Picnic in Provence Quotes

“Home can be something as vast as a country, as holy as a temple, or as simple as a cake.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“A baby is a wishing well. Everyone puts their hopes, their fears, their pasts, their two cents in.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“We've been here dozen of times since we met, but this precious month before the baby is born feels like a last first date. There's a different kind of romance beginning. We will never again be entirely alone in the world”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“I’m a perfectionist, which means I am often ungrateful.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“If I can stand the suspense, life never gives me exactly what I want—it gives me something better.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“I live three thousand miles away from my mother. But no matter how far away, I'm still hers. I'm brave in the ways she's made me brave and scared in the ways she's made me scared. I'll never belong to anyone the way I belong to her.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“If I think about it, there's almost no one we know who hasn't contributed in some way. The logo--- Scaramouche with his sword inside an ice cream swirl--- was done by a local graphic designer, the husband of the director of the village crèche. The sewing lady across the street made the cushions for the bench inside the shop. We get the three-liter bidons of fruity olive oil for our rosemary-olive oil-pine nut ice cream at the butcher, and the saffron, bien sûr, from Didier and Martine in Reillane. Mr. Simondi, whose farm is down the hill near Marion, has promised to hand-pick our melons for sorbet when the time comes. Angela has become our gardener in chief, making sure the terrace is full of bright spring flowers.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“The honey-and-thyme ice cream was a hit, and so was the pastis sorbet. We decided we needed to change the name of our ras-el-hanout ice cream with grilled almonds. Even the adults wrinkled their noses at the idea of couscous-spice ice cream, but everyone loved it when it was called One Thousand and One Nights. The kids were attracted to the bright colors, so in addition to the strawberry sorbet (Gwendal was right), we had a lot of takers for our fuchsia beetroot sorbet.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Turns out there are cultural differences even in ice cream. Gwendal thinks our freshly churned strawberry ice cream doesn't have enough fruit to bear that name; I think it's heavenly. Apparently the French like their strawberry in the form of a hot-pink sorbet. I prefer this, dense and creamy. The taste of the raw milk--- even after a whirl in the pasteurizer--- really comes through. I'd like to congratulate the cows. The color is the faintest blush of pink studded with chunks of ripe red strawberry that resist under your teeth.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“The road to the strawberry farm was magnificent, lined with cherry trees in full flower. Red earth, blue sky, and, in between, the shimmering movement of millions of white blossoms shaking softly in the breeze. The strawberry man was, as Angela would put it, "a thinking woman's crumpet"--- late twenties with a dark crew cut, tanned shoulders, and firm but not gaudy muscles on display in a dusty green tank top. I had a brief image of some kind of calendar: Sexy Farmers of Provence. Hello, Mr. May.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“While Lisa prepared lunch, I took it upon myself to smell each and every truffle we'd found that morning. Some were sweet and firm, and some smelled more of vinegar--- maybe they were under-ripe. Some were grassy, herblike. There were mineral elements--- quartz and slate. As I went through the pile, the associations mounted. Did I smell pine needles? Blueberries? The more I sniffed, the weirder it became. What did that sweet starchy smell remind me of? That's it--- the beginning of a good rice pudding.
Lisa was cleaning the truffles with what looked like a boot brush, and as she massaged gently, the chocolate-colored soil gave way to cratered geological black; the truffle looked like a tiny meteor.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“The French take their bûche de Noël, the traditional Christmas Yule log cake, much more seriously. Gwendal had been training at school, and he came back with snapshots of his gleaming white glaçage, slick as black ice, decorated with a forest of bitty spun-sugar pine trees and spotted meringue mushrooms. Who knew my husband had such talents? I was bordering on jealous when he came home with a foolproof recipe for proper Parisian macaroons. We decided to use one of our signature flavors, honey and fresh thyme, for the outside of our bûche, with a layer of tonka-bean mousse and a center of apricot sorbet for acidity and pizzazz.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Unlike me, my mother loves plums. This, coupled with some leftover red wine, leads to a fruitful development. I roasted the plums in a medium oven with the wine, added a split vanilla bean, a cinnamon stick, and the tiniest bit of sugar. The plums gave way, exchanging the springiness for a comforting sag. The wine bubbled into a spiced burgundy syrup, thick and glossy. I served it with faiselle, a mild spoonable cheese, though I sense that sour cream, Greek yogurt, or mascarpone wouldn't go amiss.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“In my opinion, almost nothing improves a good carrot cupcake, but this recipe changed my mind. I tasted something similar at a small farmer's market; a young woman was selling dense carrot muffins along with her homemade saffron syrup and apricot-saffron jam. Her secret: infuse the eggs with the saffron the night before you want to bake. I don't usually organize my baking twenty-four hours in advance, so I tried adding saffron on the day and it still works wonders--- the subtle perfume infuses the cupcakes perfectly. These are terrific without the icing for breakfast or a lunchbox, but I have a love affair with cream-cheese frosting, so why not gild the lily.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“SAFFRON SUMMER COMPOTE
Compote de Pêches aux Safran

A few threads of saffron add depth--- maybe even a little fancy-pants--- to this summer compote. I make mine with a mix of white and yellow peaches and juicy nectarines, whatever I have on hand. Top your morning yogurt, layer in a parfait, or serve with a slice of pound cake and a dollop of crème fraîche. When I get my canning act together, this is what I'm going to make, jars and jars of golden days to last me through the chill of winter.

