It was a day before the winter solstice. The service finished late. But we quickly threw our whites to the piling laundry, only to venture into the real white.

The wild white.

Many glasses of champagne later, we went home. I slipped twice. He couldn’t stop laughing. He slipped once. I burst into tears; of the happy kind.

Warm and scarfless. He took my hat off. My hair was electric.

We had a couple of peanut butter fudges. And had a race to bed. I won, because he always lets me to. We fell asleep without brushing our teeth.

And somehow, I’m still amazed about how it’s sometimes the smallest details that matter the most.

Those fudge squares, even if they’ve already been made three of four times in the past, will – from now on – remind me about that night. The night when autumn turned into winter. And the snow into rain.

And rather evidently, the night I forgot about my advent calendar. Blame the champagne for this.

But I’m making up for this. Today. With little squares so good that lovers would choose to eat them before they even got a chance to kiss.

Fudge au beurre de cacahuètes
Adapted from Sophie Dahl.

Those are sweet. Too sweet for some, perfect for the rest of us. I like to use crunchy peanut butter for the texture. And I’m almost certain they would make a lovely gift, if wrapped into pretty paper.

I cut mine into 4×4cm squares, but you could as well make smaller cubes for an guiltless treat.

Snow can fool us into believe winter is here. When really it’s not.

And even after it came and went, the sharp winds still  gives us goosebumps no matter how many layers of mittens, hats and scarves we’re wearing.

I’ve found a relief in the shape of a hot bowl of soup.

Slightly spicy, full of flavour, and damn good.

So good in fact, that I’ve made it four times in just a short eight days. Just when the sun goes down, my flat starts to smell of ginger and lemongrass.

Evidently, it’s always too dark to take a picture. But, who needs it anyway. You have my promise.

Make this – or as a matter of fact, any of the listed things below (which I see as a winter edition of my culinary obsessions chronicle). And feel better. Warmer. And possibly, happier.

Oh and while I’m at it, I’m wondering what are the foods that help you make it through winter? Please tell me. We can never have enough comfort in our kitchens.

And for the record, I realise it’s technically still autumn, but my frozen cheeks tell me it feels like winter. Hope you stick with me on this one.

One. Thai chicken soup. Grab a couple of chicken thighs, with all the trimmings: bone, skin and organic. Pan fry the chicken, skin-side down until golden, flip around and deglaze with a litre of water and a mini-can of coconut cream.
Add two spoonful of sweet chilli sauce, a dash of toasted sesame oil, and soy sauce. Squeeze the juice from one lemon, and bring to the boil. In the meantime, roughly chop the soft end of a lemongrass stick and grate a fat piece of ginger. Add o the soup. Simmer for 20 minutes. Remove the chicken thighs; then using two forks, shred the meat from the bones and skin. Place back into the pan and add a handful of each: frozen peas, rocket, and rice noodles. Divide in between two bowls, and top with chopped red chilli peppers, two sliced spring onions and fresh coriander. Eat with a spoon when still piping hot. Preferably with good company and a movie.

Two. Eggnog lattes. Be lazy and go to the closest starbucks. Order a venti eggnog latte. And burn your tongue while drinking it. Or make it at home. Bring 250g of milk to the boil along with 2 cinnamon sticks, a couple of cardamom pods and a little grated nutmeg. Add a dash of vanilla extract, the one with the seeds. In a bowl, mix 2 eggs yolks with 50g of caster sugar. Strain the boiling milk onto the eggs, mixing as you do so. Then place the bowl over a pan of simmering water and cook, stiring all the time until the anglaise reaches 84°C. Add a double shot of espresso or a heaped teaspoon of your favourite instant coffee. Drink. From the comfort of your own home. And perhaps, with a dash or two of rhum.

Three. Roast garlic. Preheat the oven to 200°C. Line a baking tray with foil. Take four heads of garlic and chop their top off by a centimetre or two. Place on the prepared baking tray. Drizzle with oil and season with Maldon sea salt. Cover loosely with foil and bake for 40 minutes. Make sure you have some bread close by.

Four. Gü chocolate banoffee. Walk to your kitchen. Open the fridge and reach the black Gü chocolate banoffee package. Open with your hands. Grab a spoon, preferably small. Lift the foild cover away. Eat the chocolate layer first. Then sink your spoon into the goo. And wonder if they’re is anything sweeter – literally and figuratively – in this world. Don’t even think about having the second one.

