CHOCOLATE BÛCHE DE NOËL

A CHRISTMAS SURPRISE

“What?!” my son exclaimed, his voice dripping with disbelief and just a hint of sarcasm. “Christmas? We’re celebrating Christmas? I don’t remember you guys doing anything for Christmas since we were kids and then only once or twice because Grandmère and Grandpère were visiting!” Well, he forgets last year, but this is pretty much true. Yet once in a while my husband feels not so much the pang of nostalgia as the occasional urgent need to reassert himself in a household of Jews. Even before the eighth Hanukkah candle was lit, before the last Hanukkah presents were purchased and exchanged, my husband began talking about Christmas.

Calling my husband a lapsed Catholic does a great disservice to his disconnect, his total repudiation of the religion in which he was raised. Since our sons were born, he has urged me to raise the boys Jewish, delighting, albeit from a respectful yarmulke-less distance, in each Shabbat meal, Passover Seder, the Hanukkah festivities. The glow and shimmer of festive candles, the peaceful warmth radiating throughout our home with each celebration, the scent of freshly baked Challah never fail to bring a smile to his face. Christmas traditions have always been eschewed, overshadowed by Menorahs, dreidls and potato latkes.

Our sons have never felt anything but Jewish even when winter vacations were spent hanging tinsel and shiny baubles from a hand-cut evergreen and placing tiny figurines of (according to our then-six-year-old son) “Joseph, a lady, a baby and some cows” on the mantle at their grandparents’ house. That long-ago surprise visit by le Père Noël himself fooled neither of our sensible – and Jewish – sons. They knew without a doubt that it was Tonton Claude behind that cotton fluff of a white beard. They have never missed Christmas, neither craved nor asked for it, not once wondered why they didn’t celebrate something that all of their friends did.

I can count the number of times we had a Christmas tree. The first was that lone year that we hosted my in-laws, a tree no higher than our younger son. My husband couldn’t have been more excited or taken a greater pleasure in his arts-and-crafts project with his sons, then maybe 4 and 6 years of age, that the advent of Christmas afforded. The three of them tromped out into the misty city to the market where they purchased a sack full of whole walnuts in their shells; their circuitous route then took them to the grocery store where a plastic tube of empty escargot shells was added to the booty, the seductive swirls so elegant and just perfect for the tree. Then home, stopping along the way for a spray can or two of sparkly gold paint. Once back at the apartment, newspaper spread across the marble floor, plate of cookies never far from small hands, they spray painted all the walnuts and shells gold, strung them and wrapped them round and round the tree. We dug out the shoebox containing how many years of handmade ornaments from preschool and we stood back and behold a glorious tree!

The second time was about four or five years ago when older son, then in high school, initiated the Christmas proceedings. Out of the blue he began begging us to put up a tree. Now, as anyone knows, I am a sucker for Christmas trimmings: the lush swags of greenery dotted with red bows, the gay garlands of colored bulbs flashing and glowing, the shimmering tinsel, the ever-so elegant fairy lights. The music, the carols, the sappy old holiday movies. So when he decided that we absolutely had to have a Christmas tree – no explanation was necessary and none given any more than “Why not? We are half Christian and can have a tree if we want!” I pretended to argue, my “absolutely not in my home” may have sounded less than firm while husband, the more dubious of us two, put his foot down, insisting that if Clem brought home a tree then Clem would be the one to drag it right out of the apartment again as soon as the holiday was over. And sure enough if Clem didn’t dash right out and drag one home and prop it up in the living room. Didn’t think he had either the gumption or the energy (mostly the energy...this was an adolescent, after all). We then decorated and enjoyed a lovely Christmas Eve meal in front of that damn tree… which was still hanging around a month or so later, son having decided that it was not up to him to remove the now-rotting tree or clean up the pine needles now scattered across the floor. Or if it was, then it was purely up to him to decide when he would be ready to drag it out of the house.

This year, husband asked for a low-key Christmas. No decorations – there is still barely room to move through the apartment and tabletops are still crowded with objects not yet stored – simply a nice meal en famille, some traditional smoked salmon, foie gras, boudin blanc… and small gifts all around. And a bûche. My husband has been asking me to make a bûche for the last few Christmasses. He has hinted, asked outright, cut out recipes and photographs from magazines and tacked them up on the kitchen wall. He has poked and teased and outright begged for that bûche. But to no avail. Until this week. I made that bûche. Aren’t we all full of little surprises?

A selection of my favorite holiday dessert recipes:

Chocolate Chestnut Fondant

Chocolate Chestnut Layer Cake

Chocolate Chestnut Charlotte

Gingerbread Macarons with Chocolate Chestnut Cognac Ganache

Decadent Chocolate Cake with Christmas Spices

CHRISTMAS BÛCHE – BÛCHE DE NOËL

For the Genoise:
This is a magnificent genoise for any jellyroll cake any time of the year.

4 large eggs, separated
½ cup (100 g) sugar
½ tsp vanilla
4/5 cup (100 g) flour
Powdered/confectioner’s sugar and a sifter.

Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Line a 15 ½ x 10 ½ x ¾ inch (40 x 27 x 2 cm) jellyroll pan with parchment paper and lightly butter the parchment. Have a clean dishtowel larger than the jellyroll pan as well as a clean flat baking sheet ready.

Separate the eggs, placing the yolks in large mixing bowl and the whites in a very clean medium-sized bowl (I prefer plastic). If you like, add a tiny pinch of salt and 2 drops lemon juice to the whites to help stabilize them. Add the sugar to the yolks and beat with an electric mixer on high until thick, creamy and pale; Beat in the vanilla.

Using very clean beaters, beat the whites until stiff peaks hold and the meringue is very thick. Fold the whites into the yolk/sugar mixture gently but firmly using a spatula, a third of the whites at a time. Do not over mix/fold but do make sure there are no more clumps of whites visible.

Spread the batter evenly in the parchment-lined jellyroll pan. Bake in the preheated oven for about 15 minutes or until puffed, golden and the cake springs back when lightly pressed.

Remove from the oven. Immediately slide the parchment paper and cake together onto the large flat baking sheet. Invert the warm jellyroll pan and place on top of the genoise and, holding both the jellyroll pan and the baking sheet firmly together, flip them over and remove the baking sheet; the top of the genoise is now face down while the parchment paper is up. Peel off the parchment paper. Dust a light layer of powdered sugar all over the genoise and then place the clean dishtowel over the genoise. Once again place the clean baking sheet inverted on the dishtowel-covered cake and, holding the baking sheet and the jellyroll pan firmly together, flip. Remove the jellyroll pan.

