Apple Pickin’

There’s nothing wrong with going to an orchard to pick apples, but nothing can beat walking out the front door and finding this in a matter of minutes:

Harvest Time

Autumn is great; time to get the sweaters out, anticipate a crackling fire in the fireplace, and reap the benefits of all the summer work.  But, when it’s time to gather and can, it’s like a tidal wave of work.  The weekend was spent in nonstop preparation for the winter.  I made 3 quarts of tomatillo sauce, 6 ½ quarts of tomato sauce, 4 jars of quince jam, two trays of dried quince pâte (It’s like a thick fruit bar without the cereal jacket.), and 4 jars of blackberry jam.  When it’s time, it’s time and sometimes that means a marathon course in the kitchen.  If not, the blackberries go moldy from a sudden rain storm, the tomatoes rot on the vine, and the quince get devoured by worms.

And what was Christophe doing the whole time I was toiling away in the kitchen?

Chopping wood because you don’t do that after it gets cold either.



1 bucket of tomatillos



This is one of three buckets, plus the onions and eggplant for the sauce.



So far, I've only gotten half way through the box of quince.

Finally, a finished product: cooling blackberry jam.





Wood heat

Wood in the garden

There you have it, while heating season hasn’t started yet wood season has.  We heat by wood and we don’t buy it, we collect it from fallen trees in the area.  Autumns can have warm days, cool nights, and can last pleasantly long.  Sometimes, we don’t light the first fire until October and when we do, we only heat in the evening as a question of comfort rather than need.  On the other hand, this mid-season can also be cold and wet, so we need to prepare while the weather is still good.

For the last two months, Christophe has been collecting wood for the season.  If a tree is cut, it’s too fresh to burn that year, so it’s left to dry.  This year, he’s collecting fallen trees for this year’s heating season and cutting some with neighbors.  Basically, he’s working two years of wood at the same time, but that’s common, at least for Christophe.

Once the wood finally makes it into our garden, it is cut, split, and stacked.  I cannot say exactly how much wood we burn.  In France, wood is measured in stère or in cubic meters, not cords, but I can say when it runs the entire length of the garden wall Christophe stops worrying if we have enough.  How many cubic meters is that?  He has calculated that, but like any heat source, it’s used in relationship to the weather, most of the time that is enough, but there are exceptions.  Late last winter, it was terrible cold, and we burned through stacks of wood in no time; however, up until December, we only light the heater in the evenings.

For those who don’t heat by wood I’m certain this idea is a bit archaic.  Some think we contribute to deforestation, but the forest gains 5% of agricultural grounds each year and needs to be trimmed back; after all, France is an agricultural country.  And, most of our heating wood comes from fallen trees.  We are actually cleaning the area by removing dead wood that could contribute to a forest fire.  Our heater, or poéle, has a double combustion, meaning it re-burns gas that escapes from the burning wood; the CO2 output is as minimal as it could get.  

Then there are others who think heating by wood is rather romantic.  Honestly, it is, after you get past the cutting, splitting, stacking, and hauling it in everyday.  Heating by wood simply is what it is: hard work, but there’s a satisfaction is knowing it’s done and turning up the heat by throwing another log in the fire isn’t going to change the heating bill – as if we have one.

Wood season

Wood season is starting, get your axes ready…

Appreciate the Silence

I was in Montpellier recently and noticed this sign:

It means:

Appreciate the Silence

With a little less noise, we listen better.

I find this to be a noble effort on the city’s part, even though it will likely have little to no effect on decreasing the noise level.  Montpellier is a city that can be rather loud, relatively speaking.  It’s not New York or even Chicago, but I understand its reasoning behinds such a campaign.  Montpellier has thousands of students, constant traffic, and the city is also trying to fight a growing trend – smoking outside bars.  Indoors, smoking is no longer permitted, so many patrons move curbside, and along with them, comes the noise.  Sometimes, there are more people outside than inside and once quiet neighborhoods have become louder than Wrigleyville after a Cub’s home game. 

