I am about as omnivorous as they come, but I have a keen interest in the diet of those who decide to — or must — walk an alternate path, be it vegetarian, vegan, raw, or allergen-free.

The reason why I’m so interested is that cooking and eating under constraints such as these encourages those who do to think out of the box, seek out new ingredients or look at old ones in a different light, and invent techniques, recipes, and dishes that come to enrich the general pool of foods that everyone else can enjoy, if they’re curious enough to try them.

When I was in Los Angeles last spring promoting my Paris book, I was excited to finally visit Real Food Daily, a long-established vegan restaurant I had first heard of through its same-name cookbook a few years ago.

And because I was flying out that night, I also ordered a wrap to go, which I ate placidly on the plane, as the passenger seated next to me considered her in-flight meal with palpable despair.

I had a lovely meal there (a Ciao Bella sandwich and a glass of juice) and because I was flying out that night, I also ordered a wrap to go, which I ate placidly on the plane, as the passenger seated next to me considered her in-flight meal with palpable despair.

Once home, I picked up the book again and, leafing through it with a fresh eye (that was after I’d recovered from the jetlag), noticed a recipe that propelled me from couch to kitchen — a phenomenon every cookbook reader lives for.

The recipe was for cashew cheese, a sort of vegan alternative to the dairy kind. The idea was intriguing, the process a cinch, and I had all the ingredients in my pantry.

Instant gratification it was not, since the recipe has you soak the cashews for a couple of hours and leave the “cheese” to set for a day, but delayed gratification is fine by me, especially when it takes such a flavorsome form.

Those of us who consume the real thing at every meal in moderation will agree that calling this preparation “cheese” is a bit of a stretch — and I don’t mean the mozzarella kind –, yet its texture does evoke that of homemade ricotta, and it is a delight in its own right: a fluffy-smooth and subtly sweet spread, which we enjoyed on fresh baguette, on oatcakes, and in pita sandwiches. And if you want to follow the raw food trail all the way, I’m sure it will do well on dehydrated seed crackers.

(P.S.: I am going to a Thanksgiving potluck on Thursday — pumpkin pie, here I come! As a contribution, I considered bringing my mother’s cauliflower gratin, a zucchini and mushroom crumble, or some aged gouda and dried pear scones, but finally decided on this warm salad of roasted squash and white beans.)

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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, “Avoir du pain sur la planche.”

Literally translated as, “having bread on the board,” it means having a lot of work to do, or having a lot on one’s plate*, with the added notion that the tasks in question are somewhat tedious.

Example: “J’ai accepté de coudre les costumes pour le spectacle de danse de mon fils : j’ai du pain sur la planche !” “I’ve agreed to sew the costumes for my son’s dance recital: I have bread on the board!”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

I had always assumed that the board referred to here was une planche à pain (a bread cutting board) or a simple planche à découper (a cutting board) — the difference between the two is that the former includes some sort of crumb-collecting contraption — and that “having bread on the board” meant that you had lots of slicing to do. And if the loaf was a bit stale, it would take some effort to work your way through it.

My go-to idiomatic ressources, however, steered me in a different direction.

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When Heidi posted about her friend Nikki’s healthful cookies a couple of months ago, my curiosity was piqued, and the recipe firmly affixed to my mind’s corkboard*.

And as soon as I had a few browning bananas on hand — some might accuse me of letting them overripen on purpose, but that’s just libel and they’ll be hearing from my attorney — I knew just how to put them to use.

I made a few modifications to the original recipe: 1- I used almond butter rather than coconut oil, which I didn’t have. 2- I decreased the amount of chocolate — completely out of character, I know, but I stopped when the chocolate-to-batter ratio felt right to me. 3- I didn’t add the cinnamon because I’m not very fond of the banana-cinnamon pairing. 4- I also omitted the baking powder: there is virtually no gluten in the recipe**, so it didn’t seem like a leavener would have much effect.

Oh, and instead of shaping bite-size cookies from the batter, I simply poured and baked the whole thing in a rectangular dish, and cut it into squareish bars after the fact: it was just easier, and because I knew we’d need a few days to eat our way through them and the fat content in the recipe was not very high, cutting servings as we went would help keep the texture fresh and moist.

And I’m happy to report it was a smashing success: these vegan oatmeal bars (or cookies) call for no sugar, and rely instead on the sweetening power of mashed bananas, and such flavor-bolstering ingredients as dark chocolate and grated coconut. The result is a discreetly sweet, but highly tasty confection that feels like a treat, but can be eaten for breakfast (it pairs well with clementines) without getting the dreaded sugar crash in mid-morning.

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* Actually, I’m lying about the corkboard: to file and organize my digital notes, lists, and recipes, I use this handy Notebook tool for Mac OS X.

** Pure oats don’t contain gluten, but there can be a smidgen in commercial oats that are processed along with other grains. If you can’t have gluten at all, make sure the oats you use are labeled as gluten-free. Edited to add Lin’s comment: “Here in Australia where gluten-free standards are stricter than in Europe, coeliacs have been advised not to eat the so-called ‘gluten free’ oats, as many of us still seem to react to them. They might be ok for people with different reactions – those who’re allergic to wheat, for example. They contain a different peptide to the one found in wheat gluten, but apparently that can still be pretty disastrous for some of us.” So proceed with care.

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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, “Tomber comme un cheveu sur la soupe.”

The literal translation is, “falling like a hair* on soup,” and it means that something or someone appears at an inappropriate or incongruous moment, and is thus completely out of place. (The idiom can also be formed with the verbs arriver, to arrive, or venir, to come, instead of tomber, to fall.)

Interestingly enough, in the context of this expression, the hair found in a bowl of soup causes no disgust. It is merely seen as an anomaly, a thing of no value or consequence that diverts one’s attention from what’s really important: the soup.

Example: “Je n’ai vraiment pas aimé la fin : la scène avec les extraterrestres tombe comme un cheveu sur la soupe.” “I really didn’t like the ending: the scene with the aliens falls like a hair on soup.”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

Comme un cheveu sur la soupe is also the title of a 1957 movie with Louis de Funès (but no aliens).

* In French, there are two words for hair, depending on where it grows: un cheveu is the hair that grows on the head, whereas un poil is the hair that grows on the body. In both cases, the terms refer to an individual hair; if you were to compliment someone on his hair, you would use the plural, les cheveux.