A Lazy Sod's Pipérade

Well, I've finally done it.  I've made our daughter throw-up due to my cooking.  Nice, right?  It went like this: we got home from church on Sunday and while Michael was talking to his parents on the phone, I was cooking up lunch for Emilia -- and it was something entirely new.  We bought these glass noodles from Uwajimaya a month or so, intending to use them for an Ottolenghi recipe.  However, that never happened, so I decided to quickly cook some of them up for the girl's lunch.  Now, mind you, I've never cooked with glass noodles before, so I had no clue what I was doing.  So, I treated them the same way I would regular spaghetti.  Big mistake. 

Once the noodles were cooked, I drained them, tossed them with a bit of olive oil, fresh tomato, and salt.  And let me tell you, revolting does not do it justice.  I couldn't even look at them, let alone eat them.  I tried, but spit them out.  And so, before tossing them in the trash, I asked Emilia (who was standing in the kitchen and at me looking like, 'why are you throwing away my lunch!') if she wanted to try them.  To my astonishment, the girl said yes.  I gave her a little bite, and she chewed, and she chewed, and then she started to look quite nauseous.  Two seconds later she threw up on the kitchen floor.  Michael was yelling, all mad-like, 'what did you feed her?!'  'Her lunch!' was all I could say before I started to laugh.  Poor thing.  I could hardly blame her -- after all, they made me sick just looking at them. 

This incident aside, I tend to get quite annoyed when Emilia refuses my cooking.  (She would have been smart to refuse it that particular time, though.)  Dinner ends up so stressful when I spend the whole of it trying to cram healthy things into her little mouth.  So when I decided to cook up Julia Child's recipe for Pipérade (which warrants another check-mark in my cookbook), I also cooked up some chicken for the girl, because otherwise I knew it would be a battle.  Any sort of frittata/omelette/quiche/eggy-dish turns into way too much of a headache.

The pipérade was so good, though.  The girl didn't know what she was missing -- well, apart from the bacon.  She happily ate as much of that as I would put on her plate.  It was also so easy to make -- perfect for an evening of putting up the Christmas tree and all that jazz. 

Leek and Potato Soup, à la Julia Child (To Help One Master the Art of Fitting One's Trousers)

A few nights ago I had a dream that Emilia and I flew to LA so that we could go to this cupcake shop.  The cupcakes were gorgeous -- all covered with exotic flowers and such.  So, in my dream, we bought five.  And I actually thought to myself, 'How are we going to eat all of these before they go bad?'  Anyway, we didn't dwell too much on that because we had to catch a plane back to Seattle before dada got home from work.  I was trying to work out in my head how we could get around telling him we went to LA for the day, and that it only cost $123 for our tickets.  But, in the manner of dreams, all of a sudden he was in the cab on the way back to the airport anyway, so it didn't really matter.

And then a week or so ago I dreamt about ice cream.  We were on a bus and it crashed up on this sidewalk.  While everyone was scrambling around, I looked out our window and saw the most beautiful ice cream shop.  It was filled with these enormous tubs of ice cream, and the one I reallyreallyreally wanted was the blackberry gelato, with a layer of white chocolate gelato on top, and a layer of dark chocolate gelato on top of that.  And then, going again with the theme, there were more of these amazing and gorgeous smelling flowers all over the top of it.  Oh, and some coconut shavings, too.

I wonder why I am dreaming so much about desserts.  It is not like I have been in deprivation mode.  In the least.  (Did I mention that I was trying to teach myself to make éclairs a few weeks ago, and managed to eat eight in three days?  Meanwhile, I wish so much that we had some of those right now.  All we've got are Christmas cut-out cookies -- not very tasty, if you want my opinion. I'm thinking of trying a different recipe next time round.)  However, I've noticed that my jeans have been a bit, shall we say, snug these days.  And I'm not just saying this because my mom took it upon herself to point it out, either.  I'm saying it because, even though I don't exactly look enormous, I much prefer to wriggle freely from my clothes instead of feeling like a seam is going to burst open whenever I move.  That feels most unpleasant, I must say.

And so, in an attempt not have to go out a buy the whole of jeans from Nordstrom (which are mostly that ghastly skinny sort anyway), I'm trying to whip myself into a bit of shape again.  Nothing drastic, you know.  Just little things like, trying to go running more than twice a year, for starters.  Drinking more green tea -- really ought to invest in some other stuff because what I bought from Uwajimaya a month or so ago tastes exactly the way cow shit smells, er, I mean, nature smells.  It's revolting.  And lastly, eating more French food.  Because everyone knows that the best way to make your jeans fit better is to eat more French food.  (Karl Lagerfeld once said that there is nothing more dangerous in this world than sauces.  He was speaking of French food and his own waistline, of course.  But he must have been mistaken, right?)

