Planting Cabbages

behind the scene in arles

back in arles again.

when last summer's teen-chef tours had completed, i returned to arles and remained behind (but somehow got ahead) at the scenes of life in a provencale bed and breakfast/cooking school, association cuisine et tradition.  

august 08 was a delirious, mesmerizing and happenstance gaze at french life all the while running and plodding, revising upwards of 20 pages/day of city of ladies. when not working on the manuscript the delights of a very upstairs/downstairs sort of eccentric life with erick vedel running the ship of the b and b and cooking school was so valuable and so generous that i am able only now to realize how thankful and grateful i am to the universe for allowing me to witness the  richness of life ala arles. 

   

(chef erick holds a portion of bouillabaise, while nervous teen-chefs look on.)

but i was not alone in this experience. teresa engebretsen was also there- she before me as she was living out her own dream. on sabbatical in provence. check out her sabbatical chef blog.

emily, teresa, dorette, and daniella at c'est si bon!

there were the obvious french delights such as: 

long lunches.

this was actually from the summer program, in 2005 - and a visit to the goat cheese maker. another colleague and french teacher, aileen, is keeping a close eye on the abricot box.

but there were so many highlights.

marcel pagnol - the baker's wife.

japanese ladies dancing and giggling over dinner.

c'est comme ca - became the watchword of the month.

c'est normal, a very close second.

gathering with friends of erick's in the place du forum, these lovely folks are the shop keepers of the town. marie-christine, giles barbero, monique and didier, wally (she of the flaming red hair and friend of christian lacroix)

stopping in for merguez sausages at the hallal butchers just off the wednesday market. learning the different cuts of meats.

walking with teresa all the way through the saturday market to the rhone, munching on accras (spicy fried baccala balls) looking for that one 'must have' for only a few euros - and back again.

gathering ingredients for fricot d'bargues.

chef erick making courgette.

19 km, a few moustique - arles to st. gilles - and oh yes, one stone wall

woke up anxious to feed the levain before setting out for savannah this morning. but journeys of any kind, childhood, snowy paths through the woods (wait, isn't that the same thing?) or drives to savannah call so many walks, trundles, scurrying, meandering, and dartings -if dartings can be a noun for a few minutes - along the edge of the forest to mind.   

this lovely crew of ladies, including madeleine vedel of association cuisine et tradition in arles (smack center, grey sweater, black strap slung across her shoulder) set out to walk 19 kilometers to st. gilles one september morning in 2005. was it THAT long ago? madeleine led the foray. merci, madeleine!

 

the day looks chilly, but i remember as we set out that it was nothing but muggsy bugsy.

channeling a scene in indiana jones, i had NOT chosen well. i wore a funky get-up. black leotard and light black shirt, forgetting completely (or not knowing as i was too excited to BE WALKING TO ST. GILLES) that moustique are attracted to black. a moustique is not a mustache, it is a mosquito.

and the moustique we encountered were likely not that large, but the swarms and swaths of buzzing clouds of attacking vermin? well, those were quite beastly.

does 19 km seem a long way to walk?

it doesn't when you say it.

it doesn't when you ride over it in a car; taking in all the black bulls. who, incidentally, i have a new appreciation for since i knew their plight, stuck wearing black.

it even doesn't when you reflect back on it.

but it does when your feet are not used to it.

it does when your knees sway under you.

it does when your walking partner mentions she shouldn't be there, what was she thinking doing this unheard of, unspeakable dalliance as she was sure she was going to tumble and break something.

again. as she had in istanbul.

but somewhere into the 8th or 9th kilometer, the path opens up and thoughts careen around (not completely unlike those buzzing flying knawing pinpricks) and settle on the rhythm of walking.

the stones disappear, grasses flourish.

dare i say, everything physical retreats even in this most physical of all undertakings?

whole gardens appear.

don't they?

and then just when you think the shriek of others who are ahead of you, yes there are others ahead of you, but anyway this shriek of their arrival - surely it will reach your ears. won't it? but how far ahead are they? you can't see them anymore. can you?

that's right, you don't know and so

you walk some more.

 

then across the distance you see civilization.

and though you've been longing to know - how far is 19 km - when you start out you don't really even know if you can do it, or what will happen to you if you cannot -  somehow it is desperately dismal when you see that it will soon be over.

when you realize the journey is passing and in some way, has passed while you were on it.  

what is that about?

is it a concern over not being present?

or is it being so in the moment that you forget everything else?

and now, when the journey is almost complete you long for the new path, new stones underfoot, and fields awash in sunlight that you have never seen before.

and even this; the thrill of not knowing what lies ahead - or how far?

or what glorious experience - you will at some point, hunt down. long to capture.

remember

revisit

relent

refute

 

and then release.

in a way, the journey began when you saw the tiny crevice - and dared look through the hole in the stone wall. past spiders webs and overgrowth on the other side.  

and you knew, a part of you knew what you would find. and you went anyway.  

