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And so it has been all week, and on and on it goes. This is why you’ll have to be content with a recipe alone today. It’s a delicious one for a golden clafoutis, the colour of late-summer sun, fragrant with vanilla and almond in a flan that hugs the fruit like a cozy blanket.

On that note, I must crawl back under my own cozy blanket and attempt to recover from this violent bug so that I can return to you properly next week. Thank you for understanding the necessary brevity of this missive. Please do try the recipe — and stay well!

xo,

Your ever-loving invalid, Laura

Clafoutis of Stone Fruits

A classic, family-friendly, back-to-school dessert, with vanilla-infused cream, almonds, and the homey depth of brown sugar making this an especially tasty version of clafoutis. Use most any stone fruit, such as purple plums, peaches, apricots, or cherries.

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I woke up freezing today! After a summer of heatwaves and sleeping under a single sheet, it was a bit of a shock to the system, though not an entirely unwelcome one. Suddenly there was rain galloping over the rooftops and gusts of wind flying through the bedroom like airborne ghosts making the windows bang. That was at 5:40 a.m. and it was still black as night out, but I got up. It occurred to me that there’s nothing gradual about the arrival of autumn; it doesn’t come in on tiptoes. Instead, it barges in like an uninvited guest and audaciously makes itself right at home, and you’re supposed to bite your tongue and cater to its every need and appetite like an obedient servant. “Hot chocolate, please!” “Have you a shawl?”

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Half of you are doubtless on a beach right now (I hope so). I’m nowhere near one, unless you count Paris Plage, but there’s no way I’m sticking so much as a toe in the Seine, no matter how clean they claim it is. Nevertheless, in the spirit of beach season, I thought I’d share with you a little read I produced years ago and recently unearthed. When it’s not mortifying, it’s rather amusing to come across thoughts written by our younger selves.

What I’m going to share is something I wrote when I was working for Anne Willan, the celebrated cookbook author and founder of École de Cuisine LaVarenne. Her HQ was a château in Burgundy called Le Fëy, which housed a formidable cookbook library containing over 3,000 volumes, the oldest in the collection dating back to the 16th century. It was while perusing some of the quirkier volumes in that collection that I came up with the following piece about how the way recipes are written affects the spirit of them.

I sold the story to an online magazine called Salon, and it was later picked up by, I believe, The Times, which flattered me back then, though I was miffed that they’d published it without asking me, let alone paying. I’d never have known if they hadn’t been caught red-handed by Anne’s husband Mark, who happened to be on a trip to London. A friend there had clipped the article and saved it for him, knowing he had an interest in old cookbooks. Well, he just about fell over backwards when he started reading it. “Goodness gracious!” he exclaimed, “This is about MY library!”

Here you go, then. A bit of food for thought from a younger me (who had yet to write her first cookbook) before you get all hot and drippy on your beach towel and need your next dip in the water.

How To Execute the Recipe

by Laura Calder

He ate and drank the precious words
His spirit grew robust.
—Emily Dickinson

How often people boast, “Oh I read cookbooks like novels.” It’s a suspect claim; in fact, knowing what passes for reading these days one wonders if the trend isn’t actually the other way around. But when it comes to cookbooks, it’s hard to be critical, because the poor modern recipe is about as original and engaging as the dishwasher manual, and every bit as literary.

Nevertheless, standard recipe format, which goes something like this, is for reasons far beyond me fiercely defended: First, the ingredients are listed in order with precise measurements in imperial, metric and cups. The method is then hacked into bite-size pieces and arranged in a reassuring cooking-by-numbers format. A nutritional breakdown of the end result generally follows, including a calorie count per serving for dieters, and often at the very end is placed a thoughtful little star to indicate the name of the catalog from which the required specialty ingredients (unavailable in the average supermarket) might be obtained.

All of this presumably is for the cook’s own good. “Safety in numbers” takes on a whole new meaning and the cook is protected from the faintest dependency on his feeble, out-of-shape instincts. Indeed, such a regression would be a virtual return to witchcraft and we couldn’t have that! So, any recipe that strays in a corruptingly liberal direction is quickly scented out, hunted down and put to a silent death. When people talk about how to “execute” their recipes, I gather this is not what they mean, but it is unfortunately what they do. As a result, countless innocent dishes die tortured deaths on pages right under our noses every day.

The British cookery writer Elizabeth David, like a prophet, saw it coming, and in reviewing a cookbook by an American called Mrs. Brown, she tried to warn us. She praised the woman’s recipes for being “easy on the eye and the mind” and “very far removed from those interminable recipes of American magazine cookery which call for one half-cup or one-quarter-teaspoon of everything but the washing-up water.” But no one listened and now we must live with the mournful consequences.

For example, one of my favorite recipes to read is Elizabeth David’s own “Salad of Lettuce Hearts with Melted Butter”:

Use only the tenderest of lettuce hearts for this exquisite salad; arrange them in a salad bowl, season them very lightly with salt and a scrape of sugar, and at the last moment pour over them warm melted butter into which you have pounded a very small piece of garlic and a squeeze of lemon juice.

In the hands of America’s recipe executioners, I know full well what would become of it:

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Mes amis,

May I blame jet lag? First of all, it’s August, not July, but nobody caught that in today’s Letter from Laura. Secondly, the recipe for the corn chowder in today’s Letter from Laura for AUGUST appears not to have attached itself to the post. Apologies through the roof, and here it is:

Corn Chowder

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Zzzzzz,

Laura

(August 6, Paris 3e, 6:30 a.m.)

Shhh…. The city is dead quiet. I have all the windows open and a cup of coffee by my side and there’s not a sound, not a bird. I’ve just lit a candle scented with orange flower water from Provence and it’s catching the breeze, replanting my senses in France after over a month in Canada.

We arrived back yesterday and it’s possible that Peter and I are the only people in our building for the moment. We heard some faint rumblings yesterday from the office on the second floor, but otherwise it’s crickets in the stairwell. Our neighbours all still on holiday, and quite right. We ourselves would be, too, if it weren’t for reasons of bureaucracy (those pesky visas!). To think we could still be enjoying sunsets over the river at my mother’s house and rattling around her kooky kitchen making all the August greats like lobster rolls, corn chowder, blueberry grunt, and hot smoked salmon on the barbecue. Instead, alas, here we are in the city with half the vendors, shops, and restaurants shut. I don’t mind, to be truthful. I love Paris like this: unusually peaceful and unhurried. It’s the slower pace I need after all that time spent in the kind of Canadiana that makes the rest of the world disappear. For example:

Just before our return, on the route back from Canada’s East Coast, we made an impromptu detour to Quebec to see some friends who had gathered in the Laurentians, specifically for something they privately call Jazz on the Rocks. This is the annual tradition of friends of ours who get different musicians every year to perform outside their lake house while all the spectators float on boats and in canoes. It got rained out this year, if you can believe it, and I’d wail “woe!” if it weren’t for the fact that the jazz and classical musicians who performed indoors instead were magical to the point that some were moved to tears. Real music, especially chamber music, it now occurs to me, is an enormous luxury these days, what with so many of the sounds that reach our ears being synthetic and canned. Heaven on the Rocks they should call their annual series, especially since guests are always requested to dress in white for the occasion, like a host of angels.

