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Welcome to today’s edition of Kitchen Projects. Thank you so much for being here.

Today, the brilliant Camilla Wynne is back with a new instalment of DANGEROUS GOODS, the column where she investigates ingredients with a dark side. In the past, we’ve learned about licorice to fruit pits to tonka beans, and today it’s time for BRAZIL NUTS! As ever, you’ll be treated to a series of recipes for a few poisonous pastries that celebrate the ingredient… safely, of course!

Camilla shares three brilliant Brazil nut bases: A nougatine, a milk chocolate shortbread and a flaky crust. Over on KP+, you’ve two ways to fill that rich crust: A tropical pineapple frangipane tart and an espresso-rum banana cream pie. Click here to make it!

What’s KP+? Well, it’s the level-up version of this newsletter. By joining KP+, you will support the writing and research that goes into the newsletter (including the commissioning - and fair payment - of all the writers), join a growing community, access extra content (inc., the entire archive with 450+ recipes) and more. Subscribing is easy and only costs £6 per month or just £50 per year (equivalent to £4.10 per month). Why not give it a go? Come and join the gang!

Subscribe now

Love,
Nicola

DANGEROUS GOODS #4: BRAZIL NUTS

by

As someone who, anytime she is confronted with a bowl of mixed nuts, proceeds to relieve said bowl of all its Brazil nuts, I was just a little worried when googling them recently.

How odd, since the first time I remember considering them at all nutritionally (as opposed to gustatorily), it was in Nigella Lawson’s How to Be a Domestic Goddess. Of her three-ingredient rocky road (milk chocolate, marshmallows and Brazil nuts), she writes, “Ever since I read that Brazil nuts are inordinately good for you, containing essential selenium, and that you should probably have three a day, I have chosen to regard these as health food.”

The book was released in 1998—oh those simpler times. Sure, society was still in its low-fat SnackWells phase, but the internet was still pre-Myspace and the food pyramid was still right-side-up. Now it seems as though every second Brazil nut recipe online has a comment beneath it from some alarmist warning of the extreme dangers of Brazil nut overconsumption.

So, which is it? Should you be trying to eat 3 a day or is that the absolute most anyone should at one time lest it cause their immediate demise? As always, the answer is both and neither.

In his book, Ripe for Dessert, David Lebovitz writes that he “started using a lot of Brazil nuts years ago when [he] read that they were one of the few profitable crops that are friendly to the ecology of the South American rain forest.” The majority of the world’s crop comes from—wait for it—Brazil, though Bolivia and Peru contribute as well. In Brazil they are called by the Portuguese word for chestnuts, castanhas. While there do exist a few Brazil nut plantations, most of the crop comes from wild trees in Amazonian forests, harvested by castanheiros. The tree, Bertholettia excelsa, is enormous—up to 50 m tall and 30 m in diameter. Its branches only start very high up, making it basically unclimbable, so the fruit containing the Brazil nut is harvested by simply waiting for it to ripen and fall. And never mind whether eating too many Brazil nuts can be fatal—the fruit, which weighs up to 4.5 lbs, becomes acutely dangerous when falling from such a height. The castanheiros often wear protective wooden hats, but as a general rule people try to avoid the trees during windy or rainy spells, harvesting on calm ones and preparing the nuts on more treacherous days.

[Editor’s Note: I have been informed casually that Brazil nuts are actually a rare example of a food crop that can help support rainforest conservation. The trees grow in the Amazon and are still mostly harvested from wild forests, so giving the nuts value can help make the standing forest worth more than clearing it for timber or agriculture.]

Inside the thicky, woody shell of the fruit, one to two dozen nuts reside, arranged like the segments of an orange. They are also sometimes called cream nuts, owing to their rich flavor. Brazils contain about 66% fat—less than a buttery 75% fat macadamia but significantly more than a 50% fat almond. They are more creamy than buttery, with a mild earthy flavor. Because they’re so high in fat they go rancid more easily, which turns their earthiness downright mildewy. An incident with a bad Brazil can easily prejudice people against them for life, which seems like a terrible missed opportunity.

What of Selenium?

That said, too great an obsession with Brazils could lead to one’s eventual demise. It’s interesting—unlike other potentially toxic ingredients I’ve covered in this series, we actually need the element of the Brazil nut that can also harm us in excess. As I learned from Nigella, Brazil nuts contain selenium, an essential trace element. Our bodies need selenium to support thyroid hormone metabolism, immune system function and DNA synthesis. It’s an antioxidant that protects cells from damage! Other foods sources of selenium include mushrooms, oysters, sunflower seeds, eggs, organ meats and some fish. The amount of selenium in any given plant food depends on the selenium content of the soil in which it was grown, which can vary region to region, and then affects the selenium content of animals we eat. Not all Brazil nuts, therefore, contain the same amount of selenium.

Selenium deficiency is quite rare, but selenosis—a condition caused by an excess of selenium, even more so. That said, it’s a condition one wants to avoid, causing everything from garlic breath and hair loss in its nascent stages to serious conditions like pulmonary edema and liver cirrhosis and, irreversibly, death. To be fair to selenium, other essential trace elements like copper, zinc and iron can also mess you up if taken in excess. As always, the dose makes the poison. But it is good to keep in mind if you’ve just bought a large bag of Brazil nuts at Costco that calls to you, siren-like, every time you feel snacky.

Personally, I don’t think there are any foods I eat every single day, with the exception of coffee, but if you have a less varied diet and are mad for Brazil nuts, it is wise to not eat more than 3 per day at the maximum. I should think the occasional enjoyers of Brazils can go a little more wild every now and then—maybe eat a whole 10 nuts in one sitting. Apparently up to 50 at a time can cause acute toxicity, however. The bakes that follow must be shared!

The Brazil Nut Crust

Sometimes when I’m writing about a particular ingredient, I’ll go to the indices of a bunch of my cookbook, to see what other cooks and writers have gotten up to with them. The most remarkable finding this time was in my battered old copy of the 1961 New York Times Cook Book: a pie crust made of nothing more than ground Brazil nuts and sugar. Of course I had to make it.

The nut is high enough in fat that, when ground, it is moist enough to be amenable to being patted and shaped. Baked, it is toasty and golden brown. I used it for my first test of banana cream pie, though I painted it with chocolate before filling it with custard, as it seemed like it wouldn’t fare well when confronted with too much moisture. Indeed it did not! While tasty, it wasn’t quite sturdy enough to support so much moist filling, making it hard to get a clean slice. That said, it’s not a bad alternative if one is trying to avoid flour.

Instead, I settled on a Brazil-enriched pâte brisée, whose flaky and nubby texture was a beautiful contrast to the smoother fillings of both the recipes that follow: tart, with frangipane, and pie with the aforementioned custard. I took my usual recipe and subbed in ground Brazils for 24% of the flour and reduced the fat by 16%.

Baking with Brazils

While I love to pick the roasted Brazils out of a bowl of mixed nuts, I especially like baking with them. They are a mainstay in my fruitcakes as well as my fruitcake cookies. Their snappy texture holds up well in dough and batters. Brazils pair well with tropical flavours, as in the old adage “what grows together goes together.” In the recipes I developed for this piece, I used banana, pineapple, coffee, rum, vanilla and milk chocolate. If you really wanted to live dangerously, they’d be lovely with tonka beans, another subject of the Dangerous Goods series.

You can, of course, sub in Brazil nuts in recipes containing other nuts—just keep in mind that they are higher fat than most. When developing the pineapple Brazil frangipane tart, I had to compensate by removing an egg yolk and adding an extra 10g of flour to my standard almond frangipane recipe. So go forth and bake with those Brazils, just remember to adjust for fat and not eat too many. Keep the trace minerals in trace amounts!

RECIPE: Brazil Nut Nougatine

At one of the first (and best) pastry kitchens I worked in, under chef Patice Demers, we always had at least one nougatine on the go. Nothing more than toasted nuts sheathed in caramelised sugar, we would chop it up and sprinkle it on plated desserts, fold it into nougat glacé and bake it onto fruit galettes. It was a long time ago, so I’m not sure if it fell out of fashion or was only ever really in fashion in that one Montreal restaurant, but I’m ready to bring it back either way. My 3-year-old particularly likes to snack on this one.

Makes 300 g

Ingredients

• 100g Caster sugar

• 40ml Water

• 200g Brazil nuts, toasted (approx 15-20 mins on 160c fan) and roughly chopped

Method

• Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper and have close by.

• In a small pot, combine sugar and water. Heat over medium-high until pale amber. Remove from heat and add nuts, stirring to coat. Scrape out onto prepared baking sheet and attempt to smooth it into an even layer. Let cool and set before using, about an hour, or store in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks.

Brazil & Milk Chocolate Shortbread

Chopped nougatine baked into cookies forms craggy pockets of toffee when the caramelized sugar melts into the dough. This shortbread uses ground nuts to assure a thorough infusion of Brazil flavor, punctuated by creamy milk chocolate, crispy Brazil toffee pockets and bursts of flaky salt.

Makes 16 (2-inch) cookies

Ingredients

• 130g Unsalted butter, at room temperature

• 60g Icing sugar

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• 150g All-purpose flour

• 30g ground Brazil nuts

• 1tsp flaky salt

• 80g Milk chocolate callets, or milk chocolate cut into ½ inch pieces

• 70g Brazil nut nougatine, from above, chopped

Method

• Preheat the oven to 325°F / 140 °C fan. Grease an 8-inch square baking pan and line with parchment.

• In a medium bowl, cream butter, icing sugar and vanilla until creamy. Add flour and ground nuts; mix until combined. Fold in chocolate and nougatine.

• Transfer the dough to the prepared pan and pat it into an even layer. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until golden and set. Cool for 10 minutes on a wire rack, then use a metal bench scraper or knife to cut into 16 squares. Let cool completely.

• Shortbread will keep in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 2 weeks.

RECIPE: Flaky Brazil Nut Dough

I tested this dough by hand the first time and found it flakier than the double batch I subsequently made in the mixer, but only slightly. I would still employ the paddle and stand mixer if I was going to make more than a single batch—which you probably should so that you can make both the pie and tart. Double it up and freeze half for later.

Makes 350 g, enough for one 9-inch pie or tart

Ingredients

• 160g All-purpose flour

• 50g ground Brazil nuts

• 1 tsp Cater sugar

• ½ tsp Kosher salt

• 125g Cold nsalted butter, cut into pieces

• 45ml Ice water

Method

• In a medium bowl, combine flour, ground nuts, sugar, salt and butter. Rub in the butter with your fingertips until the butter is incorporated, looking crumbly with butter bits the size of peas. Dribble in the water until the dough begins to come together, then press it into a disc. Wrap and refrigerate until firm enough to roll out (half an hour to an hour) before using (or freeze for up to two months).

To continue the Brazil Nut adventure head to KP+ for two glorious fillings for the Flaky Crust: An Espresso-Rum Banana Cream Pie and a Perfect Pineapple Frangipane Tart:

The Recipes!

Welcome to today’s edition of Kitchen Projects. Thank you so much for being here.

Today, I am thrilled to welcome back pastry chef and writer Louis Thompson. What follows this intro is a beautiful musing on elderflowers, the glorious blooms of the elder tree and a recipe for sparkling elderflower fritters.

Over on KP+, I’ve been inspired by Louis’ writing and have developed a recipe for a cold elderflower cream cake with elderflower macerated strawberries. Click here to make it.

What’s KP+? Well, it’s the level-up version of this newsletter. By joining KP+, you will support the writing and research that goes into the newsletter (including the commissioning - and fair payment - of all the writers), join a growing community, access extra content (inc. the entire archive) and more. Subscribing is easy and costs only £6 per month or £50 per year. Why not give it a go? Come and join the gang!

Subscribe now

Love,
Nicola

On Elderflower

by Louis Thompson

We currently find ourselves smack bang in the middle of my favourite time of year, when everything bursts back to life. As an Australian, I have my own particular relationship with this time of year in London; where I’m from, seasons are longer and flatter. Moving to a colder part of the world with more barren winters and milder summers creates a double whammy effect: There is a need for colour and joy once escaping such a severe winter, and a gentle enough sun to allow more sensitive plants to flourish. Herein are the conditions for floramania.

The extremity of a UK winter and the near-total dormancy it brings make the arrival of Spring feel like more than a pleasant change in the weather. It is an occasion to celebrate life itself. As a sun-loving Australian, I proudly declared Summer my favourite season unquestioningly for a long time; I want sunshine and long days and as much of it as I can get. But enduring my fair share of underwhelming British summers has taught me that is misguided. While Summer promises bounty, it is heavily burdened by expectation. Spring promises promise itself. When I see the first magnolias start to open, followed by cherry and plum blossoms, and shortly after the flood of elderflowers, wisteria, roses, and many many more it feels impossible to not just collapse into saccharine pagan-inflected joy. Arguably the queen of all these blooms is the elderflower. Ubiquitous in growth and effusive in fragrance, its place as the symbol of the season is hard to deny.

A true harbinger of British Summer, Elderflower is a cornerstone of the English culinary cannon. If you’re reading this newsletter, I’m willing to hazard a bet that you’ve probably made Elderflower cordial before. Or at least have read about it, heard about it, drank it. In the same way that a fish lacks awareness of the water it swims in, Elderflower’s status in English cuisine feels so natural and appropriate that it is somewhat ‘fixed’, going unquestioned. Today I’m here to prod and ask Elderflower for more. For an introductory guide, to learn about identification and the nuances of infusion, Nicola wrote a brilliant article here

This time of year isn’t without its challenges: it is also known as the Hungry Gap. This is a period in temperate climates in late winter and early spring where there is little growing which is available to eat. In this time, winter brassicas and other vegetables have finished growing, but Spring crops are not yet ready to harvest, delayed by the need for the soil to revitalise. While modern food systems have well and truly eradicated scarcity of this nature in our part of the world, it will always serve a cook to understand the climate and conditions which produce their food. With a stated commitment to cooking with seasonal produce, this is one of the most challenging parts of the year. While strawberries have just started to appear and loquats are readily imported by chefs and grocers alike, there is no fruit or vegetable on home turf that is truly ready to eat yet. At this time, the best things to eat are more unassuming and not typically commercially farmed: wild greens, leaves, and flowers. Simply put, it is the time of the flowers and leaves which precede and make possible summer fruit. These are not things you buy - they are things you forage.

In my mind, foraging has a somewhat unglamorous association. There is a huge knowledge requirement both botanically and culinarily speaking, which for a lot of people (myself included) feels insurmountable and frankly, not worth it. Elderflower, however, bridges that gap. With thanks to its abundant nature, remarkable beauty, and cultural significance, it is, for all intents and purposes, low-hanging fruit. I’m not an expert, but an enthusiastic amateur in the foraging arts, and elderflower was my gateway.

As Sarah Johnson says in Fruitful, “a cook will learn a lot about food by stepping out of the kitchen and into the garden”. I have been totally blown away by how rewarding and simply enjoyable it is to gather your own ingredients. When I set out hunting for elderflower, I can feel millions of years of evolution converging in my body as I reach to grab just one more bloom. It’s nature’s Candy Crush: forget the weaponised dopamine incentive of infinite scrolling; those neurological systems are there to make you enjoy prancing around picking flowers.

We’re so removed from this reality that the phenomenon of plant blindness has become prevalent. Forget the fish-and-water metaphor; plants are the invisible medium we walk through. Plant blindness is a well-documented phenomenon, but it is easily remedied by simple awareness. Once you learn to start paying attention to the plants around you, the richness of detail on a simple neighbourhood walk can become nothing short of exhilarating. Learning to take note of plants and even identify some along the way has been one of the most transformative habits I’ve developed in recent years. The disparity between how common plants are and how little base knowledge the general population has about them makes learning to see them feel like learning to see any entirely new wavelength of light and colour. I’m still only just learning how little I know, and am continually amazed by what’s out there for me to learn. Naturally then, I have to wonder what more I can learn about Elderflower.

