Recently in David's Favorite Posts Category

I don't know if my grandmother loved to cook, but she was certainly good at it. Which was a good thing, because she sure loved to eat. When people tell me, "I don't have time to cook. I have a job and two kids at home" I think of my grandmother, that had four kids, opened and ran a huge five-story furniture store which she worked in every day with her husband (who she told me was rather, um, "difficult", amongst other things), and somehow managed to get dinner on the table every night. And this was before bagged salads, frozen broccoli, and electricity.

Okay, she did have electricity. But even if she didn't, I still think she was pretty amazing—even though she had a mouth that would shock a longshoreman, and after she let some choice words slip, would always tell me, "Oh s&%t, don't tell your mother I talk like this."

When I heard there was going to be an inaugural voyage for the recently refubished Club Med 2 sailboat, I was so excited to go, that I actually invited myself to come along. Since the trip was a press preview, with a sprinkling of the rich and perhaps famous to rub elbows with, and since I lived so close, I saw no reason why I shouldn't be able to easily race down to catch some sunshine, and participate in the buzz—cruising past St. Tropez, Cannes, Nice, and Portofino.

So after spending a few days on land in Provence, I was ready to set sail and meet my travel mates. Having not gone on many press trips, I wasn't sure what to expect and happily, our rag-tag group was from all over the map: Japan, the United States, Switzerland, Canada, Australia, Italy, and, of course, France. We boarded boat and set sail eastward.

I'd been on one boat before, a medium-sized cruise liner, and was less-than-impressed with that one. It was freezing cold from the boat being severely overly air-conditioned, so I was wearing sweaters indoors, while sunny Mexico was right outside. Not only was it cold physically, it was also uninspiring and I felt like I was on a floating hotel, it was so big and impersonal.

But this was a small vessel, a 5-masted sailboat, with less than two hundred rooms and sure enough, it was just the right size and pace for cruising the Côte d'Azur.

At a recent book event, there was a little Q & A session after I chatted and read from my new book. The only guidelines were that I told people that two questions were off limits.

One was; "Why did you move to Paris?", and the other "How long are you planning on living in Paris?" Because I get asked them at least six times a day, and I've been here seven years, (so do the math and you'll understand why j'en ai marre ), I figured I should just answer them in the book and be done with them once and for all.

Except when I said that, for a moment, I kind of blindsighted the crowd as I could tell that everyone was about to raise their hand to ask one of those two questions. Multiply that by 150+ people, and I'm not going to ask you to do the math again, but you see what I'm up against.

But someone did ask me a very good question: "What about Paris would you miss if you moved away?" which rendered me uncharacteristically speechless. In the book, I wanted to be truthful about my life here and balance the good with the not-always-good, and sometimes people focus on the less-alluring aspects of my life in this city, mostly because they're more fun than to hear what a spectacular city Paris really is.

So here are 15 things I would miss if I moved away from Paris.....

Aside from the massive safe in the Banque de France, probably the toughest place to get in to in France is the Ecole de Grand Chocolat Valrhona in the little town of Tain l'Hermitage. Admission to the professional cooking program I attended is by invitation only, and several times of the year, pastry chefs and chocolatiers from all over the world come to Valrhona to watch and learn how their chocolate is made. And even more important, to discover the best and tastiest ways to eat it.

Our chef-instructor was Philippe Givre, who was good-natured, but never let us forget that we were there to work-work-work. And he was perhaps the best example of the hard-driving pastry chef.

Well, I wouldn't say it was exactly stealing. But last time I was in the states, I was going through one of my frighteningly-full storage lockers (there's your glimpse into the glamorous life of international living...) and while rifling through cookbooks, I came across my own personal book of handwritten recipes, a fat mess of pages, stained with butter, eggs, almond paste, and lord-knows what else, that I compiled during my years working in restaurants.

It really is a treasure trove of recipes and I was thinking I should start a "working my way through the book" blog, dedicated to doing each-and-every recipe in there. Then I thought the better of it and got that idea out of my mind—fast.

The main reason being that most of the recipes make a hundred servings and call for things like 80 egg yolks or 5 1/2 cups of honey or 8 quarts of heavy cream.

(I recent met Bryce Corbett, who wrote A Town Like Paris, a book about his life in Paris, where he found the girl of his dreams. Since he's a terrific writer, I asked him to do a guest post, which included our visit behind-the-scenes at one of Paris' most exciting attractions. -David)

There are many fringe benefits to being married to a Paris showgirl.

Great tables at exclusive restaurants, never being called upon to fetch that hard-to-reach bowl from the top shelf (have you seen how tall these girls are?) and always stepping out with someone who knows how to accessorize with feathers (truly an underrated virtue in a woman).

But it's safe to say that the greatest fringe benefit to having a showgirl wife is also one that you'd probably least expect: She makes the most amazing cupcakes.

Now at first blush, you'd be forgiven for thinking that a woman who high-kicks on the Champs Elysées each night in feathers, sequins and not much else would have a natural aversion to baked goods. You would imagine that eating like a glutton and baking like a demon would be two practices well and truly off-limits to your average showgirl.

Some people, when they travel, they look for hotels with amenities like spas or room service. Others look for hotels near restaurants or local attractions. Me? I look for ones near supermarkets. And on my recent trip through the states, my traveling companion was shocked that I'd managed to pack 3 empty suitcase into one larger one, the limit of our collective baggage allowance.

Not to mention our two carry-ons—"someone" was ready for some serious shopping...

I've been dying to make a batch of Scotcheroos for a long time and although I've become pretty adept at finding substitutions for American ingredients here in Paris, butterscotch chips had me scratching me head.

On my vacation, I loved posting updates about what I was doing, but I'm sure you can understand that I wasn't all that keen on sitting in my room slouched over my laptop. Yes, I love and missed you all.

However every relationship has its limits. And there was something more important standing between you and I:

But on the 9+ hour plane ride home, I didn't have much to do...especially since the in-flight entertainment was non-functional...so I gathered up my photos and wrote a lengthy wrap-up of the trip. And as soon as I got home, I published the story and pictures, only to check back a few minutes later and find that half the post was missing.

And no, not the part with the thong. You're not getting off that easily. I'll get to that later...

Like the inhabitants of a tropical island on LOST, my post was equally without bearings, floating out there on the internet somewhere, adrift and listless, where no one could find it. So I cobbled it back together the best I could, republished it and poof!&mdashed;vanished again. Like the folks who follow that program, I'm sure I could start some sort of conspiracy theory about why it's happening, but I think I should just move on and hope the third time's a charm.