The last morning before we left, I went with our hostess and two of her neighbours down to the lake for a final swim. I admit I really did not want to drag myself out of bed. It had been a late night of farewelling and, besides, what with all the rain, the lake was bound to be cold. I managed to rally, not without some grumbling. We got to the dock, slipped out of our robes, climbed down a ladder with a wince into the shallow river that runs to the lake, then waded knee deep to where the water drops deeply. One by one, like ducklings, we plopped with gasps into the cold, silky lake with its hovering mists. Not three strokes later, the whole world was suddenly in stark relief. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt clearer or more alert, which tells me this at least: caffeine has nothing on a cold lake. Summer couldn’t have ended on a higher note, or on one more pure.

(Same day in Paris, back from shopping, just before noon)

All of that was hard to leave behind, but Paris has given us a terrific welcome back. The health card I’ve been applying and reapplying for (five times!) for a solid year has finally arrived. Hurrah! Our neighbour left a white orchid in full bloom on our mantel, one I’d nursed back to health after its near demise last spring and had left with her in bud to babysit in our absence. The Paris weather is fair and sunny. And I’ve got the rest of the month to focus on getting my head back into gear for work. In other words, I get to wade gently into “la rentrée” that will be September, rather than have to take the brutal plunge like the rest of them. How’s that for glass-half-full thinking?

Before I leave you (or you leave me, which is it?) how about a quick supper? A number of you have been asking me for my corn chowder recipe, which I posted a picture of a while ago on Instagram. Mine (my mother’s, really) is the simplest version you can make, and it’s totally authentic to where I’m from. I hope you’ll like it.

Corn Chowder

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(Same day, just before posting)

The jetlag is kicking in and I’ll be heading to an early bed. Enjoy this glorious month and I’ll be back to you next week as my adventure that is yet another return to Paris unfolds ~

Laura , xo

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There wasn’t time for exploring, and, besides, it was raining, so we ducked into Vieux Carré for a pre-dinner cocktail. The bar is owned by Groupe La Tanière, which is a restaurant group bedecked with three Michelin stars in two of its restaurants. Their concept is to use only ingredients that can grow or be produced in Quebec (with the exception of some wines and spirits), so no olives or lemons and that sort of thing. Instead, they find local alternatives. The result is that their cocktails taste truly clean, natural, and, dare I say, healthy. We know from past visits that the food in the group’s restaurants is sensational in every way, too. But we hadn’t made reservations this time, so instead we popped down for a bite at a more casual but equally Quebec-committed place called Ouroboros. We shared three dishes and a couple of glasses of excellent chardonnay from the Quebec winery Camy, then came back to our hotel and crashed.

We’re about to load up the car and head towards the Laurentians to see friends, then to Montreal to see Peter’s son, before getting our flight overseas, so I have to keep this to just a postcard this week. My more lengthy monthly Letter from Laura will come to you next week from Paris.

Meanwhile, let me leave those of you who are into gastronomy with a thought that occurred to me last night at the restaurant. Is it possible that the Quebec food scene is starting to influence its counterpart in France, instead of the other way around? Because I sometimes see dishes like those above in Paris, and am delighted when I do, but they always strike me as being suspiciously Québécois. The flavours are sophisticated, but there’s also a rustic authenticity about them that has always been present here, but is more recent in Paris. I might have to hit up Lesley Chesterman for her thoughts on this one, she of Lick my Plate. If you have opinions yourself, do pipe up. And if you don’t because you’ve never been to Quebec, perhaps it’s time to plan a trip to get a breath of French air of a different kind.

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I’ll be back to you once I’m off highways and out of the air. Wishing you a delicious start to the month ahead ~

xo,

Laura

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July, in my experience, has never had a particularly distinct identity. It has simply been lumped into that season we call “summer,” the best part of which, frankly, I’ve always thought to be August, especially when it comes to food. However, this year, I’m required to wrap up holidays early for various reasons, and so July feels different. It’s like having to leave a party just when it’s in full swing, which has made me realize that July does indeed have its own particular character: as a rule, this happy, carefree time is utterly undiluted by any inkling that it could ever come to an end. In other words, it’s basically nature mirroring exuberant youth!

As is ripe fruit — a mirror of exuberant youth, that is — each reaching its peak in its own good time. Here, in our cooler climate, we’re still seeing strawberries, so I’ve been snapping up the last of them to try some new recipes before it’s too late. Friends have been as generous as gardens to me this year with recipes, and one that has come my way is for strawberry shortcake. This isn’t exactly new to me, because I grew up with it, but as with all classics there are many slight variations. Some people make it with unsweetened tea biscuits (that was us), others prefer pound cake, and yet others, it turns out, make a sort of giant scone for the cake part. The latter version is what was served to me recently, and it was the best strawberry shortcake I’d ever had, so, naturally, I pleaded for the recipe. (Video coming up!)

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“We had callers,” is how my grandmother used to put it, meaning not that the phone had been ringing off the hook but that people had dropped in for a visit. They were always unannounced, of course, as was the custom back then, hence the ever-ready kettles, the full canisters of tea, and the plentiful stashes of things like pound cakes, gingersnaps, and thumbprint cookies in every house up and down the road. I never have stuff like that at home in Paris, but here in the Canadian countryside I wouldn’t dare be unprepared for unexpected drop-ins. Because, in fact, there’s nothing unexpected about them — they’re guaranteed!

It interests me that as artificial intelligence bulldozes its way onto the scene, old-time “hobbies,” such as knitting, embroidery, quilting, and rug-hooking seem to be making a comeback, or so I hear, including in urban areas. I’m not sure they ever went out of style in this part of the world. Furthermore, they didn’t used to be hobbies: they were necessary skills if you wanted any hope of a comfortable existence.

