Saturday, 24 September 2016

Katharine C: Kick-off apero at Jan and Bruno's

A warm and balmy evening greeted us at Jan and Bruno's gracious home, where we enjoyed one another's company and a delightful selection of dishes - definitely more dinatoire than apero on this
occasion.    Our thanks go to Jan and Bruno for their hospitality and a wonderful beginning to AWG's program year.  And of course enjoying the evening air outside on the terrace under the stars is one of
the Languedoc's reasons for living here.

A note of farewell to our dear friend Noel (pictured below), who is leaving the area.  Noel, you have been a wonderful part of AWG's (and FOAL's) circle of friends and we will miss you. 

Gill, Noel, Mary-Catherine

Jan and Chris

Kathy, Bruno, Bernadette (Susan Rey in the background)

Pam, Denise, Orla, Maquita

Chris and Pam

Maquita, Angela and Petra

Faye, Kathy and Steve

Ron and Cerese

Phil, Gerard, Denise and Orla


Katharine C: Book Group planning 2016/book choices

Book Group members met on a warm friday at Rosie's home to discuss our choice of books to read
in the coming program year (through October 2017).  After succinct descriptions of the books, and aided by our Chair Karen's meticulous time-keeping, we needed only one round of voting to determine the books that we would read.  Karen presented book suggestions also by absent members Peggy and Julie, and Katharine C presented a suggestion from Jan.  The following books were chosen, accompanied by their dates:

November 4:  Macbeth (already selected last year)
December 9:  Love, Nina (Presenter:  Rosie)
January 13:  The Fifth Child (Pres:  Anne)
February 10:  We are all completely beside ourselves (Pres:  Maggie)
March 10:  The Last Runaway (Pres:  Leslie L)
April 7:  Everyone brave is forgiven (Pres:  Katharine J)
May 12:  The Garden of Evening Mists (Pres:  Jan C)
June 9:  Promise at Dawn (Pres:  Karen)
September 8:  The children Act (Pres:  Denise)
October 13:  My Life in France (Pres:  Kath C)

And then we all had a marvellous lunch.  Many thanks to Rosie and John for their hospitality and allowing us to come to their home for the morning.

l to r:  Karen (Book Group Chair);  Denise;  Leslie;  Carla;  Maggie;  Rosie;  Mireille;  Katharine J;  Anne



Katharine C: Julia Child's life at La PItchoune, Provence

Editor:  Julia Child's life and work, and her love of France and all things french,  continue to charm.  AWG's Book Group will read her book My Life in France and discuss it at the October 2017 meeting.  

In Julia Child’s Provençal Kitchen


PLASCASSIER, France — When I hefted the rolling pin in my hand, I finally felt it: a thread of energy, a thrill of recognition. I knew I was standing in Julia Child’s kitchen, and I was about to put it to work.
In August, having rented it from the current owners through Airbnb, I spent a week living and cooking in La Pitchoune, the house in Provence that Mrs. Child and her husband, Paul, built in 1965 and lived in on and off until 1992.
In advance, I worried that the house would have been remodeled and glossed over in the intervening years until nothing of her was left; but as her namesake, I hoped that the kitchen would be a place where her spirit, if not her spatulas, would remain. I planned my cooking around the second volume of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” most of which was produced here between 1965 and 1970.
La Pitchoune is in the hills that rise above the Côte d’Azur, 10 miles north of Cannes, though it feels far from the yachts, crowds and burkini battles of the Riviera. The Childs were drawn to Provence for more elemental reasons: sun, olives, figs, wine.
There was a benefit particular to this out-of-the-way spot: Mrs. Child and her co-author, Simone Beck, could keep up their work on that long-delayed second volume. Ms. Beck and her husband, who owned the land that La Pitchoune is built on, lived in the big farmhouse that still stands a few meters up the sunny, scrubby hillside.
Since the house was run as a cooking school for many years, there is no way to know exactly which utensils, if any, were used by Mrs. Child. This did not prevent me from feeling her presence there. The kitchen still looks essentially as it appears in photographs from the 1960s and ’70s, down to the whisks, the tart rings and that big boxwood rolling pin, all hanging in their assigned places on the pegboard.
Many original artifacts remain: My garlic and shallots went into the small plastic bin she had labeled “ail echalotes” with a Dymo-style label maker. I pulled old and spotted but wickedly sharp carbon-steel knives from the knife block that Paul Child built into the butcher-block counter.

