(TUSCANY)
Feeling peckish, G and I bought a bunch of tomatoes and a handful of smooth apricots from a little table in front of a stone building. We walked a few steps down the road to find a place to rest and settled on a short wall overlooking rolling Tuscan hills, all lined with vineyards. I peeled apart a juicy apricot, noting how perfectly orange and blush the flesh seemed. I put half of it in my mouth and it was as though I were tasting an apricot for the first time. I plucked at the small tomatoes on their vine and they were sweet and rich and still warm from the sun. I looked out, the undulations of the landscape becoming more subdued as they fell into distance. I was moved, every part of me, and I gave thanks.
(MILAN)
Standing inside the duomo in Milan, I heard a cacophony of sounds, each resonating more deeply than the last: the low clanging of church bells, the echo of your own footsteps as you approach the sacred, reflected noises off the ornate stone ceilings, and the sound of your own whispers becoming large as if amplified for God to hear.
(MONTEPULCIANO)
The most powerful memory I have of Italy is that of a scent—so much so that it is forever fused with the country, and if I stop to imagine it, I can bring it back in its original intensity. In Montepulciano, I lay in bed reading in the late afternoon. The windows were wide open, letting the warmth of summer into my room. A breeze blew in, and carried with it the scent of chestnut blossoms. Like earthy white lilies, they had a bright, floral, grassy, creamy fragrance that filled me so that it felt like love.
RICOTTA GNOCCHI
Each time I am overwhelmed by a scent or aroma, or a faint perfume drifting by, I think of a dear chef I’ve known with a curious nose. He once told me that he couldn’t taste as well as he smelled, so he put his nose in everything. His food was more beautiful than any I have ever known.
This recipe is from my dear friend. He claims it is the best way to make gnocchi, and I trust him. Unlike traditional potato gnocchi, these have a fragrant cheese flavor and a little more texture from the ricotta. Work the dough as little as possible, as the more you work it, the denser and more rubbery the gnocchi will be.
FOR THE GARLIC CONFIT
1 head of garlic, cloves whole and peeled
125 g olive oil
Place the garlic and oil in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Bring the oil to a low simmer, and then reduce the heat so the oil stays just under a simmer. We want to cook the garlic slowly with low heat. Cook for 45 minutes to 1 hour until the cloves are soft but still intact. Allow the mixture to cool to room temperature and then pour into a sealable container, being sure that all the cloves are submerged in the oil. Refrigerate until ready to use. Garlic confit will keep for up to 1 week.
A NOTE ON THE GARLIC CONFIT: It may be worth doubling this recipe, as the garlic is a lovely addition to many savory dishes and sauces, adding umami and depth easily once it is made.
FOR THE GNOCCHI
800 g ricotta
100 g grated Parmesan
4 large eggs
30 g (about 2 tbsp) garlic confit
200 g + more as needed all-purpose flour
½ tsp fine sea salt
The night before making the gnocchi, place the ricotta in cheesecloth and hang it over a bowl or other container to catch the excess moisture. It’s crucial to remove as much moisture as possible. Keep this in the refrigerator.
When ready to make, combine the ricotta, Parmesan, eggs, and garlic confit. Work the ingredients into a smooth paste with a rubber spatula and season them with salt.
Slowly knead in the flour until the dough forms. It will be slightly tacky. Do not overwork the dough; knead it just enough for it all to come together. The dough should have an airy, not dense, texture. Cover with plastic wrap and let the dough rest for 30 minutes.
When the dough has rested, dust a work surface with flour. Take 1 small apricot-sized ball of dough at a time, keeping the rest of the dough covered, and roll into a rope about ½ inch in diameter. Cut the rope on a slight angle into 1-inch pieces with a knife or pastry scraper and repeat with the remaining dough.
If you want the little characteristic ridges, which are great for holding thick sauces and looking pretty, roll each piece of gnocchi onto the back of a fork with your thumb.
You can freeze the gnocchi to cook later or cook them immediately. To freeze, place them in a single layer on a sheet tray and put them in the freezer. Once they are frozen, place them into a freezer bag. They will keep for up to 1 month.
