Simmered not stirred

Beyond the vines, the Pyrenees                                            

The vendange is running late this year at Domaine Gayda in Languedoc Rousillon, thanks to the fluctuating weather. But the white grapes are now gathered in, and as we arrive at the end of September to celebrate the harvest with Carole and Anthony Record, the pickers are beginning on the Cabernet Franc and the Syrah.

There is a new addition to the poolside outdoor kitchen that promises to take Records’ reputation for warm hospitality to new heights. It is a very large firepit, made in India, imported by a specialist in England and then delivered to France for Anthony – who was brought up in South Africa.

Recycled energy: firepit hammered from an oil barrel

On our second evening, we gather around the glowing logs and watch a butterflied leg of lamb cook to succulent and fragrant pink perfection.  The next evening, after dining handsomely at Gayda’s restaurant, the firepit is lit again and six of us sit around the leaping flames, savouring a digestif,  listening to a tawny owl hooting close by, putting the world to rights and watching the night sky draped like a sequinned velvet shawl over the Pyrenees.

For our third evening, Anthony proposes a serious firepit feast. Amongst his batterie de cuisine  is a large South African potjie (pronounced poiky).  Made of cast iron, with three legs, it is just like the French marmite we bought in France many years ago and in which we sometimes cook pot au feu, suspended from a pothook over the open fire in Gloucestershire.  The history of the potjie started in Holland somewhere between 1566 to 1648 during the war between the Netherlands and Spain. During the siege of Leyden food was scarce and the townspeople contributed what meagre morsels they had into a large communal pot and cooked it all together. When the Dutch pioneers went to South Africa their potjies went too, slung under their wagons, ready to sit in the hot coals of the fire once they had set up camp. 

The challenge of potjie cooking in the open air for eight people is irresistible – especially when Anthony produces cookbooks and suggests that we cook potjie bread too.  He has a collection of mini potjkies just right for little loaves he says.....

A leg of lamb is put to marinade in spices and herbs and red wine and next morning Anthony and I go to Leclerc in Limoux to pick up yeast and couscous and other ingredients. Another temptation presents itself  – fresh sardines just crying out to be wrapped in fresh vine leaves (plenty of those around at Gayda) and grilled for the first course.

The fire is lit at 5.00pm. The bread is kneaded and left to rise. The lamb is turned again in its marinade. Tomatoes are peeled and chopped, carrots, courgettes and onions sliced. Pine nuts are toasted in a dry frying pan and sultanas set to swell in warm water ready to add to the couscous.  Boiling water is poured over the vine leaves to soften them before wrapping the fish. All seems under control - until I discover that the two dozen fat sardines need gutting. Time for a glass of Cremant de Limoux.

 

Some of the bread dough is shaped into two large rounds for baking in the electric oven in the pool kitchen (just in case cooking dough in mini witches' cauldrons doesn't come off) and attention turns to the main course. The meat is seared in the hot potjie and then set aside whilst sliced onions are added to the pot. When soft and coloured, a kilo of seeded and chopped tomatoes are added to the onions and the meat put back on top with enough of the spiced wine marinade to barely cover and the heavy iron lid put on. Like a pot au feu, the contents should barely simmer - which demands careful management of the fire and frequent re-positioning of the pot. It's tricky balancing the three legs of the heavy pot evenly on the grill. 

Further ingredients are added every half hour or so, in order of cooking time required, adding marinade when necessary,  and finishing with a generous quantity of dried apricots.  According to potjie tradition, stirring of the contents is strictly forbidden, so that each flavour develops separately and the vegetables steam. A pojtie is not a stew, the experts declare.

The mini potjies have been well greased, including the inside of the lids, before being half filled with bread dough and put to rise.  The grill is lifted from the firepit, and more in hope than expectation, I pop them all into the fire and cover their lids with hot embers.  The lamb potjie is wedged away from the direct heat and the fish put to grill. The sun disappears over the Pyrenees, candles are lit,  sardines in their crispy leaf wrappings are served and excellent wine poured and savoured.

And then the moment of truth.  The potjie bread, once extracted from its pots (cut into four, eased from the sides and then flipped out)  is delicious. Crispy all around and soft and steamy in the crumb.  As for the potjkie lamb, it is meltingly tender with vegetables that are cooked yet firm and clean tasting, and a sauce that is rich and intense.  "It tastes really gamey," says one diner, unaware of the recipe's claim that the lamb will taste like venison.  