If we want to divorce ourselves from the English cultural context and step back to think about how we can cook with Elderflower, I like to zoom out and take a less culinary, more botanical approach. To answer the how, I first want to ask “what?” What’s so special about Elderflower? What are its attributes which make it itself? What is a flower? Simply put, flowers are a reproductive mechanism. They contain the ovary of a plant, which is fertilised by pollinators to then grow and eventually ripen into fruit. Old faithful Harold McGee, author of the Encyclopedia of Food and Cooking, identifies the primary means to achieve this as strong scent and bright colours. Their appeal then seems to be visual and aromatic - not corporeal. When trawling my library of cookbooks for what people had to say about Elderflower, it was virtually unanimous that the use of elderflower is to lend its flavour to other things. It went unquestioned that the destiny of elderflower was a pot of jam, syrup, custard or other, making only temporary stopovers in our food before being removed and discarded.

It’s not surprising that Elderflower has been relegated to the invisible land of infusion. The experience of flavour is understood to be the result of taste and smell working in concert. While taste buds on the tongue can only detect the ‘base notes’ of sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and umami, olfactory receptors in the nose can detect over one trillion (!) different aromas. Where taste is the bassline, aroma is the melody. Where taste is broad strokes, smell is the fine detail. Beyond that, to cement the role of aroma in flavour experience, many of these receptors are only accessible via the mouth, meaning there’s an entire wing in the architecture of our olfaction that functions solely to bring us flavour.

Expanding on the role of olfaction in food, the Oxford Companion to Sugar and Sweets tells us that “in general, taste donates and olfaction receives”. This refers to our stored understanding of the relationship between taste, smell, and flavour - through association, certain smells take on the qualities of tastes. Think of the ‘sweet’ smell of cinnamon, or the ‘salty’ smell of fryer oil. This isn’t some feeble trick of the mind either: the companion goes on to say that odours enhance taste qualities when there is parity between taste and smell. The addition of strawberry aroma to sweet food makes it taste more sweet, but the addition of strawberry aroma to peanut butter does not make it taste sweet. This explains why elderflower is generally relegated to traditionally sweet preparations.

Diving into the science of flowers and flavour made me reflect on my existing relationship with them. My interest in food and cooking has largely been propelled by a love of fruit. Produce has always been a rich seam not just of deliciousness, but beauty and fascination. While I once proudly preferred the summer months for all the fruit they bring, I have learned to embrace the multiplicity of life they sit within and find the same joy in the leaves and flowers which both precede and follow them. Fruit also has many characteristics in common with flowers; it uses bright colours, fragrances, and the promise of a sugar hit to draw in external reproductive assistance. Fruit and flowers are two stages along the same lifespan, separated only by maturity. Thinking about it this way, it seems obvious that we should encourage cross-pollination of recipes and techniques between the two. Flowers might not have the fleshy appeal of fruit, but they can still be ingredients unto themselves.

Looking past infusions, munching on petals is not necessarily all that common. Courgette flowers seem to sit most happily on people’s plates unquestioned, but there is a whole world of remixes, adaptations, and possibilities if we set our sights to broader horizons. Magnolia is an increasingly popular flower to use in cooking, not just for infusion but as a bite on its own; look to Nordic chefs to find the petals served fresh and raw, pickled, or sautéed. The late great Skye Gyngell made a name for herself through her reverence for the ingredients of the earth, and that certainly didn’t stop at flowers. Among many, many other applications, one of Skye’s signature dishes was a tulip salad with elderflower dressing, where tulip petals are dressed alongside delicate lettuce leaves to create a vibrant, peppery salad.

When researching for this newsletter, I consulted my foraging bible: Richard Mabey’s Food for Free (1972). In this book, there are two recipes given for elderflower: cordial and fritters. In Harold McGee’s treatment of flowers, he identifies three culinary applications: “as edible garnish, or cooked into aromatic fritters, or infused”. I am not willing to overlook the fact that the broad technique of ‘infusion’ is identified as an equal of a single foodstuff. Fritters are mentioned almost any time edible flowers are, but I don’t see this translate into real kitchens or frankly even real life. I decided to dig deeper and found that elderflower fritters are something of an ancient food, with the earliest recorded recipe dating to 1470 in Italy.

Many countries across northern Europe claim their own traditional fritter recipes, with one source even claiming that they are a Native American invention. It seems that across time we have consistently and independently arrived at the concept of a flower fritter, which (in my corner of the world at least) has apparently lapsed.

With such a rich history that is underrepresented in the modern engagement with elderflower, fritters are ripe for a renaissance. While specifications vary across recipes, the basic principle remains the same. A light batter is made with some combination of flour, liquid, and/or egg. In my experience, recipes had a broad range of textures from stodgy doughballs (the original recipe includes cheese) through to pancake, all the way to shattering tempura. I enjoy a lighter fritter, but with crispness and lightness as the sole criteria, you end up with something just like a pub chip, which isn’t what I want for my flowery dessert. The points of possible variation include leavening, alternative starch, the use of liquid, or the use of whole versus egg white and the ratio of liquid.

The recipe I have developed includes whole eggs for richness, as well as additional seasoning with elderflower cordial and lemon zest. In my restaurant experience, we used to make a fritter that was as light as possible with a combination of beaten egg whites, sparkling water, and 00 flour. It made for a beautifully delicate garnish, but I found the flavour lacking, with its leanness simply creating space for the flavour of… fryer oil. With the additional flavour of the yolk, zest, and cordial the fritter has an identity of its own beyond simply ‘fried thing’. This fritter reads more like a beautifully light and fragrant doughnut bite that is shockingly moorish.

RECIPE: Elderflower Fritters

by Louis Thompson

Makes enough batter for about 15-20 large heads of elderflower.

Ingredients

• 70g all-purpose flour

• 30g cornstarch

• 1tsp baking powder

• (or 100g self-raising flour)

• 1 egg, separated.

• Zest of 1 lemon

• Pinch salt

• 150g sparkling water

• 25g elderflower cordial (a sweeter cordial is preferred here, but its primary role is as ‘elderflower extract’ so sweetness isn’t too important)

• Neutral oil for frying (I buy and use a 1L bottle and call it a day)

Method

• Fill a small saucepan with the oil to a height of ~5cm and set over medium heat. You are aiming for a temperature of 180C on a thermometer but you can test if your oil is ready by dropping a small amount of batter in and seeing if it fries.

• In a small bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, and lemon zest. In a separate bowl whisk together the yolk, water, and cordial. Make a well in the centre of the dry ingredients and pour in the wet ingredients in three parts, whisking well in between additions to prevent lumps. Whisk the white to stiff peaks and fold through the batter.

  

• Take your heads of elderflower, preferably with an intact stalk for handling. Dip into the batter to submerge completely, dragging it against the side of the bowl and wiping it to remove excess batter. Don’t worry about being gentle here, the flowers can take it. You are aiming for a thin, even coating but as you fry each head you will learn your preference.

• Submerge the heads in the oil, lowering them in head down using the stalk. Being careful not to splash hot oil on your hands, give the flowers a gentle shake as they enter the oil to shake off excess batter and achieve a beautifully defined shape.

• Fry for 2-3 minutes until light golden brown, flipping halfway to ensure even cooking. If you have a large head that likes floating, you can also press it down to fully submerge. Transfer the fritters to a plate lined with a paper towel to absorb excess oil. Toss each fritter in caster sugar and serve immediately. If you need to prepare them in advance, hold them in a low oven on a wire rack. The batter will also hold in the fridge for several hours, simply whisk to recombine if it separates.

Many of the recipes I write come with a bit of a disclaimer at the end. “Store in the fridge, but bring to room temperature before enjoying.”

Such is the balance of working with various chocolate concoctions, buttery f…

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If I spend the afternoon whipping up a tiramisu, could you really describe the activity as baking?! It is an etymological riddle, indeed. There are some 170,000 words in the Oxford English Dictionary, yet nothing to suitably describe spending a few hours scraping a granita, or stirring a rice pudding. Sure, we could call it cooking, but that feels like we’re selling desserts short! In any case, with temperatures heading toward 30c (86F!) this weekend, it’s never appealing to turn the oven on or to mess around with melting pastry.

So, with the 3-day weekend thanks to the bank holiday ahead, here are the best things from the archive (plus one new one) to NOT bake during a heatwave - all my favourite recipes that avoid switching your oven on (though I’ve allowed the hob – forgive me?)! AND because I’ve been thinking a lot about cookbooks lately, I’ve also written a little round-up of what food books I am reading at the moment, both new and old.

Jelly! On! A! Plate!

Of course, one of the best things you can make without turning on the oven is all things jelly - fruity or creamy. I know pannacotta sounds fancy, but it really is just milk jelly. Whatever you choose, it works beautifully when warm; Cold jelly eaten in a hot garden is like tapping the vein of nostalgia! There are plenty of recipes here in the newsletter to tempt you, and a brand new one over on KP+: Little Black Forest Jellies, complete with cream and a cocktail cherry just *because* why wouldn’t you? Just look at this wobble?

If gelatine isn’t on the menu for you, there are plenty of set desserts that don’t require it: Brown Butter Milk Chocolate Pots, Blood Orange Crème Caramels, or Passionfruit and Lime Posset are all suitably silky.

• Fruit Jelly: Black Forest Jelly

• Panna Cotta: Mango Panna cotta, Lemon Leaf Panna Cotta, Summer Neapolitan panna cotta, Custard panna cotta with roasted strawberries

• Set Custard: Brown Butter Milk Chocolate Pots, Blood orange crème caramel, Passionfruit and Lime Posset

• Plant-Based: Chocolate Mousse with Phil Khoury

Creamy, Airy Layers!

Forget the oven, embrace the fridge. There are plenty of recipes that swap oven-time to fridge-time - a selection of tiramisus (Tiramisu, Matcha Tiramisu, Tiramoussey, and Banana Pudding Tiramisu) and mousses, as well as d the Fig & Whipped Feta Cheesecake, which benefit from a thorough chill.

• In a bowl: Banana Pudding, White chocolate mascarpone mousse by Octavia Lamb

• Cheesecake: Fig & whipped feta cheesecake

• Tiramisu: Classic Tiramisu. Matcha Tiramisu by Milli Taylor, Tiramoussey (extra light tiramisu), Banana Pudding Tiramisu

Nice & Icy

Frozen desserts of all kinds are welcome in the heat. Sure, you could queue up for a Mr Whippy, but in case you feel like undertaking the task yourself, there are plenty of recipes here in the newsletter that don’t require special equipment, as well as some that do. I’ll also point you toward my granita and sorbet calculators, which will help you build your own recipes, no matter what ingredients you have.

• GranitasL Lychee & Jasmine Granita ft. the Granita Calculator, Coconut & Green Tea Granita, Pistachio Granita, Cucumber Granita

• Parfaits/No-Churn Ice Cream: DIY Vienetta, Peach and vanilla swirl parfait, Apricot no-churn Ice Cream sandwiches, No-churn two-layer mango semi-freddo by Louis Thompson, Frozen yoghurt-honey parfait with flash roasted blueberries by Sarah Johnson

• Sorbets: Watermelon and strawberry sorbet ft. The Sorbet Calculator, Peach and Basil Sorbet by Kitty Travers, Mango Sorbet by Marie Havnø Frank

• Ice Cream: Fig Leaf Ice Cream by Marie Havnø Frank, Cucumber Sour Cream Ice Cream by Kitty Travers

Preserve + Forage

Summer is also when all the preserving and flavour-extracting recipes start becoming useful again. Resident columnist Camilla Wynne’s preserving round-ups always feel especially relevant at this time of year, giving you a heads-up on all the jamming, syruping, marmalading and compoting you can prepare for:

• To Preserve or Not To Preserve by

• A Field Guide To Preserving by

We are also in elderflower and fig leaf territory – as you walk to the park, or around your favourite green spaces, why not take a pair of scissors and a little bag with you? Take the most fragrant elderflowers to make cordial, and snip the best fig leaves to whizz into oils, or infuse into creams.

• All About Fig Leaves

• Elderflower Cordial

HEAT… but different

I realise this is probably a long shot and not the loop hole I think it is, but just in case a non-oven heat source feels more appealing, then there are some divine fried, deep-fried and steamed you can stand recipes that avoid the oven by simply involving a different form of heat entirely: Cannoli, Torrijas, and other fried desserts that somehow feel much more manageable than turning the kitchen into a 220-degree fan oven situation.

• Chilled Rice Pudding

• Cannoli

• Floating islands

• Torrijas

• Lemon curd

Bread, no oven! + Delicious Savoury things

Should you wish to make fresh bread this weekend, there are some oven-free jewels on the newsletter. ’s Semolina Flatbreads, which are cooked in a hot pan, are a delight. There is also a trove of delicious toppings and savoury treats spread across the archive – most of them have been designed to go on or with bread that, yes, you bake in the oven, but any of these could proudly stand on their own. For your consideration:

• Hot Smoked Trout Rillette by Ben Lippett

• Semolina Flatbreads by Ben Lippett

• Mango Salsa by Sarah Johnson

• Pan Con Tomate by Jordon King

• Deep-fried Courgettes and Ricotta

• Crudité Cake by Milli Taylor

Drinks

I love that we have a small but excellent drinks section in the archive – all good things to keep in giant bottles in the fridge and pour over ice whenever needed.

• Pink lemonade – raspberry & shiso (gf/vg)

• Strawberry Milk

• Fig leaf and peach iced tea

• Summer Rosita

• Tomato Water Lemonade by Susan Spungen

• Horchata

Cookbook Corner: Four Books I’m Reading Right Now

The Kitchen Book, the very newly released book by Ella Risbridger, is one you can really just fall into. If you’ve never read Ella’s writing before, then prepare to become a dedicated Risbriger completist (Midnight Chicken, In Love With Love, her Substack , even her Instagram captions! – go and sink into it all!). The book is full of delicious, unpretentious cooking that will no doubt become classics in your homes.

108 Asian Cookies by Kat Lieu is a book I saw on my Instagram feed and bought immediately. When it arrived, I found myself turning the pages with an accumulating joy and urgency – these recipes! Chocolate Mochi Bars with Sambel Oelek! Maple Char Siu Cookies! Halo-Halo Cereal Treats! White Rabbit Sugar Cookies! I’m taken aback by the creativity and range in this book, a total cookie magnum opus.

Every time the season changes, Fruitful by Sarah Johnson goes platinum in my house. I love leafing through it – Sarah has written such a beautiful, calming book that carries you through farms, fields and kitchens. I trust her implicitly and am always keen to learn her approach to fruit so I can make the best of whatever I bring home from the greengrocer.

I’ve been borrowing a friend’s ice cream machine, and I want to return it to her with a few pints of ice cream as a thank you. So, as ever, I’ll turn to the brilliant La Grotta Ices by Kitty Travers. It is filled with visual inspiration and flavour combinations you could really apply anywhere. This book came out in 2018, and it’s probably still the coolest book I’ve ever seen.

If you want to try her ice cream, it just so happens that Kitty and Adriann Ramirez, aka Gay Nigella of Finks, are collaborating on an ice cream, baking & wine pop-up tomorrow (White Hot Forever!) at Finks in Mountgrove Road, N5. See you there!

Thank you for reading — see you next time!

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If you have no idea what I’m talking about, let me fill you in: Merveilleux (pronounced something like Mer-vey-yu) is an originally Belgian cake (? Confection? Dessert? sweet treat?) comprised of two meringues, stacked with cream, then rolled and coated in an assortment of delicious things: Chocolate, toasted nuts, etc., etc. Despite originating in Belgium, it was popularised across Northern France, where it found a particularly enthusiastic audience. And, I can’t help but find the apparent story behind its naming so very, deeply… French.

Merveilleux are said to take their name from the Merveilleuses (their male counterparts were known as the Incroyables), an aristocratic subculture in post-Revolutionary Paris that celebrated surviving the Reign of Terror with extravagant fashion, parties, and a rejection of revolutionary austerity. Their style included ancient-Greece-inspired dresses, blonde wigs, and oversized hats. Is it any surprise that they ended up with a frou-frou meringue cake named after them?

