Super Mini Best of: Fraises des Bois

Walking up a forest path that wound its way up from a gorge and quickly enough arriving at some sunny open pasture land got me to thinking, during that week alone. Something about the way the land opens up above the tree line just sucks out the trivial thoughts and allows my mind to breathe. The incline, the one you work on before you arrive at the top is actually quite steep, but the path has been beaten in such a way that any reasonable person can handle it if they aren't in a hurry. One side of the path (the sunny side in the morning) runs along on your right side, sort of like one of those walls full of plants we see designed by artists in the city. The downhill side gives you the feeling you're surveying a kingdom of sorts. A dark deep world that plunges into the gorge to the river below, a chance to see the straight uprightness of the trees and contemplate their numbers. I have always been the sort to zoom in and find little microcosms along my way, when drawing, when writing, when observing. I think it comes from my love of miniatures. I love to study the varying flora, bathed in sun early in the morning.

The first time I climbed this hill, it was when we had some interesting early spring flowers. The fiddleheads were still tight little fists ready to either pinch off and pop into that day's salad or be left to unfurl like green versions of the lace panels you find dangling like icicles in the windows of Alpine chalets. There was a glorious mess of vines, pretty exotic looking yellow and blue spritzes of mountain blossoms of many kinds, lizards, and freshly melted source water babbling down the layers of folded crushed slate deposits. One pretty little flower that was easy to identify and seemed prolific was the wild strawberry, the fraise des bois.

I took out Loic's trusty Opinel and a little plastic sack that I had so level-headedly prepared in my pre-parental clarity for occasions such as these, and dug out two fraise des bois plants, which I transplanted directly into the crook underneath the cherry tree in the garden when I got back to the house. Over the weeks, I checked and weeded around them, hoping they would get enough sun. Lo and behold, last weekend, there were several ripe berries ready to be eaten.

I was terrible about it. It was late afternoon. I had been busy and unable to take a moment to myself for many days. Loic had brought some work home and wasn't able to help, and I was juggling the brave task of keeping the stove going and also working out the logistics of getting the baby's system perfected at the country house. I hadn't even had a moment to bathe. He decided to take a break to play with the baby - my chance to get some air! I headed straight out to the far end of the garden before either of them could call my name.

I looked, quickly gathered that these juicy buttons were prime for a harvest, and plucked off the ripe berries. I popped them down like they were magic pills and crushed them with my tongue. In that instant I finally was transported back to that frumpy bed in St. Petersburg, hit with a wave of exquisite memory from the exact beautiful flavor. Hey Loic! No on second thought, I better not say anything, because I didn't save any. Any at all.

Jump to this weekend when finally he was freed from the clutches of the national concours and we were able to go out walking as a family. We chose that particular forest walk because it is easy, and I also was pushing for it because of that lingering burst of flavor that kept springing up in my mind. I remembered thousands, but memories can be deceiving. At the bridge over the place where two streams meet, he first pointed to a bunch of ripe fraises des bois, and I brought out the sack. We worked our way up the hill. I am not exaggerating when I say we were both completely astounded at the harvest before us, it was like a wall of wild strawberries. We gathered and gathered, and with every few steps up, it was like we'd not even seen that the best was yet to come. By the time we got to the top of the hill, the sack was full.

Loic told me I was being unreasonable when I dug my hand in, slightly crushing some of the berries, to bring out a handful for each of the two horses that had been set in their pasture there at the top. I don't know. I think they enjoyed them, although now that I have tried to tame a baby, and thinking of their relative minds in my imagination, I cannot imagine that these horses will ever tell family stories about the silly lady with hair like straw who came and opened her palm full of fraise des bois that day. I think they forgot me about 5 minutes after we were gone.

We did two things with them. We put them in yogurt, and we made a coulis.

Collector and Caviste

George dos Santos of Antic Wine, in Vieux Lyon

A set of skeleton keys on a ring hangs by the door, and we take them to go downstairs. A series of doors are unlocked. Footsteps sound gently down a steep stairwell made of old chiseled stone. It is time to get a bottle. Loic keeps a list with details on when any bottle might be best to open. Our cave is rather rudimentary. We have to bring out an extension chord and plug it in outside in the pathway (I hesitate to call it a hallway), just to get light in there. We can't store anything but wine either, since the humidity level is too high. Cardboard boxes disintegrate in that kind of environment, furniture would be ruined. Ikea shelves line with bottle racks and crates that age rather quickly, along with some styrofoam bottle nooks line the walls. We keep other things, like that big ladder we use a couple of times a year, and some other junk. The wine in our cave is really nothing special when you think about what a wine can promise, however. For about 9 years we've been building up our little collection of wines we taste at the vineyards and buy by the case, but we have never really had the means to build a real discriminating collection.

