In Camisard country.

I’m still offline at home, still trying to get back online, but life goes on. Plans and projects are unfolding as summer draws to a close. The village choir is meeting once again each Saturday morning, after the obligatory wakeup café noisette (expresso with a touch of milk) in the Bar/Café de la Place; I’m the modest soprano in the middle. The local library, where I work as a volunteer, has just received boxes of new books, to be readied for the shelves. I am preparing a yoga class, which I will be teaching at home, beginning a week from now; lots of re-reading of yoga texts, folding myself back into the old familiar positions and loosening up my body and the rest of me in the process. Oh, and that ear infection is finally, truly on the way out, at long last. Hallelujah!
This past weekend I made a new discovery: the Assemblée du Desert. Once a year, in a tranquil oak-filled glade a few kilometers down the way from the Bambouseraie, an open-air Protestant service is attended by thousands, of all ages. This service is really about ancient history.Briefly put: after the Edict of Nantes was revoked in 1685, France became wholly Catholic, and full-scale persecution of Protestants was officially sanctioned. The Royalists stripped Protestant Huguenots of everything they had. There were forced conversions and imprisonment and/or public executions of those who resisted and were caught. Protestants couldn’t even be buried in community (read: Catholic) graveyards, having to make do with their own separate plots.
In the rapidly escalating violence, the Cevennes, a sometimes inhospitable and somewhat wild land even today, became by its very roughness the place to which many, many Protestants fled, and from which Protestant peasant rebels, known as Camisards, made their desperate stand. The Assembly takes place next to the Mas de Soubeyran, the Luziers home of one of the most celebrated Camisard rebels lovingly turned into the Musée du Desert. The low-key, surprisingly moving annual service celebrates that complicated Protestant history, and remains an enduring symbol of the outdoor, clandestine nature of religion for many of the attendees’ forefathers. The history marks the character of this part of France, where Catholic churches are rarely found, and locals are often reticent toward outsiders, from whom they have learned, throughout history, to expect nothing but trouble. According to the newspaper, there were about 15,000 (of all ages) present at the Assembly this year...
Thankfully, my relationships with my (Protestant, Catholic and atheist) neighbors have developed in a distinctly more positive, open fashion. It helps to arrive with a pot of something homemade, ready to talk food and garden.

To-may-to, to-mah-to.

Everything comes to an end, even the summer holiday. This year, the entire season seemed to drift along, unmoored to any orthodox notion of time. Just as when we were kids. The shift from joy to abject misery (or non-joy?) was abrupt, if only for me. First, I was disabled by a fiendish ear infection. The pain was dagger-like and impressive in scope. Even the outside of my ear swelled. The ear’s not yet back in commission, but at least the pain has been pushed back—now if they could just do something about the incessant tinnitus. Then I lost my internet connection (oh, please don’t ask). More than a week later, I still don’t have it—this latest missive is being sent from my neighbor’s computer (mille mercis, Manon!). I’m working on regaining access. I use the word ’attempt’ because the service (ha!) provider is Orange, which in itself explains why I’ve been struggling with this situation (and the people who are supposed to be helping me) for way too long now. For those of us tucked into the mountains, the evenings have taken on a particular crispness; we’d nearly forgotten... The children are back in school, which means a new stuff strewn across the kitchen table: the library books, swim goggles and sunscreen have been replaced by fountain pen cartridges, brand spanking new notebooks--and more sunscreen. I smear that on them before they head out the door: the days are still scorchers, even if the nights are far cooler.

We’re (still) barefoot more often than not. And we’re (still) waiting for the rain. So some things haven’t changed. And there is still a bit of summer magic to be found. Half the various doors and windows of the old farmhouse we inhabit are usually flung open to the world, and the other day (as has happened before) I came upon a bird in the kitchen, this time a young wagtail. We were both surprised. She fluttered and made a dash for a closed window, stopping just in time to close her claws around the sash instead, one eye wide on me all the while. I edged like a burglar along the kitchen’s perimeter to the terrace door, which I opened and from which I hastily retreated. The coast clear, she flew arrow-like through the doorway, and alighted on the terrace wall just a few feet away to let loose her perfect declarative song, shot through with lightness and joy.

