This is a recipe I got from David Tanis’ A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes.

I realize that naming this cookbook my favorite for 2008 and then showcasing its recipe for hard-boiled eggs sends a curious message, yet it illustrates exactly what I look for in a book: not just engaging stories, understated pictures, and seasonally sound menus — all features that ?tag=chocolzucchi-20″>Tanis’ book can brag about — but also things to learn, understand, and remember long after the book has been shut.

This is why I was bound to fall for a book that draws its title from that very premise: you need know-how, rather than a recipe, to serve a good platter of figs. A book that not only gives you a recipe for Jellied Chicken Terrine (three cheers for aspic!), but also devotes two pages to Grilled Chicken Breasts and includes a sub-recipe for the Soft-Center Hard-Cooked Eggs that you are to place, halved or quartered, around the inverted and unmolded terrine.

If, like me, you’ve long been a card-carrying member of the Hard-Boiled Eggs Loathing Society, prepare to have your mind changed. The proper way of making them, as outlined below, will not produce the dreaded dandruffy yolk, sapless and tinged with grey, but one that’s creamy and glowing, nested in a springy, just-set white.

There’s not much to it, really, yet it is one of those basic skills that everyone assumes you possess, when I myself can’t make an oeuf à la coque without calling Maxence to double-check the cooking time, so it is nice when someone takes the time to hold your hand through the process.

If, like me, you’ve long been a card-carrying member of the Hard-Boiled Eggs Loathing Society, prepare to have your mind changed.

UPDATE: David Tanis’ method consisted in lowering the eggs in boiling water and cooking them for 8 to 9 minutes. I have since changed my way of making hard-boiled eggs, and now prefer to put the eggs in when the water is cold, bring to a boil, and let rest off the heat for 10 minutes. I’ve updated the recipe below to reflect that.

And then of course you’re free to do whatever you please with those eggs. I am not sure if or when I will make the terrine — I have my eye on the Fava Bean Salad with Mountain Ham and Mint and the Fish Soup with Mussels and Chorizo first — but these perfect eggs have already become regular adornments to my lunch salads, the grated carrot and avocado salad, the red quinoa salad, and the grated carrot and beet salad. Surely you’ve met?

Raw eggs and the nifty basket I use to lift them out of the water.

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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, “Mettre la main à la pâte.”

Literally translated as, “putting one’s hand to the dough,” it means being willing to participate in an activity that will require some effort. The activity in question is often manual work that is best done by a team, and the idiom is comparable to the English expression, “putting one’s shoulder to the wheel.”

Example: “Comme le propriétaire de l’immeuble rechignait à s’en occuper, tous les occupants ont mis la main à la pâte pour repeindre eux-mêmes la cage d’escalier.” “Since the owner of the building was reluctant to take care of it, all residents put their hand to the dough to repaint the stairwell themselves.”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

(If no player appears, here’s a link to the audio file.)

This idiom draws upon the image of the bread baker again (see avoir du pain sur la planche), who has no choice but to knead the dough if he wants the job done. The excellent expressio notes that it has been in use since the 13th century.

[And the picture above was shot during a bread baking class I took two years ago; I certainly put my hand to that dough.]

It all started with a store-bought dessert that we tasted at a friend’s house late last summer, which consisted in a light vanilla mousse garnished with raspberries and sandwiched between two layers of a thin, crisp, and lightly chewy almond cake. Everybody loved it, and I thought, hey, I think I could make something like that, too.

You see, years and years ago, at a Demarle homesale hosted by my friend Pascale, I acquired a silicon sheet pan and a rectangular pastry ring that formed a nifty kit to make exactly that sort of dessert, usually referred to as un entremets.

It was perhaps a little risky to experiment on the Christmas lunch crowd, but I have a very forgiving family.

Of course, the embarrassing question is, how many times did I use this kit in the first 4 1/2 years it was in my possession? And yes, you’ve guessed it: exactly zero. It’s hard to explain why — I’m sure you have a million examples of your own — but I always felt sure that it would one day come in handy.

And indeed, it did: when my mother and I discussed the Christmas lunch menu and I offered to bring dessert, it is the afore-mentioned raspberry entremets that popped in my mind — only I would be making it myself. Considering I had never made anything of the sort and my oven is a dysfunctional imp, it was perhaps a little risky to experiment on such an occasion, but I have a very forgiving family and I knew that, if things went horribly wrong, I wouldn’t be teased about it for much more than seven or eight years.

After some research, I decided that the easiest would be to have the cake component be a dacquoise, a classic preparation of beaten egg whites and ground almonds and/or hazelnuts, often used in such entremets to produce a light and chewy consistency. The mousse would be two-thirds lightly sweetened fromage blanc (a sort of thick yogurt) to one-third whipped cream, and the raspberries would be, it being December and all, frozen.

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As I get things ready for the New Year’s Eve party we’re throwing tonight — a very casual affair, mind you, it’s the only kind we like (or know how) to host — I’d like to take a moment to say goodbye to 2008, and remember the good things it has brought.

Besides the release of the French version of my cookbook and the US publication of my new Paris book, Clotilde’s Edible Adventures in Paris; besides a memorable trip to Western Australia and another to Croatia; besides the birth of the most lovable of dimple-cheeked nephews, the purchase of a spiffy bike, and the demise of my oven, I give you, in no particular order, a few of the things that have marked my year:

Favorite food-related book: Della T. Lutes’ The Country Kitchen, a fantastic gift from Adam, who found a vintage copy of it at Bonnie Slotnick’s store in NYC.
Contenders: Diana Abu-Jaber’s memoir The Language of Baklava and Monique Truong’s novel The Book of salt.

Favorite new cake recipe: the flourless poppy seed cake.

Favorite new chocolate: El Ceibo‘s 71% chocolate, produced by a Bolivian coop.
Contenders: Claudio Corallo‘s chocolate with raisins and cocoa pulp in bitter liquor, Poppy‘s “pure bliss” raw chocolate hearts, and Taza‘s 80% bar of stone ground chocolate.

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