Meatballs à la Madeline Kahn

Madeline knew her way around the kitchen.

If you’re a Madeline Kahn fan and you’re looking for the perfect hors d’œuvre for your next cocktail party, here’s your solution. Thanks to Betty Aberlin, I’m able to share with you Madeline’s own recipe for sweet and sour meatballs, as reported in the Chicago Tribune in 1975.

A few provisos: I haven’t tested this recipe, you’d better have no moral objections to veal, rolling the meatballs can get your hands messy (Madeline herself offered this warning), and some of the ingredients are processed. For example, you might prefer to mince and sauté a fresh onion, instead of taking “instant minced onions,” soaking them, and then sautéing them. Johna Blinn, the reporter on this story, noted that, at the time, Madeline was “learning how to live a healthier, happier life by studying homeopathic medicine, herbs and organic foods!” (Exclamation point in the original.) So as you follow the recipe, just consider that this may be what passed for organic in 1975.

Like the recipe itself, the Tribune article is a product of its time, taking a tone that’s simultaneously admiring and condescending as Johna Blinn notes that Madeline “is an operatic singer, speech therapist and a voracious reader” — and she can cook, too! Gee, fellas, this one’s a keeper!

Fifteen meatballs is my limit.

Madeline was still living on East 73rd Street at the time, and she complained of her tiny kitchen, which prevented her from throwing real dinner parties: “I don’t like doing things halfway, so I really don’t try and cook whole meals very often. I’m more apt to invite someone in for cocktails, and that’s when I bring on the meatballs!” Shortly after the article appeared, Madeline moved to her Park Avenue apartment, where the kitchen was (from what I can tell from photos) spacious by Manhattan standards — or anyway, I’d gladly trade with her.

Madeline’s description of her approach to cooking chimes with her approach to acting. “When I cook, I just improvise as I go along,” she said. “It’s never quite the same from one time to the next.” In the movies, this improvisational approach to acting led to “Flames! Flames on the side of my face!” and gave directors a variety of takes to choose from. In theater, her approach yielded admiration from some colleagues (Kevin Kline, for example), frustration from others (Victor Garber — affectionate frustration, I hasten to add), and fury from others (notably Hal Prince).

Madeline’s meatball recipe is the result of sampling other recipes and experimenting with her own — and since that’s the way I cook, I’m in no position to say she’s wrong.

An improvisational approach.

MADELINE KAHN’S SWEET AND SOUR MEATBALLS

FOR THE SAUCE:
1 cup tomato sauce
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons dark brown sugar
1 tablespoon instant minced onion
1 tablespoon salad oil
1 tablespoon powdered mustard
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon garlic powder
¼ teaspoon ground red pepper
1 cube chicken or beef bouillon
Combine all ingredients. Bring to boil, stirring constantly. Set aside. Makes about 1¼ cups.

FOR THE MEATBALLS:
2 tablespoons instant minced onion
2 tablespoons water
1½ tablespoons butter
1 cup soft bread crumbs
1 cup light cream
1½ pounds lean ground beef
½ pound lean ground veal
1 egg, beaten
1½ teaspoons salt
1/8 teaspoon ground white pepper
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon or curry
Rehydrate onion in water; let stand 10 minutes. In large skillet, melt butter; sauté onion 5 minutes. Soak bread crumbs in cream. In large mixing bowl combine onion, bread crumb mixture, meats, egg, salt, pepper, nutmeg and cinnamon or curry. Mix well, but do not overmix. Shape into 1½-inch meat balls. Let meatballs stand in refrigerator 30 minutes before cooking. Line baking sheet or broiler tray with aluminum foil. Broil meatballs in preheated broiler until lightly browned. Turn to brown on other side. Watch carefully so meatballs do not overcook. Serve meatballs in heated sauce. Makes about 3 dozen.

Monkey’s brains, though popular in Cantonese cuisine, are not recommended for this recipe.

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Emily Gilmore’s Stuffed Cornish Game Hens

EDITOR’S NOTE: The recent debut of Gilmore Girls on Netflix has led to a gratifying resurgence of interest in the hit television series (2000–07). With the holiday entertaining season upon us, we decided to ask the Gilmore matriarch, Emily, to share one of her favorite recipes.

Perfect for intimate dinner parties, my D.A.R.-approved recipe for stuffed Cornish game hens has been handed down from generation to generation. In fact, according to family tradition, my great-great-great — well, my many-greats-grandmother prepared this recipe for the crew of the Mayflower on the trip back to England, after she discovered just how hard it was to find good help in colonial Massachusetts.

Today, in our lovely home in Hartford, Richard and I enjoy serving stuffed Cornish game hens to all of our guests (excepting Tweenie Halpern, who’s a bore, and Pennilyn Lott, who’s a tramp — those two are no longer welcome at my table). I think you’ll find this recipe is as easy to follow as it is delicious to eat!

Special appearance by Emily’s husband, Richard Gilmore.

1. Tell Louisa, your new maid, to ask the butcher for four exceptionally fine Cornish game hens.
2. In the kitchen, tell Louisa to flame the hens.
3. Fire Louisa.
4. Tell your new maid, Consuela, to sautée one small onion and two ribs of celery.
5. Fire Consuela. Anyone who doesn’t know to chop the onion and celery before sautéeing them has no business in a kitchen.
6. Tell your new maid, Gudrun, to mix together wild rice, ten ounces of chicken stock, and one cup of finely chopped mushrooms. I think there are some kind of herbs in there, too.
7. Well, of course you cook the rice first. You’re making a stuffed hen, not a baby’s rattle.
8. Fire Gudrun.
9. While waiting for the agency to send over a new maid, check the other preparations for your dinner party. Those candlesticks should be precisely six inches apart.
10. Tell your new maid, Esmeralda, to sprinkle the hens with salt and pepper, both outside and inside each bird.
11. Not that much salt! Are you out of your mind? Richard has a heart condition!
12. Fire Esmeralda.
13. Tell your new maid, Diane, to stuff the hens with the rice mixture, then place them on a rack in a shallow roasting pan. Cover the pan with foil, then let it bake for 40 minutes in the oven, preheated to 350 degrees.
14. Fire Diane. Don’t listen to her when she says it’s not her fault the oven wasn’t preheated, because she only just got here. Surely she didn’t expect you to turn on the oven!
15. Tell your new maid, Genevieve, to remove the foil from the pan, baste the hens with melted butter, and allow them to bake, uncovered, for another 25 to 35 minutes.
16. The remaining cooking time will give you the opportunity to greet your guests and to serve cocktails.
17. Pair the hens with a crisp white Burgundy, nicely chilled but not too cold, and serve with fresh asparagus and a tossed green salad.
18. Fire Genevieve.

We Gilmores enjoy nothing more than a good meal and stimulating conversation.

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World’s Best Recipe for Authentic New York Cheesecake

Almost ready to serve!

It’s a sad truth that most New Yorkers don’t make their own authentic New York cheesecake from scratch. Who has the time? Or the space? Or the patience?

And which recipe can be considered truly authentic? Lindy’s? Junior’s? Your lunatic Aunt Sadie’s? Isn’t it really better just to go out and buy a freakin’ cheesecake?

