A Blithe PALATE

Caramelized Onion Crème Fraîche Mashed Potatoes

It's an entirely clunky name for a dish, but on a cold October night, this is perfect comfort food. I'm a fan of Yukon golds for mashed potatoes; I find most other types a bit mealy. The caramelized onion crème fraîche adds a rounded sweetness to the potatoes.

We're currently in Vermont and there's snow on the ground. The original plan was to show me a New England fall. Instead, I am entering New England winter. I am thinking there's going to be lots of stews, risottos and braised foods this week.

But first, there must be hot chocolate.

Dinner Conversation

Hubby is tired from his Phoenix flight and in the mood for sushi. I'm utterly delighted because he normally wants to go straight home after an all-day flying session; but who can blame him when we have our choice of Bad Airline or Even Worse Airline? But his particular desire to eat sushi tonight springs from necessity; he has consumed only three bags of peanuts (because Bad Airline out of Atlanta has given up all pretense of customer service) in 9 hours. We are in Atlanta. That means Chris at MF Sushibar.

An hour of superb omakase later, we're both in much mellower moods. Hubby is infinitely more relaxed. The Sapporos have helped him to lose his edge; and the cold sake is bringing about a rounded state of bliss.

I think some of the best conversations I've ever engaged in have happened over great meals. Some of the most profound, funny, sad, and exciting discussions. Some of the most passionate; and sometimes angry. Sometimes I like sitting at a restaurant and watching how other people interact, how they commune over food, how they share food and talk about the best things they ever ate, the happiest things they remember, the worst things they've experienced. Hubby and I have had our share of sweet, funny and thoughtful conversations. At our French Laundry excursion, our conversation was hushed, reverent, in keeping with our awe over the food. At the Palm in L.A., we pondered the cult of celebrity worship when we were seated across from a table of L.A. Lakers players. At our favorite dive bars and holes-in-the-wall, we've talked about books and music and politics. At a cafe in San Francisco, I got a crash course about the Beat Generation.

But at MF Sushibar this night, we are in fine form. Plate after plate of Chris' thoughtful selections are savored, oohed over, and consumed. During a lull, I lean over and ask him:

"Do you want me to teach you that soliloquy?"

He nods. "Sure."

"Okay, here's the full text first." I recite a monologue that has been keeping us steadily amused (he only recently discovered that I know this piece by heart). We both crack up. It's hard not to; then, I tell him: "Now repeat after me: 'During the rectification of the Vuldronaii...'"

"During the recommendation of the Vuldron...Vul-what?"

"RecTIFICAtion of the Vul-droh-nai; that's V-u-l-d-r-o-n-a-i-i," I spell.

"Rectification of the Vuldronaii..."

"The Traveler came as a very large and moving Torb!" I wave hands in the air to emphasize the grandeur of this image (which somehow still conjures up a fat green tomato worm).

"Tor?"

"Torb. T-o-r-b."

"The Traveler came as a large moving Torb!" (He doesn't wave his arms)

"Very large and moving Torb!" I correct. "Okay. Then, of course, during the third reconciliation of the last of the Meketrex supplicants..."

"Mechanics?"

I shake my head. "Meketrex! Meketrex supplicants!"

"Say it again," he demands.

"Then, of course, during the third reconciliation of the last of the Meketrex supplicants, they chose a new form -- that of a giant Sloar!" Adding: "Don't forget to raise your voice on the end."

He repeats it. Sort of.

"Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Sloar that day, I'll tell you!"

"Subs and Zoos?"

"SHubs and ZOOLs."

"Shubs and Zuuls. Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Sloar that day I'll tell you!"

Ah yes; the sophistication of our conversations cannot be believed unless you actually witness it in action. Hubby has the excuse of beer and cold sake. What have I got?

And why do I want marshmallows?

IMBB #20: Asiago and Chèvre Soufflé

This was a busy food weekend. Eating out with Hubby and Peggy and Sunil. Three cooking events in almost as many days, the last of which is IMBB #20.

Kitchen Chick is hosting this month's IMBB and she has decided on...Soufflé.

As luck would have it, I made and served my first soufflé for Hubby’s birthday dinner last week; before then, I’d never had cause or interest to make one. And thanks to Kellie’s prodigious buttering lesson for the molten chocolate cakes, these soufflés puffed up proudly and came to the table without falling. I was delighted that I hadn’t ended up with a béchamel glop. Hubby was sweetly complimentary.

