If at times, nature compels us to slow down, I must admit I was slightly surprised when I saw the first lemons on my parents’ tree.

Lemons in september feels like eating strawberries around Christmas time for me.

But well, the little guys were hanging out in the tree and my sister’s favourite dessert in the whole entire huge universe is lemon meringue tart.

So I took this as an opportunity to remind you how lovely Pierre Hermé’s recipe is. This time around I just changed the crust for my new go-to recipe which seems to be easier to work with – which in my world means no shrinkage during baking (the one thing I dread the most in pastry).

Basically, you can make the dough and lemon crémeux a day – or three – in advance, and when you’re ready for THE tart, simply bake blind the shell and fill it with the smooth and tangy cream.

Whip up a nice and soft meringue italienne, pile it on the tart and burn with a châlumeau [blow-torch] or failing that the grill of your oven (something I’ve realised I’m not good with, burnt tart anyone?).

And trust me when I tell you I’m doing you a favour by writing down the ingredient list so you can just print it, go shopping and come back at home only to make the most delicious lemon tart you could ever dream of.

When it comes to the dough, the process is exactly the same as the one I described over there. Except thet ingredient list is different: less butter, more almonds and a tad more icing sugar make for the most perfect dough ever. Easy to work with, it will have a very deep aroma when baked. Just make sure you don’t get it out from the oven before it has the nicest shade of golden-brown.

As with most doughs, this recipe will yield to more than what you actually need for one tart. But I suggest you divide it into 3 to 4 pieces and wrap them in clingfilm. Then you can freeze them for as long as a month or two, and go back to your freezer every time you will need some.

Quite evidently, we also made cake. This cake to be precise. Because it is the best lemon cake. Because it’s soft and fragrant. Because it will keep for days. And mostly, because we need no excuse to make – and more generally, eat – cake.

This time, I used T110, which is a fine semi-whole wheat flour. I’m not sure it’s widely available outside of France, but I suggest you try making a tant-pour-tant using plain and whole-wheat flours.
What I love about this flour is the lovely aromas – deep and hearthy – that balances the tanginess of the cake and the sweetness of the soaking syrup.

As a matter of fact, I first intended to top the cake with a thick citrus and earl grey glaze, but ran out of icing sugar so syrup it became.
Whether you want to go for a glaze or a syrup, you simply need to heat the lemon juice to 70°C, infuse it with the tea for two or three minutes, then pour onto the icing sugar slowly.

I drenched the cake with it as soon as I got it out of its tin and it created the most perfect layer of fresh lemon flavour.

And since this post is too long already, maybe I should add a couple of things.

ONE. I would love to hear your suggestions for upcoming articles.
What would you like to see on foodbeam? Is there a specific French technique you would love to learn?

TWO. I’m thinking of putting a F.A.Q. post together. I find them so fun to do. So anything you’d like to ask!

THREE. I hope you don’t mind my current REmakes of old recipes. To be honest, I really enjoy writing them (and photographing them with my pentax ME). To me, it’s all about: 1) highlighting some of the very best pastries around and 2) showing you new techniques/ingredients.

OK, I’m done now. So do ask your questions in the comments below and tell me what you want to see here! x

It would probably be an understatement to say that I am messy.

For years, my absolutely organised mum fought with me, not understanding why I had to keep pretty much all of my belongings on my desk, or at worst, around my bed.

For years, I did not understand how – despite being raised by someone so tidy – I would always end up with so much stuff lying on the floor. And then, it struck me. I simply like to have my most cherished possessions close to me. I like to be able to see them at any given time. I like to nest in my own comforting world.

This eureka-moment had no effect on my paradoxical messiness. In fact, as I’m writing this, I’m surrounded by two cameras, a photo album, a bowl of edamame beans, and a neat pile of notebooks.

Yes, neat.