Photo

Julia Child’s gratin Provençal, as made by Julia Moskin in Mrs. Child’s kitchen there. Credit France Keyser for The New York Times

I ate lunch on the terrace where she fed legends like James Beard and M. F. K. Fisher. And on trips afield, I followed the trail of some Provençal foods she loved — snacks like fried zucchini blossoms and socca at the market in Cannes; salted anchovies and local caillette olives in Nice; whole candied clementines and bright crystallized violets at Confiserie Florian near Grasse.
I found the raw ingredients of Julia Child’s Provence intact: eggplants and peach leaves, lemons and goat cheese, along with the markets where they are sold, the producers who make them and the vendors who hawk them with cooking advice thrown in.
Outside the house, the traces of her life are hard to find.
She was never a celebrity here, according to her great-nephew, Alex Prud’homme, who has just published “The French Chef in America,” his account of her life after the Childs moved back from France to the United States. “Southern France is famously laid-back,” he wrote, recalling a visit in 1976, “and the people who lived nearby didn’t know, or care, who Julia-Child-the-American-TV-star was.”
At Boucherie Fabre, a butcher shop that has stood outside the Marché Forville in Cannes since 1899 (and where I was advised to buy beef shin for my Provençal daube), I worked up the nerve to ask the serious, bloodstained men behind the counter if anyone remembered her.
To my surprise, a stooped employee broke into a credible, fluty Julia Child impersonation, holding his hand high to indicate the 6-foot-2-inch stature that made her even more conspicuous in France than she was in the States.
And at one of her favorite restaurants, Les Arcades in Biot, the restaurant’s chef, Mimi Brothier, has been making many of the same dishes since the restaurant opened in the 1960s as a canteen for local artists. I ate her pan-crisped sardines, perfect roasted peppers and traditional soupe au pistou.
“Madame Child loved our cuisine,” said Ms. Brothier, born here in 1934. “And as long as I am here, nothing will change.”

But change is rampant in this part of Provence, the Alpes-Maritimes department that includes Cannes, Antibes and Nice. Since the Childs moved in, farms and vineyards have been converted to golf courses and villas to accommodate the international elites who want to live on the Côte d’Azur. Big-box stores have pulled customers away from town centers. Nice, now the fifth-largest city in France, has sprawled outward and swallowed towns, valleys and fields.
But inside the kitchen of La Pitchoune, it felt as if little had changed.
On the long, scarred counter, I opened the book to the section on puff pastry, with its sketch of three butter sticks and a fat rolling pin hovering above them — just like the one I was holding, more than two feet long and as thick as a baseball bat. “Beat the butter with a rolling pin to soften it,” the recipe instructed.
This had never occurred to me. I have painstakingly cut frozen butter into pieces to soften it, and tried to speed it along by tossing the pieces into a running mixer. (This is a good way to get grease marks on the ceiling.) But I had never thought of just whacking it into submission.
This is partly because my modern kitchen doesn’t have a collection of powerful hand tools like mallets, ice picks and broomsticks: the last, according to her editor, Judith Jones, was kept on hand for breaking the ankle bones of ducks and geese. Needless to say, the rolling-pin trick worked, producing smooth and supple butter that was still cold: ideal for pastry.

(Whether these utensils were indeed Mrs. Child’s is unclear. In a lawsuit filed against Airbnb in June, the Julia Child Foundation objects to Airbnb’s use of Mrs. Child’s name in a promotional campaign for the house, and says its claim that her kitchen implements remain “exactly as she left them” is false.)
Using her kitchen and following her recipes for a week reminded me how physically demanding traditional cooking can be. “It takes strong hands to be a good cook,” she told Vogue in 1968, during a photo shoot here. “You have to be rough and tough.”
Forcing fibrous vegetables through food mills, kneading bread dough and cranking a solid-steel meat grinder require real effort. All of those were basic skills when Mrs. Child was teaching Americans to cook through her books and television shows, long before baby carrots, ground beef, par-baked bread and dozens of other shortcuts were available at every supermarket.\

