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.

CASSOULET

I confess that I didn’t make cassoulet from scratch until I moved to the United States. Premièrement, my mother was a very competent cook so there was no compelling reason to take over her kitchen. Deuxièmement, cassoulet was readily available in France; even the inexpensive canned versions from the grocery store could satisfy my student friends. Troisièmement, let’s face it: cassoulet is a labor-intensive dish to make. Once in California, I had to do without Mom’s cooking or French-food-in-a-can and, when sufficiently motivated, I would hunt for the necessary ingredients such as Tarbais beans, confit de canard, duck fat, and Toulouse-style sausage. Unconsciously, I may have started my mail-order business just to eliminate the hunting part.

Cassoulet started out as peasant food, a ragout of fava beans that included whatever leftover meat was at hand. White beans were not introduced in Europe until the 16th century but have become the foundation of the dish. France being France, there are arguments about which beans should be used (lingots, cocos, tarbais?) and which meats should (or should not) be added: confit (duck or goose?), pork, lamb, perdrix? And how many times to break the crust? Castelnaudary, Carcassonne, and Toulouse are the three cities claiming they have the “right” recipe. In reality, there are as many variations as there are cooks and, in my mind, it’s a good thing.

Since I was in Carcassonne a month ago, it would have been a dereliction of duty to leave town without sampling some cassoulet. So, I’m going to recommend L’Auberge des Lices in the Cité not just because the cassoulet was very good, not just because the server wore his confrèrie garment, but also because the restaurant was filled with locals who spoke with their lovely Occitan accent: if they grew up on cassoulet, they must know where to enjoy a good one.

Vocabulary
Premièrement: firstly
Deuxièmement: secondly
Troisièmement: thirdly
Le confit de canard: duck confit
Le haricot tarbais: a large white bean from the Tarbes area where a bean and a corn kennel are planted together; the corn stalk serves as a stake for the climbing bean plant.
La perdrix: partridge
La confrèrie: a guild that celebrates a particular product
L'Occitan: an old language of southwestern France

Baked in and served out of its earthenware dish

Cassoulet with duck confit
Cassoulet au confit de canard

4 cups Tarbais beans
2 carrots, peeled and cut in 1/2” slices
½ onion, studded with one whole clove
3 oz slab bacon
1 bouquet garni (thyme, bay leaf, parsley)
2 tbsp duck fat
6 legs of duck confit
1 lb Toulouse sausage
½ onion, chopped
2 tbsp flour
2 tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and cubed
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 cup dry breadcrumbs

Soak the beans overnight in cold water to cover. Rinse and drain the beans. Put them in a large cooking pot and cover with cold water. Add the carrots, clove-studded onion, bacon slab and bouquet garni. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 1 1/2 hours. Preheat the oven to 350ºF. While the beans are simmering, melt the duck fat in a Dutch oven; brown the duck confit and the sausages on all sides. Add the chopped onion and cook until soft but not colored. Sprinkle with the flour and stir. Add the tomatoes, the crushed garlic and half a cup of water. Simmer for 10 minutes on the stove. Transfer the confit and sausages to a bowl. When the beans are almost cooked (tender but offering a slight resistance), drain and add the beans cooking liquid to the reserved sauce in the Dutch oven. Discard the bouquet garni. Remove the slab bacon, cut into dice and set aside. Cover the bottom of a large baking dish with a layer of beans. Add the sausages and confit and about 1 cup of the reserved liquid. Cover with another layer of beans and top with the pieces of bacon and more liquid. Sprinkle with breadcrumbs and drizzle with a little extra duck fat. Bake for 1 hour, or until the breadcrumbs are lightly colored, and serve in the baking dish.

Tarbais beans, duck fat, duck confit, and Toulouse sausages are available from Joie de Vivre.

LES CHAMPIGNONS

Fall might be my favorite season in southwestern France, perhaps because I’m still discovering the sights and smells at that season. Although I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ farm while growing up, I was never there between la rentrée and Christmas: I usually left early September to get ready for school in Paris. My biggest regret is to have never experienced les vendanges: after tending to the vineyard throughout the Summer, I would have loved to be there when all our neighbors came to help harvest and stomp the grapes. 

These are pretty but I don't eat them...

By chance, a couple of trade shows take place in Paris in September and in October: in the past few years, I’ve had a few opportunities to catch the train and meet with the family for a few days. The vineyard is gone but we still harvest walnuts, chestnuts, apples, and quinces. And, if the weather and the moon cooperate, there might also be mushrooms. I got an early education in mycology under the guidance of my dad and my grandfather who were both avid foragers. I quickly learned to recognize the good, the bad, and the ugly but if you’re not sure what to pick, you can always take your mushrooms to the local pharmacy and they will tell you what to keep and what to discard. Try doing that at CVS!

Morels!

