After posting a few thoughts on sustainable seafood and how each of us can make a difference, it grew apparent that one proactive way food bloggers can help, beyond spreading the word and trying to make responsible choices themselves, is to offer recipes featuring those varieties of fish or shellfish that are more eco-friendly.

This happens to be the very premise of Teach a Man to Fish, an event created by Boston writer Jacqueline Church to raise awareness about this issue. If you’d like to play along (you don’t need to have a blog), you have until the end of October to do so; check Jacqueline’s blog for more details.

Update! Here’s the event round-up.

Why did I choose to feature mussels? Well, for starters, farmed mussels* are in the YES! column of my pocket seafood guide. (Get yours today!) What’s more, they are in season now and until the end of winter, and, although delicious, nutritious, and easy to prepare, most people find them a tad intimidating — live mollusks and all — and therefore do not place them very high on their must-cook list.

For the longest time, I myself didn’t really understand mussels.

I didn’t enjoy the flavor, or the texture, or the sticky juices that run down your wrists when you eat them, and I just didn’t see the point. When Maxence and I first started seeing each other, many springs ago, we would sometimes eat at a chain restaurant from Brussels that has outlets near most Paris cinemas, and where mussels are, of course, the house specialty. While Maxence ate a big bowl of them, I would dine on a Belgian waffle with chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream — a win-win arrangement if I’ve ever seen one.

But then my taste buds grew up, mussels grew on me, and by the time we decided to spend a weekend in Brussels, I was 100% sold on his idea to eat mussels at every meal, and we practically did.

The mussels I buy from my poissonnier are bouchot mussels** from the Mont Saint-Michel bay, which is technically in Brittany although the Mont Saint-Michel itself belongs to Normandy, but if you wish to avoid tempestuous arguments and kicks in the shins, I suggest you not raise the matter with a Breton or a Normand, ever.

Sold under the snappy label of “Moules de bouchot de la baie du Mont Saint-Michel AOC,” these mussels are protected by the French certification of origin, and were the very first sea creatures to be granted such a status, in 2006.

This recipe is inspired by the über-classic moules marinière recipe, which has you cook live mussels in a broth of dry white wine with shallots, herbs, butter, and a little vinegar till they give up the ghost and open wide.

I wanted to make a slightly more festive variation, so I flavored the broth with saffron (the mussel’s best friend; I buy mine for a reasonable price at Goumanyat). And because I happened to have leftover Champagne in the fridge (I know some find this hard to picture but there you are), I used it in place of regular white wine. However, you could absolutely omit the saffron and use another type of dry white wine, sparkling or not: I’ve made the recipe that way before and it is, in truth, just as good.

The easiest, and most satisfying way to eat mussels is to use one empty shell as a pair of tongs to grab and pull out the meat of another mussel. It is hence a considerate idea to provide each guest with a large napkin, and a rince-doigts, a small cup filled with warm water and a slice of lemon, in which to rinse his fingers.

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* In French, mussel farming is called la mytiliculture; oyster farming is ostréiculture; shellfish farming in general is conchyliculture, which sounds like an obscure insult.

** Une moule de bouchot is a mussel that’s been raised on a bouchot, a wooden pillar around which a thick rope spirals: the mussels afix themselves to the rope, and live in and out of the water alternatively as the tide rises and recedes.

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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, “Casser du sucre sur le dos de quelqu’un.”

It means, literally, “breaking sugar on someone’s back,” or engaging in malicious gossip about someone. In other words: backbiting, which, come to think of it, is slightly food-related too, in a cannibalistic sort of way.

For example: “Dès qu’il sortait, ses collègues se mettaient à casser du sucre sur son dos.” (“The minute he was out the door, his coworkers would start breaking sugar on his back.”)

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

According to these sources, this idiom appeared in the late 19th century, and may derive from the older expressions “sucrer quelqu’un”, which meant mistreating someone, and “se sucrer de quelqu’un,” which meant taking someone for a fool. Sugar was then a symbol of wealth; why it was linked to such negative notions, however, is unclear.

A few months ago, I received an unusual email from an American reader of Chocolate & Zucchini, David E. Price, a former geologist and now computer programmer who goes to graduate school in Salt Lake City, and is an enthusiastic cook.

David explained that he had purchased copies of my books but that — and here comes the unusual part — because he was blind, he was wondering if there was a computer-readable version he could have access to: he was otherwise going to scan the pages and run them through a character recognition program, but he worried that the mix of French and English terms, as well as the fractions in the measurements, might make the resulting recipes inaccurate.

An arrangement was found with my publisher, and once that was taken care of, David and I continued our email conversation. In particular, I asked him about the accessibility of C&Z, and whether there was anything I could change to make it easier for the blind to read; there was, and I altered the code accordingly*.

And then, although I was a little hesitant to raise the topic, I had to admit I was curious to learn about the practicalities of cooking without vision. I had never really stopped to wonder if and how it was possible, and I was admirative, to say the least: it certainly took skill, perseverance, and a great love of food to cook and bake without relying on your eyes.

It was a thought-provoking exchange and I was sure other cooks would feel the same way, so I asked David if he would submit himself to a Q&A about the challenges he faces in the kitchen every day. His answers are below; thank you, David, for inviting us into your kitchen.

* If you’d like to learn more about this, read the page David put together about web accessibility.

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Two weeks ago, I had dinner at a French restaurant called La Table d’Eugène, on the other side of the Montmartre hill from me. As my friends and I were handed the menus, we all stopped to comment on their fetching design: on the front and back were dozens of French idiomatic expressions, all relating to food, each of them printed in a different, retro font.

Once we’d ordered our food and asked to keep one copy of the menu, I, as the only native French speaker in our party, went over each of the locutions, trying to shed light on their meaning. It was so much fun — you’ve perhaps noticed how dearly I love words, etymology, and linguistics — that I thought I would start a series on C&Z.

The French language, like all Latin languages, is particularly rife with culinary-inspired idioms, and I will offer one every week or so.

The opening, seasonal expression is, “Couper la poire en deux.”

It means, literally, “cutting the pear in two,” or reaching a compromise: if two people want the same pear, halving it is the most equitable way to settle the dispute.

For example: “Nos deux familles voulaient nous avoir à Noël, donc on a coupé la poire en deux : on va chez ses parents le 24, et chez les miens le 25.” (“Both our families wanted us to come over for Christmas, so we cut the pear in two: we’ll spend Christmas Eve at his parents’, and Christmas Day at mine.”)

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud: