Their First Eggnog

Every year on Christmas day, after piling the coats on the day bed in the study at Mamy Durandeau's house, I would cross the black and white marble tiled hall and go back into her little kitchen and offer to help. Several consecutive years, I touched the curved banister on the way through the hall and made a point of it. It was as if I was creating Christmas ritual of my own. Every year aunts and uncles wrapped in threadbare aprons would bustle about me and push around me and say everything was taken care of. Every year I would retreat into the living room and find Loic's cousins in their places.



We would sit and patiently wait for Yves to wheel the apero cart into the room. The drinks would all be poured, kirs - peach, cassis, or plain champagne, then everyone would sit in a circle around the room and wait until just the precise moment to take a sip. The platters of little baked things and olives would begin to make the rounds, going round and round until they were empty.



Everyone always sat at the same place at the dinner table, so the transfer was always a fluid affair. The dishes, the decor, menu were always identical. The only things that changed were the years of the wines and the flavor of the buche. These subtle changes in detail always were the point of departure for the conversation, which never strayed far.



I admit, after the first magic Christmas, the rigidity of the ritual in the following years seemed monotonous or even spooky, a little bit like being in the twilight zone, reliving the same day over and over again. For nine years we replayed the same scene. But as I settled into my place at the table, tasting that delicious langouste tail with the velvety light touch of tarragon in the hand whisked mayonnaise sauce, it began to grow on me. While I put little pieces of foie gras little by little to a slice of toasted brioche, making them last the same amount of time, I would think about years past and enjoy the sight of Mamy across the table from me. A sip of Gewurtz. The sun would sparkle in the jelly from one precise angle, the wine would marry with the flavors, Mamy's parakeets hopping from perch to perch in the sun on the window sill. I watched her gnarled hand place the knife just so on its little stand, I came to anticipate it, to wait, to breathe and watch her do it again. I took comfort in the repetition after a few years, and began to feel feel a curious pull of my heartstrings if things wavered from tradition.



Last year, Mamy moved to a retirement home. There was no chapon. There were no langouste tails with lemon wedges from the garden. Mamy came to dinner, sitting as a guest at Brigitte's table. The meal had taken on a strange new tone at Loic's parents' house. The seats at the table were mixed up. Some people didn't come, new guests were invited. A draft was blowing through the room. The light was different. Fred left early, to join her boyfriend's family. Brigitte had chosen to do a dish involving pineapple and crab. The bouche was covered with polka dots! Was it Christmas? Sure. Looking around, anyone could tell it was Christmas.



I was deeply touched by the loss of Mamy's Christmas dinner, but shrugged it off. She seemed quite happy to take whisky instead of kir, and ate the crab and pineapple dish on her plate as heartily and any robust 95 year old would. Not a word was spoken about this drastic change in tradition. Our conversations changed a bit, since we had new table neighbors, and new voices filled the void. Young cousins that had been children were now taking their place at the table, joining in the conversation.

I realized after some reflection that Brigitte had stirred everything up for a reason. Mamy Durandeau needed to know that her move to the retirement home nearby had changed everything for all of us. Christmas dinner cannot so easily be transplanted. The flavor combination from a magazine recipe and the energetic rattling loose of long held rituals was necessary. It was meant to contrast against our memories of the langouste with velvety sauce, foie gras, and chapon that we all knew. It was a loving message to her mother: Mamy's dinner, Mamy's home, Mamy's beautiful Christmas ritual, bathed in sun, overlooking the harbor, cannot be replaced. Like the mimosa and lemon trees blooming and fruiting in her garden, they stayed at her empty house last year.

Just like Loic now cherishes Christmas memories with bow ties, langouste, foie gras and chapon, the never ending story of the ever changing bouche de noel, the kirs and nuts, the platter of 13 desserts, I have my own memories. Memories of traditions I don't want to leave behind. I told Loic about them after the first snowfall at the country house. In years past I could not talk about them, I don't know why. I just clammed up, afraid to let any of it out. At first he didn't think it was a good idea. Our own celebration?

I remember rituals and traditions from snowy central New York. A silhouette of my father's towering form hauling in the tree across the wood planks of our front porch. Maple sugar on snow, hot cider, big red sleds down the Murray's hill, having our own creche made from salt dough. The carols, skating on the pond by Meadowbrook Park. Candy canes, special holiday stories and poems, cookies, popcorn and cranberries on string. An enormous tree that smells just so, skiing, hot cocoa, listening to the old music box while shaking presents under the tree. Settling down warm and cozy after a day trundling through the snow to quietly think and dream and watch the sparkling lights. The ornaments were mismatched, each with a story of its own. Shadows made beautiful shapes on the ceiling at the house where I grew up. Will my children ever know memories like these?

