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Fromage blanc9/23/2023 ![]() Then, using a rubber spatula, fold in the meringue until barely smooth: it’s absolutely fine to still have bits of egg whites in the finished batter. Gently fold in the fromage blanc, cornflour and vanilla sugar. In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks and remaining sugar until light and fluffy. Add half the sugar and keep on whisking until they reach hard peaks. Whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until foamy. Butter and line the bottom of a 22cm cake pan with baking paper, and set aside. Preheat the oven to 175☌ (185☌ for traditional ovens). For the sake of its plain, unpretentious character. Or fold in a light jam right before you pour the batter into its tin. You could also add the zest from a lemon or an orange. And in the morning, after a night spent on the kitchen counter, it becomes firm and yet delicate a form, which is without a doubt my favourite. If eaten piping hot from the oven, it’s the softest thing you’ve ever had. It’s a plain, slightly sour from the fromage blanc (however, Greek yoghurt makes and excellent substitute) and warm with vanilla (by any mean, please use homemade vanilla sugar) cake. But then, it’d sound much more flamboyant that what it is.īecause it is not. And perhaps also, the soft cake that came from a cardboard box at the supermarket halfway between a mousse and a cheesecake.Īnd maybe that’s what I should call it: Fromage blanc French cheesecake. The tourteau fromagé du Poitou the burnt crust, the pâte brisée I would leave out in favour of the insane texture of this fresh goat’s cheese “cake”. And just like that, many childhood memories resurfaced. What started with the words tarte au fromage blanc, hastily written with a not-so-steady hand over twenty years ago has slowly turned into a cake – a term close enough, yet, hardly accurately describes the wonder that it really is.Īll it took, really, was to remove the pâte brisée base. This recipe is a classic case of natural selection. Although I still need to draw on top of the watercolours, using ink, just like I always do.Īnd in the afternoon, when it became clear we wouldn’t leave the house, I whipped egg whites and folded them into fromage blanc, to make the one cake that might have possibly been baked weekly in my kitchen for a little over ten years, which I’ve yet to tell you about. ![]() And although it turned out to be much too big for my cast-iron pot, it was restlessly devoured while still warm, with only a few slices left for the next day. ![]() I baked the sourdough bread that I had left to proof on the porch overnight. A story made of snowflakes and a crackling fireplace. The following morning was an entirely different story. That day, the sun was high and warm, just like the two eagles we’d seen earlier, right after sunrise. A rake in the hands, and dead leaves piled high on a wheelbarrow. ![]()
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