Chapter 6
meals with family and friends
Chapter 6
meals with family and friends
Côtes d’Agneau Grillées au Romarin
Aïoli with Vegetables and Salted Cod
Lapin aux Carottes, Oignons, et Pommes de Terre
Braised Rabbit with Carrots, Onions, and Potatoes
Puff Pastry Shells Filled with Chanterelles and Chicken
RÔti de Porc et Sauce aux Cèpes
Roast Pork Loin with Rosemary and Porcini Mushrooms
Potato Dumplings with Bolognese Sauce
At the end of each day and certainly following on the heels of the earlier days of the holiday, the long road trip behind us, mornings we strolled through the marchés, lunch and afternoons we spent sampling street food, or in cafés and bistros, and we recharged our energy with late afternoon goûter chocolate-filled treats. The days subsided into the lingering and food-centered evenings, often spent outside under a canopy of mulberry trees or the stunning star-filled skies of Provence. Those evenings we sampled snails in garlic sauce, fresh grilled sardines, and bite-sized lamb chops. Other evenings, if a chill hit the air, meals were moved inside and were richer collections of warming beef daube, baked bouchée à la reine pastry shells filled with chicken and mushrooms, bowls of rich Provençal fish stew, and always a dessert, preferably something along the lines of îles flottantes, clouds of meringue served in bowls of crème anglaise custard.
Anyone who has ever been to France and had the pleasure of being invited to someone’s home for a meal, lunch or dinner, knows well how long this epic process can take, unless it’s in the middle of a workday, in which case just budget for 2½ hours. I loved such meals: a party every time, on arrival an aperitif table, the best invention ever! Drink choices were from collections of bottles, some homemade sweet wines; thyme, quince, cherry, and walnut were not for me, though. I was offered grenadine, sometimes sickeningly sweet orange Fanta soda, a bowl of ice, and snacks—salami, peanuts, pistachios, olives, cornichons, and bite-sized pizza crackers (I still bring boxes of these home to the States). The aperitifs take at least an hour, an hour of playtime for the kids and a moment of adult connection for parents; next, le repas, dinner! I was fascinated by the world of adults, and as I was usually the oldest child at most dinners, I relished sitting with the adults, showing off my adventurous eating, hanging on every word and story, trying to follow incomprehensible discussions in French about local politics, but mostly interested in any gossipy tidbits that slipped out.
The younger children, my brother, and any others collected for the evening slowly slipped from their chairs as evenings carried on, eventually ending up under the table playing with whatever toys were handy. I, however, stayed and was often privy to lengthy and unbelievable stories about World War II: tales of midnight escapes from trains bound for Germany, or of Nazi soldiers that supposedly lived in our house during the occupation and of women who worked the fields while the men fought in the resistance. I was in awe of such vivid stories of generations past and couldn’t believe I was allowed to sit up late under the summer night stars listening and having my questions answered.
Dessert always showed up around this time, custard and fruit tarts, ice cream, and, if we were really lucky, an amazing French creation, îles flottantes. Just as the name implies, they are soft billowy mounds of poached meringue floating in delicate vanilla-infused crème anglaise, which of course, in France you can buy in the dairy section of any grocery store! And yes, as the name implies, it really does float and can be nudged from one side of the dish to the other. Testing the credulity of the name cannot be considered playing with your food.
—Ethel
My sister and I hid in the tall grass, bugs flying in our ears, as we tried to avoid them by shutting our eyes and waving our hands next to our heads. We heard the expected “À table!” from one of the adults in the house up the hill, echoing throughout the field we played in. Dinner—eating, drinking with family, rosé on a cool summer evening. It was okay to drink a little wine with your parents at the table—it was accepted as a sort of rite of passage for French kids. It was a part of life.
Days were organized around mealtime. Each day was a simple culinary adventure, easy, light, and happy: salad, melon, cheese, meats, yogurt, and wine. Then, after swimming, hiking, or goûter, dinner was ready (never before 8:00 PM) and we got down with the heavy stuff. I loved the sound of the crickets as we ate, and if we were so lucky, we were graced with fireflies at dusk—my nighttime friends.
