An Even Easier Tarte au Citron

This past weekend, I was juggling thoughts of what I need to start hauling back and forth between the two kitchens, the one in Lyon and the one in the Alps. We got in the habit of loading up the car with lots of stuff when we were first going up there, and it stuck. I dream of one day just saying: lets go! and getting in the car and going, without worrying about packing anything. A day when we don't have to make lists and carefully ensure that everything is there before we leave. So far, the hauling things back and forth has worked alright, although we did forget to pack the keys to the house once!

There are so many essential things that we can't get doubles of right now. The kitchen scale, real knives, certain cookbooks I look to for inspiration, the pressure cooker (which comes in very handy on the wood stove), and the blender. I had this bunch of lemons and wanted to bake a lemon tarte, but I didn't have the blender for the one I like to normally do. So I just made up a new recipe loosely based on the one I had done a million times already, a mechanically simpler one that makes use of no implement more sophisticated than a hand whisk. The pay off was incredible when compared to the effort that went into it. Oh man. This one is dangerous.

An Even Easier Tarte au Citron, la recette.

Begin with your favorite short crust. I used this base recipe, substituting cold water for the creme fraiche for no other reason than I didn't have any, and adding a tablespoon of sugar that I'd kept in a jar with a vanilla bean to the mix, because, you know, it was going to be a lemon tarte.

Roll out the crust, cradle it into a small tarte pan (I would say no bigger than 8 inches), or any receptacle that you can imagine holding a tarte, pierce it in regular intervals with a fork to keep it from puffing up as it cooks, and pre-bake it in a moderate oven (350F/180C) until it is firm to the touch and lightly brown around the edges.



In the meantime, take

2 untreated lemons,
4 egg yolks
3/4 cup granulated sugar.

- Wash the lemons, and cut the zest off of one fruit, just the very thin outer yellow part, and sliver it into a very fine mince. Set the zest aside.
- Squeeze both lemons and set the juice aside.
- With a wire whisk, beat the egg yolks and sugar until it lightens in color. This is easily done by hand in about 4 minutes.
- Add the lemon juice, whisk again until it is fully incorporated, and add the minced zest.
- Pour the egg, sugar, lemon and zest mixture into your pie crust, and bake in a moderate oven (350F/180C) for 25 minutes, rotating it in the oven about halfway through to make sure the top browns evenly. (pay special attention to that if you are cooking it in a wood oven!)
- When you pull it out of the oven it will still be a little jiggly, but it will take its lovely firmish curd like texture as it cools. Let it cool completely before serving.

Note: I probably could have topped this one with meringue but it was raining slush out and I didn't want to push my luck.

About French Pastries

The other day, while waiting in line for the bread, I perused the pretty tartes my boulanger is offering at the moment. Our baker seems to have mastered the art of instilling teatime intimacy and invitation to companionship into his round fruit pies. Just looking at one brings out the idea of camaraderie in my mind. He is able sum up simple pleasures with an easy sweep. He has devoted his life to this and he does us a great service.

Today in France there are many degrees of pastry ranging from prêt a manger to haute patisserie. Once we step out into the world and away from our kitchen table there are lots of choices. At a boulangerie, depending on how the baker has positioned his craft, his or her equipment, and professional mentors or schooling along the way, the offerings vary.

The Boulanger-Pâtissier

A variety of chains train their franchised bakers to turn out a consistent line products created on a montage model of the ideal traditional boulangerie - conceived by the dream marketing team at company headquarters. When you go to Banette for example you can expect a certain consistency in the basic pastries lined up next to the bread at this chain, and for the most part, find the same ones over and over. Don’t turn up your nose at these treats, they can be very good. But they can differ from what is offered elsewhere.

The Artisan Boulanger-Pâtissier

Sometimes a baker has a wood fired oven that gives a certain rustic quality to his or her breads, so the pastries are the simple heat applied variety, transforming the fruit of the workman’s labor just so. These sweets are great for spicing up a table for a family that doesn’t have time to make a tarte, flan, or clafoutis themselves, and pastries from these bakeries are very popular. We often catch up on the neighborhood news while waiting in line for these pastries.

Tartes and pastries at the St, Antoine Market in Lyon.
An artisan baker finds his or her rhythm in response to their need for creative expression and the neighborhood demands. Some may have a certain knack for marzipan or fondant, and many of course offer savory puff pastry and quiche to round out their stock. The range of patisseries available varies according to geographical area in France, and the season. If an artisan boulanger/patissiere is situated in a heavily trafficked tourist area, he or she may choose to position local specialties as well.

A regional specialty from an artisan baker in Brittany

A house specialty from the same baker in St. Malo.

Typical pastries at an artisan boulangerie-patisserie in St. Malo, Brittany

Typical pastries at an artisan boulangerie-patisserie in Toulon, Provence.

A house specialty, Toulon, Provence.

The Chocolatier–Pâtissier



If you want to get fancy, you can go to the chocolatier – pâtissiers, trained pastry and chocolate master chefs, the ones who don’t occupy themselves with the daily leavening of the bread and would scoff at the inconsistency of a wood fired oven for their creations. At this level, chocolate and pastry are intertwined. These are pastry houses whose operations might be destinations in themselves – pastry and chocolate are their product, and their expertise is what brings in the masses.

Pastries in the front window at Bernachon, Lyon

The work of the chocolatier – pâtissier includes a dizzying array of pastries constructed with an eye for perfection in addition to shelves of chocolates to choose from. Reserved for special occasions like birthdays, holidays, and parties where a special dessert is in order, they’re haute gamme pastries. You might find playful symbolism, sculptural creation, or studies of texture and material in their offerings. They’ll render homage to the classics in addition to their original creations, but always better somehow, or with their own special twist, ingredient, or technique. Often the chocolatier – pâtissier has a little teahouse on the side, where mini-versions of house creations can be enjoyed as a decadent snack with a friend. Although there are a few big names that have become tourist destinations, there are a lot of smaller independently run chocolatier – pâtissiers that continue to offer not only great pastry and chocolates, but beautiful and interesting surroundings to enjoy them in.

The World Pastry Cup

Once every two years here in Lyon France, the World Pastry Cup takes place. It is a world-class competition where an international panel of judges decides who will be the reining champion of international chocolate and patisserie. French pastry and chocolate are clearly firmly planted in the concept of perfection in this competition; to what degree it is French or that it transcends international boundaries is hotly debated every time from the makeup of the panels of judges and their influences, to standards in each area of competition.


National teams train for months or even years for a chance at the ultimate challenge to compete and create masterpieces never before contemplated but at the same time resting firmly in the age old techniques in sugar sculpture, dessert plates, and chocolate. The stress leading up to and culminating in this event is very high. I attended the 2005 event with the man who was to be the president of the British team and a member of the judging panel. Unfortunately, due to one team member backing out apparently due to jittery nerves at the last minute, the team was not able to participate.

The masterpieces turned out by these perfectionists are passionate testaments to pastry and chocolate as the highest level of art, and there is so much more at play in this competition than how things look and taste. Even the redolent smell of chocolate, which usually has soothing effect, was not going to calm the wire tight nervous energy permeating that competition. It was glamorous and glorious. People paid for seats to witness the pastry masters at work in their identical kitchens. Pastry groupies were in the stands with their faces painted, waving flags, cheering on their teams. Are you a pastry groupie?

In the end, winners were pronounced, the press had interviews, and the star pâtissiers meditated on their work and that of the others with intensity.

I went back home after a long day and compiled my notes feeling a bit overwhelmed. However when I received the invitation for the 2007 event this week, I felt that spark of excitment.

So now, in my little kitchen looking out on the cloudy afternoon, I make a pot of tea to share with a friend and smell the delicious home made tartelettes inspired by my rustic boulanger of the people.


Tarte au poire

Ingredients:
1 batch of pâte brisé
1-2 pears
2 egg yolks
50 grams or 3T. sugar
100 grams or about 1/2 cup of fromage frais en faiselle



*about the pears – they type of pear you want to choose is the sweetest one available. Right now is pear season here in France, and the pears I choose are the Comice pears. They make for excellent eating plain but are simply delicious in these tartes.