To cook the gnocchi, bring a large pot of water to a boil and add a good amount of salt so that the water tastes like the sea. Add the gnocchi and stir the water immediately while the water comes back to a boil. Once the gnocchi float to the surface, take them out using a strainer and serve with an Italian ragù sauce, or panfry in brown butter and herbs.
A NOTE ON THE MEASUREMENTS: I have kept this recipe in weight measurements, as that is how it came to me from my chef friend with the curious nose.
MAKES 120 GNOCCHI (6–8 SERVINGS).
A BRIDGE IN LYON
{2012}
PROBABLY ONE OF THE MOST PRIVATE THINGS IN THE WORLD IS AN EGG until it is broken.
M. F. K. Fisher, How to Cook a Wolf, “How Not to Boil an Egg”
IN 2002, I WAS IN MY EARLY TWENTIES, A DESIGN STUDENT on a well-worn rite of passage that necessitated a slim budget and an oversized backpack with a Canadian flag sewn on it, an amulet to ward off suspicions of being “American.”
It was my first visit to France, and in search of sun and a sandy beach, I took an overnight train from Paris to Nice. I placed my burgundy pack on a lower bunk, an old map I’d bought at a stall along the Seine dangling from the side with my grey hoodie, and I lay there, staring at the bed above me and wondering who my bunkmates were.
I woke up in the morning rested. The movements of the train had cradled and rocked me to sleep more quickly than I had expected. I looked out the window to golden hills turning to fields of sunflowers. I saw Van Gogh.
I
G AND I EXPLORED MORE OF FRANCE IN OUR LAST MONTH of being abroad. We had agreed on a financial plan for the year: we each had six months and a specific amount of money to spend on anything we wanted. But since we were to pay for the other to live, enjoy, and experience alongside us during our respective six months, I planned our travels very carefully. I wanted to make sure that during “my” six months, I had enough money for us both to see and taste all the things I had only read about in books or learned about in old episodes of Julia Child’s The French Chef. What does a “real” boeuf Bourguignon taste like? What does standing in the lavender fields of the Luberon smell like? And does Dijon mustard taste better in Dijon? (As it turned out, France imports most of its mustard seed from Canada, and so the mustard tasted, well, exactly the same as the Dijon mustard I had eaten my entire life.)
I followed a trail of dishes pivotal to culinary history, including all the Michelin-starred restaurants I could afford. I went to Brittany in search of their buttery kouign amann, hearing that no one else’s compared to the original made of grass-fed butter from this dairy-rich region. We moved on to Bordeaux in search of the perfect canelé and to Saint-Émilion for the original macaron made by nuns, created in a place and time when almonds were a more readily available source of protein and iron than meat was. I traveled with food as my purpose, sometimes to more remote villages, knowing that I could never recreate the dishes at their best without knowing what they tasted like in their purest forms, in their birthplaces, in their terroir.
As I continued, tasting and collecting memories with my palate, my world continued to open. I ducked into every chocolate shop, boulangerie, and pâtisserie to inspect the color of the crusts, the size of “feet” on the bonbons, or the technique of their glaçage, making mental notes and comparing them to the next and last.
I sought out markets in every small town we stopped in, smelling the pungent, salty cheeses that made the nostrils tingle. The French language ha
d begun to feel natural on my tongue and I spoke with ease, expressing excitement and curiosity, and bantering playfully with the farmers until they gave me bites of mirabelle, fraises du bois, or local salts infused with herbs or flower petals.
Every time I discovered a new flavor or texture, I would bubble over with a joy that was at first foreign but that had now evolved into a comfortable vocabulary. I allowed myself to laugh with abandon, a deep and happy sound erupting from my gut and an uncensored crack in my usual composure. It surprised me to remember that a part of me was unafraid, social, passionate, and even charismatic—things that had been slowly forgotten during my life with G.
