Tillers and Tastebuds

Hooray! Hooray! the sun has got his hat on - another food blog from Lucie

Spring look inside Body&Soul

Don't forget to click on any of these photos to get a larger version - much clearer, you'll see!

 

How delicious after all the rain and recent fairly violent storms to awaken to the sun dappled ceiling on our cosy barge.  There is no denying it has a magical effect on the soul.  Even the slightly rundown aspect of Castelsarrasin blossoms into romantic shabby chic under it's warm golden light. Good or bad weather always has the effect of inspiring me to cook something.  Cooking is a joyous experience.  Of course, I can only speak for myself.  It cheers me up when the weather is cold and grey and engenders a celebration of the happiness that always occurs when sun follows rain.

As previously mentioned, one of the special delights of our life in France is sharing the passion for food that its people have for their bountiful local and regional products.  I recently listened to a radio program on Europe 1 debate on the lack of family life, no more shared meals, the increase in ready-made microwave food.  The dulling that occurs within a family unit due to the influence of the TV blaring and droning on thoughout the day and night, overtaking and drowning all that is stimulating between people.  The loss of the small local town specialist food shops closing because of the giant crushing steps of the supermarkets chains. There are still more family run shops in the towns in France than in the UK, but one wonders how long this will last when this generation of shopkeepers are no longer. 

The local markets continue to thrive once and sometimes twice a week.  It is true to say that some of the stallholders are only selling produce bought from a wholesaler, these are easy to spot and avoid.  The smaller the stall, the more elderly the stallholder, the more likely the produce has been grown in time honoured tradition and belief.  They proudly boast the lack of chemicals.  The taste is wonderful, the vegetables are slightly mishapen and uneven, only seasonal and regional, no point in trying to grow anything not suited to the local earth and climate.

 

In the town and in the markets, there are several types of butchers.  They often specialise in certain meats.  For instance you will find a horse butcher, a pork butcher and an all-round butcher.  The price per kilo is very often only 50 centimes or less more expensive than meat in the supermarkets and much better quality, sourced from local breeders.  Some supermarkets will contract out their butcher counter and one can be pleasantly surprised but on the whole I prefer to stick to the old fashioned butchers shop full of sons and nephews helping the governor.   Each butcher's shop will also specialise in producing some deli-counter goodies such as their own black  and white pudding, patés, saucissons and prepared casseroles and homemade dishes to take home and reheat.  There are also some unusual dishes such as salade de museau (pig snout salad) pieds de porcs (pigs trotters).  The french do not waste a thing and prize hearts, liver and kidneys, tripe etc highly.  The price of offal is more expensive than in the UK.   The black pudding is quite delicious served with unctuous mash potato and fried apple slices or as a tarte tatin!

Fish of course, is just as expensive in France as in the UK but they have many more unusual fish than us due to the Brittany and Mediteraneen seas.  However, scottish salmon whether fresh or smoked is very highly prized and expensive, but the French buy a lot around Christmas time.  They certainly know how to disply their catch.  I treated us to a "plateau de fruits de mer" for Christmas Eve.  I chose our favourite, some large prawns and oysters.  It was laid on a deep bed of dark green seaweed with a generous whoosh of clear cellophone and a bow tied at the top - a glorious display of deliciousness.  I served it with thinly sliced fresh fennel and small boiled potatoes with a leomon vinaigrette and a dish of caper mayonnaise to dip the prawns into.  A tasty chilled local Sauvignon - heaven!

Fresh grilled herrings and homemade chips

At the thursday market here in Castelsarrasin which I never miss.  They offer a  variety of root vegetables such as parnsips, chervil bulbs, black carrots, salsifis, black radishes, chayottes - not always the case in other areas of France.  I have developed a good relationship with my favourite producers and return to see them every thursday.  

 

 

 

There is a very nice young man who only sells rocket, watercress and lovely potatoes.  Another lady in the chicken market saves me 3 euros of ready-washed mixed leaves of frisée, rocket, red radiccio, webb and little gem  which lasts the whole week and tastes delicious.   It bears no resemblance to the limp pappy tasteless supermarket salad that seems to turn brown at the edges within a couple of days.   I do find it slightly upsetting to see the hens and guinea fowl, live and tied together at the legs, also the furry long earred rabbits huddled together in the wooden boxes waiting to be bought.  It is still very much part of France's rural life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some examples of the wonderful produce available

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

   Famous Agen prunes

   

 

 

 

The market starts at 7am so a quick snozette is understandable!

  

Apart from the vegetables, there are also juicy oranges and tangerines, fat crispy Fiji and golden delcious apples grown locally and dispensed like jewels by my favourite sister Dominique and Sylvie.  I decide to try making some apple chutney to enhance the tandoori chicken kebabs I plan to make.  For the recipes look at Lucie's food section of this blog on the main page.

The sun has made us impatient to set off again so we have arranged with the lockeeper to let us out of the port next week and plan to reach Moissac in time to greet our friends Tim and Jojo aboard;  So better get on with preparing for the forthcoming slow cruise towards Bordeaux, the Baise river and who knows, maybe our beloved Lot river again.  

