tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4740082171031034002024-03-13T09:08:30.088-07:00at the table with annieFood for thought about life as a sacrament, contemplated as if we were all seated at table with a glass of wine, our wellbeing for the evening in capable hands, and talking long into the night about what it means to be human.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-38996030222187571732017-06-30T09:50:00.000-07:002017-06-30T10:34:53.222-07:00The Ear of the Heart and the Elixir of Life (A High and Lovely Place)It's telling that Dante, so early in his journey, speaks of the inner voice that has grown faint, perhaps from too much silence.<br />
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On the surface, this reference to Silence seems strange indeed. The inner voice is silent. Yet, it is silence, that often calls the inner voice to the surface. The inner voice is silent because of an absence of Silence.<br />
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When first I began to frequent monasteries, and to learn about the Benedictine way of living and being, the silence was deafening. Too much noise. I wanted to cup my hands over my ears, so much did the noise seem to suffocate me. In the stillness, I heard only a cacophony of voices. None of them really my own.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysg2MKHnaTCSAQBlRMcHPrVv2rDKyGS_J0RQKYO6F-4XFYLsojVZvtYIscMwO9dVLR4Qgr-BB4UzisVnO8406LbNJdV-ncazz27-6INQ5hAuXDzF9ovWwECc8sejXyvPOcCshgVQOum4/s1600/th.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="234" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysg2MKHnaTCSAQBlRMcHPrVv2rDKyGS_J0RQKYO6F-4XFYLsojVZvtYIscMwO9dVLR4Qgr-BB4UzisVnO8406LbNJdV-ncazz27-6INQ5hAuXDzF9ovWwECc8sejXyvPOcCshgVQOum4/s320/th.jpeg" width="320" /></a><br />
Of course, that was entirely the point.<br />
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In the early days of talking with these monks and also working with my spiritual director, they both regularly said to me, "Annie, Slow Down. Be Still." Be Still, and Know that I am God (Ps. 46:10). Dante clearly hadn't been that still for some time. (Nor had I). I didn't know that one must listen with the ear of the heart. I didn't even know how to listen with the ear of my heart. But that comes later.<br />
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One of my favorite places in the world is a valley in the French Savoie, La Grande Chartreuse. You can get there from Geneva, where I once lived, and it's not far from Chamonix. It is a valley of great silences and great beauty and where the snow capped peaks of the French Alps are visible to the naked eye, beckoning. I've done a fair bit of climbing there, around Mont Blanc, and stayed in huts along the routes. I supposed those beckoning voices of the high alps were a kind of clarion call to my heart. They hearkened spaciousness. They seemed to promise to draw me into the depths. Deep calling to deep.<br />
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I first read about this magical valley in my all-time favorite cookbook, L'Auberge (Inn) of the Flowering Hearth, by Roy Andries de Groot. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7fSWDoK9SZUHj4b6q5Q2X2po7JEzZ4N7xzx0iCDB9U9lnvC3Dk9zKLu1AO-kDK041vggfrh5hVvV9o8RXdnyEsugg1DaZtR9rAQ8beru9JIiAfdoBXmnZTzyek0822m4-qtMo0d6Xbk/s1600/th.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7fSWDoK9SZUHj4b6q5Q2X2po7JEzZ4N7xzx0iCDB9U9lnvC3Dk9zKLu1AO-kDK041vggfrh5hVvV9o8RXdnyEsugg1DaZtR9rAQ8beru9JIiAfdoBXmnZTzyek0822m4-qtMo0d6Xbk/s1600/th.jpeg" /></a> Describing his approach to the valley, he titles it "Journey to that High and Lovely Place." It is a place of intense beauty and great silence, a silence so utterly deafening as to call to the surface that faint whisper, that still, small voice. The Voice of Stillness. If you would like to have an experience of this, watch the spellbinding movie about the monastery here, <i>Into Great Silence</i>. Not for nothing is it referred to as "La Vallee du Desert."<br />
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At the Auberge, de Groot discovers a mountain cuisine, both rustic and refined, without any hint of artifice. He describes quail cooked over the living room hearth, and dripping onto little toasts. He also speaks of alpine potato pancakes, which remind me of the Rosti my French-Swiss grandmother cooked for me as child, and which I often ate myself in these high mountains. Would you care to try them? They are delicious, especially with the addition of a little bacon. The French changed the recipe a bit from the Swiss version, but they are both delicious. Here is his recipe:<br />
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ALPINE POTATO PANCAKES<br />
Serves 4<br />
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4 medium russet potatoes<br />
3 eggs<br />
4 scallions, green part only, thinly sliced<br />
2 cloves garlic, peeled and finely minced<br />
2 T. fresh parsley, finely chopped<br />
½ t. fresh rosemary, finely minced<br />
4 T. clarified butter<br />
2 T. vegetable oil<br />
Sea salt to taste<br />
Freshly ground Tellicherry black pepper to taste<br />
2 T. heavy cream, more or less<br />
Bake the potatoes until done. Cut open and scoop out the pulp. Place in a 1-quart mixing bowl, mash but not too much; add eggs, scallions, garlic, parsley, and rosemary. Add cream, just enough to be able to form patty-like mounds of the potato mixture. Shape the pancakes about a quarter inch thick and two inches across. Heat 3 T. of the butter and 2 T. vegetable oil in heavy sauté pan about 10 inches in diameter, assuring you have enough oil to cover the pan. Form patties about ¼ inch thick and 2 inches wide. Carefully place the patties in the butter/oil in the skillet. Fry until brown and crisp on both sides. Serve hot.<br />
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Legend has it that the river "Le Guiers," (pronounced <i>gay</i>) bound up with this high and lovely place, rises from two separate rivers, about six miles apart, in the high alps. One, de Groot describes, is on the slopes of the Dent-de-Crolles, the other at the foot of the Cirque de Saint-Meme. Both these rivers tumble down the mountains onto the high plateau. There, like an adolescent boy and a spirited girl, they tumble. The boy river is said to be dreamy, lazy and slow, with jade green waters and deep, smooth pools. His name is Le Guiers Mort. But he is hardly dead. "In Spring," de Groot writes, when the melting snows flood down into the valleys, he is as wildly alive as any torrent. (Remember my post about the French language?). His floods have destroyed villages and again and again drowned the cattle and ruined the crops. The other, the girl river, has the reputation of being spirited and wild--of running a course of speed and violence, plunging, frothy, white. Her official name is Le Guiers Vif. Yet, she is hardly so alive during the summer droughts. She can be as dead as the lily pond in cemetery. Boy and Girl finally meet and merge at a village called "Entre-les-Deux-Guiers. By then, they have already completed the work for which we must be grateful. They have cut a path for us through a wall of rock almost five thousand feet high." No still waters they. But they cut deep.<br />
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St. Bruno founded the monastery in 1085. The Romans had called the area "catursiani", meaning “little house where one is alone in an isolated and wild place.” (More on this later). And from this word comes “Chartreuse," the sweet green liquor distilled at the monastery there by "Les pères Chartreux" from a secret recipe. The story of these monks, Groot describes, possessed of a secret process known only to them, and living at the top of their high valley in complete silence and isolation, is a saga entwined with the history of France, and a romantic one. <br />
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The recipe for Chartreuse came from a mysterious manuscript donated to the monks in 1602 by Marshal d’Estrées, a courtier of the French king, Henri IV. Today, the distillery, which makes the elixir from over 130 medicinal plants, both the yellow (lower sugar) and green (traditional) variety—is located in nearby Voiron.<br />
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Reading about Dante's journey, which eventually led to the climb into the heavens, I was reminded of this "High and Lovely Place" of Silences. Can you imagine yourself, making an ascent into this alpine valley? I love how de Groot describes his ascent, how the gorge opens out into a wide, wild valley, rising to a high plateau, and how this reveals the first glimpse of the great Alpine "massifs" (where I have climbed), looking like an immense and impregnable fortress, wreathed in pure white mist. I remember this view, and the granite walls that rose up, sheer and straight for almost five thousand feet, from the floor of the plateau. De Groot says that behind this unscalable wall the white peaks mount higher still. I remember thinking about Dante when first I saw it. This must have been how he felt when he had his first glimpse of the heavens, the one that pulled him out of his fear and despair. Deep calling to deep.<br />
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In the next blog post I will tell you why the valley is called "La Vallee du Desert," and we will speak more about silence. But for today, I wanted to comment about listening. Benedict, the founder of the first monasteries, opens his "Rule," the document for monastic living, with the word "Listen". Dante learns this when he meets Virgil, his guide, and realizes his life depends upon his ability to listen to him. "Listen with the ear of your heart," Benedictine exhorts. These Benedictine monasteries, where I have learned to listen, are famous for their hospitality and the welcome of the open door. But we forget at our own great loss that it is not only the hospitality of the open door that aids our journey, but more importantly, the welcome of the open heart. As we travel, dear Reader, examine your heart. Is it open? We have yet to cross the pass into the valley.<br />
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Leave a comment if you'd like! I'd love to hear from you.<br />
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<br />at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-90202632858881725882017-06-29T09:29:00.002-07:002017-06-30T06:20:49.845-07:00Rest At the Banqueting Table of Hope (even at the threshold of hell)One thing Dante knew, almost from the beginning, is that he was in the midst of a battle for his life. Having once gained a glimpse of the hill beyond, he only just begins to climb when he is confronted and his path utterly blocked by three fierce beasts. I think it's true that at midlife, if we are not too sleepy, as he says he was before he landed in exile, we begin to see that a battle rages within us for freedom.<br />
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This is a battle I recognize. If we are very, very lucky, like Dante, and have lived a bit, at some point we might awaken enough to see that the objectives and attitudes that have characterized the first "half" of our lives (Dante was 35) no longer really satisfy. I say lucky because one thing we are experts at doing, is convincing ourselves otherwise. Life is fine. I am fine. And we are masters at distracting ourselves from the fear that all may not be well. Our distractions are numerous and create "addictions" and "attachments" that keep us from facing our own abyss. And we are so very good at it. Yet, if we are open to Mystery, to use Jung's language, we begin to see that the ego, the center of the rational consciousness, is not master in its own house, that we are stumbling around in the dark and that our former goals (power, position, respect, family, success, etc.) are not what we once imagined them to be.<br />
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After the death of my father, more than ten years ago now, and the beginning of a pretty spectacular tumbling in my life, an Anglican priest friend wrote to me to ask if he could be of any assistance. I blithely responded that I had no need of any spiritual direction: after all, I read the same books and had a similar background as he. Those beasts were breathing down my neck, and my response was proof positive of it! But I was heroically, spectacularly, distracted. And I meant to keep it that way. (Fortunately, my friend did not back down and bow out, but that's another story). <br />
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The Franciscan priest and prolific author Richard Rohr, in his book "<i>Falling Upward,</i>" writes about this dilemma: "None of us go into our spiritual maturity completely of our own accord, or by a totally free choice. (Dante surely did not). We are led there by Mystery, or what religious people rightly call grace...Most of us are never told that we can set out from the known and the familiar to take on a further journey. Our institutions and expectations, including our churches, are almost entirely configured to encourage, support, reward and validate the tasks of the first half of life." And to begin to live out a different truth and walk a different path is damned uncomfortable for those steeped in the validation of the first. Thomas Merton, the American monk, and one of my armchair mentors, pointed out that we may spend our whole life climbing the ladder of success, only to find that when we get to the top, our ladder is leaning against the wrong wall.<br />
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Dante was exiled. And that was a very great grace, a Mystery he stepped into, seemingly unawares (asleep). And that Mystery was leading him in the battle for his life.<br />
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Ok, I've had a lot of Mystery.<br />
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As Mark Musa (the translation of the Divine Comedy I am using) writes in his notes to Canto I, "When he (Dante) starts to climb the hill his path is blocked, by three fierce beasts: first a Leopard, then a Lion, and finally a She-Wolf (more on these beasts of burden in a later post). They fill him with fear and drive him back down to the sunless wood. At that moment the figure of a man appears before him; it is the shade of Virgil, and the Pilgrim begs for help. Virgil (the Guide sent to him) tells him that he cannot overcome the beasts which obstruct his path; they must remain until a “Greyhound” comes who will drive them back to Hell. Rather by another path will the Pilgrim reach the sunlight..."<br />
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There is no freedom, or yet peace, without facing down the beasts within. Yikes. A battle rages.<br />
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Dante awoke to a dark wood, and he was so heavy and full of sleep when first he stumbled from the narrow way. He recognized that the path to this freedom was the narrow Way, and he knows he had stumbled off of it. The dark wood is the threshold of the whole journey, writes Helen Luke, in her wonderful book "<i>Dark Wood to White Rose</i>," but it is also an immediate threshold to an immediate gateway, through which we must pass in a direction that leads away from our goal.<br />
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Moreover, as Dante discovered, we are incapable of finding it alone. We need friends on pilgrimages. We were never meant to walk alone. Helen Luke argues that no man or woman can safely cross the dark gate of the shadow world without knowing that some deeply loved and trusted person has faith in his courage to come through.<br />
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Finding oneself in such a place, on the threshold of this pilgrimage can surely be terrifying. But there is only one saving path: to admit that one is completely lost (blessed are the poor in spirit), and to force oneself to look up and away for a moment from our self-pity (from being turned in our ourselves) and absorption in the ego and to affirm hope. (Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven). Remember, Dante looked up. We learn, struggling in our dark wood, says Helen Luke, "that we cannot hope to find wholeness by repressing the shadow side of ourselves, or by the most heroic efforts of the ego to climb up, to achieve goodness. The leopard, the lion and the wolf will not allow it, Thank God." It is when we admit our powerlessness, that the guide appears, as it did for Dante.<br />
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The soul has many secrets, Rohr argues, and most are revealed only to those who really want them. (Seek, and you shall find). And one of the best kept secrets, and yet one hidden in plain sight, is that the way up is the way down. Or, if you prefer, the way down is the way up. Dante asks: "Tell me how you dared to make this journey all the way down to this point of spacelessness?" And his answer? "Because your question searches for deep meaning."<br />
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To be spiritually free, we have first to go all the way down.<br />
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For a start, it's clear that Dante was going to have to travel through his own hell in order to reach the point where he might start climbing. He had been full of an interior slumber. But before he could even begin to walk, Dante forced himself to open his eyes, to awaken from his 'sleep' and look with eyes wide open at his fear. He also begins to appreciate that "while I was rushing down to that low place, my eyes made out a figure coming toward me of one grown faint, perhaps from too much silence." This is a recognition that his conscience, or his voice of reason, had been long silenced.<br />
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The message is pretty clear, I'd say.<br />
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But he was not without Hope. Dante not only forced himself to look back with wide open eyes at his fear, he rested awhile. So, dear Readers, do not despair. Take Heart. (Did you know the word courage means to take heart?) There is rest for the weary. Since journeying on this path, many years back now, I have wondered about the Psalmist's claim that The Lord is closest to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (Ps. 34:18). More recently, I have begun to see that there is Rest in the midst of the battle with the enemies within us. And that rest is a great big banqueting table. When Dante looks up, his fear begins to subside. And then he rests in the company of his guide.<br />
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When we walked, my father and I often recited Psalm 23, and the great line of that poem "He sets a table for me in the presence of my enemies" has long fascinated me. Of course it would. One thing we did on those long walks was to feast. We brought canned crab and cocktail sauce (guilty pleasure with packs already heavy). Sometimes we packed in wine. We dined each evening, even when our feet hurt from walking and our bodies ached for sleep. At the Table is the connection, and the restoration, and the Rest that gives us sustenance for the journey. <br />
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The theologian Samuel Wells in his book "<i>God's Companions" </i>argues that one of the most important symbols (for icons help us to peer into Reality, like a window) of the Trinity (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) is the Rublev icon, known as the "Hospitality of Abraham," which depicts three divine persons gathered around a table for a meal together. Remember Abraham went on a journey, in search of God. He left all he knew and made a pilgrimage.<br />
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There is an empty place on the viewer's side of the table, which seems to offer an invitation to come and dine. The heavenly banquet is the most characteristic symbol of the life of the Kingdom, and Jesus himself enacts these banquets himself in his many significant meals with sinners, strangers, crowds and disciples. These are invitations to join the feast with God.<br />
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If the enduring image of the Kingdom is a banquet, this hardly suggests that the pilgrimage is without its food and daily bread and wine. And I, for one, believe that in the fullest sense, to dine together in this way is sacramental living. It is to participate in the great mystery of the heavenly reality while still on earth.<br />
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So come and dine with me as we journey. Pilgrimages require friends and tables. Don't walk alone. Those glimpses of Heaven did a lot for Dante and gave him Hope for the walk ahead. What are you serving at your table tonight? Leave a comment, Dear Reader, and tell me what you think of the journey thus far.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-82105787296379207652017-06-28T08:37:00.002-07:002017-06-28T20:36:52.697-07:00L'air FragileThe French have a way of saying something that implies multiple levels of meaning. It is why the French language often can be so intimidating. At first, learning the grammar, and putting together simple phrases, one wonders why all the fuss? It seems quite simple, really. And then the hammer falls. Not unlike the American patriot and President John Adams, discovering on his first visit to Paris that the ladies at table had him for lunch, despite his French. He hadn't realized he was on the menu. In French conversation, one can easily find oneself swimming in these murky waters until one eventually realizes that one is well out of his or her depth. And then, perhaps, there is hope in that recognition. It is a kind of spiritual discipline to learn French. One must lay aside one's ego for a time if any progress is to be made, and embrace the humility of not knowing. One can begin.<br />
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The phrase about which I write is "L'air fragile." "Elle a l'air fragile," the French might say, for example, of a young woman. <br />
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In our post and third wave feminist-infused culture, we might too easily discount this comment as unnecessarily dismissive of women's strength, but as is often the case with the French, who are not bound by such silliness, and rarely underestimate women, the meaning is far more profound and has far more to say about the kind of strength that endures. To possess a fragile air is a great compliment: it suggests an openness to life and its teachings, a vulnerability to love and learning and trust that we often lose as we age, so well fortressed are our hearts. If only we could see that we are all beginners. If we had any perspective at all, we might come to realize that we are all only ever beginners, something my spiritual director used to tell me all the time. <br />
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I find this especially true of cooking. It has been many decades since I first learned the grammar of cooking, since French chefs in various restaurants yelled at me for my technique and my habits. And after a time, one wonders why all the fuss? It seems quite simple, really. And then. Yes, and Then. I remember eating at a restaurant in Crissier, near Geneva, whose chef, the wonderful Fredy Giardet (one of my culinary heroes), cooked a simple salmon dish. That food was a revelation to my young eyes, and a lesson for my young heart. I realized that to cook simply is an art of very great measure, and to coax the best from one's food is far more complex, far more difficult than I had imagined. It is the work of a lifetime. It requires the narrow way. The way of the easy yoke. It requires "L'air fragile." And it is the most difficult thing in the world.<br />
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The great chef Alice Waters tells a story of serving a perfectly ripe melon in her restaurant as a entree, or starter. The guests were disappointed. They wanted something dressed up, perhaps not realizing that there is a long-respected and lauded art in France associated with a perfectly ripe melon. <br />
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However many wonderful things one might do with a melon (and my favorite is to serve it with Beaumes de Venise muscat wine in the cavity), there is nothing as sublime as a counter-ripened melon at perfection. But achieving this is anything but easy, though it is simple. Of course, this is not a new idea. Richard Olney, another of my culinary mentors, wrote a book about Simple Food. (All his books are worthy). In the preface, Olney concedes, after a considerable treatise on the pitfalls of categorization, that simplicity, without doubt, is a complex thing.<br />
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One of my favorite chefs of the current milieu is Naomi Pomeroy. Her book, "Taste and Technique" is a masterpiece of this philosophy, and her food ethos and aesthetic are endlessly appealing.<br />
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If you want to begin to cook really well, start at the beginning. Take time with your technique and don't presume. Instead, approach cooking with "L'air fragile," much as she does, treating the ingredients like the gift they are, respecting them, learning what each can teach you, and working on each element of preparation to understand the nuance. Be like a child. To that heart, is open the kingdom of God.<br />
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Tonight, at Table, I am going to serve a "Confetti Salad," which seems a celebration of all things summer, and serve it with grilled salmon. This dish is a lesson in treating each of the glorious ingredients as works of art, and combining them to create a symphony. Richard Olney liked this metaphor of the complexity of conceiving a larger symphony--a simple menu, and transforming each element into an uncomplicated statement that will surprise or soothe a gifted palate, drawing from various elements to form a new harmony. If you want to try it, click on this link for the recipe and see for yourself if you can achieve harmony. <br />
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http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/summery-confetti-salad-51183680<br />
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That old and beautiful Shaker hymn, "Tis a Gift to be Simple, Tis a Gift to be Free" is a reflection of what Dante begins to understand as he raises his head to the hilltop beyond. My father used to tell me that our 30 mile day hikes were lessons in perspective, and as I have become older, I have learned that this is true. He also, often, told me to look up. Sometimes we are so consumed with the pounding of our own feet we forget to look up. Now I am wondering if he was thinking about Dante when he said both things. It wouldn't surprise me.<br />
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"I raised my head and saw the hilltop shawled in morning rays of light sent from the planet that leads men straight ahead on every road.<br />
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And then only did terror start subsiding in my heart’s lake, which rose to heights of fear that night I spent in deepest desperation." (Canto I)<br />
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In looking up, in focusing his eyes on the hilltop, our friend and fellow pilgrim Dante begins to have acquired a little perspective, and this perspective is an antidote to his fear. Looking up is also the antidote to escaping the chains of our own egos. We are not simply "incurvatus in se", to quote Augustine, or "turned in on ourselves." Look up, yes. But how to become free? Stay tuned. We've only just begun to walk. And not yet to climb.<br />
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Leave a comment if you like, dear Reader. I'd love to hear your thoughts.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-3765543592103753642017-06-27T16:21:00.002-07:002017-06-28T15:46:30.878-07:00The Dantean Pilgrimage Begins (Introduction)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Its been a long time since I've written in my blog, and I have decided to revive it. Will you join me At the Table with Annie? As before, these posts will be musings on life, food and theology, but with a very specific direction for a time: the pilgrimage with Dante.<br />
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I'm writing from the secretary desk in my bedroom, which is a sympathetic spot possessed of outlook and comfort, and a certain amount of splendor, just enough to awaken the senses to Beauty, and hopefully not to dull them with over-indulgence. My desk is quite inviting, filled with all the little momentos that have made up a life thus far: photographs in little silver frames, letter writing supplies and a French blotter. Someday I'm going to have a big antique pine table as my desk, with a very simple white pitcher of garden roses for inspiration. As I have become older, my tastes have simplified and my aesthetic has become more relaxed. I have less need for the stuff that accompanies my journey, or perhaps life has edited the clutter, or I don't have as much need for props. That would be encouraging. But for now, this desk is a pleasant place to perch. Above me are shelves of books filled with many treasures marking other inquiries over the years. That, too, is an encouragement.<br />
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I spent the morning working in my vegetable garden, which I am reconfiguring this year to include planter boxes on either side of my parterre garden. I designed this vegetable garden with Andre' le Notre as my inspiration and guide: only the parterres are visible from the road, the rest of the garden hidden by a sleight of hand wrought of careful changes in elevation. This is not a bad metaphor for what I am undertaking in this blog: what is visible in life is only a very small part of the Real Story. <span style="text-align: center;">The planter boxes have been built for me by my son to replace the French intensive row crops I have planted in the past, he having convinced me of the new plan's superiority. The sun is now out after a cloudy morning, and a cool breeze blows off the water and into the place where I live. I need the cool breezes today. Dinner is planned and prepped, and will be a savory clafoutis with leeks and corn and dark leafy greens served with an ombre heirloom tomato tartine with basil mayonnaise and cut into wedges.Today is cool and sunny, suggesting summer but not heat, so a baked clafoutis will not go amiss and the tomato tartan will still remind us that summer is upon us. These keepings are comforting in a world in flux.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">It is with this flux, both in the world and in my life, that I begin my summer pilgrimage with Dante's Divine Comedy. I have most of my adult life cultivated a habit of choosing a summer reading theme each year. But this year, which has been especially challenging, it seemed more of a pilgrimage was in order, a kind of Way made by walking. You may know that this is the 750th year anniversary of the publication of this great work by a brilliant spiritual master. Dante Alighieri, the author of the Divine Comedy, was born in Florence in May 1265, and recently, even the Pope has heartily endorsed reading it as a spiritual guide in this commemorative year. It has been more than 30 years since I have read it, and when I did I was too young to understand it as a spiritual guide. I hadn't been battered about by life yet, and I was still largely living a charmed existence, and still pursuing existence before essence. But we'll get to Sartre later.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">For most of my adult life, I have been fascinated by the concept of pilgrimages. This may be in part because of the long and arduous, yet spiritually rich trek my father and I made one year during a college summer on the Pacific Crest Trail throughout Oregon. We hiked 25+ miles a day with 50 pound packs, and it was arduous "walking" (as he called it), with little water, lots of heat, and little shade in some places. Yet, afterwards, I remembered only the things it taught me, save the red rock trails through part of Oregon, which I'll never quite forget. From the Middle Ages, the concept of a pilgrimage has tended to imply an endpoint or goal, such as a holy shrine that allowed the pilgrim to return home with a sense of accomplishment. I'll admit it: this has appeal. It is the appeal of the Camino, which I have longed to do since I first read about it 30 years ago. But the Celtic concept of pilgrimage, the peregrinate, is very different. It is not undertaken at the suggestion of a monastic abbot, for example, but because of an inner prompting in those who set out, a passionate desire or conviction to make an inner journey, wherever the Spirit might lead. Thomas Merton, one of my armchair mentors, taught his novices at his monastery at Gethsemene using Abraham as the exemplar of life as a journey: we go, leaving home, in search of God. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">When I learned about Benedict's "Rule", which he wrote to inform the new monastic life he was founding, I, like Benedict, wanted to be a peregrine (purposeful wanderer), not a gyrovag (aimless wanderer). Sometimes, this necessitates a guide, rather like the map my father and I used when we "wandered" (his words, as if it were an afternoon stroll, hah!) on the mountain trails. And thus, my friend and I, who have for the past year "walked" our way through the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises, have discovered that our pilgrimage was very rich indeed. (This was my forth time all the way through, and each time has been its own very distinct adventure.). Having completed the exercises, we looked about for another pilgrimage and decided to walk with the purposeful meanderings of Dante, who, at midlife, found himself in a dark wood, and embarked on a journey that rescued him from exile and saved his life. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">And so opens the great epic poem: " Midway through the journey of our life, I woke to find myself in a dark wood, for I had wandered off the straight path." It's quite clear that Dante, having been battered by his Florentine life, having suffered political and personal ruin, and found himself exiled and alone, is facing a midlife crisis of the most profound sort. He writes that he finds himself in a wood of "wilderness, savage and stubborn," and that he found it a bitter place. Eventually, we all come to this place, however artfully we keep this abyss at bay. Recognizing that we are exiles in our own world is bitter indeed. It is also a sign of great hope, for it is the human condition we finally embrace. And from that first step sings a choir of Hope, painful though it is. Dante doesn't stop here, either. He writes that if he would show the good that came of this recognition, and of the place itself, he must talk about things other than the good. He realizes that he has become sleepy, having strayed and left the path of truth. But when he looks up, and raises his head momentarily out of his fear, he sees in the morning rays of light the planet that leads men straight ahead on every road. Hope. But we have only just begun to walk. </span><br />
<br />at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-28272679314969213472011-11-01T14:36:00.000-07:002011-11-01T16:40:19.818-07:00The Sacrament of the Present Moment (Biscotti and Coffee)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLSk0qtK8_KrfDIyHO9i0WigOizijsXemPuRO8VNwpaZGyTj3YlCXzHf6WBGcZgar4uNc7iGDo0zMPY5JR9pkqxd-mJph8bkCWlhd8_gihEJjQv1AQHZNHn2S5OOaWGiuCKYNBpyP0Ckg/s1600/Coffee+086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLSk0qtK8_KrfDIyHO9i0WigOizijsXemPuRO8VNwpaZGyTj3YlCXzHf6WBGcZgar4uNc7iGDo0zMPY5JR9pkqxd-mJph8bkCWlhd8_gihEJjQv1AQHZNHn2S5OOaWGiuCKYNBpyP0Ckg/s320/Coffee+086.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Demitasse and biscotti on the counter in the kitchen</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">at the <em>House which shall be Unnamed</em></span><em></em><br />
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Nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see.<br />
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--Pierre Teilhard de Chardin<br />
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</div>For the past week, the pace of my life has accelerated into what can only be described as absurdity. And taking this perspective on it kept me sane through more than a few jammed days and nights. In fact, this week reminded me of my old life, when staying up all night several nights a week was nothing unusual. Meanwhile, I have been re-reading a beautiful book, in which I could manage only a few lines before dropping off to sleep in utter exhaustion. The contrast between the beautifully contemplative book, which is titled, appropriately, <em><u>The Sacrament of the Present Moment</u></em>, by Jean Pierre de Caussade, and the frenetic pace of my recent week, has left me a little breathless. My daughter, whose school projects have kept us both extremely busy, and made a normally easy going and full-of-fun girl stressed and anxious, ended up the week completely exhausted and ill.<br />
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On Saturday, she came into the sitting room where I was working by the fire on some embroidery for the faces of some Christmas dolls I am making, and said, "Mom, I want you to come with me for a few minutes." What greeted me was this beautiful little silver tray of demitasse and biscotti, set on the marble counter in the kitchen. We make biscotti, she and I, as a kind of grace note in our lives. It is a leap of faith of a sort, grounded on the Hope that there will be a quiet moment into which the little Italian cookie will bring grace and respite, a retreat of sorts. It is a simple thing, Gift, really, but it brings much joy and pleasure, and even a little wisdom! I put it in lunch boxes, wrapped like a gift in waxed paper tied with French baker's twine, along with a flask of coffee, in the hopes that my husband will take a small break in his frenetic day and Breathe. We serve it after school at tea at the marble table in the kitchen, which is a kind of ritual. My daughter's gift of stolen time, in effect, her insistence on Kairos time (which flows gently, allowing us to be in the present moment) rather than Kronos time (the relentless march of minutes and hours), was arranged in such a lovely fashion that I had to take a photograph of it before we carried it into the drawing room by the big hearth, and spent a quiet half hour chatting. I thought how well my daughter is practicing her growing womanly magic: making of life art (which is a theme of this blog), and her art brought both joy and respite, carved out of seeming absurdity a Gift, when she herself was heavy laden. This is the nature of Gift, to offer oneself, yes? Talking together, it occured to me that this was a piece of heaven breaking in, making some wholeness, or shalom, of all the absurdity in a manner not unlike Grace. Grace weaves together the brokenness of our lives into a whole that makes sense only in context.<br />
