tomato_kumato

Accidental Hedonist Day!

I know, I know. I really need to stop with the apricot jam. But just bear with me once more… I have to show you these pictures: they’re just too adorable to keep to myself.

The house here in Paziols has room to sleep quite a few: we were 23 for the first session. However, we also have kids come from Monday-Friday, 9-5 for a centre aéré or day camp. The first day campers started coming a few days ago, and they immediately fell in love with their cooking atelier with Patricia. The first project? More jam.

The recipe here is a bit different: instead of Vitpris, the jam is made with equal parts (in weight) of fruit and special sugar for making jam. This way, the girls get to mix a lot more, as the fruit essentially needs to be macerated with the sugar before being cooked.

They copied down the recipe as the jam simmered on the stove top, making a drawing for each step so that they could recreate the French instructions later at home.

I think their favorite step was number 10: lécher la casserole (lick the pot).

Next up… watch the girls make croque monsieur!

(Yes… I’m finally done with the apricots. In any case, the season is almost over… and I think I’ve had my fill.)

When it’s berry season back at home, all that means is that we buy more berries. They are cheaper; we buy more. That’s all.

Not so for apricot season in France.

Apricot season here means that there are apricots sold by the crateful on the side of the road.

Apricot season here means that there is an apricot festival. (Read all about it here, at my travel blog.) ALERT: Shameless pimping of my own blog.

Apricot season in this house means apricot jam, and tons of it. The kids have all rotated in and out of the atelier de cuisine, where Patricia has been teaching them how to make apricot jam. Each kid gets a small pot to take home, and the rest, we dutifully eat every morning.

And sometimes in the evening, atop bowls of fromage frais.

Sometimes I have to pinch myself to remind myself that it isn’t a dream. I live in France, and here, everyone loves food just as much as I do.

As we like to say around here, it’s super-chouette.

Patricia’s Confiture aux Abricots (adapted from Vitpris)

1.4 kg apricots
1.8 kg sugar
20 cl water
one packet (37.6 g) Vitpris*

*Vitpris is a fruit-pectin based product that helps make jam set properly. It basically cuts down cooking time. If you can get your hands on some, it’s great.

Wash the apricots. Take out the apricot pits. Cook the fruit slowly over low heat with the water, covered, stirring gently every once in awhile with a wooden spoon, until the fruit has broken down.

Mix two tablespoons of the sugar with the packet of Vitpris. Sprinkle this mixture over the fruit. Bring to a boil for three minutes, and the add the rest of the sugar. Bring the mixture back up to a boil and boil for three minutes. At the end of cooking time, remove the foam from the top with a skimming spoon.

To eat immediately, simply ladle into clean jars, cover them and turn them upside down until they cool.

EDIT: I have been asked to inform you by Alex (also known as the guy in the picture below) to inform you that Bastille Day is a misnomer. The actual fête nationale in France is called Fête de la Féderation, or Federation Day. Bastille Day was judged as being too bloody a day to remember. Federation Day is a lot prettier. Please inform your friends. Thank you.

Yesterday was Bastille Day (EDIT: Federation Day) here in France, and so the night before (or the veille), we all went to the barbecue (grillade) in the center of the town of Paziols. The usually abandoned space near the pétanque courts was transformed, with the help of long folding tables and strings of twinkle lights, into a beautiful space for a fête.

First, there was the food, which is what you are all here for, I suppose.

There was an apératif of the local muscat (we’re right near Rivesaltes, famous for its sweet white wine.) There was red and white table wine served, without ceremony, in picnic-style pitchers. There were meters of white baguette.

There was an entrée of melon and jambon cru (prosciutto), served with even more muscat poured into the vacant space in the melon for the adults amongst us.

There were pork chops and mustard.

There were also sausages, wedges of Camembert, ice cream and peaches, and though I grabbed a peach at some point during the night, by the time the sausages had come out, we had other things on our minds.

There was dancing.

And more dancing.

And more dancing.

Our time here in Paziols is usually broken up into very specific time slots. We have two different “ateliers” or workshops every day, plus an afternoon and evening activity, and three meals. The first activity starts at 10:00, which means that breakfast starts around 8:00.

Breakfast during the week, as it is in most houses, is a rotating affair, where people sit down to bread, Nutella, jam, tea and coffee in between their other morning activities. At the breakfast table, there are only eight chairs for twenty-three people, but we sit, eat and move with such facility that there is no problem with the lack of seats. There is no exception to this rule, except for Sunday.

