Amongst the many riches Chocolate & Zucchini has brought me, I think it is safe to say that new friends are the most precious. In particular, a small group of us here in Paris has started gathering around potluck dinners every month or so. Some of us are bloggers, some of us are readers, all of us are enthusiastic cooks and eaters. The potlucks are hosted in turn by one or the other, and they have gone thematic for the past two editions, which curiously makes them both easier and harder to prepare for.

Christoph and Susanne hosted the last one a week ago, and the theme was Gemütlichkeit — German comfort food. The temptation was strong to bake some of the fabulous Christmas cookies the Germans are so good at, especially since I have a beautiful and authentic cookie press which comes straight from Frankfurt — but Christoph had mentioned that the menu could use a few more savory items, so I chose to go that route.

I did a little research on German food specialties, but nothing really appealed to me in that wow-I-have-to-make-this kind of way without which there is little point in cooking. So I took matters into my own hands and decided to make a savory strudel. Probably not traditional, true, but the strudel concept is Germanic enough that I can label it German and get away with it, no?

I had made a nice swiss chard strudel last Spring, but repeating a recipe is no fun at all (besides, what would I post on C&Z then), so I branched off and made it with leeks this time: leeks lend themselves well to this with their soft texture, and more importantly I adore leeks. Instead of raisins I used diced dried apricots, for the sole reason that little specks of pale orange would match the soft green of the leeks perfectly, and I threw in toasted pinenuts because I have yet to find a dish that doesn’t benefit from the addition.

Herr Strudel travelled the metro rather uncomfortably (I didn’t have a large enough container and simply wrapped it in foil), and was reheated for a few minutes in Christoph’s oven — which had to be run with the door ajar because the inner glass had split broken a few days before, slightly unwieldy but a rather efficient way to heat an apartment.

It swiftly found its place on the Gemütlichkeit buffet, soft and sweet inside with its crispy flaky outer skin, surrounded by its own new friends, the potato dumplings, the Pumpernickel Brot, the homemade pretzels, the German cheese specialties with assorted sauces and the Wienerschnitzels, washed down with tumblers of delicious mulled wine made with Pascale’s recipe.

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[Pomerol Wine Jelly]

I am a religious reader of a handful of carefully selected cooking and women’s magazines. Some I subscribe to, some I buy at the marchand de journaux (self-respecting magazines are not sold at the grocery store in France). New issues are welcomed with a tiny whoop of joy, carrying the promise of relaxing entertainment and a new set of colorful nuggets — the latest fashion, gossip, book, trend, store or recipe.

In women’s magazines, one of my favorite sections is — need I spell it out — the cooking section, usually tucked away in the last pages of the magazine, the perfect place for me because I always work my way from front to back, and I am definitely a save the best for last kind of girl.

One of my absolute faves is a magazine called Biba, a magazine féminin I have been reading for years, without skipping more than a month here and there. I even went so far as to subscribe from the US, even though the issues took weeks to reach me. I strongly suspect they were slipped in bottles and thrown in the ocean, fingers crossed, in my general direction. By the time I got them the hottest news were barely lukewarm and the summer diet made little sense in the fall — but still, each new issue was cherished as a heart-warming little whiff of France, and I would read it slowly, savoring every page. After all, who knew when the next issue would make it across?

Now that I’m back in Paris, even though it’s not quite the same ritual, I am still partial to Biba, in part because of the great cooking section *. In particular, their What do I do with… article, focusing on a different ingredient every month, always proves handy and inventive. In the latest issue (this is when you start to see what in the world I’m getting at), this article was about leftover wine, and offered a recipe for wine jelly, to serve as a condiment with cold meat.

I loved the idea, clipped the article, and when I happened to have a little 1999 Pomerol left from dinner with my family the other night, I gave it a try. The recipe is incredibly easy, and the result is this beautiful ruby jelly, with a deep wine flavor and a surprising tanginess that tickles the palate. We tried it with leftover roasted chicken and loved it, so I will definitely make it again. I did think it lacked a bit of sugar and was a little too solid, so below is the modified recipe, as I will make it next time.