As messy as I can be, I have this strange thing with notebooks.
It started at school, where I would always have the prettiest ones; colour-coded, written using the exact same pen, and no ratures. I’ve even been spotted copying out one of my biology class notebooks because it didn’t feel prefect enough.
Then came pâtisserie kitchens and moleskines stained with chocolate. And yet, when you open them, overlooking the smears, you’ll notice only that one felt tip pen touched the pages (ask the guys at the hotel and they will tell you how angry I get if my pen gets stolen).

Now turn the pages, and see that drawing of a square tart filled with a liquorish-like treacle flan, topped with grenadine-marinated oranges and a square of white chocolate.

It’s the starting point of an endless excitement. Making pastries all day is a favourite. Creating pastries all day is the most favourite.

Right now, I’m developing some very fine French pâtisseries for the book I’m working on. But I’m also playing around in the kitchen just for foodbeam. And it feels so nice.
I can’t promise daily recipes here, although I will make my best to come up with new exciting things if I’m not spending my days off exploring London for the best places to eat, or have a bubble tea, or some macarons.

Yes, I’m totally keeping tracks of my London favourites there. It’s – almost – all film pretty (I love London, and I love my Pentax ME Super even more).

Treacle tart et oranges sanguines à la grenadine

I’m calling this treacle tart although it’s really not a genuine treacle tart, but more of a treacle syrup flan encased in a tart shell.

Just so you know, I used small square rings (6,5cm-wide) which are quite high (3cm) so I could get more filling than crust. If you’re going to use regular tart rings, you’ll have enough flan to fill four tarts shells. Just adjust the quantity of pâte sucrée (around 300g), marinated oranges, and white chocolate squares (or in this case, circles).

As I was diligently peeling a stampede of organic lemons to turn them into neat candied squares – a pretty lengthy task if you consider all the steps involved – the pungent scent brought down memories of a now long-gone day.

Rewind.

As Guillaume wakes up – or more accurately, as I push the snooze button of our alarm clock every two minutes, giving him a repeat-hug to gently get him to emerge from his dreamless sleep – I suddenly realise that today is my much-longed-for day-off.

After more minutes that I will dare to divulge, Guillaume slowly walks to the bathroom, and I can’t resist to fall back asleep with the soothing sound of falling waters tickling my ears.

It’s now almost eleven aye-emm, and after a quick bath – my very own luxury – I hop onto the bus towards High Street Kensington. Read: towards Whole Foods.

On my way back, white flakes begin to fill the skies. By the time I reach the door to our flat, the streets, trees, and sadly for my tendency not to resist to any slippery surface, the sidewalks are coated with thick snow.

It’s damn cold outside, and the heat I find at home feels unbearable.

Until I look through the window only to mentally record the image I see. A white cocoon surrounded my fog clouds.

It’s pretty much one of the most comforting sensation ever. As if I was contemplating my own daily world from above; except it’s now all-quiet, almost like a nature morte.

With such an astounding cosiness, a couple of things were bound to happen. A feel-happy movie, a trip to my very favourite blogs, a nap – taken from the warmth of my thick couette.

The last thing involved flour, baking powder, eggs, sugar, a good dose of lemon, butter, and cream. Also known as cake weekend, this loaf will keep – in the fridge, well-wrapped in cling film – for days.

Oh, and did I mention how easy it is to put together, how pretty it is to look at, and how down-to-the-last-crumb delicious it is to eat?

It is also a damn good reason to use my absolute pâtisserie tour-de-main [process] crush. The one trick you won’t be able to live without.
If you want a life lived in the shadows of neatly cracked cakes, please avoid eye contact with the following lines.

The secret is to pipe a line of butter on the top of your unbaked loaf. Simply cream a couple of tablespoons of butter, and using a piping bag – or as I do, a paper cornet (another playground love, which I should definitely make you discover laterish) – pipe a thin line across the length of the cake.

Bake and allow your eyes to sparkle.

But more than this, this promenade into the past allowed me to discover what pushes me to make a recipe in particular.
I think it says a lot about the pastry chef – not to mention the person – you are. The way you combine coincidences, accidents, facts into a delicious pâtisserie.