 

inauguration - the path, the painting and the pomegranate

so, its inauguration day.

 

with all the hope and snow flurrying about it seems a perfect time to make a new levain.

 

sigh. i have been putting this off for quite some time now.  

 

the levain was the foundation i began with - well over a year ago in september 2007.

 

the painting on the right sits on the window frame in my office looking out on the snow (or spring or fall as the case may be) the painting was done my my youngest son, jaryd - and shows the village of ceres, as it leads off to the sea; the mediterranean and so for me, the painting too is the foundation - and i have had to move a bit further away from comfort (the village, home) in order to make this dream (and the novel) of the city of ladies come true.

 

taking whatever steps need to be taken to meet the sea.

 

one of those first steps was to rebuild the levain.

 

over fall of 2008, feeding grew less and less regular. the levain languished on top of the refrigerator in c'est si bon! then with the holidays the final blow came. no one fed it - and what was once a beautiful levain met with an untimely demise. i blame no one but myself. and though i had been trying to revive it - consulting bread boards and experts alike, finally i had to admit i could not.

 

 

so, with change and inspiration abounding, we must carry on!  

 

new levain recipe:

2 cups cooked seven grain cereal 

1 cup rye flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

½ cup honey

a handful of chopped apples

2 cups all purpose flour

1 scant spoon of active dry yeast

and enough water to make an oatmeal-like consistency

start with this warmish mixture and leave to rest at room temperature in a closeable crock of some kind. 

 

 

each day thereafter you must feed it. 

 

 

add a cup of millet flour (or failing this extravagance) a cup of all purpose flour and one cup of water to keep it going.

 

 

 

for dinner we have plans to celebrate a mix, a riotous mix of culture and gratitude.

 

we're all over a spicy morrocan sausage stew with sweet red and orange peppers, carrots, garlic, onions, and perhaps saffron. we'll serve this with a tomato and caper sauce. all tumbled over a hill of garbanzo beans and fried cakes of seven grain cereal. 

 

 

 

a bit savory, a bit rustic, and spicy sweet.  

cinque terra, corniglia - been there?

done that? since my last time in corniglia in 2006 i have met so many friends and oodles of travelers who adore corniglia - and the other four villages of "cinque" (five) terra too. originally i went with our friend, jon, and my husband , rich, before meeting the rest of the group we were taking to tuscany in the fall of 2004. i had not been to corniglia before (nor the cinque terra) but i fell smack in love.

i think i have returned three times since then. cinque terra has become my quickie replacement for taormina. funny though, until i started writing about it - i didn't know i felt that way. though i hope that this year i might go back to taromina as it is the setting for the conclusion of CITY OF LADIES, and i haven't see it since 1998. its a little scary going back to places "you've been before" as they might be changed completely and the memory you have of them wil be the only thing left.  

but corniglia never dissapoints.

In this photo you can see the terraced nature of the vineyards - the steep slopes of wine.

since we were there at the end of september (2004) it was indeed harvest time! you can't believe the baskets - the intense climb up and down to pick the grapes.

there is a funny little roller coaster like beast that brings grapes (and brave pickers) to and fro from the great hills of vino. But in 2006, I had carved out two days at the end of leading culinary tours in Provence and Tuscany- to work on my novel.

 

I would have two days in Corniglia, Italy, I kept repeating as I packed my bags to go to Europe. I knew I would have a million things to do upon retuning home, having been away all summer, but for two days it would be me and the sea; the beautiful and mesmerizing Mediterranean Sea.

The scenes needing work were the fire scenes. Fire was elemental to the plot of my novel. My bread apprentice was working towards becoming a master boulanger and unless she mastered fire, she would not overcome her long-held fire fear that began when she watched her mother burn as a pagan healer.

 

As a writer I knew two days of work would quickly be consumed, no pun intended, so I built a plan, like I would a fire. I started small – and getting to La Terraze pensione was first. I thought and climbed the very steep and long flight of stairs from the train station. A good friend of mine, Jon, sent me a photo that pretty much sums it up. Now you can see what I mean. In my hour walk up and up I planned intense bursts of work around cooling visits to the sea.  

 

 

I was ecstatic to be so mindful, thoughtful, organized and methodical.  In fact I was so ecstatic about being mindful, that I had a hard time getting down to work.

 

From my porch at La Terraze I could sit and see the Mediterranean.

 

And I longed to return to the evening ritual in Corniglia - the following to the sea! that ended each day. Crowds of people, every day moved towards the sea. They moved to watch the sea swirl and move, the sea became our place of worship.

