Getting married, moving house and leaving the country are three of the most stressful things you can do in your life, though also the most rewarding. Take it from us - we've done it. Twice!!
As several French friends - most importantly Jean - were unable to attend our first wedding in England, Kate's mum Cathy determined to hold a second wedding celebration for us in France. We were a little apprehensive, particularly after our experience at the Spring Fete when we realised that our sitting, drinking and eating skills were no match for the French and we risked not making it through the day. Plus as the 27th April approached stress levels inevitably rose, as Cathy planned and re-planned her five course feast for 45 people and we were despatched to various markets and shops to buy ingredients.
Still the day arose - a beautiful one - and it felt lovely to put on our glad rags again; Kate looked gorgeous wearing her dress and one young guest felt she had to ask Cathy "who the princess was?" Driving down in Sheena, proudly wearing her new "kate & theo" sunstrip, we did feel very much the newly weds and, this being France, were thus bombarded with questions over aperitifs about the arrival timetable for tiny feet plus incredulousness over Sheena's petiteness.
The feast - and what a feast it was - duly arrived, slightly delayed as the guest seemed non-plussed at first by the presence of of steaming bowls of freshly made italian soup on the table, and carried on chatting and drinking. Jean was manning the barbecue - aubergines for us - and served up great platters of fragrant meat after the artichoke has been nibbled. Our carefully laid up and arranged tables were clinically assessed by the French ladies, found wanting, and duly rearranged much to our amusement. As Cathy and Jean were constantly on the move, despite many requests that they sit down and eat something, we were kept entertained by the lovely Pascale and Christian, while the irrepressible Norbert started firing champagne corks across the room during desert. A deserved round of applause for the chefs was followed by the briefest of speeches (in french) by us, and then it was our turn to be stumped by the amazing generosity of all present as we opened our cards and gifts. Our wedding guests in England had been equally generous, but here it seemed even more over-whelming as some of the guest we'd only met that day!
After the clearing up was done, almost by magic by the ladies present, Kate was moved to comment that if Cathy had been catering for Napoleon's army they would have either made it to Moscow or been too full to leave France. There was so much delicious food and wine left over half the guests resolved to stick around to help finish it off that evening. Several voracious card games later and we were laying up the tables yet again for another "small selection of left overs" that wouldn't have embarrassed royalty, and the Party finally finished around 11pm, just before the storm broke.
It was a fabulous day and we both really, really enjoyed ourselves and feel so warmly welcomed to Montcuq and St Croix. Hence it was a shame that we have had to move house yet again - for Cathy & Jean's felt very much like a second home - as we head down to Biarritz for a couple of days laden with what seems like a gallon or soup and a kilo of cheese. We'll be even sadder to say goodbye to France, though it is of course only temporary.
We'll be back.
Showing posts with label soup. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soup. Show all posts
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Saturday, 26 April 2008
Hubble Bubble
My Mum occasionally claims to be a witch. Not the Wiccan, earth-energy crystals and incantations type. More the fortune-telling, randomly clairvoyant variety. She was recently asked to do a reading of Lady Macbeth at an event marking Shakespeare's birth and death on April 23rd. By all accounts, it was a bravura performance, but I reckon she would have also gone down a storm doing a bit of "Double, double, toil and trouble..." An opinion formed by the unexpected appearance (in a big cauldron, fittingly) of soup which looked like it was made of frog-spawn. Actually, the initially unsettling ingredient was tapioca, or "perles Japons", as the French rather romantically call it. I'd only ever had tapioca as a sweet milk pudding and had certainly never considered it as something to chuck in with the broth, but actually it was delicious, once you got used to the odd texture.
Then there was the small matter of the bat. Theo and I had just retired to our bedroom for a siesta, afternoon constitutional or spot of honeymooning (choose your favourite euphemism) when interruptus in the form of a bat diving through the almost-closed shutters of the window sent me disapearing under the bedclothes and Theo crouching down on the floor to avoid the creature's madly flapping aerobatics (ahem). It's not that either of us are scared of bats, but it's not exactly fun being trapped in a confined space with a small mammal quite beside itself with panic. Thankfully after a minute or two, it found its own way back through the window and Theo and I were able to recommence our preferred method of shaking the shutters.
