The “Squirrel” is launched!

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It has been a busy week. Today we officially launched our walnut collector, after months of preparation with a local metal worker.It is exclusively on sale in our workshop. As with our walnut oil, we prefer to concentrate on quality rather than quantity. This has enabled us to develop an effective, sturdy tool with a long wooden handle, that enables you to collect walnuts without bending down.

The torrential rain has attracted more customers than usual into our cosy workshop, which has lead to a lack of stock and frantic shelling activity in order to do another press. It would be nice to have enough oil and sunshine to do some more markets, like this great one in Port Lesney at the Camping des Radeliers. You may have seen this village in Raymond Blanc’s series “A Very Hungry French Man”, when he returned to his native region. It’s a beautiful place on the banks of the Loue river. I call it the Côte d’Azur of Salins Les Bains (although a lot more peaceful), with it’s little riverside beaches and great restaurants.


We have also had a film maker in this week. A friend described the light in the photo below as “rembrandt-esque” – some might say gloomy! – but in any case, the photographer was delighted with the natural light and atmosphere, rather than strip lights and the white coats of many production areas. Jean-Pierre’s beret and braces are much more authentic for a film aimed at tourists. I think he quite enjoyed my yellow plum and hazelnut tart too. Stone enough plums to cover the shortcrust pastry base and sprinkle generously with brown sugar and crushed hazelnuts (or our “pain de noisette”, the block of pressed hazelnuts which remains after each press).Cook until the plums are jam like and the pastry is lightly browned.Watch this space for the film anyway!



Getting ready for the walnut and hazelnut harvest…

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Walking through the walnut orchards, I am literally flabbergasted by Mother Nature’s generous offerings for 2014. After 2 years of disappointing harvests, due to unpredictable Spring weather, we are blessed with the sight of bountiful bunches of walnuts, weighing down the branches. I savour the lemony, musky smell of the fruit, maturing in their green husks, which in three or four weeks will start to break up and reveal the woody walnut shell.The calm before the storm…Autumn promises to be exciting (to say the least!), as we have 600 extra trees to work with this year. Thank goodness we have walnut collectors to help us with the task and are also in the process of setting up a “pick your own” system. We have a new website/blog for our walnut and hazelnut oil: Sorry anglophones! Just in French for now.



Succulent Cèpes


Pan fried cèpes on a bed of blanched chard, sprinkled with chopped walnut kernels and parsley,topped off with a drizzle of walnut oil and lemon juice.


The 2CV, filled to the brim, with foraged mushrooms and chard from our local organic veg grower

Chez Bénédicte, "Le radis qui Pique". If you are ever in the area, she sells her vegetables, directly to the public, on friday evenings and Saturday mornings

Chez Bénédicte, “Le radis qui Pique”. If you are ever in the area, she sells her vegetables, directly to the public, on Friday evenings and Saturday mornings


A feast for foragers


Back in France for the summer, I am delighted to see a bumper crop of cèpe mushrooms in the forests. I am regularly feasting on them, fried with chopped shallots and garlic in olive oil. Serve them with a handful of chopped parsley and season well. A well deserved treat after a trudge through the forest.If you decide to go foraging, do so with caution as many mushroom varieties are poisonous.

Great beautiful Britain blighted by bread in bags


I have been back “home” now for two weeks and seem to have arrived with a fresh eye to view my native region. Strangely, I feel a bit foreign  in my hometown, so am perhaps more objective about it, or perhaps romantic or critical.I’m not sure what I feel yet. Whilst pouring my coffee, from my cafetière “for one”, I contemplate….

Things I am enjoying in Yorkshire:

Pubs with open fires and bitter, yet floral, pale ales, which can even be enjoyed alone, whilst reading the newspaper – something I would never have done in rural France. Women were not seen alone in café/bars – or in groups for that matter.My morals would have been severely questioned and quite frankly, people would have looked at me funny.


Speaking Yorkshire again. There are some things only a person from York will understand ie. “river’s up”.

The dynamics of an English conversation and our ability to “self-mock”.

Sunday roasts, with Yorkshire pudding, like this one at the Wellington Inn in Nidderdale, a fantastic, dog-friendly pub.


Swaledale sausage and chutney sandwiches, at The Duke of York pub.


Hearing the seagulls in the morning (living in Eastern France, I was probably in the farthest French corner from the sea). We are only 45 minutes from the stunning Yorkshire coast here.

Walking the dog, without fear of running into a wild boar or a wolf. Only gangs of youths to worry about now – nothing compared to 90kg of charging, tusked beast! I’d prefer an altercation with a “chav” any day!

The patchwork landscape, bordered by hedgerows and dry stone walls.


Watching almost tame herds of deer, in frosty fields in the morning – they always quickly scarpered in France, probably fearing that I was a hunter.

