Dark and Light : Turnips

Lyon gets a wave of mystery and crime writers every Spring. Lyon's international crime writers' conference is in full swing and I look around fantasizing about what might be going through the minds of all these clean cut men dressed in black, the ones carrying satchels and strolling through the alleys and stairwells about town. I always let my imagination run wild. Who knows who they really are? Have they always been here? Lyon takes on an altogether more mysterious sheen and I relish every moment. I met with a fascinating author, William Bayer, and we had lunch together. I am reading his work in French since the English version of his books are not readily available here. Apparently it always rains during the Quais du Polar in Lyon, and this year was no exception, but I think it was meant to be that way. We enjoyed an afternoon walk nonetheless.

The booksellers are doing brisk business, since it really is time to venture out and try harder to bask in the relative warmth mother nature is mustering up at the moment. Now is the time to celebrate a mystery on a café terrace. This weekend, on the quai St. Antoine, we see that the oyster mushrooms are flourishing, as well as the coldhouse radishes. These hearty reminders of the sweet tender beauty to come ring like church bells on a chilly morning.

In the kitchen, now seems a good a time as ever to focus one last time on the nice baby-smooth winter turnips that are looking good at the producer's stands. They're sweeter than ones that have been stored, and are good for eating on their own. A glance into uses of turnips on French restaurant menus shows either simmering with legumes or a tendency to capitalize on the sweet - to caramelize the root itself, or pick up on that theme by pairing them with a rich maillard effect - roast or seared meats. Some simple ideas to get you thinking in the right direction:

Turnip purée served alongside roasted duck.
A cocotte of langoustine simmered with radishes and turnips might be good right now, considering the radishes.
A sirloin steak served with glazed turnips.
Pepper seasoned steak (mignonette) with young turnips and anchovies.
A golden baked turnip cake to serve with meats.
Spit roasted pigeon served with turnip "saurkraut", its legs stuffed with dates and chorizo.
Pressed foie gras terrine served with caramelized turnips.
Charcuterie served over baked shredded turnips.
Beef sirloin served with tender slow cooked orange-seasoned turnips.
Pan seared foie gras with cabbage root and turnip caramel.

Why not keep your eye out for the late winter turnips? This time of year it's easy to ignore them, but the winter varieties are very good.

Tartiflette Tartelettes

Say Tartiflette Tartelette 10 times fast. Can't do it? Then make these bites for a party, go to said party, drink a glass of sparkling wine, pop a couple of these, and then say it 10 times fast. There there. We can't have it all. Console yourself with another Tartiflette Tartelette, my dear.

The crust: a simple brisee, really easy to remember and a breeze to put together.

100g. butter
200g. flour, type 55 or AP
1 teaspoon salt
one egg
2-3 Tablespoons ice cold water, just enough to make the dough hold together in a ball.

With cold hands (run them under cold water and dry them thoroughly), pinch the butter quickly into the flour and salt until it resembles rough breadcrumbs. A few pea like butter lumps are fine. Work the egg into the flour & butter with a fork. Sprinkle cold water in and work it in, form into a ball, put back into your bowl, and leave it alone in a cool place for at least 20 minutes.

While the dough rests, do the topping.

1 onion, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
3 Tablespoons or 30 grams butter
1/4 of a Reblochon cheese, cut into teaspoon sized cubes, each piece with a little crust
smoked bacon, slivered into thin matchticks

Let the onion, shallot, and garlic sizzle gently without browning over low heat for 15 minutes.

Roll out the dough, cut it into small shapes, I like diamonds (that would be a diagonal crisscross), place them on a greased or lined cookie sheet and top with a little spoon of the aromatic butter seasoned onion and shallot goodness, a sprinkle of the bacon matchsticks, and a cube of cheese, about a teaspoon max per tartelette. Top the sheet with a light sprinkling of salt just to be extra naughty. These are apero treats, so salty is fine.

Pop the sheet in a hot oven, 400F, 200C and bake until they begin to turn brown. The cheese will melt over some edges and make a kind of tuile on some of them, no worries. Remove the tartelette bites quickly from the hot pan.

These will be the first thing completely devoured at any gathering. I promise. Even Fran liked them.

Here's a more traditional recipe for the tartiflette that includes some information about how the cheese is made.

Love ya, Fran! She is at 36 weeks and waiting it out - head on over and leave a comment!

