Recently, Jo and Steve invited me to join them for a lovely Sunday supper. After a slow roasted leg of lamb, crispy potatoes and lots of local wine, we sat back and filled the night with conversation.
One topic was plum picking. Jo and Steve had gotten plums a couple of years back for free from a local farmer. He had a small grove but not enough time to pick them himself as they ripen at about the same time as the grapes for wine. The field wasn't big enough to warrant paying for pickers and so most just went back into the soil after falling from the trees.
Feeling badly about this and being year-round residents who want to give back to the local community, Jo and Stever volunteered to pick the plums this year in exchange for several flats for jam making.
Feeling perhaps a bit too expansive after the dinner and wine, I chimed in that I'd come and help too and challenged Steve's sister, visiting from England, to come along as well--not something she'd been planning on doing. The local wine must have had the same affect on her reason and so she agreed to join the "fun." Ian, the other dinner guest and another year-round resident, had already been pressed into service and so we all agreed to head out the next afternoon.
Despite my comments about the end of summer, it's seems to be making a comeback, at least during the day, and so I slathered on sun screen before we headed out in the bright, mid-80s heat of the day.
Two and half hours later, sweaty, tired, and very dirty, we'd picked about 500 kilos of plums. That's 2.2 pounds to every kilo, totaling over half a ton of plums. All of which needed to be graded by size. We'd told the owners that we'd pick and that they should grade as they knew what we were doing. With five of us picking, they couldn't keep up so helped them sort before leaving the field and heading back for aperatifs. We sampled several home-made variations of hooch--one elderflower, one slighly fizzy, and one that reminded us all of Christmas with a taste of cinnamon and orange.
The best part was that they were so grinning with gratitude at the end of the day. With just three people and a small farm, there was obviously more work than time and not a great deal of money for all the labor. The husband had spent all afternoon repairing his grape pickning machine for the imminent wine harvest, while his wife and son worked in the field with us. The plum crop would go to a wholesaler and now they had the prospect of more euros in their pockets than budgeted. We walked away with four heaping flats of plums and some new friends. England and America walked away with a better image in this part of the world and everybody came out the better for an afternoon of work.
Roberto came the dinner rescue again that night with his pizza van and I fell into bed early on to dream of plums, sunshine, and beaming French faces.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
So Long Summer
First it was August that dissappeared and then summer followed.
The door to summer blew shut on Thursday, pushed by a breeze that cleared out the muggy heat from the prior two days and carried in dry, cool air.
It's evidently been a scorcher here, recently pushing 100 degrees F. When I arrived last Monday, temps were still hovering around 90 or more. Tuesday night we had a boomer of a thunderstorm but Wednesday still stayed humid and hot. I skipped my village walk that day and dealt with laundry instead. We'd had folks staying here shortly before I arrived and it takes a while for a miniscule washer to deal with an accumulation of sheets and towels.
By Thursday, though, everything shifted. I'd just got into the rythm of opening windows in the evening to let in the cooler air, then shutting them by 9:30 or 10 am to keep out the heat. Now I'll be doing the reverse. As I type, the sun is sinking and the windows are closed, keeping in the heat from earlier in the day. Nevertheless, it's lovely and warm when the sun is overhead and I had a pleasant lunch en pleine aire on the bakery terrace in nearby Faucon.
Now I'm getting ready to heat up my paella, purchased earlier this morning from the stand on the corner of the bridge. The paella man, in fact, sets up in exactly the same place as the pizza truck on Monday. Must be good take-out karma there. In the summer, you can buy your paella just before dinner all nice and hot from the same guy at our village evening market. The market's much smaller now with the rentree--the return from vacation--and so mornings it is for paella purchase from now on.
By the way, there's a good paella recipe in my book Bistro Chicken, if I've made you hungry vicariously. Here it is:
PAELLA
Paella is a common item in small restaurants close to the Spanish border but it is also available in almost any French market. Lined up with all the meat, cheese, and produce vendors is the paella seller. He takes his scoop and parcels out quantities of piping hot rice, chicken, and seafood into a plastic container from his giant paella pan. If your timing is right, you can take it home after shopping and enjoy it for lunch with a nice tossed salad made with market greens. Making it from scratch always produces the best results. Invite company to share some; it’s almost impossible to make a small quantity. Pour your guests a glass of wine and have everyone join in the preparation.
