A bit of croissant dough, some left-over crème frangipane in the fridge, raisins and brown sugar and cinnamon: presto!, more or less instant gratification.
|NOT a kuchen. Over-ripe, SC?|
This should be very glossy and rather soft when you've finished kneading it: enough so that, rather than try to roll it ('cos it won't work) you should just press it into the bottom of a deep pie dish or, if you happen to have one, a spring-form mould.
Then you need some plums: I was lucky enough (or I'd had this recipe drifting quietly around at the back of my head anyway) to pick some up at the market. I cannot tell you what variety because I do not know, fruit identification emphatically not being one of my strong points, but you want them to melt as they cook so I guess you would want to avoid Black Doris and the like. They ones I found had purply skin and soft orange-yellow flesh, if that is any help.
Streussel, incidentally, is nothing more than the German equivalent of a crumble topping - flour, sugar and cinnamon with even more butter cut in until it resembles fine bread-crumbs. I guess that if you're feeling particularly luxurious at the time, and happen to have them to hand, you could add a generous dose of powdered almonds to the mix, or maybe just sprinkle the topping with slivered almonds before sending it off to cook.
Anyway, after that little culinary excursion, on to other matters I suppose.
Bad enough - from what Margo said Karen was sitting in the passenger seat holding a suitcase larger than she, on top of which was piled a few last-minute necessities like swatches of fabric and a few assorted bottles of dye and, in a concession to reality, a toilet bag - but not absolutely dire. Must have been a tricky and rather time-consuming exercise getting out for pit-stops en route, though.
But the pair of them made it, to be greeted by wails of dismay from Reiner et al when they learned that confit de canard was nowhere to be found. Because Margo had kind of said that she'd try to bring some up with her, but sad to say this does not seem to be the season for duck legs. At least, not at a price I'm willing to pay.
I guess Jeremy must be OK: we've not heard a word from him for ten days, since he announced he had a contract, which probably means he's too busy working. At least, I'm going to use that as a working assumption: I rather doubt I'll be proved wrong.
Anyway, like I said it's a beautiful Sunday - might have been even better if I could have woken under my own steam as it were, grumble grumble - after a wonderful Saturday. Clear blue sky, warm but not oppressively hot - I could sit here and think about taking some exercise for hours.
Now who was this Alain Fournier, and exactly why did he have a circle? And what was so bloody special about it? So he kept it on the first floor, and you could see it for an hour, in the evenings only (or doubtless by appointment), but seriously? This is a puzzlement, as the King remarked.
Lots of things like that around, been there for years but no-one ever pays attention, or they've just faded into the background noise maybe. Which is why I find wandering aimlessly around, camera slung over the shoulder, to be such a rewarding exercise. (Also, spending your time looking up does take your mind off the dog-shit on the pavement, of which I must say there's a lot less than there was back in the day.)
Apparently I must have been late, because she tore a strip off me for COMPLETE FAIL in the punctuality department, and on top of it there was no way I should have been smoking a cigar - doubtless because of the fire hazard. And, I suppose, just on general principles, because it's smelly. Which is fair enough.
Which reminds me that JCB, in the office next door, is trying hard to think how he could possibly justify buying a Leica M9. Not to himself, but to his doubtless long-suffering wife. Probably a good thing he has not yet spoken of the latest Hasselblad, that would definitely be a killer.