And if I keep comparing my blog to LOST, my part better not be played by the doctor-guy, because if it was, do you think I'd be rewriting my post? I'd be staring at myself in the mirror instead.

The note arrived in January, just as winter was wearing me down, an invitation to Club Med in the Bahamas. In the history of Gmail, I don't think anyone's ever hit the 'Reply' button so fast.

A lot of people love to travel. I am not one of them.

Sure I love wandering through exotic markets, exploring restaurants in new cities, and sitting under an umbrella on the beach. But the hard part for me to deal with is getting there. I know that travel used to be romantic and fun, but it's not anymore. And people like the whiny woman sitting across the aisle from me who just couldn't believe that her enormous suitcase won't fit in the overhead bin just above her seat and was refusing to put it elsewhere, doesn't add to the allure.

The main thing I don't like about travel is this: I don't like being uncomfortable. I don't like being trapped in a plane, unable to move (even when seated), I never sleep well unless I'm in my own bed, and call me crazy, but I like the option of going to the bathroom when I need to go to the bathroom. I'd make a horrible prisoner. And after fifteen minutes trapped in my seat, one can only read about electric butter slicers, portable water washers, and the latest in nose-hair removal technology so many times in the Sky Mall catalog.

When I was in the states last year, I was in a coffee shop and for some reason, the conversation with the folks turned to what I was doing in their city. I'm not sure how they knew I wasn't from around there, but I can only assume it was my startlingly-good French accent, which is always a sure give-away. I mentioned I was a cook and was taping a television segment.

Right then, stopping the conversation, the woman who owned the shop asked me, "Are you the David Lieberman?"

Okay, before you get your panties in a knot, in my defense, I've had my name butchered to death on more than on occasion and we both cook and write cookbooks.

So I said, "Yes, that's me. Nice to meet you."

The next day when I stopped in again for my coffee, the same woman ran up to me, excitedly, "Oooh David, my friends were so excited that I met David Lieberman!" While I was thrilled to have someone happy to meet me, I'd never had someone that excited.

Over on Facebook, there's been a thing going around called 25 random things about me. Inspired by Pim posting hers, I thought I'd do the same.

Except I got carried away, editing and adding a few more.

1. When I started my blog, I wished I have done it anonymously so I could really say what I wanted to say. Now I'm glad I didn't, because I can actually say what I want to say, and stand behind it, too.

2. Whenever someone who smokes shrugs and says to me, "I don't care. When it's time for me to die, it's time for me to die", I wonder if they'll say the same thing when their larynx is removed and they'll have to say that through a hole in their throat.

3. I am very proud of all the Americans who started small-batch chocolate companies. I think it's one of our proudest achievements and sums up the best qualities of America.

4. When people ask me how do I stay so thin, it seems like common sense that the answer is because I do the opposite of what people do who become fat.

5. If I have cookies around, I will eat at least one first thing in the morning, before breakfast.

6. I think Flickr is the best-conceived, and best-used, site on the internet. I hope it never changes.

7. I hate being served breakfast. Especially in fancy hotels. I'd rather stay in a dump than face a lavish hotel breakfast and fawning waiters in the morning.

One thing I learned during the last few days of the past year could be summed up in four words: Don't ever turn fifty.

Do whatever you can do to avoid it. I'm still reeling from the trifecta, the one-two-three punch of Christmas, my Birthday, then New Year's Eve, the last of which put me way over the top. And now that I'm in my declining years, recovery is much harder than it was just a mere week ago. I'm going downhill, fast, my friends.

The first thing I thought when I woke up this morning, my head clouded by a combination of Krug champagne, Château Lafite Rothchild 1964 and 1969 (not that I know the difference, but since the '69 was in a 4-bottle, a gigantic double magnum with a funky-looking label...I knew we were drinking something special) was right from the "What on earth was I thinking?" file.

I was wondering why I invited five people over for dinner and drinks tonight.

Today I turn fifty. Excuse my French—but holy crap!

I'm sure you've heard this a zillion times before, but I have no idea where all the time went. Believe me, when it happens to you, you'll say it too.

Did I really go to college for four years then travel around Europe for another year after that? Did I really work away in restaurant kitchens, day and night for twenty-plus years? Did I actually hunker down in my home kitchen, here and there, melting chocolate and whipping up all those cakes in cookies? And what was I thinking, moving to a foreign country, one that I spoke barely two words of the language, and one where I didn't know anyone?

There's a phrase that's used in restaurant kitchens, in the weeds, which means that basically, you're sunk. It's when the orders are coming up too fast and you're behind, or that you've taken on more work than you can chew and you can't keep up.

A few weeks ago I volunteered to make a Bûche de Noël for the Christmas dessert. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but this morning, I'm not so sure.

In a country where one of the tenets is égalite, there are, believe it or not, some people who are more "equal" than others. It's one of the less-discussed French paradoxes. No, I'm not talking about the motor scooter drivers who ride roughshod through Paris, bombarding pedestrians on the sidewalks or breaking through traffic, cutting off buses, bicyclists, and generally wreaking havoc in their noisy, smoke-spewing wake.

It's les bureaucrats.

The other day I had to go to the bank. And in France, before you go to the bank, if you need to do anything other than make a withdrawal or deposit, you need to make an rendez-vous. Each client is assigned a bancaire who is in charge of your affairs. You can't just go to any bancaire; you have to go to yours.

So it's important that they like you.

It's true that the French have a thing for singers in pain. But Americans aren't really all that different. They had Jacques Brel and Edith Piaf.

And Barbara and Dalida.

Bonus points are given if one is so triste that they commit suicide. Which makes Britney Spears ineligible, but we Americans do have Judy Garland.

Being French, naturally, Romain worships Judy Garland.

Yet another friend is moving back to the states (woosies!) and she had a going away party last night on one of the bridges over the Seine. Since I'd stashed a few clandestine bags of marshmallows, which were getting a little long in the tooth, I thought it time to use 'em or lose 'em. In fact, they were a prominent staple on my Too Good to Use shelf and they were just languishing there, waiting for the right moment to rip open that bag.

Romain was very surprised when I told him that you can't even buy a bag of marshmallows or a box of Rice Krispies in America without some version of this recipe appearing on it.

1. Sell Classeurs

The most prevalent fixture in every French home isn't the gleaming shelf of copper cookware, the bottles of medicaments crammed into every nook in the john, or their collection of books, which the French hold in the same reverence as Americans do their flat-screen televisions and their iPhones.

No, it's the shelf of classeurs, the sturdy, colorful cardboard folders to hold the massive, sprawling, spiraling out-of-control amount of paperwork your accumulate here, in the form of les dossiers, which are the two most important words in the French language.

