"Mastering the Art of French Cooking"

"Madame, I find that very interesting and rather wonderful that you do all of your cooking in high-heels and pearls,"  I commented politely to Madame Roblin Tuesday early morning, as she handed me an apron.  "But of course!  We French women wouldn't have it any other way.  As the saying goes, we must always be prepared in an instant in case an unexpected guest arrives at the door.  We must always look our best, not matter what we are doing," replied Madame Roblin in a surprised tone as if she was indirectly asking me the question; "You mean to tell me that American woman don't do the same?"

This past Tuesday, Benoit's mother invited me to spend the day at her house to teach me SOME of the basics of French cooking.  I emphasize the word SOME because there are about 1,234+ basics to "mastering the art of French cooking," despite what Julia Child may think.  Benoit and I arrived around 10:30am and quickly said our "goodbyes" as he went off to spend the day playing video games with his two younger brothers in the living room and I to the kitchen to join his mother and 18 year old sister for a full day of baking/cooking.  Lucky for me, I was feeling rather "French-like" that morning and decided to put on heels while getting dressed because, believe it or not, both Benoit's mother and sister were both wearing high heels and jewelry we would only think of wearing if we were planning to spend a night out on the town.  

That morning, we succeeded at preparing two fruit tarts: one apple and one orange with homeade whipped creme, a pork and parsley torte, and a lovely salad comprised of arugula lettuce, cherry tomatoes, pine nuts, and DUCK KIDNEYS flambéed in cognac (mmmm!).  The lunch was considered a bit heavy for a summer day, but was enjoyed by all.  Unfortunately, the orangr tart was the first attempt by any of us and as Benoit's father correctly described, it sort of tasted like an luke-warm omlette with oranges.  Everyone found it absolutely disgusting, but as the French saying goes, "il faut finir," so despite our grimaced faces and unhappy taste buds, we were obliged to finish the pie.  

After lunch, it was time to break out the infamous family recipe of "the gash"; a beloved secret never before revealed to an outsider, meaning non-family members, especially those who still struggle to speak the French language.  So given the fact that Madame Roblin was willing to not only give me the recipe and but also teach me step by step how to make it, I was sincerely touched by her generous initiative.  

A gash, to briefly describe it without giving away the family secret and being chased after by the 6th regiment of the French airforce--Benoit's father is now the colonal of this particular group of the French army, is a dense break-like loaf on which one puts LOTS of butter and LOTS of jam.  We baked two loaves that day in addition to 1 kg of homeade peach-pear jam.  I must confess that by the end of the day, I was "pooped" (to say the least).  I swear that French women must take part in some intense high-heel endurance housewife training in order to do that everyday!  I wonder where I can get my license for that...