If you are familiar with Merveilleux, there’s a good chance that’s to do with Fred, full name Frédéric Vaucamps. Aux Merveilleux de Fred is a hugely successful international chain of bakeries, operating in some eleven countries. It all began with one store in Lille in 1997, named after pastry chef Frédéric’s favourite, and most popular confection. The menu is the same across all stores, with a variety of cream cakes, waffles, brioches, and, of course, the star of the show, the merveilleux. Fred’s take on the merveilleux is so pervasive that I don’t know if I can even find a recipe that doesn’t attempt to mimic his version. According to the website, Frédéric revamped the original merveilleux to make it lighter, and that version has now become the blueprint.

Even though I’d walked past the black-fronted shops with the cursive, calligraphy-like font along and an oval logo featuring the silhouettes of a belle époque era couple, many times in London (there are five stores dotted across the city), it wasn’t until a trip to Bordeaux that I finally ventured in. The shops are gorgeously glamorous, with chandeliers, marble features, and a completely open kitchen. The names are suitably camp: Le Magnifique (praline and hazelnuts), L’Excentrique (cherry), L’Incroyable (speculoos & white chocolate), and L’Impensable (coffee) appear in the range, along with the original and the namesake, Le Merveilleux (cream and dark chocolate).

Making a Merveilleux

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been developing a few of my own merveilleux recipes inspired by – I’m hoping they’ll appear in a big project I’m working on, tying up at the moment. I tried several combinations – the classic cream and chocolate, along with a coffee, caramel milk chocolate, a Mont Blanc-inspired confection with chestnut cream, and a gorgeous pina colada-themed one with pineapple jam and toasted coconut. I just love the way they look - they are simply the jolliest of fellows.

So, it only felt right to write up and share a recipe for a merveilleux that suits the seasons right now. Please welcome in: The Mango Merveilleux!

As you may know, we are right in the midst of peak Indian Mango season, which means we have the most delicious, rich mangoes available for a fairly short time (Alphonso’s to the end of May, though they are already wrinkling a little, and Kesar’s through June – no panic, it’s Pakistani honey mangoes next!).

Whether you are an Alphonso fan or a kesar lover, I love my annual contribution to the Kitchen Projects Mango Cannon each year. You can find my round-up of recipes here.

Meringue and mango are already a tried-and-tested combination here in the newsletter, but these gorgeous merveilleux? I could eat them by the dozen. The recipe is simple, really: Make a meringue, pipe into bases and tops, whip cream (add yoghurt if you want tang), then sandwich with a little fresh mango (or mango not-curd for extra juiciness) and then roll in your favourite coating: Toasted coconut (flakes or desiccated) or white chocolate (for the coconut fearers).

I can’t lie to you - building mervellieux with fillings in is definitely faffier than the original, so remember you can always forgo all the mango-ing and build traditional cream and chocolate versions – so very satisfying.

RECIPE: Mango Merveilleux

Makes around 12-14, depending on your meringue

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I’ve just arrived back in London after spending the week in Southern Spain at the Spring edition of Sobremesa, a culinary retreat hosted by at the truly special Rancho Del Ingles in the foothills of Málaga.

From Sunday to Thursday, we hosted guests for a mix of workshops, tours, demonstrations, and, of course, lots and lots of eating. It was Milli’s idea to name the retreat ‘Sobremesa’, which translates as ‘over the table’, referring to the time spent at the table after a meal, talking, laughing, and enjoying the moment.

Our inaugural Sobremesa took place last August in the height of the summer heat, and we went into this retreat armed with knowledge and excitement to do it all over again, hosting a new group of people and seeing if the magic would happen again. I’m so pleased to say it did. Witnessing our twenty-four wonderful guests gather, starting as strangers and leaving as friends, with promises of reunions, genuine connections, and shared moments has left my cup feeling so full.

It was a pleasure to facilitate these moments through cooking, teaching, and doing our absolute best as a team to embody the true definition of hospitality whenever we could. I often say that the job I’ve chosen - cooking - is a bit of a cheat code. The act of plating up a slice of almond cake with vanilla macerated strawberries, or being Milli’s BBQ assistant, picking fig leaves from the huge Rancho tree to wrap around feta, brings me so much intrinsic happiness. That that cooking also brings our guests pleasure (we hope!) seems too good to be true. And all this with Rancho as the backdrop – a genuinely special corner in the world carved by the Taylor family – thank you to Miyuki and David for shaping it over the course of four decades, it’s an honour to contribute a little to the spirit of the place via my role at Sobremesa.

I’m so thrilled to share a round-up of what we ate and did at Sobremesa this year, as well as share my recipe for chocolate and pistachio amaretti cookies, one of the little sweet treats I prepared for elevenses, aka mid-morning snack, during the classes.

I actually developed this recipe on the fly during the retreat, based on my recipe in SIFT, so it was fun to take my notes and learnings from making these at Rancho and retest them at home!

What we ate at Sobremesa

While I’d love to regale you with the full AM to PM eating schedule, I’ll try to summarise (shout out to Gitai, who, along with months of prep and tireless efforts over the week, made fresh soda bread and blueberry muffins for breakfast in the mornings along with the most gorgeous spread) and focus on the evening meals.

On arrival day, we prepared a welcome tea for our guests: Milli made brownies, which were a delight, and I prepared a couple of almond cakes (Spain has GORGEOUS almonds) and served them simply with a showering of icing sugar, a spoonful of creme fraiche and strawberries macerated in sugar, vanilla and a little orange blossom (a tip from Marie Frank!). After settling in, our guests reconvened for a welcome drink, followed by a sherry tasting with the brilliantly knowledgeable Annie B, and then the most fantastic Paella prepared by Chef Paco, the head chef at Rancho, who is responsible for catering all the weddings and events that take place there throughout the year. I was genuinely wowed by it.

For pudding, I kept the tradition of a big sharing dessert served tableside – a chocolate mousse studded with Málaga wine-soaked prunes, prepared by Milli weeks before.

On the second night, there was a pre-aperitivio tortilla demonstration with Milli (which was then served on the terrace, complete with jalapeno tuna mayonnaise), followed by a more vegetable-focused meal.

Milli made sourdough discard seed crackers, which were served with slow-baked garlic and oregano cherry tomatoes and ricotta. Next came ajo blanco with asparagus and nasturtium from Miyuki’s garden, and Jordon prepared tomato butterbeans with harissa and ñora pepper, sticky roasted sweet potatoes with crunchy fennel salad with Aloreña purple olives and rancho oranges, as well as a green salad (cogollos al ajillo).

It was all rounded off with a Sobremesa favourite: morcilla with apricots. Dessert was Nispero Galette and Greek Yoghurt Semifreddo. I will say – preparing Nisperos, which my class had picked from the tree at Rancho (peeling, soaking, drying, seasoning, placing, and even baking!) took MANY HOURS longer than I thought it would, but the final result was worth it.

The third evening started with a grill demonstration with Milli and Jordon, featuring moutabal with pomegranate molasses, followed by squid, then dinner in the local town, with the most beautiful sunset, and a jaunt to the ice cream parlour.

For the last night, Milli set up THREE separate barbecues, including two right in front of the dinner table. We started by making fresh corn tortillas, cooked directly on the cast iron surrounding the BBQ (such a cool bit of kit!), filled with sticky, slow-cooked pork and topped with pickled onions. Our pescetarian guests had braised runner beans, cotija cheese and fresh herbs in their tacos.

This was followed by a BBQ dinner of dreams with whole fish and the most delicious Abanico Iberico pork, along with feta baked in fig leaves with crudite, Jordon’s braised artichokes, butterbeans and chickpeas, Sobremesa favourites Patatas a lo pobre and romesco to tie it all together.

I decided to bring back the combination of wobbly desserts that I’d loved so much last August. I won’t be bringing these back for the next retreat (though maybe some kind of flan will feature, we ARE in spain, afterall) but I loved these two, cold and creamy puddings so much that I wanted to share them again: The classic sweetly bitter Flan with Coconut Maple Praline (recipe here) and the Lemon Leaf Pannacotta (recipe here), infused with leaves from the tree just 30 seconds walk from the kitchen.

The baking workshop

For the 2026 Sobremesa retreat, I’ve designed a new class all about olive oil brioche dough. The workshop is sort of about finding that place between technique and creativity – after making the dough, it was all down to our attendees to make their own bun dreams come true. Stuff it before baking? Sure! Brulee it after? WHY NOT!

I organised about 40 different ingredients, from savoury to sweet, custards to home-made jams, pastes to spices, fresh to preserved, to pick from, and demonstrated a few techniques. I was absolutely blown away by the incredible combinations that were created, and it was so fun getting to taste them all. Experimentation was delicious, and even the buns that exploded a bit in the oven were fantastic. I also roped in my classes to help with dessert prep, from rolling out flaky galette dough to picking Nisperos, prepping lemons for candying or piping langues de chat. It was a genuinely helpful lift – so thank you very much!

For the last breakfast, I used the dough from the last day’s class to make buns with some of the leftover ingredients (we are a no waste retreat!) and fried the other half of it into donuts for goodbye snacks. We had to go out with a bang, after all! PHEW.

This year’s August Sobremesa retreat is at capacity, but if this sounds right up your street, you can head to www.ranchoretreat.co.uk to sign up to the mailing list for future events. You should also follow Milli on substack — — as she’ll be sharing recipes, details and stories from Sobremesa in the coming weeks. Milli has also just set-up an Instagram page for Sobremesa where you can follow updates here: https://www.instagram.com/sobremesaretreat/

The importance of elevenses

At Sobremesa ehis year, right about 11:30, Gitai would arrive promptly at mine and Jordon’s classes (Milli would be at Málaga market around this time, showing her favourite spots to eat, drink and shop from) with hot coffee (or wine, if you so desired). Served alongside was a freshly baked snack. One such snack was a little chocolate and pistachio amaretti.

I love my recipe for classic amaretti, which is in my book SIFT. I decided to adapt it for Sobremesa, making the most of the cacao nibs and Original beans chocolate I’d brought in my suitcase along with lots of other ingredients (it was 24kg on the way out, 17kg on the way back…). I rolled half in sugar and the other half in cocoa powder, which reacted a bit strangely in the oven. Noticing this, I rolled them in sugar as soon as they came out of the oven, which actually looked lovely. I’m not sure which I prefer – the cocoa-rolled ones certainly are more dramatic, but I sort of love how chic the sugar-only ones are, though they are less obviously chocolate-flavoured!

Here’s the recipe below, which I’ve since refined and made at home and you decide which finish you want to do.

RECIPE: Chocolate & Pistachio Amaretti

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In these moments of positivity, I also find myself feeling particularly ambitious in the kitchen. Long weekends lend themselves brilliantly to longer projects, to hosting friends, or to whipping up delicious things to pack up and enjoy on a blanket in the local park. So, I’ve pulled together a few of my favourite recipes - some more time-consuming, others just suitable for this lovely weather - for you to look through.

ALSO, I’m happy to say I’ve finally fully updated the Kitchen Projects Recipe Index, and there are over 550 recipes for you to browse — wahooo! That includes over 100 cake recipes, over 70 tarts & pies, almost 100 biscuit & confection recipes, 75 savoury bakes & cooking and over 100 desserts. ENJOY!

Mango-go-go!

Let’s hit the ground running, shall we? It is Indian Mango season, and I’d be delighted to be your guide. From Mango Princess Cake to Yoghurt Pavlovas, Mango curd Stuffed Cakes to Mango Custard Tart, I have got you covered! Even if you can’t get Alphonso’s or Kesars where you are, these recipes will still sing! Click here to make it.

Rice Pudding with Mango

Ok, so I know the first entry was all about mango, but a cold rice pudding feels distinct. YES it’s great with mango, but you could also spoon your favourite preserve, or use the last of the rhubarb on this! Here’s the recipe.

Simple French Fruit Tart

A few years ago I had the joy of going to a friend-of-a-friend’s house for lunch in France -  Monique showed us the joy of a simple fruit tart and took the fear away of baking these for me. Keep it simple, or use her 2 minute custardy filling for the most gorgeous centrepiece for fruit — I feel May is the last time we all enjoy eating Apples before the berries and stone fruit come and kick them out of the proverbial bed! Click here to make it

Bronwen’s Texas Sheet Cake

Are you hosting this weekend? Do you need a really big cake? THEN LOOK NO FURTHER than this Texas Sheet Cake, via Bronwen Wyatt. It'sbig, it’s bold, it’s beautiful. Click here to read it.

Buttery onion tart aka quiche

You could call it a quiche, but I much prefer calling it ‘a buttery onion tart’ - from quiche to chic in just a few words. My version is super deep dish with a just-set savoury custard and the flakiest pastry of all time. GET IT HERE!

For a proper weekend project: Croissants and Pain Au Choc

Open up SIFT and you’ll see there’s a HUGE viennoiserie section (a whopping 45 pages!) to teach you absolutely everything you need to know about making viennoiserie at home. From theory to troubleshooting and plenty of recipes to get you going, I can’t wait for us all to make croissants together! It’s right at the end of the book because I do feel that croissants are a confluence of so many skills and techniques. Click here to get a copy

Fancy Cake

What happens when you cross a French Fancy with a Detroit bumpy cake? You get FANCY CAKE! This is such a fun project and equally fun to slice up and share around all your favourite people. Click here for the recipe.

Alessandro Giannatempo’s Baumkuchen

Want to try a very creative and satisfying bake this weekend? Look no further than this beauty by Alessandro Giannatempo, a cake that is cooked layer by layer. The result is a supremely fluffy, soft sponge that is hypnotisingly satisfying to look at. Click here for the recipe.

Doughnuts

If you’re looking for a sojourn into the beautiful world of all things deep-fried and golden, look no further than this recipe for puffy doughnuts that are inspired by my trips to the Minnesota State Fair. Click here to make it

Focaccia three ways

An extra day off = ample time to work on doughs. Plus it’s warmer, which means things move faster! Which way is best? You tell me! I’m so lucky to have a series of focaccia recipes on this newsletter. From super thick, bubbly and airy (in SIFT, page 280) to thin and crispy, to classic ligurian, it’s time to pick your favourite. Each newsletter will teach you about dough strengthening and flavour-building techniques. From cold proofing to pre-ferments, these recipes put you in control of your dough’s destiny. What could be better than that?

I also highly recommend this thin n crispy version aka ‘Strecci’, which is a simpler dough but but still bursting with olive oil and flavour. Perfect for garden dinners. Click here for the recipe.

You could even try this sweet version from Marie Havno Frank’s More Than Sweet, ft brown sugar goo, grapes and rosemary! Click here for the recipe.

Spring onion babka

A savoury bake of dreams, my spring onion babka is one of my favourite projects to date. Airy milk bread swirled with salty-sweet spring onion. Perfect for a picnic or to feed a crowd. Trust me, this will make you fall in love with swirly bread! The recipe for this is also in SIFT! Click here to make it.

Simple Almond Cake

Maybe you just want a really beautiful, elegant slice of cake to nibble on throughout the weekend. I got you — make this almond cake, swoosh a bit of cream up and enjoy its absolute plushness. Click here for the recipe.

Have the best weekend — see you next week!

Welcome to today’s edition of Kitchen Projects. Thank you so much for being here.

Today, I’m thrilled to be telling you all about the debut book from Marie Frank, a Copenhagen-based recipe developer & pastry consultant who embraces flavour with open arms. ‘More Than Sweet: Desserts with Flavour’ was published just last week, and I’m excited to tell you more about it with the help of author (and kitchen projects contributor) Marie!

I’m lucky enough to have excerpted not one but two recipes from the book: Here on main, it’s Marie’s take on Danish Dream Cake, spiked with Ginger and Tamarind. Over on KP+, it’s Marie’s take on Brunsviger, the love child of a focaccia and sticky bun, slathered in brown sugar goo and, in a Marie twist, topped with grapes and rosemary. Click here for the recipe.

