First I came up with the title for this post, since I thought it would be a fun jeu de mots. But then I realized I had to figure out what the heck I was going write about. So I put on my long-neglected thinking cap, scrolled through the email addresses of my last few remaining friends, and scanned my agenda, desperately searching for inspiration.
Then it hit me.

And then I thought, "Hey, what don't I give Dorie Greenspan a call?"

Thankfully Madame Greenspan agreed to go along on this ruse with me so I could get this post up and running. But there was also the promise of something buttery and sweet, rubber-clad fish boys, just-roasted coffee, prowling through my favorite Arab épicerie with floor-to-ceiling dried fruits and nuts, and finishing it up with verrines at a trendy restaurant. How could she refuse?

And refuse she did not.
So off we went.

Our first stop last Tuesday was blé sucré, en route to the Marche d'Aligre.

People have been making ice cream far longer than the invention of electricity so there's no reason you can't make ice cream and sorbets at home without a machine.

The advantage to using an electric or hand-cranked machine is that the final result will be smoother and creamier. Freezing anything from liquid-to-solid means you're creating hard ice crystals, so if you're making it by hand, as your ice cream or sorbet mixture freezes, you want to break up those ice crystals as much as possible so your final results are as smooth and creamy as possible.

Machines are relatively inexpensive nowadays with models costing less than $50, and yes, I've seen the ball, but if I started tossing one of those around the streets here in Paris, I'd probably get even more strange looks than I normally get. (Plus you'll need to lug some rock salt home as well.)

But not everyone has the space or the budget for a machine, so here's how you can do your own ice cream at home without a churner. I recommend starting with an ice cream recipe that is custard-based for the smoothest texture possible. You can use my Vanilla Ice Cream or another favorite, or even this Strawberry Frozen Yogurt recipe using Greek-style or drained yogurt. The richer the recipe, the creamier and smoother the results are going to be.

Ice cream made this way is best eaten soon after it's made—which shouldn't be a problem.

Required reading from Mort Rosenblum: A New France, Sixth Republic—or Sarkostan?

Let's all wish Chef Grant Achatz well, and a speedy and successful recovery.

Don't tell me anyone actually likes the pigeons in Paris?

No danger of a chocolate meltdown where you live?
Stock up for your fix at Chocosphere in the US, and Seventy Percent, in the UK.

...and where you'll find others like you.

...and where you'll find others like me.

Opening this was really an Oh My God! moment.

No, the customer isn't always right...and I agree.

The new, hot and very steamy Neapolitan in my life.

Wish I knew this in June: How to travel the world with ten pounds, or less.

Some new & inspired scoops.
(Warning: Yet another bad picture of me. What is up with that? I'm going to start asking for pre-publication approval. Honestly....)

Remember métro hands?
Well, get ready for Vélib' hands.

Did you miss the last batch of Madame Prigent's outstanding French honey? La Campanella has them in stock again.
(Tip: Try the dark, rich miel de bourdain, made from black alder. Boy, is that good...)

And Americans ask me if I'm afraid of French dentists?

In my never-ending quest to improve my French, I had some friends over for dinner last night and was asking them what the word 'grue' meant.

After consulting le dictionnaire français (aka: mon ma bible), the only definition we came across was that a grue was a 'crane'—as in the long-limbed bird.

Curiously, it's sometimes used a slang for a 'working woman', if you know what I mean. Or one who is 'facile'.

So how does any of that relate to ground up cocoa beans?

Each spring, as the temperature starts to gently climb in Paris day-by-day, most normal people spend their time figuring out how to maximize their time outdoors basking in the gloriously warm Parisian air.

Around here, though, spring means only one thing: Eat all the chocolate I've got on hand because my apartment turns into the world's largest bain marie, a sizzling oven capable of melting the thickest, darkest, and densest of chocolate bars from 'round the globe.

When I travel and come across an interesting tablet of chocolate, I always pick it up and take it home, hopeful that I'll invite some friends over for a tasting. And my stash grows and grows throughout the year. But come April or May when I'm finally able to fling my wood-shuttered windows wide open and let the fresh air in, the bittersweet backlog gets to be too much and I realize that I need to eat all my chocolate now—and as quickly as possible.

So I spent the last couple of months, pre-Speedo season mind you, wolfing down lots and lots of unusual and curious chocolate bars.

