I believe that some things are bound to happen. Things like a major failure.

A failure that shows that wine might be good in your risotto, but not in your glass when baking.

A failure that makes those red macarons – kept in the freezer for a couple of weeks – quite helpful. Even though they don’t really belong here, on a taste point of view.

But as my Pentax taught me, failures can be good. Because we shared the trimmings, but also because it involves mascarpone, Tahitian vanilla, confiture de lait, roast banana, and milk chocolate.

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.

If you’re anything like me, you might have already experienced that subtle feeling of awkwardness which precedes the very first kiss you’re about to give to this new someone you quite like. And quite obviously, you can never forget the right-after-feeling as well.

Exciting. Electrifying. Paralysing.

I must confess I feel the exact same way when I come up with a new pâtisserie. A couple of Mondays ago, I explored the realm of tarts (oh yes, here they come again; somehow, I seem to think I’m no tart-lover and yet I find myself making tarts after tarts with just the right amount of anticipation and happiness).

At first, I wanted a milk chocolate ganache encased in a delicate pâte sucrée shell, and topped with caramelised pecan.

Real bad.

But apparently my need faded when I saw the 3.50€ price-tag for a small bag of less than two hundred grams of the much-adored pecans.

Peanuts felt like a not-so-bad idea. So did caramel. And more evidently, milk chocolate. But as delicious as it sounded, it seemed too easy.

Vanilla bean mini-marshmallows. Consistent. And downright perfect. For everything. This tart being no exception.

So here came the now famous tarte aux cacahuètes, caramel et chocolat au lait; as in, caramel and milk chocolate peanut tarts.

ps. I was quite thrilled when I found out that Pierre Hermé made a similar tart for a class he gave at Ferrandi.

Tarte aux cacahuètes, caramel et chocolat au lait

I’m not sure what I love most about this tart. The crisp peanut pâte sucrée. The melt-in-your-mouth caramel crème brulée. The crunchy and slightly salty peanuts. The smooth milk chocolate ganache. Or the fluffly vanilla marshmallows.

I guess, I’m really happy with how those five components turned out together.

The pâte sucrée has a delicate taste of peanuts, and the necessary crispness. I chose to rolled it finely and bake it until it turned into a golden brown hue, because I loved the aroma of roasted peanuts; and this smells just like them.

I added peanuts to the caramel crème brulée to make things super*peanuty, plus to add some crunch.

As for the ganache and marshmallows. Well, I suppose you all know how heavenly they are.

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.

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!

This past Monday. Yesterday, in fact. I made a choice. One of the most critical choices I’ve ever been confronted to. The kind of choices that leaves you in an uncanny state of uncertainty; but definitely one that makes you happy, one that you can’t help but think about – days and nights and every second in between -, one that comes with a CAP (Certificat d’Aptitude Professionelle) pâtissier, chocolatier et glacier.

Yes, my dearest friends, you read it well. From next September, I’ll officially start studying pâtisserie and might even pass the final exam (cross your fingers and you friends’ as well, for me).

Little happy dance and song. Champagne, ahem, not quite yet. I need to find a place (either a pâtisserie or restaurant) to be an apprentie at. And trust me, this doesn’t seem to be easy a task.
Since I’m wanting to stay on the Côte, I’m scouting places like renowned hotels and restaurants, and great pâtisseries. So if you happen to know anyone around, let me know and I’ll make sure to send you a box of macarons!

And this is the appropriate moment to thank you who support me, give me fantastic-est advices and help me to find my way. You know who you are and I’m immensely grateful to count you as friends.

Bring. It. On.

The tart. What can I say? An insanely delicious passion fruit ganache encased in a crisp pâte sucrée shell and topped with syrupy pineapple dices.

One of the best desserts I’ve ever made. The flavours interact. The textures oppose. My mouth loves it. Yours will too.

Tarte chocolat au lait et fruit de la passion, ananas rôti
Inspired by Pierre Hermé.

A quick look at the long list of ingredients and steps might – but shouldn’t – lead you to think that this is a long and complicated recipe. It isn’t. Don’t get me wrong, it is quite time-consuming, but if you plan things well ahead, then all is a left is the final and rewarding assembly job.

This tart is inspired by Pierre Hermé’s collection Mogador. Inspired. I’m eternally grateful for his pâte sucrée and for the impossibly luscious roast pineapple – I could and do eat this with my fingers as soon as the syrup isn’t hot enough to burn me to the bone.
The ganache is slightly different. Pierre relies on passion fruit, while I use both passion fruit and cream. Better stability, no splitting. Pretty decent, really.

As you might notice from the picture, my ganache is on the soft side. I like it better that way since I love that melt in your mouth feeling.
It will, however, get firmer if you leave it in the fridge for too long.

