You can’t have your French cake and eat it. True story.
For a start, you certainly cannot have MY French cake or I’ll have to haunt you down. Besides, I have recently been involved in a different kind of cake. Wedding cake.
This whole cake story is just an attempt really at justifying my long absence on this blog: I got engaged [insert reader’s expression of surprise, genuine happiness and excitement, with a pinch of jealousy here] and I got busy with very important things like wedding expos, wedding online browsing, wedding magazines, wedding scrap booking….
To cut a long story short, I am over the moon and still walking on clouds but have somehow neglected my culinary duties [insert reader’s expression of disappointment and disgust here]. Which I intend to rectify [applause].
Back to our cake. The truth is, I have never been such a big fan of wedding cake. Too big, too flashy, too sweet, too much of a decision really. In my search for the perfect cake, I have come across some absolute shockers; try shiny busts of a bride and groom with their heads chopped off à la Marie Antoinette! Needless to say I lost my appetite. But I still need a cake.
Decisions, decisions… It got me thinking; why settle for one cake when you can have many scrumptious sweet treats?
A dessert table was obvious. That’s a way to have the best of both worlds – have your cake and eat it. So, dear reader, the Frog is back, and planning an extravagant display of delicious pretty little sweet things to be sent off on her happily ever after. What better fairy tale recipe than a frog, a prince and macarons from La Durée?
DSTV did it again. I’ve got something to look forward to the whole day while at work. A daily fix of kitchen dreaming: Masterchef USA.
The issue is, when it comes to cooking shows, I can’t keep my mouth shut. Not even for one minute. Not even with my mouth full [please don’t tell my Mum]. Needless to say, a cooking reality TV show will keep me commenting for hours.
Hence my better half’s concern: “Are you going to be my little food tyrant for the whole series?”
The answer would be yes. Definitely.
And as it would be unfair to unload all that commenting onto a single person, I have to share some of it with you too.
Here is my first complaint: I have an issue with the incessant beeps on American shows. Surely they knew what they were signing for with Gordon Ramsay on the judging panel? What is Gordon without swearing? The French would say it’s like a meal without cheese. One might attempt to censor Gordon’s cursing, but one cannot stifle Gordon’s sarcastic, incredibly insightful comments. My personal favourite so far has to be:
Continue dating chefs cause you”ll never be one yourself.
Short, sharp, to the point, making sure the contestant will not come back for more. Brilliant. Now for a little guilty pleasure. I just can’t resist sharing Gordon’s legendary prose – Warning: The [absolutely uncensored] video that follows contains scenes with strong language. Viewer discretion is advised.
Next on the judging panel is Graham Elliot, youngest four-star chef in America. Dear Graham thought appropriate to share with the audience his yearning for one key ingredient to come through the food – the one thing he will be looking for in every dish: love. Please allow me to be sick, dear reader. This is just too gooey for me. And oh-so-American.
It is not entirely his fault though. His country’s to blame. The US [and reality TV even more so] have been breeding generations of drizzling ohmygod-ing girls looking for sympathy or a hug in the light of projectors. And this show has more than its quota believe me. A little pride in the kitchen ladies, I beg you.
Thankfully, Joe Bastianich is here to rectify the balance. He doesn’t talk much, but can kill with a single look.
All the ingredients of Masterchef are there, but interestingly enough, this one fasts forward the process at the speed it takes to boil an egg, making the whole process a lot less credible. This version of the show still heralds good times ahead, although I still get a little pinch in my stomach from my Masterchef South Africa experience, or rather, lack-thereof.
New Year’s resolutions always sound like a good idea at the time. Whether I stick to them is a different story. Here is what will become my daily attempt at keeping New Year’s Kitchen Resolutions, in all my elegant clumsiness.
Stop burning myself. After 4 hours of gentle simmering in the oven, chances are the boeuf bourguignon pot will be hot HOT HOOOOT!
Try and keep all 10 fingers. I love super sharp knives. Truth is, the feeling’s not mutual.
Avoid the pretty white dress/Bolognese combination. Somehow not a good match.
Quit drinking and cooking. This should help with the above. So much fun though…
Wash the dishes after I’m finished cooking [Really? Do I have to?] This leads me to my next resolution.
Become insanely rich and have lots of staff to clean up the kitchen after me.
