In the late fifties when I was still in single figures and short pants my sister D went off to the Cote d’Azure for a year as an au pair.
She came back full of the joys of the French climate, life style and food.
(As you can see this had a lasting effect on me and has had a fairly dramatic effect on my life choices)

One of the dishes Madame taught her to make was the French classic Croque Monsieur, this was to become a staple dish in my life and one which I often fed to my children as they were growing up.

A Croque, and there as many variations of this as there are of our staple dishes, is a cooked sandwich of ham and cheese.
(You only have to google in croque to see how many ways there of arranging these ingredients.)
The one which Madame taught D is the true one (of course) and I will give you the recipe at the end of this piece.

Last week, just before we went to France, we made a quick trip to Wexford to see the art exhibitions which are always good during the Opera Festival.
There I came across another of Putumayo‘s CDs, I had bought their French Cafe music a few years ago and this had directly led me to Sanseverino and to Brassens so I hoped that their French Playground music might lead me to a few songs I could sing to the new grand child when it arrives in January.

The CD has several great songs- mostly concerned with food-but one that had instant appeal was one by Thomas Fersen called Croque.
This is about a grave digger and his voracious appetite for food.
(You can listen to the whole song on You Tube)

Here is a verse;

Moi je mange comme quatre
Et je bois comme un trou
Puis je retourne au cimetière
Travailler d’mon mieux,
Digérer mon pot de bière
Et mon croque-monsieur.

This roughly says that, as he eats -and drinks-for four, after a hard days work in the graveyard he can’t wait to get home to his pint of beer and his Croque.

Yesterday we had a fairly tough day’s travelling back from France, and by the time we got to the end of it I felt much the same.

We left the house in Thezan at 6 am to get to Marseille for our flight at 10.
In Dublin we made a flying visit to see Sile’s folks in Tearmonfeckin and then found ourselves caught in the Halloween traffic on the M50 so didn’t get near Waterford until about 7.30 in the evening.
That was a long, and mainly unfed, 13 hours travelling.

I was playing my new CD in the car on the way down and became obsessed with the idea of having a Croque as soon as we got home.

We havn’t had one for ages, mainly I think because it is plainly very unfashionably unhealthy, but don’t let it stop you giving it a try every so often they are simple to make and delicious.

Here is the recipe for the one we enjoyed last night-about ten minutes after we got home.

Croque Monsieur.

(no amounts here, it depends on how many you want to feed and how voracious their appetite)

Brown Sliced Pan (nothing too fancy or it will fall apart)
Butter
Eggs
Good Cheddar Cheese- I used Dubliner which worked well
Slices cooked ham (smoked is best)
Olive Oil

Various mustards and chutneys to serve.

Butter the bread and make a sandwich with the ham and the sliced cheese.
Beat the eggs in a plate and lay the sandwich in this pressing down so that it absorbs the egg (you will need about two eggs for every three sandwiches)

Now heat the oil in a pan and fry the sandwiches until brown on both sides. Then lower the heat and cook until the cheese is melting.
If you have to do a lot you can brown them in a pan and then finish them together in a medium oven laid out on a baking sheet.

Serve on a plate with a knife and fork and mustard and chutney on the side.
Be warned, they are addictive!

I have been looking forward to a few days in France at Halloween ever since I came back from France at the end of September.
We managed to find an affordable flight which flew to Marseille which gave us just four days here (I’m writing this from Thezan)
I was looking forward particularly to these few days as I-like every Irish person -have been starved of adequate amounts of sun for the last month.

True to its promise we flew into Marseille in an absolute peach of a day, the temperature in the car as we drove through the Camargue towards Languedoc touched 25C.
I knew we had a good bit to do while we here but I was hoping for a bit of French autumn. The trees and the vines are in magnificent colour and the pomegranates are falling off the hedges into our hands.

I should have known better. I was more or less instantly cast down by the worst cold I have had for years.
Spluttering, coughing, streaming, aching, running foul cold.

I lost two day of our precious four.
Tomorrow we go home.
The best laid schemes……….

The austere but beautiful staircase of the Old Ursuline Convent
in New Orleans.

(As sent to me in a post-card by friend Petra )

When it comes to pronouncing foreign words it is totally true that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
Take Noilly Prat, the excellent French Vermouth (made from my favourite Picpoul grape) which is produced in Marseillan just down the road from us in France. I had always presumed-along with most of the wine guzzling population of Ireland-that it was pronounced, a la francais Noieey Prah.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, as it turned out, it is pronounced directly as it is spelt, which(rather unfortunately) is something that rhymes with oily prat.

