If you recall, last year, I told you about the first cookbook I contributed to, styling and photographing the foods. Jennifer, the author, came to my house for a few days to work — we immediately became friends. Her cookbook was just published and I am so honored to have been able to work with her and the people at Chronicle Books.

It’s a book about Gingerbread and every goodie that comes with it. It’s funny to think about it. I was three months pregnant when I worked on this project last summer. It was so hot, I remember, and I was completely morning sick, but it was a marvelous experience to team with Jennifer. She’s funny and witty, and full of energy–we worked really well together.

Her book is now available in bookstores and amazon, if you are interested. And, since I baked all the recipes with pictures attached, I can tell you that they work fantastically! So if you like gingerbread, you know what to do next. It’s the season!

Note that the second picture (a gingerbread I baked from her recipes) in this post is not in Jennifer’s book, but I just liked it so wanted to put it here! Simple and tasty!

I came with the intention to tell you about beautiful purple eggplants and how delicious they turned into dinner but instead, here I am, again, with the story of a cake.

It came as the priority — my eggplants will have to wait a little.

After spending ten days with us, my mother traveled back to France yesterday night, which left me with a sudden urge to bake at 10 pm. It was hard to see her go. “I should be used to it by now,” I thought. But it’s not becoming easier and I’ll never get used to it, in fact.

While I was nursing Lulu on the bed upstairs, I was thinking about P. driving my mother to the airport, and the two of them waiting in terminal B by the American Airlines gate with the sign Paris Charles de Gaulle.

I know well that I am going to miss our daily lunches and walks together — between her, Lulu and I. Every time it happens, that traveling-back-home and saying-goodbye-we-will-see-each-other-soon, you know, there is the same pinch to the heart, the same tightness in the stomach — and the same urge to bake.

And then, with my hands busy beating eggs and sugar, I kept thinking about how much my mother would have enjoyed making that special cake with me. It’s something that I didn’t learn from her, that cake. It’s something that belongs to the culture that I slipped into. Here. It’s about the recipe and culture of a cake that I am happy to share with her, something that she can bring back home. To France.

By 11:30 pm, as P. and I walked upstairs to slip into bed, the cake sat at one corner of the kitchen counter top, leaving a waft of sugar everywhere in the house. Making us dream about something soft and sweet. Delicious.

When I was little, my mother taught me what I needed to know about how to start to bake. Today, I like to think that I can also teach her something new and different about baking.

It’s something about the relationship between a mother and her daughter in the kitchen.

Bon et le gâteau alors !

This cake is deliciously dense. Add as much chocolate and nuts as you like — more than required cannot hurt. It’s a cake that isn’t too sweet, because I like cakes this way; it’s cake that keeps well for a few days, if you need to, but it rarely reaches the point when you need it to keep. It’s made quickly; it’s eaten just as fast.

The road leading to the nearby bird reserve can be busy during rush hour, but that does not stop me on my bike. P. insists that I wear a helmet, but I am still being a bad sports about it. The afternoon feels windy and warm when I leave the house, and I am looking forward to biking on the rugged lanes of this favorite place of mine. Every time I come here, I feel I am in the middle of the country side, and that is plenty to allow me to refill with good energy. The community gardens part of the area are in full bloom at this time of year, and when I catch a glimpse of large tomatoes turning red in one of the first gardens, I refrain myself from not stealing a few. They are so temptingly good! Nobody would notice, would they?

I like to bike in this part of my neighborhood. I rarely see anyone when I go, beside a few gardeners during the summer. In winter, the entire place is quiet and cool, and in the summer, the place fills up with the many noises that make summer so noticeable. Have you noticed how loud crickets and birds can be? They seem so unaware of how much noise volume they produce. Still, I do not mind since it reminds me of a lot of good times. Even if summer is not necessarily my favorite season, I’ll be honest: there are also really nice sides to it that I really enjoy. Cycling in the warm wind and eating filled-with-sun local fruit and vegetables from the market is one.

Observing the beauty of nature, the bees at work in the open fields full of multicolored flowers, is another one.