It would also make a great and unusual food gift for the holidays (although I am not sure how long it will keep).

[* I must however raise my voice in protest against their slacking off in the past few issues, buying content from the British edition of Delicious and translating it rather sloppily.]

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[Banana Pear Pecan Crumble]

Fruit crumbles are perfect for when you have company: you can prepare the crumble dough well in advance, cut up the fruit when you have time, bake the crumble at your convenience (although same day is best for the crisp factor), and reheat it in the oven just before serving. I usually prepare enough dough for two crumbles and keep the remaining half in the fridge for a few days or in the freezer for a few weeks, ready to top a new batch of fresh fruit in case of emergency (and one thing life has taught me is that dessert emergencies are not to be taken lightly).

Although nothing will ever dethrone the classic apple crumble, the concept lends itself to infinite variations and I like to experiment and come up with new pairings, using seasonal fruits and whatever I have on hand.

Today’s crumble features bananas and pears, and a topping starring toasted pecans and bran flakes. As they cook, the banana and pear slices fall into each other’s arms, melding together in a luscious soft compote, while keeping their textural identities. The crumble blanket covers it all, oven-crisp on top and softened by the fruit juices beneath, its complex flavors brought on by the use of unrefined sugar, some whole wheat flour, and salted butter.

A wintery, warm and satisfying dessert, which I made two weeks in a row — once for Marion (and her boyfriend Benoît who was sure glad he popped in at dessert time) and once for my family — to identical hmmmmm-this-is-really-good-can-i-have-seconds success.

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[Kumquat and Pinenut Lamb Stew, Little Polenta Cake]

Last week, I had my parents and my sister over for dinner. It had occurred to me that the four of us met most often at my parents’, and that it was high time I return the invitation, lest they start to wonder why they couldn’t benefit from at least some of the good manners it had taken them years to inculcate in me.

Just a few days before that dinner, I was right in the middle of that exciting time period when I dedicate a whole section of my brain to toy with dish ideas and assemble ingredients. At that point, I knew I was in the mood to cook lamb (maybe skewers?) and that I wanted to make something polenta (maybe little cakes?), but I was still looking for the right idea to pull them together.

And then, as I was reading the November issue of the New York Times Style Magazine, which a very kind reader had sent me, a recipe jumped out of the page and right at me. The recipe was for a candied kumquat and pinenut octopus salad (yes, it was a little scary and no, no stain on the pretty shirt I was wearing, thanks for asking).

“Candied kumquats? But I have candied kumquats!”. I had bought them a few months ago in a little spice store, thinking “Wow, candied kumquats!”, but I had never gotten around to eating them or using them in anything. I pulled those little guys out from the back of the kitchen cabinet, and they did seem a little upset and bitter from the exile — but then bitterness is a desired quality in kumquats, no?

The kumquat-pinenut pairing idea evolved into this lamb stew, in which the meat is slowly simmered in an orange juice and olive oil sauce, flavored with kumquats, onions and garlic, as well as thyme — lamb’s best herby friend. The pinenuts, toasted, make their appearance at plating time, in a grand sprinkling finale.

We loved it, and I was especially happy with the result given my very limited experience with stews. The meat turned out moist and tender, beautifully complemented by the flavorful chunky sauce and its part sweet, part bitter accents. My dear little polenta cakes marched onto the scene in a proud procession, their crispy crust revealing the softness of their warm and mellow hearts, and an excellent bottle of Pomerol 1999 brought by my father rounded out the meal.

[Update: my candied kumquats were purchased at Maison Joseph, a small graineterie at 63 rue des Abbesses in the 18th, 01 46 06 33 78.]

[2006 Update: to my great sadness, the graineterie is now closed, replaced by a .]

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