Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I came to Provence to work at the international photography festival, the annual Rencontres de la Photographie in Arles, the summer of 1995. I was attending graduate school in Paris at the Institute Supérieur de Management Culturel, learning the ins and outs of arts management, and this was my second internship through the school, in a field I loved. I had been director of one of the oldest photography galleries in Seattle before coming to Paris, and was hoping to further my ambitions in the world of photography. Little did I know that this city and a man deeply rooted here would re-arrange my future, as a large rock tumbling from a cliff can re-orient the direction of a stream.
I arrived with little more in mind than to do my internship, enjoy the sun, and perhaps go to the beach. Paris had been the rainy capitol of the world that spring, and I could think of little but to enjoy the balmy warmth that had greeted me as I descended onto the train platform of this little city in the South.
Within a few days, I had met Erick, my soon to be husband, borrowed his bike, been to the beach, and eaten quite a few marvelous, simply home-cooked meals in his kitchen. I moved in the next week. Though not love at first sight, the romance was whirlwind. Briefly returning home to Seattle, I divested myself of my most bulky possessions, reduced my belongings to a one meter crate, and came back to Provence, ready to start a new life. A few years later I was running a cooking school, renovating a bed and breakfast, and raising two raucous little boys of two nationalities and two mother tongues. Although my marriage has run its term, I am still here, living in Provence, in my own home in Avignon with my two boys and our dog.
Life is not always easy for an ex-patriot, particularly in a small town in the South. Neighbors find you strange, customs and social signals differ, and finding your place takes time. Finding people with whom you can form friendships and enjoy special moments is particularly challenging. New to the region, I grafted myself onto Erick’s deep roots, and sought a bit of sunlight to encourage my own growth.
This sunlight came in the form of our cooking school. Erick is the chef, but, I too have always cooked. I come from a family in which we are all quite competent in the kitchen, and I’ve orchestrated Thanksgiving feasts for 20 or more as far away as Kobe, Japan, from an early age. My friends back home considered it quite unfair, and rather amusing that I, who was not destined to starve from lack of culinary skills, should marry a chef. Ah well. That’s fate, right? Shared values make for a marriage.
In the beginning, we hosted individuals, visited the outdoor farmer’s market, and cooked, and ate. This was the basic formula of the school. The central pillar was Erick and his personal research into the history of Provençale cuisine, coupled with his passionate alchemical sense of discovery.
How best to cook a tomato? When working with garlic, how do we retain all of its flavor and yet render it more easily digested? And traditional meat dishes-- seared or cooked slowly in wine? What is traditional to the region? (olive oil, lard) What is a recent interloper (butter). And on and on, a never ending, rich research into culinary secrets and mysteries.
As the business grew, we expanded our programs and offered our cooking clients visits to the local artisans. We met Sophie, the beekeeper, at our local market who shares Erick’s passion for historical recipes. Then we met Jean-Marie Fassy, the baker, at a conference on Mediterranean cuisine. Later we sought out local wine makers and went to taste and learn and purchase. At the yearly pottery fair, we met Véronique, our favorite potter.
Wandering down from the Château atop Châteauneuf-du-Pape, we stumbled into the newly opened Cave Verger des Papes and met Guy, our chef-sommelier. A colleague from afar introduced us to the exquisite chocolates of Joel Durand in St. Rémy de Provence. And just down the street from our home in Arles is our maître-patissier Guy Le Blanc. Sophie introduced us to Claudine and Isabelle, our goat cheese producers; and through another friendly connection we met René and Jean-Baptiste at the olive oil mill. Our connections with Guy Brémond led us to our truffle-meister. And so on and so on.
After polite and tentative social overtures, we arranged clear and defined business visits to our artisans. With little hesitation, we invited them to the house to enjoy a five course meal of the cooking school, alongside the students they’d met that week. For us, we wanted to say thank you in the best way we knew how. Our world is food, feeding people comes as second nature to us: please, join us around our table. In France, food is king, a meal shared in a home is sacred. The artisans became our friends.
After my various stumbling and often failed attempts to connect with neighbors, librarians, shop-keepers, and such, it took just a short while to realize that amongst these artisans I had found my ‘friends of a feather’. As bees to honey, I was attracted by their passion, their generosity, their expertise, their patience, their extraordinary welcome to us and our students. They became my teachers. In many cases, we were their only visitors (though this is changing slowly), and my students and myself were given preferential treatment, encouraged to ask any and all questions, and proffered detailed and lengthy explanations on every element of the particular artisan’s area of expertise.
Alongside my clients I learned about wine making: from the pruning, to the selection of grapes, to the harvest, to the crushing and removal or not, of stems. Onwards to the 2-4 weeks of alcoholic fermentation, to the ‘bleeding’ and/or pressing. From there to the malo-lactic fermentation to the decanting, to the aging, to the blending, and finally, to the bottling and which corks are best. Phew! I’d drunk tasted a bit of good Bordeaux and Burgundy as a child, but that was it for my oenological knowledge up to my arrival in Provence.
Be it olive oil, goat cheese, organic wine, chocolate, fougasse dough or pottery, all these marvelous products and the much appreciated creations of our dear friends became essential to my life, and also to the business.
As a foreigner in their world, it is not a little thing that these individuals receive me with open hearts and light in their eyes. They appreciate my sincere interest, and give back a hundred fold. Never am I berated by them with discussions of the invasion of American cinema into French culture, nor challenged on other American behaviors or policies Europeans occasionally find questionable or troubling (i.e. how Americans historically treated the American Indians, international politics, the role of religion in America).
