CHOCOLATE ESPRESSO LAYER CAKE

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

The secret to staying young is to live honestly,
eat slowly,
and to lie about your age.
~ Lucille Ball

“Oh, grow up!” he often says to me when I’ve said or done something particularly ridiculous, a smirk dancing upon his lips, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Would you really want me to?” is my usual rejoinder. We revel in our youthful silliness and utter disregard for the rules of behavior that most seem so urgently ready to apply to folks of our age. Another birthday has rolled around and I am now squarely centered in that “woman of a certain age” category. I look in the mirror and see the lines on my skin and the silver threaded through my dark hair, I feel the weight of the years upon my shoulders, pulling me down with unforgiving severity, gravity giving me a less-than-youthful appearance. These old bones creak and the back has a tendency to slouch, the elevator has taken precedence over the stairs and fabric seems to strain at snaps and buttons. But for all of the outward changes, that slow but inevitable metamorphoses that we each go through, the visible traces left by the advancing years, I somehow feel an inward subtle shift in the opposite direction.

So the “Oh, grow up!” followed immediately by the “Would you really want me to?” is a game we play, just more childish banter between two who simply do not feel that the years have made us grow old. We laugh in the face of Old Man Time and hold onto youth joyfully, in an ironclad grip.

Youth is a wonderful thing.
What a crime to waste it on children.
~ George Bernard Shaw

The body is some strange foreign vessel, almost alien in its outlandishness. There is an odd disconnect throughout our youth and well into adulthood, this relationship we have with our outer shell, as if wearing someone else’s ill-fitting clothing. As a child, we often have moments of not quite being able to control our movements nor do we quite understand the changes that happen seemingly overnight as we sleep; as a teen, there is discomfort and embarrassment in every lump and bump, every growth spurt and unruly, out-of-control development. There may be a brief moment when we achieve the perfect balance, when we reach some ideal age, that place in time where it all comes together effortlessly, without blemish, pure and sublime, our hair, our skin, our figure; we glance in the mirror and smile, content, self-confident, at ease and at peace with ourselves. “Ah, I have finally grown up and grown into the person I was meant to be all along!” we exclaim, nodding in approval as we turn to blow out the 30 or so candles. But the moment is fleeting; it rushes by, a whisper blown swiftly away on the wind. We wake up shortly after, minutes it seems, and the walls begin to crumble; the skin sags, ever so imperceptibly at first, but we notice it a bit more every day; the first gray hair sneaks in, almost as a fine joke; the knees creak and crack as we climb the stairs to the apartment and it seems just that much more difficult to push ourselves out of bed in the morning. We catch a glimpse of our face, our body as we walk in front of a mirror or plate glass window and are stunned, wondering when it was that we grew so old.

Growing old is mandatory;
growing up is optional.
~ Chili Davis

Yet, although I reached my stride quite a number of years ago, my peak physical years have come and gone, and today, well, the lines are getting fuzzy, the streaks of sophisticated silver run their fingers brazenly through my unruly hair and keeping in shape takes more effort every day, my inner child is well and alive, thank you very much. Rebellious in nature, the youthful me bursts at the seams, a ball of energy, not willing to sit still and twiddle her thumbs allowing any old rather snooty Grande Dame to make the decisions. Some may say that there is something irreverent in the way I behave, that silliness does not become a woman of a certain age; others may shake their head in dismay at my adamant determination to simply not grow up, their eyes opened wide in disbelief at my jokes or antics. But although I have little control over the outer shell other than exercise, diet and a good haircut, a touch of makeup and the choice of what I wear, my spirit is my own to do with as I please.

