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Wednesday, October 30, 2013

French Travel Tales: Foie Gras and Vin de Noix on Toussaint, All Saint's Day

Here it is again. Almost. All Saint’s Day, November 1, or as its called in France, La Toussaint. 

It's a perfect day to call forth another time. The first time I journeyed to France. A time when I only had words to describe Toussaint as a holiday that celebrated long lost souls, joining those who have died with those who are simply lost on this earth. 

Would I meet long lost souls, a few ghastly ghosts, as did Ebenezer in the Christmas Carol? 
And would they want to meet me? And why in France? Was I dressed appropriately? 

And as I landed in Paris on La Toussaint, All Saint's Day, my search began; my search for my coat, (it was freezing cold) for my tumbling luggage, for the Air France Bus, and for a way to thank a kind Frenchman named Serge, who ran with me carrying my bag, straight to my seat on the TGV in Gare de Lyon. He barely made it off the train. Once I collected myself the French passengers sounded comforting, like a song whose words I had  forgotten, but whose melody had already been etched on my bones. 

The streets and people of Paris rushed away while I watched, looking and longing. I leaned forward in the direction we were leaving. I watched the City of Light disappear at dawn. 

But the bumps were few as we left and descended, entering middle France, the golden hills and vines soothed me with their dreamy impressions. And I rode into them, 
gladly looking through the window glass, I folded my hands in my lap. 
Everything would be perfect here. At last. Here, a few spirits would show where I belonged.

            And so it was that at dusk on La Toussaint, I plunged into a driveway. 
Even as I looked out of the passenger window, the stone house was lit in a soft mauve and smoky sky. 
The Canal stretched out alongside and the dark blue water ribboned away, 
much like a storybook trail with the wide grassy towpath following 
and both meandered under the trees and disappeared in the distance much like Paris. 

           When I opened the door of the car, 
the rich black Gascon soil underfoot echoed 
with voices from the Hundred Year's War, 
which, uh frankly, didn't seem all that far gone. 

White ducks  glided past us,wing over wing, 
and landed on the golden poplar leaves patterning the water's surface.
Inside the beautiful Gascon stonehouse, was of course, the kitchen. 
On the rustic kitchen table sat a few bottles of vin de noix. 
The kitchen table divided or did it maybe, join, the two worlds. 
That of tall steaming pots on one side and the crackling fire on the other. 

            Rognon, the father of this family, sat at the head of the kitchen table. 
Rognon was lively and charming, but not overbearing. I didn’t know. 
Was he what a father should be? 
Rognon was thoughtful and curious with a bit of a spark in his talk. 
He began the evening gesturing towards the kitchen and the marvelous dinner to come with a story. 
A story about his family making vin de noix every June 24. 
A story about how the walnut wine rests and sleeps deeply, until pop! 
It is uncorked on November 1, All Saint's Day. 
He picked up such an ordinary looking bottle. 
Sante! Rognon gathered the simple tumblers and poured forth, handed out the short stocky glasses 
filled with the rich drops of his story, and okay, a wee bit of the vin de noix. 

"On this day all the spirits of the past welcome you and visit the earth again."

            To put it mildly, vin de noix, 
each step in the dance with the spirits and with the walnuts, intrigued me.

I tilted the burnished liquid back, and the sweet and bitter edged elixir streamed down my throat. 

Ummm. Looking into the fire, the flames danced. Steam enveloped the kitchen. 

Was I no longer lost? Maybe. 
But where exactly was I? And even more curiously, when exactly was I?

After a long day of travel and so many new visions, I was somewhat, let's say, reflective. 

At that time I felt I had not only lost my family once, but twice! And even though later I learned, that in fact, they had been the ones who lost me, maybe I could rewrite my life with the help of a few French ghosts, 
bien sur, and with a little vin de noix, and  I was never going to lose them again! Ever!

In France it was c'est normal to be expressed about food, and to be spirited, be in the moment. 
In the moment then, the simplicity of gathering at their table, I felt accepted. Like family? In smelling their beautiful and classic Gascon au poulet a pot, I felt welcomed as family. Since I was without their language, a loose interpretation and intuition were paramount, and in their banter of French, I sensed an exchange about the day, the obscurity of life. 
The world of chance and fortune. And garlic soup. 