Lambs running and hopping.


Hearing my four year old niece in person, growing up so quickly and asking very relevant questions:

“Aunty Claire, when you look in the mirror, how do you know it’s you?”

“Aunty Claire, does a booby trap, trap boobies?”

Things I am finding strange:

Bread in plastic bags that lasts 2 weeks. We had 5 boulangeries in a small town of around 2000 people and we bought bread daily, as most people did. Bread had a crust and was aerated with both small and large air pockets in it, not dense and uniform, like an old sponge. Thank goodness I have discovered those who advocate proper bread.The Ainsty Farm Shop, who make a lovely loaf and Via Vecchia makes superior, artisan bread.

Pre-chopped vegetables. When was it chopped and why? I don’t understand. I went on a trip to a major supermarket the other day and was unable to find leeks or lovely Yorkshire rhubarb which were  not already trimmed.I reluctantly bought some rhubarb which I needed to place on pancakes, steamed and mixed with mascarpone and honey, then topped off with almonds. It was actually very good, but surely the freshness of the vegetable is affected when it is already chopped on both ends.I reiterate: all hail great farm shops. I look forward to discovering local markets.

Perfect lawns. When I used to take Milou out in our somewhat wild garden in France, he would dart in and out of the bushes, in between trees. Here he just stands there, glances at the perfect square of the perfect lawn and looks back at me, as if to say what am I supposed to do on here. It appears to be an extension of the carpeted living room, which he actually adores – a giant dog bed to him and he proceeds to lie down. Around this time in France, wild chives would be peeking out of the grass; the first flowers, purple wild cowslips would soon be appearing, along with violets under the trees in the dappled shade. Morel mushrooms wouldn’t be long, if it is a warm month of March, at the bottom of the garden on the rocky rough ground. I wonder about the effects of the abundance of weedkiller, used to create the perfect English lawn. I always remember my dad saying “bloomin’ eck they’re not very house proud here”, referring to the lack of garden fences and dishevelled nature of the house exterior, in the Jura. If that dishevelled appearance means that fauna and flora can flourish, then i’m all for dishevelled.

I feel the need to become a home tourist, to study what lies within these city walls, which once made me feel hemmed in and encouraged me me to leave, by trying to find a frugal style of living in York/ Yorkshire. There is a tendency for rustic, simple good food to be chic and expensive in the UK, which is not the case in France. I intend to search for those hidden gems which contradict this trend.

As Stendhal said in “La Chartreuse de Parme”: “A quoi bon chercher le bonheur si loin, il est là sous nos yeux”. In other words, “Why look for happiness, so far away, it is here under our noses”.

Frugal French Living, in Yorkshire


My first supper, since my return to Yorkshire. What better way to start than with pies, pasties and peas at the Boston Spa Beer festival. There couldn’t be a more frugal, “complete” handy-sized meal: meat, vegetables and flaky pastry, washed down with a real ale. I went for a traditional Cornish pasty, an important part of our culinary heritage, dating back to the 13th century, but firmly established as the poor man’s food in Cornwall, in  the 1800s. At this point it contained only vegetables(potato, swede and onion). The meat, usually beef,  was a later addition.

After eleven years in France, circumstances have brought me back to my native Yorkshire, permanently. I won’t go into the details, but I now have to empty lots of boxes filled with memories and have a very confused labrador, who responds only to French.I intend to make the most of this transition and recount a “mélange” of French and Yorkshire recipes, still advocating seasonal, fresh ingredients  – local where possible.Back to my boxes…

milou in the daffs

Flageolet beans with rosemary and chorizo


Isn’t it funny how an almost empty fridge, with a sprinkle of inspiration, can help you concoct the most delicious meals. I peered into the abyss of our fridge yesterday, after our walk, and glimpsed the saddest looking bit of chorizo sausage I had ever seen. Despite being very tasty and great quality, from our butchers, all that remained was the bit on the end, normally rather chewy and all skin. Hmmm what to do…In the cupboard was a tin of flageolet beans. Wandering around the flat in despair, my senses were awakened by some rosemary…in the hallway…yes in the hallway. It is in a vase without water, drying, for consumption all year round. It looks pretty and also acts as an air freshener!


My friend Evelyne, who came for tea the other day, didn’t bring flowers, but more originally a big bunch of rosemary.It has pride of place, on view when we enter the flat. My thoughts turned to a distant holiday in Corsica, from which the aromas of wild herbs are almost etched onto my brain. I remember walking for miles there, enveloped in a sort of olive, thyme and rosemary bubble – abundant on the rocky paths, often crushed under our boots and releasing their herby perfume.A walk there usually culminated in a platter of local “charcuterie”, in a hilltop bistro, flavoured with the said herbs and washed down with a pitcher of robust wine, full of sunshine.Here’s what I made.

