Here's a little round-up of some of the inspiring (and unusual) ice cream flavors that folks have been churning up...

Brian goes nuts with Gianduja Gelato.

Clotilde goes for simplicity with her lightning-fast Super Simple Nutella Ice Cream.

Deb's Butterscotch Ice Cream looks scooper-duper!

Ricotta and Honey Ice Cream from Melissa sounds like a perfect match for the summer fruits just around the corner.

The Kitchn takes a whirl with my Guinness Milk Chocolate Ice Cream.

Le Bernardin's pastry chef Michael Laiskonis whips up Brown Butter Ice Cream.

I was wrestling with coming up with an agave-sweetened chocolate cake that was delicate yet oh-so luscious, and tasted so insanely chocolaty, almost over-the-top, that no one would be missing a dang thing. Unfortunately I didn't have much time—or success, and after re-washing my cake pan and mixer bowl one too many times, I gave up for good.

(And no requests for the recipe in the future, unless you have a few minutes to spare to come over and do some dishes.)

It was sad, because the last cake I whipped up was really moist and extra delicious and I probably was this close to nailing it. I swear, I was ripping of pieces right and left and stuffing them in my face. But it was also about 1/2-inch high. And since I recently shared a rather flat cake with you, I decided to dump it.

Ok, that's not quite true.

An American pal said to me the other day, "The French like carrot cake. You just can't tell them what's in it first." Indeed, I remember making an all-American dinner for some friends and when I'd mentioned "carrot" cake coming afterwards, the look on their faces was like, "WTF?"

One mouthful, and of course, they loved it. But then again, you could slather cream cheese frosting on an Michelin tire and it would be enticing as well. There's a certain amount of chefs in France who are experimenting with vegetables in desserts, with mixed results—a gâteau au fenouil (Fennel Cake) I had at Le Grand Véfour comes to mind which, after a few bites, the waiter swiftly offered to replace.

Much of it may be attributed to cultural differences. After all, when was the last time any of you Americans out there looked forward to digging in to a pile of sausages made from the bowels of pigs?

I've been a little lax in my duties around here reporting on chocolate. In my defense, I've been sidetracked by bacon, seaweed, and kimchi. But man cannot live by chocolate alone.

Even in Paris.

Speaking of chocolate, when I was doing research for my chocolate book, it was challenging to find people to talk about what they do. I met with one representative from a big chocolate company who said he would only talk to me, and let me visit, if I only wrote about their company in the book. (Uh...sure!)

When I was writing my ice cream book, I called a gelato chain here in Paris, asking if I could come in and see how they make their ice cream to include them in the book. After much hemming and hawing, I never heard back.

It's always after the book comes out, you become a popular fellow. I seem to be always behind the curve on these things.

Last week, I was making my weekly ice cream deliveries to the vendors at my local market, which was especially necessary since my freezer was super jam-packed and begging for relief. (Which you may have seen when I inadvertently bared-all in my kitchen slide show.) When I stopped by to drop off a pint to my pal Régis, who sells salt at the market, I immediately honed in on a big basket he had heaped full of tiny sacks of bright green seaweed-flecked salt. He opened one, waved it under my nose, then handed it to me to play around with at home.

The first thing I did was add it to some eggs I was scrambling in the center of some fried rice, and it was excellent. Then I thought it would be delicious sprinkled over cold soba, thin Japanese buckwheat noodles. And it was. So I kept going and made a jeon, a big Korean pancake, which was another hit, too.

I'm on a roll!

...it's a challenge to get through to the person you really need to speak to on the phone.

...the amount of documentation you need seems excessive.

...when there's a screw up, there's no one to complain to.

...all the workers act like they can't be fired—because they can't.

...you're sure the folks up ahead of you are getting better treatment.

...there aren't nearly enough bathrooms.

Comprenez!

Merde!

Attrapez!

Sexiste!

Amour!

Fini!

Zut!

Ouvert?

Now that you've all seen everything I have in my kitchen, I thought I'd show you a place I just discovered this week not far from where all that pastry magic happens.

(And I'm sure a few of you remember where all the magic that doesn't happen around here ends up.)

Someone chided me for having French Wine For Dummies on my bookshelf, but gave me a pass for having Rocco's book. Hey, it was a gift from him.

What was I going to say?—No?

