August is a funny time in the garden, although the late, much loved Christopher Lloyd might disagree. It is betwixt and between at the best of times, never mind when there has been a mini 'canicule'. Before I left Bardies [in time to celebrate Freddie's major milestone of being able to enter the best of the UK's public houses legally!], we had had very little of the summer rainfall which usually takes our house guests by surprise. Despite my forewarnings, because of our southerly latitude, new visitors to the Ariege assume that we have a Mediterranean climate. Without fail, most people arrive with shorts and teeshirts and very little else, other than a swimsuit or bikini and a bottle of high factor sunscreen. When the storms roll in, I scramble for my surplus winter woollies for them all whilst Peter stokes up the woodburner.
Not this year. The heatwave has continued unabated and I have had to rely on a small army of friends and helpers to water the parched garden and top up the thirsty swimming pool. For some annoying reason, which we've never quite established, the pool was installed without an automatic water top up system. Thus, when the water level drops below the level of the filters, the pump stops working and the algae have a field day. I have recurring nightmares about green pools full of 'Fungus the Bogeyman' creatures!
The borders were looking tired a fortnight ago, despite everyone's valiant efforts. The lavender was already over the top and the roses and oleanders were consuming every bit of their lacklustre energy on staying alive. Apart from the anenomes, which seem to thrive here in August, and the geraniums and petunias in pots, the only real colour in the garden is from an unruly mass of yellow 'hypericum' which seems to spread further and further each year like an invading army on the advance. It is more commonly known as 'St. John's Wort' and I often think that, had we had Bardies during my bleak days of post-natal depression in the early 1990's, I might have saved myself from two years of unmitigated misery.
A serious exercise in border planning is required. We have done very little to the garden at Bardies during the last ten years, other than our feeble attempts to tame the worst of its excesses. When we moved in in 2000, it resembled the lost gardens of Heligan. Underneath banks of triffid-like laurel, with trunks the size of telegraph poles, and an array of densely packed undergrowth, we have tried to rediscover the lines of the original borders. With the help of Sarah and Pascal, we are now slowly getting there.
The garden had been beautifully laid out by our predecessors over a century before. Unlike the formality of many French gardens, they seem to have opted for an adventurous planting scheme, which, surprisingly, even consisted of yuccas and palm trees! Much of its original shape was clearly defined by the two hundred year old box hedging, which forms six separate garden spaces to the right and left of a central avenue of box. We nabbed one for the pool and its 'plage', behind which, because of the slope, we planted a rockery. The other five, however, are now in desperate need of a serious rethink.
Obviously, colour, form and shape, as well as suitability to our very erratic climate, are major considerations, but my priority will be for a bee-friendly garden. Now, more than ever since the advent of the mysterious Colony Collapse Disorder, it is incumbent on all of us to do whatever we can to help arrest the decimation of the world's bee population. Einstein prophetically said, "If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would have four years of life left. No more pollination, no more plants, no more man." More recently, Jeff Rooker, the Labour Peer, calculated that it was only ten years before the honeybee became extinct, and that was in 2007. We are facing a major 'catastophe'.
There are many reasons speculated for the present crisis, including the use of a pesticide containing methyl parathion called Penncap-M, whose active ingredient resembles pollen and is therefore carried back to beehives where it does untold damage. The use of mobile bee colonies for industrial pollination is however, in my view, the principal reason. The California almond industry alone is estimated to require the transportation of 40 billion bees. Other crops dependent on the reckless movement of mobile hives include nuts, beans, soya, rapeseed, sunflower, maize and most fruit and vegetables especially citrus fruits and apples. In total, approximately 90 commercial crops are involved, leaving the bees with compromised immune systems resulting in the invasion of the hives with parasitic pests and resultant disease.
Whilst there is not much that we at Bardies can do to right the wrongs of the commercial food producers, we can at least encourage our own bee populations to thrive. The previous owners at one time had bee hives and made their own honey, for we discovered all the old equipment as well as old honeycombs in the garage. We still have bees at Bardies, but they are not in hives. Last year they were at the top of one of the bee-loving lime trees, planted in 1913 for the birth of Simone Henri. This year, they seem to have found a home under the pantiles in the roof above the dormitory. Their space must be limited because they have swarmed twice. We have been told that it will be virtually impossible to remove them completely because they will always find residue honey. I have to say that as long as no one gets caught in a swarm, I'm not too bothered.
