Chapter 2
Les MarchÉs
Chapter 2
Les MarchÉs
Soft-Boiled Eggs and Fresh Asparagus Spears
Stuffed Cabbage Leaves Braised with Tomatoes
Beignets de Fleurs de Courgettes
Strawberries in Red Wine Syrup
French marchés are defined by seasonality, and while grocery stores may stock produce from around the world at any given time of year, the markets reflect the time-honored French traditions of terroir—the progression of seasonal, regional produce as it is cultivated by small, land-connected farmers. No matter how fleeting the season for any given culinary treasures, they are offered up in French markets: delicate squash blossoms, two-day-old fresh goat cheeses wrapped in paper, fresh shelling beans of all colors and varieties, fruit picked that morning and meant to be eaten by dinnertime. Fresh fish, locally caught, specialty cuts of meat, and charcuterie are all displayed behind the glass of traveling vans.
Joanne and Guild, longtime family friends and fellow Americans, also moved to Provence in the 1970s, then eventually settled in Paris, but kept their Provence farmhouse. One summer I didn’t return to the States with my parents, but stayed on in Provence with other family friends, Adèle and Pascal, for a memorable several months of homeschooling. I was twelve or thirteen, the perfect age to not have to go to school. Joanne and Guild, who lived nearby and were on hiatus from Paris, had taken on the task of growing corn, American super sweet varieties with hopes of selling it in the farmers’ markets. In France, maïs, or corn, is considered animal feed, edible for people only if it comes from a can. That summer and into the fall I tagged along with Joanne and Guild to farmers’ markets all over the Var, the department of the Provence where we lived. We sold corn out of a vintage baby carriage, with, in precise French script, MAMA MAÏS painted on the side. Our look was certainly out of place among the French farmers’ tented stalls laden with tomatoes, melons, peaches, lettuce, cheese, and salamis. We looked like a ragtag trio of carnival workers. The carriage was rickety, with a black cover and huge metal wheels, and Guild always wore wire-rimmed glasses and a waistcoat-vest with a flowing shirt underneath, and Joanne a huge black sun hat and a vintage undergarment skirt. We even had a small charcoal grill set up so we could lure people with slices of sweet grilled, buttered corn. We were sure this was going to be a hit because who doesn’t love corn? Well, frankly, the French don’t. The following summer, we were all together again and eating corn, but the baby carriage was now available as a shopping cart or plaything, and Provence had not become the new mecca for sweet corn.
—Ethel
“Sara, hold my hand…” The comfort of my parents’ voices is what I remember about the farmers’ markets. Completely packed with little old ladies, children, and chefs, if I separated my hand for even a moment from my mom or dad, I felt I would be forever lost in a sea of pig heads and pantyhose. Everything was in view from an adult waist down, so what I experienced was the scene from 2½ to 3 feet high: other little kids staring at me wide-eyed as we passed each other in the stalls, butchers yelling prices as whole baby pigs stared back at me from their cases, and the sag of old women’s pantyhose at their ankles, women with wheeled wire baskets in hand. The old ladies always seemed rushed and in a foul mood until you did something cute or complimented them; then they would mumble a semicoherent French sentence: “… mon petit chouchou, oh la la, elle est gentille, elle est très très mignonne…!” followed by plenty of unwelcomed cheek pinching.
I always found it fascinating that there was such a hubbub surrounding the freshest vegetables, meat, cheese, and fruit direct from the farmers and producers. We never did anything like that at home when I was little; it was always right there for you, neatly packaged on the shelf with a price tag. Seasonality was foreign, and often at home in upstate New York I was eating a tomato in December, wondering why it tasted like cardboard.
Provence has the most wonderful farmers’ markets, a thriving tradition full of color, life, and the slower pace of a small town. It’s not only a necessity to make a trip to the markets in the bigger cities near the tiny towns but also a social thing—you get to know your favorite vendors and develop a mutual love and respect. Not only are there farmers to hand you the freshest of the fresh tasty delights, there were butchers with meat that still had the animal’s head attached, bakers with bread still warm to the touch, beekeepers with the thickest honey you could sculpt, cheese makers with the stinkiest rounds to make you cringe with delight.