The Childs built La Pitchoune (they nicknamed it “La Peetch”) after the successful publication of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” in 1961; they had moved back to the United States and were shooting “The French Chef” for WGBH. But Julia Child still was far from a household name, and the Childs were not rich.
So the kitchen at La Pitchoune isn’t luxurious or spacious; it wouldn’t fill even a corner of Ina Garten’s famous “entertaining barn.” With its pegboard walls and industrial lighting, it looks nothing like a set for a celebrity chef and entirely like what it was built to be: a practical workshop for a home cook with a hell of a lot of work to do.
As Mrs. Child and Ms. Beck worked on the second volume here, they tested recipes endlessly, going back and forth between their kitchens with experiments, notes, cocktails, galleys and grievances.
Certain keystones of French cuisine, like bread, charcuterie and pastry, had been left out of the first volume, and the authors were resolved to fill in the gaps. But they strongly disagreed about what was a gap, what was a keystone and even what was French.
Famously, Mrs. Child was a rigorous professional who believed that the science and exactitude of recipes were their most important assets. Ms. Beck was an excellent home cook who maintained that her instincts as a native Frenchwoman superseded all other culinary knowledge.
For example, Ms. Beck was utterly opposed to developing recipes for bread and croissants, since no Frenchwoman would make them at home. At that time, there was still a family-run bakery in every French town, and every few blocks in a French city. (This, sadly, is no longer the case: The towns near Plascassier are filled with national chains.)
Mrs. Child, knowing that American cooks of the time couldn’t find such things anywhere, was even more determined in favor.

Photo

Julia Moskin cooking in Mrs. Child’s kitchen at the house, La Pitchoune. Credit France Keyser for The New York Times

Since she had by then learned to trust her own instincts as much as those of her co-author (and became saucy enough to call her “La Super-Française” behind her back), those recipes were painstakingly developed here, with field trips around France to consult bakers, professors and chemists. The final recipes for puff pastry, brioche and basic French bread alone occupy nearly 100 pages of the book.
And although I picked up that rolling pin on Day 2, I didn’t make any of them. The August tomatoes at the Cours Saleya market in Nice were too gorgeous, with their multicolored stripes; the farmer from Var who told me that his new potatoes tasted like almonds was too persuasive; the anchovies were too plump and briny to be ignored.
I made a summery potato gratin layered with onions, tomatoes and a paste of garlic, anchovies and basil, pounded in a marble mortar as big as a chamber pot. I made a beef daube from Patricia Wells, a friend of Mrs. Child who has also found her voice as a cook in Provence, reasoning that Ms. Wells’s two bottles of white wine would make a much more summery daube than Mrs. Child’s Provençal classic, with two bottles of red.
And I made a short, half-hidden recipe I had never noticed before that suddenly leapt off page 353. It is jokey in its name and very Julia, with her famous love of cocktail-hour snacks.
La Tentation de Bramafam is a fluffy eggplant-walnut dip with a clear connection to dishes like baba ghanouj. (Bramafam is the name of the estate that encompasses La Pitchoune.) It is tasty, absurdly easy and must have been somehow slipped past La Super-Française, as it contains raw ginger and hot sauce, two of the least-French ingredients imaginable.
As I brought my bowl of it out to the terrace each evening, it was easy to imagine the two women waiting there under the mulberry tree, recovering from a long day of recipe testing with an aperitif and a bite to eat before dinner.
Tired but satisfied, probably with shrimp guts in their hair and flour in the creases of their crow’s feet, they would have toasted the hard work that has given such pleasure to so many.
Recipes: Provençal White Wine Beef Daube | Julia Child’s Provençal Potato Gratin | Julia Child’s Eggplant-Walnut Dip | More Julia Child Dishes

Katharine C: taxes on second homes in Paris

Taxes on Paris’s Second Homeowners Could Increase Five Fold

Paris City Council hopes to reduce the number of empty homes


Image result for Haussmannian apartment buildings in Paris
Second homeowners in Paris could soon be stung with a five-fold increase in property taxes.

If new measures agreed to by Paris City Council get the green light from France’s parliament, second homeowners, who currently pay an extra 20% on top of their regular property taxes, could soon see that jump to 100%, according to The Atlantic’s CityLab.

The council wants to reduce the number of vacation homes in Paris and the hope is that these measures would entice more well off homeowners to either rent their properties to permanent tenants, or sell them.

Paris has an estimated 92,000 second homes and a large majority of these are empty for around “three-quarters of the year,” according to Paris Housing Commissioner Ian Brossat, shrinking the pool of available rentals for permanent residents in the city.
“Up until now, this tax was felt to be bearable, but under new proposals —and added to the wealth tax—this presents an additional punitive cost,” said Laurent Lakatos, a director at Databiens, a Paris-based real estate data firm.

