La rhubarbe

I remember the rhubarb my grand-père used to grow in the garden. It was thick and green; and would be turned into jar-after-jar of compote which my grand-mère always kept in that little cupboard in the garage. On top of my grand-père’s tools, always neatly organised. One day, I’ll show you that garage. We would eat the compote on top of yoghurt for breakfast. Or ...

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Les abricots

Yesterday, we found a basket on our fence. The third this week. It’s made of osier and hung by a metal hook. Inside, we could see apricots. And at times, cherries. Most of the fruits have been eaten already. Fresh, torn in halves, with their juices running on our fingers. Really, why mess with perfection? But we have still a few kilograms of apricots left. ...

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Comme la rosée des matins d’été – Confiture de concombre à la vanille

[Not unlike summer morning dew – Cucumber and vanilla jam] I walked in mud and bought some vintage tupperwares at a vide-grenier. I saw waves bigger than life. I felt them too. And heard the music they make as they crash into the sand. I painted feathers onto a white porcelain plate. And abstract watercolours too. And really, there is no feeling that matches creating ...

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La vanille

It’s hard to play favourite with vanilla. Tahitian vanilla (or for the geeks out there, and that includes me, Vanilla tahitensis) is a bit of a outsider – considered its the only vanilla to contain heliotropin – with its floral burst and nutty undertones. Due to very volatile components, the flavour can be strong at first only to melt into a kind of happy pot-pourri. ...

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Les prunes

[Plums] Let me introduce a new category. The market. A collection of random thoughts – and perhaps, recipes – about my favourite fruits and vegs from the market. Last week, I picked up some English plums from Waitrose. Yes, the bag simply said English plums. And I guess – just like all flings – it’s always right not to ask too many questions. All I ...

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Eglantine

[Rosehip] No matter how hard I try, I can’t get over the fact it took me twenty-five years to realise that the églantine [rosehip] I use on a daily basis at the restaurant is the gratte-cul [itchy-bum] of my childhood; the one thing my dad used to tease me with when we went to the mountains with the hopes – most of the time, fulfilled – ...

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