Melbourne’s Autumn brings Back a French Summer

The start of autumn this week has seen the return of summer heat to Melbourne, with skies and light reminiscent of our summers in north-east France. A recent discussion during dinner had us recalling the first July we spent at our house in France - an unforgettable event.

Late July: our first French Summer

Plaster dust, spider webs – old and new, airborne grime generated by decades of neglect, and reconstituted glue from soggy pieces of wallpaper, manage to amalgamate with perspiration generated by the summer heat, to form a sticky coating on our skin.

Empty glasses and water bottles litter the deep, buckled windowsill. Actions are laboured, but spurred on by the limited time available to renovate this minuscule room – a task that appeared to be straight forward and quick, but is now proving otherwise.

There is no movement in the village. Lunchtime has extended into a siesta as patches of bitumen on the road start to resemble tacky molasses. Charlie and Kenzo, our neighbour’s cats, lie splayed in the cool under the lone conifer that stands like a sentinel to the cluster of houses in our ancient ruelle (lane).

Unexpectedly the faint sounds of plodding hooves pierce the silence, echoing as they rise from the street that sits in the valley below. Inquisitively I poke my head out of the second storey window while straddling its sill – a precarious move.  Nothing new in the landscape to report.

As the sounds grow louder, the shouting of children becomes faintly audible. Peering left through the breaks in the tree-tops, I get a brief glimpse of the scene below just before a parade of tired, hot bodies becomes fully visible.

A young boy, perhaps 10 or 11 years old, leads a pony on a slackened reign. Like his 2 friends trailing him, he’s abandoned his saddle. A fourth pony, head drooping and strapped into a cart harness, slowly edges into the picture.

The poor animal is pulling a tatty canvas covered wagon, reminiscent of those of the Wild West, albeit smaller and in proportion to the creature’s size. 

My pity for this equine slave soon gives way to warm amusement as the rear of the cart and source of the high pitched voices, come into view. Pushing the wooden structure up the road’s steep incline, and almost parallel to the ground themselves, are 2 small lads, shirtless and gasping for breath amidst their encouraging shouts to their hoofed companion up front..........The doors to my childhood memories are prised gently open.

My husband now joins me at the window.  “How stupid to be riding in this heat, but what a great adventure” I mutter. “Oh to be young again.” “ But we are young, and a touch foolish – look what we’re doing!” he chortles as he deposits a sticky kiss on my damp, grime-encrusted face......

Life alters quickly when one’s perspective changes!

One clean and painted room - small, but mighty significant
for us.

Hidden Secretes: Weekend Reflections

Reflections appear as ghostly figures in the Majorca windows. This building is an art deco treasure found in Centre Place - one of the City's iconic laneways.

Beneath wall to wall awnings and umbrellas, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, buzz of chatter and tinkling of table utensils embrace you like an old friend  as you turn into petite Degraves Street. Welcome to Mebourne's laneway and arcade culture.

Designer apparel, homewares, distinctive gifts, cobblers, dress makers, vintage whatever, fabulous coffee  and food, artisinal chocolate, pastries and cakes street art and  performers - whatever your fancy, it can be found in one of Melbourne's iconic lanes or arcades.

Graffiti takes many forms.

There is always a queue down the arcade waiting patiently for a table in the renown Hopetoun Tea Rooms - the meeting place for generations of Melbourne women in the Block Arcade.

The city's CBD consists of a rectangular grid of wide streets - the most well known to visitors being Swanson, Flinders , Collins and Bourke Streets. Parallel to these is a series of narrow streets, aptly named Little Collins Street, Little Bourke Street and so on. Interconnecting theses thoroughfares, broad and narrow, are  laneways and arcades with their own distinctive architecture and culture - often referred to as Melbourne's hidden secretes. One can take a formal tour with a specific focus  or just amble along on their own voyage of discovery.

Royal Arcade

The mythical figures of Gog and Magog stand guard over the clock in Royal Arcade. 

