#bublanina

[morethansalad]

Vegan Rebarborová Bublanina (Slovak Rhubarb Cake)

recipe is in Slovak btw

[csmaha]

Cherry Bublanina: Czech Sponge Cake

Cherry Bublanina is a delightfully light sponge cake with fruit. I used cherries, my favorite but other fruit can be used. This was my first time making this Czech delicacy. It was easy and the results were delicious. Cherry Bublanina INGREDIENTS: 1 1/4 cups milk 5 eggs, separated 12 tbsp. unsalted butter 3 tbsp. yogurt or sour cream 2 cups plain flour 3/4 cup sugar 1 tsp. baking…

[bobodupla]

Bublanina 🤤

[pomnenka-kyticka]

Ok, jelikož se mi v tags o krajích/středu buchty množí různé názory, tak tady mám další anketku.

[bangjiazheng]

Souffle - Bubble cake - Czech Fruit Coffee Cake Recipe, Bublanina

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 7

Beta if you're reading this, I'll see you in a bit!

Notes: talks of ableism and homophobia, it's not reader full blown trauma dumping but he's talking about his experiences as a closeted man with a controlling family. Check masterlist for previous parts.

@thedeimoshimself @eli-chris

Pantalone’s demeanour immediately changes the moment the two of you are finally alone. The air in the room is no longer thick with tension, but as he offers you the last little piece of cake, you’re aware of a looming dread hanging over you. You’re aware the choice to finally stand your ground and defy your parents’ wishes, even if it’s just staying for dinner, will have consequences. Even then, witnessing Pantalone scold your parents like children was immensely satisfying, and makes your moment of recognized agency all the more sweeter. 

Speaking of sweetness, the cherry bublanina is delicious. You hum at the taste, and swallow down your mouthful. “That’s actually really good,” you say, “did your staff make it, or did you get it somewhere?”

“It’s homemade,” Pantalone answers, “but I believe the recipe came from an old cookbook one of my chefs owns. I’m sure it’s out of print by now, so perhaps I can ask them to write the recipe for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Pantalone looks at you inquisitively. “Say, do you cook?”

“I can, I just don’t do it much,” you answer. “We have a couple chefs, and as you just saw, my mother is very… protective, so she’s never liked the idea of me handling knives or being around stoves.”

Pantalone cringes a bit. “I can imagine.”

“I get it to an extent,” you continue, “not being able to see anything that isn’t directly in front of me has way more disadvantages than advantages, but she acts like I’ll immediately forget something unless I’m looking right at it. I’m losing my vision, not my object permanence, I still know where the stove is because I’m not stupid.”

“Does this sort of… situation happen a lot?”

You furrow your brow. “The object permanence or barging in on my private outings?”

“Both, I suppose. I’m asking if she’s ever been this overbearing before.”

You click your tongue, and turn your head away from Pantalone. You find yourself staring at a painting depicting a field of flowers with mountains in the background. After a moment of trying to make out what the flowers are, you sort of snap out of it and remember he asked you a question.

“Um…” You furrow your brow and think of all the times your mother has been overbearing in your childhood. You count incidents in your teen years all the way until now, and come to a realization. “I think she’s getting worse.”

You see Pantalone open his mouth to respond, and then your words sink in and he remains quiet.

You go on. “Compared to when I was little, she’s incredibly overbearing. I don’t even think it’s like she’s just as protective as when I was little, but now that I’m older it feels suffocating. I think she’s genuinely becoming more clingy with me.”

“I… I see. I’m sorry to hear that?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” you say, “and honestly, I don’t really want to talk about my parents right now.”

Your host shrugs. “I suppose that’s fair enough. To be quite honest, I only asked out of courtesy. I put up with your father’s antics and burdens enough as is.”

You chuckle. “I’d tell you you’re lucky you don’t live with him, but it wouldn’t be that different from now, huh?”

“No, it would not.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Pantalone perks up. You hear it open, and hear it’s Fyodor. “Sir, the two guests are having an argument outside.”