Perhaps nowadays these pastimes are just as necessary but for different reasons, namely maintaining sanity, quieting the mind, and, well, just feeling the satisfaction of doing something real for once. It was the soothing aspects that seemed to be what rug-hooking was for my late father, who took up the craft in the last decade or so of his life on the recommendation of a friend. The local museum is currently holding an exhibit of his oeuvre. They’ve called it “Hooked on Stillness”, and I was rather stunned and delighted (and proud!) to see almost all his work together, because I had no idea he’d been so prolific, not to mention artistic. There was nothing paint-by-numbers about my father or his life, and not about his creations either. Each rug was dreamt up in his mind and made entirely by hand, including selecting and cutting each strip of wool himself for hooking. What a joy to see his work at eye level rather than underfoot. Here are just a few:

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One of the joys of coming home to Canada on summer holidays is having plenty of space to stretch out and cook in a kitchen that, in Paris, would feel like an entire apartment. I also love having access to all my books, including some that have been in this house since before I showed up in it. The Fannie Farmer Cookbook is one of them, and it has been in active use all my life. It contains my favourite cheese soufflé recipe, our staple household bread, oodles of puddings, cakes and pies, instructions for pickles, candies, and punch; in short, it’s a playground of country-cooking possibilities that at once take you back in time and remind you that most things from the past still have a place today.

This week, diving into “The Fannie Farmer,” as we call it, in search of inspiration from the past, I came upon a recipe that’s sure to become a staple in my repertoire. The dish surprises people when it lands in front of them, because it’s so totally out of date; and yet it’s so wonderfully light and flavourful, not to mention simple to make, you wonder why it’s not on every menu. I’ve cleaned up the recipe a bit and now pass it on to you. I hope it will inspire you to design a menu around it and invite some friends over. I’d love to hear what you and your guests think!

The recipe for the delectable salmon mousse is below, including a printable PDF, along with a video of me making it so you can see exactly how it’s done.

Happy cooking,

Laura xo

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One effective way to escape a Paris heatwave is to get on a plane and fly to Canada, as we just did. It’s obviously summer here, too, and nice and warm, but not debilitatingly swelteringly so, and that makes all the difference. We arrived home to be greeted by a full strawberry moon, which, by chance (well, thanks to jet lag, actually) I was up at 4 a.m. to see.

According to something called “Mental Floss,” which cropped up when I did a Google search about this moon, “Spiritually, the Strawberry Moon is often seen as a prompt to check on the ‘fruits of your labour.’ It encourages deep reflection on what personal and professional intentions are ripening and what still needs nurturing.” Nice thought. Maybe I’ll do that.

Now that I have the image of that big red dot of a full moon in my mind’s eye, I’m reminded to tell you about the book I read on the airplane (although the red dot on the Japanese flag symbolizes, of course, the sun, not the moon).

An etiquette guide to Japan will seem an odd choice of reading material for someone flying to Canada’s Atlantic provinces, but a friend saw the book in a Paris shop the other day and thought of me, so I went out and bought it on her recommendation. It was written by a man who was a member of a U.S. intelligence agency, amongst other vocations. He was born in 1929 and the last edition of his book, which is the one I read, was published in 2015, two years before his death. That should give you an idea of what a lively and engaged mind he had, and how passionately devoted he was to his subject.

I learned that, in Japan, etiquette is a form of morality, central to which is the notion of maintaining harmony. There are chapters on everything from when and how to bow, bath and toilet etiquette, gift-giving (with an interesting emphasis on the language of gift-wrapping), the importance of expressing appreciation appropriately, and the essential art of the apology, all unique angles that make this book quite different from its Western counterparts. And, unlike most manuals on etiquette, this one is so beautifully and sparingly written, and in such a lyrical way, that you cannot put it down. The moment I did, Peter snapped it up and started reading it himself. “I’m interested,” he said, “because we live in a world today without a unifying code of conduct. It can be everyone for themselves when it comes to public behaviour.”

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As I write, it’s Canada Day here, our national fête, which funnily enough I have no memory of celebrating growing up. I don’t think we did. It was called Dominion Day until 1984, which hardly seems like something to set off fireworks for. But even today, for most it’s simply an excuse to have a barbeque at home and invite a few friends over, not for the kind of elaborate public displays of patriotism that you see in places like the United States and France. Here, we’re less festive and expressive, which may be what gives us the reputation of being reserved, not to say boring (although that does get said, too, at least of the anglos in this country). What do you expect from a country whose unofficial motto is, “Peace, order, and good government”? Snooze. On the other hand, given the kind of horrific excitements playing out in many parts of the world today, I think I’ll raise a glass to this country’s moderate approach and basic maintenance of sanity. Cheers to that!

As a celebratory Canada Day gift to you, I’ve unlocked a video shot two years ago at my family home. It’s bittersweet, because I have since lost my father; however, some of his hooked rugs, only a sample of which I show here, are having their own exhibit, which opens tonight at a nearby museum. What a touching tribute that will be.

I always like to include a recipe with these chatty, top-of-the-month missives, and this time it’s going to be for Heritage Jelly Cakes, a local recipe that an elderly neighbour always used to bring to community events. (She was born at the end of the 1800s, which always impressed me.) Since I’ll be heading to an event tonight myself, I thought I’d bake some to bring along for old time’s sake. I wonder if anyone will recognize them.

Heritage Jelly Cakes

These chewy, faintly lemon-scented teatime treats with a ruby of jelly at their hearts are a delectable cross between a cake and a cookie. They travel well and are easy to eat, making them ideal for taking to any sort of stand up event to pass around.

Makes: 42

¾ cup/170 g butter, softened

¾ cup/155 g sugar

1 egg, beaten well

1 tablespoon milk

Zest of a lemon

¼ teaspoon salt

1-1/2 cups/185 g flour, sifted

About 1/4 cup/60 ml red currant jelly

Heat the oven to 350°F/180°C. Grease and flour a mini muffin tin (or just use a non-stick tin).

Cream together the butter and sugar until pale and smooth. Beat in the egg, milk, lemon zest, and salt. Stir in the flour.

Spoon 2 teaspoons of batter into each muffin cup. Press flat with a damp finger, then make an indentation in the centre of each. Spoon about 1/4 teaspoon of jelly into each indentation. Bake until lightly golden around the edges, about 15 minutes.

Remove to a rack to cool, then store in an airtight container.

Heritage Jelly Cakes

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Here’s to the summer holiday season, and to enjoying it to the full wherever you may be. There’s always something nostalgic about summers. Childhood memories float through our minds like clouds: a retro piece of music from someone else’s car radio takes us back to being 16; the scent of freshly cut grass; the shock of a cold river when you dive in for the first time; the taste of corn on the cob… Savour every summer moment now, because one day, these too will join the bank of wistful memories of long ago.

