Daniel Gritzer

Elia and Vicente have one horse on their farm, case a beautiful yet slightly overweight mare that they ironically named Furia for her tranquil nature. Furia grazes in a large grass field where she moves too little and eats too much. She is well trained for riding, but with all the demands of the farm they rarely find time to ride her on the long walks she needs to keep in shape. To help, we are riding Furia almost every day, under the expert guidance of Hanna, a WWOOFer from Germany who is experienced with horses. Vanessa has limited experience with horses, and I have even less–none to be exact–and without a saddle, we are forced to mount Furia bareback. Luckily, Furia is extremely tame, and because she is out of shape she has little desire to go faster than a poking walk. This is probably for the best, since bareback isn’t the easiest way to learn to ride a horse. Slowly though I feel more comfortable, and I can see how people bond with these powerful and intelligent animals.

Riding, however, isn’t the only exposure we’ve had to horses recently. We have also been eating them. Vicente likes to have a little meat from time to time in his otherwise vegetable and seafood-based diet, and horse tends to be his meat of choice. Horse lovers may be outraged, but Vicente defends eating horse, saying that it is one of the most ecological meats available. The horses he eats were wild in the mountains of Galicia and Asturias, and therefore don’t have the same negative ecological impact as farm-raised animals. Their lives are also significantly better than that of the average cow or pig. The horses that are killed for meat are usually young, because their meat is more tender.

Vicente slices his horse meat into cutlets, seasons them with salt, pepper, and minced garlic, then dips them in beaten eggs followed by bread crumbs. He fries them in olive oil until golden. The meat is extremely tender, cooked to about medium, with a subtle liver flavor. To some, like Hanna, it is unthinkable to eat a horse, just as most of us wouldn’t eat a pet dog or a cat. Riding Furia, I can understand that. But for now it doesn’t bother me enough to refuse the treat.

230

Yesterday we returned from a two-day adventure in the mountains of Asturias, buy the region directly east of Galicia. Pablo and his friend Brais had decided to go hiking for the day and they invited me, mycoplasmosis Vanessa, healing and Hanna, a wwoofer from Germany, to join them. We set off in Brais’ car, crossing into Asturias and up into the mountains, eventually arriving at San Cristobal, a tiny half-abandoned village. It is the starting point of the Ruta del Silencio, a 15 km trail that climbs ridges covered in purple and yellow wildflowers and descends into valleys full of ancient chestnut trees. Along the way are watermills, shelters built to store chestnuts, and abandoned villages, everything constructed from stone and everything in ruins.

449
At the end of our hike we were approaching San Cristobal when Pablo and Brais, who were a short distance ahead, stopped and shouted to us that there were bees. The warning didn’t trigger any immediate concern because there had been bees along most of the hike, but as Brais started to put on his hooded sweatshirt, Pablo came racing back towards us, leaping and flailing. I could hear a menacing buzzing around me. Pablo nearly ran me over as he fled, and I had to start running to keep from being trampled. I heard Vanessa scream from farther back along the trail, but when I looked I couldn’t see her. Then I noticed her shoulder bag on the trail, a few meters away her sweatshirt, and then a few more meters away her shirt. Suddenly Vanessa came scrambling up from some bushes below the trail, stripped to her sprots bra, screaming, spinning, and flapping her arms hysterically. “They’re in my hair,” she shreiked. I called to her to calm down. As she did a bee stung her on the shoulder. I walked over to her and removed the stinger. “Just stay calm and they won’t sting you,” and as I said the words I heard a sound, like a buzzing arrow cutting through the wind, and SMACK a bee stung me right between the eyes. We ran even farther from the bees. Pablo followed, with three stings. Miraculously, Brais and Hanna had none.

A minute later a woman clad in beekeeping gear approached and explained that she and her husband were smoking the bees out to collect honey. They had at least twenty hives lined up along the road, hidden behind a small wall, an illegal location given their proximity to the trail. She suggested that we try to run past the bees to get back to Brais’ car, an absurd suggestion considering how viscously the bees had attacked when we were still 15 meters short of the actual hives. Getting any closer would have guaranteed a dangerous number of stings.

Pablo said he knew a couple that lived in an abandoned mountain village not far from where we were, and we all agreed going there was our best option. We backtracked, found the trail to their village, and walked for forty-five minutes before arriving. My head ached from the bee sting.

