Halloween Horrors

It's getting to be that time of year again.
October 31st, All Hallows Eve when ghosts, ghouls and small children in fright masks stalk the streets.

The French throw themselves into it with gusto Considering their natural abhorrence of anything that might have blown in from the direction of the New World it's quite surprising. The gift shops are full of witches hats, Edward Scissor hands finger nails, and inflatable pumpkins. The fancy dress shops are doing a brisk trade as well. And come Friday evening the village trick or treaters will be out. Probably.In our village nothing follows a particular pattern.

The first year we arrived we were still in the process of unpacking when Halloween was unleashed on us.There was a timid knock on the door, and there stood one small boy with a sheet over his head emitting half-hearted wailing noises. I reacted splendidly, uttering multitudinous 'ooh-la-las' whilst racking my brains as to what to offer a pint-sized ghoul.

No sweets are consciously kept in our house,for reasons which will be revealed later, but I remembered that eldest and wisest daughter had driven down from the UK to help us move and had cleared out her drive-time sugar ration before the journey home. Somewhere in the wreckage of our move was a bag of jettisoned sweets.

When I eventually located them, during which time Captain Sensible was entertaining our young spectre on the doorstep, I discovered, in amongst the scruffy-looking sticks of chewing gum and half-empty boxes of Tic-Tacs, a five finger bar of KitKat.That would do splendidly.

Our little visitor looked suitably impressed and with many 'mercis' he scuttled off as fast as the sheet would allow.

'I bet that's the best treat he'll get all night' the Captain remarked. 'he's probably gone roaring off to tell all his friends to get off down to the new Anglaises. They're giving away English chocolate bars,'

Horrified, I realised I hadn't anything else to give anyone, apart from the manky looking Wrigleys and a few TicTacs. I spent the rest of the evening twitching like a startled rabbit every time I heard anyone walk past But all was well. Either our little ghost was Billy-no-mates' or what friends he had were too scared to knock on the door of Les Anglaises.

Next year I was better prepared. I bought a 'geant' sized bag of mixed chocolate bars.Individually wrapped I could dole them out to whoever came (as come they would) without fear of running out. After all we had been in residence for a year, people called out 'Bonjour. Ca va?' wherever we went, and unknown,unrecognisable hands waved from passing cars and vans.We were on the village calender.

I saw a large group from my kitchen window as they scampered down the back lane to my neighbours. I opened the bag of bars in eager anticipation and rehearsed my lines. The French equivalent of ...Goodness, what have we here? ...and other suitable expressions. I heard the click of Madame's gate and 'au'voirs' and 'bon nuits' being exchanged and then...silence. The 'Maison Anglais' was too terrifying a place on a night like this. We had been missed out. Quelle dommage!

So - I had a large bag of bite sized choccy bars to dispose of. What a problem. Now, put me in a room with Dawn French and a chocolate fountain and I promise you there will be blood on the carpet. I decided that if the bag was out of sight I would forget about them . Eventually. And anyway, I reasoned, they were probably quite revolting. I like the dark, sensuous, Belgian stuff...for grown-ups. Unfortunately a few weeks later I was struggling to complete an article on Antonio Gaudi and the Sagrada Famillia. It was destined to be like the building itself...unfinished. A deadline was approaching... desperate measures were called for. Like a chocolate rush.

The fact that the bars were bite sized may have been the problem. And the fact that one wasn't enough.I don't know how many I munched my way through before the article was completed, I just know I felt extremely queasy, spent the rest of the day haunted by Puritan guilt, and three years later I reckon I'm still wearing every last damned bar on my hips.

The next year a minuscule pumpkin and a equally tiny Spider Man materialised on the door step, and were suitably rewarded for outstanding bravery when confronted by foreigners. I bought a bag of Haribos on this occasion. I was pretty well guaranteed not to touch those should there be any left over.

So, recalling the indecision's of previous years I have bought a packet of individually wrapped 'Petit Sacripants' which is a very exotic title for what is basically a plain biscuit with a layer of sweetened cream,and a covering of milk chocolate on top of that. I notice that the calorie count is 519 per 100 grms, which I have worked out is 103.8 calories per sacripant. I shall bear that in mind, should they still be hovering about after the weekend.

