Burgundy break.

There's nothing finer than a little rest and relaxation with some good friends. Top down, radio tuned to something Cuban-ish, I've just breezed in from a long weekend due north of Beaune, the endlessly charming little capital of Burgundy wine, smack dab in the pastoral Côte d’Or. In the time we had together, there was a lot of talking going on. Some low-speed swaying in a hammock. Even a moment of badminton, in the thinnest summer blouse hauled out of the back of the closet. But mostly, I was eating (with lunch winding down at 4.30 pm et cetera). There may have been some drinking of wine going on. In my own garden I always putter. Nod if you know what I mean. I can't help myself; there's always something. But in someone else's finely-manicured, sun-soaked garden, well, strain was not the order of the day.We didn't solve all the world's problems, but we did catch up on all the news closer to home. We swapped recipes. And visiting them reminded me of how much there is to do in Burgundy. Yes, there is wine. If you go, definitely treat yourself to the 60 kilometer long Route des Grands Crus, which wanders in and out of about forty of the most renowned wine villages of the fabled region--Puligny-Montrachet, Pommard, Volnay, Meursault, Nuits-Saint-Georges, and so on, from Dijon to Santenay. Beyond the tipple, Dijon and Beaune themselves are well worth visiting (outside of the high season!) And there is the twelfth century Cistercian Abbey de Fontenay, which I still haven't managed to visit though I really do want to see it, and its gardens. There are also heaps of gorgeous chateaux well worth a wander. I didn't do any of that, didn't actually do anything really touristic, although I did manage a visit to the rather sedate city of Gray (pictures to be posted next time, I think). I did have time to think about Burgundy and its exquisite pleasures--both the ephemeral and the ageless ones--as the weather kindly allowed for extensive lingering over glasses. One late night, after cheeses and Burgundy reds, I tried eau-de-vie de gentiane. This? Not for the faint-hearted. The roots of the flowering yellow gentian are laboriously ripped from the earth, cleaned and finely sliced; it takes 16 kilos of roots and rhizomes to make a single liter of eau-de-vie. These plant bits are fermented in oak barrels, and the resulting clear, powerfully scented liquid weighs in at about 55% alcohol, and can easily run to 75 euros per 3/4 liter bottle. Your head spins once you get a decent whiff of the radically earthy, pungent drink, considered a healthful after-dinner digestif. Take the smallest of sips the very first time. Give your head and senses time to adjust. You'll either be wildly for it or against it. No fence-sitting here. I've no photo, because I forgot to take one, but even if I had you'd be no more the wiser, as I drank an artisanal (read: illegally home-distilled) one--high-quality, with no added sugar--but no label either. If only blogs had a scratch and sniff application, then perhaps you'd have an idea. But yellow gentian is also in the French apéritif Suze, so if you've ever tasted that, you've a notion of what I was imbibing. (Yellow gentian's also one of the 56 herbs found in Jägermeister, but comparisons to that 70 proof, heavy metal hangover-in-a-bottle are probably neither alluring nor accurate...I mean, yikes.)

La grêle, les fleurs.

So this is short and sweet, unlike the storm that blew through today in the less than balmy south of France. Can you say "la grêle"? Because that is what we were saying, along with some other choice words. It hailed. It's April, or very, very nearly so. I didn't take photos during the hailstorm, it was just too grim; besides, I was busy consoling my appalled Weimaraner. Who knew the sky could crack open quite so loudly, over and over again? No golfball-sized hail, but large enough for my dog to decide he was going to hold it for a looong time.

I went to check for damage afterward, camera in hand, but even though it had sounded fairly apocalyptic, most blossoms were still whole (the ones that haven't been already ruined by the last Norwegian-style snowfall, that is). Perhaps it helps that we've gotten a slow start to spring.

My camera and I were followed by a capering crew of animals and children. (Can you see one of them above?) My daughter started picking violets. Lots of them. To make a secret potion for spring (obviously!), which she proudly shared with me after working at the petals with my mortar and pestle and a bit of sugar. It was a minute amount of "eau de violette". You could indeed just smell the flowers...There are actually French sirops de violette, or violet syrups, available on the market. They aren't particularly easy to find, but you can get them, and I imagine a judicious touch might liven berry desserts, jams, even ice creams. And just think, crystallized violets to top it all off. This got me thinking, which then had me dusting off a bottle given to me of--bingo, violet liqueur. The most famous violet liqueur comes from Toulouse, where at peak production in the early 1900s, there were some 600 producers formally organized in a cooperative, cultivating some 150 acres. Violets are also sold fresh, go into perfume, those syrups. The liqueur is used to make a number of classic cocktails (like the 1930s Aviation cocktail), which Jonathan Gold recently wrote about at Gourmet Magazine. It is also used to make kirs, using white wine or Champagne. Doesn't violet liqueur seem right up the alley of, say, Martha Stewart? Will this concoction lose its Grandma's cupboard connotations? I, for one, would like to cook with it. I did do a quick search, and found a recipe for homemade liqueur, for in case you're intrigued. 180 grams of violets for a bottle of liqueur. That is a pile of violets. We have a lot out in the meadow, but I think I'd rather candy them.