And I strongly hope my recipes come across just how people see me. Refreshing, sophisticated yet with an edge, and fun.
This means a lot to me since I have just realised that I am now ready to write a pastry book. It’s always been a dream, a long-term goal, and possibly the one thing – except for my passion – that got me into those not-so-hot pieds-de-poules pants.

Until today, I had never felt the need to write a cookbook. I kept telling myself I had to wait until I would master an actual knowledge on French pâtisserie, and also, until I had a good unexplored book material.

So when the idea came to me on my way to work, I was thrilled.

A book I would have loved to read a couple of years earlier, when I hadn’t yet entered a professional pastry kitchen. And actually, a book I would still love to read now.

It’s still the very beginning of the process, and even though I keep my fingers crossed to the point my joints hurt, the book will possibly never be printed. But I like to challenge myself.

So well, let’s forget about this all, and please go make a cup of your favourite tea – although I couldn’t recommend anything more than a delicate cup of green tea – to sip through the savouring of a thick slice of weekend lemon cake topped with a large spoonful of clementine confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.

Cake weekend au citron et confit de clémentines à la vanille
I feel like I’ve already talked way too much today, so I will now simply urge you to make this. Weekend or not.

Just make sure you fold the flour very delicately into the batter, not to loose any of the air (incorporated in the eggs right at the beginning by much whipping) that gives the loaf cake such a light texture.
Same goes for the fats (both cream and butter; that’s actually the difference between a cake and a weekend cake).

What I usually do is to incorporate vigorously a small amount of batter (around one cup) into the melted – yet not hot – fats, then pour this mixture back into the batter, folding very gently.

As for the confit, you simply need to briefly blanch the whole clémentines a couple of times, before cooling them in ice-cold water. This allows to 1) get rid of the skin’s bitterness, and 2) keep the bright orange colour.
Then proceed as detailed below!

You can certainly make it in advance as it will keep for 5 days in the frigde.

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.

This is how we love Christmas cake around here.

No, we’re not going insane. We just like how versatile it can be over the years. Never the same, yet not entirely different either.

This year, I’ve decided to combine our favourites from the past to create a unique and delicate cake. Most definitely number one of the Christmas cake hall of fame.
Picture plump and fragrant dried and glacé fruits, and whole almonds, held together in the shape of a cake thanks to a rich and moist batter.

Do make it now and you’ll have a lovely cake to devour on the twenty-fifth.

To make this cake you’ll need:
250g raisins
125g sultanans
300g dates, pitted
250g dried apricots
50g glacé cherries
1 candied mandarine
1 andied slice of lemon
3 vanilla beans
250g boiling water
250g whole almonds

Finely dice the candied mandarine and lemon slice.

Place all the fruits into a glasse bowl.

Using a sharp knife, cut the vanilla beans open, and scrape the seeds out. Add both to the fruit mixture.

Pour the boiling water over the fruits.

Cover tightly with cling film and allow to rest for a couple of hours, or until the water has been absorbed.

Do not forget to give it a gentle shake every now and then.

Meanwhile, toast the almonds. Heat a large frying pan and place the almonds in there. Cook over medium heat, shaking as you do so, until you can smell a definite almond aroma. Take care not to burn them, a couple of minutes should be enough to get the best from them.
I love how toasted almonds have that slight savouriness due to the smoky flavour. Try not to munch on them because they do add a nice crunch to the cake.

And get on with the batter:
170g butter, at room temperature
170g light brown sugar
200g flour
175g ground almonds
4 eggs
3 tbsp golden syrup
2 small apples

As usual, make sure you have all the ingredients ready: weighed and measured.

Start by creaming the butter. If you’re anything like me, you’ll never think of getting the butter to room temperature before making the cake. Luckily, I’ve developped a foolproof method. Place the cold diced butter into a heat-safe bowl and heat until half the butter is melted. Then quickly turn onto you’re stand mixer, which will do the remaining job.

Mix in the sugar.

And golden syrup.

Now, you need to peel and grate the apples. Discard the peels and cores. All you keep is the juicy flesh.
I don’t know about you but I love that first picture and totally think about printing, framing and hanging it onto my kitchen wall. Naked apples look good.

