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.
If you want to be traditional, or old fashion take out your mortar and pestle, even though I love old things, as you know I do, this is where my faithful twenty-seven year old moulinex comes gliding in to be my sous chef.
Serve on bread, or raw vegetables, bread sticks or spoonfuls.
(I have also used broad beans, black beans, roasted tofu... using the same base ingredients (olive oil, garlic, water, salt) and changing the seasoning and adding other vegetables such as dried tomatoes, green onions, roasted red pepper...
Do you have a favorite dip or spread? Is so please add it to the comment section.
"Hummus, is a Levantine dip or spread made from cooked, mashed chickpeas or other beans, blended with tahini, olive oil, lemon juice, salt and garlic. Hummus is popular throughout the Middle East and in Middle Eastern cuisine around the globe." via Wiki
Because Chelsea and Sacha were home, Because the summer evenings in Provence are so mild and delicious, because Philippe makes paella, because the City Hall lets the community use their hall tables and benches (delivers them too), and because I love throwing a party and getting stressed by French Husband's casual attitude like taking a nap at 4:30 when there was plenty to do... we had a garden party.
Thankfully the fabric store was having a sale, I bought extra wide fabric in a mossy green/brown to convert into table clothes. The saleslady asked me if I wanted a little extra for a hem? I told her I was eyeballing the measurements, and a hem, not necessary. I think she thought I was a fly by night winger. Yeah that would be me. The clothes worked out perfectly.
Years ago at the brocante I found a stack of about sixty plates for 15 Euros, I have used them for every party I have ever had. I wrapped the zinnia plants I bought at the garden shop, in old linen tea towels.
We have one round table that seats eight to ten people so we used that one too.
Our courtyard is big enough to entertain, but small enough that we are not a prisoner to it.
Philippe gave us a list of ingredients, plus kitchen supplies we had to have on hand. He has the cooking equipment, and his famous polka dotted apron.
The paella he made for us was fish.
The glass water dispenser I found at the brocante after I saw one that my mother had. I added mint and whole lemons to it. My cousin, The Elegant Vegan, gave me a great tip: She adds the whole lemon instead of slices as the flavor sips out, but the water does not become cloudy.
Elegant indeed.
Philippe sautes the onions and peppers first, then cooks the rice with broth, then adds the fish...
For the aperitif I served homemade hummus (chickpeas, garlic, lemon, olive oil, water, mint, tahini and curry paste) I added the breadsticks, like a porcupine to make it easier to serve.
Doesn't Chelsea look like a ray of sunshine next to Mr. Espresso? Mr. Espresso's father is in the background.
In a saute pan swirl chopped garlic and walnuts. Which will give them a chance to share perfumed notes with one another.
When the two are golden brown let a river of cream flow over them. Though before the cream should start to boil add the juice of the lemon that you caught, nice and steady as not to curdle the cream and spoil the fun.
As the cream thickens toss in spoonfuls of freshly grated Parmesan and a half of a spoon of grated lemon rind.
Serve it over hot al dente pasta and have a loaf of crusty bread to soak up every ounce of the lemon walnut sauce.
Exact measurements are not my style, thought I figure if the ingredients are fresh it seldom matters.
There is something tangibly romantic about driving around lavender fields in a classic French vintage car. Arnelle and I drove around the back-back-back roads of Ardeche where she lives part of the year. We gleaned the orchards for apricots too. I felt like I was in a French movie.
Arnelle use to have a catering service before she became an interior designer in San Francisco. While we were there she fixed-up fingerling potatoes with creme fraiche, trout eggs and chives.
A simple, delicious, elegant aperitif.
Tangible romance from the moment we entered into Arnelle and Rodger's world... A peek overlooking part of their garden.
Yes, they have a wisteria covered terrace where they served lunch and dinner. I adore simple elegance. Time standing still. Carefully crafted charm of authentic homes, where loving details matter. Generosity of friendship that tends to the soul of everything around.
We hope to return in Autumn to pick their olives.
I can imagine the picnic under the trees,
and the drives in Arnelle's car admiring the changing season.
This morning my children told me we were going on a detox together. When I dared ask, "Who did they mean by "we" and what exactly did "we" have to do?" They started with their plan of action: Sacha would make smoothies for breakfast, then we would exercise with Sacha as our instructor, followed by lunch that I would make, and then we would do yoga together with Chelsea leading us, and then later we would have dinner that I would be in charge of, but it was only to be a salad.
Sounded good to me. And so Sacha made apricot smoothies with about two hundred other things that went into it: Peas, coconut, kiwi, banana, almond milk, apricots, cinnamon, mint...
