In the Kitchen - Lettuce eat soup

A short respite from the canicule as we were suddenly treated to a few cold and very torrential downpours accompanied, occasionally, by claps of thunder and sparks of lightning, and now we're promised another scorching hot day today.

I'm attempting to address my currently high stress levels with some kitchen-therapy.

Now that the cherries are over, and I have several preserving jars of them soaking in various alcoholic mixes and various small jars filled withe jams and compotes and relishes, now that the cherry season has passed, it's time to cast my eyes around for something else to play with.

So how about lettuces?
I eat them daily in my tuna salad, but liberally doused in Heinz Salad Cream, having been raised in a decade when mayonnaise was considered to be Fancy French Muck, which means that I rarely taste the lettuce leaves. Which is a shame really. So back to my Breton-Days when, even though I had a surfeit of lettuces growing in my garden, several friends in the village sneakily took to leaving their own unloved lettuces in carrier bags on my gate, and the only option to avoid being over-whelmed by lettuces was to make soup from them. 


Recipe: The Cyber Tour Guide to Lettuce Soup

2 large Breton onions, peeled and diced
4 fat cloves of garlic from your English neighbour's garden
6 dew-fresh common or garden lettuces
handful of gentle herbs (mint works well) from the pots on the window ledge
4 oz organic Brittany butter, the one with flecks of sea salt
2 oz organic plain flour
2 pints of vegetable stock
1/2 pint organic milk

Fry the onions and crushed garlic in butter until they're soft but take care not to brown the mixture. Sprinkle the flour over pan and stir gently for a minute. Slowly add the stock, stirring gently and then pour in the milk, still stirring and petit à petit bring to the boil. Chop the lettuces and add to the pan with the herbs and salt and pepper according to your taste. (If you used salted butter then you won't need any more salt now).

Let it simmer gently. It will fill your kitchen with fresh, green aromas and endow you with a feeling of health and vitality, while you water the plants or wash the dishes. After around 20 minutes remove the pan from the heat and allow it to cool slightly. Blend in a liquidiser until smooth and silky.

Now you can choose to store the soup in the fridge or, if you REALLY are inundated with lettuces and drastic measures are called-for, freeze it in rigid containers.















If, however, you've just just come in from cutting the grass that's as high as an elephant's eye, with a useless little Flymo, and are in desperate need of a healthy and flavoursome snack, then eat it now with a crusty 'zig-zag loaf' from the village boulangerie

(Quantities given are sufficient for everyone in a small French village)

Now for the science...

The Health Benefits of Lettuce:
Low in calories
A good source of dietary fibre and vitamins A, B, C and K
Contains the minerals potassium, magnesium and calcium
Said to contain folic acid
Reputed to help prevent bone degradation in post-menopausal women

La cerise sur le gateau...

When I look back on the summer of 2013 I will think of it as The Cherry Summer.

For the last four or five weeks we have been enjoying a heatwave here in England.

I say 'enjoying' because it does not suit everyone. There are some who suffer in a scorching sun, many people have allergies which, I am pretty sure, were rare and quite exotic when I was a child, the dog doesn't do heat, driving is a trial when the air conditioning stops working, sleep is elusive when the night is hot and humid, tempers become frayed...

But it is possible to adapt and to thrive in a heatwave, a canicule, as they say in France where, after the canicule of 2003, they take such events much more seriously than do we Mad Dogs and Englishmen. It simply requires a little adjustment to one's schedule and daily habits, such as walking the dog at 4:30am before the full force of the sun's rays has hit the fields, and keeping the bottle of gin in the freezer, from which it will emerge, frosty and delicious once the sun has sunk below the neighbour's ash trees, and evicting a bag of frozen peas in order to make room for ice cubes and ice lollies and ice cream, and raising the hemline while lowering the neckline, and sleeping as close to the window as possible and au naturel...  

And most of all, just jolly well enjoying the summer!


This year I made an important discovery while walking among my beloved walnuts...

which are, I am delighted to report, having a wonderful summer...

which makes me very happy indeed....

But this year I discovered a cherry tree.
How can it have happened that I, a self-confessed tree-hugger and explorer of nature, have managed to miss the cherry tree for three years? 

