I am not very big on what the French call arts de la table (literally, table arts), an umbrella term that covers the choice and placement of dinnerware, silverware, and glassware, as well as flower arrangements and any other table decorations.

I do appreciate a nicely laid table, and admire those hosts who devote time and energy to thinking up seasonal themes and handcrafting little trinkets to prettify each place setting (especially if it's done resourcefully, with three pieces of string and zero budget), but my own style is definitely more minimalist.

Round white plates (from Crate & Barrel, dating back to our California days), simple wine glasses (we've been faithful to the C&S range for years), embossed forks we brought back from Japan, and rosewood-handled knives bought in Laguiole -- all of this we arrange in five minutes on dark woven placemats set on our black wood and frosted glass table, and call it a day.

Well, not quite. There's the question of napkins, too. Unless it's a party and there's very many of us, paper napkins (or worse, sheets of paper towel torn off from the roll) feel all wrong to me: they lack that warm touch that makes you feel at home, they're too light to stay put on your lap, and half the guests end up bunching theirs up beyond recognition, and it looks like the table is strewn with used tissues.

So, no. When I'm a guest somewhere I'm happy with anything I'm given, so appreciative I am to be fed dinner, but in my own house, I insist on cloth napkins.

Only recently did it occur to me that winter squash could be welcome in a dish of pasta. Before that, I'd always vaguely considered the two ingredients were too similar and might cancel each other out, the same way I wouldn't make a potato sandwich*, for instance.

But then one day, wanting to fix myself a quick bowl of pasta for lunch and hunting down a leftover piece of butternut squash in the vegetable drawer, a light went up (in my brain, not in the fridge) and revealed an entire, unexplored avenue of pasta options.

This sort of pasta dish definitely belongs to the category of winter preparations that soothe and comfort by the softness of their texture and the sweetness of their flavor profile, so to keep it from being altogether too sweet, I keep things zesty with heat and spice.

Hence the use of curry powder: the one I use is a very flavorful, and surprisingly hot one called Kari Gosse**, a secret mix that was developed by an apothecary from Brittany in the early nineteenth century, when ships from the Far East still docked in local ports to unload their treasured spices. Naturally, you should use whichever curry powder you like, but if it doesn't pack a chili pepper punch, I recommend you complement its action with cayenne pepper or a good dash of hot sauce at the end.

As for the pasta, I usually get spelt fusilli at the organic store, but lately (and in the picture above), I've been using local pasta from ICI: L'Epicerie locavore, which are manufactured in Bagnolet, just outside of Paris, with organic flour from Seine-et-Marne. I'm especially fond of their tiny pasta (which they label as risi but I believe are in fact midolline, as they're teardrop- rather than rice-shaped) toasted in the style of fregola sarda.

* Though I know some people who are fond of sandwiches garnished with crushed potato chips and mayonnaise, but that's another story.

** It is available from a few pharmacies and grocery stores in and around Lorient in Brittany, and from the inimitable Epicerie de Bruno in Paris.

In my Best of 2011 post earlier this month, I hinted at the new book I'm working on, and after receiving several kind requests for details, I thought I'd tell you a little more about the project.

The general idea of the book is to talk about the love affair between French cuisine and vegetables.

It is admittedly a challenge to dine out as a vegetarian in France, where meat and fish are treated as the main character of any special-occasion dish, yet the French culinary repertoire is rife with delicious ideas on how to cook vegetables.

It seems to me that when cooks try to shift their habits to use fewer animal products, French cuisine is not the one they turn to spontaneously, so it is a source of inspiration that is vastly untapped.

Over the past few years, as has no doubt been apparent on C&Z, Maxence and I have transitioned to a more and more plant-based way of eating -- for reasons of ethics, environmental concern, and natural inclination -- so I've had plenty of opportunities to explore unusual and exciting ways to use up my weekly selection of seasonal vegetables.

It is the best of those colorful, seasonal dishes that I want to share in this new book. Some are personal creations, others are drawn from my research into lesser-known regional cuisines. All are simple and flavorsome, so you can make the most of the time you spend in the kitchen.

Who says winter food has to be colorless and drab?

I first put together this beet hummus just before the holidays, on a day we'd been invited to dinner by one of my dearest friends (I've told you about her before), who was days away from delivering her first child.

When I offered to contribute to the dinner, I was entrusted with the mission of bringing something to nibble on for the apéro, to go with our pre-dinner drinks.