Much more concerned with making a living in a world of flux and periodic confusion; much more concerned with doing well and being proud of their chosen profession, these men and women have chosen the route of personal creativity and hard work. They opened their hearts to me, and made my life here enriched with their experience and friendship. I can truly say that through them, I truly live here, in Provence, in the terroir of the Bouches du Rhône, amidst the olive trees and the seasonal market. I’ve put down my own roots. As a result, I’ve come to understand the apprehension with which many French view moving from their home-town. Here, I know my market vendors. Here, I can drive to any of a number of wineries within 30 minutes of the house, and purchase my favorite wines. Here, I can stock up on fresh olive oil right from the press. Here, I can run down the street to collect my favorite pastries. And here, I am known by name, and greeted with kisses. The cliché says home is where the heart is, add the stomach to that and oh how true.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Spring Cleaning Never Ends
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
How to start off the week? Windows open and duster out. A day for turning out all the covers of the boys' beds. A day to vacuum every corner, under the beds, behind the toy boxes. A time to finally dust the book shelves (well it's been since September...), and snag all those spider webs hanging from the beams. When I read to the boys last night in their room, I nearly died from sneezing, and then, Jonas came tiptoeing into my room and bed complaining of the spiders. Yup, it was time. It took a couple of hours this morning, flipping over the mattresses and vacuuming them too. Shaking the covers out the window, and taking all the rest, pillows included, and tossing them in the washing machine (I'm on the 4th run today). It's bright, sunny and spectacular outdoors, so I've been able to hang everything out to dry and air.
Once outside, the compost pile called to me. Strange I know, but it looked rather dry and forlorn over there. So I went with hose in hand and started to drench it, turn it, drench it, turn it. Apparently I messed up this winter. I'd read that wood ashes are good for the garden, and also compost. So, I'd put them all together. The result is a very dry compost pile that has most definitely not degraded as it should have. So, with hope, I spent a good half hour drenching it and turning it over with the pitch fork. Perhaps it will all work out in the end? In any case, the season of wood ashes is nearly over (a small fire in the stove in the morning, perhaps at dinner time, but that's it). And I'm still making lots of soups, salads and vegetable dishes, so the food waste will soon outweigh the dry ashes.
I watered my peas again -- hopefully a few plants will come up soon. The weeds are certainly looking healthy. I did think I'd removed most of them the other day, but apparently, without sufficient vigor. I'm looking at my lawn now -- growing longer by the day. I really should get out the mower, but, the wild daisies are just so cool! I'm not yet ready to rip off their heads. And then there's the fence and little door at the foot of the garden. Two of the stakes holding it up need to be replaced. Time and the joyous arrival of Saline -- the large friend of Filou's -- have taken their tole.
There's always something to do. I think the last laundry machine is awaiting me now.
How to start off the week? Windows open and duster out. A day for turning out all the covers of the boys' beds. A day to vacuum every corner, under the beds, behind the toy boxes. A time to finally dust the book shelves (well it's been since September...), and snag all those spider webs hanging from the beams. When I read to the boys last night in their room, I nearly died from sneezing, and then, Jonas came tiptoeing into my room and bed complaining of the spiders. Yup, it was time. It took a couple of hours this morning, flipping over the mattresses and vacuuming them too. Shaking the covers out the window, and taking all the rest, pillows included, and tossing them in the washing machine (I'm on the 4th run today). It's bright, sunny and spectacular outdoors, so I've been able to hang everything out to dry and air.
Once outside, the compost pile called to me. Strange I know, but it looked rather dry and forlorn over there. So I went with hose in hand and started to drench it, turn it, drench it, turn it. Apparently I messed up this winter. I'd read that wood ashes are good for the garden, and also compost. So, I'd put them all together. The result is a very dry compost pile that has most definitely not degraded as it should have. So, with hope, I spent a good half hour drenching it and turning it over with the pitch fork. Perhaps it will all work out in the end? In any case, the season of wood ashes is nearly over (a small fire in the stove in the morning, perhaps at dinner time, but that's it). And I'm still making lots of soups, salads and vegetable dishes, so the food waste will soon outweigh the dry ashes.
I watered my peas again -- hopefully a few plants will come up soon. The weeds are certainly looking healthy. I did think I'd removed most of them the other day, but apparently, without sufficient vigor. I'm looking at my lawn now -- growing longer by the day. I really should get out the mower, but, the wild daisies are just so cool! I'm not yet ready to rip off their heads. And then there's the fence and little door at the foot of the garden. Two of the stakes holding it up need to be replaced. Time and the joyous arrival of Saline -- the large friend of Filou's -- have taken their tole.
There's always something to do. I think the last laundry machine is awaiting me now.
The Rhône Valley Wine Fair
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
Yesterday was the first day of a full week of Rhône Valley wine fairs. I accompanied JP to the Costières de Nîmes wine fair located in a Château in Roquemaure -- for me just a 20 minute drive from Avignon, but a good hour from Vauvert. In the village of Tavel, the Southern Rhône crus wines of Tavel and Lirac were set up. And every day this week, mostly in Avignon, but also up the Rhône in Hermitage and beyond, the various appelations and crus of the Rhône Valley each had their place and time (Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Gigondas and Vacqueyras in Avignon, alongside many Côte du Rhône, and up north, Hermitage, St. Joseph, Crozes-Hermitage, etc.,). All these vintners were hoping for one thing: to find a couple more importers for their precious liquids.
In our case, the organic wine fair in January had been very promising, and it doesn't look like it will be that difficult for JP to sell his wines this year -- the organic market is up, the region was hit by bad weather (JP's domaine excepted), and his wine is in the right price range for the current economic crisis. Good organic wine at a good price. But nonetheless, no one can take anything for granted, as the direction of the year and the extent of the crisis, are still unfolding.
We set off early in the morning, with the wine samples carefully stored in JP's trunk, the handy notebook and stapler for business cards, new contacts etc., and a healthy dose of optimism and curiosity. The fair was very straightforward. Located in the handsome Château de Clary in Roquemaure (site of a piano concerto festival every summer). Each vintner had a very small stand with a few glasses, a bottle of water, a wine opener, a pen, a spittoon, and above his head, a small flag announcing the name of the domaine/château, etc., The dominant color was red.
We were on time, but the visitors were a bit slow to arrive. However, by 11AM things were bustling and Dutch, American, Italian/Flemish, French and English importers and agents were doing the rounds, tasting and taking notes, or in many cases, catching up with prior contacts, suppliers and friends.
As the potential importers stopped at the stand, we sussed out their lingual preferences, and then either one of us addressed them in French, or I suggested English. This is always a delicate moment, as people who've worked hard to master French are a proud bunch, so, I'm careful not to use my English unless it is desired. This leads to one of those interesting social dances of my speaking French to an American importer, and vice versa. I've come to the conclusion that I most definitely still have a slight accent -- any Frenchman can guess that I'm not French within a couple minutes of speaking with me. However, competent foreign (particularly anglo-saxon) French speakers aren't so sure. I think I bluff them with the sheer speed of my speech. I don't eat my words, but you do need to listen carefully to hear all of them.
