Strasbourg in Particular

It was so satisfying to finally be eating in Strasbourg after having spent a good deal of time there in my mind when I translated the Pudlo guide. (Just to let you know I was paid already for my culinary translation work, and I don't get any kind of commission on the sales of the guide.) I was drooling the whole time, and I spent a whole lot of time researching the local patois - in the food language. I realized that although the ancient local dialects spoken in all of the different regions of France are quickly falling out of use, these tongues remain vibrantly alive in the food. For this reason it is very important to keep local food traditions going, and preserve them. It's more than just what people like to eat, but the whole cultural identity of a region is bound up in its food language. I simply adored looking at Strasbourg with this perspective in mind. My work added depth to my own vision as I made my way about. I was so thankful for having done it. Never stop learning and taking projects because you find them interesting. These are the ones that will serve you the most in the end.

It was difficult to choose from Pudlo's picks in Strasbourg because they all sounded so good, but I was happy with every one I tried. And this is what I want in a guide. When I am traveling, I do not want to have to sift through positive and negative reviews. I want a list of places to go. For lunches, instead of making reservations, I just went to the places I recognized from his picks and was only turned away for lack of seating at one very popular place. What I did was read everything before setting out initially, retaining a kind of sketchy outline in my mind of what to look out for while walking through town. While out walking, I did recognize at least a half dozen places just in the thick of things, and when lunchtime rolled around I had ideas for several places to go.



The famous French dish called bouchées à la reine is common in many restaurants in Strasbourg, since that whole class of pastry that includes the vol-au-vent originates in the region. It was a great place to try the garnished dish in the local style which can be quite beautiful. The shells are for sale in the boulangeries as well, ready to use at home.



Some restaurants make their own mini-pretzels and put them out with the apero, and a lot of bakeries had their house versions.



There is a restaurant in a building that dates back to the 1500s with a carved facade I could have stared at for days and I loved the cathedral. You can see all of these images in larger format by clicking on them.

The Alsace Wine Route

Each bee has its own flower.

Touring along Alsace's wine route was lots of fun. The route was well marked and wound through little picturesque villages with vineyards around every turn, where you could stop, taste, and buy. (they have spittoons for the drivers!) By the time we got home, the car was full of cases of wine, and we now have more Riesling, Pinot Gris and Gewürztraminer in the cave than we'll ever be able to drink. I guess we'll have to have a party! The route was well marked, and the little towns, one after the other, were very pretty. Thanks to Pudlo, comfortable affordable inns along the way were easy to locate, and we made special stops for charcuterie, stopped for the famous fresh troute, tarte flambée, matelote, even a carp fish fry. Know that if you ever drive a Renault Clio while touring in France, that the car is designed with the gourmand in mind. The A/C is sent in a circuit around the glove compartment, turning it into a little refrigerator, keeping the meats and cheeses we picked up along the way nice and cool.

Weddings and the Kougelhopf

A most extraordinary radio show was on the air while I nibbled on the kougelhopf in the car on the way home from Alsace. A documentary that has great sound mixing, with samples of sound cuts from all kinds of sources, very evocative and stimulating, full of imagery. This time, they were talking about French weddings.

People from different generations were being interviewed about their weddings. The old people recounted small affairs that had been arranged for such and such reasons, ceremonies conducted in the presence of 4 witnesses and a dinner with immediate family around the table. Then they talked to people who were married in the 60s, still in rather simple ways, small affairs when compared to some of the weddings we see today, but amplified in the number of guests or amount of wine. Then came the coverage of the wedding industry and the pressure that young people have these days to orchestrate these enormous receptions with elaborate meals and fine wines that in the past would never have taken place.

An invited sociologist theorized that today's generation have a distorted concept of what wedding traditions are, because like a telescope, they are looking to the past for stories, of which only the most exceptional were recorded. Much wedding tradition lore is embellished or exaggerated or framed in glowing terms. Even descriptions of humble events turn into family legends, as we all know. In the end they seem more fanciful than they really were. This is retained by today's generation, and the perfect small low stress affairs that were the norm in the past are left behind for large, romantic celebrations that are like enactments of imagined history. Several generations later, the exceptional lore begins to take over as the expected norm. Elaborate receptions, princess gowns, long veils and trains, creative themes, fussy craftwork in the favors, towering pieces montees, flowers costing thousands, etcetera.