I couldn’t stand sitting still—I thought adults were boring and had no idea why anyone would sit and talk at a table for hours. I had better things to do and just wanted to skip to dessert. Usually there were other children at the table who were equally antsy to run and play, so I had partners in crime: We had to leave the table NOW. With our bellies full of the last course, which was usually cheese or yogurt, we ran to play in one of the kid’s rooms. They taught my sister and me naughty French words; we taught them equally bad English words. We dressed up, put on plays, read Tintin in French and in English, and worked off the pent-up energy accumulated from two hours at the table. All that said, the table, regardless of how stagnant and boring it was to a child, was and always will be the heart and life of the home and our collective memories.
—Sara
Well, the first time I ever had a fresh grilled sardine was in France, because in California sardines were canned or fish bait. I do love canned sardines, especially served up on crackers with a dollop of cream cheese, but fresh grilled sardines, laden with olive oil and salt, are hardly the same food. As fresh sardines from the market, a grocery bag full, were prepared, we would wander down the narrow country lane, counting the glowworms clinging to the rocky retaining walls, the sounds of bats and owls echoing through the oak trees. We played night tag in the vineyards until we were called to dinner, and when we arrived the grill was already sizzling hot, and grown-ups were drinking pastis.
—Ethel
16 to 20 fresh sardines, each about 7 inches long, cleaned
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 lemons, thinly sliced
Prepare a charcoal grill to a high heat.
Wash the sardines inside and out and pat dry with paper towels. Place them in a shallow baking dish, drizzle with ¼ cup of the olive oil, and sprinkle all over with the salt and pepper. Let stand for 10 to 15 minutes.
When the coals are ready, baste the grill with the remaining olive oil. Place the sardines on the grill rack and cook until the skin is crisp and golden, about 5 minutes. Using a spatula, gently turn the sardines and cook on the other side. If they lift easily, they are ready to turn. If they stick, cook another minute or so. Once turned, cook another 5 minutes.
Transfer to a platter and garnish with a bit of salt and the lemon slices.
serves 4 to 6
I always loved the abundant rosemary bushes in Provence. It was and still is a tradition as I walk by to grab a pinch, squeezing between my thumb and index finger, releasing those amazing aromatic scents—it reminded me of fresh baked bread in small towns. It’s a funny comparison, but the experience of eating lamb was similar to that of eating a Tootsie pop—the closer I got to the center, the more delicious things became. The closer the meat was to the bone, the more succulent and tasty it was. The smell of the rosemary was so strong; it brought me back to hiking in the mountains in the south, where, when the wind picked up, it smelled like a twenty-four-hour rosemary feast.
—Sara
8 rib lamb chops
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
8 sprigs fresh rosemary, about 4 inches long
Preheat a charcoal grill to a high temperature.
In a large bowl, toss together the lamp chops, salt, pepper, olive oil, and rosemary sprigs. Let stand for 10 to 15 minutes. Lay the lamb chops on the hot grill and cook 3 minutes on each side for rare, 5 minutes on each side for medium. Remove and serve immediately with a green salad.
serves 8
My mom, always adventurous and creative, was determined to re-create in California so much of what we experienced in France. If someone was butchering a pig, she was there collecting the blood to make boudin sausage. She’d hunt in Mexican grocery stores for sweetbreads to sauté in butter and garlic. Mimicking our time on the coast of Marseille, we once took a trip to the California north coast, Salt Point, where we fished for rockfish, gathered mussels, and unloaded the food mill from the car to make Provençal fish soup over an open fire.