As the crowd turned we had a couple Dutchmen taste our wines pretty seriously, pleased to know that they are organic. Once they had passed on, JP and his colleagues commiserated over the fact that in general, whenever they've worked with the Dutch, they typically have to be ready to negotiate hard to keep the price they would like to receive for their wines. Adept businessmen and notoriously stiff negotiators, the Dutch always push for a lower and lower price. On the flip side, American importers don't usually negotiate prices, but they do have all sorts of other elements that make the American market a difficult one to get into, yet with interesting potential. A very sociable Italian who imports to Finland lauded our wines extensively, "ah, Robert Parker would give this one a 95!)... we'll see if he was all hot air, or if his promises of moving into the Polish market are serious. We recognized a couple of retired sommeliers who'd been at the organic fair -- here too to drink at their leisure and go home sloshed? I think their trick is to drive their camper van to the site of any and all wine fairs in France, spend the night and wake up right there, ready to go in and drink away.
Lunch was a strange affair. A dozen preparations designed to be paired with the wines served in plastic glasses no larger than shot glasses. Some were excessively salty (cold sausage and cold lentils), some were excessively rich (blood pudding), some were too acidic (green vegetable purée and ?), others a bland disappointment (oily brandade on top and green shredded vegetables on the bottom). Happily, the bread was good and plentiful. Five slices got me through the meal, and somewhat sated my hunger. Did they pair well? The daube was good, if cold, and yes, an ideal pairing with the concentrated reds of this region. As for the proposals for the whites, they were few, and yes, improved a bit by the crisp and citrus notes of many whites in this region. But, for those of us who were drinking more water than wine and thus were tasting with a sober tongue, it was a bit lacking to say the least.
I care more and more about food and wine pairing. It was always an element to be considered during my years running the cooking school in Arles. Erick and I had acquired a nice cellar after our years of visiting wineries, and it was often my job to choose and suggest the wine(s) to accompany the evening meals. Normally I begin with a dish, and wonder and test which wines will go with it. I work with the basic rules of acidic with acidic, heavy and concentrated with richer fare, lighter reds or roses with white meat and picnic meats, but then it is important to taste and test. The results are occasionally surprising. Out at the domaine we have three wine-tasting and wine-pairing weekends scheduled through the spring and fall. JP will teach the wine-tasting portion, and I'll finish off the weekend with a meal designed to permit sampling the numerous wines tasted and discussed with the dishes served. It is an open-ended art, that even those who teach are willing to admit to the occasional surprise, disappointment, and delightful discovery.
Back to the fair. Always a bit rough after lunch. Those who are there to taste are enjoying their cafe outside in the glorious sunshine, reveling in being in Provence, and those of us who are there to work are starting to feel a bit lightheaded and dizzy on our feet. Nap time anyone? I ducked out for ten minutes of shut-eye leaning against a tree in the garden, then returned to my post. At this point, I saw a serious American importer we'd met at the organic wine fair, caught his eye and encouraged him to come over and chat. But we also had another American agent stop by, his teeth terribly purple at this point, and he tasted each of the wines thoughtfully and carefully, taking careful notes, using his very good if strongly accented French.
All in all, an interesting day. We'll see who turns into a proper sale in the future. Now it's time for the follow-ups.
Yesterday was the first day of a full week of Rhône Valley wine fairs. I accompanied JP to the Costières de Nîmes wine fair located in a Château in Roquemaure -- for me just a 20 minute drive from Avignon, but a good hour from Vauvert. In the village of Tavel, the Southern Rhône crus wines of Tavel and Lirac were set up. And every day this week, mostly in Avignon, but also up the Rhône in Hermitage and beyond, the various appelations and crus of the Rhône Valley each had their place and time (Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Gigondas and Vacqueyras in Avignon, alongside many Côte du Rhône, and up north, Hermitage, St. Joseph, Crozes-Hermitage, etc.,). All these vintners were hoping for one thing: to find a couple more importers for their precious liquids.
In our case, the organic wine fair in January had been very promising, and it doesn't look like it will be that difficult for JP to sell his wines this year -- the organic market is up, the region was hit by bad weather (JP's domaine excepted), and his wine is in the right price range for the current economic crisis. Good organic wine at a good price. But nonetheless, no one can take anything for granted, as the direction of the year and the extent of the crisis, are still unfolding.
We set off early in the morning, with the wine samples carefully stored in JP's trunk, the handy notebook and stapler for business cards, new contacts etc., and a healthy dose of optimism and curiosity. The fair was very straightforward. Located in the handsome Château de Clary in Roquemaure (site of a piano concerto festival every summer). Each vintner had a very small stand with a few glasses, a bottle of water, a wine opener, a pen, a spittoon, and above his head, a small flag announcing the name of the domaine/château, etc., The dominant color was red.
We were on time, but the visitors were a bit slow to arrive. However, by 11AM things were bustling and Dutch, American, Italian/Flemish, French and English importers and agents were doing the rounds, tasting and taking notes, or in many cases, catching up with prior contacts, suppliers and friends.
As the potential importers stopped at the stand, we sussed out their lingual preferences, and then either one of us addressed them in French, or I suggested English. This is always a delicate moment, as people who've worked hard to master French are a proud bunch, so, I'm careful not to use my English unless it is desired. This leads to one of those interesting social dances of my speaking French to an American importer, and vice versa. I've come to the conclusion that I most definitely still have a slight accent -- any Frenchman can guess that I'm not French within a couple minutes of speaking with me. However, competent foreign (particularly anglo-saxon) French speakers aren't so sure. I think I bluff them with the sheer speed of my speech. I don't eat my words, but you do need to listen carefully to hear all of them.
As the crowd turned we had a couple Dutchmen taste our wines pretty seriously, pleased to know that they are organic. Once they had passed on, JP and his colleagues commiserated over the fact that in general, whenever they've worked with the Dutch, they typically have to be ready to negotiate hard to keep the price they would like to receive for their wines. Adept businessmen and notoriously stiff negotiators, the Dutch always push for a lower and lower price. On the flip side, American importers don't usually negotiate prices, but they do have all sorts of other elements that make the American market a difficult one to get into, yet with interesting potential. A very sociable Italian who imports to Finland lauded our wines extensively, "ah, Robert Parker would give this one a 95!)... we'll see if he was all hot air, or if his promises of moving into the Polish market are serious. We recognized a couple of retired sommeliers who'd been at the organic fair -- here too to drink at their leisure and go home sloshed? I think their trick is to drive their camper van to the site of any and all wine fairs in France, spend the night and wake up right there, ready to go in and drink away.