It was delicious.
Sacha then started doing exercises that I could barely do, but encouraged me to do what I could, even if it was just sort of close to what he was doing. He lifted chairs as weights, and I lifted my hands, he did tricky stair moves, and I walked up and down stairs. He made it fun, silly and had the ouch factor tucked inside.
We had lunch, I made curry lentils with rice mustard and coconut, plus hummus with mint. Later Chelsea lead us into yoga. I felt like I was in my own private spa of sorts...
Afterwards, Chelsea and I went shopping, as she has two weddings to attend, one in which she is a witness. We found a beautiful pale pink dress and shoes to match (I promise a photo to come.) I enjoyed every minute shopping with Chelsea, as we do not do it often, when we do it is entertaining. Chelsea does not like to shop, hence she has clothes that she has had since high school and a ton of clothes that were mine about fifteen years ago. No joke.
When we arrived home I made a salad for dinner which did not fill Chelsea, nor Yann or I, we were still hungry but kept the detox in focus. Earlier in the day, somewhere between doing squats and lunges, Sacha went on and on about how we were not to have anything but fruits and vegetables for dinner, though during dinner he confessed he had two ice-cream bars when we went shopping, and then grabbed the left over lentils and ate them.
Our Austrian friends, Dieter and Liesolette brought us pumpkin seed oil from their family's farm. The first time I tried it I was at their home, I fell hard for it, and they have never forgotten. The pumpkin seed oil has a nutty aroma, it is good on everything and I mean everything.
Sacha came home which means I can cook for an army and see the food disappear in thin air. It is a pleasure to cook for someone who loves to eat and is complimentary at every mouthful. I must admit that I am motivated by compliments, and last minute adventures.
Sacha. Lunch. Pumpkin seed oil. Create.
Pear Salad with Pumpkin Seed Oil for Two
Three ripe cold Poire Williams, cut in chunks,
Crumbled Roquefort cheese, that is room temperature,
Roasted salted almonds,
Sliced green onions,
and
Pumpkin seed oil.
Gently mix and serve.
Sacha's pear salad had slices of Austrian rye bread too.
Happiness assured.
Lunch for two, delicious in more ways than one, let's just say if conversation had calories I would look like a helium balloon.
French silverware speaks of the importance that the French put on food and meal- time. The French have a fork, knife, spoon for every food under the Eiffel Tower. They also have one for every sauce, and believe me they love their sauces. To which my thighs cry "Amen!".
Since we are a Franco-American family some of my silverware is from the States. The innocent pair come to the table, an American fruit knife (1920s) and a dessert fork (1940s.)
Unlike dinner knives and forks, the fruit knife has a sharp blade with a point on the end for stabbing fruit after it has been cut. The dessert fork has a fancy prong. The tip is curled-in to aid with slicing into a cake bite.
The fruit knife and dessert fork are much smaller than the dinnerware knife and fork.
The French place the silverware upside down on the family table, well that is in comparison to the American style of setting a table. The monograms on French silver are on the backside. Note the photo of the service above (1880): The fork's front side is bare, and the back side is fancy.
Though at restaurants the French place the silverware right side up.
I have noticed over the years that the younger generation is loosening up on this tradition. It might be because they are not buying silverware, and ordinary silverware is not more decorative on one side or the other.
The French have two sizes of spoons for coffee. A tiny one for espresso and a larger one for cafe au lait. The larger spoon can be used for tea, hot chocolate, eating cereal and yogurt (... ) that tiny espresso spoon has a singular role, certainly it feels smug adorning those cute little expresso cups.
(Photo: Spode tea and coffee cups. Hand painted 1920s)
The table fork goes on the left side of the plate. The table knife goes on the right, with its blade facing towards the plate. The table soup spoon (which looks like a serving spoon) goes by the table knife. The dessert spoon and cheese knife go on top of the plate.
The first time I came to France and had a meal at French Husband's parents home I went as stiff as the silverware in front of me. I sat the entire lunch (five hours) imitating my Belle-Pere, (Father-in-Law). Whatever fork, knife or spoon he picked up I followed suit. I don't remember a thing I ate, but I thank God for French Husband's Father's impeccable manners.
Another view of a French table setting line up. As you can see I have mix and match silverware. It makes collecting easier. Find a pretty fork at the flea market, inexpensive since it is on its own. Buy it polish it... Instant success! It adds to the collection and shakes up the snobby line up.
And by the way the French eat Pizza with a fork and knife. Trés Elegant.
