This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Browse the list of idioms featured so far.

This week's idiom is, "Ne pas mâcher ses mots."

Literally translated as, "Not chewing one's words," it means expressing one's opinion plainly and bluntly, with no concern for how it's going to be received. It is equivalent to the (similarly food-oriented) English expression, "Not mincing words."

Example: "Les journalistes adorent l'interviewer parce qu'il ne mâche pas ses mots." "Journalists love to interview him because he doesn't chew his words."

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

Ever since I received an electric steamer for my birthday last summer, I have been steaming vegetables with abandon.

Before that, I used a set of those bamboo baskets that you nest in a wok if you have one (I don't) or place on a saucepan that's never quite the correct size for optimal steam circulation. That thing sputtered and leaked and drove me a little crazier every time I used it, so this new appliance was a considerable upgrade. It is also beautiful and roomy and easy to clean, and I am pleased as punch with it.

So I have been steaming a lot of vegetables lately, often with a stalk of rosemary and a clove of garlic in their midst, and I have therefore been facing the only challenge that this cooking method entails: finding worthy dressings to bolster the vegetables' flavor.

A drizzle of good olive oil, a quick yogurt sauce with a squirt of lemon, a thin coating of pesto -- these are all lovely ways to do just that, but my current favorite is this: a simple tahini sauce with a few herbs thrown in.

Most of you are probably familiar with tahini (or tahina), a paste made of sesame seeds, hulled and ground. It is a ubiquitous ingredient in Middle Eastern cuisines, including those of Lebanon and Israel, and it is particularly well known as a key component of hummus or halva.

It can also be thinned into a quick and easy sauce that is traditionally served with falafel, fish, or meat, and goes superbly well with steamed vegetables.

The flavor of this sauce is rich but bright, and I find its subtle nuttiness enhances the other elements on the plate like magic. I'm especially fond of the effect it has on carrots, broccoli, and winter squash.

I like to prepare a batch of it and keep it on hand, drizzling it on whatever I happen to be making or serving over the next few days. I sometimes skip the lemon juice (if I don't have any) and the garlic (if I can't be bothered to peel and crush it) but I seldom do without the herbs.

Tahini can be found at Middle Eastern markets and natural food stores; all tahinis are not created equal, though, so it may be worth trying different brands until you find the one you like best. In Janna Gur's gorgeous Book of New Israeli Food (previously mentioned here), she recommends "tast[ing] it straight from the jar. It should be nutty and slightly sweet, without a trace of bitterness." And don't be tempted, as I once was, to get "whole" sesame paste made from unhulled seeds: it is more nutritious, no doubt, but also significantly more bitter.

Would you like to share your favorite way of dressing steamed vegetables, or your favorite uses of tahini?

[Cake marbré au chocolat]

I grew up eating a store-bought chocolate marble cake called Savane. Created in the sixties by a French manufacturer that was acquired by an American company shortly thereafter, it came as a whole loaf cake in an ocher and brown box. The bottom of the loaf was wrapped in a paper liner that you peeled off as you sliced your way through the cake, the crumb was fluffy as only factory-made cakes can be, and I loved it.

My parents did not buy it for us -- I don't remember why, since they did get various types of supermarket cookies on our request -- so I only indulged when I was at my friend Emilie's house, or when we raided the grocery store for sweet and/or salty things after an afternoon spent splashing about at the pool.

I hadn't had it for years when I tried it again as an adult, and of course it was a letdown. Not only was the flavor a weak shadow of my recollection -- the chocolate dull, the vanilla fake -- but the list of ingredients had me shaking my head. (And this is marketed as a simple and healthful snack for your kids, you know, so you can make sure they get their daily recommended intake of hydrogenated palm oil.)

The good news is that, unlike other store-bought treats from my younger days, like, say, ghost-shaped puffed potato chips, or strawberry-flavored shoestrings, this one is designed to emulate the kind of gâteau marbré you might bake from scratch, so it is fairly simple to recapture that particular taste memory.

