Tag: winter

  • 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.

  • 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

  • Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    [Caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut macarons]

    I’d like to tell you I’ve made macarons today. I had planned to. Really. Last week, we bought mandelmjöl [ground almonds] and florsocker [icing sugar]; mjölkchoklad [milk chocolate] and vispgrädde [whipping cream].

    But you see, we’ve been for walks everyday. At times, in the forest. Or by the river. And, always, in the snow.

    And the chocolate bars we wrapped in foil – along with kokkaffe and the old kaffekanna [coffee pot], perhaps a square or two of Tatin tart salted caramels too, and a few baconost [bacon cheese] sandwiches that K. loves to make with lingonbröd [lingonberry bread, which I’ve seen an amazing recipe for here, and I can’t wait to go pick lingonberries to make it] – well, they’re gone.


    Yes, I wanted to make moka macarons, but we’ve eaten all the chocolate before it even got the chance to be turned into a whipped ganache, just so.

    Instead, we made the most of last night snowfall. For K. and Kaiser, the not-so-puppy-anymore you’ve perhaps seen on my pictures, it most likely involved effortless runs over the ice. For me, it means that the one patch of slippery mud will land me somewhere I didn’t decide to. Repeatedly 🙂

    Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    When I realised I had never posted a recipe for macarons, I couldn’t believe it. It’s not like I haven’t spent the last seven years of my life making some almost daily. Pistachio and vanilla were ranking high amongst all. But I’ve also made some with elderflower and champagne, fermented mango, coconut and lime, salted caramel, avocado and chilli, pumpkin and cinnamon, rhubarb and cream. Even beetroot and orange ones. The list could go on for – almost – ever, really.
    And that’s what I love about macarons, how versatile they are.

    These ones are made with caramelised white chocolate – a love of mine, and roasted hazelnuts.
    At times, I like to fill my macarons with a crémeux instead of a ganache to lower the sweetness slightly. However, macarons made with crémeux will only keep for a couple of days in the fridge before getting a bit too moist. They will keep beautifully frozen though, and judging by how many times I’ve seen our container in the freezer getting emptier and emptier, I’m sure some chefs – whose names will remain undisclosed – can vouch for it.

    The recipe for the shells is adapted from Andrew Gravett’s beautiful macarons. He’s an amazing pastry chef and person, and I couldn’t be anymore grateful to have followed him in one way or another during my six years in London.
    It’s super-foolproof. And trust me, this is something you want your macarons to be.

    The stages are quite simple really: start by making a smooth tant-pour-tant, for this I like to use extra fine ground almonds as they give a more flawless finish.
    Then make an Italian meringue, which you fold into the almond mixture and the extra egg whites.
    After all is incorporated, you’ll deflate the batter slightly. This step, called macaronage, can be done with either a maryse or a plastic scraper. I like to use a plastic scraper and push the batter against the sides of the bowl until I have the correct texture. Now, it’s quite hard to describe the texture of the finished macaron batter: it should almost form a ruban and when the batter drops, it should smooth out into the rest, leaving only the tiniest bump.

    If you’d like I could write a little post about macaron troubles and what they mean. Perhaps we’d call it the macaron doctor?
    In the meantime, here are a few notes on macarons:
    – flat and odd shaped macarons with bubbles mean your batter was over-mixed.
    – gritty macarons with a pointy top means your batter was under-mixed.
    – cracked shells can mean two things: too much humidity in your kitchen/oven or your oven temperature is too high.
    – shells that stick to the silicon mat: try to bake them a minute or two longer.

    Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    makes around 40 macarons

    for the caramelised white chocolate
    100 g white chocolate

    Preheat the oven to 180°C/fan 160°C. Place the chopped chocolate onto a baking tray lined with a silpat. Bake for 8 minutes, or until the chocolate is golden-brown. Take out from the oven, and using an off-set palette knife, work the chocolate to even out the colour and smooth it out. Allow to cool down while you get on with the rest.

    for the hazelnut paste
    300 g blanched hazelnuts

    Preheat the oven to 165°C/fan 145°C and roast the halzelnuts for 20-25 minutes, or until golden-brown. Save 100g to chop for decorating shells. And blitz the remaining 200g in a mixer until you have a smooth paste, around 8 minutes.
    This will make more than you need, but you can keep it in a container in the fridge for later use.

