Puff Pastry Quotes

You can’t hurry love, and you can’t rush puff pastry, either. You can knead too much, and you can be too needy. Always, warmth is what brings pastry to rise. Chemistry creates something amazing; coupled with care and heat, it works some kind of magic to create this satisfying, welcoming, and nourishing thing that is the base of life.

Once inside she hesitated, and in addition to the cigarettes grabbed a diet soda and a yellow puff pastry wrapped in cellophane. She doubted it contained a single natural component, but sometimes synthetic is what you are after.

I would have given a fortune to know what the people sitting there were thinking. What the world looked like to them. Imagine if it was radically different from what I saw. If it was full of pleasure at the dark leather of the sofa, the black surface of the coffee and its bitter taste, not to mention the yellow eye of custard in the center of the puff pastry’s winding and cracked terrain. What if the whole of this world sang inside them? What if they were full to bursting with the many delights the day had bestowed on them?

Even though the past is folded over and over like puff pastry and my mother, of all people, would understand just how I am wrapped up in its layers and cannot find my way out.

I think how heavenly it must be to nibble on tiny cakes and swirled caramels and plum ginger puffs all day. Tea with lemon petit fours in the afternoon; after-dinner mint truffles with butterscotch coffee in the evening. My mind swims with the notion of it. The easy, sugar-induced lull that would follow me into candy-tinted dreams each night. Life here, in Valentine's Town, would surely be simple and uncomplicated.

They got cream puffs at the bakery but I bet yours will be better,” he noted. “As Americans often put sweetened whipped cream or vanilla pudding between the choux pastry, and we’ll be making crème patisserie, this is indeed a fact.” “What’s crème patisserie?” Ethan asked. “Proof there is a God,” I answered.

Pastry is like people . . . You can't hurry love, and you can't rush puff pastry either. You can knead too much, and you can be too needy. Always, warmth is what brings pastry to rise. Chemistry creates something amazing; coupled with care and heat, it works some kind of magic to create a satisfying, welcoming, and nourishing thing that is the base of life.

Onion tartlets, pastry puffs stuffed with cheese, a terrine of mushroom and hazelnuts. There's an pharaoh-sized pyramid of exotic fruits. The pineapples alone must have cost a small fortune. And, of course, there's the sham.

I have a wedge of Brie and some crackers in the pantry, and I could slice a pear or an apple and drizzle the fruit with some orange blossom honey. That always makes a nice accompaniment for cheese. I've got some olives, too, Lucques. I wonder if I have time to make cheese sticks. I use store-bought puff pastry, roll it out, sprinkle it with salt and red pepper flakes and grated Parmesan, then cut the dough into strips, twist them, and bake. They are particularly delicious with a glass of Champagne, especially when you serve the cheese sticks warm.

Her smile was somehow a little too bright, but I watched as she showed me how she had scored the puff pastry and brushed it with oil. She got me to smell the thyme pressed between her fingers and thumb, and told me how good garlic was for keeping away colds. She preached about food and sang and laughed and baked until the light started to come in the windows. Then we sat and ate hot tart without knives and forks. She kissed my cheeks and smelled like garlic. I remember the hot cheese dropping onto Mama's sweater and drying to a rubbery streak against the wool.

Lately, with Thomas not working and Kamala trying her hand at puff pastry, there was almost always someone around, someone shuffling below and making it feel like even if they weren’t quite in sync, they were a team of sorts, a little tight unit. Now, with Sanji on her way to the hospital, Amina was alone with the unease of having brought the others into the mix. It wasn’t that she doubted their love or intentions, but the weight of that love would be no small thing. What would they do with everyone else’s worry on top of their own? Thomas did not weather other people’s concern well. He was not going to be happy with her.

We passed the Irish club, and the florist’s with its small stiff pink-and-white carnations in a bucket, and the drapers called ‘Elvina’s’, which displayed in its window Bear Brand stockings and knife-pleated skirts like cloth concertinas and pasty-shaped hats on false heads. We passed the confectioner’s – or failed to pass it; the window attracted Karina. She balled her hands into her pockets, and leant back, her feet apart; she looked rooted, immovable. The cakes were stacked on decks of sloping shelves, set out on pink doilies whitened by falls of icing sugar. There were vanilla slices, their airy tiers of pastry glued together with confectioners’ custard, fat and lolling like a yellow tongue. There were bubbling jam puffs and ballooning Eccles cakes, slashed to show their plump currant insides. There were jam tarts the size of traffic lights; there were whinberry pies oozing juice like black blood. ‘Look at them buns,’ Karina would say. ‘Look.’ I would turn sideways and see her intent face. Sometimes the tip of her tongue would appear, and slide slowly upwards towards her flat nose. There were sponge buns shaped like fat mushrooms, topped with pink icing and half a glace cherry. There were coconut pyramids, and low square house-shaped chocolate buns, finished with a big roll of chocolate-wrapped marzipan which was solid as the barrel of a cannon.