—Ethel
Rouille
2 teaspoons crushed dried chile, seeds removed
6 to 8 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
¼ teaspoon coarse sea salt
1 tablespoon fresh bread crumbs
½ teaspoon saffron threads soaked in 1 tablespoon boiling water
2 egg yolks, at room temperature
½ to ¾ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Fish Stock
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, quartered through the stem end
2 cloves garlic, crushed or sliced
2 carrots, peeled and cut into 3 or 4 pieces
1 leek, separated into white and green parts, each part cut into 2 or 3 pieces
2 pounds fish heads from non-oily fish, such as sea bass, monkfish, snapper, cod, or sole
3 to 4 sprigs fresh Italian flat-leaf parsley
3 to 4 sprigs fresh thyme
8 black peppercorns
1 ½ cups dry white wine
Soup
6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 pound mixed rockfish, such as snapper
3 cloves garlic
2 medium yellow onions, quartered
4 potatoes, sliced ½ inch thick
2 bay leaves
6 sprigs fresh thyme
6 large ripe tomatoes
4 cups Fish Stock
4 pieces fennel stalk
½ teaspoon coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
8 thick slices country bread
To make the rouille, grind the chile to a powder using a mortar and pestle. Add the garlic and salt, crushing and pounding until a paste forms. Add the bread crumbs and the saffron with its soaking water and incorporate into the paste. Scrape the paste into a medium bowl. Add the egg yolks and whisk until the mixture has thickened. Whisking constantly, slowly add the olive oil, a drop at a time, until the mixture emulsifies and a mayonnaise-like consistency forms. Add only as much of the oil as needed to achieve a good consistency. Cover and refrigerate the rouille until serving.
To make the fish stock, warm the olive oil in a Dutch oven or small stockpot over medium-high heat. When it is hot, add the onion, garlic, carrots, and the white part of the leek and sauté, stirring, until limp, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the fish heads and cook, stirring, until they begin to turn opaque, about 3 minutes. Add the leek greens, the parsley, thyme, peppercorns, wine, and 6 to 8 cups water and bring to a boil. Skim off any foam that rises to the surface with a slotted spoon. Decrease the heat to low, cover, and simmer for about 30 minutes.
Remove from the heat. Using a slotted spoon or wire skimmer, remove and discard the large solids, then strain the stock through a chinois or a colander lined with cheesecloth. Use immediately, or let cool, cover, and refrigerate for up to 1 day or freeze for up to 3 months.
To make the soup, warm 4 tablespoons of the olive oil in a soup pot over medium heat. Add the fish, 2 garlic cloves, and the onions. Cook, stirring, until the fish begin to change color and fall apart. Add the potatoes, bay leaves, and thyme and continue cooking, stirring to prevent burning, about 5 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes. Add 2 cups of the stock and scrape up any bits. Add the remaining 2 cups of stock, 1 cup water, the fennel, salt, and pepper. Cover and cook over low heat until the potatoes are tender, about 30 minutes.
Position a food mill over a bowl. Pour the contents of the soup pot into the mill and purée. Discard the debris in the mill. Rinse the mill thoroughly and repeat. Transfer to a large saucepan and set aside.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Drizzle the bread with the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil and toast until just barely golden. Remove and rub with garlic. To serve, ladle the soup into bowls, top with a teaspoon of rouille and a slice of toast alongside.
serves 8
Every summer, for the fifteenth of August, Fox-Amphoux, the village where my brother and I grew up, hosts a village feast, a Grand Aïoli, a party that lasts for days, culminating on the last day with the feast and pétanque (French bocce ball) tournament. The feast itself consists of platters of boiled vegetables, refreshed salted cod, and bowls of homemade aïoli, all cooked by the women and men of the village. The days preceding are filled with the first rounds of the pétanque competition, lots and lots of pastis and rosé wine, and in the evenings very eclectic, if not somewhat embarrassing, DJs or rock bands. As kids we would dress up a bit in party clothes. I remember sporting my skinny-leg Gloria Vanderbilt yellow cords, wedge espadrilles, and possibly a side ponytail, then dancing away with my girlfriends to Abba, the Bee Gees, and Donna Summer. Too young for drinking or boys, the evening fun usually included spying on Aileen’s older brother and his friends, strange and curious teenagers; the girls all smoked and wore lightweight cotton scarves, a look I still find undeniably French.
—Ethel
6 pieces salted cod, 4 to 5 ounces each
3 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 egg yolks
1½ cups extra-virgin olive oil
12 boiling potatoes, such as White Rose or Yellow Finn, peels intact
12 medium-size carrots, peeled
1 pound haricots verts or other small green beans, stem ends removed
6 eggs
To refresh the cod, rinse it well in water, then place it in a large bowl, cover with water, and let it soak for 6 to 8 hours, changing the water every 2 hours. To test, bring a small pan of water to a simmer over low heat, drop in a 1-inch piece of the rinsed fish, cook for 3 to 4 minutes, remove, and taste. It should be pleasantly salted and edible. If still too salty, continue soaking for several more hours.
