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.

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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.”

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Photography by Gimli.

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.

This week’s idiom is, “Aller à quelqu’un comme un tablier à une vache.”

Literally translated as, “suiting someone like an apron suits a cow,” it is used to express that something, usually an outfit or a piece of clothing, is unbecoming, or even ridiculous on someone.

Example: “J’ai commandé une robe à sequins sur Internet, mais elle m’allait vraiment comme un tablier à une vache, alors je l’ai renvoyée.” “I ordered a sequined dress online, but it really suited me like an apron suits a cow, so I returned it.”

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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.

~~~

* 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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