Homemade brioche

I got such a kick out of making homemade marshmallows earlier this month. Remember how I mentioned that they had been on my culinary bucket list? That was probably part of it--the thrill of checking something off the list and even succeeding at it. (The other part was how wacky they were to make, how delicious they turned out to be, and the crazy blue mold that started growing on them five days later.)

So I started thinking more about my culinary bucket list. And I realized that it isn't a list that actually exists, either in zeros and ones on the Interwebs or on a piece of water-crinkled paper on my fridge. In fact, I didn't even know I had anything on it until I thought about homemade marshmallows.

If I had been responsible about my hopes and dreams and had made such a list, though, you know what would have been up at the top, near the marshmallows?

Brioche.

Like with the marshmallows, my fascination with brioche started at the natural foods co-op I worked at in college. I was a barista on the cafe side of the store, and I often worked the opening shift with an awesomely die-hard feminist lesbian with a thick Michigan accent named Beth. We'd pop an Enya CD in the cafe stereo and put the morning pastries out together: croissants, bagels, coffee cake, and brioche rolls. She'd regale me with stories about the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival and how San Francisco was a mecca of queer, attractive, available women who congregated en masse like a cattle call at the Lexington Club in the Mission. As soon as she finished her Masters in Social Work, she was headed out there, no qualms about leaving her Midwest roots in the dust for greener, more lesbionic pastures.

(When I moved to San Francisco three years later, I found her description to be mostly true. San Francisco felt like a mecca, yes. The women were really queer. And they were attractive, for sure, and many of them could be found at the Lexington Club, like she said. "Available" is where Beth's description fell short, however, which is how I found myself outsourcing true love to Portland. One afternoon during an out-of-the-ordinary trip to the East Bay not too long ago--we San Franciscans rarely cross the Bay voluntarily--I ran into Beth at a pizza joint in North Oakland. She had just moved to Berkeley with her girlfriend.)

Anyway, this was my first encounter with brioche. It looked like a bready cupcake and no one ever bought it. Beth called it "breee-ohh-shh." I thought that was a great way to ridicule an undesirable pastry, so, to one-up her, I would put it on really thick and call it "BREE-YO-SHH" and hurl the leftover rolls against the wall and into the compost bin at the end of my shift. I only realized later that Beth wasn't making fun of it when she extended the vowels like that--that was just her accent.

In retrospect, it wasn't fair for me to treat the brioche like that. I had never tried it; I just assumed it was nasty since no one bought it and because Beth's accent made it seem like she disrespected it as well. As it turns out, though, brioche is pretty good. It's amazing in French toast, and can make a superb hamburger bun. So I added it to my bucket list.

I found a recipe for homemade brioche on Epicurious. The reviews said that it was a cinch to make, and I couldn't disagree with them more. This is one of the most high-maintenance things I've ever made. You beat the shit out of it with the bread hook on your mixer until you think your mixer is going to break into pieces. You let it rise for an hour at room temperature. You put the dough in the fridge for two hours and deflate it every 30 minutes. You leave the dough in the fridge overnight. The next day, you take it out and let it rise again (anyone feeling Biblical here?) for another 2 hours. Finally, you bake it, and by the time it comes out of the oven you're not sure you want it anymore.

Taste-wise, the bread came out good, although it has a bit of a yeasty aftertaste to it (try reducing the amount of yeast called for in the recipe if you're going to make it yourself). I made rolls and not loaves (bake rolls for 12-15 minutes, not the full 30 minutes in the recipe), and I added a couple of bittersweet chocolate squares in the middle of some to give them a pain-au-chocolat vibe. Next time, I'll add more than just a couple of squares, though, because two just wasn't enough.


There is SO MUCH BUTTER in brioche.


First time I'd ever used my bread hook on my mixer!


This is what the dough looks like after you've beaten the shit out of it. This was also the best part of the whole experience: I had beaten it so hard that the mixing bowl GOT STUCK IN THE MIXER. B had to help me get it loose--it was so tightly stuck that it required TWO PEOPLE to dislodge it.


Fast-forward to day two. Here's what it's like to knead the dough into roll-esque shapes and put what turned out to be not enough chocolate in the center.


After rolling it out, you let it rise for two whole hours before popping it in the oven. It's so high maintenance.


Finally! Finished!!

Homemade marshmallows: The conclusion

A couple of people (close friends, not random strangers) have inquired about my marshmallows. Did they turn out okay? If so, would I be so kind as to make a batch for an upcoming birthday?

I feel guilty about leaving you with a cliffhanger on my last post. I didn't realize anyone actually read entire posts on here. Thank you for proving me wrong.

So, let's close the chapter on the homemade marshmallows. Together.