A Week Alone

It started with the nettles, with which I have developed a love-hate relationship. I love them, because they make delicious pies, soups, quiches, pestos, sautees and even nettle beer, which I will be trying out this spring. But I hate them because they hurt and sting and cover the little meadow that came with the country house, blocking passage and keeping anyone from even thinking about doing anything out there but carefully avoiding them.

Winter took the field of rough stalks and cut them down to size, though. the land became something we could walk across, a carpet of crunchy dry yellow twigs, last years old nettles, pushed flat to the ground by snow. It melted, the song birds came out just about the time the old dead nettles dried up. Tufts of new grass began to appear outside of nettle town. A patch of snow drops sprouted under the cherry tree. Sun warmed the earth. I began to imagine the possibilities, stand and take in the slope of the land, look back at the house.

With the sun's warmth, new nettles had also begun to emerge. Little hopeful green baby nettles peeking their cute little furry noses up through the old dead twigs from last year's enormous plants. They are cute, but they won't be for long, I know this. I have spent many evenings rubbing swollen spots where the nettles have gotten up my pant legs and pricked their needles into bare calves or pricked stray hands, hurting for hours like bee stings afterward. No summer walks along that country path in a skirt and espadrilles, that's for sure. But a thought of the baby clinched it. Do I want the child to be able to play outside at the country house? How will it be possible for a kid not have a rope swing on this ancient cherry tree? We don't know if this baby is going to be a boy or a girl. But one thing is clear: We have got to get the nettles under control.

They have formed a thick root network. A little hand spade, just a toy, really. I have taken to kneeling on the ground and loosening them, then standing up, wrapping my fingers about the roots, and heaving my weight into the labor of getting them out, artery and vein alike. They don't want to come. I begin stabbing, learning their ways, where to find the junctions, the twisted knots. If you get the nettle highways, the small roots follow more easily. A nettle city, a network, a planet. I am eradicating a whole nettle world complete with multiple levels of underground resistance networks. In 4 hours, I have just begun to chip away at a small square. At the end of my hard labor, a pitiful patch of turned rich earth, from which I had pulled only nettles from the ground. Their thick roots were piled in a heap in the sun. The soil is dark and fertile. Aside from one small tuft of wild chives, these nettles have choked everything else out.



At the end of the day, Bernadette's clicks and humming fire form a choir with an evening lark. The kitchen door is open. The feeder is illuminated and crowded with many species of birds. Loic is puttering around in the attic.

I ran my hands in icy cold mountain water from the tap for as long as I could stand it. I quickly pinched cold butter into flour with my numbed clean cold hands. We were to have a neighbor over for dinner, a man from the village who had come to cut the storm's fallen branches into neat logs that we stacked on the porch to use as firewood maybe next year.

My hands and forearms were near exhaustion just trying to make a crust. It's a good kind of fatigue, I thought to myself. From the pulling. Wouldn't it be nice to get these nettles taken care of this week. The weather is going to be nice. There is a clear circle of sunny meadow, between the apple and cherry trees that gets good all day sun. It is where the nettles thrive. I could probably turn it into a field of flowers if I had some time.

We've been waiting on this baby to arrive, and for that purpose, I have found myself easing big engagements off the calendar. Last week was the first week since January that I didn't have people coming in. 'This could be my only chance', I thought. The nettles seem compelling in the Sunday evening quiet before bed. We were lying there under the quilt, each with a book, and instead of readying my thoughts for a return to the rhythms of the city, I found myself veering in the opposite direction.

- And what if I stayed?
- You won't have a car.
- That's ok, I won't need it.
- Will you have enough to eat?
- I will.

A quick mental inventory. I had three eggs, a bit of bacon, 6 potatoes, some cabbage, a basket of good apples, some cheese, things in the larder like dried fruits and mushrooms, flour, rice, plus of course the Alpine butter, garlic in a braid from my trip to Sicily. The tuft of chives out there in the dirt patch. Then there were all those young nettles waiting for their fate. I even had some stock and frozen peas and beans in the freezer should the need really arise, and two big lumps of yeast for bread. We know the goat farm is within walking distance where I can get yogurt, cheeses, milk, everything I need in the end.

- You won't get bored?
- I might.