Next, Rognon casually rubbed a clove of garlic over thick slices of bread, looking up as he spoke, then toasted the bread with the great holes, sitting by the fire. 
He spoke of tastes and extraordinary circumstance. I think. 
Or maybe it was just that next, my parched soul rejoiced as he opened a jar of home-preserved foie gras. 
He spread the silky gras on the oak-scented garlic-rubbed bread. 

Then we drank a little more vin de noix, and sealed the night of Toussaint with a heavenly elixir.
The memory of those tastes and the night of vin de noix 
called forth a delicate transformation of foie gras and fire. And walnuts. 

A fragile intangible that escapes in flames in the same it is conceived. 

In one little glass of vin de noix, I could, and still do, taste the joy and the poignancy of the day, of that day, stroke my throat to swallow, like the dear duck did, 
and join my past turmoil with a more peaceful present. And c'est la vie. 

A circle rejoined. And gratitude poured forth. And fourth! And fifth! 

For that time halted, and for that day, to be found in the drunken poetry of walnuts. 

Like the roots of an ancient walnut tree in a deeply plotted garden, 
where in June, 
the green walnuts are never afraid to begin again, 
as they must, 
another journey towards another Toussaint.     


tourin d’ail avec romarin - garlic soup with leeks and rosemary

3 bulbs garlic, separated into cloves but left whole
2 leeks, white and green parts
½ cup of butter, olive oil or duck fat

1½ quarts of stock or water and wine
2 tablespoons flour
2 tablespoons verjuice

salt and fresh rosemary

heat the duck fat in a heavy pot over the fire (or on medium high heat) saute the garlic and the leeks at the same time till tender. stir in the flour – mind you it will look like a mess but don’t worry – when the flour has made a nice paste add in the stock, wine and/or water.

cook for as long as you like – but at least 30 minutes and no more than one hour or you’ll need to add more liquid. When ready to eat, pound the rosemary in the mortar and pestle and float on top of each serving. 

A Point of View Mountain Retreat with Diana Renfro, Authoress of Spanish Doors. 

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Write With Me: The Bread of Elysium

Psomi: Bread of Elysium

There's no better day than World Bread Day to share the story of a young bread apprentice headed to Psomi, in my upcoming novel, Mistress of the Great Loaves.

Her mother said this crusty bread is a gift to be carried to Elysium.  

So she closed her eyes and began. 

The walk of bread was time for listening.  
And mixing, kneading, waiting, sleeping, 
forming, shaping, and then building flames.  

makes 1 large loaf

cups NC organic sprouted wheat flour 
4 cups organic NC bread flour
1 scant tablespoon active dry yeast
2 cups warm water
3 teaspoons sugar or honey
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon melted butter or olive oil
1 tablespoon fine semolina

 used a 50/50 combination of sprouted wheat flour from Lindley Mills out ion Saxapahaw. Begin with 2 cups of flour in a large mixing bowl. add in the honey, water, and yeast. mix this well till you have a smooth batter. gradually add in the remaining flour beginning with 1 cup at a time.

when firm enough to knead, sprinkle some flour on the table and turn out the dough. knead in only as much flour as the dough requires. if needed add more. the dough should be smooth, elastic, and not sticky. it should not be tough and shaggy. knead for at least five minutes. ten is better, especially by hand.

shape into a ball, and cover with a clean side towel. (no it does not need to be damp) let rise until doubled in bulk. one hour? less in summer, maybe – longer in winter, yes?

after it has doubled please punch down the dough and divide into two loaves.  form each into a torpedo shaped loaf. line a sheet pan with parchment paper and sprinkle with a bit of semolina. place each loaf on the parchment lined baking sheet. make 4 slashes across the top to mark your bread (this can be your signature) and let rise again in a warm place until doubled. 

set oven to 375. spray bread lightly with water and place in oven. spray again after the first fifteen minutes. then again 10 minutes later.

cool on a wire rack, near an open window where chickens and children play outside.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Cook With Me: The Season of Eating with The Southern Host

Ed and Valerie's Old Apple Orchard 

I call fall The Season of Eating; as the temps cool, we need more fuel. Right? Fuel food and friends.
What is your favorite fall food memory?

