Each other's company

I'm terrible at Christmas. Birthdays too. When it comes to gift giving, it is rare I make it to the finish before dropping hints to the recipient as to the present that's been purchased with them in mind. In dire cases of eagerness, I end up breaking down and giving presents early. It might be smart for me to purchase two sets of gifts at the get go.

The trouble is, I get so excited at the giving, that I fail miserably at the waiting. 

In the case of sugar buns, I waited as long as I could. That ends today.

I was hesitant to mention another butter-sugar-and-oh-have-some-more-butter bread when we were on with brioche so recently, but when those brioche were welcomed with such enthusiasm I tucked such qualms aside. 

Plus, sugar buns don't need my help. They state their own case.

I've been making sugar buns for a good while now. And before that, I had a long history with cinnamon rolls, including a dark period in high school involving a scandalous fling with those monstrous ones they sell at the mall. I'm not proud. I returned to homemade for a time, until we parted ways after a disappointing batch one Christmas morning.

They only returned to our circle when Benjamin, my eldest, had a less-than-impressive meet-n-greet with a cinnamon roll from a shop. I attempted to salvage their burgeoning friendship by baking cinnamon rolls with him, thus rekindling my affection anew ... which was stoked ablaze soon after with an introduction to Tartine's morning buns. That proved the tipping point; cinnamon-sweet breakfast breads and I were back to spending time in each other's company.

I tried the Tartine recipe with croissant dough. I saw somewhere the suggestion of swapping in Danish dough, and thought it an excellent one. Then I found a like-minded individual who suggested a cheat's method for Danish dough, and it proved to be what I was really looking for. Laminated doughs, rather than the bread dough usual for cinnamon rolls makes for a pull-apart delicacy that traditional buns sometimes lack.

Over all those twists and turns, there's been tweaking and fiddling, shifting and settling into the relationship. And, wherein through the course of such intensive decided companionship, it was determined that the balance of butter in the dough and swirl is crucial — a too generous of a quantity much makes these buns open up between their swirls and crisp, with a sharp shattering of the crumb. I prefer softness at their coiled centres, a doughiness beside the crunch of sugar. (That is not to say that these buns include only a miserly serving of butter, as the proportion could hardly be called stingy.)

An addition of whole wheat bread flour encourages softness and adds weight, and almond extract contributes a mellow something or other that reminds of bostocks when it meets up with the orange zest that spikes the filling. I double down on that nuttiness, upping the ante with browned butter too.

Speaking of that filling, it's rare I go for cinnamon alone when baking. Which is surprising, as again back in high school I was big time crazy for Big Red gum, and thought cinnamon hearts better than chocolate. In those dramatic years, it was the full hit of cinnamon and nothing else. At present, however, I consider cinnamon best in combination with the other aromatic, warm-bodied spices that share a shelf by our stove. And so, nutmeg, cardamom and ginger tag along. 

And thus we began a kinship with these sugar buns.

As for the moniker, sugar buns comes from Benjamin; who, in his six-year-old wisdom, declared the final tumble in granulated sugar is what makes these buns his favourite. Since he was part of the reason I welcomed cinnamon rolls back into our kitchen, he deserved the honour of naming.

That said, if it floats your boat you could call them "mixed spice rolls with brown butter and orange zest," but sugar buns is less of a mouthful. And, well, easier to say when your mouth's full. (That's the type of joke that makes my boys giggle, it might even get a real belly laugh, so excuse the pun. It's for them. But the buns, I'm giving those to you.) 

Sugar Buns
With inspiration from a variety of sources. They're cinnamon rolls mashed up with the morning buns from Tartine Bakery and Café, along with a touch of a bostock, in accordance with the specifications of the sort of pastries my family likes. Just a head's up, the Danish dough requires at least an overnight rest — so plan accordingly. 

Ingredients
1/3 cup granulated sugar, plus extra for dusting
1/3 cup golden brown sugar
Zest of 1 orange, depending on taste (if you happen to have 3 clementines, use them)
1 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
A good pinch of kosher salt
6 tablespoons (3 ounces, 3/4 stick) browned butter, cooled
All-purpose flour for dusting 
2 pounds quick Danish dough, recipe below

Combine sugars, zest, spices and salt in a small bowl. Set aside. 

Brush the wells of a 12-cup muffin tin (see note) with a thin film of browned butter, using maybe 1 tablespoon in total. Set aside the rest. Coat the wells generously with granulated sugar, tapping out excess. Set aside.

On a lightly-floured work surface, roll our Danish dough to an 8x20-inch rectangle. Brush the remaining browned butter across the dough, leaving a 1/2-inch border on the long sides. Sprinkle the sugar mixture evenly atop the butter. Press the sugar lightly into the dough. Starting from the long side closest to you, carefully roll the dough into a tight log. Once completely rolled, pinch the seam to seal. Turn the rolled dough onto its seam and cut into 12 equal portions. Turn each slice onto one of its flat sides, and press down lightly to level. Place slices in prepared pan. Set aside to rise in a warm, draft free spot until just about doubled in size, around 45 minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat an oven to 375°F (190°C).

