We’ve been up in the atelier today, making the workshop part of it frost-free for winter. Because the roof will HAVE to come off next year – it really leaks quite seriously – there is no point in doing a tremendously fine job at the moment. Cobbling something together from odds and ends is the order of the day.
Now this is fine by me, less fine by Malcolm. In the DIY department, we are an extremely ill-assorted couple. Malcolm has a fine selection of tools,which he keeps neatly organised, clean, sharp and ready for action. I have only the haziest notion of DIY skills, and am prone to use broken knives as screwdrivers. The only time I went in for any serious sawing, more than 18 months ago now, I made such a bad job of it that I permanently damaged my shoulder. I’m as keen on DIY as Malcolm is on cooking.
This leads to conflict. Increasingly, I feel obliged to help – well, it’s my house as much as Malcolm’s. The poor man is up against someone who simply has no instinct for the task in hand. Holding steady something to be sawed, I’ll grip the wrong end of the plank. Asked for a hammer, I’ll produce a mallet. I yawn. I clock-watch. I fidget. I don’t notice when I could be fetching and carrying, and that is indeed as much as I’m fit for. I make a mess of the simplest tasks: I confuse screws with nails and can’t remember where I put the drill bits.
Poor man. He enjoys what he does on the whole, and is usually entitled to feel real satisfaction in a job well done. If only he had a keen apprentice, rather then the moody and reluctant Work Experience type he ended up with, he’d get on so much faster, and we could all knock off in time for tea.
Don’t even ask what’s going on here. You get the picture. There’s A LOT to do in the atelier
Over in a tiny village in the Couserans today for a huge lunch – Azinat – with friends, we came across this sight:
It’s an alambic – well two alambics actually. We knew that, because we’ve seen plenty of these historic pieces of machinery on display in villages throughout the area. We even know what they’re for: every autumn, villagers still look forward to the annual visit of the alambic man whom they pay to transform the juices from their apples, plums or whatever into the most potent hooch you can imagine: up to 50% proof. These alambics showed signs of having been recently used: the tractor next to them still had its engine running.
We retired to our restaurant for lunch.
Three and a half hours later, the meal over, we sauntered over to where we’d spotted the alambics: huge copper contraptions encased in a battered wooden frame. They were functioning! Three large rubicund men, the types you can meet in the countryside anywhere, any country, were supervising hooch production, and were very happy to explain everything.
Checking everything’s fine
Well, I can’t be sure I’ve got this right. It’s something like this though.
A fire under the first cylinder heats the juices that are poured into it.
The all-important fire. Note the wheels on which the machine originally travelled
The resultant steam is forced up through pipes, which are cooled by water. The vapour condenses into alcoholic liquid. That doesn’t sound quite right to me: I never was any good at science.
Copper lid – parked for the moment.
Anyway, it’s the result that counts. We met a Dutch couple who’d brought along their plum juice to be processed. 135 litres of juice. And their eau de vie was now almost ready for them to pay for and take away. Their 135 litres had become …. 10 litres.
Here’s the hooch
They didn’t yet know what they were going to be charged. But they had been told they’d have to fill in a lengthy document for the tax office, and pay a suitable levy for this astonishingly potent product. We know for a fact it’s strong stuff. There were the dregs in a large plastic container. They invited us all to dip a finger in and taste it. We did. And I promise you – just licking a fingerful probably put us over the limit.
We felt as if we’d witnessed a real piece of history. When these men retire, are there young people around who will follow in their footsteps?
This alambic’s probably good for very many more years
Back in the UK, I hear everyone’s gone baking mad, that the entire nation was glued to its screens to watch the final of ‘The Great British Bake-off’. Here in France, it’s the one branch of cookery in which the average French person will allow the average Brit some supremacy.
The French are rightly proud of their high-end patisserie, the delectable tarts and gâteaux which traditionally come to the table at the end of a family celebration or Sunday lunch: from the baker’s naturally, no shame in that.
More day-to-day baking is a different matter, however. Plainish cakes, loaf-shaped and known in France as ‘cake’, are a big disappointment, especially if they’re from the supermarket. I find them over-dry, over-sugared, too strongly flavoured with something, such as vanilla, that should be a subtle undertone. I never thought I’d find myself saying this, but even cakes available in any old British supermarket can be quite a treat in comparison.
McVitie’s Jamaican ginger cake, for example, dark and sticky, is just the thing with a hot cuppa after a brisk country walk in winter: it even has its own website. And while I’m not sure that Mr. Kipling makes exceedingly good cakes, they’re – well – not too bad.
