Living It

Our Own Christmas Bricelets

Last year I began sorting things out so that we could celebrate Christmas at home. This may seem strange, but in our many years here in France, we've always packed our bags, closed the door on our home, void of holiday cheer save a rather chintzy fake tree that got a little more dog-eared every year, and spent Christmas with my husband's parents. Last year's knowledge of the coming baby, however, had me reminiscing about the Christmas of my childhood, and it was what set things in motion.

Over the years, I'd swept out of my mind how much the little things meant. Picking out the tree, hauling it home, breaking out the lights and the old dusty carton of ornaments wrapped in crinkly tissue was never on the agenda. Putting on an extra sweater, playing the music, making wreaths (or getting one from the Hosmers), tromping through the snow, baking, planning, reading Christmas stories, ice skating, all a distant memory which had retreated to the shadows cast by the light of the Cote d'Azur. The thing I missed most of all was the feeling of really being at home. The house in the Alps has slowly been transformed from an old house that needed a new roof to our little cozy place away from the city, our refuge, the place where we unhook and breathe. I often catch my spirit there even when I am walking the alleys and stairwells of this ancient city. We decided to have Christmas there this year, Ian's first, and our first there as well. I am cherishing every moment.

I don't think I mentioned this, but last spring, we went to a garage sale in an Alpine village and I happened across an antique bricelet iron. Luckily I knew exactly what it was since I had seen and been intrigued by a brush with the bricelet in Switzerland on a recent visit. The old woman who passed the iron to me told me that her mother and grandmother had made these thin waffle cookies at Christmas time. The iron had clearly fallen out of use. She seemed happy enough to let me take it off her hands, but I still wondered what had made her quit using it. Had she gotten an electric press, the kind that most people use now? This iron had developed a thin layer of rust, but I knew it would be easy to take up the task to scrub and season it. I am so happy to have it now especially since all of our cooking up in the Alps is in the wood fired stove. The kitchen ceiling's beams display quite a collection of cast-iron accouterments for country cooking these days.

A similar thin waffle is called the pizzelle in Italy. The difference is that in France and Switzerland the cookies are thinner. It will be good fun to toast these over healthy glowing coals from a long lit hickory fire on Christmas eve. Since this is our first year, and we want to make sure we've got it absolutely right, I'm going to share recipes I have gathered after more testing. Italian, Swiss, and French Alpine recipes for both sweet and savory biscuits are in the works. Stay tuned!

A Bernachon Chocolate Bar Each Month - Menu for Hope 6

Bid Item Code EU37
A Bernachon Chocolate Bar Delivered to you Each Month

Hey friends, it's that time of the year again, time to give, and to win!  For the Menu for Hope fundraiser, this year I have decided to donate a bid item that I know many of my readers will find enticing. Welcome to the Bernachon bar of the month club. This bid item will be sent ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD.  That's right folks, anyone can bid on this item.

EU37

Bernachon Chocolate for a YEAR

Imagine a different Bernachon Bar every month for one year. I will send the lucky winner, anywhere in the world, one fresh unctuous artisan crafted Bernachon chocolate bar straight from the shop in Lyon, France, each month, for a year, starting in March 2010. Every month a different chocolate bar from Bernachon with a whole range of house-made fillings to unwrap and enjoy. The bar will include a handwritten note explaining the makeup of that month's bar. Special requests honored!

Read about UN Purchase for Progress, the project that this years' funds raised will go to.

To Donate and Enter the Menu for Hope Raffle:

1. Choose a bid item or bid items of your choice from our Menu for Hope main bid item list. (choosing mine would be best, but considering that there are many other great bid items out there to win, you might want to check them out.) You can also see the Europe and UK list here.

2. Go to the donation site at Firstgiving and make a donation.

3. Please specify which bid item you'd like in the 'Personal Message' section in the donation form when confirming your donation. You must write-in how many tickets per bid item, and please use the bid item code.

Each $10 you donate will give you one raffle ticket toward a bid item of your choice. Example: a donation of $50 can be 2 tickets for EU37 (the Bernachon bars for a year) and 3 tickets for EU55 - 3xEU37, 2xEU55. But you really don't have to bid for some other item. JUST EU37 to win this fabulous bid item.

4. If your company matches your charity donation, please check the box and fill in the information so they can claim the corporate match.

5. Please check the box to allow us to see your email address so that we can contact you in case you win. Your email address will not be shared with anyone.

Wishing everyone luck as you bid on your favorite items, and a very happy holiday season 2009.

The Bouchon Lyonnais

On a visit to Lyon, you can have one great meal in a bouchon, and this can be a definitive event. Your first meal in a bouchon tends to form an imprint. The dining experience is so unique and your gustatory pleasure has been so aroused that it extends down to the place in your mind for memories that will eventually become life stories. The next place simply can't measure up.

You might sink your spoon delicately into the majestic communal creme caramel at Chez Paul and from then on out, any bouchon that doesn't have it, isn't... perfect. You might feel enveloped in good cheer at Le Garet and then never feel that satisfaction the same way anywhere else. You might get that tangy delicious poulet au vinaigre that seems to set off a delicate counterpoint with the austere flourescent-lit hole-in-the-wall atmosphere at Cafe des Federations. After that, nothing can compete.

Legends are born from these gustatory milestones in the mind of a food enthusiast well after they've had a chance to simmer and mijote, mixed with the delight and relish in telling the story again. In my opinion, every single one of Lyon's official bouchons, the ones bearing the Authentique Bouchon Lyonnais label, are going to build personal rich gustatory memories, but most of all, each bouchon remains unique.



The best way for me to explain the authentique Bouchon Lyonnais is to explore what it is as a genre, then get into the nitty gritty of what makes a number of these individual restaurants worth your while.

Since this subject is too vast for one post, I am devoting many more to the Lyonnais Bouchon, making it a label. Look forward to the restaurants' stories, their quirks, visual details, menu items, news worth noting, what a Lyonnais bouchon was, is, and what it's not.

A Chalet Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving, which is distinguished among my French friends and family as falling the week after the Beaujolais Nouveau arrives, means takeout for us. I know, how terrible! But it's not what it seems. Thanksgiving is not a national holiday here, so we hold off and invite people to come feast and celebrate a good old full style Thanksgiving two days later, on the weekend. That way those who have to travel to get to the party can come.

Many of you know already that I refurbished a wood burning fourneau that was in our little place in the Alps. This year, after having learned to cook in it, we have decided to do Thanksgiving in the mountains and cook everything by wood fire. The following day, I plan to stuff a Savoy cabbage in this way with the leftovers, a great way, being in the Savoie where this cabbage grows in just about every garden, to express how thankful we are for chalet and wood fired cooking.

We got a little video camera for sharing special moments in the baby's life with relatives at home, and I started a youtube account yesterday. With that, I leave you a video of the window at La Minaudiere, one of my favorite takeout places in Lyon. In addition to being grateful for the abundance we have found in this wonderful city, I'm giving thanks for you tonight, and hoping that those of you that celebrate Thanksgiving have a fabulous holiday.