Five. Molly’s waffles. Before you go to bed, visit Molly. Read her words. Fell in love and in hunger. Then make the recipe. The first one, Marion Cunningham’s raised waffles. Except, switch the dry yeast for 5g of fresh yeast. Because your heart tells you to. Sleep. Wake up half and hour before your alarm goes off. Cook the waffles. And eat plain, thinking about sending Molly a thank you note later.

Thank you Molly. x

Before I started getting serious with pâtisserie – more clearly, before I started waking up at three am and actually enjoy it – I must confess I felt quite confident with many things. From making pâte feuilletee to piping meringues; from assembling a series of entremets to decorating a cake.

Those were the things I was comfortable with. However, it didn’t take long for me to realise that even with some of them, there would be some sort of hitches.

Read: glazing a mille-feuilles. Period.

The concept itself doesn’t seem delicate. I mean, it’s just a matter of fondant. First pour the white fondant, then pipe thin lines of chocolate fondant – made dark by the addition of cocoa powder -, and stripe using a knife.

However, the realisation recquires special care.

The fondants have to be tempered, and at same temperature for best results. The chocolate fondant lines have to be piped very quickly after the white fondant has been spread all over the feuilletage top. The stripes have to be made with the back of the knife, and quite obviously, this must happen fast, before the fondant gets a chance to set.

Definitely not undoable, yet definitely not doable without having seen it at least once.

So tonight, I thought I’d thank you all for your kindness by showing you how we – at pâtisserie Lac – glaze our mille-feuilles.

And to be honest, I really felt like sharing something new over here, but didn’t have the courage to write a long recipe down, especially knowing what a busy day tomorrow is going to be. The fact that today was lazily spent with my boyfriend, daydreaming, sleeping, cuddling, and contemplating the beauty of Autumn might play a role as well.

Please welcome this short animation – featuring the hands of my favourite person from Montpellier, namely Alexis – warmly.

PS. ‘raye, raye’ translates to ’stripe, stripe’. I, apparently, had a strong desire to express myself in French at the time I put this together.

Then, you just have to clean the sides by running a spatula around them when the fondant is set, and finally, slice the mille-feuilles using a sharp serrated knife.

That’s all for today me friends. I know, I know… But since you’re the most amazing readers ever, and I’m lucky enough to have you and some other supportive people around me, I shall share more and more recipes.

Good night. Don’t dream too much about mille-feuilles, although it seems very tempting!

I checked on the daring bakers’ recipe quite late this month, thinking I would have to miss out on this one (yet again) given how tired I felt.

However, things turn out to be a little different. Far from what I expected them to be. As I opened the forum thread, I was thrilled by Meeta and Tony’s pick.

But I mean, who wouldn’t?

1. It’s from Pierre Hermé. Yes, this is totally the point where I blabber about how I loved working him, getting to make all the pâtisseries he sells in his shops, blah, blah, blah. Someone, please stop me. I love him. Period.

2. It has chocolate. Lots of it.

3. It’s made from pâte à choux: perhaps my most favourite thing in the entire world (if you put my consistent inability to produce nice looking choux puffs aside).

And if that didn’t convince you, I’ll have to force the following into your minds. How could you not love something that oozes chocolate crème pâtissière everytime you sink your teeth in it?

I knew it, you’re sold. So was I.

The experiment
- golden choux encasing
- the most luscious chocolate crème pâtissière
- and iced with a simple chocolate fondant

The pâte à choux is a basic. Flour is cooked into a smooth mass with water, milk and butter. First, the butter is cut into small even-sized cubes that are thrown into a pan along with water and milk, and a little salt and sugar. Both the milk and butter make for soft and golden-coloured choux. Indeed, milk is the perfect ingredient to enhance the Maillard reaction that naturally occurs between amino acids and reducing sugars. Heat milk proteins and lactose together and the magic will take place: deep brown colour, and lovely caramel and smoky aromas.

Anyway, this mixture is slowly brought to the boil. And as soon as the butter has melted, flour gets incorporated off the heat in one go, and beaten until it forms a smooth dough.

Then, the pan is placed back over medium heat. The dough is beaten vigorously with a wooden spoon to get rid of excess moisture, and also slightly denaturate the proteins behind gluten – glutenins and gliadins. This prevents the gluten from forming too strong a network, and thus, enables the development of the choux in the oven.

