David Lebovitz

Lest you think this is turning into a blog about obscure, leafy ingredients, you might be right. But when I sniffed the very fragrant leaves of lemon verbena, or verveine, growing out-of-control at my friend Trisha's house near Nice, and she told me to take as much as I wanted home, I dove for the clippers. And almost as soon as I got home, to preserve the taste, I infused them and churned up a batch of lemon verbena ice cream.

French people drink infusions and tisanes after dinner, which in English, we simply refer to as "herb teas." But in France, what they call "tea" has black tea in it. Infusions and tisanes are made with herbs or other greenery.

Yet Arabic mint tea is called "tea" by the masses, and while it usually has some green tea in it, I can't figure out the differentiation between "tea" made with leaves and "infusion" made with leaves. (Krysalia...help!)

At long last, after plenty of tinkering, I decided to lighten things up with a relooking, as they say in France, with a fresh, brand-new design for the site.

The new look is easier for you to read and more organized. There's less-distracting colors, and far more order.You'll find the archives neatly-arranged and categories on my spiffy new sidebar, a better and faster search engine, more space for larger photos, and most importantly, leaving and reading comments will go a lot more smoothly.

Few of you probably remember when the site was launched way back in 1999....

Adorable, wasn't I?

*sigh*

You might think it was these gorgeous, glowing yellow limes...

...which I'm not sure what I'm going to do with, but their sweet-tangy juice might make a refreshing summertime sorbet.

Or a batch of frosty Mojito Granita?

It wouldn't be a stretch to think it was coming home with a just-roasted poulet crapaudine, a chicken rubbed with herbs, spices, and a generous amount for salt, which seasons the crackly skin. I'm always wary about buying a whole one, since I'm certain I'd eat it all by myself—in one sitting.

(Not that I've ever done that. But I've heard about people that do.)

A few months ago I was having drinks at a friend's house up by the Place des Fêtes, outdoors on their patio, and I noticed something tucked away in the corner.

Me: "Hey! What's that?"

Them: "What's what?"

Me: "That! Over there...in the corner. Is that what I think it is? Oh my God!"

Them: "Oh, yeah, that. We put it in about fifteen years ago, but we never use it."

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I learned that my friends actually had—get this, a grill!

I didn't think anyone here had a grill. And with the 4th of July en route, I immediately suggested we grill an all-American dinner.

I don't like to make promises I can't keep, and last week I promised myself that I'm going to eat pesto every day for the rest of my life.

So far, I've made good on that promise.

The only thing that might thwart me is a lack of big, copious bunches of fresh basil. Or my pounding arm wears out. No taking bets out there on whichever comes first, but I have a pretty good idea which it's going to be.

I recently read The Pedant in the Kitchen, which Michael Ruhlman also wrote up, and while I found it an enjoyable rant, one vexing thought that stuck in the author's craw was recipe instructions that call for "a handful" of something. He didn't know what that meant and wondered why recipes couldn't be more precise.

Writing a recipe that's acceptable to absolutely everyone can be daunting, if not impossible. The purpose of any recipe is the guide the cook through the process; too much explanation and overtly-long recipes turn readers off, while short recipes often get accused of not giving enough information. How much is enough, and how little is not enough?

I once saw a three page recipe for chocolate brownies from a famed pastry chef.

In the south of France, they're pretty generous with les glaçons. It's never any problem to get ice cubes, which are often brought to the table heaped in a bowl, and sometimes even already added to the rosé for you by the barman.

Contrast that with Paris, where a drink with ice may have one puny cube roughly the size of a Tic-Tac, languishing on the surface, tepidly melting away. Which I've always attributed to a couple of factors: