Ah, the Curse of the Potluck and its familiar dilemmas that grip and nag — what to bring, what to bring?

Something sweet, something savory? Something indulgent that will please everyone who doesn’t know how much butter went into it, or something healthful so your friends will live longer with a healthy heart and glowing skin?

An old favorite that won’t let you down but won’t electrify anyone either, or a new recipe that has great potential but involves a non-negligible risk of failure, mortification, and the glare of disgrace cast upon your offspring for seven generations?

Add to the equation the need for something that will require neither silverware nor last-minute prep and that will travel well in the basket of your vélib during the cross-city ride, and you’ve got yourself one big-mama quandary.

And yet, in the murk, the gleam of an idea that would tie all those loose strings together: bite-size scones, flavored with aged Parmesan, carrots, and home-grown rosemary.

Savory yet so caressing in texture as to be almost sweet, indulgent but not damnably so (hey, there’s carrots in there!), they would be built as a riff on this time-honored recipe. Safely wrapped in foil, they would be transported to their final destination, where they would be stacked on a serving plate I would also bring, so my friend the hostess wouldn’t need to rummage for one and I would earn brownie points (she makes really good brownies) for being so provident.

Everything went as planned: I did not burn the scones, I managed to fend off hungry fingers for most of the afternoon (a few specimens had to be sacrificed to appease the gods of the 5 o’clock munchies), and the scones soon found a comfortable spot in which to settle, cozying up to the marvels produced by the other contributing cooks.

The one thing that did not go as planned had nothing to do with the potluck party, or my scones. It stings nonetheless.

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Speaking of which — have you noticed the little French flag floating around in the upper right-hand corner of this page, and at the bottom of some entries? It links to the brand-new French version of C&Z, where I will, from here on in, publish a translation of the recipes with an abridged intro.

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Perhaps you remember Braden and Laura from the post I wrote about their underground restaurant venture: Hidden Kitchen has been doing well since then, waiting list and all, and Maxence and I have had the finger-licking pleasure of going back to their apartment a few times, as friends, on their off nights.

Last time we did was burger night or, more accurately, slider night*, Laura having reached the point where, after a severe bout of experimentitis the sort of which bakers are prone to, she was finally happy with her homemade buns.

I remember when this popular potato side was first introduced, back in my teenage days, when a fast food meal still felt like a treat, before or after catching a movie on the Champs-Elysées.

Once we’d arrived, greeted Tati, who’s running for Cutest Dog in the Underground Restaurant Business, settled down for an apéritif drink, eaten a few canapés, and scraped the last drop of a chilled lettuce soup — this is when you should start to get a better idea of what Braden and Laura call an “off night” –, the sliders appeared, keeping warm under their miniature brushed metal cloches.

And alongside the sliders came a platter of golden potato wedges that prompted Maxence and me to clap our hands (okay, only I clapped my hands) and exclaim: “Oh! Des deluxe potatoes!”

Jo Jo Potatoes or Deluxe Potatoes?

You see, in France, those who visit the Fast Food Chain with the Golden Arches are given a choice of two potato sides with their (quote unquote) burger: dishwater blond, slim fries (des frites), or skin-on, breaded and fried potato wedges called deluxe potatoes, pronounced with a French accent and served with a mayo-like dressing.

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I have to admit that the C&Z anniversary takes me by surprise each fall: I was drifting off to dreamland a few nights ago when I was seized by the sudden worry that I had let the day slide by unnoticed. I jumped out of bed, checked the calendar — all right, four more days to go — and resumed my dozing activities.

It’s not that the world would self-pulverize if I forgot, but it has become a tradition of mine to take this anniversary as an opportunity to look back on the weeks, months, and years since the birth of Chocolate & Zucchini, and indulge in a tall cup of thankful thoughts, topped with whipped joy and multicolored flecks of vertigo.

What this blog has done for me over the past four years, the places it has taken me*, the people I’ve interacted with, the things I’ve learned, the flavors I’ve tasted, the friends I’ve made — these blessings continue to amaze and fulfill me, making me feel happy and alive every day, which is all I wish upon anyone.

Above all, it is you, readers of C&Z, that I want to thank: this blog wouldn’t amount to much if it weren’t for you, your visits, your words, and your support. Thank you.

If you happen to be in Paris on Tuesday, October 9th, and want to join us and celebrate, it will be my pleasure to thank you in person. We’ll be at Floors, a great bar and diner that has just opened at 100 rue Myrha in the 18th (M° Anvers or Château-Rouge / map it!), starting from 7pm for a pre-dinner drink, and will stay on to eat there afterwards. (And I will have my trusty sharpie with me, so if you bring a copy of the C&Z book, I will gladly sign it for you.)

* And it looks like it may take me as far as Australia next year! Could I be more thrilled?

The really nice thing when you come back from a vacation, however lovely, is the fresh set of eyes you can lay on your living quarters, and all the things that make them homey and yours.

Your bed, not too firm but not flabby either, and wide enough that two normal-size individuals can stretch their legs without starting a war. Your shower handle, and its nifty flow modes that you can fiddle with to match your shower mood. An oven you can trust, as opposed to an oven that scorches your apple cake the first chance it gets. And, perhaps, a still-very-new-and-still-very-exciting appliance, like, say, an ice cream maker.

I knew I’d have a kitchen to call my own for part of our vacation so I briefly caressed the idea of taking my new toy with me when we left, but even I had to admit the silliness of such a plan. As it turns out, good ice cream was always available in our hour of need, in particular during a few furnace-hot days in Dordogne, when a salon de thé called La Maison de Léo* helped us cool off between canoe rides with numerous helpings of rose ice cream.

Replicating this pale pink gem is high on my back-to-school to-do list, but while I do my homework and figure out the how, the what, and the how much of each, I would like to share the recipe for this coconut ice cream, which I winged and churned when we returned, having wisely left the bowl of my ice cream maker in the freezer, and all the necessary ingredients in the pantry.

Even after you’ve set aside the ones that call for fresh coconuts**, there is no dearth of coconut ice cream recipes roaming the wild wild internet. I’ve found recipes that use canned coconut milk, and I’ve found recipes that steep grated coconut in regular milk or cream before straining it out, but I wanted the best of both worlds: a vegan coconut ice cream based on coconut milk, and plenty of toasted flecks of coconut in each mouthful.

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* La Maison de Léo / 14 place d’Armes / 24170 Belvès / map it! / 05 53 28 29 37.

** I’ve refused to deal with them myself ever since an unfortunate incident involving two members of my immediate family, an innocent coconut, and a fourth floor balcony.

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