A couple of years ago, at a vide grenier, I picked up a kougelhopf mould for a buck. I bought it because of that kougelhopf I had in Paris when I had just begun this blog. I was truly inspired by the experience. I got the mould home and began digging out recipes, and doing research. But every time I picked up the recipe for one, I just could not envision getting the same result. I kept putting it off, and putting it off, searching for the perfect recipe.

Some cousins par alliance from Alsace came to Aude's wedding with some kougelhopfs prepared by some aunt or another that had been sent along in the train. They had spent some time in a suitcase, and shifted from one place to another. Kougelhopf was originally prepared as wedding cake in Alsace. These special cakes were a symbolic home made gift. Everyone oohed and ahhed over these simple humble cakes and they were put out on the bare kitchen table during the family gathering the day after the wedding. I looked forward to tasting it, thinking about my initial experience. I was sorry not to have been able to appreciate it, because I really did want to like it. But it seemed unremarkable and plain to me, after that great Paris kougelhopf. I quietly reflected on this, as well as the recipes I had seen, and tucked it away for another day.

In Alsace, I tasted the kougelhopf fresh from a good bakery. Just to be sure, I also tasted another. And they were falling short of this original idea in my mind based on my first grand experience. They were more along the lines of the Aunt's kougelhopf. Not very sweet, subtle in their crumb, with just a whisper of flavor, you might even say ethereal once you start to understand it, whereas this kougelhopf I had in Paris was rich and dense and buttery above all else, with a strong heady dose of liquor of some kind. It wasn't until I was thinking about weddings that I realized it. My mind had been calibrated by a strange kind of legendary exception and not the rule. And I think, in retrospect, that maybe the Alsacian kougelhopf, with its particular aspect and flavor, may have somehow been telescoped into something completely different by the time it reached Paris. I now have a better appreciation for the one sent along by the Alsacian aunt, and also these days I have a very precious tender memory of that moment I tied the bit of tulle ribbon in my hair in Los Angeles, when we got married secretly, before the vortex of the big fat wedding party 6 months later began to suck me in. I hope one day to try her recipe. Maybe I'll coat it with sugar and butter, Paris style. Then again, maybe I'll just serve it plain.

Cheese Pilgrimage: Munster

The main reason for my detour through the Vosges on the way up to Strasbourg was a pilgrimage to a certain valley there. Munster is to Alsace as St. Marcellin is to the Lyonnais region, ubiquitous. In many restaurants, it is the only cheese served. Munster, when quite ripe, can be the stinkiest cheese in the whole world. If you don't agree with me, you have never confronted a ripe Munster. It outranks Epoisses in the sheer vulgarity of the odors that it can emanate, opening with a strong whiff of ripe pointe shoes, drifting dangerously close to intruding intimate female perfumes, and closing with a refrain of stale Russian cigarettes. The flavor? Perfect, buttery, mild and staid in a simple counterpoint to the volatility of its ether, gorgeous when paired with toasted little cumin seeds, otherwise known as carvi in France. When Loic and I were dating many years ago, he bought a wedge of Munster from a famous fromagerie in Paris and I was so brutalized by the smell that I made him remove it from his home. I look back on those days with a smile. I was a delicate flower, just a cheese virgin.



Today I still harbor a certain affinity to a younger wedge of Munster, and to me, it is perfect when the inner core hasn't melted through, but that's just me. In the end it is a matter of personal choice. Don't let anybody tell you how to like your Munster. There is a great little restaurant in Strasbourg called Au Coin des Pucelles that does a nice plate of Munster in various stages of affinage for someone who might want to taste it in its different forms, as well serving forth a humble but glorious Munster gratin, complete with all of the trappings of a tartiflette, mountain food at its best. Loïc reminisces about hiking through the Vosges and enjoying this dish at the refuges there.

Roadtrip: Alsace

Where can I begin? I can start at that little cafe. I had a little red pouch where I kept my written diary, something I've kept up since eleven - that is eleven years old. I was sitting there and writing in it about the last time I was exploring a town like this. Looking at the state of my hands. I spent some time in Germany, you see. A long lonely time. At the same time I was completely free. I had a job, a car and some money. I had nothing better to do than to spend my weekends just exploring with a map. After having spent a little time walking along the river that goes through the center of Strasbourg, I was in a cafe reminiscing about those days. You know, the days when there was nothing calling you but the draw of the next adventure. Nothing holding you but a quiet warm calling that is your own conscience or maybe your sister - it says: Try. Try hard, and travel as long and as far as you can. Now, while you can.

