Read Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) Online
Authors: A. Gardner
Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (23 page)
10 ounces unsweetened shredded coconut
1 (14 ounce) can sweetened and condensed milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 egg whites
⅛ tsp salt
1 cup sweet chocolate chips
Mix together the coconut, sweetened and condensed milk, and vanilla extract. In a separate bowl, whip egg whites and salt until they form medium to stiff peaks. Fold the egg whites into the coconut batter. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and scoop batter into balls. This recipe will make about three dozen cookies.
Bake at 325 degrees Fahrenheit for 25 minutes, or until the tops are golden brown. Melt the chocolate chips in a bowl and scoop into a sandwich bag. Seal the bag, and snip the corner to drizzle chocolate on top of each macaroon. Let the cookies cool for about thirty minutes or until the chocolate has had time to harden.
*NOTE: For additional chocolate on each cookie, dip the bottom into the bowl of melted chocolate and set on parchment paper to dry. This method will require a longer drying time.
VARIATIONS:
Black and White: Drizzle each cookie with milk and white chocolate.
White Chocolate Wedding: Drizzle each cookie with white chocolate.
Mexican Hot Chocolate: Drizzle each cookie with your choice of chocolate and add a sprinkle of cinnamon on top.
SIMPLE PISTACHIO FRENCH MACARONS
For the cookie:
1 cup almond flour
1 cup powdered sugar
¼ cup sugar
2 egg whites
¼ tsp cream of tartar
2–4 drops green food coloring
For the pistachio buttercream:
½ cup (1 stick) butter
1 cup powdered sugar
¼ cup ground pistachios
For the cookies, start by whipping egg whites until they start to form soft peaks. Add the sugar and cream of tartar. Whip until the egg whites form stiff peaks (about 8–10 minutes). Add green food coloring, and blend until desired shade is reached (the color will fade when the cookies bake). In a separate bowl, sift together the almond flour and powdered sugar. Add the mixture to the egg whites, and fold in slowly. Continue to fold until the batter reaches the consistency of molten lava.
Place a plastic freezer bag or piping bag corner side down into a tall cup. Fold the sides of the bag over the cup, and scoop in batter. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper. Pipe the batter into small ¾" circles spaced. This recipe will make about 48 shells (24 cookies). Let the cookies sit for 30 minutes before baking.
For the buttercream, mix together softened butter and powdered sugar. Add the ground pistachios, and mix well.
Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 10–15 minutes. Let the cookies cool before peeling them from the parchment paper. When the cookies have cooled, form into sandwiches using the pistachio buttercream as the filling.
NOT-SO-LUCKY LITTLE LEMON TARTS
For the crust:
2 cups flour
½ cup unsalted butter (1 stick)
¼ cup sugar
1 egg
For the filling:
4 eggs
4 yolks
1 cup sugar
1 cup lemon juice
Pinch of salt
½ cup butter (1 stick)
For the crust, cream together the butter and sugar. Add the egg, and mix well. Add the flour, and knead dough into a ball. Cover with plastic wrap, and place it in the fridge for 30 minutes. When the dough has stiffened, roll on a floured surface about ⅛–¼ inch thick and cut into twelve pieces. Press each piece into mini tart molds (or you can use a cupcake pan). Stab the bottom and sides of the dough with a fork to prevent the dough from getting too puffy.
Bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit for 10–12 minutes. Let the tarts cool before removing them from molds.
For the lemon filling, whisk together the eggs, yolks, sugar, salt, and lemon juice in a saucepan. Heat slowly on low heat, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon (about 5 minutes). Turn the heat to medium (no higher), and stir until mixture is thick enough to coat the wooden spoon (about 3 minutes). Do not let the mixture start to boil. Remove from heat, and stir in the butter one cube at a time. Sift filling into a bowl.
Spoon filling into mini crusts, and refrigerate for an hour.
NOTE: Leftover lemon filling can be used as cake filling, a crepe topping, thinned down with water to create a lemon glaze (for cookies and scones), or frozen for future use.
