Amazingly Addicting Carrot Cake

Lately I feel somewhat like a wandering minstrel, moving from town to town every few days, except my true art is simply displaying what has been called an “extraordinary” (read: “maybe you should go on a diet”) appetite for such a small girl. Hey, I can’t help it if I’m always hungry! Thanks to my piggyness, those around me tend to find themselves with a constant supply of baked treats – some successful, others less so… (see the crazy frosting in the picture?)

Whenever I’m feeling a bit restless, bored, happy, sad or whatever’s in between, my favorite thing to do is to get in the kitchen and make a BIG MESS (or alternatively, pour myself a large glass of something…like milk. Ha!).
One of my favorite “beat-whatever’s-ailin’-ya” treats is Belinda’s amazingly addicting carrot cake. I mean, before I tasted this slice of springy tender deliciousness, I didn’t even know I had a weak spot for carrot cake, much less a frosted one!

Due to popular demand, here is the precious recipe. Once you try it, you will never go back to boxed mixes (yes, I loved them too) and won’t even be able to stomach the thought of spending mucho euros/dollars/pounds/etc. on a store-bought version again!

"C’est un gâteau à se damner! "

** Carrot Cake **

Ingredients :
4 eggs
2 cups sugar
1 ½ cups oil

2 cups flour
2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
2 tsp ground cinnamon

3 cups carrots, grated (approx. 3 large carrots)

Icing

Technique:
1. Peel and grate the carrots. Reserve. Grease a baking tin (a loaf pan works well) and preheat the oven to 180°C / 350°F.
2. Preparing the wet ingredients: In a [large] bowl, whisk the eggs until just light and fluffy. Slowly mix in the sugar in small batches, then add the oil.
3. Combine the dry ingredients (flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt and cinnamon) in a separate bowl.
4. Pour the egg mixture (wet ingredients) into the dry ingredient mixture in small batches, combining well without beating.
5. Fold in the grated carrots using a rubber spatula.
6. Pour the batter into the baking tin. Bake for approx. 45 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool in the tin before removing. You can add your favorite icing to the top of the cake when cooled.

Ya-mi! Enjoy!

Note: If the middle of your cake collapses like mine did the first few (ahem!) times, it may be undercooked. Also, make sure not to open the oven door before half the baking time has elapsed. When you do check on it, do so while the tin is still in the oven, to avoid knocking the cake around before it’s had time to set. Oh, and don’t slam the oven door!

Power Puffs

I am so in! After 3 years in the neighborhood, I finally have some “bargaining power” with my local shopkeepers. So far the only shop nearby that recognizes me is the Italian traiteur. Since I happened to be walking home with a cake box just bursting with beautiful handmade “choux” (cream puffs), I decided to pop in and test my newfound powers of persuasion.

Luckily the very jolly-looking chef was in the shop having a hand-wavingly animated discussion in Italian with the saleslady, accompanied by French rap radio as only happens here. I proudly flashed them my wares and was immediately rewarded with oohs and aahs, which was very polite of them given there is a quite decent authentic boulangerie / patisserie right across the street.

At first my new friends wanted to keep the entire box of goodies but I probably looked so hungry and desperate that they ended up taking one each of “chou chantilly” and “chou à la crème”, garnished with a few sugary “chouquettes”. After the chef and I both confessed our hopeless gourmandise, I moved in for the kill.

I subtly (or not so subtly for those who have seen it before) gave him my best puppy dog eyes and my sweetest smile. Pause. He suddenly decided I was worthy of VIP status and started moving towards the liquor cabinet. “Limoncello, carina?” Et là, mes amis, victoire!

~ “Pâte à Choux” ~ (cream puff pastry)

Makes:
- “Chouquettes” (small, sweet puff pastry covered in pearl sugar)
- Cream puffs (fill with your choice of whipped cream, custard, etc.)