You should now have the warm genoise topside up on the clean dishtowel on the flat baking sheet. Dust the top of the genoise with a light layer of powder sugar and, starting on a short end of the cake, roll the genoise up – gently but as tightly as possible without crushing or breaking the cake - in the towel (the towel will be rolled up with the cake). Allow to cool completely.

For the Cointreau Sugar Syrup:

Scant half cup (100 ml) water
Scant 3/8 cup (80 g) sugar
2 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier

Place the water with the sugar in a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Let boil for 2 minutes then remove from the heat. Stir in the Cointreau. Set aside to cool to room temperature.

For the Chocolate Buttercream and the Chocolate Chestnut Mascarpone Filling:

8 Tbs (120 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
12 oz (350 g) powdered/confectioner’s sugar
2 oz (50 g) unsweetened cocoa powder
4 Tbs boiling water

7 – 8 ½ oz (200 – 250 g) fresh mascarpone cheese
3 ½ oz (100 g) sweetened chestnut cream (crème de marrons)
1 Tbs Cointreau, optional

Place the soft butter with the powdered sugar in a mixing bowl and beat until well blended, light and fluffy. Add the cocoa powder and the hot water and beat until well blended and creamy.

Divide the Chocolate Buttercream evenly in two and reserve one portion to frost the bûche. Place the rest in a large mixing bowl. Beat in the chestnut cream and then beat in the mascarpone little by little until desired consistency and flavor (I added more mascarpone to temper the sweetness). Add a tablespoon of Cointreau if desired.

Assemble the bûche:

When the genoise is completely cool, carefully unroll and slide off the dishtowel and onto a clean sheet of parchment paper. Brush a generous amount of the Cointreau Syrup all over the genoise, as much or as little as desired. Spread the Chocolate Chestnut Mascarpone evenly over the genoise. Starting at the short end of the genoise (the end rolled up in the towel to cool), roll up the cake. When completely rolled, scrape off any chocolate filling that has oozed out. Using a sharp or serrated knife, trim off both ends of the bûche to even out the ends. Very carefully, lift the bûche onto the serving platter, placing the seam side down on the platter.

At this point, I covered the bûche and the platter with plastic wrap and refrigerated it for several hours to allow the filling to firm up.

Before serving, spread the Chocolate Buttercream all over the bûche and decorate as desired.

Serve, slicing with a very sharp or serrated knife.
Take a bigger bite ...

TRADITIONAL APPLE KUCHEN

A HOLIDAY BREAD BAKING BUDDY
 

Wishing all of my friends a Merry, Joyous, Peaceful Holiday Season. Thank you for the greatest gifts of all - your friendship, kindness, generosity, encouragement and support. And the smiles and laughter. These are indeed the best gifts I could possibly receive. 

Long ago during my college years, I joined my aunt and uncle for the holidays at their forest green house on Long Island. My grandmother and two older cousins were there as well. The day after grandma joined us, she let us know that she planned on baking – not usually her strong point. I, for one, was just a little surprised but waited expectantly to see what she had up her sleeve. You see, my grandmother was one of those women whose cooking repertoire came straight from the Old Country, arriving on that steamer with her own mother from Russia. Cabbage soup, liver and onions, stews, heavy, earthy foods meant to stave off hunger and warm both body and soul. And sweets were definitely not a part of her culinary heritage.

My grandmother, like her daughter, my mother, cooked with a heavy hand, their meals as delicate as a brick over the head. Liver arrived to the table looking and tasting for all the world like shoe leather, their cabbage soup heady with the scent of, well the unsubtle stench of boiled cabbage. Borscht and gefilte fish came from a jar, knishes and bagels from the local bakery. There was little or no baking. My grandmother relied on purchased baked goods, Rugelach for New Year, Hamentaschen for Purim, Challahs for Shabbat… ice cream being her passion and the old standby for all other desserts and snacks. So I was a little more than astonished when she proclaimed that she had asked her neighbor for a recipe and she planned on baking with her granddaughters.

Grandma proceeded to pull out a folded piece of lined paper from her handbag, the kind of paper ripped out of a notebook schoolchildren use to write poems and draw pictures on, a smile lighting up her face. She told us of a wonderful apple strudel she had tasted recently, served to her by friend who lived in the same apartment complex as she. After enjoying a slice – or two (if I know anything about my grandma) – she asked this friend to write the instructions down for her. And voilà! There she was with her friend’s “secret” recipe for the best apple strudel in the world! My grandmother brandished the piece of paper proudly, gathering her three granddaughters around her excitedly. We watched, anticipating the pleasure. She unfolded the piece of paper and a look of confusion spread over her lined face. She placed the paper on the kitchen counter and said “don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” And on that piece of notebook paper was written in a big, looped scrawl:

Flour
Sugar
Salt
Baking powder
Apples
Grape jelly
Raisins

We never tasted that perfect Apple Strudel but I learned an important lesson about family recipes, our grandmothers’ recipes: they are passed down from mother to child or grandchild or over from friend to friend by show, by baking together. Not by handing over a heavy tome filled with precisely detailed instructions. Family specialities are orally transmitted, recipes born of the tradition of cooking and baking together, tiny hands next to larger, experienced hands kneading dough, weighing flour, choosing apples. Cakes and breads and favorite dishes are learned at the elbow of the one in whose memory the ingredients, measurements and techniques are etched. Who would ever even have thought of capturing these recipes, these traditions in meticulous exactitude, in black and white? And so I never learned how to make what I consider a quintessentially Old World Jewish baked good: Apple Kuchen. Oh, I have looked through many a cookbook, but could never settle on one. The pages of my time-worn copy of The Settlement Cookbook that I found pushed towards the back of the top lefthand cupboard in my mother’s kitchen are marked with strips of paper, on one of those pages a plethora of Kuchen recipes, tempting me. But when I crave a particular food, a baked good, forever, when I have built up my own expectations to a dizzying height, I fear the disappointment of an untried recipe, a failed mess left uneaten, my hopes dashed, my craving left in ashes and dust. And so time passed and my craving continued as strong as ever, a desire left unfulfilled.

Until now. The Bread Baking Babes December baking adventure, hosted by Gretchen of Provecho Peru, was Apple Kuchen! I haven’t had much time for blogging or baking events lately but this one had my name written all over it! And I jumped right in! This would, I assumed, be the ultimate of all Kuchen recipes and, as I scrolled through the images of the Babes’ finished Kuchen, I knew it had to be extra special and perfect. And since anything apple is my husband’s favorite for both breakfast and snack, I was also assured that this Apple Kuchen would go down a treat. And who knows? Maybe this will be a recipe that becomes a tradition in my own household.