I find that dips are the most travel-ready of all appetizer options, and I remembered that Clea's lunchbox book Mes p'tites gamelles had a recipe for beet hummus I'd earmarked to try a long time ago.

In her version, she adds a small, cooked beet to a classic chickpea hummus. I decided instead to skip the chickpeas altogether and use beets only, essentially preparing a puréed beet dip flavored with the signature ingredients of hummus: sesame paste, garlic, olive oil, lemon juice, cumin, and salt.

Each of these is an ideal flavor partner to the beet, so I wasn't surprised that their teamwork produced such a pleasing dip: zesty, well-balanced, not too sweet.

To go with it, I brought along a tub of baguette slices cut from a day-old loaf, which I'd rubbed with garlic olive oil and toasted in the oven, and we munched away happily while discussing their exciting family prospects.

In France, one can usually find vacuum-packed cooked beets in the produce aisle -- I buy the Bonneterre brand at the organic store -- and since they have a shelf life of a couple of months, you can keep a package on hand to whip up beet hummus in a pinch. If this isn't a convenience item where you live, perhaps you can get into the habit of steaming, boiling, or roasting a few more than you need when you're cooking beets; you can then stash those away in the freezer for future use.

2011 has been an eventful and wonderful year for me, full of exciting and gratifying projects in both my personal and professional lives. I got to travel around France (Deauville, Aix-en-Provence, the Basque country, Corsica) and beyond (Marrakech and Toronto), I was invited to be the host of an international food festival and the writer in residence at a chefs school, I worked on The Art of French Baking and on a new book of my own devoted to vegetables (to be released by Clarkson Potter next year), I did a two-week stint in the kitchen at my favorite vegetarian restaurant in Paris, I had my kitchen and living room remodeled, and I was admitted as a member of a famous French chocolate appreciation society, which had long been on my life list.

Beyond those big events, here are some specific highlights from my year, in no particular order. I'd love to hear about yours, so feel free to share in the comment section!

Most frequently made dish: Chicken in a bread crust, inspired by a dish demo'd by Saturne's Sven Chartier at the Omnivore Food Festival.

Most frequently made dessert: Butterless apple crumble, a dairy-free version of the classic that is possibly even better for breakfast the next day.

Most elusive ingredient: Kale, a beautiful and nourishing green that is near-impossible to find in Paris, but which I filled up on while in Canada.

Most popular ingredient: Chestnut flour, which I brought back from Corsica and have been slipping into everything since.

Favorite new utensil: Bear claws, handmade in Canada, to toss salads.

Favorite homemade condiments: Dukkah, an Egyptian spice mix, and Celery salt, after a recipe by my friend Heidi.

From the department of Who Has Time To Make Edible Gifts In Advance Anyway comes this last-minute recipe, shared by French food writer Cécile Cau on her blog a couple of days ago. It is a recipe for croquants, which is the French word for a variety of crunchy cookies from the South of France, most often thin and involving almonds.

I read the recipe and was enchanted by its simplicity. Flour, sugar, eggs, almonds, and a splash of orange flower water: I had all these on hand, and since my desk is about four steps from my kitchen, the temptation was great to just drop whatever it is I was supposed to be doing and bake a batch.

I halved the recipe, wanting to take it for a test drive before I committed three cups of almonds to it, and modified a few things: I used a combination of regular and light whole wheat flour, decreased the quantity of sugar, determined an amount of orange blossom water that seemed right to me (Cécile's recipe didn't provide a measurement), and added a bit of salt, both mixed into the dough and sprinkled on just before baking.

The result is a truly delicious, crisp, slender cookie, not too sweet, and subtly (but noticeably) flavored with orange blossom. It could be compared to biscotti or cantuccini, and indeed they are cousins, but these are two to three times thinner, which makes a significant -- and in my opinion, desirable -- difference in the final texture and eating experience.

So, will you give these a try? And do you have any last-minute edible gift ideas to share?

If there was a candy making for dummies book (what am I saying, of course there is one) this recipe would deserve a prominent spot.

No sugar thermometer, no elaborate trick, very few opportunities for a major burn (unless you really apply yourself). Just a bit of boiling, stirring, and baking, and still these minimal efforts will yield something delicious that anyone will recognize as candy.