Hey, That's My Brioche!

Whenever Emilia and I go to the library, which is a lot these days, we often walk across the street and go to The French Bakery before heading home.  We both love it in there.  It is small and cheery, and a great way to avoid eating lunch at home.  Emilia usually opts for a ham and cheese croissant and perrier, while her mama is usually content with the best cappuccino that $2.50 can buy.

Anyway, a month or so ago I broke down and decided to try one of their brioches.  It was so pretty to look at -- all golden and puffed up.  But right after we got to the table, Emilia decided that it looked quite yummy and nearly ate the whole thing.  And then she sat, laughing and laughing, as I told her, 'Hey!  That's my brioche!'  Every now and then she would proudly (or was it menacingly, I can't recall) chime in with, 'I ate it!  I ate mama's brioche!'

And so now, every time we go in to The French Bakery, Emilia thinks that mama should get a brioche for her to eat.  However, while the brioche that they sell is quite good -- pardon me while I toot my own horn here -- mine is better.  Maybe it has something to do with the fact that brioche is really best when eaten warm -- with a nice schmear of butter, and an even bigger schmear of homemade strawberry jam.

Gougères et Kir

Oh my goodness, I love Dorie Greenspan.  Actually, I adore her.  Her new cookbook, Around My French Table, just came in the mail last week, and I've been poring over it.  I kept saying her name over and over to myself, and wondering why it sounded so blasted familiar.  Finally I put my finger on it: she wrote Baking with Julia, of course!  If Emilia had been sitting with me then, she would have said, 'A-doi, mama!'  (Yes, it is true that our Little Tomato could point out Julia Child in a line-up.  We are civilized, after all.)

Anyway, as I was saying, I've been reading this new cookbook and marveling all the while.  Dorie Greenspan is a great food writer.  She is so very readable -- and likeable -- that her new book makes me want to cook everything in it.  I actually laughed out loud (that would be LOL for the younger generations) when I read her introduction.  She writes: 'I returned home to New York City, assured my mother that I loved her even though she'd made the mistake of having me in Brooklyn instead of Paris, and proceeded to devote the rest of my life to remedying her lapse in judgement.'  Ha!  I remember accusing my mother of the same thing ages ago, yet not quite so eloquently, I can assure you.

Another thing that caught my eye in the introduction was the picture of Dorie in her kitchen.  She is standing, in a pair of rather pretty shoes, in what appears to be a one-butt-kitchen**.  That's right -- her kitchen is not some huge expanse.  Instead it is small, well-appointed, and only meant to fit one butt at a time.  I'm guessing this doesn't bother her as I'm assuming said kitchen is in the heart of Paris.

The Absolute Best Carrot Cake Ever -- No Jet Plane Required

'Do it again!  Do it again!' is what Emilia says every time we are out on the trampoline bouncing around.  She loves to hold my hands (or dada's hands) and bounce in a circle singing, at the top of her lungs, 'Let's go fly a kite!  Up to the highest height!  Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring...'**  And at the end of the song we fall back, landing in a heap and staring up at the sky.  On sunny days, Emilia thinks it is quite hilarious to try to quote something I said to her on a very sunny day not so long ago: 'I don't want the sun on my face!  It's going to make me look old enough to be your mother!'  Now, really, I find that a rather funny thing to say.  But for the life of me, I can't figure out why she does. 

Anyway, while we are lying on our backs looking up at the sky (preferably Michael is right along beside side us) Emilia will point out all the planes that go by.  She is very good at deciphering between a sea-plane and a jet-plane, and every time she hears the latter, she happily exclaims, 'It's going to the airport!  Maybe we should go to the airport, too!'  Talk about a little girl after my own heart.  (I think she was just over a year and a half when she told me one afternoon, completely deadpan, and while holding my purse, the keys, and a Neiman Marcus shopping bag, 'I be right back, mama.'  'Oh, where you are going?'  'I going to the airport!  I going to Georgetown!')

And so, one evening the three of us were lying on the trampoline and gazing up at the sky (Governor was off barking at a squirrel somewhere), and we saw a plane high up in the sky.  Immediately I started singing, 'I'm leaving on a jet plane, I don't know when I'll be back again...'***  Michael quickly joined in, and once Emilia picked up enough words, she started singing, too.  And there we were, the three of us on a lovely summer evening, looking up at the sky and belting out one of the best songs ever.  It was quite nice, if you must know.  Now Emilia calls it 'her song' and randomly sings, 'Oh babe, I hate to go.'

