QUINCE RATAFIA

It’s good to be back home after an exciting 10-day trip to Northern Italy (there may be some future blog posts about that…) I’m sitting in a comfy Adirondack chair under my new porch, observing the changing colors of our woods, and sipping a small glass of the quince liqueur I made last year.

I never saw quince sold at my California markets. I think it was almost forgotten in the US until some fifteen years ago when it became fashionable to serve membrillo with Manchego, the Spanish cheese made of ewe milk. The French have their pâte de coing but we mostly serve it as a confection, like other pâtes de fruits. The most common quince product available at supermarkets here is gelée de coing: it’s a superb jelly to top a buttery croissant or to spread over neatly arranged slices of apples on a classic tarte aux pommes.

Maguy’s quince tree

My aunt Maguy planted several fruit trees when she retired at the farm some thirty years ago. We’re now neighbors and I’m always in awe of her fruit harvest. Her cognacier is particularly prolific and produces huge fruits like the one featured on my opening photo: that monster weighed close to 2 lbs! Quince is too astringent to eat raw; it’s also quite hard. Quartering, coring, and slicing quince to make jam or paste requires dedication, a large sharp knife, and a steady hand: my uncle even designed a “quince-cutting” apparatus that bears an uncanny resemblance to a massicot or a small guillotine…

Maguy’s 2018 harvest was huge and she gave me several quinces to play with. I didn’t feel ambitious enough to make jelly but I remembered how all the local farmers always served some kind of home-made liqueur that they called “ratafia.” There never seemed to be a specific recipe and different kinds of fruits could be used; more often than not, it just involves mixing fruits with sugar and alcohol. Perhaps I could make some quince ratafia? Searching the web, I ran across several references to Jane Grigson recipe from her 1971 book Good Things and made just a few adjustments. I liked the idea of simply grating the whole quince instead of peeling, cutting, and coring the tough fruit: I was pretty confident that my Microplane grater could handle the job. However, I stopped short of including the core itself: I thought I could eventually use the steeped quince shreds in a dessert (check the end of the recipe for an idea.) Quince is ready to harvest in October-November: if you’re lucky to spot them at your farmers’ market, pick up a few and make some ratafia: it will be ready for Christmas.

My jars of quince ratafia

Ratafia de Coing
Quince Ratafia

2 large quinces
1 cup granulated sugar
1” knob of ginger, peeled and sliced
1 star anise
Vodka

Thoroughly wash and rub the quinces under warm water to eliminate any fuzz on their skin. With a sharp cheese grater, shred the flesh of the fruits; discard the cores. Pack the shreds in a sterilized 1 quart Mason jar, add sugar, ginger, and star anise. Fill the jar with vodka. Seal the jar and store it in a cool dry place for 6 weeks, shaking occasionally. Taste the liquor after 6 weeks for sweetness; add sugar (or simple syrup) if necessary. To bottle the liqueur, use a fennel lined with a coffee filter.

After discarding the ginger rounds and star anise, transfer the quince shreds in a saucepan, add ½ cup of sugar, and simmer for 15 minutes. Set aside and let cool. Use the quince compote to line up a pie pastry and top with apple slices for a tasty quince-apple tart.

Note: if you’re not a fan of star anise, you can substitute a small stick of cinnamon or a vanilla bean.

Quince and apple tart

Vocabulary
La pâte de coing: quince paste
La pâte de fruits: fruit paste
La gelée de coing: quince jelly
La tarte aux pommes: apple tart
Le cognacier: quince tree
Le massicot: paper cutter

A PLUM LIFE

Since my return to the farm I’ve been feeling very domestic. It is a retour aux sources to the place that’s been part of me, since my very first visit: I was two months old. Throughout their retirement, my grandparents raised ducks, chicken, and rabbits. They also grew vegetables to feed animals (maïs, betteraves, topinambours) and humans (pommes de terre, haricots verts, asperges, petits pois, fèves.) There was also a small potager planted with leeks, carrots, tomatoes, and a variety of lettuces. Fruit trees dotted the fields. Growing your own produce and eating in season was a double-edged sword. First, you got all excited when harvesting the first green beans; two weeks later, you tried to invent new dishes to use the above-mentioned vegetables; three weeks into the season, you were insanely tired of équeuter the beans and canning the seemingly endless crop.

