Yesterday, my friend Arnelle and I picked cherries as I started to make the jam I remembered a post I wrote about making cherry jam years ago, 12 years ago to be exact! Oh, man. Do any of you remember this post?
Wish me luck.
Photo and True story by: Corey Amaro
How to Make Burnt Cherry Jam:
Pick 25 pounds of cherries from your neighbor's tree.
Buy 15 pounds of sugar, and carry it home for the exercise.
Sterilize fifty-plus jars with their matching lids,
Let them air dry on crisp clean linens on the kitchen counter.
Pit the cherries, don't worry about your cherry-stained hands and nails (lemon juice and nail polish will correct the mess.)
Do not use pectin- Cook the jam slowly, stirring now and then for several hours.
In the middle of cherry, jam-making decide to go to the market to buy fresh produce for dinner.
Ask a seventeen-year-old son, who knows diddly-squat about making jam, to turn it every five minutes or so. Don't hear him say he is studying and cannot be sure to turn the cherry jam.
Trust him, even though he is telling you not to.
Go to the market.
An hour and a half later, call home to check on the cherry jam...
Listen to your son tell you that it is sticking to the bottom, and smells like it is burnt.
Have your mouth hit the ground alongside your shopping bags? Cry, "WHAT?"
Come home to a perfumed kitchen.
Look in the two large pots and notice the burgundy red cherries are now black.
Grab a wooden spoon, and stir the jam: Feel that the bottom of the pan as if it were competing with rough pavement.
Cry.
Cry again! Then get mad at your son,even though you are mad at yourself.
Put some cherry jam in a bowl, and run over to Annie's house. Have her taste the jam.
Watch your friend lie between her teeth.
Listen to her idea, "Don't throw it away. Bake something with it, it might surprise you."
Go home and bake a cake, add burnt cherry jam as the filling.
My cousin Judy made the best Nicoise salad I have ever had without anchovies and used smoked tuna.
Each savored bite was better than the first. I did not want it to end.
My cousin Judy has a way of doing things, everything actually, with charm and pizzazz, be it styling her home, creating a play area, cooking a meal, wrapping a gift, writing a letter... she is the artist of her daily life and everyone who meets her benefits from her generous heart.
Why I didn't take a photo of the salad, or her gorgeous table makes me shake my head. All I can say is I was in the moment and took it all in.
The salad started with lettuce freshly picked from her garden.
This was the recipe she used.
But it was her touch that certainly added the extra +++
We have friends who moved to Cassis a few years ago from the States. Their home is a stone's throw away. If I needed anything while I was in Cassis, I could lean out my window, give a holler, and Laurie-Annya could toss whatever I needed to me, that is, how close we live from each other. Though I am a terrible catch. Whenever we are in Cassis we see each other, and since we are there sporadically, Laurie-Annya and Ian have us over most of the time.
The other day Yann had a meeting in Cassis; he is involved with the port and the old boats that are docked there. The oldest boat in Cassis is called, "Antoinette", it dates back to the 1900s. Yann and Ian spent a great deal of time restoring it with the rest of the club members. As Yann went to the meeting, I popped over to Laurie-Annya's home.
Not surprisingly, mouth-watering goodness filled the air. Laurie-Annya made an apple rum with raisins bundt cake. I ate two large pieces, I could have eaten the entire cake, but I refrained, though I do not know how it was hot from the oven!
Below is the recipe. Instead of a round cake pan, a small iron bundt pan was used.
Also, Laurie-Annya added about half of a cup of my cognac-soaked raisins that I had given her the other day.
"The Paris of 1900, lively and rustling. Coal and lemonade. This is what we found at 13 Rue de Charonne rocked by the accordion notes that accompanied the laughter and counter tours after the coal tour.
Hospitality and sharing are the values that Mr. and Mrs. Paul wanted to transmit and offer to visitors when they inherited the place in the late 1940s. Friends or families, artists or anonymous, loyal or passing customers, from here or elsewhere: a table was always available for them.
Chez Paul: it’s a little bit of each other. A story of meetings and friendships, a mosaic of captured moments mixed with emotions, scents and flavours. Moreover, all you have to do is walk through one of the 4 rooms to be – in your turn – caught up in these testimonies of yesterday and today that this atypical setting has to offer.
As a successor to Mrs. Thiebaud, the Karrenbauer family has been carrying on this tradition since 1998, with this twist that characterizes it so well." Via Chez Paul
“A break in a hurried daily life, a comforting cuisine that is the heir to our French history and our land. We pay tribute to our culinary classics whose recipes are too often lost. A real wink to our grandmothers who, simmering good little dishes, always took care of the well-being of our gourmets and gourmet stomachs." via Pierre R., Head of emotion and delicacy.
FRENCH BREAD. The endless world of French bread. Baguettes... God, after thirty-some years in France you would think I could walk into a bakery and not drool on myself.
At the market a woman walked by carrying three baguettes, they looked the same at a glance, but look at the ends-
Each one has a slightly different end... Different endings though the taste is the same. With that said I prefer the one on the left, a ficelle it is long and narrow, more chewy crust per bite. Good for dips and spreads.
The square-ended one is called a pain de Campagne, it has some rye or whole wheat flour, last longer than a day.
The one in the middle is a batard, Shorter, half the size and thicker than a baguette. Sounds like body types don't they? The whole body that is. Batard means 'bast-rd" in English. When the baker comes to the end of the dough, and there isn't enough for a baguette he uses the leftover bit to make a batard.
Anyway bread, cheese, wine, some fruit... the daily feast.
The last supper, my favorite supper. Oh, these French classic basics. Give or take a beret, Soccer, and cigarettes.
Thick edible crusty goat cheese, Valencay is covered in charcoal. Direct from the farm. Soft center.
The name of these cracks me up...
Bouton de Culotte - Underwear Buttons. Also a goat cheese. Can you imagine asking you guests if they would like some more "Underwear Buttons and a Bast-rd piece of bread?
Lovely.
The French know how to add humor to their daily rituals. They know how to hide a smile. They know how to beat the system. They know that life is not that serious even if they get caught up with how to cut the cheese.
Goat cheese is my favorite
(no it doesn't smell like goat urine, any more than cow cheese does.)
This one is a soft cheese with rosemary.
Add some tomato chutney, a bit of this cheese, and a glass of Medoc.
Sechons, or dried hard like a rock, tough as brick, break your teeth goat cheese.
I think if you take fresh goat cheese (above photo) and let it dry for ten years and a day, without counting you would have Sechons. Doesn't that sound yummy? They are, but they are not my favorite. Honestly hard as a rock cheese, why?
My theory is leftover cheese that didn't fly off the shelf. Re-brand it. Call it Sechons.
Marketing baby.
(Actually, these can be grated, and or soaked in olive oil, garlic, and herbs.)
Bleu d'Avergne, Gorgonzola, Roquefort.... love it.
Desserts disguised as mushrooms. Mushrooms lined in a row, straight from a fairytale. White chocolate coats filled with vanilla mousse and red fruits. I saw these darlings at the train station. Hidden wonders! I never would have guessed that the train station in Paris' main temptation was dessert.
