Asparagus Three, the Blogspot

Back in the UK, I’ve noticed that in the media, topics, like buses, come in threes.  For instance, I’d flick through an article in the second section of the Guardian: maybe about female circumcision, education-other-than-at-school, or some other equally right-on Guardian topic.  Two or three days later, listening to say Women’s Hour on Radio 4, they’d be discussing exactly the same subject, with exactly the same slant.  Then the following week, maybe on Channel 4, it would appear yet again.

Recipe from Kalba's blog. Recommended.

And so it has been in the world of blogging.  On April 24th, Kalba’s blog dropped into my in-box. I complained immediately. It was about asparagus, and I could have written it myself.  Not all of it.  I’ve never run a restaurant, and I’ve never lived in Norfolk.  But like her, I do like green asparagus, the thinner the better:  I don’t like the blanched, thick white spears  favoured by the French and throughout most of mainland Europe.

Then on the 30th April, Bloggerboy, the writer of my other favourite blog, Welcome Visitor, pitched in with an account of the German love of asparagus. He even convinced me to have another go with the white stuff.

An asparagus stall at Mirepoix

So now it’s my turn to write an asparagus blog.  In Mirepoix market yesterday morning there were quite a few asparagus stalls, and I picked the one where I could buy thin and thick green spears, and white too.  ‘I’m not too keen on the white spears’, I confided to the stall holder, ‘but I’m sure I must be wrong when you all seem to like them so.  How do you like to cook them?’.  If I’d expected to have my hand wrung in gratitude at my acknowledgement of his expertise: if I’d expected him to call over his wife to share her culinary tips, I would have been disappointed.  What I got was a Gallic shrug.  He was mystified by the stupidity of my question.  ‘Well, you could use them in tarts, or omelettes.  Whatever you like really’.  I realised our conversation was at an end.

Asparagus & strawberry tart

Luckily, there are recipe books, and there are other blogs.  I’ve just tried a suggestion from another blog I enjoy, ‘Chocolate and Zucchini’, which is available in English and French.  Asparagus and strawberry tart. A very odd idea indeed, but it works.  In fact it was memorably good.

This is what we ate yesterday evening, from Denis Cotter’s wonderful vegetarian book, ‘Paradiso seasons’.

Gratin of Asparagus, Roasted Tomatoes and Gabriel Cheese with Chive and Mustard Cream.

Ingredients – for 2

4 -5 large tomatoes

Salt and pepper, to season

Drizzle of olive oil.

40g. fine breadcrumbs

40 g. Gabriel cheese, finely grated.  I can’t get this, unsurprisingly, and maybe you can’t either.  Settle for a hard, densely textured cheese.

1 sprig thyme

I tablespoon butter, melted

30 ml. vegetable stock

30 ml. white wine

150 ml. cream

Small bunch of chives, chopped

½ tsp. hot mustard

16 asparagus spears

Heat oven to 190 degrees.  Cut tomatoes into 3-4 thick slices each.  Place on oven trays lined with baking parchment, season and drizzle with olive oil.  Roast until lightly browned and semi-dried – you may need to turn them once.

Mix the breadcrumbs with the thyme, the butter, and most of the cheese.  Season.

Boil the stock and the wine until reduced by half.  Add the cream and mustard, bring it back to the boil and simmer for 2 – 3 minutes until pouring consistency.

During this time, briefly cook the asparagus.

Heat a grill.  On each plate, place 6 slices of tomato, lined up 3 x 2, and cover with 5 asparagus spears. Place a single line of tomatoes on top, then 3 more asparagus spears on top.  Spoon a little mustard cream over the top, then finish with a generous sprinkling of the crumble. Cook under a hot grill for 2 – 3 minutes until the cream is bubbling, and the top is crisp and brown.  Put remaining cream back on the stove, whisk in the rest of the cheese and chives, and pour round the finished gratins.

Just enough for a second helping?

Alternatively (and this is more my style), arrange the ingredients in an oven dish instead of individual plates, and bake for 10 minutes until the cream is bubbling  and the top is crisped and brown.