II
AFTER ARRIVING IN PROVENCE, I LEARNED OF AN EXTRAVAGANT restaurant at the top of Bonnieux, and the romance surrounding the stories of it took me there. G and I drove up steep, narrow, winding roads built of dry, bleached stones until we reached a perfectly manicured clearing at the top. I felt out of place in my shapeless sundress and shoes, fatigued by months of travel, so I fixed the only thing I could—my posture—and walked into the Michelin-starred dining room.
Once the progression of amuse-bouches and a choreography of glasses and silverware started, a pretty plate was placed in front of me. In the center was a whole black truffle encased in buttery pâte feuilletée with leafy designs made of pastry on top. It sat in a bright corn sauce that was silky on the tongue and tasted of sweet summer corn on the cob. The pastry melted in my mouth, and the truffle sat between my lips, held there like a jewel. I let the moment linger. I sat with my eyes closed for a touch longer than I normally dared to, as G had been disparaging me lately for being unrealistic and overly dramatic. G had been observing my new extroverted behavior, and it embarrassed him. His comments often implied that my inauthenticity was transparent and uncomfortable to watch.
When I opened my eyes, I looked at my husband eagerly, anticipating an equally elated reaction, but I saw only a last mouthful remaining on his plate and a bored expression on his face. He had used his delicate silver utensils as mere tools to tear apart the precious dish into manageable sizes to chew and swallow. A rock of disappointment settled in my chest, along with feelings of resentment, disbelief, resignation, and regret for a moment wasted, a beautiful taste that should have gone to someone, anyone, more appreciative.
“How did you like it?” I asked him, hoping I had misunderstood.
“It was OK.” His usual answer.
I tried to change the subject to neutral topics. Lately I had begun to take note of interesting articles in the New York Times that could serve as starting points for dinner conversation. With G’s refusal to speak French, everyday experiences were becoming harder to share. We ate many meals in complete silence, which anyone who has experienced this loneliness knows is even more painful than eating alone; sitting right across from me would be a painful reminder of my longing to be connected and utter inability to do so. The topic of food had become exhausting for him. He had no interest and seemed to take little pleasure in seeing mine. When I wildly tried to guess the flavors and methods of a dish, consumed in an inspiring bite, he would plainly ask me to stop talking about food. I’d feel hurt and ashamed, and I would stop, swallowing my passion.
III
FOR THAT WHOLE TRIP, WE STAYED IN TINY BUDGET hotels with dirty floors and just-clean-enough sheets, saving on accommodations because I wanted to spend as much as I could on food. Lyon was no different. I booked a small room in a hotel by the train station with blue linoleum floors, bunk beds, and a bathroom without walls. I let G choose his bunk first.
We set off to tour silk factories and walk the streets of the town, connected by intricate bridges and steep stairs. We stopped to rest on a footbridge overlooking the waterway and chatted casually about the coming months. Our time in France was coming to an end, as was my “half” of the year.
G then asked me how I planned to pay for myself to live over the next months during his half and what I planned to do with my time while I was in Vancouver. I was confused by the question. What did he mean by “paying for myself to live”? I had paid for all his living expenses during my portion of the year, and according to the arrangement we made a year earlier, my understanding was that he was going to do the same for me.
He explained that my situation was unique as we were abroad and so all of our living and daily expenses were considered “travel expenses” instead. Since he had decided not to travel and stay in Vancouver for most of his time, the same rules didn’t apply. In short, he was very sorry I hadn’t saved enough for additional expenses to live off of during “his” six months. I was speechless. I tried to understand how I had so awfully misunderstood the rules. Had they changed? Did he remember them wrong?
But what could I do? I had spent my entire budget, thinking it only needed to last the six months I was planning for G and me. I spent it, including him in everything, paying for meals he didn’t enjoy, buying our toothpaste, our toilet paper. I even paid for activities like martial arts exhibitions, things I hated but knew he would like, to make his time in France more enjoyable, only to have him trail behind me like a heavy coat while I tried to explore. Now, I was left without anything to do and not a penny to spend during his half of the year.
