I have been on quite a cumin kick lately. In a post long ago, I referred to being (like a painter with his color "periods") in my "nutmeg period". I have definitely moved on to cumin now. It's spicy without being burning hot. It stands up well to gutsy vegetables like cabbage and onions. It reminds me of good Mexican food, which is no longer a cuisine to be taken for granted as it was long ago when I lived in Chicago. And now that I'm on a program to lose weight, all of those things - well, except for the Mexican cuisine, which can be quite high in calories - are to the good. So when a funky purple kohlrabi showed up in my weekly vegetable delivery, it immediately sprang to mind.

As is usual when confronted with an unusual vegetable, I hit the Internet looking for inspiration. Sadly, I found none. Nigel Slater, my favorite source of inspiration, detests the poor vegetable. Other offerings were almost universally unsuitable for a woman on a diet, involving baking the slices in cream or grating them and dousing with mayonnaise. So I turned back to my first idea: cumin and kohlrabi. I decided they needed a substantial background and so I opted for quinoa as a base and also threw in a red pepper that was lingering in the back of the vegetable drawer. And finally, I decided to add a generous helping of mushrooms. We recently got the barbecue working again for the season and so I opted to simply grill the mushrooms. The result was deeply satisfying, with the spicy flavors of cumin and cayenne pepper, meatiness of the grilled mushrooms, sweet red peppers and kohlrabi with its delicate brassica note. It stood up well to the other flavors but didn't fight them - a perfect hearty summer salad.

If you are interested in the less diet conscious classic kohlrabi recipes, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall is a fan of the kohlrabi and included three recipes I'd like to try in last Saturday's Guardian.

I feel sorry for anchovy-haters. I really do. Those tender little fish are so much a part of my cooking that I can't imagine life without them. God help me if some day (due entirely to my consumption no doubt) they end up on the endangered fish list. I would have to move to the coast and start breeding them. They really are the cook's best friend, enhancing an otherwise slightly dull sauce, giving a whack of flavor to a bite of pizza, adding a more complex salty note to roast meats. If you don't like them, you are missing out. And you should look away now, because I am going to present the most amazing salad dressing in the history of...well, this site anyway. It knocks the socks off my diet Caesar's salad dressing, which was my previous favorite salad dressing. And it's lower in Weight Watchers points too. When I finished making it, I licked the bowl, an action that is usually reserved for gravy making and cookies in this household. Not only is it the perfect salad dressing, but I am thinking that if you drained the yogurt for an hour first in cheesecloth to thicken it, you'd also have an ideal dipping sauce for raw vegetables. I know this because I snitched one of Big Brother's carrot sticks off his dinner plate and dipped it in the sauce. Too thin to stick to the carrot stick well, but oh-so-tasty. Anchovies, yogurt, garlic and basil: the perfect partner the lovely salads that are in season or the new vegetables that are just starting to appear. Even tired old carrots will get a lift!

* This dressing, by the way, bears only the vaguest of resemblance to the commercial dressing of the same name. Both are green. Both have garlic. And both - heaven help me - are beloved by yours truly. Actually, I haven't tasted the commercial version in a few decades so that last one may no longer be true. But when I was a young lass, I used to drown my salads in it and would have happily eaten it straight from the bottle if my mother let me!

A few weeks ago, as I was dropping off Big Brother at his nursery, I noticed one of the mums - who lives on a farm - handing over a big bag of freshly picked rhubarb to one of the assistants. I pricked up my ears and when I heard her say (as I expected she would) that it was over-running her garden and she couldn't get rid of it fast enough - I jumped in with an offer to take some off her hands. I love rhubarb. My grandmother grew it in her back yard and so when I was growing up, I had an endless supply. As a result, I hate paying for it. Why should I buy something that grows like a weed and should be in every garden? (No, I haven't planted any yet: that is the next step in my master plan to exploit my poor friend who has the luck to live on a farm...I'll see if she wants to free up some space in her garden by giving me a plant.)

When I next saw the farmer's wife (who is actually the wife of the head of the local agricultural college if you want to be exact) she asked what I had done with it. And I had done as I always do: stewed it with sugar until it made a glossy red compote and spread it thickly on my morning toast every day for a week. (As an aside, rhubarb stewed with sugar is only half a Weightwatchers point for 75 g, which is plenty for a piece of toast.) She thought this sounded disgusting. Which is funny to me, because my first (and last, as far as I am concerned) experience of an English rhubarb tart truly was disgusting. It managed to be simultaneously slimy and woody - and so sour that I am puckering again just remembering it. There are some aspects of English cooking I will never understand.

I thought of this when I began planning a big barbecue combining a housewarming (which we never held when we moved) and a birthday party (because my 40th was spent nursing a newborn every two hours in a post-birth hormonal haze). I would make a rhubarb dessert that would show this woman exactly how amazing rhubarb could be when stewed with sugar. And I would have shown her too, if she had shown up.