You quickly learn to never, ever, ever, throw away even the tiniest, most insignificant piece of paper or receipt in France because invariably, six years later, someone will ask you to produce it. So it's imperative to save each and every scrap of paper and because of that, soon you'll find you've accumulated your very own stack or dossiers.

I know, because I have at least fifty. Or more filed away somewhere.

Even though I live in a small apartment, I'm not especially good at keeping it tidy. I'm fairly neat and organized, which is essential when living and working in the same space. But I'd rather spend my time baking brownies than scrubbing sinks, if you can believe it.

Jeanne is my housecleaner and she comes every other week. (Except during her eleven-week summer vacation.) The first time we met, she strode in the front door for her interview, and immediately said to me, "Je ne suis pas une voleuse, monsieur"—"I am not a thief."

I was sure she was telling the truth, since she was better dressed than I. She arrived wearing a silk scarf tied impeccably around her neck and strode through my door in elegant leather pumps. The flowery lilt of French perfume wafted towards me as she entered, and her hair was so neatly-coiffed and sprayed into place that a mistral, the violent wind that sweeps through Provence, wouldn't have been able to budge it.

Being from San Francisco, I did the brief Adam's-apple check and yes indeed, Jeanne was the real thing.

I recently read The Pedant in the Kitchen, which Michael Ruhlman also wrote up, and while I found it an enjoyable rant, one vexing thought that stuck in the author's craw was recipe instructions that call for "a handful" of something. He didn't know what that meant and wondered why recipes couldn't be more precise.

Writing a recipe that's acceptable to absolutely everyone can be daunting, if not impossible. The purpose of any recipe is the guide the cook through the process; too much explanation and overtly-long recipes turn readers off, while short recipes often get accused of not giving enough information. How much is enough, and how little is not enough?

I once saw a three page recipe for chocolate brownies from a famed pastry chef.

Today I had what I call a "Welcome To France" day.

That expression came about a couple of years ago, when a friend who lives in Switzerland came to run in the Paris marathon.

Except when he went to register, they told him he wasn't registered even though he had a letter from them saying that he had indeed registered. And he wasn't alone; there was a roomful of other people with letters being told they weren't registered either. Luckily, he was there with a friend who was a doctor.

It wasn't because people were fainting from having traveled halfway around the world and being told they couldn't run in a marathon they'd spent the last 6 months training for. The French friend intervened (the French are much better at yelling at bureaucrats that we Americans, who crumble surprisingly easy) everyone was told they could re-register. But everyone would need to magically produce a note from their doctor attesting to their fitness.

So even though our friend specializes in breast augmentations and botox injections, he sat down and signed everyone's paperwork.

When I went to meet my friend after the marathon, he was shaking uncontrollably; very, very cold and tired.

For the holidays this year, I decided to take up a friends offer to visit their family in Méribel, a village way high up in the French alps. As you can see, it's a spectacular place. And I'm not just talking 'gorgeous sunsets' or 'charmingly quaint' spectacular. I mean, Méribel was mind-blowingly, insanely hallucinante.

Seriously, I wasn't prepared for the awesome beauty of it all. Although I haven't strapped on a pair of skis in over thirty years, there I stood, at the top of the mountain on my first day on skis in decades, ready to slide down.

Let me tell you—skiing isn't one of those things that you get more comfortable with as you get older. *sigh* Especially when you're with a group of skiers that include some crazy teenagers who, at the top of a particularly steep run, simply point their skis in the straight-down position, and shove off with their poles and a banchee-like "On y va, Daveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!"

And off they'd go...

Something around here stinks.
And it's not just my neighbor.

When I moved to Paris, I remember my first load of laundry that I proudly pulled out of my little machine tucked in the corner.

After I figured out the seven different dials and nine different buttons on the machine (actually, I've still only managed to figure out what about a third of them do), I remember extracting my clothes from the machine and hanging them all out to dry on my shiny new rack that took me a few hours to buy at the BHV. In Paris, few people have dryers since it's verboten to cut holes in buildings to vent to the outside. And even though each load of laundry takes me the better part of 3 days instead of...say, an hour...I'm happy to report I've reduced my carbon footprint.

And I've also reduced my productivity at doing anything else.

Who says New Yorkers are pushy?

Although I couldn't convince him to cut in line, watch me teach Adam Roberts how to Shop Like A Parisian in New York City.

(And yes, the camera does add 10 pounds...either that, or I seem to be sporting a Pinkberry-Belly.)

A French friend asked me recently, "David, do I look gay?"

Without a second of hesitation, I replied, "Yes, absolutely."

"Why?" he said.

"Well, for one thing," I told him, "You're French—which makes you suspect. Another is that you're wearing a pink polo shirt. You also answer your emails quickly and you spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about your hair."

"And you have a nice butt," I added for good measure, perhaps because he's a rugby player.

So how does one tell the difference between a man who's European or one who's gay?

Why do people call you thirty minutes before you've invited them for dinner?

It's something I don't understand. Usually if you're having folks for dinner, if you're anything like me, during those precious few minutes before everyone arrives you're racing around in your undies trying to get everything together so you can look relaxed when they arrive.

But people can't resist calling—"We're on our way!" "Can we bring anything?" "What time did you say to come?" "Can I bring two friends?"

There's a couple of rules in Paris about dinner parties:

The first is that you never, ever show up on time. Thirty minutes late is normale, and if you show up earlier you just may catch your host in their undies too (which may or may not be such a bad thing.) Another is that you need to get people's digicode in advance. Most buildings in Paris have a complex series of numbers and letters that you need to press on a pad by the entry to get into the building.

Sadly, people have a way of forgetting them and having to frantically call you from the sidewalk since they can't get in. And lastly, no one in France has food allergies so if you're invited for dinner, if you have an food issues, you'd better pipe up in advance or be prepared to eat Tête de veau...which, believe me, you don't want to eat.

So when they call, while they're blabbing on and on and on, you're hyperventilating and all those thoughts are running through you mind—"Darn it. Why didn't I trim my fingernails when I had time on Wednesday?" "Will they notice the pots and pans piled up in the bathtub?" (which is a whole 'nother blog entry...) "Do I need to make more chips since I think I ate about half of them after I made them?"

What are the absolute last words you want to hear when invited to someone's home for a meal?

Well, how about...

"We had some fish that was about to go bad, so we're having it for dinner."

Welcome to my world. A world you thought was all baguettes and chocolate.

Well it now includes dubious fish too.