Finally, I feel I should mention something about French markets. They are fantastic places, a cornucopia of freshly produced food, crafts and plants and flowers. Even the more modest ones put the best English farmers' markets to shame. But they aren't for the faint-hearted. Buying from them involves a bit of confidence in spoken French and a certain amount of strength of will to resist the hawkers' sales patter. But toughest of all is avoiding being run down or otherwise bashed by the shopping trolleys being pushed or pulled from stall to stall by les anciens. Multi-coloured, tall canvas bags on a frame and wheels which they wield like weapons. It's pretty effective too. I soon learned not to stand in the path of an elderly woman hell-bent on buying her demi-kilo of champignons - if those things get dragged into your ankles, you soon know about it. There was an especially impressive array of trolley-wielding pensioners at the Saturday market in Cahors, where Theo and I went to buy 46 artichokes among other things for the huge banquet Mum had planned for our French wedding fete on Sunday. Frog spawn, however, was not on the menu.
Then there was the small matter of the bat. Theo and I had just retired to our bedroom for a siesta, afternoon constitutional or spot of honeymooning (choose your favourite euphemism) when interruptus in the form of a bat diving through the almost-closed shutters of the window sent me disapearing under the bedclothes and Theo crouching down on the floor to avoid the creature's madly flapping aerobatics (ahem). It's not that either of us are scared of bats, but it's not exactly fun being trapped in a confined space with a small mammal quite beside itself with panic. Thankfully after a minute or two, it found its own way back through the window and Theo and I were able to recommence our preferred method of shaking the shutters.
Finally, I feel I should mention something about French markets. They are fantastic places, a cornucopia of freshly produced food, crafts and plants and flowers. Even the more modest ones put the best English farmers' markets to shame. But they aren't for the faint-hearted. Buying from them involves a bit of confidence in spoken French and a certain amount of strength of will to resist the hawkers' sales patter. But toughest of all is avoiding being run down or otherwise bashed by the shopping trolleys being pushed or pulled from stall to stall by les anciens. Multi-coloured, tall canvas bags on a frame and wheels which they wield like weapons. It's pretty effective too. I soon learned not to stand in the path of an elderly woman hell-bent on buying her demi-kilo of champignons - if those things get dragged into your ankles, you soon know about it. There was an especially impressive array of trolley-wielding pensioners at the Saturday market in Cahors, where Theo and I went to buy 46 artichokes among other things for the huge banquet Mum had planned for our French wedding fete on Sunday. Frog spawn, however, was not on the menu.
Monday, 14 April 2008
The Little Differences
"They got the same sh*t over there as they got over here, only it's a little different.." - Vince, Pulp Fiction
So here we are, being royally pampered in a rustic French style and adapting to les differences. The French have got some really great things. Like bidets, clearly invented by a nation which rightly prioritises carnal activity highly and appreciates efficiencies of hygiene thereof. Excellent for honeymooning couples, I can tell you.
Three-hour five-course lunchtimes are also still very much the norm. During her time in France, my Mum has developed the ability to knock up a daily mega-course feast in the blink of an eye. Today we had fresh vegetable and home-grown white bean soup, followed by poireaux mimosa (leeks cooked in long lengths and served with vinaigrette and hard boiled egg yolk pushed through a sieve so it resembles the flowers of a mimosa), then pasta with wild morels (collected yesterday by Mum's man, Jean and their friend Jacques), after which the cheese course and then coffee and pistachio ice cream to finish with.
In this household, soup is a must with every meal (including breakfast for Jean, who customarily starts the day with a piece of cake and a bowl of soup rinsed out with a glass of the local red wine) as, of course, is bread. Currently there are a lot of "mon dieus" being said about the price of bread which, in France as everywhere else, is going up sharply because of soaring wheat prices. Since the French revolution, the importance of bread to the people who live here cannot be overstated.
The big meal is eaten at lunchtime with a smaller supper at about eight in the evening. Mind you, I say smaller, but it still tends to be three courses comprising soup, a main dish and cheese. But it makes sense to do it that way round, especially if you've got the option of a siesta, as that much digesting can be a tiring business. And you really should try and reign in your natural greed and keep your courses very modest. I reckon Theo and I have more than made up for the starvation that began our honeymoon, thanks to the "gastro" we both endured in the days after our wedding. This afternoon we've resolved to go for a run to try and shake off some of the extra carbo-loading.
The other interesting aspect of eating here involves the cutlery. They don't bother with special soup spoons, dessert spoons will do. But most importantly, you have your own knife - a pocket twist knife (Opinel, ideally) which you keep sharp and use for everything, whether it's opening oysters, cutting bread, picking wild champignons or slicing up your vegetables. Jean and his good friend Norbert are also very specific about the exact type of glass they use for their wine, but there isn't time to go into all that now.
