Cheese: Beaufort

It’s handsome (beau); it’s strong (fort); it’s Beaufort.

From the Savoie region of the Rhône-Alpes, this classic French cheese is made from unpasteurized cow’s milk, specifically the breads Tarine and Abondance.  These dairy cows feed on a diverse vegetation in the Alpine Mountains which account for the cheese’s rich floral and slightly nutty flavor.  There are two versions: summer and winter.  The summer Beaufort or Beaufort d’eté is made from June to October and the winter Beaufort or Beaufort d’Alpage is made in the mountain chalets at an altitude of 1500 meters.  The Beaufort d’Alpage is white and the Beaufort d’eté is pale yellow due to the flowers the cows eat.

            Beaufort is hard cheese and made in enormous wheels weighing 80 – 100 pounds.  It ages at least 4 months and is constantly rubbed with a brine to form its characteristic concave and ivory-yellow speckled rind.

Beaufort is not a local cheese for us, so it’s not easy to find.  We were recently at a market and its highlight was a cheese monger from the Alps regions who had a half wheel of Beaufort at her stand.  We bought some without hesitation.  Imagine everything wonderfully stereotypically about bell clad cows grazing in green flowing pastures under snow covered Alps and you’ve got yourself a fair image of what is Beaufort cheese.  It’s rich, it’s honest, it is what a cheese should be.  

Stick to the Basics

We’re going to celebrating Thanksgiving early this year.  I’ve gotten used to this being a movable date since the French don’t have Thanksgiving off, so it’s going to be this weekend.  I’ve served my traditional dinner several times with great success, but I’m up for the challenge of reworking the menu this year.  All the ingredients will stay the same, and there will be some minor substitutions, but I going to put everything together slightly differently.

This reminds of a Thanksgiving many years ago when I tackled dinner for my family.  I wanted everything to be different; I grilled apples, I added roasted garlic to the mashed potatoes, and I completely changed out the traditional sausage stuffing for a sage-cornbread one.  Then, my father walked into the kitchen and was unpleasantly surprised with what I was doing; I was touching a tradition.  I was obligated to then make everything again.  So, we had sage-cornbread stuffing and sausage stuffing, grilled apples and apple pie, and of course, regular mashed potatoes.  It’s still a family joke, and I’ve told time and again that traditional dishes shouldn’t change.

Perhaps I’m playing with fire, but I’m ready to mix it up again.  For starters, I’m going to debone the turkey.  I’ve never done it before and while some would same Thanksgiving is not the day for firsts, I say why not.  I’ve been warned to “stick to the basics” from one who experienced my first Thanksgiving debacle, but I’m going throw caution into the wind.  No grilled apples this time, I’m going stuff them and bake ‘em. 

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Monday’s Leftovers: August 21st

Monday’s Leftovers is a series that recaps the moments of a Sunday lunch along with the memories that mark the day.

Summer came without warning.  The mild days that filled June and July were quickly replaced with cloudless skies, still air, and temperatures soaring into the 90s.  I enjoy summers, but the drastic change took me by surprise.  Tired from a sleepless night, I woke up late and found Christophe in the kitchen waiting for me with coffee in hand.

“How about something simple for lunch today?”  He asks once I shook the grogginess off.

“What do you have in mind?”  I ask.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all taken care of,” he replies with a smile.

With morning chores completed, I meet Christophe in the garden.  We sit down with a beer in hand under the shade of the hazelnut and pear tree.  Getting up, he finds a rock and some ripe hazelnuts. 

“I don’t know how many tons of these I’ve eaten since I was a kid,” he says.  Taking the rock, he strikes the nut quickly on the table and the shell falls to the side.  A mat, pale brown nut is left in the wake.

“Here”, he says smiling.

We shift around as the sun passes through the sky trying to keep in the shade.  Christophe lights the barbeque and I feel the still air get even hotter.

“The sole won’t take long to cook,’ he says.  “I also made taboulet.”

“Awesome,” I think to myself.  “I don’t have to turn the stove on.”

We sit down for lunch, once again shifting to keep in the shade.

“Do you want to go to the river to cool off?”  Christophe asks.  “I know a gorge we can swim in that has a waterfall.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say.

Pointing across the valley, Christophe shows me where it’s located.  “It’s kind of a long walk, but I promise it’s worth it.”

I agree enthusiastically and dishes are put aside until later so we can start out right away. We pass under gigantic ferns taller than us, across rocky outcrops, and pass the white birches and the ancient chestnut trees that dot the view from our terrace.  We stop a few times for water and to admire the view of the village from across the valley.  I dripping in sweat and every once in a while Christophe promises “It’s not much farther now.”