6 servings
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped (about ¾ cup)
4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut in thirds
½ pound chorizo sausage links, cut in 2-inch pieces
1 medium red bell pepper, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 ½ cups Bomba, Arborio, or medium grain rice
¾ teaspoon saffron, crumbled
½ teaspoon salt
¾ pound shelled and de-veined, uncooked medium shrimp
6 mussels, scrubbed and de-bearded
1 cup sugar snap peas
Heat a paella pan or large skillet over medium-high heat; add the olive oil. When hot, add the onion; cook until beginning to soften, stirring frequently, about 2 to 3 minutes. Add the chicken and sausage; cook until lightly browned, about 4 to 5 minutes.
Add the bell pepper and garlic; stir to combine. Add the tomatoes; cook until they release their juices, about 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the rice.
Meanwhile, bring 4 cups (3 cups if using medium-grain rice) of water to a boil in a saucepan. Add the saffron to ½ cup of the boiling water; stir to dissolve. Add the remaining water to the rice mixture along with the dissolved saffron. Sprinkle with the salt; stir to combine. Boil 5 minutes. Reduce heat to low; cook an additional 15 minutes. Add the shrimp, mussels, and peas; cook until the rice is tender and the seafood is cooked through, about 8 to 10 minutes. Add additional water if all the liquid is evaporated before the rice is cooked through.
Truc: If you can find it, buy Bomba rice from Spain to make this dish. Similar to Arborio, the risotto rice, Bomba rice swells with moisture but doesn’t produce the same creaminess, making it a better choice for paella. However, even medium grain regular rice will work. Different types of rice require different amounts of liquid so it will be necessary to adjust the amount used. Add any additional water while cooking in small amounts; paella should not be soupy.
The door to summer blew shut on Thursday, pushed by a breeze that cleared out the muggy heat from the prior two days and carried in dry, cool air.
It's evidently been a scorcher here, recently pushing 100 degrees F. When I arrived last Monday, temps were still hovering around 90 or more. Tuesday night we had a boomer of a thunderstorm but Wednesday still stayed humid and hot. I skipped my village walk that day and dealt with laundry instead. We'd had folks staying here shortly before I arrived and it takes a while for a miniscule washer to deal with an accumulation of sheets and towels.
By Thursday, though, everything shifted. I'd just got into the rythm of opening windows in the evening to let in the cooler air, then shutting them by 9:30 or 10 am to keep out the heat. Now I'll be doing the reverse. As I type, the sun is sinking and the windows are closed, keeping in the heat from earlier in the day. Nevertheless, it's lovely and warm when the sun is overhead and I had a pleasant lunch en pleine aire on the bakery terrace in nearby Faucon.
Now I'm getting ready to heat up my paella, purchased earlier this morning from the stand on the corner of the bridge. The paella man, in fact, sets up in exactly the same place as the pizza truck on Monday. Must be good take-out karma there. In the summer, you can buy your paella just before dinner all nice and hot from the same guy at our village evening market. The market's much smaller now with the rentree--the return from vacation--and so mornings it is for paella purchase from now on.
By the way, there's a good paella recipe in my book Bistro Chicken, if I've made you hungry vicariously. Here it is:
PAELLA
Paella is a common item in small restaurants close to the Spanish border but it is also available in almost any French market. Lined up with all the meat, cheese, and produce vendors is the paella seller. He takes his scoop and parcels out quantities of piping hot rice, chicken, and seafood into a plastic container from his giant paella pan. If your timing is right, you can take it home after shopping and enjoy it for lunch with a nice tossed salad made with market greens. Making it from scratch always produces the best results. Invite company to share some; it’s almost impossible to make a small quantity. Pour your guests a glass of wine and have everyone join in the preparation.
