About Me

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Southern France
Lynn Deasy is a freelance writer, author, foodie, and garden tinkerer. She lives in a 600 year old house in southern France with her husband, Christophe. Currently, she is looking for a literary agent for her memoir CA VA? STORIES FROM RURAL LIFE IN SOUTHERN FRANCE which examines the oddities of French provincial living from an outsider’s point of view through a series of adventures that provide more than a fair share of frustration, education, admiration, and blisters…. yes, lots and lots of blisters. Lynn blogs every Monday, Wednesday, and sometimes Friday.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Country Mouse; City Mouse

During the cold winters of Chicago, it wasn’t unheard of to find that a mouse had made its way into the apartment.  It was disturbing, and prompted a quick run to the hardware store to buy poison.  However, the mouse was nothing in comparison to the daily rat sightings in the alleys.  City rats are huge and became immune to the city’s weekly doses of poison.  I recall one summer evening sitting on a friend’s back porch and watching in disbelief the vast quantity of rats foraging in the garbage below.  It was savage; they tore through bags and fought amongst themselves for what was inside.  I don’t remember exactly how many there were, but there were so many we gave up counting in lieu of going out for a beer.  Rats and mice are part of urban living, like it or not.
            Now, the country rodent is a bit different.  First, it is much smaller than its urban counterpart.  In fact, a country rat is about the size of a city mouse.  I saw one practically face to face this summer hanging out in a fig tree behind the house, and it didn’t look half as malicious as the ones I saw years ago from that city porch.  It just looked at me and ran away.  The mice are much smaller too, sometimes no bigger than a walnut.  With all the fruit trees, vineyards, and vegetables gardens, there is no need to search indoors for food.  This is why we were so shocked to find a mouse hanging out in our chimney this week.  There is no food there, so after the first sighting of it we made a bunch of noise and hoped it would figure out the mistake and just quietly leave.  After all, there are plenty of figs just outside it can eat and it would have its pickings if it just settled near the compost.  Its second sighting proved us wrong; it didn’t leave and that prompted some dire action: a mouse trap.  We opted against poison because we didn’t want to take the risk of it dying behind a wall where it couldn’t be retrieved and then we’d have to live the smell of a dead mouse as nature took its course.  The trap quickly worked; there was a clean kill and the walnut size carcass was quickly discarded.  We didn’t reveille in this, but the mouse’s place is outside and we did give it a chance.  This made me think of its larger, urban counterpart in the same situation, and I could image flipping on the lights in the kitchen and  finding a very angry mouse with its head in the trap squeaking, “What the heck!” 
All my urban rat memories came rushing back, and this made me happy that I now only deal country mice.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

The downside of Autumn

The tinkering of bells, the soft baying of dogs in the distance, the crack of a shotgun breaking the morning calm; yes, it is hunting season.  Hunting is a needed activity in the area.  Without hunting, wild boar and deer would decimate the vineyards and fruit orchards.  I’ve got nothing against the sport, but the problem I see that it is not treated as a sport.  Hunting season runs from mid-September to mid-January and any short walk in the summer months will reveal corn scattered on the side of the road or in particular fields.  The local hunters bait the boar and deer so they can be easily found later.  Sounds like shooting fish in a barrel, doesn’t it?
Here, hunters hunt in battalions so they can flush out a boar and often use the only road to the village as a parking lot and general meeting place.  Therefore, the gridlock of trucks must be moved before anyone can drive by and, what’s worse is when the hunters take their post on the road.  Then, when the traffic jam is finally cleared, they turn and watch us as we drive by, unaware their cocked and loaded rifle is pointing directly at us.  Did I mention the sign they hang to warn us of their presence?  It reads:

We hunt; we have guns; YOU be careful.

No, I’m not kidding.  I love autumn, but this is one element of it I can do without.
           
            The hunters also a very bad tendency of leaving a dog behind if it doesn’t return from the hunt when it’s time to leave.  Overall, if you’re not a boar, hunting dogs are very gentle, and after a long day of running after a beast as its master stands on the side of the road, it’s generally very tired and hungry too.  On several occasions, we have found one or more waging tails outside our door which suspiciously coincided with dinner time.  We’ve taken them in, but promised “never again” after too many times calling the hunter who promised to come get the dog in a day or two.  Yes, a day or two and rarely with a thank you.