The Country House

Buying property in France takes ages. First you sign an agreement to buy, which sets the wheels in motion for the bureaucracy machine to regurgitate an avalanche of paperwork. This then takes several months to get in order. It takes time to get things in motion with the bank, meetings and discussions, the legal waiting periods, the required inspections, research by the notaire, and all of the little glitches along the way. When we bought the apartment here in Lyon, we signed the papers with our intention to buy in the month of June, and it wasn't until mid October that we finally had our meeting with the notaire. At this meeting, the entire history of the property is read aloud, everyone is satisfied that things are correct, and we sign the papers. They ceremoniously hand over the keys. It's a great moment! Immediately, you rush to the apartment and pop a bottle of champagne! Walking into our place in Lyon, empty and echoey, sunshine streaming in, was like a dream. It was one of those moments I'll remember forever.

Our visit with Francois and Philippe to their chalet last spring planted a seed that sprouted quickly in my mind. I was developing the idea of a little cottage in the golden hills near Lyon, definitely sticking with the idea of something in the Lyonnais region. Maybe something in the Bugey or among the ponds of the Dombes near Brest. Weekend poule au pot, mud boots, and an herb garden tucked between the grape vines came to mind. We don't really need much. A little square of land to get our hands in the mud, a place to walk and collect leaves in the autumn, a place to get away from the city.

After we had been searching for awhile, Loic was feeling lucky and turned his attention to the Alps. At first, the only places that seemed even close to our budget were either at very high altitudes, with no water or electricity and not accessible in winter (what's the point?), or were actually just ruins that needed complete rebuilds. But he was sure we'd find something. He did a lot of research on the regions. He got serious about one area, and we went there to look at one property that was within our budget. "It's probably got something seriously wrong with it", was how he began, but the more we looked, and the more we saw, the more we realized that this one particular place was exactly what we had been looking for.

Hiking nearby.

This one little converted stable, the first place we'd seen, kept calling our name, in its little hamlet tucked away in the Savoie, just north of the mountain range called the Belledonne. Before we even realized how perfect this little house was, we found ourselves tromping around the area every weekend. It is a part of the Alps that is close enough to Lyon for spontaneous trips, but in keeping with the quiet ways of the country. Hiking, taking picnics, checking out the commerce, trying out the cafes in the little towns, inspecting the the ski stations, considering the historic Roman baths of the area, looking at one house and then the next, even considering apartments, we just kept going back. We fell in love with the area's humble beauty and variety.



The area around one cute Alpine town with its butcher, baker, cobblestone, clock and church is central to a cluster of small neighboring hamlets. Fifteen minutes by car into the hills and it is as if you are stepping back in time. They still have their lavoirs (a place like a central running fountain where people wash their clothes) and spring fed water supply. The little hamlet where this house is located features lots of hobby gardeners, honey bee keepers, a cow, sheep and horse farm, and is a mix of year round and seasonal residents. There is a friendly sense of community. Best of all this little hamlet is not on the winding thoroughfare that connects the ski stations. Very little traffic aside from residents, but close to everything.



The house is old and stone, originally a stable, stacked up on three levels, and each floor is a room. The top two floors have the alpine ski lodge type wood work, installed at the original conversion in the 1980s. There's a big old wood stove in the kitchen, and this is the room where I am going to have the most fun, I think. The best thing is that the kitchen door opens up to big open pasture land. When I open the door and look outside, the expanse of nature, mountains and rolling grass covered hills - it's just breathtaking.

I am going to have a lot of fun with this room.

The realization that this is actually happening was like getting hit on the head with a huge happiness mallet. Things move so slowly and carefully that you can't really say from one moment to the next that you are really becoming the owners.



My search for decor inspiration for this little Alpine getaway took me in a few different directions, but one theme stood out very clearly in my mind, and I was always drawn back to it. I'm not the kind of person to do this kind of thing all at once. Collecting tidbits and undertaking projects always has to be done carefully and with restraint. So over time you'll be able to see the details as they unfold.

We'll be closing on the house in a week or two, and I am very excited to roll up my sleeves and get started! People in France often give a name to their secondary residence, but we don't have one. We're just calling it "the country house" for now.

