Equinox come and gone.

While afternoon temperatures still hover around 30 degrees Celcius, a shift has occurred, for which I am just not ready: the autumn equinox, when there is exactly as much day as there is night, was last Tuesday. The leaves are beginning to turn, and children wear sweaters in the early morning chill.

The outdoor markets remain stocked with the last of the summer harvest, but the annual fall visits of friends and family have begun, and so have my marinades. Of these, my garlic and rosemary is one of my all-time favorites. I adapted the recipe from one found ages ago in the pages of Bon Appetit.

As always, don't skimp on the quality of ingredients if at all possible.

For instance, a high-grade (read: more expensive), moderately aged (about 6 to 12 years old) balsamic vinegar will never be wasted, and is truly an integral part of my kitchen. I usually have two bottles open, one that is a bit more acidic for salads and vegetables, and an older one for marinades and finishing sauces. Funnily enough, although Italy is just over the border, decent and authentic balsamic vinegar is not something you run across in a well-stocked supermarket--not even in Paris or Lyon. The hunting for this nectar of Modena (do make sure it says Aceto Balsamico di Modena!) is worth it, however. Tip the bottle, looking for vinegar that is thick enough to leave a trace on the glass. Check the ingredient list, it should have no added color or flavor enhancers, like caramel, but needs to contain grape "must" and an indication of age. If you can taste the vinegar before purchasing, look for a smooth, rich flavor--nothing harsh or excessively vinegary. You should be able to enjoy it from a spoon...For a more in-depth article on this fabulous condiment, The Nibble, an online magazine, has a comprehensive history and detailed breakdown of the types of balsamic vinegar.

The most syrupy vinegars, aged 20 years or more, are prohibitively expensive (for me, anyway) and best used undiluted and drizzled very sparingly over fresh, organic strawberries, in season, or a crumbled piece of high-quality (not overly dry) Parmeggiano Reggiano, for example.

Cultural differences do still exist in today's Europe: I didn't have this degree of trouble in locating decent balsamic vinegar in Amsterdam, even though the distance from northern Italy is far greater. But back to the recipe at hand.

You can keep this marinade for a month, as long as it is refrigerated. It has a distinctive taste, as you might imagine from browsing the ingredient list, and does a good job of tenderizing, enhancing to no end lamb, turkey, and chicken. I have never tried it with beef, but then I don't often prepare beef--what do you think? I like it best with pork loin. You can try it with two different kinds of meats, as there will be enough marinade left over for a separate meal. The food processor makes this a moment's labor.

Marinade au rosemarin et l'ail (Rosemary and Garlic Marinade)

1/2 cup olive oil

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar

2 tablespoons honey, the darker and more robust in flavor the better

3 large cloves garlic, or half a head of slow-roasted garlic

1 tablespoon rosemary (half as much if using dried)

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

Blend all ingredients in a food processor until you have a thick, fairly homogenous, dark beige sauce. Place the meat you've chosen in a heavy plastic bag, and pour half or less of the marinade over the meat. Close bag, distribute the marinade evenly and refrigerate overnight. Refrigerate the extra marinade for another time.

If you choose pork loin, a half kilo should serve four nicely. Preheat oven 190 C. Discard the marinade and place the loin in a roasting pan. Roast the loin for about 25 minutes, and enjoy the dish while hot. Preferably someplace pleasantly sunny.

Loving Lamiaceae.

The wind went away, mostly. And so did my kitchen and garden strike. But I am still playing around with mint, whether in drinks, salads, or preserves. The latest mentholated passion takes the form of ice cream.

To give this some context, different varieties of mint grow wild all over the Cevenol countryside, as in most places on the globe where people have lived. But here in the Cevennes, quite a lot of the Lamiaceae (read: mint) family is represented, from cousins rosemary, savory and oregano, to lavender, marjoram, and thyme. All you have to do is walk out into a nearby field to realize this, as in doing so you will tread upon the hardy little plants, releasing their tonic scents. But before I get carried away with the olfactory memories this invokes, let me return to my starting point: fresh mint, for dessert.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. When life gives you mint, make vanilla mint ice cream. This particular concoction has been a hit with anyone who has tasted it. Unctuous, unapologetically lavish, with that comforting vanilla baseline, it raises the eyebrow with a delicate but very present and bracing mint overlay. If you have an ice cream maker, try this out. If you don't have an ice cream maker, then this is one very compelling reason to buy one.

