Hey, There's a Reason they Cost that Much! . . . Learning to Make Artisan Chocolates

Well, my Pastry II class is finally over, and I'm done with schoolwork until September. Boy, have I been craving the mellower pace of summer. To say I'm grateful for its arrival might just be the understatement of the year. I'm looking forward to pondering all that we did in class over the last eight weeks because we produced some of the most extraordinary and elaborate desserts I've ever seen. We also whipped up colorful French macarons, premium ice creams and sorbets, delicate candies, and sugar sculptures. At the half-way point in the semester, we assembled an impressive array of our creations and offered samples to all comers. From the whimsical to the ornate, they were dazzling desserts. It was something to see.

We made great stuff in that class, but I think the hours that we spent on chocolate may have been the most eye opening for me. In fact, one of the most fascinating aspects of culinary school overall has been the way that the veil of culinary secrecy has been pulled back. I'm talking about that invisible shroud that seems to shield us non-chef mortals from the knowledge of how particular food items are actually prepared. Specifically, the sorts of foods that most people would never even think to attempt at home.   

Case in point, the creation of artisan chocolate candies. I'm talking about handmade chocolates of absolute premium quality; think of the shiny treats you see for sale in high-end chocolate shops, sold for upwards of forty or fifty dollars a pound at minimum. Having now been exposed to some of the methods, equipment, and materials used to produce such candies, I have a far more complete and sympathetic understanding of why they command such outrageous prices.

It's not just because they're made from the finest ingredients, are labor intensive to produce, and the tools required to make them are prohibitively expensive. No, it's also because making them requires a significant amount of skill and training, and pastry chefs who are devoted to learning and perfecting those techniques are not a dime a dozen. I think anyone can call himself a "chocolatier" but then, anyone can call himself a rocket scientist, too. Calling yourself that doesn't make it true.

Anyway, after the last few weeks' immersion in chocolate, I am content to forgo artisan candy production in my own little kitchen and leave it for now to the experts. In the meantime, I present to you my chocolate-filled chocolate "box" (which was 100% edible in every way and, of course, we did eat it!) that I made in class, along with the variety of chocolates--nicely packaged in that gold box--that we produced there as well. We were each allowed to take home one packaged box of our candy, along with our own custom-designed edible chocolate box, also filled to capacity.

Pastry class, after all, does have its benefits.

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Strawberry Mascarpone Bars . . . and a Treasure from Far Away

You know that saying about money burning a hole in your pocket? When you're dying to spend it because, well, it's there? That's how I felt about a particularly precious jar of strawberry-champagne jam that I received recently for review from the East India Company. I could hardly wait to try it. Yes, I'm referring essentially to that East India Company--the one chartered in England over 400 years ago by Queen Elizabeth I, made defunct through British nationalization in 1874, and miraculously reborn  in quintessential 21st-century form in 2010.

To be perfectly honest, before being contacted by them via email I had no clue that the company was currently in existence in any form, or that the very idea of the East India Company still had anything but enduring historic value. In fact, I did a double-take when I saw their email message and thought to myself, "It can't be real . . . can it?" After all, I'm sure I first learned of the massive trading company in an elementary school history lesson.

I can vaguely recall reading in class about those legendary royalty-sponsored ocean voyages--the ones designed to expand international trade through the discovery of new and exotic spices, fabrics, timber, teas, cocoas, and thus enrich the sponsoring country. I can almost see the old textbook illustrations of foreign landscapes, with sailing ships charging through churning waves. (I'll bet merchant sailors had to have a lot of moxie in those days.) That's the kind of image that comes to my mind, in sumptuous color, when I even hear the words "East India."


Anyway, a few weeks after that email exchange, a snug little box appeared on my doorstep. Well-cushioned for its journey, this was clearly a treasure from far away. I unearthed the jar from its padding, admired the refined elegance of its label, and tucked it safely away until the right moment, as I didn't want to waste the precious stuff on a mediocre recipe. Finally, today, the moment was ripe.