Age is a question of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
~ Leroy "Satchel" Paige

Yes, another birthday has come and gone with much hurrah and I was spoiled and pampered by my men in their usual, quiet way. And as is the tradition every single year, I baked my own cake. French pastry shops are abundant in tarts of glistening fruit, creams of chocolate, raspberry or vanilla studded with poached pears or bright berries and crunchy with praline or biscuits, elegant verrines of layer upon delicate layer of mousses and bavaroises topped by froths of whipped Chantilly; one jaw-dropping gorgeous, ravishingly delicious delight after another, it is true, but a birthday is simply not a birthday without a layer cake. And there is no better way to have exactly what you love best than making it yourself. I toyed with the idea of repeating last year’s wildly successful Espresso Chocolate Cake with Mocha Mascarpone Frosting, as it had indeed been one of the best cakes I have ever tasted. And although I had finally settled on the same flavor combination – a favorite – I turned instead to my favorite chocolate cake recipe, one that was handed down from my father, and my simple chocolate buttercream frosting. Yet I twisted and turned and added espresso to both the cake batter and the frosting, whisked in a container of fresh mascarpone to the buttercream for a richer, smoother, creamier frosting and voilà I created my perfect birthday cake!


A childhood delight to bring out the youthful frivolity, the joy and delight in each of us; dense, ultra moist, devilishly chocolaty layers with a diabolically inspired kiss of espresso, a cake at once flirtatious with its voluptuous swirls of mocha cream and serious in its sinful decadence. And what a cake! A flash to whip up and bring together, and oh so easy going down. Kid friendly indeed yet oh so incredibly adult.


And a perfect romantic dessert for St. Valentine's Day.

CHOCOLATE ESPRESSO LAYER CAKE
Makes a 8 ½ or 9-inch two layer cake or an 7-inch three layer cake.


1 ¾ cup flour
2 cups sugar
¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 ½ tsp baking powder
1 ½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
2 large eggs
1 cup whole milk
½ cup vegetable oil
2 tsps vanilla
1 cup prepared coffee *

* If you prefer, the coffee can be replaced with water or a mixture of water and fruit juice.

Preheat oven to 350°F (180°C). Oil and flour two 8 ½ or 9-inch round cake pans or three 7-inch cake pans generously. (I oiled the pans, lined with parchment and then lightly oiled the paper and dusted with flour.)

Combine all of the dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Whisk or whiz them with the electric mixer on low speed for 30 seconds until everything is well combined. Add the eggs, milk, oil and vanilla. Beat on low until well blended then increase the mixer speed to medium and beat for about 2 minutes. Bring the 1 cup of coffee just to the boil and stir in carefully by hand until very well blended. Carefully divide the batter between the two prepared cake pans – it will be liquid. (If you want to make the smaller 3-layer cake and only have 2 cake pans: oil, line and flour the two pans and divide 2/3 of the batter between the two; the pans should be filled about 1/3 to ½ full. Bake the first two layers. When they are done, remove from the oven, allow to cool for several minutes, slide a sharp knife around the edges to loosen and invert (then upright) on cooling racks to completely cool. Clean, oil, line and dust with flour one of the pans and pour the remaining third of the batter into this pan and bake as directed.)

Bake in the preheated oven for 35 – 40 minutes or until the center is set (30 – 35 minutes for the smaller layers). Remove from oven and allow to cool for 10 – 15 minutes on cooling racks before turning them out onto the racks to cool completely.

CHOCOLATE MOCHA MASCARPONE BUTTERCREAM FROSTING


11 - 12 oz (325 - 350 grams) powdered/confectioner’s sugar
8 Tbs (120 grams) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1.8 oz (50 grams) unsweetened cocoa powder
4 Tbs very hot prepared coffee
3.5 – 5.3 oz (100 – 150 g) fresh mascarpone cheese

Using an electric hand mixer, cream the butter and the powdered sugar together. Add the cocoa powder and the hot coffee and beat, scraping down the sides as necessary, until well blended and fluffy. Beat in as much mascarpone as desired until smooth and whipped.

Chill in the refrigerator until firm enough so that, when spread and the layers are stacked, the frosting does not slide.

