Braising with honey: Souris d'agneau confit au miel.

I don't know my meat cuts in English very well, but a souris d'agneau is the last narrow bit on the leg of lamb. (No mice are involved in the preparation of this dish, despite the name). Braised for two and a half hours in a blend of oil, honey, and herbs, then paired with a puree of celery root and potato, this becomes winter comfort food par excellence. It has the added advantage of being extremely easy on the nerves as it is incredibly easy to make, using a minimum of ingredients. When you've finished, you'll find the meat falls away from the bone.

The recipe is enough for four to six people. If fewer people are at the table, make four souris anyway, as you can use the leftovers to make lamb rillettes--a coarse-textured, easy to make pate. Or you can make delicious sandwiches. Simply flake the meat, removing any fat, salt and pepper generously and refrigerate. The next day, enjoy on a split baguette with mayonnaise or mustard and some arugula or mache.

4 souris d'agneau

8 tablespoons olive oil (or duck fat, if you have some)

6 tablespoons honey (the fuller-flavored, the better)

4 tablespoons fresh herbs (thyme, rosemary...)

1 head of garlic, optional

Preheat your oven to 180 degrees celcius, or 350 degrees fahrenheit.

If (and only if!) you have the time, cover the souris with rock salt and refrigerate overnight. Wipe off the salt before cooking.

Pour the oil and honey in your cocotte*. Heat on a low fire, just until they combine nicely. Toss in the herbs (crushing them a bit beforehand with a mortar and pestle helps release their flavors). If you are using dried herbs, use half as much. Put in the souris, coating them with the oil and honey. Break apart the head of garlic, throw in the cloves with their skin still on. And that's it.

Put the lid on, pop the cocotte in the oven. After an hour and a half (or so), make sure that the lamb doesn't seem to be drying out; if there is barely any sauce left, stir in some water. Pour the sauce on the lamb. Your souris will be nicely browned and ready after two, to two and a half hours in the oven. Please note that longer does not always mean better; in this case, overcooked will still be tender but also dry, so calculate when it will need to be on the table and work backward to figure out the best time to start cooking.

Enjoy--and let me know what you think!

*This is an oven-proof cast-iron, sometimes enameled, braising dish with heavy lid. While it can be a splurge purchase, it will pay you dividends in terms of being able to prepare a whole new range of meats, vegetables and desserts requiring minimal work.

Leftovers (above), baking in a yolk-glazed tourtiere, or meat pie (below).

For the love of old-fashioned wheels.

We dropped in on the classic car show and exchange in Nimes over the weekend, and the littlest one certainly got his automobile fix. Beyond cars, there was a whole range of wheels to check out: olde tyme bicycles, motorcycles, tractors, even wartime-modified Willys and Jeeps (with the tires removed, they rode on rails). Of the cars, the showstoppers were possibly among the Bugattis. There were a couple of pristine "one-of" Bugattis, and the collection was the most I'd ever seen together. They were brought together to mark the 100th anniversary of the company.

As is the case at these larger-scale events, there was a little something for everyone. There was the authentic available-for-rent, ultra-stretch white limousine (a bit worn), flanked by a generous number of US flags and a generously proportioned platinum blonde (also a bit worn). She was attempting, it appeared, to channel both Dolly Parton and a stiletto boot-lovin' Nevadan good-time girl. (My shots of her were blurred--unfortunately spoiled by my giggling). God bless America's image abroad...The man below had a pretty good setup: his display collapses and locks up for easy towing. Comfortable seating is built in, the better to hawk his "Eclator."

I've long been irritated by the merchandising of, well, everything (I mean beyond the nostalgia selling of old brands, as above). It can incense me, how so many vapidly surround themselves with labels and symbols. You can see Che Guevara's face everywhere on nearly anything, sported by people who have neither an inkling nor interest in what he did and stood for. The T-shirt vendor's display at the Nimes retro car show made me pause, however.

