Le pois mangetout

We're having snow peas, known in French as pois gourmands or pois mangetout ("eat-all"), for lunch today. They're growing in our 2019 vegetable garden and are the first thing we've harvested this spring (with the exception of the Swiss chard that I planted in 2018 and that over-wintered out there).

Walt was going to go out and harvest our third batch of snow peas yesterday afternoon when suddenly it started... get this... snowing! Well, not exactly snowing, but sleeting. There were two bolts of lightning, then a loud rumble of thunder. The bottom fell out. The rain was so hard that I had to go look, and what I saw was a mix of big raindrops and small ice pellets. The pellets were bouncing off the hood and roof of the Citroën, which I had left parked outdoors. No damage done, thankfully.

Wikipédia says people in France and in the Netherlands have been growing, cooking, and eating pois mangetout since at least the 16th century. They are mentioned in a book published in 1526. We'll be having a stir-fry of onion, garlic, carrot, snow peas, and chicken today. We've already had similar stir-fries of snow peas, one with beef and one with shrimp, this spring.

A few days ago Walt posted a photo of the second batch of snow peas he had harvested. He planted seeds we bought here in Saint-Aignan and that are described on the label as being a pois demi-nain 40 jours — semi-dwarf peas that start producing 40 days after planting. I took the photos in the slideshow above two weeks ago.

Pommes de terre confites, etc.

 When I lived in Paris back in the mid-1970s, somebody gave me a cookbook that was published in association with the American Hospital as a fund-raising tool. Until then, I had lived in North Carolina, Illinois, and Normandy. One of the recipes in the book was for guacamole, and I remember it as being one of the most complicated concoctions ever, with 8 or 10 ingredients. At least it introduced me to the concept of avocado dip, which I made yesterday and is very simple.

Another recipe was for the potatoes you see above. I'm calling them pommes de terre confites, and I found several recipes for them on the internet when I decided I wanted to make them again. My American Hospital cookbook disappeared years ago; I don't know where it went. I wish I could find a copy of it today.

Anyway, I remember these potatoes well. I have a highly developed memory for foods that have pleased my palate. The potatoes are crispy on the outside and soft — moelleux — in the middle. The ones I cooked a few days ago were especially tasty because I cooked them in duck fat. I'm sure they would be good cooked in olive or canola oil too, but the duck fat has such good flavor.

I combined the pommes de terre confites (slow-cooked potatoes) with half a smoked chicken (purchased at the supermarket) and some garden-grown collard greens that I had in the freezer. It was an American-style meal made using French ingredients and techniques.

Here's what lunch looked like on the plate. The smokiness of the chicken, crispiness of the potatoes, and "meatiness" of the collard greens all complemented each other. Sprinkle some hot-pepper vinegar on the collards and, if you like, on the chicken. Some Dijon mustard would be good with the chicken and with the potatoes. I'll have to make all of this again soon. It's comfort food on a gray, chilly, damp day, and that's the kind of weather we're having now.

Autour du phare de Gatteville en Normandie

The Gatteville lighthouse stands on the Pointe de Barfleur and guides boats into Barfleur harbor. It's 25 meters (82 ft.) tall and was built in the 1830s. The day we were there, May 13, 2005, was really windy, cloudy, and downright cold— kind of like the weather we're having today in Saint-Aignan.



The slideshow is made up of a set of photos in the order in which I took them. In one photo, you can see Barfleur on the horizon across the water. In another there's the lighthouse guard dog staring us down. In others are tide pools and views of the rocky coast. It was so cold and windy that we were too frigorifiés to stop and take photos in Barfleur that day. I had been there 6 or 8 months earlier, so we just continued south after a quick drive around the harbor.

I'm late posting this morning because I got too involved in organizing and editing photos. And then I remembered that I needed to cook some black beans for today's lunch, so getting them going slowed me down even more. In all of yesterday's excitement — the neighbors had a huge party that we were invited to, and then there was the men's final at Roland Garros to watch — today's food plans were almost forgotten. We'll be making burritos.

Osso-bucco de veau

The supermarket had what they call osso-bucco de veau — slices of veal shank — on sale for 9.90€ per kilogram this past week — that's only $4.50/lb. I couldn't get over there to buy some until Friday, and of course, despite huge signs advertising the product, there were no veal shanks to be found. As you can see, however, they did have veal shanks on display, but in bulk in the cut-to-order glass case instead of in self-serve plastic-wrapped trays. And they were priced at 15.60€/kg.

The man I assume to be the manager of the meat department happened to be out front, not behind the glass case, having a conversation with another shopper. I waited around, browsing through the other meats in the refrigerated cases, until the conversation ended. As the butcher walked by, my shouted Bonjour, monsieur ! got his attention. I asked him if he had any veal shanks at the lower price. Seeming not to have heard me on the price question, he pointed out the more expensive veal shanks in the display case.

Oui, mais c'est beaucoup plus cher, I told him. I'm kind of used to this happening, since I've been shopping in the local supermarkets for 16 years now. Oh, okay, I'll give them to you at the sale price, he said. I was flabbergasted. How many do you want? Four, I said. He weighed out four shank slices, looked at me, and asked if that would be enough. There are just two of us, I told him, so we'll have leftovers with just those four.

With osso bucco, he said, plus c'est réchauffé, meilleur c'est — veal shank benefits from being re-heated. I agree with that. To make osso-bucco, first I browned the slices of veal in duck fat (butter or olive oil would also be good). As they browned, I diced up a big carrot, an onion, and two celery stalks. I took the veal out of the pan and lightly browned the diced vegetables. I deglazed the pan with white wine and a secret ingredient: a splash of Triple Sec (a liqueur flavored with dried orange peels).

Then I put the veal back into the pan and added enough tomates concassées (crushed tomatoes, out of a can) to cover the meat, along with 2 bay leaves and some thyme, salt, and pepper. I also put in big spoonful of powdered veal stock, which contains some potato starch that thickens the tomato sauce. The veal and vegetables cooked on very low heat for 3 hours, covered. We served the osso-bucco with potato gnocchi, which seem suddenly to be widely available these days.