6 servings
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped (about ¾ cup)
4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut in thirds
½ pound chorizo sausage links, cut in 2-inch pieces
1 medium red bell pepper, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 ½ cups Bomba, Arborio, or medium grain rice
¾ teaspoon saffron, crumbled
½ teaspoon salt
¾ pound shelled and de-veined, uncooked medium shrimp
6 mussels, scrubbed and de-bearded
1 cup sugar snap peas
Heat a paella pan or large skillet over medium-high heat; add the olive oil. When hot, add the onion; cook until beginning to soften, stirring frequently, about 2 to 3 minutes. Add the chicken and sausage; cook until lightly browned, about 4 to 5 minutes.
Add the bell pepper and garlic; stir to combine. Add the tomatoes; cook until they release their juices, about 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the rice.
Meanwhile, bring 4 cups (3 cups if using medium-grain rice) of water to a boil in a saucepan. Add the saffron to ½ cup of the boiling water; stir to dissolve. Add the remaining water to the rice mixture along with the dissolved saffron. Sprinkle with the salt; stir to combine. Boil 5 minutes. Reduce heat to low; cook an additional 15 minutes. Add the shrimp, mussels, and peas; cook until the rice is tender and the seafood is cooked through, about 8 to 10 minutes. Add additional water if all the liquid is evaporated before the rice is cooked through.
Truc: If you can find it, buy Bomba rice from Spain to make this dish. Similar to Arborio, the risotto rice, Bomba rice swells with moisture but doesn’t produce the same creaminess, making it a better choice for paella. However, even medium grain regular rice will work. Different types of rice require different amounts of liquid so it will be necessary to adjust the amount used. Add any additional water while cooking in small amounts; paella should not be soupy.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
If It's September, This Must Be France
August dissapeared at 12 am and with it, my life in Minneapolis. Mollans, France took its place. Now, I'll get Minneapolis back but August 2009 is gone for good. Another reminder to spend some time each day, reflecting on the moment, the surroundings and, most importantly, the friends that surround us.
The week before I left for France was packed with events. My bookgroup of 30 plus years met on Tuesday. Glen, my husband, turned 63 on Wednesday and I, in characteristic fashion, wasn't home to cebebrate--teaching instead. We saw a play to celebrate said birthday on Thursday, and I turned in 13 recipes for two different projects by the end of the week. Saturday, I squeezed in Julie and Julia, which I'll return to in a later blog, went to a neighbors to celebrate her 66 birthday, and took off for France on Sunday evening, after finally packing my suticase that morning.
Along with packing, there was the usual blizzard of e-mails, bill paying and bill collecting--yet another subject for a later blog--and, of course, the cleaning of the refrigetator and the harvesting of basil. It's been cold in Minnesota and I knew my basil wouldn't make it until I returned so I also harvested and froze that crop on Sunday between packing and closing up the kitchen. Glen doesn't cook so there's no point in leaving anything for him in the fridge. It's just there waiting for me, fuzzy as a fleece, when I get back.
And then I was at the airport.
I've had excellent plane karma lately. I checked in, walked away from the counter, and looked down at my boarding pass to find out my gate number. Then I noticed my seat--4E. How did that happen? I certainly don't have the budget to fly to France first class. I wasn't asking question but did a little celebration skip and headed for the plane. Once at my gate, I found out what the deal was. Evidently, the flight was overbooked and so, at least I'm assuming, because I'm an elite flyer, I got bumped into first class to make room for someone else in steerage. Bliss.
Eight hours of flying time later, I arrived at CDG--Paris's international airport--and headed for the train station in an adjacent terminal. I got on the high speed TGV and sped my way to Avignon where my good friends, Steve and Jo, picked me up, took me to my car and, voila, by 4:30 French time, I was home again.
Last night I headed for pizza Monday, a verre or two of wine at the Bar du Pont, and a reunion with lots of friends. Perfection. The weather and turnout were grand, I met folks visiting from England, and had a fine, bi-lingual time before turning in to bed.
