HONEY VANILLA MINI MADELEINES

ONE (SUNNY) JULY DAY


Twenty-four years ago we experienced a month of July so similar to this one. It rained and it rained and it rained. Every single day. I was desperate and disheartened for I was planning my wedding. I had visions of disaster, rushing through a downpour to get to City Hall and arriving there drenched. No lovely bride in a flowing white dress, hair perfectly coiffed, gorgeous bouquet of roses and lavender would stroll into the Grande Salle to be joined to her dashing Frenchman. No, I saw ruined shoes, the beautiful violet suede matted and smeared. I could almost feel the silky material of my coat soaked through and bunched up in an unattractive mess, the uncomfortable dampness clinging to my skin. I was horrified at the thought of my masses of thick, curly hair frizzing up into a great black billowing puff around my head, the size of a mushroom cloud, framing a face flushed and splotchy.

Yet I woke up bright and early on that long ago July 23rd to a magical, bright Thursday morning. I allowed the sun to pull me out of bed, an ersatz mother of the bride come to awaken me. We were to be there at 11:00 sharp in that grand golden room, married in the rays of light filtering through the windows. Laughter filled the streets as we, a mere handful of family and friends I had never before met, walked, danced, trotted happily in the warmth of a midsummer day, weather fit for a bride, worthy a marriage day. As I walked alongside my soon-to-be husband, I glanced up at the sky in awe and wondered how I could have been so lucky as to deserve the one sunny day an entire month had to offer. How could I have foreseen this break in the weather those weeks ago when I had stood at the counter in the dark office of City Hall and selected a date to be wed? Luck or destiny or just a mere whim of nature, I have ever appreciated and never forgotten this gift.


Twenty-four years later and the same July, the same grayness has hung over the city for weeks like a shroud, the same rain spattering down angrily day after day. As my wedding anniversary approached, the same miserable thoughts flit through my head, the same dejection colored our plans. Although no ceremony was planned, no invited guests or fancy outfits to be ruined by a downpour, nonetheless, we were in the mood for festivities. A few days before the date, JP asked, mischievous grin playing on his lips, if I wouldn’t enjoy an anniversary lunch at La Mare aux Oiseaux. He suggested we make a day of it: a drive out to the country, a stroll through Le Jardin du Marais and lunch at this much-talked-about one-star restaurant in the middle of the marais, La Grande Brière, the marshland to the west of Nantes. Now I had long dreamed of eating at La Mare aux Oiseaux ever since I had attended last year’s Les Goûts Uniques and seen the young, talented chef demonstrate not only his talents, but his passion, his philosophy. And a garden? I would have to give him that if he was to bring me to this great gastronomic lieu.

But it was raining and raining every day. We had already been so lucky as to have a break in the weather for our bike trip. Who was I to tempt the forces of nature, to dare request benevolence twice? Each time the sun had broken through the clouds or we had awoken to luminous, blue skies, as soon as we had slipped on our shoes and stepped outside, the gray came rumbling in, clouds dark in anger at our brazen assumption that the day was ours to trifle with as we pleased. And it would begin, once again, to rain. Yet that Saturday morning broke brilliant, a radiant sun wishing us great joy and promising a glorious anniversary day.

As you know, I rarely do restaurant reviews, but La Mare aux Oiseaux was everything we had imagined and deserves to be talked about. Tastefully decorated in cream and chocolate with touches of jade reflecting Chef Eric Guérin’s passion for nature, the dining room was at once bright and airy, subtle and calming. The staff was young, friendly, knowledgeable, accessible and professional, the perfect balance not often found in restaurants of this caliber; there was nothing staid or invasive, no hovering or condescension. The dishes arrived one after the other, each astonishing in their presentation, but this we expect nowadays in a starred restaurant. But each mouthful startled and amazed; the selection of ingredients is at once clean, sharp, natural in its simplicity yet the combination of flavors was utterly astounding, spectacular, completely uncomplicated yet abounding in creativity and imagination, showing both thought and ease. Who would ever have expected the cheese course to be a luscious combination of mascarpone and Forme d’Ambert blue cheese sandwiched in between paper-thin layers of white chocolate crowned with a dusting of truffle? There is absolutely nothing chi-chi about Chef Guérin’s cuisine; his is based not on some trendy mélange of spices or herbal concoctions, there are no puddles, foams or beads of unrecognizable contrivances. Rather he turns to the beauty of nature blended elegantly with his artistic bent. Although each dish surprises, nothing shocks, nothing jars in discord. Whether a dish is traditional or absolutely contemporary, his food, the combination of ingredients is understandable, showing an absolute respect for nature and a search for the best products she has to offer and combining those ingredients to bring out and highlight each. Truly one of the best meals either one of us has ever eaten. (Chef Guérin's menus can be found here and photos of a selection of dishes here)

(please excuse the quality of the photos; they were taken with an iphone)

A perfect lunch to celebrate, we left entirely content, brimming over with compliments for the young chef and his staff, enamored of his cuisine and even promising ourselves to return for a romantic dinner and a night in his small hotel upstairs from the dining room. We even discussed the possibility of bringing Clem and Simon for a family lunch. That’s how much we loved it.

But the day was not yet over. Barely 3:00, we strolled through the village and along the water’s edge as our meal settled, not wanting to hop straight into the car and drive away, savoring the flavors that lingered on our lips and the wonderful experience. The sun was now blazing and we slipped off our coats as we walked hand in hand, enjoying the picture-postcard quaintness of the thatched roofs of the homes huddled together looking for all the world as Breton as they were. We finally headed back to the car and off in search of our next stop, le Jardin du Marais.