We discussed how children might eventually change the formula. How we might balance it out, ensure that traditions from both sides be honored, discussed the intricacies of attempting to include as much of our extended family as we can while creating our own mix of traditions. Like stockings instead of shoes. Like maybe adding cookies to the 13 desserts platter. Like candycanes on the tree. Presents from Santa Claus. Eggnog. Yes, Eggnog!

This year, since the baby hasn't come yet, we are again at his childhood home. I decided though, to introduce eggnog to his family, their first. Elise's recipe at Simply Recipes worked quite well as a good base, although I did add more Rum than was called for and increased the cinnamon and cloves. I loved the way it thickened up when chilled. It is a recipe to be doubled, and noted in your kitchen notebook! Stick to your guns, don't give in when Seb says it would taste good flavored with mint, or served over lime sherbet!

Eggnog

yield: 6 servings

4 egg yolks
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 cups milk
Pinch of cinnamon
2 whole cloves
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
3/4 cup good rum (6 oz.)

Put the 2 cups milk, the cinnamon and cloves on to heat in a saucepan until hot and steamy but not boiling (you might opt to add 1/2 a vanilla bean at this point into the milk and skip the extract later). While it heats, put the yolks in a bowl with the sugar. Whisk for a couple of minutes, until the mixture turns pale and fluffy. When the milk is hot, turn the heat to very low, and pour half of the hot milk into the bowl with the beaten egg yolks. Whisk the yolks and hot milk until fully incorporated, then transfer the egg yolks and milk back into the saucepan with the remaining hot milk. Stir over low heat with a wooden spoon until the mixture thickens enough to coat the spoon. This can take a while, be patient. Do not turn up the heat and do not let the mixture boil, because it will scramble the eggs. Once it thickens, remove from heat, add the heavy cream, vanilla, and rum. Run through a strainer (to remove the cloves) and funnel into a wine bottle. Let cool, then refrigerate for at least one hour. The drink will thicken nicely when chilled, and the flavors will mellow. Serve cold. Omit the rum for kid friendly eggnog.

Les Treize Desserts: Pompe à l'Huile

The whole idea originates from the number at the table at Christ's last supper, a spread called les treize deserts. A platter or sometimes even a special table is devoted to regional specialties like nougat along with a healthy selection of dried fruits and nuts like figs and prunes. Some enjoy it after Christmas mass, others after the holiday meals. When we go down south of the holiday, after every meal, even though we've eaten tons, there's always room to crack a few nuts and fit in some dried fruits here and there, n'est-ce pas? We often find ready-made versions of this regional holiday platter of treats in specialty shops throughout Provence and even at the grocery store, although most families put them together at home as a holiday activity something like making Christmas cookies. Sometimes people don't even know why they do these things, it's just the custom. You may see any or all of the following list making the rounds after holiday meals if you spend Christmas in Provence. This year I will share with you the recipes for creating your own treize desserts platter.

1. Pompe à l'huile, a local olive oil based bread (recipe below)
2. White nougat
3. Dark nougat
The 4 Mendiants, fruits and nuts:
4. Walnuts or Hazelnuts, to symbolize the Augustins
5. Dried figs, to symbolize the Franciscans
6. Almonds to symbolize the Carmes
7. Raisins or prunes to symbolize the Dominicans
Fruits (which are sometimes replaced with candied or dried):
8. Dates
9. Oranges (at our table we sometimes see candied orange peel instead)
10. Clementines
11. Apples
12. Pears
13. Grapes

Of course, les treize desserts are never quite the same from house to house, or even from year to year. For example, who can resist slipping a few Calissons, almond paste candies local to Provence on the platter? When might be the best opportunity to enjoy the candied fruits typically enjoyed in Provence but on the treize desserts platter? Prunes are stuffed with colorful almond paste to make them more appealing to children, and the treize desserts start to take on a life of their own. Before I understood the meaning of this tradition, I just thought it was a great idea to pass the prunes around - it just seemed the healthy thing to do, if you know what I mean.

Pompe à l'huile

4 cups of flour (AP or type 55)
1 cube moist baker's yeast (25 grams)
5 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup olive oil (the best, fruitiest one you have)
1 untreated lemon
1 untreated orange
1-2 tablespoons poppy seeds

*about the yeast: instead of moist yeast, you can also use the powder kind that comes in a packet. Just use two packets instead.