*about the fromage frais en faiselle - The easiest replacement is large curd cottage cheese, preferably a brand that contains lots of whey. If your available cottage cheese has been relieved by machine extrusion of most of its whey, add a tablespoon or two of milk to the cheese before measuring it. If you are in Italy, use ricotta. If you are feeling particularly ambitious and want to really get authentic, get some rennet and make your own fromage frais.

- Prepare one batch of basic pâte brisé.

- When your dough is ready to roll out, peel the pears, cut them in half, remove the core, and with the flat side down, slice the pears into 1/8 inch or 1/2 cm slices, maintaining the pear shape and not mixing up the pieces.



- Heat the oven to 400F or 210C.

- Blend the fromage frais or cottage cheese, sugar, and egg yolks until a completely smooth liquid mixture. If you are using cottage cheese, and it seems more like a paste than a liquid, add more milk.





- Cut your pâte brisé into four pieces and quickly roll them into ball shapes. Roll out the pastry dough until the circles are about 2 inches or 4 cms larger than the tarte rings. Place the empty tarte rings on an ungreased or parchment lined cookie sheet. Either will do but the latter is easier to clean, since sometimes you get a drizzle or two from the pears bubbling up, depending on how juicy they are. Lay the pastry dough into them the rings, easing it to the sides of the mould and up to the top. Remove any excess dough that extends beyond the top of the rings – you can use it to patch along the edges if you need to.

- Spoon 1-2 teaspoons of the custard mix into the bottom of the unbaked tarte shells. Take 1/4 of the sliced pear per ring and splay the pieces like fallen dominoes into the crust. Pour the rest of the custard around the pears nearly to the top, and place the little pies in the oven to bake.

- Bake for 20 minutes at 200C or 400F. Let cool and remove from the moulds. Voila.



Note: If you have quince jelly on hand, this is an excellent opportunity to add the splendor of Autumn to the flavor of this tarte. Add a teaspoon or two to the custard mix. Remember, you are not obligated to eat enormous portions of the pastries you lovingly prepare for others, although the love that you do express in preparing them will always return in other ways.

Tarte au Citron

It has been particularly rough and tumble this week. Today I decided to take the lemons that have filled my ace of cups and try and transform this into something good.

We helped some old school friends of Loic move house not too long back, and we sat down to a nice satisfying meal prepared by Elisabeth and her mother at the end of the day. Naturally curious to see what goes on in the kitchen, I nosed my way back and saw, out on the table on the back porch where the sun was beaming in at an angle that would only last an instant, that they were making a pie. She had a kind of bowl shaped pan that looked deliciously old and had thick handles bolted on either side. Like many of the kitchen table tartes I've seen, she had rolled out the pâte rather roughly and thickly. What made it really nice was that she just placed the dough in the cradle of this rounded pan, and there seemed to be a kind of harmony and humbleness about it. She made a custard and haphazardly cut some fruits. It struck me as a very successful pie mainly because all razzle dazzle had been completely omitted from it. What was left was pure and honest. Elisabeth and her family come from the mountains. We enjoyed this pie while they talked about skiing hors piste and braving mountain dangers. The closest thing I have to the pan that Elisabeth had is a wok, but one of my old tourtieres will also do just fine. It was a nice little pan that summed up simple pleasures. I'd like to find one like it.


Tarte au Citron

This recipe was gleaned in part from a clipping from an old French magazine called Raymond Oliver's Chez Vous, dated from December 1960. I was suprised to see that they did have immersion blenders back in the early 60s. It was called a "mixer-baby Moulinex" in those days. One big difference was that in this recipe he used some kind of centrifuge strainer called the "Spiromix" to strain the zeste, but it seems an accessory to the recipe itself. I have done this recipe many times and it works well with a simple wire mesh strainer. I think initially this recipe was adapted from an old grandmother's classic to serve as an advertising promotion for the "Spiromix".

1 batch Basic Pâte Brisée
1 lemon
300 grams or 1 1/2 cups sugar
60 grams or 2 1/2 tablespoons butter
one egg
1.5 cups of water

- Prepare your Basic Pâte Brisée and set it in a cool place to rest.