A few stops along the way are a must, to enjoy every detail of the life going on there. There is much to see and observe indeed. It feels hotter now that I’ve cycled up and down the path, and I am battling with the mosquitoes that are pretty greedy and alive too. In a funny selfish way, I feel sorry P. is not with me since I know he would attract them more than I do. We keep joking that they prefer Irish to French blood.

There are no fruit to pick here, unfortunately, but I’ve packed a few delicious apricots, roasted almonds and a drink to keep me company if I feel hungry. P. used to tease me about the many snacks I always pack when I leave to the beach or for a walk, but I always tell him : On ne sait jamais ! (You never know!) In fact, he’s learned to need them as much as I do.

When it is time for me to head back, the sun is still quite high and I sense that being in the shade will be a nice welcoming change for me. In fact, I am convinced of it, especially with the prospect of the lovely treat waiting for me upon my return: a chocolate, nuts and banana bread baked earlier in the day.

I don’t think I knew what a banana bread was before moving to the United States. First, I was surprised people called it bread since I would rather have called it cake. But be it. I’ve quickly learned that there is a real banana bread culture, with many various recipes that abound. I am actually secretly convinced that every single American home cook has a favorite recipe. Non ? So it will be no surprise for you to hear that, over the years, I’ve become as infatuated with this cake as any American, and for good reasons. A banana bread is moist and delightfully nutritious: the perfect food to provide many good times.

In my recipe, I use rice and quinoa flours, along with tapioca starch. There is not butter, but olive oil (or canola) and almond butter which add a lovely touch to the baked goods. And because I am such a sucker for dark chocolate, I could not resist but add coarsely chopped pieces of my favorite dark chocolate, along with dry roasted nuts, pumpkins and walnuts.

This cake is delicious on the day it is baked, but also keeps well for a few days when well wrapped, and placed in the fridge. If the bread is a few days old, I like to heat it for a few minutes in a non-stick frying pan, so that it comes back to room temperature — yes, I am not a fan of fridge-cold foods. Then, I also love to pack it whenever I go out for a long walk or cycle, or when I am lucky to be hiking somewhere inspirational.

Well, what can I say? I just hope you will like it as much as I do. I am already planning to make another one for our upcoming weekend getaway.

At 9 am, I woke up feeling rested. Unlike other mornings at the same time, I noticed that it was rather quiet. As I was still lying in bed, I turned over to my side to warm myself against P.’s body. To my surprise, he had already risen and was downstairs preparing breakfast. I stretched my legs down towards the foot of the bed and cracked open the window to feel the chilly winter air gush in. Too cold. I stuck my head under the covers and fell back asleep in the warmth of P.’s body heat still in the bed. And when I woke up next, the house was silent and he had gone to work. I finally opened my eyes, and smiled. I could recognize the type of light coming through the blinds still down. I knew that today was going to be the day; I could sense it everywhere.

Snow was on its way.

What is there to dislike about winter? Shoveling snow, getting your feet wet, having the tips of your fingers cold despite wearing thick winter gloves, waking up to a gray sky for many days in a row? Possibly. These are pretty good reasons. But I personally like to remind myself of what there is to love about winter. For me? Everything. When some people crave beach and sun, I long for wintry snowy landscapes.

“I don’t understand your thing about winter,” my friend K. told me when I said that I was dying for snow to arrive.

There is everything to love about my thing for winter.

I imagine going out for a walk in the snow and noticing the marks left by my long footsteps; feeling the snowflakes gently brush my skin and melt within seconds; smelling the healthy brisk air that turns my nose and cheeks pink red, and mainly, paying attention to the stillness around me. Have you noticed how loud summer is in comparison? Then, I look forward to baking, drinking hot chocolate, making large pots of hearty soup, and then, I start to do all of these again.

Because it feels as good the second day as it did the first.

I love when winter welcomes the first snow of the season. Every year, I get as excited as I did the year before. Not surprisingly, as soon as the first snowflakes started to slowly fall outside, I felt a strong urge to bake, go for a long walk in the park nearby, play in the snow, and take pictures. I did every single one of these. And when I came home, I had a homemade soup waiting for me. With it, I prepared two hearty tartines.