It has now been many months, at the present writing, since I have had a nourishing meal, but I shall soon have one—a modest, private affair, all to myself. I have selected a few dishes, and made out a little bill of fare, which will go home in the steamer that precedes me, and be hot when I arrive—as follows: Radishes. Baked apples, with cream Fried oysters; stewed oysters. Frogs. American coffee, with real cream. American butter. Fried chicken, Southern style. Porter-house steak. Saratoga potatoes. Broiled chicken, American style. Hot biscuits, Southern style. Hot wheat-bread, Southern style. Hot buckwheat cakes. American toast. Clear maple syrup. Virginia bacon, broiled. Blue points, on the half shell. Cherry-stone clams. San Francisco mussels, steamed. Oyster soup. Clam Soup. Philadelphia Terapin soup. Oysters roasted in shell-Northern style. Soft-shell crabs. Connecticut shad. Baltimore perch. Brook trout, from Sierra Nevadas. Lake trout, from Tahoe. Sheep-head and croakers, from New Orleans. Black bass from the Mississippi. American roast beef. Roast turkey, Thanksgiving style. Cranberry sauce. Celery. Roast wild turkey. Woodcock. Canvas-back-duck, from Baltimore. Prairie liens, from Illinois. Missouri partridges, broiled. 'Possum. Coon. Boston bacon and beans. Bacon and greens, Southern style. Hominy. Boiled onions. Turnips. Pumpkin. Squash. Asparagus. Butter beans. Sweet potatoes. Lettuce. Succotash. String beans. Mashed potatoes. Catsup. Boiled potatoes, in their skins. New potatoes, minus the skins. Early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, Southern style, served hot. Sliced tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar. Stewed tomatoes. Green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper. Green corn, on the ear. Hot corn-pone, with chitlings, Southern style. Hot hoe-cake, Southern style. Hot egg-bread, Southern style. Hot light-bread, Southern style. Buttermilk. Iced sweet milk. Apple dumplings, with real cream. Apple pie. Apple fritters. Apple puffs, Southern style. Peach cobbler, Southern style Peach pie. American mince pie. Pumpkin pie. Squash pie. All sorts of American pastry. Fresh American fruits of all sorts, including strawberries which are not to be doled out as if they were jewelry, but in a more liberal way. Ice-water—not prepared in the ineffectual goblet, but in the sincere and capable refrigerator.

galette des rois. We have found through trial and error it is usually prudent to push the fève piece toward the youngest person in the room. If you can’t lay your hand on some fèves, a coin wrapped in greaseproof paper should have the same cheerful effect in warding off the post-chrimbo blues. 1 roll ready-made puff pastry, unless you are a fantastic pastry nut (I worship you) 1 egg, beaten 2 tbsp. jam 100g soft butter 100g caster sugar (superfine sugar) 100g ground almonds 1 tbsp. brandy Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Divide the ready-made puff pastry in half, and roll out each piece into two circles. Put one of the circles on a baking sheet and spread with the jam. Whisk the butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in most of the egg. Stir in the almonds, brandy, and add the fève. Spread the mix on top of the jam, then cover with the second piece of pastry. Seal up with a pinch. You can decorate the top of the galette with a fork if you like. Bake for 25 minutes or until crisp and golden. Serve warm or cold.

By the time everyone was ready to leave, I was filling the last cream puff with pale green pastry cream. I licked a bit off my finger. It was good- an intriguing mix of warm pistachio, floral cardamom, and invigorating ginger. And ginger, of course, was a root. I only wished I knew what The Book would say about it. And was it good enough? Spotting the last of Mom's batch of kulfi- Indian ice cream made of thick sweetened cream and flavored with pistachio, ginger, and cardamom- had inspired me to make a pastry cream with the same flavors.

The Indian lamb curry centered the meal as the main entree, surrounded with fragrant flat breads. Partridge compote steamed next to a fried savory forcemeat pastry made of garlic, parsley, tarragon, chives and beef suet enclosed in a buttery crust. The appetizer included oysters cut from their shell, sautéed, and then returned to be arranged in a bath of butter and dill. The footman reappeared, and while he set a second place, Farah counted the admittedly obscene amount of desserts. Perhaps they should have left out the cocoa sponge cake, or the little cream-and-fruit stuffed cornucopias with chocolate sauce. She absolutely couldn't have chosen between the almond cakes with the sherry reduction or the coriander Shrewsbury puffs or... the treacle and the vanilla creme brûlée.