The answer, of course, is no. After a great deal of research, I have arrived at the world’s best recipe for authentic New York cheesecake, which I share with you now, just as I make it at home in my incredibly spacious, admirably well-stocked, impeccably clean kitchen.

*

INGREDIENTS

For the Pastry
1/2 cup sugar
1 lemon, zest of, finely grated
4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces.
1 large egg yolk
1 tablespoon water
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup all-purpose flour

For the Filling
5 (8 ounce) packages neufchâtel cheese, at room temperature
1 3/4 cups sugar
4 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 orange, zest of, finely grated
1 lemon, zest of, finely grated
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
5 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1/4 cup heavy cream

For the Sauce (Optional)
3 cups ripe strawberries, rinsed, patted dry, and stems removed
3/4 cup sugar
1/3 cup water
1 pinch salt
1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 teaspoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

And
575 gallons of rainwater

*

INSTRUCTIONS

1. For the pastry, place the sugar and lemon zest in a food processor for 5 seconds. Because who in New York City does not own a food processor?

2. Add the butter, egg yolk, water, and vanilla, then ride the New York City subway until the mixture looks granular and lumpy.

3. Add the flour and take the subway home again, stopping occasionally to scrape the sides and bottom of the bowl, until the mixture almost gathers into a ball.

4. Turn the dough out onto a piece of plastic wrap or used Duane Reade bag and press the dough into a 1-inch-thick cake.

5. Wrap and set outside for 1 hour to refrigerate.

6. Adjust an oven rack on your windowsill. The weather has turned warm again.

7. Butter a 9-inch springform pan. Which of course you own. Because who in New York City does not own a springform pan?

8. Detach the sides; set aside.

9. Cut off slightly less than one half of the dough. Next, break it into pieces, and scatter them over the springform bottom. Then press firmly and evenly with your fingertips to make a thin layer.

10. Set the bottom crust on the rack on your windowsill and bake until pale golden brown, about 8 minutes.

11. Remove from the window with a wide metal spatula, then return it to the windowsill to cool completely, because the weather has turned cold again.

12. Meanwhile, shape the remaining pastry into a square.

13. Roll it out on a lightly floured surface such as the floor or sidewalk, forming a rectangle slightly larger than 10 x 6 inches.

14. Borrowing a large sharp knife from that creepy guy down the hall, trim away the edges so that the pastry measures 10 x 6 inches.

15. Cut the pastry crosswise into five 2-inch strips.

16. Reassemble the springform pan. You do own a springform pan, don’t you?

17. Line the sides of the pan with 4 of the pastry strips, pressing the pieces firmly together where their edges meet and pressing the pastry firmly against the pan so that it will stay in place. If the pastry resists, try cursing at it.

18. Cut what you need from the last strip to fill in the last gap.

19. To refrigerate while you prepare the filling, place the pastry outside.

20. For the filling, beat the cream cheese in a large bowl with an electric mixer on medium speed until smooth. Because who in New York City does not own an electric mixer?

21. If for some reason you do not own an electric mixer, then hail a taxi and ask the driver to take you around the block while you continue through the following steps.

22. Add the sugar, flour, salt, zests, and vanilla and drive or beat until smooth, 2 to 3 minutes.

23. Drive or beat in the eggs and yolks one at a time, beating only until thoroughly incorporated, about 15 seconds after each.

24. Drive or beat for another 30 seconds.

25. On low speed or at rush hour, drive or beat in the heavy cream.

26. Scrape the mixture into the pan and smooth the top. Pay the driver.

27. It’s gotten hot outside again. Place the cheesecake on the windowsill to bake for 10 minutes, then bring it inside, where the heat in your apartment should be about 200 degrees, and bake for 1 hour longer; the top will be golden brown.

28. It’s gotten cold outside again, so cool by placing on a rack on your windowsill. Cover loosely to protect from pigeons, and refrigerate by leaving it outside for at least 6 hours; overnight is best.

29. For the strawberry sauce, if the strawberries are small, reserve 1 cup of the prettiest ones. If they are large, slice enough to make 1 cup. If they are mildewed and rotting, as fresh produce generally is in New York City groceries, throw out and buy more berries, repeating the above steps until you have enough.

30. Place the remaining berries in a medium saucepan and crush with a potato masher, because who in New York City does not own a potato masher?

31. If for some reason you do not own a potato masher, place the remaining berries in a plastic bag, deposit in the street, and wait for a few taxis to drive over it until crushed.

32. Add the sugar, water, salt, and cornstarch.

33. It’s gotten hot again. Leaning out of your window, stir well with a heat- proof rubber spatula, because who in New York City does not own a heat-proof rubber spatula? Bring to a boil over your windowsill, stirring constantly.

34. Keep stirring.

35. Fuck it, just use strawberry jam.

36. To serve, retrieve the cheesecake from your windowsill. Dust off any excess pigeon or rat droppings, according to taste.

37. Next, run a small sharp knife or used Metrocard around the edges of the cake to release the pastry, then carefully remove the sides of the pan.

38. Take the 575 gallons of rainwater and begin to pour over the cheesecake.

39. Keep pouring.

40. Keep pouring. It isn’t authentic New York City cheesecake if it isn’t soaking wet, because lately the rain never stops in this freakin’ town.

41. When the water has risen to your shins and completely ruined your new shoes, and the fine aroma of mildew begins to fill your kitchen, then rinse a knife and slice, serving each portion with a spoonful of the strawberry jam.

42. Enjoy!

So yeah, we’ve been having weird weather.

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World’s Best Recipe for Topinambours

Topinambours in their raw state.
They look nothing like artichokes, as you can see,
and I don’t taste much of a resemblance, either.

Countless readers — or anyway, one reader — have demanded that I share with them my recipe for topinambours, known in English as Jersualem artichokes or “sunchokes,” a name which is guaranteed to prevent people from eating them. On the other hand, if nobody else eats them, that leaves more for me, doesn’t it? So call ’em what you will, but I’m sticking with the French. It’s a nice word that sounds rather like some sort of toy or clown.

Culled from the roots of a member of the sunflower family, topinambours are among the légumes oubliés, or “forgotten vegetables,” which the French swore off when the Occupation ended. Under the Nazi administration, the Germans got all the good stuff to eat, leaving for the French the sorts of things (rutabaga, winter squash, crosnes, etc.) to which they were indifferent at best, and of which they quickly had their fill. A couple of generations of Frenchmen wouldn’t even touch topinambours, but they’ve been making a comeback in recent years.

Topinambours (above) with yellow turnips, another “forgotten vegetable,” one January morning at Franck’s vegetable stand in the Beynes market.

That said, topinambours are exceptionally hard to find, and you expose yourself to comment from your neighbors when you buy them. I learned this firsthand at the town marketplace in Beynes, where my veg vendor, Franck, made a point of selecting the best and easiest to peel specimens. He wanted to make an example of me, so that perhaps other customers would take the topinambours off his hands, but I’m not sure he ever succeeded.