I smiled. It was settled. I made a few calls and sent a few messages. I shuffled chunks of time off the agenda. I was staying. We cuddled in the night, cherishing our sudden togetherness before a separation as my thoughts ventured in this new direction. Not an abyss, but a free fall kind of dive into a very different kind of week indeed.

Spring's First Lettuce - Salad Ideas

At the producer's market, I happened across some particularly gorgeous lettuce and learned from the lady who grew how they differentiate themselves from the other producers - they don't use greenhouses. This must mean Spring is really on the way.

She said that although you see lettuces coming from various producers throughout even a harsh winter, hers have grown naturally in the air... They are really Spring's first lettuces. Walking into the greenhouse at the farm I visited in Switzerland warmed my bones enough to make me want to work on the farm, just to get warm. It was still very cold in Switzerland. The lettuce in that lovely greenhouse was fat and happy, that's for sure. Mr. Delessert pulled the tarp that was over the door aside and my first impression of being invited into a Hammam. I imagined reclining on a lettuce bed and getting a massage and a scrubdown. Really, I don't think a greenhouse would affect the taste of the lettuce, though. It really all depends on the plant that's grown and the soil. But the lady had a nice sales pitch!

I brought this Spring's first lettuce home and we enjoyed a lovely salad, not a hint of bitter in this lacy salad. What salad to prepare with your season's first lettuce?

Why not get inspired to try these salads as the seasons unfold? Ideas abound:
A Home Made Salade Lyonnaise - make it like you like it. (pictured at the bottom of the post)
A Southwestern Salad: Salade Landaise
Get Inspired by French Café Salads
Fondue de Saint Marcellin Parmentière et Salade
Spicy Poultry Stuffed Pattypan Squash in Salad
The Rabbit Saddle Salad at Pignol Bellecour
Salade de Chèvre Chaud avec sa Vinaigrette au Poivre Vert

Lucy's Kitchen Notebook - On World Radio Switzerland!

The reason I went to Switzerland was to be interviewed live in Geneva on World Radio Switzerland about my work. Anne Glusker and Pete Forster were so kind to invite me into the studio to talk on Anne's show, Stir it Up, about my passion, what Lyonnais food is and isn't, blogging, Bernadette, quenelles Lyonnaises, and the explosive burgeoning of my interest in food. If you missed the show, you can listen to it rebroadcast on Sunday morning at noon, otherwise hop on over to the website and listen to the podcast! (during the first 7 minutes, Anne gets us up to snuff on Malakoffs.)

Switzerland: Malakoffs and Horseradish

Simple pleasures - Malakoff and house dried beef at the auberge communale in Luins, Switzerland

In Switzerland, every town, no matter how small, must have a communal auberge. That's an inn and restaurant for the weary traveler to rest. On Monday, I was charmed in spades when friend and fellow food enthusiast Anne Glusker took me into the hills of the lower Vaud Canton in Switzerland to try a local specialty at the source, the Malakoff. Luins is a town of about 450 residents. Local wines were offered at the table, and I enjoyed the refreshing contrast between the Malakoff, which is simple pleasure in itself - a ball of cheese fried up crisp and brown and served sparsely with pickles and onions, along with a glass of a citrusy, crisp, dry, deliciously drinkable wine from the town's vintner, the Chateau de Luins.

Walking among the vines in the town of Luins, Switzerland

It is these simple pleasures that bring us back to our senses when we're shuttling back and forth across international borders, peering at the region through the rough filter of expansive industrial development. But there in between this urgent international hum near the border of France and Switzerland, somewhere between those very important points a and b, tucked under networks of huge autoroutes and crossings, sits a sleepy little cluster-like town, reached when you take a lesser used turn, then swerve this way and that, and climb up into the vines.

Anne Glusker's Malakoff mission in Luins is one of many unique food discoveries that dot the deep ridged fabric of this little countryside, and like any traditional dish, it is a source of debate and precision on every detail. When we questioned the cook at the auberge, he admitted that there were others who might produce something more exactly resembling the original, dating back to the Crimean war, but he was also quick to point out that his brother was of the mind that they didn't taste as good as theirs. Who makes the most authentic version? Who has the real thing? Who does the best?

My main score of the day was of a completely different vein. Back in Lyon, my repeated pleas for fresh horseradish from the producers is met with stern refusal. They won't grow it because it invades everything and needs a lot of maintenance to keep it from completely taking over, plus nobody wants it except me. I scored a whole horseradish root, which M. Delessert yanked from the ground at my request on his ultra-natural farm in Pralies.