Nestled in the marshy zone of the Grande Brière outside of Nantes, the vegetable and ornamental gardens of Yves and Annick Gillen are certainly a sight to behold and a must to visit. Fervent environmental activists, they began their completely organic gardens and self-sustained, natural lifestyle over twenty-five years ago. This passionate couple live not to control nature, but to live in rhythm with it, respecting it and its forces. Energized by solar panels, windmill and zeal, they plant, tend, create in a space dense and green where nature reigns, coaxing up peaches, apples, lettuce, beans, tomatoes, roses and hydrangeas from the earth in joyful union. We spent a delightful, informative and incredibly inspiring afternoon with Yves as he led us and about twenty other souls through the different areas of the garden, soaking up every word with relish as he explains in his spitfire fashion, arms waving, eyes glinting, how everything works, the organic way to garden and to live, how we all, working together, can better the world. His passion and excitement ooze out of his every pore and we are swept away, his humor and emotions infectious. We finally duck out just before the talk on compost in order to dash home to Marty who had been home alone all day.


All in all, it was a perfect 24th wedding anniversary and we were happy, tired and well pleased with the entire day. And thrilled that the weather had been so kind to us, a gentle yet well-appreciated gift from the heavens.

And a little, tender gift to my husband who has stuck by me through thick and thin, taking the brunt of the worries on his slender shoulders. In exchange, I try and make him laugh everyday and bake for him as often as I can before he cries “Uncle!” 24 years and counting: I swore to him that we still had at least 30 more together.

Ce soir j'attends Madeleine
J'ai apporté du lilas
J'en apporte toutes les semaines
Madeleine elle aime bien ça
Ce soir j'attends Madeleine
On prendra le tram trente-trois
Pour manger des frites chez Eugène
Madeleine elle aime tant ça
Madeleine c'est mon Noël
C'est mon Amérique à moi
Même qu'elle est trop bien pour moi
Comme dit son cousin Joël
Ce soir j'attends Madeleine
On ira au cinéma
Je lui dirai des "je t'aime"
Madeleine elle aime tant ça

- Jacques Brel

(nota bene: Although the sun was shining on that long-ago wedding day, the breeze warm and gentle and not a drop of humidity was to be felt, the bride’s hair did indeed frizz up into a great black billowing puff around her head, alas, much to her chagrin.)



La Mare Aux Oiseaux, Parc National de Brière - 162, Île de Fedrun
44720 Saint Joachim FR - Tél. +33 (0)2 40 88 53 01

Le Jardin du Marais, Hoscas - 44410 Herbignac Tél : 02 40 91 47 44
Open from mid-May to mid-September/Ouverture : mi-mai à mi-septembre


HONEY VANILLA MINI MADELEINES
I have adapted this classic recipe from one in my December 2010 issue of (French) Saveurs

This recipe makes about 60 mini-Madeleines (1 ¾ - inch / 4 ½ cm at their longest point).

9 ½ Tbs (135 g) unsalted butter
2 large eggs
Scant ½ cup (1/2 cup – 1 ½ tsps / 90 g) granulated sugar
1 Tbs (30 g) liquid honey
Scant ¼ cup (1.35 fluid oz / 40 ml) milk
1 cup – 2 tsps (135 g) self-rising cake flour
1 vanilla pod
Pinch ground cardamom (optional)

Prepare the Madeleine batter the night before baking:

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat. Continue heating until the butter turns a dark hazelnut brown color and smells nutty. Remove from the heat and allow to come to room temperature.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, honey and the milk until homogenous. Using a small, thin-bladed, sharp knife, split the vanilla pod down the center and scrape out all of the seeds. Add the seeds to the batter. If you don’t have a vanilla pod, simply add about a teaspoon of liquid vanilla extract.

Sift the flour onto the batter and whisk to blend. Whisk in the melted brown butter: try not to add the dark dregs the settle to the bottom of the pan.

Cover the bowl and refrigerate overnight.

Prepare the Madeleines:

Preheat the oven to 410°F (210°C). Lightly butter the shell-shaped cavities of a mini-Madeleine mold (the easiest way to do this is using a pastry brush and either softened or melted butter).

The batter right out of the refrigerate will be thick and easy to work with: simply place about half a teaspoon (if using bigger molds, simply fill each shell no more than three-quarters full) in each shell cavity.


Place the Madeleine tin directly on the oven rack and bake for about 8 minutes. Do not overbake the Madeleine or they will be dry: take them out when puffed up and the center forms a large bump, the edges are golden but the center is still pale.


Once out of the oven, very gently lift the Madeleines from the molds using a knife and place on a rack to cool.



Take a bigger bite ...

FRENCH APRICOT TARTLETS

My lovely friends and Feast sisters, Chris Ann and Kristin asked me to participate in the launching of their newly redesigned blog and shop LoveFeast Table and I gladly said yes. I have known these two generous, talented, passionate, unpretentious women for quite some time and have already written guest posts for their blog, so it was a matter of course to join their festivites. But what to write when they suggest the theme Feast. Looking at their new space and I knew a celebration was in order. And, of course, what naturally popped into my head was...

LIFE’S A FEAST


An abundance of sweet summer fruit spilling out of crisp brown paper bags across my kitchen table; the heady fragrance weaving through the air reminding me of the summers of my childhood. I stand in wonder at the reds fading from garnet to ruby to rose, the purples royal, the oranges tinged with the evening sun and I understand the magic of the summer bounty of stone fruits.

Life’s a feast. I often wonder how I fell upon this name for my blog and how it foreshadowed events, how my life and my writing converged, melting into one. Since the first day I sat down and began writing, I have experienced the sweet and the bitter, I have laughed out loud, savoring cinnamon and honey-scented sensations, candy-coated and sugar-dipped thrills, and I have tasted the salt of my tears heavy on my cheeks. My life has been a series of adventures, a wild ride, a world of discovery that, young girl, I never would have dreamed of living. I wake up each day not knowing what will arrive on my doorstep, unprepared for both the sweet and the bitter, facing each with a mixture of wide-eyed innocence and staunch determination to understand and conquer. I have indeed learned that Life is a Feast, offering up both the good and the bad, astonishing us with the unexpected, delighting us with accolades, bringing tears of both joy and sorrow. A chain of strange and unintentional events brought me to Europe and I fell into the arms of an astonishing man with a taste for adventure and the unusual. Together, with our sons, we traveled, tasting what we could, learning as much as possible, experiencing as much as time and our wallet could afford. We taught our sons that life is an adventure and the world is their oyster, excuse the mixed metaphors, and this, I hope, is all reflected in how I cook, how I write and how I live. Life is like the food that we place on the table before them: we encourage them to taste each dish, grab at each opportunity, for how else will they understand what it is or know if they like it or not?


