Wow, over a hundred of you landed here in just one week! Thank you so much for signing up. It feels deliciously retro to finally start what is pretty much a blog, a good twenty years after the media’s heyday. I’d like to think of my Substack Weblog as a sort of gossipy neighbourhood bistro with comfy banquettes and an old-fashioned menu where you can settle in comfortably. Mostly, I would like you to feel welcome when you arrive, and, hopefully, inspired to cook when you leave.
This week started as my favourite type of week, quiet and reflective, and one befitting early January, with its grey gloom outside. A week ago, I was also full of hope that the work would be starting on my house, having spent a good two months trying to find builders, plumbers and electricians who would:
1: Answer the phone or return a message. 2: Make an appointment before June 2023. 3: Turn up to the arranged appointment. 4: Not be rude/drunk/domineering/downright sexist/smoke Gauloises during the appointment. 5: Send an estimate. 6: Send an estimate that was not fifty million euros. 7: Suggest a date to start within a few weeks. 8: Turn up on agreed date. 9: Turn up at agreed time on agreed date.
The current state of affairs chez moi.
Of the twenty or so (yes, really) I contacted, after much frustration, annoyance and worry, I was down to ONE. Colin. I’m calling him Colin for, as well as being reasonably pleasant, with good Google reviews for his work, he looks a bit like Colin Farrell, when he does that thing with his eyebrows in Banshees of Inisherin which (for me in any case) was an unexpected added bonus to his simply being there. Colin’s first job was to prepare the electricity and do a teeny bit of plumbing for my new kitchen. I was hoping then, with enough plugs installed to set up a makeshift kitchen, to brave the lack of central heating or wood burner and actually move into the house while Colin and team cracked on with the rest.
Epic Irish eyebrows.
That should have been yesterday. My super-duper gigantic bed had arrived and I was starting to eye the sales at Merci and Le Monde Sauvage, but Reader, I’m rather sad to say that Jack and I are still in my little golf apartment eating mainly Things On Toast and Things Heated Up In The Microwave. It turns out that the reason Colin was the only person I could find to do the job, is that Colin is in fact terrifyingly incompetent, apart, perhaps, from faking Google reviews, and has now broken all the plumbing in the house, save the cold water tap in the kitchen sink. I don’t mind a little bit of hardship, but I am well past the age of enduring a daily cold-water wash with a face flannel.
It will take me a Prince Harry amount of therapy to ease the trauma of what “broken plumbing” actually meant, but don’t worry, I shall spare you the details as I try to scrub them from my mind. I have now hired one of the fifty million euro companies, and will not be moving in for another month, at least. But I’m lucky to have other warm places to stay in the meantime, and plenty of reasons to be cheerful despite this minor-in-the-scheme-of-things setback. Here are some of them. See you next week! TX
Reasons to be cheerful, Friday 13th January, 2023
1: Bellême
I now live five minutes drive from the pretty town of Bellême, probably the most emblematic of le Perche region. It’s a Parisian weekender’s paradise, with some terrific decoration and antique shops, a good cheesemonger, chocolatier and two great boulangerie-pâtisseries. Restaurants are still lacking, however, but at least there’s an excellent wine bar and a Café du Midi still full of characters and interesting chats. Best of all, is the Thursday morning market on the church square– but more on that when I finally have a kitchen! For now, I’m happy to pop in for the odd baked treat at Les Délices des Remparts or Le Carré Bellêmois and very basic groceries from Carrefour.
Brioche feuilletées from Le Carré Bellêmois
2: My lovely neighbours
My old friends, stylist Mona Duveau and artist/designer José Estèves , are legendary cooks and hosts, and I now live a mere hundred metres from their stunning restored schoolhouse in Igé. On Sunday, I was lucky enough to be invited there for the Epiphany Galette des Rois ritual (preceded by veal blanquette with truffles) and yes, be crowned Queen! My beloved King was the excellent and hilarious Olivier Castaing, creator of School Gallery and bon vivant extraordinaire.
The galettes came in classic, lemon, apple and chocolate flavours and were unbelievably good. It was also so calming and peaceful to be in such beautiful surroundings, given the chaos in my house, and the B&Q trolley dash aesthetic of my golfing digs.
