Month: June 2012

From me to you, Gaïa – Cake de voyage au yogi tea

[Yogi tea journey cake]

It was the end of autumn and my days were spent on a farm, milking goats and making cheese. I met her. She had a name from the earth and an Australian accent. And really, she could never stop talking.

Never. She would tell me tales, of the back-home kind. And how the brook by her house was nice to swim in since they were no crocodiles around. Snakes? Perhaps. She insisted that wind was said w-aaai-ned.

She came home with me and stayed there for weeks. We’d hike through streams and mountains, we drove to lost places – not unlike the world end. She taught me how to eat avocado on a toast with cayenne pepper just so; raw almonds and vegan cakes; avocado smoothies and soy chai lattes. She taught me how to wrap a turban around my head and lace my hiking shoes. She taught me how to welcome the sun, one pose at a time. She taught me how to live. It’s as simple as that.
In fact, I’m not sure she realised what a friend she’d become.

A few days later, I drove her to the Pyrénées where she’d be woofing during the winter. I never saw her again. And to this day, I can’t brew a yogi tea without remembering our days together.

I don’t know where in the world she is, but I’m sure she’s happy. She always is.

Of course, she would not aprove of this anything-but vegan cake. But damn it was good. With our favourite tea inside to make it warm and spicy.

Cake de voyage au yogi tea

I made this cake for my maman to take to her yoga class, where it got eaten fast. The base batter is adapted from my favourite lemon week-end cake, with both cream and butter for the moistest loaf you could ever dream of.

You could substitute the tea for any spice you’d like, or as in my original recipe, for the zest of two fat organic lemons.

Whatever you decide to do, you’ll love it. And as per usual, I always bake my loaf cakes the same way: 5 minutes at 180°C, 10 minutes at 170°C, and around 25 minutes at 160°C to finish the baking. Write this down somewhere safe and you’ll always get the most beautiful cakes out from the oven. Golden and plump, with an even crack in the centre.

Oh yes, that crack! I shared this tip here before, but I can’t repeat myself enough on this one.
Simply pipe a straight line of softened butter onto the centre of the cake before baking and wait for the magic to happen!

Cake de voyage au yogi tea

makes one loaf, serving 8-10 people

4 eggs
250 g caster sugar
200 g plain flour
1 tablespoon (or 2 sachets) classic yogi tea
1 teaspoon baking powder
150 g crème fraiche or double cream
50 g butter
, melted

softened butter, extra for piping

Preheat the oven to 180°C. Butter and flour a loaf tin.
Place the eggs and sugar in a bowl, and whisk until light in colour, for around 4 minutes. In an another bowl, mix the flour, yogi tea and baking powder. Fold the dry ingredients into the egg mixture. Then pour a little of this onto the cream and melted butter, mix well, and transfer back to the main batter mix, folding in gently using a spatula.
Pour into the prepared tin.

Place the extra softened butter in a piping bag and cut a very small hole, around 4mm-wide.
Pipe a line of butter across the cake; and bake for 5 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 170°C for 10 minutes, and bake for a further 25 minutes at 160°C, or until a knife inserted in the centre cake comes out clean.

Allow to cool down on a wire rack for 10 to 20 minutes, then unmould and set aside. If you’re not planning on eating it right away, wrap tightly in clingfilm. It will keep in the fridge for up to 4 days.


Flavour combination #1 – Strawberries and coriander

This morning, I went around the garden. And ate a strawberry. Then I saw the coriander in full bloom and had a leaf. And bang!

Strawberries and coriander is such a darling flavour combination. And the beginning of a new series on comme un lait fraise where it’s all going to be about the flavour combos that feel like fireworks to me; not unlike notes to myself. Reminders of some sorts. And hopefully, you’ll mettre votre grain de sel [add your two cents] too.

[col grid=”3-1 first”]strawberry soup, isomalt tube, coriander foam[/col]

[col grid=”3-1″]coriander shortbread, white chocolate crémeux, macerated wild strawberries, coriander blossom ice-cream[/col]

[col grid=”3-1″]strawberry and coriander tropézienne: brioche, strawberry jam, coriander crème mousseline, fresh strawberries [/col]


You’re my favourite flavour – Summer 2012 edition

One. Coconut water. Feel the heat. A heat like you’ve never felt it before. Or at least you’ve forgotten. Yes, at times, it is pointless to try and remember things that can only be felt. His lips on yours and his hands on you. But I digress…
Ride your bike to the closest shop. A corner shop is more than fine. Buy more coconut water than you think you can drink. Open one on the way and sip it through a plastic straw. Come home. Take your clothes off and drink another two. Keep the rest in your fridge. You’ll need them, trust me.

