After the Degustation!

Last night my friend Alain Madonna joined us for dinner as part of class at On Rue Tatin.  Alain makes award-winning goat cheese in a small “laboratory” on the grounds of his 16^th century manor house, and he came with a selection of his cheeses for us to sample. 

Before Alain was the area’s premier goat cheese maker he was an ombudsman for farmers.  When one of his clients mentioned he wanted to retire and sell his goatherd, Alain jumped at the chance to change careers.  With the herd came the know-how to make award-winning cheese, and that’s what he’s done for the past fifteen years.

He arrived with a small selection of cheeses - some pure white, some dusted with black ash, some golden with six weeks of aging, and one three-month old specimen that was hard and tasted like a sharp Parmigiano Reggiano. 

He explained how he takes milk warm from the goat, mixes it with rennet and lets it sit for 24 hours, until curds develop. These he drains, and puts in molds for 24 hours, then unmolds and salts them.  Some of them get a dusting of vegetable ash, which inhibits bacterial development, resulting in milder cheeses than if the ash was absent.

Alain’s cheeses, made in small quantity and with great care, never cease to astound. They are so pure, so clean tasting, so mild when young, and so robust once they’ve aged. 

Naturally, there were leftovers.  We took the youngest of those today and made a goat cheese terrine, seasoned with allspice, mint, and tarragon, studded with pine and pistachio nuts, and wrapped in translucent strips of blanched zucchini.

Goat Cheese Terrine...

The result? A light, lovely and refreshing – and rather impressive if I may say so – little first course to set on the table!

FRESH GOAT CHEESE AND PISTACHIO TERRINE

TERRINE DE FROMAGE DE CHEVRE FRAIS ET PISTACHES

1 pound (500g) soft goat cheese, drained

1/4 teaspoon allspice

1 heaping fresh tablespoon tarragon leaves

1 heaping tablespoon fresh mint leaves

The zest from ½  lemon

3 tablespoons pistachios, lightly toasted, coarsely chopped

3 tablespoons pine nuts, lightly toasted

3 medium zucchini, rinsed, both ends trimmed

Extra virgin olive oil, for drizzling

1.  Put the goat cheese into a cheesecloth lined strainer over a bowl, and let it drain overnight, or for at least 3 hours.

2. Transfer  the goat cheese to a mixing bowl. Add 1/4 teaspoon allspice, 1 tablespoon of the olive oil, salt and freshly ground black pepper. Mix until all the ingredients are thoroughly combined.

3. Mince the tarragon, the mint, and the lemon zest together, and stir it into the goat cheese.  Taste for seasoning, and adjust.

4.   Bring a medium pot of heavily salted water to a boil over medium-high heat. Near it, fill a bowl with ice water.  Prepare a draining rack by putting a cotton tea towel on a cooling rack.

3.  Cut the zucchini in thin lengthwise strips.  Add as many strips as will easily fit in the boiling salted water, and blanch just until they soften and turn translucent. This will take 1 minute.  Transfer the zucchini to the ice water.  After about 30 seconds, transfer the zucchini from the ice water to the towel-covered cooling rack, to drain.  Repeat with all of the zucchini strips.

5. To assemble the terrine, line a 2 cup (500ml) terrine or bowl with zucchini strips, leaving them hanging over the edge.  Reserve enough zucchini strips to cover the top of the mold.

6.  When the terrine is lined with zucchini, put one-third of the cheese mixture into the mold.  Top it with all of the pistachios. Top with half the remaining cheese mixture, and top that with pine nuts..  Top with the remaining cheese mixture.  Fold the ends of the zucchini strips over the cheese, and fill in any spots with the remaining zucchini strips.  Refrigerate for at least 2 hours.

7.  To serve, put a plate on top of the terrine, up-end it and shake it so the terrine falls gently onto the plate. Drizzle the terrine with 2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil, season with fleur de sel, garnish the plate with herb sprigs, and serve.  The terrine slices very well, with a very sharp knife.

Serves 6-8 

Blanched zucchini

Mackerel (Scomber scombrus)

There are few things in life one can really count on.   Weather is one. The celebratory delight when a champagne cork pops is another.  And a third is the wrinkle of a nose when the word “mackerel” is pronounced.