—Sara
This simple comfort dish reminds me of the dark brown metal stove and pale yellow walls in our house in the 1980s in upstate New York. I hear and smell the juices bubbling and sizzling around the wrinkly tomatoes, taking over the entire house. I see my cute mom pulling the tomatoes out of the oven, probably wearing something similar to a form-fitting white turtleneck with high-waisted pants (but in an adorable, fashionable way), circa 1984. The dish was easily prepared, always enjoyed by my family in the late summer/early fall when we returned from our big French summer road trip. I loved the mix of textures—salty, crunchy toasted bread crumbs with warm, soft, juicy tomato. I forced myself to not eat all of the bread crumbs first so that I would have some left over to pair with the tomato juice.
—Sara
10 to 12 medium red tomatoes
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh thyme
2 cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
½ cup fine dried bread crumbs
½ teaspoon coarse sea salt
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Cut the stems and cores from the tops of the tomatoes and place them, stem ends up, in a shallow baking dish.
In a small bowl, mix together the rosemary, thyme, and garlic, and sprinkle evenly over the tops of the tomatoes; repeat with the bread crumbs and salt. Drizzle the olive oil over the tops, letting some fall into the pan.
Roast for 20 to 25 minutes, until the tops are golden and the tomatoes have started to soften. Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature as a side dish.
serves 5 to 6
In the small village, a crossroads really, where our childhood home in Provence sits, every neighbor has a garden. Since we were only there during the summer, we didn’t have our own garden, but gracious and generous neighbors on all sides shared freely with us. One neighbor, my best girlfriend Aileen’s mother, Marie Palazzoli, emigrated from Calabria in Italy to France after World War II. She and her husband, Marcel, were our closest neighbors. My brother was born while we were living in France so I spent the night with them while my parents were at the hospital. When we were older, mom would send my brother and me down the tractor road to Marie’s garden, and we would pick a basket of summer vegetables, all to be tossed into a summer soup. The fun was in the picking, looking for the biggest tomatoes, tiny squash with blossoms still attached, clusters of cranberry beans with leathery pods. Once the basket was full and heavy, we lugged it up to the terrace and began shelling, peeling, and cutting. Pistou is actually a French version of pesto, which is stirred into the vegetable soup at serving time.
—Ethel
½ pound green beans
1 pound cranberry beans or other fresh shelling beans
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
½ yellow onion, finely chopped
2 medium tomatoes, cores removed and diced
2 teaspoons coarse sea salt
1 teaspoon mixed dried herbs (rosemary, sage, thyme)
2 fresh or dried bay leaves
½ pound mixed summer squash, such as pattypan, ronde de Nice, and zucchini, cut into ½-inch cubes
½ cup vermicelli noodles
Pistou
1 cup fresh basil leaves
3 cloves garlic, peeled
½ teaspoon sea salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
½ cup freshly grated Gruyère cheese
Using a small knife, trim the ends from the green beans. Cut the beans into 1-inch pieces. There should be about 2 cups of chopped beans. Place in a large bowl and set aside.
Shell the cranberry beans into another bowl and set aside.
In a large soup pot, warm the olive oil over medium heat, add the garlic, and sauté until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the onion and continue to sauté until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes and continue to cook until the tomatoes are soft and start to break down, about 5 minutes. Add 6 cups of water, the salt, dried herbs, and bay leaves. Increase the heat to high and bring to a boil. Boil the soup for 20 minutes, add the cranberry beans and the summer squash and cook for another 10 minutes. Add the green beans and vermicelli noodles and cook until the noodles are soft, another 5 to 10 minutes.
While the soup is cooking, prepare the pistou. In a food processor, combine the basil, garlic, salt, pepper, olive oil, and lemon juice and process until smooth, about 3 minutes. Transfer to a small bowl.