Peter was at Bardies last week, watering the garden and salvaging the lawn from the worst of the summer's heat. As he was not due in to Gatwick until 10.30pm, with an eye on future planting, I decided to treat myself to an afternoon at Great Dixter, before picking him up. I went along after a jolly lunch in Rye with some friends who live in nearby Peasmarsh, and we were all blown over by it. It is stunning. I used to read the legendary Christopher Lloyd's articles in 'The Guardian' and have a copy of his book of collected pieces called 'Cuttings', but nothing prepared me for the sheer physical assault on my senses from this floral tapestry of colour, form and scent. There is nothing to compare it with. He was the Van Gogh of gardening and Monet's garden in Giverney, although beautiful in its own right, looks positively pedestrian in comparison! If someone asked me to describe Great Dixter's garden, I would simply say, "Colour! Colour! Colour!"
So now, after spending a small fortune on Amazon collecting up his works, I am sitting planning my own Bardies tapestry. It will be different, of course, because without Fergus Garrett, a small army of helpers, a huge budget and a further 50 years of longevity, I couldn't get close to anything at Great Dixter. I plan, though, to use colour confidently as a result of his inspiration and, in the process, to create a garden full of flowering plants with plenty of nectar and pollen to encourage honeybees. We already have lots of lavender, rosemary, sage, lilac and ceonothus but we need plants that will provide nectar and pollen year-round. I have barely taken my nose out of his 'Succession Planting for Adventurous Gardeners' [Christopher Lloyd 2005, published by BBC Books] in the last few days and already, I have ordered collections of penstemons, aliums, salvias and buddlejas to kickstart my 2010 project. Bees and buddleja in next summer's border will be a marriage made in heaven. And we'll have Blues at Bardies too, to celebrate it. What bliss!
PS For information: bee loving plants for spring include astilbe, bluebells, flowering cherry, ceonothus, crab apple, daffodils, forget-me-knots, hawthorne, helibore, pulmonaria, pussy willow, rosemary and viburnum; for early summer, antirrhinums, aquilegia, astilbe, campanula, fennel, foxgloves, geraniums, potentilla, stachys, sweet peas, teasel, thyme and verbascum; for late summer, angelica, asters, buddleja, cardoons, cornflowers, dahlias, delphiniums, eryngium, fuschia, globe thistles, heathers, ivy, lavender, penstemmons, sedum and verbena; additional bee loving plants include alyssum, aubretia, basil, cosmos, cotoneaster, globe artichokes, gypsophila, honeysuckle, hollyhocks, lilac, lime trees, lupins, marigolds, marjoram, mint, poppies, pyracantha, sunflowers and zinnias.
Friday 28 August 2009
Saturday 8 August 2009
Ma Jeunesse Fout Le Camp
I have a confession to make. In a blues playing, jazz loving, rock and roll household of aspiring musicians, I am totally addicted to the utterly compelling 'chansons' of Francoise Hardy. Her 1996 cheapie compilation album, 'Les Chansons d'Amour', which I bagged on Amazon for £2.98 before I left the UK, has been this summer's 'Bardies feelgood album'. We always seem to have one album which none of us ever tires of for the duration of our stay. Previous year's choices have been Bruce Springstein's 'The Rising', Tinariwen's 'Water is Life', Ian Siegal's 'Meat and Potatoes', Miles Davis's 'A Kind of Blue', and Murray Perahia playing Handel and Scarlatti and Glenn Gould humming along to 'The Goldberg Variations'. Our taste is certainly catholic.
I still can't get 'Tout Les Garcons et Les Filles', with its catchy tune and evocative lyrics, out of my head. It reminds me of my white 'Correges' boots, of which I was so proud, and ironing my long wavy hair in front of 'Ready Steady Go' before going out on a Friday night. Cathy McGowan may have been the height of Sixties chic for us English girls but there was no one to beat Francoise in the style stakes. As someone recently said of Carla Bruni, "A beautiful woman in a Chanel trouser suit could recite a telephone directory in French and still sound good." Francoise Hardy really can sing as well. When I browsed through a phenomenally expensive and damaged paperback about her in our local St Lizier 'Les Mousquetaires', called 'Tant de Belles Choses' by Pierre Mikailoff, I was struck by a photo of her in concert at Olympia from 29th October 1965. She was the original trouser suited chanteuse.
Her songs grip you immediately, even, I'm sure, if you can't understand her native tongue. Raw emotion needs no translation. All the great singers, from Callas and Sinatra to Ian Siegal and Bruce Springstein, have it. Whilst we may not be able to define it, we all know it when we hear it. They speak to our souls, and we feel better people for it. They lift us up and free our hearts. They make us sing, or dance, or both. They make us, momentarily at least, forget our troubles. They give us the words for love, and they explain away our sorrows. You are never alone whilst their music plays, and what a joy it is. Oh, Francoise, as you sing 'Ma jeunesse Fout Le Camp' [ 'My Youth Went Away'], I wonder where the years have gone? But, then again, methinks, how lucky we have been with the music of our time.
Along with 'Chansons d'Amour', I also bought Jaques Brel's 'C'est Comme Ca' and Serge Gainsbourg's 'Initials SG' [at equally cheap prices] from Amazon. I love them too, though not quite as much. I first heard of Jacques Brel [1929 -1978], the Belgian singer, when Alistair Campbell raved about him as one of his choices on 'Desert Island Discs'. The song he chose was amazing, and I thoroughly agree with everything that AC said about him. I am just sorry that somehow my youth passed him by [Jacques Brel, not Alistair Campbell!]. Not so, the gravelly voiced, chain smoking Serge Gainsbourg though. How many of us girls only realised what we were missing, as we groped behind the youth club with some spotty, downy chinned fellow adolescent, when we heard Jane Birkin singing [?] alongside him in 'Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus'? The song may have been rubbish, but the sentiments were life changing! There are much better songs on this album, but none of us will ever forget 'Je T'aime'.
After nearly choking on my Friday night fish and chips a few months ago, when I saw Carla Bruni Sarkozy strutting her stuff [well, sitting on a bar stool actually] on the late Jools Holland show, I was going to ask the question, "What is she for?" I was even more determined to slag her off when I saw her singing alongside Bono and all the other 'look at us, we're so important and we're going to change the world' celebs performing at the absent Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday party bash in New York. But something held me back. I don't know what it was. OK, so I know she's thin, she's beautiful, has a stunning retro chic wardrobe and has had more famous men than I've had hot quiches.
My petty jealousy seemed unworthy. I thought, purely for reasons of research, and also to compare her with the indominatable Mademoiselle H, that I might buy one of her albums. I didn't, largely because they were three times the price, but I did watch the video on the Amazon site that goes with her 'Comme Si de Rien N'Etait' CD. I am prepared to eat my chapeau! She may not have Francoise's voice, or indeed a good voice, but she certainly has that indefinable something. She talks of her music and her need to work on her voice, which I thought showed an disarming humility. She obviously loves her music and her relationship with her producer, Dominique Blanc Francard, is clearly an artistically fruitful collaboration. When she talks of the loss of her brother, of whom she sings in 'Salut Marin', I was moved. I think I shall buy the CD after all.
Music was, as ever, one of the main topics of conversation at Bardies. We have been hesitating about doing Blues at Bardies next year, our third festival, because of the economic downturn and, quite frankly, because it costs us an arm and a leg to put it on. We have always been happy to subsidise it to the tune of a big party but the costs of flying over musicians from the UK, in addition to the exhorbitant social security charges of French musicians, and wining, dining and accommodating people for a whole weekend have escalated beyond our budget since the pound has plummeted so horrendously against the euro. Last year we made the mistake of trying to mix and match it with our silver wedding anniversary celebrations, which meant that it was neither one thing nor t'other.