I am sharing this Apple Kuchen with Susan of Wild Yeast (and one of the Bread Baking Babes) for Yeastspotting.

APPLE KUCHEN

You can find the original recipe on Gretchen’s BBB blog post here.

Here is mine with a few changes:

Crumb Topping:

½ cup (65 g) flour
½ cup packed (100 g) light brown sugar
3 Tbs (45 g) unsalted butter

In a medium bowl, combine flour and brown sugar. Using a pastry blender or your fingers, cut/rub in butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Set aside.

Apples:

4 cups apple slices (about 4 baking apples)
1/3 cup (60/65 g) granulated brown sugar
1 heaping Tbs (20 g) flour
1 tsp mixed spice *
1 Tbs lemon juice

* You can use Apple Pie Spice or even Pumpkin Pie Spice. Or make your own – see Susan’s recipe. I used Pflaumenmus Gewürz from Germany which contains cinnamon, anise, lemon peel, cloves, ginger and star aniseed.

Peel, core and slice the apples and place in a bowl large enough to toss with the other ingredients. Add the flour, the sugar and the ground spices and toss to evenly coat the apples with the dry ingredients, making sure there are no clumps or pockets of dry ingredients. Toss in the lemon juice. Set aside.

Apple Kuchen:

2 ¼ - 2 ¾ cups (300 – 365 g) flour, divided
1 package (7 g) dry or active dry yeast
½ cup (125 ml) milk (I used 2% low fat)
½ cup (100 g) granulated white sugar
¼ cup (60 g) salted butter
½ tsp salt
2 eggs at room temperature
2 – 3 Tbs slivered blanched almonds, optional.

Butter the bottom and sides of a 13x9x2 (33x23x5-cm) baking pan or baking dish **.

Place 1 cup (65 g) of the flour with the dry yeast in a large mixing bowl.

Heat the milk, the sugar, the butter and the salt in a medium saucepan over low heat until warm; the butter will be almost but not completely melted. Remove from the heat and stir until the butter is completely melted then pour over the flour and yeast in the mixing bowl. Add the eggs and beat the batter with an electric mixer on low speed for 30 seconds. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and continue beating the batter on high speed for 2 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary. Beat in as much of the remaining flour, adding and beating in about 2 tablespoons at a time, needed until you have a stiff batter (I added all of the remaining flour except for about a tablespoon and a half) – the last few tablespoons can be stirred in if it gets too difficult with the electric mixer.

Spread the batter evenly in the prepared baking pan or dish. Layer or spread the prepared apples in a thick layer on top of the batter. Sprinkle evenly with the Crumb Topping finishing off with the slivered almonds if desired. Cover the baking pan with a piece of plastic and then a clean kitchen towel and allow the batter to rise for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).

** As I used a glass baking dish, I preheated and baked the Kuchen in a 350°F (180°C) oven. I am not sure that lowering the oven, even if glass heats and retains heat differently than metal, made a difference except in cooking time.

Remove the towel and plastic and bake the Apple Kuchen in the preheated oven for about 30 minutes or so (Mine baked for 1 hour in the slightly smaller baking dish at the lower heat) or until the apples are tender and the topping is crisped and browned.

Remove from the oven and allow to cool at least slightly before slicing, serving and eating. Gretchen serves hers with a whipped cream cheese topping. This would also be marvelous with a scoop of ice cream or a dollop of whipped cream. We eat this as is for breakfast with our coffee.

A yeasted coffee cake such as a Fruit Kuchen is best eaten rather quickly, the same day or within a day or two as it tends to dry out. This is a fabulous treat for a holiday or post-holiday brunch!

Take a bigger bite ...

FLUFFY GREEK SPIRAL FETA ROLLS

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens. 

 – Robert Browning 

My morning ritual begins with a mug of steaming café au lait and two pains au lait sliced lengthwise and filled with cherry jam. Sometimes husband and I sit in comforting silence, side by side, sharing the occasional witticism or a random thought as we sip our coffees and eat our breakfast. Or we flip on the radio and listen to the news, the weather report, a bit of music before flicking it back off and shuffling back to bed for a quiet half hour or so of chat and reading. Once I get back up, I boot up the laptop and check out the Huffington Post headlines as I wait for incoming e-mails. And each and every day since the Newtown massacre, the headlines have been a macabre roll call of yesterdays’ dead by firearms.

Our nation is still in shock, stunned by last Friday’s event. And the debate rages, fingers pointed, accusations shunted back and forth. Politics, culture, individuals, no one and nothing is left unscathed or without blame. I bite my tongue, trying to stay out of the argument although sometimes my anger and emotions get the better of me; yet arguing gets us nowhere. So I close the laptop and try and make it all go away, if only for a moment or two. I talk with my children, prepare for the holidays and bake. Baking soothes the soul, warms the heart and although these well-worn expressions are rather trite and nonsensical, baking is a way to forget the world around me, if ever so briefly.

With bread all sorrows are less.

- Sancho Panza in Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes 

It has been pouring rain for what seems like years. On and on and on. Milky white to dirty gray, the skies fluctuate over the course of a single day, imposing a color on our mood. Slowly, oh so slowly, we get the apartment in shape: two more boxes to the basement, one more bag to the attic, one more door painted, one more set of cupboards purchased and installed. Books painstakingly make their way out of cartons and onto bookshelves. We take turns cooking and carry our plates to the livingroom where we can lose our worries in a thriller or a mystery. And in between, we stay huddled inside, he praying for sunshine and warmth, I praying for snow and bright icy skies. We decided to do something for Christmas this year (or our version of Christmas) and scurry about looking for gifts and choosing a menu. My projects and his take shape and form and color and excitement fills the air: something to celebrate!

The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, 

is indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight. 

- M.F.K. Fischer 

Son came over to cook with me last week. Together we made Greek-Style Preserved Lemon Chicken with Olives from a cookbook he had offered to me last Hanukkah and divine it was. Before he arrived I threw together the soft, silky dough for Greek Spiral Feta Rolls. The dough is perfect in every way: easy to put together, soft and luxurious to knead and a pleasure to cut and roll. The resulting rolls are evenly textured, light and fluffy and would be perfect with either a savory or a sweet filling. My sons love feta, always have, so this was enjoyed thoroughly. But I will soon make the dough again, replacing the cheese with caramelized cubes of apples.

I want to share these with Susan of Wild Yeast for her weekly all-things-yeast event Yeastspotting.