            The second half of January has just gotten a whole lot more appealing.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Les Vendanges

I’ve got to admit, there is something a bit mythical about the vendanges.  Perhaps because it is something that I thought I’d never do since I grew up in a region void of vineyards, but the harvesting of grapes, or les vendanges, is quite fun, at least the way we do it.  We help our neighbors who have a small vineyard and with a group of about ten people, the work is done in a day.  If I were a seasonal worker who did this for two months straight, I know I’d feel different about it, but a day is a good dose of what makes it fun without getting a back ache.
Before my first vendanges, I thought the work would be complicated, but it only entails cutting the grapes off the vine and making sure a finger isn’t taken along with it.  Not only would that hurt a lot, but as Monsieur Gousse says, “It will spoil the wine.”  The only other requirement is a good humor.  There is quite a bit of teasing going on along with an occasional smashing of grapes, so perhaps a white t-shirt is best avoided too.
            A long lunch is standard, followed by bringing the collected grapes to the cooperative, where they are weighed and tested for sugar (alcohol) contents.  Just the smell of the place is intoxicating.  It’s not a wine smell, but not fresh fruit smell either.  There must be something in the air because all the people are extremely jovial. 
            It’ll be months before the grapes we collected will be ready to drink, but the wine I had at the end of the day did give me pause to the effort that goes into making it.  Word of caution though, just watch your back if Monsieur Gousse has a handful grapes and a sly smile.  He might have something planned for you.
Our neighbor's truck used for les vendanges, era 1950.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Cheese: Roquefort

This may come to a surprise to many Americans, but the world of cheese has more than just two flavors: white and orange.  The color coding is easy, the white goes on pizza and the orange goes on tacos; they can even be mixed together and already shredded for convenience.  Sometimes we dare to put some jalapeno or dill in it, but into the garbage it goes at the first sign of mold.  Only the brave dare to cut the mold off the 8 ounce block, and often, only if no one is watching. 
On the other hand, there are the French.  They inject their cheese with mold.  In fact, the molder the better; it’s a sign of quality.  That’s right, I’m talking about Roquefort.  It is perhaps the best known and most feared French cheese in the United States.  Roquefort is a type of blue cheese, and is made from raw milk of a specific breed of sheep (Lacaune).  Yes, it is an unpasteurized cheese.  I know there is a heated debate about the health factors of this type of cheese, and I don’t want to get into that, but I do want to expand the repertoire of what we Americans call cheese.  I’m not getting on a high horse, I too like white and orange cheese, but there is so much more to it than just that.
Think about it, this cheese had a documented history dating back to 1070 and has strict laws on what the sheep eat, where they can graze, and how the cheese is fabricated.  This is the same time of the Byzantine Empire, the completion of St. Mark Cathedral in Venice, and the foundation of the city of Marrakesh.  That is what we call eating a part of history.
In production, the cheese is injected with Roqueforti Penicillium, a mold, and left for three weeks to develop the spores.  This is where the “blue” comes from.  Then, it is aged in special caves for at least 3 months.  And remember this rule with most cheeses: age = flavor.  Roquefort was the first cheese to be given the title Appellation d’Origine, or label of origin in 1925.  Now, it’s status has been elevated to  Appellation d’Origine Protégée, or ‘protected label of origin’.  This means no cheese can bear the name Roquefort if it is produced outside its specific region or it if doesn’t follow its rules of fabrication.  Basically, that moldy product is carefully and lovingly handled from sheep to plate, and I don’t know if that can be said about the cellophane wrapped orange food stuff.  How cool is that? 


This is France, and I love cheese, so expect the subject of cheese to revisited from time to time. 

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

AVALANCHE!


Okay, maybe not, but it’s time to make sauce, and yes, those buckets are heavy.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Monday’s Leftover: September 18th

Monday’s Leftovers is a periodical series that recaps the weekend moments, the menu, the tasks, and the memories left long after the coffee is finished.


