If you keep an eye on my book list, you may have noticed I am currently reading Michael Ruhlman‘s recently published, orange book*. In The Elements of Cooking, he proposes to break down and discuss the building blocks of the cooking craft, like William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White did for writers in their classic little volume The Elements of Style, to which the title and format are a homage.

It is an engaging and educational read that retains a strong sense of the author’s voice and idiosyncrasies, unlike other reference books like, say, The Food Lover’s Companion, which I consult regularly but wouldn’t think to read from cover to cover.

The bulk of the book consists in an Acid-to-Zester lexicon of concepts, techniques, preparations, and ingredients, which Ruhlman prefaces with a section in which he lays down his founding principles, addressing such themes as salt, heat, and finesse.

In his essay on tools, he begins by asking the reader to “imagine the kitchen as a white box with nothing more than a stove, fridge, countertop, and sink — not a single other element for cooking in it — and then to pose a hypothetical question: if you were asked to outfit the kitchen with as few items as possible, the absolute minimum you could possibly get away with and still be able to cook most things, what would those items be?”

This question is of particular interest to me as it conjoins two topics I find endlessly stimulating: the desert island question (if you could only bring along five books/CDs/articles of toiletry, what would they be?**) and the neverending battle one has to wage to keep one’s home and life clutter-free.

So I’d like to submit the question to you: if you could only have five tools (pots, utensils, cutlery, and let’s add appliances) in your kitchen, what would they be? Note that we are considering your cooking needs only, setting aside the question of baking equipment. (If you’re the playful type, I suggest you come up with your own list before scrolling down to see Ruhlman’s and mine.)

* The book was sent to me as a review copy.
** Great car game, too!

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It has been far too long since last I wrote about soup. Have I stopped making soup? This is like asking if I’ve stopped breathing, and the answer — as I type this, at least — is no.

The reason for this soup drought is that I’ve mostly been making variations of soups already featured on this blog, or über-simple combinations of whatever vegetables cried for salvation in my refrigerator.

Today’s recipe is also very simple, I’ll grant you that, but it is a deceptive kind of simple. The leek and potato soup is among the greatest classics of French homemade soups — an inexpensive, filling, and becalming concoction that is particularly welcome on a Sunday night when you’ve been feeling under the otherwise balmy weather.

It is a soup I am very fond of, in fact it was the very first one I tackled as a budding soup maker in my Californian kitchen. It was a sobering failure — I muffled the leeks’ flavor by using too many potatoes, burned my hand with the spluttering soup, naively assumed my food processor to be watertight, and repainted my kitchen cabinets in pale green — that took years of therapy to get over, but just one recipe.

It comes from my friend Sophie‘s admirable book La Table végétale, in which she organizes her vegetable-centric recipes according to the life cycle of the plant — I can’t get over how clever, how poetic that is.

She writes her way onward and upward from what lies below the ground (potatoes, beets, garlic), to what hovers just above (mushrooms, asparagus, leeks), to leaves (nettles, lettuce, vine leaves), flowers (artichokes, zucchini blossoms, borage), fruits (hokkaido squash, cucumbers, peppers), and back to the seeds (pink beans, chestnuts, corn) that will ultimately return to the earth.

It is a brilliant book, wherein Sophie distills her encyclopedic knowledge of the cuisines and ingredients of this world, broadening the reader’s horizon, teaching and explaining without ever sounding superior or academic.

Among the well-traveled recipes that propose to elope with your tastebuds to Budapest, Athens, Singapore, Colombo, Lagos, Casablanca, Bogota, or Shanghai, this one propelled me to the stove: a leek and potato soup in its simplest embodiment.

Sophie explains it is an heirloom from her family in Haute-Normandie, and what makes it special is that the most tender of the leek greens get finely sliced and briefly poached in the hot soup for texture. (If you own a miniature deep-frier — and if Maxence gets his way, I may soon have one, too — I imagine you could fry the thin strips and crown the bowls with these delicate leek tempuras.)

Because the soup doesn’t call for any artifice — it is just leeks and potatoes cooked properly –, it is of course in your best interest to use the most lovingly grown vegetables you can find. I got excellent results with sharpie-thin leeks and Monalisa potatoes from the organic farmers’ market on boulevard des Batignolles.

Post-scriptum: I just found out that the UN have declared 2008 the International Year of the Potato, to promote this hidden treasure that feeds the hungry.

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As 2007 gets ready to tiptoe out the back door, let me catch it by the sleeve and sit it down for a cup of tea and a chat, in remembrance of what the year has brought. It can then go back to packing its bags, and I to my New Year’s Eve preparations. (I have fifteen people coming to dinner and no game plan. Wish me luck.)

2007 has left me no time to idle: my cookbook came out in the spring, I went on a US book tour and on television to promote it, translated it into French, did more events in London and Paris, wrote another book on Paris restaurants and food shops, started a French version of Chocolate & Zucchini, created a silly side blog, and took on some freelance writing assignments.

It has been a good year indeed, but I look forward to 2008 even more: the French edition of my cookbook will be published by Marabout in February, my second book will come out in the US in April, I have a trip planned to Australia, and I’ve been nursing more projects and planting more seeds for the year to come — we’ll see what blooms!

And now, for the traditional list of personal awards:

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Today’s recipe is a beloved French classic I’ve always adored, and that uses just three easy ingredients!

French Coconut Macaroons, or “Rochers coco”

You may be familiar with these marvellously simple coconut cookies, but one thing you perhaps don’t know about them is this: shape matters!

Last time I made a batch of French coconut macaroons, I shaped them into small pyramids — halfway between the Pyramide du Louvre and the Tour Eiffel — instead of balls, and all tasters agreed that this seemingly inconsequential change elevated them to a much higher plane, creating the most pleasant contrast between golden crunchy ridges, softer white sides, and moist hearts.

Incidentally, this recipe is a twinkling godsend if you still haven’t gotten around to baking those elaborate food gifts you ambitioned to give out (congratulations! you’re human!). It’s quick, it’s painless, and it’s effective: who doesn’t love a good French coconut macaroon, except party-poopers who don’t deserve them anyway?

And if you have a few minutes to spare during this fun-filled time of year, you can half-dip your French coconut macaroons in bittersweet chocolate then place them on a sheet of parchment paper to set.

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