Tag: Åsen

Fromage blanc cake

There was a day spent in the garden. A rake in the hands, and dead leaves piled high on a wheelbarrow. That day, the sun was high and warm, just like the two eagles we’d seen earlier, right after sunrise.

The following morning was an entirely different story. A story made of snowflakes and a crackling fireplace. Both lasted all day, for the record.
I baked the sourdough bread that I had left to proof on the porch overnight. And although it turned out to be much too big for my cast-iron pot, it was restlessly devoured while still warm, with only a few slices left for the next day.

I painted too. A dalahäst. Although I still need to draw on top of the watercolours, using ink, just like I always do.
And in the afternoon, when it became clear we wouldn’t leave the house, I whipped egg whites and folded them into fromage blanc, to make the one cake that might have possibly been baked weekly in my kitchen for a little over ten years, which I’ve yet to tell you about.

Fromage blanc cake

This recipe is a classic case of natural selection.
What started with the words tarte au fromage blanc, hastily written with a not-so-steady hand over twenty years ago has slowly turned into a cake – a term close enough, yet, hardly accurately describes the wonder that it really is.

All it took, really, was to remove the pâte brisée base. And just like that, many childhood memories resurfaced. The tourteau fromagé du Poitou; the burnt crust, the pâte brisée I would leave out in favour of the insane texture of this fresh goat’s cheese “cake”. And perhaps also, the soft cake that came from a cardboard box at the supermarket; halfway between a mousse and a cheesecake.

And maybe that’s what I should call it: Fromage blanc French cheesecake. But then, it’d sound much more flamboyant that what it is.
Because it is not. It’s a plain, slightly sour from the fromage blanc (however, Greek yoghurt makes and excellent substitute) and warm with vanilla (by any mean, please use homemade vanilla sugar) cake.
If eaten piping hot from the oven, it’s the softest thing you’ve ever had. And in the morning, after a night spent on the kitchen counter, it becomes firm and yet delicate; a form, which is without a doubt my favourite.

You could also add the zest from a lemon or an orange. Or fold in a light jam right before you pour the batter into its tin. I often don’t. For the sake of its plain, unpretentious character.

Fromage blanc cake

Serves 8-10

4 eggs, separated
a pinch of salt
100 g caster sugar
500 g fromage blanc or Greek yoghurt
100 g cornflour or plain flour
30 g vanilla sugar

Preheat the oven to 175°C (185°C for traditional ovens). Butter and line the bottom of a 22cm cake pan with baking paper, and set aside.

Whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until foamy. Add half the sugar and keep on whisking until they reach hard peaks.
In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks and remaining sugar until light and fluffy. Gently fold in the fromage blanc, cornflour and vanilla sugar.
Then, using a rubber spatula, fold in the meringue until barely smooth: it’s absolutely fine to still have bits of egg whites in the finished batter.

Transfer to your prepared tin, and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until well-domed and golden-brown. The top might have cracked a little and it should feel firm to the touch.

Allow the cake to cool down to room temperature in its tin, then unmould onto a plate. Serve dusted with icing sugar or with berries, just brought to the boil with a spoonful of caster sugar.

April 22, 2016
The macramé coconut bird feeder

We’re in Åsen for the week. With a very limited internet connection, but this kind of thing doesn’t matter when you have for only alarm, the soft light of the sun through a forest of birches, and the mésanges‘ songs .
There are the woodpeckers too, not unlike a ticking clock.

Yes, we’ve seen many birds perched in the trees that line the forest, but mostly blåmeser [blue tits] and talgoxer [great tits].
And I wanted to find a simple way to feed them as I know for the fact that they’ll be heading north soon.

So this morning, I made a quick coconut bird feeder. Kalle was still asleep. And a loaf of sourdough bread was getting brown in the oven, later to be sliced while still warm (a guilty pleasure of mine) for breakfast.
I took the coconut that Kalle sawed last night, and some string we had in the kitchen; and really, I liked the first one I made so much, that I took some pictures to show you.