In a small bowl, crush together the garlic and salt using a wooden spoon. In a larger bowl, lightly beat the egg yolks. Very slowly drizzle in the olive oil, a teaspoon at a time, into the yolks, whisking constantly. Continue this slow process until all the oil is incorporated and an emulsion has formed. Aïoli is finicky and sometimes it just doesn’t set; if this happens, try again. Once the mayonnaise has formed, stir in the garlic mixture and the black pepper. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the potatoes and cook until easily pierced with a fork, about 20 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, remove them from the water and set aside on a platter.
Using the same water, cook the carrots until they are tender but still firm, about 15 minutes. They too should easily be pierced with a fork. Using a slotted spoon, remove from the water and set aside on the platter.
Continue the process for cooking the green beans, but just cook for 5 minutes. Drain the beans and rinse them with cold water to stop the cooking process. Pat dry and transfer to the platter of vegetables.
Place the eggs in a pot of water, bring the water to a boil, turn off the heat, and let the eggs sit in the hot water for 10 minutes. Drain the water from the pot and run cold water over the eggs for about 3 minutes. Remove the eggs, let cool, and peel. Cut the eggs in half lengthwise and arrange on the platter.
To cook the fish, bring a large skillet of water to a simmer. Poach the cod fillets until they gently flake apart, 5 to 6 minutes. Remove from the skillet and pat dry.
To serve, arrange the vegetables, eggs, and fish on a large platter and put the aïoli in several bowls on the table.
serves 6
Aïoli with Vegetables and Salted Cod
We didn’t spend many winters in France, only a few when we lived there, and then again once or twice in my twenties when I did have a very cloak-and-dagger experience at a truffle market. Before the dark winter skies settled, my mom and I headed to the market (held in the same square as the weekly vegetable market) with Serge, an old family friend. Truffles can sell for hundreds of dollars a pound and the parking lot was filled with expensive black cars from Nice, Monaco, and even Italy. People walked from trunk to trunk of each car, shrouding their transactions behind one another, no checks, just wads of cash exchanging hands. It was a very quiet, male-dominated scene. Later as we settled into the café for a coffee (I was of this age now!), people were starting to drink and put their multi-hundred-dollar purchases on the table to admire.
—Ethel
8 eggs, lightly beaten
½ ounce black truffle, shaved (substitute 1 teaspoon truffle oil)
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
¾ teaspoon coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper
4 thick slices brioche, lightly toasted
In the bottom of a double boiler, heat water to a simmer. Add the eggs and truffle to the top pan of the double boiler and whisk together. Add the butter, salt, and white pepper and continue whisking gently until small curds begin to form, resembling cottage cheese. Remove from the heat, and serve immediately while hot, alongside the brioche toast.
serves 4
I first saw this on a stark white plate under bad lighting next to rows and rows of other melon slices wrapped in saggy ham. This not-so-well-thought-out presentation could always be found at the Casino grocery store cafeteria, a chain location to eat in any city we were visiting, always inexpensive most likely, at best mediocre. It was the first time I saw melon wrapped in ham, which I thought was strange and hilarious. I passed it by with my plastic red lunch tray, ready to pick something familiar like chicken, and didn’t see this dish again until we had it at a close family friend’s house. That time it was gorgeous: a beautiful, pink, thin blanket of marbled ham wrapped around a blush/light orange melon. The sweet and salty combination married so well, I completely forgot about the unimpressive Casino version.
—Sara
1 small ripe cantaloupe, a French Charantais if possible
8 thin slices prosciutto
To prepare the melon, slice it in half lengthwise from the stem end. Use a large spoon to scoop the seeds from the center. Cut each half of the melon into 4 slices and remove the rind from each. Take a slice of prosciutto from the short end and wrap it around the center of a slice of melon. Continue until all the slices are wrapped. Transfer to the refrigerator until ready to serve.