After that long wait, it was with anxious anticipation that I twisted the cap off the jar. I held it up to the light, gave it a close look, and sniffed . . . mmmm, nice aroma. I inspected the texture of the jam . . . not too thick or remotely gelatinous. Both positive signs. The consistency reminded me quite a bit of homemade strawberry jam in that respect. Then I spooned out a dab and tasted . . . fine flavor, not too delicate nor at all harsh, and just the right amount of sweetness. So far so good. For a couple of seconds as I contemplated the flavor I thought, "That's lovely all in all . . . but what about the champagne?" And it was just then that the presence of champagne arrived on the back of my tongue.  First a subtle tingle, and then that distinctive sparkle . . . "Ahhh, there's the champagne!"

I smiled.

Strawberries and bubbly, married in a jam. What a charming and quintessentially English combo.  Thank you, East India Company, for sending me a jar of jam that lives up to your illustrious name.

About this recipe . . . 

I adapted this from a recipe by chef Scott Peacock that appeared in the May 2011 print issue of Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Peacock's version is made with fresh raspberries and raspberry jam, along with cream cheese and goat cheese. My version differs in that I used fresh strawberries, the strawberry-champagne jam, mostly mascarpone cheese along with some cream cheese, and no goat cheese at all.

I also dramatically dialed down the lemony factor in the crust, upped the vanilla there (I have a kid who detests lemon in any form within baked goods, and I tend to take pity on him in this regard), and reworded the instructions to reflect exactly what I did. This is a moist and creamy cookie-bar, with a tender shortbread crust, that's open to interpretation. I think it would be interesting made with any bright summer fruit.

Strawberry Mascarpone Bars

(For a printable version of this recipe, click here!)

1 cup (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter, in 1" chunks
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
About 1 Tbsp. of softened butter, to brush onto sides of foil
3/4 cup high-quality strawberry jam
1 and 1/2 cups hulled ripe strawberries, chopped into small chunks
8 oz. mascarpone cheese, at cool room temperature
4 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 Tbsp. unbleached all-purpose flour
1 large egg
1 large egg yolk
1 tsp. lemon zest
1 tsp. fresh lemon juice
1 and 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 or 3 tablespoons powdered sugar to dust on the baked, cooled bars

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Line a 9"x13" metal baking pan with a long sheet of foil, extending it up over the short ends of the pan.

In the large bowl of your mixer, using the paddle attachment, slightly soften the butter by blending on medium speed for just about 30 seconds. Into that, add the brown sugar and kosher salt, mixing on low speed for no more than 1 minute.

Turn the mixer off and pour in the 2 cups of flour, then beat on low speed just until it's incorporated. Raise the speed to medium and beat until a cohesive, even dough forms; the dough should not be crumbly. Break the dough into small clumps and press it down evenly into your foil-lined pan.

Bake this for about 20 minutes, or just until the dough starts to set and look slightly puffy. Remove from the oven, leaving the oven on, and cool this on a rack for 5 minutes while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

Brush the softened butter lightly onto the exposed sides of foil, above the crust, all around the pan. This will help the bars release from the foil when they're ready to be lifted out of the pan and sliced.

Evenly spread all of the jam over the cooled crust. Sprinkle the strawberry chunks atop that.

In the large bowl of your mixer, again with the paddle attachment, beat together the mascarpone cheese and cream cheese on medium/high speed for only about 30 seconds. Then add in the granulated sugar, still at the same speed, along with the 1 Tbsp. of flour, just until blended. Add in the egg, egg yolk, lemon zest, lemon juice, and vanilla extract. Beat the mixture until it looks smooth, stopping to scrape the bowl and beaters as needed.

Pour the creamy mixture evenly over the strawberry layer and tip the pan back and forth slightly to help distribute it evenly.

Bake the bars at 350 for about 30 minutes, until just set.

Cool on a rack for one hour, then cover the pan with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least two hours. When you're ready to cut the bars, firmly grasp the overhanging foil and lift up; if they stay flat and don't buckle then they're cold enough to cut. Peel the foil back from the sides once they're out of the pan, and slice them with a very sharp knife. 