Once the flour mass is ready, I moved it into a pyrex bowl and added the eggs, one at a time; beating well after each addition.
For me, four 60g eggs were enough to get a thick yet soft dough. It should hold its shape but be pipe-able as well.

Since I don’t have my piping tools here, I used a Ziploc bag, but as you can see from the not so perfect choux above and below, well, I didn’t do a good job. The thing is, if you want to get nice even choux, you must pipe from above, not pressing the piping tip against the baking sheet (in comparison with how macarons are piped). Well, do this, unless you want multi-air-pocket-choux.

The dough will most likely form peaks which you can press down using your wet fingers. Next step is the baking: preheat the oven to 200°C, but reduce it to 180°C as soon as you place the baking sheet into the oven. As you do so, sprinkle water over the little balls of dough, then close the oven door and do not open it before the choux have risen well – approximately, 10 minutes later.

At this point, you want to open the door slightly and keep it that way. Given that I suppose you have other things to do than staying close to the oven maintaining that door opened, I suggest you stick a wooden spoon in there. It does a magnificent job at it.

Now, you should bake the choux for 10 more minutes or until golden-brown, and dry and firm to the touch.
Take out from the oven, and quickly pierce the bottom of each choux using a pointy knife to help the steam escape and not making those choux all gooey inside. Allow to cool then store in an airtight container.

The crème pâtissière is pretty classic too. Except for the extra-chocolate. You start by making a simple crème pâtissière: bring the milk to the boil, then temper the egg yolks, sugar and starch mixture. Place back into the pan and cook to 84°C.
This crème is then transferred into a container, and chocolate is incorporated. When it reaches 60°C, a little butter gets mixed in for extra smoothness and thickness.
Cover with cling film, making sure the film is right onto the crème – filmé au contact, as we say in France; and refrigerate.

To pipe the crème pâtissière into the choux, simply fill a piping bag fitted with a fine noozle and use the hole previously made to fill in the choux.
Chill while you get on with the fondant.

For this, I forgot Pierre’s recipe and went with a very simple fondant: warm milk, icing sugar and cocoa powder, mixed into a smooth and thick paste.
Then it’s all very easy. Dip the choux, allow the excess fondant to drip and arrange the choux onto a serving plate. Refrigerate for at least 20 minutes.

Soooo…
What if I say that the crème pâtissière was out of this world? Thick and luscious, with the most delicious chocolate flavour.

Anyway, I’m quite happy with how this all turned out. I’ve now officially conquered my choux-fears; not that they look perfect. But at least, I know why they look this way – read multi-air-pocketed. It also made me realise I’m not that bad at making choux. I mean, when I look at my second attempt, they somewhat look goo to me.

Ok, so enough digressing. Back to those chocolate choux, I’m pretty sure I’ll make them again, but this is something I knew even before I started making them. Now the next step is to top the unbaked choux with what French call craquant: a dough make of sugar, flour and butter; rolled very thinly, that gives the choux a lovely crackly look.

Believe it or not, but I’ve made pâte à choux twice in the past couple of days; and nope, no flat little choux buns were involved. This might not sound special; but trust me – if you’re unaware of my choux-bun-helplessness – it is.

Choux pastry is something I love to make. I mean don’t you dream about not feeling your own arm anymore, because you’ve just beaten three whole eggs into a thickish dough, which tends to split as you do so? Come on! Admit it, you love it too.
Well, I do. But choux buns. Oh no; these definitely don’t love me back. They probably even hate me; and that’s a massive understatement.

We all know how the story ends. On a random day, I decide to overcome this feeling, persuading myself that choux buns do actually love me. After all, there just made of flour, milk, water, salt, butter and – breathe – eggs.
So, yes, I make pâte à choux. It looks sleek and pretty, and has the most wonderful smell. I gently pipe it onto a lovely baking sheet. And bake. And cry.

During my whole life, I might have gotten choux buns right once or not twice. Not a single time more. So well, after giving up for a year, I made it again. Thanks to the NY Times magazine – yeah, finally a two-way relationship!

When I spotted the recipe for herbed fritters, my heart felt quite excited. How could fromage blanc and chives folded into pâte à choux then fried could taste bad? And, perhaps more importantly, how could I possibly failed that?
Frying. This is like totally different from baking. Three different letters, and a couple of litres of oil later, I found myself dropping little balls of the most beautiful dough ever into some bubbling greasiness. It felt good. Quite dangerous –yes – but I’m wild and fearless, so that doesn’t count.

