It's All Relative

           

            Fall and early winter have been considerably mild.  The village got its first real taste of winter this weekend with snow, freezing temperatures, and winds at 55 mph.  We had the wood heater and chimney filled to capacity all day long to keep the chill at bay.  As we hunkered down in the house, I recalled times, in less inclement weather, when tourists would visit the village.  Sometimes they were from other regions in France, but quite often we’d meet people who lived in a neighboring town and decided to take an afternoon drive to explore the countryside.  They would stand in awe of the surrounding forest and mountains, but then quickly become overwhelmed in the remoteness of the village, or so they thought was remote.  I was always amused and a bit dumbfounded by some of their questions.  I’ve been asked if we have a telephone, electricity, and how we get groceries. I’d laugh it off as I pointed to my car sitting in front of the house, “I drive”, I’d tell them.  Some of the locals were stunned to find we often frequented the same stores.

The village is located at the end of a six mile dead end road, so everything starts with a drive down.  The doctor’s office is 20 minutes away, the grocery stores are 30 minutes, clothing stores are 45 minutes, and the international airport is less than an hour.  When I think about that in comparison to when I was living in Chicago, I don’t think these commutes are anything out of the ordinary.  I can recall numerous times going to the store and only finding myself stuck in traffic, all for what I thought was going to be a quick run out to get milk.  It’s all relative.  If one’s used to sitting in traffic and budgeting extra time to get to the store, 30 minutes might not seem very long, but when one drives the whole commute, somehow, to some people, this could seem like a long time to travel.

I tend to laugh off these questions, as if we live without electricity, phone, or the internet. As if we live in another time, just because we live a bit out of town.

            Questions like the ones I get from the tourists always make me think of our neighbors, Monsieur and Madame Gousse, who are quite the pranksters.  Last spring, they bought a new TV and had it delivered.  Looking around at the village, the delivery man was convinced they had no idea what they just bought and they let him explain in painful detail how to turn it on, and not to be scared of the images from the glowing black box in the corner of their living room.  They explained to him they thought it was “art”, and they were so convincing in their naivety that the poor man believed them.  They could hardly control themselves as he left, and exploded with laughter once out of ear shot.  If he had only lifted his head a little, he would have seen the satellite on the roof of their house, and if he had just opened his eyes a little he would have seen that this is not the end of the world. 

Getting back to the reality of winter though, when the cold winds blow, outside seems far enough way and crossing the street is an expedition across the world, no matter where one lives.

The Egg

The egg.  The French are known for being wizards of uplifting this humble item to culinary heights.  After all, pages and pages have written about the French Omelet and how to achieve it in all its perfection.  But there is so much more than that.  There’s l’oeuf frit, l’oeuf mollet, sabayons, quiches, custards, soufflés, and the list goes on and on.  It’s not just a breakfast item in France; it’s more of… well, it’s just more.  The cookbook La Bonne Cuisine D’Aujoud’hui, which has dedicated 22 pages to eggs very simply states it, “There is not good cooking without eggs: get to know them well.”

L’oeuf frit, or fried egg, was even part of the most prestigious cooking competition in France: Meilleurs Ouvriers de France 2010.  Considered part of a lost cuisine that is being re-found, l’oeuf frit is a 3-dimensional piece of art that resembles more of a fluffy meringue than the slightly burned and runny disc cooked in the leftover bacon fat.  Then there is l’oeuf mollet, a type of pouched egg.  The cracked egg is swirled into boiling water so the white totally encompasses the yolk so it remains only partially cooked.  When executed correctly, the egg looks like a piece of fresh mozzarella.

I’ve tried reproducing both of these, and while most of the results were eatable, they did not resemble the true end product.  I’ve been through dozens of eggs just trying to do what I’ve seen chefs effortlessly achieve in less than a minute.  Of course, I haven’t seen the decades of practice behind that simple act, but it’s an egg for Pete’s sake, it should be simple.  However, I have learned the egg is complicated in its simplicity.

France’s cuisine will always be synonymous with the egg; it continues to grace the menus of starred chefs who very proudly elevate it into the spotlight.  That said, I think it’s only fitting to end with what Thomas Moore once stated, “Yet, who can help loving the land that has taught us Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?”

Cheese: Reblochon

As January slowly moves past, and February threatens snow and cold in France, one thing is on many people’s minds: spending the winter vacation skiing.  France is full of ski lodges from high in the Alps to south in the Pyrenees Mountains, and after a long day of hitting the slopes one hungers for a filling dish as satisfying as a day on the mountain.  That is when one’s mind starts to drift to a tartiflette.  A ski lodge favorite, tartiflette is a winter time dish that consists of sliced sautéed potatoes, caramelized onions, smoky bacon, and a little white wine drenched in a melted rich cheese that harmonizes all the ingredients together, and that cheese is none other than reblochon.

            Reblochon is another cheese from the Haute-Savoie region that is Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée.  This region is north of Italy and just west of Switzerland with pastoral lands that are at least 500 meters in altitude.  Reblochon is a pressed, uncooked cheese made from unpasteurized cow’s milk; it is soft, flat, and round and weighs roughly just over a pound.  Reblochon is unique, not only for its creamy, mild flavor, but also because it is produced twice a day directly after milking and is made using milk from a single herd.

             This cheese was first produced in the 13^th Century and during that time, any farmer who rented land in the region paid the landowner according to the amount of milk produced.  When the landowner would come to measure the milk, the farmer would only partially milk the cows.  Then, once the landowner was gone, the farmer would re-milk or reblocher the herd.  The milk from this second milking was creamier and richer in fat, and was then used to create the cheese known today as reblochon.