For all of the wonderful ways to get good wine in this country, sometimes going to a caviste is the best way to go. For one thing, visiting the vineyards takes a lot of time. When we went to the Bordeaux region and only had 10 days, we had a hard time choosing what vineyards to visit, and scheduling took some finesse. When you take the time to visit a producer, you are pretty much locked into at least an hour of listening, learning, touring, tasting. You really have to budget your time, plan very carefully, and be very choosy about which doors to knock on. There's no way to fit your hopes and dreams into into one visit, or into the trunk of your car. You get tied up in the stories. It's very hard to cover a whole lot of ground in these circumstances. For this reason, when we go to specific regions, one thing we always do in addition to visiting the vineyards is to find a reputable caviste there, and see what he might have for tasting.

This is not my cave - it is the 16th century cellar at Antic Wine, Vieux Lyon

A caviste is a person with a passion for collecting wine that has translated into a life calling. Every caviste has his way of filling out his cave, and his way of relating to his clients. In St. Emilion, we visited one who specialized in wines local to the region. Each day he had a different set of a dozen bottles open to taste, compare, discuss and buy. He did very good business there. The main benefit of going to a caviste is that you are profiting from this person's expertise when you enter the shop. The price stays reasonable, on the whole, for the product. Being a caviste is an honest business. You're paying them for the research they have already done - their education, their experience, knowledge of their collection, and their ability to obtain certain vintages that the average vinyard tour customer on a road trip would never have. An independent caviste's collection can be truly exceptional, so keep your eye out for them, wherever you go in France.



One truly exceptional independent caviste I know in Lyon is George dos Santos, working out of Vieux Lyon, from his shop called Antic Wine. He is a collector. He has nurtured and grown, in his way, and on his terms, traveling the world, a simply amazing collection of those rare wines you might find at auction, in addition to just plain hard to find French and international bottles and vintages. At the same time, wine is in the end for drinking, n'est-ce pas? While collecting the wine is fine, we also like to taste and understand what makes these wines fun to seek out and such a thrill to share.

George regularly holds tastings at his wine bar two doors down, Le George Five. Featuring 2800 bottles on the menu and 120 bottles open for drinking by the glass per week, you've got a great opportunity to taste and learn. They serve small plates of the best kind of finger food - Buffalo Mozzarella, Sardines, truffles in Brie and Saint Felicien cheese, dried sausage from Ardeche, Corsican pâtés, Parma ham, Pata Negra cut from the bone from it's throne of honor on the bar. Le George Five has quickly become a wine bar of choice for enthusiasts and gourmandes alike.

George dos Santos' regular organized wine tasting soirees have proven so popular that they now have to turn a lot of people away. They are always booked well in advance. He also holds private tastings of special bottles by invitation only. George regularly teams up with Lyon's top chefs to prepare accompanying dishes at these private soirées. If you are visiting Lyon it's through your concierge that you are most likely to get access to these types of events, although purchasing from his shop during the day might allow you to broach the subject with him or a member of his staff.

For a wine enthusiast, going into George dos Santos' shop is a cathartic experience. This year there has been quite a buzz about his imports in the international press. I was there a couple of weeks ago to take his portrait for a wine magazine recently. I got the sense that for George, there is a certain spirituality in his activity as collector and caviste that I feel privileged to be near. Perhaps it is the collector in me. He hits the right note. I certainly can trust him with my wine selections. When I have a very special bottle to buy, George dos Santos is the man.

Antic Wine
18 rue de Boeuf
69005 LYON
04.78.37.08.96

Le George Five
32 rue de Boeuf
69005 LYON
04.72.40.23.30

Walnut Oil Vinaigrette

You know those things people say. Like "nice weather we're having" when you see them on the street. Coming up on the adoption, people would rather offhandedly say "Your life is going to change completely!" This, I must say, was most disconcerting. What can you say except, "oh yes, change completely..." while wondering what is in store?

As the time got closer and closer, and the change completely banter reached a feverish pitch among our acquaintances and loved ones, I began to have doubts in myself. More than once, I had been in a situation where I had tried, really tried to completely change and it didn't work. Like that time I tried to get my house organized. Or even worse, maybe I would be forced to let go of some really important part of me, bid the old Lucy Vanel adieu, leaving her at the shore of a long lost deserted island, and usher in the changed completely Lucy Vanel, now a mother. Would the former me exist only as a kind of supernatural apparition? I feared the worst.

Baby Ian came home. I watched and waited anxiously for Mr Hyde to kick in. When would metamorphosis into a tired old bottle-washing diaper-scrubbing wench take place? Then I realized that we had made most of this famous life change over the course of years, long before I held Ian in my arms. I made a space inside, a very special space. Yes, falling in love with this baby has been exhilarating and a little scary (because you know, you worry about the little one), but nothing I can't handle. Yes, the bottles and the changings take place, but they're kind of nice. The schedule has been pretty easy to adjust to.