The first time I realised the treachery of the French language was when I was ordering a case of Chenas Burgundy from a wine merchant.
I, of course, called it Chenah, as you would, he gently corrected me and told me that there “they pronounce the S”
I fell into this trap at on at least two other occasions while holidaying in the south west of France. I mistakenly called called Ceret, Ceray and did precisely the same with Peret.
Both have in fact retained their t sound at the end of their names.

There is of course nothing strange at all about this.
In French, as in other languages, these unpronounced letters were originally pronounced.
The English word knowledge, for instance , was originally pronounced “kenowledge”

But it is always dangerous to assume the correct pronounciation of any word without checking with a native.
A great friend of mine while working in a pub in London in the early seventies corrected a Scotsman’s pronounciation of Drambuie.
She, assuming incorrectly that it was French , said “Oh you mean Dhrambweee”
Mind you sometimes it does become a little difficult, I defy any (non Polish) person to correctly pronounce my Polish fellow blogger’s name: Jedrzej.
(In fact, he tells me, it is pronounced something like Yendashay.)

The best incidence of this little knowledge was when the Befrocked Greek Mountain, singer Demis Roussos became popular in Ireland.
All the RTE DJs, to prove that they knew how to speak foriegn (i.e. French) insisted in calling him Demmy Russo

The wet day that’s in it reminds we that as a youngster the total epitome of nerdishness was an jacket with a hood.
If one had the misfortune to own one nothing, rain, hail, sleet or snow would persuade one to put it up. It would have been the very nadir of everything fashionable to be spotted with a hood up.
As for showing off the elastic of your underpants……………

Hannibal strolls quietly through Languedoc.

When I was a very small boy in school it was decided to enter me for verse speaking in the local Feis Maitiu.
I was given two poems to learn, one was about Hannibal.
I can still remember what must have been a sort of chorus in the poem;
“A hundred elephants Hannibal had when Hannibal crossed the alps”

This I was able to rattle off fortissimo ( and totally without comprehension) but with great use of a sort of staccato rhythm that I imagined was what was required for great verse speaking.

“A hundred elephants Hannibal had when Hannibal crossed the alps”

To my surprise I didn’t win, but it did leave me with a fondness for Hannibal and an appreciation of his prowess in getting over the Alps with his herd.

I have just started to read The Middle Sea by John Julius Norwich, a history of the Mediterranean. In it he tells of Hannibal’s great march in 218 BC, through Spain from Carthage and across the Pyrennees before heading for the Alps.

He hadn’t come just with elephants (although he had 37 of those) but also 40 thousand foot soldiers and 12 thousand mounted men.

They must have marched across the plains of the Languedoc en route for the Rhone and the Alps.
In which case they must have been in easy view of my terrace in Thezan as they passed along.

It must have been an amazing sight, particularly to a people who had never before seen an elephant.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sure that it would have made me put far more emotion into the poem which I recited all those years ago.
Hannibal could have had a second victory on his hands by helping me win the Feis.

One of the things I resolved to do once I had given up the restaurant was to continue my habit of making bread.

It is now about four and a half years since then and I am glad to be able to report that that is one resolution I have been able to keep.

In the restaurant I used to make little white yeast rolls and little brown soda bread farls.
At home I wanted to make an fairly versatile bread, preferably brown, certainly yeast and with a bit of extra roughage for health.
I have gone through various different versions but this one, which I have again made this morning, seems (with some minor variations,) to have become the standard- for the moment anyway.

Our Daily Bread

(This gives four x 1kg loaves)

1kg. Strong White Flour
1kg. Strong Wholemeal Flour
(I use Odlums for both and the results are good)

4 Sachets of dried yeast
(I am sure less would work but they would take longer to rise)

1 Teaspoon Salt
6 Tablespoons Olive Oil
(Sunflower is fine too but the flavour is better from the olive)

6 Tablespoons Sunflower Seeds
6 tablespoons Pumpkin Seeds
4 Tablespoons Pinhead Oatmeal
2 Tablespoons Sesame Seeds
(Occasional extras would be Pine Nuts and Walnuts)

1.4 Litres of Warm Water.

Method.

Mix together the flours, salt, yeast, seeds and nuts in a very large bowl.

Add the oil and the water and mix well together with your hands until all the flour is absorbed into a dough.

Tip this out on to a lightly floured counter and knead steadily for 5 to 6 minutes.

(This is a fairly strenuous activity so you will have to pause for a breather from time to time.
Stop the clock during susses!)

After five minutes kneading you will have a good elastic dough.

Cut this in four even quarters (weigh them to make sure-they should be around a kilo each) and put each quarter into a 1kg. loaf tin.

(If you want this is the moment to cut the tops to give a more interesting crust. Today, as in the picture, I made four snips with a scissors making two letter Zs.)