Notes

Fresh coconut flesh is ok for birds to eat, but please don’t feed them any desiccated coconut as it can be harmful.

After I took the pictures, I asked Kalle to drill a hole at the bottom of the eye-less shell, pictured here, to make sure water would drain in case of rainy weather.

You could make it way fancier, adding more strings and braiding them; but I just wanted to make something easy, fast and durable. However, I’m pretty sure, I might make more macramé holders soon, perhaps for plants.

Macramé coconut bird feeder

Material:
– a coconut – sawed in half and with holes drilled at the bottom of each half for draining purposes
– kitchen string
– hooks (optional, to attach the coconut bird feeders more easily to branches)

1. Cut 4 strings, each measuring around 60cm.

2.Group the string by 2 and make them meet in their centre.

3. Knot them together tightly.

4. Separate in four strands again and tie simple knots, around 3-4cm from the centre.

5. Place on top of one coconut half. And group two strands from different thread together, as shown above. Tie another simple knot, 3-4cm further. And repeat with the remaining strands.

6. Repeat this process one last time (or more of you have a large coconut) to that the final “line” of knots reaches the rim of the coconut half.

7. Place your macramé coconut bird feeder upright and pull the strings, trying to centre them. Make a knot. Add a hook.

8. When the birds will have eaten the coconut flesh, refill the feeder with seeds and grains of your choice.

Which birds do you have in your garden these days? Lots of love, X Fanny.

April 13, 2016
A life-changing way to scan watercolours

This afternoon, I started gathering things I want to bring with us to Åsen (two more days!!). A film camera, and many rolls of my favourite film – Kodak Ektar in case you’re wondering, two bags of stone-ground flour, a glazed ceramic tray, watercolours and brushes.

And in the center of the block of cold-pressed paper, I found these illustrations I made two summers or so ago. Sat on the patio of our cabin in Åsen, to the sound of raining trees.

And I thought I’d tell you about the life-changing way to scan watercolours. A simple trick that I read about on Elizabeth’s blog.

The process, which allows to control the rendered texture of the cold-pressed paper that makes editing a watercolour in Photoshop a pain, has become a favourite. And K. may have had to hear me ramble about it for a week or so, happy-dance included.

Step one: scan the watercolour

But scan it twice, rotating the image to 180° on the scanner bed for the second scan.

Step two: open in Photoshop

Layer both images, align the content, and set the top layer to 50% ( more or less, it’s up to you how much “texture” you want to show).

Step three: edit as you usually would

Which for me means: extracting the illustration using the channel panel, possibly correcting the white balance/saturation/contrast, and exporting.

For a more detailed instructions, please head over Elizabeth’s for a beautifully illustrated tutorial.

April 7, 2016
My ultimate kanelbullar
Tomorrow is the 4th of October. A date that doesn’t go unnoticed in Sweden. Yes, tomorrow is kanelbullens dag [cinnamon roll day].
I must have felt that this post – which I promised to share with you long before I even knew kanelbullar had their own day – was waiting in my drafts for a reason.

This is a recipe I first made in Åsen, the summer before last. I kneaded the dough in the evening, as we came back from a day by the lake. And by the time breakfast was ready the next morning, the buns had proofed and were ready to go in the oven for a mid-morning fika.

Later that day, I realised we’d forgotten my camera charger in Kusmark so I ended up taking some pictures using the film camera Kalle gave me.

We rushed on the road to Mora – through the forests and the bridge that goes over the lake, through the little stress I’ve come to cherish and the rails by which we always get to see a train pass by – to bring the roll to the only lab we knew of.

And because it was not fully exposed, I quickly took a few pictures of what was around me. In fact, the one below – of Kalle – is, to this day, one of my favourites.
Yes, it’s not without a certain sense of both love and reserve that I’m proud to tell you that my 79th roll of film has pictures of bullar, one of K., one of the sky, and one of flowers. The dream roll?