Most people are convinced they don’t like mackerel.  “It’s fishy,” they say.  Or “It’s strong.”  I’m patient, I listen, and then (with an evil glint in my eye), I make them eat it.

But first, I make them fillet it.  Filleting mackerel is a great way to learn how to treat all round fish.  Mackerel (Scomber scombrus) are small and manageable, their bones are easy to remove, and the resulting little fillets are so delicate, so lovely, that they make everyone feel proud.

Filleting mackerel

Why do I insist on introducing the reluctant to mackerel? Because it’s delicious, a rival to salmon and tuna.   It’s abundant. It’s jam-packed with omega 3 long chain fatty acids.  It’s available to every budget. And if that isn’t enough, it’s beautiful, with its elegant indigo and silver background and stark black stripes.

And one more thing.  It cooks in the blink of an eye.

In general, the French enjoy mackerel.  The other night I had a group of French students who ended up as skeptical as the best of them, though, when I announced our main course of mackerel. I described the pesto and red pepper chutney that would go with it, and we set to.  They were game, following filleting directions carefully, and removing the tiny pin bones with great good humor.  Once rinsed, the fillets were seasoned lightly with salt and pepper, then put in a hot oven for about 6 minutes. While they baked, the students spread a round of pesto on each plate. 

When the fillets emerged from the oven, they sat for several minutes so they could give off the liquid that every fish gives right after cooking. Then, we carefully transferred two fillets to each plate, crossing them atop the pesto.  A spoonful of chutney alongside, a parsley leaf on top, a sprinkling of fleur de sel, and we had a sophisticated dish on our hands.

What had been skepticism turned to awe as everyone tasted their mackerel.  They each said they couldn’t wait to get home to recreate the dish, and I believe them.  One more victory for this perfect fish.

Mackerel with pesto and red pepper chutney

MACKEREL WITH RED PEPPER CHUTNEY AND PESTO

MAQUEREAUX AU CHUTNEY DE POIVRONS ET PESTO

8 mackerel fillets, boned, rinsed and refrigerated

1 recipe for Pesto

1 recipe for red pepper chutney

Fine sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Basil or other herb leaves, for garnish

Fleur de sel

1.  Preheat the oven to 450F (230C).  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2.  Place the fillets on the prepared baking sheet.  Season them with salt and pepper, and place them in the oven to cook until they are nearly, but not quite, opaque, about 4 minutes.

3.  While the fish is cooking, place 2 tablespoons pesto in the center of a warmed dinner plate.

4.  When the mackerel is cooked, remove the baking sheet from the oven and let the fillets stay on it for several minutes, to allow them to give up their liquid and to finish cooking.  Then, carefully transfer two fillets to each plate, placing them crossed atop the pesto.  Garnish the plate with chutney, sprinkle the fillets with fleur de sel and place an herb leaf atop the fillets.  Serve immediately.

4 servings

RED PEPPER CHUTNEY

CHUTNEY AUX POIVRONS ROUGES

2 large red bell peppers, seeds and pith removed, diced

½ cup (125ml) extra-virgin olive oil  

2 teaspoons liquid honey

3 tablespoons white vinegar

1 red onion, diced

3 cloves garlic, green germ removed, diced

1.  Place half the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet over medium-high heat.  When the oil is hot but not smoking, add the peppers and cook, stirring and shaking the pan, until the peppers begin to be tender, and have black spots on the skin, which should take about 6 minutes. Season with salt, and reduce the heat to medium.

2.  Add the honey, the vinegar, the onion and the garlic to the pepper and stir. Cover and cook until the onions and peppers are tender, stirring from time to time, about 10 minutes.  Remove the pan from the heat, add the remaining oil, and let cool to room temperature. 

About 1-1/2 cups (375ml) chutney

ALMOND PESTO

PESTO AUX AMANDES

3 cups (30g) basil leaves, gently packed

½ cup (75g) almonds, coarsely chopped

1 large garlic clove, green germ removed, coarsely chopped

1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest

2/3 cups (160ml) extra-virgin olive oil

Fine sea salt 

1.  Place the garlic and the salt in a mortar and coarsely grind it. Add the basil leaves and coarsely grind it, then add the lemon zest and the almonds and grind the mixture together until it is homogeneous but still quite coarse.  Slowly mix in the oil, then season to taste with salt

Yield ¾ cup (185ml) pesto

One of my new zinc sinks!

