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.