Now then, why am I going on about a trampoline and airplanes and John Denver, you ask?  Well, it's really quite simple.  One of the cheapest ways to travel somewhere is to cook.  Sounds silly, but it's true.  You want to get to know a place, then eat its food.  Of course it isn't the same as actually being there, but it is the best substitute I've ever found. 

Strawberries Part 4 — (Not So) Perfect Génoise and French Strawberry Cake

Yes, well, there is no need to be rude about it.  I'm well aware of the fact that my French Strawberry Cake looks far from elegant (as the recipe promises), and just plain wonky — excuse me, I mean rustic.  This was even my second attempt, if you can believe it.  As we sat to the table eating the first attempt, Michael says to me, 'what kind of crust is this?'  Of course I completely let loose and told him off.  'There is no crust!  It just cake, OK!  A very difficult and rather testy cake, in case you were wondering, not that you were.  And if you think you're so smart then make the damned thing yourself!  Hmpf!'  Or something like that anyway.  And if some of those words were left out of the actual exchange, then I can promise you that they were on the forefront of my thoughts.  I mean, really.  Crust?  For hell's sake.

Anyway, if you happen to find yourself thumbing through Baking With Julia, the ever so marvelous cookbook (and telly show) that Julia Child hosted once upon a time, then you will find yourself stumbling across the recipe for Génoise, or The Perfect Génoise, as it is called.  Apparently anybody who fancies themselves to know anything about cooking at all can whip up one of these little babies in no time.  And everyone then stands back to marvel at your most amazing and adept skill.  That being said, the recipe says something along the lines of this: 'this cake is wildly temperamental.   You must tread lightly and you will still completely fail.  People will probably even laugh at you for it.  So, bearing that in mind, you must make it at least five times in a row if you ever plan to master the concept.'  Well, I never!

The funny thing is that the cake is actually so easy to make.  The second time I made it I did not even pull out the cookbook because I remembered the whole thing. Yet there is still fear and intimidation; because, yes, it is easy — but it also requires a serious understanding of the technique.  And sadly, after all the work you put into it, if it is going to crumble and turn into a 'crust', that bit happens literally within the last thirty seconds of making it.  Drat, to say the least.  However, if it does turn disastrous, then you can always fall back on the divine, heavenly, beyond superb filling that goes in the cake — just sitting on top the crust, if you will.  Essentially you are meant to cut the cake into three, and then sandwich it with layers of macerated strawberries and cream.  It's superb.  In fact, the next time I make whipped cream for anything I am doing it in the manner of this cake — adding two tablespoons of sour cream.  The rest is a given: heavy cream, sugar, and vanilla extract.  After I made it the first time, Emilia and Governor stood in the kitchen cleaning the bowl for me — Emilia with the beaters and Governor with his little head lost somewhere inside the deep bowl.

And so, as my pièce de résistance, here is the last strawberry recipe I am giving to you.  In many ways it is my favorite.  The only problem with it (other than the sheer temperamental-ness of the cake) is that is does not store well in the fridge longer than a day or so.  (This is ironic as you are meant to put the cake in the fridge for at least an hour before you serve it.)  And having a rather small group to feed here, we cannot possibly eat that much cake (no matter how elegant/rustic it may be) in that short of time.  Particularly when you are already doing battle with jam, muffins, and ice cream — all of the strawberry nature.

A Language Lesson from Martine à la Ferme

After Emilia was born, I had grand plans for her to be multi-lingual by the age of five.  (Laugh as much as you'd like, but I was actually quite serious about it.)  I bought language cds (in both French and Spanish) that I would put on for her all the time — in the car, while she was in her swing, in her bouncy seat, wherever.  In fact, her 'language lesson', as I referred to it, was an excellent way for me to be able to take a shower in the morning.

Anyway, I also found these fabulous (and quite sturdy) little flash cards (in both French and Spanish) that we would play with from time to time.  Well, that she would chew on, more like, from time to time...  (Although my Spanish vocabulary has grown exponentially since I first looked at them.)  Nowadays they can usually be found at the bottom of her toy bin.

Oh, and then the books — I also got her several books (in both French and Spanish), including, Buenos Dias, Baby and Martine à la Ferme.  I have read these books to Emilia over and over for the past two years, and she has always loved the 'Bonjour Médor!' part of Martine the best.  However, as we sat reading before her nap this afternoon, Emilia began to quote a good chunk of Martine right after we'd finished with it.  (I know I've said it before, but this girl is quite the mimic.)  Half of me was rather impressed, while the other half was mortified and wanted to rush out and bury the book in the backyard immediately.  Because despite my many years (ago) of studying French, I've always had a bit of a complex as far as my accent is concerned.  And rightly so — it is atrocious.