A dozen years ago or more, when I was considering what sort of sink I needed for my kitchen, I wanted stainless steel.    I’m pragmatic  – while the idea of a gorgeous stone or marble sink satisfies my sense of esthetics, a practical, gleaming stainless steel sink is more to my liking. You drop things in it and they don’t break; it wipes up clean in an instant; it lasts forever. 

So, I began my research. Weeks later, I had all the information I needed to convince me that I could either buy a whole new house or a stainless steel sink – the cost was simply prohibitive.  I turned to a friend in the U.S. who makes sinks.  He’d do it for me, but with the shipping cost, it too was out of the question.

Somehow, I settled on zinc, a wonderful, pliable, beautiful material. If you drop something in zinc sink, it doesn’t break; it wipes up clean, it has no shine but instead a beautiful grey patina.

Fast-forward to a persistent leak in my gorgeous zinc sink a few years ago. 

I got on the phone to zinc roofing companies, to see if they could do the repair.  The response was uniform.  “Quoi? An évier en zinc?”  “What, a zinc sink?”  This was code for “We will not come to your house to fix a zinc sink. We’ve never even heard of a zinc sink.”

I panicked. What was I to do?  A friend of mine knew someone who knew someone, and that someone worked with zinc.  My friend needed some unusual zinc work done too, so she had him come to her house to give an estimate.  He was scheduled to visit mine right after.   She called.  “Get ready for him, Susan. He’s really drunk, but he insists he can do the job.”

He stumbled into the kitchen, and I feared for his health. But once he saw that zinc sink, he sobered right up.  Soldering iron in hand, he did a decent job and my sink stayed dry for three years.

A few weeks ago I was presented with the same dilemma, a hole-y zinc sink. This time, though, I knew where to go. I’d just had part of my roof re-zinced, and the man who did it wasn’t afraid of a sink. 

Welding the zinc

Oh, he complained and huffed and puffed as he snipped and soldered, but he got the job done.  And because he’s an expert, he used heavy-duty zinc, made welds to last, and promised I wouldn’t have to call him back for twenty years.

Vanilla sables, perfect for...everything!

A house without a cookie is a sad place indeed, I thought as I pulled the vanilla sugar from its drawer, got the hunk of unsalted butter from the fridge, and began to measure flour and salt.  I had a hankering for a sablé, a tender butter cookie ideal to offer to the unexpected guest, and  to have on hand for nibbling plain, with tea or – best – dipping in coffee.

I mixed up the dough and as it firmed up in the fridge, I returned to work to find in an email the following question: “Susan, what exactly is vanilla sugar and where do I find it?”

This, I thought, is a sign.  Here I’ve just measured out vanilla sugar – its perfume lingers on my hands -  and I’m once again confronted with this oft-posed question.  It’s time to dispel the mystery.

To make vanilla sugar, all you need is sugar and a vanilla bean.  I flavor five pounds of sugar, because I bake all the time and don’t want to be caught short. I recommend you do the same.  Put the sugar in an airtight container, stick one or two vanilla beans in it, close it up and forget about it for one week. When you open your jar, you’ll be flooded with the aroma of vanilla, and your sugar will be infused with its flavor. That is all there is to it. Now, you have an ample supply to flavor cookies, cakes, custards, and your morning coffee if you like.

Vanilla sugar - note the beans in the bottom right part of the jar - they're ready to remove.

I rarely add a brand new vanilla bean to my sugar, though, because I use vanilla beans regularly to make custards for ice cream, syrups for fruit.  Once those are made, I carefully rinse and dry the vanilla bean, which is still full of aroma, and stick it in my sugar jar. I may have up to ten beans in the sugar at the same time – the more, the merrier.  When you notice that a vanilla bean has turned light brown and dried to a brittle stick, remove it from the sugar – it has nothing left to give.

