[Chocolate Dipped Apricots]

What would you do with melted chocolate leftover from making orangettes and florentins? Throw it out? You have got to be kidding.

No. The wise thing to do was rummage through my kitchen cabinets for something that would be nice and dippable. And I thus unearthed, oh joy, the large bag of dried apricots I had bought for my Apricot Sticky Toffee Pudding. These little orange nuggets keep remarkably well, and they were still plump and fragrant and delicious. I tried one or two or three just to be sure.

I dropped a few in the bowl of glorious liquid chocolate, stirring them around until they all wore a nice thick coat and all the chocolate was used up. The apricots were left out to dry and harden, then slipped in the little crystal bags along with the other chocolate gifts.

Fruit and chocolate. Simplicity at its very best, the slightly hardened layer of chocolate giving way to the tender apricot chewiness. And one could not find a better mix of chocolate sophistication and ease of preparation. In fact, I think the expression “easy as pie” should be henceforth replaced by “easy as chocolate-dipped apricots”. You with me on this?

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[Warm Tarbais Bean Salad with Walnut Oil]

The 11th edition of Is My Blog Burning?, the world-famous collaborative food blogging event, is hosted by Cathy and her theme of choice is Beans!

For my contribution, it seemed only fitting that I use the prince of beans, a.k.a Le Haricot Tarbais. Originally brought back from the New World in the 16th century, this white kidney-shaped bean is now grown specifically in the region of Tarbes, a town in the Hautes-Pyrénées. It is the only bean protected by a Label Rouge and a regional appelation, that guarantee its production method and quality.

The Haricot Tarbais has an exceptionally thin skin which underlines its soft and non-mealy texture, but still allows it to keep its shape while cooking (and makes it easier to digest, too). The richness and acidity of the soil, as well as the mix of mountain and ocean climates it grows in, result in a very subtle and unique taste.

Tarbais beans can be bought fresh, semi-dry or dry: the dry ones are usually sold at about 12 euros a kilo, making them a miniature luxury. They are much appreciated in a variety of local dishes (cassoulet, garbure…), and were more recently brought back into the limelight by a few famed chefs.

The interesting thing about the Tarbais bean is that the plant has a way of growing and blossoming that makes mecanical harvesting impossible: only the human hand will do. In the sixties, its culture was progressively abandoned because it was too costly. A few patches thankfully remained in the back of farms, harvested by the farmer’s family for their own consumption. In the eighties however, a few local farmers decided to bring the tradition back to life, and started lobbying for the proper protection of the Tarbais bean, which finally led to the creation of the Label Rouge.

I had bought a bag of these precious dry beans at G.Detou a little while back, and since this was my first time cooking with them, I decided to go for a no-frills recipe that would showcase their taste and texture in the most simple way: a warm salad sounded like a good idea on a winter night. It turned out delightfully satisfying, the peppery rucola teasing the beans’ softness, and the walnut oil dressing a great match to their nutty flavor. This will be great served as a first course, or as a side to duck or game.

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When I step into a boulangerie, or admittedly when I simply walk by one, I always give the bread shelves a quick once-over, to see if anything looks particularly good and/or unusual. It is sometimes a bit of a challenge to glance behind the boulangère, her counter, and the other customers (some of whom seem to think I’m trying to skip the line and keep a hawklike eye on me), but I have years of training behind me, so I’ve had time to refine the technique.

What I am most specifically on the lookout for are pains spéciaux (specialty breads), these loaves of bread that involve alternate kinds of flour and possibly little nuggets of goodies — dried fruits, nuts, olives, herbs, chocolate, anything small and tasty. The sweet ones make for a fabulous breakfast, the savory ones are perfect with a matching salad or soup.

Just the other day, in a boulangerie not far from my office (where they sell really good sandwiches), I spotted this loaf of bread, the label of which read “Norlander”. I had never seen any bread go by that name, and the attendant explained that it was a German-inspired rye bread with sunflower seeds and nuts. They had a plain version, and one with raisins and candied orange rind. (Need I tell you which one I picked?)

I’m happy to report that it tastes as good as it sounded, and Mr Norlander has been a faithful breakfast companion for the past week — cut in thin slices, toasted and spread with butter or jam. Of particular note are those deep ridges all along the loaf, which account for the pretty shape of the slices. And of course, as one might expect, said slices taste best along that crispy crinkled edge…

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On Saturday morning, from the attractive stall of my favorite produce merchant at the Marché des Batignolles, a potimarron is beaming up at me.

Plump orange cheeks, smooth skin with faint white lines — who could resist? I pick it up to get a better feel of its perfect shape and weight, cup it in my gloved hands, and adopt it instantly.

The stall-keeper, a pretty young woman with a crinkled felt hat, is always happy to share advice. “Potimarron is great puréed with carrots,” she offers.

I reluctantly hand her my potimarron (she has to weigh it, I know) and ask her to throw in a few carrots as well. She gets them from a crate in the back. “You don’t mind the dirt, do you? These were picked this morning and we haven’t scrubbed them yet.” Me? Oh no. I don’t mind the dirt at all.

Potimarron, a.k.a. Hokkaido squash, is a winter squash with a delicate chestnut flavor. Its French name is in fact a portmanteau of potiron (pumpkin) and marron (chestnut), and the skin of young specimens is soft enough that you don’t have to peel it. You feelin’ the love yet?

Oh, and get this: the longer a potimarron is stored, the more its vitamin and sugar content develops. Does this mean I can keep it on my bedside table for a little while, until it’s nice and ripe and chock-full of nutrients? It glows so bright I’m sure I can use it as a reading lamp. But just how long will I resist the temptation to make potimarron and carrot purée? Or potimarron gnocchi? Or potimarron jam?