Sometimes I feel nearly as intensely lyrical as that wagtail. Sometimes it is all about a particular dish, which is when I share it with you.
I can get all doe-eyed about untreated-local-produce-in-season, but what really make me weak in the knees are juicy, properly ripened tomatoes. North Americans call what I love heirloom tomatoes. I call them one of the chief reasons to show up for summer, and the first thing to plant in any vegetable garden. The cherry tomatoes at our house never even make it to the kitchen, as they are consumed on the spot. Some of the bigger tomatoes are bitten into with enormous relish, as if they were the ripest of plums. My four year old does this. He leans over, but the juices and seeds still go everywhere. You should see how he smiles when that happens. Eating is fun when it tastes this good and gets this messy. So really, the right thing to do is find a properly ripened, never once refrigerated tomato and follow his lead. If you’re wearing something nice and would rather not splatter, then make an Italian insalate caprese instead. And yes, real mozzarella is made from water buffalo milk. Treat yourself to some of that if you can. (The kids hoover that creamy goodness up as well). My neighbors seem mighty pleased with the tomato, courgette and carrot crumble I’ve been bringing around. This crumble is just a nudge in the actually-cooking direction, but only the slightest of nudges. The oven’s heat does the work, drawing out the sweet, mellow side of the tomatoes. I add the other vegetables just to maintain a bit of structure, as the star attraction does go a bit melty. Parboil the carrots and just blanch the courgettes, so they’ll be fully cooked once the crumble’s finished. Of course other vegetables, such as onion, and other herbs, such as marjoram or thyme, can be added or substituted. The crumble should bake at 180 C (350 F) for about three-quarters of an hour if you’re sticking with tom’s & co. You want some bubbling going on, some browning of the crumble--which you remembered to press down a bit before you slipped the dish into the oven.

This crunchy crumble is both savory and sweet, with much of the sweet coming from the cornmeal. It would also be delicious on a meat pie, especially a chicken pot pie. Incidentally, I’m getting a bit hungry just typing this, because now I’m also thinking back to the plum tart I made with this savory crumble topping. I’d just added a couple extra tablespoons of sugar to the crumble mix, and the dessert was really remarkable. The fruit flavors deepened to the nth degree against the backdrop of the savory crumble. So you can use it on fruit, for dessert, as well. Puts me in mind of the sweet/salty riff of one of those apple and cheddar pies—which I’ve yet to actually taste. But I digress—a lot. Here’s the recipe. Make it once; it may well become one of your signature dishes.

Crumble salé (Savory Crumble)

Makes enough for a couple of crumbles, depending on the size.

100 g flour
100 g medium-ground corn flour (i.e. thicker than cornstarch)*
100 g cornmeal (as used for making polenta)
¾ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon fresh-ground pepper
2-4 large pods cardamom, shelled and ground fine
200 g butter, coarsely sliced

Combine all the dry ingredients in a bowl. After you have ground the cardamom in a mortar, use some of the salt to remove the last bits of cardamom ‘dust’. Over medium high heat, melt the pieces of butter in a saucepan (not nonstick, because you want to be able to closely monitor the color of the butter as you brown it). The butter will foam and sizzle, browning in a matter of minutes. Swirl the pan occasionally to prevent scorching. When the butter gives off a scrumptious, faintly nutty scent and has turned a light to medium brown, remove immediately from the heat and drizzle over the dry ingredients. Use a fork to combine evenly, then spread the mixture over a cookie sheet, spreading thinly with the fork. Place in the refrigerator an hour or so. Once thoroughly chilled, coarsely break into pieces, to be sprinkled immediately over the tomatoes or stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator.

*If corn flour is unavailable, use a multigrain or a whole grain for flavor and body.

Eating well in Barcelona, and a bowlful of American summer.