Frost the tops of the layers then stack, placing the bottom layer on a cake or serving plate. I slip strips of waxed paper or parchment under the edges of the cake before frosting the sides in order to keep the plate clean and frosting-free. Smooth the frosting on the sides of the cake. Pipe rosettes of frosting and decorate as desired. Gently slide the strips of parchment out from under the cake and retouch as needed. Chill in the refrigerator until the frosting has firmed. Because the frosting contains mascarpone, it is best to store uneaten cake in the refrigerator.



Take a bigger bite ...

ENDIVE, LARDONS & CANCOILLOTTE GRATIN with a Peasant Boule

A BIRTHDAY AND A GIFT

I think, at a child's birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it
with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity.
- Eleanor Roosevelt

Small baby swaddled in creamy caramel blankets clutched to her chest, the woman in the supermarket line in front of me rattled on happily about the birth of her newest child, wondering that six weeks had already flown by. I smiled at her and exclaimed “and before you know it, 20 years will have elapsed” as I thought of my own babies, now grown men.

Each birthday is a time of reflection: where we have been, where we are now and where we are going. Wishes made as candles are blown out, eyes tightly shut, images of health, wealth and world peace flutter through our imagination; dreams float in and out and with each passing birthday, as we get older and the weeks and months between celebrations seem to grow shorter, we tick off our accomplishments on our fingers and make lists of what there is left to do; the years that once yawned before us seem numbered, our time now urgent and we wonder again if there will be enough time to get done all that we desire.

Yet that brief encounter at a place so banal as the supermarket, seeing one young woman’s face light up as she showed off her new baby, made me think of my own and I wonder if this is not my greatest accomplishment. I remember a letter once written to my brother so long ago during a rather rough period of my life when I counted happiness in moments spent with my husband, enumerated each struggle I faced living in a new country, how my days went with two small, headstrong boys; I felt locked in and going crazy, totally out of control and, need I say, as if I was going nowhere fast. My brother, always so thoughtful, so wise, so supportive, wrote back a long missive listing my accomplishments, reminding me that an extremely shy, small-town girl had picked up and moved abroad with no money and no help, married a Frenchman and was raising two multi-cultural sons; he pointed out that I had learned two foreign languages that I juggled on a daily basis in order to survive and get even my basic needs and those of my family met; he went on and on listing my achievements and exploits, forcing me to stare hard in the mirror of my own life and admit that, after all, I wasn’t a failure and that I had indeed done some pretty impressive things with the short number of years that had at the time so far been awarded me.


And years have flown by. Things have only gotten better; my husband and I now confront our troubles and worries as a team, encouraging each other, sharing, trying to understand the other’s confusion, difficulties and joys. We have gotten more adventurous as the years have scudded by, made changes, moved countries and cities, changed jobs as we have seen fit, as the urge, need, desire has come upon us. Maybe we have grown braver in the face of my brother’s illness and death, realizing that no one can be sure of how much time is left and that each and every moment should count, each new birthday a gift. Maybe as we have grown older and smarter we began to realize that we wanted to show our growing boys all that life can and should be, teach them the lesson that we can’t be afraid to face up to our dreams and that if we work hard enough we can make anything happen.

Children are great imitators. So give them something great to imitate.
– Anonymous

Okay, so birthdays make me sentimental and just slightly maudlin, I do admit. And another birthday has rolled around as they inevitably do and here I sit and think about… my sons. As I revealed and clarified in a previous post, my men are shy of the spotlight and none too thrilled with being mentioned in my writing, yet here I must reflect once again on how they began as adorable bambini and have grown into tall, handsome, fine young men. Clem, always the happy, chortling, gregarious tot, who ran before he could walk, chattered on and on before he could form words, frivolous and adventurous, has grown into a smart, ambitious, creative young man. My little Simon, thoughtful and quiet as a baby and toddler, careful, patient, eerily capable of too many things and having a capacity to read adults like some dark angel, sensitive and moody throughout his boyhood has become an honest, intellectual, generous, searching young adult just on the brink of his life. Both are kind, funny and clever, interested in the world around them, knowledgeable and cultivated. Both have the talent to tease their mother while making sure she is happy and safe, the capacity to drive her absolutely bonkers or outright into a rage while looking out for her well-being, protecting her while running her in circles. And both have the ability, in their pranks and jokes, to make me roll on the floor with laughter.