“Instead of forcing rents down as the government intended, it seems likely that more homes will simply be put up for sale and at reduced prices. Another likely outcome could be a deterioration in some of France’s most historic properties, as landlords on low (rental) incomes struggle to maintain their properties.”

Sunday, 11 September 2016

Katharine C: Summer's last hurrah - tomatoes


A wooden board with pieces of brown bread topped with large slices of tomato and green pesto, a bowl of pesto and tomatoes

With the autumn glut comes a final chance to enjoy homegrown tomatoes as the main event in stews and curries. 

It is now, as the summer dips into autumn, that tomatoes are at their best. They are the last few hauls of home-grown fruit before the plants wither to a crisp and head off to the compost. A bit of a mixed bag to be honest, but I like that. The chance to match up the tiny Sungold, Green Zebra and those fat yellow fruits with their flash of carmine. The opportunity to marry the sharp with the oversweet, the pear with the cherry, the green with those on the verge of collapse. All comers are welcome.
I threw odds and sods from the trays at the greengrocer’s at a vegetable stew last week, spicing the rust-coloured slush with chilli, turmeric and garlic, then stirring in a spoonful of sticky tamarind paste to give a lift to the pervading late-summer sweetness. I griddled courgettes, currently cheap as chips, and added them at the last minute so they kept some texture. We passed the big bowl along the table, a last meal in the dying sun, everyone dipping into rice studded with cloves and cumin seeds, then spooning over the spiced tomato stew.
I like the way bread soaks up the tomato’s juices, be it in an Italian pappa al pomodoro, the soft-textured soup-salad; a Provençal pan bagnat (more tomatoes than tuna for me, please) or a simple breakfast of grilled tomatoes on white toast, the edges of the bread smoked from the grill, then soaked with tart juice. I made a plate of sandwiches this week, too, making first a basil, olive oil and garlic paste to use in lieu of butter. Better, I think, was the one I made later using coriander, chillies and yogurt – a sort of fresh chutney really.
A pinch of sugar will sort out any end-of-season fruits that let you down. Add it with the salt and black pepper. Even the meanest shake of caster will do more than you might imagine. I like to bake a dish of halved fruits of all shapes and sizes, their surfaces spread with a loose dressing of garlic, olive oil, a splash of red wine vinegar, a pinch of sugar and a fistful of mixed fresh herbs. The trick is to make the paste runny enough to baste the tomatoes as they roast, and have something under them to mop up the juices – a raft of toast or flatbread, or a slice of focaccia. It’s the tomato’s final fling.

Courgettes and spiced tomatoes

A curry, of sorts. The turmeric adds its characteristic earthy note, the tamarind paste a welcome, mellow sourness. There is heat, too, from the chillies and mustard seeds, but the overall effect is light, bright and sweet-sharp. Rice – steamed with a chopped shallot, a few cloves, a bay leaf or two and its snow-white depths freckled with cumin seeds – is a given.
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Serves 4
groundnut oil 2 tbsp
cumin seeds 1 tsp
yellow mustard seeds 1 tsp
onion 1, medium
hot green chilli 1, small
cherry tomatoes 700g
tamarind paste ½ tsp
ground turmeric 1 tsp
chilli powder ½ tsp
courgettes 6, medium
steamed rice to serve
Warm the groundnut oil in a shallow pan, then add the cumin and mustard seeds and cook for a minute or two till fragrant. Peel and finely chop the onion then add it to the spices, together with the finely chopped green chilli. Stirring regularly, let the onion cook for 5 to 10 minutes, until translucent.
Halve the tomatoes and drop them into a bowl, then combine with the tamarind paste, ground turmeric and chilli powder, mashing it all together with a wooden spoon. When the onion has softened but before it starts to change colour, stir in the tomatoes and a little salt, partially cover with a lid and simmer for about 20 minutes until the tomatoes have collapsed into a rough, scarlet sauce.
Slice the courgettes into short lengths, about 4 or 5 to each fruit, then cook on a griddle until lightly browned on the outside. (Alternatively you can fry them in a shallow pan with a little olive oil.) Transfer the browned courgettes to the spiced tomato and simmer for a further 10 minutes until each piece is fully tender.
Serve with the steamed rice.

Tomato sandwich with coriander paste

I often use cucumber or a cool salad leaf as well as the tomato. Avoid rocket and watercress which add too much heat, and go instead for cooling leaves, such as little gem, iceberg or butterhead lettuce.