A few weeks ago we traveled north a couple of hours with our good friend, Neil Smith, aka The Southern Host. Please check out his new blog, about Entertaining. And Food. C'est naturel, we were excited about a weekend of fall in Salem and Roanoke which we had heard so much about from Neil, who grew up raising all sorts of food and a bit of hellfire on a 200 acre farm near Salem.

The Southern Host, Mr. Neil Smith

Neil and apples and fall go back. Way back about oh, a thousand years to when I first met Neil. It was in the fall, duh, and he was in the audience at Barnes and Noble for an heirloom apple event with Lee Calhoun. Lee is an expert, on Old Southern Apples. While Lee discussed the finer points of his book, Old Southern Apples, I demoed how to make apples pie. Neil ate. Then we chatted, and we've been eating and chatting ever since. But Neil grew up in and around apples and cider on a 200 acre farm near Salem, Virginia.

On Friday night we ate at Blue Apron Restaurant and Red Rooster Bar and holy Rigatoni with Veal & Foie Gras Meatballs, sweet potato-pimentone cream, and shitake mushrooms  - this was a super sweet find. Just the right mix of ambiance and simplicity. The ambiance brought sophistication and an affinity to the land and local farms together on the same plate. A warm bucolic beat of the eating season. Don't you think fall is the season of eating? Other southern venues and restaurants BAR brought to mind were Birmingham with Hot and Hot Fish Club, Athens with Farm 255, and even Atlanta with JCT Kitchen.

The morning dawned bright, clear, and cool. After an oatmeal breakfast out on his Orange Marmalade Momma Queen, Martha Smith's, screened porch we visited the Grandin Village Community Market, a small scale specialty and mostly organic Farmer's Market that supports local sustainable agriculture. Neil bought peppers and chestnuts (!!) from his Aunt Betty and Uncle Clyde who "sell fresh local flowers, vegetables, fruits, herbs, and more, all produced by a rare wondrous mixture of soil, seed, labor, and love" at their very own Catawba Meadow Farm.

Apple cider and apples. A perfect beginning to Fall and to follow. Merci, Mr. Smith!

 Catawba Meadow Farm

Aunt Betty at their Stand, Grandin Village Community Market

Ed pressing cider. 

Beautiful 20 year old apple tree

Golden delicious apples

pork and apple stew with fennel

this recipe says fall, without a doubt. once your mise en place is assembled, a term meaning your ingredients are chopped and ready to be thrown in the fire, you’re almost soup, or home. i really like the bonus of mesmerizing chopping. the fragrance of browning the meat, the tart/sweet apples, the deep accent of the stout, and the combination of turnips and sweet potatoes all contribute to the ambiance of the dish. now all we need is a crackling fire. and friends coming by soon...very soon!

serves  8-10

2 1/2 pounds lean pork shoulder, cut into 1/2 " cubes
2 tablespoons butter or oil
2 tablespoons unbleached white flour
6 cloves garlic, crushed but not minced
5 medium size tart apples, such as arkansas black, granny smith, pippin, or jonagold, peeled, cored, and chunked
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled and chunked
1 bulb fennel, thickly sliced
3 onions, thickly sliced
3 medium turnips, peeled and quartered
2 medium golden beets, peeled and quartered
2 cups stout, such as guinness
additional beef stock, if necessary
1 dozen peeled sweet chestnuts
1 teaspoon each thyme, sage, and crushed fennel seed
1 tablespoon coarse grain mustard
3 1/2 tablespoon brown sugar
salt, freshly ground  black  and white peppercorns to taste
pinch of freshly grated nutmeg

preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

heat a large dutch oven or  large heat proof casserole over medium high heat. 

brown the pork cubes in the butter, doing this in 2 batches, so as not to crowd the pot.  remove the meat to a the same pot, reduce the heat to medium and sauté the garlic and onion, till translucent.  stir in the flour till it is completely absorbed.  then pour in the stout, bring to a boil, mixing well to thicken the sauce.  add the browned pork and all the remaining vegetables and seasonings. 

