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.

Two days, four bowls of Thai chicken soup, twenty hours of sleep, and a singing cab driver later, I’m finally emerging from the nightmare that flu is.

Only to let you know, I loved all of your ideas. Some made me laugh, some made me think.

The secret ingredient was beetroot.

And believe me, this cake has become a number one favourite.

You see, when I first made it, I wanted to try two new things – because, after all, this little journal here is made for things that I can’t experiment with at work.

A beetroot cake.
And this lovely sprinkle and bonbons frosting.

I had more eggs, butter, flour and sugar in my cupboard that I can admit; a couple of raw organic beets sitting in the fridge. And a major disappointment: every recipe I’d found called for cooked beetroots.

Now, I’m not saying I didn’t want to spend three hours waiting by the oven for the precious little rubies to become soft and sweet, but I knew – deep-inside – I could just grate them finely.

So I did.

Gâteau à la betterave

This recipe is a keeper. The texture is out of this world and the cake will keep moist for days. Here I made two small cakes, one for now, and one kept – tightly wrapped in clingfilm – in the freezer, for later.

But really you could bake it in a 24cm pan or in a loaf tin. Just make sure you adjust the baking time accordingly: a small knife, inserted in the middle of the cake should come out clean.

The fresh beets add so much more than just colour. They make the cake moist – the same way carrots do in a carrot cake – and bring a lovely yet subtle earthiness.

I’m giving you the recipe for the cream cheese frosting, because we all need a good reliable one in times of need. But keep in mind that the cake is equally delicious cold and frosted than it is slightly warm – from a short trip in the microwave from frozen – and naked.

And just for the record – and for your personal enjoyment (read: burst into laughs with tears and all), when I say stand-mixer, I really mean mixer standing on a loaf of sliced bread.

Please don’t try this at home!

I wish I could talk about how much I love recreating classics or old favourites. I find it’s the perfect way to highlight the beauty of what was once created and eaten with great joy.

It’s a bit like being in love. For real. You get both the comfort of having someone so close and the excitement of discovering him everyday under a new light, which you happen to be completely crazy about.

Oh yeah, I wish I had the time to develop. But right now, my alarm is set in just a little over five hours. So it’s going to be brief.

An awaken dream before the actual ones start to take over.

An idea. Just because I could have made it perfect, but was once again short of time, short of a good pecan pie recipe, and slightly short of rational thoughts after the bottles of wine we’d shared before I started plating the dessert for our very own little party.

Just the two of us.

But this version tasted delicious. The creaminess and subtle floral flavour of the bavaroise stood against the sweet crunch of the nuts rather beautifully.

Tarte aux noix de pécans

I can’t really call this a recipe, but more a guideline to follow. I have no records of the proportions. But I can only urge you to try.

Or even better, come up with your very own twist on a favourite. Because, pastry should be fun and fearless.

And please, someone give me your absolute go-to pecan pie recipe. Please, please, please!
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The house smells like mulled wine. Fairy-lights have been plugged. Cookies have been sent in a jar. A wreath has been hung at the door.

It really start to feel like Christmas around here.

We’re only missing a tree and perhaps, a dinner back home, with our families. But hopefully, one of those will come true next week if I find the courage and super-powers to carry a Christmas tree back home.

And while I’m on the subject, anyone knows where to find one around Clapham?

I definitely wouldn’t want to miss on this tradition. Ever so more that I’m already eight-day late on this.
At my home – the one in France – we always decorate the tree on the very first day of the month. Then the presents start piling up as they are bought.

At night, we watch movies, while sipping through a green tea for me, or camomile for my mum and sister, and a (cold) coffee for my dad.

During the day, we bake. Christmas cake, brownies, and cookies. My mum also makes the best pain d’épices, while my sister writes the labels for the jars to be sent.

Jars filled with flour, light brown sugar, chocolate chunks, nuts. And perhaps, mostly filled with love.