A year is a long time though and now that the recordings have finally been mixed, we are gobsmacked at our achievement. The calibre of musicianship and the quality of the music is mindblowing. It is easy to forget this in the sheer exhaustion of the aftermath. After many bottles of wine and much late night discussion, we have decided to go for it again on the proviso that we can, at least, make it more or less break even. We will never cut back on the quality of music on offer, but we are looking at ways to be more practical in our very amateur organisation. We have some great ideas, of which you will hear more in future blogs. I am desperate to get Ian Siegal back again [Ian, if you read this, we'll give you and Kat a free holiday into the bargain!]. His recording from the 2006 festival is sensational.
We also think it may have swung the decision of our 'locateur' to rent Bardies later this month, because Peter sent him some downloads. He [the locateur] says that we must do it again and that he wants to book his tickets now, just on the basis of a couple of songs from Ian. High praise indeed, but we are not too modest not to know that we have something very special going down here. A few house rentals will certainly help to amortise the costs. We are thrilled to say, after our 'inspection', that we have officially been invited to be included in the 'Alistair Sawday Special Places to Stay'.
When we bought the house in 2000, we never intended it to be anything but our home. Now, with teenage children desperate to hit the European nightclub scene, we have decided to bite the bullet and use a couple of August rentals to boost the flagging coffers. One friend told us about 'Owner's Direct', the most user-friendly of websites, where we now have a listing, and another about 'Schoolstrader.com', which is to 'ebay' what Primark is to Selfridges. It's not the quality of the merchandise that's at issue, it's the sheer, cluttered scale of the operation. Chateau de Bardies is the most beautiful place, and so special, so I'm not sad to share it with like-minded people. In actual fact, I'm rather chuffed because I know that everyone will fall in love with it, just as we did.
So now, we're back in England for a bit. Freddie is 18 tomorrow, the reason for our early exit. We came home yesterday, via Paris, which was 34 degrees on Thursday night. We stayed at the Hotel Clement, in Rue Clement on the left bank directly opposite 'Le Marche Saint Germain', a real find. The whole area buzzes with life and, for a brief moment, you can close your eyes and imagine what it was like in those heady days of 1968. Many of the old bookshops have long gone, now turned into trendy bistros, but the spirit remains. It was my lucky day, because I did manage to buy a copy of Francoise Hardy's 2008 autobiography, 'Le Desespoir des Singes' from a 'bouquiniste' for 8 euros instead of 21. I am determined to rent a cheap apartment here in order 'to do' Paris once again before my zimmer frame beckons. My youth may have gone away, but I'm not quite ready to give up the ghost just yet!
I still can't get 'Tout Les Garcons et Les Filles', with its catchy tune and evocative lyrics, out of my head. It reminds me of my white 'Correges' boots, of which I was so proud, and ironing my long wavy hair in front of 'Ready Steady Go' before going out on a Friday night. Cathy McGowan may have been the height of Sixties chic for us English girls but there was no one to beat Francoise in the style stakes. As someone recently said of Carla Bruni, "A beautiful woman in a Chanel trouser suit could recite a telephone directory in French and still sound good." Francoise Hardy really can sing as well. When I browsed through a phenomenally expensive and damaged paperback about her in our local St Lizier 'Les Mousquetaires', called 'Tant de Belles Choses' by Pierre Mikailoff, I was struck by a photo of her in concert at Olympia from 29th October 1965. She was the original trouser suited chanteuse.
Her songs grip you immediately, even, I'm sure, if you can't understand her native tongue. Raw emotion needs no translation. All the great singers, from Callas and Sinatra to Ian Siegal and Bruce Springstein, have it. Whilst we may not be able to define it, we all know it when we hear it. They speak to our souls, and we feel better people for it. They lift us up and free our hearts. They make us sing, or dance, or both. They make us, momentarily at least, forget our troubles. They give us the words for love, and they explain away our sorrows. You are never alone whilst their music plays, and what a joy it is. Oh, Francoise, as you sing 'Ma jeunesse Fout Le Camp' [ 'My Youth Went Away'], I wonder where the years have gone? But, then again, methinks, how lucky we have been with the music of our time.