The rules for hygiene are a little different here than in America. I was pretty shocked to see on my trip to the US in June, little bottles of hand-sanitizer dangling from people's belts and fanny packs, as well as available in supermarkets with towelettes to wipe down the handles on shopping carts. But I'm equally shocked that people think it's okay to leave stock-based preparations on the counter for a day or so, then consume then. (They use stock in science labs to grow bacteria since it's such an inviting medium. Just so you know.)

Although some think we might need those little bottles of sanitizer around here pretty soon for Vélib' hands, after riding around town for a few weeks, I'm almost inclined to agree with her after riding around for the past few weeks.

Although I've been certified in food sanitation, sometimes I just need to suspend logic around here and just go with the flow. The fish, though, I pushed aside. I'm thrilled to be accepted by the locals, but let's not take this "I'm so French" thing too far...

Ah, la salade niçoise...

One of the classics of French cooking and one of my favorite things to dig into sitting on the terrace of a café, dreaming idling away the afternoon by the sparkling Mediterranean. But really, who wouldn't want to dig into a big, fresh salad bursting forth with the flavors of the sunny French Riviera, no matter where you live?

There's always much controversy about the salade niçoise regarding what's authentic and what's not.

Does one use fresh or canned tuna?

Is there a bed of lettuce underneath or does one leave it out?

Are there olives in it?

Boiled potatoes or rice?

Should it be mixed or composed?

And although I'm not convinced about artichokes, there's folks out there who swear by them.

I'm not really sure if there's a definitive answer as to what's correct.

But I'm pretty sure about one thing.

This ain't it...

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.

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.

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.

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.

If you want to see a what a human head looks like when it explodes, there's no reason to waste your money on tickets to the latest Mel Gibson movie.

Just take me to Ikea.

At first, it seems the shopping day is going to be a lot of fun as you prepare for the big trip, flipping through that cheery Ikea catalog featuring handsome Scandinavian families in sun-splashed Ikea homes: making dinner in their BRANJELLËENA kitchen, happily working away at their SKÅRI LARIKINGG desk, and tucking the kids in for the night between their FØRSKYNNE sheets.

And for those of us not fortunate enough to: 1) Be unbelievably handsome with strong Nordic features, 2) Live in a sun-dappled townhouse with kids, perfectly-arranged by size, weight and material, and 3) Have every kitchen utensil, perfectly arranged by size, weight and material—in other words, for those of us who live space-challenged, in petite Parisian apartments, the appeal of folding tables, chairs, silverware, etc..etc... holds a definite hypnotic appeal.

(We who live by the rule that you can't bring anything into your apartment until you get rid of something else. Just flipping through those shiny-fresh catalog pages is enough to make you start drooling about all the things you're going to buy to fill up all that newly-free space.)

So you make a list of all the fun items in the catalog you're going to buy, like sets of nesting storage containers so you can organize all your breakfast cereals and display them by size, weight, and material in your Ikea dream kitchen and you can finally replace the glassware that's been irreparably-ruined by Parisian calcaire because you're too lazy to wash yours by hand.

When I told a friend that I was going to Italy to learn how to make coffee, she responded, "You just dump the coffee into a filter and pour water over it. What else do you need to do?"

Well, since you asked, plenty.

First of all, there's an important distinction between 'brewing coffee' and 'extracting espresso'.

Brewed coffee is steeping ground beans in hot water, which any fool like me can do, whereas making espresso involves a couple of crucial steps and the deft use of a high-pressured machine combined with several specific techniques. It's not easy to make the perfect espresso, but anyone can make a pretty decent one, even using an inexpensive home machine.

And how do you know what a good espresso is?

It's a very tiny cup of deep-brown liquid, just a couple of sips, not bitter-tasting, but rich, complex and lingering, which endures on your tastebuds for 10-15 minutes afterwards—one singular, perfectly-extracted shot of true Italian espresso.

I was really anxious to visit Illy, since I've been having trouble getting just the right little shot to taste good at home. Mine was either too watery, or bitter and virtually undrinkable, even though I was using a very powerful espresso maker. But I was also curious why the espresso in Italy tastes so much better than it does anywhere else, even in the humblest caffè. So when Illy invited me to come to their roasting plant and Università del Caffè in Trieste, I cleared my calendar and jumped on a plane.

So what did I learn at Illy?
I learned that anyone, even me, can pull a great cup of espresso at home.
Here's the 1, 2 and 3's of it...

1. Start with good coffee.

This seems like a no-brainer. But I have a friend who said his vinaigrettes never tasted as good as he'd like them to. When I pointed out that you can't make a good salad dressing with crappy olive oil from Trader Joe's, neither can you make a good cup of espresso unless you start with good coffee beans correctly roasted and packed.

Day #2:

Just in case you live in a top-floor Parisian apartment with feeble water pressure, if you're testing recipes involving baked meringues, I don't recommend disposing of them here.

I hope by tomorrow they'll finally be gone.

UPDATE: March 8 (the next day)—they're still not gone!

There are two periods during the year when stores are allowed to have Les Soldes, or The Sales. They occur once in the winter, beginning shortly after New Years Day, while the summer soldes start in late June. Although Americans think its odd, the government's official explanation is that les soldes give stores a chance to blow-out all last seasons merchandise quickly by creating a little frenzy. But I think another reason is to give the little stores a break, since as we've seen in America, often the smaller merchants get squeezed out by the big guys offering lower prices on things by holding sales all the time.

So onward to the BHV. What is the BHV, you ask?
Imagine someone scouring the every corner of the world, looking for the least-helpful people on the planet. Then they hire them and put them in one enormous department store that's impossible to navigate but full of everything imaginable and necessary for daily life in Paris, so you really have no choice but to shop there.

And those are the people in charge of helping you.

And now, you get the idea of the BHV.

So today is the first day of les soldes and I would say to anyone who has fantasies that Parisians are polite, classy, and sophisticated, hasn't been elbowed out of the way in front of the bins at the BHV department store, strong-arming anyone who might get between them and something they want.
Or don't want.

It doesn't really matter.

And Parisians tend to go a little wild here, since in general, things like clothing and housewares are pretty expensive. I happened to be heading to the BHV this morning, since last night I switched on my desk lamp and blew out some fuses in my apartment. Although I was determined not to get involved in the hubbub, once inside I got caught up in the madness and thought, "Well, I guess I could use a new pair of jeans." Last week I discovered a bare spot forming in a place where not a lot of people get a close look at, thinking their days are numbered.