I think the biggest change so far has been - that which was empty is now full. I had carved it all out, you know. That empty space. A bulldozing machine came in years ago and dug out a nice deep hole (now that, my friends was life changing), and like other parts of me, I tended to it. At first it was gaping and empty. Then one day I took a good look around, dusted myself off, and we decided to decorate it like a nursery. On the practical side, we tended to the dossier over the years. We reserved this place for someone, and now he is here.

Maybe people come forth with these warnings just to get that one last chance to scare the bejeesums out of new parents. A kind of good natured hazing. Having a little chuckle, you know? It has been a relief to note that I am still the same old me, 100%. The house is a little fuller, the heart is pumping gladly with essence of maman caused by some enzyme created by contact with a baby's smile, MY baby's smile, my husband is proving to pull his weight, and here I am. I can count and see and look around at all the things that remain the same, and be thankful for all of that too.

Walnut Oil Vinaigrette

My walnut oil still comes from a charming old bee keeper on the quai who sells it in individual Perrier bottles, pressed from his own nut production. Walnut oil is one of my favorites of all to use in the kitchen. Nutty and delicate, fragrant and fragile, it has to be used quickly. Once I get mine, I use it up, lickety split. It took me a while to find this particular oil from this particular man, the kind that you taste and a little spot in your mind brightens and says - Oh THIS is walnut oil! In that way, it changes your life. I suggest you make a little place in your heart for walnut oil, then find just the right one where you live.

I use this precious oil fresh in pancakes, any and all kinds of baked breads, wherever you might use a nice green olive oil. In pizza dough, drizzled on pasta, on grated carrots, on a salad graced with blue cheese. It can be used in place of sesame oil in your favorite sauce for Beijing cold noodles, and on the season's very last sigh of endives chopped raw with cracked walnuts. Walnut oil is good even just for dipping fresh bread with some sea salt. A vinaigrette seasoned with virgin walnut oil is one of the very best ways to heighten the delicate flavors of spring and add a touch of something new.

- For one salad for two. Double or triple this recipe as necessary for larger salads.

1 tablespoon of fresh first pressed walnut oil.
2 tablespoons of neutral oil (whatever is your favorite, but make sure it is neutral so it won't compete with the fresh nutty taste of the walnut oil)
1/2 teaspoon strong prepared dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1 tablespoon Banyuls vinegar
1/2 teaspoon pepper or 6 salt-brined green peppercorns

Mix the oils together in a small bowl, and whisk in the salt and Dijon mustard. Add the vinegar, and then the pepper, whisking to make a salad dressing that slightly thickens. If you're using the green peppercorns, mince them small or put them whole in the dressing and then give it a quick pulse with the stick blender. You can also just add them whole if you like pepper. I enjoyed this sauce today on a spinach salad, sprinkled with a few toasted sesame seeds. If you only use a little, know that it keeps for a few days in a tighly fitted jar in the refrigerator.

Baby Ian is Home.

Many thanks for the kind messages of support and congratulations while we've been going through the final steps to adopt our son. We finally made it home with Ian. We are now a family of 3. Thanks for keeping us in your thoughts and we hope you don't mind us cocooning like this for a few more days. I won't get into Ian's adoption story here but if you have any questions, feel free to ask them in the comments section - It will be a pleasure to answer them in these next few days.

Baby...

The day has come, after years of waiting, to see our little baby boy. We have picked some names but won't announce anything until we have seen him. Kisses from Lyon, lots to do.

The Garden

Our neighbor up there was working in his garden a few weeks ago at the same time we were, and he came to the fence and handed me a sprinkling of seeds. They looked a bit like poppy seeds. I planted them in a circle. I don't know, it seemed like the thing to do at the time. A little wreath of goodwill sprouted up shortly thereafter.

They were radishes, and I was told that I would have to cull out some to make sure the best ones got big. I couldn't bear to thin them out, I guess because I liked looking at that perfect ring. So we got all sizes of radishes. I like them that way.

We planted a whole bunch of stuff, but not in rows, so now I don't know what anything is now. I figured at the time that if an animal saw nice neat rows of things growing, they might come on up and start munching. But if I kind of planted stuff all willy nilly, keeping some loose rules in mind about what likes to be next to what, we might be able to slip some by the deer and rabbits. I even went so far as to toss a whole sack of bulbs into the air and plant them where they landed. Our gardening technique is a source of great amusement to our neighbor. He is an encyclopedia of rules and parables about how a garden works. I gave him a handful of Soissons, big white beans I bought from a producer, at the market. They were dried eating beans, and I was hoping they would sprout. We both planted some, and my neighbor's are growing much more handsomely. I still have faith that one day this summer we'll shell some beans.