Have you ever seen that bit in the movie Je t'aime Paris?  You know, where the postal worker from Denver is reading her postcard aloud in her head while walking all throughout Paris?  Well, that is me.  Mortifyingly me.  Or, at least I think it is anyway — which amounts to the same thing.  And so, because of this, I am thinking it may be best if we stop with Martine altogether.  Or maybe, we should just skip the French and look at it for the pictures.  If Emilia is going to grow up mangling languages, I'd rather she do this in her own right, and not because her mama instilled an appalling accent into her little head before she is even out of diapers.  I mean, really. 

Instead it may be a better idea to just get really rich so we can send her (and me) to lessons (in both French and Spanish) where she can learn herself a right-proper accent.  Not now though because I've poked around a bit and the prices I've seen are almost as appalling as my accent.  Why is it always so expensive to be so fancy?** C'est incroyable!

**Speaking more than one language is not, in fact, fancy.  It's smart.  Besides that, we could really use Emilia to be our translator down the road when we go to buy our flat in Madrid.  Or Barcelona.  Or somewhere in the Andalusia.  Or France.  I'm not that picky, when it all comes down to it.

Brioche

This is without a doubt the best bread recipe I've ever encountered.  It is also the recipe that takes the longest to make.  Don't let that be off-putting though, because it is pretty easy. I know I've said it before, but any bread recipe that does not require me to knead for 3 days straight (or even 5 minutes), is a true winner.  In fact, all the work for this brioche is done in your KitchenAid mixer.  Other than that, most of the time involved is the phases of rising/proofing.  It is well worth the effort as it is surprisingly good.  And I don't mind telling you that I am always rather pleased with myself when I pull a loaf out of the oven.

Traditionally speaking, we are supposed to eat brioche like the French do — for breakfast (with a cup of coffee, plenty of cigarettes, and the perfect red lipstick, if you are really trying to be authentic).  As for me, I dream of a nice warm slice of brioche with a healthy smattering of butter and jam, and an enormous cup of tea.  Mmmmm. 

However, I am not the sort to wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning simply to get a nice breakfast on the table.  (Sorry, Michael.)  Instead, we do what Patricia Wells suggests, and we have it for dinner.  My favorite way to serve this brioche is with a roast chicken, a fresh green salad, and plenty of extra butter on the table.  Oh, and a nice crisp white wine also adds to the sheer loveliness of the table.

A Lovely Galette des Rois for Twelfth Night

Twelfth Night is the Eve of Epiphany, which means that tomorrow is Epiphany, or the Feast of the Magi. It is the day for celebrating the Three Kings' (you know, good old Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar) arrival in Bethlehem to witness the manifestation of Christ.

Epiphany is not really celebrated much in this country. In fact, the Catholic Church celebrates it the Sunday before the 6th of January. Typically if Americans acknowledge it at all, it is more as the official end of the Christmas season; so get that damn tree out of my living room, already! Or something like that anyway.

That is apparently why we all must move to Europe — because they actually celebrate it. In fact, many countries (Spain, for instance) even give gifts, with parades and festivities of all sorts.

In France it is traditional to serve Galette des Rois; although I daresay it is also traditional to buy it from some superb fancy-pants bakery rather than make it yourself. You are supposed to place a small porcelain figure in the cake before you bake it, and whosoever finds it will have much luck throughout the coming year. (Same principle as the Mardi Gras King Cake, really.) Since we have no such porcelain figure (I really should look into getting one), I typically use a coffee bean. However, this year I abandoned the whole idea of putting anything in it. Emilia's gag-reflex is astonishing, so it probably isn't wise to knowingly insert a choking hazard.

It is also traditional in France for the bakery to give a paper crown for the new king to wear. At least that is what Adam Gopnik claims in his book The King in the Window. The opening scene takes place on Twelfth Night with a Galette des Rois. It is my favorite scene in the book.

As for the cake itself, it is divine. Although, it probably is not something that your 22-month-old will readily eat (she much prefers her tuptates and/or Fran's Chocolates). And it is probably not what I would choose to have after a big dinner very late at night, but it is still yummy, nonetheless. I prefer to have it the next day with tea. Or, even better, have it for breakfast with a demi-tasse while wishing you were somewhere in the Latin Quarter. Or perhaps giving gifts somewhere in the Andalusia. But alas, tis not to be.

The cake is actually very simple to make, but you will definitely need a Cuisinart. Also, make sure you pay attention to the recipe. When it says to add one egg at the beginning and use the second one later as an egg wash, that does not actually mean you should chuck them both in at once. Not that I've personally done that or anything. Also, I have finally learned to buy two packages of puff pastry. The fancy stuff I use only has one sheet in the package, annoying since it is rather expensive. But if you are going to go through the bother of making the cake, you may as well make sure you have enough of one of the key ingredients.