Two. Watermelon, mozzarella and mint salad. The title says it all. Chop a watermelon and don’t bother to go for the seedless ones as they almost always are tasteless. And really, what’s worse than a tasteless watermelon?
Tear two mozzarella balls in bite-sized pieces. And sprinkle with a handful of mint. Coriander is fine too. Drizzle with a little olive oil and some good vinegar. Perhaps a touch of salt and chilli flakes. Eat it with a fork and drench the plate clean with a chunk of crusty baguette.

Three. Mojito sablés. Cream 150g of softened butter with 80g of icing sugar. Add the zest from 2 limes and the chopped leaves of a mint bunch. Don’t cut your fingers. Mix in 210g of flour, plain is fine. I know we’re doing mojito sablés, but fancy they are not. Form a log and chill for at least thirty minutes. Preheat your oven to 170°C and cut the log into 1cm-thick slices. Arrange them on a baking tray lined with paper and bake for fourteen minutes, or until the edges just start to look like the sunset. Burn your fingers when you transfer the sablés to a wire rack and mix 60g of icing sugar with a tablespoon or two of good rum. Nothing fancy (I warned you), but since you’re going to be drinking it too, you might as well make yourself happy and fight the hangover you have from the night before with good booze. Drizzle this glaze over the cooled sablés. Have fun again tonight.

Four. Fraises des bois et framboises. Go to your garden. Barefoot. You can even pretend to be a barefoot contessa, it’s ok, I won’t tell anyone. And to be honest, I do the same. Pick some raspberries and strawberries too. Strawberries des bois [from the wood], they’re tiny and a little rough. They might be covered in dirt. But dirt is no harm. Remember those times when you put raspberries at the tip of each finger, then eat them, one by one. Un, deux, trois… Dix. I’ll teach my children how to count this way, the best way, really. And how you couldn’t eat strawberries without having some ‘juice lipstick’ all over your mouth. And how cherries got turned into earrings. Yes, remember.

Five. Cakelets in a jar. Make your favourite cake. I can’t advise you on that as the choice is yours. But I think a fromage blanc cheesecake or a very-French yoghurt cake would be perfect. Divide the batter in between eight small jars and bake away. Twenty minutes should be enough, but the cakelets might need another five-or-so minutes. Go with your guts. And drink Pim’s. You can’t go wrong with Pim’s.
In fact, make a large jug of Pim’s with lemonade just so, and plenty of strawberries and cucumber – sliced, hear hear. Or perhaps, even gin and tonic with small balls of watermelon and cucumber. Really, what would we be without cucumbers?
Pack that jug in a large basket and the cooled cakelets too. Go to the beach when the sun stops burning but the sun still sparkles on the sea. Swim, and make a somersault or two. Hear the bubbles pop and let the waves push you on the shore.
Have a cakelet and finish that jug. That’s about how good life can be.

What are your favourites for this hoooooot* summer?

* Might not be super-hot when I land back in London, so i’m currently sucking up as much sun as I possibly can. You should do the same wherever in the world you are!
In fact, I’m off to the beach as I type this. Just a few plants to water and I’ll be the next to be watered on the list. x


Dans le jardin

[In the garden #1]

We picked radishes. A big fat handful of them. We cleaned them under running water and kept the leaves for a soup. We ate two strawberries straight from the plant. They still had a little dirt on them and tasted sweet like summer is.

We coated courgette flowers in a light batter made with sparkling water – of the tempura kind – and fried them until crunchy. We cut a salad, no, two. And made a vinaigrette, and drizzle it over the beautiful leaves.

We watched tomatoes grow. Tiny plump green jewel. And really we can’t wait. We left a few camomile flowers to dry in the sun. They made the best tea ever the night after. I had mine with a bit of honey and ice-cubes.

Hope you’re enjoying those early summer days. And those few words about my never-ending garden.


Un dîner d’été – Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

[A midsummer dinner – Apricot and pistachio tart]

I had a pâton of pâte sucrée in the fridge. And a little bag of roasted pistachios a friend brought back from Lebanon. And of course, too many apricots sitting on the counter.