Technical note: I weigh, but I use American-style measuring cups as well; please use the converter in the sidebar as necessary. I use spearmint with great success but any one of the many different types of mint can be used, including chocolate mint, orange/bergamot mint, Corsican mint or apple mint. With thanks to David Lebovitz, whose version of fresh mint ice cream inspired my own variation; he also has a recipe for absinthe ice cream I'd love to try, if I could just get my hands on some absinthe. Another posting...

Glace à la Menthe Vanillée (Vanilla Mint Ice Cream)

Makes about 1 liter.

1 1/2 cups milk
2/3 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
Pinch salt
2-3 cups lightly packed fresh mint leaves
6 whole peppercorns, optional
1/2 vanilla bean
6 egg yolks

Warm the milk, sugar, 1/2 cup of the cream, and salt in a saucepan. Add the mint (and peppercorns if desired) and stir. Cover, remove from the heat, and allow to steep at room temperature for at least 1 hour, preferably half the day.

Strain the mint-infused mixture into a medium saucepan (the milk will have turned a pale green). Press or squeeze the mint leaves to extract as much of the flavor as possible, then discard the leaves. Pour the remaining 1 cup chilled heavy cream into a large bowl and set the strainer on top. Gently rewarm the mint-infused mixture. In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks til they are a good shade lighter. Slowly pour some of the hot (but not too hot) mint liquid into the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape that yolk mixture back into the saucepan. Now stir the mixture constantly over medium heat with a heatproof spatula, scraping the bottom thoroughly, until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula. Pour this custard through the strainer into the bowl of chilled cream. Stir then chill thoroughly in the refrigerator. Freeze it in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions.

Anise subject to write about.

People love their Pimpinella Anisum. Well, actually they either love it or hate it. They have done one or the other, it is recorded, since at least 1500 BC. Anise assumes many forms today. From the north to the south of Europe, people make anise-based infusions (herbal tea) to alleviate their cold and flu symptoms.

The French feature it in three well-known aperitif drinks: anisette, pastis and absinthe. They also happily consume it in candy form (the whole grain being coated with a sweet, flavored coating), and have been doing so since at least the 1500s (AD), notably in charming ye-olde-style oval tins under the name Anis de Flavigny. There are ten flavors, including violet, orange flower, rose, mint, ginger, mandarine...

The Italians like their anice as well. I have fond memories of eating pizzelle, those delicate, usually anise-scented waffle cookies originally from the Abruzzo. And if you go to an Indian restaurant in London (I mention London because boy, can you feast on Indian there), you'll likely enjoy a curry that is dosed with anise. On the way out, you'll grab a small handful of a seed mixture, chiefly composed of anise. Helps with the breath, and digestion.

When my Dutch friends visited this past weekend, they came bearing gifts, which included muisjes, or "little mice"(in Dutch, the 'j' is pronounced like a 'y'). Ah, the memories of my near-decade in Amsterdam...You see, muisjes are Holland's hat in the anise ring. One of them anyway, as there is also anise-infused steamed milk, as well as the ubiquitous little December pepernoten cookies, come to think of it.

Also candy-coated, muisjes are even smaller than the anis de Flavigny, and are eaten sprinkled on buttered rusks (basically thicker, airier melba toast rounds). They come in mixes of white and blue, and white and pink, as they are what proud new Dutch parents unfailingly offer to their visitors. I remember the only variation to the cast-iron tradition, which was when the future Queen of the Netherlands, little Catherina-Amalia, was born in 2003: all the supermarkets then carried orange-colored muisjes (orange being the royal color), so we could all celebrate. In the case of my own children, I became rather addicted and kept eating muisjes for a good year after the celebrations had been concluded. Ahem.Why little mice, you ask? Because anise seed often still has a little stem attached, even after being coated with the candy layer--so they kind of resemble little mice; mice also represent fertility. Go figure.

Why anise, you ask? Aside from there being something inexplicably scrumptious about the combination of some quality butter, the crunch of the bread, the sweet snap and pop of the muisjes themselves and their fragrant anise release...where was I going with this? Ah, yes--why. Because anise is said to help with milk production for a nursing mother. And it chases away evil spirits.

Why an entire entry about anise? Um, I suppose I needed a pretext to photograph and write about muisjes.

A guest photographer.

Some people show off photos they've taken of their kids. I'm going to show off photos my kid took. These are what I found when I downloaded what was in my camera. And yes, I'll let you know when my daughter starts a photo-blog of her own...

