La crèche

The Nativity or la crèche is the strongest Christmas tradition in Southern France.  Nativity scenes can be bought anywhere from the grocery store to an artisan who carefully handcrafts each figurine.  However, there are some major differences between the Nativity scenes I’ve seen as a child, and les crèches I have viewed as an adult. 

A few years, Christophe and I celebrated Christmas at his aunt’s house in France.  Sometime between the aperitif and dinner’s first course, I got a closer look at the crèche and noticed something odd: in addition to the shepherds and the wise men, there was a range of people in it that I had never seen before.

Christophe explained, “in addition to the Nativity seen at the Church, many families have their own, but it’s generally quite different.  See that woman there?”  He said pointing to a figurine in a skirt carrying a basket full of laundry.  “She’s the lavandière.  Her job is to wash the clothes; she’s in all the Nativity scenes in the Provence region.  This man here is the knife sharpener.  Often, jobs like these that no longer exist are represented in addition to modern day ones we still have.  For example, that person, with the blue, white, and red sash, is the mayor; he is in almost all the homes too.  There is the hermit and there is the Ravi”.

“The Ravi?”  I asked looking at a figure whose arms are thrown into the air.

“A person of simple spirit who is in awe of Jesus”, Christophe explained.  “He is there to present the idea that Jesus resembles everyone.  Many of these people represent careers that were important to the region at one time or another, and these ‘saints’ as they are called, are in proximity to Jesus in the manger according to their importance.  The crèche is symbolic and important, even to those who aren’t particularly religious because figurines like these remind us of our past.”

And with that, I was shown once again how religious and cultural beliefs are combined.  One does not dominate the other and there is harmony between their intertwined existence. Together, they present a lesson in accepting where we are now and where we came from.  Beginnings might be humble, but accomplishments can be great.  Christmas is a celebration of that, no matter where we might be.

I will be traveling for the holidays, so I won’t be posting my regular blogs.  But, I will be popping in from time to time with a story a share and I’ll be back sometime in January.

 Until then, Happy Holidays.

The 13 Desserts

We Americans might have our Christmas cookies, but Southern France has 13 desserts at the Christmas table.  The first time I heard this, I thought it was ironic since the French criticize Americans for being excessive.  My family might have had numerous desserts at Christmas, but never that many.  Then, I discovered the 13 desserts to be quite different from the sugary sweet desserts that I knew from my childhood; gone are the peanut butter balls and snickerdoodles, and in its place I have a platter filled with Mediterranean specialties, such as dried fruits and nuts, nougats, and a rustic bread made from olive oil called la pompe a huile.  The desserts consist of a vast array of complex flavors and textures revolving around earthly blends and local products, such as honey and lavender.   The colors are natural and the forms are organic, placing an emphasis on the untransformed state of the products. 

Historically, the 13 desserts represent Jesus and the 12 apostles and there needs to be the 4 Mendiants.  Those are dried figs, almonds, walnuts, and dried grapes which represent different religious orders: the Dominicans, Franciscans, the Carmelites, and Augustans.  The 13 desserts show how the area is in touch with its culinary and religious roots and how that still effects what is served at a holiday meal.

Having the 13 dessert at the Christmas table was quite a change for me, particularly since I consider chocolate to be the only reasonable dessert; however, I’ve grown to like this change and enjoy playing with the variety of flavors the platter offers.  I see the 13 desserts as a time to reflect on the holiday and see how many things the French eat and do are symbolic.  I particularly like that aspect of it; the holidays are a reflective and joyous time, and the 13 Desserts are subtle reminder of that.

Cheese: Tomme de Savoie

            “Tomme” is a category of cheese whose principle characteristic is that it is farm made.  Tommes can be made from any type of milk and are often weigh between 2 – 5 pounds.  During fabrication, the milk curds are pressed, but not cooked and are not intended to be kept for long periods of time.

            The Tomme de Savoie comes from the Rhone-Alps / Savoie region and has the IGP title (Indication Géographique Protégée) which means it must be made within the region to carry the name Tomme de Savoie.  Unpasteurized cow’s milk is pressed for 5 – 8 hours, and once turned out of the mold, is aged in caves between 8-13 degree Celsius for 1 to 3 months.  During this time, each cheese is regularly turned and brushed with salt to develop its semi hard gray rind.  The cheese itself is rich and mild, but develops more character as it ages.  It is best to serve with a fruity red wine such as a Côte du Rhône or a Côte de Brouilly.