All symbols, not only Che's portrait, have been utterly drained of meaning. Whether historically significant or politically sensitive, they now serve as entertainment-lite, a way to present yourself (perhaps with pretensions toward hipness or irony) to other consumers.

Perhaps I need a glass of wine. And to settle down and play cars with my child.

(There's a) new Marechal in town.

Right, so Marechal Gaspar has actually been plying his trade around here for some 15 years, but I'm a sucker for a play on words.

The marechal ferrant is a farrier, and ours is Monsieur Gaspar. He explained that to become a farrier involves going to a special school. This is unsurprising: in France there is a special school for everything. It is a one to two year program, involving in-depth study of all aspects of the horse, as well as the profession itself. And yes, women do become farriers. He has had two female apprentices himself. There is obviously a period of apprenticeship before becoming certified in this physically demanding position.

The marechals come every two months to replace the shoes of working horses; for less active horses like ours, they come every 3-4 months. It adds up to a lot of iron.

They travel with all their equipment (often U.S. made) in modified pick-up trucks or delivery vans. Their trade is, in spite of the heavy tools, a delicate and most necessary art. The marechals lay out all their equipment first, tie on the heavy leather chaps (not a decorative accessory), and take a good look at the horse's feet.

Each hoof is cleaned, the old shoe removed, the hoof clipped and filed (think of it as a single, seriously overgrown toenail). In the photo above, you can see the bits of hoof near the smoking horseshoe. Once this is done, the new shoes are heated and custom-shaped while red-hot with a hammer upon the anvil. I don't suppose too much of the basics has changed in the 3000 years of shoeing horses. Each hoof is fitted several times: the still hot iron is placed on the hoof, where it smokes and leaves a burnt impression. Each time, the farrier can verify how (more) closely the shoe fits. It's smelly, smoky and precise work. Accuracy is essential for the health and comfort of an animal who spends nearly all her life on her feet. Or, more accurately, her toes.

Marechal Gaspar enjoys his work. He got into it because he rode and loved horses. He actually worked in a restaurant for a decade. In Paris. Before that incarnation, he worked (for another decade) across the street from the Sacre-Coeur on the most prestigious floor--les tissus d'ameublement--of the Marche St. Pierre (http://www.marchesaintpierre.com/). The enormous fabrics warehouse is a magnet not only for interior designers and stylists from the world over, but also for the cost-conscious housewife from down the street.

It is difficult to imagine him cutting endless measures of sussurating, expensive fabric, but I suppose he handled the customers with the same ease and gentle direction as he does his equine customers. The more French people I meet in the Cevennes, the more I begin to suspect that there is a subtle yet significant movement toward an alternative, simpler lifestyle. Even in downshifting, however, we remain plugged in: if you'd like to engage our farrier, you can visit his site at http://www.marechal-ferrant-gaspar.com/

Horsing around in Montpellier.

Equisud is a large-scale horse exhibition and fair that takes place every November in Montpellier. Visiting Britta's stables made me rummage around for the photos of the show...

Yup, Virginia, there really were line-dancing Frenchmen.

There were well over 25 different horse breeds on display and for sale, and all the horse gear you could possibly imagine, let alone require. Horse earrings and matching skirt, anyone?

A gorgeous "cow" horse (said Sophie), performing with an octagenarian.

And only in France (or at least not in the U.S.): there was a horse cabaret. At ring-side, you could choose your seating according to which of the three restaurants you wanted to dine at. Tapas, yes, fast-food, no. Translation: we got to drink wine and linger for hours over a good Moroccan lunch while sitting directly ring-side with the kids. Parfait, especially given the crowds everywhere else. One performance followed another, and then, fairly saturated, we left to wander. (The thirteen-year-old in me--the one who lined her bedroom with equine posters-- was a little breathless.) Outside, they were lining up for the churros and sausage, which didn't look half-bad. We ducked into the auctions. And headed for home without a horse.

The Three Kings.

