Author: natamagat

Random thoughts from a French incomer in rural England. Interested in the love/hate relationship between the English and the French (unavoidable), community matters (they affect us whatever nationality), tourism (my original career with an MA in Tourism albeit a French one), photography (images speak a thousand words, although only the good ones), and words (mostly English words with a few French ones thrown in) Pardon my Franglais if you will.

Dorset Turtle Claw Chillies Jelly

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My very first attempt at making jelly. If you’re also a newbie, buy a jelly bag. It will need to hang over a bowl for the juices to drip, so prepare a butcher’s hook and make sure your kitchen cupboard door handle is strong enough: I lost a pint of vinegary liquid, it stinks… Or get a fancy jelly bag holder.

Ingredients:
1 kg cooking apples, 500 ml water, 500 ml cider vinegar, 1 lb sugar per pint of juice, chillies (I used about 16 and it was still mild).

First:
In a large pan: chopped apples (including skin and pips for pectin), 500 ml of water, 500 vinegar and 8 chopped chillies. Boil for a couple of mins then simmer for 15 mins. Let it cool a bit.
Kids hated the vinegar smell that invaded the house…
Pour the juice through the jelly bag (do not force or the jelly will be cloudy) and leave to drip overnight.

Next morning:
Prepare 1 lb of sugar per pint of juice. Heat juice on low heat in high sided pan, add the sugar on high heat for 10 minutes for sugar to dissolve. (I kept turning for fear of burning but have read since that you shouldn’t, so up to you). Before taking off the stove, add thinly sliced chillies (I took most of the seeds off), let the liquid cool down a bit and transfer into sterilised jars.

This made a sweet jelly and was not as hot as I thought it would be, next time I’ll put more… The Turtle Claw Chillies are very fruity and taste a bit like the long red sweet peppers you find in supermarkets (only much nicer, with a pleasant kick when you swallow and a typical clear nose afterwards). I also found a recipe with cider rather than vinegar and I’ll try that too being in Dorset and all.
If my guinea pigs like it, I’ll post it here too…

This is based on a recipe by the Chilli King. Check out their website for getting the setting point right (My freezer’s in my garage so I didn’t bother!) and more stuff on chillies.

PS. Try this recipe at your peril, and taste the chillies you’re putting in your recipe before you make four jars of jelly… Have fun, we loved it with lamb, cheese and charcuterie. My son loved it on its own, it’s really quite sweet (the jelly not my teenager).

 

Slow cooked lamb with Mediterranean herbs

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Don’t you love it when guests want a recipe after you’ve spent hours slaving at the stove, or as in this case, left it in the oven to do its thing pretty much by itself… Even better. Perfect for a chilled Sunday lunch…

So here goes: slow cooked shoulder of lamb with Mediterranean herbs. (Inspired by Hugh FW’s Moroccan spiced shoulder of mutton but went back to my roots of olive oil, rosemary, thyme and garlic (as in one of Jamie’s recipes).

Ingredients: Shoulder of lamb at room temperature – Rosemary, thyme, garlic (how much depends on you) – Olive oil – A glass of white wine, 250 ml stock

Oven: 180C/200C 20 minutes, 120C 4 hours or more

In casserole dish put a lug of olive oil, rosemary (about 10 sprigs), thyme (about same), garlic cloves (half a head with skins on) and place shoulder on top. Score the fat with a sharp knife length and width a few times (about 5 mm, just so you get to the meat).

In a mortar, mix and bash rosemary and thyme ‘leaves’ (about five sprigs of each, stick the twigs in the bottom of the dish) and about 6 peeled garlic cloves with olive oil and freshly ground pepper. Rub the oily mix into the shoulder, making sure to go into the cracks with the herbs. Grind pepper on top.