Now put these someplace warm for an hour (or more ) until they rise well.

Set the oven to 220 C (mine is a fan oven) and cook at this temperature for 20 mts.
Put the oven down to 175 and then cook for another 20.

Once they are cool I freeze three of them and take them out as I need them.

I find that one minute (only!) on full in the microwave and they are ready to slice and close to thawed.

A few notes.

The timing of the rise depends on the ambient temperature.
You will find that out over time.
If it is cold I sometimes get them to rise in a very low oven.

The variations are many, you could use all brown or white flour.
Stoned olives and/or chopped sundried tomatoes.

Try various temperature combinations in your own oven.
This one suits mine, all ovens differ.

While you are kneading keep some white flour handy, if it gets sticky sprinkle a little on the counter.

If you paint with egg wash half way through you will get a lovely appetising shine on top.

I am the worlds worst watcher of television. given a choice I would happily sit in the dentist’s chair rather than on the couch in front of the telly.
My belief is that people addicted to the television have to have a long and hard apprentiship and then work even harder on the addiction to keep it going.
I have tried really hard to like it but there were a couple of factors which seriously upset my apprentiship.
Firstly there was no TV in Cork during my youth, it didn’t arrive until I was in my teens.
Secondly most of my working life, in the restaurant trade, has been working nights so I just never acquired the habit.

Since I retired four years ago I no longer have an excuse for not watching so I put my back into it and really tried. I sat through at least one of all the soaps, tried to fend off nausea during ER (I will never go into an american hospital, they apply electrodes to your chest if you have a sore finger) but discovered that my pet hate of all time was cookery programmes.
I mean I had just spent 20 years in a kitchen, did I need to spend any more time there!
I consequently managed a compromise with my wife. I bought some headphones and now I bang away on the computer, Jacques Brel on the speakers, while she watches television at the other side of the room.

As a result of that I had never seen Rachel Allen on the telly before I had to squire her for a day during the Euro-Toque Food awards two years ago.

I was immediatly impressed with the girl, as well as being extremely easy on the eye she was modest, self effacing and seemed really interested in food.

I resolved there and then to watch one of her programmes to see how she managed.

I finally got there last night.

She does a really fine job.
And, (and this one sticks in the craw of an elderly dog who thinks he knows all the tricks) her way of using cling film to make the whole baking blind process easy was an eye opener. I will try it myself.

Whereas this does not make me a convert to the box I now promise that there is at least one programme which I would watch.
High praise Rachel.

I borrowed a wonderful book from my friends Clive and Sue Nunn over the weekend.
Called ; The Week-End Book and published in 1928 it is a
compendium of poems, prose, recipes,games and even first-aid.
A typical Commomplace Book in fact, and, as Clive pointed out, a natural
ancestor of the blog.

There is a whole section of protest poems under the title of “Poems of Hate” which is illustrated by this picture.

After a search I found the poem it referred to;

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?

I must say I thought it was a little unfair, so I started
to look up the author Frances Cornford in the internet.

I was rather pleased to find that I wasn’t alone.

None other than G K Chesterton also thought that the
Fat Lady got a raw deal and he refuted it thus:

Why do you rush through the fields in trains,
Guessing so much and so much.
Why do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves and such? —

Chesterton, ‘The Fat White Woman Speaks’
(c. 1933); an answer to Frances Cornford.

My nephew Martin married his Suzie
last Saturday.

His Uncle Martin (this time by request)
immortalised the occasion.
(In some deathless doggerel.)

A Poem for Martin and Suzanne

To Martin Lynch and to Suzanne
We’re glad that you have tied the knot
And set off on life’s Autobahn
(At last) Aboard the nuptial yacht.

I think I now know Martin’s plan
Acquiring families by the score
Two of his own, one from Suzanne
And now with her, this will make four.

I’d like to think that Martin got
Much more than just his name from me.
But got the Savoir Faire to spot
A girl with Style and Bel Esprit.

To take on our eccentric clan
I feel Suzanne that you are ready
And have had time to make a man
Of Martin (sometimes known as Teddy)
For now you know as well as I
His many faults which I could name
The Punto which he left to die
His fondness for the hockey game
His version of American Pie
(Which should have made him die for shame)
The fact that as a little get
His mother called him “Dotey Pet”

As for his second choice of name
-It seems he had to pick another
The first one, mine, gave him such shame-
He then took Teddy, from my brother!

I wish you both the best in life
Contentment Tolerance and Peace
And Martin, now you have a wife
May wealth and joy for you increase
May both your lives be free of strife
A toast please to my brand new niece !

And here are some members of the wedding.

(as is traditional in Irish weddings the sexes were kept
well apart until after they had been fed)