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Family meals are similar, I believe. Carved out in the midst of a busy and stressful day, amid the rapid passing of time, dinner is an oasis of calm and pleasure, in which it is possible, candles flickering and wine flowing, to take stock, to let down one's guard and Be Present. I have come to believe that this kind of respite is an essential element in life, and no less in family life. Without the table, my family would surely have disintegrated long ago. But it is equally critical in the life our our spirit, I believe. <br />
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What is this context in which Grace makes sense of broken pieces, in which time is reordered? Though I am a great lover of life, I have never been immune to the occasional call of ennui, or the sense that at the root of life is a kind of agony of decision, springing from the grounded, temporal nature of our daily lives as contrasted with the sense that TIME, and change through time, getting older, and not having time for everything, is an omnipresent and painful feature of our life experience. My beautiful cousin wrote about this recently, in a Facebook post, in which she reflected on the sense of time lingered loss on Halloween night, with only grown up children and none to costume or squire round the neighborhood for treats or with whom to curl up and watch movies. In the past, my answer to this sense of ennui was to posit on my life a meaning of my own making, increasingly filled to the brim with impact and breadth. But now, I am learning, or rather relearning something I discovered long ago: that there is an existential aspect to stepping out in faith in the face of despair, but it is not by filling in every corner. It is by savoring the corners I already have and surrendering my hours to a series of Present Moments. We know that at some point our time is going to run out, and at some point, time as we know it will stop for us. And since we know time is limited, that we choose one thing, by necessity limits another. The answer is not to choose it all, as I once did, so as not to leave anything out. That is not possible anyway. It is not even possible always to know that what we have gained exceeds what we have lost when we choose. Loss and Gain, gain and loss. This was the Danish philosopher Kierkegaard's argument, when he posited the idea that we are suffering from a sickness, a sickness unto death.<br />
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This was such a week. I ended up the week not at all sure about the choices I had made with my time, or those I had allowed to overwhelm the time of my daughter. In talking with my Spiritual Director (you can access his blog and wisdom at <a href="http://www.theelvesareheadingwest.blogspot.com/">http://www.theelvesareheadingwest.blogspot.com/</a> ) about this, he suggested he would like to see a blog on my reflections on the week. Notice how he phrased this, leaving little option. I find amusing that his directives usually leave little room for squirming out, which prior to his counsel I was quite accomplished at doing! But as he is a man not easily dismissed, and he is tenacious, I sat down yesterday to ponder his request. I do this lest his direction be treated with something other than the reverence it deserves (muttering aside), so I take my best shot. We are counseled to have reverence for those who give us spiritual guidance, not for their sake, but for ours. This does not mean blind faith. The concept of reverence is something I have spent a lifetime rejecting in one form or another, but I am learning it is the the key to an open heart. To have reverence is to cultivate a teachable spirit. So if we are to learn and to grow, reverence is the key to approaching what is given to us with a kind of surrender, with the heart of a child.<br />
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So as Kierkegaard says of our human condition, if this sickness unto death is the cause of our "agony," what is its cure? According to Kierkegaard, it is to become passionately committed to one of the options, delibertately chosen. Life is upside down, he said. Man is finite, God is infinite. Man is a sinner, God is merciful. When we recognize this, we may despair. Or we may recognize that it is just this realisation of the human condition that gives us the ability to leap into faith and accept the Grace that makes us whole, that makes sense of our battered and beautiful lives. Christ came and died to restore the created order, or Logos, in a world cast askew (turned upside down) from our choice to separate from Him, to seek knowledge rather than wisdom. Hence our lives as battered, reflecting our separation from Life, but also beautiful, reflecting the poetry imbedded in creation. It is essential for each of us to recognize this, Kierkegaard argues, and to act on it, to give over our sense of control over time and destiny utterly, to surrender to Grace and Love. It makes the Leap into faith a leap into Life measured by a time wholly Other. And as our time is reordered by eternity, so even the desires of our hearts are changed.<br />
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Jean Pierre de Caussade, in his beautiful book, said it similarly. He said that God speaks to every individual through what happens to them moment by moment. "There remains one single duty. It is to keep one's gaze fixed on the master, and to be constantly listening. The only condition necessary for this state of self-surrender is the present moment, in which the soul, light as a feather, fluid as water, innocent as a child, responds to every movement of grace like a floating balloon." This is not harsh rigidity or stringent mortification, but joy, freedom, serenity--wholeness--that which answers (but not eliminates) the pain of our humanity. We are set free not to be enslaved, but to LIVE in eternal time. God asks, Caussade says, only our hearts. Only. It is All, for without our hearts open, how shall we Live in Grace?<br />
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What is even more remarkable about what Caussade wrote is that if this is true, nothing is secular. Since God's activity permeates even the most trivial, "we look not for the holiness of things, but the holiness in things", for heaven breaking in the moment. Even time itself is a holy sacrament, for time is but the history of divine action! We worship a living Lord, not a static ritual. It is also not the religion of the specatular or the "big deal," but rather the small corners of life that call to us minute by minute. In this way, we are before God in such a way that his grace might be effectual: we are open to Life measured not in minutes, but in eternity. We begin to See.<br />
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So, try your hand at making biscotti, at carving out moments to cultivate an openness to Grace? Biscotti really is very easy to do. As to the Present Moment, that takes some practice, and I am only learning its ways. But like me, you can keep a jar of biscotti on your counter, if you like, to remind you to take a moment out and celebrate the sacrament of the Present moment, or as a subtle and charming reminder to those you love to do the same. I don't like to make them too large as they are often sold commercially, for a small two or three bites is a perfect foil for a glass of wine (like the Italians do) or a cup of tea or coffee. These twice-baked Italian cookies are a seductive snack at any time of day. The word biscotti is interesting in itself. It has more than one meaning. The root stems from <em>bis</em> and <em>cotto:</em> bis meaning "more than one" and cotto meaning cooking. Twice baked, once as a log, and then after having been cut into diagonal strips, returned to the oven for a second baking, they are delicious. It doesn't take a lot of equipment to make them, and the making is itself a kind of ritual of time. A wonderful aspect of them is that you can vary them with the seasons, just as we eat. We can serve them simply in summer, with almond as flavor, and then add cranberries in the autumn, and candied orange peel or cranberries at the holidays. Try adding this ritual to your day. You won't be disappointed. And let me know what you discover? <br />
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I think my favorite, however, is a simple recipe with almond and orange, which is never overpowering or cloying. For this recipe, I am indebted to Lou Seibert Pappas, though I have made several modifications. Put about 1/2 cup of nuts in a pan and roast in a preheated 325 degree oven until golden, which should only take 8 to 10 minutes. In a mixing bowl, cream togeither 1/3 cup of butter and 3/4 cup of sugar until very light and fluffy. (Creaming well is one secret to great cookies). Beat in 2 eggs, one at a time, 1 teaspoon of vanilla, 1/4 teaspoon of almond extract and 3 tablespoons of grated orange zest (less if you like). In another small bowl, combine 2 1/4 cups of all purpose flour, 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder, a little grated nutmeg and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Add to the creamed mixture and mix until well blended. Chop almonds into small pieces and fold these in. Line a baking sheet with parchement paper and divide the dough into two or three flat "loaves"or logs. Bake in the center of the preheated 325 degree oven until golden, about 20-25 minutes, depending upon your oven. Transfer to a baking rack with a long, flat spatula and let cool for 5 minutes. On a cutting board with a serrated knife, slice diagonally at about a 45 degree angle about 1/2 inch thick. Lace the slices flat on the parchement lined baking sheet and return to the oven for another 10 minutes. Cool completely on a rack and store in an airtight container. Enjoy!<br />
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Happy Cooking mes amis! A Bientot!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-68010928954618094732011-10-21T13:03:00.000-07:002011-10-22T09:17:04.757-07:00Desires of the heart and body (Garbure and the Palais Royal)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOty_7dQtRs4OV6Or_U2TUBrluMp9sAssyXrOgkIguDMqUhKV7cgTdbKBMp588nkbzZFHAmeG-DegXLxTVBLMvu538VUvPnKc3XTLL49wXR-sMByARHNxfJN9Pmn2D9Ab9YR-7wTm0Vzg/s1600/work_3765360_2_flat%252C550x550%252C075%252Cf_paris-metro-sign-in-black-and-white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOty_7dQtRs4OV6Or_U2TUBrluMp9sAssyXrOgkIguDMqUhKV7cgTdbKBMp588nkbzZFHAmeG-DegXLxTVBLMvu538VUvPnKc3XTLL49wXR-sMByARHNxfJN9Pmn2D9Ab9YR-7wTm0Vzg/s320/work_3765360_2_flat%252C550x550%252C075%252Cf_paris-metro-sign-in-black-and-white.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Tonight for dinner, my plan is to make a garbure, which is a lovely French soup from Gascony, which I first ate with my grandparents, and once ate in Paris, seated at an enchanting courtyard restaurant on the edge of the interior garden at the Palais Royal. I love the gardens at the Palais Royal, and the elegant structure of the oasis inside one of the busiest parts of the city. The restaurant du Palais Royal is situated under the elegant arcades, facing the magnificent gardens. More recently, I have heard from friends that the food was a little disappointing, but when I have eaten there it has been unfailingly lovely, certainly not the best food in Paris, but well executed and delicious. You can imagine yourself seated here for lunch: the setting is spectacular! <img name="George" src="http://www.restaurantdupalaisroyal.com/galleriephoto/DSC00036-2.jpg" style="display: block;" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tables on the edge of the garden at Restaurant Palais Royal</span></div><br />
It was an early autumn day, and I had been walking. If you have been to Paris, you will know that aside from sitting in cafes and people watching, there is little more deeply satisfying than a liesurely promenade except a leisurely promenade punctuated by a stop at a curbside cafe! Having walked all morning, I was ravenously hungry, as I am one of those who prefers a large "bowl" of cafe au lait for breakfast with a considerable amount of milk, and very little else. If I eat anything at all before 11, it might be a piece of toast or occasionally a tartine, but that's about my limit. Do you make cafe au lait? I know the current fashion is for espresso and the little Nespresso, which I adore after lunch or dinner, always "natur", without any milk. But for breakfast, I only want a large cafe au lait bowl of French press coffee, ground relatively fine, and allowed to steep briefly. It's creamy sweetness even without milk is the perfect antidote for my sleepy wakefulness. But I always blend it with half hot milk. So attached am I to this each morning that I have been known to pack my little Boden press on holiday, just in case the apartment I rented didn't have one handy. If you haven't tried this, get a glass one (I like the Boden Chamboard, or the original French Melior, which they still make all glass and metal, rather than the plastic version) and make yourself an au lait (half French press, half hot milk) for breakfast tomorrow. A person can lose himself or herself in a bowl of cafe au lait. I like it best in a bowl like this:<br />
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<img border="0" height="285" src="http://www.robertruiz.com/potager/images/aplicocafeaulait.jpg" width="350" /><br />
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I have them at <em>The House which shall be Unnamed </em>as well as at my holiday house in Big Sur. My children also drink cocoa from these bowls, and though I make all sorts of bacon, fried eggs, sausage, coddled eggs, omelettes, poached eggs, hashbrowns, pancakes and waffles, etc., for breakfast for my family each morning (not for me), there is really no better fare than a tartine made with a crusty baguette, with French or Vermont butter and apricot jam and a big bowl of cafe au lait. For me, eggs are best at lunch or dinner.<br />
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I recall very clearly the menu that day at the Restaurant Palais Royal, which I had ordered from the prix fixe offerings on the chalkboard. I was hungry for bistro food, and I remembered this little bistro in the gardens as I walked, thinking longingly of the peaceful and elegant surroundings, and the ordered, structured garden with all its baroque symmetry and form, which seemed a perfect respite from the crush of traffic and noise. I remember especially that I was ravenous, and all I could think about was having a bistro lunch that wasn't too rich, but was satisfying and comforting. Are you ever truly hungry? I have been meditating on hunger and thirst of late, thinking about that for which I truly hunger in my life. Hunger is an interesting teacher.<br />
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I have leaned much from my longings, especially considering how these longings, or the desires of my heart, subject to Grace. are gradually changed. Lately I have been wondering if I have spent most of my life masking my longings in some form or other through one idol or another, which failed to satisfy. Or alternately, I ran from them, so as not to face them or what they might mean. But God draws us to himself like the lover that he is. When many of the things we have long taken for granted are stripped away, we are left with our hearts freed of all the "stuff," which can be illuminating. Jesus said in the Beatitudes, "Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness for they shall be filled," and I will admit to long being puzzled by this. I wonder what it means, and why he chose to liken a desire for righteousness to someone approaching the table, as if he or she were about to be nourished. It is interesting that the word beatitude comes form the Latin Beatitudo, meaning ‘contentment’. In these various Beatitudes Jesus seems to be pointing to a profound truth about life, that true happiness or contentment seems to have very little to do with the circumstances in which we find ourselves, rather it springs largely from our thinking and attitude towards life and towards our 'neighbors' and towards God. It has to do with the desires of our heart.<br />
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So is Jesus exhorting us to be perfect? I don't think so. The only Being truly righteous is God himself, so it is this Life Giving Food we are exhorted to seek, as if we are to be nourished at the God's table? Even more fascinating, Jesus doesn't stop at hunger, but also speaks of thirst, for to be denied water is to die far more rapidly than from hunger. So in the words of Jesus, echoing those of the prophets and the psalmists before him, hunger and thirst are likened to the desperate longing for God, the fulfillment of which is the difference between spiritual life and death, and the remedy is the table where he is Present among us. At the "table," the Eucharist, we are given his body and blood, in essence, his Life. We are promised his Presence. On this we are told to feed.<br />
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In Dante's Inferno, that magnificent poem that struggles with all these questions, the essence of repentance, or turning towards God, is not a simple asking of forgiveness for sin. It is that the human will is turned toward God and away from all things that are not God, or "no God" as the theologian Barth would say. A genuine turning towards God is not about restraining <span style="font-family: inherit;">sinful</span> desires; it is about changing desire. The brilliant medieval theologian, St. Augustine, on whose thoughts much of Dante's work was based, said it well:<br />
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<blockquote>Do not think that thou are drawn against thy will. The mind is drawn also by love… “Delight thyself in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thy heart” (Psalm37.4). There is a pleasure of the heart to which that bread of heaven is sweet. Moreover, if it was right in the poet to say, “Every man is drawn by his own pleasure,” –not necessity, but pleasure, not obligation, but delight, -how much more boldly ought we to say that man is drawn to Christ?…Give me a man that loves, and he feels what I say. Give me one that longs, one that hungers, one that is travelling in this wilderness, and thirsting and panting after the fountain of his eternal home; give such and he knows what I say." --Augustine, Homilies on John's Gospel </blockquote>Sweet bread it is. God replaces our desires by showing us himself, which is infinitely more lovely and sweet than anything we have known. When he draws us to himself, by showing himself to us, we begin to desire him. Our desire has changed, along with our hearts. <br />
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One of the good things about walking, is that these thoughts seem to swirl around naturally, connected as we are to our bodies and their longings! Proof that I am still achingly human in every sense! Or perhaps I am just food obsessed! So as I sat down to the beautiful little garden table, I put my pleasure for the next hour and a half in the hands of the competent waiter, and ordered the chef's menu. This, too, I remember thinking that day, is a kind of metaphor for allowing ourselves to be fed just that which we need, rather than what we think we need. The menu began, elegantly, with a little surprise, an amuse bouche, which I believe was a little canape with some truffle butter and shaved duck confit. The first course, or entree, was a little frisee salad with bacon de sanglier, a bacon made with boar, which was very delicious, and a very fresh poached egg. Those of you who love French food will recognize this as Frisee aux Lardons, which is a lunch in itself, but this was of very modest proportion, just a tiny round of frisee tossed with the boar bacon, with a perfectly round poached egg on top and a drizzle of vinaigrette. Many years later, I saw this exact dish served at <em>The French Laundry</em> in almost an identical presentation, and I always wondered if Keller ate at the Palais Royal, sitting in the garden, seeking inspiration for his menu.<br />
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Next came the garbure, that delicious soup I had eaten long ago. It was as wonderful as I had remembered, made with duck, or even better, goose confit. A soup born of want and desire. It was delicious, a soul satisfying elixir of well being. In cookbooks of the 19th century, according to Richard Olney, garbures are panades; thick soups I often make for my family, more akin to a gratin, baking layers of dried bread when I have an overflow, onions or leeks, homemade stock and cheese in a slow oven until a fantastically delicious and unctious. You used to be able to get this wonderful dish as a side to roast chicken at the Zuni Cafe in San Francisco when Judy Rodgers was cooking, long baked in the wood fired oven. Glorious. I can't replicate the smoky nuance of that oven, but I have come pretty close in my own Viking oven. And someday I hope to have a brick wood fired oven in Big Sur. A garbure from Gascony transcends a mere soup; it is a stew that is thick enough to support a spoon upright! The meal-in-one comes from southern Gascony, where in the pine forests of Les Landes and the foothills of the Pyrenees, a hearty soup is needed to fight the winter fogs and rains. Coming from the rainy Northwest corner of the United States as I do, what could be more perfect?<br />
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Would you like to try this for dinner? It is important that the vegetables be absolutely fresh. It will make a difference. When you have finished the soup, take some little slices of baguette cut on the diagonal, top them with a little of the puree which has been reduced in a pan with some butter or duck fat until it has the consistency of mashed potatoes, and top with some grated gruyere cheese and gratinee them in the oven (you can use your broiler, but watch it carefully) to serve with the soup. Along with a crisp green salad and a little fruit tart (I plan to make an apple tart tonight), this is a wonderful autumn dinner. Below is a simple version of this soup, the number of variations of which are huge. If you don't want to cook the dried beans yourself, you can buy canned cannelini beans, but you will sacrifice considerable flavor for the convenience. It will still be a good soup, however! If you can't find duck or goose confit (you can order it from D'Artagnan if you look online), you can also use ham or bacon. If you use bacon, saute the bacon first, using the bacon fat to sweat the vegetables, and add it back in, partially cooked, when the beans are added, leaving some fully cooked to add as garnish. I am indebted to Anne Willan and to Jeanne Strang and to Richard Olney for the ideas behind this recipe, which I have altered some from their versions so as to make one fitted best to my taste. <br />
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Put about a cup of dried white kidney beans, such as cannelini, in a pot with water to cover and bring it to a boil. Cover the pan, take it from the heat and leave it for an hour or two so that the beans will soften. Do not add any salt. Drain the beans, put them back in the pan with a clove studded onion, a carrot, a handful of thyme, bayleaf and parsley, tied together with kitchen string so that it can be removed. Bring to a simmer and cover, cooking until the beans are tender, 1 1/2 to 2 hours, adding more water if the pan becomes dry.<br />
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Meanwhile, melt two tablespoons of butter or a similar amount of duck fat in a soup pot over low heat. Add in the thinly sliced white parts of three leeks; two large carrots, thinly sliced; a turnip, thinly sliced; 1/4 head of green cabbage, shredded; two stalks of celery, thinly sliced; three garlic cloves; and three waxy potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced. Season with salt and pepper and cover the pan, sweating the vegetables over low heat, taking care not to let them scorch, about 20 minutes or so, until tender. Don't brown them. While the vegetables are cooking, shred two legs of duck or goose confit, discarding the skin and bones. <br />
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When the beans are done, drain them, and add them to the vegetables along with the shredded confit, two quarts of chicken or veal broth (not beef broth) and cover and simmer again for 20-30 minutes, until the vegetables are very tender. Now taste and adjust the seasoning. At this point, I usually puree the soup with a stick blender, but this is not necessary. It is simply a matter of taste. Just before serving, reheat the soup gently stirring in a tablespoon of butter and a little chopped parsley. You can put a few lardons of bacon, cooked to crisp, on top as a garnish if you like.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-0I1LkwTOi_KFE6rOVkuIhWe1_rhqD334IOYZ7SZb3RDShSn29oH7N_xVDUk-mdzy4h16UbjCmKsWAo29N4DM2sDrfU09FNWZCOZQQzZFWXX6sQTMRSehvF5jvzt1g44CphpNIYv5FY/s1600/cls_lg.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-0I1LkwTOi_KFE6rOVkuIhWe1_rhqD334IOYZ7SZb3RDShSn29oH7N_xVDUk-mdzy4h16UbjCmKsWAo29N4DM2sDrfU09FNWZCOZQQzZFWXX6sQTMRSehvF5jvzt1g44CphpNIYv5FY/s320/cls_lg.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Garbure, served rustic style</span></div>As for the "restes" of the lamb steaks, which I promised to address, here are some wonderful ideas you can use: stuffed peppers and tomatoes, in the style of Provence, with onions, cumin, thyme, pepper, tomatoes and rice. Bake the rice and lamb mixture in the tomato or pepper shell at 350 for about 40 minutes. Serve with a salad. Or you can make gyros, with cut up lamb seasoned with a little thyme and cumin, tzaziki sauce, tomatoes, lettuce (I like arugula), caramelized onions, and feta cheese wrapped in flatbread. I like mine with a provencal tomato sauce made with basil, tomatoes, garlic, dijon mustard, sherry vinegar and olive oil. Or you can make a Shepherd's pie, with a little lamb ragout made with onions, a little stock or demiglace thickened with buerre manie (butter and flour worked together to a paste), lamb, tomatoes and thyme, topped with fresh made potato puree and baked. Of course there are a hundred more. Let me know if you want more ideas.<br />
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Happy Cooking mes amis! And a lovely weekend to you. Tell me what you like to do with leftovers, and whether you cook extra amounts just so you can make something with them. Wishing you all contentment of the best sort this weekend, food for body and soul. A bientot!<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div></div>at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-36120561240148499852011-10-20T13:27:00.000-07:002011-10-20T21:23:01.309-07:00Lessons from a Master<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiktjYReOCMdWSLCelW3iw_vxTwDG3I_mJWHAyaHL6_2n5EixGU9l1jmFkN6NZgCPN1hmqHm49OaRnpsU2nrKdz2s2VZHd29ZEjbrVqM4IDDfnNG6mTAtpJp50l3xMoZQ7v9_BfAm2qpI/s1600/edehillerin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiktjYReOCMdWSLCelW3iw_vxTwDG3I_mJWHAyaHL6_2n5EixGU9l1jmFkN6NZgCPN1hmqHm49OaRnpsU2nrKdz2s2VZHd29ZEjbrVqM4IDDfnNG6mTAtpJp50l3xMoZQ7v9_BfAm2qpI/s320/edehillerin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Storefront in Paris</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Yesterday's New York Times <em>Dining </em>section (which I love to read) featured an article on Jacques Pepin and his new book, about to be released, <em>The Essential Pepin. </em>Since I began to cook seriously in the 1980s, nearly 30 years ago now, I have loved Pepin as a teacher and master. There is no better chef. I remember well his early books, <em>La Methode</em> and <em>La Technique, </em>and I spent months and months working my way through each until I had mastered the techniques he demonstrated. Even today, when I cook, I hear his voice in my head, exhorting this or that method. The original books were combined several years ago, and are now sold as one volume: <em>The Complete Techniques</em>. He is by far the best of the best of teachers, and his consistent insistence on mastering technique to release your artistry has been a source of inspiration and correction to me for many years. It is important to have Masters, I believe, and selecting the right ones is as important as having them, if not moreso. I think this has been true in my spiritual life as well, and I have tried to be more deliberate about this more recently. I know that my cooking is indebted greatly to the wonderful masters at whose feet I have learned, and the same might be said for any appreciation I have for what it means to Live a life hidden in Christ. Having guides along the path is tremendously valuable.<br />
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When someone tells me they want to learn to cook seriously, Pepin's <em>Complete Techniques</em> is the first book I give them. Inevitably, there is some disappointment, because it doesn't seem sexy to practice julienne or making stock when the making of complicated recipes is so much more exciting and rewarding, but this is exactly what will lead to great food. Pepin himself apprenticed as a teenager in an array of French restaurants, to learn the basics, and he has written about the hard years of long hours and stressful work that honed his skills. Properly cut vegetables not only look beautiful, but cook evenly. Great stocks and reductions are the secret to the complex and deep flavors of the professional kitchen. Sometimes I think it is particularly difficult for Americans, as we are trained in a culture of immediate gratification, and we are not always willing to invest in a long term apprenticeship that will yield results over time and requires patience. I spoke recently to the owner of a cooking school targeting housewives and weekend cooks, and she told me that it has been difficult for her because all her students seem to want are recipes that can be done quickly and learned quickly, and they don't want to invest any time in learning and mastering technique. I think this is often the case spiritually, too. We want quick results, mountaintop experiences, instant spirituality that's easy and "enhances" life rather than Gives Life, and we are often unwilling to embrace the idea that spiritual growth comes most often through difficulty rather than ease.<br />
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Mastering the basic skills, along with learning to shop frequently, seasonally and carefully are the basic building blocks of great food In the New York Times article, Pepin mentions chefs I admire particularly, and says "All the great chefs I know--Thomas Keller, Jean-Georges Vongericten--they are technicians first." If you want to be a great cook, start with the basics. By all means have fun, and cook with all your senses engaged in pleasure, but it can be terrific fun to master these skills and practice them at home while you are cooking dinner at night or a feast on the weekend. My kids have great fun doing this, and are anxious to finish their homework so they can help cook dinner. My nine year-old daughter is now quite skilled using a chef's knife and though her mother is often anxious that she will cut herself, she is careful and competent, holds the knife properly and uses her fingers properly. My theory is that children will use knives any way; they may as well be taught how to do it properly and much more safely!<br />
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Another thing Pepin taught me early on, before I began working in kitchens and with chefs, was the importance of a very sharp knife. Without a sharp knife, kitchen tasks which should be easy and easily mastered are virtually impossible, and worse, they will damage the food you are attempting to cut or carve or filet or bone as well as pose a safety hazard. Most people know this is true, but life is pressing, and time to sharpen knives can often be difficult to carve out, especially when dinner is cooked on the fly and the time is critical. But this is why it has to be viewed as a priority. If there is one thing I fail to do enough, it is to sharpen my knives. Contrary to what most people think, a dull knife in the kitchen is far more dangerous than a sharp one. A sharp knife should glide through a tomato with ease, and if you have a chef knife and can't use it to cut tomatoes, it is not sharp. From this book on technique, I learned to sharpen knives using a grinding stone, but my husband is still far better at this than I, and I usually use a steel to sharpen the edge before each use, while he uses the grinding stone periodically to keep them in shape.<br />
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A friend often reminds me that it is important to have around you friends who are close enough to sharpen you as well, challenging you, holding you accountable, lending a ready ear for confession. I have found this to be especially helpful in my life, and went too long without it, too prideful to reveal any weakness. It is akin to trying to cook with dull knife. The resulting dish will suffer. Proverbs 27:17 says that "Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another." As hard iron, steel will bring a knife to a better edge when it is properly whetted against it: so one friend may be the means of encouraging another to reflect, dive deeply into, and illustrate a subject, without which whetting this would not occur. This is the basis for the concept of having a spiritual director, really nothing more than a very good friend, in whose faith and heart you have great respect, who can advise and challenge you in your walk. Ideally, perhaps they are further along in their growth, but this is not always possible. Scholars have often wondered if the Roman lyric poet, satirist and critic, Horace, who had studied Greek literature and philosophy in Athens, had seen this proverb in the Septuagint ( the ancient Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible) when he wrote his "<em>The Art of Poetry, an Epistle to the Pisos</em>," saying: "Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum, Reddere quae ferrum valet, exors ipsa secandi." (Hor. Ars. Poet., ver. 304.) "But let me sharpen others, as the hone gives edge to razors, though itself have none."<br />
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Several years after I began to cook seriously, when my career began to be rewarding enough for me to start thinking seriously about a batterie de cuisine that would serve me well and long, I consulted Pepin again, and he was insistent on buying the best. I still remember his comments about how some people will think nothing of spending a small fortune on a restaurant dinner without blinking an eye, but won't spend the same amount on a few pieces of equipment that might make every dinner substantially more enjoyable and delicious. It is amazing how much difference the right pan can make to a result. Making delicate sauces in a pan that won't cool rapidly can be nearly impossible, and pan searing in the wrong pan can make mush rather than caramelization. Of course, I had read all the reviews of the various options, as well as cooked with all of them in various places. I knew I didn't want to cook with aluminum because of potential health concerns as well as the often graying impact it can have on food, so I was choosing between copper (Mauviel, French of course!) and stainless steel (All Clad, which I like very much). It was Pepin whose comments on both convinced me to buy copper. I now have a very large collection of copper pans and pots, gratins and bowls, and though they require a little more effort to polish, they are worth it, in my view. I even have copper pots and pans in my holiday house in Big Sur, where I cook as much as I do at home and where I have more time to do wonderful feasts, which is great fun, in a small, but well equipped kitchen by the Big Sur River, with the sound of the river faeries keeping me company.<br />
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I made my first few copper pan and pot purchases on a trip to Paris, at one of my favorite stores, E. Dehillerin. Long Paris’ legendary cookware store, the visit of which is a step back in time, Dehillerin is a ramshackle shop with high ceilings, wooden plank floors and open shelves where merchandise is stacked haphazardly and appears not to have changed much since it was founded in 1820. I love these sorts of shops.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQY9eLvx_qH5j3JpC1cKT6llQWLrLR9wIe5PFICk3yenJ_WCBehFnPdUPZH1C1oFZavveLIdMnHzyV9jSOXlfartEhPxufJG4GWz7FVXBM7PjtJHzhwFbSpTXyq2reYFdJHk8tVzYogU/s1600/dehillerin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="109" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQY9eLvx_qH5j3JpC1cKT6llQWLrLR9wIe5PFICk3yenJ_WCBehFnPdUPZH1C1oFZavveLIdMnHzyV9jSOXlfartEhPxufJG4GWz7FVXBM7PjtJHzhwFbSpTXyq2reYFdJHk8tVzYogU/s320/dehillerin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Two aisles at E. Dehillerin, wherein I once heard a lady, </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">the wife of an American professor, lecturing the staff, in very laboured</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">French, on the lack of proper organization of the store! The shopkeeper</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> suggested that the store had survived and prospered as long</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">as it had because the French preferred it this way!</span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div>The reports of rude behavior from the overall-clad staff are legendary, but I have never found this to be so. I have spent hours in this store, nearly every time I have been to Paris, and the staff were always polite and helpful. I think perhaps if the many American housewives who flock to this shop, often disappointed in the appearance, accustomed as they are to Williams Sonoma (which is a wonderful shop as well) or Sur La Table (though it is not dissimilar to the old and far more wonderful Sur La Table) and their impressive marketing and merchandising, might do well to try a few niceties in French when they arrive. It is unlikely there will be olive oil tastings at a central kiosk, but the selection of cooking tools, implements, pots and pans is unrivalled. I suspect the reception would be altogether different. I still have those beautiful copper Mauviel pans I purchased that first day I visited, as well as a chinois and a tamis, and I remember even more the groans from my husband as he was carrying the heavy bags and wondering how we were going to get them in our bags on the return flight! Copper pans are heavy! Several years in a row, I would set aside a part of my bonus for a little gift for myself, and I nearly always purchased more copper pans and pots until I had the pieces I needed, and a few I loved! Look them up: <a href="http://www.e-dehillerin.fr/en/index.php">http://www.e-dehillerin.fr/en/index.php</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGS-F4UqvdtMWbtnbhHFyLtx3r2zWkLZP8q2gJszU1lbuHFY2UPM8dCvuoZNkfhDuVDvmCJNYbLJSuB9cC1XgxDGHn7B-Ku2uoV7NTHSogF1cxVnKeI053hKXJLsplweKMY4Lh-ssQT6U/s1600/e-dehillerin-copper-display.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGS-F4UqvdtMWbtnbhHFyLtx3r2zWkLZP8q2gJszU1lbuHFY2UPM8dCvuoZNkfhDuVDvmCJNYbLJSuB9cC1XgxDGHn7B-Ku2uoV7NTHSogF1cxVnKeI053hKXJLsplweKMY4Lh-ssQT6U/s320/e-dehillerin-copper-display.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A wall of copper pots, pans and molds at E. Dehillerin</span></div><br />
