French Mustard Glasses

Fact:  a lot of mustard sold in France is actually sold in drinking glasses; this type of packaging includes cornichons (pickles) too.  Similar to the fast food give-away gimmicks I collected as a child; these glasses mark the childhood of almost every French person, albeit the head of Mayor McCheese is not etched into the glass.  Some people hate them, some love them, but they come in as many styles as there are tastes.  There are series with popular cartoon characters, colored glass, clear glass, stemware, and even cocktail glasses.  When Christophe bought the house over 10 years ago, the house was filled with odds and ends, including a cupboard full of old mustard glasses.  I’ve been using them for years and never knew what I was drinking out of.  I like them, but honesty, we rarely buy mustard in small enough quantities to get a glass.  We buy family size, even though there are only three of us, and one doesn’t even eat mustard.  We cook a lot with it and bring jars upon jars of it back to the States with us every year because real Dijon mustard is hard to find.  The small jars we do buy are yellow mustard; a must have when we have American style hamburgers.  Yes, the glasses are just a marketing scheme, but they work, just like Ronald McDonald plates that come out every year from my mother’s cabinet or the flavor themed kool-aid plastic cups that are stacked up high somewhere in the back.  I’m not going to go out and try to get me the full collection, but if a nice one comes along that can hold a few ice cubes and a health splash of bourbon, I’m keeping it.

Chestnuts

Oh precious chestnut, why do you taunt me so?

Chestnut season is here and they fell to the ground by the hundreds this last week as the autumnal winds kicked up.  I gathered a large bowl full and then spent the entire next day making jam from them.  I’m not exaggerating; it took four hours to get their shells off: two hours for the first layer and another two hours for the second one.  I’ve tried just about everything to speed up this process: steaming, boiling, and even freezing the nuts to see if I can get the shells to pop off like a peanut shell, but no luck.  (Happily, peanuts are much easier to shuck, or I would have grown up eating jelly and jelly sandwiches.)  That’s before they’re boiled and ground, which is not even the final step of adding sugar and cooking the concoction.  It’s long work and by the end of the day I’m completely feed up, but it’s worth it at the breakfast table.  We’re already ¾ of a jar down from the five I made.  Christophe is hinting that I should have another go at it before the ground freezes; I’m hinting he should attack that “honey do” list I posted on the fridge.  Neither of us is budging, for the moment.  But, I’ve got an ace up my sleeve: I have just over 4 jars to wait and then we’ll see what can be negotiated.  I'm thinking....painting!

Cheese: Morbier

Given the abundance of cheese France produces, I’ve decided to tackle the subject once a month in a series of posts that bring some of the lesser known cheeses, (at least outside the France borders) into focus.  Some cheeses have a complicated history which I try to boil down to what makes them unique and notable, and others simply developed from “farm cheeses” made to be consumed where they were produced.  Either way, “Cheese” gives me a chance to explore one of the gastronomic delights of France and justify my excursions to a cheese monger as “research”.  And the research can be oh, so grueling…

Don’t let the blue line fool you; this cheese has nothing to do with Roquefort or other blues.  In fact, Morbier very mild, delicate, and slightly nutty.  The line that runs through the center is its foremost characteristic.  As the cheese was produced, a layer of protective ash was placed over the curds and then finished off with additional milk gathered in the evening.  Nowadays, the layer is decorative, vegetal in origins, and tastes no differently from the rest of the cheese.

Morbier is made from cow’s milk, most often non-pasteurized, and is considered a semi-soft cheese.  The milk is exclusively produced from two types of cows, the Montbéliarde and Simmental Française whose diet is uniquely pastoral grass and hay.  The cheese is named for the village of the same name in the Jura Mountains of the Franche-Comté region, not far from the Swiss border.  Morbier received AOC (Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée) standing in December 2000 and since then its production has tripled to over 9,000 tons annually.

 

French Onion Soup

French Onion Soup – or where I’m at, it’s simply called onion soup.  As for its history, there are as many versions as there are websites that turn up on a search, so I’m not going to even attempt to sift through and find the real story.  What I do know is, the caramelized onion – beef broth- cheese topped soup we call French Onion Soup originates from Lyon and was a humble way of feeding a peasant family with limited resources.  But honestly, besides its geographic roots, that could be said for the origins of most any soup.

French Onion Soup as we know it is real, but the true version is a far cry from the pub served watered down broth covered by inches of plasticized melted cheese. From my understanding, there are two versions.  One is the beefy broth we know made with caramelized onions, a slice of baguette, and topped with a thin layer of Gruyère cheese.  It is common, everyday food and too ordinary to grace a bistro menu.  The other, soupe à l'oignon, is a late night snack quickly whipped up after some hardy drinking intended to rehydrate and place something in the stomach before passing off to sleep.