I cut into the pan of marshmallows last night. I expected something gooey and unwieldy, a big mistake. This one time I made peppered pecans using both of my baking sheets and somehow completely destroyed both pans (after setting off the smoke detector, twice). The combination of an unchecked oven and the thick glaze of sugar and butter on the nuts may have had something to do with it--anyway, I had to throw both baking sheets, half-blackened with molten confection, away. I imagined something similar happening to my knife when I cut into the marshmallows (but hopefully less ear-splitting): maybe a thick coating of quickly hardening sugar or something similarly horrifying that would destroy the knife and therefore declare victory over my amateur candy-making skills. Marshmallows: 1. Katherine: 0.

But I was pleasantly surprised to find my knife glide (really!) effortlessly (yes, really!) through the marshmallows. And I could even peel them out of the parchment-lined pan, and dust them with a bit more cornstarch to make them less sticky. All of these things happened.

And then we had hot cocoa. With a giant, creamy marshmallow on top. And it was awesome.


Yum.


Feeling confident, I decided that I'd try one in my morning coffee today. I toted it to the office in a separate container and popped it into my mug after arriving (because I had to be able to watch the marshmallow dissolve in real-time). In about 5 minutes, I had a sugar-to-coffee ratio of about 3:1 and took one step closer to Type 2 diabetes. So I won't be taking a marshmallow to work anymore. My mug is far too small.

Homemade marshmallows: A coming out story

I LOVE MARSHMALLOWS. I used to be ashamed to admit it. Growing up, when it came to s'mores, it was always the chocolate that disappeared faster than the graham crackers and, yes, the bag of jet-puffed marshmallows. When the other kids were sneaking squares of Hershey's around the campfire, I, of course, joined them. I did it to fit in, to be like everyone else. But it was actually the bag of marshmallows I wanted to cradle and consume, not those waywardly melting squares of chocolate that smeared all over our hands and mouths like we were recklessly stuffing ourselves with mud.

After all, chocolate comes in all sorts of things. You could, technically, have it in every meal. Chocolate chip pancakes. A mole burrito. Chocolate-marinated steak. Don't even get me started on desserts.

But marshmallows? Marshmallows are something rare. Sorry, chocolate. You're kind of regular, especially compared to a fluffy, spongy marshmallow. You lose.

And then there was that moment when I discovered vegan marshmallows. It was probably at the natural foods co-op I worked at in college--that place exposed me to a lot of things. You can read between the lines on that one if you want. Anyway, these vegan marshmallows were square. These vegan marshmallows were delicious. These vegan marshmallows meant that marshmallows were not some weird Kraft Foods creation meant to push you ever closer towards obesity--marshmallows could be made in a million different ways. Marshmallows could be made by you (and some agar-agar, whatever that is).

So it was always in the back of my brain to make marshmallows of my own, but I still wasn't out to the world about my secret. Last week, I was thinking about how I wanted to make something I had always wanted to make but had never made before (yes! I actually think these things!), and marshmallows popped up. I would make marshmallows. Finally!

I trolled the Internets to find a recipe and was disappointed that most included corn syrup (I'm over the vegan thing so the gelatin, another consistent ingredient, didn't bother me). I'm convinced that corn syrup and Kraft are in bed together. They laugh together about pushing people ever closer towards obesity, then they start making out. In my quest, I discovered other passionate marshmallow lovers like this guy. He seems pretty legit (former pastry chef at Chez Panisse and self-professed marshmallow enthusiast? Okay!).

So, maybe loving marshmallows isn't something to be ashamed about.

Maybe I shouldn't feel so alone in these desires.

Guys. I love marshmallows.

I bet what you really want to know is not that, though. I bet you want to know if I found a corn syrup-free recipe. And yes! I did. It's a marshmallow recipe that uses agave nectar. No corn syrup.

Did I make the recipe?

Yes! I did.

I copied it word-for-word (minus the confusing part where grey salt is listed as an ingredient but never shows up in the actual recipe), so I'm not going to re-post it. Go click that link and look at it yourself. And be warned that I haven't actually tried a finished marshmallow yet--I have to let them set a bit longer. But the warm marshmallow goo was really good and actually tasted like a marshmallow, so I'm confident. In the meantime, satiate yourself with some photos of the process.


This picture is misleading. You actually use egg whites (not yolks) in this recipe. You also use four eggs, not three.



The recipe also involves boiling sugar and the agave nectar to the "hard ball" stage. This means using a candy thermometer, but don't panic--it's not hard ("hard" as in "difficult," not "hard" as in "hard ball"). You just stick the thermometer in the saucepan with the sugary stuff, turn the heat to medium, and wait until the mercury hits around 265 degrees. Then you remove it from the heat. That's it.



The recipe involves lots of beating, so don't attempt without a heavy-duty mixer.



After all that beating, the goo is sticky. Like a marshmallow. LIKE A MARSHMALLOW!



Then you pour it in a pan, coat it with cornstarch, and wait.