If you like, sprinkle powdered sugar on top of the bars before or after slicing, using a fine mesh sieve held at least a foot or more above the bars (helps avoid the appearance of big drifts of powdered sugar).

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An Ending, a Beginning, and Blushing Peach Mini-Pies . . .

It's the end of an era and the birth of a new one. That's how it feels around here since my oldest son, Charlie, graduated from high school a few days ago in a beautiful and moving commencement. I realized only that night, as the processional music began to play, that I had been half-consciously trying to avoid thinking of the graduation ceremony as a real watershed moment, but that's what it was. A watershed in the life of my child, to be sure, but also for our family as a whole and for me as a mom.

Let's just say it was a good thing I remembered the Kleenex.

I find myself immersed lately in a whirlwind of emotions about Charlie. Extraordinary love and affection, pride at his accomplishments, a mixture of apprehension and excitement about him leaving home for college next fall, and curiosity as to what his future may hold. It's all just amazing to me that we've come this far in the journey.

When your babies are born, you imagine all of the landmark events that will likely occur in their lives, but for a long time that's all you can do--imagine them. When one of the big events actually transpires, and you're there to witness it in a formal and celebratory setting, it's a strange and wondrous thing.

About this recipe . . .

So, what does all this maternal sentimentality have to do with blushing peach mini-pies? Not a darn thing. But I figure  that's okay, because juicy little fruit pies don't need a special reason to justify their existence.

These were put together on a hot and steamy day. When I mixed the crust, I'd originally intended to make just one standard-size pie. The crust, what with the heat wave, wouldn't roll out all that cooperatively, so I went to plan B and formed these into casual mini-pies--much easier from the assembly standpoint on a blistering day. They look sort of free form and funky because I was trying to work swiftly and throw them in the oven without delay. I managed to get five minis out of the recipe.

Aptly named, blushing peach pie's moniker can be attributed to the girlishly pink, raspberry-based syrup that you mix with the sliced fruit. Made from fresh raspberries, sugar, and water, the syrup is cooked in a sauce pan, then strained. Combined with the peaches, this stuff's really good. Talk about something worth blushing over.

This recipe hails from The King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion, a solid and chunky classic that every home-baker needs to have around. I didn't change the ingredients or their proportions, but I completely reworded the directions to reflect what I actually did.

Blushing Peach Mini-Pies

(For a printable version of this recipe, click here!)

Ingredients for the pie crust:

2 and 1/2 cups all-purpose flour or pastry flour (I used pastry flour, but I usually use regular flour for pie crust.)
1 tsp. salt (I used coarse kosher salt.)
1 cup cold butter, shortening, or lard, or a combo of these (Does anyone out there still use lard? I've never had the guts to even buy it, but I've always heard it makes for a darn fine crust. I used half butter and half shortening here.)
2 to 4 oz. ice cold water, as needed (1/4 to 1/2 cup)

To make the pie crust dough:

Whisk the flour and salt in a large bowl. With a pastry blender, work in half of the fat until the mixture resembles large peas. Then, work in the rest of the fat until the particles are about the size of rice grains. Sprinkle in the ice water, a tablespoonful at a time, while tossing the dough with a fork. You want the dough to be just moist enough to hold together when pressed in your hand. Don't let it become so wet that it feels sticky. Be judicious with the water. 


Press the dough into one big ball, cut it in half, press each half into a disk shape about an inch thick, and wrap the disks in plastic wrap. Chill them for at least one hour before attempting to roll them out. 

Ingredients for the fruit filling:
6 cups of peeled, sliced, ripe peaches
1 tsp. fresh lemon juice
1/4 tsp. salt (I used coarse kosher.)
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
3/4 cup to 1 cup of granulated sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/2 cup raspberry syrup (See separate recipe for that below.)



While the dough is chilling, peel your peaches, and slice them into large bite-size chunks. Sprinkle them with a little lemon juice to help keep them from browning and set them aside. (If you prefer, you can blanch the peaches first and remove their skins that way, but it's not critical you do it that way. To blanch them, put the peaches into boiling water, boil for a minute or two; quickly remove them and plunge them into ice cold water to stop the cooking, then peel off the skins by hand. The skin should come off easily.) 

