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!

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

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.

I believe in traditions. Mostly, when the air starts to get crisp and the sunsets early.

We have breakfast for dinner. We take pictures out of the doors. We continue knitting a scarf, which was first started a couple of years ago. We roast pumpkins. We have hot chocolate on the patio, cosily wrapped in a blanket. We read written words.

And we make apple strudel.

I believe in traditions that will make our hearts warmer when the temperatures go down.
They surround us with comfort and love.

And this is why I love autumn and winter so much. However, it’s been slightly harder for me this year to find my way through golden leaves and acorns on the pavement.

But as a reminder of why things have to be as such, Anna-Sarah came over and we made a delicious apple, cinnamon and walnut strudel.

Just like we did the year before.

And quite instantly, the whole process of peeling apples, sprinkling them over the stretched dough followed by generous handfuls of cinnamon and walnuts tamed my fear of cold nights.

This time, the cake that so gloriously calls for frosty winds and an amber-brown cup of tea was ready just before the sun went down. And made the perfect end to an otherwise delicious dinner.

A couple of days later, I travelled from one home to another. Landing in London was tougher than I expected. If autumn was just on its way back in France, here things were somewhat different.

And by different, I really mean one thing: rain.

So I decided to make it happen. Armed with a thick wool-scarf and some mitten, I made a pact with myself.

A pact that smelled like grass after a misty day.
A pact that smelled like a piping-hot latte by the Serpentine.

Apple, cinnamon and walnut strudel
Adapted from Claire Clark’s Indulge.

I remember the first time we made this recipe. A perfect day for baking, with rain, wind and even a power-cut.
A year later, it has become our love letter to autumn.

And honestly, who could blame us? Warm and deeply-flavoured, this cake makes for the most comforting thing to eat, let alone to make.
The process involves a lot of dough-stretching, which should not scare you as Claire’s dough is a delight to work with. We always do this in a four-hand style, but I’m pretty confident you could pull this off with just a pair.

That night, we served it with a slightly salty caramel sauce. This one. And it worked perfectly as the filling is not too sweet .

It seems we made brownies. Yes those brownies.

In between sleeping on the beach, sipping through Pastis glasses, finding a name for the small pâtisserie I will own – one day – in France, buying heaps of vintage things at a vide-grenier, and spending time with my favourite person in the world – namely, my sister.

And well, the brownies are as good as ever. So please, if you haven’t done so yet, run to your kitchen and make a batch.
And keep in mind you can switch caster sugar for demerara or light brown. As delicious, and perhaps even better.

Now, I’m rushing to pack my suitcase as I’m heading on the west side.

But stay still, I have two recipes with apple coming – as in terrine of baked apple, some crisp cinnamon crumble, and an apple and walnut strudel – and one with white chocolate.

Who said autumn is just around the corner? I do think it’s time to forgive the winter. Soon.

Sometimes, things can’t wait. Not for a week, a day, an hour, a second, or even a minute. Things like… SNOW.

In fact, ever since I spotted the first snowflakes almost five hours ago, I’ve seemed to have a canon 400D glued to my right hand.

And damn, this is a useful new organ, acting as an extension of my eyes. I think beauty surgeon should consider reconversion as camera-stickers in the most serious way.

Silly stories apart, snowflakes make the prettiest things to photograph. So much that I actually jumped onto the bed to reach my laptop and tell you about this. Then, I second-thought, and realised that as lovely they might be, they are not considered pâtisserie.

Oh yes, I could have written a recipe for snow granita, which in my humble opinion taste best with a dash of lemon juice and some vodka (this is off records, right), but it didn’t quite fall in what I consider shareable.

Those petits gâteaux aux cranberries I made a couple of days ago do.

Well, let me check. Delicious: yes. Seasonal: yes. Moist: yes. Flavourful: yes. Pretty: not so much, but you have to realise we don’t even own a muffin pan yet, so they’re a little free-form.

Quite evidently, things couldn’t be as smooth. I could certainly post the recipe, but a picture? By night?

Trust me, at this point I was more than desperate; not to mention exhausted from a never-ending sore-throat and looong hours of work at the Capital Hotel (yes, I know, this is – another – new thing in my life: two star restaurant!).
And then, I grabbed a binder, a cookbook, and a pastry chef jacket, and created this lightbox.

