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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[Honey Cheese Tart with Candied Orange Peel]

This golden tart rounds out the selection of desserts I served at my birthday party. The birthday cake itself had to be chocolate of course, and I wanted to bake a second dessert that would complement it in terms of taste, shape, color and texture.

I felt that a cheesecake of sorts would be just the thing, and I was inspired by a recipe I found in one of my grandmother’s magazines : the recipe was for a fresh cheese tart with raisins, and it sounded wonderfully straightforward, so I jotted down the basic instructions.

Over the next couple of weeks the recipe took on a life of its own in my head, shedding the raisins for candied orange rind (which I adore and have large supplies of, in part because of an accidental double purchase at G.Detou), replacing half the sugar with honey (to lend more depth to the taste), and using homemade pie dough in place of store-bought (a non-negotiable term for desserts in my humble opinion, unless terribly pressed for time and/or energy).

The result was a surprising and complex mix of flavors, which worked beautifully together. The texture was also very pleasant, as the filling and dough sort of blended into one another, forming a gradual progression from crumbly shell to moist, fresh cheese, and the chewy little bolts of orange taste. I received many a compliment about it, and a lot of my friends came to me with an intrigued look on their face, asking what was in it that made it so interesting and tasty.

And this tart also found, as I had hoped, its rightful place in the dessert bonanza, between the lighter rhubarb compote and the richer chocolate cake, alongside Marie-Laure and Ludo’s fruit salad and Sabrina’s mini carrot cakes.

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[Rhubarb Compote with Pink Champagne Cookies]

This was a last-minute addition to the dessert buffet for my birthday party. I was at the grocery store minding my own business, when a beautiful bunch of rhubarb, all slender stalks and pink cheeks, called out mischievously : “Rhubarb season doesn’t last forever, you know!” I turned around in surprise, looked at the other shoppers, but they were just filling their carts as usual, absorbedly studying the produce stalls.

I took a few tentative steps towards the rhubarb, picked it up, and reflected that it was, indeed, a fleeting thing, and that such an attractive bunch could not possibly be passed up on. Besides, my dessert selection would certainly benefit from something fruity, would it not? I put the rhubarb in my basket. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but I could swear it winked at me.

I decided to oven-bake the rhubarb, as is my favored method of preparation, and had the idea of combining it with a package of Biscuits Roses de Reims I had on hand. Those crispy little cookies, pink and rectangular with a dusting of confectioner’s sugar, are a specialty from Reims, the largest city in the region of Champagne. A simple mix of eggs, sugar and flour colored with crimson, their particularity is to be baked twice, allowing them to stay whole even when moist. This makes the delicate Biscuit Rose de Reims the ideal dipping companion of a cup of Champagne, and the perfect biscuit to use in a charlotte, in place of the classic ladyfingers.

I didn’t want to make a real charlotte though (which implies fruit and some form of cookie, but also custard or fromage blanc), as it should normally sit in the fridge for a bit, while the flavors develop and the filling settles, and I didn’t have that kind of time.

So I went for something simpler, lining the serving bowl with biscuits roses before I spooned in the rhubarb compote. It made for a pretty sight, with that pink sun ray pattern, and it worked very well tastewise, too : the rhubarb was its usual, delightful self, and its acidulated flavor was beautifully complemented by the subtly sweet cookies. There was also a nice textural effect, as the bottom halves of the cookies were imbued with the rhubarb juices and thus softened, while the top halves remained delicately crispy. I’m sure leftovers would have been great the next day, had any of it survived the night…

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It has been very hot around here lately.

I am not complaining, as I actually like the peculiar atmosphere heatwaves create — blazing sun, closed shutters, quiet afternoons, glistening faces — and it happens seldom enough in Paris for me to welcome the meteorological oddity.

Not to mention the opportunity to wear tank tops and strappy sandals.

To ward off dehydration, I have been making batch after batch of this no-sugar, mint-infused lemonade. (Citronnade à la menthe, if you’re practicing your French.)

It is simple as can be — in this heat, who has the energy for anything elaborate? — and it is a delightfully refreshing beverage to tinkle your ice cubes in.

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