Ingredients & Fine Foods

When I step into a boulangerie, or admittedly when I simply walk by one, I always give the bread shelves a quick once-over, to see if anything looks particularly good and/or unusual. It is sometimes a bit of a challenge to glance behind the boulangère, her counter, and the other customers (some of whom seem to think I’m trying to skip the line and keep a hawklike eye on me), but I have years of training behind me, so I’ve had time to refine the technique.

What I am most specifically on the lookout for are pains spéciaux (specialty breads), these loaves of bread that involve alternate kinds of flour and possibly little nuggets of goodies — dried fruits, nuts, olives, herbs, chocolate, anything small and tasty. The sweet ones make for a fabulous breakfast, the savory ones are perfect with a matching salad or soup.

Just the other day, in a boulangerie not far from my office (where they sell really good sandwiches), I spotted this loaf of bread, the label of which read “Norlander”. I had never seen any bread go by that name, and the attendant explained that it was a German-inspired rye bread with sunflower seeds and nuts. They had a plain version, and one with raisins and candied orange rind. (Need I tell you which one I picked?)

I’m happy to report that it tastes as good as it sounded, and Mr Norlander has been a faithful breakfast companion for the past week — cut in thin slices, toasted and spread with butter or jam. Of particular note are those deep ridges all along the loaf, which account for the pretty shape of the slices. And of course, as one might expect, said slices taste best along that crispy crinkled edge…

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On Saturday morning, from the attractive stall of my favorite produce merchant at the Marché des Batignolles, a potimarron is beaming up at me.

Plump orange cheeks, smooth skin with faint white lines — who could resist? I pick it up to get a better feel of its perfect shape and weight, cup it in my gloved hands, and adopt it instantly.

The stall-keeper, a pretty young woman with a crinkled felt hat, is always happy to share advice. “Potimarron is great puréed with carrots,” she offers.

I reluctantly hand her my potimarron (she has to weigh it, I know) and ask her to throw in a few carrots as well. She gets them from a crate in the back. “You don’t mind the dirt, do you? These were picked this morning and we haven’t scrubbed them yet.” Me? Oh no. I don’t mind the dirt at all.

Potimarron, a.k.a. Hokkaido squash, is a winter squash with a delicate chestnut flavor. Its French name is in fact a portmanteau of potiron (pumpkin) and marron (chestnut), and the skin of young specimens is soft enough that you don’t have to peel it. You feelin’ the love yet?

Oh, and get this: the longer a potimarron is stored, the more its vitamin and sugar content develops. Does this mean I can keep it on my bedside table for a little while, until it’s nice and ripe and chock-full of nutrients? It glows so bright I’m sure I can use it as a reading lamp. But just how long will I resist the temptation to make potimarron and carrot purée? Or potimarron gnocchi? Or potimarron jam?

When I was little and my grandmother was still a young and energetic seventy-something, she came to our house for lunch every Sunday. Now that I am older I’m guessing that this tradition must have been a bit of a strain on the adults from time to time (surely lazing around in your pajamas till noon must have been a tempting occupation too), but to us little girls, this very regularity made it comforting and blissful: le dimanche, Mamy déjeune à la maison.

Every Sunday, my mother would cook the meal — my favorite was her roasted chicken with pommes de terre sautées and baguette to dip in the juices — and my grandmother would bring dessert, bought at her trusted pâtisserie on the rue Poncelet. A St-Honoré (the best I’ve ever had), a Fraisier, a Paris-Brest, a special fall cake decorated with huge nougatine mushrooms that was strictly reserved for my father’s birthday, or assorted individual versions of the aforementioned, which we would share so everyone had a couple bites of each. Except for the baba au rhum because yuck!, said the little girls.

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It’s not everyday that one gets to discover a whole new, previously unpublished vegetable. It’s not everyday that this new vegetable seems to belong to a little tribe of bulb-headed, purple-hooded munchkins. And it’s not everyday that said munchkins turn out to have a delightful taste, halfway between an artichoke and a sweet potato.

As I’m well aware, topinambours (or Jerusalem artichokes) are news only to me : they’ve been around for centuries, mostly used in France to feed cattle (the illustrious Limousin cow in particular). They were also one of the very few vegetables that could be found during the war, and those bad memories led people to turn away from them as soon as things got better, thus condemning the poor topinambour (and she rhymes) to oblivion as a légume oublié, a forgotten vegetable. Thankfully, légumes oubliés are all the rage these days, and they have been turning up again on produce stalls here and there, to the joy of those of us who love a little change and vegetable adventure.

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