I made blanquette de veau this evening. I’ve never cooked veal before nor have I blanked it. I work with a very cool French cookbook that I love called Ripailles that assumes you sort of know what you’re cooking. Which I don’t so it takes a few tries sometimes. I’ve consulted with resident French people who’ve helped me translate what “ajouter” and “eplucher” all mean. Google translate does a fine job with all this as well, but I like talking to people. Google translate lacks the hand gestures so passionately displayed by French people when they describe how you “eplucher” a carrot with exciting peeling hands.
I’m a huge food fluffer. I love taking photos of food. I enjoy positioning food and food paraphernalia to give it that “I’m totally doing this” feel. Yet as I cook more and more, fluffing is not necessary. I see moments where I’m cooking things and if you took a picture you would totally believe it had been fluffed. The wine half empty with flour dust on the glass, the butter so used, the carrot peel so ready for bunnies all add up to a Pottery Barn advertisement I’ve long since recycled. A friend gave us a half of pumpkin, which I processed along side the veau. A HUGE pumpkin that will give us enough pumpkin soup and pie for the winter I’m sure. I’m a firm believer in seasonal eating. You become limited in what you can cook and suddenly the possibilities are endless.
Brent’s tractor was in need of a little love and tenderness. He ordered the part and Monsieur Mechano popped by to get ‘er done. M. Mechano is a man I’ve met a few times in France. He’s an energetic lad who is mistakenly described as an old guy. He’s full of life. He’s fast. He’s funny. He’s happy. These people exist in America, but they’re rare. I’ve met a couple. We had some dead trees removed from our home in Seattle by one of these guys. To this day Brent and I still use “rock-n-roll” to mean “cut a whole lotta overgrown shit down.“ This guy would not occupy wallstreet. This guy is too busy to whine because he has stuff to do and a life to live.
Broody and the chicks are still alive and well. Broody is a fantastic mom except when it comes time to roost. When the sun begins to set, Broody snugs in to her spot. If the chicks join her then great, but if not … meh, no worries. So each night, at “chickie hour” I let whatever I’m cooking simmer for a minute and pop the chickies in with Broody. I find them huddled together under the coop trying to keep warm while Broody settles in for the evening after a long day. She did this with her adopted chicks. Some point soon, the little chicks catch on and hop in the coop with mom.