They began with a winter soup, lovingly cooked in a copper pot with a shinbone left over from Sunday lunch- But the witch brought in a light bouillon, simmered with the sweetest of baby shallots and scented with ginger and lemongrass and served with croutons so crisp and small that they seemed to vanish in her mouth- The mother brought in the second course. Sausages and potato mash; a comforting dish the child always loved, with sticky onion marmalade- But the witch brought in a brace of quail that had been gorged on ripe figs all their lives, now roasted and stuffed with chestnuts and foie gras and served with a coulis of pomegranate- Now the mother was close to despair. She brought dessert: a stout apple pie, made to her mother's recipe. But the witch had made a pièce montée: a pastel-colored sugared dream of almonds, summer fruit, and pastries like a puff of air, all scented with rose and marshmallow cream, and served with a glass of Château d'Yquem-

You don’t want this butterblast, do you?” He took a huge bite of a round, golden pastry topped with giant sugar crystals. If it weren’t for her injuries, she would’ve leaped out of bed and wrestled it away from him. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you a bite. But first you need to go one solid hour without your stomach growling. So ignore me”—he took another giant bite of the butterblast—“and focus on Krakie. Or you can focus on Krakie’s new buddies.” He set three Prattles pins on her tray—a jaculus, a kelpie, and a sasquatch. “Meet Bitey, Scaley Butt, and The Stink—your new bandage buddies! We need to figure out the perfect place to put them. I think Scaley Butt should be near Krakie so it looks like they’re swimming together. And then Bitey could be close to The Stink so it looks like he’s trying to chomp him.” “You’re a very strange person, you know that?” she asked as he pinned the new creatures in place. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘awesome.’ I’m an awesome person—who stopped you from thinking about how hungry you are for, like, five minutes.” “And then reminded me,” Sophie noted with a stomach growl. “Oops. Well . . . okay, your new hour starts now!” It was a very long afternoon. But it was worth it when Keefe gave her the last bite of butterblast, which was chewy like a doughnut but tasted like pancakes hot off the griddle and was filled with some sort of thick, maple-y cream. It was quite possibly the most amazing thing she’d ever put in her mouth—and that was saying something, considering she lived in a world with mallowmelt and custard bursts and ripplefluffs and pudding puffs. “If you want another,” Keefe told her, “you’re going to have to let Ro carry you with me into the secret cafeteria.” “Not happening,” Elwin warned. Keefe smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.

In addition to a stack of small white plates, a basket of rolled cloth napkins, and a pile of polished silver forks, there is baked Brie in puff pastry, caviar with blinis (caviar!), a shallow bowl of beautiful purple grapes with a sterling silver pair of scissors placed beside it, poached shrimp with cocktail sauce, and a pale pink mold in the shape of a fish with crackers surrounding it, thin lemon slices and capers on top. "That's not the salmon mousse from the Silver Palate, is it?" I ask. The salmon mousse from the Silver Palate is perhaps my favorite thing to eat in the world. "Oh shoot," she says, and I can all but imagine her stomping her little foot. "You found me out. Is it just so tacky I brought in food from the city? I did press the mousse into the fish mold myself, and I also fixed the Brie. That is, I put some apricot jam on it and wrapped it in Pepperidge Farm puff pastry dough.

Puffed pastry. That's what the newspaper reporters called it. Department of Transportation inspectors called it disintegration. Deterioration; the over-saturation of iron bridgework by water and air that caused it to puff up and crust over like cheese over a steaming crock of French onion soup. If you touched it, it would flake away like a bad case of psoriasis.

We had ordered the shaved ice and candied tropical fruits, the curry ice cream with mini brioche puffs, and the lemon basil profiteroles with blueberry-oatmeal brittle.But a small army of servers brought out even more: chocolate fondant sandwiched in coconut crisps, cinnamon apple churros with maple syrup tapioca, chocolates, macarons, marshmallows. Felix delivered the petit fours himself, and whispered to me, "I'm sorry for the delay with the truffles. Try the lavender-peach macarons. They're my favorite.

Saturday, I slipped out to the farmers' market. Waiting for me were crates of pears in shades of green, gold, and rose. I fell in love. I brought home a flat of Comice pears and placed them on my dining room table. I pulled out a chair so that I could look at them at eye level. Pears. Pear cake, pear sauce, caramelized pears, baked pears. Pear tart. Everybody liked tarts. I could flavor it with vanilla for depth, lemon zest for brightness, and cardamom as a surprise. I could make it as a galette, a free-form tart, and use a buttery puff-pastry crust. If I wanted to get my hands into food, puff pastry was a good place to do it. The process of making the laminated dough, folding butter into already buttery dough over and over---depending on your mood, it could be hypnotically soothing or mind-numbingly tedious. It sounded perfect.

When Ada woke up the next morning, the house was filled with unusual smells. Her aunt had prepared breakfast – or a banquet, more like it. Grilled halloumi with za’atar, baked feta with honey, sesame halva, stuffed tomatoes, green olives with fennel, bread rolls with black olive spread, fried peppers, spicy sausage, spinach börek, puff-pastry cheese straws, pomegranate molasses with tahini, hawthorn jelly, quince jam and a large pan of poached eggs with garlic yogurt were all neatly arrayed on the table.