My husband and I are both on the point of starting over, beginning new careers, daring to find our true selves and put our happiness and our own satisfaction first; we focus on ourselves yet, looking around us, are astonished to see what our sons have become, astounded that we had a hand in creating two young adults that we are truly proud of. And watching and listening to them, sitting and talking and laughing with them, we realize that life has become just a little bit more satisfying and easier.

While we try to teach our children all about life,
our children teach us what life is all about.
– Anonymous

He continues to cook and I to bake. A brief interlude from the sweets for one more savory: an Endive and Cancoillotte Gratin, a recipe that jumped off of the page out of our latest issue of French Saveurs magazine. Cancoillotte is a creamy, thick yet almost liquid, sticky and rather elastic cheese from the Franche-Comté region of France with a flavor that is impossible to describe (think the best cheese fondu you have ever eaten). Warm up this flavorful treasure and it becomes liquid gold, unctuous, luxurious like the finest French silk rippling, sliding down one’s skin. Although thick and oh-so decadent, Cancoillotte is one of the least fatty of cheeses with only 2 to 8% fat. Heaven! This dairy product has a fascinating history: it was actually conceived by a cheese producer during the First World War when he had the idea to produce, sterilize and can cheese to be sent easily to the soldiers, les Poilus, on the front. 90% of the production of Cancoillotte still takes place in Franche-Comté. Not widely known, my husband introduced this treasure into our home many years ago and, I can easily say, once a spoon is dipped into the creamy cheese and lifted to the lips, once it is served melted on toast, an all-time favorite, it is impossible to stop until the last drop is licked clean from the pot.


JP twiddled a bit with the recipe and placed on the table before us this magnificent gratin, at once slightly bitter (braised endives), salty (chunks of smoked ham), garlicky and tangy with this marvelous cheese all at once, the pecans giving the gratin an earthy, satisfying bite. A decadent pleasure. I paired it with this month’s Bake Together recipe by my talented friend Abby Dodge, a peasant boule, which I jazzed up with a cup of finely grate Parmesan cheese and a handful or two of mixed seeds – pine nuts, pumpkin seeds and sunflower seeds. The Peasant Boule is this month’s Bake Together recipe: follow #baketogether on Twitter and find out how you, too, can bake together with us!


I would like to share this bread with Susan of Wild Yeast for her weekly celebration of yeast, Yeastspotting!

ENDIVE, LARDONS, PECANS & CANCOILLOTTE GRATIN
From Saveurs février 2012


6 – 9 endives, depending on quantity desired
1 small pot (250 g) cancoillotte for 6 endives (1 ½ pots for 9)
Handful cubed smoked lardoons or ham
2.3 – 2.6 oz (65 – 75 grams) coarsely chopped pecans or walnuts
Finely minced clove of garlic
1 small bouillon cube, optional
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Unsalted butter

Remove the outer leaves of the endives and trim off the end; discard. Slice each endive in two lengthwise and either steam or braise in a small amount of water with about ½ a bouillon cube (if desired), for about 10 minutes until soft.

Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Butter the bottom and sides of a baking dish (terra cotta or glass/pyrex) large enough to snugly hold all of the prepared endives in one layer. Line up the braised or steamed endives in a row in the prepared baking dish.

Briefly sauté the smoked lardons until browned. Sauté the lardons in a small amount of butter if desired.


Evenly distribute the minced garlic, the browned lardons and the chopped pecans over the endives. Salt and pepper. Pour the cancoillotte all over the endives and bake in the oven for 15 minutes. The cheese should be bubbly and beginning to brown around the edges.


Serve immediately.


ABBY’S PEASANT BOULE

1 recipe peasant boule
1 cup finely grated Parmesan or Comté cheese
½ to 1 cup mixed seeds

Follow the directions for Abby’s Bake Together peasant boule on her blog, blending the cheese and seeds in with the dry ingredients before forming into a dough.