SCORE! Horseradish from a farm in Pralies, Switzerland.

My little plot of land is full of stinging nettles and invasive networks of brambles so if the horseradish took over I'd be thankful! Poking this root into the moist ground will do no harm. The best that can come of it is that we'll have a supply of fresh horseradish to serve with oysters and roast beef!

Fast Feuilletage, Cheese and Bacon Biscuits

About 8 years ago, the store bought kind was the only puff pastry I dared use, and it was new to me, not having been available in the States before we moved to France. It wasn't long before I started to yearn for something more. I learned quickly, to tell the difference between store bought and higher quality puff pastry. I found out from a friend that I could buy a better product at my local bakery, ready to use in my home creations, and soon left store bought feuiletée behind.

I was going to the trouble of calling ahead and making an order for puff pastry every time I was going to need it, and in general making things more complicated for myself than I had to in the end. I was so afraid of making a mess, ruining it and spoiling a hard-earned expensive lump of butter for a little puff that I refused to even try it.

At one family gathering years ago, someone asked about bakery-bought use of puff pastry apero treat I had brought to a party. I was proud of my creative use of the puff, and told her how to do it. Through some snafu, she misunderstood that I had actually prepared the pastry from scratch. I was so embarrassed that she was going around telling everyone as she passed the platter around. The guilt was horrible. I don't know why I didn't call everyone to the middle of the room and announce that I didn't fold the puff myself. It snowballed in my mind. It became an ethical crisis. The psychological trauma of the guilt set in motion a mission to get up to speed with puff pastry. That was when I realized it's not as hard as people think. And everybody's human.

As long as you keep everything cold, full style puff pastry does come together without magic, and tastes phenomenally better than any kind of feuilletée you can buy anywhere, even those being sold by artisan bakers. The reason is simple. You have chosen your own butter. The butter used in pastry is very important, possibly the most important aspect of anything at all. It makes all the difference in flavor. When someone is in a neighborhood bakery business, they are naturally going to try and maximize their profit margin. Many cheaper butters will taste significantly better than the mix of chemicals and agents used in store bought pastry. But you are in for a real treat if you pick and choose the best tasting butter you can find for your feuilletée. In fact, it will be a revelation.

This is all well and good. Who has time for pâte feuilletée? I rarely do these days, and neither do I have a need for the spectacle that a full style puff pastry can bring to a meal. I am actually more satisfied with home style kitchen table kinds of pastries, as you know already.

This is why today I want to come full circle and share one recipe with you that features a fast feuilletée, one that needs no chilling between layers. It can be thrown together lickety split, literally from start to finish in 10 minutes, and will do for any and all kitchen table tartes and turnovers, quiches for which you would like a little more puff and buttery taste, and apéro treats that will be popped quickly - in other words, those things we'd like to add a little flair and individuality to but don't need layer upon layer of even puffing, or sculptural finesse.

From my list of many variations, here is one recipe for a delicious spicy bacon cheese apéro biscuit. I developed it for baking in the wood fired oven, although any hot oven will do.

Peppery Fast Feuilletée Rolls (pictured above.)
good for serving with Champagne or Beer.
Yield: 10 very fattening biscuits. This recipe can be doubled.

125 g. flour (type 55 or AP)
140g. butter
a generous pinch of sea salt
1 good sized chipotle pepper in adobo (the kind that comes moist in a can, just one pepper)
1/2 of a thick slice of bacon
30 g. hard sharp cheese like mimolette, pecorino or cheddar
30 g. Swiss style mountain cheese like Emmenthal
60 g. VERY COLD water (weigh it)