And it is even simpler if a trusty friend of yours has included a recipe for it in one of her books*.

The basic idea behind the marble cake is that you pour alternating layers of contrasting batters in a cake pan, so that you get a nice visual effect in each cut slice (I must warn you it is possible to take the concept too far). Some recipes have you stir each layer delicately into the previous one, to create marble-like swirls, but the original Savane is striped a bit like a zebra (savanna, zebra, get it?) so it's fine to leave the layers as is.

The chocolate and vanilla batters in this recipe are, in essence, identical, so you could make a single batter that you'd divide at the end before adding the vanilla or chocolate flavoring, but I think Pascale's method is neater: she has you prepare the two batters side by side in separate bowls, a process that is especially easy if you're using a digital scale and those handy, easy-to-divide weight measurements (hint hint).

Pascale's recipe produces a delectable and very moist loaf, and I think the secret lies in the syrup that you brush on the cake as it comes out of the oven. I've made it multiple times now, and it is a real crowd-pleaser: French friends never miss the Savane reference, and I like that it feels homey but just a little elaborate, prompting at least one person to ask about the marbled technique, always.

I sometimes use whipping cream in the batter, as Pascale suggests, but most often yogurt or buttermilk: the substitution means the cake dries out a hair faster, but if you think it will be consumed within a couple of days in your house, that's what I recommend.

Over time, I've also incorporated two other modifications: I like to add a sprinkle of cacao nibs between layers of batter, and spike the syrup with cacao liqueur**, which you can't taste as such in the cake, but serves to deepen the overall chocolate flavor.

* The title of the book, Slunch, is a contraction of supper and lunch and, by symmetry with the brunch, it is an informal meal that you host for your friends (and optional kids) in late afternoon on a Sunday.

** This cacao liqueur is made by artisanal distillery Bertrand in Alsace, and I bought a bottle at Stéphane Gross' chocolate shop in Paris, Déclinaison Chocolat.

When Maxence and I were in San Francisco late last summer, we had bagels for breakfast every single day. There were a couple of bagel shops not far from where we were staying, so we alternated between the two, and on those mornings that we went for a run through the Golden Gate Park, bagels awaited at a busy coffee shop by the ocean.

I like mine dotted with poppy seeds or sesame seeds, and spread with cream cheese and a juicy slice of tomato. And thanks to a reader who recently suggested the pairing, I've also taken to topping my bagels with peanut butter and a juicy slice of tomato. (I know, I was skeptical too, but try it: I think you'll be surprised.)

On our last day, sad that our vacation was coming to an end and sad to be leaving the city, I saw this one way of making myself feel better: I promised myself I'd bake bagels for us back in Paris. It would at least alleviate the withdrawal symptoms on that particular front.

Oh, sure, I've found bagels in Paris in the past, and you can even buy them from the ubiquitous chain of frozen foods stores (they come with a bunch of emulsifiers and preservatives, if you're into that sort of thing), but it's never been quite the same.

So I turned to Peter Reinhart* and his Bread Baker's Apprentice book for guidance, compulsively reviewed the posts of every single BBA challenger who had followed his bagel recipe, and, on an afternoon when it seemed I could not sit at the computer for a minute longer, I fled to the kitchen and started up a batch. (Evidently, procrastination is a rich soil for baking projects.)

If you're unfamiliar with the way bagels are made, the most characteristic thing you should know is that they are cooked in two steps: first you poach them in a pot of water, then you bake them in the oven. And for some reason, the poaching step had always seemed daunting to me: what if I dropped them in and they fell apart, or dissolved, or sank to the bottom of the pot and never floated back up? Would I have to hire divers and send them on a recovery mission to salvage the sunken bagels? Reinhart didn't seem to suggest that this might happen, so I forged ahead.

Before I got to that point, though, I'd had to overcome two procurement hurdles. First, bagels must be made with flour that has a high rate of gluten: in the US, you would make them with high-gluten flour or bread flour. Unfortunately, French flour is significantly lower in gluten than American flours -- it has to do with the different types of wheat that we grow and mill -- and as Jane had warned me from her past experience, it would not work. So, my mission was to find powdered wheat gluten that I could add to my flour to boost its gluten content.