The roof of Melbourne Central

Domestic Therapy

Life is predictably capricious. No one is immune to its challenges and the odd 'left ball' it throws their way. How an individual responds to daily pressures and huge emotional upheavals is as individual as their fingerprint.  Meditation, prayer, exercise and even knitting have all been cited as therapeutic responses to stress.

After  the unexpected death of my father caused by a drunk driver, I have found the rhythmic nature of knitting woollen squares, calming. Like meditation, the movement of the needles focuses my mind, providing respite from unwelcome thoughts and emotions. Knitting also gives my agitated hands something to do and anchors me to a seat.

Rediscovering the benefits and joys of this craft has sent me foraging for old knitting patterns in the attic where I managed to locate an eclectic collection of instruction booklets. Some of them had been purchased during my early twenties when knitting was à la mode,  and others were inherited from my mother and great Aunt, who had impressive knitting skills, which  unfortunately weren't genetic.

One of the gems that has resurfaced may have practical appeal to a lover of tea, but I can't envisage any of its suggested products as items on my tea-tray!

Inherited knitting patterns from the early 20th century, offering some cosy
activities for a cold night.

Historical or Hysterical?

A quick dash into the city by train, to one of my absolute favourite shops, Il Papiro, was undertaken last weekend to purchase some gifts for a friend’s significant birthday. 

On the return journey, just as the train was about to depart from the CBD, a quietly spoken family (father, mother and 2 young children) joined the empty carriage in 

Brighton Bathing boxes

which I was seated. The map in the mother’s hand and snippets of conversation suggested that they were country residents en route to see the Brighton bathing boxes. As the train made its way out of the CBD, the father confidently pointed out the city’s landmarks to his children. 

Along the train line, one can occasionally catch a glimpse of graffiti-art juxtaposed with what can only be described as ugly acts of vandalism executed with spray cans. “ Some of that graffiti is historical now”, proclaimed the father. “What’s historical? inquired his young son. “Well, it’s like when the Romans invaded bits of Europe”, explained the father in a less self-assured tone.

A 5 second silence followed, then a little voice said, “So when did the Romans come here?”  No reply. The conversation was skilfully diverted to the previous evening’s football game. As the train approached my station I stood at the door to hear a child inquiring, “Do we still have another holiday to go this year or is this the only one?”  The train door closed behind me. 

Next stop - Brighton Beach. 

Foreground: Brighton Beach bathing boxes. Background: Melbourne CBD

Gâteau au Chocolat - Recipe with a Twist........gluten free

Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.  ~Voltaire

Cooking family meals was an expression of my mother’s love for her brood. Savouring it was our acknowledgement of her affection and efforts. As a child, cooking with mother was my way of spending exclusive time with her in a large, male dominated, family. And it provided first rights to licking out any bowls and spoons -  a right savagely guarded amongst 5 siblings. Whipping up a roux, making pastry, sweet, savoury or suet and baking blind was mastered before my age hit double digits. For me cooking is also a method of retreating from daily stressors. The tradition of cooking en masse continued with my daughter, but took a twist when she was diagnosed with celiac disease in her late teens. Cooking and my beloved Tante Marie now provide new challenges.
Subscribing to the notion that  Nine out of ten people like chocolate. The tenth person always lies. (John Q. Tullius), here is my gluten free version of a French chocolate gateau, or as my daughter calls it........

Miam Gâteau au Chocolat - gluten free....easy & delish

Ingredients
* 135g unsalted butter
* 3/4 (three-quarters) cup castor sugar
* 6 very large eggs, separated (if eggs are too small the cake will be dry)
* 150g grated good quality 85% dark chocolate (Lindt)
* 2 cups of home ground almond meal (process silvered almonds - bought almond meal is too dry)
* 1/3 (third) cup of dry rice crumbs (purchased in a packet at the supermarket) 
* pinch of salt added to the rice crumbs
* 1 tablespoon of dark rum
* additional 90g dark chocolate (for cake topping)
* additional 30g butter (for cake topping)