- Thoroughly wash the lemon under cool running water. Cut it into slices and then those slices into quarters, and remove the seeds. Put the entire lemon complete with its peel, 50 grams (1/4 cup) of the sugar, and 1.5 cups of water into a bowl or pint sized cup with high sides that the blender will fit into. Pulverize the lemon sugar water mixture to a puree. (you can also do this with any counter-top blender.)

- Strain the pureed lemon, sugar, and water through a wire strainer and into a cup, pushing it down to remove as much liquid from the pulp as you can. Set aside the liquid that comes from it for use in lemonade.

- Place the lemon pulp, the rest of the sugar, and the butter into the upper part of the bain marie, and let it cook over soft heat, stirring it gently with a wooden spoon for 5 minutes.

- Remove the bain marie from the heat and add the egg. Incorporate it quickly with the blender.

-Roll out one large or two small tarte shells rather thickly, pierce them to avoid bubbling, and pour the resulting custard into the shells. Cook for 25-30 minutes, in a moderate (350F/170C degrees) oven, until the custard sets. Let it cool to room temp before serving.

French Kitchen Table Tartes and Pies

The French people I know don't normally embark on fancy pastries or layered cakes at home. You won't see a cookie jar in a typical French kitchen either, home cookie baking not being one of the pastimes that the French have delegated their time to. Cupcakes are positively unheard of, and the American 'Moofin' and 'Broonie' have just made their way to French boulangeries in recent years. Many accomplished French home cooks leave the majority of their baked goods up to the professionals. Chances are, if you go to any kind of semi-formal dinner where people are following the rules in a French home, they'll most likely bring out a magnificent dessert done by their favorite local pâtisserie, purchased in a bakery.

This is why as an American in France, when I come bearing home baked cookies, the angels sing and a bright golden halo forms above my head. It's a nice little trick. It came as a shock the first time this happened to me. On a whim, I made chocolate chip cookies for a family friend who had children. The father kept repeating: You MADE these? They crowded around, and everyone took one and tasted it carefully, and then another, and even the mother had three. They seemed astounded, and full of glorious praise. I was taken aback, because, well, you know, cookies are cookies. But this is not so in France.

I learned in France that cookies are American, and Cookies Americains are different from petits fours, galettes, sablés, biscuits, tuiles, madelines, palmiers, or any of the other lovely cookie shaped things we have here. Of course there will always be exceptions somewhere, but this is the general rule. In the past year, mini chocolate chips have begun to appear on the shelves in the hypermarchés. I wonder if they will catch on or if it's just a fad.

There are many home-made French desserts that appear without fanfare in French kitchens, don't get me wrong. Don't think that the home cook in France doesn't prepare sweets! I would venture to say that the French tarte, or pie, is something like the American cookie. It holds a special place in the French kitchen, and is quite common. A home cook will throw one together whenever there's fresh fruit. I am constantly asounded at the endless simple lovely variations on this theme that keep appearing on the kitchen tables of my French friends. When I had lunch with Aude last week, I was struck by the simplicity and ease with which she pieced together a Mirabelle Tarte.

Yes. We still have a couple of pounds of mirabelles left. Funny, I thought I'd be sick of them, the way I got sick of cherries in June, but after eating roughly a half pound of fresh fruits daily for the past 12 days, I can say with certitude that I love them. My love is unwavering. They hit the spot. They have kept rather well in the refrigerator, but won't for much longer. I plan to blanche and freeze those last ones, but last night, I made a couple of tartes (one mirabelle and one delicious myrtille, or blueberry, which we ate last night in the dark - no photos.)

This is how Aude did hers at lunch last week and how I did mine last night.

Small Mirabelle Tarte (can be made with any small plum!)

1 batch basic Pâte Brisée
enough mirabelles or other small plum to cover half the bottom of the tarte pan
Granulated sugar, as desired
Half a lemon (for its juice - optional, depends on how your fruit tastes)

Note on the pâte: Last night I used cold water instead of crème fraîche, adding just enough cold water to help pull the dough together. I did this because we didn't have any creme fraiche on hand. The crust turned out fine.