I was disappointed by the first soufflé I ever ate: a chocolate soufflé at The Cellar, an otherwise lovely little restaurant in Fullerton, California. For years I had heard about the complexities associated with making a soufflé; I imagined that it was an elite litmus test dividing chefs from cooks. Presented with the opportunity to try one, I couldn’t resist, particularly as I was informed by the perfectly correct maitre d’ that it would take a full twenty-eight minutes to prepare. In imagining a transcendent culinary experience, I had no hope but to be disappointed; what came was no doubt an excellent chocolate soufflé. But to my taste buds, it was simply a hyper-chocolately puff of air doused with chocolate sauce. That was in 1989; and until last week, I had not had another soufflé. I’m not sure what possessed me to try; but in my head, I wanted something that would incorporate the fresh goat cheese I’d picked up at the Farmer’s Market on a recent foray to Atlanta, and I wanted it to be ethereally pale and light (the “pale” part of the “Pale Fire” dinner ). A soufflé presented itself as a possible choice.

“It’s all about timing,” a friend once said when I noted that I did not care for soufflés.

This was a portent of ill things for me as I lack timing. Coupled with an occasional failure of grace and you can understand why I have managed to walk into walls at full speed. (“I see them coming. I just don’t veer out of the way until it’s too late.”). And do you have any idea how intimidating it is to have a husband who can dance on a syncopated beat? But when have I ever shown common sense in approaching the stove top?

I scoured recipes and read what I could about soufflés. I discovered “twice baked” soufflés. Having always believed that soufflés were subject to the J.I.T. (“just in time”) principle (“If you should care for the chocolate soufflé, please be advised that you must order it now; the chef will require twenty-eight minutes in which to make it.”), I was intrigued. Make them in advance, refrigerate them, then reheat them shortly before serving. However, I was mistrustful of my abilities to produce a twice baked soufflé that wouldn’t come out of the kitchen tough (visions of the inherently inedible twice baked potatoes I have been served in the past dancing in my head), and too indoctrinated with the concept that soufflés must be made to order. I decided that some portions -- the roux, cheese base and egg whites could be made ahead of time, but assembled only when I was ready to pop them in the oven. Twenty-eight minutes before serving, I incorporated the whipped egg whites into the creamy Asiago and chèvre base. Spooning the soufflé mixture into heavily buttered ramekins, I placed them into the oven, set two timers to counteract my timing problems, and said a silent prayer to Vatel, all the while concocting a fake French name for the dish in the event that disaster struck (marketing is everything). Luckily, soufflés emerged from the oven.

The soufflés I made tonight didn't have the same high top as last week's, but the flavor of the cheeses...mmmm. The best part? These soufflés were made two days ago -- twice baked.

Tagged with: IMBB # 20 + Souffle

SHF #13: Chocolate Ravioli (Once More Into the Breach)

I'm a little late to the party (fashionably, I hope?) -- I had some technical difficulties with the pictures so I'll have to post those later...

Me: I met the Chocolate King once.

Greg: Abe Frohman?

Me: No, he would be the Sausage King of Chicago.

(I am so grateful every day for my spouse and my friends. You just can't buy this kind of context.)

Years ago, I served as a consultant for the man who is the chairman of Barry Callebaut, the world's largest manufacturer of cocoa, chocolate, and confectionary foods. Why oh why didn't I keep in touch? Why oh why didn't I hand him my resume and beg him for a job? On the other hand, I accidentally insulted his gummy bears. We were meeting at a conference center, and he was scrutinizing the plate of gummy bears that had been set out by the hotel's hospitality group. We spent a few minutes discussing the finer points of gummy bear textures. Then:

"I love these best," I said tactlessly, forgetting that one of his other assets, a candy company, was also a leading purveyor of gummy bears. "I hate the squishy kind."

He paused, studied the firm gummy bear poised between thumb and forefinger, then squashed its head. In a dulcet, patrician voice, he said, "My gummy bears are soft."

So scratch being buddies. But still. Barry Callebaut! Damn.

Kelli, at Lovescool is the host of this anniversary edition of Sugar High Friday, the Domestic Goddess' monthly paean to all things dessert. For this month's event, Kelli challenged us with dark chocolate.

Serendipitously, I read Kelli's post about single origin chocolate last week and found varietal chocolates at Trader Joe's on the same day. I love blogs -- I learn about so many wonderful new things.

