Hey, That's My Brioche!

Whenever Emilia and I go to the library, which is a lot these days, we often walk across the street and go to The French Bakery before heading home.  We both love it in there.  It is small and cheery, and a great way to avoid eating lunch at home.  Emilia usually opts for a ham and cheese croissant and perrier, while her mama is usually content with the best cappuccino that $2.50 can buy.

Anyway, a month or so ago I broke down and decided to try one of their brioches.  It was so pretty to look at -- all golden and puffed up.  But right after we got to the table, Emilia decided that it looked quite yummy and nearly ate the whole thing.  And then she sat, laughing and laughing, as I told her, 'Hey!  That's my brioche!'  Every now and then she would proudly (or was it menacingly, I can't recall) chime in with, 'I ate it!  I ate mama's brioche!'

And so now, every time we go in to The French Bakery, Emilia thinks that mama should get a brioche for her to eat.  However, while the brioche that they sell is quite good -- pardon me while I toot my own horn here -- mine is better.  Maybe it has something to do with the fact that brioche is really best when eaten warm -- with a nice schmear of butter, and an even bigger schmear of homemade strawberry jam.

Usually I make two loaves of brioche, and, once they've cooled, I freeze one for later.  I love this because I dream about it every day -- and then I finally pull it out of the freezer to have with roast chicken for dinner.  Besides that, brioche is a bit of a pain to make.  Actually, that's not true.  It's quite easy, but it does take time -- two days to be exact.  However, this time I used our brioche tins (because Emilia has been carrying them around the house and reminding me of their existence).  The only difference was that I baked them for about ten minutes less than I would do for a loaf.  And voilà -- perfect.  Not to mention, an excellent way to make one's husband wish that he was home instead of in a motel somewhere near the Detroit airport.  Don't feel too sorry for him, though.  He is currently in a lovely hotel in Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia.   Why doesn't my job have those kinds of perks, I wonder?

(I've written about the many wonders of brioche before, so I am not including the recipe here.  Instead, the recipe, et al, can be found here.)