Please hop over to LoveFeast Table to read the rest, share my thoughts on life, food and blogging and, of course, for the recipe for these tasty French Apricot Tartlets.

Just a few announcements:


Have you reserved your tickets for the International Food Blogger Conference in New Orleans, August 25 – 28 yet? If not, don't miss what promises to be a fabulous weekend and experience. I am proud to be joining an incredible group of speakers where I'll be talking about a subject very close to my heart: Food & Culture.


I am pleased to announce that I am now partnering with well-known, acclaimed nutrition and health expert Joy Bauer, cookbook author and respected health activist. I don't often promote brands or products (if ever) yet when Joy's team contacted me proposing a partnership I couldn't but say yes. Like Joy, I believe wholeheartedly in living a healthy life, enjoying a balanced diet and, for those who know me well, exercise is part and parcel of my daily routine. I'll be sharing more about Joy, her cookbooks and her advice in the future.

Take a bigger bite ...

GREENGAGE PLUM (REINE CLAUDE) GALETTE

A RAINY DAY

Let the rain pitter patter
But it really doesn't matter
If the skies are gray.
Long as I can be with you, it's a lovely day.
- Irving Berlin

Ooooh middle of July and I feel as if I am in a dream – a bad dream. The rain once again spatters against the windowpanes and the chill wind whips our hair around our faces as we push our way down the street. Our brief affair with summer has quickly turned sour and we are back to the drawing board. It feels like autumn and a lousy one at that. We pull on a jacket over our sweater, socks and boots, grab the umbrella and head out to run errands: the bookstore and the Mac store, Bat Pile for batteries and a swing through the market for provisions. Our salad diet has gone bust as it certainly works best in hot weather. We have sunk back into bad habits, cooking meals best adapted to cooler weather: tagines, stews, veal chops in creamy sauces, couscous, Asian soups, all those wonderful rich dishes that fill and warm from the inside out. And the waistline threatens to expand back to winter proportions, as we are tempted to return to that comforting seasonal hibernation. Where has summer gone to?


I sit back and watch the rain and memories rush through my mind. Sunny Italy, gorgeous weather, yet when the rain fell in Milan it fell hard like so many thousands and millions of cats and dogs, rushing down upon us with a fury long and deep. The streets would begin to fill with water at an astonishing pace. If we were ever so lucky to be inside and able to prepare, we would slip on the rubber boots, but more often than not we would be caught unawares and find ourselves, one mother and two young sons, sloshing knee deep home from school. Yet I had lived through Florida’s torrential storms, year after year, summer after summer, so, like it or not, I was prepared for the worst and faced it all with a certain resigned determination. I had learned to read the skies, listen for the low, faint rumble off in the distance, moving closer, menacing. I learned to sense the change in the air, ever so tenuous, the slight shift in temperature and how the wind felt on my cheek. I became versed in reading the signs, understanding when to retreat into the safety of my home, my bedroom before the sky turned that astonishing and unnatural shade of black, before the first loud * crack * of lightening whistled in the space around my body, and the * boom * of thunder reverberated, the vibrations rushing up through every muscle. Unlike the driving misery of the Italian rain, a Florida downpour was quick and sharp, arriving precisely at three every afternoon and leaving just as quickly, rushing off impatiently, sweeping across the state’s great empty swathes of land. One left you damp and chilly inside and out, clothes clinging, leaving behind her a wretched discomfort. There was something electrifying and enthralling about the other, the rain of my childhood. The enveloping darkness and the sizzle in the air was almost galvanizing, and although expected every single summer day it still startled and astonished, leaving me in awe at the force of nature.

And then it was over, the sun pushing through the blackness, her fingers licking at the sidewalks, the wet melting into an angry hiss, curls of steam rising from the pavement and the black tar of the road, the air thick and heavy against the skin. It was an oppressive mugginess that reigned for a brief time, yet the summer Florida sun was too strong and in a matter of minutes all was back to normal. We burst out of our hiding places as only children can, running back into the street to pick up our games where we had left off.

Yet this rain we have been having lately is cold and damp, seeping in under the windows, reaching us no matter where we hide. Rain, incessant, interminable, never-ending rain. No warm summer shower this; we stare dismally out at the iron sky, the drab, joyless city and the sheets of water pelting down mercilessly, endlessly, day after day. Oh, summer teases; the occasional beautiful day arrives, a shiver of sunlight and a soft warm breeze surprise us as the gloom of the morning lifts and our hopes rise. We dress and hurry outside knowing by now that it won’t last long. So we take advantage of the nice weather when we can: a long romp in the woods with Marty or a dash around the hippodrome, a stroll through the city, pausing at an outdoor terrace for a cup of coffee. Before it starts all over again.


But I really love the rain. Safely inside, snug in our little love nest, surrounded by our books, our dog (albeit depressed for lack of sun and warmth with which to recharge his Boston batteries) and our work, we take refuge, a cozy, safe haven. I love the time that it affords me to read or bake to my heart’s content. And truth be told, it is my husband who is doing all of the cooking these days, pleased to spend an hour or so a day letting his imagination and creative urges run wild. He is happy to shop, though wearing his gray-weather-induced misery like an ill-fitting raincoat. Grabbing umbrella and me by the arm he heads out no matter the weather, a mission to fulfill. He happily chops, blends, stirs and seasons, letting each movement take him one step further away from the desolation beating at the walls of the building. I am thrilled when he takes over the kitchen, knowing that with absolutely no effort whatsoever, I will have a delicious meal set on the table before me. But I do it for him, knowing that the occupation releases him from the stress and depression this weather induces in someone as sensitive as he.

