Can I turn that into paprikaš or nah?
Cooler weather, finding my rhythm, and more cooking inspiration from Camont
La Tempête
Let’s do that thing where we divide the world into two types of people. In this edition: those who love thunderstorms, and those who don’t. I fall devotedly into the former. Some people and most dogs, the latter.
It likely started with my Midwestern upbringing. Thunderstorms are a fact of life—including severe ones that can spawn tornadoes. I lived through one such storm as a child, but it wasn’t until my teen years that thunderstorms became important. I started noticing and remembering thunderstorms around significant moments in my life. Storms have marked many epiphanies, changes, and decisions for me.
It makes sense. Storms bring new beginnings. They’re cleansing. I am always renewed after the rain.
In my years working the graveyard shift in newsrooms, morning thunderstorms were my lullaby.
So when the forecast called for rain at the end of my first week at Camont, I smiled in anticipation, and not just because I’d been hiding from temperatures over 100 degrees Fahrenheit for three days.
I woke before my alarm and opened the window. The air had changed from the previous evening. It was cooler. Weighty. As if on cue, a light pitter-patter began. It was tentative at first; then the sky released everything.
The storm that broke the canicule was one of those storms. The heavy rain released the fragrance of the hydrangeas and roses in the garden parched in the heat wave. I stayed in bed for a while, just watching. Eventually, I couldn’t resist the perfume and crawled onto the edge of the desk to stick my head out the window and inhale.
I continued the morning slowly, savoring the romance of the moment. A french press, a piece of coffee cake, my journal. The gentle, rolling storm was the perfect soundtrack to write to.
It was also a perfect transition into the second week of my stay at Camont.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoy, Makans of a Chef, I would mean so much if you sent it to a friend.
Oh it’s like, really quiet
A phrase like “a quiet place to write” sounds dreamy to a city dweller like me—until it’s actually time to write. It’s only then that you realize the daily operations inside your brain are less like the easy flow of the Canal de Garonne and more like a feral squirrel loose in an attic full of Snickers bars. When the overstimulation of city life came to a crashing halt, it took a minute to adjust. I finally had my quiet and I didn’t know what to do with it.
It’s so quiet here that you can hear someone’s laughter from half a mile away. It’s so quiet you begin to recognize the chirps and squawks and hoots somewhere in the trees (I named Camont’s chattiest owl George). It’s so quiet you learn who is approaching the kitchen door based on how their footsteps land in the gravel. It’s so quiet that the sound of one passing car is deafening.
My first reaction was, of course, to try to fill the silence. Texting loved ones back home, putting on music, scrolling through social media. Taking walks with my phone and watch to make sure I didn’t lose track of time or miss an opportunity for Instagram. Unsurprisingly, I found myself just as writer’s-blocked as I was in Denver.
But after the rain moved in, I found a different rhythm. I took off my headphones and turned off my phone. My watch stayed on the dresser. I took longer walks to memorize the corn fields' smell, the rustling in the canal’s underbrush, and the feel of the sun on my shoulders. My feral squirrel brain sat down and made a cup of chamomile tea.
I remembered how to write. My creativity opened up. Uncluttered, my mind filled with new ideas for dishes. I found the clarity about the direction of my career and this newsletter that I’d been missing for months.
Kitchen Inspiration
The next wave of inspiration resulted in one imperfect-yet-delicious loaf of zucchini bread, one large dinner, and the buying of several bottles of Gascon wine. It’s for research, ok?
I made the bread after staring at piles of fresh zucchini and a bowl of walnuts from Camont’s tree for a week. A sweet baked good using vegetables is referred to as “cake” in France and it’s definitely more cake than bread. It involves batter, not dough. I’m sharing my mom’s recipe; this is a food that takes me back to late summer days at my nana and deda’s house.
Behold, the results:
The next train of food thoughts went something like this:
Hmmm, I want to make gazpacho out of these small, canteloupe-like melons everyone has at the market. Melon, cucumber, maybe a little spice. Herbs from the garden.
Oh, and I should make ajvar with these eggplants! Are there any bell peppers around? I could serve this with some roasted or grilled veggies.
Ok, this is becoming dinner.
But, what’s the main course?
This cooler weather makes me want hot soup. Or stew. Like chicken paprikaš.
Oooooooo. Chicken paprikaš.
Ok, I want paprikaš. But 28C is definitely too warm for a creamy, hearty stew. How can I make it summery?
With a boatload of cœur-de-bœuf tomatoes. YES. Let’s go.
Au Revoir
It felt right to make all of this the finale to my stay at Camont. Food and writing are the two ways I express myself best, and it felt like the perfect way to say merci and au revoir at the end of two weeks of creating, exploring, and resting.
Because I had learned to put down my phone at this point in my stay, I don’t have pictures of this big meal. I can tell you these things about it:
The gazpacho was better after chilling for 24 hours so the flavors could get acquainted.
Leaving sour cream out of the paprikaš did make it light enough for a summer meal. (The recipe for my “regular” version is here.)
Ajvar is magic, and so is sharing your food with others.
Everything was delicious.
Back in the U.S.
I returned to Denver about a week ago, with fresh motivation and excitement about what’s next for me and Makans of a Chef. The first anniversary of this newsletter is next week, and I’m going to be sharing some of what’s gone on behind the scenes in this last year while I’ve rediscovered my voice as a writer and cook while trying to make ends meet. I’m writing about what it looks like to work in the service industry in 2022. I’m writing about the gorgeous wines I had in southwest France. I’m writing about the importance of making your life a creative practice when you’re an artist of any type—something I talked about when I interviewed my host at Camont, Kate Hill.
Check out Kate’s latest post here on Substack, if you’re unfamiliar with her work:
Thanks to Kate for the chance to write and cook in her peaceful corner of the world for two weeks. Thanks to everyone who has supported this publication, whether you signed up on day one or recently discovered my work. Year two, here we come!
Thank you Jenny for your words on quiet. It has taken me 30 years to truly embrace the silent energy that the quiet at Camont delivers by concentrating our focus on what isn’t there. Wonderful to be a small part of your life journey creating your own work. Brava. And wasn’t that Poulet Paprikaš delicious!
How has it already been almost a year for this blog?! Wow!