Roots, herbs...all go into the stock pot

Making Soup,  a few words on step 1:  Stock

Turnips with lilac shoulders, a stalk of crisp celery or two, a duck or guinea fowl carcass, maybe a ham bone, and don’t forget the carrots to give a winter soup color…with  sage, thyme and bay leaves. All of these flavor-giving basics are at hand when I reach for the soup stock kettle. Market day will provide more ingredients: leeks, a handful of parsley that the maraîcher always tucks into my sack, and yellow onions whose inner skins will be added for color.  I’ll use the inner, trimmed green leek tops minced up – save the most of the whites for the final soup, onions  will be quartered and stuck with cloves and carrots scrubbed but not peeled. Following Patricia Wells’ sound advice that vegetables cut in small pieces give the stock more of their flavor, I’ll chop them up, run cold water into the soup pot to cover all ingredients, turn on the heat to medium and begin the day’s simmering. The herbs tucked inside the carcass won’t float to the top with eventual foam, making skimming easier. Actually, any fresh veg you have on hand, from cores of cauliflower to broccoli stems will add flavor and nutrients, so use it all up. Lift the lid after ten minutes, begin to skim off any foam rising, then add 1 tablespoon sea salt and 1 tablespoon white wine or cider vinegar (to draw calcium from the bones into the stock) and turn heat to low.  After about four hours – or longer if you wish – strain the soup into glass jars and let the stock cool. Pull pieces of duck or pork off the bones for a spaghetti sauce or soup later. With a good layer of duck fat on top, the stock will keep about a week – if you don’t use it in a risotto first!  More about soup next week: pastinas, tiny noodles…and almond dumplings.

Sunday, dessert day, is such a French tradition – wherever you are in the hexagone.  Watch the parade of boxed, glazed gâteaux, fruit tartes and flaky tourteaux streaming from bakeries and pastry shops on Sunday mornings as the family Sunday roast  or ragout is being prepared at home.  But, I wondered, what about baking your own dessert – is that no longer done?  Climbing up the hill after a run to get bread for lunch, I fell into step with perky Mme.C. her silver hair catching glints of morning sunlight. “I’ve climbed this hill for twenty-nine years”, she confided, “and at ninety-one it is steeper than ever!” As we neared her front steps, I saw something on her window sill wrapped in a thick, checked kitchen towell:  the something smelled wonderful.  Knowing that she often baked on Sundays, I queried: ” what is today’s dessert?”  She replied pertly, “It’s a prune clafoutis – and I also made one with golden squash”.  So, simple puddings, stirred up with seasonal fruit and whatever is on hand are still a Sunday tradition in the Périgord.  With that neighborly exchange, the vagabond was inspired to bake a pear batter cake for two – usually I only make  desserts when guests are expected, but why not today?  I hope that Mme C. will catch the aromas of pears and toasted almonds as she takes her usual post prandial Sunday walk past our gate.

Abate pears, a little cocoa added to the batter in honor of the Salon du Chocolate this weekend in Paris, and almonds to insure crunch accent a variation on my favorite batter cake recipe.  This version of James Villas’ recipe is cut in two, but actually makes enough for four small servings. One abate pear, peeled and trimmed, sliced lengthwise into slivers is enough. Preheat oven to 375°f,  butter an open dish or 7″ casserole. Sift together:

1/3 cup flour (or ground almonds) with a pinch of salt + 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 cup sugar mixed with 2 T. cocoa (Dutch processed) + 1 tsp. ginger

Whisk 1 large egg, and add:

1/4 cup whole milk, 2 T. vegetable oil or melted butter + 1/2 tsp almond extract

Add the egg mixture to the dry ingredients gradually and stir well. Pour into the buttered dish, arrange the trimmed pear slices evenly on top of the batter. Top with:  1 T. butter chopped into bits, then 2 T. slivered or shaved almonds and sprinkle with 1 generous T. brown sugar. Bake for 30 mintes, test with a toothpick – if it is a little gooey, bake another 8 minutes, test again. The addition of cocoa to the recipe results in a texture somewhat resembling brownies.  Serve warm or at room temperature with a drizzle of custard sauce/crème anglaise – or even a silky chocolate fudge sauce.  It’s Sunday, after all.… C’est dimanche !