"The cherry is the fruit of many plants of the genus Prunus, and is a fleshy drupe (stone fruit). The cherry fruits of commerce are usually obtained from a limited number of species, including especially cultivars of the sweet cherry, Prunus avium." (Wikipedia)








"The native range of the sweet cherry extends through most of Europe, western Asia and parts of northern Africa, and the fruit has been consumed throughout its range since prehistoric times. A form of cherry was introduced into England at Teynham, near Sittingbourne in Kent by order of Henry VIII, who had tasted them in Flanders" (Wikipedia)

At first I was very restrained. I just picked a handful of cherries to munch as the dog and I wandered, and I pointed out the tree to my fellow dog-walkers, "There's a cherry tree over there, did you know?" But no-one else seemed to be interested in the cherries. So I took a bowl and picked a few and came home to sit in a shady room and eat my cherries and marvel at this free treat. And still no-one seemed to be interested in the cherries.

So I took a bag and picked enough to make a small pot of jam.

And still no-one seemed to be interested in the cherries and, other than putting up a sign saying "CHERRIES", there was nothing else I could do to encourage people to pick them. So I did.

Well, I picked enough for a cherry pie 

and for a cherry liquer made with vodka and brandy

it needs to mature for three months which will make it a perfect Christmas tipple...

And then, inspired, I made cherry vodka

This will be ready in time for me to take to France.

I'm planning to take a bottle for a friend in the village who delights in giving me 'interesting' drinks to try after dinner.



 



I left enough cherries for the birds to feast on.
And plenty for anyone else who cares to pick them.
But no-one has...

      
 There are other cherry trees growing among the trees on the other side of the green.

They're smaller and this one is quite sour.

I'm thinking a cherry relish to eat with pan-fried duck breasts?

This one is very, very small and very, very sweet.

And since it is ripe, cherry-ripe, and so abundant, I think more cherry vodka? 






I can't understand why no-one else has picked the cherries. It's such a waste to leave them on the trees and they are so delicious. And the price of fresh cherries in the shops! I think my harvest would have cost me a King's ransom had I bought them, instead of picking them for free.

And it has been such a pleasure, this picking cherries...
And such fun to make jam, and pies, and delicious drinks.

I've frozen a few cherry stones.
As I explained to The Ragazza when she asked me why there are little pots of pips next to the ice cubes, they don't germinate until they've experienced a few sub-zero temperatures. I am hoping that they'll grow into little cherry trees which I will nurture and cherish and take to France to plant in my garden.

Cherish the cherries, that's been my motto this summer...

Cherish the cherries

The White Horse at Uffington and more..

It's no secret that I'm a fan of ice-age art, prehistoric sites and our earliest history.  All that contributes to the story of the journey that our human species took as we evolved from the tree-dwelling apes to who we are now.

Anything that could be called "Making Us Human".
So as soon as  I returned to England from France I set off to search for some local sites that would feed my need to dwell, from time to time, in the past.

Here's the first, The White Horse at Uffingon.

First the Wikipedia bit:

 



The Uffington White Horse is a highly stylised prehistoric hill figure, 374 feet (110 m) long, cut into the turf of the upper slopes of White Horse Hill in the parish of Uffington, Oxon.





It is located some five miles south of the town of Faringdon and a similar distance west of the town of Wantage. The hill forms a part of the scarp of the Berkshire Downs and overlooks to Vale of White Horse to the north.







We set off walking along The Ridgeway path in search of Wayland's Smithy, a neolithic long barrow and chamber tomb site.





During my two years living in central Brittany I developed a deep love of standing stones, burial chambers, megaliths, menhirs and dolmens. Encountering this unexpected treasure was a real delight, I felt at home instantly...



 


Wayland's Smithy is one of many prehistoric sites associated with Wayland or Wolund, the Norse and Saxon god of blacksmithing. The name was seemingly applied to the site by the Saxon invaders, who reached the area some four thousand years after Wayland's Smithy was built.





 

According to legend, a traveller whose horse has lost a shoe can leave the animal and the smallest silver coin (a groat) on the capstone at Wayland's Smithy. When he returns next morning he will find that his horse has been re-shod and the money gone. It is conjectured that the invisible smith may have been linked to this site for many centuries before the Saxons recognized him as Wayland. The Ancient Britons may have been accustomed to making votive offerings to a local god. (Wikipedia again)



Around the burial mound there are majestic beech trees.
Being somewhat of a tree-hugger and having suffered recently from withdrawal symptoms due to an absence of arboreal adventures, I couldn't resist lying under a tree and gazing, in silent admiration, up into it's branches.

Isn't this the most amazing view of a tree?

Can you imagine climbing up into that leafy, green canopy?

I spent most of my childhood sitting in trees and a great deal of my adulthood wondering if I had grown too old to climb them again.





This is the Ridegway National Trail

The Ridgeway National Trail, 87 miles (139km) through ancient landscapes. Over rolling, open downland to the west of the River Thames, and through secluded valleys and woods in The Chilterns to the east, following the same route used since prehistoric times by travellers, herdsmen and soldiers.







Back to the White Horse. As a group of volunteers with yellow buckets were earnestly cleaning the horse to our right, we could hear the commentary of a nearby horse show broadcast on loud speakers.





It seemed very fitting somehow that the White Horse should have a 'seat in the stalls' as flesh and blood horses performed on a grassy stage.

There is a great deal to explore along The Ridgeway. We only dipped our inquisitive toes in the shallow water of this special place. One day, before I return to Brittany,  it would be nice to walk its length. I am making plans...

Saturday Night Fever...

It's been a while...

Work has been stressful, changes to our working hours, a reduction in our O/T pay, rota complexities as we are obliged to accommodate the needs of a rival Lab in Eastern Europe. We are not happy campers and some of us are making plans to move on...

I am reminded of that saying "God give me strength to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference".

So while I work on my stress levels and try to find the courage to take the steps that I know are right for me, I find myself drawn to memories of my two years in France, and to the house in Brittany that I still own.  And I take comfort from those memories of happier, more relaxed, fun-filled times, even as I shake my head and ask myself "Why the hell did you return to the rat race and come back to the corporate cage?"  

So, here's a post from my days in France.

This is my therapy 

Saturday Night Fever

 

Did I ever mention that I love to cook?

Because I do, for me cooking is an emotional, spiritual and deeply pleasurable experience

People who know me well say that my culinary concoctions are an accurate indication of my current emotions and mood, as in, when I am feeling maternal I produce a vegetable-rich beef stew with dumplings and an old-fashioned pudding with custard

When I am feeling skittish, when there is a new moon and a soft breeze from the south it's seafood, preferable the kind that you can eat with your fingers and with melted butter and juices dripping off your chin so that you have to lick your lips a lot

Those times when wanderlust overcomes me, when I long for faraway places and exotic locations I cook hot-hot chilli, or work my wok to create Chinese dishes or experiment with something drawn at random from one of the cookbooks on top of the cupboard over the sink

When memories engulf me and I want my mum I do as she did, I spend a whole morning baking cakes, in her case one fruit cake (for father) one sponge cake filled with cream and strawberry jam (for her) and a tin of small cakes and pastries for us kids and all delivered with the profound declaration "Yes, you can have a cake but When They're Gone They're Gone".

In my case it's my shortbread cookies and a rich gooey chocolate fudge cake since I have no man to cater for

And when I am Homesick for England I cook the National Dish of The Englishman

Curry!

Above is a picture of tonight's dinner sizzling on the stove

a hot and spicy aubergine bhaji
a chicken korma just waiting for the addition of coconut milk and cream
and pilau rice

(I would have made puffy oven bread too, had I not been too busy grappling with grammar and distracted by dictionaries all afternoon...)

All cooked from totally 100% raw ingredients, even the spices are home-crushed and dry-roasted, everything as nature intended it...

If I am ever tempted to cheat with a ground garam marsala or, heaven forbid, an additive-stuffed, preservative-bound, fakely coloured sauce in a jar then I simply go away and eat a cheese sandwich instead

So on Saturday night I spent several hours happily slicing thick cloves of garlic and fresh juicy ginger into wafer-thin slices until my fingers were gently marinated in their juices, gently frying pinches and palmfuls of cumin, turmeric and ground coriander in home-made ghee, salting black shiny aubergines and hot-popping mustard seeds in olive oil until they danced and sang

all without weights or measures because each time I cook a curry it tastes different and that difference is due to my influence, my mood, my vibrations....

in the background the music of a sitar made me swish and sway...

and for inspiration Madhur Jaffry's fabulous book A Taste of India was open at a page showing a vibrant street market...

Last night the chicken korma was a silky-smooth golden sauce, with a tender hint of coconut and subtle undertones of ginger
the aubergine bahji was chilli-hot and lively
and the rice was subtle and subdued, definitely playing the supporting role to the main dishes

Last night I was definitely Hot!

Gliding over Oxfordshire...

It is, I venture to suggest, very important to force oneself from one's comfort zone from time to time.
Yesterday I did just that when I took part in a gliding lesson over the Oxfordshire countryside.

 I was apprehensive when I arrived at the airfield.
I do not like heights, which makes skiing down steep mountains challenging at times. Although it's the going up that terrifies me, the coming down is fabulous and definitely worth it!

This was my glider...


It is as small and fragile-looking as it appears in the photo.



