Smiles in Paris

I possibly look like a crazy lady in Paris. I talk to myself for one. I love this city but it’s big and busy and I’m keeping up with all my personal belongings and navigating — this takes some self pep talk. So I’m walking along talking to myself in a foreign language, but if that’s not enough, I occasionally break into enormous smiles for no reason discernible to a passerby.

Here are some things that made me smile yesterday:

Getting into a taxi at Gare Montparnasse where I arrived by train and being immediately confronted with the Eiffel Tower when we pulled into traffic (Caribbean music blasting in the cab)

-Looking out my room window directly at the Eiffel Tower

-Turning behind me as I’m walking and seeing, again, the Eiffel Tower

-Seeing the laundromat Brian and I were so befuddled by on our first trip to Paris (to Europe too!)

-Passing a store that sells only umbrellas. Fantastical, frou frou umbrellas.

-The sight of the great looming Notre Dame hulking over the floodlit Seine

-Biting into a macaroon that melts at the same time it releases an explosion of intense flavor.

It’s snowing a bit today in Paris with a high of freezing. Nothing like what’s going on at home but it’s odd to be here in such weather.

I’m finishing up breakfast (wifi only in the lobby) and am setting out. Here are a few photos from yesterday.

Au revoir Camont and bonjour Paris

Since my last post was a wallow in woe is me, here is a photo to show that I am back in the land of the living and smiling, and am pretty close to back to good health. And, for those inquiring minds, have not been fattened like a duck for foie gras. Bacon still outweighs me by 20 pounds.

Me and my pal Bacon- Photo by Erika Hildegard Johnson

Yesterday (Saturday) we made an excursion to the market. I was still dragging, so didn’t enjoy it as much as I might have. But I still loved seeing the fresh veggies and breads and cheeses, and the people shopping. We met Kate’s cheese man and brought some gorgeous cheeses home, along with a basket of vegetables that went into a most nourishing soup. We visited a brocante in the afternoon where I bought a dozen dessert forks – my only souvenir thus far. The lovely meals at Camont inspired me to want to have more than my four standard issue salad and entree forks I have at home.

Last night we relaxed with frozen pizza and (homemade last week!) foie gras and watched a movie.  That’s decadence, to eat such a delicacy just like that :)

This morning we made scones, which I can’t wait to make again when I get home, light, golden tasty things as they were. After breakfast (Erika the recent photography graduate who’s staying here working with Kate for a few months as part of her travels in France) shot some photos out on the grounds. She’s been great fun while I’ve been here and I’ve admired (with envy) her gorgeous photos of Camont and our market visits. She’s blogging about her six months in France here — she’s a couple weeks behind real time, so you’ll see Camont there soon.

Then we set out for a Sunday drive – a winding, relaxed jaunt through the countryside with a stop for lunch at Fources, officially one of the 100 most beautiful villages in France. It is encircled entirely by a moat and is pure eye candy, even in February. We had amazing blue skies while we were there though, with the promise of spring on the air.

We continued our leisurely drive, passing through the beautiful town of Condom (no, not related) and on to one of the most magical places I’ve ever seen, the village inside of a thousand year old fortress with walls nearly as thick as I am tall. It’s called Larressingle and I can’t believe it’s not overrun with tourists.

We visited the studio and home of Kate’s friend Franny, a fabulous ex-pat artist, before coming back home to Camont for dinner. I couldn’t leave without crepes so I learned Kate’s technique and dined on goat cheese and raspberry jam crepes with champagne for dinner. In my pajamas in front of the fireplace. A fitting farewell dinner to the amazing experience I’ve had here.

I’ve not scratched the surface with my few posts about what I’ve learned and been inspired by here. There will be more! But next, Paris.

On being sick away from home

When you’re sick away from home I think the worst part is not having someone who loves you to fuss over you. The people you’ve known only a week don’t know you well enough to know that when you don’t comb your hair or put so much as a speck of mascara on that you’re feeling awful. That when you don’t eat you’re really awful. And that when you stay in bed *all* day you’re wretched. You can’t say to your loved one “will you go to the store and get me a Sprite and some saltines?” because they’re thousands of miles away (also who even knows if one can get these things in the village?)

So you put your cold compress on your own flushed head, wobble up and down the stairs every couple hours for water that you don’t want but know you need and take the foreign version of Tylenol. And you stare out the window to watch the clouds cover the sun, then see the rain fall straight down and eventually watch the wind blow away the clouds and the sun peek out again — several times. And read. And toss and turn and kick the covers off when you’re sweating and bury yourself in them when you’re shivering. And sleep. And listen to the birds. And watch night fall, and sleep some more.