Servers swept across the floor as they could hear invisible music to oohs and aahs from all the tables. Ours presented us with a palm-sized white plate with two teensy golden choux pastry puffs. "Foie gras spheres with Sauternes jelly," he proclaimed. The sweet-savory cloud dissolved on my plate, and I couldn't help but hum. "Holy crap, can I have fifty of those and call it a day?" I said. "That's fantastic." Nicole nudged me with a grin. "Told you." After the puffs came neatly squared smoked eel sandwiches, the fish's smoky richness bitten off by sharp horseradish. They were delicious, and fairy-sized. So were the next two dishes.

a pithivier is a rich puff-pastry tart of almond paste and cream, named after the town of Pithiviers outside Paris;

But it seems that I can tackle the most esoteric of recipes, the most elusive puff pastry, as long as I do not have to count the empty layers of loneliness building up inside.

Shaping the mounds of dough is easiest to do with a spring-loaded ice cream scoop, although you can use two spoons or a pastry bag with a large, plain tip. 1 cup (250 ml) water ½ teaspoon coarse salt 2 teaspoons sugar 6 tablespoons (90 g) unsalted butter, cut into small chunks 1 cup (135 g) flour 4 large eggs, at room temperature ½ cup (85 g) semisweet chocolate chips ½ cup (60 g) pearl sugar (see Note) Position a rack in the upper third of the oven. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Heat the water along with the salt, sugar, and butter in a medium saucepan, stirring, until the butter is melted. Remove from heat and dump in all the flour at once. Stir rapidly until the mixture is smooth and pulls away from the sides of the pan. Allow the dough to cool for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally to release the heat; then briskly beat in the eggs, one at a time, until the paste is smooth and shiny. Let cool completely to room temperature, then stir in the chocolate chips. If it’s even slightly warm, they’ll melt. Drop mounds of dough, about 2 tablespoons each, on the baking sheet, evenly spaced. Press pearl sugar crystals liberally over the top and sides of each mound. Use a lot and really press them in. Once the puffs expand, you’ll appreciate the extra effort (and sugar). Bake the chouquettes for 35 minutes, or until puffed and well browned. Serve warm or at room temperature. STORAGE: Choquettes are best eaten the same day they’re made. However, once cooled, they can be frozen in a zip-top freezer bag for up to one month. Defrost at room temperature, then warm briefly on a baking sheet in a moderate oven, until crisp.

She collects a tray from the kitchen: arranges almond and mango cream puffs, brown sugar lace cookies, and miniature napoleons of vanilla and guava: fleeting breaths of pate a choux and buttercreams that dissolve in single bites.

The grade’s head coach was named Bob Baime, but Adam always thought of him as Gaston, the animated character from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast movie. Bob was a big puff pastry of a man with the kind of bright smile you find only on the dim. He was loud and proud and stupid and mean, and whenever he strutted by, chest out, arms swaying, it was as though he was accompanied by a sound track singing, “No one’s slick/fights/shoots like Gaston . . .” Push

I came up with a variation on the molten-chocolate cake that doesn't make me crazy with how brainless it is. You said the theme was date restaurant, man accessible, right?" "Right." "So I added the Black Butte Porter---the one from Deschutes Brewery---to the chocolate cake. It makes the flavor a little darker, a little more complex. I wanted to do five or six desserts, with at least three of them seasonal. For the standards, I thought the chocolate cake and an Italian-style cream puff." She nodded toward the cream puffs on the table. "Try one and tell me what you think." I wasn't awake enough for silverware, so I picked up the cream puff and bit straight into it, forming a small cloud of powdered sugar. "That's so good," I said. Clementine continued to watch me. I dove in for a second bite. And then I found it---cherries. Ripe, real cherries in a fruity filling hidden at the center. "Oh my goodness," I said, my mouth full. "That is amazing." "Glad you think so. I thought it was a clever play on Saint Joseph's Day zeppole---cherries, but not those awful maraschino cherries." I nodded. "Maraschino cherries are the worst." Another bite. "This cream puff almost tastes like a grown-up doughnut. And I mean that in the best way.

This is a recipe my aunt Poppy’s best friend, Nancy, loves like crazy. She makes it the long way, which I do like, but it’s also fun to make the fast version sometimes, too. 2 sheets frozen puff pastry, thawed 1 large egg, beaten with 1 tsp water 12 oz. bittersweet chocolate (chips work fine) sugar for dusting Prepare a baking sheet by lining it with parchment or oiling it lightly. Cut each sheet of pastry into 12 squares and brush each with egg glaze. Then sprinkle ½ oz. of chocolate (a few chips) on each square and roll up tightly around the chocolate. Place on the baking sheet, seam down. Cover with plastic and refrigerate for 4 hours or overnight. Refrigerate remaining egg glaze. Remove pastries from fridge; preheat oven to 400 degrees. Brush the tops of the pastries with remaining egg glaze, and then dust lightly with sugar and bake for about 15 minutes. Better to cool them at least a bit, or the butter taste is a little overwhelming.