2 pounds of slightly overripe fruit (a mix of peaches, nectarines, and apricots)
1 tablespoon of raw sugar
2 good pinches of saffron

Cut the fruit into 1-inch cubes. I don't especially feel the need to peel. In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine the fruit and sugar. Bring to a boil, stir in the saffron, and let simmer over low heat until thickened and slightly reduced; mine took about 40 minutes. Serve warm or cold.

Serves 6-8”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“When we arrived, the wooden picnic table on the porch was already covered with crates of delicate purple crocuses, the remains of yesterday's haul. So this is where my saffron comes from; the spice is actually the stigma (the pollen trap) of the flower.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“The description is a good one--- saffron's reddish-golden glow is very much my idea of sunshine in a bottle. Good saffron is sweet and spicy at the same time; Didier and Martine's smells faintly of dried peaches and cedarwood.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“I checked the fridge twice. I want everything to be beautiful. Tomatoes, a whole shelf of fresh peaches, peach compote, ginger root, lemons, red onions, and a ripening melon.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“There's no messing with perfection. (Okay, a little messing, just for fun.) A few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil, and a sprig or two of purple basil. Sliced and layered in a white ceramic dish, the tomatoes often match the hues of the local sunsets--- reds and golds, yellows and pinks. If there were such a thing in our house as "too pretty to eat," this would be it. Thankfully, there's not.
If I'm not exactly cooking, I have done some impromptu matchmaking: baby tomatoes with smoked mozzarella, red onions, fennel, and balsamic vinegar. A giant yellow tomato with a local sheep's milk cheese and green basil. Last night I got a little fancy and layered slices of beefsteak tomato with pale green artichoke puree and slivers of Parmesan. I constructed the whole thing to look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I love to think of the utterly pretentious name this would be given in a trendy Parisian bistro:
Millefeuille de tomate provençale, tapenade d'artichaut et coppa de parmesan d'Italie (AOC) sur son lit de salade, sauce aigre douce aux abricots.
And of course, since this is a snooty Parisian bistro and half their clientele are Russian businessmen, the English translation would be printed just below:
Tomato napoleon of artichoke tapenade and aged Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese on a bed of mixed greens with sweet-and-sour apricot vinaigrette.
The sauce abricot was a happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since I didn't realize my mistake until it was at the bottom of the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with Dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice--- much sweeter than a French vinaigrette, more like an American-style honey Dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because, believe it or not, Parisian bistros love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris in the past five years will note the rise of le Tchizzberger. (That's bistro for "cheeseburger.")
I'm moderate in my use of social media, but I can't stop taking pictures of the tomatoes. Close up, I've taken to snapping endless photos of the voluptuously rounded globes. I rejoice in the mingling of olive oil and purply-red flesh. Basil leaves rest like the strategically placed tassels of high-end strippers. Crystals of sea salt catch the afternoon sun like rhinestones under the glaring lights of the Folies Bergère. I may have invented a whole new type of food photography: tomato porn.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“The Provençal tomato is a thing of wonder--- it can be as small as a marble, large as a human heart, red like a valentine, yellow like a sunflower, pale green like a brand-new leaf, orange like the sun in a child's drawing. My favorite is the noire de Crimée, a tomato that's purply-olive, like seaweed seen through moving water.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Just as the first sun-kissed apricots arrive at the market, lavender fields all over Provence are bursting into bloom. They are a perfect pair.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Mushroom hunting in Provence is veiled in secrecy, second only to truffle hunting in the level of dissimulation and suspicion it inspires. If you are lucky enough to find a good spot, you might unearth skinny yellow and black trompettes de la mort (trumpets of death) or flat meaty pleurots (oyster mushrooms) or even small spongelike black morels. If you are not sure exactly what you've found, you can take your basket to the local pharmacy, and the pharmacist will help you sort the culinary from the potentially deadly--- it's part of their training.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Gwendal and I wanted the garden to retain some of its disorder, some of its surprises. He had trimmed the rosebushes in the fall. Jewel-like buds, round and tight, had begun to form on the branches; a bed of tiny violets grew at their base. The new mint, insistent as a hormonal teenage boy, began to poke through in inch-high sprouts. We had never seen the garden at this season before. I rubbed a sage leaf between my fingers; the musky oil stuck to my skin. I'd like to greet the unknown with pleasure. If I could just manage my fear, there might be something wondrous about not knowing what will pop up next.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“When we'd arrived in Céreste, our neighbor Arnaud said we should go to the Musée de Salagon, in Mane. In addition to its twelfth-century church and Gallo-Roman ruins, the museum has a wonderful medieval garden. The monks used these herbs to heal as well as to flavor. I've met many people in Provence who use herbal remedies, not because it's trendy, but because it's what their grandmothers taught them. My friend Lynne puts lavender oil on bug bites to reduce the swelling; I recently found Arnaud on his front steps tying small bundles of wild absinthe, which he burns to fumigate the house. Many of the pharmacies in France still sell licorice root for low blood pressure. We drink lemon verbena herbal tea for digestion.
