Fresh sage adds an element of surprise and delight to this American classic, cornbread, which can be made on this side of the Atlantic by substituting polenta for cornmeal. And although cornbread is traditionally served mainly on Thanksgiving in the northern United States, it makes a great addition to any meal where roast chicken, duck or game is on the table. So you can wait for the holiday, or you can fire up the oven and try it right now.
Polenta à la sauge cuite au four / Cornbread with fresh sage
To be honest, I am not an expert in the field of cornbread. I had to test this recipe three times to get it right, and I owe my success to my American friend Nancy, who holds a doctorate or some such in all matters Thanksgiving. I started by trying to make baked polenta with parmesan, which turned out flat and rather dry. I moved on to a cornbread recipe made with milk instead of buttermilk — again, flat and dry. Finally I went out and found some buttermilk in Paris (aka lait fermenté or babeurre), as well as some baking soda (bicarbonate). The result is the fluffy, sage-infused cornbread shown in the photo.
This was, of course, not my first attempt at cornbread. But I don’t do it often. I celebrate Thanksgiving most years with a friend who does the turkey and stuffing, while I bring the cranberries, sweet potatoes, green beans and salad, and other guests bring the cornbread and pies. However, I did have one notable effort with cornbread some years back when a French television station, Arte, asked me to take part in a series they were shooting in which three-star French chefs were asked to recreate dishes shown in famous paintings.
In my case, this involved the 1943 Normal Rockwell painting called Freedom From Want in which an American family is portrayed as the turkey is presented at a Thanksgiving table. The idea was that the three-star chef, Georges Blanc, would make the turkey and accoutrements. I was asked to bring the cranberry sauce. Fine. I am indeed an expert at cranberry sauce.
But the night before I was due to head to Georges Blanc’s three-star restaurant in Vonnas, about an hour north of Lyon, the head of the Arte team called me in a panic and asked me to bring cornbread as well. The problem? They had asked the baker reputed to be the best in Paris to make the cornbread, and he had made … a crusty oval loaf of French country bread with a little cornmeal in it. Nothing to do with real cornbread.
What to do, what to do? I called Nancy, who explained to me about using polenta instead of cornmeal. I got up the next morning at 6 a.m. and set to work. My first attempt was an abject failure, but I tried again and produced a reasonable semblance of cornbread. Then I raced to the train station with cranberry sauce and cornmeal in tow. On arrival, I found that Georges Blanc’s version of Thanksgiving turkey was minuscule but delicious.
I have written about this experience previously on this blog — click here to see the story — and have to say that it was a huge amount of fun. When thinking about what to post for Thanksgiving this year, I came up with the idea of adding fresh sage, one of my favorite herbs. And so, dear readers, I invite you to consider this recipe, for your holiday — Oct. 12 for Canadians, Nov. 26 for Americans — or for any other occasion.
Happy cooking.
In the midst of this summer’s Paris heatwaves I decided to go Greek — the latest iteration of which, now that it’s a bit cooler, is moussaka. With its richly spiced meat sauce nestled between layers of tender eggplant, and its creamy topping, this is comfort food at its finest. Moussaka can be a one-dish meal or the star of a Greek dinner, preceded perhaps by 
But getting back to moussaka, today’s recipe makes about six portions, depending on the appetites of those at your table. If there will be fewer people, not to worry. You can cut the baked moussaka into individual portions and freeze them. Allow to defrost before reheating, and voilà — you’re back in Greece.
Almost every year towards the end of summer I find myself piling plums into jars, covering them with eau de vie (clear brandy), adding some sugar and sealing them up to be ready in time for the holidays. The jars need to rest for at least two months. When you open them, the flavor of the fruit has infused the alcohol, creating a heady, heavenly concoction that may be served after dinner in pretty little glasses, as you’d serve a digestif, for example Cognac.
This year I used two types of plums — small, sweet yellow mirabelle plums, which are grown across France, particularly in Alsace-Lorraine in the northeast, and small blue plums, known here as quetsches, which are a bit more tart. In the past I have also used greengage plums (Reine-Claude), but they tend to be larger, which is a consideration as you want to be able to fit a plum or two into each little glass.
When I still had my farmhouse in Burgundy, I had many hilarious evenings with friends when dinner ended with cherries or plums à l’eau de vie. It was all the more fun because our garden had fruit trees, so I was able to pick the cherries and plums myself before having my way with them in the kitchen. You can use jars of any size for this recipe — a couple of large ones to keep at home, and smaller ones to give away. They make great Christmas presents.
Sometimes a new recipe just pops into my head. This happened the other day with this zucchini-red onion tart. Often it’s a visual thing. I open the fridge, spot an ingredient or two and think, Oh! That could be good. As you may know, it’s been incredibly hot in Paris this summer — too hot to spend much time in the kitchen. So I had a store-bought pie shell in the fridge, plus eggs, cream, milk and cheese, and fresh thyme growing outside my veranda.