My Boy and his Boudoirs

In the afternoon, one of my baby’s pleasures is a boudoir, which is a light, melt-in-your-mouth eggwhite-leavened sugar-dusted biscuit. This is after he’s had his petit suisse, a soft white cheese a little bit like Philly. Before you stamp your foot in indignation that I give my baby something dusted with sugar after all the agony of deciding how to feed him, I will let you know his pediatrician put it in his recommended diet! My boy is expending a whole lot of energy these days. He’s going full steam learning, moving, practicing, playing and thinking very hard about the world around him from the minute he wakes up until he drops from exhaustion again, on and off like a lightswitch, all day long. If he doesn't get a boudoir, he gets a crust of baguette. I think he likes them both equally.

I started making boudoirs at home out of curiosity. I wondered about them when the baby first started eating them. They are ubiquitous at the grocery stores here in France, and marketed not only for consumption by babies, but also for making that decidedly adult dessert called a charlotte, which is often lined with boudoirs soaked in various alcohols. The thing was, when I got down to it and began digging around for information, I noticed that these days nobody ever bothers to make their own boudoirs. Like other pastries, these are left to the professionals in this country. But you can find recipes in the older cookbooks sometimes under other names, depending on the region.

I checked out a couple of pretty picture cookbooks in the French style devoted to the charlotte from the library, thinking that at the very least these books would feature a a recipe or a little bit of lore about this famous cookie and found, much to my surprise, that they don't even bother to put the recipe for the boudoirs into either book. Tucked neither into the front nor the back, boudoirs were simply an ingredient, one that busy French cooks buy ready-made in plastic sachets at the store. I did find a few recipes in my old cookbooks and scaled them down to a manageable size. This means something I can handle without baking all day. I wanted to make sure I could get these done without feeling I was going into industrial production mode. If you have a big American oven, you might even be able to get these all baked in one batch.

The recipe for boudoirs aka biscuits à la cuillère is quite straightforward and simple. It requires no special equipment other than a plastic food storage bag or if you’re equipped, a pastry sack with a 1 cm circular nozzle to pipe the batter. Once they've cooled off, you can store them in a tin. If there are any left after a few days, they’ll hold up quite well to soaking in liqueurs and syrups for many kinds of charlottes.

Boudoirs (about 30 biscuits)

1/2 cup or 115 grams granulated sugar plus a few tablespoons for sprinkling
3 eggs
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 tsp vanilla extract
a pinch of finely ground table salt
2/3 cup or 85 grams sifted flour, AP (or type 65 if you are in France)

*Note about the cream of tartar: It is optional. I have just found that the cookies hold their shape better if you do. I have done these cookies with and without it and the taste is the same. It's just a matter of preference.

*Note about the bowl size: I use the standard bowl that goes with my mixer for the egg whites, and I use a smaller bowl (the one I use to melt chocolate over a saucepan) for the egg yolks. The small bowl eventually takes the rest of the ingredients for the batter. The good thing about it is that the smaller bowl fits into a 12 inch square plastic bag, and it makes transfer of the batter into the bag quick, clean, and painless. Keep that in mind when organizing your tools to make these!

- Separate the eggs, yolks into the smaller bowl, whites into the bowl that comes with your mixer.
- Beat the 1/2 cup granulated sugar and egg yolks together until pale yellow and fluffy.
- In a separate bowl, mount the egg whites with the vanilla extract and 1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar until stiff peaks form.
- Stir the salt into the flour.
- Incorporate the egg whites and sift in the flour and salt little by little into the egg yolks and sugar mixture, alternating flour and whites, ending with the whites. Make sure you fold it in gently and carefully and don’t stir it too much to avoid deflating the batter.
- When it it just incorporated, transfer it into the bag for forming the boudoirs.
- Cut off a corner of the bag to make a hole about a half inch wide or one cm. You can make a wider cut, but it will make flatter, wider, biscuits. I cut the hole about the width of my thumb nail for the thinner biscuits.
- On a parchment lined cookie sheet, form the boudoirs. Pipe the fluffy batter onto parchment in straight lines, 2-3 inches or 4-6 cm long, with about an inch or 2 cms between each one.
- Sprinkle sugar over the top, and lightly shake off the sugar from the parchment. The biscuits will stick to the paper, so you can pour the sugar off being careful.
- Bake at 300F or 145C for 18-20 minutes, until they are a toasty pale brown under their sugar coating.
- Remove them from the baking paper right after removing them from the oven.
- After cooling, store in a tin for up to a week. If you plan to use these biscuits for a charlotte, keep them in the tin for a few days. They hold together better when soaked in liqueurs that way.

121 French Market Menu Ideas for your Apples

Apples from our tree at the house in the country and my current favorite apple pie, recipe below.

In addition to the yield from our apple tree this year, neighbors came bearing baskets full of apples. Time to take out my country notes and get the creative juices flowing. Forthwith one hundred and twenty one ideas from French market menus, followed by my current favorite apple pie recipe. We've got guests coming this weekend. Lets roll up our sleeves and get to peeling apples!

