Pork Shoulders and Butts

I've said it before and I'll say it again. One of my favorite things about living in France is the food. I love being able to buy fresh vegetables easily and eat them according to the season. I relish the simplicity of the food and people's respect for it and it's origins. I adore eating dishes in which I can taste each delicious ingredient. Today I ate a salad with fresh ingredients from the market down the street. Yesterday I made a leek quiche because leeks are plentiful right now. The day before I invented a simple dessert with the last of this year's strawberries. Of course, this can be done in the states, but truly, it is just so much easier here and much more a part of the culture.

That being said, I have publicly admitted before, and will again, that I love Spam. It's a treat I eat once or twice a year and I always have a can in reserve for the necessary moment. I don't know where I learned to love this canned, gelatin-entombed, square block of pork shoulder and sodium nitrate. Perhaps when I worked as a trail cook in Canada where I would serve Spam when we hadn't found anything to shoot for dinner that day. Or maybe it's because I grew up about 1/2 hour away from the Hormel factory in Austin, Minnesota where it's made. The reason for my amour is shrouded in jelly and mystery.

In my humble opinion, Spam can only be prepared ONE way; sliced, fried until crispy, and served on soft white bread with yellow mustard. It is not the same on a baguette with dijon mustard.  I know this, because I've tried it (yes, people bring me Spam here in France). Okay, and maybe it can be served with eggs.

Most likely because I've mentioned this before on this blog, an ad popped up on google page advertising a recipe for Spam Casserole. My curiosity took me to a page called Recipe Source where I found the following recipe.

Title: FRENCH FRY SPAM CASSEROLE
  Categories: Main dish
       Yield: 8 servings
  
       1 pk Frozen french fry potatoes,
            -thawed (20 oz)
       2 c  Shredded Cheddar cheese
       2 c  Sour cream
       1 cn Condensed cream of chicken
            -soup (10 3/4 oz)
       1 cn SPAM Luncheon Meat, cubed
            -(12 oz)
     1/2 c  Chopped red bell pepper
     1/2 c  Chopped green onion
     1/2 c  Finely crushed corn flakes
  
   Heat oven to 350'F. In large bowl, combine potatoes, cheese, sour
   cream, and soup. Stir in SPAM, bell pepper, and green onion. Spoon
   into 13x9″ baking dish. Sprinkle with crushed flakes. Bake 30-40
   minutes or until thoroughly heated.

Am I all wrong or did just reading this make you want to evacuate the contents of your stomach? Did it make the buttons pop on your skirt or the seam in your jeans split open? Do people REALLY eat this? Seriously, cheese AND sour cream AND cream-of-anything-soup? I just did a calorie count per serving and it was 597 calories and 46 grams of fat, providing you really divide this into 8 servings. And most Americans don't.

I'm not dissing one of my favorite treats. I really wanted to be the Spam Queen at one time until I found out the expiration date for this honor was a much younger age than I was imprinted with at the time. And I do have a full set of jewelry that my auntie made me out of Spam cans. And an alarm clock. And a toy Spam race car. And a tee-shirt. And framed old Spam advertising. And...


But I must insist that Spam cannot be eaten in this manner. Spam is pure. It needs to be eaten in simplicity with respect for it's origins (see first paragraph)... whatever they are! (actually you can find out here plus a whole lot more).  And none of this creamy, casserole business. After all, this fine food got an entire country through a world war.

This article is simply an expression of my outrage at such blasphemy.  In fact, the folks at Hormel have no idea that I exist. But if they wanted to crown me The Sovereign of Spam...The Priestess of Pork...the President of Potted Meat Products...The Hormel Ambassador to France, I would accept. Providing they gave me this to wear during my promotional trips. It would look great with my jewelry collection.

And I would travel the world promoting it's simplicity and handing out little Spam finger sandwiches. One can never be too old or too proud for a new career.

Blood Red

If you were to visit my apartment at this moment you would most likely recoil in horror, possibly vomit, and then call the police. A massacre has obviously occurred and the victim did not go down without a fight. The evidence is everywhere...blood on the floor, the cupboards, the toaster, the stove, even the ceiling. The perp wore an apron during her bloody deed, the evidence of her crime permanently stained in it's fibers and the towels she used in an attempt to clean up the site still sit in a bloody heap on the floor. Then, obviously pleased (or shaken) by her villainy, this beast helped herself to 2 bottles of vodka, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of eau de vie, and a bottle of a very nice Côtes de Bourg, the empty bottles still sitting on the floor.

There seems to be no victim.

 All that has been left behind is this tableau on the kitchen counter.

