Eggs, More Meaning

When someone asks me which came first, I always say the egg. I firmly believe it. Inspiration and possibility. By nature, the egg is an optimistic object. It is also an sublime work of nature, not to be taken lightly. I dip my little tea spoon into a soft boiled hen's egg in the morning and think of the possibilities. One must begin somewhere, yes?

Strolling the outdoor markets in France, you might be surprised to see eggs stacked out in baskets for sale in the open air. This certainly came as a surprise to me when we first arrived here, because I was raised to believe the eggs were instantly poisoned if they were left out on the counter for more than 10 minutes. In the years since we arrived here, my vision of things, of eggs, has shifted, adapted to the culture. Here in France, eggs are stored in a cool place, and rarely ever refrigerated before they're sold, even in a grocery store. It wasn't until I came to France that I learned that eggs are best stored away from the odors and moisture of a refrigerator, at room temperature. I also learned what difference in taste a good egg can have. One that came from a happy animal. The sun and the air, the ground and whatever springs from it can make a difference in the egg quality. I choose my eggs carefully. You should too.



By looking at the code which is a legal requirement in the EU to egg farmers who sell their product, you can tell a whole lot about what kind of egg you're getting. Even the humble farmer selling his eggs at the market has a number. The lady who sells us eggs displays her number on a sign.

The most important digit is of course the first one. From it you can tell a lot.

0- Organically fed free range
1- Free Range (4 square meters of grass covered land per chicken)
2- Barn (free to roam inside but often thousands to a warehouse or barn, 12 to 15 chickens per square meter)
3- Cage (intensive mass production in stacked cages, no sunlight)

The eggs I use in my kitchen come from free range chickens, flock number 5,
from a farm in Bresse.

After that, your eggs are marked with codes for their provenance, and the last digits further identify them by their flock number. Why is this? Salmonella comes from sick animals, and not from spoilage of the egg after it is laid, as some might believe. The shell of an egg is a resilient and natural protector of its precious cargo. Once an egg is cracked, its naturally hospitable contents are open to whatever might be lurking about, so be careful with prepared dishes containing raw eggs.

What to do With Your Strawberries

As we wade into the strawberry sea, I've taken a quick spy around the country to see what they are doing with them here in France. Here's a list.