This leaves me the time to bake. And this rain certainly inspires me to do just that. The kitchen warm from the heat of the oven, the scent of cinnamon, the sweetness of fresh fruit, the gentle, soothing movements of kneading pure pleasure. Yesterday Mathilde came once again to spend the day in the kitchen with me. Like mother and daughter or like girlfriends catching up on the latest news, we chattered away all morning and well into the afternoon as we measured, stirred, tasted and photographed. We each selected a recipe from a favorite cookbook. I had recently purchased The Weekend Baker by my darling and talented friend Abby Dodge. I’ve been reading the cookbook for weeks now, caressing the pages, oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing over every single fabulous recipe. I want to make everything, cake, bread, cookie, pie and sweet treat, each one is better than the next. This is the ideal cookbook for someone who loves to bake as much as I do (and a great beginner’s cookbook for a passionate novice such as Mathilde): great desserts and snacks, recipes for every level and attention span (oh, some days I want to bake and am ready for something long, involved and complicated, yet other days I want something so simple and easy it is in the oven and on the plate in no time at all). I landed on this fruit Galette – no matter how lousy the weather, summer’s stone fruits are at their sweetest and their best and I can’t get enough of them. I sent JP to the market and he brought home a paper bag full of gorgeous, sweet, sugary Reine Claude plums and this is what we made.


I am sharing this with Sukaina of Sips and Spoonsfuls who is hosting the July Monthly Mingle for Meeta. Her theme is Stone Fruit and I love it! I already baked and sent my Nectarine Jalousie and now a Greengage Plum Galette.

And don't forget that I will be speaking at Foodista's International Food Blogger Conference being held in New Orleans August 26 - 28 on the topic of Food & Culture. Don't mis this extraordinary event jam-packed with great speakers, great bloggers, great food and a great time!

GREENGAGE (REINE CLAUDE) GALETTE

For the Sweet Dough:

2 cups (255 g) flour
3 Tbs granulated sugar
1 tsp finely grated lemon zest
¼ tsp salt
10 Tbs (5 oz/145 g) cold unsalted butter, cubed
¼ cup (60 ml) + 2 Tbs very cold water
2 Tbs freshly squeezed lemon juice

For the Fruit Filling:

½ cup (113 g) firmly packed light brown sugar
3 Tbs flour
Dash cinnamon
1 tsp finely grated lemon zest
Pinch of salt
1 pound (500 g) stone fruit – I used Reine Claude plums (Greengage plums), washed, pitted and cut into wedges 3/4 –inch (2 cm) thick **
2 tsps freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 Tbs heavy cream or milk
Granulated brown sugar and slivered almonds to decorate

** Ooops! We made a slight mistake using only 500 grams of fruit. Abby calls for a total of 1 kilo (2 pounds) fruit: half apricots/half plums. Ours came out fabulously delicious but next time I will indeed double the fruit!

Prepare the Dough:

Place the flour, sugar, lemon zest and salt in a large bowl. Add the cubes of butter and toss to coat with the dry ingredients. Using only the tips of your fingers, quickly rub the flour and butter together until it resembles damp sand and there are no more large lumps of butter left. Using a fork, quickly stir in the water combined with the lemon juice until a shaggy dough forms. Scrape the dough onto a floured work surface and using the heel of one hand, smear the dough little by little away from you in quick, hard strokes in order to make sure that all of the butter is blended in well. Scrape it together once again and knead briefly and quickly, adding more flour if the dough is wet and sticky, until the dough is smooth, homogeneous and soft but no longer sticky. Form into a ball, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for about 30 minutes until it is firm enough to roll out without sticking to the rolling pin. The dough can also be prepared in advance.

Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Unwrap the dough, place it on a lightly floured and roll it into a large round disc, about 15 inches (38 cm) in diameter. Lift and rotate the dough, a quarter turn each time, as you roll, flouring underneath it to prevent sticking. Trim the excess dough around the edges to make a 14-inch (35 cm) round. Carefully and lightly roll the disc of dough around the rolling pin and transfer it to the parchment-line baking sheet (don’t worry if the dough hangs over the edges at this point), cover with plastic and refrigerate while you prepare the filling.

Place the prepared fruit and the lemon juice in a large mixing bowl. Blend the brown sugar, flour, lemon zest, dash of cinnamon and the salt in a small bowl to combine. Pour it over the fruit and toss – I use my hands – until the fruit is evenly coated with the dry ingredients. Remove the galette crust from the refrigerate, remove the plastic wrap, and pile the prepared fruit in the center of the disc. Push the fruit around until it is evenly distributed, leaving a 3-inch (7.75 cm) border all around it. Fold the dough edges up and over the dough, pleating the dough as you go. The fruit should be uncovered and showing in the center. Using your finger, dab a little water under each pleat and gently press the pleats to seal.

Brush the dough with the cream or milk. Dust both the fruit showing in the center and the dough with granulated brown sugar and slivered almonds.

Bake the Plum Galette for about 40 minutes until the dough is a deep golden brown, the fruit is tender and the juices beginning to bubble. Remove from the oven and allow to cool for a couple of minutes before sliding the parchment paper with the Galette onto a cooling rack.


Serve the Plum Galette warm or at room temperature, as is or topped with ice cream or freshly whipped cream.



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ROASTED TOMATO, FETA AND ROCKET QUICHE

STARTING OVER – STEP 3 (the marriage)

How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being.
- Oscar Wilde

July. Approaching yet another wedding anniversary and my mind wanders back over 24 years of bliss and, well, truth be told, not so bliss. I am often astonished at the comments some friends make to me about my relationship with my husband, confounded that they somehow hold up my marriage as an object of desire, a model of the ever-elusive "perfect marriage". Nothing in this world is perfect and I am bound to concede my profound belief that everything is as one makes it. I try and hover around the truth in these pages, in the stories that I weave for my readers. Maybe my truth is kissed by the fairytale and filtered through a diaphanous veil of romance, but it is undoubtedly the world in which we live. 24 years is a long time to work on anything, whether sculpture, architectural creation or novel, a long time in which to hammer and chip away, write, erase and rewrite, mold and tweak and reshape. Throw into the formula two uncontrollable sons, several odd dogs, a Bohemian lifestyle, a passion for adventure and the unusual, 3 languages, 2 religions and an innumerable number of nationalities and cultures and you have quite a job cut out for you.


