I was in love with someone. Or, as I recently realised after some happy times we spent together again, I was just loving some parts of this someone. Very much.

In fact, I was so smitten with the idea of him, that I would live in the illusion and forget – or more accurately, not even notice – the things that didn’t feel right.

But I now see them. Bright and sparkling. Right at my face. But I’m not crying, as I thought I would. Instead, I’m smiling. Embracing the facts, stopping expectations, celebrating the lovely moments we’ve had.

And before it gets too late because our love is wasted, I lock all the memories we have in a safe place.
Memories made of cold winter nights, squirrels, and film photography. And more recently, memories made of Pimm’s and lemonade, afternoons at the park, and breakfasts taken too late to admit it.

On any given day we would have piping-hot brownies with a tall glass of fridge-cold milk. But last Monday we shared a giant bowl of French fromage blanc, lightly sweetened and with just enough vanilla seeds to give it that lovely freckled look, topped with the pinkest rhubarb compote.

And as we were digging our spoons in it, I couldn’t not refrain myself from remembering the delicate vanilla mousse served with poached and compoted rhubarb that I told you about weeks ago.

I had made you a promise. And as bad as I am with promises, the less-frequent sight of rhubarb stalks at the farmers’ market, made it a now-or-never kind of thing.

Just like our break-up. It’s either now and we’ll be fine, or never and we’ll be torn.

Mousse à la vanille et rhubarbe pochée à la grenadine
Despite the super-long recipe, its name says it all. It’s basically a vanilla mousse served with grenadine-poached rhubarb, a rhubarb compote and meringue.

As usual you don’t have to make all the components. The mousse itself is a delight, topped with fresh fruits or even a chocolate sauce.
You could even pipe it into small bowls, and arrange some sliced poached rhubarb and rectangles of the rhubarb compote on top for an easier dessert.

For the poached rhubarb, I’ve decided to cook it at low temperature overnight so it keeps it shape and flavour. To do this, I place it in a Ziploc bag, along with a mix of sugar syrup and grenadine (a French favourite cordial). Then vacuum-pack it using a method very similar to this one (check the packing without the vacuum section). And finally, cook it overnight in warm water.

I am home – or more accurately I have been home for a week or so – forced to stay here.

Sometimes, nature compels us to slow down, perhaps for the right reasons.

Spending time here – just doing simple things – especially after the impulsive decision to fly back to France after a night – filled with tears and screams – that I can barely remember, make my stay in London feel as brief as a dream.

Something so ephemeral that I can hardly think it was real. Particularly after the nightmare I’ve just had. A nightmare that isn’t one. A nightmare I have to face. In fact, not a nightmare at all, just a fact.

I keep wondering about how I am going to breathe the same air as before except it will taste different now that I am on my own.

Luckily, I have time to think. And time to let my passion guide me.

During this break, I have made the most delicious vanilla mousse, which I topped with slowly poached rhubarb and slices of the pinkest rhubarb compote.

It was delicious, light, and just tangy enough.

With the same elements, I also assembled an entremet that I will share later this week if I ever find my way back to London. Something I want so hard and yet fear.

But as nature told us, there is no need to rush. So why not spend a day or two in company of the coolest kid in town – Peanut, the bunny – or maybe, enjoy some drinks at a café or on a beach with friends – old and new.

See you later my lovelies. You make my world a little bit better and I just want to give each and everyone one of you a big hug. x

As a child, I thought my dad was the coolest person to hang out with. And since he was – and still is – a work at home dad, I did get to spend a lot of time with him.

He would take me to his tennis tournaments, for tea at Rohr, to some fishing parties, or on the chantier [building site] he was working on.

And in between all of these, we would unconditionally stop at a café or a bistrot where he would get me a lait fraise [strawberry milk].

A couple of days ago, as I landed on the French soil again after a night made of blur and tears, he greeted me with a roadtrip to St Tropez and a somewhat obvious – and quite providential to tell the truth – halt at a bar.

This time, lait fraise wasn’t ordered, but a glass of white wine felt like the perfect fit.

