Read Picnic in Provence Online
Authors: Elizabeth Bard
Picnic in Provence (31 page)
Glace Mille et Une Nuits
Gwendal’s mom was born in Casablanca, and this recipe is an homage to his
pied-noir
roots. Ras-el-hanout is a North African spice blend often used to flavor couscous. There’s ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, and clove, but also cumin, coriander, and pepper. The flavor is a tiny bit like chai tea, but with a kick. It’s especially good with apple pie, a pear tart, or mince pies for Christmas.
- ⅓ cup sliced almonds
- 4 egg yolks
- ¾ cup sugar
- 2½ cups whole milk
- ½ cup heavy cream
- 1½ teaspoons ras-el-hanout
Toast the almonds in a small frying pan, until golden. Let cool fully and set aside.
In a medium mixing bowl, beat egg yolks with sugar until a light lemon yellow. Set aside.
Prepare an ice bath—a large mixing bowl full of ice cubes will do it. Set aside. Find your fine-mesh strainer and leave it near the ice bath.
Pour the milk and cream into a medium saucepan and add the ras-el-hanout. Heat over a low flame, until it’s just about to boil. Turn off the flame, then slowly add the hot milk to the egg-yolk mixture, whisking quickly and continuously to combine.
Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and cook over low heat, stirring continuously, until the cream coats the back of a wooden spoon, about 5 minutes.
Immediately pour the custard through a fine-mesh strainer back into the mixing bowl. Cool briefly in the ice bath, whisking for a few minutes until the cream has cooled a bit. Store in an airtight container in the fridge. If possible, leave for 24 hours, so the flavor has time to develop. Freeze in your home ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.
After churning, mix in the toasted almonds. Freeze in an airtight container for an hour or two before serving. Keeps for about a week, but in terms of texture, it’s best eaten on the day it’s churned.
Makes about 1 quart of ice cream
Note: Ras-el-hanout can contain any number of different spices: galangal, rosebuds, black pepper, ginger, cardamom, nigella, cayenne, allspice, lavender, cinnamon, coriander, mace, nutmeg, and cloves to name a few. But I have also seen ras-el-hanout with curry powder mixed in—definitely to be avoided. The curry will overwhelm the other spices.
Marmelade de Cerises
A decadent, old-school cherry sauce. Serve over hazelnut or vanilla ice cream, with whipped cream and a fresh cherry on top!
- 2¼ pounds fresh cherries
- 1 pound, 10 ounces sugar (I use half white, half raw cane or light brown
sugar) - ½ cup of kirsch (cherry liqueur)
Pit the cherries and cover with the sugar and the alcohol. Stir to combine; let the mixture sit for 12 hours or overnight. In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, bring the mixture to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer for 20 minutes. Fish out the cherries, set aside. Continue to simmer the syrup for 1 hour—a bit longer won’t hurt—until reduced by half.
Distribute the cherries between 3 or 4 sterilized jars. Pour the boiling-hot cherry syrup over them, leaving ¼ inch of space at the top. Tightly close the jars and sterilize in a hot-water bath according to the manufacturer’s directions. If, like me, you haven’t mastered the intricacies of proper canning, the syrup keeps in the fridge for a week or two, or you can freeze it for up to 6 months.
Makes 3 to 4 12-ounce jars
W
hat’s a ‘pick and pie’?” I said, scanning the menu that Marion and I were scribbling on the back of an envelope.
“Lili wants to make pick and pie.”
“Pecan? Pecan pie?”
Marion looked at me, confused.
“Noix de pécan.”
“Yes.”
I had decided that if I wanted holiday traditions in France, I would have to create them myself. Marion’s sister and her Irish husband had just returned with their baby girl from three years of living in California. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to suggest a communal Thanksgiving dinner.
Lili walked in with the baby, who was eleven months old, just the age Alexandre was when we arrived in Céreste. She looked at home already, plucking bayberries off the trees and giggling as she stuffed them into her aunt’s décolletage.