On Being a First Time Granny

I've been a bit inactive with my blogging of late, but I have a really good excuse.

Last week, well Monday to be precise, my very first grandchild made his grand entrance into the world.

Was it because we knew he was on the way from last January, or was it because we knew from May onwards that the embryonic blob was actually a boy? Either way the waiting seemed endless, and as the expected date grew nearer my patience was on the point of running out. What it was like for his poor parents I can't imagine. Then of course he decided to keep us all waiting that little bit longer, although it was only a few days it seemed like a whole extra month to me. Then I had to wait to find out how much he weighed (always a vital piece of information for the waiting public), then I had to wait for the photos, but at least we have email these days.If I'd had to have waited for snail mail I'd have gone mad.

Now I can't wait to see him in real life, but it'll be another five weeks before that happens. By which time he will have 'fluffed-up' nicely, will have grown into his first-size baby-grows and will hopefully be adopting a sociable sleeping pattern. Visiting grannies expect no less.

I remember when his mother was born, an elderly friend took a look at her, agreed she was a lovely baby but remarked gloomily that he despaired for the world she had been born into. I find myself echoing his words, but I suppose that's something everyone has thought about a new life and the state of the world since time began.
Recessions, credit crunches,redundancies, repossessions - I'm quite sure my daughter will be worrying about just the same things in twenty or so years when she takes a first look at a new grandchild.

History has a strange habit of repeating itself, like an endless loop. The new baby's grandfather was born on the verge of the last big Wall Street crash in the late twenties of the last century, and he's survived a world war, a three day week, boom and bust... the full works !

So welcome to the world, with all it's faults, William .

Food for Thought

Like thousands of others I'm following the fortunes of the 'Restaurant' wannabees. I watch the programme with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. Why, in God's name aren't they better prepared and better organised? And above all what on earth drives them to submit themselves to the scrutiny of several thousand viewers, their poor, starving customers, two of the most humourless adjudicators and the eagle eye of the great Raymond Blanc ? Are they mad?

It must be the lure of the prize, their own restaurant. The idea that they will be running their own restaurant is somewhat fanciful, as the prize winners will still be working for someone other than themselves ....Raymond himself. And sweet, kind, charmingly Gallic as he may seem, he'll be like every other successful entrepreneur when you actually work for him. A very, very hard taskmaster. How do the hopeful contestants think he got to be where he is today?

Observing the shenanigans of the contestants from a distance is quite enlightening. I've been away from the UK for so long, I've actually forgotten that a decent bottle of wine can cost twenty quid from an off-licence.And I've also forgotten that British restaurants 'turn tables'.

What a philistine habit that is. It's almost unheard of here, certainly in rural eating places. When we first came to France I would ring up to book a table, and then wonder why they didn't ask me what time I wanted it for. They weren't interested in my carefully rehearsed time-telling. If I wanted a table for lunch, well they opened at 12...why should I stipulate a time? No-one else would be taking our table...it was ours for as long as we wanted.

Being asked to vacate your table would be tantamount to committing catering hari-kari. No-one would ever patronise the place again. That's one of the joys of eating out in France. There's no whisking away of plates, or suggestions that you take coffee in 'the lounge'. Ninety-nine percent of restaurants don't possess a sitting area anyway. And that's something I really like. In the UK nothing would annoy me more than being 'stacked' in a restaurant bar for half an hour or so, while waiters try to chivvy on the diners occupying our booked table. Being shovelled into the same bar for coffee afterwards was even worse. In France meals are to be enjoyed, lingered over, chatted over...even at times argued over.