French Husband loves to eat. I was taught that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. It stands to reason that we'd make a good team. Except he eats so fast. His plate is cleared-off before I've taken my first bite. Honestly, he shatters the French image of proper dining etiquette. He borderlines abnormal in this department. I've often wondered why he doesn't enter a food eating contest.
To slow down his rapid hand-to-mouth feeding, I ask him simple non-threatening questions. (Non-threatening because he could blow food chunks.) Questions such as, "What are you eating?"
Last night was no exception. I made curry lentils in a coconut sauce. I asked French Husband if he could define the flavors he was inhaling? Barely coming up for air he answered, "Brown and good!"
"Really," I continued, "I haven't seen brown and good in the market place. Seriously, Honey what is the flavor of brown and good?"
He guessed cinnamon.
French Husband knew if he wanted seconds he had to appease the cook. He said the dinner tasted like bananas mixed with little grainy things and chopped white stuff. Adding there were hints of chocolate, eggs, and tomatoes. He almost described a cake until he said tomatoes.
I gave him enough clues that the fish in the pond could've given me the answer.
I said, "It is white." French Husband chipped in with, "White Chocolate!" Not acknowledging that response I continued, "It grows on a tree." he said, "Mais oui, bananas!"
You're probably thinking he is being funny, that he's pretending to be food illiterate. Trust me he is not kidding. He claimed to our baker friend that mustard would be a sweet flavor to add to brownies.
Looking at him I shook my head, "Remember your children are listening."
One last clue. "It starts with the letter "C" and it is hard."
French Husband didn't miss a beat. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. I smirked, "Don't even say it, or you will be eating rocks tomorrow for dinner."
French Husband does love my cooking. Actually that doesn't sound like a compliment anymore.
"Buche de Noel is my favorite cake!" Bright-eyed and hopeful was the response eagerly given by my French Husband, the newlywed. The flavor was a known fac; spread chocolate on anything and it was labeled Yann's.
My mother had made jelly-roll cakes for my brothers and me when we were younger, was that the same thing as Buche de Noel? The only difference between the two cakes as I could see was that we could have a jelly cake any time of the year and in France during Christmas as it is a traditional Christmas dessert. Kind of like candy canes, you can eat them any time of the year but usually, they are out of sight until December.
30 some years ago, before the Internet and ex-pats were easy to find in France, anything in English was reduced to one word, "Hello." Peter Mayle was probably writing, "A Year in Provence," while I was struggling in Paris with only three words of French in my pocket of vocabulary. How was I going to find the recipe? Calling my Mom in California was out of the question given the ridiculous cost five dollars a minute plus the surcharge and tax. Which meant fast talk and no umm, let's see, I think it takes, oh no, just a minute, let me go check.
To make a French Christmas cake, a Buche de Noel was going to be a challenge equal to anything Napoleon had to do. Napoleon is believed to have said, "The man who never makes mistakes never makes a war." Couldn't Yann have said brownies? His expectations were high as he asked me to make a Buche de Noel for his birthday which is in September, "Imagine a Buche de Noel in September!" Yann said like a child at Christmas. With Napoleon on my mind, I decided chocolate anything, even chocolate batter would be a hit.
Down to the metro, direction Rue de Rivoli, destination: Brentano's, the bookshop in Paris (since 1895) with a large English section. Certainly, they would have a cookbook in English.
On entering Brentano's in Paris there stood an American the size of a fortress. With a can of Coke in hand, he was carrying on like his world was coming to an end, demanding the saleslady, "... Don't you understand, E-N-G-L-I-S-H! I want a map of Paris IN English! I want a map that says, "Big White Church on top of the Hill," none of this rue crap, you understand! Why tell me why can't you folks just print a map that says street instead of rue?!" he was the ultimate tourist with his camera around his neck and coke-a-cola in one hand he continued, "I don't want any of this rue shit on my map." The petite saleslady looked bewildered as she tried to explain. I left the bookshop, to embarrass to request a French cookbook in English.
Up above the markets of Les Halles, battling in our kitchen the size of a nutshell, mustering up memories of my Mother making jelly-roll cakes, gathering allies in chocolate, sugar, eggs, and flour I conquered my Waterloo. We "ate cake" that night Buche de Noel in September.
The differences between France and America are subtle. Take Mums and pumpkins for example.
Mums are an Autumn flower that arrives in force in October. They spill out from the floral shops onto the streets creating a parade of magnificent color. Just as pumpkins shout out Autumn in America, mums are the flower that says Autumn in France. Pumpkins are food in France, were in the States pumpkins are more for decoration.
A neighbor brought us three beautiful pumpkins I put them on the table for display, do you want to guess how many French friends asked me, "What are you doing with the pumpkins?"
When invited to a dinner party it is a thoughtful gesture to bring something to the hostess. Candy, wine, or flowers is the typical avenue. (FLASHBACK 1988 - Why not bring a Mum plant I thought and bought one that seemed to be a perfect ball of gold. When I came home French Husband told me it was a plant that symbolized All Soul's Day. "It is the flower we take to the graveside of those we love who have gone before us."
Oh! scratch that flower off the list. Paperwhites, can I bring them instead? Do they have anything marked on them as unusual or special?
Mums are not a flower to give to "the living" in France.
Any flower will do, I like them all don't you? I wonder if I brought a pumpkin as a hostess gift if the French would find that insulting? Most likely just odd.
Pumpkin on Penne Pasta
Cut the pumpkin into cubes and steam until nearly cooked, firm but tender.
Slice and saute (in olive oil) three or four cloves of garlic, add pine nuts and saute until lightly golden brown.
Blend (do not puree) the sauteed garlic, pine nuts with Parmesan cheese and fresh cilantro.
In the same pan that you sauteed the garlic, saute until tender the steam pumpkin (add olive oil if needed.)
Turn the burner off, then add the garlic pine nut mixture to the pumpkin. Stir until well mixed.
Last night Sacha's Italian Girfriend from Verona made her Nona's gnocchi recipe. they were light as air. Amazing. Sacha made a Roquefort and walnut sauce.
I was happy to set the table!
Sacha's Italian Girlfriend's Nona's Recipe
One big dark-skinned potato peeled one potato per person
Boil the potatoes in salted water until tender
Mash the potatoes until they are smooth, creamy, luscious wonder
Then put the creamy luscious wonder on a floured cloth and knead
and knead,
with more sifted flour and salt,
and knead, and knead and knead until the dough bounces back.
Nothing more than potatoes, flour, and salt
and a ton of kneading.
Take a handful of dough and roll it into a long snake on the floured cloth
Cover the snake roll with a cloth and roll another until all the dough is rolled into snakes.
Then cut the dough with a knife into bite-size pieces.
With a fork roll forward and back to make soft ridges in the dough.
Cover the bite-size gnocchi "pillows" with a floured cloth.
Yes, you will have plenty of clothes to wash afterward.
Then gently put some of the gnocchi in boiling salted water when they float to the top take them out with a slotted spoon and add more gnocchi to boil in the pan.