Anyway, since I got such terrific results, I decided to love the NY Times even more. And even got the idea to make one recipe from it every week. Oh, I know, those don’t looks as yummy as the frosted cake and luscious tart I got you used to; but well, they pretty much have the same calorie content!

Choux croustimoelleux au fromage blanc et à la ciboulette
Adapted from the NY Times.

This is quite straightforward a recipe. If you know how to make pâte à choux, then you’re done. And it happens to actually be true as well if you don’t know a thing about choux.

You first make the pâte à choux. Heat the milk, water and butter together, then throw in the flour and salt in one go. Now using a wooden spoon, mix the dough like mad until it forms a ball. Finally mix in the eggs, one at a time. Here I have a couple of things to add: 1) you needn’t a stand mixer, keep using your wooden spoon. And 2) you might not need the entire third egg, so what I advise you to do is to crack it into a small bowl, mix it with a fork until smooth and slowly pour half ot it onto the dough. If it feels right, add more. If not, throw the remaining egg mixture away.

Once the dough is made, it should be used immediately, so I can only recommend heating the oil before you even start making the dough.
Making the fritters is just a matter of folding: some fromage blanc – which you can substitute with ricotta, a handful of chopped chives, and freshly ground pepper.

Then comes the frying. Be careful. I decided to pipe the dough into the hot*hot oil. Basically, I filled my piping bags with the dough, squeezed it over the oil and cut it – using my tiny pair of scissors – to form little balls.
Oh and yes, while I’m at it. I don’t own a thermometer that goes high enough in temperature, so I just rely to the dip-it test; i.e. spoon a little of the dough and se it it pops up and float. If it does, the oil is hot enough; falling that just wait for an extra couple of minutes before trying again.

Before I start blabbering about those beautiful caramels and also about one of the books I’ve recently read, let me stop you right away. I do not know a thing about Martha Stewart. Never seen her show. Never read her books. Never made a single of her recipes.
The closest I’ve gotten to Martha is the 2006 Christmas issue of Living. From the cover showing a beautiful rainbow of old-fashion Christmas ornaments to the hand-made parcel labels on page 58, I loved it. Simply gorgeous. And thoughtful too.

So I might be completely wrong, but as I was reading about Gus – Kate Jacobs’ Comfort Food central character – I couldn’t help but feel like I was in fact getting a grasp of Martha’s life (may it be my very own special Martha).

Gus is that woman I suspect many of you want to be. She can cook superbly. She has two beautiful daughters. And a very dear friend. She owns a lovely 7-bedroom mansion. And quite obviously, she has her own TV show and the appropriate books that go along with it.
Her only downside being the loss of her husband. And perhaps Carmen. You know, that younger and once Miss Spain woman the producers want on your show – yours and hers, that is.

And well, I loved reading about how Gus – who terrified to appear less than perfect, holds it all together – reacts; and how this situation affects her family dynamics. I’m sure you will love it as well. But given I’m terrible at book reviews, I can only suggest you buy the book. Read it. Then make the caramels au beurre salé I wanted to talk about in the first place.

Those things. They’re lovely. And totally make you feel like Gus, or Martha. Even our national domestic goddess – Nigella will do. This is all about instant gratification. Something that is easy to make, delicious to eat and wonderful to offer as a present.

And if you’re lucky enough to have your own show and doesn’t want that 30-something to, damn, co-host it; may I advise you to hand a little basket – adorned with a pretty ribbon if you feel like it – full of homemade soft caramels to your producer, who will love them and might hopefully die from suffocation after trying to swallow too many at a time.

Délicieux caramels au beurre salé

Caramels are one of those things that look very pretty – and happen to taste damn good, but that’s another story – but are somewhat messy to make.

First, when you add the butter and cream the mixture will seize. Don’t worry, just keep beating the hell out of it, and it will eventually turn into a sleek, glossy amber mixture. Then, when you slowly bring it to the appropriate temperature, it will form bubbles that will explode, looking like what I call the multi-mouths monster. And it just keeps getting worse and worse as it reaches 120°C.

Luckily, the finished products look neat. And yes, is totally to die for.

When it comes to food, I have that unhealthy obsession with categorising. Sure, there primarily is the good and the disaster; which you don’t hear very often about since I have a pretty lucky star looking upon me. But among the good, I do truly believe there are two sorts of kitchen ecstasy.

