[Raspberry madeleines]
This morning, the sky turned black, of the bruised kind. And then, clouds started to grumble, roar really. For minutes. And before we knew it – {insert French accent here} surprise, surprise {end of French accent} – rain was pouring down in the kitchen window.
So it seems I’ve told you I’d see you soon with tips for the perfect scones. Apparently, soon can hold different meanings.
A birthday to the sound of drum n’ bass, and glow-sticks around my wrists.
An hour ago, I took a whole – 1,5kg kind of whole – chicken out from the oven. Just for myself.
You see it started this morning when I first opened my curtains to a day where clouds blanket everything we see.
I made scones today. Twice, because two seems to be a trending number these days. Same recipe, except for five extra grams of milk.
And somehow, no matter how long I have been a pastry chef for, I’m still amazed by how details matter.
The end. Of this, that is.
I was writing when the timer went off. Upstairs, sitting cross-legged in front of my laptop.
It wasn’t as cold as the outdoors would suggest.
It’s been oh-so-quiet around here lately. Perhaps, that’s what happens when I have too much to say, too much to do, too much to look forward to.
But last night, I saw the dark sky turn into fireworks.
[Hello March, goodbye March]
I’ve felt raindrops running through my hair; and my dress too. I’ve made a cake. And another one too.
I’ve seen blossoms on every tree. I’ve walked in empty avenues, with my eyes closed and his hand on mine.
[Chocolate eclairs, almost like Fauchon's]
When trees are shaped like hearts; and breakfast means just-brewed coffee slash bike ride slash jonchée eaten as soon as I’ve taken my gum boots off.
And we run barefoot in fields of frost.
A friend, of the dear-to-my-heart kind, made this cake today. A few thousands of kilometres away. And I did too. In ten minutes, from cupboards to oven*.
It was eaten on the couch.
I started collecting objects, to make up for memories I forgot. A blue pool ball, a broken cigarette, a plastic table number.
I read words. Most of the time, at night.
[Olive oil jelly]
In autumn, with figs, a young brillat-savarin curd, and a warm sponge so full of vanilla seeds it’s almost grey. Perhaps, a few toasted and salted almonds for crunch.
In winter, with caramelised apples, a white chocolate granita – not unlike snow, crystallised rosemary, and fresh apple bubbles.
When home means finally-untangled hair, the sound of waves that won’t quit our minds – oh and of the shower he’s into two-open-doors away while this song is playing on repeat, only rain hitting the skylight is missing for the orchestra.
It’s hard to play favourite with vanilla.
Tahitian vanilla (or for the geeks out there, and that includes me, Vanilla tahitensis) is a bit of a outsider – considered its the only vanilla to contain heliotropin – with its floral burst and nutty undertones.
[Hello November]
Is it just me, or do you also feel like that – more than any other month – tarts belong to November?
It usually happens without a warning. And without a calendar.
[On a cloud]
For days when the sky feels like a cloud, of the gigantic kind. And our homes are made warm with gas ovens.
I’ve yet found what dough will become a cloud in my kitchen. Perhaps, my very favourite matcha shortbreads. Or the cinnamon cookies that made my childhood a forever-Christmas.
Thank you Nikole for making such beautiful objects that – waiting to be used – sit on my bedside table, as a collection of treasures.
What is your favourite cut-out cookie recipe?