I used two slices of a seeded multi-grain bread, and topped each slice with St Maure cheese. I put the tartines under the broil, enough time for the cheese to melt, and then I topped them with prosciutto and thin slices of pears. Since I had prepared a vegetable soup the night before — with whatever-I-had-in-the-fridge vegetables, as often is the case on Sunday nights: parsnips, celeriac, potato and squash, seasoned with cumin and coriander — I only needed a dollop of crème fraîche and fresh chopped coriander to complete my lunch. The same morning’s quietness filled the space. Within thirty minutes, everything was covered by a thin coat of snow.

“I want to go out again,” I thought when I was almost finished with my lunch.

I quickly cleaned the table, and as I was leaving the kitchen to put my coat and walking shoes on, I grabbed a slice of the pistachio* dark chocolate brownies that I baked earlier in the morning, using amaranth and quinoa flours. It was already my second batch within two days.

* I added the special pistachios recently purchased. You cannot get greener than that!

“It’s supposed to snow for two days,“P. told me when he came home, earlier than usual.

I have to hope so. Then I can start all of the previous again.

I am sure that they will taste just as good.

Even if it will no longer be the first day of winter when it happens.

It was meant to happen. Since we have returned from California, we have kept thinking about the delicious plum brioche pudding that we greedily devoured at Tartine Bakery’s. I knew that the pressure to make one at home would be rather high, as shown by P.’s persistence. “Did you make bread pudding?” he asked me every single day of the week.

“No, I need to make a brioche first!”

And so Tuesday and Wednesday went by, and nothing happened in the kitchen. I felt lazy, unable to drag myself to start the brioche-making process. Then came Thursday morning, and things veered in another direction. All of a sudden, although I only had thirty minutes before heading out to a meeting, I felt an irresistible urge to dip my hands in flour, and thought about the brioche I had kept postponing. “I still have time,” I told myself when I looked at the clock in the kitchen. I quickly took everything I needed out, flour, sugar and baker’s yeast — I was lucky to have soft butter and eggs ready. Working the dough was quick — thank God for my Kitchen Aid. “The dough will rise while I am gone,” I kept repeating to myself. Not thinking further, I dashed out, leaving the kitchen in a mess.

But this turned out to be perfectly wise planning.

Perhaps I still had flour on me or my hands when I finally arrived to my meeting, but I did not care. Two hours later, when I was back home, I found a beautifully risen dough. And then, I knew that soon, we would be able to enjoy a slice of plum brioche-bread pudding. Only a few extra steps were needed.

Remember that it is the quality of the ingredients used that will make a difference in the outcome of your dish.

Perhaps you might prefer to buy brioche. If so, make sure to choose a quality one. I personally preferred to make one and used the recipe of my simplest brioche: easy to make, tasty and not too rich. To prepare the plums, I sprinkled them with organic cane sugar and Grade A cinnamon so that they softened. The next step required a short cooking time, just long enough in order for the plums to cook but still keep their shape. As I wanted to prepare a rustic, messy-looking brioche pudding, I preferred to arrange the diced brioche slices loosely in my dish. I made a two-people pudding and two individual ones, for variety.

“It is not dripping juice as it was at Tartine’s,” P. told me when I brought him a cup of warm plum brioche pudding after dinner on Saturday night.

“Quoi ?” (What?)

Gutsy, non?

“Je plaisante,” he added, with a big smile on his face (I am joking). “Delicious! Is there more?”

And so, if we used a bit of our imagination, we could almost feel as if we were sitting at a table outside Tartine’s once more. Except that this time, if we wanted to, we would be able to quickly get a second serving. For a second, this almost felt even better.

Technorati Tags: La Tartine Gourmande, Food Photography, Food Styling, Plum, Brioche Pudding, Cinnamon, Bread Pudding, Custard, Comfort Food, Tartine Bakery

On Friday morning, I woke up at 7 am, had breakfast and got dressed, ready for an exciting day. My sister-in-law lives in a condo on the 34th floor of a tall building downtown Chicago, close to Division Street. This is where I stayed for a few days this past weekend. It is quite a convenient location, I must say, offering magnificent views of the city, a lovely outdoors pool on the 8th floor where I swam every day. In truth, the whole experience seemed surreal.