No wonder then, that when we run our cookery workshops at Découvertes Terres Lointaines, and announce that we’ll be turning our hands to British tea-time treats, the group is immediately oversubscribed . Scones, coffee and walnut cake and a nice of cup of tea anyone?
Winter has arrived. How do I know? Although the nights are cold, the afternoons are still for going walking or tidying up the garden wearing a tee-shirt, beneath a duck-egg blue sky. So until the other day, I thought we were clinging on to autumn.
But on Thursday, the Orange Man arrived. This is exciting enough news for it to be worth phoning a friend. Every year, once winter kicks in and the orange harvest is well under way in southern Spain, a huge container lorry arrives in Lavelanet. It parks up at a disused petrol station on the main road into town and becomes an impromptu shop.
The man with the lorry, the Orange Man, speaks only Spanish, and sells only oranges. Not singly or by the half-dozen, but in large 10 kilo boxes. 10 kilos, 10 euros. What a bargain. These oranges, though sometimes a little knobbly and in irregular sizes, are the juiciest and tastiest you’ll ever eat, and it’s no wonder that whenever you pass, you’ll see someone pulling up their car and opening the boot for a case or two. Our Spanish friend won’t have to stay long. In a few days the entire container-load will be sold, he’ll return to Spain …. only to return when he’s loaded up again.
When he departs for the last time at the end of the season, we’ll know for sure that spring has arrived.
Before we came back to France at the weekend, I wanted a day in Manchester, where I was at University more than 40 years ago. It was a city people at that time seemed to love or hate. I loved it then, and I still do. It’s buzzy and busy, with galleries, music, shops, and a bravura display of civic Victorian architecture down every city centre street.
Outside John Rylands library
I had a particular memory I wanted to share with Malcolm. The John Rylands Library. I used to go there to write an essay or prepare for a seminar on those days when I wanted to pretend to some kind of scholarship that in truth was never part of my make-up. The building was a celebration of Victorian Gothic architecture at its finest, with wonderful plaster tracery on the walls, splendid fan-vaulted ceilings, and shelf after shelf of ancient leather-bound books. Seated in some darkened alcove, surrounded by the particular smell of the place – beeswax polish mixed with dusty books, I would work away for an hour or two, convincing myself, if nobody else, that I was getting down to the serious matter of studying in an industrious and creative manner. Few other people would be there: there were no distractions other than the quiet beauty of the building itself. The place was built for scholarship.
The reading room where I pretended to write essays.
It was built in the 1890’s by Enriqueta Rylands in memory of her husband John. Although his origins were humble, he became Manchester’s first multi-millionaire, making his fortune in the textile industry as a cotton manufacturer. At first, the library collection was modest, but over the years, has come to hold works of world-class importance: everything from the earliest known New Testament text, on papyrus, to medieval illustrated manuscripts, a Gutenberg bible, and the personal papers of the likes of Elizabeth Gaskell.
One of dozens of different fantastical creatures forming the roof bosses
I’m not qualified to comment on the early air conditioning systems, or the electricity originally generated on site. I simply enjoy the richly patterned stained glass, the sumptuous woodwork, the dragons encircling ceiling bosses, and the sandstones in which the building is constructed, which range from soft pink to a rich dull red.
An upward glance whilst on a staircase
Back in the ‘60’s, I’d work till I got hungry, thirsty, or both. Last week, we discovered that these days I’d have no excuse to leave, because there’s a modern extension sensitively joined to the side of the building. This houses Café Rylands, where we had our lunch, made from locally sourced produce; a bookshop which, though small, presented us with fascinating choices, from architecture and design books to children’s stories; and an almost irresistible gift-shop. It has an energetic and exciting programme of educational events, and I wished we could have signed up for some of them.
Café Rylands and the book shop
When I was a student in Manchester, the library was little known outside academic circles. Now it’s a different story. John Rylands Library has been made Manchester’s ‘Large Visitor Attraction of the Year’ at the city’s annual tourism awards. You could spend happy hours here, exploring the building itself, the exhibits, and making frequent sorties to the coffee shop for a relaxing break and browse through the papers. And apart from your spending money, it’s all free.
Drop a coin or two into the donation box, and the automaton will go through its paces
The blog I was going to post has been pretty much written for me. Here’s what we found on page 3 of the Bolton News this morning.
Page three boys
‘THE Beast is back — in a show that promises to be a real family affair.