The only changes I made were using salted butter for the bowl, the pan and the top of the bread. I brushed the surface of the dough twice: once before the second rising, as instructed, and once just before sprinkling more seeds on the top of the boule and baking.


I changed the size of the cake pan I baked the bread in; I believe this may have led to the top of the bread splitting during baking as well as that the center of the dough was underbaked. But we loved the bread even if not perfect and I will be baking this again very soon.



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GALETTE DES ROIS AUX POMMES – APPLE MAPLE CINNAMON GALETTE

A LOVE AFFAIR

Happiness is the longing for repetition.
- Milan Kundera

Get me going and I can’t stop. Offer me a challenge or tell me you love something. Or worse (according to critics): all I need is a roaring success after having put off attempting something for fear of failure or daunted by difficulty for far too long and off I go! Just the tiniest encouragement, the most minor of successes or just one person I love to look at me and say “Oh, this is good!” with passion oozing in their voice and I only want to do one thing: make it again. And again.

Until they cry Uncle! But that’s another story.

Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished with passion.
- Hebbel

Puff pastry had eluded me for years, from the very first moment I saw a chef pounding a square of butter with a rolling pin and enclosing it in the perfect envelope of pastry to one January to the next when each and every pâtisserie parades a glorious lineup of stunning Galette des Rois, shimmering gold surface hiding a perfect frangipane filling encased in ethereal flakey layers in which nestles a tiny fêve, the prize which renders he or she who finds this porcelain treasure king or queen for the day. But all that butter, all that effort and all that precision had me shaking in my boots. I didn’t put rolling pin to butter for years. I had overcome my macaron fears and my yeast bread anxiety so what, I asked myself, could be so terrifying, so complicated about puff pastry?


Pâte feuilletée – say it in French and somehow it sounds so sophisticated, so unattainable. No quick toss of ingredients in a bowl, whisk together in a flash, pour into a tin and pop in the oven. No, siree! No quick in, quick out and settle back to enjoy the fruits of your labor in less time than it takes to learn how to pronounce…or spell… pâte feuilletée. The wonder and charm of American baking is the rapidity and simplicity of its preparation, its ease in eating. Think muffins and brownies packed in a lunch box, stacks of cookies carried around in small hands, one-bowl cakes and quick breads. French baking, on the other hand, is known for its fiddly, complicated, time-consuming preparation making each pastry a gem, a special treat to be wrapped up in white paper, tied with a bow and carried home like a treasure, to be eaten off of delicate bone china and with grandmama’s best sterling dessert forks. American sweets are comfort food, reminders of our childhood, simple and homey. French pastry is, well, pastry. Puffs and elegant layers, ethereal mousses and delicate creams, whirls of spun sugar and perfect piping. This may all be a wild generalization, but when faced with the daunting task before me, when a huge block of sweet butter sits and gazes up at me from my tabletop, eying me up and down, daring me to proceed, well, that tin of muffins starts to look pretty darn good!

So, deep breath, one, two, and three and I pounded and I rolled, all smooth going, and folded and rolled and I sweated just a bit as butter began to ooze. So quick as a lick, in the fridge it went. Roll, fold, turn, it was easier than I had imagined. And it was such a pleasure! Sensual, smooth even slightly sexy in its soft, silky texture when caressed, its pleasant, voluptuous give when pressed, its heavenly feminine scent of fresh butter and flour. My very first homemade puff pastry, my very first home-baked Galette des Rois was applauded by all, my harshest critics, my toughest judges, my row of Frenchmen! And I was spurred on to create more! And a first batch followed a second led onto a third until I was in my rhythm and could churn out pâte feuilletée on a whim! Quiche followed Jalousie followed Galette and I was in my element! A quick back and forth with Cookie Queen Gail who shared her own recipe, slightly different than mine, and enjoyment turned into rapture! Beauty into wondrous splendor.


