I don't trade shares. In fact I did very badly in Financial Mathematics back in uni when my classmates were already dabbling in the stock market, which was why they took up that module. That said, I think I have some very desirable qualities to be a good trader: intuition, discipline, patience, and decisiveness. 

Some of you would have seen photos of the cherry tree at JL's parents' house. When it is in full harvesting season, paying for cherries becomes a joke. I would anytime prefer pulling out a long chair under the tree and just keep popping those cherries like crazy. As if to satisfy a year's worth of craving. 

So the first time I came across a one-kilo tray of cherries going for RM 120, I had to ask the husband to witness the price-tag. And the first thing I will do when we go back to France again is to hug that tree in the garden. Yet at the same time, I think about cherry clafoutis constantly here in Kuala Lumpur. No amount of blueberry, mango or even pineapple clafoutis could sooth that yearning. 

This is one of our all-time favourites at home. If you haven't been cooking for a while, you may want to get yourself warmed up with this because it is a very forgiving dish. It cannot go wrong and easily feeds four starving adults as a single-dish meal. All you need is bow-tie pasta, a thick slice of ham, one or two zucchinis depending on the size, a small tub of cream and some mozzarella.

As with most of my French (home-)cooking repertoire, I learned it from JL's mother. The only difference is the choice of pasta. She uses mini ravioli stuffed with cheese that would be so cute for kids, but unfortunately, I have yet to see it here in Kuala Lumpur. Thus the next best thing: bow-tie pasta, or farfalle (butterflies in Italian) as it is also called. 

My mother-in-law sent me a cookbook by postal mail when we were living in the States. All because her son expressed his love for savoury cakes that he could only have back in his parents' home. The book, small and slim, has no less than seventy recipes for cakes both savoury and sweet. Not that I am supposed to make every single one of them but rather, for me to look through and compare variations of savoury cakes, so that I could come up with one I could claim ownership of.

In general, to compare making a savoury cake to that of a sweet one, there is only one phrase to sum it all up: same-same but different. Obviously there is no sugar in the former, while butter makes way for olive oil, sunflower oil or even white wine. Instead of chocolate chips, nuts, dried fruits, ingredients such as ham, sausage, shrimp, cheese, olives, capsicum, zucchini are used. There is even one recipe in the book with chicken gizzard. 

But thank God my husband prefers simple combinations of ham, cheese, olives for the cakes, just so he could pair it with something else on the side. Just a few suggestions here: lightly tossed greens, chopped salad like tabbouleh, coleslaw, warm tender carrots for a light dinner, or rock melon with prosciutto on a super-hot day. 

I will be lying if I tell you it is easy to make these. (I will share with you my mistakes at the end of this post.) But they are nonetheless edible as long as you pop a nice homogenous batter into the oven. It can be done with a balloon whisk or wooden spoon - you just need to work your arm muscles crazily for some ten seconds when incorporating the oil. Remember to hug the mixing bowl with your left arm to keep the bowl still while stirring with your right hand, and then repeat the process changing arms. Crazy, I know, but it costs nothing.

First things first: kla-foo-tee. That's how the word is pronounced. 

Clafoutis is one of the classic French desserts which you will never find in most cafés or dessert shops. Probably because it is so easily homemade that one is embarrassed to charge money for it. Okay, I was only half joking. Unless it is served in pretty single-portion baking dishes, charged at the same price point as crème brûlée, I really doubt it'd be feasible to put clafoutis on one's menu. And that's my half-assed amateurish deduction as to why it is rarely found when eating out. 

Clafoutis is essentially a baked, firm batter with some fruit in it, the classic choice being fresh whole cherries. Talk to the French about cherry clafoutis and you will see the opposing sides of pitting or not pitting the cherries. The latter, some say, will add a subtle nutty flavour to the dessert. Ask my mother-in-law and she will shrug her shoulders and say that's how she does it because she doesn't have time to remove the stones, and besides, why spoil something that's not broken?

"Bienvenue à ma maison!" 

Those were the first words my father-in-law said to me the moment I stepped out of his car after an hour and a half of soaking in the sights along the French autoroute starting from Lyon-Saint Exupéry airport. The air was fresh and cool, you would agree too had your feet felt the terracotta tiles on the ground. Not that I was barefoot. A pair of house slippers were waiting for me in the bedroom. Still, I could feel the coldness of the ground wearing them.

That was June six years ago, when I couldn't understand 95% of what I heard around me. Most of what I learned back then I did with my eyes. I remembered faces and places, really, short of sounding like the Beatles' song: JL's immediate family, close family friends who are family too, his best friend, wife and children, one of whom JL is godfather to. 

I watched the simplicity of having family and friends around, spending the day talking about everything under the sun, even taking naps at the corner if one wishes so. I followed everywhere JL went as he followed everywhere his father went: the bakery, the deli, the florist, the tabac shop for newspapers. Everywhere. The French really kiss a lot, I thought to myself. Even men greeted each other with a touching of cheeks and pats on their backs with varying strengths, as if a sum of how long since you last saw each other and how much you love the other person. But all done naturally, quietly, and absolutely without exaggeration.