I’ve been in bed about 36 hours now, and am thankful that it’s a comfy one. Henri the rooster tells me it’s time to get up now though, and it’s quite tempting to ignore him and burrow back under my covers. But I want to try to get out of bed today, put some fresh sheets on it, take a bath/sitting shower (yes, I will confess here I would give almost anything for my American shower at home) and maybe venture into town with Kate and Erika for the market. Except for a walk along the canal a couple days ago and one quick trip to the farm store I’ve not left the farm in days. I must be well enough this morning for cabin fever to be setting in.

Double chocolate ducky cookies

What happens when you turn a photographer who loves chocolate and a writer with a new fondness for duck fat loose in a Gascon kitchen? You get this:

Erika and Dana's double chocolate ducky cookies

First day after Camp Confit at Kitchen at Camont and Kate had an appointment. Erika and I thought we’d ride one of the old bikes in the barn along the canal but couldn’t get two bikes to work. We ate lunch instead — mache salad with poached eggs (from the chicken coop of course!), toasted bread and chevre. We leashed up Bacon and set out for the village up the canal. Walking a 130 pound dog who likes to chase bicycles and cars took both of us.

A walk with Bacon

After a this three hour ramble past farms (we saw baby lambs!) and fields we were ready for a pick-me-up when we got back to Camont.

Kate picked up chocolate chips at the farm supply store a few days ago so we started with that. Throw in some flours, oatmeal, fresh eggs and sugar and of course duck fat, and voila! Cookies!

Actually, the batter was not at all appetizing. But we figured it could go out to the chickens if they were awful and baked them up. (Erika’s good tip: bake with duck fat and you’ll never eat up all the dough!)

Erika and Dana’s Double Chocolate Ducky Cookies

2 eggs
3/4 cup sugar
1 tbsp vanilla
1/2 cup spelt flour
1 cup buckwheat
1/4 cup unsweet cocoa
1 cup old-fashioned oats
1/3 cup duck fat, room temperature
1/4 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
1 tsp salt
3/4 cup chocolate chips

Mix eggs, sugar and vanilla in a bowl.

In another bowl mix flours, cocoa, baking soda, nutmeg, salt and oatmeal. Stir in duck fat.

Mix the two bowls and stir in chocolate chips.

Bake at 300 degrees for about 20 minutes until puffy and browned.

(if you don’t have and can’t get duck fat you could use butter)

Feast

One reads about meals fit for kings, but yesterday I had a hand in preparing one, and then got to sit down and eat it! How great is that? We shared the results of our labor among us: Kate, Sandra, Erika and myself, along with Sandra’s husband and Kate’s friend Alain. We got out a tablecloth and Kate’s good silver, and set the table in front of the fireplace. It was the kind of dinner to make me want to pack everything up and move to France.

Our special last dinner wine - 1985 Chateau D'Issay Margaux

I want to always remember this meal, so I will set down the menu. While I don’t think I’ll ever be so ambitious as to recreate the entire dinner, I certainly want each component again! (perhaps not likely with the wine, a special bottle the other student Sandra bought to celebrate – a 1985 Château d’Issay Margeaux that made I wish I knew enough about wine to really appreciate).

We started with oysters. Not just any oysters mind you, but Vert de Marennes from north of Bordeaux. I may have perhaps had one oyster once or twice before, I honestly don’t remember. But I see now what the fuss is about. It’s like a taste of the sea, gloriously briny and fresh and bright. We made a mignonnette sauce — finely minced shallots and red wine vinegar. (I practiced my slowly improving knife skills on the shallots.)

Vert de marennes oysters

Next we passed around the terrine de foie gras that yours truly helped prepare earlier in the week. We bought two ducks at the market, butchered them and cooked the livers mi cuit (slowly at a low temperature) in terrines, then covered them with duck fat and let rest a few days. Amazing. Melting, smooth, creamy goodness. This was the best I’ve tried so far. I happily took seconds when the dish came back around.

Our main course was civet de canard, which we’d prepared a day or so before. We’d boiled and flamed a red wine, then braised duck magret (breast), legs, and thighs with the wine and some duck-fat sauteed veggies. The result was a mahogany-hued sauce that imbued the tender duck with a deep, rich flavor. We served it atop polenta and with a side of duck-fat roasted parnsips and apples. I’ll never overlook parsnips again.

For dessert we had our gateau de chocolat, a nearly flourless chocolate cake, with caramelized pineapple. I felt like the stuffed duck at the end of his two weeks of force feeding but it was glorious.

Today it’s crisp and cold,  the sun is shining and although I have a full-on stuffy runny nose from a sinus infection, I’ll bundle up and Erika and I will dig the old bicycles out of the barn and ride to the next village.