Whilst on this epicurean subject,I thought an A -Z to some of the more obscure items you might find on a French restaurant menu. might be useful.
So here's:



PART ONE - A to J

A
abats : offal

agrumes : citrus fruit

aïgo bouido : Provençal garlic soup served over pieces of bread

aigre : sour

aigre-doux : sweet-and-sour

à aigrir : soured - wine or milk

ail : garlic :

gousse d'ail = clove of garlic

ail semoule : garlic salt

aïoli : a Provencal garlic mayonaise sauce,

airelle : cranberry
alevin : white bait

amuse-gueule , amuse-bouche : cocktail snack


anchoyade : Provençal purée made with anchovy, garlic and olive oil



B
babeurre buttermilk :

barbouillade : stuffed eggplant or eggplant stew (Provençal)

bavette (steak) : minute steak; the top or skirt of beef


bécasse woodcock

becassine snipe

beignet : doughnut : (beignet, doughnut, fritter)

betterave : beetroot

blé : wheat (useful if anyone has a wheat allergy) :

- germe de blé = wheatgerm

blé noir : buckwheat

blette: Swiss chard

bouchonné : corked = wine that's gone off, with the taste of its cork

bourride : Provençal fish soup, prepared with tomatoes, garlic, onions, herbs and olive oil, and served with aïoli sauce.

brebis : ewe as in fromage de brebis

brouillade : a Provençal type of scrambled eggs

broyé : crushed

C

cabillaud fesh cod ..... salt cod : morue

cacahouète : peanut

calmar : squid

câpres : capers

capucine : nasturtium

cardoon: an edible thistle, related to the artichoke, with edible root and leafstalks which resemble overgrown celery.

carvi : caraway

cassis :blackcurrant

cassis, creme de : blackcurrant liqueur

chapelure : bread crumbs

chapon : crust rubbed with garlic

chapon : capon a young castrated and fattened chicken

chevreau de lait : milk goat (kid)

chicorée frisée : chicory lettuce

ciboule : spring onion

ciboulette : chives

citrouille : pumpkin

coco rose : small bean, white with pink veins

coing: quince

confit : preserved, confit de canard is duck joints cooked and preserved in its own fat

confit de [fruit] : candied, jellied or crystallized fruit.

confiture : jam

counne : rind, skin : example: "couenne de porc" is porc rind

courge : squash

crème chantilly : whipped cream

crème èpaisse : thick cream

crème fleurette : light cream : a low-fat cream used in cooking, in place of crème fraîche; also "crème liquide"

crème fraîche : cream, full-fat : used for making butter, sauces, etc.


cuire au four : bake in the oven


D

daube beef stew

dinde : turkey :

dindonneau: young turkey

dorade : sea-bream

doux mild or sweet



E


ecorce : rind

écrasé: crushed or flattened

écrevisse : crayfish, crawfish

en poudre : powder

encornet : squid

endive : chicory.

entrecôte (steak) : ribsteak

entremets : sweet desserts and sweet side dishes.
épicé : hot, spicy

épinard : spinach

à éplucher : to peel



F


farci : stuffed = légumes farcis

farine : flour :

farine de sarrasin :buckwheat flour

faux-filet (steak) : sirloin steak

fenouil : fennel

fève : broad bean

filet (steak) : tenderloin steak

filet mignon : small tender end of tenderloin of beef (or of veal or pork)

fondu : melted

fougasse : a type of flattened Provencal bread often stuffed with olives

four : oven

fourré : filled ,stuffed, creamed

fromage blanc : a soft white cheese like a thick yogurt

fromage de chèvre : goat cheese

fromage rapé : grated cheese


G


germe de blé : wheatgerm (Again useful for those with a wheat allergy)

gibier : game - pheasant, boar, etc.

gigot: : Leg of lamb or leg of mutton, or kid usually roasted


girofle clove : "clous de girofle" are whole cloves, and "girofle moulu" or "girofle en poudre" are powdered cloves. ).

gousse clove, pod : clove (of garlic); pod (of bean or pea)

goût taste : (arôme = aroma; goût = taste; parfum = flavor of ice cream;

à goûter : to taste

grenade : pomegranate

grondin : gurnard,

gros sel: rock, or coarse salt


H
haricot : bean

haricot blanc : white beans

haricot coco rose d'Eyragues : small white bean with pink veins

haricot rouge : kidney beans

haricot vert : green beans



Next Time : I to P

An Explosive Way to Celebrate a Birthday

It was my birthday on Tuesday. As one gets older birthdays tend to be less celebratory. And past a certain age one wishes one could ignore them altogether.

So there would be no popping of champagne corks, and in these belt-tightening times, dinner 'a deux' in a local restaurant wasn't even mooted. A trip to the shops would have to provide my birthday treat. I could hardly wait. A mooch around Aldi and then to Lidls on the way home. But first we would call in on the doctor for our drug fix(atenolol, not amphetamines I hasten to add) So I was in for an action-packed day.

