Easter Bugnies

Easter is a big event in France - bigger than Christmas, as one friend explained it 'Babies are born everyday but how often do you get a crusifiction and a resurection in the same week?' Can't argue with that! One of the treats over in our part of the world is the Lyonnaise Bugnes (pronounced boon ya) which is more frequently made as an alternative to pancakes at Mardi gras but also eaten throughout the Easter period. Originally, these delicacies would be offered to travellers on the road from Dijon to Lyon - the invent of the super fast A6 autoroute linking the two cities has put pay to this tradition. As Adam, my partner Mark's son was over for a week, we were invited to combine a cookery lesson with some french tuition at the home of my dear friend and village Post Mistress, Christine. Hopefully you'll improve your language skills as well as your culinary ones by following these simple steps-

Christine's recipe for Bugnes lyonnaises :
300 g de farine (all purpose flour)
3 œufs (eggs)
30 g de sucre en poudre (caster sugar)
120 g de beurre (butter)
1 cuil. à soupe de rhum (desert spoon of rum)
1 pincee de sel (pinch of salt)

1 sachet de levure de boulanger ou 20g de levure en cube dissoute dans un peu d'eau ou lait tiede (sachet of dried yeast or 20g fresh yeast dissolved in a little warm water or milk)
huile à friture (oil for frying - we used sunflower oil)
sucre glace (icing sugar)

We took a basin known as a 'cul de poule' (chickens bottom!) and put the flour and yeast in it. Next we made a well (the french call this a fountain) and, after cracking the eggs and throwing away the shells (coquille, not to be confused with coquin - an annoying person/ rascal) put the beaten eggs into the centre.

The butter was melted with the sugar and Christine told us how important it was to 'wash' (watch?) the butter at this time. The melted ingredients were then added to the eggs (you can add some rum too at this point) and flour and Adam began to stir. 'Puke, puke' Christine said cheerfully. We gave her quizzical looks. 'That's the sound the mixture makes when you stir'. We explained what 'puke' meant in english and decided we needed to find a new word for the sound dough makes.

Once all the ingredients had been incorporated into a doughy mixture, you should set this aside for two hours. We didn't have the time and were too hungry and excited to wait so we moved swiftly on to the next stage - rolling out 'etaler'.

Once the kitchen table had been covered with it's new table cloth of Bugne dough, Adam began the intricate process of cutting the 'pâte' into small strips. I acted as the go between passing segments as they were cut to Christine to deep fry. Small golden pillows of pastry puffed up in a matter of seconds and were lovingly scooped from the oil onto a cosy pad of kitchen roll to drain.

A sprinkling of icing sugar was used to finish these little delicacies and then the best bit - eating them still warm.

Marche des Perce neige

I have long promised my french neighbour that I would one day blog in French so, as this story involves her, I have had a go at repeating it in French. Please feel free to offer corrections!!