In a small bowl, whisk together the salt, nutmeg, 3/4 cup of the sugar, and the 1/4 cup cornstarch. Set aside.


To make the raspberry syrup: 

1 cup fresh raspberries
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup water

Stir together the raspberries, sugar, and water in a medium-size saucepan over medium-high heat. Cook for several minutes, stirring regularly, until the sugar is completely dissolved. 

Remove from heat. To remove all the seeds, pour the syrup through a fine mesh sieve that's been placed over a heatproof bowl. Set aside and let the syrup cool somewhat.


To roll out the dough, mix the filling, and assemble the pie:

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Place a rack in the middle of the oven.


If you're making mini pies have all of your pans nearby. Remove one of the dough disks from the fridge, unwrap it, and let it sit for about five to ten minutes to soften it up slightly. On a lightly floured surface roll the dough out no thinner than about 1/8" thick. For five minis, cut out five small circles slightly larger than the diameter of your pans, and set the scrap dough aside. Working quickly, place the dough circles into the pie tins, being careful not to stretch the dough. Do the same with the second disk of chilled dough. Press all of the scraps into one ball and reroll that out. Using a sharp knife or a pizza wheel, cut the dough into little strips that will fit across the top of your mini pies. 

Quickly add to the peaches the bowl of dry filling ingredients (salt, cornstarch, nutmeg, and 3/4 cup of granulated sugar). Stir well and taste the liquid; if it's not sweet enough add in the remaining 1/4 cup of sugar. Add approximately 1/2 cup of the raspberry syrup and stir into the fruit just to combine. Scoop the fruit mixture evenly into the pie shells. 

Lay 4 to 6 of the little dough strips in criss-cross fashion over the top of each pie, crimping the edges as you wish (with your fingers or with the tines of a fork, etc.). Brush the strips of dough lightly with milk and sprinkle the crust with coarse/sanding sugar or granulated sugar. Place the pies onto a parchment covered baking sheet.


Bake for 15 minutes at 425 degrees, then check the mini pies; if they're browning too quickly, lightly cover them with foil. Lower the temperature to 375 at this point. Continue baking until the crust is golden brown and the filling looks hot and bubbly, perhaps 15 to 20 more minutes more even for minis. Cool the finished pies on a cooling rack. They can be served while still in their individual pans, or you can try to remove them from the pans when they're completely cool by flipping them over into your hand and quickly reinverting each one onto a plate.

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Chocolate Cocoa Nib Cookies . . . (Cocoa Nibs: A Startling and Delightful Flavor Conundrum!)

Maybe this is too personal, but I just have to ask . . . Are you into cocoa (aka cacao) nibs? Because I am. And I love 'em. What are they, exactly? They're fragments of shelled, winnowed, roasted cacao (pronounced kuh-KOW) beans, the precious beans that bring us chocolate. Okay, big deal, you say. So what makes them remarkable? Well, I'll tell you. Each tiny nib is its own special-delivery parcel of profound flavor. Bite down, and it's like a little grenade going off in your mouth--intensely bright and dark at the same time. Ka-boom!

The effect a modest sprinkling of nibs can have on an otherwise mundane recipe is startling. Stir a handful into cookie dough. Sprinkle them judiciously over waves of whipped-cream on a mocha cream pie. Swirl them into homemade ice cream before you put it into the freezer to ripen. Add them into that buttery almond brittle recipe you're so famous for. Do you see where I'm going with this? Limitless possibilities, fellow bakers!

They taste kind of like coffee, but not as bitter, with a complex and curious finish that evokes tropical fruit. Sometimes I can even picture a banana in there! No kidding. And, of course, they also taste like dark chocolate, but not overtly so. You'd think they'd be chocolate-chocolate-chocolate all the way through, but that's not always the case. They're a mysterious and delightful conundrum.

