2016 ARCHIVES

  • A brioche study, part I: the approach

    A brioche study, part I: the approach

    Analysing the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in brioche formulas

    In the first part of my forever-unfinished feature How to be a pastry chef? – the checklist, I asked you some questions about brioche with the aim to develop your curiosity and drive you to research important techniques. It went along the following lines:

    Do you know brioche dough is an emulsion? Do you treat it as such? Can you knead it by hand or in a mixer without over-heating it? And which temperature should the butter be?

    But although these points are fundamental in a technical approach, I’ve since had been absorbed by some other questions that belong to the food science realm.

    How do the milk and eggs respectively affect the texture of a brioche? Which kind of flour yield to the softest crumb? And how much butter is too much?

    As with any mixture experiment, we have to study each of these variables – liquids ratio, flour properties, butter quantity – separately in order to develop an understanding on how they each have an impact on the finished product.
    And for no other reason than it has obsessed me for years, I’ve chosen to start by examining the effect of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs.

    Eggs or milk?

    If you ask Eric Chavot, a true brioche – or as he would say, une vraie brioche – is made using eggs as the only source of hydration.
    And while I’m certain many would agree, the subject of brioche – from its etymology to its formula – has always been a controversial one.

    In my kitchen, I tend to use a combination of both eggs and milk; with more or less of each depending on the texture I want to achieve. A knowledge that’s really more empirical than anything; and perhaps, relies a bit too much on wishful thinking.
    So today, we will stop counting shooting stars and start analysing percentages. It will take five different loaves. Over two kilograms of flour and perhaps a litre or two of milk. A box of eggs. Most likely two. And hopefully, a few worthy notes that will improve my understanding of rich doughs.

    The approach

    1. Develop a control formula that will act as a reference point during the experiment.
    2. Define the range into which the variables will fluctuate.
    3. Establish the method: ingredients (on both quantitative and qualitative – brand, temperature – points of view), process (order of incorporation, kneading time/speed, proofing time/temperature, shaping, baking time/temperature)
    4. Make successive batches of brioches, each with a different ratio of egg to milk. All other variables (see method above) remain unchanged.
    5. Record the organoleptic properties of each batch:
    – texture (our main focus point): thickness/hardness of the crust, crumb appearance and mouthfeel.
    – colour: darkness of the crust, tint of the crumb.
    – flavour and smell.
    I haven’t decided yet on whether or not to include objective qualities – such as: crust thickness in mm, loaf size, or even weight of the baked brioche – to measure the response. Yes, even though this is a matter of mixture design, I mostly want to document the results in a comprehensive yet accessible and home-practicable way.
    6. Analyse the results.

    Developing the control formula

    I could have used my favourite stand-alone brioche recipe, the one pictured above and which I told you about in Paris Pastry Club and the one I made tropéziennes with.
    But out of all my rich dough recipes, it stands out by its high hydration and high fat quantity.

    I thus wanted to create a generic rich dough recipe. To do this, I analysed my favourite recipes, ranging from brioche to burger buns, from challah to kanelbullar.
    On the table below, you can see the ones that I consider the more relevant, with BRIOCHE 2 being my usual, the one I just mentioned.

    Brioches: bakers percentage

    bullarbrioche 1brioche 2brioche 3burger bunsbrioche 4
    flour100%100%100%100%100%100%
    hydration64%58%65%60%64%60%
    eggs38%19%55%
    		60%13%20%
    milk26%38%11%0%51%40%
    fat28%15%58%40%19%16%
    sugar13%19%11%12%6%20%

    Note: the hydration values, although inaccurate since milk and eggs don’t hydrate the dough fully (respectively at 88% and 76.15%), could have also been labelled “liquids”. I did however choose to go with “hydration” for ease of understanding and recipe development.

    I then went ahead and calculated an average formula as seen on the table below. And by multiplying the bakers percentages, I got the recipe for two brioche loaves.
    As you can notice, some of the measurements would be quite difficult to put into practice, so I used this “average recipe” as a guideline.

