Where has summer gone?

I’ve got to admit, weather wise, it’s been a crappy summer.  Everyone thinks Southern France is all sun, but the truth is it is not.  Half the summers I’ve been here have been overcast and cool, but this year has been the worst.  This month, I don’t think we’ve yet reached 70 degrees.  And, very oddly, it’s raining – a lot.  About every three days to be exact.  In one sense, it’s good because we get a break from watering the garden, but in the other sense, well, it’s raining all the time.  I can’t even dry my sheets outside, and I’ve never seen it so green.  This weather explains the bumper crop of potatoes and onions we’re having, but it is doing absolutely nothing for the 10 different varieties of tomatoes we’re growing.  I’m beginning to think I’m going to need a bunch of recipes for green tomatoes.  Not to mention, I’m getting nostalgic when I hear news that the United States is having a heat wave.  I just about cried when imagines of open water hydrants on the streets of Chicago passed before me on the TV.  “Look at those children,” I thought to myself.  “Those lucky ducks are wearing shorts and they’re sweating!”  My daily garb is a polar fleece and jeans.  I’m beginning to doubt in the existence of the sun.  The sad news is we can’t get away from this weather.  Unlike past years, it’s not localized.  All of France is well below normal summer temperatures, and we are quite often the hot spot when we read over the daily weather forecast, which isn’t saying much.  My summer is slipping away without ever really arriving.  I love the changing of the seasons, but I want to welcome autumn’s breezes after a hot summer.  It makes the cool nights that much more special and not just another balmy day in a sequence of many.  I want each season to be marked by what makes it unique.  I want to sweat – not a sweater – in summer and look longingly at a swimming pool before diving in.  I want the things that fill my mind and keep me warm when November’s cold winds blow and I hunker down under the quilt.  I want summer back in all its glorious sweltering heat so that I can remember what it feels like to be a child again running out the back door to endless days of summer.

America’s Test Kitchen 3rd “Dish It Your Way” Blogger Challenge: Salmon

This is America’s Test Kitchen 3^rd “Dish It Your Way” Blogger Challenge.  The “Dish It Your Way” asks blogger to recreate an American classic dish throughout the summer, share the recipe, and tell a story.  This week: Salmon!

After days of rain, I was thrilled to find the sun shining through the kitchen window.  “At last”, I thought to myself, “a good day.” 

I finish my coffee and happily trot to the mailbox; bonus day: the July/August edition of Cook’s Illustrated has just arrived.  I open it and scan down the list of new recipes.  Then, my eyes jump out of their sockets: “Salmon Cakes”.

“What?”

 I quickly flip to the page. 

“No”, I scream.

Suddenly, the blue skies cloud over and a chilly wind begins to blow.

“What’s the matter?”  Christophe asks when I get back to the house.

“My recipe for the salmon challenge!  They published it!  Cook’s Illustrated stole my recipe!”

“The one you made for our wedding?”  He asks with a chuckle.  “Now what are you going to do?”  He prods me with a smile.

And with that, my Ace in the hole was gone…

After I calm down, I look over the recipe more carefully.  I’m a Midwesterner for Pete’s sake, how was I to know fish cakes were such a New England mainstay?  I thought I was being cleaver modifying a crab cake recipe.  Christophe loves my salmon cakes, and I even made them for our wedding.



Look at the time stamp on the photo - 2007! 
That's four year before Cook's Illustrated published their salmon cake recipe!



Yes, that was my story.  Salmon cakes and a French country wedding….

Being a bicultural couple, we had our choice where to get married, in the United States or France - we decided on France. The road to our village of 15 inhabitants is a nine mile climb up a single lane mountain road next to plummeting caverns tumbling down into nothing below.  No caterer was going to come to us, so in a true country wedding fashion, we decided to make the food ourselves.  The main dish was easily decided, we would grill a few lambs from a family farm; however, the first course was not as easily found.  After numerous tests and many failures, I thought about making salmon cakes.  They took some work, but had the delicate presentation we were looking for.  I made close to one hundred of them days before the wedding.  Night after night, Christophe would come home from work with another salmon in his hand and I would launch into a project of deboning and seasoning the salmon before creating the delicate cakes.  When served, they had the desired effect because everyone devoured them and raved about the originality of the course.