I pictured the walk to the narrow alleyway. I could already hear the Mediterranean, out at a distance. The sea was chanting for me to learn about fire from the orb slowly sinking and hissing into the sea. Below the place of "worship" the terrace where everyone gathered, steep rocks jutted down, crashing into the sea. Similar to The Grand Albergo Capo Taormina Hotel in Sicily.

Maybe it is just as easy to live my life here. It thrilled me so, the letting go of the pressure of the other life, the every day life.

Had I showered?

 

No. (Had they?)

 

Did I care? (Did they?)

 

No, not really.

 

For two whole days I could do and be as I wish.

 

A garden steps out and down across the hill from me. White chickens and ducks. My knees and legs feel were tired from walking on Tuscan stones.

 

For Saturday lunch - no one would seat me, a woman alone, and so if I want to go out, (do I?) I need to make a reservation.

 

So I went grocery shopping to the little osteria above me on the street. Batavia Lettuce, espresso, sugar, milk, pasta, tomato sauce, olives, eggplant, focaccia, pecorino cheese, yellow pepper, fresh basil, and then despite myself, or maybe because of myself, stopped for a slice of pizza. Olive and tomato. Back at la terrazzo I had a glass of chianti, ok, maybe two.

 

I ate lunch on the terrace of my room, pizza and eggplant. 

 

At 1 pm I rolled into a luxurious nap. Open doors. No cares and settling in. Rain. Blissful drops anoint slumber.

 

I began to look at the chapters of ELEONE. (This was before the title changed to City of Ladies)

 

Then as evening drew nigh I began wanting thinking. What if there was a secret to working the fire. To the stove. I went back out to the street. Asked at the grocery store how to get a hold of Mary Angela, the proprietoress of La Terraze. But she was gone for the night. Ah, that's what she was trying to tell me. Bought a few more things. Working the stove on my own. Figuring it out. Bought matches at the bar on the right. Ha! So, I had to figure out fire too.

 

My walk down to the sea view was triumphant. Fire. There you are, fire, in the sea. Spectacular.

 

Dinner - how I loved making on my own fire! The stove became my friend and my cohort. I stirred tomato sauce with olives, crushed tomatoes in the style of arrabiatta, garlic, fresh basil (lots) peppers, over farro pasta.

 

Concern over safety as always. Closed shutters and removed the key from the door, even shut the window (hadn't the wild boar come in the window in Provence, well, hadn't it?) I just didn’t know what might happen in the wild streets of Corniglia. In order to feel safe and work till 12:30 am I needed to close in. Still a bit of rain, and very much wind.

 

Moving towards Breakfast – woke on and off. 6, 7 :15 and then 8 and every few minutes till 8:30. Made the deepest coffee, cantucci cookies and one pear my friends. Watching the couple and man down below have breakfast. 

 

Lunch was made on the stove. Fabulous porcini, garlic, yellow pepper, stems of basil – sweated in olive oil – added in the can of antico beans and wheat – cannellini, ceci, and wheat. – sale and peppe. Over a bit of the pasta, leftover focaccia and cubes of fresh pecorino. Wine.

The sea glows, absolutely glows at the line of the horizon. Sun going down. The light blinding me.

 

I want to live by the sea. And the hissing sun.

sybils and the sauce

all species on earth,

dwellers in the sea and flocks,

all dash madly into the flame.

(The Complete Essays By Michel de Montaigne - where M. addresses "some lines of virgil")

Marie-Claude Gracia and her famous le salade de foie gras de canard au vinaigre de fruits caramelise

In CITY OF LADIES, one of the themes explored is the ancient greek sybils and how they speak to Eleone, and spoke to her healer mother, Maman. The sybils act as a catalyst for both these 16th century women to question their position in society. and do something about it.

i can't say for certain that montaigne knew about la belle gascon back in the 16th century when he quoted virgil above, but it makes sense. virgil was concerned about desire and fire, and (IMO) was warning us to think first before plummeting into the throes of blissful abandon. for me, la belle gascon was that place. the place of fire, the place of falling headlong into a sensual adventure - of the gastronomic kind.  marie-claude gracia's recipe for the palombe is a wanton and delicious example of a flock member rushing pell mell into the flame.

the north carolina skies are clearing.  the air is brisk. perfect for january and the stuffing and the sauce for the palombe. if you have just joined us, or simply because i have rambled on hither and yon since i began telling this recipe from marie-claude gracia, then, here is the complete recipe.

les supreme de palombes et leur farce legere aux champignon

by marie-claude gracia of la belle gascon, poudenas, france

for this recipe you will need 2 palombe. and you wil need to bone them out. the flesh of the legs will be used in the stuffing and the breasts are what will be stuffed. if in the case you have no palombe today, (or bananas) which is understandable, a reasonable substitute would be pigeon. and if you haven't a pigeon, then i would say please don't use quail - they are much too small (boning a quail would be difficult and silly) baby chicken or poussin would be reasonable though the meat of a commercially raised chicken tends to be much less flavorful. if you know a local farmer - here we have been able to procure poussin from cane creek farms.