To make a long story short, I never made it to the hardware department, but instead got taken in by the stacks and stacks of jeans that were all 30% off. Since you can't get away with wearing American-style baggy-assed jeans in Paris, you need to wear pants that are well-fitted, snug-tight up against your rear end (no matter what you weigh.)

Our unless you're under the age of 21. Then you wear jeans hanging halfway down your butt, but only as long as you're wearing boxer shorts underneath rather than those Euro-sling undies and swimsuits that some men in my age (well above the age of 22) like to wear here.

Not finding what I liked, I left empty-handed. But with my adrenalin (or was it my morning cáfe au lait?) pumping, I raced to the Levi Store in the Bastille. Not quite busy yet (aha!, I beat those young folks wasting their lives away in school), the young salesmen were instantly drawn to me, amazed at the Levis that I was wearing, which were made with a special cut and fabric that I bought in San Francisco. So there I find mself, surrounded by handsome, unshaven, young French men, all oohing and aahing while staring at my butt and crotch, reaching over feeling the fabric, and closing in all around me. I don't know if it was me, or the summer heat has finally arrived once and for all, but it was surely getting much warmer in there. And naturally, I decided right away that I needed a new pair of Levis, and this was the place I must get them.

Helping me find a style I liked, one of the friendly young men, wearing a well-fitted t-shirt (was it Levis? If so, I want one too.) He kept calling me jeaune homme (young man), while asking me what I thought about the style that he was wearing by running his hands up and down his thighs to emphasize and make sure I understood how good they fit (yes, I did.) So he hands me a few pairs of the same jeans to try on, and transfixed, I head to the dressing room.

Since we're in France, there's no need to be shy and he pops right in soon afterwards and starts surveying the fit by yanking and patting and making sure all button-fly's buttons were laying properly, exclaiming how well they fit. Yes, they're supposed to be that tight, he told me. And for additional emphasis, in case I didn't quite get it (yes, I did) he makes doubly-sure with his hands that I know there's little room in there for anything besides maybe a Euro-sling, and perhaps a few centimes or fuses (...fuses? What fuses?...) But certainly not much else.

Soon all the other boys, er, I mean jeaunes homes, came by and made sure I'm getting properly fitted, admiring my choice in jeans. When I questioned whether I might need a larger size, one turned to show me how his fit him, sliding precariously down his backside, and he asked me if I wanted to same. (Yes, I did.)

But instead I went home with the jeans I had on, at 20% off, back to my darker apartment, thinking I'll go back first thing tomorrow and get fuses.

But perhaps if the BHV took a cue from Levis and hired a few of these helpful young men as salespeople, customers like me might leave their store happily with something more than just a fuse in their pocket.

Levis
47, Faubourg St. Antoine
Tél: 01 44 87 03 06

"You're going to flip out."

That was the message I got from a representative and friend from KitchenAid when he found out I was finally going to visit their factory. It was a visit I've been waiting years to make.

I'd been meaning to visit the KitchenAid factory ever they brought up the idea to me a few years ago, asking me to give a baking demonstration there as well. I can't imagine life without my KitchenAid mixer and most other bakers I know feel the same way (and I love seeing how things are made, anything. I just find it fascinating, no matter what I'm watching being put-together.)

And if you have a KitchenAid mixer, you know what I'm talking about. It's without a doubt the one essential tool that most home bakers can't live without. The mixer we used at Chez Panisse was a solid performer after twenty years of hard restaurant use (it outlasted me!) and my personal mixer has been in service for well over 15 years. When I began doing baking demonstrations over a decade ago, I was so enthusiastic that I reached my arms around the one that I was using and gave it a big, generous hug.

Word of that hug reached KitchenAid headquarters and ever since then, I've been lucky to get to know many of the terrific folks who work for KitchenAid, both in the United States and Europe. And when they heard I was heading to the US this month, we worked in a date to visit their factory for a private look at how the mixers are put together. They gave me special permission to take photographs so much of what you'll see here was generously allowed by KitchenAid.

A visit to the factory begins with a viewing of some of the classic stand mixers. The first produced was the Model H, introduced in 1919 and sold until 1927. It weighed a hefty 60-pounds and stores were so skeptical of its saleability that it was lugged door-to-door by housewives, hoping to convince other homemakers of its value.
The price? The Model H sold back then for $199 which is the equivalent today of about $1400.

Over the next several decades the designs changed to reflect the times, with my favorite being this one, totally streamlined with swoops and curvilinear lines, suggesting speed and industrialism. Someday I hope this one is re-issued as a Special-Edition, since I think it's the most beautiful of all the models ever produced.

Others models were made of materials strong enough to withstand the rugged KitchenAid motor within.

There were contemporary mixers on display too, including custom models made to commemorate certain events, including this one. One hundred of them were made and donated as thank-you gestures to the New York City Fire Departments for their efforts and heroism after September 11th.

Another 100 were made later and sold on eBay, with the proceeds going to 9/11 charities.

I learned that KitchenAid is the only company in America which still makes counter top appliances in the United States. All others brands are made overseas, although a few select KitchenAid appliances like the heavy-duty Pro-Line Espresso Maker (which I seriously envy) is made in Italy. Each and every KitchenAid appliance manufactured out of the United States is taken out of the box, vigorously-tested, then re-sealed before it's ready for sale.

The first thing that I saw when I entered the factory are the newest models and colored mixers lined up, practically floor-to-ceiling! They ranged in hues like sunny Meyer Lemon, Martha Green (named after...), Caviar (black with silver flecks), a cheerful Green Apple, Olive, and colorfully-red Bing Cherry.

If I didn't already own several mixers, I would have tried to sneak out the brilliant-yellow Meyer Lemon model under my jacket, although it's being considered for retirement. New colors are constantly introduced, then retired, sop that new ones can be added. So if you ever see a color that you like, get it while it's hot. One enduring color that's been offered for years, with a new expanded product line, is the pink mixer, with 10% from the sale of each going to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. There's no plans to retire that one, and in fact, they've added other products in that color range.

Each KitchenAid mixer takes about one-day to assemble. The actual building of the mixer is done in several stages: The engines are assembled and installed in the cast-metal housing by one team, the parts are heavily oiled (using three-times the amount of lubrication required for a lifetime of use), then sealed tight by another group, then the mixers are tested in another area, replicating 30 years of normal home use. Once they pass inspection, they're packaged up and ready to be shipped off.

Each person in the factory makes an average of 92 standing mixers per day, with 22 people working on the line at any given time. Christmas starts in June at KitchenAid, when temporary workers are hired to assemble mixers to meet the upcoming holiday demand.

I left my resumé.