Hot oven for about 20 minutes, the fat will turn gold (and maybe a bit black…). Take out and turn oven down to 120C. Add a glass of white wine and about 250 ml of stock (I used chicken). Cover with lid (or if it touches a tent of foil!) and put back in warm oven (120C) for about 4 hours… That’s it.
No need for thin slices, just take bits away from the bone with a fork…

It may have made a difference that I did the hot oven bit in the electric oven and the slow cooking in the Esse. Have never used the Esse before (as it runs on oil…) but I’ll have to do again as the compliments at the end of the meal were such a joy!

We all also enjoyed a couple of Chilli jellies that complimented the lamb rather well. Liz’s Loscombe Crab Apples and Chillies Jelly was redder and wonderfully sweet. My Dorset Turtle Claw Chilli and Cooking Apples trial was also sweet but had more of a kick when you got lucky with a chilli (or unlucky with a seed…).

Recipe in the next post…

Dorset Chillies

Will West Dorset get superfast Broadband?

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Have you heard from “Race to Infinity”? Sounds a bit Toy Story but is it child’s play? If you think your broadband connection is slower than what you’re actually paying for, read on because if Beaminster and Bridport’s votes are anything to go by, West Dorset is not even in the race. Yet.

BT are conducting a survey for the establishment of their superfast fibre optic Broadband within the UK called Infinity Services. Have we got a chance in West Dorset to even get what some of us already pay for but are not getting: a fast connection?

Well… five areas of the UK (yes 5) with the largest percentage of votes by 31st December 2010 will win the chance to be the lucky BT’s Infinity race winners. ‘Chance to win’ never guarantees anything in my books but lack of trying certainly guarantees failure.

So, before you go and vote please tell all your friends, your colleagues, your neighbours, your parents and whatever you do please don’t forget your silver surfer friends. We do live in West Dorset after all. Only 8 people have voted for Beaminster out of 1,800, Bridport is marginally better with 38 votes out of 8,110 (on Monday 25 October 2010).

Our neighbours Weymouth will probably be on fast track mode thanks to the Olympics but let’s face it, Beaminster, Bridport or Sherborne may well be in West Dorset too, it doesn’t mean we’ll have any of that legacy. Go on, it takes a minute, does not cost a penny and it’s nice to be full of hope once in a while…

To Infinity and Beyond? Go:

http://www.racetoinfinity.bt.com/

 

Fungi foray frolic in West Dorset

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A fungal foray with John Wright is not mushroom hunting as I know it. Childhood memories of my mother’s picnics and my father whistling to keep hunters away are miles from a day at the Kingcombe Centre in West Dorset.

There are similarities of course. Baskets, knifes, eyes to the ground, a reassuring smell of decay when the nose gets closer to the undergrowth and that warm feeling of joy when a mushroom is found. Or a toadstool.

The point of taking part in a foray with Mr Mushroom himself is to learn. There were a few newbies like me and a few reoffenders who clearly thought it was worth re-foraging with Mr Wright. The world of fungi is a vast underground world where the initiated want to learn more and the foodies don’t want to go home empty handed.

Our foray was at the Kingcombe Centre in West Dorset, part of a Nature Reserve where the fields have never seen fertiliser, where the preservation of our local ecosystem is not a fashion. A very special place not just for the lucky visitors but also for the underworld. The 75 different types of fungi we found in about four hours should prove my point. Only one do I uncompromisingly know, a very exciting one at that, a chanterelle.

Our first lucky find in the hedge outside Kingcombe Centre was tall, thick stemmed, white with a greenish cap. It brought a big smile to John’s face as he dug it from the ground, bag at the base and all. He proudly showed the group and introduced us to the one mushroom you should avoid at all costs: The Death Cap. Need I say more. Not as pretty as its red and white cousin that fairies are keen on but more dangerous.

Of the remaining 73, I had come across a few but could sadly name none fully. English name or latin name. A beautifully fat boletus find was quite exciting. Being red though, it was totally the wrong colour for supper but perfect for a photo opportunity. John obliged by holding it up against the cloudless blue sky.