Menu:
Champagne: Marie Stuart, Brut - Grande Reserve
First Course: Great White Beefsteak Gazpacho “revisited” with Grilled Langoustine and Fresh Fennel
Main Course: Rabbit Confit in sauce Marchand de Vin, Cream of Potimarron, Sautéed Russian Tomato, topped with Potimarron Chips
Dessert: Yellow Raspberry Cake with Meringue Cream, Coffee


We’ve been wearing jeans and long sleeve shirts as the summer passed with little trace of the season, but September brought hot and humid weather that had us temporarily break out the shorts and sandals.  Family came to visit for the weekend, so all chores were put on hold to welcome them, and Christophe and I bartered for kitchen space in preparation of the meal.  They arrived as the Autumnal winds started to kick up and the smell of fallen leaves welcomed them.  The weather was still warm, but quickly changed.  The evening brought the promise of rain, which arrived sporadically throughout the night and continued through the next day.  The temperature dropped dramatically and open windows were quickly shuttered close. The warmer clothes shed for the last few days were re-found as we fronted the brutal seasonal change.  Autumn arrived overnight, unwelcomed with summer’s promised closure. 

Friday, September 16, 2011

Know Your Vegetables!


Patisson
Species: Cucurbita pepo (meanings gourds and squashes)
Seen listings also calling it Pattypan squash, the Spanish artichoke, and bonnet-de-prêtre.
Size: 3-5  inches in diameter

Patidou
Species: Cucurbita pepo
Much sweeter than the patisson and has a slight nutty taste, also called the sweet dumpling.
Size: 2-3 inches in diameter and 3-4 inches tall

Tomatillo
Species: Physalis philadelphica
The fruit is encased in the outer husk that needs to be removed.  Also called the green tomato  and is essential in the Mexican cuisine.
Size: 1-2 inces in diameter

Lemon Cucumber
Species: Cucumis sativus
Heirloom Russian variety; very crisp and sweet, not bitter.
Size: 2-3 inches in diameter

And the bonus:
Round Zucchini
Species: Cucurbita pepo
Similar to the everyday zucchini, but much easier to stuff.
Size: 3-10 inches in diameter depending on when it is harvested

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

There’s gold in them there hills!

There’s a little secret our village has been hiding: it has a gold mine.  You’ll never find it on a map because it’s marked as an abandoned iron mine.  It was discovered in 1903, temporarily closed in 1922 and was intermediately mined until 1963 (or 1968 and 1970, depending on the resource) when it was permanently closed.   I’ve been there once, and the looming fog gave it a real creepy feeling.  There was a large rock plateau, a pile of mined stones, and a small entrance leading into the mountain.  It wasn’t the spectacle that I hoped for and there weren’t nuggets of gold just sitting around waiting to be pocketed, which would have been great considering the current price of gold.  There is also something particular about the gold, something that has probably kept most prospectors out: it’s sandwiched in between layers of arsenic, and the odor can be detected just by rubbing a rock.  When I went there with an old friend, she neglected to tell me that until I asked about the odor and I walked with my hands in the air until I could find a puddle to wash them off.
Luckily, there’s not enough gold to justify reopening the mine, but enough to develop some fantasies, for example, I would like a heated indoor swimming pool, a well-equipped work-out room, and a shiny new car.  Speaking of fantasies, maybe there is enough gold after all; I’m gonna get out my prospectoring hat, pick and shovel, gold pan, and anti-arsentic protective gloves.  I got long list, so I better get moving.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Pickles!