Obviously, I exaggerated when I stated Cook’s Illustrated stole my recipe.  There are some differences, but, being that my winning recipe was published by them, there is no way I could enter their cooking competition by simply retyping their recipe.  So, here is my plan B, my quick weeknight dinner, my not so ace in the hole, but a darn good standby.

Savory Poached Salmon

Ingredients:

4, 8 ounce salmon fillets

2 lemons

1 medium onion

Freshly chopped parsley

Sauce:

½ cup butter

3 Tablespoons soy sauce

2 Tablespoons tomato concentrate

1 Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

1 Tablespoon mustard

1 crushed garlic clove

Combine, butter, soy sauce, tomato concentrate, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, and garlic in a small saucepan. Simmer gently to bring all ingredients together.  Avoid boiling the liquid.

In a large skillet, place ¼ inch of water.   Cut the ends off the lemons, and place ½ of a lemon a side for later use.   With the remaining 1 and ½ lemons, and cut eight thick slices.  Place the slices in the water and place one fillet onto of two lemon slices.  Each fillet should hover slightly over the water.  This allows for the fish to be poached without becoming water logged and losing flavor.

Next, cut the onion and the remaining ½ lemon into thin slices.  Brush each fillet with the sauce, then layer with onions and lemon.  Brush again with sauce.  Place on high heat until the water comes to a simmer, then cover, and reduce heat to low.  Cook between 10 -15 minutes (the thickest part of the fish should reach 125 degrees).  The sides of the fish should be opaque, but the center slightly translucent.  Remove from heat and plate fillet with onions and lemons.  Serve with additional sauce and garnish with fresh parsley.

And, yes, while I did not take their recipe as whole, I did adapt the cooking method from their “Flavorful Poached Salmon” (May/June 2008).  It was much easier to get the temperature just right rather than cooking in the oven like I had done in the past.

Here’s hoping Cook’s Illustrated doesn’t have a wiretap to my brain, if so, my Roquefort flavored mac n’cheese is finished and my macaroon inspired cupcakes are a gonner for their future competitions.

Monday’s Leftovers: Sunday Brunch

Monday’s Leftovers is a periodical series that recaps the moments of Sunday lunches in France.  They reflect upon the time gathered together, the memoires, and the emotions of the day.  While brunches are popular in the US, they are something new to France, so I was eager to share the experience with family and friends.

Summer has been unseasonable cool, so our plans for a Sunday Brunch in the garden worried me.  The morning started overcast, but quickly cleared and brought blue skies with a cool wind.  Christophe set the table with a tablecloth from our wedding and flowers from the garden, and proclaimed it to be champêtre, or having picturesque country charm – and it did.  Mixed vegetable strada, chilled pork roast, salmon galettes with dill sauce, homemade bread, and jams made from black and red currant from the garden, along with wild blackberry jam rounded out the menu.  But, pancakes, not crepes, were the biggest winner of the day.   Next time I’m stateside, I promised myself, I will pick up a bottle of real Vermont maple syrup. 

The meal was a time to say goodbye to visiting friends and a time to welcome family for a week.  It was filled with a mixed feeling of joy of welcoming guests around our table, but also some bitterness in knowing our friends’ goodbyes would be year-long.  It will take another July until we see them again and catch up on the daily activities that fill the days.

Coffee was drank lackadaisically throughout the afternoon, just like it should be, and only interrupted by a random tour of the vegetable garden to see the origins of some of the products on the table.  I smiled as I watched family re-serve themselves again moving from sweet foods, to savory, and back to sweet again.

Then, the cool winds of the afternoon kicked back up, so the table was cleared of what little remained, sweaters where gathered, and goodbyes were said.

Success.

The French Omelet

A French omelet is a light, savory, and delicate dish.  Simply little more than eggs, butter, and a tiny bit of filling, it is ultimately pristine with its unblemished golden yellow color.