You could begin with a strawberry gazpacho
or a strawberry tartare,
an Amaretto seasoned strawberry blanc-manger,
strawberry and lime mousse served with yogurt and strawberry jelly,
a strawberry vacherin,
pistachio seasoned strawberries,
strawberry beignets with fresh passion fruit vinaigrette,
strawberry soup seasoned with tarragon and olive oil and served with litchi sorbet,
chocolate tartlettes with pistachio ice cream and strawberry sauce,
Gariguette strawberry rice pudding served with gelatin glazed rhubarb and raspberry sorbet,
strawberry pain perdu,
a Mara des Bois strawberry crème brûlée served with ice cream,
a goblet of whipped strawberry champagne and rose cream,
"Grand Cru" chocolate with strawberry and raspberry accompaniments,
strawberry mille-feuille with vanilla infused cream sauce,
Carros strawberry gratin with Menton lemons,
a frozen vanilla rhubarb dessert with their divine idea of crushed candied almonds,
a simple strawberry and chocolate mille-feuille,
strawberries in Muscat wine flavored gelatin served with a Breton shortbread,
simplify with strawberry shortbread,
frozen Béthune strawberry parfait with marshmallow syrup,
caramelized mille-feuille with light strawberry mousse,
strawberry charlotte,
lovage and strawbery flavored ice cream,
a strawberry gratin with honey and lavendar ice cream,
tartare of tomato and strawberries served with iced milk seasoned mint tea,
basil seasoned strawberries served with lime sorbet,
a strawberry soup with verbena ice cream,
strawberry seasoned lentil flour pastry served with strawberry lemon thyme sauce,
Sologne strawberry feuillantine,
strawberry gratin with wine and lime jelly,
strawberry champagne soup,
frozen strawberry tulips served in a coconut cloud with banana caramel,
strawberry and pistachio macaron,
strawberry succès,
wild strawberries with vanilla infused olive oil,
white chocolate croustillant with strawberries,
foie gras with Carpentras strawberry macarons,
strawberry rhubarb sablé,
pain perdu with strawberries and fromage blanc ice cream,
puff pastry with strawberries and mascarpone cheese,
frozen honey flavored nougat with a strawberry coulis,
strawberries served with a rhubarb and anise seasoned compote,
pan tossed strawberries and rhubarb,
tube of meringue and wild strawberry tartare,
variations on the theme of strawberry (cappuccino, marinated in balsamic vinegar and sorbet),
wild strawberry and lemon gratin,
strawberry and basil soufflé,
strawberry cheese cake,
hazelnut and strawberry russe,
strawberry and lemon cream macarons,
strawberry profiteroles with pistachio ice cream,
mint glazed strawberry soup,
strawberry soufflé,
strawberry tiramisu,
strawberry in puffed pastry drizzled with a fruit colis,
a strawberry mille-feuille,
a dried strawberry crème brûlée,
crisp potatoes and smoked trout with chive and strawberry seasoned cheese,
mint and basil infused strawberry soup served with a chocolate truffle and mango ice cream,
strawberries in their jus served with a white chocolate ice cream,
melon and strawberry jello with grilled pistachios,
an exquisite rum and pineapple-vanilla milk shake with medlar berries and strawberries in honey,
pigeon breast with strawberry marmelade,
a wild strawberry mille-feuille with lemongrass seasoned strawberry sauce and soft white cheese sorbet,
strawberry tempura,
a wild strawberry thin tart cooked to order,
strawberry meringue with lavender infused sauce,
cherry and strawberry soup with ginger seasoned wine served with a fresh white cheese ice cream,
Romanoff strawberries served with vanilla ice cream,
rhubarb and strawberry crumble with a hint of refreshing lime flavor,
dark chocolate palets with basil seasoned strawberries and raspberries,
Anisette flambeed strawberries,
olive seasoned strawberry compote served with olive ice cream,
a strawberry pistachio macaron with lemongrass infused straberries and served with a scoop of pistachio ice cream,
Strawberry Melba,
flambéed meringue and strawberries,
a strawberry dacquois,
a strawberry delicacy served in a crunchy "cage" with herbal infusions,
strawberry gratin with Génépi and a vanilla sabayon,
strawberries in a sweet Jurancon wine broth,
a strawberry, tomato and passionfruit tartare with raspberry sorbet,
pan tossed strawberries served with cool mint, bergemot, and Mara des Bois sorbet,
cube of pear enrobed in mango and strawberries, strawberry and red wine soup,
a Plougastel strawberry and spiced wine gratin,
strawberry harlequin,
a cascade of strawberries with rose ice cream,
strawberry and coconut spring rolls with chocolate sauce,
Mara des Bois strawberry tart with a wedge of verbena panna cotta,
strawberry gratin with orange flower sabayon,
raspberry and rhubarb feuilleté with nougatine ice cream,
a strawberry sabayon with Vourvay wine,
strawberry soup with lemon jelly and coconut cream,
a strawberry and rhubarb tiramisu served with chestnut honey ice cream,
strawberries pan tossed in salted butter and served with a buckwheat crumble with vanilla ice cream,
the crunchy honey leaf, a light thyme cream, and a strawberry soup with vanilla bean ice cream,
Gariguette strawberries with Provençal yellow peaches,
macaron cookie shells with fresh white cheese mousseline and strawberries,
strawberry and orange chaud-froid flambéed with Grand Marnier,
strawberry mille-feuille with basil sauce,
liquorice flavored strawberries,
Pino Noir seasoned strawberry soup served with cinnamon ice cream,
a simple wreath of minced strawberries,
thin sliced strawberries served with mixed berry jelly,
strawberry flavored frozen meringue cream, strawberry milkshake,
thyme infused strawberries in wine,
strawberry and rhubarb marmelade with light fresh cheese cream,
strawberries in orange flower infused cane sugar syrup,
an apple and strawberry crumble,
Carpentras strawberry confiture with pistachio ice cream,
vanilla and strawberry marmalade crème brûlée,
panna cotta with strawberry sauce served with a lemon brioche,
Plougastel strawberries drizzled with black olive honey and served with a basil infused lime granité,
Strawberry vacherin with thyme lemon ice cream,
wild strawberry gratin with passionfruit,
strawberry and raspberry cappuccino with rice pudding,
or strawberry jam.