So I left you hanging there for a bit. For me, multi-tasking usually results in a lot of stuff being done...poorly. Accordingly, during the holiday influx(es) of friends and/or family, blogging takes a backseat. This is neither a reflection upon you nor the subject at hand: good food. Which I can't wait to tell you about.

Sometimes food just tastes better because someone you love (or hell, someone other than you) is making it. This is not the case at Cinc Sentits. I'd decided to go for broke and check out their haute Catalan cuisine for myself, as they are considered one of the better tables in Barcelona, which is saying something. The chef is young Jordi Artal. The setting is formal and spare, nearly monastic (except for maybe the one splash of pink). The slightly severe tone of the room is lightened by the fact that Mr. Artal's sweet mother and his sister are busy attending to your every potential need.

I'd come in speaking Spanish, and was taken aback when Mr. Artal's sister, who'd evidently overheard us chatting amongst ourselves, suddenly spoke to us in perfect "North American" English; as it turns out, the family has spent time in Toronto. This might explain the origin of the little amuse: a shooter of maple syrup, a touch of cream, and sabayon of cava (Catalan sparkling white wine), with a sprinkle of coarse salt at the bottom. An eyebrow-raiser by description alone, but wow. 'Goooal!' for the salty and sweet side. This was followed by the tried and true Catalan tapas, pa amb tomaquet, normally a thin baguette, logically called a flauta, toasted and rubbed with fresh tomato and garlic. Here, adroitly turned on its head.

Thus, a fresh tomato sorbet, topped with a vivid garlic 'air'--i.e. the foam bit--and toasted croutons, judiciously dosed with gorgeous olive oil. This was followed by a classic, chilled Andalusian ajoblanco (garlic and ground almond soup) reworked, with fresh cherries, cherry pit granita and Spanish Marcona almonds. Forgive me for the lack of a photo, we were too busy talking about the maple syrup starter. And then enjoying the startling soup.

All talk ceased abruptly, however, when we were presented with the foie gras coca. A coca is a sort of thin pastry. Between the precise layers of crisp crust, glazed leeks and chive garnish--and the caramelized foie gras itself, well, now I have to tell folks the best foie gras I have ever tasted was outside of France. Nothing short of sublime.

Apparently still under the enchantment of the foie gras, I clapped my hands like a five year old when I saw that the next course featured my favorite Mediterranean fish, red mullet (or rouget). This was accompanied by a basil risotto and an apricot sauce. Again, eye-rollingly good.

I'd already bitten into the first melty forkful of cochinillo (Iberian suckling pig) when I remembered my camera, and you. The apple accompaniments were somewhat forgettable, but the meat. Lord. Sous-vide (slow-cooked at an exceedingly low temperature) with a crackling crust. And to think I was once a vegetarian. For years. (Problems with anemia, etc. and so on.)

The cheese, a Blau de l'Avi Ton, was gorgeously presented with orange marmalade glaze and a delicate, perfect spice bread. Too intense for the likes of me.
My overwhelmed mouth got a welcome reprieve with the 'citrus snow', an ephemeral, playful combination of lemon ice cream, powdered white chocolate and lime 'pop-rocks' (effervescent, the carbon dixide is released in your mouth and fizzes and sizzles like Carnaval in Rio)--and oh yes--yuzu foam. This was followed by the (ahem) actual dessert.
The chocolate you see is an intense 67%, with a dollop of olive oil ice cream, shattered bread, and underneath some extraordinary, deeply fragrant macadamias. Whew. Again, he revisits, recalibrates, redefines a Catalan standard. I O.D.'ed on chocolate.

Or so I thought.
Because these little sweet nothings were what accompanied coffee. That's not a raw egg you see, it's a gelee of pomegranate...And yes, I still managed the tiny, perfect chocolate truffle after downing the glass of blanc-manger perfumed with...lilac.

Do I even need to mention he has a Michelin star?

