As you might remember from my Best of 2008 list*, I have recently revived my old homemade yogurt routine, after several years of hiatus.

There was no tangible reason for this hiatus apart from my self-confessed flemme — a French word that is pronounced exactly like phlegm (sorry, but it is) and is a sentiment of laziness that washes over you when you can’t be bothered to do something — but there is a very real reason for ending it: when I realized the number of yogurt tubs I was tossing every week, I thought it more eco-friendly to use milk (in a recyclable carton) and glass jars instead.

This is the simple, classic recipe that purists love because it doesn’t muffle the flavors of the rice or milk.

The thing is, each batch of yogurt left me with a half-cup of milk** I didn’t know what to do with, because we don’t really do milk in my household. And that’s when I made this breakthrough discovery — cue in the cymbals, please — milk can be frozen! Who knew? And if someone knew, why didn’t he tell me?

The one caveat is that thawed milk seems to lose some of its structural integrity and looks a bit like it’s curdled, which might be a turnoff if you intend to drink it or add it to your cereal. But what one can do with thawed milk, regardless of this separation issue, is cook or bake with it.

And so, ever since the breakthrough discovery, I’ve been setting aside those half-cups of leftover milk in a dedicated container in the freezer***, and when there is enough, I use it to make béchamel or riz au lait [ree oh leh], the French rice pudding.

I will rush to add that I myself do not care for rice pudding, like, at all, but I will spare you the details of what the texture reminds me of, because I don’t want to ruin it for everybody else. The point is, Maxence loves it, and this version, drawn from Sonia Ezgulian’s too-lovely-for-words Petits Ricochets de cuisine (already mentioned here), is Maxence-approved.

As the name suggests, this is the simple, classic recipe that purists love because it doesn’t muffle the flavors of the rice or milk, but if you wish to doll it up, try:
– substituting coconut milk or almond milk for the cow’s milk,
– using other types of rice (adjust the cooking time accordingly) or alternate sweeteners (unrefined cane sugar, maple syrup, agave syrup, honey),
– serving it with caramel sauce or stewed black cherries,
– topping it with sliced mangoes, bananas, or the pulp of a passion fruit,
– blending in some raspberries and serving it with speculoos cookies,
– stirring in some nuts and/or dried fruits (sliced almonds, pistachios, chopped pecans, cranberries, cherries, diced figs or prunes),
– replacing (or adding to) the vanilla with citrus peel, cinnamon, and/or cardamom,
– blending the mixture (not too finely), and churning it in your ice cream machine.

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* Seriously, I don’t really expect you to remember.

** My yogurt machine requires 875 ml (~3 1/2 cups) of milk (from a 1-liter / 1-quart carton) plus 125 ml (~1/2 cup) yogurt to produce eight 125-ml (~1/2-cup) yogurts.

*** Remember that, like any liquid that’s mostly water, milk expands as it freezes, so leave a little room at the top of the container/bottle so it won’t overflow. Plan to use the frozen milk within a month or so, and thaw in the refrigerator.

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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, “Ne pas être sorti de l’auberge.”

Literally translated as, “not being out of the inn*,” it means that one is tangled up in an unpleasant situation with still a ways to go, or a lot of work to do**, before one can expect to be freed from it.

It can be likened to the English idiom (not) being out of the woods, except that these woods often imply a precarious or dangerous situation, while the French auberge rather refers to one that’s burdensome and discouraging, but not necessarily unsafe.

Example 1: “Le correcteur pinaille sur chaque tournure de phrase, alors on n’est pas sorti de l’auberge.” “The copyeditor nitpicks about every turn of phrase, so we’re not out of the inn (= it’s going to take forever to go through the entire document).”

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The idea of a DIY vanilla extract has been floating around the food blog world for a little while. When I first read about the process, the instructions seemed so fastidious that I shrugged and clicked away. (This is, in passing, one of the challenges the recipe writer faces: providing the necessary dose of guidance, but avoiding instruction overload.)

Still, I was increasingly bothered by the imbalance between the wowing qualities of the vanilla beans I’d splurged on, and the dullness of the store-bought vanilla extract I had on hand. So, why not use the former to create a better version of the latter?

I was increasingly bothered by the imbalance between the wowing vanilla beans I’d splurged on, and the dullness of the store-bought vanilla extract I had on hand. So, why not use the former to create a better version of the latter?

Perhaps some of you will wonder, if I have fresh vanilla beans, why use extract at all? And the answer is that they don’t serve the same purpose. Fresh beans need to be steeped in a liquid ingredient (milk, cream, syrup…) to release their flavor, so they can only be used in recipes that call for such an ingredient, like sauces, ice creams, or custards. Vanilla extract, on the other hand, is ready-to-use and can be added directly, without steeping, to cake batters, cookie doughs, cocktails, etc.

And really, as I found out when I looked into it with a little more attention, making your own extract could not be simpler: place vanilla beans in a jar, fill with liquor, close, shake, and wait. The process is even simpler than preserving your own lemons and you’ll likely wonder, as I did, what took you so long.

Vodka is often mentioned as the ideal liquor for this because its neutral flavor won’t overshadow that of the vanilla, but I opted to use rum, which I like to use in my baking (canelés, crêpes and yogurt cake without rum are like a kiss without a mustache*) and find a perfect match to vanilla. I love the complexity of the resulting extract, but you can use whatever liquor you prefer, provided it is about 40% alcohol.

Commercial vanilla extract is generally sweetened, too, but I see no reason to make the process more complex, and the quantities of extract used in most recipes are so small that it’s unnecessary to make up for the difference in sugar.

And of course, need I mention that homemade vanilla extract makes a great gift for the food enthusiast?

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* “Like a kiss without a mustache” is a literal translation of comme un baiser sans moustache, a French idiom that means that one thing is pointless without the other. Similar, but less perky: comme un violon sans cordes (like a violin without strings) or comme une soupe sans sel (like soup without salt).

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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 expression is “Mi-figue mi-raisin.”

Literally translated as “half fig half grape,” it is used as an adjective to mean that a thing, a statement, or a person is ambiguous, or mixed: half good and half bad, half pleasant and half unpleasant, half happy and half sad, half willing and half reluctant, half serious and half joking*… The exact nature of the ambiguity is inferred from the context.

Example 1: “Son livre a reçu des critiques mi-figue mi-raisin.” “His book received lukewarm reviews.”

Example 2: “Elle a déballé son cadeau et nous a remerciés d’un air mi-figue mi-raisin.” “She unwrapped her gift and thanked us with a mixed expression on her face.”

Example 3: “Quand je lui ai demandé s’il comptait démissionner, il m’a fait une réponse mi-figue mi-raisin.” “When I asked him if he planned to quit, he gave me an ambiguous reply.”

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