You can make vanilla brown sugar too, exactly the same way.  The following recipe calls for vanilla confectioners' sugar - I make my own by grinding vanilla sugar in a coffee grinder kept specifically for this purpose.

With vanilla sugar on hand, your pastries will rise to new heights. Does vanilla sugar replace vanilla extract? Generally, yes (except in chocolate chip cookies, where I use both!).

SABLES - NORMANDY SAND COOKIES

LES SABLES DE NORMANDIE

These tender, melt-in-your mouth cookies will become a staple in your repertoire.  They go wonderfully with a fruit dessert, after dinner, and they make a perfect afternoon snack with tea or coffee.  Make and freeze the dough - it will keep well for several months. 

1½ cups plus 2 tablespoons (13 ounces;400g) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (140g) vanilla confectioner’s sugar

1 large egg, lightly beaten

3-3/4 cups (500g) all-purpose flour

Pinch of sea salt

½ teaspoon baking powder

For rolling the sablés:

½ cup (100 g) vanilla sugar

1.  In a large bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, using the paddle attachment, mix the butter until it is soft and pale yellow.  Add the confectioners’ sugar and mix well. Add the egg and mix until it is blended.

2.  Sift the flour, the salt and the baking powder onto a piece of parchment paper and add to the butter and sugar mixture and mix well.  Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divide it into six pieces.  Roll each piece into a log that measures 1-inch (2.5cm) in diameter. Sprinkle the vanilla sugar on a flat work surface, and roll each log in the sugar to coat it evenly.  Wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours and up to 24 hours.

3.  Preheat the oven to 425 F (220 C).  Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

4.  Cut the logs into 1/4-inch (.75 cm) thick rounds, and set them on the prepared baking sheet, leaving about ½-inch between each sablé.  Bake in the center of the oven until they are golden at the edges, 7 to 8 minutes.  Remove from the oven and transfer them to wire racks to cool.  Repeat with the remaining dough.

Makes about 7 dozen sablés

Cookies and sugars (from India Tree imports)

In the early 1980’s, I was hired to open a small tea salon in the sixth arrondissement of Paris.  My mandate, aside from equipping the kitchen, was to make American food.  Then, the idea was maverick, and so was I.  I went on to produce everything from chile con carne to zucchini bread, but my real specialty became saucer-sized chocolate chip cookies.  I made huge batches of dough at least twice a week, no small feat because it was the stone-age in France when it comes to American ingredients, and I had to hand-chip the chocolate.

Today, the chocolate chip cookie – called cookeess whether there is one or one hundred - has become part of the French baking repertoire. They are perched on boulangerie and patisserie shelves as thought they’re natives, uniformly blonde, flat, and filled with teensy little “pepites” of chocolate.  To my palate, they are bland and whenever I can, I make my own version to serve to my French friends and acquaintances, in my continuing effort to spread the good word about American culinary specialties. 

I may have been the pioneer in chocolate chip cookies in Paris. I’ve never researched this, but I do know that when I was baking and serving them, they were a novelty.  Had I had a business head, I’d have institutionalized these sweet wonders. Instead, I just kept perfecting the recipe.  And as I perfected, I experimented with sugars and naturally  landed on a favorite, muscovado.

Muscovado is basically sugar cane juice boiled until it solidifies, then dried and packaged. It ranges in color from light to very dark brown, and has a distinct molasses flavor.  Its texture is quite moist, and it must be kept in an air-tight container to prevent it from hardening.  It is sinfully delicious, right out of the package, and added to just about any recipe that calls for sweetener. That it is filled with minerals makes it just that much more attractive.

After years of making chocolate chip cookies “au pif,” or, without a recipe, I finally caved and codified mine. I still chop my own chocolate “chips,” which means most of them are larger than those you buy.  This is what makes the cookies so delicious. Whether warm from the oven (which is how I like to serve them after dinner), or cooled, the chunks of chocolate remain somewhat soft. The contrast with the vanilla and slightly caramel flavor of the dough, with its hint of salt, is addictive. 

Because I’ve noticed that chocolate chip cookie styles are very personal, I’d love to hear from you about your recipe, and feel free to make these and comment. No, there are no walnuts in them, which will certainly displease many, but try these before complaining. I think you’ll love them!

