SpiceLines

At Jacques Genin, each tiny chocolate is a miniature work of art concealing silken ganache infused with coffee, black China tea and spices such as licorice, cardamom and black pepper.

Saturday, 4:12 PM: I’m in the outer reaches of the Marais, trekking up a non-descript section of rue de Turenne. I slog past endless menswear shops displaying iridescent suits, luminous ties, flashy tuxes. It might sound like kitschy fun, but really it's just depressing.

This is not pretty Paris. It’s bleak and a little gritty. Even the handwritten sign pointing the way to uber-chic Surface 2 Air—it is Fashion Week after all--doesn’t merit a glance from tired parents pushing strollers along the sidewalk.

But there’s hope.

On the corner up ahead, in a pale 17th century building, is Jacques Genin.

At La Patisserie des Reves, Philippe Conticini's reimagined traditional pastries are enclosed in counter-weighted, temperature-controlled glass cloches. His take on the Paris-Brest (left) was judged the best in Paris by Le Figaro.

My list of patisseries was long—it covered three scrawled pages of my notebook.

If I’d followed the plan, I would have bounced around Paris, sampling pistachio cake with raspberries at Pain du Sucre and puits d’amour or “wells of love”--puff pastry filled with vanilla bean crème and topped with crunchy caramel--at Stohrer. (To see photos, go to Serious Eats’ "10 Must Try Sweets in Paris.")

Except for Jacques Genin, where I skipped the legendary millefeuilles in favor of spice-infused chocolates, I never made it out of the 6eme. (Oh, actually I did stray onto Rue du Bac, just over the line into the 7eme.) The rest of my patisserie expeditions were confined to an eight-block radius.

But when you have Patisserie des Reves, Sadaharu Aoki and Pierre Herme just 10 minutes away….

A blank canvas: Velvety Red Kuri soup goes exotic when simmered with cinnamon cassia and fresh ginger, enriched with coconut milk and seasoned with lime and Vietnamese fish sauce. But first you have to crack the pumpkin's hard shell.

Taking a short break, but before I go, here’s a question:

How do you cut a pumpkin? Seriously.

Right after we returned from Paris, I went crazy at the market and came home with a carload of wild-looking curcubirtas—aka pumpkin squash. Along with a bulbous Blue Hubbard, there was a carbuncle-encrusted Red Warty Thing and a heavily bloodshot One Too Many (as in "the morning after").

Piled up on the outside table, they were the essence of autumn—until the grey squirrels discovered them. Now whole chunks are missing. The less tasty ones are riddled with tiny teeth marks, sampled, it seems, but found wanting. All week long they've been snacking on their favorite, the fairytale pumpkin, Rouge Vif d’Etampes which looks just like Cinderella's coach. It's so bad that B retired it to edge of the woods where it can decompose in peace.

But I salvaged Red Kuri before the squirrels could get their teeth into it. As it happens, Red Kuri is not only edible but delicious. Once you cut through the skin—which frankly is like metal armor—you’ve got firm golden flesh, sweet and mellow, which practically begs to be electrified with fresh ginger and other spicy flavors.

The problem is getting to that inner deliciousness.

Are you feeling overwhelmed? Take a few minutes for la pause gourmande, a tea-and-patisserie break that can bring daily life and all its demands back into perspective.

It’s the busiest week of the year.

What? You are making turkey gravy from scratch, aren’t you? Roasting 12 legs for two hours, then simmering for 6 more, with carrots, celery and onion, till the broth is richly golden, then chilling it so you can remove the congealed fat on top? (And that’s just the first step.)

How about your grandmother’s embroidered table linens? They are pressed, aren’t they, ready to dress the table which, um, needs a bit of spit and polish after being the repository for packages and mail most of the year. And speaking of polish, whatever happened to your godmother’s silver serving spoons? Maybe they’re in the attic with all the other stuff you only use on Thanksgiving Day.

I can’t take credit for “the tyranny of the dreaded to-do list”—Marcia came up with the phrase—but I’m sure you know how it feels. Juggling 142 items that absolutely must get done today. There are lots more for tomorrow. And the day after that.

No wonder I live in state of continuous exhaustion. I won’t belabor it except to propose a solution which, quite naturally, comes from France where, at least in my dreams, they know how to live a lot better than we do.

It’s called la pause and it’s guaranteed to put the joie back into your day.

Tweaking tradition: This year David Tanis's refreshing salad, made of ripe Fuyu persimmons, red Cara Cara oranges and watercress, was served alongside the brined turkey with oyster dressing.

It's too easy to be discouraged.

I won't remind you of the convulsions gripping the world around us, or of the sinking feeling that uncertainty may be the new normal.

So it was wonderful on Thanksgiving to celebrate the abundance that we share. Bounteous laughter, the pleasure of having guests from several corners of the globe, Cole Porter "on the victrola" (as B likes to say), a springer spaniel sleeping under the table, deep rose camellias from Laura's garden, the smell of turkey slow-roasting in the oven, a bowl of ripe persimmons...but I'm jumping ahead.

For anyone who has a sweet tooth, this sultry DIY dessert syrup is a perfect gift. Based on the vanilla bean-rum syrup poured over the baba au rhum at a Paris bistro, it can also be drizzled over poundcake and vanilla ice cream, or mixed into holiday cocktails.

The house across the street is festooned with red wreathes hanging in the front windows. A giant inflatable snowman appeared—and then mysteriously disappeared—on the lawn nearby.

Çhez nous the lighted grapevine balls didn’t exactly go down this year, so I can truthfully say they’re up and twinkling brightly. Glittering reindeer are prancing through the woods, and soon the apple arbor will be aglow.

The holidays are upon us, and with them shopping lists that seem to grow longer by the moment. So I’ve been thinking about DIY gifts, which is why I spent Sunday afternoon in the kitchen making a luscious treat that I discovered in Paris: Madagascar Vanilla Bean-Rum Syrup. It will thrill anyone who loves dessert.

Isn’t that everyone?

Maybe it has to do with the bistro revival, but I don’t remember ever seeing so many Paris menus on which the traditional baba au rhum was front and center.

At Bistro et Terroir, tables of 20-somethings topped off plates of giant pork ribs with hefty conical babas liberally doused with sirop du rhum. The bottle was left on the table alongside a bowl of whipped Chantilly cream so they could help themselves—repeatedly. At Astier, the garcon was less generous—he poured the syrup, then whisked the bottle away—but the babas were just as big.

But what exactly is a baba?