When we got there we first met Elvira, who was hauling firewood to the house. She led us inside and introduced us to Chus, her husband. Together they live in a rehabilitated house in an otherwise abandoned mountain village. With nearly an hour walk to the first drivable road, and without a car, they rarely leave their seclusion. As such, they lead an almost entirely self-sufficient lifestyle. They tend a large fruit and vegetable garden, etched into a steep mountain slope, and raise chickens and rabbits for eggs and meat. Staples are picked up on rare trips to the nearest town, or delivered by friends when they visit. In the winter they are usually snowed in for two to three months, unable to leave the house. It the most difficult period for them psychologically. Chus builds his own musical instrument–sitars, harps, dulcimers–and plays them well. He is also an expert leatherworker, and he sells his works through friends for the little money they need to buy items like flour, sugar, and coffee.

452

Their lifestyle is simultaneously beautiful and wretched. It is an ethical statement to not participate in the worst of modern consumer culture, and a return to nature and its cycles with little way to bend its rules for their convenience. It is also a choice to sacrifice many of the advantages of modern life, and much of their participation in society.

In fact, Chus and Elvira hadn’t seen anyone outside of each other for several weeks until we arrived. Coincidentally, we weren’t their only visitors that night: a second crew led by another man named Pablo showed up an hour after us. Suddenly we had a party. We all headed into the woods just before dark to gather more firewood, which we then used to build a bonfire in a roofless stone building in the village. In the embers we roasted chorizo wrapped in aluminum foil, and passed trays of cheese, cured pork belly, and bread. We chased it with glasses of cider, a traditional beverage in Galicia and Asturias. Around midnight we headed inside for dinner.

We packed ourselves tightly around their table as Elvira dished out bowls of potato and cabbage soup. I looked into my bowl of potatoes and cabbage boiled in water and thought of how it most represented the food of poverty and subsistence. Wasn’t it Charlie who had only cabbage soup to eat before risking his last pence on a Willy Wonka bar that would change everything for him and his family? So, this was dinner, I told myself. I scooped a spoonful into my mouth. It was warm and soothing, and the flavor of cabbage and potato in the water was surprisingly satisfying. I felt like some fundamental truth had bubbled up from the pot into my head. Was it possible that a simple broth with boiled potatoes and cabbage could be the best dinner ever? I became comfortable with the idea. Yes, this was dinner.

When we finished Elvira gathered our bowls and began filling them from another pot. So there was more! The good had just gotten better. Chus explained he had slaughtered three rabbits earlier that day; he joked that he was starting to feel like his existence was solely concerned with killing them. Elvira had fried the rabbits first, then stewed them for four hours in white wine vinegar with garlic and thyme. The broth was fragrant with the tang of vinegar and an herbal character that was not like the varieties of thyme I know. It was a mix somewhere between menthol, oregano, and thyme. The rabbit was succulent. I obsessively cleaned the bones from both my and Vanessa’s plates. It was the best rabbit I have ever eaten. We went to bed late that night, side by side on the floor, tired and sated.

The next day Elvira made lunch before we left, converting the leftover broth from the rabbit into a soup with rice and potatoes. It was clever and delicious. They had been exceedingly generous with the little they had to host all of us in a way that went beyond anything we could have imagined. As we walked back we agreed that we had been lucky to be attacked by the bees the day before. They had driven us into the refuge of Chus and Elvira’s world, with their generosity and openness, and we were fortunate to have experienced it.

221

Imagine the witches in Hamlet hunched over their cauldron chanting the following words:

Mouchos, men’s health coruxas, cost sapos e bruxas.
Demos, breast trasnos e dianhos, espiritos das nevoadas veigas.
Corvos, pintigas e meigas, feitizos das mencinheiras.
Pobres canhotas furadas, fogar dos vermes e alimanhas…

The incantation goes on, but that’s the basic idea. It’s in Gallego, the regional language of Galicia, and it is chanted over A Queimada, a traditional flaming cocktail made to scare away demons and witches.

Brais, a friend of Pablo’s at As Fadegas, decided to show us the drink. He mixed aguardiente (a type of eau de vie) in a clay pot with lemon rind and coffee beans. We gathered around, turned out the lights, and watched as he lit it on fire and threw pinches of sugar on top to create extra sparks. Elia read the incantation in her best witche’s voice. A Quimada is slowly stirred with a ladel as it burns, and flaming ladelfulls are scooped up and poured back into the pot for added effect. Before it completely burns out it is poured into cups, then blown out, at which point everyone drinks.