Ingredients:
- 125 g water (½ cup)
- 125 g milk (½ cup)
- 2.5 g salt (½ tsp)
- 5 g sugar (1 ¼ tsp)
- 125 g butter, cut into small pieces (½ cup)
- 150 g flour, sifted (1 ½ cups)
- 250 g eggs, beaten (4 to 5 eggs; 8.8 oz)
- melted butter, to glaze

How to:
1. Preheat oven to 220°C (425°F)

2. In a saucepan, gently heat the water, milk, salt, sugar and pieces of butter while stirring with a wooden spoon. Once the butter is melted, turn the heat up to medium until the liquid comes to a boil

3. Remove from heat, add all the sifted flour at once and stir energetically until combined

4. Return to medium low heat and stir constantly until the mixture comes away from the sides of the saucepan and makes a thick, smooth ball, about 1 minute

5. Transfer the batter to a mixing bowl and stir occasionally to let cool, about 2 minutes

6. Mix in half of the beaten eggs with the dough. Stir until combined. Continue mixing in half of the remaining eggs until the batter is shiny and smooth. Stir more and more slowly as the batter gets closer to the desired consistency

7. Grease a baking sheet (i.e. with a butter spray) and wipe gently with a paper towel to remove the excess. The sheet should not be too greasy or else the batter will not adhere correctly

8. Decorate the baking sheet
* For “chouquettes” (baby puffs)
- Fill a pastry bag with a plain tip (or a plastic baggie with the corner snipped off) with some of the batter. Pipe or use 2 spoons to drop approx. 1” rounds of batter onto the baking sheet
- Press plenty of pearl sugar crystals (or the largest sugar crystals you can get your hands on) over the top and sides of the baby puffs.
Note: If my chef ever found out I might get expelled for this, but I don’t see why you can’t substitute sprinkles or chocolate chips for the pearl sugar. Just make sure the batter is completely cooled before adding. It’s not entirely French but why does tradition have to dictate law?

* For cream puffs (mamma puffs)
- Fill a pastry bag with a plain tip (or a plastic baggie with the corner snipped off) with some of the batter. Pipe or use 2 spoons to drop approx. 2” rounds of batter onto the baking sheet
- Brush the tops of the pastry shells with a very small amount of melted butter
- Press the tops of the pastry shells gently with the back of a fork twice at 90° angles to make a lattice mark to stabilize them during baking

9. We’re almost there!
- Bake at 220°C / 425°F (temperature and cooking time may vary depending on the oven) for about 35 minutes. Prop the oven door open ever so slightly towards the end of baking to allow the shells to dry out better
- Remove from the oven and let cool on a wire rack

You can enjoy the baby puffs once cooled. You can cut the caps off of the mamma puffs and fill with your choice of sweet whipped cream, custard, ice cream (again, not entirely tradi) or whatever grabs ya. Replace the caps and dust with icing sugar (optional).

Ya mi!

Mon Café à Moi

So, remember when I said I boycotted “my” local café because they changed owners and the service became crap? Well, when I saw a big “Changement de Direction” sign and a new name on the café, I was intrigued. I walked in this weekend and was greeted with an almost overeager, overfriendly service. WTF? What the heck happened here? Friendly service? In Paris? In my formerly beloved café that has let me down so much that I couldn’t set foot within for 2 years?! I could actually feel a real EFFORT to satisfy the clients. What a concept! The former owners are back!

I had a surprisingly good day, starting with a visit to the “Prefecture de Police” to get my visa renewed. It has been an ordeal so far but I was pleasantly surprised when I got a “recipissé de demande” after only half an hour. Although I will have to go back in December (I sent in my application in August, mind you) to get my real visa, at least I have an extension of my visa now.

After class, I had an interview / meeting with my new boss at the restaurant. Although it doesn’t have any Michelin stars, it seems to have a pretty good reputation. The chef kept insisting that I must show my motivation all the time…which will be difficult – especially when I’m dead on my feet. While it is pretty exciting to be starting a new adventure, it’s also a bit scary. The chef seems to have high expectations and I’ll be working many many hours. Very tough, especially for me – I’m used to sitting on my a** at least 14 hrs a day - and I’ll only have Sunday and Monday off so my social life will really take a real hit…

Anyway, the best news of the day is: I was in a good mood so I walked in to “my” café, and lo and behold who do I get reunited with but the famous barman from my first months in Paris. He even recognized me and introduced me to everyone as an old, loyal client! I guess I must have spent a lot of money or made a big impression there in the past… I had only planned to spend 15 minutes max there but an older gentleman bought me some drinks and I ended up chatting it up with them like old friends for an hour an a half. Why oh why do I finally start feeling like I fit in when I am getting ready to leave??

Is This It?

I’m getting tired of getting sick so often. The incessant coughing definitely dampens my cuteness factor… Being ill and yet another restless night probably didn’t help me in our first day of solo-cheffing: 6 different types of “crudités” and a cheese soufflé.