Any ideas for how to use that liqueur in the kitchen?

After the storm.

Going forward, looking back.

This being the south of France, after our local version of "Snowmageddon 2010," the next day unfolded clear as crystal. I ventured out to take stock.

The snow threw sunstar-like sparkles, the extraordinary beauty of which my little point and shoot camera cannot duplicate. Please trust me, it was/is the stuff of fairy tales and warm-fisted childhood dreams.Nature is of two minds around here, torn between the pulling of the sun and the withdrawal of cold. Lately, often simultaneously.This is fine, we need the precipitation to make it through the parched months to come, but we mere mortals need...sustenance. We feed on our memories, literally and figuratively. I've come to the end of my supply of heavenly fine rooibos tea sourced during my trip to the desert, but just now I am remembering that Wyoming cup of "hot snow."

Easier than pie, actually. A moment's activity for a deep and sustaining pleasure. If you are feeling chilled, try this on for size, and don't be shy about adding a measure of rum if your moment calls for it.
Neige au Chaud (White Hot Chocolate)

Serves 2.

2 cups whole milk

80 g good white chocolate, chopped

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

generous pinch of cinammon

optional: 1/4 teaspoon sweet almond extract

Heat milk without boiling. Add chocolate, vanilla, cinnamon and optional almond extract, stir until well-combined. Serve, settle down and relax.

Highways and byways: to Laramie via Laguna.

Old signs have intrinsic appeal for me. They suggest that a particular life has happened in a given place. They remind you of graphic and font styles that came and went, or that were never really here to begin with. I like the idea of one-of's, the no-franchising-likely-with-that-kind of-signage, but if you stop on by, we'll provide you with a service of one sort or another kind of places. Heck, I like that you can still get gas at Sinclair gas pumps, and that sometimes there's an actual model of a rather beaten-up green dinosaur. I know it's a corporation, but those gas stations are still old school.

Perhaps I like old signs most of all because they remind me of the kinds of road trips that involve more time on the secondary roads than the numbing major highways. If that sounds like it's your way to travel, here's where I strongly recommend William Least Heat-Moon's transcendent Blue Highways, for serious dreaming and escaping in the comfort of your shabbiest armchair. His book may even occasion a shift in how you view the United States.

This latest trip was limited in scope, though I did have time to recharge my vitamin D levels on the coastline (for a emptier beach, like the one above, try Crystal Cove State Park, just to the north of Laguna Beach), and to people- and seagull-watch on various boardwalks and piers.

How I'd love to take you up the coastline north of LA; that'll have to wait for another trip. Can you see how much affection I have for all the microclimates--coastline, desert, deep forest, mountain range--that make up the state of California? Too soon, it was time to head north (by plane, darn the pesky constraints of real life). Upon my arrival in the snow-stung state of Wyoming, the hotel clerk asked "business or pleasure" and looked at me in mild disbelief when I declared the latter.

The winter months aren't exactly high season in Wyoming (population 550,000, give or take) where until recently the pronghorn antelope outnumbered the people. It's the emptiest state in the nation (which is perhaps why it teems with wildlife); in the winter, you basically only go to Wyoming if you dig snowmobiles. That, or if your sister has just had her first baby. (Wyoming summers, on the other hand, while brief, are incredible).

Laramie is home for my sister--and the University of Wyoming. The presence of students may help explain why it is a liberal oasis in an immense, solidly conservative state (aka Dick Cheney Territory). At 29,000, the town isn't that small. Just up the way, Centennial proudly stands at 110 residents. Down the highway, the metropolis of Buford wins. Its population? One. I kid you not.I strolled through the well-stocked organic co-op (you can grind your own flours on the spot!), browsed for books in the independently owned, immensely welcoming Second Story. Perhaps its past as a thriving brothel and dance hall (located strategically next to the train tracks) explains its openness. I was pointed to the "best coffee in town"--Coal Creek Coffee Co.--just past the "massage therapy & oxygen bar". From their extensive (for a coffeshop) menu you can order a "Hot Snow", which is a hot chocolate made with almond extract and--you guessed it--white chocolate.

