A Pig in Provence (27 page)

I
n the twilight of the vaulted room, the fireplace looms, promising warmth and companionship on this October evening. I’ve built a fire of oak and pine deep in the hearth, and when the wood is burnt down to glowing chunks, I’ll put on a handful or two of grape prunings and grill my lamb chops. They’re sitting on a plate in the kitchen, rubbed with olive oil and sprinkled with wild thyme. I’ve already been to the garden to pick young
frisée,
arugula, and thick stalks of white-ribbed chard. The greens are washed now, sitting in the enameled colander, a wedding present I brought here long ago from California. A fresh goat cheese, like the ones I used to make, is resting in the refrigerator. Soon I’ll broil it to put on top of my salad.

I pour myself a glass of
rosé
and sip it while I cook the chard and make a
béchamel
sauce. I put out a few olives, black and green, in a little bowl I bought at the market with Jim the previous year. It’s pale yellow and I like the way the olives look in it.

The chard, mixed with the
béchamel
and topped with bread crumbs and butter, is baking, so I set the wooden table in front of the fireplace with my favorite antique French napkins, huge, heavily embroidered squares that once were part of someone’s trousseau. One, folded in half, serves as a place mat, the other as it was intended. I open the glass-fronted armoire and bring out two brown-rimmed, mustard-gold plates, part of the set Marie gave me as a housewarming gift when electricity and plumbing
were finally installed. An antique silver knife and fork from a flea market finish the table setting, along with a water glass, a pitcher, and a terra-cotta dish to hold the wine bottle. I’ll bring the small bowls of sea salt and pepper later, bowls like the one the olives are in. A small glass vase set in the middle of the table holds the red and golden grape leaves I picked earlier from the vineyard that borders the garden.

The aroma of the
gratin
tells me it’s almost ready. The timing is perfect. The coals are glowing, ready to cook the lamb. My grill consists of a long-legged wrought-iron trivet I inherited with the house, on which I put a grilling rack, set over the hottest part of the coals. The lamb sizzles when I set it on the grill and I can already taste the promise of crisp bits of fat and the rosy meat infused with the fragrance of the thyme. I pour a little more wine while I tend the chops, turning them several times. Just before the chops are ready, I broil the cheese.

As soon as the chops are done, I move them to a plate set on the hearth. They’ll rest and stay warm while I have my salad, dressed with olive oil from Robert Lamy’s brother and my homemade vinegar, topped with the broiled goat cheese.

Sitting down to my salad, I look through the window and see the sky has turned deep violet, announcing the dark and the silence to come. I’ve never been anywhere as quiet as my house in Provence, set deep in the countryside amid small patches of vineyards and wheat carved out of the surrounding forests of oak, pine, and juniper.

The cheese is hot, slightly runny at the edges where it blends with the vinaigrette and catches the leaves of
frisée
and arugula. I finish the last bit on my plate, cleaning it with a piece of
baguette
and a deep sigh of contentment.

I’d forgotten a hot pad, so I put that on the table first, then set down my chard
gratin,
baked in the small, dark red rect- angular baking dish that my mother-in-law bought for me when she and her husband came to visit, flying from San Francisco to Nice. It was the last trip they made together, and the only thing she acquired on the journey.

Before bringing the lamb chops to the table, I put another piece of wood on the fire. It is too cheerful to let it die out. The chops are perfectly cooked, and their juices mingle on the plate with the creamy
gratin.
I cut the meat close to the bone and, at the end, pick the bone up to chew the edges, savoring the last of the fat and meat.

I don’t usually eat dessert, but tonight I’m having the remnant half of an almond-walnut caramel pastry I bought at a
pâtisserie
in Aups. I ate the other half around four, with a cup of coffee. Tonight I’ll have a little red wine with it while I read the first pages of Trollope’s
Barchester Towers.
It’s been a long time since I first read it, nearly thirty years, and taking it down from my bookshelf in the bedroom upstairs and turning the pages once again was like meeting an old friend. I’ll read it at breakfast too, while I drink dark, rich coffee with hot milk, and eat a slice of fresh bread with butter and homemade cherry jam. If it’s chilly, I’ll build another fire. Maybe I’ll read all morning while a beef
daube
simmers on the back of the stove. With only a few days left before returning home to my husband and California, I want to make the most of my time alone in my house in Provence.

GEORGEANNE BRENNAN is the author of numerous cooking and gardening books, and the recipient of the James Beard Foundation Award and the IACP/Julia Child Cookbook Award for her writing. She lives in Northern California and Provence, where she has a seasonal cooking school.

Copyright ©2007 by Georgeanne Brennan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in
any form without written permission from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-4521-1922-9 (eBook)

The Library of Congress has previously cataloged this title under ISBN: 978-0-8118-5213-5.

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