Ever since I met Erik, he’s been talking about France. “The south of France is the most beautiful place in the world,” he’ll say. “It’s one of those very rare places that’s actually as beautiful as they say.”
He continues: “The French keep all the good wines for themselves. Really, you have to go there to drink it.” And then: “I saved myself from dying on a French motorcycle twice.”
It’s true; the back tire blew out twice on a motorcycle Erik rented to tour the south of France. He was riding with a friend. The first time the tire exploded, he steered them safely to the side of the road, and the friend, who’d learned much of his French in Cameroon, called the man who rented it and argued that no, they shouldn’t have to pay extra to replace a defective, dangerous tire. At last the man drove out to replace it; Erik and his friend got on the bike again; and a short time later the new back tire blew out. Erik steered the skidding motorcycle to the shoulder once more, but this time they parked it, called the French man and told him it was his problem. Then they got dinner, I’m guessing with plenty of that good French wine.
I’m glad that Erik saved his own life twice in France, of course: if he hadn’t, where would we be today? But to his disappointment, my general attitude toward France has been, “Ooh-la-la.” Since we met I’ve been trying to convince him that Latin American shanty towns and chicken buses, travel motifs I’m more familiar with, might rival the south of France’s culture and beauty.
Yet he persists. Erik emphasizes food. “Did you read this article in Time about French school lunches?” he’ll say. It gives a sample preschool lunch menu: hake in Basque sauce, mashed pumpkin, cracked rice, Edam cheese and organic fruits. But I don’t know what “hake” is.
“The French diet uses butter,” he’ll try, buttering his gluten-free toast. “And they have one of the lowest rates of heart disease in the world.”
“Oh!” I say, and here I get excited. I spread an extra pat on my Ezekiel Bread.
“My favorite part about Paris was croissants,” he reminisces. His accent sounds French, a little “w” in place of the “r.” “Chocolate croissants. I had a doctor tell me that in France I might be able to eat croissants again. Their wheat is better than American wheat.”
Perhaps my hesitation about France has been the product of fear. I’ve believed that most French food is like the aspic from Julie and Julia, that I’ll never be able to order a French dinner until I can pronounce “boeuf” through my nose, that the boeuf drips white with cream and butter and takes full days to prepare, but if I want to be beautiful and willowy, like French women the movies, I can only eat dry salads made of herbs de Provence.
But my stubborn view of France was finally (and fortunately) shaken when my Aunt Marge came to visit last month and lent me a French cookbook: Vegetable Harvest, by Patricia Wells. Erik has been kind; he hasn’t said, “I told you so” to my now-frequent exclamations that French food is actually good. Simply, he’s been happy with the change: I cook out of the book almost every night.
It’s amazing. The recipes (at least the ones I choose to make) are simple, fast, light, the way summer would taste if its essence were bottled and set on the table next to the salt shaker. And I haven’t used any butter yet. I’ve been working my way through the eggplant recipes; I made the recipe below twice. Erik and I finished it both times before I could take a picture, though it looks lovely. I’m posting a photo of the eggplant plants from my garden instead. You get a sense of our Iowa summer humidity.
STEAMED EGGPLANT WITH BUTTERMILK-THYME DRESSING
2 to 3 small, elongated, Asian-type eggplants (about 1 pound)
4 plump, moist cloves garlic, peeled, halved, green germ removed, minced
Fine sea salt
2 tablespoons Buttermilk-Thyme Dressing (below)
- Cut the eggplants lengthwise – from stem end to bottom – into very thin slices. Do not peel.
- Bring 1 quart water to a simmer in the bottom of a steamer. Place the eggplant slices – slightly overlapping – on the steaming rack. Place rack over the simmering water, cover, and steam until the eggplant is soft and cooked through, about 15 minutes. With a slotted spoon, transfer the slices to a large platter. Sprinkle with the garlic, season with salt, and drizzle with the dressing. Toss gently to coat the eggplant. Serve immediately. This dish should be eaten warm!
BUTTERMILK-THYME DRESSING
¼ teaspoon fine sea salt
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon imported French mustard
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
½ cup buttermilk, shaken to blend
Combine all the ingredients in a small jar. Cover and shake to blend. Let sit for 1 hour to blend the flavors. Store, covered and refrigerated, for up to one week. At serving time, shake to blend once again.
Bon appétit!
Makes me wish your Uncle Lee would eat eggplant (other than when it is disguised in Moussaka or Baba Ghanouj). I can’t believe I let that book languish under the bed in the spare bedroom for the last couple of years……
I made Moussaka once when I was in Chicago (that’s when I learned Lee didn’t like eggplant), but I don’t remember him eating much of it.
I’ve never had steamed eggplant, so we may have to give that a try. Now we’re drowning in corn from the CSA.
It’s actually really refreshing steamed – nice and light, without all the oil eggplant usually seems to absorb. Corn — you should come to Iowa!
His loss! The book hasn’t left the top of the kitchen table for a few weeks… it might have a few food stains when you get it back!
That last comment was to Auntie M
.
I don’t remember what eggplant tastes like, but after reading this, I may be tempted to give it (another?) try!!!!!!!