The Secret Garden Door



In the introduction to a Book of Hours (A Treasury of Hours, Selections from Illuminated Prayer Books), 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.

Jean Cardinal Danielou, the French theologian, in his lovely meditation, "The Sign of the Temple," drawn from his classic, The Presence of God (I find Danielou's writing very beautiful), 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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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 Romantic Theology. 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.

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!

An Omelette and a Glass of Wine

Omelettes cooking on the hearth at

La Mere Poulard



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 House which Shall be Unnamed), 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. 

The chef, gastronome, author and friend of Escoffier, M. Phileas Gilbert, in his treatise Variations sur l'Omelette, 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.

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.

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.

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 her 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.

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.

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.

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 Goose Fat and Garlic, 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?

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!

Les Tres Riches Heures

October, from Les Tres Riches Heures de Duc de Berry

Tilling the Field, the Louvre in the Background

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 Les Tres Riches Heures, 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.

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. 

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.

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.

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 Les Tres Riches Heures de Duc de Berry.  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.

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 Master of the Shadows, 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.



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.

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.

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!

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, Seeing More Clearly, Knowing More Dearly. Check it out. It's terrific.

Fortune's Remedy



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. 

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. 

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 Desiring the Kingdom, 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.

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 ars nova (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.

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.

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 Remede de Fortune 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 eudemonia (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 God's Companion, "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.
 
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.

As for  tonight's table at The House which shall be Unnamed, 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.
 
Happy Cooking mes amis. May you find Lady Hope. A bientot a table..

The Good Life (Lessons of a Rag Doll and a Chicken Dinner)



The Charlie and the Chocolate Factory 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.

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 "A Doll's Christmas," which has inspired many projects at The House which shall be Unnamed, 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."

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!

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 create 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. 

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.

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.  Eudaimonia or eudaemonia, from the ancient Greek, sometimes Anglicized as eudemonia , is a Greek word commonly translated as happiness or welfare; 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.

Pumpkin Soup to follow. More anon. Try the chicken, mes amis. You will be surpised. A bientot.

Lunch in another high and lovely place (Grace)

Gordes

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.

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.

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?

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

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 the 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.

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.

Less is More (Potage Parmentier, almost, and an easy autumn Pasta)



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, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 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.


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. 

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 potage parmentier.  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.

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.

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.

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.

Let me know how you get along, yes? Happy Cooking, mes amis, and a blessed weekend to you. A Bientot.