Along with 'Chansons d'Amour', I also bought Jaques Brel's 'C'est Comme Ca' and Serge Gainsbourg's 'Initials SG' [at equally cheap prices] from Amazon. I love them too, though not quite as much. I first heard of Jacques Brel [1929 -1978], the Belgian singer, when Alistair Campbell raved about him as one of his choices on 'Desert Island Discs'. The song he chose was amazing, and I thoroughly agree with everything that AC said about him. I am just sorry that somehow my youth passed him by [Jacques Brel, not Alistair Campbell!]. Not so, the gravelly voiced, chain smoking Serge Gainsbourg though. How many of us girls only realised what we were missing, as we groped behind the youth club with some spotty, downy chinned fellow adolescent, when we heard Jane Birkin singing [?] alongside him in 'Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus'? The song may have been rubbish, but the sentiments were life changing! There are much better songs on this album, but none of us will ever forget 'Je T'aime'.
After nearly choking on my Friday night fish and chips a few months ago, when I saw Carla Bruni Sarkozy strutting her stuff [well, sitting on a bar stool actually] on the late Jools Holland show, I was going to ask the question, "What is she for?" I was even more determined to slag her off when I saw her singing alongside Bono and all the other 'look at us, we're so important and we're going to change the world' celebs performing at the absent Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday party bash in New York. But something held me back. I don't know what it was. OK, so I know she's thin, she's beautiful, has a stunning retro chic wardrobe and has had more famous men than I've had hot quiches.
My petty jealousy seemed unworthy. I thought, purely for reasons of research, and also to compare her with the indominatable Mademoiselle H, that I might buy one of her albums. I didn't, largely because they were three times the price, but I did watch the video on the Amazon site that goes with her 'Comme Si de Rien N'Etait' CD. I am prepared to eat my chapeau! She may not have Francoise's voice, or indeed a good voice, but she certainly has that indefinable something. She talks of her music and her need to work on her voice, which I thought showed an disarming humility. She obviously loves her music and her relationship with her producer, Dominique Blanc Francard, is clearly an artistically fruitful collaboration. When she talks of the loss of her brother, of whom she sings in 'Salut Marin', I was moved. I think I shall buy the CD after all.
Music was, as ever, one of the main topics of conversation at Bardies. We have been hesitating about doing Blues at Bardies next year, our third festival, because of the economic downturn and, quite frankly, because it costs us an arm and a leg to put it on. We have always been happy to subsidise it to the tune of a big party but the costs of flying over musicians from the UK, in addition to the exhorbitant social security charges of French musicians, and wining, dining and accommodating people for a whole weekend have escalated beyond our budget since the pound has plummeted so horrendously against the euro. Last year we made the mistake of trying to mix and match it with our silver wedding anniversary celebrations, which meant that it was neither one thing nor t'other.
A year is a long time though and now that the recordings have finally been mixed, we are gobsmacked at our achievement. The calibre of musicianship and the quality of the music is mindblowing. It is easy to forget this in the sheer exhaustion of the aftermath. After many bottles of wine and much late night discussion, we have decided to go for it again on the proviso that we can, at least, make it more or less break even. We will never cut back on the quality of music on offer, but we are looking at ways to be more practical in our very amateur organisation. We have some great ideas, of which you will hear more in future blogs. I am desperate to get Ian Siegal back again [Ian, if you read this, we'll give you and Kat a free holiday into the bargain!]. His recording from the 2006 festival is sensational.
We also think it may have swung the decision of our 'locateur' to rent Bardies later this month, because Peter sent him some downloads. He [the locateur] says that we must do it again and that he wants to book his tickets now, just on the basis of a couple of songs from Ian. High praise indeed, but we are not too modest not to know that we have something very special going down here. A few house rentals will certainly help to amortise the costs. We are thrilled to say, after our 'inspection', that we have officially been invited to be included in the 'Alistair Sawday Special Places to Stay'.
When we bought the house in 2000, we never intended it to be anything but our home. Now, with teenage children desperate to hit the European nightclub scene, we have decided to bite the bullet and use a couple of August rentals to boost the flagging coffers. One friend told us about 'Owner's Direct', the most user-friendly of websites, where we now have a listing, and another about 'Schoolstrader.com', which is to 'ebay' what Primark is to Selfridges. It's not the quality of the merchandise that's at issue, it's the sheer, cluttered scale of the operation. Chateau de Bardies is the most beautiful place, and so special, so I'm not sad to share it with like-minded people. In actual fact, I'm rather chuffed because I know that everyone will fall in love with it, just as we did.