Second, part of what gives bagels their distinctive flavor is that the dough is lightly sweetened with barley malt, in powder or syrup form. In France, this goes by the names of sirop d'orge, malt d'orge or sirop d'orge malté. I had to try a few organic food stores, but I ended up finding both of these ingredients at the same one*; I almost hugged the cashier.

I mostly stuck to Peter Reinhart's method, except for a few things: I modified the recipe to use some of my sourdough starter in the sponge (enough to produce a final 1-to-3 ratio between starter and flour) and reduced the amount of commercial yeast. I also halved the recipe (his produces 12 large bagels; I made 8 medium).

I took some liberty with the order of the steps, too: Peter Reinhart's recipe has you make the dough, shape the bagels, lay them out on baking sheets, and then leave them overnight in the refrigerator (a step called retarding), before you poach and bake them the next day. The thing is, I have a Paris-sized fridge that is stuffed to the gills with, well, food, and the notion that I should just free up two (of the four) shelves to place baking sheets for the night is heroic fantasy.

So, instead of shaping the bagels pre-retarding, I simply placed the ball of dough in the fridge (it was a challenge just to make room for the bowl) and shaped it the next day. I was not struck by the wrath of the bagel gods during the night, so I assume it wasn't too big of a commandment to break.

The whole process was a lot of fun, and much less involved than I thought: the dough is rather stiff, which makes it easy to handle once kneaded (though I hear it's quite a workout to knead it by hand), and the poaching step went surprisingly smoothly.

As for the bagels themselves, they were fantastic, and just what I was hoping for: great flavor and just the right density and chewiness, the perfect carriers for the all-natural, chunky peanut butter I brought back from California. Now, if only I could persuade my neighborhood grocery store to carry cream cheese, I'd be all set.

* I just stumbled upon this video of a talk Peter Reinhart gave on bread, via Nicole's blog. I can't imagine anyone watching it and not wanting to bake bread right this minute.

** I found malt syrup and wheat gluten at the Biocoop store at 73 rue du Faubourg Poissonnière in the 9th (map it!), 01 44 79 06 44, open Mon-Sat 9:30am-8pm.

At the beginning of every month in 2009, I am offering C&Z readers a new desktop calendar, i.e. a wallpaper to apply on the desktop of your computer, with a food-related picture and a calendar of the current month.

Our desktop calendar for November is a picture of what I think of as a Parisian tartine, an open-face sandwich made on naturally leavened bread (here, a slice of pain des amis from the bakery Du Pain et des Idées), lightly spread with semi-salted butter then topped with artisanal ham, thick shavings of aged Comté cheese, and slivers of cornichons. Add a side salad or a fat, late-harvest tomato -- we are still feasting on those -- and that's lunch taken care of.

Instructions to get your calendar are below.

[Velouté de topinambours au bacon]

It has been a while -- five years, to be exact -- since we last discussed Jerusalem artichokes around here, but they do belong to my regular winter vegetable rotation so I thought I'd bring them up again.

The tubers have just started to appear and will stick around until March or April, so you can start looking for them now; you should have better luck finding them at a farmers' market of some sort, as they are not exactly a mainstream lot. The variety that's available in France is pink-skinned (see picture below), but you may see them wearing a beige outfit in your part of the world, and no one could blame you for being a bit envious then.

As I mentioned last time, the topinambour is a typical example of what the French call légumes oubliés, or forgotten vegetables. It's an umbrella term that includes heirloom varieties that have gone by the wayside in favor of hardier/more productive/glossier ones, but also those vegetables our grandparents resorted to eating during World War II, despite their cattle fodder status, because the more palatable options were commandeered and rationed (see post on my grandmother's war ration stamps). Among those, our friend the Jerusalem artichoke and its little buddy the rutabaga (a.k.a. Swede), on which our grandparents swiftly turned their back after the war, because of the memories they conjured.