Lunch was a strange affair. A dozen preparations designed to be paired with the wines served in plastic glasses no larger than shot glasses. Some were excessively salty (cold sausage and cold lentils), some were excessively rich (blood pudding), some were too acidic (green vegetable purée and ?), others a bland disappointment (oily brandade on top and green shredded vegetables on the bottom). Happily, the bread was good and plentiful. Five slices got me through the meal, and somewhat sated my hunger. Did they pair well? The daube was good, if cold, and yes, an ideal pairing with the concentrated reds of this region. As for the proposals for the whites, they were few, and yes, improved a bit by the crisp and citrus notes of many whites in this region. But, for those of us who were drinking more water than wine and thus were tasting with a sober tongue, it was a bit lacking to say the least.
I care more and more about food and wine pairing. It was always an element to be considered during my years running the cooking school in Arles. Erick and I had acquired a nice cellar after our years of visiting wineries, and it was often my job to choose and suggest the wine(s) to accompany the evening meals. Normally I begin with a dish, and wonder and test which wines will go with it. I work with the basic rules of acidic with acidic, heavy and concentrated with richer fare, lighter reds or roses with white meat and picnic meats, but then it is important to taste and test. The results are occasionally surprising. Out at the domaine we have three wine-tasting and wine-pairing weekends scheduled through the spring and fall. JP will teach the wine-tasting portion, and I'll finish off the weekend with a meal designed to permit sampling the numerous wines tasted and discussed with the dishes served. It is an open-ended art, that even those who teach are willing to admit to the occasional surprise, disappointment, and delightful discovery.
Back to the fair. Always a bit rough after lunch. Those who are there to taste are enjoying their cafe outside in the glorious sunshine, reveling in being in Provence, and those of us who are there to work are starting to feel a bit lightheaded and dizzy on our feet. Nap time anyone? I ducked out for ten minutes of shut-eye leaning against a tree in the garden, then returned to my post. At this point, I saw a serious American importer we'd met at the organic wine fair, caught his eye and encouraged him to come over and chat. But we also had another American agent stop by, his teeth terribly purple at this point, and he tasted each of the wines thoughtfully and carefully, taking careful notes, using his very good if strongly accented French.
All in all, an interesting day. We'll see who turns into a proper sale in the future. Now it's time for the follow-ups.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A Spring Day at the Winery
The weather couldn't be more gorgeous. Warm, t-shirt weather. Glorious sunshine that isn't yet so powerful and intense that I'm hiding out under a parasol (but I did get out my straw hat and shades). A slight breeze is blowing, but just enough. The few days of intense Mistral winds are past history. It is a moment to revel, to luxuriate, to go ahhhhh, t'is true, perhaps this is why I live in Provence?
Time to work in the garden and plant the carrots and peas and potatoes. Time to turn over the earth and prepare to seed the alfalfa on the slope that formerly held an apricot orchard. And, time to harvest wild leeks. Yes, they grow in abundance here in the sandy clay soil. I was able to pull up an armful with my handy fork (JP only has manly sized gardening tools, and truly, I didn't need a huge hoe for this job), within a small circumference of about 2 meters. Fragrant, flavorful, completely organic... what could be better?
I brought them into the house after my brief period of foraging (rarely, is foraging this productive in such a short span of time! When out mushroom hunting, it can take a whole afternoon to find enough cèpes or grisés for a good side dish!), and set about cleaning them. Basically I rinsed well and removed the very outer leaves. The rest was all edible. I minced the tiny bulbs to add to our lunch stir fry with some broccoli and cabbage, and a sizable drizzle each of olive oil, lemon juice and tamari.
The stalks I cut into two inch lengths and blanched for a few minutes till tender -- but still very much bright green --and drained them in a colander (though I should have kept the cooking water for soup! Drats, it went down the drain. Next time). I then made a very simple vinaigrette with JP's olive oil, a touch of cider vinegar, a smudge of dijon mustard and a sprinkle of fleur de sel. While the leeks were still quite warm I poured the vinaigrette over them and turned them well. Then they sat quietly on the table, gently cooling down and sitting in their juices till lunch, a couple of hours later.
Having prepared quite a lot, I put aside the extra blanched leeks for an omelet or quiche tomorrow... so many possibilities.
Yes, it is spring, with its bounty and with its moments of amusement. As I looked out from the terrace, JP was sowing seeds in the garden to the west, while to the east, my over-active fully male dog (the vet persuaded me not to have him fixed... but I'm definitely thinking of going back on this decision) was sowing his seed in quite another recipient.
Yup, the sap is definitely starting to flow.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Tarte Tatin in a Southern Way
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
Yes, yet another Tarte Tatin recipe. There are quite a few out there, I do realize this. However, this one is a touch different. Rather than butter, I use a mild and buttery olive oil -- sacrilege, I know, but, hey, it works, and the caramel is just gorgeous.
I also stress that the crust I use for this is really worth doing. It is a standard brisé crust from my pastry-maker down the street, and it, covered by that pear or apple flavored caramel as it crumbles in your mouth, well, I don't really need the fruit at all.
So, start by making the crust:
500 g flour -- I use a 65 grind flour in France, which is equivalent to an all purpose. If you use whole wheat, you may need a touch more water.
5 g salt (1/2 teaspoon) -- fleur de sel is wonderful here, as you find the little crystals again after cooking -- salted butter cookies!
30 g sugar (2 tablespoons)
300g sweet butter - 1 cup plus 5 tablespoons
1 egg
125 g (1/2 cup) water
On a hard work surface - marble, granite or formica - place your flour in a well shape with the salt and sugar. Cut the butter into tablespoon size pieces, and put with the dry ingredients. Gently, use both hands and rub and crumble the butter into the dry ingredients. You are aiming for a sandy texture with all the butter mixed into the dry ingredients, gently and surely. When the butter is well mixed in, make another well and add the egg. With one hand, gently bring the butter/flour mixture into the egg. With the other hand, pour some of the water into the middle of your well and continue bringing the ingredients together. Once all the ingredients are mixed together (you may or may not have used all the water), stop mixing. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for a couple hours or over night to rest. I like to pound it into a 1-2 inch thick flat before wrapping, which renders it far easier to roll out later.
