May 1st: International Workers’ Day

Besides being my French brother-in-law’s birthday, May 1^st is a very significant day in France.  It is International Workers’ Day and it is a day where all banks, public works, and most businesses are closed.  Like Labor Day celebrated in the United States in early September, it is a day that observes workers’ rights, and despite its American origins, it is not recognized as an official US holiday.  In France, it is marked with parades and ceremonies of unions from all trades.

The May 1^st movement started in 1884 when the Federation of Organized Trades and Labor Unions passed a resolution stating that eight hours would constitute a legal day's work.  The law was to be put into effect May 1^st, 1886.  When this did not occur, a protest was held in Chicago on May 3^rd 1886 and the Chicago police and militia fired upon the crowd where 6 people were killed and over 50 were wounded.  Anarchists called for a meeting the next day to protest the violence in Haymarket Square. 

The protest was peaceful, and as the last speaker was stepping down from the podium, the police order the crowd to disperse.  As they did, a bomb was thrown at the police, killing seven policemen and wounding 60 others.  The police responded by firing into the crowd, killing four.  The event is now known as the Haymarket Massacre.

The police used the incident to attack the labor movement and hundreds were arrested without charge.  Among those were eight anarchists; seven of which were tried and convicted of conspiracy to commit murder.  Four of the seven were hanged; two were sentenced to life in prison, and one committed suicide in prison.  In 1893, Illinois governor John Peter Altgeld pardoned the remaining defendants.

Now, 126 years later, the holiday is recognized throughout most of the world as a day to commemorate the struggle for workers’ rights.

Into the Mist

Spring brings a lot of changes in the weather, and one of the most intriguing is the fog.  Many mornings, we wake up to low hanging clouds that envelope the village.  They rest eerily right in front of us, distorting our view across the square or completely blocking out the mountains that face us.  Colors stops at the end of the terrace, ten feet in front of us, where the world plummets into a hazy gray.

Then, the morning mist slowly starts to burn away.  The sun fights to make its way through, sometimes it wins, other times it doesn’t.  The haze lifts, hovering on the mountain crest, revealing the lower ridges emerging with spring’s green growth.  By midday, the fog has passed; blue skies appear and colors burst with spring’s eternal promise.

Other times, the fog stays.  Clouds rise and fall like the ebb and flow of the ocean.  Moving quickly, the clouds rush in swallowing up all the color and light, only to give way again letting a burst on sunshine make its way through temporarily.  The clouds retaliate and move in with a surge of energy that gives the notion that it is a living creature fighting for its life.  It mutes out the hues and blankets the landscape again with its wispy forms.  This ballet lasts all day long, finally only giving in to the waning light of the approaching night.

 

The fog casts a foreboding air wherever it hangs; but in an ancient village, where thousands of lives once toiled to create the stone facades I now see, it adds an almost wicked dimension.  As if around any corner a phantom of a deceased inhabitant is shrouded in the mist, watching.  The stories are numerous, and the fog gives birth to ghost stories and haunting to an active imagination.

Where The Wild Things Grow

Wild Lavender

One of the things that is truly amazing about Southern France is how the climate can change in such little distance.  Our village is in a Mediterranean climate; five minutes, as the bird flies, a neighboring village is in a colder climate and battles snow storms throughout the winter and early spring.  This problem is rare for us so late in the season; we are well into spring and the vegetation is benefiting from our daily rainfall and exhibiting a magnificent tender green.  While it’s too early to plant anything but potatoes in the garden, the mild temperatures allows for all sorts of uncultivated vegetation to flourish, some just minutes from the door. 

There is a variety of wild thyme, lavender, strawberries, garlic, asparagus, and leeks that appear this time of year.  I think the wild lavender can be used to make essential oils, and while Christophe says it’s not very interesting in the kitchen, I haven’t found any information on it being consumable, so I’m pretty sure it’s not used in cooking.  The other plants however, are completely safe and edible.  In fact the wild strawberries, or fraise des bois, are quite sought after; they are also quite fleeting.  Wild asparagus is known for being extremely tender and, if cooked at all, only take a quick blanching.  Uncultivated garlic is small and powerful, and can also be used as an insect repellent, but I think I’d rather use in the kitchen.  The overriding characteristic about all these plants are their intensity; they all seem to have an amplified taste compared to their cultivated counterparts this time of year.  Maybe it’s the emergence from winter vegetables that seems to highlight their notable characters, but they have become a teaser for summer that leaves a wanting for the months to come.