The technique was brought to my attention by a post on Rose & Cook, a French food blog I've only recently discovered and is one of my latest favorites. The post in question was about a chocolate and hazelnut cookie recipe that the author had drawn from the book 190 Cours illustrés à l'Ecole de cuisine Alain Ducasse, a big book that is in fact a compilation of recipes and step-by-step pictures drawn from the many smaller "Leçon de cuisine" books that Alain Ducasse's publishing house has issued about various culinary themes over the years.

I actually have a copy of this thick tome myself, but I hadn't particularly noticed the cookie recipe, nor had I realized that it contained a short but powerful little sub-recipe for noisettes sablées -- literally "sandy hazelnuts" -- that you were directed to fold into the cookie dough. But Rose (I assume such is the name of the author of the Rose & Cook blog, though it's not clear) pointed out that the candied hazelnuts were particularly irresistible, and the recipe looked so simple I tried it as soon as I had a moment.

The recipe didn't quite work for me as written: there was way more syrup than was needed to coat the quantity of nuts listed, so I reduced the quantity of water slightly and doubled the amount of nuts, using both hazelnuts and almonds. I also sprinkled on some salt, because it felt like the right thing to do (it was).

A mere twenty minutes later, I was standing over a tray of candied almonds and hazelnuts in their golden brown sugar coating, waiting impatiently for them to cool just enough for me to try a bite into their crisp and lightly caramelized outer shell.

And after some extensive tasting (ahem), I can imagine a million uses for these: in cookie or brioche dough, certainly, but also to garnish fruit (or vegetable) salads, fold into or serve on top of ice cream, embed in homemade chocolate bars, simply snack on (they pair well with dried fruit or a square of dark chocolate in the afternoon), or give away in little bags or jars with a pretty ribbon. You could also imagine all kinds of spiced variations, though I myself prefer to keep the flavors simple here.

What would you use those in, and what's your favorite easy candy to make?

In ELLE à table, a French cooking magazine I contribute to, one of the longest-running sections is one called La Cuisine du placard (literally, cuisine from the cabinet or cupboard) that presents a picture of common pantry items, and offers recipes that make use of those, requiring as little fresh shopping as possible.

I consider myself a fresh ingredient cook, chiefly inspired by seasonal produce and market stalls, yet I get a special kind of kick from my occasional forays into the realm of pantry cooking: there is something curiously satisfying about using up supplies in ingenious ways, and a kind of primal gratification to be drawn from cooking in survival mode, even if the kind of ordeal you're surviving through is just an empty-fridge Thursday night.

This pasta dish is the latest of my serendipitous cuisine du placard discoveries. I first made it for a late lunch a few weeks ago, on one of those weekend days when you know you should have gone out to shop for food in the morning, but you decided to laze around instead, and now it's almost 2pm and everybody's hungry and clearly that food shopping expedition is not going to happen, but you should be able to scrape together some sort of a meal if you rummage through the kitchen cabinets long enough.

In this instance, the three items that clicked were: a package of semi whole wheat spaghetti, a small carton of organic tomato coulis, and a can of sardines from Brittany. The former dived into a pot of boiling water, while the latter two joined a sliced shallot -- I always have onions and shallots on hand, but you could omit that if you don't -- and a little cumin in the skillet, where they formed a deeply tasty, surprisingly complex, and very satisfying sauce.

I've made it again several times since then, even on days when there was fresh produce in the fridge but I wanted something quick and easy, and it always feels like a treat, so now I make sure I keep those ingredients on hand for emergency needs of tomato sardine spaghetti.

And of course, I'm curious: will you share your own favorite pantry cooking dish, and the ingredients you stock to prepare it?

At the beginning of every month, I am offering C&Z readers a new wallpaper to apply on the desktop of your computer, with a food-related picture and a calendar of the current month.

Our calendar for December is a picture of the Christmas sablés I baked and wrote about last year, following a recipe by one of my oldest friends' mother. (Check the post for more about the cookies, a recipe, and edible gift ideas.)

What about you: what cookies do you plan to bake for the holidays this year?

Instructions to get your calendar are below.

If you've ever bought or baked fresh brioche, surely you've noted the subtle shift, occurring sometime during day two or three, when said brioche turns from something you can't keep your hands off of, to something you feel you should be eating because it's there.

When that initial magic is gone, the toaster can help revive it to a certain extent, especially if you top it with thin slivers of salted butter and generous amounts of grated chocolate straight out of the toaster. But my favorite thing to do is to give an entirely new life to the brioche, either by cooking a simple pain perdu ("lost bread," the actual French toast) in the skillet, or by baking it into a bettelman.