I know you don't like mangoes." A faint curl of humor danced on his lips. "You know?" How? How did he know this? "I've been feeding you this whole time, remember?" With his hot buttered voice, it sounded dirty, illicit. "I remember." I sounded far too breathless. He clearly noticed, that small private smile moved to his eyes. "You never eat the mango slices when I put them in any meals." Understanding hit me, and I recalled that while I'd had breakfast fruit trays with mangoes, they'd stopped being included after the second time. Wide eyed, I silently gaped back at him. Lucian's long clever fingers delicately picked up a cream puff. "Which is why I made some of these with vanilla-ginger cream." Had I been gaping before? My mouth fell wide open. Behind me, I heard Dougal sigh, as if impressed. But I could only stare at Lucian, who looked smug but oddly shy as well. "You did that for me?" I croaked. His broad shoulder moved under his jacket. "That, and the combination of vanilla, ginger, and mango mirrored what Delilah and Saint had wanted in their original cake." I could fall for this man. Fall hard. Maybe I already had, because my heart was too big, beating too fast. He gave me another small, barely there smile, his pale eyes gleaming with something soft and intent. "Come now, honeybee," he murmured. "Try my cream." I sputtered out a shocked laugh, and my face flamed, but as he'd commanded, I opened my mouth. Lucian's nostrils flared. His hand shook a little as he lifted the cream puff and placed it one the edge of my lips. I opened my mouth wider, my tongue flicking out for that first sweet taste. Rich, almost nutty caramel, the gentle crust of pastry, a burst of smooth light cream with a hint of vanilla and ginger spice. Slowly, I chewed, my eyes locked with his, my body tight, and my mouth in heaven. He stayed with me, feeding me another bite, cream getting on his thumb. My tongue slipped over the blunt end, and he grunted. Hard.

SOME PASTRY TERMS Chef de pâtissier: pastry chef Gâteau: rich, elaborate sponge cake that can be molded into shapes, typically containing layers of crème, fruit, or nuts Pâtisserie(s): pastry/pastries Brioche(s): a soft, rich bread with a high egg and butter content Pain aux raisins: a flaky pastry filled with raisins and custard Chaussons aux pommes: French apple turnovers Pâte à choux: a light, buttery puff pastry dough Éclair: oblong desserts made of choux pastry filled with cream and topped with icing (often chocolate) Tarte au citron: lemon tart Macaron: a meringue-based confectionary sandwich filled with various flavored ganache, creams, or jams Croquembouche: a cone-shaped tower of confection created out of caramel-dipped, cream-filled pastry puffs and swathed in spun sugar threads, often served at French weddings or on special occasions Saint-Honoré: a dessert named for the patron saint of bakers and pastry chefs Pâte feuilletée: a light, flaky puff pastry Vanilla crème pâtissière: vanilla pastry cream Hazelnut crème chiboust: a pastry cream lightened with Italian meringue Paris-brest: a wheel-shaped dessert made of pâte à choux and filled with praline cream. Created in 1910 by chef Louis Durand to commemorate the Paris-Brest, a bicycle race.

I’m making the outer pastry puff for egg tarts, one of her favorites, so it’s not that unusual for me to be thinking about her. And what’s my excuse for when I’m making all the other items in the bakery? Um, she has a sweet tooth?

Rosa discreetly wrapped a paper napkin around her canapé- a dry affair of puff pastry and greasy smoked salmon- and deposited it in a wastebasket. She wasn't discreet enough; Alex noticed. "Too bad about the food." "I bet it cost an arm and a leg, too. Boy, these people would probably kill for a piece of pizza right now." Before any important gathering or holiday, her mother used to work on the food for days. Rosa would stand on a stepstool at the counter beside her, shaping meatballs or cutting dough. In the summer, she and Mamma would wrap paper-thin slices of prosciutto around melon balls and served them on toothpicks. There was nothing wrong with keeping food simple.

What is that?" I asked because her was stuffing puff pastry with a rich brown mixture. "It is called tourte de blettes," he said. "A specialty of our region." "What are blettes?" The word was unfamiliar to me. "It is a green vegetable, like cabbage, only with long green curly leaves," he explained, then he held a stalk up for me. "Is that Swiss chard?" I exclaimed. "Then it is a savory tart?" "No, mademoiselle, it is for the dessert." "But chard? That must taste bitter." "Not at all. It is made with raisins and pine nuts and brown sugar, and when it is finished, I will save a small taste for you. You will see, it tastes not at all bitter. Quite delicious, in fact.

Like flours, not all fats are created equal. Oil is fat that is liquid at room temperature but good pastry cannot be made with oil. Flour simply absorbs the oil and the resulting dough is mealy, not tender and flaky. The ideal fat for pastry-making is one with a high melting point because the longer it takes for the fat to melt, the longer it keeps the little parcels of dough separate, generating little packets of steam to puff and lighten the dough. Pig fat (lard) has a high melting point and very little water content, so is ideal on both counts.