Yeah, we've already established that I'm a whirling dervish in the kitchen and nothing comes from my kitchen without the accompanying mayhem that I can't seem to avoid. It really does look as if a crime has been committed in my cuisine. That's because I spent this past rainy weekend trying to eliminate transform my freshly picked 18 1/2 pounds of cherries into....well, into cherry liqueur, alchohalised cherries, cherry preserves and a dismal attempt at clafoutis.

Thursday I was invited to my friend Saro's house to celebrate Claire's (my friend and her daughter)  birthday. The event coincided with cherry picking time and Saro's trees were full.

 I arrived with a giant, empty basket, mostly as a joke. I left with this.

Then began the messy (for me) job of what to do with all this delicious, exquisite fruit. I was suffering from a permanent stomachache from eating so many straight off the tree so I made a list of everything I wanted to make, bought all that was necessary to get the job done...including this fabulous device that pits cherries at the speed of light....and settled in for the weekend.

I started with Cherry Liqueur, recipe courtesy of my friend Marcia. 

1 1/2 lbs red cherries, with pits,no stems

1 1/2-2 cups sugar, sweeten to taste

2 1/2 cups vodka

1 cup brandy

Mix vodka, brandy and sugar in a large glass measure or medium mixing bowl; stir well to dissolve. Cut each washed cherry slightly to open, leave in pits. Place cherries in two sterile, quart wide mouth jars or one larger aging container. Pour liquid mixture over cherries; stir and cap with tight lids. For the first two weeks, shake jars several times. Let age in a cool, dark place for at least 3 months for best flavor. Strain off liqueur through a wire mesh strainer and discard cherries. Re bottle as desired. Liqueur is ready in 3 months

Next, following the theme, which seems to be cherries AND alcohol, I made

 Cerises à l'Eau de Vie

This recipe came from Monica...I adore the videos she makes with her grandson. And her hands.

They remind me of my grandmother's hands.

I can't wait to bite into one of these potent little morsels when they're ready...in about 6 months!

Still more cherries so I moved on to Cherry Preserves, thank you David Lebovitz, and since there was a little Brandy left over and since this was theme weekend, I added that to the jam.

I'm not even going to talk about the miserably failed clafoutis. Perhaps I should put in a call to Monica to learn how to REALLY make this traditional french dessert.

And then....and then...the cherries were all gone. How can this be? I still want to make Cherry Compote, Cherry Crumble, Pickled Cherries and more jam. None of which include alcohol, by the way. Luckily Saro called and said we have to come back. They've picked and eaten, picked and frozen, picked and given away, and the trees still have fruit to offer. So as soon as the rain lets up, I'm on my way back with my empty basket. And hopefully I'll get to spend another weekend in the kitchen. I'll try, I'll really try, to do it more neatly this time!

Black Diamond

"I got it!" he almost shouted into the phone.


"You got what?"


"Le truffe. And you have to come and eat it... soon. This can't wait. It's fresh...NOW!"


I think I probably need to explain all the ensuing shouting and jumping up and down. A truffe is a truffle. Not the chocolate kind that we make at Christmas. Those were named after the real truffe....the Black Diamond...because they share a resemblance.


A truffle is, plain and simple, a mushroom. But after that, it's not plain and simple. Black truffles are a smell and taste sensation, 80% of which come from Provence.  They grow completely underground and are not easy pickin's.  There are three ways to get them.


1. Have a nice, fat wallet and buy one.


2. Have a pig or trained dog that can root them out in a public forest where they may or not be and where nobody will shoot you if you find one.


3. Be a grower of truffles. These people buy oak or chestnut trees specifically inoculated with the spores and spend a lot of time, energy and money hoping their crop will come to fruition. And they still need a special dog or a pig and a lot of luck.


My friend has a colleague with a dog trained specifically to find truffles. It's a hobby and he does his foraging on public land where there is no danger of being called a poacher. It's a sideline that from time to time, cashes in.


I say "cashes in" because not only are they a taste and smell sensation, they're expensive. I mean, REALLY expensive. More pricey than my ski pants. More costly than my car, in fact! The December wholesale price of a quality black truffle was running about 1200€ a kilo ($1573)! Any way you look at it, they're a rarity, a very expensive rarity that I was soon to have the opportunity to enjoy.

On the menu: simple food designed to let the truffe shine. No fancy stuff here...I wanted to taste it.  But first, the truffle (ours was probable 200 grams or more...a great big one would wholesale at about 400€ and could double or triple for retail) was placed in a bowl with the whole eggs on top, sealed and put in the refrigerator for two days. Amazingly, the eggs take on the intense flavor of the truffle as they share space. Not only that, they actually took on a different color. The eggs on the left were the ones that spent a two day conjugal visit with their mushroom.