- Mix 2 cups of the flour, the sugar, the yeast and the salt together, crumbling the yeast into the flour.
- Add enough hot but not boiling water to the mix to make a smooth homogeneous somewhat moist dough (this usually takes about 1 cup). Let this rise for 45 minutes.
- wash the lemon and orange, and cut the zest (just the colored part) from the fruits, then sliver the zest into very thin strips with a sharp knife.
- Incorporate the olive oil, the remaining 2 cups of flour, and the lemon and orange zest, and poppy seeds, if you are using them.
- Give it a good knead (5 minutes) form the dough into a ball, and out in a large bowl in a warm place free of drafts, covering the bowl with a sheet of baking paper or plastic wrap, topping the bowl with a folded towel to keep it warm.
- Leave it alone to rise for 3 hours.
- Turn the dough onto a floured board, knead very briefly just to get the big bubbles out, and pat it out into a flat circle.
- Make slits in the middle, so that it will cook through when you bake it, and let it rise another hour.
- Bake it in a hot oven (400F/200C) for 20 minutes.
- Paint it with a thin coat of olive oil when it's done.

Postcard: Aunt Lucy

Brigitte's Poires Martin Sec au Vin, Poached Winter Pears

Christmas made easy: Winter pears simmered in wine, served after a simple meal with gathered family. While we still have a few days 'till Christmas, we want to rev up the holiday now! This is an easy dessert to put together one afternoon and put aside to chill, soaking in their syrup. Choose pears that mature in the winter for this recipe, like Bosc. This recipe fills the house with the perfume of the holiday, so now is the perfect time. They cost pennies a person. No special shopping for this recipe. The hardest thing is washing the pears. With poached pears, simple is best. Adding long lists of ingredients may add a strange je ne sais quoi, but that's not what we look for in our poached pears. These are a kind of gift from heaven, so simple, delicious, and satisfying.

Poires au Vin

6 pears, Martin Sec or Bosc
1 1/2 cups red wine, any kind you have
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon

About the pears: Right now in France we have the winter pear called Martin Sec, which is a wonderful cooking pear, because their texture and flavor when cooked stays firm, smooth and sweet. They retain their body when simmered in anything from caramel to wine. If you don't have Martin Sec, a Bosc is perfect.

Wash the pears thoroughly. Nestle them into a pot that has a cover. Add the wine, and bring it to a boil. Mix the sugar and cinnamon together, and sprinkle it over the pears in their bubbling wine. Let that roll at a full boil for 4 minutes, then top off with water to cover the pears by 2/3. Bring to a boil again and reduce the heat to low and simmer, covered, for 15 minutes. Remove from the heat, let cool to room temperature, then refrigerate, in their liquid, for as long as 3 days. Serve cold, with their syrup. You can make a batch of these and have them on hand as a dessert choice at family gatherings.

This is going to be a very cheesy Christmas! Everybody thought the same thing and brought cheeses this year! I gathered some from the Alps and the Lyonnais region, and presented them to Brigitte. This was when I heard that Aude and Seb had done the same thing with cheeses from the Auvergne! This means the cheese plate is going to be the best it has ever been, I think.

Menu for Hope V : a Paris Map dated 1937.

You may remember last year's charitable fund drive to feed children school lunches in Lesotho. This year, we're doing it again! In this project, administered by the Word Food Program, all proceeds will go a school lunch program for a community in Lesotho, Africa. Pim sent a box of disposible cameras to the community and asked them to take pictures themselves. Go to her blog and look again at these beautiful photographs, friends. They are are simply stunning and I will say again that they add a face and a real story to our holiday charitable giving.

The genius in this event is that not only can you give to keep these children fed at school, but you can also win prizes! In a nutshell, each $10 donation puts you in the running to win the prize of your choice, from a whole list of great ones donated by chefs, foodbloggers, and food professionals around the world. Think of each $10 you donate as a ticket to win. You choose the prizes! Winners will be announced on January 9th. To see all of the prizes worldwide, see Pim's global list, and to see the prizes donated by European food bloggers, go to see Sara of Ms. Adventures in Italy, our regional host this year.

So what will be the prize this year? A special map. While cleaning out the secretary, I found an old map, folded behind a drawer, from the year 1937. I knew immediately that this would make a great prize for the Menu for Hope raffle this year.