Life is a bumpy road full of potholes, unexpected detours, miles of unattractive strip malls and the occasional, disagreeable risk of being pulled over by the cops. Yet there are also long, luxurious stretches flavored with a spectacular landscape enjoyed to the dulcet strains of jazz floating from the radio or, better yet, the invigorating beat of our favorite rock-n-roll station. Hands firmly on the wheel, eyeglasses perched on the end of one's nose and window rolled down just low enough to allow for the warm breeze to sweep across one's cheek, we move briskly forward, no U-turns allowed, punctuated by the intermittent, impromptu stop for a lunch or coffee break or a refreshing nap. We follow the road and we follow the rules; we glance at the road signs and at the map spread out on the passenger seat. Not always quite sure where we are going or what we will find when we get there, we simply try and achieve our goal of reaching our destination in safety and happiness. Life is a wild ride, yes indeed, and JP and I have mapped out a route, a crisscross of highway and tiny side roads, traveling through cities and country towns both, often ad libbing when the mood strikes, certainly hoping for great adventure and a picturesque, soothing atmosphere and stress-free ride.

So as I sit and ponder this thing called marriage, and ours in particular, I wonder what makes this a success. From the very beginning, we spent more than the average amount of time discussing our children: education, language, religion, our place in society. We broke it all down into tiny pieces, analyzed and argued, pontificated, scrutinized and dissected each and every idea and thought. This didn't particularly make raising our kids easier, it gave us neither perfect children, nor did it make us perfect parents, but we can say with confidence that it made us more aware and opened up the door to creativity and innovation, alleviating the worries just a tad and kept us grounded as a family, unafraid to make unconventional choices.

You don't marry someone you can live with,
you marry the person who you cannot live without.
- Anonymous

After the first few bumps on the marriage trail, we began applying this process to our relationship and, truth be told, the harder the ride, the tougher the road, the closer we became and the more we realized that talking together and opening up to the other helped pad us from the brick walls and the tears. Then came the periods of closeness, long passages in which we found ourselves alone together full time, face to face, shopping, cooking, eating, working side by side on our individual projects and taking breaks hand in hand. As many friends have confided, staying home together, spending every waking and sleeping moment together within the same walls is one dangerous situation. There is the risk of stepping on each others' toes, pushing for space and messing up the others' daily routine leading to anger, frustration and fights. Or discovering that there is little to talk about and boredom sets in. Or restlessness. So how is it possible that we have avoided the discord and discontent, the indifference and strife? Or if not avoided it completely, at least accorded it its rightful place and no more.

Is it a secret that you are looking for? Look closely and you will see that it is no secret at all. He and I began this voyage in an odd and unusual way, unconventional from the get-go. And now we are once again on the threshold of starting over and finding ourselves here, reworking the itinerary of this grand voyage, ripping up the map and drawing our own. Home together full time. And it is the simplest of things that makes it work: enjoying each others' company; finding the funny side of everything and laughing as much as possible; sharing the same dream and dreaming big! "You are so lucky," friends tell me. No, luck has little to do with it. Destiny, fate, I am indeed a believer. But like a great recipe for a favorite dish, one must work awfully hard; select each ingredient thoughtfully; chop, blend, stir and simmer with love, care and attention; add lots of spice and pizzazz and serve it up with pride and pleasure. And, above all, enjoy every tiny bit. And don't be afraid to splatter a bit on the floor or down the front of your shirt (or his) every now and then.

"A Straw for the Thirsty" by Richard Lillis, from Private Detective Stories, 1945.

One thing that I absolutely love about having him at home full time now is that he has taken over the kitchen, cooking almost all the meals. Unless, of course, there is a particular dish I am in the mood to make. This week I prepared these delightful, luscious and utterly delicious individual quiches just for the two of us. I so wanted to use up the last of my puff pastry for something savory and fell back on our favorite flavor combination: sweet roasted cherry tomatoes, tangy feta and the sharp bite of rocket (arugula, rucola, roquette). I blended it all into a creamy quiche batter and baked them in my delicate, buttery puff pastry. Tiny, individual quiches are the perfect portion served with a cool, crisp salad followed by fresh fruit. Side by side in front of a good movie, of course.

Have you reserved your tickets for the International Food Blogger Conference in New Orleans, August 25 – 28 yet? If not, don't miss what promises to be a fabulous weekend and experience. I am proud to be speaking about a subject very close to my heart: Food & Culture.


INDIVIDUAL ROASTED CHERRY TOMATOES, FETA, ROCKET AND PINE NUT QUICHE

Follow the basic indications and my links to previously offered recipes and create your own.


One savory (unsweetened) pie crust recipe (recipe and directions here)

-OR-

¼ (for 6) to ½ (for 12) recipe puff pastry (recipe and directions here)

Basic Quiche Filling: for 12 x 4 ½-inch quiches
(make 6 then refrigerate the rest of the batter for a day or two for a new batch with different flavors)

3 large eggs *
1 cup heavy cream, light cream or part cream/part milk *
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Dash nutmeg

* for 6 quiche use 2 large eggs + ½ cup cream

Cherry tomatoes (2 or 3 per quiche)
3 ½ oz (100 g) feta cheese, coarsely crumbled or chopped (for 6 quiches)
Handful of rocket (arugula, rucola, roquette), coarsely chopped
Handful pine nuts

Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Place the individual quiche tins on a baking sheet.

Start by roasting the cherry tomatoes:


Stir together 2 tablespoons olive oil with 1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar in a glass baking dish or pie plate. Season with a little salt and pepper and add 2 peeled and crushed garlic cloves. Toss the cherry tomatoes into the flavored oil and roast for about 20 minutes or until the skins are split and shriveled and the tomatoes start to show signs of roasting (a bit golden). Remove from the oven and allow to cool while preparing the rest.