We went down the list:
Brussels sprouts with lardons
Stuffing
Salt cod with leeks
Pumpkin puree
Roast potatoes
Mashed potatoes
Corn soufflé
Dutch apple pie
Pick and pie (pecan pie)
Pumpkin cheesecake
Chocolate-dipped physalis
“Mais c’est trop!”
said Dominique, Marion’s mother, wiping her boots on the mat.
“
Trop
is good,” I said. Too much is the whole point.
“Et la dinde?”
said Marion.
“I vote for no turkey. Nobody eats it anyway. All the good stuff is on the side.”
“My brother wants a turkey,” protested Marion. “He’s seen too many American TV shows.”
I was wondering how we might get a
Desperate Housewives
–size turkey into a French oven while Marion wrapped up a thick slice of her favorite Durban pumpkin and put it in my bag. There’s no such thing as canned pumpkin in France, so if I want to make my favorite cheesecake, I will be roasting, mashing, and draining my own.
BACK IN THE
States, we don’t eat lunch before Thanksgiving. I’m too busy picking the crunchy bits of stuffing out of the bird every time I baste it. If any concession is made at all, it’s a Hebrew National salami with school-bus-yellow deli mustard that sits on the counter where everyone can walk by and grab a piece. Having seen the menu, Marion’s family had gotten the idea, and no one wanted a big midday meal. But this is France, so there was no question of skipping lunch entirely.
We made a salad. I sliced half a green cabbage while Marion went into the garden to get some carrots and beetroot. Among the carrots were two that had grown stuck together. Rounded at the top and tapered at the bottom, they resembled the hips and legs of a zaftig chorus girl. I smiled at the memory of the naughty carrot photos that began our friendship. The wet beetroot was dark as ink, with a hairy little tail. As Marion peeled the beets, I popped the ribbons of skin into my mouth. The purple juice stained my fingers.
Pourquoi pas?
I rushed over to the mirror, pressed the peel to my lips. The color was a little Elvira, but it worked.
We walked up the path to Marion’s mother’s house, about a hundred yards as the crow flies. Dominique was stirring her salt cod with slow-cooked baby leeks, which she normally makes for Christmas. The codfish, dried and preserved in sea salt, had been soaking for two days.
“How many times did you change the water?” I asked.
“Three times,” said Dominique. “Or there’s a trick: You can put the fish in the toilet tank, that way the water runs over it continuously.”
I pursed my lips. Try explaining that on the Cooking Channel.
“IS THERE CORN
in this?” Dominique asked.
I held my breath. Dominique had just served herself a big spoonful of my corn soufflé. In France, corn is food for the animals; I’m never quite sure what will happen when I serve it to humans.
“C’est délicieux!”
she said, closing her eyes with relish. I exhaled. Another Thanksgiving convert.
My fingertips were still stained from the beet juice. “Marion and I made lipstick out of beetroot peelings this afternoon.”
“Didn’t they do that during the war,” said Lili, “when there was no makeup—rub beetroot on their cheeks?”
I took a bite of the flaky white cod together with the mellow green of the leeks. Wonderful fireside food. It’s supposed to snow tonight, which makes me think of Jean. Our neighbor, our friend, passed away suddenly in July. He went down to Marseille to have a pacemaker put in, and three weeks later he died in his sleep. I’ll always think of him checking the temperature in his bathrobe and slippers when I step outside on a frozen winter’s morning. Would his thermometer say −8°C, −9°C? The same way I think of Marcelle when I see the bright bloom of the roses in the garden or the lilies of the valley on the first of May. From the beginning, this place has been a collage of the past and the present—and now, for us, the future.