The people are friendly in Laramie. Very friendly. They make the French locals where I live seem nearly surly in comparison, which they actually (almost) never are. There were chats left and right and unsolicited offers of help for the duration of my Wyoming visit.

6-foot high snowbreak, to limit the drift of snow.

Maybe you get friendlier when you live where it's winter more than half the year--and a stranger rolls into town.

Pulling something holy out of straw.

While out driving, I noticed that the vignerons were out in force these past couple of days, taking advantage of the clear weather to carefully prune the vines. They and their workers must do this with real care and precision: if the time-consuming prunings aren't done properly (i.e. dans les régles de l'art) the harvest for the year can be lost.Having pruned my birthday cake of its (many) candles, I've remained in a celebratory mood, so I decided to open two half-bottle-sized beauties that had been quietly improving in the cellar.
Vin de paille is French for "straw wine", but in my personal language translates to "wine beyond the norm". Intense and quite complex, it is pricier due to the juice yields, which are absurdly tiny because only the healthiest (otherwise there is a risk of mold), very ripest grapes are partially dried on mats of straw before being pressed. Some 100 kilos of the "partially raisined" grapes will result in only about 20 liters of juice.

Because the wine is thus deliberately concentrated, it is stronger and sweeter, which means it can be stored for very long periods of time, and is in fact often aged for quite some time in barrels by the vigneron. This rare wine is found only in the Hermitage and the Jura, with some production also in the Alsace. In the Jura, the (white) grapes used are Chardonnay, Poulsard and Savagnin. The result is a sweet wine that defies expectation, with a luscious but complicated, earthy character that, at its finest, can make time stand still. Seriously mmm--yes, that's very technical wine-speak.The Italian version of vin de paille is vin santo, or holy wine, and it is traditionally made of white Trebbiano and Malvasia grapes. This wine has actually had a significantly longer history than vin de paille, but can vary hugely in taste from a very dry, sherry style to cloyingly sweet. This is perhaps in part due to the less organized, sometimes contradictory approach of the Italians (wine being, at its best, after all a reflection of its terroir, which includes the people who make it). There is also, I have been warned, an alarmingly broad range of quality among vin santo. Don't allow this to deter you from trying a bottle yourself, however. The one I opened is from Volpaia, and is a well-regarded nuanced, sweet vin santo from the breath-taking Tuscan vineyard of an Italian acquaintance. Volpaia is both suave and of the earth; you sip it and feel the contradictions in the mouth, the viscous depth, the stretched out finish.

If you want to be Italian for an evening, you serve this to visiting friends, you dip almond biscotti (crunchy biscuits) in your glasses (hang the crumbs!) and have a great rollicking conversation about everything and nothing.

Winter fruit: the bergamot orange.

Wintertime is citrus time, and my little trees have valiantly continued to produce from behind glass. I've gone through the Meyer lemons, the elfin clementines have also come and gone, but the limes and lemons continue to ripen. I've nursed myself and others through sore throats, and done many other things, banking on the acidity and generosity of these little trees. I love citrus of (nearly) all sorts. And after writing and thinking about tangy yogurt in the last post, stumbling upon a crateful of bergamot at the local organic co-op was both wonderful and opportune. You simply can't find bergamot oranges every day, unless you happen to live in the Calabria region of Italy.
There is a pretty good chance you're familiar with bergamot, even if you think you aren't: its distinctively piney fragrant rind is what oil of bergamot is made from, and oil of bergamot is what perfumes Earl Grey tea. (It is also in Lady Grey tea, which has more of a clearly citrus fragrance, as the bergamot is softened by the additions of lemon and orange peel).

Bergamot is a small, bitter orange, citrus aurantium subsp. bergamia, mainly cultivated in Calabria, although bergamot of somewhat lesser quality is produced in Turkey, where you can also find bergamot preserves, and there are ongoing attempts (with varying degrees of success) to produce this fruit in Argentina, Brazil, Ivory Coast, the US and Morocco. Beyond Earl Grey, bergamot is used in perfumes; according to Wikipedia and other sources, about one third of all men's colognes and half of women's perfumes contain its essential oil, although many also resort to chemical copies of bergamot. In aromatherapy, it is traditionally used to counter depression and stress, but it also has antiseptic qualities. User beware: its proven effectiveness as a clarifying skin toner is only in minute amounts, blended with other oils. Any more and you risk a photosensitive reaction if you go in the sun.

