Fruit Cake

I know, fruit cake doesn’t sound very exciting. I was never a fan of Christmas fruit cake back in the States especially if it had the bitter lemon or orange peel in it. I did have a recipe without it and I liked it but haven’t even thought of making it in years. It wasn’t until Maurice requested it that we did a search for a recipe. The French like to have their tea, just like the English, with a cup of tea and a little something sweet in the afternoon. I try to avoid this practice although I have moved into the habit of having an apperitif with ease come 7 PM. Maurice found a French recipe for a cake that looked good to him and I tried it. It isn’t for the faint of heart-or fat of heart-as it is loaded with butter but it is really good.

Cake aux fruit confits

Candied fruit-about 1/2 cup without citrus. You may also add 1/2 cup raisins but I never do. Add 1 Tablespoon of rum to fruit and let sit.

This blurry picture is of the fruit that I use.

Preheat oven to 210 degrees C., (385 degrees F.)

Butter a loaf pan. (The recipe calls for baking paper in the bottom of the pan but I somehow have never managed to remember to buy any.)

Beat 1/2 cup butter (125 g) until soft and light. Add 1/2 Cup sugar (125g) and beat until fluffy. Add 3 eggs beating well after each one.

Add 1 1/3 cups flour (200g) with a pinch of salt and 1/2 sachet of levure chimique. (For us Americans this is 1 teaspoon of baking powder. The French put theirs into a little package-you buy 5 at a time-and then ask you to use just half of each one. I guess it keeps it fresh this way but seems a little inaccurate to me but I’m great at just dumping without measuring anyway)

Stir in the fruit and pour into pan.

Bake at 385 degrees for 25 minutes then turn down the oven to 250 degrees (125 degrees C) and bake for one hour. (The French recipe says to bake it for une petite heure which makes me smile. Bake it for a little hour. I’m guessing this means not to over cook. Remove the cake from the pan after it has cooled for 5 minutes or so so it doesn’t stick to the pan. The recipe then actually says to let it sit for 24 hours before serving, like that is ever going to happen.

It’s really good but, as I said, I try not to eat much of it. Maurice can eat it without gaining weight but not me.

I’m doing this for a blog called: Lucullian Delights at http://lucullian.blogspot.com/

She is having people post on their blogs about their aprons. I had a favorite apron that somehow got left in Texas, I think. A friend, fortunately, gave me an apron as a gift from her annual trip to Teluride for the film festival. I use it when I am barbequeing as it can make an unholy mess on my clothes. Nothing prevents my clothing from smelling like smoke, however.

Here is a full size view of my apron

Closer

And here is a closeup view. I’m almost afraid to wash it as I don’t know what will happen. I’m just glad all of this grease didn’t end up on my clothes. I have a barbeque coming up for over 20 French guests. I will be wearing this apron as I man my grill.

I wasn’t able to be in the States to attend this wedding but my granddaugher, Ella, was. I just have to post these photos as all of the little girls in the wedding were dressed as little angels or fairies. It was a huge wedding with 12 bridesmaids. Even Bevo, the mascot of the University of Texas, was there, but not as a member of the wedding party, as the groom was one of the team who run the steer out at UT football games.

Here they come

Here’s Ella looking a Bevo. She reports that he went poo poo.

They don’t get much more precious than this but I have to say she looks hot. It was outdoors in Texas, not a cool place in June.

This makes me want to book the next flight to Texas.

Celebrating the summer solstice is a big deal in France, as well as much of Europe. It was once a pagan holiday when it was believed that plants picked during this time were magical and when bonfires were lit as evil spirits would roam on this night when the sun appeared to reverse its course and turn southwards again and the days start to become shorter again. It was decided several centuries ago that people shouldn’t be dancing around fires and believing pagan beliefs so the Church made this day, usually June 24th, St Jean Day celebrating the birth of John the Baptist. Bonfires are still lit and some villages perched on hills each light bonfires that can be seen from other villages. I haven’t seen that yet. I did go to Aix last year to see a very well put together celebration with dances by professionals. It was really good but this year we went to a small village called Villelaure to watch their fireworks and their bonfire. It was small and I think I liked the simplicity of it all more.

Fireworks are hard to take photos of for me but here is some of what we saw. I enjoy the reactions of children as they watch the explosions of color in the sky.