One of the newest improvements to the KitchenAid standing mixer is their sturdiest whip yet. Unlike the dough hook and paddle attachments, the whip has several different parts affixed together, making it the part that takes the most abuse (sometimes I think I know exactly how it feels.) I watched how each individual whip was spun around while a woman patiently threaded each wire, interlacing them and securing them to the core.

The happiest folks in the factory are not on the floor, but in a special, plusher chamber. These are the "call girls", as they're known. These happy cookers spend their days servicing clients, tirelessly, one right after the other. They're the on-site customer service team, helping customers seeking advice about their appliances. Although the main call center is elsewhere (in Michigan), KitchenAid likes some of their customer service workers to remain in the factory, keeping them in touch with the manufacturing process, so they can respond to requests quickly and accurately.

So when you call KitchenAid, you can ask to speak to someone in the factory in Greenville. You'll get connected to one of the highly-knowledgable service team members there (...and tell them I sent you...they're not likely to forget me!)

Is your mixer making a funny sound?
Hold the phone to the machine while it's operating and they can diagnose it for you.
Wondering how you can raise the bowl so that the whip reaches the absolute bottom of it?
There's a tiny screw located underneath the mixer head that you can turn counterclockwise (on the K5) that'll do the trick. I've been using my KitchenAid mixer for years and never knew that.
Of course if I had read the instructions...and we all read instruction manuals, don't we?

Just a short ride away is the KitchenAid Experience, an interactive center where everything that KitchenAid makes is available to try out and play around with.

There's also a teaching kitchen with demonstrations throughout the day. I did one, making all sorts of chocolate treats for guests, including chewy Chocolate Financiers, Rocky Road with Homemade Marshmallows, Peanuts, and Cocoa Nibs, and Double Chocolate Ice Cream with Stracciatella, using the brand-new ice cream attachment, which works with all KitchenAid standing mixers.

Each and every appliance is available on the floor to play around with and bargain-hunters should descend to the lower-level, a room packed floor-to-ceiling with factory refurbished mixers and blenders.

When a KitchenAid product is returned to a store, it's sent back to the factory. The box is opened, the appliance removed and thoroughly inspected and tested. Then it's re-sealed and offered for sale at a substantial discount: Each appliance meets the same rigorous standards as a spanking-new model.

I saw hyper-powerful 6-quart KitchenAid mixers available for slightly more than $200 and chrome blenders being sold for less than half the retail price. And there was lots and lots of mixers and other appliances in colors that had been retired or in various experimental finishes that you won't find anywhere else.
If you can't make it to the KitchenAid Experience, you can shop find your own bargain on a reconditioned model at Amazon.

Big thanks to the staff at KitchenAid for taking the time to show my everything, as I poked through boxes and rifled through bins of parts. They answered all my questions and I'll never rev up my KitchenAid standing mixer again without thinking of what went into it before it became a fixture in my kitchen and my life.

You can find amazing bargains on reconditioned KitchenAid appliances at Amazon, such as powerful K5 mixers for only $129, and gorgeous chrome-plated blenders for only $39, which will save you hundreds of dollars.

The KitchenAid Experience is located in Greenville, Ohio, about 45 minutes from Dayton and 2 hours from Cinncinati.

The KitchenAid Experience
423 South Broadway
Greenville, Ohio
Tel: 1-888-886-8318

Factory Tours of KitchenAid
1701 KitchenAid Way
Greenville, Ohio
Tours given Monday through Friday, at 10am and 1pm (subject to change, so call ahead.)

St. Clair Place (excellent Bed & Breakfast in town)
224 E. Third Street
Greenville, Ohio
Email: stclairplace@earthlink.net

Although we can't expect things to be like 'back home', many of us do miss certain things and for us bakers, it's often a challenge to adapt to new ingredients or ones that behave differently than what we're used to. Here's a list of commonly-used baking ingredients and where you can find them, or what you can use in their place.

Buttermilk

Many grocery stores and cheese shops sell lait ribot, fermented milk from Brittany. Arabic markets also sell fermented milk as well. In a pinch, dilute some plain yogurt with milk, about 50:50, and let it sit for 10 minutes before using.

Brown Sugar

To replace the sticky brown sugar used in American recipes, there are two options. One is sucre vergeoise, which is beet sugar sprayed with caramel-coating (to resemble brown sugar) and sucre cassonade, which is unrefined cane sugar. Both are available in dark and light variations: light (cuivrée) or dark (ambrée), for cassonade.

Sucre vergeoise is more available, found in supermarkets, although I prefer cassonade, which can be found in supermarkets (most often under the Daddy brand, which they sell online at La Boutique Daddy and you can find other brands at natural food stores, like Naturalia and Biocoop.

Coarse crystal, free-flowing cassonade is available in most grocery stores as the French use it for coffee and baking, and can be substituted in some recipes, although I prefer the sticky varieties when a recipe calls for light or dark brown sugar.

Flour

Flour varies from country-to-country. French 'all-purpose' flour (type 45 and type 55) is closer to American cake flour: it's milled very finely and has less-protein and gluten (strength). In most cases, you can't just substitute French all-purpose flour in American recipes like cookies and cakes. I know too many Americans who opened the oven door and found all their carefully rolled-out chocolate chip cookies, melded into once, giant blob.

If you're interested in the composition of both, you can read about it here. And Chow published a chart.

In spite of the listing, I found that organic type 65 flour is the closest, which you can find in natural food stores like Naturalia. You can also buy type 65 organic flour at Monoprix and other supermarkets. It will say on the side of the package.

Molasses

You can buy mélasse at natural food stores, but it's sulphured, unrefined, and very strongly-flavored. When using it in recipes, I cut it with some mild-flavored honey. Otherwise it can overwhelm all other flavors in whatever you're baking. Unless you like that strong, molasses flavor...then go for it. American-brands of mild, unsulphured molasses, as we know it, is available in stores that cater to the expat community.

Treacle, available in British stores and markets that carry British foods, is a close substitute, but is similar to blackstrap molasses and quite strong. In a pinch, cut it 50:50 with mild honey, unless you like the strong molasses taste.

Yeast

You can ask your local boulanger if they'll sell you some yeast, or it's available in supermarkets (not in the refrigerated section, like in America) in packets like the one shown above. You can also buy it in small tins in Arab markets, under the SAF brand.

Since yeast is a living organism, the yeast in Europe behaves a bit different than American yeast, but I've had few problems. You can test yeast by adding a teaspoon to half a cup slightly-warm water; it should start bubbling within a few minutes if it's still good. You can find a yeast substitution guide at the Red Star yeast website for swapping fresh yeast for dry yeast. I've not seen fast-acting yeast in France, although it may be available.