I still don’t know the difference between a toadstool and a mushroom. I might be the proud owner of a signed copy of the River Cottage Handbook No. 1 (John commented that he was honoured to sign his ‘Mushrooms’ book for a Française, cheeky charmer) but to me, they’re still all Champignons. All 4,000 species that you can find in Britain.

I learnt lots of interesting facts about fungi. For a start, they are the reproductive organ of a world that lives underground. From there, inevitable sexual innuendoes follow. How about the nipples on the magic ones that can take you to seventh heaven or leave you sorely disappointed and a carefully pronounced volva at the base of the hard stem of the Amanita phalloides. I’ll leave it at that, not my forte, I was brought up by a Catholic mother who was master picnic organiser but stayed away from such language. John on the the hand was far more masterful with his words, let alone knowledge, and had us giggling throughout the day.

A few titbits I gathered were of far greater interest. The reason mushrooms are often found at the edge of a wood or near a car park is not, as I thought, because mushrooms need a bit of sunshine to warm their caps but because the organism that lives under the ground is suddenly worried that the environment it is thriving in is running out. Time to reproduce and out come the fruits for spores -babies in the making- to be scattered, and for animals to pick, munch or nibble.

Of far more interest for my stomach is that the mushrooms my family still hunt for, once the first rains have blessed the sunny South of France and its pine and oak forests, can be found in this country. The Saffron Milkcap. For once, the clue is in the Latin name: Lactarius deliciosus. I found one years ago, somewhere in the South West and John confirmed you can find them in this country. I wasn’t dreaming after all.

Should I tell you where? If a delicious mushroom is to be found, should its location be shared? Well, here is one thing the French and the English have in common. My Dorset farmer friend and his father don’t share their secrets for Field Mushrooms hotspots with each other. My family don’t divulge their pine forest autumn picnic locations to all and sundry.

It looks like I will be spending the next few years hunting in pine and oak woods of Dorset to leave my children our own little mushroom secrets. I’ll be thanking John for renewing my love of the forest undergrowth, his little book in my basket, keeping away from beautiful white tall mushrooms with a volva.

—

John Wright shows off the Death Cap:

John Wright's Death Cap

Photogenic Boletus:

Beautiful boletus

Kingcombe Centre courses:

http://www.kingcombe.org/courses/intro.aspx

Basket beauties in Bridport

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When tutor Andy asked what type of basket we’d like to make, I can’t say I’d given it much thought before I started the willow weaving course. A last minute booking for a workshop in Highway Farm B&B in Bridport meant I had just turned up in my cotton shirt; and clearly an empty head. Thankfully owner Pauline took pity on me and lent me a fleece.

I racked my sleepy brain for inspiration and a little light came on when I saw a beautiful platter Andy had made. A woman in period costume was picking flowers and putting them softly in a lovely flat basket. The romantic image from a period film seen years ago came flashing back. I knew what I wanted to do.

It quickly transpired that everybody else was doing a properly woven basket and I wasn’t. Virgo Vicki was making a waste paper basket (as a Virgo would), Experienced Ellie was weaving a blackberry beauty, Friendly Florence was longing for a log carrier, Mum Mel was going to fashion hearts for her daughter’s wedding and Chatty Charlie kept changing her mind.

They started weaving a round base in a circular ‘under-and-over’ then added a dozen stiff spokes at regular intervals for the sides. Friendly Florence put the contraption on her head and took a model pose. She wouldn’t have been out of place at Bridport’s Hat Festival. She may have found it a bit inconvenient to circulate around the market with 2 metres long twigs around her head but it was a good giggle around the barn.

Who would have thought basket weaving could be dangerous though? There I was concentrating on my over-under-over-under-ouch-oops, sorry! I had poked Chatty Charlie in the eye. Thankfully, she was able to finish her basket, the only one with a prison-window-with-bars type handles under the rim; rather than the large over the rim number that you rest on your arm; or the two small handles for heavy loads. Once you start looking into willow baskets, you wouldn’t believe the possible permutations.