An hour later, all this turned into a tart.

The kind of tarts that are simple and rustic. And yet, ever so delicious. We had a piece still warm from the oven for lunch. And another for dinner, after a baguette garlic steak sandwich that was so good I want to remember it forever. Inside, thick slices of juicy steak with plenty of grated garlic, a dollop of cancoillotte, and salad leaves from the garden.

With a glass of rosé and a few radishes we’d just picked, it was fairly close to the perfect summer dinner.

A few hundreds kilometres away, my friend Anna-Sarah* is having her very own perfect dinner. On a péniche [houseboat] with never-ending glasses of champagne. It’s her birthday and I wish her the happiest one ever.

And if I’m lucky enough, I might even join her on the boat next week-end. Just before I fly back to London. And step into whites again. At the Capital, to give a hand to my friend Richard Hondier who’s now running the kitchen and plating the most delightful dishes I’ve ever seen. And really, I can’t wait.

* You might know that Anna-Sarah hates apricots, she’s already told me off when I posted this a few days after she’d left (of the I-see-you’re-waiting-until-I’m-gone-to-write-about-apricots kind), so sharing an apricot recipe on her birthday, let’s hope she forgives me!

Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

This tart is super-quick to put together. Especially if you have some pâte sucrée ready in your fridge or your freezer. I know I always do, and this way, dessert is almost always less than an hour away.

There is nothing tricky. Pastry, crème d’amandes, fruits, and a little glaze. Ah, yes, just a quick word on crème d’amandes, a stapple in French pâtisseries. I forgot to include it in this list, and really it should be there. The mistake has been corrected since more often than not, you’ll find crèmes d’amandes that feeleither too buttery or too spongy. And most of the times, it even gets called frangipane, and trust me, crème d’amandes in no frangipane.

To make a gorgeous crème d’amandes, you just have to make sure the eggs are at room temperature. I keep my eggs in the fridge, so they never are. If you add them fridge-cold to the creamed butter, the mixture will split and might leak butter during baking. The trick I use is so simple it hurts. I just place the eggs in hot water – of the tap kind – while I cream the butter and sugar for several minutes. And then, one egg at a time, with a good two minutes of beating in between to bind the emulsion, and make it smooth and airy.

Now, enough words for such a doodle of a recipe…

Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

serves 8

for the pâte sucrée
130 g butter, at room temperature
95 g icing sugar
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
30 g ground almonds
1 eggs
250 g plain flour

Cream the butter, sugar, salt and vanilla extract for a few minutes, until light and fluffy. Add the ground almonds. And the egg and beat well for around 3 minutes.
Tip in the flour and mix until just combined.

Flatten the dough and wrap in clingfilm. Chill for at least 3 hours – or up to 5 days – before using. Or keep frozen, for up to 3 months.

On a lightly floured work surface, roll the dough into a 4mm-thick rectangle. Carefully wrap the dough around your rolling pin and place on top of a 10x30cm tart tin. Line the tart case with the dough, then trim the edges. Place in the freezer while you get on with the crème d’amandes.

for the pistachio crème d’amandes
80 g butter, at room temperature
100 g caster sugar
2 eggs
, at room temperature
60 g ground almonds
60 g roasted pistachio
, roughly ground
30 g plain flour

for the montage
8 apricots, halved and stoned
1 tablespoon apricot jam

Preheat the oven to 180°C.

Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy, for 8-10 minutes, scraping the sides of the bowl every now and then. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well – at least 2 minutes – after each addition.
Tip in the ground almonds and pistachios, then the flour and mix until just combined. Scrape the crème d’amandes into a piping bag fitted with a 12mm nozzle and pipe the cream at the bottom of the prepared tart case.

Arrange the apricots halves, cut-side up onto the crème d’amandes and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until golden brown.

In a small pan, place the apricot jam with a little water (around a tablespoon) and bring to the boil. Gently brush this glaze over the hot tart, and allow the tart to cool down at room temperature. Slice into wedges and serve, perhaps with a scoop of ice-cream or a dollop of whipped cream.


How to become a pastry chef? – The checklist

Being a pastry chef is most possibly the best decision I’ve ever taken. Everyday, I have no words to describe the bliss I feel when I’m busy making things. Yes, making. With my hands dirty, and more often than never, with my apron too.

So yes, many say you can judge how good a pastry chef is by the look of his/her apron. In the books, it should be clean at all times.

