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.

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.

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.

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. 

AVALANCHE!

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

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. 

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