James Villas’ French Country Kitchen has long been my standby for clear, authentic French recipes – and a good soupçon of regional background is dished out with each; published in 1992 by Bantam books, U.S.   The above recipe is adapted from his Tarte Picarde.

Did the vagabond expect to munch on divine garlic bread in western France?  No, but why not – then again, the egg-rich Brioche Vendéen bread is so much better known.  The cuisine of the Poitou Charente and Vendée regions seldom is given more than passing mention in guidebooks.  Usually it is the stuffed vegetables of the Poitou, the slick and mellow Charente butter, or matelote (eels cooked in wine with herbs – don’t ask), mojette beans, and melon cubes dripping with Pineau des Charentes that make up a short list of  regional specialties.  References to préfou are rare, even on menus posted outside cafés; no recipes are found on the net or in old, reliable cookbooks.  But there they were, a few crisp strips of garlic-soaked toast on my Salade Maraîchier plate in the charming Charente village of Arçais.  So very good, so easy to replicate, it seemed.  Back in my kitchen on the hill, the urge to try making a batch of préfou was too hard to resist.

In days gone by, before baking many loaves in the four à pain, a lump of dough was pinched off, patted flat and popped into the oven to test the temperature.  Préfour (four is oven in French) then would be pre-baking, as my best guess at the etymology for préfou. In the lower Vendée, along the Charente border, the custom was to rub the warm bread with a clove of  garlic and spread it with freshly churned butter. A glass of the crisp, local white wine or a sip of eau de vie would go down nicely with this humble treat, as one could imagine.

A wedge of fresh butter, plump garlic, and bread ready for préfou!

The bread for the simple garlic and butter-soaked wonder begins with a basic  fougasse dough (for this batch, I used 500 ml/2 cups potato water seasoned with a bay leaf, 450 g./4 cups bread flour (spoon flour into cup, tap and level), a pinch of salt and 1/2 tsp. dry yeast, and oiled hands to shape the dough – use directions in the (12 June 2009) fougasse post – and let it rise overnight).  Instead of an oval or leaf, shape it in a rectangle on a baking sheet and slit at 2 inch intervals, making the préfou fingers easier to separate after baking. The above proportions make enough dough for 1 préfou and 1 small loaf of bread. You may need more flour, depending on the humidity of the day and type of flour used. Sprinkle fine cornmeal under the  préfou and a little over the top. Heat the oven to 220°c./425°f., place the pans in the oven and spray with spritzes of water, then turn the heat down to 200°c/400°f. and bake for 12 minutes.  The following day, slice the préfou horizontally, separate the fingers of bread, spread each piece with a mixture of crushed, juicy new garlic mixed with soft butter, and put the fingers back together. Wrap in foil, and at this point, let it rest for a couple of hours or overnight, then heat it in a warm oven (or over the coals of a grill) to melt the butter. Clearly, this is best made ahead of time. Tradition says:  serve with apéritifs. But préfou goes well with a green salad or cold soup on blisteringly hot summer days.  After my  first encounter with préfou, I anticipate serving it as a garlicky side with a dish of mojettes jambon …..as the season turns – and September, the moment for shelling mojettes, is just around the corner.

Even as the temperature mounts, 33° celsius and rising, prepare for the convivial crowd around your July 4th grill with a batch of crackers. Not fireworks, no firecrackers yet, just a tray of zippy biscuits – as munchable with cold beer as with a glass of fruity sangria.  As I made these, variations on the theme were reeling round my culinary imagination.  For openers, make the Almond Sesame version, then try your own riff using other flours, seeds and spices.  Made in the cool hours of a summer morning, this type of cracker/biscuit can be sealed away in a tight tin for a week – if there are any left.

In a large bowl, mix together the dry ingredients, then cut in tiny chunks of cold butter with a pastry blender as for a pastry crust; stir in the yogurt and form a soft dough. Let the dough chill for 15 minutes, then take a quarter from the fridge to shape each batch. For crisper crackers, roll thinner (a bit trickier to manage) or cut back the baking powder by 1 tsp. Tasty gâteaux savoreux, rolled 1/4 inch thick and cut into diamonds, are perfect partners for dips.  This recipe makes about 60 to 70 crackers.

1/2 cup/85 g. ground almonds+ 2 tsp. Hungarian paprika (hot)

1 c./120 g. wheat flour (organic if possible) + 1/2 c/60 g. fine cornmeal

2 tsp. brown sugar + 1/2 tsp. fine salt

1/2 tsp. baking soda mixed with 2 tsp. baking powder

2 T. white sesame seeds, dry toasted + 1 T. black sesame seeds, dry toasted

1/2 cup/1 stick/115 g. cold butter chopped into bits

2/3 c/150 ml whole milk Greek style yogurt

extra sprinkling of flour for rolling out the crackers

Coat your fingers with flour, then work the dough into a ball in the bowl. When it pulls together, turn it out onto the flour-dusted work  surface (a cold slab of marble for shaping pastry works very well in warm weather). Work the dough gently, kneading as for bread dough for just a few minutes. Put it into a smaller, clean bowl, cut the ball of dough into 4 and cover. Chill for 15 minutes. Preheat oven to 350°f/177°c. Remove one quarter of the dough at a time to shape each into a rectangle 10″ long and 3 to 4 ” wide, less than 1/4 ” thick. Cut into three parts lengthwise. With a long spatula, slide a strip at a time onto the baking sheet, prick with tines of a fork, brush with a beaten egg, and cut diagonally to form diamonds – or rectangles. Sprinkle with sea salt mixed with ground black pepper. Use a finger’s width spacing between them.  Bake on the top and lowest racks of the oven for 20 minutes if rolled thin; baking time is closer to 25 minutes for 1/4″ – until golden brown. Let cool for a few minutes, then shift to a rack.  Store in metal tins lined with baking paper.  These festive bites were inspired by Ruth Cousineau’s recipe in June 2009 Gourmet magazine, using cornmeal and green peppercorns.

Morels?  Cèpes? Too early for Girolles – but let’s be on the lookout anyway: May is mushroom time.  Maybe your “woods” are in Michigan, in Minnesota, or just over the line in northern Iowa.  Or perhaps your sturdy mushroom-walking stick is poking through a ferny forest floor in the Périgord – where  every hunter needs a good “mushrooming stick”.  The Périgord’s brief morel season has slipped past, usually a fleeting moment late in March. One year I spotted three fine morels under our pear tree about that time, but no such luck this time around.  So, when friends brought us a fern-lined basket of cèpes this week, the mushroom-loving vagabond was delighted.

Get out the black cast-iron skillet, the mushroom season is underway! Whether you call them cèpes,  porcini or boletus edulis, a healthy dose of garlic, parsley, and duck fat are the traditional partners for enhancing their earthy flavor.  To keep them fresh for a few hours before cooking, wrap them in ferns and avoid contact with plastic.  The first step in preparing cèpes is simply to wipe off the cap and stem, then chop the stem and mix it with minced garlic and chopped (flat-leaf) parsley in a bowl to add later. Peel and slice rounds of firm, red-skinned potatoes (ratio of at least 1 cup  sliced spuds for each mushroom). Heat 2 tablespoons of duck fat (or olive oil) in your good old skillet, and add the sliced potatoes, stir to turn them over and as some crisp and become transparent, add the cèpes – left whole if small, in slices if large. Then, don’t be surprised if the mushrooms seem to dissolve, melting with the heat, infusing the pototoes with flavor. Add the chopped stems with garlic and stir the mixture, lower the heat and cover, to cook for 20 to 30 minutes. Check at least 3 times, turning so nothing sticks and burns, a little more oil or duck fat is usually needed.  Sprinkle with more chopped parsley and serve with a green salad tossed with a lemon vinaigrette dressing. Other than a cold beer or a glass of white wine, you’ll need only good company to complete a perfect spring lunch.