Remove from the refrigerator and roll out to the desired thickness (1 cm/1/3 inch is nice). You'll have extra -- which is superb rolled back out with fresh or dried thyme and/or rosemary and some fleur de sel. Cut out in rounds and bake -- super savory cookies!
And now for the filling. I l actually prefer pears to apples, so here is my version
5-6 pears pealed, sliced in half and cored
1/4 cup mild and buttery olive oil -- such as a pure grossane olive oil (or grossane dominant) from the Vallée des Baux in Provence
1/2 cup of sugar
Preheat the oven to 350F/175C.
In a large non-stick skillet that can go in the oven too (like the new Calphalon or Circulon, or a well-seasoned cast-iron pan), over a low flame, melt your butter and then add your sugar, spread evenly in the skillet. Take the skillet off the flame. Lay your sliced pears attractively in the skillet, in a rounded pattern with the flat side down. Put back on the flame and let simmer till the sugar begins to caramelize, do not stir. I keep a close eye on the caramel -- I want it to go quite dark, and to see the "petit fumé"/ little smoke, before I lay the crust on top and remove it from the flame. If I take the pears off the flame too soon, I find the dish is a bit bland. The caramel is really bringing all the flavor, so don't stint on it. You could always add some fresh ginger or other element to lift the flavors, but, truly, the caramel can be enough.
Lay the crust on the pan, snipping off the extra bits that hang over the edge, or even tucking them in a bit. Poke the pastry with a fork and then put it in the oven. Bake till the pastry has nicely browned -- here again, leave it till it is truly browned. This crust is delectable when fully cooked, but kind of pointless when it is a touch raw. Remove from the oven and cover with a cake plate the size or a bit larger than your skillet, carefully invert the tart onto the plate – if necessary, use a high-heat spatula to help you get all the good caramel in the skillet on your fruit. Let cool a few minutes and serve plain or with a good vanilla ice cream, crème fraîche, or whipped cream. This tart can be gently reheated in an oven just prior to serving.
Yes, yet another Tarte Tatin recipe. There are quite a few out there, I do realize this. However, this one is a touch different. Rather than butter, I use a mild and buttery olive oil -- sacrilege, I know, but, hey, it works, and the caramel is just gorgeous.
I also stress that the crust I use for this is really worth doing. It is a standard brisé crust from my pastry-maker down the street, and it, covered by that pear or apple flavored caramel as it crumbles in your mouth, well, I don't really need the fruit at all.
So, start by making the crust:
500 g flour -- I use a 65 grind flour in France, which is equivalent to an all purpose. If you use whole wheat, you may need a touch more water.
5 g salt (1/2 teaspoon) -- fleur de sel is wonderful here, as you find the little crystals again after cooking -- salted butter cookies!
30 g sugar (2 tablespoons)
300g sweet butter - 1 cup plus 5 tablespoons
1 egg
125 g (1/2 cup) water
On a hard work surface - marble, granite or formica - place your flour in a well shape with the salt and sugar. Cut the butter into tablespoon size pieces, and put with the dry ingredients. Gently, use both hands and rub and crumble the butter into the dry ingredients. You are aiming for a sandy texture with all the butter mixed into the dry ingredients, gently and surely. When the butter is well mixed in, make another well and add the egg. With one hand, gently bring the butter/flour mixture into the egg. With the other hand, pour some of the water into the middle of your well and continue bringing the ingredients together. Once all the ingredients are mixed together (you may or may not have used all the water), stop mixing. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for a couple hours or over night to rest. I like to pound it into a 1-2 inch thick flat before wrapping, which renders it far easier to roll out later.
Remove from the refrigerator and roll out to the desired thickness (1 cm/1/3 inch is nice). You'll have extra -- which is superb rolled back out with fresh or dried thyme and/or rosemary and some fleur de sel. Cut out in rounds and bake -- super savory cookies!
And now for the filling. I l actually prefer pears to apples, so here is my version
5-6 pears pealed, sliced in half and cored
1/4 cup mild and buttery olive oil -- such as a pure grossane olive oil (or grossane dominant) from the Vallée des Baux in Provence
1/2 cup of sugar
Preheat the oven to 350F/175C.
In a large non-stick skillet that can go in the oven too (like the new Calphalon or Circulon, or a well-seasoned cast-iron pan), over a low flame, melt your butter and then add your sugar, spread evenly in the skillet. Take the skillet off the flame. Lay your sliced pears attractively in the skillet, in a rounded pattern with the flat side down. Put back on the flame and let simmer till the sugar begins to caramelize, do not stir. I keep a close eye on the caramel -- I want it to go quite dark, and to see the "petit fumé"/ little smoke, before I lay the crust on top and remove it from the flame. If I take the pears off the flame too soon, I find the dish is a bit bland. The caramel is really bringing all the flavor, so don't stint on it. You could always add some fresh ginger or other element to lift the flavors, but, truly, the caramel can be enough.
Lay the crust on the pan, snipping off the extra bits that hang over the edge, or even tucking them in a bit. Poke the pastry with a fork and then put it in the oven. Bake till the pastry has nicely browned -- here again, leave it till it is truly browned. This crust is delectable when fully cooked, but kind of pointless when it is a touch raw. Remove from the oven and cover with a cake plate the size or a bit larger than your skillet, carefully invert the tart onto the plate – if necessary, use a high-heat spatula to help you get all the good caramel in the skillet on your fruit. Let cool a few minutes and serve plain or with a good vanilla ice cream, crème fraîche, or whipped cream. This tart can be gently reheated in an oven just prior to serving.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Time for my Window Herb Garden - Herb and Flower Syrups
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
Living in a country house in Provence, I am blessed with hardy bay laurel that is thick and nearly ready to overtake my garden (and serves as a superb hedge between me and my neighbor's horses). I also have thyme, rosemary, absinth, lavender and mint that winter very easily. I had a very happy plant of lemon verbena last fall.. I cut it back late October, so at the moment, I'm crossing my fingers that it will send out young shoots in another couple weeks. In the meantime, the more delicate herbs such as basil, parsley and chives are best started indoors in my window and transfered to the garden in May, well after the date of any last-minute late season freeze.