The other day, while I was in Paris, I visited Sacha. When I opened his fridge it was bare, except for half a cup of coffee and about the same amount of soup, plus some day old baguette. In the cupboard he had rice and pasta. Talk about the starving artist. So like any any mother who cares about her child, I went to the grocery store with the goal in mind to stuff that Boy-Boy's fridge.
One recipe I made was my version of Egg Muffins, except I used the day old baguette he had on the counter.
First I rubbed olive oil inside the cupcake tin, then I added olive oil on the sliced baguette. I put one piece of baguette in the oiled tin, then added some chunky tomate sauce, followed by a generous pinch of grated cheese, I used comté, but any cheese will do. Next add the second slice of oiled baguette and follow with a generous soup spoon full of whipped (four or five) eggs with a pinch of salt and pressed garlic.
I baked it (375°) until the aroma called my attention.
Sacha called to say that when he opened his fridge he wanted to cry he was so happy, "I stood their eating away, it was pure pleasure! I didn't know where to start, so I just started."
He ate all the Egg Muffins standing at the fridge.
When I saw this angel food roll cake on the internet, I knew I had to make it for Monday Dinner at my Mom's house. My niece Molly helped, we thought of Sacha the entire time as it was his birthday, he favorite type of cake is about berries.
As my mother prepared dinner, Molly and I made the cake, Warren played piano on his phone.
The day (week) was hot enough to cook dinner on the sidewalk... 106° and counting up.
Such entertainment, such giggling pleasure, such lickable-likable-love in every bite! How can I live in France on Mondays? The only thing that has changed on Monday Nights over the last decade is:
How do I cook, since a few of you asked for the gnocchi recipe, well I wing it, that is how I cook. I open the fridge and figure it out as I go. If I do not have an ingredient I improvise. Imagine that the day before the French Muse I went to the grocery store that was said to be opened, and found that it was closed. And all the grocery stores I could think of were closed as well, as that day was a holiday. Even though when I checked on the internet the day before, they said they would be open. Panic set in at record speed. After going to several teeny tiny mom and pop shops between Lacoste and my town (an hour and a half a part in between) I found some of the things I needed and reinvented meals while walking around those shops. I guess you could say winging it is how I fly.
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
— Albert Einstein
Gnocchi recipe:
Gnocchi
Peas
Cream
Shaved truffle
Parmesan
Salt.
While at the Muse one of the guests asked me where I learned how to cook. I had to think about that...
In the end I learned how to cook while at the monastery. There were forty or thirty or fifty of us in community, I don't remember exactly, each of us were assigned to a job within the monastery, I was assigned to the kitchen. When one has to cook breakfast, lunch and dinner, between the liturgy of the hours, one learns how to cook real fast. Of course others helped, and that is where a variety of recipes came to be. I loved every minute of working in the monastery's kitchen and do not have one recipe written down from it.
“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.”
— William Arthur Ward
Colorful. Spice. Garlic. Fresh. A splash of white wine or whisky to the pot. Taste. Texture. Local. Seasonal.
What I learn from my mom about cooking:
Serve it faithfully with love.
Serve it plentiful and well prepared.
Set the table with care and respect.
Be thankful and do not waste.
“You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink.”
— G. K. Chesterton
Growing up in a rural community, surrounded by a large family played a big part in my education about food and hearth. It taught me that it takes many hands to bring food to the table. It starts with a seed.
A seed.
Dirt.
Water.
Toil.
Air.
Light.
Love.
and many hands from earth to mouth.
Farmers deserve more attention than they receive.
“We often take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.”
— Cynthia Ozick
Where did you learn to cook?
“Take full account of the excellencies which you possess, and in gratitude remember how you would hanker after them, if you had them not.”
Our friends Camy and John, who we met years ago through blogging, decided that when they retired they were moving to France, and they did this year. They sold their home and possessions in Colorado for a place in Provence.
After the brocante they invited us for a very late lunch, which equalled to a very early dinner, what is that American saying two birds with one stone?
Camy said that since John retired he has allowed his passion for cooking to take over the kitchen. I imaged French Husband taking over the kitchen... Pasta with butter, rice with onions, or baguette with camembert... yes it could be worse, but it could be better.
Apple, radish, and fennel salad recipe can be found here:
As John cooked and Camy served the delicious apero, I had a flashback to when I first arrived in France, Yann and I went out to dinner, when the waiter came to take our order...
Pretending I knew how to speak French I blurted that I did not eat meat, and could he suggest something for us. Beaming with pride that my broken, heavily accented French had caused the waiter's left side of his mouth to turn up, I thought he smiled and waited for his response. Instead he simply clicked his heels and said, "Alors?"
