Photography by Mynette Laine; more winged stunners in her bird set.

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 entry is really an adage more than an idiom. It goes, “Faute de grives, on mange des merles” and can also appear as, “Faute de grives, on se contente de merles.”

Literally translated as, “In want of thrushes, one eats (or settles for) blackbirds,” it means that one must find a way to make do with what’s available. In other words, beggars can’t be choosers.

Example, from the real-life greenmarket situation that inspired this post: “Vous n’avez plus de poires ? Tant pis, je vais vous prendre des pommes. Faute de grives, on mange des merles !” “You’re all out of pears? Never mind, I’ll have some apples. In want of thrushes, one eats blackbirds!”

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Maxence’s grandparents were coming for tea on Sunday. Both had just had their birthdays, and I couldn’t get my mind off Lilo’s recipe* for flourless poppy seed cake, so I decided to bake it for them.

I scaled Lilo’s recipe down to use the four eggs I had, and modified it to use part butter, part almond butter, and a little less sugar. I also flavored the cake with the zest of an orange (instead of vanilla) and omitted the baking powder, which didn’t seem altogether necessary (the whipped egg whites provide sufficient volume).

Finally, I baked it in the heart-shaped pan my grandmother once gave to me, and whipped up a simple orange glaze to enhance the flavor of the cake even further. And all of us enjoyed this marvelously aromatic cake, fine-crumbed and moist, its every bite sparking an explosion of poppy seeds beneath our teeth.

I feel compelled to add this one caveat, especially if you’re considering this for an office party or some such awkward occasion: when you’re done eating your slice, you may want to excuse yourself and check your smile in the nearest mirror. Poppy seeds are sneaky that way.

~~~

* Note that the French use the English word un cake for a cake that’s baked in a loaf pan; a regular round cake is un gâteau.

PS: Last week’s saffron roasted cauliflower was included in Bon Appétit’s holiday slideshow, which features many more inspiring recipes by fellow bloggers. I myself have earmarked Sarah’s rosemary nuts, Ilva’s herb cannelloni and Nick and Blake’s coffee cake.

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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, “Ecrire des tartines.”

Literally translated as, “writing tartines” (a tartine is a slice of bread topped with some sort of spread, such as butter or jam), it means writing reams, or being unnecessarily wordy.

Example: “J’étais surprise que sa lettre soit si courte ; d’habitude, il m’écrit des tartines.” “I was surprised his letter was so short; he usually writes me tartines.”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

This colloquial expression can also appear in the singular (“écrire une tartine”) and is derived from the 18th-century journalists’ slang, in which une tartine was a very long (and, it is implied, boring) article or speech. A rather self-explanatory image; I always picture the writer or speaker fastidiously buttering a long piece of split baguette.

Roasting summer vegetables comes quite naturally to most cooks, I believe, but not everyone thinks to submit their winter counterparts to the same treatment. And it’s a pity, really, when you know what good it does root vegetables and winter squash, yes, but also broccoli and cauliflower.

And this is my favorite, ultra-facile way to cook cauliflower, tossed with ras el hanout — a magic wand of a Moroccan spice mix you should really add to your kit — and a pinch of saffron threads.

You’ll get golden florets so flavorsome you’ll have to fight the temptation to just transfer the batch to a big bowl and eat the whole thing while watching a movie.

The glamorous spices (what, you don’t think of saffron as glamorous?) together with the roasting method efficiently offset the cabbage-like acerbity that cauliflower detractors whine about, leaving you with golden florets so flavorsome you’ll have to fight the temptation to just transfer the batch to a big bowl and eat the whole thing while watching a movie — unless that’s your initial plan, of course.

If not, this makes a beautiful side to a duck magret or pork tenderloin, or, when spring returns, a shoulder of lamb. And because it fares just as well warm and at room temperature, it is an amenable item to add to a holiday spread.

(And if you hunger for more cauliflower recipes, I give you:
~ My mother’s cauliflower gratin,
~ Cauliflower soup with turmeric and hazelnuts,
~ Cauliflower semolina with dried fruits.)

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