And as for texture? Nibs, while hard and crunchy, are apt to shatter between your teeth more readily than something like a roasted coffee bean or a toasted almond. If you're unfamiliar with them and a little gun shy, try this: Put a few nibs on your tongue--not too many--close your eyes, and concentrate. Pay attention when you bite into them. If the grenade analogy is too scary for you, think of it as a flavor-parade marching through your mouth. You can't ignore a parade, can you? Definitely not. Cocoa nibs are like that. Once they're in food, they won't be ignored.

Though they're scarce in regular markets, you can often find them in health/gourmet food stores, where they're sometimes sold in bulk and are not necessarily too pricey. Maybe you, too, should add them to your baking arsenal?

About this recipe . . . 

Adapted from the luscious new cookbook, Milk & Cookies, by pastry chef Tina Casaceli of New York city's Milk & Cookies Bakery, these treats are easy to toss together and will more than satisfy your cocoa craving. I customized the book's "base chocolate dough" recipe by adding in a half cup of nibs, along with dark chocolate chips and semisweet chunks. I also  increased the amount of salt, and used coarse kosher; the very subtle saltiness is a critical component of this cookie's character. And, as usual, I fiddled with the recipe's directions, reflecting exactly what I did.

I'd initially hoped for cookies that would be thicker and not quite so spread out, but their thin, chewy/crispy quality was actually rather appealing. (But the next time I make them, I think I might add in a few more tablespoons of flour and see if that helps reduce the spreading.) Even after a couple of days, the baked cookies didn't harden completely but remained chewy-crispy. Tuck one of these babies into a petite scoop of vanilla ice cream, and it makes a mighty satisfying dessert.

Chocolate Cocoa-Nib Cookies . . . with Chocolate Chips

(For a printable version of this recipe, click here!)

Preheat oven to 350. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper.

2 and 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup Dutch processed cocoa powder (I used Penzey's brand. Really good.)
1 tsp. baking soda
3/4 tsp. salt (I used coarse kosher salt.)
1/2 cup cocoa nibs
1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
2 large eggs, room temperature
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
1 and 1/2 cups dark chocolate chips (I used Ghirardelli brand.)
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips (Actually, I used Nestle semisweet chunks; they're about twice the size of regular chips.)


In a medium size bowl, gently whisk together the flour, baking soda, salt, cocoa powder, and cocoa nibs. Set aside.

In the large bowl of your mixer, using the paddle attachment, beat the butter for about three minutes or just until light and creamy. Still on medium speed, gradually pour in the white and brown sugars; keep beating until the mixture again looks light and creamy.

In a small bowl, break up the egg yolks, and lightly mix the eggs together with the vanilla. Pour this into the mixer bowl in two parts, beating to incorporate the liquid. Scrape the sides and bottom of the bowl after each addition.

On low speed, slowly add in the flour mixture, and beat just to combine. Take the bowl off the mixer and briefly stir by hand, using a spatula or wooden spoon. Add in all of the chocolate chips, just to evenly combine.

Chill the dough for at least an hour if it's extremely soft.

Use a small scoop or tablespoon to portion the dough onto the parchment, and leave plenty of room between each cookie (a couple of inches) since they spread quite a bit. Bake the cookies for about 12 minutes. They are done when they seem slightly browned/dry around the edges but still slightly soft in the middle. Let them cool for a few minutes on the cookie sheet before removing them to a cooling rack.

The cookie dough can be successfully frozen for about a month, or kept in the fridge for about a week.


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Sharing a Sugar Swan . . .

Sometimes we try to do extraordinary or unusual things in my Pastry II class. Sometimes we succeed. Other times, not so much. Yesterday was one of the good days. We made these delicate swans and I just wanted to share mine with you guys.

The swan's body is made from blown sugar; the wings, feathers, flowers, and leaves from pulled sugar; and the base from poured sugar. Well, not sugar exactly, but a sugar substitute that pastry chefs use for this sort of thing called isomalt, which is derived from sugar alcohol. It's edible, of course, but not particularly intended for consumption.

