[Swiss Chard and Parsnip Soup]

… a.k.a. the smoothest soup to ever be born on my stove. Yes: after months of coveting and weighing and dreaming and stealthily searching eBay, I finally caved in and treated myself to my very first immersion blender. I am slowly taking in what that means — onions and herbs chopped in a pinch, banana milkshakes, velvety soups and most importantly, stiff egg whites without the forearm cramps — and I could just clap my hands in happy anticipation if you weren’t looking.

The first thing I used the new toy for was this soup (actually that’s not true, I first used it to turn a piece of stale bread into breadcrumbs but I figured that wasn’t quite post-worthy). These days, the inspiration for most of the soups I make comes from just walking to the produce stall, choosing two vegetables that look healthy and well-behaved, then celebrating their marriage hastily with a very small crowd (just two witnesses, onions and garlic) in my cast-iron chapel.

It’s very difficult to go wrong with the pairing of just two vegetables — particularly if they’re in season at the same time — and this soup was no exception: complementary flavors (“Green and slightly bitter”, said the chard. “Starchy and subtly sweet”, replied the parsnip.) and a unique textural understanding between the two, never-before witnessed in my kitchen until the magic blender entered it, with its shiny, immaculate cape and its faithful following of fancy little accessories.

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Image courtesy of Heidi Swanson

For the second time now, Pim has put on her fundraiser hat and enrolled us food bloggers to help: in this new Menu for Hope campaign, she is organizing a virtual raffle to raise money for the earthquake victims in Northern India and Pakistan, who are still in dire need of help. The funds will be collected by Unicef through the First Giving website (and no money will pass through our hands).

How does this work? Each participating food blogger has donated a prize for the raffle, and the list can be found here — quite the Prévert inventory. Readers are invited to donate $5, which will get them a raffle ticket and a chance to win the prize of their choice. You are more than welcome to give more if you can: each $5 will get you one chance to win. Don’t forget to note, in the comment section of your donation, which prize(s) you are interested in. At the end of the campaign on Dec. 23, we will have a drawing and pick one winner per prize. The results will be announced after Jan. 1.

The gift I am contributing is the gift of haute-couture sweets: I will treat the winner to pastries at Pierre Hermé as soon as he or she sets foot in Paris, to be gaily sampled (read: devoured) with a cup of tea at the nearby Café de la Mairie, sitting at the terrace if it’s sunny. For examples of what that might entail, you can read some of my past accounts. Think you might like that? Then head over to the First Giving website and donate $5 for your raffle ticket!

Hold the fruit lightly in your left hand. With the edge of your right thumb nail, cut a slit through the thin skin, close to the stem. Pull the skin up and away carefully, trying to pluck most of the white strands from the little nostril. Keep tearing at the thin peel, working your way down and around, until the clementine is completely naked. If it is still clutching a few scraps of pith out of modesty, remove those too. Pull the fruit gently apart in two halves, separate each segment and pop them into your mouth, one by one.

Thin-skinned pulpy bites bursting open on your tongue, the juices sweet and fresh and acidulated like candy. And afterwards, all afternoon, that lingering smell on the tip of your fingers. Orange-blossom essence with a hint of bitterness, a fragrance of crisp, bright winter days, for the sake of which you would happily volunteer to peel your friends’ clementines at the school cafeteria — and still do now with your boyfriend.

What distinguishes the Corsican clementine from other varieties of clementines? It is the only clementine produced in France — Spain and Morocco being our top two suppliers — and it can be found on markets and fruit stalls between November and January. Small, delicate and juicy, its segments are snugly enclosed in a thin smooth skin. Its peel displays a slight green tinge early in the season — nothing to do with jealousy or being picked too soon, this happens when fall nights aren’t cold enough to turn the chlorophyll into orange pigment.

Good-natured like all clementines (a sub-variety of mandarins), it has no seeds and is easy to peel. Perhaps even more characteristically, the Corsican clementine is hand-picked and sold with its thin, deep-green leaves still attached, lending it a definite air of elegance, and giving the wise consumer a unmistakable indication of the fruit’s freshness.

This year is a good year for quality, but not quantity — the annual crop will be about fifteen thousand tons instead of the average twenty — so if you stumble upon a crate of these bright jewels, snatch it while you can. Keep the fruit at room temperature and eat them within five days or so: on their own, or use them to make marmelades, salads, a sauce for game, candied peel, etc.

[Apples and Pears with Caramels]

I love having friends over for an impromptu weeknight dinner. I love going out to restaurants too, I’ve probably made that clear by now, but having them at home is something else entirely — warmer and more intimate. It allows you to choose your own musical ambiance (a nice random mix from the Squeezebox), move to the couch for a good cup of tea after dinner, and have conversations that you wouldn’t dream of letting anyone overhear in a crowded bistro. Although admittedly, that means no eavesdropping for you either.

On such occasions I like to keep things casual and homey, and while I sometimes take the opportunity to cook something a little involved, I often prepare dishes that I would make for myself — usually just a main course and a simple dessert. In a way, I think this can make your friends feel even more welcome: they’re part of the family and you’re comfortable enough with them that you don’t need to put on a show and prepare a feast if you’re a bit tired or pressed for time.

Last week when my friend Laurence came to dinner it was freezing, and warm apples and pears sounded like the perfect dessert option. I was about to bake them with just a little sugar, when I saw a little box of salted butter caramels on the counter, a souvenir from Brittany, and thought I would use a few to sweeten the fruit instead.

This was very quickly put together — just a bit of peeling and coring and chopping while we chatted. And as the pears and apples baked, as they turned golden, the caramel chips melted and blended with the syrupy juices seeping from the fruit, creating a fragrant and buttery sauce. A few spoonfuls of this warm and soft compote, served in a glass and topped with a little dollop of crème fraîche, was unanimously described as a crustless tarte tatin — just what we needed.

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