And just being there, sitting in the sun on a less-comfortable-to-admit-it designer chair, sipping through some golden drink-me potion, and maybe more importantly, spending time with the right people, everything fell into place.

Sometimes, it does take longer than you’d think to find out that what you’re loosing might just have been what you – in fact – needed.

But it also takes some time to discover what opportunities the loss will bring.

And after a much essential grief state, it’s now the right moment to move on. Preferably under the sun, with a bottle or two of wine and the right people.

A slice of vanilla cheesecake served with the very first strawberries might also help.

Cheesecake à la vanille at aux fraises

Containing no flour, this cheesecake is all you would dream about. Thick, rich and creamy, it’s the closest I could get to the New York cheesecake I’ve never had.

I baked it in a classical 18 cm cake pan with a removable base lined with foil so the water from the bain-marie wouldn’t get in.
I chose to bake it at 140°C because my oven is fan-assisted and thus, feels really stronger than any other oven I’ve had in the past.

Whatever your oven is, just make sure you never bake it over 170°C.

As for the time, I would say around one hour, but make sure you check it every now and then after 45 minutes. It is baked when the centre is still a bit wobbly. Don’t worry it will set as it cools down.

I like to use whole-wheat digestive biscuits for the base as it gives a nice earthy contrast.

J’aime: fudge-like cocoa brownies, pretty fabrics, roast pumpkin soup with lots of chili pepper, blooming flowers, perfect macarons, finding the perfect shop for kitchen tools, bright pink rhubarb, sharing a cheap Chinese take-away with Guillaume, polaroid pictures, waking up early, and dark chocolate with maldon sea salt.

Le must: coming up with the most reliable recipe for macarons; after weeks of research. It feels like finding out you had had a treasure lying in your attic for ages.

I’m super happy because these cute little guys are so going to be part of the book I’m – deceptively slowly – trying to write (not this picture though, it was just a mere snapshot taken tonight, on the floor of our bedroom with a table cloth suspended in between two chairs to reduce the incoming light).

I will definitely share some more pictures later this week (or perhaps, more realistically, month) after I post the recipe for the most delicious brownies ever and the funny story that goes behind them.

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.

This is all quite a surprise to me. I originally thought I would have to skip this month’s daring bakers challenge – again – because of my so-not-working internet connection. But what first appeared to be a never-ending story did find an end yesterday, as a France Telecom monsieur dropped by without warning and fixed my ligne télephonique.
I did certainly gave him one of the little perfect party cakes I had made earlier that day; how handy it is to be a daring baker.

The experiment:
The perfect party cake is made of:
- a vanilla cake
- filled with home-made strawberry confiture
- and frosted with a rich meringue buttercream (or more accurately, a meringue cream cheese frosting, as you’ll see below)

I started with the cake, which recipe is a keeper. The baking powder and salt are thoroughly combined with the flour. The butter and sugar are creamed together, then the eggs* are beaten in, one at a time. As usual, all the ingredients have to be at room temperature. You don’t want your cold egg to make your creamed butter mixture curdle, do you?
Then, I alternatively folded in the flour and the milk, aiming for a smooth batter.
I then baked at moderate temperature – 170°C – in 8cm cercles à pâtisserie for 25-30 minutes. The cakes had raised yet the top were slightly flat, which is perfect when making layer cakes.
Since I’m a vanilla kind of girl, I skipped on the lemon zest and threw a dash of my favourite natural vanilla extract into the batter. The finished cake was just perfect: the crimb was delicate yet tight, and had that wonderful aroma of freshly cut-open vanilla bean.

*I just noticed that the recipe called for egg whites, not whole eggs! That’s probably why my cake crumb turned out to have a golden hue.

As the cakes were into the oven, I decided to make my own confiture [jam]. I had some beautiful strawberries sitting on my counter and since one kg is too much for one girl, I thought it would be a great way to use them. Oh I know what you’re thinking: strawberries? In March? Well, they looked so temtping at the farmers’ market on Saturday morning, that I had to have them. Plus they’re grown in France and actually have flavour, which is pretty special for March strawberries.
In a small pan, I combined 200g of diced strawberries, 140g of caster sugar and the juice from half a lemon. Over medium heat, I brought the mixture to the boil and left it simmer for 20 minutes. When it had cooled down, I blitzed it in the food processor, then pour it into a small container and chilled overnight.
This was so good I had some – spread onto a thick slice of crusty levain baguette – for breakfast. Imagine ruby-red sleek jam, speckled with small seeds.