And now to FOOD! Perhaps the most important thing I learned from Pepin, however, was not technique, as important as this is, but his ability to cook wonderful meals using up all the little bits of leftovers from other dishes. Although my grandmother did this as well, Pepin always fascinated me with his ability to make beautiful things from the "restes". Several times a week, I use his canape technique to make elegant and gorgeous little open faced sandwiches from a pullman loaf, to serve with an aperitif before dinner, using up bits of leftovers not enough of which is left from which to compose a meal. My family adore these, and as I have written before, my son is now very skilled at making them, and his combinations are often amazing. Often, I make a bechamel sauce, which is a white sauce, or a roux with stock. Then I add bits of meat and sauce leftover from a dinner to it, and fold it into buckwheat crepes, which I make from an old French recipe, and gratinee them in the oven. Served with a salad, this is a wonderful supper. Leftover cheese fondue can make lovely croque monsieur or madame sandwiches, and one night I made about 30 of them, all devoured by visiting friends of my children, staying unexpectedly for dinner. These sandwiches also make wonderful afterschool snacks, if your children are like mine and prefer something "substantial" before any sweet. I thought I might talk a little bit today about the concept of "restes" (leftovers) and how you can use a great weekend dish to make several meals or parts of meals during the week, wasting nothing.<br />
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On Sunday I cooked Ossobuco Milanese, which means, simply, braised veal shanks cooked in the style of Milan. There are other kinds of braised veal shanks, which are also delicious, such as the white one which uses anchovies, which I like very much, but my family particularly loves the Milanese version, which uses tomatoes in the braising liquid. This is a sublime dish, perhaps the greatest of all braises, and it really is very easy to make and almost cooks itself after the initial browning of the meat. If you haven't made this dish for your family or yourself, you should learn to make it. I have tried many different recipes, but I like best the old recipe of Marcella Hazan in her book <em>The Classic Italian Cookbook</em> with some alterations I have developed over the years. I agree with her that gremolata, which is a condiment I adore, does not add to the glorious balance of the dish and the subtlety of the veal, and is better suited to other things. One of the things I do is to remove the meat, and then puree the liquid with a stick blender. The vegetables thicken the sauce naturally, and the result is spectacular. You can do this with any braise, and you will find the resulting balance is worth the effort. If you allow the liquid to cool a little first, you can remove some of the fat as well, if you wish. With the ossobuco, I served risotto milanese, which is a risotto made in the style of Milan, a very simple and gorgeous risotto flavored with saffron. My daughter is very skilled at making risotto now, and she stands on a stool over the big Viking range, stirring away and adding stock.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUjx88CnngETIHRYF3s08hHDM3RH-WiTFt24e3NaE_YybVf8NmuIJvHraI29V0zVHNjjQj4QSRsgmS2CLjMMpHKMTksNxO7y9Utk0c2aLtMVXPb6BgUCDb-A8DBh8UHjduDJab4tZeUk/s1600/Osso_Buco_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUjx88CnngETIHRYF3s08hHDM3RH-WiTFt24e3NaE_YybVf8NmuIJvHraI29V0zVHNjjQj4QSRsgmS2CLjMMpHKMTksNxO7y9Utk0c2aLtMVXPb6BgUCDb-A8DBh8UHjduDJab4tZeUk/s320/Osso_Buco_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ossobuco Milanese with risotto Milanese</span>: <span style="font-size: x-small;">Scrumptious!</span></div>After this delicious dish was consumed, there was a considerable amount of leftover meat, braising liquid and risotto. So the next night, I seared some sliced mushrooms on very high heat, not moving them until they were turned, cooking them in small batches, to which I added seasalt after they were turned. I then added to the pan the "restes" of the ossobuco, and all that wonderful braising liquid, warming it gently, and made a batch of fresh egg noodles in the way my grandmother did, tossing them with creme fraiche after they were cooked in salted, boiling water. I put the mushroom and ossobuco sauce over the dressed noodles on a big white Apilco platter, and we had a very delicious (and untraditional) version of Stroganoff, a dish I don't usually make, but for which my son asks. This could be done with many other braises as well, to great advantage. I also regularly make macaronades with the braising liquids, baking the macaroni, moistened with the braising liquids and some gruyere cheese in a gratin dish, sprinkled with seasoned bread crumbs and butter and chives and baked. When I go away for the evening to supper club or to dinner with friends, I invariably leave some sort of gratin in the oven for my family, along with a big green salad, some crusty baguette, a fruit tart and a cozy table set in the kitchen, candles and all. And my husband, after a long day, always feels fortunate for a night with the children that is nearly all prepped, leaving him free to enjoy their company. They don't feel deprived! More often than not, the gratin (I adore gratins of all sorts) is a macaronade, made from braising liquids from Sunday dinner. Easy and fast.<br />
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You will have noticed I haven't mentioned the risotto. First of all, most restaurant risotto is not worth ordering. It is precooked and given the risotto "treatment" at the end, but, although it can be tasty, it is simply not the same dish at all. So if you don't make risotto, teach yourself to do so. It is a wonderful meal that can be a terrific means of using up little bits of meat or an abundance of garden vegetables. There are three things I love to do with leftover risotto. The first is to fry it in little cakes for breakfast, over which I serve a poached egg. Try it, you will find yourself making extra just to have it this way, and it's good for dinner too. The second, is to make little risotto cakes, adding fresh chives and a little egg and breadcrumb to bind the cake, sauteing it lightly until nicely browned in a pan with some olive oil. I usually serve this with aioli for a little sauce, and a green salad with a garlicky vinaigrette. Again, this is a lovely supper dish and takes on a new flavor cooked this way It is often more delicious than the original. Finally, I love to make arancini, "little oranges," literally translated. I add an egg again, to bind the risotto, then form them in little balls and roll them in seasoned breadcrumbs, and saute them in olive oil or deep fry them in peanut or vegetable oil. These can also be served with a little aioli as an appetizer course, and when I make them, my children as well as any visiting urchins, devour them rapidly!<br />
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Last night I cooked some grilled leg of lamb "steaks" for dinner, with socca pancakes flavored with cumin, olive oil and thyme; annie's tomato jam, and grilled asparagus. As my son, the great meat eater, was not home, there was a considerable amount of leftover lamb. Tomorrow I will describe what I plan to do with this lamb, and the many choices it offers for delectable dinners. <br />
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Happy Cooking, mes amis. A Bientot and a salute to Jacques Pepin!at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-8807525726466018912011-10-19T17:14:00.000-07:002011-10-20T06:38:37.106-07:00Blessed Be the Ties that Bind Our Hearts in Love (Food Sticks to the Soul)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLIJBPIqvk7Lrh5tG9qnlO_pxhj7lyw6VD46SoHAaGNRhzOzX0i7lGaBF9RVsUo0eSKOlnTMgtBhJGE7moDC6OvrvF9nUzS1yJHLVkJI8tI3ps2veukDmOFl2kaOHLG43cLnuiyKYjkI/s1600/7615352-foreground-silhouette-of-a-family-gathering-in-a-living-room-with-all-elements-as-separate-editable-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLIJBPIqvk7Lrh5tG9qnlO_pxhj7lyw6VD46SoHAaGNRhzOzX0i7lGaBF9RVsUo0eSKOlnTMgtBhJGE7moDC6OvrvF9nUzS1yJHLVkJI8tI3ps2veukDmOFl2kaOHLG43cLnuiyKYjkI/s320/7615352-foreground-silhouette-of-a-family-gathering-in-a-living-room-with-all-elements-as-separate-editable-.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
This past weekend, I attended a wonderful gathering in celebration of the birthday of a beloved aunt. It was a beautiful day, spent with many cousins and two aunts, both good cooks, who greatly impacted my childhood and who have always been guiding lights and inspirations for me, not to mention a constant source of great fun, many treats and much love as I was growing up. From one, I inherited a love of making stocks and broths, and she is to this day the family expert in how to draw out flavor this way to make the most delicious soups from scraps and bones, and all her nieces and nephews ask for her soups. She still makes killer whipped potatoes which are light and airy and scrumptious, and the best cucumber salad. From my other aunt, I learned to entertain and how to set a beautiful table and make guests feel at home, and I spent many a happy hour as a child "helping" her (and learning from her) to set up a baby shower or ladies luncheon, writing names on place cards in my best writing, or folding napkins. Or better yet, laying napkins in a fan-like fashion, which as a child, seemed an impossible task, and I was determined to master. This has become something of a family joke, and into my adulthood, I would be given "napkins and straws" as my contribution to a gathering table! I was expected to learn to master various things, but never allowed to take myself too seriously in the process. One of the wonderful things about family, is that even if you become a chef, you will not be allowed to take yourself too seriously in matters of food!<br />
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In my American family, as in my French-Swiss family, delicious food marked family times, and there were many family times. Sunday dinners at my grandmother's after church were occasions for all the aunts to feature their cooking skills, often in my grandmother's compact kitchen all at the same time! I remember many happy hours helping my grandmother to roast chickens or a side of beef before everyone arrived. Her table seemed to extend endlessly, and she was legendary for the hoards of kids who practically lived at her house when my father and his brother and sisters were growing up and her wonderful spaghetti and crab feeds and parties. Food was never so precious or taken so seriously that the children weren't allowed to help, yet it was treated with respect and my American grandmother was a superb cook in the best Midwestern tradition. She cooked the Wednesday night church supper for years, and these dinners are still the stuff of legend, for she could cook feasts with inexpensive ingredients, having grown up in a very large family with lots of very tall brothers who were big eaters and expected to eat well. And she didn't buy mixes or instant ingredients or used canned soups to pump the flavor. She knew how to draw it from the fresh ingredients, and for years she had a terrific kitchen garden, which for years my father came to help her cultivate. She was a constant student of a good meal, and never stopped learning. As I began to cook seriously, and entertain her sisters and brothers at my house for lunch or dinner on occasion, she was always very keen to know what had gone into this dish or that, how it was cooked and what particularly would make it sing. I remember once I served venison with a sauce made with Chartreuse, and she adored it so much that I brought her a little bottle of Chartreuse the next time I visited. She wasn't formally trained as a cook, but she had as keen an eye for a good dish as anyone I have ever known. And she wasn't the least bit pretentious about her cooking ability, which was widely recognized. She took food seriously and herself lightly. She was full of Grace.<br />
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My aunt for whom the weekend party was planned teased me on Saturday, food-obsessed as I am, that my children, who will (most of the time) eat just about any food and vegetable with gusto when cooked well (and I don't mean well done), when last at one of these gatherings, went directly and with evident enthusiasm for the hot dogs, chips and soda pop, easily passing over the salmon and the other delicacies lovingly prepared. To my children, rarely privileged to enjoy these treats, there is little more fun than a chance to indulge in all the "normal" (as my son calls it) foods of childhood, from which they lament their great deprivation. Nothing beats a good burger from "Dave's", the neighborhood butcher who grills them outside his shop on Saturdays (this may be true). In fact, I think my son knows their schedule of delectables quite well, and his new found freedom on his bike has put his lawn-mowing earnings to use for a host of similar treats. I think this is very fun, and I am really glad that they can appreciate a good ossobuco as readily as a good brat, and know that both have their place in the life of someone who embraces life with both arms open.<br />
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When our children were small, we observed a few guidelines. We never cooked a separate meal for them, but instead cut up, minced, ground or otherwise made the food we were eating edible for whatever age they happened to be. And unless we were having a date night, we always dined with them, except when they were just babies, pulling the old wooden high chair up to the dining or kitchen table. They enjoyed the table as did we, and participated in the conversation as their ability allowed. Bits of meat went into the mini food processor with some gravy to make a delicious baby food, served with mashed potatoes and pea puree. My mother was famous for making little plates at Sunday dinner, dotted with all sorts of tiny bits of food, of which to this day my children still speak longingly. She would give my daughter tasty bones on which to chew when she was teething, and my daughter is now the undisputed marrow queen of our house, with her very own marrow spoon so as not to miss one morsel. We bought baby food only one time, when we were driving to our holiday house in Big Sur and feared our daughter would starve en route for lack of something she could ingest. She refused to eat it. I still remember her in a restaurant in Roseburg, Oregon, eating bits off of all our plates and giving me a look of utter disgust when I gave her a spoonful of some sort of baby food to eat. Not having been weaned on this stuff, she was not accustomed to the salt less, tasteless and texture less fare, and she wasn't having any of it, thank you very much! As our children grew, we simply reduced the spiciness of the food we prepared and adjusted the seasoning so as not to serve them highly spiced food until they were a little older, gradually increasing it as they grew. And from very early on, we involved them in the cooking. That's about it.<br />
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As my children are older now, they will have a little wine with their water on Sundays, just as I did as a child when visiting my European grandparents, and they love to sip champagne and wine and comment on its nose or bouquet, and they have great fun poking fun at pretentious wine that doesn't match its marketing. French and Italian food is very child friendly, for the most part, and suited to a developing palate. We tried to cook with as many organic and hormone free/antibiotic free/nitrate free foods as we could find and tended to eliminate anything that had a high pesticide residue and couldn't be found organic, served a lot of grains and complex breads, and loaded up on fruits and vegetables. We bought nothing processed. I do cook with both olive oil and butter, and don't believe in any of those supposedly "healthful" substitutes, and my kids don't take vitamins. They eat them in their diets and their annual physicals show their blood work is exceptional. For most of the years of their childhood, we had a large kitchen garden very much like those of both my grandmothers, which they helped to grow and cultivate. And they regularly admired the beautiful food which sat on my counter in white French porcelain bowls: heirloom tomatoes from the farmers' market, seasonal fruit, onions and shallots, artichokes from Carmel, etc They grew up eating everything, and both are now reasonably adventurous eaters who look forward with relish and delight to dinner each evening, love to go to the farmers' market and help select the food. Both like spicy food, my son the spicier the better! My son loves raw oysters and foie. gras and my daughter thinks moules marinieres is about the best food on the planet. Both will consume a bucket of clams and love to make cheese plates for the cheese course, trying all but the ripest of cheeses with figs or grapes. But both will eat a bag of chips with relish, and given any chance, will order a burrito at the snack bar at the swimming club, smacking their lips. Mostly, I wanted my children to love food in moderation, with passion, but without the tangled love-hate (secret guilt) relationship to food that many Americans seem to have. Nor did I want them to be a slave to precious "gourmet" food, however much they love beautiful, and beautifully cooked food. Food is about pleasure. And family. And Love. I wanted all these memories of food and family to act as their lifelong muses, as they have for me. But that this is so, does not mean that we don't take food very seriously. I just don't want them to confuse this with taking themselves very seriously. Easier said than done, for sure, as I 'm still learning this myself!<br />
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My house tends to be a magnet for hungry kids, and on any given night after school, the refrigerator wars for the leftovers or a piece of gingerbread or pie are legendary. I have not noticed that most kids are naturally finicky eaters. Of course, I am often told this, apologetically, by parents embarrassed by their kids, but it has not been my experience. Once we rented a house with some friends in France, and I was told, since I did all the cooking for the two weeks, not to worry about cooking for their children, as they would only eat one or two things. This was true the first day. The second day, the kids came into the kitchen and asked if they could help. They started shelling fava beans and dipping them in oil and shaved Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. Yum! They said. They rolled out fresh pasta and cut it on the big harvest table. They pitted fresh cherries they had hand picked in the market for a clafouti, which is a dessert cake. They ate most of the courses that night. The next night they came in the kitchen again. They went out to the garden to harvest fresh rosemary for a braised chicken and chopped it with a mezzaluna. They shelled fresh beans for a little stew they helped cook. They cut up plums from the market for a tart, tasting everything. By the fourth night they were eating everything and anything. No more special dinners cooked only for them. This has played out over and over again with the friends of my children. Children recognize good food, and if they have a hand in making it, and it isn't too precious, they will eat with enthusiasm. But the chef, who can teach them to take their food seriously, can't take himself or herself too seriously. It might not be perfect for the little hands still learning technique, but it will be glorious. For their hearts will be open and engaged, and that is the best way of all to learn.<br />
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It is not the grand fetes, or feast menus, that my children most value. Or even sitting in the kitchen when I host a benefit dinner at my house, trying all the courses. Or even the culinary masterpieces of a Christmas Eve cassoulet or a tower of artfully composed salad topped with tomato sorbet and tuiles, which I adore as much as anyone. As is often the case, children are wise in a way that sadly fades as we grow into our lives. They have the ability to live openheartedly, to approach the world with trust. They don't take themselves too seriously to make fun wherever and whenever they can, to be open to Joy. It strikes me that this is the attitude we need to approach food, but moreso our spiritual life in Christ. As with cooking, we may be dedicated to the fundamentals of spiritual growth, but the deep magic comes by being unfailingly generous in our application of it. The goal is not to be perfect or even to achieve perfect food. The goal is to cook from the heart with a with respect for the ingredients and the process of cooking, and a heart open to learning.<br />
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It is the same with our growth spiritually. We are not meant to be perfect, and being perfect isn't even the right goal. In fact, if our goal is to be perfect, we have missed completely the Life that is ours. Jesus said that without the heart of a child, we can never enter the Kingdom of God. A child's heart is teachable, open to joy, aware of challenge and sorrow, trusting that all manner of things will be well in the end, however arduous the journey. And I submit that it is the everyday lessons, just like the everyday foods, that most open our hearts, not the grand religious experiences. We are to be determined to open our hearts to God's love, but not take ourselves too seriously in our many failed attempts to walk in His steps. We may walk in faith with a sense of awe, but as for ourselves, we know that in the end it is all Grace. And we step out in Joy, grateful for that "blessed sin" that brings us to the feet of God and lets Him love us.<br />
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Happy Cooking, mes amis. Tomorrow, some more recipes.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-72939268790393765302011-10-14T12:58:00.000-07:002011-10-16T09:53:36.966-07:00Soul Food and Soul Searching (Love and Discipline)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_z8FfaX93MhYzwKk8vjsgiebGJfAVfnkTM0OuXqpHM_ogP5YPMSP3EkxAdRq5ip-ZoTLpVBiW4jws2In5PEiiAbhQ9uSiD5c5fvUlP8d8bN_SqvQOH0PtL1xD9-Aeky_bxoLo7s5Av34/s1600/PoL4HFSIq1Io4v-640m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_z8FfaX93MhYzwKk8vjsgiebGJfAVfnkTM0OuXqpHM_ogP5YPMSP3EkxAdRq5ip-ZoTLpVBiW4jws2In5PEiiAbhQ9uSiD5c5fvUlP8d8bN_SqvQOH0PtL1xD9-Aeky_bxoLo7s5Av34/s320/PoL4HFSIq1Io4v-640m.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">An appetizer at Per Se Restaurant, New York</span></div><br />
Last night was supper club with the amazing and amazingly lovely women who meet once a month at rotating houses to enjoy each others' company and each others' food. Several of us carpooled, as the house is some distance away, and the conversation in the car as we made our way to the house on the Sound, caused me to feel as if I had been transported to heaven for a few hours: it was rich and soul-filling, and ranged from food to cooking technique to philosophy to politics to family dynamics to the pleasures of sex in a long-term marriage. I knew the evening was going to be magical, if only because of the conversation in the car. As we arrived, the lights across the water were twinkling through the big glass doors, and Everything was beautiful. I just wanted to stop and breathe in the pleasure. From the moment we walked in the door, the atmosphere was one of an autumnal harvest celebration: deep burnt red leather sofas, huge natural rock hearth, gorgeous colors. The hostess has an artistic soul, I am coming to understand a little, and her house and table echoed all the richness of the season, which complemented perfectly the deeply appealing food: it said welcome in every aspect. It was a rich evening, with a progression of immensely appealing food (braised short ribs and gorgonzola polenta and mixed herb gremolata with shaved brussel sprouts and shallot saute) and served as a good metaphor for the richness of the conversation, which was broad ranging and full of Wisdom. The evening wound to a beautiful close with a sublime dessert: a tartlett each, which one of the women had fashioned, made with apples, a young chevre (goat cheese), artisanally produced dark honey and puff pastry: not too sweet and very light, it was fantastic. <br />
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One of the conversations we enjoyed as the evening waned was about how to raise a son to be a good husband and a gentleman, which, of course, appeals to me greatly as I am rather old-world (surely you hadn't guessed!), and have this hope for my own boy. Time will tell! As several of the women have college-aged sons now (I had children late in life, so my son is a younger 12), it was wonderful to hear their perspectives and gain the benefit of their wisdom about what best contributes to the making of a good man. Their answer? Hands down, it was the example set by the father in the way in which he treats the mother, the boy's experience of love in its fullest sense in the family (such that he doesn't go looking for it in the wrong places and takes his time), and the mother as the son's first true love, setting the bar for all the womanly virtues to which her son might strive to deserve in a woman of his own: gentleness, grace, the humility of true strength, warmth, hospitality, the nobility of service and sacrifice, the sensuous approach to life that brings pleasure and makes art of life for her family, the caring and nurturing of those beloved which holds them to the standard of Love. Art.<br />
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What is this Love to which they might aspire? It is to be blessed: to be disciplined and nurtured in what it means to be meek, to have the teachable spirit that is necessary to inherit the earth, if not the wind; to be poor in spirit and rich in faith; to mourn and know the opening of the heart; to hunger and thirst after justice; to be a lover of the peace that is Shalom, wholeness; to live the Beatitudes as a way of being, pure in heart. This is love: the discipline that speaks far more powerfully than the word, because it is Word, Logos, Truth Alive in our experience of reality that points to a much greater Reality. Our hostess last evening was such a woman, and her art was abundant and apparent, yet she is strong and steely, as feminine as a woman could be, yet full of Otherworldly strength. A woman richly jeweled in this way, as our hostess surely was last night, is a prize beyond measure, to which her son will strive to measure up. For in a good man, a woman like this can only cause him to want to be a better one. Bottom line, though, having said all of this, the collective wisdom of the women with older sons was clear: it is a man who teaches a boy to be a man by the way he treats a woman. It is a woman who teaches a boy what he should seek in a woman and the kind of man he needs to be to attract such a jewel. <br />
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This set me to thinking about love in general, and its power to open hearts, and how its power might be manifest in boys who might not have the benefit of this kind of homelife. One of the women at the dinner described how her son's school feeds and houses families with nothing to eat and nowhere to lay their heads, and the way in which the kids are involved in cooking the meals. This, too, caused me to wonder about the work of some philosophers and theologians I have been reading of late, who argue that to know any kind of love truly, however flawed it is in worldly terms, is to glimpse heaven in a way few other things provide, though the glimpse is shrouded. So I have been wondering how it is that love is glimpsed from the perspective of a young boy who lives a life more like hell than heaven. My son has recently expanded his exposure and is interacting with kids from different walks of life much more frequently and regularly than he has in the past. It has made for some very searching conversations at the dinner hour. The principal of his school is a man on a mission, a real leader dedicated to creating true opportunity for the students in his care, and his knowledge and highly disciplined care for each of the several hundred students under his watch is prodigious and legendary already, though he has only just been asked to ply his magic on this school. It is my son's first foray into a large public middle school, having attended private school until now, and likely to again in high school. He wanted to engage a broader cross section of kids, to meet some "normal" kids, and his parents thought that these three years would be an opportunity for him to do so, and to gain from the experience a perspective which he has not yet had in his rather gilded life up to now. We spent a lot of time with the principal this summer, understanding the school and his approach, and decided to let him attend. He is a big boy, tall and strong, and able to look out for himself rather well all of a sudden, and we set some academic goals for him to keep his perspective focused, which thus far he has largely met as he is highly motivated to stay.<br />
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What has surprised us is the empathy our son has acquired for the plight of kids whose home life can only be said to be hideous, and it has caused him to reflect upon what kind of young man he is becoming and of what stuff he is really made. He asked me the other night how a kid growing up with no love could come to know Love, and this set me to thinking about the true work of Love in a world broken, and tortured, yet beautiful. He has described how he sees so much beauty in the hearts of some kids who have such a hard shell by necessity, and how it is that Love Himself gets to kids whom Santa appears to have forgotten. Big Stuff for a sixth grader, but it is time. For Love, there is all the time under Heaven. I asked the principal about this and his answer was that the school is his mission field, and Love needs to be practical and focused and engaged, highly disciplined. On any given day you can find this man in the lunchroom or the breakfast service, living out his faith in Love, sleeves rolled up, talking with the kids. He is often outside after lunch, playing ball with the kids. He seems to know the math scores of my son's latest test as well as the essay a young girl without much family support has just submitted. Art that would cause a practiced eye to stop and stare lines the wall of the school, and the talent apparent is as staggering as the bar is high and the subject matter telling. All this is an example of a quiet and highly disciplined grace the strength of which is profoundly active in the world. Art. What you do for the least of these you do for me, Jesus said. He is there with the stranger at the door, the child in the night: Love Manifest. A good man, a principal, asking a boy about his math test.<br />
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The hour was very late when I finally arrived home, well near midnight, after what has been a week of late nights and early mornings. But it had been such a lovely time that I couldn't go directly to bed. So I poured myself a little cognac, and sat down by the fire in the library to read the <em>Dining </em>section of The New York Times, having saved it from the day before. The article I had wanted to read was about <em>Per Se, </em>the East Coast offshoot,or urban interpretation of the <em>French Laundry </em>in Napa, the art of Thomas Keller, a chef I have long admired and from whom I have learned much. When first I encountered him, I was a little put off by his approach to food, which seemed more laboratory than love, and his obsessive precision impacted me in much the same way as Lance Armstrong's scientific approach to cycling discouraged the French. Where was the love? Where was cooking with the senses? I feared it seemed more like a chemistry experiment, if not highly pretentious. But I have changed my mind. The glorious gardens next to the Yountville restaurant are a symbol of all that is well with life, and the highly disciplined approach Chef Keller takes to food has allowed his dishes to reach a kind of sublimity that the New York Times Writer argues "would make a fine argument for the metaphor of transubstantiation." There is little doubt the food is highly sensuous. In discipline, is art unleashed? It is given freedom, that allows the Love to flow. <br />
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I thought of that principal at my sons school and his disciplined approach to the kids, which speaks only of Love. He is on to something, in much the same way that chef Keller is. Love without discipline is squishy and not the stuff of Heaven, however much it may breathe the same air. Cooking without technique is a similar fallacy of affection. Love is Sensious and Steely, Engaged and Lofty. Love is tied to the ground and telling of what can be. Surely Love is as much discipline as art. Or, said another way, it is the discipline acquired that frees the art.<br />
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Happy Cooking, mes amis. A Bientot.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-79544235940360908402011-10-11T17:43:00.000-07:002011-10-12T08:49:51.714-07:00Cooking from the Heart, and Other Ways to Roast a Chicken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj28vkjLkoEs2G_7pcQnQBx9xXdp8QSZ-q6EZw2_iKEvv0mk4RbQ31z8bT-hsUKrNKWhxcov16GZwgX12ENaLYFLAzGuh_zyDnIxkmH_WnnKTpyrNwIUCrJ5Dlx3YuvZ-HPa0tjxBMZI04/s1600/roast-chicken-su-1724841-l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj28vkjLkoEs2G_7pcQnQBx9xXdp8QSZ-q6EZw2_iKEvv0mk4RbQ31z8bT-hsUKrNKWhxcov16GZwgX12ENaLYFLAzGuh_zyDnIxkmH_WnnKTpyrNwIUCrJ5Dlx3YuvZ-HPa0tjxBMZI04/s1600/roast-chicken-su-1724841-l.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
In my corner of the Northwest of the United States, the weekend was rainy and wet. No sooner had I hung my sheets in the sun-streamed morning to dry in the fresh air, than the sky clouded over to black and poured forth its tears. So much for trying to hang on to that lovely luxury of line dried and lavender-ironed sheets I love so much in summer. Actually, I do hang my sheets out even in winter, if the sun is shining and there is a little wind, but living where I do, it is far less often than I would like. That pleasure foregone, I determined to enjoy fully one of the autumn pleasures of home. I decided to cook from one of my favorite cookbooks, which I had brought back from my summer house in Big Sur, and see what fun might be had from "<em>Sunday Suppers at Lucques</em>," written by Suzanne Goin, a young and richly experienced chef whose restaurant, food aesthetic and cookbook I particularly admire. So this weekend, I planned a series of menus from the autumn chapters, pulled some great wines from the cellar, and tucked in for a weekend of pleasure.<br />
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I own hundreds of cookbooks, and when I started thirty years ago to cook seriously, I worked my way through dozens of them: Julia Child, Simone Beck, Elizabeth David, Richard Olney, Mireille Johnston, Fredy Giardet, Joel Robuchon, Roger Verge, Madeleine Kamman, Paula Wolfert, Marcella Hazan, James Beard, Pierre Franey, Alice Waters, Paul Bertolli, Jacques Pepin, Lynn Rossetto Kasper, Lorenza di Medici, Pino Luongo, Andre Soltner, Charlie Palmer, Georges Perrier, Alain Ducasse, Michel Roux, Les Freres Troisgros, Thomas Keller, Michael Chiarello, to name only a few. I tried to be the student of each, and to cook with a heart open to what they might have to teach me. One of the things I learned, both from books as well as from working with many chefs, is that while there is time honored technique, once mastered, it is a point of departure, and there are many views of how to best execute the "same" dish. A good example of this might be roast chicken. I have tried dozens of methods, including the proclaimed "best" from Joel Robuchon, as well as many others. I have brined, salted, stuffed with lemon and onion and herb, stuffed under the skin, covered the breast skin with cheesecloth soaked in butter, roasted upside down and flipped, roasted on a rotisserie, spatchcocked in a cast iron pan, roasted on a little roasting pin, finished roasting with the oven turned off, etc. The list is endless. Each chef whose approach I tried proclaimed the last word on the roast chicken.<br />
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I still think the best roast chicken I ever ate was at the house of my cousin Suzie, in a beautiful farmhouse in the country near La Chaux de Fonds, in French Switzerland. She was not a trained chef, but she made the most delectable tarts, a talent she learned from Tante Marguerite, the stern lady whom Suzy and my mother fondly called "La Terrible", and who taught them to paint china with exacting standards, so ladylike they were compelled to hold their brushes in perfect alignment and dared not breathe. But Suzie was (is) a cook in the best bonne femme tradition, and she was a sensualist. She cooked from her heart. She roasted that beautiful bird on a little rotisserie, and it was succulent, flavorful and fantastic. She served it with a mass of frites, and an apricot tart for dessert, and dinner was splendid. It didn't hurt that she had a good relationship with her neighbor, who raised chickens, and sang them lullabies as they slept at night. Happy Birds. Of course, every good cook has his or her own way to roast a chicken, and are some superior to others? Absolutely. Have I eaten a lot of poorly roasted birds in great restaurants? Yes. Is there only one approach that will yield a succulent bird with crisp, flavorful skin and tender meat? No. The most important thing is the quality of the bird, a necessary but not sufficient element. Even a good cook can ruin a beautiful bird. Some home cooks (but none I admire for their cooking aesthetic) try to substitute those birds injected with an awful saline solution, and who knows what other chemicals, cooking them in plastic bags. I always feel I am eating a chemical factory, not to mention what is released from the so-called "Safe" bags. And yes, perhaps the bird is moist, but invariably a spongy moistness and nearly always overseasoned. Chemicals are a modern marvel, and can make even the real food ultimately inedible. <br />
