Tomato Kumato

Sometimes, people happen to be interested in really useful things, like my ex, the Parisian, who was really, genuinely interested in fixing computers. So much so that it didn’t even bother him when I would stop working, point at my computer, and make high-pitched wordless sounds until he fixed whatever was ailing the laptop that sometimes feels like my entire life.

I, however, went with something decidedly less useful: French. Now, don’t get me wrong, when I went skiing in Quebec my freshman year of college, I was all over the taxi-ordering and menu-translating, but living in New York City, French doesn’t necessarily pop up as a necessity on a daily basis.

Spanish, on the other hand…

I’m glad I learned French. I love French, I love France, and I love the French, which is more than I can say for a lot of people who sat next to me through five years of high school French. And I do use it on a daily basis, even if it is on Facebook chat and I write things like “c” for “c’est” and “qqc” for “quelque chose.” It happens to the best of us, and until I write “sa va” for “ca va,” I will not apologize. You do, however, have the right to hunt me down and string me up by my toenails should I ever, ever write “sa va.”

Moving on.

I started learning Spanish during my junior year of high school, when I decided that learning a second foreign language was more useful than calculus. For the record, current high schoolers (sorry, parents…) it was.

Why? Well, a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was spending two months learning to surf in Spanish last year. I also successfully navigated the Barcelona airport several times this summer, gave the evil eye to a Spanish waiter in Figueras who was trying to flirt with one of our under-age campers, cheered for Spain in the World Cup without feeling like a poser and was introduced to the world of Spanish wine.

But perhaps one of the most useful, at least in my current day-to-day life and especially from the point of view from my father, is being able to talk to our Mexican gardener, Arturo.

Please don’t use that sentence to judge me.

I actually find it extremely embarassing to speak Spanish with people my father employs, not only because I hate, hate ordering people around when I don’t feel that I have the authority to do so, and no matter how nicely I ask (and make sure to use Usted), I still feel bossy. But even worse is the fact that the things I’m usually asked to translate–lawnmower, weeds, pine trees–are not words that I ever learned. I can talk about swells and point breaks just fine, but when it comes to gardening, I’ve got a black thumb in whatever language you want me to speak.

Nevertheless, I like to let my father see the fruits of the private school education he shelled out for, so I settled myself down in front of WordReference.com and found the appropriate words, typing up a little script, because, as everyone knows, I already hate speaking on the phone in English, nevermind in French, so Spanish was definitely not my cup of tea.

It was all worth it, in the end, though. My brother passed through the room where I had hidden out with my script and my phone. He stared at me, frowning for a few moments, before he continued into the kitchen. When I had finished my call, I followed, and my brother, standing over a large plate of melon–normal, in our house–looked up at me, the same confused look on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“You actually speak Spanish.”

I guess I forget that all the time and effort I put into learning my third language has sort of gone unnoticed by people who don’t see me every day. After all, my Good Egg wasn’t around when I spent my afternoons wandering San Sebastian–there’s no way he could know about all of the things I saw and learned.

He didn’t witness the San Sebastian festival that had me surprised in front of the main square by a man wearing a flaming bull’s head as a hat and a Basque flag as a cape.

He wasn’t watched every afternoon by Jesus on the Mount, and he didn’t decide, on one of his last days, to climb up to say “hello” to Him.

He didn’t take off from school to drive to Sopelana to watch Kelly Slater defeated by a relatively unknown Brazilian surfer.

As for me, I’m mostly just grateful that, as a writer, I naturally make a record of things that I’ve done that I deem important. It means that, more than a year later, when this article came out–From Corderos and Cheese to Artisans and Alubias–the people who weren’t there can relive those experiences with me.

And, of course, I can relive those experiences myself.

Tomorrow, there will be food again, but today, I’m taking a stroll down memory lane to remember that, nearly a year ago, my Spanish was little more than “hola,” and I had never tried alubias.