Since we arrived, we've met a good number of Mum and Jean's friends, which has certainly been useful in cranking up our rusty French. On the whole we've just about made ourselves understood, Theo doing rather better than me (well, he did study French to A Level and a good deal more recently than I did). The people have all been very friendly to us and we have been made to feel very welcome. But probably our most successful mode of communication has been through playing cards, largely Belote and Ascenseur, with Mum, Jean and Norbert. Not quite the vernacular to be used in polite company, but "putain" and "con" are excellent all-purpose exclamations and we're now pretty adept at telling apart our coeurs, carreaux, trefles and picques and have more or less got our heads round the eccentric (to English eyes, anyway) mode of scoring points in continental whist games.
And finally the French computer keyboard, as alluded to by Theo earlier. The different placing of the A, W, M, Z and Q in particular can lead the unwary English touch-typist into strange avenues of written Franglais and this, plus the unexpected placing of punctuation marks, accented letters and the fact my Mum's laptop has a stubbornly sticky D key, can make computer work exhausting and only possible in short doses. The word "putain" comes in handy there, too.
So here we are, being royally pampered in a rustic French style and adapting to les differences. The French have got some really great things. Like bidets, clearly invented by a nation which rightly prioritises carnal activity highly and appreciates efficiencies of hygiene thereof. Excellent for honeymooning couples, I can tell you.
Three-hour five-course lunchtimes are also still very much the norm. During her time in France, my Mum has developed the ability to knock up a daily mega-course feast in the blink of an eye. Today we had fresh vegetable and home-grown white bean soup, followed by poireaux mimosa (leeks cooked in long lengths and served with vinaigrette and hard boiled egg yolk pushed through a sieve so it resembles the flowers of a mimosa), then pasta with wild morels (collected yesterday by Mum's man, Jean and their friend Jacques), after which the cheese course and then coffee and pistachio ice cream to finish with.
In this household, soup is a must with every meal (including breakfast for Jean, who customarily starts the day with a piece of cake and a bowl of soup rinsed out with a glass of the local red wine) as, of course, is bread. Currently there are a lot of "mon dieus" being said about the price of bread which, in France as everywhere else, is going up sharply because of soaring wheat prices. Since the French revolution, the importance of bread to the people who live here cannot be overstated.
The big meal is eaten at lunchtime with a smaller supper at about eight in the evening. Mind you, I say smaller, but it still tends to be three courses comprising soup, a main dish and cheese. But it makes sense to do it that way round, especially if you've got the option of a siesta, as that much digesting can be a tiring business. And you really should try and reign in your natural greed and keep your courses very modest. I reckon Theo and I have more than made up for the starvation that began our honeymoon, thanks to the "gastro" we both endured in the days after our wedding. This afternoon we've resolved to go for a run to try and shake off some of the extra carbo-loading.
The other interesting aspect of eating here involves the cutlery. They don't bother with special soup spoons, dessert spoons will do. But most importantly, you have your own knife - a pocket twist knife (Opinel, ideally) which you keep sharp and use for everything, whether it's opening oysters, cutting bread, picking wild champignons or slicing up your vegetables. Jean and his good friend Norbert are also very specific about the exact type of glass they use for their wine, but there isn't time to go into all that now.
Since we arrived, we've met a good number of Mum and Jean's friends, which has certainly been useful in cranking up our rusty French. On the whole we've just about made ourselves understood, Theo doing rather better than me (well, he did study French to A Level and a good deal more recently than I did). The people have all been very friendly to us and we have been made to feel very welcome. But probably our most successful mode of communication has been through playing cards, largely Belote and Ascenseur, with Mum, Jean and Norbert. Not quite the vernacular to be used in polite company, but "putain" and "con" are excellent all-purpose exclamations and we're now pretty adept at telling apart our coeurs, carreaux, trefles and picques and have more or less got our heads round the eccentric (to English eyes, anyway) mode of scoring points in continental whist games.
And finally the French computer keyboard, as alluded to by Theo earlier. The different placing of the A, W, M, Z and Q in particular can lead the unwary English touch-typist into strange avenues of written Franglais and this, plus the unexpected placing of punctuation marks, accented letters and the fact my Mum's laptop has a stubbornly sticky D key, can make computer work exhausting and only possible in short doses. The word "putain" comes in handy there, too.
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