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.

Ode to French Made Cast Iron Pot

Our three French made cast iron pots

            Of all the pots we have, I think nothing gets more use than our cast iron pots.  We have three: one large Dutch oven, one is a medium Dutch oven, and one cover skillet. All of them are enameled, which mean we don’t have to season or oil the pots regularly.

            Up until just a year ago, our local market would have the Foire au Fonte or annual cast iron sale.  It consisted of high quality, French made, no name brand pots and were sold by weight.  Two years ago, we noticed the quality of the pots had changed and they were no longer manufactured in France.  A close inspection revealed many of the pots were chipped, extremely light, and made in China.  The sale dwindled down to nothing and after years of success, the store stopped the annual sale due to lack of interest.  This made us argue it was not lack of interest, but lack of interest in a poor quality product that ended this rural tradition.  If the pot is already broken on the shelf, no one is going to buy it, no matter how cheap it is.

            This got Christophe pretty upset, not that because he is a nationalist and thinks we need to buy all things French made, but because he think the stored messed up a good thing going.  The products bought overseas were clearly inferior, but the store was trying to capitalize on the moment and switch out a mule for a horse.  It didn’t work. 

            I’ve read a lot of reviews of cast iron products endorsed by American chefs.  Some are good, but many are bad.  People were disappointed by the overseas made product because it either cracked right way or the enamel became chipped.  I think this says a lot.  I know there are some good US companies that make cast iron pots, and I am not mixing them into this discussion, but this really is one of those things that you get what you pay for.  A cheap cast iron pot isn’t going last long and there are no guarantee of its composition.  The French got this right from the beginning and have us hooked as a loyal consumer.  We are so convinced on the quality of the cast iron pots we buy that we actually have lugged them back to the United States as Christmas presents.  That’s right, I have forgone shoes and clothing to make the suitcase’s travel weight limits just to bring back a pot that was made in France.  And you know what?  I’ve never had one complaint about them.

Cheese: Cantal

Cantal is a pressed, mild semi hard cheese made from unpasteurized cow’s milk.  It comes from the Cantal region of France, which is centrally located and is about 2/3 way down the country.  It is believed to be the oldest cheese in existence and there is evidence to that dating back to the 1^st Century.  It holds the AOC or Appellation d’Origine Controlée title, which means it needs to be made within a certain region.

Cantal cheese is firm, and depending on its age, very mild.  It has three distinct categorizes:

·         Cantal jeune (aged 1-2 months)

·         Cantal entre-deux or Cantal doré (aged 2-6 months)

·         Cantal vieux (aged more than 6 months).

The best way I can describe the difference between the aged cheeses is to compare this to the terms “mild” and “sharp” used for cheddar.  “Mild” is just that; it is creamy and soft on the palette.  A young Cantal, or Cantal jeune is nutty, sweet, and milky in flavor.  A “sharp” cheese has more of a bite, almost astringent, and has a distinct character, just liked a Cantal vieux.

            There is also a Tomme version of this cheese, which is an unaged Cantal and used in aligot, a very popular mash potato dish rich in cheese.  The dish is unique in the sense that it is often made in giant pots stirred with wooden paddles for a large amount of time to obtain the desired consistency.

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.

I grow gold.

Red goal, that is: saffron.  It is the world most expensive spice and comes from the red stigmas of the crocus sativus plant.  One gram of the real spice goes for 20euro or with the going rate of the dollar, about $27 a gram.  I say “the real spice” because fraud is becoming quite popular due to its hefty price tag.  Some tests have shown it mixed with beets, pomegranate fibers, turmeric, paprika, and even dyed silk threads.  Real saffron is red, not yellow and should be bought in threads, not in powder form to prevent other forms of alteration. 

When harvested, the red stigmas of the flower are cut at a specific spot.  Above the cut, the stigma is flavorful and valuable; below the cut, it is tasteless, pale dead weight.  The stigmas are dried and shrivel to less than a third of their original size, so it is impossible to tell just by looking at them if they have been cut in the right spot.  If the bottom part is left attached, it can increase the saffron’s weight by 25%, but adds no culinary value.  Basically, it just pads the check.  Therefore, the quality of the saffron is determined by a light test called photospectometry;  it is a standards test written by the  International Organization for Standards (ISO) which determines the intensity of the red and hence the color strength or “purity” of the saffron.  Any quality saffron will have this test; if not, there is no guarantee of the product.

            This is all very complicated, and since we don’t sell our saffron, we don’t do this; we use what we grow.  But waking up to a small field of purple flowers smiling at me makes me want to dive into this adventure.  I am trying to convince Christophe that we need to blow out the lower garden terrace and take some saffron cultivation classes to get started.  After all, it is more expensive than caviar and a lot less complicated to get.

            Facts:

·         Each flower has three red stigmas; each flower produces .007 grams of dried saffron

·         It takes 150 flowers to produce 1 gram of saffron, or 150,0000 flowers to produce 1 kilo, or 450,000 individual stigmas.

·         Saffron is hand-picked; its harvest cannot be mechanized.

·         Saffron production dates back over 3,000 years.

·         Iran produces 76% of the world consumption of saffron.

The red stigmas are removed after the flowers are harvested.  They are then dried before using.

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.