Who doesn't like bacon and eggs?

Ok, maybe vegans. And folks who are kosher. And people who don't eat eggs. Or those who don't like bacon. But I'm not sure that's possible. (I have a great bacon joke, but it's not 'pc', so I'd better keep it to myself.)

I'm a big fan of both bacon and the beautiful, bright-orange yolked eggs we get in France, so why confine them to breakfast? I was pretty sure Candied Bacon Ice Cream would work. I mean, it's got salt. It's got smoke. So why not candy it? Inspired by Michael Ruhlman, l wanted to see what would happened when they all got together.

Candying the bacon was a hoot. Being in an experimental mood, I tried everything from agave nectar to maple syrup to dark raw cassonade sugar.

I don't get it. Why are these called wine gums?

According to Wikipedia, it's because the flavors are "similar to the experience of savoring a fine wine".

You know, I like gummy candies. A lot. And I like wine too. But I see zero connection between the two. Zilch. I bought these a while back in London, intrigued by the little words on each one: port, claret, chablis, rioja, and gin...with apologies to my British friends, I don't think qualifies as wine.

And what is 'hook'?

So there I was, this afternoon, scavenging for something sweet and finally ripped open the bag. After picking through and tossing the black (licorice...ick!) and green ones (medicinal...ick!), I did a little searching and found they have quite a cult following. But to me, they don't compare to the world's great gummy candies—Chuckles, orange slices, Boston Fruit Slices—or my favorite filling-yankers; Jujubes.

(Ok, and can't forget Dots, which I used to hold up in front of the screen at the movies before I ate it to make sure I didn't eat a green one.)

Seriously, what is up with these little fellas?

If it seems to you like I've stopped hanging out the chocolate shops of Paris and now spend my days in Korean épiceries, stocking up on gochujang, cochutgaru, and gokchu garu, you're right. The odd thing is that the Koreans understand me better than the French. They're always surprised when I speak a few words of Korean and last week, I met some wonderful Korean gals that were pretty shocked to see me filling my basket with chile peppers, fermented shrimp, and garlic-chili paste.

Since the state of recipes—like my French—are always in a state of flux, after my first batch of cabbage kimchi (which came out pretty darn good), I kept thinking of ways to improve it. That, coupled with a newfound addiction to fried rice with kimchi, meant I was going through it at an alarming rate. Plus in my first batch, the color wasn't as brilliant as I liked—although it made a pretty good bowl of kimchi soondobu jjigae...if I do say so myself.

So I headed over to Ace Mart, loaded up my (reusable) shopping bag, and armed with The World's Most Expensive Scallions (3.8€, or $5.50 a bunch), I set out to make the penultimate batch of kimchi.

I also bought some very, very thinly-sliced, threadlike dried red peppers since they were too beautiful to pass up.

Registration is now open for my upcoming classes at Central Market in Texas next month and some of the classes are almost full.

These are my only US dates this spring (unless someone has a spare ticket for a sidetrip to Hawaii) so come join me for a fun-filled class where I'll be teaching Parisian Chocolate Desserts.

I can't remember the last time I saw a real, live squirrel.

Yes, yes, I know. I live a city. But when I go out into the French countryside I just don't see them there either. I never realized how much I missed the little rascals until I was back for a visit to the states and there were hoards of squirrels going about their business everywhere, from the wilds of Central Park to the streets of San Francisco.

French people when they go to the states, on the other hand, don't miss squirrels. They miss bread.

Fresh bread is a given, an integral part of life in France and lining up daily at your local boulangerie is just another task one does during the course of your day. For me though, it's a little more complicated. I'm no longer content to get the bread from the bakery just across the street from me and I'll spend half a day hunting down grainy breads near and far, a type of bread I'm hopelessly partial to.

Whether you're coming here to live, or even on vacation, there's plenty of classes for everyone from débutants to those looking to master the elusive French verbs.

While I don't personally make any recommendations, you can visit their sites to check for class times, size, and prices. Some schools do offer housing for longer programs and you can even get student visas if you sign up for longer sessions, helpful if you'd like to stay in Paris for a while.

Another plus about enrolling in a school is with your student ID, you can get discounts in museums and at the movies. Plus many gyms and sporting facilities give substantial student discounts and there's student travel deals to be had as well.

A few tips: