PicoBlog

Oh, June—you arrive on the veil of a Strawberry Moon this weekend, and the whole promise of summer trails like a starry night sky. I sleep well during these

days as the clouds muffle the faraway cities with only Blackbird and his flitting mates disturbing me. The garden is silently growing, filling in bare spaces with ‘big as plates’ pumpkin leaves, and delicate buckwheat, sown just minutes ago, is flowering amongst the artichokes and nasturtiums.  This is my dream come true. A flourishing’ forest garden’, spilling from the rigid raised squares, softening the edges of the lawn, letting dormant seeds claim some space for their own— a singular bee orchid, dock and nettle side by side, raspberries shouldering dill and brambles, a weedy sorrel going to seed for next year’s sauces, and a surprising cluster of 5-foot tall red poppies prop up the heather fence- the first I have ever seen bloom at Camont in over 30 years.

All this excitement came on the heels of the RHS Chelsea Garden Show, where weeds and negative spaces became the darlings of trends as if my own deliberate effort to let the edges of Camont’s garden go a little wild led the way. Whereas my ‘cooking garden’ unnecessarily plumps up my market shopping here in France, it does imperatively ground me to the arriving seasons as seed turns to sprout to plant to flower to courgette to gratin. Anticipating what will be ripe for plucking is as much of a pleasure as the actual harvest; while I often admonish that “Shopping is Cooking,” I can now add, “Gardening is Shopping.”

Long inspired by Robert A de J Harts’s seminal 1991 book “Forest Gardening- Rediscovering Nature and Community in a Post-Industrial Age” (available used and digitally), I began by introducing some edible perennials and herbs to some newly created haphazard beds built on sticks and twigs, compost and mulch- a sort of Hugel-light kulture. Then we (my Working Resident garden helpers execute while I direct these days) left off mowing but enough rose-ringed space for a metal table and chair under the acacia tree and swooping some 5-foot wide paths connecting the destination dots: La Cabane, the Basse-Cour, Lisa’s Garden, the Hammock, the Petanque Court. It was, in fact, just a few months ago, in February, as I looked at some extended convalescence for foot surgery (ouch!), and knowing that my own mobility would be limited to pointing and encouraging, that I decided to return to my early source of inspiration for this old 18th-century farmhouse— “What would Monsieur Dupuy do?” 

In his day, there would have been cows and ducks, chickens and goats, and rabbits in hutches against the stone walls for winter protection. Beans and pumpkins would sprawl in harmony as corn grew tall for animal feed—all New World food in this pocket of Old World living. As the shadow of the old moon cradled in the arms of the new visible around the 20th of this month, I continue living a new life in the shadow of the old at Camont even after all these years. My kitchen has always echoed what I imagined life was like here so long ago under his watchful eye—simple, direct, ephemeral.

Now, as I look around the edges of Camont’s acre-plus, I see the promise of that silver spoon in June (bees swarming), under a Strawberry Moon (this Saturday), and singing a Summer Tune (on the Fête de la Musique- Solstice eve).

Looking forward is not just for the young, nor is looking back just the elder’s gift. I like these seasonal cycles as reminders that “here we go again!” --time to hold on and go with the flow and to plan ahead for what will come next, as every June is the beginning of abundance that calls for serious kitchen planning. In this month’s A Gascon Year issue- Juin (a bonus for paying subscribers and available below the paywall), you can see just that. AGY was one good product of our rural covid lockdown; for an entire year, my dear friend Elaine Tin Nyo gathered and curated stories and recipes, one month at a time, culled from a couple of decades of writing on my blog and in books. It seemed a folie at the time, but as I revisit each month now, I am grateful for the energy devoted to matching photographs and recipes, a sort of digital dumpster dive, that Elaine managed to make look like there was always this plan. 

A Gascon Year, the monthly series, is part of the rewards for subscribing as a paid supporter. The downloadable PDF of this month’s issue is just below the paywall.  If you aren’t a paid subscriber but would like to have a copy of this issue or any so far, you can buy them independently on my website here.

So June. Oh, musical June! Each year, when the tracks of French sunshine peak at 15 and a half hours of daylight, the sun rising at 6:15 and setting at 21:45 pm, I am solar saturated with a sort of preserving panic to capture the sweet fruit and sunny days in canning jars and odd glasses and old bottles. This year, like in my garden efforts, I am trying a different tack that reflects my hampered stamina. I look to see how I can instead munch my way through the garden, a modest handful of greens at a time, preparing one meal, one garden drink, every afternoon. I eschew the pantry hoarding of the past and promise to collect a few essential prizes—those solitary stemmed cherries in a jar of kirsch-like brandy, one strict batch of vin de noix—green walnut wine, and, of course, just a few meager jars of apricot jam. Okay, make it a dozen. 

Of all the June foods and ways, I celebrate those most summery and ephemeral of recipes—featuring abundant eggs, soft stone fruit, and the barest amount of sugar to declare this a dessert rather than breakfast. Clafoutis is always paired with cherries now, but I use fully ripe apricots and white peaches—the first of June’s stone fruit- often avoiding the unnecessary “to pit to not to pit” chitchat. (My solution? Do what you like…) This is my go-to recipe, simplified to a formula of one tablespoon of flour and sugar for each egg plus enough milk to make a thin batter. I like cooking like this, and it reminds me that I don’t always need a book or recipe, just a bit of coaching. Try it and see.

Both custard and cake, this eggy dessert is a favorite in France, especially throughout the Gascon countryside. In the north of France, clafoutis is made with cherries in season, pears, or other fruit. But in Gascony, where succulent preserved plums abound year-round, the jam-like texture of slow-baked prunes steeped in Armagnac adds a chewy richness to this homey dessert. In mid-summer, I’ll choose ripe apricots over prunes.

SERVES 4-6

• 1 tablespoon butter

• 1/2 lb (225 g) soft pitted prunes, or other ripe fruit (plums, cherries, figs, peaches, apricots)

• 1/4 cup (2 fl oz/60 ml) Armagnac, rum or brandy

• 5 tablespoons flour

• 5 tablespoons sugar

• 5 eggs

• 3 cups (24 fl oz/720 ml) milk

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Butter a shallow one and a 1/2-quart baking dish and powder with sugar or flour.

Prepare fruit—halve, remove pits, peel as necessary, and sprinkle with the armagnac, brandy, or rum.

In a large bowl, mix the flour and sugar. Beat the eggs in another bowl. Pour the beaten eggs into the flour and sugar and, with a whisk, add the milk little by little until all is well mixed.

Arrange the ripe fruit in the pan in an even layer. Pour any leftover Armagnac into the batter and mix.

Pour the batter carefully around and over the fruit without disturbing them.

Bake for 35-45 minutes or until just set. A knife inserted in the center of the pan comes out clean. Cool completely and serve from the pan or unmold on a serving platter. This will be just as delicious served the next day as the fruit continues to perfume the “cake.” 

For those paying subscribers, continue reading and downloading the PDF of A Gascon Year Juin.

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