When I woke up it was September and my fall stay in Mollans had officially begun.
The week before I left for France was packed with events. My bookgroup of 30 plus years met on Tuesday. Glen, my husband, turned 63 on Wednesday and I, in characteristic fashion, wasn't home to cebebrate--teaching instead. We saw a play to celebrate said birthday on Thursday, and I turned in 13 recipes for two different projects by the end of the week. Saturday, I squeezed in Julie and Julia, which I'll return to in a later blog, went to a neighbors to celebrate her 66 birthday, and took off for France on Sunday evening, after finally packing my suticase that morning.
Along with packing, there was the usual blizzard of e-mails, bill paying and bill collecting--yet another subject for a later blog--and, of course, the cleaning of the refrigetator and the harvesting of basil. It's been cold in Minnesota and I knew my basil wouldn't make it until I returned so I also harvested and froze that crop on Sunday between packing and closing up the kitchen. Glen doesn't cook so there's no point in leaving anything for him in the fridge. It's just there waiting for me, fuzzy as a fleece, when I get back.
And then I was at the airport.
I've had excellent plane karma lately. I checked in, walked away from the counter, and looked down at my boarding pass to find out my gate number. Then I noticed my seat--4E. How did that happen? I certainly don't have the budget to fly to France first class. I wasn't asking question but did a little celebration skip and headed for the plane. Once at my gate, I found out what the deal was. Evidently, the flight was overbooked and so, at least I'm assuming, because I'm an elite flyer, I got bumped into first class to make room for someone else in steerage. Bliss.
Eight hours of flying time later, I arrived at CDG--Paris's international airport--and headed for the train station in an adjacent terminal. I got on the high speed TGV and sped my way to Avignon where my good friends, Steve and Jo, picked me up, took me to my car and, voila, by 4:30 French time, I was home again.
Last night I headed for pizza Monday, a verre or two of wine at the Bar du Pont, and a reunion with lots of friends. Perfection. The weather and turnout were grand, I met folks visiting from England, and had a fine, bi-lingual time before turning in to bed.
When I woke up it was September and my fall stay in Mollans had officially begun.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Summer Gold
Sometimes I wonder why I'm here in Minneapolis during August. Europeans from almost everywhere in the EU are flocking to Provence in droves for their month-long vacation. It's good to stop and think from time to time why you're doing one thing and not another. The reflection either blasts you out of a worthless rut or affirms and reminds you of the worth of what you're doing.
On a superficial level, the answer to why Minneapolis instead of Provence is easy. In some parts of southern France, it's hard to turn around for all the crowds. But, while Mollans is certainly hopping with Germans, Dutch, British and Belgians right now, it's not such a hot spot as to ever be over-run and not the reason why I'm not there. Rather, the answer to why here is because I love Minnesota in the summer.
Last night, climbing into bed, a cricket's one-note serenade lulled me on towards sleep. Soon he'll be joined by his buddies and a slightly plaintive, softly scratchy chorale will fill each night's air with a hymn to fleeting summer and fall's imminent arrival. Before I'd nodded off, the song changed and the cricket hushed,taken over by tympani crashes of thunder and then the loud plinks of rain against the roof and glass panes. Too tired to shut the windows, I hoped for the best and let the now steady and slightly blurred raindrop rustle pull me into oblivion.
This morning's still dark skies have now transitioned to summer gold as I look out my office window. The play of light on tree limbs laden with happy-to-see-a-little-water-leaves is as spectacular as a painting. Soon, I'll head downstairs and cook up some Minnesota sweet corn, the real gold of the season, both in looks and worth. Slathered with sweet butter from a local creamery once barely cooked, then liberally salted and dripping, there's nothing better. The steady crunch, crunch, crunch of teeth biting into rows on rows of kernels mimics like a base-note refrain the higher-pitched cricket rhythm of the night before.