I just discovered something magical: I can make homemade pickles.  This might not seem like something noteworthy given the vast selection in any US supermarket, but it is a huge revelation for us because we cannot find pickles in France, and I love them.  Yes, yes, there are pickle counterparts, like the cornichons, but they aren’t the same.  They’re sweet and lack the garlicy crunch that makes a burger perfect.  I like cornichons, but I’m disappointed every time I want a real kosher dill; they just doesn’t stack up.  We’ve been bringing pickles back with us from the United States, and with a 23 pound baggage weight limit, we’ve had to make to some difficult decisions about what goes in the suitcase.  Each year, we ration our pickle consumption so they’ll last until our next trip stateside.  It’s not easy and some polite fighting has occurred over the last, remaining pickle.  So, when I stumbled across a recipe for “ice box pickles” I was curious, and happily discovered that I have most of the ingredients right in the garden.  Everything goes right in the jar, the jar goes in the fridge, and one week later, voila!  The pickles are ready.  And, HOLY COW, they’re great!  Not just “great” as in “they’ll do”, but great as in better than the last store bought jar we tasted them against.  They’re AWESOME!  Still very crunchy, the pickles had all the garlicy goodness I was craving and a bite from the cayenne pepper put them over the top.  I ate three right away.  No more hoarding, no more rationing, I can have all the pickles I want, whenever I want.  I even dreamt about them last night. The cherry on the cake to this is now we have more room in our suitcases for Frank’s Red Hot Sauce, which not so strangely enough, goes great with our homemade pickles.

Here’s the recipe if you’re interested.  I discovered it thanks to fellow blogger The Magic Apron.

Dill Refrigerator Pickles
Ingredients:
  • 1 1/2 lbs Kirby cucumbers (sometimes labeled pickling cukes), cut in half lengthwise.  (I don’t know what type of cucumbers we have in the garden, but I’m guessing most anything would work.)
  • 2 cups white distilled vinegar
  • 2 cups cold water
  • 4 cloves garlic, sliced
  • 3 tablespoons kosher salt
  • 1 good handful of fresh dill seed
  • 1 tsp mustard seeds  (I searched all around for this, but couldn’t find it.  Strange for a country that loves its mustard so.)
  • 1/2 tsp chili flakes or a dried red hot pepper (optional)
  • 1 tsp black peppercorns
Directions:
  1. Place all the seasonings in the bottom of a 2 or 3 quart jar. Add the cucumber halves, stacking them so they don’t float around too much.
  2. Measure out the vinegar, water and salt in a separate container and stir until the salt dissolves.
  3. Pour the liquid into the jar containing the cucumbers. Make sure the liquid covers all of the cucumbers.
  4. Seal the lid tightly and shake for about a minute. Put in the fridge and wait… patiently.
  5. Wait for 6 or 7 days, giving the jar a good shake each day.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Pleasures of the Season: Toulouges Sweet Onions

“Pleasures of the Season” is a series of posts which appear from time to time.  They focus on something special that occurs only seasonally, often fleeting, and something we anticipate.  The posts are sometimes food related, sometimes not, but highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

Not cultivated to be stored long, these sweet onions look like Spanish red onions but without the bite.  They are often served raw and, so mild always prepared with tear-free eyes.  Named for the city of their origins in Southern France, Toulouge onions add a complexity to dishes that ordinary yellow onions don’t.  The one hundred plus planted in the garden are quickly disappearing; we pick and cook as needed.  Now their growing season is over, the remaining are left to dry so they might make it to November, but I’m having my doubts. They are crucial to a successful ratatouille, a Mediterranean dish consisting of four ingredients in equal parts - sweet onions, tomatoes, eggplant, and zucchini.  Christophe proudly whips it up by the pot full, but it disappears as quickly as it is made.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

America’s Test Kitchen “Dish It Your Way” Challenge: Cupcakes!

Or, to explain why I don’t make them….

Reason #1….

Reason #2….

Reason #3….

Reasons #4, 5, and 6….

And finally, reasons #7, 8, 9, and 10.


