(I have been inexcusably absent from my blog since before Christmas. It is my New Year’s Resolution to write something everyday, not necessarily here for the wide world {or at least the tiny world who perhaps read these tidbits occasionally} but something, everyday. This seems a manageable resolution, donc, on y va. Luckily, I have plenty of things to talk about, my trip to Amsterdam, my French Christmas with my roommates family, my trip with my mom to Provence and le Côte d’Azur—-so forgive me as I play catch-up.)
I love to cook. This is maybe something I have always enjoyed, but never had the time or the inspiration to really pursue it. Well, I am bien-inspirée at the moment, and have been cooking pretty regularly for a few weeks. There is something so salty luxurious wonderful about the smell of lardons frying just before you add the onions, shallots and carrots, something invigorating about whisking the mustard and the vinegar, the glee which rises up as the lemon curd begins to thicken; and the satisfaction of sitting down to eat your handiwork and sharing it with friends is a particular kind of joy. I love to be in my kitchen all alone with Ella Fitzgerald and a glass of cold white wine, my frying pans all a-sizzle.
There is something so good and physical about cooking. In french the verb faire, “to do” also means “to make”. After days spent standing in a crowded tram, sitting in a classroom, typing on a keyboard, constantly dealing and coping and responding to the stimuli of the everyday, I get into the kitchen and I get to make something. (I shiver with delight.)
A bit of background—-My mom arrived to visit me the 28th of December, and we embarked on our tour of the south the next day. We rented a tiny european car and drove from Bordeaux for 6 hours through the hills to the little Provençal town of Avignon, (which, if you have forgotten your European history, was home to the Catholic popes for a hundred years during the Great Schism) then continued on to Nice, on the Mediterranean coast—map below. One of the most enjoyable things we did on our trip was take a mother-daughter cooking class, which, as cliché as it sounds, was absolutely lovely. Our instructor took us on a tour of the market in the Old Town of Nice, and gave us some Niçoise history, explained some of the regional fruits, vegetables and herbs and the flavors they lend themselves to. We made saffron mayonnaise by hand with a mortar and pestle, we sautéed onions for a whole hour so that they melted rather than cooked, we had several glasses of wine. It was lovely, and it inspired me to try and move beyond the pasta + jar of tomato sauce = dinner equation.
Not that everything has turned out perfectly. I think that is another reason cooking is such a healthy exercise, because it forces you to take chances and be ready to make mistakes. Example: I cooked a duck breast on Tuesday night. It was a really lovely piece of meat, the fatty back and the deep red of the flesh just begging to be dressed with honey and garlic and balsamic vinegar…… I burned it. I made a classic beginner’s mistake and allowed the butter in the frying pan to burn before I introduced it to the meat, and instead of a sweet golden crust I got a blackened and bitter one. But it’s alright because now I know, and I will try not to make the same mistake twice, and because the friends we had to dinner were sweet and ate every last bit and complimented the sauce and said it was a formidable first attempt.
Maybe French food culture is another reason I enjoy cooking here so much. The French are famous for passing infinite hours à table, and I think they are on to something; there is a sense of communality and ritual in sitting around a table with friends, in sharing food and words, in quite literally breaking bread together as a baguette is passed around the circle.
Anyway, it is becoming increasingly clear to me that who ever said, “you can’t have your cake and eat it too” was not a cook.
Here is an easy recipe for artichoke bruschetta I made a few nights ago when my roommates family came over to our apartment for dinner. The recipe is from memory so the measurements are approximate, but cooking is an approximate business, so don’t worry so much if you decide to try it. Super easy, super delicious.
=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=?
Oven-Baked Bruschetta with Artichokes
Ingredients:
1 baguette, white or wheat as you prefer
1 jar marinated artichokes
4 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
half a cup of flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped, plus a tablespoon for garnish
3 tablespoons crumbled goat’s cheese (optional)
salt and pepper
oven pre-heated to 400 degrees
Slice the baguette diagonally about 1/2 inch thick, and brush both sides with olive oil (if, like me, you don’t have a kitchen brush you can use the back of a big spoon). Put the slices on a cookie sheet (cover with foil first for easy cleanup) and into your pre-heated oven for 5 or 6 minutes, and give your slices a flip halfway through.
In the meantime, get out a food processor or a blender. Strain your artichokes (no need to rinse them) or just fork them out of the jar and into the blender, along with the parsley, Parmesan cheese, a dash of salt and a few grinds of black pepper. Start by adding 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, and then pulse the mixture until it becomes a paste (we aren’t going for a soup here, so some chunks are fine). If it isn’t blending well, add a little more olive oil.
Take your toasts out of the oven, and spread about a tablespoon of your artichoke tastiness on each one. If you like goat cheese you can put a few crumbles on top (it’s real yummy). Then pop them back in the oven for 3 minutes or so, enough for the artichoke mixture to warm through and your goat cheese to melt.
Give your toasties a dash more of black pepper, and sprinkle a little parsley on top. Serve warm.
=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=?
Tonight is sweet potato and chicken soup, from a new cookbook I just bought. Cross your fingers for me!