Be less of a tyrant when it comes to sharing the kitchen with my better half [who am I kidding really… MY territory]
Check the top of the recipe indicating how many people the dish is supposed to feed. That would avoid weeks of over supply.
Stop correcting people who call bubbly “champagne”. Jokes. I’ll never stop – this is my crusade.
Whatever happens, never EVER reiterate the Dublin curry pasta incident. That one went down in history. Not for particularly good reasons…
Here we go 2012 – let’s see what you’ve got cooking for me!
You didn’t honnestly think I could perform such culinary wonders without little helpers. Really? Well, I’m flattered. But even the greatest chefs surround themselves with truly talented people. And I am very fortunate to have three most amazing kitchen assistants by my side: Mr Marcel, Napoléon and Ken. I’m sure you’re dying to meet them. They are usually very reserved but they nevertheless accepted an exclusive interview for Little Miss Frog’s Kitchen. Aren’t you lucky?
MONSIEUR MARCEL
Let me first introduce my Culinary Muse: Monsieur Marcel.
Monsieur Marcel joined my kitchen in 2010. Trained at Mr Price Home, his looks and accent helped him fit in rapidly into my French kitchen. He watches me cook and directs my every move like the little chef rat in Ratatouille [or so I think].
He was named after my Grand-Dad, Marcel. Marcel makes his own mirabelle liquor and cider, grows his own vegetables, cooks, and guess what Marcel used to do for a living? He used to sell chocolate. Now you get it. My Papi totally rocks. So naming my Muse after him is only a humble tribute.
NAPOLÉON
The next person I’d like to introduce is no other than Napoléon, Quality Controller.
Let me assure you that contrary to popular belief, Napoléon is very much alive and he is very much a cat. A very curious cat who loves the kitchen.
Napoleon joined my kitchen in January 2011 at only 8 weeks. Trained at the SPCA, he keeps an eye [and paws] on everything in the kitchen, ensuring anything that gets out is impeccable.
KEN
Last but not least is Ken. Ken Wood.
It’s simple. My life has changed since I’ve met Ken. Slicing, weighing, blending, mixing, juicing have no secrets for him. He’s strong, reliable and efficient, a man of a few words who owns more accessories than me, which made us bond almost instantly in spite of my lack of cupboard space. I however am a little concerned he might be feeling lonely at times, which is why I’ll have to organise him a lady friend [a pink Kitchen Aid Artisan Mixer]. In times of recession, it is a bit of a challenge to invest in more kitchen staff, but I am certain everyone will benefit in the long run. Anyone feeling generous out there?
In Dublin’s fair cityyyyy where the girls are so prettyyyyy I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
Who doesn’t love the Irish? They are after all the greatest colonisers in history. Everywhere you go, you’ll find an Irish Pub. True story.
Is túisce deoch ná scéal.
If your Gaelic is a little rusty, the above Irish saying means “A drink precedes a story”. So pour yourself a drink dear reader, and here is my story.
My story is set in my local Irish pub, Molly Malone’s [and you should ideally read this in an Irish accent, which I am totally incapable of doing]. It happened on a Thursday night. On Thursdays, while I was busy practising ballet, my better half used to go and change the world. All he needed for that was a partner in crime, i.e. our dear friend Frenchy, a freshly poured draft, and a crime scene – Molly’s. Most Thursdays, after an hour of pliés and dégagés and révérances and other nice French sounding yet excruciating exercises, I would meet the boys at Molly’s for dinner, still in my ballet outfit – no time to change when the beer is calling.
That particular Thursday, as I raced across the pub [pink tights and a leotard do look akward in a sticky-floored pub setting], I did not suspect I was actually running towards a culinary disaster. Let’s put this straight. Food at Molly’s is as good as pub food gets. That night however, the Irish Gods did not approve of my order.
On the night in question, ladies and gentlemen, I ordered a burger. I did not however order any burger. I ordered a Camembert burger.
The pub was dark, our table was lit by a feeble tea light candle, and the absence of a bun somehow stirred my curiosity. Caught deep in conversation though, I went ahead and brought a piece to my mouth. “Wow“. That meat had to be off. I looked to my better half for a second opinion. No, it wasn’t off. It was fishy. Fishy and cheesy. He then glanced over the menu and started laughing.