When I go into the kitchen at lunchtime, I don’t always know what I’m going to make. The other day it turned out to be egg salad with radish and onion, a dish I picked up long ago while posted in the former USSR. I had the ingredients on hand (including fresh herbs), it was broiling hot in Paris and I didn’t want to spend a long time cooking. As I’d boiled a couple of eggs the day before, the salad was ready in less than 10 minutes.
Regular readers of this blog may have noticed that this is my first post in a while. The reason is that I’ve been busy on other fronts, notably helping to produce a special 50th anniversary issue of 
When spring comes to Paris, I tend to feel like spending less time in the kitchen – which is a good reason to make roast chicken thighs with thyme. It’s a supremely French dish and supremely easy. The chicken is coated with olive oil and sprinkled with thyme leaves. While it’s roasting, you can make the side dishes of your choice – or go read a book or look out the window at the budding leaves. Within a short while, your dinner will be ready.
In the meantime, I’ve been enjoying the annual rites of spring, repotting the strawberries on my balcony and going down to the quais along the Seine to buy a new cherry tomato plant. There are pansies, nasturtiums and campanula in bloom along the veranda rail and narcissus inside, and a I set a pot of muscari (grape hyacinth) in the bathroom. It’s all very lovely.
I first tasted this earthy wild mushroom spread at the home of my friend Vera, who lives across the street from me in Paris but is originally from Czech Republic. She served it on toast during cocktail hour and it knocked me out of my socks. The mushrooms – porcini, or cèpes in French – had been gathered by her nephew in a Czech forest and dried before being turned over to Vera. She brought them home, worked her magic and a recipe was born.
I learned to make this wild mushroom spread about a year ago when Vera, upon returning from a visit to Czech Republic, kindly gave me a bag of dried porcini gathered by her nephew (at right, with a couple of prize specimens). When I asked her what to do with them, she gave me the recipe, which I immediately tried. Judging by the response, it was a success.
The mushrooms Vera brings back hail from a forest outside the hamlet of Resek in the Krkonoše Mountains on the border between Czech Republic and Poland. The nephew’s family has a shed with drying racks ready to receive the mushrooms, which are first sliced (as shown at left). There’s a lot of competition for these mushrooms, which only sprout when the weather is right. Drying allows the family to enjoy them year round.
Fend off the last (hopefully) of this winter’s chill with a bowl of elegant, creamy vegetable soup, which is not just comforting and supremely French but remarkably easy to make. All you need is a leek, a potato, a carrot, dried tarragon and some heavy cream, as well as salt and freshly ground black pepper (de rigueur). Add some fresh herbs for garnish — chervil, as shown in the photo, or dill, cilantro, whatever — et voilà. Soup’s on.
You can vary the flavor and look of the soup through your choice of fresh herbs for garnish. I love feathery chervil (cerfeuil), and happened to have some on hand, so that’s what I used (at right). But chervil is far harder to find than dill, which would otherwise be my top choice, or cilantro, basil or tarragon. Chives are another possibility. Or use your imagination.
Clams cooked in white wine with garlic, shallots, olive oil and butter — and sprinkled with parsley and black pepper — make an elegant but simple dish that’s served in winter and spring in France. This is because clams are harvested over here from autumn to late spring. Elsewhere, it’s a different story, as you may know if you’ve ever been on a summer clambake. In New England, people may go clamming all year round.
In France, clams come in many varieties, and even the nomenclature is confusing. Palourdes, for example, is a vernacular word that covers several clam types. Praires, which I used in this recipe, are also known as palourdes sauvages (wild clams). Shown at right, they tend to be about 1-1/2 inch (4 cm) wide. Then there are coques, aka cockles, which are like mini-clams and are often used over here for pasta alle vongole. And finally there are what the French also call clams — a bigger, far less delicate variety.
This is the omelet ‘to die for’ made famous when Emily’s boyfriend Gabriel cooked one up for her in the first season of Emily in Paris. A French classic, it uses a mixture of fresh herbs — parsley, chives, tarragon and chervil — that are collectively known as fines herbes. Unlike most omelets, where the filling ingredients are placed on top of the omelet as it sets, this recipe incorporates the herbs directly into the eggs.
I find that the fresh tarragon (estragon) adds a particularly delightful tang. Tarragon may be grown on your windowsill or balcony, assuring a constant supply (except in winter — the snow in Paris this week had its way with my tarragon, but it will resprout in the spring). Estragon, by the way, was the name chosen by Samuel Beckett for one of the two main characters in Waiting for Godot. Who know why? Estragon, nicknamed Gogo, and his friend Didi spend their time on stage waiting for … well … God.
Parsley needs no explanation, other than to say that the French prefer the flat-leaf variety, which I encountered only after moving here. In the States, we only used curly parsley.
As for the chives, the most delicate member of the onion family, they will give zest to your omelet. But not to overdo it, with any of these herbs.
P.S. Here’s a reminder for readers of this site. I’ve written a recipe booklet to go with my recently published novel, 