To serve, ladle the soup into bowls and drizzle the tops with 1 tablespoon of the pistou and a sprinkling of Gruyère cheese.
serves 8
I remember that the fishmongers, dressed in blue work coats with black rubber aprons and big boots, had their stands piled high with ice-filled wooden crates full of fish I’d never seen. There were two-foot-long eels coiled next to whiskered monkfish, clams the size of your thumbnail, strange sea snails, and sometimes even spiny sea urchins. My favorite, though, were tiny, fresh little fish, just a scant inch long, their translucent bodies only ¼ to ½ inch thick. My mom would buy several handfuls, one per person, and then we would rush home and prepare them for lunch. When they were dredged in flour, seasoned with salt and pepper, and then fried to crisp perfection, I would eat them like French fries. We still buy them now. My boys, although willing to try most things, opt for dissecting the fish, eating only the bodies, leaving small piles of heads and tails on the side.
—Ethel
AÏoli
1 egg yolk
1 clove garlic, peeled and crushed
¼ cup coarse sea salt
¾ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Fritures
½ pound fresh or frozen smelt, preferably 2 inches or smaller in size
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 cup canola oil
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
1 lemon, cut into wedges
To make the aïoli, whisk together the egg yolk, garlic, and salt until pale yellow and creamy. Whisking constantly, drizzle in the olive oil very slowly, a little at a time, until it begins to thicken. Continue until all the olive oil is incorporated.
Rinse the fish and pat dry. Place the flour on a plate and dredge the fish to coat, then place on a sheet of parchment. Prepare a large platter lined with paper towels and set aside.
Heat the canola oil in a large skillet and, using a slotted spoon, gently lower the fish into the hot oil, cooking in batches so as not to release too much moisture into the oil, which will affect the crisping. Cook the fish until they are crisp, 3 to 4 minutes. If they are small enough there is no need to turn them. Transfer the cooked fish to the paper towel–lined platter and continue until finished. Serve on a platter, sprinkled with the sea salt and with squeezed lemon wedges and a bowl of aïoli.
serves 4
For years, until the mid-1980s when I moved to Berkeley for college, I only ever ate goat cheese in France because in California it was nowhere to be found. Every summer we would arrive in Provence and head to the nearest marché. I bee-lined for the goat cheese stand, where I chose the freshest one- or two-day-old cheeses, soft, creamy, and mild. They came beautifully wrapped in paper packets, the ends folded over like a present. Along with the freshest cheese we would also get aged goat cheeses wrapped in chestnut or grape leaves, plus other cheeses pyramid-shaped and dusted with ash. The goat cheese I love the most is aged, creamy in the middle, and with a soft gooey, wrinkly rind on the outside.
—Ethel
One 11- to 12-ounce log fresh goat cheese, cut crosswise into 4 even pieces
½ cup fine dried bread crumbs
1/3 pound thick slice of pancetta, cut crosswise into ¼-inch pieces
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons red wine vinegar
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon finely chopped shallot
¼ teaspoon coarse sea salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 cups frisée greens, washed, dried, and torn into 1-inch pieces
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and a plate with paper towels. Pat the rounds of goat cheese to a scant 1 inch thick. Place the bread crumbs on a plate, then roll each cheese round in the crumbs to coat it on all sides and place on the baking sheet several inches apart.
Place the cheese in the oven and bake until golden and soft, 8 to 10 minutes. While the cheese is baking, heat a skillet over medium heat, add the pancetta pieces, and cook, turning several times, until crisp and brown, 5 to 7 minutes. Remove from the heat and, using a slotted spoon, transfer to the paper towel–lined plate to drain.
