[Egg in Aspic]

And today, let me introduce you to one of the quirky wonders of old-school French charcuterie: the Oeuf en Gelée.

It’s a simple preparation, really: a fresh egg, expertly poached into a plump oval, nested in an amber casing of veal aspic, and supported by a few benevolent companions — here, a strip of cooked ham, a bit of chopped parsley, a small piece of tomato and a slice of cornichon.

I am well aware that this may not seem like such a compelling idea, and may even put off more than one aspic-shy eater. I myself turned my nose up at these eggs for years, dismissing them as an obsolete oddity, quite literally congealed in time.

But that was before I actually tasted them (and before I realized you can’t just decide you don’t like something before you’ve even tried it). Maxence had been a long-time fan — it was always a treat when his mother got him one for lunch — and when we started living and food-shopping together in Paris, he persuaded me to give them a chance. I was pleasantly surprised, and quick to join him in his devotion.

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[Macaron from Amiens]

The French macaron seems to have gained international fame in the past few years, but I thought it was time to dispell a common misconception: the delicate confection, made of two rounds of shiny and smooth almond meringue sandwiched together by a creamy filling, is not the only type of French macaron one can enjoy. The one that benefits from the spotlight is the Ladurée-style macaron, sometimes referred to as the macaron parisien, and it is really the tree that hides the forest, if I may use a French expression.

Macaron confections can be traced back to the 17th century, and many French cities have made it their specialty: St-Emilion, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, Boulay, Montmorillon, Lauzerte, Nancy, Châteaulin, Massiac, Cormery, and the list goes on and on. Although there are slight differences between all these macarons, the basic idea remains the same: they are made from ground almonds, sugar, and egg whites, with the occasional addition of honey, sweet almond oil, bitter almond extract, or any secret ingredient that I wouldn’t know about because it’s, well, secret.

All of them have a round shape and a natural color, tan or golden. They are usually baked on a cookie sheet, which gives them a flattened disk shape, and some versions (the St-Emilion one in particular) are baked directly on sheets of ordinary (non-parchment) paper, from which the eater tears off each little macaron. Their surface can be smooth, grainey, or crackled, but in all cases they boast a crispy crust that gives way to a moist, chewy interior.

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This is the third episode of my Book Update series, in which I share the ins and outs of writing a cookbook — or at least the way I’m tackling it. (You can read the first two parts about The Book Deal and The Recipes.)

Back in late July, when the sun was shining bright and the air was crisp with elation and hope and the workmen had not yet adorned the facade of my building with an ugly brace of light-depriving scaffolding, the list of recipes was ready. That was all good and dandy, but of course the real work was just about to begin.

My mission, should I choose to accept it — and considering I had signed a contract in blue ballpoint pen there seemed to be little doubt about that — was to bring these recipes to life by testing, tasting, and writing them up if I deemed them worthy of my readers’ taste buds.

Since my previous dayjob had taught me that any project looks easier on a spreadsheet, I drew one up with two tabs: the first one was labelled “To test”, listing my seventy-five recipes, and the other one “Tested”, which looked dauntingly empty at first.

In the to-test list, I flagged the recipes that I could cook for my weekday lunches, the ones that were more suitable for company, the ones that were easy (because they were already tried and true and I just needed to give them a final whirl to check quantities and cooking times), and the ones that required a little reflection and research (because I knew what I wanted to achieve, but didn’t quite know how yet). I also highlighted those recipes that had a high seasonal factor, with ingredients that made a fleeting appearance on market stalls — such as strawberries, nectarines, or young zucchini — to make sure I tested them in their right time.

I started to work my way through the list, choosing whichever recipe fitted the day’s mood, taking every opportunity to share the fruits of my labor and get outside opinions, striving to test three or four recipes a week, getting dangerously backlogged when other writing projects competed for my time, and then doubling my efforts to make up for it. We’ve been eating quite well I must say, and I thank my lucky stars that we have a dishwasher (the appliance, not the employee).

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[War Ration Stamps]

As if those two books my grandmother gave me weren’t fascinating enough, leafing through them unearthed other treasures, slipped between the pages over the years.

A yellowed advertisement for a bottled remedy called Le Contre-Coups de l’Abbé Perdrigeon (Abbot Perdrigeon’s back-kick), which will help you recover from heavy falls and blows, brain congestion, apoplexy, and will ease the pain from arthritis, rhumatisms, hypertension, and miscellaneous maladies de la cinquantaine, those ailments that hit you in your fifties.

An ugly promotional bookmark for the Larousse dictionary (“Le Larousse est toujours à la page”, the Larousse is always up-to-date). A torn little card from a rest home near Paris, Le Château de Grignon. A thin book with instructions on how to use a mysterious powdered binding agent called Zite, which purportedly replaced eggs, butter and oil in recipes. A scrap of paper on which my grandmother copied one of her (and my) favorite poems, Le Dormeur du Val.

And in an old envelope, faded strips of ration stamps from March and April 1946, allowing you to buy meat (90 grams per stamp) and fat (50 grams per stamp); the food rationing in France went on for four years after the end of World War II, until 1949.

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