Certosino

Time begins to shrink as St. Nicolas rolls around again, the sixth of December marks the season of treats for young and ….less young. Memories of the St.Nicolas Festival in Nancy and St.Nicolas-du-Port in Lorraine flash past – such a long and sparkling parade, many tots perched on their papas’ shoulders to see above the crowd as Saint Nicolas’ poly-bubble of a float rolled past, the red-robed man with whiskers waving to all. Then everyone squeezed into crowded cafés for hot chocolate: the festive season’s very social grand opener. This tradition was one of the pleasures discovered while researching La France Gourmande, my first book about food festivals and traditions. Now I hunt for holiday recipes using honey, inspired by the pain d’épice discovered in Nancy and in Marchées de Noël across northern France.

Honey and almonds go hand in hand, I find – from Greece to Galicia, from north to south in France, Spain and Italy. For this round I’m reviving an adaptation of a Christmas cake with honey and dried fruit from northern Italy, a moist cake so surprisingly delicious, without eggs and very little butter. For years, my standard fruitcakes were basically butter cakes, dense with all kinds of dried, rum-soaked fruit. But last Christmas I baked a Certosino, and a new “tradition” began. Preparations begin la veille, the evening before baking: the moon, as translucent as a turnip slice, rises in the winter sky as I set the raisins to plump in port for Sunday’s baking, and a pot of applesauce (or pears and quince?) bubbles on the back burner. Baked a few weeks before festivities, the Certosino needs a week or three to mature – like so many good things, it improves with time.

Recipe for Certosino: This is a standard Christmas cake in the region around Bolgona, where it is also called Pan Speziale. In some kitchens, Certosino is made with grated apples, and the proportion of honey ranges from 2 teaspoons to 2 cups. The chopped chocolate is sometimes replaced by cocoa, and a few versions add eggs, while others add cookie crumbs.

Begin by soaking 1/2 cup of white raisins in port or marsala to cover, left overnight or longer. Pare 4 apples, core and chop them to yield 2 cups, then cook in 1/4 cup of water with 2 1/2 T.sugar and 1 T.lemon juice. When cooked (about 15 minutes, depending on the variety of apple), mash or strain them and measure out 2/3 cup of applesauce; let cool (this can be done a day before making the cake).

Butter a 9 1/2inch/24 cm. springform cake pan. Preheat the oven to 325°f/160°C. Toast 6 oz/170 g. blanched almonds in the oven for a few minutes to heighten flavor (if you use Marcona almonds, they will begin to sweat beads of oil – a signal they are toasting), cool them and chop coarsely; also toast 2oz/50g pine nuts (check freshness, as they go rancid quickly) – leave them whole. In a double boiler, warm 12 oz honey (I used chestnut honey this year, which gives a deeper flavor), and add 2 oz. sweet butter and 1 tsp. cinnamon, grated nutmeg, 2 tsp anise seed (or fennel seed and ground cloves if you wish); stir all together and set aside to cool. Sift 13 oz. flour (not self-rising) into a large bowl, stir the honey-spice mixture into the flour, adding 2 1/2 oz shaved dark(70%) chocolate, mixing it with the chopped almonds, the pine nuts and 3 T candied orange and lemon peel to coat with the flour. Dissolve 1 1/2 tsp. of baking soda in 2 T port (of the raisin-soaking bowl). With a wooden spoon, fold all together gently and pour the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for an hour, check with a piece of spaghetti or a knitting needle – if it is done, this will be clean; the cake will pull slightly away from the pan. Do not overbake. Let it cool on a rack, slip onto a serving plate, and spread 3 T (or more) apricot jam over the top, garnish with glazed cherries and perfect nuts. The glaze serves to keep the cake moist. Keep in a cool place, wrapped in foil, for a week or two before serving – to 8 or 10.  Sip a ten year old Monbazillac or amber Amaretto with the Certosino.

