Pleasure of the Season: Blackberries

Wild blackberries on the lower terrace in the garden.

“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.

The garden fruit has had its season, so now it’s time to turn to nature for the next round of jams: blackberries!

Wild blackberries grow throughout the village.  This can be blessing, but their thorny bramble does make them more of a weed than a welcomed vagabond.  Blackberry picking is one of my more painful berry experiences since I often get caught trying to get the upper most berry on the bush.  Getting unstuck is like a masochistic game of Twister.  One blackberry plant has thrived on a lower terrace of the garden for years, so we don’t bother it since it does seem to keep to itself and it does give use some fantastic blackberries without any tending.

The blackberry season can vary.  A few damp or rainy days can end the season abruptly, rending the berries moldy, or a long hot, dry spell could shrivel them up to nothing.  When I had more time, I would gather the berries in the morning and make jam in the afternoon, but now, I gather them when I can and freeze them until I have enough to merit a jamming session.  Perhaps not the most purist way to start the jam, but it’s clearly the one more adaptable to time restraints.  The berries freeze well and those that have not been earmarked as a breakfast item are often found on a tart later in the year.

Pleasure of the Season: Waiting for the First Tomato

“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.

Alright, I might be jumping the gun on this, but the pleasure of the season this moment is the first tomato.  This is a Black Prince and it a purple tomato variety, so it will magenta-purple when fully ripe.

Outside of herbs and berries, the garden has not yet produced anything, but I’m watching and waiting.  We have over 60 tomato plants this year, all started from seed.  We have a rough idea of what type of tomatoes we have, but we found a few surprises after planting.  We tried to save the garden terrace with the richer soil for the larger tomatoes, but discovered they got mixed up with some smaller varieties as seedlings.  Hence, I think we’ll have some hardy Gardener’s Delight (normally the size of cherry tomatoes), and perhaps some dwarfed Beef Steak.  The full low down will come when the results are in.

So, we wait for the first tomato to finish ripening.  Both Christophe and I have already plotted what to do with it, so its demise depends who gets to it first.

Pleasure of the Season: The First Strawberry

“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 highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

What more can be said?  There is truly no pleasure like tasting the first strawberry from the garden.  Well, at least the first strawberry for us; this is actually the third one ripe.  The first strawberry we eyed with great anticipation was gobbled up by a fox and the second strawberry was pecked away by an unwelcomed bird.  I was greatly disappointed each time I wandered in the garden for my evening treat only to find it gone.  Success, at last, and it was well worth the wait.  Now, only a few more weeks, patience, perhaps a high fence and something to stop the birds and I might have enough on my hands for a shortcake. 

I think it might be time to try my hand at homemade whip cream.

Pleasures of the Season: Breaking Ground

“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.  In some cases, the season is quite short, other are longer.  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.

It’s a pretty cool moment the first time every year when we notice the potatoes finally breaking ground.  The garden is vast, and for the last few months it has been fallow.  Tilling always stirs the excitement, but then there is a waiting time.  We wait for the rains to subside, the weather to warm, and for the right moment to plant the potatoes.  Then, we wait for them to finally push upwards to the surface, dotting the empty garden with green plants that quickly claim their space.

We planted the same two varieties as last year: Charlotte and Rosabelle.  Charlotte is extremely versatile, like an Idaho potato and the Rosabelle is a firmer, red-skinned potato excellent for sautéing.  Both can be eaten as new potatoes, or stored for the winter months.  We had a bumper crop last year and are hoping for the same results this year.  The crop was so generous that, in fact, we didn’t buy potatoes until February and I still have homemade gnocchi and fries in the freezer made from our own homegrown.

It will be several weeks before all the plants are big enough to be mounded and then not until early July when the first are dug up, but potatoes are an early vegetable, so they signal a definitive change in the season and a change in our daily rhythms.  We welcome this as we slowly wean ourselves off the daily chore of bringing in heating wood and replacing that with tending to the garden.