I actually got a kick out of serving the beef broth based French Onion Soup to my French family.  We had a laugh when I called it “French”, as if I’d bring an “American Pot Roast” to my mother’s table.  Gastronomically, there are some stereotypes and as a two culture household, we enjoy poking fun at both, like knowing sandwiches a l’americaine, or topped with fries only exists in France or that French Onion soup is simply called dinner.

Will there be rain?

There’s talk of rain, and lots of it.  An air front is moving up from Spain loaded with water which is going to get blocked by a northern air mass, thus stalling right above us.  Autumnal showers are common, but this is expected to pass the norm.

It’s funny what the weather makes you do.  We prepared by bringing in heating wood, tarping the wood pile, putting some final garden items away, and taking down the laundry from the line.  There was a bit of a charged energy in the village; other people were doing the same: preparing.  It reminds me a bit of preparing for a Chicago blizzard; milk was bought, the pantry was stocked, and the shovels were placed at the ready.  Then, we sat, looking out the window and watched in anticipation, squealing with joy when the first snowflake appeared.  Right now, we’re at the window, staring up at the clouds to see what they will bring.  So, we wait.  It’s supposed to arrive Friday, but the weather has already been all over the map.  This morning it was gray, overcast, and a bit damp, but now it’s sunny, mild, and windy.  It’s as if nature isn’t sure itself what it will do.  The weather has been finicky just about everywhere this year, and this brewing storm is no exception.  For now, I say bring it on; we need the rain, and this childlike giddy of a meteorological wonder is exciting, but ask me after a few days of being housebound, having burned through all our dry heating wood, and being feed up of being wet, and I might change my mind.  Reminds me of after the snowstorm…

Pickled Peppers!

Hot Peppers: I decided to continue with my vinegar theme and pickle them.  The peperoncini, jalapeño, and hot lemon peppers ended up being a late crop, much later than I expected, so we didn’t get to enjoy them until now.

Contrary to expressed concerns, the hot peppers in my garden have not taken over indigenous plants.  Any future concerns about the French cuisine being later known for its use of hot peppers should be nullified.

(Note to self: Next time you decide to boil vinegar, do so when the weather allows you to open the windows.)

And sometimes Friday.

United States had the most hits this week, so it's the darkest green,
but any shaded country is where a connection was made too.

 

Some of you might have noticed I’ve missed a few Friday posts over the last month or so.  I sweated about the first one, but then I noticed the world didn’t stop and people still came back to the blog without a complaint.  Then I missed another, and another.  I don’t like saying I’m going to do something and then let slide, so I’ve decided to make a minor adjustment: and sometimes Friday; that is, I’m changing my statues from “Lynn blogs every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to and sometimes Friday.”

The change is all in the wording.  I’ll still blog on Fridays, but I don’t want to set myself up for something that might not happen every time.  This way, when I do post, it’s more of a bonus than a letdown; a positive spin, so to say.

Life: that’s the reason for the change.  Like you, I’ve got responsibilities and I want to live up to them.  I want to experience the moments I share, not just hear about them from others. I’m going to be taking this time to research a few more agents, look into independent publishing, and after some serious nudging, start my next book.  I’ve got a few chapters ideas in my head that need to be jotted down anyway.  I might even try to weasel in some cooking.

I’m thrilled for the following I have, and am overjoyed with the worldwide support I get.  I see it all on a global map blogspot provides me. I get to see what posts are popular and where the hits come from. For examples, hits from the United States: clearly my friends and family and hopefully, some agent checking out my work; hits from Ireland: friends of old who I’ve never forgotten and a time I hold dear; Australia: perhaps some family, and then there are the many others from Russia, Africa, and South America which I may never know the face behind.  Regardless, I love the support and hope my blog is providing those outside France the “French touch” they are looking for and some insight on the daily ins and outs here.

So, I’ll be back on Monday, perhaps with news of the weekend, a lunch menu, or just a funny story to share.  The same goes for Wednesday, and sometimes Friday.

The Courge Report

Even after a summer of chasing a fox out of the garden, we had a pretty good courge or squash harvest.  We lost one potimarron plant to the animal’s digging, but the rest made it through the intruder’s nightly drama.  In addition, we planted butternut.  It’s growing in popularity in France and Christophe discovered it the first time a few years ago on our annual return to Chicago.  He was thrilled we finally were able to add it to the garden.

All in all, we have 12 potimarrons, and two more are still ripening in the garden.  Christophe already used one butternut squash, but 12 remain.  In total, we have 31 pounds of potimarron and 28 pounds of butternut – then a friend gave us a pumpkin from his garden which is the ballpark of 20 pounds.  It doesn’t take a math degree to see we have over 70 pounds of squash – the birth weight of a baby hippo.