Twins Alex and Ben Clift, aged seven, and mum Elinor, of Hardcastle Gardens, Bradshaw, are all appearing in a stage version of Disney favourite Beauty And The Beast, which begins its run tonight at the Albert Halls
The budding actors even went up against each other for the same role — Chip Potts the teacup — with Alex landing the part.
Ben will be part of the ensemble, gracing the stage in various roles including a villager and Sugar Lump.
Mrs Clift, aged 33, who is playing Babette the feather duster, said: “It was hard because they both wanted to go for it.
They were both really good and Ben was so nearly there. At first he was very sad.”
But now both boys, who are pupils at St Maxentius Primary School, are excited about their roles in the classic fairytale which tells the story of Belle and an enchanted prince.
Alex, who is the older than Ben by one minute, said: “I can’t wait to say all my lines correctly and be pushed around the stage in a trolley. I was so sad we couldn’t both be Chip — I know that Ben would have been just as good.”
Ben said: “I’m enjoying the dancing and the singing and can’t wait to get up on stage in front of my friends and family.
“I was disappointed I narrowly missed out on being Chip, but I’m really glad they still wanted me to be in the show.”
Both the boys, who are keen footballers and play for Turton Tigers, decided to audition after their mum appeared in the same show in 2010.
Mrs Clift, who runs a voiceover company with husband, Phil, said: “I was in it last time. They both loved coming to rehearsals with me, and they were only five then. This time, when the auditions came up again they were both really keen to get involved.” ‘
Thanks, Bolton News and reporter Melanie Wallwork.
Well, tonight we’re off to see the show – with all four of them: even Phil, Ellie’s husband, has his part to play. He voices the ‘Ealth and Safety announcement at the beginning. No wonder we had to come to England to be part of the audience.
Another set of recipes. But these two walnut cake recipes are too good not to share. The worst thing is shelling 175 grams of walnuts all at one go: but when the nuts have been foraged for free, it doesn’t seem right to complain. So I won’t.
This first one isn’t something to knock together with only half an hour to spare, but it IS very good. Thanks James Martin and the BBC Good Food website for this recipe,, which I’ve slightly simplified.
I forgot to photograph it till it was almost gone
Walnut and coffee frangipane tart with candied walnuts
Ingredients
For the tart
500g sweet shortcrust pastry
plain flour, for dusting
110g prunes, stoned, roughly chopped, soaked in Armagnac
For the frangipane
175g butter, softened
175g caster sugar
4 free-range eggs
3 tbsp strong coffee, cold
175g walnuts, ground to a fine powder
For the candied walnuts
50g. caster sugar
60ml. water
18 walnut halves
200g cream, to serve
Roll out the sweet shortcrust pastry on a floured work surface lightly dusted with flour to a 3mm thickness.
Carefully line six x 7.5cm deep-sided tart tins with the pastry, pressing the pastry into the edges of the tin. Leave 2.5cm of pastry overhanging the edge. Leave the lined tins to rest in the fridge for 10 minutes.
Line the pastry cases with greaseproof paper and then fill with baking beans or rice. Place the tart tins onto two large baking trays and bake in the oven for 10-12 minutes.
Remove the greaseproof paper and baking beans or rice, then return the tart cases to the oven for a further 5-10 minutes, or until they are pale golden-brown.
Remove from the oven and set aside to cool slightly. Trim the excess pastry with a sharp knife.
Meanwhile, blend the prunes with a little of the Armagnac in a food processor to make a thick paste.
For the frangipane, beat the butter and sugar together in a bowl until pale and fluffy.
Beat in the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition, until all of the eggs have been fully incorporated into the mixture.
Fold in the coffee and ground walnuts until well combined.
When the pastry case has cooled, spread the puréed prunes across the bottom of the sweet shortcrust pastry case. Top with the walnut mixture and smooth to the edges.
Return the tart to the oven for 15-18 minutes, or until the filling has risen and is cooked through and the surface is pale golden-brown. (The filling is cooked through when a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean.)
Meanwhile, for the candied walnuts, place the sugar and water into a saucepan and bring to a simmer.
Add the walnuts and cook for a couple of minutes, or until just tender.
Drain and place onto a large sheet of greaseproof paper.
Carefully add the candied walnuts to the oil and cook for 1-2 minutes, or until just golden-brown.
Lift out and drain on a fresh sheet of greaseproof paper. Leave until cool.
To serve, place each tart in the centre of a small plate and top with a few candied walnuts. Finish with a dollop of cream.
Michel up the road gave me this recipe. It’s a nicely moist cake which keeps and freezes well.