After the cake comes out of the oven, let it cool thoroughly so the top can sink back down a bit. Otherwise you have a huge dome of puff pastry over what is really a gorgeous cake. Another handy tip is that the cake is absolutely superb the next day.

Wild Mushroom Risotto that is Dining Room Table Worthy

Last week our new dining room table and chairs arrived; a gorgeous Lorts farmhouse-style table and chairs that we ordered from a shop in North Carolina several months ago. Now before you start saying, 'Well, la-di-da!', let me tell you about our old table. It was a tiny, tiled affair that I 'borrowed' from my mom right after I graduated from high school and somehow never managed to return. It sat four people, rather uncomfortably, and two of the chairs were so rickety that you had to quite literally pound them back into place before anyone sat on them. That meant that whenever we would have people over for dinner, we would all essentially plop on the floor in the living room — there being nowhere else to go.

However, we have discovered that since Miss Milia came along, for the first time ever, we have people coming over to the house — and actually staying. This is all very strange for us. We are very much used to getting into the car and going to my sister's house for any kind of gathering. Because even though our table was always small (and, therefore, unaccommodating), our house is not much bigger.

So anyway, now we have a lovely (and rather la-di-da, I admit) table. It is perfect for our small little family and maybe two or three more. Any more than that will be back on the living room floor again, I'm afraid. And that's alright.

A few nights ago I decided to make a delicious mushroom risotto that actually warranted sitting at the new dining table. So after toiling away in the kitchen for goodness knows how long, dinner was ready. And what did we do? We sat on the floor in front of the telly (that's in the study), the way we always do when Dancing With the Blasted Stars is on, of course. (I know. I should be embarrassed to admit that we watch that show. However, Derek Hough's Futuristic Paso Doble was a work of art, if I do say so myself.)

As far as the risotto goes, it may be some of the best I've ever had. (Odd, considering the recipe came from a French cookbook.) Because many of the key ingredients cook separately (retaining both textures and flavors), it allows for the dish to maintain its flair. Also, it is beautiful to look at once you actually put it on your plate.

The risotto is simple enough to make, but it requires several separate steps; difficult to do when you are also trying to get your 20 month old down for bed. However, Emilia ate every bite for lunch the next day and even asked for more. And, to be perfectly honest, nothing warms my heart more than that. Incidentally, it is the perfect dish to make for company, which I fully intend to do next time anyone comes in town. And I would even go so far as to say that it should probably be enjoyed while sitting at a proper table.

The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romaine de Lyon

If you happen to find yourself wandering about in the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History, then you will undoubtedly stumble upon Julia Child's Kitchen. And yes, it is actually her kitchen — not a replica — which she donated, in whole, several years before her death.

As you stare through the plexi-glass at Julia's pegged walls, wooden counter-tops, bon appetit! plaque, and her bookcase filled with not much more than a copy of 'Miss Joy', her own cookbooks, and the local telephone directories; you begin to notice the more museum-like features in the room. Outside of the kitchen, photographs, quotes, and various memorabilia line the walls. A television screen plays either a perpetual biography/tribute to Julia Child or an episode of The French Chef. Incidentally, if you happen to sit and watch The French Chef for a minute, you see that it is her Omelette episode. And if you actually sit and watch this episode, you are struck by how effortless and easy it appears to make an omelette. (Shall we laugh now, or shall we laugh later?)

It requires skill to make an omelette. And I have never in my life seen anyone do it as beautifully as Julia Child. As she works, she is talking and yucking it up for the camera, and all the while the viewer (me) is astounded by how she was almost able to mask the level of her skill with her funny and down-to-earth personality. The whole experience is mesmerizing. You walk away from it thinking, 'Shooot, see if I don't give that a try!' (Meanwhile, even my dried beans were flying across the kitchen...)

Toward the end of this episode Julia recommends two books on omelette making. (See, it must be hard to make an omelette if you have to read books on the subject before actually attempting to make them in your own home.) One of those is The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romaine de Lyon, originally published in 1963. Let me be the first to tell you — this book is a gem. Shocking, perhaps. But truly — this book is fabulous, and here is why.

'No one comes into the world an instinctive maker of omelettes, and I would not
have you believe that as soon as I could walk, I toddled into the kitchen,
seized an egg and a frying pan, and began at once what was to be my life's
work.'

Thus begins The Art of Cooking Omelettes. It is an extraordinarily well-written book, and I found Madame Romaine's biography to be fascinating. And at times the book is hilarious. However, I don't think that is ever the intention. Rather, I have to remind myself how very important (and serious) omelette-making can be, for goodness' sake!

