Tag: French
As a going-away gift after my stay in her Beine-Nauroy home (about one hundred miles east of Paris), Martine Zabée handed me a ream of paper on which she had copied some pages from a favorite cookbook she enjoyed from the Ardennes region.
“This is a region just north of where we live,” she said. She was out of breath as she had rushed off early that morning to make the copies for me and then returned right before we were to head out of town.
“This may not be precisely from our Champagne Region, but I thought you might appreciate these recipes. We all live so close to each other as neighbors and these recipes are ones I use quite often. These pages are written in the dialect of the Ardennais but if you can get these pages translated, I think you will find a richness of culture bound into every one of these pages. We are not so very different, you see,” she said as she pressed the pages into my arms.
It was almost a year later when my friend and translator, Josiane Selvage, had time to translate the pages Martine had given me, so I had no idea what a gift this truly was. I think you, too, will appreciate them. As an amuse bouche, or a short excerpt to my book, Savoring the Olde Ways, I will begin with this most delightful introduction to the cookbook:
CUISINE DES ARDENNES
By Monique Esquerré-Anciaux
This book comes to you from our marvelous grandmother, who was named Marie-Louise, but was known affectionately by her nickname, Loulou. From all of her kindness, her tenderness, and her skill, she reigned over the old family house…a large house which, with all of its size easily accommodated her fifteen grandchildren. She loved to invite us to gather together for theater or for marionettes, with parts which we played on stilts, in and around the large and small tables, flower stands and vases. And, with the plays, always a “gouters” or an afternoon snack which could only animate her spirited cheerfulness.
How could I ever forget this generous and tender heart? I remember her, small and fine, with her clear blue eyes, as light as her heart, and of her humor, which contrasted surprisingly with her somber figure (the fashion of her time was with discrete colors but my grandmother chose to decorate her neckline with white pearls or with a jet black necklace, which was the only apparent sign of her coquettery). How could I have forgotten her style of a natural quality and her treasures of fantasy, which became the small salt of life?
I also remember her faithful servant, Berthe, with which fell the enormous responsibility of the ovens. As children, we contemplated the beating of the pastry dough with her strong white arms, covered in flour, while taking out of the smoking wood fires the moist cakes, the white rolls fried in butter called ‘lost bread’, the crotté bread or golden brown bread, without ever forgetting the moist cake of Saint Nicolas’s Day! Ah, what a tender evocation!
It was on December 6th, Saint Nicolas’ Day that our grandmother chose to spoil us most. Because of her, Christmas was always a holy, religious holiday, and New Year’s Day was that of the New Year’s gifts, but Saint Nicolas’ Day was especially for the children. That day, Loulou covered the fireplace mantle with a show of toys, delicacies, small animals made with red sugar and figurines made out of gingerbread or chocolate; and when it was all ready, she sat down in her large armchair, close to the hearth, and Berthe, out in the hall, gave the three knocks just as is done in the opera as the curtain begins to rise.
With great emotion, we came down the stairs and lined up, one behind the other, and by row of size. We then crossed the salon to join our grandmother with whom Saint Nicolas had left a large envelope. With a tender but somewhat malicious voice, she read to us from this celestial courier. She transmitted to us congratulations and the small reproaches for unquestionable small misdeeds. We listened to her, most attentive, to her little impressions, but never to homilies. Our turn passed, and with relief, we gave ourselves up, all in a chorus, with the greatest insane laughter. Then, finally, the distribution came of the toys and the little snacks which were quite useful to enervate us which Berthe had prepared.
Thursday after Thursday, holiday after holidays, my grandmother wove the weft of precious and intense moments, into the memories of our childhood. But, will you say, we were talking about the Ardennes, right? Where are they located then? And, invariably, with your hand you will vaguely point out toward an area between the Vosges and the Somme. However, they simply are located in the North-East of France, between the Marne River and Belgium, not at the end of the world.
And, for the recipe? I’m still working on translating the some 300 items in the book. Stay tuned . . . Carole