Dave (my soon to be father in law) is over at the moment helping Mark with work in the barn. He’s been working solidly for two weeks now so today I thought we’d take a day off to join our fellow Montmelardies and, as it turned out, folk from far and wide, on the annual ‘Marche des Perce Neige’ (snow drop walk). This event is well known in these parts and, in the past, as many as six hundred people have taken part. We picked my neighbour Mireille up en route to the community centre and, despite the temperature showing as -4 (and probably -10 by the time you built in the wind chill factor), we eagerly registered for the 12k option, studied our route maps and pulled on our gloves and slid our hats down to our eyes before stepping outside. Boy, was it cold and the wind hit us full on. Before we’d walked 100 metres my ears were throbbing and the muscles in my shoulders had started to tense. I found myself surrounded by people swathed in scarves who, had I not known better, could have been auditioning as extras in a ‘Return of the Mummy’ type film. We had to pass Mireille’s farm and the temptation to concede that we’d probably given it our best shot and duck into her warm kitchen to drink coffee was strong. However, the wind dropped and the moment passed and we were soon climbing the lane to the junction known as Le Chien Pendu (the hanging dog). No-one has ever given me a satisfactory explanation for this name, nor for the fact that the two houses that sit at this cross roads are both called La Maison Brûlée (the burning house). Bizarre- I wonder whether this harks back to more violent times in our village’s dim or murky past. Not wishing to dwell on such sobering thoughts, we crossed the road and took the well signed path to the summit of Mont St Cyr (771 metres). I’d never approached from this direction before and the path meanders upwards through dense pine trees that make it impossible to see more than 50 metres to either side. Small rivulets criss-cross from time to time and where the path was steepest, small cascades had frozen producing miniature ice sculptures. We’d begun to get into our pace and were beginning to overtake people now. One man told his wife to move to one side to let ‘the young ones through’ which made my day, whilst an elderly lady commented that ‘Ca mont toujours Le St Cyr’ (St Cyr just keeps going up). I wanted to tell her that ‘what goes up must surely come down’ but thought it was best to conserve my breath. The inside of my jacket was beginning to feel like a sauna and Mireille had long since removed her hat and gloves as we emerged into the grassy clearing just below the summit. Huts had been erected and we were offered the choice of drinks (we opted for the mulled wine) and food - a platter of cheeses, meats, bread, cake and chocolate as well as apples, fruit jellies, dried apricots and prunes. Dave took a quick trip down memory lane to a time when prunes and custard had been a regular childhood treat. ‘Aren’t they supposed to keep you regular?’ I just hoped their effects wouldn’t kick in too soon; we still had a way to go. As we sat eating, the snow began to fall, a gentle covering but enough to urge us on. The route down followed the edge of the mountain and to one side we looked out across the valleys and hills beyond, across woodland and pools, fields of grazing cattle and stone buildings in varying states of disrepair. The light snow had muted the usually vibrant greens to a single tone. To the other side was dense forest that, Mireille assured us, was home to wolves (this is not the case). In the distance we heard the drone of first one car engine and then another- we were approaching the road back to Montmelard. At Vicelaire, on a bend in the road, a local wood craftsman has carved a menagerie of beings out of local oak including what we affectionately term ‘the pissing man’. The below 0 temperatures hadn’t affected his ability to flow but he did have a pained expression on his face. The path darted up behind the statues quite steeply but we now had a carpet of pine needles underfoot to cushion our progress. Mireille informed us that the French for pine cone is ‘pomme de pin’, literally pine apple. We told her that if we translated this back into French it would be ‘ananas’, most confusing. An arrow pointing to the left informed us that we were almost back and a few moments later we were crossing my favourite zebra crossing. It starts in the middle of one road and crosses to the middle of another, ensuring all safety precautions are thrown to the wind. A few minutes later the church bell struck 1pm as we pushed open the door and slipped into the warmth of the village hall once more. Hot onion soup and pancakes awaited us. Once sated, I suggested that the other two might like to go round one more time but they didn’t take me up on this. Our pockets stuffed with leaflets advertising dozens more local walks (‘tis the season), cheeks glowing with the exertion of it all, we returned home to a well deserved nap in front of the fire.