My quetsche tree is ready for its close up.

The farm is no longer in an active state but some of the fruit trees remain. We arrived too late for cherries and apricots but August blessed us with an abundance of plums, more than enough to share with family, birds, and wasps. By all accounts, this year was a bumper crop for fruits à noyaux.

Although I frequently purchased local produce from Farmers’ markets while living in California, nothing beats the taste and texture of a perfectly ripe fruit, just picked from the tree and eaten on the spot. But when strong winds knocked down a large branch of my quetsche tree, we found ourselves with an abundance of riches. Not being equipped for canning at the moment, I resorted to making compotes, clafoutis, and tarts. If I find myself in a similar predicament next year, I might just have a local bouilleur de cru distill my excess fruit and turn it into eau de vie.

Sweet golden mirabelles

The most exciting thing for me was to feast on varieties of plums that I rarely –or never– encountered in the US. The Mirabelle plum is virtually unknown there: in fact, I can’t really find a translation for it. Some call it a “cherry plum” because it is the size of a fat cherry; one of my suppliers used to label it “fancy plum”, which was more confusing than helpful. Those who have seen and tasted a mirabelle always recognize its (often flecked) dark yellow skin, yellow flesh, and sweet flavor. It’s a specialty of the Lorraine area where 80% of the production is grown.

Reines-Claudes stay green even when ripe.

My personal favorite is the Reine Claude (greengage), named after the wife of King François 1er. Round and firm, its skin is green even when the plum is ripe; its flesh is green as well. It retains a touch of acidity which balances its sweetness. I think they make fabulous tarts: they soften but do not lose too much juice.

Luscious quetsches; could make a good brandy, perhaps…

Very prevalent in our area is the Quetsche (damson) and its cousin the Prune d’Ente (the one they dry to make those wonderful French prunes in Agen.) The oval purple fruit brightly contrasts from the thick green leaves of the tree. Its light red flesh is a bit juicier than the Reine Claude.

Two weeks ago, I found myself in the middle of the perfect plum storm: I actually had baskets of all three varieties at the same time! Not wanting to play favorite, I felt under obligation to celebrate them all in one dish.

THREE PLUM TART
Tarte aux trois prunes
Serves 6 to 8

One sheet of pastry (home-made or store-bought)
2 lbs plums, three assorted varieties
4 tablespoons almond meal
2 tablespoons brown sugar

Preheat oven to 375º F. Drop the pastry into a 12” tart mold. Wash, half and pit the plums. Spread the almond meal evenly on the surface of the dough. Arrange the plums in crust; sprinkle with brown sugar. Bake for 30 minutes or until crust is golden brown.

Vocabulary
Le retour aux sources: lit. return to the origins, homecoming
Le maïs: corn
La betterave: beet
Le topinambour: Jerusalem artichoke
La pomme de terre: potato
Le haricot vert: green bean
L’asperge (f): asparagus
Le petit pois: green pea
La fève: fava bean
Le potager: the vegetable garden
Equeuter: to trim the ends of the beans
Le fruit à noyau: stone fruit
La quetsche: damson plum
Le bouilleur de cru: private distiller
L’eau de vie (f): brandy

ZUCCHINI BLOSSOMS

Here is a French word that comes in handy in summer: la courgette. I think I somewhat “discovered” zucchini when I first came to California some forty years ago. Of course, the slender green vegetable was not unknown in France but, at that time, it fell into the category of regional produce: ubiquitous in Provence, not so much in other areas. My grandfathers, both avid gardeners, never grew zucchini in their potagers and I don’t remember any of their neighbors growing them either. They both lived in the southwestern quadrant of France. At home, my mother loved zucchini; my dad and my sister did not; I was Switzerland… I’ll eat just about anything.

If we wanted to run a popularity contest, zucchini would rank pretty low on the offensive scale. Nevertheless, I was a bit surprised to see how enthusiastic Californians were about this summer vegetable. Zucchini bread? Really? Naturellement, this French girl didn’t think that vegetables belonged in the dessert category. But wait: is bread supposed to be a dessert in these parts? It was all very confusing.