            Tomme de Savoie is the oldest cheese from the Savoie region and dates back to the 14^th Century.  It was created by rural farmers who used the milk byproduct from butter and modern cheese makers contest that this humble origins continue to contribute to the cheese’s rustic appearance.

Come on… humor me.

For me, one of the hardest things about living with a new language is not the lack vocabulary, but the loose of humor.  In English, I think I am funny, at times I even make people laugh, but in French, many my comments fall flat.  Half of humor is timing, and I’m often still translating as the conversation moves forward.   Slowly, I’ve gotten better at this, but there another factor of humor I can’t control: culture.   Humor is cultural; a shared experience that collectively strikes a chord in our being.  Perhaps it something built upon moments in our childhood that form our understanding of an idea and it is that shared upbringing that makes us laugh at the same things.  Christophe and I grew up in completely different cultures; he’s French and I’m American.  We can watch certain films together and find the humor, but there are other films that are completely elusive.  Once, we were watching the movie Elf and he turned to me and said, “I don’t get it.”

“How do you not get it?  The man is over 6 feet tall and thinks he’s an elf”, I said wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.

“It just seems, I don’t know, not funny”, he replied.

And that is where our cultural differences collided.  Elf is a modern American Christmas classic.  It is built around our childhood ideas of Christmas, Santa Claus, elves, and the North Pole.  Christophe is from the South of France.  He grew up with Provincial traditions such as blé de Sante Barbe, the crèche or nativity, and traditional foods.  Elves existed, but they are tacking lawn ornaments.

Elf takes explaining to Christophe, and sadly, most of its humor is lost in translation but I’m still trying, and I believe.  And that’s all it takes, right?

Christmas Foie Gras



A jar of our homemade foie gras



It’s getting to look a lot like Christmas….

While Christmas trees might not be traditional in Southern France, the preparation and commercialization of the holiday are becoming as common as in the US.  Toy commercials fill the airways, perfume infiltrates the magazines, and foie gras appears in every store aisle.  That’s right, foie gras; the liver of specially fattened ducks.  Just like Champagne, it is considered a luxury item people splurge on for the holidays, and it is in every aisle and in every form at the grocery store.  It’s fully cooked, partially cooked, stemmed in a towel, flavored, and sold whole.  It covers all gams and can be bought for a few dollars a serving to a hundred dollars a serving.

Foie gras has a love-hate following, and we love it.  Not being an everyday food, we tend to splurge on this purchase, but in our own way.  We buy high quality whole foie gras, mix it with a little cognac, and prepare it ourselves.  Some might think it to be a little “too country”, perhaps even gross, but it far beats out any we’ve bought at the store.

Making homemade foie gras is one of the French holiday traditions I’ve adopted.  There are others, but this one is clearly the most gastronomical.

Blé de la Sainte Barbe

            In Provence, December 4^th is the traditional start to the holiday season.  Each saint has a day on the calendar and December 4^th is the day of Saint Barbara or Sainte Barbe.  On this day, lentil or wheat grains are placed in a shallow dish to germ for 20 days.  This blé de la Sainte Barbe is an old tradition that, if well germinated, is a symbol of prosperity for the next year.

           

Why a bowl?

            I drink my morning coffee very slowly; in fact, it’s still sitting right next to me.  I’ve always enjoyed long mornings with the endless mug of coffee coxing my brain into full consciousness. I like to take my mug with me wherever I go.  This way, I get the full, long drawn out effects of caffeine and don’t have to gulp it down in one sitting.  But now I don’t have a mug; I have a bowl: a bowl of coffee.  The French breakfast table is not set with mugs, but bowls, and it’s not for cereal. Breakfast coffee is traditionally served in a bowl which is drank entirely at the table.  It’s a completely bizarre idea to them to walk around with a coffee at hand.  In fact, it wasn’t until a year ago that I saw a travel mug for sale, and that was in a specialty store. The idea just hasn’t caught on.  The truth is the French drink coffee quite differently than Americans do.