I also like the more poetic symbolism of the herbs. I'm planting sage for wisdom, lavender for tenderness (and, according to French folklore, your forty-sixth wedding anniversary), rosemary for remembrance. Thyme is for courage, but there is also the Greek legend that when Paris kidnapped Helen of Troy, each tear that fell to the ground sprouted a tuft of thyme. All things being equal, I prefer courage to tears in my pot roast.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“I ripped off fresh mint leaves for tea, dill to stuff inside whole fish, flat-leaf parsley and sprigs of thyme for my braised beef, cilantro for my chicken tagine. In the spring, I waited patiently for slim blades of chive to appear for my swordfish tartare. In the summer, I bought bunches of purple basil for a tomato salad.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“There was a bustle of people in the street as I made my way to La Bonbonnière, which is, quite simply, the most beautiful candy store in the world.
The best thing about La Bonbonnière is that it's all windows. Before I even walk through the door I am greeted by a fuzzy three-foot-high statue of a polar bear trying to dip his paws into a copper cauldron filled with marrons glacés--- whole candied chestnuts. Each one was meticulously wrapped in gold foil, a miniature gift in and of itself. If nothing else, Christmas in Provence reminds you of a time when sugar was a luxury as fine and rare as silk.
Back to my assignment: I needed two kinds of nougat: white soft nougat made with honey, almonds, and fluffy egg whites (the angel's part) and hard dark nougat--- more like honey almond brittle--- for the devil.
Where are the calissons d'Aix? There they are, hiding behind the cash register, small ovals of almond paste covered with fondant icing. Traditional calissons are flavored with essence of bitter almond, but I couldn't resist some of the more exotic variations: rose, lemon verbena, and génépi, an astringent mountain herb.
Though I love the tender chew of nougat and the pliant sweetness of marzipan, my favorite of the Provençal Christmas treats is the mendiant--- a small disk of dark or milk chocolate topped with dried fruit and nuts representing four religious orders: raisins for the Dominicans, hazelnuts for the Augustinians, dried figs for the Franciscans, and almonds for the Carmelites. When Alexandre is a bit older, I think we'll make these together. They seem like an ideal family project--- essentially puddles of melted chocolate with fruit and nut toppings. See, as soon as you say "puddles of melted chocolate," everyone's on board.
Though fruits confits--- candied fruit--- are not, strictly speaking, part of les trieze desserts, I can't resist. I think of them as the crown jewels of French confiserie, and Apt is the world capital of production. Dipped in sugar syrup, the fruits become almost translucent; whole pears, apricots, and strawberries glow from within like the gems in a pirate's treasure chest. Slices of kiwi, melon, and angelica catch the light like the panes of a stained-glass window. All the dazzling tastes of a Provençal summer, frozen in time.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“You know it's Christmas in France when the refrigerator looks like this: the fruit drawer is full of cheese, the cheese drawer is full of foie gras, the four bottles of water on the door have been replaced with champagne, and the lettuce (wrapped loosely in a dish towel) is wedged in over two broad, beady-eyed live crabs (nicknamed Gérard and Gaston).”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful.
When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare.
It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream.
I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really.
I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“A fresh fig is a coy fruit. Fresh figs hide out a bit. Their exterior is sober, matte--- a dignified, often dusky, royal purple. But crack one open, and you have a pulpy, fleshy kaleidoscope of seeds. A ripe fig, like the cheeks of a well-fed child, should give slightly when you squeeze.
Figs make an excellent transition from summer to autumn cuisine. This is particularly useful this time of year in Provence, when we are eating in the garden one day, turning on the heat the next.
Fresh figs are at home alfresco, in a rocket salad with Golden Delicious apples, pine nuts, and picnic cheeses or roasted with slices of Roquefort and a drizzle of honey to begin a fall fireside dinner.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“WHITE PEACH AND BLUEBERRY SALAD WITH ROSE SYRUP
Salade de Pêches Blanches à la Rose

It's nearly impossible to improve on the white peaches in Provence, but I did find a bottle of locally made rose syrup in the boulangerie that piqued my interest. This makes a quick but surprisingly elegant dessert for guests.

4 perfectly ripe white peaches, cut into 1/2-inch slices
1 cup blueberries
1-2 teaspoons rose syrup

Combine all the ingredients.

Serves 4.


Tip: Rose syrup is available online and from some specialty supermarkets. A small bottle will keep forever in the fridge. You can use it to make champagne cocktails or raspberry smoothies, or to flavor a yogurt cake. You may find rosewater, which is unsweetened (and very concentrated), at a Middle Eastern grocery. Use it sparingly (a few drops plus 1 or 2 teaspoons of sugar for this recipe), otherwise your fruit salad will taste like soap.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes