Tag: summer

  • Three-day strawberry jam, à la Christine Ferber

    Three-day strawberry jam, à la Christine Ferber

    I first made this recipe a few weeks before my mom came to visit from the south of France last autumn. She loves her morning toast – always a baguette, always unsalted butter, thickly spread. I can’t quite agree – I want salted butter, the kind that pushes back against the sweetness of the jam.

    Most times, I make my usual recipe, the one I’ve relied on since 2009, back when I first worked with Andrew Gravett. But this time, I felt like trying something different. Christine Ferber’s method – slow and deliberate. Pierre Hermé has always sworn by her jams, and he’s never wrong.

     

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    Three-day strawberry jam

    Adapted from Christine Ferber's Mes confitures: jams and jellies.
    There’s a quiet kind of magic in slow preserves – the way sugar and time work together to turn fruit into something more than itself. This one starts with strawberries, small and fragrant, macerated overnight until they glisten. The process takes three days, like most Christine Ferber's jams and preserves – an institution in itself.

    Notes

    A note on using frozen strawberries:
    I always – always – freeze strawberries in the summer. I wash and hull them first, then freeze them on a tray before packing them into freezer bags. They work exceptionally well in smoothies, compotes, and of course, jams.
    I use them straight from the freezer – no need to defrost – keeping them whole. The sugar and lemon juice draw out their juices as they macerate, turning them into something almost candied. The result is a jam that’s less spreadable, with whole strawberries suspended in a thick, glossy syrup.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time10 minutes
    Cook Time45 minutes
    Total Time3 days 55 minutes

    Ingredients

    • 1 kg hulled and quartered strawberries
    • 850 g caster sugar
    • Juice of one small lemon

    Instructions

    Day 1

    • Place the strawberries into a large non-reactive bowl. Add the caster sugar and lemon juice, stir, and cover with clingfilm. Leave to macerate overnight in the fridge.

    Day 2

    • By morning, the strawberries will have given up their juices. Tip everything into a pot and bring it to a gentle simmer. Pour it all back into the bowl, cover, and return to the fridge for another night.

    Day 3

    • Strain the strawberries, letting the syrup run through a fine sieve. Bring the syrup to a boil, skimming off any foam, and let it cook until it reaches 105°C.
    • Add the strawberries back in and bring everything to a rolling boil.
    • Skim again, stir gently, and let it cook for 5 more minutes. The syrup should be thick enough to coat a spoon, and the strawberries should shine – translucent and almost candied.
    • Spoon into warm jars, seal, and let cool. Then, find a reason to open one – some good bread, a spoonful over yogurt, or just because.

  • Clafoutis aux prunes

    Clafoutis aux prunes

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    Plum clafoutis

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

    Notes

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

    Ingredients

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

    To prepare the baking dish

    • Butter
    • Cassonade or demerara sugar

    Instructions

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

  • Confiture de figues

    Confiture de figues

    [Fig jam]

    We stepped off the plane only to be wrapped by the intense heat. With miles of sea ahead of us and the mountain in our backs, it dawned on me: this is home. A home away from home perhaps, but I could feel it, one deep breath of warm air after another; sea mist, tarmac, and gasoline.

    It had been over two years since our last trip to the south of France. Before we knew it, we’d fallen asleep to the sound of crickets through the shutters we’d left open, and woke up the next day to roosters crowing on the hill across our house.

    Just like a good holiday morning should start, we had breakfast under the pergola at the back of the house. Coffee and spelt milk. Baguette with butter and a generous spoon of vibrant melon des Charentes [cantaloupe melon] jam that my grand-mère made (in 2013, according to the label).

    Yes, of course, I couldn’t leave without a jar.

    If you’re interested, you should know it’s perfectly safe to pack a little over ten jars of jams and pickled mushrooms into your suitcase. Here is how: wrap them with more layers of clingfilm than deemed acceptable, then place them into a zipped plastic bag, and roll them into the thickly knit sweaters you didn’t wear once on your holidays. Cross your fingers and open your suitcase as soon as you get home.

    A few hours later.
    We drove the car down narrow roads until we almost reached the bottom of the valley. And there stood a terraced field, dry from the sun, with at its top the fullest figuier [fig tree] I had ever seen.
    As we walked towards it, the perfume from its leaves left little to wonder about how delectable the fruits would be.

    A little over twenty minutes later.
    Our skin itched from the sap. And our basket was heavy with plump small figs. Naturally we’d eaten a few as we picked them, and oh my!




    Confiture de figues

    There is always something magical about making jam, but fig jam has to be one of my favourites. I don’t know if it’s the slight crunch from the seeds, or the deep red colour. Perhaps, it’s just because I can’t eat fig jam without thinking about our childhood, when towards the end of the summer, we’d ride our bicycle to the nearest tree and pick as many figs as we could eat.