Note on pre-baking the crust: Pre-baking the crust is optional for this recipe, and it really depends on how thick you roll it. How thick you roll your crust depends on how juicy your fruits are (the juicier, the crustier). If you plan to roll the crust out nice and thick, prebaking is a good idea. If you roll your crust thin, there's really no need.

Method:

-Prepare your basic pâte brisée as you would at any time.
-When it is chilled, divide the dough in half (or not, if you are making a large tarte), quickly make it into a ball, and roll it out.
-Turn on the oven to 450F/210C.
-Grease a small tarte plate (ours is a bit smaller than a dinner plate since there's only two of us. Your family tarte plate may be larger!) and line it with the rolled out dough. A few rough edges at the edge are fine.
-Pierce the crust with a fork to avoid bubbles forming in the bottom as the tarte cooks. See note on pre-baking the crust above.
-Pull the mirabelles apart into two pieces, and remove the pits. Place the mirabelle halves inside down all over the bottom of the tarte shell.

-Sprinkle with sugar and then lemon juice (if you use it) directly from the half lemon, being careful not to let the lemon seeds fall into the tarte. Bake for 15-25 minutes, until the fruits begin to brown on top and the crust is golden brown.

The reason why this photo is of only half a tarte is because Loic got up early and ate half the tarte for breakfast before I woke up.

Road Side Snack

We cruised into l'Ile Barbe on the way home and I filled the basket of my velo with delicious baked treats by and bread by master baker Philippe-Marc JOCTEUR. I had to stop and take a quick pic before devouring this little tartlette right there on the spot.

How Loic came to make the Vacherin.

We were passing through Montelimar. The highway sign that usually has a picture of a knife and fork, and a phone and a gas tank to remind us what amenities the station exit has to offer, also had a square with the word NOUGAT. Well, we all know that Montelimar is a big nougat town. And if you've ever had the real nougat from this town, it is something that you come to think about later, sometimes years later. It's one of those things that grows in your mind. The nougat from a few years ago that had reached a certain proportion in my mind and the sight of that highway sign crossed astrological paths in space and time and I had a vision. I told Loic that I had decided what I wanted for my birthday cake. I wanted something with nougat. And meringue. He smiled and said that this year he was going to be preparing me my birthday cake from scratch. The following two days became somewhat of a trial for him. How about a trip to the beach, Lolo? "I have to make the meringue" he replied. He still wouldn't tell me what he was making. I finally convinced him that I would water the garden while he put the meringue together and we set the oven on a timer. Little by little his idea became a reality while I stepped in and assisted here and there, learning details along the way about what could possibly be his suprise dessert. It was delicious, it technically contained no nougat but was absolutely exactly what I envisioned. Thank you, Loic. You know me so well.

More about the Ice Cream Treat

That is, what I did with the Apricots the other day. Clutched with the idea of this notorious classic French ice cream dessert, I enthusiastically mentioned to everyone I knew my plan to make a Bombe Marquise. Everyone, including Isabelle, gave me a blank stare in return and the conversation didn't go very far.

At first I thought maybe they thought it was impolite to tell them about the luscious treat I was going to prepare and not invite them to come share it. The only real response I got came from Sebastien's Catalane aunt who flashed a brilliant smile and said that when she was my age she also embarked on ambitious cooking projects. This puzzled me because it's really not that ambitious, sorbet, and putting it into a mould is a cute way, and a very classic French way to serve it at the table for guests, right?

I posed the question to Loïc, who is my punching bag for all questions cultural, while we were in the car. Why the flat reception? Quietly as he drove on the way back from our evening out, he said it carefully and with the tact expected from him: "Lucy, what is a Bombe Marquise? I don't think they knew what you were talking about." Ah. The white lines blurring towards us like darts on the road, I reflected back to the evening.

Swatting at bees and sipping wine in the heady evening twighlight, there I was repeating it as if perhaps I hadn't pronounced it correctly. "Bombe. Bombe. You know what that is? With sorbet?" Blank stares. At least I didn't get the classic furrowed brow and squint. Oh well. There in the car I realized that I had once again stepped over that little line, that line marking the end of common knowledge and had entered that lovely solitary little world of culinary esoterica without even trying. I less than gracefully stumble across that line rather often, sigh. It was time for a hearty laugh.