    For the caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut crémeux
    1 g gelatine 200 bloom
    50 g hazelnut paste
    60 g caramelised white chocolate
    50 g milk
    50 g 35% cream
    a fat pinch of salt
    1 egg yolk

    Soak the gelatine in ice-cold water. Place the caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut paste in a bowl.
    Bring the milk and cream to the boil. Pour onto the egg yolk, whisking as you do so. And return to the pan. Cook over low heat to 80°C, stirring at all times with a silicon spatula. Off the heat, add the squeezed gelatine. Then pour onto the white chocolate in three times, emulsifying well to create a glossy core. Handblend for 3 minutes to emulsify further.
    Transfer to a container and clingfilm to the touch. Chill for at least 4 hours or up to 3 days.

    For the macarons
    150 g icing sugar
    150 g ground almonds
    55 g egg whites
    150 g caster sugar
    50 g water
    55 g egg whites
    15 g caster sugar
    100 g roasted hazelnuts, chopped and cooled down

    In a small blender, blitz the icing sugar and ground almonds for a couple of minutes, pulsing so it doesn’t overheat the nuts. Tip into a large bowl and add the egg whites. Mix to a smooth paste and cover with a damp cloth.

    Place the sugar and water in a small pan and cook over medium het to 118°C.
    When the syrup reaches 110°C, start whisking the egg whites on low speed. When soft peaks form, add the caster sugar, a little at a time, keep on whisking until stiff peaks form.
    Wait for the syrup to stop bubbling – around 30 seconds or so – and pour over your meringue, whisking as you do so, along the sides of the bowl to avoid splashes. Once all the syrup as been incorporated, increase the speed to medium and keep on whisking until the meringue is around 50°C.

    Add the meringue to the almond mixture and fold in using a maryse. Then deflate slightly until you get a ribbon.

    Pipe the macarons using a 9mm nozzle onto a baking tray lined with a silpat. Around 3cm wide. Immediately sprinkle with chopped hazelnuts.
    Leave the trays at room temperature for around 30 minutes, or until a skin forms and the macarons no longer feel tacky.

    Bake at 160°C/fan 140°C for 12 minutes.

    Allow to cool down completely, then turn the macaron and fill them with the crémeux using a 11mm nozzle.
    Freeze on a baking tray, then put away in an air-tight container.

  • Cake à la banane rôtie

    Cake à la banane rôtie

    [Roasted banana cake]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Cake à la banane rôtie

    makes one large loaf cake

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

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

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

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

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

  • Kanelbullar croissants

    Kanelbullar croissants

    There was that weekend, many-many months ago. I had told you about the days when blogs were not so editorially perfect and how I miss them; about the two crumpets with raspberry jam that I had had for an early afternoon breakfast; and about how we’d moved the kitchen table by the window and took way too many pictures.

    Because, you see, my book was coming out the day after. And I guess that – as pretty much the entire universe – when I’m about to step in the unknown I like to delve a bit deeper in my comfort zone.
    It might be just a breath. Or as it happened, it might be croissants.

    There is this one thing I know for sure though. It’s that there are many rainy weekends ahead of us. And really, I thought I’d take you with me.
    A time machine of some sorts.

    Making the détrempe under the grey light of a drenched morning.
    Rolling turns later that day during the blue hour.
    And waking up to gold through our windows to finish shaping the croissants.

    By twelve, we had hot coffee – much hotter than I’d usually care for, and freshly baked croissants. And perhaps, you’ll have some too.

    This recipe doesn’t make traditional croissants. But more of a beautiful cross between a kanelbulle and a croissant. Soft and slightly flaky, as I only gave the dough two simple turns, as opposed to my usual croissant routine: three simple turns. In fact, a look at the insides will give it away: the membranes are thicker, and cinnamon speckles dot them throughout.

    Perhaps, if you want to, I could make some regular flaky croissants, just like the ones I grew up on, and show you too. Yes, croissants are nothing new. But I guess, in the constant chaos that surround us all, there is still some wisdom left.

    The ingredients.