In spring, we searched for morilles. They’re small and hollowed: it takes a lot of these to make a pound! My largest morel find actually happened in the US. I was working in Chico at that time and renting a little condo with a small backyard that had been dressed with a layer of bark from the Sierra. One evening in March, I stepped outside and noticed something that looked like a small sponge. Upon closer examination, I was sure it was a morel. I was shocked! As I bent over to pick it up, I realized the whole backyard was teeming with morels! I had never seen that many of them in my whole life. I gathered close to two pounds of fungi within minutes. I called my travel agent (she lived in the same complex, a few units down from me) and asked her to take a look at her backyard: could she see mushrooms there as well? Yes! I told her they were some of the most sought-after mushrooms on earth and shared my favorite recipe. Chris was absolutely horrified that I would be eating mushrooms that were not store-bought. She actually called me at the office the next morning to make sure I was still vivante.

Morels come in different colors: blond, gray, and dark brown. Different shapes, too.

In summer, we usually found cèpes: those are large and heavy. If you know where to look, you can pick up several pounds very quickly. But my all-time favorite mushroom is the girolle: I love its very distinctive texture and its nutty flavor. After walking in the woods for a couple of hours, always accompanied by grandfather’s Brittany spaniel, I usually came home with three to four pounds of girolles that we would immediately prepare for lunch. Grandma simply sautéed them in duck fat, along with scalloped potatoes, seasoned with a lot of garlic and fresh parsley. The aroma would fill the whole house (well, it’s a small house…) To this day, it remains one of my very favorite dishes.

Vocabulary
La rentrée: back-to-school
Les vendanges: the wine harvest
La morille: morel
Vivant(e): alive
La girolle: golden chanterelle
Le cèpe: porcini

Girolles and potatoes sautéed in duck fat, just like in Sarlat!

Pommes de terre Sarladaises
Potatoes sarladaises

3 tbsp duck fat
½ lb wild mushrooms (chanterelles, porcini…)
1.5 lbs potatoes
Salt and pepper
5 cloves of garlic, chopped
Fresh parsley, chopped

Clean and slice the mushrooms. Sauté in 1 tbsp of duck fat for 5 minutes (until they’ve released their water) and reserve. Peel, scallop and rinse the potatoes. Dry them thoroughly. In a heavy sauté pan on medium-high, heat the remaining duck fat. When the fat is hot, throw the potatoes into the pan and cook for 5-10 minutes until golden.  Gently flip the potatoes over with a wide spatula and cook another 10 minutes. Add reserved mushrooms. Add garlic, parsley, salt, and pepper to taste. Mix together and cook 5 more minutes. Serve immediately.

If wild mushrooms are not available, you may use crimini or Portobello. But you MUST cook them and the potatoes in duck fat. Potatoes will be crispy but tender inside. Yum!

Duck fat can be purchased at frenchselections.com

MILOU'S RASPBERRIES

We had a ritual: on our way home to Paris every August, we would stop in Angoulême and spend a day at Mom’s parrain. Milou was an avid and precise gardener. His potager was stunningly reminiscent of Le Potager du Roy in Versailles: purposeful and artistic. Just like a general commandeering his troops, he seemed able to order his blue-green leeks to form straight rows and his fuzzy carrot tops to reach the exact same height. Even his radishes were methodically thinned out so that gorgeous red half moons peeked out from the dark soil in an orderly fashion. Galvanized watering cans stood at attention at the end of the rows, ready to be commissioned to water the colorful vegetables each morning and evening.

While thoroughly impressed by the love, work, and attention he devoted to his garden, my sister and I were mostly attracted to the far side of his yard, all the way back. It was a jungle, a far cry from the manicured rows and alleys that led to it. But it was a jungle of berries. Tall sturdy canes covered with bright green leaves rose randomly, almost menacingly, but the thick bushes revealed the plumpest, sweetest framboises on earth. Françoise and I would just pluck them off the vines and pop them in our mouth, not caring whether we stained our hands, our cheeks, or our clothes. Pigging out on the gorgeous red gems had to be the best way to spend an August afternoon.

Raspberry charlotte
Charlotte aux framboises

½ cup milk
3 egg yolks
2 envelopes unflavored gelatin
24 oz raspberries
¾ cup heavy whipping cream
2 tbsp raspberry syrup
2 tbsp raspberry liqueur
24 boudoirs, ladyfingers, or biscuits roses