serves 4 to 8
We often had fresh game for dinner at a friend of my dad’s, Dr. Guillemin. My sister and I loved Dr. Guillemin’s house because he had such a huge amount of land; you could have four or five full-field soccer games going on at once in his backyard. He also had many grandkids and built a two-story playhouse for them, complete with a kitchen and play utensils, small beds with flower linens, and mini tables and chairs. Marius, his caretaker, would often hunt for rabbit on their property the day before our feast, ready with a fresh kill when we arrived that afternoon. For whatever reason, dead game, no matter how cute or fluffy it was, didn’t faze me as a kid—I was excited to eat something that I could see prepped from start to finish. I remember the way the big wooden table in the kitchen looked from my eye level, as if I were in the front row seat of animal open-heart surgery: mini kidneys here, tiny heart there, and a floppy soft rabbit jacket. I wanted to poke all the organs with disgusted fascination, not realizing that everything on that table was edible. At dinnertime, we were often picking out the buckshot while we ate the rabbit meat, trying to be discreet and polite, spitting it out in our napkins with a smile.
—Sara
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and cut into 2- by ½-inch pieces
1 rabbit (about 3 pounds), cut into pieces (ask your butcher), innards discarded
5 sprigs fresh thyme
2 fresh or dried bay leaves
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 cups white wine
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 medium carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
8 to 10 new potatoes, such as Yukon Gold, Yellow Finn, or White Rose, peeled
One 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes
Warm the olive oil in the bottom of a Dutch oven or stockpot over medium heat. Add the garlic and onion, and cook until fragrant and the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the rabbit pieces, the thyme, bay leaves, salt, and pepper. Cook for about 5 minutes, browning the rabbit. Add the wine and deglaze the pot, scraping the browned bits from the bottom and sides. Stir in the butter, then add the carrots, potatoes, and tomatoes. Add enough water to just cover the meat. Bring the braising liquid to a slow simmer, making sure it doesn’t boil. Decrease the heat to low and cook, uncovered, for 1½ hours. Test the meat for doneness with a fork. The fork should easily pierce the meat, which should then fall from the bone without resistance. If the meat appears tough, continue to cook until it is fork-tender and easily flakes when pierced with a fork.
Remove the rabbit meat from the pot, place on a serving dish, and spoon about ½ cup of the liquid over the meat. Cover with aluminum foil and set aside. Increase the heat for the braising liquid to medium and cook, uncovered, stirring gently, until it reduces by one-quarter, about 15 minutes. Pour the braising liquid and vegetables over the meat and serve.
serves 6
Summer rainstorms filled the skies with wild flashes of lightning and shattering cracks of thunder, but when the storm passed, especially in the evening, out came the flashlights and the kids. Yes, we four- to eight-year-olds hopped on the hood of the truck of our friend and neighbor Pascal, the lights went on, and we trolled down the winding, single-lane road hunting for snails. The bigger the better, and once they were collected they were plopped into wire baskets with lids. We headed to the rocky roadside to tear handfuls of pungent wild thyme for snail feeding. The baskets were filled with thyme and the snails left to cleanse, their meat being seasoned by the diet of wild thyme. Two weeks later, they were boiled up in a seasoned broth of bay, thyme, salt, and garlic, tucked back into snail shells, stuffed with garlic butter, and then broiled. Now, whenever we eat snails we get them canned from specialty gourmet shops or online, or from France in suitcases.
—Ethel
24 canned snails (escargots de Bourgogne)
24 snail shells
8 tablespoons butter
¼ cup finely chopped Italian flat-leaf parsley
3 cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 baguette, cut into ½-inch slices
Preheat the broiler.
Drain and rinse the snails, pat dry, and tuck deep into the shells.
In a mixing bowl, cream together the butter, parsley, garlic, and salt. Spoon a generous teaspoon of the butter mixture into each shell and press firmly in to seal the shell, as hot air can build up inside and send hot snails flying. Place the snails in a baking dish, openings facing upward so the melted butter doesn’t drain out.
Place the snails under the broiler and cook until the butter is melted, 3 to 5 minutes. Serve hot with the baguette.