Now you can't say you don't have any ideas for what to do with your strawberries.

A Pickle Obsession Unearthed

Please let this be the one

It's very difficult to find nice pickles, the nice sour kind, without any sugar or ones that aren't soaked in pure vinegar where I live. For some reason, all the little prickly cornichons here, the kind that are normally served with charcuterie platters, are steeped in sugar and so sour you just get an icky sugar laden sour taste when you eat them. They're not something to eat, they're something to slice a shaving from and combine with a bite of pâté. The whole idea of taking one, biting into it, and enjoying its complex and delicious combination of textures and flavors is lost here in France. As a consequence of the pickle condition here in Lyon, I crawl through back aisles of ethnic shops high and low for real pickles, the kind I love. Once I believe I have hit paydirt, the supply chain is usually broken and they stop carrying them. It's my luck. It's really hard to find the good kind around here.

So of course when David Lebovitz, a resident of Paris, food writer extraordinaire, did a batch of Arthur Schwartz's Home Made Kosher Dills at home and told us how easy it was the other day (recipe is on David's Site), I was instantly charmed. He did these pickles, and said: "...All that was missing was a pile of hot corned beef jammed between two spices of corn rye with some mustard and a Dr. Brown's black cherry soda." this made me want to immediately prepare a batch. I believe this may be the pickle I am looking for. I'm hoping, anyway. I divided the recipe he provided and did one jar. We'll see the final result soon. Thank you David!

While I have a few days to dream... I hope it is the kind of pickle I had that time in the former USSR. Loic took me to the city formerly known as Leningrad, St. Petersburg, Russia. I bumbled my way through an irretracable maze of subways and back streets to a market. Lo and behold, there were pickles stacked like mountains. Curious about Russian pickles, I bought one, tasted it, and my mind started turning circles. I just had to find myself a place to sit and meditate for a moment to get a grip on what I had just tasted. The woman with the honeycombs just stared when I sat next to her and threw my head back. It was the most excellent pickle I had ever had in my whole life.

This is the lady in St. Petersburg Russia and her pickles.
A piece of my soul was lost when I had to leave the pickles behind in Russia.

I immediately purchased some of each kind that were offered, and lugged a large dripping sack of them back to the place where we were staying. I stuffed pickles into my mouth one after the other like a pickle freak. The lady we were staying with told me to watch out, I risked becoming ill. She insisted that I keep them in her refrigerator. I guess they must have had a scare with some spoiled pickles in St. Petersburg but that didn't stop me from consuming them in large quantities. One night I even remember sneaking into the kitchen where she slept, all for the love of these pickles.

It was very very late, It must have been the wee hours of the morning. I slinked from our room through a first hallway where the boy, her son, was curled up in a sleigh bed next to his beloved computer, and then down another long hallway and around a corner past her husband, snorting and making puttering noises in a recliner in front of a fuzzy television screen. I opened the creaky door to the kitchen where a dim light from the tail end of the white night was filtering through lace curtains and barely lit the room. The kitchen was gray but my mind was dazzled with pickle green, because all I could think of were the pickles as they would be glowing by the refrigerator light. I made my way to the refrigerator and opened the door to get a pickle from my stash in the vegetable drawer. It made a clonking sound and she woke up. She gave me a pretty hard glare there in the almost dark kitchen and asked me what I was doing there. I said "to get... a pickle..." She huffed and turned her back to me and I snatched one of the pickled greens and scurried off into the night, nibbling and stuffing it systematically into my mouth as I went back to the bed.

Loic did not understand my love of these pickles. I really can't explain it myself except that there was a memory lodged deep in my subconscious, somewhere this flavor had wedged itself into the animal part of my brain and it clutched me like a vice. Soon the pickles were gone but that did not stop me from thinking about them.