On the way back home, once off the highway, we passed farm stand after farm stand, flush with fruit, vegetables and hand-painted signs. At this time of year, they are hard to resist. So why bother trying? After all, those fuzzy peaches, tree-ripened and juicy as all get out, they need to be eaten. Half were gone before the crate I walked off with actually made it to my kitchen table. The rest went into the obvious: the quintessentially [colonial] American farmhouse dessert: peach cobbler. The only thing that comes close to a cobbler in France is the Limousin flaugnarde, but that involves eggs, which make it closer to a flan or a clafoutis. I've gussied up the cobbler a bit, using as a base the online recipe by a certain Ms. aeposey. Ginger and even paprika pair beautifully with intensely flavored fruit (just ask those who had my ginger blackberry crumble last night.) This takes mere minutes to pull together. You'll spend more time hearing out the compliments. Honest John. But no beauty awards; this is to be filed in the ugly but good category.

That's why you only get an extreme close-up...

Do I even need to mention I don't have a Michelin star?

Cobbler aux pêches épicées (Spiced Peach Cobbler)
Serves six.

6 or 7 fresh peaches, peeled and coarsely chopped in largish chunks
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup finely minced candied ginger (optional but delicious)
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger (or ground galagal)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon paprika
a scant sprinkling of freshly grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup ground almonds
1/4 cup finely chopped almonds (also optional but delicious)
1/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and finely cubed
1/4 cup boiling water

Preheat oven 220C. In a large bowl, combine chopped peaches, sugars, both kinds of ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon juice, and cornstarch well. Place the mixture into (medium-sized) baking dish and bake for 10 minutes. While this bakes, combine the flour, ground and chopped almonds, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Blend in butter using your hands (yes!) rubbing the cubes of butter into the flour mixture until it resembles coarse meal, or bread crumbs. Stir in very hot water until just combined. Remove the now hot peaches from the oven and slop/drop the dough by casual spoonfuls over the fruit. Return to the oven, and bake until deeply golden, 25-35 minutes. Can be served hot, warm or the next day at lunch, for a more rich, cakey taste.

Seaside color.

Hello again! I'm still shaking the sand out of the beach bag, as my family got together for some sun and fun in Cassis. Here's some of what I saw... Tablecloths for sale, swaying in the breeze.
Beans at the market. I should have gotten some...
Colorful bracelets for the summer.
Linen blouse with pretty details.
Breakfast options.
Better than television: watching the action on the square.
A secluded cove, where you can see the native Aleppo pines growing directly out of the limestone rock.
Moroccan pottery.
Mediterannean multi-tasking: hop off your scooter, grab a bite to eat, peel off your shirt and people-watch while you catch some rays.
Local olives.
Some good-looking fig jam. I should have picked some of that up too, come to think of it.
Coeur de boeuf (heart of beef) tomatoes.
The first golden plums I've seen. (I'm already stockpiling jars because I'm going to have a serious bumper crop of Reine-Claudes--greengages--this year).
Keeping it down-home and local.
I ate at Nino's, a family culinary institution right in the port which has been serving meals without interruption since 1962.
Anise-infused pastis is the drink on the coast. I love the notion, the reality is more of an acquired taste. Little old hat-wearing men sit around drinking it.
Cassis is a charming little port village, with more than its share of restaurants.
Color, and laundry, everywhere.
The Mediterannean unfortunately doesn't have the fish stocks it used to; most of the boats in the port are for pleasure.
Not too far off, there are also some camp sites tucked under very large, airy pines, where some of these sun-burned vacationers head off to in the evenings.The calanques are every bit as beautiful as in these postcards. If you find yourself in Cassis, you musn't miss them.
There are shade-giving platanes (plane/sycamore trees) with their distinctive 'camouflage' bark in every village, and Cassis is no exception.
Street jazz. Young and talented.
The sun is so bright, you tan even under a rented parasol.
I could have put up so many more photos...Oleander everywhere, in all the hues from whites and peaches to reds, fuschia bougainvillea draped over walls, blue plumbago in full bloom.
I mightily enjoyed some eggplant caviar at a beach restaurant. Inspired, I'll be whipping this up after I've stocked up at the farmer's market tomorrow; we've got a full house, and I enjoy keeping tasty, make-in-advance spreads and finger foods within arm's reach. If you've never had this before, do give it a whirl. It's just the ticket with a glass of white wine in the late afternoon...I like this version (there are many out there), by Hubert Keller.