In a large bowl, whisk together the olive oil, vinegar, Dijon mustard, shallot, salt, and pepper. Add the greens and pancetta and toss to coat. Place even amounts of the salad on four individual dinner plates and top with a baked goat cheese round. Serve warm.
serves 4
How special our eggs looked in their own little porcelain containers—even more special if we were so lucky to have the little eggcups with porcelain feet. It was as if we were royalty, and our eggs were a sophisticated feast for the fanciest children around. The asparagus were our soldiers, ready to protect the drippy, bright yellow egg yolk from The Opposition (which was usually your sister or brother’s finger). I loved the salt crystals—those tiny crunchy bursts of flavor that brought out the color and life of the deep green asparagus tips. I also loved pretending that the top of the egg was the crown, and when I finished gutting the shell, I daintily crowned the bottom shell and declared the hollowed egg “DONE.” Eventually, I would take the top off once again, and really dig into the sides of the shell to claim the last bit of yolk with a piece of toasted brioche.
—Sara
1 pound fresh asparagus, rinsed
4 eggs
½ teaspoon coarse sea salt
To prepare the asparagus, snap the stems—they will break at the natural point of tenderness.
Fill a mixing bowl large enough to hold all the asparagus with water and ice cubes and set aside.
In a large saucepan, bring 2 cups of water to a boil over medium heat. Drop the asparagus into the boiling water and cook until fork-tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Use tongs or a slotted spoon to transfer the asparagus to the prepared ice water bath. Place an eggcup and several spears of asparagus onto individual plates.
In a saucepan over medium heat, bring 1 quart of water to a boil. Using a large spoon, gently slip the eggs into the boiling water and cook for 4 minutes. Remove the eggs and place in the eggcups. Use a small, serrated knife to cut the tops from the eggs and place next to the eggcups. Sprinkle the sea salt over the tops of the asparagus and opened eggs.
serves 4
Soft-Boiled Eggs and Fresh Asparagus Spears
French cabbages are different and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything like them here in the United States. The variety I’m thinking of, savoy, is huge, nearly eighteen inches in diameter, with thick, dark green leaves unfolding from the center—a real life image lifted from the still life paintings of the Dutch Masters. French cabbages, like English cabbages, are the types stories are written about, types that rabbits steal from farmers’ gardens or under which people find babies. My mom is a wonderful cook, and stuffed braised cabbage is a family favorite. I was always allowed to help cook, from using a small sharp knife to cut the tough spine from the leaves or squishing up the sausage filling with my hands; no work in the kitchen was off limits.
—Ethel
3 cloves garlic, crushed
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large head savoy cabbage or other variety
1½ sweet Italian sausages, casings removed
1 pound ripe tomatoes, cores removed and coarsely chopped
2 fresh or dried bay leaves
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Rub the sides and bottom of a 9 by 13-inch baking dish with a crushed garlic clove and 1 tablespoon olive oil.
Line a baking sheet with a clean dishcloth. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Trim the stem end of the cabbage by about ½ inch and remove 8 to 10 larger leaves from the cabbage, then, using tongs, slip the leaves one at a time into the boiling water. Blanch for 30 to 40 seconds and transfer the leaves to the baking sheet, laying them out flat. It is okay to layer them.
To make the rolls, lay out a cabbage leaf, outer side down. Place ¼ cup of the sausage at the base of a leaf and roll the leaf, stem end up, over the sausage. Fold the sides of the cabbage leaves over the sausage and continue to roll away from you. Make sure the leaf is wrapped tightly around the filling. Continue to make the rolls and fit them snugly into the baking dish.
Spread the chopped tomatoes over the tops of the cabbage rolls, drizzle with the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, tuck the bay leaves into the dish, and sprinkle the top with the salt and pepper.
Bake until the cabbage rolls are firm to the touch, 45 minutes to 1 hour.
serves 4 to 6
Every Frenchman near Marseille has a ratatouille recipe and all claim theirs to be the best. As a child, my family spent many lunches with friends, people we only saw once a year, maybe just every other year, and everyone served ratatouille, with mounds of grated Gruyère cheese melted into the top. At home, pots made over the weekend would carry us through until Wednesday or longer, and now my own children love to say the singsong word, rat-ta-touille. But as fun as it might be to say funny sounding French words, this cornerstone dish of my childhood has not yet been embraced by my five-year-olds.