Lots of love,

Laura

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Every morning begins with checking the ice-cube trays. They’re full. Good. I empty them into a metal bowl and cram it into our tiny freezer along with the refilled trays. Now can begin another day in Dante’s Inferno, Paris edition.

Yesterday, we went out as soon as the shops opened in search of light and loose linens, our regular summer clothing being too heavy for these conditions. Somewhere out there, there must be a fashion journalist writing about what to wear in a heatwave. Or perhaps I should just make a beeline for Vogue Singapore, because if this is to be the new normal in Europe, what’s trotted out on our runways will need rethinking. I remember once hearing an Indian guru berate men in his country for being so foolish as to adopt the Western business suit. Quite right, and for many other parts of the world, too. However, it might be just the right solution for kurtas and shalwars to start showing up on people in Europe.

Along with wardrobe, diets need adjusting in this kind of weather. As far as Peter and I are concerned, our appetites have all but vanished, and with them any motivation to cook, unless shaking margaritas counts. Classic French cuisine, as France melts into its hottest days ever recorded, doesn’t fit the bill. I remember a few years ago on holiday on the island of St. Martin being shocked to find menus offering things like duck confit, boeuf Bourguignon, and potato purée. Tell me: who emerges from bathing in the Caribbean and walks across a scorching beach craving dishes like that?! Ditto in the Paris of now.

I was living in France at the time of the heatwave in 2003 that left 15,000 dead in the country (including an old lady who lived across the hall from me and my roommate, Camille). Nobody was prepared for it. I remember one morning at the BHV department store, where we’d been waiting with our tongues hanging out for the doors to open, there was practically a stampede and Black-Friday-level violence in the fans department. Again now, cooling devices are out of stock all over Paris, but luckily Peter and I already had one. I’m sitting in front of it right now, thinking about what lessons there are to be learned from yet one more heatwave, because surely there must be some.

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Every once in a while, I have to sit down with pen and paper in order to coax a post out of myself. Something about engaging the hand gets my brain unstuck, and only once my thoughts are fully on the page can I then type them into the machine. This week has been one of those times, perhaps because I’ve been looking into the past and wondering where it disappeared to so fast, leaving me in a sometimes bewildered state as to what world I’m standing in. Isn’t it the past that’s meant to be the foreign country? Why then do I often feel like such a stranger in the present?

It’s hard to believe that I grew up in a house with a rotary dial telephone, and on a party line to boot. Now I fumble around with a tile-sized device that acts as phone, computer, camera, travel agent, bank, shopping mall, etc. (Don’t we all!) It’s supposed to be convenient. I find it makes me scatterbrained.

Elsewhere in evolving technology, I who kept up lively handwritten correspondences with several friends all through school, as well as wrote every academic paper with a pen, am now told that even email is passé. “Nobody has time for email. Don’t bother.” I had no idea. But, apparently, everyone would rather fire off umpteen distracting texts, which half the time get lost and forgotten in long threads, and which also often lead to misunderstandings, sometimes hurtful and damaging. This is not a battle I’ll ever win, so why even fight it? I just keep marching along trying to keep up with the changes.

There’s more. Peter and I haven’t done much entertaining since returning to Paris, which I chalked up to the fact that the practicalities of daily life after you move countries are overwhelming for the first year.

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My friend and neighbour, Kasia Dietz, is a serious fashion aficionado. She designs her own handbag label, offers workshops and custom fashion tours in Paris, and writes for major publications such as Harper’s Bazaar, Condé Nast Traveller, and Travel + Leisure. She is also the voice behind Paris à la Mode here on Substack.

What she doesn’t love is cooking (or so she says), but making dinner is not a job that most can escape, at least not all the time. Kasia asked me if I’d teach her an easygoing dish that she could add to her repertoire for nights when she has people coming over and little time to plan.

We got together yesterday to make a simple chicken sauté, and while we were at it, we talked about some of the similarities and differences between the worlds of food and fashion. Here’s a video of our cooking class and chit-chat!

Technically, Poulet Basquaise would be a dish to make when peppers and tomatoes are in season, but, let’s be honest, there are always peppers in the shops and tomatoes are available canned, so you can make this all year long. Serve it with rice on the side for soaking up the sauce, follow with a green salad, and why not bring out a burnt basque cheesecake for dessert? A glass of cava and some pintxos are all you need to kick things off.

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Et voilà! There’s the dinner-party plan you didn’t know you needed for the weekend all sorted!

Cheerio,

Laura xo

P.S. A PDF of the recipe for paid subscribers is below.

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I sat down yesterday to start pecking out this post and instead found myself leaping over into a Word document to start writing a book. Very weird. I didn’t think I had another book in me, at least not yet. But yesterday morning, with eyes shut on the yoga mat, a title flew into my head like a little bird through the kitchen window, madly flapping its wings and demanding attention. What’s a girl to do?

Later in the day, having involuntarily dived down that rabbit hole (to bring another garden creature into the mix) and lost the entire afternoon to my writerly imagination, I said to Peter, “See you in a year!” Not to compare myself to William Blake, obviously, but as his wife once quipped, “I have very little of Mr. Blake’s company. He is always in Paradise.”

What I’d intended to talk about this week, and I suppose will if I can tear myself away from BOOK, is the joy of country houses. There’s a difference, probably, between living in a house in the country all the time and having a house in the country that you go to only sometimes, say in the summer or on weekends. The latter is a place truly to let your hair down, perhaps to take your shoes off, depending on the house, to start thinking about lunch only just before actual lunchtime and have everyone pitch in, à l’improviste, to produce a picnic: L, you do something with these tomatoes; P, over there, figure out the eggs; C, how about some brownies?… and on and on. And then the rosé is uncorked and next thing you know it’s 4:30 in the afternoon and the weeds you’d meant to pull are still shooting heavenwards, hale and hearty, and the paint job on the staircase is… well, there’s always tomorrow.

I’ll tell you something that’s going to make a comeback, and country houses may well lead the charge, and that’s parlour games.

One night at Missery (our friend Lucy’s house where we’ll be holding our September retreat), two thirty-something gents who had joined our party proposed an after-dinner game of Les Loups Garous (The Werewolves of MiIlers Hollow). I’d never heard of it and am still not sure I quite understand the rules, but I did join in. After a clumsy first round, I was promptly eliminated, but it was fun, and something I can’t wait to play again. Next, the boys pulled out an app-based word game called Undercover. I loved that, too, so much so that I downloaded the app on my own phone so that Peter and I could introduce it at the next country house we ended up at a few days later. There, too, everyone became addicted, and I learned that I’m actually not so bad at deception after all. Ha!