A reader recently wrote to ask, "How long does ice cream last in the freezer?"

Oddly, I never gave it much thought since it doesn't seem to linger too long around here. So I looked around and found the answer at the FDA website: 2-4 months.

The most common problem when ice creams and other frozen desserts spend too long in the freezer is the texture changes and if not covered properly (ideally with plastic wrap on the surface, then covered with a lid), they can get icy and pick up other flavors from the freezer.

If they do get icy, most sorbets and sherbets can be melted down and re-churned, as can Philadelphia-style ice creams made without eggs. But I find custard-based ice creams don't re-freeze as successfully, so don't let those sit around too long.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go grab a spoon.
I've got some clearing out to do.

Many folks dream of turning their recipes into a cookbook and I hope to answer some of the questions you might have about the process in a concise manner. Below are some pointers that might help you out but there's lots of other great tips out there and I encourage you to read as much as you can. (I've provided some great links at the end.)

I offer some advice, but more important, interspersed are lots of questions for you to ask yourself. There's no right or wrong answers, just points to refine as you pursue your goal.

Here's some ten tips:

1. Start With A Great Idea

Come up with an idea. A while you're at it, make it a good one.

Perhaps you have a bevy of good recipes. Or you want to be famous and have a show on television. Maybe you want to be rich. All are reasons to write a book. But the best is because you want to share your great food and terrific stories with readers. If you look at your favorite cookbooks, each one has at least one recipe that's amazing, that you make over and over again. If not, the author's voice rings through and you like thumbing through it for the writing or the photographs. In either case, there's something about it that excites you.

As Regina Schrambling wrote about Julia Child "...everyone wants to be her, but no one would dream of putting in 10 years of obsessive work on a cookbook." Yes indeed, Julia spent ten years writing Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Are you willing to spend ten years laboring over a manuscript? That's probably not likely and shouldn't take that long, but you should believe in your idea enough to obsess over it night and day during the time you're writing it, and be willing to spend a big chunk of your life devoted to it.

2. Find Your Niche

Saying you're doing 'seasonal and regional foods' isn't enough anymore. Everyone does that—or says they do...what makes yours any better?

Every time I'm at G. Detou buying chocolate or whatever, I look at the tins of tuna lined up near the window. I've never picked any of them up, but I like looking at the pretty designs and graphic, stylized lettering. When I was there last week, I thought, "Why not try them out?"

So I bought these two.

Since then, they've been sitting on my coffee table where I look at them and pick them up from time to time to admire the packaging and the smooth, cool rounded metal tins. Then I put them back down. One is flavored with coconut, lime and red chili pepper and the other has prunes and spices.

Prunes? With tuna?

While I like prunes a lot...and what's not to like about tuna?... the idea of them intersecting, mixed up in a can, sounds less-than-appealing. Maybe they're delicious and I've been missing out on a great flavor combination all my life. Who knows? And the one with coconut (which also has raisins listed in the ingredients), frankly, scares me. But the tin sure is pretty and has been brightening my day ever since I brought it home. Doesn't it make you happy just to look at it?

All I know is that I'm afraid to open them for fear of what's inside. But I'm trying to keep an open mind.

Now if I could only work up the courage to open them...

G.Detou
58, Rue Tiquetonne (2nd)
Tél: 01 42 36 54 67

I can't tell you how many times I've been asked the age-old question: "How did you start cooking?"

My usual wise-guy answer?
"Well, I turned on the stove and put a pan on it."

In reality, I probably should acknowledge a debt of gratitude to Anna Maria Albergetti who got me on this whole obsessive measuring-thing, hawking those carefully delineated bottles for mixing up Good Seasons salad dressing. But I also think some of it began at our local mall, at The Magic Pan, one of those crêperies that popped up everywhere in the 70's. In the dining room, women in puffy-sleeved dresses stood over a open-flamed, circular crepe-cooker, presiding over a bevy of hot skillets that turned slowly over the flames, frying crêpes as fast as they could.

Wanting to be just like the girls at the mall, minus the puffy-sleeved dresses (which would come later in life), I bought one of those worthless numbers; a Taylor and Ng crêpe pan with a rounded bottom where you dipped the underside of the hot pan in a big bowl of batter, praying it didn't stick before you could lift it up and flip it over to continue.