Of course, the only self-medication I planned to indulge in with my half-dozen bergamot oranges was the edible kind. I made a homey glazed yogurt cake, or gâteau au yaourt--the go-to recipe for French home cooks everywhere--dosed with a big spoonful of grated zest and lashings of bergamot juice, which is as pucker-worthy as lemon juice but definitely more bitter than grapefruit. This complex bitterness is why bergamot, beyond tea, is also an excellent addition to cocktails, sodas and other mixed drinks. As there were still more bergamot oranges in my fruit basket, and I had no raging desire for a high-toned bourbon sour B-Line, I went trawling online and found my answer at Vancouver, Washington (USA) based Hungry Cravings blog.
Blogger Lucy came up with her own bergamot riff on scrumptious Russian tea cakes (sometimes known as Mexican wedding cookies), and I immediately pounced upon her recipe. In the photo above, they are cooling after having been baked, but aren't yet rolled in powdered sugar.
These rich little cakelets actually melt in your mouth, leaving a sweet lemony aftertaste, which brings to mind what is perhaps the most old-fashioned French culinary use of bergamot: the boiled, hand-cut bergamot-flavored hard candies of Nancy, a town in the Lorraine. (Photo below courtesy of the Lorraine tourism bureau.)As for Lucy's confections, having made them (and kids could make them, they are that easy), the only alteration I might recommend would be to increase the amount of bergamot zest from 1 to 2 tablespoons. Another tip: make these when you are certain company is coming, or you plan to call on others (bearing gifts), because there is a reasonable chance you + thirty to forty of these decadent beauties = a little too much over-the-kitchen-sink consumption...I think I'll make some non-alcoholic sparkling fruit spritzers with the remaining bergamot to detox from all the butter.

Going green, Japanese style.

Photo from Zenmatchatea.

For hundreds of years the Japanese royal family, the cream of the elite and of course Zen Buddhist monks have taken part in the highly ritualized tea ceremony, or Way of Tea, which involves the consumption of the very finely powdered form of green tea called matcha.

I just wanted to bake a cake with it.

I'm not the only fan. Today, from the Starbucks Matcha Frappucino to the Jamba Juice Matcha Energy Shot Orange Juice, from Pierre Herme's elaborately constructed matcha cakes and chocolates to matcha and tiramisu-flavored Kit Kat bars, from energy bars to cereals, matcha has hit Main street in many parts of the world. Based on the cooking magazines I rifle through, sites I visit and friends I talk to, my informal perception is that the French are a good deal more charmed by matcha flavor possibilities than are Americans, who seem to focus on the very significant health and dieting benefits. Once again, I kind of find myself in the French camp.

Image from Zenmatchatea.

Matcha is made from the same Camellia sinensis plant as regular green teas, but is ten to fifteen times more potent than normal steeped green tea (and boasts 70 times the antioxydant power of orange juice). Basically, instead of consuming an infusion of the leaves, you are actually consuming a refined version of the leaves themselves.The difference between regular green tea and matcha lies primarily in the growth and harvest of the plant. Matcha is harvested from shade-grown plants, as is the expensive gyokuro, or "jade dew". Because they are sheltered from the sun, these plants have both boosted chlorophyll content and amino acids that sweeten the the leaves. Only the youngest, most tender leaves and bud from the top of the plant are picked by hand, deveined, de-stemmed, shade-dried and stone-ground to the fineness of talc. According to Wikipedia, it can take up to an hour to grind 30 grams of matcha...Good quality matcha has an intense flavor and a marked sweetness you cannot find in any other sort of green tea, powdered or not. Chefs and home cooks continue to discover that matcha pairs quite beautifully with any kind of chocolate, including white, vanilla, cinnamon and other Chai spices including ginger, and cream-based drinks/dishes (such as tiramisu, panna cotta, and crème brûlée). I decided to go with a recipe for Marbled Chocolate and Matcha Bundt Cake, from Bakerella's kitchen. Except that I unfortunately don't have a Bundt pan (yet), so I used a silicone pan, hence the decorative top. Verdict? Rich, intriguing and delicious, so check out her recipe (linked above) if you're intrigued.There are some other recipes I really want to try, specifically one for chocolate and matcha truffles. But then again, maybe I should go Japanese Zen and lose weight American style by drinking a cup a day. Hmm.I'll toss a coin and let you know how it turns out.