Alexandre is nodding off in front of his mashed potatoes. I still love to watch him sleep. I go into his room every night, replace the covers he has kicked to one side. Sometimes I find him upside down or sideways, his legs climbing the wall, like he fell asleep in the middle of a circus routine. I understand better now what my mother means when she says to me, “You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.” If I can launch a happy human being out into the world, as my mother launched me, it
will
be the best thing I’ve ever done, certainly the most important. I’m not afraid of it anymore—this lay-down-in-the-middle-of-the-road kind of love. If I was late in getting there, if I wasted time, stood back when I should have leaned in, then I hope it makes me vigilant, careful to cherish everyday moments with my son. When I think of the childhood Alexandre has had here, at the foot of Jean’s cherry tree, I am so thankful—for some of the peace that I’ve recovered, some of the fear that I’ve put away, some of the lacks I’ve understood. I’m not a perfect parent, but I’m a better one.
Scaramouche has quickly taken on a life of its own. Word of mouth this summer was superb, and Gwendal has just started on orders for Christmas Yule log cakes. When the numbers are in, we will survive the winter—which, speaking with French
prudence,
is all you can ask from a new business. That said, the American half of my brain is already wondering how we can get our banana-yellow ice cream truck up to the Canal Saint-Martin in Paris.
Iain took a piece of the braised leg of lamb and passed it to me. “Wow,” he said. “I’m glad you couldn’t find a turkey.”
He raised a glass:
“Cheers.”
“Santé.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
It was exactly what the holiday was supposed to be: cooking, sharing, talking—and eating way too much. After dinner, Marion and I sat together at the end of the table, cutting slivers off the pumpkin cheesecake. It was even better than I remembered. I was glad I’d reduced the sugar by a third to suit the French palate.
Gwendal wanted to get home before the snow started, so we left the dishes—and all the extra food—at their house. When I got up the next morning, there was nothing in our fridge. In that way, it was a uniquely French holiday—a Thanksgiving dinner with no leftovers.
TODAY, I AM
French. Or, rather, today it’s official. The Frenchness has been seeping in for a while now, like olive oil into a leg of lamb. I’ve lost some of my hard edges. I’m full to the brim with a feeling that would have made my younger, cosmo-drinking self snort with derision. I’m content.
When you become a French citizen, the first thing the government does is issue you a French birth certificate, as if you were a French baby who’d just
happened
to be born abroad. My name and birthday are the same, but the address on my new birth certificate is in Céreste. I’ve been reborn here. The metaphor’s a bit heavy-handed, if not entirely untrue.
The letter itself was a letdown. It’s not like getting into college. There was no
Welcome, Elizabeth, to the class of 2013!
I don’t know what I was expecting. A musical card that sprays confetti and plays “La Marseillaise”? A pop-up figure of Charles de Gaulle?
Like most French administrative mail, this was a letter with instructions to write another letter. It asked me to verify the enclosed birth certificate and send the papers listed below, but if I
didn’t
send them within three months, it would make no difference at all, and my details would be recorded as stated therein.
“Let me get this straight. They’re asking me to send papers they already have and that they don’t really need but that I’m going to send anyway because I’m too paranoid not to.” Involuntarily, I lifted my shoulders and let them drop with a sigh. The whole thing was maddeningly, undeniably French.
I called Marion. I’d promised to alert her at the first official sign of Frenchness. She’s been rebuilding a tiny stone cabin on her land. It’s shaded by an enormous oak tree and has a view of the surrounding hills.
“It’s just an administrative letter,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I don’t know what I was expecting. It lacks…gravitas. I’d like to do something to mark the occasion. Maybe I could plant a tree.”
“What kind of tree?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’m ordering some
figuiers
for March.”
A fig tree.
I had a flash of Alexandre and me twenty years on, making a fig and almond tart with fruit from our very own tree. The French woman inside me nodded.
“Perfect,” said the American.
* * *
Salade de Betteraves Crues, Carottes, et Chou Vert
Along with a slice of Hebrew National salami, this is the only thing I can think of that I’d want to eat
before
Thanksgiving dinner. That said, it would also make a lovely salad served with dinner itself—the raw vegetables are a bright, crunchy contrast to some of the more stodgy holiday sides.
- 1 pound green cabbage or Chinese cabbage (half of 1 small cabbage)
- 10 ounces (about 4) organic carrots
- 10 ounces (about 2) medium organic red beets (raw!)