Two Varities of Wild Thyme



The French Presidential Elections: Round 1

France had its first round of presidential elections on Sunday.  There were ten candidates and the two who got the most votes will face each other in a runoff on May 6^th.  The winner of that will be the president for the next five years.  There were no surprises in the fact of which two candidates made it to the next round.  The current President placed slightly behind the candidate from the other major French political party.  What surprised many was the third place candidate.  She had about 20% of the vote and is far right winged.  She became the leader of her party after her father stepped down and won a higher percentage of the vote than he did in the 2002 Presidential campaign against Jacques Chirac.  The current President has dunked his feet in her pond, and well, his results have been swimming.  He even adapted some of her ideas he first called “frivolous”.  All of this has completely mortified Christophe as it shows the tendency of what could come to France.  I pointed out that the current President came in second in this round and the other candidate doesn’t pander to these ideas, appears to be more tolerant, and doesn’t support laws that only benefit the extremely wealthy; polls are putting him ahead in the second round.  Christophe still grunted; he was clearly upset about the voting results and what that says about the French and their ideas.

I tried to stay more positive this weekend. Dodging in between raindrops I weeded the saffron, strawberries, and raspberries.  We also finally got the potatoes planted, which hasn’t been an easy feat with the daily dose of afternoon rain that has been falling for the last few weeks.  We might now know what’s to come politically, but this way, I think at least we’ll eat well.

Rural Living and the Challenges of Utilities

View from the terrace

One of the oddities of living where I do is, well, the utilities.  The lights we switch on, the water that runs, the internet that is supposed to keep me connected to world doesn’t always work as I hope.  More than once, I’ve turned on the facet to hear nothing but a dry gasp of air; found the lights flickering for a simple rain storm, and the internet go out because some phone company worker has accidently unplugged us.  And that “us” is the entire village.  That’s what happened Wednesday; I was about to publish the blog post and I found myself without the internet.

When the internet works, it has been dodgy and sporadic lately.  At the end of last year, the village started to bury all the power and phone lines into the ground; the work’s not done yet.  All the electrical lines are buried and active, but the phone lines still hover overhead.  During part of the work, a phone poll was broken, sending the once airborne, and live, line crashing to the ground.  The once very reactive and publically owned phone company has become privatized and subcontract work out, so the line lay on ground for over a week.  Temporary repairs have been made, but the line is at waist level and run next to a field where cows graze.  I don’t think I need to explain what could happen next.

This is just one of the challenges we face living where we do. We don’t like it; we accept it. There is neither a WIFI café next door nor a hotspot with a reasonable radius.  DSL internet arrived just a few years ago to the village and satellite followed shortly after.  This too tends to have its share of problems since the tower signal is known for not being strong enough to pass over the mountainous territory.  Not that I think it’s normal that Christophe has to lean over the terrace to find reception on his cell phone, or that the reception on digital television is worse than analogy, but it’s something we’ve get used to.  Living in a place like this gives a whole new definition of “normal”, which at least gives us something to talk about when the lights go out, yet again.

The “Friends” Effect

Last night we were watching a TV program where a real estate agent helps a person find a new place to live.  This is nothing new; there are a plethora of shows like that in the United States.  Like many, I watch these shows because I’m curious.  I want to see what other people’s houses look like and how they’re decorated.  It’s not high-brow programming, but made to be a distraction that plays in the background as we talk.  Most often, the clients on the program are young couples or family changing location for work or because their current living situation has become too small for their growing family.  Last night’s program was a bit different; the clients were 5 friends who wanted to rent together; they wanted to be roommates and this idea completely challenged the agent who worked with them.