Homemade tomato sauce is what you do after you have eaten enough tomatoes to make ketchup go out of business. Annie always added hand-picked then dried Marjolaine to her homemade tomato sauce. She spoiled me by giving me a jar of her own dried Marjolaine each summer. Now I am on my own which means I am probably eating weeds. Honestly, I could eat it by the spoonful on a salad or mozzarella. It is deliciously sweet. French Husband is the one who makes the tomato sauce. He follows Annie's recipe. I boil pasta, sliced buffalo mozzarella, pour wine, turn on the music and put my feet on the table (wishful thinking about the feet part... usually I prepare the jars.)
Fortunately, we have a farmer in our village who sells his homegrown vegetables. We are regular customers. French Husband has even gone out and helped him pick. Though I don't think that is advantageous to the farmer. French Husband eats more than he picks. I have seen him: Knife in his back pocket, a baguette and a bottle of wine under his arm, a chunk of cheese under his hat, garlic in his breast pocket- tomatoes on the vine, the cicadas singing, the blue provencal sky as a blanket.
He knows a good thing about summertime.
In a large pan saute a couple of yellow onions and cloves of garlic in olive oil.
Add a ton of chopped tomatoes, some salt, a handful of Marjolaine and some white wine.
Slowly cook for half a century.
Go out and enjoy the day, let the tomato sauce reduce, then blend to the consistency you like.
Cook some pasta, drain it, then pour in the homemade tomato sauce. Wrap it up in a blanket, carry it to the garden, spread out the blanket, put down some plates, take out the knife in your back pocket, tear off a chunk of baguette, uncork a bottle of red wine, grate some cheese, take off your hat, listen to the cicadas under the evening sky, while you twirl some pasta around your fork.
Tarte Tatin is one of my favorite French desserts, it is a classic down to earth recipe when it comes to the array of French desserts, it is not the Marie Antoinette of pastries, instead, it is a French Country type that I can imagine having at a long farm table by an open fire.
The other day I had every intention to make a Tarte Tatin, but time was not on my side and guests where around the corner. So I had to improvise that is what I do since I usually have too many grand ideas and little time to put them in place. Or you can say I am scattered, or as my mother says, "... too many irons in the fire." Personally, I like working under pressure, I like the creative response it musters up in me.
Hence, Mini Tarte Tatin was born.
What you will need:
Apples
Sugar
Vanilla
Butter
Puff pastry
Cupcake tin.
Peel, core, and chop four Golden Delicious apples.
Sautee with a fourth of a cup of butter, a third of a cup of sugar and 1 tsp of vanilla (more or less since I never measure and I am guess-estimating.)
Sautee until the apples are golden and the sugar is caramelized.
Cut rounds of puff pastry dough, large enough to cover each cupcake tin space.
I made twelve. "As any grocery store has excellent puff pastry dough for under two dollars," as Annie use to say, "it is not worth making it from scratch." Which fits right into Corey Amaro's by the sit of the pants cooking style.
When the apples are ready add them to the pre-buttered tin.
Of course, you can add cinnamon, walnuts, raisins... but then that is not the classic Tarte Tatin recipe.
Then cover them with the puff pastry rounds, tucking the ends in a bit.
Bake at 350 degrees until the tops are golden.
When they are ready, take them out of the oven and flip them over onto a large platter.
Or gently scoop and flip each one over.
For added delight and that wow effect, you can drizzle caramel sauce and serve with ice cream.
Two of my favorite brocante dealers came over for lunch. Before they arrived I looked around my house and declared that they were going to find the things I sold to them, I should play a game I thought like "Find fifteen things that you sold me?" Actually, they would find more than that without even trying. I made lunch and was so excited to see Christophe and Philippe.
The market in Cassis is every Wednesday and Friday, this morning I walked to the market, filled my basket with fresh seasonal produce, farm eggs, flowers, cheese, wine, olives, and bread from local producers and artisans. The sun promised another spectacular day, waving in the Provencal blue while dancing in the gentle breeze it felt like a weekend in June and not a weekday in February.
Menu
Pizza with seasonal vegetables stacked high fresh mozzarella,
Roasted beets, avocadoes, and stuffed ravioli wrapped around green beans.
Christophe and Philipe the perfect French gentlemen brought over a bouquet of flowers, desserts, and a gift darlingly wrapped with a French ribbon sash.
Inside there was an antique box, a seashell box to hold a rosary and inside the seashell box a multi-ribbon bookmark that was used for a Mass book. Religious gifts since they know I tend to buy things for my church, I mean home, well it is the same sort of place, isn't it?
Homemade vegetable pesto soup. Oh isn't soup the best on a cold day? Especially a freezing day like today. Of course in the summer I will sing the praises of chilled soup, but for now...
Shallots, leeks, carrot, celery, potato, green beans and vegetable broth with pesto added at the end, then blended.
Setting the table has been something I enjoy doing since I was a little girl.
The fork on the left, the knife to the right with its cutting part of the blade towards the plate.
As I place the silverware alongside the plate, I imagine those who will sit around the table and dine.
Hoping their stories will easily unfold like napkins, that their laughter will be tossed about like a green salad. I smile anticipating stories that will be swallowed whole and digested later. (A dinner is a mixture of hot and cold, tender morsels, bites to chew, and just a hint of sweet and spicy.)
The meal is
a sure thing in France.
The daily event.
The time is taken.
Dining in France is like breathing.
A given.
Rarely taken alone, unless you are alone.
More often than not sitting at a table, one does not grab a bite to eat on the go.
"I have become French," I say to myself as I set the table, "Or maybe I was always French? Nah, I was too picky of an eater to have been French."
After dinner routine:
Clear the table.
Put the dishes in the soapy water.
Washed away the day as the flavor of it seeps in.
Stack the dishes in the drainer, drained the sink, wiped off the counters, hang the towel.
Walk straight to the counter, when the bartender looks at you, nod your head, point your pointer finger up, and at the same time mouth whisper, "Espresso please". Grab a croissant off the platter, pinch off a bit (do not bite into the croissant) and pop it into your mouth, when the espresso comes, down it in two gulps, do not wince if it is hot, glance at your phone, leave the amount on the tag. Say, Merci, Ciao, and leave.
Doing the French Bistro is not an art, but it looks like it when you see the French doing it.
It is such a part of their culture that they do it as easily as they smoke a cigarette without concern or shame.
Having a dog tag along adds to the look.
Sunglasses a must, the bigger the better.
Take your napkin to your lap the moment the waiter serves your meal.
Doing the French Bistro is not just about having a drink, whether you are alone or not, doing the Bistro is also about people watching. Any time of the day. Giving the one over, or being looked at up and down, is not uncommon, the French check out everyone as if they are on a runway.
French Bistro, Afternoon:
After breakfast and the morning espresso/croissant scene, lunch comes into play. If you walk into a cafe after 11:30 am and see some tables set up that means they are setting up for lunch. If you want a cafe either go to the counter or sit at one of the tables that are not set up.
12:30 is the beginning of lunch. Lunch is served until 2:30.
At the Bistro choose a ‘plat du jour’ from the chalkboard menu, or at the counter, you can order a sandwich, a classic baguette sandwich is sliced down the center with butter, cheese, and ham, or butter and cheese.
