I suggested a lovely roast goose as the centerpiece for a stunning holiday dinner for six, with an even more impressive 25-layer dessert. But the powers that be had something else in mind. 'You remember that cassoulet with duck confit and lentils you made during inauguration weekend?' they asked. Vague thoughts ran through my mind. I knew there had been sausage in it; braised lamb, too. Duck confit, obviously. I guess lentils were in it; they said as much. But there was something else in there. It was something Indian. But what? 'Of course. I remember it perfectly,' I answered. 'Great! That'll be your December column.' Uh-oh. The Larousse Gastronomique, the bible of French cookery, defines cassoulet as a dish traditionally composed of navy beans cooked in a glazed earthenware pot (cassole) with pork rinds, a garnish of meats that vary from region to region and a gratin topping of buttery bread crumbs. Thanks to Julia Child, it is generally thought to include garlic sausage, braised lamb, and duck or goose braised in clarified fat, its skin rendered and crisped (confit). In other words, it's a bean stew with higher aspirations, more casual than a roast goose yet still suitably impressive for a holiday gathering of good friends. It works for New Year's Eve, New Year's Day or any cold-weather special occasion. The emphasis is on special, because in this case, casual does not translate into fast and easy. Cassoulet is a sum of parts prepared separately and then brought together, if done well, harmoniously. Not surprisingly, its execution involves more than a few steps. On the upside, most of the work can be done at least a day or two in advance. Buying prepared confit simplifies things, but making it yourself is not such a big deal. The legs can be braised and stored, submerged in the cooking fat, at least a week in advance. The cassoulet I made was an interpretation of the traditional version. Remembering nearly a year later how I'd put it together posed a dilemma. I had to retrace my steps. On the Thursday afternoon before inauguration weekend last January, The Post's Food editor asked if I wouldn't mind hosting a small Saturday dinner party for Charlestonian Nathalie Dupree, the disarmingly charming grande dame of Southern cooking, and her husband, author Jack Bass. Only too glad to oblige, I decided to fashion a menu from what was on hand rather than brave streets closed off to traffic and sidewalks teeming with revelers. It wasn't so challenging a task; what I had in the pantry, freezer and refrigerator was pretty choice: --A few pounds of prized Polish sausage. Every year at Christmas and Easter, members of my partner's family receive what they refer to as 'Aunt Patty's sausage.' Curiously, Aunt Patty isn't really an aunt; she's a godmother. And it was her father, (not really) Uncle Pete, who was the sausagemaker. When he died in 1976, the recipe went with him, until (not) Aunt Patty discovered it years later, written on a board hidden in the rafters. Today, his son Pete carries on the tradition, closely guarding how the sausage is made and doling out precious portions to lucky family members in two-pound increments. As far as I can tell, it's made only with pork, garlic, salt, pepper and lots of fat. It's heavenly. --Vacuum-sealed Brome Lake brand Canadian duck legs. Whenever they are available at my neighborhood grocery store, I hoard them (a bargain at less than $3 each) for future dinner parties. Seasoned entertainers know how to plan ahead. --Also in the freezer: a boneless leg of organic, grass-fed lamb from Lava Lake Ranch in Hailey, Idaho, and four quarts of what I call four-star chicken stock. Every now and then I make a batch of stock using thawed stock from the freezer as a base instead of water. With each successive batch, the base stock gets more and more intense. By the third or fourth cooking, it is wonderfully rich. So there it was: the makings of a fine cassoulet. Confiting the duck would be a breeze. I happened to have four quarts of clarified fat in the fridge from a story I had written about poaching prime rib in butter. Being a food writer has its advantages. Days before, I had attended a luncheon where restaurateur Ashok Bajaj introduced a new line of curry simmer sauces created by Vikram Sunderam, the executive chef of Rasika restaurant in Washington. When I opened the pantry door, there sat a jar of Kashmiri sauce, made with caramelized onions, cardamom, fennel seed, ginger and Kashmiri peppers. An Indian cassoulet! It then only made sense to replace the beans with lentils. (A good way to span Franco-Indian territory: Use French lentils.) To tie the flavors together, I seasoned the duck with cardamom, cinnamon and allspice. Rather than use a bread crumb gratin for crunch, I served some frisee (endive and radicchio also would do nicely, adding some vibrancy as well) dressed with nuoc cham next to the cassoulet. The Vietnamese dressing added zing to the plate and provided acid to balance the fat in the main course. The peach-apricot cobbler I served at the Dupree dinner was a hit. (It works only if you have terrific summer peaches on hand in the freezer, as I did.) But for my holiday dinner I opted for something much grander. It could be mistaken at first as a carrot cake, as it is covered with cream cheese frosting and stands about three inches high. But the macadamia crunch pressed into the cake's sides and the chopped crystallized ginger on top indicate greater things within. Cutting into the cake reveals the surprise of 25 delicate crepes with a cardamom-, almond- and ginger-flavored ricotta filling between the layers. All white and gold, this dessert befits a special occasion. The compliments you receive should compensate for the tender fingertips you'll acquire from grabbing those crepes by the edges to turn them over as they cook. (Give yourself a break, and time to heal, by making the crepes a week ahead of time and freezing them.) My Indian cassoulet was deemed a success on inauguration weekend. Dupree particularly wanted to know the provenance of every component, which I divulged enthusiastically. 'The success of a dish like this, as with any dish, all comes down to the stock, doesn't it?' she noted keenly. As I bragged about having made up the recipe as I went along, Dupree interrupted me and struck a firmly maternal tone. 'You do keep a notebook in the kitchen, right?' she asked. 'And write down everything you make? That way, something doesn't slip through your fingers. You probably don't even realize how many things you make up all the time and don't give a second thought to.' What a great piece of advice. If only she had been there the day before to impart it. 