Before taking to the air I watched a short video that explained how to control the glider, how to communicate with the instructor and what to do in the event of a bail-out, although I'd already realised that in the event of an accident there was no way I'd have the time to open the canopy, undo my seat belts, clamber out of my seat, manoeuvre myself onto the wing and leap to safety before I hit the ground, so I'd decided to go down with my ship, as it were.

I was also acutely aware that taking off would be the worst part of the experience because the glider is catapulted into the air by a winch and that appeared to make the going up fast, steep and quite, quite contrary to the laws of physics.

And I was right.
Taking off was not nice.
I think I said Flip at least a hundred times as I tried very hard not to say the 'F' word.

And then we were up and the winch cable dropped and we were gliding over Oxfordshire.


  

It wasn't my first time in a small aircraft.

Years ago, back in the days when I had a good career and lots of spare cash, I took a flying lesson in a Cessna.

That experience was delightful and I found flying the plane easy. Perhaps I had more confidence in myself then?


The lack of thermals meant that the first flight was short.
Which meant that we had to repeat the take-off.
The second time that we were catapulted into the air I made the mistake of closing my eyes and so, of course, I was overcome with motion-sickness.    

I simply didn't find the experience fun.

I took the controls briefly and then relinquished them. I feel safer with an engine, gliding is not my cup of tea...

 And landing again was a relief....

So, I did it.
I stepped, or rather, I was catapulted, out of my comfort zone and into the unknown.
I survived.
And now I have a certificate to prove it.

I learned a lot from my gliding experience. Aside from the obvious how to fly a glider etc, I learned that the biggest obstacle to being confident, competent and successful is, probably, my own inner fears.
 

Walking with Walnuts...

I had to use that title, it's so alliterative

The house that I rent here in England is small, so small that I call it The Doll's House, it's about one fifth the size of my house in France and very, very expensive. I know, it's a little crazy, this situation, but it is as it is and for now it must be tolerated.

There are compensations.
Here is the principle one...
 

.

Welcome to the green...

As seen from my bedroom window which I keep wide open for most of the year, even in winter, so that I can sit in bed and gaze at the green








  At four o'clock on a June morning when the green is shrouded in mist the dog and I are out early, too early for other walkers, we have the green all to ourselves.






I always try to walk into the mist and the mist always eludes me. I love that! Maybe one day I'll catch the mist.

 

In winter I sometimes wake with the scent of snowflakes in the air and I leap from bed and look out on this scene...

This is my favourite weather, I am addicted to snow and should probably live north of the Arctic circle.

When it snows we spend a lot of time on the green, of course.




Those trees are walnuts. When I first moved here I was delighted to discover them, partly because I am a faithful forager and in autumn I love to return home with my pockets full of walnuts, and partly because they are such magnificent trees.

 

Walnut trees are good for us.
And all parts of the tree are useful...
The leaves have laxative, astringent and detergent properties. They can be used fresh, when their oily aroma is delicious, or dried, seeped in water and drunk daily or applied externally. I have to admit that I haven't tried them, not being in need of them medicinally, but now I'm curious...   
The bark can be dried and crushed and used as a purgative. I think not... 
The nuts are rich in omega-3 fatty acids, magnesium, B vitamins and antioxidants, they help to lower cholesterol and keep blood vessels supple and free of deposits. All of which adds up to wonderful mood-enhancing, brain-boosting, heart-healing goodness.


Walnut wood makes beautiful furniture, but years ago we British fell in love with mahogany and our walnut plantations were abandoned when we preferred to import that hardwood from the ravaged rainforests of its native lands. Mahogany makes strong, sturdy furniture but it takes a long time to grow, it costs a great deal to transport and it's felling causes a lot of damage to its forests. I think it's better to stay local, to grow the food, to make the clothes, to manufacture the goods, that a community needs, close to home.

If I had the means, I'd have a walnut plantation. I wouldn't be able to chop down the trees, I'd be too sentimental, they'd have to grow until I am no longer around and someone else would have to harvest their wood. Which reminds me of my former partner in France and the irony of a fate that brought together an unashamed tree-hugger and a skilled and enthusiastic carpenter. 


But science and sense aside, walking with the walnuts does wonders for my well-being.
I can't even begin to describe how relaxed and happy I am when I'm out there on the green, or how much better I am because I live next to it. It's unquantifiable. Suffice to say that I am grateful to have found this place.   

