Wholesome Banana Chocolate Breakfast Bars

When Heidi posted about her friend Nikki's healthful cookies a couple of months ago, my curiosity was piqued, and the recipe firmly affixed to my mind's corkboard*.

And as soon as I had a few browning bananas on hand -- some might accuse me of letting them overripen on purpose, but that's just libel and they'll be hearing from my attorney -- I knew just how to put them to use.

I made a few modifications to the original recipe: 1- I used almond butter rather than coconut oil, which I didn't have. 2- I decreased the amount of chocolate -- completely out of character, I know, but I stopped when the chocolate-to-batter ratio felt right to me. 3- I didn't add the cinnamon because I'm not very fond of the banana-cinnamon pairing. 4- I also omitted the baking powder: there is virtually no gluten in the recipe**, so it didn't seem like a leavener would have much effect.

Oh, and instead of shaping bite-size cookies from the batter, I simply poured and baked the whole thing in a rectangular dish, and cut it into squareish bars after the fact: it was just easier, and because I knew we'd need a few days to eat our way through them and the fat content in the recipe was not very high, cutting servings as we went would help keep the texture fresh and moist.

And I'm happy to report it was a smashing success: these vegan oatmeal bars (or cookies) call for no sugar, and rely instead on the sweetening power of mashed bananas, and such flavor-bolstering ingredients as dark chocolate and grated coconut. The result is a discreetly sweet, but highly tasty confection that feels like a treat, but can be eaten for breakfast (it pairs well with clementines) without getting the dreaded sugar crash in mid-morning.

~~~

* Actually, I'm lying about the corkboard: to file and organize my digital notes, lists, and recipes, I use this handy Notebook tool for Mac OS X.

** Pure oats don't contain gluten, but there can be a smidgen in commercial oats that are processed along with other grains. If you can't have gluten at all, make sure the oats you use are labeled as gluten-free.

Posted on 19 November 2008 | 2:15 am

[Edible Idiom] Tomber comme un cheveu sur la soupe

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

This week's expression is, "Tomber comme un cheveu sur la soupe."

The literal translation is, "falling like a hair* on soup," and it means that something or someone appears at an inappropriate or incongruous moment, and is thus completely out of place. (The idiom can also be formed with the verbs arriver, to arrive, or venir, to come, instead of tomber, to fall.)

Interestingly enough, in the context of this expression, the hair found in a bowl of soup causes no disgust. It is merely seen as an anomaly, a thing of no value or consequence that diverts one's attention from what's really important: the soup.

Example: "Je n'ai vraiment pas aimé la fin : la scène avec les extraterrestres tombe comme un cheveu sur la soupe." "I really didn't like the ending: the scene with the aliens falls like a hair on soup."

Comme un cheveu sur la soupe is also the title of a 1957 movie with Louis de Funès (but no aliens).

* In French, there are two words for hair, depending on where it grows: un cheveu is the hair that grows on the head, whereas un poil is the hair that grows on the body. In both cases, the terms refer to an individual hair; if you were to compliment someone on his hair, you would use the plural, les cheveux.

Posted on 13 November 2008 | 11:00 pm

Zoe's Lasagna (Sort Of)

A few weeks ago, I received an email from a reader named Pamela, who said she was working her way through the C&Z archives -- I am so heartened when people do that -- and had noticed, in this older-than-salt post, a reference to the lasagna our friend Zoe made for us when we visited her in London. Did I ever end up sharing that recipe? Pamela asked.

The short answer is: no. The long answer is: I've thought about Zoe's lasagna on a regular basis since then, but somehow the opportunity to reproduce it failed to arise. Such is the fate, I'm ashamed to admit, of 99% of the recipes I collect, because I seldom cook from recipes at all, and because I collect a staggering volume of them anyway.

But Pamela's note was the nudge I needed: I opened the drawer in which I keep my old notebooks, and found the one that had accompanied me to London. I flipped through the pages, read the notes I'd jotted down according to Zoe's explanations, and rolled my eyes: my scribblings made sense at the time, I'm sure, but five years later they had become rather dim, and in particular, I had included no ingredient measurement whatsoever.