The swan is no more than 7" tall and perhaps 6" long from front to back, and sits on a base of about 8" in diameter. Here's how it was made, in a nutshell: Its body is formed from a golf-ball sized glob of hot isomalt that you, first, mold with your hands into sort of a light-bulb shape (and, believe me, you're wearing plastic gloves--maybe even two pairs--the entire time you're working on this). Then, you attach the narrower end of that to the tube end of a small, primitive-looking, rubber hand pump, not unlike the pump used on a blood pressure cuff. You gently pump air into the sugar glob, which you're cradling in one hand, and, if you're very lucky, it expands cooperatively to about the size of a large lemon. Then, you pinch a bit of the hot sugar with your fingertips, from the non-tube end of the swan, and pull it upwards, curling it over to form the neck and head. At this point, you let the whole thing cool. Then you heat the tail end so you can remove the air tube (when that's done, you say a prayer of thanks that the whole thing hasn't shattered yet).

The wings are formed from small separate globs of hot sugar. To do this, you grab a bit of hot sugar, hold it tightly between thumb and forefinger, and then pull it out into the shape of a thin wing, and immediately use a pair of scissors to cut the feathering onto one side. The tail feathers were formed similarly, but without any scissor cuts. You heat just an edge of the wing and quickly attach it to the body.

The eyes were made by taking a very small, straight strand of colored sugar, letting it completely cool so it was like a tiny stick, and then reheating just the very end of it so it would melt into a drop. Then that melted tip was dabbed onto the swan's head on each side. The beak was made by pinching off bits of the same color sugar and pulling them into the appropriate shape, then gluing them on by quickly heating them on one edge.

 The little flowers were made by pulling a ribbon of sugar and then quickly rolling and tucking it up, very simply. The leaves were formed much the same way the wings were. And the dark blue base that the swan is sitting on was made from extremely hot isomalt that was poured into a shallow, round, rubber mold and then left to cool.

Occasionally, I don't necessarily think all that much of what I've made at school on a given day, but then I get whatever it is home (assuming it's something we get to bring home, which doesn't happen all that often) and have a chance to look at it in a completely different setting. And, I think to myself, "Wow--that's actually pretty cool." That's kind of how I felt about this little swan. I honestly don't know if I could ever reproduce him at home, partly because I don't have any of the needed equipment, but even if I never make anything else like this in my life, I enjoyed working on this feathery fellow.

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Passion Fruit Cream Cake . . .

One of the most pungently tasty items I've learned to make in the last year or two, hands down, is fruit curd. Fruit curd is a rich substance, cooked on the stove with egg yolks and butter, and can be used in much the same ways you'd use a really good jam. We make it now and then in pastry classes at school, and it's often a predictable citrus flavor--lemon, lime, or orange.

But last week, browsing through cookbooks at home, I found a recipe for a simple genoise layer cake that included a passion-fruit curd filling, with the curd being made from frozen passion fruit puree. Serendipitously, I happened to have a package of passion fruit pulp in my freezer, and it was getting antsy to be used. Frozen fruit pulp, which I've sung the praises of before, can be remarkably inexpensive. It's not to be confused with the shockingly costly, concentrated fruit purees that professional pastry chefs buy in quantity to have on hand in their enormous freezers. Those purees are of exceptional quality, no doubt about it, but they're another animal altogether. For those of us with no access to wholesale prices on those sorts of goods, we'd easily have to pay $15 to $20 for a 1-kilo container.Yeah, I know. Not bloody likely, right?

The type of fruit pulp that I'm talking about is often found in Hispanic food markets, but it can increasingly be found in mainstream grocery stores, gourmet markets, and even health food stores. Brace yourself for the price I paid for one package of this gorgeous, golden, passion fruit pulp: $2.05. That's right. Two bucks and minimal change. Unbelievable, isn't it? You've gotta get some. Granted, it's not high-brow, but it's still pretty darn good.

Besides loving the pulp itself, which comes in several flavors--some of them quite exotic to a Midwestern girl like me (eg., lulo, mamey, soursop)--I love the flat plastic bags in which this stuff is packaged. You can lay lots of these in your freezer and they'll take up almost no space at all. It's the best thing since sliced bread (or maybe I should say sliced fruit).