You hide your head in your hands and groan. 

“Are they getting physical?” Pantalone asks.

“No, but it’s disturbing the peace and they’re not leaving.”

You hear Pantalone sigh. “If they don’t settle down and leave in the next two minutes, or if it does turn physical, get security involved.”

You presume Fyodor nods before he closes the door. You take a deep breath, humiliation washing over you and sinking into your pores. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t know why I expected them to be normal. I should’ve just declined the invite.”

You hear the scraping of Pantalone’s chair, and the clicking of heeled boots approaching you. You feel him right next to him, and jolt when his hand settles on your shoulder. You lift and turn your head to look at it, and here, you can see manicured nails, shining gemstone rings, and to your shock, how blemished and scar riddled the skin of his hand is. Some of them are small and neat, little cuts and scratches, but some are deep and painful looking, you’re not even sure what would have caused most of them. You can only assume the silvery splits on his knuckles are from old fights. What the hell happened to him?

“Would you care to see the library?”

You tilt your head up and see Pantalone smiling expectantly at you. “Oh, sure,” you answer. Pantalone steps back and lets you stand up from your chair. You push your chair back in before you follow Pantalone out of the room. Trailing behind him like a duckling, you find your pace instinctively slows down and your eyes drift back to the oddly unsettling art pieces he has lining the walls of the hallway. You want to be able to take in the macabre sight of them, which would be easier if you could actually see things normally.

Pantalone’s made considerable distance before he realizes you’re lagging behind. He stops, turning over to see you’ve now fully stopped, staring up at a particularly gruesome scene with some concern and confusion. He chuckles, joining you in staring up at the painting.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Indeed,” you reply, “love the use of red. Some say it’s the colour of warmth and love. I imagine it really puts guests at ease.”

He lets out a little laugh. “You know, perhaps I should have expected an author to have a little knowledge in colour theory.”

“It comes with the territory.”

“We’re almost to the library,” Pantalone states, “though we can stop and chat about art. I’m in no rush.”

You hum. “I’m more curious why all of your art is so… morbid.”

“I enjoy morbid art pieces,” Pantalone answers, “there’s something about the raw and visceral imagery that strikes a chord with me. Do you not enjoy it?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you reply, “I’ll read books about tragedy and horror every now and then, and I enjoy gruesome depictions in art as much as the next person.”

“But?”

You shrug. “I don’t think I’d put them up in every hallway, but that’s also my personal preference. If you like it, more power to you.”

“I’ve had a few members of staff say they’ve been startled by certain pieces when wandering the halls late at night,” Pantalone comments, “so perhaps that supports your argument better.”

“I mean, I probably wouldn’t even see them if I was walking around at night.”

“Right, no peripheral vision.”

“Oh, not even that.” You turn yourself so you can properly talk to Pantalone. “One of the other symptoms of my condition is night blindness. My eyes can’t adjust to darkness anymore.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you.”

“What are you… oh, oh.” Pantalone chuckles. “Very funny. I’m sure you make that joke a lot.”

“People take me going blind too seriously,” you say, “they’re always worried they’re going to upset me if they even bring it up. That or they try to baby me like my mother does. If I make fun of it, it kind of puts people at ease.”

“Well, going blind is rather serious, no?”

“I mean, yes, but if I’ve already made peace with it, then everyone else should too.”

The conversation continues as you and Pantalone make your ways down the hall. He glances at you over his shoulder. “Apologies if I’m overstepping, but doesn’t it scare you at least a little bit?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled,” you answer, “but you have to understand that I’ve known about this since I was eight. I’ve been living like this my whole life. Worrying isn’t going to make my eyesight better again, so I just have to grit my teeth, plan accordingly, and just keep going.”

“Fair enough.”

You follow Pantalone around a corner. “Besides, I can still see. I can’t see well, but I can see things.”

“What do you see, anyways? What does it look like for you?”

“Curl your index fingers and thumbs until they make two small holes, and then look through them. That’s pretty much it.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It certainly is.”