In a heavy saucepan, bring the milk to a simmer. Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks and the sugar until white and foamy. Add one-third of the hot milk to the egg mixture, whisking constantly. Pour the egg/milk mixture back into the saucepan and cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the cream thickens. Do not allow to boil. When the cream coats the back of the spoon (like a crème anglaise), remove from the heat. Sprinkle the gelatin and stir 5 minutes. In a blender, puree 8 oz of raspberries and strain to leave the seeds behind. Mix this raspberry coulis with the cream. Reserve in the refrigerator. Whip the heavy cream until stiff, then gently incorporate into the raspberry cream with a rubber spatula. Line an 8" charlotte mold with 2 or 3 layers of plastic wrap (they should overlap the edges of the mold). Mix the raspberry syrup, ½ cup of water and 2 tbsp of raspberry liqueur in a deep plate. Quickly dip one ladyfinger on both sides and set vertically on the side of the mold; repeat until the whole perimeter is lined with cookies. Cover the bottom of the mold in the same fashion. Ladle one layer of raspberry cream and sprinkle with whole raspberries; repeat; finish with one last layer of cream. Top with another layer of dunked cookies. Layer a sheet of plastic wrap on top of the cake and cover with a plate: the flat bottom should be of the same diameter as the mold. Set a weight on top of the plate and keep in the fridge for 6 hours. When ready to serve, remove the top layer of plastic wrap, invert the charlotte onto a platter. Garnish the top of the cake with remaining raspberries.

Raspberry syrup and biscuits roses can be purchased from Frenchselections.com

Vocabulary
Le parrain: godfather
Le potager: vegetable garden
La framboise: raspberry

MICHELLE'S CHOCOLATE MAYONNAISE CAKE

Truth be told: I didn’t start cooking until my twenties. I had plenty of opportunities to learn from the best: my mother and grandmothers were all excellent, intuitive, confident cuisinières who whipped up two meals a day without the aid of any book. I just wasn’t interested. My desire to know how to cook developed quite suddenly, after my second trip to California, but I’ll save that story for another time.

Not knowing my way in the kitchen didn’t mean that food was unimportant to me. After all, it is hard to grow up in France and think about food as mere sustenance. I had definite ideas about what I liked and which ingredients usually combined in a tasty way. During my trips to England, Italy, and Germany, I also had the pleasure (or displeasure) to challenge my taste buds with the unfamiliar: beans on toast, grilled octopus, or cheese with music (look it up…)

In general, I was not surprised or offended by American food when I came over to the US. The notable exception was desserts: some of the ingredients just made me cringe. Mincemeat pie? Really? I never got used to that one. I had heard of carrot cake and it didn’t sound appealing. Luckily the first one I was served was baked by Debbie, my sister-in-law-to-be: her recipe is simply the best and it has become one of my favorite cakes. I also tried zucchini bread made by Terri (my other sister-in-law-to-be) and it was quite enjoyable. After a while, my mind finally accepted the notion of incorporating vegetables into baked goods.

At some point, Rick raved about Michelle’s chocolate mayonnaise cake and it just sounded gross to me. I had watched my dad make mayonnaise from scratch too many times to ignore that it contained black pepper, vinegar and –gasp– Dijon mustard. Quelle horreur! By now you probably know where this story is heading. Yes, Frank and Michelle invited us over for dinner. Yes, a chocolate cake was served. And yes, it was absolutely delicious. I asked for another slice and for the recipe. I learned a few lessons that night. First, one should always approach new foods with an open mind. Second, break down a preparation into its components: after all, mayonnaise is mostly composed of eggs and oil, the “usual suspects” in baked goods. Third, read the labels: American mayonnaise is made sans moutarde…

Michelle died of cancer while I was in France last month. Her Facebook page was flooded with tributes and memories. Her granddaughter Sara brought up the chocolate mayonnaise cake: judging from friends and family’s reactions, I think it’s safe to call it her signature dessert. Last Saturday I felt a sudden urge to bake (trust me: it’s not a normal state for me.) Locating the recipe was a cinch: I knew I would find it in my very first American recipe folder, the one I started thirty-five years ago. So, I baked my cake and cried. Losing a long time friend is hard but thirty-five years of shared meals and laughs and songs sparked many of those moments parfaits I love so much. Her famous chocolate mayonnaise cake is only one of them; the oldest one.

Vocabulary
La cuisinière: (female) cook; also, the stove
Quelle horreur: how horrible
Sans moutarde: without mustard

Michelle’s Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake

1 box Duncan Hines Devils Food cake mix
4 oz package instant chocolate pudding
4 eggs
¼ cup mayonnaise
½ pint sour cream
1 tbsp almond extract
½ cup vegetable oil
½ cup water
6 oz chocolate chips
1 cup almond slivers
Butter and cocoa powder for the pan

Preheat oven to 350º. In a large bowl, combine cake mix and chocolate pudding. In another bowl, combine eggs, mayonnaise, sour cream, almond extract, oil, and water. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and beat until smooth. Fold in chocolate chips and almond slivers. Butter a bundt cake pan and dust with some cocoa powder. Bake for about 55 minutes.

Sylvaine’s tip: I like to serve it with a raspberry coulis and a dollop of whipped cream.

I did not take the photo included in this post but I do not know whom to credit (if Frank lets me know, I'll update.) It's one of my favorites; it was used for an open house at their design/art gallery.

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.