MÈRE'S
OLD FASHIONED MADELEINES
3 eggs
½ cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ cup butter
1 cup flour
½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
1 Tbsp honey
1 tsp lemon zest
Cream together butter and sugar. Add the eggs and vanilla, and mix well. In a separate bowl, mix together the flour, salt, and baking powder. Add to the wet ingredients. Add the honey and lemon zest to the batter. Spoon mixture into well-greased madeleine pan.
Bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit for 10–12 minutes.
NOTE: Because these cookies tend to be a little dry, they are best eaten with coffee, tea, or hot chocolate.
1 sheet puff pastry dough
1 cup sugar
Let pastry dough thaw, and roll onto a sugared surface (use sugar in place of flour). Roll dough into a 10" square and sprinkle with sugar. To create
palmiers
, fold two sides of the square so that they reach half way toward the middle. Fold each side a second so that they meet at the middle, and then fold one half on top of the other. Cut roll of dough into 12 even pieces (just less than an inch thick). Place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, and press the dough to form fatter cookies. Sprinkle the tops with more sugar.
Bake at 450 degrees Fahrenheit for 8–12 minutes or until the sugar begins to caramelize.
For
Palmiers A La Dandre
, create a
palmier
sandwich using buttercream (pistachio buttercream recipe above) or jam as the filling.
15–20 Ladyfingers (packaged or homemade)
1 envelope unflavored gelatin
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
¼ tsp salt
2 ¼ cups milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 cups whipped cream
In a cup, dissolve gelatin into ¼ cup of milk, and set aside. In a saucepan, whisk together eggs, sugar, salt, and remaining milk. Heat mixture on medium heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon. Stir until mixture is thick enough to coat the wooden spoon (10–15 minutes). Do not let the mixture reach boiling point.
Remove pan from heat. Stir in the vanilla extract and cup of gelatin. When the custard has cooled, fold in the whipped cream (the custard will still appear thin, but it will stiffen once it rests in the fridge). Line a bowl, trifle dish, or individual serving dishes with ladyfingers (sliced pound cake will work too). Pour vanilla custard into dish, or dishes, and let it set in the fridge for a few hours.
NOTE: If the mixture reaches boiling point, the custard will break resulting in a lumpy soup-like texture that will not set.
HOMEMADE LADYFINGERS
2 eggs, separated
¼ cup sugar
½ cup flour
¼ tsp baking powder
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a separate bowl, combine flour and baking powder. Beat egg whites until they form stiff peaks, and mix in sugar. Fold in beaten egg yolks. Fold in flour mixture until combined. Scoop batter into a pastry bag, or plastic freezer bag, and pipe onto baking sheet forming oval-shaped cookies (about 4" long).
Bake at 400 degrees Fahrenheit for 8–12 minutes. Cookies should be lightly browned on top. This recipe will make about 2 dozen.
1 package melting chocolate (milk, dark, or white)
Toppings of your choice (nuts, candied or dried fruit)
Melt chocolate in microwave or using a double boiler. Spoon melted chocolate onto parchment paper using the back of the spoon to form a circle. Add toppings (about 3–4 items). Chocolate will expand slightly when each topping is added.
Suggested topping combinations: dark chocolate with walnut and dried cranberry, milk chocolate with candied pineapple and shredded coconut, white chocolate with pistachio and dried cherry, milk chocolate with crushed pretzel and caramel drizzle, any chocolate with holiday candy and (or) sprinkles.
HOT CHOCOLATE—
Jean Pierre style
4 cups whole milk
1 cup sweet chocolate
In a saucepan, heat milk until it starts to simmer. Add chocolate, and stir until melted. Whisk until combined, and serve with a
palmier
or madeleines.
* * * * *
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* * * * *
A. Gardner is a native westerner exploring the sweet bites of the south. After years of working in the healthcare industry, she moved across the country with her husband and adventurous baby boy. She is a mystery and romance writer with a serious cupcake obsession and a love of storytelling that began at an early age. When she is not writing, she is either chasing after her son, out for a swim, trying out a new recipe, or painting her nails bright blue.
