Mimi Thorisson - A Kitchen in France A Year of Cooking in My Farmhouse

CONTENTS

If you are not capable of a bit of witchcraft, dont trouble yourself with cooking.

Colette

T here is a ferry that sails south from the town of Royan, on the Atlantic Ocean, to Le Verdon at the northern tip of the Mdoc peninsula. It is not a particularly charming ridenor one I had ever planned on taking. Yet one day in late autumn some years ago, I found myself on that ferry with my husband, three kids, five dogs, and a baby on the way. We had given up our apartment in the lovely 7th arrondissement of Paris, found a house in Mdoc, and, voil, there we were.

How did an only child from bustling Hong Kong, born into a family with a fondness for cats, whose French mother hardly ever set foot in the kitchen, end up on that ferry? I dont know exactly, but I think my current country lifestylecomplete with a big rowdy family, lots of dogs, and a huge kitchen where I can make all my culinary fantasies come trueis something I always wanted.

My favorite food memories of my childhood include my father taking me, sometimes late at night, to little food stalls in Hong Kong. Wed seek out the best tripe, the finest dumplings, our favorite comforting bowl of noodles. I was a picky eater, a skinny child, which drove him nuts. But in the end he always found a way to feed my cravings. He probably understood me better than anyone; I definitely inherited my food obsession from him. We didnt say hello, but, instead, Have you eaten? as many Chinese people do.

In contrast, we spent our holidays in Paris or in the south of France with my mothers family. There I was introduced to a whole other world of tastes and flavors, a new universe of gastronomic delights. My grandmother and aunt were both terrific cooks, and every day meant a feast. We started many mornings with a trip to Monsieur Gourdet, the best greengrocer in Moissac, where my grandmother would spend a whole hour choosing the freshest vegetables, fussing over small details, sniffing, observing. Going to the market was like a trip to the museumeach artichoke was a sculpture to be admired. Then wed have our little moments in the early evenings, just the two of us, peeling away the artichoke leaves and dipping them in her signature vinaigrette, until we reached the best part, the heart. Thats when she would say, You have it, chrie ; youre so thin. My aunt, on the other hand, could take whatever was available and turn it into the most miraculous dishes: fish soup with ruddy-colored rouille, roasted lamb with garlic and flageolets, and an endless repertoire of soups, including my favorite, her fava bean soup. My grandmother was the food philosopher, my aunt the master technician.

While my childhood was filled with food, rarely was I the one in the kitchen helping make it. Later, as a student in Paris and London, I had my signature dishes, a few delicious little things I was proud of and that reflected my tastes, but I always spent more time in restaurants than in my own kitchen. It wasnt until I married and started a family that the kitchen won me over. Yet I feel as if I had been preparing for this role all my life; all the places Ive been, all the meals Ive had, come together in the pots and pans of my kitchen.

It was an unplanned process that led us to Mdoc in the first place. Even now I would be at a loss to explain exactly why we took the plunge. But we needed a bigger place for a growing family, so why not think outside the box, outside Paris? My husband wanted more dogs, we wanted to see the kids running around in a big garden, we were up for an adventure.

The last few years have been a revelation. For a city girl to move to Mdoc, one of the more remote and untouched parts of France, was a bit of a shock. I felt somewhat lost the first few monthsno hairdresser downstairs, no bakery on the corner. In their place, I have a view of the forest from my bedroom window and, when I am really lucky, a herd of deer roaming my garden in the early hours, so quietly that the dogs dont even notice them. Gone are the classic parquet floors of our apartment in Paris, the rosettes and stately flourish, the marble mantlepieces, the black painted French balconies, and our tiny kitchen. Now we have beautiful stone floors, rustic walls with real character, fireplaces in every room (which we use for grilling birds in winter), thousands of roses climbing up the wall and decorating one side of the house, and a giant rosemary bush just outside the kitchen window that perfumes the dogs as they pass it by and then bring its scent into the house.

Never have I been so aware of the changing of the seasons, the different pleasures that each of them has to offer. I grow my own vegetables and even some fruits. Ive made peace with the moles that dig up our garden. Gradually we have found our favorite everythingfrom the best baguette to the most perfect duck legs, from where to buy foie gras, to which wines we like best and from what years. Weve befriended the winemakers, snail farmers, and hunters who regularly pass by our house (and make our dogs crazy).