Cookbooks are like movies. It is impossible to watch every one of them. But the really good ones will stand the test of time. Do you remember watching a movie when you were a kid, not liking it much because you thought it was your father's kind of movie? Yet a timeless classic will still be there when you've reached a certain (st)age in your life. It was only recently that I started looking up Clint Eastwood movies. Not because I'm getting old but rather, because I've enjoyed his more current movies (Hereafter, Invictus, Gran Torino) - as actor, director, producer and/or composer - I wanted to see him when he was younger. 

I suppose it's the same with Anthony Bourdain. We've all watched Tony travel the world eating his way into someone else's culture. Most people had already read Kitchen Confidential, the book that made him The Anthony Bourdain. I've read much about it but I don't think I should read it yet. (A pretty good idea for a Christmas present within budget, though.) I was more interested in his Les Halles Cookbook and had finally added it to my collection last July. It was first published nine years ago but I'm glad to read it now, not any earlier. Otherwise I wouldn't have understood nor appreciated his wisdom and humour. Just look at the tags - they are recipes either done or to-be-done.

There's a voyeur deep down in every one of us. Then for some of us, it's not that deep. 

I'll show you mine if you show me yours... 

Strangers in the night... exchanging trousers... wondering what's inside... 

Okay. Perhaps I'm on a sugar+caffeine high. Or perhaps it's the wind. I get carried away.

My pantry at the moment exists only in my head. We haven't secured our "home" in KL yet. No panic despite our one-way flight four days from now. But since we were talking about cooking at home earlier on, I might as well share with you my pantry list. My apologies for not having any photos as show-and-tell. Another day, maybe.

Do you enjoy ironing? 

Sorry, let me rephrase... How does the thought of ironing make you feel?

I used to despise it and thus bought only clothes that didn't require ironing. Until I got married, had to iron some of the husband's shirts occasionally, still hated it though a little less, and later on, became more competent at it and have since grown to like it.

Most people dread ironing largely because they never really learned how to, let alone realized how their choice (or the lack thereof) of iron and ironing board can totally affect their experience. It's almost like driving a car. Before buying it, you would have asked: Are the seats comfortable enough to take you through a 5-kilometer jam? Does the dashboard look cool enough for you? How does the steering wheel feel? And the accelerator? Does the car say "you" all over? Will you and the vehicle become one on the road? 

Now I know some of you may laugh at what I've just said. Of course we'd ask ourselves 101 questions before buying a car! After all it is a major financial commitment we're signing ourselves to. An iron and the accompanying board cost no more than a couple of hundred bucks tops. Why think so much? 

Oh wait, before I continue: if you think ironing is something only maids do because they are paid and thus have no choice but to do so, you can stop reading now and get back to Facebooking. Otherwise, please carry on :)

I just had to write this down. It happened last evening. My in-laws were hosting dinner for seven - JL's godfather J, the animated aunt M and husband M, then four of us. They were arriving at seven thirty and knowing this side of my family, one is always on time if not early. 

The MIL, when she's expecting guests, would do her food shopping a day or two before. And on the actual day, one would normally see something on the stove or in the oven late afternoon. Yesterday at six, the kitchen was quiet and empty: no soft whistling from the pressure cooker, no simmering sound, no ticking of her mini timer, and the biggest red flag (for me, at least) - no smell of cooking. 

Out of curiosity, I took a peek in the kitchen only to see her sitting at the table, reading Le Canard enchaîné. You may recognize the word canard as duck, but Le Canard enchaîné is anything but a cookbook. Ten minutes later, she was solving a Sudoku in one of her weekly magazines. Yes, yes, yes... I know about her Boy Scouts-style readiness and Zen-like calmness in the kitchen. But there is really nothing in the kitchen! Not the slightest hint at dinner for seven adults. All I knew was she wanted to try her friend's recipe for a lemon tiramisu, no coffee, no cocoa.

It's Monday morning bright and early - 6:20am - at the KLM lounge at Schiphol: soft eclectic mix of music accompany the early (mostly tired nonetheless) business executives; delightful clinking of glasses and frothing of milk from the coffee machines at the food service area. And what truly draws the line between relaxing and relaxing: no smartypants monkeying around (yes, he's almost like Tom Cruise on Oprah's couch), only to outdo himself later by catching bubbles with his mouth, reporting his every achievement to the mother, who probably thinks her son is the world's most adorable kid, never mind that he's disturbing everyone else around. 

Smartypants aside, nor are there young, eager, first-time Asian parents who attend to their baby's cooing. (Seriously!) I'm not racist but I think it is just the Asian parenting style. Young mummy kept shushing the little one so that baby will sleep and not make noise. But she didn't realize she was the cause of annoyance because whenever she does her larger-than-life spin of "sshhh, ssshhhh, sssshhhh...... ssh, ssshhhhh.......", she could put the entire section of passengers to sleep. Just that we're all adults, hullo... One word to her: SHHHHHHHH.