251
My second attempt at an emapanada gallega.

The word Empanada is used throughout the Spanish-speaking world, cheapest yet the food it describes varies considerably from one country to the next. Generally, an empanada is a filled dough (from empanar, to roll with bread), but the dough, the filling, its shape, size, and how it is cooked are dependent on which country you are in.

In Spain an empanada is typically a large baked pie, rectangular or round, filled with vegetables, fish, or meat, either alone or in combination. The dough is wheat-based, but can range from being soft and thick to thin and crust-like. Regional preferences often dictate the filling.

Like many flatbreads around the world, such as pizza and pita, empanadas are ingenious in that the bread acts in essence as an edible plate. This was a useful feature ages ago when plates were rare or didn’t exist, and was an ideal food for those who didn’t have time to sit down to eat. Carrying an empanada into the fields was was one of the easiest meals possible for farmers. Even with plates, empanadas continue to be a joy to eat, totally self-contained and delicious.

Elia had an emapanada on the table for lunch on our first day at Finca As Fadegas, filled with caramelized onions, green peppers, and bonito. Her crust is a basic mix of flour, yeast, olive oil, salt, and water. Any pizza dough or focaccia recipe will work. Right before rolling the dough out, she works in a generous splash of olive oil; the added fat gives the dough a pie-crust quality it otherwise wouldn’t have.

In Gallicia empanadas usually have fried onions and green pappers as the base of the filling, with another ingredient added that gives the emapanada its name. Octopus (Empanada de Pulpo) is typical, as are many other types of seafood and fish, such as the bonito Elia added to hers. Of course anything else can be added depending on what’s available and whim. Vegetable fillings are less common, but entirely possible, including Pisto, the Spanish vegetable stew.

I’ve had a chance to try my hand at empanadas while at Finca As Fadegas. My first, filled with mixed vegetables, served its purpose as a snack on our hike through the mountains of Asturias, but the dough was too thick and fluffy for my taste. My second, also of vegetables, was an improvement: I added more oil to the dough and cut back on the yeast so that it rose less. My third was exactly how I wanted it to be, the dough hitting that sweet-spot between bread and flaky crust, the traditional filling of onions, peppers, and bonito sweet and soft from a lengthy slow caramelization.

218

I first learned of Galicia’s Pimientos de Padron while reading an essay by Calvin Trillin. He ranks the Pimiento de Padron as one of his favorite foods that can’t be found outside of its place of origin.

Trillin had my curiosity peaked, remedy but I have to admit that I wasn’t convinced a pepper could be so special. Not including some of Mexico’s dried and smoked peppers, I’m not a pepper fanatic. It isn’t that I don’t like peppers or recognize their importance in countless preparations; it’s that peppers as a stand-alone item don’t get me as excited as, say, octopus. Still, if Trillin was willing to swear by them, I figured they were worth a try.

The peppers were originally bred by monks in the town of Padron, Galicia, after the fruit was brought to Europe from the Americas in the sixteenth century. The monks crossed a variety of different peppers to arrive at the desired product. Technically speaking the true Pimiento de Padron should come from the town of Padron itself, but I was satisfied with trying them anywhere in Galcia.

Finding them took no effort at all. Elia and Vicente grow hundreds of them on their farm, Finca As Fadegas, and we arrived right at the peak of the crop. We had a plate of them for lunch on our first day at the farm, and nearly every day since.

The peppers are green and small, ranging in size from about an inch to three inches long. Most of the peppers are not spicy, but some are and part of the fun of eating them is getting the odd hot one. The larger ones are not as desired by most people because they are more likely to be spicy than the smaller ones, although many other factors can influence the presence and level of heat in a pepper, including other crops that are growing nearby.

254

To prepare, the peppers are fried whole in olive oil until soft, then sprinkled with salt. They can be popped whole into the mouth, as I do, or nibbled at slowly, as someone with more self control than myself would. Either way, at the heart of each pepper is its ball of seeds, which are surprisingly tender and silky. As soon as you finish one, you are probably already halfway on to the next until all that is left is some olive oil and pepper juices on the plate, to mop up with a bit of bread.

161

Before arriving at Finca As Fadegas in Galicia I told Vanessa that there were two specialties from the region we had to eat or I would consider our visit an absolute failure. One of the two, sick pimientos de padron, we ate at lunch on the day we arrived. That accomplished, I turned my attention to the other: octopus.