Later on, I realized the reason why Californians devise so many creative preparations for zucchini is because it is such a prolific vegetable: one needs to constantly figure out new ways to use the abundant crop. Or else, you fill your car trunk with bags of zucchini and cajole your coworkers into lightening your load. If your garden is full of zucchini let me give you a bit of advice to nip the problem in the bud, literally: harvest zucchini as they bloom and stuff the blossoms with fresh chèvre instead of allowing the vegetable to reach maturity! These stuffed zucchini blossoms are showy, tasty, and easy to make. Bring them to the next company picnic and everybody will cheer you on for growing courgettes.

They're still so pretty after they're baked!

Zucchini Blossoms stuffed with Goat Cheese
Fleurs de courgettes farcies au fromage de chèvre
Serves 4

2 eggs
4 oz fresh goat cheese
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
6 basil leaves, finely chopped
Salt and pepper
12 zucchini blossoms
2 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 400ºF. Separate the eggs. With a fork, mash the goat cheese and mix in the egg yolks, garlic, basil, and pepper. Whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt and fold into the cheese mixture. Carefully open up the zucchini blossoms and fill them with the cheese and egg preparation. Oil an oven-proof dish with 1 Tbsp of olive oil; arrange the stuffed blossoms in the dish and sprinkle with the remaining oil. Bake for 20 minutes. Serve hot.

Vocabulary

La courgette: zucchini
Le potager: vegetable garden
Naturellement: of course
La chèvre: goat
Le chèvre: goat cheese

FRAISES AU VIN

Living in California has its advantages: one of them is the abundance of fresh produce, which makes it a paradise for cooks. I got an early education in that field, pun intended: my paternal grandparents returned to a farming/gardening life when they retired and I spent countless vacation hours helping them in the vineyard, harvesting asparagus, shelling fresh peas, trimming green beans for canning, gathering potatoes for winter storage, and picking strawberries to be served that very evening. For me, there were only two kinds of strawberries: the plump round ones that I picked in grandpa’s garden and the tiny elongated kind that grew wild in his woods.

The Gariguette is the most popular strawberry variety in France

The latter (fraises des bois) I would just enjoy on the spot while hunting for mushrooms as it took a lot of time and effort to gather enough for a family dessert! The strawberries grown in the garden received more consideration: they could turn color and ripen quite quickly and had to be closely monitored. I always wanted to harvest them at their finest, late in the afternoon, after they had soaked in the warmth of the sun. I would rinse them in the cool water from the well, hull them, then set them up in grandma’s white saladier until it was time for dessert. We ate on their own, perhaps with a bit of sugar or paired with the fromage blanc made by Monsieur Adam, our neighbor. Grandpa being diabetic, sugar was off limits for him; he usually enjoyed his berries in a bowl, doused with the red wine he made from his own grapes.

Mara des Bois, a cultivated strawberry with a flavor reminiscent of wild strawberries

I didn’t pay that much attention to which variety of berries he grew back then: why would I bother when they always tasted so delicious, freshly plucked from the garden and consumed within hours? As I got involved in the specialty food business, it became my duty (et mon plaisir) to quiz my suppliers about what kind of strawberries they used in the various jams, preserves or conserves I sold.

Cigaline is a variety derived from the Gariguette but with a touch less acidity than its "sister"

Since I usually fly back to France every May, I’ve had many opportunities to linger at the outdoor markets and study what is displayed on the stalls. There are more than one hundred different varieties of strawberries but three of them are top-ranked in France. The Gariguette is a real star: medium-sized and elongated, with an orangey red color, it’s an early variety that’s sweet with a touch of acidity. The Mara des Bois is also much sought after: it’s fleshy and juicy, exhibiting a brilliant deep red color and a round shape, with the sweet and musky aroma of wild strawberries. The Charlotte is a favorite among children: bright red color, heart-shaped, firm, sweet, and juicy, it makes beautiful tarts and jams. Once in a while, you might even find white strawberries like the Anablanca, one of the oldest varieties (white strawberries were brought back to France from Chile in 1728 by explorer Jacques-Cartier.) Surprisingly, their taste is reminiscent of… pineapple!

When you have access to freshly picked fruits, simple preparations are best to showcase their flavor. There is a produce stand on my way home from work and that Chinese family has been growing strawberries for decades: the strawberry beds sit right behind the tiny shed and the fruits are picked daily. As soon as the harvest starts, I stop by and pick up a pint or two: they are so perfectly ripe, they don’t keep more than a day or two. Most of the time, we just eat them out of hand. Sometimes, I add some cream. And sometimes, I tip my hat to Grandpa and serve them with red wine.