But let go back to that morning. When I rolled the dough and topped it with a thick layer of cinnamon butter. I don’t always say this, but salted butter really does wonder here.
Yes, that morning, is to be forever remembered. The table covered in a thick layer of white paint. And the blue chairs around it. The spitting sound of the fire in the wood stove. This is where I learnt how to roll kanelbullar.

A year has passed since then – days made of snow and walk through leafless trees, a spring that only lasted a second and a summer that is now starting to turn into autumn. Many more bullar have been rolled. At home. At the café.

And while my rolling techniques have definitely improved, the recipe has received only a few tweaks. That’s how much I’m in love with it. And I hope you will be too.

Kanelbullar, un peu comme des brioches

I love my bullar to be soft and fluffy, so instead of using a traditional recipe (which I always find slightly dry), I go for a cross between a doughnut and a brioche dough.

Although I’ve shared a recipe for kanelbullar in the past, these ones are different. They are my favourites. The ones I make at home and freeze into small plastic containers, ready to be thrown into a lunchbox or popped in the microwave for an almost-instant fika. The ones I make everyday at the café too (when I’m not off – and for the first time in a long time, I shall say: YES to the weekends).

The old ones were of the spur-of-the-moment kind. Made late, during our last night in Sweden the first time we visited. Eaten by Byske river, just a few hours before our flight back to London. They had whole wheat flour and I remember how long it took to develop the gluten by hand.
I also remember how wonderful it was to unwrap the not-so-neatly folded foil and dip them into a forever-hot cup of kokkaffe.

Making a sticky dough by hand is always a challenge; it takes time, a good scraper and hands being cleaned every so often. But trust me, I’ve done it many times and it doesn’t only produce beautiful results, it’s also wonderfully relaxing.

EDIT 5 October

After a few of you reported butter leakage, I’ve noticed I had missed a modification, which I made a few months ago: I now use a reduced amount of butter in the dough – 130g instead of 200g; a leaner dough absorbs the butter better, but I couldn’t remember why I had reduced it as I love the texture of the buns made with 200g of butter so much!
Thank you for your feedback! Also, make sure the bullar are proofed until doubled in size before baking them. It takes around 2 hours at 24°C but can take 3-4 hours if the room temperature is colder. Lots of love and sorry for the caramelised cinnamon butter 🙁

EDIT 6 October

I’ve tried both batches today, with 130g and 200g butter. While I love the texture of the buns with 200g of butter, they do leak during baking; a quick fix, if you’re after melt-in-your-mouth bullar, is to bake them in muffin paper-cases so you won’t end up with a puddle.
As for the batch with 130g of butter, they’re a bit lighter and almost no butter leak 🙂 Sending you all my cinnamon-love X

EDIT 8 December 2016

After having made this recipe daily for well over a year, I think an update is in order.
I have modified it slightly, mostly because I make it using 3.2 kg of flour, and that the flour here has a slightly higher absorption power.

Here is my updated recipe:
PRINT

Kanelbullar 2.0

Kanelbullar, un peu comme des brioches
Every year, on the 4th of October, Sweden celebrates Kanelbullens dag: Cinnamon Bun Day. It feels like the perfect excuse to revisit one of my favourite recipes. These buns have been with me for over a decade now. The first version I baked in the summer of 2014 was a little more rustic.
Since then, I’ve spent countless hours calculating baker’s percentages, testing variations and tweaking until I found what felt just right.
What follows is my current go-to recipe (let’s call it version 2.0), followed by the 1.0 recipe for those who want to see where it all began.