Have we been conditioned to roll our eyes at the thought of parlour games (soooo Victorian! Ugh!)? I don’t know, but you’ve no idea how engaging they are. Good for the brain and great for the spirit. Let’s all bring them back into our lives this summer.

Got any favourite parlour games to recommend? Do let us know!

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Another thing that kept coming up in the country was a desire to do things with the hands, almost anything really. I don’t know if it’s because, out there, we’re so close to the Earth and the elements, but people start taking on projects that, in the city, they’d never fathom themselves doing, like getting into a rowboat to cut pesky plants growing out of the wall along a moat, or making a woodpile, not so much because these things need to be done, though they do, but because they’re physical and fun. There also always seems to be other spontaneous activities like piano playing or rug-hooking or coming up with modern ways to repurpose doilies.

I grew up in the middle of nowhere, so I should know all about this, but even I sometimes forget. Apart from cooking, I haven’t had a whole lot of connection, in my adult life anyway, to manual things. I can’t sew, I don’t knit or embroider, my houseplants only tolerate me… Though, I must say, I have warmed up to laundry and ironing, which is perhaps not a proper art, but it is tactile and demands attention and emotion. Anyway, along with parlour games, the domestic arts are due for a serious comeback. We don’t need to be artists or artisans proper to employ our paws, we just have to activate our hands in daily life in ways that go beyond pushing buttons and swiping. Our nervous systems, brains, and social lives will benefit.

Something else that got cemented during our time away is my acceptance that, without a doubt, I am a country cook. (Is there any such thing as a city cook?) I’ve talked about this before, but it’s the limitations in the countryside that bring out one’s creativity. You have what you have at home to work with and the nearest shop is half an hour away, at best, and so, sod it, you figure out what you can do for dinner with the wizened aubergines and the chicken bones from yesterday’s roast. Whatever results, it’s always a feast and that much more fun to devour because you weren’t expecting anything grand in the first place and because where you end up is never in any way the destination you were heading to when you set off down the dinner-making path. Indeed, you had no destination at all, except to make a meal of things, somehow. Is that not an ideal approach to life in general?

When we got back to Paris, the day after some apparently life-and-death football match and having missed a week-long heat wave, the city reeked like a urinal and was a shameful mess of littered streets piled high with empty cans, cigarette butts and boxes, and abandoned shoes, too. Gross.

Thank God for today’s intermittent cloudbursts. The cords of rain have been slamming down like iron bars, locking us behind our windows and forcing us to scrap our plans, whatever they may have been, and resign ourselves to rest. Sit still, the skies are telling us. Be empty for a change. Be quiet. Just leave one window open, an itty bitty bit, in case a little bird wants to fly in and drop into your fertile mind a seed to your future.

Love,

Laura

P.S. I promised a little recipe, so here it comes. I do realize these tomatoes with feta and olives are more summery than typical for spring, but it has been so hot here that we were already slurping back watermelon lat week.

Heat the oven to 375°F/190°C and get out a baking dish. Cut firm, ripe tomatoes in half at the waist and scoop out the seeds with a spoon. Discard the seeds and pat the tomatoes dry with a kitchen towel, then season with salt and pepper.

Fill the tomatoes with walnut-sized chunks of feta cheese, pitted black olives, and a sprinkling of chopped garlic and fresh thyme leaves or dried oregano. You could alternatively use torn basil, and if you had some red pepper lying around, you could sliver some of that up and add it, too. Drizzle with olive oil and grind over some pepper.

Bake until piping hot and slumping, 20 to 25 minutes, depending on the size of the tomatoes.

Transfer these to a platter of lightly dressed rocket for a first course or side dish. They happen to go very nicely with last week’s recipe for Zucchini Torte, I might add.

P.P.S. Lucy has been beavering away getting back to everyone about bookings for this September’s Burgundy retreat. If you have any questions, drop her a line at lucy@chateaudemissery.com. Here’s an accidental outtake of her and me from last week, just for fun. Such goofs!

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This September (11th to 17th, to be precise), Peter and I will be hosting an art of the table retreat in Burgundy at Château de Missery (see video above), and you are invited! If you’d like to join us for a fun-filled week of friendship, conversation, cooking, tasting, workshops, excursions, and more, simply pop an email off to Lucy Hawkes at lucy@chateaudemissery.com. She’ll send you all the programme details and booking information. Places are limited, so nab them while they’re available. We’re so looking forward to getting to know those of you who can come along!

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Meanwhile, as Peter and I been here this week in Burgundy finalizing details, we’ve also been cooking up a storm. A recipe I’ve had on repeat here has been Zucchini Torte, which is brilliantly versatile and crowd-pleasing. I hope you’ll try it, and let me know how you choose to play around with the recipe.

Zucchini Torte with Yoghurt Mint Sauce

This simple, tasty torte (with a gluten-free option) is a terrific dish for a buffet or picnic table. Here, it’s served with a tangy yoghurt sauce, but tomato coulis, whipped feta, or some sort of thinned-out pesto would all make good accompaniments, too. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Serves: 6 to 8 as a first course

For the torte

1 pound/450 g zucchini, about 3

4 eggs

1 cup/125 g self-rising flour, or chickpea flour for gluten-free people

4 ounces/110 g finely grated Parmesan cheese, about a cup

2/3 cup/150 ml heavy cream

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 large garlic clove, grated

1 teaspoon salt

Pinch piment d’espelette or cayenne pepper

Freshly ground pepper

For the sauce

1-1/2 cups/375 ml Greek yoghurt

2 tablespoons olive oil

Grated zest of a lemon (optional)

Squeeze of lemon juice

2 garlic cloves, grated

Salt and pepper

A large handful of fresh mint leaves, shredded

Heat the oven to 350°F/180°C. Line a 9-inch/23 cm springform pan with parchment paper.

Thinly slice the zucchini on a mandolin. Whisk the eggs in a large bowl, then whisk in the self-rising flour (or chickpea flour) until smooth. Add the Parmesan cheese, cream, oil, garlic, salt, piment d’espelette, and pepper. Add the zucchini and toss to coat.

Arrange the batter-coated zucchini in concentric circles in the baking pan, then pour any remaining batter over top. Bake until golden and completely cooked through in the centre, about 45 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.