We're going to have a patch of real summer this week, lots of heat mixed with the thunderstorms and the humidity they leave behind. It will make my other August love grow even better--the tomato. I'm waiting for my coeur de boeuf plant, grown from a French seed, to ripen its fat, heart-shaped fruit. It will be interesting to see if, grown in Minneapolis soil and climate, the tomatoes from this plant will taste the same as those in Mollans. We're already eating the American tomatoes called Big Girls that will come faster and faster with the warmth until I won't be able to keep up. Right now, the round, red globes are just enough to slice and sprinkle with garden basil. I drizzle them with olive oil from Mollans' mill, and dust with a bit of fleur de sel, both brought home in my suitcase for just this occasion. Before I know it, I'll be making gazpacho, we'll be eating BLTs with a side of corn--about the best summer meal in creation--and then I'll need to put the rest up by roasting and freezing for the cold winter months.
A spot of air conditioning helps enormously to break up all the moist heat that's going to be thrown at us and that's one thing--the air conditioning that is--still fairly scarce in our part of France. Provence is no stranger to scorching days and the solution for most is to rely on thick-walled homes and closed shutters during the day. That, unfortunately, creates a bit of a cave-like atmosphere in many homes and seals out the gleamingly glorious light that Van-Gogh and Cezanne loved so well.
By the end of the month, as the vines surrounding our village start drooping from the weight of dusky purple grapes, the weather will lighten and the vacationers will leave. That's when I'll be back to delight in warm days and cooler evenings, windows open and un-shuttered to let in the harvest light followed by the rich dark of rural nights.
In the meantime, I'll listen to my cricket as his night song swells towards autumn and enjoy the golden Minnesota summer while I can.
On a superficial level, the answer to why Minneapolis instead of Provence is easy. In some parts of southern France, it's hard to turn around for all the crowds. But, while Mollans is certainly hopping with Germans, Dutch, British and Belgians right now, it's not such a hot spot as to ever be over-run and not the reason why I'm not there. Rather, the answer to why here is because I love Minnesota in the summer.
Last night, climbing into bed, a cricket's one-note serenade lulled me on towards sleep. Soon he'll be joined by his buddies and a slightly plaintive, softly scratchy chorale will fill each night's air with a hymn to fleeting summer and fall's imminent arrival. Before I'd nodded off, the song changed and the cricket hushed,taken over by tympani crashes of thunder and then the loud plinks of rain against the roof and glass panes. Too tired to shut the windows, I hoped for the best and let the now steady and slightly blurred raindrop rustle pull me into oblivion.
This morning's still dark skies have now transitioned to summer gold as I look out my office window. The play of light on tree limbs laden with happy-to-see-a-little-water-leaves is as spectacular as a painting. Soon, I'll head downstairs and cook up some Minnesota sweet corn, the real gold of the season, both in looks and worth. Slathered with sweet butter from a local creamery once barely cooked, then liberally salted and dripping, there's nothing better. The steady crunch, crunch, crunch of teeth biting into rows on rows of kernels mimics like a base-note refrain the higher-pitched cricket rhythm of the night before.
We're going to have a patch of real summer this week, lots of heat mixed with the thunderstorms and the humidity they leave behind. It will make my other August love grow even better--the tomato. I'm waiting for my coeur de boeuf plant, grown from a French seed, to ripen its fat, heart-shaped fruit. It will be interesting to see if, grown in Minneapolis soil and climate, the tomatoes from this plant will taste the same as those in Mollans. We're already eating the American tomatoes called Big Girls that will come faster and faster with the warmth until I won't be able to keep up. Right now, the round, red globes are just enough to slice and sprinkle with garden basil. I drizzle them with olive oil from Mollans' mill, and dust with a bit of fleur de sel, both brought home in my suitcase for just this occasion. Before I know it, I'll be making gazpacho, we'll be eating BLTs with a side of corn--about the best summer meal in creation--and then I'll need to put the rest up by roasting and freezing for the cold winter months.
A spot of air conditioning helps enormously to break up all the moist heat that's going to be thrown at us and that's one thing--the air conditioning that is--still fairly scarce in our part of France. Provence is no stranger to scorching days and the solution for most is to rely on thick-walled homes and closed shutters during the day. That, unfortunately, creates a bit of a cave-like atmosphere in many homes and seals out the gleamingly glorious light that Van-Gogh and Cezanne loved so well.
