David Lebovitz

I don't know when it took hold, it was well before I got here, but le Brunch is somewhat popular with a certain segment of the population in Paris. Unlike the Bloody Mary and Mimosa-fueled repasts I have fond memories of back in San Francisco, here, I don't know if the concept really works. For one thing, Sundays are blissfully "sacred" and no one seems to want to wake up and go anywhere until—well, Monday. And the places that do serve brunch are pretty crowded with misfits who probably didn't get to bed the previous evening, as well as the clad-in-black, chain-smoking bobo crowd.

I don't know about you, but the last thing I want to do on Sunday morning is wait outside in the freezing cold, breathing second-hand smoke from a bunch of bleary party-goers, both of us desperate for coffee, while waiting for a table.

I thought I'd better get this one out of the way right off the bat, at the start of the year. This recipe was languishing on my kitchen counter, resisting publication until I could resist no more. (And if you saw my kitchen counter, you'd know a piece of paper takes up about 25% of it, so I'm especially eager to get it out of the way.) I wasn't sure if it was up to snuff since I can't claim exactly 100% success, although the end result was pretty darned good.

But Carol warned me I'd better write it up, and I'm a bit scared of her after what she did to that pig's head. Although truth be told, she can blame any failures on Tom or Grant. Here, it's just me, myself, and moi.

Plus I needed the counter space.

1. The Good

I've been meaning to mix up a batch of gnocchi for a while, since I don't think there's any better way to fight off the chill of winter than a big bowl of carbohydrates swimming in melted butter.

One thing I learned during the last few days of the past year could be summed up in four words: Don't ever turn fifty.

Do whatever you can do to avoid it. I'm still reeling from the trifecta, the one-two-three punch of Christmas, my Birthday, then New Year's Eve, the last of which put me way over the top. And now that I'm in my declining years, recovery is much harder than it was just a mere week ago. I'm going downhill, fast, my friends.

The first thing I thought when I woke up this morning, my head clouded by a combination of Krug champagne, Château Lafite Rothchild 1964 and 1969 (not that I know the difference, but since the '69 was in a 4-bottle, a gigantic double magnum with a funky-looking label...I knew we were drinking something special) was right from the "What on earth was I thinking?" file.

I was wondering why I invited five people over for dinner and drinks tonight.

I couldn't let the year end without a little reportage about Christmas this year. You heard about my last-minute scramble to find the World's Most Expensive Pastry Bag, which is now safely stored away in my Safe Deposit Box for next year.

There's a joke that the only bad thing about Paris is that it's full of Parisians. I'm not going to comment on that, but Paris pretty much empties out, and is glorious time to stay in town. Also Christmas is taken pretty seriously around here. It's considered a close, family holiday and even though the big department stores have spectacular window displays, Christmas hasn't been overtly commercialized and kids are content when la grande-mère hands them a bag of fresh clementines, and don't throw tantrums if they don't get the latest version of the impossible-to-get video game. At least in my French famille.

The only tantrums being thrown were by me, making my Bûche de Noël, which I'll get to in a bit.

I always dreamed of writing a soup cookbook. A book of recipes where there's no need to carefully measure or weigh anything, variations are not only allowable, but encouraged, and cooking times are merely suggestions, and not cast-in-stone instructions to be followed like the ten commandments.

In addition, yes—most soup recipes can be successfully multiplied or divided, and yes—they can be made in advance and often frozen. And if someone adds an extra onion or potato to the pot, the world won't open and swallow us all up, and life as we know it won't end.

Aside from clutching our hot water bottles, Parisians keep warm during the winter by eating lots and lots of hot soup.

Today I turn fifty. Excuse my French—but holy crap!

I'm sure you've heard this a zillion times before, but I have no idea where all the time went. Believe me, when it happens to you, you'll say it too.

Did I really go to college for four years then travel around Europe for another year after that? Did I really work away in restaurant kitchens, day and night for twenty-plus years? Did I actually hunker down in my home kitchen, here and there, melting chocolate and whipping up all those cakes in cookies? And what was I thinking, moving to a foreign country, one that I spoke barely two words of the language, and one where I didn't know anyone?

There's a phrase that's used in restaurant kitchens, in the weeds, which means that basically, you're sunk. It's when the orders are coming up too fast and you're behind, or that you've taken on more work than you can chew and you can't keep up.

A few weeks ago I volunteered to make a Bûche de Noël for the Christmas dessert. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but this morning, I'm not so sure.