Madeleines: Who Says They’re “Tricky”?

The pan, or mold, is essential.

 

The essential baking pan with its shell-shaped creusees traveled with me from Michigan to Arizona in November, so there was no reason my first attempt had to wait until April. Was I intimidated because by the reputation of these iconic French dainties, famous not only for their origin but legendary for the literary role played by a madeleine dipped in tea by the narrator of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, the taste of which brings back a rushing flood of childhood memories?

 

Not exactly a cookie, and not anything I would call a pastry, either, the darling little tea cake’s richness is belied by the simplicity of the ingredients. At least one online recipe source, however, referred to the making of madeleines as “tricky.” Luckily, I was spared that added anxiety, as I did not look online at recipes until after having done the deed – and only then to provide a link on Facebook for friends unfamiliar with the madeleine. My own preparatory research was faster and more direct: Prosper Montagne’s Larousse Gastronomique: The Encyclopedia of Food, Wine and Cookery. 

More than a cookbook, Larousse Gastronomique provides history of various foods and food-related items, all arranged in alphabetical order. Was the inventor of the madeleine Prince Tallyrand’s pastry-cook, or were they known earlier, first made in the town of Commercy? Certain it is that Commercy long guarded its “secret recipe” for madeleines, the specialty that put the town on the map of France, and Montagne gives two recipes, that for a madeleine de Commercy and another for a madeleine ordinaire. You might say I used both, because what I did was to cut in half the proportions given for the ordinary madeleine and add the lemon zest from the Commercy version.

Recipe:

 

And so, to ½ cup of sugar, 1 cup of sifted flour, a pinch of salt, two eggs, and ½ teaspoon of vanilla (amount not specified, but that’s what I used) I added ½ cup melted butter and the zest of one lemon. (Use your own judgment, but I let the butter cool slightly rather than pour it directly into the flour and egg mixture as soon as it was melted, not wanting to have a bowl of floury scrambled eggs on my hands.) Tip: If you find yourself in someone else’s kitchen and don’t have a flour sifter, spoon the flour into a fine-mesh strainer and jiggle it through by hand. It works just fine.

substitute sifter

smooth batter

before...

The resulting smooth batter is then spooned into buttered and floured molds and popped into the oven at 375 degrees for 15-20 minutes. I let them cool before popping them out of the pan. Perfect!

Variations:

 

Powdered sugar can be sieved over the warm tea cakes before serving, but I chose not to gild the lilies this time around. I may do so another time. And here’s a possibility from the baker who warned of potential failure: Carefully bring the butter past simply melted all the way to browned, and your finished tea cakes will be darker in color and perhaps with a somewhat nutty flavor. Try it and let me know. You do have to watch the butter every second to ensure it does not go past browned to burnt.

 

Actually, what I have in mind to try sometime is orange instead of lemon zest and a small amount of dark chocolate (!) melted with the butter. Does that sound like heresy? What would Proust say? It would certainly not be a classic madeleine, but something tells me it might be delicious. The "ordinary" ones certainly are. 

P.S. We all have our "madeleine moments." Here's one I wrote about on an earlier occasion.

P.P.S. Here is the subsequent chocolate story.

Going Out on a Continental Limb: Spanish Blood Orange Tarte Tatin

Finished Spanish Blood Orange Tarth Tatin

Spoiler Alert! – Too late! The spoiler appears before the alert, so you’ve already seen the finished product. Now here’s the rest of the story.

Single blood orange and a couple of cups of orange custard

Blood oranges appeared in the grocery store in Willcox, Arizona, last week! Be still, my heart! I associate blood oranges with my first time in Paris, so they are irresistible to me. Their rich, deep color so beautiful! A whole bag seemed extravagant, but sometimes little extravagances an adventure can make.

 

I have a pretty good collection of cookbooks here in our winter ghost town cabin, three of them French (one in French language, the two others in English), but none of the three, I discovered, gives a tarte recipe featuring oranges. Whether any recipe I use – or riff off of, more likely – comes from a book or online, however, the books are my first resort, and they are my basic inspiration. So first I sit down and read about fruit, about desserts, about various kinds of pastry, about custards….