The idea of co-habitation is nothing new in the United States; from college rentals to the first apartment in the city, having a roommate is common and a way to defer some living expenses.  Newspapers are filled with offers of multi-bedroom apartments and I was never given a second a glance while apartment hunting with a friend.  This however, is a relatively new idea in France.  While Christophe was a student, every person he knew had a studio apartment, lodged with family, or rented a room from a local.  This practice is changing and it’s largely due to an American import: “Friends”.

It’s funny that a common practice in the US would have such a large impact on another culture. “Friends” is a comedy; it shows all the positives of living together, so I can see why the idea is appealing.  This made me think more about the influences of American TV on the French culture.  French TV now has the whole gam of “CSI” programs and most commercials have an English tagline, even for non-American products.  In the French language, there is the adaptation of certain words, such as “re-looking” to “re-looker”.  The English word is changed by adding the French infinitive of the verb -er.  The word “relooker” doesn’t exist in the French language; it is completely created and the idea is rooted in American TV programs where a person’s appearance is completely changed or “relooked.”

I find this funny, but approach the change with caution.  Languages are living elements that change and adapt; influences flow in both directions, and the French language is easily found “Americanized” in the United States.  The influences the languages bring should be something positive and interesting. Cultures do not need to create indestructible barriers; they should be able to adjust to new ideas, but they should also guard against the deterioration of the definable differences.   If French youth want to rent an apartment together, by all means do it.  There are many positive points of living together that go beyond financial reasons; however, the influences of TV need to be taken in doses.

Le Lapin or Rabbit



Rabbit flambé with Cognac, port-shallot sauce, and mâche-roquette springtime salad



I know, rabbit is not a popular dish in the United States; in fact, most people refuse to try it or look away in disgust.  I’m certain I’m making some people wince at this moment, but rabbit is popular in France and considered to be refined and delicate, and the truth is, it is quite good.

Quite often, we distance ourselves from our food sources, eating things like boneless-skinless chicken breasts, and forget about the origins of what is on our plate; however, when presented with just the idea of rabbit, many revert back to an image of a fluffy bunny and declare it is much too cute to be served on a plate.  I disagree; I think we need to know our food sources. I’m also an omnivore and I’m willing to try almost anything.

For years, I thought I did not like rabbit.  I used to work at a French restaurant, and it was horrible.  It was Sunday’s plat du jour and I couldn’t wholehearted sell it, even to those who claimed to like rabbit.  It was gamey, had a chewy texture, and there just seemed to be something off about it.  My instincts were right because I’ve never tasted rabbit like that since. Now, I really like rabbit and it marks a meal as a little more special than average.  Christophe has a wide range of recipes he pulls out of his head and each respects its delicate nature.  Rabbit can be easily overcooked, rendering the meat dry and uneatable, but when cooked correctly, it is flavorful, elegant, and sublime.  In fact, it is not gamely at all; it is quite mild, light, and is even more dietetic than chicken.

Christophe’s grandfather used to raise rabbits, so it’s rooted in his culinary history.  I think there is something to be learned about being close to our foods sources from this example.  No one, including children, ever cringed when rabbit was served.  In fact, they loved it.  This proximity heightens the respect for what is on the plate, how it got there, and the work involved in raising or growing it.  I don’t pass judgment on how others eat; I too eat a boneless-skinless chicken breast from time to time, and not everything in my pantry is organic or healthy.  I do know at least what I am eating and why, and that should be our concise choice.

Balance

We are all pulled in numerous directions at once and have personal goals we are trying to fulfill, so where does one find balance?

There is so much to do here: work, garden, house, family, and then I go throw writing a book on top of that and trying to find an agent to take it on.  The later makes all the others look like a rigged cake walk at the county fair.  I give that a lot of time and energy and force myself to look away when other things need to be done.  Eventually, I have to throw the counterbalance and spend time trying to finish the other things I have set out to do, and that starts the seesaw effect.

 

Then, I have the constant struggle of who I am, accepting the life I have chosen here, and balancing that with the person I was when I left the United States.  There is a true struggle of where I call “home”.  I don’t regret my choices, but this adds an additional layer of difficulty while trying to fit in and yet being true to my identity.  I am who I am; I don’t try to pretend to be French, but some of things that have passed in the United States since I’ve left have truly surprised me.  I do look at things different now. 