So now, we're back in England for a bit. Freddie is 18 tomorrow, the reason for our early exit. We came home yesterday, via Paris, which was 34 degrees on Thursday night. We stayed at the Hotel Clement, in Rue Clement on the left bank directly opposite 'Le Marche Saint Germain', a real find. The whole area buzzes with life and, for a brief moment, you can close your eyes and imagine what it was like in those heady days of 1968. Many of the old bookshops have long gone, now turned into trendy bistros, but the spirit remains. It was my lucky day, because I did manage to buy a copy of Francoise Hardy's 2008 autobiography, 'Le Desespoir des Singes' from a 'bouquiniste' for 8 euros instead of 21. I am determined to rent a cheap apartment here in order 'to do' Paris once again before my zimmer frame beckons. My youth may have gone away, but I'm not quite ready to give up the ghost just yet!
Saturday 1 August 2009
Du Fromage, S'il Te Plait
One of the by products of a houseful of 'invitees' is a surplus of leftovers. Having been brought up in the fifties by a frugal, though caring, mum, I have learnt the value of food. I don't just mean its monetary value, although in these less bountiful times everyone feels the need to cut back on unnecessary expenditure, but also the fact that a producer has gone to a great deal of time and effort to make his product. We owe it to our farmers and growers to treat the product of their hard worn labour with respect, which in my book means not jettisoning it all just because someone's taken a a great big chunk out of it and it doesn't look pristine anymore. Our advertisers have a lot to answer for.
So many leftovers can be 'repackaged' on shiny new plates, cut into smaller morsels for an appetiser, worked into a pie or casserole or just covered with a fresh sprinkling of newly snipped herbs and some good olive oil. My all time favourite transformation is when those knobbly old bits of cheese hacked into after a good lunch or dinner metamorphose into a tart of some form or other. I love all cheese, from the palest delicate 'crottin' to a nasal blowing ripe Livarot, and many would say it shows! But with a skinny younger sister who has a broken femur and wrist due to osteoporosis, I've decided I'm not about to give up my favourite indulgence in a hurry.
Cheese and pastry are a marriage made in heaven. One of our many house guests many years ago gave me a copy of the wonderful Tamasin Day-Lewis's [she with the gorgeous brother whom we all fell in love with in 'My Beautiful Launderette'] fabulous cookery book, 'The Art of the Tart'. I have improvised many of her recipes over the years, largely because we just can't get the same quality of cream here. Her asparagus tart is to die for and we live on it during late spring and early summer when French asparagus is at its best. It is her cheese tarts, though, that make for the greatest satisfaction in recipe re-working.
I have to be honest and say that before the pound hit rock bottom against the euro, I would regularly phone up Martine Crespo in St Girons to put in an order for lunch. Ellie is partial to her quiche Lorraine, Freddie to her croustarde de montagne and Peter and me to her tarte aux tomates et courgettes. Less honest hosts could easily pass them off as their own! Not this year, though. We all have to tighten our belts, so to speak [ah, that it were the case for me!]. A good place to buy cheese economically is from the 'Vente directe' shop opposite the St Girons 'Intermarche', a great place to buy at good prices if there are lots of you or you don't mind freezing it. The temptation is always to buy too much, there is so much choice. It varies from day to day and you can never be sure on any given day what will be available.
This year almost every lunch has been an experiment in adaptation. One of my favourites is a chevre and tomato tart, made in a hurry the cheat's way, with 100% 'pur beurre' ready made pastry or, for real, with pastry made in the food processor. You can use any chevre but logs are best because you can slice it to overlap perfectly with slices of tomato. I put a good dollop of Dijon mustard into the base, a serious handful of Gruyere or Emmentale 'rape' on top of it, then slice the chevre and tomatoes, arrange them in rounds and top with as many fresh herbs you can muster, shaken together with some olive oil and one or two minced garlic cloves and loads of sel de Guerande and black pepper. Forty minutes in a moderate oven and you're done!