Bettelman is the Alsatian word for bread pudding: it means "beggar" in the Alsatian dialect, and I like the reminder that it is, at heart, a thrifty dish, meant to use up scraps of bread. I first learned about it from Christophe Vasseur, who runs the now deliriously popular Parisian bakery Du Pain et des Idées and bakes a wonderful apple bettelman drawn from his childhood memories, for which he kindly shared the recipe for my book Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris.

The bettelman I'm presenting here is a different -- and slightly more indulgent -- version with chocolate and almonds, and it is an equally easy and enthusing way to upcycle your brioche: cubed and soaked in an egg and milk batter made chocolate-y by the addition of cocoa powder, it is then layered with chocolate chunks and chopped almonds, and baked until custardy in the middle and crusty-crisp at the top.

If it's not brioche you have on hand, but challah or croissants or any other kind of bread enriched with milk and/or eggs, feel free to substitute that. The recipe can also be made with stale bread of any kind, though the texture will be less pillowy then. And if you have less than 200 grams or 7 ounces of brioche leftover, feel free to cube it and keep it in the freezer until you have enough to make the recipe.

This post has been eight years in the making.

Eight years ago, Maxence and I visited friends in London. On the night we arrived, Zoe made lasagna and a big green salad, which she proceeded to toss in the bowl using two gorgeous wooden instruments, shaped like four-clawed bear paws.

If this had been a cartoon, you would have seen me hypnotically drilling my gaze into her hands, red and white spirals spinning in my eyes. "Where does one find those?" I asked, hoping they were a London treasure I could hunt for. "Oh, the bear claws? I got them as a gift back in the US," she explained. If this had been a cartoon, you would have seen the balloon of my hopes deflating with that elegant sound balloons make when they deflate, and falling, a limp rubber thing, to the ground.

Ah well. This did nothing to detract from the pleasures of the London weekend, and I put the bear claws out of my mind.

Fast forward eight years, and I found myself spending time in Canada, in Stratford, Ontario to be exact. And on my very first day there, while walking around the city center, my eyes locked with a stack of the long-yearned-for utensils in the window of a Canadian arts and crafts shop.

And even though I spent little more than a day in Toronto, my picks for this week's Three Very Good Things are all drawn from the city:

~ Bumble bee dessert dumplings at Lai Wah Heen. I had a very good and very fun lunch at this upscale dim sum place, located inside the Metropolitan Hotel, and we ended our meal with these deep-fried, mochi-like dumplings, filled with a green tea paste. Adorably shaped, too, as I'm sure you'll agree. They tasted like Japanese wagashi, only deep-fried, and the interesting plating touch -- that sprig of curly parsley, those loose strands of grated carrot -- makes me laugh in retrospect.

~ A salad of shaved fennel, frisée, and slim artichoke wedges, topped with fresh herbs and crispy prosciutto.

This exceptionally well-balanced and well-dressed salad was served at the "restaurant lab", where second-year students of the chef school cook and serve dinner every weeknight. It was served as an appetizer-sized portion, but I could have eaten a bucket of it.

~ Kale, kale, and more kale. Kale is an elusive ingredient in France: it is grown essentially as an ornamental plant (I'm told the name is chou vert demi-nain) and not commonly sold as a vegetable. So I took the opportunity of being in Canada, and having access to a well-equipped kitchen in Stratford, to get organic dino kale from The Gentle Rain, the local health food store.

At the beginning of every month, I am offering C&Z readers a new wallpaper to apply on the desktop of your computer, with a food-related picture and a calendar of the current month.

Our calendar for November is a picture of the quince jelly I made last year with the bountiful quinces I was given. Other favorite uses for this most delicate of fruits include vanilla-poached quinces and quince almond cake.

Have you laid your hands on some quinces this fall, and if so, what have you cooked or baked with them?

Instructions to get your calendar are below.

I am writing to you from Canada, where I am spending two weeks at the Stratford Chefs School outside of Toronto: I've been invited as their Gastronomic Writer In Residence (I know, right?), and I'll be devoting my time to working with the students on various assignments to hone their food writing skills.

I will also be hosting a few public lectures and events in Stratford and Toronto; please see the full details here. I hope to meet some of you then!

And although I have a full schedule with little free time, I'm hoping to explore my surroundings a bit, and I'd like to ask for your best recommendations: what are some of your favorite places in Stratford and Toronto, and what's not to miss? Thanks in advance for your insights!