October 18, 2005
What do I say to 200 students who have diced and sautéed their way through hours of stainless steel kitchen classes? What do I say to the thousand family members who ponied up the funds, ate the homework and kissed the new burns better? “Where did you go to school?” they’ll ask. Knees knocking and mouth dry, I’ll have to confess that I learned to cook at my grandmother’s hand, scoop by scoop. First pasta and biscotti, then gnocchi as I adjusted my large palm size to her tiny one—a handful of flour, one egg and one tablespoon of water, the best pasta’ciutto dough is stiff. Long before I even had a passport, I learned how to find Italy as my Mom made anise cookies on Nona's flour-crusted waffle iron.
Later, in my Southwest France 'school', I learned how to distinguish the flavors of Gascony at the kitchen tables on my neighbors’ farms—traditional charcuterie, potager ripe tomatoes and golden fresh eggs. I learned the color and smell of really fresh food in the weekly markets where I shop and gossip and flirt. Jean-Claude the cheesemonger with a blue-eyed twinkle likes to chat but I have tasted the high pastures of the Auvergne in the Salers, Cantal and Laguiole cheese he makes me sample. Coming homewith market baskets overflowing, I drive along the swooping curves of a two lane road and study the newly-turned fields of this summer’s sunflowers, corn, wheat: chalky on the ridge near Nerac; deep chocolate here in the Garonne River valley; russet and gold where they plant the Armagnac grapes near Eauze. This is Terroir 101.
What shall I tell these new graduates? tired and broke new line cooks? pastry slaves? aspiring chefs? Easy. Now, you can start learning, watching, tasting, smelling. Now, you can find your own France whether you live in Chicago, work in Las Vegas or shop at the neighborhood supermarket. Now, you are ready to earn your FF—Finding France, a degree that might just take a lifetime.
October 03, 2005
Since I wrote last, visitors have come and gone leaving their green thumb prints on the potager as cooking students have learned about October's pumpkin soup, fearless butter pastry, and tender rabbit drunk on wine and prunes.
Since I wrote last, the wild mushrooms growing on the towpath have been harvested, eaten and reharvested again. We have drunk the newest wine, le bourru, and tasted the first promise of armagnac's 2005 vintage- fruity sweet juice, clean dry wine, waiting barrels that will exhale alcohol into celestial parfume--la part des anges.
Since I wrote last, the moon has come and gone and freshly turned fields are being put to bed under a dark Gascon sky. The cheminee has been lit, one friend grows a year older, and another marries in a Gascon wedding celebration that lasts long into the same dark night.
Before I write again, there will be new stories to tell, old recipes to refine and winter bitter greens to plant alongside the grape-hung arbor. I hasten to slow the globe before November's dark days arrive so that I can remember these sweet fall moments.