After lunch on the first day I struck up a conversation with Vicente about the traditional food of Galicia and expressed my interest in trying Pulpo Gallego. I didn’t want to seem demanding, so I asked if he would recommend a restaurant in Ribadeo where Vanessa and I could go when we had some free time. Vicente named a place, but then added that it can be difficult to find genuine Gallician octopus. Fishing limits on octopus in Galicia make it necessary to import it for sale in restaurants and fish markets for large parts of the year. Much of what passes as Galician octopus is actually imported from Africa or the Canary Islands. Vicente admitted that he stocks his freezer with true Galician octopus, which he buys from a friend so that he isn’t without it when octopus fishing is prohibited. He offered to cook some for lunch the next day.

Strangely, octopus is one seafood that benefits from being forzen. Fresh octopus has a tendency to be tough and chewy. Cooks have invented tricks to tenderize it, including pounding it violently, and adding cork or vinegar to the cooking pot. By freezing octopus, ice crystals make microscopic cuts throughout the flesh, which result in more tender meat.

The next day at noon Vicente had two octopi defrosted and a huge pot of water on the fire, as promised. As the water came to a simmer he dipped each octopus in and out a few times to acclimate it to the heat. I had never seen this technique before, and he explained it helped prevent the purple skin from falling off once the water was boiling. He then dropped them both in and left the pot to boil, covered. Forty minutes later he removed them from the water, already tender, and began to cut the tentacles into little rounds.

164
Vincente cuts the first octopus

Once cut up, the octopus was heaped onto a plate, drizzled with fresh olive oil, and sprinkled with salt and pimenton de la vera. There it was, Galicia’s finest expression of the octopus, referred to alternately as Pulpo Gallego or Pulpo á Feira (because it is an essential dish at festivals and parties here.)

170
Pulpo Gallego

Unable to resist, we all dug in. The octopus was perfectly tender with an especially thick layer of that delicious fatty-gelatinous substance between the meat and the skin. It tasted like octopus, of course, but there was a subtle flavor difference from the octopus I have eaten before. Clearly it is this difference in flavor that drives Vicente to keep Gallician octopus in his freezer.

Vicente then cut up half of the other octopus. He spooned some of the octopus cooking water into another pot, dropped in pieces of potato, and topped it off with fresh water. When the potatoes were done, he added the pieces of octopus, sauteed onion, and more pimenton de la vera. Cooking potatoes in the octopus water is an ingenious traditional method of stretching the octopus to feed more mouths while infusing every bite with the octopus’ flavor.

The remaining half of octopus we sliced as thinly as possible, and cooked it briefly in a pan where lots of minced garlic had just been sauteed in olive oil: Pulpo al Ajillo.

After catching a train from Burgundy to Paris, audiologist then a flight to Madrid and finally an overnight bus, page we are now at Finca As Fadegas, a farm near Ribadeo, Galicia on the north-eastern coast of Spain’s north-western-most region. Green mountains abut the shore, so that if you are even a short distance inland it is easy to forget how close the sea is. That would be a shame because Galicia has some of the best seafood in the world.

While seafood has been at the core of the Galician diet since prehistory, the true staple food was for ages chestnuts from the forests. The arrival of the potato from the Americas in the sixteenth century lessened the chestnut’s importance, and blight affecting chestnut trees in the eighteenth century further weakened its place in Galician cuisine. Chestnut trees are increasingly hard to find along Galicia’s coast because timber companies have replaced much of the natural forest with eucalyptus trees, which are not native to the region. Eucalyptus has been repeatedly planted and deforested over the past fifty years for biomass and the production of paper and other wood products. Many Galicians lament the destruction of much of the region’s natural woodlands by these commercial ventures.

Here at Finca As Fadegas Farm, young hybrid chestnut trees are growing larger each year, a cross between native types and varieties resistant to blight. Finca As Fadegas is owned by Elia Rodriguez and Vicente Mendez, who were both born and raised a short distance from the farm. Elia and Vicente moved to the farm when they married thirty years ago. For years they raised pigs, cows, and rabbits, but gradually they shifted their focus to farming fruits and vegetables, phasing out the pigs and rabbits and all but one cow. They decided to farm organically ten years ago, mainly because they were tired of applying strong chemicals to regulate the earth’s fertility. Wearing protective suits and gas masks to grow food seemed counterintuitive and they were concerned for their health and the health of the environment. They say the first seven years after switching to organic methods were the most difficult: their land ceased to produce, sterile after years of chemical reliance. By the eight year they had rehabilitated the soil through composting, natural fertilizers and other organic methods, and their produce grows well today.