And apologies to my family for all those crêpe-filling experiments, especially the chicken in cream sauce, which, in my impatience, I madly kept adding spoonfuls of flour to until it thickened—which I presumed should take all of about 20 seconds.

The result?

You might recall I recently posted the question: Is American Food Better Than French?*

There were some very thoughtful comments on both sides of the piece de monnie, but in the post I laid a bit of blame on the French zeal for creating trendy food at the expense of sourcing local, fresh, and seasonal ingredients and I picked on les verrines as a current example. Like crème brûlée and warm individual chocolate cakes, which are both fine desserts, les verrines have become a cliché and you even can find them, for your convenience, in the frozen food section at your local supermarket here in France.

But after a recent lunch at Minipalais, Louisa, my dining companion asked (as I was wolfing one down) something to the effect of, "So who doesn't like verrines now?"

Indeed these were better than most, although not necessarily verrines, but individual courses served in glasses.
Got that?

How does one explain, in a few short paragraphs, something that's such a critical part of Italian life, like gelato? If you've spent any time in Italy, especially in the summer, it's hard to look anywhere and not see an Italian balancing a cono di gelato, often while balancing the omnipresent cell phone at the same time.

But everyone, from suave businessmen in Armani suits to grandmothers chatting on a stroll with friends—they all eat gelato. And like the tiny shots of espresso taken from morning 'til night, it's a part of Italian life and consumed everywhere, all-day long. Granita di espresso on a roll for breakfast anyone?

'Gelato' means 'frozen' in Italian, so it embraces the various kinds of ice cream made in Italy, and that's the best definition one can offer.

More than most countries, food in Italy is fiercely regional: in the north, near Torino (Piedmonte), the food is very earthy with white truffles and hazelnuts appearing in various dishes. At the other end of the boot is Sicily, where the climate is far warmer so the flavors lean towards citrus and seafood. And in between are lots of villages and regions, including the Emilia-Romagna, Umbria, Campania, Tuscany, and Puglia, among others.

The gelato made in the north of Italy, where it's cooler up near the mountains, the gelato is richer, often made with egg yolks, chocolate, and most famously, with gianduja, the silky-smooth hazelnut and milk chocolate paste. In the south, ice creams tend to be lighter, and flavored with lemons and oranges. In Sicily, granite are prevalent; slushy shaved ices that are almost served like a drink, with a spoon and a straw to slurp them up, as well as fruit-flavored sorbetti.

But getting back to gelato...as mentioned, gelato means Italian ice cream. But what makes it different?

One of the biggest cultural differences between the French and Americans is the acceptance of public nudity.

I don't think I need to tell you which side I'm on: I'm a big proponent of it.

As long is I get to keep my clothes on in public.
But for others? Allez-y, mes amis!

In spite of their alleged laissez-faire, free-wheelin' attitudes, San Franciscans are not quite the wild-and-crazy bunch you might think. Like...yes, you have the right to be nude, but I have the right not to see it. So as long as your right doesn't infringe on my right, then you have the right to do it. Of course if you want the right to do it, we can have a public referendum on it or introduce an initiative so the supervisors can debate and vote on it. The it becomes a question of: do we have the right to be nude and is that right greater than your right but do they have the right to tell me what to do either? And shouldn't my right to express myself be greater than your right not to have to look at me? Then it goes on to, well...what about all those naked dogs running around town? Do they have the right to be...etc...etc...

Oy.

Anyhow, on my trip back last month, I went to a yoga class.
In the communal changing area, I innocently slipped off my trousers and slid on my shorts. It wasn't a big deal and took me perhaps all of three quick seconds. I was wearing my euro-skivvies, which are about as modest as a Speedo, and you can't really see anything (because of the light, not for other reasons...) unless you're really, really trying to get a look. It was a simple, economical 'off-on' motion and if it excited anyone, I'd be very surprised. (Although I'm sure there are pictures floating around on the internet somewhere. Let me know if you find any.)

"Excuse me!" this woman huffs nearby. "You know, there's a changing area behind that curtain!"