There are millions of wildflowers, everywhere. Looking out over the pasture that goes down into the valley from out the kitchen door, you can stop there for a minute and try and take it in. Keep still except maybe drying your hands in a dish towel, and watch for a bird at the feeder. Wait for every part of you to come outside into the sun. Start thinking about just what the field looks like. You'll see that the pasture is actually a palette of hundreds of colors, a sea of color, not just green. These colors are in so many gradations, and dabbed all about. The spots are literally thousands of wild blossoms splayed out in natural patches. That's when you'll take notice of the hum of the bees like they've just started, even though they've been out there all along. Stroll on out into it, go around plucking wild flowers, and have a pitcher full in a matter of 5 minutes. The reason why it will take so long is that nine times out of ten you have to wait for a bee to finish a particularly pretty flower you've chosen before you can pick it. Of course you want to be choosy, the pitcher is a small one.

Canelés

This is a lovely spongy cake originating in Bordeaux, but it has won hearts across the country and can be found in bake shops almost anywhere in France. They are normally baked in copper molds, but you can also find a silicone version of the canelé mold that can turn out a still delicious product, even if the surface is not as caramelized as with the copper mold. This recipe takes two days of rest in the refrigerator, but from what I have learned, patience is a virtue.

For a dozen copper canelé molds:

2 cups whole milk
40 grams or 4 tablespoons butter
2 large eggs plus 2 large yolks
150 grams of flour
250 grams white granulated sugar
1/2 vanilla bean
2 tablespoons aged rum

- In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs and sugar until they lighten in color and turn fluffy.
- Split the vanilla bean and scrape the inner seeds out with a knife. Put the seeds and the scraped pod with the milk in a saucepan and bring it to a simmer.
- Remove the milk from the heat and let it cool slightly, remove the pod, then add the vanilla seasoned milk slowly to the egg and sugar mixture.
- Cut the butter into little cubes and add it to the batter. Beat until fully incorporated.
- Add the flour in batches until it is fully incorporated.

Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator, leaving it alone for 2 full days. When you are ready to bake the cakes, generously butter the insides of the molds with a brush (do not butter silicone molds if you are using them), and fill them about 2/3 of the way full (slightly fuller for silicone). Heat your oven as hot as it will go for 10 minutes, place the cakes on a sheet in the hot oven, and reduce the heat to about 175C/300F, continuing to bake for 40-45 minutes. Turn out from the molds immediately while hot.

Calice Artichokes

Since Friday was Labor Day in France, my market was full and doing brisk business. On Fridays it is usually just a little cluster of the regular stands.

"This is my mother," I said to my market peeps, as Mama nodded and diligently focused in on baskets of this and that, cropping close with her new camera set on "flower setting". They all responded "Yes, I see that."

Lyon is a city that gets goodness fresh from many directions, and on Friday, I saw that the ladies coming up from Provence have begun selling what in France we call the Calice artichoke. Calice translates in English to calyx, and in Italian to wineglass, you choose. Perhaps the gardeners will chime in and tell me what this young artichoke is generally called in English. These are the first cuttings from the plant, young underdeveloped artichokes. They are removed from the plant early in the season to allow the plant the resources to render more healthy artichokes later on, having fewer blossoms to nourish. Calice artichokes' market season endures only the blink of an eye. Hesitate, and you might miss them.

I asked my friend Judy Witts Francini about them, and she told me that in Italy, this petite tender spring vegetable's short market season creates a buying frenzy because they are very popular for pickling and preserving in oil. She recommended a recipe from her cookbook, which I plan to prepare for dinner guests at the country house this weekend.

In the meantime, I simply steamed my first batch and we enjoyed them cradled in a bowl with other goodies as a warm composed spring salad.

Late Bloomer

Every garden is basically its own micro-climate. In our little crook of mountain, the season seems to run a couple of weeks behind many others we see along the route as we climb in altitude. I waited the longest time for the cherry tree to bloom. I went out every day and examined the swelling buds, hoping for something to happen when I spent my time there. It was kind of like I was hoping for a sign of some kind. Wouldn't it be nice, I thought, if the tree would bloom while I am here. It would be like a word, a promise.

Waiting is numbing, and it is like a hand across my mouth. I wait for the cherry blooms to fold out. A flash of fear while I pitch my will like a stone and wait for a return. Maybe, somehow, I have made bad choices, done something wrong, never giving the seeds I put in the ground a chance. Maybe something happened and somehow also the tree in the garden has died.

I finally had to go back down to the city, sending my will over my shoulder one last time, to see if the blossoms would spring open before turning my back on the dark barren branches. In the city, friends are gathering, shaking off the winter chill, meeting outdoors, and visitors stream through. Cousins, sisters, relatives near and far call and we meet. We sit in the square in front of Cafe Perl, sipping red wine under a fragile shower of rich pink petals floating down on the breeze.

Daily work takes on an urgency again, discussions resume, calls are returned, notes are sent. Lists begin to fill out. The rhythm of the season is pulsing in the city, the river valley churns through its blooming process. I am still waiting inside.

Back up there, with wisps of chimney smoke and cool breezes cutting through a new frank strong sun, stronger than before, blooming was like a fan had been snapped open at the opera. We arrived and there she was, the diva, tall and fluffy, booming, there in her position of power. She speaks. See? You could have waited. It would not have killed you to wait.