I’m not sure if it was the fatigue, my general yucky state or just pure clumsiness, but I was a complete kitchen catastrophe today. I almost cut myself shredding veggies (thankfully, no injuries yet – knock on wood!) and kept bumping into inanimate objects, kind of like when I’m driving. How embarrassing to be the last person to finish, and still have to redo a botched Mornay sauce (béchamel, egg yolks and gruyère cheese). The chef and a classmate even had to help get me back on track to finish the soufflé batter in time.

What a tough day to have right after I re-motivated myself after a short vacation. Although my neighbor said I overmixed the batter and was so slow that my egg whites were deflating, I was relieved to see that my baby soufflé DID rise and didn’t even taste half bad!

I’m not really sure if I’m ready to start an internship so soon, since I can’t seem to escape the bottom of the class. I mean, what do they expect from an almost-CPA? ; ) The chef placed me at a Michelin-cited seafood restaurant in the Latin Quarter for a 10-week internship starting in a week and a half. If I succeed, someone will be very well fed. If not, he’ll just have to eat my famous instant noodles while I mope over an episode of Gray’s Anatomy. Watch out, little fishies!

The Beginning of the End

In French, “bonne femme” refers to a grandma-like figure or someone from the countryside. I would give some examples but the “gardienne” might get upset if I refer to her as such!

When I think of western grandma cooking, I imagine lots of butter and lots of love. But mostly lots of butter, which is exactly what the recipe for “Filet de Sole Bonne Femme” (sole filet with “bonne femme” sauce) calls for. A ton of butter. And cream.

Given my history of getting viciously poked by grandmas of all nationalities to encourage me to eat more (no need – I love to eat already!) and my experience of getting yelled at by the chef because I scraped off half the Béchamel sauce from my soft-boiled eggs, I thought I would hate this dish. Way too rich.

Unfortunately for my figure, one bite into the tender white flesh nesting on top of a bed of finely diced shallots and mushrooms cooked in a white wine broth was all it took to convert me. The unbelievably rich cream and butter reduction broiled to a beautiful golden crust finished me. I took another bite. And another and another… Chef’s belly, here I come!

Just Another Sunday

It’s the little things that get me every time. After an uneventful Sunday morning doing apprentice chef homework, which funnily resembles the monkey work I used to do at Lehman, I spent the noon hour whipping up some home-style Taiwanese food. Fried chicken, sautéed veg and rice. Mmmm…

I then canceled my afternoon swim lesson because I still have a bit of difficulty breathing due to a cold and “bronchite” from 2 weeks ago. Not being able to breathe in the pool would be a bad thing because your normally courageous reporter has a panic button that tends to overreact in the pool. And to think I was actually considering taking up surfing…

Anyway, I used the extra half hour for a cozy nap and moseyed over to church to sing in the worship team (band) for the first time since high school. This is definitely a year of firsts, or first-time-in-a-long-times. When I got there we realized there were no instrumentalists but thanks to a lot of prayer and pep talks we finally worked something out. I got thrown in the deep end and didn’t really even know some of the songs but it was still a great experience and I’m glad I was scheduled to start this week when there was a need for extra bodies.

The day ended on a sweet note when still warm from communion wine, I got a ride home on a super luxe scooter under a drizzly Parisian sky. It was the first time I noticed the “dame de fer” dressed in her latest designer robe – red and blue skirt and silver top, illuminating the autumn night. I truly am a lucky lady, huh?

Une Vrai Parisienne (sometimes)

The Paris-based American pastry chef and food writer, David Lebovitz (who I met!!), declared that he realized he had become a real Parisian when he felt the need to get properly dressed to take out the trash because after all, you WILL be judged on how you look over here. I, however, feel most Parisian when shopkeepers recognize me as a “regular”. It first happened at “my” café across the street with the cute bartender, which I had to ditch when it got bought out and gained 20 years in a day. I was also a regular at an Asian traiteur (deli / caterer) in Passy (I know I know) and a brasserie by my old office. The sad thing is when I walk into my new café (young and hip like me, ha!) and they immediately know what I want to drink, which usually isn’t water…


Today I stopped by a little Italian traiteur on the way home from class. The chef was there and coerced me into having an espresso like I used to do after my physical therapy sessions last year. I’m such a granny with my injuries (from classical ballet and charging at people with a sabre) and old habits sometimes! It’s so nice to be treated as a “valued customer” in Paris, where I usually feel like I’m intruding if I dare to want to buy something. I bought some stuffed foccacia, crocche, arancino, baby bread and green bean salad and he didn’t even charge me for the coffee! Or maybe he just forgot. Hmm…