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At some point in cooking, technique has the potential to become art, and if you remain locked into the technique, your food will never truly sing. It will be craftsmanlike. But not art. At the same time, I think the discipline of mastering the technique is a far better way to learn to cook than the way most people learn, simply following one recipe after another in a long line of "gourmet" (a word I dislike) adventures. I also think it is critical to learn to cook with your senses engaged, and to read the food with all these senses fully employed. I have eaten with many who consider themselves great cooks, but they really have no idea what they are doing. They follow recipes, but they do not understand the underlying principles they apply, and they move from one Bon Appetit directed dinner to another. Is it possible to learn to cook this way? If you are very astute, and disciplined, perhaps. You will learn to follow recipes well. If you pay attention, you will learn what works well and what doesn't, and why. But you will not learn to make food sing. I do not believe this is an effective way to teach someone to cook well.<br />
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I am aware of the point in which this happened to me, the point at which I felt the mastery of technique freed me rather than bound me. Gradually, through discipline and practice, I began to learn my own ways of cooking, how best to draw out flavors, how to cook a given meat or fish so that it is perfectly done or achieved the marriage of flavors that suited my own taste. I learned how much salt I liked with beef or chicken, how to salt potatoes, and what approach yielded the creamiest gratin. I could tell a piece of meat was ready to be turned by how it sounded. I knew when a roast or a cake was done by how it smelled. I began to understand what I liked, and to learn to listen to my own aesthetic and not be intimidated by the chefs around me, while still learning from them. Perhaps what I am trying to say here is that when the technique becomes the master, commanding slavish devotion, a cook will never really learn to cook from the heart any more than following one "gourmet" recipe after another will likely lead to food that sings, unless the writer is very, very skilled. But having come through the discipline of technique, a cook reaches the point where it can be applied to all manner of things having little to do with the original recipe in which it was practiced. In fact, mastering techniques that can be applied to many different cuisines is the mark of an accomplished cook. The cook is free.<br />
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I am attempting to teach my children to cook first with their senses, and have largely eschewed recipes with them, except when they are baking (which is art of a different sort). The other night, my son, who is 12, walked into the kitchen and said to me, "Mom, that meat is just now done, I can smell it." He was right. The pork loin was pitch perfect, moist, succulent and 120 degrees. He could tell by how it smelled and before the oven door was even opened. Last night, he was making fresh pasta, and he took the pasta dough after it had rested and said, "Mom, this is going to be perfect pasta: I can tell by the way the dough handles. It was.<br />
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So in approaching the recipes from a cook we admire, it is important for us to remain teachable, to have open hearts to what might be learned, and not be so locked into our own approach that we are closed off to that of another talented artist. That is how I approached the delicious food of Suzanne Goin. But neither should we be bound and gagged by what is written on the page or directed. In many cases, I disagreed with something here or there, and since all great cooking is at the margins, I made little adjustments, as all chefs do, in order to make the food my own, in order to make it sing. But I tried to do this without sacrificing what it is she might teach me, for I am quite certain her food sings on its own without my assistance! The food was spectacular. In the blogs that follow this week, I will describe what I cooked and what I learned in the process. But I can say that my family ate exceedingly well, and each dinner was a celebration of life.<br />
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It occured to me, as I was cooking Sunday dinner, that gorgeous loin of pork of which I spoke, that much the same could be said of our spiritual journey. My spiritual director, in counseling me about this or that spiritual discipline I am undertaking, reminds me that none of these are ends in themselves and when we make them so, they become idols in place of the Life which flows through us from the Living God with whom we live and breathe and have our being. He reminds me that contemplative prayer, for example, is not a formula meant to open our hearts if we follow each step exactly, but a means of being present to Grace and open to Life. Jesus came, and died, that we should be free, not enslaved. He came to bring us Life Abundant! The curious thing is that the spiritual disciplines which aid us in our walk, help to free us, or at least they should. They free us in a manner not unlike that of the cook, who has learned the rigours of the technique and is set free to create a celebration at table. Life then becomes a banqueting table, at which we sit under his banner of Love.<br />
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Happy Cooking mes amis! A Bientot!at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-78792646314120720842011-10-07T11:25:00.000-07:002011-10-08T10:08:26.038-07:00Diddle Diddle Dumpling, and other rhymes of the heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrTBxiHB866dQAjuk7ljpGF3YnNABO8ufgDzHc1sGlu77HEkg79itxOyc7FFd6cQpZ9nMW_4wAH9t2i5nTsnkPzNQZhyphenhyphen1syz4uH2qq9I2bbIXCydEoEjMSud4gGuUdR78kHchkV4WBsw/s1600/800px-Salzburger_Nockerln_04_gastronomie_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrTBxiHB866dQAjuk7ljpGF3YnNABO8ufgDzHc1sGlu77HEkg79itxOyc7FFd6cQpZ9nMW_4wAH9t2i5nTsnkPzNQZhyphenhyphen1syz4uH2qq9I2bbIXCydEoEjMSud4gGuUdR78kHchkV4WBsw/s320/800px-Salzburger_Nockerln_04_gastronomie_001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Salzberger Nockerl</span></div><br />
Since my children have been under the weather, and never one to discount the impact of an appetizing meal on an ailing child, I asked the resident urchins yesterday what they would like to eat for dinner. The response was resounding, in unison and enthusiastic: chicken and dumplings. I'm not even sure they drew a breath before they answered. Of course it makes sense: it is a kind of ultimate chicken soup, and few these days would discount the curative benefits of this elixir of health. At the very least the wonderful, rich broth and the comfort of the delicious dumpling offers a comfort virtually unmatched. Nearly every American I know has some fond recollection of eating chicken and dumplings as a child, as if the dish itself could recall the safe harbour of grandma's house, even the memory of which is enough to cause someone to wax lyrical about what is essentially a very simple food. But you would be disappointed if I did not say that even the simplest of dishes is worth doing well. The dish can absolutely sing if done with care. My son came to the table after his first day back at school, weary and worn, not yet fully recovered. The candles were blazing, the beautiful Finzi suite, Love's Labour's Lost was playing in the background, and as we sat down to say grace, he commented that he felt better already. His eyes were dancing. That is the magic of dinner.<br />
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Sometimes to offer comfort is the best way to heal the body and the soul. I wonder that to "love our neighbor" is often far simpler than we imagine, and may be best charaterized by a bowl of soup or the offer of a comforting dinner. My father, who was tall, athetic, a hiker and mountaineer of some renown and even greater drive, had the habit of bringing stray Pacific Crest Trail hikers he met on the trail home for dinner to give them a break from the relentless pounding of miles gained from Canada to the Mexican border. My mother would cook them a feast, and I still remember the absolute delight on their faces, having eaten little more than oatmeal for the past few weeks. In our efforts to assure our children fit into our cultural values of self reliance, independence and strength, we often overlook how important are the simple comforts, the memory of which can last a lifetime and bring a different kind of strength to the challenges of life: the knowledge that we are loved and cared for, which opens the heart to the acceptance of love from God himself. I think a child who has been well loved and comforted has a greater not lesser ability to embrace all of what life asks and offers, and can more fully appreciate that God loves us with a passionate devotion that would overwhelm our experience if we could but embrace it. By comfort, I do not mean coddled, but we often confuse the two and lose a great gift we might offer them. My spiritual director often tells me, independent sort that I am, that self reliance is not a value to laud, because it is our dependence upon each other which allows love to flow. I bridled at this at first, and thought him naive. The more I learn, the more I realise that he is correct in this, as he has been in most things spiritual. But it took me time to come to realise just how much this is true. In a simple bowl of chicken and dumplings, is a whole world of love to a child, a deep recognition that to accept love is to let it flow. And that is grace, amazing grace.<br />
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As for the dumpling, it has set me thinking about its place in both cuisine de bonne femme and haute cuisine. When I lived in that magical, gilded city of Vienna for a time, I was constantly fascinated by the absolute devotion throughout Austria for the dumpling. Even climbing in the Austrian Alps, and reaching a high alpine hut after more than a 10,000 feet climb, I was dumbfounded to find that the hut offered as one of its specialties the Salzburger Nockerl, that delicious confection so beloved in Austria, more souffle than dumpling, but classed as one even so. Of course I indulged, having just conquered the summit hut. It was a sweet, lemony delight, with a curious history. Created in the 17th century by Salome Alt, the beautiful mistress (and discerning hostess) of the archbishop of Salzburg (eek), this soufflé is formed to look like the three hills that surround the city (Mönchsberg, Kapuzinerberg and Gaisberg). It is nearly impossible to resist, which I assume was its intent, schooled as she no doubt was in the art of pleasing a man. I will admit to having found this story somewhat entrancing, and if you see the photo at the top of this page, you will not fail to note the sensuous quality of the dessert. I first enjoyed it at a Gasthouse (guesthouse), seated at a long communal table, after having eaten the most delicious Wienerschnitzel, and sated as I was, it was still enormously appealing. Yes, and it did bring to mind what other desserts the lady had in mind for the evening it was served, and which was clearly suggested. Food has great potential for this, artfully orchestrated. <br />
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My grandmother used to make the tiny dumplings called Spaetzle, or Knöpfle as she called them, which literally translate as "little sparrows" and are tiny noodles dropped into boiling water and delicious with braises so as to soak up all that delicious sauce. My children love these, and the translation, and I like to serve them when I make a braise of lamb shanks, or even with a braised pot roast. The Italian dumpling, or Gnocci, is a favorite at my house, too, and I make them from both potatoes and from ricotta, and even sometimes from polenta. If you learn to make them well, so they are light, like little pillows, rolled against the back of a fork or a little wooden board with tiny grooves, you will fall in love with them, and the making of them, which is great fun. My children are very adept at making these now, and rolling them, and we often have them in production on the marble table in the kitchen, delighted as they are to help. There is a wealth of lore about them, and I am often told by this person or that that there is only one way to make them and to do otherwise is not to be a member of the cognoscenti. But I have followed the way of the Italian Nonni in various places in Italy until I could make them rapidly and so that they were tender and light, and while it is true that the baked potato is probably the best way to make them, I often make them when I have leftover mashed potatoes, and they are wonderful this way, too, if you use a light hand with the flour and don't overwork the dough. Nothing is wasted, and the "restes" from last night's feast can make an altogether new feast tonight. A little nutmeg in the ricotta gnocci is delicious, too, and there are cold, rainy nights when a big platter of gnocci with a sage and brown butter sauce is as comforting and delicious a dish as one could imagine. I have lots of herb plants on my window sill, and if I am ever without sage in the autumn, my children will quickly query how we are to have gnocci with sage butter sauce? It is as if I have spurned a sacred tradition. The liturgy of family ritual has been desecrated. Every good home cook has the ability to make of a meal a love affair, and blow a kiss to those he or she adores, and maybe even some not so adored, but who might become so at table.<br />
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When I have bits of white fish, and want to serve an elegant entree course to begin a meal, I make a French dumpling called a quenelle. These are especially delicious, delicately poached, and can be sauced with all manner of deliciousness: buerre blanc, a nage, a tomato reduction, as a beautiful garnish to soup, or my favorite, sauce Nantua, which is a bisque-like seafood sauce made from the shells of lobster. shrimp, or classically crayfish, which my son likes to catch for me in the river which flows through our Big Sur property. I once made hundreds of these for a benefit dinner for 24 I hosted. and for which I was chef, at my house. That was a logistical challenge, which my husband, ever the clever expeditor, managed to solve. These dumplings are made from pate a choux, or cream puff pastry, mixed with the fish, flavored, shaped into quenelles with two spoons, and then lightly poached. They are worth learning to make if you want to have an impressive and light start for a grand occasion, but more often than not, I serve them to my family to use up bits of fish. Or sometimes, if a friend gives me a good whitefish he has caught, or I buy some flash frozen wild, line-caught fish at Trader Joe's in the freezer section, I make these for dinner, and serve them atop soup with some grilled levain toasts for a light supper. Learning to shape a quenelle is worthwhile, too, and can make for an elegant presentation of other foods, such as ice cream, potato puree, or a finely chopped ratatouille as garnish.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHrFFibdU9qBgvVY1xr6Cw96BwHFntAQ63hgR8KG88CZtV852ECHJSZvvOTsDoywciDKnSL85aWfbaFSviUqY3N6nc1KHqFAzwafRh5zVCnYFJVCMmnEuWEYzd0SfuJa3jFDDcYmSCVA8/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHrFFibdU9qBgvVY1xr6Cw96BwHFntAQ63hgR8KG88CZtV852ECHJSZvvOTsDoywciDKnSL85aWfbaFSviUqY3N6nc1KHqFAzwafRh5zVCnYFJVCMmnEuWEYzd0SfuJa3jFDDcYmSCVA8/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left">If you care to make Chicken and Dumplings for dinner for your family, you might like to try my approach. It is a little more work than the traditional boiled chicken method, but the result is superior, in my view, and worth the added effort. I am a big fan of Southern cooking, especially for Sunday dinners, and have huge stacks of Southern cookbooks, which I adore as much for the traditions as the food, and will talk about in this blog in the weeks to come. If you want to read some delightful books about a southern cook and grande dame of Charleston, get hold of the books by Emily Whaley, which are tremendously fun. She describes her childhood on a plantation owned by her amazing grandmother, and the food and adventures she enjoyed there as a child. Even more fun to read about is her coming of age and how she learned to cook herself, married as she was eventually to a Charleston attorney of some renown, who enjoyed eating well. She is witty and great fun, and reading her books I felt I was seated in her Charleston drawing room and she and I were chatting over a glass of sherry.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">To make the chicken and dumplings, buy some chicken backs and necks, which are very inexpensive, and bring them to a simmer in a big stock pot, beginning with cold water, some fresh thyme, parseley and a couple of bay leaves, a few peppercorns, some coarse seasalt or kosher salt (but not too much), a carrot, broken in half, a stock of celery, an onion, a garlic clove if you like, and the tops of any leeks you may have, which I save for the stock I make every week. Once it is boiling, turn it down to a bare simmer and let it go, covered, for about an hour and a half, skimming off the top any impurities which rise to the surface. Meanwhile, get some chicken breasts (3 or 4, ideally about 1 per person) with the skin on and bone in, and roast them in a pan, brushed with a little olive oil and salt and pepper in a 400 degree oven until just slightly underdone. Let cool, take off the skin (my kids fight over it), and shred the chicken into good sized chunks. Scrape the chicken fat and drippings (especially the fond) into a dutch oven and in this saute some finely chopped onions and carrots and celery (a mirepoix, as the French call it, or soffrito, to use the Italian term). When soft, add some fresh thyme and a little sage, finely chopped, and a handful of lightly chopped parseley. Add the strained stock to your dutch oven and simmer very lightly.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Meanwhile, make the dumpling mix. Don't overmix this, and use care just to fold the ingredients lightly until the wet dough comes together. This recipe will feed 4, but I usually double it at my house, as my son is now quite tall and nearly 13, and he is beginning to eat more than his share! Take 1 cup cake flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon coursely ground pepper and whisk together. Add a large egg, lightly beaten and 1/4 cup whole milk. Fold lightly and add in some chopped fresh thyme and chives. I like to add some frozen or fresh green peas to the simmering broth at this point, as well as the shredded chicken, and then drop in the dumplings, a spoonful at a time, to cover the broth. Cover the pan and simmer very lightly for 5-8 minutes, and then uncover it for a few more until the dumplings are floating at the top of the pan and cooked through. Serve with a big green salad for a comfort food dinner your family isn't likely to forget any time soon.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Here's to a weekend of comforts for each of you and for your families. Happy Cooking mes amis! A Bientot!</div>at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-44597125158697393562011-10-06T11:24:00.000-07:002011-10-06T13:22:40.802-07:00Lionhearted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikN1xtmmwkmeocl8-eVVIzn23Z6P-zpfp7QW0-Vy0JCRPec3xinVgEyay7QnAVyiVgZBBF7cFEwTrh-1xlZTOBM8IhsyWIHpsvrfKFFIfo5sM2h2BwUkZSXtijub-VjNkqgGlmINEeZuo/s1600/news-graphics-2008-_659455a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikN1xtmmwkmeocl8-eVVIzn23Z6P-zpfp7QW0-Vy0JCRPec3xinVgEyay7QnAVyiVgZBBF7cFEwTrh-1xlZTOBM8IhsyWIHpsvrfKFFIfo5sM2h2BwUkZSXtijub-VjNkqgGlmINEeZuo/s1600/news-graphics-2008-_659455a.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Richard the Lionhearted</span></div><div align="center"></div>I have a little confession to make. I have always liked men with a bit of scruff. I once read a funny blog ("<em>Stuff Parisians Like</em>") about Paris men which argued that a good scruff sends Parisian men to the very top of the sexiness scale. It read as follows: "With just a scruff, Parisian men manage to attract women, express their inalienable freedom and stop time." Wow. That's quite a claim. If it's true, I wonder why more men don't sport a little scruff. There is something about a man with a couple of days of beard that suggests a ruggedness or capacity for adventure that is just plain manly. It is especially sexy in a Frenchman bred in the city, as it marries both refinement and ruggedness, gentlemanly, old-world manners and an adventurous soul: ingredients, which, when combined, make for the best kind of men. At least in my view. And in the view of a lot of women I know.<br />
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Maybe, in part, it's the confidence it implies, without the need to scream defiance, just the willingness to be oneself, wearing the marks of a civilized manner lightly, but not so lightly that the bush is completely overwhelmed. Or maybe this kind of man implies he can keep his woman safe from harm, but not too safe, and not safe from Life. You know the type, noble in spirit, but he's a little bit bad, too. Or at least he could be, and wouldn't. Perhaps it recalls the Indiana Jones type: educated, capable of capturing the heights of intellectual pursuits, or soaring poetry, without sacrificing any of the rough and ready quality that makes a man a man. (And it doesn't hurt that Indiana saves his lady, too, my daughter just reminded me). The kind of man that can climb mountains, lead you to summit the dangerous or icy parts because of his courage and character and strength, and then come down for dinner and choose the perfect wine to complement dinner that doesn't yell pretense, just pleasure. The kind of man you'd like to climb with if you were going to summit yourself. A man with a steely backbone ("of heart", the root meaning of the word courage) and a capacity for sweetness ("with heart", the root meaning of the word courtesy). Lionhearted.<br />
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I am not the first, and won't be the last to apply this term to a man. Students of history will immediately recall that amazing son of the great Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine and her second husband King Henry II (a manly sort, and of heart but not with heart) who became King of England: Richard the Lionhearted. When I was in graduate school, I visited the spot in Austria, at Melk, where he was imprisoned, and I have long remembered that romantic old story I first heard there, and which I have told to my children since they were small. The old tale describes the quest of his liege and trouver (travelling minstrel), Blondel, who, legend has it, found his King in the castle after a long search by singing the ballad written by Richard himself. Blondel went about the country singing the verses until one day they were answered from on high, and looking up, he discovered his King, hanging out the window and bellowing the verses. He was subsequently ransomed by his country, and freed. It is doubtful whether this is a true tale, but it is a pretty one nonetheless, and one which suited the nature of the King, or at least his legend. Here was a King, born of a mother who had begun and encouraged the courts of love in Southern France, and a father who was virile and strong, and he combined the best of both parents. if perhaps inherited a few of their vices. He was strong, and true, and of heart, a courageous leader in battle. But he was also with heart, and though hardly perfect, a benevolent ruler for the most part, as capable of great feats in battle as he was composing ballads in the best knightly troubadour style. In fact, it is this knightly quality to which we allude when we say Lionhearted.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLjtbR15pbfWkibqZ0lrU7nyw3-MmKpK6NP1e53Y8ZHDAQ7j-PIP6IBQseRuMyO-fyaNbnbpOtlVNPQg8O9cfOKGadJJrjwx6KE9UixZYV-N3OKihzJz4TvbKXjjkj2PQwTbYWNCFjO9g/s1600/richard_the_lionheart_statue_in_front_of_the_parliament.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLjtbR15pbfWkibqZ0lrU7nyw3-MmKpK6NP1e53Y8ZHDAQ7j-PIP6IBQseRuMyO-fyaNbnbpOtlVNPQg8O9cfOKGadJJrjwx6KE9UixZYV-N3OKihzJz4TvbKXjjkj2PQwTbYWNCFjO9g/s320/richard_the_lionheart_statue_in_front_of_the_parliament.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Statue of Richard the Lionhearted </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">in front of the British Parliament</span></div><br />
On my walk the other day, I was pondering this, and it occured to me that the same thing could be said about food. What makes food sexy? Is there a way of cooking that is Lionhearted? Of course, there is that quality of Volupte', for which there is no adequate English translation, but suggests a quality of sensuousness without indulgence, a capacity for cooking with great heart without overwhelming the heart with richness or preciousness. It's the kind of food that's cooked with flawless technique, but isn't always safe and isn't afraid of being rustic. Flawless technique translates into perfectly executed, but not overwrought, teased and towered such that one wonders if the original ingredients are even recognizable. It's the kind of cooking that respects the ingredients, so that their true character shines out, but applies to them a seasoned skill capable of sacrificing pretense to pleasure. Lionhearted cooking is of heart, courageous in the sense that it is not a slave to any master other than technique applied with wisdom, but also with heart, having great capacity to make of life, art. It is rustic, tied to the earth, but bearing the refinement of centuries of layered culture. The cook, or the chef, is less concerned about impressing than about pleasing. Perhaps, he or she has left behind his or her ego, and is striking out to bring pleasure and love to those for whom she or he cooks. When I think of this kind of cooking, what comes to mind is the cuisine of Tuscany or of Provence, and I am not surprised that both are as widely beloved as they are, for they combine the best qualities, not unlike the ideal man I described at the outset. We find this kind of food immensely appealing.<br />
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In C.S. Lewis' wonderful Narnia series, of which many movies have been made, he describes Aslan, the Lion, who is the Christ-figure in the books, as anything but a safe Lion. Lewis, ever the thoughtful theologian with the most wonderful imagination, understood that to step out in faith is to live a life that is not safe. Christ is not safe, and he calls us to live courageously, of heart, and let go of the lifelines we have long thought kept us safe. Why? Because it is only as we do this that we are able to climb. We are asked to step out and lose our lives to find them, to climb without the safety of the rope that ties us to the ground. But we are still climbing on the earth, tied to its physicality, tied to its beauty and its challenges, and gloriously so. And so we climb together with heart, having the courtesy, or mutual love for each other, that is one of the keys to the summit. Lionhearted.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-39815963821686316462011-10-05T15:31:00.000-07:002011-10-05T16:05:19.974-07:00The Secret Garden Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrItN8n4u2IkEV8jsw5s0rohiyxZlmaVQ6epy7tzYSDpyb13NhPoSwKyVN88hLUJ80mQ2WqjIYDwvmtIdWXKyMYeMwX1O5yvDwTJObgQWKMpuMs2II5xkzRHocPOT_-eIXdiM0gNLEqc/s1600/stock-photo-secret-garden-sunlight-lies-beyond-ancient-garden-wall-and-arched-door-14411794.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrItN8n4u2IkEV8jsw5s0rohiyxZlmaVQ6epy7tzYSDpyb13NhPoSwKyVN88hLUJ80mQ2WqjIYDwvmtIdWXKyMYeMwX1O5yvDwTJObgQWKMpuMs2II5xkzRHocPOT_-eIXdiM0gNLEqc/s320/stock-photo-secret-garden-sunlight-lies-beyond-ancient-garden-wall-and-arched-door-14411794.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
In the introduction to a Book of Hours (<em>A Treasury of Hours, Selections from Illuminated Prayer Books),</em> on which I have been meditating of late, Dominique Ponnau, Director of L'Ecole du Louvre, advises approaching the beautiful illuminated pictures in the book as one might open a door, a door that itself opens onto an enchanted garden. She argues that a true garden is always enchanted since the garden par excellence is paradise, and suggests that in our "colorful silences," born of Listening and Seeing through this door, we go deeper into its mystery, and the "deeper we go, the deeper it gets, the more you drink it in and the more you thirst for it." I have been thinking about this door, and the portal to enchantment it may offer, in light of a host of wonderful books I have been reading of late. By enchantment, I am really speaking of the sense that heaven breaks in, that 'my bread becomes for me the very sustenance of God.' God has unleashed his Word into the world, such that we might thirst and hunger for its fulfillment in Him. The door is in part the opening of our hearts to the Presence of God, the means by which we enter the garden and walk with God in the cool of the evening. <br />
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Jean Cardinal Danielou, the French theologian, in his lovely meditation, "The Sign of the Temple," drawn from his classic, <em>The Presence of God </em>(I find Danielou's writing very beautiful)<em>, </em>explores this concept. He writes that "God has in some way left creation unfinished, and man's mission is to bring it to fulfillment." Thus, Jesus, as the means of Grace through which creation is redeemed, is the new Adam, the new gardener, who has made it possible. Danielou writes that we are helped in our understanding of this, because we have been given a model for our contemplation of the mysteries of God's kingdom in the Temple, the place of divine hospitality, where together with God, we feast at his table. This concept is echoed in Jesus' farewell speech to his apostles, when he tells them he goes to prepare a place for them in his Father's house. Jesus transfigured the mysterious sign of the Temple, revealing it to be an icon of the divine hospitality, the Hospitality of God, that lies at the heart of our history and redemption.<br />
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So the Temple is an icon, a window, or a door if you will, through which we may look, to see the Real behind the real, or the Infinite beyond the finite. From the foundations of the world, God's desire has been to set a table for his children in the kingdom, to prepare a place for us in his house of glory. We begin to fulfill this destiny through our intimacy with Christ. The divine presence is no longer to be found in an enclosure of stone, it dwells in Jesus himself, established by his new covenant, through which God bestows the blessings of his presence in sacramental signs which help us to Hear and to See. At the sacramental table, Jesus has promised His Presence. Sharing bread and the wine, which invite Christ's presence in our midst, is an event by which we open the door. This temple is not a static and stationary edifice, as it once was in the time of Solomon, for that was only a temporal inheritance, a shadow cast on earth by the heavenly temple. Rather, the Temple on which our sights ought to be fixed is "the overwhelming vision of expanding universes of the spirit that should be our mental picture...thrusting out towards the heavenly regions." Jesus said "if any many thirst, let him come to me, and drink." When we feast at his table, we glimpse the temple banquet for which we were created. <br />
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If this is true, then there is a great sense in which the metaphor of the table is revealing in more than the ultimate sense of communion we will someday enjoy. Jesus, in teaching his disciples how to pray, prays what we have come to call the Lord's prayer, and as one of the intercessions, asks God to "give us this day our daily bread." How do we receive this daily bread, this sense of His promised Presence near to us when we do? Danielou argues that for now, this cosmic temple where we will feast at the table with God appears to us still in rudimentary form. We cannot plumb its mysteries, but we can see that they are there. We experience it through the sacraments, through the windows or icons into the eternal, that darkly hint at the mystery we have all experienced at one time or another: the "divine presence in the silence of the night, in the shadows of the forest, in the vastness of the desert, in the lightening-flash of genius, in the purity of love." Little by little, through our spiritual lives, lived in the material world, if we open the door and begin to see beyond it, we are being endowed with the heavenly manners that we might use at the feast of the heavenly table, preparing us for the far greater things for which we are made.<br />
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The Eucharist is The Sacrament which gives meaning to all the other sacraments of the table, and deepening our understanding and appreciation of its meaning deepens our appreciation of the delights of the table. We begin to see the table differently. So with water we are purified, bread gives us life, oil communicates power and unction, salt gives the savor of heavenly things. The table becomes an explicit act of worship and of learning to See, if only we will open the door and look. Could this be in part our daily bread, the way we learn to dwell with Him in His temple? By taking our daily bread, and oil and salt, and water and wine, by dining sacramentally at the table, we learn to dwell with him, just as a guest in our house might learn to dwell with us through the communion at our table. God has inserted a dimension of mystery into earthly events such that these events become the window or door. I believe that it is not only at communion, with the Eucharist, that we have a glimpse of this heavenly reality, but each time we break bread together in his name.<br />
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Together at the table, surely one of the earthly events "dense" with the eternal, we experience the mystery of love, poured out for those with whom we share its bounty. Love, too, is a window into the eternal. Even in the disappointments of our disfunctional, broken relationships, at table we are aware that more is possible, that this love invites us to glimpse at that for which we long, for which our hearts will find no rest until they rest in Him, as Augustine observed. We ask that God blesses the food and the time, and he does. I know this has been true in my family: dining together, we are aware that there is a greater love afoot, and we put aside our earthly hurts and hopes for a time, and allow grace to flow through us to each other. There are evenings I am amazed at how much this is so. "If we love one another, God dwelleth in us," John wrote (I John 4:12). My grandmother used to tell us that to have appetite, one had to eat a little first. Perhaps this is not unlike what Dominique Ponnau suggested when she said the more you drink it in the more you thirst. As we begin to experience love at the table, to practice loving intentionally, the door opens a little bit more and we See a little more clearly.<br />
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My spiritual director often reminds me that the heart has only one door, and if it is shut to our 'neighbor,' it is also closed to God. Or conversely, he says, there is no love of God without love for our neighbor. It is at the table, where we feed each other each day, where we take in our daily bread by celebrating His presence with us, that we begin to experience that thirst for heaven's table. Perhaps in loving each other our own souls will become conscious of that "grace of God which is otherwise, for so many, difficult to appreciate," to quote Charles Williams (a member of that illustrious Oxford group of writers of which C.S. Lewis was a member) in his insightful book <em>Romantic Theology. </em>This book is a most worthwhile discussion of the window into the eternal even the most earthly of loves offers, and particularly that all-too-fraught-with-difficulty manifestation of love, the mystery of marriage. And so, my friends, in my little book of hours this week, guiding my prayers, I pray that our doors might open a little bit more as we feast with those we love, so that together we might see that enchanted garden just beyond the table.<br />
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At my table tonight, hopefully to delight those I love, I am planning to grill some lamb chops, which I have marinated in a spicy mixture of cumin and thyme. These I plan to serve with some socca pancakes, those delicious chickpea flour and olive oil cakes, cooked in oil on a hot griddle and served with a savory fresh heirloom tomato sauce with garlic, mustard, basil and red wine vinegar. The rest of the menu will be rounded out, but I am thinking some grilled asparagus would be a nice complement. Happy Cooking, mes amis. A Bientot!at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-75689137314551690742011-10-03T16:38:00.000-07:002011-10-05T07:55:29.801-07:00An Omelette and a Glass of Wine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbBo6kOx8B-ODUBLFv-nrNYU6D6wUDDkX99Hhncm7e85ZNWCfVjGHBrUDFq_MKZ2Rnb8eHCC_18fvvcuwYR-yzIEzH_aFdATupjJQl9c-Jb6R1HTz_RLWXfN-N5PtVH-tlDktH3YDlOU/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbBo6kOx8B-ODUBLFv-nrNYU6D6wUDDkX99Hhncm7e85ZNWCfVjGHBrUDFq_MKZ2Rnb8eHCC_18fvvcuwYR-yzIEzH_aFdATupjJQl9c-Jb6R1HTz_RLWXfN-N5PtVH-tlDktH3YDlOU/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Omelettes cooking on the hearth at</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">La Mere Poulard</span></div><div align="center"></div><br />
Most people tend to believe that all French cooks are born knowing how to make a wonderful omelette. This, of course, is not true, but it is true that most French cooks are quite adept at turning out a delicious omelette, which to many Americans, accustomed to what passes for the same in most restaurants here, can well be a revelation. An omelette, well cooked, is a lyrical dish, which bears little resemblance to the rubbery mass of eggs stuffed to the point of exhaustion, often served in the United States. My first reaction, when seeing such a dish served, is lack of appetite, for the abundance from which it was born, was neither disciplined nor showed the least restraint, leaving one to wonder if everything handy in the refer was tossed in for good measure. Like Pizzas, and pasta, the omelette is a sublime creation that embodies the maxim that less is often more. That said, there are endless variations, and the simple omelette can be made to satisfy nearly any craving for a satisfying meal. For an appetizing use of leftovers, there is no equal, and as Narcisse Chamberlain says in her delightful little book on the subject: "For economy in extending small luxuries to their utmost it has no peer." What more could recommend it, yes? When someone arrives just at dinnertime (a fairly regular occurrence at the<em> House which Shall be Unnamed)</em>, and dinner planned for the use of limited "restes," the omelette is the perfect answer. Even a loaf of stale bread can be converted into a delicious filling for an omelette, which I will describe. <br />