GREEK SPIRAL FETA ROLLS
From Vefa’s Kitchen by Vefa Alexiadou – published in French by Phaidon

10 ½ oz (300 g) flour = 5 ¼ oz (150 g) regular flour + 5 ¼ oz (150 g) flour T55
1 tsp salt
1 Tbs active dry yeast
5 Tbs warm water (not hot)
1 Tbs sugar or honey
4 Tbs olive oil
½ cup (120 ml) warm milk (not hot)
1 egg, separated
10 ½ oz (300 g) feta, crumbled
2 Tbs sesame seeds
Melted butter for the baking tray or dish and olive oil for the bowl

Sift the two flours together in a large mixing bowl. Add the salt and the dry yeast without stirring. Add the warm water and allow to activate for several minutes. Once foamy, add the sugar or honey, the olive oil, the milk and the egg white (only the white!). Stir to moisten all of the dry ingredients and until the mixture forms a shaggy dough. Scrape the dough out onto a well-floured work surface (the dough will be sticky) and knead, adding flour as needed, for about 6 minutes or until the dough is smooth and elastic. Form the dough into a ball and place in a clean, well-oiled mixing bowl, turning the dough until it is coated in oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and a clean kitchen towel and leave the dough to rise for about an hour or so until doubled in size.

Butter a baking dish or baking sheet large enough to hold four rolls (they will expand to about 4 – 5 inches (10 – 13 cm) in diameter) – I lined a baking sheet with oven parchment paper and buttered the paper). Make an egg wash with the yolk and 1 tsp of cold water.

Divide the dough into four equal pieces. Roll each one out on a floured work surface to a length of about 16 inches (40/41 cm) and about 7 inches (18 cm) wide, the long side perpendicular to your body. Crumble a quarter of the feta about an inch (2 cms) evenly over the dough, leaving about an inches (2 cms) feta-free along the lower edge closest to your body from end to end and about 4 inches (10 cm) along the top (the feta should be concentrated in a long line from end to end). Brush egg wash lighly all around the exposed edges and roll up the dough around the feta starting with the side closest to you and rolling up; you should end up with a long thin log. Starting at one end, lightly but firmly roll the length of dough into itself, forming a round spiral, tucking the end underneath. Gently lift the spiral and place it one the prepared baking sheet or baking dish.

Repeat with the remaining three pieces of dough. Brush each spiral with the egg wash, both the tops and sides, and dust with sesame seeds. Cover the baking sheet loosely with plastic wrap and allow to rise until doubled in size, about 45 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Bake for 30 to 35 minutes or until the top is a nice golden brown and the rolls are well puffed.

Allow to cool a bit or come to room temperature before serving.

Take a bigger bite ...

GREEK-STYLE PRESERVED LEMON CHICKEN WITH OLIVES

EVERYTHING IS CHANGED

The emotional wounds from Friday’s massacre in Newtown are still raw, the passions still vivid and red hot. Everything is changed and we will never be the same. Those of us who are parents may have been especially touched and now we hug our children just a little tighter before they leave for school in the morning, pull them a little closer each night as they return, exhausted from their active day. We study their every movement, listen to their slow, steady breathing, revel in their laughter and stare into the depths of their eyes, astonished at the life we have created. My sons are adults now, 22 and 24, yet they still are and always will be my babies and I still worry about them, am still astonished by their presence and still attempt to protect and coddle them, no matter how they protest.

The holidays have brought our older son home more often; he arrived on our doorstep almost every night of Hanukkah as the sun set to light the candles, exchange gifts and eat dinner as a family. I sit and watch my two sons, young men, eat pizza or cheese fondue with a man’s appetite and wonder how it is they grew up, tall, handsome, funny, smart. When did this happen? Our life as a family has often been a bumpy road, our sons’ teen years dotted with adolescent woes; we’ve struggled through tragedy and arguments, clothes stuffed in plastic garbage bags and tossed out onto the doorstep, and whatever else parenting brings into our lives. Yet when we actually think about it, when we pause and stare hard at our two sons, we really are thankful. We feel lucky that they have turned out so damn well.

In the wake of Friday’s horrendous tragedy, I do feel lucky – and, I will admit, relieved – each time they walk through the front door. Younger son goes out at night and I still lie awake or in a fitful sleep, waiting to hear the click of the front door, the sound of his step on the floor, the barking of the dog. Then and only then can I finally fall into peaceful slumber.

Many years ago, I was in a horrific car accident. If it wasn’t for the very quick reaction time of the driver of the car that plowed into me I would not have survived. Our sons were about 6 and 8 years old at the time. At the end of this harrowing, terrifying day spent on the side of the road and at the hospital for a battery of x-rays, my husband came and picked me up. Driving home side by side, each one of us lost in our own thoughts, the silence heavy between us, he finally turned to me and cried “Do you realize that you almost left me alone?! Left me to raise our two boys without you?!” We, he and I, have each lost a parent and I have lost a sibling, a dear brother and I know that no matter how much time passes, the wound remains deep and bleeding, the loss heavy, a gaping black hole of sadness. I simply cannot imagine losing a child. So, yes, the loss of those twenty children, mere babies, has cut many of us to the core. And we turn around and face our own children and feel very, very lucky.

And my older son came over to cook. For as much as husband and I both love to cook and as often as we do, our sons never really caught the cooking bug.* Maybe it is, as some would argue, because they never had to cook; the food was always on the table for them to enjoy. Or maybe, yes I will admit, that I scared the begeebees out of them whenever they tried. As my husband will freely tell you, I am not one to share the kitchen with. He sends me packing, refusing to even pull out ingredients and start chopping before I am well away and out of the kitchen. Ah, so I am a perfectionist; what do you want? I will also admit that I might have bit my poor son’s head off a few times this very night in question and I will search high and low for something to blame it on but I won’t bore you with that. Anyway, he came over to cook and not just any dish. No. For weeks he had been berating me, upbraiding me, ranting and complaining because he had offered me a Greek cookbook last Hanukkah, one entire year ago, and I had yet to make one single recipe from it. So he selected a recipe, a Greek-style Preserved Lemon Chicken with Olives, and offered to come over and help.

And so we did. Cook. Greek-Style Preserved Lemon Chicken with Olives packs a true flavor punch: tender chicken infused with the bright, sparkling flavor of lemon, lightly-caramelized onions offering a savory succulence and a handful of olives giving the dish a salty edge. And nothing could be easier! Brown the chicken, toss in the rest of the ingredients, allow to simmer and Bingo! A stunning dish. Simple enough to make with your children, no matter their age. And now one my own son can prepare in his own apartment for his friends.

And before he dropped by, I decided to make Spiral Feta-filled Rolls from the same book as a surprise. I will share this recipe with you on my next post.