The Art of Cooking Omelettes is broken down into four sections: Madame Romaine's personal journey (becoming 'the Queen of the Omelette Makers, as they sometimes call me'); instructions on how to cook an omelette; over 500 recipes for making her omelettes; and what to serve with an omelette (salad and wine), and who she has served them to. Apparently she has served many a famous face and is not afraid to let you know this.

Madame Romaine was born in Lyon and grew up working in her parents' restaurant. She learned everything from her mother who was 'an instructive cuisinère, and saw to it that I learned in proper order: first principles; then recipes; and, finally, style.' Madame Romaine lived in Lyon until she married, at a very young age, and moved to New York City with her new husband. She spoke no English whatsoever when she arrived in the US and took a bit of time building up confidence to do so. While still very young, her husband tragically suffered a heart-attack and died. Madame Romaine was then left wondering what to do and eventually opened a Salon de Thé in Manhattan. Her eventual location was at 156 East 56th Street, and I have been very curious to see what is there today. (After looking around a bit, I discovered that Madame Romaine's restaurant is now closed. Switching locations a few times after her death, the new owners were forced to close in 2003 on account of not paying taxes...)

Anyway, the instructions for making an omelette, as per Madame Romaine, are very simple. However, she acknowledges right off the bat that the only way to learn it properly is to do it over and over and over again. According to Madame Romaine, it takes exactly 2 minutes to make an omelette — not including the 25-30 seconds required for beating the eggs. She uses nothing fancy at all in her preparation and claims that 'everyone who cooks should know how to do an omelette.' I daresay she is right. And I daresay that this book is marvelous — whether you use it for a cookbook or just a good read involving many useful tips. May God bless Madame Romaine de Lyon, and of course, Julia Child. (The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romain de Lyon, Doubleday Publishing, 1963.)

Traumatized by a Quiche; Or, The Redemptress of Quiche

When I was little there were two things that my mother cooked for dinner that would throw me into fits of tears: trout roasted in tin foil and quiche. Once we were all seated at the table and everyone was digging into their dinner, I would sit there. And sit there. And sit there. That was because my dad would not let me leave the table until my dinner was gone. (Mind you, everyone else was long gone and getting ready for bed or something at this point.) Eventually I would cave and eat the fish, but the quiche ... I hated it. No, I loathed it. And then I would hear that if I didn't eat it, it would be back on the table for me in the morning — cold. I never actually had quiche for breakfast, so apparently my dad's threats were futile. Either that or my mom intervened and gave me something else.

I know what you must be thinking, 'What mean and nasty parents you had! I'll bet they also made you sleep in the broom closet under the stairs.' At the time, I would have whole-heartedly agreed with you, and I probably would have even conjured up terrible stories about a nasty old broom closet. However, my parents had seven kids, and that is a lot of mouths to feed. Not to mention the fact that any finicky eaters would be a bonafide pain in the neck. (I wasn't a finicky eater though. I just hated steamed trout and quiche, and justifiably so.) I suppose we should have just been grateful that our mom cooked — and cooked, she did.

Anyway, long story short, I would not touch quiche until I was well-into my 'grown-up' years. And even then it was done with a great deal of trepidation. It is funny looking back, because I'm not sure why I found quiche so revolting to begin with. The only thing I can figure is that my mom fell victim to the ubiquitous can of cream of mushroom soup, and must have used it in this recipe. And really, who didn't use that nasty stuff in the 70s and 80s? But other than that, I'm at a loss.

It was the lovely Clotilde who saved quiche for me. I was thumbing through her cookbook when it was still hot-off-the-press and saw a picture of her Onion and Cumin Quiche. I remember thinking, 'Hmmm, I'll be damned if that doesn't look yummy.' That was over two years ago now, and her quiche has proudly been part of my repertoire ever since. Every time I serve this for a brunch or something, it is one of the first things to go. However, I'm not sure that I will force it on Emilia until she is good and ready. (Although I may be tempted to tell her that if she doesn't eat her gnocchi tonight, it'll be in her high-chair first thing tomorrow! Or something like that anyway.)

This quiche recipe is wonderful and really simple to make. We typically have it for dinner with a green salad and a big bold red wine. However, it is excellent to serve for brunch as well. Even my friend Jane who is allergic to onions (can you imagine such a terrible fate!) had a hard time staying away from it.

Pâte Brisée (Short Pastry)

1 ⅓ cups all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon fine sea salt (I typically use kosher, in case you were wondering)

8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into a dice

1 large egg, lightly beaten

ice water

The easiest way to make this is in your food processor, however, you can use the 'by hand' method, if preferred. Combine flour, salt, and butter in processor and pulse for 10 seconds or so, until is resembles course meal. Add the egg and process until the dough comes together into a ball. If it seems a bit dry then add your cold water, 1 teaspoon at a time.