Prize No. EU19 - Shipped Anywhere in the World

Prize no. EU19: This old map of Paris, dated 1937, features miniature illustrations of the great monuments of Paris as markers, and on the reverse side, a map of Paris' outskirts, also with illustrations of the chateaux and places of interest surrounding the city. The dimensions are 75x55 cms landscape, and would make a striking and beautiful decorative piece floated in a frame, anywhere in your home. The problem is going to be deciding which side to display, frankly. About the map itself: It is one of the maps that were printed by Printemps for distribution to visitors to Paris for the 1937 Expo Internationale. Note in the upper left hand corner is a box explaining how to get to the Expo from Printemps. It has fold marks typical of an 80 year old map, frayed edges here and there, and a place along one corner that will need a bit of attention while you mount it, but it is in surprisingly good condition for a map of its age. And did I say it is beautiful?

side A

side B

Note this map is printed on both front and back, so you will have to choose which side to display.

To bid on this prize or any of the others, go to the Menu for Hope 5 Firstgiving website and click to bid! Make sure to put the prize no. EU19 next to your bid(s) and use a valid email address, so they can contact you when you win!

Lyon, Fete des Lumieres

Remembering: The First Time I Cooked Thanksgiving

I only missed Thanksgiving once, my first year in China. It was terrible. A Chinese employee surprised me one afternoon by running up to me and saying "Happy Thanksgiving!" with the typical giggles and excitement that usually came with these cross cultural exchanges. I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing that I had been working so hard on a huge project to build a representative office in Beijing for my company that I had completely forgotten. That evening after work I simply fell with abandon into a heap and spent the whole night feeling blue.

The next year in Beijing, I was determined not to let it happen again. I was with some friends at our favorite bar in Fang Zhuang, and recalled that tragic first Thanksgiving. We were all crying into our drinks at that point since we were all pretty much orphans and none of us knew how to cook. I had never done Thanksgiving dinner before, but was willing to try, I said. Why not do it together? In the course of about 5 minutes, we all went from glum to all pumped up about expat Thanksgiving. We were going to have it at my place!

Over the next week, I started getting calls from people I didn't know, asking if they might be able to join the Thanksgiving dinner at my house. How could I say no? The party started as dinner for 4, then turned to 10, 12, then 15. This was fine, but the only problem was that my apartment wasn't big enough to accommodate the group. I decided to consult with the bar downstairs that had a big sunken dining room that was almost completely empty in the evenings, to see if they might mind if I used their kitchen and to reserve a big table for my dinner. I would supply the food, and we'd buy wine from the restaurant. They were quite enthusiastic about the idea. In fact so enthusiastic about it I was slightly taken aback.

Things fell into place, and I spent my lunch hour and evenings shopping around the city of Beijing for all the exotic ingredients required to do the stuffing, dressing and very simple side dishes. The restaurant was ordering the turkey. The meal was turning into a pot luck of sorts, and had grown now to 30 lonely expats who would congregate and celebrate Thanksgiving together.

The day before Thanksgiving, they left me a message that the turkey had arrived. I went down after work to inspect that everything was in order. That was when I realized, to my horror, that this enormous turkey was frozen solid. I was in a panic and called my mother. She had some tips but the situation still looked a bit grim.

The owner of the restaurant, who had become quite involved and curious about my comings and goings with dropping off all these strange ingredients in the kitchen, came to me with his head down. He was sorry. Of course he could not be blamed. How could anyone be blamed for ordering a frozen turkey? I said it was alright, we'd figure out a solution. In my heart I knew it was my fault for not preparing to defrost a frozen turkey, certainly I could not expect a fresh one to materialize in the city of Beijing? A very simple mistake. "No miss Lucy, you don't understand" he said. There was something weighing heavy on his heart. Our relationship was quite informal. My Chinese friends never called me "miss Lucy", so I knew something was awry. In my young first time cooking Thanksgiving mind, I could not conceive of anything worse happening, and I was taking it in stride. "You see," he began, swallowing, eyes going cold then lowering his head again as if this was a true disaster... "We put an ad in the paper... Miss Lucy..." I wished he would stop calling me Miss Lucy. What? What had he done?

The restaurant owner had put an ad in the Chinese paper for an event where people could come and view a real American Thanksgiving. He was going to charge an admission fee to those who wanted to come and watch. They would come and socialize in the bar above and view the dinner from the balconies surrounding the dining room. It was actually quite a Chinese idea and very enterprising of him. I have to admit that I appreciated his money making scheme in a convoluted kind of way, through the haze of the pressure that had suddenly hit me.

