I’ve recently read a collection of stories by Lara Vapnyar called Broccoli and Other Tales of Food and Love. The six stories in this pretty volume talk about Russian immigrants to the United States, and use the revealing lens of food to show how they adapt to their new lives. Stories about migrants never fail to move me, and perhaps also because I was very fond of my Russian coworkers when I lived in California, I thought these particularly poignant.

The opening story is called A Bunch of Broccoli on the Third Shelf, and without disclosing too much about the plot — I detest spoilers and those who perpetrate them — it is about Nina, who buys vegetables every Saturday morning from the Korean and Russian stores in Brooklyn but, for a number of reasons, never gets around to cooking them.

And it is of Nina that I thought when I realized that the head of cabbage I’d bought at the greenmarket some time before wasn’t going to cook itself. Buying it had sounded like a virtuous idea at the time — cruciferous vegetables are so good for you — but every time I pulled the vegetable drawer open, my hand always seemed to land on some other, more immediately appealing option.

I am lucky that this particular variety, called chou blanc in French, seems to have been designed to withstand the reluctance of the cook, and keeps very well: the outer leaves may lose some of their luster, but if you peel those off, the cabbage looks as good as new underneath.

Still, I was hoping to find a non-dull way to use it, and I remembered the recipe my friend Molly posted not long ago, in which shredded cabbage is seared in the wok and seasoned with a combination of chili sauce and soy sauce. I don’t have a wok nor the sambal ulek that she recommends, but I do have a skillet and some sriracha, and I thought they would do nicely.

Having roasted a chicken in my brand new oven the night before — to excellent but messy results — I also had scraps of meat left over. These joined the cabbage in the skillet for a most satisfying lunch, with a sprinkle of toasted sesame because it seemed a natural fit and I find it hard to resist such a cute little sesame mill.

As I mentioned above, my cabbage was a chou blanc, i.e. a smooth and tight head of cabbage that’s light green on the outside and off-white on the inside. You could, however, use the cabbage of your choice in this recipe, so long as it’s the crisp kind that would work in coleslaw. Molly also suggests adding a bit of sliced fennel, but it’s a little early for that around here.

Speaking of Molly, surely you know that her first book is released today in the US? A Homemade Life is a memoir with recipes that I had the chance to preview a few months ago, and I am confident you will enjoy it as much as I did.

Continue reading »

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

This week’s idiom is, “Un déjeuner de soleil.”

Literally translated as, “a sun’s lunch,” it is used to describe something that’s lovely but short-lived.

When it appeared in the 19th century, the expression refered to those fabrics whose colors faded fast when exposed to sunlight; the sun “swallowed” the colors, as if for lunch.

Over time, its scope broadened to apply to anything that’s ephemeral, but it retained the notion that one would wish for that thing to last longer.

Example: “Il voulait un canapé en cuir blanc pour leur salon, mais sa femme l’en a dissuadé : avec leurs trois enfants, ce serait un déjeuner de soleil.” “He wanted a white leather couch for their living room, but his wife talked him out of it: with their three children, it would be a sun’s lunch.”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

Continue reading »

I don’t think of ice cream as a seasonal thing. Let me clarify: I do think of ice cream flavors as seasonal things, but ice cream, as a general and cardinal food group, is very much a year-round treat for me.

To give you an example, I have just returned from Deauville in Normandy, wherein I attended the Omnivore Food Festival, a two-day event during which new-generation chefs demonstrate their craft onstage, and artisan vintners present their wines.

And in between demos and discussions that added a good dozen names to my restaurant dream list*, I felt compelled to sneak out and visit Martine Lambert‘s ice cream parlor: the Paris location is included in my book, but this is the original shop, and a bit of a pilgrimage destination for ice cream devotees.

It being February, overcast and misty, let us say there wasn’t much of a line, yet I shed my mittens and dug into my cup of vanille paillettes de chocolat — vanilla with flecks of chocolate — and caramel au chaudron — caldron-cooked caramel — as I scampered back to the conference center. As the modern French expression goes, c’était une tuerie (~ it was killer). The caramel in particular, which had been pushed almost to the tipping point of bitterness: caramel should not be timid, and Martine Lambert certainly gets that.

This wintry ice cream fix suddenly reminded me of a truly rapturous ice cream I made some weeks ago and, inexplicably, failed to post about: it is a recipe for maple pecan ice cream, a French-style, custard-based ice cream flavored with maple syrup and studded with pecans. I hope you won’t be scared off by the word “custard”: I’ve included detailed instructions in the recipe below, and you will be fine, I promise. (I myself learned the technique for this type of ice cream in David Lebovitz’s ice cream book; surely you’ve noticed I refer to it again and again, so I trust you’ve acquired your own copy by now?)

It is a typical winter ice cream, cuddly and smooth, that I prescribe you make at least once before spring. I definitely will, seeing as I’ve received a box of all-natural maple goods from Brien in Quebec, and can’t wait to put them to good use.

* Especially Laurent Chareau’s Le Chat in Villechaud, Emmanuel Renaut’s Flocons de Sel in Megève, Mads Reflund’s MR in Copenhagen, Stefano Baiocco’s Villa Feltrinelli on the shores of the Lake Garda, and the Marcons’ green restaurant in Saint-Bonnet-le-Froid.

Continue reading »

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to the culinary world. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

As a foreword, I’d like to note that, in response to reader Ellen’s suggestion, the Edible Idioms are now served with an audio file embedded in the post, allowing you to listen to the pronunciation of the idiom and the example sentence. If you wish to go back and browse the archives, all past idioms have been updated to include this read-aloud.

This week’s idiom is, “Vouloir le beurre et l’argent du beurre.”

Literally translated as, “wanting the butter and the money for the butter,” it expresses an unreasonable or unrealistic desire to have it all, or to have it both ways in a situation that normally requires a choice between two mutually exclusive options. It is similar to the (also edible) English idiom, having one’s cake and eating it, too.

Example: “Les gens veulent une bonne couverture mobile, mais ne veulent pas d’antennes près de chez eux. Malheureusement, on ne peut pas avoir le beurre et l’argent du beurre.” “People want good cell phone coverage, but they don’t want antennas near their homes. Unfortunately, you can’t have the butter and the money for the butter.”

Continue reading »