But the topinambour is now back in style (that gum you like, too) and it's a good thing, for it is a truly delicious vegetable with a distinctive artichoke-like flavor, and a creamy texture similar to that of baking potatoes.

This means they're perfect soup material: they'll turn to velvet when cooked in stock and blitzed with a blender, making the French word velouté a fitting descriptor for the resulting dish. I sometimes pair Jerusalem artichokes with mushrooms or apples in soups, but here I've decided to cook them with bacon, adding a smoky umami dimension that tickles the delicate sweetness of the tubers. A sprinkle of snipped chives for clarity, and you've got yourself a rustic, yet subtle soup that you can serve with long fingers of day-old, toasted baguette.

Aside from using Jerusalem artichokes in soup, I like to braise or roast them; I also mash them like potatoes and garnish the purée with chopped hazelnuts to serve with rabbit or game; I add them along with parsnips to gratin dauphinois; I use them in risotti or frittate with mushrooms and leafy greens; I add them warm to salads of mâche and walnuts... I have yet to try them raw (carpaccio-style) or fried (in chips), but I hear that works well, too.

Because it seems disingenuous to talk about Jerusalem artichokes and not broach the delicate subject of digestion, here we go: Jerusalem artichokes can be, um, difficult to process. The blame is generally placed on inulin, a type of fiber that these tubers contain, and to which most (though not all) people are sensitive, as Tamara Duker explains in more detail. This helps explain why our grandparents were so eager to banish them.

But we've established that Jerusalem artichokes are otherwise excellent for your taste buds and your health (see Tamara's post again), so I've done a little reading and I've identified three tips that seem to help significantly. I readily admit that, short of conducting a comparative chemical and physiological study, they are merely suggestions of what has worked in my kitchen, but I trust that someone with more lab time on his hands will one day get to the bottom of it (sorry, a bad pun was bound to be made at some point).

The first tip, and the most important one I think, is to get the freshest Jerusalem artichokes you can -- they should feel firm and tight-skinned -- and to cook them within a day or two. It is counterintuitive, since they're root vegetables and we tend to think of those as fit for long storage, but the molecular structure in all vegetables continues to evolve after they're picked, and it seems to be the case here. So, buy them fresh, and use them fast.

Secondly, their effect is alleviated if they're parboiled first: start them in cold water, add baking soda for good luck, bring to a simmer, then drain and toss the cooking water, before you go on with the rest of the recipe. Lastly, they seem to fare much better in combination with potatoes -- something about an enzyme in the potatoes that would help break down the infamous inulin -- and because the universe is cleverly designed, they happen to be a fine flavor match, too.

Do you have favorite Jerusalem artichoke recipes, or tricks of your own, to share?

Maxence and I like to spend a weekend in Amsterdam every once in a while: we love the atmosphere of the city in any season, and we usually stay in a neighborhood called Nieuwmarkt that is both lively (plenty of shops and restaurants) and residential (real people live there), the ideal mix if you want to pretend you're an Amsterdammer (only with terrible language skills) for a few days.

It doesn't hurt that it is also the neighborhood where Pâtisserie Kuyt is located. This award-winning pastry shop and tea room is home to an irresistible apple confection called appelschnitte: sold in rectangular servings, this "apple slice" starts with a layer of dough that is halfway between a cake, moist and tender, and a cookie crust, sturdy enough to be handheld. Gently spiced chunks of apple sit atop that crust, with raisins and sliced almonds in their lap, and the whole thing is dusted -- or rather, sandstormed -- with confectioner's sugar.

I've never had anything quite like it, and if you visit Amsterdam you should absolutely have a taste and send me a piece as my commission. Until then, here is my humble attempt to recreate it, on a slightly leavened pâte sablée made with ground almonds, and using cooking apples that soften when baked, for a tender mouth feel. It is very easy to make and the result is close enough, to my recollection at least, though I suspect the original involves a more substantial amount of butter and, without a doubt, a lot more icing sugar.