That word, balance; it is so easy to say and yet extremely difficult to achieve.  The “what I want” and “what I need” are always in a debate.  Their equilibrium is something I struggle with, and yet I feel I have a clear picture of their differences.

Besides writing, I have big goals and one might soon be taking up more time.  We have to find balance in our budget to achieve this, but that means another thing has got to give.  Is that balance?  Moments like this present doubt and give me pause as to where a negotiation needs to be made.  A negotiation that meets my personal needs, are realistic, and that would achieve the goal of a satisfied equilibrium. If one thing takes up more time than it gives back, should it be in the equation anymore?    Is accepting it part of a realistic balance that can be maintained?  Does it compromise balance?  It’s a conundrum, and finding the symmetry that answers that question is not an easy one.

Cheese: Rocamadour

Cheese and spring.  One might think they do not go hand in hand, but I beg to differ.  Cheeses, just like fruits and vegetables, are seasonal and nothing compares to the plethora of flavors springtime brings to cheeses.  Evidently, what animals graze upon influences their milk and thus the cheese produced from it. Springtime flora is particularly rich and abundant, and the cheeses made from it can vary considerable.  One of the most popular cheeses of the season is chèvre, or goat cheese.  There is a very wide range of goat cheeses, ranging from creamy fresh spreadable cheeses to crumbly and dry.  And while I love them all, one chèvre holds a particular place in my heart: Rocamadour.

Rocamadour is a non-pasteurized cheese made from the Alpine or Saanen goat breeds.  It’s small (35 grams or less than the weight of two tablespoons), soft rind, and extremely creamy.  It comes from the Midi-Pyrènèes in Mid-Southern France and is named after the medieval village baring the same name.  In 1451, a law allowed la dîme, or tax, to be paid in rocamadour by the peasants.  It gained AOC or l’Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée standing in 1996, which means it has a controlled designation of origins and must be manufactured within a certain region.

Rocamadour has a distinct aroma.  Once familiar with it, it is difficult to miss this very present characteristic, which grows stronger as it ages.  Full bodied wines, such as those from Cahors, are well paired with this cheese.

Each year on the Sunday of Pentecost, (May 27^th, this year) the village of Rocamadour holds La Fête des Fromages to highlight the values of this cheese and those who produce it.  While I don’t know if it will happen this year, I plan one day to make my pilgrimage to pay my homage to those who preserve this gastronomic patrimony.

Monday’s Leftovers: Easter Sunday

Monday’s Leftovers is a periodical series that recaps the moments of a Sunday lunch. Easter is a particularly special lunch, filled with traditional dishes and rituals. Les Cloches Volants were particularly generous, hiding a small fortune of milk and dark chocolate in the garden.

Menu:

Aperitif: Rafale, Chardonnay, Languedoc-Roussillon, France, 2011
First Course: Smoked Salmon stuffed Sole, Potimarron, Lime Confit with Mâche
Main Course: Braised Leg of Lamb, Flageolet beans with Grilled Button Mushrooms served in a Homemade Tomato Coulis
Dessert: Boston Cream Pie

Family arrived to help celebrate the holiday. It was too cold to enjoy the aperitif in the garden as the sun dodged in and out of the clouds. Eventually, it disappeared altogether and it began to rain and to hail. A quick dash outside was required to close the greenhouse to protect the seedlings from the pounding weather. Once back inside, I warmed myself in front of the wood heater as it chased away the dampness trying to creep its way inside.

Lunch started with seasonal flare: mâche, a springtime salad. This was followed lamb, a both traditional and symbolic dish. Braised for nine hours, it was graced with a very personal touch: homemade tomato coulis from last year’s garden. Pleased with the dessert I never made before, Boston Cream Pie, I determined it was worth the work and nine eggs to create it. As the afternoon hours weaned, we finished the meal with the joyousness the holiday celebrates, and a ray of sun broke its way out from under the cloud signaling the change of weather and the promise of new life in spring.