Well, let me tell you one thing. I strongly think that if you can tell every bits and pieces of mise-en-place that’s been made with just a look at a chef’s apron, then it’s a good thing. Perhaps, it’ll become a joke. But I will know deep-inside that this chef gets things done.
And to me, that’s a very good start. The clean apron will come later, as every move will become smoother, faster and more precise. And if it never comes, you can always change it ten times a day (and I speak from experience on this point).

So today, I’d like to focus on skills and techniques that are the very essence of what makes a good pastry chef, in a kitchen or at home.
Because at the end of the day, I strongly believe it’s not about your position, or whether you trained in the most expensive schools, or simply love to spend your days off making pastries.

It really gets down to passion. A passion with no boundaries.
In fact, I know many passionate people who know more than the head pastry chef next door.

And that’s really the matter. To know, to be curious, to strive to learn always and forever more. To experiment, to fail, to success.

This is the very first step to becoming a pastry chef.

The list is not exhaustive, but should be considered as a checklist. You want to become a pastry chef? Then do some research and learn about:


– pâte brisée
– pâte sucrée
– pâte à foncer
– pâte feuilletée (perhaps, even inversée)
– pâte feuilletée levée
– pâte à choux
– brioche
– savarin

Is you pâte brisée crisp and flaky? Is your pâte sucrée melt-in-your mouth?
Do you know the difference between pâte brisée and pâte à foncer?

And what about your puff pastry? Is it light and break into million pieces in your hands? Do you know how to caramelise its top?

Are your croissants and pains au chocolat light with even layers and thin membranes? Do you see a honeycomb pattern when you slice into them? As for the technique, do you know a great tip that ensures even laminating?

Are you choux puffs consistent and hollow? Not wet and yet not dry? Can you glaze an éclair, shiny even after a few hours in the fridge, neat around the edges? Do you know that technique for fondant, the one that involves freezing it into small disks then letting it defrost over a choux?

Do you know brioche dough is an emulsion? Do you treat it as such? Can you knead it by hand or in a mixer without over-heating it? And which temperature should the butter be?

Are your savarins and babas light as a feather, with holes just so?


– génoise
– pain de Gènes
– dacquois
– joconde
– biscuit cuillère
– macarons
– crème d’amandes

Do you know the difference between a génoise and a pain de Gènes? Is your génoise light and fluffy? Can you tell when it’s just baked, not overly so?

Can your dacquois holds its shape? What’s the purpose of the many different ratios of caster sugar versus icing sugar?

And the biscuit joconde. Why do you have to beat the mixture for so long? Can you spread it thinly enough in an even layer?

Are your biscuits cuillère soft and spongy rather than dry? Is your batter firm enough to keep its shape when piped? Do you always dust it with icing sugar at a 10-minute interval?

Can you tell when a macaron appareil has been macaronné enough? French or Italian meringue? Or even, as I now see it more and more, Swiss meringue? Which syrup temperature is best for the Italian meringue? Can you pipe macarons consistently? Are they shiny with a crisp crust and melt-in-your-mouth inners? Do they have beautiful feet? Do they crack in the oven, and why?

Is your crème d’amandes light and fluffy? Does it split and feel too buttery once baked? Is it too spongey?


– temper chocolate
– ganache

Can you temper chocolate so that it snaps into shiny shards? Can you do it without a probe? Without a marble? Can you spread it to make décors with just a palette knife?

Do you know how to make a simple ganache? And how each ingredient works towards a smooth supple ganache?


– crème pâtissière
– crème mousseline
– crème diplomate
– crème Chiboust
– crème anglaise
– bavarois
– sabayon
– crémeux
– crème au beurre

Is your crème pâtissière super-smooth, not grainy? How do you do, just bring it to the boil or let it bubble for a few minutes to relax? Do you just pour the hot liquid over the egg mixture and let the magic happen?

Does your crème mousseline feel light? Does it split? And do you know what to do in case it does? Do you add the butter to the crème pâtissière, or the crème pâtissière to the butter? What about that story that says half of the butter should be incorporated into the hot pastry cream?

Do you know the right temperature to fold your whipped cream into the crème pâtissière to make a crème diplomate? How much gelatine is just enough to set it?

When making a Chiboust, hould you use a whisk or a maryse when folding the Italian meringue into the hot crème pâtissière? In fact, how hot should the pastry cream be when you do so?

Is you crème anglaise eggy? Is it smooth and just thick enough?

