Am I professional chef? Yes.
Do I work at a Michelin star restauraunt? Obviously.
Did I win a James Beard award? Multiple. I won so many I had to declutter them when one stopped sparking joy for me.
Do I know both the word “duck” and the word “confit?” Bien sur.
Do my friends called me Jacques Pepin? Yes, they do and I have to tell them to stop because come on guys, I mean, I’m a modest person.
So, obviously I am going to start a cooking blog about French food. This goes without saying.
And obviously, if you are anyone who wants to start a cooking blog, you have to start with a French ingredient.
So, I start with the leek.
The simple leek.
It looks so unassuming and yet it is so full of Frenchiness. It is a beautiful vegetable. Green and virulent. Strong, yet when you make a soup out of it, it will help you magically lose weight–according to Mireille Guiliano’s French Women Don’t Get Fat.
So, being an unusually accomplished chef who has learned everything she knows because of her extensive training with the podcast Home Cooking, watching the television series Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat and The Great British Bakeoff, plus reading David Lebovitz’s My French Kitchen, today, I got to work with three leeks I had in my fridge. I made what I like to call, “Le Poche de Poireau.”
I decided to mix some goat cheese, bacon and leeks with le poireau and wrap it up in some leftover phyllo dough I had.
You may be wondering, mon Dieu, she’s a genius. Did she go to Cordon Bleu?
Well, mon amie, the name of my first born son is Gordon Blue. So I think that answers your question. Doesn’t it?
I chopped up the onions, careful not to chop mes doigts (fingers). I did not want my kitchen to turn into a bloodbath.
Then I chopped up the leeks and put everything into my hot Les Creuset pan. I received this as a wedding gift because my parents’ friends knew I would need it. They figured that I needed my kitchen to have the best of the best. Le meilleur! And, also, they wanted me to look like a millionaire! Because who trusts a cook who cooks with peasant pots and pans? Not me! Pas moi, mon cher. Pas moi.
Anyway, the little pockets came out of the oven with smiles on their faces, ready to be eaten by my French friend, Marc and of course, my French husband, Vincent. My other friend Eric will also be eating it, but who cares what he thinks? He’s an American and wouldn’t know the difference between Brittany and Normandy! He wouldn’t know the difference between the Sun King (or as I like to say, Louis Quatorze) and Louis 16.
Did I want Marc and Vincent to like these hors d’oeuvres so much that they tell Brigitte Macron that Americans are actually amazingly knowledgeable about food?
No. Of course not. That would be absurd.
I just wanted them to think that this American, this one, lone, great American, (dare I say the greatest American?) knows how to pocket those leeks like Julia Childs herself.
And so, I am off, to drink mulled vin and eat my leek pockets with my friends over a hobo fire while staying six feet apart from one another. Goodnight. And good luck. This is where we say au revoir.
FIN.
Le Poisson Nage 