Easter Preparations

We’re in full swing getting ready for this Easter weekend. In France, the Monday following is also considered part of the holiday. Christophe is planning on serving a leg of lamb. Often served medium-rare, he has found a recipe that takes the dish in an entirely different direction: it’s braised for nine hours. He’ll get up sometime around 3 am to prepare the dish and put it in the oven so it’ll be ready for lunch. This isn’t the first time he’s done this; he stumbles back into bed about 20 minutes later and we wake up to the odor of lamb slowing cooking in the oven. It smells delicious, but it is a bit discombobulating to have dinner odors fill the kitchen when I’m still hovering over my coffee.

I’ve decided to tackle a Boston Cream Cake for dessert. The recipe calls for nine eggs. Nine eggs! I’ll be making it in advance since the oven will be occupied for much of the day. Holidays are often a ballet around the oven; things going in and coming out under a carefully watched eye. Luckily, Easter is more about the main dish rather than having a bunch of sides, so I find it to be much easier in comparison to Thanksgiving, for example.

Unfortunately, there will be no egg dying. It is common in Northern France, but I don’t think I could even find an egg dying kit here because it’s not traditional in our region. Part of Christophe’s family is from the north, so he recalls coloring them as a child with crayons, but he mentioned how he’d had to be very careful so they wouldn’t break. I had to think about this for a while, but then I realized, they were coloring raw eggs.

And thinking of eggs, I haven’t seen a white egg in France, ever, not even once. It’s just the issue of what type of chicken lays the egg, but all the eggs I’ve seen here are brown. This has led me to a question, “How well do brown eggs dye?” While I’m certain the brown eggs take the dye just as well as the white, it’s the starting point that might make the difference. Artists start with a white canvas for a reason, so I think using a brown egg would lead to some mucky pastels. Regardless, I think it’s a better approach than taking the risk of having a raw egg break all over me and my fat purple crayon.

Voilà, just some of the random odds thoughts that fill my mind as I still marvel over the idea of a cake that needs nine eggs.

Vegetable Tarts

I love tarts, more specifically, vegetable tarts. I prefer their heartier flavors to their fruit counterparts that tend to get watery as they extrude all their juices while cooking. I ate vegetable tarts from time to time before I moved to France, but they have now become a staple in my kitchen. Tarts just seem to be a terribly French thing; they can be seasonal and add flare to an ordinary vegetable. I can’t point to just one thing about them, but there is really something about vegetable tarts that I can’t seem to get enough of.

In summer, there are zucchini tarts, followed by tomato and onion tarts. In the fall, there is a potiron tart, which is like a pumpkin and the only tart that slides into my annual lineup that is more sweet than savory. By winter, potatoes are sliced and stuffed between pastry dough and topped off with a quick spoon of crème fraîche. Spring rolls around and leeks and asparagus are given my full attention. What’s not to like about them? Nature has given me an endless array of things to put into pastry crust – and they’re all good.

Tarts are not a pie, and it is more than just the shallower pan that defines that. It appears the delicateness of them, along with the balance of pastry and filling, that does. In a pie, the filling takes center stage, but a tart seems to strike a balance between the two. Maybe that’s the French thing about it, “tart for dinner” sounds a bit more sophisticated than “pie for dinner”. There is a duality of indulgence with sensibility, which seems to work. So when asked, ‘Do you want a leek tart for dinner?” My only response could be, ‘Don’t mind if I do!”

It’s Tillin’ Time!

Two trailers of manure and 17 wheel barrels full of compost later….

The garden has been tilled and is ready for early plantation.  After some predicted rain later this week, the potatoes, onions, and shallots will be planted.  Christophe has a beast of a machine that he maneuvers through the garden, devouring any weed left in its path as it tills the dirt.  We’ve had some problems with mole tunnels, and unintentionally, Christophe broke through to the burrows and sent a small mole flying.  Surprisingly, it flipped over the tiller’s gears unharmed, and Christophe moved it to find a new home in the woods below.

Turning the garden is always an anticipated moment.  The day marks for us the start of a new season and the hope of what’s to come.  It’s very physical, full of dirt and sweat, but it allows us to plant our dreams of tomorrow, think of the maybe and what ifs, and what some hard work might bring.