The next day, I made the frosting. Not the meringue buttercream, as the recipe called for, but a delicious – totally finger-licking – meringue cream cheese frosting. This, which probably is 2008 best food discovery, found its origin in my strong hate for anything buttercreamy.
But as a daring baker, I stuck as close as possible to the recipe, only substituting the butter by the same quantity of cream cheese.
Basically, I made a meringue italienne by wisking some boiling syrup – 112°C – into the whipped egg whites, and then mixed in the smooth cream cheese.
This frosting, white and creamy, was smooth and had that lovely cream cheese flavour, which – in my humble opinion – nicely complements the subtle sharpness of the strawberries.

Soooo…
This layer cake was a real winner. The combination of a fragrant vanilla cake, tangy yet sweet strawberry jam and creamy slightly salty frosting, actually made for a perfect party cake.

I had planned to write about Easter. How happy it makes me; and I swear it’s not just the chocolate profusion. In my family, Easter revolves around love and quite evidently, around food. I realise I might sound like a broken record – and I’m pretty sure I actually do – but there isn’t a thing I like more than having the chance to spend time with the people I care the most about and a delicious finger-licking meal. This past week-end was just like that. And it was fantastic. My grand parents rock, so does what they cook.

See, this is what I had planned to talk about. But right now, I need to share what I refer to as the most bestest thing ever. Yeah, the thing I could almost give my whole family for. Harsh, isn’t it? Well, you might now hate me. And that’s fine: more jonchée for me.

The jonchée is something I’ve already – somewhat briefly – talked about before. It’s a sort of fresh cow-milk cheese, which shape is due to the jonce [reed grass] mat they’re encased in. Although its manufacturing process relies on ferments and rennet, it hardly resembles cheese.
The texture is unique: the soft and melt-in-your mouth inners are enclosed in a firm shell. And the taste. No words for it. The whey the jonchées bathe in is flavoured with natural almond extract.

I usually start by sprinkling some unrefined cane sugar onto the drained jonchées. Then spoon some whey over.

And eat.

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.

I like to throw dinner parties from time to time and while some manage to produce the most delicate food to feed their hungry friends, I find it somewhat difficult to create a six-course meal effortlessly.
Definitely not the domestic goddess you’d expect to find in me, aren’t I’m right?

Sure, I love to plan elaborate menus, but then, days pass by and I suddenly freak out when finding out that yes, today is the eight of July and that yes it’s the day friends are supposed to be coming over – at least that’s what the embossed invitation cards said.
I can remember birthdays of folks I was in maternelle with, but I can’t remember that I invited friends for dinner. There seems to be a problem somewhere.

Over the years, this flaw of mine has made risotto my NBF (new best friend).
When it comes to dinner parties, risottos have many many many advantages; so many in fact, that it would be useless to list them. But, well, I made clear that I am useless –too – in some ways, so here I go.
First, it can feed a whole lot of starving and on-the-way-to-get-slightly-too-drunk friends for very little effort. Wait, it might sound like I don’t want to put endeavour in the food I cook for the people I cherish the most; I might not be a perfect hostess but I do have my qualities and good food is part of them. This brings us to the second – and very important – advantage of risottos, which is the fact that they’re downright delicious. Well, that’s unless your friends don’t like rice, but then they wouldn’t be your friends, right? I have friends who don’t like coconut or prawns, I even have a friend who hates both, but as long as she likes rice, I’m fine with it. I’m not *that* picky!
The third thing I love about risotto is how versatile it is. Feel bouncy, go for a citrus risotto; more in a cosy mood, a comforting mushroom risotto will do just fine.

