a cool and wet winter

Every month, I receive a welcome missive from my good friend Madeleine Vedel. Together she and her husband Erick run a cooking school in Provence, France. It is there I stayed for several months after college, and the memories from that time run deep and vivid in my mind.

The most recent missive in my mailbox talked about mushrooms and reminded me of when we went mushroom hunting during a stay in the gorgeous lush hills of the Cévennes mountains in Southern France. I was very homesick at the time, and the green, rolling forests reminded me very much of my home in Vermont.

At the end of an adventurous treasure hunt, I had found a total of 3 large cèpes (also known as porcinis). A proud moment! We brought them by the local pharmacy (to check for poisonous varieties) and then whisked them home to cook up a fabulous supper.

And here is Madeleine's letter...



When it rains... mushrooms come popping up! And Provence, a land of agriculture and outdoor beauty, soaks up the gentle bounty of the skies. The beekeeper is pleased for her bees, and the future rosemary honey; the farm next door is pleased as he'll not need to irrigate this winter (and nor should he! this is "normal" winter weather for us... but the past few years weren't too normal). Already the dark fields are sprouting tender green shoots of winter wheat.

Next week brings us our special week of winter decadence: truffles, foie gras, duck confit, chocolates, Chateauneuf-du-Pape wines... mmm I can't wait! We get our barbary ducks, well fattened from a farmer in the Southwest who raises them in a small, hands-on operation. Though for many, foie gras is not "politically-correct" I must admit to truly loving it -- in moderation. In my defense, I could mention that the Egyptians already enjoyed it thousands of years' ago, after noticing that both geese and ducks store extra energy in their livers in preparation for the long flight over the Mediterranean to their nesting grounds in France...

Of course, we'll also be liberally sprinkling our food with truffles -- those rough and funky lumps that our friend Rene's dog will find for us. We'll imbibe the potent aromas of this rare species in the cafe beside the market -- now smoke free!!! Yes, France has turned smoke-free in public spaces. Amazing, hm? T'will be interesting to see to what degree they abide by the new laws.

As we begin the year 2008, I treasure the memories of 2007, and all the wonderful visits of friends of friends, past clients and so many more. We were the happy beneficiaries of oodles of word of mouth contacts. Thank you! and please, feel free to share this email missive and your stories of your time with us with any and all. Provence is our home, and we love sharing it with you.

—Madeleine Vedel, Association Cuisine et Tradition, www.cuisineprovencale.com








Photos: Penelope, Madeleine and friends mushroom hunting in the Cévennes in Southern France, 2002.

fat protection

By Kathleen De Simone


Much of my childhood was lived with my Irish foster mother. She was gloriously funny, always busy, loving, old enough to be my grand mom, and had a delightful brogue, so thick you could cut it with a stick. And it was so full of music... I just adored listening to her, well on cold winter mornings, after filling us with big ceramic bowls full of—made from scratch oatmeal—what she called porridge. It was dotted with butter and brown sugar, to which she would pour on top in a small river of cream.

Oh heaven, the aroma alone could make you swoon!! On especially cold days she would do this extra special thing. When we were leaving for the bus stop, on our way to school, she would walk us to the front door and hand me and my 3 half siblings rashers of crisp, crisp bacon—the thick old-fashioned kind, hand-sliced—and slabs of fresh Irish soda bread she had just fried brown in bacon fat. She would put them in our mittened hands saying in her lyrical Irish brogue, and with much solemnity…

“Here now children, take this with ya’ while your waiting for the bus, and the fat will keep out the cold.”

Now, I knew she knew everything and was so loving and good, but I was troubled. I was never quite sure how this “fat” protection worked? Did you wave the bacon in the air to drive the cold away? Did you hold it in front of you like a crucifix warding off Dracula? I would keep it in front of me at the bus stop long as I could, but eventually I would succumb and eat the delightful, crunchy, salty fatty strips and the divine toasted soda bread, willing at last to take the chance of being out in the cold without a bit of fat protection... and it was so divine I didn't even care…


Photo: The author all grown up.

lucky girl

By Emma H. W. Kouri


I am a lucky girl. Really. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for my life and my family. Each day is filled with joy; I love my house and my dog, and of course my parents and my sisters. I also love my boss and I love school. But today, I am especially grateful for my husband.

Kevin has several unique characteristics that make him a desirable mate. First, he has a great appreciation for expensive and well-made women’s lingerie. If that isn’t enough to convince you, he also loves expensive and well-made women’s shoes. These two things together make my life much easier than most of the women I know, because I never have to think up an excuse of why I need this bra or those fabulous shoes. To the contrary, I sometimes have to convince him that I don’t need them!

Despite these amazing attributes, the best thing about Kevin is his ability and desire to provide constant emotional nourishment. Today, I am particularly grateful that he is so supportive and loving. During this busy week, he decided to do all the cooking. Right now, he is making us breaded pork chops. He is taking the task very seriously and is following the recipe to a T. A little bit of Mama Sonia came out in me tonight, as I lingered in the kitchen…

“Are you going to pre-heat the oven?”
“What are you doing with that milk?”
“Why did you cook the garlic and then throw it in the sink?! The recipe says to set it aside!”

It turns out the garlic was just to flavor the pan, and the recipe said to set it aside if you want to use it for something else. So I poured myself a glass of wine and banished myself to the office, where I should be working on my grant.

I can hear pots clanking, and I know Kevin is now working on his homemade pasta sauce for dinner tomorrow night. He is a very good boy and I am a very, very lucky girl.

figgy pudding

Sometimes things that are nourishing don't necessarily taste good—like cod liver oil or lima beans. I don't think I'll ever love those little buggers, and I don't care. But sometimes there are things that you don't like, but that you really want to like—because they're so cool—that you end up liking them eventually. Even if they still taste kind of yucky. You just crave them. Such is the case with me and Marmite. And figgy pudding.

Both foods have been passed down from my English roots. Our mummy has been making traditional figgy pudding every Christmas since we were kids. Made from lots of dried fruit and a little flour and Guinness to bind it, figgy pudding is really nothing more than a glorified fruit cake. And how many kids like fruit cake?

But then mold it in a mound, add a sprig of holly on top, a splash of Grand Marnier, light the whole thing on fire and you've got another thing altogether. A pyrotechnic site for sore eyes.

Since childhood, I've tried very hard to love it. I really, really wanted to crave the dark, rich dessert. But it was so bitter, the only way I could get it down was by drowning it in a sea of melty brandy butter. In fact, to this day, that's really only the way I can eat it. But I still really, really, really want to like it. To crave it like my parents do.

For now, at least I can still love the experience. This year, the lighting of the figgy pudding was so exciting. It was Colin's first time. We banged our forks on the table and sang, "Oh we want some figgy pudding, oh we want some figgy pudding, so bring it right now!" Papa poured some brandy on the pudd while Mummy stood by with the match. He was a little overzealous and spilled a heap of the precious Grand Marnier over the side of the dish and the tablecloth caught on fire! Then some of us screamed. And then we started laughing. And then it took forever for all of the alcohol to burn off. What a commotion. I think Kevin got it all on video—I'd really love to get my hands on that and post it here. But for now, here are a couple of photos (the second one was taken about 5 minutes later—usually the brandy burns off in 5 seconds):