I made him feel a little guilty for just a moment by bursting into tears. I can't say that they were tears of despair, just tears that come when a 24 year old is cooking her first Thanksgiving dinner, is confronted with a frozen 20 pound turkey the day before the meal, and is told that not only will it be her first Thanksgiving, but a cross between a piece of performance art and a zoo exhibit. Once that was through, we sat down and figured out what we were going to do. First, he would order lots of chickens. The fattest, plumpest most gorgeous chickens he could find. FRESH. He was happy to do this. My mother soothed my nerves over the phone again as she talked me through some last minute details. I was going to need a little kitchen help. Thus began the odyssey of preparing my first Thanksgiving. The restaurant had begun to get calls asking for seats at the meal, from American students, calling because they had heard something on the radio about the event. I said as long as we have enough chickens, that was fine. Remind them to bring something.

I took the day off from work. When I arrived to the kitchen, they were examining the ovens, two enormous pizza ovens, with four chambers each. They had never been used before. I was attracted to the dials, which had a different number configuration that I expected. CELCIUS. I ran back to my apartment and tore the last page right out from my Websters English Dictionary and stuffed it into my back pocket. (this was before we had internet). It had the method for converting Fahrenheit into Celsius. That would be for the pizza ovens. I will never forget it. Subtract 32, multiply by 5, divide by 9.

A crew of smiling curious happy workers who wanted nothing more than to please were provided by the owner to help me in preparing the vittles. We whipped up two vast sheet pans of cornbread laced with sauteed peppers, onions, and poultry seasonings, then made various kinds of stuffing out of it with loaf after loaf of sandwich bread, eggs, spices, and butter, doing platters of dressing to cut and serve on the side, stuffed 20 chickens, making pies, boiling and mashing potatoes, and various other glorious Thanksgivingy tasks. They were flabbergasted at the amount of butter I used. I was flabbergasted at the amount of butter I used.

Friends began to arrive early, and they were popping open bottles of beer and wine. Someone had brought music, another had spent time on the table decorations, we lit candles, and platters of wonderful good old fashioned Thanksgiving food began to come back into the kitchen, provided for the pot luck buffet by the guests. The party grew outside, but I stayed in the kitchen for the most part, sliding casserole dishes and pie tins into the pizza ovens and surveying the birds. Since all my friends came and hung out in the kitchen, it felt like I was surrounded by family. Lots of hugs going around. Every once in a while I went out and plucked a friend from the crowd to join us back in the kitchen, ooh and ahh over the chickens and the turkey which had been cooking all afternoon. I had forgotten to find out how to make gravy, and said UH OH. But someone came along and did it. The chickens were on their platters, and she poured the drippings from all the roasting pans into one, poured off some fat, worked some flour into it, and whisked the lot over the flame until it turned into gravy. Voila, gravy. MMMM gravy. Faith impressed us all with an amazingly beautiful apple pie.

There were lots of gushing American students who had found out about the dinner on the radio, who had a great time. For each table of 6, we placed a golden roasted chicken with stuffing cascading out as if it were a cornucopia. The entire restaurant floor was crammed with reveling diners who lined up at the buffet for sides of all kinds, Southern mingling with New England, Mid-West, California, just a big American love fest. The bar above was also full of Chinese people sipping fancy cocktails and viewing the party. I cried again when they said the toast.

At the end of the evening, around 2 in the morning, the place had already cleared out. I was sipping wine at the bar, meditating on everything that had just occurred. That was when 3 large Indian guys came in, guys who worked in the restaurant next to Ri Tan Park. "Have you anything to eat" they asked, in their polite sing song accents. At first the bartender said no. But then I remembered, the turkey! It had been resting in the kitchen for the last 1/2 hour, ready to carve, ready too late to serve at the party.

We hauled this enormous bird to the table to their sheer delight. I was all too happy to sit with them. Imagine walking into a bar and asking for some bar food and getting a Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings. They were in love. I sat with them while they ceremoniously carved it, at the lone table near the bar. They just adored it, asking questions about the herbs and seasonings, making me feel quite virtuous. I had never seen anyone pack away so much turkey and stuffing in my life. They were just finishing up their meal when the one man, who was the chef at the only Indian restaurant in Beijing at the time told me that he was planning a Christmas dinner that year at his restaurant, and asked if I would be willing to cook the meal. I didn't have to think very long about that one. The answer was: "THANKS BUT NO THANKS!"