What’s KP+? Well, it’s the level-up version of this newsletter. By joining KP+, you will support the writing and research that goes into the newsletter (including the commissioning - and fair payment - of all the writers), join a growing community, access extra content (inc. the entire archive) and more. Subscribing is easy and costs only £6 per month or £50 per year. Why not give it a go? Come and join the gang!

Subscribe now

Love,
Nicola

More Than Sweet

July 2022. 8AM. I receive a DM from Marie Frank, a pastry chef and recipe developer based in Copenhagen. “Completely bonkers…” she says, “but I want to buy some bareroot heritage English gooseberries (20cm long, no soil) and due to Brexit they can’t be shipped but I can take them home in my luggage. I have to order now, but they won’t ship till November. Would it be possible for you to receive them? I’ll come pick them up?”

Marie and I have been online friends for a few years now – I was one of the many thousands of people who couldn’t get enough of her frosted coupes and creative ice cream recipes, her magical quenelle spoon, which seemed to cut through ice cream like an undulating laser and her enviable canneles. And in this moment, I get the confirmation I need: Marie is exactly who she presents herself to be on social media: Absolutely obsessive about fruit, produce and flavour. And in the best way. It’s not many people who will take an international flight to bring home a very specific, heritage gooseberry. That is commitment!

So, 8 months later in early 2023, I find myself carrying a bulky 1.5m tall black plastic sack to a trendy wine bar in East London to reunite the gooseberry canes with their rightful owner and, in exchange, Marie has brought me the best selection of licorice I’ve ever tried and the most extraordinary vanilla I’ve ever seen; The pod is thick like a tarantula leg, which normally would scare me, but in this context it thrills me, perhaps because it is covered in a phenomenal layer of crystals. I’ve never seen or smelled anything like it; frosted vanilla forms when vanillin, the natural aromatic compound in vanilla, migrates to the surface as the bean matures. It’s a badge of ripeness and quality, and I’m not surprised at all that it is Marie who has handed it to me.

Three years on, Marie Frank has just released her debut book, ‘More Than Sweet: Desserts with Flavour’ and, while it doesn’t include any recipes for gooseberries (alas, perhaps the plants weren’t fruiting in time for development…), it does contain a multitude of ingredients and combinations that grab your attention: Apricot Compote with Tamarind, Mirin-Pumpkin Custard, Pear with Coffee & Fennel, Apple & Celery Granita, Cherries with Makrut Lime and White Pepper. You may know her from her work here on Kitchen Projects: Fig Leaf Ice Cream, Brie Ice Cream, Greengage and Plum Kernel Custard Tart.

I caught up with Marie this week about her debut book and journey into the world of pastry. I’m thrilled to excerpt two recipes from ‘More than Sweet’ that embody Marie’s attitude to recipe development, interrogating familiar dishes and animating them with new flavours; the first is her take on the famous Danish Dream Cake, which she imbues with tamarind and ginger to spike the sweetness, while on KP+, she is sharing her version of Brunsviger, the yeasted Danish Coffee Cake that is like the baby of a focaccia and a sticky bun, with grapes and rosemary that she originally developed for the coffee house Det Vide Hut in Copenhagen. You can get the recipe for that here.

Click here for the recipe

A flavour obsessive

A self-described “flavour obsessive”, as the book title might suggest, Marie does not care for desserts that are merely ‘sweet’. There are several moments in her life that she can attribute this to – her mother, a language teacher working with migrants in Denmark, meant early exposure to cultures and foods that left her “mesmerised by the complexity” of flavours. Marie realised that, unlike the in vogue European cooking of the time, “herbs are not just decorations, they’re part of it.” Though enamoured by savoury cooking, baking and sweet things just didn’t appeal to Marie – they, on the whole, were one-note and just… lacking.

Marie began studying political science and looking for an academic route, but found herself increasingly disengaged. A part-time job in a specialist olive oil shop proved more compelling than lectures. “I felt much more alive talking about the flavour profiles of olive oils than I did studying political science,” she says. Eventually, she left without a clear alternative, but fortunately, the seeds of her obsession with flavour had been well and truly sown.

The turning point came years later, on maternity leave with her first child. Sleep-deprived and doom-scrolling, she came across Rachel Bossett, a New York-based pastry chef who seemingly had no rule book on flavours, blending savoury and sweet in ways that had before seemed unimaginable. “I was very unaware of what pastry had evolved to,” she says. “And then I saw this… and I was like, I want to do that.”

Thanks to the support of a group of US pastry chefs who began responding to her early online experiments, that instinct found real grounding. Casual DM exchanges grew into something more like scholarly digital correspondence - Carolyn Nugent of Poulette Bakehouse, along with Cori Osbourne, were particularly strong influences and mentors. Recipes and techniques were shared, and encouragement given. “That’s what made me fall in love with the whole baking community. There was so much information sharing, no gatekeeping. There was no secrecy. It was just… You’re interested…come into the kitchen with us!” Next, Marie went on to learn the art of Ice Cream at Østerberg Ice Cream, a medium that still remains her first port of call today.

“Ice cream basically became the perfect canvas for flavour,” she explains. “I always try to make it first, just to see how the pure flavour works in a very plain format.” If it passes the ice cream test (and even sometimes if it doesn’t, but still has promise), Marie figures out the best format for the combination, be it in cookies, cakes or breads.

In More Than Sweet, banana bread is infused with chamomile and topped with a milk chocolate ganache, carrot cake is spiced with cumin (“you can’t tell it’s there as cumin, but you can tell if it’s not there” she explains) and the beloved Danish Dream Cake, a vanilla cake covered with a brown sugar coconut goo, is spiked with ginger and tamarind, which, thrillingly, you can get the recipe for below. The book also contains extensive tables with flavour combinations and suggestions so that, even if your pantry doesn’t perfectly reflect Marie’s, you can go in another direction with confidence.

I always ask authors which recipes they hope people will make from their book, the dishes they feel sum up the book’s “soul”. For Marie, the answers were straightforward: “Definitely the rye & corn cookie”, which was one of the first recipes she wrote for the book. “Then the Mirin Pumpkin Custard Tart”, which was a photoshoot favourite, and finally, “the dream cake.”

Shall we?

On Danish Dream Cake

Danish Dream Cake, drømmekage, is one of the most beloved cakes in Denmark: a fluffy vanilla sponge topped with a thick, sticky brown-sugar-and-coconut goo. Since its emergence in the 1960s in Brovst, it has become a fixture in homes and bakeries across the country. Its popularity spread quickly after the winning recipe - submitted by a local woman - was printed on flour packaging, cementing its place in Danish baking culture, much like the chocolate chip cookie did after appearing on Toll House packaging in the US. Suggesting it has any other origin is almost tantamount to treason, though Marie Frank is quick to point out its resemblance to the American Lazy Daisy Cake, a similar coconut-topped sponge popular in the 1930s.

I have had my own personal dealings with Drommekage, which appeared in the All About Coconut episode as a semifreddo. I also understand the pressure and, often, strangeness of developing one’s own version of a beloved classic. Like a musician covering a famous song - it BETTER be good, or you’re done for. Bronwen Wyatt shared a similar sentiment just last week as she took on the behemoth of Texas Sheet Cake.

Marie’s version of Dream Cake has an almond paste-enriched sponge, and the all-important goo (which I can confirm has generous proportions to the cake) is spiked with ginger and tamarind, which brightens the topping wonderfully. After making the cake myself this week, I had a few follow-up questions for Marie:

Nicola: Did you feel any pressure taking on the dream cake? How many tests did you go through to get to this final cake?

Marie: Oh yes. I am still slightly terrified to meet any dream cake purists walking around in Copenhagen. Sunglasses and ball caps are helpful to avoid attention. I went through so many tests, I suffered from shredded coconut PTSD at the end. Different cake pans, different sponges, and so many topping combinations. But once I had the foundation recipe - almond paste in the sponge, the ratio for topping - I started testing flavour combinations.
It was surprisingly hard to settle on “the one” and I could write a whole book on just dream cake variations. But that is what I love about cakes like this one, the possibilities are endless.

Nicola: Do you remember the first time you had dream cake?

Marie: It was in school, probably. It was always made for school parties, birthdays, and events. I probably had dream cake at least once a month throughout my school years.

Nicola: How have people reacted to you telling the ‘truth’ about the origin story of the Danish Dream Cake?

Marie: Ha! A few years ago an American pastry chef living in Copenhagen mentioned that the quintessential Danish dream cake - our chunky, caramelised lifeblood - was eerily similar to an American Lazy Daisy cake. I fell into a research rabbit hole about the origins of the dream cake and the lazy daisy - the American cake was extremely popular in the 1930’s. The recipe was probably shared with a Danish family sometime in the 40’s, and in the 1950’s, a 16 year old girl submitted her grandmother’s recipe to a Danish cake mix company and won the competition. The recipe was printed on all the boxes, and it became a huge hit from then on and became a national treasure. When I spoke about the recipe to a Danish journalist I had some very angry people in my inbox telling me I was lying. That it couldn’t be. That I must never say this out loud again. That may be the exact same recipe was invented on two different continents, and it was purely coincidental. I love this commitment and pride over a cake.

Nicola: What is a good alternative to almond paste? And talk to me about your addition of almond paste into the recipe.

Marie: Substitute almond paste for 80g almond flour and 45g sugar. While the traditional recipe is a plain, sturdy “yellow cake” base, I love the richness and additional moisture added by the almond paste. In Denmark there is always a debate on the perfect ratio of topping to sponge and the sponge is described almost like a necessary vessel for the goo. Adding the almond paste makes the sponge a little denser and very tender, and I love how that nuttiness from the almonds pairs with the coconut caramel topping.

Nicola: The Dark Brown Sugar in the UK seems to be a lot darker than the one in Denmark – what do you suggest using? (it is delicious with the dark brown sugar, but just to get the same ‘look’ and profile as your book!)

Marie: I would recommend mixing 50/50 dark brown and light brown sugar or just embracing the darker topping. It looks so beautiful and dark brown sugar is packed with rich flavors that works well with the ginger and tamarind.

Nicola: What are some other ways to use that amazing dream cake goo?

Marie: Sticky buns! Ice cream toppings! Pour it over an almost finished baking brownie for Det Vide Hus’ legendary dirty brownies! Alfajor filling! Crepe filling!

—

Ok, on to the recipe! You can order a copy of Marie Frank’s More Than Sweet here. You can follow Marie on Instagram here and read her newsletter here.

RECIPE: Ginger-Tamarind Dream Cake

Makes 1 (9- x 5-inch / 23 x 13 cm) cake

Excerpted from More Than Sweet by Marie Frank (Hardie Grant) Copyright © 2026.

My own version of a dream cake was one of the first recipes I knew I wanted to make for this book.

A dream cake is a beloved Danish classic— or so everyone believed for at least seventy years. As the legend goes, a fifteen-year-old girl submitted her grandmother’s recipe for a sponge cake baked with a brown sugar–coconut topping to a national cake contest in the 1950s, and the cake became an instant hit. Ever since, it has been treated as a sort of national cake treasure. The only problem with that is that the cake’s origin is not actually Danish but American. The Danish dream cake is a lazy-daisy cake, an all-American vintage cake dating back to the 1930s.

Wounded pride aside, the cake is lovely, and the coconut filling is delicious, but after a bite or two, I often find it to be just too sweet. In my many attempts at creating my perfect dream cake, I found I preferred a more moist and denser crumb, similar to Tartine’s famous almond tea cake rather than the classic fluffy hot milk sponge cake. To balance the sweetness of the coconut caramel, I’ve added tart and tangy tamarind paste and fiery freshly grated ginger.

Cake

• 125 g / 1 cup all-purpose flour

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• ½ teaspoon salt

• 125 g / ½ cup almond paste

• 150 g / ¾ cup granulated sugar

• 150 g / ⅔ cup unsalted butter, softened

• Zest of 1 lemon

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 3 eggs, room temperature

• 60 ml / ¼ cup whole milk

Caramel Topping

• 100 g / 7 tablespoons unsalted butter

• 45 ml / 3 tablespoons whole milk

• 175 g / ¾ cup plus 2 tablespoons dark brown sugar

• 1 tablespoon finely grated ginger

• 1–2 tablespoons tamarind paste

• 150 g / 1¾ cups unsweetened desiccated coconut

• Salt

Method

• Preheat the oven to 350°F / 180 °C / 160 C fan. Line the loaf pan with parchment paper.

• Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt together twice in a large bowl.

• Combine the almond paste, granulated sugar, butter, lemon zest, and vanilla in the bowl of a stand mixer, fitted with the paddle attachment. Beat on medium speed until light and airy, 4–5 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stop the mixer and scrape down the sides of the bowl.

• Alternate adding the flour mixture and milk in two parts, stirring until combined. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the surface with the back of a spoon or an offset spatula. Bake the cake for 36-40 minutes [note: this has been updated from the printed recipe], or until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out with just a few crumbs.

• Whilst the cake is baking, make the topping: Combine the butter, milk, brown sugar, ginger, tamarind paste, and coconut in a small saucepan. Cook over low heat, stirring occasionally, until the butter has melted. Season with a generous pinch of salt.

• Once the cake is baked, bring the topping mixture to a boil, then pour the hot caramel evenly over the surface of the cake. Return the cake to the oven and bake for another 10 minutes.

• Remove from the oven and leave the cake in the pan to cool completely for 15 minutes to set the topping. Enjoy at room temperature.

• Store the cake well-wrapped for 3 days at room temperature or up to 5 days in the fridge.

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Welcome to today’s edition of Kitchen Projects. Thank you so much for being here.

Today, we welcome back the ever-brilliant Bronwen Wyatt to take on another North American Classic: Texas Sheet Cake. In case you’ve never heard of it, it might be the chocolate cake to end all chocolate cakes. I’ll let her tell you more.

Over on KP+, Bronwen has developed her own take on the lesser-known White Texas Sheet Cake, but with a palette of beautiful flavours: Brown butter, Walnut, Rye & Nocino. Genius. Click here for the recipe.

What’s KP+? Well, it’s the level-up version of this newsletter. By joining KP+, you will support the writing and research that goes into the newsletter (including the commissioning - and fair payment - of all the writers), join a growing community, access extra content (inc. the entire archive) and more. Subscribing is easy and costs only £6 per month or £50 per year. Why not give it a go? Come and join the gang!

Subscribe now

Love,
Nicola

A Cake By Any Other Name

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A Texas sheet cake is a broad, shallow chocolate cake, topped with a cocoa-based icing and a scattering of pecans. Like many desserts beloved in the southern United States, it bears many names: Funeral Cake, Texas Sheath Cake, Mexican Chocolate Cake, or Texas Brownie Cake are just a few. The cake develops its unique texture through the application of poured icing while the cake is still warm from the oven. The buttery, fudgy glaze sinks into the cake, creating a strata of tender chocolate cake at the bottom, a thin, slightly grainy patina of frosting on the top, and a molten zone in the centre that is an amalgam of both. The nuts, nearly always pecans, though walnuts make the occasional appearance, provide a bit of crunch. Despite its simplicity, the cake packs an outsized punch. It’s a breeze to put together, feeds a crowd, and remains tender for days on end. When I set out to develop my own version, I didn’t expect the work to be particularly difficult. What followed instead was two weeks of often-frustrating introspection.

I’ve eaten my fair share of Texas Sheet Cakes, though before this project, I’d never made one myself. When I begin researching a recipe, my first step is to create a spreadsheet that compares as many publicly available recipes as I can find. I source these recipes from larger news outlets, such as the New York Times or Southern Living, but I also look to smaller blogs, my cookbook collection, and Reddit. Reddit, in particular, is a great place to find images of handwritten recipe cards from home cooks, who are, after all, the ones responsible for carrying cake traditions through time (seek out r/Old_Recipes for your own deep dives). Texas Sheet Cake is often attributed to former first lady Lady Bird Johnson, though the Library of Congress’s own investigation couldn’t establish a link. The earliest known printed version, “Mrs Elkin’s Sheath Cake” from the Junior League’s Huntsville Heritage Cookbook, wasn’t published until 1967, though older family recipes can be found on multiple Reddit threads. It’s unclear that it has much of anything to do with the state of Texas, beyond the inclusion of pecans (which are indigenous to the state) and its size (“everything’s bigger in Texas”).