    The recipe here is for 1kg of figs but don’t hesitate to multiply it according to how much fruit you have around. After we’d eaten a good two kilograms of figs and left another in a ceramic bowl by the sink, we had around 3kg left, which we turned into jam, making around 12 odd sized jars.

    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.

    As with every of my jam recipes, the sugar – granulated, as it contains less impurities, and thus creates less foam to skim – and water get cooked to 110°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, however I used lemon juice this time around and was satisfied with the results, although I’ll keep on sticking to my citric acid for the future as it awakens the jam in a way lemon juice doesn’t.
    No matter which one you go for, always add it at the end of the cooking process – off the heat.

    Confiture de figues

    Makes 4 to 6 jars

    1 kg granulated sugar
    300 g water
    1 kg black figs    , quartered
    40 g lemon juice or 20 g citric acid diluted in 2 tbsp of cold water (read note above)

    Sterilise jars by plunging them, along with their lids, in a pan of boiling water for approximately one minute. Then take them out and invert them onto a clean cloth. Allow to cool down, while you get on with the jam.

    Place the sugar and water into a large pan. Bring to the boil and cook to 110°C. Add the figs and simmer over medium heat for approximately 10 minutes, stirring every now and then until the jam reaches 104°C.
    Take off the heat and skim off any scum using a small laddle. Mix in the lemon juice, then using an immersion blender set on the lowest speed, blitz the jam to break off some of the figs.

    Immediately pour into the prepared jars. Screw the lid on and allow the jars to cool down completely, upside-down. Store in a cool dry place.

  • Bonjour juin, rhubarb edition

    Bonjour juin, rhubarb edition

    Let me tell you the story of yesterday. Or rather, of yesterday afternoon.

    We stopped at the gas station. Two French hot-dogs and bad cups of coffee later we turned right on the old road towards Kusmark. It had only been a couple of weeks since our last trip and yet, the never-ending sun turned the fields into a thousand shades of green. There is the blue-green of the conifers, and the vibrant tarnished-gold of sunrays through the birch leaves.

    A wonderful forest made of apple trees and lilac, bursting and blooming, not unlike a kaleidoscope.

    And just like the road, Svante’s garden had become a wonderful forest made of apple trees and lilac, bursting and blooming, not unlike a kaleidoscope.

    I took my shoes off as I stepped out from the car and ran to the rhubarb plants, wondering how big they would have grown.
    And if it’s anything to go by I’d say that it must have been much warmer this year than last, as they reached a good twenty centimeter above my head.

    We picked and trimmed. And picked again.

    Two bushes gave us a little over twenty kilograms, perhaps even thirty. All while we left the last plant – the one by the mountain of chopped wood, drying for the winter – mostly untouched.

    This is the aftermath. A beautiful mess, of some sort. The bigger-than-I’d-ever-seen leaves went into the compost, and the stalks – at times green, at times red – were washed under ice-cold water, and stuffed into plastic bags.

    I might not be the most frequent blogger, but you can be sure to see me at least once a year as rhubarb season approaches.

    There is something about it that I can’t quite pinpoint. Most likely one of these cliché childhood memories of my grand-parents potager [vegetable patch] in Fouras.
    And just like a forever-carousel of happy recollections, neatly-arranged jars of confiture de rhubarbe [rhubarb jam] and silent wishes, here is my not-so-official June* rhubarb list.

    1. Dipping peeled rhubarb stalks in sugar, just like K. told me about a few years ago, on one of the many summer nights we spend on the south bank.
    2. Cooking rababersaft [rhubarb cordial], which everyone here freezes in small water bottles to bring a bit of summer throughout the winter days.
    3. Maybe, making a batch of rabarberbullar [rhubarb buns].
    4. And an upside-down rhubarb cake.
    5. I’ve been looking forward to trying Tartine bakery’s galette dough; and really, I think a rhubarb galette needs to happen.
    6. Baking my favourite cake: a soft vanilla sponge with bits of chopped rhubarb and a swirl of rhubarb jam, little pockets of cheesecake and a heavy handful of streusel sprinkled over its top.
    7. Of course, rhubarb jam. Not a year should go without.
    8. I’ve been dreaming of creating a simple ice-cream recipe – with no special sugars (hejdå dextrose and atomised glucose) and no stabilisers (with perhaps, cornflour or gelatin as a thickener). And given the state of my fridge-turned-rhubarb-storage, I might have to start with rhubarb creamsicle ice-cream. TBC.
    9. Thick sliced of brioches, French-toasted just so, with a generous spoonful of rhubarb compote.
    10. What’s your favourite rhubarb recipe? How do you deal with your bountiful plants?

    * June because living in the north of Sweden means just that: rhubarb in June. Enough said 🙂

  • Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    [Apricot and pistachio tart]

    I had a pâton of pâte sucrée in the fridge. And a little bag of roasted pistachios a friend brought back from Lebanon. And of course, too many apricots sitting on the counter.

