Hello! If you missed my last post, read that first so you’re all caught up on what’s going on in this one.
Almost There
I expected the heat to bother me, but I didn’t notice. Every ounce of energy I had left was directed at not falling asleep on the train so I didn’t miss my last connection.
The scenery whizzing by looked like rural Ohio. Farm fields sprawled over rolling hills with rivers, trees, and the occasional marsh. The only hints I was on the other side of the Atlantic were the stone farmhouses that looked like something out of a fairytale.
The train pulled into the station and I quickly gathered my things and looked at my ticket for the 100th time to make sure I knew where to go.
As soon as I stepped out of the car, the chaos at Bordeaux-St. Jean jolted me into an exhausted panic. I had less than 15 minutes to my next train, and there were too many platforms. I froze in the crush of people and stared blankly at the departures board, looking for the train number.
Then I saw the name of my destination: Agen. Perfect. I pushed through the crowd as fast as I could, stammering pardon repeatedly until I knew I was safe on the platform.
Once on the train, I settled somewhat uncomfortably into a seat facing two other travelers, cramped between our collective luggage. I put on my headphones and turned my gaze to the window to pass the hour until Agen.
Shortly after departure, a ticket collector entered the car—the first I’d seen all day. He examined the crumpled ticket I pulled out of my pocket and asked me something in French. Seeing the alarmed confusion on my face, he tried a different approach.
“Do you speak English?”
I gulped and nodded.
“You are on the wrong train. You were supposed to take the one to Marseille that stops in Agen. It’s ok, though.”
I nodded again and exhaled.
Ok, so I was headed in the right direction and I wasn’t going to get thrown off the train. That’s good.
I was, however, going to get to Agen much slower than anticipated.
A full hour later than expected, I stepped onto the platform in Agen and checked my texts again. Outside the station to the left. White sedan. I smiled in recognition of the face in the driver’s seat—a face I’d only seen over Zoom—that of my gracious host for the next two weeks, Kate Hill.
Smiles and greetings became easy chatter as Kate drove from the train station back home. The narrow country roads so familiar to her, brand-new to me. We rounded one final curve and suddenly, there was Camont. Ivy-covered, shaded by trees, tucked away next to the canal that runs parallel to the Garonne. Another exhale. Camont instantly wrapped herself around my travel-weary bones as if to say, “It’s ok, you made it. You’re here now.”
I couldn’t help but think of a Shel Silverstein poem I’ve loved since childhood:
If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
Cook What You Know
I came to Camont for some quiet to write and some inspiration from the enchanting Gascon countryside. It didn’t take long for inspiration to strike.
It started on a trip to the market the morning after my arrival. With the specter of the train ticket collector right behind me, it took some time to let my broken Duolingo French escape my lips.
After a few rounds of “Je m’excuse, je ne parle pas français” and a lot of pointing, I had bread, tomatoes, melon, pork sausages, strawberries, and white peaches.
The peaches were the first ingredient.
The second ingredient appeared on a walk down the canal’s towpath later that day. The glassy, jade-colored water was lined on both sides with these massive, thick bushes and Oh my god they’re blackberries! I’d never seen so many in my life. According to Kate, people rarely pick them. She used to, but the best way to gather them is by boat.
I, who spent many childhood summers plunging into the raspberry bush in my grandparents’ yard to retrieve its treasures, was determined. I managed to collect a small number of wild blackberries from the canal’s banks—totally worth the scratches.
The final pieces of the puzzle were already at Camont. Lemon thyme in the garden, crème fraîche and rosé in the fridge.
The advice given to all writers is, “Write what you know.” The same can be said for cooking. “Cook what you know, but riff on it.” I took all the ingredients from my surroundings and applied them to something I know very well: palačinke.
Can I Get Kicked Out of France for This?
The irony is, I describe palačinke to everyone, including readers of this newsletter, as “the Serbian version of a crêpe.”
The biggest difference between the two is that palačinke are made with oil and crêpes are made, of course, with butter.
Excluding this ingredient so synonymous with French cooking felt… naughty. Like the ticket collector would appear to boot me out of the country for such heresy.
I did it anyway because palačinke are precious to me. Longtime readers of Makans of a Chef may remember it’s the very first dish I wrote about when I launched this publication nearly a year ago. It never fails to bring me home to myself and my roots.
I would also like those longtime readers to know I have officially reached a point where I can make palačinke using Nana’s preferred method of measurement: a coffee mug.
I cooked down the blackberries and peeled, diced peaches for a couple of hours to make a compote, which turned more into a marmalade. This process requires acid—normally lemon juice—but I used a generous splash of local rosé instead. I mixed the crème fraîche with thyme and put a dollop on top of each rolled-up pancake.
Delicious.
More updates from France to come!
Gute Reise! or Bon voyage! Looks like you're having a wonderous experience. Can't wait for your next adventure.
Delightful to travel through the French countryside with you! Thanks for bringing us along.