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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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 savoir si c’est du lard ou du cochon” (or: “Se demander si c’est du lard ou du cochon”).

Literally translated as, “not knowing whether it’s lard* or pork**” (or: wondering whether it’s lard or pork), it means not knowing what to think/believe. It is most often used when you’re faced with a fact or statement that comes from an unreliable source, or when you’re not sure whether someone is being serious or pulling your leg.

Example: “Il a un humour très particulier, on ne sait jamais si c’est du lard ou du cochon.” “He has a very peculiar sense of humor, you never know whether it’s lard or pork.”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

The idiom’s origin was not entirely clear to me — lard is pork, so what is there to hesitate about? — so I turned to my parents’ copy of Claude Duneton’s Bouquet des expressions imagées.

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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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