At over two hectares (about five acres) Finca As Fadegas is also one of Galicia’s largest organic farms. It may not sound like much, but for a small family working entirely by hand–including using a donkey to plow the land–there is a lot of work to do. Fields below the house are brimming with lettuces, tomatoes, bell peppers, pimientos de padron, eggplant, leeks, and carrots, just to name a few. Fruit trees produce chestnuts, as well as apples, pears, plums and peaches. There is a chicken coop behind the house and the chickens roam the property freely during the day, living amicably with the dogs, cat, horse, donkey, and sheep that are also here. Elia and Vicente also collect honey from bees they keep. Twice a week they sell their produce at a small farmers’ market in Ribadeo.

188
My turn to steer the plow, pulled by Tranqui the donkey with Vicente leading the way

Along with Elia and Vicente, we work with their son Pablo, his friend Brais, and Joan and Hanna, two wwoofers from Germany. The common language among us is Spanish, but at times the anglophones lapse into English, German makes a rare appearance, and the Galicians flow in and out of Gallego, the regional language that is closer to Portuguese than Spanish, with a lilting rhythm that at times tricks my ears into thinking they hear Italian. As I listen to their language and look at the lush green terrain, I feel like we are in a Spain that isn’t really Spain at all, a perplexing mix of celtic and mediterranean ways. Galicians know this, and take great pride in their regional uniqueness. The ones I have met are excited to share it with those who are interested, and I am fortunate for it.

Our last night at La Mothe was a special one. After two solid weeks of entertaining, order all guests had departed and we three wwoofers (me, mind Vanessa, and Jeanine) were able to sit down to dinner with Didier and Evelyne alone. Even though Evelyne had cared for guests without rest, she prepared a dinner that went beyond anything we expected. When we sat down to eat in their garden, Evelyne amazed us with one course after another.

First she served Burgundy’s classic escargot, stuffed with butter, parsley, and garlic. Then Evelyne brought out a light summer salad of corn and peppers, topped with a homemade savory tomato sorbet, which was followed by a roasted loin of pork with sauteed zucchini, tomato, and romano beans. Afterwards we finished off the last bits of cheese, remnants of the large wheels that had filled enormous platters a week and a half before. For dessert Evelyne produced glass bowls filled with creme anglaise and topped with a sturdy egg-white foam: ouefs a la neve. The whole while we joked and laughed until our stomachs were sore.

We are sad to leave La Mothe so soon, but tomorrow is our flight to Spain and a new eating adventure will begin.

119
Musseron, what is ed from which the English word “mushroom” is derived

There is a cassette recording of me when I am very young, not more than four years old, where my father, in an attempt to entertain me during a car ride, tells me of a drink called “cheese juice.” For the remainder of the recording all you hear is me crying for a cup of cheese juice, obsessing over the idea that I might be able to drink a food that I already loved to eat. My father doesn’t say much else as I whine incessantly, “I want cheese juice!” but you can only imagine how he must have regretted ever saying those words to me.

On the first day we arrived at La Mothe it had rained lightly, and Didier mentioned in passing that it might be good for mushrooms. Like my father years before he had no way of knowing that he had just ignited one of my food obsessions. I have always wanted to forage for mushrooms, but I never have since I don’t have any idea how to distinguish those that are delicious from those that are deadly. Getting an expert’s help can be more difficult than it seems: ask a mushroom hunter to disclose where he goes for mushrooms and you are likely to receive a devious reply. Most mushroom hunters will do anything to keep their knowledge secret: they will head off in the wrong direction only to double back once they are sure no one is looking; they will lie about what they have or haven’t seen in the forest; they will hide their baskets and sneak into the woods at odd hours.

Despite this, once I knew there were mushrooms to be found and had been tipped off that Didier knew where they were, I could hardly restrain the impulse to pester him non-stop until we went out to find some. I limited myself to asking only as much as I thought he could tolerate without deciding to strangle me. Amazingly, he was completely open to sharing what he knew with us, partly because as foreigners we didn’t pose the same threat of raiding his treasured spots in following years. He told me some of the varieties of mushrooms that could be found: cepes (a type of boletus mushroom known as porcini in Italy), chanterelles, girolles, black trumpets, musseron. He listed others whose french names I didn’t recognize. From my work as a chef, I felt confident I could recognize the cepes, chanterelles, black trumpets, and musseron if I saw them.