This Thanksgiving I am feeling slightly melancholy, since no family is around, even Loic is off at a conference. Fran and Lucas are coming down from the hill to eat with me. Fran is bursting at the seams with a baby inside, so this morning while at the market, I was thinking about choices for her. What would she like? What can she eat? I considered getting a whole turkey, my volailler proposed one, then thought of stuffing just a breast, then a leg, then finally decided after all that a Pintade, a guinea fowl, would do. A nice little muscade squash soup with mixed poultry stock from the necks of duck, guinea fowl, and chicken, and the deboned guinea fowl, a wild mushroom and Armagnac filling rolled inside, served with a sage seasoned cornbread dressing. I am staying very very simple with my choices. But we will do Thanksgiving this year. And every year, if I can help it.

Postcard Lyon

The Sound Experiment

Capture the sound of a crackling warm baguette in your mind's eye before walking into a bakery. Use that imagined noise to propel you through the door. Write comparative notes.

The Best Little Game Birds - Grouse

When you visit Lyon, you will make your list of markets to visit, depending on where you're staying or how much time you have. Anyone with any sense programs a jaunt one morning or afternoon to Les Halles on Cours Lafayette, and then there are the outdoor markets, which vary in character throughout the week. Visitors who like to cook, or would like to learn to cook can rent apartments with kitchens so that they can take advantage of the variety of pickings from the region, and have a chance to experience the greatness that Lyon has to offer at home-cooked prices.



For a food enthusiast, harvest time is the absolute best time to visit the city of Lyon. Among other bounty, once you reach deep into Autumn, you can sample the wild game coming to the markets.



This morning, at my market on Quai St. Antoine, my poultry seller had 6 types of wild game birds to choose from. While I was at her stand, I saw that a client also came up with a sack of partidges from her husband's hunt asking that they process them, a service for which she pays a fee. If you go to Les Halles, you can get boar and venison, plus a host of good wild rabbit and duck.



I decided to get just one plump little grouse this time, and will serve it to Loic tonight, rubbed with duck fat and wrapped in grape leaves, spatchcocked, roasted and served over toast which has been spread with butter seasoned with the bird's liver and a bit of cognac. (there is your recipe, but if you want ratios, I'll give you one below!) In 2002 I read how Louise Bertholle did her partridge, and it inspired me to create my own recipe for grouse, replacing the barding with a slather of duck fat, tweaking the liver butter seasonings to our tastes. It remains a pillar of my Kitchen Notebook's little game bird recipes. Today's grouse will be a nice way to begin a simple meal, filled out with an autumn soup and followed by the cheese plate, just enough to give us a taste of the season.

Our Favorite Grouse Supper


To prepare the bird:
1 grouse, head and neck cut off, cavity empty, reserving the liver
freshly ground pepper
2 Tablespoons duck fat
1 teaspoon fleur de sel or sea salt
4 grape leaves
2 slices toasted country bread, toasted
lemon quarters for serving

For the game liver spread:
1 teaspoon duck, goose fat or butter for cooking the livers
3 tablespoons total of veal liver
the grouse liver
1/2 tablespoon cognac
a grate of nutmeg (1/4 teaspoon)
2 tablespoons butter for incorporating into the ground livers
fleur de sel and ground pepper to season

- Cut the empty bird with poultry shears along the back, spreading the bird flat. Rinse the bird and dry thoroughly. Mix 1/2 teaspoon of fleur de sel into the duck fat and stir it gently to mix. Slather the salted duck fat all over the bird, top and bottom. Top with a grind of pepper, and wrap the entire flattened bird with grape leaves. If you don't have fresh leaves, never fear, you can use the ones that come brined for stuffing, but you have to rinse them well to remove the salt.

- Grease a shallow roasting dish that is big enough to hold the flattened grouse, and place it down on the bottom of the dish, breasts up. Roast in a 200C/400C oven for 2o-25 minutes, enough to cook the breasts through, but be careful not to overcook it.

- While the bird is roasting, saute the veal liver and the grouse liver in the fat, making sure not to overcook, which will make it dry. Season with salt, nutmeg and cognac, then remove from heat and quickly work it into the butter with blender or by hand with a fork. Chill the mixturein the freezer for 10 minutes.

- Toast the slices of country bread, and spread the liver butter on them. Place the liver toasts on the serving plates, adding half the roasted grouse on top, grape leaves and all. (put the plates in the oven with the door open to keep them warm while you make the sauce.) Deglaze the roasting pan with a quarter cup of water, and reduce it to a tablespoon. Whisk in a teaspoon of butter into the sauce, season with salt to taste and pour over the grouse. Serve hot with a wedge of lemon.