Field rabbit sausage served with apples
Shortbread in the style of Brittany with sautéed apples and caramel cream
Poultry liver and apple terrine
An apple pastilla seasoned with Armagnac
Duck foie gras with tart cider vinegar apple chutney
A ginger-seasoned apple turnover served with shaved manzana verde ice and honey jelly
Pont-l’évêque cheese presented with yellow apples and pepper seasoned cider caramel
The apple croustillant with Calvados
Apple tart served with pain d’épice (a spice bread specialty from the north) flavored ice cream
Deep dish apple tourte served warm
Apple bettelman (a traditional Alsacian bread pudding)
French grandmother-style apple caramel cake
Pan seared foie gras with an apple and sweet potato chutney
The apple croustade, a Gascon tart made with many layers of thin pastry
Honey roasted duckling with apples in the style of Brittany
A scallop salad seasoned with apples and Guillevic cider
Flat oysters and roasted green apples served in a fish broth
A composed dessert of frozen green apple parfait, lemon jelly, Manzana apple liqueur over shaved ice, featuring a slice of caramelized apple
Apple pastis (see croustade above!)
Caramelized apples paired with creamed chestnuts and served in a chocolate shell
A simple thin caramelized apple tart
The caramelized apple douillon (a specialty of the Normandy region- stuffed fruit enveloped in pastry), served with a Calvados sauce
A vanilla seasoned apple mille-feuille
The duck foie gras terrine with a spoon of lightly spiced apple chutney
Tatin style roasted apples (or a crustless tarte Tatin, if you will)
A deep dish apple, prune, and Armagnac pie
Thin apple tart with cinnamon ice cream and caramel sauce
Duck breast served with roasted apples
Pigeon in a dried porchini crust with garlic and green apple seasoned pan drippings
The hazelnut and caramelized apple financier with green apple sorbet
A hot apple and ginger tart
An apple prune crumble with Armagnac and pain d'épice ice cream
Caramelized apple charlotte
Foie gras in puff pastry with apples
A flambéed apple tart
An apple and pear tarte Tatin
Shortbread cookies in the style of Brittany presented with a layer of butter simmered apples
An apple and pear crisp
Blood sausage with apples
A roasted slice of avocado served with green apple & whisper of wasabi ice cream
Apple marguerite (pudding baked in a decorative mould) topped with cinnamon seasoned puff pastry
Baked apples presented in a pyramid with calvados sauce
Apple nougat glacé
Pain d’épice tartined with a foie gras and green apple chutney topping
Apple fondant with Cavados caramel sauce
Apple and berry crumble
Lobster seasoned with sherry and cocoa, served with an apple raisin "afterthought"
Simple warm brioche with caramelized apples
Rice pudding with an apple and pear marmalade
A apple cake served flambéed
A salad garnished with slices of warm veal sausage, golden apples and a Gascony mustard sauce
A foie gras terrine with apples and cinnamon
Scallops with celery juice and green apples
Almond croquant with Tatin-style baked apples
Slow cooked apple with pralines and farm milk ice cream
The thin hot apple tart with caramel curd
Pommeau seasoned foie gras, served with an apple compote
Blood sausage and apple Tatin, served with crique, an Ardeche style grated potato cake
Pan seared foie gras, seasoned with Granny Smith apples and hibiscus
Apple stuffed brioche perdu with maple syrup
The apple and blood sausage in puff pastry with a chive speckled beurre blanc sauce
Gâteau lyonnais with apples and pralines
Calvados flambeed apple chaud-froid
The green apple spring rolls
Apple meringue pie
An apple verrine presented with berries
An apple strudel served with cinnamon ice cream
Duck breast with apples and pine honey
A sweet tarte flambée (Alsacian specialty) with thick cream, apples, and Calvados
Apple and pear mille-feuille with salted butter caramel
An apricot and caramelized apple tart with light almond cream
Thin bacon wrapped langoustines on a bed of grated green apples
An apple duo served with with honeyed drizzled foie gras
Buckwheat blinis served with warm apples
Tarte fine aux pommes
Apple and Mascarpone kouign-amann bathed in Calvados
Thick wedges of toasted pain d’épice served with pots of apple and orange marmalade
Foie gras in puff pastry with Granny Smith apples
Golden apple tart topped with caramel cream, sprinkled with fleur de sel de Guerlande
A mille-feuille layered with pan tossed apples, drizzled with salted butter caramel sauce
A carpaccio of fresh chevre sprinkled with walnuts and grated apples
Cider simmered pollock presented with pan softened apples
Roasted apple rum-raisin brioche
Apple streussel
Warm apple and raisin spring rolls served with caramel ice cream
Wild sea bass fricasee with cider and acidulated apples
Apple tiramisu with Calvados and pain d’épice
Kouign-amann wedge on a bed of caramelized apples
Coconut and apple mille-feuille with saffronned sauce
An apple and orange tarte
Apple caramel mousse
Duck breast with apples and honey
Foie gras terrine with apple jelly
Millassou, a cake specialty of the Landes region cooked old style with rum and roasted apples
A pear and apple clafoutis
Reinette apple shortbread
Lambic caramelized apples served with a cider sabayon
Crispy duck breast served with thyme seasoned caramelized apples
Haddock pastilla with apples, figs, and saffron jus
Warm oysters with lettuce sauce, and foie gras in apple jelly and peppered oil
Hot apple soufflé with Calvados
Calvados flambeed apple crepes
An apple and Camembert charlotte topped with a glaze of glistening cider jelly
John Dory with thin sliced chorizo, swiss chard, and apple jus
Strips of duck breast drizzled with reduced sour apple sauce and served with puréed sweet potatoes
Apple marinated salmon
Seared duck foie gras "exalted" by saffron seasoned sautéed apples
Sweet take on a baeckeoffe (alsacian specialty) using apples, pears, and raisins
Suckling pig with adiculated apple compote
Pan simmered quince and apples with salted butter caramel
Sesame and coriander seasoned caramelized apple served with a mini crème brûlée
Catfish fillet cooked in cider
Baked apples with raisins
A tarte Tatin served with coriander seasoned caramel sauce
An apple and almond tart
Caramelized waffles dressed with a ladle of slow cooked apples then topped with a Mascarpone ice cream
Apple pastilla with crème pâtissière
Saint-Romain blood sausage presented with its butter rich apple compote

Now. Did that give you some ideas?

Lucy's Favorite Apple Pie (pictured above)

About a pound of fresh tart cooking apples
1/4 cup (50 grams) granulated sugar
1/4 cup (50 grams) brown sugar
1 level teaspoon ground cinnamon

For the crust:
8 tablespoons (100 g) butter
1 3/4 cup (200 g)organic whole wheat flour
1/2 cup (100 g) granulated sugar
1/4 cup (50 g) brown sugar
1/2 - 1 teaspoon fleur de sel or sea salt (to your taste)
1 petit suisse or 2 tablespoons cream cheese
2 tablespoons virgin walnut oil

-Peel, core and cut your tart cooking apples into chunks.
-Take a generous handful of the chunks of apple and toss them in a saucepan with about a 1/4 cup of water.  Set them over medium heat to soften.
-Combine the rest of the apple chunks with 50 grams white, 50 grams brown sugar and the cinnamon in a bowl and set aside.
-Once the apples cooking in water have softened (about 5 minutes), give them a blitz with a blender to turn them into a puree.
- In a separate mixing bowl, Combine the butter and flour with your fingers in a large bowl until it resembles breadcrumbs.
-Add the sugars, and work them in.
-Finally work in the cheese and the walnut oil and press it together into a dough.
-Remove approximately 1/4 of the dough, form it into a ball, flatten it, and place it in the refrigerator.
-Press the rest of the dough with your fingers rather thickly in an even layer into the bottom of an ungreased pie tin.  Don't press it too high along the sides, just a flat layer at the bottom,a little thicker around the edges.  Pre-bake the shell at 400F/200C for 10-15 minutes, or until the dough begins to turn a golden brown. 
-Slather the bottom of the pre-baked shell with the apple puree.
-Top with the apple sugar cinnamon mix, mounding it up in a nice thick layer.
-Remove the chilling dough from the refrigerator, and roll out a circle shape about 2 inches smaller than the pie shell.  No need to get too fastidious about the shape.  Turn the thin layer of raw dough onto the center of the mound of apples.  When you bake it, it will kind of melt into the apples before hardening into a cookie crust on top.
- Cover the pie with foil, and bake in the hot oven for about 40 minutes, until the apples get nice and soft.
- Remove the foil and return it to the oven to brown and crispen on top.

The Hunt

It has gotten to be somewhat of a passion. Creeping slowly through the forest, calling softly to one another, "Look!"   "That one!"  Then I rush up and take a picture.  Some people like bird watching, some identify wild herbs, species of ferns, animal tracks and trailings, rock formations, moss species, fishes in the streams or flowers. While it all fascinates me, we've both been curiously drawn to the wild mushrooms of Autumn.

In our way and at our pace, we've been learning about them little by little. I think the best part of hunting for mushrooms is tuning your vision to find them. It takes a lot of concentration. Look right under your feet and at the same time, learn to get a feel for the conditions that different mushrooms thrive in.  You might walk along saying to yourself, "oh how pretty, the first fallen oak leaves of autumn" but when you're out looking for mushrooms, you'll see those leaves on the ground and look up to locate the tree, then go find what might be growing in fairy rings at the bottom.



Water rushes around moss covered rocks.  Birds and chattering little creatures make up a kind of murmuring melody against the water sounds. But this is still punctuated by the pop and sharp echo of rifles firing in the distance, it being hunting season.  The sound pulls us back, pushes back the temptation to believe that we are in a wonderland all to ourselves. We stick to the loggers trails and don't venture too far into communal forests, especially if we haven't checked at the Mairie to see if a group has registered to hunt that day. It is not a free for all, you know. Hunting is highly regulated here. All the same, this is the time of year when early in the morning groups of men with serious looks on their faces can be seen along the roads near the small villages holding rifles, their silhouettes stirring up images from long past, echoes of another time. I expect game hunting must be great fun. But I've never seen a smiling hunter along the road. Perhaps this comes from what they've learned about handling rifles.