“Oh, here we are,” Pantalone says. He takes a step to the right and immediately disappears from sight. You turn to follow him–

Thunk! “Ow, fuck, shit.”

You hear Pantalone snort before he turns his laugh into a cough. “Are you alright?”

You rub your forehead. “It’s not the first door frame I’ve walked into, and it won’t be the last.”

“That was quite loud. Here, let me see…”

When you feel slim, calloused yet smooth fingers take hold of each side of your face, you immediately forget about walking into the door frame. He gently tilts your head up, and now all you can see is his face, and at this proximity you only see his face. He does not seem overly concerned, and his brow is furrowed in concentration. You nervously gulp, face growing hot. You’ve never had anyone this close to you, touching your face so tenderly, let alone another man. Not a man with striking eyes, with scarred, soft hands. Not a man who smells of black tea and leather scented cologne with notes of something floral. 

Your eyes flick down to his lips, for the briefest of glances, and then Pantalone pulls back with a cheery expression. “You have a slight mark,” he tells you, “but nothing that should bruise.”

You imagine you look incredibly and obviously flustered, and your brain is still reeling at the lingering feeling of his hands on your face. You somehow pull yourself together and clear your throat with the elegance of a brick crashing through a window. “O-Oh, good, that’s good.”

“With that out of the way,” he continues, “this is the library.”

Pantalone steps aside to let you properly step inside. Your head is on a slow swivel, taking in the magnitude of the room. It’s magnificent, truly. Walls with bookshelves packed full of books from the tall ceiling to the hardwood floor. In one corner of the room, you spy a liquor cabinet. There’s also a fireplace glowing red and gold with flames, and two armchairs with an accompanying end table, arranged symmetrically a comfortable distance away from the fireplace. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

You’re speechless, in utter awe of the room you’re standing in. You step further into the room, marvelling at the sheer amount of books. It makes the “private library” your parents have at home look absolutely pitiful. 

You hear Pantalone walk off. “Could I get you anything to drink? It’s a tad early for it, but I think we earned it for surviving that whole encounter.”

“Um… Oh, n-no, I’m okay for now,” you reply, still awestruck. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Enchanted?”

“Yes, thank you.” You turn to the direction his voice came from, and after a couple seconds of looking, you find him looking through his collection. He perks up when you speak. “How many of these books have you read?”

“All of them.”

You laugh. “Really? All of them?”

“A vast majority, at least,” he clarifies, “do you not believe me?”

“Would you be hurt if I said not really?”

“Absolutely shattered,” he teases, “I don’t think I would ever recover from the lies and slander.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, fine, I believe you.”

“Splendid.” He shuts the cabinet and gestures to the shelves. “You’re free to browse or take a seat. Dinner won’t be ready for hours, so if there’s anything you want to know or do, feel free to ask.”

“I don’t even know where I’d start…”

“I admittedly don’t read much romance,” Pantalone says, pointing to a shelf somewhere behind you, “but I believe I own some of the classics, and a few others.”

“Are any of them books I’ve written?”

“Not yet.”

“I figured as…” You blink. “Wait, not yet?”

He laughs. “I wasn’t aware of your work when I first met your father,” he explains, “in fact, the night I walked into your office was the same night I learned you were an author. I’ve since then heard good things about your writing, yet I couldn’t decide which book of yours I should read first, so I’m waiting for, what was it called again, Plucking Heartstrings?”

You feel your eyes widen and your face flush. “You… You want to read my new book?”

Pantalone gives you an odd look. “Yes? Did you think I sent the manuscript off simply because I felt like it?”

“You gave me this whole speech about using it to gain my trust and make my mother lower her guard, or something along those lines.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It wasn’t my only motive, and that was before today’s debacle. The point is I’m intrigued by your book.”

You feel your face grow warmer. “You are?”