I look around, and yes, there is an lonely, tiny curtained-off section in the corner. But yikes, I lived in San Francisco for almost twenty years and I've seen far, far greater displays of flesh on the streets (and on the streetcars) that I had shown in those few not-very-revealing moments. It wasn't like I was trying to put on a public show or anything and at my age, I can't believe anyone's actually looking either. I'm thrilled if they are—believe me.

But I was simply changing and it seemed fine, in a PG-13 kind of way. After all, we're all adults and there was nothing you can't see in a Beyoncé video on MTV (and if I have to hear her once more going on about how she's so 'conflicted' having this sexy imagine with her religious beliefs...I mean, it's not like she's being forced to wear those ugly outfits with her girl-things spilling out, is she?)

But let's contrast my San Francisco experience to that at my yoga class back in Paris.

Our communal changing room is about the size of a Hummer and we're packed in there tight, commes les anchois. I mean, when you pull up your trousers, your elbows are bound to bump someone where you don't intend to bump 'em. But what's even more shocking, if you're so inclined to be shocked, is that the women take everything off. All off. Everything. And yes, I mean, yes, everything.

Click here to find my delicious, classic Vanilla Ice Cream Recipe adapted from The Perfect Scoop.

Heather reveals the the secrets of Vélib', Paris' new bikes which roll out this weekend.

Paris Mayor Seeks Welcoming Parisians.

If I only had a grill...

This weekend I'm going to discover the Hidden Kitchen of Paris.

A potty-mouth comes clean.

2 Terrific Travel Tips: How to avoid a pickpocket in Italy (and elsewhere) and what to do if your wallet gets stolen.

The...um...most...er, ah...unusual thing I was gifted in the states.

If I can't answer these questions either, does that mean I can't come back?
(Dick Cheney may want to brush up too.)

Findik Ice Cream.

A delectable inside look inside an internship at Pierre Hermé.

Take breathtaking and beautiful food photos without breaking the bank.

See what I mean?...

("Cobalt blue flying-fish roe mounded on top of a marrow bone and peas and grated carrots suspended in a square of agar-agar" or "Hot Dog Chic au King Crab" anyone?)

And people think we make this stuff up!

I taste Texas' Blue Bell ice cream (...but, once again, what's up with always using the worst photos of me?)

(Plus a whirlwind trip through the ice cream shops of Austin.)

And...Shauna gets hitched this weekend...congratulations, girlfriend!
(With Molly in the batter's box.)

Now that everyone out there's been churning up ice cream, I've been getting a certain amount of questions about homemade ice cream, which I'm going to answer here over the next several weeks.

I'm going to start with the number one question folks have been asking: Why does homemade ice cream gets harder than commercial ice cream in their freezer? And what can be done to prevent it?

While I do address this in The Perfect Scoop (pages 5 and 16), I thought I'd list some strategies here as well. I don't necessarily follow these all the time, but thought I'd put them out for readers to ponder and use as they see fit.

Alcohol

Alcohol doesn't freeze, which you know if you're anything like me and keep a bottle of Zubróvka vodka chilled and ready in your freezer. You can add up to 3 tablespoons of 40 proof liquor to 1 quart (1 liter) of your frozen dessert mixture prior to churning. I use vodka if I don't want the taste of the liquor to intrude on the flavor, but will switch to another liquor such as Grand Marnier or Armagnac to enhance the original flavor if it's compatible.

If my mixture is fruit-based, I prefer to add kirsch, a liquor which enhances the taste of stone fruits, like peaches, plums, nectarines, as well as berries. Generally-speaking, I'll add enough so the taste isn't very present, often less than a tablespoon.

For sorbets and sherbets, a glug of Champagne, white wine or rosé is nice with fruit flavors. 1/2 cup (125 ml) can be added per quart (liter) of mixture prior to churning. Or if the recipe calls for cooking the fruit with water, substitute some dry or sweet white wine for a portion of the water; the amount will depend on how much of the wine you want to taste. (Most of the alcohol will cook out but enough will remain to keep your sorbet softer.)

Sugar

Like alcohol, sugar doesn't freeze which is why you shouldn't futz around with recipes and just reduce the sugar willy-nilly. Almost all frozen dessert recipes use white granulated sugar, however you can replace some or all of the sugar with another liquid sweetener, namely honey or light corn syrup.

There's a new face in the Marais: Gérard Mulot. Sure there's lot of shoe shops, sunglass boutiques, and questionable "art" galleries in the Marais. But there's a dearth of bakeries and pastry shops.