For the sauce, simply mix the ingredients together, taste, and adjust the seasonings. Cover, and refrigerate for an hour or so for the flavours to mellow.

Once the torte is cool enough to handle, remove from the pan and transfer to a platter. Cut wedges to serve, and pass the sauce separately for spooning alongside.

Zucchini Torte With Yoghurt Mint Sauce

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Love,

Laura (and Peter, too)

Greece is glorious! I can’t think why it took me so long to get there, but for some reason it was just not on my radar until a friend decided to celebrate a “big birthday” in Crete last week. Off we went with our swim trunks and dancing shoes, and oh what a time!

Our trip began with lunch in Heraklion, because (luckily!) we had to wait the better part of a day before our hosts would be ready to receive us. We found a place that had been awarded best organic restaurant of the year in Europe and sat down outside in the shade of an overhead trellis covered in grape vines. We were immediately served a “welcome soup” in the form of a demi-tasse brimming with fragrant, spiced pork broth with bulgur. Now, isn’t “welcome soup” the most wonderfully hospitable idea you’ve ever heard of, something that every guest who enters the establishment receives and that nobody pays for? That was to be the first of many signs that the Greeks know something special about hospitality.

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What brought that conversation on I don’t recall, but this seems the right time to share snippets from it because it’s Mother’s Day in North America this Sunday. This has me thinking not just about how much work mothers do, which is enough to make your head throb, but also about how much of what women do — most of their labour, whether physical, mental, emotional, or a combination of all three — is never paid for and rarely even acknowledged. That fact is age-old and doubtless going nowhere, so the least we can do is stop this time of year and be grateful for the good women in our lives, and for all that they do. This world would be a vending machine in a derelict parking lot without them.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the Zen concept of “parental mind” as it applies to cooking, but I think now I’d change that to “maternal mind” and apply it to everything in life. The older I get, the more this mindset seems to be overtaking me. The question, “What would a mother do?” lingers in the air around every task or problem I confront. Say I’m ironing; a chore like that used to put me in a sour and resentful mood. Now, with a maternal mindset firmly lodged in my frontal lobe, I approach it like I’m taking care of someone I love, which I suppose in a way I am (lucky Peter of countless T-shirts and boxers!).

If you don’t have a Mother’s Day present organized yet, perhaps A Breath of French Air can help with that. I’ll even offer a 20% discount this week.

Mother's Day Offer

Maternal mindset is what makes a person pick something up off the floor that doesn’t belong there, divide the remains of a cake equally, notice that the house is out of toothpaste, send a get-well card, sew a button back on, buy flowers… In short, it’s the art of noticing what most people overlook and the art of kissing things better, whether it’s a scraped knee or a stain on a tablecloth or the bruised confidence of someone of any age. That’s a powerful gift. And even if such acts go unrecognized by others 99 per cent of the time, women themselves mustn’t lose sight of the importance of their contributions of this kind.

(Men can operate with a maternal mind, too. It’s about giving expression to the yin that’s in all of us and not letting it get drowned out by all the yanging.)

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Now, let’s talk about recipes for a moment, which are another thing that can seem easily dismissible but aren’t. The subject of the relevance of recipes came up during one of my art-of-the-table workshops when we were discussing just how many of them there are fluttering about the internet these days, along with so many cookbooks — too many cooks, as it were — all bombarding us to the point they start to feel meaningless and numbing. Until, that is, someone gives you a new recipe, from their hands to yours, and it takes on a face.

This makes all the difference. Being able to attach a trusted identity and provenance to something, especially something you’re about to eat, is reassuring. Similarly, knowing who a recipe comes from and having positive feelings about that person automatically make the resulting dish more desirable and delicious. Indeed, it turns a recipe into something much more than a set of ingredients and instructions; it becomes a whole story, an essential link in the chain of life.

One of the women on the workshop gave me a hand-painted card for my birthday with her cherished recipe for Rhubarb Sponge Pudding written on the back. Yesterday, I went out and bought a special dish to bake it in. I also went to some trouble tracking down Lyle’s Golden Syrup, a key ingredient. (FYI for anyone in Paris, I found it at the fine food emporium, Izraël, in the 3^rd arrondissement. It’s also available here at La Grande Épicerie in the 7th, and, in North America, doubtless at any grocery store that carries British goods.)

I took care to put the pudding in the oven at just the right moment to be served warm after dinner with friends, and, let me tell you, it was the most wonderfully homey and delectable dessert I’ve had in a long time. Nay, the most wonderfully maternal! It’s redolent of childhood, warm hugs, and a sense that all is right with the world, not to mention a reminder of what a proper recipe, like a good woman, can do: connect, comfort, nourish, and bolster anyone having a bad day so they can go back out into the world and brave life.

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Here’s to the unsung gifts of good recipes and good women. Happy Mother’s Day this Sunday! 🥂

English Rhubarb Sponge Pudding (with thanks to Sandra Cardinal)

A sweet-scented and comforting springtime dessert that’s bound to become a family favourite. It’s not glamorous, it’s granny-ous, which is of course the best kind of dessert there is. Serve warm from the oven after a Sunday roast.

Makes: four to six servings

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Most of my time away was spent hosting an art of the table retreat in tandem with Château de la Gonette for a group of marvellous women, most of whom had flown in from overseas. Over the course of a week, we strangers became friends, waking to the sound of birdsong, breathing in a fragrant countryside bursting with every conceivable colour and bloom, and gathering around tables in the kitchen, or in the living room, or on the terrace, or outside the kitchen door, where the herb pots sit, sharing knowledge and tales of our lives.

There were workshops on everything from hosting and recipe writing to creating alluring dining spaces, mastering cheese etiquette, dinner party planning, and on how to use every table you come to as a space for self-care, cultivation, expression, and connection. And we dined like kings, thanks to the stellar la Gonette food and wine team (Jenny, Harriet and Arie). Every meal was surprising and inspiring in taste and presentation – as indeed was every table, because no two were decorated alike the entire week. And, of course, every time we gathered around them, our stories criss-crossed amongst us like threads on a loom, weaving us into a shared world all our own for the time we were together.

Those threads will hold us together even now that we’ve gone our separate ways. Retreats are magical that way. You think you’re going to learn about subject X or Y, and you do, but ultimately, more than anything else, you discover more about other people, about life, and perhaps especially about yourself. I’ll be a long time digesting the week and savouring the memories, but I already know I’m a better person for the experience.