“You ask that like I’ve said something unbelievable,” Pantalone remarks. “Honestly, I think most people would be naturally curious if someone they knew was related to an author, or an artist, or a musician. What little I’ve read of your draft, the fact it was accepted by the Yae Publishing House, and all this chatter and fuss about how this book is different and how you’d rather write books like this implies this is no low brow, poorly written smut or cliché riddled fairytale.”

“Well, it’s just…” You sigh. “If people saw you read it, they might think you’re gay.”

Pantalone’s laugh is especially loud, given the two of you are standing in the middle of a library. “I hardly see why that matters. I’m the richest man in the world and a Fatui Harbinger. My sexuality would hardly affect how the people already perceive me. Besides, I doubt me reading a book about two men is any more queer than you writing it. Hell, they’d probably assume the same things about either of us if it was a man and woman.”

“I… guess you have a point.”

Pantalone motions to the armchair closest to you, inviting you to take a seat. You do, and he does as well. The chair is rather comfortable, and you settle in nicely. 

“That actually brings me to something I’ve been meaning to ask, but was unsure how or when to bring it up.”

This can only be bad. “Alright.”

Pantalone crosses one leg over the other in his seat. “Aren’t you worried about your family, well, figuring it out when the book releases?” he asks. “I know you said your father won’t read your books, but I imagine the basic premise will make it back to him at some point, and I know your mother is going to read it.”

You feel a twinge in your stomach and an ache in your chest. Truth be told, that’s part of the reason it’s taken you so long to get the story out. You’ve spent nearly four years slowly poking and prodding at the idea before finally dedicating yourself to it because you feared what your family may think, both of the book and of you.

You think the look on your face conveys your worries, as Pantalone shakes his head. “You don’t have to answer, my apologies.”

“I-I had a whole plan,” you tell him, “for when this book released, because I know this will be seen as me coming out by everyone who knows me or reads my books.”

“Which was?”

“I wasn’t going to be in Snezhnaya when it was finally published.”

Pantalone quirks an eyebrow.

You continue. “I love my home here, but it’s just… with how my condition works, it’s a bit of a nightmare sometimes. The constant storms mean there’s not as much sunlight during the day and night seemingly falls faster. It messes with my night blindness. I’ve been saving up so I can move to Liyue, so I can actually go outside and enjoy some sunlight.” You shift in your seat. “I, um, also want to have a proper garden. I know I’m inevitably going to go fully blind, so I want to have something pretty to look at in my memories, and so I can at least enjoy the smell of flowers when I can’t see them anymore.”

At the mention of Liyue and flowers, Pantalone seems to immediately snap to attention. He appeared to be listening intently, but that really caught his attention. “Is that so?”

You nod. “That’s, um, mostly fantasy. It’s been hard saving up. I do have an inheritance from my late grandfather that was supposed to go to an Akademya education or buying my own home, but I also have to account for travel expenses actually moving to Liyue, getting items shipped over and then buying new furniture, buying my own food, and I’m paying for my doctors appointments and treatments to keep myself from going blind faster. As much as I love writing, I’m not at a point where I can actually live off of it.”

“You know, if you need assistance or advice, you can ask me.”

“I appreciate it,” you tell him, “but I shouldn’t trouble you.”

Pantalone lips suddenly curl into a smile. He leans forward in his seat, intertwining his fingers together. “You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you?”

You look at him oddly, and then you remember Pantalone is literally a banker, and laugh. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“I am serious, though,” Pantalone states, “if you’re struggling to come up with a financial plan that fits your budget, that is a service we provide at the bank. If you want me to help you, though, you’re going to have to book an appointment ahead of time.”

You snicker. “Why not now?”

“Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to give you special treatment on my day off,” he teases.

You shrug. “Worth a shot.”

The conversation lulls. You hear the soft crackling of the fire, and find yourself looking around at the shelves again. Obviously at this distance you can’t see what they are, but you’re still very impressed by the collection. 

After another moment of quiet, Pantalone speaks up again. “So, why did you start writing?”

You clear your throat and look back at him. “I loved to read as a child,” you say, “I only had a few friends growing up, not including my siblings, so I spent most of my free time just reading. As I grew older, it grew into an interest in writing.”