Still, the overall process was documented, and lasagna-making is no exact science after all, so I decided to wing it. What was the worst that could happen? And instead, the best did: from the oven emerged a well-balanced, flavorful lasagna, satisfying but not too rich, which fed a table of appreciative friends.

So if, like me, you tend to overlook the most evidently pleasing dishes in your pile of recipes, I can only encourage you to stop, and make this one. It is the perfect gloomy weather dish; the ideal project for a lazy Sunday afternoon, giving you a few things to chop and stir and poke at, without distracting you too much from the brilliant book you're reading, in which France's most ingenious cook makes a pot-au-feu and sets out to recycle the leftovers over the next five days.

Posted on 11 November 2008 | 3:04 am

[Edible Idiom] Rouler quelqu'un dans la farine

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

This week's expression is, "Rouler quelqu'un dans la farine."

Literally translated as, "rolling someone in flour," it means duping someone, playing a trick on him, or using one's wits and lies to take advantage of someone who's a little naive, or not quite as smart as one is.

According to these sources, the expression dates back to the early nineteenth century. Rouler quelqu'un (literally, rouler = to roll) means cheating or swindling somebody, and la farine (flour) symbolizes lies, or misleading arguments, perhaps in relation to the fact that actors then used it as stage makeup. It also adds a notion of ridicule: the gullible victim is somehow responsible for letting himself be fooled so easily.

Example: "A chaque fois, elle lui promettait que ça ne se reproduirait plus, mais tout le monde voyait bien qu'elle le roulait dans la farine." "She kept promising it wouldn't happen again, but everyone could see she was rolling him in flour."

Posted on 7 November 2008 | 10:00 pm

Vanilla Poached Quince

Where is the online scratch 'n sniff when you need it?

Since such technology is not yet available to us (sheesh!), we'll just have to rely on our imagination and invoke, in our mind's nose, the irresistibly sweet, floral, candy-like scent that quince, the most gnarled and unprepossessing subject of the fruit kingdom, emits.

In fact, if you were to cook quinces right away upon purchasing them, I would call you crazy: what you should do instead is keep them for a few days on a platter somewhere, in your kitchen or living room, where they'll act as a natural home fragrance.

When you're done near-fainting with felicity every time you take a whiff, it's time to poach them and enjoy the second surprise they have in store: the flesh of quince, which doesn't look like much and tastes horrible when raw, takes on a ravishing, ruby pink shade* and a most palatable flavor when cooked.

Because quince has a high pectin content, quince paste (or dulce de membrillo, or jam, or jelly) is the most common use for it, but these preparations are usually too sweet for my taste, and I prefer my quinces as a compote, poached in a not-too-sweet syrup**.

After a few hours of simmering -- yes, it takes that long -- the wedges become soft, with a pleasantly grainy textural veil, and taste like a cross between an excellent apple and an even better pear, with underlying notes of honey and spice.

There is one caveat, and it has certainly tainted the reputation of quince with cooks everywhere: it is rather laborious to peel and quarter and core: unlike the pear and apple, its comelier cousins, it opposes the blade with an almost wood-like resistance. Sharpening your knives helps, as does wearing gloves, recruiting a commis, and/or cursing under your breath every once in a while.

Quince is an autumn fruit, so look for yellow and downy specimens now, at the greenmarket or in somebody's orchard -- it is my understanding that most quince trees*** produce a lot more fruit than anyone in their right mind is willing to deal with, so the owner may be happy to part with a few.

I eat poached quince for breakfast, with homemade yogurt and muesli, but it can also be served for dessert, slightly warm, with a scoop of almond milk ice cream and a butter cookie. You can also use the drained chunks of fruit in a cake or tart, pair them with a piece of sharp cheese (blue cheese, or a firm sheep's milk cheese such as manchego), or serve them as a side to roasted duck or game.

~~~

* Lucy, over at Nourish Me, has pictures of the transformation.

** As a rule of thumb, I use about 10% sugar: 10 grams of sugar for every 100 grams of trimmed quince flesh. The compote can then be used with sweet or savory dishes; and if I want it sweeter, I can always add a little honey.