            A few years ago, I watched the 1998 version of Godzilla. In this version, Godzilla attacks New York City and Matthew Broderick is a scientist who tries to stop it.  He gets unwanted help from a French military guy played by Jean Reno.  Who, when he arrives in New York, asks for coffee and gets handed something in a large paper cup.  He takes a sip, spits it out, and angrily demands what the heck he was just given.

            “Coffee”, was the response.

Now what’s funny about this film is how it played right into a stereotype and a reality at the same time.  To him, the coffee was weak, too large, and had no right being served in a disposable cup.  Coffee has its place at the table, and is not something to be casually transported around.   He eventually came around, and by the end of the film, was running around with special ordered lattes and mochas.  It’s a sub story to the film, but one that I noticed immediately and felt akin to.

So, we adapt to new environments and new standards.  My terribly French husband wasn’t too thrilled the first time he saw me plant myself in front of the computer with the bowl of coffee next to me, but he’s gotten used to it.  He’ll even rewarm it up for me.  I’ve gotten used to well, my bowl.  It can’t go everywhere like a mug can, but I’m trying to resolve to drink it at the breakfast table, at least most of it anyways.

Major Construction

For the next few months, the village is expected to be under major construction.  On any given day, there is a semi-trailer, 2 trucks, a backhoe, and a type of heavy haul trailer with a machine powered jackhammer attachment. 

The village is burying all its electrical and phone lines.  Nowadays, everyone starts a conversation with, “It will be nice….. when the work is done”, and it will be.  But until then, we deal with the construction, the giant holes in the ground, and the growing piles of dirt and rock that has accumulated since the digging has started. 

Construction began about 3 weeks ago and to date, two water lines have been busted, 3 walls broken, and the main phone cable coming into the village was missed by inches of being pulled free from its post by a distracted worker.  And, the workers haven’t gotten to the hardest part of the job yet- the village square, which happens to be our front yard.

            The ground under the square is zigzagged with water and sewer pipes along with control values to shut off water to a household in any given emergency.  There are growing bets of what mishap might happen next.  We’re getting nervous, and saying more and more, “It will be nice….when the work is done.”

            I just hope we get there soon, without a giant geyser springing forth in front of our house.

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.  

Running Cold

            We adapt.  We get used things that we never thought we’d do.  Our home is 600 years old, and living in a house this old presents some challenges.  The layout is not at all typical to other houses I know.  The rooms are small and windows are limited.  The construction reflects the needs of the people who build it eons ago.  Of course, there have been changes and some additions.  The living room was once the hay barn, the animals lived in the basement, and the only human inhabitable space was the kitchen.  Now, the house is completely inhabitable and has all the modern amenities needed, well, almost.  We don’t have hot water in the kitchen.  We have super solar panels that heat water for the bathroom and the washing machine, but our kitchen water runs cold.  If this was a newer house, we would have already installed a facet, and that would have been the end of the story, but a 600 year old house does hold a few tricks up its sleeve. 

It’s the question of finding a facet that would fit in the space.  The current facet is mounted to the wall just above the stone sink, which sits in a niche built into the wall.  Above the facet is the kitchen window that opens inward to the house.  A new facet would not work because there is not enough space to mount it next the sink, and because it would block the window from opening.  A small wall mounted facet is needed.  Most likely, we need two water spigots:  one for hot and one for cold.  Finding something that meets this criteria has been our challenge for the last few years.  Of course, we don't think about it every time we go shopping, but after washing thanksgiving dishes it is back into the forefront of my mind.  I’ve just gotten used to bringing hot into the kitchen from the bathroom, odd, but true. 

So, now I’m back to scouring antique and junk shops for the right fixture.  I’ve looked on numerous websites and even wonder if I can find what I need in the US this Christmas.  Suddenly, it has become my number one priority, yet again.  I’ve taken up this cause before, but time passes and I don’t find we need, and I get used to it.  We put a kettle on the wood heater, we bring in water from the bathroom, we adapt, and forget about what we don’t have. 

Thanksgiving leftovers

            It’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, a holiday we celebrated on Saturday, and we have no leftovers.  The gravy is gone, the turkey is completely eaten, and even the stock I made was finished last night.  There is zero chance of me serving turkey tomorrow. 

“How can that be?”  You might ask.  “Thanksgiving leftovers usually stick around until days before Christmas.”