Pleasure of the Season: Lighting the poêle for first time of the season.

“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 highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

We turned the heat on for the first time last night.  For us, this is not adjusting a dial on the wall, but rather, filling the poêle with wood and putting a match to it.  We heat by wood, and that surprises a lot of people.  Our poêle is a Norwegian cast iron heater which is efficient enough to comfortable heat the house all winter long.  For many, this might be archaic, but the truth is it is growing in popularity.  Wood heat is efficient, eco-friendly, and cheap.  And for those like us, who cut their own wood, the price of heating the house is close to nothing.

We bought our poêle a few years ago and every autumn we look forward to lighting it.  It’s quiet, provides ambient lighting, and is more engaging than most television shows.

The lighting of the poêle signals an undisputable seasonal change.  Our evening chore of watering the garden is replaced by bringing in wood.  The nights fall early and day’s light dwindle.  Owls call not far from our window and the crisp night’s air unveils a magnitude of stars.  Wisps of smoke spiral up from distant chimneys and mixes with the smell of fallen leaves.  Autumn is here, our daily rhythm changes and life move to inside the house, around the poêle, light for the first time last night.

Pleasures of the Season: Quince

“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.

A quince or coing (k-wǎ) in French, is a strange looking fruit.  It looks and tastes like a cross between a tart apple and a pear.  It’s extremely hard, cannot be eaten raw, and its pulp changes from white to bright orange when cooked.  It is an autumnal fruit and its production is limited, so it truly is a seasonal pleasure that passes quickly.  It is used to make jams, eau-de-vins, or pâte de coings.  Pâte de coings is a combination of fruit pulp and sugar cooked for a long time and then dried.  In Spain, it is known as membrillo and commonly paired with manchego cheese.  Basically, it like a thick fruit bar without the cereal jacket.

I’ve never had the pâte de coings – cheese combination, but I have eaten it for breakfast.  It is easy to make, but takes about a week a dry before it can be served. 



Pâte de coings, pain perdu avec groseilles

Quince pâte on French toast with red currants

Pâte de Coings
I don’t specific how many quinces to use because it all depends on what you get.  The important issue here is to use equal parts sugar and boiled quince.

1.      Wash the fruit; make sure to gently scrub away the light fuzzy jacket.

2.      Leaving skin on, cut fruit in quarters and remove the core and seeds.  Discard any damaged part of the fruit.

3.      Place clean, cut fruit in a large pot, cover with water and boil over high heat until the fruit it soft.  This takes 45 minutes to one hour and the fruit is ready when a knife easily pierces the skin and can be removed without force.

4.      Drain fruit; discard water.

5.      Pass the boiled fruit through a food mill using the medium or large grate.  The end result should be a thick “mash” or paste.

6.      Weigh the paste and then place it into a large cooking pot.

7.      Add to the pot an equal weight of sugar.  This is why the paste is weighed.  The fruit – sugar combination needs to be 50-50.

8.      Cook on high heat, stirring regularly.  This step can take anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes.  This is where the quince’s color starts to change.  The pâte is ready when it easily lifts up from the bottom of the pot when stirred.  The pot should look “clean” when this occurs.  It is crucial not to undercook the pâte because it will not firm up later, so error on the side of a longer cooking time.

9.      Line 9x13 pan with lightly greased wax paper and pour cooked pâte over it.  Smooth to a uniform layer.  Cover pan with a clean dish towel, making sure towel does not touch pâte.

10.  Let dry 5 to 7 days.

Pleasures of the Season: Collecting Chestnuts

“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.  They highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

            The chestnuts are starting to fall.  There is no turning back now; fall is here and winter is on its heels.  We gather and prepare a lot in this season; the garden is still producing (September is its bumper month) and nature unwraps many treasures.  I think chestnuts are my favorite.  The chestnut trees here were planted eons ago.  Their wood was, and still is, used for housing beams because it is immune to almost any insect.  The nuts, ground into flour, became the nutritional base for people who once lived here.  Wheat was rare, so all breads were made with chestnut flour.  Today, we use the nuts in cooking, pastries, and most often, in jams.