Pantalone nods along. “Now, may I ask why romance?”

“I just like romance,” you tell him, “it’s cheesy, I know, but I enjoy stories about falling in love and finding your soulmate. My family would tease me about how they’re more for girls, so I would hide them in the dust covers of other books.”

“Like your reference material?”

You groan. “Yes, like my reference material. It is actual reference material, by the way, b-but I doubt you would believe me regardless.”

“Will it make it into your book?” Pantalone asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“No, it won’t,” you answer, “I spent so long trying to figure out how the hell to even write it that it stopped being appealing, so instead it just fades to black. Let the audience decide what happens and it’ll probably be better than whatever I was trying to do.”

Pantalone smiles. 

You sigh. “Anyways, part of the reason I wanted to write romance is that after a few years of reading about blushing maidens and their prince charmings, I realized two things.”

“Which were?”

“Well, one, that I like men.”

Pantalone laughs.

“And two… I couldn’t find any books that were actually tailored for men like me. Nothing that wasn’t egregiously explicit or horribly distasteful, anyways. I figured if I can’t find anything to read, then maybe I should be the one to write it.”

You watch Pantalone’s expression change slowly with every word you speak. He stops looking so amused by your joke, actually taking your thoughts in. His eyes soften, as does his smile, and in the glow of the fireplace, the way he looks at you is so… warm.

“That’s really a lovely mentality,” he says softly, not a hint of condescension in his voice. “I’m sure someone out there will greatly appreciate it, and I’m hopeful that it will be a success.”

Your stomach flutters, and you hear and feel your heartbeat. You can’t help the smile that twitches onto your lips, that stretches across your face. You tilt your head down slightly so his expression doesn’t distract you. “Thank you. It really does mean a lot to hear that.”

“I mean it.”

You feel your heart in your chest and your throat. Why does he sound so fond when he says it?

A knock on the open door causes you to jump, Fyodor’s voice makes itself known again. “Sir, could I borrow you for a moment? The chef has a question for you.”

Pantalone sighs and stands. He smiles down at you. “One moment, please.”

You nod and watch as Pantalone walks across the library to the door. You hear his heels clack against the floor, growing quieter and quieter until they disappear completely. Soon, you are left in the quiet of the library alone.

You quickly bury your face in your hands as realization hits you at full force.

This isn’t a little crush, and it never was. You want Pantalone.

[akwolfgrl]

I'm a great fuck but better lover

Nami was sitting outside enjoying the good weather while she read the paper and sipped some iced tea. A new bird landed on the railing next to her. It had a package slid into the carrier on it back. Nami took the package out, and the bird made no motion to leave, most likely waiting for a reply. Nami shoke the box. There was definitely something heavy inside. Nami ripped the box open, her curiosity getting the best her as she ignored what was written atop the box. She recognized the name of where it came from. She didn't know why it was addressed to eggplant instead of Sanji.

Inside the box was a smaller box with the name The All Blue discovery box, a letter, a book, and a stack of food magazines. Nami flipped through the book, unable to recognize a single word. She shouldn't do this, but Sanji would forgive her, so Nami opened the letter.

She didn't want to get her hopes up, but the thought of exchanging letters with her loved ones back home filled her with such joy. She wanted to reconnect with them after distancing herself for so long. Nami had to admit she was amused by her new nickname, Miss Nectarine. She could guess who the rest were pretty easily. Meatball was Luffy, broccoli was Zoro, and parsnip was Usopp.

Nami turned as she herd familiar footsteps, Sanji was apoching, Mr. Noddles hot on his heels, with a pitcher of tea and a treat for her.

“Nami-swan! I have your snack all ready for you!” Sanji called out he loved himself into a bow presenting the sliver platter. “I made bublanina, it's a very airy cake, slightly sweet and filled with fresh fruit toped with iceing sugar and whipped cream. This time, I used blueberries and cherries,”

“Sanji, I opened your mail. Did Zeff mean it? Would he send our loved ones our letters if we mail it to him?” Nami asked as Sanji refilled her glass.