This too is a really tasty simple dish, well worth adding to the regular asparagus repertoire.

Um, have you noticed, I still haven’t got round to thinking about those wretched white spears?

Nothing to do with asparagus. Our garden, south of France, 4th May 2010

An Update: the Good and the Bad

The good and the bad.  Good news first.  The birds have discovered there’s more to be had here than yesterday’s bread.  At bird mealtimes, which are not quite the same as ours, though much more frequent, they’re here vying over the nuts, the seeds, the fat, the mealworms, though still the stale soaked bread is best of all.  It must be the fat I mix in with it.

There’s an addition they’ve not yet come to terms with.  Henri arrived the other day with a large bag filled with sheets of suety fat that he’d cadged from his butcher.   Slabs like these hang in his garden, and the birds have pecked away at them so much that they look like fine and delicate antique lace tablecloths swaying gently in the breeze.  Our birds are still sticking to what they know.  Though one or two have been eying up the new additions

The marmalade?  Well, last Friday I was in Lavelanet market with a big shopping bag so I could clear the stock of Seville oranges from the one trader who’d had then the week before.  ‘Oh, those’, he said.  ‘I couldn’t sell them, so I’m not getting any more’.  I’ve pleaded with him to bring me some, but I’m not too hopeful.  All I have is the little cache of marmalade we made last week.  Now that IS bad news.

PS.  More bad news.  I left my camera in England, so the only shots I can use here are those that friends let me use, my own recycled from last year, or royalty free photos on the net


This afternoon, my friend Léonce and I made marmalade.

When Malcolm and I were in England over Christmas and New Year, battling with the Infamous Snow, one of the big questions was – ‘Will we be able to get Seville oranges before we have to leave?’, because the French don’t usually sell them.

Well, I DID manage to buy them in the UK, and now we’re back……..they were in Lavelanet market last week at 2.50 euros a kilo. What are Seville oranges doing on Lavelanet market?  I’d love to know.  The French, when they make marmalade at all, tend to use ordinary oranges, and they don’t seem to have any particular tradition of using this wonderfully bitter fruit.

But my oranges travelled from Spain to Harrogate in England, and then all the way back to southern France where yesterday, we transformed them into bright jewelled pots of marmalade.

‘So’, said Léonce as she diligently chopped orange skin after orange skin into long strips, ‘we’re not going to soak the peel?  We’re using it as it is?’  Her only experiences with this fruit have involved long soakings and several changes of water to eliminate nearly all the bitterness.

Smelling the strong citrussy odours as the marmalade cooked convinced her.  She’s getting a different idea about the English and their cooking now. We sat down afterwards for a Nice Cup of Tea and a buttered slice of malt loaf (Soreen’s of course.  Why make the stuff when theirs is so good?) and she remembered how much she’s enjoyed making – and eating  – all our traditional English Christmas baking.

Our walking group’s come to look forward to some good old British baking treats too: gingernuts, melting moments, drenched lemon cake, flapjacks (although perhaps flapjacks aren’t British at all?  But we HAVE adopted them, and the French don’t have them).  And they all say, slightly surprised  ‘So you British CAN cook.  These are great!  Can I have the recipe?’

Christmas Cooking

I’m not a big fan of Christmas, but ever since I was a very small girl, I’ve loved cooking for Christmas – cakes, puddings and mincemeat: those things that have to be done well ahead, and squirreled away in some cool dark spot to mature and develop complex sweet rich flavours.

First there’s the shopping and preparation.  All the vine fruits in their cellophane packages; bright crystallised cherries; whole candied peel with crunchy sugary crusts; packets of ivory coloured almonds, and smaller quantities of other fruits to add interest – warming crystallised ginger, emerald green angelica, pale rounds of candied pineapple.  Spices too – whole nutmegs and cloves, powdered cinnamon, allspice, mace and mixed spice.  Fresh butter, lemons, eggs and flour. Make sure that there’s enough dark and light muscovado sugar in the house. Line the cake tins and grease the pudding basins.  Hunt out clean jars for mincemeat.