            When I first arrived here, I really thought collecting chestnuts was like picking apples.  I imagined climbing trees like I did years ago and tossing the fruit down into the bushel basket below.  Picking chestnuts is nothing at all like that.

            First, chestnuts fall from the tree; there is no climbing high into the branches between colored leaves to get them.  They are enveloped in a thorny bog which needs to be removed to reveal the nut inside.  The needles on the bog are small and fine and one prick leaves a handful of embedded needles in the skin that are impossible to remove.  Clearly, this presents a problem, but one Christophe learned to overcome as a child: he would step on them.  This is not unique to him.  In fact, outside being a professional chestnut producer, this is the proper way to harvest them.  Christophe showed me how to sandwich the bog between my shoes and gently squeeze the nut out.  All contact with the bog is avoided and the nut is collected, pain free.

            It’s clearly not as poetic as hanging from a branch in an apple orchard, but it is fun all the same.  I like knowing we do something people have done centuries before us.  It is part of the culture, and a rhythm of life coming full circle.  The repetition of an act, like the seasons, is something taken at its moment because things change and quickly disappear, and then, it's too late.

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.

Pleasure of the Season: The First Tomato

“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.  They highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

It started in early April with a handful of seeds that we saved from the year before.  I planted each one individually, packed them all in a crate, and chased the sunlight around the house with them until they had finally broken through the soil.  We watched and watered them, occasionally bringing them outside when the weather was warm enough.  Slowly, they inched their way upwards and small foliage appeared.  Most of the seeds produced a plant, and we were happy with our overall success rate, for we knew we would lose more along the way before the plants had reached full maturity.

June arrived, along with the construction of a small green house.  The six inch plants were transferred outside and were deeply planted in the rich composted dirt so stronger roots would form.  They suddenly looked dwarfed, but we knew it for the better.  Each morning, we would descend to the garden to open the green house, and inspect the night’s progress.  Weeds would be removed, the plants would be watered, and then left to soak in the sun and grow.  The process would be repeated before the sun had set to close the green house so the small plants wouldn’t be exposed to the cool, mountain night air.  Most continue to thrive, but we also dealt with a few causalities along the way.

Late June brought some summer days.  It was time to transfer the plants to the garden.  One by one the seedlings were removed from their protective enclosure and planted into the ground in rows.  By week’s end, all had survived.  A few weeks passed, stakes are added, and the growing plants are gently pruned and tied up.  Daily watering became a must, even though the summer has not been as blistering hot as previous ones.  Eventually, flowers appeared which formed into small, green fruit.  We watched again, and mark their growth with daily conversations on their progress.  Then, one started to ripen.  Slow at first, but its color changed with each passing day until finally, the day arrived: the first tomato from the garden.

Pleasures of the Season: New Potatoes

“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.  In some cases, the season is quite short, other are a bit longer.  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.

In early spring, when the air is still cool and the morning fog lingers until just before lunchtime, Christophe gets the tiller out and starts to plow the garden.  It’s too early for the seasonal summer crops of tomatoes and eggplant, but it’s just the right time to get the potatoes in the ground.  By early afternoon, the ground is turned and the promise of rich dirt lies before us.  Bugs hover above the ground for warmth and we look giddily at the 30 pound bag of potatoes to be planted and wonder what they will produce in the next few months.  One by one they are placed on the earth and carefully covered.  It is not until three weeks later that we can see the small sprouts pushing the earth aside and making their way towards the sun.  Soon, the plants are large enough to be mounded and are watered in furrows weekly.  Flowers appear and the foliage grows amble all along as we ask the question, “How do you think they’re doing under there?”