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 2 good pinches of coarse sea salt, to taste
In a food processor or by hand, grate all the vegetables. Store in an airtight container. If making in advance, keep the beetroot separate from the carrots and cabbage until the last minute. Just before serving, toss the vegetables together with olive oil and salt.
Serves 8 as a side dish, 12 as part of an appetizer
Tip: Try this salad with grilled meats or as part of a meze plate with hummus, falafel, and yogurt dressing. I sometimes substitute a teaspoon of sesame oil for part of the olive oil and sprinkle toasted sesame seeds on top. I served a tiny portion of the sesame version with a slice of foie gras as an appetizer on New Year’s Eve.
Morue aux Poireaux Fondues
This recipe is an in-depth holiday project; if you count the soaking of the dried fish, it’s about three days from start to finish. That said, the combo of creamy leeks and cod is an inspired one, nursery food in the best sense. Below is the lengthy Provençal recipe followed by the streamlined American one (appropriate for a chapter about my new Franco-American self).
- 1 pound, 12 ounces
morue
(salted codfish fillet) - 6½ pounds untrimmed leeks
- 3 tablespoons olive oil
- 1 bay leaf
- A few peppercorns
- A few sprigs of fresh or dried thyme
- Black pepper
- ½ cup white or rosé wine
- ½ cup bread crumbs
- 1 pat of butter
- ⅓ cup cured black olives, pitted and chopped (optional)
- ½ cup Gruyère cheese, grated (optional)
Put your salt cod in a large plastic container covered with two or three inches of water. Leave it in the fridge for two full days, changing the water each morning and evening. By the time you are done, the water shouldn’t taste salty at all.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Cut off the hairy bottoms of the leeks as well as the tough dark green leaves at the top. You want to use only the white and light green parts. Cut the trimmed leeks into ½-inch rounds; rinse thoroughly to remove any dirt. In a stockpot, blanch the leeks in boiling water for 3 minutes. Drain.
In a Dutch oven, heat the olive oil, add the blanched leeks, stir to coat. Please don’t add any salt—the cod will take care of that. When the leeks are heated through and sizzling (about 3 minutes), cover and put in the oven for 1 hour.
Meanwhile, poach the fish. Discard the soaking water and place the salt cod in a stockpot of fresh cold water. Add the spices and bring the water slowly to a simmer over medium heat. When you see small bubbles form on the surface, turn the heat off and cover; leave to rest for 10 minutes. The fish will be cooked again with the leeks, so better to undercook it slightly than overwork things. Remove the fish to a plate, let cool.
When the fish is cool enough to handle, break the cod into small pieces (each about the size of a dime). When the leeks come out of the oven, add the fish to the pot along with a good grind of black pepper and the wine. Stir to combine. Heat on the stovetop until the wine starts to bubble, then cover and return to the oven for ½ hour.
Meanwhile, toast the bread crumbs in a pat of melted butter until nicely browned.
Transfer cod and leeks to a 9-by-13-inch casserole dish. Mix in olives and cheese, if using. Top with the bread crumbs. Return to the oven for 10 minutes. Serve piping hot.
Serves 6–8
Dos de Cabillaud et Fondue de Poireaux
This is weekday comfort food.
- 3 pounds untrimmed leeks
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 2 good pinches coarse sea salt
- ½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
- 2 generous tablespoons crème fraîche or sour cream
- ½ tablespoon olive oil
- ¼ cup white or rosé wine
- 4 pieces of thick cod fillet, about 5 ounces each
- Coarse sea salt
- Black pepper
Cut off the hairy bottoms of the leeks as well as the tough dark green leaves at the top. You want to use only the white and light green parts. Cut the trimmed leeks into ½-inch rounds; rinse thoroughly to remove any dirt. In a stockpot, blanch the leeks in boiling water for 3 minutes. Drain.
