I can still remember, when we first turned up in France about 20 years ago, buying my first Savoyard cookbook. One of the things that struck my fancy was (page 273), "Les Pets de Nonne": nuns farts. Deep-fried fritters flavoured with orange-flower water, basically, but from the name I'd always imagined something sort of ethereal, light and fluffy ... every time I've tried to make them they've turned out heavy and lumpen, which I suppose is in fact closer to how they'd really be, given what a nun's diet is supposed to be - I think my deep-frier is just not hot enough. And yet I can make great doughnuts. I can see I'll have to go and upgrade my stove, get one of the Rosières jobs with the built-in deep-fryers that can go up to 300° - in my dreams.
In any case, setting aside these farty delights, what I really wanted to talk about was cassoulet. Not, I must admit, a light dish - certainly not one I'd plan on for a summer lunch. But for dinner, with a good Chateauneuf du Pape, it's hard to beat. And you don't even need a salad to go with it.
On the other hand, given that you simply cannot make cassoulet in any quantity other than what can be loosely described as gargantuan, you will need a very large dish or dishes to stick the stuff in. And an oven that'll hold them. I have one of those enormous German earthenware dishes for doing chicken and things - a Strummelwotsit, or a Strewelthingy - and by using both the top and the bottom halves I usually manage to fit everything in.
Anyway, cassoulet is one of those things where there are at least 500 recipes, each of which is the only true and traditional one. According to someone, anyway. Some call for goose only, no lamb - others banish our piggy friend from the menu. According to one, if you stick other than duck in you'll be excommunicated - go straight to hell, do not pass redemption. And I swear that I've seen one that called for putting lobster in, which in my opinion is definitely a sin of the worst order, meriting extermination. With buzzy noises.
My take on cassoulet is quite simple and I'm open to anything, except lobster. Start, anyway, the night before the feast with 500gm of dried white beans, stick then in a bowl - preferably large enough to hold them, if not it gets messy - and cover them with water. Then leave them like that for twelve hours or so. You could go and have a drink, they're unlikely to be going anywhere by themselves.
The next day, when you stumble bleary-eyed downstairs (or trip over the cat, for those of you that aren't blessed with the privilege of having stairs that actively try to kill you), you could probably drain and rinse the beans. They won't thank you for it, but they'll smell better.
Then, once you feel up to it, take a large saucepan and fry up some bacon in it (yeah, the home-cured stuff ...) and when that's smelling good have a large orange juice and eat some of the bacon before adding two coarsely-chopped onions and some (lots) garlic. When that's all gone transparent and smelling lovely it's time to stick in 2 (two) 200gm tins of peeled tomatoes and mash them up with a fork. A glass of white wine is also a good idea, and don't forget to stick another glass of it into the saucepan.
Add the beans, just enough water (or wine, if you've got any left - at this hour of the day you should have) to cover, thyme, basil - whatever, and let simmer for about an hour and a half. Or so. It's not that important. Then turn it off and let it consider the error of its ways, whilst you go and have lunch. I'd recommend something light, like a slice of stale bread and half a glass of water, considering what's in store.
OK, it's mid-afternoon and the beans should still be sloshy. Now you need to fry up at least:
- 3-4 duck legs, cut into drumstick and thigh
- 2-3 lamb shanks
- a jarret de porc (pork foreleg)
- 1 slab of pork belly, sliced thickly
- 1 garlic sausage, ditto
There will be a lot of fat, don't chuck it. It's low-cholesterol, and anyway it is your friend. If there's anything else you want to stick in (apart from lobster) now would be the time to fry it up too.
Now it's simplicity itself: mix the beans and the meat and the fat and the juice, stick it into whatever you've got that's big enough to hold it and go into the oven (I told you I used both halves of my pottery thingy), sprinkle with breadcrumbs and chopped garlic, and stick in the oven on low. It's going to be cooking for about 4 hours, so open another bottle while you wait.
According to tradition (that is if you're making a traditional Toulousain cassoulet, which this isn't) you should stir the breadcrumbs in under the surface seven times during cooking: I can't be arsed, and no-one seems to worry. About an hour before the thing is done, bung in half a dozen good pork sausages - smoked if you've got'em. Just poke them in under the breadcrumbs. If it's drying out too much, add more wine. Or water. Whatever.
It's ready when everything is tender and it smells yummy. It also serves about ten people, with seconds, and probably leftovers. A simple green salad is more than enough with this - and bread, of course.
Oh, I hope you really really like beans. Our kids don't, but then they don't like choucroute either, which means they're on the direct route for the nether pits of hell. On the bright side, we'll probably get visiting rights.
Just a quickie before I head off into the Wild West for a week of he-man, self-deprivation, eating-sticks-and-rocks in the frozen highlands of New Mexico, our most beautiful state. I've pretty much cleaned out the fridge of perishables, but there was this perfect potato in the fruit bowl—welll, not quite too perfect as it was turning green and starting to sprout. As my German grandma would say, "Diese Kartoffel ist noch essbar," and remembering Granny's frugality I decided to have it for dinner instead of throwing it out.
While the oil is heating in a skillet (preferably cast iron), cut the ends off the potato, peel and slice (a Benriner mandoline is great for this!). Spread out the slices on the cutting board and sprinkle with salt—just one side is fine. After making sure that the oil is sloshed all around the skillet, arrange the slices artfully. I like to start around the outside with the larger pieces, overlapping somewhat—the result is kind of chrysanthemum-like. It's got to be thin, because we're not going to turn it—it's going to cook through just from one side.
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