Turn the dough out directly onto your plastic wrap and flatten into a disc — not too thin though. I usually keep it at least an inch high. Wrap tightly in plastic and place in the refrigerator for 30 minutes, or up to a day. Pull the dough out about 10 minutes before using and let it warm up a bit. This enables you to roll it out without cracking it all over the place.

Quiche Oignon & Cumin (Onion and Cumin Quiche)

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil, plus more for greasing the pan

2 pounds yellow onions thinly sliced (Clotilde says this is about 6, however, the onions here say it is about 4)

½ teaspoon fine sea salt

3 large eggs

¾ cup light cream

¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper

2 teaspoons whole cumin seeds

1 ½ cups freshly grated Comté or Gruyere (about 5 ounces)

Make your Pâte Brisée and refrigerate.

Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a skillet large enough to hold the onions over moderate heat. Add the onions and sprinkle with ¼ teaspoon salt. Stir and then cover, turning the heat down to low. Cook for 30 minutes, stirring from time to time, until translucent. Remove the lid, up the heat to medium-high, and cook for another 5 minutes or so, stirring throughout. The idea here is for most of the liquids to evaporate. (This step can be done a day in advance — a very handy tip.)

Pull out the dough and let stand at room temperature for 10 minutes. Preheat the oven to 350°, and grease a 10 inch ceramic quiche pan. (I always use a metal tart pan because I don't have a ceramic one, maybe I should look into that one day. However, it works perfectly fine.) Roll your dough out on a lightly floured surface into a 12 inch circle. Transfer the dough to the pan and prick the bottom with a fork. Bake for 7 minutes, until lightly golden. Remove and set aside. (**What I do here is put the pan in the freezer with the dough in it for about 5 or 10 minutes before putting it in the oven. Otherwise, the sides always fall down and I want to pull my hair out. Sometimes I even line it with buttered parchment and pie weights to keep the sides up. It works like a charm.)

In a bowl whisk the eggs and cream together. Season with the remaining salt, pepper, and the cumin. Fold in the cheese and onions and then pour it into your tart shell.

Bake for 35 minutes until the top is golden. The center should still be a bit jiggly at this point. Turn the oven off and leave the quiche for another 10 minutes to set up. This can be made in advance and reheated in the oven on 350° for 15 minutes — another very handy tip. (Recipe from: Chocolate & Zucchini, by Clotilde Dusoulier, Broadway Books, 2007.)

A Swaggering 'Nutella' & Banana Crêpe

As you may or may not know, I recently tried my hand at making crêpes — and if I do say so myself, they were superb. So, feeling a bit like the cat's pajamas and the bee's knees, I made them again. This time I opted for a different recipe; last time they were savory, this time they were sweet. Excuse me, rather they were crêpes sucrées.

The batter is the same premise as last time, albeit a little thinner, which means you definitely need to work fast. Ages ago I bought one of those trowel-looking things from Sûr la Table because that's what the fancy crêpe makers use. However, I still have not pulled it out of the drawer. Instead, it is much more efficient to just pick the pan up and tilt it every which direction.

My husband, who would prefer to be called Michael, has developed a keen interest in crêpe making since my 'experiment' began. Namely, he wants to flip them over in the pan. He thinks that my spatula use is a bit pathetic and something more suitable for a Nancy-Girl. Anyway, here I am making crêpes, minding my own P&Qs, when he saunters on into the kitchen and basically overtakes the operation. And it worked — he flipped them over effortlessly after a few tries. Well, La-Di-Da, I am sticking with my spatula. (I'll tell you right now, there is no way in hell I'm going to try flipping them. The pan is way too awkward and heavy for me. Besides, I have my pride.)

At any rate, I stood there laughing at him, saying, 'Well, you're pretty pleased with yourself ... walking around here with what, what's the word for it?' And he says, without missing a beat, 'swagger — it's called swagger.' And I swear, I have never heard a more apt description in my life. It was hilarious.

After the crêpes were made, we spread a little 'Nutella' on them, some sliced bananas, and we were in heaven. I had no idea that combination was so good. We assembled 3 in all — one for me, one for Michael, and one for Miss Milia. Although, Emilia preferred running around the living room with her little farm animal set, stopping by for the occasional bite, and shouting, 'Yummy!' each time. Which meant that after Michael and I polished off our own, we finished hers. I will tell you now, as divine as these are, one is enough; any more and you may be sick.