“Walk to the lake, turn right and then continue on” she told me when I asked her the best way to reach Navy Pier, where the Blogher conference was held. “It is only one mile and a half.”

So I did.

It was only a few blocks before I reached the lake and when I arrived, I realized that I had forgotten how pretty it is, and how pleasant it is to walk along its white-sanded beach early in the morning. Lake Michigan is massive, like an ocean. Looking at it, you forget that you are still in a big city like Chicago. Un vrai poumon, a breath of fresh air next to miles of concrete. I really enjoy visiting this Midwest city, the “windy city” as it is referred to, perhaps also because this is the first place I lived close to when I moved to the States.

The conference is now over, and I’ve just returned to Boston. Can I really summarize the weekend?

It went fast and was full of great moments. From meeting food bloggers in person, finally being able to put a face on a name or hear a real voice instead of imagine it through words — my friend Lara of course and Elise whom I knew already and was delighted to see again, new people like Nicole, Kalyn, Alanna, Jasmine, Nupur, Catherine, Katie, Ruth, Susan, Gemma, Shuna, Claire and more names that I am sure I am forgetting — hanging out with P.’s sister whom I rarely see, to catching up with my great friend M., an old roommate from the time when she and I lived at the French House in Champaign. It was a collection of many good things.

On Sunday — the last day I had in Chicago before heading back — I had a few hours to wander around. The city’s wide streets were busy with people enjoying a gorgeously sunny day. At the beach, I caught a glimpse of people swimming, playing volley ball or running. Some were also sun-bathing. Again, I had to shake my head to really believe that this was all happening so close to downtown. I managed to steal a few snapshots here and there ( and was so bummed to have missed a lovely farmer’s market on the Saturday, just one block away from my sister-in-law’s condo. The only day I did not bring my camera with me!)

Both Lara and I were nervous before our food photography presentation. But it went well (from our point of view) and we hope, of course, that it met the attendees’ expectations. Within only one hour, there were so many things we wished we could have said and shared. There is so much to say about food styling and food photography. Hopefully, there will be other times. Thank you for attending!

While Lara discussed some technical aspects of food photography, white balance, aperture and depth of field, talking about the differences between manual and automatic focus, shooting with or without flash, and Jan gave useful Photoshop tips, I focused more on the prep steps involved before a food shoot, giving tips that I learned along about food styling. Because to me, no matter how advanced a camera is, or how technically skilled a photographer is, without a good composition, a food image can be disappointing.

How to compose an image is obviously something that varies from one person to another, according to our sensibility. We all have a different style and opinion of what looks good. For me? It is intimately tied to my strong attachment to Visual Arts. With slides supporting my presentation, I tried to give ideas on the how-to to make what I consider a well-balanced food photograph.

In my food pictures, I typically want to create a story and produce an emotion. Here are some of the things that I tried to convey and share, from my personal experience:

And so the recipe in this post will come as an example to try to explain my choices in deciding to style these savory muffins.

I discovered savory muffins while living in New Zealand, in the many cafés found everywhere in Wellington. I will always remember the first one I ate. What a great discovery it was. Since then, I have enjoyed experimenting with different flavors and ingredients.

I am suggesting here a vegetarian version using parsnip — a too often forgotten vegetable, yet so tasty — sun-dried tomatoes, chestnut flour and basil.

Easy to make, great for a party when cut in finger food bites, these muffins also accompany well any type of soups or salads, and make a treat at brunch. When I brought them as an amuse-bouche at our friend R.’s house, they did not last for a long time. I took it as a compliment.

These muffins would also have been perfect as travel food. Airport food, I have said before, is not my best friend, especially this time when, on my way to Chicago, I was stuck for a few hours at the airport after my flight had been canceled. I hope to remember next year.

The Blogher conference was great. A big thank you to all the Blogher organizers and attendees. It was an honor to attend and speak.