“Babe, I think you got a Carpetbagger, not Camembert burger!”
Let me enlighten you dear readers. A Carpetbagger is a culinary aberration. Have you ever tried to force oysters into a steak? Of course not, why would you? Well that’s exactly what a carpetbagger is: a fillet steak stuffed with oysters which, in our story, got replaced by tinned mussels. No need to say the cheddar cheese was just the cherry on top. Yuk.
The dish is supposed to be fancy, probably because it features oysters. But just like money doesn’t buy class, expensive ingredients don’t make a dish. Trust me.
Back to our pub story. That night, something somehow got lost in translation. Was it my ever so slight yet delightful French accent? Was it the noise? Who knows? One thing I do know is something like that would never have happened had they decided to use brie. And you would have missed out on my Irish story.
I’m a huge fan of the Annoying Orange. I’m also a big fan of Rudolph. So it’s reassuring to know that when Rudolph comes down with the flu, Midget the Tiny Apple can save the day.
Is none of this making sense to you? I’m truly surprised. Well, here’s a catch up session:
It is hot – way too hot. I am not used to be hot in December – habit I suppose. One thing is certain, it is definitely too hot to stand at the stove with the oven on. I suppose that’s why it’s called the silly season – you do silly things. Like excatly that. Stand at the stove for hours with the oven on in 35° heat.
So a few nights ago I started baking Christmas biscuits. A whole 150 of them. After work. Before cooking dinner. Before I even got to do the icing [yes I might be fishing for a pat on the back here, don’t judge me; it’s Christmas].
Bredeles are little traditional Christmas biscuits from Alsace [a region close to Germany regularly contested throughout the course of history] where my family originally comes from. The earliest evidence of bredeles dates back from 1570, when the Magistrate of Strasbourg prohibited the St Nicholas market [because apparently the bishop alone was profiting from the revenue] where one could buy citrus fruit an spices used in the making of bredeles, which needless to say cause an uproar among housewives. Don’t touch a French lady on her cooking.
Recipes are traditionally transmitted orally and there are as many recipes and shapes of Bredeles as there are Alsacian families [true story!]. You usually start baking them in November and make around ten different types of biscuits. As I am not 100% Alsacian [born and raised in Lyon after all] and have a full time job, I granted myself the right to cheat: I will only be making two types: Almond and Walnut Bredeles. And as we’re nearing Christmas and I am feeling particularly generous, I will be sharing my secret family recipe dear reader. You’ll thank me later.
Schwowebredele – Almond Christmas biscuits
Makes about 100 – 150 biscuits [depending on the size of your cookie cutters]
200 g ground almonds [or any other flavour: hazelnuts, walnuts etc.]
325 g flour
250 g softened butter [which is maybe the bright side of cooking those in crazy heat]
4 egg yolks [keep the whites for the icing]
180 g sugar
Mix the flour, ground almonds and sugar in a food processor [I used my faithful Ken the Kenwood, although I did put a Kitchen Aid Artisan mixer on my list to Santa – anybody feeling generous out there?]
Add the softened butter and the egg yolks and mix again
You can then add cinnamon or any other spice you’d like to add
Make a ball of dough, wrap it tightly in cling film and let it rest in the fridge for an hour
Listen to a Christmas song in the meantime:
——————– one hour later ———————
Preheat your oven – 180° C
Roll out the dough – 5 to 6 mm thick – if the dough is too crumbly it sometimes is easier to do this by hand
Cut out biscuits in various shapes with cookie cutters and place them on greaseproof paper on a tray
Place the tray in the middle of the over and bake the biscuits until they are slightly golden but not too brown underneath (about 10 min)
Once baked, let the biscuits cool down completely before icing
Royal icing:
– 1 egg white
– juice of one lemon
– 3000 g icing sugar
– optional: food colouring
Mix the icing sugar and the egg whites with a spatula [no whisk]
Add the lemon juice and keep mixing until obtaining a smooth consistency. If the icing is too thick, add a little lemon juice [no water!]
After you’ve let your creativity run wild, let the bredeles dry over night. Bon appétit, and joyeux Noël!
Today, aspiring chefs around Johannesburg were given the opportunity to potentially make their biggest dream come true: become South Africa’s next Masterchef.