Please, close your eyes, unless you haven’t had a chance to get your advised dose of daily laughing; because, well, I’m sure THIS will make you giggle to the point when your cheek hurt and you start crying.

Now take a deep breath, notice how sore your ribs are after this unexpected whoop, take a piece of paper and a pen, and write that recipe down for instant Christmasness.

Petits gâteaux aux cranberries
There is something comforting about those small cakes. It might be the wonderful smell that fills the house, setting everyone into a Christmas mood; or maybe it’s their light texture.

If – unlike me – you use a muffin pan, your cake will rose higher and might require a couple extra minutes of baking. Just insert a knife into the centre of the cakes and as soon as it comes out clean, it means they’re ready.
Simply make sure you don’t overbake them, in which case they would turn out slightly dry instead of theire usual moistness.

You should also make sure your milk and egg aren’t too cold when you add them so the butter doesn’t set when you mix them in. If it does, don’t worry, the cakes will be lovely, just perhaps a tad smaller.

I came across S’mores quite late in life. A Michael Recchiuti book. A tiny note at the bottom of a page.

S’mores.

A piece of chocolate and a marshmallow, sandwiched together in crisp graham crackers. After a quick moment in the oven, the chocolate and marshmallow melt into each others, making for the most delicious sweet sandwich ever.

As good as it may sound, I’ve never had the chance to taste S’mores – let alone graham crackers – in real life. And although I could have just made some myself, I simply didn’t find the time to.
But S’mores kept hauting me. Just like someone you’ve never kissed, and yet miss. A lot.

I even thought of making a S’more tart. Picture a crust of crushed homemade graham crackers, topped with a thin layer of dark ganache, and covered with a pile of fluffy Italian meringue. And then Deb did it. And it looked good.

But well, I eventually forgot about it. The tart, that is. S’mores still had their place in my dreams.

When I started thinking about all the cupcakes I could put together for this month’s SHF, you can guess what came first.

S’more cupcake. A graham cracker inspired cake – or at least a cake that tastes like graham crackers do, in my mind. A thick and smooth meringue. A deeply flavoured chocolate ganache coating.

The S’more cupcakes were born. Proving the world there is so much more than buttercream frosted cupcakes.

S’more cupcakes

With a healthy dose of chocolate and fluffy marshmallow, those delicious cupcakes will make everyone happy.

The cake is fragrant with brown sugar, cinnamon and vanilla; and has that slight saltiness I suspect graham crackers have (or maybe, I just see graham crackers as English digestives).
The marshmallow cream is sweet but not overly so. I think it’d be terrific to add the seeds of one vanilla bean to it.
And well, the ganache… Deep, dark and smooth. You definitely don’t want the chocolate flavour to be overwhelming here, so aim for a thin coating.

You’ll have more gaanche than needed – but that’s only because you have to have enough to dip the cupcakes. I suggest you make plain truffles.

And don’t forget. Sugar High Friday is running until the 26th of September. So put your aprons on. Get your wooden spoon and whisk. And make cupcakes!

I don’t know about you, but in my book, nothing’s worse than Monday mornings. Wait. There is: autumn Monday mornings.
I mean, how would you expect me to be happy on a cold rainy morning, while we all know how I spent my weekend. It’s crazy how hard life is sometimes, isn’t it?

Luckily, Jamie Oliver came to my rescue with some spicy butternut squash muffins. The perfect comfort food.

But before we go further, please let me introduce the lucky boy who got picked for my goodie give-away.
It took me hours to come up with the right method (see how intense my life is): I first printed the comments, carefully cut them with my favourite pair of scissors, put them into a black bag, turned of the lights, mixed, mixed, mixed and picked up one paper band.

Graeme, unless you don’t want an extra Christmas present, you should send me your mail address…
I’m sort of scared now because I know your judgment will be blunt. Why did randomness decide I should pick you?

Anyway, today’s recipe is some great butternut squash muffins with a frosty top. When I spotted it in Jamie’s latest cookbook, I knew I had to try them.
What caught my attention wasn’t the prettier than pretty picture or the use of squash in muffins. It was the olive oil. I had been dying to try out some new cake recipes that rely on olive oil rather than butter.