    For the détrempe
    300 g strong flour
    200 g plain flour
    80 g caster sugar
    12 g instant yeast
    10 g milk powder
    10 g sea salt
    250 g cold water
    45 g butter    , melted and cooled down

    For the butter
    300 g unsalted butter, at room temperature
    2 tbsp ground cinnamon

    For the glaze
    200 g icing sugar
    boiling water
    seeds from one vanilla pod


    twelve pm.
    Mix the flours, sugar, yeast, milk powder and salt in a large bowl. Add the cold water and butter; and mix until a dough starts to form.


    ten minutes past twelve pm.
    Transfer the dough to a clean work surface and knead for around ten minutes or until the dough feels elastic and smooth.


    twenty minutes past twelve pm.
    Place the dough back in the bowl and clingfilm tightly. Leave in a warmish place for an hour or so, or until doubled in size.


    twenty-five minutes past twelve.
    While the yeast is working in magic, work yours with the butter. In a bowl, mix the soft butter (you could flash it in the microwave for ten seconds at a time until soft but not melted) with the ground cinnamon. Perhaps a pinch of cardamom too.


    half past twelve.
    Scrape the butter onto a piece of piece of baking paper and top with another one. Roll it until you get a rough 40x30cm rectangle. Transfer to a baking tray and chill in the fridge.
    Have a cup of coffee. And kisses. And maybe, even tickles down your neck. I highly recommend the latter. That’s what dream-Sundays are made of.

    half past one.
    The détrempe is proved when it’s almost doubled in size. When you take it, it will be very smooth and elastic.

    half past one.
    Place the détrempe onto a lightly floured work surface and roll into a rough rectangle. Wrap in clingfilm and freeze for twenty-five minutes to stop the yeast. Then transfer to the fridge and let it be for a few hours.

    five o’clock.
    Tea time for some. And feuilletage for others. I can’t help but feel a little sad for the former who’ll never know the calmness only rolling dough can bring.
    Take out the butter sheet on your bench to soften it ever so slightly. Place the détrempe onto a lightly floured work surface and roll to a 40x60cm rectangle. Flour more as needed but always make sure to brush off the excess afterwards.

    ten past five.
    Place the rectangle of butter on the lower half of the détrempe – patching it as you do so to cover any naked corner – then fold the upper half over.

    fitfteen minutes past five.
    Flatten the dough with your hands to get rid of any air bubbles, and rotate counter-clockwise so that you have a “book” its spine on your left hand-side.


    twenty minutes past five.
    Roll the dough before the first turn.

    For that, I like to press my rolling pin into the dough to create some indents. This step – if done gently yet with sufficient pressure – allows to distribute the butter evenly.
    I then start rolling the dough in long movements, from the centre up and then from the centre down. Those two techniques can be applied to any laminated dough.
    If the dough starts to stick, don’t hesitate to flour your work bench and reposition the dough.

    twenty-five minutes past five.
    Once the dough has been rolled to – ideally – around seven millimetres, brush off any excess flour, and fold in three, like you would do with a letter.
    This is a tour simple [simple turn].

    Wrap the dough tightly in clingfilm and chill in the fridge for at least an hour.

    twenty-five minutes past five (of the am kind).
    I went for another simple turn as I’ve told you before. Because fluffy meant something special to me that day, or so it seems.
    Of course Karl wouldn’t wake up, so pictures didn’t happen, but here is what I did: I rolled the dough to around seven millimetres thick, then folded it in three, exactly like shown above.
    After that, I placed the dough back in the fridge – again, wrapped in clingfilm.
    If you wanted a flakier texture, I would advise to go for another tour simple [simple turn] now.

    half past six (of the am kind).
    Get two baking trays lined with baking paper.
    Roll the dough on a lightly floured surface to a rough thirty-centimetre-wide rectangle. Cut the dough in half width-wise (if that’s even a thing) and place one half onto one of the prepared baking trays. Chill while you get on with the other half.
    This will make the dough easier to handle and roll thinner, while the other part stays cool.

    Keep on rolling the dough, maintaining a width of around thirty centimetres, until it’s about four or five millimetre-thick.
    Cut triangles using a sharp knife, making sure their base is eight to ten centimetre wide.
    As you cut the triangles, place them onto the prepared baking tray; and keep in the fridge until needed.

    Repeat the rolling and cutting process with the other half of dough.

    seven am.
    Get two baking trays lined with baking paper.

    Take out a couple of dough triangle out at a time. Gently stretch them, then roll without putting any pressure on the layers. And place them with the “point” underneath on the prepared baking tray, generously spaced out.

    twenty minutes past seven.
    Layer two large pieces of clingfilm, chasing any air bubbles and lightly brush with vegetable oil.

    twenty-five minutes past seven.
    Place the layered clingfilm – oiled side down – on top of your croissants, to cover them loosely. Allow to prove at room temperature for around two hours or until wobbly and doubled in size.
    If butter starts leaking, then you might want to find a slightly cooler place to prove your croissants. If I’m at the restaurant, then 26°C is the temperature I go for (with 65% humidity for the ones of you who are lucky enough to have a prover).