Prepare the quiches:


Roll out the dough on a floured work surface and line the tins, gently lifting in and pressing down the dough. Trim the edges. Refrigerate the dough-lined tins until ready to fill and bake. This can also be done ahead of time.

Measure out the cream or cream/milk in a large measuring cup then whisk in the eggs until well blended. Season with salt, pepper and a dash of nutmeg. Doing this in a measuring cup or glass with a spout or pouring lip is ideal for pouring into individual or mini quiche/tartlet tins avoiding a mess.

Sprinkle a layer of chopped rocket (arugula, rucola, roquette) then chopped or crumbled feta into each of the tartlet shells. Not too much as each is an overpowering flavor. Snuggle 2 or 3 roasted cherry tomatoes into the rocket and feta in each shell. Now whisk the quiche batter so it is blended and pour carefully into the shells on top of the rocket and feta, pouring around the cherry tomatoes to keep the tops of the tomatoes batter free. Fill up each shell only about 2/3 or ¾ full as it puffs up and rises as it bakes. Sprinkle each quiche with pine nuts.

Slide the whole baking tray with the filled quiche tins into the oven and bake for about 40 minutes or until the filling is puffed up and set. The top – or at least the edges – should be a deep golden color.


Quiche are fabulous hot from the oven, warm or room temperature. Or even chilled. Perfect for dinner, lunch, picnic or brunch. I recently made 2-inch mini quiches for a cocktail party filling three ways: gorgonzola + apple, cherry tomatoes + goat cheese, bacon + gruyère.




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CHOCOLATE RUM BUNDT CAKE

CHOCOLATE RUM BUNDT CAKE


In the mood to bake again, I rummage through my cupboard searching for the bottle of rum. Chocolate was luring me once again, and she was in the mood for a tipple. Grand Marnier and a luxurious hint of orange? Amaretto, surely a favorite, and the nutty, earthy depth that perfectly complements the bittersweetness of the chocolate? Limoncello would certainly be an intriguing companion, boosting my favorite flavor with an intoxicating zing of citrus. Yet someone had mentioned rum and although it is far from my favorite quaff, rarely indulging in anything stronger than a glass of wine, I had come to love the warmth it breathes into a cake, the sexy bite it offers. Rum imparts a sensuality, enlivens the mundane, turns the bland into something funky and intriguing. So rattling around in my pantry, pushing aside the bottles of olive oil and the jars of soy sauce, I happen upon what I am after, wrap my fingers around the cool, smooth decanter and pull it towards me, clutching it to my chest as a treasure. I hold it up to the light and peer through the thick sepia glass hoping to catch a glimpse of the smooth, silky liquid within. And much to my horror I descry a mere inch of liquid resting placidly on the bottom, and I am shocked! The kitchen elves have been at it again! I rush to JP and hold the bottle up for him to see hoping that he’ll share in my surprise and consternation. He shakes his head in dismay and utters our son’s name. I turn to Clem accusingly and whisper my regret, too angry and disappointed to allow for a more normal tone of conversation. Is this what he and his friends are up to when we are out of town? But he defends himself valiantly, stating with assurance that he neither likes rum, nor drinks when we are from home. His tone, free from even a hint of guilt, convinces me of his innocence in the mystery of the purloined rum and I pull back. And then a thought strikes me: have I used all of the rum myself?

Rum is indeed redolent with history, intertwining delicately with the story of Nantes, imposing herself on our shores and insinuating her presence in the annals of the city. It would be difficult to find a local dessert not adorned with the flavor of this exotic, heady substance (if not drunk on Muscadet) and I have made many: the rich, nutty, boozy gâteau nantais, the delicate brioche-like fouace, our own bottereaux donuts for Carnival. So with all of the intoxicated baked goods I have created these last several months, it seems to make sense somehow that the level of rum in the bottle of Negrita has dwindled to an insignificant, piddling few tablespoons. But surely there is enough left to add some pizzazz to my chocolate cake, right?

The boys – Clem and the Young Dudes – are off living near the ocean while on their internship and only back in Nantes on the odd weekend, so timing is everything. It is fine baking with fruit, nectarines, apricots, plums or cherries nestled into puff pastry or tucked into the barest hint of sweet dough, but chocolate desserts, rich and filling are best left out of temptation's way while the husband and I try and watch our diet. Our days are punctuated by salads, sweetened with fresh fruit and washed down with water and only the occasional glass of white or red. There is no place in our summer ritual for chocolate treats. Yet as the boys would indeed be back for the weekend I had the perfect excuse to make the cake of which I was dreaming. The next few days promised to be hectic indeed, what with JP working on my blog and assigning me missions to complete – and one hard slave driver he is – my beginning preparations for my IFBC presentation, and writing blog posts and much overdue Huffington Post articles, yet I did not want to miss this opportunity to fit in a baking project. I had mouths to feed and young, slim, hungry boys to please!


The house is unusually calm and peaceful with the boys away. The two of us rattle around the big apartment, working hard in our respective offices at our respective computers, typing, writing, and organizing our various projects. Like lovers in some intricate dance, we weave in and out, coming together to meet in the livingroom or kitchen then separating again, flowing gracefully back and forth as in some old country dance. It reminds me of simpler days before the arrival of the boys, in that tiny 3-room cottage in the outskirts of Paris. Just he and I, coming together from bedroom and living space to meet in the kitchen, window thrown open to welcome the breeze. We've come full circle, the babies now men and grown and once again we find ourselves alone. We still meet up in the kitchen to cook, eat, laugh to return to our respective rooms and back to work after our brief but joyful meeting. Yet baking is my domain and he sees no reason to intrude. I love the time spent creating sweet treats all alone and look forward excitedly to sharing it with the boys. JP calls to me from the other side of the house and I yell back "Not now, I'm baking!" and I am left in peace. For now.

Unless, of course, I find an empty bottle, tin, box or shelf and I run screeching through the house in hysterics, looking for the guilty party. Maybe I need to start drinking the rum.


And we all thoroughly enjoyed this Chocolate Rum Bundt Cake. Just a slice or two. And the rest was wrapped up and sent back to the house on the ocean with the boys. Out of harm and temptation's way.