Caviar aux Aubergines (Eggplant Caviar)

Serves about four. Can easily be doubled or tripled.

1 large eggplant, halved lengthwise
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 small baguette, thinly sliced (1/4 inch thick)
1 medium red bell pepper, diced
1 small onion, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 large tomato--peeled, seeded and cut into1/8 -inch dice
3 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 tablespoons minced chives
2 tablespoons minced fresh basil

Preheat the oven to 180C°. Brush the cut sides of the eggplant with 1 teaspoon of the olive oil. Set the eggplant, cut sides down, on a baking sheet and roast for about 1 hour, or until tender and collapsed. Let cool. Arrange the bread slices on another baking sheet and brush lightly with olive oil. Bake for about 8 minutes, or until golden and crisp.

Heat 1 teaspoon of the olive oil in a nonstick skillet. Add the red pepper, onion and garlic and cook over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened but not browned, about 6 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and let cool.

Using a spoon, scrape the eggplant flesh from the skin; discard the skin. Finely chop the flesh and add the eggplant to the sautéed vegetables. Stir in the tomato, 2 teaspoons of lemon juice and the remaining 1 teaspoon oil. Taste and adjust seasoning, adding more lemon juice if necessary; refrigerate until slightly chilled. Stir the chives and basil into the eggplant caviar and serve with the toasted slices of bread.

(The eggplant can be refrigerated for up to 1 day; store the croutons at room temperature. Let the caviar stand at room temperature for 20 minutes before serving.)

Here I am.

We persist in living like tourists: rather than closing our shutters to the day's indomitable heat as do the pragmatic locals, we keep them flung open to the light. I don't want to even imagine living in a perpertually darkened house, so I don't, but the price is paid at night. Accordingly, I have been spending my nights out on the terrace under a light blanket and an endless host of stars, my face bathed in the gentle cooling breeze. This is far more pleasant than the confining, close air in the house. Being on the terrace also means drowning in the frog chorus. I have isolated five different calls, among which one that bleats like a robotic sheep, one that sounds like a duck, one that sounds like a squeaky swing. It's raucous out there. And then of course the rooster starts up with the first lightening of the sky.

All the structure that binds the rest of the year is released. No set anything, not even bedtimes, not even for the littlest. Night swimming happens, as do ambling conversations into the deep night with old friends. I have been watching the thousand shades of green temper into something more average as the grasses dry. The lettuce have bolted, and the tomato plants demand their share of the water hose. The cigales begin screeching their two-note chant as soon as the day's heat sets in. The blackcurrants are tucked in cellared jars, ripening in their alcohol baths to beome something finer than one has a right to expect. The liqueur will be ready in a few months. The cherries have been amazingly prolific and sweet this year, but now there are only the dark remains, drying on the ground, attended to by clouds of butterflies, who rise and fall in undulating waves as we walk by.

In this sustained chaleur, fragrant mint and ginger-inflected iced green tea is the order of the day. That and a trusty sweaty glass (or two) of gin and tonic. Hydration is a good, good thing, especially if you are to make a trek into the village to celebrate France's independence.

On the eve of Independence Day, once night falls, there is the pétanque competition, and the band tunes up.
There is the repas dansant, table after table set up in the village square to accomodate families, dogs, conversation and eating in the caressing night air. The wine and beer flow (which help explain why the celebrations happen on the 13th: recovering people sleep in on Bastille Day, except in, say, Paris).The children gather for the retraite aux flambeaux, a parade lit by paper torches the children wield at the end of bamboo canes. Imagine a river of bobbing, rainbow-colored lights, wending its way through the narrow village streets. The parade finishes at the soccer field, and the late arrivals make it just in time for the fireworks. Vive la France!