Sunday, we have “grasse matinée,” literally translated as “fat morning.” On Sunday mornings, people are allowed to sleep in, and at around 11:00 A.M., when everyone is showered and ready, we all sit down, together, at the table outside that is usually reserved for lunch and dinner.

We order viennoiseries and specialty breads from Tuchan, and so Sunday morning breakfast is croissants, pains au chocolat, brioche, croissants aux amandes, anise bread, la couronne (white bread baked in the shape of a crown), chaussons aux pommes… and whatever else looks good in the morning.

All of it is sliced and placed on platters, and milk and water are heated for chocolat chaud, tea and coffee. Finally, after the table is set and everything is prepared, we all sit along the long table, speaking French and sharing a (stereo)typical French breakfast.

I am back in France. It’s strange and nice at the same time… on the one hand, I’m bored so easily and happy to visit new places, but on the other hand, there’s something about France that brings me back every time.

I’m in Paziols again… and it’s amazing to be back. The pattern of life is really different this year. Firstly, we have more kids. Twelve more, to be exact, and the little ones from last year are the big kids this summer. Secondly, we have Patricia, Anne-Marie’s sister, here as a full-time cook. Which is nice, when you’re cooking for twenty people. Cooking for twenty people scares me.

But my first night here, I did it. I made spaghetti Carbonara (never done that before) for twenty people (also never done that before). And it was good. Really good. I’m not too sure how that happened, but I loved it.

But it’s different from making regular Carbonara.

It takes fourteen eggs.

It takes a kilo of bacon.

Which makes more than a cup of bacon grease.

It takes two kilos of spaghetti.

And it takes two American sous-chefs, of course.

Spaghetti Carbonara for Dix

Boil a massive pot of salted water. Cook two kilos of spaghetti. Meanwhile, cook 1 kilo of bacon, chopped. Drain the grease, and, in two reserved tablespoons, cook two onions, chopped. Add the bacon back to the skillet and keep hot. Whisk fourteen eggs together with salt and black pepper. Add 1 heaping tablespoon of crème fraîche. Add the hot spaghetti and hot onions and bacon to the bowl of eggs, stirring to toss and cook the eggs. Serve with grated cheese on the side.

Leftovers are great placed into a baking dish, topped with 1 cup of grated emmental cheese, and baked in a 350 degree oven until the cheese is melted.

As I’m leaving France tomorrow for a month, I thought it only appropriate to do a French-themed post today, and what is more French than pastry?

These are pastries I ordered at a café in Nice with my friends: a millefeuille, a chocolate éclair, and some sort of apple shortbread type thing. Oh, and hot chocolate, which in France seems to often be just that: that cup was essentially full of melted chocolate, and my friend who had ordered it had to ask for a cup of hot milk to mix with it.

Something I’ve noticed about the French and their desserts is the emphasis on elegance. Whereas in the States we will frequently bake a batch of cookies, a sheet cake or a fruit crumble for dessert, in France, desserts are usually purchased at a bakery. It’s hard to even find ingredients like baking soda or baking powder, or even cupcake liners and cookie cutters. The apple dessert pictured above is probably the least typical of all of these desserts: the decoration on top of the millefeuille is always perfect, the line of chocolate frosting on top of the éclair perfectly straight. The desserts look the same no matter where you buy them.

There will always be something very comforting about a slightly less-than-perfect chocolate chip cookie straight out of the oven, but I’m learning to appreciate the comfort in having a perfectly decorated chocolate ganache cake purchased and plated instead.

I’ve often heard that the difference between French food and Italian food is the mindset: the French seek to make something incredible out of what seems like nothing. A croissant is just butter and flour, when it all comes down to it. A baguette is yeast, flour, water and salt. For the French, it’s all in the technique.

The Italians, on the other hand, seek to show off the best of the ingredients, barely adding anything at all. Prosciutto è melone is just that: prosciutto and melon. When I used to stay with a friend whose mother was Italian, she always served us an appetizer of thinly sliced cucumbers and salt: one of the best things I’ve ever had.

When I was in Italy, I came upon this phenomenon once again. I was there with a class of Americans, most of which had never been to Italy or tasted true Italian food. My professor usually ordered for us in restaurants, suggesting a dish he had tried in that restaurant, and also ordering an assortment of fried appetizers. I tasted some of the best pizza, spaghetti with tomatoes and mozzarella, and insalata caprese I’ve ever had.

I use the term insalata caprese lightly. We had taken a boat to Capri from our home base of Naples, and after hiking most of the island (whining and moaning the whole way… I won’t lie), we found a spot by the water and ate our lunch. I had bought one tomato and one ball of buffalo mozzarella, and there, with very little ceremony and over a plastic bag to catch the milk from the mozzarella, I created my own insalata caprese.