Peter came down to join me for a few days after the retreat to explore Provence, mostly in the Luberon. I hadn’t been to that part of France in nearly 25 years, when I was sent to Lourmarin to complete a restaurant stage as part of my training under the cookbook author and cooking teacher, Anne Willan. She, of course, embraced all aspects of French cuisine, perhaps especially that of Burgundy where she lived. Bring on the butter, cream, and braises! I remember being shocked when I first went to live at her house by the richness of the food, and I immediately began a campaign to be allowed to do my kitchen apprenticeship in Provence, which I was convinced was the only place in the country I’d find healthy food. Over my years working for Anne she did manage to stretch my mind beyond that narrow view; still, going back to Provence this week made me wonder if I haven’t come full circle. The food in Provence and the relaxed way of dining there are definitely for me. Give me grains, fruit, vegetables, oils, fish, nuts and seeds. Oh, and rosé, served with ice cubes bien sûr. And long, leisurely dining outdoors.

As anyone who has spent time in the south of France knows, it’s a place that sings the gospel of simplicity, slowing down, and savouring nature. La Gonette exemplified that approach to living, and my excursions around the Luberon with Peter afterwards reinforced it. So now, I’m returning to “normal” life in Paris more determined than ever to create a world for myself that favours being more sensuously and spiritually in tune with all that’s around me: changes in the weather and light, the sounds of cooking, the feel of fabrics, people’s emotions, the scents in the air…

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Keeping in touch means paying attention and being consciously engaged with the so-called “little things” in life. Sometimes that takes discipline, but we can find ways to do it everywhere we look and with every action we take. Peter and I have already discussed getting rid of the capsule-fed coffee machine in our apartment and finding something more manual. A few months ago, I replaced all the soaps in our house with gorgeously scented natural ones: lavender, rose, and olive oil. Now, I’m going to up my game and impose the same criteria on all cleaning products, because if washing floors or clothes or whatever doesn’t feel like self-care, something’s wrong. I’ve yet to buy proper sheets in France, because I’m waiting until we move. Still, I couldn’t resist picking up some antique linen pillowcases in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue to get started on turning our bed into a proper sanctuary.

I also bought two reversible platters in Provence from ceramist Valerie Casado, because the more things in a house that are made by hand, the better the energy of the place.

Of course, one of the best places of all to keep the senses alive and fed with pleasure is in the kitchen. I was inspired by a lunch dish of filet of John Dory at the Café du Progrès in Ménerbes a few days ago. It was served on a mound of zucchini stewed in olive oil and flecked with chopped toasted almonds, confit lemon, and piment, all surrounded by a foam of almond milk and topped with shoestring fries. It was all scrumptious, but it was the zucchini part that I especially wanted to recreate. I finally did so last night and it’s going to become a staple. It goes with practically anything.

Stewed Courgettes with Almonds and Lemon

The additions of piment d’Espelette, roasted almonds, preserved lemon, and fresh lemon peel make this simple and versatile stewed zucchini dish positively addictive. It can accompany chicken, fish, or eggs, be thrown onto a picnicky buffet table, or even be used as a sort of relish, served, say, with goat cheese and toast.

Piment d’Espelette is a dried pepper from the Basque region that is ground. In Provence, the same pepper variety is used, but it’s simply called “piment.” It is milder than Italian dried chili flakes (pepperoncini), and is noted more for its flavour than its heat. I’m never without it in the kitchen.

Makes: two servings

¼ cup/60 ml olive oil

2 small courgettes, about 10 ounces, 280 g trimmed

Salt and pepper

A pinch of piment d’Espelette

2 tablespoons roughly chopped toasted almonds

Skin from ¼ to ½ a preserved lemon, depending on size, diced

A strip of lemon peel with white pith removed, finely julienned

Tiny mint leaves for garnish (optional)

Heat the oil over medium-low heat in a pan just large enough to hold the courgettes. Quarter or halve the courgettes lengthwise, then slice. Add to the pan, stirring to coat with the oil. Season with salt and pepper, and cook gently until very soft and lightly golden, about 20 minutes. Stir through the piment, almonds, preserved lemon, and julienned peel. Cook for a minute or two longer, then spill into a serving dish. Garnish with a little mint, or any other suitable herb, if you like. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Stewed Courgettes With Almonds And Lemon

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Wishing you a serene, light-hearted, and delicious month of May.

xo,

Laura

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As some may have noticed, several years ago, having written six books and made over 100 television shows about food, I pulled away not just from French cuisine but also from cooking in general. I resented the “chef” pigeonhole (I’ve never been a chef or even a professional cook in my life) and felt limited by an expectation, if only in my own mind, that I had to stay in a laneway paved with croissants and cheese, armed with mixing bowls and frying pans. I refused to write another cookbook, declared “It’s not about the food!” when speaking of entertaining, and, in my own house, retreated into a sous-chef position, letting my husband take over most serious culinary moves while I prepped his mirepoix, set the table, and tossed salad.

At the same time, and this goes back at least to 2020, I became a serious student of anything to do with hosting and the art of the table. You should see my collection of books, the piles of notes, the files. In retrospect, what I was doing was digging for the meaning in it all. When one’s relationship with cooking gets reduced to peeling one disposable recipe after another off the internet, it leaves a person hollow, hungry and wondering, “Why bother?” That’s the mental state I was in for ages, but, miraculously, it has turned on a dime.

About a month ago, I went to lunch at the home of my new hero, French writer Perla Servan-Schreiber, along with my friend Camille Labro, another food writer who also runs L’école comestible, an organization that teaches French children what real food is and why it’s important to learn to cook. I was talking about my upcoming retreat on l’art de la table in Provence and batting away any suggestion by Camille that I was somehow a cook. “I just cook at home,” I explained.

And that’s when Camille blew her gallic top. “That’s the most important cooking there is, for God’s sake!” she exploded, with Perla nodding in agreement like one of those Feng Shui cats in the window of a nail salon.

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Before we left, Perla gave me a book she’d written in the mid-1990s about the meaning of food and cooking. Next day, leaving for two weeks in Italy, I slipped it into my bag to read on the road.

I already told you last week about the impact Italy had on me with its earthy and rooted approach to cooking. The land matters, I remembered, as does being connected to it. Authenticity. Identity. Quality. Those reminders, layered with the words of Perla’s book, made me wake up to the monumental value of home cooking.

Without using the actual Arabic word, in her book Et Nourir de Plaisir, Perla writes about “nafas,” which refers to the energy a person transfers to others directly through food. She talks about how the act of cooking, not just food alone, connects people, and how it nourishes (as she writes, you actually eat less when you cook). She points out how so much food today, especially of the fast variety (panini, burgers, and the like) isolates, because it’s often food eaten alone and not so much chosen as resorted to.