And out came the first much-demanded, much-expected Galette of this year to loud cheers! Kudos! Adulation! They were putty in my hands…so when I began yet another batch of puff pastry and mentioned apples – with visions of Chaussons de Pommes, French Apple Turnovers, dancing before our eyes, they bowed down to my wishes and let me have my way.

A tale of a Galette aux Pommes…. Slow and lazy, I had been promising this new Galette des Rois for days yet kept putting it off. Until he started asking. And making comments, his patience wearing thin. So I finally began. Détrempe, envelope, rolling and two folds. The following day…nothing. Well, a girl is busy! Then the third day he began hanging around the kitchen door, fork clenched between fingers. “Where is this Galette you’re supposed to be making?” he urged, a mixture of reproach and anticipation in his voice. So apples peeled, sliced, sautéed in butter, sugar, maple syrup, cinnamon… heavenly odors filled the house. Pâte Feuilletée rolled, cut, shaped, filled, baked. And a superb Galette des Rois filled with smooth, luxurious apple compote redolent of maple and cinnamon was theirs and they did enjoy it with much pleasure and glee.


Until the next batch…


GALETTE DES ROIS AUX POMMES
Puff Pastry Galette filled with Maple Cinnamon Applesauce

½ batch puff pastry (about 600 g)
egg wash (1 egg yolk mixed with 1 tsp cold water)
powdered/confectioner’s sugar

APPLE COMPOTE FILLING
You can always make more and keep the extra on hand for tasty applesauce!

4 apples, preferably Belle de Boskoop or a similar type, sweet and flavorful for applesauce
1 ½ Tbs (22 g) unsalted butter
1/8 to ¼ cup (25 to 50 grams) granulated sugar
2 to 3 Tbs maple syrup
Ground cinnamon

Peel, core and slice the apples. Melt the butter in a large skillet. Add the granulated sugar and stir until the mixture is smooth, grainy and bubbling. Add the apple slices and toss to coat; cook the apples until soft, about 5 minutes, then stir in 1 to 1 ½ tablespoons maple syrup and a dash of cinnamon, stir until well blended and continue cooking for up to about 5 minutes more, stirring often, until the apples are very soft and beginning to fall apart into a purée. Remove from the heat and purée, either with a fork or an emulsion mixer; taste and add more maple syrup and/or cinnamon as desired. Allow to cool to room temperature.


Follow the directions for rolling, cutting and chilling the puff pastry on my Galette des Rois with Pistachio-Rum Frangipane Filling post, filling with the apple compote. Seal with egg wash, crimp or scallop the edges, prepare a chimney, gently carve a design in the top, brush with egg wash and bake following the directions. The last 5 minutes of baking, dust the top of the Galette generously with powdered sugar and return to the oven, watching carefully for several minutes, turning the Galette as needed to favor even browning, until the top is a beautiful, caramelized, shiny golden brown.


Allow the Galette to cool on a cooling rack before slicing and eating.

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CAULIFLOWER AND POTATO GRATIN

THE MAN COOKS… AGAIN AND AGAIN!


My men are a unique bunch: they are handsome, wickedly funny, bright as all get-out, über talented and creative. But if they are anything at all, they are discreet. Not so much shy as shunning the limelight; they loathe being talked about, are uncomfortable being shown off; they are wary of my verbosity in front of my blog and social media accounts, mistrustful of how much I talk about them to my friends; they don’t appreciate being mentioned nor do they want their photos splashed across Life’s a Feast or my Facebook page; they simply do not want their private lives bared to the world. I am woman and they are man and rarely the twain shall meet, yet as I try and understand their vagaries and respect their wishes, I sometimes, well, let’s admit it, I slip up. Ooops! But how does one such as I write something as personal as a blog or even write at all without talking about the three most basic elements, the most important components of my life?


As winter rages outside…. Okay, I will admit that rages is a bit farfetched, for the temperature bounces up a few notches, then down a few, neither settling on frosty nor on balmy, less raging than hovering around some wishy-washy in between and the snow still eludes my every request – okay, let’s start again... As winter settles in gray and desolate, teasing me with much-yearned-for glacial weather and the promise of snow in her steely glance and misty afternoons, my husband and I spend most of our time huddled together in the apartment. So face to face, with him part of my every waking moment, I find it close to impossible not to talk about him. Especially when he is doing all of the cooking.