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The chef, gastronome, author and friend of Escoffier, M. Phileas Gilbert, in his treatise <em>Variations sur l'Omelette</em>, perhaps described best the great attraction of the omelette: "Depending upon the point of view, an omelette may be really nothing, or else it may be grandeur itself. Some explain it in two lines of vulgar prose; others judge it unworthy of their pen; for myself, I would like an entire book to describe it. And to describe the gastronomic merits of the omelette, I call to my assistance the full support of the protecting divinities whose shadows hover over the temples of good fare, where their priests officiate--white coiffed and scabbard at side--before altars of glowing coals...The dish means nothing to you? Profane one that you are!" I wonder if you have ever heard such a liturgy of the omelette, or such an impassioned evangelism? Sometimes I think that if we were to speak in this manner about our 'protecting Divinity,' with a similar passion (for what is life or Life without passion?), the empty pews in many churches these days would be filled to bursting! Doctine aside, and instructive homilies notwithstanding, there is nothing so all-embracing as a life of passionate love for the Lord of All creation, for the Christ who lived among us and died on our behalf, that we might Live truly. And the humble omelette is a fitting simile for this life of passionate devotion, restrained by discipline, such that it is might yield something sublime.<br />
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In this spirit, the first thing I taught my twelve year-old son to cook was an omelette. He is amazingly proficient at making them now, and regularly tells me, teasingly, that his skills have exceeded my own, which may well be the case. He enjoys tremendously making omelettes for a light Saturday lunch, served with a salad and a bottle of Rose from Provence, or for a simple supper. My son's friend, who also likes to cook and has practiced many things he has learned chez nous, learned to make them at my house as well, and regularly cooks them for his family on nights when the adults are weary. In this way, he is able to give his family the gift of a lovely dinner, the sweetest of offerings. Now that both boys have mastered one technique, it is time they learned some more, and so can vary their offerings according to the mood and inclination of those for whom they are cooking. A good friend, whom I have been teaching to cook for some time now, learned to make omelettes with his daughter one delightful evening, and they each made enough to become quite adept at their technique. An omelette, cooked properly, is more than a fall-back dinner plan; it is thoroughly splendid fare, and in the annals of culinary history, is hard to better for the sheer pleasure it brings those who sit down to dine and enjoy it. With all due respect to the artistry of much restaurant food, or the culinary artistry of the would be "chef," aiming to impress his or her guests, stacked, teased and sauced as it may be (and I do not cast any aspersion on this), nonetheless, not unlike soup, of which we have spoken, the ability to make a splendid meal of simple things is the mark of a truly accomplished cook. I am determined that my own children, and their friends if they are willing, should be masters of the art of a simple meal, exceptionally well executed. With these skills, they should be able to branch into any culinary adventure they choose to pursue.<br />
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When first I arrive in Paris, I like best to drop my bags, find a cafe, order a glass of red wine, an omelette and a simple dish of haricots verts and a salad with a delicious vinaigrette. Served with a crusty baguette, there can surely be no better meal, nor a better foil for jet lag and airline food (which I rarely eat and fast instead). Tourist attraction though it may be, one of my favorite places to enjoy such a lunch is the Cafe Marly, which is situated on the edge of the Cour Napoleon, the courtyard of the Louvre, and looks out on that famous I.M. Pei glass pyramid. I nearly always find some way to walk through the Tuilleries, and soak up one of the loveliest promenades in the world, and truth be told, having passed at least eight hours in the recycled air of a plane, I am not anxious to be or eat indoors. Even in late autumn or early Spring, the outdoor seating that rings the courtyard is the perfect answer. While there are certainly better places to eat in Paris, there is no place better suited to a light lunch after the cab ride into town from the airport and bags dropped at the apartment. By this time it is usually about 11:00 in the morning, and the leisurely hour stroll to Cafe Marly from my lodgings in the seventh arrondisement could not be a finer complement to such a delightful lunch. The omelette arrives, light as air, still creamy on the inside, and often perfumed with just the hint of fines herbs I love so well. All is well with the world, and any lingering travel weariness I might feel, seems to ebb away.<br />
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Once, during a trip to Paris together with my sister, we dined for lunch at that gastronomic temple, Taillevent. Arguably, once the best restaurant in the world, we wanted to eat there during our history, music and gastronomic fortnight. Having worked too many hours to think about, right up until the time of our departure, she in completing her Doctorate, and I in my business career, we were a little light on preparation for the trip. But since we both had travelled extensively in Europe, and both spoke French, we were not too concerned. Seated along a banquette the first night at one of my favorite haunts, Au Bon Acceuil, in the seventh arrondisement (a wonderful restaurant), we were lamenting to each other that we had not been more organized and made prior arrangements for a lunch or dinner seating at Taillevent. We had called them upon arrival, of course, only to be told they were "complet," full all week, as we were in Paris during a major international event. A lovely woman, seated next to our small table on the banquette, leaned into our space, and in the most lyrical French I have ever heard spoken, said gently that she could not help having overheard our conversation and did we still wish to visit the restaurant, since she could most likely arrange at least a lunch for us? We thanked her, delighted, and of course said, yes, we were longing to go. She excused herself and returned a minute later, just as she and her friend were leaving the restaurant, handed us her card, and said we should arrive at 1:00 p.m. the next day, simply give the concierge her card, and all would be well. When we examined her elegant card, after she had departed, we noticed that she was a baroness, and the card bore her family crest. Wondering if we would live up to <em>her </em>expectations, and quite sure she would receive a report, we considered our travel wardrobe for suitable attire. We opted for simple and elegant, however we defined this at the time. Dutifully, and pinching ourselves at our good fortune and her kindness, we arrived at the restaurant by cab the next day, and what followed was more like a fairy tale than a luncheon. We were treated like princesses, and our lunch, which I will describe in a post to follow, was almost otherworldly (and came with an otherworldly price, too!). Perhaps for the first time, I felt I was experiencing a taste of heaven's table. We had a splendid lunch, many courses, but what makes this story fitting in this post, is that my sister chose an ambrosial lemon souffled omelette for dessert. Up until this point, I had many times eaten souffled omelettes, but this was unlike anything I have ever tasted, and since that day, I have been relentless in my efforts to recreate it. I think at last, perhaps, I have.<br />
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I remember, when I was a little girl, hearing my mother describe with some reverence a place in France she visited with her parents where the proprietress cooked souffled omelettes in copper pans in an open fire, and how delicious she had found them. As Narcisse Chamberlain writes, in her book on the omelette (all of the books she wrote, some together with her husband Samuel, are utterly delightful), probably the most famous name ever associated with the omelette is that of Mme Poulard, of Mont-Saint Michel on the coast of France. Together with her husband, she rennovated the Hotel Saint-Michel Tete d'Or, and once the causeway to the mainland was built, M. et Mme Poulard often found themselves swamped by crowds of hungry and impatient travelers who arrived at unexpected moments. Mme. Poulard astutely recognized that the omelette was the answer to her difficulties. Travelers were greeted by the warm and motherly Madame, and their hunger was quickly stilled by the savory omelettes made before their eyes on the open hearth, just as they are today. The fame of these delicious omelettes spread, but her secret was nothing more than local eggs, modestly beaten in a copper bowl, the best butter, salt and pepper, and the long handled pan moved continuously back and forth over the coals. More recently, her descendents have altered the original recipe, beating the omelettes to a foamy froth. The result, that of which my mother often spoke, was light and of great delicacy, but not necessarily better or worse than the original, so I have been told, simply different. I have eaten these omelettes myself, and they were indeed delicious.<br />
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Of course, there are many variations on omelettes. The Italians have long made superb frittatas, and the Spanish graced their tapas bars and lunch and dinner tables with their delicious tortillas espanolas, often filled with potatoes and onions. I especially love the Crespeou of Provence, that layered cake of omelettes cooked flat, and filled with various complementary fillings, each layer distinct, and then sliced like a cake. As Elizabeth David says, "as everybody knows, there is only one infallible recipe for the perfect omelette: your own." Why not try one for dinner tonight? If you make a rolled omelette, you can slit the omelette with one line down the middle and put the filling in for a beautiful presentation. This is especially appealing with a little herbed tomato filling or mushroom filling. Often, I make a simple omelette aux fines herbs, which is simply eggs, salt, pepper, a bit of cream lightly mixed with the eggs (don't mix too much or you will toughen the eggs) and sprinkled with a mixture of chives, tarragon and thyme. The tricks to omelettes are few, and you can use whatever technique you prefer. I myself use different approaches, depending upon my inclination and how I want the finished omelette to look. Often, I use a method very similar to making a crepe, swirling the egg in a medium high, but not over hot pan, or using the flat of a fork to lightly scramble it as you move it around on the heat. Heat your pan until evenly heated, but not too quickly, and add some butter, waiting until it foams. Once the butter has begun to foam but not brown, add the eggs and swirl until just set, and then switching the direction of your grip on the pan tap the pan against the range until the omelette rests into the lower half of the pan (or you can use a little fork or spatula to roll the omelette if you would rather not use the little blows of the pan), before rolling it out onto a waiting warm plate. For one person, an omelette such as this takes less than a minute start to finish. If you have a larger omelette, you can tilt your pan, lifting the edges of the omelette to let the more liquid part run underneath. You can shape it with your clean hands if the appearance is less than ideal, once it comes out of the pan and is warm. The center should still be creamy and just set. You can put anything you like in for a filling: a little ham, some shaved truffles, some potatoes sauteed in duck fat, a little leftover meat, some bacon or asparagus, whatever you like. But remember, that the filling should not be the main event, and should be in very small proportion to the eggs. Don't overbeat the eggs, just use a little fork, or two if you like, and lightly beat them. I like to add a little cream and some salt and pepper. I use a 10 inch non stick omelette pan (with rounded, sloping sides), though I have often used a copper omelette pan as well. <br />
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Tonight, I plan to make a very simple omelette in honor of my friend Vicki, who has begun to cook with duck fat, and has recently discovered how magic are Pommes de terre (potatoes) Sardalaises, that delicious dish from the Southwest of France, which can hardly be matched, and which my family adores. She told me she recently made this dish, but added a twist of her own: she sprinkled them with truffle salt just before serving them, and they were received with accolades, accompanying a splendid dinner. I plan to make a variation of this, which I learned from the wonderful book <em>Goose Fat and Garlic</em>, by Jeanne Strang. I will first make some delicious little croutons with some day old levain bread, cubed, crusts removed, and sauteed and seasoned in duck fat. These I will add to a simple omelette, served with a glass of red wine, a butter lettuce and heirloom tomato salad with dijon-sherry-shallot vinaigrette, and a baguette with some French butter. What could be better?<br />
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With a nod to Elizabeth David, a wonderful armchair mentor, to whom I am indebted for the title of this blog, taken from her book of the same name, a collection of culinary essays. Let me know how you are making out with your cooking, and if you would like to have the recipe for the souffled omelettes at La Mere Poulard in a subsequent post. (In this omelette, the eggs receive a Much longer beating until ethereal and frothy, and the omelette is Never overcooked). Happy Cooking, mes amis. A Bientot!at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-76150771657338408112011-09-30T16:39:00.000-07:002011-09-30T18:22:17.224-07:00Les Tres Riches Heures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacbpbmOdJxPLeuCLbQPRWA3RXDE-bukvl9797YLqFJnAmETbox5-BJIuLKMDm4kkOyCI6qMwIKuBHaefNSAG4cxPsMNzybT7YW96sTJibyvdWzz1TOdPK-8hg2G8XsstNu2Xs-TcG_H0/s1600/360PX-%257E1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacbpbmOdJxPLeuCLbQPRWA3RXDE-bukvl9797YLqFJnAmETbox5-BJIuLKMDm4kkOyCI6qMwIKuBHaefNSAG4cxPsMNzybT7YW96sTJibyvdWzz1TOdPK-8hg2G8XsstNu2Xs-TcG_H0/s320/360PX-%257E1.JPG" width="192" /></a></div><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">October, from <em>Les Tres Riches Heures de Duc de Berry</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tilling the Field, the Louvre in the Background</span></div><br />
The autumn is truly upon us now, and as September is nearly over and October dawning, I thought I would offer the October page from a book called <em>Les Tres Riches Heures, </em>or The Very Rich Hours, first put together in the medieval era. I will try to do this at the start of each month, so you might see a full year of these pages. Do you know the idea of a book of hours? The concept is a lovely one, and something to consider as part of breathing in deeply and savoring the rhythm of a day. The book of hours was a devotional book popular in the later Middle Ages. It remains the most common type of surviving medieval illuminated manuscript. Like every manuscript, each manuscript book of hours is unique in one way or another, according to the whim and fancy of the patron who commissioned the work. Most contain a similar collection of texts, prayers and psalms, often with beautiful illustrations, which can be used as a little devotional, and a way to pray through the hours of the day. Illumination or decoration is minimal in many examples, often restricted to decorated capital letters at the start of psalms and other prayers, but books made for wealthy patrons may be extremely lavish, with full-page miniatures. The typical book of hours is an abbreviated form of a prayer cycle recited in monasteries. It was developed for people who wished to incorporate elements of monasticism into their devotional life. Reciting the hours typically centered upon the reading of a number of psalms and other prayers. <br />
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The book of hours as a meditation tool had its origin in the Psalms, which monks and nuns were required to recite. By the 12th century this had developed into the breviary, with weekly cycles of psalms, prayers, hymns, antiphons, and readings which changed with the liturgical season. Eventually a selection of texts was produced in much shorter volumes and came to be called a book of hours. I have always loved the way in which the book follows the seasons of the church calendar, and as you will notice over the next few months, each stunning page incorporates elements of the season at hand. Today, there is a movement to reintroduce some elements of monastic life into the spiritual life of ordinary believers, and this beautiful little custom, a kind of rosary in effect, is perhaps one example of what might be a meaningful addition to a diet of contemplative prayer and meditation. <br />
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There are a number of very sweet aspects to this medieval practice. Many books of hours were made for women. There is some evidence that they were sometimes given as a wedding present from a husband to his bride. I think this is a particularly lovely custom, and find it hard to imagine a more fitting wedding gift. A gift of this sort is a means of investing your intended spouse with riches that can't be measured in material terms, but call to mind the concept of Kairos, or in effect the gift of gentler hours, which were encouraged to be spent in meditation and prayer. To offer your wife-to-be a book of beautiful prayers, selected for her, seems a lovely start to a marriage. Frequently these books were passed down through the family, as recorded in wills. They were treasures, as books were exceedingly rare, and since they were all hand made and decorated, they were very dear. Although the most heavily illuminated books of hours were enormously expensive, a small book with little or no illumination was affordable much more widely, and increasingly so during the 15th century. By the 15th century, various stationer's shops mass-produced books of hours in the Netherlands and France. By the end of the 15th century, the advance of printing made books more affordable and much of the emerging middle-class could afford to buy a printed book of hours.<br />
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Very rarely the books included prayers specifically composed for their owners, but more often the texts are adapted to their tastes or sex, including the inclusion of their names in prayers. Some include images depicting their owners, and some their coats of arms. These, together with the choice of saints commemorated in the calendar and suffrages, are the main clues for the identity of the first owner. <br />
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Often, I have wanted to make my own, and have it copied for my friends. A beautiful example of this book of hours, and by far my favorite, is a medieval book first commissioned by the Duc de Berry, in the fifteenth century, called <em>Les Tres Riches Heures de Duc de Berry. </em>It is perhaps the most beautiful example of an "illuminated" manuscript from the medival era in existence, that is, a series of texts, the letters of which are embellished and the borders intricately decorated. Since I was a child I have been fascinated by the concept of a book of hours, and it was not long before I began to try to make my own. More than anything, I loved sitting at my desk in my bedroom, or on some high mountain meadow, with my pencils and paints, and attempting to "illustrate" the borders of calendar, something I have carried into my adult life, using watercolors and various themes to make an annual miniature calendar for my friends and family. The last couple of years have been so busy, I have not had time to do one, but this year, again, I hope to do one in the spirit of a book of hours, incorporating a beautiful little liturgy.<br />
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Even the fashioning of the book has a romantic heritage. The principal work of illumination was sometime between 1412 and 1416 by the Limbourg brothers, who were known as highly gifted illuminators. The text, border decorations, and gilding were most likely executed by assistants or specialists who remain mostly unknown. The Limbourg brothers left the book unfinished and unbound at their, and the Duke's, death in 1416. The work passed to the Duke's cousin, the royal art lover and amateur painter René d'Anjou, who had an unidentified artist, the so-called <i>Master of the Shadows</i>, work on finishing the book, but even he did not complete it. The October page, pictured above, is from this Master of the Shadows, quite a name for an artist! The entire book was not finally finished until the 1440s. When it was done, it included a generalized calendar (not specific to any year) of church feasts and saints' days, often illuminated, is a usual part of a book of hours, but the illustrations of the months in the Très Riches Heures are exceptional and innovative in their scope, and the best known element of the decoration of the manuscript. Most of them show one of the duke's castles in the background, and are filled with details of the delights and labors of the months, from the Duke's court to his peasants, a counterpart to the prayers of the hours. Each illustration is surmounted with its appropriate hemisphere showing a solar chariot, the signs and degrees of the zodiac, and numbering the days of the month and the martyrological letters for the ecclesiastic lunar calendar. In this book are also little pictures and vignettes of important occasions and aspects of church history meant to be inspiring. Following is an illustration of the baptism of Augustine, one of the great minds and souls in the history of the Church. You can see the beautiful lettering and highly decorative nature of the page. They form a kind of icon, or window one might look through, to see the Heavenly Reality behind the image.<br />
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It would be equally fun to assemble a cookbook of hours, following the calendar year, which was particular to the traditions and pleasures and customes of our own families. For some time, I have been collecting my favorite things to eat in a journal, as well as old family dinners and recipes, and I would like to make a little culinary book of hours, with menus for each month, published as a kind of liturgy of the table as a gift for my children. In this way, the gentle, very rich hours passed a table would be even more meaningful, part of this liturgy of family handed down from one generation to another. The hours are richer for the layers of meaning which these shared memories bring. Last Christmas, a beloved aunt sent me a little package containing some of my grandmother's collected recipes, and when I paged through these, the memories of my grandmother flooded my consciousness with such clarity, almost as if I could touch her. I know my aunt had a similar experience when she first discovered them. These memories are our muses, for the muses were first born of memory.<br />
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Perhaps this is part of why we take the time to pray through the hours of the day, that in each hour, reciting some beloved prayer, God is able to draw nearer to our hearts because they are opened to him, not unlike my heart, opened to the memory of my beloved grandmother by the simple physical touch of a recipe she had also touched, and upon which she made margin notes so long ago. We have inside of us a created memory of a kinship with God, for which we were created, and which was given us to act as Muse, born of memory in Kairos time, to awaken our hearts. Some of the richest hours of my life have been at table. I know of nothing which reflects love more fully than the simple hospitality of the table with friends, or family, or even the stranger knocking at the door, the least of these as unto Him. With each season comes a fresh menu of riches that makes leaving the season behind a cause for joy for the anticipation of what is to come. I think that God has invited us to feast at his table, and our very rich hours with him, taking in food for our souls, brings life to the calendar, such that each month is a celebration of the seasons of our Life in Him.<br />
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I wish you all a lovely weekend of very rich hours. Tonight, I am going to make my famous meatloaf, which is made from ground pork, veal and beef, and augmented with fresh herbs, baked with rashers of bacon, and served with whipped potatoes, the way my American grandmother used to make them. Over the weekend, I plan to roast a chicken with some polenta croutons, and for Sunday dinner, some braised short ribs. The season of braises has begun. I will tell you about these meals in the blogs next week. A bientot, mes amis. Happy Cooking!<br />
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Post Script: I have a young, very promising (and well trained) theologian friend who has a new and wonderful blog, which you can find to the right of the posting here, <em>Seeing More Clearly, Knowing More Dearly. </em>Check it out. It's terrific.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-43205540109235163872011-09-29T16:49:00.000-07:002011-09-29T17:52:09.656-07:00Fortune's Remedy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nrFCJq1kRr13aBbYACoqFoQujwXts9wshBKjmp7goXRMyOqBHn4Kjb6BkOyV1dACjfnbAashKnOpMVYKb280BzqD5fwOO5FXl5_1HPjlJ9x2l1Xag66c2lzIKsUlqL-xKm9KL2fwCYw/s1600/51F3%252B7VxgKL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nrFCJq1kRr13aBbYACoqFoQujwXts9wshBKjmp7goXRMyOqBHn4Kjb6BkOyV1dACjfnbAashKnOpMVYKb280BzqD5fwOO5FXl5_1HPjlJ9x2l1Xag66c2lzIKsUlqL-xKm9KL2fwCYw/s1600/51F3%252B7VxgKL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
One of my favorite things to do on Sunday at my house in Big Sur, if I don't drive in to Carmel to the Anglican church there, is to walk up the ridge to the top and bring my Book of Common Prayer and read aloud through the service for the week. There are many aspects of this that are meaningful. The liturgy is beautiful, and in their reading are echoed thousands of years of Church history, as if my voice reached less across the ocean I see from the top of the ridge and more across the waves of time not anchored in what the ancient Greeks called Kronos, the relentless passing of minutes and hours, but in Kairos, that gentler flow of God's hours that nurtures my soul, from eternity and back again. I have written before about Kronos and Kairos and the way in which the time at table is a kind of hearkening of eternal Kairos, moments that nurture our souls. The little prayer book that accompanies me is also a thing of beauty, given to me by a close friend and mentor, and covered in white French Moroccan leather. I love its simple beauty in word and form. Then there is the sheer exultant Beauty of God's creation, visible as far as the eye can see, headlands where the Santa Lucia mountains meet the sea in a spectacular coast unmatched in few places in the world. And yet, as much as I love this, and find in nature's grandeur here a magnificent cathedral, I miss the uplifting singing of hymns, and when I am again hiking down the road, I invariably have one hymn or another in my head as I walk. <br />
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As long as I have attended worship services, both in the United States and in Switzerland and France, it has been the music which has most often spoken to my heart. There is something about hymns that capture two forms of art: music and poetry, which transcend the raw ingredients of their composition and act as a kind of window into the eternal, much as a sacrament does. Augustine famously said that the one who sings prays twice, in word and in song. It is as if we take songs in, drink them into our souls and their melodies do indeed hearken the angels, who guard our quieter hours, singing in unison with us to the music in our hearts. It is not hard to see why this is, even through a glass darkly, for the heart of song is praise, that end for which mankind was created: to glorify God and enjoy him forever. The early Christians often sang in monophonic chant--one melody sung in unison-- and believed it was this uniting of their voices as one voice that called the angels to join with them. Today we still sing those old Gregorian chants, and we also sing in polyphonic style, or many voices, but I suspect the angels are no less present for the harmony. <br />
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Singing this way is a heavenly participation which requires us to employ our physicality as an offering of sorts: to breathe deeply and engage our voices, and our very lifebreath in the act of worship, and this participation reveals a joy that wells up in the middle, something not often experienced simply listening. As James K. A. Smith argues in his book <em>Desiring the Kingdom,</em> if being a participating member of society is reflected by one's ability to speak the language, music is the language of the Kingdom of God. It "knits a vision into our bodies," which I would argue is as much significant for its physicality as its transcendence. Songs and their lyrics live in our minds and hearts long after they are sung, and like many people, I find both rolling around in my subconscious once the service is over with far greater frequency than the homily, and their melody continues to haunt my consciousness when I am home cooking Sunday dinner. I can recall the pure experience of joy remembered, too, as I cook, a kind of shared experience of heaven the sound of which echoes through my head. It has always seemed an appropriate marriage: music and the table.<br />
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One of the differences between the hymns in America or England as contrasted with those I in which I have often sung in France is that unlike our largely major key harmonization, there is a sonority to French hymns that incorporates a dissonance I have long admired. It seems to perfectly capture the joy and the pain or sadness, both of which are a part of love, for we taste heaven, but do not yet inhabit its streets, and the path along which we walk in preparation is strewn with sorrows, as is all of life. However, having said that, beautiful it also is, as we are slowly undergoing a transformation, which is a source of great Hope. In the fourteenth century, a musician by the name of Guillaume de Machaut, who has written much music I love because it shares this love of dissonant echoes, and reflects the medieval Courts of Love and the music of the medieval troubadours of Provence (who understood love in this same way), began to introduce a new style called <em>ars nova </em>(new art) which injected considerable complexity into the polyphonic (many voice) form, such that the two or more voices began to be fashioned almost as if they were at war, one with another. They appear at war, and yet their intersection, point and counterpoint, reveal a stunning beauty. I think this, too, is akin to our walk in life, for it is often the hardship of our life, at war with our pleasure, that fashions in us a rare and holy beauty, a new harmony or wellbeing. New forms of harmony, incorporating this dissonance also appeared. When I read of this, I am always reminded of the poet Rainier Maria Rilke, who wrote a wonderful book of poems entitle "Love and Other Difficulties," which a friend gave me long ago. Exactly, I think. We have not yet learned to bear Love's beams and so find its embrace not quite the peaceful place we yet imagine. But Love Hopes. <br />
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Guillaume de Machaut was the century's acknowledged master of these and several other forms, both musical and poetic. Born around 1300 in Champagne, Machaut took holy orders and received an appointment as secretary to John of Luxembourg, King of Bohemia in 1323. This glorious knight, killed at Crécy in 1346, travelled extensively with Machaut in tow. Having begun as a trouver, traveling minstrel of sorts, Machaut returned to Rheims some time before John's death, where he had been granted a canonicate at the Rheims cathedral, highly unusual for someone who began as he did. During these years he wrote a number of motets, lais, ballades, virelais, some as part of his long narrative poems. He was later associated with John's daughter Bonne, wife of Duke John of Normandy, who died during the plague of 1349. His next close relationship was with Charles the Bad, King of Navarre, while in later life he received the patronage of King John the Good of France and his even more famous son, Jean, Duc de Berry. He died at Rheims in April of 1377.<br />
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While the extent and capabilities of Machaut's audience is not known, it is certain that his immediate audience was among the courts of the leading families of France. Like the poetic contemporaries and predecessors, his central theme, particularly in the narrative poems (or dits amoreaux) was Love, particularly courtly love. Machaut's poem <em>Remede de Fortune</em> is perhaps the best known among musicologists and their literary colleagues. Shall I tell you this story of the Remedy of Fortune? Briefly, the story line of Remede is this: after a short prologue introducing the recurring theme of Love and the Lady as educators of the artist, we are introduced to the youthful poet narrator, whom we shall call Amant. Amant, thinking he was already educated in the ways of Love, has written a lai for his Lady. The music for this scene allowed Machaut the poet to display his mastery of the poetic form while allowing Machaut the musician to use an example of an older musical form (ars antiqua) for quite another purpose. Amant, who sings, has not yet learned to be a lover. He was a callow youth with all the passion and lack of wisdom and perspective of youth. His song reflected this with its length, its overabundant and extravagent melodic variations, and it's reliance on archaic, thus uneducated, note forms. Amant is each of us and all of us, trying to learn the melodies of love, but stuck in archaic forms. We need more glimpses of heaven's great promise of Hope to hear the new music.<br />
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The lady in our story discovers this work but does not realise who has written it. By chance (or by Providence or Fortune) she asks Amant to read the song (poem) to the court. He does so but is so overcome with the fear that she will realise he is the author that he fleas the court in emotional disarray. Lamenting on his sorrows, he enters the walled Park of Hesdin and there composes a complaint, railing against Fortune and Love. Exhausted by these events, he falls into a stupor but discovers that a beautiful but not quite human lady is sitting beside him. She disputes his opinion of Fortune and Love and sings a chanson roial detailing the joys of love. She completes her song and gives him a ring to cheer him. She then tells him that she is Hope, the friend of all lovers. Comforted, Amant asks for more advice, whereupon she sings a baladelle in praise of Love. This piece is sung by Lady Hope. As she is the source of learning for Amant, and thus the key figure in the poem, it at first seems odd that her chanson roial is both monophonic and in the old style. But it must be remembered that the poem is by and about the Amant voice. As he has not yet learned of the joys of love so the listener cannot yet hear the new sound. Hope's song, though, is in marked contrast to Amant's creations in its lilting rhythm and light tone, suggesting the developments yet to come. We are again like Amant, only beginners in the joys of love, and so do not always hear the new sounds of its song.<br />
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Having learned from Hope, Amant returns to the court, composing and singing a ballade along the way. Hope appears to him once more to reassure him. As he returns he comes upon the Lady and her court dancing. She sees him and asks him to join the dance and sing for them. He does so without hesitation, composing and singing a virelais. At first it seems surprising that Machaut has chosen to use a monophonic style to fulfill this task. But upon consideration the wisdom of this choice can be seen. Amant shows his developing maturity by choosing to sing not something to show off his virtuoso talents or his extravagent passion, but something fitted to the occasion: a simple dance tune. He is learning the humility that is a sign of the true embrace of Love. In the end, Amant sings: "Lady, my heart stays with you," which is not only a parting phrase but an expression of hope (or proof that he has learned from Hope's teaching). Once again the simple lyric does not do justice to the complexity of the musical rendering. The interplay between voices as leading tones keep the melodic line moving smoothly through the wandering yet controlled dissonance. Thus, while the youthful inexperienced lover has himself been transformed, so, too, the composer has shown the transformation of musical form.<br />
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Amant returns with the Lady to the court where she has provided a meal and entertainment for her companions. After this Amant has the opportunity to speak to her, whereupon he declares his love. The Lady declares her love for him and Hope appears to bless them. Departing from the court, Amant, in his joy, composes a rondelet. He returns to join the court in a tournament and sees his Lady looking at someone else. Consumed with jealousy he tasks her with her deed. She replies that she only did so to divert attention from them. He decides to trust her due to the lessons he has learned from Hope and the Lady. <br />
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Love Hopes. And it is the music of worship which often helps us to hear the Hope in our hearts. When we begin to see this hope, we begin to find the Greek <em>eudemonia</em> (the proper care and feeding of one's soul to find wellbeing) of which I wrote yesterday: we begin to flourish because we have embraced the Life, the great Hope in Him which sets the poetry of life to music. If joy, praise and thanksgiving are the true expression of human fulfillment, if humans were truly made to glorify and enjoy God forever, then singing is a way that praise can transpose ordinary life to a higher level without losing what is good at the other levels. It combines discipline,and precision with a great liberation of body and imagination, in much the same way that cooking is a kind of hymn to creation and love. Cooking requires this same discipline, such that the raw ingredients are transformed into an experience at the table that liberates our hearts and feeds us, as if we stood still in time. Like the hymns of praise, there is a moment, in the words of Samuel Wells in <em>God's Companion</em>, "when those who have 'stood still, looking sad' (Luke 24:17) are rejeuvenated, and eyes that are downcast are raised on high", and can see and hear, and take in fully the art around them. They have experienced a window into heaven, and heard the voices of the angels. They have begun to learn to embrace Love.<br />
