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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Coquillettes au Comté et Pousses d’Epinard

A lot can be learned about your cooking self by considering what you eat when you’re on your own. I have friends who are simply not hungry when they’re alone, who forget to eat (say what?), who don’t consider it a real meal if there’s no dining companion, or — and I am not making this up — who just eat a Kinder Surprise, build the little toy and call it dinner.

What’s most surprising to me is that some of them are great cooks, but somehow they don’t find it worth the effort to use their talents if it’s just for their own benefit. I say, you should treat yourself as if you were your own guest.

Eating dinner alone is a unique opportunity to eat exactly what I please and how I please, and relish my sweet solitude.

I understand the desire to keep things simple when no one’s looking, and I’m not saying you should prepare multiple courses or unleash a parade of votive candles, but to me, dinner alone shouldn’t be expedited as if it were a chore. Instead, I see it as a unique opportunity to eat exactly what I please and how I please, and relish my sweet solitude. In my world, this usually means eating from a bowl, on the couch, while watching an episode of whatever television series I’m currently devouring.

This effortless pasta dish is one of my standbys. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is a variation on a dish I ate as a child: for a slightly more grown-up flavor, I now add shredded baby spinach leaves, which soften in the arms of the pasta, and a dash of freshly grated nutmeg to complement the greens and cheese.

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Langues de chat are classic French cookies that fall into the category of petits fours secs (“dry” petits fours, as opposed to miniature versions of pastries with buttercream, pastry cream, etc). They used to be a frequent accompaniment to ice-cream in restaurants, in rotation with cigarettes russes, but I haven’t seen that done for a while — gavottes seem to have taken their place.

“Cat’s tongues” are oval butter cookies, with a blonde center and lightly browned edges. The packaged versions one can find at French grocery stores are crunchy all over and quite decent, but the homemade langue de chat offers a nice change of texture, with thin crispy rims and a tender, slightly chewy heart.

Langues de chat are very simple to make, and they’re a great use for leftover egg whites. I usually flavor them with vanilla — delicious with a warm apricot compote — but the other day, when my mother asked if I could bring something to nibble on with tea after dinner at their house, I decided it was high time I used the small package of matcha that had been waiting around in my baking treasure box for months, and was beginning to feel a little dejected.

I was unsure how much matcha I should use, so I just added a teaspoon and a half and hoped for the best. As it turns out, this was just the right amount for the earthy green tea notes to come through, without giving the impression that you had just swallowed a spoonful of tea leaves — don’t try this at home. The flavor was lovely in an adult kind of way, the cookies an interesting shade of olive green, and we liked them so much that I baked a second batch for us the next day.

[As for the picture, it was sheer luck: we happened to be cat-sitting Maxence’s cat, who lives with his mother (Maxence’s, that is). I am normally not much of a cat person but I’ve known this one for over nine years, and she and I cohabit courteously enough, although I hate it when she sleeps on my feet. Anyway. Just as I was shooting pictures of the cookies, she got curious (“Green tea cat’s tongues? What a peculiar idea!”), came closer for a second, and I was able to tilt the camera and catch her with the cookies just before she turned her attention to some fly-chasing activity or other; I couldn’t have staged it if I’d tried. Update: Sadly, Maxence’s cat died last summer, not long after this picture was taken. Wherever she is now, I hope she has plenty of tuna to eat and cables to chew.]

[This post originally appeared in June of 2006.]

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