I look around our group. We hail from England, Scotland, Wales, the Netherlands, the USA and South Africa. We discover that the Oxford importer of the firepit is the son of a very old engineering friend whom we resolve to contact after losing touch over the years. We have come together under the French night sky sharing food from the Rainbow nation and drinking wine pressed from the grapes harvested just a few yards away. A cultural melting potjie,  each element distinctive yet complementary. As Anthony declares, "We can go to a restaurant any time, but we will always remember this." And a shooting star streaks through the sky over our heads.

The morning after: sunrise over Domaine Gayda

Love and food in the Apennines (Volume 2)

Thor meets Venus

Thunder rolls round the mountains like a battalion of tanks driven by trolls. Great sheets of lightning fill the house with brilliant white light. Rivers of rain cascade down the roof, bouncing off the gutters, pouring across the terrace. It is two in the morning.

We check the shutters and the windows. Then a sixth sense steps in and we check the car - to find the sun roof is cocked up in ventilation mode.  Fortunately little water has so far penetrated. One good thing about dashing out naked in the small hours means that at least there are no clothes to get soaked - and at Casa Barile in the Garfagnana region of Tuscany there are no lace curtains to twitch.

While the storm rages, the church bell down the hill continues to strike the hour and the half hour, undaunted by the flashing whiplashes around its clock tower. By five am, the thunder god is growling his way over the Apennines, with an occasional backward rumble reminding us that he could easily return. Now the only sound is staccato dripping from tiles and ledges, sills and branches. We finish our tea and go back to sleep.

Later that morning, we find persimmons scattered across the drive, the swimming pool cover bending under the weight of rain and leaves from the walnut tree littering the terrace. We check the barn and re-set the electric light circuit. But then we discover the really serious impact of the storm – no broadband. After testing the line, the modem and the splitter, we discover that this is a major outage affecting most of the area, it happens quite frequently and can take up to two days to restore. However will we survive, we wonder?

The answer is a walk through the mountains, followed by a swim, leisurely lunch, reading by the pool, watching the sunset with a glass of Prosecco, followed by dinner. Oh, and a spot of jam-making.

Remembering the bounty of fruit and vegetables from our visit two years ago, (see Grand opera meets jam and Jerusalem) we have made the most of driving rather than flying to Italy by adding a sugar thermometer and glass jars to our luggage, along with the oil paints, easel, knitting, computers, half-written novels, hiking boots etc etc. Sad, really, but knowing that there will be no wild damsons for jam in the Gloucestershire woods again this year, how could I resist the large, luscious, dark red plums in the local store? Especially when they are called Aphrodite - rather more enticing than Victoria.

Take a hammer to a nut

Plum jam for lovers

1 kg Aphrodite plums (or any other sort you can forage or buy)

150ml water

850 gm sugar (most recipes say 1 kg, but I prefer jam less sweet)

Juice of a lemon

Halve and stone the plums (keeping the stones) then cut into quarters.  Put plums into a large pan with the water and simmer gently for half an hour or so until really soft. Put the sugar in a casserole dish or roasting pan to warm in a low oven.

Meanwhile, using a nutcracker or small hammer, crack open the plum stones to extract the kernels. Blanch the kernels for a minute in boiling water and then drain.

Bubble, bubble - but little toil and trouble

Remove the plums from the heat and add the warm sugar, stirring continuously until you are sure the sugar has completely dissolved. Add the lemon juice and blanched kernels. Put clean jam jars and lids into the oven to sterilize.

Bring the fruit to a rolling boil and cook without stirring for about ten minutes until the magic temperature of 105 degrees is reached. If you do not have a thermometer, then use the chilled saucer, blob of jam, wrinkle test to see if you have reached setting point. (Use Google if you need more info on sterilising and testing.) Stir in a nut of butter to remove any scum, then ladle carefully into a jug to pour into the hot sterilized jars and seal with screw lids (or traditional waxed disc and cellophane if you prefer.) 

Best eaten at breakfast, on holiday, in the sun, with someone of whom you are particularly fond......