I served this autumnal dessert with a scoop of the easiest ice cream you can possibly make: it is simply sweetened sheep's milk yogurt, to which I've added the egg white and liquor leftover from the apple slices, because it seemed like a clever thing to do. Chill, churn, and there you have it: a whiter than white, subtly tangy frozen yogurt to accessorize the still warm, apple-topped squares.

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Browse the list of idioms featured so far.

This week's idiom is, "Long comme un jour sans pain."

A literal translation would be, "as long as a day without bread," and it is used to express that something is very long -- in reference to physical length (a long road, a long list) or, more frequently, to the duration of an event (a long speech, a long wait) -- and dreary.

I have found a couple of sources suggesting that an English equivalent was, "like a month of Sundays," but I've never heard or seen it used myself -- perhaps one of you can confirm?

Example: "Tu as bien fait de ne pas venir à la conférence, c'était long comme un jour sans pain." "You did well not to attend the conference, it was as long as a day without bread."

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

The funny thing about a food blog, especially one that has been around for a long time, is that it doesn't really reflect the frequency with which each featured dish is cooked: if you look at an archived post from years ago, how do you know whether it was just a one-time experiment, or if it has made weekly appearances at the author's table since then?

After a recipe has been given the spotlight once, most bloggers are reluctant to write about it again, lest their readers think -- assuming they keep track, which is fairly unlikely in these overstimulated times -- they are rehashing old ideas. But then, aren't you most interested in those ideas special enough to sustain the cook's appetite time and time again? I certainly am.

I find that a microblogging tool such as twitter helps with that conundrum, allowing me to note, for those who care, that I am making very ginger cookies again, or gratin dauphinois or poppy seed cake.

But then, every once in a while, I make a personal classic that gets me excited as much as it did the first time, and I think, "This is just too good not to remind the world about it."

This explains today's post, which is another take on this one, first published five years and eight days ago. In the intervening time, I have gone through innumerable packages of fregola sarda, that toasted Sardinian pasta that is considerably tastier than its humble looks might suggest, is impossible to find in Paris (it would be too easy), and therefore requires trips abroad and favors from friends for me to replenish my stash.

I have tried eating fregola sarda in other ways than this, and though I must say it works splendidly with fresh peas, nothing quite compares to the chemistry between the teeny, lightly chewy pasta, soft wedges of zucchini, and coarsely grated parmesan.

I make it a bit differently now, blanching the zucchini quickly in the pasta water instead of sautéing it separately, and I frequently omit the pine nuts, to skip the toasting step. But if there are cherry tomatoes in the red star-shaped bowl on the counter I'll add them in, and if I have little bits of meat scraped from a roast chicken carcass, as I did the day I took the above picture, they round out the dish nicely, too.

All in all, it is a one-pot dish that takes no longer to prepare than the time needed to boil the pasta -- though fregola sarda is a little longer to cook than most, I'll grant you that -- and it is still, after all these years, my go-to meal when I'm having dinner on my own. It is just as good hot, barely warm, or cold, which means I can prepare a double serving, eat half on the spot, and have the leftovers for lunch the next day.

On the subject of pasta, I have just struck a good deal on a pasta-making apparatus, and I am anxious to it try soon, probably using the ratio laid out by Michael Ruhlman in his book (three parts flour to two parts egg). Any handmade pasta advice to share, or favorite recipes of your own?

A friend of mine was just admitted to the traditional French cooking program I attended four years ago (read all about it here and here), and the good news got me thinking about a type of cookie we learned to make in class as we approached the holidays, called sablés diamant.

These "diamond cookies" are classic butter cookies that you form using my favorite technique, referred to in English as slice-and-bake, in which you shape the dough into a log and slice it into simple rounds. I remember being surprised to see this method taught as part of the official culinary repertoire, because I've always thought of it as a home-style shortcut (as opposed to spreading the dough and cutting it into shapes with a cookie cutter), and not one that's particularly widespread in French households, either.