Chocolate Chips

Finding chocolate chips is regular supermarkets is nearly impossible. In Paris, G. Detou carries them at a reasonable price (although they contain the sugar substitute, maltitol) and expat stores carry them, as well as Le Grand Epicerie. You can simply chop up a bar of chocolate, or buy Callebaut pistoles (as shown in the photo) available at professional baking supply shops, such as G. Detou and Metro.

Butterscotch, and similar-flavored chips, may be available in shops that cater to the expat community.

Corn Syrup

American corn syrup is expensive, and sold at stores that cater to the expat community. But Asian markets often carry corn syrup cheaply, as it's used in Korean cooking. Two stores in Paris are Ace Mart (rue St. Anne) and Tang Frères (in the 13th.)

Professional baking supply shops, such as G. Detou in Paris, also sell glucose, which is essentially the same thing. If you need dark corn syrup, add a generous spoonful of molasses to the corn syrup. For more information about corn syrup: When To Use (and Not Use) Corn Syrup, which lists other substitutions.

Cornmeal

Various grades of cornmeal can be found in ethnic markets, mostly catering to the Arabic community. Polenta and cornmeal, such as those that are used for cornbread, can be found there, as well as in natural foods stores, labeled farine de maïs. In Paris, many of those are clustered around Belleville and near the marche d'Aligre.

Fine-grained instant polenta sold in supermarkets can be used in certain applications but I don't like it.

Peanut Butter

Peanut butter is available in France and now many supermarkets carry it. American brands, like Skippy, can be expensive. But "natural-style" peanut butter can be found in ethnic stores, especially those that cater to the Indian community. (In Paris, many of those are clustered around La Chapelle, behind the gare du Nord.)

The peanut butter you find is generally 98% peanuts, with a small amount of vegetable fat added. You can also make your own by roasting raw peanuts in the oven and whizzing them in a food processor, while warm, until smooth.

Cocoa Powder

Virtually all the cocoa powder in France is Dutch-processed, which means the cocoa powder has been acid-neutralized and is generally darker. It often will not say so on the front label, but may list the alkalizing agent (often potassium carbonate or bromate) as an ingredient.

Although one should, theoretically, used what the recipe calls for, you can usually do just find swapping out one for the other.

More information can be found at my post; Chocolate FAQs.

Chocolate

When a recipe calls for bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, you can use any of the dark chocolate baking bars found in supermarkets. If you live in Paris, G. Detou sells chocolate in bulk, in bars and pistoles. The membership only Metro stores also carry chocolate (and other supplies) in bulk.

G. Detou also carries unsweetened (sometimes called 'bitter') chocolate in bulk, which in France is called 100% cacao, or 100% pâte de cacao. Some gourmet stores carry it but in general, you won't find it in supermarkets as the French don't bake with it like Americans do.

You can learn more about chocolate varieties and uses at Chocolate FAQs.

Cream Cheese & Sour Cream

Cream cheese can be found in supermarkets under the St. Môret label, or store-brands, labeled pâte à tartiner, in the familiar rectangle shape. Ed discount markets has the best prices if you need a lot. Also cream cheese is available in Jewish grocers in the Marais, and some French people use Kiri squares as cream cheese for making le cheesecake.

For sour cream, I use Bridelice, whose 15% fat content is similar to American-style sour cream. Fromage blanc is also similar; Fjord and St. Malo are popular brands, although the store-brand usually works well. For cooking and baking, the 20% versions work best. If you're not going to be heating it, the lower-fat ones will likely work. You could also use crème fraîche, which is much richer.

Shops Specializing in Anglo Products in Paris & France:

Here's a listing of the stores mentioned above, or shops that specialize in products for expats. I've noticed that the everyday supermarkets in Paris, such as Franprix and G20 often have sections that sell anglo products at decent prices, and those are worth checking out, too.

For cake pans, muffin tins, bakeware, and paper cupcake liners (and more), I prowl around ethnic neighborhoods. A favorite is the rue de Belleville in Paris; there are lots of stores scattered along that street, that carry baking items at very low prices.

There are a couple of places that do mail-order and although I haven't ordered anything from them, if you really need something, they might be worth the extra expense:

Thanksgiving

G. Detou

Naturalia

My American Market (France & Europe)

Yummy's Fine Food From Britain

The English Shop

Biocoop

Izraël

American Market (Switzerland)

English Shop (Germany)

British Superstore (England)

The Real McCoy

Monoprix

Ed

La Grand Epicerie

Auchan

E. Leclerc

Carrefour

Ode To A Powerball™

By David Lebovitz


I think that I shall never see,
A Powerball™ as lovely as ici.

The rosy ball ensures success
Against my dishes, which entered a mess.

Inside the dishwasher, so full it is scary,
But I just press the button! Could I be more merry?

A sudsy froth, I'm sure it will yield,
Behind the closed door, its fate has been sealed.

An unequaled tablet, whose gift is released,
Round and round goes each cycle, until all has ceased.

Without it I know that my life would be worse,
Washing dishes by hand is indeed quite a curse.

A mess is made daily by fools just like me,
So I give thanks to Calgon, for they make what you see.


(...with apologies to Joyce Kilmer, 1886-1918)

Welcome To Prune Blogging Thursday!

I was, frankly, a bit surprised that anyone but me participated...but most of the prune-skeptics out there seem to have been won over. Participants were from all over the world: Italy, Estonia, France, Scotland, Spain, Germany, Canada, and the United States. Thanks to everyone for sending me your entries and I encourage readers out there to visit their web sites to read about their prune-alicious adventures.

In spite what I now see as a highly-organized, internationally-recognized conspiracy against prunes, here are entries from all over the world.
Hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

The divine Judy of Over a Tuscan Stove has a savory and amazing recipe for Cinghiale in Dolce Forte, adapted from an ancient recipe. Her wild boar stew has nice plump prunes...along with a suspicion of chocolate!

The zesty red-headed Laura of Cucina Testa Rossa began a torrid love affair with, what she writes, "the most expensive prunes in the world", the famed Stuffed Prunes from Agen. Then she went on to make a creamy Glace de Pruneaux d'Agen et Armagnac, Prune & Armagnac ice cream, making full use of her new ice cream freezer.

Fellow Parisian Christine who resides at Chez Christine presents a stunning Terrine de Canard aux Pruneaux et a l'Armagnac (Duck Terrine with Prunes and Armagnac) along with the recipe, which sounds worth tackling for the holidays.
Or perhaps she's taking orders?

