The modest madeleine, modified.

By the time the kids were clambering into the schoolbus, the vast fog had already drifted in.  It settled across our little valley and onward toward the next village, imposed a dozen shades of grey and upturned the rest of the color palette.

 

The routine walk later with the dog took on a certain element of magic.  Dakar's a Weimaraner,  a shimmery, ghostly shadow himself; he disappeared into the wall of fog in half a moment.  Rounding a curve of the road, there he was again, bounding into view, wisps of mist curling away at his mad, laughing, young-dog gallop, so utterly in his skin and in the moment. 

Maybe that should be my plan for 2011; to be more dog-like in the year of the cat.

The neighbor's horses ignored him, or at least they tried to, and we continued our wet rambling.  Today though, I didn't dally overmuch: I had something to hurry home to.

I scored a whole pile of organic blood oranges on sale this morning.  You may know my weakness for blood oranges...but, seriously, what's not to love?

In this damp month, too often dreary, weary, the solid dominion of coughs and sneezes, the spectacularly assertive color of blood oranges and their antioxidant-fueled kick keep us going.  Doesn't the sight alone of that color and sparkle revive you?

Try telling that to the kids, who're happy to look and smile, pleased with a glass of juice, but whose bellies really clamor for an after-school snack. 



I played around with an archetypal (and simple) French treat, adding a subtle citrus twist, and voilà! 

Madeleines aux miel et au orange sanguine (Blood Orange and Honey Madeleines)

Makes 24 madeleines.  You will need two madeleine pans.

120 g (1/3 cup) butter

180 g (1 3/4 cup) flour

2 large pinches of salt

80 g (1 scant cup) finely ground almonds or hazelnuts

250 g (1/2 scant cup) superfine/castor sugar, divided
6 eggs, separated
2 teaspoons orange flower water

2 teaspoons honey

finely grated, minced zest of 3 blood oranges*

juice of one small blood orange* (about 3 1/2 to 4 tablespoons)



Grease the madeleine molds thoroughly, using softened butter; make sure you get into all those little grooves to avoid any sticking later.  Flour and set aside. 

Make a beurre noisette (browned butter):  melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat, swirling occasionally. As the butter begins to foam, it will chortle, snap and pop happily; it knows what's coming.  Just as quickly, the little concert will come to a close, to be replaced by a wonderful, deeply nutty scent.  The butter's ready when it takes on a golden-brown tone, and you see a light brownish sediment.  Remove the pan from the heat--don't delay--because the butter can quickly burn at this point, and the sediment then goes from being heavenly to carcinogenic.  Pour the browned butter from the pan into a separate small dish to cool.

Combine the flour, ground almonds, half the sugar and salt in a medium bowl. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites to high, soft peaks.  In a third bowl, beat the egg yolks with the remaining half of the sugar until the yolks are pale and ribbony.  Add the browned butter, the flour mixture, the orange flower water, honey, zest and blood orange juice, mixing well.  Mix one fourth of the egg whites into the yolk to lighten it, then gently fold in the remaining egg whites, just enough to blend.  Fill the molds two-thirds full, and allow the two pans to rest in the refrigerator.  The madeleines really need to chill at least one hour, preferably three.

Preheat the oven 350F (180C).  Pop one pan in for about fifteen minutes. The little cakes will be ready when the edges are brown and the top springs back gently when touched.  Remove from the heat, allow to rest for a minute, then tap the pan on the counter.  The madeleines should tumble right out of the pan.  Don't forget to pop the remaining pan in the oven...Madeleines are best when eaten the day they're made.  Fully cooled, they will keep for two days in an air-tight container.

* Of course you can always use regular oranges, but add in a touch of lemon or lime for a bit more complexity.  And keep the finished product out of the reach of any dogs...

Bunny.

I lost my head and got a rabbit. Blame it on the heat. Its fur is softer than you can imagine. It is so mellow it sits up on its hind legs and sniffs the dog's muzzle through the wire of the hutch, oblivious to my Weimaraner's thwarted primordial desire.

I know they put aquariums in medical waiting rooms because it calms people to watch them, but I can't find anything more--look out: yoga jargon just ahead--centering than watching inquisitive little Shadow. Except, perhaps, for one thing: sitting cross-legged on the grass and allowing a small black hen to climb into one's lap, fluff, settle and coo, while the other two doze close by, with heads cocked to the buzzing, fluttering insects that veil the lavender.

The news carries on, as I see from the paper, and the world spins on its axis, but here things are decelerating. Call it summer vacation torpor.

April showers in May.

We got hailed upon, too. The wisteria suffered a bit. This may nearly qualify as an armegeddon of sorts, for the south of France. But the chickens (now there are three), horses (now there are many) and dog (just one but it feels like more) are none the worse for wear...Hope there is better weather to come this weekend, here and in your neck of the woods!

Market day.

The Cevennes benefit from an AOC (Apellation d'Origine Controlee, or, roughly speaking, "controlled term of origin") for the sweet onions grown here. That is, they are granted a special, federally-managed certification, as are French cheeses and wines. The onions are that good. I always have a basketful on hand, and they don't have time to sprout, unlike my potatoes, in less regular menu rotation...

For every day of the week there is an outdoor market in a surrounding village or town. Creature of habit (aren't we all just a bit, despite ourselves?), I nearly always go to the two same ones, which means that Monday mornings, come what may, I am in among the (local, organic and conventional) produce sellers; the knife sharpener with his spinning, wet wheel; the weaver (who repairs chairs); the man with the startling bowl haircut who sells living trout out of the back of his specially modified pickup truck; the beekeeper with the unkempt hair like milkweed; the cheese guy from whom I also get fresh butter--sliced from a big yellow mound as I watch; the jovial butcher (photo), who also sells free-range chicken with the claws and head still attached, so the customer can see what breed it is--which of course affects taste--bien sur! (and as one of the unofficial village characters, is always ready with an enormous succulent bone for the dog to demolish); the sausage specialist, with easily two dozen different types on hand (I'm a little awed by the donkey sausage); the garlic and olive seller...

And of course the sellers present depend upon the season. Right now I am buying up the sweet, sweet parsnips, just-pulled beets (picture), turnips, pumpkin and squash(es), all produced down the road from us.After a stop at the bakery and then the Tabac for my news fix, Dakar the Weimaraner and I head for a rest at the cafe-bar. This purely in the interest of exposing a young pup to all the places French dogs are expected to frequent calmly, mind you...And if I order a noisette (an expresso with a smidge of milk) while there, it's just for authenticity.

This morning's market run went slightly less smoothly than usual: I tied Dakar to a sign while I snapped photos (what a tourist!). This was good only in principle, as, having seen another dog, Dakar dragged the sign crashing down, thereby scaring the daylights out of everyone, especially himself. This led (inevitably) to more running away, with the only problem being that the sign and its apparatus remained attached to the poor dog...with me in hot, if somewhat delayed, pursuit.