Grace and Gratin Dauphinois

Ascension Sunday: My Taller Half (MTH) and I had a lovely drive to church this morning. We were happy to be with our church family and to worship the King. Afterward, we did our Bigger City errands, including picking up storm supplies, then we headed back home. We still had a lot of daylight ahead of us. I had plants to tend to and Sunday dinner to make.

The day before yesterday, I found some pole beans ready for harvesting, so I picked enough for a dinner. MTH asked for some pot roast to go with the beans and potatoes. The menu was set.

Today, I made my second attempt at potatoes au gratin. This time, I took Mastering the Art of French Cooking from the shelf. Reading the recipe made me wonder if it could possibly be better than the last one. It was a simpler recipe, less rich, less cheesy. In fact, she said you don’t even need to use cheese! Inconceivable!

But au gratin doesn’t specifically mean covered with cheese. The origins are a little misty, but it seems to mean a dish that is golden brown on the top, usually from browning cheese or buttered bread crumbs or, in this case, milk. One source said that au gratin is also used to describe the “top people” in society in the same way the upper crust came to mean people of worth or high social standing.

The alleged story behind upper crust is that, in the Middle Ages, the most honored guests at a meal would be offered the top crust of the bread. If you can imagine baking in a very unreliable and potentially dirty stone oven, the bottom of the bread would be more likely to be gritty, overdone, and tough. The top would be tender. I write alleged because there apparently isn’t a lot of evidence to support this theory, though it sounds plausible. One potential bit of evidence is John Russell’s, The boke of nurture, folowyng Englondis gise, written in the mid-15th Century.

Kutt ye vpper crust for youre souerayne. (Cut youe upper crust [of bread] for your sovereign)

https://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/upper-crust.html

The idea behind both phrases seems to be that the rich and powerful get the best food. I might argue that “peasant food” is some of the tastiest around, or even argue for the plausibility of the upper crust story, but I won’t argue French cooking with the Julia Child. Julia wouldn’t fail me, would she?

Julia’s recipe called for the dish of potatoes to be put on the burner to bring the milk up to a simmer before putting it in the oven. My Dutch oven would do that, but it was too big and deep for the potatoes. My pretty casserole dishes cannot be used on the stovetop. I was about to give up on the recipe when I realized that my largest cast iron skillet would be perfect. It can go from stovetop to oven, and the dimensions are just right. We fry bacon in it and make great pizza in it, so why not? Is there anything cast iron can’t do? Okay, it can’t go in the dishwasher, but we don’t own a dishwasher, so that is fine!

The kitchen was getting pretty hot by the time dinner was ready, and I was getting tired. MTH said the blessing, then we became quiet as we tested the results.

MTH smiled. Too good for anyone but us. MTH’s Auntie N— use to say that a lot.

Julia did not let us down. The potatoes were wonderfully creamy. They weren’t as rich as the first recipe, not as cheesy, but that wasn’t a negative. It was simply delicious. MTH said everything was perfect. He may have been buttering me up to encourage me to make it again, but I will take the compliment.

As I enjoyed the pleasure of a simple meal with my husband, I looked out the window at the gathering dusk. I love the play of light and dark between the last rays of the sun, the leaves of the trees, and the clouds in the sky. I silently thanked the Father for His grace, for this moment of contentment with my husband, and for Julia Child and her Gratin Dauphinois. Life is good.

Scalloped Potatoes

With a wealth of potatoes at our disposalor at least as much wealth as you can get from two 4×4′ raised garden beds—I asked My Taller Half (MTH) what kind of potatoes he would like. I listed a few types, then he smiled. Let’s have those ones … you know … the ones (he mimicked a slicing motion) … in the sauce. I knew exactly what he meant, but like him, I could not remember the name of these potatoes. Rather than ruin the evening in frustration for our dual momentary lapses, I assured him I would make them before we ran out of potatoes.

The next morning, I woke early, and the word was there, clear and shining if twelve hours too late. Triumphant, I loudly shared my epiphany with MTH. Scalloped potatoes!

MTH was asleep. He fought his way through the fog and glared at me. Okay, it would have been a glare if he could have opened his eyes. “Scalloped potatoes?” He pried his eyes open enough to read his bedside clock. “You’ve cheated me out of twenty minutes of sleep. I am claiming these twenty minutes!”

Satisfied, I started my day. I fully intended to make scalloped potatoes when they reminded me of one of my favoritesau gratin. I mentioned these to MTH, who seemed pleased with the idea. Cheese makes everything better. I had another idea. “From now on, when we can’t think of a word, we should just say Scalloped Potatoes.” He grinned.