Soda is not a common drink amongst adults. Though if you want a drink order an Orangina.
If you want water you will need to ask for it- "Une carafe d'eau, si vous plait."
Paris has changed, lunch is served nearly throughout the afternoon... but Paris is not France. Most of France adheres to tradition, lunch 12:30 to 2:30. How dare those Parisians breaking the rules, especially after I left and move to the south.
French Bistro, After Two:
French people meet after two for a coffee if they haven't had one after lunch.
It is not uncommon to meet after two for a coffee and chat.
Alcoholic drinks do not usually appear until after four, though usually after six.
Around four in the afternoon, a little snack from the pastry shop, a tea or hot chocolate is acceptable.
Yes, in France there is an hour for every single thing you pop into your mouth.
Photo via google
When in France savour every bite.
Tips are not expected as they are already added to your bill. Though it is a nice gesture to leave a Euro or two.
When at a French Bistro, after your order has been served, the waiter will not approach you again, unless you make a signal that you want something. When you are ready to leave you must make eye contact with your waiter and raise your pointer finger again. Often tourists think the French waiter is ignoring them, but that is not true. In France when you sit at a cafe or at a restaurant your time is private, and the waiter is trained not to invade your private space unless you need them.
French Bistro, After Siix:
Bring on the cocktail hour(s)
Known as the "Aperitif".
Drinks before dinner, not at dinner. Wine at dinner. Drinks after dinner. Coffee before four or after dinner, but not during dinner.
Confusing?
You see why cafes are so important? Drinking hours really means drinking hours.
French Bistro: After Hours,
Linger.
The most important rule of all if you do not want to look like a tourist... talk softly, not because your accented voice will give you away, but because the French usually do not speak loudly in public places.
Usually.
"...Of Russian origin: Bistro. It is well known that a small restaurant or café in France where you can have a quick and simple meal is called a bistro. However, there are still debates over the etymology of this word. The most popular version maintains that the term originated during the Russian Occupation of Paris in 1915." via World Wise Words
"Like the Eiffel Tower and the winding Seine, bistros are an iconic part of the Parisian landscape. From morning till night, hungry patrons flock to these casual eateries to chow down on hearty comfort foods and people-watch from tables on outdoor terraces. But as Ciara Nugent reports for TIME, the classic French bistro is in trouble—and one proprietor is leading a campaign to save them.
Alain Fontaine, who owns Le Mesturet in central Paris, is at the helm of a movement to secure Unesco “intangible cultural heritage status” for Parisian bistros. The designation recognizes “traditions or living expressions inherited from our ancestors and passed on to our descendants,” according to Unesco’s website. Receiving intangible cultural heritage status can have monetary benefits—Unesco funds efforts to safeguard certain practices—and it also brings much-needed awareness to cherished traditions. It is little surprise, then, that the status has become a key target for bistro advocates like Fontaine.
In recent years, money woes and a changing food culture have pushed the classic eateries to the wayside. Steep rents in Paris have forced some bistros to close, and bistro proprietors have found it difficult to compete with the low prices of imported American chains like Starbucks and Chipotle. Eating habits are also evolving; in place of drawn-out midday meals on bistro terraces, residents are opting to eat speedy lunches at their desks. Nugent reports that the France’s National Statistics Office has calculated that at least 300 Paris bistros closed between 2014 and 2018—around a quarter of what the city had to offer.
What makes a bistro a bistro? “By Fontaine’s definition, an authentic bistro is an eatery that’s open continuously morning to night, serves French comfort foods at moderate prices, and houses an active bar where locals can gather for a drink and some lively conversation,” writes Vivian Song of the BBC. (Heaven forbid you should confuse bistros with brasseries, larger establishments with more expensive menus.)
Bistros are said to have come to Paris in the 19th century, as migrants from south-central France flocked to the capital in search of work during the Industrial Revolution. Some new arrivals, according to Song, opened up cafés. While the husbands delivered coal, wives would serve up drinks and home-cooked dishes in these establishments at prices that laborers could afford. Fittingly, these eateries were distinguished by their signs that read “Vins et charbons” (Wines and coal).
While bistros of later decades became cultural and intellectual hubs—Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir were among the famous fixtures of several establishments in Paris—today’s bistros continue to be defined by their affordability and welcoming atmosphere.
“We have everyone here, blue collar workers, professionals, families, students, tourists,” Fontaine tells Nugent. “They can meet, share, argue.”
In the wake of the 2015 terror attack that killed at least 130 people in Paris and wounded hundreds more, bistros also became a symbol of resilience. According to Claire Mufson of the New York Times, Parisians shared photos of themselves on bistro terraces with the hashtag #tousaubistrot —“Everyone to the bistro”—as a sign that they would not be cowed by acts of violence.
For Fontaine’s campaign to be successful, it will need to be approved by France’s culture ministry, which will then recommend it to Unesco. The proposal will be submitted in September, but French bistros are already facing competition from other cultural staples. Parisian “bouquinistes,” or open-air booksellers, are also campaigning for Unesco status, as are the roofers and zinc workers who install the gray rooftops that cover many of the city’s buildings.
In Fontaine’s eyes, Paris’ bistros are as worthy of preservation as any of the city’s other rich cultural offerings.
“A bistro isn’t just some place for a quick bite to eat,” he tells Nugent. “It’s the home of the Parisian art de vivre [art of living]—that’s what we’re losing if these places die out: our way of life.”
Claire who spent a few nights with us made Fruit Rouge Mousse for dessert last night.
It was well worth the six bowls used to make it.
Happy guests indeed considering I am not a dessert maker. I know how to but it isn't my favorite thing to do for a dinner party and not my favorite part of a meal, (unless of course, it is as delicious as homemade by someone) so often I just buy something at the bakery. But since our three bakeries closed down, for no apparent reason and put the town into a pickle, not having a bakery in any French town is almost taboo, a scandal and has had our village a buzz for over a month. No bakery in town reminds me of a Marcel Pagnol movie of Manon of the Source, though instead of no water, there isn't bread... and in my world cakes. Nothing as tragic as Manon of the Source, but has the village wondering where they will have their croissant, and more so our daily bread.
Luckily Claire filled in and saved the evening.
The chocolate lovers did not complain and licked their dishes clean.
In the land of baguettes, where a bakery is on every corner and bread is baked in a wood oven once and sometimes twice a day, where buying a baguette daily is as natural as breathing, having a day old baguette around is common.
Hence French Toast, or as they say in France, "Pain Perdu," a direct translation is "Lost Bread,"
was created as a dessert,
not for breakfast.
We live in a small town, where the only fast food is the bakery and take out pizza. To say I cook often is an understatement. Sure there are a few restaurants in town and I am, I don't like to say it, but a food snob. I don't appreciate going out to a restaurant unless they can cook better than what I can do. Don't get me wrong, cooking better than me isn't hard to do, what I mean is if I am going to go to a restaurant I expect it to be good which isn't hard to do in France but in our town that isn't the case.
With that said when a baguette is sitting on my kitchen counter feeling sorry for itself because it can be used as a hammer, instead of smeared with cheese, a tomato salad comes to the rescue.