More and more, as I am able to fully engage in fruitful conversations about food from which I glean lots of precious and desirable knowledge, I have to watch what how far I take the conversation. There is a line between a food enthusiast, of which there are many in France, and in many places one would not expect, and a card carrying certified food freak.

I suppose being a food freak is acceptable in general. But not at meet and greet buffet receptions overlooking the river valley, receptions involving relatives that we don't know very well. Not only was I the token American, but I was also the token food freak. It is easy to develop a strange reputation if I'm not careful.



At one time, I thought I was saved, born again, able at long last to talk about food to everyone, because everywhere I went, everyone, from all walks of life, were ready and open to an enthusiastic discussion of food. My hairdresser, raised in the depths of the Limousin, ready to argue for 45 minutes about 9 different species of cherries and their uses, the ladies I used to ride the bus with, my colleagues, even the garbage man and bus driver were ready at the drop of a hat to discuss the weather for meringue, Corsican smoked meats, what kind of potato to use for a tartiflette, whether to add crème fraîche to a pâte brisé, merits of aged vinegars, etc. Then I go and gush like an idiot about a Bombe Marquise at a family buffet and everyone wonders what planet I came from.



The Bombe is actually more of a European thing than purely French, since the whole concept of ice cream is said to have come from Italy, having been readily adopted by the English and the French at roughly the same time, and flourishing through Victorian times and into the 20th century with these cute fruit shaped ice cream treats as the social foil at garden parties and the likes. But even when served in England, the Bombe was always referred to as a French delicacy.

For this particular recipe, the Apricot sorbet has a bit more body than the Chablis sorbet, which follows in line with the whole concept of the Bombe. The logic is that the shell of the bombe is there to give some structure and support to a more delicate inside.

The name comes from the shapes of the moulds, which were very common in the late 18th, 19th and early 20th century kitchens of homes that had the luxury of ice houses. The moulds were made of copper mostly, and sometimes had the most delightful shapes and patterns. At first, before they started getting decorative, the mould was the container the ice cream was made in. They poured the custard and turned it in the salted ice, kept it cold, and turned it out of the mould when it was ready for service. This quickly evolved with the times to more and more complex moulds and layers, varied layers for the inside part, including frozen fruit purees, whipped flavored creams, custards, etc., and moulds made especially for making evenly distributed pretty layers, containing a more stiff outer support and a delicate inside. It is often noted that the purpose of having two layers is also to give some variation to the textures and flavors.

When the weather is terribly hot like it has been all week here, this really is a pretty good way to cool down. My guests were delighted in any case.

What to do with your Apricots : Bombe Marquise

This summer's apricots are beginning to drop from the trees. In the afternoon, we head up to the orchard to gather them up quickly while they're still warm from the sun. Isabelle warns us to get them all, otherwise those coming behind will step on them and we'll have apricot tracks in the kitchen.
When an apricot fresh from the tree is ready to eat, it naturally falls to the ground. You can easily squish it open and remove the pit with your fingers. The taste is sweet and honeylike, the texture almost like coulis - each one like a little bomb of nature's custard. We're challenged to find ways to use them all.
Why not a moulded ice cream treat in the old style - a Bombe Marquise? This recipe is inspired by one found in the Dictionnaire universel de cuisine pratique.

Recipe: Bombe Marquise
(serves 8)

Glace a l'abricot
1 KG (2 pounds) washed and pitted apricots
25 cl (1 cup) water
300 g. (1 1/2 cup) sugar
2 large pinches of cinnamon
the zest and juice of one lemon

Glace au vin de Chablis
20cl (3/4 cup) Chablis wine
500 g. (2 cups) sugar
1 quart or litre of water
1/2 a vanilla pod
the zest of one orange + 4 tablespoons of it's juice

Note about the Chablis: In France this one of the white wines from the Bourgogne /Burgundy region spreading to the north of Lyon, but there are many beautiful wines made with the chardonnay grape made in many regions of the USA from the finger lakes to California. Choose a light and fruity one for your sorbet!

