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!

There are things you can never ignore.

At times, you wish you’d forgotten; crab hunting, kissing in the wind, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, drinking beer by the bottle, killing flies, licking icy popsicles.

Other times, you’re simply happy to remember; stepping into Pierre Hermé’s kitchen, signing my apprenticeship contract, taking a plane to a new life, biting into a perfectly chewy spinach and cheddar muffin.

It was a Saturday or Sunday – the day does not matter – of an early autumn morning.

I had just arrived to London.

The air was crisp and the sky just turning blue after a night made of blankets and raindrops hitting the windows.

Somehow, those pretty rustic muffins felt fitting. Right that second, I could smell vanilla frosting and feel the warmth from a just-opened oven door. And by all means, I could hear words from happy people.

I remember how the first bite burnt my tongue. I remember the heat of pepper, the flavour of onion, spinach, cheddar and perhaps even Portobello mushrooms. And the crumb.

And then, in between creating desserts and reading books, I forgot about this moment. You know, that everyday-kind of happiness. But as autumn sneaked on us – in a rather unexpected manner – the frosty mornings and dark evenings made our house feel like home.

A home with soft lights, throws on the sofa, a whistling kettle, and muffins in the oven.

Spinach and cheddar muffins
Adapted from the Hummingbird Bakery.

I could express my love for these muffins through an extended description of their qualities. The bold flavours, the perfect chewy crumb.

But the fact that they are equally delicious for breakfast, lunch or dinner – preferably with a side of piping hot soup, makes them my favourite in the world.

Some people might tell you that all you need in a kitchen are a good knife, a pan, and a wooden spoon.

Although I do love the concept of minimalism – especially when applied to cooking – I must inform you, for the sake of your sanity, that those people are either a) liars, b) buying take-aways or c) psychiatrically disordered.

Today, I intended to make a corn panna cotta with some caramelised pop corn and a lovely salted caramel sauce.

Here is what happened. I put the cream, milk, sugar and corn into a pan, and gently simmered.
In the meantime, I popped some corn. Kept it warm. In another pan, I caramelised some sugar to coat the pop corn. So far everything seemed safe. And quiet.

Until, I started pureeing the panna cotta mixture.

And there, I’m saying it: a good hand-blender is fundamental.

After having splashed half of my kitchen with something that seemed to be more of a runny scrambled egg than a silky panna cotta and not feeling my hand anymore due to the highly vibrant nature of the little bastard blender, I started considering a strainer as my ultimate dream.

I turn the cupboards upside-down only to realise I have probably lost my dream somewhere in between Notting Hill and Clapham.
At this point, I started considering a tea strainer as my new dream. Or perhaps nightmare would have been more accurate.

So I started filtering, one teaspoon at a time. Halfway through, I stopped for a little yoga pose. While I’m at it, I find the tree posture extremely useful when I don’t have barbiturates on hands.

In case you want to laugh as hard as I screamed, here is a little picture to show you the mess.

But you know what. It was totally worth it. Especially since today is the coldest day in history.

Pop corn panna cotta
Inspired by David Everitt-Matthias.

Don’t let all my rambling fool you. This was totally worth the time. And according to my estimations, it could be made really quickly if you the lucky owner of both a blender and a fine mesh sieve not the size of a dinette [play house].
The panna cotta is smooth and deeply flavoured with the nuttiness of fresh corn; altogether well complemented by the slight bitterness of the caramelised pop corn and the lovely saltiness of the sauce.

And just a short note on the eating: make sure you taste all three components at the same time. Because, well, the panna cotta does taste like corn, except sweet and delicious, but corn nonetheless. You might be surprised.

I can eat the same thing everyday: breakfast, lunch and dinner; and still feel happy about what I eat. Obviously, those things will change every now and then.

This habit must come from my dad who has been known to have paella for lunch for a month before enrolling in a mussel and chips extravaganza for another thirty days.

At the moment, I’m in love with the five listed below. Now I’m curious, what are your current five favourites to eat?

One. Guacamole. Slice a ripe avocado, place it in a bowl. Squeeze out the juice from one lemon. Mix in some finely sliced red chili pepper, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and rings of spring onions. Sprinkle with a little maldon sea salt. Top with fresh coriander leaves, slighlty torn.