As for the bavarois, two things: how whipped your cream should be? How hot your anglaise or fruit purée?

Is your sabayon thick and glossy?

What is a crémeux: lemon, chocolate or other fruits? Does it hold its shape and yet melts in your mouth? Is it set just enough or could you kill someone with it?

Is your crème au beurre made with Swiss or Italian meringue? Which temperature do you need the meringue to be at before incorporating the butter? And how cold the butter should be? Why does it split? What to do if it splits?


Can you make the perfect quenelle with one spoon? Always the same size, with a pointy tip and a round back?

other techniques

How to whisk, mix, combine, fold? Spread with a palette knife or an off-set palette knife? How to tell when a sponge is baked? How to whisk egg whites, fast or slow? And cream? Until which point for a mousse, a Chantilly?

How to glaze an entremet, with no air bubbles and a shiny glaze?

How, how, how… This is what should go through your mind every single second of every single day.

I’ll try and make step-by-steps for each and every of the above items, but in the meantime, get your aprons out, find recipes and compare them to each other, and get dirty.
Yes, definitely get dirty!


Les abricots

Yesterday, we found a basket on our fence. The third this week. It’s made of osier and hung by a metal hook.

Inside, we could see apricots. And at times, cherries.

Most of the fruits have been eaten already. Fresh, torn in halves, with their juices running on our fingers. Really, why mess with perfection?

But we have still a few kilograms of apricots left. Golden plump jewels. I’ve made an upside-down apricot and camomile cake. It was all sorts of wonderful. A crumb loaded with camomile leaves. The juices of the apricots turning into compote with the heat.

The recipe will be in the book of course, as most things that happen in my kitchen right now. Really I can’t wait to tell you more about all those words I write and all those cakes I bake. It should be all sorts of wonderful too!

But in the meantime, I have a question or two. What are your favourite recipes with apricots?

I have some gathered some notes already, in case you have more apricots that you can possibly eat (is there such thing?).

apricot crème crûlée tart.
baked apricots with limoncello, from the ever-gorgeous what katie ate.
apricot and chocolate baby clafoutis.
apricot tart with brown sugar and cinnamon pastry, from BBC goodfood.
grilled apricots with honey and olive oil, on Taylor’s beautiful blog.
apricot and matcha tiramisu, on – need I say more – my friend’s, Keiko, blog: nordljus which has been an absolute favourite for years.
– and her roasted apricots with camomile too, a recipe I remember dreaming over six years ago now.
rosemary and apricot tarte tatin.


“Busy”, for ever and more

Trying to finish the book keeps me busy. But I have the feeling, someone – not to name anyone, Lukie – is going to keep me even busier.

She/he’s the tiniest thing I’ve ever held in my arms and I can’t seem to get enough of her/him*. See you soon. x

* don’t judge, it’s really hard to tell!


All mornings should be like this – Custard-filled cornbread

Yesterday, two am.

Tonight, we ate al fresco. In our garden. Who said you’re not allowed to play make-believe anymore?

I made dessert. One strawberry tart, only it’s so much more. Black olives, vanilla, and olive oil shortbread. White chocolate crémeux. Strawberries from the little patch that somehow resisted the month of May; or perhaps, I should say the month of rain. Strawberry coulis and jam, just so. I topped it with borage flowers, and basil blossoms. And it was pretty amazing.

One massive pistachio and cherry cake. So simple. And yet, the hint of cinnamon in the hidden white chocolate mousse felt just right. We had a slice each. And then a second.

By that time, mosquitos began dancing around us, making our heads spin. By that time, stars started to fill the sky, not unlike light through a moth-eaten blanket.

After dinner, I read. A lot. But most of all, I found this.

“She made some of her “griddles trimmed with lace,” as only Barbara’s griddles were trimmed; the brown lightness running out at the edges into crisp filigree. And another time it was the flaky spider-cake, turned just as it blushed golden-tawny over the coals; and then it was breakfast potato, beaten almost frothy with one white-of-egg, a pretty good bit of butter, a few spoonfuls of top-of-the-milk, and seasoned plentifully with salt, and delicately with pepper,—the oven doing the rest, and turning it into a snowy soufflé.”
Adeline Dutton Train Whitney (1870), We Girls: A Home Story

And for it I have to thank Jess, and Molly. And Marion too.

This morning, eight am.