    Brioches: average

    BAKERS %for two 500g loaves
    flour100%500 g
    hydration62%
    fat29%147g
    sugar14%68g
    eggs34%171g
    milk28%138g

    Brioche #1: Control formula

    quantityingredientBAKERS %
    500gflour100%
    70gcaster sugar14%
    15gyeast3%
    8gsalt2%
    180gmilk36%
    180gegg36%
    150gbutter30%
    1103gtotal weight

    The percentages I chose to keep are as such:
    – flour 100%
    – caster sugar 14%
    – milk 36%
    – egg 36%
    – butter 30%

    As you can see, I’ve increased the total liquids (milk+eggs) as when I first baked the control brioche, I realised that with only 62% liquids the dough was way too dry so I had to add 60g of liquids (30g egg and 30g milk), bringing the total hydration to 72% instead.
    This can be due to 2 factors:
    – I calculated the average formula using recipes from my French/English recipe notebooks, and thus missed to take into account the Swedish flour’s high absorption capacity
    – when making such a small batch of dough (I halved the recipe) the kneading can take twice as long as when making a larger batch, and the dough has more surface to loose moisture from

    I then added 3% of yeast and 2% of salt, and our control formula was done.

    This control formula is a perfect starting point as its egg-to-milk ratio is 50%-50%, which will allow us to really analyse its impact on the dough and on the finished brioche.

    The mixture design

    I have in mind to make 5 different “brioche” recipes. Yes, “brioche” in quotes, as our experiment will range from actual brioche to pain au lait [literally, milk bread].

    1: controlbrioche 2brioche 3brioche 4brioche 5
    milk50%0%100%33%67%
    egg50%100%0%67%33%

    Here are the different formulas, each associated with a number, which is used as both a name and a rank. We will start with the control brioche 1, move onto brioche 2, and so on.
    As you can see above, we’re starting with the most extreme formulas as we might be able to stop our experiment after brioche 3, in the eventuality that the results will have given us enough information about the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in the dough.
    I will, however, most likely still decide to conduct brioche 4 and 5, with my personal recipe collection in mind.

    Ressources

    – A clear explanation of mixture design.
    – A few notes on brioche.
    – A five-minute brioche?

    TO COME

    – Part I: the approach – this is where you are.

    – Part II: the ingredients

    – Part III: the process – method, techniques and tips

    – Recipe: brioche #1, the control

    – Recipe: brioche #2, the almost Chavot-brioche

    – Recipe: brioche #3, the pain au lait

    – Recipe: brioches #4 and #5

    – Part IV: impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs

    – Ressources: Brioche in literature

    I hope you’ll like this experiment as much as I do, even the most boring parts. Follow #briochestudy on Instagram for real-time science 🙂

    And, of course, I wish you all the happiest new year! To 2016 and brioches. X

  • Saffransbullar med mandelmassa

    Saffransbullar med mandelmassa

    [Swedish saffron and almond buns]

    Sunrise: 9:33 AM
    Sunset: 1:28 PM
    Temperature: -11.8°C

    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

    For the saffron dough

    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

    For the almond butter

    160 g salted butter, at room temperature
    160 g marzipan
    zest from 2 oranges

    For the topping

    1 egg, beaten, to glaze
    a handful of pearl sugar

    For the syrup

    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.

    Let me know if you try to make them 🙂 Lots of love, and a wonderful week!

    pS. If you want to follow my Swedish Christmas adventures, use #fannysjul on instagram. X

  • My ultimate kanelbullar

    My ultimate kanelbullar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Kanelbullar, un peu comme des brioches

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

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

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

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

    EDIT 5 October

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

    EDIT 6 October

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

    EDIT 8 December 2016

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

    Here is my updated recipe:

    PRINT

    Kanelbullar 2.0

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

    Ingredients

    For the dough

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

    For the filling

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

    To top

    • 2 eggs beaten
    • pearl sugar

    For the syrup

    • 75 g caster sugar
    • 75 g water

    Instructions

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

    Glad kanelbullens dag!

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

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

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

    For the syrup
    75 g caster sugar
    75 g water

  • Chasing rugbrød, part one

    Chasing rugbrød, part one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Danish rye bread #1
    Adapted from Baktips.

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

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

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

    Danish rye bread #1

    Makes one loaf.

    For the soaker

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

    For the dough

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The recipe.

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

    Danish rye bread #1, overall formula

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

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

    The ingredients.

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

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

    The timing.

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

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

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

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

    Notes.

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

    Ressources.

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

    – The table of Danish rye bread elements.

    – About rye (wikipedia).