One of my dad’s friends owned a house outside of Lyon. He had a gardener/cook, who had a lovely round wife, both of whom lived with him on the premises. They were so adorable, short and stocky, ready to show us the most beautiful ingredients they were preparing for dinner. There was a year that must have been extremely wet because during one of our visits the cook pulled out a huge brown basket full of the most perfect golden chanterelles. At the time, I had no idea what they were and how coveted they were, but by the looks of them and how everyone else reacted to the bounty, I knew they were special. They brought a taste of the woods to the plate, and I thought of the trees we had just been climbing outside. The chanterelles had brought the outside in. —Sara
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons finely chopped shallot
1 (5- to 6-ounce) boneless, skinless chicken breast, cut into ½-inch cubes
2 cups chanterelle mushrooms, rinsed and coarsely chopped
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
½ cup white wine
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
½ cup chicken stock
1 cup whole milk
6 frozen puff pastry shells, 3½ inches or so in diameter
Salt and pepper
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Warm the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the shallot and sauté, stirring often with a wooden spoon, until fragrant and just translucent, about 2 minutes.
Increase the heat to medium high. Add the chicken, cook until lightly browned on all sides, about 5 minutes. Add the mushrooms, thyme, and white wine. Cook for 2 minutes, using the spoon to scrape the caramelized bits of shallot, chicken, and mushrooms from the bottom and sides of the pan. Add the butter and stir until melted; decrease the heat to low. Sprinkle the flour over the top and stir to create a roux. Add in the chicken stock, stirring constantly, then pour in the milk. Increase the heat to medium high and bring to a simmer. The sauce will begin to thicken, so remove it from the heat when it sticks easily to the back of the spoon, 5 to 7 minutes. Taste and adjust the seasoning with more salt and pepper as needed. While you bake the shells, let mixture stand in the hot pan to allow the sauce to thicken.
Bake the puff pastry shells according to the package directions. Remove from the oven, fill with the mushroom and chicken filling, and return to the oven. Bake for another 10 minutes, until heated through, and serve immediately.
serves 8
Boeuf bourguignon, coq au vin, daube, and cassoulet are stews with elegant names that all share wine as an ingredient. I loved when my mom cooked French stew wherever we were living. Usually for us, they were meals for a special occasion, mostly birthdays. We always brought home from Europe secret stashes of dried herbs we picked from the hillsides and cheeses we had bought the day before leaving, which may not have been allowed by U.S. customs. But I have no memory of us ever being caught, and, besides, the ingredients were essential to tide us over flavorwise until the following year.
—Ethel
4 pounds boneless beef chuck roast or a combination of boneless chuck and shank
2 medium yellow onions, 1 quartered, 1 diced
3 carrots
8 sprigs fresh thyme
3 fresh bay leaves
1 sprig rosemary, about 6 inches long
2 teaspoons sea salt
1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper
4 cloves garlic
1 orange zest strip, 4 inches long and ½ inch wide
1 bottle dry red wine
½ cup minced pancetta
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 ounces or so sliced dried cèpes or porcini mushrooms, some broken, some whole, soaked in 1 cup boiling water for 30 minutes
½ cup chopped fresh Italian flat-leaf parsley
Cut the meat into 2½-inch cubes. Trim and discard any large pieces of fat. Place the meat in a large bowl. Add the quartered onion along with the carrots, thyme, bay leaves, rosemary, 1 teaspoon salt, ½ tablespoon pepper, 2 cloves garlic, and the orange zest. Pour the wine over and turn all to mix well. Cover and let marinate overnight.
Render the pancetta in a heavy-bottomed stockpot or Dutch oven over medium heat. You should have about ¼ cup fat. If not, add a mix of butter and olive oil to make up the difference. Increase the heat to medium-high and add the diced onion. Mince the remaining 2 cloves of garlic and add. Sauté in the fat, then remove the pancetta to a plate.
Remove the meat from the marinade, reserving the marinade. Drain the meat and pat it very dry with paper towels or a clean dry dishcloth. Sauté a few pieces at a time, turning to brown well and removing each batch to a bowl. After the last one, add the flour and cook until it browns a bit, but be careful not to burn it.
Raise the heat to high and slowly pour in the reserved marinade, stirring and scraping to loosen any clinging bits. Return the sautéed onions, garlic, and the meat to the pot, along with any collected juices.
Add the remaining 1 teaspoon salt and ½ tablespoon pepper and 1 cup water. Bring to a boil, then decrease the heat to low, cover, and simmer until the meat can be cut with a fork. During the last half hour of cooking, add the soaked mushrooms. Drain their soaking water in a fine-mesh sieve, then add the soaking water to the stew as well.