It began well. We had our usual banter with the doctor, and asked him to sign our forms for our free flu jabs. He was in a chatty mood as we were the only ones in the surgery and I reflected again on how fortunate we are to be in the French health system. I was even more cheered when I went into the pharmacy in Lannemezan and the lady who was serving me wished me (in nervous English) an 'Appy Birthday.

At Aldi Captain Sensible reversed the car carefully to take advantage of some shade (it has been really warm these last few days). We had already been across the road at another cheapo supermarket and although we had a cool box he's paranoid about food going off if the boot gets warm.

So we did our shopping, went out to the car and I stood at the back, with the trolley, ready to load it all in the boot. The Captain decides it's going to be better to move the car a foot or so forward to make it easier for me to get to the tailgate. So far, so good.

So he gets half in the car...ie he gets his left cheek on the seat and as his right leg is still outside he attempts to engage the clutch with his left. Unfortunately he hits the accelerator instead and covers me, the shopping trolley, and the tree under which we're parked,with a layer of oily soot as he accidentally performs what is known in some circles as an 'Italian Service.' When I could eventually see, and had stopped coughing, I attempted to see the funny side of it. It was difficult. As is the way with some men, Captain Sensible thought it was hilarious.

As the groceries were also covered in fine soot I managed to get it all over my hands as I packed them away. I had bought some cheap perfume in Aldi, and like a child I couldn't wait to try it, so I'd just sprayed my neck liberally with it seconds before the volcano erupted. So my neck was wet, and acted like a soot magnet.

Most people would have gone home at this point, but we still had another supermarket to blitz so if anyone saw a black and white minstrel shopping in the Lannemezan Lidls it was me.

Autunm Has Arrived

Well, autumn has arrived. I'm not that downhearted because this has to be the most spectacular time of the year here in the Haute Pyrenees. On a good year we can cock a snoot at New England, tho' we don't have coach loads of 'leaf-peepers' . We're pretty laid back about it here so it doesn't occur to us to advertise just how beautiful the countryside looks. I just wish the season would last longer. But, fingers crossed, we should enjoy the blaze of colour until the middle of November.
Depending on the dryness of the summer we have so many bramble hedges in the lanes around here that we can pick several kilos of wild blackberries to freeze for winter blackberry and apple puds. We've four fairly prolific apple trees in our garden, but we just lack the suet to make a really traditional steamed pudding. It's probably just as well, because steamed suet pudding has to be the most unhealthy dessert on the planet. But it is good !
Here's an article I wrote for ww.suite101.com last year.
There's some advice on harvesting your autumn bounty, together with a recipe for sloe gin and autumn fruit jellies.



The autumn hedgerows are full of wild fruits which can be made into jams, jellies and homemade wines to use during the winter.
Nature saves the best of her free gifts until the autumn, when the hedgerows become a treasure trove of edible goodies.
Walking in the countryside can be a pleasurable and rewarding experience in the autumn. After a warm summer the hedgerows are an abundant source of berries, many of which can be gathered to make jams, wines, jellies and liqueurs.
Before venturing out though, there are a few things to bear in mind.
Don’t pick anything from hedgerows at the side of busy roads. There are too many petrol and diesel fumes hanging about in the air which may settle on the fruit.
Make sure the trees or shrubs don’t obviously belong to anyone. Those juicy plums might be hanging temptingly over the public highway but if the tree or bush is on someone’s private property the fruit rightly belongs to them.
Take a longish walking stick with a curved handle, or something similar. Many of the best fruits are out of reach (the easily reached ones having been picked before you got there) so a stick comes in useful to pull the branches down.
Don’t damage the trees or bushes in your eagerness. They’ve probably been on the planet longer than you, so show them some respect.
Thick gloves are a useful addition to your equipment. Many hedgerows are full of thorny bushes.
Always check the lie of the land. In your enthusiasm for spotting a bush covered in fruit make sure there isn't a hidden ditch in your way before you launch yourself into the hedge. Getting a soaking can take the fun off the afternoon.
If your hunting takes you into a field, check for grazing cattle and remember to close all gates behind you …..and if you notice a bull in with a herd of cows, don’t go in the field at all.
Black berries and elderberries are the first fruits to ripen in the Northrn Hemisphere.