*** In French, quince = le coing; quince tree = le cognassier.

Posted on 4 November 2008 | 10:30 pm

[Edible Idiom] Pédaler dans la semoule

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of the French idioms featured so far.

This week's expression is, "Pédaler dans la semoule."

The literal translation is "pedaling in semolina," and it means being entangled in a thorny situation, with the added notion that every effort made to get out of it is fruitless, or makes things worse. In short, being confused and overwhelmed, or being in over one's head.

The image is, I think, clear enough: picture yourself riding a bicycle in a lake of couscous, or grit, and tell us how well you'd do. (It is also used for appliances and devices, computers in particular, when they're whirring furiously without doing much actual work.)

Note that it is a colloquial expression, to be used in casual conversation only -- not in your thesis, nor if you're having dinner with the French ambassador/ambassadress, though perhaps he/she might think it endearing and fall in love with you. It's worth a shot.

Example: "Ça fait une heure que j'essaie de résoudre cette équation, mais franchement, je pédale dans la semoule." "I've been trying to solve this equation for an hour, but frankly, I'm pedaling in semolina."

This expression sometimes appears as, "Pédaler dans la choucroute," or pedaling in sauerkraut, an equally illustrative variation.

Posted on 31 October 2008 | 10:00 pm

Chocolate Frozen Yogurt

An estimated 62% of my cooking begins with me lying in bed, thinking about some ingredient that needs using, and not being able to sleep because my mind is awhir, trying to devise rewarding ways to do so.

These closed-eye sessions usually yield satisfactory results and, every once in a while, a plain fantastic one. I am counting this ice cream among the latter.

The challenge was this: I had a bit of a dairy glut in the fridge, and in particular, a scant half tub of organic crème fraîche that had been open for three or four days, and which I was determined to use before it got any crazy idea like turning rancid or growing a beard. I also had real Greek yogurt* in there, which I know for a fact makes the best glace au yaourt (yogurt ice cream).

And because I hadn't made a chocolate-based frozen treat in a while (not since the dark chocolate sorbet and the nutella ice cream) I decided I'd make a chocolate frozen yogurt. Then I fell asleep.

I had no basic recipe to build upon and merely played it by ear: I melted a few ounces of good dark chocolate, whisked it into the cream, added raw cane sugar, a little cocoa powder, salt and vanilla, added yogurt until the mixture looked and tasted right**, chilled and churned.

The first taste of my improvised concoction, straight from the paddle of the ice cream maker, gave me pause: could it really have turned out so shockingly well? A second sample was collected, and the report was confirmed by the official authorities: I had really made a shockingly good chocolate frozen yogurt, so much so that I felt compelled to twitter it.