    Once the croissants have proved, brush gently with a beaten egg, making sure not to put any egg-wash on the cut edges, which would prevent the rise of the feuilletage.

    Bake at 200°C for seventeen to twenty minutes. Allow to cool down slightly, then transfer to a wire rack.

    ten thirty.
    Make the sugar and vanilla glaze: mix the icing sugar with enough water to form a pourable icing; stir in the vanilla seeds, and drizzle over the croissants.

    THE END. Of life as you knew it.

  • Zimtstern à la cannelle

    Zimtstern à la cannelle


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

    Zimtstern à la cannelle

    Makes around 50 small biscuits.

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

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

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

    For the royal icing

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

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

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

  • Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle

    Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle

    [Crisp cinnamon biscuits]

    I don’t want fig leaf or oak bark infusion. I don’t want gimmicks and royal icing where it’s not needed. I want to explore flour, sugar, butter and eggs.

    Give me cinnamon. And whole wheat flour. Oats. And dark brown sugar.

    I want to look underneath a biscuit. And see a golden colour. And little ridges. And above all, I want to build a collection of solid recipes for the years to come. For traditions that don’t exist yet, but will. And for those that are already there.

    Yes, at times, I love to experience with crazy flavours. The next big thing. Or more. But as I’ve told you yesterday, for me, Christmas is all about rituals and beautiful habits. I hope you feel the same way.

    Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle
    Adapted from Trine Hahnemann.

    When it comes to a biscuit texture you can get: crisp, crunchy, sandy/short, caky or chewy. These ones are full-on crisp. A beautiful texture which makes them – perhaps – the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten.
    So much, in fact, that this year, I’ve decided to forgo my usual vanilla shortbreads and use this recipe as a base instead. Maybe try different shapes, perhaps even thumbprint cookies and see how that goes.

    I think their insane texture comes from the initial sanding technique, when the butter gets rubbed into the flour and sugar, which created beautiful layers within the biscuit. So I might experiment with this instead of the usual creaming that most of my biscuit recipes use.
    They also make me want to try more of Trine’s recipes. Have you ever? If not, then please, make a batch of these.

    As I usually do, I rolled the dough between two sheets of baking paper (but as I mentioned yesterday, it makes me miss the feuilles guitare I use at the restaurant, SO. MUCH. BETTER.) as soon as it gets made, and then go on with the chilling. I’ve found that resting the dough before rolling doesn’t improve the texture, and really, makes it so hard to roll that you have to 1) bash it with a rolling pin to make it somewhat workable or 2) let it outside to warm up a bit (hence, erasing all the benefits of keeping the dough cold at all times: making the water content of the butter less available for gluten to bind).

    Two or three important things though when it comes to rolling the dough.
    – always roll in different directions.
    – every now and then, lift the baking paper and smooth any wrinkles out. They tend to make the dough fragile and the biscuits less pretty.
    – before you cut out your biscuits, remove the top layer of baking paper, then place it back (it won’t stick as much), before filliping around and removing the second layer of baking paper. This way, as you cut out, the shapes will stay in your cutter, instead of sticking to the paper (hope that makes a semblance of sense at all?!).

    Also, re-rolling the trimming? I would usually say it’s a big no. But f*ck it, it’s home baking after all.

    Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle

    makes around 30-40 biscuits

    For the dough
    375g plain flour
    125g light soft brown sugar
    1 tsp baking powder
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    250g cold butter    , cubed
    one egg

    For the sugar topping
    one egg, beaten
    100 g demerara sugar
    4 tsp ground cinnamon
    gold shimmer powder    , optional

    Mix the sugar, cinnamon, and gold shimmer (if using) to combine.

    Place the flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon and salt in a large bowl, and mix to combine. Add the butter, and rub it in the flour mix until it resembles coarse oats. Add the egg and work the dough until just smooth.
    Roll the dough between two sheets of baking paper until it’s around 4-5mm thick.
    Place on a baking tray that fits in your fridge, if the dough is too large, you can cut through the paper to make two or more rectangles. Chill the dough overnight.