COOKEESS, AMERICAN STYLE!

3 cups (about 460g) all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon fine sea salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

18 tablespoons (9 oz;270g) unsalted butter at room temperature

¾ cup (140g) dark muscovado sugar

¾ cup (125) light muscovado sugar

2 large eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

12 ounces (360g) semi-sweet chocolate, preferably Valrhona, Lindt,

     or Scharffenberger,  coarsely chopped

1.  Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).  Line several baking sheets with parchment paper.

2. Sift together all the dry ingredients onto a piece of waxed or parchment paper.

3.  In a large bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, mix the butter until it is light and pale yellow.  Add the sugars and mix until thoroughly combined and light.  Add the eggs, one at a time, just until thoroughly combined.  With the mixer running slowly, add the vanilla, then the dry ingredients, mixing just until combined.  Finally, with the mixer running slowly, add the chocolate.  You may need to finish mixing in the chocolate by hand so that it is thoroughly mixed throughout the dough.

4.  Scoop out heaping tablespoons of dough, and place the mounds 1-1/2 inches (2.75cm) apart on the prepared baking sheets. Bake in the center of the oven 12 to 15 minutes, depending on whether you like your cookeess soft, or fully baked!

48 cookies (if you make them heaping tablespoon size)

The other day an email dropped into my mailbox, with the subject line “You’re IN!”

This was from my friend Timothy Nishimoto, who is the percussionist and a major singer for my home-town (Portland, Oregon) band, Pink Martini. He gets me tickets to concerts when the band is in Paris if seats are free; there were few this time, and this was last-minute access.

When my daughter came home from school, flushed with the joy of being on spring break (an entire five weeks since she’d been on pre-spring break - French schools have a LOT of breaks), I pointed her in the direction of a snack, then told her she needed to dress up because we were going to Paris to see Pink Martini.

“M-o-o-m,” she huffed. “That’s adult music.” 

My head snapped up from my serious job of rinsing radishes as part of her – and my – pre concert snack.  “You like Pink Martini, we get to go to Paris, you get to carry your new purse,” was my response.

Her frown persisted as she nibbled radishes with bread and butter, so recalcitrant she forgot to dip the radishes in fleur de sel first. 

“We’ve got front row seats and passes backstage,” I said.  “You’ve got half an hour. If we have time when we get to Paris we’ll have sushi for dinner.”

That did the trick.  She ran upstairs, and twenty minutes later descended in a cloud of perfume, make up applied, accessories in place, her new “sac” hung gracefully over her young shoulder.  She looked entirely French. I don’t know how she does it.

Pink Martini gives a great concert. Each member of the fifteen-plus band is a classically trained musician; they sing in every language on the planet; they write much of their own music;  they lean towards the fun, sometimes goofy, almost always happy.

Pink Martini on stage at the Grand Rex in Paris

By the third song Fiona was standing up with the crowd, pulling me up alongside her to clap with gusto.  She didn’t stop moving for two hours, and when we went backstage, which at the Grand Rex is down about fifteen snaky flights of ancient stairs, she was star struck to meet everyone she’d just seen on stage.

We didn’t get the sushi; the radishes were our dinner.  She didn’t care, and neither did I. Every day includes dinner. Only those rare special ones include Pink Martini.

You are familiar with my favorite spring snack, but here is a little reminder:

RADISHES WITH BREAD, BUTTER AND SALT

1 bunch radishes, rinsed, root end trimmed, all leaves but one pretty one left on the radish

Unsalted butter

Freshly baked bread, white or whole wheat, cut into small, fairly thick slices

Fleur de sel

1.  Thickly butter a small slice of bread.  Dip a radish into the fleur de sel. Take a bite of radish, then a bite of buttered bread. Close your eyes - you'll experience paradise. 

Breakfast studies

This morning over fresh bread, butter, jam and steaming bowls of hot chocolate (for my daughter) and tea (for me), I was helping Fiona, who is fourteen and in the equivalent of eighth grade, with last-minute studying for two exams.