The Recipe:
Chop half of a bowl full of garden fresh tomatoes.
Fill the other half with dried hard baguette, in bite-size pieces.
Add a few crushed garlic,
Two handfuls of fresh basil,
Two fresh balls of buffalo Mozzarella chopped,
Olive oil (about half a cup or more),
salt to taste,
and toss gently until well mix.
Cover and set aside.
This salad is at its best if it sets for about an hour, tossing it every now and then helps saturates the bread and flavors.
It can be kept in the refrigerator overnight and served later, toss before serving.
Fresh, wholesome ingredients, including a "sorry for itself" baguette, is simple fare.
A glass of rose adds the voila to the meal.
What is your favorite summer salad? And do you like to cook?
Alys and Hilde asked if I would like to join them at the La Brasserie du Corton in Cassis, friends, Cassis, lunch with a view how could I refuse such a gift?
Two kir royals, a divine lunch, incredible manioc bread, followed by dessert. Diet took a back seat with glee.
Then I walked home trying to lose my guilt, and yet skipped with delicious delight. When I arrived home French Husband brought me a scoop of ice cream (from the new ice cream shop owned and by Le Grande Bleu) made with fig and ricotta the best ever, and ice cream is not my fav. I ate every single bit of it.
One would think a workout would follow, instead I took a nap.
Glorious.
Tomorrow if you the earth shakes that is just me on the scale.
Not marijuana weed, but actually a salad made of weeds.
She would gather the weeds from the local fields.
Weeds.
She eats them.
She would tell me, "..they are good for you, high in vitamins."
Weeds that I walked on without giving them a thought.
Bitter weeds.
Weeds with names such as:
Salade de Chasseur, or Hunter's Greens in English.
Fenouil, or Fennel's first shoots. Not to be confused with the older, later in the season's which have more substantial growth.
Pissanli (I won't tell you what that sounds like in French... oh dang I have to tell you... It sounds like Peeing in the Bed!) better known as Dandelion. Bitter is what it taste like.
And the fourth weed... Much to my shame, I forgot its name.
Years ago I went over to Annie's to cut her hair.
Entering her kitchen there was an overwhelming garlicky aroma.
Annie told me she had made her Weed Salad. I tasted her weeds before without seasoning, and it was not my favorite. Annie reassured me, "...I know you don't like my wild salad...."
"You mean weed salad?"
"Yes, but you should taste it with my vinaigrette!"
"Is garlic the main ingredient?"
She laughed, "Can you smell it?"
Annie collects the weeds, then trims, washes and seasons them:
Olive oil, salt, apple vinegar and a fist full of crushed garlic, not a pinch but a fist.
I love garlic. I have heard the reason escargot tastes good is because of the butter and garlic. Weed salad falls into the same category. The garlic won me over.
Annie was happy that I am now a fan of her weed salad. I'll never walk on a weed again without my tastebuds watering well, that is if garlic dressing is close behind.
Pet Peeve... Soggy pasta, or the utter opposite of Al Dente.
Few things get my goat so to say, and when it comes to getting my goat "pet peeves" soggy pasta is one of them, so is cracking knuckles, God I cannot stand that.
If you want to torture me just serve soggy pasta, crack your knuckles, play heavy metal music, bite your nails, eat something anything in front of me when I am not eating anything (Misophonia) and the utter torture ban me from the brocante.
I would confess to anything after that in record speed.
Whenever I asked my family if they had a preference for dinner and before I could barely finish my sentence, they would cheer in unison, "PASTA!" As if they were the entire population of Italy who hadn't had pasta for the last million years. I am not joking.
Honestly, my family is not French, they would easily give up their baguettes and cheese for pasta any day of the year. Sacha would have pasta for breakfast every day if I had let him.
I remember having a dinner party, where it was the first time some guests were to come to our home. I made pasta with smoked salmon, in a tarragon cream sauce. As I was tossing the pasta I overheard them say that their family was from Italy and that their mother made their pasta daily from scratch. With that I nearly dropped the pasta bowl on the floor.
I should have chucked my pasta, right then and there, out the window. I would have if it hadn't been for the smoked salmon.
They talked on and on about how only Italians can cook pasta al dente. I figured we lived close enough to the Italian border, and since I cook pasta several times a week I needn't worry... I swallowed hard, I looked at my pretty pasta, tasted one, it had a chew to it. I carried it to the table and served it.
Unfortunately, it did not pass their "al dente perfection need" and they barely ate it. I was embarrassed and kinda sad to boot. I looked at their untouched smoked salmon. I imagined how I could save that untouched, beautiful, smoked salmon from going into the garbage. I wished I had a cat. Poor salmon's life ending in a garbage.
Later, Sacha would reassure me that I was not a bad cook, that I was oversensitive and that my pasta was the best in the world. Then he said,
"Well, at least we know who won't be coming to dinner again."
Sacha will be home this Friday for a brief holiday. He sent a list of dishes he wants me to make. Pasta is on the top of the list, and nearly every other word.
It does not surprise me. Because if he hadn't requested pasta I would have thought something was wrong.
Silly to say, each time I make pasta I recall our al dente guests and watch the pot like it is the last supper on earth. I gotta wash that crummy memory down the drain.
Pasta with elegant Asparagus very al dente.
Cook Pasta, a few minutes less than what is written on the box. While the water is doing its best to boil prepare the sauce. Saute a hearty handful of pine nuts, and put aside, Saute strips of smoked salmon, When the pasta water begins to boil add salt to the water. Pour cream into a pan and heat, Cut the steamed asparagus in bite-able sizes...al dente asparagus that is!! Before the cream starts to roll and tumble wildly, add the asparagus, pine nuts, smoked salmon and a tad of tarragon to it, let it simmer and thicken. Drain the pasta, add a touch of olive oil and Parmesan toss, then add the asparagus cream sauce.
On a crystal clear morning, with the most amazing blue sky in Paris, Chelsea ran fourteen miles as she is and has been preparing for a marathon this April. I met up with her after her run for lunch and to hang around and enjoy each other's company. Later in the day, we made pumpkin soup and banana bread.
Banana Bread
In a bowl mash two overripe bananas,
add a teaspoon of vanilla,
a large egg,
1/3 cup of full yogurt,
1/2 cup of sugar
Mix until creamy.
Then add 1 1/2 cups of flour,
a pinch of salt,
1/4 cup of raw shaved coconut
1/4 cup of cranberries
1/4 cup of shaved almonds,
and mix together with a few generous whips.
Bake in a preheated oven 175 degrees for 30 to 40 minutes,,
you might want to cover the top mid way if the bread becomes to brown.
On a crystal clear morning, with the most amazing blue sky in Paris, Chelsea ran fourteen miles as she is and has been preparing for a marathon this April. I met up with her after her run for lunch and to hang around and enjoy each other's company. Later in the day, we made pumpkin soup and banana bread.
Banana Bread
In a bowl mash two overripe bananas,
add a teaspoon of vanilla,
a large egg,
1/3 cup of full yogurt,
1/2 cup of sugar
Mix until creamy.