Author: Fanny Zanotti

Prep Time1 hour 30 minutes
Cook Time15 minutes
Total Time1 day 1 hour 45 minutes

Makes 14 buns

Ingredients
For the dough
600 g flour
75 g caster sugar
18 g fresh yeast
7.5 g sea salt
4 g hand-ground cardamom
225 g whole milk
150 g eggs
190 g unsalted butter
For the filling
190 g salted butter at room temperature
150 g caster sugar
3 tbsp ground cinnamon
To top
2 eggs beaten
pearl sugar
For the syrup
75 g caster sugar
75 g water

Instructions
In a large bowl, combine flour, sugar, yeast, salt, and cardamom. Add the eggs and milk. Mix until a dough forms.
Knead by hand for around 20 minutes, or in a stand mixer fitted with a dough-hook for about 10 minutes, until smooth, elastic, and just tacky. The dough should stretch into a thin membrane without tearing.
Add the butter gradually. By hand, work it in 3–4 additions, smearing and kneading until fully incorporated. In a mixer, add small pieces one by one. The dough will look split at first – keep going until smooth again.
Place in a large bowl, cover, and chill. Either proof 1 hour at room temperature, then refrigerate for 2 hours, or refrigerate straight away for at least 8 hours (and up to 24 hours).
The next day, line two trays with baking paper. Mix the filling ingredients until smooth.
On a lightly floured bench, roll the dough to a 30 × 60 cm rectangle, about 5–6 mm thick. Spread with cinnamon butter. Fold the dough into thirds (like a letter), giving you a rectangle about 30 × 20 cm.
Cut into 2 cm strips. Twist and tie each into a knot. Place on trays. Cover loosely and proof until doubled – around 2 hours.
Preheat oven to 200°C / fan 180°C. Brush the buns with egg wash, sprinkle with pearl sugar, and bake 12–16 minutes, until golden.
For extra shine, brush with hot syrup as soon as they come out of the oven. Cool slightly on a wire rack.
Glad kanelbullens dag!

The 1.0 recipe from my 2014 summer:
For the dough
530 g strong flour
70 g caster sugar
16 g fresh yeast
10 g sea salt
1 tsp ground cinnamon
3 eggs (150 g)
190 g whole milk
130 g to 200 g (read note/edit above) unsalted butter, at room temperature

For the cinnamon butter
250 g salted butter, at room temperature
170 g caster sugar
3 tbsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground cardamom

For the topping
1 egg, beaten, to glaze
a handful of pearl sugar

For the syrup
75 g caster sugar
75 g water
October 3, 2015
Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

[Brown butter and bourbon canelés]

There are stories that never get old, no matter how many times you tell them. Here is a collections of the ones I never-ever want to forget.

Every evening, we go to the pond by the house on the other side of the path. Just before the sun sets. From there, we overlook the far-away lake. But really, all I care for are the frog’s eggs floating on the surface not unlike tapioca or soaked basil seeds. For some reason I find them absolutely captivating, and I’m crossing my fingers for us to stay here long enough to see them turn into tadpoles.

One morning, Svante asked me if I had woken up early. I had, but I very well knew that he meant 4am early. Yes, he’d heard some noise coming from the forest.
After we’d had coffee, and a tartine of sourdough bread smeared with butter and topped with hard-boiled eggs and pickled herring, we put our gumboots on and walked through the moss and woods and snow.
As we followed the tracks, dipper and dipper into the woods, the three of us knew one thing for sure. It was a lynx.

Yesterday, as I was sitting on the front steps of the little house – my favourite morning spot to catch the sun and drink up that mug of too-hot coffee – Svante called me from the path. A few metres from us: two rådjur [deers, don’t ask me for the plural form of their Swedish names as I’m still very confused about it all] were eating the grass that the snow-melt made alive again.

The shooting stars we see at night. When it’s so dark we can almost make out the Milky Way.

Every morning, I wake up early. The oven gets turned on and the loaf of bread – of dough, really – that has been slowly fermenting in the fridge overnight, is taken out and left on the counter. Some days, I’ll make coffee. Others, I go back to bed with a book, and – more often than not – I fall back asleep for an hour or so.
The bread goes in the oven and I patiently wait. One morning, we carried firewood from the shelter where it dries up to the main house. On a wheelbarrow. Another time, we went on the rock at the top of the road, where you can watch the sun rise, almost like no other place I’ve ever been.

Bonus campagne tale: I’ve found out that it’s actually way easier to drive on snow and ice rather than mud. The rest should probably remain untold.

Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon
Adapted from Pierre Hermé.

I didn’t grow up eating canelés. In fact, I can’t even remember the first time I ever had one. But if I was to guess, I’d say it came frozen, from a box of miniature ones found at Picard (and if you’re not French, I should add that Picard is a frozen-product shop found everywhere across the country).

But somehow, they’ve always seemed fascinating. A crisp almost-burnt-but-not-quite crust and custard-like crumb.

I can’t say I’ve tried a lot of recipes, as when I first tried the ones at Pierre Hermé – back in the summer 2007 during the three-month stage that would change my life – I never even wanted to look back.
Yes, Pierre Hermé’s recipe is my favourite.
I’ve made them traditional, with Tahiti vanilla and aged rum. Or at times, with chocolate in the batter too. Even some pumpkin and cinnamon ones, replacing the milk with roasted pumpkin flesh and a large tablespoon of milk powder, and adding bourbon and brown butter.
I loved this combination so much that I’ve decided to make some simpler ones today.

I’m not going to lie, it’s not quite easy to get them right. But here are a few notes that will help you get those beauties perfect every single time.

1. The batter must be made in advance. In a pinch, I’ve made it rest for only an hour with great results, but they are considerably better if the batter is left to rest at room temperature for at least 12 hours or in the fridge for up to 3 days.

2. As you make the batter, the milk should be around 55°C when you pour it onto your egg mixture. This will start to cook the eggs and the starch, and will prevent the canelés to form too much moisture when they bake, hence reducing the risk of them “growing” out from their moulds as they bake.

3. No matter what I do, I’ll always have at least one canelé trying to escape from its mould during baking. If you let it be, you’ll end up with a white-topped canelé as the batter won’t be in contact with the mould; you do not want this, trust me. My sauve-qui-peut solution is very simple. As soon as the canelés are set enough – around 20 minutes usually – I’ll carefully take out the faulty ones out from the oven, then turn them upside-down – unmoulding them really – then place them back into their moulds. This seems to do the trick every time and they won’t try to escape again.

4. Many people stress about using a mixture of oil and beeswax to grease the moulds. Yes it does give them a special matte finish, but more than that, I think the kind and quality of the moulds matter. I know they’re expensive but Matfer copper moulds make the difference for me.
You see here, I didn’t use any beeswax, just melted butter, brushed inside the moulds, and they came out beautifully. You could also use some cooking spray, I’ve only ever tried OneSpray which worked great.

5. The most fundamental part is – in my opinion – the baking. In professional fan-assisted ovens, I usually preheat to 210°C, then bake for 10 minutes at this temperature, before reducing it to 190°C to finish the baking for an hour or so. At home, in my traditional oven, I’ve found that they are considerably better if I preheat the oven to 270°C and bake them for 10 minutes then reduce the temperature to 200°C for another 45 to 55 minutes depending on the size of my moulds.
I haven’t tried baking them in a home oven with fan, but I’m assuming that preheating to 250°C and baking at 190°C would work fine. Let me know if you try 🙂

But mostly – please please please – have fun while baking. This makes all the difference.

Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

Makes 20 small canelés (4.5cm wide) or 12 large ones (5.5cm wide).

500 g whole milk
50 g brown butter
2 vanilla pods, sliced lengthways
2 eggs
2 egg yolks
250 g icing sugar
40 g bourbon
100 g plain flour
a pinch of salt

q.s. melted butter, to grease the moulds

In a medium pan, bring the milk, brown butter, vanilla seeds and pods to the boil. Off the heat, cover with a lid and allow to infuse for at least 15-20 minutes while you get on with the rest.
In a bowl, mix the eggs and yolks with the icing sugar until smooth, slowly pour in the bourbon. Add the flour and salt.
Then, pour the warm milk, a little at a time over the egg mixture, mixing as you do so – but trying not to incorporate too much air into the batter. You could pass the batter through a fine-mesh sieve, I don’t.