Is this going to take long, mate? or, (It isn't all plain sailing, y'know! part 10 )

New batteries from the UK arrive at La Capitainerie and I think I am prepared for the battery changing job to commence. It's a big expense but we have budgeted for it.  It's a major job too, believe me!  Five large, heavy and old  "deep cycle"  batteries are to come out of their battery box, which incidently, is designed by someone who obviously doesn't  like me, -  five new ones  are to go in their place. We are in the engine room bent double. It's raining hard and its cold. The old ones have been in place for five years and apparently have done well. Let's hope these new ones last even longer. 

I plan to keep the three best of the five old ones as additional ballast on the starboard side of the engine room. We have always listed slightly to Port. I am fearful of electrics. So is George but he kindly lets me get on with it,  benevolently looking on. There's a 300 amp fuse to reconnect and two important looking red switches to be moved to somewhere accessible to a fireman, should we ever need one. Someone told me that direct current is more dangerous than alternating current. It makes the muscles clench and lock. If you are gripping a spanner and touching the wrong bit, you can't let go and you die. Alternating current throws you off. Lucie asks if I have checked my Will lately. We are wearing rubber gloves and gum boots.

Lifting the old ones out with surprising ease,  we set about removing the battery box in order to clean it out and, more importantly, get rid of any rust underneath it, caused by my over- zealous topping up with distilled water over the last 4 years. I shovel out pounds of rust and apply de-rusting paint. Battery acid can make a nasty hole in one's hull. George screws the box together again, cleans up the mess I made of it with my angle grinder and we're ready to bring in the new batteries.

I fumble nervously with a collection of ill chosen B'n Q spanners and pliers from the bottom of my tool box. George sighs "is this going to take long, mate?" He is poised to be very helpful but is not really  impressed by the way I have already sorted and labelled the mass of cables and leads leading to the twelve terminals.   It resembles Medusa's hairdo.

Red goes to the positive and black to the negative. "Oh please - I do know that! - I had a crystal set once, you know, and  I was  leader of the Peewit Patrol - 16th Epping Forest (South)" (ref. Boy Scout days. ed)

"Where do these go to then? " says George - holding up two leads that I must have missed. "We'll  find somewhere" I reply testily. I am easily persuaded to borrow his superior spannners.

I have numbered the batteries from left to right, one to six adding a + or a - sign. There are twelve terminals, including the two on the starter battery, (this doesn't need changing) all with a mass of wiring emanating from them. I counted around 25 cables to be labelled and reassigned to the shiny new batteries. This is more a ghastly nightmare than an adventure into the unknown. I've  absolutely no idea where these wires all go to but we switch the whole lot off, to be safe. This leaves us with mains electricity only, from the shore line.

"All twelve-volt equipment, such as the loo pump, water pump and  some lighting will be "off" for the day, at least, darling!" I tell the crew. 

I stick the garden hose through the galley window for Lucie to use as we have guests coming for dinner. "the water pump doesn't work now, remember silly".  Lucie is cooking on gas and some other friends arrive to watch and laugh. We have a cup of tea and it rains harder. It's getting late.

George is getting colder by the minute as he presides over me. "It's beginning to come together now" I say without much confidence. George insists on seeing the job through. I would be happy to leave it until tomorrow. We'll get it done in the dark if we rig up a light. OK,  I rig up a light from the 240 volt shore line.  We leave the two loose cables dangling and hope to find out what they are for,  when something in the boat doesn't work.  It's a fine theory.

It's dark now, but we reckon we've "cracked it". I say

"Please don't use that word," says George. It's time to switch on the red switches and then the inverter. A loud "crack" and a blue flash from the engine room..... What have I done? George looks at me with his, now familiar,  resigned look.

Oh woe!  Absolutely nothing works of course. Clearly I've made a hash of it. So we console ourselves with a few glasses of red, as is customary in these parts (the beer's crap) and resolve to call a proper electrician the next day. I am distraught throughout the night, I toss and turn and get very little sleep. Things always seem worse than they actually are when you are tired, they say; I know that. But they still seem just as bad when I eventually get up.  Have I wrecked the "Inverter"? Have I ruined anything else? Are our days aboard numbered?

Lucie rings our French electrician next morning. ( This is now  reminding us of that marvellous Fawlty Towers story with the  Irish Builder and Sybil - "Oh don't smile") He's here by 11am as promised. He mutters something upon seeing our work, I am not sure what - though I'm sure I hear the word "Crochet" amongst a lot of others. I see what he means. It is not a pretty sight but within three minutes he grabs one of the cables and says "voila" and there, for all to see is a red cable on a negative terminal. Behold, it has one of my labels still attached and with the wrong sign on it,  in my writing. I am to blame. What have I done apart from blowing a 300amp fuse? I've blown my creditability as an electrician - that's what. Not that I claim to have had any.

Of course I haven't got a spare 300 amp fuse, it isn't every day you blow one of these you know!But I have got Saint George. The fuse is a funny looking flat thing about three inches long. One can see that the strip in the middle has melted. "Leave it to me"  he says and before I've had time to look up a supplier on the Internet, he has got me out of trouble again by cutting a strip off the fuse itself and straddling the gap between the severed ends. Bingo! everything works - 'er well, except the central heating system. Ah yes, those dangling  leads that George found.... oh well. 

I had to give him something to do, didn't I?