In any case, the true reason why it's used for these sablés diamant is not so much to save time as to make the diamond thing happen: the recipe has you roll the log in sugar before slicing, so that the edges of the finished cookies are prettily dotted with sugar crystals that sparkle like a hundred diamonds if you are blessed with a fervent imagination.

In addition to the visual appeal, this produces an ideal texture, the cookie tender and crumbly, its flanks offering a distinctly crunchy note. I decided to use the same idea to make matcha* shortbread cookies.

I used confectioner's sugar and ground almonds in the dough itself to make it extra smooth on the tongue, the better to highlight the contrast between center and rim. And I blended in a moderate dose of green tea powder: just enough to give the sablés a delicate grassy flavor without overpowering the round notes of butter and almond.

* Matcha is a fine powder made by grinding green tea leaves; it can be purchased from Japanse grocery stores, and from good tea shops.

~~~

One last thing: I will be participating in a live Q&A session on the Times Online website this Wednesday, October 7 at 1pm GMT (London time). If your time zone and schedule allow it, please join in!

Update: The live Q&A session on the Times Online website is over, but you can still view the exchange.

At the beginning of every month in 2009, I am offering C&Z readers a new desktop calendar, i.e. a wallpaper to apply on the desktop of your computer, with a food-related picture and a calendar of the current month.

Our desktop calendar for October is a picture of lemon butter cookies, as they appear in my cookbook. Delicately buttery, crisp, and thinly glazed, these sablés au citron draw their flavor from the juice and zest of a lemon, bolstered by a touch of salt. They're a staple from my childhood I revisit often.

Instructions to get your calendar are below.

Due to my ever-widening enthusiasm for breadmaking, I have become a close follower of the Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge, wherein a group of bakers bakes its way through Peter Reinhart's revered opus and blogs about the results, with numerous details and step-by-step photos. This makes for fascinating posts if you're into that sort of thing, and reading about others' well-documented hurdles and triumphs is most helpful if you want to bake from the book.

And this is how I was inspired to try Reinhart's recipe for English muffins, with a view to adjusting it later and make use of my sourdough starter.

If you've never really stopped to consider how English muffins are made -- and I wouldn't hold it against you -- you may be interested to learn that they simply grow on English muffin trees. No, really, however easily I could picture that to be true*, English muffins are in fact little loaves of bread dough that are cooked on the stove like pancakes, rather than baked in the oven, which explains (aha!) the two flattened, browned faces.

The difficulty of this method is that you need to time the cooking precisely: long enough that the muffins are cooked all the way through to the center (to preclude any gumminess of crumb), but not so long that the surface of the muffins get too dark. Peter Reinhart offers a simple solution: he has you brown the muffins on a griddle or skillet first, and then finish them in the oven, where they will continue to bake through without coloring any further.

My first attempt was a qualified success: the dough came together nicely, but I got a little carried away when preheating my dear cast-iron skillet** -- c'mon, let's fire up that baby! -- and I burned a good half of the muffins. We still ate them, slicing off the offending charcoal layer, and they were pretty good, but I felt the taste of the yeast came through a bit too strongly.

For my second attempt, I modified the recipe to incorporate some of my natural starter (have you met Philémon?) for a more complex flavor. Although my preference would be to use my starter as the only leavener, I used both starter and commercial yeast here (albeit in a smaller amount than in the original recipe), a necessary compromise when working with an enriched dough: the starter would not be quite strong enough to lift it on its own in a reasonable amount of time.

Take two of the English muffin project turned out fantastically well: the flavor was better developed, thanks to the longer fermentation and the use of the starter, and I cooked them more gently this time, making the cornmeal-dotted surfaces golden brown and crusty just so.

You can certainly eat the muffins when freshly baked, but I personally prefer them toasted, and I have found that the texture and flavor improves over time, so that you can absolutely bake them the day before you want to eat them (for breakfast or tea), and continue to enjoy them over the next few days. I'm sure they'd freeze perfectly, too.

The final thing you need to know about homemade muffins is that they should be fork-split to achieve optimal texture. Just prick the muffin all around its girth with the tines of a fork, then pull the two halves apart gently; you'll get a nicely craggy surface that will take splendidly to toasting and liberal buttering. (Of course, there's also a gadget for that.)

* If there is such a thing as a breadfruit, why not an English muffin tree?

** I have now acquired a spiffy laser thermometer that should preclude that sort of problem in the future.

