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.

~~~

* 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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All right, I’m back! Technically, I have been back from my vacation for ten days, but as soon as I returned, I left again to be a witness at the wedding of two of my favorite people in the world, an honor and a duty that I took very seriously, although they ended up requiring very little work from me — the purchase of a pretty dress, the signing of a registry, and, at one point, the making of a salad dressing.

No sooner had I touched ground after the ceremony and assorted celebrations that I found myself aboard the Eurostar, whooshing my way to London for two booksigning events, a few nice meals, and an elating food shopping session at the new Kensington Whole Foods store, with the best food shopping companion one could hope for, one with the curiosity of a child and the stamina of a marathon runner.

It took me a few days to recover and attempt to catch up with three weeks of unanswered emails — the gods of the Internet are chuckling, presumably at the absurdity of such an ambition — but here I am now, ready to take over the world or, at the very least, refill the gaunt shelves of our fridge and start cooking anew.

And just like every child deserves cool gear to start a fresh school year, I have acquired a new little helper.

Please meet my Laguiole pocket knife!

Eleven centimeters* when folded, twenty when it stands at full height, it has a rosewood handle, a Swedish stainless steel blade, and a hand-forged, hand-etched spring adorned with the signature bee (some say it is a fly; I say feh). It is sharp, it is beautiful, and I haven’t been this knife-proud since my father bought me a tiny opinel when I was eight.

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I love plums. I love that they are small and that you can rinse a few of them at a time, whirling them in your hand like Baoding balls. I love that they come in sundry shapes and colors to match your outfit, I love that they have a pit that you can spit out into the sink, and I love that they grow on trees under which you can stand, look up, and feel like all is right in the world. I love even the name, plum, how it rolls off the tip of your tongue, and the French version of it, prune, which makes your lips purse as if you’d eaten an underripe specimen.

I have to say, though, that a sunny September day a few years ago very nearly ruined plums for me: this was the day that Maxence and I stumbled upon a pick-your-own farm in Alsace. We spent a few euphoric hours filling buckets of mirabelles (tiny, goldenrod plums with dark orange freckles) and quetsches (egg-shaped, purple-blue plums, which resemble damsons but are much sweeter) and gorging on them as we went (the sign said we could), after a quick brushing off of the powdery white veil called bloom (pruine in French) — a sure sign of a plum’s freshness, since it vanishes shortly after the fruit has been picked.

I have since then found it difficult to procure the kind of fragrant, tree-ripened plums that would live up to the memory: the Gérardmer market has crates of them of course, but produce shops in Paris tend to offer plums that have been picked a touch early so they’ll travel without bruising, and anyone with half a taste bud knows that plums were not meant to end their ripening on a kitchen counter.

But, if you’re bold enough to ask the merchant for a taste, and bold enough to say, “Um, maybe not,” when the plum is not to your liking (if you develop a friendly relationship with your produce guy, boldness is not required; a simple smile will do), this will guarantee that only ripe, sweet, juicy plums pass your threshold. And when that happens, perhaps you can bake a tart to congratulate yourself.

The following is a simple variation on my mother’s classic tarte aux quetsches: instead of pouring an egg and cream custard over the plums, I lined the tart shell with crème de noix, the same mixture of walnuts, eggs, sugar, and crème fraîche that is used in walnut tarts in the Périgord. I deliberately used little sugar in the walnut cream, so a slight edge of bitterness could be heard through the sweetness of the sandy crust and caramelized plums. The use of unrefined cane sugar added a faintly earthy note to the ensemble, making it a most appropriate treat for a late summer or fall day.

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