Technorati Tags: Food Styling, La Tartine Gourmande, Food Photography, Chicago, Blogher 2007, Savory Muffins, Nigella Seeds, Parsnip

I never skip lunch. In fact, I never skip breakfast or dinner either. Whenever P. thinks that I am becoming somewhat grumpy — in his own words — he also believes that a good way for me to become a nicer person again is to feed me. For the longest time, I fought it, arguing that one, I was actually not grumpy, and two, food had nothing to do with it. But I have learned, reluctantly nevertheless, that once I am fed, the chance that I relax will double indeed. Maybe even triple, sometimes, if we are lucky.

You know it. In France, lunch is a big thing. At least during the old days, the way I remember them. At home, my mum would cook a warm lunch every day, seven days out of the week, served at noon, à midi, with the entire family sitting at the kitchen table. Years later, it has not changed. Every time I return to visit, I know that if I hear the bells of the village church chime noon, everything will stop. C’est l’heure du déjeuner ! Lunch Time!

And so, I will have to make a confession.

Does it drive me insane?

Yes, it does.

“Why does it have to be at noon? ” I have asked them, many times. [...] Bing bing bing bing [...] Twelve distinct rings. “Ah, on mange à midi,” (we eat at noon) they respond, invariably.

I will have to confess, again.

I find it charming and cute, because this is my parents’ way. At 11:45, my dad would claim that he is not hungry. At 12:00, he is all of sudden ravenously hungry. He, my dad, is like this.

Would I want to change it?

No.

Because whenever I am back there, the pleasure to sit at my mum’s kitchen table with a homemade warm lunch is the same! At this time of the day, we stop and relax.

My lunches have changed, obviously. I live a different life, in a different place. In a different culture. But there is something that I am convinced will never change. Forget about lunch? Impossible! I am too well-trained to run that risk. I might no longer hear the bells of the village church but deep inside, I know. Or, I have to face it. C’est vrai. True. When I become grumpy, there is a high chance that the reason is simple. I am hungry.

“Tu manges une tartine au déjeuner ?” (you are eating a tartine for lunch?) my dad said with a hint of surprise in his voice when he called at noon.

“Oui. J’avais faim” (I was hungry).

For lack of time to prepare anything else, a tartine with a salad is always going to be a better choice than nothing.

And on top, how nice!

“It’s half past twelve, go to bed, you look tired,” P. told me as I rubbed my eyes, trying to hide a large yawn that stretched my whole face, making me look like a walrus.

“Yes you are right. But only if you come,” I replied.

We turned off the lights in haste, hurrying up the stairs into the freezing bedroom. Gosh, it was cold that night. I tossed my clothes quickly on the floor as I wanted to get in the bathroom first. I knew that we both wanted to fall asleep quickly and sensed it was not going to happen easily and naturally.

“Ah, t’as les pieds gelés,” (You have freezing feet) P. told me as I rubbed my long skinny feet against his, trying to steal as much heat from him as I could. We switched off the bed lights and waited, but I kept turning from one side to the other.

“Jesus, what’s up with you?” P. asked me. “Stop moving!”

The truth was that I had a lot on my mind.

“I keep thinking about bread pudding.”

“What?”

I had had bread pudding on my mind for quite a while. Ever since I met P. for the first time. Because he is a bread-pudding-kind-of guy, or is it his entire family, starting by with his adorable and missed grand-father? I cannot recall how many times he has already begged me to make bread pudding. “Allez, s’il te plait !” (Come on, please!) Many. So naturally, I wanted to understand it. To please him.

I had never made one. I was sure that it was not that difficult but because it was foreign to me, I was overwhelmed by the too many resources I found. What type of bread should I use? How many eggs? Shall I add cream to milk? What oven temperature and how long shall it bake for?

When my friend T. called from Melbourne, I asked her “Do you have a good recipe for bread pudding?” I felt that she should know because her dad is English, and like every English speaker, she must have been raised eating bread pudding all the time. I am often told that I should know how to tie a scarf because I am French, so why can’t I believe that every single person with some sort of English background has to know the hows about bread pudding. Logique, non ? But T. did not have a recipe. In fact, she added “my grand-father used to make bread pudding at home, but I never bothered to ask him how he made it. I’ve actually never made one myself.” There ended my hope to have a recipe from her.