First she did her Latin exercises.  She quickly “um’d” her way through infinitives, and the masculine and feminine singulars and plurals, grumbling the whole time. She hates Latin. I absolutely love it, and wish I could go in her stead. 

Then, she moved onto music.  They’re learning about American music, and she had to remember how many different types there are.  She started naming them, and I accompanied her in the list, checking to be sure she didn’t forget anything.  I have to admit, it was hard not to laugh as I heard my daughter pronounce Gospel as “Go-spehl”  and “folk” as “fuhlk.”  It continued.  R and B and blues became “Ehr n’ Bay Bloosse” and Jazz was “Jhazzh” .  Rock, was “Rhawck” and so it continued. 

I would never laugh, but the pronunciation did crack me up.  My daughter speaks almost perfect, unaccented English. But when she’s studying in French, she speaks perfect, unaccented French and horribly accented English.  Her nimble mind lives in whatever linguistic country she happens to be in.  Were she and I to be discussing Rock music, she’d say “rock” just like me. But in class, she’ll say “Rhawck.”

I’m fascinated by her studies, and her dual life.  The other day Vanessa Paradis’ breathy voice was coming from the radio, and when she lisped once, Fiona said “She does that because of her ‘dents de Bonheur’.”

“Dents de Bonheur”?  I’d never heard that expression and Fiona confirmed it’s what you call front teeth with a space between them. How charming is that?  And how obscure, to the foreigner.  My son grew up here too, and I guess we never listened to Vanessa Paradis together, because he never uttered that expression, so I never learned it.

People hear me speak French and say “Oh, you’re fluent.”  Hah.  Fluent  means you are born in the country of whichever language you speak, because how else would you pronounce words just one way – the correct way – and know a phrase like “dents de Bonheur” for “space between front teeth”? 

Vegetables from Baptiste's farm

Those of you who have been to class at On Rue Tatin have eaten his marvelous vegetables; many of you have sat at the table and tasted wine with him, and others have received a kiss on both cheeks when visiting him at the market. And now, he's on the pages of the New York Times. T hat's right, it's Baptiste, the air-guitar playing "maraicher" who grows the finest vegetables I've ever tasted, and sells them with a big fat smile to boot!

Read all about it!  

Toast de Sardine

With all of the glorious fresh seafood around me here in Normandy, I tend to forget about tinned sardines.  I had occasion, recently, to do some research on their production and I needed to taste what I was writing about, so I gathered several different brands, and set to.

What I re-learned was that when sardines are good, they’re scrumptious. And as with all things culinary, the French really do them right.  Whether they be grilled then bathed in extra-virgin olive oil before being tinned, or combined with a bit of gentle pepper, or layered with sliced lemon, or just simply put in the tin, they’re delicious.

The French take great pride in their sardines, and they have since the first of these little fish were canned in Nantes, around 1810.  The fish were brought fresh from cold Breton waters, fried, and packed in tins that made their way around the hexagon.  Fast-forward to today, and they are still handled as carefully as they were two centuries ago. 

The French treat tinned sardines a bit the way they treat a fine wine, buying and storing them in their cellars for up to ten years. When they emerge from their tins after a decade, they are mouth-meltingly tender, subtly flavorful.

There are many brands of tinned sardines produced in France, most of them in Brittany.  Of them, there are three brands to look for - La Quiberonnaise, Gonidec (their sardines are sold under the label les Mouettes d’Arvor), and La Belle Illoise.  The sardines in these cans have not been previously frozen, and are perfect to eat right away, or to tuck away in the cellar.  The cans are dated, and Gonidec even puts the name of the boat that fished for their sardines on the tin.

I prefer my sardines plain, in extra-virgin olive oil. Until recently, my favorite way to eat them was crushed on a cracker, with a drizzle of freshly squeezed lemon juice.  But I stumbled across a recipe from Joel Robuchon which has made me change my mind.

 Buy the best sardines you can, then follow this recipe which I guarantee will become part of your appetizer repertoire!  If you cannot find the brands of sardines mentioned here, buy the best quality you find.

Sardines in the tin

Central bone removed from sardine.