“Well I haven't read the letter yet, but I'm sure he did mean it, we can tell everyone at lunch so they can write their letters,”

“I'd like that, you can sit next to me and read the letter if you want to,” Nami took a bite of the cake while Mr. Noodles began to beg and reach for the cake. He was almost as bad as Luffy. It was airy like Sanji said it was. The cake itself wasn't sweet, but the fruit was sweet, as was the powdered sugar on top. It was as always delicious, Nami was glad they had recruited an actual chef.

“Thank you, Nami!” Sanji took a seat next to her, placing his tray down as he began to read his letter.

“Sanji, what made Luffy pick you over a different chef?” Nami asked.

“Well I'm not completely sure, but do you remember the pirate Patty tossed out for not having any money?” Nami nodded, Sanji had told this part already. “Luffy followed me out when I went to feed him. We argued a bit and got to talking about the all blue, I don't know if it was my dream or feeding someone that did it but one of the two. The reason I joined was Zoro,”

“Wow even then you wanted him,” Nami teased.

“Hmm well I won't deny he was good-looking, but not what I meant. Seeing him willing to die for his dream made me realize how badly I wanted to presuse mine. I still needed that last push from the other chefs. I felt that I owed it to Zeff to stay, since he gave up his leg for me, it didn't matter what I wanted. I owed him everything,”

Nami hadn't heard that detail yet. She had missed a lot since she had left after seeing Arlong's bounty poster. The next thing she knew, her three friends and the blond from the Baratie had shown up. They saved her and her village.

[byvavalavoblacich]

čas vopravdu plyne jinak čím sem starší. neveřila sem tomu a ted to tak je.

postupem časů jsem se naučila se trochu odpojit od mých emocí v rámci zachování zdravýho (?) rozumu a vobčas si pripadám jak NPC (jak řiká Toyota Vangelis) a pak ta bublanina vybubublává z podpokličky a když ji sundám tak to trochu bouchne. a já zažívám extrémní nával potlačenejch emocí (umím si to užívat). Po víc jak dvou letech jsem otevřela tumblr a cejtím totální nostalgii sounáležitost a bezčasí a porozumění a smutek zároveň.

su mega vděčná za lidi v mým životě

je to časová kapsle

[cookycz]

Třešňovo-tvarohová bublanina: jemný domácí koláč plný ovoce http://dlvr.it/TCZYHZ

[zlutyzakaznik]

Jak to ta babička nevařila

(15. 1. 2024) Osobní poznámky k bourání mýtu

Něco nadinterpretovat znamená jaksi se přejídat, poznamenal kdysi slovenský estetik Peter Michalovič a tento zdraví nebezpečný stav v dnešní glose, jež je částečným naplněním slibu čtenářce, opravdu nedopustíme.

Nevím jak u Vás, ale mé dvě babičky – budiž jim země lehká – měly zcela odlišnou životní filosofii i přístup k vaření a ani jedna z nich se vizáží, organizací kuchyně a prací v ní neblížila růžolícímu stereotypu reklamy.

Ta první měla až do smrti kachlovová kamna s ne právě ideálním tahem a k tomu velkou zahradu a malé hospodářství, díky čemuž byla surovinově de facto soběstačná. Pamatuji doby, kdy jsme mívali králíka a kuřecí vývar každou neděli a vše bylo stoprocentně domácí – jakési über bio, jelikož babička neznala postřiky a další vymoženosti moderní doby.

Své o tom věděly vosy, jež se v sezóně zrání slétaly na velké a cukrem pukající hrušky-máslovky nebo se rojily ve vrcholcích meruněk, ringlí a švestek. A i já poznal senzorické slasti prvních třešní či opatrného očesávání dokonale zralého angreštu na odporně pichlavých keřích.