I woke up with the sun through curtains so light they seemed to glow. I buttered a 24cm-wide cake tin and turn the oven on.

Coarse polenta got mixed with flour, sugar, and a lot of milk. And cream was poured with no other explanation than this cornbread I’d read about yesterday.

I didn’t grow up on cornbread. But cornbread grew up on me.
It might have been because of that guy with deep-blue eyes and the cutest American accent ever. He would make me peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and halve strawberries into salads. We had matching front teeth, of the large kind – yes, I do believe that I only fall in love with boys who have two large front teeth, just like mine; but we’re not here to talk about genetics.

This very cornbread can’t wait.

While it was in the oven, I rolled green tea puff pastry and made vanilla crème diplomate. I wrote a little too. And after an hour had passed, I took the glorious bubbling cake out from the oven and let it cool while coffee was being made.

I had a slice, still warm, with plenty of runny honey. And trust me, I think all mornings should be like this.

Custard-filled cornbread
Adapted from Molly Wizenberg‘s A Homemade Life.

I did not know what to expect from this cake. Sure, knowing both Molly and Jess, I knew it’d be good. Sure I had a picture in front of my very eyes. And yet, it always feels like magic to me when a batter separates into layers.

When it was baked, I could barely wait to slice it. And the cream was still on the slightly runny gooey side. Not that there is anything wrong with it. Now, a few hours later, it’s firmed up into a silky custard (yes, I totally had a pre-lunch slice).

The edges remind me of canelés. The bottom is rich with corn. And the top feels like a pillow of creamy custard.

Custard-filled cornbread

makes one 24cm cake

50g butter
140g flour
120g polenta
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
a fat pinch salt
2 eggs
45g caster sugar
480g whole milk
50g butter, melted
1 tbsp vinegar
1 tbsp vanilla extract
240g double cream

Butter a 24cm-wide cake tin, preheat the oven to 170°C, and place the tin in the oven to warm up.

In a large bowl, combine the flour, polenta, baking powder and salt. In a jug, whisk the eggs and sugar, add the milk, butter, vinegar and vanilla extract.
Slowly pour the wet ingredients over the flour, and mix until just combined.

Scrape the batter in the hot tin, then slowly pour the cream in the centre of the batter. Bake for one hour. Allow to cool for 30 minutes or longer, and servee in thick slices with syrup or honey.


PS. Guess who’s back?

The reinette seems to like Anna-Sarah’s potager a little too much. She found it in the fennels today and to be honest, we couldn’t be happier.

My days are like no other at the moment. I bake in the morning. And write recipes in the afternoon. With breaks spent in the garden, with a glass of fizzy water of the ice-cold kind and a frog to look at.

I can’t promise I’ll post any recipes in the next week or so, but I might have something in my little notebook that you’ll like for sure.


Une reinette

[A tree frog]

At times, the tiniest things can make our day.

Puces des sables [sand fleas] jumping from one castle to another. Clouds made of clay (at Anna-Sarah’s shop where I’m writing from almost daily). A frog found in the leaves of a framboisier.

We placed it in a cup, released it by the small water brook that flows behind the shop, and called it a day.

A wonderful, almost magical kind of day.


Bonjour juin

[Hello June]

May has been a little crazy. Of the runs in the park slash flight to France slash rosé et mauresque with Anna-Sarah (every single night) slash book writing slash turning my kitchen into a mess to the point of no return slash painting on porcelain plates kind.

The sky back home hasn’t been as blue as I remember it. But it’s ok. I know June will bring days at the beach and watercolours painted in the garden.
Yes, it promises all kinds of good.

The not so official June happy-list.

1. Finishing the manuscript for le petit cookbook. Yaay!
2. True Blood!!!!!* That’s all I have to say. And really, I can’t wait.
3. Cherries picked straight from a tree. And making a clafoutis too.
4. Days at the beach.
5. Painting too many illustrations** for the book.
6. And perhaps a photoshoot too with a photographer I love.
7. Finding an exciting job for when I’ll finally call London home again (ooh I so can’t wait to work in a kitchen again).
8. Kissing, of the French kind.
9. A slice of party cake. And fraisier too.
10. Taking part of this awesome project. I’m thrilled. Beyond words.

* Insert super-excited – almost squeaky – voice here.
** I could never paint enough. The most relaxing thing in my life. Not unlike kneading brioche dough by hand.

What’s your all kinds of good? Anything new and exciting?