A little something on ground level

Many young people take turns jumping over the bonfire, after it has died down. I’ve heard it brings good luck, love or fertility.

This guy looks like his bottom got burned.

If you are a man, you probably won’t want to read any further because I’m going to talk about vaginitis!

I’m sure there are tough things about being a man like maybe having to shave every day but I think the whole thing with hormones and periods and bearing children can really be difficult, to say the least.(And I must say that since my hysterectomy that I haven’t missed my uterus even one day.) And vaginitis-well, this is just the pits. I’ve been having trouble with it. I went to a doctor and he prescribed the usual cream and vaginal suppository. And it worked for a while but it just kept reoccuring. One day it appeared on my horizon again-not really there but you know where-and I thought I would just drop into a pharmacy and get the medication I needed without going to the doctor and all of that hassle. Most meds are more expensive without a prescription here but what I needed are very inexpensive without one so I stopped at a nearby pharmacy that I’ve never been to before. I was even with my trusty interpreter but, being a guy, he is pretty clueless when it comes to things like feminine hygiene products or what is needed for yeast infections.

This is where I discovered that yeast is not a word that the French understand. I told the pharmacist that I wanted a vaginal suppository for a yeast infection. He had no idea what I was talking about. Maurice certainly wasn’t able to explain well. I finally learned that the word for yeast is champignon which is also the word for mushroom. This struck me as funny seeing a little herd of mushrooms merrily growing deep in the depths of me.

Anyway, this is also when I learned that they don’t call a vaginal suppository a suppository here. I’d never noticed what it said on the package I had before to tell the truth. Maurice and the pharmacist had quite a time figuring out what I wanted because I kept insisting it was a suppository. Here a suppository only goes one place, you know where. But I’m thinking, “Come on Mr. Pharmacist. Work with me here. I don’t care what it’s called, you can figure out what I need.” I needed an ovule. Whatever. I don’t care what it’s called, can I just have one? It seemed like quite a workout to me to get the Pharmacist to finally get what I needed. Do I have to draw a picture? Of course, now that I know I can safely walk into any pharmacy and, without pointing to my private parts, explain what I need-An ovule for champignons. I’ve got it. I hope it will be a long time before I need to use it again, though.

I have a friend who calls me from Paris and asks, “What have you been doing?” What can I say? Most every morning, before the heat, I head up the mountain to try and lessen the size of my butt. Then I go into my yard and pull weeds here and there trying to stay ahead of their growth. I water my flowers and my vegetable garden checking on the progress of my tomatoes. I always tell my friend that I’ve been in the north 40 (as in acres) plowing the field with old Bessie, my mule. But my obsession with the snails continues unabated. If you can believe it, there are even more than the last time I wrote about them.

The other day as I was picking them off of my plants I started counting how many I was gathering. There is no way I can get to all of the things growing in my yard. The number of weeds and clover along growing on the outskirts is daunting and I try not to look at or think about the thousands of snails munching away out there. I pick snails off of flowers I have planted, off of the lavander and rosemary and santalina that grow down the hill from our house holding the soil in place. I am surprised to find snails on lavander or rosemary since they both are medicinal and rather strong in taste but there they are-not turned off by the taste of anything being equal opportunity munchers. When we have a rain, you suddenly don’t see any snails on the plants. The rain washes them away and they lie stunned on the ground. Maybe they can’t stick to things well if they are wet rather like Scotch Tape or Band-Aids. But as soon as it dries out, there they are and there is a new crop every single morning.

So, as I was saying, I started counting one day. I actually got up to 1000. Can you believe that? I collected them in batches of 50 or 100 and then put them on the ground and smash their little white shells to smithereens. I’ve read that you can put dishes into the ground and fill them with beer. Snails like yeast and will mosey into the beer and drown. I would need 1000 dishes and gallons of beer to even make a dent in this invasion. So I try to keep them off plants I cherish. For a while I would just throw them all into a field but I’ve decided that each one will lay thousands of eggs and they will all be back in even larger numbers next year. As with flies Maurice says, “You should just live with nature.” Right. Did farmers just live with nature when locusts came and destroyed crops? No, they found something to get rid of them. Well, anyway, that what I do every day. Not too exciting. I have to take breaks and visit other villages and cities but I know, the whole time that I am gone, the snails are on the move. I envision hundreds of thousands of little snail ghosts coming to haunt me one day. I have no mercy, even so.