My other great favourite is a Roquefort and walnut tart, just discovered, which is great for using up old bits of Roquefort. Just sprinkle the base of your tart with the cheese and walnut pieces, broken up into fairly small bits, and pour 300 mls or so of creme de Normandie entiere beaten lightly with an egg and 4 egg yolks and some pepper, and cook till browning gently on top. Heaven! I cannot begin to bore you with the number of combinations I've thrown together, some infinitely better than others. It's so satisfying, as well as leaving you, smugly, with a tidy fridge. My mother-in-law would be proud of me!
Our local cheeses are fantastic, although rather more expensive these days. I particularly like the gloriously rich 'Le Pic de la Calabasse' from the fromagerie artisanale in St Lary, the Bamalou 'Petit Bethmale de Chevre' and the fromage artisanal au lait cru de vache from the Fromagerie de Moulis. One of the great joys of the Saturday morning market in St Girons over the years has been buying Stan's superb 'Le Montagnol' fromages made from either vache, brebis or chevre. I don't know if it's just me but he does seem to have become grumpier and less patient with his customers over the years. When he didn't even wait for me to choose a second cheese this morning before turning to his next punter, I was minded of Van Morrison in concert. You may be one of the best, but you won't always be able to get away with treating your loyal supporters with total indifference! The contrast with the delightfully smiley, elderly purveyor of the 'Le Brussard' chevre from Soulan, not far from Stan's pitch on the market, couldn't have been more marked.
Last week we had some friends for lunch and they brought with them the most delicious 'crottin de chevre' made by their neighbour in Laborie, not far from Castlenau-Durban. It always makes me laugh to think that a 'crottin' is so named because it resembles the the rear end deposits from a goat, sheep, mule etc. Only the French would happily describe a style of cheese with the same nominative as dung! How I love this country! It is what it is, end of story.
Talking of which, at the very same lunch I also served some supermarket Brie. Nothing wrong with that. My best friend in the Lauragais, Caroline de Roquette, who runs an amazing conserverie, regularly serves supermarket cheeses, saying that it's all in the keeping. Cheese must be eaten when it's ripe, something us English so often forget. Anyway, whilst Pascal, Sarah, Peter and I were discussing the merits of the crottin, Ellie tucked into the Brie. Suddenly, she gagged and yelled "Mum, it's moving! I feel sick!" I put on my specs and looked at her plate. Sure enough, there were a couple [only a couple, I promise!] of tiny white maggots on the plate. In my desire to ripen the Brie, I had obviously left it out in the recent heat, albeit covered, for far too long. The poor girl was mortified, as indeed was I, at such a lack of housekeeping in front of my lunch guests.
I needn't have worried. Pascal, being French, said 'C'est normal. Pas de probleme.' He then told us that there were certain cheeses which he preferred with the odd maggot or two. Yet another example of French practicality when it comes to food. I think, though, that when I next say to Ellie 'Du fromage, s'il te plait,' she may run a kilometre! Poor child, I've probably scarred her for life!
So many leftovers can be 'repackaged' on shiny new plates, cut into smaller morsels for an appetiser, worked into a pie or casserole or just covered with a fresh sprinkling of newly snipped herbs and some good olive oil. My all time favourite transformation is when those knobbly old bits of cheese hacked into after a good lunch or dinner metamorphose into a tart of some form or other. I love all cheese, from the palest delicate 'crottin' to a nasal blowing ripe Livarot, and many would say it shows! But with a skinny younger sister who has a broken femur and wrist due to osteoporosis, I've decided I'm not about to give up my favourite indulgence in a hurry.
Cheese and pastry are a marriage made in heaven. One of our many house guests many years ago gave me a copy of the wonderful Tamasin Day-Lewis's [she with the gorgeous brother whom we all fell in love with in 'My Beautiful Launderette'] fabulous cookery book, 'The Art of the Tart'. I have improvised many of her recipes over the years, largely because we just can't get the same quality of cream here. Her asparagus tart is to die for and we live on it during late spring and early summer when French asparagus is at its best. It is her cheese tarts, though, that make for the greatest satisfaction in recipe re-working.