Ah, yes, the late night turkey sandwich, turkey tetrazzini, turkey a la king, and even turkey inspired casseroles are all memories of meals I’ve eaten after Thanksgiving.  We will be having none of that because this is France.  There are no 20 pound turkeys; our weighed in at a hearty 7 pounds.  That’s right, just 7 pounds, and we were 6 at the table for Thanksgiving dinner.  It’s not as if we searched out a small turkey, they all come that way.  In fact, I think we even bought the largest one we could find.  Sigh…even the turkeys are skinner here.

This is quite a contrast to my Thanksgiving memories.  In some sense, having a small turkey does make things easier, but leftovers also seem to be part of the Thanksgiving tradition and nothing is easier than having dinner ready and in the fridge for the following week.  This is sadly, something Frenchgiving cannot provide.

So, to those who have not dived into the plateful of holiday goodness, enjoy the day, the games, the parade, and long naps.

Happy Thanksgiving, and save some leftovers for me.

French-giving

Roasted Turkey with Sausage Stuffing, Crème de Potimarron, Potatoes Glacée, Green Beans in Smoked Bacon, and Red Currant Chutney



I love introducing Thanksgiving to the French.  Each year, I try to have someone new at the table and each year I get asked the same questions about the holiday’s origins.  Thanksgiving has no French equivalent; it is truly a foreign idea to them and even after much explanation, it still remains to them an odd, yet enjoyable meal. 

Thanksgiving in general presents its problems: overcooked turkey, family fights, and the boredom that sets in while waiting to get to the table.  I’ve tackled those problems, plus a few more.

To begin with, there are no turkeys available in November; I repeat: no turkeys.  This means we wait until just before Christmas (and sometimes the night before we board the plane for international travel) when they are finally available at the store and plunge one into the deep freeze for 11 months.  Yes, this takes some forethought, but having a whole turkey at Thanksgiving is worth it.

Then, there are some adaptations.  I’ve gotten used to this and am pretty good at swapping out ingredients with no notable difference.  Keeping that in mind, there are no cranberries or casseroles.  One is native only to North America and the other is looked at being too common for a holiday meal.

Last, there is the French factor, and this is a big one.  This is the one that pushed me to mix it up this year; to debone a turkey, to make 3 new dishes I’ve never tried, to individually plate the meals instead of serving it family style, and to have Champagne chilling in the fridge for dessert.  And this is the factor that I think makes it the most interesting. 

Our cross culture collisions in the kitchen emerge the most at Thanksgiving.  The turkey is basted in duck fat, red currants are used for cranberries, sweet potatoes are replaced by potimarron, and somehow the ultra-traditional French side dish of green beans wrapped in bacon appears.

The dinner has become a pinnacle moment in our house.  It’s a time for us to get together and look at who we are and what we have become together.  I might not have the morning parade, the football games, and the turkey induced afternoon naps, but I do have French-giving and it has made me a better person for trying something new, taking a risk, and sharing a part of me.

That's right; I'm a third of the way to a turducken.  This has given me some ideas for next year.

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.

Would You?

I opened my door the other day to this:

It’s been cool and rainy, so wild mushrooms are popping up all over the village.  Some friends had collected more than they could eat, so they gave me some. 

“They’re good”, they said with a twinkle in their eye.  They must have noted my hesitation because they added, “we ate them yesterday and we’re not dead!”

            Not exactly the resounding affirmation I wanted when I know what wild mushrooms could do, but they knew what they were talking about, so I trusted them.

Well, I’m not dead.

            Collecting wild mushrooms is quite popular, but one needs to know what they’re doing; I don’t. Luckily, they can be brought to a pharmacist who knows with certainty if the mushrooms are toxic or not.  In the area, girolle, cèpe, and coulemelle mushrooms are popular, but I’ve also seen a friend destroy a stunning speckled red-capped mushroom claiming it to be “Satan” because of its toxicity.

            I think it’s a tricky business, and a false identification, even by an experienced collector, has happened.  However, wild mushrooms are renowned for their flavor, their texture, and have an astronomical asking price at the market.  So, I present the question again, “Would You?”





The Pork Fair

            To all my dear, dear vegetarian friends: stop reading.  Seriously, I want you to respect me tomorrow, so flip back to work, to Facebook, somewhere, just stop reading.  I’m going to write about meat, and lots of it, because this is the Pork Fair.

The Pork Fair is an annual event at the market where very large pieces of fresh pork, such as sides, shoulders, and whole hams are sold in tack.  The price is dramatically reduced because all the butcher basically does is wrap the cleaned meat in plastic wrap and slap a price tag on it.

Last chance, my vegetarian friends because the photos are going to get meaty.

Okay, here we go.

Day one's purchase - that's right.  This is only half.

 

We do this every year.  We wait until the big sale and buy all our pork at once, which is pretty intimidating when we see what it takes to feed a man. We have a freezer that we fill up at a ¼ of the cost if we bought the same products throughout the year.  For hours, Christophe cuts chops, ham, or shoulder that I put into bags and label.  We bought a butcher’s knife just for the event after I protested his one-time use of an ax.  I think his secret desire is to be a butcher. Actually, we used to do all the work in one day, but it got to be too long.  We now break the task into two purchases and two 7 hours days.  We’re still exhausted at the end of the day, but at least we’re not working until midnight anymore.





I was pretty embarrassed at the store during our first Pork Fair pushing the cart full of meat.  In fact, I didn’t, and I distanced myself from Christophe who beamed proudly over the mountain of meat as the cart it sat in groaned with every advancing inch.  Now, even though I pray not to run into someone I know at the market, I embrace our annual ritual.  I still might push the meat filled cart, but I like our yearly stock up time in preparation of winter.

             A few years back, we were cutting and bagging our way through our purchase, and since it was warm outside, we had the kitchen window open.  It was Saturday, a hunting day, and a battalion of hunters were somewhere just outside the village.  From the other side of the square, I heard a soft tinkering of bells that grew louder and louder.  I opened the door to see what the noise was about and found 3 bell-clad hunting dogs hurling their way towards me.  Luckily, I slammed the door closed just in time, but we found ourselves cornered in the house for hours by the dogs who mistook our Pork Fair purchase for a boar.  After all, they are in the same family.  Christophe laughed at me.  “If we’re stuck in the house for days, at least we’ll have something to eat,” he chuckled.

A sharpie is an essential tool in the bagging process.

Another Pork Fair has come and gone. We can relax; the freezer god is feed and will keep us happy for the year.  Now we can start looking forward to other things, like the Fat Fair.  Didn’t I tell you about the Fat Fair?  It’s got something to do with a duck… a really fat duck.

It’s Special.

There’s a word I hear quite often since I’ve moved to France: special.  I hear it all the time, but not in the manner I’m used to such as, “he’s my special someone” or “we went out for a special dinner last night.”  In this sense, it signifies something unique and I know in what sense the word is used.

In France, it’s vague and its connotation can swing in both directions.  For example:

“How was your meeting?”

“It was… special.”

“Special?  What do you mean by that?”

“It was special.”

“Is that good or bad?”

This is often met with a shrug and I’m left to interpret how the meeting went on my own.  With a language as vast as the French one, I don’t understand why they can’t come up with a better word.  The French use special when referring to just about anything: a place, a person, a moment, or more bizarrely a meal.

“Dinner at Sophie’s was special.”

Is the vagueness left intentionally so not to insult the hostess, or was the dinner a truly magically moment that transcends words?  I don’t know unless I was invited and then I could tell you that Sophie can’t boil and egg and somehow messed up a can of ravioli.  I’m direct; I don’t mix words and everyone knows what I’m talking about.  The way I see it, if special is used all too often, the word just is, well, not special anymore.

My Maple Tree

           

 I’ve mentioned that we don’t get the autumn colors like I had growing up in Chicago, and I miss that.  Sure, in Southern France, there are the vineyards which change seasonally, but there aren’t the vast forests of colors as I remember.  I particularly like maple trees, so Christophe planted one for me in the garden.  This is its first year, and its leaves turn flaming red.  I love it.  It reminds me of autumns where colored leaves fill the ground and a perfume lingers in the air.  I smile each time I see my maple tree because I know with which intention it was planted.  It works and I’m happily reminded of home.

Monday's Leftovers: Sarasin Flour

In France, Sunday lunches are sacred.  They are a time for family and friends to gather together, put the work week on hold, and come back to the table to the things that inspire.  We participate in this ritual that allows us to spend time together and reflect upon our good fortune.  Growing up, my family also had our Sunday brunches, so coming back to this tradition is a welcomed addition to my weekend.  Monday’s Leftovers is a periodical series that recaps those moments, the lunches, and the memories that are left long after the dishes are done. 