Walnut cake Amafaçon (my way)
Mal puts away a slice of walnut cake on our walk to Bésines
Ingredients
180g. finely ground walnuts
30g. SR flour
12g. cornflour
4 eggs
120g. caster sugar
100g. butter
½ glass walnut liqueur, rum, or alcohol of choice
Pinch of salt
Preparation :
Heat the oven to 200°C
Mix half the sugar with the ground walnuts.
Mix the remaining sugar with the softened butter and add the walnut mixture.
Add 2 whole eggs one by one, and 2 yolks, one by one. Mix well then add salt, flour, cornflour and liqueur.
Beat the 2 egg whites to soft peaks, and fold into the cake mixture.
Pour into a well-greased 22cm cake tin and bake for 35 minutes at 200°C . The cake’s cooked through when a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean.
For a 24 cm. cake tin, bake for 50 minutes at 180°C.
Serve it just as it is, or if you’d like something more elegant,
ice with a strong coffee icing or
decorate with caramelised walnut kernels and a caramel sauce made with 150g. sugar caramelised in a thick-bottomed saucepan to which you add 30 g. of salted butter and 50ml. single cream.
If you go on a walk near Limoux in the Aude at this time of year, you’re entitled to scenery like this:
Vineyards near Villar -St-Anselme
In our walking group here in Laroque we all take turns to organise the weekly outings. And this week, it was the two of us, the only English, who were in charge. We decided on an autumn walk among the vines round Saint Polycarpe, near Limoux. The weather forecast wasn’t great, but the rain promised to hold off till 3 o’clock. But no. English leaders, English weather. Think of us plodding through the mud as the rain increased in intensity, long long before 3 o’clock arrived. Everyone blamed us, of course. They think this is the only kind of weather we know, back in England.
It all began so well….
Above Saint Polycarpe, 10.00 this morning.
Lunch was early, at Gardie, but we didn’t beat the rain. We had our break in the bus shelter, for goodness sake, and got togged up like this immediately after.
The clouds descend…..
And the gloom.
Can’t see much.
Saint Polycarpe’s down there somewhere…
Still, nobody complained. We got our fresh air and exercise, and our friends had a thoroughly good time holding us responsible for the rain and mud.
PS. Dangermouse update. We caught him last week. He is no more. He was a rat. Eurghhhhh.
Hallowe’en. Pumpkin season. Every fruit and veg stall in the markets here will have red kuri, ‘le butternut’, or acorn squash at the very least, and there are those dedicated to selling nothing but the rich variety of squash, pumpkin and gourd you can grow here. Kalba gave me this butternut squash some 3 weeks ago, grown in their own garden.
The butternut makes a bid to take over the fridge
It weighs in at more than 7 kilos. More than a stone! We’ve been chomping our way through it, but see how much remains. What’s worse: Malcolm has just owned up to not caring for pumpkin very much. How could he not like it? That comforting sweetness works so well with the saltiness of bacon, the heat and colour of chillies and oriental spices, or the fatty unctuousness of cheap cuts of meat and sausages. Well, his loss. Here are two of my current favourite dishes, both courtesy of Nigel Slater, from Tender, Volume 1, you may not be surprised to hear.
A recent BBC photo of Nigel Slater
Pumpkin laksa
Nigel says this is for a cold night. Well, it is. But it’s also a fine thing to dish up on a hot day after a gruelling few hours physical labour. It looks complicated, but it isn’t. Take a deep breath and read it slowly: tackle the pumpkin, then the spice paste; the rest just falls into place.
Ingredients
350g. pumpkin, unskinned
coriander and mint leaves to finish.
For the spice paste:
red bird’s eye chillies, 3-4
garlic- 2 cloves
ginger, a thumb sized lump
lemongrass, 2 plump stalks
coriander roots, 5 or 6 coriander leaves, a handful
sesame oil, 2 tablespoons
For the soup:
chicken or vegetable stock, 600ml
coconut milk, 400ml
nam pla (thai fish sauce), 2 tablespoons
tamari, 1-2 tablespoons, to taste
the juice of a lime
100g dried noodles, cooked as per packet and drained.
Peel and seed the pumpkin and cut the flesh into large chunks. Cook in a steamer or a metal colander balanced over a pan of boiling water until tender. remove from the heat.
For the spice paste, remove the stalks from the chillies, peel the garlic, peel and roughly chop the ginger and lemongrass. Put them all into a food processor with the coriander roots and leaves and sesame oil and blitz until you have a rough paste.