Prepare the apricot sorbet first. Put the fruits, peel and all, into a stewing pot with the water, sugar, cinnamon, and lemon zest. Bring to a boil and cook until it reaches 220 degrees (F) or jelly stage, string through a fine meshed sieve or chinois, then add the lemon juice. Cool to room temp and then put into your ice cream / sorbet maker.

Note about ice cream makers: You know, the ice cream maker does not have to be very sophisticated commercial piece of equipment. In the absence of a commerically produced 'sorbetiere', place the mixture in a non-reactive bowl (like ceramic) in the freezer and mix very briefly every 5 minutes to incorporate a little bit of air. In no time, you'll have your sorbet. Give it a try.

Prepare the Chablis sorbet next. Bring the sugar and water to a boil and let it cook at a full boil until it's reduced to the three cup mark. Open the vanilla pod with the help of a small knife. Cook the sugar syrup, the opened vanilla pod, and the orange zest for 15 minutes over low heat. Remove the vanilla pod and the orange zest, let the syrup cool, and then incorporate wine and orange juice. Make into sorbet as described above.

Coat / spread the inside of your mould with apricot sorbet, a layer about 1-2 cms (1/2 inch to an inch max) thick. Replace in the freezer to solidify, and then fill it with the chablis sorbet. Let it harden in the freezer before unmolding (Dipping the mould in hot tap water or enveloping the mould with a damp dish towel that's been heated with the microwave briefly to loosen the sorbet) and serve. If you hold the frozen bombe in the freezer for a long period of time like several days, you can let it sit for 1/2 hour in the fridge to soften up slightly for easier slicing.

Note: Photos of this finished dessert are found in This post!

Mamy D's Mousse au Chocolat

This recipe comes from my husband's grandmother, Mireille Durandeau. For the butter, I chose beurre cru that my fromager was selling, but you can use just about any kind of fresh butter and it will be delicious.

Mamy D’s Chocolate Mousse
serves 6.

180 g. (about 6 ounces) dessert or bittersweet chocolate
4 eggs
75 g. or 7 Tablespoons unsalted butter
90 g. or about 1/2 cup granulated sugar

- Separate your egg yolks from the whites, putting the whites into a big clean metal or ceramic bowl, and the yolks into a cup.

- Break up your chocolate and melt it in your habitual manner. Some people know their microwaves very well and can melt chocolate in them lickety split without burning it. Whenever I try that, I always singe my chocolate, so I normally play it safe and just melt mine in a bowl set snugly over a saucepan with simmering water in the bottom. It takes about the same amount of time.

- Once your chocolate is melted, add the butter and stir until it's melted and mixed in completely.

- Remove the butter and chocolate from over the hot water and incorporate the yolks and the sugar (off heat). The eggs will make it thicken at this point, even if you melted the chocolate in the microwave and it's not very warm anymore.

- Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form, and fold them into the chocolate mixture.

- Voila! The work is done. Now the fun begins.

- Pour the mousse, which should be a thick fluid a bit like chocolate cake batter, into the dessert cups: old teacups, stemmed glasses, little bowls, ramekins, old yogurt pots, or whatever pleases you to serve it in.

Note: Today I put a spoonful of the mousse into glazed ceramic pots, then added a nice pocket of some of this season's black cherry conserves, and then topped it off to the very top with chocolate mousse. Think about what you like with chocolate. Orange goes very well with chocolate too. I had in a restaurant recently a dessert they called "Temps des Cerises": They started with cubes of genoise (white cake), which they put into small mason jars. Then they added cherries which had been soaked in eau de vie. The fluid dripped down and soaked into the cake. Then they added the chocolate mousse over that just to cover it up, leaving about an inch at the top. THEN they added chantilly (whipped cream) to the top, sealed the jar with it's own closure system, and chilled it. Any combination of things can be mixed with this chocolate mousse. It is also very good plain.

-Cover each dessert pot with foil and refrigerate (at least two hours) until it is time to serve dessert.


For Sue, who asked me very delicately if I share my recipes.