We could not help ourselves and we picked a bunch of mushrooms based on a hunch that they might be good to eat.  Alas, the guide book we have warns of one mortally poisonous mushroom that mimics another perfectly delectable one that's good to eat, so what's regular amateur to do?  In the end we didn't eat them.  There were plenty of other foraged things to eat, like the chestnuts and walnuts that right now are falling from the sky. Who knows, maybe the mushrooms were edible, but you know, since we now have certain responsibilities, we don't dare. I would not say that is a complete change from the past, just an extra little nod, of thanks even, a chance to expand our souls for an instant and remind ourselves just how lucky we are.

Recipe:  Chanterelles on Toast

1 handful of Chanterelles
2 tsp to 2 tablespoons butter, depending on the size of your handful
3 sprigs of flat leafed Parsley
1 small shallot
fleur de sel or salt to taste

Chanterelles, a wild mushroom that is found in October, are plentiful in some forests. If you can't find any, definitely do not pass these up at the market when they are fresh and clean.  Inspect them carefully. Pass over any with dark patches indicating they are saturated with water, mushrooms that are smeared with mud, or have excessive dirt and grime. Seek out the mushrooms that are in tact over fragments and pieces, which are more difficult to clean.

They are best cleaned with a paring knife and a brush, (a stiff watercolor brush works well for me) carefully removing stray dirt from the gills along the bottom with the brush and paring off the base and any hopelessly muddy spots at the top. You can dampen a paper towel and wipe the tops as well if needed. Soaking or rinsing these mushrooms in water is not a good idea since the chanterelle is spongy, unlike the black trumpet, which can be cleaned by a series of rinses.  Trying to clean chanterelles with water furthermore turns whatever soil might be on them to mud that gets trapped in the gills.  Try your best to avoid using water when washing your chanterelles.

Once your mushrooms are clean, pull them apart into uniform sized strips, and sautee them until golden in hot butter that has been graced with a sprinkling of fresh minced shallots. Add the parsley during the last few seconds in the pan, and transfer them directly to toast. Enjoy while hot! You might try these with a little glass of muscatel, good music, and some friends to get your evening started.

The Quiet Man on Saint Antoine

 

When you stroll the market in the city, look for bunches of crisp tender greens attached to the Autumn roots for sale.  They are the mark of the freshest produce.  There's one man along the riverside who places things thoughtfully down on his table, as if he wants to stay in harmony with that which nature has given him. Amongst the burgeoning splendor of crops on the move at this market, this zen kind of presentation can hit you quite squarely. He does not impose strict order on his table, nor does he make his activity seem like a daily grind of repetitive stacking and selling. He does not shout, pile things up or line up splendorous rows of the same thing over and over. He does not shine his goods with colored lights or erect red umbrellas to cast a rosy glow on everything. He lets the natural beauty of what comes from his garden speak like quiet poetry on an Autumn morning. A bunch of this, a group of that, a flourish, a swirl. Some wild things, some which he's planted in rows. Fifty-fifty him and nature. No matter what the pace we choose to profit from this labor, or how we present the fruit, it will continue to grow. I find that heartening.

It's Home Cooking, Baby!

Ian got so lucky to be born in the winter, because Autumn is just the best season ever for a person to taste food for the first time. People ask me when the perfect time of the year is to come to Lyon to visit, and hands down I always say Autumn. The vegetables we get at the end of summer are still out in their glory and even better, then come the big pumpkin-like squash varieties sold in thick wedges. Wild and cultivated herbs are burgeoning from the stands in huge bouquets, the onions are still fresh and green, there are leeks of every shape and size, peas, beans of all kinds, shell beans, green beans, butter beans and fresh little green peas that are such a pleasure to break out of their little shells. Fruits of all hues are laid out in their pretty little flats - Mirabelle, apricot, reine claude, quetsch, along with all manner of berries. The stone fruits are great for compote, and of course apples of every variety sold straight from the orchard along with their juice in bottles. We see things gearing up in the spirit of the season's game at the poultry vendor. An expanded variety of fowl becomes available to mimic the hunting season even if a great deal of what we get here in the city is raised on nearby farms. Yes, it is the perfect time for introducing Baby Ian to the concept of flavor. There's only one first time, and the stars aligned and shined down upon us just so to make this first eating season the best it can be.

I admit that although a baby-led schedule is the thing these days, I must have my daily rituals. The faster I've been able to guide his schedule into something predictable and regular, the better. What we've gotten in the habit of doing is getting up bright and early, heading to the market together. When we arrive home, he's had a ton of new experiences. Every week brings something new to look at, feel the texture of, listen to, or smell. Every day his depth of vision changes, one day he's staring at the jagged symmetrical patchwork of pastel coated cityscape shapes and forms, the next he's fixed on a stack of fruit or trying to make eye contact with the people talking along the rows of the market stands. In any case, He's always ready to happily snuggle into his little sleep sack and go straight to bed to dream of what he's just seen once we've climbed the marble stairs with our market pickings, and it's then that I get a little work done.

Ian eats something different for lunch every day. At first I was flopping back and forth about going ahead and just buying the little jars. It really wasn't what was in them, but what they were empty. I could hoard them and clean them and paint the caps, stack them and use them for everything from stray buttons to paprika, nail their tops onto boards and keep tacks and buttons and little pebbles from the sea organized neatly in rows that hang suspended this way and that. I could use them for my own house compote, jellies and jams. Make dollhouse guppy aquariums. I stacked these little jars up in beautiful symmetrical pyramids in my mind, built a little castle of sparkling glass baby food jars.

I finally made it to the store and began to investigate the pots of baby food, thinking that here in France, where so much attention is paid to fresh and unadulterated in what we eat, picking out baby food would be easy. I went down the aisle, trying to imagine the home-style French recipes touted on the labeling, "ideas from mothers" and the likes. Oh how lovely. Pot au Feu, Couscous, Simmered Rabbit, Blanquette de Veau, Classic Auvergnat Potato and Leek Puree, etc. I picked up the lovely little glass jars and turned them around, to read these ancestral recipes.

Slap, slap! Whoa! Jar after jar of delectably named pastel colored purees in their cute little glass pots down the aisle kept jabbing me with lists of cheap fillers, and the mysterious E# additives. Why have 7 ingredients when the label says "Haricots Verts"? Oh I know, logistics, distribution, storage, shelf time and whatnot. The need for a jar of baby food to sit unrefrigerated in a crate under varying environmental conditions for 2 or 3 years at a time.

Conversation with self:

"Lucy, for goodness' sake, people are raising perfectly healthy babies on these pots of baby food. You have work to do. Trust these reputable companies, they have done extensive research, they are the ultimate authority on what is truly good for your baby. And you get to collect the cute glass jars with lids."

"Yea, like I trusted Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines as the ultimate authorities on cake baking until the day I discovered butter sugar eggs and flour?"

I was failing to make the leap of faith with these foods despite the promise of baby food jars, and even the organic ones that tout no additives, no freaky ultra-refined starches and sugars, nothing - but a whole lot of money. Blame it on my knowing just how hard it is to steam a green bean.