Acknowledgements: This recipe is adapted from New Country Kitchen, Henrietta Green’s classic and ever-inspiring collection of seasonal delights. It was published in 1992 by Conran Octopus Ltd, and I found it in a corner of Hagelstam’s Bookstore in Helsinki early in the new millenium. Not only do the recipes reflect the seasons – all across Europe – but illustrations are fresh, photos superb; it is my seasonal guide. Nordic travelers might enjoy a visit to www.Hagelstam.net for books, new and used, in a variety of languages.

Next up: Notes on almond butter, plus some fowl advice: whether mulard or barbarie, getting the ducks in a row.

Plunge into Provence, absorb the aromas and moods of each season with a stroll through the local market. For the vagabondgourmand, Apt is the market of choice, and summer is the season to catch the region at its aromatic best. I have made regular pilgrimages to this market for over a dozen years, always finding a few new twists on classic Provençal specialties. Apt, a crossroads since Roman times, lies in a valley at the foot of the Luberon mountain range, an hour east of Avignon. Midway between Cavaillon’s melon fields and the goat-dappled hills of Banon, this corner of the Vaucluse département has been a center of fruit production for centuries.

Saturday is the major market day, and a good starting point is the shady square facing Apt’s city hall. I stopped to buy a few cherries and a bottle of apple-quince juice when I noticed two flats of green almonds on the same stall. The shorter of two brothers, whose products caught my attention, quickly engaged me in conversation. As I paid the vendor, I ventured a few questions about the fresh almonds. The answers were supplied up by a large man, a regular customer who arrived with greetings to all around, eased himself behind the stall, plucked a few cherries to nibble on and purchased four kilos of the pale green nuts. The brothers deferred to “the chef” and left us to the questions and answers. In response to my query about how he would use these almonds, he chuckled and reached for another cherry: “…in a compote of fresh fruit, for instance”. His large sacks of both green almonds and glistening cherries piqued my curiosity, and I wondered how these ingredients would turn up on today’s menu. Sensing that he was ready to rush back to the Auberge du Luberon kitchen, I asked if we could book a table for dinner. “Bien sûr” Serge Peuzin replied, “à ce soir!”

That evening, we were seated on the Auberge terrace and studied our menus. I could see how this Maitre Cuisinier de France is true to his terroir : an entire, elaborate menu is devoted to his interpretations of local ingredients using the fruit confit (glazed, preserved fruits), an industry that has put Apt on many a gastronome’s map. My focus returned to the subject at hand, almonds. I was pleased to discover Peuzin’s inspired touch of almond milk with a tender duck filet. Long story short: it was succulent, a contrast to the garnish of a savory polenta cake studded with plump cherries from this morning’s market. Later, when he rolled the dessert cart up to our table, I noted fresh green almonds in a compote of apricots, but my choice was an almond tart – Peuzin’s interpretation of a Savoy walnut tart, using caramelized almonds on a shortbread crust. As a garnish, I chose a small cup of brousse (sheep’s milk soft cheese) topped with a layer of pear compote. No doubt about it, this chef knows his terroir, and interprets each season’s market bounty with a flair. Reserve a table at Restaurant Serge Peuzin, l’Auberge du Luberon (a Logis de France hotel), 8 place Faubourg du Ballet, tel: 04 90 741 250 (to call from outside France, dial 33, and drop the first 0).