Two. Ben and Jerry’s cookie dough ice-cream. Bike to the closest convenience store. Bike home. Grab a tablespoon. Open the tub.

Three. Salt and pepper prawns. Mix rice flour with a good dose of maldon sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Roll a handfull of prawns (with their shells on) into the flour. Heat a pan of oil. Deep-fry until golden brown. Top with sliced spring onion. Eat with your fingers.

Four. Banana pancakes. Combine 150g flour, a little sugar, one teaspoon of baking powder, half a teaspoon of baking soda. Mix in 250g milk (full fat, or I might as well go back to bed) and one egg. Fold in two ripe bananas, slightly mashed. Cook on a well buttered pan, flip over until lovely. Have with a drizzle of dark maple syrup.

Five. Find a watermelon, preferably ice-cold. Make sure not to drop it on the floor. Using a serated knife, slice a big fat wedge. Allow the juices to splash on your face.

I won’t lie. There are many advantages to having a boyfriend who’s a pâtissier.

First, he loves 6pm slumbers parties à deux since he – like me – knows how a 3am wake-up feels like.

Second, he whips some pretty nice dinners in a matter of seconds, leaving the kitchen deliciously shiny even though he is – like me – one of the messiest people on earth.

Third, he tends to get as excited as I do when the following words are mentioned in no special order: AFTERNOON, PÂTISSERIE, NEW FLAVOUR COMBINATION.

It all seems quite logical. I mean, we met while working for Pascal Lac, so it’s the very essence of our daily – exciting and sweet – routine.

This past Sunday we hence decided to explore the autumnal classic: the pumpkin pie.

It’s a favourite of mine. But, well – let’s get it out straight away – not a favourite of Guillaume’s. Yes, you read right.

Guillaume. Does. Not. Like. Pumpkin pie.

I initially thought of finding another boyfriend, but I seem to be in like with him way too much to do so.

After a – not so – lond period of – not so – intense reflection, I went for the other option: eat a slice of tart by myself and bring the rest to my family.

I’m pretty glad I did.

Tarte à la citrouille
Indeed, this tart is perfect. Raw sugar and fresh pumpkin.

The raw sugar brings lovely caramel undertones, that in my opinion, brings out the earthy flavour of fresh pumpkin.

First you start by making your own purée, by roasting the pumpkin, then blending it. The roasting part of it helps to get rid of the moisture naturally present in pumpkin flesh, and thus, creates a smooth (bubble free) pumpkin flan.

In this recipe, I call for pâte sucrée which you can easily make in advance from the recipe here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever since those two weeks, which I restlessly spent mostly mixing flour, butter and yeast or shaping croissants and brioches, I’ve been a bread-making addict.
It seems to have that double-effect-factor. The act of making the dough come together in a nice smooth ball certainly is relaxing, but the greatest part is the facial expressions of both my parents and sister when they bite into a warm slice of freshly baked homemade bread. And trust me, this is just priceless, and makes you forget that a couple of hours before your hands were stuck in a sticky mess.

As you may have noticed, my go-to recipe comes from Dan Lepard. It’s simple and reliable, and the end-result – a loaf of fluffy white bread – tastes terrific. I usually make at least one batch a week: for lunchbox sandwiches or just to dip in my usual dinner soup.
However, I’m always happy to find new recipes, especially when it comes to bread. For this month’s daring bakers challenge, Tanna gave me the opportunity to try out a lovely potato bread.

The experiment
This tender potato bread is made of:
- boiled potatoes
- cooking water from the potatoes
- active dry yeast
- white flour
- whole wheat flour
- salt
- butter

This soft bread is made special with the addition of cooked potatoes and their cooking liquid. The amount of potato you use will have a direct impact on the stickiness of the dough. Thus, Tanna suggested to add from 230 to 450g of potatoes (weighed raw), depending on how confident you feel.
I went for middle-ness and decided to peel and chop 4 medium sized potatoes, for a total weight of 320g.

It all starts by boiling them in one litre of water until tender and cooked through. I did not add salt to the water as it’s known to slow down the yeast fermentation – which I don’t want.
The cooking liquid is then measured and only 750ml is kept.
Given that I was looking for some interesting texture, I placed both the potatoes and water in a bowl, and mashed with my forks until few lumps remained.