My first morning in Paris (OK, my most recent “first morning in Paris”) was tinged with excitement and nerves: I took the RER C from Breuillet into the city–a trip that used to feel normal and slow and easy turned strange, a 50-minute voyage that I used to make nearly every week with the Parisian couldn’t happen fast enough this time… something about arriving at the hotel I used to frequent in the middle of the night sent me back in time to a place that no longer felt normal, and I couldn’t get back to the city fast enough. A tourist left a rolling suitcase by the doors of the train, as tourists are wont to do, and I stared at it for nearly the entire trip, certain that it was going to explode and wondering if I would be safer ducking under my own giant backpack or hurling myself into the laps of the people next to me, who had the good fortune to be blocked from said explosion thanks to the staircase leading to the second level of the train.

Luckily, nothing exploded, and I managed to get off the train at my old stop–Gare d’Austerlitz–and made my way to the 12th, where I would arrive more than half an hour early for my apartment visit… normal for me, as I sat perched on my backpack, waiting for the sun to pop out from behind a cloud.

Instead, what popped out was Francois, an official Parisian street cleaner in a bright green jumpsuit who stopped to chat and swept the same square meter for twenty minutes as I sat on my bag on the sidewalk. I don’t remember how he opened the conversation–conversing is one of those things, along with apéro and easy dinner parties–that the French do so well and yet I still can’t find the formula to their success.

After a few minutes in which I found out that his daughter, also named Emily (although probably Emilie), who is also starting university in the fall, it happened: that moment where a native speaker suddenly hears a tic or a misplaced pronoun in my sentence, enough for them to realize I’m not from here.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“The States,” I said.

“You speak so well!” he responded. I’ve had this conversation so many times.

“I know I still have a little accent,” I said, because no matter how many times my mother has told me to take a compliment with a simple, “Thank you,” I can’t. “J’essaie de m’en débarasser,” I’m trying to get rid of it. Because, in the end, that’s what this is all about: I could have done a million things, but in the end, I went for a French Lit. Masters, one last effort at making my French as pristine and easy as my English.

“Don’t,” he answers. “C’est charmant.” It’s charming.

Home never felt so good until home was almost an apartment so empty, there wasn’t a light bulb, a stove top, a shower curtain in the whole place. I almost took the aforementioned apartment, if only because Francois offered to help me move in, to come clean if I needed (and believe me… this place needed it). But while that little, 20-minute chat with Francois reminded me exactly what it was about this city I had missed, how pleased I was with my decision to be coming back, I chose an apartment at the other end of the city, in Porte de Versailles, an apartment that truly does feel like coming home from the second I open the front door.

Home is a concept that, for me, is ever-changing. My parents moved out of our home in New York while I was still in France, our house on Long Island teeming with boxes to be unloaded. Home on Long Island, the one true home I’ve claimed, feels strange now that half of the people I grew up with have left before I even arrived. And home in Paris, my new home, though it’s furnished and waiting for me, is still empty and unlived in, an unknown. I spent one night there before flying back to the States, and I spent it on the loveseat, my feet sticking up over the arm, my back contorting to accomodate its small size. I can’t move in completely the first night somewhere–it feels too strange. At least now, after years of moving and more new apartments than I can count, I know the remedy: cooking.

It used to be a huge pot of tomato sauce, but I’ve since moved past pasta as a standby. I’m thinking maybe it will be this coq au vin, because even though it wasn’t a part of my childhood, it just feels like one of those homey dishes, comforting and easy and slow. Yes, I think more than anything else in my repertoire, coq au vin will feel like coming home.

Coq au Vin

6 chicken thighs
salt and fresh black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
10 garlic cloves, peeled
1 onion, sliced
1 cup red wine
1 cup water

Rinse and pat chicken dry. Season with salt and store in the fridge, uncovered, at least 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

Heat oil in a skillet over high heat. Place the chicken, skin side down, in the pan and cook until the skin turns golden, about 5-8 minutes. Do not crowd the pan: cook chicken in batches if necessary. Remove chicken to a sturdy Dutch oven with a lid.