“But I don’t even have enough for a coffee with friends,” I said.
“There are a lot of free things to do in the city. Maybe go for a walk instead?” he replied.
My heart sunk, knowing how hard it had been with the tight budget I was on before, before we moved, and with nothing at all, I knew it would be near impossible.
Leaning over the side of the bridge, I was angry, but I said nothing. I thought of all the moments I had wished painfully that he wasn’t there with me, wasn’t looking at me disdainfully, wasn’t judging the integrity of my laugh, my curiosity, my new flirtatiousness with life. I ran through everything that could have been without him. I could have lived for a year in France without him, without him hating it, without him pinching off every budding dream I had to move there and live there. I longed to build a life that gave me joy, and I would have done anything to stay. But he seemed to hate France.
Then I began silently crying, knowing there was nothing else to say, no argument to make. I had simply misunderstood the rules, or they had changed—regardless, it didn’t matter. There was nothing I could do, no amount of arguing or pleading would have made a difference. So I wiped my eyes, forced a big smile, and suggested we keep walking, refusing to ruin the rest of my precious time in France.
After a late dinner of meaty steaks grilled on a wood-burning fire, we headed back to our meager bunk beds, and I waited breathlessly until I felt sure G was deeply asleep. I slipped my fingers through the side of my underwear and masturbated as quietly and quickly as I could. It was seldom that I either mustered the courage to do so or that I was overwhelmed by the need, but I ended that night with a silent orgasm stained with feelings of guilt, sadness, and spite.
SUMMER TRUFFLE IN PUFF PASTRY WITH CORN COULIS AND POPCORN
This recipe, originally named “Truffe d’Été Tuber aestivum en Croûte Relevée d’un Coulis de Maïs et Pop-Corn,” was given to me by Chef Edouard Loubet from the two-Michelin-starred restaurant at Domaine de Capelongue in Bonnieux, Provence, where it is only served in the summer months when corn is at its peak and summer truffles are in season.
Summer truffles are usually harvested from May to August. They are not as fragrant as their winter varieties and so are more inexpensive and have a milder flavor.
Though I think Chef Loubet’s version is delicious, the ingredients available in North America are often less flavorful than their French counterparts; ingredients like the truffles are much better straight out of the ground. Taking this into consideration, I’ve altered the recipe with the advice of a chef friend who always seems to help me with recipes concerning foie gras and truffles.
FOR THE TRUFFLES
1.5 lb unsalted butter
4 summer truffles, 30 g each
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In a small pot, melt the butter on low heat and bring to a very low simmer. Brush any dirt off the truffles and place them in the hot butter to gently poach for 45 minutes to 1 hour. Remove the pot from the heat and allow to cool to room temperature.
FOR THE FOIE GRAS MOUSSE
30 g roughly chopped shallots
30 g butter from poaching truffles
3 large sprigs of thyme
1 fresh bay leaf
¾ tsp fine sea salt
¼ tsp freshly cracked black pepper
1½ tsp granulated sugar
45 g good-quality port, divided
45 g good-quality cognac, divided
100 g raw foie gras, veins removed, room temperature
1 egg yolk, room temperature
60 g whipping cream, room temperature
Caramelize the shallots with the butter, thyme, bay leaf, salt, and pepper over medium heat. After about 5 minutes, when the edges of the shallots are becoming golden brown, add the sugar and cook until the sugar melts and the onions caramelize to a dark golden brown. Deglaze the pan with 30 g port and 30 g cognac and reduce to about half. Remove from the heat and allow to cool to room temperature.
Remove the thyme and bay leaf. Pour the shallot mixture into a good blender and add the foie gras and remaining 15 g port and 15 g cognac. Blend on low speed to begin breaking down the ingredients. Add the egg yolk and cream and blend on high until the mixture is very smooth and homogeneous. Pass the mixture through a fine strainer into a resealable container and reserve in the refrigerator until ready to use.
FOR THE SWEET CORN COULIS
The Measure of My Powers: A Memoir of Food, Misery, and Paris Page 12