Topinambours are well worth the effort (and potential embarrassment and ostracism), with a naturally nutty, buttery flavor to reward you in the end. But it’s important at all times to remember the topinambour’s history, because the secret to preparing them properly is pain and suffering.

Recently, I found topinambours at a farmers’ market in Manhattan, and paid roughly four times for them what Franck would have charged. I took them home and prepared them — exactly as I would have done in my charming kitchen in the French countryside. Please note that there are fancier recipes than mine, but believe me, you won’t have the patience to try them.

Remembered vegetables: Another view of Franck’s stand.
This picture was taken in summer, when topinambours aren’t in season.

1. Get a sack full of topinambours from your vegetable vendor. Never mind about the amount: no matter how few you purchase, you will have too many, as you will understand when you start to peel them.

2. Try not to listen to the remarks your neighbors are making behind your back: “Mais qu’est-ce qu’il fout, l’Américain là? C’est quoi, ces petites crottes de chien qu’il achète, bordel? Moi, je ne toucherais jamais un tel truc! Putain!” Return to your charming kitchen in the French countryside.

3. Even in America, topinambours are covered in gritty, gritty, stubborn dirt when you buy them. Don’t bother to wash them yet. What would be the point?

3. Peel each topinambour. If you are in France, it’s probable that you don’t have a vegetable peeler with a pivoting blade: this is an American innovation, apparently, and French people are always amazed by it. (“Qu’est-ce que c’est, ce petit truc? Mais c’est génial! Putain!”) French peelers are immovable objects, as you will discover when you begin to work; in most kitchens, peelers tend to be very dull, as well.

4. The peel of the topinambour is not terribly thick, but it’s difficult to remove because of the knobby shapes of each root. Dirt remains trapped inside the crevices, and little bumps and outcroppings resist the most adroit peeling technique. Be ruthless!

5. While peeling, try not to think about how much money you have spent on parts of the topinambour that you will only throw out.

6. Peeling topinambours is very, very tedious. If you are working at the sink in your charming kitchen in the French countryside, it’s also stoop labor: our sink was made to measure for the previous owner of the house, a spinster schoolteacher who was teeny-tiny. But whatever you do, don’t think about how much your back is starting to hurt.

7. In order to finish sometime before you die of boredom, try to peel faster. Faster!

8. Faster!

9. Cut your finger.

10. Sometimes it’s easier to cut away the larger knobs, because there’s no way you can get a peeler between the parts, and this way you can just trim and peel and then you’ve got a nice little piece of topinambour.

11. Use a small paring knife.

12. Cut another finger.

This is what a sharpened paring knife looks like.
Just so you know.

13. Remember, it’s not a good day in the kitchen if you don’t pick up your paring knife the wrong way at least a couple of times.

14. Cut the palm of your hand.

15. Don’t bother to wash your cuts. Those kitchen knives really aren’t that old and rusty! You’re in a hurry. And remember that it’s always a good idea to fortify your food with extra minerals, such as iron.

16. Several minutes after your patience has worn thin and your wounds are stinging, finish peeling the topinambours. Rinse under cold water to remove whatever remains of all that dirt and grit.

17. Know in your heart that there is no way you will ever be able to remove all the dirt, and you are sure to find some peel on your plate at suppertime, too.

The few topinambours here resulted in enough peelings
to fill this large coffee mug.

18. Toss the topinambours in a pot of boiling, lightly salted water. Allow to cook until pieces are tender. The consistency will be very much like that of a firm-fleshed boiled potato, such as Yukon Gold.

19. Drain, toss in a little butter, chopped shallots, maybe some parsley if you have any.

20. Serve — in small portions!

21. Because topinambours are notorious for provoking severe flatulence. I wasn’t kidding about the pain and suffering, you see.

Leftovers!
They made an excellent accompaniment to the chicken I roasted last week, and at one meal I mixed them with some green peas. Quite delicious.

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World’s Best Recipe for Seasonal Hen’s Milk

Lait de poule (“hen’s milk”) is a charming traditional recipe dating back to medieval times. It makes an appearance in Madame Bovary, which just proves that it’s French, no matter what the English and the North Americans say. I am prepared to concede nevertheless that it wasn’t the French who made lait de poule a holiday favorite around Christmastime, under the curious and rather unattractive, decidedly Saxon-sounding name of “eggnog.”

When you are, as I am so often, stuck in your charming country kitchen in the middle of France, you will want to enjoy many holiday treats that remind you of your homeland. So why not put on an album of Christmas carols, that red-and-green sweater your mother gave you last year, and join me in preparing a big bowl of hen’s milk to share with all the friends and relations who would surely be clustering around you this time of year, if only you lived a few thousand miles closer?

Sure, hen’s milk is high in calories, but so what?
The holidays are stressful, even in France.
We can all use a little Christmas cheer.

1. Locate a punch bowl. Since most charming kitchens in the French countryside do not actually keep a traditional punch bowl, be prepared to use a soup tureen instead.


2. Purchase 12 eggs from your local dairymonger. Ideally, these should be from free-range, college-educated, and left-handed hens.


3. Separate the eggs, reminding yourself how easy Jacques Pépin makes this look. Pour the yolks, and absolutely no eggshell, into your bowl.


4. That tureen is quite large, isn’t it? You’d better make sure you have enough alcohol to make hen’s milk correctly. You wouldn’t want to disappoint the French! Check the cupboard for cognac, whiskey, rum, or, if supplies are low, any combination of the three. Do not use Armagnac, however, because that’s just wrong.


5. I don’t know. It just is.


6. Mix the yolks with a cup and a half of sugar. Because a “cup” is not a European measure, use a real cup, because it’s Christmas, dammit, and you can’t be bothered to look up the metric equivalents. That coffee mug Karen gave you should do just fine.


7. Continue to mix the yolks and the sugar until they take on the color and consistency of butter. This may take a while, so pour yourself a shot of alcohol. I’m using rum for this recipe.


8. Keep mixing.


9. Did you know that Cuban rum is legal in France and actually quite easy to obtain?



10. Keep mixing. Does it look right yet?


11. This would be a lot easier if you had an electric mixer in your charming kitchen in the French countryside. Keep mixing.


12. Have a little more rum.


13. Oh, right, don’t forget to mix in some rum, too. About two cups, if you’ve still got that much. And some vanilla extract.


14. At this point, you can chill the mixture until about half an hour before your guests arrive.


15. Have some more rum — rum-pa-pum-pum. Get it? I love this song. Tu connais?


16. This reminds me of the funniest thing that happened, one Christmas when I was a kid, back in Texas, which is the greatest state of all.


17. Are our guests running late or something?


18. And you know, when I say le plus grand, I don’t just mean “great” like magnifique. I mean grand like “big.” Texas is bigger than France.


19. You could fit all of France inside Texas, and still have rum left over.



20. Have some more rum.


21. I’m just kidding — I love France! No, really. I love all of you guys.


22. So mulch.


23. That said, we did save your asses, you know. Two wars, bébé. Count ’em. Deux.


24. Okay, look, I think it’s time to put in the milk. And also the cream.


25. This rum is pretty tasty, when you think about it. Is there more?


26. Oh! Right. Like six cups of milk or cream. Whatever.


27. I don’t know. Just don’t say anything. They’re French. They won’t care.


28. They never cared about me. Nobody ever cared about me, when you think about it.


29. Will you get off my goddam back already? You think it’s easy, cooking for French people? Tu trouves que c’est facile, hein? Hein?


