I tasted my first canelé some seven years ago, at Eric Kayser’s boulangerie on rue Monge. Maxence had a friend who lived nearby, they often worked on school projects together, and whenever they felt like a break and a snack, this is where they would go. Maxence adored their canelés, ordered them often, and made me try them.

Delicious. Simply delicious.

Canelés (alternate spelling: cannelés) are made from a batter that resembles a crepe batter. It is poured into copper molds of a special cylinder shape (sort of like a short section of a Roman tower) and baked at a high temperature until a darkly caramelized crust develops, hiding and protecting a moist, tender and slightly chewy heart. The batter also calls for vanilla and rum, so canelés are intensely flavored but not too sweet, and they have a freshness, a cleanness of taste that makes you want to eat half a dozen in one sitting. But of course, um, you don’t. You do, however, eat them for breakfast, dessert or just a snack in the afternoon.

Canelés are a specialty from Bordeaux that dates back (most likely) from the 18th century. It remained pretty obscure for centuries until a brotherhood of the canelé was created to promote it in the 80’s. Their efforts were very successful and the canelé came back in style over the following years — it can now be found in almost every boulangerie in Paris. (A cynical and/or well-informed friend told me once that pastry stores loved canelés because they keep really well and you can just keep selling the same stale ones for days before you have to throw them out.)

The traditional canelé is baked in copper molds, but those are pricy and rather tedious to use (you have to butter or beeswax them like your life depends on it), so nowadays home bakers use silicone molds — not exactly the same results, but good enough.

Maxence bought ours at a market stand on vacation a few years ago, and I’ve been using my aunt’s recipe to make frequent batches of canelés.

The batter is so easy to put together it’s really laughable, and then it’s just a matter of waiting — for the batter to rest, and for the canelés to bake and cool down. They keep very well for a few days in a metal box: the crust will soften (some people like that) but you can just put them back into the warm oven (say 200° C, or 400 °F) for five minutes and then let them cool again before eating: they will regain some of their original crustiness.

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Two years ago today, I hit “publish” on my very first post for Chocolate & Zucchini. I had been toying with the idea for a few weeks, debating with myself whether or not to start my own blog. Of course I didn’t have the faintest notion what this would all lead to, what adventures, discoveries, encounters and life changes awaited me.

Life changes? Yes, indeed: today seems like the perfect day to announce that I have just signed a book deal with a NYC publisher, that I have quit my dayjob and that I now live the happy life of a full-time writer, working on the book and a miscellany of other projects. Excited, thrilled, gleeful and proud is how I feel — but most delightful of all, free. There is no price tag on that.

I have said before what a gratifying journey this has been, and would like to thank you all for reading me and supporting me. Creating C&Z is the best thing I have ever done, it has brought me so many unexpected gifts, and it would be nothing without you.

Just like last year I’m thinking of throwing a little party for those of us who live (or happen to be) in Paris. I’m still working out the details but they will be posted very soon.

[And before you ask, that little jewel pictured above is a celebratory tartlet (fig and lemon thyme on an almond pastry — outstanding) that I purchased at Pain de Sucre, a new and very promising pastry shop that was recommended to me by a reader (merci Stéphane!). They have a striking selection of creative tartlets and pastries and desserts in glasses, I have heard great things about their brioche, and they have the most tempting stuffed bread rolls that look like pains au chocolat, only savory. The shop is located at 14 rue de Rambuteau in the 3rd, and is open everyday from 8am to 8:30pm, except Tuesdays and Wednesdays.]

I have a new piece appearing today on NPR’s weekly Kitchen Window column: this one is all about putting together a cheese platter, how to serve it and what to enjoy it with.

And on the picture above, you will recognize — from left to right — an ash-coated goat cheese from the Deux-Sèvres, a Pont-l’Evêque from Normandy, and a Perail des Cabasses, a sheep’s milk cheese from Aveyron.

(Previous contributions to Kitchen Window:
– Fresh Herb Muffins
– Cherry Soup with Hazelnut Rosemary Tuiles
– Artichoke and Goat Cheese Mille-feuille,
– Asparagus Confit with Almonds and Rosemary,
– Chocolate and Candied Ginger Tartlets.)

[Carrot Chestnut Soup]

Fall officially came into office barely a week ago, and while the weather hasn’t been particularly drab (we’ve even had a few unseasonally beautiful days), it seems as though a giant switch had been flicked in some great control room somewhere: all of a sudden, with no warning at all, I felt like eating soup.

So. Veggies were purchased, a cocotte was whipped out (this is just a manner of speaking considering the weight of it, but ’tis the spirit that counts), and this carrot chestnut soup was improvized.

In fact, I fully intended to make a leek and carrot soup, but just as I was looking for onions in our onions-and-miscellaneous-other-things drawer, I spotted a half-open package of brise de châtaigne, purchased at the Salon Saveur last spring. Brise de châtaigne could be described as tiny nuggets of dried chestnuts. I had first discovered it at the previous spring edition of that food show, had enjoyed it tremendously — as illustrated by these galettes for instance — and was looking for new ways to use it.

Brise de châtaigne works really well in this soup: it cooks side by side with the carrots, and both ingredients are such good friends in terms of flavor and texture that they team up beautifully to create one hearty and velvety soup, with plenty of aromatic subtleties (the caraway seeds bring in a nice touch without talking too loud) and a delightful sweetness, the perfect fit for autumnal moods.

Note: I have indicated chestnut substitutions in the recipe, but if you’d like to try brise de châtaigne for yourself you can contact the producer, Maurice Zerathe, at +33 (0)4 75 39 26 39 and enquire about the cost of shipping and handling for the number of packages you would like and where you want them shipped.

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