Mix in the flour and ground almonds, then the grated apples. It’s totally normal for the batter to look lumpy.

Finally fold in both the toasted almonds and plump fruits.

Preheat the oven to 140°C.

Fill two tins: one 16cm and one 18cm. As you can see from the picture above, I decided to go for a 18cm plus a thin 16cm and a tiny loaf. But really, do as you wish.

Bake the cakes for 1h30 or until firm to the touch. Allow to cool slightly before removing from the tins.

Wrap in parchment paper, and foil. And keep until ready to decorate.

Hopefully, I’ll see you again next week for an update on marzipan and fondant. In the meantime, I wish you all the best for the holidays – and the year to come. xx

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.

A few years ago, when my mum went to the pâtisserie on Sundays to get us dessert, I would invariably ask for lemon meringue tart with the exciting promise of a smooth and tangy treat in mind. Apparently, the flavour of those Sunday tarts always seemed to be nowhere close to my dream.
There is no such thing as bad lemon meringue tarts. Damp crust. Eggy filling, nonetheless flavourless. Tooth-aching meringue.

I’ve been pretending to hate lemon meringue tart ever since. But well, a couple of months ago, as my sister begged me to make her favourite dessert, I couldn’t help but change my mind. The lemon meringue tart I had made was simply perfect. And to be honest, I had the inner feeling that it was matchless.
So when I found out that this month’s daring bakers challenge involved making a lemon meringue tart, I got slightly disappointed. My first thought was something like: why would I make this tart knowing it can’t measure up to my go-to recipe? Quickly followed by: what the hell! It could be interesting to make it anyway.

The experiment
The lemon meringue tarts are made of three components:
- a simple pâte brisée
- a fragrant lemon cream
- a sweet fluffy meringue

The pâte brisée is easy to make and produces a lovely flaky crust. The dough is made of butter, flour, sugar, salt and water. When it comes to shortcrust pastry, the key is to have the ingredients ready and more importantly cold. The butter should be hard and the water ice-cold. This is what ensures a great crust that won’t shrink or soften in the oven.

Once the ingredients have come together roughly, I placed the dough into a plastic bag and refrigerated for 20 minutes. It was then rolled and cut into 13cm-wide disks (either for muffin-size tarts or 8cm wide ones). I slightly dusted the disks with flour and wrapped them, before setting them to chill overnight.
The next day, I re-cut the disks using a 12cm-wide round pastry cutter, as the dough shrank due to the butter contraction and the water evaporation. I then lined the holes of a muffin tin with the dough and baked it blind for 30 minutes.

The resulting crust was golden and flaky, and didn’t skrink in the oven although I kind of mess up with the lining process and was scared that my fingers might have warmed the dough a little too much.

The lemon cream was very interesting to make. Mostly because it’s so far from every recipe I’ve seen for lemon cream.
It relies on cornstarch, egg yolks and butter as solidifying agents, which you flavour adding lemon juice and zest, and sugar.

I didn’t have any cornstarch on hand so ended up using potato starch instead, which didn’t have any major impact.
I started with a cold liquid base: water to which I added the starch and sugar. This liquid was then brought to the boil until very thick. I then added the egg yolks, making sure to temper them with the starchy mixture first. I set the pan over moderate heat and mixed with a wooden spoon until the thermometer read 84°C – the temperature at which the egg yolks solidify.
The last step consists in folding in the butter, lemon juice and zest and dividing the cream into the baked (and cooled down) crusts.

Finally, I topped the tarts with a montagne of fluffy French meringue. The egg whites are whisked until they form soft peaks and caster sugar is added. In order to get a marshmallow-like meringue, I had to double the quantity of sugar (thus using 60g of sugar for each egg white). Indeed, I found that using only 30g of sugar per white yielded to a grainy and not-so dense meringue.