Remove from the heat. Discard the herb stems and quartered onion. Skim off any excess fat, if desired. Serve hot, garnished with the parsley and accompanied by egg noodles, mashed potatoes, or polenta.
serves 6 to 8
We had pig, a very, very large pig, and her name was Lucretia. She was friendly and always seemed to have a dozen squeaky little piglets running underfoot. My father and I would take the goats out into the woods for the day and Lucretia would sometimes join us. My father carried a long stick, which he used to nudge and guide her, so I suppose we used to take our pig for walks. So many little piglets meant lots of pork meals. Although most of the piglets were sold off to friends and neighbors, at least one was kept for us, soon to become pork chops, lardon (pancetta), and salted hams and roasts.
—Ethel
3-pound pork loin roast (ask your butcher to tie)
2 teaspoons coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 ounce dried cèpes (porcini) mushrooms
4 sprigs fresh rosemary, each 4 to 6 inches long
3 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Rub the roast all over with the salt and pepper. In a large ovenproof skillet, warm the olive oil over medium heat Add the roast and brown, letting the meat sear for 1 to 2 minutes on each side, including the ends before turning.
In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the butter, then add the dried mushrooms, rosemary, and garlic. Simmer for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until fragrant and the mushrooms begin to soften. Position the roast in the large skillet with the fat facing upward, baste the roast with the seasoned butter, and add a few of the mushrooms and rosemary sprigs from the sauce to the pan. Transfer the pork to the oven and baste every 10 to 15 minutes with the butter sauce, adding all the remaining mushrooms and rosemary from the sauce after 20 minutes.
Cook the roast until an internal meat thermometer reads 145°F at the thickest part, about 1 hour. Remove from the oven, tent with a piece of foil, and let rest for 10 to 15 minutes. Cut ½-inch-thick slices and serve, topping with the pan juices and mushrooms from the pan.
serves 8 to 10
Roast Pork Loin with Rosemary and Porcini Mushrooms
Marie’s mother, Mémé Scifino, lived with them and mostly spoke an Italian dialect mingled with a bit of French. I never understood much of what she said to me, but she gave me treats, wore beautiful gold jewelry, spent her days cooking tomato sauce, polenta, pickled mushrooms, lasagna, and plump potato dumplings called gnocchi. Some days we were invited over for lunch, and on these days the courses were infinite: first charcuterie, then braised artichokes and ratatouille, then pasta or gnocchi with Bolognese sauce, next the meat, roasted pork or lamb chops, then salad, next cheese, and finally at least one dessert. Every year I would forget that I would be full by the time the meat came, and our whole family forgot the golden rule, which was to refuse seconds.
—Ethel
Bolognese Sauce
½ cup heavy cream
10 ounces pancetta, diced
1 cup finely chopped carrots
¾ cup finely chopped celery
1 cup finely chopped yellow onion
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
¾ pound ground chuck
½ pound ground veal
½ cup dry white wine
4 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
2 tablespoons tomato paste diluted in ¼ cup water
½ cup beef stock
1 cup whole milk
In a small saucepan, bring the cream to a simmer over medium heat and then reduce it by one-third. About 6 tablespoons of cream should remain. Remove from the heat.
In a large saucepan, render the pancetta over medium heat, about 8 minutes, or until almost all the fat is rendered. Stir in the carrots, celery, and onion. Stir in ½ teaspoon salt and ¼ teaspoon pepper. Sauté the vegetables for about 3 minutes, or until they are translucent.
In a mixing bowl, combine the ground meats. Season the meats lightly with salt and pepper. Increase the heat and stir the meat into the vegetables. Brown the meat for 5 minutes, or until the meat is medium brown in color. Stir in the wine, garlic, diluted tomato paste, and beef stock and decrease the heat to very low. Cook, partially covered, for 2 hours. Every 15 to 20 minutes stir in a tablespoon or so of the milk until it has all been incorporated. Stir in the reduced cream. Season with the remaining salt and pepper and set aside until ready to serve.
