Inspired by the brush tutorials that Delphine has published on her ever delightful blog, I have whiled away a few air travel hours drawing three edible wallpapers* to be used as a background on your computer desktop**.

After the jump, you'll find the cupcake wallpaper, the croissant wallpaper, and the religieuse wallpaper. Each of them comes in three shades, so you have nine to choose from. Enjoy!

(This was my second time on the show; read about last year's segment here.)

* The Today Show is a national television show that's broadcast live every morning in the US.

Much has been written about plane food and its associated plights; I don't think enough ink has been devoted to the matter of hotel breakfasts. And as I get ready to embark on my book tour, the subject is very much on my mind.

Breakfast is, to me, the most intimate meal of the day, the one that you eat barefoot and in your pajamas, the one that eases the transition from your helpless, sleeping self to the person you are in the daytime and to the outside world. What you eat then says a lot about you -- I have it on authority that Brillat-Savarin meant to write "You are what you eat for breakfast"* but the maxim had to be edited for space.

If you feel the same way, I'm sure you'll agree that breakfast poses a serious challenge when you travel for work. Hotel breakfasts, even in nice hotels, make me want to cry -- remember, we're all children at breakfast -- as I stand by the buffet, trying to identify the least unappealing items and more importantly, the most nutritious, so I won't feel faint an hour later.

It is with unmitigated joy that I announce the release of my new book today!

Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris is a book on Paris restaurants and food shops, in which I share recommendations for my favorite spots -- everything from neo bistros and salons de thé to bakeries, outdoor markets, wine shops, and much, much more, as they say -- plus all you need to know to navigate the City of Light and Good Food, plus a dozen recipes.

The book is coming out in North America initially (pending the sale of foreign rights, it will be available as an import elsewhere), and I am about to leave on a book tour to promote it -- please view the full list of booksigning events and see if you can come and say hi.

You can read more about the book, including reviews and excerpts, on the mini-site I've set up, and you should of course feel free to order your very own copy -- no, really.

Among the many things I learned during that memorable conference on molecular gastronomy, one idea has been whirling around my brain with particular insistence since then, and it is that of farine torréfiée*, or roasted flour.

It was introduced to us by way of a truism: raw flour is bland, browned flour isn't. This is why we bother to make roux, and why the crust of bread is tastier than the crumb. With this simple fact in mind, why not bake with roasted flour? The finished product would no doubt benefit from the heightened flavor.

Of course, exposing flour to direct heat cooks it. This changes the structure of its starch and gluten molecules, and thus it behaves differently from raw flour; one notable change is that it loses some of its elasticity. Consequently, the primary use Hervé This suggested for roasted flour is in sablés, i.e. cookies with a crumbly, sandy consistency, for which a weak gluten network is desirable.

I found a recipe for sablés à la farine torréfiée on Pierre Gagnaire's website** and it looked exciting (it uses cooked egg yolks! exciting!) but for my first roasted flour experiment, I was more curious to alter my -- or, should I say, my mother's -- basic recipe for sablés.

I did follow Gagnaire's instructions to roast the flour, and after just a few minutes I could tell that this was going very well: already my kitchen smelled like the bakery around the corner***. When the flour had cooled and I used it to make the sablé dough, however, I realized it would not come together as obligingly as it normally does, but seemed rather to wish to remain a mound of sand.

I sensed that adding more butter would do the trick, but I like the moderate butter content of my mother's recipe (most call for equal weights of butter and flour) so I proceeded as planned, and tried to form the dough into lumps however I could. The easiest (and most fun) way was to just squeeze it by the handful, a technique that resulted in these odd-shaped cookies I naturally decided to call squeeze cookies.

I find their funky look endearing, but if you're worried that someone in your household (and I'm not naming names) might liken them to slugs or caterpillars, you can also shape them into balls, or pucks, or pack the dough in an even layer in a pan, following the instructions in this shortbread recipe.

More important than the shape, you'll agree, is the flavor: I deliberately omitted any sort of flavor booster (vanilla, spices, citrus zest...) the better to judge the effect of the roasted flour, and I'm not afraid to say the effect is absolutely wowing. In fact, the same person who was so full of gastropod metaphors declared them the best sablés I'd ever made.