Dave (qui sera bientôt mon beau-père) nous rend visite pour assister Mark aux travaux dans la grange. Il travaille solidement durement deux semaines maintenant si aujourd'hui, j'ai pensé qu'on pourrait prendre une journée de congé pour se joindre aux autre habitants de Montmelard et, comme il s'est avéré, le folk d’aussi très loin, sur l'annuel ‘Marche des Perce Neige'. Cet événement est bien connu dans la region, et dans le passé, pas moins de six cents personnes ont pris part. Nous avons recueilli ma voisine Mireille en route vers la salle communale et, malgré la température montrant que -4 (et, probablement par le temps que vous avez construite dans le facteur de refroidissement éolien -10), nous avons enregistré avec empressement pour l'option de 12k, étudié notre itinéraire et cartes mis nos gants et tire notre chapeau bas à nos yeux avant de sortir. Comme il fait froid et le vent nous frapper en plein visage. Avant que nous avions marché à 100 mètres mes oreilles bourdonnaient et les muscles de mes épaules avait commencé à tendue. Je me suis retrouvé entouré de gens enveloppés dans des foulards qui, si je n'avais pas connu mieux, pourrait avoir été auditionner comme figurants dans un ‘retour de la momie’ film. Nous avons dû passer la ferme de Mireille et la tentation d’entrer dans sa cuisine chaleureuse pour boire du café était forte. Toutefois, le vent est tombé et le moment où passé et nous avons été rapidement grimper la voie à la jonction connu comme Le Chien Pendu. Personne ne l'a jamais de me donner une explication satisfaisante de ce nom, ni du fait que les deux maisons qui siègent à ce carrefour sont tous deux appelés La Maison Brûlée. Bizarre, je me demande si cela remonte à des temps plus violents dans l’histoire de notre village. Ne voulant pas s'attarder sur ces pensées qui font réfléchir, nous avons traversé la route et prit le sentier bien signé au sommet du Mont St Cyr (771 mètres). Je n'avais jamais approché de ce côté en avant et le chemin serpente vers le haut à travers une dense de pins qui font qu'il est impossible de voir plus de 50 mètres de chaque côté. Petits ruisseaux traversent le chemin, de temps en temps et où le chemin était plus raides, petites cascades ont gelé produire des sculptures de glace miniature. Nous avions commencé à entrer dans notre rythme et commencent à dépasser les gens maintenant. Un homme dit à sa femme de se déplacer d'un côté pour laisser « les jeunes par le biais » qui a rendu ma journée tandis que, une dame âgée a commenté que « Ca mont toujours, le Mont St-Cyr ». Je voulais lui dire que « ce qui monte doit sûrement vers le bas» mais je pense qu'il était préférable de conserver mon souffle. L'intérieur de ma veste commençait à me sentir comme un sauna et Mireille avait depuis longtemps enlevé son chapeau et des gants, comme nous sommes sortis dans la clairière herbeuse juste sous le sommet. Baraques avaient été érigés et on nous a offert le choix de boissons (nous avons opté pour le vin chaud) et l'alimentation - un plateau de fromages, charcuterie, pain, gâteaux et du chocolat ainsi que des pommes, gelées de fruits, abricots secs et pruneaux. Dave a évoqué quelques souvenirs remontant à son enfance, à époque où les pruneaux à la crème anglaise étaient une gâterie courante. "Ça fait aller aux toilettes, non?" J'espérais simplement que leurs effets ne se manifesteraient pas trop tôt. Comme nous étions assis manger, la neige commençait à tomber, un revêtement doux mais assez pour nous pressent. L'itinéraire à suivre le bord de la montagne et sur un côté nous avons regardé à travers les vallées et les collines au-delà, à travers des bois et des étangs, des champs de pâturage du bétail et des bâtiments en pierre dans différents états de délabrement. La neige légère avait transformé en une couleur uniforme les verts habituellement éclatants. Forêt à l'autre côté était très dense qui, Mireille nous a assuré, a été la maison des loups (ce n'est pas le cas). Au loin, nous avons entendu le vrombissement de premier moteur d’une voiture et puis une autre, nous approchions de la route de Montmelard. A Vicelaire, sur un coude de la route, un artisan du bois local s'est taillé une ménagerie d'êtres hors de chêne locaux y compris ce que nous avons affectueusement appelle «l'homme pisse». Les températures inférieures à 0 n’avaient pas affecté sa capacité d'écoulement, mais il avait une expression douloureuse sur le visage. Le chemin se précipita derrière les statues, mais nous avons maintenant un tapis d'aiguilles de pin sous les pieds pour amortir nos progrès. Mireille nous a informés que les Français appellent des cônes du pin "Pomme de Pin". Nous lui avons dit que si l'on traduit ce retour vers le français, il serait «ananas», plus confuse. Une flèche pointant vers la gauche nous a informés que nous étions presque en retour et quelques instants plus tard, nous traversions mon passage piéton favori. Elle commence au milieu d'une route et traverse au milieu d'un autre, assurant toutes les précautions de sécurité sont jetés au vent. Quelques minutes plus tard, la cloche de l'église a frappé 1pm comme nous poussa la porte et se glissa dans la chaleur de la salle des fêtes encore une fois. Soupe à l'oignon et les crêpes nous attendions. Une fois rassasié, j'ai suggéré que les deux autres aimeraient faire le tour une fois de plus mais ils ne me prennent pas en place sur ce point. Nos poches bourrées de dépliants publicitaires des dizaines d'autres promenades locales (c'est la saison), les joues en feu avec l'effort de tout cela, nous sommes rentrés à une sieste bien méritée avant le feu.