One clue to the path to the pickles, dredged from the archive, a path never to be retraced again

If you have ever been lost in a Russian subway, you'll know how I felt when I tried to find my way back to that market. She resisted when I told her I planned to go back and get more of those pickles before we left Russia and take them home. I tried to get her son to take me back to the market, but he minded his mother. She had had enough of my obsession with the pickles already, they were keeping her up at night. She finally pleaded with me not to try and cross the border with pickles, as if they were illegal to import into France. I don't know, we were in a rush, I had all these other things on my list, and the seemingly illegal plan of packing up a big sack of pickles to carry home was cast aside. But it haunts me to this day. I must have those pickles again.

Stone Arches

You probably already gathered that we didn't just fait le pont, we did le grand viaduc, which is to combine the first and second long weekend and make it into one extra long weekend of 10 days. Imagine instead of a nice little footbridge, we now have an ancient Roman stone arched edifice of weekend upon weekend with everything stacked in between. Loic and I just wrapped up a rough and tumble season and were both good and ready for a break!

Loic really deserved a break after a long push to get his dossier considered and then a concours in front of a jury to decide if he would win the much desired promotion to Professor at the University. This kind of position is the equivalent of a tenured position. Well, HE GOT IT! Yay! His parents had been through some changes too, with one of Loic's uncles who passed away a couple of months ago (quite traumatic to L's father) and Mamie Durandeau finally making the decision to move into a retirement home in town, a transition that is never easy. Some family time was in order.

I have been working on a pretty extensive project which has finally taken voluptuous shape and is filling out. It is taking a lot of energy and will take a whole lot more. I found a place to put it down and we went down to the Midi, Sissy the cat in tow, and settled into Loic's old room. I scanned the bookcases for something new, noticing only that the second copy of the Lord of the Rings had been borrowed from his bookcase, leaving a gap. I don't know why he had two copies in the first place. Reassuringly, Princess Leia and companions surveyed the room from her frozen tomb of beauty, framed by unknown data in cream colored 1MB disks.

One of our outings was to the local Ikea, to pick up a certain model of something we tried to get up in Lyon but they didn't have in stock, a baby bed. Yessss. a baby bed (whispered). For those not in the know, we are expecting a baby but not in the conventional way. We don't know when the baby will arrive but have been given official hope that it will be very soon.

We got Sissy a cute kitty tent and rug which she didn't express any interest in down at Loic's parents' house while she could sit on the windowsill of Loic's bedroom. Framed by green shutters and warmed by red terra cotta stones, languidly eying the neighbors pigeons in their cage, she thought the tent was an attempt to spoil her fun. But once we got home (pictured here), she sidled right in and has adopted it very cutely. It's quite interesting, she has decided to pass her days in the house, coming out to graze on her patch of grass from time to time and scratch her orange carpet.



We consumed a massive amount of seafood last week, with a different fish every day of the week, it seemed, and if we weren't going to have fish at the main course, we had it on the end of a cocktail stick with the apero. I am afraid to look at the Monteray Bay Aquarium 'avoid' list, because I suspect we each had a serving of everything on it. We enjoyed tuna stuffed peppers and pickled anchovies, an enormous Mediterranean sea bass that one of Brigitte's friends caught, salmon cooked with smoked salt, delicately fried skate wings with caper sauce and potatoes, boiled crab with asparagus and fresh home made mayonnaise, and lots more politically incorrect fish like shrimp and a cousin of the bass that's not popping into my mind directly at the moment. Ahhhhh. Fish.

I listened to Brigitte talk about the babies and give me various tidbits of sage advice about child rearing, I read two books, we had a day at a Thalasso spa where you get massaged with seawater jets with all these elderly people in swim caps and then painted with heated seaweed paste and wrapped in a cocoon. I got slightly sunburned, Brigitte got her first batch of fresh feves of the year from her garden, I pondered sage and rosemary based liqueurs since Brigitte has two large fragrant bushes and just can't use it all. We went up to spend a few days with Francoise and Philippe at the chateau. I let myself have a slight fever, and Loic spent about 2 solid days helping his father with computer stuff. They have decided to finally do away with the old computer and also the dial-up connection. We were appalled at the conditions under which Yves was working. His old screen was so degraded it was completely blurred out and words were not even legible at the sides! He had to get a new one. All of this father-son bonding over the computer gave me a chance for a little time on my own. We also got away for a stroll through a lovely little town next to Hyeres, and enjoyed the kite surfers and the pink flamingos which have set up their little community in the salt marshes there. I read for awhile at the port and generally just relaxed.