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The table has a redeeming power over hearts, and can teach the true embrace of Love. In the same way that songs live on in our hearts, so do meals, which are remembered and recreated in our hearts until they assume a liturgical significance which far exceeds the food itself. In the movie Babette's Feast, this mystical redemption of the human spirit occurs at the table, and the chef who cooked the superb meal is described as an angel who had the ability to turn a meal into a love affair, where there was little distinction between righteousness and bliss. In other words, at table we might begin to be redeemed and transformed by Love to see the Hope of Heaven's promise. Ultimately, it is not the food which is transformative, but the food feeds our soul such that we experience a love affair at table that opens our hearts to its music, just as music in worship opens our hearts to God who created us and redeemed us for Himself. This is reminiscent of the singing of the early church, in which it was believed the angels joined their voices, such that we might hear heaven's melody.<br />
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As for tonight's table at <em>The House which shall be Unnamed</em>, I am planning a dinner to honor the coming autumn and yet recognize the beautiful end of summer day we are having: we will begin with a little heirloom tomato salad with rocket (arugula) and tapenade toasts. The next course will feature two little fried oysters, cooked according to David Tanis' (of Chez Panisse fame) recipe in today's New York Times, and served with rouille. Finally, I will make a little oven roasted potato, chanterelle, shallot, bacon and green bean warm salad over which to serve some grilled salmon with a tomato buerre blanc. This will be followed by fresh fruit and cheese. Perhaps it will be Fortune's Remedy? Now as for the music? Stay tuned. <br />
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Happy Cooking mes amis. May you find Lady Hope. A bientot a table..at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-18077496474369676392011-09-28T14:07:00.000-07:002011-09-28T14:24:26.750-07:00The Good Life (Lessons of a Rag Doll and a Chicken Dinner)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkfZD-MAprbZpsYq7_O5TyoNrGlPwMcaDARfzUYgIQGoXnFWy4AEWXn_XFK7nIgVFtuA1q1UptZSSypSS8L1kF0YvXrZswVEAULI4AbYOEK-JFdZVY4PyddYeDq4wni6tL5nQEXvx6UU/s1600/thumbnailCAIRRKZ9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkfZD-MAprbZpsYq7_O5TyoNrGlPwMcaDARfzUYgIQGoXnFWy4AEWXn_XFK7nIgVFtuA1q1UptZSSypSS8L1kF0YvXrZswVEAULI4AbYOEK-JFdZVY4PyddYeDq4wni6tL5nQEXvx6UU/s1600/thumbnailCAIRRKZ9.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
The <em>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory</em> saga in my daughter's fourth grade classroom is not yet complete, and for the past couple of days, and reaching back to the weekend, she and I have been engaged in fashioning a doll from one of the characters in the book, her class assignment. Not wanting to make a paper doll or a wooden doll or a foam doll, as many in her class were doing, she wanted to make an old-fashioned rag doll, the kind with which a girl might cuddle. I realised, not long after she described the process to me in minute detail, that her passion for the Laura Ingalls Wilder series of books she read over the summer was probably responsible for this desire, though she has always appreciated dolls. What I hadn't fully anticipated was the degree to which the making of the doll would bring her tremendous joy and pleasure.<br />
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Like many fortunate girls her age, she has a collection of dolls, mostly French and nearly all with French names, at least two of which I have purchased for her in Paris: Lisette, Marie-Solange, Yvette, among others. She has an American girl doll as well, which Santa brought to her last year and which her grandmother outfitted with beautiful hand knit dresses which fit into a suitcase dresser. These are beautiful dolls, all, and are outfitted with gorgeous Liberty dresses she and I have made (from fabric scraps left over from her dresses) on Saturday afternoons, once the rooms are clean. In the process, she has become quite skilled at design, and has definite ideas about how a dress should be cut and what beauties should adorn it. As you would expect, she regularly holds dolls' tea parties in her room, dolls propped up on all the chairs, and having attended many myself, I can only comment that they are magical in every sense. For a girl not terribly fond of collecting or accumulating things, this is one exception. For it is the loveliest of things to see a child delighting in make believe, and the conversations between the dolls are priceless, in broken French (which is very limited, but expertly accented), and English. They are surely not the only, but must be among the few dolls regaled with elaborate lessons on how to "Pestify" one's big brother (in classic tomboy style), followed by a sermon on the Beatitudes or a discussion of what we know of God, followed by cooking lessons, fashion tips and charm lessons (complete with books on heads to learn proper posture). These dolls are getting an education akin to the finishing school sort which my grandmother received several generations ago! Our favorite book to read each Christmas together is the beautiful Tasha Tudor book "<em>A Doll's Christmas</em>," which has inspired many projects at <em>The House which shall be Unnamed, </em>and lives in our collective imagination long after the holidays have come and gone. Chiefly, this little volume is about delighting in simple pleasures and handmade things of beauty, and it is this inclination which is responsible for her desire to make a rag doll the in "the old way."<br />
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We ended up making two dolls, as the first one came out too small to meet the detailed specifications given by my daughter's teacher, so the process was a little more involved than I had planned. In keeping with the rag doll tradition, my daughter decreed that the doll had to be made of rags and "old things," so we cut up an old sheet and pillow case for the body and stuffing, and she removed the hand tatted lace from the old case, which had sadly ripped in the laundry not long ago. Thus, yesterday afternoon, she was ripping up the old sheet into yet more ribbons of fabric to stuff into the doll she had designed, cut and sewn (with a little help). As she had decided on Violet as her character, her characterization included lavender button eyes and a round mouth which she drew on with infinite care, as well as golden hair with curls all around her face. We made a Violet dress with all the trimmings, which she designed herself, and a little purse, complete with a gum wrapper protruding, which you may recall if you have read the book is Violet's chief distinction: her love of chewing gum (the louder the better). The pure delight became increasingly apparent on my daughter's face as the doll began to take form, and once the head and arms and legs were stuffed, she squealed with joy, commenting that she had got the legs "just right" and the face "perfect." I asked her if the Violet in the book had such a serene countenance, and she countered that she wasn't about to cuddle at night with a frowsy faced doll, and besides, it was no longer her grade on the project that mattered. Violet mattered. Enough said. I am quite sure that not even the chic dolls from Paris were nearly so well appreciated and loved as that beautiful rag doll, which made we wonder afresh if we do our children any favors with ready made gifts when the gift of an afternoon with Mother, creating something from scraps and rags that becomes beautiful before one's eyes isn't a far better gift and a life lesson to boot. Of course, Violet accompanied my daughter to bed last night, easily more important than preserving her pristine appearance for the class submission. A doll can't be a doll sitting on a shelf, I was told, significantly. A Doll must be cuddled to be Real. Love makes her come to Life. Everyone knows a Lifeless doll cannot be properly presented at class. Yes, Ma'am!<br />
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As is often the case with these undertakings, we both lost track of time, and when the phone rang, I realised that I hadn't even thought about dinner, so engrossed had we been in the doll making. Knowing that nearly all the members of my family had had a long and tiring day, I wondered what I might <em>create </em>at this late hour to soothe the ravages of the onslaught of homework, classes, long hours at work without much reprieve for weeks, and hunger at this late hour. ("Mom, I see No signs of dinner, my son reminded me). "Go and set the table and light the candles, Cherie," I said to my daughter, and I began to think along the lines of food for the soul. To my son, I suggested he turn on the oven. Unprompted, he also opened a bottle of champagne and poured me a glass, toasting Violet's emerging life as he did so (entranced himself at what had come of the rags and scraps) and commenting that it was not everyday we had such an August birthing in our house. Out from the refer came some skinless chicken breasts, some haricots verts, and some arugula; from the pantry, some beautiful little French fingerling potatoes, and from my fruit bowl on the table, a red and yellow heirloom tomato. We sprang into action, bolstered by the champagne (Orangina for the urchins) aperitif. <br />
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The first thing I did was to cut the fingerlings in half, toss them with olive oil, seasalt and chopped, fresh herbs and roast them in the oven at 400 degrees. I made a little saffron aioli to accompany the chicken and the potatoes and the make shift salad. I pounded the chicken breasts with my French rolling pin and dipped them in egg wash and then in some breadcrumbs I made in the food processor with stale bread, salt and pepper. This went into a medium hot copper fry pan, to which I had added both some oil and butter, once it had reached a hot enough temperature to prevent holding my hand over the pan comfortably. I then seared the breasts on each side until golden, but not cooked, and put them on a platter into the oven, which I had turned off. The residual heat from the potatoes, which were not done, was more than sufficient to finish cooking the chicken to perfect tenderness and moistness, and when they emerged they were golden, gorgeous, meltingly tender and perfectly done. On a big, white, oval Apilco platter, I put a layer of stunningly beautiful, dark green arugula, and around the edges my son arranged alternating slices of red and yellow heirloom tomatoes. Then he drizzled both with a light stream of extra virgin olive oil and sprinkled on some sea salt. On top of this masterpiece, we placed the pounded and breaded chicken and the fingerling potatoes and scattered the whole with a few more finely chopped fresh herbs. Finally, we put the haricots verts, which had been simply cooked in generously salted water and drizzled with olive oil and sea salt, on each side of the platter. The presentation was gorgeous, but the food was even better, complemented by the saffron aioli, which was equally good with the greens as it was the chicken and fingerlings. We all sat in the dining room, candles blazing, listening to the music of Lully (Divertisements de Versailles), drinking a Cote de Ventoux from Provence, and allowing all the stress of the day to ebb away. As she was served, my daughter said "This is just Wonderful Food. We have a Good Life." I thought how much pleasure came of that simple and simply prepared dinner, and it seemed to echo the simple joy of the rag doll project. Love made us come to Life, just as my daughter had said of Violet.<br />
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Philosophers have long debated the meaning of the good life. Since ancient times, there has been much discussion of what constituted happiness, or perhaps a better word, well being. <strong><em>Eudaimonia</em></strong> or <i><b>eudaemonia</b></i>, from the ancient Greek, sometimes Anglicized as <b>eudemonia</b> , is a Greek word commonly translated as <span style="color: black;">happiness or welfare</span>; however, "human flourishing" has been proposed as a more accurate translation. Socrates, largely captured by the philospher Plato, argued that true eudaimonia is the proper care and feeding of one's soul, from which virtue is a necessary outpouring. Aristotle later argued that Arete, or excellence in accordance with reason was the ideal human state of being, and that while virtue was necessary, it was not sufficient to achieve eudemonia. Other things, like beauty and wealth, contributed to wellbeing. The Stoics argued that living in agreement with nature was the ideal state, and that moral virtues, written into nature, were necessary and sufficient for achieving this ideal state. I have lately been reading the writings of an Italian artist of the Renaissance era who describes the good life at his country villa in Tuscany, extolling the simple virtues and pleasures there. Christ, however, argued that the meaning of the good life was the Life of God in us, that true well being did not come from virtue as the goal, but rather as the blessed state of accepting Love and the blessings which come of surrending ourselves to this Love. I think perhaps my daughter had it right, as children often do, possessed of a wisdom we seem to lose as we age. Love brings Life, which animates even the stuffed and ragged, the hungry and the weary. "Come to me, all you who are heavy laden, and you will find rest for your souls, " Jesus said. It is this rest, wholeness (Shalom), that is the true flourishing of the human soul. Perhaps we are all rag dolls in the end, stuffed and lifeless without the Love for which we were created, Him, in whom we live and breathe and have our being. We comfort ourselves with all sorts of things to stave off the sense that we are lifeless, but in the end, even the most delicious chicken dinner will not cure the kind of hunger created in us to point to Him. But at the table is a pretty good metaphor, in my view, for what it means to accept and embrace Love.<br />
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Pumpkin Soup to follow. More anon. Try the chicken, mes amis. You will be surpised. A bientot.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-17111831116401900342011-09-26T13:37:00.000-07:002011-09-26T21:54:32.019-07:00Lunch in another high and lovely place (Grace)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpafY4tKg-47JUnrKXxxr66Bf81TNM_LsRxbgOeVc0Pm73FHNLgYhmNRtuzZJLfdgbEsIrCbAMKMK7vN78RDW4a5Cg2bwK42teU0j8FD7A32M4V7s7TO9jLNpQXqAfU-iLhGqrzUrY-Xw/s1600/Gordtiny1-a9d29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpafY4tKg-47JUnrKXxxr66Bf81TNM_LsRxbgOeVc0Pm73FHNLgYhmNRtuzZJLfdgbEsIrCbAMKMK7vN78RDW4a5Cg2bwK42teU0j8FD7A32M4V7s7TO9jLNpQXqAfU-iLhGqrzUrY-Xw/s1600/Gordtiny1-a9d29.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gordes</span></div><br />
It is wind-swept and rainy in my town today, and the gorgeous fall leaves are already beginning to drop. My daughter ran into the fray with her new rain boots and joyfully kicked up a storm in the pile of gold and orange accumulation, laughing with her head back, abandoned to the moment, as if all the world were hers for play. Watching her joy, I am reminded of a splendid lunch I had in Gordes, Provence, one similar autumn day some years ago. We had wanted to go during the Vendange, or grape harvest, and we rented a little house at the foot of Mount Ventoux as a base from which to enjoy the many pleasures of the region. Partial to langorous lunches in quiet little bistros, we had gone to Gordes to enjoy the town free of the crush of tourists found there in the summer months. Gordes is a Village Perche, a villaged perched high on a hill, with an eleventh century fortified castle in the heart of the town, constructed by the house of Simians – the lords of Gordes. It also boasts an eleventh centure church, one of the most beautiful in Provence. While Gordes is a lovely town, and houses there a gallery from which we have purchased prints which hang on the walls of our kitchen, we went to Gordes that day in search of a restaurant where I had eaten before, and which had a lofty dining room perfect for an autumn luncheon. I still remember the delicious pumpkin soup served that day, chilled as we were by the encroaching Mistral, and glad for the relative serenity of a log fire on a big hearth and stone floors and wooden tables. I remember, too, the beautiful wooden sideboard, which had been appointed with a great vase of fall foliage and seemed to complement the food in both form and substance. We ate pumpkin soup, as delicious as I have ever tasted, and cheese souffle served with a mesclun salad, and then an apple tart tatin for dessert, which is rare for me as I don't usually eat dessert. All of these courses were suggested by the chef, who took our lunch in hand and sent us lovely things from his kitchen to pleasure us. The tourist season was over, and the off season was quiet that year, and he was enjoying his performance, which was expertly orchestrated. Mainly, I remember the sense of pure joy I felt as I sat down in that lofty room, organic in feel and appearance, and put my pleasure for the next couple of hours in his capable hands.<br />
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It strikes me that this is the essence of entertaining at home, or in a restaurant for that matter: to give one's guest the sense that their pleasure for the next few hours is in capable hands and they might just relax and enjoy themselves fully. There is a sense of letting go, of one's expectations and critiques, of one's insecurities as a guest, of one's desire to control one's experience, and even the temptation to compare and contrast so as to compete in some subtle way with the host of hostess, at least in one's mind. Yet all of these inclinations, or addictions as we might call them, take away our sense of pleasure in the evening or afternoon, not so much because of the reflection on the tightness in our souls as much as the degree to which being unable to let go prevents us from fully embracing the experience of giving over one's pleasure into someone else's capable hands. I have always thought it sad that as women became more independent and achieved great success in business or academia or politics (and I have been as much as part of this as anyone), that with these wonderful gains was often lost (tragically) the lovely experience of placing one's pleasure for the evening in the hands of the gentleman hosting the evening (or a lady, for that matter, though I am thinking also of the experience of dining alone with a gentleman, rather than a business dinner). Very seldom in my business career in America, either, did I encounter a gentleman host confident enough to take command of an evening with such grace that even the most strident of feminists would have given way to the pleasure, as I often had in Europe. I regularly dined with industry leaders, and was always surprised, frankly, at how few had any sense of how to entertain.<br />
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There is a funny, but instructive, story along these lines you might find amusing. Once, I had dinner with the CEO of a rather large timber company in the Northwest. I met him at a French restaurant in Portland, Oregon, where I had some acquaintance with the chef, who was French, as I had lived in a hotel nearby a few days a week for some months while running a business in that town (one of three jobs I was doing simulataneously). As I often ate at the restaurant, and spoke fluent French, the chef would often come out to the dining room and sit with me and talk while I ate my dinner, often alone. We became good friends over time, and he was a good mentor as well. Most often, he would simply come out and ask me a question or two about my day and then signal to the waiter that he would take care of me. What followed was an utterly delightful series of splendid evenings in his care, where he would send out French sized portions of all manner of delicious and delightful things for me to try and on which to remark. As he began to appreciate my passion for cooking and for great food, his "menus" became more subtle and more artful, and he was a superb teacher. As he was French, he understood implicitly that I did not wish to leave stuffed, but rather just sated, and his ability to create such variety and depth in his menus without overfilling me was an art in itself. His sense of pace and balance was pitch perfect, and I ordered for myself only when he was absent from the restaurant. It was a wonderful luxury, and I learned how to reach back into my past and enjoy the sense of giving over control of my pleasure to someone in whose hands it was more than ably husbanded, as I had with my family in Europe. Along with his amazing food and menus, came some fatherly chiding of me, because my schedule was beyond anything reasonable (given the three jobs I was simulatenously undertaking for the same company), and he constantly questioned how I could have the European family background I did and work with such abandon, without care for the balance and quality of my life. I believe he felt himself my American guardian of all things European, saddened as he was that my lifestyle at the time (though I cooked with great abandon and discipline at the same time) reflected little of my heritage. My attempts to explain this to him were futile. Perhaps they were meant to be?<br />
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Into this backdrop, I met my host for the evening. I must say that my host was somewhat pompously impressed with his command of rudimentary French, and he considered himself something of a gourmand. As I was young for my role, and female, which was almost unheard of at the time, he started out the evening with a highly condescending tone, advising me as to the best dishes and implying that to order this or that dish was the height of vulgarity when the true gourmand would have only these others. I found myself very amused with his tone, but I was too old-world in training and inclination to give him any sense of this, so I suggested with as much grace and feminine charm as I could muster, that since he seemed to know the menu so well, he might order for us both. My host was so taken aback by my suggestion given my role and the age in which we both lived and worked in America, that he looked at me stunned for a minute, and then proceeded to become even more condescending in tone, if slightly more gentle and gallant in manner. I remember thinking that condescension is the opposite of the masterful quality I appreciated particularly in gallant men. The waiter came out, and appreciating the situation, winked at me from behind my host, who ordered what can only be described as a series of dishes that would never be combined in France, so much were they a succession of rich indulgencies wihout reprieve. Once my host had ordered, he was suprised that the waiter came back with two glasses of champagne compliments of the chef, and he was slightly annoyed that the very expensive bottle of wine he had ordered was delayed, as I am sure I was to be regaled with its virtues as well as the obvious discernement of my host who had ordered it. As my host's company was at the time experiencing rather extreme financial hardship, I remember being very surprised that he would order such an expensive wine, but as I was not the host for the evening, I kept the recognition of this incongruity to myself. I remember that he said to me that no doubt the restaurant appreciated his generous patronage, and sent the champagne to thank him. I commented that they must be very wise restauranteurs. We began what was a long and arduous conversation concerning the issues we were meeting to discuss, and it was not long before my friend the chef came out to greet us. He turned first to the host, and addressed him in flawless English, and asked after this dish or that he had ordered, suggesting in the most polite manner if he wished to lighten the menu slightly, to which he was given a negative answer. Then, the chef turned to me, took my hand and blowing a kiss above it, in the French manner, called me Cherie, and proceeded to speak to me in rapid fire French, to which I responded. While I am sure my host understood little of what transpired (and it was brief), he surely recognized that we were well acquainted and had some history of rich conversation. I will never forgot the look of complete shock on the face of my host, which in itself was priceless. Needless to say, after this, his tone became far more respectful and he showed himself capable of gallantry and gentlemanly manners without the condescension of the early minutes. The discussion, too, was eased by the graciousness he acquired<br />
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I have mused of late about the necessity of abandoning one's addictions or idols, whether they may be manifestations of pride or insecurity, or a need to control one's environment, and its relationship to Grace. To accept love (grace) is a difficult thing, because to embrace this Gift, we must open our hearts and become vulnerable. We must let go. In many senses we must abandon what we think we want and allow God to give us what we need. This is the greatest challenge of my own life, and one with which I struggle daily. This is <em>the </em>challenge of what it means to be human, for we hang on for dear life to what we want and in the process lose what it is we desperately need, and so push away the Life which awaits us. This is what Jesus meant when he said we must lose our life to find it. My friend the chef, as well as other gracious gentleman and lady hosts in Europe and in America at the homes of close friends, has taught me through the simple gesture of hosting an evening in a restaurant or a private home, what treasures lie in surrending control to hands capable and Knowing. One day we will understand truly the nature of pleasure, and its relationship to Joy. For now, we can glimpse its deep magic by the practice of surrender, such that the hidden riches of the kingdom are revealed. We might just find that we become again like the child kicking for joy in the autumn leaves, open to Life.<br />
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Tomorrow, I will offer an approach to making this pumpkin soup, surely a lovely way to begin one of your first dinners of the autumn season, non? Let me know how your cooking is coming along? A bientot mes amis.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-18509303762701540852011-09-23T14:09:00.000-07:002011-09-23T14:09:26.222-07:00Less is More (Potage Parmentier, almost, and an easy autumn Pasta)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbP-Ho2t_Bv1-7fXkaXzhqLgnW0kON8y8cUWgvDpB47TNd4-0Wqc-j7tboOWOcHtU-QPYAj9MM1mYwpqyUYLC0msgq-T9P1zGEf48HVa1P6CJI-Myom-JreGOKv8cP-KTEHUml2buWJU/s1600/picahM6nI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbP-Ho2t_Bv1-7fXkaXzhqLgnW0kON8y8cUWgvDpB47TNd4-0Wqc-j7tboOWOcHtU-QPYAj9MM1mYwpqyUYLC0msgq-T9P1zGEf48HVa1P6CJI-Myom-JreGOKv8cP-KTEHUml2buWJU/s320/picahM6nI.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
Today was Charlie Day in my daughter's fourth grade classroom, a day to experience a small taste of the life of the main character in Roald Dahl's story, <em>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory</em>. The children all dressed up as various characters from the book, which was very fun to observe, as some of the costumes were particularly creative and most were quite fun and silly. Two young men did credible jobs of assuming the demeanor of Willy Wonka, complete with top hat. One little girl was charming as an oompa-loompa with red hair and purple polkadot tights. My daughter chose to adopt the character Veruca Salt - otherwise known as spoiled brat. Veruca demands anything she wants and throws tantrums until her parents meet her demands. She is mean and completely self-involved, and her parents always acquiesce to her wishes. Veruca’s impetuousness causes her trouble at the factory. She demands to own one of Wonka’s trained squirrels, but when she marches in to claim it, it deems her a “bad nut” and sends her down the garbage chute. Mingled with garbage, she comes out changed at the end of the story. She is redeemed. My daughter began the day with a lot of attitude, hoping to be fully into the part she was playing, but I noticed at lunch that the privations of the day had not yet had the desired impact on Veruca's character, and she had not yet lived up to her family name, and become salt of the earth. My daughter was enjoying her part.<br />
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As I have described in a blog earlier in the week (A Theology of Soup--Cuisine de Misere), my daughter volunteered me to cook cabbage soup, which was the main staple of Charlie's meagre diet. After only a piece of toast allowed for breakfast, the children were quite famished, and I am sure a soup of cabbage was not exactly what they had in mind as a way of breaking what must have seemed to them to be a fast. Their wonderful teacher, whose idea this was that they might experience Charlie's reality, allowed as how they might have a roll as well to go with the soup, and so I purchased some beautiful, soft potato rolls to bring along. The soup was well received by the children, who I think expected something quite different (water and cabbage) than they received, and for the most part, it was eaten with enthusiasm as well as surprise as the ingredients were very simple, but the resulting taste was delicious. I hoped it might be an object lesson in more than simply the appreciation of how comparatively rich we are in the west today, even in these difficult times. I hoped the children might also see that to cook something delicious and nutritious does not require expensive ingredients. <br />
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The soup will make a wonderful Saturday lunch, or Sunday night supper. My children adore it. Put into a wide mouth thermos, it could be packed into a child's lunch for a lovely treat. Or it might make splendid picnic fare, packed into the thermos, and accompanied by some bread or rolls, some cheese and fruit. I have a penchant for those lovely British picnic hampers, and I like nothing better than to ask one of my friends to accompany me to one of the lovely parks we have here in my town for an autumn picnic. Stay tuned. This soup is really very easy to make, and is a variation on a French soup, called <em>potage parmentier</em>. You can easily leave out the cabbage, and retain a delicious soup, but either way it is very good. This soup is as elegant as it is simple, and I have varied the approach a little to extract more flavor from the ingredients. As with most famous dishes in France there is a little story that accompanies it. France was beset with famine following the Seven Year War (1756-1763). Native son Antoine Auguste Parmentier, who had been fed the so-called poisonous potato root in a German prison-of-war camp, returned to France to find his country men starving. He set up potato soup kitchens throughout Paris to assist the poor. Ultimately, Louis XVI recognized his work by saying, "France will thank you some day for having found bread for the poor." In fact, he is best honored by the pleasure his country take in digesting Potage Parmentier. I thought it was a fitting soup for Charlie Day, albeit with the addition of cabbage and some homemade chicken stock from soup bones I received free of charge from my butcher.<br />
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I first sauteed in a stock pot some onions (one large) and leeks (two, white and pale green part only, cut lengthwise and then in half moons) in a mixture of bacon fat (which I had saved from another meal) and a little duck fat (which I had saved from another meal) until they were melted and slightly carmelized, after which I added two peeled carrots, also cut up and some seasalt. Then I began to cut up a small head of cabbage, shredding the cabbage and then chopping it into small pieces and adding it to the onion and leek mixture. I sauteed this as well until the cabbage was well wilted. At this point the aroma coming from the kitchen was so enticing, that my son, who was feeling poorly from a flu bug and has not eaten in a few days, came downstairs to see if he might sample the soup. He asked me if this was really cabbage soup I was cooking as it smelled wonderful. Then I added a big stockpot of chicken stock, which I had made that morning from bones, and about three pounds of peeled and cut up potatoes. I simmered (Not Boiled) the soup until the potatoes were tender and then used my immersion blender to puree the soup. It was rich and creamy in appearance, without the addition of any dairy product. This soup could be enhanced even more by the addition of some sauteed bacon lardons, cooked with the leeks, but it is more than flavorful on its own. My son ate two bowls and had eyes on more but I quickly made an exit to school with the cauldron so as to insure there would be enough for the children (there was) and the teachers, and the passers by. I think he is feeling better. It must have been the soup.<br />
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As promised, I offer today another very simple and delicious fall dinner idea you can make for your family. In fact, taken together, these two recipes would make a lovely meal with the addition of a green salad and some fruit and cheese for dessert. Read through the directions a couple of times before beginning. It is not expensive, and the fun part is that you can engage your children (as I do) in the making of the fresh pasta. You can make the pasta dough in a food processor or a Kitchen Aid mixer with a dough hook, which I usually use. If you don't have either, you can take two cups of 00 flour, or all purpose or bread flour, and make a little well in the center of the flour, to which you add three eggs, slightly beaten and a tablespoon of olive oil. Gradually draw the flour into the liquid mixture with a fork, little by little, until you can form a dough. Then knead the dough for ten minutes. You will know it is done because, as the Italians say, it will be as soft as a baby's bottom. Let the dough rest for at least 10 minutes, covered, on your kitchen counter. Then you can either use your pasta machine to roll out the dough, or a french rolling pin if you have one, and if not, your ball bearing rolling pin. Divide the dough in half, and each half into thirds with a pastry cutter. Then roll each piece until very thin. I ususally do this on my marble kitchen table, but a large cutting board will work, too. If you don't have a pasta machine, you can use a little fluted pastry cutter to cut the rolled dough into ribbons about 1/2 inch wide for pappardelle. If you do, lightly dust the sheets of pasta in between the settings on your machine, folding your sheets into thirds like a business letter before each roll, and gradually decreasing the size of the opening of the two rollers until the dough is very thin. Toss the ribbons with a little more flour on a baking sheets so they don't stick together. Put a pan of salted water on the range to boil so you can cook your pasta.<br />
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Now, for the simple sauce. I have been making variations of this sauce for nearly thirty years, and it is as easy as it is delicious. Clean some mushrooms, whatever kind you have and slice them. You can use domesticated mushrooms, or a mixture of these and wild, or reconstituted dried mushrooms. (If you use dried wild mushrooms, reduce the stock by half and add the same amount of reconsituted mushroom liquor in its place). Heat some canola oil in a heated skilled over medium heat until very hot but not smoking. Add the mushrooms, but not so many that they are overlapping (you want to sear them not steam them), and sear them on one side, not touching them for a couple of minutes, but don't let them burn. Then turn them and stir occasionally. Season with salt and pepper and transfer to a warm bowl, and repeat until all the mushrooms are cooked. I usually add a little thyme to the mushrooms once I turn them. When you have cooked all the mushrooms, turn down the heat and saute some findly minced shallots until soft and then add three tablespoons of butter to the pan and add back the mushrooms, cooking until they are glazed. Add 1/2 cup of chicken stock and bring to a simmer, and then, one at a time, whisk in three more tablespoons of butter until the sauce is just slightly emulsified. Stir in two teaspoons of sherry vinegar. Cook your pasta in the boiling water, and add the pasta into the pan with the heat off and toss. Taste and adjust the seasoning. With a vegetable peeler, shave on some parmigiano reggiano cheese and serve. This dish will surprise you. It is far better than what you will imagine it to be.<br />
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Let me know how you get along, yes? Happy Cooking, mes amis, and a blessed weekend to you. A Bientot.<br />
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<span style="color: #93c47d;"></span>at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-20792579585053470992011-09-22T11:38:00.000-07:002011-09-23T10:01:59.169-07:00Nature and Grace (The Heavenly Banquet)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdV1kxkNdZN6qvnWENRGFPbngWhbgzph7ZS8xQPv8LtUtF03ViQdEUeotTKkO70M-pQZDOJ8ko26DUsMFkl8i9sIF6Wgvh4c2E2q8lpamrJcwW17B4nKAWNNwozhWIcnfqmWAnb6XXKWY/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdV1kxkNdZN6qvnWENRGFPbngWhbgzph7ZS8xQPv8LtUtF03ViQdEUeotTKkO70M-pQZDOJ8ko26DUsMFkl8i9sIF6Wgvh4c2E2q8lpamrJcwW17B4nKAWNNwozhWIcnfqmWAnb6XXKWY/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
Over the course of the last year, I have been reading a group of French theologians who are loosely grouped together. Their work is largely characterized as "nouvelle theologie." In many respects this has been a watershed experience for me, as it has allowed me to come home, in a sense, and make sense of my heritage and the impact of my part-American, part-European upbringing. Taken together, these theologians are sometimes referred to as calling for a "ressourcement" or retrieval of the "Great Tradition," which simply means the consensus of the Church fathers and medieval theologians that as God made us alive in Christ, so too, do we then participate in heavenly realities while still here on earth, such that in our lives on earth, we can actually participate in heavenly realities. Without belaboring the philosophical underpinnings, which reach back to Plato, this really means to recover the sense that in the Created world exists more than simply signs or symbols of the heavenly realm; these signs actually point to heaven breaking in. After the middle ages, thinking began to change and a view that nature and the supernatural (Grace) were strictly separated emerged. This coincided with what began to be the strict separation of philosophy (literally, <em>philo</em> the love, and <em>sophia</em>, of wisdom) and theology (defined by Augustine as<em> theo</em>, meaning God and<em> logia, </em>reason, reasoning or discussion concerning the Deity). Said another way, Grace, or the supernatural world, was not able to build on something already present in nature itself; rather, the supernatural world of grace was entirely foreign and other to the world of nature.<br />