Bake the buns until puffed and golden, around 20 minutes. Immediately turn the buns out onto another sheet pan. Carefully flip buns right side up, cool until just manageable to touch, around 5-10 minutes. One by one, roll the hot buns in a small bowl of granulated sugar, coating completely but shaking off excess. 

Best when eaten still warm. 

Makes 12.

Notes:

• For ease of baking, 12 buns work best. However, my preference is to make 14, cutting the dough into 1 1/2-inch slices and dividing the buns between two muffin pans  — one 12-cup and one 6-cup. I like this size as they stay neat in the tins, and are make for the (slightly) more modest bun as seen in the photos.

Quick Danish dough 

The is a whole wheaten adaptation of Nigella Lawson's Food Processor Danish Pasty Dough from How to be a Domestic Goddess, which I make by hand (a modest effort for less dishes). It can, of course, be pulsed together in a processor instead. 

¼ cup warm water
½ cup milk, at room temperature
1 large egg, at room temperature and lightly beaten 
A few drops almond extract, optional
1 ½ cup all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting
¾ cup whole wheat bread flour
2 ¼ teaspoons (1 packet) active dry yeast
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup (8 ounces, 2 sticks) unsalted butter, cold and cut into small dice

In a small pitcher or measuring cup, stir together the water, milk, egg and almond extract, if using.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, salt, sugar and yeast. Scatter the cubed butter across the flour mixture. With two knives or a pastry cutter, cut the butter into the dry mix, as you would in making biscuits or pastry. Stop cutting once the butter is distributed but chunks still visible.

Make a well in the centre of the flour mixture,  then pour in the milk/egg mixture. Stir quickly to bring everything together into a messy dough. It won’t be pretty, it will be shaggy and sticky and uneven. Not to worry. As long as the flour is all combined, it is ready to go. Cover the bowl with clingfilm and refrigerate overnight, or as much as two days.

When ready to proceed, bring the dough to room temperature. On a lightly-floured surface, roll out the dough to a 20-inch square. (The dough may be hard to work with on the first rolling, but it will get silkier and easier with each turn.) Fold the dough in thirds, as with a business letter. Turn the package 90 degrees counter-clockwise, so that it the closed ends are to your left. Roll out again to a 20-inch square, and fold again, then turn. Repeat the process of rolling and turning 3 more times, 5 folds and turns in total. If the dough seems to be getting sticky or greasy, chill briefly in between turns.

Wrap the dough in clingfilm and refrigerate for 20 minutes before using, or freeze for a later date.

Makes 2 pounds.

Our journey of getting here

I'm over being sick, hooray for that — and hurrah for your company and all of your magical home remedies. The combination made for fantastic one-two-punch to knock out that pesky cold. While I'm no longer under the weather, I am under the spell of a bout of nostalgia, just so you know. 

And, so you know, sometime tomorrow you'll be wanting to preheat your oven to 400°F. There's brioche to be baked.

My husband Sean and I are coming up on an anniversary — not an "official" one exactly, and maybe not the most major in the grand scheme of things, as we've been together long enough that our calendar is peppered with small remembrances to mark our journey of getting here.

It's not an event that warrants a fuss, really. We've both got milestone birthdays next month, so there'll be fuss to spare. He is seven days my senior, a fact that hasn't lost its charm to me in all this time of knowing him. There's a smile in the thought that on the day that his parents were celebrating his one-week-old-ness, my parents were celebrating my arrival.

These small things, these scraps of our shared history wrapped up together, is what led to today's baking.

You see, also tucked in that package of sentiment is the day in May, ages ago, when Sean asked me to live with him. With that question he was also asking me to move to another city. After years studying, then teaching, then working abroad, and across this country, he had returned to the city where he was born. A city he knew well, and was full to its borders with his stories, but one I'd only visited.  

I moved. And I fell for that city as I'd fallen for him. 

I got to know his friends and made them even more mine. Those guys have good, strong arms for lifting furniture up three flights of stairs, arms that are even better for opening wide in welcome of a newcomer into their Club of Locals. 

Together Sean and I discovered the places that had changed in his absence, and he introduced me to his old haunts that had stayed the same. One of those places was a particular deli.

That deli, which is still there though we're not, has aisles of mustards and oils, along with a bakery and a meats counter, and one side where you can sit down to eat things like cabbage rolls and soup. Sean and his folks had gone there when he was a child, and I don't know if it was a habitual stop, but I do know it made quite an impression on his young senses. It was the place where he tried his first chocolate spiked with liqueur. He didn't like it much.

What he did like was their egg bread. 

Their bread is actually made into buns, though not the ones we've got here. Theirs is most likely close to challah, though I've never asked. (I really should.) It's scattered with poppy seeds and is deeply yellow and sweet. When he and I would go, we would buy a bag of buns on every visit. They were our usual, back in a time when having a "usual" with someone else felt new and kind of exciting in a silly way. 

Today there's brioche on our counter and not challah — the Francophile version (read: stuffed with butter), if you will. It's probably excessive to be considered a usual. That said, it's exceptionally appropriate for a sort-of celebration. 