- Roughly work the butter into the flour, no need to get too fussy about it being evenly incorporated, it will seem crumbly but have some chunks of butter in it the size of peas.
- Chop/mince the chipotle, mince the bacon very fine, and mince the cheese into itty little bitty cubes (you might even grate the cheese if you have a grater on hand.)
- Throw all this finely minced and grated stuff into the butter & flour mixture and toss to coat everything with flour. Turn it over and toss repeatedly with a wooden spoon to see that the additions are distributed evenly throughout.
- Add 60 g. very cold water and work it as quickly as you can with your hands into a dough. Do not knead the dough more than you have to to get it to come together.
- Immediately pat this dough into a rough rectangle, and using flour generously to keep it from sticking to your board, roll it out to about a centimeter or 1/2" thick. If it sticks, use a knife to release it, and sprinkle the wet side with flour.
- Fold it over into thirds, one side and then the other, overlapping.
- Do not chill in between folding. Roll it out again, and then fold it again, turning the rougher edges into the center.
- You've done it twice, do it two more times. You do not have to chill this in between rolling.
- After your final folding, roll it out again, and roll that up into a log. Slice off 1cm or 1/2 inch slices, place them on the baking sheet with a couple of inches between them, and bake in a 400F/200C/hot oven until they turn brown.
- These will be quite soft. You have to let them cool thoroughly and turn nice and crisp. Keep them out of sight until guests arrive.

The Verollet Farm in Preslette

It may seem strange to you but the smells associated with a goat farm, to my mind, are pretty close to perfect. The odor of a cow doesn't resonate with me very much. But goats on the other hand... I love everything about them.

I also loved rattling the latch and entering a goat barn in the hamlet of Preslette in the Savoie region this weekend. It starts muddy and cold, the expanse of grey sky pulling at you through leafless trees. Dogs with varying jobs to protect or herd these goats alert their entire world to your presence, their calls echoing through the valley. Then the door to the barn is open, and you enter a late winter enclave that smells sweet with the perfume of dried alfalfa and cozy animal warmth. Sun beams pierce in through late afternoon shadows and warm up all of the wood, reflections illuminating the animals. The goats stare at this wave of strange smelling strangers that float in on a breath of cool air, observing us all with short phrased questions in their eyes, bells chiming.

The goats are still inside for the winter, with the pasture land at our altitude still layered in patches with a hard crust of snow. Out on the slopes that get the best sun, the shoots have only just begun to penetrate the muddy ground. The melted snow saturates the earth, adding a happy squishing sound everywhere we go, a sound that whispers Spring Soon. Still some sun to come before the heat and light airs the sod enough to turn everything a deeper green.

In the meantime, the little kids born in January are 6 and 8 weeks old, curious, adorable little creatures, eager to nibble your sleeves or anything else they can practice chewing on. They're jumping up eager for a little stroke of their velvety muzzles. They're still drinking milk and get fed together, tails flapping cutely in a delightful little chorus.

What I loved most, though, was the milking. You have to feel a little sorry for these goats all swollen up with milk, and almost feel their relief too when they trot up in line to their station where they can have a little treat of ground corn and be ministered to. They get milked twice a day. The dog, named Douce, meaning "soft" in French, has been trained for specific jobs, to see them from point to point during the milking process. She will not stay with the goats in the fields when they go out, she has been trained to lead them there. She returns home where she is in charge of keeping things in order in the barn. She is proud of her work. Douce waits patiently in her place for them to finish with the milking and then trots along nudging them here and there. She does a thorough sweep of the entire barn to check that none went astray on the way back to their pens.



There are periods of relative commotion filled with shuffles, whistles and movement, followed by moments of calm waiting, random tinkling of their bells and a soft bleating here and there. The animals are happy to participate in these predictable cycles and engage in various levels of chitchat - See? This is our home. This is what we do. They are affectionate animals, and it seems that many have life stories to tell from their summers on the hills.



We all got a taste of the warm milk direct from the goats. It reminded me of something, of childhood, a very satisfying drink indeed. We purchased the cheese in three forms, some yogurt, and a bottle of the fresh raw milk to take home. The milk was excellent straight up by the large glass or in coffee. The cheeses were very good as well. In fact this visit just makes me want to get myself a weekly supply of everything they sell.



The Verrolet family farm sells four kinds of cheese, ranging from firm cream cheese to aged tomme. They sell yogurt and fresh raw milk on the farm as well. The cheeses and yogurts are sold at three weekly markets in the area. The tomme is only sold at certain times of the year, since the milk for that cheese comes from the animals that have been out in the pasture eating fresh greens. Their herd size ranges 80 to 100 animals, with a winter birthing in January. A number of the kids are sold off each year. They also have a handful of milking cows, but only make cheese from the goat milk.

We had to make bagels to do these goat products justice on Sunday morning.

Podcast coming soon.

Verollet, Marcelle
PRESLETTE 73110
04 79 25 71 02