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 hope I’m not wrong when I think that we all have this embarassing story.

Two people. You and me.
A few drinks at the pub.
A late night pizza eaten with our fingers, and a side made of beer - preferably still in its ice-cold bottle.

And then, the drama happens, no more booze in the fridge. After a long duel of rock-paper-scissors and many tickling fights, one of us (who is not me, the paper-hand move always saves me) runs to the closest store to grab a bottle of vodka.

Quite inevitably, this bottle never gets drank as we settle down watching a movie, or at least pretending to.

Not that all of this has ever happened to me. Right.

But in case you feel like you can relate to this whole story, I have the perfect solution to put this too-cheap-to-drink bottle to good use.

Vanilla extract!

I started mine yesterday, and although the very boozy would still make any hungover person – certainly not me – sick; I am hoping for the best. And obviously, I will report every week, so you can keep an eye on my little experiment.

Homemade vanilla extract
Adapted from Melissa.

This recipe starts with emptying a bottle of vodka. And it does feel as good as it sounds. Except, this time, it’s poured it into a glass jar. Then both fresh and used vanilla beans are thrown in there. To slowly extract their flavour.

As I type this, it’s still day one of the experiment, but I’m pretty eager to see the liquid turn from light amber to dark brown.
And mostly, I’m very looking forward to devouring a slice of fragrant and soft vanilla cake.

In my world, nothing matches the happiness of being in love. As a matter of fact, I love being in love. The goosebumps, the thrill, the excitement.

Nothing. Except, perhaps, the development process of a new pâtisserie. It starts with an idea, jotted down in a small notebook. Always the same black leather bound. Always the same felt tip pen.

And then, I get dirty. Taste. And adjust.

Most of the times, it’s far from perfect. But despite being the entremet girl that I am, I still feel that rush whenever I manage to come up with something that doesn’t look like a stack of sponge, mousse and intérieur.

I like to call it minimalism. When in fact, it’s just the result of my inability to decompose and arrange on a plate.

The latest victim was a lovely white chocolate and honey sponge with poached apricots and a quenelle of pistachio ice-cream. And trust me, it tasted pretty damn fine.

So I plan to share the recipe. And rant about how I wish I was better at making desserts look pretty. As soon as I will have caught up with my bed. I miss it. So.

An endless beach, with crab hunting and kisses in the wind. An unplanned slumber party, with a bed sheet fort and a torch. A note found rolled under my bed, with ink smears. A sneak at my feet, with a flying kite. A sip of the most perfect bloody mary, with horseradish.

And today, as I paused during service to explore the surroundings, I wished I could have stopped the time and photographed every move of the kitchen.

Instead, I quickly shot the delicious Scottish lobster thermidor and went back to my dessert-plating action.

You’re crazy. Possibly good-crazy, but crazy nonetheless.

The fact that you can’t refrain your love for acorns, for anything impossible, and for green tea simply proves it.
Or it might actually be that many times when you take the cutest voice ever and start rambling about ponies with glitter manes that live close to a chocolate lake.

One or the other – almost certainly both – that one person you’re very much in like with doesn’t know that. Yet.

So you feel uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what you should do, or say. In fact, you’re quite confused as to how you should be.

He invites you for a drink. You pretend to think twice.
He kisses you on the cheek when you arrive – late. You refrain that I’ll-show-my-teeth smile.
And then, after a drink or two, it seems like you’re having a the-ponies-strike-back moment. And then, after a second or two, he simply laughs and kisses you. Except this time, it’s not on the cheek.

I think it would be safe to say: if an oven can’t handle you at your worse, then it sure as hell don’t deserve you at you best.

Wait, an oven?

I certainly did mean to say a guy, but you see, I’ve had a little relationship problem with my oven lately. I’m new to him, and he’s new to me.

We started well with some cheddar and chives scones a couple of weeks ago. And then, a blueberry cake made way past midnight for one of my starving friends. But today, it seemed like all he wanted was to upset me.

I had the highest plan for some perfectly earthy and yet creamy matcha whoopie pies. The batter looked pretty-in-green and the frosting was more than adequate for some straight-from-the-bowl-finger-eating-action.

But from the neat little domes I had piped just ten short minutes beforehand, only what could definitely be mistaken for the teletubbies rolling hills landscape subsisted.

I was heartbroken. Until I realised I should just be my very own good-crazy-self (please, may I insist on good?) and tweaked the thermostat (nb. remind me to have a word with the person who invented those all the heat from the bottom gas ovens) to 5.

Ten minutes later, it felt more like into the wild than tinky winky. Which is a good thing in my world.

Matcha whoopie pies
For this first experiment with those macaron-wannabes, I decided to go a little feral and ditch the cocoa powder for the house favourite: matcha green tea.

I thought the slight bitterness of the tea helped cut through the sweetness of the marshmallow filling. And while we’re on the subject, I shall mention that I made my own marshmallow cream, just because it’s something I’ve always wanted to try.

I’m not sure it’s anything close to the actual fluff, but it was still lovely enough to be eaten by the spoon.

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.

Sometimes, it all gets down the simplest things. A few words exchanged with a new friend, an idea that as has been kept asleep for too long, a birthday cake assembled and eaten.

And suddenly, it makes sense.

I have decided to launch my own business. Possibly a small pastry stall. Possibly at Borough Market. Possibly selling some fine French patisseries and English favourites with a twist.

Possibly.

But I can make it happen. With some endless research and business plan writing, delicious recipe development, adorable moments, and perhaps, if you feel like it, with your support.

As a matter of fact, I am now accepting donations that will go straight into the opening of la pomme d’amour. There is a small cupcake on the side bar right here which allow you to give me as little or as much coins as you wish. In return, I promise you thousands chocolate kisses and tons of sugar, flour, and eggs to be used.

Now I just can’t wait for this to happen. I’ve already started working on the carte and it’s looking sweet. The classics will include my hands-down favourites. Tarts, loaf cakes, sables, viennoiseries, meringues and many many more.

To finish this, just three words: peach melba tart.

It sounds perfect. It tastes even better!

And since we’re on the subject, I thought I would share some dessert ideas that have been haunting me lately (I can’t be trusted around a punnet of strawberries, but who can – in all honesty?).

One one them even made it to the menu: sour cherry clafoutis with almond sorbet and cherry-stone jelly.

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.