Grilled notes of chocolate and hazelnut come through in every bite, the consistency is a fine crumbliness unlike that of any sablé I know, and all that comes from a simple twenty-minute roasting step. See how the baking horizon has suddenly broadened? Don't you have a favorite baking recipe you should be experimenting with, right this minute?

~~~

* The French term torréfier (to torrefy) has a slightly different meaning from rôtir (to roast) but has, to my knowledge, no exact equivalent in English. Torréfier is defined as "exposing to intense heat until the early stage of carbonization." The most frequent use of the term -- and the process -- is the roasting of green, raw coffee beans, which turns them into a browned, intensely fragrant version of themselves.

** Pierre Gagnaire and Hervé This engage in a monthly conversation (in French, of course) wherein the scientist explores a chemical or physical phenomenon and the chef offers a recipe to illustrate it.

*** They say you should bake a loaf of bread before people come to visit the house you're trying to sell, but, as it turns out, just roasting some flour should do the trick.

Our trip started in the most inauspicious of ways.

We could have taken the time, as we usually do, to drop by the bakery on our way to the Gare du Nord, where a train was to take us to Amsterdam in just! four! hours!, but no. Instead, we chose to get ten extra minutes of sleep, and thus found ourselves on the Thalys train at lunchtime, pushed towards the voiture-bar -- the car where they sell drinks and snacks -- by the complaint of our stomachs.

Now, train food is not supposed to be good, I am aware of that. But one expects it to be edible at least, and the styrofoam sandwiches we bought, which we were forced to order by the ludicrous name of ciabatta poulet, did not resemble anything anyone in their right mind would want to ingest: the one bite I took was the most revolting thing I have ever tasted. So yes, we love the Northern European high-speed train network, but we shall remember to pack our own lunch next time.

The prettier side of the coin, however, was that we arrived in Amsterdam in urgent need of nourishment, and that is a happy state to be in when you're visiting a city, for hunger is the best of compasses. As soon as we'd dropped off our bags, we went back out again and happened upon a bright and cheerful café called Lunchroom Klavertje 4.

The various types of ham, cheese, and crudités in the refrigerated case bode well, so we sat down and ordered these opulent open-face sandwiches: a pistolet (Belgian-style white roll) with warm ham, Brie, and mustard sauce for Maxence, and for me, two slices of whole wheat bread groaning under a mound of huttenkaas (cottage cheese, which makes such perfect linguistic sense I'm tickled pink).

What this opening lunch hinted, and what subsequent meals confirmed, is that there is excellent food to be found in Amsterdam, food that is sparklingly fresh, prepared with care, and gently priced.

On Thursday, April 10, starting from 6pm, we shall celebrate the release of Chocolat & Zucchini, the French version of my cookbook, beautifully published by Marabout.

This booksigning event will be held at the adorable cookbook store La Cocotte in Paris; drinks and nibbles will be provided. (See larger-sized invitation.)

La Cocotte / map it!
5 rue Paul Bert, 75011 Paris
M° Faidherbe-Chaligny
Phone: +33 (0)9 54 73 17 77

[For information about future book events, including my upcoming US book tour, view the complete list.]

I've come across many versions of this tip over the years. Keeping one's greens fresh and happy seems to be the culinary equivalent of keeping one's skin young: it's a losing battle, but everyone hopes to find the magic technique.

Wash, don't wash (we're talking about greens again now; we'll address personal hygiene another time), wrap in plastic, cloth, or a paper bag, keep on the counter or refrigerate, and even this one: put the herbs upright in a glass of water and place on a shelf or in the door of your fridge. (That gave my French-sized refrigerator a good laugh.)

I've experimented with those ideas to varying degrees of success -- mostly on the lower end of the scale -- and after throwing out enough wilted herbs to start a compost heap, I've finally found the M.O. that works for me, so I thought I'd share.

When I get back from the greenmarket on Saturday mornings, I put my purchases away, sit down for a cup of coffee, then get to work.

I'm sure there are people out there who step inside a new pastry shop, glance at the display, order what they want, and walk out. I have no idea how they do it.

Take, for instance, Philippe Conticini's recently opened boutique, which I visited last month, before I left for Australia. It is a tiny thing, just a small room with stone walls, a wooden door, and a window that looks out onto Place du Marché Sainte-Catherine, one of the prettiest squares in Paris (for best effect, visit on a weekday afternoon in early February, when you have the whole place to yourself).

For those of you who went "huh?" when I mentioned Conticini's name in the previous paragraph, let's just say he is a prominent French pastry chef who used to work at La Table d'Anvers, at Pétrossian, and at the legendary but sadly defunct Pâtisserie Peltier. He has published a number of books(including one that's so large it could be used as a tent for hobbits) and has created his own consulting/catering company, called Exceptions Gourmandes.

[Grated Carrots and Beets]

I used to think winter produce was drab, and that the cook's only option was to wait the cold months out, squinting into the distance, longing for asparagus and strawberries to appear ("Anne, Sister Anne, do you see nothing coming?").

Now I can't imagine how I could ever be so blind: what of mâche and winter squash, what of flower cabbage and broccoli, what of endives and leeks and chard, what of carrots and beets? Do they count for nothing?

