Camelbalism

 

And so, Le Cirque Piccolino arrived in St Antonin. The smallest Big Top I’ve ever seen and a few motley caravans, the owners’ cats tied with string to the porch steps, poor dears. Can you imagine anything more mean than tying up a cat?

Sadly, it was so cold that they cancelled the first day’s performance. The first of two!

The following day, The Boy had a mammoth afternoon nap and missed the start of the show but we all poddled over the bridge to see the animals after he woke. Some were not as exotic as one might expect.

Here, a friendly cow…

 

Here a lonely mule…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A moderately exotic Alpaca…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and, a little more like it, this vast Bactrian, grazing on a long train…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

note the size, compared to these English kids, struck dumb, doubtless, by his handsome beard…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hunter at this point is stage right seemingly entranced by this magnificent creature. Cloe and I decide to COMPARE his small plastic camel (an ochre Dromedary) with this life-sized example. ‘Look Hunter! Look!’ Camel! Chameau!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somehow though, and Cloe and I haven’t discussed the how’s and when’s of it, the Dromedary ended up on the grass and was very smartly eaten up by its rarer cousin. Shocked, worried and guilty, we left soon after.

To top it off, Hunter stumbled and fell hard on our way back, cutting his lip and gum on some gravel. Poor little chap. For once his parents were not to blame but he’s a brave boy and minutes later was enjoying the local playground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Baby around all things have a happy ending. I think we mourn the loss of that camel more than he.

Joues de Boeuf

It is Saturday evening. It is due to snow tomorrow and the boy is sleeping off a light cold. Cloe is finishing off another pom pom with a shiny and clinical pair of poultry shears. I mention, ‘That is a moment in life that might be described as “Over kill”

She replied, “What, another pom pom?”

A few days ago I braised a couple of  joue de boeuf in my beloved, black Le Creuset pot. I am certain that, apart being among the cheaper cuts, I only bought these joues because saying ‘deux joues de boeuf, s’il vous plait’ gave such satisfaction to my sensitive confidence in ordering food in French. It was a type of cop out. Afterwards it was a matter of bringing them home and just staring at them, as well as a selection of vegetables and glancing now and then at the dry goods and pulses on top of the fridge, until The Answer began to take form. Thereafter the path revealed itself.

Ingredients to serve 2:

1. 2 cow’s cheeks
2. various mirepoix items, past their best
3. 2 navet turnips
4. 2 good knobbly carrots
5. plenty of cheap red wine
6. perhaps 20 tiny white onions (if only pickled available soak for at least a day and a night in 3 changes of water)
7. some garlic
8. Ample fresh thyme (I imagined a handful of finely chopped sage leaves would also work well)
9. poultry stock

Take the cheeks and cut them any old way into mouth-sized pieces. There will inevitably be some cleaning involved.  Lay the pieces out on a large flat roasting pan and let them come to temperature. At least an hour.

Before sealing them in plenty of very hot olive oil sprinkle good salt all over them from on high. Place each of them in the pan as tenderly as though they were Queen Scallops and not lumps of cow cheek. Do not crowd the pan. Leave it all be until they are on the point of burning before turning them over. You will discern a change in their conversation around this time.

Next, sprinkle more salt all over the little fellows and add just a little extra oil around the edge of the pot if  it looks especially dry. Once seared on all sides remove the pieces to a bowl and repeat until you have exhausted your stock. Between batches I like to drizzle yet more olive oil so that the chunks of beef kick and splatter in anger as I place them in the pot. You may enjoy the tiny specks of hot oil stinging your knuckles. If not, use a tool fit for the purpose.

While the cheeks are searing you should be roughly chopping 2 of your oldest carrots and sticks of celery and a single, degenerating shallot or small onion. Once devoid of beef  you may cast these chopped root items into the now caked and smoking pot. If you have one, add the rind from some manner of cured pork product. In my case this happened to be the tough, mottled grey, almost rancid rind from a large piece of belly pork that had been cured in a chimney. Move these elements about from time to time and enjoy rubbing the goodness from the base of the pot with your wooden spoon.