Then add 1 1/2 cups of flour,
a pinch of salt,
1/4 cup of raw shaved coconut
1/4 cup of cranberries
1/4 cup of shaved almonds,
and mix together with a few generous whips.
Bake in a preheated oven 175 degrees for 30 to 40 minutes,,
you might want to cover the top mid way if the bread becomes to brown.
The Eiffel Tower, a black beret, a baguette, Edith Piaf's music in the background, cheese, the words Oh La La... and if you put all those things together on a red checked tablecloth along the Seine with a bottle of wine well that is French no doubt.
French wine is an art form. It is the color and texture in the landscape, the joyous beginning of many meals and as the color spills it becomes the source of many lively conversations.
I know little about wine. I know the difference between red, rose and white. I know if I like it or not by the first taste. I know that Haut Medoc is my favorite and that white wine is not. As you can see I am not an expert.
But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the elements that the dance of wine brings.
French Husband pulled out a few bottles from the basement. He lined them up and told me to pick one. I decided on the one with the label that looked like mice had been chewing on it for centuries. It was marked 1999, I always loved Prince.
Lesson number one:
Peel off the foil top, then if need be (and in this case, it needed to be) dust off the cork.
Lesson number two:
Take a firm grip on the bottleneck.
Lesson number three:
Put the corkscrew in the middle of the cork and turn it downwards with gentle force. Turn the corkscrew until you can no longer see the coils.
Lesson number four:
Listen to the sound of the cork coming out. It tells you something, I don't know what, but the French always say whether it made a good sound or not. Then inspect the cork, it is one of the first signs (other than the label) if the wine will be good.
Lesson number five:
Smell the cork...
Clyour you eyes...imagine the vineyards with the vines intertwine, the buds bursting the first leaves, the warmth of the sun on your back, with your foot turn it in the soft soil feel the earth beneath your feet.
Have wine glasses on hand, preferably ones without water spots. I should have whipped these before the photo! I wanted to use our everyday antique wine glasses. But French Husband said the wine needed to breath, and these do a better job of letting the wine breath.
Next, pour the wine into a carafe or into glasses. Again listen to that first sound wine sings: "gluc gluc gluc..." French Husband loves that. Sometimes I think he loves that best. Note the color, that is another thing French wine lovers do they talk color.
Lesson number seven:
Put the corkscrew, and the cork with the wine top up by the bottle. I love this part best. The cork standing proudly by the bottle looking very classy and oh so chic.
I know I am not a wine expert. But gee how I love the pieces that surround it.
Lesson number eight:
Put your nose into the glass and breath in deeply.
Swirl the wine around the bowl of the glass and repeat the breathing thing.
Lesson number nine:
Say something about the legs, the lines that run down the side of the glass. This is a critical thing, very important aspect of wine knowledge is how to define the legs.
Lesson number ten:
Swirl the wine, study the legs, put your nose into the glass, take a deep breath, take a mouthful, swish respectfully in your mouth, breath deeply again, and swallow.
Lesson number eleven:
Say something. Something about the body, aroma, or something like:
It needs to breathe.
or
Ah, the hints of raspberry, and notes of chocolate., a feminine note, long finish, buttery
or
It was a very good year...
or if you are like me say,
"Lovely," then take a bite of something and drink again.
Have you ever been to a tasting? I hadn't. Though I could make it my new job. What delicious decisions to make.
Since we did not know of a wedding caterer and had no idea what quality nor type of preparations they could serve, a tasting was an ideal way to solve the mystery and help with the delicious decision.
The photos of the tasting are not in order, and these are only a few of the many that we tried. I posted most of them on my Instagram account story.
We had, champagne to start with the aperitifs, and then the wines to pair with our tastings.
We saw the linens, tableware, chairs, flower options, etc etc.
Most glorious fun.
We decided that we will have the aperitif and the first course outside around the pool, then go inside to sit down for the amuse bouche starter, main course, and cheese plate. Dessert will be a buffet later in the evening.
The cater also offers tables, linens, tableware (dishes, stemware, silverware...), chairs, service, set up and clean up plus a variety of table decor.
We liked what they proposed.
The amuse bouche at the table will be a chilled gazpacho with an olive oil sorbet with a basil ice cream.
That alone could be my happy place.
Martin's Mother.
The four of use went tasting today:
The Bride and Groom to be and the two Mothers.
Martin and his mother tasted the meat dishes.
Lamb and veal options.
The side dishes I tasted and luckily Chelsea and Martin will decide which ones to have as they were
each and every one delicious.
We tasted a few of the many desserts. We will have a dessert buffet instead of cake served to the tables.
This was a mangue cream on an almond crust. It was a fav.
We were on Tram 28 which connects and passes through some of the most popular neighborhoods in Lisbon Martim Moniz, Campo Ourique, Graca, Alfama, Baixa, and Estrela. The trams and the hills at moments whisked me back to San Francisco especially while we weaved through the narrow cobblestoned streets with the brakes singing their tune and the conductor guiding us with expertise, the red tram followed directly behind us.
I am not a dessert fan, I can take it or leave it, but this dessert Arroz de gengibre, pudim Abade de Priscos e manjericao or in English, Ginger rice, rice serum, Abade de Priscos Portuguese pudding and basil sorbet was by far the best dessert I have ever had. I would go back tomorrow for it, and God's bread.
100 Maneiras is a tasting menu, we had over ten courses.
We called the restaurant the day before to mention that we do not eat meat or poultry, unbeknownst to us instead of the pork that was on the menu that night, they made us an Amazon forest, it was nearly too clever to eat.
The black bits are dried olives crunchy and now I want to learn to dry olives!
Tasty wonder: Shrimp skin with droplets of sweet and sour on a bed of rocks.
The dishes too were unusual, clever, inventive... fun.
This was an extremely oversize bowl with a tiny mouth.
But did the "cleanse the palette" bite every provide a mighty wow factor:
Thirty years was celebrated with such good meals and wines.
Alma's Chocolate Bomb that French Husband enjoyed, and I did not dare him to lick the plate or he would have.
Alma's interior was sleek, modern and refined. Though the light's added such glare that it made it difficult for me to take a photo. So I enjoyed each spoonful instead.
In Portuguese the word to eat is "comer". Growing up my mother made a few Portuguese dishes but mostly they were desserts so the first thing we did when we arrived in Lisbon was to go to a bakery, and then another, and another... I do believe Portugal has more bakeries than France, and that is saying a mouthful.
Wonders never cease with what one can do with fresh egg yolks, flour, creamy butter, and sugar. In Portugal, one of the defining roots of their culture is the pastry shops where home made or "fabrica proprio" is a given. The pastry shops are never empty and coffee "cafe" is always served, as you might know, I do not tolerate caffeine, but the smell of coffee is and will be a very pleasant experience. My Grandmother Leonardo served "cafe" in thick ironstone mugs, the sound that the heavy cup made on her wooden table, her heavily accented voice asking if I wanted warm milk and sugar, my mother saying, "Not the children.." My Grandmother serving us anyway. The spoon going around and around the rim of the mug, while my mother's sisters would speak English and Portuguese within the same sentence, fresh sweetbread being cut and buttered, children running around... a snippet of memory brought back when I walked into the first Lisbon pastry shop.