She asked me what kind of bee that was, with his fuzzy golden jacket, working among the rosemary blossoms. I didn't know; do you? I get the last shot, though: this is what my eight-year-old photographer gathered from the field. Purple and white clover, Queen Anne's lace, and sage. And other blossoms I can't identify. The flowers are sitting on the kitchen table now, while I rifle through my cookbooks for a spring dessert that measures up to her bouquet. It's too early for strawberries (from my garden anyway--the supermarket's been full of the Spanish ones for some time now). How about a delicate, rosemary-infused crème brûlée? Something to lure both bees and people into the kitchen...Thank you, Clotilde Dusoulier! You can also find the recipe online, in her website's recipe archives. Just click on her name...

What you take back with you.

I went to a yoga seminar*, and all I brought back was some awareness, a measure of serenity and a Dysentery Yellow telephone. I did yoga, day and night (...), and broke bread with some good friends, so I've no photos. But I'll post a view from up the road instead, just a few minutes walk from where I am sitting right now. About the phone. It really is that color (the secondhand shop gets credit for the dysentery description), from the 50s, and requires no electricity. Handy thing for when you have a power outage; we had another one last week. Back to basics.

While I was gone, nothing stopped (oddly enough): Spring is bursting out all over in an excess of passion. I'm celebrating being back home by having a cup of tea, made with a sprig of fresh lemon verbena from the garden and a smidge of dark, thick pine honey from my beekeeper neighbor. Lemon verbena, or aloysia triphylla, is a native of Chile and Peru, but can grow happily in lots of conditions. It is such a great plant to have, whether in a pot or in the ground, where it can reach rather massive proportions. It has loads of culinary uses beyond tea (the dried leaves retain their scent a very long time), but just infusing it--dried or fresh--comes pretty high on my list. With its strong lemony scent, it manages to be both relaxing and uplifting. It's a good anti-coffee, for when you feel like a break from the caffeine. Wander into your local nursery, and leave with one of these spiky-leaved, pale green plants. They're generous.

*The seminar was given by Judith, whose Living with Yoga makes for a great read. Seeing her in person is even better (she teaches internationally). At the seminar: "The ability to be ambivalent is a sign of health." Hmm. If so, I'm rolling in the good stuff. City energy or country space? Coffee or lemon verbena? The fortunate manage to get a taste of both.

Braising with honey: Souris d'agneau confit au miel.

I don't know my meat cuts in English very well, but a souris d'agneau is the last narrow bit on the leg of lamb. (No mice are involved in the preparation of this dish, despite the name). Braised for two and a half hours in a blend of oil, honey, and herbs, then paired with a puree of celery root and potato, this becomes winter comfort food par excellence. It has the added advantage of being extremely easy on the nerves as it is incredibly easy to make, using a minimum of ingredients. When you've finished, you'll find the meat falls away from the bone.

The recipe is enough for four to six people. If fewer people are at the table, make four souris anyway, as you can use the leftovers to make lamb rillettes--a coarse-textured, easy to make pate. Or you can make delicious sandwiches. Simply flake the meat, removing any fat, salt and pepper generously and refrigerate. The next day, enjoy on a split baguette with mayonnaise or mustard and some arugula or mache.

4 souris d'agneau

8 tablespoons olive oil (or duck fat, if you have some)

6 tablespoons honey (the fuller-flavored, the better)

4 tablespoons fresh herbs (thyme, rosemary...)

1 head of garlic, optional

Preheat your oven to 180 degrees celcius, or 350 degrees fahrenheit.

If (and only if!) you have the time, cover the souris with rock salt and refrigerate overnight. Wipe off the salt before cooking.

Pour the oil and honey in your cocotte*. Heat on a low fire, just until they combine nicely. Toss in the herbs (crushing them a bit beforehand with a mortar and pestle helps release their flavors). If you are using dried herbs, use half as much. Put in the souris, coating them with the oil and honey. Break apart the head of garlic, throw in the cloves with their skin still on. And that's it.

Put the lid on, pop the cocotte in the oven. After an hour and a half (or so), make sure that the lamb doesn't seem to be drying out; if there is barely any sauce left, stir in some water. Pour the sauce on the lamb. Your souris will be nicely browned and ready after two, to two and a half hours in the oven. Please note that longer does not always mean better; in this case, overcooked will still be tender but also dry, so calculate when it will need to be on the table and work backward to figure out the best time to start cooking.

Enjoy--and let me know what you think!

*This is an oven-proof cast-iron, sometimes enameled, braising dish with heavy lid. While it can be a splurge purchase, it will pay you dividends in terms of being able to prepare a whole new range of meats, vegetables and desserts requiring minimal work.

Leftovers (above), baking in a yolk-glazed tourtiere, or meat pie (below).