Then I mixed the slightly beaten eggs with a little creme fraiche and salt and pepper. I sliced the truffe in tiny, paper thin slices to mix into the eggs. When I dropped a couple slices on the floor, my friend was on his knees in a heartbeat, scrambling to pick them up and chastising me for my lack of care.. This is not something to be wasted. Then I cooked the eggs in a bain du marie, so they they slowly cooked without danger of burning.

In the meantime, we made a simple potato salad adding only olive oil, salt and pepper and sliced truffles. We used the whole thing up! All of it. I kept thinking this puppy could pay my air fare ticket to the United States but if I were to stuff it in my pocket and run like hell,  I would never have this experience again....so....


I tried to eat slowly. I really tried. But it was just so good. I've read up on truffles and "experts" say they're best raw. I'm going to disagree. I found the flavor more intense in the cooked eggs than in the potato salad and if I ever get the opportunity to play gourmet gourmand again, the truffles will go in the potato salad while the spuds are still hot.


Truffle season is over for this year (I wrote this in February but forgot to post it!) and today I ate...big surprise...peanut butter. But I've had my affair with The Black Diamond. And we're in love.

Just a note to ask you to check out this site for a free Provence Rug giveaway. They're not Black Diamonds...but they are a slice of Provence you can afford. Especially if you get one free!  http://www.thepixelboutique.com/2012/04/a-little-piece-of-france-a-provence-rugs-giveaway/

Cuisine Americaine??

I've been asked to cook an American meal for French friends. I'm terrified. I mean, I've lived alone for the past 5 years and practically alone for the 5 years before that. I'm not sure I even remember how to cook! And I don't have all my wonderful, top-of-the-line cooking equipment surrounding me and ....and....and...

Okay, I can do this. I know I can. So then comes the problem of what to cook that is all-American. This poses some serious dilemmas. I actually asked this question on facebook last night and got all sorts of suggestions ranging from hot dogs and hamburgers and fries to meat loaf and pot roast and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. The problem is, I am having a difficult time finding something that would be truly American.


We're all immigrants...mutts (save the native American population) and our traditional foods all seem to come from somewhere else.  Pot roast is basically French Pot au Feu. Hot dogs are originally German. French fries are Belgian.  Beef stroganoff was a suggestion but that is Russian. I thought meatloaf might be a nice idea but it comes from Germany and Belgium. A grilled ribeye steak could work, but I think our meat here in no way compares to steak back home and besides, I have yet to master barbecuing any type of meat (see more about that here). Tater tot hot dish came up as well but if I remember correctly, that's made with creme of something soup and we don't have that here in France. And I just CAN'T do that. Nor can I subject the French to the world's greatest hangover food, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese...even though I have 3 boxes stashed just in case!


For dessert I thought of my old staple, carrot cake. This is Swedish.  Perhaps Apple Crisp...but this is more or less British Apple Crumble. I could try apple pie but I know it would be too sweet for them. Bread pudding maybe? Nope, seems every country has that! Jello? Oh god, no! And besides, I can't get that here either.


You see my problem?


So this is what I've come up with:

                                                 

Grilled Barbecue pork ribs with a nice, slightly piquant BBQ sauce (the French have very sensitive taste buds). Barbecue and BBQ sauce seems to be  genuinely red, white and blue.

Potato Salad and/ or coleslaw (neither are really American but we've put our own, unique spin on them)

Garlic bread with lots of butter. Nobody puts butter on their bread here except if it's for breakfast.

Chocolate chip/peanut butter cookies, although I reserve the right to sic 'em with apple pie and ice cream.

My last problem is an entrée (appetizer). Anybody have any suggestions? I'm thinking nacho chips and guacamole. Did you know the avocado originates in the Americas?


I will take photos of the grand event and comments from my French guinea pigs. Even if I and my meal fall flat on our respective faces, this has got to be worth a laugh. Doesn't it???????

Take the Cake

Each day, Quasimodo is becoming a more and more distant cousin as our resemblance fades. But because of my self-imposed exile in my dark tower, I've been cooking up things to do. Actually, I've been working myself crazy on my new webstore but once in awhile I've got to get off my butt and do something else.

Thus, this week became Cupcake Week. I never make cupcakes. I never have. But I now have a cupcake castle with 2 floors and a handle and it needs to be used. Check this thing out. My friend Victoria brought it to me from the states when I was told here that these things don't exist in France. It's collapsible. For one layer or two. They should have named this contraption "This Takes the Cake".



I searched all over the internet to find a recipe and find one I did. As well as a rockin' recipe for chocolate frosting. So I proceeded to do my thing in the kitchen (man, I make a mess!). I produced 2 batches of the best cupcakes ever and then sat in front of them...looking at them. I hadn't been invited anywhere, I wasn't having a party (I'm in exile), and I was supposed to start a diet on Monday. The cupcakes and I needed to part ways...pronto! I took a couple down to the concierge and gave some away to friends, but yesterday the first floor of my two story cupcake palace was still almost fully occupied.