And once we started weaving our willow baskets, there was no stopping us either. Except I was getting hungry. Pauline had told us to come and have lunch around one-ish and we were getting closer to two-ish. The soup and homemade bread went down a treat among chatter and laughs. Big house down the road being sold, content and all, Hat Festival update, Andy’s moving malarchy and Pauline’s new blog stories. Pauline, if you read this, you did promise a recipe for your pudding…

As for my fancy flower friend (I refuse to call it a trug, ugly name), I am over the moon with the result. I took home a basket like I’ve never seen before and have been looking at twigs from my hedge trimming this weekend in a new light: under-over-under-over.

What shall I make next? Well… since you ask. Pauline does a weekend workshop for hazel garden furniture. I’m on the waiting list hoping someone will change their mind.

Update: Experienced Ellie made a horse’s head the next day, have a look here.

Freak storm or freak planning?

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I spoke to my father this morning who lives on the outskirts of Toulon in the Var to hear his take on the freak storms that happened a couple of days ago in the South of France. He was the last person to be able to use the D29 before they closed it. Twenty people have died and another dozen are still reported missing. The Nationale 7 is still closed. Trains are still unable to travel. There are still some 1,000 people in St Tropez with no electricity. I cannot believe I am talking about home.

My first thought when I read about this yesterday was how dreadful that this disaster happened not only in my country but so near to my home. I feel devastated for the people who have lost a member of their family. I know about these freak storms. Some twenty years ago, I was caught on the motorway in a similar one and just had to stop the car. I could not see any further than the middle of the bonnet of my car.

I asked my father if this one was worse than normal. It was a particularly vicious storm. Nevertheless, I have to wonder had this dreadful freak of nature happened only twenty five years ago, would the outcome been the same?

When I left the Var twenty years ago, there were still green spaces in between houses and buildings, we had supermarkets rather city like shopping affairs with warehouse type shops that sell everything and anything. Our flood plains have been filled by concrete and tarmac. Our towns have grown so much I cannot recognise them when I go back.

I am no scientist nor planner. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Having said that, where is water going to go when the proportion between concrete, tarmac and tiled gardens has outweighed fields and gardens? It stands to reason that motorways will become torrents. If water cannot go down into the ground, it will follow whatever it falls on to the next available bit of earth. In some of our towns, it’s a long way away.

I do hope other countries learn from that and that my compatriots’ lives have not been lost in vain.

The inn down the lane

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From nouvelle cuisine to a country pub down a tarmac lane so remote, it has grass growing on it. The sun is shining so we decide to drive around West Dorset lanes just for the sake of the views and find the Three Horseshoes Inn just around lunch time.

Pub with rooms. The menu is more gastro than old boys’ local and they’ve run out of Bath chaps and Hooke Farm trout. No matter, I fancy a Blue Vinney ploughman and the husband goes for battered cod with triple cooked chips. Yep, good ol’ fish and chips for lunch. Takes all sorts.

We can hear children as we sit down on the terrace with wide green views. You’d think they are just behind the wall, a perfect demonstration of how sound works in amphitheatre. A few minutes later, the school below starts work again for the afternoon so the only sounds left are the birds, the wind in the parasols and a distant dog listening to himself. Otherwise you’d wonder whether there’s much life around.

When my square wooden platter arrives I pull a face. There’s a heap of thin and pretty greenery on the edge and I am wondering how to eat this without half of it ending up on the floor. It looks like young sweet pea shoots and tastes delicious. Brain figures that fingers are de rigueur. If the man in the nice restaurant in France (many years back) thought it was OK for me to eat with my fingers because chefs don’t like plates coming back with food, then why not?

Apart from the juicy shoots, there was a large chunk of blue veined Dorset delight, some very light and airy home made bread and two chutneys. The first was classically vinegary with soft fruits -no crunchy out of a jar sharp stuff here-  the other more of a compote that has not reached mushy state so the soft bits of fruits have a gentle texture. This one would have probably complimented a Farmhouse Cheddar better, Blue Vinney being a bit stronger it overtook the palate (ok, killed the fruits if you prefer).