We're making profiteroles." Profiteroles. Little cream puffs filled with vanilla ice cream and drowned in thick chocolate sauce. "Ha! I knew it!" he said triumphantly. "You already look ten times better. There is nothing as satisfying as making choux pastry." It was exactly what she was thinking. Choux pastry was literally one of her favorite things to make in the whole world. But she didn't tell him that. Instead, she grabbed an apron from a hook on the wall and tied it on. Together, they melted the butter with water in a saucepan, then added the flour, stirring with a wooden spoon until it pulled away from the sides and formed a ball- that was Rosie's favorite part, the way it came together like that. There was something so satisfying about it. Then they scooped the choux into bags and piped them into little circles on a baking sheet, competing to see who could do it better- Bodie was faster, but Rosie was neater.

As Rosie expected, Chef Petit said they were starting with pâtisserie. Specifically, with classic French tarts, and today, with the tart shells. With the three most widely used different kinds of crust. Finally, something Rosie knew! Her hand shot in the air, and Rosie noticed that the only other person in the room with his hand in the air was Bodie Tal. But Chef Petit must have recognized her, too, because he called on her, not Bodie. And she felt like Hermione, rattling off the differences between pâté brisée, a standard, unsweetened dough for sweet or savory fillings; pâté sucrée, a sugared dough achieved by creaming the butter and sugar; and pâté sablée, a crumbly, delicate, almost cookielike dough, sometimes enriched with almond flour. Ten points to Rosie! She felt flush with triumph. Finally, she wasn't an idiot. "Excellent," Chef Petit said genially, and he began two expound further upon what Rosie said. "What a bloody showoff," Priya said, teasing. Rosie bumped her with her shoulder. Chef Petit wrote the ingredients for pâté brisée on the whiteboard, informing them that they'd be making all three doughs today, then setting them in the fridge to chill until tomorrow- all crust, no matter what you did with it, was improved by a good chilling. Tomorrow, they'd do quiche, and tarte au citron, and a fresh fruit tart with crème pâtissière, and they'd move on to puff pastry and tarte tatin, and Rosie could barely restrain the shout of joy that threatened to erupt from her chest. But she restrained it, and moved through the kitchen as sedately as possible, collecting her ingredients and measuring cups.

My aunt's life was now practically confined to two adjoining rooms, in one of which she would rest in the afternoon while they, aired the other. They were rooms of that country order which (just as in certain climes whole tracts of air or ocean are illuminated or scented by myriads of protozoa which we cannot see) fascinate our sense of smell with the countless odours springing from their own special virtues, wisdom, habits, a whole secret system of life, invisible, superabundant and profoundly moral, which their atmosphere holds in solution; smells natural enough indeed, and coloured by circumstances as are those of the neighbouring countryside, but already humanised, domesticated, confined, an exquisite, skilful, limpid jelly, blending all the fruits of the season which have left the orchard for the store-room, smells changing with the year, but plenishing, domestic smells, which compensate for the sharpness of hoar frost with the sweet savour of warm bread, smells lazy and punctual as a village clock, roving smells, pious smells; rejoicing in a peace which brings only an increase of anxiety, and in a prosiness which serves as a deep source of poetry to the stranger who passes through their midst without having lived amongst them. The air of those rooms was saturated with the fine bouquet of a silence so nourishing, so succulent that I could not enter them without a sort of greedy enjoyment, particularly on those first mornings, chilly still, of the Easter holidays, when I could taste it more fully, because I had just arrived then at Combray: before I went in to wish my aunt good day I would be kept waiting a little time in the outer room, where the sun, a wintry sun still, had crept in to warm itself before the fire, lighted already between its two brick sides and plastering all the room and everything in it with a smell of soot, making the room like one of those great open hearths which one finds in the country, or one of the canopied mantelpieces in old castles under which one sits hoping that in the world outside it is raining or snowing, hoping almost for a catastrophic deluge to add the romance of shelter and security to the comfort of a snug retreat; I would turn to and fro between the prayer-desk and the stamped velvet armchairs, each one always draped in its crocheted antimacassar, while the fire, baking like a pie the appetising smells with which the air of the room, was thickly clotted, which the dewy and sunny freshness of the morning had already 'raised' and started to 'set,' puffed them and glazed them and fluted them and swelled them into an invisible though not impalpable country cake, an immense puff-pastry, in which, barely waiting to savour the crustier, more delicate, more respectable, but also drier smells of the cupboard, the chest-of-drawers, and the patterned wall-paper I always returned with an unconfessed gluttony to bury myself in the nondescript, resinous, dull, indigestible, and fruity smell of the flowered quilt.