Brioche lives in between bread and pastry, which is a nice place to hang out. It has a proper crust like a bread, with a soft, almost cakey crumb that peels apart in lacy layers like the interior of a croissant. It is deceptively light, dangerously so, as it takes a pat of butter like nobody's business. Top it with jam and, well then, you do things right.

Brioche is yeasted, enriched with eggs, and is hardly a fuss either, though it requires an overnight rest. I prefer to look at that lull in activity as a boon, with the work spread out over two days. One evening, you bring together this smooth, rich dough that does in fact feel much like a baby's cheek — so much so that if you told me that brioche dough was the inspiration for the phrase "soft as a baby's bottom," I wouldn't be surprised.

Then, tucked in the fridge, everyone's off to bed.

I lost something recently; small enough that I didn't notice its absence until yesterday — and then I spent the following hours upturning every drawer I could find, turning out every pocket I came across. It distracted me. I kept looking for it in corners and running to another end of the house, with a sudden inspiration of where it might be. I woke up this morning with what was lost tugging at the edge of my thoughts, like a loose thread caught on a splinter.

But there was bread to be made, dough that had waited hours for my attention. With two small lads in my aid, we learned that silken dough is no match for hands skilled with Play-Doh, and made quick work rolling that dough into teeny rounds, which were then tucked snugly into a well-buttered pan. The buns rested, and brushed with beaten egg as a glaze."Dab, dab, dab, paint, paint, paint" we said. Instructions work best in threes. 

Into the oven went our handiwork, and in 20 minutes the brioche rose and bloomed, like clovers. 

So on this Monday, as much as I'm annoyed with myself for what I've misplaced, the loss is that much easier to swallow with bread, butter, jam, made and shared with good company, in reminder of all that's been found.

Bubble-Top Brioches
From Dorie Greenspan, as printed in Bon Appetit magazine, October 2009.

Recipe

This recipe was part of a brilliant article; it is full of charm, helpful anecdotes, and a goldmine of information when it comes to producing dependable results when baking this sublime bread. I highly recommend you give it a read.

A good start

Here's what's going on. I'm sick. It is a straightforward cold, complete with the cloudy weight of congestion, which makes me fairly certain of what it would be like to walk around with my head in a full fishbowl, and rather uncertain as to whether I put detergent in with the wash. 

I am, at present, crazy for masala chai and comfy woollen socks that are a little too big. It's kind of boring. 

I did make myself some soup yesterday. Do you ever get that way when you're under the weather? Confident that a specific ingredient is the only thing to restore you to ruddy-cheeked health? Well, yesterday, that ingredient for me was cabbage and the conveyance of the brassica clearly needed to be soup. I was absolutely positive that would be the poultice for what ailed me.

It was the ugliest soup on record. 

In my fishbowl-brain it all made sense. While I often crave the slicing heat of chili when sick, yesterday I yearned for soothing. I was all about an onion soup at first — I remember reading in a cookbook that at Les Halles, porters at the famed Paris market used to keep off the bitter cold of winter mornings with mugs of soup à l'oignon. I felt in need of such protection.

Somehow my French notion studied abroad for a year, as an Italianate influence worked its way into our pot. A thought of Italian cabbage and bread soups tempted, and I got stuck on the promise of skinny slices of savoy, stewy and supple, slurpable like vegetable noodles — without being noodle-y.* 

There was my plan: equal parts onion and cabbage, with the onion cooked until almost caramelized first (only blonde, as I didn't want the assertive personality of truly-bronzed onions), then in would go the savoy and a bit of flour for weight, and then some chicken stock.  And oh, a rind of Parmesan could be tucked in too, to melt and mingle in with everything else.

That's pretty much what I did.

The soup burbled genially for a good half hour; the vegetables lolled about in their warm bath and became pliant. I was left with a wan tangle of stuff, not all that exciting to the eye, and I began to worry. 

Right at the finish, I rubbed a miserly nub of garlic against some toasted bread and floated it upon a ladled mugful of the soup, then grated a mix of Gruyère and Parmesan atop, and introduced the lot of them to the broiler. After their brief meeting, the soup emerged a bit more golden for the appointment but still kind of boring. Much like my cold. 

I tried to take a photo, even attempting a sidelong approach, hoping if you caught the soup out of the corner of your eye, it would somehow give the illusion of being more beautiful than it was.

You'll note there's only a picture of cabbage here today. That should tell you how those attempts went.

I'm still telling you about the soup though, as I think it was a good start. It was blessedly warming, and its paleness belied the fact it was unexpectedly rich, and the bread sogged into the broth in a way that sounds unappealing but gave appreciated substance. And then there's that bolstering feeling of virtue that always seems to come along when we remember to eat our greens. It might not have beauty, but it had character. And it made me feel better, which was the whole point. It's a good beginning. 

A beginning is something. We can work on looks. Talk again soon.

*With that astute commentary and use of "noodle-y" I've reached the pinnacle of my literary career. Thanks y'all for putting up with my nattering.