To learn more about A. Gardner, visit her online at:
http://www.gardnerbooks.blogspot.com
* * * * *
Poppy Peters Mysteries
:
Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy
Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom
Ice Cream Bombes and Stolen Thongs (short story in the "
Killer Beach Reads
" collection)
Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster (coming soon!)
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this Poppy Peters Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic mystery from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:
MURDER À LA FLAMBÉ
by
JENNIFER L. HART
CHAPTER ONE
"Hey, Jones, come taste this sauce. I need to know if it's worth going to war over." I dipped the wooden spoon into the red concoction and brought it to my own mouth, blowing to cool the scalding liquid.
Malcolm Jones, my devilishly handsome significant other, quirked a jet-black brow. "I didn't realize red sauce violated the Geneva Convention." His crisp New Zealand accent always made me shiver.
I held the wooden spoon up to his lips. "Not
war
war, just a battle of wills with Aunt Cecily."
"Andrea, no sauce in the world is worth that." Despite his protest, he leaned down and tasted my fresh batch of tomato basil sauce. I got a little shiver as I watched his masculine lips close around the spoon.
"Well?" I had to clear my throat, my voice thicker than Alfredo.
"It's delicious, as always. But why would you have to battle your aunt over it? Isn't it a family recipe that you already serve in the shop?"
The shop he referenced was my family's pasta shop, the Bowtie Angel. My Christmas present from my Sicilian great-aunt and my grandfather had been a transfer in ownership from them to me. Technically, I, Andy Buckland, was the sole proprietor of the only ethnic eatery in Beaverton, North Carolina. But a month later I was beginning to feel as though the passing of the torch was more symbolic than anything else.
"Not exactly, it's lighter. I made it special to be served over fried risotto. I want to expand the menu to include appetizers. And dessert." As a culinary graduate and former celebrity chef, I was always playing around in the kitchen. While the family recipes we currently served were comforting, I couldn't hold myself back from being creative.
Jones leaned back against the counter and crossed his legs at the ankle. He was garbed in his customary black on black, though his feet were bare. "Appetizers and dessert sounds more like a restaurant than a pasta shop."
I turned to fuss with the window box full of herbs Jones had made for me. "Well, not a restaurant in Beaverton, obviously. The town council would probably have me flogged for even suggesting it. But maybe if the new dishes go over well enough, we could do a restaurant in Raleigh or Charlotte or even Asheville. Celebrity chef-owned restaurants are all the rage."
Though I'd turned away from him, I could feel Jones's piercing blue gaze boring holes into the back of my cranium. "Are you planning to move, Andrea? Is that what this is about?"
I turned again and wrapped my arms around him. "Of course not. This would still be my home base, obviously. Kaylee just started school here. Do you really think I'd up and leave now?"
Kaylee, the baby girl I'd put up for adoption when I was barely more than a kid myself, had recently come back into my life. I'd lived with the regret of giving her up for adoption every day of the past sixteen years, so Jones knew there was no way I'd pull up stakes now that I had her back. "It's just pie in the sky, anyway. No one wants to be fed by the Death Chef."
His forehead creased. "Is that what's troubling you, your reputation? Because I've offered to investigate—"
I held up a hand to stop him mid-offer. "The last thing I want is to stir that all up again."
Among his many other talents, Malcolm Jones was a licensed private investigator. He'd offered before to find out exactly how the linguini and clam sauce recipe that I'd made a hundred times before had given food poisoning to my live studio audience during my debut cooking show. We both harbored the suspicion that someone had tampered with the dish in order to discredit me but hadn't found a way to prove it.
My arms fell to my sides, and I plunged my hands into the soapy water to start tackling the mountain of dishes. When he'd first made the offer to go digging, I'd waved him off. My life was in Beaverton now, and it seemed pointless to stir the pot, since it was unlikely I'd ever go back to celebrity cooking.
