from the heart...

Unseasonably warm weather these days – French radio talks about Al Gore’s film which is making a big impression here. The Mistral is blowing hard today but the sun shines on the vineyards & olive trees of Provence like a blessing from above.

I wanted to buy some special olive oil to bring home but the good stuff is no longer on the shelves. ’05 is sold out & they’re crushing the olives now for ‘06. Friends tell me that AOC isn’t necessarily what it should be; a scandal in France; the producers cheat & mix in cheaper oils; one must learn from insiders which oils are not blended. Meanwhile, I visited a local producer where the olive oil master told me that olive oil does not keep; it must be used right away. “We only produce enough for one year,” he said. “It’s fruit juice, after all.”

The wines are good, however; haven’t tasted one I didn’t enjoy, & the olive oils, blended or not, are delicious. I won’t mention the bread anymore. I’m bringing that home on my hips, & what I put on the bread on my belly.

Last week at the farmers’ market in Uzes I spotted the fresh mushroom stand & stared at the ugly, gnarled, gigantic cêpes that had been picked in the forest that morning. 19 Euro for a kilo! The season, I’m told, lasts but two weeks, so one must eat them now for best results, or wait until next year, so I did not hesitate. I watched an elderly man select half a dozen particularly large ones & asked him how he prepared them. Not only did he tell me but he helped me pick out two of the large creatures, with heads the size of cabbages, for myself. His hands were dark, knobby & gnarled like the cêpes he turned over & examined carefully; his pale blue eyes twinkled with the pleasure of helping a stranger to enjoy the great produce of his country. He nodded & smiled assuring me that I was getting the best advice.

At home later, I followed his instructions; brushed them clean, placed them in a baking dish upside down, that is, head down & stem up, with a little butter & olive oil & baked for about 30 minutes.

He told me to sprinkle them with parsley, which I forgot to do but I’m sure it didn’t matter. The result was brilliant; pure mushroom, like none I had ever tasted. The accordion-like underside of the cap had turned into a soft spongy soufflé of mushroom; the meaty flesh of the cap & stem was tender & tasted of pure mushroom essence; the juices that oozed out & flowed into the butter & oil were intoxicating mushroom elixir. It ate my feast slowly, with a knife & fork, my eyes closed in ecstasy.

And as if that wasn’t enough, I had also purchased some fresh scallops at the market that morning. They came with the little orange morsel that’s so tasty too. I sautéed them quickly with some of the juices from the cêpes’ baking dish, & that, with a small green salad & a glass of red, was dinner.

The smooth, buttery textures of the cepes & of the scallops were similar; both slid over my tongue & melted in my mouth imparting distinct flavors of earth & sea. Coarse salt from the Camargue, rich fruity olive oil from Les Baux, a glass of Côtes du Rhone Villages from what is practically my own back yard… a great meal from the heart of Provence.