First, you’ll find the food you are familiar with. The food that makes you feel cosy and have that fulfilling sensation of I’ve been there before and my mouth knows this flavour, this texture, and this aroma.
This food is something I’ve been deeply on love with for quite some time now, and that just comforts me.

Then comes the food that tastes like the beginning of a relationship. Flirty and sometimes clumsy. This is somewhat new to me – the person who used to only make her favourites over and over again.
And trust me, it feels exciting.

I simply love to be pushed out of my comfort zone, to feel that pleasing sensation of touching the unknown. With my latest project, I’ve been confronted with this feeling on a daily basis; and so far, I’m enjoying it. I’ve already made a couple of cards, took some macro Polaroid pictures, drew some funky design for one friend, did some stitching experiments, and made some fluffy vanilla marshmallows. Damn, those were delicious and so different from the ones we usually get around here.

In France, marshmallows get to have two different names depending on where you buy them. Visit a fine pâtisserie and they’ll be called guimauves – ghee-mow-vhe (named after the plant that was once used to make them). If you go for supermarket marshmallows, you’ll be sure to find chamallows – sha-mah-low; which name, I guess, comes from the French inability to correctly pronounce marshmallow.

Chamallows maison à la vanille
Adapted from Sébastien Serveau’s Confiseries.

If you’ve never made marshmallows before, this is the recipe to try first. It’s so very easy. Just make a syrup, bring it to 120°C and pour it over whipped egg whites along with some – soaked yet unmelted – gelatine sheets, and vanilla seeds and extract. Beat until the mixture reaches 40°C – or less accurately, feels warm but not hot, to touch. And you’re done.

As for the tasting part, well, those are good. I would maybe boost the vanilla flavour a little next time I make them. Because, yes, there’ll be a next time. Once you’ll have tasted those melt-in-your mouth little bites, I’m sure you’ll be craving for some more as well.

Let me tell you something guys. You are so sweet. I mean, I don’t post for a few days and instead of the hatred words I was expecting, all I get are sweet notes and emails. One of you even sent the comforting recipe for his favourite cookies – thank you Chris.

You – or more exactly some of you – are obviously concerned; and well, you’re just damn right. I first did not intend to share the following story with you; it just felt a little too personal. But since my closest friends know – and more importantly, since I consider you as friends; special friends that is, but friends nonetheless –, I thought I would let you know.

On my birthday, my dog – Chiffon – died. I hadn’t seen her for two months and wish I could have spent her last days with her, while I was just in Revel, not knowing what she was – and had been – going through.

You might probably not understand, let alone care about the following, but I want this to be a tribute to her. A place I’ll always be able to look at and help me not remember her. Not that I think I’ll actually forget; but I need to celebrate what a beautiful being she was.

I first met her when she was just a baby. It was some day around March 1996 – I’d say the 17th from memory, but can’t be sure about that.

My parents, sister and I were at that Spring party we used to attend every year; near St Tropez, in a wild yet gorgeous garden on the hills and a tepee as a main house.

As usual, the crowd was dense and cheerful. People from all over France – and the world. A couple from Paris. They had that tiny little dog. Beige with fluffy hair and the most adorable ears – yes, ears – you could ever think of.

I waited for my parents to get tipsy – but don’t tell them I told you – , and asked – well, begged – if that fluffy little person could be mine. If we could take her back home.

As you might have guessed, we did. She slept during the whole journey, comfortably snuggled in the small gap between my two legs.

And she grew up with me. Or maybe, I was the one to grow up with her. You would always find us together, either playing, reading or dancing. I’m not senseless; I just was crazy about her. As with most of my friends, she had her own special nickname; seasonal. La petite chinoise – for her pretty almond shaped eyes. Boubinou. Chérie. Boops. Loulou. Cacahuète. You name it.

She was always so happy. Unless Pirate – our turkey-look-alike cat – ate her food or got a little too much attention. Unless she had some kind of branches stuck in her messy hair; in which case, she would totally stop moving and look at me so I could understand how uncomfortable she was and how she needed me – well, my hands – to remove the spiky stuff.

She had her favourite soft-toy, which we would refer to as her bébé. And although she sometimes forgot it around the garden or in one of the house’s room; she would always find it for some cuddling or playing.

But is there is one thing I’ll always laugh at when remembering her, it has to be her love for anything crispy. As soon as she heard one of us eating something with crunchy noise, she had to have it. She would first approach the table, then put her head on your lap, moving her nose in what we used to call a piggy fashion – son petit nez de cochon. Adorable.