Fraises au Vin
Strawberries in Wine
Serves 6

1 1/4 lb strawberries
2 cups red wine
3/4 cup sugar
1 stick cinnamon
1 star anise
1 Tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp crushed pink peppercorns
Mint or basil leaves for garnish

Wash, dry, and hull the strawberries; halve or quarter them depending on size and reserve in a large bowl. Pour the wine into a saucepan; add sugar, cinnamon, star anise, and balsamic vinegar. Bring to a boil then simmer 5 minutes. Remove cinnamon and star anise; pour over the strawberries. Let cool then refrigerate until ready to serve. Divide into 6 individual bowls and sprinkle with crushed pink peppercorns.

Sylvaine’s tips: use a light red wine (Beaujolais, Gamay, or Cabernet Franc, for instance.) Pour the wine mixture on the strawberries while it's hot: the fruit will be slightly poached. If pink peppercorns are not available, you can replace them with freshly ground black pepper. 

Vocabulary
La fraise des bois: wild strawberry
Le saladier: salad bowl
Le fromage blanc: French “cottage” cheese
Mon plaisir: my pleasure

COOKING WITH BOCUSE

Full disclosure: I did not actually cook in Paul Bocuse’s kitchen; that would have truly been a Moment Parfait. But I did find myself in his immediate vicinity at SIRHA in Lyon some fifteen years ago. Attending that trade show brought me pretty close to foodie heaven not just because of the fantastic products I discovered but because I also had the opportunity to observe talented chefs pushing the envelope in food prep, execution, and presentation. Buyers at food shows move at a very slow pace: we are continuously stopping to shake hands with vendors, watch videos showcasing pots, pans, or knives, and sample food bites (I know, you all want my job right now.) I was leisurely walking the aisles of the show when traffic came to a standstill. I figured there was a compelling demo a few booths ahead. I then realized the source of attention was actually in the aisle. Initially, I only caught a quick glimpse of a white toque towering over the crowd; a short while later, I found myself just a few feet away from Monsieur Paul. Sporting his tall chef’s hat, he was also dressed in his “frog coat” adorned with the blue, white, and red striped collar that can only be worn by recipients of the Meilleur Ouvrier de France* award. He was escorted by a small entourage and I assume he was making his way to the Bocuse d’Or competition**, an international event that started in 1987, long before Iron Chef and Chopped became popular TV entertainment.

Inside Brasserie de l'Est. Look at the miniature train at the top of the photo and the marquise showing through the window. Photo credit for this picture and the top one: Brasserie de l'Est.

Since I didn’t have private transportation (nor the budget!) to head out of Lyon and experience Bocuse’s celebrated restaurant in Collonges, I thought the next best thing would be to have dinner at one of his brasseries in the city. As luck would have it, Brasserie de l’Est was a mere fifteen-minute walk from my hotel. I loved the location –an old gare– and the décor: a stunning iron-and-glass marquise above the entrance, an open kitchen, a miniature train circulating on miniature tracks above the dining room. I remember being so impressed with the simple salade gourmande: lovely bouquets of mâche dressed in an olive oil vinaigrette with shallots, tender coeurs d’artichauts, perfectly cooked haricots verts, topped with a buttery slice of duck foie gras.

My first cookbook!

As soon as I flew back to California, I had to recreate that perfect salad and add it to my repertoire. The recipe was not listed in Paul Bocuse In Your Kitchen, the very first cookbook I bought after moving to the US but, by then, I was able to execute a satisfactory rendition. The funny thing is that I grew up around women who routinely produced 4-course meals twice a day but I didn’t actually start cooking until I left France. Chef Paul, Chef Jacques (Pépin), and Julia (Child) became my teachers through their books and their TV shows. Soupe à l’Oignon, Sole Meunière, Coq au Vin, Boeuf Bourguignon, Mousse au Chocolat: I had savored all those dishes throughout my childhood but these iconic figures are the ones who really taught me how to cook. Paul Bocuse just passed away last week. He was a giant, the pope of French cuisine. His lessons and his passion will always stay with me. Come to think about it: his French Onion Soup sounds simply perfect right now.