The tree was full of big balls of fluffy pale flowers. I thought the blooms would be more pink, but I am happy, wondering what the apple blossoms will look like. One by one, things will fall into place.

Easter Dinner

Easter Dinner is usually at our house, since Aude's husband's grandmother lives in Lyon and they like to visit at that time with the kids. Count my youngest sister-in-law who is a hat maker here, and that's all it takes to get my in-laws all to convene at our house for Sunday dinner on Easter.

I was explaining to Loic that ham is a classic where I come from, and we'd been looking around for one we could roast at home. Sometimes you see them around the holidays in grocery stores in the rural areas. The ham you get here usually is only sold by the slice at the butcher. The idea of presenting a whole ham at the table is a bit odd to my French family, and they weren't buying it, but I knew that they would love a honey roasted ham pierced with cloves if they saw one coming to the table.

We decided to get up early and get to the market where we know a farmer who raises pigs and also lamb and mutton in the Bugey. His meat is really the very best, and I usually order my lamb shanks from him. We headed down the market straight to his stall and there was already a line. He could not help me with a ham, so we decided on lamb, which is a classic for Easter in France. Since I was expecting 10 at the table, I decided to get 2 racks of chops and to tie them into crowns and roast them simply, with fresh rosemary and bay tucked into the tie and garlic pierced between each bone in the fleshy part of the chops.

As the main vegetable, I served young tender spring asparagus and steamed cauliflower, both steamed and then finished in the oven with a touch of butter. We followed the main course with a salad and cheese, then a cognac spiked apple crisp with Chantilly.



In France, something that always delights me is the "friture", little fish made of chocolate. The children were very well behaved about their chocolate, obediently taking only a little bit while their mother and grandmother tucked the rest back into the package and put it away.

We got into a discussion about chocolate, and I mentioned that it was not something we normally had when I was growing up, except at certain holidays, so Easter was like a chocolate feeding frenzy for us kids. We wouldn't let anyone touch our candy. My father-in-law told us how he had chocolate milk every morning during the second world war, because it was meant to fortify and nourish the children, and that they also got a piece of bread with chocolate tucked into it at snack time in the afternoon. I joked that it must have seemed rather ho hum when the American soldiers rode into town tossing chocolate bars from their tanks at the end of the war! Yves looked at me with a blank stare and then Brigitte explained that since his father was a dentist, they often got many things like chocolate and meat throughout the war because much of his work was done on a bartering basis. He said that when chocolate was passed out as a rare treat at school, he would give his chocolate to another child because he already got it at home. I asked if he told them it was because his father was a dentist, alluding to the idea that chocolate is bad for your teeth. He just looked at me again with a poker face. He takes his chocolate very seriously indeed.

Nettle Beer - Take One!

It started a long time ago, when I was having a strange confusing week, and I was positively shocked by my horoscope in the Beijing Scene, a free paper that was available at expat frequented junctures around China's capital. All kinds of unlikely events and situations had been coming about at the time. Accidents, near misses, strange gusts of wind. That morning, a lightbulb violently exploded not 20 feet from me, in a lone retro street lamp in silhouette near where I picked up a taxi every morning to go into work. My regular taxi stopped, I got in, and I flipped back to where the horoscopes were.

Scrolling a creamy pink 20 something manicured fingernail down the page to Leo, I read what Rob Brezsny, my horoscopist, says. It began with: "Are street lamps exploding as you walk by?" My eyebrows raised in interest at that point. It was one of those instants that burns into your mind forever even if you don't realize it at the time. Snug in traffic while a pollution pink sunrise beamed past my right shoulder and then slowly panned across the faded interior of that rusty yellow LADA, driver turning north on the second ring road in Beijing on my way to the office, I read that things were going to turn out marvelously alright. And they did.



With that I introduce you to my nettle beer, which did not turn out marvelously alright this time. It was during this famous writing week in which I was supposed to go up to the mountains and turn out a masterpiece. Instead I put on rubber gloves and scrubbed out nooks and crannies with a bucket of savon noir, embarked on spider hunting expeditions, spent inordinate amounts of time squatting in the garden with my reading glasses on searching for signs of life in the dirt, donned my marching boots for long solitary walks by the river and up into the hills, and executed my grand scheme to make nettle beer. In short, anything to avoid writing.

Don't mark a recipe down in your book, my friend. Do take time to reflect on the following message: Turn that which stings into something good. A faithful reader recounted how a weed whacker is NOT the answer for nettles, because even whacked to dust they still find ways to get us. So, while they are young and still tender and flavorful, find your nettle mojo. Pinch off their tender little heads one by one with satisfaction (wear rubber gloves!), putting all of your fury into this delicate repetitive task. Do this until you have a large basket full, preferably while humming something nice in the back of your mind. Then try to make some nettle beer with them.