He turned me back to face him, ignoring the suds I dripped on his immaculate kitchen floor. "Talk to me, love. What's eating at you?"
"I heard Flavor TV declared bankruptcy." Flavor TV was the small cable station that'd aired my disastrous debut. "They've been buried under lawsuits since last spring. All those people out of work. I feel like it's all my fault, you know? I need to prove to the world that I'm a competent cook, not the Death Chef."
My eyes watered, and I swiped at them with the long sleeve of my sweater. The pity party had turned ugly. I thought I'd matured beyond the overwhelming need to prove myself. Not even a year ago I'd helped save the Bowtie Angel from going under and caught a killer at the same time. I had a job, my family, and Jones. It should have been enough, more than enough, so why wasn't I happy?
Jones opened his mouth, but the doorbell rang before he could say anything. He gave me a level stare, and I could almost hear his sultry New Zealand accent in my head saying,
This isn't over.
Turning back to the dishes, I tried to decide if the fried risotto should be flat like pancakes or round like meatballs. The balls could be stuffed with fresh grated cheese, something soft that melted well, like fontina. I was always in favor of adding more cheese to any Italian dish, something that didn't go over well with my very traditional aunt.
Jones was right to be wary of Aunt Cecily. She was a stubborn old battle-ax from the old country, and it was rumored she put the Evil Eye on people who displeased her. In our small southern town, she was a living legend. Only a fool would cross her. Though I was 99.9 percent sure she wouldn't actually curse her own kin, I wasn't willing to bet my best cheese grater on it.
Expanding the menu at the Bowtie Angel wasn't just good for me though. My sous chef, Mimi, was a skilled pastry chef, and expanding meant she could use her expertise right where she was. Otherwise, she might grow bored and start up her own pastry shop after her citizenship came through. Having her make cannoli and tiramisu for our customers would keep her happy and hopefully on my payroll a little longer.
I'd set the colander in the drain board when it occurred to me that Jones hadn't come back yet. Curious, I dried my hands, gave the Crock-Pot of tomato basil sauce one more turn with my wooden spoon, then strode out into the living room.
The sound of angry male voices carried through the spacious front room. I paused, deciding to peek around the corner instead of striding into plain view. Jones had his back to me, blocking the visitor from my line of sight. The front door was still wide open, a cold gray January evening looming ahead.
"Malcolm, be reasonable." I frowned as I recognized the voice as belonging to Jones's father, Mr. Tillman. Jones was, as he'd tactfully put it, "born on the wrong side of the blanket" and hadn't known his father until he moved to Beaverton last spring. So far, he hadn't been impressed. Mr. Tillman's life had been turned upside down, and he had taken to drinking like he could medal in whiskey guzzling. Needless to say, he wasn't a regular visitor.
"I am perfectly reasonable," Jones said. Anyone who didn't know him well would think he wasn't at all affected by the conversation. Over the last year, I'd picked up on his subtler cues, and the crisp way he bit off each word clued me in that he was furious. "This matter is none of your concern."
Mine either, and I doubted the men would be pleased to find me eavesdropping. I was about to tiptoe downstairs and check on the load of towels I'd put in the laundry earlier, when Mr. Tillman's words froze me to the spot. "None of my concern? My only son is married and living with another woman on my property, and it's none of my concern?"
Rochelle. Somehow Mr. Tillman had found out about Jones being married to Rochelle, the two-timing bigamist hussy, and was having a royal conniption over it.
"First of all, you're in no position to pass moral judgment on your bastard son's actions. Pot calling the kettle black and all that rubbish."
I flinched at the cutting word choice. Poor Malcolm had serious daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues and trust issues. I could so relate. That was why we were perfectly dysfunctional together. However, being caught spying on them would most likely throw a big fat monkey wrench into our cozy little setup. I tried to tell my feet to move forward and take me out of earshot, but they refused to cooperate.
"Secondly, the marriage was never legal because she was
already
married."
"So why did she show up at my office today looking for, and I quote, 'her husband?'"
Seriously? I was floored by this, but Jones took it in stride.