Zorra, from Andalucia, Spain, made some fabulous tapas of Sherry-Soaked Prunes in Bacon, a variation of the delicious bacon-wrapped dates which I've had grilled and served in many tapas bars. I can't wait to try it with prunes and it's simple enough for anyone to make...no matter where you live.

My gal Alicat slinks in with two original tarts; Apricot & Prune Tart, and Dark Chocolate, Pecan, & Prune Tart. Both tarts look terrific and she and I did a mind-meld and were the only ones who combined chocolate with prunes in our desserts.

Peter at Tea Leaves found his own translation for pruneaux d'Agen. And even if a scholar of the French language might take exception to his method, his entry How To Eat Prunes had me eying my prized bottle of Armagnac in anticipation of making his boozy infusion.

I was almost afraid to open Lindy's post at Toast since it was titled "Nightingale with Prunes". But instead of something 'fowl', I found a delicate and delicious prune-presentation inspired by a recipe from pastry hero Pierre Hermé.

Pille, an Estonian living in Scotland, who's captivating blog presents an I Am So Good For You Prune Cake called hapukoorekook kuivatatud ploomidega, (although she slipped once and called it 'plum juice' when she meant 'prune juice'). In spite of the, er, high-fiber benefits of prunes, her recipe packs in some extra wheat bran!

My Amateur Gourmet Survivor, Melissa, survived her search for two prune recipes and discovered an Iranian Prune Stew and a 'Plumb' Cake that I could almost smell just looking at the pictures.
Merci Melissa!

Marc gave prunes, what he calls, "some X-appeal", and he re-created my pal and baking guru Nick Malgieri's X-Cookies, using a gift from his ex. Hmmm...he looks like he's become an X-pert in cookie-making.

Ulrike made a stunning Couscous Tabbouleh with Glazed Prunes, a trans-Atlantic combination of organic California Prunes cooked up in Germany. (Check out the swirly Apfelrezepte carving off to the side of the blog too!) Ulrike wasn't the only one who looked to the Middle East for inspiration...

Another Scottish import (seems like a trend, Scottish food bloggers!), Iain, presents a Beef in Beer with Guiness-Soaked Prunes that looks like just the thing for that blustery winter coming soon to Scotland.

Over in LA, Rachel makes one of my favorite snacks, Dried Plum Financiers and offers an explanation of their mysterious journey from 'prunes' to 'dried plums'.

Sarah Lou from Canada made a flaky Moroccan Basteeya Pie, which is one of my all-time favorite dishes; layers of filo dough brushed with butter then filled with shredded chicken, cinnamon, and a touch of sweetness.

Michele said I gave her the courage to tackle prunes in a Lamb Tagine with Prunes. While I appreciate her kinds words, I think comparing me to her grandmother in her post means I deserve some delicious gift, don't you?
Perhaps some salted-butter caramels Michele?

And Melissa said , "Okay, David, you've won. Then she came out with a lovely Whiskied Prune and Custard Tart that features a juicy prune filling spilling out from a flaky tart filling. She did mention she still felt unease when cooking with prunes (wait 'til tomorrow if you want to feel uneasy, Melissa...)

When I'm not using his blog for my socio-political rants, fish-headed Brett stewed up a lovely melagne of Masala Chai Poached Prunes which combines sublime Indian spices with smoky Assam tea, creating a nice warm bath for his prunes from Casa Gispert in Barcelona, one of my favorite food places in the world.

I will forgive Fatemeh for calling me neurotic (after all, Woody Allen's made a career out of it...why can't I?) Especially since she's driving me across the Bay Area soon in our pursuit of the best Chinese dim sum soon. So I was afraid she might make Prune dim sum, but instead found inspiration in a recipe from her childhood, which Prune Blogging Thursday happily rekindled: Toss Kabak, a savory Meat and Prune Stew with the addition of quince.

Molly of Orangette, I thought, would dip her prunes in delicious dark chocolate, but instead stewed up a storm with Stewed Prunes with Cinnamon and Citrus, which she's going to "stew us into submission" with. Glad she overcame her friend's giggling fits when she told them about prunes. I mean, when her friend gets old and wrinkly, I hope no one's giggling at her!

And a few late entries...

Cathy sent in her recipe and photos for Prune Bread from her blog at My Little Kitchen.

Spicy Prune Mole from Jocelyn at Brownie Points using Dagoba organic chocolate, which is one of my favorite chocolates.

Alanna from A Veggie Venture has a Prune Tsimmes.

And from Barrett at Too Many Chefs, Bleu Cheese, Prune, and Onion Tart, and from Meg, who actually loves prunes and is under 60 years old (it was our visit to the farm expo here in Paris that prompted prune-madness) and posted her idea of The Best Thing To Do With Prunes. Find out for yourself at Too Many Chefs.

And from Elizabeth, there an Icelandic Prune Layer Cake and a savory Chicken (or Lamb) Couscous with Prunes and Apricots from another part of the world. Prune lovers unite!

Ok...and finally...
Prune Blogging Thursday gave me the courage to perfect my recipe for making chocolate French-style Macarons with your choice of a creamy chocolate ganache filling, or an Armagnac-scented prune filling.

Whew!
Thanks again to everyone for participating in the first, the original, (and the only) Prune Blogging Thursday.

(PS: All my chocolate macarons are gone! They were quickly wiped out at my friend Heather's 30th birthday party this weekend. Thanks for asking.)

I've been thinking about this for quite a while, and figured I'd ask "Is it just me?...What would you do?"

Let's say you've been invited to someone's house for dinner. Yum.

You arrive and they're preparing the food. There's piles of fresh produce and meat on the counter, ready to be whipped up into something magical and tasty. Vibrant tomatoes, leafy greens, juicy meat ready to be roasted....hmmmm.
Can you practically taste it?

As you sip your glass of red wine, you watch and chat with your host as they prepare dinner.
They wash the raw chicken or pork under running water in the kitchen sink. Afterwards a quick wipe their hands (uh oh, you begin to think...no soap!...not to mention they're going to use that kitchen towel again and again and again...).
Then they fill the sink with water to wash the lettuce...without cleaning it out!

Ick!

Or what if they're making a salad, and take the knife they've just used to cut up the uncooked pork sausage?
Without wiping the knife, they begin slicing the cucumbers and tomatoes for the salad, tossing it all together, then triumphantly setting it down on the table.
I mean, Hello?

Since you're a extremely polite and gracious guest, like I am, (and believe me, no one's allergic to lettuce or cucumbers...so forget that one.)
I mean, it's not like you can just eat around the salmonella, can you?

...what do you do?