An omelet made in France is often scrambled eggs made with any leftovers in the refrigerator, from rice to spaghetti to meat and vegetables.   It is the complete opposite of what took Julia Child 11 pages to explain about omelet making in Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Therefore, when Christophe announced “an omelet” for dinner, I was quite surprised to find parts of my roast chicken and rice from last night’s dinner floating in the scrambled eggs.  He explained, “A family style omelet is a way of using leftovers without serving the same thing twice.  They are quite popular and I ate them all the time growing up.  It’s a way of cleaning out the fridge.”  Great, but I was disappointed not to get the creamy rolled eggs everyone raves about.

In all honesty, this is a clever use of what’s at hand, but, I was hesitant when Christophe plopped the plate down in front of me.  When I was growing up, my leftovers were served to me as they were made, and with eight around the dinner table, this sometimes meant bartering for the leftover meatloaf instead of the tuna casserole.  That is how I knew leftover, and that is how I liked it – at long as I didn’t get the tuna casserole. 

Truth be told, Christophe’s omelet was quite tasty, but one day, I wouldn’t mind being served an omelet à la Julia Child, just to say, “Yes, I have eaten a French omelet and not just an omelet made in France."  After all, no other country I know has elevated the gastronomic bar so high that a masterpiece dinner can be created from a single, humble egg.

The Tour de France

My husband loves the Tour de France.  It’s his summer ritual to sit down and get lost in it for its three week run.  He talks about the cyclists, what they specialize in, and why he does or does not like them.  It dominates his topics of discussion for the month of July and even creeps into August.  I have to be honest, I’ve tried, but I don’t get it.  I know it’s a hard sport, and one needs to be a true athlete to bike up and down mountains for days un-end in scorching heat, but it’s just not for me.

Last week, I was forced to stay inside during a torrential downpour, and with nothing else to do, I found myself next to Christophe in front of the television.  I watched, and listened, and my enthusiasm for the sport did not change; however, I figured out it is something more than simply a sport.  It is a cultural event.  It is a tour of France, that is, there is an almost always picture perfect scenery on the TV screen from one part of the country or another.  Within the course of an hour, the countryside changed for rich pastoral lands to rocky, dry, climbing hills, and this was not an isolated moment – the countryside constantly changed.  Chateaus are passed every few minutes along with a quick history lesson on its origins. Historical commentators explain how those who built the chateaus lived and changed the land.  Looking at it from this perspective, it was actually quite engaging.  It gives insight to why certain products, like wine, are so varied.  Each micro-region produces a distinctive product, even though they are within miles of each other.  Even though I still might not get excited about the cyclists, I get a whole new appreciation of the French culture and countryside.  And, while I love football, I don’t think the Super Bowl has ever done that. 

Monday’s Leftovers: Veal Scallops

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 which 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. 

The morning did not bring the sun as we had hoped.  From the bedroom window I could see the clouds hanging low, covering the mountain crests in front of me.  I growl, and slowly roll out of bed.  We groggily make our way to the kitchen and discuss our day’s plan over a bowl of coffee.  I want to attack the vegetable garden; the weeds are getting to be too much.

After breakfast, I go outside.  The clouds are slowly coming down on the mountain crest, enveloping the vegetation.  I make my way to the garden.  It’s been an unseasonable wet and cool summer, and the weeds have profited well from the weather.  Within the last two weeks, they have gained ground against the cucumbers, eggplants, and pumpkins, which are slowly getting choked.

I bend down and start to pull the weeds out around the cucumbers.  I find some of the plants have blossomed and small cucumbers have formed. As I advance, I avoid stepping on the creeping pumpkin vines and am surprised by their progress despite the lack of sun.  Bucket after bucket of weeds are removed, and eventually the vegetable garden looks presentable again.  My mood has changed, regardless of the looming clouds.  I’m satisfied with my work and I once again see the promise the garden holds.  This gives me more of a moral boost than my morning coffee did.

Christophe has been in the kitchen.  Sunday lunches are his time to cook, to be creative, and to experiment.  He later tells, me, he’s been dancing to Colette Magny and Hôtel Costes which seems to have lifted his spirits despite the dismal weather.  Around noon, he makes his way to the garden.

“I need some chives,” he says.  “The garden looks great.  Are you ready for an aperitif?”

“Yeah,” I reply brushing my hands together to shake lose the remaining dirt.

We set ourselves up under the apple and hazelnut trees in the garden.  The cool weather has us in sweatshirts, but it doesn’t last long.  A few drops are starting to fall, and even after our determined perseverance, we are driven inside because it is starting to rain -  yet again.

I open the door to the house, enter the kitchen, and am welcomed by a magnificent perfume.

            “What did you make?”  I ask looking around.

            “I was actually torn between a BBQ and something a little more elaborate,” he says.  “Happily, I didn’t choose the BBQ.”   We look outside; the rain is falling to the rhythm of a steady beating drum.

            “We’ll have a salad of mâche and a chilled salmon cake with dill.”  He begins.  “Followed by veal scallops in a shallot and girolles sauce mounted with mustard, served with potato galettes, and grilled zucchini.”  He smiles. “Not bad since I had no idea what I was going to make when I fished the veal out of the freezer this morning.”

I smile back.  “Yep, not bad at all.”

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.

Amerca's Test Kitchen "Dish It Your Way" blogger challenge #2: Potato Salad

This is America’s Test Kitchen “Dish It Your Way” blogger challenge #2.  The subject: potato salad – an American summer classic.

I’m known in my family as being one who likes to cook.  I like to experiment.  I take recipes and deviate; sometimes it works, sometimes not.  I once tried “relooking” Thanksgiving dinner with disastrous results.  I learned my family is not “okay” with grilled apples with couscous, and I had to remake everything in the tradition fashion just to please some at the table.  I’ve learned there are some things you just don’t mess with.  So, I am a bit hesitant to “relook” a potato salad.  There are hundreds of variations of this dish, but one has a solid idea of what is coming to the table when the menu is announced.

Christophe had some elaborate ideas for this challenge: fried potato “nests” filled with rougaïl; mille-feuilles of potato and cucumber in mayonnaise, and even something that resembled a dinner more found in a mountain ski lodge than at a barbeque in the back yard.  I look back at my Thanksgiving dinner catastrophe as learning moment; potato salad is convivial, social, and to me, something served family style.  It does not need to be overworked and should not be served with grilled apples and couscous.  A classic is a classic for a reason, and its purpose shouldn’t change.  Potato salad should gather people happily around the table, feed them, and leave them with a good memory of the day.  It shouldn’t have your family asking, “And the normal potato salad, where’s that?”

Potato Salad… with a Mediterranean twist

·         1 pound small, whole new potatoes

·         1/3 cup mayonnaise

·         2 Tablespoons lemon juice

·         1 garlic clove, minced

·         ¼ cup kalamata olives, rinsed and coarsely chopped

·         2 Tablespoons capers, rinsed and coarsely chopped

                        Make sure both are well rinsed to avoid excess salt.

·         3 hard-boiled eggs, coarsely chopped

To avoid the green ring around the yoke, cover the eggs in water and heat until boiling.  Allow to boil 1 minute, turn off heat, cover, and let rest for 10 minutes.  Then, plunge into ice bath.

·         ¼ cup finely diced chives

·         Dash of salt and pepper

Add whole unpeeled potatoes to salted water in a medium size saucepan.  Leave skins on to help the potatoes stay in tack during cooking.  Bring to boil over high heat.  Reduce to simmer, cover, and cook for 15 -20 minutes until tender.  The potato peels should not yet be broken, but a knife should easily enter and leave the potato when pierced.

Drain potatoes and allow to cool.  Slice into quarters.

Mix mayonnaise, lemon juice, garlic, and pepper in a medium mixing bowl until smooth.  Then, pour over cooled potatoes. Stir in olives, capers, hard boiled eggs, and chives.  Chill 4 to 24 hours before serving.

If you have a hankering for a more patriotic salad, check out wild, fresh + tasty’s red, white, and blue potato salad – she used three types of potatoes!

Interested in some chicken with the dish?  Here’s the winner from first “Dish It Your Way” fried chicken challenge.

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. 

"Mon Oncle", by Jacques Tati. A "modern" classic.