A French Truck Stop Experience

At the truck stop somewhere along a route nationale near Arles

It was such a great feeling to be rolling back into town after a brief trip down South. We had dinner on the way home at a truck stop, quite interesting. The first truck stop I ever ate in here in France was in the year 2001, and the only thing I remember about it was the incredible pyramid of house smoked beef jerkey and the white lace curtains. This place was different. The good ones are easy to spot with the classic rule. Tons of trucks, good truck stop.

First, we entered the dining room through a bar where men were all watching the television or playing billiards. I noticed that they were shadowing us with their eyes, we were a bit out of place but no one really minded. We were just something to look at. Loic gave me a look like he felt a little strange but I pressed on. (note: Loic read this and thinks it was the other way around! I'm willing to compromise and say it was a little bit of both. Here's to teamwork!)

In the dining room, one of the two servers abruptly stopped us and asked if we had our dinner tickets, available at the bar. Only once we had our tickets could we come and choose a seat. Not sure if there was a line or not because men were just kind of standing all over the place, we finally got the tickets without causing any problem by the old register and paid for our dinner in advance, 12 euros for buffet, main course, cheese, and dessert.

Once we were in the dining room, there was a buffet along one wall, with mayonnaise based salads, pulses, macaroni and cold cuts of about 12 different kinds. We served ourselves, and found a table. The server again abruptly steered us to a different table, telling us that the truckers would be arriving soon and that the early arrivals were to sit at the edges of the room. I almost resisted but something in her tone stopped me.

We noticed about halfway through our buffet course, as freshly showered truckers began to trickle in and seat themselves one next to the other, fitting themselves along the long communal tables in the dining room like sardines in into a can, that they were well versed in how things were supposed to go. They were also serving themselves pitchers of wine, red or rose, from the fountain at the end of the buffet. I called the server and asked if we had to buy a ticket for a pot of wine. "Serve yourself" she said, putting up her hand to stop me from asking any more questions, keeping her distance. So we did.

There were about 10 different dishes on the chalk board, all simple. Loic had the veal kidneys in red wine sauce and I had the chitterling sausage. Not the greatest in the world, but more than suitable for a multi-course meal with wine at this truck stop.

By the time the cheese platter loaded with generous wedges of 8 different kinds of cheese and a knife to carve at will began to circulate, the dining room was completely packed with truckers. I was the only woman dining there that evening. Loic had been reading some trivia handed out by the highway authority on our trip down the other day, and appropriately noted that there are about 65 woman truckers in France.

My neighbor had his dog with him, and they both greeted us. Discussion plucked from around us was murmured and rather limited - traffic jams, etc. There was a television in the corner that many of the truckers watched while eating. We kept to ourselves. After Loic finished his Ile Flottant and I enjoyed an extra glass of wine (it was actually quite good, and I enjoyed it, being the designated passenger), Loic opted for his coffee at one of the tables out by the car. The ride home went quickly and we were home soon enough!

Postcard: Apéro et Digestif

Postcard: Sainte Marguerite

Postcard: Cote d'Azur

Grilled Sardines, a ritual.

Camp Fire Stew, Grown Up

I was a Camp Fire Girl. This is a little bit like the Girl Scouts. We wore outfits and had meetings and went to camp. The Camp Fire Girls focused on good deeds, community service, and self knowledge. I remember that my sister Serena had a ceremony where she was decked out in her full length Indian Princess gown covered from head to toe with beads representing all of the good deeds and helpful projects she orchestrated. We all called out a special word and made a hand signal. Then we sang a beautiful spiritual song to get us in the mood to be good. Serena was the picture of splendorous beauty in her princess gown, and she seemed surrounded in a halo of light that night. The ceremony was just for her. All these accomplishments in the form of beads, artfully applied in patterns and shapes. Me, I had a vest with a handful of beads which we'd sewn into simple shapes. I didn't really have enough for patterns and spirals. I was particularly proud of my blue bead, hard to earn.

We went on a camping expedition and were charged with cooking Camp Fire Stew to earn a bead. This was delicious to kids, a mix of ground beef, tomato sauce, and vegetables. Scraped into a hot slurry in a pan over an open fire, it was simply a marvel and I was astounded when I tasted the result of my handiwork.

Some summer evenings are meant for Camp Fire Stew. I think of that first time with those big grey stones around the fire pit, and the old beat up pot they brought out. We all knelt around the carefully built fire and under the guidance of one of the mothers. The burning wood smelled lovely, we had built the fire ourselves, and the warmth and light of our fire posed a contrast to the cool breeze coming off the lake and the dark forest beyond. Our sleeping bags were all rolled out in a cabin, waiting for ghost stories, flashlights, mosquito netting, and games. We added the ingredients one by one, and we each got a chance to stir.