bring the sauce to a boil, cover the pot and place in the oven for 20 minutes.  reduce the heat to 250 degrees and cook for an additional 1 1/2 -2 hours.  continue to check  the vegetables for doneness. serve with some crusty bread for dipping into the sauce.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Italian Travel Tales: Nancy Drew, Schiacciata, and the Tuscan Villa

Historical Rendering - ok, a postcard, of Torre Cona Estate

Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Tuscan Villa

It must have been 2005, I've kind of forgotten the exact date - but I know for sure I was playing hostess for C'est si Bon!'s first Tuscan Sun Tour, a culinary extravaganza in October’s Chianti country about 8 miles outside Florence

The estate of Torre Cona had all the imposing stature of the grand times. The past. The parties. The people. The legend and the history of the owner. Count Rossi of Montelera or as we know him - Mr. Rossi of Martini and Rossi.

There were paths for carriages and paths for the workers. But I knew the path we were on. Up to No Good!

The Front Carriage Path to Torre Cona

We picked grapes in the afternoon. Followed by a tour of the public areas of the Villa. The porticos and the wine presses.

How beautiful this is. 


Lisa, Brenda, Cathy and Constance - friends and tour participants, all - gathered and talked about the imposing villa. The towering presence of Grandeur. We wondered, what were its secrets? Could we see more of the inside? How many rooms did she say? Three Hundred and Sixty? There were only six of us. 

It was a simple request.

Grapes Drying For Vin Santo, The Wine of Saints

The cooking class with Paolo that night was Gnudi Ravioli and this was all we needed to rev up our imaginations. We couldn’t stop giggling and gesturing at the innuendos. Of course we remained fully composed and while taking a break from cooking, we looked up the hill. One light in the villa was on. Was that the wing where they had said the owner lived? Was his son home from Germany for one night?

The answer came back. No, it wasn't allowed. It was too ...and then her voice trailed off. 

Too what? We lost the answer in the translation. Why didn't I learn more Italian! 

The Stony Path - looks fine now, but at night? 

We could sneak up to the stony path to the garden from Casa Villa after dark.

It was quite the dilemma.

Casa Villa

Could we worm our way inside from the garden, squashed tomatoes underfoot? The Sangiovese helped a little with the planning and a lot with the confidence. We could be quiet. Oh, sure we could. But look, it wasn’t our fault. It was forbidden. And the lure of not being allowed was too much to bear.

I was in charge of this culinary tour and so I said what I was supposed to say. Absolutely no. I fought with myself to be respectable. Don’t push too hard.

Oh, hell. 

With just a drop of Vin Santo for bon chance, off we went into the dark night. 

flatbread baked with bunches of grapes- schiacciata con grappoli d’uva 
makes 1 large round or flat bread

schiacciata con grappoli d’uva with muscadines

I recently made this again, but used what was local and available. Muscadines. Not Sangiovese grapes with seeds that I was dreaming about, but I plumb didn't have any. the skins pop off, leaving the flesh and seeds separate. not the same at all. you can make it without the extra fuss and the seeds, but if you do it is sweet, peppery, spicy, crunchy, and wet with the grapes’ warm juices. a legacy from the Etruscans, it is depicted in ancient friezes, being carried forth to the harvest tables. so harvest, and explore the unknown and carry forth, my little gnudi raviolis and peeps.

2 cups sprouted wheat flour
4 cups all-purpose flour, a little more or less
¼ cup plus 1 t. honey
2 packages active dry yeast
1 cup warm water plus more as needed, usually at least ½ cup more
1.2 cup extra virgin olive oil
3 t. fresh rosemary leaves, minced
2 t. fennel seeds, crushed
2 t. anise seeds, crushed
1 t. freshly cracked black pepper
1 t. sea salt
2 cups green, purple, and red grapes
2/3 cup granulated sugar
a pepper grinder

the night or day before you want to enjoy this bread set out a large bowl and combine 2 cups of the sprouted wheat flour, 1 tablespoon of the honey, the yeast, and the warm water, allowing the sponge to sit overnight in the fridge.

remove from the fridge an hour before you put the rest of the dough together. 

in a small pan, warm the oil over a low flame and add the rosemary, fennel, anise, and black pepper, permitting the spices to perfume the oil for 10 minutes. remove from the flame and set aside.