They’re so easy to make. And you can be certain they always please. So there you have them: cookies in a jar, with a new 2010 addition: crushed pretzels. Because, deep inside, I think that your heart looks like a pretzel.

This year, I’ve used those beautiful jars from Jme.

But really, you could use any recipe you like. Just make sure the total content fits your jar and leave out the butter and eggs for the lucky recipient to add.

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

Today felt short. It was frosty. And made of more mise-en-place making than you could imagine.

I’m now in love with my bed; its million pillows and triple layer of blankets. So I just want to share three things. A moment. A kitchen tool I love. And a recipe idea for the winter.

The moment was early this morning, when the sun was barely here yet. I saw frost on my window. It was gorgeous.

The kitchen tool I used the most today was a pastry cutter.

At work, we have two sets, with many missing-and-found rings. A perfect mismatch of plastic. At home, I have the same two sets, strangely still neatly kept in their boxes.

The recipe idea comes from fond chilhood memories at my parents’ best friends’ house. They had the tallest tree, from which kilos of golden and soft fruits would fall on the ground.

Obviously, we would eat them like this, with our fingers getting cold with the wind and the juices staining our shirts. We didn’t even bother washing them. The fruits and the stains.

This cupcake and I, we had quite a day.

Everything felt just fine, until I grabbed the vintage container filled with flour wondering whether it was plain or strong. The lid was orange. And somehow, it seemed evident that this was the high-gluten stuff.
So I reached the other container at the back. The brown one.

I rubbed the sugar into the butter. Added seeds from one vanilla pod and one egg. Mixed a little. Folded the flour and baking powder in. And the final touch of milk.
A recipe I love and use everytime cupcakes are needed.

Seventeen minutes later, I was happily befriending with twelve cupcake-wannabe pancakes. They were cute. They tasted delicious. They were more than slightly gummy.

So here is a written note for myself, which should be read in case of doubt.

And then, I made it again. With the right flour. Plain, for the record. The batter was spooned – not piped – because it would later be baked in a tiny gas oven.

Home, my friends, the place where imperfection has a sole right – and possibly, obligation – to live and exist.
While we’re at it, I must show you the aftermath. I love green tea. Everywhere.

Eventually, I wiped the green off my counter. Warmed up a cup of milk. Put some music on. And sat with a book, a mug of hot matcha latte, and a cupcake.

It was still snowing outdoors. And the wind could be heard, with the sound of branches.

Yet another perfect winter moment.

Cupcakes au thé matcha
Adapted from the Hummingbird Bakery cookbook.

There are many many things I like about those cupcakes. The fact that taste absolutely delicious definitely one of them. But to be honest, what I love the most is how easy they are to put together.

Five minutes of mixing. All in one bowl. Seventeen minutes of baking. Two minutes to make the frosting. A short pause for the cupcakes to cool down. And finally the frosting, perhaps ten minutes.

And while we’re at it, you should know I will explain you how to frost cupcakes quickly, without a piping bag, in tomorrow’s post. A simple palette knife or even a butter knife, are more than enough.

If your frosting feels a bit too thick, just add a tad more milk, until it has the perfect creamy texture – firm enough to hold, but smooth enough to be spread.

It’s certainly no exaggeration to say that, no matter how we looked forward to it, winter has swallowed us with its thick coat of snow.

One morning, the temperatures feel a little cold, but the golden leaves we’ve come to love still cover the pavement. And the next day, without a notice, they’re gone.

Or perhaps more accurately, they’re hidden.

It’s been snowing for the past twenty-four hours here in London. And I feel lucky I don’t have to leave the comfort of my home.

Sure, I thought about going for a walk, and possibly make a snowman with friends.

But to be honest, this reassuring sensation of cosiness is one of the things I love the most about winter.

It’s definitely the one season during which I want to indulge.

With baths so hot they almost burn my skin, bread eaten straight from the oven, afternoons spent on the sofa with a good friend, or a chocolate pot de crème eaten way past my bed-time.