Like single vineyard wines, chocolate connoisseurs swear by "single source" chocolate -- that is, chocolate made solely from the cocoa beans of one region, thereby exemplifying all the best traits of the region, or terroir, borrowing the term from winemakers. The global bean supplies come from Ecuador, Grenada, Venezuela, Ghana, Ivory Coast, Jamaica, Madagascar, Indonesia and Trinidad and each region has its own distinct flavor and characteristics.

Cocoa beans are taken from the pods of the cacao tree, then dried carefully to preserve their fresh taste. They are fermented, to reduce the bitterness and develop the chocolate flavor we know and love, then like coffee beans, the cocoa beans are roasted. Their shells are removed and they are crushed and heated until they yield the thick chocolate liquor which is then combined with cocoa butter, sugar, milk, and vanilla. After days of refining, the chocolate is ready.

The bars that I found at Trader Joe's are more on the low end of varietal chocolate (definitely not grand crus like Valrhona and Guittard), made by a Spanish company called Chocovic (Guaranda, from Ecuador and Ocumare from Venezuela), but they're a good place to start for now.

Armed with my bars of chocolate, I made one more pass at Chocolate Ravioli. Unlike my previous, less-than-stellar (okay, horrifying) attempt, I found -- and used -- a recipe created by a professional: Eric Ripert's Chocolate Ravioli in Bittersweet Chocolate Sauce, from his book, A Return to Cooking.

And unlike my mascarpone horror, I got the smooth, creamy filling I wanted with the dark chocolate pastry cream. I also found a ravioli mold and making the ravioli jumped up a notch on the easy meter. Paired with a luscious single vineyard cabernet, this was almost too much heaven; but better to go out on a chocolate high!

Happy Anniversary, Sugar High Fridays!

P.S. Kelli has already done the round up! Go check out some fabulous looking desserts!

Blog Party #3: Big Game Night

It's that time again! Once again, Stephanie at Dispensing Happines is hosting a Blog Party. This month's theme: Big Game Night.

Hubby and I have not, nor do we ever plan to, host a sporting event party at our house. To begin with, we lack the proper accoutrements: we don't have satellite dishes or monster, ginormous plasma screens with THX Surround Sound. Next, Hubby's teammates usually reserve the privilege of hosting such events years in advance. Then, there's a lack of team(s) to root for: our teams are seldom in the Big Game.

Hubby grew up a Mets / Jets fan. Excepting one brief shining moment in the last few decades (the same moment that caused my Boston-Red-Sox-fan ex-boss to gasp in pain when I brought it up conversationally one day), I need say nothing more. I don't recall ever discussing the Jets before or during playoff season.

There's the scar tissue and the trauma: I used to be a hockey fan. Or more specifically, a L.A. Kings fan. While I still have an incredibly soft spot for the team (I started watching when Rob Blake was a rookie! And when Wayne Gretzky first moved down from Edmonton!), I don't love them any longer...nor do I love any team in any sport and this will never change. You might say I lack gumption. You might say I don't have the stomach to be a sports fan. You would be right.

My heart was broken in Game 2 of the 1993 Stanley Cup finals. L.A. Kings vs Montreal Canadiens. With 1:45 left to play (not like I'm obsessed) in the third period and the Kings leading 2-1 (statistically, 80% of all Stanley Cup teams who win the first two games of the finals typically go on to sweep the series), Jacques Demers, the coach for the Candiens, instructed Guy Carbonneau to have referee Kerry Fraser check out LA defenseman Marty McSorley's stick. The stick was ruled illegal, McSorley was sent to the penalty box, Montreal pulled their goaltender, Patrick Roy for a 6-on-4 advantage. With 1:13 remaining (I'm not obsessed), Eric Desjardins scored for Montreal, sending the game into sudden death overtime. Fifty-one seconds later (am I obsessed?), it was over. Desjardins scored again and the Canadiens proceeded to roll over the Kings for the remaining games in the series. (And no, it's not like I'm obsessed or anything, knowing the most miniscule details about this 4 minute cycle of hell).

I comfort myself by remembering that however awful that moment was -- and there I was, standing slack jawed in disbelief in front of the TV -- it's nothing compared to what Chicago Cubs fans go through yearly (George Will claims that being a Cubs fan drove him to be a conservative), or what Buffalo, NY fans experience in two separate sports.

And the final reason we're not likely to host a sporting event? I don't make hot wings and I forget hamburgers and hot dogs in the grill until they've reached instant-carcinogenic stage.