Actually, the dessert was a huge hit. Even the Critic, who, because of experiences with the aforementioned English Rhubarb Tart, has always maintained that he doesn't like rhubarb - loved it. The mousse came out a bit sweeter than I would normally make it, but this complimented the strawberries perfectly. Topped with unsweetened whipped cream, the parfait was creamy and sweet but with a bite of ever so slightly sour strawberry. It really was a perfect early summer dessert. Or pudding, as they say over here.

Ever Since Proust famously experienced an epiphany of memory over a crumbly madeleine cake, it has been more than a cliché to muse on the power of food memories. We all have countless triggers: the delicate powdery cookies my Austrian grandmother made at Christmas, Great-Aunt Marcie's soft caramels, my mother's gravy. However, it is only once you become an expatriate that the full force of the issue really hits you. I have lived in nearly 18 years in three different countries now and I have to say that in my experience - personal and observed - food is the single biggest trigger for homesickness and the one issue that unites everyone, gourmet cook and food slob alike. In fact, to be honest, it's usually the non cooks who suffer the most, as they are the ones who rely on packaged goods that are not available in their new country. An American in Paris may not be able to find Philadelphia brand cream cheese or soft brown sugar, but he or she can find something close enough to substitute for a delicious cheesecake or chocolate chip cookies. (Kiri cheese and sucre roux, for those who are interested.) However, the poor sod whose Thanksgiving depends on Stouffer's Stove Top Stuffing, will find himself trekking halfway across town to one of the American specialty shops and nearly fainting at the thought of forking over 7 euros for what is essentially a box of flavored bread crumbs. But trek across town he will, because it's Just Not The Same with an unfamiliar stuffing.

When I first arrived in Europe, I was determined to immerse myself in the local culture and turned my back on American food. In Bavarian beer gardens, I ate steckerlfisch and and consumed vast quantities of Edelstof and schnapps. In Paris, I happily explored the 365 cheeses and ate, well, everything in sight: snails, frog legs, steack-frites, moules-frites, crêpes and pastries. I turned into the ultimate Francophile snob, informing visitors how superior a croque-monsieur was to an American grilled cheese sandwich, how they would never find a baguette in American to compare with a Parisian one. (Though I did loftily admit that a friend of mine had told me of a bakery in the Seattle Pike Place market which had bread that was was made by a Frenchman, in a French stove, with French flour - which was "not bad".) But over time, I found more and more food items sneaking into my suitcase when I returned from visits to the US. Smoked oysters and Triscuits. Concentrated cranberry juice. Baking powder and yeast. Reese's peanut butter cups. And I came to realize that although French food might be vastly superior to American food in general (and I do say might: the Critic would disagree completely) in your heart of hearts, nothing can replace the food you grew up with.

Now that I am the mother of two boys with American and British passports, another truth has become apparent. Not only do we crave the food of our childhood, but we yearn to pass it along to our children. While I am delighted that my boys will have happy memories of Cadbury's chocolate and the fish and chips van that comes to the village every Tuesday, I also want them to remember fresh picked Illinois sweet corn and trick or treating on a cold October evening. In short, like every parent, I want it all for my kids. And while I can't change the fact that "pudding" will forever mean "dessert" in their little half-British minds, I can at least ensure they know and appreciate what an American means by "chocolate pudding" . Chocolate pudding may not come in a little cardboard box here (one of my earliest cooking triumphs was making Jello brand chocolate pudding) but it's almost as easy to make with ingredients in your cupboard. Well, in my cupboard anyway.

Yesterday, I received an email with the photo on the left from one of my oldest friends in Paris, Sam. Sam has met David Lebovitz a couple of times at our place in Paris over the years and thought I'd be interested in seeing what he's up to these days. Luckily for me (and I do mean that wholeheartedly) I was already au courant, having received my advance copy of The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - And Perplexing - City from David's publishers a little over a week ago. David had offered me a copy several months ago in return for a small courtesy and to be honest I'd nearly forgotten about it when the book arrived. David had been a little cagey on the subject of the book except to say vaguely that it would be about his experiences in Paris and would include a few recipes.

Like about a million other enthusiastic cooks and Paris fans out there, I read David's blog avidly. I have followed his adventures with the French, commiserated knowledgeably with his trials confronting French bureaucracy, bookmarked his recipes and enjoyed keeping up with a friend who is witty, warm and observant. So I knew his book would be good. What I didn't expect (and forgive me, David) was that it would be great. There are books that I read, enjoy, and pass on to others to enjoy. And then there are books that I read, enjoy, and put on my bookshelf so that I can read them again later. David's book falls in this category. If any of my friends or family receive a copy of The Sweet Life in Paris, it will be because I have ordered them their own, new, copy.

