On Rue Tatin (21 page)

ABOUT
8
SERVINGS

THIRTEEN
               

The Beauty
Around Us

THE OTHER DAY while I was walking home from taking Joe to school—a ten-minute trip each way through the center of Louviers—I became completely lost in the sky. It was a mosaic of mottled gray with pockets of pale blue, shadows of rose, pillows of billowy white, wavy edges of what I have to call yellow but were really simply pure, almost liquid, light. It was a sky that demanded attention—once I started looking at it I couldn’t look away. It fascinated me as I tried to figure out how to describe it, what to call its colors.

When I was growing up my father, who was a pilot in the air force, described a pale blue sky dashed with pink as “sky blue pink,” a term that I find perfect in its descriptive nature. This sky wasn’t quite that, though it was similar, and I wished I could find a phrase as apt to describe it.

Since living in Normandy I’ve found myself reflecting a great deal on the sky, and on color and light. I didn’t expect to do so. I’ve been in so many places where drama forced reflection, like Montana where the sky makes you feel tiny; in Maine where the play of color off of frigid, steely water and brittle sky pushes you to huddle near the fire; in Washington State’s Skagit Valley where, when the tulips are in bloom, there is so much color you can’t decide whether to embrace it or run from it; or on the ocean off the Alaskan coast where light beams not only from the heavens but from the cracks between the trees and up from the backs of the king salmon that glide through the water. In all of my previous visits to Normandy and its peaceful, bucolic landscape I had always felt a force that drew me back. I now think it was the sky, the color, the light.

I take great comfort from the lushness of Normandy, its green pastures that surround us and run down into the Vallée d’Auge with its low thatched farmhouses; the dark blue coastal waters off Honfleur and Houlgate, Fécamp, and Mont-St-Michel; the blushing reds of the apples that hang heavy in the graceful apple trees from June through September. The colors of land and sea are soothing, calming, constant. Light provides the edge, the excitement, the visceral emotion, a different but distinguishable palette of colors, sensations, and moods every single day.

We have a front row seat for the performance, because the sky and the light play out their daily drama on the church. I can’t count the number of times while we’ve been eating—either outside in our small courtyard, where we are physically dwarfed by the church, or inside in the small dining room whose window looks out into the front yard and at the church—that either Michael or I have called everyone’s attention to the light. It can be breathtaking, too good to miss, too dramatic to overlook, too magical, sometimes, to believe.

Depending on the season, the church might be bathed in light so golden and rich it looks as if a jar of honey had been upended over its carved buttresses. At other times, usually around five
o’clock in the afternoon, it looks like a lacy ballerina dressed in delicate pink, a reflection of the late afternoon sky. The other morning it was light and mottled like the sky, but toward the end of the afternoon on a day that became increasingly cold, it looked like brittle, chilly gray snow.

I frequently glance out the window, memorizing different things in the garden, using the moment away from the computer or pencil and paper for reflection. The other day my eye was pulled to one of the last roses of the season on the bush that climbs up the end of the house as high as the tiny window of Joe’s room on the second floor. Brave and alone it stood out a deep pink, in dramatic contrast to the slice of gray sky behind it between the church’s tower and the building that houses Le Progrès, the café kitty-corner from the house. Across the grass at the outside edge of the garden, on the hedge near the street at the foot of the church hung our last, bright orange
potimarron
, a pear-shaped squash whose plant valiantly climbed up and out of the garden to the very top of the hedge. The
potimarron
itself was so heavy it seemed to defy gravity, hanging there like a vivid, overgrown ornament on a Christmas tree. I knew I should pick it so we could enjoy its sweet, chestnut-flavored flesh, but if I did that I’d miss its brave spot of color.

Our modest patch of grass, which is about twenty feet square (except that it isn’t quite square), is at its most gorgeous, engorged with rain and almost kelly green from the late autumn sun, which has been particularly abundant this year. I love its color now, in contrast to the deeper, darker green of summer when it is fed with sun but more starved for water. I do miss our summer flowers, however, which grow well in our soil, and so they should. For years—hundreds I believe—our front garden was cultivated by the Sisters of Mercy, and rows of vegetables went from the front door around the old lady of the garden—our apple tree—right to the edge of the property, which was once bordered by a high brick wall and is now bordered by a hedge and a metal fence.

