My day started like this. Warm wool leggings, cushy slippers, and a cup of coffee of the burn-your-tongue kind. Only to end up, pretty much the same and with a good read included.
[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?
I’m currently writing a series of posts on how to become a pastry chef.
What it involves on a day to day basis, what we do – whether we work in restaurants, pâtisseries, hotels, or even caterers, which paths we took to reach our dreams…
So if you have any questions that need answering, please ask away in the comment section!
[And pieces of tree would fall from the sky - The ultimate quadruple chocolate loaf cake]
I plan to spend this autumn collecting dead leaves and horse-chestnuts, drinking coffees with warm mittens on, drawing the nights away, and day-dreaming about je ne sais quoi.
Hello, it’s 32°C out there.
This morning I went swimming. One last time before the French holidays come to an end.
Oh, this past month has been great. I’ve been enjoying the summer I never got this summer.
This is what happens when it’s summer. Or at least when it feels like it.
We swim in the sea, or more accurately, we’re forced by that wave which chose the exact moment we stepped into the water to break into – what feels like – a herd of horses.
[The ultimate chocolate fondant]
In London, we’ve had winter in July. Air damp with rain. Kitchens warm with soup on the stove. Oven smelling like chocolate cake.
And now, in the south of France, we’re having summer in September.
[Little poundcakes, with chocolate or not]
It smells like the week-end around here. Actually, it’s been smelling like it for a week now.
And boy, week-end does smell good. Just-brewed coffee and toasted baguettes.
I could list the places I belong to. But, at the end, it would just be a meaningless thread of city names, and at times, neighbourhood or county names.
It was a day at the end of September. A couple of years ago. I put on my pied-de-poule trousers for the first time since the internship I had done the summer before at Pierre Hermé.
I am away from London for a month. Yes and whole entire month.
And as I was landing at the smallest airport I have ever seen (so small I couldn’t help but take pictures of the very vintage aérogare straight from the plane tiny window*), I knew I would miss that city which has not-so slowly grown on me**.
Marylebone, London, early August
It was a Wednesday. We walked through Manchester square; looking at trees turning to that golden shade we all long for. Then three hours later, we realised there was something else we longed for.
Ben Spalding has puzzle pieces tattooed on his arms. Eating at Roganic did feel like putting all those bits together. One at a time.
We sat at the table, with rescued wine bottles as water glasses.