Perhaps you remember the fig ice cream I wrote about earlier in the fall. Wanting to bolster the spirit of my fresh figs — the last of the season — I set out to buy dried figs, only to be told that my organic shop was all out, and still waiting for the new crop to be delivered. Aha! This made complete sense — fresh figs need a little time to dry, yes? — but the seasonality of dried fruits wasn’t a matter I’d ever given much thought to.

Not a fortnight later, waiting in line at the little stand at the Batignolles market where I buy my walnuts and such, I caught sight of a cardboard sign that read, “Figues séchées, nouvelle récolte!” Next to it was a box of baglama figs* from Turkey, wreathed together by a crude string that looped and looped around their tips.

Dried, yes, undoubtedly, but still soft, plump, and holding their pouch-like shape: a far cry from the shrivelled pucks one ordinarily comes across. These were the most glowing dried figs I’d ever seen, and I didn’t need the tasting sample that was kindly offered to know I would not go home without a fig garland.

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[Homemade Tisane]

Sometimes it worries me how much herbal tea I drink.

You see, I love coffee, I adore tea, and nothing warms my heart and my quill like having a hot mug within mitten’s reach. But as I get older*, it seems I can’t drink caffeine like I used to could**.

Maxence and I share a pot of light-brewed American-style coffee — also known to the French as jus de chaussette — over the course of the morning, and I’ll have the occasional espresso after lunch, or I might steep myself a cup of tea at some point in mid-afternoon. But the rest of the time, if I want the “off” button in my brain to function when I go to bed, I must turn my affections to other beverages — namely, herbal teas.

I know, I know, herbal tea can be frightfully boring, and just uttering the words — whether you say “herbal tea,” or “tisane,” or “infusion” — can make you feel about a hundred years old.

However, I have found that, just like vitamins can be added back to nutrient-stripped processed foods, the fun can be added back to the tisane by the simple process of mixing your own blend — think of it as designing your own fragrance, yes?

I buy my ingredients in bulk from specialty stores (see Paris sources below), combine them to suit my taste, and keep my custom-made tisane in a tea canister, in which it barely has time to settle before it’s time to mix some more.

These days, my basic formula is as follows:

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Squeamish eaters, avert your eyes, and let me direct you here, here, or perhaps here.

For the others, those who don’t blanch at the mere mention of the words “tripe” or “beef tongue,” those who own a dog-eared copy of the nose-to-tail bible* or have it on their wishlist, here is the dish I made last weekend with the beef kidneys I’d bought from my organic butcher — an entirely uneventful visit this time, 100% free of any impulse to punch anyone.

I am an offal enthusiast myself, sweetbreads being my favorite, but this was my first time cooking anything more involved than liver, so a bit of online research was in order.

The offal fairies must have been watching over me from their flying udders, because things turned out very well in the end — an out-and-out success according to Maxence, the sauce dark and silky, the kidney slices springy but yielding.

This revealed that the kidneys of lamb and veal were milder, easier to deal with, and thus preferable to those of beef (fat lot of good that did me), but that the latter could be effectively tamed by a good dousing of vinegared boiling water (who wouldn’t). I also read that beef kidneys fared best in plats en sauce, i.e., dishes with a sauce component, but the handful of recipes I found couldn’t seem to reach a consensus on whether the kidneys should be boiled to death, or briefly seared.

I didn’t have all day, so I decided a brief searing would do.

I was a little nervous, for I rated my fiasco potential as a solid 8 on a scale of 1 to 10: I had never seen anyone cook a kidney before in my life, I was just about to launch into a relative improv, and, without getting too graphic, the smell of the raw kidneys, pre-blanching, was frankly off-putting (just think of what kidneys do for a living).

But the offal fairies must have been watching over me from their flying udders, because things turned out very well in the end — an out-and-out success according to Maxence, the sauce dark and silky, the kidney slices springy but yielding, their boldness supported by that of the mushrooms, but mitigated by the onions and the parsley — except for that one detail: rarely has my stove seen a less photogenic preparation, so you’ll have to make do with the work-in-progress pictures above.

* A masterpiece of cookbook writing, whether or not you ambition to roll your own pig’s spleen some day. I hear Henderson’s second book ain’t bad either.

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If you’re the observant type, you may have noticed the walk-on actor in the fig sorbet picture two weeks ago. And you know what happens to walk-ons when they’re talented and good-lookin’ and lucky: they graduate to leading roles. Today is the cookie’s big break; today, the cookie gets to be the hero of the post.

The recipe comes from Laurence Salomon’s cookbook, Fondre de plaisir*, which I purchased after reading about it on so many French food blogs that it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Who is Laurence Salomon?” you may ask — and a valid question it is. She’s the chef of Nature & Saveur (need I translate?), a restaurant in the town of Annecy. She trained as a naturopath before she became a chef, and her cuisine, which I hear is outstanding, focuses on whole ingredients, health, and balance.

I was 100% sold on the idea, but I can’t say the book had me jumping up and down with excitement, or feverishly earmarking recipes. Don’t get me wrong: it is a good book, full of valuable tips and information, but it feels a little too ascetic for me, the voice of the nutritionist a little too present. I’m holding on to it because I feel it has things to teach me, but it’s not the sort of book that I crack open with a grumble in my stomach, rubbing my hands and thinking, “So! What’s for dinner tonight?”

Small wonder then, that the first recipe I try from it should be a cookie. The recipe can be found on page 156, where it features as a crumble-like topping over the Compotée pommes-abricots au yaourt de soja vanillé et coulis de noisette (stewed apples and apricots with vanilla soy yogurt and hazelnut coulis).

I might not have noticed the recipe at all if it weren’t for Claire, who had used it as a sorbet accessory last June. And I’m immensely grateful she did, because these are the best sablés I’ve made in a long time — my live-in taste-tester would tell you as much if he didn’t have his mouth full.

I modified the recipe a little bit (ahem) to use butter (instead of margarine), spelt instead of oats (it’s what I had on hand), pepper instead of cinnamon (cinnamon bores me, while a dash of pepper exalts the flavor of hazelnuts like no other), and rose water in place of plain water: the cookies were to be served with my fig sorbet, and rose and fig are notorious flavor pals.

And as a final bonus, let me share the following life-altering tip. Have you ever chopped hazelnuts with a knife? Is it not maddening how they go flying every which way, so that you end up with more hazelnuts lurking amongst your spice jars and rolling underfoot, than on your cutting board? Fret no more, for there is a better way: equip yourself with a sturdy food storage bag and a heavy-bottomed pan. Place the hazelnuts, whole, inside the storage bag. Zip the bag shut, place it on a cutting board, and bang on it with all your might. Feel better now?

* Fondre de plaisir translates roughly to “melting from pleasure”, which can be understood as shedding pounds while still eating well. It isn’t a diet book at all, but I’m guessing the publisher didn’t mind the ambiguity.

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