It’s also sometimes flavored with cinnamon, which is why it is occasionally called Mexican Sheet Cake. A quick note: the pairing of chocolate and cinnamon is sometimes referred to as Mexican in American baking as a shorthand for that flavor profile, with or without the addition of chiles. While chocolate was first cultivated in present-day Mexico and Central America, it wouldn’t have been prepared with cinnamon until European colonization brought that spice to North and South America. Mesoamerican cultures like the Maya and Aztecs paired chocolate with foods they had access to, like chiles, maize, and vanilla. After colonization, the pairing of chocolate and cinnamon became identified with Mexican culinary tradition, as in the iconic Mexican hot chocolate brand Abuelita.

I’m far from the first person to tackle an updated version of a Texas Sheet Cake. Still, what struck me the most after comparing the older Texas Sheet Cake recipes was their remarkable similarity to each other. A source might market their version as their grandmother’s particular iteration, even though it is nearly the exact recipe published in multiple other places. I don’t think this is a question of intellectual property theft (you can’t copyright a recipe anyway). Rather, it’s a testament to Texas Sheet Cake’s unusual consistency across time, place, and among different family traditions.

When I’m tinkering with a beloved recipe like this one, I’m often confounded by what my end goal ought to be. Am I attempting to make the best-ever version of a Texas Sheet Cake, or am I attempting to make the truest version of a Texas Sheet Cake? The former might entail introducing all sorts of fancy techniques or expensive ingredients. The latter process is often far more personal. It’s about determining whether there is consensus on what the dessert is and which elements must be preserved. Here, more than any other dessert I’ve re-imagined, there is strong agreement for what a Texas Sheet Cake ought to be. The largest controversy I can pinpoint is the inclusion of cinnamon in the chocolate cake batter. For some people, cinnamon is essential. Other recipes don’t include it. You might find minor variations in the liquid of the batter (water or coffee), the acidic dairy (buttermilk or sour cream), or the fat (melted butter, shortening, or oil). Besides that, the ratios, and recipes, are largely the same. Here, then, is the average Texas Sheet Cake recipe, cobbled together from ten separate sources:

The cocoa powder measurement listed above would arguably make the biggest difference to flavor. But in the recipes I surveyed, the lesser amount (¼ cup) was often listed as “four heaping tablespoons”, which could very well be closer to the greater amount (½ cup). Since these older recipes rarely list measurements by weight, I’ve preserved the range as-is. All of these recipes begin with blooming cocoa in melted fat and water (or coffee) before stirring this mixture, with the remaining liquid ingredients into the dry ingredients. The glaze is always assembled in a pot on the stovetop and applied while warm. One popular recipe, from the Pioneer Woman blog by Ree Drummond, calls for folding the pecans into the glaze before spreading. The rest have you sprinkle the nuts on top.

Texas Sheet Cake of Theseus

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about the Ship of Theseus, a philosophical problem that asks us how much of the original elements must remain in order for an object to maintain its identity. In the puzzle, Theseus’s ship embarks on an annual voyage to honor the god Apollo. As the years wear on, parts of the ship must be repaired - a new mast is erected, the hull is replaced, the sails are made new. If, after a century, every element of the ship has been replaced, is it still the Ship of Theseus?

How much of this Texas Sheet Cake recipe can we tweak before it is no longer recognisably a Texas Sheet Cake? I baked Ree Drummond’s version, which uses all butter and buttermilk, while I pondered the problem. Reader, it was good! After all, I like sugar, and I like cake, so I was really bound to enjoy it. It required no great skill to make. It sat on my countertop for most of a week, and due to the generous blanket of buttery glaze, its texture remained largely unchanged. It is very sugary, as you might expect from the nearly full pound of confectioner’s sugar involved. If your palate has a low tolerance for that sort of bracing sweetness, you’d have a hard time getting through a whole slice.

Normally, in this situation, I would then begin the painstaking process of determining what ingredient swaps I’d make to refine my own version. I’d bake through every iteration (brown versus white sugar, buttermilk versus sour cream, water versus coffee). I even began the process, making a version with coffee in place of water. I also couldn’t resist baking this version by the revered food scholar Toni Tipton Martin that uses Dr. Pepper, an ode to the tradition of Southern cola cakes.

Here’s the thing: both the second and third cake were good, but they were only subtly different from the original. They didn’t tackle what were, in my mind, Texas Sheet Cake’s biggest drawbacks: its sweetness, and the mildness of the chocolate flavor (more on that later). Enter my greatest crisis since Coffee Cake or American Biscuits. Was I really going to bake through all of these variations, just to end up with a recipe that was only marginally different from every other recipe out there? Or should I make more forceful edits, risking the inherent identity of Texas Sheet Cake in the process? I get this sounds hyperbolic. Perhaps I’m feeling especially emotional about translating American cultural foods for a broader audience at this moment, when the United States is waging a reckless, brutal war against democratic norms worldwide. Regardless of the reason, I felt morally opposed to cheffing this recipe up, but I didn’t adore the cake in its original state, either. So I ping-ponged between these two feelings for a ridiculously long time, which was just as unproductive as it sounds.

Finally, after much handwringing, I decided that any adapted Texas Sheet Cake must abide by these rules:

• The primary flavors should be chocolate and pecan (and perhaps cinnamon).

• It should be so simple to put together a child could make it. This means, to me, that the batter need only to be stirred together: no creaming of butter and sugar, no separating of eggs.

• The cake must be thin, with the dimensions of a traybake.

• The glaze must be applied while the cake is warm, so that it can penetrate the crumb of the cake.

• The glaze must, when cooled, have the matte, lightly set, fudgy quality of the original. No corn syrup for gloss, no velvety ganache. “Grainy” is not a word we generally feel positively about when it comes to baked goods, but in this case, the slight graininess of fudge candy or penuche is inherent to the identity of a Texas Sheet Cake frosting.

More than anything, the cake needs to be recognizable as a Texas Sheet Cake should it be whisked from my hands through an interdimensional portal and plopped onto a table at a barbecue in my mom’s hometown of Midland, Texas in 1975.

On KP+ Today:

Walnut, Nocino, and Brown Butter Texas Sheet Cake

Over on KP+, I’ve let my imagination run wild with an adaptation of a White Texas Sheet Cake, a lesser-known version of the dessert that retains the general format but omits the chocolate. My spin is unapologetically cheffy, with brown butter, rye, walnuts, and nocino.

The Recipe!

At last, it was time set to work.

Natural versus Dutch Processed Cocoa

First and foremost, my version of the cake needed to have a more pronounced chocolate flavor. Most American supermarkets only stock “natural” cocoa powder, powdered cocoa solids that generally have a low fat content and relatively high acidity. Growing up, the only brand of cocoa powder I ever saw on the shelf, or baked with, was Hershey’s, a natural cocoa powder. As a result, the majority of traditional chocolate cake recipes in the US are leavened with baking soda and also feature an acidic dairy, like buttermilk. The natural acidity of the cocoa powder, in concert with the acidic dairy, activates the baking soda and provides lift to the crumb, which will have a signature slightly reddish color. However, natural cocoa powder, especially lower-quality supermarket brands, doesn’t have a particularly deep chocolate flavor, and can sometimes be a bit chalky and bland. This is another one of those situations where nostalgia and innovation tug at each other. If everyone only has access to Hershey’s, then everyone’s Texas Sheet Cakes will always taste the same, a flavor throughline to the past. Supermarket, low-fat brands of natural cocoa lend the “original” Texas Sheet Cake a mild, kid-friendly flavor, but it just doesn’t suit my current palate. Happily, Dutch-process cocoa, which has been alkalized to lower its acidity and often has a richer flavor, is becoming more widely available in US supermarkets. Most often, I see the Droste brand in stores here:

Apropos of nothing, but this cocoa powder lends its name to the Droste Effect, wherein the label features a smaller image of the tin, featuring the same image, which must therefore logically extend on into infinity, or at least as long as the legibility of the pixels allows.

Of course, this whole debate is academic for those of you in the UK and Europe, since you’ll generally have much broader access to Dutched cocoa, (for a deeper dive, check out Nicola’s commentary in her own treatise on chocolate cake). Dutch-process cocoa is often higher in fat, and can produce a deeper, more chocolatey flavor in baked goods. For that reason, it’s the cocoa of choice for most pastry chefs, and is slowly being adopted by more home cooks on this continent as well. Here in the States, I source Cacao Berry Dutched cocoa online. I adapted the sheet cake to use Dutch-process cocoa by omitting some of the baking soda and replacing it with baking powder. I then upped the total amount of cocoa powder, with a little more buttermilk to balance the moisture level. There’s no need to adapt the glaze, since the frosting doesn’t rely on a chemical reaction with the cocoa’s acidity. The result was an immediate success: the cake was less overtly sweet, and had a lovely, fluffy texture.

Still, the glaze was sweeter than I preferred. I tried adding in some melted chocolate, but I felt like it changed the character of the glaze too much, and didn’t set into the matte sheen I was aiming for. So instead, I swapped in buttermilk for the milk and added a healthy dose of salt for some much-needed salinity and acidity to balance the sweet. I’m also using a bit less overall glaze.

At this point, I had to make a decision about the cinnamon. I did try a version with the spice in the cake, and while it was perfectly tasty, I’m just not convinced that chocolate cake is my favorite delivery vehicle for cinnamon. I’m including it as optional in the recipe if you’d like to try that version.

The toasted pecans of the original cake are lovely and simple, but if we’re going to have nuts on top of a cake, I want them to be deeply crunchy. I initially made a cinnamon- toffee coating for the pecans, which was absolutely delicious until I remembered that I’d decided the cake needs to be easy-to-make as part of its ethos, and we can’t have the kids making dry caramel. So we’re doing a subtle cinnamon and honey coating on the pecan instead, though if you’re short on time you can of course skip the candying (but don’t skip the toasting, which is essential to bringing out the pecan’s flavor).

Finally, I borrowed a tip from Granny Brown and baked the cake in a 9” x 13” inch dish rather than the traditional half sheet tray. While you’ll nearly always see Texas Sheet Cake baked in a thinner layer, bumping up the proportion of the cake to glaze helped further balance the sweetness for me. This is perhaps my largest deviation from tradition, but if it’s good enough for Granny, it’s good enough for me.

RECIPE: Texas Sheet Cake

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Ingredients

For the pecans:

• 15g Caster sugar

• 10g Corn Syrup

• 10g Honey

• ¼ tsp Kosher salt (Sub flaky salt)

• ⅛ tsp Cinnamon

• 140g Pecans, raw, roughly chopped

For the cake:

• 240g All-purpose flour

• 200g Light brown sugar

• 200g Granulated sugar (or superfine)

• 1 ¼ tsp Baking powder

• 1 tsp Kosher salt (sub for Flaky salt)

• ¼ tsp Baking soda

• ⅛ - ¼ tsp Cinnamon (optional)

• 240g Water

• 226g Butter

• 60g Dutch process cocoa

• 135g Buttermilk (or kefir)

• 2 Eggs (about 100g)

• 1 tsp Vanilla extract

For the glaze:

• 113g (1 stick) Butter

• 30g Dutch-process cocoa

• 330g Confectioner’s sugar, sifted

• 60g Buttermilk

• 1 tsp Vanilla extract

• ¼ tsp Kosher salt (sub flaky salt)

Method

• For the Pecans: Preheat the oven to 300°F / 148°C (low fan).

• Combine the sugar, corn syrup, honey, salt, and cinnamon in a small bowl. Add in the pecans and stir together (the mixture will be very sticky, but do the best you can to get the pecans evenly coated).

• Spread the mixture on a silpat and toast, stirring every five minutes or so, for 18-24 minutes, or until the pecans are deeply toasted and the sugary coating has formed an even, crystalline coating on the pecans. They won’t be crunchy fresh out of the oven, but will crisp up as they cool. If they’re still a bit tacky when cool, toast them for another five minutes or so. A note: this process may be faster in a convection oven.

• For the cake: Preheat the oven to 350°F / 176°C (low fan) / 160°C (fan). Grease and line a 9” x 13” inch brownie pan with parchment paper.

• In a medium bowl, whisk together the all-purpose flour, light brown sugar, granulated sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda.

• In a medium non-reactive pot, warm the water and butter until the butter has melted and the mixture has just come to a simmer. Whisk in the cocoa until it is fully dissolved. Let cool slightly. Tip the cocoa mixture into the flour mixture and whisk until smooth. Add the buttermilk, eggs, and vanilla and whisk again until the mixture is fully combined.

• Scrape into the prepared pan and bake for 28-30 minutes, or until the cake springs back to the touch [Editor’s Note: I am in the UK and it took closer to 35 minutes in my oven at 160°C fan] and has just begun to separate from the sides of the pan. If a skewer or toothpick is inserted into the middle of the cake, it will return with just a few moist crumbs and no wet batter – this will really depend on your oven, so check the cues rather than relying only on the timer.

• For the Glaze: While the cake is baking, melt the butter in a medium non-reactive pot. Whisk in the cocoa until fully dissolved. Add the confectioner’s sugar and buttermilk and whisk until smooth. Stir in the vanilla and salt, then taste and add a pinch more salt as needed.

• When the cake comes out of the oven, immediately scrape the glaze over the cake. Using an offset spatula, spread it into an even layer over the cake. Let the glaze set for five minutes before sprinkling the candied pecans in an even layer over the surface. Let the cake cool to just-warm room temperature before serving. The cake keeps excellently at room temperature for up to four days

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Welcome to today’s edition of Kitchen Projects. Thank you so much for being here.

You may notice that today marks the 200th (!!!) edition of the newsletter. And so I’m VERY excited to be sharing a very special edition and writing debut today… Please welcome pastry chef Alessandro Giannatempo!

Today, Alessandro brings you on a journey with him as he pursues Baumkuchen, the unique German cake that is usually baked… on a rotating spit. After discovering this cake in Japan, where it has become a beloved baked delicacy, Alessandro has developed his own, home-suitable version of the cake for you to enjoy today.

Over on KP+, Alessandro has developed an alternative Baumkuchen for you: Chocolate & Hojicha. WHAT a dream. You can get the recipe here.

What’s KP+? Well, it’s the level-up version of this newsletter. By joining KP+, you will support the writing and research that goes into the newsletter (including the commissioning - and fair payment - of all the writers), join a growing community, access extra content (inc. the entire archive) and more. Subscribing is easy and costs only £6 per month or £50 per year. Why not give it a go? Come and join the gang!

Subscribe now

Love,
Nicola

ps. I’m thinking we have a big party for the 250th edition… watch this space ;)

Introducing: Alessandro Giannatempo!

You may already be familiar with London-based Alessandro Giannatempo and his vibrant, evocative style of baking, one of a few pastry chefs who IS MAKING BAKING FUN AGAIN!!! From cakes dripping in jelly, to gingerbread puppet theatres, a truly viral tomato cake of dreams, to snake-shaped puff pastry, Alessandro brings genuine original vision and artistry to his baking. We all benefit from his experimental, bold and genuinely delicious desserts (and savoury cooking) that have a strong point of view and a confident, joy-bringing aesthetic. You really can’t help but smile when you see his work!

As well as recipe development and private commissions, Alessandro often runs workshops, supper clubs and pop-ups (in London, Madrid and Sicily, no less!) which you can find out about via his Instagram.

Earlier this year, after many years working in kitchens, Alessandro took the jump into the world of freelance and I’m so thrilled for you to read his first contribution to Kitchen Projects! Follow Alessandro’s adventures in cake & pastry here.

The Multilayered Story of Baumkuchen

by Alessandro Giannatempo

I always knew that a trip to Japan, as a pastry chef, would be pretty life-changing. What really surprised me, however, was falling in love with Baumkuchen, a German cake, in East Asia.

For the uninitiated, Baumkuchen is a layered cake unlike any other. Rather than stacking baked sheets of cakes with filling, baumkuchen is formed by baking thin layers of cake on top of one another, allowing each to set before applying the next. The baking part, which happens on a rotating spit, allows for perfectly even cooking and gives shape to the iconic concentric structure of the cake.

While visiting Kyoto earlier this year, I stumbled upon Ikariya Beika, a small bakery that exclusively bakes these kinds of delicacies. What really struck me was the ultra-soft, moist crumb and the fact that a cake can be flaky! The thin sponge layers that melt in your mouth were quite a revelation; It tasted quintessentially vanilla with hints of cream, in the most beautiful and delicate way – the ultimate yellow sponge cake, IMHO.

I went back to the bakery the following days to try more flavours and decided to taste as many baumkuchen as I could during my weeks across Japan. It wasn’t long until I started fantasising about baking cakes on a rotating spit and wondering how to achieve such a tender and layered sponge cake. The novel obsession (and frankly, also the sugar cravings) started to inhabit my daily thoughts. I needed to know: What actually is Baumkuchen? And how can I bake it at home?

Today on KP+!

Over on KP+, Alessandro has developed an alternative Baumkuchen flavour for you to try: Chocolate and Hojicha, the toasty roasted green tea. You can get the recipe below!

RECIPE!

A Brief History of Baumkuchen

Baumkuchen, also known as Tree cake for its multi-layered cross-section, finds its origins in Germany, though it is certainly part of a broader collective European tradition of spit-roasting pastries. While it can be difficult, if not impossible, to trace the exact origins of a dish due to historical contradictions and cultural overlaps, this style of cake has been around for centuries and finds unique expressions in a multitude of cultures: From the ancient Greek obelias to the Lithuanian Šakotis, the Polish Sękacz to the Hungarian Kürtőskalács, the Romanian Baumstriezel “chimney cake” made of a sweet yeasted dough to the Czech and Slovak Trdelník, as well as the French Gâteau à la Broche. You can also find a variety of textures, like the Swedish Spettekaka, which is closer to a crisp meringue texture.

Its ever-evolving nature has found fertile soil in Japan: when German pastry chef Karl Juchheim was arrested in China during WW1and deported as a prisoner-of-war to the island of Ninoshima, he began testing his Baumkuchen recipe in the internment camp. Once the war ended, Juncheim remained in Japan and commercially debuted the German cake at the Hiroshima Prefectural Commercial Exhibition on the 4th of March 1919. This date is celebrated today in Japan as Baumkuchen Day.

The cake grew rapidly in popularity, with adaptations on flavour and texture resulting in a version that is softer and moister than the original. While in Germany the concentrical nature of the form resembles the annual rings of a tree, it has its own special meaning in Japan, where it echoes the sacred Japanese Zen Buddhist symbol Ensō. As a result, enlightenment, prosperity, good luck and longevity became associated with the baked good. Its novelty also played an important role in the Japanese etiquette of gifting, seen as a vital part of Nipponic culture.

Amongst all the variants that I ate across the archipelago, from the commercially produced to the artisanal, my very favourite remains the first one. Ikariya Beika in Kyoto. There was an obvious difference in the quality of ingredients; store-bought often presented additives such as cellulose to retain moisture, processed fats like margarine and shortening, and preservatives. But the crucial “Aha!” moment arrived when I noticed that my favourite, unlike the others, was made exclusively with rice flour! Researching it further, I learned that they use a blend of non-glutinous and glutinous rice from Shiga Prefecture. This mix gifted the Baumkuchen with the melt-in-your-mouth quality I fell in love with. This kind of texture is called fuwa-fuwa in Japanese - an onomatopoeic term used to describe the consistency of something incredibly light and cloudlike.

The Baking, aka The Beginning of The Hero’s Journey

To develop my own Baumkuchen, I knew I’d need to start with a basic sponge recipe, something in the realm of the Chiffon sponges, with whipped eggs for a very fluffy crumb. However, I knew from the get-go that inventing a rotating rod system for a home oven would be well beyond my capabilities, so instead of a concentric structure, I decided to approach it with a vertical technique that involves building layer after layer in a tin and baking it under the broiler in the oven, to attempt to mimic the Baumkuchen spit-roasting high heat.

The first try, even though I had high hopes, ended up being a huge failure. I mean… many variables were working against me. But it’s okay… we’re here for the rideeeee after all, aren’t we?

While the cake was baking, I noticed that each layer would cook and brown with different timings. Sometimes it was a couple of minutes, and other times significantly longer. I persevered despite the obvious signs that something was clearly wrong with my initial plan. At first, the cake came out of the oven looking great. I let it cool for about an hour, but sadly, when I cut into it, my heart shattered (dramatic but true): All that time whipping the egg whites and all that gentle care in folding the batter for a cake that turned out extremely dry, gummy, and dense.

The baumkuchen was way overbaked, and I had to blame the oven. I immediately realised that the first major obstacle would be the baking, even more so the recipe. The inconsistency of heat had reared its ugly head as the main enemy. This led me to start a proper character study of my oven, and my hero’s journey was about to begin. I sat down next to it with a stopwatch and started timing the broiler setting, discovering that the heating would happen in cycles. In my case, the broiler would stay on for a couple of minutes and then go off for what felt like an eternity: eight never-ending minutes !!!

After a little internet browsing, I discovered that it was a totally normal oven mechanism, designed to prevent overheating and to maintain (rather than constantly exceed) high temperatures. So, to avoid overcooking the layers, I started doing a dance with when the cake should and should not be in the oven. The cake layers only bake well when exposed to the direct, radiant heat of the electric coil once it glows red. If the cake gets left in the oven while the broiler starts its cooling process, the sponge would turn rubbery and tough, aka TERRIBLY OVERBAKED.

During my second and third tests (we’ll get to these in a bit) - I learned that by leaving the oven door open while baking the cake, the temperature sensor would not be triggered and the heating cycle would not stop, allowing me to bake the cake without any interruptions! Golden brown and yet soooft. The loophole was found. And the battle was won… for now…

THE RECIPE ITSELF aka The Second Hindrance

Given the epic journey with the oven, I thought this part would be easier. Utterly oblivious, I embarked on a new arduous expedition to formulate the recipe. I started by deciphering the ingredient list of Kyoto’s baumkuchen as a jumping-off point: eggs, sugar, butter, vegetable oil, rice flour, fresh cream, tapioca starch, rice starch, rum, salt, vanilla, baking powder, and emulsifiers. All the elements fall into the category of a classic chiffon cake. I noticed the use of two different starches, but to simplify the process, I decided to stick with tapioca starch. It’s derived from the cassava root and is widely used to achieve a fluffy, light and spongy texture in gluten-free baking.

I started with a base ratio of 6 eggs and then built it from there.

The first attempt had 1 tsp of vanilla, 1 tsp of rum, 100gr double cream, 60gr of melted butter, ½ tsp of fine sea salt, 140gr of sugar, 100gr of rice flour, 20gr of tapioca starch and ½ tsp of baking powder, all baked in a 10-inch tin. It unfortunately resulted in a very dense cake. For the second test, with the goal of a softer crumb, I swapped the butter for oil, increased the baking powder and shortened the baking time for each layer. The result was much better than the first one, but I wasn’t satisfied. For the third trial, I decided to test it with cornstarch instead of tapioca starch, which is easier to find (thinking of you, home bakers), and I hoped it would solve all my problems. I was wrong, pretty wrong.

The baumkuchen turned out drier, crumblier, and with a firmer crumb. So for the fourth test, I went back to the second recipe with tapioca starch, my favourite so far. In search of more layers (taller cake) and a more flavourful and moist crumb, I opted for two crucial changes: baking the cake in an 8-inch pan instead of a 10-inch pan and increasing the liquids (cream, rum, vanilla and sugar) and fat. The cake turned out taller, softer and very delicious. I was very happy. I felt like we were almost there.

The downside was that the crumb was now a bit too wet. I overshot it with the additions. I had managed to nearly double the number of layers of the first attempts, but I couldn’t help but notice that the last 4 layers lost too much volume. So, to avoid that, I decanted the cake batter into a new bowl once it was ready, just to make sure no unmixed yolk mixture remained at the bottom.

The fifth test turned out to be our recipe! I slightly decreased the liquids and fat and added a bit more salt - and BAM! We got it! As for the glaze, I tried a few times to ice it with a thin coating like the original I ate. But it always looked too unappealing. Instead, I decided to pipe a thicker glaze to mimic the concentric nature of the traditional Baumkuchen. If you don’t feel like piping, totally acceptable; omit this step and simply cover it with icing sugar. The cake really benefits from that little sweet kick. Trust me.

RECIPE: BAUMKUCHEN

by Alessandro Giannatempo

Makes 1x 8-inch round cake (the tin is 4 inches tall), serves 6-8

Baumkuchen sponge:

• 6 Eggs

• 50g caster sugar (I)

• 100g caster sugar (II)

• 110g double cream

• 75g vegetable oil

• ¾ tsp fine sea salt (4 grams)

• 1 Tbsp dark Rum

• 1 tsp good quality vanilla extract

• 100g Rice flour

• 20g Tapioca starch

• 1 tsp Baking powder

Glaze:

• 30g icing sugar

• ¾ tsp water

• ½ tsp vanilla extract

Method

• Line the bottom of the tin with parchment paper.

• Divide the eggs. In a medium bowl, whisk the egg yolks by hand with the 50g caster sugar (I) and the salt until pale, about 2 minutes. Add the rum, vanilla extract, oil, double cream and whisk until fully incorporated.

• In a different bowl, whisk together the rice flour, tapioca starch and baking powder. Now sift the dry ingredients over the egg yolk mixture and mix until combined.

• With the help of a stand mixer or an electric whisk, whisk the egg whites on high speed for about 20 seconds to break them down, then continue whisking on medium speed, gradually adding the caster sugar (II). Keep whisking until you obtain a glossy meringue with stiff peaks.

• Preheat the oven to 200 °C with the broiler (grill) on, place a rack closer to the top, and make sure to leave the oven door open.

• With the help of a hand whisk, fold the whipped egg whites into the egg yolk mixture in three additions.

• Once the broiler electric coil is glowing red, you can start the dance of baking the Baumkuchen. Add 50 grams of the batter into the tin, spreading it into a thin layer with the help of a spatula. Place the tin in the oven, leaving the door open, and bake for about 1.5-2 minutes ( or until you notice it starting to brown). Being extra careful and using a dry kitchen towel, remove the cake from the oven, add 50 grams of the batter, spread it as uniformly as you can and return it to the oven. Bake for 2 minutes more ( or until you notice it starting to brown).

• Continue now with the remaining batter. You should get about 13-14 layers. You might need to sacrifice the last bit of batter if it seems too liquidy and runny. It’s okay. We don’t want a rubbery layer anyway.

• Let the cake cool in the pan, then transfer it to a plate.

• To finish, mix the icing sugar with the vanilla and water to create a paste – you might need to add a bit more icing sugar or a drizzle of water to get a paste that is just thick enough to pipe.

• With the help of a piping bag, pipe a spiral starting from the centre outwards. Let the icing dry for about an hour. Cut and serve. The cake will last for about a week, well wrapped, at room temperature. If anything, it will get better with time!

It’s a question I’ve had for about a year, but my strictly seasonally abiding mental restraints have prevented me from exploring this question until now, with Easter finally in spitting distance. (Note to self: think about whether ‘spitting distance’ is a good phrase for a piece of writing that is supposed to be tempting people into baking).

You see, I LOVE hot cross buns. I return yearly to my trusty recipe and, in the last five years that I’ve been writing this newsletter, we’ve seen this season come and go together many times. With it has come an ever-widening net of hot cross bun adjacent bakes and increasingly dysfunctional thematic recipes that have spanned form, function and logic: A cookie, a BUN-dt, custard-stuffed swirls, CROSS-aints. The puns, while not exhausted, have somewhat run the gamut and heading into 2026, I wanted to do something a little different.

So, what if I suggested a savoury bake? Perhaps I am “late to the game” for this particular internet-beloved bake, but garlicky Korean cream cheese-stuffed breads, baked then cut & stuffed in a geometric pattern, are not miles away, at least visually, from a hot cross bun. And I think it is a fact that bread, garlic and butter are a combination that could never truly be bad. I gave a few runs at it, and I’m thrilled to offer you an alternative bake for the weekend: Hot Cross Cheesy Garlic Buns.

Here’s how we’ll do it: Start off with a soft, tender dinner-roll style bun with a tangzhong base. Once proofed, shape into buns and tuck into a square pan and let them proof together before baking til golden. When they are cool enough to handle, we use a sharp knife (my serrated tomato knife from Victorinox worked best) to cut crosses about halfway into the baked buns. Into this gap, we spoon garlic butter (with parsley, if desired), then fill with a cheesy bechamel. Pop back into the oven and bake until melty and crisp, then drench with the remaining butter. The results are… undeniably delicious.

I tried a version using the classic cream cheese filling, and while good, I prefer a more deeply cheesy and unctuous texture, which you can get from bechamel. It also makes a much more satisfying cross on top! I’m not sure the best time to serve these – perhaps as a starter before lunch? Or as a snack? They reheat unbelievably well. Ten to twenty seconds

Since we have arrived in wild garlic season here in the UK (and I believe ramps are Ramp-ant in the US), I also tried a version with wild garlic butter, which is, unsurprisingly, very gorgeous. You can follow the directions for the buns below and sub in wild garlic butter, which you can find a recipe for here.

Whether you make these buns, the classic HXB, or choose not to bake at all this long weekend, I hope it is sunny, I hope you are blessed with all the chocolate eggs, crisp sugar-shelled ones and little gold wrapped bunnies, and I’ll see you soon.

RECIPE: Cheesy Hot Cross Garlic Buns

Read more

Whether a long weekend means a marathon of hosting, or maybe just 3 days of sofa time, there’s something here on the newsletter for every level of baking effort; Are you a bun person, ready to dive into a fluffy dough based project or a chocolate person (you can, of course, be both) who just wants something satisfying for the middle of your table? In any case, I’m thrilled to take you through some of my favourite Springy recipes.

HXB ASSEMBLE!

Classic Hot Cross Buns

An absolute classic. And I’m so proud to say that I remake my recipe every year (third year running!) and I still think it’s the best I’ve ever had. See for yourself! Click here for the recipe.

If you have SIFT, there is a recipe for “Festive Buns” on pg. 179 which is a different dough, uses a tangzhong and isn’t traditionally spiced (it uses white chocolate and raisins). It makes a great bun, too, if you’re looking for something a bit different!

The Hot Cross Bundt

A resplendent member of Hot Cross Bun extended family. To be honest, there’s nothing I love more than an HXB adjacent bake and I’ve got a LOT of them. This might just be the crown jewel though! Click here for the recipe.

Hot Cross Custard Buns

Tender swirls of dough with a spiced custard filling. What’s not to love? Click here for the recipe.

Hot CROISSANT buns

What do I love more… puns or buns? Tbh, I love both equally. Luckily, with this bake, you don’t have to choose. Spiced laminated dough with flecks of raisins and mixed peel and folded to show off all those layers. It’s what hot cross buns would wear to the met gala. Click here for the recipe

HXB cookies

The ooiest, gooiest version of HXB out there: Cookies. Fudgy, chewy, sticky. It’s definitely the fun young cousin of the HXB family. Check em out here.

Breads

Wild Garlic Loops

Whilst you are rambling around in the sunny spring weather, perhaps you’ll come across a patch of wild garlic leaves. If you do, I highly recommend processing the aromatic leaves into a bright green butter, then folding it through an airy dough. There is a vaguely pagan energy to these, which feels good in the aftermath of Spring Equinox. Click here to make them.

St Clement’s Bread / Tart

Last year, I set myself the task of developing a new Easter Bread tradition, inspired by some of the enriched annual classics. The result was a marzipan-stuffed, peel-and-dried fruit-heavy bread that could be braided and twisted into a festive shape and presented in the middle of the table. I named it the St Clement’s Bread, and it will certainly be making an appearance at my table again this year. The tart version, with a just-set lemon-y custard, is a gorgeous version to serve as pudding. Click here for the recipe.