Cherries, lemon and orange zest ready for action

This year, I’ve rediscovered the pleasure in all this Christmas cooking by seeing it through the eyes of those French friends who’ve come and shared the job of making all these Christmas treats.

Sitting round the kitchen table with our pinnies on, we discussed the less familiar ingredients.  Suet, muscovado sugar, treacle aren’t unknown here, but they’re not on every kitchen shelf.  Cakes and puddings that need to be made well ahead, and fed with spoonsful of brandy in the weeks before Christmas – now that’s very different.  I made my friends weigh everything out in pounds and ounces too – well, it’s what I do, and here are the pictures of how we all got on.

Many hands make light work?
Brigitte and Léonce busily mixing
Léonce enjoys the best bit

Sadly, they weren’t any longer in the house when the cakes, cooking at low temperatures over several hours, started to give off their warming Christmassy aromas.  Which is a pity, because it’s the best bit of all.

Baked and ready to be fed with spoonsful of brandy before Christmas

This is one of the mincemeats we made.  It’s one my mother taught me, and our favourite, with its bright lemon flavour.

Lemon mincemeat


6 large lemons

450g (1 lb.) sultanas

¼ pint brandy

225 g (8 oz.) mixed crystallised fruits – I always use crystallised lemons and oranges, perhaps limes too (all bought in large pieces and hand cut), and often cherries, ginger, pineapple, angelica – but it’s up to you.

75 g (2oz.)  blanched almonds

800g (1 ½ lb.) golden caster sugar

225g (8oz.)  suet

½ level tsp. each ground mace, cloves, nutmeg


Peel the lemons extremely thinly, so that you have the zest, rather than the pith.

Place the lemon peels in pan & cover with cold water, bring to boil.

Drain, re-cover with cold water, & repeat twice more.

Halve & squeeze juice from lemons.

Reserve juice.

Chop blanched lemon peel finely, and mix with the other finely chopped fruits.

Mix with sugar, suet, brandy.

And mince pies in our house always go down best when they’re made with the recipe my sister-in-law Fenella shared with me.

Pastry for mince pies


230 g (8 oz.) plain flour

40 g (1 ½ oz.) ground almonds

85 g. (3 oz.) icing sugar

170 g. (6 oz.) butter

1 medium egg yolk (you might need 2).


Sift the flour, almonds and icing sugar into a warmed bowl, and rub in the butter.  Stir in the egg yolk and work gently to form a soft dough.  Knead lightly, cover and chill for 30 minutes.

You’ll need 230 – 340 g (8 – 12 oz.)  mincemeat to make this pastry into about 12 tarts.  Bake at Gas mark 4, 180 degrees C. for 15 – 20 minutes

An Ariège Alphabet

Accent –local:  If standard French is a challenge, how much more so is the local accent?  Remember school French, and being told that usually you don’t pronounce the final letter?  Doesn’t apply here.  ‘Pain’ is ‘peng’, ‘loin’ is ‘lueng’, and so on. ‘G’s happen a lot – ‘tous ensemble’ becomes ‘tous angsamble’

L’Apero, l’heure de:  Great custom

Bio:  – organic.  Buying organic food is ‘normale’ here, especially at the markets.

Bountiful free food:  The hoarding season’s pretty much past its best now.  We’ve been out looking for walnuts, almonds, chestnuts, rosehips, apples, sloes and coming home with the kind of quantities that will see us through the year.  It’s a full time job.

Butterflies: So many varieties, and seen everywhere, almost all the year round.  Even yesterday, November 22nd.

Courtesy:  Walking down the street here, it’s normal to offer greetings to everyone you meet.  ‘Bonjour Madame!’  With anyone you actually know, you shake hands, maybe exchange bises on both cheeks.  Small children greet you, surly teenagers greet you.  It’s one of the real pleasures of small town life.

This sheep is currently not on milk-for-cheese duties

Cheeses: Cows, goats, sheep, all busily producing milk for dozens of varieties of (preferably non pasteurised) cheese: soft, hard, creamy, runny, mild, stinky.