It was my first time making au gratin potatoes, so I grabbed a highly-rated recipe off the internet. The recipe I chose said it was a variation of Julia Child’s, which was good enough for me and saved me a trip to the bookshelf where Mastering the Art of French Cooking – The 40th Anniversary Edition has rested undisturbed since I moved to Pixley. I should have gone to the bookshelf. Julia’s recipe for Gratin Dauphinois (Scalloped Potatoes with Milk, Cheese, and a Pinch of Garlic) would have saved me with its higher temperature and warning not to use a deep pan. I used my pretty round Polish stoneware dish instead of the more utilitarian Pyrex. Not the best choice. Don’t get me wrongthe potatoes were tasty. MTH was very enthusiastic in this regard. Buoyed by the promises of creaminess, the first bite he tried was less than pliant. He said the rest were fine. I couldn’t say the same. They were tasty, but they weren’t perfect. Next time, my pommes de terre will be amazing.

The name Gratin Dauphinois captured my imagination. Was this because the Dauphin (the title for the eldest son of the king when France had a king) really loved this recipe? No. A little research found that The Dauphiné is a former province of France near the southeastern border, a part of which includes a portion of the southern Alps. Potatoes will grow at these altitudes. One thing I enjoy about cooking is that it ties people together across time, space, and cultures. Nearly everyone enjoys a good meal—and those who don’t are suspect.

Sharing the bounty of our little garden is as gratifying as partaking of it ourselves. We have enjoyed several potato dishes so far, shared some potatoes with neighbors and friends, and have several pounds remaining for other dishes. Red Pontiacs have earned a space in future gardens, and as good as they are, we need to enlarge our garden so that we can enjoy and share even more. And in the interest of sharing, the next time you can’t think of the word that is just on the tip of your tongue, feel free to say, Scalloped Potatoes! You’re welcome.




Red Pontiac potatoes

PO-TAY-TOES

PO-TAY-TOES. Boil ’em, mash ’em, stick ’em in a stew.

Samwise Gamgee

I planned my garden long before I moved to Pixley. I spent hours reading up on the seasons here, the best things to plant and when, the best varieties of each type of plant for the area. I looked at seed catalogs the way some women look at clothing or jewelry catalogs.

I feel closer to God in a garden. It is where we all began.

The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.

Genesis 2:15 (ESV)

I was anxious to have a garden again. I did not anticipate The Big Storm, or a wedding, or illness, or the pandemic, or that the prices of everything including lumber and cinder blocks would skyrocket.

Early in 2021, I planted fruit trees and bushes. In the fall of 2021, My Taller Half and I built three 4 x 4 boxes for raised beds. We planted our first crops — collards, broccoli, cabbages, carrots, and lettuce. I wanted to double the size of our garden space this spring, but the costs for constructing the raised beds were too high. I almost missed the spring planting.

I decided to plant Red Pontiac potatoes, sweet onions, shallots, Southern peas, and pole beans. I’ve grown beans in the past, but everything else was new to me. The rule here, I was told, is “plant potatoes on Valentine’s Day, eat potatoes on Mother’s Day.” I was a few days late, but I planted them. For months, I watered and weeded. I prayed in our garden. I prayed over our garden. And today, a few days after Mother’s Day, I harvested our first potatoes.

I am ridiculously happy. Isn’t it amazing? You stick little cuttings of seed potatoes in the dirt, and in three months, you have potatoes. We have several plants to harvest, and then, if it is not too late, I can plant okra, sweet potatoes, and asparagus.

We are not in a position to survive on the food we grow, but what we do grow is fresher and tastier. When we thank the Lord for the food we have grown and ask Him to bless it, we know all that went into getting it from seed to table. Growing food helps us better appreciate the hard work that others do to feed hungry people.

There was a season when I grew a garden with my kids so that they would learn. There was a season when I was too busy caring for my growing family to garden. There was a long season in the apartment when I could only grow a few herbs on the front walkway. Now, we are in a season when MTH and I can garden together.

I look forward to many more spring and fall gardens to come, God willing. I hope that one day, grandchildren will come to visit and pluck fruit off of our trees and play and learn in the garden. I know a season will come when we will no longer be able to work in the garden. I am not anxious for that season to arrive, but I believe there is a season that will follow that will never end, a new life in a new creation where we will see Him face to face. And while some imagine streets of gold, I imagine magnificent forests, crystal rivers, towering mountains, and lush gardens all filled with praise.

I don’t imagine there will be potatoes in heaven, but we can enjoy them here—mashed, roasted, hash browns, in a stew, or in Colcannon. Sam Gamgee would approve. And when you enjoy the fruits of a garden, remember to thank the One who gives us our food in due season, the One who created the color green, and potatoes.




Lilies of the Field

I came to Pixley for many reasons. One of them was peace. I craved the slower pace, the relative quiet, and freedom from traffic and the rush of the Big City. But even Pixley is not immune to stress. The remoteness makes travel more difficult. While our lower population density has been a plus through the COVID-19 pandemic, we still suffered business losses and financial woes that the rest of the country experienced. Considering Pixley started out poorer on average, and we’re still recovering from The Big Storm, it has been difficult. And when you reach a certain age, you know you’re on that fast slide down the razor blade of life (Thank you, Tom Lehrer), so prospects for financial improvement are slim. Add health problems to the mix, and I can’t say life in Pixley has been stress-free.