My friend Doreen stopped by on her way to her first-time visit to my neighborhood beauty shop and I decided to go along and catch up on some beauty shop chatter. And to find a home for my creations. I donned my dark glasses to hide my still swollen visage, put the lid on the chocolate beauties and off we went, my cupcake valise in hand.

I passed out cupcakes to the ladies in the shop and as more came in to chat (it's that kind of shop and I love it) I continued to give them away. I explained the concept of a cupcake...you simply peel off the paper and eat it with your fingers. This approach did not seem to work with The Ladies of the Salon. They tried as per my instructions...but it just wasn't going to fly. They all asked for a spoon.

The French seem to eat everything with utensils. Even pizza. When I was home last December, and my sister and her husband and I were grabbing a quick take-out pizza, I dug in....with a knife and fork. My sister looked at me quizzically as she took a bite out of the slice she was holding in her hand. I realized what I was doing...being all French about it....and I quickly picked up the slice and devoured it like a true American.

The ladies adored the "little cakes". Not too sweet, so moist, trés fondant... yada. yada, yada. And for some reason, watching  them delicately holding this little cake wrapped in bright paper in the palm of their hands and slowly eating it with a spoon made my cupcakes seem so...special.  More like a grand dessert than a picnic food.

By the time Doreen was shampooed, coiffed, and welcomed into the folds of The Ladies of the Salon, I still had a few left. Off we went to Hublot, the neighborhood bar/cafe that my friend Fehti owns. I passed the rest of them out to all the guys stopping by for their afternoon coffee/pastis/whiskey/beer. Once again, I gave them instructions. But, within seconds they too were asking Fehti for spoons. Come on guys, man up! This is a cupcake we're talking about! Still it was really sort of adorable. Several did, however, point out that they looked a little like les crottes des chiens (we're experts here in Aix on piles of dog doo because we're constantly stepping in it or working to avoid it). So in effect, they were a little more masculine about the whole thing!

So now, I'm going to share the recipe because people have been asking for it. The cupcakes are an old recipe from World War II, developed by some ingenius soul who couldn't easily get her hands on eggs, milk, butter or sugar. So, in fact, they're vegan and lactose free. And in spite of that... absolutely delicious. The best. I found the recipe on Food.com but it's an old recipe and can be found everywhere.

Wacky Cupcakes
1 1/2 C. flour
1 C. granulated sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1/3 C. cocoa powder
1/2 C. oil
1 C. water
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 T. vinegar

Mix these ingredients until moist and well blended, fill the cupcake cups about 3/4 full and bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes.

The frosting rocks as well. Light, creamy, not too sweet and it doesn't make you feel as if you're eating piles of sugary fat. It's made with flour and is cooked so it takes a little more time. But it's the best I've ever tried and I'm not a great fan of frosting.  I got the recipe on Kelsey's site but I'll rewrite it for you here.


Best Chocolate Frosting
2/3 C. granulated sugar
1/3 C. flour
3 T. cocoa powder
1 C. milk
1 C. butter
1 C. chopped semi sweet chocolate or chocolate chips.

Cook the flour, sugar, cocoa and and milk over low heat, whisking as you go and as it thickens. When it gets to the consistency of a thin pudding (dunk the back of a spoon in it. If your finger leaves a path as you sweep it across the spoon, it's done). Let this cool or put it in the fridge. It cannot be warm for the next step.

Some time later....after the chocolate mixture has cooled... melt the chocolate in the microwave. Don't overheat, it will get grainy. In a separate bowl, cream the butter with an electric mixer and then add the cooled cooked chocolate mixture. Whip that up and add the melted chocolate. Whip again. "Whip it good". If you'd like, add a teaspoon of instant espresso powder to the mix. Num!

Now, my advice is to eat les petit gateaux with a spoon (after all, this is a blog from France and it IS the French way). They will taste even better!

Bon Appétit!

Feet and Packages

I know nobody has slept a wink since I promised an article on meat last week. Nothing better than good  old, Monday morning meat read. And now, so that all the world can finally get a little rest, I will fulfill my promise....

During one of my investigative trips to the big supermarkets here in southern France, and after I’d managed to extract myself from the cheese aisle, I did an exploration of the meat aisle. I first hit the cooler that bore a striking resemblance to the cooler in my old biology lab.  I mean, what are these things before me that look so much like body parts and innards? After writing down the names and doing a translation I discovered that they were….indeed... body parts and pieces!