So hug your children, spend as much extra time with them as a family and be happy. Maybe I'll cook with my son a little more often now.

* I will be fair. Clem, the older son, makes the absolute best damn Tiramisu on the planet. He also makes a mean Lemon Tart as well.

GREEK-STYLE PRESERVED LEMON CHICKEN WITH OLIVES
Adapted from Vefa’s Kitchen by Vefa Alexiadou – published in French by Phaidon

Serves 4 people

1 preserved lemon
1 fresh lemon
About 6 Tbs (40 g) flour seasoned with salt and pepper
1 chicken cut in pieces or 2 leg/thigh sections and 2 breasts
A few tablespoons olive oil
1 onion, trimmed, peeled and chopped
1 garlic clove, peeled and chopped
½ cup pitted green olives, soaked in cold water for about an hour
Finely grated zest of one lemon, optional
½ cup (125 ml) water
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 Tbs freshly squeezed lemon juice 

Cut the preserved lemon in half and then each half in 2 or 4 wedges. Place the seasoned flour in a plate or soup bowl. Pat the chicken pieces clean and dry.

Place a few tablespoons olive oil in a large, heavy pot with a lid and heat over medium to medium-high heat. When the oil is hot and a few drops of water spritzed onto the oil sizzle, dredge the chicken pieces in the seasoned flour and brown in the oil; you may have to do this in two or three batches as you do not want to crowd the chicken in the pot. Turn the pieces to brown well on each side; this could take 6 – 8 minutes per piece. Add more oil to the pot if needed.

As the chicken pieces are browned carefully lift them out of the pot and place on a plate.

When all of the chicken pieces are well browned and out of the pot, add the chopped onion and garlic to the pot and cook, stirring often, until tender and transparent, scraping up the dark bits from the bottom of the pot. Add the chicken pieces back to the pot and continue to cook for a few minutes, stirring, until the onion bits are beginning to brown around the edges. Add the wedges of preserved lemon, the zest if using and the water; drain the olives and add to the pot. Salt and pepper and bring just to the boil, reduce the heat, cover the pot and allow to simmer for 30 to 45 minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Add a little more water during the cooking if needed.

When the chicken is cooked, remove the pot from the heat and add the lemon juice.

Serve immediately over mashed potatoes, couscous, mixed grains or pilaf.

Take a bigger bite ...

AFTER NEWTOWN

ANGER AND OUTRAGE

I never talk about my political convictions on my blog although heaven knows they are strong enough, an integral part of my being. My blog, for the moment (and I stress this point), is about food and my life in France. Although I often write about difficult moments and personal tragedy, although I sometimes wax eloquent on the tough decisions my husband and I are forced to make when at a particularly stressful crossroad, I still keep my politics out of it. Little do my readers know or understand the role my political beliefs played in my leaving the States to search for another country, another culture, to see how the rest of the world handles such topics that have an impact on my life, that mean a lot to me.

But once in a while, my anger and outrage get the better of me. At a moment such as this, after what happened in Newtown, I cannot reign in my emotions nor can I contain my words. Columbine, Virginia Tech, Aurora, Portland, Newtown, the world watches the images roll across the television screen over and over and over again. And I stand and watch, stunned and enraged, and wonder when Americans will simply say Enough!

I have been reading articles and Facebook posts about this tragedy, another tragedy in a long line of tragedies, claiming forbearance, asking each of us to put aside our politics, not to allow the urge to blame this person or that entity get the better of us in this time of mourning. They say this is no time to start the debate or ask for legislation; this, they say, is a time to remember the dead, a time to pray, light candles, gather, hands held, united as a country and hug our loved ones close to us. Respect for the dead comes, for now, they say, in putting all of our thoughts and energy into thinking of a better, a Utopian world in which men and women and tiny children do not die at the hands of a gun-crazed lunatic on a shooting rampage, that shaking one’s fist and crying for something to be done is an injustice and tarnishes their memory. And groups of food bloggers are asking for each of us to observe a “Silent Monday” in memory of the dead, a social media Day of Observance. But I cannot do this. My way of showing respect for those babies and all those whom have died of gun violence is to stand up and make my voice heard, to get angry and scream my outrage at the top of my lungs. My way of showing respect for these innocent victims whose own voices have now been silenced forever is to try and make sure that something this unfathomable, this horrific never happens again.

I cannot stay silent. We have been silent for much too long.

And so I post this here today on my food blog. The following piece was written in the heat of the moment as the television behind me was blaring the news of the shooting. These are words that have come straight from the heart. I am sad, heartbroken for the victims and for my country. I am angry and outraged that this has been allowed to happen, nurtured by a long-standing gun culture and the fear of our politicians to stand up to political bullies and just say Enough! Feel free to remain silent or shout your pain and anger from the rooftops; we each deal with this in our own private way, and this is mine.

WHEN WILL IT CHANGE?

There has been a spate of gun violence in France this past year: political assassinations in Corsica; gang-related shootings in Marseilles; bungled jewelry shop burglaries in Paris. And the most shocking of all was a seemingly random hit-and-run style rampage over a period of more than a week in Toulouse and Montauban this past March in which seven people were killed, three of whom were children and three of whom were military men. In a country with such strict gun laws and regulations, this all seems rather unimaginable and leaves the public not so much outraged as stunned and dazed. How can this happen here in France? Yet the slow infiltration of illegal guns into France is as real as those innocents who are dead.

But nothing comes even close to what is happening in the United States. A war zone without the war. Innocents by the dozens being razed down at such banal and public places as shopping malls, movie theaters, high schools, post offices, universities and now an elementary school with no rhyme or reason. From simple handguns to military-style automatic weapons, strapped to bodies, arsenals found in bedrooms, we watch in horror as we realize how our fellow citizens are able to arm themselves to the teeth with ease, stockpile to their hearts’ content. Barely a week goes by, or so it now seems, that we aren’t crying our eyes out and wringing our hands as the news floods in about yet another shooting. But what are we doing about it?

Very little. And why? Isn’t it obvious by now? From the NRA to the Tea Party, too many Americans and their gun-clutching political lobbies are shouting about freedom and liberty. They shake the Constitution in front of our faces and recite the few words that make up the Second Amendment as if it is the only thing that holds are country together, the only thing, fragile and beautiful, that makes our country the “land of the free and the home of the brave”. Some tenuous interpretation of “the right of the people to keep and bear arms”, written and adopted in 1791 as the United States government was struggling to guarantee their citizens’ freedom in the shadow of imperial rule, has become, for many, the cornerstone of their politics; the guarantee of everyone’s right to walk into any gun shop and buy an arsenal equivalent to our collective and individual “pursuit of happiness”. They have succeeded in making us believe that real patriots love guns and refuse all gun restrictions.