In the Kitchen at Camont

There are so many details in this kitchen that I love. Here are a few:

An exemplary cassoulet

Cassoulet.

Just the word sounds like an intimidating dish. The food writers who treat it like a holy grail don’t help matters. It’s become almost mythical. But guess what? It’s a bean dish. Flavored with meat. When you get down to it it’s not so terribly different in concept from the soup beans I had growing up.

Cassoulet is named for the cassole, the conical clay dish in which it’s baked. It’s made of white beans simmered with pork and vegetables, then baked with duck confit and sausage. The result is a creamy, extremely hearty winter dish that’s the definition of ’stick to your ribs.’  While now people will make confit especially for cassoulet, it was initially a dish cooked in order to make use of confit. It’s so interesting how foodies will turn around a dish and go to such lengths to create something that was originally a way to use what people had (myself included!).

Yesterday at Camp Confit at Kitchen-at-Camont we spent making cassoulet. Until I get the recipe down from my notes, here is cassoulet day in pictures and video.

Grattons!

Grattons

I’ve had so much amazing food already that I’d be hard pressed to pick a favorite. But the food that I can barely wait to pop in my mouth, even at risk of ruining my appetite for dinner is grattons — crispy duck skin fried in its own fat.

After a lovely long lunch yesterday afternoon (I had a salad of warmm goat cheese with honey) and a visit to Bleu de Lectoure, where Kate’s friends have revived the lost tradition of woad dying, we returned to Camont and started back in on duck.

I worked on separating the fat from the meat, which was harder than I might have thought. We diced the fat, with skin attached, and dropped it all into a big stockpot — two ducks’ worth and then some. It rendered down all afternoon, imparting a ducky smell to the kitchen. A couple carcasses and some wings and necks went into another pot with water, a handful of thyme, two small halved onions, 4 bay leaves, 1 tsp peppercorns, two carrots and one leek. This simmered a couple hours and will make a rillete today.

Once the fat had rendered into a golden liquid we ladled out all the solids (the skin pieces) and dropped them into a big frying pan. These fried in their fat until crispy and irresistible. The rendered out fat went back into the pot of gold but by now I wasn’t paying attention because I was on to the grattons, which Kate calls Gascon popcorn. As soon as we seasoned with salt and pepper and tossed I began popping them into my mouth. I wish I could tell you how amazingly good they are — crispy on the outside, melting on the inside. I couldn’t stop once I started, even though I knew I would ruin my appetite.

For dinner we sauteed little brussels sprouts and apples from the market in some butter and some potatoes in duck fat. I poached an egg — Kate showed me a trick of swirling the water to make a little vortex to drop the egg in — while Erika made scrambled eggs for those who aren’t grossed out by mixing white and yolk (everyone else).  The eggs were straight from the coop with the most vivid orange yolk.  I topped it with grattons and sat down to one of the most satisfying dinners imaginable.

Today we are on to cassoulet!

Marchés au Gras

Volunteer butcher at Marchés au Gras de Gimont

So no lying burrowed under the covers in bed this morning — we were to be in the car by 8 to make the drive to the Marchés au Gras de Gimont.

The indigo blue night was still upon the farm when my alarm woke me. My feet hit the wooden floor none too eagerly, but a cup of coffee and a bowl of Greek yogurt revived me sufficiently to step outside for the sunrise. The bright moon still hung over the ruins out back while the rising sun tinged the eastern sky pink behind the chicken coop.

It only took three or four times of one of us running back into the house (ok, mostly me, but once it was Kate for her real shoes) and we were on our way at quarter past 8, buzzing in her little Renault through the frosty morning towards Agen. Bacon ensconced in the boot of the hatchback, watched the road winding away behind us.

We met Sandra and Paul at their hotel then drove into the sun towards Gimont. Once off the autoway we wound through rolling hills and farmland, many fields surprisingly green with winter wheat. Others glowed golden with recently furrowed soil. We needed to arrive at the market before the 10 a.m. whistle from the inspector with the veterinarian service who inspects all the duck and geese vendors’ goods before giving them the approval to sell.

We made it in time to join the crowd outside the doors, then like a group of brides tumbling into a Filene’s wedding dress sale, we plunged into the frigid indoor market and into a sea of dead ducks.

Duck from the Marches au Gras. photo by Erika Hildegard Johnson

Kate had told us about the frenetic pace but until we swirled abut in the midst of it it was hard to imagine. Everyone here was on a single mission. Duck. (and geese.) Rows and rows of white table bearing the draped ducks competed for the customers’ attention. Though bright sun poured in through high windows, the exchanges between buyers and sellers came out in bursts of white breath in the air.