Here’s a sample of the sizeable selection of delicacies that somebody must be eating. We’ve got Tête de Veau, Pieds de Veau, Langue de Veau, and Cervelle de Veau, which translate to head of veal, feet of veal, tongue of veal, and brains of veal. Poor little baby cows.

Then there’s Rognon de Boeuf  (as in beef kidneys) and Rognon Cubes (it’s nice to know you can buy these little waste processing factories pre-cut, don’t you think?) Then we move on to Cours d’Agneau (heart of lamb) and Crépine de Porc (the casing of pig intestines).  Followed by Pieds et Paquets Marseillais, a gross looking pile of flesh that translates to “feet and packages”. But packages of what? I finally just found a definition today. It’s little packages of chopped ham, garlic and herbs all wrapped in the pretty paper of…. sheep’s stomach lining. And a particularly Provençal specialty. Oh goody!  AND to top it all off, you can get the feet and packages in a value pack…enough for all your friends and family.

I realize that people in all countries eat these unusual things. And probably more so in certain ethnic groups or in particular regions of a country. When I was a bush cook in British Columbia, I prepared moose heart, elk liver, caribou tongue, mountain sheep brains and goat testicles. But we didn’t have anything else to eat! (I did. I had peanut butter. Which I lived on and which is where my whole peanut butter sickness began) I have asked my French friends explain to me... who eats this stuff? Many don’t, of course. But last time I inquired about brains at a dinner party, a grand argument began about the best way to prepare this delicious delicacy. I pretended to write down the recipes...but I had absolutely no intention of testing them in order to form my own opinion.

Okay, so on to the regular meats. Yep, we’ve got it all. We’ve got chicken and turkey and, of course, duck and rabbit which are both often eaten here. So we’re sure what we’re eating, there’s usually a little picture of the animal somewhere on the label. Then we move on to pork, beef and lamb (which is also a staple).  So, I’m moving down the meat case, checking it all out and I land on Cheval Haché. Of course, that’s horsemeat and, yes, it’s eaten in France. Judging from the selection, it’s not eaten all that much, but it’s there and I’ve seen it on menus at a couple of restaurants. And a friend of mine told me it makes the very best tartare. 

And finally, I arrive at the last meat case. Five shelves high and stacked with all sorts of packages of meat bearing the picture of…a dog! NO! No...no...NO!

Please say it isn’t true. Not dog! This is terrible… more terrible than horse hamburger and pig intestines.

On closer inspection, I realized this was meat FOR dogs, not meat OF dogs.  The French do love their dogs after all, and I was able to let out the breath that I’d been holding in horror.

I’m a reasonably adventurous soul but I’m not sure I’ll be eating sheep kidneys anytime soon. I’ll leave that to Chef Andrew Zimmer who, long ago,  taught me to make a mean crème brulée and now makes a REALLY good living traveling the world for The Travel Channel and eating all sorts of disgusting things. Me, I think I’ll stick to writing. But I’d settle for making a REALLY good living traveling  the world and writing about all the bizarre stuff that Andrew Zimmer is willing to eat.

Bon Appétit!

Aisle Pick Up Something For Dinner

Aside from those rare days. …even rarer in the summer, when I go into some sort of cooking flurry, I really don’t need much food. Gone are the days of feeding 2 teenage boys (they're generally normal...unless I'm taking their picture), 17 of their nearest and dearest friends and a couple of neighbor kids thrown in for good measure. Also gone are the days of enough storage space to have one extra of almost everything in case of famine or plague. I buy my vegetables precisely when I need them at the daily market down the street, my bread at the patisserie, fresh daily also, and the tiny grocery around the corner suffices for anything else I might need (save Skippy Super Chunk).

But whenever a friend with a car heads out to one of the big supermarchés on the periphery of the city, I hitch a ride. I love to poke around, checking out what’s available, what’s prevalent, and what is non-existent. This sport is only fun when I have nowhere to be because the grocery store lines are un-flipping-believable. But that’s another article.

So here’s my rundown. The fruit and vegetable section is enormous. I mean, HUGE. And busy. I’ve never had to wait in line to get at the tomatoes before, but it’s happened to me here.  This section includes most things I’m familiar with although it’s really light on broccoli. Which is just fine with me. Don’t tell my kids but I’d probably be happy if I never had to eat broccoli again for the rest of my life. There is a higher preponderance of endive, shallots, leeks, fennel, and zucchini, a gazillion types of lettuce and various bean pods that mystify me. I mean, who really takes the time to shell these things, anyway?