Soooo…
Those lemon meringue tartlets were good. They certainly won’t replace my favourite recipe, but I’m happy with how they turned out. The crust had a pleasant crunch, and the filling was flavourful, although slightly starchy and didn’t had that smooth glossy feel Pierre Hermé’s has.

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 ;)

Trust in me, just in me
Shut your eyes and trust in me
You can sleep safe and sound
Knowing I am around

Slip into silent slumber
Sail on a silver mist
Slowly and surely your senses
Will cease to resist

Trust in me, just in me
Shut your eyes and trust in me

No guys, I’m totally not trying to eat you. Human flesh just isn’t my thing. Please do not worry.
I need you to trust me though. You must fully trust me. The braised artichokes above might not look good, but believe me I could kill for them. Ok, now you can be scared.

I have to admit that those pictures – the one you see on this post – definitely aren’t my best. But I couldn’t not talk about these to-die-for treats (note: way too many death references here; but I’m fine people). I just couldn’t.

I mean, look at that lemony gooeyness. Now, we’re talking. Soft and fragrant artichokes, very slowly cooked until confits. Again, this is an easy one. Just throw some garlic and halved artichokes in olive oil, cover with boiling water and simmer. Drain. Generously drizzle with lemon juice and olive oil. Voilà.
The recipe which got me inspired is much more complicated; but having had a busy day, I took the effortless way. Rose Carrarini first cooks some carrots, onions and celery; then adds the artichokes and garlic. I told you: infinitely more complicated.

Hopefully, you’ve now trust in me and the next thing you’ll do after reading this will be to:
1. pick some artichokes from your garden (alternatively buy some)
2. peel them
3. halve them
4. cook them
5. eat them
By the way, I am absolutely not manipulating you.

Artichauts confits au citron et à l’ail
Adapted from Rose Carrarini’s Rose Bakery.

These braised artichokes have the perfect texture and flavour. You’ll never see me spend seven euros on preserved coeurs d’artichauts. Never ever.
Here I used some small provençal artichokes, called les violets de Provence [literally, purples from Provence] thanks to their lovely colour.

No need to be from France to know that, here, people rave about la tarte au citron meringuée. A sweet and crisp crust covered with the most luscious and so pleasantly tangy lemon cream, which is topped with a smooth and marshmallow-like meringue.
The description might sound heavenly, but I have to confess that lemon meringue tart clearly isn’t a favourite on my list (oh well, at least until I made this one). My sister, on the other end, must be French-er than I am because to her la tarte au citron meringuée simply equals perfection (ok, this and les plaisirs sucrés). If I’d listen to her, I would be making one tart every single day of the week and this, all year long.
I can so picture her, biting into a generous slice, closing her gorgeous eyes and enjoying – what she calls la meilleure chose au monde entier.

While it’s generally not my thing to make pastries I don’t actually like, here, I had to. Honestly. Aïda had been asking for a lemon meringue tart for years, yet, I had never made one.
Picking the recipe was a matter of seconds. Pierre Hermé, again? Well, I have to admit – not without shame – that I love his genuine pastries more than ever, and that if there was just me, I would be making Pierre Hermé’s recipes only. Somehow, foodbeam would no longer be called foodbeam, more like pierrebeam and well, to be honest, it doesn’t sound half as good. Therefore, I might as well stick to my original plans, which were to cook from as many of my cookbooks as possible. Meanwhile (read: as long as Pierre Hermé cookbooks will sit on my shelves), you’ll have to bear with me and my addiction (read: making Pierre Hermé’s gorgeous pastries).

Meilleure tarte au citron meringuée du monde entier
Adapted from Pierre Hermé and Dorie Greenspan’s recipes

This tart simply is the best ever, no less.
The pâte sucrée crust is exactly perfect: buttery, crisp and fragrant with a hint of vanilla. The lemon cream, despite containing 300g butter and 200g sugar doesn’t feel heavy; it’s more like a fluffy and very aromatic and tangy cream. My favourite part is the meringue; which is a melt-in-your-mouth pillow of goodness.

I won’t lie to you: this tart is time-consuming. However, it is totally worth it. Just one bite will instantly reward you.