The decision was made to just go ahead and instill some habits - I mean that's really all it takes, to cook for him like any other normal human being. A little research was all it took. At the beginning I felt a little beaten down by the sensational stories of danger. The risk of acute allergies, intolerances and hazards of all kinds lurked in the shadows. Feeling a bit overwhelmed I let myself feel a resistance to what I thought might turn into a dreaded chore. It's one thing to cook for the love of it, but another to be slave to a baby who believe me, will scream bloody murder if lunch is five minutes late. To have to cook things a certain way, in certain quantities, with certain ingredients, ho hum. My last bit of resistance was kind of a devil sitting on my shoulder giving his last ditch effort, coming out of that knee jerk "if the government hasn't banned it then it can't be that bad". But every time I went back to the grocery store aisle, I found myself reading one label after another and firmly putting them back on the shelf with a bad gut feeling. How can I feed this to my baby when we have such great fresh food available to us, especially at this time of year? It basically would be the equivalent of me subsisting on canned food throughout the harvest. Sure, I should probably carefully pick a few of those expensive pots of prepared food and tuck them in the car, in the cupboard, and in the pantry at the country house to use in case of a snafu. For example not being able to get Bernadette going (our wood stove in the country house) or a traffic jam, or some otherwise unplanned event that prevents me from cooking lunch in advance. But for the most part, it's home cooking, baby!

It was a big relief when Ian's doctor, obviously having been bombarded with questions from mothers like me, handed me a full style sort-of-personalized home cooking regime for him -- instructions on how to get him started. While the detailed rundown did not contain recipes, it did list the doctor's knowledgeable guidelines. He is an advocate of home cooked purees (whew), adding various fats, meats in age specific quantities, and sometimes fresh potato as a neutral textural liaison. He included a list of fruits and meats to avoid in his first 6 months of eating, and a nice little section on oils, the ones I should be adding for my baby's brain growth, some raw, some able to be cooked. It was a great help for me, a metaphorical springboard from which I could feel confident as I began to create.

Don't get me wrong. Baby food is as simple as simple can get. The formulas and ratios are all straightforward and pretty much common sense. It isn't salted or seasoned because baby can't metabolize salt and spices are for later. Keeping things simple, controlling texture and temperature, and easing new flavors in is the key. My doctor stressed variety and respect for the baby's taste and appetite to launch him into good French habits. Instead of the old adage that any new food should be fed to baby for 5 days straight, the doctor simply said no more than one new vegetable or meat a day. Ian has never had the same combination twice, except for a few things that he simply adores and it would be cruel to deprive him of, for example turkey and butter beans.

I have taken a great interest in the printed literature on offer here in France on the topic. That, with our having been on the grand tour to meet the whole family both in the States and in France has taken up all of my time these past few weeks, I hope my regular readers will forgive me. Things promise to settle down and get more productive promptly.  Now that we're back into the rhythm of the rentree,  I am finding nooks and crannies of time to concentrate.

Ian contemplates the merits of maman sticking a camera in his face when he's busy eating.

Plaice et ses petits pois (one serving, multiply as desired)

My fishmonger says that plaice is a great first fish for baby, along with sole and halibut, because the fillet doesn't have any bones. One small fillet of plaice (125 grams) will make 5-6 meals for your baby. Once you've got it home, cut it into 20-25 gram portions, wrap each piece in parchment, and store it in the freezer. That way, whenever you want to serve fish, you have it available.

Sunflower or Colza oil (trace amount)

20 grams plaice, halibut or sole fillet

40 grams ratte, fingerling, or new potatoes

120 grams fresh peas, shelled (about 300 grams shell on)

1/3 cup or 60ml of low mineral spring water or filtered water
1 level teaspoon fresh fruity olive oil

*  About oils in baby's food:  Young babies need them for brain growth, and choosing a variety of oils is a good thing.  My doctor recommends incorporating oils one at a time, but alternating them constantly:  butter, duck fat, olive oil, sunflower, colza, walnut, sesame.  He says to avoid peanut, palm and coconut oils.  Olive, Walnut, and Sesame oils should be added after cooking because of their low smoke point.

* About potatoes:  Reccomended by the doctor as a liaison for consistency, I arrived at my measurements for potatoes in accordance with my baby's body and tastes. I try to use only just enough to give my puree a satisfying mouth feel, and barely ever exceed 40 grams in a recipe. I have tried the various varieties and find that a waxy more flavorful potato appeals to my baby more than the powdery varieties. Your baby might have a different idea, however! Follow his tastes and watch his diaper for signs that your baby could cut down on potato, you'll know it right away.

* About cooking water for baby: We had our tap water tested before Ian came home, and found that since we live in a building built in the 1800s, indeed the water is not safe for baby to drink (trace amounts of lead from water that's been sitting in the pipes, we didn't want to take any chances!) Ian's pediatrician recommends spring water that has low mineral content for the baby's bottles since young babies don't metabolize minerals well, so we cook with it too.  From what I understand, filtering the water is just fine too.

Shell your peas and weigh them. You will be surprised at how many peas you'll shell to get 120 grams. Peel the potato and cut off as much as you'll need, using the scale to measure. Bring out your little portioned fish fillet. Heat saucepan over medium heat, and spread a thin layer of colza or sunflower oil over the bottom of the pan (you may choose cooking spray for this).  Sprinkle the potatoes around it. Keeping the heat at medium, let the meat and potatoes sizzle until just browned on the bottom, then add the water. Stir the liquid around, scraping up any bits along the way. Add the freshly shelled peas, add the cooking liquid, toss to coat, and turn up the heat until the water at the bottom boils fast. Immediately reduce the heat to low, tightly cover, and let the peas smother in the steaming cooking juices until both peas and potato are good and soft, about 12 minutes. Make sure the vegetables are fully cooked to soft, because this makes a better mouth feel and easier digestibility for baby. Put the mixture in your blender or grinder, add the olive oil, and puree to smooth. Let cool to warm, attach the bib around your baby's neck, and serve it up!

Ian's Favorite Etouffe of Turkey and Haricots Beurre

1 teaspoon duck fat

20 grams raw turkey breast

30 grams ratte, fingerling or new potatoes

120 grams fresh haricots beurre or wax beans

1/3 cup or 60ml of low mineral spring water or filtered water

Wash, peel and dice the potatoes, and dice the turkey. Wash and remove the rough ends from the haricots beurre, and then slice them into 1/2" lengths. Melt the duck fat over medium heat in a 1 quart sauce pan with lid, and spread the turkey and potatoes over the bottom. Keeping the heat at medium, let the meat and potatoes sizzle until just browned, then add the water. Stir the liquid around, scraping up any bits along the way. Add the beans, toss to coat with the cooking liquid, and turn up the heat until the water at the bottom boils fast. Immediately reduce the heat to low, tightly cover, and let the beans smother in the steaming cooking juices until both beans and potato are soft, about 12 minutes. Make sure the vegetables are fully cooked to soft, because this makes a better mouth feel and easier digestibility for baby. Puree to smooth in your blender or grinder, let cool to warm, and serve!

The Little Blue Bag and Salt Potatoes

It has been two summers since my last trip to Chaumont. Pending a passport for baby Ian, it was all up in the air until the last minute, but we did end up boarding a plane at the beginning of July to cross the Atlantic. I spent my childhood summers in that little town, and when my father built the house there, it graduated from the place where my heart remained over icy winters to the place I now call home.