Pastry shops are the heartbeat filled with the young and old, from sun up and way pass sunset. Pastries with sweet sometimes holy names such as Jesuita (Jesuit), bispo (bishop), travesseiro de Sintra (Sintra's pillow), brisa (breeze), borboleta (butterfly), imperio (empire), maravilha (marvel), Papos de Anjo (angel’s double chin), Pastel de Feijao (bean pastry I had the sweet potato verision), But our favorite, even more than my beloved childhood favorite "Filhos" was a bread dessert called "God's bread" just writing it makes my mouth water. Portugal claims two hundred traditional pastries. I think I had one hundred and ninety-nine of them in my dreams.
Pastries and pink were my first two impressions. Do you know that the President's palace is pink. How could a country be any better with pastries and pink to greet you?
Sitting at a table, two elderly women dress for an occasion, nylons, heels, coats with fur collars, hair puffed, gloves on the table they looked like my Tias (Great Aunts) going to church, though it was six that Friday evening. They had a cafe and a plate with thick slices of something delicious. I asked the waitress if she could tell me what they were having? She looked over my shoulder, then looked back at me and said, "Toast" with a look that implied, "Honey you need to get out to the Portuguese pastry shops more often."
My favorite pastry shops to visit in Lisbon, I won't tell you what I had at each of them because everything, anything all of it was divine, here are a few examples, though I wish it were samples.
(The best God's bread or Pão de Deus, as it is called. I asked my mother if she knew it, and she didn't. Darn I wish she did because she could make it for us when she comes for Chelsea and Martin's wedding!))
"An absolute gem of a café, Versailles dates from the early 1920s and stands replete with original marble-clad walls, decorative stained glass panels, and dripping chandeliers. The bygone ambiance is immediately disarming and customers can spend several minutes taking in the scene before remembering to order. The specialty here is hot chocolate, a rich dark concoction that can only be drunk slowly, especially if coifed with a dollop of whipped cream. Staffed by a small army of bow-tied waiters in smart tunics, Versailles is always busy, mostly with locals who still appreciate the yesteryear elegance of Lisbon's most famous teahouse." Via 10 best
Spoonful memories, transporting me back to the table of life and love, family and faith, comforting nourishment stirring me to this day;
The aroma of cinnamon sprinkled on my mother's rice pudding, the remaining crumbs of the blackberry pie crust, the last bite of a Filhos, the smell of onions frying, butter dripping down my chin, finger licking from the cookie batter, stained fingers from eating a pomegranate in my mother's garden, Uncle Jule's roasted fava beans, Va Amaro's oatmeal cookies, Aunt Louie's and Aunt Evelyn's sweet bread, Aunt Eva May's Chocolate toffee, Uncle Jule BBQing, My mom dancing in the kitchen, Annie's dolmas's, Merisi baking apple strudel, Aunt Mary sitting at her dining room table with her six daughter's, Ritz crackers with butter at Julie's and Christine's house, a glass of wine with Zincman, Communion after my father died, lunch on the fifty something floor in Shanghai...
Lisbon was a feast, a generous gulp of growing up Portuguese in California, I had no idea that it would take me to my childhood in such a way that it did, but flavors, scents, aroma, language, the faces reflecting my own... I am thankful.
Pain perdu or "lost bread" in French is never lost.
I held the day-old baguette like a trophy won and flashed victory, "Pain perdu."
In France a day old baguette is as hard as a brick, no additives will do that. Hence, French toast (as we know it) was created.
Slice the baguette thinly. Then in a bowl add six large farm eggs, two teaspoons full of creme fraiche (such as sour cream) a tablespoon of sugar, a dash or two of nutmeg, a splash of water which was champagne from Christmas then whip altogether into a frothy mix.
Tossed the thinly sliced dried baguette and let sit for fifteen minutes or longer.
In a buttered baking dish layer the French toast mixture, adding any leftover liquid on top.
Baked until golden for about fifteen minutes at 350°.
Served with a spoon of creme fraiche and maple syrup
She simply goes into the kitchen grabs some fresh vegetables chops, stirs and voila a meal.
The artichoke: First cut off the outer leaves and chop the pointy tops off, steam them until tender, then melted butter, chopped garlic and fresh herbs, a dash of salt and it tasted like nothing I had ever had before, and I have had plenty of artichokes with garlic and butter. But I can say that about every vegetable Gina prepares... it is as if she waves a spoon like a magic wand creating the simplest dishes into masterpieces. If we both cook a carrot using the same ingredients mine will taste like a carrot and Gina's will taste like a five-star restaurant.
Snow fell around Provence in the towns behind us and in front of us, the weather report says snow is coming but so far our village has not seen a snowflake. My fingers are crossed that it doesn't snow tomorrow because there is a massive brocante that I love to go attend. Though considering how cold it is outside I will wear enough layers that I could be considered a snowman.
My friend had some antiques for sale at her home today. This little painting was there. I did not buy it but admired the fallen petals on the table. I posted some of the things she had on my instagram story.
The church around the corner. It was extra pink today.
Thank you for your thoughtful anniversary wishes and comments regarding my blog's twelve years. I appreciate each and every comment!
It is a bit staggering to think this blog has been going on for this long. Thank you for enjoying it.
A child's market bag filled with heather it is part of the shop's Christmas decoration.
The other day my friend Gina took me to Bistrot du Paradou in St Remy. The owners were so thoughtful as they made me a vegetarian cassoulet. It was delicious! So of course as soon as I got home I attempted to make a vegetarian cassoulet too. It was good, but not perfect once I have it to my liken I will share it. Nevertheless, there wasn't a single bite leftover so it was good enough. But the bar that the Bistrot du Paradou held is high.
If ever you are in St Remy Bistrot du Paradou is a must. It is truly authentic, every bit of it the place, food, and service.
In all fairness, the mayonnaise salad my mom makes has more than mayonnaise, it also has nine cloves of crushed garlic. Yes, nine. If it weren't for the head of chopped lettuce I might never have believed it was a salad.
I wish I had the recipe on hand, my mother follows recipes to the T, and the dotted I. Because of that my mother's meals are perfection even if the Mayonnaise salad has, as I believe, an entire quart of mayonnaise in it.
Here is what I remember about the salad... IT WAS DELICIOUS.
First, use a large mixing bowl
Add a truckload (a jar) of real mayonnaise with nine cloves of crushed garlic, mix well.
Then add five or so cups of day-old bread, chop it into bite-size pieces without the crust.
Mix it thoroughly then cover it and put it in the fridge overnight.
Before serving the salad add: One head of chopped lettuce, two sliced avocados, and grilled shrimp if you like, my mom didn't because my sister in law is allergic to shrimp. Mix well but gently, and serve.
Avocados, bread, salad, garlic, and mayonnaise doesn't that just tickle your toes?
If I missed something maybe my Mom will correct me in the comment section.
My Mother use to call me Cinderella, not because I wore glass slippers, nor for my flare for transforming mice into men, but because I was the oldest child followed by four brothers. Needless to say whenever a house-chore had to be done my Mother would shout out, "Cinderella!"
***
Find a small pumpkin
Cut the top off, keep it as a hat.