Christmas banquet, served over two courses. The first course included: Oysters, brawn, mutton stew with marrow bone, a grand salad, capon pottage, breast of veal, boiled partridges, roast beef, mince pies, mutton in anchovy sauce, sweetbreads, roasted swan, venison pasties, a kid with a pudding in his belly, a steak pie, chickens in puff pastry, two geese (one roast, one larded) [covered with bacon or fat while cooking], roast venison, roast turkey stuck with cloves, two capons, and a custard. If guests had any room left after all that, the second course comprised: Oranges and lemons, a young Lamb or Kid, Rabbits, two larded, a pig sauced with tongues, ducks, some larded, two pheasants, one larded, a Swan or goose pie cold, partridges, some larded, Bologna sausages, anchovies, mushrooms, caviar, pickled oysters, teales, some larded, a gammon of Westphalia [smoked] bacon, plovers, some larded, a quince or warden pie, woodcocks, some larded, a tart in puff pastry, preserved fruit and pippins, a dish of larks, neats’ [ox] tongues, sturgeon and anchovies, and jellies.

We'll start with a '95 Kistler-Dutton Ranch." She poured one for herself and tasted it. Ah, yes, she thought. Intense and lively with layers of pear, spice, vanilla, and nutmeg. And a hint of honey, if she wasn't mistaken. She smacked her lips. Her foray entered into, she was relaxing and beginning to enjoy herself. She grinned with glee as she wrapped herself into her oversize apron. "As I am a culinary orphan, I have chosen dishes from a wide range of influences. We're starting with classical French. In France, to begin, they often offer you what they call 'amuse bouches.' Amusements for the mouth. Here are yours." She set before him a platter filled with baby profiteroles, little puffs of pastry sliced in the middle and filled with a surprise. Troy reached out and brought one to his lips. His face flushed with pleasure as he bit into the creamy filling. "Yes," she said. "Finely chopped cooked lobster mixed with finely chopped cooked mushrooms sautéed in lobster butter. All bound with hot béchamel sauce.

She returned to the kitchen, where she'd been making sugared flowers. Mint leaves, tiny violets and old-fashioned rose petals, heavy with perfume, lay on the counter. Very gently she dipped each one into the stiff egg whites, then in confectioners' sugar, and then placed them on the baking sheet, which she put in the warm oven, the door ajar. It gave the room the scent of a garden, heady and sweet. Sabine had planned to store the sweets in canning jars- there were still a few gaskets and lids left- and save them for cake. When she was a child, her grand-mère had once made her a Saint-Honoré for her birthday. It was the most wondrous cake in the world. Not a cake at all but a composition of tiny puffs of choux pastry filled with vanilla cream, very much like profiteroles, but molded together with caramel and covered with whipped chantilly cream fresh from the dairy. Her grand-mère decorated it with candied flowers and mint leaves. Sabine never had anything like it before or since and suddenly wanted to make that cake again.

Then she was struck with an idea. “Monsieur Nugent, I’m wondering—just how difficult is it to make an almond croissant? It’s just puff pastry and almond paste, right? Not too many ingredients?

I was now enjoying the incredibly generous spread between the editor and me: a thick Belgian waffle obscured by a mountain of fresh cream and berries; crepes stuffed with thick, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Nutella and daintily folded into quarters; and the tarte tatin, traditionally served as dessert after lunch or dinner but the juicy, caramelized hunks of apple baked beneath buttery puff pastry and topped with slightly sour crème fraîche seemed totally appropriate to be on the table before us at 9:00 a.m. If only every day could start this way.

The sweet corn and cheese muffin that he's eating is both sweet and salty," I said. "If you eat pork, we've got longganisa rolls, which are Filipino sausage wrapped in puff pastry." "Yes!" both Ben and Michelle exclaimed. "That sounds amazing." I was one of those people who yelled at the screen during The Great British Baking Show when the contestants had too many savory challenges ("It's called The Great British BAKING Show, not Cooking Show!") since I was a baker and not a cook for a reason. But I had to admit, ever since I added those longganisa rolls to the menu, we'd been getting more and more requests for savory pastries. Something to discuss with my partners later. Elena engaged in idle chitchat with the other two while I finished setting up the drinks station, which included boxes of our house blend, decaf, and house chai, along with various milks and milk alternatives plus sweeteners. Zack had ordered our deluxe drinks package, which included not only the aforementioned beverages and creamers, but also Adeena's simple syrups. Elena had proposed the idea of producing and bottling our cafe's most popular syrups for at-home and office use and they were a surprise hit. So alongside the usual granulated sugar and honey, I lined up bottles of lavender syrup, rose syrup, pistachio syrup, and arnibal, or Filipino brown sugar syrup.