S těmito ingrediencemi bylo snadné vařit výborné a jednoduché věci, ale babička bohužel neměla, řečeno módní terminologií, fokus na detail a potřebný skill. A pečení buchet, bábovek, cukroví? To se bohužel na kachlovkách neprovozovalo.

Druhá prarodička měla klasický plynový sporák, troubu i techniku získanou padesáti lety praxe. Její bábovky, třené buchty, bublanina, ořechové věci i drobnosti, jež potěší každé dítě (jako bramboráky a erteple na deset způsobů) patřily k radostem návštěv i prázdnin.

Až později jsem začal pociťovat, že se na pekáčcích, pánvích a v hrncích objevuje až příliš mnoho oleje. Starší čtenáři si možná vzpomenou, oč šlo, ale mě v paměti utkvěla jen velká hnědá lahev živočišného tuku(?), jejíž obsah poznamenal mnohá jídla.

Úplně nejhorší bylo, když tetička s azbestovým hltanem a ocelovým žaludkem – ta, co dokázala vypít prakticky vařícího turka na ex – už hotová jídla „oživila“. Dětské slzy jsou však pádný argument a jak dokládá poslední návštěva před pár lety, solnička a pepřenka mají v polici stále prominentní zastoupení. Což je zvláštní, uvážíme-li že teta pracovala celý život ve farmaceutickém průmyslu, kde se odměřuje na lékarnických a ještě přesnějších vahách. (Všimli jste asi, v kolika rodinách se dříve nechávaly kuličky pepře volně poletující ve vývaru?)

Zprostředkovaně jsem za život poznal a také ochutnal pár dalších jídel od jiných babiček a i tam platí pozoruhodně rovnoměrně rozvržená distribuce (ne)kvality. Někdo to umí dobře, někdo příšerně a někdo snesitelně. Má-li někdo babiček čtyři a více (i takové případy pochopitelně jsou), může být jeho/její zkušenost jiná...

Jak se vlastně v principu liší profesionální kuchyně od té domácí? Doma se na jídlo při vaření a servírování obvykle nesahá – jaký to kontrast proti platingu v profi kuchyni, kde se kuchař uvařeného jídla dotýká neustále. Babičky obvykle do všeho nemetají kostky másla a daleko méně používají (obří a dřevěnou) pepřenku a solničku. To spíše popel z dědečka (mletý pepř v sáčku).

Nespočítám, kolikrát jsem za život slyšel odfrknutí nad domácí jíškou, bešamelem, majonézou nebo rybou. To ale jen proto, že se to dotyční lidé – nezřídka sedmdesátileté či starší dámy – nikdy nenaučili anebo v sobě nesou trauma ze školní jídelny (moučné hrudky v ústech).

Dalším nelibým znakem domácího vaření je snaha ukázat, že na to máme. Ať už velikostí porcí, nucením do jídla nebo počtem chodů. Bohužel jsem se v životě setkal i s vyhazováním dobrého a před pár hodinami uvařeného jídla a tyto ztráty pak kompenzuje půl palety UHT polotučného Dr. Halíře ve spíži nebo sklepě.

A nechtějte, abych se pouštěl do tématu kuchařek a jejich využití v domácnosti. Náhodné nahlédnutí na web knižního řetězce ukáže, že ve skladu e-shopu je právě teď 792 kuchařek a knih o vaření. V malé zemi se skoro 11 miliony lidí! Ale to je téma na jiný článek nebo spíše seriál. A neříkali jsme, že se dnes nebudeme přejídat?

[sergejbiohazardov]

Gelato: Bublanina. Funky Fluid. Collaboration with Beer Station. Ice Cream Sour. 5.5%

Сладкое фруктовое пиво. Коллаб. Вдохновились вишнёвым сладким словацким пирогом. Вишня чувствуется. Горько-сладкий вкус. Ближе к милкшейку. Значит состав: кислые вишни, красная смородина, персик, ваниль и бисквит.