Toasts de Sardines

Two 4 ounce (125g) tins sardines in extra-virgin olive oil,

central bone removed

10 tablespoons (150g) unsalted butter, softened

2 tablespoons cream crème fraîche

4 tablespoons (1/4 cup) Dijon mustard

Freshly ground black pepper

To serve:

1 baguette, sliced thin, toasted

Flat leaf parsley leaves or other herb, for garnish

1.  Place the sardines in a medium-sized bowl and crush them, using a fork.  Fold in the remaining ingredients except the pepper so that they are thoroughly combined, but not too smooth.  Season to taste.

2.  Spread the sardine mixture on the toasts, garnish each with an herb leaf, and serve.

Up to 20 servings

Beet Soup with Turnip and Garlic Slices

Another April morning, another fire in the woodstove. It’s sooo cold here.  I had a call last night from a friend in Amsterdam, and it’s even colder there.  Everyone is cold.

But it’s spring! We’re ready for asparagus and new onions, baby lettuces and tasty radishes, lunches in the garden, basking in spring sun. This year, however, Dame Nature says “Wait!”  She has her reasons, or else she’s succumbing to something we don’t entirely understand.  Global warming, perhaps, or simply her caprice.

Whining aside, even though this biting cold weather makes it tough for growers and others, and causes much complaint (two men are working in my kitchen today, and they haven’t stopped complaining about the cold since they arrived hours ago!), it’s not a catastrophe. Up until now we’ve had a good season.  And we do have food to eat, which makes us more fortunate than many. It’s just that for those of us spoiled enough to say “I’m tired of this or that,” we’d like to move along from root vegetables, leeks and last years’ onions.

For now, we cannot.  So,  I am simply pretending it’s still winter.  Because today was issued in by snowflakes, I did what I might have done in mid-December – I made beet soup.   While it’s a puree, it stays just slightly chunky and the cream makes it smooth, adding to its sweetness. The garnish of crisp, paper-thin slices of turnip and garlic is a perfect foil  It’s a winter dish to enjoy while basking in the warmth from… the woodstove. 

 A Cold Spring’s Beet Soup with Turnip and Garlic Garnish

 The amount of cream  you add to the soup is up to you. Stir in half the cream, taste, and add more if you like. 

 1-1/2 pounds (750g) beets, peeled, rinsed, coarsely chopped

3 medium yellow onions, peeled and diced

3 cloves garlic, green germ removed, coarsely chopped

2 bay leaves (Laurus nobilis)

1 six inch branch fresh rosemary

1-inch length ginger, peeled and coarsely chopped

Sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

The zest from ½ lemon, minced 

Salad burnett or chervil

For the Garnish:

2 cups (500ml) peanut oil, for frying

2 medium turnips, peeled and very thinly sliced

2 large cloves garlic, green germ removed if necessary, very thinly sliced

1.  Place the beets, onions, and herbs in a medium saucepan and cover by 2-inches (5cm) with water.  Add ½ teaspoon salt and a few grinds of pepper, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat.  Reduce the heat to medium low, cover, and cook until the beets are tender through. Depending on how fresh they are, this can take from 40 minutes to 1-1/2 hours.

2. Remove the bay leaves and the rosemary stem.  Puree the soup using a wand mixer if you’ve got one.  Stir in the cream to your taste, adjust the seasoning and keep hot, but don’t let the soup boil.

3.  While the soup is cooking, prepare the garnish.  Line a baking sheet with paper towel or newspaper that has soy-based ink.  Heat the oil to 350F (180C).  When the oil is hot, add enough slices of turnip to cover the surface of the oil. The turnip slices will shrink as they fry; watch and stir them from time to time until they are golden. Remove from the fryer with a slotted spatula, let any excess oil drain from them, and transfer them to the prepared baking sheet.  Wait just a minute or two for the heat of the oil to return to temperature, and continue frying the turnips.  Then, fry the garlic slices.  When all the slices are fried, sprinkle them with salt. 

4. When the soup and the garnish is ready, stir in the lemon zest.  Then,  divide the soup among six shallow bowls. Garnish with the turnip and the garlic slices, and a sprig of salad burnett or chervil.  Sprinkle with fleur de sel and serve immediately.

6 servings