Here are some favorite munchies for the Big Game in the comfort of your own home: Vanilla Port Poached Pear Pizzetas with Gorgonzola Cheese (one of the appetizers from our wedding), Wild Mushroom Pomponnettes, and "one bite" Pumpkin Cheesecakes.

Pheasant Perk

Last year Greg and I were walking past the executive offices on our way back to our office when we found ourselves striding alongside our CFO. In the course of every day chitchat, he mentioned that he had been pheasant hunting that previous weekend.

I reflexively went, "Mmmmmmm."

He asked if I liked pheasant. I had never eaten pheasant; but that didn't stop my hyperactive food brain from putting ingredients together. And I certainly wasn't going to explain to a senior executive that my instinctive reaction was based on nil. So I nodded.

One of the nice perks of working for this southern company (other than fresh game) is the exquisite thoughtfulness to which you are exposed. The next day, I got a call from him: "Cathy, there's a pheasant for you in the freezer in our breakroom. Just come by and get it whenever you want."

I walked over to Greg and said, "There's a pheasant in the freezer for me."

Greg: "Is it a whole one?"

I had a sudden vision of a dead bird, completely intact with plumage, wings, beak and other body parts. "Oh God. You don't think there's a frozen taxidermy specimen in there, do you?" I gasped.

"One way to find out."

We padded on over to the executive breakroom and to my relief, found that the bird had been plucked and prepped. No wild plumage. Having never cooked pheasant before, I consulted several game cookbooks and various sites. None proved particularly useful so in the end, I cooked on pure guessing; I grilled the pheasant breasts simply, made a blueberry-cassis reduction sauce and served it on a bed of Boursin-laden polenta. Delicious.

Remember that thoughtfulness I mentioned earlier? Today one of our CFO's shooting companions dropped by my desk with a heavy nylon bag. "[Our CFO] asked me to drop this off for you."

Another pheasant, prepped and ready to go. The bird is cooling in the freezer right now, waiting for Hubby's return next week. I am thinking of making the same meal.

It'll be perfect for the fall; and a good precursor to our Vermont trip.

The Pale Fire Dinner

...When we first knew each other, Hubby ascribed to me far greater chess skills than I actually possessed. Maybe it was because I knew chess openings by name. Maybe it was because I managed to capture his queen the first time we played chess -- he claims it was dark and he couldn't see her. I think he wasn't paying attention because his agile mind was grappling with the incongruity of the wild, incomprehensible moves I was making with the smooth expertise I was projecting. He didn't know me well enough then to know that it was a bluff. So we talked about books while he advanced chess pieces, every move skillfully divesting me of any advantage.

He urged me to read "Pale Fire," Vladimir Nabokov's sly masterpiece. It's one of his favorite books. He's shared it with several acquaintances, and was insistent that I read it. He gave me a copy of the book -- his second present to me -- and though it was borrowed recently by proxy, it is now back in my possession. I thought it fitting to return the favor for his birthday this year, presenting him with a first edition of the book (another wallet-wounding weakness from which we suffer jointly).

I wanted to do something special for his birthday dinner; and his certain fondness for this book provided the inspiration.

The concept was tongue-in-cheek and earnest (and definitely silly), but cooking is never fun for me unless there’s something whimsical (or lunatic) involved. What came out wasn't a particularly cogent approach that would have definitively suggested "Pale Fire." But you can't make a meal based on a novel which features a foreward and sycophantic commentary to a fictional poet's final masterpiece, a shadowy assassin, and the possible delusions of a man who believes he is a deposed king. Nor can you make dishes based on a 999 line poem in heroic couplets in which the author repeatedly breaks proscenium by entering information about his life and then musing about what exists in the afterlife. I couldn't catch a break and have characters with names that would lend themselves to culinaria either: no "Plum" or "Lamb" or "Mallard." No, they were "Shade" and "Kinbote" and "Gradus."

The end result: five of the nine courses paid homage to the book’s title, alternating between delicately light or fiery flavors; two intermezzos nodded to Nabokov’s most famous oeuvre, and butterfly motifs were scattered throughout because Nabokov was a noted lepidopterist.