Each trip I make back to my childhood home in Florida, I riffle through and explore cabinets and closets and hidden corners, hoping to stumble upon some wonderful treasure long forgotten. On one of these trips I discovered several old promotional pamphlets chock full of recipes. One such was the 1982 Hershey's Chocolate and Cocoa Cookbook and how could I possibly resist this goldmine of chocolate treats? A chocolate cake was on my to-do list and th refrigerator was overflowing with thick, tangy buttermilk. The recipe for Chocolate Rum Bundt Cake began as Hershey's 5-Way Chocolate Cake and ended up tweaked, altered, spiked and presented in the form of one small loaf cake and one medium-sized Bundt. I drizzled a sharp, dramatic Chocolate Rum Glaze atop the Bundt to give it extra punch and sophistication. The amount of butter and buttermilk belies the delicate crumb and light, fluffy texture. Perfect, moist and chocolaty through and through, it is truly a beautiful cake, neither dense or gooey. The rum, which can easily be replaced with Grand Marnier or Cointreau, Amaretto or Limoncello, is a stellar complement to the chocolate.


CHOCOLATE RUM BUNDT CAKE
The recipe given is my altered version

According to the Cookbook, this recipe works:
three 8-inch round pans baked for 30 to 35 minutes
one 10-inch tube or Bundt pan, baked for 55 to 65 minutes
two 9 x 5 x 3-inch loaf pans, baked for 50 to 60 minutes
one 13 x 9 x 2-inch cake pan, baked for 55 to 60 minutes
3 ½ dozen 2 1/2 –inch cupcakes, baked for 20 to 25 minutes at 375°F (190°C)
BUT baking times may differ depending on your oven so watch carefully. The cake is done when puffed and set in the center.

1 cup (225 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
2 ¼ cups (450 g) granulated white sugar
2 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla
2/3 cup (70 g) unsweetened cocoa powder
2 ½ cups (360 g) flour
1 ½ tsps baking soda
½ tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
2 cups (500 ml) buttermilk
2 Tbs rum or liqueur of choice

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and generously grease the selected pan(s).

In a large mixing bowl with an electric mixer, cream the butter together with the sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, beating just until combined after each addition, then beat in the vanilla.

Combine the cocoa powder, flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt in a small bowl. Add the rum to the buttermilk. Beat the dry ingredients into the butter mixture in 3 additions alternating with the spiked buttermilk in two additions, beginning and ending with the dry. Beat just until well blended, smooth and creamy.

Pour the batter into the prepared pans, filling up about ¾ way, allowing room for the cake to rise. Bake until set in the center and just beginning to pull away from the sides of the pan. Allow to cool on a rack in the pan for 10 or 15 minutes before turning out to cool completely.

Drizzle with your favorite chocolate glaze or royal icing (replacing the water with rum) or chocolate ganache (stirring in a tablespoon or two of rum to the ganache) or simply dust with powdered sugar.




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NECTARINE JALOUSIE TART with Homemade Puff Pastry

…AND THE LIVING IS EASY

Summertime. It’s the little bundle of memories we carry with us from our childhood, year after year that makes summertime what it is. Whether stifling hot days and balmy evenings or chilly, gray dampness seeping through the cracks of tightly closed windowpanes and drawn curtains, June, July and August are infused with something intangible, special that will always remind us of the best of summer. Hand-crank ice cream machines and family barbecues in the backyard, clam bakes on the beach or splashing in the lake surrounded by tall firs and palms gently dancing in the warm breeze. Dashing barefoot across the scorching pavement, spitting watermelon seeds across the lawn as the cool, sticky sweet juices run down chins and drip off of elbows. Days of utter and complete freedom from all schoolyard constraints, free to do as we please, run and play and laugh. Family trips to grandma’s, away from Florida’s searing heat, the unexpectedly mellow temperatures echoing the lazy, mellow days.

Florida winters were punctuated by citrus. Visits to the groves on the Indian River, just a jump over the bridge, rewarded us with treasures golden, orange, sweet and tangy: brown paper grocery bags filled to bursting with navels, tangelos, tangerines and grapefruit to be lined up on dad’s workbench awaiting eager hands to dig in. Eaten one, two, three at a time, our only dilemma being whether to slice into wedges or peel off the thick skins and pull apart the luscious sections with sticky fingers. Nothing, not pears, apples or bananas distracted us from our citrus mission, tempted us with other flavors or sensations, led us astray from these wondrous Florida fruits.

But summer has always meant stone fruits. Peach upon peach, nectarines plump, ripe, juicy and ever so sweet were my mainstay, my passion. Cherries and apricots by the handful could sustain me for an entire afternoon, eaten like candy. Never pausing long enough to even consider tucking any of these precious gems into a pie or cake, they were enjoyed as is, fresh, cool, oftentimes crisp, sometimes soft and ripe. A childhood in Florida called for refreshing nourishment, soothing the temper and cooling the body. Popsicles in a rainbow of colors or sno cones slurped down greedily, fruit drinks chugged down by the gallon in my favorite turquoise plastic cup, and fresh fruit straight from the refrigerator and plenty of it fulfilling every need, every urge.


But now I am all grown up. No more burning southern heat, no more front yard full of a gaggle of gangly kids playing tag or that special spot in the branches of the tree where I could stay perched for hours, book in hand, lost in a fairytale land far away, the shade a cool respite. Our summer in Nantes has been particularly temperate bordering on chilly. We’ve had weeks entire of rain and wind, gray days when a sweater is wrapped around the shoulders for comfort and the hand itches to turn on the furnace just for one more day. There has been little need for cool refreshment, no desperate search for shade. The fruit is late arriving on the market with not even a word of excuse for her tardiness. Strolling daily past the pastry shops, cool glass cases filled with cakes and tarts each one boasting strawberries or raspberries or peaches all dressed up in French finery: tiny, delicate choux, wisps of spun sugar, swirls of heavenly whipped cream and showers of chocolate curls, I couldn’t but bring home my bounty of fruit and turn it into a gorgeous confection. Peaches or plums, nectarines, apricots, each begging to be nestled, coddled, cloaked in buttery pastry, desiring only to show off her feminine colors of pink, purple or gold, her sweetness complimented by a tender crust, her softness caressed by the crisp, flaky folds of pâte feuilletée.