A tip on stepping off those stone arched bridges - Try to avoid "a red day", leave a day early or a day late. In this country we label the traffic condition like ski slopes, red being second to most hazardous, implying that Swiss and German Audis will slalom through the sea of Belgian and Dutch camping cars and that there will be accidents in Montpelier, Orange, and stopped traffic for 5 kilometers leading to the tunnel that connects to the Lyon-Paris motorway.

Voila, a nice break from the daily grind. I found that the change of air was very effective in getting some stagnant areas of my creativity circulating again. Just a reminder to take a break now and then and turn away from any big project you have going, then take a good look at it again. It helps to put a better perspective on it. I feel refreshed and ready for the next big push.

The Chalet

You may remember one evening when we sat by candlelight and listened to the story of our cousins' family tradition making Genepi Maison. The story was more than one about a family recipe, but a father and his long walks in the mountain with his sons. This week we went to visit their family chalet in the Alps. It is a house that began as one family's weekend home, and has progressed now that the children are grown, married, and have children that themselves have grown, into a place shared by all of the cousins for family meetings, weekends and holidays.



Spirit of the mountains and family are intermingled in this little house that holds a surprisingly huge number of people when all the beds are rolled out. I loved the spirit of respect for others too. Little plaques and framed reminders about how to keep things pleasant for everyone, not to leave your belongings trailing about, where things are kept and how to maintain everything from the aerating equipment in the upstairs shower to the ski rack in the mud room were everywhere. Rightly so. Because of the careful planning and guidelines set by Philippe's father, everyone in the family gets an equal welcome in the chalet. These are useful rules that set a good example for the children and prepare for many happy years. I will run my country home this way one day.



In the winter of course the slopes provide endless entertainment, and in the summer you can go up into the mountains and walk or climb. Adventurous cousins have embraced a special relationship with the hills. What they call a little walk is a hard core hike for someone like me. Their commitment to mountain sport reminds me a little bit of the sailing culture I grew up around.

When we were out walking, green things were just beginning to sprout from the ground after the melt. The snow had picked up lots of rocks and put them down in new piles and formations. The trails we enjoyed were mostly clear. Waterfalls and gorged streams rushed melted snow to the valleys. Hamlets and towns are nestled in between the mountains, one after another, reached by twisting roads at vertiginous heights. Spring smells gorgeous. I was singing "The Hills are Alive" all week long!

The little pies are a local specialty sold in the town.

Postcard: Provence

Artichauts à la Barigoule

The first weekend of May is kind of like a whole holiday season in France. Even though only the first day of the month is the official holiday (France’s Labor Day), a whole lot of people turn it into a vacation. To faire le pont means to make a bridge between a holiday and the weekend closest to it, to get a nice 4 or 5 day stretch of R&R using only a day or two of precious yearly vacation time.

Shutters are slammed, houses sealed, cars loaded with equipment and children, and the autoroutes suddenly get clogged with cars. Predicted road conditions for the weekend all over the country are reported on the news and radio, alerts and traffic jam warnings are announced. We hit the road to visit family in Provence!



Our first morning, we went to the market with Brigitte on Cours Lafayette in Toulon. We saw lots of lovely thinks like artichokes, feves and other legumes, green beans, peas, and herbs ready to eat and coming from the neighboring towns. The great thing about spring in Provence is all those things we’ve been craving over the winter have burst forth like an explosion down here.



Brigitte suggested Artichauts à la Barigoule, how can we resist? We got some artichokes grown on a farm in the town that has our favorite summer beach. Artichauts à la Barigoule is classic all through the restaurants of the Cote d’Azur. From Nice to Marseille, you’ll surely see it on café tables at this time of year. Simmered artichokes in the style of Provence. You can serve them simply without meat, enjoy them with a classic addition of bacon, or even better, stuff them for a delicious first course or supper.