Me with two margaritas for the price of one. Olé!

When I actually lived in the States, I never craved American food. Ever. My favorite food was Italian, which, as a New Yorker living in an Italian-American family, I could get any day of the week. I had my occasional sushi binge, and I was never one to turn down a bagel, but I never had these incredible cravings that I get now. When I get home, I buy myself a bucket of buffalo wings and go to town on them. I need, need, need an American grilled cheese with Campbell’s tomato soup. But more than anything, what I really, really miss is decent Mexican food.

I like almost everything that passes my lips to be hot, hot, hot. I used to carry a bottle of Tabasco around with me to flavor food that was not hot enough for my liking. When I reheat my mother’s tomato sauce for lunch, I add crushed red pepper. Where the Canadian adds parmesan cheese, I wield cayenne. The French are not so into hot. I knew that if I wanted Mexican done right in the City of Lights, I would have to do it myself.

I started out with a recipe for Chorizo Tacos from Nosheteria. The recipe was sort of an outline, so I didn’t feel bad changing things up a bit: I didn’t have nearly as many mushrooms as were recommended, so I supplemented extra potato, which I chopped into a fine dice instead of grating (my grater had been melted by the Canadian and we had yet to receive our industrial one care of my Mom). I never achieved the melting potato that was outlined in the original recipe, but it did its job of soaking up the grease from the sausage, which was actually a mix of merguez and Spanish-style Chorizo, which is cured, not raw. But even with the changes, the slick-less taco filling that was promised came through.

This and some white fish that I just floured, spiced with salt, pepper and cayenne were the taco fillings. I also made two quesadillas: one with the chorizo mixture and a mixture of shredded emmental and mimolette (this is France here… we don’t have pepper jack and cheddar), and the other with cheese and a combination of red and green spring onions.

But wait… there’s more!

I also made my famous guacamole, which I learned how to make from our Mexican housekeeper, Francesca. Recipe at the end.

All I seem to see nowadays as commentary on recipes for cornbread, chili, lasagna, spanakopita… is critique for the fact that the recipes aren’t authentic. Well, I’m sorry, but sometimes I can’t find real queso fresco or Mexican chorizo. And I’m OK with that. The whole point of cooking is to try new things, to experiment, and having a group of friends over to enjoy some slightly Frenchified Tex-Mex is my idea of an amazing night.

The Canadian’s three-liter bottle of Crown Royal (aka Steve Royal) got into the festivities as well: he’s sporting the sombrero I brought him from Mexico!

Chorizo Tacos (adapted from Nosheteria)

1 large yellow onion, diced
2 links of merguez, removed from casing
6 slices of Spanish Chorizo, diced
1 large potato, diced fine
5 button mushrooms, sliced

Heat a skillet over medium heat. Add the sausage and stir until it releases some yellow grease. Add the onions and stir, cooking until translucent (5 minutes). Add the potato and fry until cooked through. Add the mushrooms, stirring until they are cooked and all traces of oil are absorbed.

Francesca’s Guacamole

2 Hass avocados
1/2 red onion, finely chopped
1 tomato, seeded and chopped
juice of 2 limes
salt to taste
cilantro, chopped, to taste

Halve and remove the pits from the avocados. While still in their shells, use a sharp knife to chunk them (think checkerboard) and then use a spoon to remove the flesh. Mash SLIGHTLY with the tines of a fork. Combine with the other ingredients, except the tomatoes, and allow to sit for at least an hour. Add the tomatoes and combine fifteen minutes before serving.

Wow… after a lot of difficulty, I’ve finally participated in my first Daring Bakers Challenge… and I loved it!

The challenge this month was for French bread. “Perfect,” thinks I, “I live in France!” Plus, I figure it won’t be too difficult, considering that I’ve made bread before.

I made my little baby bread ball, stuck it in the oven with the light on (thanks for the tip!) And let my kitchen steam up with the smell of bread dough.

Of course, it wasn’t nearly as easy as I thought it would be. The shaping at the end, especially, proved to be rather difficult, as is pretty obvious from my pictures. The tip in the recipe about putting a pan of water and ice in the bottom of the oven to create steam worked wonders for the crust, and the taste was good, which is what counts.

In the end, I definitely learned something, and I’m feeling much more confident in my bread-baking skills. Who knows… maybe bread will become a new part of my regular repertoire?

I’m so glad I participated in this, my first challenge! Be sure to check out the other Daring Bakers’ posts as well!