VERY SPRINGY THINGS

Once the buns have been eaten, you’ve still got room for dessert, or a slice of cake, right? Here’s my favourite projects for afternoon tea or to revive you from a post-lunch slump.

Little Lamb religieuse

As much as I love Browen Wyatt’s Modern Lamb Cakes, I can’t resist these little lamb religuese - a stack of choux buns filled with pistachio and citrus. Absolute winners! Read all about them here.

Lemon butter biscuits

Nothing screams Easter like a pastel palette. Serve with tea to energise yourself ahead of an egg hunt. Recipe here!

Pistachio gateau basque

Another springtime palette special - this time ft pistachios! Crumbly but rich pastry stuffed with custard. A perfect post-lunch dessert. Click here for the recipe.

Fancy Cake

A recent entry into the world of cakes that I am now obsessed with is this “fancy cake”, a cross between a fondant fancy and a detroit Bumpy cake. Who knew that Yorkshire and Detroit would have such a cute baby? Anyway, this is such a fun cake to make and never fails to bring a smile and feeling of joy to one’s face / life. Click here for the recipe.

CHOCOLATE ALL DAY!

If there’s anything that deserves a place right at the heart of your easter table, it’s something outrageously chocolately. Here are a few options:

Mocha Pavlova Nests

The tangy milk chocolate whip is SO delicious. If you aren’t a fan of mini eggs (why???), then you can use preserved cherries here for an elevated sunday lunch alternative. Also Gluten-free, so great for passover! Click here for the recipe.

Secret Chocolate Cake

This cake has a secret… the two layers are made from the same mix! One is baked, the other is spread on top, inspired by a Gateau Marcel. You can get the recipe in SIFT, or right here. Also Gluten-free, so great for passover! Click here for the recipe.

Gianduja Cakes

A perfect recipe by columnist Octavia Lamb - you can use pretty much any size tin for this, though the cubes are utterly gorgeous. Click here for the recipe.

Brown Butter Milk Chocolate Pots

Simple, perfect, or simply perfect, this brown-butter milk-chocolate cremeux/ganache lovechild has a gorgeous texture and an elevated, nostalgic flavour that I can’t get enough of. Also Gluten-free, so great for passover! I do think mini eggs on top of this would rock. Click here for the recipe.

Welcome to today’s edition of Kitchen Projects. Thank you so much for being here.

Today I’m thrilled to share this cookbook special with you ft. Matt Adlard and The Science of Baking. You know I love nothing more than lifting up the proverbial ‘hood’ (is that the right thing to say? I can’t drive… yet!) of a baked good and seeing what’s inside, and I’m excited to share a Q&A with Matt as well as extract the recipe for a total classic from his book: Chocolate Soufflé!

On KP+, Matt has developed a recipe especially for the newsletter: A Rhubarb and Custard Soufflé with a crumble top. It’s like a fruity cloud! You can get the recipe here.

What’s KP+? Well, it’s the level-up version of this newsletter. By joining KP+, you will support the writing and research that goes into the newsletter (including the commissioning - and fair payment - of all the writers), join a growing community, access extra content (inc. the entire archive) and more. Subscribing is easy and costs only £6 per month or £50 per year. Why not give it a go? Come and join the gang!

Subscribe now

Love,
Nicola

Is Baking Really A Science?

If you're reading this newsletter, I’m confident that you’re at least relatively invested in the technical side of baking. I don’t need to convince you that it is genuinely exciting to mess around with the balance of whites and yolks in a recipe. And I know you are not going to switch off if the words “mouthfeel” or “starch gelatinisation” pop casually into a paragraph – we are kindred spirits in search of not just the “how” of baking, but also the “why.” There’s a collective professional nosiness about the inner workings of cakes, pastries and everything in between; You’ve probably questioned whether a split batter is really “fine”, or why croissants are the Mount Everest of hand-lamination… or why something as simple as a sponge cake can rise so valiantly just so fall so miserably (rude!).

Anything that lives in that middle section of that ‘Baking’ and ‘Technique’ Venn Diagram immediately earns a place on my bookshelf. So, it’s no surprise that ‘The Science of Baking’ by Matt Adlard immediately piqued my interest.

If you aren’t familiar with Matt Adlard… do you even have a phone?! Let me fill you in: Matt Adlard is a self-taught pastry chef from Norwich and the author of two books, ‘Bake it Better’, published in 2023 and ‘The Science of Baking’, published just last week. Matt grew up above a restaurant (Michelin-starred, no less!) owned and run by his chef dad and has, over the last decade, amassed millions of followers across social media. Matt is known for his highly detailed, architectural desserts that have been engineered to perfection. You are just as likely to see a palette knife put to work in Matt’s process as you are an 80mm pipe from B&Q.

But it wasn’t always 3D printers and latticed mille-feuilles; By his own admission, Matt’s journey into baking has been “a long journey” that began with “taking my shirt off… filtering the life out of Instagram pictures” and “making wonky cakes” photographed “against my bathroom wall.” This candid approach to failure and humble beginnings has always appealed to me – I certainly feel like a perma-student, and this newsletter is built on the idea that the journey of recipe development (and, I guess, SKILL development?!?) is just as important as the final product. Matt hopes that he “can put all the failures to use”, a sentiment I wholeheartedly agree with.

The Science of Baking is the latest in DK Books’ “The Science of…” series, a collection of illustrated informational guides to topics ranging from Yoga to Spice to Reading. The baking edition is packed with information, with breakout ‘in focus’ double-page spreads penned by Food Scientist Dr Josh Smalley, as well as recipes for 50 baking classics, each supported with clear step-by-step photography (Shout out Matt Hague and Holly Cochrane, dream team!) to guide you through everything from Rye Bread to Macarons.

I sat down with Matt to learn about his approach to writing this book, find out which recipes caused him the most grief (and joy!) and discuss the kitchen tools we rely on to solve pretty much any problem that comes our way. I’m also thrilled to extract the recipe for chocolate soufflé, which, I can confirm, rises in such a confident and upright manner that any fears you might have about the dish (and we’ll talk more about that in a bit) will be quashed.

Over on KP+, Matt has developed a recipe especially for the newsletter: Rhubarb Soufflé with a Crumble topping – it is a cloud of rhubarb joy!

Click here for the recipe and to learn about the brilliant trials and tribulations of developing the recipe.

Rhubarb & Custard Soufflé Recipe

THE Q&A

Nicola: You’re obviously very well known for your videos on social media — these extraordinary, very detailed bakes. What was it like applying that level of detail to something as simple as a Victoria sponge? Did it feel like a step-down?!

Matt: No! The Victoria sponge was one of the most interesting ones that I enjoyed doing. Because, truth be told, I always worked off the Women’s Institute recipe. Years ago I converted it all to grams and worked it out. But the thing with a Victoria sponge is everyone says, “Oh, your batter will split and you just add a tablespoon of flour and that will fix it.” And after all the research we did with Dr. Josh Smalley [the collaborator on The Science of Baking], it’s like — that batter is split. You have not emulsified it correctly. Yes, you can bake it, and it will be a nice cake, but technically, you’ve split that batter.

So it was really fun to work on a really simple recipe and work out what techniques we needed to introduce to make sure that batter didn’t split.

Nicola: What’s the secret?

Matt: It’s just about the temperature of the eggs and the butter. You’re beating the butter and sugar to quite a specific temperature range, and the eggs aren’t cold or room temperature — they’re slightly warmer. So you warm the eggs, and you heat the butter-sugar mixture with a hairdryer or heat gun, and then you slowly drizzle the eggs in. You should get a perfectly emulsified cake batter that doesn’t split.

Nicola: So many problems in the pastry kitchen can be solved by just putting a blowtorch on it.

Matt: A blowtorch or a hand blender solves everything. I make mistakes all the time… I’m just like, I’m going to heat the life out of it, melt it, blend it, anything to try and fix it.

Nicola: That feels like a big part of why books are useful and why we do what we do! We are trying to teach principles. If people want to just throw everything together, they can. But if they want to understand what makes something better, this gives them that.

Matt: Exactly.

Nicola: What was it like collaborating with [Food Scientist and co-author] Dr Josh Smalley?

Matt: I’d write up my scientific text and intros, and he would go through and check that I hadn’t fibbed, basically. Or he’d add a layer of depth if something was missing. [Smalley] wrote a lot of the more in-focus sections on things like dairy, fats and chocolate. So we sort of swapped roles there – I’d sense-check what he was doing from a baker’s point of view. He also had access to this microscope at the University of Leicester – a 30,000-times zoom microscope — so those ingredient images in the book came from that!

Nicola: Are there any other baking “fake news” things that annoy you?

Matt: Croissants are quite interesting. When I started making them, I was just using supermarket butter, which is fine… You can make a croissant with that. But I went to France and saw how they manufacture butter specifically for lamination. It has these beta crystals that make it really flexible.

We did a demonstration, and someone took a block of their butter straight from the fridge and laminated it, and I was like, what? And that’s why you see bakeries doing it so easily. At home, when you’re using standard butter, it cracks and splits — it’s really difficult.

So the cheat code is really that fancy butter. It makes a world of difference.

Nicola: Did you learn that the hard way?

Matt: Completely. I remember seeing this marbling in the dough and just being so upset because it was ruined. It is one of the most challenging things – that’s why when I go to a bakery, I’ll always order a plain croissant. Once you’ve made a croissant, you’ll eat one at every bakery!

Nicola: Cookbook writing can be very personal. How did you balance the fact that this is your book, but it’s not exactly a memoir with recipes like most cookbooks tend to be?

Matt: It’s different to my first book, which was very much about me. This is part of a series. My name is on it, but it’s about the book working globally. That said, I think anyone who follows me will still see my style — the design, the finish, the level of detail, the way I write recipes.

Highs & Lows

Nicola: Sorry to bring it up, but I remember all the trauma you went through with developing the chiffon cake…

Matt: I think it was thirteen fails in the final count. It was collapsing, or I was underbaking it, or as I inverted it, it was falling out of the tin. And then, once I got closer, I kept getting this very thin gummy line through it. The whole thing looked beautifully baked, but there was this one strip where it was just slightly underbaked, and it was infuriating.

Nicola: What was the fix in the end?

Matt: It was to do with the oil and lemon juice ratio being off. Helen Goh [Editor’s Note: You can get Helen’s recipe for Pandan Chiffon on the newsletter, here] actually messaged me and we spoke on the phone for an hour. She gave me loads of tips. And I was looking at Rose Levy Beranbaum, too. It was really one of those recipes where I had to just force it into existence.

Nicola: And then once you’ve got it working at home, you have to shoot it in a studio oven.

Matt: Exactly. That’s the other problem. You do all this development in your home oven, and then you get to the studio, and it’s completely different. And with a book called The Science of Baking, there’s a lot of pressure. It can’t be wrong!

Nicola: If someone was going to bake just three recipes from this book (obviously, other than the Soufflé, which you can find below!), which should they be?

Matt: Definitely the Lemon Tart. And the Tart Tatin and then the shortbread.

Nicola: What do you hope people will take away from this book?

Matt: I just want to inspire people. I want someone to make a cake and say, ‘That is the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had,’ or, ‘That’s as good as the bakery.’ When you give somebody a recipe that gives them that moment… that little bit of joy, that sense of pride, that smile on somebody’s face when you serve it — that’s amazing. And that’s really what I want to do, whether it’s through books or social media or anything else.

The Science of Baking by Matt Adlard (DK Books, £25) is out now. Click here to order a copy.

SOUFFLE: IN FOCUS

Soufflé is one of those desserts that has become a synonym for ‘difficult’; in a TV show or book, you’d learn a lot about a character if they were attempting to serve soufflé at a dinner party. It’s one of those dishes that comes with inherent stakes. How many dishes are paired with timing warnings on restaurant menus?!

We’ve dipped our proverbial toe into the soufflé pool here on Kitchen Projects in the past - first there was the birthday cake soufflé, and then there was the sticky toffee soufflé. But today, I’m very excited to share an extract from Matt Adlard and The Science of Baking, a veritable deep dive into soufflé.

During our conversation, I asked Matt about his pursuit of the soufflé — chocolate for the book and, excitingly, rhubarb, which he developed especially for this newsletter (and is available now on KP+). Despite its tricky reputation, you may be happy to hear that Matt describes it as surprisingly reliable once you understand it (and have a good recipe).

“I’d only really done chocolate soufflé for years…” Matt tells me, “and I developed this recipe that has never failed me.” I can attest to that – I made the recipe and they, as promised, rose impressively.

It was the fruit versions that proved more elusive. Without the stabilising effect (and flavour) of chocolate, they can feel “a little bit meh” if not carefully balanced. Getting there meant working through different purées and thickening methods until the texture held.

“Fruit soufflés are just a bit lighter and a bit weaker… it took a while to balance.” While the chocolate soufflé stands alone (with a suggested serving of warm crème anglaise), the rhubarb version comes topped with crumble, alongside custard.

So what of timing? How long do we really have to get it onto the table?

“About four minutes.”

Now that is the kind of honesty in baking I can get behind. Timers on, let’s bake Soufflé!

SOUFFLÉS

Extracted from The Science of Baking by Matt Adlard (DK, £25)

Soufflés are best known for their fleeting perfection – from a tall, proud rise one minute to a deflated disaster the next! However, understanding the processes at work in this delicate bake will help to ensure a perfect result every time.

Soufflés are prepared with a flavoured “base” – chocolate, for example – which is traditionally leavened with a French meringue (see p180), to give that iconic structure and texture. While the base can be made in advance, the meringue must always be prepared and incorporated right before baking due to its instability. Once the meringue is whisked to a stiff peak (see opposite), air trapped within the foam gradually begins to dissipate, causing the soufflé to lose structure. The longer a meringue is left to sit, the less volume it retains, resulting in a lower rise and denser texture in the soufflé.

THERMAL EXPANSION AND RISE

The law of volumes – known as Charles’s Law –explains how a soufflé behaves once it enters the oven. The law states that the volume of a gas is directly proportional to its temperature when pressure is constant. Essentially, when a gas is heated, it increases in volume. So when a soufflé

is baked, the air bubbles that have been trapped during the whisking process expand and, combined with steam, cause the soufflé to puff up. The proteins in the egg then coagulate from the heat, setting the structure and rise of the soufflé in place.

The temperature of the oven, however, is key. Too hot and the outside will set before the centre is cooked. Too low and the soufflé won’t rise in time for the proteins to set the right structure. Typically, 180–190°C (160–170°C fan/350–375°F/Gas 4–5) is ideal for a proper rise and a cooked centre.

THE INTERACTION OF FATS

The base of a chocolate soufflé often starts with a simple roux as well as egg yolks and chocolate, which bring rich flavour. However, while the fats add a velvet-like texture, they can also disrupt the network that traps air in the meringue. The fats coat the proteins, making it harder for them to bond and form a stable foam. This makes the meringue more liable to collapse, leading to a soufflé with a less significant rise. This issue is exacerbated if the chocolate base is warm when incorporated, so cooling it first is essential.

Can you stop a soufflé collapsing?

As soon as a soufflé leaves the oven, thermal contraction starts. The hot air inside cools and the steam condenses back into liquid, causing a decrease in pressure and volume. Although the proteins have coagulated, the structure is weak without extra support such as gluten. Whisking the meringue to stiff peaks and adding the base when cool can delay the process, but the soufflé will eventually collapse, so serve immediately.

RECIPE: Chocolate Soufflé

A recipe every baker needs, this soufflé is rich in chocolate flavour with a light, airy texture. Try serving it with vanilla crème anglaise poured into the centre.