So, this might explain why I’ve developed a strong and reliable risotto recipe I could play around. I thought I had the recipe, you know, the one I was going to keep secret for years and then nicely pass down to my great-grand-children. I was proved wrong.
As I was reading Leith’s vegetarian bible and sticking small pieces of paper in between every other page to bookmark recipes I should try (can you believe I retained more than 200 recipes, but that’s another story), I stumble upon a recipe that immediately appealed to me.
Asparagus, pea and lemon risotto.
I first thought I would twist my base recipe to get the same result. This was before I actually started reading the ingredients list. That recipe called for mascarpone cheese – what a brilliant idea. At that exact moment, I got besotted. I had to try it.

Asparagus, pea and lemon risotto
Adapted from Leith’s vegetarian bible (p. 364).

This risotto is one of my latest food discoveries and definitely a keeper. I’m now close to becoming a mascarpone-cheese-in-risottos addict.
More seriously, this dish is everything you want a risotto to be. It’s full of flavours, it’s creamy, it’s a undemanding. In one word, perfect.

I know, that September isn’t exactly the season for asparagus but I had lovely frozen ones, which were hand-picked last May, sitting in my freezer.
I love how the citrusy note, brought by both lemon juice and zest, complements the slight sweetness of asparagus and peas.
I’m not going to talk about what a wonderful addition the mascarpone is, as it could get on the very-long side; but well, if you have to remember obly one thing from this, make it the mascarpone.

Let me tell you something that happened almost fifteen years ago.
At this time my favourite comptine had to be:
Un petit lapin s’est cache dans le jardin
Cherchez moi
Coucou coucou
Je suis caché sous un chou

Lissant sa moustache
Le chasseur passe et repasse
Mais il ne voit rien du tout
Le lapin mange le chou

I used to sing it all day long. And when I say all day long, I really mean it.
As you can imagine, this had the worst effect on my parents. Sure they would praise my singing talents for the first few turns, but after an hour of un petit lapin, they would undeniably get slightly irritated.
However, as nice parents they wouldn’t stop my creativity by sending me to my room with the interdiction d’ouvrir la bouche [literally: open the mouth; meaning talking/singing].
No, they wouldn’t do that. Instead they would nicely escort me to the garden and tell me to sing as loud as I could.
I usually did that for a couple of minutes and then, exhausted by so much ingenuity ;), I’d go play with the dog.

One Sunday morning, you know the very special one: the one you’ve been waiting for all year long – Easter; anyway, this Sunday morning I woke up unusually early.
I was too excited to sleep.
I obviously ran into my parents’ room, wanting to wake them up. But nobody was there.
I started shouting. Maman, Papa…
After an instant, my mum answered back: Fanny, on est dans le jardin [Fanny we're in the garden].
It took me less than a second to join them.
I was all bouncy, just by the thought of chocolate eggs and bunnies. I couldn’t understand why we were staying there so still while tons of chocolate treats were waiting for us – sages comme des images – in the garden.
But then, when my dad hand me a little furry ball it all made sense. It was a rabbit. Yes, an actual rabbit – no chocolate involved.
Voila ton petit lapin Fanny.
Fais attention à ce qu’il ne se cache pas dans le jardin!
[Here is your little rabbit. You should make sure he won't hide in the garden].

You should have seen my face – the real meaning of happiness.
Happy Easter everyone!

That Easter we didn’t eat any chocolate, my mum made a delicious entremet au fruits rouge [berry entremet] instead.
And so I did this year.

Groseillier
This entremet – composed of a light génoise, a redcurrant compote, a vanilla chiboust and an Italian meringue -, has been named after the tree that gives redcurrants.
Indeed, in French, a redcurrant is a groseille.

This is very light and fragrant. I love the way the berry compote balances the sweeteness of the meringue.
Perfect for any occasion, plus it adds a new dessert to your Easter recipe collection – a great change from the traditionnal fraisier pascal (after fraise – strawberry) that comes after every Easter lunch in France.

Althought the recipe is kept secret, it won’t be difficult for you to combine your favourite recipes for a genoise, a redcurrant compote, a vanilla chiboust and an Italian meringue to get a luscious groseillier!