I have to be honest and say that before the pound hit rock bottom against the euro, I would regularly phone up Martine Crespo in St Girons to put in an order for lunch. Ellie is partial to her quiche Lorraine, Freddie to her croustarde de montagne and Peter and me to her tarte aux tomates et courgettes. Less honest hosts could easily pass them off as their own! Not this year, though. We all have to tighten our belts, so to speak [ah, that it were the case for me!]. A good place to buy cheese economically is from the 'Vente directe' shop opposite the St Girons 'Intermarche', a great place to buy at good prices if there are lots of you or you don't mind freezing it. The temptation is always to buy too much, there is so much choice. It varies from day to day and you can never be sure on any given day what will be available.
This year almost every lunch has been an experiment in adaptation. One of my favourites is a chevre and tomato tart, made in a hurry the cheat's way, with 100% 'pur beurre' ready made pastry or, for real, with pastry made in the food processor. You can use any chevre but logs are best because you can slice it to overlap perfectly with slices of tomato. I put a good dollop of Dijon mustard into the base, a serious handful of Gruyere or Emmentale 'rape' on top of it, then slice the chevre and tomatoes, arrange them in rounds and top with as many fresh herbs you can muster, shaken together with some olive oil and one or two minced garlic cloves and loads of sel de Guerande and black pepper. Forty minutes in a moderate oven and you're done!
My other great favourite is a Roquefort and walnut tart, just discovered, which is great for using up old bits of Roquefort. Just sprinkle the base of your tart with the cheese and walnut pieces, broken up into fairly small bits, and pour 300 mls or so of creme de Normandie entiere beaten lightly with an egg and 4 egg yolks and some pepper, and cook till browning gently on top. Heaven! I cannot begin to bore you with the number of combinations I've thrown together, some infinitely better than others. It's so satisfying, as well as leaving you, smugly, with a tidy fridge. My mother-in-law would be proud of me!
Our local cheeses are fantastic, although rather more expensive these days. I particularly like the gloriously rich 'Le Pic de la Calabasse' from the fromagerie artisanale in St Lary, the Bamalou 'Petit Bethmale de Chevre' and the fromage artisanal au lait cru de vache from the Fromagerie de Moulis. One of the great joys of the Saturday morning market in St Girons over the years has been buying Stan's superb 'Le Montagnol' fromages made from either vache, brebis or chevre. I don't know if it's just me but he does seem to have become grumpier and less patient with his customers over the years. When he didn't even wait for me to choose a second cheese this morning before turning to his next punter, I was minded of Van Morrison in concert. You may be one of the best, but you won't always be able to get away with treating your loyal supporters with total indifference! The contrast with the delightfully smiley, elderly purveyor of the 'Le Brussard' chevre from Soulan, not far from Stan's pitch on the market, couldn't have been more marked.
Last week we had some friends for lunch and they brought with them the most delicious 'crottin de chevre' made by their neighbour in Laborie, not far from Castlenau-Durban. It always makes me laugh to think that a 'crottin' is so named because it resembles the the rear end deposits from a goat, sheep, mule etc. Only the French would happily describe a style of cheese with the same nominative as dung! How I love this country! It is what it is, end of story.
Talking of which, at the very same lunch I also served some supermarket Brie. Nothing wrong with that. My best friend in the Lauragais, Caroline de Roquette, who runs an amazing conserverie, regularly serves supermarket cheeses, saying that it's all in the keeping. Cheese must be eaten when it's ripe, something us English so often forget. Anyway, whilst Pascal, Sarah, Peter and I were discussing the merits of the crottin, Ellie tucked into the Brie. Suddenly, she gagged and yelled "Mum, it's moving! I feel sick!" I put on my specs and looked at her plate. Sure enough, there were a couple [only a couple, I promise!] of tiny white maggots on the plate. In my desire to ripen the Brie, I had obviously left it out in the recent heat, albeit covered, for far too long. The poor girl was mortified, as indeed was I, at such a lack of housekeeping in front of my lunch guests.
I needn't have worried. Pascal, being French, said 'C'est normal. Pas de probleme.' He then told us that there were certain cheeses which he preferred with the odd maggot or two. Yet another example of French practicality when it comes to food. I think, though, that when I next say to Ellie 'Du fromage, s'il te plait,' she may run a kilometre! Poor child, I've probably scarred her for life!
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