Tartiflette



Monday’s Leftovers: Civet de Lapin

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.  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. 

Getting back into our regular routines after the holidays have never been easy, but the cold I am convinced I caught on the airplane is making the transition particularly difficult today.  I drag myself out of bed, but Christophe has been up for over an hour preparing lunch.  An inviting perfume wafts from the direction of the oven: rabbit.  He waits until I have my coffee and the fog clears from my head before putting on music: “Sex Machine: The Very Best of James Brown”.  I slowly wake up and get moving with the Godfather of Soul.

After a few quick chores, I find myself back in the kitchen, just as Christophe is pulling the civet de lapin out of the oven.  Its delicate sauce is inviting and I cannot help but to grab a spoon for a quick taste.

            “What do you think?”  Christophe asks with anticipation.

            I smile and he grins back.  “It’s awesome.”

We sit down at the table, like we have so many Sundays, and restart our weekly ritual for the year.  The day starts to feel familiar as I settle into my spot, back against the wall, facing Christophe.  It’s good to know some routines are easy to fall back into.

Menu:

First Course: Hand-Made Crab Rolls with Napa Cabbage and a Spicy Soy Sauce

Main Course: Braised Rabbit in a Red Wine – Shallot Sauce, Carrots, Olives, and Rice

Time to Break Those New Year's Resolutions: Crème Fraîche

It’s winter, so it only seems appropriate to discuss those heavy, fat laden comfort foods that were sworn off on New Year’s Day.  Among those: crème fraîche.  This slightly sweet and nutty cousin of sour cream is what broken resolutions are made of.  While we found that these two relatives can mostly be swapped out for one another depending on what continent we are on, we also discovered there are differences.  First, crème fraîche has a much higher fat content, 30-40% versus sour cream’s 18-20%, and it is this higher fat content that prevents crème fraîche from curdling when cooked.  Sour cream cannot withstand high cooking temperatures as crème fraîche can.  Second, there is a slight difference in taste.  Crème fraîche is less acidic than sour cream and slightly thicker.

            Given how the French take crème fraiche seriously, it is no surprise that one has risen to the ranks of quality of AOC or Appellation d’Origine Controle in 1986: Isigny AOC crème fraîche.  “Isigny” is not a brand, but a location.  It’s in Normandy, the Northwest corner of France and is sandwiched between the English Channel and the Bessin and Contentin marshes.  The Isigny territory is damp and mild and therefore has a lush vegetation which is why the buttermilk used to make the crème fraîche has high butterfat levels.  Translation: the cows are very well feed and the milk created is rich.

            Does this mean I’m willing to switch out my sour cream for crème fraîche while in the US?  No, given that crème fraîche is pretty hard to find and I can’t think of any recipe where the extra fat content is truly needed.  Would I recommend trying it?  Without hesitation, resolutions be damned.

Delayed Reaction

            It’s funny how people react when the unexpected arises when traveling.  Last summer on our way to Montpellier, traffic stopped to a dead halt due to an accident a mile ahead of us.  A helicopter had to land on the highway so cars were at a standstill until it could arrive.  Within moments of stopping, people got out of their cars and started picnicking.  Strangers instantaneously became friends and struck up jovial conversations peppered with roars of laughter.  It reminded me of a tailgate party.

            I had forgotten about that moment until last week when the train we were on stopped.  We were delayed in a town called Sete.  As we pulled into the station, the conductor informed us of a slight delay, and while some passengers got off, more got on.  The delay grew and as more trains pulled in to the station, more people got on board.  Soon, the “reserved seats only” train was packed like Red Line L next to Wrigley Field on a Cub’s home day.  And while there were a few grumbles when people got on the packed train, the overall atmosphere was rather pleasant.  Passengers shared sandwiches, talked politics, and discussed how the euro differs from the old currency, the franc.  The delay lasted for over two hours, and honestly, I wasn’t bother by it; I was rather entertained.  Like the traffic jam the summer before, strangers bonded together in times when the situation was well out of their control.  There was nothing they could do but become friendly. 

As the train finally got moving again, one man stood on his seat with camera in hand and announced, “I’m taking family photo!”  Everyone smiled.

This made me feel good; negativity can be catchy, but I witnessed how good will and humor is even more contagious.  It was like a little after – Christmas bonus cheer; a reminder that overall, humans are good, compassion is easy to share, and a smile can change everything.

Door to Door

I’m back.

Twenty six hours door to door.

I’m not complaining, I had an extended vacation visiting family and friends back in the US.  The journey was long, but worth every minute of it.  I know I said I was going to pop in from time to time over the break, but just like everyone else, time slipped past me and before I knew it, I found myself back in France.  Here’s the rundown on what went down:

Train, plane, family, shopping, eating, presents, chocolate, Santa, real Vermont maple syrup, bacon and eggs, Michigan, friends, New Year’s Eve, Bell’s brewery, good burgers, wii bowling, homemade pizza, New Glarus beer, standing rib roast, and the first snow of the season. 

The last came in as a shocker on the very late date of January 12^th, the day of our departure.  Chicago somewhat surprised me here.  A city that normally takes a snow storm in stride suddenly got nervous when 6 inches fell.  Our international flight out was only slightly delayed, but I learned from stranded passengers that domestic flights were cancelled across the board.

We missed mild temperatures while away, but were welcomed back with hard frosts.  Work in the village appears to be continuing, but I’m unclear on what’s been done and what still needs to be completed.  We look forward to a good year, filled with hope, love, warm fires, homemade breads, good health, a bountiful garden, and lots of adventure.