And then there is the religious contingency. Former governor and presidential candidate Mike Huckabee decries – and seems to put the blame on – the removal of God and religion from schools. Connecticut’s own governor Dan Malloy stated immediately in the wake of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School that “Evil visited this community today…” as if speaking of some hooded and cloaked creature straight out of a Harry Potter novel that can only be held off with magic spells and pure hearts. We hold vigils, light candles, organize prayer meetings, flood into churches. And skirt around the issue of guns. We hide behind Bibles and flags and avoid an actual adult debate about firearms. We avoid the responsibility of making choices, refrain from bringing politics into our struggle to accept yet another tragic mass shooting, loathe discussing the hard facts while soothing the weeping families.

And then, when we do get around to it, there is the debate itself. The idiots at Fox News try and reason – if reason is a word that can be used in this discussion – that with or without a gun, Jovan Belcher would have killed his girlfriend anyway. Someone that big and strong, they argued, would just have throttled her to death if that was what he really wanted to do. Maybe. But maybe not. How easy did having that loaded gun make it? How fast and impersonal? Do they realize how difficult it is to strangle someone to death? Do they realize how psychologically different it is having to physically touch someone, be body to body, feel them writhe under one’s touch, struggle and gasp, have to look into their terror-filled eyes? Taking a gun, pointing and shooting is impulsive; one does not even have to look at the other person or be near that person. It is over in a second. Take that gun out of a violent partner or spouse’s hand and how many women (or children or parents, for that matter) would still be living?

And the insensitivity, the outrageous arrogance and smugness of the NRA whose Executive Vice President said only this year that “anything less than 1,000 dead kids (in school shootings) would not be enough for the NRA to stop urging Congress to pass pro-gun legislation.” Really? I wonder if he feels the same after Friday's senseless massacre in Newtown.

And how many children are killed by gunfire every year? According to IANSA, International Action Network on Small Arms, just over 3,000 a year. How many of these were accidents in the home, just a couple of kids finding a parent’s firearm and seeing how it worked, or making it into a game? Yes, those same defenders of our supposed right to own guns claim, accidents do happen. But how many of those 3,000 innocent children would still be alive today if it was not for the availability of guns and ammunition?

Do not try and defend gun ownership to me as somehow safeguarding my every freedom. Do not throw the Second Amendment in my face as if A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. is somehow a good enough reason for anyone to walk into a gun show and purchase a semi-automatic or two.

What kind of militia were they forming, what kind of imperialism were they fighting those two boys who killed 12 fellow students and teachers at Columbine? What kind of freedom allowed for them to have an arsenal of weapons, allowed them to purchase thousands of rounds of ammunition at a Walmart? How does allowing a mentally unstable student or a man with “some form of autism” or, for that matter, my own father who was sold a rifle while he was suffering from dementia, how does allowing these people to legally buy guns preserve our own freedoms, defend someone’s own interpretation of the second amendment? Carry a gun to church, school, the supermarket… now we seem to be urging more Americans to carry more guns more places and for what? To protect themselves against somebody else who has a gun. Like some insane return to the Wild Wild West. What kind of freedom is this defending?

Isn't the freedom to go to school, go to a movie theater or a shopping mall or the office without the fear of being razed down by a lunatic wielding an arsenal of handguns and automatic weapons more important than the freedom to buy and stockpile guns? Isn’t the freedom for those teens killed in Columbine, those young adults at Virginia Tech or those children in Newtown to celebrate Hanukkah or Christmas, to celebrate their next birthday, to grow up, graduate, marry and have children of their own, more important than any American’s freedom to buy an assault weapon? Where is their freedom? What protects their liberty?

Enough is enough. When do we as Americans put aside our own selfishness, our own flag-waving, heart-crossing ideology and look at the reality of what is happening in our country? It takes courage for politicians to stand up to the political bullies and engage in serious debate and make serious, effective decisions. Some people say that we shouldn’t be bringing this up now, just the day after Newtown. Some people say that this is the time for remembering, praying, drying tears and pulling together as a united country. I say now couldn’t be a better time to take action, now as the wound is fresh and bleeding, now as we are crying for yet more of our fellow Americans, now as we are watching 20 children being carried to their graves rather than decorating Christmas trees and opening gifts. We must do more than simply hold hands and light candles. We need to say no to the NRA, we need to take drastic measures to get guns off the streets, make more types of weapons illegal and the rest absolutely more difficult to purchase. And we need a strong program re-educating and re-sensitizing our young people as to the horrors of guns and gun deaths.

Sixteen years ago, a lone gunman armed with four handguns, walked into a primary school in Dunblane, Scotland and shot and killed sixteen children and one adult, shocking not only the nation but the world as well. Immediate public outcry and media-driven public petitions created a real debate on gun ownership and the demand for immediate government action. The lives of children became more important, overrode the public’s interest in any kind of freedom or liberty associated with firearm ownership, and within a year the British government enacted extremely tough gun laws, effectively making private ownership of handguns illegal in the United Kingdom. I remember two years later when a man (naked, but that’s besides the point) stormed into a church in the UK wielding a sword indiscriminately attacking churchgoers. Not a gun, a sword. He injured eleven people. Killed? None.
Take a bigger bite ...

CHOCOLATE CHESTNUT CLOUD CAKES

AND LET THE FESTIVITIES BEGIN!

There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good comfortable things all the time, 

for we are telling Winter Stories – Ghost Stories, or more shame for us – round the Christmas fire; and we have never stirred, except to draw a little nearer to it. 

– Charles Dickens 

Hanukkah has come upon us in a rush, almost unexpectedly. Surrounded by the remains of our renovations, pampering a sick dog, befuddled and amazed by the busy-bee energy of our normally slow-as-molasses son, time has slipped by at an almost unreal pace and we are astonished when we realize that it has only been a month since our move. Four, maybe five short weeks. It feels like we have been here forever emptying cartons, stepping over heaps of tools, tripping over coils of wire, making so many trips to the dump it has my head in a spin! And now Hanukkah has arrived and I am just not ready.

Son and I go hunting for Hanukkah gifts as the afternoon light wanes, just before rushing home to light the first candle. Late, as usual. We join the jungle of bodies, the swell of humanity clutching bags and boxes, children crying, parents hustling youngsters in and out of shops trying to retain some semblance of dignity and holiday cheer. Son hurries me, skirting the gawkers, reminding me of what we are there for and urging me onward only wanting to be home. But I am caught up in the festive air of the city, bedazzled by the neons, the garlands, the flurry of Santa hats bobbing up and down the streets. The brisk chill invigorates and the Hanukkah spirit is upon me and all I want to do is drift, weightless, carried along on the sights and sounds and smells of Christmas.