I do recall my life back in Chicago, and I did (gasp!) live in Wrigleyville once.  I learned to block out the sound of the bars’ closing time or the 4 am rounds of the garbage trucks.  I got used to it, just as now I’m used to the quiet.  At night, I’m woken up by the sound of wind or rain.  The worse is a fox howling, which sounds like an old asthmatic dog with laryngitis, but I prefer that over the sounds of neighboring bars and PBR induced monologs about philosophy as patrons are shuffled towards the door.

So, I like the idea of instilling into society a conscience of neighbors, the sounds produced, and the effects all that noise has on society and how it reacts.  If Chicago, New York, or Montpellier could be silent for just a few minutes, there would be a greater appreciation for what is shared and why.

As Mark Twain once said, “Noise proves nothing” so why not try proving something by just being quiet?  I think Montpellier is right in its idea to try to make the city a little quieter.  We do hear each other better when we learn to listen and appreciate when nothing is said at all.



Why Never to Plant a Fig Tree by the Front Door

The fig tree was here long before we were, and while we love it, there is a 2-3 week span when we regret having it so close to the house.  Here are a few reasons:



Reason 1

 

Reason 2



Reasons 3 and 4



Reason 5

You get the picture.

As you can see, ripe figs fall and decorate our walk like confetti decorates a bar room floor on New Year’s Day.  They’re everywhere and navigating past them without stepping on one, which would send us sliding to the ground in a heartbeat, is like navigating through a landmine.  The overly ripe fruit draws the attention of every bee, wasp, and hornet in the area and they create a deafening sound as they feast on the fallen fruit.  Each morning, we clean up a new batch of fallen figs, wash down the walk, and then the tree sadistically drops more fruit as we turn our back and haul the bucket full of rotten figs to the compost.  I wish there was smell-o-vision because there is a particular odor that I just cannot completely describe.  Yes, it’s the smell of ripe and rotting fruit, but it makes me think of hard cider and what the inside of a brewery smells like.

There you go- fig season.  Not my favorite, but the season will quickly pass and then we’ll have – winter.

It’s closer than you think.

Pleasure of the Season: Blackberries

Wild blackberries on the lower terrace in the garden.

“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.

The garden fruit has had its season, so now it’s time to turn to nature for the next round of jams: blackberries!

Wild blackberries grow throughout the village.  This can be blessing, but their thorny bramble does make them more of a weed than a welcomed vagabond.  Blackberry picking is one of my more painful berry experiences since I often get caught trying to get the upper most berry on the bush.  Getting unstuck is like a masochistic game of Twister.  One blackberry plant has thrived on a lower terrace of the garden for years, so we don’t bother it since it does seem to keep to itself and it does give use some fantastic blackberries without any tending.

The blackberry season can vary.  A few damp or rainy days can end the season abruptly, rending the berries moldy, or a long hot, dry spell could shrivel them up to nothing.  When I had more time, I would gather the berries in the morning and make jam in the afternoon, but now, I gather them when I can and freeze them until I have enough to merit a jamming session.  Perhaps not the most purist way to start the jam, but it’s clearly the one more adaptable to time restraints.  The berries freeze well and those that have not been earmarked as a breakfast item are often found on a tart later in the year.