I live with my husband in rural France, and think that perhaps anyway but in Paris, cupcakes are an oddity.  When I explained what a cupcake was to Christophe, he gave me the same baffled look as when I explained that a brunch is a meal that is part breakfast-part lunch, to which he responded, “Why would anyone want to skip a meal?” He didn’t understand why I would want to make a “small cake”.  Not to be discouraged, I plotted on.
I have a silicon pan, but it was the only one found after much searching, and it does a terrible job.  It had no lift on the cupcakes and they would not release right.  Trying to get around that, I looked all around for paper cupcakes holders, and couldn’t find them.  I tried ‘enhancing’ the cupcake batter with red currant jam and chocolate, which only sank to the bottom.  I tried ceramic yogurt containers, hence error # 7 - 10.  That was a messy cleanup.
Cupcakes are just not a French thing.  No matter how hard I tried, I was not able to adapt this classic to my new location.  I know, I know… it’s America’s Test Kitchen take on classic American food, so I shouldn’t be saying that, but I’ve been about adapting ever since I met Christophe and this new culture, so I’m all about trying.
I’m not giving up; the fun of experiments also comes from the failures, but I think a step back and a new plan might be needed as well as more local twist.  Speaking of local, the apple trees are producing well this year, so I’m pondering a tarte tartin right about now, which if the story is true, shows good things come from failures.
Summer has come to an end, and so has America’s Test Kitchen “Dish It Your Way” Challenge.  I’ve had a blast trying new recipes – some worked, some didn’t, and Christophe had a great time eating the results, most of the time.  I found a few great new recipes along the way – ice box pickles, salmon with watermelon salsa, how to make a potato salad your own, and that mac n’ cheese can be, and is even better fried. 
The fall winds here are starting to blow, so winter preparations need to be made.  I’m looking forward to evenings in front of the fire while bread bakes in the oven, and dinner simmers quietly on the stove.  I’ll be turning my attention to more autumnal foods, canning from the garden, and writing about rural life in Southern France.  Hope you’ll pull up a chair, grab a glass, and join me.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Monday’s Leftover: Under Construction

Living in a 600 year old house presents some challenges.  We’re always plugging up a draft, resealing a window, or putting a new coat of paint on the shutters.  This weekend, we attacked the bathroom.  We don’t know exactly when it was done, but it is a “modern” addition to the home.  It has been in dire need of our attention and Christophe has been working non-stop on it all weekend.  The bathroom has some considerable faults, such as thin walls and a low ceiling, and it’s due to these faults that we’ve found it challenging.  Saturday’s work included patching and painting and Sunday’s occupation included new flooring, insulation, and fixtures.  Between measures and cuts, I was able to belt out a Sunday lunch; nothing as elaborate nor as relaxing as Christophe’s mornings in the kitchen, but something did that give us a good moment to pause and step back to observe our work.

Menu:
Cream of Potato Soup
Pork Medallions in a Cider and Vinegar Reduction, Apple and Onion Confit served with a Potato Galette

The work is not yet done, but as Christophe notes, “There’s always a surprise in this house, and sometimes it makes the work longer, but I learn something new about the house each time I touch it, and I like that.”

Friday, September 2, 2011

The Potimarron

This is my new favorite vegetable: the potimarron.  It was planted for the first time in our garden last year and I find it amazing.  Its name is part pumpkin (potiron) and part chestnut (marron) and tastes like a supped- up pumpkin and with hints of chestnut.  I asked Christophe if he knew that’s how it got its name and he just laughed at me, “You love both pumpkin and chestnuts so I thought would have been obvious.”
Regardless of my vernacular oversight, it still intrigued me.  Many resources say it has Japanese origins, but I found one French resource that states it from South America and was probably first named Hokkaido squash by the Japanese.  Whatever its origins, it seems to be lacking a clear history.  What I do know is that it is coming back into fashion in the haut-cuisines of France.  Last year, we had dinner at Le Jardin des Sens in Montpellier, and not only did the potimarron grace their menu, it was used as autumnal table decorations.  I’m guessing it fell out of fashion since it’s smaller than other pumpkins, but is becoming popular again for its rich and delicate flavor.
We told Madame Gousse we ate our first potimarron last Sunday and she gasped, thinking we should save it for the middle of winter.  Little does she know we have a dozen growing, so happily we don’t have to horde them.  With our first poitmarron, Christophe made a creamy soup, tossed in sautéed vegetables and topped with a grilled sole fillet with fresh fennel sprouts.  I couldn’t think of a better way to meld the flavors of summer and the beginning of fall.

Soupe de potimarron aux légumes croquants de saison, filet de sole tropicale aux pousses de fenouil