Because my knowledge of French folkloric history is marginal at best and my familiarity with the Bible rather threadbare, I have been boning up on the three Kings and the celebration of the Epiphany itself--using French Wikipedia. (I know, I know. But there was, surprisingly enough, a decent amount of information.)

For example (I did not know this): the remains of the three Kings in question can be visited in the German heart of the Cologne cathedral where they have been resting since 1164; for this reason throughout the Middle Ages they were actually referred as the "Three Kings of Cologne." According to tradition, their names were Gaspard, Melchior and Balthazar. Gaspard, who is supposed to have had Asian traits, brought incense. Melchior, an old bearded white guy, brought gold. Balthazar was black, and he brought myrrh. According to Russian legend, the fourth king was Father Christmas. The Finnish tell the same story, further explaining that he gave presents to children because he was too far north to see the Star, let alone arrive in Bethlehem in time.

As in many other cases, the Christians simply incorporated pagan ritual in order to make their religion more palatable to their new converts. Thus, the Catholic galette des rois has its base in ancient Rome, where the one who found the feve became king of the festivities. Then, as now, the youngest participant hid under the table while the slicing of the cake took place, then designated each slice of cake to its owner. Then they made merry.

The galette itself is of frangipane, an almond and pastry cream confection, which is encased in a package of puff pastry, and air. Sigh. It is sumptuous and simple at the same time, a balance of lightness and satisfying buttery richness. Many French rightly insist--oldest traditions be damned--that it be enjoyed throughout the month of January.

As for the feve, it began ages ago as a humble dried bean, hence the name. Since the 1800s, however, the feve has been made out of porcelain, following every possible theme and representation. The chic bakeries of Paris, such as Poilane and Pierre Herme, come up with their own series of feves each year. Sigh. It's no wonder some people compulsively begin collecting these often very charming little trinkets.

I found some handmade feves at nearby ceramicist (pictured below). Now I just have to decide which one to use first...Which one will I--I mean, the kids--most enjoy?

(I should mention that they do it differently in the south of France, especially in Provence, where instead of a galette, they have a gateau, which is a brioche ring studded and stuffed with candied fruit. With the feve inside, of course. And on the bakery shelf, you can find the gateau des rois right next to the galette des rois).

An afternoon in Pompignan.

A pair of Icelanders.

The other day, we ran into friends we haven't seen in a long time. As usual, they invited us to their stables. It's the sort of invitation that, while very appealing, has always been over-ridden by whatever else was already going on. This time, warming ourselves with coffee at our usual cafe before hitting the frigid marche, we had nothing further planned. For once. So we accepted the invitation with pleasure and anticipation.

A Lusitano stallion, au naturel.

I've no idea why, but we've never been to the area of Pompignan before. It is certainly visit-worthy. It is beautiful and wild and wide, ringed on three sides by a gorgeous mountain range. Thyme, sarriette, box hedge and juniper are found everywhere. Hard to imagine, but before tanneries and glass-making became the primary 17th and 18th century industries, this wind-swept plateau was a dense forest. The one industry still active is quarrying, for Pierre de Pompignan, a limestone valued since Roman times.

Dakar had to be on a lead, but we chose a box stall for him instead.

Britta and Claude have over 40 horses scattered across some 220 hectares, and it was easy to see why we haven't seen them: they're far too busy. Britta is doing quite well in her immaculate, well-designed operation, as word of mouth has spread about her natural, gentle way to raise, train and educate horses (and their owners). In addition to boarding on a selective basis, they handle "problem" horses one-on-one, and provide full breeding services for Lusitanian horses. Britta has an extraordinary patience with horses, investing an enormous amount of time in them, and the operation is her life, as she freely admits. We had fun visiting with the horses and exploring her life. If you would like to know more about the stables, go to their website: http://www.lesugagnaux.com/. I, for one, would like to know more about the song playing on it...

Sophie communing with the unofficial mascot, an award-winning, very friendly Percheron named Oscar. Note the horse in the stall next to his is a "normal" sized, adult horse.