Seared Sea Scallops in "Butterflied" Puff Pastry with Black Truffle Emulsion

Tuna and Asparagus “Matchsticks” Spicy Cream Sauce and Red Tobiko on Fried Wonton

Asiago Chèvre Soufflé and Baby Greens with Sundried Tomato Romesco Vinaigrette

Asparagus Wasabi Flan with Lemon-Caper Hollandaise

Intermezzo: “Lolita Granita” (Pomegranate Juice and Vodka Granita)

“Blaze” Ravioli stuffed with Blue Crab in Citrus-Vanilla Reduction

Butterflied Rosemary Lamb Steaks with Boursin Risotto, Haricots Verts in Roasted Pepper Coulis

Intermezzo: Williams and Humbert Dry Sack Sherry

Dessert: “Feu Pâle” (White Chocolate Parfait on Honey Tuile & Molten Ancho Chile Chocolate Cake)

Remember, silly is the key word here. Despite last minute changes that weren't reflected in the printed menu, the entire meal was an absolutely lovely affair, made so much better by the presence of friends, 6 bottles of wine, and the return of a friend who had been deployed overseas.

I tell Hubby I might not always be able to say with precision how I feel about him. But I can cook exactly as I feel; and so food is my open love letter to him (and a comic punchline).

Hubby, as always, makes the better move: he says nothing and hugs me tightly.

Key Lime Mousse on Honey Tuile Crust

Hubby's birthday dinner was last night (more on that later); Greg's birthday is today. Our work group comprises a small, tight-knit band of friends. We don't do presents but we'll go out and eat together. We don't sing Happy Birthday to each other, which fact furthers and strengthens our camaraderie; as I sing only to offend people and hasten hearing loss, I contribute by baking cakes or desserts.

For Greg's birthday, I had planned to make key lime pie as he had expressed a particular craving for something with lemon or lime recently.

However, in the wake of last night's nine course exercise, inevitable inebriation (6 bottles of wine, 9 people, only 6 of whom were actively quaffing), and a kitchen that looked as though the Tasmanian Devil had whizzed through, making a key lime pie was not possible.

This morning I got up early to have a cup of coffee with Hubby's sister, who had come in last night as a surprise dinner guest, and was on her way back to Atlanta for a meeting. I still wanted to make something for Greg's birthday, and the fridge was fully stocked so I had my choice of dessert possibilities. In the end, time defined what I could make. As deadline-sensitive desserts go, however, this is probably one of the most refreshing I've made in a while.

I still had tuile batter from last night's dinner and a bag of key limes that I had picked up on a recent shopping expedition with Renee. While the tuile batter was baking, I made the pâte à bombe with lime syrup, and a bowl of lime-zested whipped cream in under 30 minutes, then left the pâte to cool. By the time I had finished blow-drying my hair, the pâte à bombe was ready to be mixed with the whipped cream and spooned into ramekins layered with loosely crumbled honey tuile cookies.

Incidentally, this pâte à bombe recipe is modified from a Gordon Ramsay recipe. His book, Just Desserts is one of the most useful and exquisite books in my library. Chef Ramsay calls for an Italian meringue to be added to his mousses (I think for texture), so I'll have to try that sometime, but I think this recipe is just fine on its own. The mousse needs to be chilled at least 3 hours, but honestly, it was good to go after two hours. I also stuck an extra ramekin into the freezer to make a Key lime parfait. We'll see how that comes out.

Happy Birthday Greg!

Chocolate Pasta? Not.

Desserts are glorious. Sugar, eggs, cream, chocolate of some sort and sometimes flour. How can you go wrong? Now, there are desserts I don't enjoy; but I usually don't make them. If I have no choice, I don't partake. I am also blessed with patient and willing guinea pigs...I mean, taste testers. But the drawback of working out new recipes is having to taste your own creation (first).

Much like the arctic char of several weeks ago, this sounded great on paper:

Chocolate Ravioli Stuffed with Honey-Mascarpone in Crème Anglaise.

Until I actually ate it. It's seldom that a dessert makes me gag. But it's good to know that I'm capable of inducing new sensations with my own cooking.

Hubby made fresh taglietelle and sundried tomato pesto for dinner last weekend. Seeing the leftover pasta dough in the fridge next to a jar of chocolate syrup got me thinking (not always a good thing). I recently gave up sleep to read through some more food blogs and found the impressively creative Chopper Dave and Mrs. D over at Belly-Timber. They made an amazing checkerboard pasta that bent my mind about possibilities. There was nothing that said pasta couldn't be made for dessert, or serve as a vessel for a sweet sauce. Surely what I could do with fresh pasta and a tomato sauce I could also do with sweet pasta and crème anglaise?