Autumn is the time to be watching the hedgerows for the arrival of the first sloes which, when soaked in gin for a few weeks, will provide a delicious Christmas liqueur.
Sloe gin is favourite winter warmer for colder climates
Its ruby-red colour and sweet flavour make it an ideal drink after a brisk walk in the depth of winter.
If you are not a gin lover it can be made with vodka, but gin imparts a richer flavour, and is undetectable in the finished product.
Sloes are the small purple-black fruit of the blackthorn. They are generally found in hedgerows from late August onwards, and can be a bit inaccessible as the bushes are thorny and the berries often high on the branch. A long walking stick with a curved handle is a useful aid to picking, and the resulting liqueur is well worth the effort.
Do not be tempted to pick the fruits too early as they will be bitter. September is a good time, although traditionally they are at their best after the first frost. In a mild winter this can mean leaving it too late for the finished product to be ready for Christmas drinking, so the ‘frosting’ can be faked by placing the picked fruit in the freezer for a day or two before preparing the liqueur. Some experienced sloe gin makers believe the freezing releases the juice and makes for an improved flavour
For 1 ltr. of sloe gin you will need:
· 450g sloes
· 225g castor sugar
· 1ltr. gin
Wash and dry the sloes and prick all over with a sharp needle. Place in a large screw top jar which will hold 1 ltr of liquid comfortably.
Add the castor sugar and top up with the gin. Seal tightly. Leave in a cool, dark environment for at least two months Try to give the jar a good shake every day if possible.
As with all homemade alcoholic drinks, the longer they’re left to soak the better the flavour will be.
At this point ideas differ. Some people prefer to leave the sloes in the gin; indeed many aficionados actually macerate the mixture in an empty gin bottle and serve the drink straight from there. Others strain the gin into bottles, or a decanter.
Whichever method you choose the dark ruby-red liqueur is an absolute winner on a chilly evening.
A dash of sloe gin in a glass of champagne also makes an elegant cocktail drink.
The sloes themselves are frequently thrown away, having served their purpose. But a delicious sweet can be made by coating the fruit in bitter chocolate.
Spread the used sloes in a single layer on a thick piece of absorbent kitchen paper. When they have dried dip each one in melted chocolate and place carefully on waxed paper to cool and become firm. Store in an air-tight container.
These rich chocolates are a perfect accompaniment to a glass of sloe gin, preferably enjoyed with good friends and a roaring log fire.
Traditionally elderberries have been used for country wine making, but together with sloes, crab apples, and rose hips they can also be used to make jellies.


A rule-of-thumb recipe for fruit jellies:
Clean the fruit thoroughly, checking for hidden insects
Whatever quantity of fruit you have, cover with water and bring to the boil.
Simmer until the fruit has softened.
Allow to cool and strain through a clean tea cloth or muslin jelly bag.
Measure cooled liquid and place in a thick bottomed saucepan.
Add 1 lb(500g) white sugar for each pint(550ml) of liquid.
Boil briskly until the setting point is reached
Skim off any scum that may have formed on the surface, allow to cool, then ladle into sterilised jars and seal tightly.
Rose hip jelly is delicious with pork or poultry as the flavour is similar to cranberries and the fruit is high in vitamin C. Rose hip syrup, a healthy drink for children, can be made by following the recipe for fruit jelly, but remove from the heat as soon as the liquid has achieved a syrupy appearance. Pour into sterilised bottles when the syrup has cooled and keep in the fridge.



This is just one of many recipes that can be made from hedgerow fruit.
The copyright of the article Mother Nature’s Autumn Bounty in Fall Recipes is owned by permission of the author.To republish Mother Nature’s Autumn Bounty in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.
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When the Rose-Tinted Glasses Fall Off

The other day I happened to come across a forum posting from an expat who was clearly having a bad day. The trouble was she had allowed a smallish matter to blow itself up into something that had completely sent her off on a rant. Against everything French.

The rose tinted glasses had well and truly come off, and de-railed her in the process.