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These proponents of "nouvelle theologie," in seeking to recover the unity of nature and grace, argued that true reality does not regard the world of nature (our "city" on earth) as separate from the supernatural (the heavenly "city"), but as the gracious gift of the Creator. For them, the world of nature is never without God's presence. God reveals this presence through sacraments, "life infused symbols of the heavenly realm, such that we understand reality as beginning with theology. This view begins with the assumption that what we see around us is the gift of God. Saint Augustine and most of the thinkers of the middle ages had regarded the created world as a world full of symbols. These were not just symbols in the sense that they suggested some other reality, rather in the sense that symbol and reality were not two separate entities. These theologians call for a recovery of the view held by Augustine that these symbols functioned as sacraments in the sense that a sacrament shares or participates in the reality to which it points. Heaven literally breaks in. The sign may not be the reality but it participates in it.<br />
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It occurs to me that this view of life fundamentally impacts how we view our approach to the table. Thinking about this as I walked this morning, it came to me that beyond the obvious issues of the Eucharist, or communion as a sacramental feast wherein God is Present, if this is the case, even the breaking of bread together each night at dinner is more than simply a symbol of the good God has woven into creation. Embracing this view suggests a reverence for the bounty and gift of the table not often part of our culture in the fast-paced grab it and run approach to meals. If food is a gift, our approach to eating and sharing it changes fundamentally. No longer is it simply a commodity that seeks to harness "the elaborate process of growing, harvesting, transporting, selling, transporting again, storing, eating, digesting, and clearing that constitutes the elaborate process of being fed," argues the theologian Samuel Wells in his book <em>God's Companions. </em>Rather, it invites in us a thankfulness and an understanding of all the labor and the relationships and the gift of life and growth involved in bringing food to the table.<br />
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This has significant implications for participating together in the source of our food and those who grow it for us, for getting to know the people who grow our food, for the respect we show them and friendship we offer them. Rather than seeing it, and them, as commodities in a mechanized process, we might begin to view ourselves as partners with farmers, learning from them and supporting them, and treating their labor and its fruits with the respect it deserves. Secondly, it has significant implications for our respect for the earth as God's creation, for learning where our food is grown and how it is produced, and that the practices are humane and sustainable. Third, as we learn to cook and eat in harmony with the seasons, we are more appreciative of the bounty we receive as gift, coming from all that is good God has given us. We allow the creation to inspire us, to see in its art possibility for the art we might make of this abundance, especially as it is shared. How much more reverential than forcing the transport of unripe produce from some distant place where there can be no connection with either those who grow it or the seasons of our year? Fourth, respecting food means learning to cook without waste, and making the most of all we are given. Fifth, living sacramentally in this way has implications for cooking with our hearts, such that we respond to the Gift of such bounty by embracing all it might offer us. Food is precious, and should never be taken for granted. Sixth, this view has implications for cooking and eating together: by including our family and friends and especially our children in the growing, preparing and serving of food, we and they appreciate its value and the great pleasure it can give. Finally, and most importantly, it has implications for eating together: for the way we set the table with great care, for understanding its potential to bring pleasure and communion, so that "mealtime is a time for empathy and generosity, a time to nourish and communicate," advises Alice Waters, the chef who founded the restaurant Chez Panisse, and revolutionized our approach to food and cooking in the United States.<br />
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Wells argues that one of the most important symbols (or a sacrament, for icons help us to peer into Reality, like a window) of the Trinity (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) is the Rublev icon, known as the "Hospitality of Abraham," which depicts three divine persons gathered around a table for a meal together. There is an empty place on the viewer's side of the table, which seems to offer an invitation to come and dine. The heavenly banquet is the most characteristic symbol of the life of the Kingdom, and Jesus himself enacts these banquets himself in his many significant meals with sinners, strangers, crowds and disciples. These are invitations to join the feast with God. By approaching food and the table sacramentally, we affirm the opportunity to grow productively and celebrate the reward for joyful labor. We join in the feast of the Kingdom. Wells writes: "The heavenly banquet is a depiction of the way God does not just simply meet his people's basic needs: he goes much further, giving them far more than they need, surrounding them with food, friends and his own abundant presence, all in all. This is the purpose of creation, cross and the resurrection: to make possible this everlasting friendship with God, rehearsed in worship and practiced in the sharing of food, " In the fullest sense, to dine together in this way is sacramental living. It is to participate in the great mystery of the heavenly reality while still on earth.<br />
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And now, my friends, what will follow tomorrow is a suggestion and instructions for making a simple offering that you might share with your family for dinner if you wish. Come back and see if you might like to try it. I will give you an autumn pasta to make from scratch if you like, using 00 flour, or all purpose if you can't locate the finer grind Italian pasta flour. It will be a celebration of the solstice, the autumnal equinox, which we observe tomorrow. A bientot, mes amis!at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-75388762560310250972011-09-21T10:27:00.000-07:002011-09-21T10:45:16.197-07:00Mangia, Mangia!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq721oeRIfmLy_ew4IdI70HBYIWRI1BlXcobBR-U0RB2N5ZfxFkVKZpg_HI9s7kseADoBo0XHQrfCoSIBtbNZxLshyphenhyphenvm_xKY_C9Un4gaSkbancnpKoI8hc-6LfPAQKNArJE1r6-e5m3KQ/s1600/41eERnYqGYL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq721oeRIfmLy_ew4IdI70HBYIWRI1BlXcobBR-U0RB2N5ZfxFkVKZpg_HI9s7kseADoBo0XHQrfCoSIBtbNZxLshyphenhyphenvm_xKY_C9Un4gaSkbancnpKoI8hc-6LfPAQKNArJE1r6-e5m3KQ/s1600/41eERnYqGYL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
On Wednesdays, my blog will feature a short little food vignette.<br />
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Though French cooking is my heritage and passion, I have long been a student of Italian cooking, and have had many armchair as well as actual mentors. When I was in graduate school in Geneva, I had with me the first of Marcella Hazan's wonderful books, <em>Classic Italian Cooking,</em> which I cooked nearly cover to cover. We lived in a beautiful little studio apartment overlooking Lake Geneva, with a deck that ran the length of the two rooms (kitchen and great room, plus a tiny entrance hall and bath). Many wonderful dinners were eaten on that deck until the weather turned, and in the little kitchen, which I adored, I rolled pasta with a wooden pin, and cut fettucine and pappardelle and lasagne noodles with a knife. Fresh pasta fit my student budget at the time, and the intensity of the cooking was the perfect foil to the stress of jamming two years of grad school into one. On Sundays, when the budget allowed, I would cook some delicious braise: osso bucco, braised lamb shanks, brasata al Barolo, beef braised in red wine. The next day the braising liquids and leftover meet would make a lovely sauce to toss with hand cut noodles or bake into a macaronade. Since that magic time, my appreciation for the food of the different regions of Italy has grown and deepened as my passion and curiousity have led me into more of its treasures. I have travelled and eaten my through various regions of Italy many times, eating at little trattoria, and doing my best to chat with the owner/chef, as well as eaten in the gastronomic temples of Florence, Venice and Milan as well as many other cities and towns.<br />
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Italian cuisine comes principally from two distinct sources: cucina povera, or the cooking of the poor, and cucina nobile, the cooking for the tables of the rich. Since Etruscan times, and echoed in Roman culture, cooking for the different classes has been divided. Echoing the themes we have been developing in this blog, cucina povera, or cooking from want, has resulted in many wonderful dishes: making the most of leftovers, using what the earth provides through the seasons of the year and preserving. Cucina Nobile, not to be outdone, has also left indelible marks on Italian cuisine as the exotic spices and fruits brought to Italy by visiting traders enhanced the local bounty, and the cooking skills of the Arab world were adapted to the available bounty. The staples of Italy match the regions: rice for risotto from the north in Piedmont and Lombardy, grilled bread in Tuscany, pasta to the South as well as polenta, originally grown around Venice. More recently, I have been inspired by a wonderful book written by an Englishwoman, Katie Caldesi, married to an Italian, and a formidable food historian, chef, teacher and restaurateur in her own right. If you want to learn to cook Italian food well, and this is as misleading as "French" food, for it is really a collection of different regional cuisines as it is in France, get hold of her book <em>Cook Italy.</em><br />
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After Hazan, one of my first and lasting mentors has been Lorenza De Medici, of Badia a Coltibuono fame, and her cooking school, Villa Table. The beautiful and urbane food at her estate in Tuscany was as lyrical in style as sophisticated in execution, and she cooked with a triple strand of pearls around her neck, ever elegant and refined (she was a former editor of Vogue Italia). Her family hearkened back to Lorenzo the Magnificent, after whom she was named, that Renaissance patron of the arts and leader of Florence. But even more fascinating, in the 16th century, the Compagna del Paiolo, Italy's first academy of cooking comprising the twelve best chefs, was founded in Florence by Caterina de' Medici, who was credited with passing on the art of fine cooking to the French. I was transfixed by her descriptions of the dinners she hosted both at her own estate and the estates of her friends, and each evening, the wonderful communal table and gorgeous food would be punctuated by music: a local string quartet or classical guitarist or pianist, to round out the evening's pleasure. This was my idea of heaven. Tuscan cooking is particularly instructive, if for no other reason than that expressed by Ada Boni in <em>Italian Regional Cooking: </em>"The task of the Tuscan cook is not easy. He cannot fall back on elaborate sauces and gravies to disquise the flavor of the food, nor may he employ garnishes which are so dear to some schools of cooking. In preparing dishes of classic simplicity, he must rely on his skill alone, aided by the excellence of his raw materials." This is a discipline well worthy of cultivation and study. Tuscan food revolves around the old-fashioned hearth, where pride of place is taken by the grill and the roasting spit, Boni argues. Food cooked in this manner is rarely equalled. In Italy, as in France, food is a passion. In Tuscany, that passion becomes art, as decorous and formal as that of the great masters of the Florentine school.<br />
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Lorenza De Medici also has a passion for Italian Renaissance Gardens, as do I, and her beautiful books, <em>The Renaissance of Italian Cooking </em>and <em>The Renaissance of Italian Gardens </em>have given me hours of pleasure and inspired years of study, as have her many books since these were published. The first great Renaissance gardens were created by Cosimo de Medici in the fifteenth century, and it was Lorenzo de Medici who first introduced the fashion for adorning gardens with statues. It was also Lorenzo the Magnificent's gardener who reintroduced and outlined the concept of the essential harmony between the architectural lines of the house and that of the garden, although this idea was not a new one and could be found in ancient Greece and Rome. If you are student of landscape architecture, you will know that these ideas made a rapid journey to France where they were further developed. As with cooking, so too with gardens. I love the "sweet atmosphere of melancholy," as Lorenza describes it, which pervades the gardens of the Lombardy lakes, particularly around Lake Como, where I once had the most magnificent lunch high above its shores. One of my lifelong dreams has been to own an ancient, abandoned garden, and as Lorenza says "to liberate trees that have been suffocated by ivy, to discover ancient foundations concealed beneath the earth, and to strip away the centuries and restore something buried." As this is probably not a dream likely to materialize any time soon, I will have to satisfy myself with listening to Monteverdi madgrigals in my own garden and the Italian dinners inspired by the many I have seen and loved in many regions across Italy.<br />
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I love the imagery created by D. H. Lawrence in his book <em>Etruscan Places: </em>"But in those days, on a fine evening like this, the men would come in naked, darkly ruddy-colored from the sun and wine, with strong, insoucianat bodies, and the women would drift in wearing the loose becoming smock of white or blue linen; and somebody, surely, would be playing on the pipes, and somebody, surely would be singing, because the Etruscans (the ancestors of the Tuscan spirit) had a passion for music, and an inner carelessness the modern Italians have lost." When I imagine this sort of afternoon, my mind often drifts to that wonderful Kenneth Branaugh movie made on the Shakespeare play "<em>Much Ado about Nothing</em>," which was filmed in such a garden, and played out just as Lawrence describes. I have always wanted to give such a party, and for my 50th birthday, I had dreams of just such an evening (fully clothed!), inspired by that lovely vignette in the play. Alas, it did not occur this year, but I have high hopes for such a gathering in the year to come.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyuZtW71ubuxO-KHz2xe4nyueziUkcj2WPhU0Ttd_w-SU7tpoD1wtVLcDbJGVFf-3vddZl9A5hgnEHEcJCk5d54ajM0qb07cpB9ZhwOZ2Pa_-6R2wpsNf_9ugAQEZSn6ZXxEDkXdgBj2o/s1600/tuscany.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyuZtW71ubuxO-KHz2xe4nyueziUkcj2WPhU0Ttd_w-SU7tpoD1wtVLcDbJGVFf-3vddZl9A5hgnEHEcJCk5d54ajM0qb07cpB9ZhwOZ2Pa_-6R2wpsNf_9ugAQEZSn6ZXxEDkXdgBj2o/s1600/tuscany.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div align="left"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tuscany has always held a corner of my heart captive, for all sorts of reasons, but particularly since I learned that the ancient Etruscans shared the banqueting bench with their wives, which is more than the Greeks or Romans did, at this period. The classic world thought it indecent for a woman to recline as the men did, even at the family table. I rather loved the Florentine saying, that captured the wisdom of the era: "Whose bread and cheese I eat, to his tune I dance!" Men might do well to keep this in mind. The French have always respected the Tuscan appreciation for culture. Montaigne, in his <em>Journal de Voyage en Italie, </em>commented that he "was astounded to hear the peasants in Tuscany with a lute in their hands, and at their side the shepherds reciting Aristo by heart." Some cultures have an in-born joy of living, and this is very apparent in the land of the Etruscans. Lord Byron, the English poet, recognized this magic: "...fair Italy! Thou art the garden of the world, the home of all art yields, and nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful-- thy waste more rich than other climes fertility; thy wreck a glory and thy ruin graced with an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. Perhaps this explains the love of life of its inhabitants to some degree, non? Like Elizabeth Barrett Browning, we can salute this joyous embrace of life's gifts:</div><div style="text-align: center;"> "From Tuscan Belloguardo,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Where Galileo stood at nights to take</div><div style="text-align: center;">The vision of the stars, we have found it hard,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Gazing upon the earth and heavens, to make</div><div style="text-align: center;">a choice of beauty."</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-54358943723881768212011-09-20T14:17:00.000-07:002011-09-20T17:01:26.388-07:00A Theology of Soup (Cuisine de Misere)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgrAjYqQMPB4hVzTTYwLfF2yeQ41zHWh9-I8aiZdoYja2yy4AN0sUAH3iJSGzKdkhI8IWfX4FTn1Z-BEi8-dbfi_2l_uLCznAlfkMdk819UBoMF_GJN3eNKkIbpF7QASUwUlr6i15Pis/s1600/img6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgrAjYqQMPB4hVzTTYwLfF2yeQ41zHWh9-I8aiZdoYja2yy4AN0sUAH3iJSGzKdkhI8IWfX4FTn1Z-BEi8-dbfi_2l_uLCznAlfkMdk819UBoMF_GJN3eNKkIbpF7QASUwUlr6i15Pis/s1600/img6.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
In my daughter's fourth grade classroom, her wonderful teacher has decided that this Friday shall be "Charlie Day," an opportunity for the children to experience a small taste of the life of the main character in Roald Dahl's book <em><u>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.</u></em> If you have read the book, or seen the movie, you will know that Charlie lives with his father and mother and two sets of grandparents, both very elderly, and is very poor, but well loved. His father works in a toothpaste factory, and his job is precarious as well as low paying. In the story, Charlie and his family subsist on watered down Cabbage Soup, which is the primary staple of their diet. And so, to appreciate the plight of children such as Charlie, the children in my daughter's class are going to eat very meagerly on Friday at breakfast, and at lunch they will all have a bowl of cabbage soup and a roll. My daughter, a devotee of a good meal, and I suspect in an effort to reclaim a little of her lunch, has volunteered me to cook the soup, which has caused me to reflect a little more on the art of cooking from want. It is an interesting challenge to remain true to the spirit of the soup and at the same time cook something appealing which the children will actually eat, so as not to waste food or serve food which is not delicious while undertaking an object lesson.<br />
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In France, <em>La Soupe </em>is fundamental to life. The word is linked to <em>souper </em>(supper), and in the countryside there are still today many households who end the day with a big bowl of broth or vegetables, to which bacon and cheese have been added, eaten with bread often put at the bottom of the bowl and the soup poured over. Dinner, in some areas, is still served in the middle of the day and is the primary meal of the day, though this old tradition has undergone rapid change. Often, a great cauldron of soup would remain on the back burner of the kitchen range, and bits of leftover vegetables and meats would be added such that in the evening, all those who worked on the farms might come to the table for a nourishing broth poured over thick slabs of country bread. The term for soup is <em>potage</em>, which means cooked in a pot, and the obvious implication is that this covers a broad range of dishes, from an elegant bouillon to a thick garbure. Garbure is a hearty country soup found in Gascony, in the Southwest part of France and there are as many variations as there are grandmeres. It is made with beans and vegetables, seasoned with meat (I like to use duck confit, but bacon and ham are common, too), and at the end, I like to lift out a portion of the vegetables, puree them, sautee the puree in butter until it reaches the thickness of mashed potatoes, spread on lightly toasted croutons, sprinkle with gruyere cheese and brown briefly in the oven or salamander to serve with the soup. I don't remember where I learned this trick, but once you try it, you will not be disappointed. Sound delicious? It is. This is a soup I love to make in autumn; it is a meal in itself. It is a soup I will probably bring to my daughter's fourth grade class this winter, when the cold is biting and the children are in need of a warming treat. <em>Cheri/e, mange ta soup! </em>is practically the universal French cry of motherhood. And at bistros throughout France, one can sit and marvel at French children, gracefully eating their soup as a first course of a lengthy Sunday lunch, as elegantly as any of the adults at table. Soup is a gift we give, born of making the most of simple things we are Given as Gift, and coaxing them lovingly to make an abundance of love.<br />
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To me, soup is a thing of beauty, and there is little that speaks of autumn and winter more than a steaming hot bowl of delicious soup. It speaks of warmth and welcome, and is almost a perfect symbol of hospitality. It comforts the sick and feeds the homeless, and is a powerful ambassador of good will and love. I like to make soups for my friends who are ill, or in need of comfort, but also to begin an elegant dinner. Delicate soups of lettuce and tarragon, pureed with excellent stock, or a fresh English pea soup topped with a drizzle of truffle oil and the shaving of a truffle served in a little demitasse cup seduce the diner at table such that each little sip of soup is a palate teaser for the pleasures to come. One can never take soup too lightly, except not to take it lightly enough. One could write a treatise on the nuances of soup, and its relationship to life and family and memory. Nearly everyone I know has some treasured remembrance of a soup they enjoyed by a family hearth, or at a friend's table. One of my best memories of making soups are the hearty pureed vegetable soups I used to make for my husband when in the autumn he would go to the eastside of our state for duck hunting. Packed into a widemouthed thermos with some crusty baguette, a piece of good cheese alongside, and a little slice of fruit tart for dessert, it was a lunch fit for a king. And eating it on a brisk autumn day, en plein aire, one could have asked little more of life. It is the season for birding once again.<br />
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I often think that soup is a good way to teach someone to cook with the senses, as its goodness is often at the margins, and the same ingredients can be made sublime, simply tasty or bland and unappealing. I have chef friends who ask their potential cooks to make a soup before deciding whether or not to hire them, and I approve wholeheartedly: the ability to make soup sing is an example of cooking which has moved from craft to art. You can tell a good cook by the soup they make, and you can also tell a young cook by the temptation to add lots of fancy ingredients to make the soup seem "gourmet," rather than attempting to master the techniques which will draw the most flavor from a few key things. Soup is also a testament to the kind of cooking mostly undertaken by les bonnes femmes de France, which is not from recipes but from the largesse and inspiration of the market, or from the small larder. When a Frenchwoman asks herself what she will cook for dinner on a given night, she will walk to the nearby shops and purchase what looks best. Voila! A wonderful meal is composed and soon prepared, from soup to cheese and dessert. "Recipes," when they are written down, do not resemble the organization to which most Americans are accustomed, but rather a general description of methods rather than quantities. Soup lends itself to learning to cook this way, and it is often a good place to begin to cook from the heart and the senses. Perhaps most important, soup making is benefitted by thinking sensually about the layering of flavors and how best to develop each element for maximum result. The result may be impact, but may also be its ability to complement the other flavors. So thinking intentionally and tasting often is key.<br />
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Perhaps the greatest difference between cooking in France and in America, is the practice of cuisine de misere, which in Europe derived from generations of deprivation and hardship, in addition to war, when privation was the rule rather than the exception, and the bonne femme had the task of cooking something with nothing. I practice this to a great degree in my own kitchen, and do my best not to waste any food. Madeleine Kamman, in her wonderful book <em><u>When French Women Cook, </u></em>describes this as to adouber a tiny piece of meat with more vegetables, more dumplings, more sauce to make sure that it will stretch to feed a family; making a couple of eggs or a piece of cheese multiply into a pie that will feed six. These women cooked delicious food with meager supplies, often foraging for things to enhance its deliciousness and appeal. The result is that new lessons were learned that could not have come of plenty, techniques for how to bring the best out of something less than perfect, which yielded many beloved dishes which today are cooked for their own sake rather than their economy. This is why I often make little soups for a starter course from leftover vegetables or salads from the previous night's dinner, or make it for my own lunch. Or take bits of meat and make little meat pies to serve with salad, and cheese and fruit for a lovely supper. On a night when I have little in the larder, I will carmelize some onions over low heat until they are almost mahogany in color, and make a pissaladiere, a little onion tart, with puff pastry, or pizza dough, or a yeast bread dough, or a foccacia, and make a little paste with olive oil and anchovies and a dab of dijon mustard to brush over the top, add the onions, some goat cheese and a sprinkling of parmigiano reggiano, and some Nicoise olives and fresh thyme (you can also put on anchovy fillets if you like them). My children and their school friends devour this after school. It takes only minutes to make once you have carmelized the onions, and it is addicitively delicious, and inexpensive. If I have tomatoes that are becoming soft in the big bowl, I make a tomato tart in a similar manner. There are hundreds of little trucs for converting bits of things to delicious meals without sacrificing any of the quality or appeal of the meal in the process. However, almost nothing lends itself as well to this approach to making the most of what we are given than does soup. <br />
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There are some simple approaches to soup that can yield spectacular results. One of my favorites is to cook a vegetable with whatever onion I am using in butter, in a covered pan over low heat, such that these two vegetables are sweated together. You can do this well with carrots and shallots, for example, and once tender and pureed with some homemade chicken stock, and enriched with a little creme fraiche, it is as noble as soup as one could ask. You can serve it with a dollop of creme fraiche and a little chopped chervil for garnish, and the result is spectacular. I do this with butternut squash, apples and onions as well, for a similar soup, adding cardamon to the soup at the end for flavor. Try it this way, and then the next time you make it, roast the squash, tossed with olive oil and seasalt in a hot (400 degree) oven before adding it to the soup. You will notice the subtle but lovely change in the soup, and you can use both methods depending upon the rest of the menu and what complements it best. A stick blender is a very handy too, and in my holiday kitchen in Big Sur, which is quite small, I use this often. Also excellent is the wonderful Vita Mix blender, which can handle volume with ease and makes a fine puree. For a velvety soup, a food mill is a lovely way to achieve an elegant texture, and though it requires more work, the results are often worth it. When I am cooking for an elegant fete, I use my Chinois, a cone shaped sieve shaped like a Chinaman's hat, which has a very fine screen and results in sublime potage, if sacrificing a little of its rustic charm. A Chinois and Tamis (flat, round sieve with sides) are very good additions to your batterie de cuisine, and as they are expensive, saving for them is a worthwhile goal. Using fresh, cold water in soups to make stock is important, as is starting from a cold water base and heating the ingredients for the stock together. The flavor will be superior. Never boil soup. Never. This is just a beginning primer to what making soup can teach. We have scarcely scratched the surface. <br />
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Last night at dinner we were speaking of this, and how so many great lessons are learned from cooking with little: chiefly among them how to coax flavor from simple ingredients. When I begin to teach someone to cook, I am always tempted to put only a few things in their larder from which they might choose, such that they learn the lessons of cooking from want: how to maximize each ingredient and each step to garner the most flavor. Once these simple lessons are mastered, and applied to a greater largesse, the results can be exponential. Perhaps this is why we start with a simple catechism when learning the beginning steps of our faith. We want to learn to climb the great mountains, yet we have not yet learned the lessons of the lower reaches, where so much wisdom lies. We forget these profound little lessons at great loss. My spiritual director often tells me that our walk of faith is like a spiral staircase: God leads us back to the same places, only a little higher up. So too with cooking, non? We learn to use the same simple lessons to master the more complex dishes. Often, we are afraid of the lessons of the desert, too, the places of darkness, where nothing seems clear. I often think this is akin to the mistakes we make cooking, which can teach us far more than the successes. I once read a beautiful book describing this, entitled <em>Hinds Feet on High Places. </em>It describes the process of climbing to these higher reaches, and the perspective once there, gained from lessons of the journey, and how it may be shared with those just beginning the climb. Perhaps this is the magic of a bowl of soup. It is a means of sharing what lies in the places higher up, wrought of all that is below.<br />
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And so I will make the cabbage soup for my daughter's class, and try to use the lessons here to take a few very simple ingredients and maximize their deliciousness such that the children in the class will have a view to what may come of want, perhaps that it reveals a plenty they would not otherwise have known. Check back and see how it comes out, yes? And sign up to follow me to the right of the writing here in this blog if you enjoy the journey here. I would love to hear from you, too, if you would like to leave a comment now and then. A bientot, mes amis.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-39281051249168087692011-09-19T17:02:00.000-07:002011-09-19T17:47:26.702-07:00In the Garden of the Muses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh687_W_TNqv0svazGC70TRP-1k-6zVXSko3Jnq-OMsWaFWOtWefmoJbRJP0jSeVjYA6BdEzomwESCefCMjBha7I27wNVGMTpzs3esTZGlbOMqsLpbyug9ndW0d5qKZO-vA8E8ueAEY2U4/s1600/304px-Alfons_Mucha_-_1896_-_Autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh687_W_TNqv0svazGC70TRP-1k-6zVXSko3Jnq-OMsWaFWOtWefmoJbRJP0jSeVjYA6BdEzomwESCefCMjBha7I27wNVGMTpzs3esTZGlbOMqsLpbyug9ndW0d5qKZO-vA8E8ueAEY2U4/s320/304px-Alfons_Mucha_-_1896_-_Autumn.jpg" width="162" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Allegory of the Harvest, Alphonse Mucha</span></div><br />
In the Northwest part of the United States, where I mostly live, the weather has taken on the characteristics of autumn, and so it is becoming its own Muse for my cooking. But in order to allow the Muse latitude, there is a kind of openness to the spirit of the season required for the inspiration which comes from composing menus from what finds fresh and beautiful. To cook from the market and the earth is to leave behind the safety of set menus of well worn favorites, and embrace the spacious realm of harvest blessings. It is to give reign to the imagination and to pay respect to the beauty of the ingredients, gently coaxed. Where I often shop, there was a great bin of organic butternut squash, but they did not yet have the full on voluptuousness they will a month from now. There were chanterelles, but not the cornucopia of various wild mushrooms which will soon appear. We are in that delicious no-man's land between the hoped for Indian summer and fully ripened autumn, and the foods are not quite one or the other. This no-man's land is a kind of spaciousness without the open heartedness that allows the acceptance of the gifts (we are still clinging to the waning summer). It is the space which makes room to receive, and it can sometimes seem a dark place of loss. I wondered, this morning, as I walked around the market, enjoying myself, that we are often deaf to the whispers of the Muses because we long for what we cannot have rather than delight in what we are given. A simple truth, yet one which haunts me.<br />
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This is also the season of the Vendange, the grape harvest, my favorite time of year to be in France, wherein the fruits of summer will be harvested and matured to something with far greater depth and complexity, such that the resemblance to the original grape juice is that of a shadow of its emerging Life. I drank an old Chateauneuf du Pape this weekend, that delectable wine from 13 different grape varietals, which has its own lore and history worthy of a posting here. It struck me, though, drinking it, that it was representative of the gift of the coming autumn: the contemplative season is upon us and there is this spaciousness, of emerging darkness, that allows the ambiance and the space for contemplation, the maturation that brings Life. Gone for now are the light Rose wines, crisp and refreshing. Yet to embrace it we must for a time lose the sensuous pleasures of the warmth and light, and must work harder now for both. But enough of wine just now. Still present on the groaning tables at the market were the fruits of summer, and the last of the heirloom tomatoes, and peaches, retaining yet their peak loveliness. I was like the lover, having lost her beloved to the darkness, and so held herself back from the pleasures of the new love out of a sense of loss for the old. I knew the harvest season was upon us, yet I clung to the sweet peaches and grapes. I mourned the sweet summer, which has all but departed, and so did not yet surrender to the beauty of the new season and all it offers, and all it might teach me by letting go of my own purposes and accepting its bounty. Still longing for dinner en plein aire, I was not yet ready for the hearth.<br />
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Nevertheless, the morning had been chilly, and I proved a fickle lover. The mounds of beautiful autumn produce drew me irresistably near, and I began composing menus in my head from the largesse in front of me. I imagined a Sunday "dinner" soon with osso bucco, one of my favorite dishes, served with risotto. Then I remembered the "restes" of the quail in my refer, and thought about a lovely risotto I could make with the quail and some roasted butternut squash. Or perhaps, the Muses now fully engaged, a fall pasta with sage rolled in between the layers, tossed with quail and roasted butternut squash. The squashes are beginning to be featured, and I thought about the delicious gratins which would soon emerge, bubbling and unctuous, from my oven, and the soups of squash and apple, with cardomon or cumin, fall indulgences. Perhaps a delicious squash flan made from pumpkin or butternut squash to begin, or a cheese souffle served as a first course with a simple salad dressed with garlicky vinaigrette. One of my favorite dishes is braised lamb shanks, which I recently had in a very good restaurant, as it was their specialty, and found disappointing, and so determined to make again soon, served with orrechiette pasta. One of my favorite dishes, a holdover from childhood, is fideus noodles, which my grandmother made for me in Europe: browned and broken vermicelli noodles, sauteed with onions until golden and then cooked in stock in a pan rubbed with garlic in broth until soft, and served with grated cheese, a dish I often make my children when they are feeling poorly. These are the dishes of autumn, composed while standing at the market table, gazing on the wonderful bounty. And they are only the beginning.<br />
