BLOG: like strawberry milk
If I had a blog sister, you know, like blood sisters but much less dramatic, it would be undeniably Fanny from Like Strawberry Milk. Her whimsical imagery, her poetic tongue, and her happily failing kitchen adventures. And since I know some of you are a lazy bunch, here is an excerpt from her blog below. But don't be a dud. Go visit her. Or else!
I could tell you how my dad would take me to the boulangerie after school, as I was smaller than the smallest tree of your garden. In fact, I could barely walk. But making my way to the bottom of the crumpled paper bag handed to me by the lady at the counter seemed easy.
That paper bag could hold a dozen of chouquettes. Or as I would call them, chouchou. Possibly, a made-up word from my dad.
Oh yes, I could tell you how my hands would be sticky. And my mouth most likely surrounded by pearls of sugar.
But instead, I will tell you about what happened a few days ago.
I brought milk and butter to a rolling boil. With a pinch of salt, just so; because, that’s the way to go. I added a good amount of flour. Off the heat, it goes without saying (and yet, here I am). I placed the pan back over the gas and mixed it with a wooden spoon until it was just dry enough.
I transferred it to the bowl of my stand-mixer; although arms and a spoon would do a fine job too. And add the eggs, one at a time. Until it was just wet enough.
I piped. Without a nozzle, because they all seem to be in London. And I am not.
I brushed eggwash. I scored the top with a fork. Dipped in the remaining egg.
I sprinkled sucre casson [pearl sugar].
I baked. And poured us a glass of white wine. Or perhaps it was a rosé.
And then, we ate them. Slightly warm. And guess what? Sticky hands and sugar around the mouth are a must.