Whether the chomp came from a carrot, biscotti, raw vegetable sticks, or nuts, she needed it. So I always used to get her to try what she saw as yummy – even if truly, she might have preferred a thick slice of meat, at least gastronomically speaking.

At first, she moved towards the food, smelt it and gently took it away from my hand with her teeth. She would then start chewing, in a very delicate way. Sometimes, when she would like it, it would disappear in a matter of second; other times, she would put it on the floor and look at me. Those times, I would encourage her to taste again, and in the end, she just seemed to like everything and beg for more, with one or two paws. The rare times when she didn’t actually like what I gave her, she would slowly move to the door, get outside, find a quiet place and burrow the piece of food in a small hole dug with her museau, which would inevitably end up covered with earth.

The one thing she loved were nuts, or more accurately, almonds. She even used to sneak into the kitchen and reach the basket into which my mum places the almonds she picks from our tree. Whole almonds, with the shell. Using her sharp teeth, she would open them and eat the soft yet crisp inners.

So when I made those calissons last week, on the day I learnt she had had surgery – to remove tumors on her spleen – fifteen days earlier, I couldn’t help but think about her. I was in shock. She had been sick and didn’t even know about it; I guess my parents thought it was the right thing to do and I do think it was. Yet, it made me realise how fragile she was and made me want to spend as many hours in her company as I could. Since I would see my family on the following week end, I already saw myself taking thousands of pictures of her, so I would always have her near me.

I didn’t get the chance to. On the next day, she died. She just stopped breathing. There is nothing my parents could have done. She didn’t get over the surgery. Things could have turned to be different and she might have lived for a couple more years. But here she was. Dying on my birthday. Clearly, I didn’t want to celebrate. And didn’t really; or in a very restrained way.

I love her and miss her more every second. I feel numb. Torn. My whole body stopped working altogether. I was all tears. Cry and scream.

Today, I’m just starting have feelings again. Slowly getting conscious that life isn’t over. Yet.

It just hurts to know I’ll never get the chance to feel her, smell her again.

Now, only memories remain. Like when she thought my dad couldn’t see her when she was hiding under the kitchen table with her tail evidently banging on the floor. We were certain she thought she was perfectly hidden, just because she couldn’t see him.

Or when she was sleeping on my bed, while I was reading some book, and she heard my mum’s steps approaching. She would wake up, and gently shake her head, but wouldn’t move a paw. But if she recognised my dad’s steps, you can be sure she would jump straight to the floor.

She truly was the sweetest dog ever and will be remembered as such. We all miss her. Luckily, we shared so many moments with her that we have no regrets; just happy memories. And trust me, those memories, I’m not going to allow them to disappear. Secured. Preciously. Like little grains of sands. Or – more appropriately – like small almonds in a tree.

Calissons maison comme des vrais

Calissons are a French specialty from Provence – and more precisely – Aix en Provence, where they’re so dearly-loved that they’re mass produced. Originally made with almonds and fruits confits [candied fruits], I took the easy way and made some with almonds mixed with a little icing sugar, homemade apricot jam, natural almond extract and orange blossom flower water, to a smooth and fragrant paste.

Here I used ground almonds, but you could obviously use blanch almonds, which you grind yourself. However, I’m not good at lying and honestly – and as much as I love anything homemade – I’m glad with how those calissons turn out and don’t get the point about trying hard when you can get terrific results with bought – but high-quality – ground almonds.

It’s not a secret to anyone. I could kill for cheesecake. Great cheesecake, that is.
Quite evidently, I was thrilled when I found out about this month’s daring bakers challenge. Cheesecake. Lollipops.

Those are basically two of my favourite things ever. Combined. I mean, the branding for my name even features lollipops.
My warmest thanks go to Deborah and Elle for this great pick.

The experiment:
- a creamy vanilla cheesecake
- dipped into tempered milk chocolate

As with most cheesecake batter, you start by creaming the cream cheese along with the sugar and seeds from one vanilla pod. Then go in the eggs and here, a little flour and an extra egg yolk are added, which I guess helps the cake hold its shape when rolled into balls later on.

I baked the cake into a 18cm wide pyrex dish, and in a water-bath, at 150°C for a little less than 45 minutes. However, given I used a more-than-halved recipe, I suggest to adapt the baking time and temperature if making a full recipe.
The cheesecake should look slightly swollen and should feel firm but still somewhat wobbly in the centre. And the edges might have a light golden colour.