Evolution of a Landscape

You know, the other day was a national holiday, Armistice day, in which we celebrate the end of the First World War and honor those who died for France. This makes it a 4 day weekend, so of course we were up in the Savoie, and after the town's Armistice day ceremony at our village memorial, we had coffee or wine (depending on how old you were, it seemed, the oldest people in the village went straight for the wine although it was only about 9:30 am) in the hall outside the mayor's office.



It was a good opportunity to talk to our neighbors, and we met a few more people in addition to saying hello to the man who had sold us our firewood, the man who comes down to pick his apples, and the older couple who tend the bees up on the hill behind our house. The man who came forth with the most fruitful talk is in his 90s. We mentioned to him that we had been out walking up into the forest in the days before, and we'd seen a cluster of stone foundations, ruins about a half a mile up into the forest. They were rather mysterious, and we wondered if he might share a story about them. His faded eyes glowed a little bit, he looked just past Loic and he took a nice hit of wine, standing silent. I wondered only for a flash if he understood what we were asking him about. Then he began to talk. Some of the other villagers had their ears pricked as well, because I suppose he doesn't talk much. When he was a boy, these stone ruins we mentioned were beautiful chalets, back in the day when the forest that we walk in now was sloped pasture land.

He shared his boyhood memories of the forest we hike in today as broad open field only scattered here and there with a few trees, where they would take the goats to graze. Throughout the old man's lifetime it had filled in, and the forest matured. We know it now to be a wise place, aged now to the point where its floor is laid out with moss and low growing fern like the lush carpet of a fairy kingdom. The trees; pine, interspersed with chestnut, birch, and a few oak tower far above and the beams of light sparkle through the branches like stained glass, while you slowly step between the trees taking in the intricate details of the forest flora.



It is the Alps - steep enough at points to feel like you are climbing stairs. The solemn procession while you slowly put one foot ahead of the other, heart pounding in your chest, seems so ceremonial that it is hard to imagine that this forest could ever have been anything but just the way it is now. It was a very funny thought that as a rugged boy this man took a sun bath on that very slope, munching a hunk of cheese from his sack, while he tended to a herd of goats there. A funny thought indeed that in his lifetime, the mysterious stone ruins were once warmed with living hearths. Flagstones scrubbed, sparkling windows, the upper parts constructed of birch wood, now all long gone, the only thing left are moss coated empty stone piles, trees growing through them, mournful in their solitude. I suspect there is more to tell about the people that lived there. About why they left,what happened to them. I think I will make a point to talk a little bit more with this man.

Forest land in this little corner of the Savoie is public land attributed to each township, each consisting of a commune of several small clusters of houses interspersed along the main roads that wind into the mountains. The little village where our house is clusters up to the edge of the wild land, and the forest is open to residents for hunting, provided they register with the mayor and adhere to strict guidelines about where to hunt and when. When we hike in the forest this time of year, we check with the mayor to see where hunters might be, so we can give a nice wide latitude.



The old man's description of his memory over a lifetime of that land transforming from pasture land, to brush and young trees, to eventually majestic forest gave me a little bit of perspective on nature's bigger cycles as we compare them to our own lives. The thought grounded me for a bit, and also make me think of how a changing environment of any kind changes the offering of a place. I wondered what kind of hunting this village enjoyed when the deep dark forest was simply brush glistening in the autumn sun. I wonder if I should clear the brush on our little plot of land after all or just let it become what it is going to become.

When I had a quiet moment, I settled next to Bernadette humming with the joy of a fresh log, myself with a refreshing glass of the little vin du pays, and I explored a little the few books I had thought to bring about the game birds that are available this time of the year. We won't be hunting, but I will have a chance, as I roam the streets and canyons of Lyon, to do a bit of hunting of another kind.

Bernadette's Baby

We named her Bernadette. There was a small christening ceremony. And we did our first pizza a couple of weekends ago in her hot little belly. There is something about a yeast dough that you've punched down yourself. You've lit the fire and gotten it going with aged birch logs they dumped near the house and that he stacked neatly under the stairs by the garden in a kind of Alpine monument to home and hearth.

You've adjusted the air flow in the stove, got it burning nice and hot. The smoke tickles your nostrils and it also tickles the dough you've rolled out and slid into the hot oven. The heat seems to melt the mushrooms, crispen the paper thin sliced chorizo, and brown the dough even as it stays moist and warm inside with that come hither smoke flavor. This will not be the last.

I am going to the paper shop to pick out a blank book this evening before they close. I am going to cover it with the fabric cuttings leftover from the kitchen door curtains, and fill it with the recipes and stories. Tips and tidbits of information, observations from the garden, and stories I may want to remember in the coming years as we continue this most interesting journey.