So I adore the walnut trees
And I worry about them
Last year the weather was so wet and so cold that the trees succumbed to a nasty blight, the leaves rotted on the branches and fell much too early. And, having unfurled their flowers in the midst of a monsoon, they were unable to produce any nuts. Last year the walnuts suffered and I fretted...

 This year winter held us in its icy grip for a long, long time. It was the coldest March on record. Some days it felt as if spring would never come. I watched the walnuts and I worried...

And then, suddenly, it was spring...

The tight little buds on the bare branches of the walnut trees burst open...
Delicate red/brown leaves unfurled...

The male flowers appeared...   

And the small, yellow female flowers could be seen sheltering shyly in the tips of the branches....

And every day as I walked among the walnuts I watched over them, as anxious as a doting parent



And the sun continued to shine and the rain was light and infrequent, and the walnuts flourished and I breathed a sigh of relief.

And now the walnut trees are growing well in the sunshine that we've enjoyed for the last few weeks. The nuts are swelling nicely, the leaves are glossy and strong and I am content, although I still watch over my walnuts and I still inspect them during our thrice-daily walks.

Life isn't always easy and often it doesn't go the way we'd planned
Some years are good, some years are bad
We have to have faith that finally, tout serra bien

Last summer was not kind to the trees on the green...


This autumn there will be walnuts to gather...

L' Abbaye de Beauport

Today my Black Dog has appeared, snarling and snapping and sapping my energy. He's an occasional and very unwelcome visitor, he usually shows up when I've been working too hard and neglecting my needs, and no matter how much I try to tame him, when he's around it's always tough. So, while I'm wrestling with him, I'm going to write about a day in July 2007, partly to break the silence, and partly to remind myself that tomorrow the sun will shine again....

L'Abbey de Beauport

On Friday Brittany was treated to a dazzlingly sunny day brushed by the kind of bakingly hot wind that brings to mind Saharan dunes and the bleached bones of long-dead animals...

The heat in the village was intense, by midday it seemed as if the glare of the sun had leached the colour from the flowers in the tubs around the mairie, flies hovered and buzzed and a haze shimmered and danced above the road

My zen friend CG and I had been talking of taking a trip to visit the Abbaye de Beauport   at Paimpol, so yesterday, to escape the heat, we headed north to the coast.

At this time of year, and when the sun shines, Brittany is intensely colourful.
There are thickly wooded valleys of rich shades of green through which the road winds under dappled shade. Grey-brown granite cottages or bright cream modern Breton villas, decorated with pots and tubs and boxes of tumbling red geraniums, sit in flower-filled, fragrant gardens.
Patchwork fields of maize, their leaves glossy green spears, mellow yellow stretches of rippling wheat and lush pastures with contented cows grazing and dozing and lazily tail-flicking flies.
Small villages clustered round a medieval church display brightly painted posters announcing their Fest Noz, a crèpe soirée, a concert of harp music or the exhibition of someone's artistic aspirations. And then, suddenly, like a jewel uncovered in the bottom of a box of brass buttons, there is the sea...

On such a day the sea is a brilliant azure blue.
Almost too blue to be real.
As we twisted and turned following the winding road, we kept catching tantalising glimpses of the distant sea and each time we called out excitedly, "It's SO blue!"

I thought that I had seen everything beautiful that Brittany has to offer during the drive to Paimpol but when we entered the abbey grounds we were met by this perfect picture...





The most beautiful flower meadow that I have ever seen outside of an impressionist painting

We sank to our knees and drank in the beauty of the flowers, the sound of bees buzzing, bird singing, the muted voices of other visitors.  
And then we wandered off to explore... 






Inside the abbey...

Probably the most beautiful and cherished 'ruin' that I have ever explored, and I have, trust me, explored my fair share of ruins!

Even without the vaulted roof, the soaring columns and stained glass windows my eyes were drawn to heaven









Even now, an empty shell, the abbey is filled with an intense feeling of spirituality, as if the prayers of hundreds of years had been absorbed and held by the solid stones.


Wandering, mostly in silence, we felt calm and soothed and at peace.

During the darkest, most desperate days of the Middle Ages, when famine was rife and pestilence stalked the land, when life was short, mean and hard, people sought safety and security in these abbeys and monasteries.

Today, when we are starved for Time and stress stalks us, when life is frenetic and unsatisfying, it seems that people again seek the safety and security of holy places.

Plus ça change...

We left the abbey and drove into Paimpol in search of refreshing drinks and ice cream at a table by the harbour.

An orange pressée, sweet, freshly-squeezed juice over clinking cubes of ice to quench our thirsts as we sat and watched the world pass by.

This is Brittany at her best...