Quail eggs : one of nature’s smallest wonders!

The beautiful thing with these teeny tiny eggs, is that they all look different, each of them with a unique half-inch of personality, random patterns of little smudges and freckles, some brown, some black, some blue.

You half expect them to crack open any minute, letting out a very small gawky dinosaur, or some other thumb-sized critter out of a fantasy.

Maxence bought a tray of them at our fantabulous and newly redecorated grocery store, where shiny bright aisles compete for your attention and unsuspected treasures of modern marketing await you at every turn.

He boiled them for four minutes, and we ate them still warm and soft inside, peeling them with the tips of our fingers, dabbing them into a little mushroom salt, and popping them into our mouths.

Quintessential egg pleasure in just one bite, perfect white-to-yolk ratio.

And just think : mini egg, sunny-side up! mini poached egg! mini oeuf à la coque! even better : mini oeuf cocotte! Oh, the possibilities!

[Related post : the opposite adventure in egg scale, the goose egg!]

Confiture de tomates cerise à la cannelle

My mother has been making jars and jars of delicious jam every summer as far back as I can remember, using fruit bought at the Sunday morning greenmarket (strawberry, apricot), hand-picked by my family (raspberry, blackberry, blueberry), or given out by friends blessed with overflowing orchards (rhubarb, plums, cherry plums). She labels them and stores them in the cellar, where they patiently age for a year before being generously spread on buttered toast for breakfast. The wait is hard on us, but we know it’s for the best.

Yet jam-making has always seemed an involved enterprise to me, until last summer when I decided to give it a whirl.

I started clipping recipes from magazines, and bought a jam book written by Christine Ferber, often referred to as “la fée des confitures” (the jam fairy), an Alsacian who makes them the old-fashioned way, with local seasonal fruit, cooked in small batches in copper pots.

I also started saving all the jars I came across, stacking them at the back of my already bursting kitchen cabinets, and generally driving Maxence crazy. I even bought a few beautiful ones at the French chain store Résonances. Can you picture the love child of Restoration Hardware and Williams Sonoma, conceived during a trip to Paris? That’s Résonances in a nutshell. Believe me, it is tough to resist the calling of that one.

Over the summer, I made three different recipes in small batches, put the jars away, and vowed to wait until the chilly winter days to open them. Those days have finally come, and for reasons that will soon be disclosed, the first jar I opened was the Cherry Tomato Cinnamon Jam.

It’s a beautiful jam, bright red with golden specks, and the taste is very surprising, a sweet and tangy compote with a full tomato flavor and subtle hints of cinnamon.

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I love it when unexpected things — be they gifts, ideas or opportunities — fall onto my lap. Luckily, in this instance, the thing didn’t literally fall onto my lap or I’d be limping as we speak, but you get my drift.

Last Saturday, my sister Céline and I went to visit our dear grandmother, whom we call Mamy (although my sister insists on spelling it Mamie), who lives not far from us, in the 17th arrondissement. My grandmother would hate for me to tell her age, but let’s just say that she was a little girl during World War I, so you know, she’s seen a thing or two. She loves to talk and tell stories, fascinating memories of times past — some of my favorites being the ones about the sweet and clever boy my father was, and how talented he was at scarfing down camemberts and apple cakes.

She loves to cook too, although now her health doesn’t allow much of that anymore, and I know that she is particularly glad to see me so passionate about it. We talk about things we like to make, and I’ve often asked her for recipes. They are endearingly fuzzy, and it takes a little while to get her to tell me exactly what she means, but that’s all part of the pleasure of course.

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Those of you who have been around for a little while have probably noticed a personal penchant for all things pink, and this is only confirmed by my two most recent shoe acquisitions. I certainly don’t shy away from hefty doses of garlic either, so you can certainly imagine my glee at welcoming this beautiful bunch of pink garlic into my kitchen.

“Pink garlic?”, you ask, your right eyebrow arched in curiosity. Well yes, it is a unique variety of garlic, grown exclusively in and around the medieval town of Lautrec, in the South of France. It is protected by an IGP (Protected Geographical Indication, a European certification of origin), benefits from a Label Rouge quality certification and, most importantly, it has been awarded the honorific title of Prince des Condiments. “Princess” might have been more fitting, one might argue, given its rosy-cheeked cloves and pretty hair pompon.

Apart from its undeniable attractiveness, l’Ail Rose de Lautrec is also distinguished for its aromatic and subtle taste, sweeter and milder than its white cousin. It also keeps for much longer, six months to a year. It can be used anywhere you would normally use garlic — raw or cooked, sliced, chopped, crushed or unpeeled (“en chemise”, which means “shirt on”) — but also in a variety of recipes created especially for it : a pink garlic soup, a walnut and pink garlic tart, a lime and garlic sorbet, and even a pink garlic chocolate cake!

Pink garlic is planted in the fall every year, and harvested in late June, always after “La St-Jean” (St-John’s day, celebrated on June the 24th with popular bonfires and dances). It is then hung to dry for a month, before it is cleaned, sorted and selected according to the Label Rouge quality specifications, and put together in bunches, called manouilles (have fun trying to pronounce that).

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