    The next day, cut out your biscuits using either a round 5cm cutter or different shapes, and place on a large sheet of baking paper. Brush with the beaten egg and sprinkle generously with the cinnamon sugar. Shake off the excess and place on a baking tray lined with paper. At this point you can either freeze the biscuits for a month or so, or bake them straight away.

    Preheat the oven to 170°C. Bake the biscuits for 14-18 minutes, depending on their size. They’re ready when evenly brown. Allow to cool down completely and keep in an airtight container. Trine says they’ll keep for a month. If so, my dreams of the perfect biscuit have come true.

  • Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

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

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

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

    Something I’d thrown together with things we had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    serves 8-10

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

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

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

    In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar.

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

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

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

  • Éclairs au chocolat

    Éclairs au chocolat

    [Chocolate eclairs]

    When trees are shaped like hearts; and breakfast means just-brewed coffee slash bike ride slash jonchée eaten as soon as I’ve taken my gum boots off.

    And we run barefoot in fields of frost. And the grass glows to the moonlight in a way only gems can. With la grande ourse [the great bear] and a feral cat as our only companions for this aimless journey.

    We breathe the cold air and feel alive. We kiss and feel warmer. It’s the very instant that matters.

    Yes, at times, it’s ok to loose track. Of time, of purpose…
    Days are long. And nights too.

    Crossing off to-dos like there is no tomorrow, because, after all, holidays are made of no-tomorrows.

    Today, we made éclairs, à la Fauchon. It was fun, and messy. The kitchen ended up looking à la Fauchon too. Stripped with white and black fondants.

    It’s fine, really. It is.

    We licked our fingers. And ate an éclair, of the à la minute kind. Then scrubbed the counter until it no longer felt sticky. Just our mouths did. And that is a good sign, by all accounts.

    Éclairs au chocolat
    Inspired by Fauchon.

    If you can make choux paste and crème pâtissière, then it really all gets down to glazing an éclair with fondant, then piping straight lines of a coloured fondant. This can be made with either a piping bag or a paper cornet (the latter being my favourite, some things will never change, trust me).

    The only trick to know is to make sure both fondant have the same temperature and texture.
    For the chocolate fondant, I simply added a bit of cacao powder until it looked dark enough. Then mixed in 30°B syrup until the texture seemed just right.

    I guess it’s a bit of a trial and error at first. But it’s ok. We love sticky fingers around here.

    And since I’m at it, fondant is a kind of crystallised sugar that can be found in fancy shops. In case it’s nowhere to be found, try mixing icing sugar and a tiny bit of water…

    Both the choux paste and crème pâtissière can be made in advance. Since the paste is frozen, you can make it up to a week before. And the cream can stay in the fridge for a couple of days.
    However, once the éclairs are filled, they’re best eaten in the day.

    Éclairs au chocolat

    makes 12 éclairs
    for the choux paste
    one recipe of choux paste
    one egg    , for eggwash
    butter, to grease the baking tray

    Make the choux paste according to the recipe.
    Pipe it onto a baking tray lined with baking paper into logs using a 15mm nozzle; then freeze. Cut into 13cm-long éclairs and arrange on a buttered tray. And bake until golden brown (tips on how to bake choux paste here).

    For the crème pâtissière

    250g milk
    100g cream
    2 egg yolks
    30g caster sugar
    15g cornflour
    100g dark chocolate

    Bring the milk and cream to the boil. In a bowl, mix the egg yolks with the sugar and cornflour. Pour the boiling liquids over the yolks, whisking as you go. Then place back into the pan and cook – whisking at all times – until boiling.
    Transfer to a bowl and add the chocolate. Handblend and clingfilm to the touch. Chill.

    Using a small nozzle, fill the eclairs. And set aside.

    For the glaze
    fondant
    cacao powder
    30°B syrup     (100g caster sugar + 100g water, brought to the boil, then chilled)

    Melt the fondant over a bain-marie or in the microwave. Divide into two heatproof bowls. Add cacao powder to colour one of the batches into a dark brown fondant.

    Reheat both fondant over a bain-marie or in the microwave, until it reaches 30-35°C. Adding a little syrup to make it runny enough. Then using a small spatula or your finger, glaze the top of the éclair.
    Immediately pipe straight lines of dark fondant, making sure the tip of your bag or cornet is cut small enough (perhaps 2mm, the fondant will spread). Then run your finger along the éclair to clean up it sides and twirl the end of the piped lines.

    Repeat with the remaining éclairs. They will keep in the fridge overnight, although they’re best eaten on the same day.