I’m exhausted, soaked to the bone, and am starting to doubt the existence of the gorge. Finally, ninety minutes later, we arrive.  Surrounded by towering trees, a cascade jets down a fall into a pool followed by another and then another.  All my doubt and frustration vanish as we stripe down to our swimsuits and jump in.  The water is glacial, but refreshing and all memories of my hot, sleepless night melt away.

View of the village half way to the gorge.



Lavender

It’s about time to trim back the lavender, which had a good summer run.  We planted it a few years back next to an old stone wall.  It revels in the heat and has quickly overtaken the other neighboring plants.    Attracting bees and other insects, its flowers bloom most of the summer, and what I really like about it that I don’t have to water it.  In fact, since the summer it was planted, I don’t think I’ve ever watered it.

When one thinks of France, the flowing lavender fields of Provence come to mind, and why not, they’re gorgeous.  Lavender is produced for it flowers which are used in just about everything, and honey made from it is the best I’ve ever tasted;  hands down the best, and is nothing like the product bought in the bear shaped squeeze bottle.  The last time we had a jar of it, it lasted less than a week.

Christophe has memories of going to lavender farms with his grandparents with flasks in hands to buy lavender essence to be used in the wash, around the house, and for medicinal purposes.  We put our cuttings in sachets and place them in the armoires and dressers.  Not only does it make everything smell nice, but it also keeps any moth problem at bay.

I’m glad we planted it- its low maintenance, high effect and since it is an editable flower, I’m starting to learn how to cook with it too.

Don't bother calling, France is on vacation

It is no secret that the French love their vacation time.  Full time workers are guaranteed five weeks of paid vacation, which is considerable more than what the average American worker gets.  Most often, two weeks are taken around Christmas and the other three are spent in late summer.  Here, the holidays are in high swing.  I love, and admire the philosophy of having so much time off, but I have to ask, “Why does everyone have to take their vacation at the same time?”  Paris empties out for the month, trains are packed to capacity, and the roads are overflowing with camping cars.  In fact, there is there is no way of getting any artisan to come to the house and finish work promised months ago.  Let’s play out a scenario:

Me (on the telephone): Hello French roofing company.  I’m calling about my roof that is not yet fixed.  You’ve started, but it’s been raining and I have a few leaks in the house.

French Roofing Company: I’m sorry you’ll have to call back at the end of the month.  Everyone is on vacation.

Me: But you promised my roof would be fixed months ago.  I have leaks in my house.  Isn’t there anyone who could finish the half a day job so I don’t have standing water in my kitchen?

FRC: I’m sorry you’ll have to call back at the end of the month.  Everyone is on vacation.

Me: But my roof is leaking! 

FRC: I’m sorry you’ll have to call back at….

See how that gets frustrating?  I often ask Christophe why it’s like this and I never get an answer that seems logical to me.  He mentions something about the chain of supply and demand and when the big fish on the chain takes his vacation, so does everyone else because they can’t get what they need.  Here’s an idea: why doesn’t just part of the office stay and then take their vacation in a few weeks?  This way, the chain will never be broken; business goes on like usual, and people like me can get their leaky roofs fixed.  I know this is a very American point of view, but that’s the logic I grew up with; everyone takes their turn at the wheel and we’ll soon get to where we’re going.  Let’s look at this mass exodus another way: do you want to sit on the beach with 40 gazillion Parisians at once?   

The History of the Potato in France

There is a collective memory that almost all the French share – eating in the school cafeteria.  Unlike in the US, kids either eat there or go home for lunch, there is no brown bagging.  And, when the French start talking about nostalgic foods from their childhood, one dish always comes up: Hachis Parmentier.  It’s the French version of a Shepherd’s Pie and named for Antoine-Augustin Parmentier, the man credited for bringing the potato to the French dinner table.

Centuries ago, the potato was thought to be inedible; it was only used for hog feed.  In fact, before Antoine-Augustin Parmentier was taken prisoner by Prussia during France’s Seven Year War (1756- 1763) the French parliament prohibited growing potatoes because they were thought to cause leprosy.  During this imprisonment he ate potatoes and noted no ill side effects.  He used this experience as the foundation for a proposal as using the potato as a source of nourishment for dysenteric patients.  Due to this study, the Paris Faculty of Medicine declared the potato suitable for human consumption in 1772.

Antoine-Augustin Parmentier had a hard time convincing everyone that potatoes were edible, so he went to great lengths to convince the population otherwise.  For example, he hosted elaborate dinners which prominently featured potato dishes, gave the King and Queen bouquets of potato blossoms, and armed his potato patch with guards to suggest valuable goods, but told the guards to allow civilians to “steal” the goods.  That’s cleaver.

Hachis Parmentier: some like it, some love it, but now every young French adult has some story to tell thanks to Antoine-Augustin Parmentier. I mean, who can go wrong with meat covered in mashed potatoes?  I might just make some tonight.