A cobbler

I've decide to forgive France for ripping up the streets. They do seem to be recobbling quickly. Yesterday, two Brits, an Australian and I had a discussion about what exactly a 'cobbler' is.

Is it:
(a) A person who works on shoes
(b) A person who works on streets
(c) A delicious Southern dessert best served warm with ice cream
(d) The act of clobbering someone with a corn cob

The answer:
(a) and (b) if you can name the last 10 monarchs of Britain
(a), (b), and (c) if you can whistle Dixie

So yesterday, I decided to make answer choice (c) to demonstrate its greatness. We had lots of fresh apples from the doctor's farm, so what could be better right? (By the way, it amuses me that despite the adage about an apple a day, these apples make the doctor come by more often.) American recipes in France pose several challenges. Measurements and temperatures must be converted. Ingredients must be translated and found. This isn't enough. There's something mysterious about cooking in France. I'm scared to disturb the delicious air of haut cuisine. It's just a big deal here. Menus are planned and executed properly. So to ensure good fortune in the kitchen, it's often necessary to throw salt over your right shoulder, and jump backwards three times towards the culinary districts of southern France.

Anyway, I couldn't find baking soda or powder at the store. So rather than use the yeast I accidentally purchased, I just left it out all together. This made more of a toffee-like cobbler than a cake-like cobbler, but it wasn't bad. Hopefully a bigger grocery store will sell them, and I cobble again later this week. Nobody minded though, they thought it was scrumptious.