30. You know, it’s very difficult to say that in French. Rhum. Rhum.


31. I’m telling you. You want a piece of me? Je t’écrase.


32. I mean it. I’ll cut you, man. I mean it. I’m standing right here in my country kitchen in the charming Frenchyside, and I’ve got a knife.


33. I don’t have a mixer, but I’ve got a comment est-ce que ça se dit? A couteau, man.


34. Bullets cannot harm me.


35. No, really, I really love you guys.


36. So mush.



37. Well, bon soir. I didn’t hear vous entrez. Why don’t vous step into my living rum and have a nice little, charming little punch glass of … oh, merde, there’s supposed to be nutmeg in this shit.


38. Pardonnez mon français.


39. Or else some cinna — cinna — voulez-vous some rum instead?


40. Rhum.


41. What do you mean, “There isn’t any more”?


42. Is it New Year’s yet? I’m a little sleepy. Just gonna curl up here for a little bit of siesta. Buenos noches.

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World’s Best Recipes for a Thanksgiving Feast

As close as most Frenchmen ever get to a turkey dinner.

The American holiday of Thanksgiving presents expatriates in France, as well as curious-minded French people, with a number of peculiar challenges: despite the fact that, with that modesty and lack of pretension that is so common to all French people, the French invented the American custom of Thanksgiving (complete with friendly native tribespeople), nowadays almost every bit of the tradition is completely alien to France.

Despite what some people will try to tell you, the difficulty of Thanksgiving to a Frenchman does not extend to saying “thank you,” since the French are, in general, far more polite than Americans, and they are even known to give thanks from time to time, especially when thinking how lucky they are not to be American. But try explaining Thanksgiving Day to the French — just try! The percentage of French people is minuscule who have heard of the holiday and can pronounce the name correctly: “Sahnx-geeveeng.”

The ingredients of a proper Thanksgiving feast are difficult, as well, to obtain in modern-day France. But by following these easy instructions, you, too, can prepare a typical, traditional meal, just like those that I like to prepare in my charming kitchen in the French countryside.

Roast Turkey

Part 1: Ordering the Turkey

1. Turkey is one of the puzzles of French agriculture, like corn: something one sees growing everywhere, but one seldom sees in the grocery store. Therefore, you will have to go to the poultry vendor (volailler) at his independent shop, or at his stall at the town market.
2. On or about November 1, inform the poulterer that you will be wanting to purchase a turkey, in time for the third Thursday of the month.
3. Listen politely as the poulterer nods understandingly and tells you that turkeys make excellent guards and are guaranteed to make a racket whenever an intruder enters your yard; however, turkeys are less interesting as pets, and one must take extra care that they do not look up when it’s raining, due to the risk of drowning.
4. Explain to the poulterer that, actually, you were planning to eat the turkey.
5. Apologize to his wife when she comes running to see why her husband just fainted like that.

Suggested pairing: Cognac.

Part 2: Roasting the Turkey

1. Find a large roasting pan.
2. To achieve the correct flavor and consistency of an American turkey, shoot the bird full of hormones. If this is not possible, expect that your French turkey will have a very strong flavor — indeed, it will have flavor.
3. Also, it may be tougher than you expect, due to its bizarre habit of walking around, which it does because it has space and a normally proportioned breast that doesn’t cause the entire bird to tip over every time it stands up.
4. Rub the turkey with salt, pepper, herbs, and/or butter.
5. Basting (arrosage) will be especially important. Among the ingredients that many Americans use to baste their birds are butter, whisky, maple syrup (sirop d’érables), and, of course, ketchup (cette sauce de merde).
6. Preheat the oven to the 6 or 7 setting. You don’t know how hot this is, actually, but it’s hotter than usual, and after all, a turkey is a very large bird, so you figure a couple of extra degrees are a good idea.
7. When you have begun to perspire profusely, the oven is hot; open the door and attempt to force the turkey in.
8. Discover that your oven, like any oven in France, is in fact too small to roast a turkey.
9. Chop up the turkey in to parts, hoping to get it to a size that would actually fit your oven.
10. Even a drumstick is too big. Keep chopping.
11. Remember how much your Gaz de France bill was last month, and at this point the oven has been on 6 or 7 for, what, two hours already?
12. Make turkey soup instead.

Suggested pairing: The latest, trendiest Beaujolais Nouveau.

Cranberry Sauce

1. Call or write to a friend in the United States.
2. Ask your friend to send you a can of cranberry sauce, which is impossible to find in France.
3. Pay extravagant duty fees when the package arrives at your local post office.
4. Return home; open the can; serve.
5. Contemplate the fact that this is probably the most expensive thing you’ll serve this year.

Suggested pairing: Coca-Cola.

Pumpkin Pie

Part 1: The Crust

Pumpkin pie is unusual among American pies, in that it does not feature a top crust. It looks comparatively like a French tarte. For hints, see my World’s Easiest Recipe for Tarte aux Fruits.

Part 2: The “Filling” (untranslatable)

1. Look up the word for “pumpkin” (citrouille or potiron).
2. Go to the supermarket. Notice that citrouilles and potirons are not sold whole, but only in slices.
3. Buy as many slices as you think would make an entire pumpkin.
4. Remove the rind and seeds; chop the pumpkin meat into chunks and stew them.
5. Notice that this really doesn’t look right. Also, it doesn’t smell right.
6. Taste.
7. Make soup with it instead.

Suggested pairing: Pepsi-Cola or Root Beer.

Yams

1. Despite the similarity in appearance and texture to chunks of pumpkin meat, yams or sweet potatoes (patates douces) are a traditional American side dish, prepared with enormous quantities of butter and brown sugar, and American children are typically required to finish at least one helping before they are allowed to eat dessert. Yams can be purchased only at African markets in France’s larger cities. Find one, and go to it.
2. Try not to notice that the yams don’t look quite like the ones you used to get back in the States. Order a couple of kilos.
3. Listen politely as the vendor tells you that, in many parts of the world, people eat sweet potatoes — and not only as a remedy for venereal disease, did you know that?
4. Return to your charming kitchen. Peel and chop the yams.
5. Boil for approximately 20 minutes, or until soft.
6. Drain.
7. Taste.
8. Make soup instead.
9. Salt, pepper. The herb tarragon is one popular seasoning.
10. Serve piping hot, with miniature marshmallows.

Suggested pairing: Fanta Orange.

Green-Bean Casserole

1. Nothing bespeaks America’s harvest bounty like the traditional green-bean casserole made entirely from canned goods!
2. Open a can of green beans.
3. Open a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup©, which you can actually find in the Exotic Foods department of many large French supermarkets.
4. Open a can of fried onions, which will be markedly more difficult to find at the supermarket; if you can’t find fried onions, tried slivered almonds instead, though they will cost approximately 8 times as much as the other ingredients combined.
5. Mix the green beans and the mushroom soup. Do not add salt, as the canned goods are already full of sodium.
6. Pour the mixture into a baking dish.
7. Sprinkle with the fried onions (or slivered almonds).
8. Bake at thermostat 5, even though you don’t actually know how hot that is.
9. Serve.
10. Explain to your guests that many Americans think this is a French recipe.