4.5

#Gelato #Bublanina #FunkyFluid #BeerStation #IceCreamSour #beer #craftbeer #alcohol #sergejbiohazardovbeer #sergejbiohazardov #быстрыйобзор

[slovaksinadelaide]

Škola

V sobotu 29. júla 2023 sa začína 3. štvrťrok slovenskej školy o 3pm. Po škole o 6pm sa podáva ľahké občerstvenie:

Kuracia polievka s rezancami

Čerešňová bublanina

Prosíme prihláste sa do štvrtka 27.7.23 na tel. 8264 8364

[bangjiazheng]

Bublanina Czech Fruit Cake

[happymagcz]

Nejlepší bublanina: 3x recept

Nejlepší bublanina: 3x recept

[et_pb_section bb_built=”1″][et_pb_row][et_pb_column type=”4_4″][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.0.85″ background_layout=”light”] Bublanina je fantastická buchta, kterou milují snad všichni, včetně dětí. Recept je opravdu velmi jednoduchý a zvládnou ho všichni, i ti, kteří s pečením nemají příliš zkušeností. Správná bublanina je plná ovoce, které se dá hezky kombinovat. Pokud ke kousku bublaniny…

[obycejnevareni]

Bublanina

Recept, ke kterému se vracím každoročně a spolu se mnou už i mnohé kamarádky, sousedky a jejich manželé. Tahle bublanina není ani suchá, ani dusivá a už vůbec ne mdlá. A co navíc? Uděláte ji kdekoliv a skoro podle oka :- ) ... Pekla jsem ji v troubě i v Remosce, z různého ovoce a vždycky byla bezva!! Prostě jako vždy...starý rodinný recept, který neobsahuje nic zvláštního. Je jen obyčejně báječný.

Budete potřebovat:

4 vejce

100 ml oleje (nedávala bych olivový:-))

100 ml horké vody

25 dkg cukru

25 dkg hrubé mouky

půl balíčku prášku do pečiva

ovoce

1) Vezměte si dvě misky, rozklepněte vejce, do jedné dávejte žloutky a do druhé bílky. Ke žloutkům přilijte olej a vodu a promíchejte. Přidejte mouku a cukr, kypřící prášek a směs dobře promiste. Klidně použijte tyčový nebo jiný mixér, ale stačí i vařečka:-)

2) Do bílků přidejte špetku soli a vyšlehejte je do pevného sněhu. Tak pevného, že když si mísu naklopíte nad hlavu, nevypadnou:-)

3) Do směsi v první míse zlehka vmíchejte sníh. Je důležité vmíchávat lehkými krouživými pohyby, jakobyste těsto nadlehčovali, aby se sníh nesplácnul. Těsto bude tekuté.

4) Pekáč buď vyložte pečícím papírem nebo ho vymažte a vysypejte moukou, těsto do něj vlijte a posypejte ovocem. Povrch by jím měl být pokrytý, ale záleží na vás, někdo má rád hodně ovoce a někomu tak chutná těsto, že ovoce má spíš pro ozdobu:-). Jinými slovy, je to fuk. Ať tak či tak, výsledek bude dobrý. Nelekejte se, ovoce se ponoří do těsta. 

5) Pekáč šoupněte do trouby na 180°C a cca 25 minut. Pak ji vyklopte vzůru nohama na prkno. Pokud ji budete péct na plechu, bude nižší, ale jinak to ničemu nevadí. Já osobně ji většinou dělám rovnou ze dvou dávek, jedna mi přijde nějak rychle pryč:-)

Tipy a triky:

+ Tady ani snad žádné nejsou potřeba:-).. snad jen, že pokud třešně obalíte před vsypáním do pekáče moukou, neměly by tolik klesat ke dnu:-)

[vladokocian]

#strawberry #fresas #jahody #erdbeeren #maduixes #jordgubbar #mansikat #eper #fraises #truskawki #vladokocian #veronikakocianova #rodinajezaklad #usmev #dobranalada #bublanina https://www.instagram.com/p/ByfP6Q8nLfa/?igshid=qkzeuynnftsi