I followed a recipe gleaned from an English cookbook and boiled the nettles for 15 minutes, but next time I will boil them longer. The longer the nettles spend in the water, the greener the liquid becomes. In another recipient, you mix sugar and the zest and juice of the lemons with cream of tartar. Pour the nettle liquid over this sweet acidic lemon and sugar mixture.

When I pour the nettle tisane into the acidic sugary lemon mix, the green color of the liquid changes like magic to orange, I am not sure why. After stirring it up and letting it cool a little bit, mix a bowl full of this liquid with brewers yeast, then mix that into the whole. You might not try what I did - don't sprinkle a generous pinch from a cake of baker's yeast on top of your brewers yeast for good measure. When the mix is complete, it goes into a large nonreactive container, and the waiting begins for the fermenting magic to take place.



At first, I didn't think anything was happening and wondered if I should dump it. But at the end of 2 days, it began to foam at the top. The recipe states that it should be put in a warm place undisturbed to ferment, but I kept it in corner in the kitchen, which in afterthought I think stays a little bit too cool. So the fermentation didn't kick off with any gusto. At the third day, hell or high water, it was funneled into bottles. You could smell the yeast, and it actually tasted pretty good.

Three days after going into the bottles I just could not wait to see what was going to happen! We'd invited in-laws to a picnic in the mountains! They were going to partake in a sun drenched wood-fire roasted marinated quail fest under the shade of the apple tree. We had gone up early to build a roaring little hickory wood fire in our homemade fireplace in the garden, to let it burn down to glowing embers by lunchtime, and then laid out the delectable birds to roast. They had been marinating 3 days in an herb and mixed fruit vinegar marinade. In a moment of vain hostess glory, I decided that I just had to gild the lily by bringing out a bottle of my nettle beer to display and then pop open and pour around. Me and my pride.



The bottle didn't want to pop open, and I wrestled with it for some time. Everyone was looking on in curiosity, in fact they began to huddle around as if expecting something great, raising the expectation a notch. Then when it did - WHOOSH! A geyser of Beijing sunrise-orange foam shot straight up in the air and spattered down in a sticky mess over the entire table. So much for the nettle beer. There was some hesitation to laugh with me when this happened. After I mopped off my sister in law and turned my attention to what was left in the bottle, I saw that there was enough for everyone to have a taste. Not only was it not fizzy, but it had a funny tinge to it, something that recalled a distant memory of my grandmother's permanent wave solution. But you know what? I am going to give nettle beer another try.

I think the idea to use raw sugar or honey is an important element of this recipe, something I ignored. Another important step is to ensure I have the proper yeast. Third, I should pay heed to the "warm spot" fermentation technique. The brew must be quite far along in the fermentation process before it gets sealed into bottles. In fact, I think it might be worth my while to monitor it closely, if not scientifically. If bottled too early, it can build up enormous pressure - the yeast, which is capable of doing its work in anaerobic conditions, i.e. without air, converts sugar to alcohol and produces gas which will make it spray over everyone in a shower at its most benign and possibly explode a weak bottle at its most dangerous. Last but not least, and I think my horoscopist would agree, I will never, ever make nettle beer when Venus is in retrograde. Finger in the wind, eye on the stars, it will one day turn out marvelously alright. That is when you will get a recipe with good notes and instructions.

Postcard: Writing

We're holding our breaths at the moment, one of those special times. We thought baby was coming this month, more than a hunch! But alas, it is not to be, this month. These days I am reminded of those long days, hours and minutes I spent waiting to go to Paris, a young woman in love. Waiting for the day of my flight was like starving to death! And when I arrived on the station platform in Paris, having spent the night in London on the way, the moment fell like a drop of water.

A kiss that seemed numbed by emotion, man's hand that takes my bag, that moment was so much bigger than me. It tumbles down and falls away. We smile (did we smile?) and walk along the platform under the arches in the Gare du Nord leaving the moment to part like the sea on either side of us. We left it in the station. Hot dry hands, rainy day. Only when I am inside looking at the pattern stamped into the yellow peeling wallpaper in his studio does a moment come straight to me in a flash, making my eyes sting with joy. One of the many we will share.

Now that it's sure we have at least another month to wait, the emotions are expanding to fill the gap, and there's so much more to think about. I am taking advantage of this kind of nouvelle vague French film kind of drawn out moment ticking by experience and its ability to let me observe - best to write for a few days. I hope you don't mind!

Dark and Light : Turnips

Lyon gets a wave of mystery and crime writers every Spring. Lyon's international crime writers' conference is in full swing and I look around fantasizing about what might be going through the minds of all these clean cut men dressed in black, the ones carrying satchels and strolling through the alleys and stairwells about town. I always let my imagination run wild. Who knows who they really are? Have they always been here? Lyon takes on an altogether more mysterious sheen and I relish every moment. I met with a fascinating author, William Bayer, and we had lunch together. I am reading his work in French since the English version of his books are not readily available here. Apparently it always rains during the Quais du Polar in Lyon, and this year was no exception, but I think it was meant to be that way. We enjoyed an afternoon walk nonetheless.