About this recipe . . . 

I have to tell you at the outset that my favorite thing about this recipe was the curd and, given what I just said above, that's surely not a surprise. But, the fact is, I am not a huge fan of genoise in general. In terms of flavor, it's an eggy cake--one of the classic "foam" cakes similar to a basic sponge--that certainly has its place in the pastry pantheon, but I am not sure it complements this curd in the very best way. And I have always been hypersensitive to anything that's overtly eggy tasting. 'Course, that's just me.

Were I to make this particular cake again, I think I'd use only one layer of the genoise and split it in half horizontally, rather than using two thick layers, which seemed to be overkill. I might also consider brushing the layers with a simple sugar syrup to combat any latent egginess. But you, fellow bakers, should follow your heart. Perhaps you adore genoise? Then by all means use both full layers. In any event, I can strongly endorse this recipe for the passion fruit curd alone. And, who doesn't love whipped cream? We all love whipped cream, don't we? Of course we do. So use that, too.

This dessert hails from the pleasing little book, Luscious Creamy Desserts, by Lori Longbotham. The only change I made to this formula was to add some powdered sugar to the whipping cream, and to reword the instructions, reflecting exactly what I did.

Passion Fruit Cream Cake
(For a printable version of this recipe, click here!)

Ingredients for the fruit curd:
1/2 cup butter, unsalted
yolks from 5 large eggs
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup frozen passion fruit pulp/puree, thawed
1 pinch of salt
2 tsp. fresh lime juice

To make the curd:
 Place a fine mesh strainer over a medium-size glass bowl. Set aside.
Melt the butter in a heavy, medium-sized, saucepan over a medium-low flame. Take the pan off the heat and, whisking constantly, pour in the sugar, fruit pulp/puree, yolks, and salt. Put the pan back on the stove over medium heat. Begin by whisking frequently, and cook for about 10 minutes, stirring constantly for the last few minutes as the mixture thickens. It should seem thicker than gravy but still be easily pourable.

Take the pan off the stove and immediately pour the curd into the strainer over the bowl, encouraging it through with a spoon or flexible spatula.

Whisk in the lime juice. Cool to room temperature. Cover the bowl securely with plastic wrap placed directly on the surface of the curd, to help prevent a skin from forming as it cools. Refrigerate the curd for about 2 hours, until completely chilled.

Ingredients for the cake layers:
1 and 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
6 large eggs
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 unsalted butter, melted

To make the cake:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter the bottom and sides of two 8" round cake pans. Cut a parchment paper circle to fit onto the bottom of each pan.

Sift the flour three times onto a sheet of parchment or wax paper.

Beat the eggs and sugar in the large bowl of your mixer, using the paddle attachment, for up to 10 minutes, until the volume has increased at least three times. The mixture should look thick, pale yellow, and bubbly.




Take the bowl off of the mixer. Sprinkle in half of the flour, folding it in with a hand-whisk just until combined; repeat with the rest of the flour.

Drizzle in the melted butter and whisk only until combined.

 Divide the batter equally between the prepared cake pans.

Bake the layers for 20 to 25 minutes, until the cakes begin to pull away slightly from the sides of the pan. Cool the layers for 10 minutes before removing them from the pans. Peel off the parchment circles and let the layers cool completely before assembling the cake.

For the whipped cream filling:
1 cup whipping cream, very cold
1/2 sifted confectioners' sugar

Whip the cream until soft peaks form. Sprinkle in the confectioners' sugar and whip until stiffer peaks begin to form. Keep the whipped cream cold until you're ready to spread it on the cake.

To assemble the cake:
Place one cake layer on your serving plate. Spread about a cup of the curd evenly atop that.

Spread a thick layer of the sweetened whipped cream over that.

Sandwich the other cake layer on top. Using a fine mesh sieve, sprinkle another tablespoon or two of confectioners' sugar over the filled cake.

Keep the cake refrigerated if you won't be serving it right away.

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