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How is it that what seems as if it is growing darkness can hearken Life? We are nearly to the autumnal equinox; the word equinox itself is instructive, a derivative of the latin words for equal and night, which in my part of the world is less than a week hence. If the days are half night, and soon to be more night than day, then we have more time in the darkness coming. What will we do with this spaciousness, the vastness of long nights not filled with the easy living of summer loveliness? When last I was in that wild and lovely place, Big Sur, I drove up our hill one night to the top, where the road cuts through a vast meadow, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and there is only darkness and stars. There are very few lights at night in Big Sur, and those which can be seen cast no light around them. Getting out of my car, I was for a time completely overcome by a sense of vertigo, which was both physical and spiritual. I had no bearings, though I knew quite well where it was I stood, but I could not feel its place. I felt cut loose in space and time, so much so that I began to feel very dizzy. I stepped into my car for a time, needing the close safety of the interior cocoon, and not wishing to address what had really unnerved me. For a few minutes, standing there beneath the fully visible milky way, hearing the roar of the ocean, I knew that the darkness I felt, my sense of having been stripped of direction or bearing, was a necessary step in my spiritual walk. He was beckoning to me to cut loose from the safety of the car and Trust him. <br />
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Do you know the myth of Cupid and Psyche? It is a lovely story, full of hidden meanings. I will not tell you all of it here, but one part is key to this discussion. Psyche and her family become worried that she will never find a husband, for although men admire her beauty, they always seem content to marry someone else. Psyche's father prays to Apollo for help, and Apollo instructs her to go to the top of a hill, where she will marry not a man but a serpent. Psyche bravely follows the instructions and falls asleep on the hill. When she wakes up, she discovers a stunning mansion. Going inside, she relaxes and enjoys fine food and luxurious treatment. At night, in the dark, she meets and falls in love with her husband. She lives happily with him, never seeing him, until one day he tells her that her sisters have been crying for her. She begs to see them, but her husband replies that it would not be wise to do so. Psyche insists that they visit, and when they do, they become extremely jealous of Psyche's beautiful mansion and lush quarters. They deduce that Psyche has never seen her husband, and they convince her that she must sneak a look. Confused and conflicted, Psyche turns on a lamp one night as her husband lies next to her. When she sees the beautiful Cupid asleep on her bed, she weeps for her lack of faith. Cupid awakens and deserts her because Love cannot live where there is no trust. It is this kind of trust which I knew was asked of me that night on the ridge in the dark. <br />
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I heard a fantastic sermon yesterday, the author of which took great pains to describe the Greek mind and its embrace of the religious quest to find God. Edith Hamilton, in her wonderful book <em>The Greek Way, </em>describes it this way: "Religion in Greece shows one of the greatest of what Schopenhauer calls the 'singular swing to elevation' in the history of the human spirit. It marks the great stage on the long road that leads up from savagery, from senseless and horrible rites, toward a world still so very dim and far away that its outline can hardly be seen; a world in which no individual shall be sacrificed for an end, but in which each will be willing to sacrifice himself for the end of working for the good of others in the spirit of love with the God who is Love."<br />
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The pastor preaching yesterday described in graphic detail the wonder of the Athenian Areopagus, the best of the mediterranean, wherein the Greeks of Athens used to gather to debate all the important ideas. Into this atmosphere came Paul, who had previously been blinded on that road to Damascus by a light so brilliant he was without sight for a time, and in the darkness that enveloped him, he began to See. He had lost his sight of the present so that he might see the Eternal in the Present. Paul eventually travelled to Athens, to begin his journey to take this news into Europe for the first time, and in that mediterranean city, he is taken to the Aeropagus by the Stoic and Epicurean philsophers, anxious as they are to discover what new ideas he was presenting. These philosophers ask him about his ideas and what they meant. Paul then stands in front of the Aeropagus and says to the Greeks that he understands they are seeking God. He tells them he has looked carefully at the objects of their worship and that he recognizes how extremely religious they are. But there among their altars and statues is an altar to an Unknown God, and so he proclaims to them that this Unknown God, "the God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of Heaven and Earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands..." Not even the Parthenon, that altar and temple to Athena, the beauty of which is unsurpassed, would house this God. But this same God, he tells them, allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live such that people would search for Him, and perhaps grope for him. Paul quotes their own poets in saying that in "Him we live and move and have our being," and he has left his mark on our hearts.<br />
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For some time now, I have been practicing contemplative prayer, which is a kind of in the moment emptying of oneself, to make room for God's gifts. These are not gifts which come to us because we conform God to what we would like him to be, to fit neatly into the temples of our lives in such a way as to make us Safe. He is not Safe. We must embrace this spaciousness, the place of Unknowing, which offers to him the room to give us Himself. In the vast silence which is entered in contemplative prayer, however briefly each day, we practice a kind of dying to ourselves, or surrender, that serves to remind us for the rest of the hours in the day that all of life is Gift, that its pleasures as well as sorrows are aspects of a Love so profoundly unyielding that it seeks us. Yet to gaze on this Love from our perspective, hanging on for dear life to our small little worlds when the vast heavens are opening out before us, is to know true Awe, to shrink from the blinding light that changes Everything, if only we could bring ourselves to See. We are focused on the loss of one season such that we cannot embrace the new Life unfolding before us. And so we cannot receive its Gift. <br />
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So I am taking the dive into the autumn season to see where it may lead. A leap of faith into the approaching season of darkness, whose warmth is of a different sort. Tonight, I will use the quail left over from a weekend feast, and some of the butternut squash I bought today, and make fresh pasta for dinner. I think I will roll the pasta with the fresh sage I have in my new herb garden, and cut it into large ribbons, to toss with cubes of oven-roasted butternut squash, roasted until just carmelized, and the quail and its marinade, which had been reduced to make a sauce for the birds. I might toss in some fresh arugula, too. An autumn harvest dinner of game and squash and sage. The new season is upon us.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-46050985116257975712011-09-16T14:28:00.000-07:002011-09-17T11:09:17.927-07:00Journey to a High and Lovely Place (Chartreuse)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-m1jjipUllbBAPmWMxFza1bM0CI18NkRs1v8TDcHTrU5834nJjNPlUmjuvMgccVA3ACoO12sGS-xAaMv1aSbhN_NjhYW8_eEASi2gB-WjfNNdT76_L8VEclc56dpvWnypqHUycdFhhm0/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-m1jjipUllbBAPmWMxFza1bM0CI18NkRs1v8TDcHTrU5834nJjNPlUmjuvMgccVA3ACoO12sGS-xAaMv1aSbhN_NjhYW8_eEASi2gB-WjfNNdT76_L8VEclc56dpvWnypqHUycdFhhm0/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
Last night, after dinner, which was not as late as it has been more recently, the night was chilly. Dinner itself had been a family ritual of sorts, as my son rolled and cut fettucine at the marble table in the kitchen, while I melted anchovies into olive oil perfumed with garlic, toasted day old levain bread cubes to make breadcrumbs and peeled, seeded and cut the last of my heirloom tomatoes to chop and add to the olive oil for a sauce. The making of dinner itself on a night like this is a family ritual, ripe for converse and kinship, wherein we practice our art for those we love best. The pasta was delicious, flavored with the oil, anchovies, garlic and tomatoes, seasalt and cracked tellicherry peppers, and tossed with the toasted breadcrumbs and some shaved parmigiano reggiano cheese. We brought the big bowl of steaming fresh pasta into the dining room, candles blazing, along with a salade verte, and ate dinner listening to Italian love arias, which seemed somehow fitting for the evening's fare and sense. But the wine and the food did not take the chill out of the air, and not wishing yet to fire up the furnace for the autum, yet shivering ever so slightly in my sheer linen sweater, it seemed just the right time for a fire on the hearth and the first autumn glass of Chartreuse.<br />
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I adore Chartreuse. Do you know this liqueur? Soft green in color and redolent of a wild meadow, high in the Alps, it harbors an ancient story, as full of romance and mystery as they come. As I breathed in the beguiling scent, I closed my eyes and remembered the images of the coming fall it always conjures up for me: quail on the grill (for which my daughter has been begging with unrelenting determination), with little toasts beneath catching the drippings; venison served with a sauce made from this delicious liqueur...as always, this puts me in mind of the book L'auberge de L'atre Fleuri, the <em>Inn of the Flowering Hearth</em>, and the food once cooked at that fabled place, as well as the romantic tale of "<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">La Vallée du Désert," the deserted alpine valley of La Grande Chartreuse, as told in that beloved book.</span><br />
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When I lived in Geneva, I often looked up into the alps visible from other parts of the Lake, and looked longingly in the direction of this valley. At the other end of Lake Geneva at the time was the famous restaurant of Fredy Giardet near Lausanne, in Crissier, and I could well imagine driving up to the sign above his dining room, austere and simple: <em>Fredy Giardet, Cuisinier. </em>His cookbook was published the year before I went to Geneva for graduate school, and I spent many happy hours in the little kitchen in my flat in the charming lakeside village of Versoix, the windows of which looked out over that splendid lake, learning from the master chef: his elegant soups and terrines, his truffle ravioli, his fish with tomato butter and onion compote, the masterful way he approached cooking rabbit. Cooking with him was a revelation.<em> </em>As Chez Giardet was on the way, I would imagine the perfect journey, stopping at this gastronomic mecca and continuing on to stay in the Inn high up in the valley of the Savoie, winding my way up the alpine gorge, on a ledge cut into the side of a granite cliff, until the gorge opened out onto a wide, wild valley, rising up to a high plateau. From here, the great Alpine peaks, fortress-like and massive, rise up from the mist. The mountain air is pure and fresh, and seems to buoy its visitors forward toward a break in the trees (can you picture it yet?) to the historic mountain town of Saint-Laurent-du-Pont, "named for its bridge over the river Guiers, which guards the secret gateway through the secret wall to our high and lovely place," writes Roy Anders de Groot in his book about the Inn.<br />
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Since reading Thomas Merton's <em>Seven Storey Mountain </em>while still in College, I have been fascinated by this valley. Merton has long been one of my masters, and I find his writing engaging and humorous, but also tremendously wise. As a young boy growing up in France, Merton describes seeing images of the monastery at Grande Chartreuse just north of Grenoble: <br />
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<em>“And I gazed upon the huddled buildings of the ancient Grande Chartreuse, crowded together in their solitary valley, with the high mountains loaded with firs, soaring up to their rocky summits on either side. What kind of men had lived in those cells? I cannot say that I wondered much about that, as I looked at the pictures. I had no curiousity about monastic vocations or religious rules, but I know my heart was filled with a kind of longing to breathe the air of that lonely valley and to listen to its silence.” </em><br />
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The Romans called this valley "desertum," meaning it seemed deserted, too inhospitable to succour human life. DeGroot tells the story that the Romans built two tiny settlements where men could stay for a while. "One to guard the gateway through the granite cliffs, became this village of Saint-Laurent-du-Pont. The other, on the floor of the high valley itself, consisted of a few huts which the Romans defined as catursiani. The word meant 'a little house where one is alone in an isolated and wild place.' The word has remained. It became Chartreuse, and the Roman settlement is today the village of Saint-Pierre-de-Chartreuse. What follows is a romantic history of visitors, including 5th century Burgundian Knights, who used it as a stronghold in their fight against the Saracens and then founded the great landowning families of Seigneurs, leaving their serfs in La Vallée du Désert to work the land and pay the tithes.<br />
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In the 11th century, The Bishop of Grenoble, later canonized as St. Hughes, had a dream. He had seen God building a large dwelling in the Chartreuse mountains, with seven stars showing him the way. You might imagine his surprise, when not long after, he was visited one day in 1084 by the future Saint Bruno, a professor at a local college at the time, along with six companions, who said they were looking for a "desert" where they could settle down to a contemplative life. The Bishop took them into the "desert" of Chartreuse. The itinerant Benedictine monks stayed in the valley for long time, and over time they took the valley into their own hands and shaped it. They began to call themselves after the original Roman name for the inhabitants of this valley: Cartusiensi, Carthusians. They gained employ in the region by mining to pay for the rebuild of their house of silence following a huge avalanche that destroyed it, and they called their new home La Grande Chartreuse, which stands yet today. Yet, the Seigneurs, who had first come to the valley, began to question the monks' mining rights, and so invaded the valley, attacking the Carthusians and sealing up their mines and setting fire to La Grande Chartreuse. It was rebuilt within twenty years. It was destroyed again, and so on and so on. As de Groot writes: "There was no peace for the Men of Solitude." Years of famine, plague and war followed as the Seigneurs were determined to stop the mining, and at the same time, all over Europe, steel was beginning to be mass produced in a way that would soon eliminate the small forges that had kept the Carthusian monks alive. The fate of the Carthusians seemed doomed.<br />
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Just as the outlook was bleakest, the Carthusians came into possession of an extraordinary document. In 1602, Marshal d'Estrees, companion of Henry IV of France, donated to the monks a manuscript that contained a recipe for an elixir of life. It was a fantastically complicated recipe, involving 130 different herbs which would have to be harvested on the slopes of the mountains, macerated and dissolved in brandy. One of the Carthusians, an apothecary, decided to make the potion, and it took him 27 years to accomplish it, as the directions were vague and difficult to follow. But what resulted was a brilliant green distilled liqueur, sweet and strong. People loved it and it was bottled and carried over the mountains in saddlebags of mules to Grenoble, where it became well known and popular, and for which people were willing to pay a significant price. So the Carthusians had something to sell again. The long and fascinating history continued, and the tale of the famous manuscript is as riddled with mystery as the monks themselves, and went through all sorts of regrettable adventures. The monks seemed to survive almost because of the magic elixir, which over time came to be shipped to nearly every country in the world, and changed fundamentally the valley as more and more people drove up into the high and lovely place to buy and carry away the liqueur. Today, there are only three of the brothers who know the secret formula for the liqueur, and it is no longer produced where it began, but in Voiron. Collected originally only in the mountains of the Chartreuse, the plants now come from all over the world. <br />
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A year or so ago, my beautiful cousin, who lives in both Switzerland and Provence, a theolog herself of no mean depth, told me about a stunning documentary film, sixteen years in the making, which chronicles the daily lives of these Carthusian monks in their valley of the Grand Chartreuse: their daily prayers, tasks, rituals and rare outdoor excursions. The film, <em>Into Great Silence, </em>as the critics write, "embodies a monastery rather than depicts one" and what remains is stunningly elemental: time, space and light. It is a mesmerizing and poetic chronicle of spiritual life, almost a mediation in the watching. I bought this film and have watched it over and over, and it has renewed my long-standing interest in contemplative prayer, which has been a watershed in my own spiritual journey. Beginning with Thomas Merton all those years ago, I have lately been reading Thomas Keating, as well as other Wise voices which echo the great monastic spiritual disciplines and traditions beginning with the early church and handed down through the centuries. While we live out our faith in relationship, one to another, it is in silence that our hearts learn to Listen and that we may offer him the space to enter in and redeem and heal us.<br />
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Fascinating as all of this is, it is only part of the story I want to tell you about this high and lovely place. In this valley of the Grand Chartreuse once stood a magic inn, a hostelrie that welcomed strangers with a gastronomy nearly lost in our rushed and busied culture today, even in Europe. Come back and visit me, and I will tell you about the beautiful things I discovered by becoming acquainted with this inn, and we will cook together some of the foods originated from this valley of Silence. Meanwhile, build a fire in your own hearth tonight, and have a glass of Chartreuse as a nightcap, an elixir of life. Close your eyes and dream of the picture postcard perfect valley high in the French Alps. Take your own journey of peace and Silence. Soon you will taste its food. Perhaps food of more than one sort, if you haven't already. Elixir of Life. I am the way, the truth and the life, He said. Perhaps you will even find the secret gateway through the secret wall to The high and lovely place.<br />
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Meanwhile, I am off to prep for dinner. The pizza dough I made early this morning with 00 flour is rising very slowly, the length of time will deepen the flavors and make for a delicious pie. Tonight, we will have a little pate with some levain toasts to begin, along with a glass of French champagne, from a bottle I have been saving. Then two different pizzas: one will be wild mushroom (I purchased some chanterelles at the market today, along with some other mushrooms), which I will sear first and then scatter on the pie with carmelized onions, thyme and gruyere cheese and a few little dollops of creme fraiche. The other will be heirloom tomato with fresh basil and fresh-made mozzarella. Both will be baked in a very hot (500 degree oven) or grilled outside, depending upon our inclination. This I will serve with a big green salad made from a selection of different greens: mesclun, romaine and butter lettuce with a very simple, garlicky vinaigrette. Finally, a blackberry pie from the foraged wealth my son and his friend brought to me. Happy Weekend Everyone.at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474008217103103400.post-33103765581095849562011-09-15T10:59:00.000-07:002011-09-15T22:49:50.905-07:00Dinner at Eight (Kronos and Kairos)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOHNc3rvB5N3fRlONtd3c1oU-Wu61r7vydFYPFXu46NNlWpYA4pWmSVD1_Bh_lqmJGIOAxPChCyYOn_-HslHttp7gZBwiWtg6Ex7s7TyiCg5nGF787UALFr_n59-mp-nxqdaqyVpBosIs/s1600/gorgeous%252520table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOHNc3rvB5N3fRlONtd3c1oU-Wu61r7vydFYPFXu46NNlWpYA4pWmSVD1_Bh_lqmJGIOAxPChCyYOn_-HslHttp7gZBwiWtg6Ex7s7TyiCg5nGF787UALFr_n59-mp-nxqdaqyVpBosIs/s320/gorgeous%252520table.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><br />
Last night, we ate dinner in the dining room, as the autumn is rapidly upon us and the warm, sensual evenings on the terrace have probably disappeared for this year. It is dark now, much earlier, and dinner was a little later than usual as my son had an early evening commitment. However, candles blazing, beautiful music in the background, everyone was soothed from a world-weary day. My son and his friend had harvested some Italian plums (which I adore) from our trees, and the dinner finished with a luscious plum tart and Chantilly cream flavored with a dash of pfumli, a plum brandy. Everyone went to bed charmed and comforted, even the chef. I consoled myself for the loss of my beloved summer and dining en plein aire with the delicious anticipation of the autumn harvest and the tremendous wealth of new foods which will soon arrive in the markets, but more significantly, may be foraged.<br />
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My son and his friend were very proud of their harvest, and the other foraging they had done yesterday afternoon. Along with the plums, they brought me a large amount of wild blackberries, which later today will be made into a pie. My son's friend is an expert forager in addition to a delightful young man, and knows the locations of every wild blackberry plant and apple tree near where we live. In the Spring, he brings his mother and me wild onions from secret places he has found in the woods, and I hope to teach him, along with my son, to recognize and harvest the dandelion greens, miners' lettuce and wild nettles which I harvested with my grandmother or my father, and which make fantastic food. Wild nettles in the Spring are fantastic, first blanched, and then sauteed with a little olive oil and garlic and tossed into fresh pasta. Their nutty flavor, complemented with a little Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, is delicious. He will likely come along the next time we go to Big Sur, where I hope to show them how to recognize chanterelles and morels on our property, which, like the wild herbs in the hills there, are abundant. (I have a secret dream that in our hidden oak grove may be discovered the magical truffles found in similar climates in Provence among the oaks, but I have yet to find or train a suitable truffle dog to sniff them out). These I might toss into a frittata, or into some fresh-cut pappardelle, or even make into a ragout and serve them with grilled levain toast brushed with olive oil and rubbed with garlic, or as a topping for a creamy polenta.<br />
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I rarely eat dessert, but the scent of the tart last night, set in the middle of the table as a centerpiece, was intoxicating. It brought immediately to mind so many memories: watching the school children line up in front of the bakeries in France or French Switzerland or in Vienna, the girls in their English-made Mary Jane shoes and the boys in their short school pants, buying a similar slice of tart for <em>Le Gouter, </em>the afterschool snack of most French schoolchildren. We have a little tea at <em>The House which shall be Unnamed</em> after school most nights, with a little Le Gouter of some sort, during which time we can chat about the day. My French-Swiss grandmother often made large sheet pans of these beautiful tarts to delight her visiting grandchildren, and every one of her grandchildren speaks of these memories. I make all sorts of tarts, sweet and savory, and with many different kinds of crust. I make them freeform and rustic, or baked in a fluted tart pan, or round on a baking sheet lined with parchement. I make savory tarts for Saturday lunch with fromage blank and carmelized leeks, or bits of leftover salmon and asparagus, or Spring onions and proscuitto, or ham and leek. There are as many variations as you have delicious "restes" in your refer. Having worked with some French pastry chefs enough so that they making of tart dough of many kinds is second nature, I still often use store-bought puff pastry, though I can make it easily. It is terrifically convenient and helpful to have in your freezer. Personally, I do not care for the readily available Pepperidge Farm brand, as it is not made with butter. I buy instead one of two available all-butter puff pastry, either in square sheet form from Trader Joe's (but made in France), or folded into thirds and packaged in a foil by Dufour, which is quite good as well, but more expensive. <br />
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If you would like to surprise your family with a simple and elegant dinner tonight, you can make a very simple version of these savory tarts yourself, using puff pastry. I should warn you at the outset, that though I own hundreds of cookbooks, I am not a huge fan of recipes. I did not learn to cook this way, but rather to master technique and to cook sensually: to taste and smell and touch the food I am cooking, and so to learn its ways. My grandmother rarely used a recipe, either, and when we would inquire of her how she made something, she would reply that we should watch her do it. Pressed for details, she would say, well, a little of this, and a dash of that, never any measurements. So when you cook with me, the approach might be a little different, but the results, I hope, will bear out my theory of learning. (Don't fear: I will give you measurements when they are needed). So think about what is delicious and seasonal in your market just now. As I have readers from various parts of the world, I do not want to focus simply on what is available where I live. An easy way to begin might be to do a little variation of an Alsatian tart, which I love, called Flamiche. So get a package of puff pastry, a little ham (preferably not laced with preservatives) and some leeks and a little gruyere cheese. Buy some fromage blanc (a fresh cheese similar to ricotta) or some fresh ricotta. You will need an egg, some olive oil,and a little thyme. This really is a very easy tart, so don't be intimidated. Buy a large can of plum tomatoes (not diced, the flavor is inferior), some chicken stock if you have none, and some fresh basil, and an onion. And finally, get some mesclun lettuces and a very ripe tomato for the salad, and some fresh fruit and choose two cheeses of different sort for your cheese plate, such as a creamy cheese like a brie or reblochon, and a nutty cheese like a Pont L'Eveque or even a blue cheese. As your fromagerie for suggestons. But the cheese should be contrasted, one with the other. If you don't have ingredients for to make a vinaigrette, you might want to read below, but no bottled dressings (Please!) or that awful mix which is added to oil and vinegar. Make your own. And as with all cooking, taste, adjust the balance and the seasoning (for vinegars have differing acidity), and taste again.<br />
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Now, here might be your menu for tonight:<br />
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<div align="center">An aperitif</div><div align="center">Tomato-Basil Soup with grilled levain toast crouton</div><div align="center">"Flamiche" tart</div><div align="center">Salade Vert </div><div align="center">Fresh Seasonal Fruit and two cheeses</div><br />
And so to begin, a little cup of tomato basil soup, which you can do very easily by sauteeing some onions in olive oil until wilted, adding a little garlic to the olive oil to perfume it (but don't let it brown or it will become bitter), adding a large can of plum tomatoes and four cups of chicken stock to this, along with a small handfull of basil, and simmer (Do Not Boil) for ten minutes. Then using a stick blender, puree the soup. Serve hot, drizzled with a little extra virgin olive oil and some grated parmigiano cheese (if you have it) and serve with a levain toast crouton across the cup, which has been brushed with olive oil, grilled, rubbed with the cut size of a garlic clove and a dash of seasalt. You can drizzle a little balsamic syrup on this, too, if you like. This is the first course. So light your candles and serve this while your tart is baking in the oven for the second time. Put out your nice wine glasses and water glasses, put on some restful music, and dinner is on.<br />
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While you are making the soup, turn on your oven to 375 degrees, and get out a sheet pan (Do not use the insulated kind) and line it with a sheet of parchement paper (I like the brown kind, as I have found the white paper often sticks). Then cut up your leeks (washing them thoroughly first to remove the dirt often trapped in the layers), by cutting the darker green part of the leek ends off, then cutting them longways in half, down the stock so that you have two long halfs. Then cut half moons from the ends of the stalks (you can cut two side by side quite easily), about 1/4 inch wide. Saute these in olive oil with a little butter and some seasalt over low heat until they just begin to carmelize and are a light brown color. Cut your ham slice into little pieces as well. Make your vinaigrette for the salad, which I often do simply with three parts olive oil, one part sherry vinegar or red wine vinegar, a little dijon mustard, some seasalt and pepper, all whisked together until a light emulsion is formed. If you want it creamy, you can add a little mayonnaise as well. Or, if you prefer a garlicky vinaigrette, let a cut up garlic clove rest in the vinaigrette to perfume the oil, and remove it just before your last whisking prior to tossing.<br />
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The one caveat I offer to using puff pastry for a tart it is that it really must be eaten the same day, as the cooked pastry, once stored overnight, tends to become soggy. This never seems to be an issue at my house, for my children adore these simple tarts and there is rarely any leftover. There are few simple rules to remember about puff pastry, and if you follow them, I promise you that you will have success. If you don't follow them, the results will be disappointing. First of all, the pastry must be put into the oven cold, so any work you do it must be done rapidly or you must rechill the pastry. Second the oven must be hot. Every oven varies, but I have found that 375 degrees usually yields the best results. I use my convection setting. Finally, when you brush the eggwash onto the pastry after the first baking, use care not to allow any of the egg to drizzle down over the edge of the pastry on to the parchement, as this will cause the pastry to adhere to the parchement and will prevent it from rising properly. If the pastry comes in square sheets, roll two sheets together to make a long tart, but don't stretch the pastry too much. Put it on your parchement lined baking sheet and using a little egg wash (one egg, lightly beaten with a little water) and a pastry brush, very lightly brush the edges of the tart. Fold over the edges, pinching the corners. Using the tines of a fork "dock" (poke little holes) all over the tart (but not on the edges). This will allow the tart to rise without creating large air bubbles that distort its shape and cause it to cook unevenly. Bake the tart in the oven for about 12 minutes or until golden brown (every oven varies so it may be slightly different) and well puffed. <br />
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While the tart is baking, lightly beat one egg and add it to about 1 1/2 cups of ricotta or fromage blanc cheese. Don't worry if you have less than this or a little more, it will just make the layer a little richer. Add a tablespoon of olive oil and some seasalt and freshly ground pepper and whisk this all together. Grate about a half cup of gruyere cheese on the larger holes of a box grater. Now, when the tart is golden, take it out of the oven and brush it all over with egg wash to create a little moisture barrier. Don't forget to brush the edges as well, so that they are golden and beautiful when they come out of the oven. Then spread your ricotta mixture all over the base of the tart, evenly distributing it. Sprinkle on your carmelized leeks, your diced ham and some fresh thyme (or dried if you can't find fresh), and then sprinkle on the grated gruyere cheese. Bake for 15-20 minutes until the cheese is puffed and the tart a deep golden color. Remove from the oven, let rest a minute and then you may cut it, if you don't wish to do this at table. Toss your salad (mesclun, to which you have added some cut up tomatoes, and if you like, a little shaved parmigiano reggiano), and serve it alongside the tart. After this course, you can bring out your beautiful plate of seasonal fruit and cheese and hand it round with little bread plates and knives for everyone to cut off what they desire.<br />
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All of this has put me in mind of summers at my grandmother's house, during which my cousins and I often foraged for things to eat from her large potager or the veritable orchards of various fruit trees on the property. There was something magical about the property where we often spent some of our summers. It was large, and had a fish pond, and many, many fruit trees, a spectacular panoramic view of Mt. Hood, which from the upstairs wrap around deck was almost close enough to touch, and was surely chosen to remind my grandparents of their beloved Alps. There were acres of woodlands to roam, and a river in which to fish for trout or raft with innertubes that cut through their property. We were allowed to roam free, and in a sense we were ferrell for the summer weeks there, except, of course, at dinner, when regardless of our ages, we were expected to arrive suitably dressed and to sit politely at the damask cloth-covered table and participate in a grown up dinner. As children, we might have a little wine, largely watered, and as we grew the percentage of wine increased and the water decreased. As my grandmother was a fantastic cook (she was French, of course), the food was always superb, but the chief aspect of her cooking was that it was completely seasonal. She cooked from her potager (vegetable garden), and from her orchards, or from the farms of berries which she and my grandfather owned, or from things she had canned herself. She might trade a flat of peaches for a chicken from a farmer she knew, or crates of berries for some wild turkey or a fresh ham, and she had a regular source for fresh eggs, but she rarely purchased any food. Since she did not drive, on the rare occasions when she needed something, my grandfather would go and procure it for her. In fact, as children this was often a frustration for us, as there was very little in the house to eat, and almost nothing in the refer save butter, which she only recently had begun to buy, having usually made her own. We could always forage for a perfectly ripe tomato, or a luscious peach or apricot from one of the trees, some filberts or root vegetables in the garden, or even find a bit of "restes" from last evening's dinner, but that was the sum of it. There was almost never any food in the house except that which had just been harvested and sat in the big fruit bowl on the table between meals, or on the counter in the little canning kitchen (the large kitchen upstairs was never used for this purpose). Yet she would cook wonderful breakfasts and these fantastic dinners each night, the tastes of which still haunt and inspire my cooking today, seemingly from nothing, but actually from Everything good.<br />
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In French Switzerland, when I went to stay with her there, we often visited the local farmers' market together, and I remember watching her charm the vendors with her manner and her insistence on top quality (she always secured the best). She could be immensely charming, and because of her knowledge of food and her insistence on the best quality, she was always treated with deference and respect. In her own way, she was 'formidable' as they French say, and she had a kind of noblesse oblige about her manner that was recognized. Alternately, She and I would go for a long walk into the woods just above the village, where she would find all sorts of wonderful things to use in her cooking. She and my tante Gabrielle (whom we called "Gaby") would transform these gleanings into magical meals, and often in the evenings, family from around the region would join us for a feast, candles blazing, blue smoke after dinner, and philosophy with the cognac libations. It was a magical time.<br />
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You can bring a little of this magic to your dinner hour tonight, with a little effort, but not too much, and you can vary the toppings according to your taste and what you have available. Once you make this tart you will find it goes very quickly the second time and thereafter. All this discussion of seasonality has put me in mind of varying concepts of time, the appreciation of which can often bring a deeper magic to life. In the Greek, time is referred to as Kronos, which as you know is the Greek god of time, and as Kairos. Kronos time is what we live with on a daily basis. It is measured by clocks, hours, minutes, and seconds. It often seems to be more of a jailer than a friend. There is rarely enough of it, and we feel stressed from its demands. Kairos time, on the other hand, flows gently -- allowing us to be in the moment. It is heaven breaking in, and often we experience this in the sacraments. I think the table is an excellent place to experience Kairos. We participate in kairos time, rather than racing to catch up with it. It is often referred to as God's timing, moments that nurture our souls, when we surrender our own need for control and allow him to Give to us what we need when we need it. To give us our daily bread. Too cook sensually and seasonally is to embrace Kairos, to pleasure in what we are given from the harvest and in season. It is cooking from the heart, in the moment, pleasuring in the process and the beautiful ingredients as much as the result, such that there is a time for every purpose under heaven.<br />
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<div align="center"><span style="color: #93c47d;"></span></div>at the table with anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12352326783088095480noreply@blogger.com0