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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