We woke up to the sound of it tapping on our window: rain.  It started again sometime in the evening and continued all night.  The sky was grey and overcast and even a quick dash outdoors delivered a thorough soaking.  The entire day was to be spent indoors looking out.

We lingered over coffee, and once finally motivated, Christophe put on some music and got to work on lunch.  Ben Harper’s Fight For Your Mind helped pull the funk away from the morning while Christophe experimented with a forgotten product he remembers from childhood: Sarasin or Buckwheat Flour.

1^st Course: Buckwheat Ravioli filled with Bayonne Smoked Ham; Grilled Potatoes and Potimarron, served with a Spicy Shallot Vinaigrette

Main Course: Duck Confit in Apple Cider with Seasonal Vegetables, served on Buckwheat Tagliatelle. 

            The rain continued well into the evening.  We ended the night in front of the fireplace discussing our future, some memories, and our impatience for upcoming holidays.

A Change in the Weather



You don't need to understand French to know what this means.



            I guess I cannot complain about the rain we’re getting.  It’s seasonal and we appear to be out of the danger zone.  Just east of us, in Montpellier, the equivalence of three months of rain few within two day and today’s weather is projected to be pinnacle of the storm.

            Christophe grew up in that city and he remembers the torrential downpours as an almost annual event.  It’s a cause by the air warming and being trapped just inland from the Mediterranean Sea - or something like that.  I’m not a meteorologist; I just watch them on TV.

            It’s stunning and frightening to see how quickly it all happens.  We watched footage of a street getting flooded within minutes.  In Montpellier, a city of 400,000 inhabitants, some public transportation has stopped running and schools are closed.  Parts of the city have shut down.

            The autumn weather here is rather precarious and treated with more hesitation than the winter months.  It can rapidly change dry, sunny days into grey, water logged hours that paralyze, albeit temporarily, one of the largest cities in France.  

Chestnut Jam

            I make jam, lots of jam: apricot, strawberry, raspberry, quince, blackberry, red currant, black currant, and chestnut.  Yes, chestnut jam, and it’s my favorite.  It is also the most time consuming and painful jam to make.  It takes about 2 hours to make each jar, and by the end of the process, my hands are nicked and burned in several spots, but it’s worth it.

            The nuts have two shells that need to be removed separately.  The inner one clings to the nut, which is as craggily as a walnut and only come off when the nuts are boiled.  This is the step that makes anyone cringe who has ever made chestnut jam.  It’s laborious and the nuts have to be handled hot to remove the shell, hence the burned hands.  I’ve searched for any method that might work better, but I’ve come up empty handed.  The Joy of Cooking explains the nuts can be steamed in an oule or cast iron pot and then rubbed and the inner shell will just fall off.  I tried it, no luck; the shell clung as tightly as before.  I found another method that microwaved the nuts.  It worked – once, and only once.  It appears that boiling them is the only way to go.

            Once the shells are finally removed, the nuts are cooked, ground, and then added to sugar and cooked again.  If this mixture is cooked too long it crystalizes and becomes uneatable, making all the previous work for nothing.  It’s a make a break moment, so it can be somewhat stressful.

            A few years ago, I decided to make chestnut jam as Christmas presents and sent the jars back to the United States.  It was the first year I tasted chestnut jam and was so enamored with it I thought my friends and family disserved to try it.  After 12 hours of work, I had 6 jars that were wrapped and sent.  One jar broke in the mail and the others were received with reluctant hesitation.  I doubt they even eaten.

I don’t regret my attempts.  Christophe is happy; he loves chestnut jam, and if I’m lucky, we’ll have enough until Christmas.

           

The Executioner's Bread

I heard the same story twice this weekend, so I think it bears repeating.  It’s said to be why the French don’t like to see their bread upside down.

Centuries ago, when the village baker made bread, he would turn the bread upside down that was destined for the executioner.  This way, when everyone else bought their bread, they didn’t touch it.  They thought buying his bread would bring bad fortune, so the baker found a way to avoid the mix up.