We lost a blueberry bush. I planted four of them last year, and suddenly, one died. This distressed me. The other three are producing, and even the blackberry bushes I planted, though small, are doing well. I hope to have a decent crop next year. I want to replace the dead blueberry bush with one that is approximately the size of the other bushes, but with gas prices what they are, we’re economizing where we can. I wanted to decorate the house with flowers for Easter, but decorations are a lower priority than food and utilities and medical bills.

I was inspecting our garden, lovingly referred to as the farm, and my eye was drawn to a splash of red. Against the back of the house, in a weedy flower bed that we haven’t tackled because we need to conquer the fire ants first, beautiful lilies were blooming. I went for a closer look, and among the weeds, I found blackberries growing wild. I took a picture of the lilies and the blackberries and brought the four fattest berries to share with My Taller Half (MTH).

And I laughed at myself. I can worry over the smallest things. While I worry about berries and flowers and feel a bit deprived that we currently have neither in abundance, God gave us beautiful lilies and sweet berries. They grew on their own, with no assistance from me, and reminded me of these words.

Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.

Matthew 6:25–33 (ESV)

My Taller Half and I wish you a blessed Easter.

BTW — in case you are interested, 255 days as of yesterday. (see 41 Days)

Country Girl

Our neighbors in Pixley fall into three camps — those who are happy to live in the city, those who wish they could move back to the country, and those who moved here from a Bigger City and can’t figure out what the first two camps are thinking. As the population of Pixley is only slightly larger than that of the apartment complex I lived in before the move, Pixley is country — its elevated status as the county seat notwithstanding.

I am, at heart, a country girl. I never get tired of fields and forests, damp clay roads, the sounds of birds in the day and frogs at night, or a night sky full of stars. My parents, being true country people in the Depression, wanted nothing to do with that life as adults and wanted to spare their children from it. That is sad. Our little piece of property is a bit of heaven to me.

And so I give you our Farm Report:

The satsumas are blooming, and the Meyer lemon is just forming blossoms, but the ruby red grapefruit blossoms smell the sweetest. We’re going to have to remove all the little fruits that are forming to allow the trees to put their energy into growth and not production. Sad. Maybe next year we can allow a few to grow.

The fig is putting out all sorts of new growth. It was the last to put out leaves, but it is making up for lost time. We have blackberries forming now and a bunch of blueberries. Those can stay — assuming we can beat the birds to them. The neighborhood cats may finally earn their keep.

The potatoes are growing wonderfully. I gave them a little “safe” bug spray — something has been chewing on the leaves. Southern peas and pole beans are growing like … beans! The sweet onions and shallots look good, but I’ve never grown them or potatoes before, so I don’t know what to expect.

Around the house, about 1/3 of the State Fair zinnias we planted from seed have started to grow. One of the crocosmia bulbs is beginning to sprout. Two of the lily bulbs I planted are sprouting, and the dinnerplate dahlias are doing wonderfully. There are blossoms forming on the gardenias. I can’t wait for all the flowers to bloom, We need to get rid of the wisteria that is taking hold in our azaleas, but I may keep a cutting or two in pots. It’s an invasive little monster, but I love it when it blooms. My Taller Half (MTH) fondly remembers an encounter decades ago with wisteria in full bloom, planted outside the Smithsonian Museum, creating a Maxfield Parrish-tinged moment that feeds his soul still today.

I found three frogs hiding in the compost bin. They got a ride to the nearest azalea bush. The bird feeder is never empty of birds during the day, mostly cardinals and finches with the occasional dove cleaning up underneath. We have to give them credit for bravery with all the cats in the vicinity, but we do try to eliminate hiding spaces near the feeder so they aren’t caught unaware.

No report on “the back forty” — we can’t get through the overgrowth. One of these days…

That’s it from our little 3/4 acre of heaven.





Collards and Cornbread

For three months now, I’ve been babying my fall garden, including two collard green plants that survived my initial incompetence. Can you believe that while My Taller Half and I were out shopping, my neighbor harvested my greens and cooked them?

Of course, this was an act of kindness, not thievery. MTH loves collard greens. I’m a decent cook, but I didn’t even know how they should taste. How would I know if I was making them right or tell a good recipe from a bad one? Our next-door neighbor, a lifelong resident of this part of the country, said that’s one thing she knows how to make. In truth, this fine lady can cook and makes many good things.

While we were out, I called to ask if I needed to bring home anything to make the collards. She told me they were already done. She said to be sure to get the fixin’s for cornbread.

When we arrived home, she brought us a big pot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep some? It looks like there’s plenty.” She said no, but her grandson came in, smelled them, and had a big spoonful before she could tell him those weren’t for them. She promised to make him another pot later.

The greens smelled heavenly. I started to put them in containers in the refrigerator so that I could wash and return her pot. MTH said he couldn’t wait for cornbread and ate a little bowlful, confirming that the collards were excellent. He texted her the same, and she replied, “I know that’s right!”

Next fall, I need to plant a lot more collards and maybe some mustard greens, too. We still have broccoli, cabbages, and carrots to harvest later. Those I know how to handle. For now, I need to make some cornbread and ask God’s blessings on our sweet neighbor.