I’m just a little sentimental this time of year as the skies deepen to a dull slate gray, misty and mysterious. We venture out at night, brilliant bulbs in green, red, blue and white piercing the blackness, flickering, floating, fairy lights leading us towards the center of town. Noise and laughter rise and swirl around us like snow as we are swept along in the bustling crowd, pushed and pulled in between the brightly lit wooden stalls of the Christmas market. The smells of popcorn and churros mingle with the heady, spicy scent of mulled wine, the salty, smoky fragrance of sausages coming from the booth hawking some far-off regional delicacies, making us yearn to approach, lulled like fairytale children, spellbound, being pulled towards a candy-covered fantasy of sweets and the warmth of a blazing hearth. Images of my mom far away, thoughts of my brother rush in to fill up the spaces in my head between plans for our own festivities and the jollity and mirth, the lightness and wellbeing now mingled with emptiness, tainted by sadness. My son tugs on my sleeve, gives me a gentle nudge in the back and I turn my attention to the stands of books and the bins of dvds.

The holidays back home, the holidays of my childhood, weren’t swathed in snow or faded into a misty Winter Wonderland; no children bundled up in thick, puffs of coat, stuffing hands into mittens, tucking ever-dancing feet into boots, tugging knitted bonnets on heads. Bright bulbs flashed against crystal clear skies, luminaries flickered up and down neighborhood streets against a backdrop of deep, lush green grass. Mornings were indeed punctuated by entertaining stalagmites sprouting up from neighbors’ garden sprinklers; Santas galore were perched upon rooftops dressed in flowered cotton shirts, shorts and flip flops, ready for the balmy Florida season. By afternoon, the morning’s jackets were peeled off and we were down to warm weather outfits as we piled into the station wagon to go Hanukkah shopping with mom. We had the only house on the block, in the neighborhood, bare of decorations, the only wreathless front door. No strings of lights hung from the eaves, no garlands graced the front window. My parents were discreet, practical and sober when it came to holidays. A lone Menorah stood in the livingroom, one gift per night, a gift we had most likely chosen ourselves, was handed to each of us before we gathered around the table for a game of dreidl, peanuts or M & M’s our tokens of choice. And we were happy that way, happy being together, laughing, singing, playing with our toys. For eight nights, brightened by the candles’ flames.

Chestnuts are delicacies for princes and a lusty and masculine food for rusticks, 

and able to make women well-complexioned.

– John Evelyn, 1620 – 1706 

No chestnuts found their way into our kitchen, nor graced our holiday table. Foreign, they were, to us Floridians who spent the winter eating citrus morning, noon and night. Pies in pumpkin, apple and cherry were reserved for Thanksgiving as was bird and sticky sweet marshmallow sweet potato casserole. A plate of latkes was our Hanukkah treat along with a tiny bag of Hanukkah gelt, thick chocolate coins wrapped in glittering, shiny gold foil, counted out, made to last eight days. These simple traditions have found their way into my own home as we, husband, two sons and I, gather round the old family Menorah, the same from my childhood, lighting the candles for eight nights, exchanging gifts and enjoying our time together.

No, no special holidays meals for Hanukkah, yet this time of year I love to bake and cook with those special seasonal ingredients that, for me, are forever linked to a joyous, sprightly winter: pumpkins and apples, oranges and chestnuts. And when I can add chocolate to the mix, well, don’t I just do it. After my recent escapade into decadence the result of which, a Chocolate Chestnut Fondant, was received with merriment, gobbled down by one and all, I decided to try yet another chocolate chestnut delicacy with the rest of the can of Crème de Marrons. This Chocolate Chestnut Cloud Cake gets its airiness from thick, creamy meringue which is folded ever so gently into chocolate and butter, flavored by chestnut cream and a festive splash of Cointreau, my tipple of choice this season. I first baked one single fluted cake and then repeated the recipe baking individual portions, mini Bundts and tiny cakes. And the holidays call for something more, a bit special, so each cake was drizzled with Chocolate Orange Ganache.

These wonderfully festive treats are perfect for December’s Monthly Mingle, created by my Zesty Sister and fellow Plate to Page instructor Meeta. This month’s host, my talented friend Simone of Junglefrog Cooking, asked us to bake Christmas Cakes and that is just what this Chocolate Chestnut Cloud Cake is!

CHOCOLATE CHESTNUT CLOUD CAKE with Chocolate Orange Ganache
Adapted from Crème de Marrons les 30 recettes culte by Sandra Mahut

5.3 oz (150 g) dark chocolate 70% cacao, broken into pieces
9 Tbs (135 g) unsalted butter
3 rounded/heaping Tbs (150 g) chestnut cream (crème de marrons Clément Faugier)
3 Tbs (30 g) flour
3 Tbs (20 g) unsweetened cocoa powder
5 large eggs, separated
½ cup (100 g) granulated sugar
1 Tbs Cointreau, optional

Orange Chocolate Ganache (this recipe can easily be halved):
3.5 oz (100 g) Lindt Excellence Orange Intense or equivalent orange-scented dark chocolate
½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream

Or confectioner’s/powdered sugar and unsweetened cocoa powder for dusting

Preheat the oven to 325-335°F (170°C). Butter and flour either a medium-sized Bundt or fluted tube pan or about 18 – 20 individual cupcake or mini-Bundt molds.

Place the butter and the broken chocolate into a medium-sized Pyrex or heatproof bowl. Melt gently either in a bain-marie, over a pot of gently simmering water or in the microwave; barely 1 minute on high heat in the microwave should melt the butter completely and more than partially, but not completely, melt the chocolate. Remove from the heat/microwave and stir or whisk until the chocolate is completely melted and the mixture well blended and smooth. Add the 3 heaping tablespoons of chestnut cream/crème de marrons and whisk to blend.

Measure the flour and the cocoa powder together into a small bowl and then sift the two onto the chocolate/butter/chestnut mixture. Whisk to blend until smooth. Whisk in the Cointreau, if using.

Separate the eggs, placing the 5 clean whites into a large, very clean bowl ideal for whipping meringue – I prefer plastic. If you like, add a drop of lemon juice and a few grains of salt to help stabilize the whites. Using an electric mixer, beat the whites for 30 seconds on low speed then increase speed to high; beat for about 2 minutes until the whites are no longer foamy, are white and opaque and soft peaks hold. Begin gradually beating in the sugar, about a teaspoon at a time while continuing to beat on high speed. This should take another couple of minutes. Continue to beat until all of the sugar is incorporated and the meringue is very thick. The entire process should take about 5 minutes.