Sarah and Erica both, come claim your prize!

Sicily: The Salt Flats in Trapani

Involtini di Manzo: Stuffed Beef Rolls

Judy noted as we traveled around Northwest Sicily, that savory cooking, and notably the cooking in and around Palermo typically features breadcrumbs, pine nuts, and raisins. We saw this everywhere, and the cooking class at the Becchina estate featured one nice recipe featuring this trinity.

The beef used for these rolls is best coming from a young animal. This topic was briefly touched on in the cooking class and it is rather important if you want the fork tender melt in your mouth results we got in Sicily. In France this kind of beef comes from the Genisse, a young heifer that is old enough to have been out with the herd on the field, but not quite full grown. The meat is a darker red than veal, from an animal that has been out on a daily walk moving her limbs, but also a younger animal than we get steaks from. When in doubt, ask your butcher, and if you only have one type of beef or veal to choose from, go for a naturally raised veal that has been kept outside with its mother, walking about. It will have some color to it. If you don't like the idea of using veal because you can't be sure whether it was raised humanely, go ahead and use beef, but make sure you get it sliced thinly. You might discuss this detail with your local butcher or local Italian grandmother and see what he or she might suggest.



The keys to this recipe, aside from the meat, having done it with the teacher in Sicily and then again in rather rustic conditions on the wood stove at home in France, is to make sure you get the right kind of cheese, young Pecorino and also a good Parmesan. You can replace the fresh young Pecorino with Cheddar, if you are in a pinch, but do make sure you get nice good Parmesan.

Involtini di Manzo (Bracioline) from Chez Becchina
(serves 4)

8 extra thin slices of young lean beef : rump steak, boneless and flattened if necessary (ask your butcher to slice it as thin as possible)
4 extra thin slices of mortadella or ham
1 hard boiled egg
1 heaping cup of loosely packed fresh ground breadcrumbs, made from day old (good) bread with the crust removed
1/4 cup chopped Pecorino primo sale (fresh young pecorino)
1/3 cup Parmigiano reggiano or Grana padano cheese
2 Tablespoons pine nuts
2 Tablespoons raisins
1 peeled garlic clove in winter, 2 if fresh with its green stalk
2 Tablespoons chopped fresh flat leafed parsley (don't skip the parsley!)
finely ground Trapani or Mozia sea salt to season, even better: fior di sale. (Lucy's note: Use your best sea salt, including breaking out your fleur de sel if necessary)
2 Tablespoons Olio Verde extra virgin olive oil
Oil for browning (Lucy's note: your favorite cooking oil)
One large jar of your favorite tomato sauce or simply minced whole canned tomatoes
toothpicks (for closing the rolls)



Put the breadcrumbs in a bowl. Mince everything: the eggs, the parsley, the raisins, pine nuts and garlic, cheeses, and add them to the bowl. Toss, season with salt, then add the olive oil in a stream, tossing the mix to keep it light and fluffy. The stuffing should still be light and not drenched with oil, use your discretion with the oil.



Lay out the beef slices on a board, and note the direction of the grain of the meat. This will have an effect on your finished product. The meat contracts in the process of cooking, and your fresh bread crumbs will expand in the process of simmering, laying the meat this way and rolling it as shown will ensure a compact and durable roll, which does not pull apart and spill the contents during cooking.

Cut your ham or mortadella into pieces that fit within the size of the beef slices. (My thought is that if you are not able to get your hands on the real mortadella from Italy, you can replace it with deli thin slices of bologna or something similar.) And lay a slice on top of the beef as shown. Look how thin this is sliced. Tell the people at the deli you want it that thin.

Spoon 2-3 Tablespoons of the breadcrumb/egg stuffing onto the roll, ensuring that you stay within the edges. You don't need to force these completely full of stuffing. The goal is to get a nice roll that won't fall apart so don't go overboard on the stuffing. A little goes a long way.

Fold in the edges on either side as shown, and roll them up, finishing with a toothpick to hold them together. (repeat for all of the beef rolls.)

Donna did a great job in this class!

In a flat skillet, heat the cooking oil and quickly brown the beef rolls on each side, turning them every 3 minutes or so.

When they are browned, transfer them to a plate and drain off the cooking oil the best you can. In a medium sized pot or deep skillet, heat the tomato sauce and bring it to a simmer. Transfer the beef rolls into the tomato sauce, and simmer them covered for 45 minutes to an hour. Serve hot!