Onion soup: a staple of French cuisine

Paul Bocuse’s French Onion Soup
Soupe à l’oignon de Paul Bocuse

2 tbsp butter
4 medium onions, peeled and sliced
2 tbsp flour
6 cups beef bouillon or water
½ an 8-ounce loaf of French bread, cut in half lengthwise
2 cups freshly grated Swiss cheese
2 tbsp butter (for layering)
Pepper
2 tbsp breadcrumbs

Melt 2 tbsp butter in a large saucepan, add the onions, and brown slightly. Stir in the flour and when it begins to color add the bouillon or water, stirring constantly. Cook over moderate heat uncovered for 15 minutes. Toast the bread under the broiler, then cut into thick slices. Preheat the oven to 400ºF. In a soup tureen that you can put in the oven, place a third of the bread, sprinkle with a quarter of the cheese, 2 tsp of softened butter, and a little pepper. Make three layers in this way, then pour the soup into the tureen, sprinkle with the breadcrumb and the remaining cheese, and place in the oven for 20 minutes or until the cheese and breadcrumbs have browned. Serve immediately. Serves 4.

Vocabulary
La toque: tall (and stiff) chef’s hat
La gare: train station
La marquise: in this context, a glass and iron porch above an entrance
La mâche: lamb’s lettuce
Le coeur d’artichaut: artichoke heart
Le haricot vert: slender green bean
La soupe à l’oignon: French onion soup
La sole meunière: sole with a butter lemon sauce
Le coq au vin: rooster in red wine
Le boeuf bourguignon: beef stew in red wine
La mousse au chocolat: chocolate mousse

*Meilleur Ouvrier de France: for some insight on what is involved to get this culinary award, watch the trailer to The Kings of Pastry, an entertaining and fascinating documentary.

** Bocuse d'Or: watch highlights of the 2017 competition. The US team took Gold for the first time!

CANDIED MEYER LEMON STRIPS

At the beginning of December, Mom would always buy a large box of boules praliné to usher in the holiday season. She stored the box in the dining room buffet and would pull it out at the end of dinner so we could all enjoy a sweet treat: a sure sign the holiday season had started. I was also very fond of marrons glacés and she would purchase a box of them as well, along with the less expensive brisures, not as presentable but just as tasty. Historically, the purpose of candying fruits was not to celebrate Christmas but to extend their shelf-life by replacing their moisture with sugar, a natural preservative. Fruits confits (also called fruits glacés) are not difficult to make but they are labor intensive and require space. The basic principle is to immerse the fruit in syrup, simmer it for a while, pull it out, let it dry, and repeat the operation over several days until the fruit has been saturated.

I confess that I’ve never attempted to candy my own chestnuts but there is a prolific Meyer lemon tree in my mother-in-law’s backyard. Last weekend, I decided to make a batch a candied lemon zest. It’s an easy and tasty introduction to home-made candied fruits: because the zest is thin, the whole process can be completed in a couple of days. Pack the candied strips in pretty tins or cellophane bags closed with a festive ribbon: they make irresistible hostess gifts.

Vocabulary
La boule praliné: a chocolate confection with a hazelnut ganache center
Le marron glacé: candied chestnut
La brisure: a broken piece
Les fruits confits: candied fruits

Candied zests waiting to be rolled in sugar

Candied Meyer Lemon Strips
Zestes de citron confits

6 large Meyer lemons
2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup water
½ cup Meyer lemon juice
½ cup granulated sugar to coat the zests

Cut both ends of the lemons. Quarter the lemons and cut each quarter into 4 or 6 strips: each strip should be about 3/8” thick. With a spoon, scrape the membrane and pulp away from the strips of zest and reserve. Fill a saucepan with water and bring to a boil. Add the lemon zest and blanch for 5 minutes. Strain and repeat the process two more times to remove the bitterness. Set the peels in a colander and drain. Meanwhile, squeeze the juice from the reserved pulp (yes, you may use your hands or pack the pulp in a square of cheesecloth and extract the juice.) Place the sugar, water, and lemon juice in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Add the lemon peels. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for about an hour. Drain the peels and set them on a wire rack for 24 hours to air dry. Save the lemon syrup to jazz up a glass of Champagne or moisten a pound cake. Place the sugar in a shallow bowl and roll each peel in the sugar to coat. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to one month.

Of course, you can use the same recipe with oranges or another citrus.