Once this mixture reaches 32°C, which is the optimal yeast fermentation temperature (lower when using fresh yeast as it’s more sensitive to temperature changes), you can mix in the active dry yeast.
Adding the yeast to warm liquid is essential in the case of active dry yeast. However, any other type of yeasts will benefit from this step as it allows the cells to wake up steadily. Being spanked isn’t an option for your mornings, is it? So expect the same for your loved yeast cells.

The yeast/water mixture is left for ten minutes at room temperature. the cells will find all they need to start working efficiently: warmness and fermentable sugars. The presence of mashed potatoes and their cooking water also plays a great role in waking-up the yeast. Indeed, potato starch is degraded more rapidly than wheat starch. Hence, the initial growth will be quick and significant, making for a great production of carbon dioxide = bubbles!

Once the yeasts have had plenty of time to get moist and fluffy, 130g of whole wheat flour is added along with 250g of plain flour. Here, the whole wheat flour is mostly used for flavour and texture, and is in my opinion a great add-on.
It’s briefly mixed, just until soggy and lumpy, and then left for a couple of minutes. At this point, the dough has the perfect consistency for adding salt and butter, which enhances the softness of the dough.

Another 250g of plain flour is then added. The dough will be very sticky but you still have 500g of flour to add. How, you may ask. Just don’t dump it directly onto your dough, but generously flour (= 250g) a surface and start kneading.
Given that I like wet doughs as they make fantastic breads, but hate to have my hands covered with so much dough lumps that I can’t move my fingers anymore, I came up with a great method for kneading wet doughs.
Wet your hands. Dip them in the nearest flour bag. Yes, it’s that easy!
Now, it’s time to stretch and fold for 10 minutes, incorporating flour and air as you go. The dough will start to feel firmer. However, if it ever happens to start sticking again, adding more flour and getting your hands clean-wet-and-flour-covered will work like charm.
At the end of the process, I suggest that you keep at least 60g of flour for the next steps.

The first fermentation was fast. I mean really fast. In an hour, I had created a monster. All bubbly and ropy and sticky.
I put the dough back on my marble with the remaining flour and gently pressed it down to get the air out. Do not worry if it’s gooey. It should. Just handle it as you can and place it – or like me, throw it – in a pan for proofing.
The baking is long and barely bearable as the bread fills your house with warming potato and golden-crust (or more accurately Maillard-generated) aromas.

Soooo…
This bread was soft and fragrant and I’m sure I’ll make it again. Although the dough is quite sticky, it’s funny to work with.
I was pleased to see how fast it was to make. Potatoes do really have an amazing impact on yeasts’ growth, not to mention the pleasing flavour they bring.

* The title refers to a French song much loved by children, which sounds like:
Lundi, des patates.
Mardi, des patates.
…
Dimanche, des patates aussi.

As you might have not guessed from yesterday non-post, I’m not ill anymore. I did spend most of the day sleeping, but the evening was put to use for some beaujolais nouveau celebration.
And what’s better with some really bad wine that some equally good bread.

I used my favourite bread recipe, which I tweaked in order to get some soft and flavourful small breads.

I divided the dough into 6 small balls, got on with one of them, while I put the other to rest, covered with a cloth.

The ball is then flattened with the palm of my hands. In the centre of that disk of lovely elastic dough, I placed a teaspoon of a mix of:
- butter
- cooked shallots
- chopped parsley
- salt and freshly ground white pepper

I really enjoyed closing the ball; it’s like a nest of pure yumminess.

There you go. I told you it was going to be quick and easy.

The final step consists in shaping the ball again so they’re all round and smooth. Proof the breads until they have doubled in size and bake as explained in the simple white bread recipe (just dust some flour on the breads before they go into the oven).

I definitely took the easy-way here, but please, people, I urge you to do the same. I know I’ve already praised Dan Lepard’s white bread last week. But well, it’s that good. And the addition of perfumed butter is fantastic. Fragrant, moist innards. Soft crumb. Crisp golden crust.
Be an easy rider. Make these petits pains.

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.