To this day, anytime a loaf of bread inadvertently arrives at the table upside down, someone quickly jumps up and puts it right side up.  It’s believed to be bad mannered to present a bread like this to a guest as it is a sign of being unwelcomed.

A brief, yet incomplete history





View from the alter

Like most villages in France, we have a small church.  It’s not regularly used any more, and it has a somewhat documented history.  I say somewhat because there’s a lot of gaps in the found information.  The church, St. Étienne de Sofrunys, was first noted in the 13^th century, but the building stood before that; it was a chateau and little is known about when or why it was turned into a church.

Marbled archway around the door

The building is traditional Roman architecture with an archway around the door made from pink marble, but marble is not locally found.  This raises the question as to how the marble made its way to the village.  Was it a rich baron who brought it for his chateau or a generous donation to the church centuries ago?  This is the type of information missing; information about its construction and its origins that cannot be found.

It’s not too clear either when the last priest left the village, and thus probably the last regular use of the church.  There is a presbytery, or priest’s apartment attached to the church, but old inhabitants of the village remember it as a school.  If it was converted into a school, there was no priest, but if there were enough children to fill a classroom, why did the priest not stay?  There should have been enough people to fill the pews too.

Alter and alter scren

After the French Revolution, all churches and their contents became the property of the local government.  It is the community’s responsibility to upkeep the building, but it is the Catholic Church that determines what goes on inside.  Certainly, at the time, the Church didn’t like that idea, but it was probably for the better.  There is no way the French Catholic Church could financially assume the responsibility of all the churches today.  Ours has an alter screen build around 1665 that is classified as a historical monument, which I doubt would be on the Church’s priority list if it was its responsibility.  Symbolically and literally, this contract is upheld by who has the keys.  Our church has two: one held by the dioceses and the other by the mayor.

Try carrying that in your pocket.

Autumn's fruits

This is a photo I took in the garden today.  That’s right, it’s late October and I still have tomatoes.  We live in the middle of the Pyrenees Mountains and I can still go out a few times a week and load up a small bucket.  Tomatoes this time of year are sweeter than summer tomatoes and generally have a thicker skin, which we remove, but they are still amazingly good.  It’s hard to believe, but we’ve had tomatoes as late as December.

The area in which we live is a Mediterranean climate; it may not be right next to the sea, but we’re not that far.  Our summers are generally very hot and dry, autumns are very windy, and winters temperatures can vary from day to day.  We’ve had 3 foot snow storms just after days in the 60’s.  It is overall warmer, sunnier, and drier than the weather I knew growing up.

About 5 miles away from here – as the bird flies – the climate is quite different.  There is another village on the other side of the mountain range that is very similar to one in which we live, but it is quite cold and damp.  We have watched storm clouds roll in and follow the mountain crest that circles us all while never receiving a drop of rain or a single snowflake.  The mountains create a climate that is extremely localized, either trapping warm air or creating a mini freezer, so the weather report for the nearby city cannot be generalized. This is quite different from the flatland of the Mid-West United States where I grew up.  Yes, there might have been more lake –effect snow in one area of another, but never have I seen such variance within such a small area.  It has taken some adapting, like getting used to hurricane force winds, and realizing that tornedo warnings have been replaced by forest fires reports, but such localized temperatures is something I’ve never experienced before.  And I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would ever grow fresh tomatoes so late in the year.



Just to show the single tomato above is not the sole tomato still growing



How wood heats twice

arranged woodpiles in the garden

            There is an old saying that wood heats twice: once when its cut and split and the second time when it’s burned.  I agree with that.  Christophe cuts and split the wood and I arrange it into piles.  It’s something to do on cool fall days because the work is too strenuous to do in summer’s heat.  There is something quite sensory about it. Split wood can be smooth, often has a slightly damp feeling, and there is always a lingering perfume from it that fills the air.  It epitomizes the smell, touch, and labor of autumn.

As I have learned, there is clearly defined method to putting together woodpiles.  The split logs must be placed in a certain pattern, straight lines need to be maintained, and it is imperative that 90 degree corners are established.  It looks easy, but it’s not; a well-made structure keeps the pressure balanced, no matter how tall the pile.  I know from experience what happens when these three elements are not respected: the piles crashes to the ground.  The fallen wood takes seems to take twice as long to pick up and reorganize, and while this is the annual work for heating the house, I hate doing the same work twice.

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.