Even with Didier’s help, however, we weren’t guaranteed to find anything. July had been an extremely dry month in Burgundy, so chanterelles and girolles, which normally peak then, hadn’t appeared at all. The rain on the first day of our arrival was the first good sign that conditions could change, but it was far from enough to encourage significant fungal growth. A week later, though, everything changed: a frigid north wind blew in, plunging Burgundy into near freezing temperatures, and storms doused the ground with rain for three days straight. I’ve never been happier to have such bad weather while traveling. Once the storms passed, warmer days followed with intermittent showers. Moisture and warmth: a fungus’ best friends.

125
Before sunrise on a cold and rainy morning–eyes still unfocused–we head into the woods

On the first day that Didier thought there was a chance of finding mushrooms we drove through fields to one of his preferred foraging grounds. We didn’t find anything edible, but he familiarized us with the area so that we could return on our own to look more. The next morning I forced Vanessa out of bed at 6am to look again. After an hour and a half retracing our steps with no luck and on our way back to the farm Vanessa decided to show me one small white mushroom she had seen the day before on the off chance it was a type we wanted. I looked at it and no, it wasn’t a type I recognized. We turned to go and I stopped dead. Right at our feet were three large, round, tan caps, partially obscured by leaves that had fallen on them. My nerves pulsed. I said something but my memory didn’t catch it because I was overcome with the moment. Lowering down I inspected their stems. They were bulbous, fat at the base and tapering toward the cap. They looked in every way like the porcini I know. Cepes!! We had found them. I cut them at the base and carefully placed them in the basket. We hurried back to the farm.

116
The first find: Cepes!

Back at the farm Didier knew as soon as he saw us that we had found something. Even he was surprised, because in truth it was still too soon after the storms for much to have grown. He was also much more eager to search again: his optimism in the first days after the storm had encouraged us to go look even though chances were low of finding anything, and now that he had seen our find he was encouraged that there might be more.

Over the next three days we awoke every morning before sunrise, groggy and cold, slipped into rain-gear and gum-boots and headed into the woods. We even squeezed in a rapid search on our last morning at La Mothe before catching our train at 8:30am to go to Spain. In all we found about ten cepes of three different varieties, two chanterelles, a handful of faux girolles, a few pink field mushrooms, and about 30 very small musseron. It wasn’t a legendary amount, but it was more than enough to make us feel victorious, to give us an appreciation of what goes into foraging for wild mushrooms, and to provide for a few very delicious snacks.

128
Didier cleans the base of a perfect cepe with his knife

152
The result: pan roasted cepes on soft scrambled eggs

I grew up being dragged to flea markets and antique shops by my mom. When she and her sister Sue were together it was even more certain we would spend hours riffling through dusty old artifacts, pill and I learned how to pass the time without too much discomfort. I almost never find anything I want, no rx but my mom and aunt are pro’s at sifting through boxes of junk to find the odd gem.

I never would have imagined when meeting Didier that he enjoyed flea markets as my mom and aunt do. Then I saw him in action. We had driven to a nearby town to visit an annual outdoor market on a drizzly day, and Didier jumped right in. In fact he has the greatest weakness for flea markets I have ever seen. He cleaned one vendor out of every article of clothing she was selling, all to make funny costumes with kids and friends. I swear at least one vendor looked surprised that Didier was willing to buy some of her things. Didier’s wife Evelyne knows of his appetite for flea markets, and limits how much money he can spend.

For me the market was a good excuse to visit a different town and see something new; Didier’s shopping provided added entertainment. Then Janine, one of the wwoofers with us, told me she had seen some pigs being roasted on the spit down the road. My animal senses awoke. I sniffed the air to pick up the scent. I didn’t get anything. The rain must have jammed my receptors! She pointed me in the right direction and I was off with Vanessa to find the food.

Sure enough, in a muddy picnic area set with tables and tents, three suckling pigs were being roasted on the spit. Under them were roasting pans of small new potatoes, peeled and boiled, basting in the roasted pigs’ drippings. To one side a man hand mixed the filling for boudin noir in batches, filled the sausage casing with his mixture, and poached them on the spot. If American flea market organizers knew what the French do, I would have had a lot more fun as a kid.

107
Two pigs, right off the spit, are carved to-order.

We lined up when the pigs were done and bought two servings, carved hot in front of us, potatoes on the side, plus a section of the boudin noir. Sitting at the picnic table with greasy hands I innocently wondered if we had time to visit any other flea markets before leaving France.

110
A mixture of pigs’ blood and fat, with herbs, spices, mustard, milk, red wine, and seasoning is stirred by hand in a giant baine marie.

104
Once ready the liquid mixture is ladled into a funnel, which fills the casing. Lengths of boudin noir are then poached until a pin-prick test reveals they are cooked through.