The Dark and The Light: Dark Chocolate and Lemon Curd Croissants

And so I give the first representation of my ramblings in baked form; lemon curd croissants and dark chocolate croissants with almonds. Two delicious, mouth-watering viennoiserie; one citrusy and sweet like a hazy summer, the other dark and lusciously bitter like the autumn earth, both decadently and unashamedly buttery. As arduous as the process of lamination is in baking, let me tell you the results are most definitely worth it. The full-rounded flavour and moist interior of the croissants, with a flaky and toasted outside is divine, and infinitely better than manufactured husks you buy in plastic supermarket packaging. The lemon and chocolate fillings give a surprise and a bountiful bite, and both are good contrasts to each other, while complementing the voluptuous richness of the pastry. Enjoy both flavours together, for the best soothing of the soul.

Adapted from Paul Hollywood's How to Bake

Makes around 30, takes 2 days

• 1 kg Strong white flour
• 20 g Salt
• 160 g Caster sugar
• 20 g Instant yeast
• 600 ml Chilled water
• 600 g Chilled butter
• 1 Egg for egg wash
• Lemon curd
• Almonds

Chocolate ganache filling: (Make the day before use)

• 250 g Dark chocolate (50-85 % cocoa solids), broken into pieces
• 250 g double cream

1. Heat the double cream in a saucepan on medium-high heat until boiling. As soon as it starts bubbling, take off the heat and pour into a heatproof bowl containing the chocolate. Stir until all the chocolate is melted and cool. Put in the fridge to harden before use.
   
   
2. Put flour in a large mixing bowl and add salt, sugar and yeast, keeping the latter separate from the other two. Add water and mix, kneading gently in the bowl until the dough is fairly stiff. Shape into a ball, lightly dust with flour and leave to chill, covered, in the fridge for an hour.
3. Lightly flour your tabletop, take your dough and roll out into a 60 x 20cm rectangle, roughly 1cm thick. Get your butter from the fridge and flatten by thwacking with a rolling pin, and then rolling out between two sheets of baking paper to about 40 x 19cm.
   
   
4. Place the slab of butter onto the dough, covering the bottom two-thirds, leaving a little space between the butter and edge of the dough. If the butter is softened to make handling difficult, take the baking paper the butter was rolled out on, put onto the dough butter side down, then peel the paper off. Scraping off any soft butter and shaping with a knife is also fine, though be sure to keep the butter layer thickness as even as possible.
   
   
5. Fold the uncovered dough down one third of the butter, then cut the remaining exposed butter and put on top of the dough you just folded. Now fold the exposed dough that the butter was on over the butter, leaving you with a folded block of alternating dough and inside butter layers. Pinch the edges of the dough together, sealing in ('locking in') the butter inside the dough. This is known as the English method of adding fat to laminated dough, and gives extra layers to give more puff. Put in a plastic bag and refrigerate for an hour.
   - A good resource: http://www.bakeinfo.co.nz/Facts/Pastry/Puff-pastry
   
   
6. Take the dough out and on a lightly floured surface, a shorter end facing you. Roll out into a rectangle to 60 x 20cm. You may need to leave the dough to rest a few minutes to allow the dough and butter to soften and become pliable. When rolled out, do a 'book fold'; fold both ends of the rectangle inwards towards each other, leaving an inch between them. Then fold one half over the other, like closing a book. Put back into the plastic bag and chill for an hour.
   
   
7. Repeat this folding process once or twice more, refrigerating after each time, depending on how many layers you desire.
   - There is ambiguity over how many folds (and therefore how many layers of butter-dough) should be in a croissant. There even exists an equation: x(f + 1)ⁿ, where x = number of layers from initial butter addition, f = number of folds made per folding session, n = number of folding sessions. I had 2 layers of butter-dough from the English method of butter addition, in total 2 folding sessions and folded 3 times each session, so 2(3 + 1)² = 32 layers.
   
   
8. After folding however many times you choose, leave to rest in the fridge overnight.
   
   
9. When ready to bake, line six baking trays with baking paper (or however many you have available and reuse). Lightly flour a large work area and roll out the dough into a rectangle, roughly 80 x 60cm and 7mm thick. Trim the edges to neaten them.
   
   
10. Cut the rectangle lengthwise into two, then cut tall triangles for shaping. At this point the dough for me was still relatively thick, so I rolled each triangle thinner before filling. Tug and stretch the triangle at the tip a little and fill with a teaspoon of lemon curd or ganache (omit these if baking plain croissants). Then start rolling the dough from the triangle base towards the point.
    
    
11. Put the croissants onto the baking trays, cover and leave to rise at room temperature until doubled in size, roughly 2 hours.
    
    
12. Preheat your oven at the highest setting, and whisk the egg with some salt for the egg wash. Brush the top and sides of the croissants and sprinkle the chocolate ones with almonds. When ready to bake, spray the insides of the oven with water to generate steam before placing the trays of croissants in. Immediately turn down the heat to 200°C/400 °F/Gas mark 6 and bake for 20 minutes or until golden brown. Remove and cool on a wire rack.
    
    
13. Store at room temperature in an airtight container, though I'd recommend not for longer than a week considering the lemon curd contains egg. If the croissants feel dry/stale, microwave for 10-20 seconds.

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As I sit here writing my first post, I'm struck by the double sidedness of writing a blog, and also of many aspects of life. For me, there is a continuous battle between discerning how I should think, feel and react when reflecting on situations I find myself in; where I stand as a consequence of the past decade and in the moments that occur in situ. I wouldn't say I have an inclination to predispose myself to others' whims and ways of life. Rather, I have become molded and shaped into a person who desires (or thinks I desire) certain things in life; one could say I've been conditioned to believe I want such things. Thus, I have a natural instinct to condone 'the path most determined' at the expense of the inner desires of my heart.

Baking is one such contention I hold, like a secret I'm afraid to fully embrace in the face of the world. There is a joy and a fear; a balance between fulfilment and coming up short. For those who enjoy baking, I wonder if the feeling is similar; this sense of revelment in the soul when you see ingredients amalgamating into a cohesive object, the feeling of soaring elation when you smell the heavy fug of melting butter, the dance in your heart when people show an unabashed sense of indulgence when they try a piece of fresh pastry you've baked. Baking has given me a unique emotion unrivaled in life, a sense of humble happiness and achievement in a world where such a things seem more and more clouded as our attention is divided to accommodate for more and more. The simple things, people always say.

I know, I know. I know.

'If it's something you love, just go for it!'

'Why spend your life doing something you don't fully enjoy?'

'If your job isn't worth a #lovemyjob, it's not worth it.'

(Okay, the last one was just to show my contempt for people who use that hashtag. Barf.)

How many times have we been our own opponent, denying our true desires while sabotaging ourselves with our choices and actions? We can have a fear of admitting the truths in our lives, of saying our deepest regrets and wants for fear of giving it power, allowing such spoken words to become whole and real; a solid entity in the design of life to shine a light on our own predicaments. We chastise ourselves for hoping, while concurrently hoping.

And this is where I falter. Everyone has two sides they view life, the optimism and the pessimism, the light and the dark. I would say I naturally and instinctively fall towards the latter end of the spectrum, and so any dreams I have of baking for a living is clouded with a debilitating sense of fearful paralysis. What else is more frightening than the fear of a dream failed? Of chasing a dream until you wake with the realisation that you cannot fly high enough? I gather the self-doubts and reasons why I shouldn't – I daresay cannot – pursue things that instil happiness in me like a vast army, a throng of seething embodiments to send my courage faltering. This joy I gain, and so much doubt I have to be able to pursue it. Such is the how the light and the dark work.