Why so elated? Here's why: the chocolate flavor is ardent enough to satisfy the die-hard cacao worshipper, but the smooth tang of the yogurt makes it pleasing to those who prefer (gasp!) milk chocolate -- a rare conciliation, to which the raw sugar adds undertones of malt and caramel. And the cherry on the cake*** is this: once packed into an airtight container and placed in the freezer to set, this frozen yogurt remains blissfully scoopable -- for as long as supplies last.

~~~asterisk fest begins~~~

* I buy real, Greek-made Greek yogurt from a Greek deli near me; if you can't find it, all-natural Greek-style yogurt from the grocery store will do.

** The trick to preparing an ice cream or sorbet without a recipe is to keep in mind that, once the mixture is frozen, the taste buds will perceive it to be a little less sweet, and a little less vividly flavored. So when you're tasting it at room temperature, you should aim for something that's a little sweeter and a little more boldly flavored than you'd like the finished product to be.

*** This edible idiom was adopted into the French language as a straightforward translation: la cerise sur le gâteau.

Posted on 28 October 2008 | 8:18 pm

[Edible Idiom] Boire du petit-lait

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

This week's expression is, "Boire du petit-lait" (sometimes appearing as "Boire son petit-lait").

The literal translation is, "drinking whey" (sometimes appearing as "drinking one's whey") and it means basking in praise or flattery, or taking obvious pleasure in a situation that has turned out to one's advantage.

Example: "Les invités s'accordèrent à dire que c'était la meilleure blanquette qu'ils aient jamais mangée. Derrière son sourire modeste, la maîtresse de maison buvait du petit-lait." "The guests agreed it was the best veal blanquette they'd ever had; underneath her humble smile, the hostess was drinking whey."

Posted on 24 October 2008 | 8:30 pm

Champagne and Saffron Mussels (or Not)

After posting a few thoughts on sustainable seafood and how each of us can make a difference, it grew apparent that one proactive way food bloggers can help, beyond spreading the word and trying to make responsible choices themselves, is to offer recipes featuring those varieties of fish or shellfish that are more eco-friendly.

This happens to be the very premise of Teach a Man to Fish, an event created by Boston writer Jacqueline Church to raise awareness about this issue. If you'd like to play along (you don't need to have a blog), you have until the end of October to do so; check Jacqueline's blog for more details.

Why did I choose to feature mussels? Well, for starters, farmed mussels* are in the YES! column of my pocket seafood guide. (Get yours today!) What's more, they are in season now and until the end of winter, and, although delicious, nutritious, and easy to prepare, most people find them a tad intimidating -- live mollusks and all -- and therefore do not place them very high on their must-cook list.

For the longest time, I myself didn't really understand mussels.

I didn't enjoy the flavor, or the texture, or the sticky juices that run down your wrists when you eat them, and I just didn't see the point. When Maxence and I first started seeing each other, many springs ago, we would sometimes eat at a chain restaurant from Brussels that has outlets near most Paris cinemas, and where mussels are, of course, the house specialty. While Maxence ate a big bowl of them, I would dine on a Belgian waffle with chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream -- a win-win arrangement if I've ever seen one.

But then my taste buds grew up, mussels grew on me, and by the time we decided to spend a weekend in Brussels, I was 100% sold on his idea to eat mussels at every meal, and we practically did.

The mussels I buy from my poissonnier are bouchot mussels** from the Mont Saint-Michel bay, which is technically in Brittany although the Mont Saint-Michel itself belongs to Normandy, but if you wish to avoid tempestuous arguments and kicks in the shins, I suggest you not raise the matter with a Breton or a Normand, ever.

Sold under the snappy label of "Moules de bouchot de la baie du Mont Saint-Michel AOC," these mussels are protected by the French certification of origin, and were the very first sea creatures to be granted such a status, in 2006.

This recipe is inspired by the über-classic moules marinière recipe, which has you cook live mussels in a broth of dry white wine with shallots, herbs, butter, and a little vinegar till they give up the ghost and open wide.

I wanted to make a slightly more festive variation, so I flavored the broth with saffron (the mussel's best friend; I buy mine for a reasonable price at Goumanyat). And because I happened to have leftover Champagne in the fridge (I know some find this hard to picture but there you are), I used it in place of regular white wine. However, you could absolutely omit the saffron and use another type of dry white wine, sparkling or not: I've made the recipe that way before and it is, in truth, just as good.

The easiest, and most satisfying way to eat mussels is to use one empty shell as a pair of tongs to grab and pull out the meat of another mussel. It is hence a considerate idea to provide each guest with a large napkin, and a rince-doigts, a small cup filled with warm water and a slice of lemon, in which to rinse his fingers.

~~~

* In French, mussel farming is called la mytiliculture; oyster farming is ostréiculture; shellfish farming in general is conchyliculture, which sounds like an obscure insult.

** Une moule de bouchot is a mussel that's been raised on a bouchot, a wooden pillar around which a thick rope spirals: the mussels afix themselves to the rope, and live in and out of the water alternatively as the tide rises and recedes.

Posted on 21 October 2008 | 9:00 pm

[Edible Idiom] Casser du sucre sur le dos de quelqu'un

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food; read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

This week's expression is, "Casser du sucre sur le dos de quelqu'un."

It means, literally, "breaking sugar on someone's back," or engaging in malicious gossip about someone. In other words: backbiting, which, come to think of it, is slightly food-related too, in a cannibalistic sort of way.