    An hour later, all this turned into a tart.

    The kind of tarts that are simple and rustic. And yet, ever so delicious. We had a piece still warm from the oven for lunch. And another for dinner, after a baguette garlic steak sandwich that was so good I want to remember it forever. Inside, thick slices of juicy steak with plenty of grated garlic, a dollop of cancoillotte, and salad leaves from the garden.

    With a glass of rosé and a few radishes we’d just picked, it was fairly close to the perfect summer dinner.

    A few hundreds kilometres away, my friend Anna-Sarah* is having her very own perfect dinner. On a péniche [houseboat] with never-ending glasses of champagne. It’s her birthday and I wish her the happiest one ever.

    And if I’m lucky enough, I might even join her on the boat next week-end. Just before I fly back to London. And step into whites again. At the Capital, to give a hand to my friend Richard Hondier who’s now running the kitchen and plating the most delightful dishes I’ve ever seen. And really, I can’t wait.

    * You might know that Anna-Sarah hates apricots, she’s already told me off when I posted this a few days after she’d left (of the I-see-you’re-waiting-until-I’m-gone-to-write-about-apricots kind), so sharing an apricot recipe on her birthday, let’s hope she forgives me!

    Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    This tart is super-quick to put together. Especially if you have some pâte sucrée ready in your fridge or your freezer. I know I always do, and this way, dessert is almost always less than an hour away.

    There is nothing tricky. Pastry, crème d’amandes, fruits, and a little glaze. Ah, yes, just a quick word on crème d’amandes, a stapple in French pâtisseries. I forgot to include it in this list, and really it should be there. The mistake has been corrected since more often than not, you’ll find crèmes d’amandes that feeleither too buttery or too spongy. And most of the times, it even gets called frangipane, and trust me, crème d’amandes in no frangipane.

    To make a gorgeous crème d’amandes, you just have to make sure the eggs are at room temperature. I keep my eggs in the fridge, so they never are. If you add them fridge-cold to the creamed butter, the mixture will split and might leak butter during baking. The trick I use is so simple it hurts. I just place the eggs in hot water – of the tap kind – while I cream the butter and sugar for several minutes. And then, one egg at a time, with a good two minutes of beating in between to bind the emulsion, and make it smooth and airy.

    Now, enough words for such a doodle of a recipe…

    Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    serves 8

    For the pâte sucrée
    130 g butter, at room temperature
    95 g icing sugar
    1 teaspoon sea salt
    1 teaspoon vanilla extract
    30 g ground almonds
    1 eggs
    250 g plain flour

    Cream the butter, sugar, salt and vanilla extract for a few minutes, until light and fluffy. Add the ground almonds. And the egg and beat well for around 3 minutes.
    Tip in the flour and mix until just combined.

    Flatten the dough and wrap in clingfilm. Chill for at least 3 hours – or up to 5 days – before using. Or keep frozen, for up to 3 months.

    On a lightly floured work surface, roll the dough into a 4mm-thick rectangle. Carefully wrap the dough around your rolling pin and place on top of a 10x30cm tart tin. Line the tart case with the dough, then trim the edges. Place in the freezer while you get on with the crème d’amandes.

    For the pistachio crème d’amandes
    80 g butter, at room temperature
    100 g caster sugar
    2 eggs    , at room temperature
    60 g ground almonds
    60 g roasted pistachio    , roughly ground
    30 g plain flour

    For the montage
    8 apricots, halved and stoned
    1 tablespoon apricot jam

    Preheat the oven to 180°C.

    Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy, for 8-10 minutes, scraping the sides of the bowl every now and then. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well – at least 2 minutes – after each addition.
    Tip in the ground almonds and pistachios, then the flour and mix until just combined. Scrape the crème d’amandes into a piping bag fitted with a 12mm nozzle and pipe the cream at the bottom of the prepared tart case.

    Arrange the apricots halves, cut-side up onto the crème d’amandes and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until golden brown.

    In a small pan, place the apricot jam with a little water (around a tablespoon) and bring to the boil. Gently brush this glaze over the hot tart, and allow the tart to cool down at room temperature. Slice into wedges and serve, perhaps with a scoop of ice-cream or a dollop of whipped cream.

  • 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.

  • Le fondant au chocolat

    Le fondant au chocolat

    [The ultimate chocolate fondant]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    So please, mind your French, will you 😉

    Fondant au chocolat

    Fondant au chocolat
    Adapted from Pascal Lac.

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

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

    It is worth it!

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

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

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

    Fondant au chocolat

    Makes one 24 to 28cm cake.

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

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

    In a bowl, melt the chocolate and butter.

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

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

  • Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

    Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

    [Fromage blanc and raspberry charlotte]

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

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

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

    EDIT 06/03/2019

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

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

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

    Charlotte au fromage blanc et aux framboises

    serves 8

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

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

    a couple handfuls of raspberries

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

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

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

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

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

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