return to the sponge in the bowl and add the remaining 4 cups of flour, the salt, ¼ cup of honey, the eggs, and all but 2 t. of the spiced oil with its seeds, incorporating the elements well.

turn the mass out onto a lightly floured board and knead for 5 minutes. place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and permit the mass to rise for 30 minutes. deflate the dough and roll it, or flatten it with your hands, into a free-form circle or rectangle, and position it on a parchment-lined baking sheet.

squeeze the grapes and press them into the dough, drizzle them with the remaining 2 t. of spiced oil — seeds and all — dust them liberally with the sugar, and grind over generous amounts of black pepper. cover the bread with a clean kitchen towel and permit it to rise for 40 minutes.

preheat the oven to 400 degrees f. bake the schiacciata for 25 to 30 minutes, or until it is golden and swollen, the grape skins bursting. cool the bread on a rack for 5 minutes.

serve the bread very warm, warm, or tepid. wonderful with gorgonzola dribbled with honey and black pepper, and/or a glass of vin santo or other sweetish dessert wine.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Guest Author: Kurt Koonz, A Million Steps On The Camino

Please welcome Guest Post Author, Kurt Koonz

Last year my husband, Rich, and I walked the Camino de Santiago in Spain. We met trickles, oodles and meanderings of like-minded pilgrims or as pilgrims are called in Spain, Peregrinos. 

Some pilgrims you meet for a moment of walking, and others stay with you a wee bit longer! Kurt Koonz from Boise, Idaho, was one who stayed. 

(Kurt is the center guy- and I think this photo exemplifies his joie de vivre and outgoing spirit.)  

Author and Speaker, Kurt Koonz

He never considered writing a book until he walked nearly 500 miles across Spain in 2012. Those million steps were so compelling that he returned home and began writing and speaking about his life-changing adventures. Part diary, part travelogue, A Million Steps is a journey within a journey all the way to the Cathedral de Santiago de Compostela and beyondHe lives and writes on a tree-lined creek in Boise, Idaho.  Okay now, get your copy

On September 14 A Million Steps Launches at the Boise Film Premiere of the Documentary, Walking the Camino: Six Ways to Santiago. Wish I could be there - it looks like an amazing event! 

Trailer of Walking the Camino: Six Ways to Santiago

In this excerpt Kurt shares some food memories of the walk..... 

Kurt, On the Way 

On the fourth day of my 500 mile pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago, I was fortunate to have shared a meal with Dorette and Rich Snover.  Just like many of the great friendships that developed in Spain, this one started at a dining table.  Here is a story about my experience with food on the ancient path to Santiago.

While walking on the Camino, I chose to spend most of my time alone.  The social portion of my trip happened while enjoying coffee con leche on breaks and dining with strangers throughout the day.  Starbucks is no match for the strong and bold coffee that is mixed with scalded milk and sweetened with sugar.  Meals are typically eaten at “Bars” that have little resemblance to an American restaurant.  One of the best features of the eating on the Camino is that everyone is always welcome at any table. There are no cliques or pariahs in this lovely land. 

           After a few days, I was beginning to understand more about meals on the Camino. Breakfast (desayuno) typically consisted of slices of a crusty white bread with butter and jam. The deluxe version was to have the bread run through a heat machine resulting in toast. A less common breakfast option was tortilla de patatas. It is made with thinly sliced potatoes lightly fried in olive oil. Eggs and onions are added to the mix. When the mixture is firm, a fried tortilla is added to the top and bottom to create a round, pie-shaped meal. It is served like a slice of pie in a stand-alone manner, or between two pieces of bread for a sandwich. Lunch (almuerzo) was usually a “bocadillo,”––two slabs of bread with either thinly sliced ham or hunks of chorizo as the lonely ingredient.

For dinner (cena) the “Pilgrim Menu” became a mainstay every night with little variance on choice or price. Dinner cost 9-11 Euros and consisted of three courses—a first, second, and postre (dessert). The first course was pasta, mixed salad, soup, or paella. The second was pork, beef, chicken, or fish. Patatas fritas (fried potatoes) always accompanied this round. For dessert we could choose flan (caramel custard), natillas (soft custard), helado (ice cream), arroz con leche (rice with milk), or fruta (fruit). Every evening meal included bread, water, and wine.