The husband enjoyed his triple cooked chips and battered cod. The cod portion was large enough and the batter was a bit on the heavy side but the chips were deemed delicious. There is a price to pay for triple cooked chips at lunchtime and I can hear the husband snoozing. You can’t beat a Ploughman in a country pub. And as country pubs go, this one sure has the location, a great terrace with half a dozen tables, the pretty church next door and new owners.

Our terrace neighbours said: “Very pretty but I wouldn’t want to live here; silly little roads”. Fair enough, this is a place you come to because you like being remote. No marquee, no sea views, just an inn and a village. The Jurassic Coast may be down the lane, it may as well be abroad. That’s why I liked the place.

Ploughman: £7

Battered cod + triple cooked chips: £11

Three Horseshoes Inn, Powerstock

A pinch of art and a large dose of love

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“Cuisine is a few grams of passion, a spoonful of technique, a pinch of art and a large dose of love”

When chef Eric Bendel wrote this, he clearly meant it. His restaurant is in the middle of nowhere, well actually right bang in the middle of France in Bruères-Allichamp. We were driving South and found that all the hotels in Bourges were full. A short drive on an empty route départementale and we were grateful to find a small hotel along the Cher river. Les Tilleuls isn’t the prettiest of hotels, rather a long 60’s wooden affair.

No credit card or passport were asked, what a delight and oh so rare these days. Our rooms were clean and comfortable although sound proofing is probably not high on the list. The big surprise came when we sat down for dinner. The menu is a short list of about nine items that change fortnightly and you choose how many you want. Children just get smaller portions, no fish and chips to be found anywhere.

When I read Eric’s poem I figured we should be in for a treat. When I read the menu, it was definitely an artist talking. Proof was definitely not just in the pudding. It started with not one ‘mise en bouche’ but two: three verrines each of cress, celery and cucumber gazpachos followed by crayfish with a courgette soup topped with herring caviar, all beautifully presented.

It’s one of those menus some people find pompous. Verrines are pretty little glasses filled with soups or layered puddings. Gaspacho is after all a cold soup. Yes it’s nouvelle cuisine if that means a pleasure for the eye and yes there were foamy additions to perfectly balanced plates. Last time I had a meal that made me feel like a child again was when I ate at Les Ambassadeurs, the Crillon’s restaurant in Paris. Proper posh with a stool for my handbag. Jean-François Piège was in the kitchen, I was scribbling notes for a magazine. This time, I was with my family, paying my way. Seeing my children get all excited by beautifully presented plates and happily discover new tastes was a joy.

Laure has done a great job decorating the restaurant, husband Eric clearly cares passionately about his work, attention to detail is faultless; although I must admit there were only two tables that night, being mid-week and off holiday. At around £60 per person for four properly crafted courses including nice wine, aperitifs and digestifs, we got an evening that we will remember for a long time. The joy of the unexpected, the subtlety of tastes, the fun of new discoveries; the love did show.

Some call it professionalism. That’s not enough. The passion has to be translated to provide a memorable experience.

I can still taste the mini pistachio rice pudding with strawberry cream and poppy mousse.

Thank you Bourges for being full that day.

Hotel restaurant Les Tilleuls

Are you a foodie?

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I’m told I’m a foodie. But what does it mean? That I like food? Well who doesn’t?

I don’t live to eat nor do I eat to live. I just like tasty food. I enjoy cooking when I have time but I often have a dozen other things to do. I won’t eat chicken that feels like I am eating a sponge because I’m lucky enough never to be that hungry. I like dark chocolate because it tastes of cacao rather than fat, milk and sugar. Can’t bear sweets that have a chemical taste. Does that make me a foodie?

It may be my being French that makes this new word puzzling. Does it mean I am a gourmet (lover of fine food) or gourmand (greedy – not as in ‘greedy bankers’ but as in ‘I’m so greedy when it comes to pudding’). Neither really. Gourmets know their wines and their cuts of meat. I still struggle with my grapes let alone your ales. Gourmands have a sweet tooth and I’d rather eat cheese than a dessert. Gourmands get fat which of course French women don’t.