There's snow place like home

Well I just knew it! Loi d'emerdement again (see 27/10/09). I announce the arrival of spring only to find myself some 10 days later buried under 8 inches of snow, unable to leave the house, with more snow forecast. So, me being me I look around to find the wonder in my present situation. We're fortunate enough to have a 4x4 vehicle (but not so fortunate in that it's been in a garage in macon for the week) and can usually access our house in any condition. However, our guests on Wednesdays drive a car and, as such, weren't able to make it down our snowy lane. No worries- they parked in the church square at Montmelard where Mark and I met them on foot. Wrapped up in multitudinous layers with hats and scarves to boot, the two children were able to approach the house on sledges. Tramping through the snow we marvelled at the upward facing icicles clinging to the blades of grass normally tickled by the numerous water trickles that meander across the farmers fields. Plucking one of these ice pops (complete with grass centre) our friends daughter popped it into her mouth and happily sucked away as she was towed along the frozen footpaths. The sun tried it's best to shine through the gently falling snow and we wondered whether it was possible (or likely) to have a rainbow made by snow (and if so, would it be called a snowbow?) as we sat feasting on pizza and home made carrot cake we watched the birds on the birdtables. I had requested bird feeders for Christmas and had not been dissappointed (I think I had 7 at last count). What wonderful creatures birds are, so agile, so determined. To watch their colour against the snowy backdrop is a joy and to be witness to their activity is a privilege.

Here comes the sun

I'm going to whisper this as I don't want to jinx it 'I think spring may be on it's way'. Since Tuesday we've had terrific blue skies, sun that actually warms you when you stand within it's beams, and birds chirping their little hearts out. Every Tuesday evening I spend a couple of hours with Christine, the local post-mistress, as we endeavour to improve our foreign language capabilities (hers in English, mine in local dialect French). This week we were taking a look at sayings and idioms. As I knocked at her front door I was struck by how light it still was (for 5.30) and checked my watch to make sure I wasn't an hour early. 'It's spring' she said as she welcomed me in. 'One swallow does not a summer make' I replied!! The next day, however, there were the same blue skies, brilliant sunshine and tuneful birds. Mark and I were off to meet a local photographer and entrepreneur, Roland Walrawens, who's photos I'd admired on google earth and who only lives a short distance from my home. I had left my jacket at home, was sporting my sun glasses and even turned the heating down a notch in the car although I stopped short of opening the sun roof. As Mark and I sat munching our way through a delicious chocolate cake in Rolands kitchen, the room flooded with sunlight. Roland picked up one of his many guitars and started to play 'here comes the sun'. I closed my eyes and hummed quiety along. Here comes the sun indeed.