In the same stockpot, heat the olive oil, add the blanched leeks and salt, stir to coat. Cook over medium heat with the cover ajar for 10 minutes, moving the leeks around every 3 minutes or so. I like to leave them until they brown a little and I see some charred bits when I scrape the bottom, but they will be tender before that. In a small bowl, stir together mustard and crème fraîche. Just before serving, add the cream mixture to the leeks and cook just long enough to heat through.
While the leeks are cooking, in a medium frying pan, heat ½ tablespoon olive oil and ¼ cup wine. Add the fish fillets and sprinkle with a bit of coarse salt and a grinding of black pepper. Cover and simmer until the fish flakes, about 7 to 10 minutes. I always err on the side of caution, turning off the heat before the fish is fully cooked and leaving it covered so it continues to steam for a while in its own juices.
Serve the fish on a bed of leeks.
Serves 4
Soufflé au Maïs
The French may think corn is for the chickens, but once they taste this, they usually change their tune. This soufflé is adapted from
Fonda San Miguel: Thirty Years of Food and Art,
by Tom Gilliland, Miguel Ravago, and Virginia B. Wood (Shearer, 2005). I like to serve it with braised meat dishes and sautéed Brussels sprouts.
- ¾ cup flour
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
- 1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
- 2 pounds of frozen or canned corn kernels, thawed or drained
- ¾ cup whole milk
- 6 eggs, separated
- ⅓ cup sugar
- 6 tablespoons butter, melted
- 4 ounces Comté cheese (white cheddar will do), grated
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Butter a 9-by-13-inch casserole dish. In a small mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and salt.
In a food processor or using a hand blender, puree corn and milk until smooth. Add the egg yolks one by one, mixing for 30 seconds after each addition. Add sugar and mix until dissolved, about 3 minutes. Add melted butter and mix until smooth.
If using a food processor, transfer corn mixture into a large bowl. Fold in flour mixture, until just combined. Fold in cheese.
Beat egg whites until they hold stiff peaks. In two additions, fold egg whites into the corn mixture. Pour into the casserole dish and bake for 50 minutes to 1 hour, until golden brown on top. The soufflé is great warm, or even at room temperature, so if you need your Thanksgiving oven for other things, bake this first.
Serves 8–10 as part of a larger holiday dinner
Cheesecake au Potimarron
Mary McCollough of Burlington, Massachusetts, sent a version of this recipe to the November 1996 Cooks’ Exchange column in
Bon Appétit
magazine. I’ve adapted it, cutting the sugar by a third—even before they gave me a French passport, I’d lost my yen for sickly-sweet desserts. Using fresh-roasted pumpkin is extra effort, but it does make a tremendous difference.
- 1½ cups speculoos cookie (or gingersnap) crumbs
- ¾ cup ground pecans
- ¼ cup unsalted butter, melted
- 1 4- to 5-pound slice of raw pumpkin
- 3 8-ounce packages cream cheese, at room temperature
- 1 cup (packed) light brown sugar
- 1 tablespoon
quatre épices
or pumpkin-pie spice (or 1 teaspoon each
ground ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg) - 1 large pinch of ground cloves
- 1 tablespoon vanilla extract, or one vanilla bean, seeds scraped
- 3 large eggs
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
The day before: Roast your large slice of pumpkin (no need to peel or cut it) in a 350°F oven for 1½ hours or longer, until sweet and absolutely tender. Cool, remove and discard the skin, and mash. Press through a fine-mesh strainer to remove the maximum amount of water. You’ll need 1½ cups of mashed pumpkin.
For the crust: In a medium mixing bowl, combine cookie crumbs, ground pecans, and melted butter.
Press crust mix into the bottom and 1 inch up the sides of a 9-inch springform pan. Refrigerate until filling is ready.
In an electric mixer, beat the cream cheese with the sugar until smooth; add pumpkin, spices, and vanilla. Beat until well blended. Add eggs one by one, beating after each addition.
Pour batter over crust, bake until top is golden and center is softly set, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Transfer to a baking rack, cool completely. Chill overnight.
Serves 10–12