Riding high on my wildly successful trip up the Canal Nantes à Brest, my confidence bolstered, I was inspired to once again tackle the ever-elusive puff pastry. Mysterious in her thousand layers of golden flakes, temperamental and fussy in her demands, toying with my affections and teasing me with the magic of her perfection always just out of reach, I desired, nay, needed to master her. She has ever flirted with my emotions, giving me hope then dashing all expectations to the ground. Butter oozing out the edges, seeping out from dough rolled a tad too thinly, adhering to hands, tabletop, rolling pin…. Cursing emanating from the kitchen, harsh and piercing; my confidence sinking into the mire of shattering hopes, faith in my own abilities cracking under the strain and disappointment. I desperately ask for help; I thrust the sticky dough into the refrigerator bewailing yet another failure. Yet my desire for puff pastry and creating the perfect, elegant tart urges me on, fold after fold, turn after turn, and I finally give up for the night, forcing myself to be satisfied with what effort I have made and the energy expended. Visions of the perfect Jalousie fill my head: juicy, luscious nectarines, their ripe summer sweetness hidden pale pink and feminine inside a delicate trellis of crispy, flaky puff pastry, slats that resemble the old jalousie blinds of our grandmother’s front windows revealing just a hint of what lies within. And I dream of pastry.

I awake the next morning refreshed and newly confident. Nectarines washed and lovingly patted dry…sliced and dusted with sugar. Puff pastry sliced and rolled, chilled to perfection and I am thrilled and excited. I cut and trim, brush and bake and watch through the oven window with the wonder of a child. And I have done it! As we were pleasantly surprised at our own courage and fortitude in the face of something so daunting as our weeklong bike trip, as astonished as we were at our own patience and resilience, thus am I enchanted and amazed and rather overwhelmed by the success and beauty of my Nectarine Jalousie. Filled so simply with sweet, ripe fruit of summer and a dash of cinnamon and sugar, this is simplicity at its best, the gorgeous pastry a showcase for the nectarines, plums, peaches, apricots, whatever summer stone fruit you wish to choose, yet so much more impressive than the humble, homely tart. So push up your sleeves and tackle the adventure along with me…

I am sharing this wonderful Nectarine Jalousie with lovely Sukaina of the gorgeous blog Sips and Spoonfuls who is hosting this month’s Monthly Mingle for Meeta. Sukaina has chosen the timely theme of Stone Fruit. Perfect!

I am so proud and excited to announce that I am to be a speaker at Foodista’s International Food Blogger Conference in New Orleans the weekend of August 26 – 28! I will be presenting Writing about Food and Culture. Please let me know if you will be attending, as I would love to meet you!



NECTARINE JALOUSIE TART with homemade puff pastry

PUFF PASTRY or PÂTE FEUILLETÉE
Yield: 2 ½ pounds (1 kilo) dough

Remember that the refrigerator is your best friend (thanks @DorieGreenspan) when it comes to buttery puff pastry. Refrigerate the dough after every 2 turns unless the weather or your kitchen is warm and the butter begins to melt, then refrigerate after each roll/fold/turn sequence for up to 30 minutes.

2-1/2 cups (12.2 oz/ 354 g) unbleached all-purpose flour (type 55)
1-1/4 cups (5.0 oz/ 142 g) cake flour (regular French flour)
1 tbsp. salt (you can cut this by half for a less salty dough or for sweet preparations)
1-1/4 cups (10 fl oz/ 300 ml) ice water
1 pound (16 oz/ 454 g) very cold unsalted butter

FOR THE RECIPE INSTRUCTIONS AND STEP-BY-STEP PHOTO ILLUSTRATIONS PLEASE LINK HERE TO MY POST ON PUFF PASTRY.

NECTARINE JALOUSIE

Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C).

1/2 of your batch of puff pastry
About 4 or 5 ripe nectarines for half a batch of puff pastry
½ tsp ground cinnamon
About 2 Tbs granulated brown sugar
1 egg, lightly beaten, for egg wash

Wash and pat dry your nectarines. Slice into wedges or rounds (as I did).

Remove your puff pastry from the refrigerator where it has been chilling. With a sharp knife, slice the dough in half, wrap up one half and return to the fridge for using later for another tart whether sweet or savory. Slice the half you have kept out into two equal pieces.

On a floured work surface, Roll out one piece of dough into a square or rectangle about 1/8 inch (3 mm) or only slightly thicker. Make sure the dough is evenly flat and the same thickness. Carefully transfer the sheet of dough to a parchment-lined baking sheet. (Make sure your baking sheet is either much wider and larger than the Jalousie or has a lip all around it as there is always the risk of juice leaking out of the tart.)

Line up your nectarine slices or wedges either overlapping or close together depending on how thick they are leaving about 3/4 inch (2 cm) edge all around. Dust with cinnamon and sprinkle rather liberally with the sugar? Gently brush the edge all around lightly with water.

Roll out the second piece of puff pastry dough to the same thickness, width and length. Very carefully, fold it in two lengthwise, matching the edges, being careful not to press together so the sides stick together – you want to be able to easily open it up again. Using a very sharp knife (dipping in flour helps) cut a series of parallel slits about ½ inch wide, leaving a ¾-inch wide edge (see photo). Very carefully unfold and place on top of the nectarine-filled base dough. Match the edges all around and then press the top and bottom rims together to seal. Using a sharp knife or pizza cutter, trim the edge all around evenly (place all scraps back on top of the wrapped dough in the refrigerator) then press the edges again. You can press the tines of the fork gently into the dough edges.

Brush the surface of the dough – both the edges and the slats – with lightly beaten egg.

Bake for about 30 minutes or until the pastry is a deep golden brown and flaky, even the sides.

The juices should be bubbling through the slatted top. Serve warm with whipped cream, ice cream or simply as is.

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