As you may know, we are Starting Over. After the long, arduous conversations, the hashing and rehashing, tossing ideas, thoughts, fears and dreams back and forth like two kids playing ball in the street on a dull summer afternoon, we came to the decision – and not for the first time in our many years together – that husband should leave his job (for a quantity of reasons) and it was time for us to recreate ourselves yet once again. Adventure awaits, the world opens before us in a multitude of possibilities. The lure of pleasure and the fulfillment of dreams enchants as a Siren’s song, seduces us with their dangerous, mesmerizing beauty. Galvanized by our various projects and simply delighted at having the time we aren’t each sitting in front of our separate computers to be together, we seem to be possessed by some reckless, crazy Utopia of an ideal world where we can get by doing just what we love doing and maybe, just maybe, have a positive effect on someone, somewhere. We may be deluding ourselves, it is true, but when have hard work and passion not come together to create something perfect? Or something close to it?


But back to the food. My husband has always loved to cook from his earliest years, and now that he is home he has been more than happy to take over the kitchen at mealtimes. Raised on hearty, wholesome, traditional French family cooking kicked up with his two years living in Morocco and enriched with the food he experienced during his travels across Europe, he has built up an incredibly rich repertoire of favorites. He saunters through the market choosing his purchases carefully, studiously, selecting only local, seasonal fruits and vegetables, planning dishes compatible with the weather and our mood. Poached whole sea bass or choucroute laden either with Alsatian sausages or seafood, a spicy couscous or exotic tagine, mussels marinière served with sizzling frites or an herbed côte de boeuf, lasagnas meaty and traditional or layered with smoked salmon, his talents are endless, his taste impeccable! Onions chopped, herbs ripped, meat sautéed, potatoes puréed, he has kept me happily fed for 25 years and he still never ceases to amaze me. Granted, his menu choices often defy my diet, but diet is a word that just isn’t in his vocabulary and any mention of that dreaded concept can work him into a fury. Raised on pot au feu, guinea fowl wrapped in tender green cabbage, creamy, cheesy potato gratin dauphinois and blanquette à l’ancienne, food is meant to comfort and soothe, fill one up and carry one through the rest of the working day. Salad is to end the meal not replace it, fruit accompanies a platter of cheese and a loaf of bread and wine is served at every meal. Yes, many a meal nowadays chez nous is made up of a large mixed salad or a healthy, light bowl of vegetable soup, but when one desires to cook a meal, well, one cooks.


So I pull up my chair to the table, tuck a napkin under my chin and dig in. The first mouthful a revelation, the second, a confirmation, the third and each after pure pleasure. I close my eyes and savor yet another marvelous dish and wonder that he can take the most humble of ingredients, toss in a handful of seemingly random this or that, sautée, simmer or bake and create such flavorful, inspiring, delectable dishes. And today’s is simple indeed: Cauliflower and Potato Gratin. This is the man who refuses to allow a cauliflower or a broccoli to cross the threshold into our home, bans each from the kitchen, forbids the cooking in any way, shape or form of such two who leave an acrid, pungent odor behind, trailing a whip of cabbage stench from livingroom to bedroom. Yet he loves the humble, elegant cauliflower, so excuses are made, reasons found for the occasional foray into cauliflower love. When he is feeling admirable, exemplary in his sense of responsibility, he will steam the flowerets and serve them in a chaud-froid style simply tossed still warm from the pot with a tart vinaigrette studded with finely minced shallots, lovely pale purple dots against the pristine white of the cauliflower, the vinaigrette giving a sparkling, clean bite to the mild vegetable. But when he is feeling decadent or when the weather is chilling us to the bone, he opts for something richer, creamier, more filling, a dish that leaves us content and replenished, protected against the harsh elements and the mad, mad world outside.