By the end of the month, as the vines surrounding our village start drooping from the weight of dusky purple grapes, the weather will lighten and the vacationers will leave. That's when I'll be back to delight in warm days and cooler evenings, windows open and un-shuttered to let in the harvest light followed by the rich dark of rural nights.
In the meantime, I'll listen to my cricket as his night song swells towards autumn and enjoy the golden Minnesota summer while I can.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
On being slightly past prime
We headed to the town of Grignan one sunny day to check out the roses. The drive isn't taxing and there's a lovely tea salon with a garden full of blooms right next to the town's lavoir--a circular pool that was once used for washing--as extra incentive.
Shortly after lunch, we got into our eight-year old Peugeot and headed on our way. I suspect that the rate of calculating the life span of cars is a bit like converting dog years into human ones, and puts our vehicle into something past middle age but not yet doddering. Like us, the car's surface shows some wear and tear and it's been needing a few replacements. The tab was less than the dental replacement that I need but still noticeable. We'd just put on two new tires and felt much safer if a bit poorer as we rolled through the Cotes du Rhone vineyards on our outing. The vines were looking very sprightly, waving their new tendrils straight up in the gently blowing air, in a celebration to spring, youth, rebirth and all the great May growing energy around us.
Once there, we realized that the roses were a bit past their prime too, still lovely but a bit overblown, the way I like to think of myself on a good hair day. A sudden burst of heat must have pushed them along but they made us happy anyway and glad we'd made the effort. From there, we headed for the tea salon, pots of Mariage Freres tea, an apricot rosemary tartlet and serene surroundings. In a wonderful display of life's serendipity, the roses in their small garden were just at peak and we felt doubly rewarded for treating ourselves.
And so,whether springing fresh, at prime or edging towards decline, beauty and life give pleasure to those who seek and see.
Shortly after lunch, we got into our eight-year old Peugeot and headed on our way. I suspect that the rate of calculating the life span of cars is a bit like converting dog years into human ones, and puts our vehicle into something past middle age but not yet doddering. Like us, the car's surface shows some wear and tear and it's been needing a few replacements. The tab was less than the dental replacement that I need but still noticeable. We'd just put on two new tires and felt much safer if a bit poorer as we rolled through the Cotes du Rhone vineyards on our outing. The vines were looking very sprightly, waving their new tendrils straight up in the gently blowing air, in a celebration to spring, youth, rebirth and all the great May growing energy around us.
Once there, we realized that the roses were a bit past their prime too, still lovely but a bit overblown, the way I like to think of myself on a good hair day. A sudden burst of heat must have pushed them along but they made us happy anyway and glad we'd made the effort. From there, we headed for the tea salon, pots of Mariage Freres tea, an apricot rosemary tartlet and serene surroundings. In a wonderful display of life's serendipity, the roses in their small garden were just at peak and we felt doubly rewarded for treating ourselves.
And so,whether springing fresh, at prime or edging towards decline, beauty and life give pleasure to those who seek and see.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Home Improvement
Last week was home improvement week here in Mollans which meant we spent most of our days on a ladder.
After painting the wall we'd had repaired last fall with special, water sealer paint, we moved on to ceilings--covering spots on my bedroom "plafond" and a total overhaul of Hallie's.
This, of course, required paint. Somehow, we managed to justify a trip to Avignon and the requisite gas by deciding paint would be cheaper at one of the big box stores there. And, since we were there, we thought we might as well visit one or two of our favorite clothing and shoe stores, just in case something caught our eye.
Luckily for the pocketbook, we weren't that taken with the apparel collection. It was really a good thing as the cost of paint sent us reeling. We'd planned on doing Hallie's walls too but, at about 45 euros for a 5 liter container (that's about $60.00 for a gallon and a quarter) of pale yellow paint, we decided to just focus on her ceiling for this year.
We also were yearning for our own ladder. Normally, we borrow one but it seemed time to step up (pun intended) and get one of our own. Arriving at the store, we realized we didn't know the word for ladder in French but fell on a nice stepladder that the store was using for stocking the shelves. We asked a passing clerk where they stocked "un de ca" or one of those. She laughed, told us the name in French--escabeau--and told us to follow her. At the ladder section, she left us and we found a lovely, four-step, aluminum stepladder for 42 euros. Ouch. We left it there, richer in vocabulary and cash. One container of ceiling paint later, we headed home.
Calling our friend, Ian, we borrowed his escabeau and settled in to our task. After scraping, patching, washing and taping over several days, we'd completed our prep and slathered on clean, white, transforming magic all from one single tub of paint. Bliss in a bucket.
Interspersed with all our labors, we made sure we were also enjoying ourselves. We went to markets, had a friend over for dinner--chicken, of course--and laughed a lot while dust and drips of paint fell in our hair while working. Not a bad week, all in all.
After painting the wall we'd had repaired last fall with special, water sealer paint, we moved on to ceilings--covering spots on my bedroom "plafond" and a total overhaul of Hallie's.
This, of course, required paint. Somehow, we managed to justify a trip to Avignon and the requisite gas by deciding paint would be cheaper at one of the big box stores there. And, since we were there, we thought we might as well visit one or two of our favorite clothing and shoe stores, just in case something caught our eye.
Luckily for the pocketbook, we weren't that taken with the apparel collection. It was really a good thing as the cost of paint sent us reeling. We'd planned on doing Hallie's walls too but, at about 45 euros for a 5 liter container (that's about $60.00 for a gallon and a quarter) of pale yellow paint, we decided to just focus on her ceiling for this year.
We also were yearning for our own ladder. Normally, we borrow one but it seemed time to step up (pun intended) and get one of our own. Arriving at the store, we realized we didn't know the word for ladder in French but fell on a nice stepladder that the store was using for stocking the shelves. We asked a passing clerk where they stocked "un de ca" or one of those. She laughed, told us the name in French--escabeau--and told us to follow her. At the ladder section, she left us and we found a lovely, four-step, aluminum stepladder for 42 euros. Ouch. We left it there, richer in vocabulary and cash. One container of ceiling paint later, we headed home.
Calling our friend, Ian, we borrowed his escabeau and settled in to our task. After scraping, patching, washing and taping over several days, we'd completed our prep and slathered on clean, white, transforming magic all from one single tub of paint. Bliss in a bucket.
Interspersed with all our labors, we made sure we were also enjoying ourselves. We went to markets, had a friend over for dinner--chicken, of course--and laughed a lot while dust and drips of paint fell in our hair while working. Not a bad week, all in all.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
This Little Piggy Went to Market
Pigs seem to be a recurring theme in this spring's travels. Today, in the Nyons' Olive Co-Op, I came across Corsican sausages and had to smile. The little and not-so-little piggies of Corsica were with me most of the trip there, both live and cooked. Cuba too.
When Hallie and I told our friend, Cristiane, at the Hotel St. Marc here in Mollans, that we were headed to Corsica, she warned us to watch out for the black pigs on the road. It wasn't more than a few hours into our trip that we realized how right she was. We headed into the rugged, mountainous center portion of Corsica to start our visit and the chestnut trees that grow there feed both humans and pigs. We learned quickly to watch for the porkers while rounding the turns that resembled their corkscrew tails. Here's a mixed set of them--black, pink and in between--imperviously grazing as traffic rolled on by.
Later, we enjoyed them in a lovely cured sausage plate for lunch and their wilder cousin--the sanglier, or boar--in a winey stew one evening. The Corsicans feel the chestnuts flavor the meat and we thought we detected an underlying succulent sweetness. We managed to consume our share of chestnuts too along the way, fattening us up just as nicely.
The reoccuring part of this porcine remembrance is that I'd come across plenty of pork on my plate in Cuba as well. Roasted to tenderness, it came served in chunks, often with companion pieces of chicken. I came across pigs on the road there too, but this time caged.