The fresh milk section is about 2 feet wide and there is no such thing as a gallon of any of it. A pint is all you’re going to get…although you can buy the type of milk that will last, unrefrigerated, through a nuclear holocaust…but I am genetically incapable of buying it. People just don’t drink milk here. When I tell them I love a tall, cold glass of milk with a sandwich they come dangerously close to gagging.  I’m a little disappointed because one of the first phrases I learned on my Rosetta Stone French program…. actually the only one…was “the boy drinks milk”. I have NEVER been able to use that sentence; although I’m sure French boys drink milk…somewhere!

The proportions of the chip section….that enormous, colorful and caloric aisle in the U.S. is only a little  larger than the milk subdivision. Oh they’ve got salty snacks and some are REALLY nummy, but they obviously do not carry the importance in the French diet of…say….CHEESE.

The cheese aisle…now that’s another story! Do not get stuck here at 6 o’clock at night when you need to be somewhere in a hurry. You won’t get there. Trying to get through the mob is problem enough but making up your mind also takes time. Hard, soft, pasteurized or not, fresh or aged, goat, sheep or cow.  This thing goes on forever and doesn’t include the deli section of cheese (a small portion of it on the left), which also blows the mind for variety. The yogurt sector is the same. I don’t know what the French fascination is with yogurt, but they’ve got an entire aisle of it…. that and creamy pudding type desserts. So I shan’t worry about them. They’re getting their vitamin D.

Which brings me to the deli. There are sausages (some of which I just don’t even want to know their origins) a few salads, you can ask for sliced meats, sauces, cheeses and a few ready-made savory pies, pastas and roasted meats. But I want to point out there is not one, single, shuddering bowl of pink fluff or pistachio goo. Nor, have I seen a single clear plastic catering pan heaping with bright yellow, over-mayonaised potato salad. In fact, in spite of the fact that mayonnaise is French, I rarely see salads bound together with the stuff. Perhaps that’s different in the north…but this here is olive oil country, cowboy!

Chocolate also has an aisle of it’s own and I have been known to spend 20…okay, maybe more…minutes there examining my options. And don’t bother me while I’m pondering either!  It could get ugly. Chocolate chips are not included in the French penchant for the cocoa bean, however.

The wine aisle is not an aisle. It’s regional airport landing field. And it’s not one runway…. it’s three. It’s miles bigger than the beer section in a Wisconsin liquor department, which is saying something!  Local wines, wines from all the other regions of France, very little foreign wine, red, white, rose, dessert wines, wines for 75 euros and wines for 2 euros. Boxes of wines and cases of wines. Wines on special and wines for special occasions. This is just too much for me! While I may have a genetic inclination to drink real milk, I do not have that special, distinctly French gene that seems to just understand wine. Mind you, that doesn’t keep me away from this particular aisle. I look at it as research.

I haven’t even started on the meat aisle, but if I continue, this article will just be too long. So I won’t. That will be next week. As I sit here in the square, sipping a glass of red and eating a bowl of tapas, which in this case is a spicy, marinated version some of those mysterious, aforementioned beans, I’m thinking of what to make for dinner. I’ve got loads of fresh veggies given to me by a friend. Along with my string of garlic hanging from the ceiling and a bottle of olive oil and one of shallot vinegar, and a wedge of some variety of savoie cheese, I should be good. The Skippy is coming with friends in two weeks!

                                                          

It IS Easy Being Green

The markets here in Aix en Provence are exploding...bursting with choice, local, fruits, vegetables and herbs. But the most magnificent thing about les marchés (read more about our markets in Aix here) in August, is they're not exploding with people. There's a laziness to the days right now that I love. Everyone is on vacation, including many of the venders. And I can move around the market without getting stepped on or jostled and I have the opportunity to converse with the venders about such earth-shattering subjects as the merits of Tahitian versus Madagascar vanilla beans.  I want to stay away from the markets...I really do. Because I always buy more than I can consume in a day or two...just because it's beautiful... and ripe...and perfect. I have become pretty adept at taking veggies almost past their prime and turning them into something that I can at least stick in the freezer. I see, as I'm writing this, that there is a red pepper in the basket in front of me that is starting to shrivel with age. It will go in the broiler today with some olive oil and get itself roasted back to a new form of perfection.  I wish I could do that for myself! Oh yes, I guess I could. It's called a chemical peel!

Anyway, 2 weeks ago on a rainy, gray day I was perusing the market...again for nothing in particular. I passed a vender who happened to have a big fat, glorious pile of basil. And it was the thick-leaved, shiny variety (they call it Italian basil here) that I love to use for pesto. Summer pesto is a tradition at my house and when this herb is  thick and fragrant, before it flowers, one has to grab the moment. Which I did this day. I filled a sack and changed my afternoon plans.