—Ethel
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
½ yellow onion, peeled and finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
1 large eggplant, cut into 1-inch cubes
2 medium zucchini, stem ends removed and cut into 1-inch cubes
2 red bell peppers, cut into 1-inch pieces
6 large tomatoes, cored and coarsely chopped
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3 sprigs fresh thyme
2 sprigs fresh rosemary
1 fresh or dried bay leaf
½ cup grated Gruyère or Emmental cheese
In a large soup pot, warm the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and stir until soft and fragrant, 3 to 4 minutes. Stir in the eggplant, zucchini, and peppers. Cook until the vegetables are soft and just starting to brown, about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes, salt, and pepper and stir together. Reduce the heat to low and cover.
Prepare a bouquet garni by gathering the thyme, rosemary, and bay leaf together and tying them at the stem end with kitchen twine. Add the herbs to the pot and continue to cook, stirring often. As the juices begin to evaporate, add 1 cup water, a quarter cup at a time.
Cook for 1 hour. Serve with the cheese sprinkled over individual servings.
serves 6 to 8
Picking zucchini blossoms is the best part of this dish, except for dipping the piping hot fritters in crunchy sea salt before gobbling them down. The deeply funneled flowers wilt so quickly that harvesting and cooking need to happen practically within minutes. But before cooking, Aileen, my Provençal neighbor and playmate, and I were given the job of picking out the pollen-covered stamens, which stained our fingers bright yellow. And then we needed to make sure no little garden bugs remained, dusting out any pincher bugs, aphids, or other little creatures that found the flowers as delectable as we did.
—Ethel
10 to 12 fresh zucchini blossoms
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
¾ cup milk
3 cups canola or other light vegetable oil
½ teaspoon coarse sea salt, for serving
To prepare the blossoms, gently trim the stamens from the inside the flowers, rinse them if needed, and pat dry.
To make the batter, stir together the flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. Then whisk in the egg and milk until well blended with no lumps of flour.
Line a platter with paper towels and set aside.
In a large skillet over medium high heat, warm the oil until it sizzles when a teaspoon of the batter is dropped in. Working in batches of 3 to 4, dredge the blossoms in the batter and using tongs or a slotted spoon, let the excess batter drip off and gently lower them into the hot oil. Cook for 1 to 2 minutes, then turn and cook another 1 to 2 minutes, until the blossoms are a light golden brown. Transfer to the paper towel–lined platter and continue until all are cooked. Serve hot, sprinkled with the coarse sea salt.
serves 6
It is true that children in France are allowed to taste wine, and yes, champagne too. There was always a little teaspoon or two stirred into my glass of water. It was not very appealing, bitter, like sour grapes, but thrilling nonetheless. For champagne we were always offered our own flute, just a drop or two, for cheers and to get the palate ready. At home in California, any food prepared with alcohol was for the grown-ups, which was fine with me, since bourbon-laced pound cakes and brandy-filled cherries just didn’t have the same appeal as the sugary wine sauce that collected at the bottom of my bowl of strawberries.
—Ethel
2 pints medium-size ripe strawberries, stems removed and cut into halves
¼ cup sugar
1 cup red wine, such as Côtes de Provence or Côtes du Rhône
Place the strawberries in a large mixing bowl. Sprinkle the sugar over the tops of the strawberries and gently toss to coat. Add the red wine and gently stir the strawberries, then place in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes and up to 1 hour. Serve chilled.
serves 4
Strawberries in Red Wine Syrup
During our summer visits to Provence, we always hiked up into the Alps-Maritimes to see our friends Mark and Nina in the forest. There was no driving road, so we hiked in about an hour, or sometimes Mark would meet us at the bottom of the trail with two donkeys, one for our backpacks and one for my brother and me. Oliver would ride in front, clutching the short cropped mane. I sat on the back, balancing as best I could while the donkey swayed back and forth along the rocky, uneven hillside trail. Mark and Nina made goat cheese for a living, hiking out of the mountains several times a week to sell cheese at the local markets, and while we were visiting we ate a lot of cheese. There were fresh curds with wild berry jam for breakfast, stuffed baked vegetables, and, at least once a visit, a rich, lemon cheesecake. Because they had neither gas nor electricity, the cake was baked in a wood-fired oven, and the resulting texture was wonderfully light and crumbly.
—Ethel
Crust
1½ cups walnut halves
¼ cup loosely packed light brown sugar
20 plain water crackers, broken into 1-inch pieces
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Filling
15 ounces soft goat cheese
16 ounces mascarpone
3 tablespoons finely grated lemon zest
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
11/3 cups granulated sugar
½ teaspoon salt
To make the crust, combine the walnuts, brown sugar, crackers, and nutmeg in a food processor fitted with the metal blade. Process until finely ground. Add the melted butter and continue to process until the mixture is moist and sticks to the sides of the processor bowl. Gather the mixture together and place in the center of a 9- or 10-inch springform pan. Using your fingertips, gently press the crumb mixture evenly over the bottom and two-thirds up the sides of the pan. Put in the freezer to chill for 15 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
To make the filling, first rinse out the food processor bowl, then again fit it with the metal blade. Place the goat cheese, mascarpone, lemon zest, eggs, sugar, and salt in the bowl, and process until smooth and creamy. Remove the springform pan with the crust from the freezer, place in the center of a baking sheet, and pour the filling into the crust. Bake until the top springs back when lightly pressed with a fingertip, about 1 hour. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature or transfer to the refrigerator to cool for at least 1 hour and up to overnight. When completely cool, release the sides of the springform pan and transfer the cheesecake to a serving plate. Serve chilled or at room temperature, cut into slices.
serves 10 to 12
I love how nature can make something so perfectly beautiful and so delicious as a fig. The insides are magical—how on earth can that color happen? There was always a fig tree in the backyard of our friend’s house near Aix-en-Provence, and the closer I walked to the tree, the more bee buzz I heard. The bees must have been having a party, happily feasting on the sugary drips from the ends of the ripe figs. I loved splitting the figs open and eating them from the inside out—I wasn’t sure if the skins would give me a stomachache, so I just devoured the pulp. Running through a big backyard or field, I would eventually stumble upon some figs and ruin my dinner, eating no less than about ten at a time.
—Sara
Crust
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
¼ cup sugar
8 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
6 tablespoons ice water
1 egg
Custard Cream from Tarte aux Pommes recipe (see here)
12 ripe figs, cut into quarters lengthwise
Glaze
½ cup currant jelly
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
To make the crust, mix together the flour, salt, and sugar in a food processor fitted with the metal blade attachment. Then add the butter, pulsing until the mixture resembles coarse sand. Add the chilled water, a tablespoon at a time, lightly pulsing until it sticks together. Remove the dough from the food processor and form into a ball. Flatten into a 1-inch-thick disk, wrap in plastic, and chill for at least 1 hour and up to 12 hours.
Remove the dough from the refrigerator and roll out to a 12-inch round, ¼ inch thick. Gently press the dough into a tart pan with a removable bottom. Lay a sheet of parchment over the pastry and top with baking weights or dry beans (kidney, lentil, whatever is on hand). Return the tart to the refrigerator and chill for 30 minutes.
While the tart crust is chilling, prepare an egg wash by lightly beating an egg with a tablespoon of water.
Bake the tart shell for 30 minutes, until just golden. Remove from the oven, brush with the egg wash, and return to the oven for 5 minutes. Remove the crust from the pan and let it cool.
Spread the custard cream evenly over the bottom of the tart shell. Layer the fig quarters, skin side down, and fitting tightly together in concentric circles starting from the center and working outward.