Here’s a little bit of background on Galettes, and how to make one at home.
Galette des Rois
Every year, just when everyone is getting over the excesses of Christmas and New Year, the bakers and patissiers of France assail the population with plain, flat, shiny Galettes des Rois.
Filled with frangipane and encased in rich puff pastry, it seems unlikely that anyone would want to tackle one so soon after bûche de Noel and turkey with chestnuts. But it’s the social ritual more than the cake that has people hooked, with the cutting and serving of the galette turned into an elaborate scenario. And it has become the customary way for families, companies, town halls and schools to gather and celebrate the New Year, all through the month of January. Even Président Macron wishes guests Happy New Year at L’Elysée, although there are no Kings, Queens or crowns in sight as they are understandably banned in the beating heart of La République.
The first time I encountered a Galette - at my ex belle famille’s table - I truly believed it was a joke at my expense, unsuspecting foreigner that I was. The galette was cut into eleven pieces (one more than the number of guests), then I was sent under the table to call out everyone's name and thus impartially decide the order in which everyone got their slice.
This secrecy is necessary because the stakes are high. Inside each galette is a fève – a little charm. First served in Roman times, whoever came across it in his piece of cake was crowned king of the party. The tradition is still going strong and the fèves have become little porcelain figurines that are passionately collected by fabophiles.
Nowadays, the king or queen gets to choose his or her corresponding co-monarch from around the table and wins the honour of inviting everyone for the next galette. The extra slice is la part du pauvre – the poor man's share – given in the past to those who would beg for food. Now it is given to the greediest guest who wants second helpings.
This was rarely the case in my house, for among my rather competitive children, the lure of the prize and the ensuing coronation was always more attractive than the cake itself. All eyes were on my knife as I cut up the galette, checking to see if it went "clink" as it hit something hard, so giving away the mystery.
YOU WILL NEED
50g butter, softened
2 eggs
50g caster sugar
1 tbsp plain flour
50g ground almonds
A few drops of bitter almond extract
A pinch of salt
1 tbsp rum (optional)
1 packet good puff pastry
1 feve
1 egg, lightly beaten
METHOD
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/gas mark 4. Line a large baking sheet with baking parchment and set it aside.
The puff pastry should be defrosted but kept in the fridge until the very last minute to make sure that it will rise properly.
In a bowl, mix the butter, 2 eggs, sugar and flour until well combined. Add the ground almonds, mix well, then add the bitter almond extract, the salt and the rum, if you're including it.
Roll out the puff pastry and cut two 22cm rounds. Place one on the baking sheet (leave the other in the fridge for now). Scoop the almond mixture into the centre of the pastry and gently and evenly distribute it across it, leaving a 2cm rim uncovered.
Place the feve anywhere you like on the almond cream, then brush the uncovered rim with beaten egg.
Remove the second puff pastry round from the fridge and gently place on top of the almond cream, aligning the edges so that they sit directly over those of the lower round.
Without pushing the almond cream out, gently bring the edges down to just touch the lower ones, pinching them together.
Brush the remaining beaten egg over the top of the puff pastry to glaze it, then make a small hole in the centre with a knife.
Gently score the pastry to make a criss-cross pattern, being careful not to cut all the way through.
Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 160°C/325°F/gas mark 3 and bake for 20 minutes or until lightly golden and the pastry has puffed up.
Let it cool until just warm before you start cutting into it.
3: Irish condiments
If you follow me on Instagram, (if not, please do!) you might be familiar with my ravings about White Mausu and Nutshed products. They quite literally fire up your winter mornings and take the mundane out of avo toast and fried or poached eggs. White Mausu’s rayu is also one of the most photogenic condiments I have come across, instantly giving wow factor to your food snaps. During January, and especially as I am not in my own kitchen, comfort food means familiar, healthy, warm, nourishing dishes. I make batches of my spinach heavy Pond Soup - then wake it up with crispy onions, rayu and parmesan, or softer, melting aged Gruyère.
Behold, lurgy-busting chicken noodle soup with spinach, Rayu and Scotch Bonnet chilli.
Crispy egg on rye toast with tomatoes, sprats and smoky harissa peanut butter.