Restaurants with pilgrim menus cater to walkers on the route. Most peregrinos are in bed by eight or nine o’clock, and the albergues turn off the lights at 10. The local inhabitants of each village follow a completely different meal pattern. They usually eat their biggest meal of the day at around two or three o’clock and then take a long nap or just relax for the daily siesta. For dinner, they begin to congregate around eight or nine and then spend hours eating a light evening meal where the focus is on socializing with family and friends. Most pilgrims are busy snoring in gargantuan proportions when the locals begin their nightly processions. The locals snore when the pilgrims exit their cities in the mornings.

Most villages have some type of grocery store, but they are a far cry from the typical retail outlets that overpopulate every American city. In the tiny villages along the Camino, a typical tienda may be large enough to accommodate three to four patrons at a time. They usually offer very basic items like bread, cheese, and a tiny produce selection. The entire fruit offering may be 10 apples and six oranges. The larger villages have stores the size of a small American convenience store. The four largest cities have traditional stores that resemble small grocery stores in the United States.
For people who require regularly scheduled meals, carrying food is always an option. If a person really needs provisions between stops, other pilgrims always seemed willing to help. It did not matter if it was an apple, bandages for blisters, or water for parched souls; any person in need could count on fellow walkers to offer assistance.
Food was also often available along the trail. Seeds from wild anise, with their licorice taste, became a staple of mine on the trip. We often passed trees loaded with apples, bushes full of wild blackberries, unlimited grapes in vineyards, and traditional farms with many vegetables including lots of red peppers. As a rule of thumb, anything that is wild or has naturally fallen to the ground is okay for pilgrims. Poaching veggies from the vines or fruit from the trees is not appropriate behavior for the many foreign visitors who walk the trail through Spain. Religious or not, I think there is a special place for those who violate this unwritten rule.
Given the long days of walking, this is a food connoisseur’s paradise because the caloric intake rarely exceeds the daily cremation of calories. 

Merci, Kurt, and Buen Camino! 
I hope you'll try his deliciously warm and filling soup, just made for days of walking! 
Kurt's Lentil Soup with Cilantro was inspired by the Camino and a Martha Stewart recipe 
3 strips (3 ounces) bacon, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 large onion, chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
2 stalks of celery, chopped
3 medium carrots, peeled, halved lengthwise, and cut into 1/4-inch half-moons
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 1/2 cups lentils, picked over and rinsed
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
2 cans (14 1/2 ounces each) reduced-sodium chicken broth (3 1/2 cups)
1 tablespoon red-wine vinegar
coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
garnish: fresh chopped cilantro

 in a dutch oven (or other 5-quart pot with a tight-fitting lid), cook bacon over medium-low heat until browned and crisp, 8 to 10 minutes. pour off all but 1 tablespoon fat.
add onion, peppers, celery and carrots; cook until softened, about 5 minutes. stir in garlic, and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. stir in tomato paste, and cook 1 minute.
add lentils, thyme, broth, and 2 cups water. bring to a boil; reduce to a simmer. cover; cook until lentils are tender, 30 to 45 minutes.
stir in vinegar, 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. garnish and serve immediately.



Tuesday, September 10, 2013

French Travel Tales: All for One and One for All Becasse

Have you ever had a puzzling foreign food conversation? 
Has it not gone quite the way you thought? 

In September of 2011 I had returned with my oldest son and two dear friends to the Auberge in Poudenas, France.  I say the Auberge as if this might be any run of the mill Auberge. But no. The Auberge was the former La Belle Gasconne where women, and five generations of women to be exact, of Chef Marie-Claude Gracia's family had stood at the helm of foie gras and everything superbly Gasconne in this kitchen. 

From the kitchen of La Belle Gasconne

Since November of 1995 I have relished coming to Poudenas and this unpretentious and superb jewel, set deep in the countryside of Southwest France and in another century entirely.  

Youngest son, Jaryd, during the French summer of 1995. 

Erick, my oldest son, along with Alice and Jen, easily settled into the ambiance of La Belle Gasconne and September. 