The booksellers are doing brisk business, since it really is time to venture out and try harder to bask in the relative warmth mother nature is mustering up at the moment. Now is the time to celebrate a mystery on a café terrace. This weekend, on the quai St. Antoine, we see that the oyster mushrooms are flourishing, as well as the coldhouse radishes. These hearty reminders of the sweet tender beauty to come ring like church bells on a chilly morning.

In the kitchen, now seems a good a time as ever to focus one last time on the nice baby-smooth winter turnips that are looking good at the producer's stands. They're sweeter than ones that have been stored, and are good for eating on their own. A glance into uses of turnips on French restaurant menus shows either simmering with legumes or a tendency to capitalize on the sweet - to caramelize the root itself, or pick up on that theme by pairing them with a rich maillard effect - roast or seared meats. Some simple ideas to get you thinking in the right direction:

Turnip purée served alongside roasted duck.
A cocotte of langoustine simmered with radishes and turnips might be good right now, considering the radishes.
A sirloin steak served with glazed turnips.
Pepper seasoned steak (mignonette) with young turnips and anchovies.
A golden baked turnip cake to serve with meats.
Spit roasted pigeon served with turnip "saurkraut", its legs stuffed with dates and chorizo.
Pressed foie gras terrine served with caramelized turnips.
Charcuterie served over baked shredded turnips.
Beef sirloin served with tender slow cooked orange-seasoned turnips.
Pan seared foie gras with cabbage root and turnip caramel.

Why not keep your eye out for the late winter turnips? This time of year it's easy to ignore them, but the winter varieties are very good.

Tartiflette Tartelettes

Say Tartiflette Tartelette 10 times fast. Can't do it? Then make these bites for a party, go to said party, drink a glass of sparkling wine, pop a couple of these, and then say it 10 times fast. There there. We can't have it all. Console yourself with another Tartiflette Tartelette, my dear.

The crust: a simple brisee, really easy to remember and a breeze to put together.

100g. butter
200g. flour, type 55 or AP
1 teaspoon salt
one egg
2-3 Tablespoons ice cold water, just enough to make the dough hold together in a ball.

With cold hands (run them under cold water and dry them thoroughly), pinch the butter quickly into the flour and salt until it resembles rough breadcrumbs. A few pea like butter lumps are fine. Work the egg into the flour & butter with a fork. Sprinkle cold water in and work it in, form into a ball, put back into your bowl, and leave it alone in a cool place for at least 20 minutes.

While the dough rests, do the topping.

1 onion, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
3 Tablespoons or 30 grams butter
1/4 of a Reblochon cheese, cut into teaspoon sized cubes, each piece with a little crust
smoked bacon, slivered into thin matchticks

Let the onion, shallot, and garlic sizzle gently without browning over low heat for 15 minutes.

Roll out the dough, cut it into small shapes, I like diamonds (that would be a diagonal crisscross), place them on a greased or lined cookie sheet and top with a little spoon of the aromatic butter seasoned onion and shallot goodness, a sprinkle of the bacon matchsticks, and a cube of cheese, about a teaspoon max per tartelette. Top the sheet with a light sprinkling of salt just to be extra naughty. These are apero treats, so salty is fine.

Pop the sheet in a hot oven, 400F, 200C and bake until they begin to turn brown. The cheese will melt over some edges and make a kind of tuile on some of them, no worries. Remove the tartelette bites quickly from the hot pan.

These will be the first thing completely devoured at any gathering. I promise. Even Fran liked them.

Here's a more traditional recipe for the tartiflette that includes some information about how the cheese is made.

Love ya, Fran! She is at 36 weeks and waiting it out - head on over and leave a comment!

A Week Alone

It started with the nettles, with which I have developed a love-hate relationship. I love them, because they make delicious pies, soups, quiches, pestos, sautees and even nettle beer, which I will be trying out this spring. But I hate them because they hurt and sting and cover the little meadow that came with the country house, blocking passage and keeping anyone from even thinking about doing anything out there but carefully avoiding them.

Winter took the field of rough stalks and cut them down to size, though. the land became something we could walk across, a carpet of crunchy dry yellow twigs, last years old nettles, pushed flat to the ground by snow. It melted, the song birds came out just about the time the old dead nettles dried up. Tufts of new grass began to appear outside of nettle town. A patch of snow drops sprouted under the cherry tree. Sun warmed the earth. I began to imagine the possibilities, stand and take in the slope of the land, look back at the house.

With the sun's warmth, new nettles had also begun to emerge. Little hopeful green baby nettles peeking their cute little furry noses up through the old dead twigs from last year's enormous plants. They are cute, but they won't be for long, I know this. I have spent many evenings rubbing swollen spots where the nettles have gotten up my pant legs and pricked their needles into bare calves or pricked stray hands, hurting for hours like bee stings afterward. No summer walks along that country path in a skirt and espadrilles, that's for sure. But a thought of the baby clinched it. Do I want the child to be able to play outside at the country house? How will it be possible for a kid not have a rope swing on this ancient cherry tree? We don't know if this baby is going to be a boy or a girl. But one thing is clear: We have got to get the nettles under control.