Now chop two cloves of garlic as finely as your skill permits. Flatten these tiny cubes into the chopping board, by holding the knife in two hands by the blade, until they are but translucent shards of allium. Upon this pile run your finger nails down ten thyme stalks, thus removing their pretty little leaves in a cascade. Tear off the wearisome top leaves, for there seems no other way of removing them!

When your mirepoix appear to be tiring of their ordeal, run the garlic and thyme pile from your chopping board with the back of your knife. Stir in, and open a bottle of ice cold lager that you placed in the freezer some 10 minutes previously. Refresh yourself with this beverage and maybe do some of the dishes. 

As soon as you remember, hurry back to your pot and, seeing that you have not burnt the garlic, add the beef and allow all to become intimate. Pour quite a lot of red wine into the pot via the oily bowl that held your seared beef. All will now become quiet. Stir all this deliciousness now with eager tenderness.

Now you must raise the flames to their limit and go off to some other task or recreation for a time. Returning when it suits you to stir, taste and anticipate. In due course your instinct will summon you back to the pot. Obey this instinct. Your wine will have halved its volume and become ‘liquor’ while the meat and vegetables therein will be pleading for a good stirring. So stir them! 

Now however you’ll need to perform the task of straining the contents of your pot through a sieve within a colander and into a large bowl. Do this with sincere confidence then and enjoy it for you must now retrieve the meat with your fingers from its steaming vegetable grave and place them back into the deep red liquor. Without delay the beef and liquor must go back in the pot with your chopped navet turnips and fresh carrot. You may chop these last as you wish. I prefer sticks of carrot and cubes of turnip. Don’t forget to add your peeled onions. Now simply pour in enough good stock to cover all the solids, stir, replace your lid, lower the flame to a flicker and walk away. 

An hour or three may now pass and life will proceed unrelenting. If you remember to, take time to stir, to taste and to pray. When the sauce seems to have had enough. Turn off the heat and leave your pot of loveliness on the back of the stove for…

…the next day. 20 minutes before dinner time, remove the lid and bring to a fierce boil, stirring and fretting that all will be well while the table is set, the embers are stoked, wine is poured and baby refuses his DELICIOUS, lovingly prepared dinner and demands cheap supermarket yoghurts, one after another, in its stead.

Serve piping hot by the ladle into wide, previously heated bowls accompanied by steamed and generously buttered white rice or pommes mousseline. Eat as though it were your last.

 

I do not have a photograph of the dish because we ate it and I didn’t think I’d be writing about it some days hence.

The name pom pom, I imagine, is an onomatapoeia. For when you swing one onto the top of your baby son’s head, with the action of striking down with a conker, il fait le bruit, ‘Pom, Pom, Pom, Pom…

 

Montecristo No. 5

Alas, no camera charger (in storage in Surbiton) so no fresh pics. Sorry. Words and poachings from the www. will have to suffice…

Boxing Day. The view from the veranda is peaceful across moss-stained roof tops, their chimneys puffing at leisure and the limestone cliffs, perhaps half a mile beyond, bearded majestic with pine and white oak. The Boy is resisting his afternoon nap and I feel Cloe’s heart will prove too soft to resist his protests. Oh, and I am pleased to be smoking a small cigar (thanks again Mum), accompanied by the last sparkling drops of an ’04 Drappier, which is all very nice indeed.

We have settled on the foothills above Bezier it seems. It was the climate and the Garrigue, we feel, but I am sure there are other hidden reasons for us both, that there seems little reason to sweat over just now.  Note the above ‘settled ON’; for we are still up in the Tarn. Bitterly cold. Brilliant light and the palest skies.

A fortnight back we travelled South East across Les Grandes Causses through three hours of thick rain. The land we saw that afternoon was entirely unsuitable for our needs so The Truth concerning the Realty profession remains strong even in the South of France too. We have learnt to demand more photographs, ask more questions. That damp night was spent in a charming Gite owned by an enterprising Dutchman but the place had not known warmth for months so we found ourselves huddled up in front of a log burner in the quiet hours with the rain softening our spirits from above. It was my fault, and The Boy’s. He woke at 2am and I thought it MUST be 7am. Truly, I suffered later that night from a horrible bout of self loathing and fear. About myself, the Dream, this place, my family’s dependence on me, the whole shooting match. It was a real plummet and it shook me to my core.