So I decided to improvise, remembering reading about it in some
food magazines and one cookbook I had browsed through quickly
during a leisurely visit to our local bookstore. It should not be that difficult,
I reminded myself.
You see, in France, we have Pain Perdu, literally “Lost Bread” — which
oddly enough is translated as French toast. In two words, the art of
knowing How to Use Stale Bread. Because nothing should be wasted.
Not in my family! I learned how to make pain perdu when I was only
five, after reading Martine, a French children comic book series. I wanted
to be Martine. Martine fait la cuisine (Martine Cooks) was one of my favorites.
In it, I learned how to make crêpes, confiture (jam) and bake pain perdu.

And this was how my first encounter with bread pudding happened,
on a random weekend, about a month ago.

P. came back from work late on that Friday. I had decided to surprise him with bread pudding.

“Wow, this is good!” he exclaimed, closing his eyes after taking the first bite, eagerly continuing to the second. “You should make some for my mum tomorrow when she comes. She will love it.” Really? Was I going to be challenged to pass the test on the entire Irish family?

By 2 p.m. on the following day , P. left for the airport to pick his mum up. I had about sixty minutes before they returned to bake a few individual bread puddings. When I heard our car pulling onto the driveway one hour later, the kitchen was still full of the fragrance of my freshly baked puddings.

“Oh this smells good,” Patricia said when she walked in. We exchanged a happy and brief hug and before I had time to add anything, she said “I hope you have food, I am starving! I have not eaten anything since this morning.”

I smiled back. “I have better than food, I have bread pudding.”

Her eyes lit up. “I love bread pudding!” She sat at the kitchen counter while I placed a plate in front of her, anxious to know whether she was actually going to really like it.

“Remember that dinner is at 7 p.m. at Y.’s place,“I added hesitantly. “Make sure that you do not spoil your appetite too much.” But she had already started to eat before I was finished.

“This is so good, Béa!” she said with her mouth still full. And, before I could reply, she went on. “What type of bread did you use?”

“Bread?” I was starting to understand the secrets behind bread pudding. “I actually did not use bread,” I said smiling. “I used a homemade brioche instead.”

“Of course,” she burst out laughing, “That obviously did it!”

I thought about the raclette we were going to have at our friends’ only a few hours later, and hesitated before adding, more out of politeness, “Do you want another one? I made a few.” I was convinced that she was going to decline the offer.

“Oh yes, please!”

I should have known better. I was finally starting to understand better P.’s attachment to bread pudding.

And mine too, as it turned out.

And so, you have now seen why I needed some stale brioche. Using a good brioche obviously is key for a better taste result.


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Wouldn’t it be nice, to have a Brioche Day every week, so that you never run out of it? A full day dedicated to baking and eating brioche. I would be so happy to mark this day on my calendar. Growing up, we used to have a Weekly Fish Day, every Friday, so why not a Brioche Day?

Brioche has to be my favorite viennoiserie, whether to bake or eat. There is so much pleasure associated to a homemade brioche. Think about the immense happiness that arises from biting into the sweet airy, moelleux bread which, after one slice, invites you to a second one. With me, however, it starts with the smell, that very one of yeast which ferments and diffuses its wonderful aroma in the whole house. As a kid, whenever my mum used to bake a brioche, I loved to hang out in the house, never going too far, but preferring to stick around only to be able to watch the steps involved in her making of the brioche. I would sneak in to smell it, every now and then, lifting the towel covering the dough discreetly so as to check the puffiness of the dough. I found this pretty fascinating actually. If I could have trapped the brioche fragrance in a jar which I could have opened at will only to inhale, I would have been a very happy girl.

But although I love brioche, I do not make it as often as I wished. Because between you and me, for all of us who have already baked brioche, we know that it takes time. And, wouldn’t we all love to have more time at hand, to cook the subject of of our deepest fancies? Just like with any type of bread, a brioche requires attention.

And so instead of making only one brioche, I baked two. Let me explain, because there is a reason. I needed to have stale brioche for another baking project, and really, can brioche really ever get stale? Certainly not in our household! You will soon see what I am talking about, but in the meantime, I hope that you enjoy a piece of the simplest pleasure with the simplest brioche. Ce n’est vraiment pas compliqué ! (Not difficult at all!)