They have formed a thick root network. A little hand spade, just a toy, really. I have taken to kneeling on the ground and loosening them, then standing up, wrapping my fingers about the roots, and heaving my weight into the labor of getting them out, artery and vein alike. They don't want to come. I begin stabbing, learning their ways, where to find the junctions, the twisted knots. If you get the nettle highways, the small roots follow more easily. A nettle city, a network, a planet. I am eradicating a whole nettle world complete with multiple levels of underground resistance networks. In 4 hours, I have just begun to chip away at a small square. At the end of my hard labor, a pitiful patch of turned rich earth, from which I had pulled only nettles from the ground. Their thick roots were piled in a heap in the sun. The soil is dark and fertile. Aside from one small tuft of wild chives, these nettles have choked everything else out.



At the end of the day, Bernadette's clicks and humming fire form a choir with an evening lark. The kitchen door is open. The feeder is illuminated and crowded with many species of birds. Loic is puttering around in the attic.

I ran my hands in icy cold mountain water from the tap for as long as I could stand it. I quickly pinched cold butter into flour with my numbed clean cold hands. We were to have a neighbor over for dinner, a man from the village who had come to cut the storm's fallen branches into neat logs that we stacked on the porch to use as firewood maybe next year.

My hands and forearms were near exhaustion just trying to make a crust. It's a good kind of fatigue, I thought to myself. From the pulling. Wouldn't it be nice to get these nettles taken care of this week. The weather is going to be nice. There is a clear circle of sunny meadow, between the apple and cherry trees that gets good all day sun. It is where the nettles thrive. I could probably turn it into a field of flowers if I had some time.

We've been waiting on this baby to arrive, and for that purpose, I have found myself easing big engagements off the calendar. Last week was the first week since January that I didn't have people coming in. 'This could be my only chance', I thought. The nettles seem compelling in the Sunday evening quiet before bed. We were lying there under the quilt, each with a book, and instead of readying my thoughts for a return to the rhythms of the city, I found myself veering in the opposite direction.

- And what if I stayed?
- You won't have a car.
- That's ok, I won't need it.
- Will you have enough to eat?
- I will.

A quick mental inventory. I had three eggs, a bit of bacon, 6 potatoes, some cabbage, a basket of good apples, some cheese, things in the larder like dried fruits and mushrooms, flour, rice, plus of course the Alpine butter, garlic in a braid from my trip to Sicily. The tuft of chives out there in the dirt patch. Then there were all those young nettles waiting for their fate. I even had some stock and frozen peas and beans in the freezer should the need really arise, and two big lumps of yeast for bread. We know the goat farm is within walking distance where I can get yogurt, cheeses, milk, everything I need in the end.

- You won't get bored?
- I might.

I smiled. It was settled. I made a few calls and sent a few messages. I shuffled chunks of time off the agenda. I was staying. We cuddled in the night, cherishing our sudden togetherness before a separation as my thoughts ventured in this new direction. Not an abyss, but a free fall kind of dive into a very different kind of week indeed.

Spring's First Lettuce - Salad Ideas

At the producer's market, I happened across some particularly gorgeous lettuce and learned from the lady who grew how they differentiate themselves from the other producers - they don't use greenhouses. This must mean Spring is really on the way.

She said that although you see lettuces coming from various producers throughout even a harsh winter, hers have grown naturally in the air... They are really Spring's first lettuces. Walking into the greenhouse at the farm I visited in Switzerland warmed my bones enough to make me want to work on the farm, just to get warm. It was still very cold in Switzerland. The lettuce in that lovely greenhouse was fat and happy, that's for sure. Mr. Delessert pulled the tarp that was over the door aside and my first impression of being invited into a Hammam. I imagined reclining on a lettuce bed and getting a massage and a scrubdown. Really, I don't think a greenhouse would affect the taste of the lettuce, though. It really all depends on the plant that's grown and the soil. But the lady had a nice sales pitch!

I brought this Spring's first lettuce home and we enjoyed a lovely salad, not a hint of bitter in this lacy salad. What salad to prepare with your season's first lettuce?

Why not get inspired to try these salads as the seasons unfold? Ideas abound:
A Home Made Salade Lyonnaise - make it like you like it. (pictured at the bottom of the post)
A Southwestern Salad: Salade Landaise
Get Inspired by French Café Salads
Fondue de Saint Marcellin Parmentière et Salade
Spicy Poultry Stuffed Pattypan Squash in Salad
The Rabbit Saddle Salad at Pignol Bellecour
Salade de Chèvre Chaud avec sa Vinaigrette au Poivre Vert