The next day I was tender within but The Family was strong so I ploughed the Landy on South regardless, through uplifting scenery, down through wine country and winter villages into some welcome sun, towards another opportunity near the town of Bedarieux. This was much better but still too narrow and steep for our pigs. It was driving back North, after a simple lunch in Beziers that afternoon that we realised that we wanted to settle down there. Perhaps, for I saw another, much more interesting property the following week, in driving rain, way up in the Cantal.

The ‘terrain a vendre’ was two hours to the North East, towards Clermont Ferrand, between two fairly large towns you’d never have heard of and I pray I never see again. It really rained that day. Good hard French rain, not your English pitter patter. The land was in three chunks, approximately a hectare apiece but owned by two different parties. Lovely surrounds; lush cow country (think an Aberdeen Angus but slightly smaller and more handsome, horned and fat on prime pasture), the plot lay at the end of a chestnut wood. Indeed, one hectare WAS a chestnut wood, rich with roe deer, hare and all manner of wild goodness fit for the casserole and the belly. The pasture land was perfect; slightly inclined, bordered by crisp, fast running streams, already largely bordered with dry stone walls and both pieces ample and flat enough to house 100 pigs. The wood, although steep in access from the fields raised the limits of Woodland Pigs (the company, not the blog) far beyond my initial expectations. The forest floor, quite simply, was a floor of chestnuts. I estimated this to mean six weeks of the year without feed costs and the melting, nutty unsaturated fats and rare sugars that make the best cured hind legs.

And then there was the hunting to be had, and the firewood, the wild mushrooms; nature’s generous pickings for a man happy to tramp along with a dog, a bag and a gun.

Sadly though the hiccough of different owners meant the whole thing was impossible without buying all three plots. In other words, beyond our budget. Ho. Hum. I was really tempted but it was all so isolated. Hopeless for raising such a quick witted, energetic boy.

The search continuesto the South. Now it is a hectare and a half minimum. That’s 15000m2 in new money. There must be woodland for foraging and there must be a source of water. The land must be within 20 minutes of our abode too.

Granny ‘n Anny are down in Perpignan for a month, which is lovely. We’ll be there for a few days around New Year and see some more land. God Willing. Meanwhile there is a chance of a house sit near here. We’d be rent and bills free for 6 months to a year but we’d be in the company of three quite unique dogs. Thats the catch. I’m unsure but Cloe is smitten by a 5 year old husky named Polo. hmmm….

 

Wishing you all the very best and most indulgent of New Year celebrations. We miss you folks.

With love,

The Family

Elizabeth David in St Antonin Noble Val

…it really is a noble valley. Damn cold up here but thankfully the fog that rests in the hills fails to fall into town.

My mother lent me one of her two copies of French Provincial Cooking by Elizabeth David the night before our arrival in France. Researched and written in the late 50’s, published in 1960, I have always known it to be unrivaled as a recipe book, somehow, as I’d never read it.

Marvelous stuff. I am truly loving cooking provincially in France. Working my way through recipes two generations old but as clear and interesting as any modern glossy effort and far deeper. It runs to over 400 pages containing perhaps the same number of recipes and neither a photo nor grinning celebrity chef throughout.

A friend replied to the first blog with a lovely quote from Freya Stark. It made me feel I should contribute something ‘other’ than myself with each posting. Why not one of Madame David’s recipes?

Tonight’s fare is Saucisse de Toulouse avec Pommes (I’ll ask Cloe to make her excellent pommes mousseline too)

‘If the sausages are to be fried or grilled, it is advisable first to stiffen them by dipping them for  few moments in boiling water. Fried gently in butter, then transferred to an oven dish and baked at a moderate heat for about 20 minutes, while half a dozen sweet dessert apples, peeled, cored and sliced are fried in the same butter…’

YUM! (..but use some duck fat with the apples…)

I guess some pig news is due.