My ghost town cookbook collection

This time around I chose as Internet recipe because (1) there was custard involved (always a plus in my book); and (2) the cook’s backstory referenced Spain, the source of blood oranges. I did not, however, follow her suggestion to use a ready-made, store-bought puff pastry but made my own. It isn’t that difficult. As for croissants, the pastry involves a lot of butter (I used the a cheese grater and grated the cold butter) and multiple sessions of refrigerator chilling, rolling out, and refolding. The folding and rolling, over and over, distributes the butter through the dough. You want it kept cold so that the pieces of butter will burst in the oven to create a flaky finished product. I also used a round rather than rectangular pan, since that’s what I had.

Puff pastry rolled out and stretched over pie pan

Parchment paper and dry rice before pre-baking shell

For whipping cream and crème fraiche, I substituted Mexican crema, which was so successful in my savory clafoutis. No orange blossom water, but yes on the zest and juice. Another recipe I’d read used cardamom, so I added a scant half-teaspon of that and a splash of cream sherry.

Orange zest, orange juice, and cream added to beaten eggs and sugar

Same as above but mixed

Sherry and cardamom added

There are three layers to this dessert, and it goes into and comes out of the oven three separate times: first, the puff pastry crust; next, the custard filling; last, the entire tarte, topped with the caramelized blood orange slices.

Orange slices in clear syrup

Syrup soaked into orange slices, liquid evaporated

Recipes vary as to how the orange slices are prepared and arranged. Some cooks cut off the rind and use hexagonal slices, while others leave the rind on. Some overlap the slices, and some don’t. Leaving the rind on seemed the more adventurous course, but then I overlapped the slices only slightly, to encourage uniform cooking. Here's that finished product again: 

This blood orange tarte tatin is a very rich and fairly elaborate dessert. You’ll want to make it when blood oranges are in season – if you’re going to use blood oranges, it would be hard to do it any other time, but ordinary oranges can be substituted -- and if it’s for a company dinner, you’ll want to keep the rest of the menu simple. Simple in preparation, because the tarte will keep you busy, and fairly light to digest, so guests won’t be overwhelmed by the dessert. My kitchen experiments are not usually this elaborate, but once in a while the Paris kitchen needs to go Continental! I cut very small slices for us and drizzled them lightly with crema, more for the visual effect than because anything more was needed. Another time, we agreed, the rinds will be eliminated. 

Single serving

In fact, though, since it’s just the two of us right now, I decided I could remove the orange slices the next morning, cut off the rinds, and rearrange the fruit slices. Why not? 

Tarte Redux

 

The Evening Called For a Treat

For more than a couple years after I planted them, my little apple trees bore no fruit. Should I have fertilized and watered the trees? A friend from an orchard family said they shouldn’t need such coddling. Then one year they produced not only spring blossoms but summer apples, ripening at the weeks went by. And now the crop is so heavy, I’m glad I only planted two trees, because what would I do with more? Especially since I still can’t resist gathering wild apples, too, when I come across them.

Only the beginning!

Most of the apples I harvest go into the dryer. It’s a slow, laborious process but also pleasingly meditative work, and the keeping of dried fruit is a snap. Apples seem forgiving rather than fussy, too, when it comes to thickness of slices to be dried, and I like a fruit that accommodates me rather than making its own demands.

On Halloween, however, with a fire in the fireplace and the wind howling around the old farmhouse, a departure from usual routine was indicated. Something simple and rustic. Out came lard and flour and two knives. A pinch of salt and a few tablespoons of cold well water. Then to roll out a single piecrust and drape it into a small casserole. Into the deep declivity went sliced apples with a little flour and sugar, cinnamon, and (last but not least) small bits of butter. Finally the crust drapery was pulled over the top and pinched together, snugging the apples cozily inside. No recipe, just old peasant grandma at work in her farmhouse (Paris) kitchen.

Hot from the oven

We do not have dessert every night, but certain times of year bring on cravings, and cravings that unite so well with harvest should never be denied. Dinner was delicious chicken gumbo, and that deserved noting, but I'd made it the night before and couldn't find my camera.

My bedtime reading on Halloween was Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes, by Elizabeth Bard. That was cozy, too. And who knows? Some of the recipes sound so good they may inspire me to pay more attention to this blog, which I have shamefully ignored since May.

Cream would be nice poured over this, too....