French Husband leaned across the table, grabbed my hand as if the moment were intimate and holy, I felt a rush inside... but my bubble burst when he said, "Corey, you told the waiter, that you do not eat food."
Moving to France as French Husband's bride was not easy for me, Camy and John seem to have slipped right in with such grace, I admire that about them.
Camy set the table with some of her brocante finds:
Bistro wine glasses,
a confiture jar repurposed as a candle holder,
and recently they started collecting antique silverware.
Friends, food, and brocante.
Yum.
The first words one usually learns within the first breath in a foreign country have to do with food, and since France is known for good food the words are endless and delicious.
Fresh goat cheese "bouchons":
Thyme,
Piment,
Poivre
and
Curry.
Grilled vegetables with fish and artichokes.
Thank you Camy and John, it was a lovely late lunch-early dinner.
After the brocante in Beausset today, which is always plentiful, we stuffed the car silly with all our finds. I had to remind French Husband that I needed a place to sit in the car too. We came home and had lunch. Easter Monday lunch, yes in France Easter Monday is a big day.
Baby zucchini, or courgettes in French, in their barely green coats.
Our lunch was in the late afternoon.
The iron cutting tool I found recently at a brocante, easy to find as they are plentiful, but this one was special with its decorative narrow blade. It is showing off in this photo, as I did not use it to cut the courgettes. Cheeky photographer.
Black currants from Sicily, as Sacha wasn't here today, they went into the lunch divine. Sacha dislikes currants and spinach, I cannot grasp why? Anchovies I can understand the dislike, oysters too, but sweet little currants? Presto, a spoon full of goodness came for lunch.
In the background Provencal water jugs stand by, longing to be useful... I had to remind them that their charm is my delight, beauty is useful.
Five baby courgettes in barely there green coats,
Sauteed lightly with green onions, powdered here and there with curry and salt, with drops of olive oil.
Coconut milk,
Almond butter (thanks to Wanda who brought it from the States for me), and currants.
When the sauce is silky smooth it is ready to serve.
French Husband makes the best rice, even though my Dad was a rice farmer.
I cannot deny that he is better at it than me. He has his classic method which I cannot exactly figure out.
Because a pan, boiling water and rice does not always equal perfectly cooked rice, but that is his secret.
Garbanzo beans would have been good, but after a full morning brocanting, I forgot to add them.
Happy Easter Monday lunch after the brocante.
A nap followed under the glorious late afternoon sun.
In the town where I live there are a few restaurants, five bakeries, two cafes, a few pizza joints, a major grocery store and a weekly open market.
I cook nearly everyday, but I do not do breakfast, in France breakfast is a coffee, a baguette, yogurt and fruit. The bakery is two minutes away on foot. Anyone can do breakfast.
Lunch and dinner, that is another story. Today for lunch:
Sliced baby leeks sautéed in olive oil...
with dried orange peel, to give it a bit of pizzazz.
Crumbled feta,
Salt to taste,
Walnut oil to swirl with grace,
Lemon juice to tingle the taste buds.
When the baby leeks glistened, everything came together with cooked, but no longer warm, lentils.
Delicious spring with hints of winter not far behind.
In France lettuce is called, "Salade" (pronounced: Salad).
And salad is called, "Salade" in French too.
Let-us talk about the classic salad in Provence.
First you take a lettuce and tear the leaves big. Do not, and I repeat not, in bite size pieces. The bigger the better, maybe tear them in half that is enough.
For the dressing: Olive oil, vinegar, mustard, salt and pepper.
Garlic is "Ail" in French. Pronounced, "I". You can say, "Aie! Aie! Aie!" when you are hurt, because "Aie" (pronounced, "I" as well) also means, "Ouch."
Crush one garlic in the salad per two people, enough to hear them say, "Aie!" and have you guess, Ouch or Garlic?
Grabbing the plastic bag that I had prepared the night before, I left early in the morning to my friend Annie's house. (Annie was my friend who was 91 at the time.) Annie told me to come early, and what to bring to make Bugnes. Bugnes, like oreillettes are similar to beignets, or dough-nuts, though without yeast or any self rising agents, other than eggs.
Annie was a wonderful cook, as Sacha has reminded me many times over, "...Women Annie's age really know how to cook. Honestly mom, they can take a plain head of lettuce, put it on a plate and it taste like a million bucks." I always felt so reassured about my cooking skills after a conversation like that. Once, he went on and on about how Annie's "green beans" were the best he ever had in his life. I asked him if they were so different from the ones I made. But before he could answer I said, "...shh, forget about it, I don't want to know."