Why I like the French Post, or Why Private Couriers in France Stink

I guess I had bought into the hype when I thought using a private courier, like UPS or Fedex, was better than the post office.  The US Post Office has a reputation and when I moved to France, I transplanted that image.  I was wrong.  The mail couriers play a vital role in French rural life; they do more than just bring the mail.  For many, this is the only person seen all day.   They bring news of life elsewhere, weather on the other side of the ridge, and sometimes, bread from the bakery.  There are many changes happening to the French postal services to conform the EU regulations, many not for the better, but I will always choose this public service over private every time.  The reason is simple: they bring me my mail.  It’s an easy thing, but strangely enough, private services cannot seem to wrap their heads around that idea; a service paid should be a service delivered – pun intended.  Allow me to illustrate:

We recently ordered an item online, which I found in the hands of my three year old daughter when I picked her up from school.  Earlier that day, the driver had called to see if I would be home, and in my excitement about the first day of school, said I would be available until the end of the school day.  My daughter’s school is in a nearby town, more conveniently positioned on his route, so he took the liberty of interrupting 100 students who most likely confused the doorbell for recess.  I wish I could say this is the only time a problem has happened, but it isn’t.

After getting married, I got a new passport from the US Consulate in Marseille.  I was required to use a private courier and sign for the package to insure it would be received.  I never got a chance to sign for it.  It was given to a village resident who falsely presented himself as the mayor and the courier handed it to him without question, or my signature.  He in turn, handed it off to someone who eventually gave it to me.  That’s right, an American passport, highly prized for its price on the black market, passed through at least two hands before I got it.

And of course there was the time when a courier flat out refused to deliver to us saying it was too far and “gas costs money”.  We had to call the company we ordered business supplies from to finally get the delivery through.

This is just a small example of what has happened.  The large couriers outsource their deliverers which get outsourced again and we have some John in a run-down pick-up truck complaining about where we live.  Private couriers in France stink - period.

Did I tell you about my wedding dress I bought in the US and had shipped to me in France?  It came to me in one piece, uncrushed, and without a complaint.

I used the post office.

The Patisson

Smaller patissons can be seen forming over the right patisson.

This odd vegetable has graced our garden for the last few years; the patisson.  It is also called the pattypan, scallop squash, granny squash, and the bonnet-de-prêtre.  A first, I didn’t know what to do with it, but I’ve found that the more I use it, the more I find uses for it.  It’s in the squash family, but don’t mistake it for a butternut or acorn.  It’s more like a zucchini, but firmer and nutty in flavor.

Besides running around the kitchen playing Pac Man with them, (Come on, they do look like the ghosts, don’t they?) I’ve stuffed them, put them on pizza, sautéed them, and put them into every dish possible.  We have both the yellow and white varieties, but I find the yellow to be more prolific and more resistant to diseases.  The plant itself can be 5 feet in diameter, so I feel rather successful as a gardener when these giant Amazon like plants quickly fill any empty space left in the garden.  I’ve found little history and background on them, expect, according to Wikipedia, the name comes from “a Provençal word for a cake made in a scalloped mould”.

Close up

Monday's Leftovers: Autumn’s Presence

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. 



Sautéed Salmon, Patisson-Eggplant-Tomato Lasagna, Tomato Confit



Literary overnight the weather changed from a scorching 95 degrees to blustery weather in the high 50s.  Autumn announced itself very profoundly and reminded us what waits just around the corner.  Grey clouds crammed the sky while 55 mile an hour winds whipped around.  We ventured very little outside.



Early September is normally the ideal moment of fall: cool nights, hot days, and harvest time.  This is late fall weather, not early September.  The calendar calls for daily garden tours and menus revolving around what is ripe, but the weather is screaming, “Turn the oven on and slow cook something with a heavy sauce”.  Lunch fell somewhere in the middle.  Christophe slow cooked fresh tomatoes and for the first time in months, we were happy to have the radiant heat from the oven.  The aperitif was sipped indoors, windows closed, and sweaters were dug out from the back of the armoire.  The temperatures are predicted to climb back to seasonal norms by the end of the week, but we were quickly reminded what lies ahead and why we should revel in the end of the summer while we still have it.

Menu:

Entrée: Sautéed White Patisson, Eggplant, Toulouges Sweet Onions, on Napa Cabbage

Plat Principal: Salmon Filet with Fennel Sprouts, Vegetable Lasagna, and Tomato Confit