  • Small-batch rhubarb jam

    Small-batch rhubarb jam

    I made this jam a week ago today. Of course, I had planned on telling you about it straight away, but exciting projects, a redesign, and kick-ass grades in my Swedish classes (insert thumb-up emoji here) got in the way.

    With Lisa’s comment in mind, I stirred the fruits into the hot syrup. She wanted a simple jar recipe. And here it is. No endless canning, since we’re only making three 250mL jars. No fruits soaking in sugar for 24 hours. No fancy teas or flowers added.

    Simply sugar and water boiled down to a syrup. A generous handful of chopped fruits. A pinch of pectin (optional, although I do love the thicker texture it produces). And a drop of citric acid (or lemon juice).

    Yes, of the many things I look for in a jam, a sharp fruit flavour is possibly my favourite. And yes, I’m not going to pretend otherwise, I do like my confiture [jam] on the sweet side; you know, the French way.

    Many times, I see people wrongfully call jams what are, in fact, fruits and sugar – most likely anywhere between 10% and 20% by weight. These are a whole other subject, and something that should be classified as compotes, not jams, s’il-vous-plaît!

    Terminology aside, this recipe here is perfect for anyone with a backyardful of rhubarb stems. Here in Sweden, rhubarb just started getting out of control, the same way it usually does in France, only a few months later.

    You could make three jars, like I did here with some of the rhubarb that I picked from Svante’s beautiful garden in Kusmark, or multiply the recipe according to how much fruit you have around.

    For the record, if making big batches, I tend to go for 4-5kg of fruits at a time as I’ve found that if using more, the jam, which will take longer to cook, won’t have such a vibrant colour and flavours due to some of the sugar caramelising.

    Small-batch rhubarb jam
    This recipe is adapted from my basic jam recipe, which was itself adapted from Andrew Gravett’s beautiful raspberry confiture. Merci Chef!

    The sugar – which should be of the thicker granulated kind, as it contains less impurities, and thus creates less foam to skim – and fresh rhubarb juice get cooked to 120°C before the fruits are added.
    This step which I see as fundamental has one major impact on the jam cooking time. Which makes it not only convenient, but also reduces the time during which the fruits are cooked, maintaining a fresh flavour.

    A note on the citric acid: I like to use citric acid powder and not lemon juice, as I’ve found that it keep the fruits’ flavour more intact. No matter which one you go for, always add it at the end of the cooking process – off the heat.

    A note on the pectin: I use a HM (which stands for High Methyl) pectin which has the property to set rather quickly and enables a clean flavour release.
    Differences between the many types of pectin (which I could tell you about, let me know in the comments if you’re interested) can affect the finished product, however, I’ve found that this recipe could bear various pectins; from LM to HM to pure fruit pectin powder.
    It will set slightly looser or firmer – nothing drastic – but if you’re about to make a 5kg batch, then I can only recommend to try with a smaller quantity of fruits to adjust the pectin levels as needed.

    You could also go without pectin, and I did a very small pectin-less batch just a few days ago, to try; and although the texture is definitely less thick, I was pretty happy with the jam generously spread on toast for breakfast the next day.

    Small-batch rhubarb jam

    1/2 tsp (2.5 g) citric acid powder
    1/2 tsp (2.5 g) water
    550 g trimmed and washed rhubarb, chopped into 5mm slices
    500 g granulated sugar
    120 g freshly-made rhubarb juice (or water)
    30 g caster sugar
    1/2 tsp (3 g) pectin powder    , optional (see note above)

    Sterilise 3 x 0.25L glass jars and their lid.

    In a small bowl, mix the citric acid and water, and set aside until needed.

    Place the sugar and water in a pan larger than you think you’d need. Cook over medium heat to 120°C. Add the rhubarb slices and cook to 105°C, mixing every two or three minutes – I like to use a whisk for this. For this quantity it should take around 15-20 minutes; every now and then, skim off the foam that forms using a small ladle.
    While the jam is cooking, combine – very very well – the caster sugar and pectin in a small bowl (make sure it is very dry).

    Once the jam has reached 105°C, sprinkle the pectin mix (if using, otherwise, jump to the next set of instructions) off the heat, whisking as you do so. Return over medium heat and simmer for 3-5 minutes.

    Off the heat, add the citric acid mixture and whisk well. Immediately transfer to sterilised glass jars, to around 1-2cm up to the rim. Screw the lids on and turn the jars upside down. Allow to cool down completely and store.

  • 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.