My mother embroidered each of our names on individual blue drawstring bags when I was a kid, to keep 5 children somewhat organized when we traveled. These bags, packed full, with their drawstrings pulled tight, were piled into the back of the car when we went to Nashville, and also when it was time to go up to the lake. Every summer, soon after school let out in June, we used to pack whatever personal belongings we thought we might need for a summer and head to Chaumont. It was a simple time, and looking back I realize we didn't need much. A little blue bag was really enough.

Our time was organized for the most part around work on the boat my father built. It always began with the children being charged with the big job of scrubbing the teak decks of Cambyration from stern to bowsprit with wire brushes before my father would oil them. Nearly every surface in and on the boat was oiled teak, so there was a lot of scrubbing to do. After that, my mother would do her work cleaning and organizing summer provisions down below, and we would carve out our territory for the summer. We each had our bunk which would change from year to year, depending on which straws were drawn and the varying negotiations that took place. The best spot to have was the v-berth. It was most like a regular cabin. It had a door that could close, and I could open the forward hatch and listen to the water lap against the hull while I watched the stars.

At the beginning of the summer when we were on deck scrubbing away, there was special kind of joy that came with that initial hard work. It was all in the idea that the whole summer was ahead of us. Sailing camp, always some time spent cruising lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence, and time spent with our summer friends. Every nook and cranny of the small town of Chaumont, New York was there to amble over and through, from the graveyard where I used to ponder the pretty old bottles left on the graves despite the sign forbidding them, to the quiet side roads off main street, where we learned the shortcuts and paths cut by generations of children before us.

Arrival in Chaumont meant getting used to the feel of the smooth quarried limestone at lake's edge on my bare feet. We relearned all the best paths during those first few weeks while our feet were still tender. Although the boat house and ship yards were full of sharp stones and surfaces, we still spent a significant amount of our time in bare feet. It was a matter of pride, after all. There were always smooth and rough places, as well as a perpetual puddle that was home to a gang of wasps that used to hang out in the same corner by the club, year after year. We stubbed our toes, stepped on bees and sometimes walked through places we shouldn't have, but that never stopped us going barefooted.

The limestone cliffs and stones had a way of retaining the sun's warmth in the evenings. Sometimes I think I can still feel their heat in my bones. Up through my teen years, nights meant stretching out on certain stones to stare at the night sky. There was one behind the pavilion, tilted just so at the water's edge that always was a favorite of mine. I will never forget the complex geography of the cliffs in the quarry. I had every single one memorized, and the first weeks at the lake, I would retrace my favorite paths, taking note in what the elements might have changed over that year's icy winter. The texture, the places where a child could climb, the footholds, the caves, the marshland, the fields and woods beyond down Independence Point, all like a map with endless detail. I had my favorite ledges to sit and survey the landscape once I got tired of climbing. My heart was full and soul replete revisiting these points one by one every summer.

A close friend of mine and I were corresponding recently, and she brought up the importance of having a place called home to return to, you know, after the childhood home is gone. A place apart from where our adult lives unfold. Her place is in Michigan, where she spent her childhood summers. She and her family drive out there from the East coast every summer now. They spend a couple of weeks in the log cabin that her great grandfather built, just as her mother, and her mother before her did.

This year, although I was thinking of summers past in Chaumont, I also found myself placing the details of these memories at a safe distance. It is hard to say why. In my mind's eye, it was like my childhood's delectable memories were like my little blue bag packed full, with the white string pulled tight. I was afraid to open it. It's almost as if I was saving myself a certain remorse. Now that I'm back home at my desk in France, I realize that going home with baby Ian brought out that blue bag, and it hovered there like an elephant in the room the whole trip. Opening up and delving into all those memories would remind me how far away France really is, I realize. I know that the little house we now go to in the Alps is most likely going to become the place my son Ian knows by heart. I experienced a vicarious joy watching my brother's children in Chaumont this year. Their relationship to the place is so similar to my own when I was their age. I hope their children will also know the beauty of the home my father built.

With that, I leave you with a simple recipe for Salt Potatoes, something I always fix right away when I get to Chaumont these days. I buy the bag with the salt even though I know it's not really necessary, mainly because there's a certain nostalgia in it. Salt potatoes originate in Syracuse, New York, the place I grew up. Syracuse was called the Salt City, because of the trade from the salt marshes there that was done on the Erie Canal. Laborers boiled potatoes in the salty brine from the marsh, creating what we now know as Salt Potatoes. I suppose the contemporary version is a bit sterile in comparison to what they enjoyed, but we love it nonetheless.

Salt Potatoes

5 pounds of new potatoes
1 cup salt
butter for dipping

Scrub the potatoes with a brush, but don't remove the skin. Dissolve the salt in a large pot of water, and add the potatoes. Bring this to a rolling boil, and continue to boil them in the brine until cooked through, 15 to 20 minutes. Check to see if they are done by pricking with a fork. Melt the butter and serve it in a little bowl alongside the potatoes. Salt Potatoes are served plain, part of simple family summer meals. Dressing them up in any way would spoil them.

(Photo from a previous trip to Chaumont)

Postcard: Le Temps des Cerises

The cherries were unexpectedly sweet. One of the neighbors in the village said that the tree produced sour cherries, and there I was plotting out all the great things to do with them. Sour cherries are a treat indeed. I think he was imagining things, raided his neighbor's tree before they were ready, or in the end was just just trying to come across like he knew everything about everyone's gardens. These cherries are juicy and sweet. The skin is red, but inside the fruit pulp is clear, like a plum. I don't know what kind they are. The best way to find out is to take some to the market and ask the cherry vendors. Loic spent some time on a ladder over the weekend and could only pick from the lowest branches, this tree towers up about 50 feet high. It is an old tree and that's probably why it produced so much fruit. No wonder the birds aren't much interested in what I have been putting in the feeder lately! Nothing better to do with these cherries but to eat them straight up. Next year we will be better equipped for the harvest and I will cook and put them up.

Postcard: Our Field of Flowers

We planted this packet of seeds and this is the first wave of blossoms. It took awhile, I'd say between spreading the seeds and the first blooming, 2 months. They should really get colorful at the end of July, early August. I also put a bunch of bulbs out but not sure which plants they are, everything is growing in one big tangle. I have completely forgotten even what the bulb flowers are supposed to look like. I do remember I thought they were pretty, and that they grow tall. During the planting, I had this packet of seeds for edible sprouts from the health food store, which contained all kinds of funky grasses, and sunflower seeds, removed from their hard shells. We have a few sunflowers towering up thanks to that mix. They say on the website for the field of flowers that you should cut as many as you can if you want to see them bloom longer. I dutifully took to the garden with my basket and a pair of scissors. It was the first time I have ever done something like that, although for some reason I felt like I'd done it forever. There's nothing like it, clipping the flowers you've grown from seeds yourself. I can tell you that the hardest part was pulling out all those nettles before planting the seeds. I am happy with the result so far.