Let me rephrase that:
Today, a crowd of pretentious people who have been brought up with a maid cooking for them their entire life and who can barely put the kettle on were given the opportunity to queue for hours in the sun, in the hope of potentially turning their uneventful little lives around and to get their 5 minute B-grade celebrity glory on TV.
Truth? Of course I’m sour. I wanted to be one of them obviously. I didn’t get to enter as I do not have a South African ID book. As a foreigner living in this beautiful country I am still however allowed to pay tax (and a lot let me tell you). Besides the point maybe. But who said sour people were logical?
So what did actually come out of the first audition day? A LOT of frustration judging from Facebook and Twitter. 10,000 entrants for a mere 50 spots. Apparently judges were rude and picky as to what they felt like tasting or not. But guys – let’s be honest for a second here. Auditions are unfair. Auditions on TV – even more so. If you take into consideration that life is utterly and consistently unfair, then I suggest you sit on your pride, put a smile on your face and get a job in a kitchen if that means so much to you.
I started cooking long before a TV show [that I will be watching religiously believe me, I’m addicted], and I will continue cooking long after that, as long as I can stand in front of a stove. So here’s my life plan: after I have children one day and they start going to school, so will I. I’ll go to chef school. Le Cordon Bleu preferably. And after that I’ll open my own restaurant/cafe or whatever makes sense there and then.
There you have it. No audition in my life plan. just lots of choices, sacrifices, burn marks but mostly fun times in the kitchen – starting tomorrow with my own unofficial drunken Masterchef ravioli marathon.
Today is the third Thursday of November. Obvious fact yet of little interest to you. Or so you thought. Let me rephrase that:
Today is Beaujolais Nouveau!
No idea? Really? Let me give you one more clue:
Indeed, indeed. It’s about booze. Most French celebrations are about or an excuse for eating and drinking.
I’ll spare you the legal story of 1951 which regulated the distribution of wine before the 15th December. To summarise, it wasn’t allowed before and that was kind of a big deal for the wine industry unions of the Beaujolais region at the time. Hence the celebration.
So every year, on the Third Thursday of November at precisely 00:00 officially begins the distribution of Beaujolais wine. Most importantly, on the third Thursday of November, the French have an excuse to drink, eat and celebrate. The fact that the wine in itself doesn’t particularly taste good [an authentic piquette according to me] does not seem to bother anyone.
Being from Lyon and having gone on holidays in the Beaujolais every Summer as a kid, Beaujolais is not just a wine – it is a mix of memories [the neighbour, local winemaker, inviting my dad for a glass of wine at 10 am and my dad very politely declining the offer by simply pointing at his cup of coffee] and traditions which can turn into an obsession come that time of the year. Ireland was not kind to me in that way. Impossible to find a single bottle of the precious liquid in the whole of Dublin, and my student budget of the time didn’t allow me to attend the official French festivities. I had to resort to the unthinkable. Do my own. I did manage to find a bottle of Beaujolais from the year before: nothing nouveau about it. So I changed the year on the label, and renamed it Beaujolais Almost Nouveau.
The important thing is we had a party that night. The spirit of Beaujolpif was saved.
Now this year, I am spoilt for choice! Today is the French Chamber of Commerce’s celebrations at Melrose Arch, which I am sure will have fantastic food and networking opportunities. Right. More like an excuse to get drunk with my French colleagues.
On Friday though, I will be celebrating in a more popular way [which by the way is the only way to celebrate Beaujolais Nouveau] at Petit Cochon just off Rivonia Road in Sandton. Petit Cochon [little pig in French] is a French Deli who host the best Apéros in town where you can spot all sorts of fascinating people:
– French people living in or visiting South Africa in desperate need of a Douce France fix
– Single boys who hope that after a few bottles, the pretty French lady they’ve been eyeing the entire evening will be singing La Marseillaise to them en privé
– French lovers who are certain they were French in a previous life
– French haters who’ll be converted by the end of the night, no doubt
Just like everybody’s Irish on St Patrick’s day, everyone’s French for Beaujolais Nouveau! And how perfect that with Movember, every boy out there starts to look like Marc Lièvremont? So moustaches out, messieurs, and à la tienne!
Let Them Eat [French] Cake 