So imagine my surprise and delight when one not-particularly-good bakery near me closed (the surprise part), then re-opened the other day as...Gérard Mulot! (the delight)

For those of you who don't know who I'm talking about, Gérard Mulot is most famous for his Left Bank shop on the rue de Seine, where he turns out magnificent fruit tarts, from simple to architectural, buttery pastries which include a rich-rich-rich chocolate coconut fondant that's barely finish-able (if that's a word), and an impressive selection of hearth-baked breads for the appreciative crowds that are always oogling the pastries in the shop.

(A few months ago I was fortunate to visit his workshop and watch his chocolatier make all sorts of things, as well as the rest of the staff, who demonstrated how they make their rather colorful macarons.)

His new shop is just one block from the places des Vosges, so if you're exploring the Marais or the Bastille, you're not far from pastry paradise.

And even better...now I am too!

Gérard Mulot
6, rue du Pas de la Mule (3rd), at rue des Tournelles (Map)
Tél: 01 42 78 52 17
Closed Monday

76 rue de Seine (6th)
Tél: 01 45 26 85 77
Closed Wednesday

93 rue de la Glacière (13th)
Tél: 01 45 81 39 09
Closed Monday

Way back when, after I arrived in France, I wanted to be all Provençal like we thought we were in Berkeley (except you'd need to force me into a beret only at gunpoint)...but I did go off on the lookout in Paris for a large, sturdy mortar and pestle. I didn't know what they were called in French at the time, so I went into cookware shops, made a fist around some imaginary cylindrical object in front of me, and shook it up and down maniacally and with great vigor to get across the idea of what I was looking for.

Suffice it to say, I got plenty of odd looks—I'm still not exactly sure why, but no one was able to figure out exactly what it was that I was after.

Eventually I got with the program and did find a few pretty little numbers, mortars and pestles usually made of glass or something equally fragile. But for all the pounding in Paris that I planned to do, I needed something that's going to take it like a man time-after-time and needed to be a bit more rough-and-tumble.

Acting on a tip, finally I arrived home one day with a manly-sized, rock-hard specimen from Chinatown (made of granite) and afterwards, I sought a hand from my olive guy who was glad to help out a friend in need and wrapped me up more olives de Nyons than you can shake a stick (or whatever) at, each week at the market.

One of my good friends, who's been living in Europe for the past eight years, announced the other day that he's probably moving back to the states.

Thinking about it, he probably...

...won't have to get all dressed up to go to the store to buy a hammer or a sponge or a pencil.

...won't have to wear clothing that actually fits.

...will have to learn the difference between 'relaxed' and 'casual' fit.

...won't have to talk about anything except real estate prices.

...won't have to worry about anything except the price of gas and Paris Hilton.

...won't have to wonder what all the fuss is about Eurovision.

...will get to shop on Sundays.

...will get to shop after 7pm.

...will get to shop 24/7.

...will have to get a prescription to get prescription drugs.

...will have to worry about getting arrested for mooning and being registered as a sex offender.

...will get to return absolutely anything, no matter what condition it's in, without a three hour discussion about it and several reams of paperwork to fill out.

...will get to have his medical decisions made by someone more knowledgeable than his doctor.

The publisher of my first two books, Room For Dessert and Ripe For Dessert is downsizing their cookbook division. Consequently many of their cookbooks will be unavailable shortly, including my first two books. If you've been pondering getting a copy, this may be your last chance.

Room For Dessert has the recipe for the ultimate Fresh Ginger Cake, Lindsey Shere's recipe for Chocolate Pavé and lots more, and Ripe For Dessert has over a hundred recipes that feature fruit in all its guises, from summertime crisps and cobblers to healthy Cranzac Cookies studded with dried cranberries, gooey-topped Toffee-Plum Cake, Chocolate-Cherry Biscotti, and almond-rich Blackberry Financiers.

Perhaps they'll become collectible, in which case I will be more than happy to say "I told you so" (which I love doing, btw). Or they'll be re-introduced in another edition or format in the future.

I dunno.

But for the time being, they're going...going...going...