All you need is a tin of white beans, a handful of rosemary, two shallots,a few slices of chorizo(chopped into little pieces), a clove or two of garlic and a couple of glasses of dry white wine.Simply fry the roughly chopped shallots, rosemary and garlic in olive oil, until soft. Add a handful of chopped chorizo and the beans. Cover with the wine, season and leave to cook down for about 20 minutes.Add water if it gets too dry. There always needs to be a sauce in this dish.

Serve with a piece of crusty bread. The beans become silky smooth as they are gradually covered in the fat, escaping from the chorizo, which is tempered by the wine.The salty pieces of meat, cutting through the herby bean mixture. If you don’t have Chorizo, you could always use some quality free-range, thick cut and chopped bacon.


Bon appétit

Quick Hazelnut Cookies


Another brisk, invigorating walk yesterday. A stunning panorama from the viewpoint at Fort Saint André. Thanks goodness I had some of these in my pocket when we got to the top. Deliciously crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside.



They are so easy to make and a welcome treat ,mid-walk.I polished some off this morning too, dipped in strong black coffee.

75g self-raising flour

75g of ground hazelnuts or  grated “pain de noisette”

75g  caster sugar

150g butter

Preheat the oven to 180°c

Place the flour, sugar and nuts in a large bowl.

Rub-in the butter until the mixture looks like crumbs.

Use your hands to squash the crumbs into a rough dough.

Take pieces of the dough and roll into balls, the size of large walnuts.

Place on a greased baking tray and squash down with a fork.

Bake for 10 minutes. Do not wait until they are golden as they tend to burn underneath by this time.

Leave on the baking tray for a minute and then transfer to a cooling tray.

Also, if you wish to decorate with whole hazelnuts, pop them on mid-way through cooking, or they will become little black balls!(as I discovered yesterday)

Variations: replace the hazelnuts with walnuts or pecans.


Blogger’s block: if in doubt, go for a walk and make a tart


After several days of relentless walnut shelling, my ears ringing with the “tap TAP TAP” of the wooden mallet, I came to a halt. My back seized up on Tuesday night, deciding to go on strike, tired of the repetitive actions and positions.However, there’s no guarantee of a minimum service in this case. My computer looked like an evil torture instrument,  my back wincing every time I glanced at it. Even food seemed unappealing. Sacré bleu!This is not like me. Customers are rare in January and everyone seems to be hibernating. How will we survive the bleakness?!!!That’s it… I thought: I am doomed to become one of those stooping, nylon-tabard wearing women,(a phenomenon I was unaware of before arriving in France), who doesn’t get out much, other than to proudly sweep her step and maybe buy turnips on the market –  if she’s lucky.As you cross her path, you make a remark about the lovely weather. She replies “It won’t last” and walks off grunting to herself. You see her the next day and say: “you see, it has lasted the nice weather”. “We’ll end up paying for it”, she replies.


Today, my back pain had eased, somewhat, so Jean-Pierre forced me out of my lethargy. “Right!We are going to the top of Mont Poupet!”, a very popular place for paragliding. It’s just outside Salins, literally 5 minutes away. Its summit reaches 850m at the highest point.It was full of the resistance during the Second World War –  the last remaining farm,on the mountain, was sadly burnt down by the enemy.It’s also famous for the  international sporting event, “La Montée du Poupet”, where very courageous people actually run to the top.  Reluctant at first, I quickly felt invigorated by the epic scenery and the cold air – making us feel alive again. We didn’t go all the way to the top, only walked 8 km,but it did the trick. JP made me laugh, practicing his pigeon English. I am apparently the meanest English native, in the world, according to JP, as I have not taught him the language of Shakespeare. My problem is that I have great patience with a class of 30 arrogant kids, yet no patience with my partner. Putting-up with his “English for Dummies” book, in the toilet, he has made  some progress.”I put my hot on”, describing his gesture as he placed his beret on his head(of course, he meant “hat”). I made a remark about the scent of a fox, quite pungent in some areas on the walk, much to Milou’s delight. JP’s English version was “it smiles like a fox”, (“it smells like a fox”, obviously!). I laughed my way up the mountain. Milou was like a puppy again, rolling in the snow and darting off into the woods. I desperately tried to keep him on the track, hoping he didn’t run into a wild boar.When we reached the viewpoint, silenced and astounded by the views, I felt like a new person. On my return home, I rustled up a Comté cheese tart, very simply: puff pastry, Comté cheese,(as much as you like, to make it as cheesy as you like), one egg, some milk, salt and pepper; cooked in a hot oven until golden brown and risen.I think I’ll keep my nylon-tabard project for later.