Serves 4

Equipment: four 9 x 5.5cm (3.5 x 2.2 inch) ramekins

Beurre manie

• 50g unsalted butter, softened

• 50g plain flour

• pinch of sea salt

Chocolate base

• 270g full-fat milk

• 50g g caster sugar

• 200g dark chocolate (50–60% cocoa solids), chopped

• 110g egg yolks

French meringue

• 180g egg whites

• 70g g caster sugar

Beurre Manie

• Into a small bowl, add the butter, flour and salt and use a spatula to form it into a paste. Set aside. It’s important to have soft butter here, otherwise it can be a pain to get it to form into a paste!

Chocolate Base

• Heat the milk and sugar in a medium saucepan over a medium heat and stir occasionally until the sugar has dissolved and the mixture is steaming.

• Remove it from the heat and add in the beurre manie. Whisk this through until it has dissolved, then place the pan back on the heat and whisk constantly until the mixture has thickened and holds a slightly more elastic consistency.

• Remove it from the heat and whisk in the chocolate until the chocolate has completely dissolved. Don’t worry if it looks slightly greasy or split here. Scoop this mixture into a medium bowl.

• Add the egg yolks and immediately whisk until you have a smooth, glossy mixture. Cover the surface with cling film and let it rest for 30 minutes.

French Meringue & Assembly

• Preheat the oven to 160C/320F fan-assisted. Lightly grease the ramekins with soft butter, using an upwards stroking motion. Tip in a few tablespoons of sugar and swirl this around, tipping out the excess. Place these on a tray and set to one side.

• Add the egg whites to a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment and whisk on medium-low speed until the mixture is frothy and thick bubbles have formed.

• With the speed on medium, slowly add in the sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, waiting about 15–30 seconds in between each addition. Once you’ve added all the sugar, keep whisking until you have a stiff meringue.

• Take the first third of meringue and fold this through with a whisk to balance the two textures, then fold the remaining 2 parts in with a rubber spatula, until you have a homogenous mixture with no streaks of meringue.

• Add the soufflé mixture to a piping bag, and pipe the mixture into the ramekins, filling them to the top.

• Use a palette knife to smooth the top and create a flush edge, then quickly run your thumb around the outside of the soufflé to create a rim.

• Place them into the oven immediately and bake for 18 minutes. Remove from the oven and serve immediately. They should be well risen!

It comes with a crumble top, and I can attest it is like eating a pink…

Read more

Welcome to today’s edition of Kitchen Projects. Thank you so much for being here.

With St Patrick’s Day just around the corner, I am very excited to welcome writer & baker extraordinaire back to the newsletter to tell us all about Guinness Bread. Interweaving her experiences of living in Dublin and her years baking, Cissy gives us a delicious, damp yet crusty loaf that is literally good with everything.

On KP+, Cissy has taken her stout bread to new dimensional planes, creating a granola from the crumbs — waste not, want… very much! Click here to read it! You can also follow Cissy on Instagram here.

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Love,
Nicola

On Guinness Bread

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It feels wrong to be writing about Guinness bread as an English woman, let me just begin there. It feels especially wrong as there are so many talented female Irish bakers out there: Fiona Fitzpatrick, Ciara Ó hArtghaile, Cherie Denham, Charlotte Leonard-Kane, Sarah Richards, Katie Smith, Sarah Fox and Beth O’ Brien, to name just a few. There’s also 800 years of oppression to contend with, and the continual fetishization of being Irish by those who have little connection to the country. In fact, it feels as if it’s never been cooler to be Irish, especially in London: Claddagh rings, GAA shorts and splitting the G are rife.

But despite all that, here I am writing about Guinness bread.

Yes, I am lucky enough to own a burgundy, harp-embossed passport that might fool the European passport control; but ultimately, I’m not really Irish. And sure, it’s in my blood - thanks Granny Isobel - but I didn’t actually grow up scoffing potato farls, singing Ra songs at lock-ins, or watching the hurling. No, these are all things that have just become part of my DNA by living in the country for a number of years, natural adoptions to my character to help me fit in. These feel like wearing a gold medal for the place I love. How beautifully hypocritical I am!

When I lived in Dublin, I worked at Scéal Bakery. Before they opened their seaview site in Greystones, we operated out of a tiny commercial unit in Smithfield, a now trendy (according to various articles) area in the Northside of the city (according to various articles) but which was once very working class. My commute to work saw me weaving through the cobbled backstreets of The Liberties on my blue racer bike with pink-taped handlebars. In the wee hours, my tires would bounce across the stones, reverberating into my soul. The area was dyed black in the dark. The only other real sign of life at this hour being the wafts of brewing hops that breezed out of the Guinness factory, following me through the streets and across the river. Each week, the smells would shift from dank and mealy, to deeply toasted, to something sweet. An echo of the different stages of brewing happening inside.

At a more normal time of the day, the cobbled streets are ranked by horses and carts. The owners, mostly young teenage boys, sit slouched in the carriages, puffing on plastic vapes, waiting for the swarms of tourists to shuffle out of the Guinness Storehouse. Their presence adds to the old-fashioned theatrics of this cultural Irish institution.

The legacy of the stout (which you can learn all about at the Storehouse) comes from watching a tulip-shaped glass fill with a dark, ruby liquid that, whilst briefly resting on top of the bar, magically forms a creamy head. The performance of pouring a pint of Guinness is as mesmerising as it is delicious. To sip a pint of the “black stuff”, wherever you are in the world, is an unwavering symbol for Irish culture.

For a baker, using Guinness as an ingredient, rather than an enjoyable drink to scull, isn’t any less fraught with feeling. In cooking, the stout can be used to deepen the richness of stews, to glaze and braise thick cuts of meat, as well as lend moisture to decadent cakes. It’s no surprise then that it would eventually marry another Irish icon: soda bread.

Maura Laverty (one of the first Irish female celebrity chefs, but also novelist and playwright) wrote in her 1960 cookbook Full & Plenty, “we have given a four-leaved shamrock to the world. One leaf is W.B. Yeats, another is boiled potatoes in their jackets, another Barry Fitzgerald. The fourth is soda bread. And the greatest of these is soda-bread. Spongy white soda-bread with a floury, brown, crossed crust…”

Laverty isn’t wrong.

ON KP+ TODAY

Cissy Difford shares a recipe for Marmalade Toast Granola using the crumbs of the soda bread — possibly the most genius double down on breakfast ever.

Marmalade Toast Granola

Soda Bread

Soda bread: a type of quick bread that is, as the name suggests, bread that can be mixed and baked immediately. Unlike the painstaking labour of love that is sourdough starter, soda bread rises from the wizardry of chemical leaveners. This is because when you mix bicarbonate of soda or baking powder with an acidic ingredient, like buttermilk, yoghurt or kefir, carbon dioxide is produced. This creates lots of small air bubbles inside a batter that expands in the heat of the oven, causing it to rise.

My first experience with this type of bread was at another Irish institution, The Ballymaloe House Hotel kitchen, where I worked as an apprentice before becoming a baker. Here, mis-en-place jobs included the classic Ballymaloe staples like Carrageen Moss Pudding, turning out ice bowls for the ice cream display, poaching whole pears in a golden saffron liquid and making soda bread. Here the soda bread is soft, sweet and spongey. And there was always a basket lying around to nibble on.

What made the baking of this bread feel so special, was the fact that tangy curds of buttermilk arrived straight from the dairy (only a stone’s throw away) in clunky milk churns. We ladled straight from these churns into bowls of flour, then mixed everything by hand. Without the facades of modern-day equipment, the simplicity of the dough - flour, salt, bicarbonate of soda and buttermilk - and the omission of perfection often found in other dishes, I felt deeply rooted to all those who had practiced this craft before me.

Although my nostalgia might make soda bread out to be some sort of primal act, its history is surprisingly recent: itself only existing since around the 1850s when bicarbonate of soda was first industrially produced. For people living in remote areas like rural Ireland and the Scottish highlands, breads like these (soda, potato farls and oatcakes) were ‘invaluable’ to the home cook, because they required very little from you. No forward planning, proving or kneading is necessary. They could be baked in a bastible (a flat bottomed cast-iron pot) over the hearth, or on a griddle too. A perfect method for cottages that didn’t have ovens.

The other ingredients in soda bread similarly reflect what was accessible and affordable at the time. We’re talking about the years of the Famine (An Gorta Mór literally meaning The Great Hunger), when high-quality ingredients, like strong flour and yeast were impossible to source. Families were forced to be inventive and survive off the little local ingredients they had. At the time, Irish wheat was naturally soft and low in gluten, making it excellent for this type of tender crumbed loaf. It put soda bread on the map as ‘a symbol for ingenuity in the face of hardship’ in post-Famine Ireland, asserting its symbolic ties with Irish identity.

(Today, both Irish wheat and our understanding of how to work with lower protein flour is very different, and beautiful loaves can be produced. But that’s a story for another time).

Another ingredient not to be overlooked in soda bread is superstition. Like Maura Laverty’s image of a four-leaved shamrock, soda bread dough is flattened into a disc then cut into four before baking. Irish superstition would have you believe the cross in the top of the loaf is to ‘let the fairies out’. These fairies, notoriously cheeky, were blamed for loaves falling flat. By letting them fly free, you’d ward off evil to ensure a well-baked loaf. Whatever you believe, scoring dough has a practical purpose too. It helps guide the loaf’s expansion in a controlled way, preventing it from bursting into a random, jagged shape.

It’s no surprise, then, that to make a loaf of soda bread means more than just the sum of its parts.

For me, folding stout and treacle into soda bread feels inevitable; a way of capturing those intoxicating, malty Dublin streets I knew so well in a loaf. Dark stout breads have long sat alongside traditional soda bread, shaped, like all baking, by whatever the cupboard could offer. Here, the stout lends a deep bitterness that melts into the sweetness of treacle, producing something rich, almost honeyed, and faintly indulgent. It’s the kind of bread best eaten in thick slices with salty butter. Ideally in the snug of a coastal pub, surrounded by a buffet of Tayto packets, a bowl of hot chowder, and creamy pints. This recipe is for when that place, and the people in it, feel impossibly far away.

I secretly slipped a small slice of Guinness bread into my handbag at the end of a dinner in Lahinch. Miraculously, it survived the journey - via a pub stop and Shannon Airport - and made it safely back to London the next day. A triumph against all odds!

Experimentation

My kind of Guinness bread isn’t really bread at all, it’s cake. It’s tender, moist and deeply dark. Sometimes though I crave something in between. Something that has a soft crumb and an audible crunchy crust. That’s where this sits.

Testing almost felt at odds with the spirit of soda bread itself. A bread that is built around resourcefulness, trusting instinct and saying goodbye to perfection. However, I already had in mind a few variations I’d like to test, including whether to enrich the dough with butter or eggs, and if a hotter oven that dropped down would be better than a steady medium heat. For me, adding eggs felt like something I didn’t want to explore. I’m on a quest for crust, and yolk would only tenderise it. That said, my favourite Guinness bread in London has to be Max Rocha’s at Café Cecilia. A deeply moist loaf that does use eggs, and does so deliciously. I did, however, add a little bit of butter to help keep the loaf moist, as I found versions without it went stale more quickly.

To test the loaves, I shaped the traditional way, freeform rounds, so that I could keep them small and reduce waste. Each time, more treacle, more salt, an accidental heavy hand with oats, a hotter oven, a cooler oven, until I got closer to what I was searching for.

Today’s version

There are many versions of Guinness bread. The one you make, the one your Granny makes, the one I make. Some are so tender they border on cake, others are more traditional, unsweetened and slightly dense. This one sits in between. Made with treacle, stout and oats for a malt-forward depth and sweetness.

It can be baked in a loaf tin, or without (though the bake time will be reduced). And must be eaten with a thick layer of Irish butter, so thick you can see teeth marks.

Notes and substitutions:

• Buttermilk - Buttermilk is a sour liquid, originally a byproduct leftover after churning cream into butter. Although these days most shop-bought buttermilks are milks cultured with lactic acid bacteria. If you can’t find it you can make it yourself by mixing 1 tablespoon of lemon juice (or vinegar) into 250ml whole milk and leave to stand for 15-20 minutes. It won’t be as thick as traditional buttermilk but it’s a close enough substitution.

• Flour - In an ideal world we would use local, freshly-milled stoneground flour in this recipe. If this isn’t feasible (which is likely) go for the best next thing. Avoid ‘strong’ flour, we want soft flour for that soft crumb. I used a variety of soft wheat called Holdfast, grown in the South-West UK and milled at Landrace Milling. I love seeing the husks of wheat kernels dotted through this dough. Can you see the bran too?

• Stout - Guinness isn’t the only delicious stout on the market, but this recipe is designed to the volume of a standard can. You’ll use half, which conveniently gives you the perfect excuse to double the recipe, because if you’re going to the trouble, you may as well bake two gorgeous loaves. Perhaps one in a tin, one freeform.

• Oats - Pinhead oats (also known as steel-cut oats), have a rough texture and nutty flavour. If you can’t find them, use all porridge oats.

• Oven - Starting hot, then reducing the temperature, maximises the reaction between the bicarbonate of soda and acidic buttermilk, giving the loaf a strong oven spring and a well-formed crust.

Recipe: Guinness Bread

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Makes 1 loaf

Equipment

2lb or 3lb loaf tin. This recipe has been tested in various tin sizes, including 9inch x 4.5 inch, which worked well.

NOTE: You could also shape this as a freeform loaf, gently guiding the dough into a ball then flattening it into a disc, around 1-2” thick. Place on a baking tray lined with paper, dust with oats, then score the top with a deep cross using a sharp knife. Bake times may be reduced slightly.

Ingredients

• 95g plain flour

• 380g coarse wholemeal flour

• 50g porridge oats, plus extra for coating

• 40g pinhead oats

• 12g fine sea salt

• 10g bicarbonate of soda

• 30g unsalted butter, cold, coarsely grated

• 210ml buttermilk

• 210ml stout, like guinness

• 75g treacle

Method

Before you start anything, set yourself up:

• Preheat the oven to 220c fan.

• Grease your tin with a wash of neutral oil, making sure to get into all four corners, as this is normally where baked dough can get stuck. If you’re particularly nervous, you can line the tin with parchment.

• Fill a small bowl or jug with tepid water and fling in a flexible dough scraper, so it’s bobbing about.

To mix your dough:

• Combine the flours, oats, bicarbonate of soda and salt in a large bowl.

• In a jug, whisk the buttermilk, treacle and stout until the treacle has dissolved and it is a muddy colour. To prevent silly string-like laces of sticky sugar all over your counter, use a spoon that’s been sitting in a mug of boiling water to scoop the treacle from the jar.

• Add in the coarsely grated butter to the dry ingredients.

• Use one hand (your dominant), to gently mix the butter into the flour (just so that it is evenly dispersed, not rubbed in) whilst your other clean, free hand holds the bowl, or as my friend Shane used to say, just in case you need to pick up the phone.

• Create a little well in the dry ingredients then pour in your wet ingredients.

• Gently squelch the wet and dry together with one hand, until there are no visible pockets of flour. The key here is to not overwork the dough. You want to see the grated butter as flecks in the mixed dough.

• Grab your wet dough scraper and scrape down the sides of the bowl.

• Use the scraper and your hands, to help you lift the wet dough out of the bowl and into your prepared loaf tin. If you feel confident, you can gently shape the dough into a rough brick, which will help it fit snugly into your tin. Don’t be afraid, this is quite a wet dough.

• Using wet hands or a wet dough scraper smooth the surface of the dough, pushing it into each corner of the tin, until it is flat.

• Generously sprinkle the top of the dough with oats.

• Using a sharp knife, ‘let the fairies out’ by pushing the knife into the centre of the dough, creating a shallow line.

• Pop into the oven and bake for 15 mins, then lower the temperature to 180c. Continue baking for 30 mins. Carefully remove from the oven and tap it out of the tin. Return to the oven for a few more mins, until the loaf is deeply burnished and sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom.

• Remove from the oven and allow to cool on a wire rack

• This bread will keep for 3 days, but is best eaten on the day of baking. Serve with butter, or my favourite way is with 6-minute jammy eggs and shavings of a hard cheese, like Coolea.