The party spills over with guests, from the ballroom to the front lawn. It’s nighttime, but the house is lit up, bright as the sun. All around me diamonds glitter. We’ve reached that tipping point where everyone is sloshed enough to smile, but not so much they start to slur. There’s almost too many people, almost too much alcohol. Almost too much wealth in one room. It reminds me of Icarus, with his wings of feather and wax. If Icarus had a five-hundred-person guest list for his graduation party. It reminds me of flying too close to the sun. I snag a flute of champagne from one of the servers, who pretends not to see. The bubbles tickle my nose as I take a detour through the kitchen. Rosita stands at the stove, stirring her world-famous jambalaya in a large cast iron pot. The spices pull me close. I reach for a spoon. “Is it ready yet?” She slaps my hand away. “You’ll ruin your pretty dress. It’ll be ready when it’s ready.” We have caterers who make food for all our events, but since this is my graduation party, Rosita agreed to make my favorite dish. She’s going to spoon some onto little puff pastry cups and call it a canape. I try to pout, but everything is too perfect for that. Only one thing is missing from this picture. I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Rosita. Have you seen Daddy?” “Where he always is, most likely.” That’s what I’m afraid of. Then I’m through the swinging door that leads into the private side of the house. I pass Gerty, our event planner, who’s muttering about guests who aren’t on the invite list. I head up the familiar oak staircase, breathing in the scent of our house. There’s something so comforting about it. I’m going to miss everything when I leave for college. At the top of the stairs, I hear men’s voices. That isn’t unusual. I’m around the corner from Daddy’s offic

INSPIRED BY PEPPERIDGE FARM® BLUEBERRY TURNOVERS BLUEBERRY TURNOVERS Growing up, I loved to heat up a Pepperidge Farm blueberry turnover for an after-school treat. I decided I’d try my hand at making them for my kids. I think they are really close, and my kids love them. —Christine Hair, Tampa, FL PREP: 45 MIN. • BAKE: 15 MIN. • MAKES: 8 SERVINGS 2 cups fresh or frozen blueberries, divided 2 Tbsp. sugar 1 Tbsp. cornstarch 2 tsp. grated lemon zest 2 Tbsp. butter 1 pkg. (17.3 oz.) frozen puff pastry, thawed 1 large egg 1 Tbsp. water ½ cup confectioners’ sugar 1 Tbsp. 2% milk 1. Preheat oven to 450°. In a large saucepan, combine ½ cup blueberries, sugar, cornstarch and lemon zest. Mash well with a fork. Bring to a boil over low heat; cook and stir until thickened, 1-2 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in butter and remaining 1 ½ cups blueberries. 2. Unfold puff pastry. On a lightly floured surface, roll out each pastry sheet into a 12-in. square. Cut each into 4 squares. Spoon 3 Tbsp. filling into the center of each square; fold diagonally in half and press edges to seal. Place on an ungreased baking sheet. Beat egg and water; brush over pastry. 3. Bake until golden brown, 12-15 minutes. Combine confectioners’ sugar and milk; drizzle over turnovers. Serve turnovers warm or at room temperature. Note: If using frozen blueberries, use without thawing to avoid discoloring the batter. 1 turnover: 400 cal., 20g fat (6g sat. fat), 31mg chol., 235mg sod., 51g carb. (14g sugars, 5g fiber), 6g pro.

A few feet away, Ellis Dean eyed us over his plate of hors d’oeuvres, popping a miniature puff pastry into his mouth as if it were popcorn.

What are you planning for your mille-feuille?" "I was looking into popular flavors of the Victorian era," Claire recited, just as she'd practiced in the mirror last night, "and I decided to use lemon and raspberry. So my pastry cream has lemon zest and a bit of lemon juice, and then I will layer fresh raspberries between stripes of cream between the pastry layers." How are you making the pastry?" Alan pressed. Claire swallowed, suddenly nervous. "Full puff. I found that it layers better than rough puff." Alan gave her a nod of consideration. "Takes longer too." "Are you concerned about the combination of two tart flavors?" Dame Sophie asked in a prim, almost trilling voice. "It can be quite a collision if you are not careful." Claire nodded. "I tried a number of combinations, and this cream should have enough sweetness to counter the lemon. And fresh raspberries, I find, gave a better mouthfeel than freeze-dried or using an essence in the cream itself." Lindsay leaned on the counter, her expression playful. "Tell me about the chocolate, Claire. C'mon, tell me you're using good chocolate." "Of course I am," Claire told her with a laugh. "I'm doing a dark chocolate icing and marbling with the vanilla icing, instead of the other way around." "Daring, Claire," Charlie praised, smiling in his usual would-be devilish way. "Turning history on its head, innit?" Claire made a show of exhaling. "I'm going to try, Charlie, and hope not to offend history or the judges in the process.

Then she places it on the cushion and picks up two sticks, painted blue. Then she bashes the flatness out of it, folding it over and hitting it again, as if she was making a cotton version of puff pastry.

There isn’t a crumb I don’t like. The shattered crust of a baguette; the rounded pink and yellow remains of a slice of birthday sponge; the last currant from an Eccles cake or flake of puff pastry from a sausage roll. There are the spongy, butter-coated crumbs from a crumpet; a lost nib of candied peel from a hot cross bun or the sugary rubble that lies at the bottom of a dish of apple crumble. The truth is that all crumbs are good.