I can see the Forest Gump-like jokes coming on: squash soup, squash bread, curry squash, sweet and sour squash, squash and squash cookies, the list can get pretty long.  So, bring it on – I’ve got 70 pounds of squash to cook with and can use a few more recipes.

Monday’s Leftovers: Autumnal Lunch

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. 

Monday’s Leftovers: Autumnal Lunch

Ahh… the real fall has returned.  Not that the rain and afternoon fog are not real, in fact, they are quite typical autumnal weather, but I’m referring to the fall weather that lets us sit outside, count the leaves as they fall for the pear tree, and enjoy the changing of the season.  The morning was filled with seasonal chores such as racking leaves and preparing to bring the potted plants inside.  The yearly, “clean-up to close-up” move has started as summer gear is moved into the basement.  Christophe will complain about the clutter for months and only be happy again when everything is moved back outside – next summer.  Until then, I ignore the complaints.

Inside, Christophe is working on clearing out the freezer, so he dove in and found some rouget filets and a bag of stewing beef that dates back to God knows when.  He attacked one of the butternut squash before I could snap their group photo, but he came up with a dish that brought together many products of the season: mushrooms, squash, and grapes from last week’s vendanges. 

Boeuf de saison à l’échalotte et aux champignons, velouté de butternut et ses raisins.

Stewed beef with shallots and mushroom, butternut velouté, white grapes.

 

I do this everytime! I eat first and then remember I need to take a photo!
Rougets fillet in rouille.

Cheese: Pont-l’évêque

Given the abundance of cheese France produces, I’ve decided to tackle the subject once a month in a series of posts that bring some of the lesser known cheeses, (at least outside the France borders) into focus.  Some cheeses have a complicated history which I try to boil down to what makes them unique and notable, and others simply developed from “farm cheeses” made to be consumed where they were produced.  Either way, “Cheese” gives me a chance to explore one of the gastronomic delights of France and justify my excursions to a cheese monger as “research”.  And the research can be oh, so grueling…

 

 

Pont-l’évêque

The history of this cheese can be traced back to the 12^th Century when it was called “angelot” and then later “augelot”.  Mentioned in Roman de la Rose by 13^th Century author Guillaume de Lorris, it did not receive its name Pont-l’évêque from its village of origin until the 17^th Century.

Pont-l’évêque is a cow’s milk cheese from Normandy in the department of Calvados.  Here’s a little thing to remember about Normandy: it’s at the northern most tip of France. The weather cool and damp and that produces very rich and abundant vegetation.  This is cow country; the gastronomy is rich in butter and creams and it is home of some widely popular cheeses, such as Camembert and Brie.  So, when presented with a cheese from this region, you can be almost guaranteed it’s made from cows’ milk.

Pont-l’évêque is characteristically square.  It is creamy, nutty, and has a pungent odor that develops as it ages.  It received AOC or l’Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée in 1972, signifying its origins and manufacturing must be with a certain region.

“Les bonnes tables étaient toujours garnies au dessert de fromage angelots”.  Guillaume de Lorris, Roman de la Rose, 1225.

“The good tables were always filled with desserts of angelot cheese”.

 

The Wine Harvest

It’s been a busy day with les vendanges, or wine harvest, and I’m a little short on words and energy, so here are a few photos of the day instead.
 

The vineyard first thing in the morning.

 

Time to start working.

 

"Working"

 

The grapes on the vine.

 

More grapes.

 

These are filled by the dozen and this year, brought to a private organtic wine producer.

 

All done!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday’s Leftovers: Boeuf Bourguignon

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. 

Monday’s Leftovers: Boeuf Bourguignon

For all the complaining we’ve done doing about lacking rain, it’s ironic we would find a problem with the weekend showers.  But, after all, it did fall on the weekend, and that did change our plans.  Instead of autumnal preparations of making preserves and cutting wood, we found ourselves huddled inside behind fogged up windows that hid grey skies.  The wood heater was light for the first time of the season to chase away the wet chill, and we cursed as we placed buckets across the living room floor to catch the drips from the leaking roof.  The clay roofing tiles, which were once repaired, apparently split anew under the unforgiving summer sun and heat.  We needed something to turn our spirits around, fast.

The uber-French dish of Boeuf Bourguignon is no stranger to Christophe, but he took our indoor confinement as a chance to try out a new recipe – one by Chef Florian V. Hugo, a descendant of writer Victor Hugo.  Besides his epic storytelling, Victor Hugo was known for being a lover of great food and opening his door to underprivileged children to eat at his table so they could, “manger de la viande et boire du vin…. deux grandes nécessités pour l’enfance” (eat meat and drink wine…. two great necessities for childhood).

We partook in both, and happily cheered a glass to both Hugos, who lightened our hearts, heated our hearth, and feed us well.