We wonder, we talk about previous crops, and we wait.  Then, a moment in late June arrives when Christophe says, “Let’s pull one up to get an idea of what’s going on.”

We gather around the plant and wait for the moment to see if our work, the weather, and luck have played in our favor.  This is the moment when we hold our breath as we unearth the first plant from the garden.  Christophe pulls it up and then slowly digs around with a hoe; one, two, three potatoes emerge.  He plunges his hand into the dirt and finds four or five more.

“If this plant is indicative of what is to come, it looks like it’s going to be a good year”, he says.  We take the potatoes to the nearby zinc watering tub and rinse them off.  They are smooth and firm to the touch, we smile.  Then, carrying the potatoes, we turn back to the house and start on dinner.

The taste of new potatoes is something extraordinary -   part nutty, part sweet, and something that cannot be found in the supermarket.  But what makes them even more wonderful is the work, the wondering, and the memories left by planting them. 

Pleasures of the Season: Line Dried Sheets

“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.  In some cases, the season is quite short, other are longer, like the post below.  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.

Up until last year, we did not have a clothes dryer.  This is nothing special for the region; in fact, most people in Southern France don’t have clothes dryers.  Those who do are English.  Most of the year, we can dry our clothes outside, but we were getting fed up having our living room filled with drying laundry on rainy spring days.  So, we finally broke down and decided to buy a dryer, and we quickly discovered our living room is much bigger than we thought.  We were thrilled.  In the course of a single day, we could wash and dry our clothes just like much of the civilized world.  This was great until we tried one thing: sheets.  Sure, they tumbled softly in the drier and no longer cluttered the laundry basket just like everything else, but something was missing and it took me several turns in the dryer to figure it out.  They no longer had that outdoor smell -  it’s not even a smell, it’s more of a perfume.  I can never really say what it comes from, but I’m guessing it’s from all the blooming flowers and trees and it is clearly more pronounced in the spring and fall.  I don’t get that when I put the sheets in the dryer, and ‘Mountain Breeze’ scented fabric softeners don’t even come close to it.  It sounds crazy, but I really, really love that smell.  I love the day I change the sheets and get excited about going to bed early.  I even plot out my day so I can.  I take this small thing as a luxury, even though I’m sure many people would see it otherwise.  It is a lot easier to simply put things in the dryer, but I’m willing to work a little more for line dried sheets.  Don’t get me wrong, I am still thrilled with the dryer, the clutter free living room, and the almost empty laundry basket.  I didn’t think I would revert back to line drying anything, but the sheets convinced me; line dried sheets really are a pleasure of the season even if it means stepping back out of the civilized world momentarily.

Pleasures of the Season: Spring Radishes with Sea Salt and Butter

Also known as radis à la croque-au-sel, this typical spring dish is as simple as it sounds.  Its young raw radishes, served with creamy butter and a side of sea salt.  

I know radishes are not necessarily a vegetable that a lot of people like, but the beauty in this dish lies in its simplicity; it really is something worth trying.  Spring radishes have a very short season, so don’t wait until the middle of the summer.  This is a taste of the moment; a pleasure of the season, so to say. The radishes are crisp, have a mild, almost sweet bite, and a fresh, light fragrance.  It is when radishes mature that they develop the harshness they are more commonly known for.

It wasn’t until I had eaten a fresh radish from our garden that I was converted into believing that radishes were actually something that don’t need to be covered in ranch sauce or simply used as a garnish.  The ones in our garden now will be ready in just a few days, so we’re getting the salt and butter lined up.  Since the radishes will be dipped in salt, an unsalted, cultured butter is recommended.  It’s sweeter than the typical store bought butter and is more complex in flavor.

As Christophe has shown me, the best way to eat this is to cut a deep X into the radish and fill it with as much butter as you can.  Then, dip it in the sea salt.  The creamy butter plays off the radishes crispness and the crunchy salt subtly heightens the heat in the radish.  It really is that good.