Our neighbors the florists remember the sisters’ vegetable garden in recent times. They also remember the gradual decrepitude that took over the garden after the house was purchased by the woman we bought it from. The trees withstood the neglect, though they grew droopy and sad. The soil itself seemed to wither, for it was nearly dead when we took over and the few things we planted in it had a hard time maturing. We collected compost from a farmer who lives in Surtauville, a village about fifteen minutes from us, and dug it into the garden the first winter. By spring and planting time the soil already had a new look to it, and that year vegetables and flowers were stronger, more vibrant. We have repeated the composting nearly every year, so that now whatever we plant thrives.

I indulge myself without hesitation in the bachelor buttons,
capucines
(nasturtiums),
soucis
(calendula),
nigella
(love-in-a-mist), dahlias (such generous plants), and cosmos that I love to pick for bouquets. The
hortensias
, or hydrangeas, planted on either side of the “holy stone” were malingering when we bought the house and they are now productively purple and white. The lilies of the valley sprout up under them, waxy and pure, around the first of May and a variety of other lilies bloom later in the year. I planted white strawberry plants, which have run rampant, their lush, dark green leaves creating a bumpy blanket under the pear tree. Unfortunately they yield a mere handful of berries. Michael thinks they are a space waster and he’s right, yet that handful of berries is so ethereally flavored, so tender and juicy, so unlike anything that can be purchased anywhere that I can’t bear to give them up. I keep thinking one day I’ll have space to let them really go, and time to tend them, so their production will increase.

We also have ruby chard, sorrel,
mesclun
, and a variety of other lettuces including butter lettuce and gorgeous red oak leaf lettuce, which I plant on the border of the garden. There they look like giant flowers against the black soil. We eat their leaves all summer and into the winter—I pick from them selectively the way a deer nibbles on plants, just the most tender leaves for salad, so that they provide for a long time. I also have domesticated and wild arugula growing up around the trunks of the espaliered apples, curly endive, tarragon, several sage varieties, and a whole garden full of different mints. I have sweet cicely and garlic chives, thyme and oregano, fennel and salad burnet, and other herbs that are essential for good eating. They and the flowers mix in the garden in a wonderful blend of colors and textures. Around mid-summer when the plants are healthiest the harsh summer sun bounces off them. That same sun a month later, in the fall, enfolds them at different times of the day to create innumerable and intense contrasts.

The espaliered apple trees we planted to shield us from our neighbors are young and healthy, their leaves at this late autumn date a deep, even green. The leaves on the elderly apple and pear trees, however, are starting to turn pale, and it is only a matter of a few short weeks before they will be the first to denude themselves and show their graceful skeletons. Then the light plays around their gnarled bones like a squirrel running around the branches, and their shadows go from graceful to snaky.

During the Middle Ages when our church, Notre Dame de Louviers, was built—it took two hundred years to construct, so its architectural style meanders from the Romanesque to the Gothic—churches were painted gaily, like birthday cakes. Vestiges of the vivid colors that once covered it remain, and on cloudy days they are easiest to see, for bright sun makes them fade away. To see the colors I have just to look at the large door across from my window where a statue of the Virgin stands, hip cocked to hold the infant Jesus. Her robes are generous folds of corn yellow, her upper garments show pale blue, above and behind her head is a patch of pale rose, and next to that are hints of royal blue and gold.

Few people are aware of the whisper of colors still on the church, but how could they be? The colors are almost impossible to see unless you really search the statue and doorway in certain light, and we are the only people in town who have the luxury to do so from just the right perspective. To the casual observer the doorway in question is simply gray and black, lost to soot. We hope that some of the money available to shore up the church, which is sagging in parts and leaking in others, will be appropriated to bring back the rich old colors that remain. A costly laser process exists that magically uncovers old paint—we saw its results on the cathedral of Amiens to the north, and we hope it will be used one day in Louviers.

Normandy is known for being a rainy region, a reputation not entirely undeserved. For former Seattlites like us, however, the rain here is nothing. Even when it’s a
temps de cochon
, or “pig weather,” and the rain is tumbling from the sky, there is tangible light that minimizes the grayness. When it is soft and misty, walking in it is like getting a facial.

When the torrents fall and the temperature is truly bone-chillingly cold even the Norman light can’t warm it up, and the best place to be is inside. January and February are the hardest months, for dark descends in mid-afternoon and the evenings are long and cold. A favorite way of warding off the chill is for Michael to build a fire in the dining room fireplace and for me to put chestnuts in a pan and set it over the flames. Then I serve soup—golden orange pumpkin, which looks like the sun in a bowl, or mixed vegetable potage redolent of bay leaf and thyme, or rich and subtle creamed turnip soup. Sometimes we have a loaf of Michael’s bread with a vegetable frittata, or a goat cheese sauce over steamed vegetables and a fresh
baguette
and salad. For dessert I make
clafoutis
, just like a true Normande. This fruit-filled pan cake is the most common of winter desserts. I fill it with pears or apples or, like my friend and neighbor Nadine Devisme, raisins soaked in rum. If it is Tuesday night, which is like Friday night for us, since Joe doesn’t have school on Wednesday, we either invite friends over for supper, sit near the fire and play cards or a
jeu de société
, a board game, or sit on the couch and read a book out loud.

Fortunately the dark days of winter don’t last too long in Normandy. By March spring has arrived, the skies have cleared, and we’re looking forward to another whole year of stunning Norman light and sky.

CREAM OF TURNIP SOUP
SOUPE DE NAVETS À LA CRÈME

I like to make this soup on cool early-winter evenings when dark descends early and we light a fire in the dining room fireplace. The soup is as comforting as it is delicious. Even Joe likes it! To keep the flavor subtle you must use baby turnips, and be sure to remove their skin.

2 tablespoons/30g unsalted butter

1 small onion, diced

2 pounds/1kg fresh baby turnips, trimmed, peeled, and diced

11/2 cups/375ml light veal stock

11/2 cups/375ml bottled water

2 dried, imported bay leaves

Fine sea salt

3/4 cup/185ml
crème fraîche
or heavy cream, preferably not ultra-pasteurized

1. Place the butter, onion, and turnips in a large, heavy-
bottomed saucepan over medium heat and cook until the onions and the turnips are translucent, stirring occasionally so they don’t stick, for about 15 minutes. Add the veal stock and the water, stir, and add the bay leaves and salt to taste. Increase the heat to medium-high and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat so the liquid is at a lively simmer and cook, covered, until the turnips are very tender, 25 to 30 minutes.

2. Remove the bay leaves and purée the soup. Whisk in the
crème fraîche
so the soup is slightly foamy (or use a wand blender to incorporate the cream), season to taste with salt, and serve.

4
TO
6
SERVINGS

SWISS CHARD FRITTATA
FRITTATA AUX BLETTES

I always plant ruby chard in my garden—I can’t imagine a garden without its dramatic presence. Its stems are blood red, its generous, wavy leaves a deep green veined with the same vivid red, so intense it vibrates among the nasturtiums and lettuces, the tomatoes and the fennel. It is as delicious as it is ornamental. I pick the first, newest leaves to add to salads, then as it gets larger and more fleshy I cook it, using it in soups, stews, and often all on its own seasoned simply with garlic and toasted bread crumbs. This frittata is one of my favorite ways to use it, for it makes a wonderfully robust appetizer that pleases everyone—it is the only food, I think, that I have never had anyone of any age
turn down. Joe loves it and comes back for serving after
serving!

It is best served at room temperature, with a Languedoc red.

1 garlic clove, minced

2 tablespoons/30ml extra-virgin olive oil

1 pound/500g ruby or regular green Swiss chard, stems removed, leaves cut in 1/2-inch/1.3cm strips

6 large eggs

1/4 teaspoon sea salt