Suggested pairing: Diet Coca-Cola.

Mashed Potatoes

1. At last! An easy one! Not only is the recipe easy to follow and the ingredients easy to find, but also it’s a familiar and favorite dish throughout France. In fact, you’ll find that every Frenchman has his own special way of making mashed potatoes (purée de pommes de terre, which is smooth; or pommes de terre écrasées, literally “crushed potatoes,” which are chunkier).
2. For a typical American Thanksgiving (6–8 servings), take 96 medium potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks.
3. Place in a pot and cover with cold water.
4. Cover and bring to a boil.
5. Boil until soft (usually under half an hour).
6. Drain.
7. Add milk, butter, seasonings.
8. Mash, using one of those handy mashing tools you bought at Ikea last year. (Where did you put that thing, anyway?)
   
9. Serve.
10. Bury your face in the mashed potatoes and scream while the French people around your table blast you with vicious criticism for not making the purée correctly. What kind of barbarian are you, anyway?

Suggested pairing: More cognac.

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World’s Best July Fourth Picnic Recipes

Did you know that many U.S. Americans observe a national holiday each year on 4 July? That’s right! On that day in 1776, a loose confederation of English colonies broke free from one capitalist, imperialist power and launched on a course to becoming an even bigger capitalist, imperialist power. Some people not only refer to this as “independence,” they also honestly believe it’s cause for celebration!

Like most holidays in the United States, “Independence” Day is an occasion for massive over-eating, in this case frequently out-of-doors, featuring of a number of charmingly typical foods that require very little skill to prepare, because of course Americans don’t really know how to cook.

In the event that you wish to experience the American traditions for yourself, I am pleased to provide you with complete instructions for a typical July Fourth menu.*

Grilled Hot Dogs & Hamburgers
A remnant of the United States’ shameful history of scandalous health standards and abusive industrial–labor practices, hot dogs and hamburgers little resemble their European counterparts. Those Americans who do not purchase pre-cooked hot dogs and hamburgers often like to grill these foods, out of doors, which is especially convenient at certain picnics, called “cookouts.”

1. Purchase a bag of “charcoal briquettes,” pillow-shaped pieces of coal for which countless working-class miners, unprotected by government standards or by effective union representation, died horrible deaths.

2. Don an apron purchased especially for the occasion; it should bear a slogan such as “Kiss the Cook” or “For This I Spent Four Years in College.”

3. Empty the bag of briquettes into the basin of a grill, which is a typical American device most frequently manufactured in the Third World.

4. Douse the “briquettes” with a highly inflammable, toxic pollutant (“lighter fluid”), and ignite, using a match.

5. While waiting for the coals to heat, drink several flavorless, uninteresting American beers. This is done strictly to prevent you from thinking about precisely what the hot dogs and hamburgers are made of.

6. When the coals are ready, place the hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, using a pair of tongs. Turn periodically so that all sides are cooked evenly.

7. Reflect on the irony that the journalists who expose unsanitary conditions in the meat-packing industry are called “muckrakers,” while the corporate bosses who actually rake muck and put it into meat are called “wealthy.”

8. When the smell of burning flesh becomes unbearable, the hot dogs and hamburgers are ready.

9. You may choose to eat your hot dog or hamburger on buns, edible foam-rubber padding in the shape of European bread rolls.

10. Serve with ketchup.

Fried Chicken
Typically associated with the cuisine of the racially oppressive South and America’s longstanding slave-owning culture, fried chicken features meat that is more or less recognizable visually. However, American chickens are carnivorous, and their meat is charged with antibiotics, hormones, and other unnatural products; as a consequence, the flesh is much tenderer than that of European chickens. But you don’t want to think about that.

1. Either dip the chicken parts in batter or dust in flour for fricassé before frying in hot oil until crispy and golden brown.

However, be aware that very few American picnic grounds offer frying equipment, and so fried chicken is frequently prepared at home, far in advance, and eaten cold. For an alternative, try the following recipe:

1. Drive your enormous, fuel-inefficient, high-polluting personal vehicle to the nearest commercial center, several kilometers from your home.

2. Order a bucket of mass-produced, fried chicken prepared days in advance and sold by a pension-less senior citizen or other member of the United States’ permanent underclass.

3. Drive to the picnic.

4. Drink several flavorless American beers in order to forget what’s in the chicken, and also to forget about the epidemic levels of cancer, heart disease, and obesity in the U.S. population today.

5. Serve with ketchup.

Corn on the Cob
Although grown for fuel and fodder throughout civilized nations such as France, corn is eaten by humans in the United States, most often en épi, or “on the cob.” Be advised, however, that to do so requires a human to abandon all pretense to etiquette and to eat like a farm animal. Given the working conditions of the migrant farmers who raise the corn, this is only justice.

1. Prepare a large pot of lightly salted water; set to boil.

2. Meanwhile, shuck the corn; that is, remove the husks.

3. If you are French, force yourself not to think about an ex-lover’s pubic hair as you remove the corn’s silk, or long blond fibers.

4. Finish removing the remaining strands of silk by gripping the cob firmly in one hand and rubbing it briskly up and down with the other; if you are French, remember that this gesture does not resemble anything at all.

5. When the water is boiling, drop the corn into the pot.

6. Boil until tender.

7. Serve with ketchup.

Corn on the cob is also considered an excellent vehicle
for artery-clogging butter or lard (“margarine”).

Potato Salad, Cole Slaw, and Baked Beans
Although vegetable dishes are not commonly associated with July Fourth celebrations in the United States, you may choose to prepare a few traditional standards.

1. Drive to the supermarket, several dozen kilometers from your home.

2. Purchase

1 tub potato salad per guest,
1 tub cole slaw per guest,
and several cans of baked beans.

3. Under no circumstances read the list of ingredients. You really don’t want to know.

4. Potato salad and cole slaw are served cold.

5. Open the cans and heat the baked beans in a saucepan.

6. Serve with ketchup.

Cole Slaw: Like raw sauerkraut with cream and sugar.

Apple Pie
Apples are not in season in North America in July, which means that anything remotely resembling a tarte aux pommes is out of the question. Fortunately, the Americans aren’t accustomed to anything resembling a tarte aux pommes; they prefer a double-crusted dessert that contains apple pie filling, a glutinous, vaguely compote-like mixture of corn starch, corn syrup, chemical preservatives and artificial flavoring, trace elements of pesticide, and occasional pieces of fruit, stewed beyond recognition and sold in cans.

1. Purchase piecrust mix at the supermarket.

2. Follow the instructions on the box.

3. Warning: You may be required to add a natural ingredient, such as an egg or a small amount of milk. However, these are likely to contain chemicals or other artificial ingredients, so it works out the same.

4. When the crust is ready, open the cans and add the “filling.”

5. Bake, using an oven.

Un-American: This charming pie required too much effort.
Obviously.