So how is this book different from the blog? Well, it has some of the same stories, it's true. But the virtue of a blog is its immediacy and rough edges. I enjoy reading blogs - no one more - but I don't expect them to have such good writing that I'd like to curl up in front of a fire and consume them slowly. I expect them to have a good story, possibly a good recipe, a lot of fun. Blogs, for me, are like newspapers - to be consumed with relish and then you move on. A book should be enjoyed in comfort, away from the lure of emails and news stories. And although the book follows many of the same themes and stories as his blog, David's book is a coherent whole, standing on its own.

The Sweet Life is divided into thematic chapters, recounting David's move to Paris and his first steps growing to love and adopt his new city. Without being coy or cutesy (David is never cloying) he manages to convey a deep love and appreciation of its quirks and beauties, while keeping a firm lock on the absurdities of your average Parisian. I have read many, many books about Paris over the years. (For some reason, living in a place like Paris makes people think you need to know more about it and they send you books and articles galore. Especially if they are my mother.) The best of them had me nodding my head sagely a few times in agreement. Many made me think "this writer has no clue what makes a Parisian tick!" And many of them were simply badly written stories by people who (understandably) love the maddening city of Paris. What makes David's stories different from all of these is that he has a way of delving into the "why" of the behavior he observes. Instead of just collecting a group of humorous stories about living in Paris, he has tried to understand his subjects. When he first arrived in Paris, like every other visiting American he was appalled with how "rude" shopkeepers could be. But unlike most of them, he took the time to observe and figure out that there is a different set of rules: in Paris, the cheese monger or store clerk you meet has a sense of métier, or profession, and considers it a gross insult if you don't greet him politely ("Bonjour Monsieur, Bonjour Madame") on entering the shop. Rudeness, begets rudeness, and the American client gets pointedly ignored when asking for help. And then, in addition to the funny and insightful stories, there are the recipes. If you own any of his cookbooks you know that the man knows how to construct a foolproof recipe. However, like his blog, the book does not confine itself to sweet recipes but also shows his flair for fascinating savory dishes. The only problem for me is deciding whether to put his book on my cookbook shelf or with the rest of my books. It's a dilemma.

Only once before have I bought a book that so closely resembled the blog of the author. Sadly, in that case I was left feeling like the book simply existed so that those who were new to the blog wouldn't have the bother of paging through her archives. The stories seemed to have been lifted straight from the web, with editing and little or no expansion. It was a nice book and I'll pass it along to a friend one of these days. And I'll keep reading her blog, because I do think she's a wise and witty woman.

But David - needs to write another book so that I can buy it and put it on the shelf next to this one. If you love David, buy it. If you love Paris, buy it. If you are unsure, check it out from the library: you'll undoubtedly end up buying it afterwards.

Living the Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City
David will be signing copies of the books at W.H. Smith's on Tuesday, the 19th of May 2009 at 19:30. For more details on other signins, check the Schedule section of David's blog.

Fish is my new best friend. Versatile, tasty, quick to prepare and (of course) low in calories: it's the perfect starting point at dinner time for a busy dieting mother. And for me - coming from the plains of the Midwest, where the nearest ocean is hundreds of miles away - fish has always been something of a luxury. (Growing up in the 1970s, the ultimate birthday dinner for me involved a trip to Red Lobster.) So when you are on a diet and depriving yourself of all those lovely cheeses and chocolates and butter-drenched potatoes, a little luxurious fish flesh goes a long way. Especially if you can find a way to combine creaminess without calories.

Plaice seems to be a fairly uncommon fish in North America, judging by the number of people who thought I'd made a typo when I mentioned it in my Facebook status line. Here in the UK, it's very popular - both in the ubiquitous fish and chip shops and also in restaurants, where it's often cooked similarly to sole. It's a very versatile fish in that way. And its tender flesh and subtle flavor shine when paired with sweet orange juice and creamy (low-fat) yogurt. A touch of tarragon brings the elements together and you end up with one delicious diet dish.

Is a hatred of green food innate or learned? Generally speaking, green foods are vegetables: good for you, beloved of concerned parents, hated by children. So even when the food you place in front of a picky four year old is clearly NOT a vegetable, he will know that there is vegetable matter lurking somewhere in it and will rebel. At least, that is my experience so far with a fairly vegetable-averse picky four year old. He recently picked up the word "yucky" at his nursery and is very enthusiastic about applying it to my cooking, regardless of whether he does in the end like the dish and finish the lot. I'm starting to think the distrust is innate and some kids have it while others don't. Because my second son actually listens, head cocked and eyebrows slightly raised when you tell him, "Yes, I know it's green but I really think you'll like it." And then as the flavor starts to hit his taste buds, his little turtle mouth opens again for a second bite before the first is even on its way to his tummy. So I can only claim this is a half-successful attempt at child-friendly food. It's fully successful on adults, however and will be resurrected frequently once the grilling season has started. It is packed with flavor but not calories and takes minutes to assemble. And my second son loves it. Turkey, feta, garlic, spinach, what's not to like? Oh yeah - the spinach. If you are green-averse. But if you are not and have a quirky sense of humor, it's a fun addition and gives you loads of vitamins. Eat your greens: your momma told you so!