The demonic and yet genious ZenChef has perfidiously suggested that I have a look at this institution that all foodbloggers know through and through, I have named Foodgawker. I have been unable to blog since, I was far too busy salivating on my keyboard. That thing never stops updating. It's a nightmare. I've fallen behind with my work big time (je lambine comme c'est pas permis). I don't have a social agenda anymore. I think of life in terms of cups and oz, legs of lamb or crockpots. I don't even care. The only sport I practice is an imitation of this brocoli dance routine:
Exhilarating, isn't it. The arm thing gets a little tiring after a while.
For instance, just now I have realised my window was wide open although it's been pouring like hell outside (talk about Paris in the summer) and a pool was starting to form on the wooden floor. Do you think I ran to close the window and sponge off the pool? Nope (des clous, oui). Because I was reading this. Or this. Or this. But I'm going to do it now.
[mop mop mop]
OK, reconnecting with the real world now.
I have been tagged by Karen over the holidays - thanks sweetie (merci mon petit chat). If you have an unhealthy interest in reading about inconsequential details of my culinary life, read on. Otherwise, skip, and see you at the food bit (rendez-vous à la partie bouffe) to see my younger brother chopping rosemary at full speed.
Quel aliment aimez vous le plus cuisiner :I wouldn't know where to start. I like to experiment with almost anything, apart from cheese. That's my big secret and many of you are going to question my inner Frenchness, but hey, it's me coming out of my cheese closet. Cheese stinks, it runs (and everybody knows running is bad for your joints unless you wear really good shoes, which it doesn't. At best it wears smelly socks), it hosts millions of potentially harmful sniggering creatures called weird names such as pseudomesenteroid Leuconostocor or Lactobacillus pentosus.
Yes, they are doing it on your piece of Brie. (courtesy of Futura Sciences)
Laquelle de vos réalisations a réuni le plus de suffrages :Well, I have done the focaccia recipe (see below) quite a few times recently, mainly because it's effortless and simple and I can just point at the ingredients and let my brother do it for me. Once a sluggard, etc.
La recette que votre entourage vous réclame le plus: There is a recipe, it's outrageously simple (again - why can't I be sophisticated?!), it has chocolate, butter, eggs and chestnut purée in it. You get the picture. I think it's the main reason why people keep inviting me to their birthday parties and such.
Votre petit déjeuner préféré : It has to have toasts with jam or honey. But not the square type of toasts. Proper bread. I'd rather make it myself than resort to square bread. Cripsy crust is non-negotiable.
Votre restaurant préféré ou votre pâtisserie préférée : It might well be Pierre Hermé.
Votre aide la plus précieuse dans votre cuisine :Probably silicon thingies (les bidules en silicone). Not those which increase your cup size, those which make cooking a breeze. Spatulas, brushes, silpats, molds and the such.
Let's talk shop, now. I found the recipe on Foodgawker (now that's a surprise), it's from Gourmeted.com.
Have yourself 1 1/3 cups of flour, 1 tbsp chopped rosemary and a couple of extra sprigs, 1 tsp baking powder, 3/4 tsp salt, 1/2 cup warm water, 1/3 cup olive oil and some flaky salt for sprinkling.
Make a brave younger sibling chop the rosemary.
In a bowl, combine the flour, the salt, the baking powder and the chopped rosemary. Add the water and the olive oil. Get the sibling to mix it while you are reading a comic or enjoying a nice cup of tea. Or both.
Knead it a little until it's nice and chewing-gum like.
Divide the dough in three pieces, then, one at a time, roll them out thinly on a silpat, sprinkle with flaky sea salt, a little rosemary and a few drops of olive oil.
Make a giant pacman if you dare.
Bake 8 to 10 minutes in a hot oven (450°F). Break into pieces and eat for starters! It goes down fast (la focaccia ne fait pas de vieux os).
"Un martini, garçon"