Baking

Occasionally, a French person reveals – without any malice or superciliousness – that they run on an alternative operating system from us Brits. And on an entirely different motherboard from our American cousins. Over the years of gathering supporting anecdotes, a surprising theme has emerged: butter. Take my first visit to Paris, more than 30 years ago. I innocently asked for butter with my croissant. Simple answer: “Non.” Naturally, I remonstrated. The waiter retorted: “A croissant eeez butter!” And, in fairness, he had a point. Upon biting into said viennoiserie, I had to concede: it was nothing like the dry grocery store versions I was used to. Moments later, a small pot of raspberry confiture was graciously placed on my table.

Sometimes, cooking is art. Other times, it’s science. When it comes to baking, both are involved, which is what can cause problems for those who are otherwise skilled in the kitchen. Whereas throwing together ingredients and tossing them in the slow cooker or on the grill can produce delicious results, baking demands precision. I have experienced great successes when making a host of dishes that don’t require me to get overly scientific A little too much sugar in the dough can cause cookies to flatten, caramelize or end up burned. Setting an oven to the wrong temperature – or failing to preheat – can produce bread or cakes that are unevenly cooked.

This doesn’t feel right. I am wrapping plastic around a freshly baked cake, preparatory to putting it in the freezer for thirty minutes. Then, I’m supposed to take it out and gingerly unmold a bowl of ice cream on top of it. Back into the freezer after that for another hour or so. The bowl of ice cream is lined with plastic wrap and filled with layers of raspberry sorbet, mango sorbet and chocolate ice cream. The ice cream was pressed flat to fill up all the gaps, and it went into the deep freeze two hours ago. Will it be firm enough to hold a beautiful dome shape as it unmolds onto the cake? Or will it slither and slide everywhere? I’m making Baked Alaska — or what seems to be a modern twist on it.

Pastry chef Alistair Wise says never to make pavlova on a rainy day. “Just forget about it,” he advises. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to perfect-pavlova advice. Run a cut lemon around the inside of your bowl before whipping the egg whites. Don’t use fresh egg whites, but also don’t use cold egg whites. Don’t use a plastic bowl, as it may harbor grease. The bowl you do use must be scrupulously cleaned and dried... Don’t whip the whites on a “high” setting, but whatever you do, definitely don’t whip them on low. Use clean sugar — cue the desperate self-analysis of one who has never second-guessed the cleanliness of bagged sugar! Use superfine sugar, or all will be a disaster.

Clafoutis. Difficult to pronounce. But oh-so divine and easy to make. Originating in the Limousin region in south-central France, its name comes from the Provençal clafir, “to fill.” So popular was it “to fill” a dish with fruit and batter, that by the nineteenth century, the renown of clafoutis had spread from the Limousin to other regions of France and bordering countries. This classic and elegant summer dessert is usually made with cherries, among the first fruits to ripen, but also with other stone fruit as they appear — apricots, plums, berries and on into the fall with pears.

In a world full of muffins, they say, be a cupcake. As an inspirational saying, it’s a good effort. But handsome is as handsome does: for solid worth, texture and deliciousness, give me the muffin every time. I remain open-minded and willing to be proven wrong, but it seems to me that however gloriously frosted, sprinkled, beflowered or bedazzled the exterior of a cupcake may be, its interior texture is always trying, in a socially anxious sort of way, to be cake. All the icing in the world can’t hide the strain. Allow me to suggest an alternative: in a world of Christmas cookies, be homemade shortbread. The last word in simplicity, shortbread is the Hermès scarf of the cookie world. It has confidence, identity, classical elegance.

My mother, although an excellent cook, never baked. She left that to her Swedish mother, Anna, who lived with my grandfather in an apartment my father built for them over our garage in Weston, Connecticut. Anna, as I’ve written before, was a gifted baker, especially when it came to Swedish breads. I can’t remember when my mother suggested I might make my father’s birthday cake. Or why the task had been handed down to me. I was only nine or ten, but my mother was well aware that I loved to watch Anna bake, and that my curiosity needed constant nourishment. Rural Weston had no bakery in its small-town center, nor did neighboring, cosmopolitan Westport. In the 1950s, powdered cake mixes came to Westport’s Gristedes supermarket.