Perhaps it has helped that the Paris winter has been so mild (again) this year and that -- in my memory, at least -- the sun always seemed to be out on Saturday mornings, as I vélibed to and from the greenmarket.

Whatever the reason, this is the first year I registered a distinct pining when my habitual provider confessed he would have no more winter pears for me (it's been such a good season for pears!) and when I saw, a few stalls down, the first crop of fresh peas.

"Oh, no!" I sobbed in my turquoise scarf, "this is too soon! I'm not ready to let go of winter just yet!" And then I thought, "I must write about the grated carrot and beet thing before everyone moves on to greener pastures."

So there you have it: my favorite go-to lunch of the Winter 2007/08 collection, the salad I've made and relished on a weekly basis over the past few months, so much so that an estimated 27% of my body mass is now made up of grated carrots and beets.

This salad is based on a simple deduction: grated carrots rule and, although that is a much more hush-hush fact, so do grated beetroots. Ergo, the combination of the two is a civil union made in heaven.

Plus, I'm lazy, and crudivorism is the path of least resistance from basket to mouth.

If you've never tasted the root of a beet in its raw state, I urge you to give it a try, whether or not you (think you) despise cooked beets, for the two provide very different taste experiences.

Granted, the addition of grated beets to a grated carrot salad does not cause any sort of quantum shift, but it does add a deeper note to the chord, sweet yet throaty, and it colors the whole thing with the beetroot's infectious purple enthusiasm.

I've written this salad into a recipe below, because that's what food bloggers do, but the truth is I never make it twice the same way.

It always begins with (approximately) the same weight of carrots and beets that I peel, grate, and toss with a bit of oil and vinegar, but I then switch to improv mode: I just pluck from the rows of bottles and jars that crowd my kitchen counter, and I pour, dash, sprinkle, and pinch as my mood commands. I suggest you do the same.

It is a universal truth that, however hard you try to clear the table before you take a trip somewhere, you will come home to several pressing deadlines. Add to that the general vertigo of readjusting to your own continent, time zone, hemisphere, language, driving side, and opposing season -- the latter is probably the most disorienting --, and an entire week may slip by before you find your footing and report back on said trip.

Let me first express my gratitude to the C&Z readers who took the time to answer my request for edible recommendations in Western Australia: thank you! Your tips and notes proved immensely helpful, not to mention fun to collate.

They really built up my anticipation, too, and I'm pleased to say the actual experience managed to surpass my expectations: WA (pronounced "double-you-ay") has a lot more going for it than most people realize, and during my stay in both Perth and Albany, I was impressed by the variety and quality of local foods.

Here are a few highlights, in no particular order. (Not everything I sampled was strictly local, I should note, but when you've come all the way from France, the notion of "local" can span four thousand kilometers.) Here we go.

I hope to have a little time to explore both cities and I am wondering, excitedly: besides Vegemite, what edibles should I be sure to taste and/or bring back? How about drinks, tools, books, magazines, small animals? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

My sister's husband has a passion for Nutella. When Ferrero put out a 40th-anniversary Nutella jar* of woolly mammoth** proportions, Christian bought one and actually spooned his way through it. Not in one sitting, admittedly, but still.

I love my brother-in-law dearly, so when he and my sister came to dinner a few weeks ago, I thought I'd treat them to Nutella ice cream for dessert. I considered going the classic ice cream route, starting with a custard base to which I'd add Nutella, but I was feeling under the weather and this was more work than I wanted to tackle.

Instead, I used a much easier, much more straightforward formula: equal weights of Nutella and unsweetened evaporated milk (lait concentré non sucré), combined and churned into the creamiest, most indulgent concoction ever to emerge from my ice cream machine.

This first attempt was wildly successful (and I do mean "I would marry you if I hadn't already married your sister" successful) yet two problems remained: 1- although the French version of Nutella contains no transfats, it still leaves much to be desired on the nutritional front, and 2- the one-to-one ratio resulted in an ice cream that was, in my opinion, sweeter than strictly necessary.

It took little brainjuice to figure out a solution: replace the Nutella with an all-natural, organic equivalent, and use less of it.

My organic store stocks several brands and variaties of chocolate hazelnut spread, involving different proportions of hazelnuts and chocolate. After studying the labels for a while, I set my heart on Jean Hervé's Chocolade, for three reasons: I'm already addicted to his stone-ground nut butters, a portion of the company's sales is donated to a charity that builds schools in Madagascar, and the guy has a ponytail.

As the obligatory spoon test revealed***, this Not-ella is less sweet than its world-renowned cousin, and less eerily smooth, too. It would be unfair to describe the texture as grainy -- it is not -- but the tongue senses and aknowledges that real hazelnuts have given their lives for the cause.

And I'm happy to report that, when enrolled in this ice cream project of mine, La Chocolade performed to the complete satisfaction of all who had a chance to taste it before the tub mysteriously emptied. The ice cream was most often paired with the best sablés in the galaxy (I'm serious): Poilâne's punition cookies, which now come in an adorable spoon shape to serve with coffee, or, for a limited time only and until the Saint-Valentin crap finally boils over, in a heart shape.