I'm actually pretty much a novice at this growing thing. I'm a taurus, and supposedly, that means I've a green thumb. But, only in the past two years since I purchased my house in Avignon, with a real garden attached to it, have I been able to indulge in the dirty hands/green experience. Being a multi-tasker by nature, and a mother of two growing boys, housing three extra kids, trying to reinvent my business, cope alone etc.,... these efforts have been very much in fits and starts. I am my mother's daughter. The devoted regular gardener I am not, but every once in awhile, when the weather is absolutely gorgeous and I just can't bear to be indoors anymore, I head out in jeans and gloves and start weeding and planting away. It feels so good, and I feel so proud. At least these efforts won't be erased by the arrival of my boys (in contrast to getting the house particularly clean and dust free). The feeling of satisfaction is there, and will be so till the weeds grow again to untold heights. And, contrary to my mother's experiences, there is no poison ivy here, so I won't need to go running for the caladryl tomorrow!
I'm proud to say that my crocuses and tulip bulbs, planted last year, are coming up nicely for their second year. Yes, this is a neophyte being proud of the simplest of gardening efforts. But hey, why not? The rose bushes and jasmine that I transfered to the East facade last year are also doing far better this year, as is the pink-flowered Japanese cognassier. I've four very happy butterfly trees with different colored flowers that grew like crazy last year, and will soon block the view of our pool completely from the terrace. I've pruned them back a bit... wondering just how much they'll grow this year (they more than tripled in size last season!).
My little vegetable patch is in nice rich dirt (I live on the Ile de la Barthélasse, flooded back in 2003, so I've some dark alluvial soil to work with), but under the future shade of the fig tree. So, I plant primarily spring vegetables and fruits in hopes of harvesting them before the shade overwhelms the sun. I put the peas in a couple weeks' ago -- late I know, but last November I just didn't have my act together-- and now I've a bunch of potatoes to add to the tiny patch. My strawberry plants, now two years' old, are looking sturdy and ready for the soon to arrive season.
Soon, the Elderberry tree will be in flower, and I'll make elderflower syrup for my boys. Rather than having fruit juices or sodas (God forbid!) in the house, I supply them with mint and elderflower syrups made with my bulk non-bleached cane sugar. They happily drink these throughout the hot months.
Foreign guests, tasting these simple home-made syrups for the first time (which we drink extended with either still or bubbly water) write ecstatically of these delicate floral flavors as they slip over their tongue. T'is true that they are delightfully refreshing, simple to make and fun.
My basic recipe for the syrups is this:
A simple syrup of 3 liters of water to 2 kilos of sugar (these proportions can be changed to one to one to make a more stable syrup. In either case, I store these in the fridge).
1 lemon cut in rounds
handfuls of elderflowers plucked off their branches -- at least 3 cups of the blossoms. If working with mint, 2 cups of mint leaves is fine. You can also make a syrup with thyme or rosemary or lavender. The possibilities are endless.
Heat your sugar and water till the sugar has fully melted, bring to a gentle simmer and add the lemon rounds and the blossoms or herbs. Cover and put in a dark place to infuse for 24-48 hours. Bring back up to a simmer, strain out the blossoms or herbs and pour into four sterilized (as well rinsed as you can) wine bottles that can be closed with either a cork or a screw top or another method. Let cool and then store in the fridge. You can store them in a cool cellar, particularly if you drink them quickly.
Occasionally, as this is a rather artisanal recipe and the variables such as the corks, etc., are not that easy to sterilize, a bit of fermenting gets going, or a wee bit of fuzz grows on the surface. This is not cause for tossing out your precious liquid, simply strain the syrup through a fine mesh strainer into a saucepan and bring to a boil for a few minutes and then pour it back into the bottle.
Enjoy on your back terrace this spring!
Living in a country house in Provence, I am blessed with hardy bay laurel that is thick and nearly ready to overtake my garden (and serves as a superb hedge between me and my neighbor's horses). I also have thyme, rosemary, absinth, lavender and mint that winter very easily. I had a very happy plant of lemon verbena last fall.. I cut it back late October, so at the moment, I'm crossing my fingers that it will send out young shoots in another couple weeks. In the meantime, the more delicate herbs such as basil, parsley and chives are best started indoors in my window and transfered to the garden in May, well after the date of any last-minute late season freeze.
I'm actually pretty much a novice at this growing thing. I'm a taurus, and supposedly, that means I've a green thumb. But, only in the past two years since I purchased my house in Avignon, with a real garden attached to it, have I been able to indulge in the dirty hands/green experience. Being a multi-tasker by nature, and a mother of two growing boys, housing three extra kids, trying to reinvent my business, cope alone etc.,... these efforts have been very much in fits and starts. I am my mother's daughter. The devoted regular gardener I am not, but every once in awhile, when the weather is absolutely gorgeous and I just can't bear to be indoors anymore, I head out in jeans and gloves and start weeding and planting away. It feels so good, and I feel so proud. At least these efforts won't be erased by the arrival of my boys (in contrast to getting the house particularly clean and dust free). The feeling of satisfaction is there, and will be so till the weeds grow again to untold heights. And, contrary to my mother's experiences, there is no poison ivy here, so I won't need to go running for the caladryl tomorrow!
I'm proud to say that my crocuses and tulip bulbs, planted last year, are coming up nicely for their second year. Yes, this is a neophyte being proud of the simplest of gardening efforts. But hey, why not? The rose bushes and jasmine that I transfered to the East facade last year are also doing far better this year, as is the pink-flowered Japanese cognassier. I've four very happy butterfly trees with different colored flowers that grew like crazy last year, and will soon block the view of our pool completely from the terrace. I've pruned them back a bit... wondering just how much they'll grow this year (they more than tripled in size last season!).
My little vegetable patch is in nice rich dirt (I live on the Ile de la Barthélasse, flooded back in 2003, so I've some dark alluvial soil to work with), but under the future shade of the fig tree. So, I plant primarily spring vegetables and fruits in hopes of harvesting them before the shade overwhelms the sun. I put the peas in a couple weeks' ago -- late I know, but last November I just didn't have my act together-- and now I've a bunch of potatoes to add to the tiny patch. My strawberry plants, now two years' old, are looking sturdy and ready for the soon to arrive season.