"Most likely her other husband finally had enough of her philandering and deception and divorced her, and she thinks I have a rich father. Money is all Rochelle ever cared about. Well, other than herself."
He hadn't spoken to me about her, beyond the basic facts. Married, then heartbroken when he'd found out about her trickery. His quick recap was concise and to the point, almost as though he were assembling a case for the grand jury. I knew she'd cut him deeply though. I could hear the hurt in his voice.
"It's not as though you'll inherit from me, not carrying on with that woman right under my nose."
I bristled at that. That woman? As in me, myself, and I? What was so wrong with that woman? I was freaking fabulous—just ask me.
There was a thud and a grunt, and for one horrifying moment I thought Jones had walloped his father. As much as the old jerk deserved it, I didn't want my significant other brought up on assault charges. The last thing the Tillman family needed was more public tongue wagging. A door slammed, and the sound of footsteps headed my way. Jones had physically shown his father the door and was about to bust me as Little Andy Spies-A-Lot. Scurrying for the kitchen, I dove for the fridge and pretended to look busy. I grabbed the first thing my hand closed on, kicked the door shut, and picked up my chef's knife.
"Hey," I said brightly, using my
everything is just hunky-dory
tone.
"You heard all that." It wasn't a question.
I picked up my chef's knife and set the random cold objects on a cutting board. "Shoot, how'd you know?"
"You were about to mince my film containers."
I looked down and sure enough, two black canisters were laid out side by side on my cutting board.
"Rats," I grumbled. "It was totally an accident, I swear. I wasn't trying to spy. I just sort of got stuck there, you know?"
His expression lightened. He crossed the room and rested his cheek against my hair. "Thank you."
I blinked. "Whatever for?"
"For giving me a reason to smile."
I glanced around the kitchen, but everything was staged well and could be left unattended for a bit. "Come on to the bedroom, and I'll give you a few more reasons to smile."
* * *
A while later, I slipped on one of Jones's black button-down shirts and a pair of thick gray socks and padded into the kitchen. Since the sauce was done, I shut off the Crock-Pot and filled a pot of water for dinner. After salting the water and setting it on the stove to boil, I snagged the fresh linguini I'd brought home from the pasta shop.
"That's a great look for you," Jones murmured as I reached for the wineglasses, his shirt riding up to expose my pasta-enhanced backside. "I wish I had my camera."
Thank the powers that be that he didn't. I cleared my throat and tugged the shirt back into place. "Sorry, all my stuff is in the wash."
"You can bring more stuff over, you know," Jones said as he opened a bottle of red wine. "You're practically living here now."
He had a point. I'd brought everything of importance over, including my grandfather's smelly old dog, Roofus, who spent most of his time sprawled on the blindingly white living room rug, snoring like a buzz saw. "I could, but I don't see the point when you could be evicted at any time."
Jones shrugged. "It's Lizzy's place. She's free to move in whenever she wants—though I don't think she'll want to until after the wedding."
"Any idea when that will be?" Jones's half sister, Lizzy Tillman, was engaged to Kyle Landers, who also happened to be the father of my daughter, Kaylee. Though they'd been engaged for over a year, Lizzy seemed reluctant to set a new wedding date, since the death of the pastry chef at her engagement party had put the kibosh on the original date.
He shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine."
The water had reached a rolling boil, so I added the pasta while Jones sliced a loaf of fresh Italian bread. I stirred in silence, lost in my own thoughts.
Though the house we inhabited was perfect for Jones and me, it wasn't truly ours. If Lizzy decided to elope with Kyle next weekend, we had nowhere else to go. The Victorian on Grove Street where I'd grown up had been put on the market. I'd sold my condo in Atlanta, and my assistant was currently residing in the small room over the pasta shop. Lizzy and I had a tumultuous history, and I knew she didn't like me shacking up with her half brother any more than her dad did. What if the two of them decided to oust Jones out of spite? I wouldn't put it past anyone in the Tillman family. "I probably should start looking for my own place anyway."