We recently watched a French film classic that was rather amazing, “Mon Oncle”.  Set in 1958 in a popular French suburb, it looks at the growing consumerism, modern architecture, and efficiency of the post-war era.   It has four main characters: a 9 year old boy, Gerard, his materialistic parents, Monsieur and Madame Arpel, and the uncle, Monsieur Hulot.   He’s a bit of a clumsy, innocent, lovable character that Gerard adores, but his parent dislike because he does not fit into their gadget and superficial world.   The director, Jacques Tati tells the story of the relationship between the four without being cynical and yet communicates a concern for the growing consumerism and over reliability on objects to get done what one can do with two hands.  What is most amazing about this is he does it all with very little dialog and relies on visual humor to get the point across.  There is idle banter in many scenes, but it’s not needed to understand the point.  Just take note of when the fish fountain in the Arpel’s garden is turned on and you’ll see the point Tati is making about appearances.  Even though some of the gadgets in the film are over the top, the subject of the film transcends the era.  There is a commentary about modernization, (The name of the factory Monsieur Arpel runs is called Plastac.)  but one can’t help but laugh at the scenes and the innocence of the images.  It’s a charming film and it won’t make you feel guilty about having certain modern conveniences, like a garage door opener.  Just don’t let the dog close it on you and lock you in because the maid is just a might bit scared of electricity and won’t touch the thing.

Anyone up for a game of pétanque?

Summer has finally arrived, and in Southern France that means one thing: pétanque.  Never heard of it?  It’s a game that is like lawn darts, but instead of a beer in hand, the casual player tends to drink pastis, but, that is another story.

There are two types of pétanque: boules Lyonnaise, and the type played here: pétanque Provençal.  The name comes from the Occitan language meaning “feet anchored” and players stand with two feet together, and lob a metal ball underhand across the playing field trying to get it as close as possible to a smaller ball called a cochonnet.  Each team, or triplet, takes a turn, and at the end of the round of three throws, points are gained due to the proximity to the cochonnet.  Players can play offensively, such as by trying to land the ball closest to the cochonnet, or they can play defensively by knocking the ball of the opponent away from the cochonnet; the winner is the first to get to 13 points.

In Marseille, there is the largest competition of pétanque in the world.  It’s a round robin tournament, open to everyone.  Last year there were over 13,000 worldwide competitors and tens of thousands of spectators, including the late Henri Salvador, for which a trophy is named.

If you ever tour some of the smaller towns and villages in Southern France, you will undoubtedly see a pétanque playing field somewhere in the center of the village.  This is most likely surrounded by benches, filled with older people talking about the game or occasionally getting up to play it.  It’s a great summer long event, and apparently enjoyed better with a glass of pastis in hand, but like I said, perhaps that is another story.

The 4th of July

My memories of the 4^th of July:

Waking up early in anticipation of the local parade; the whole family at the breakfast table; my father’s lawn chair planted firmly in its space at the side of the road waiting for the parade to begin; clowns throwing candy from floats followed by the deafening roar of the firemen’s sirens; grilling; getting to stay up late and play in yard; burning cattails to keep the mosquitos away; writing my name in with a sparkler in the night air; watching the neighbor’s fireworks; the smell of sulfur; not wanting the day to end.

I cherish these memories more and more with each passing year.  I do enjoy my life in Southern France, but nothing can compare to this summer day.  Perhaps absence makes the heart grow fonder or its time just emphasizing all the good things that have past, but, I look forward to being there again one day and share my experience and memories.

When Nature Bites Back

Ever reach down to pull out a weed in the garden and think you’ve just got bitten by a viper?  If so, then you know about stinging nettle, or ortie, as it is called in French. It grows in the region and some has found an unwelcomed home in our vegetable garden.  I’ve never seen it before, so I was very unpleasantly surprised when the weed I unearthed bit me back.  I found out the little hairs that cover the plant act like tiny hypodermic needles and injects chemicals into whoever touches it and that is what causes the burning, screaming, swearing, and oh, yes, blistering.  Christophe chops it down each year with an industrial size weed-wacker, but it keeps coming back.  For those who are crazy enough, certain varieties of stinging nettle can be eaten painlessly, but I’m not willing to take that risk.  We have, however, have found it to be a good fertilizer.  The weeds ferment in water for two weeks, are removed, and then the green mixture can be diluted with water for occasional use.  It does work, but the smell of the fermented mixture is not for the weak stomached.

Stinging nettle: a new experience for me, albeit, an unwanted one.  It makes me pine for the poison ivy summer filled days.  Oh, how I miss thy.