I consulted various cookbooks but a recipe for chocolate pasta proved elusive (shouldn't this have clued me in?). After trial and error, I found something that worked. Excepting the addition of cocoa powder and confectioner's sugar, chocolate pasta is made the same way as regular pasta (eggs, flour). This means that the only way the pasta can be cooked is to boil it. Let us imagine that you wish to make a stuffed ravioli. When you add a dollop of mascarpone cheese -- a rather fragile clotted cream -- to make the ravioli, and throw it in boiling water, what you get in your mouth is an unholy mess of revolting textures. The ravioli left my mouth as quickly as it entered, and found its way into the sink disposal while I dry heaved and clawed at my tongue.

Okay, it wasn't that bad. But really, that's how I felt. So scratch the mascarpone stuffed ravioli -- unless I can somehow find a way to prevent the mascarpone from melting. I thought about trying this with ricotta, but that will have to wait to another day.

Now, after an experience that renders you insensate with revulsion, you think it's time to stop, yes? Sadly, I was starring in my own "Fear Factor" version of Cook's Illustrated. Deciding that ravioli was not the answer (for now), I took the remaining ball of dough, rolled it out into thin sheets and used the ravioli wheel to make chocolate ribbon pasta. Skipping the crème anglaise, I decided to go with a white chocolate sauce. The final result looked good when I plated it.

But I had some sense of self preservation, so Greg was the first person to taste it. He took a bite and uttered something in Japanese. Not a good sign because Greg isn't Asian and his first language isn't Japanese. "Chutouhanpa." He sighed. "Sometimes I wish there were equivalent words in English. It's a rough translation, but it means, 'caught between.' It's not sweet enough to be a dessert yet but not quite anything else either."

Okay, I would say that's definitely not rousing endorsement.

Greg: "It's nice to know that you have failures in the kitchen."

All the time, man. All the time. Back to the drawing board. But not for a few weeks. A stupidly ambitious dinner party is planned for Thursday, and then it's off to Phoenix to visit Peggy and Sunil, and our trip to Vermont is the week following.

Something to rock me to sleep.

In the Pink: Coeur à la Crème

Emily at la dolce vita introduced this sweet idea as a way to raise Breast Cancer awareness: "In the Pink." The challenge is to create a pink edible.

Hmm...pink food that isn't covered in fuzz because it was forgotten in the hinterlands of the fridge (I know there's a passage to Narnia back there). The only (intentional) experience I've had with pink food so far was the homemade yogurt experiment.

As usual, my first plan of attack was built on lunacy. Some day I will actually embrace Sun Tzu's teachings. But in the kitchen, my approach is sometimes the culinary equivalent of engaging in a land war in Asia (apologies to Mr. Goldman). I had an elaborate plan involving Carl Fabergé, the Duchess of Marlborough and the 1902 Serpent Clock egg. Greg quickly restored me to reason after I described my vision:

Greg: "I'm sorry, you just sounded completely insane."

Me: "Which part? The pink food blog event? The Fabergé Egg part? The Consuleo Vanderbilt thing?"

Greg (nodding): "Yes."

The lack of an egg shaped mold and the realization that my paycheck doesn't come from playing for hours in my kitchen (yet) suggested something simpler. And, having spent entirely too much time in the last two weeks testing red velvet cake recipes, I am caked out. No more flour.

Searching the cabinets for some inspiration, I came across several heart shaped molds. I hadn't made coeur à la crème in a long time. Coeur à la crème means "heart of the cream," so called because the cheese and cream mixture is drained of its whey overnight, producing a firm cheese dessert. I had coeur à la crème for the first time in 1987, when I was living in Grenoble, in the south of France. Tata Michelle made it for dessert one night and I thought the texture was absolutely marvelous - light, smooth, creamy. It does require a special perforated mold (lined with cheesecloth), but is otherwise ridiculously easy to make. I would love to be educated on its origins -- so if anyone knows coeur à la crème's history, please do comment. In any case, making a heart shaped dessert is apropos to both the event, and the person(s) for whom it is dedicated.

It's for a little boy who padded into his chemo-stricken mother's room to pat her on the head, his childish attempt to soothe an imitation of her actions when he felt poorly; it's for the boy who ripped flowers from the hospital garden to bring them to his mother in her isolation room at the hospital, roots and all; it's for the same little boy who encouraged his mother to embrace a stranger suffering in the same manner, providing both women with a sweet moment of solidarity.

This dessert is dedicated to his mother, a breast cancer survivor, who has become an impossibly dear friend; and whose spirit and verve remind me that every moment is a gift and a joy.