Pesto was always one of my kids' favorites. On pasta, on crackers, on a sandwich, with tomatoes...whatever. And the wonderful thing about pesto is it makes basil preservable. It freezes like a dream, thaws fast and brings the late lazy days of summer back to mind when one is buried up to the neck in snow. Of course, here in the south, I don't need to worry about the snow thing but...winter is winter...no matter how it presents itself.

I'm low on good kitchen tools here but I did buy a food processor. My splurge was really the fault of a fellow blogger named Sharon, and her citrus tart recipe but I did have pesto in mind when I bought it. And you really need a food processor for this. Unless you're a kitchen saint...or nuts. So here's our favorite pesto recipe.

Pesto


4 C. well packed basil leaves (this does not mean well packed as in brown sugar. But you can push it down a bit. Bruising won't matter much. It won't have time to lose it's flavor).

1/2 C. olive oil

2 or 3 cloves garlic, minced

1/4 to 1/3 C roasted pine nuts (do not skip the roasting step. This makes a world of difference in the flavor.)

1/4 C. grated parmesan cheese (yes, I mean buy a good quality wedge and grate it in the food processor)

1/4 C. grated asiago or pecorino cheese (same as above)

Wash and dry the leaves. Make sure they're good and dry by flinging them around in a towel or running them through the spin cycle of the washer (in a towel) ....yes you heard me. A top-load washing machine is the BEST kitchen tool. Do not try it in a front-loader (I tried that at my friend Kerry's house one time and she was picking spinach out of her underwear for a month). Then spread them out on a towel to dry.

Puree the leaves with a food processor. Add the oil, garlic and pine nuts and process until a paste forms. Then add the cheese and just process to blend.

That's it. Perfect pesto. I leave one batch in the fridge for dinner and the rest is frozen in 1/4 C. portions in freezer bags. I NEVER make one batch....it's always at least 4. And it's so comforting to have a stack of flat little green bags in the freezer. For that moment when....

Just for extra fun, here's a great recipe using pesto. I haven't got any photos. Philadelphia Cream Cheese has just recently come to France and I can only get it at the big supermarkets. But take my word for it, unmolded, this is a beautiful addition to an apero table;  it's green, red and white stripes singing summer.

Pesto and Sun-Dried Tomato Torta

1 ½ pkgs (8 oz. each) cream cheese           

            into chunks
 ½ C. unsalted butter, into chunks

8 oz. dried tomatoes                                    

fresh basil leaves for garnish

 In a small bowl, cover tomatoes with boiling water and let them stand 2-5 minutes, or until softened.  Drain well and chop.  Line a mold or bowl with plastic wrap, letting ends hang over.  Layer half cream cheese mixture, half of the pesto and half dried tomatoes.  Repeat layers.  Fold ends of wrap over top and refrigerate at least two hours.  To serve, invert and remove plastic wrap.  Garnish with basil leaves and serve with crackers or toasts.

These freeze beautifully so I make two in soup bowl sized molds and one goes in the freezer for the inevitable moment when someone arrives for a drink and all I've got is old cereal and sour milk.

Bon Appetit!

The pesto recipe looks amazingly like one at Epicurious. Who knows, maybe that's where I got it back in the '80s...but I doubt it. I'm sure they stole it from me! The Torta recipe, if memory serves me right, came from my friend Steve Immerman. Thanks Steve. I've used it a million times.

Cherry, cherry

For a summer that seemed a little bleak, things have been shaping up quite nicely. I had zero plans coming back to France after my trip to the states. But I haven't seemed to stop since I got home. I spent last weekend in the Camargue with my friends and what seems to be my new family. I spent time at the beach and attended my first Course Carmagaise (a bullfight...more like bullplay, native to the Camargue, which does not involve killing the bull or hurting him in any way, although I do think he's got to be traumatized by the whole thing).

Tuesday night I went to my friend Lynn's for dinner. As usual, I was asked to bring dessert. I'm always happy to do this because I can't make desserts simply for myself and expect to stay away from them. But I see so many great recipes from fellow bloggers that I am dying to try and my friends know it.

 It's cherry time here and I just can't stop eating them. Numerous varieties which I never understand, but the venders always know which is the best fruit for my purposes. I saw this recipe on Sharon's site over at My French Country Home.  Yes, again. Sharon's going to be the death of me, I swear!  But this recipe, Cherry Clafoutis, is typically French and this was my opportunity.

As I said,  I love cherries. I just don't like anything...ANYTHING...made with them. Not ice cream, not yogurt, and especially not cherry pie. So I made this recipe with low expectations. In spite of the fact that is was just "good" for me, my French friends loved it, said it was honestly the best Clafoutis they've ever eaten and asked for the recipe. So if you like cherry stuff...try this. (by the way, when she says corn flour she means corn starch...oh yes, and don't bother pitting them...just warn people ahead of time)

So anticipating ONE MORE TIME boarding a bus with baked goods, I stopped at the culinary store. I asked the vender if he one of thoses boxes made to carry les tartes. He said, "you mean one of those round, plastic boxes with a handle?"