Gnocchi
2½ pounds russet potatoes, washed
1 egg
1 cup all-purpose flour, plus more for coating
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
Boil the potatoes in water until tender all the way through, 20 to 25 minutes. While they are still hot, peel and pass them through a vegetable mill or grate them on the large hole of a handheld grater into a bowl. Add the egg and flour, mixing well. Knead on a floured board until the dough is soft and sticky. Take 1 cup of the dough at a time, and with the palms of your hands, roll it into a cylinder 1 foot long. Cut it in half and roll each of the 2 pieces into a 12-inch cylinder. Cut into ½-inch pieces and coat thoroughly with flour.
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook 2 dozen or so gnocchi at a time until they float to the surface, which takes only moments.
Using a slotted spoon, transfer the gnocchi to a shallow serving bowl or platter and ladle about half of the Bolognese sauce on top. Serve the rest of the sauce separately in a small bowl. Place the cheese in a small bowl on the table.
serves 8
This was a dessert my mom often made for my dad when they were newlyweds. It’s a funny dish, a playful one, and it was really difficult for my mom to achieve custard that was thick and not soupy. I imagine her and my dad in their tiny kitchen in their tiny Paris apartment, young and in love, my mom getting frustrated at how the custard wasn’t thickening, and my dad laughing, being playful, and not caring. Eventually, after a few glasses of wine and a few attempts at making the dish, my mom probably got distracted, they turned on some Edith Piaf (specifically “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”) and danced around the apartment. It was a perfect reminder to not be so hard on yourself in the kitchen and enjoy the simple things in life.
—Sara
Crème Anglaise
1½ cups half-and-half
1 (2-inch) long vanilla bean, sliced lengthwise
4 egg yolks
1/3 cup sugar
Warm the half-and-half and the vanilla bean in a small saucepan over medium heat until tiny bubbles form at the sides. Make sure it doesn’t boil.
In a medium mixing bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until smooth.
Remove the vanilla bean from the hot half-and-half and slowly pour about ½ cup of the hot cream into the egg mixture, whisking until well blended. Slowly pour the egg mixture back into the saucepan with the remaining hot cream, whisking constantly. Return the crème anglaise to medium-low heat, whisking constantly, and continue to cook until the cream thickens and coats the back of the spoon, about 3 minutes. Transfer to a bowl, press a piece of plastic wrap against the top of the cream, and chill completely.
Meringues
8 egg whites
¾ cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
Whisk the egg whites in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment or in a large mixing bowl using a hand mixer until they are very stiff. Add the sugar and salt, a little at a time.
Bring a large saucepan of water to a boil and reduce to a simmer. The trick for perfect floating islands meringue is the gentle poaching. Using a large serving spoon, scoop a ½-cup mound of the meringue and gently lower into the simmering water. The meringue will slip from the spoon once it is submerged. Working in batches of 2 to 3, poach the mounds for 4 to 5 minutes. Gently lift them from the water and set onto a tray or large platter.
To serve, ladle a ¼ to 1/3 cup of crème anglaise into individual shallow bowls and place an island of poached meringue in the middle. Serve immediately.
serves 8
Poached Meringues in Crème Anglaise
“What do you want for breakfast, Sara—cornflakes?” I can hear my dad’s friend’s voice (Michel) ask me with such sweetness and quick determination in part French, part broken English. Maybe it was the comfort of seeing the logo as I did in the States (the bright red and green rooster). It brought a little bit of home to the French table and somehow took the strangeness away from the boxed milk. Roses des Sables is a playful dessert, combining one of the oldest cereals in America with rich French chocolate. I always wanted each of the pieces to last as long as they could, so instead of chomping down on the treats right away, I would let the chocolate dissolve on my tongue and down my throat until I was left with nothing but a little pocket of crunchy cereal.
—Sara
4 cups unsweetened cornflakes
6 ounces dark chocolate
½ cup salted butter
3 tablespoons powdered sugar
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or set out forty small paper candy papers, 1-ounce size. Place the cornflakes into a large mixing bowl.
Fill the bottom of a double boiler with water and bring to a boil. Add the chocolate and butter to the top pan and melt together, stirring until smooth. Stir in the powdered sugar and mix until smooth.
Pour the chocolate mixture over the cornflakes and using a rubber spatula, gently fold the cornflakes and chocolate together to coat. Spoon the mixture, 1 teaspoon at a time, onto the baking sheet or into the paper candy cups. Let harden, about 40 minutes.
makes 40