These days I always have olive oil, because Brigitte gave us a gallon of the really good stuff. Always, garlic. Always shallots, sometimes onions. This is where I begin. Camp Fire Stew should always be made with whatever you have lying about, but begin with the bulbs. I take a moment to sharpen my knife with a few strokes. No more than a half dozen are necessary. It does the spirit good to cut with a sharp knife. My clean cutting boards are down.

I heat some oil up a larger sized pan. While the oil heats, I mince the garlic and shallots and toss them in. Then I look to my vegetable basket and place whatever kinds of vegetables I have in a colander.

This time of year you might have eggplants, peppers, tomatoes, onions, squash of various kinds, green beans, mushrooms, etc. Add one or two or a handful of everything you've got.

The garlic and shallots have begun to release their aroma and it floats through the house. You can add meat if you have some. Any kind will do. Slice the meat, cutting against the grain for beef and pork and sliver along the grain for chicken or other poultry to keep things tender and juicy. Think about how by cutting it up small it will cook faster. Add the meat, spreading it in a layer over the garlic and shallots. Give it a toss. Let it brown on one side. Toss it again.

While the meat's browning, rinse and chop up your vegetables. Nice big chunks. A few swift strokes are all that's necessary. Add them. Look carefully. Sprinkle with a little salt. Reach up and pluck a bay leaf and a few sprigs of aromatic herbs you've got drying here and there, and tuck them in between the vegetables. Toss it. Take in the aroma. Give it a stir. In a few minutes, the vegetables will begin to release their juices. Tomatoes give a lot of juice, as do mushrooms and courgettes. Does something seem to be taking form?

Like magic, you'll have a nice pile of summer goodness steaming and simmering there in their own juices, with a little bit of that optional meat, and the herbs. Use a wood spatula or spoon to make sure that whatever browning from the meat is on the bottom gets mixed into the juice. If there doesn't seem to be enough juice, open the refigerator door. Ah. A bottle of white wine. Some leftover tomato sauce from the other night. Drizzle the lot with the wine or a little sauce. Toss again. Bring the heat up until it bubbles happily. Lower the heat to a simmer, cover the lot, and set your timer for 20 minutes.

The last and most important step is to present this cobbled stew. Give it a taste and season it if necessary. If the larder is especially meager and you haven't used much meat, a topping of poached eggs adds is a nice way to fortify it. Things like fresh minced herbs, chives, or something like mushrooms or small bits of leftovers can make great finishing touches to the presentation.

Even if this dish didn't take much planning or effort, you don't want to haul the pot to the table. You have cooked something worthy of a serving dish. Bring out a wide and shallow serving platter with a proper spoon, or even a narrow and high one, made of ceramic, with a ladle. Set the table. The world will not come to an end if the tablecloths and napkins are wrinkled. Sitting at the table, using even wrinkled hung dried linens and old mismatched plates, a small goblet of vin de pays, your spirit will pay homage to this humble supper of Camp Fire Stew, grown up.

A Yearning Lover Kind of Craving

"They probably think we're on vacation."

This was what my husband said at the dinner table last night, a nice little eggplant, tomato, pepper and garlic stew topped with melted cheese and poached eggs. Just a little mix of whatever we had left in the basket. "And who would that be?" I asked, picking up the cold fresh mint tea I'd made that afternoon, by just a simple infusion of mint leaves in hot water. It is really the best thing to do with the bunches and bunches of mint being handed in two fisted bundles over the market tables these days.

"The boulanger." Our boulanger. The one who thinks we're on vacation since we haven't been to buy bread in over a month. This is because I have cut wheat out of our diet for the time being.

I thought about our boulanger. In the mornings, he makes his deliveries to the restaurants on a bike with a big basket, loaded with flour sacks that have the tops rolled like the cuffs of pants, and stuffed full of bread. They stack high and he pedals slowly, from one restaurant to the next. He looks all scruffy and his hair is messed up, powdered in head to toe with with a thin coating of flour, levain smeared on a pant leg. His shoes look like an afterthought, and he's never wearing socks. He looks a little bit like the Pillsbury dough boy that someone has put some clothes on, come to think of it. He jovially rides his bike along in the early morning hours with that day's first bread.

