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?

[Apple Pistachio Tart]

Ever since I laid my hands on a can of pistachio paste for the Bar à Veloutés, I have been looking for ways to use the precious stuff and make the most of it. So far I have made crème brûlée à la pistache (adding a little to my regular crème brûlée recipe), pistachio cookies and chocolate pistachio cake, all of which I was very happy with. I have also donated some to a couple of friends, but it looks as if I’ve hardly made a dent in my supply. Apparently, what I have purchased is not your average can at all but is, in fact, The Magic Bottomless Can of Pistachio Paste. Would you believe my luck.

Every time I have a baking opportunity, the Magic Can makes an appearance, with a hopeful stance and a tilt of the lid. However much I love pistachio and however successful these previous forays have been, I cannot become the All-Pistachio Baker you see, so I don’t always indulge it. But when Maxence’s aunt and uncle came to dinner recently I did, and made this apple and pistachio tart. The Magic Bottomless Can went off in a wild happy dance, causing quite a stir on its refrigerator shelf of residence.

This tart uses my favorite tart crust recipe (a priceless gift from my mom), with one third of the butter replaced with pistachio paste. This resulted in a beautifully green dough, which unfortunately turned golden brown outside upon baking, but still remained slightly green inside. The crust turned out crispy and deliciously flavorful, and went beautifully with the soft layer of apples and cream, and the sprinkle of sugar and chopped pistachios.

The overall effect was rather striking and the tart was much appreciated by my enthusiastic taste-testers. I will most definitely make this again, the only thing I will do differently is up the butter content in the dough to make it a tad more crumbly, as it turned out a little too crispy in my opinion (the recipe below includes that modification).

PS If this teaches us one lesson, it is this: pistachio paste is rather pricey, true, but a little goes a long, long, and I mean long way. Find a few friends, siblings or coworkers, and share the can and the expense with them!

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[A Simple Soup]

Is the weather cold and chilly and rainy and overcast (check all that apply)? Does it make you a little gloomy? Have you somewhat over-indulged during the holidays? Do you feel a little guilty? These are all perfectly benign symptoms, don’t you worry. All you need is a nice, warm, chunky bowl of soup.

The recipe that follows is not set in stone by any means. I just made it with these vegetables because they were the ones I had on hand, leftover from other recipes. But somehow, this random little group of marooned veggies turned out to form the A-team for this lovely mid-winter soup, subtly sweet and fragrant — mashed to perfection by the newly acquired super duper presse-purée.

You will notice that I have flavored the soup with the Bed of Roses spice rub, brought to us by The Cape Herb and Spice Company, a South-African producer I’ve mentioned before. This fabulous spice mix was sent to me by Santa Claus in a bountiful package of foodie goodies. (Did you know that Santa Claus is actually a she and lives in NYC, that her name is Julie and that she reads C&Z? I didn’t know either.) It comes in a pretty tin, and is a mix of no less than “ginger, roasted garlic, sea salt, caraway seeds, sugar, roasted sesame seeds, cumin, paprika, cassia, chillies, coriander, blackpepper, turmeric, mint, nutmeg, grains of paradise, rose petals and saffron”! (Um, yeah, why don’t you try and recreate it at home?) Its aroma is very full-bodied and complex, and it went deliciously well in this soup. Thanks Julie!

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Are you looking for a homemade galette des rois recipe?

It is a typically French tradition to celebrate l’Epiphanie: this holiday celebrates the day on which the three kings Gaspard, Balthazar and Melchior came to pay their tribute to the world-famous baby born just a couple of weeks before. In French those wise men go by the cool name of Les Rois Mages (the Magi), and their first names are totally coming back in fashion these days, let me tell you. (Well, except maybe for Melchior, that’s a tough one.)

Like many a Christian holiday, this one has lost its religious significance in most French families, gaining a sweeter, much more buttery one in the bargain: on the day of the Epiphany, families share a Galette des Rois, a flaked pastry pie filled with frangipane, a butter-rich, smooth mixture of crème d’amande (almond cream) and crème pâtissière (pastry cream)*.

The actual date on which to have the galette has gotten fuzzier and fuzzier: some families celebrate on the 6th, some on the first Sunday in January, but it’s mostly considered fine to celebrate it all through the month of January. (I must however protest against the sale of galettes before the new year, and sometimes as soon as November. I mean, really.)

The fabulous thing about a Galette des Rois, apart from its deliciousness, is the family ritual that goes with it: the youngest child of the family hides under the table, an adult divides the galette in even slices, and the child calls out which slice goes to whom.

Why all the fuss you ask? Aah, it is just this small thing I haven’t yet mentioned: la fève is hidden in the galette. Historically a dry fava bean (hence the name), it is now a little porcelain figure. (That figure used to have some kind of religious meaning but that, too, has gone the way of the dodo.) Whoever gets the fève in his serving is named King (or Queen) for the day, gets to wear the golden paper crown that came with the galette, picks who the Queen (or King) will be, and glows with pride for weeks hence.

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