So, at the risk of making him upset or having him ask me once again to never speak of him on my blog, of being reprimanded for opening up our intimate details for all the world to ogle and dissect, I will say that I am married to an incredible cook, an incredible man. He began cooking when merely a boy in his maman’s kitchen while she worked, taking over entire meals while others of his age were going through their adolescent woes and rebellions. His passion for food has never stopped growing and lucky am I to have him cooking for me! Ah, but we were talking about a Cauliflower and Potato Gratin, weren’t we? Simply steamed potatoes and cauliflower, tossed in a luscious, thick, creamy béchamel and topped with both Parmesan and nutty Gruyère or Comté cheeses then popped in a hot oven to bubble and brown… nothing, dear reader, says Winter Comfort Food better than this.


Looking to hone your food writing or photography skills or just needing to kickstart your creativity? Feeling the blogging blues and desiring inspiration? Wanting to bridge the road between blogger and professional? Looking for an intimate, hands-on, practical workshop rather than a huge, traditional conference? If you missed our exciting, successful From Plate to Page workshop in beautiful Tuscany then you won't want to miss the next! Registrations are now open for From Plate to Page in spectacular Somerset UK in Spring 2012! Check out the program, the accommodations and reviews of P2P Tuscany and P2P Weimar... and then sign up before all the spaces are filled! I'll be there offering writing instruction, critique and ideas.


CAULIFLOWER AND POTATO GRATIN
Jamie & JP team up in the kitchen


1 head cauliflower, trimmed and broken into large flowerets *
Several potatoes that stay firm while boiling **

About 1 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese
About 2 or 3 cups grated Gruyère or Comté cheese

* Flowerets broken into small, bite-sized pieces will fall apart or crumble when being blanched or steamed. Pre-cook them in larger pieces and cut into smaller bites before tossing in the béchamel.

** How many potatoes, you ask? I did not see how many JP peeled and cooked, but maybe about half to ¾ the quantity of cauliflower you use. Combined, the vegetables blended with the béchamel should fill a 13 x 9-inch baking dish or slightly bigger. Read this post about JP cooking au pif…

Béchamel
4 Tbs (60 g) butter
4 Tbs flour
3 cups (700 ml) whole milk
1 small to medium onion trimmed and finely chopped
1 bay leaf
½ tsp dried thyme or 1 tsp fresh leaves
Large pinch nutmeg
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Prepare the vegetables by simply cleaning and trimming the cauliflower and cutting into large sections and steaming or simmering in salted water until tender but not too soft or mushy; they will continue to cook in the oven, and peeling the potatoes and simmering in salted water until tender but not too soft. Drain.

Once well drained, cut into smaller pieces and toss together.

Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C). Butter a large baking dish.

Prepare the Béchamel:

Melt the butter in a large saucepan over medium-low heat until bubbly. Add the chopped onion and toss to coat. Lower the heat slightly and cook, stirring, for about 3 or 4 minutes until the onion is soft and transparent and just beginning to turn golden on the edges.

Add the flour all at once and stir or whisk until the flour is well blended into the butter. Cook, stirring, for a minute 2 to 3 minutes. Then begin adding the milk, a little at a time, whisking to blend and allow each addition to thicken. As it thickens, add more milk and repeat until all the milk has been added and the sauce is beginning to thicken. Add the herbs, salt and pepper generously and allow to simmer very gently, stirring continuously, for about 10 minutes. Taste and adjust the seasonings. Remove the bay leaf.

Pour the hot béchamel over the prepared cauliflower and potatoes and gently toss until the sauce is evenly distributed. Pour into the gratin or baking dish and spread out evenly. Sprinkle the Parmesan and then the Gruyère/Comté evenly over the top of the vegetables all the way to the edge of the dish.

Bake in the hot oven for about 20 minutes or until bubbly and the cheese is a deep golden and browning as you like.


Serve as a side dish with roasted meat or chicken or with cold cuts or sausages or as a main course for lunch simply with a large mixed salad. And a glass of wine.



Take a bigger bite ...