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.

THANKSGIVING, FRENCH-STYLE

Like all French expats I’ve been asked, more than once, how we celebrate Thanksgiving in France. Well, we don’t: I suppose we really want to save our appetite for Christmas. Just kidding: the French would never turn down an opportunity to party and eat good food but I’m certain we would approach it differently.

Attending my first Thanksgiving dinner was an eye-opener. After watching my mother-in-law and my sisters-in-law frantically shop and cook for three days, I was dismayed to see how quickly the meal was over: everything –except for dessert– was set on the table all at once. All dishes, hot and cold, savory and sweet, were served together and mingled on the plate. Everything looked fabulous but this French girl was a bit, uh, overwhelmed by the pacing of the meal. I think the guys in the room gave up on me and retreated to watch football while I was still working on the cranberry ambrosia.

When Rick and I moved to our current home in 1991, the floor plan allowed us to set up a separate salle à manger, one that would accommodate holiday dinners with the whole family. We were finally able to use the leaves on his grandparents’ dining room table and have 12-14 people over for dinner. I quickly volunteered to host Thanksgiving that year. Of course, it was going to be my own take on the beloved American celebration.

I wanted the meal to last more than half an hour so I decided to serve it in courses. First, une soupe. Pause. Then, une salade composée. Pause. Then, le plat de résistance. That year, it would not be a turkey: I was making confit de canard and pommes de terre sarladaises thanks to a business connection who supplied me with 10 lbs of fresh yellow chanterelles. Green beans with garlic sautéed in duck fat. And the cranberry ambrosia that Debbie makes (I love it, it’s like dessert to me.) Pause. Then, pumpkin pies and an apple pie that Debbie baked especially for me because she knows that, to this day, I will not eat pumpkin pie. I do believe that most French are genetically programmed to reject la tarte au potiron, le beurre de cacahuète and la bière de racine.

I was pretty happy with myself and thought I had conquered a seminal American holiday: my convives enjoyed their meal and, although it did not end in song and dance like most French celebrations do, we actually spent a couple of hours sitting and conversing at the dining room table, somewhat of a record from what I had previously observed.

Ten months later, the cruel reality hit: although my Thanksgiving dinner had been enjoyed by all, Kim pointed out that it didn’t really feel like Thanksgiving because: no turkey, not dressing, no leftovers. I realized that holidays are not just about the food itself but also about rituals.

For my 1992 edition of Thanksgiving, I relented and roasted a turkey. It was epic. And worthy of another post one year from now. In the meantime, I’ll share with you what the French love to make with a nice pumpkin.

Vocabulary
La salle à manger: dining room
La soupe: soup
La salade composée: mixed salad
Le plat de résistance: main course
Le confit de canard: duck confit
Les pommes de terre sarladaises: potatoes sautéed in duck fat
La tarte au potiron: pumpkin pie
Le beurre de cacahuète: peanut butter
La bière de racine: root beer
Les convives: dinner guests

Pumpkin soup
Soupe au potiron

2 tbsp olive oil
5 large shallots, chopped
2 large cloves of garlic, minced
3 lbs pumpkin flesh, peeled, seeded and cut into 1-inch cubes
1/2 lb russet potatoes, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 tbsp sea salt
Black pepper
4 1/2 cups of chicken stock
1/2 cup heavy whipping cream
1 Tbsp fresh parsley or chives, chopped

In a large pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the shallots and garlic; cook for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally until the shallots are soft and translucent. Add the pumpkin, potatoes, salt and freshly ground pepper. Cover and cook over medium heat for 10 minutes. Pour in the chicken stock and simmer for 45 minutes until the pumpkin is tender. Puree the soup in batches until smooth. Return to the pot, add the whipping cream and the parsley and stir. Check seasoning and serve immediately.

LES FEVES

A long time ago, the traditional galette des Rois was spiked with a dry bean, hence the name fève. When I was a young girl, the bean had already been replaced by a white porcelain baby Jesus. In the late Sixties, plastic supplanted porcelain and religious icons made way to secular symbols: the sun, a four-leaf clover, etc.

As galette season started to stretch to a whole month instead of a single week, bakers foresaw a new marketing opportunity: if fèves were perceived as collectibles, more cakes would be sold. It started will colorful ceramic santons (the Provençal figurines that populate nativity scenes) and expanded to depictions of cartoon characters, baby animals, classic cars, or even a real gold coin!

Fève collectors are known as fabophiles and often scout vide-greniers to enrich their collection. They can even compare their treasures to the 20,000+ samples exhibited at the Musée de la fève in Blain (Loire-Atlantique.)

Vocabulary
Galette des Rois: traditional cake served for the Epiphany
Vide-grenier: the French equivalent of a garage sale (literally, to empty one’s attic)

EPIPHANY

Each French holiday has its own rhythm, its own traditions and, most importantly, its own dessert. After the Bûche de Noël* for Christmas and the Omelette Norvégienne for New Year’s Eve, we usher in January with the Galette des Rois. Sometimes compared to the Kings cake served in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, the galette is a decidedly different dessert. Imagine a buttery layer of frangipane (creamed almond powder) sandwiched between two flaky disks of puff pastry: at its best, it’s light, not too sweet, and the perfect accompaniment to a chilled glass of Champagne demi-sec.

That’s what the adults in the (dining) room enjoy. Children get more delight out of finding la fève in their slice of galette: before it is baked, a trinket is hidden between the layers of puff pastry; the person who is lucky enough to bite into the fève gets to be crowned king or queen for the day. Traditionally, the youngest child scoots under the dining room table while the galette is cut and calls the name of a recipient before each slice is served. In our house, it was my sister Françoise’s responsibility –and privilege. I grew a bit weary of the whole process when I realized that Mom would INVARIABLY strike the fève when cutting the galette, thereby killing the surprise for everybody around the table. I eventually got my own “epiphany”: I joined my sister under the table so I could be as blissfully ignorant as she was.

Unless you live close to a good French pastry shop, purchasing a galette in the USA is no small feat. However, making one yourself is not necessarily a difficult endeavor, especially if you use store-bought puff pastry. Here is my recipe.

Galette des Rois

Ingredients
2 sheets of puff pastry
½ cup sugar
4 Tbsp of butter, softened
1 ¼ cup almond meal
3 eggs, separated
1 drop almond extract
2 Tbsp of rum
A porcelain fève (or dried bean, or whole almond)

Directions
Preheat the oven to 360º F. Cut two 9" disks into the puff pastry sheets (use a sharp knife and an upturned plate to guide you). Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper and set one disk on top of it. Cream the sugar, almond meal, and butter together. Incorporate 2 eggs, almond extract, and rum. Mix the yolk from the remaining egg with 1 Tbsp of water; with a pastry brush, apply the egg wash at the edges to trace a one-inch ring. Pour the almond cream in the center of the puff pastry disk and spread up to the egg wash ring. Bury the fève into the almond cream. Top with the second disk of puff pastry and press the edges together with your fingers to seal. With the dull side of a small knife, push the edges of the dough inward in eight equidistant places; draw a crisscross or decorative pattern on the top of the galette; brush with the egg wash, making sure not to drip over the sides. Bake in the center of the oven for 30 minutes. Serve at room temperature or slightly warm.

Vocabulaire
La Bûche de Noël: log shaped cake
L’Omelette Norvégienne: baked Alaska
La Galette des Rois: puff pastry cake served for the Epiphany
Demi-sec: extra dry
La fève: a trinket hidden in the galette. Originally, a dried bean.

Read more about les fèves.