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“For them I learned to be a mother again, cooking pancakes and thick herb-and-apple sausages. I made jam for them from figs and green tomatoes and sour cherries and quinces. I let them play with the little brown mischievous goats and feed them crusts and pieces of carrot. We fed the hens, stroked the soft noses of the ponies, collected sorrel for the rabbits. I showed them the river and how to reach the sunny sandbanks. I warned them- with such a catch in my heart- of the dangers, the snakes, roots, eddies, quicksand, made them promise never, never to swim there. I showed them the woods beyond, the best places to find mushrooms, the ways of telling the fake chanterelle from the true, the sour bilberries growing wild under the thicket.”

GrandmotherGrandchildrenCountry LifeRusticFrench Cooking
Book:Five Quarters of the Orange
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“My life in the kitchen began with my grandmother in the village of Champvert in the Tarn-et-Garonne department of southwestern France, the town so small you'd need a magnifying glass to find it on the map. I'd sit on a tall wooden stool, wide-eyed, watching Grand-mère Odette in her navy-blue dress and black ballerina flats, her apron adorned with les coquelicots (wild red poppies), mesmerized by the grace with which she danced around her kitchen, hypnotized by all the wonderful smells- the way the aromas were released from the herbs picked right from her garden as she chopped, becoming stronger as she set them in an olive oiled and buttered pan. She'd dip a spoon in a pot or slice up an onion in two seconds, making it look oh so easy, and for her it was. But my favorite part was when she'd let me taste whatever delight she was cooking up, sweet or savory. I'd close my eyes, lick my lips, and sigh with happiness. Sometimes Grand-mère Odette would blindfold me, and it wasn't long before I could pick out every ingredient by smell. All the other senses came to me, too- sight (glorious plating), taste (the delight of the unknown), touch (the way a cherry felt in my hand), and hearing (the way garlic sizzled in the pan).”

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Book:The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux
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“Mirepoix. She thought the word to herself, rolling it around in her mind. Mirepoix, mirepoix, mirepoix. Cajun "Holy Trinity"- onions, celery, and carrots, diced fine, heated to savory sweet, and left to bring magic to whatever dish they were added into. No doubt about it, this was going to be great. Almost holy. With a little bread and red wine- body and blood of Christ- she might make up for years of not going to mass. Either way, they'd go great with the meal.”

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Book:The Cookbook Club: A Novel of Food and Friendship
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“My passion for cooking grew as my mother taught me how to make her chewy cranberry bread, Dijon mustard vinaigrette, and Nantucket quahog chowder thickened with chopped clams, potatoes, and sweet onions. Then it reached new heights in college when I took a year off to study French cooking at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, where I learned to master a mean spinach soufflé, make a perfect sauce Bordelaise, and craft authentic shiny chocolate-topped éclairs. When I was hired as the sous-chef at Le Potiron (The Pumpkin), a Parisian restaurant near Les Halles, I used my newfound skills to transform tough cuts of beef into tender stews, improvise with sweetbreads, and bake cakes from memory.”

CookingExperiencesFrench Cooking
Book:Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto
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“Onion soup, the food of the poor, but delicious for all that. Fresh baguettes from the bakers. Madam Gascon's ragout would usually consist of pig's trotters, vegetables, and whatever seasonings she had. Food that was as cheap as it was healthy. But today, there were morsels of beef swimming in a sauce that was thicker than they had tasted in a long while, Then, there was a camembert and a goat cheese and a hard gruyere, all washed down with cheap red wine.”

French CookingRagout
Book:Paris
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“Chef explained some of the fresh products they'd use in their prized regional dishes, which we'd soon be cooking too: the smooth Niçoise olives and the lovely fruity oil; bouquets of zucchini flowers, born to become fritters; fresh almonds; more cheeses than there are days in the year; eggs with yolks the color of the Côte d'Azur sun; and, of course, the butteriest of butters. He said there is a seasonality and simplicity at work, which is why French recipes don't change: "A classic is always timely." To think, I went from Bubbe's chicken schmaltz to Mom's low-cal Pam spray, and now this man with a frying pan for a face and a banana for a nose is suddenly telling me it's all about the butter.”

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Book:Off Menu
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