I can understand how this could have come about. And it's not unusual. Especially in the present economic climate.

The pound sterling and the dollar are being squeezed to within an inch of their lives, belts are having to be tightened all round and M'sieu Sarkozy is not exactly making life easy for immigrants. And that is what we are, we Brits, Americans, Dutch, Germans Like it,or not.

So often we think the word applies just to Moroccans, or the Algerians we see on the markets selling cheap jewellery. But it's us too. So Sarko's ruling last year on health cover didn't go down well with those expats who had recently arrived, often with young families, to find they were not entitled to the same health cover as French nationals. Full private health cover came as a nasty shock to many, and that together with the general rises in the cost of living has brought on some severe cases of disillusionment.
When the dream looks like turning into a nightmare, something else coming along to hit them full in the face, or the wallet, is the very last straw.

For many women there's the added stress of being separated from their close family. Yes, you can explode, or whimper (depending on your personality) down the phone to mum, but it can never take the place of a good old-fashioned bawl on a sympathetic shoulder. And for men, in France there isn't the option of going down the pub for a pint and a moan to your mates. French bars may appear havens of warmth and friendliness ( an idea put about by the likes of Peter Mayle with a good dollop of literary license) but in actual fact your average Pierre propping up the bar with his pastis is not in the least interested in any one's marital or financial problems. Political discussion....ah that''s another matter. He'll talk politics all day.

Right now expat internet forums seem full of sob stories, but I wonder how many of them would resort to the cold anonymity of the web if they had a near neighbour who spoke the same language and who was probably in the same boat? Maybe someone should start up local support groups for those who think their dream has turned sour. I say 'think 'because I reckon if only some of these families who seem at the end of their tether could have a good old moan, over a glass or two of something, maybe they'd look at life in France in a more balanced way.

Yes, life here has got tougher over the past few months, but what are the alternatives? The grass isn't any greener anywhere else, especially right now.

So to those who are really fed-up and contemplating a move back I'd say..."Hang on in there. Don't make any hasty decisions you might regret later."

August is a Dangerous Month for the Liver

There just doesn't seem enough days in August to accommodate it all.

By 'all' I mean the fètes, 'animations' and foires that crop up in every village and town in France during August.

There just aren't enough weekends in the month to do them all, so it's a case of pick and choose.

The big one in our neck of the woods is the Folk Festival in Montrejeau.It's now in it's 49 th year which means it's been going since the days of the Cold War, which probably explains why it has been such a popular event with Eastern European countries.For decades the only way to get out of Eastern Bloc countries was to be part of a cultural visit. And folk music and dancing certainly fitted the bill. How many of the participants actually went home after such events is still a matter of conjecture!

We've also had the 'battages'...difficult to actually pin down with a title. They are a celebration of le moisson', or the harvest. Ancient tractors are greased and polished to within an inch of their lives, oxen are yoked to ploughs, steam engines puff away and burn yet another hole in the ozone layer ( bless them) and the Comminges Classsic Car Club chuff and putter up to the stubble field, all gleaming paintwork and shiny brass,and park up for the afternoon to await the admiration of we less fortunate souls who are stuck(through economic circumstances ) with a bog standard Peugeot 306, or similar. The French pronounce it as trois-cent-six and why not? They produced it. It's only us mono-lingual Brits who use the 'oh' instead of 100 ( three-oh-six etc..)

We have two annual battage within a 10 kilometre radius and both involve a very(and I do mean a very )large lunch which involves an inordinate amount of chicken, in various guises - starter ,soup, entree, main, you name it- the chuk is in there somewhere. All washed down with copious quantities of vin de pays of all colours, and a fire-water digestif. Well, chicken can be a bit on the dry side, so you need something to wash it down.And if you set three hours or four hours aside the alcohol consumption will have burnt off before one takes the road home, or so one imagines (erroneously!) I have formed instant and lasting friendships with my neighbours at battage lunches...the problem is I can't remember who they were with.

And there's always the entertainment to follow. This normally involves an accordionists, a comedian who goes down storm with everyone, and a singer who's songs are known and loved by the audience who join in with gusto.

It's at this point I feel like a rank outsider. As your average Frenchman(or woman would) in a Yorkshire social club on a Friday night.