La Manade, a cozy restaurant deep in the heart of old Apt, is set on a narrow street leading from the rue des Marchands to the old Roman forum ruins on Place Jean Jaurès. Since it was opened by a young couple from Arles in 2004, I have enjoyed a lunch or dinner at La Manade during each visit to the area. The chef, Jean-François Christin, never ceases to surprise me with his interpretations of Provençal cuisine. Specialties of the Camargue region are featured: both le taureau – the black bull native to the Bouche du Rhône delta – and fresh fish are on the menu. The chef’s take on the traditional fish stew, cotriade, is a wonder of textures as firm strips of lotte (monkfish) form a pyramid over bulb fennel cooked al dente (perhaps with a splash of Pernod?). Call to reserve a table, tel: 04 90 04 79 06, at La Manade, 36 rue Rene Cassin. Katy Christin will welcome you warmly.

Another inventive chef in the center of Apt is Cyrille Petit, who explores seasonal themes for the tables at Le Platane on rue Jules Ferry. Their vegetarian menu always intrigues me, and on this visit it included a delicious lasagne aux épinards (spinach) et aux brousse. His touch with spice is a revelation, poaching fish with badiane (star anise) – but I would opt for the squid and shrimp, écornets et gambas aux legumes, any day. This summer, red fruit reigns on the dessert menu, which includes a creamy, perfect panna cotta coulis fruits rouge. Dine on the shady terrace or in the dining room, where Edith Petit’s whimsical, contemporary touch and selection of jazz brightens a sunny or rainy day. La Platane is a popular lunch spot after the Saturday market, so be sure to reserve, tel: 04 90 04 74 36.

** Let us know your favorite markets, contribute your own tips on market-fresh ingredients discovered during summer travel…..’tis the season!

Next up: Meet a wheat farmer and nut producer in the Charente…. anticipating a slim harvest.

My first encounter with a Jésuite left me with a sugar-dusted nose. A tray of the long, triangular pastries in the window of an Île de France bakery-café lured me inside, and a few minutes later I emerged with a floral-printed pack of pastries. Michel and I took a table on the sidewalk, ordered coffee and peered into the box: “How do we eat these?” was my husband’s first query.  The Jésuites cantilevered over the rim of a plate; the server brought spoons, but I was wondering if a steak knife and long-tined fork would be better weapons for approaching this iced, sugar-topped puff-pastry.  The American way, go ahead – use your fingers, would avoid having pastry corners shooting across the table, so that was my last resort:  pick it up, bite off one of the corners.  Flakes of puff pastry drifted across the table, the buttery-crisp corner melted in my mouth and traces of sugar stuck to the nose above my triumphant smile.  I took a good look at the pastry for future reference, wondering who first decided that eighteenth century Jesuit hats would provide a template for an almond-cream filled pastry.

Having conquered question number one – eating it – I moved on to question number two: how can I reproduce the frangipane filling and triangular pastry?  For the Jésuite is a classic pastry-baker’s item, rarely made at home.  You can begin with puff pastry, pâte feuilletée, which can be bought ready to roll.  Or chill a slab of marble, mix flour and chilled butter, (layer dough with butter chips) and fold the sticky pastry several times to ensure flakiness.  My first effort at this type of puff pastry was on a hot August morning, not the ideal timing and overall, a discouraging experience.  But I recently bought a pre-rolled pastry that was a decent substitute, enough for making four Jésuites.