"Yes, yes...exactly!"

"Madame, this is a German idea...or perhaps American."

"What do you mean?"

"This is not in the spirit of the French. We make cakes....we eat cakes...but we DO NOT carry them around."

"Really?"

"No madame, when we are asked to dinner....we take flowers."

Well, I guess I've been told! You have to understand that this guy is a comedian and all the old ladies hang out at his store just to laugh with him. But still...I've been told!

And I don't care one single bit. Sharon and all the rest of you, keep bringing on those recipes. They rock! And I will continue to board buses with my cakes wrapped in Glad Press n Seal, squished at the bottom of my ever-present bag...

I'm off to Malta for the weekend. Have a great one whatever you are doing.

Home Is Where the Tarte Is

Easter isn't exactly the same and not always easy when you live far away from your family. If I were in Minnesota, I probably would have spent Easter Day at my sister's house with my boys, my family and friends. I would have made baskets for the boys (one is never too old for an Easter basket), we would have eaten ham and cheesey potatoes and then sat around a groaned about how full we are. In fact, because of the miracles of skype, late Easter Sunday I was able to join my mom, my sister and her family and friends as they were sitting outside enjoying the brand new spring (however, it snowed there last night) as they were groaning about how full they were. It was wonderful to be able to share it like that. And I talked to the boys, who both spent Easter at their respective girlfriends' homes and both seemed content and well-fed.

But holidays away from family are a little easier these days. With time, one finds people who become family and though they don't replace those who you can't be with, they're a hell of a good substitute. My Easter weekend began Thursday when I picked Claire up from the train station and turned over her precious car keys. We drove down to the Camargue to spend a couple of days with her mom (and my friend) Saro. Going to Saro's is a bit like going home for me. Not only do I arrive to a warm and inviting home and a good friendship, but the Carmargue is one of those places that feels strangely familiar to me. Perhaps you know the feeling...like I've lived there before.

My "job" was to feed Saro's retired, 35 year old horse and Pedro, her adorable donkey... after being shown the ropes, of course.

We ate, laughed, drank, and when we finally left the house to do a little shopping in the village, which is right on the sea, winter-like weather kicked in. It became cold, rainy, and windy and our shopping venture into town produced not much more than a bone-chilling cold, sand in our teeth and an urgent need to get back to the house, put on our woolies, and turn the heat on.

Saturday afternoon, Claire and I returned to Aix where I made my tarte au citron for Sunday's lunch at my friend, Holly's. Okay, it's not my tarte au citron...the recipe came from Sharon over at My French Country Home and you really need to try it. It's a perfect blend of sweet and sour, so simple to make and always a hit.

Sunday, I boarded the early bus to my friend Brigitte's in Rogne, carrying my tarte and a bottle of Rosé. (For some reason, I always seem to be traveling by bus with baked goods!)  Since it was a beautiful day and the only really nice one of the weekend, Brigitte and I freed her 1967 Triumph from it's parking space in the garage....

took off the roof, and headed out to traverse the Luberon Valley to Holly's house in Peypin d'Aigues. I wish I'd taken more photos because it was a beautiful drive, through all the suprisingly busy villages (I assumed they'd all be shut down tight for the holiday) and the lush green of the countryside. I was really wishing I had an elegant headscarf and a giant pair of sunglasses however!

Holly made us a superb lunch of smoked salmon, gnocchi and salad. We drank our share of champagne and Rosé on the sunny terrace and finished off with the lemon tarte.

Afterwards, we did the normal, holiday thing. We moved from chair to chair in a well-fed, semi-stupor, groaning and complaining about how full we were, and finally decided to walk off our meal with a tour  of Holly's village. The tour of tiny Peypin d'aigue, a village of no more than 400 people, one bar and no other commerce whatsoever, took all of 7 1/2 minutes at which point we were back on the couches...groaning.

As I hiked home from the bus station Sunday night, my ever-present bag holding the empty tarte pan and a bottle of Sirop Châtaigne (chestnut syrup that is really good in a sparkling white) that I bought from Holly's next door neighbor (after I found him surveying the Triumph and complaining that somebody had parked that car like a Parisienne...taking up two spots) , I returned home to start my skype/ telephone Easter.

I had a fabulous easter weekend. No it wasn't with family...and come to think of it, the boys would have probably spent Easter with their girlfriends' families anyway, but I got to spend it with some of the family  I've created in my new home. How wonderful to have both.