For example: "Dès qu'il sortait, ses collègues se mettaient à casser du sucre sur son dos." ("The minute he was out the door, his coworkers would start breaking sugar on his back.")

According to these sources, this idiom appeared in the late 19th century, and may derive from the older expressions "sucrer quelqu'un", which meant mistreating someone, and "se sucrer de quelqu'un," which meant taking someone for a fool. Sugar was then a symbol of wealth; why it was linked to such negative notions, however, is unclear.

Posted on 17 October 2008 | 8:30 pm

The Blind Cook: a Q&A

A few months ago, I received an unusual email from an American reader of Chocolate & Zucchini, David E. Price, a former geologist and now computer programmer who goes to graduate school in Salt Lake City, and is an enthusiastic cook.

David explained that he had purchased copies of my books but that -- and here comes the unusual part -- because he was blind, he was wondering if there was a computer-readable version he could have access to: he was otherwise going to scan the pages and run them through a character recognition program, but he worried that the mix of French and English terms, as well as the fractions in the measurements, might make the resulting recipes inaccurate.

An arrangement was found with my publisher, and once that was taken care of, David and I continued our email conversation. In particular, I asked him about the accessibility of C&Z, and whether there was anything I could change to make it easier for the blind to read; there was, and I altered the code accordingly*.

And then, although I was a little hesitant to raise the topic, I had to admit I was curious to learn about the practicalities of cooking without vision. I had never really stopped to wonder if and how it was possible, and I was admirative, to say the least: it certainly took skill, perseverance, and a great love of food to cook and bake without relying on your eyes.

It was a thought-provoking exchange and I was sure other cooks would feel the same way, so I asked David if he would submit himself to a Q&A about the challenges he faces in the kitchen every day. His answers are below; thank you, David, for inviting us into your kitchen.

* If you'd like to learn more about this, read the page David put together about web accessibility.

Posted on 14 October 2008 | 7:30 pm

[Edible Idiom] Couper la poire en deux

Two weeks ago, I had dinner at a French restaurant called La Table d'Eugène, on the other side of the Montmartre hill from me. As my friends and I were handed the menus, we all stopped to comment on their fetching design: on the front and back were dozens of French idiomatic expressions, all relating to food, each of them printed in a different, retro font.

Once we'd ordered our food and asked to keep one copy of the menu, I, as the only native French speaker in our party, went over each of the locutions, trying to shed light on their meaning. It was so much fun -- you've perhaps noticed how dearly I love words, etymology, and linguistics -- that I thought I would start a series on C&Z.

The French language, like all Latin languages, is particularly rife with culinary-inspired idioms, and I will offer one every week or so.

The opening, seasonal expression is, "Couper la poire en deux."

It means, literally, "cutting the pear in two," or reaching a compromise: if two people want the same pear, halving it is the most equitable way to settle the dispute.

For example: "Nos deux familles voulaient nous avoir à Noël, donc on a coupé la poire en deux : on va chez ses parents le 24, et chez les miens le 25." ("Both our families wanted us to come over for Christmas, so we cut the pear in two: we'll spend Christmas Eve at his parents', and Christmas Day at mine.")

Posted on 10 October 2008 | 11:59 pm

Orange and Rosemary Pork Tenderloin

Why is it that no one ever told me about the pork tenderloin?

Has everyone been cooking pork tenderloin all this time, licking their lips and giggling covertly as I fought to make other cuts palatable, trying my best to prevent them from turning out dry, and grey?

Oh, it's not that I haven't been happy with my pork experiments, not at all. Looking through the C&Z archives, I've found five recipes involving our pink friend -- a cured pork shoulder with lentils, a loin blade roast stewed in cider, a roast with spiced red cabbage, and two terrines -- that were all, if I remember correctly, consumed with unequivocal pleasure.

It's just that, now that I've had a taste of filet mignon de porc -- for such is the French name for it* -- I wonder what took me so long: it is truly the most succulent, the most flavorsome cut of pork I've ever dealt with.