~~~

* I believe this collector's item weighed in at 5 kilos (~11 pounds).
** Did you know woolly mammoths had a flap of hairy skin over their anus to keep out the cold? Can you think of a more endearing feature? or a more appropriate topic to discuss with your V-Day date?
*** The spoon test should be conducted as follows: take spoonful, place on tongue, close mouth, draw spoon out, close eyes, swish, chew, swallow.

The show will air tonight (i.e. Friday) at 9pm, and will rerun once a day until Tuesday. (It should air in France eventually, when Cuisine TV broadcasts this new season.)

Working with Josée and her team was an unforgettably fun experience -- by the end of the day, I was tempted to hide in the van and run away with the circus -- and I hope you enjoy the outcome.

Pour les francophones, la version française est ici !

[Warm Hokkaido Squash and White Bean Salad]

I write this from a café where I like to go and get some work done when I find it difficult to concentrate at home. Today, however, an unforeseen challenge has materialized on my path. Sitting a few tables from mine are two living clichés: a blond, middle-aged, French casting director and a young, craggy-bearded, khaki-vested film director from LA. They are in deep conversation about finding the perfect actress (dark-haired, curvaceous, Middle-Eastern-looking) for his next feature.

He's cool as a cucumber, but she's holding her end of the discussion in such a throaty, heavily accented voice that even Leonard Cohen in my earphones can't white-noise it out. But, the eavesdropper in me must admit, the crux of the matter is that it's all wildly entertaining -- especially since I can hear the entire dialogue effortlessly, as I pull up the imdb pages of the actresses they're considering.

But this is unrelated to the matter at hand. The matter at hand is this warm winter salad, which, come to think of it, is also curvaceous and Middle-Eastern-looking, but is booked all through 2010, sorry. It is loosely inspired by a recipe for pumpkin and chickpeas in a tahini dressing that appeared in Casa Moro, the middle panel of Sam Clark and Sam Clark's cookbook triptych*.

The underlying concept of this dish stuck with me -- winter squash and legumes! hello, luminous idea! -- and I recreated it from memory** on Sunday night, using the potimarron I'd bought at the market the day before, white beans, almond butter (my jar of tahini has been residing in my neighbor's fridge since New Year's Eve, when he borrowed it to make hummus for the party), and a sprinkle of pinenuts for extra crunch.

The result is a down comforter of a salad, sweet without excess, and filling in a way that's most welcome after a run in the park in late afternoon (i.e. when it is dark enough that toddlers have been dragged home, but not so dark that you trip on tree roots and abandoned toys).

I didn't have any cilantro (I can't find it at the market in the wintertime) and I'd already used up my weekly allotment of parsley, but if you have some sort of leafy herb on hand, the salad will enjoy the greenness of it.

~~~

* I kid you not: the husband and wife who own Moro really are called Sam(uel) Clark and Sam(antha) Clark, Clark being the latter's maiden name. Ionesco would have loved it.

** To see a version that's closer to the printed recipe, take a look at my friend Molly's rendition.