Artichauts à la Barigoule - The Recipe



6-8 small artichokes
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion
2-3 carrots
¾ cup dry white wine or vermouth, according to preference (Brigitte likes to use Noilly Pratt)
4 cloves of garlic (fresh if possible, but winter garlic will also do)
Salt, pepper



Pare the artichokes, tugging off any hard scaly leaves at the base, and clipping off the scaly points with thorns from the ends of the leaves with a pair of kitchen scissors. For the top end, use a knife to generously slice off the top, as far as halfway down, depending on the freshness and maturity of your artichokes. Do not be shy about cutting your artichokes. The edible part is inside, at the bottom.

Mince the onions, dice the carrots and cut up your garlic. If you are using old garlic, mince it up small. If you are using fresh garlic, you can chop it up roughly into chunks, since it’s much milder in flavor. At this time of year, the big chunks of garlic look nice and taste wonderful.

In a heavy bottomed skillet that has a cover, heat two tablespoons of olive oil and add the diced onion and carrots, spreading them across the bottom of the pot. Place the artichokes over the bed of onions and carrots with the leaves facing up, season with salt and pepper, drizzle two more tablespoons of olive oil on top, cover the dish, and cook over medium heat for 10 to 15 minutes, shaking the pot from time to time. The artichokes, onion and the carrot will release some juice at first, so keep the cover on, because they will steam in these juices. After about 15 minutes like this, the onion and carrot will begin to caramelize underneath, turning brown. You’ll smell it, the smell of the steaming artichokes will mingle with the warm nutty perfume of caramelizing onion.

Today, the Provencal sun streamed like hot liquid through the kitchen window, making me think of summer and the beaches, warm pebbles between our toes. My imagination got away with me and I mistook the sizzling noise coming from my artichauts à la barigoule for the buzz of summer chicadas. The cool spring chorus of singing birds in the garden was upstaged by the sizzling caramelizing onions, and I knew the time had come to throw a little wine on it.

Add white wine all at once, and let it bubble without covering for another 5 minutes, allowing the liquid to reduce by half. Some people might add some minced bacon at this point, but that is optional. Sprinkle the garlic on top, drizzle with another 1/3 cup of water, lower the heat and simmer, covered, for another 15-20 minutes.

The recipe is ready to serve, but you can stuff them to make a main course...

The artichokes can be served like this. Chilled or warm, simple Arichauts à la Barigoule. We take the whole artichoke, and eat the soft edible parts, the silky inner leaves, the heart. If you want to chill them, let them return to room temperature and move them to the refrigerator in their pot.

Today, since we were going to have them for lunch and only had some beans to serve with them, Brigitte and I agreed that it would be nice to stuff them. What you stuff your artichauts à la barigoule with is really up to you. Traditionally it is done with a little bit of fresh pork belly, sautéed to cook through, seasoned with maybe some garlic and nutmeg, a little parsley and onion, with a panade of bread crusts soaked in cooking liquids worked into the lot.

We had some plain sausage today, so I used it in the stuffing. That, with some sage from the garden, a crumbled handful of the herbes that Yves picked up from one of his walks in the garrigue, and I stopped there, feeling like it needed nothing more.

To stuff them, carefully remove the cottony inner part above the heart, reserving the tender inner leaves

While they are still warm and they are nestled into their dish, pinch out the very center bunch of leaves and carefully scrape out the cottony layer above the heart, leaving a nice little pouch for stuffing in the middle of each one. You can reserve the little bunch of soft leaves from above the cotton, and include them in the stuffing or use them to garnish a salad. Note, very small young fresh garden artichokes might not have developed the cottony part, all the better, but most of the ones you see at the market will have it.



Stuff the artichokes with your meat mixture, and cover the dish with foil. Heat through in a moderate oven, removing the foil and putting them under the broiler to brown the tops just before serving. Stuffing the artichokes adds a whole new dimension to this recipe!