I put the plastic bag full of flour, sugar, eggs, and oil on Annie's table. She had her apron on and handed me one. Annie placed a big bowl on the table, open the flour sack, poured half of it into the mixing bowl. Quickly, her hands moved at lightening speed as she whipped the other ingredients into the bowl.
Clearing my throat, I said, "Annie, Annie remember I want to LEARN how to make Bugnes, can you tell me your recipe first?" She pointed, then wiggled her floured finger towards the kitchen drawer, "There! Over there... yes that drawer, see the recipe?"
Looking through her stack, of neatly printed scratch pieces of papers, I found it: (to this day I wished I had taken a photo of it.)
500 grams of flour
Pinch of salt
Two soup spoons of sugar
Two soup spoons of rum
Two eggs
100 ml of of oil (and a bottle of oil for deep frying.)
50 ml of milk
Glancing at the list of ingredients and looking at what she was mixing into the bowl, I said, "Annie it says here, Two soup spoons of sugar..." but before I could finish my sentence, she added, "Yes, I know, but my way is better."
Annie knew the recipe by heart... had tweek-ed it by heart too, and knew it well. I grabbed a pen and started to scribble down what she was doing:
Pour half a bag of flour into a large bowl
a teaspoon of salt
stir with a fork to blend.
In a pan, melt 50 grams of butter, add 100 ml of fresh cream, do not boil, melt slowly.
Take it off the burner, add two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, pour it over the pan, if another spoonful worth pours over the spoon that is okay too.
Stir until creamy.
Add two, or three, or four soup spoons of COGNAC (at this point I said, "Hey Annie that isn't Rum, its Cognac. I thought at the bakery they used Orange blossom water?" Annie didn't even bat an eye she kept at her task she said between spoonfuls, "Orange water is cheaper than alcohol that is why the bakery uses it. Cognac has better flavor than rum."
Lick the spoon before putting it into the sink.
Crack the two eggs into the flour. Stir it then add the butter/cream sugar mixture into the bowl.
Mix with a spoon and eventually use your hand to combine.
Knead the mixture until it bounces back with elasticity.
Form it into a ball.
Let it set for two hours.
I kneaded the dough. While it was rising she talked about what it was like living in France during WWII. I love her stories about her past. Two hours later the dough was double in size.
Annie handed me an empty wine bottle. "Inventive rolling pin, isn't it?" then added, "Roll the dough, as thin as paper."
In her earlier years, Annie was a hat-maker, she had a good eye for detail. She sliced the rolled out dough into a perfect rectangle. Then Annie cut long strips down the rectangle, two inch wide. She then cut each strip into diamond like shape, and slit each diamond shape down the middle. (Why, oh why didn't I take my camera, it would have been so easy to show, instead of trying to describe it.) Then she tucked the top of the diamond into the slit and pulled it through.
Annie made four to my one. Then she stopped, and said, "Okay you need to learn, go ahead and do the rest." She watched me with an eagle eye. Letting me pretend I could do it as well as she did. Though after making several of them I did get the swing of it.
We fried the Bugnes (they fry quickly, several seconds on each side.) Then we let them drain on a paper towel, and sprinkled powered sugar to them.
Simple pleasures: Brocante in the morning, followed by lunch, catching up with brocante friends in the afternoon.
Spent some time meeting contacts for the next French Muse, plus planning artist's and antique dealer's homes for us to visit, for the upcoming Muses.
Do you see that massive frame (up above) full of oil paintings? Well, look at the man on the far left without a shirt. Not my favorite. He should have never had his portrait painted without a shirt.
On Sunday Serge's offers a 19 Euro menu that is divine.
Reservations a must.
After antiquing, which in French is "Chiner", and the "hunter" of antiques in French is, a chineur. And if you are like me, instead of saying, "antiquing", I say:
"Chin-ing"
which is Frangalise.
Anyway, after chining in Carpentras, we went to Isle Sur la Sorgue.
Today's dessert at Chez Serge was a pineapple and apple crumble.
I did not have the chocolate scoop of ice cream added to mine.
French la Vie Creative Journeys in France. Please join me in 2019 to learn more click here
French la Vie Creative Journeys in France. Please join me in 2019 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 ° Thirty years living in France with my French Husband that I met while dancing in San Francisco ° Two children, now in their mid-twenties, amour et joie ° Come join our journey either vicariously through my blog, or on a French La Vie Week Retreat in Provence °