I allowed the cheesecake to cool at room temperature, before wrapping it tightly with cling film, and left it in the fridge overnight.

The next day, I delicately peeled off the thin ‘crust’ and scooped walnut-size balls, which I rolled using wet hands, then placed onto a baking sheet lined with cling film.
Since I don’t own a freezer, I just chilled the balls for a couple of hours before inserting lollipop sticks into the cold and firm cheesecake spheres.

I tempered some milk chocolate – if yours doesn’t feel thin enough, you can mix in a little cocoa butter. Then poured the tempered chocolate into a smallish container, got the pops out of the fridge and dipped them. Because the spheres were so cold, the chocolate tended to set quickly, so I had to work quickly so the sprinkles would stick to the chocolate coating.

Soooo…
Those cheesecake lollipops were a hit. Even though I found the cheesecake part slightly too sweet, I have to say the texture was perfect and easy to handle. Firm yet creamy.
The vanilla seeds brought a lovely aroma, which combined with the egg and cream flavours certainly make you think about vanilla ice-cream.

They would make a great present. However, everyone seemed to be begging for more. I guess walnut-size is not enough; ice-cream-lollies-shaped cheesecake pops would definitely be more appropriate. They could then be called, vanilla ice-cream cheesecake lollipops. Yes, vanilla. Ice-cream. Cheesecake. Lollipops. Yum!

Pâte feuilletée [puff pastry] is one of those things that people don’t make, ahem, very often. You might, which you should be blessed for; but so far, I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t rely on store-bought puff pastry. I guess this is okay for most of us; I have to admit that whenever I have a tart craving and no time to make puff pastry, I prefer to quickly put a simple pâte brisée together and get on with the filling comme si de rien était.

However, come over on a Sunday morning and you’re likely to find me making pâte feuilletée. I just love to make puff pastry, see the beautiful cream-white layers come to life, fold the smooth dough. Oh yeah, this is good people and you should try. But if I’m being totally honest, the best thing I like about making puff pastry is to eat what I make with the scraps. You know, those little ribbons of dough that get cut during the making process: after the dough has been rolled and before folding, I trim the far ends of the dough so it looks like a proper rectangle.

Oh I know what you’re thinking. Those little buggers look totally unpretentious. Sure they have that lovely golden-brown colour, that endearing caramel aroma, but well, in the end they’re simply bâtonnets of puff pastry. But you’re oh so wrong.

Those people, are the unfussy* version of the fancy palmiers. Think crispy layers of sweet and caramelised puff pastry, which rank them quite high amongst my favourites. High enough for me to forget about my original tart cravings, which slowly morphes into roches carbonatées caramelisées du Carbonifère cravings as I roll and fold.
And in case you didn’t get it, I did name them caramelised Carboniferous carbonate rocks, for they look nowhere near a palm tree, but marine limestone beds, well, that will do. Quite obviously their name comes from the day I spent studying, or more accurately: procrastinating, for the oral de géologie I was supposed to take the next day by making pâte feuilletée and the so-called, feuilletés comme des roches carbonatées du Carbonifère.

* not that palmiers are difficult to make. They actually take the same time to be shaped, but just look different. Plus, since the folding is done in a different way, the palmier tend to expand horizontally; while those presque-palmiers grow vertically, which I really like.

Since those cookies are made from the scraps, this is anything but a recipe; more a sort of guideline to follow. Simply use plety of sugar and make sure the scraps of dough you start with are fridge-cold before beginning.

You preheat the oven to 240°C and line a baking sheet with baking paper.
You then dust your work plan with a good handful of golden sugar, pile the cold scraps of pâte feuilletée and finely roll them out. Dust the dough with more sugar and fold into three – just like you would do with a business letter. Roll out again, dust with sugar and fold.
You finally roll the dough into a half a centimetre thick* rectangle that’s about 10cm-wide and slice this into 1.5cm bâtonnets. Reduce the oven temperature to 190°C and bake until well puffed and golden, I’d say around 15-20 minutes.* if using proper finished puff pastry instead of scraps, roll the pastry way thinner, like 1 or 2 mm thick, or your presque-palmiers will grow tall then fall on the side in a twisted-style.

If after reading this you don’t need to make pâte feuilletée – that is just for having the chance to bite into one of those -, then I would suggest you pay your doctor a visit. By the way, this is totally a teaser for the pâte feuilletée 101 that will come later this week.