To form the Jésuites, cut the circle (about enough to make a 10″ pie crust) of pastry down the center, then across the center making four equal quarters. Slice each quarter in half and separate. Prepare the frangipane: Cream 50 grams/1/4 cup of soft unsalted butter, add 50 grams/1/4 cup of sugar and 50 grams of ground/powdered almonds, whisking this into a frothy mixture. Beat in 1 egg, 1 teaspoon of almond essence, (add 2 more yolks at this point if you want a richer filling), and 2 tablespoons of rum or brandy. This can be made in advance and chilled. With a small pastry brush (I use a Hungarian feather brush from Williams Sonoma), moisten the edges of 2 triangles, spread with the frangipane, place one triangle on top of the other and seal the edges by pressing gently. Repeat this with the remaining triangles. The fingerprints will disappear as the puff pastry expands in the oven. Heat the oven to 205°c/400°f. Very lightly oil a baking sheet (use almond oil if you have it) and place the 4 pastries with 2″ spacing.  At this point, you can brush with milk and sprinkle flaked almonds on them, or go a step farther with a light meringue of: 1 egg white mixed with 25 grams icing sugar then topped with the flaked almonds (or crushed praline!).  Bake the Jésuites for about 8 minutes, then lower the heat to 160°c/324°f for another 8 to 10 minutes.  Take the golden Jésuites out of the oven and dust with icing sugar.  Some French bakers even add a fine top layer of white frosting – gilding the lily, perhaps.
Next question: Frangipane who?

Dark and edgy, chocolat noir has a grip on me. Maybe my crush on bitter chocolate started with Marabou, the superb Swedish chocolate that I savored on ferries going from Finland to Sweden years ago. (A Finnish friend just sent the bad news that Marabou dark is no longer available – what a loss for chocolate lovers!) But to cook with bitter chocolate, a balance must be struck between bitter and sweet. This rendition of a dark mousse does just that, with an added crunch of praline. Having tried adding spirits for depth, I found that rum was too strong, so I dash a little cognac or armagnac into the equation. Gently fold in whipping cream, which adds richness but not the volume of whisked whites that lifted mousse I to a lighter texture. And whether almonds or toasted hazelnuts are used for the praline, in the spirit of autumn, don’t forget the nuts.

The praline: In a non-stick frying pan, toast 1/2 cup coarsely slivered (not finely flaked) blanched almonds. Add a scant 1/2 cup powdered/icing sugar, stirring in from the edges as it caramelizes over low heat. Line a pie tin with aluminum foil, and when the almonds are coated with caramel (10 to 15 minutes or less), quickly transfer them into the tin. Cool, cover with foil and break into pieces by hitting it with a mallet. Set aside 1/3 cup of crushed praline for the mousse, which should serve 4 or 5.

The mousse: Melt in a pan set over simmering water (not ON – or it will scorch and spoil the flavor), 100 grams dark chocolate, such as Lindt Excellence, 70% cacao (1 bar/ package) which has been broken/beaten into pieces (to melt faster). Add 2 tablespoons butter, cut into chunks and stir, then add 50 grams of praline-filled milk chocolate, such as Côte d’Or (1/2 package) or Gianduja, broken up, and 1 to 2 spoons of Cognac or strong coffee. Lift the pan off the heat. Separate 3 eggs, and stir the yolks into the chocolate one by one; then stir in the powdered praline, add a twist or two of grated nutmeg. Whip 1/2 cup of thick cream, 1 tablespoon confectioner’s/icing sugar and fold this carefully into the cooled chocolate mixture. The amount of cream can be doubled, and a bit more sugar (sweeten to taste) added. When blended, pour the mousse into a glass bowl or individual cups, sprinkling all with crushed praline.

What to do with the extra egg whites? If you are not in a mood to make meringue, whip up a simple prune mousse. Cook 2 cups of semi-dried prunes in water to cover (with a tea bag to soften the skins); cool them, remove pits, then purée in a blender, add 1/4 cup sugar and a twist of nutmeg (and minced orange zest, or a splash of Cointreau if you have time) to the prunes. Whisk the (3) egg whites (add a pinch of fine salt and a tablespoon of sugar) to form stiff peaks, fold them into the prunes in three stages to hold the volume, pour into an attractive bowl and top with crunchy praline. Ready for dinner: Mousse aux pruneaux – a bonus autumnal treat – can be made a day in advance, to serve six.  Hold the remaining crushed praline in reserve – maybe to sprinkle on Jésuites…..