Cover the bowl with clingfilm and leave at room temperature overnight.

Preheat the oven to 270°C/fan 250°C (read note above).
Prepare the moulds. No matter which kind of fat you’re using (read note above), brush a thin layer into the moulds (or in the case of the spray, spray it). Turn the moulds upside-down onto kitchen paper to allow the excess fat to drip, then place in the freezer. If using butter, I like to repeat this one more time.

Mix the batter for a couple of minute to homogenise. Then fill your prepared moulds almost to the rim, leaving 2 or 3 mm on top.
Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 200°C/fan 190°C and bake for a further 45 minutes for small canelés or 55 minutes for large ones.

April 8, 2015
Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

I wish you were here with me. Sat on the patio. There is a wooden table which I’ve slowly taken over: notes, drawings of mushrooms, a mug holding watercolour brushes, a mismatch of cameras, and a cup of coffee hotter than what I would normally fancy.

From where I sit, I can see the logs Karl brought from the little shelter down in the garden on the same wheelbarrow we used to collect the hay that his father – Svante – cut on the day we arrived. They’re neatly piled and possibly enough to keep the fire going for a good week.

There is two pairs of rain boots – my new favourite, as they will take me anywhere.

And then, there is the forest. All around us.

This morning, we saw the same hare I fell in love with yesterday. Hopefully, he’ll stick around here a little longer. Svante told me he probably had his eyes on the apple tree that stands right in the middle of the garden.
But secretly, I think we’ve become some sort of wild friends.

Yes, right now, I wish you were here with me. Listening to the sound of the forest after a rainstorm.
It’s, perhaps, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. The lightest raindrops hitting the moss. The cracking branches. The birds’ songs, and the happy merry-go-round of bumblebees. The wind going through soaked leaves.

The house is quiet. Aside from an old timer ticking seconds like others tick boxes.

You see, I have a gluten-free chocolate cake in the oven – hopefully cold enough by the time the boys will come back from their fishing expedition. The kind where coffee gets boiled over a bonfire and knee-high neoprene boots make you belong to the river. The kind where, when Karl will be here, he’ll smell of burning wood and will have too many stories to share.

And just like the house smelled wonderful yesterday as I was baking kanelbullar. It now smells of chocolate. And rain.

Now a few hours later, I went to pick – tiny – hallon [raspberries] by the pond. And all the times Karl told me to check for worms inside the berries finally made sense.

I cut myself a thick slice of the still-warm cake, fudgy around the rim and slighty gooey in the centre. And with a handful of my rather small bounty and a tall glass of filmjölk, it was just as delicious as I had hoped for.

Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

You could make this cake with ground almonds only, but I couldn’t resist to try the gluten-free oat flour I found at the supermarket a few days ago.
The process is very simple. Not unlike a classic fondant cake.

The eggs and sugar get whisked together for a few minutes, until the sugar has almost dissolved. Then the melted chocolate and butter get folded in. And finally the flours. A quick trip in the oven; and voilà!

Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

200 g 70% dark chocolate
250 g unsalted butter
5 eggs
250 g caster sugar
50 g ground almonds
40 g GF self-raising oat flour
8 g sea salt

Preheat the oven to 180°C, and generously butter a 26cm cake tin.

In a heatproof bowl, melt the chocolate and butter; either in a microwave or over a pan of simmering water. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar for around 4 minutes, or until fluffy and almost doubled in size. You don’t want to overdo it, it’s just a matter of dissolving the sugar.

Fold in the chocolate mixture, mixing well. And finally add the ground almonds, oat flour and salt. Pour into the prepared tin and bake for 24-28 minutes, until barely jiggling in the very centre of the cake.

Allow to cool down completely before slicing. Or scoop while warm, like I did.

August 13, 2014