Get a large, deep pan hot and add the spice paste. Fry for a minute, then stir in the stock and the coconut milk and bring to the boil. Allow to simmer for seven to ten minutes, then stir in the nam pla, tamari, lime juice, pumpkin and the cooked and drained noodles. Simmer briefly, add the coriander and mint noodles over the top, and serve in deep bowls.
And now for something completely different…..
Pumpkin and Apple fry-up:
either to accompany a meaty supper, or as a main dish in its own right.
Ingredients
a little butter
80g. fatty bacon
medium onion
650g. pumpkin flesh
400g. apples (Nigel says a desert variety. Mine were very tart, and I thought all the better for it)
a lemon
caraway seeds, a pinch
Melt a slice of butter in a shallow pan, cut the bacon into short strips and let them colour lightly in the butter.
Peel and roughly chop the onion, add to the pan and allow to cook with the bacon until translucent but not browned.
Cut the pumpkin flesh into manageable pieces and add to the pan, turning from time to time till golden in patches and almost tender.
Core and roughly chop the apples, but don’t peel them. Stir them into the pan and leave to putter gently until they are on the verge of collapse. Avoid stirring too much, which is likely to mash the softening pumpkin.
Finely grate the zest from the lemon and add it to the pan with the juice, the caraway seeds and a little salt.
But wait! Isn’t this what pumpkins are supposed to be for? My son obviously thinks so, and took this photo to prove it. Though he’s a dab hand at cooking too.
PS. Some of you have been asking about Danger Mouse. Well. He’s not a mouse – too big, too cuddly. He’s not a hamster, as we at one point thought. Long tail. He’s not a dormouse. Wrong sort of tail. And he’s not a rat. Too small, too cuddly. However, he’s continuing to be part of life here. He rises at about 8.30 p.m. and organises his furniture behind the skirting boards, shoving stuff about quite noisily. Then he knocks off and has a nap till we’ve gone to bed. During the night he dismantles the latest humane trap, and eats the bait. In the small hours he may come and scurry round the floorboards under the bedroom. Then he goes to bed until the next night. If he ever goes, I think I shall miss him.
Autumn colours beginning means it’s harvest time for foragers
I’ve written before about the ‘au cas où’ bag: the carrier you always have with you on a walk, ‘just in case’ something tasty turns up and demands to be taken home and eaten.
Well, at this time of year, it isn’t really a case of ‘au cas où’ . You’re bound to find something. A fortnight ago, for instance, Mal and I went on a country stroll from Lieurac to Neylis. We had with us a rucksack and two large bags, and we came home with just under 5 kilos of walnuts, scavenged from beneath the walnut trees along the path. A walk through the hamlet of Bourlat just above Laroque produced a tidy haul of chestnuts too.
Yesterday, we Laroque walkers were among the vineyards of Belvèze-du-Razès. The grapes had all been harvested in the weeks before, but luckily for us, some bunches remained on the endless rows of vines which lined the paths we walked along. We felt no guilt as we gorged on this fruit all through the morning. The grapes had either been missed at harvest-time, or hadn’t been sufficiently ripe. They were unwanted – but not by us.
So many vines: there’ll be unharvested grapes there somewhere.
The walnuts we’re used to in the Ariège are replaced by almonds over in the Aude. You have to be careful: non-grafted trees produce bitter almonds, not the sweet ones we wanted to find. But most of us returned with a fine haul to inspect later. Some of us found field mushrooms too.
Today, the destination of the Thursday walking group was the gently rising forested and pastoral country outside Foix known as la Barguillère. It’s also known locally as an area richly provided with chestnut trees. Any wild boar with any sense really ought to arrange to spend the autumn there, snuffling and truffling for the rich pickings. We walked for 9 km or so, trying to resist the temptation to stop and gather under every tree we saw. The ground beneath our feet felt nubbly and uneven as we trod our way over thousands of chestnuts, and the trees above threw further fruits down at us, popping and exploding as their prickly casings burst on the downward journey.
As our hike drew to an end, so did our supply of will-power. We took our bags from our rucksacks and got stuck in. So plentiful are the chestnuts here that you can be as picky as you like. Only the very largest and choicest specimens needed to make it through our rigorous quality control. I was restrained. I gathered a mere 4 kilos. Jacqueline and Martine probably each collected 3 times as much. Some we’ll use, some we’ll give to lucky friends.
Now I’d better settle myself down with a dish of roasted chestnuts at my side, and browse through my collections of recipes to find uses for all this ‘Food for Free’.
I think these chestnuts represent Jacqueline, Martine and Maguy’s harvest.
* Two lines from an English hymn sung at Harvest Festival season: ‘Come, ye thankful people, come’
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