Well, we have survived a long, drawn-out kitchen renovation which took two months instead of the projected two weeks. I became a bit more resourceful – without the old oven and before the new one was in operation – digging out recipes for stove-top solutions to dessert. Chocolate-loving friends always inspire me to expand my chocolate cake, torte and pie repertoire, but recently when they were expected for dinner, it had to be a different solution to the “what’s the choko-dessert?” question. The best answer was a classic chocolate pudding – okay, mousse au chocolat. Having tried some that were thick and bitter, some saucy-soupy and too sweet, I stretched for a new approach. Many mousse recipes involve making a sugary meringue with the whites, others suggest leaf gelatine to assure form. Michel Roux’s elegant rendition candies orange zest, and folds in sweetened cream instead of egg whites. Julia Child added strong coffee to the melting chocolate, while Prue Leith suggested Grand Marnier and a pinch of ginger. Just when I thought all possibilites had been weighed, I flipped open “The Cook and the Gardener”, Amanda Hesser’s delicious chronicle of her year cooking at La Varenne. Hesser suggests infusing bay leaves in warm cream, a first step for a chocolate ganache…..this could lend a subtly nutty twist to the mousse on my mind. So now, after my culinary oracles have been duly consulted, I offer an option or two that stand up to your own interpretations:

Mousse I, an herbal flight of fancy : 3/4 cup of heavy cream + 2 fresh bay leaves; heat the cream to scald it, take off the heat and add 2 bay leaves broken in half – let this steep for 10 to 15 minutes. Melt 6 oz./80 grams dark chocolate in a pan over (not ON) simmering water, stirring in 1 tablespoon strong coffee, then stir in 2 tablespoons of butter (chopped into bits), stirring all this as it becomes glossy. Separate 3 eggs, and whisk in the 3 egg yolks one by one. Pour the warm cream through a sieve into the yolk & chocolate mixture, whisking to blend it all. In a deep bowl, with electric beaters, beat the 3 egg whites with a pinch of cream of tartar or salt, whisking to foamy peaks, then add gradually 1/3 cup sugar and beat to form stiffer peaks. Gently fold this in 4 parts into the chocolate mixture. Another 1/2 cup of whipped thick cream could be added at this point, but it is optional lily-gilding. When smoothly blended, pour the mousse into a glass bowl and chill for 4 to 12 hours. Sprinkle with a sifting of powdered Italian or Dutch cocoa before serving to 6. This can be chilled in 6 individual cups or glasses. Serve with almond tuiles to scoop up the mousse. Tuiles recipe to follow…. and a darker Mousse II. To bring out the elusive tones of bay leaf, a tipple of sweet Saussignac or Jurançon wine elicits the subtle herbal nuances.

Why Bay?

Whether you call it sweet bay, bay laurel, or simply bay leaf, the glossy green leaves carry more potential for flavor than I ever imagined. The sweet bay’s history alone is fascinating: in Greek legend, Apollo made the tree a sacred plant, assigning the leaves a symbol of honor. Thus the heros, athletes, warriors, emperors and achievers were crowned with a laurel wreath. Bacca-laureate means laurel berries in Latin. A long list of medicinal attributes include the bay leaf’s anti-inflammatory effects, it is a local antiseptic, an anti-fungal, it aids digestion and stimulates the appetite. Bay contains parthenolides, which are used to treat migraine headaches; and bay has been found effective in treating some types of rheumatism. The tangy, slightly nutty aroma that bay leaf imparts to milk or cream made it the medieval cook’s economical substitute for almonds in puddings – when times were tight. New England’s resourceful settlers used bay berries to scent candles and freshen the air. When a glossy green bay leaf is snapped in half, the natural oils are released into the sauce or soup, so do use fresh leaves, not dried brown ones. With so many health-giving qualities, sweet bay plays a more frequent role in our soups, sauces – and even in puddings, taking a cue from those clever medieval cooks.