Saturday. 8am.

The soft noise of the raindrops hitting the window gently wakes me up, making me more and more aware of the pressure of the thick duvet cover (love*love that word so much; reminds me of someone special who taught it to me) against my skin. Probably one of my favourite feelings in the world.

Encore un jour pluvieux, I say quietly.

In a smooth movement, I stretch and realise how cold it is outside. Outside my nest. My cocoon. My bed.

Merde, j’ai encore oublié d’allumer le chauffage.
As it happens from time to time, I have forgotten to put the heater on and the living room, which also happens to be my bedroom, is probably as cold as it is outdoors.
After that hesitant attempt, I can’t really convince myself to get up, and spot that beautiful branche morte I found yesterday.

Not without effort, I reach it and tentatively grab it, first with a couple of fingers then holding it firmly in my hand.
I roll onto the other side of the bed. Closer to the heater. And working slowly with the branch, I manage to turn the heater on. Nine. The warmer, the better.
While I patiently wait for the room to warm up, I take the time to examine les lovely petites choses that surround me. The beautifully old parquet. The latest fabric hot-air balloon I sewn, which seems to be floating in the air.

As minutes pass by, my thoughts get sidetracked and my mind is now overrun by old-fashioned English puddings. I clearly picture Ms Beeton-like brightly-coloured wobbly jellies, cloud-white blanc mangers and other marvellously inspiring puddings.

I need to make a cheesecake.

A rich and thick yet feathery one. Fragrant with vanilla. Lots of vanilla seeds. And a milk chocolate crust; officially, to complement the subtleness of the vanilla, unofficially, just because I love milk chocolate.

Cheesecake très vanille

I have a devouring passion for cheesecakes. Although, cheesecakes as you know them – i.e. not French tarte au fromage blanc or tourteau au fromage – are not part of my food culture, I can say that many years of my life have been devoted to the hunt of the perfect cheesecake.

This is absolutely lovely as it is, but I must say I can’t wait for the first raspberries either to serve them alongside or even better, to fold them into the cheesecake batter.

That time of the year – yes, the one that brings peace and happiness has come around again. And while Christmas and all its festiveness is already behind us, I can’t help but share with you the lovely bûche de Noël my sister and I made for our Christmas Eve dinner and – it goes without saying – the story behind it.

Isn’t this season supposed to be about love and joyfulness? Well, come to my house and you’re likely to find us fighting. No love. No joyfulness.
Please, do not worry; we’re only discussing which flavour the bûche should be.
However, this year was a totally different matter. No screams were to be heard. No tears to be seen. When I suggested a Plaisirs Sucrés bûche - Pierre Hermé’s signature flavour – everyone seemed to agree and instantly felt relieved to avoid the usually exhausting brawl. A real Christmas-like house.

My sister even helped me out with the dinner. We spent the two days before Christmas cooking, but every second was worth it.
I was so proud of Aïda as she made the fresh yeast blinis all by herself; and she showed a great interest in the bûche making process. She even asked me if she could have her own column in foodbeam. You bet I said yes.

Bûche de Noël Plaisirs Sucrés
Adapted from Pierre Hermé’s PH10 and Thuriès Magazine (Nov. 07)

It’s no secret that Pierre Hermé’s Plaisirs Sucrés is one of my favourite things on Earth. And I feel like everyone would like it, even those who don’t like milk chocolate.
As a milk chocolate supporter, I am more than pleased to have finally found a dessert that truly gives milk chocolate the credit it deserves.

I’m not going to lie to you, this bûche is quite time-consuming to make, but if you’re act methodically your bûche will be ready to be eaten on time.

You should start on the day before you plan to serve it by:
1. the milk chocolate ganache
2. the milk chocolate chantilly
3. the dacquoise aux noisettes
4. the praline feuilleté
5. the fines feuilles de chocolat au lait
6. the joconde
Basically, the entire bûche is made on that day. It is then frozen overnight, at which point it’s ready to be glazed with the miroir chocolat.

Don’t forget to transfer the glazed bûche from the freezer to the fridge two hours before serving.

Note: I mention a 25cm-bûche mould. Please don’t be put off by this if you happen not to own one. I don’t. And if you knew what my so-called bûche mould actually is, you’re likely to burst in laugh.
I asked my dad to cut in half a 10cm-wide plastic pipe – yes, the grey ones, used in the building industry. I encased that half-pipe into one of my 25cm-long loaf pan, covered it with thin cardboard (so that my bûche would be more than 5cm in height) and lined everything with both clingfilm and rhodoïd.
See, my bûche might not look perfect, but well, it went through many things. And I’m sure that everyone can make a great-looking log – even without the appropriate mould!