The mad dash for the ducks was nothing compared to the measured intensity of the volunteer butchers. These white-clad men, some of them sporting chain mail on their fingers, hacked and cleaved the ducks with speed and skill that made my attempts yesterday seem nothing short of sadly ridiculous. Lines ten deep waited to hand over one duck or two dozen (or more), for which they tipped the men a few coins or couple euros to butcher.

Kate bought two ducks from among the thousand plus for sale and we were out of the market before 10:30, and shortly before my toes would’ve turned to ice.

Young salesman

Our pace slowed as we climbed a hill of this stone village to see the covered market, where Kate picked up some croissants and pain au chocolat and I bought some honey with sunflower oil from a sweetheart of a young shopkeeper maybe eight years old.

With  Bacon on his leash, we stepped into a bar for chocolat chaud to thaw out. I do love sauntering into a restaurant in the company of an enormous dog.

I haven’t even covered up till lunch yet but it’s been a long day and I’m already in bed.  I knew that was dangerous with the whirring ceiling fan and clicking radiator  and the sounds of the 300 year old farmhouse settling in for a cold winter night but I have to give in. More tomorrow, and for now, some photos.

In which I butcher a duck

In possession of a fatted duck at the Nerac market. Photo by Erika Hildegard Johnson

So today jet lag and the assault I’m lodging on my system with infusions of fat slammed into me like a TGV train.

Let me get this bit of self-pity out of the way first because I realize living in heaven for two weeks does not entitle me to much wallowing. Trying to go to sleep last night I felt like a kid the night before Christmas — except that I’d just had two days of Christmas. I was up late writing and was so wound up with excitement that sleep was impossible. I had another bout of car sickness on the way to the market this morning which did not leave me this time once I hit fresh air, and actually got worse through the morning.

The market at Nerac was so lovely though, I tried to ignore it as best I could, snapping photos and taking in the sights and sounds and smells of a Saturday market. We seemed to be the only Americans there. One friendly local man saw me taking photos and when I told him I was a ‘journaliste‘ by way of explanation, he told me with pride about the town.

Dominique Chapolard

When you think French market, this was quintessentially it. Berets, market baskets, kisses, bread, cheese, winter vegetables, and of course ducks and duck goods galore. Kate bought two great fat ducks which we retrieved after making our way to the far end of the market to see her dog Bacon’s family and back. Dominique Chapolard, a purveyor of all things pork, gave the puppy that was to grow to the giant farm dog Bacon, and wears the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on a man under his superbe moustache.

After a stop for tea where where we people watched through the cafe window, duck stowed safely under the table, we drove back to Camont. Following a brief lie-down to try to quell my complaining stomach, we gathered in front of the fire for a lunch spread (I had duck soup, wonderful left over, with some cheese that I couldn’t resist) and dove right into the butchery lesson.

I watched the entire first butchery operation impressed and awed. I carefully hung back just enough that I may not have to get involved in the heavy work. Between my queasiness and complete and utter ignorance of the anatomy of a duck, and of meat in general for that matter, I did not feel at all confident in my ability. But Kate had more confidence than I, or at least has an awful lot of patience with rank beginners, because she handed me the knife for duck # 2 and put me to work.

Meet my duck. Photo by Erika Hildegard Johnson

I would need an awful lot more practice to ever manage this on my own at home — hacking into the carcass of this fowl was like driving blindfolded on a twisty new road. I don’t even know what it’s meant to look like when finished, so she laid out the completed pieces from the first duck to help guide me, and frequently guided me with her hand on my knife. Mustering as much physical strength as I could wring out of my puny self, I actually did a reasonably adequate job on the parts that I did. Though there was a certain animal smell in the kitchen I didn’t feel nearly as squeamish as I had feared I might.

We worked all afternoon on the two ducks, and took a break while Kate and Erika ran to get chicken feed before the farm store closed. The hard physical part over, Kate and the other student Sandra salted the duck pieces for tomorrow’s confit and deveined the  liver. The liver, seasoned with salt and pepper, went into a couple of terrine dishes and into a pan of water in the oven to bake. This is terrine de foie gras. I think we’re eating it tomoorrow.

All tired by now we bypassed a major dinner for another table spread with cheeses, bread, drinks, sausage, fruit, hummus, cornichons and rillete.We played musical chairs around the table, each taking a turn in front of the fire that Sandra’s husband kept tended for us.

I’m calling it an early night as we’re in the car at 8 tomorrow morning for the big Marche au Gras. Want to see me wrist deep in duck? Pictures are here.

Erika Hildegard Johnson