~~~

On another note, today is the sixth anniversary of Chocolate & Zucchini! I will organize a get-together in Paris, as I do every year, and the details will be announced soon. You may also sign up for the newsletter to be notified.

A favorite from the archives, this post was originally published on November 2, 2007.

I say, one can never have too many recipes for lamb shoulder.

A versatile cut, the lamb shoulder, one that can be grilled, stewed, braised, or here, slow-roasted.

This dish was born out of a typical moment of greenmarket frustration, which I shall get off my chest just now.

A few Saturdays ago, I was waiting in line before my organic butcher's stall. Immediately ahead of me was a stocky little lady, whose many years of experience had taught her how to maximize the annoyance of the person behind her, i.e. me, through the cunning use of her shopping trolley.

Her technique was this: when the line moved forward, she followed, but neglected, for as long as she could possibly hold fort, to pull her trolley along with her, thus blocking the progress of the other customers, and preventing them from getting a comfortable look at the day's offerings -- a dire handicap on a busy market morning, when one is required to place one's order with great velocity.

Never one to let a stocky little lady defeat me -- she was half my height after all, though she may prove quite the cannonball in a fight -- I outmaneuvered her by gliding her trolley forward with my right foot, slowly but surely, every time her back was turned.

And yet the final victory, it pains me to admit, was hers.

When her turn came, she ordered two links of blood sausage, a hefty slice of headcheese, and six pork chops. And then, as an afterthought, she pointed to the handsome shoulder of lamb that was sitting, all alone, in the lamb shoulder tray. My heart sank. This was, of course, what I had been coveting all along, and mine was the voice of last resorts when I uttered a half-joking, half-serious, might-as-well-give-it-a-shot, "Aw, that's too bad, I had my eye on this one, too!"

Needless to say, she barely registered my comment*, and I swear I saw the shadow of a smirk as she grabbed her trolley and stomped away.

I ended up buying collier d'agneau (neck of lamb), which turned out fine braised with carrots and sweet potatoes, but a few days later, as I was planning the menu for an upcoming dinner party, this unresolved lamb shoulder situation floated back to the surface of my mind. I picked up the phone, dialed the number printed on the butcher's wrapping paper, and asked if he would please set aside a shoulder of lamb for me the following Saturday.

He did, and it is with a titillating sense of revenge -- ha! who's smirking now? -- that I massaged the meat with a paste made of fresh rosemary from Muriel's garden, anchovies, pink garlic, mustard seeds, and lemon peel. Garlic cloves en chemise** and a few late-harvest tomatoes were slipped into the baking dish, and the whole thing was popped into a low oven to roast for several hours, until the meat was nicely browned, crusty, and infused with the tangy seasoning paste.

This I served with a simple side of Italian-grown farro, a.k.a. emmer wheat or triticum dicoccum, the ancient grain that fed the Roman legions: it needs a few hours of soaking and forty minutes of cooking (preferably in homemade stock), but it cooks to a gratifying chew, it is nutritious as can be, and a nice change from the usual starch suspects.

* In case you're wondering, yes, this strategy works every once in a while. Admittedly, I have better success if my opponent is a man, who may be better disposed to turn around and let me have the last piccola baguette, or whatever it is I hope to get.

** Ail en chemise = unpeeled garlic cloves; literally, "with their shirt on." Isn't it the most pictorial way to put it?

A favorite from the archives, this post was originally published on October 23, 2007.

Fig season is upon us and produce stalls boast plentiful trays of purple figs, soft at the hips and oft leaking a drop of sap from their, um, bottom. Of course, they cost an eye -- figs are a luxury in Paris any time of the year -- but the fig fanatic in me is willing to make any sort of monetary sacrifice to fuel my addiction.

