I am up to my elbows in blood and wine. Monsieur C. paid one of his visits last week and after four days of serious marinating I’m ready to slice his massive thigh of wild boar into fine strips. It’s raw and cold but smelling wonderfully of burgundy and juniper berries.
The boar have been pesky lately. We hear them rooting in the thickets at night and witness their destruction in the morning. When I’d gone out eager to see them at work the other evening, our elder son collared me; they charge if they feel threatened especially if it’s a mother with her litter, and I should know better. Then he suggested in his wise and cheeky manner that if I were so eager for an adrenalin rush, I should do it right and get my own hunting license.
This peculiar idea was floating around vaguely at the back of my mind, when Monsieur C. showed up. First, he tips his hat. Then there is the slight bend of the waist that suggests a bow. His language predates the Industrial Revolution (how much longer will we know the flattery of direct address in the 3rd person? “Will Madame kindly permit…”) and his words are so embroidered I’m drowning in metaphors and sous entendus.
Down to business. Feudal customs die hard around here, and as before each hunt there is a formal request for permission to shoot on our land. We breathe easier by this protocol. The hunters are not a bunch of gun nutters or boys with toys but I’m reassured by advance notice of their plan. Hunts are organized within a code of quotas, when the wildlife population tips a balance and grows too numerous for the farmers and anyone else who care about crops. And there is another up side. Within the feudal bargain, they hunt, and when the animal has the bad luck of dying on our land, we receive an offering. With some playful noblesse oblige attached: prepare it for a multitude.
That’s why I’m up to my elbows. It’s the first time I’m cooking boar so I’ve asked Mister A. a resident expert in such things, for his counsel. He eyed the haunch, weighing it up. First, buy 3 bottles of burgundy or cotes du rhone, you need to marinate for at least 4 days to tenderize the meat. And by the way, not bordeaux, wrong kind of tannins. And don’t think of going cheap either. Get the good stuff. Then he tots up a few other essential ingredients I must procure.
During this week of prep, it’s always weird to open the fridge. I know how my city friend felt this morning when she helped herself to some milk for our tea. I felt the same many years ago when I opened the main house fridge on a winter’s day. Eeek. An over size baking pan loaded with the bloody limb of some unrecognizable creature. Forget that mousse au chocolat on the top shelf, you wouldn’t have the stomach for it. The cook (the children called her “cookie”) assured me this would metamorphose into something fabulous, but I was rather squeamish at the time, with vegetarian tendencies, and the sight of all that red sent me running for the peanut butter.
But cookie was right, the dish was fabulous. I wish I’d paid more attention then, now it’s my turn to cut away the flesh. How in the world would I pass the hunting test if I’m too timid to wield a carving knife? I pick up the bone at the small end, I guess it’s near the ankle poor thing, and then slice the meat off, sliver by sliver.
My hands will be purple for weeks but oof, that’s done and the fun can begin. Mister A. has shared his recipe with me and I stop to wonder. More protocol – does he want me to keep it secret? When L. my mother-in-law was still among us, asking for recipes was even more dangerous than asking the name of her perfume.
One Christmas Eve she served a magnificent salmon mousse for the first course. Hint of dill. Earth-rattlingly delicious. When I asked for the recipe she became politely deaf. At my hesitant second request, she slid away to her office without a word. When she returned with the recipe penned meticulously in that flourish-filled longhand typical of French schooling in the 1920’s, I saw it for what it was: proof of her love for me. We had lived many Naomi and Ruth moments, but this sealed it. Yet there were still conditions: “Promise me you will keep this to yourself.” I could only stutter, why? “It’s perfectly clear. If everyone starts serving our salmon mousse, and all of my other best recipes, what kind of tricks will we have left?” This is the hostess who recorded the menu of every dinner party in her lifetime, so as to never serve her guests the same thing twice.
Once I’ve set the slivers aside and given the huge bone to our huge dog, time for chemistry. I hum as I stir in the next ingredients. There’s something soothing about the long, gentle simmer with winter spices rising through the air…
Which is good because it keeps me from noting that the man has dusted the entire kitchen with fine white powder just an hour before our guests arrive. He’s carted out his traditional, ten ton copper pasta maker that he bought in Padua eons ago; the one he dragged all over that town and then home on his back.
But as an acting coach once told me, don’t pick a fight with your boyfriend just before you go for an audition. So while pasta man tosses dust, I resolutely turn my back and tend my sauce. The meat is now gently cooked through, so it’s time for Mister A.’s secrets.
With his permission. Secret number 1: A good bit of foie gras.
Not just any foie gras. I always return to L.’s favorite foie gras farm. She brought me here when I protested about animal cruelty; she want to prove the ducks were loved so I would have the pleasure of eating foie gras with the family on New Year’s Eve.
A word about eating foie gras. Now that I have become a fan, it should be noted that we eat foie gras with considerable ceremony. Only in winter, only on special occasions, only served beautifully, only with a proper knife, only in small amounts, only the best. I once observed a young person eat foie gras in summer. Summer! She spooned it out of the jar and heaped it sandwich fashion on some common hunks of bread, smacked her lips and licked the spoon.
L. purchased the finest foie gras in order to spoil her children and friends. Sometimes she bought foie “cru” and at home she showed me how to devein it with tweezers in order to make our favorite – foie gras “mi cuit.” Every November she stocked up on half bottles of Sauterne and foie gras in tins and mailed them to her children in the U.S.
On that first farm visit she made sure I witnessed how the ducks were tended. Indeed they looked like happy little things pecking about freely in the yards. The force-feeding pens were harder to like, but I was seduced by her take on that: she found that the farmer’s touch as he stroked the throat of each duck to help the corn go down slowly, was very “sensual.” Not an easy perspective to defend, but there is some truth in this. The gentle and patient gesture of the farmer – an important secret ingredient in the best foie gras.
Just before the crowd arrives, I dollop in secret ingredient number 2: Crème Fraiche. I have completely forgotten what life was like before I met Crème Fraiche. She helps me mingle, helps me work the crowd; she swims around self-effacingly in her velvety way, helping me pull everything together. She is the element you can’t put your finger on, but without her you’re still just ladling out a common stew.
It’s snowing again, the fireplace is roaring, friends flow in, we’ll be 20 at table. The man’s hair is white with flour dust but he’s pouring champagne, another precious beverage for special occasions. We raise a glass to the boar and to the hunters. I recount what Monsieur C. said when he delivered our feast: “Some seasons they outwit us. We catch nothing, it’s their turn to win.” I like thinking about victorious mother boar with her babes, up in the brambles tonight. Elder son pokes me in the ribs. Have I applied for my hunting permit yet? I keep meaning to speak to Monsieur C. about this. Maybe next season… maybe they would let me just tag along.