Dépêche du Midi (La):  It’s the local daily.  We don’t often buy it, as world events seem to pass it by in favour of the marriage of the local lass in La Bastide de Bousignac.

En cas où…….. Out walking, we always have a spare bag stuffed in a pocket.  En cas où we find some mushrooms, a handful of berries, some windfalls, a log for the fire.  Everybody does it.


Fêtes Festivals and Fun: No weekend is complete without its fête, or festival, somewhere nearby.  The other weekend saw the Fête de la Transhumance at le Sautel, with cows and sheep returning to the lowlands.  There was a food market, a vide grenier (see below), films, dancing, a barbary organ, a big communal meal on Sunday. Le Sautel is a hamlet rather than a village, but it hasn’t stopped it running a right good show. Recently, there have been la Fête de la Noisette at Lavelanet,  la Fête de la Figue at Mas d’Azil…. and in among, there are small local fêtes in nearby villages.  No need to get bored at weekends, ever.

Gallic shrugs and gestures.  I’ve posted about this before, and do you know, I don’t think my accent’s getting any better.  I’m rubbish (shakes left hand vigorously with floppy movement from wrist)

History: I love it that so many people, especially older people, seem to know so much about the history of the region.  They’re proud to tell you stories of times past, farming traditions and customs.

Ingenuity: The sort of make-do-and-mend that is such a feature of English allotment life is even more commonplace here.  Our garden shed is made of several old doors, a redundant polystyrene fish box, random bits of corrugated iron and plastic screwed together, ancient bits of wire netting and bits of string.  To our knowledge it’s been standing 20 years or more, and it’s not about to fall down.

Junk:  Freecycle may not exist here – yet – but one person’s junk is another person’s lucky find.  We take our household rubbish to central collection points – no dustbin collections here.  On Sunday evenings, lots of people (including us, naturally) will be hovering to walk off with and make use of discarded pans, empty packaging, toys, plant pots….

Kilometres and Kilometres of space…..  North Yorkshire, which always seems spacious by English standards, has a population density of 74 people per square km.  The Ariège has 28.  So there’s plenty of room

Lizards: Our garden companions on any sunny day

Lunar calendar: Planting by the phases of the moon is completely mainstream here.  Gardening magazines carry free lunar calendars early every spring, and anybody you talk to will give you unsolicited advice on which day the moon dictates you get those spuds into the ground

Monday market, Mirepoix

Markets: The best and happiest way to shop for fresh seasonal food.  Don’t be in a hurry though.

Music: So important here.  Concerts of every kind, cheap or free, in public buildings, market halls and squares, and churches everywhere.  Choirs (introduced to a large extent by the English apparently) in most communes – I belong to two.  Bands and singers at fêtes.  Even small towns like ours have their own music centres.  And lots of bars are home to groups of local musicians too.

Non!  Protest comes naturally to the French.  We’ve even been on a ‘manif’ ourselves, protesting at teacher cuts.  But you won’t travel too far in France before you see signs painted, very large, across the road. ‘Non à l’ours’ (bears are being reintroduced to the Pyrénées, to the disgust of the farmers). ‘Non à la déchetterie!’ (tip), ‘Non aux aeoliennes !’ (wind farms)

Occitan: The everyday language of south western France until well into the 20th century, the Lenga d’òc is little spoken now, thanks to the systematic imposition of the French language in the early years of the twentieth century.  Nevertheless, we do hear the elderly speaking it from time to time.  It’s once again taught as an option in schools, and in adult education classes. I love passing through the many places that celebrate their Occitan heritage by having town and street names expressed in Occitan as well as French – Autariba rather than Auterive for example. 

Patrimoine in the Pays d’Olmes et Pyrénées:  ‘Patrimoine’ translates I suppose as ‘heritage’, but it’s not quite as chintzy and twee as that word suggests. Everyone here is proud of their history, and there’s so much going on to celebrate it – talks, walks, conferences, often with a meal thrown in.  Just join the party!