If you're at all excited about the butcher's craft, you may be interested to learn that the pork filet mignon (tenderloin) is a long muscle located on either side of the lower end of the animal's spine (so each pork yields two), underneath the filet (sirloin) and the pointe de filet (the tail end of the sirloin). (And lest you assume I've become an overnight expert in butchery, let me note that my life changed when I acquired a Larousse gastronomique and laid eyes on its crystal-clear meat diagrams.)

The tenderloin is lean, and remarkably tender, so it is a choice cut that comes at a higher price than most: my organic butcher charges 19.50€/kg (/pound) for it, but it is net weight with no waste, i.e. no fat, bone, or gristle to remove.

Pork does well with sweet and tangy flavors, so I opted for a simple marinade of orange juice, honey, and rosemary, which, reduced and creamed up while the tenderloin was roasting in the oven, made for the perfect sauce to ladle over the butter-tender slices of meat.

~~~

* In French butchery, the term filet mignon is used not only for beef, but also for veal, venison, and pork. It refers to the same muscle in all cases, insofar as muscular similarities can be found in these different animals.

Posted on 7 October 2008 | 11:43 pm

C&Z's 5th Anniversary Party!

Chocolate & Zucchini turned five yesterday, and because every five-year-old in the world deserves a birthday party, I would like to invite you to a celebratory get-together in Paris.

It will be held on Wednesday, October 8th, from 7pm till 9pm, at Bocata, a cosy tapas bar in my neighborhood, located at 31 rue Milton, Paris 9ème.

Drinks and homemade nibbles will be served, and the cost will be 21€ per person*.

Space is limited, so it will be reservations only: if you'd like to join us (yay!), please send me a note no later than this Monday, October 6th, with your name, telephone number, and the number of people you'd like to come with. I will confirm your reservation, and send you the instructions for Paypal payment then.

I hope you can make it, and if you have any question, please ask!

Bocata / map it!
31 rue Milton, Paris 9ème
01 40 16 82 85
M° Anvers or Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.

* 20€ go to the restaurant; the remaining 1€ pays the Paypal commission.

Posted on 30 September 2008 | 8:56 pm

C&Z turns 5!

Today marks the fifth anniversary of Chocolate & Zucchini -- and, I might add, the first anniversary of its French version. My first impulse was to comment on the fact that time flies, it seems like only yesterday, or something to that effect, but the truth is, I find it so extraordinarily difficult to remember what my life was like before I started C&Z, it's almost embarrassing.

Creating this blog five years ago has undoubtedly been among the most life-altering decisions I've ever made -- up there with giving up thumb sucking when I was eight, and switching to contacts when I was fourteen. Chocolate & Zucchini has since done so much for me, it has become so familiar and indispensable a part of my life, I think of it practically as a family member.

And I would like to take this opportunity to express my gratitude to you, readers of C&Z. If it weren't for you, your visits, your comments, your emails, your participation in forum discussions, and, in general, what you bring to this not-so-virtual table, I don't think I would have come this far, learned this much, or had this much fun. So, thank you, your support means the world to me, it truly does.

As has become the tradition, Maxence and I will host a get-together in Paris in mid-October; I am still ironing out the details -- organizational skills? what organizational skills? -- but they will be announced v. soon.

Perhaps you'd like to hear about a few things that have happened since we last celebrated C&Z's anniversary? Here goes: my first cookbook, Chocolate & Zucchini, was published in France under the title Chocolat & Zucchini; my second book, Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris, came out in the US; I was offered a column in ELLE à table, the food edition of the French ELLE (I accepted); and I started working on an idea for a television show -- the project is still in its early infancy, but I should have more on this in a few months.

And on a more personal level, I embraced the lifelong, glorious role of being somebody's aunt: my nephew is now 6 1/2 months old, and I am happy to announce that he has just started eating puréed zucchini with great enthusiasm.

And before we part, please accept this little anniversary gift: I have created online maps of the restaurants and shops featured in Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris -- I hope you find them useful in your explorations of the city.

~~~

The celebratory macarons pictured above (pistachio, raspberry, dark chocolate) come from Grégory Renard's shop, located at 120 rue Saint-Dominique, Paris 7ème (01 47 05 19 17).

Posted on 30 September 2008 | 2:25 am