Super Mini Best of: Fraises des Bois

Walking up a forest path that wound its way up from a gorge and quickly enough arriving at some sunny open pasture land got me to thinking, during that week alone. Something about the way the land opens up above the tree line just sucks out the trivial thoughts and allows my mind to breathe. The incline, the one you work on before you arrive at the top is actually quite steep, but the path has been beaten in such a way that any reasonable person can handle it if they aren't in a hurry. One side of the path (the sunny side in the morning) runs along on your right side, sort of like one of those walls full of plants we see designed by artists in the city. The downhill side gives you the feeling you're surveying a kingdom of sorts. A dark deep world that plunges into the gorge to the river below, a chance to see the straight uprightness of the trees and contemplate their numbers. I have always been the sort to zoom in and find little microcosms along my way, when drawing, when writing, when observing. I think it comes from my love of miniatures. I love to study the varying flora, bathed in sun early in the morning.

The first time I climbed this hill, it was when we had some interesting early spring flowers. The fiddleheads were still tight little fists ready to either pinch off and pop into that day's salad or be left to unfurl like green versions of the lace panels you find dangling like icicles in the windows of Alpine chalets. There was a glorious mess of vines, pretty exotic looking yellow and blue spritzes of mountain blossoms of many kinds, lizards, and freshly melted source water babbling down the layers of folded crushed slate deposits. One pretty little flower that was easy to identify and seemed prolific was the wild strawberry, the fraise des bois.

I took out Loic's trusty Opinel and a little plastic sack that I had so level-headedly prepared in my pre-parental clarity for occasions such as these, and dug out two fraise des bois plants, which I transplanted directly into the crook underneath the cherry tree in the garden when I got back to the house. Over the weeks, I checked and weeded around them, hoping they would get enough sun. Lo and behold, last weekend, there were several ripe berries ready to be eaten.

I was terrible about it. It was late afternoon. I had been busy and unable to take a moment to myself for many days. Loic had brought some work home and wasn't able to help, and I was juggling the brave task of keeping the stove going and also working out the logistics of getting the baby's system perfected at the country house. I hadn't even had a moment to bathe. He decided to take a break to play with the baby - my chance to get some air! I headed straight out to the far end of the garden before either of them could call my name.

I looked, quickly gathered that these juicy buttons were prime for a harvest, and plucked off the ripe berries. I popped them down like they were magic pills and crushed them with my tongue. In that instant I finally was transported back to that frumpy bed in St. Petersburg, hit with a wave of exquisite memory from the exact beautiful flavor. Hey Loic! No on second thought, I better not say anything, because I didn't save any. Any at all.

Jump to this weekend when finally he was freed from the clutches of the national concours and we were able to go out walking as a family. We chose that particular forest walk because it is easy, and I also was pushing for it because of that lingering burst of flavor that kept springing up in my mind. I remembered thousands, but memories can be deceiving. At the bridge over the place where two streams meet, he first pointed to a bunch of ripe fraises des bois, and I brought out the sack. We worked our way up the hill. I am not exaggerating when I say we were both completely astounded at the harvest before us, it was like a wall of wild strawberries. We gathered and gathered, and with every few steps up, it was like we'd not even seen that the best was yet to come. By the time we got to the top of the hill, the sack was full.

Loic told me I was being unreasonable when I dug my hand in, slightly crushing some of the berries, to bring out a handful for each of the two horses that had been set in their pasture there at the top. I don't know. I think they enjoyed them, although now that I have tried to tame a baby, and thinking of their relative minds in my imagination, I cannot imagine that these horses will ever tell family stories about the silly lady with hair like straw who came and opened her palm full of fraise des bois that day. I think they forgot me about 5 minutes after we were gone.

We did two things with them. We put them in yogurt, and we made a coulis.

Collector and Caviste

George dos Santos of Antic Wine, in Vieux Lyon

A set of skeleton keys on a ring hangs by the door, and we take them to go downstairs. A series of doors are unlocked. Footsteps sound gently down a steep stairwell made of old chiseled stone. It is time to get a bottle. Loic keeps a list with details on when any bottle might be best to open. Our cave is rather rudimentary. We have to bring out an extension chord and plug it in outside in the pathway (I hesitate to call it a hallway), just to get light in there. We can't store anything but wine either, since the humidity level is too high. Cardboard boxes disintegrate in that kind of environment, furniture would be ruined. Ikea shelves line with bottle racks and crates that age rather quickly, along with some styrofoam bottle nooks line the walls. We keep other things, like that big ladder we use a couple of times a year, and some other junk. The wine in our cave is really nothing special when you think about what a wine can promise, however. For about 9 years we've been building up our little collection of wines we taste at the vineyards and buy by the case, but we have never really had the means to build a real discriminating collection.

For all of the wonderful ways to get good wine in this country, sometimes going to a caviste is the best way to go. For one thing, visiting the vineyards takes a lot of time. When we went to the Bordeaux region and only had 10 days, we had a hard time choosing what vineyards to visit, and scheduling took some finesse. When you take the time to visit a producer, you are pretty much locked into at least an hour of listening, learning, touring, tasting. You really have to budget your time, plan very carefully, and be very choosy about which doors to knock on. There's no way to fit your hopes and dreams into into one visit, or into the trunk of your car. You get tied up in the stories. It's very hard to cover a whole lot of ground in these circumstances. For this reason, when we go to specific regions, one thing we always do in addition to visiting the vineyards is to find a reputable caviste there, and see what he might have for tasting.

This is not my cave - it is the 16th century cellar at Antic Wine, Vieux Lyon

A caviste is a person with a passion for collecting wine that has translated into a life calling. Every caviste has his way of filling out his cave, and his way of relating to his clients. In St. Emilion, we visited one who specialized in wines local to the region. Each day he had a different set of a dozen bottles open to taste, compare, discuss and buy. He did very good business there. The main benefit of going to a caviste is that you are profiting from this person's expertise when you enter the shop. The price stays reasonable, on the whole, for the product. Being a caviste is an honest business. You're paying them for the research they have already done - their education, their experience, knowledge of their collection, and their ability to obtain certain vintages that the average vinyard tour customer on a road trip would never have. An independent caviste's collection can be truly exceptional, so keep your eye out for them, wherever you go in France.



One truly exceptional independent caviste I know in Lyon is George dos Santos, working out of Vieux Lyon, from his shop called Antic Wine. He is a collector. He has nurtured and grown, in his way, and on his terms, traveling the world, a simply amazing collection of those rare wines you might find at auction, in addition to just plain hard to find French and international bottles and vintages. At the same time, wine is in the end for drinking, n'est-ce pas? While collecting the wine is fine, we also like to taste and understand what makes these wines fun to seek out and such a thrill to share.

George regularly holds tastings at his wine bar two doors down, Le George Five. Featuring 2800 bottles on the menu and 120 bottles open for drinking by the glass per week, you've got a great opportunity to taste and learn. They serve small plates of the best kind of finger food - Buffalo Mozzarella, Sardines, truffles in Brie and Saint Felicien cheese, dried sausage from Ardeche, Corsican pâtés, Parma ham, Pata Negra cut from the bone from it's throne of honor on the bar. Le George Five has quickly become a wine bar of choice for enthusiasts and gourmandes alike.

George dos Santos' regular organized wine tasting soirees have proven so popular that they now have to turn a lot of people away. They are always booked well in advance. He also holds private tastings of special bottles by invitation only. George regularly teams up with Lyon's top chefs to prepare accompanying dishes at these private soirées. If you are visiting Lyon it's through your concierge that you are most likely to get access to these types of events, although purchasing from his shop during the day might allow you to broach the subject with him or a member of his staff.