We are looking for land primarily. We have found a good chunk of hilly woodland way down near Montpellier, 5 hectares (50000 sq metres) for 17000euros. But there’s tax, notaire fees and commission to add to that. We are visiting a producer of noir de gascon pigs…

…on wednesday the other side of Toulouse so will probably carry on an find a gite for the night before seeing this land on thursday. All very exciting but France is all about small print so best to can those feelings for now. Then there’s looking for work for Cloe, driving lessons for her too, damn expensive by the looks of them. She has found me a English language butchery course up towards La Rochelle. Its three days away from the family and quite dear but very worth it in the long run.

We are busy with a business plan; overview, forecasts, start up and running costs. Deadline is the New Year. Also busy sourcing materials online and generally finding out what on Earth we have got ourselves into. We are business partners now, not just friends, lovers and parents. Difficult and humbling for me. I suppose I didn’t know how bossy I was.

There are swells and troughs of momentum and fear. We become quite myopic, then have to take a long walk to remember why we are here. Thank God for the boy and all that he brings; changing the mood with a giggle or learning something new when our backs are turned. Delights in throwing pebbles in the river at the moment. He’s toddling of course and telling anyone who will listen just what is important and why they should all listen.

…By the way, Cloe did a great mousseline and I served it with sauted white onion on the side….

Good luck to my dear brother Seb. I’m crying because I miss him terribly. He opened The Delaunay on the Aldwych yesterday. Love also to his wife, Laura, who has just opened ’34’ on South Audley St. Please be gentle with them. Restaurants are like great beasts born at full size with bleary eyes. They are clumsy at first on unsteady legs. They need time and confidence, for the best will return that love many times over.

Here’s a farewell picture of Hunter at a farewell lunch.  It was taken by Gabriel Green, my cousin, who’s work can be viewed at http://www.flickr.com/photos/gabrielgreen/ Go Cuz.

ps – he doesn’t need that bottle anymore. Go boy!

Farewells

…..Ssshh. The boy’s asleep…

How does one begin these things? This blank sheet staring blankly. Should it be recent past, impossible present or the endless sunshine of future?

I had wanted to recap the last month or so. Establish some manner of context but its all rather raw still. But then that feels like a submission. Perhaps just blurt it out in haste, get it down, as a beginning. Here goes then…

I remember…

I remember the Lodge at Cawdor. Those partridge fleeing, cordite and that beautiful rush. Have I ever grinned so much? I don’t recall the killing although I promised myself I would. Dear Graeme, for his generosity and his huge heart. A lot of good wine and cigars.

Barbours and defenders, dogs and guns. Big Scots with big hands and ruddy faces.

I remember Rod, my loader. A good man, a gentleman. Waiting for the first of them, leg twitching, his Somerset drawl, ‘Sweep through ’em, Tom, take your time, Tom’, grinning and chuckling, ‘Good Shot, Tom’, both of us chuckling though the reports, ‘You clipped that one, over that one, behind that one.’

It was another world for a while. Good people. Friendships born. Blood and feathers and the happiest dogs.

And then it was the countdown and all manner of farewell’s…

I remember Chris buying me breakfast at the bar. I remember that night of game and the boy in hospital. So worried and all those good people who came to wish me well. Two days of worry really, my boy playing in the ward and Cloe so strong.

That night. Bernard kind and funny and handsome. An inspiration. Ashley there with S&L. Nick Hurrell said he knew a French word I would never know (moissonneuse-batteuse = combine harvester) ‘How the Hell do you know that!!’ he cried. Kevin Arnold. The the farmer I hope to be one day.

But that last day was so odd. I do detest last days, milling about, knowing looks and all those inevitables. Sagar didn’t know I was leaving. You were all very kind though. Bless Roger King. It would have been easier in the restaurant. That was a friday…

…on Saturday I bought my Defender. Oh sweet day. Wait, I must have a picture..