Scoop out the seeds, every single one.
Layer the pumpkin core with the assorted toppings:
Gobs of shredded parmesan cheese
Chunks of crusty French bread smothered with camelized golden onions,
Salt, nutmeg and pepper sprinkles,
Laced between each layer swirls of white wine and frensh cream (don't be stingy!)
Put in the oven, bake it until it is ready to melt.
Add the top hat and serve with a cane... I mean a spoon.
Take as many carrots as you can in two hands, take their hats and coats off then put them into a nice bath of cold water, turn up the heat so they can dance.
Introduce them to an exotic new partner named Ginger Fresh.
Let them each bring a friend...
Carrot will invite Lemon because she is a tart and full of spunk! Surely, Fresh Ginger will bring Curry because he is easy to blend in with others, he has a subtle softness about him.
Don't forget to serve them white wine that night, it aids the conversation.
Add a bouquet of laurel, celery and onion let them do the tango in a hot pot.
Our Canadian friends Denise (aks Panty Lady, W.R. and Good Cook) and Vlad have a summer home in Cotignac. We shared the day together in Cassis before they return home.
The little cheese are called "bouchons" or corks.
Fresh Pea Soup
Take the peas out of their pod (or frozen),
Line them in a row and admire their cute factor.
Measure more four cups worth (kissing each one is optional.)
In a pan of boil water flavored with a cube of vegetable bouillon (I like to make mine and freeze them) add the four cups of fresh peas, plus a yellow onion cut in fourths.
Make sure the water barely covers the peas and onion.
Bring to a boil, then simmer until the onion is soft (ten minutes or so).
Take off the burner, add one cup of cream and blend smooth.
Put the blended soup in the frig until chilled.
Serve with a mint leaf topper.
(Add salt to taste)
I usually serve this chilled, but instead I served it warm with a Coconut Chili Pepper vegetables, with rice and sauteed scallops.
Vegetables (Baby zucchini, carrots, green onions, parsley, garlic, mushrooms all finely chopped.) Stir in gently coconut cream let it set.
Then stir in the cooked rice, and sauteed scallops.
Late last night I took a bad photo of this delicious soup that I made. Those of who know French Husband know that he eats anything, always cleans his plate, never complains, inhales his food at a nerve-wracking rate and if you ask him what he ate or what it taste like he usually says, "Delicious and banana." In fact, he says everything tastes like banana, of course, he says that in jest, but it simply means he inhaled it and did not taste it.
I am happy he never complains, loves to eat and is easy to cook for.
Last night's soup was no exception to his usual behavior. An error of mine is that I cook without a plan or a recipe. French Husband sweetly chides, "Oh please tell me you know how to make this again?" In which case I then try to make it three or four times in a row just to remember it.
Last night's soup started with...
A fresh head of broccoli
Several green onions, green and all
Three carrots
I had a baby size zucchini and a hand full of lamb's lettuce (Annie would say, "When you are making soup at some lettuce.") so they joined their friends
Celery salt
A clove of garlic
A bunch of parsley
No broth, though water barely covering, bring to a boil and then simmered until tender.
Last night around midnight I realized I hadn't had anything to eat that day, well I mean I had nibbled throughout the day as I was preparing for a picnic for Picnics in Provence, but I hadn't really had a meal, I was hungry. Barefoot with a fork in hand, I stood in front of the fridge as I twirled some pasta around my fork, tears rolled down my cheek. There I was
Barefoot with a fork in hand, I stood in front of the fridge as I twirled some pasta around my fork, tears rolled down my cheek. A bowl of pasta, leftovers, there was never leftovers when Sacha was home, especially when it came to pasta.
Funny how a bowl of pasta at midnight could make me miss my son.
"A la bonne franquette", which is a French expression that implies a simple gathering without fanfare.
I set up our dining room table outside as it is bigger than our garden table. Such a lovely gathering to meet Nikki and her friends from Australia.
A leisurely lunch, a tour around my new studio and goodbyes with promises to meet again.
As the world turns a million hellos and goodbyes are said,
Happy and sad tears shed,
With the desire that a new day will be around the bend.
Whenever Denise and Vlad are in Provence, which is every summer, we try to spend as much time as we can with one another, 'cause that is what friend's do. Luckily, for us, Denise loves to cook, and she has the right touch of sweet and spicy to match.
The moment we walk into their home we know a feast will be prepared and then a nap will have to follow by the pool. Such a luxury to be spoiled by friends.
The fig leaves became a tablecloth and foliage from their terrace filled an old jam jar, instant decor for the table.
There it is the richness in the everyday lifestyle of Provence.
Field to table freshly picked and served, grapes, figs, almonds, olives... the multitude of cheeses and baguettes with conversation flowing as easily as the wine, arms ready to pat on the back, laughter as music and a generous table that welcomes anyone who pops in. Provence is laid back, with a vast landscape that runs to the sea and let's nout forget that painter's trekked here to capture.
Provence is Denise and Vlad, happy am I when they come to France.
On a hot day a refreshing pasta salad is the way to go. I made the pasta in the morning and let it set until dinner so that the flavors would intensify.
Cooked pasta,
Raw zucchini cut in fourths, but far from perfectly,
Peeled cucumber because in France they peel them and French Husband thinks it it wrong not too,
There are so many people in Cassis at this moment that I feel like I am on a holiday when I walk outside. Of course, Cassis always feels like a holiday, but these days even more so. We thought that our apartment might be bombarded with sound, but actually it isn't. As there are no cars on the port, that makes a massive difference. Also the noise we do hear is more like when you are on the beach and the people around are talking, but the sea's waves and the magnitude of the sea muffle it. It is agreeable, friendly, like I said it feels like a holiday whenever we are here.
I admired this woman's skirt. She wore it as a cover-up for her swimsuit.
The open market is brimming with summer's feast.
The melons are like none other.
As Provence is dry there is mostly goat milk here. Goat cheese from Manosque which is about an hour from Cassis, up by the lavender fields.
If I did not have to wear prescription glasses I would have bought these! Darling!
10 euros
Local potter.
Brilliant colors.
As much as I love these I cannot wear them. My foot is like a sloppy joe inside of them.
But they are cute
10 Euros.
Aubergine - Eggplant
Grown nearby.
Local farmer.
My favorite vegetable/fruit market stand were 90 percent is grown on her farm.
The quality is superb.
She picks the best, and sets it aside for her faithful clients, thankfully I scored today, (after four months of buying from her) as one of her favorites.
Am I becoming French ?
Antique copper pot filled with eggs.
Dinner tonight... Summer's feast.
Mark has a brocante stall at the market. He always has something that catches my eye.
This belongs to Corey Amaro all rights reserved. 2005-2022
French la Vie Creative Journeys in France. Please join me in 2020 to learn more click here
French La Vie started in 2005, I have the "Brocante Bug" which means antiquing is my cure, France can do me no wrong when it comes to treatment ° 32 years living in France with my French Husband that I met while dancing in San Francisco ° Two children, now in their late-twenties, amour et joie ° Come join our journey either vicariously through my blog, or on a French La Vie Week Retreat in Provence °