Bill Fujimoto is the unsung hero of the food revolution and a candidate for one of The Nicest People in the World. I remember sorting through cases of gorgeous produce at his shop, Monterey Market in Berkeley, which was a chef's dream. Most chefs have to rely on their produce delivery, and what comes in can be less-than-optimal. But Bill opened up his walk-ins for everyone: I've even seen customers poking around back there along with chefs in search of the most extra-special fruit and vegetables.

Bill would often tell me to put something back that I'd selected, then emerge from the back of his truck with a big grin, hefting a few flats of something magical, like the sweetest rosy nectarines I'd ever tasted, or pears picked at their peak of ripeness with a rose-like aroma and a texture so meltingly-sweet, I resisted doing anything to them but encouraging customers to dive right in and dig out their sticky-sweet nectar-like flesh with a spoon.

I was trying to explain to a French friend what a 'foodie' is, and he was looking at me like I was nuts. I guess when you live in a country that's full of people that live to eat, the concept of people not into eating is a bit odd.

So, for lack of a better introduction, here are my 'foodie' addresses for places that I visited and good things that I tasted while in San Francisco:

Charles Chocolates

When someone handed me an unusually heavy sack emblazoned with the name 'Charles Chocolates' on it, I wanted to run home with in and dive right in! I've been jealous reading reports of Chuck Siegel's magnificent confections from other bloggers and let me tell you: Chuck's chocolate are worth the wait.

My hands-down favorites were the Triple Chocolate Almonds; California almonds roasted and enrobed in both milk and dark chocolate. Superb! There was a stack of tablets of chocolate in there too, flavored with caramelized rice and candied ginger that I've schlepped back to Paris to share.

But the most stunning were two heavy boxes, crafted entirely of chocolate, and filled with a luscious selection of Chuck's best and more dazzling creations. One was his Tea Collection with tea-scented chocolates (think Osmanthus blossoms and charcoal-fired Oolong tea), while the other had such diverse tastes as passion fruit and salted peanut butter. They were so good, you'll want to eat the box. Luckily you can.

Charles Chocolates
65299 Hollis Street
Emeryville, CA
(888) 652-4412

Delfina

This is my must-stop restaurant when I come to San Francisco. The problem is, I can never get in. Luckily my good pals came to the rescue and we dined like celebrities (like Jake Gyllenhall, who was seated across the dining room, unnoticed by everyone but us. I thought Joy was going to drop her kid right then and there.)

Starting with marinated sardines, moving on to heaping bowls of pasta, then finishing with perhaps the best version of Panna Cotta I've ever had, it's hard to have less than a stellar meal at Delfina.

And having charming, if distracted, company...and Jake Gyllenhall to look at, certainly doesn't hurt either.

Delfina
3621 18th Street
San Francisco, CA
(415) 552-4055

Nopa

This is my newest must-stop restaurant in San Francisco (I'm allowed a couple...aren't I?) And by the looks of things, I'm not alone. Laurence Jossel paid his dues at some of the best dining spots in the city before opening Nopa and he's got a winner on his hands. In a formerly dicey area (my old neighborhood), diners and chefs from other restaurants now come from all over to gather at the large table to share dinner, or to cozy up in a booth. (Warning: The noise level can be daunting. Request upstairs if you want some calm.)

How can you not love starting a meal with a frosty martini alongside perfectly-salted, hyper-crispy French fries with harissa dipping sauce ending with a bowl of sugared donut holes? Nopa makes me almost want to move back to San Francisco. If I could only persuade Laurence to open in Paris...*sigh*

Nopa
560 Divisadero Street
San Francisco, CA
(415) 864-8643

Citizen Cake

I'm sure I'm not the only one anxiously awaiting Elizabeth Falkner's upcoming book, Demolition Desserts. But for those of us who've been enjoying Elizabeth's desserts for years, we've been relishing her tasty treats at Citizen Cake.

(Disclaimer: I have a major crush on Elizabeth Falkner for years.)

As part of the mayor's plan to reduce traffic and congestion, starting July 15th, the city of Paris is commencing with a program called Vélib' where you can borrow one of their 20,000 low-cost bicycles. The city has installed lots of bike lanes in anticipation, although pedestrians (and dogs) make such frequent use of them that bicyclists usually have a bit of tricky maneuvering to do.

People often say I'm the luckiest person in the world for the kind of life they perceive that I lead. But I've found some folks who've got me beat, hands-down.