Beat the egg yolks into the meringue one at a time, beating on medium or high speed, beating in each yolk just to combine.

Using a spatula, fold the yolky meringue into the chocolate batter, adding and folding in a quarter of the meringue at a time. Do not overmix.

Spoon into the molds and bake for not more than 30 minutes (if making one large cake, this could bake up to double the time depending on the pan and the oven). When done, the top should be set, dull (no longer shiny) and lightly crispy. The cake should spring back when gently pressed and a tester inserted in the cake should come out clean.

Remove from the oven and allow to cool in the pan until completely cool before gently loosening and turning out.

Prepare the ganache while waiting for the cakes to cool by chopping the chocolate and placing in a heatproof bowl. Bring the cream just to the boil and pour over the chopped chocolate. Stir until the chocolate is completely melted and the ganache well blended, smooth and creamy. Leave to thicken at room temperature, stirring occasionally, until drizzling consistency. If you like, allow to get very thick and then thin with a bit of Cointreau. Spoon onto individual cakes or slices as serving. Top with sugar pearls or other festive sugar decorations.

Take a bigger bite ...

GLAZED ORANGE COINTREAU QUICK BREAD

A BOOZY HOLIDAY SEASON

That first spritz of orange, the citrusy scent blended with the warm scent of cinnamon and the house finally smells like the holidays. As a Florida girl who grew up a stone’s throw, just a hop over the river from the orange groves, winter has always meant oranges, grapefruits and tangerines. Even in Europe. As soon as the summer’s berries and stone fruit disappear, leaving only faded imitations of themselves behind, when apples and pears pile up golden green just begging for my attention, I begin the impatient wait. To citrus.

The holiday spirit has invaded Nantes if ever so discreetly, so very French. The lights are already hung from lamppost to lamppost, shop windows have already begun adding to the display with shows of elves and polar bears, lush wreathes and bright garlands, trees green and beribboned or merely the suggestion of trees in white lights. I love the holidays yet how I miss the vibrant, exciting, overdone American version of Christmas. Homes weighed down under too many colored lights, Santa in his sleigh, drawn by reindeer prancing across front lawns or perched precariously on rooftops. Over-the-top gaudiness, ostentatious beauty infuse every observer, whether celebrant or not, with an energy and enthusiasm strictly reserved for December.

Although the French holiday spirit is one of understated elegance, I still feel the festive rush and make the best attempt possible to inject a little of that good old fashioned joviality and merriness into our home. In the best of times, we don’t really decorate, and now with the house still in moving/renovation limbo, I’ll be lucky if I can dig out my Hanukkah candles and set up the Menorah on our buffet.

But one thing is for sure, the holidays see bottles of Champagne cross our threshold; glasses of Champagne replace the usual wine at our festivities and elegant yet simple holiday smorgasbord. Splashes of Grand Marnier and Cointreau, a heady kick of rum or a vibrant infusion of Cognac feature in so many recipes. Chocolate and chestnut desserts put on a festive appearance infused as they now are with the joviality, the sophisticated charm of booze. And citrus. Ah, citrus, my winter fetish… goes oh-so adult with the joyful addition of Cointreau or Limoncello. Which is why Lora, Barb and I decided that December’s Twelve Loaves bread would be infused with booze.*

My choice? A quick bread. Orange, of course, a salute to the season. Orange blended with Cointreau, just enough to give the bright citrus flavor an underlying hint of warmth and earthiness. A beautiful cake, moist yet light, just that much less frivolous, a deep rich flavor lending gentleness to the perfect bread for breakfast, brunch or snack, a perfect holiday treat. Adapted from a recipe for Lemon Quick Bread from Taste of Home Baking, I knew that this simple yet luscious cake would look just perfect all dressed up in orange and Cointreau.

Now, you can bake along for Twelve Loaves December challenge. You know the rules, roll up your sleeves and start kneading or stirring… bake a bread from scratch, yeast or quick, muffins, scones, focaccia or anything similar, anything that can be called bread, and just add your favourite alcohol to the batter, the icing or the end result. Post on your blog linking back to our three blogs, mentioning Twelve Loaves and the December challenge (linking back to this post), then add your blog link to the linky tool at the end of one of our blogs to be included in our Boozy Holiday Roundup.

* If you do not want to add alcohol to your baked good, it can be replaced with extract or juice.

Want more delightful boozy treats for your holiday season?

Fouace Nantaise

Orange Cointreau Brownie Tiramisu

Christmas Cookie Tree with Mascarpone Limoncello Cream

Chocolate Orange Grand Marnier Madeleines

Chocolate Rum Bundt Cake



GLAZED ORANGE COINTREAU QUICK BREAD
Just a little bit boozy for the holidays!

½ cup (115 g) butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup (200 g) sugar
2 large eggs
1 Tbs freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier (or can be replaced by 1 Tbs more orange juice)
½ tsp Nielsen-Massey orange extract, optional
1 Tbs finely grated orange zest (from an untreated or organic orange)
1 ½ cups (about 200 g) flour, lightly spooned in measuring cup and levelled
1 tsp baking powder
1/8 tsp salt
½ cup (125 ml) milk (I used 2% fat/lowfat)

Glaze:
½ cup (62 g) confectioner’s/powdered sugar
1 Tbs freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier (or can be replaced with 1 Tbs more orange juice)

My beautiful new Edgeware zester! I'm in love!

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a loaf pan, either 8 x 4-inch or 9 x 5-inch) and either line the bottom with parchment paper or dust with flour, tapping out the excess.

In a large mixing bowl, cream the softened butter with the sugar until blended and fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time, just to blend. Beat in the orange juice, the Cointreau, the extract if using and the orange zest.

Stir together the flour, the baking powder and the salt in a small bowl; beat in the flour mixture to the creamed mixture alternately with the milk, beginning and ending with dry, beating well after each addition.

Pour into the prepared loaf pan and bake for 45 to 50 minutes or until the bread is risen, the top golden brown and the center set; a tester inserted near the center of the bread should come out clean. Remove the pan from the oven and place on a cooling rack.

Sift the confectioner’s sugar into a small bowl and add the juice and the Cointreau. Stir until you have a very smooth silky glaze. Slide along thin knife blade around the edges of the cake to loosen and spoon and spread the glaze evenly all over the hot cake, allowing some glaze to dribble down the sides.

Allow the cake to cool completely before turning out of the pan and serving.
Take a bigger bite ...