Staying warm, part deux.

There is always debris involved in the act of creation, and wine-making is no exception. White wine grapes are generally crushed and pressed to extract the liquid, leaving behind a greenish-brownish mass of skin, seeds and pulp. Red wine grapes are usually crushed and the liquid allowed to drain freely, leaving behind a blackish mess of solids, which also include traces of yeast cells and alcohol.
Wine-makers are thus left with substantive solids, which English cider makers long ago dubbed pomace. With this, they make pomace brandy, or what the Italians call grappa and the French call Marc. (In the photo, the three bottles on the left contain grappa, including the more well-known Alexander at the very end.) Parenthetically, if you want to say the 'm' word out loud and impress others by sounding French-ish, drop that 'c' at the end.

Wine-makers engage in their own sort of recycling in a number of ways. They use the leftovers--including the dregs, or sediment found in the bottom of the fermentation vessel. From this, they extract what is sold in powder form as cream of tartar (used to stabilize and add volume to beaten egg whites, to improve the texture of baked goods, for polishing brass and copper, and removing tough stains from your clothes and bathtub...). They also spread the dregs in the vineyard, returning nitrogen and other organic nutrients to the soil. But most notably--at least in my mind--they make that clear, robust brandy. Because what a pity to see any bit of what has so carefully been grown go to waste, right?So the Marc is simply a very earthy response to the challenge of making something out of that "nothing", and what resulted was a kind of moonshine that served as a fairly spine-straightening kick in the pants, a buffer against harsh winters and intensive labor.

The Marc has acquired some finesse and distanced itself to a degree from its fiery, peasant origins. Most Marc in France comes from either the region of Champagne (much of which is distilled in steam heated vats at Jean Goyard, after which the highly aromatic Marc is aged by individual champagne houses) or Burgundy. There are a variety of different stills and distillation processes found across the country, but Burgundian Marcs are oak-aged, and tend to be quite rich--or ample. Alsace is, to a smaller degree, also known for its Marcs (far right in the photo), as is the Jura (just left of the center bottle). There is no real difference between Marc and grappa, other than country of origin. Since Nonino's hugely marketed, transformative shift toward single varietal grappas in the early 70s, however, grappa has gone very high end, with gorgeous packaging that often costs more than the beverage within. Grappa has gained a certain cachet, especially in the US, its biggest export market, a chicness that Marc still lacks.

Marc is drunk as a digestif, taken after dinner to ease digestion, perhaps with an espresso or a good cigar for the aficionados. It is not, however, for the faint of heart. With an alcohol content ranging from 40% to 45%, conservative sipping, with extended pauses for conversation, is key to remaining upright. My favorite (so far) is the beautiful, supple vanilla and spice-scented Marc de Banyuls that I brought back from the marvelously rough-hewn (French Catalan) Cote Vermeille. This one is made from Grenache noir, gris and Carignan grape pomace.

Wind up your courage, give this brandy a try. As for me, my companionable little glass is now empty, which brings this entry to a close.

(With thanks to Charlene, for asking about it.)

Staying warm.

It has shifted from this......and this... ..to these. This all happened in a matter of moments, or so it seems. Spoiled with an endlessly balmy November, we rolled blithely into blackest December. Boy, do I ever resent the guy who came up with Daylight Savings Time for robbing me of those last rays of light. All the radiators have been flicked up a notch to accomodate the drop in temperature. Will we have a white Christmas? It would be atypical for the Languedoc these past few winters. But stock up anyway on the few aromatic ingredients for vin chaud, or mulled wine. For when you're snowed in, or when you just want to pretend that you are.

Vin Chaud (French Mulled Wine)

Serves one to four people, depending on the degree of thirst.

one bottle of Beaujolais red wine

zest of 2 oranges

zest of one lemon

4 cinnamon sticks

6 whole pods of cardamom, split open

6 whole cloves

1/2 tsp freshly grated nutmeg

1/3 cup of currant liqueur (Cassis de Dijon), or Cognac and 3 tablespoons of sugar

Combine the wine and all the spices in a saucepan, heat until simmering, and allow to bubble very slightly for about half an hour. Take at least three deep breaths of the gorgeous perfumes wafting through your house. Add the Cassis de Dijon, or sweetened Cognac, simmer for another five minutes, strain and serve.

Sip and dream of picture-postcard Christmas markets in the Alsace, where the snow lingers a bit longer.