6. While the pie is baking, drink several flavorless American beers, still trying to force yourself not to think about the numerous fairs across the nation where “pie-eating contests” are contributing to overall levels of obesity, while nearly one-quarter of America’s children go hungry.

7. When the piecrust is golden brown and the “filling” is bubbling hot, remove from the oven and let cool.

8. Americans often serve apple pie “à la mode,” which in this case means “with a scoop of artificially flavored dairy-type product,” sometimes referred to as “vanilla ice cream.” You’d be better off serving it à la mode de Caen.

Like everything else in the U.S., apple pies are sometimes deep-fried.
Here, several perfectly good chaussons aux pommes have been fried and are ready to serve.
(With ketchup.)

*NOTE: Remember to prepare six times as much food as you could possibly need.

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World’s Easiest Recipe for Rabbit Stew

I am confident that, if I ever served crowds in my charming little kitchen in the French countryside, my rabbit stew would be a crowd-pleaser. However, I most often make it when I am alone, and have to eat the leftovers for several days. There’s a great deal of meat on a rabbit, even before I add vegetables to the stew, and besides, most of the Americans I know (and a few French friends, too) are far, far too sentimental ever to eat bunny.

The advantage, however, is that my recipe is truly a secret — but I have decided to share it with you now, just in time for the spring holidays. It’s somewhat more complicated than my other recipes, but follow it step by step, and you can be sure to make a lasting impression around the family dinner table on Easter Sunday!

RABBIT STEW

1. Familiarize yourself thoroughly with rabbits. If possible, visit a farm or petting zoo and observe them as they hop, sniff, nibble, and nap. (Mostly, they nap.) If you do not live near a farm, try watching Bambi, while paying particular attention to Thumper; or reread that immortal classic, Pat the Bunny.

2. Now you are ready to start cooking.

3. Visit the butcher shop and study the rabbits on display, whether they are in a case or hanging from a hook. Skinned, a rabbit no longer looks like the fluffy, cuddlesome creature you are now so familiar with. Its limbs are stiff and splayed, its eyes are bloodied, its ears and paws have been cut off, its digestive organs have been ripped out, and it now looks like a human child after a horrible accident.

4. Leave the butcher shop.

5. Remind yourself that cutting up a rabbit is really too much trouble. A rabbit has tough muscles and odd little bones where you don’t expect them, and besides, to cut up the rabbit, you have to touch it. A lot.

6. Also, you would have to chop off its head.

7. Wonder idly whether the French butcher uses a cleaver or some sort of specially designed Cuisinart Guillotine to chop off the rabbit’s head.

8. Next, visit the supermarket, where, long before you got there, the store’s butcher has already chopped up the rabbit, packed it in a Styrofoam tray, and wrapped it in Saran. It doesn’t look like a baby; it doesn’t even look like chicken. What could be more anodyne? You don’t have to talk to the butcher, much less watch him chop off the rabbit’s head.

9. Select a package. French supermarkets typically sell packages containing the parts of either an entire rabbit, or half a rabbit. It’s your call.

10. Also purchase any or all of the following vegetable ingredients: carrots, turnips, potatoes, parsnips, celery, celery root, mushrooms, green peas, and onions. A good rule is: anything else that a bunny might have liked to eat, while it was still alive, will taste good in your stew.

11. Optional: For Italian-style Rabbit Stew, purchase a head of garlic and any of the following: fresh tomatoes, canned tomatoes, or tomato paste.

12. Return home, humming “Here Comes Peter Cottontail.”

13. Chop or slice the vegetable ingredients into stew-sized pieces. If you have never eaten stew before, use your imagination.

14. Place the mushroom slices in a non-stick saucepan and place over a low flame. Mark Dennis says if you leave them long enough, they sweat out all their moisture and taste better.

15. Nervously check the mushrooms while continuing to chop your other ingredients. Who knew mushrooms contained that much moisture?

16. In your stewpot, sautée the onion slices in oil or butter until they are transparent.

17. Nervously check the mushrooms again. This can’t be right, can it? Add some dried herbs, to absorb excess moisture.

18. Unwrap the package of rabbit parts; remove the parts one by one, placing them carefully in the stewpot to brown lightly on all sides.

19. When you get to the last rabbit part, come to the sudden realization that it is in fact the head. The butcher always puts that in at the bottom of the tray.

20. Try to remember why anybody, even in France, would want to eat a rabbit’s head. Somebody told you it had something to do with making a sauce or pâté or something, but on the other hand, you once ate rabbit stew in a restaurant in Italy, and the head was served to you along with the rest. (The cheeks were rather tasty, actually, though you felt a bit like a periodontist.)

21. Wonder whether this was some kind of a symbolic Mafia thing: “Luca Brazzi hops with the bunnies.”

22. If you have purchased half a rabbit, observe that the butcher gave you half a rabbit’s head. Observe the cross-section of the brain. Observe the delicate cross-section of the tongue, which appears to be sticking out at you in posthumous derision. Observe the graceful curve of the humongous incisors. Yep, you can’t deny it: a rabbit’s a rodent, all right.

23. Remember that a great chef is a thrifty chef, and that it would be terrible to waste that head (or half-head).

24. Throw it out anyway. I mean, come on. I recommend using an old newspaper or non-transparent sack, so you don’t have to look at it. Be sure to wrap it securely, or every cat in the neighborhood will be gnawing on it tomorrow, and you’ll probably find the skull (or half-skull) in your garden before the end of the week.

25. Next, remove the other rabbit parts from the pot, quick, before they overcook. Set them aside.

26. Add the other vegetables and some liquid, such as water, vegetable or chicken broth, wine (red or white), or beer. When I make my classic Non-Italian Rabbit Stew, I prefer sparkling cider, because I think the bunny would like it.

27. Add herbs. Thyme goes especially well with rabbit stew, and some farmers even feed thyme to their rabbits, so that the flavor permeates the meat from within, prior to slaughter.

28. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

29. Remember the mushrooms. They have given off all their moisture by now and are burnt and stuck to the bottom of the non-stick pan.

30. Remember — too late — that Mark Dennis uses fat when he’s preparing his mushrooms. Which of course you did not do. Stare at the burnt mushrooms, decide you don’t need them, throw them out.

31. Stir the stew, while wondering how you are going to explain this to Mark Dennis.

32. Let simmer until the vegetables start to soften; add liquid if needed. Add the rabbit parts gradually: some parts (especially the hind legs) require more cooking time. The saddle is tricky, because the core (around the spine) is very thick and dense, while the wings (the ribs and other meat that extend like flaps from both sides of the core) are very thin and lean.

33. Accept the fact that you will never cook the saddle properly, any time you make rabbit stew, ever.*

34. Stir some more, while the fragrant aroma of rodent flesh fills your kitchen.

35. Let simmer until the meat is thoroughly cooked, but not too much, because otherwise it will be dry and tough.

36. If you did not include potatoes in your stew, prepare spätzle or pasta. The French prefer tiny elbow pasta called coquillettes, or “little shells.” Now you are ready to eat Thumper and the chorus of The Little Mermaid!

37. Serve in a soup plate. You may want to serve wine, beer, or cider to accompany the stew, if you didn’t already use it up while making the stew, or if you didn’t drink it all while trying to forget what you were doing to a fluffy, innocent creature.

38. At the end of the meal, lean back in your chair, lift up your shirt, and pat the bunny.



*BONUS RECIPE: Rabbit saddle is sometimes sold separately (usually three pieces to a package, in a French supermarket) and can be cooked perfectly if you follow this foolproof recipe: wrap each saddle piece in a slice of poitrine fumée (or bacon strips, if you’re in the U.S.). Use toothpicks if you’re worried about them coming unwrapped. Place the pieces in a pan. You don’t need to grease the pan first, because the saddle and the pork are fatty enough. If you are using my oven, bake at thermostat 6 for about 15 minutes. (If you’re using your own oven, you’d better check from time to time.)

BUTCHER’S BUNNY BONUS: Lest we forget (not that that would ever happen), when you purchase parts of a whole or half rabbit, you will also get all or some of the liver, sometimes with a couple of other organs that are perfectly edible. (This may include the bunny’s tiny loving heart.) The catch is that there won’t be enough to make a normal-size pâté; if you’ve bought a half rabbit, there won’t be enough for two people to share. So don’t tell anyone; just sautée the liver (etc.), pretty much as you would sautée chicken livers, then surreptitiously enjoy the treat by yourself.

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World’s Easiest Recipe for Baked Fish

Step 1: Begin

In response to the outpouring of enthusiasm for my previous recipe, I am pleased to offer my readers a series of step-by-step instructions for another favorite Sunday treat: baked fish. While some so-called culinary experts will tell you that baking is in fact already the easiest way to prepare fish, and that any idiot could do it, I believe you will find a number of secrets, shortcuts, and surprises in my recipe, which I have developed over many years in my charming little kitchen in the heart of the French countryside.

BAKED FISH

1. Go to the market and hum the theme song to The French Chef while waiting for the fishmonger to deal with the other customers ahead of you: the little old lady who wants a nice trout, no, not that one, this one, no, you know, the one that looks like her late husband; the stout bourgeois who wants five darnes de saumon, though the fishmonger has only four, but maybe he can look in the back, plus two kilos of boiled shrimp, one kilo of raw shrimp, and “enough mussels for five people, or rather, six people, of whom one does not have a large appetite, and two are children, although one is a growing teenager, so let us say five and one-quarter people, or perhaps five and two-fifths”; and the emaciated German woman who wants only freshwater, organic, free-range, college-educated fish.

2. Try to choose a variety of fish that you can pronounce intelligibly, preferably one that is not covered in flies. When the fishmonger turns his attention to you, just point and say, “That one.”

3. Smile shyly when asking the fishmonger to scale and gut the fish, although he is giving you a look that says, “What kind of barbarian forgets to say, ‘S’il vous plaît, Monsieur’ when ordering, and yet does not know how to gut his own fish?”

4. Return in shame to your home, preheat the oven to 6, since 7 can be a little too much, and moderation is good.

5. Wonder what that smell is, and whether you should call somebody. Remember that — oh, yeah — you cooked fish last Sunday, too. Tell yourself that’s probably what the smell is. Probably. Yeah, that’s what you can tell yourself.

6. The fish should be quite firm and flexible, and extremely slippery to the touch, practically jumping out of your hands, almost as if it is still alive.

7. Poke the fish with a fork, just to be sure.

8. Re-clean the fish, removing all the guts that the fishmonger left; wash away any remaining blood, while watching it swirl down the drain like the shower scene in Psycho or, as it is known in France, Psychose.

9. Pour some olive oil into an oven pan. Place the fish in the pan.

10. Get a new pan when you realize that the first pan was much too small. Repeat the step above.

11. Decide against a third pan when you see that the second pan isn’t quite big enough for the tail, after all. Try to bend the fish’s tail so that it will fit. Decide to leave it sticking out over the rim of the pan.

12. When the oven is heated, place the second pan, with the fish, on a middle rack. Vow solemnly to turn the fish over, halfway through cooking time, so that the skin won’t stick to the pan and the fish will cook evenly; also, convince yourself that you will rotate the pan frequently, so that the fish will cook evenly on all sides.

13. Forget to do these things as soon as you shut the oven door.

14. Begin to prepare a light sauce of melted butter, vinegar, finely chopped shallots, and fresh parsley, which you will have found in your extensive readings of La Première Année de Cuisine. The recipe looks so easy, a child could do it!

15. While the butter is melting, check your e-mail. Wonder when your agent is ever going to get back to you.

16. When you smell the sauce burning, return to the kitchen and throw out the smoking remains.

17. Tell yourself that a quick squirt of lemon juice is really all that a good, fresh fish needs, especially since you have rubbed the interior of the fish with a special mixture of aromatic herbs and spices, just before baking.

18. Remember that you are out of lemons, and that by now, the market is closed, and their lemons are overpriced anyway.

19. Remember that you also forgot to rub the interior of the fish with the aforementioned special mixture of aromatic herbs and spices.

20. Check on the fish. Admit wearily that it is too late to rub the interior of the aforementioned special mixture of herbs and spices, since you also forgot to mix it in advance, but it probably doesn’t matter, since you also forgot to buy fresh dill and/or parsley, and even if the market were still open and you ran really, really fast, it would still be too late.

21. When the fish’s eye begins to milky white, not unlike your Great Uncle Louis shortly before his cataract surgery, slam the oven door and let bake for another ten minutes, leaving the kitchen in disgust.

22. Check Facebook for any new pictures of your godchildren and the New York Times website for all the latest headlines, weather, and sports.

23. When you smell burning fish, return to the kitchen. (Optional)

24. A favorite dish among many vegetarians, the fish will be thoroughly baked when its eyeballs are exploded, its skin bubbling, its fins completely charred, and its mouth agape as if in horror while its lips peel away from its tiny grinning teeth.

25. Remove the fish from the oven. Ask somebody else to bone the fish for you, because it is really much too complicated.
(Optional: If you are alone, try going out into the street and asking a complete stranger whether he would like to come home with you and bone your fish.)

26. Serve and eat.

27. Remember to stack tiny bones neatly on the side of your plate, rather than spitting them into your napkin, tossing them on the floor, or choking to death on them.

28. Spend an hour or so scraping the remains of the fish from the bottom of the pan, then wash, rinse, and dry.

29. Realize that the heat from the oven has screwed up the thermostat again, and the house is now freezing, smoky, and fishy-smelling.

30. Wonder whether Julia Child — or Mrs. Paul or the Gorton’s Fisherman, for that matter — ever had these problems.

That was easy, wasn’t it?

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World’s Cheapest Recipe for Mock Cabbage Soup

At last, a low-cost solution for those who gave up cabbage for Lent

Of all the vegetables that people despise, surely few are more versatile or more repellent than cauliflower. A good-size head of cauliflower can stretch across several meals for a small family or couple, so long as they’re either completely indifferent to taste or else fanatically pursuing the detested crucifer’s nutritional value, including significant levels of Vitamins C, K, and some Bs, to say nothing of manganese (essential to helping the body digest Japanese comic books), Omega 3 fatty acids, dietary fiber, and an aroma that persuades you that, really, anything that smells like that must be good for you.