Method
* turn on the oven to moderate
* line a 20 cm round cake pan with greaseproof paper (pan must be at least 6 cm in depth)
* cream sugar and butter until light in colour and texture (an electric beater is best)
* add egg yolks one by one, beating well after each egg is added
   stir in the almond meal, rice crumbs and grated chocolate (a large bowl may need to be used)
* fold the chocolate-almond mixture though the egg whites in 3 lots
* carefully pour the mixture into the lined cake pan and bake in the moderate oven for 50   minutes (test the cake with a cake skewer before removing from the oven)
* let cake sit in the pan for at least 5 minutes before placing on a wire   rack to cool
* when cold remove the paper lining and spread with the topping
Topping
* melt the additional 90g chocolate and 30g butter in a bowl over hot water
* let the mixture cool to a spreading consistency before covering the top   of the cake.
Slice thinly and serve with cream if desired
Note: 
1. creaming of the butter and sugar is best done in a smaller bowl
2. the cake will be dry if you use smaller eggs and the quantity of the freshly ground almond meal is less than 2 full cups

Easter (le Pâques) and chocolate in France

Like all church bells in France, the bells in the ancient minster that overlooks My French Folly, were silenced on Thursday, in acknowledgement of Christ’s death.

The bells' stillness cast an eerie silence over the village, but this interruption to the daily rhythm is short-lived.

Tomorrow, Easter Sunday, their dulcet tones will be heard once more declaring that “Christ has risen”.

A quaint tale is told to children to explain this practice during the Easter period - "the bell’s chimes have flown to Rome to visit the Pope and will return on Easter Sunday".
The significance of this Easter ritual has resulted in the French exchanging chocolate bells, cloche volant, as well as traditional Easter eggs, les oeufs de Pâques, which are often hidden for children to find.

Chocolate fish, Poisson D'Avril also appear in April. Fish signify an “April fool” consequently chocolate fish first appear on April Fool’s day. For a number of centuries, children have attempted to pin a paper fish on the backs of adults on April the first. If they succeed they call out "Poisson d'Avril" (April fish) as they flee their target.

Easter is a time for reflection, renewal and hope.........

A Touch of France : Crème Brûlée and the Child Within.

For most people, a secure childhood is crucial for well-being and success as one pupates into adulthood. Our entrenched behaviours often mimic that of our parents. Keeping with this observation I should be “looking good”, but sadly I have inherited a disproportionate number of my parents rogue genes which have overridden much of my environmental influences. One could say that I’m the “black sheep of the family” - definitely a product of nature and not nurture

My childhood was simple, rhythmic, and comfortably predictable; full of laughter and crammed with low cost, high return activities (CFO* heaven) – mud pies, biking adventures, catching yabbies, fishing, reading, being read to, camping, bush walking, playing cards in front of an open fire, endless concerts (for which I was the producer, director, choreographer and "star"), cooking with mother and eating at our expansive dining table, usually with an additional guest or two............Idyllic.

Of course there were challenges, emotional and physical, but they made us stronger and fade into the past, tempered by a “balanced life”.

The smell and taste of specific foods evoke strong memories of childhood and a feeling of security, despite my age. Just a waft of cooking toffee or true vanilla custard carries me back in time.

Still catching yabbies
.......with my nephew

Cooking family meals was an expression of my mother’s love for her brood. Our food was often a multicultural affair - accompanied by an appropriate wine on Saturday evenings. Special occasions called for mother’s revered Tante Marie, her kitchen bible, to be opened. Thus crème brûlée has become one of my favourite adult “comfort foods” in which I take refuge in times of stress and delight in time of repose. Savouring it is a sensual experience - a glistening toffee hat on rich creamy custard with a hint of vanilla…..soft and smooth against brittle toffee that emits cranial echoes on shattering in the mouth. Bliss in a bowl! 

A trail of empty crème brûlée dishes chronicled my last journey around France.............Delish. 