Soon, the Elderberry tree will be in flower, and I'll make elderflower syrup for my boys. Rather than having fruit juices or sodas (God forbid!) in the house, I supply them with mint and elderflower syrups made with my bulk non-bleached cane sugar. They happily drink these throughout the hot months.
Foreign guests, tasting these simple home-made syrups for the first time (which we drink extended with either still or bubbly water) write ecstatically of these delicate floral flavors as they slip over their tongue. T'is true that they are delightfully refreshing, simple to make and fun.
My basic recipe for the syrups is this:
A simple syrup of 3 liters of water to 2 kilos of sugar (these proportions can be changed to one to one to make a more stable syrup. In either case, I store these in the fridge).
1 lemon cut in rounds
handfuls of elderflowers plucked off their branches -- at least 3 cups of the blossoms. If working with mint, 2 cups of mint leaves is fine. You can also make a syrup with thyme or rosemary or lavender. The possibilities are endless.
Heat your sugar and water till the sugar has fully melted, bring to a gentle simmer and add the lemon rounds and the blossoms or herbs. Cover and put in a dark place to infuse for 24-48 hours. Bring back up to a simmer, strain out the blossoms or herbs and pour into four sterilized (as well rinsed as you can) wine bottles that can be closed with either a cork or a screw top or another method. Let cool and then store in the fridge. You can store them in a cool cellar, particularly if you drink them quickly.
Occasionally, as this is a rather artisanal recipe and the variables such as the corks, etc., are not that easy to sterilize, a bit of fermenting gets going, or a wee bit of fuzz grows on the surface. This is not cause for tossing out your precious liquid, simply strain the syrup through a fine mesh strainer into a saucepan and bring to a boil for a few minutes and then pour it back into the bottle.
Enjoy on your back terrace this spring!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
My Granola
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
A recent trip to the doctor's informed me that my boys are a bit low on iron. So, knowing that adding a considerable amount of red meat to their diet is not for the moment in the picture (not with my current budget), I've re-worked my home- made granola to have more nuts, and protein filled whole grains. It's just one element in their diet that reassures me, alongside my multi-grain bread, the good fresh eggs and fresh milk from the farm.
When I decided to make granola for our bed and breakfast in Arles, I went to my Gourmet magazine cookbook that my mother offered me for Christmas a few years' back to see what they might suggest. I've taken that recipe and run with it, altering it to the ingredients I'm able to get here in quantity and quality, and considerably reducing the fat and sugar -- by preference for texture and flavor. The cereal quickly became a favorite at the b&b, and had I not been already a bit overwhelmed with small children at my feet, handling the tours, schmoozing and such (or more mercantile) I could have packaged and sold it.
The basic recipe is as follows, though feel free to add and subtract as you wish where possible. This recipe makes the quantity I need to get through one to two weeks -- depending on hungry au pairs, or my own midnight binges:
12 cups mixed organic flakes (oat, rice, quinoa, spelt, barley...)
1 cup rapadura raw sugar (dark brown and caramel/vanilla flavored it adds most of the flavor to the recipe)
1 teaspoon fleur de sel
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/3 cup flax seeds (best if ground)
1 cup sunflower seeds
1 cup pumpkin seeds
1 cup raw almonds
1 cup hazelnuts
1 1/2 cups apple juice or cider
1 cup sunflower oil (cold pressed).
All these ingredients are organic, or as many as possible.
In a big bowl, mix all the dry ingredients, and then add the wet till thoroughly moistened. Then, on cookie sheets lined with parchment paper, spread out a thin layer of the cereal and bake till nicely browned and crunchy -- In my convection oven I'm able to bake them at 300F/150C in about 25 minutes. I keep the temperature low, and the air flowing so that they'll dry quicker.
When done, I take the sheets out and dump them on a large and clean surface to cool before putting into jars. At this point I can add slivers of dried apricots, sliced candied ginger, raisins, dried cranberries or cherries (if I have them, they're oh so hard to find in France!! So I try to bring a secret stash home from Michigan every summer).
I then jar the cereal and put it in the cupboard. With yogurt, milk, soy milk, rice milk, as a nibbly with chocolate chips mid-afternoon when I just can't stand sitting and translating yet another word... A handful after a particularly strenuous yoga session... And yes, the kids eat it too.
A recent trip to the doctor's informed me that my boys are a bit low on iron. So, knowing that adding a considerable amount of red meat to their diet is not for the moment in the picture (not with my current budget), I've re-worked my home- made granola to have more nuts, and protein filled whole grains. It's just one element in their diet that reassures me, alongside my multi-grain bread, the good fresh eggs and fresh milk from the farm.
When I decided to make granola for our bed and breakfast in Arles, I went to my Gourmet magazine cookbook that my mother offered me for Christmas a few years' back to see what they might suggest. I've taken that recipe and run with it, altering it to the ingredients I'm able to get here in quantity and quality, and considerably reducing the fat and sugar -- by preference for texture and flavor. The cereal quickly became a favorite at the b&b, and had I not been already a bit overwhelmed with small children at my feet, handling the tours, schmoozing and such (or more mercantile) I could have packaged and sold it.
The basic recipe is as follows, though feel free to add and subtract as you wish where possible. This recipe makes the quantity I need to get through one to two weeks -- depending on hungry au pairs, or my own midnight binges:
12 cups mixed organic flakes (oat, rice, quinoa, spelt, barley...)
1 cup rapadura raw sugar (dark brown and caramel/vanilla flavored it adds most of the flavor to the recipe)
1 teaspoon fleur de sel
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/3 cup flax seeds (best if ground)
1 cup sunflower seeds
1 cup pumpkin seeds
1 cup raw almonds
1 cup hazelnuts
1 1/2 cups apple juice or cider
1 cup sunflower oil (cold pressed).
All these ingredients are organic, or as many as possible.
In a big bowl, mix all the dry ingredients, and then add the wet till thoroughly moistened. Then, on cookie sheets lined with parchment paper, spread out a thin layer of the cereal and bake till nicely browned and crunchy -- In my convection oven I'm able to bake them at 300F/150C in about 25 minutes. I keep the temperature low, and the air flowing so that they'll dry quicker.