So foodie is a word that does not translate literally in French. Just like gourmet and gourmand. A ‘good grub lover’ would be as good a translation as any. So I get back to my point. Who does not like good grub? Are we saying that we know better than the poor non-foodies who like bad grub? I thought the word gourmet had a certain “I know better than thou” connotation but how is foodie any different?

That’s stuff of revolutions that is. Would it not be if we were in France? But don’t take my word for it, after all it is an English word, I’d love to hear your take on it.

Fun family day in the woods guaranteed?

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“You are your own health and safety” says BBC Master Craftsman Guy Mallinson. Music to my ears. “Place your body sideways otherwise you’ll chop your arm off or cut yourself in half” says bodger Mace Brightwater; that got the kids listening. Despite dealing with blades that make a steak knife appear blunt our family day trying our hand at green woodworking was one of the most relaxing experiences we’ve had in a long time. Warmer than finding fossils on the beach in Normandy  (no fire to warm us up there) and far more rewarding than a day on a beach in the South of France.

We have a tangible memory of our day in the midst of Dorset in the shape of two rounders’ bats for the boys and two wooden spatulas, although they’re a bit square and I’d far rather use spoons but hey I do use them and remember. As for the bats, what can I say? Proud gushing mother says they are beautifully unique. Which they are, full stop. Whether they’re any good I have no idea -French people don’t play rounders- but the boys seem to think they’re great.

So how did we actually make these? Tricky to explain; I did not actually make one myself, my artistic side was too busy taking pictures and my motherly side was so proud to see my eldest son enjoying a pole and lathe far far more than a computer game let alone a book that I simply did not interfere. Nothing to do with the fact that when I tried to strip layers of wood I did not do as well as I thought I would. My romantic notion that ‘if I love arts and crafts then surely I’ll take to it like a duck to water’ was knocked on the head. As my eldest was a natural -Guy did say, so must be true- I thought I’d let him get on with it whilst I just got on with what I do best, look around.

Concentration on people’s faces, my 10 year old son and his father crafting together, kids chatting with their parent, tools borrowed from a neighbour, getting help, asking for advice, proud smiles, giggles when it went a bit pear shaped. I kept being distracted that day. Thing is, once I was no longer making a bat I had no particular reason to listen. So when the birds twittered, I heard them; when I got a bit chilly, I warmed my hands on the open fire and when my son was using a new tool, I studied his hands with my camera.

The setting in the middle of the woods is tranquillity personified. It is so quiet that Mace thinks a pole and lathe is loud when it gets going. He asks us to listen to the noise it makes to ascertain whether it is working OK or not, “if it isn’t, it makes a racket” he says. I was waiting for a loud background noise but you can tell that some of us live in a town whilst others are more used to woods and seaside. This townie found everything oh so quiet and peaceful. The children want to go back for more and their father was the last one to leave. “He’s in the zone” says Guy. My zone had kids trying to catch ducks eggs on a tiny island in the middle of a pond, the sound of a Scout father saying he would recommend the course to his Scout friends, the smell of woodland mixed with smoke and fire, the feel of a perfectly smooth rounders bat made out of sycamore.

It’s not perfect mind. Half way through the morning when I realised that I wasn’t going to get to do much woodworking I did feel a bit put off. I’d spent over £200 on the four of us for the day. On top of that our shaving horse was broken so we could not start straight away. I was getting a bit fidgety and began to think that frankly these things should be checked first. As Mace got a branch, fashioned a footrest and repaired the horse in minutes and as we borrowed each other’s cheap tools (weirdly the expensive ones were in sufficient numbers), I realised that actually the whole experience is not a race or a competition and the most important part of the experience is to slow down, concentrate, observe and simply enjoy each other’s company. And learn a little something on the way. At £55 per person for a day, it’s not a cheap day out but it sure beats a day on a sunny beach and that’s a lot more expensive to guarantee.