So for a touch of France, here is my crème brûlée recipe adapted from The Food of France, a Journey for Food Lovers. The orange flower water adds a subtle layer to the much revered recipe from mother’s beloved Tante Marie.                                                                    

Crème Brûlée Recipe 

Ingredients (metric measures)

2 cups double cream

¾ cup full cream milk

½ cup of castor sugar (superfine sugar)

1 good vanilla pod

5 egg yolks (from large eggs)

1 egg white (from a large egg)

I tablespoon of orange flower water

½ cup Demerara sugar

Collect 8 ½ cup ramekins and a roasting dish in which they may sit.

Mixing

Preheat the oven to 120⁰ C

Mix together the egg yolks, egg white and ¼ cup of castor sugar.

Put the cream, milk, ¼ cup of castor sugar and vanilla pod into a saucepan and bring just to boiling point, but do not boil.

Strain the boiling milk mixture into the egg mixture while whisking and continue to whisk well, then add the orange flower mixture and stir. The custard mixture is now complete.

Cooking and Storing

Divide the custard mixture evenly amongst the 8 ramekins.

Place the ramekins into the roasting pan.

Carefully pour hot water into the pan until it comes half way up the sides of the ramekins.

Cook the custards in the oven for 1 ½ hours or until they are cooked in the centre.

When cooked, cool the ramekins and refrigerate them until needed.  Before eating allow time for then to come to room temperature.

Completing prior to serving

Sprinkle the top of the custards with the Demerara sugar and caramelise until very hot. This can be done by placing the pots under the griller (broiler) or with a blowtorch. Watch carefully to avoid burning the sugar............Bon appétit! 

And my first dessert to be cooked and savoured in My French Folly?  Crème Brûlée!

*CFO – chief financial officer

Pretty Halcyon Days

The smell of the sea breeze evokes strong memories of childhood. Familiar. Secure. Sadly, the sense of adventure and fun gave way to studiousness and sensibility as I grew into adulthood. ......Why?

With the passing of time, I have come to realize the importance of retaining and nurturing our “inner child” – the spring that feeds creativity and forges balance in our lives.

As a pre-teen, two of  my much loved books were penned by Ogden Nash and Omar Khayyam. Their verse now induces similar responses to a whiff of ocean air -  they are my cognitive “sea breeze”.......... Winter nights in front of an open fire with siblings jostling for “the best spot”. Mother's cooking. Family meals around our expansive kitchen table. Laughter. Father reciting A Sentimental Bloke. Being curled up in bed, protected from the cold by layers of heavy, grey, woollen blankets. Reading by torch light.  Long, repetitive concerts performed for our parents. Hand knitted bed-socks. Flannel pyjamas. Nighties made of feather-light Swiss cotton, bought from the local haberdashery and lovingly sewn into night attire by Great Aunt Isabel. .............Precious times.

Pretty Halcyon Days
How pleasant to sit on the beach,
On the beach, on the sand, in the sun,
With ocean galore within reach,
And nothing at all to be done!
       No letters to answer,
       No bills to be burned,
       No work to be shirked,
       No cash to be earned,
It is pleasant to sit on the beach
With nothing at all to be done!

How pleasant to look at the ocean,
Democratic and damp; indiscriminate;
It fills me with noble emotion
To think I am able to swim in it.
       To lave in the wave,
       Majestic and chilly,
       Tomorrow I crave;
       But today it is silly.
It is pleasant to look at the ocean;
Tomorrow, perhaps, I shall swim in it.

How pleasant to gaze at the sailors
As their sailboats they manfully sail
With the vigor of vikings and whalers
In the days of the vikings and whale.
       They sport on the brink
       Of the shad and the shark;
       If it’s windy, they sink;
       If it isn’t, they park.
It is pleasant to gaze at the sailors,
To gaze without having to sail.

How pleasant the salt anesthetic
Of the air and the sand and the sun;
Leave the earth to the strong and athletic,
And the sea to adventure upon.
       But the sun and the sand
       No contractor can copy;
       We lie in the land
       Of the lotus and poppy;
We vegetate, calm and aesthetic,
On the beach, on the sand, in the sun. 

Ogden Nash