Start with the white, deceptively puffy-looking part of the cauliflower, and chop it into up: the smaller the pieces, the less they resemble bits of brain. These pieces, called florets, can be served raw, whether as crudité snacks with a powerfully flavored dip to disguise the taste; or tossed in a salade composée with a dressing that also may fool you into thinking that you’re eating hard Styrofoam packing material or any other more palatable substance. Boiled, the florets will still smell like cauliflower, but they can be tossed in butter and garnished with caraway seeds; or smothered in rich, creamy sauce béchamel, sprinkled with grated gruyère, and baked in a gratin. Cauliflower florets can be added with other ingredients to a number of curries, soups, and stews, where they are less likely to be noticed; they can also be dipped in batter and deep-fried in beignets, or tossed lightly in olive oil and pan-roasted in the oven.

There are other recipes, too, but by now you have run out of cauliflower and must go out and buy more of the repulsive stuff. Yet you must concede how economical cauliflower can be: already a single grotesque, brain-like head has provided you with almost a week’s worth of meals — or more, if your household contains many children (or adults) who run screaming from the table whenever cauliflower is served. Moreover, the aroma is enough to put many people off their appetite, meaning that the other dishes you’ve prepared may stretch further, too.

However, the truly great cook is a thrifty cook. Like me, you look on in horror as the average cauliflower chef strips away the greens and throws them away. This is a senseless, shocking waste. Around the world, starving people would kill to eat those greens, although these are principally people who have never tasted any part of the cauliflower and don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.

Above all, the greens are what make cauliflower (chou-fleur, in French) remind us of another hated vegetable, cabbage (chou). So, to help you make your cauliflower budget go even further than ever, I’m happy to share another family favorite, a uniquely easy and delightful recipe from my cozy kitchen in the heart of the French countryside.

MOCK CABBAGE SOUP

1. Do not throw out the cauliflower greens when you are preparing a dish calling for cauliflower florets. Even though the greens don’t keep as long as the florets, let’s be honest: they’re a time-consuming pain in the neck to use. So put them in a bag and store in the back of the refrigerator.

2. Proceed to use the florets, quick, before they turn brown and even more disgusting than they are when they’re fresh.

3. When you are ready to prepare Mock Cabbage Soup, retrieve the bag of greens and dispose of any leaves that have turned slimy and black while they were sitting in the refrigerator, day after day.

4. Carefully wash the surviving cauliflower greens under cold running water, until your fingers are numb, cracked and bleeding.

5. Optional: If you are preparing Vegetarian Mock Cabbage Soup, remove the tiny green worms and tinier white mites that cling to the leaves.

6. Pay no attention to the little black spots that you will find, particularly on the outer leaves. They’re nothing. Probably.

7. If you bought your cauliflower from an organic grower, those little black spots are just manure. Cooking will kill the germs and bacteria. Probably. Scrub more thoroughly.

8. If you bought your cauliflower from a French supermarket, those little black spots are probably just ash from the grocer’s cigarette; if you bought your cauliflower from an American supermarket, those little black spots are probably just solid-particle exhaust from the truck that delivered them. Probably. Scrub more thoroughly.

9. If you are still in any doubt about those little black spots, hold a leaf in one hand and address the spots politely. If they answer, they are probably the result of hormones and chemicals used in farming. Apologize, then ask them to go away. If they don’t answer, there’s no reason to worry. Probably.

10. The central part of the cauliflower leaf, or rib, requires more cooking time than the green, leafy parts to either side. Using a sharp paring knife, carefully remove each rib and set the green, leafy parts aside, while wondering where your youth went.

11. The ribs are extremely fibrous and tough. To make them slightly more digestible, chop each rib into small pieces, about the size of the tip of your little finger, using the tip of your little finger as a guide.

12. Wash the wound in cold water, and apply a bandage.

13. You’d better chop up an onion, just to keep the soup from tasting too cabbage-y. Also, you’d better chop up a carrot or two, as well, to keep it from looking too green.

14. Toss the rib pieces, the chopped onion, and the chopped carrots into a medium-size pan of lightly salted boiling water.

15. Come to think of it, maybe a cube of bouillon would help.

16. Bring to boil, let simmer until the rib pieces are chewy or, God help you, tender.

17. Add the green, leafy pieces. As they soften, stir them in. Add more water if needed.

18. Optional: If you’re truly conscientious, you can chop the greens, too, in strips about one inch wide. (Hint: Do this before you put the greens in the pot.) But this extra step doesn’t make much difference. Eventually, the greens are going to shrivel up and die in the hot broth. Just like the worm you missed when you were rinsing the leaves.

19. Using a skimmer or spoon, remove the excess worm. Remember that metal utensils can affect the flavor of your broth.

20. Allow to simmer until the rich, cabbage-like aroma wafts through every room in your home.* Hope that the neighbors don’t notice.

21. Now it’s even beginning to look like cabbage soup! Verify the taste. Remember that you, like most people, dislike cabbage soup. Why did you try this recipe, anyway?

22. As panic sets in, say to yourself, “Screw the vegans, let’s add some salt pork. Do we have any salt pork? No? What about leftover Peking duck? Maybe some mustard. The Germans use mustard all the time to distract themselves from the taste of cabbage, right? Have we got any curry?”

23. Optional: Using a mill or mixer, disguise the chunky, stewed cauliflower matter even further by turning it into an anonymous, anodyne, green liquid.**

24. Serve with thick slices of crusty bread; garlicky sausage; a dollop of crème fraîche or a generous pat of butter or margarine; soy, Tabasco, or Worcestershire sauce; high-alcohol-content beer; and anything else that will help you to forget that you’re eating soup made out of freaking cauliflower greens, which anybody else would have thrown in the garbage days ago.

25. Place the unused portion(s) in the refrigerator, for tomorrow’s lunch, and the day after that.

26. Approximately one week later, when you have consumed the last of the soup, congratulate yourself on your thriftiness. Ergo, what a great chef you must be! (But don’t pat yourself on the back: you might burp.)

That was easy — and cheap — wasn’t it?


*NOTE: As an added benefit, many household insects will smell the aroma of boiling “cabbage” and believe that you’ve called in the exterminator to have the place fumigated; even the most stubborn cockroaches will flee spontaneously or else die in confusion — saving you even more money!

**Milling the soup will not necessarily provoke comical references to The Exorcist at the dinner table, but it does increase the risk that somebody will say, “Honey, this cabbage tastes funny. Are you sure it wasn’t spoiled?” Remember that, despite many similarities, cabbage and cauliflower do possess distinctively unpopular flavors.


DISCLAIMER: In reality, I love cauliflower, and more often than not, I do save the greens in order to prepare this soup — and I enjoy it.

BONUS RECIPE: For a side dish that makes a surprisingly good accompaniment for pork, sautée the greens (blanching the rib pieces first) in olive oil with chopped onion, salt, and a little garlic.

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