Makes 2 large sandwiches.
For the sandwiches:
sourdough, white or rye bread 4 slices
tomatoes 250g, assorted sizes
coriander paste see below
For the paste:
coriander 70g
lime juice 2 tbsp
sugar ½ to 1 tsp
green chillies 1-2, small
ginger a 70g piece
natural yogurt 6-7 tbsp
Remove the leaves from the coriander. Put the lime juice, sugar, chilli (one or both, depending on your heat threshold), ginger (peeled and roughly sliced) and the yogurt into the jug of a blender and process to a coarse paste. Add the coriander leaves and a little salt and process further. The paste should be pungent, slightly citrus, sour and hot. Add sugar, yogurt or more lime juice to taste.
Slice the tomatoes thinly. Spread each piece of bread generously with some of the coriander paste, then place the tomato slices on top. Place a piece of the spread bread on top and press down lightly. Store any leftover paste, covered, in the fridge.

Katharine C: 9/11 fifteen years on - a reflection (NY Times)

A Walk Around the Void of 9/11

Credit Naftali Beder
Walk onto the plaza in Lower Manhattan and you hear the memorial before you see it — a whooshing through the oak trees. You soon realize it’s not the wind, but water. At the footprint of each tower, north and south, a vast square emptiness is bound by four walls of falling water, the pool below pouring into a smaller central void that flows out of sight. The memorial is black upon black, but the water casts reflections. Sunlight and mist make fragmentary rainbows that flicker as clouds go by.
Tourists are milling about and buying souvenirs, guides are explaining, construction workers on the perimeter are relaxing. Though it is a murder scene, the memorial is not a morbid place. The trees soften it, as does the presence of children who have no memory of that morning, 15 years ago on Sunday.
There is an underground museum nearby, if you want to immerse yourself in that day. But the event is hard to grasp in full if you never saw the towers intact, if you never gazed straight up between the two pinstriped columns and got dizzy at the scale. And if you were not downtown that day, and did not have to flee uptown or across a bridge, did not have your memory seared by the smoke, the dust, the smell, the incomprehension.
The memorial has the power to gently push you back — not to horror, but maybe to tears. This is the effect of seeing the thousands of names, incised in bronze rows, five deep, encircling the fountains. Each row is like a lei of five strands, lives linked by work or some other related or random circumstance, and one awful fate.
Walk slowly, and let your eyes absorb the loss. Jeremy “Caz” Carrington, of Cantor Fitzgerald. Deepa Pakkala, Marsh & McLennan. Uhuru Houston, Port Authority police. Maybe technology someday will allow us to hover over a name and hear a story, summon a life, see the braid of loved ones formed over a lifetime and then, suddenly, snapped. Who were these dead, and where might life have taken them? William Mahoney, Fire Department Rescue 4. Michael Quilty, Ladder 11. Heather Malia Ho, pastry chef at Windows on the World.
Many of them had no idea what was happening, and none knew what the attacks would lead to. The years of unending warfare, the disasters overseas, the new way of living: see something, say something, fear everything.
The memorial, blessedly, does not summon any wretched aftermath. It summons, instead, dignity and honor — of the victims who called home, leaving messages of love, of the first responders who rushed toward the smoke and flames. There was great bravery that day, and exemplary leadership in the days and months after. Rudy Giuliani, creating calm and unity; George Bush, honoring the workers and the fallen amid the wreckage.
Fifteen years on, the evil of 9/11 may still reverberate, but the goodness remains a thing to marvel at. And the 9/11 memorial — subdued, profound — is almost miraculous, given its tortured birth by committee. Years ago two mayors, Michael Bloomberg and Mr. Giuliani, were in a group discussing what the memorial should be. Mr. Giuliani wanted something big on that “sacred ground.” Mr. Bloomberg argued for a school, not a monument. “I always thought the best memorial for anybody is to build a better world in their memory,” he said. “I’m a believer in the future, not the past. I can’t do anything about the past.”
He was right about what we can’t do. But many of us can do this on a bright September day: Take the subway to Lower Manhattan. Walk a block or two, find the way through a construction zone and down a chain-link corridor. Take the time to walk around each void, watching the names flow by. There are too many to linger over, but read those you can and reflect on the whole. Take several turns, pondering, as a pilgrim might do, the enormity of the loss, the passage of years. And what we, the living, can do to build a better world, worthy of their sacrifice.