Alice, Jen, and Erick

 Marie-Claude Gracia with her famous Salade de Foie Gras 

Jen and I spoke about this place, Gascony, as she also had a history here, having spent a few months on a writing sabbatical in a tiny village called Auvillor. We tried to eek out why it was that we loved this place so much. Was it a place in the heart as well, as a land-place? The spirit, the light of the hills and the vast expanse of by God there's no other way to describe it, unabashed fertility. Fertility, beauty, and timelessness. As certain as its a place on the map its also a spirit of genuineness and truth. Integrity. Something that moves you as it remains unchanged and serene. Something you can’t find or have anywhere else. 

Was this also true of Becasse? Becasse, or woodcock, is a revered and endangered little game bird, that is spoken of reverently and waxed upon, quietly. But my Becasse fire had been seriously stirred though I had never seen one, or tasted one.

Through Marie Claude and her sons, Jean-Claude and Jean-Antoine they proposed a meeting with a local man, a hunter named Noel. Noel, or Monsieur Becasse, as his legend preceded him, was a local farmer and game bird hunter. To find anyone who would talk about this mysterious bird was a feat in itself. The shrouded and hushed reverence about Becasse rivaled as many blissful secrets of the ages as you could imagine. And I could just imagine...

While Alice and my son, Erick, executive chef of his own place, bustled about in the kitchen, Monsieur arrived and sat with Jen and I in the dining room. 

Erick's sauce, beginning.  

Canard, waiting.

Monsieur Becasse was short and wiry, with glasses. I pictured him with a gun, darting about in the swampy land by the Gelise River. In many ways he appeared tres typique for a Frenchman. As he walked in the millhouse everything was c'est normal, as they say. His hair was dark and he was going bald. 

We began with a drink, a pousse rapier, classic Gascon fare. My friend Jen explained with a fin finesse  that I wanted to write about the Becasse, all the complexities, the lore and the hunt, and the culture. From his expression she might have said I was here to take over the village. 

In 2006 at a Cooking Class in La Belle Gasconne

(Shoot, I thought. I have a lot to learn about conducting an interview. And especially an interview with  French Becasse hunter. Rule #1 - Act as if you don't care to learn anything!) 

But he took a sip, and then Noel revved up. He motioned and pounded out a very passionate  retort. My friend, Jen, also got very emotional. The talk of Becasse sounded beautiful and dreamy and very poetic along with, peut-etre some Gascon boasting thrown in for good measure. This is the land of the Three Musketeers after all. I don't dare say, was. 

Now, if only I could understand what they were saying. 

Dinner began. 

Alice, and the plates.

Noel talked at me, his glasses slipping down his nose. Jen translated.  
"You want to know not only about the hunt, but about the culture of the Becasse?" 

"Oui." I said in as non-threatening way as possible. 

"There is no way," he said. "That a writer truly, possibly, could understand? A writer could never communicate this culture." 

"Never?" Now it was my glasses turn to slip down my nose.

"You never understand, he said, unless you go out and go hunting."
"Oui, Bien sur, " Yes, I agreed, now we were getting somewhere. As a writer or a woman, whoever I bloody well had to be - I was game to go hunting. 

Noel was quiet, while he puzzled over this. Or perhaps looked for a gun. 

"C'est possible le Becasse? Ala en plein air?" At this point, I unwisely bypassed Jen's translating talents and blurted. Was I asking what I wanted to know or if a Becasse was like a market? 

"Non, please tell her I don’t want her to go hunting with me." 

Ce soir #2, Noel, Monsieur Becasse, explains about his Palombe. 

I stared at my plate of magret. Okay, wait. "What?" 

"Non." He said again.

"D'accord." This is for Becasse after all. All for One and One for All Becasse. 

Once he accepted that I accepted I wasn't going hunting with him, Jen asked if there was just a chance to see the preparations, and enjoy Becasse – because again if you can’t understand Becasse till you eat Becasse, then how or where can I? Is this possible? 

"Will she be here in February."

This conflicted his earlier statement that the best hunting was in November but they don’t even bother to "hang" the birds they eat them immediately. 

I was beginning to understand. Yes, I was beginning to understand, about hunting a Becasse. 
Wasn't I? 

Have you ever hunted? Or asked a Frenchman about hunting? 
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