But, lo and behold, my supermarket was offering an all-things-considered good price on Solliès figs the other day, and it was just the excuse I needed to make fig ice cream for a dinner party we were hosting.

Because I wasn't entirely sure how my figs rated on the flavor scale -- I tasted one and gave it a 6, but statisticians may agree that a sample of one fig isn't enough to draw any sort of conclusion regarding the entire population -- I decided to take an insurance policy by throwing in a few dried figs, to sustain the overall flavor.

Many a blogger has been heard raving about the fig ice cream in the ice cream guru's book, and I myself used the recipe as a guide, modifying it to include dried figs, and use agave syrup as a sweetener, Greek-style yogurt in place of cream, and Limoncello instead of lemon juice*.

And well, you may now count me among those who can serenade all night about the unctuosity and vividness of this ice cream -- a little bit like my neighbor from across the courtyard, who I wish would either shut her window or sing something other than Natalie Imbruglia. Karaoke: it's not for everyone.

And before we part, I will add this: when I first looked at the picture of this ice cream in David's book, I knit my brow and puckered my lips into a dubitative pout (please take a moment to picture this). Could fig ice cream turn out this purple? But now that I've made it myself -- and I promise I did not fiddle with the colors in the picture above -- I'm here to tell you that, yes, fig ice cream can turn out this purple. Or more accurately in my case, pinkish purple, the kind of ice cream you wouldn't mind smearing all over your white shirt, so lovely the color is.

* David Lebovitz explains that a little alcohol helps ice cream remain soft.

A favorite from the archives, this post was originally published on September 22, 2008.

When I recovered my kitchen after seven weeks (seven! weeks!) of renovation chaos -- and this was just to redo the bathroom, mind you -- the very first thing I made was a yogurt cake, to fortify us through our next mission: the meticulous cleaning of, well, the entire contents of our apartment, which we had ill-protected from the dust storm. (Never again will we underestimate plaster and tile.)

And as soon as our home regained a sense of cleanliness and harmony, I was able to pick up my cooking life where I'd left it seven weeks (seven! weeks!) earlier, and -- oh, the bliss -- return to the Batignolles farmers' market. "Where have you been all summer?" my produce vendor asked, as I went on a bit of a vegetable shopping spree.

I rode home on a cloud, unloaded my baskets into my squeaky-clean vegetable drawers (I'd also scoured the fridge while I was at it), and started to plot ways to use my loot. Of particular concern to me were the fist-sized eggplants I had fallen for, so shiny you could use them as pocket mirrors (handy when the contractor has yet to afix the mirror above the bathroom sink).

You see, I am hopeless with eggplant. The only way eggplants and I get along is when I reaffirm my authority by roasting the living daylight out of them. I usually go on to make my neighbor Stephan's eggplant caviar, the recipe for which is featured in my first book, but I was in the mood to try something a little different this time.

Coincidentally, I had just received a review copy of Janna Gur's Book of New Israeli Food, an enticing book that's as much about the food as it is about the people and daily life of Israel. And on page 28, the author quotes an Arab adage that made me laugh: "If your future bride can't prepare eggplant fifty different ways -- don't marry her," it says.

Janna Gur goes on to give about a dozen, which is a lot more than most cooks have in their repertoire, I daresay, yet still leaves them to do a bit more research if they are to be ready when an Arab prince comes to whisk them away.

Among Gur's suggestions are eight mini-recipes for dips and salads that involve just a few ingredients, and because I had goat's milk yogurt in the fridge, the one that tempted me most was the Roasted Eggplant with Yogurt. It went something like this, "add 2 cups yogurt to the flesh of 2 roasted eggplants; add crushed garlic, salt, black pepper, and, optionally, chopped mint and coriander leaves."

I ended up preparing mine a bit differently -- see recipe below -- and was delighted with the use of yogurt, which gives the dip a rich, creamy texture, yet keeps it light and tangy. Eggplants are scheduled to stick around for just a little while longer before fall begins in earnest, and this is a fine way to bid them farewell.