When done, I take the sheets out and dump them on a large and clean surface to cool before putting into jars. At this point I can add slivers of dried apricots, sliced candied ginger, raisins, dried cranberries or cherries (if I have them, they're oh so hard to find in France!! So I try to bring a secret stash home from Michigan every summer).
I then jar the cereal and put it in the cupboard. With yogurt, milk, soy milk, rice milk, as a nibbly with chocolate chips mid-afternoon when I just can't stand sitting and translating yet another word... A handful after a particularly strenuous yoga session... And yes, the kids eat it too.
A Simple Family Dinner When Time is Short
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
When the weather is spectacular, and yet the sun will set still way too soon, you just have to enjoy it, and dinner prep for six be-damned. So out I went with the boys and Filou to roller blade past the blossoming almond and apricot trees. God how I love them! A true sign of re-birth, the first glimmer of life and hope after a gray and dreary (if not very long) winter. Vincent Van Gogh surely was thinking something along these lines when he chose the almond blossoms against a fiercely blue sky as a birthday gift for his new nephew.
Weary but happy, we rolled back into the house, hungry and eager. So, with no time wasted, the following meal was on the table, and we were nourished and on our way to bath, books, bed.
Salad, Pasta with sauce, cheese on a plate, and a glass of JP's organic wine for me, milk from the local farm for the boys.
Our salad is made with whatever greens are currently available (in Provence, Bib and Boston lettuce are not constants, it might be chicory, it might be stiff and frizzy, it might be tender and dark green, it might be large and full... our greens are whatever the seasons and the weather permit). I heat a handful of sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds in a thin frying pan (a wok would do as well) and sprinkle them on the salad, I drizzle on some local olive oil, a few drops of soy or tamari sauce, and a spoonful of nutritional yeast. I am allowed to grate some carrots into it, and occasionally I underhandedly grate some beet root... but this is all. Keep it simple, and they all eat it. The seeds and yeast I buy in 3kilo (6.5lb) bags from my organic wholesaler. So I have them in the pantry to use whenever, toss into my cereal, bread, etc.,
I make a very basic tomato sauce which begins with an onion sweated in a good amount of olive oil, a crushed and minced garlic clove or two (or three), a can of chopped tomatoes (and in summer, a few garden tomatoes chopped), a couple bay leaves from the garden, and some water. I let it all simmer for at least 30 minutes to reduce and thicken and sweeten. A touch of salt, and it's ready to go. I'm careful to full sweat the minced onions before I add my garlic, and let my garlic simmer in the olive oil no more than 30 seconds to a minute before I add the tomatoes. I want the garlic to richly flavor the olive oil, and thus to be fully present in my sauce, but I don't want it to burn. That would ruin everything.
This basic sauce can be passed through a vegetable mill for picky kids (yes, I've got those, visible onions make them cringe). It can also be improved with bits of good sausage, nicely browned hamburger, crushed anchovies (added into the olive oil and onions before the garlic), capers, chopped spinach, olive oil browned zucchini... the possibilities are endless.
Pasta -- again, something I buy by the case from the organic wholesaler's, so I've always packets of spaghetti and shells in the house.
A plate full of a good hard cheese (Jonas loves the comté which is like a richer, more buttery swiss, I might also add a round of goat cheese, and a soft cow's milk cheese). Parmesan to grate. And there's our very very simple, but pleasing meal. Few leave the table hungry.
When the weather is spectacular, and yet the sun will set still way too soon, you just have to enjoy it, and dinner prep for six be-damned. So out I went with the boys and Filou to roller blade past the blossoming almond and apricot trees. God how I love them! A true sign of re-birth, the first glimmer of life and hope after a gray and dreary (if not very long) winter. Vincent Van Gogh surely was thinking something along these lines when he chose the almond blossoms against a fiercely blue sky as a birthday gift for his new nephew.
Weary but happy, we rolled back into the house, hungry and eager. So, with no time wasted, the following meal was on the table, and we were nourished and on our way to bath, books, bed.
Salad, Pasta with sauce, cheese on a plate, and a glass of JP's organic wine for me, milk from the local farm for the boys.
Our salad is made with whatever greens are currently available (in Provence, Bib and Boston lettuce are not constants, it might be chicory, it might be stiff and frizzy, it might be tender and dark green, it might be large and full... our greens are whatever the seasons and the weather permit). I heat a handful of sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds in a thin frying pan (a wok would do as well) and sprinkle them on the salad, I drizzle on some local olive oil, a few drops of soy or tamari sauce, and a spoonful of nutritional yeast. I am allowed to grate some carrots into it, and occasionally I underhandedly grate some beet root... but this is all. Keep it simple, and they all eat it. The seeds and yeast I buy in 3kilo (6.5lb) bags from my organic wholesaler. So I have them in the pantry to use whenever, toss into my cereal, bread, etc.,
I make a very basic tomato sauce which begins with an onion sweated in a good amount of olive oil, a crushed and minced garlic clove or two (or three), a can of chopped tomatoes (and in summer, a few garden tomatoes chopped), a couple bay leaves from the garden, and some water. I let it all simmer for at least 30 minutes to reduce and thicken and sweeten. A touch of salt, and it's ready to go. I'm careful to full sweat the minced onions before I add my garlic, and let my garlic simmer in the olive oil no more than 30 seconds to a minute before I add the tomatoes. I want the garlic to richly flavor the olive oil, and thus to be fully present in my sauce, but I don't want it to burn. That would ruin everything.
This basic sauce can be passed through a vegetable mill for picky kids (yes, I've got those, visible onions make them cringe). It can also be improved with bits of good sausage, nicely browned hamburger, crushed anchovies (added into the olive oil and onions before the garlic), capers, chopped spinach, olive oil browned zucchini... the possibilities are endless.
Pasta -- again, something I buy by the case from the organic wholesaler's, so I've always packets of spaghetti and shells in the house.
A plate full of a good hard cheese (Jonas loves the comté which is like a richer, more buttery swiss, I might also add a round of goat cheese, and a soft cow's milk cheese). Parmesan to grate. And there's our very very simple, but pleasing meal. Few leave the table hungry.
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