For a wine enthusiast, going into George dos Santos' shop is a cathartic experience. This year there has been quite a buzz about his imports in the international press. I was there a couple of weeks ago to take his portrait for a wine magazine recently. I got the sense that for George, there is a certain spirituality in his activity as collector and caviste that I feel privileged to be near. Perhaps it is the collector in me. He hits the right note. I certainly can trust him with my wine selections. When I have a very special bottle to buy, George dos Santos is the man.

Antic Wine
18 rue de Boeuf
69005 LYON
04.78.37.08.96

Le George Five
32 rue de Boeuf
69005 LYON
04.72.40.23.30

Walnut Oil Vinaigrette

You know those things people say. Like "nice weather we're having" when you see them on the street. Coming up on the adoption, people would rather offhandedly say "Your life is going to change completely!" This, I must say, was most disconcerting. What can you say except, "oh yes, change completely..." while wondering what is in store?

As the time got closer and closer, and the change completely banter reached a feverish pitch among our acquaintances and loved ones, I began to have doubts in myself. More than once, I had been in a situation where I had tried, really tried to completely change and it didn't work. Like that time I tried to get my house organized. Or even worse, maybe I would be forced to let go of some really important part of me, bid the old Lucy Vanel adieu, leaving her at the shore of a long lost deserted island, and usher in the changed completely Lucy Vanel, now a mother. Would the former me exist only as a kind of supernatural apparition? I feared the worst.

Baby Ian came home. I watched and waited anxiously for Mr Hyde to kick in. When would metamorphosis into a tired old bottle-washing diaper-scrubbing wench take place? Then I realized that we had made most of this famous life change over the course of years, long before I held Ian in my arms. I made a space inside, a very special space. Yes, falling in love with this baby has been exhilarating and a little scary (because you know, you worry about the little one), but nothing I can't handle. Yes, the bottles and the changings take place, but they're kind of nice. The schedule has been pretty easy to adjust to.

I think the biggest change so far has been - that which was empty is now full. I had carved it all out, you know. That empty space. A bulldozing machine came in years ago and dug out a nice deep hole (now that, my friends was life changing), and like other parts of me, I tended to it. At first it was gaping and empty. Then one day I took a good look around, dusted myself off, and we decided to decorate it like a nursery. On the practical side, we tended to the dossier over the years. We reserved this place for someone, and now he is here.

Maybe people come forth with these warnings just to get that one last chance to scare the bejeesums out of new parents. A kind of good natured hazing. Having a little chuckle, you know? It has been a relief to note that I am still the same old me, 100%. The house is a little fuller, the heart is pumping gladly with essence of maman caused by some enzyme created by contact with a baby's smile, MY baby's smile, my husband is proving to pull his weight, and here I am. I can count and see and look around at all the things that remain the same, and be thankful for all of that too.

Walnut Oil Vinaigrette

My walnut oil still comes from a charming old bee keeper on the quai who sells it in individual Perrier bottles, pressed from his own nut production. Walnut oil is one of my favorites of all to use in the kitchen. Nutty and delicate, fragrant and fragile, it has to be used quickly. Once I get mine, I use it up, lickety split. It took me a while to find this particular oil from this particular man, the kind that you taste and a little spot in your mind brightens and says - Oh THIS is walnut oil! In that way, it changes your life. I suggest you make a little place in your heart for walnut oil, then find just the right one where you live.

I use this precious oil fresh in pancakes, any and all kinds of baked breads, wherever you might use a nice green olive oil. In pizza dough, drizzled on pasta, on grated carrots, on a salad graced with blue cheese. It can be used in place of sesame oil in your favorite sauce for Beijing cold noodles, and on the season's very last sigh of endives chopped raw with cracked walnuts. Walnut oil is good even just for dipping fresh bread with some sea salt. A vinaigrette seasoned with virgin walnut oil is one of the very best ways to heighten the delicate flavors of spring and add a touch of something new.

- For one salad for two. Double or triple this recipe as necessary for larger salads.

1 tablespoon of fresh first pressed walnut oil.
2 tablespoons of neutral oil (whatever is your favorite, but make sure it is neutral so it won't compete with the fresh nutty taste of the walnut oil)
1/2 teaspoon strong prepared dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1 tablespoon Banyuls vinegar
1/2 teaspoon pepper or 6 salt-brined green peppercorns

Mix the oils together in a small bowl, and whisk in the salt and Dijon mustard. Add the vinegar, and then the pepper, whisking to make a salad dressing that slightly thickens. If you're using the green peppercorns, mince them small or put them whole in the dressing and then give it a quick pulse with the stick blender. You can also just add them whole if you like pepper. I enjoyed this sauce today on a spinach salad, sprinkled with a few toasted sesame seeds. If you only use a little, know that it keeps for a few days in a tighly fitted jar in the refrigerator.

Baby Ian is Home.

Many thanks for the kind messages of support and congratulations while we've been going through the final steps to adopt our son. We finally made it home with Ian. We are now a family of 3. Thanks for keeping us in your thoughts and we hope you don't mind us cocooning like this for a few more days. I won't get into Ian's adoption story here but if you have any questions, feel free to ask them in the comments section - It will be a pleasure to answer them in these next few days.

Baby...

The day has come, after years of waiting, to see our little baby boy. We have picked some names but won't announce anything until we have seen him. Kisses from Lyon, lots to do.

The Garden

Our neighbor up there was working in his garden a few weeks ago at the same time we were, and he came to the fence and handed me a sprinkling of seeds. They looked a bit like poppy seeds. I planted them in a circle. I don't know, it seemed like the thing to do at the time. A little wreath of goodwill sprouted up shortly thereafter.

They were radishes, and I was told that I would have to cull out some to make sure the best ones got big. I couldn't bear to thin them out, I guess because I liked looking at that perfect ring. So we got all sizes of radishes. I like them that way.

We planted a whole bunch of stuff, but not in rows, so now I don't know what anything is now. I figured at the time that if an animal saw nice neat rows of things growing, they might come on up and start munching. But if I kind of planted stuff all willy nilly, keeping some loose rules in mind about what likes to be next to what, we might be able to slip some by the deer and rabbits. I even went so far as to toss a whole sack of bulbs into the air and plant them where they landed. Our gardening technique is a source of great amusement to our neighbor. He is an encyclopedia of rules and parables about how a garden works. I gave him a handful of Soissons, big white beans I bought from a producer, at the market. They were dried eating beans, and I was hoping they would sprout. We both planted some, and my neighbor's are growing much more handsomely. I still have faith that one day this summer we'll shell some beans.

There are millions of wildflowers, everywhere. Looking out over the pasture that goes down into the valley from out the kitchen door, you can stop there for a minute and try and take it in. Keep still except maybe drying your hands in a dish towel, and watch for a bird at the feeder. Wait for every part of you to come outside into the sun. Start thinking about just what the field looks like. You'll see that the pasture is actually a palette of hundreds of colors, a sea of color, not just green. These colors are in so many gradations, and dabbed all about. The spots are literally thousands of wild blossoms splayed out in natural patches. That's when you'll take notice of the hum of the bees like they've just started, even though they've been out there all along. Stroll on out into it, go around plucking wild flowers, and have a pitcher full in a matter of 5 minutes. The reason why it will take so long is that nine times out of ten you have to wait for a bee to finish a particularly pretty flower you've chosen before you can pick it. Of course you want to be choosy, the pitcher is a small one.