Petits pots de crème au chocolat

This is the perfect recipe for long winter nights.
You can make it one day ahead, and in fact, it’s more than advised. This way, the custard has plenty of time to chill and set into a firm silky crème.

The recipe, originally for crème brulée, was suggested by Elliot for one of our set lunch dessert. That week, we caramelised the top and served it with a banana sorbet and a peanut diplomate cream.

It was lovely. Very lovely in fact. But those pots de crème are just as delicious, except in a simpler way.

Dreams are tough. High maintenance.

You see after a short five-day week of work, my pile of laundry threatens to swallow my bedroom, the hair pompom I not-so carefully tie has become a knot that now has a life on its own refusing to cooperate; my bed gets shared with a Polaroid camera, the latest Nigel Slater book and more empty water bottles than I dare to admit.

And then, in the midst of this apparent chaos, I realise that what surrounds me does not match how peaceful I feel.

I’m making this for something.

Something that – to my eyes – means everything. And that spoonful of perfectly cooked apples might have something to do with all of this.

In fact, it has everything to do with all this.

Just like a comment from a customer who loved his pumpkin crème brulée served with crème fraîche ice-cream and cinnamon streusel. Just like this idea for a new dessert that made it to one of my dreams, only to be written down on a notebook the following morning and made into a set-lunch dish the next day.

Our lives are tough. We try to solve issues. We deal with people who don’t belong there.

We take it, sometimes with ease, other times with tears or anger.

But all this side doesn’t matter – it affects me, it might even upset me – because deep-inside I know how incredibly lucky I am. No words could describe this feeling.

On the other hand, a bite of this apple terrine would.

Terrine de pommes caramelisées et streusel à la cannelle

More than a recipe, this should be read as a reminder that apples with sugar and butter taste fantastic. Especially during this season.

With a hint of cinnamon and the creaminess brought by either a dollop of thick double cream or a scoop of ice-cream, it makes for the perfect comforting dessert. The kind of them that should be eaten on a couch – preferably by a window.

Here, I served it with riz-au-lait [rice pudding] ice-cream. Because, let’s be honest, nothing can beat its glorious autumn-ness.

But basically, whether you’re planning on making ice-cream or not, just keep in mind: finely sliced apples layered with butter and sugar, baked until soft and almost caramelised. A tatin without a shell. In the end, it’s all that matters. Just like the dreams you have.

There is something about early nights that feels like magic.

It can be the glimmer of cheap ikea candles that smell of vanilla. Or the warmth of a pair of chunky mittens.

Or perhaps for you, it’s the cosiness of the blanket you’re wrapped in, while reading a book to your favourite animal; mine currently being a Portuguese-speaking guinea pig called Joseph – which I would have never thought as plausible, the liking a guinea pig that is, not the whole language compatibility issue.

I love early nights because they ooze comfort, and at times, if I’m in the mood for baking, they ooze chocolate as well.

Tonight, the house is empty and quiet. I can hear the rain hit the roof and the heater roar.

The sunset happened just three short hours after I woke up, but it feels like the day has just begun.
In short, the perfect background for the slow-motion day I have been dreaming of.

With no plan, but an empty stomach, I put some music on, preferably something by girls in Hawaii. I light up our gas oven, and mix butter with muscovado sugar, add flour and a touch of baking powder. I chop some valrhona chocolate into chunks.
Getting my hands dirty, I form little pats, put them into a muffin pan and bake.

Yes, there is something magic about early nights. It can be anything you want; wherever and whenever, as long as it’s after the dusk.

For me, it was as easy as soaking a thick and chewy cookie into a cup of hot matcha latte. The photographing part was obviously slightly more difficult, but well, no apologies needed, it’s dark outside.

Chocolate chip cookies
I think I already have more recipes for chocolate chip cookies than needed. I went through different phases, each more successful than the previous one.

Rather evidently, you could use a little whole-wheat flour and I cannot recommend it enough. It gives the cookies a lovely earthy flavour that matches the chocolate and sea salt perfectly.