We're changing our habits, but we will always buy our bread there. Even if we don't buy as much as we used to. One man told me while we whiled away some time in line waiting for this bread that he was confident that our baker made the best bread in France. Imagine such a thought, your clients are confident that you make your product better than anywhere else in the country. I haven't had any better, that's for sure. We're lucky to live so close to this baker.

I looked at my husband. He was somewhere else. Staring off into space.

"I'm sure they'll understand." I said.

I am beginning to see some results of my time without bread. I am melting away kind of like a yearning lover. Yearning for this bread. In a few months when I go back to the baker, perhaps they'll think I am an entirely new customer. But I'll never completely give it up. Butter just isn't the same without it.

Spicy Poultry Stuffed Pattypan Squash

Hot with their broth, waiting for an herb garnish.

We did manage to get down to the market yesterday morning and the summer squash is out in abundance. After days inside focusing on one thing I felt like I was moving through a dream in which the world has exploded with life. It was strange to see the hustle and bustle of the market keep moving although it had been feeling in my heart felt like everything had come to a standstill. I gathered up the fixings for one very simple French summer staple, stuffed courgette, tomato, or patisson, pattypan squash, and got moving in the kitchen. Just simple work with the hands is what I need.

Spicy Poultry Stuffed Pattypan Squash
Serves 4

8 little summer pattypans and courgettes (any combination, any squash will do, really)
2 teaspoons butter
2 cloves of garlic
2 shallots
1/2 bunch of chives
fresh herbs of your choice (basil goes very well with poultry, or thyme for the squash, really anything that's fresh and on hand. I used wild thyme.)
1 tablespoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon crushed sichuan peppercorn
1/2 teaspoon chipotle pepper or cayenne
1 teaspoon sea salt
200 grams or 6 ounces chopped poultry, pork, veal, beef, or a mixture of meats (yesterday I used chicken and guinea hen)
1 tablespoon duck fat or butter

Wash your squash thoroughly, and slice off the caps, reserving them. Hollow them out with the aid of a melon baller or teaspoon with a sharp edge, reserving the flesh of the vegetable. Butter or oil a baking dish, and place the newly hollowed vegetables inside, top side up. Sprinkle a little bit of salt into each one and place their caps on. Set aside.

Chop the hollowed out insides of the squash into small cubes. peel and mince the garlic and shallots. Heat the butter in a saute pan until the foam subsides and add the garlic and onion. Let that sizzle for a minute or two, and before it turns brown, add the squash flesh. Toss and stir the contents, the squash will release its juice and then the juice will reduce. Keep tossing it from time to time, for 10 minutes or until the juice reduces. Mince and add the chives and herbs.

Put the paprika, sichuan peppercorn, and chipotle pepper into a small pan and let it toast over medium heat, just until it begins to release its aromas. Transfer the toasted spice mix into the squash, garlic, and shallot mixture and incorporate it fully. Remove from heat and transfer to a mixing bowl. Let the spicy mixture cool to room temperature.

Debone and chop the game hen, chicken, or other poultry into a small dice. Mix the diced meat and tablespoon of duckfat or butter into the spiced squash mixture and season with the remaining salt to taste. At that point you can also add optional bread crumbs or and egg to the mix. (I did not add either because I am watching my weight, but sometimes do, depending on the moisture level of the stuffing. Eggs or bread crumbs are both nice binders and make a stuffing more fortifying. When eggs or bread crumbs are added, the stuffing will puff when baked.)

Stuff the hollowed out squash without packing too tightly, while they are in the baking dish. Place the tops on the vegetables, and cover the whole baking dish with foil. Roast at 200C/400F for 30 to 40 minutes.

When you pull the pan out of the oven, a nice layer of broth infused with the flavors of whatever meat you have used, the herbs, and the squash will have accumulated, which can be directly spooned over the stuffed vegetables, hot, at the table. Leftover broth should be reserved and can be used in a vinaigrette for serving with leftovers.

Little cold stuffed pattypan make a nice topping for a salad the day after you prepare them.

Now Is the Appointed Time: Le Valencay AOC

Last July I wrote about the pyramid shaped cheeses that appear from local farms at the market here in Lyon every summer. This year I want to tell you about the cheese at the heart of the mystery of their intriguing shape. Whatever story you decide to believe, there's one thing you must not pass up, a nice well aged AOC Le Valencay in the month of July.