A meal cooked for a family, on the other hand, gets shared and, consequently, unites on several levels, connecting people to one another, to nature, and to the universal life force that we all have such trouble putting a finger on. Perla emphasizes the difference between routine and ritual, one leading to frustration, resentment, boredom, and disorder, the other having the impact of civilizing and pacifying. She says a lot of other interesting things, too, but ultimately her message is that food and cooking are sacred, and that to be in a position to feed friends and family is enormously powerful.

Abracadabra poof! Suddenly, I’m happy to declare myself a cook. It’s not all that I am, obviously, but I finally understand how significant a role it is that I play. That’s true of you, too. In your world, the cook that matters most is you, because it’s your intention and your energy that are the essential ingredients in any dish you make. When you cook, you connect. When you feed, you give of yourself. There is no vending machine or drive-through or even three-star gastronomic temple that can ever match what you can do in your own kitchen.

So, it’s fine to be inspired by the chefs and food celebrities that come across our screens, but it’s important not to allow ourselves to start believing that they’re the real thing and that what we do at home is less worthy. Put down your screens and pick up a mirror, and be proud to lay your eyes on the most important and influential chef in the world: you.

xo,

Laura

P.S. If your cooking and hosting have been stuck in a rut, let me (and Peter, too) help turn that around. Come join us for a week this September for A Breath of French Air in Burgundy, where we’ll get into the kitchen together; gather around the table to dine, talk, and learn; and venture out and about to explore the food, wine, and natural beauty of one of the most prized gastronomic regions in France. For detailed information about the week, contact lucy@chateaudemissery.com

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We flew back yesterday to Paris after a triumphant, two-week trip to Italy. My mother impressed us all – and indeed herself – by averaging over 7 kilometres a day on foot (and more than one day over 10), much of which was up and down steep hills. Go Mum!

Miraculously, I didn’t work the entire time we were away, apart from sending you that short missive last Thursday. This is unheard of for me and I’m ashamed to admit it, because taking breaks is crucial if you want to be of any use in this world. Despite my always defending this fact, I’m not so good at walking my own talk when it comes to taking time out. That’s perhaps more of a cultural hurdle than one based on personality, but those engrained tendencies can be the hardest to break free of. Seeing how much good the Italian getaway has done me, I’m determined to get better at rest. Overworking never means you get more done. It just means you wear yourself down to dullness and eventually burn out.

How about you? Do you give yourself the downtime you need and deserve?

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Although I didn’t work during the holiday, I was obviously taking in observations. Here are some things about Italy that struck me:

· There is a palpable respect for and inclusion of the elderly and children in that country. I noticed this in restaurants from the way patrons greeted people young and old, and from how engaged grandparents and children were at the table. Even in the street and on trains and so on, people constantly made room for my mother, and were helpful, accommodating, and kind. In a world where being overlooked and isolated is a chronic distress for so many, this was heartening to witness.

· At the excellent agriturismo we stayed at in Umbria, our hosts were seriously devoted to the quality of their food, and by that I don’t mean in terms of culinary flourish. I’m talking about raw ingredients. They grow their own wheat, for example, using an ancient variety which Roberto, the farmer, explained has a very different level and quality of gluten from today’s industrial varieties. If so much as a pinch of flour gets into a sauce Peter eats, he will be sick for days because of the gluten. Well, he decided to tempt fate by eating a piece of Roberto’s wife Rebecca’s bread, made from their wheat, and guess what? Yup, nothing happened.

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This insight, along with a lengthy description from Roberto about what goes on with modern meat production, hit me broadside. I’ve been aware all my life that good food starts not in the kitchen but in the ground, but for some reason the importance of good ingredients was sounding louder in my ears than ever on this trip. Italian cuisine gets the message across better than most because of its simplicity. A plate of steamed beet greens or a piece of grilled fish with olive oil and salt have nothing to hide behind: the quality or lack thereof is immediately apparent. This is not necessarily the case with, say, French cuisine, which has a vast arsenal of elaborate techniques that can disguise or distract from inferior ingredients.

“Audacious simplicity” is how I want to describe the Italian approach to food, although their essential way of eating has always come more from scarcity and necessity, not daring. Still, I like the term and shall aspire to it, especially in the kitchen.

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· It had been many years since I travelled to Italy, and I’d forgotten how different the table culture is from that in France. More frenetic, for one thing. There’s no time to start with a leisurely apéritif because waiters want you to order food straight away. Dishes arrive when they’re ready, willy-nilly, instead everyone’s order landing at once. Plates get passed and shared, usually resulting in a bit of mess. And as soon as someone’s plate is empty, it’s whisked away, sometimes almost before they’ve had a chance to set their fork down. This leaves anyone still eating to finish on their own. I can’t say I love that custom.

· Despite the general impression that Italians are more laidback than the French, and they are, you nonetheless see a lot more white tablecloths and cloth napkins in Italy, including in modest family restaurants. Also, the Italians still change your cutlery between courses, unlike the French these days, who will go so far as to rip it out of your hands, however covered in sauce it might be, and throw it back down on the table for you to use again. (I’m not talking about starred restaurants; I mean in your average bistro.) Now that Peter and I are onto this new and horrible trend in Paris, we’ve learned to ask for fresh cutlery, which isn’t always provided graciously.

· Food is less expensive in Italy than it is in France.

· House wines in Italian restaurants are cheap and actually good.

· Food in Italy remains more devoutly regional than in France, with less variety and less invention at the mid-range level. That’s not a criticism, just an observation. There’s something to be said for it, too.

· After two weeks of eating in restaurants in Italy, I feel completely normal and healthy, whereas after just two days of eating in restaurants in France (or North America), I’m desperate for my own cooking.

“You sound like you’re done with France,” my brother said to me more than once during our trip. I can’t imagine ever being done with France, but it’s true that I do get a craving for ways of living that seem to be fading out here. It makes me want to run around France turning stones to try and find them, because if there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s that culture – any culture – roots like a Banyan tree. You can hack away at the top of it all you want, but its resilience, deep down, will always triumph.

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I’m heading to Provence next week for my art of the table retreat at Château de la Gonette, and I can’t wait. This Italy trip, along with a book I’ve been reading by Perla Servan-Schreiber about cooking, food, and eating, have me totally pumped on kitchen and table topics. The week in Provence is going to be an absolute binge. I’ll tell you all about it when the time comes.

Until soon ~

Laura xo

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