Remove all except 1-2 tablespoons of fat from the skillet. Add the onions to the pan and cook until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic cloves and cook until fragrant, about 2 minutes.

Deglaze the pan with wine, and stir with a wooden spoon until the fond is dissolved into the liquid. Add the water and bring to a boil.

Pour the liquid, onions and garlic cloves over the chicken and cover with the lid. Place in the oven and cook until the chicken is cooked through, about 20-25 minutes.

Serve with parsleyed or mashed potatoes, or just a good loaf of crusty, French bread to sop up extra sauce.

It’s strange how quickly you start to intuit cooking for a large group of people, once you’ve got your groove.

Our trips to the supermarket were epic: five whole chickens, packs of chicken breasts and chicken legs we threw at one another to amuse the locals, who likely thought they might not get their hands on any meat that week. We had three freezers and two fridges, and even that wasn’t enough.

Once I get home, back to my own little kitchen, I know that I’ll take maybe fifteen minutes to put together dinner–I’m partial to a can of chickpeas and a can of tomatoes cooked together with some cayenne pepper and salt for a quick weeknight meal. But in Paziols, dinner takes me at least two hours to make, two hours in which the house is empty–the kids have left for the Prade–and I can wander around the rooms like a ghost and see what it would feel like if we weren’t here, if this house, like all the other houses on this street, were home to just a handful of people and not a crowd that announces its presence every time it arrives.

The terrace, usually a playground for those anxious to eat or waiting for dessert, is a sunny heaven for tanning. If I had more than just a few minutes, I’d be out here with a glass of iced coffee and a book, looking out over the vines and the roofs of the neighboring houses.

But I don’t–paella is waiting. It’s a relatively easy dish, once all the elements are put together. I make it in a pot large enough for the lid to have served as the Country Boy’s shield during our medieval dinner, with merguez instead of sausage for our non-pork-eating friends and because the spice makes it that much tastier. I use two kilos of rice… and there are no leftovers.

Tomato Paella (adapted from Pinch My Salt)

3 1/2 C. chicken or vegetable broth
1 1/2 pounds ripe tomatoes, cored and cut into thick wedges
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/4 C. extra virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
2 large cloves of garlic, minced
1 T. tomato paste
large pinch saffron threads
2 t. smoked paprika
2 C. arborio rice
3-4 oz. merguez, diced

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Warm broth in a saucepan. Put tomatoes in a medium bowl, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and drizzle with 1 T. olive oil. Toss to coat.

Put remaining 3 T. oil in a 10- or 12-inch ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat. Add onion and garlic, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables soften, 3 to 5 minutes. Stir in tomato paste, saffron, and paprika and cook for a minute more. Add rice and cook, stirring occasionally, until it is shiny, another minute or two. Add the chopped sausage and liquid and stir until just combined.

Put tomato wedges on top of rice and drizzle with remaining juices. Put pan in oven and roast, undisturbed, for 15 minutes. Check to see if rice is dry and just tender. If not, return pan to oven for another 5 minutes. If rice looks too dry but still is not quite done, add a small amount of stock or water (or wine). When rice is ready, turn off oven and let pan sit for 5 to 15 minutes.

Put pan over high heat for a few minutes to develop a bit of a bottom crust before serving (this is the best part!)

Working in Paziols is unlike working anywhere else: at most jobs, you arrive and you know approximately what your day is going to look like–make some calls, finish a project or two, meetings… In Paziols, however, there is nothing out of the ordinary when, over your morning coffee, you are told…

“We’re going to invite the neighbors had have a medieval feast.”

And when you, or should I say, I, am the chef, so to speak, much of this falls on my shoulders.