To prepare the glaze, bring the currant jelly and 2 tablespoons of water to a boil and cook for 2 minutes. Remove from the heat and, using a pastry brush, gently coat the tops of the figs. Chill for 30 minutes to 1 hour.
serves 6 to 8
Fruitcake speckled with tiny shards of hard, fluorescent, sugared fruit and maraschino cherries summed up my California experience of candied fruit. But nothing prepared me for the Provençal counterparts of whole candied pear, entire rounds of pineapple, tiny clementines, cherries still with pits and stems, and any other fruit you could possibly imagine. The exotic displays, dripping with sugar, conjured images of eighteenth-century decadence and frivolity. The candied fruit were layered in trays and packed delicately in tiny boxes with cellophane wrapping, and decorated the windows of candy and pastry shops and market stalls in Provence. Buying them was such a treat, but they were so delicate and toylike, how could I possibly eat them? The fruit is simmered in sugar syrup for 20 minutes, then letting the fruit stand overnight in the syrup, and repeating the cooking process every 24 hours for 6 days.
—Ethel
1 pound small clementines (about 10), the peels each pricked several times with a pin
2½ cups sugar
¼ cup corn syrup
Fill a pot large enough to hold the fruit with water and bring to a boil over high heat. Blanch the fruit in the boiling water by submerging them for 1 minute. Remove the fruit from the water, using a slotted spoon, and transfer to a plate. Pour out the water and return the pot to the stove. Stir together the sugar with 5 cups of water and bring to a boil, then cook, stirring constantly, until the sugar has dissolved and stir in the corn syrup. Transfer the fruit to the pot, reduce the heat to a simmer, and cook for 20 minutes.
Remove the pot from the heat and let cool for 24 hours. The next day bring the syrup and fruit back to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook for 20 minutes, then remove from the heat and let cool. Repeat this process of cooking for 20 minutes and letting the fruit stand in the liquid for 24 hours, 4 more times, for a total of 6 cooking sessions over a period of 6 days.
On the last day of cooking, place a wire rack in the middle of a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Repeat the cooking process, cooking for 20 minutes. Remove the fruit from the pot and transfer to the cooling rack, stem end up. Let cool for 24 hours. To store, place in a single layer in an airtight container and keep in a cool, dry place for up to 24 months.
makes 10 candied clementines
A spoonful of French honey is heaven. It has a subtle grit and texture that, to an American kid who’s used to the corn syrup-like honey in the plastic bear bottle, may seem off, but it’s perfection. It’s thick and lovely and comes in all different colors. It’s delicate and fresh and boasts subtle floral notes; you know that the bees were working hard in those lavender patches. I always loved bees; they are so focused and never have any hesitation to risk their lives for their lovely queen. What funny thoughts I had in my seven-year-old head: The bees were on a mission much like the buzz of rush hour in Grand Central Station, all quickly and fiercely going about their work, wearing tiny three-piece suits and carrying tiny briefcases, getting paid with tiny jars of honey!
—Sara
1 teaspoon vegetable oil, such as canola
1 (8 by 11-inch) sheet of edible wafer paper, also called rice paper or alternatively parchment paper (wafer papers available in specialty cooking shops or online)
1 cup coarsely chopped unsalted almonds
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons honey
Preheat the oven to 250°F.
Rub the sides and bottom of an 8 by 8-inch baking dish with the vegetable oil, line with the wafer paper or parchment, and set aside.
Place the almonds in a single layer on a baking sheet and bake until fragrant, turning once, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from the oven and transfer to a plate.
In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, place the sugar, then layer the honey and the almonds. It is important not to mix them. Warm the mixture over medium heat without stirring. Once the sugar begins to melt, using a wooden spoon or silicone spatula, mix the nuts into the sugar and honey, continuing to stir until the sugar has completely dissolved. Stop stirring and let the sugar cook until it turns a medium golden brown, 3 to 6 minutes. Watch closely as the mixture can burn very quickly.
Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish and, working quickly, spread to coat the bottom of the pan evenly. Let cool, turn out from the dish, and break into 1-inch pieces.
makes about 2 cups