Autumn's Arrival

            After a brief reprise, autumn clearly announced itself this morning with its hollowing winds and overcast skies.  Autumn is a wonderful season here (hunters aside, of course), but it is quite different than the falls I knew in Chicago.  I loved the reds and yellows of the changing maple trees and the quiet calm of the early morning as I left for work.  Bright blue skies would appear as the day unfolded and the leaves poetically floated down to the ground.  Idyllic, I know, but there were days like that, even if they were rare.  I recall the other fall days too; the cold rain, bare trees, and hard frosts.  Those days announced the arrival of winter, and even though I grumpily scraped the frost off my car and waited impatiently for the heat to kick in, I look back with nostalgia on those days too.

Living in the middle of a forested mountain range, I expected the foliage to rival Vermont with its waves of color on an endless flowing landscape.  I was wrong.  Some of the trees here, like chestnut and popular, do change color, but most do not.  They are only small yellow specs in a sea of green and brown.  Some trees, like the fig, simply drop their dried leaves, and many others, like the white oak, do not lose leaves until the spring.  I get glimpses of color, but it’s something I search for.

The wind is another issue.  It almost sounds comical coming from “The Windy City”, but the winds here are ferocious.  Fall is a very windy season, and it is not uncommon to have winds at 100-110 kilometers per hour for days on end; that is, day after day of wind at 65 miles per hour, just 10 below a level 1 hurricane.  The wind whips through the trees, creating a tremendous amount of noise which often ushers me quickly back inside.  Everything here grows or is constructed with the wind in mind; the trees bend at an angle and no window faces north.  I didn’t know this force until I moved here and still cringe when the weather announces strong winds.

But, like I said, autumn is a wonderful season.  It’s the season of gathering, of preparing, and of harvesting the rewards of hard work.   It’s about change, transition, and acceptance.  Autumn does have something amazing to offer.  It shows what nature can do; the changing colors, the violent winds, and the adaptability of all living things.  And for that, I am still in wonder of the season.

What do the French have against peanut butter?

I guess this is really a cliché, but most French people I meet do not like peanut butter.  In fact, just its name often triggers a repulsive grimace, much like my face when Australians mention Vegemite; it just looks gross.

I defend peanut butter with my life; after all, my school lunch memories consisted of it smashed between two pieces of white bread with grape jelly.  Being pulled out of the brown paper lunch bag and slightly crushed from the unwanted apple, the peanut butter and jelly sandwich was my favorite part of lunch.  That is where my life time love of it stems; peanut butter rests in my memory as something comforting and consistent, and I still revisit it as an adult.   

I was disappointed when Christophe said he didn’t like it.  He’s French for Pete’s sake, and they’re known for eating anything, so how can a simple jar of crushed peanuts turn him off?  I’ve begged and pleaded for him to try it, but he just shrugs me off. 

Then, one day, he dropped the bomb, “I used to like it as a child.  I ate it for breakfast.”

Sitting in the shock waves of this information, I wondered, “How he could still not like it?  What happened to turn him against this creamy goodness?”

After pondering this for a very long time, I think I realized why: he never brought it to school for lunch.  In France, children do not brown bag their lunches, they eat in the catine or cafeteria, where equality is practiced on each child by serving them all the same lunch.  Their collective memory doesn’t revolve sitting in the lunchroom with their half pint of milk and pulling a sandwich out of bag.  Instead, they have memories “catine classics”, like boiled endives in a béchamel sauce, canned tuna salad, and blood sausage with beat salad -  all good examples of French haute cuisine gone bad.  They didn’t have a choice, so it’s no wonder they don’t have found memories.

Despite the general dislike of it, peanut butter can be found at the grocery store, as my photo attests.  I eat it from time to time, but never have been able to get Christophe to taste it again, even at breakfast.  He tells me, “It just looks gross.”

And with that, he’s got me because I’ll never Vegemite no matter how good someone tells me it is.

What is the future of small winegrowers?

            With the wine harvest still in full swing, some conclusions have been made from the 2010 vendanges, and not all news is good.  The Languedoc-Roussillon region where I live produces the most amount of wine in France, but it has lost 10,000 small vineyards in less than 10 years.  These vineyards are on average less than 7 acres and often represent an additional modest income for a family.  Of these, almost 80% brought their grapes to a cooperative which represented 71% of regional production; hence, even small business means money.  The irony is, the decrease in acres harvested does not translate into a decrease in the quantity produced; 83% of the vineyards that remain are harvested mechanically and therefore are more profitable.

            While these are just numbers from a country far away from “2 Buck Chuck”, they do show a growing trend: small producers are being forced out and that will have an impact on the local economy and the end product.  Less money in mean less money out and quality can decrease when there is less of a choice, or does it?  If your vineyard only produces a small benefit, is it worth holding out if a better offer is presented?  Half of winegrowers hold an official label, such as appellation d’orgine protégée or indicate a geographic protection, so their quality has to meet certain expectations that are not found from its two dollar counterpart. 

Personally, I am for all the small vineyards; after all, it is the culture here and not too long ago each family had a vineyard to produce its personal wine consumption.  I would like to see all the vineyards stay, but it should not mean a loss to the winegrowers.  It’s a quandary, what should the small winegrowers do?

(Data: L’Hérault de Jour, September 29, 2011.)