you will need to make a stock or jus after you have deboned the bird in question. again, if this is not possible (or probable) for you - you MAY substitute chicken backs, wings, or legs to make your stock. this will have much more fat in it and you will need to chill the stock before you make the sauce. many in france will be sad and remorseful if you choose to use backs, wings, and legs instead of carcasses. if you can live with yourself, go ahead. its all in your hands, the state of cuisine!

but i do suggest you get to know a local farmer, and they may help you with acquiring the bones you need.

for the stock

take the carcass and the gizzards but not the liver (oh dear, i sense another post coming on....) and:

one tablespoon of butter

1 large spoon of finely chopped shallot

1 teaspoon of finely chopped garlic

one glass of rough red wine

one glass of white wine

2 qts water

smidge of salt and crushed black pepper (though marie-claude mentions poivre brun)

in a medium heavy saucepot, heat your butter over medium heat.

sear off your bones and when golden add in the remaining shallots and the garlic. as soon as they begin to color, please add in your wine and deglaze the situation.  when this has reduced and is pleasantly bubbly, add in your water, bring to a boil, then reduce the flame and simmer away. reduce this slowly until you have about 2 cups of rich perfumed stock.

now the farce (stuffing)

1. la chair des cuisses de palombe - or the flesh of the birds thighs (equal to about 2 chicken thighs if you are not boning them out)

2. a half cup of mushroom stems (champignon de Paris or cepes (boletus in italian) finely chopped

so i would go with oyster mushrooms or porcini if available, but domestic mushrooms will work. they just won't have as much flavor as the other suggestions.

3. a soup spoon (tablespoon) of finely chopped onion

4. half a soup spoon (tablespoon) of finely chopped shallots

5. a cafe spoon (teaspoon) of freshly chopped parsley

6. half a cafe spoon (teaspoon) of thyme flowers or just fresh thyme

7. salt and freshly ground black pepper

8. a walnut size knob of butter (from the mill of dariole)

(i am not translating MCG's method word for word, i am not yet that french advanced, but am learning!)

over medium heat, melt the butter in a heavy duty saute pan. when hot add in the mushroom, onion, and shallots. saute till translucent and then add in the parsley, thyme and salt and pepper.  cool slightly and add into the chopped meat.

you will need butcher's twine or some caul fat for this next step, the actual stuffing of the breast.

take your palombe, pigeon, or poussin breast and flatten (gently - these delicate morsels can't take viscious bludgeoning reserved for commercial grade white chicken breasts)

divide the cooled stuffing between the two breasts and roll, jellyroll fasion into little bundles. i find wrapping with caul fat a nicer "tie" than twine, as it melts when cooked and gives a crucnhy texture to the outside. if you have a good butcher near you like cliff's meat market in carrboro this will be easy. but if not available, please tie with twine.

these little breasts should then be sauteed in duck fat, until well-browned and then roasted in a 375 degree oven for 7 - 10 minutes or until the internal temperature is 160 degrees F. 

all the while these are roasting you should finish (er, make!) the sauce.

if you remember, we left off with the wonderful perfumed stock. this stock is simply reduced down to 1/3 of its quantity to make le jus.

traditionally marie-claude would serve the just removed from "a four" (the oven) palombe farci centered on a plate surrounded by an "assiette" (assortment) of sauteed figs, eggplant, tomatoes, and more cepes (our mushrooms, ca va?) 

the reduced jus annoints all.

and what's that?

ah, i believe the sybils are a' table, singing of their joy.

l'hiver ~ winter

sometimes when you're working on a work, you need to stop.

there are times when reflection and quiet help smooth a transition for your subconscious. then the tide of thought you were holding so tightly can break free and surge up, crash through the surface and land on a most surprising (though your subconscious knew it all along!) and astonishing new shore.

writers and other artists have known this for centuries. 

i think of winter as the season of the subconscious. the dark. stoking armlengths of oak into the fireplace. a row of caramel-colored candles burning on a mantle. the scent of roasting nuts or a spit of game turning over the fire.  "the season of all good" as they say in provence.

winter finds me nestled on my favorite sofa, a green velvet tapestry behemoth and a stack of books.

lately, i've read edgar sawtelle. and cormac mccarthy, the road. and the biography of jack london.  if you were to look for a theme, adventure is surely one. 

winter is a grand time to plan for journeys. or to take one.

winter is a time to sit by the window, knees pulled up under you, to watch the chickadees at the feeder, dreaming of a time far away. or to stand outside, a shawl thrown over your shoulders and stand looking up to the white.

the flakes softly falling, blanketing all into one landscape.

when it all melts away and reveals what lay beneath. spring and bright green onion grasses.