I started planning a few days in advance–those of you who have come to one of my Thanksgivings, or who attended brunch earlier this summer, will understand what the kitchen–and my nervous system–looked like the evening of. Luckily, I had planned enough in advance to make sure that each course would have minimal prep before leaving the kitchen, and with the aid of my housewench, (a.k.a. the Marseillaise with an old-fashioned French maid’s apron), there were no casualties during the feast.

Oh, and what a feast.

We did a lot of research (OK… the Marseillaise did a lot of research) to make sure that everything would be accurate. The table was set with fruits, sweet wine and huge slices of homemade bread that would serve as plates. There were no plates in the middle ages.

The first course arrived in bowls (there were bowls in the middle ages): a soup known as brouet that was apparently very popular in the middle ages. It’s a combination of cinnamon, chicken and ground almonds, and while it seemed strange to me, the kids loved it.

Next, we served a salad of smoked salmon, cucumber and dill. The salmon and dill were cut into tiny pieces so that it would be easier to eat with bread or the fingers. Because, you see, horror of all horrors for She-Who-Swept-the-Downstairs-Floor, there were no forks in the middle ages.

Next, we served mussels à la marinière and escargots à la bourguignonne. I was surprised at how many of the kids tried the seafood, even if it did come in shells. I suppose it was part of the atmosphere of the evening.

Next, there was chicken with lavender sauce. The kids had fun wielding the chicken legs at one another in Henry VIII fashion. Never mind that Henry VIII was several centuries later.

After this, there was daube de boeuf that had simmered for a day in the oven. It was fall-apart tender and pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.

Finally, we had dessert: roasted peaches with lavender and honey, fig and apple turnovers, and flourless chocolate cake. I think we can all guess which dessert had the most success, although the peaches were delicious the next day for breakfast.

All in all, it was a great experience. Between courses, we took breaks so that the kids could perform plays and sing songs, and by the end, everyone was exhausted and ready for bed: I like to think that four-hour meals had the same effect in the middle ages.

Brouet

3 breasts of chicken, diced
2 Tbsp. butter
1 cup ground almonds
1 Tbsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. ground ginger
salt to taste

Heat the butter in a large, heavy-bottomed saucepot and add the chicken. Cook until browned on the outside, then add the almonds, cinnamon and ginger. Cover with 2 liters of water and simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Purée the soup and add salt and seasoning to taste.

Smoked Salmon, Cucumber and Dill Salad

2 cucumbers
salt
400 g. smoked salmon
1 bunch dill, minced

Peel and finely dice the cucumbers. Salt them lightly and place in a colander over a bowl. Cover and place in the fridge. Allow to drain at least an hour.

Meanwhile, finely dice the salmon. Mix with the dill and chill.

When ready to serve, taste the cucumber for seasoning and add more salt if needed. Spread the cucumber over the bottom of a glass bowl, and add the salmon on top. Serve with lemon wedges, if desired.

Moules à la Marinière

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1 stalk celery, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 bottle white wine
1 pound mussels, cleaned and sorted

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy bottomed pot with a lid. Add the onion, carrot and celery and sauté 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant. Add the wine and mussels, and cover the pot. Reduce the heat and cook until the mussels open, about 5 minutes. Serve immediately.

Poulet à la Lavande

10 entire chicken legs, cut into drumstick and thigh portions
salt

1 bottle white wine
1 bunch lavender (about 10 sprigs)
1 cup heavy cream
2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper

Wash and dry the chicken legs, salt them liberally, and roast them in a 400 degree oven until the skin is crispy, 30-40 minutes.

Meanwhile, bring the wine to a boil in a large pot with a cover. When the wine boils, turn off the flame and add the lavender. Cover the pot and allow to steep for an hour.

When ready to serve, remove the lavender from the wine and bring to a simmer. Allow to reduce by half.

Meanwhile, heat the cream with the salt and pepper. When the wine is reduced, slowly add it to the warm cream, whisking all the time. Serve on the side.