It seems only right, in honor of all these piggies gone to market, to include an old recipe of mine for pork chops braised with chestnuts. Enjoy.
BRAISED PORK CHOPS WITH CHESTNUTS AND ONIONS
24 fresh chestnuts or unsweetened canned chestnuts
4 tablespoons Canola oil
3 cups sliced onions, (about 3 onions)
¼ teaspoon sugar
6 pork loin chops, 3/4-inch thick
-Pepper
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 cups low-sodium beef broth
1/3 cup port
1 (8-oz.) pkg. mushrooms, quartered
Preheat oven to 350°F.
If using fresh chestnuts, bring 2 quarts of water to a boil in a large pot. With a small knife, make an “X” on one side of each chestnut; drop into boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes. Drain. When cool enough to handle, peel with sharp knife. Slice chestnuts in half lengthwise; reserve. If using canned chestnuts, drain well; reserve.
Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When hot, add sliced onions. Cook, stirring often, until onions begin to brown, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with sugar; continue cooking until well browned, about 10 to 15 minutes. Reserve.
Pepper each chop; dredge in flour in shallow dish. Add remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to same skillet; brown pork chops in batches, about 5 to 8 minutes per side, adding more oil if necessary. Place chops in baking dish; cover with onions, chestnuts and mushrooms.
Add stock and port to skillet; bring to a simmer, scraping up any brown bits. Pour over chops. Bake, covered, until meat is very tender, about 1 ½ hours.
4 to 6 servings
When Hallie and I told our friend, Cristiane, at the Hotel St. Marc here in Mollans, that we were headed to Corsica, she warned us to watch out for the black pigs on the road. It wasn't more than a few hours into our trip that we realized how right she was. We headed into the rugged, mountainous center portion of Corsica to start our visit and the chestnut trees that grow there feed both humans and pigs. We learned quickly to watch for the porkers while rounding the turns that resembled their corkscrew tails. Here's a mixed set of them--black, pink and in between--imperviously grazing as traffic rolled on by.
Later, we enjoyed them in a lovely cured sausage plate for lunch and their wilder cousin--the sanglier, or boar--in a winey stew one evening. The Corsicans feel the chestnuts flavor the meat and we thought we detected an underlying succulent sweetness. We managed to consume our share of chestnuts too along the way, fattening us up just as nicely.
The reoccuring part of this porcine remembrance is that I'd come across plenty of pork on my plate in Cuba as well. Roasted to tenderness, it came served in chunks, often with companion pieces of chicken. I came across pigs on the road there too, but this time caged.
It seems only right, in honor of all these piggies gone to market, to include an old recipe of mine for pork chops braised with chestnuts. Enjoy.
BRAISED PORK CHOPS WITH CHESTNUTS AND ONIONS
24 fresh chestnuts or unsweetened canned chestnuts
4 tablespoons Canola oil
3 cups sliced onions, (about 3 onions)
¼ teaspoon sugar
6 pork loin chops, 3/4-inch thick
-Pepper
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 cups low-sodium beef broth
1/3 cup port
1 (8-oz.) pkg. mushrooms, quartered
Preheat oven to 350°F.
If using fresh chestnuts, bring 2 quarts of water to a boil in a large pot. With a small knife, make an “X” on one side of each chestnut; drop into boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes. Drain. When cool enough to handle, peel with sharp knife. Slice chestnuts in half lengthwise; reserve. If using canned chestnuts, drain well; reserve.
Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When hot, add sliced onions. Cook, stirring often, until onions begin to brown, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with sugar; continue cooking until well browned, about 10 to 15 minutes. Reserve.
Pepper each chop; dredge in flour in shallow dish. Add remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to same skillet; brown pork chops in batches, about 5 to 8 minutes per side, adding more oil if necessary. Place chops in baking dish; cover with onions, chestnuts and mushrooms.
Add stock and port to skillet; bring to a simmer, scraping up any brown bits. Pour over chops. Bake, covered, until meat is very tender, about 1 ½ hours.
4 to 6 servings
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