Butternut squash muffins with a frosty top
Adapted from Jamie Oliver’s Jamie at home.

These muffins didn’t disappoint. I love how moist and fluffy they are. The cinnamon brings the needed heat and the olive oil adds a satisfying bitterness (I used very fruity organic olive oil from Nyons).

The icing is pungent and fragrant with citrus peels and juices. I think I added a little too much juice though, because mine was runny; but well, I’m always looking for an excuse to lick my fingers and this definitely was a good one ;)

Cinnamon buns are an autumn favourite in my house. Come by, around the end of September, and a wonderfully rich cinnamon aroma will invariably hit you. A lovely family tradition, kept alive by my sister’s unconditional love for cinnamon buns.
On my side, the least I can say, is that I’m definitely not fighting against this ritual. Honestly, cinnamon buns are the perfect treat to warm up a cold autumn day; spicy, sweet and deliciously buttery.

You can thus imagine how priceless my family’s response was when I told them I had to make cinnamon buns for this month’s daring bakers challenge (Marce, my parents and sister are eternally thankful for your choice).

The experiment
The cinnamon buns are made of three components:
- a mildly rich buttery dough
- a sweet and aromatic cinnamon sugar filling
- a great and dead-easy-to-make vanilla fondant

The buttery dough was a delight to work with. Before starting, I intended to follow a regular brioche procedure. Basically, I wanted to mix the dough, place it in a bowl and refrigerate overnight; before proofing and shaping.
However, as soon as I started to work with it, I realised that the extra steps weren’t going to be necessary.
With only one egg and 80g of butter, this dough is less rich and wet than your usual brioche dough (it also contains milk which isn’t used in classic brioche), and thus, very easy to handle, making the whole process a doodle to follow.

This enriched yeasty dough is made of sugar, butter, vanilla, flour, yeast, egg, milk and salt (I diluted fleur de sel in the warm milk).
As you can see, I substituted the lemon zest for vanilla seeds because I couldn’t figure out what role the lemon could play, and thus, preferred to use the floral tones of Tahitian vanilla beans to balance the warmth of the cinnamon sugar.
For this recipe, it is very important that all the ingredients are at room temperature (22°C) before you start.

Here, I used flour type 45, which is quite not the same as bread flour. Though, given that the wheat grains are ground very finely for this type of flour, the gluten is widely available; and the small size of the flour particles ensures a soft and ropy dough.

The yeast isn’t fresh yeast as you might have expected, but instant yeast. I think Peter Reinhart’s choice comes from the fact that instant yeast is easier to find in the US but also more reliable (indeed, fresh yeast is very sensitive to temperature changes, which might results in the death of a great number of cells and thus, in a loss of effectiveness).
I generally prefer to use fresh yeast as, when used properly, it won’t give any yeasty taste to the dough and will result in more puffed breads; however, this time I went along with instant yeast and I was more than happy with the results.

The dough came together very easily; it was slightly soft and sticky at first, but as soon as I started kneading it, it became stronger and smoother. I decided to knead the dough by hand, because I just love to do so but also because the method I use (which is actually Dan Lepard’s) yields to extraordinary results.

The first fermentation was very quick, in an hour, the dough had almost doubled in size indicating that it was ready to be shaped. Actually, a dough should never be left to proof bigger than twice its size or the yeast will start to produce unwanted components, resulting in bitter or acidic aromas – so watch your dough!

At this point, I rolled the dough (note: you should deflate your dough before rolling it or you’ll have troubles – the cinnamon sugar is likely to escape and your rolls won’t be tight) – one cm thick -, and dusted with the cinnamon sugar, which simply is a mix of ground cinnamon and caster sugar.
Once the buns were shaped, they were left to proof and then baked at 175°C for 25 minutes.

The fondant, made of warm milk, icing sugar and vanilla seeds, and drizzled over the warm buns, was smooth and fragrant.

Soooo…
These cinnamon buns were an absolute hit and Peter Reinhart’s recipe replaced my old and trusted one, which means a lot.
The dough was soft and aromatic with vanilla and butter. It wasn’t very sweet, but nicely balanced by the sweetness brought by both the cinnamon sugar and fondant.
The cinnamon sugar stayed right inside the buns, making for a tender, syrupy and cinnamon-ish hearts.
A new favourite in my house.