I'm back from my book tour, which was exhilarating but made me a tad homesick. Although really, if one thinks about it, how many times can one visit Target in a month? And don't even get me started on Walgreens...I mean, how much chapstick does a guy need? (Well, plenty, it seems...)

With my suitcases stuffed to the gills, my last weekend was spent in Seattle, Target-free, where I had lots and lots of good things to eat and drink, from sipping espresso with gal-pal Shauna, to get-together with a gaggle of food bloggers that was well-oiled by lots of good wine mixed with plates of the freshest food overlooking the water. There was time to catch up with new and old friends, unwind, and after a few glasses of wine, a bit of comparing notes was in order.
So watch it out there, readers!

On this last day, a chocolate tasting was planned at Theo Chocolate, one of a handful of excellent small-scale chocolate makers in the United States. From the moment I walked in the unassuming front door on North Phinney Avenue, I knew this was going to be a heckuva lot of fun for me and the guests who stopped by to say hi and sample.

It was like a big party going on inside, with lots and lots of chocolate everywhere. I've never seen such happy, excited people. Now those people are living the sweet life. But can you blame them? Being surrounded by all this chocolate, I'd be the happiest fellow on the planet as well. And for one afternoon, I was.

As mentioned, Theo is one of the few chocolate-makers in the US, making chocolate from the beans to the bar. Using organic and Fair-Trade beans, batches of beans are roasted, ground, then shaped into tablets of chocolate, many of them 'origin' bars, highlighting the nuances of cacao beans from various parts of the world. But unlike some of the other chocolate-makers, they've got chocolatier Autumn Martin, who's crafting some of the finest chocolate confections I've ever tasted in my life.

Do you mind if I talk about the richest, purest flavors imaginable?

Okay, don't mind if I do.
With just two-and-a-half years of chocolate-making under her belt, Autumn's managed to hit just the right notes with every chocolate I tried.

I was at my publisher's office in Berkeley recently (handing out ice cream and sauce to everyone, if you want to know) and on my way out, the main editor handed me a copy of The River Cottage Meat Book.

At the time, I didn't quite know why he pressed a copy in my hand since it's not particularly a subject I'm always trying to learn more about. And when I felt the heft of the damn thing, I silently cursed his altruism—It weighed nearly five pounds, which translated to a full 5% of my entire luggage allowance.

But when I opened the cover, I quickly got over the fact he didn't hand me a baking book and understood why he chose to give me this one instead.

In the opening pages, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Meat Manifesto contains the most sensible words about how to buy and why we cook meat that I've ever read. The design of the book lends itself to the subject, too. Presented like a textbook, The River Cottage Meat Book tells you everything you want to know about every possible kind of meat and poultry. And not only does it tell you, but shows you as well. Eschewing the typical nicely-styled look of most cookbooks, the natural, and sometimes disturbing photos that accompany the text include everything from cows grazing in the fields, to one on its way to meet its maker. And then some.

Instead of being horrified, I was drawn into the subject like I didn't think I could be. If you're going to eat meat, you should take responsibility for what you're doing and Fearnley-Whittingstall presents a rational case for finding a reputable butcher, buying close to home and using what you buy wisely and with purpose.

Although there's plenty of recipes, the real star of this book is the accompanying text. I'm devouring it for its comprehensive, rational treatise on all aspects of meat preparation and eating. It's written with care and concern and is the most thorough exploration of the subject I've read and I share the chef/author's well-presented opinions and have been engrossed in it ever since I got it.

In fact, the more I read, the more I realize that it's well-worth the weight.

San Francisco food bloggers get some R&R at R&G.

New summertime desserts from me with the fine folks at Culinate.

Butter, glorious (homemade) butter.

An Austinist interview.

The San Francisco Chronicle licks gets some licks in with Super Scoops

Only a fool would come to my cooking class.
(But folks...what's up with those angry-looking pictures of me everyone likes to post? I'm not that mean...am I?)

Knitting and salted butter caramel.

More trip pix on Flickr.

Making ice cream cool.

A Milanese makes granita.

Kung Foodie kicks some ice cream butt.

I'm not eating without my gun.

From the "I can't believe someone actually said that" file, from The Eatsdropper.

Awww...an online homage to ice cream.