What's for dessert?

Veal Scallops, stuffed with white mushrooms and onions, in a green olive-beef broth reduction, served with tomato Quinoa

This is what we ate for lunch on Sunday.  We tend to indulge on Sundays when we have more time to spend together.  Even after a terribly satisfying meal like this, we often ask each other, “What dessert would you serve after this?”  Or, to take the rather French approach, “What cheese should follow?”

It’s not that we walk away from the table hungry; in fact, the contrary.  We tend to eat light or very little for Sunday dinner because of the copious lunch we consumed.  The questions are hypothetical; there is no next course, but we ask them each Sunday all the same.

We laugh at ourselves with these questions, and Christophe thinks it’s a very French thing.  He claims if the French aren’t cooking or eating, they’re talking about food.  Nothing is more exciting than the next meal nor more nostalgic than the last one, well prepared that is.  He believed talking about food was just a French thing; that is, until he meet my family.  We might not discuss the values of a medium aged goat cheese, but we know that a piece of chocolate chip pie just might put the topper on that dinner we just had.  And, who can forget that awesome roast we had for someone’s birthday or how good the pizza was at the Wii bowling party last year?  Talking about food, even when sitting in front of well-licked plate, is not unique to a singular culture; everyone does it.  (Elsewhere, I image someone suggesting churros after those tacos or a good gelato after the pasta meal.) Maybe it’s because we dream of that perfect dinner, or secretly want to be a 4 star rated chef who simply oozes with good taste and knowhow, but talking about food or “what’s next” seems to be as natural as putting shoes on in the morning.  We do it because, that’s all.  

So, to answer this week’s questions, I replied, “a young Cantal and for dessert a poached Bosc pear with dark chocolate sauce”.  Christophe smiled.  Apparently, he agreed.

Monday’s Leftovers: Veal Scallops

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 which 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. 

The morning did not bring the sun as we had hoped.  From the bedroom window I could see the clouds hanging low, covering the mountain crests in front of me.  I growl, and slowly roll out of bed.  We groggily make our way to the kitchen and discuss our day’s plan over a bowl of coffee.  I want to attack the vegetable garden; the weeds are getting to be too much.

After breakfast, I go outside.  The clouds are slowly coming down on the mountain crest, enveloping the vegetation.  I make my way to the garden.  It’s been an unseasonable wet and cool summer, and the weeds have profited well from the weather.  Within the last two weeks, they have gained ground against the cucumbers, eggplants, and pumpkins, which are slowly getting choked.

I bend down and start to pull the weeds out around the cucumbers.  I find some of the plants have blossomed and small cucumbers have formed. As I advance, I avoid stepping on the creeping pumpkin vines and am surprised by their progress despite the lack of sun.  Bucket after bucket of weeds are removed, and eventually the vegetable garden looks presentable again.  My mood has changed, regardless of the looming clouds.  I’m satisfied with my work and I once again see the promise the garden holds.  This gives me more of a moral boost than my morning coffee did.

Christophe has been in the kitchen.  Sunday lunches are his time to cook, to be creative, and to experiment.  He later tells, me, he’s been dancing to Colette Magny and Hôtel Costes which seems to have lifted his spirits despite the dismal weather.  Around noon, he makes his way to the garden.

“I need some chives,” he says.  “The garden looks great.  Are you ready for an aperitif?”

“Yeah,” I reply brushing my hands together to shake lose the remaining dirt.

We set ourselves up under the apple and hazelnut trees in the garden.  The cool weather has us in sweatshirts, but it doesn’t last long.  A few drops are starting to fall, and even after our determined perseverance, we are driven inside because it is starting to rain -  yet again.

I open the door to the house, enter the kitchen, and am welcomed by a magnificent perfume.

            “What did you make?”  I ask looking around.

            “I was actually torn between a BBQ and something a little more elaborate,” he says.  “Happily, I didn’t choose the BBQ.”   We look outside; the rain is falling to the rhythm of a steady beating drum.

            “We’ll have a salad of mâche and a chilled salmon cake with dill.”  He begins.  “Followed by veal scallops in a shallot and girolles sauce mounted with mustard, served with potato galettes, and grilled zucchini.”  He smiles. “Not bad since I had no idea what I was going to make when I fished the veal out of the freezer this morning.”

I smile back.  “Yep, not bad at all.”