Although the history of this cheese dates back hundreds of years, the AOC was obtained in 1998. Currently there are 21 farms and 6 co-ops producing Le Valencay, and it is distributed widely in France, with a yearly distribution of 342 tons a year. Fresh raw goat's milk is curdled with animal rennet over 24 to 36 hours and then hand ladled into the truncated pyramid shaped molds, strained, and aged for 10 days before it gets a coating of a mix of salt and ashes.

When choosing Le Valencay, choose one with lots of nice puckering and a dark color to the crust, which will indicate a cheese with a nice body and well developed flavors. This cheese holds up well under various conditions, so you can get excellent cheese ranging from a very soft young cheese with a light salty flavor to the oldest hardest cheese that splinters when cut.

It's ready to eat now, friends. Have a taste and tell me if this isn't the paragon of the chevre experience.

Happy Birthday Mama!

Summer Pears - Poire William

The pear tree out back by the garage on Circle Road was not a summer pear tree. This was a twisted moss covered old lady who gave up her fruits in early autumn and her back was breaking under the weight. When the fruit got to a certain size, my mother would wrap some still green fruits in newspaper and place them in the potato drawer to ripen. A child could use her heft to pull open that drawer on a rainy afternoon and discover nice packets of clean yellow juicy fruit if she was lucky. What a windfall to find one of those packets. Oh how I loved those pears and that tree.

In Lyon right now, there's a pear local to the region that has got quite a reputation herself. When I was researching local products along the Rhone river going South not too long ago, I came across the name of a certain producer of a summer fruit, precocious and fragile, called the Poire William. This fruit has always caught my eye at the market in early summer, first because it comes from local production, and second because it packs a powerful flavor punch, with a musky come hither kind of perfume and lots of juice, even if the fruit shows every nick and scratch and won't last long in the fruit bowl.

These pears actually were cultivated and enjoyed great popularity in the region starting in the mid 1800s, mainly as table fruit, i.e. fresh fruit for eating plain, and reputed for their deliciousness. A hundred years down the line, given a relatively short shelf life and easy bruising, conditions during World War II had cut off logistical channels and tanked the economy in and around Lyon. One enterprising fruit grower by the name of Colombier in Vienne, 20 miles south of Lyon, came up with a way to get something from his leftover fruit. Over three years during the 1940s, he experimented in his atelier and perfected a new technique for distilling eau-de-vie from his summer harvest of Poire William.

Chef Fernand Point, our consummate original locavore, took a keen liking to the perfected product, and they struck up a deal on M. Colombier's eau-de-vie Poire William. Although a very small quantity of the precious nectar was distributed to the cultivator's restaurateur friends in Lyon, on the whole, his production went exclusively to La Pyramide.

M. Colombier's method remained a secret up until the late 1950s, when suddenly recipes and technique spread like wildfire through the region and eastward as well, resulting in that lovely Alpine deliciousness we sip from little glasses at red checkered tables in the Alps called Williamine, a close cousin, a God daughter for sure, and a probable direct descendent of M. Colombier's product. On the wave of an economic boom, commercial production of this product exploded. Since then, many of these operations have closed, leaving 6 producers of eau-de-vie Poire William using local fruits in the region today.

Two things about the fruit we call Poire William - the table fruits and the fruits destined for the distillery are treated quite differently even from conception. While our table fruit is ripened on a tree that's original all the way down, the fruit for juice now comes from trees that have been grafted onto the roots of another tree altogether, done to maximize flavor. For the nectar, they are also picked early, in order to capture certain flavors that tree ripened mature fruits don't transmit well through distillation.

I serve eau-de-vie Poire William at the end of the meal as a digestif, in little crystal goblets, once we've moved away from the table. Sometimes, when I have a certain supply, I add it to champagne or even mix with ice cold pear juice (double whammy of pear deliciousness) at the apero hour. You can also use it to flavor creams and pastries, flans, etc. and one local ice cream manufacturer in Lyon has mastered a sublime eau-de-vie Poire William sorbet (that would be Nardonne..).

As for the fruits themselves, we like to eat a whole fruit plain in early summer. Cool, peeled by hand with a knife at the table. I find that they don't slow cook for preserves well, but they they do bake nicely for example in my Chaource and Pear Apero Tarte, of which I have done many when the Poire William is out. This kind of pear is excellent roasted or a delice simply slow poached in a red wine syrup you can easily mix up on the spot. Very classy, poached pears.