I have been referring to 'Nutella' with quotes around it because I refuse to use the actual Nutella you find here in the states. But it is what everybody recognizes as the chocolate-hazelnut spread. For some reason, the makers of Nutella have decided it is a good idea to put partially-hydrogenated oil in the American version, and I'll be damned if I'm going to buy it. So what I did was buy the brand Loacker. It is Italian and you can find it at Whole Foods or any other specialty food shop, and it is well worth the search. You can also find it on-line at http://www.spud.com/ (if you live in the Seattle area), or http://www.parthenonfoods.com/.

For the crêpe batter:

3 large eggs

⅔ cup whole milk

½ cup water

¾ cup flour

1 teaspoon sugar

½ teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted, plus more for brushing

1 tablespoon canola oil

For each Banana-Hazelnut Crêpe:

1 ½ tablespoons hazelnut spread

½ small, firm but ripe banana, thinly sliced

To make the batter, whisk together the eggs, milk, and water. Add the flour, sugar, salt, 1 tablespoon melted butter, and oil, whisking to remove as many lumps as possible. Let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.

Heat your crêpe pan over medium heat until quite hot. Lightly brush with butter and scoop about 3 tablespoons of batter onto the pan. Swirl around immediately so that the batter is evenly distributed. Pour any excess back into the bowl. Cook about 2 minutes, until lightly browned in spots. Use your spatula, and flip it over, cooking for an additional 30 seconds. Repeat with remaining batter, always buttering in between. You will end up with quite a stack, so remember that the extras keep nicely in the fridge for a few days until needed again.

To assemble: reheat the crêpe in the pan, quickly spread your non-hydrogenated oil Loacker, creating an even layer. Scatter half the banana slices. Fold the crêpe in half and then in quarters. Put the crêpe on a plate, arrange the remaining bananas, and serve at once. (Recipe from Williams-Sonoma's Paris: Authentic Recipes Celebrating the Foods of the World, by Marlena Spieler, Oxmoor House Publishers, 2004.)

Crêpes 101

Very simple to make, really. All you do is:

1. Buy a crêpe pan.

2. Stare at said pan for two years and intimidate yourself.

3. Pull out Mastering the Art of French Cooking and make the recipe for the batter. When you get to the part that says 'Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours', accidentally on purpose leave it in the fridge for a week, and then throw it away. Repeat process 3 more times. This part should take roughly another year.

4. Ask your husband to pull out the Manchego from the freezer to defrost. A few days later, unwrap the cheese to discover that he has, in fact, pulled out the Gorgonzola you bought several months before to make crêpes but then accidentally on purpose left the batter in the fridge too long. You preferred not to waste said expensive cheese — hence the freezer.

5. Pull out Savoring Italy and turn to page 110. Proceed with instructions and relish in your success. The crêpes themselves are fabulous, and (who knew) are very easy to make. Incidentally, I forgot how much I do not care for Gorgonzola cheese. And the same goes for Michael, but he has never been a fan of blue cheese.

Crêpes

3 eggs

2 cups milk

1⅓ cups flour

½ teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons butter, at room temperature

Sauce

3 cups milk

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

3 tablespoons flour

¼ teaspoon salt

pinch of ground nutmeg

½ lb Gorgonzola cheese, rind removed

¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

To make the crêpes, beat the eggs until foamy. Gradually add milk. In a separate bowl combine flour and salt. Gradually beat into the egg mixture. The consistency should be similar to heavy cream — if too heavy, add a little water. Cover and let sit for 30 minutes.

Heat the crêpe pan over medium heat and brush it with a little butter. Once hot enough, spoon a few tablespoons of batter onto the pan. Immediately tilt pan to get the batter evenly spread. You mustn't dilly-dally — the batter is so thin it will cook very fast! After about a minute, take a spatula and flip it over. Cook for another 30 seconds. Remove to a plate, butter the pan again, and keep going, stacking them up as you go.

For the sauce, add the milk to a pan and heat until small bubbles form along the side. While the milk is heating, melt the butter in a saucepan over low heat. Add flour, salt, and nutmeg, and cook, stirring constantly for 2 minutes. Remove from heat and slowly add the hot milk, stirring constantly. Return to heat and cook, stirring constantly, until thick and nearly boiling, almost 2 minutes. Remove from heat.

In a separate bowl, mash the Gorgonzola with a fork. Add half the sauce and stir until well combined.

Preheat oven to 400°, and butter a large baking dish.

Take one of the crêpes, spread a tablespoon of the cheese mixture onto it. Fold it in half, and then into quarters. Place in baking dish and continue with the rest. Pour over the remaining sauce and sprinkle with Parmigiano-Reggiano. Bake 20-30 minutes until hot and lightly browned. (Recipe from Savoring Italy by Michele Scicolone, Time Life Books, 1999.)