Les vœux du maire (the Mayor's wishes)

My boots were laced and I was wrapping my scarf around my neck in preparation to walk home from my neighbours house when Mireille (my neighbour) casually mentioned that she'd see me and Mark in the morning at 'Les voeux du maire'. Although I understood the words 'the mayor's wishes' I still couldn't compute what this meant in real terms so asked for an explanation. 'Oh, it happens every January, we (the villagers of Montmelard) all congregate at the village hall and eat cake and drink wine'. Well, this got my vote and I agreed to pick Mireille up the following day. It therefore came to pass that at 10am on Sunday morning Mark and I found ourselves, along with 100 or so other Montmelardies decked out in our Sunday best listening to a speech on taxation, sanitation 'affaires', mobile phone reception blackspots and various other news bites that either had, or were about to affect our lives and the lives of those around us. Mireille hadn't mentioned the hour long speech from the Mayor nor the shorter speech that followed from the Prefect General who had made a special trip up from Macon to be with us. Still, it was good for the language learning. Once the formalities were over the chairs were cleared away and the feasting began. There were gougeres- light cheese flavoured choux pastries (Mark calls them 'hot air balls'), bacon wrapped prunes, pate on small rounds of toasted bread and, of course, local wine. We greeted the neighbours we had already met and then were introduced to hordes of people we had never seen before (how could so many people live in so few houses?). Invitations to meet up and join associations were proffered and we swapped details with young and old. One little old lady who barely came up to my knees shared with me the secret of surviving winter here, drinking wine and knitting in front of a log fire. It struck me that her survival techniques may have started a little early that day. Feeling well and truly part of the community we returned home wondering when we would see our new friends again. We didn't have long to wait. This morning, a little after 8am Mark spotted a little old lady crossing our lawn. My new 'amie' was so please to have met me and wondered whether I'd be interested in buying some raffle tickets. I bought three and will now have to wait until February to see whether I've won return tickets to Lourdes!

Wishing you love

Firstly let me wish each and everyone of you a very happy 2010, I hope you've had a smashing Christmas and are ready to throw yourselves into 2010 with gusto. Today is 12th night so with just a small hint of resistance, I have taken down the decorations, said goodbye to them for another year and laid them to rest in their bubble wrap beds. We still have a few remnants of the festive season left - large jugs of holly and ivy still adorn the mantle piece and I am supplementing the builders lunches (work on the barn has recommenced) with chocolate tree decorations. We're working our way through the remaining mince pies and Christmas cake and Eddie (my cat pictured with Mark) has helped by cleaning the plates of brandy cream. So, what of our first Christmas and New year in France? The simplicity and sincerity of the village decorations touched me. The warmth and hospitality of our friends and neighbours was all we could ever ask for. We noticed that the French are not big on sending Christmas cards but make up for this by sending New Year wishes. Their cards are still sitting next to the holly above the fire and are filled with wishes for our good health, dreams come true and happiness. Our elderly neighbour M. Guillot went one further and wished us 'love'. I have never been wished love before and, after a moments reflection, Mark confirmed that he hadn't either. What a lovely thing to wish upon someone else. So, to friends, family, blog readers and strangers - I wish you all you wish for yourself and, above all else, I wish you much love.

Cold steel and hot snails

Food is rarely far from the hearts, thoughts and dinner tables of the French and those ex-pats, like myself, who have chosen to make the culinary centre of the universe their home. During this season of festivities, the spotlight shines even more brightly on all things gastronomic with supermarkets, marche de noel and the humble kitchens of all and sundry, churning out amazing offerings: pate de foie gras; huitres by the bucket load; tantalising delicacies; wild boar; deer; duck and, surprisingly, kangaroo! The French have been unfairly criticised, I believe, for food which can seem too exclusive - not fare for the common man. Take tackling a snail for instance, a task that is not as easy as one would assume. Whilst dining with friends recently, Mark and I were warned of the dangers that could be faced when approaching 'les escargots'. If, we were cautioned, we didn't take sufficient care to warm our cold steel forks before plunging them into the hearts (do snails have hearts?) of our snails whilst they languished in their sizzling butter baths, the snail could very well explode, spraying us with molten garlic oil and scarring us for life!! Forewarned is fore armed or, as we say here 'un homme averti en vaut deux' (literally: one forwarned arm is worth two men). Anyway, to prove French food is quite inclusive, we found snails that would appeal to the most fussy of eaters - chocolate ones of course!!