Sunset over Roquefixade

Queuing.  Don’t let anyone tell you that only the English queue.  It’s part of life in neighbourhood shops and markets here.  But it’s not a problem.  It’s an opportunity to chat with friends and strangers, exchanging local gossip, recipes, scandals.  If it’s our cheese man in Lavelanet market, he’ll join in too, and you’ll never get away

Restaurants: I’m not thinking of the elegant once-in-a-blue-moon meal out.  I’m thinking of the ‘formule’ at midday,  when to a large extent you get what you’re given, in copious and well cooked quantities.  Take today, when we went to a fairly down-at-heel looking brasserie on a busy street corner at the wrong end of town.  Great salad, followed by tender tasty magret de canard and wonderfully creamy dauphinoise potatoes, a home made concoction of fromage blanc and crème chantilly, coffee, wine, all for 12 euros.  We shan’t be eating again today….

Shopping-centre-free-zone.  Bliss.  Also, though this has recently been partially undermined, almost no Sunday shopping.  AND shops usually close for between 2 and 4 hours at midday

Temperatures: Proper seasons here.  Summers are hot, winters cold.  Autumn, warm, is a time of glorious colour and food for free.  Spring, warm, is a treat for its flowers

Underwear.  If you want to be disabused of the notion that the French are chic, that haute couture rules, go to any market stall selling women’s undies.  Turquoise knickers, orange bras, lime green or luridly lavender matching sets…..  And while you’re there, check out those lovely pinafore dresses so beloved of French women of a certain age.  Wonder when I’ll be old enough to wear one?

The Tour de France whips down our street in 2008

Vélo .  Cycling’s big here.  Any cyclist, old or young, is kitted out in skin tight lycra, and may well own a bike costing several thousand euros.  There’s a cycling club here that meets on Wednesdays and Saturdays.  Its runs are routinely 120 km. or more (and it’s very hilly).  The wimps manage some 80 km., but only ‘les ancêtres’ can get away with a mere 40 km or so

A lucky find at a vide grenier?

Vide Greniers;   People here empty their attics instead of filling their car boots.  Any Sunday in spring, summer or autumn some commune or another nearby will have a Vide Grenier organized.  One of the larger streets, and probably a few more besides, will have been taken over by the sellers, who display their goods from early morning till supper time,.  It’s the same mixture as an English car boot sale, with the addition of all kinds of rusting tools and junk that really HAS come out of the attic.  Nobody will buy it.  It’ll just appear at the next sale

A walk with our group, near Tarascon

Walking: so many walks, so much variety.  We love learning about new places to explore from books, from maps, from talking to friends, from walking groups.  We’ll never run out of fresh walks to try, ever.

Wood-burning stoves:  So cosy, we really looked forward to November chill.  As for foraging for wood, see ‘en cas où ’, above

Xmas.  In early September, a friend over from the UK said that Christmas had already started in the shops. We’re happy to report that nothing at all will happen here until the first week of December at the earliest.  Wonderful.

You: Here, there’s the whole tricky business of ‘tu’ or ‘vous’, and it’s a minefield. Children and your friends are of course ‘tu’.  The shopkeeper, the bank manager and those adults you really don’t know, are obviously ‘vous’.  But there’s a whole grey area in between.  Fellow randonneurs and choir members generally settle for ‘tu’ from Day 1, on the grounds we’re all in this together.  But not necessarily.  Last year at Choir, I sat between 2 women, both more or less my age, both chatty and friendly.  To one I was routinely ‘tu’, to the other. ‘vous’. And I was supposed to pick the bones out of that??

Zero Neuf: 09, the Ariège, our department.  We love the space, the huge variety of scenery. There’s gently rolling countryside that wouldn’t be out of place in Shropshire with its orchards and winding lanes, oak and beech forests, gentle foothills with grey Gascon cattle, and stunning, awe-inspiring mountains with craggy outcrops and peaks.  And all within easy reach of our house.

A few minutes from our house...and this is the view

...and higher up, much nearer Spain, another view