"Special Breakfast"... France (Fall Sessions 2010)

 Not sure about that old "most important meal of the day" thing, but I do enjoy a good breakfast. In France, much like in the States, we keep it fairly simple: rich dark roast coffee with a bit of warm milk, whatever fresh fruits are in season, grains like a muesli or steel cut oats, and some yogurt (preferably "live culture"). Oh, there's always room for exceptions if confronted by a warm, buttery pain au chocolate, flaky chausson au pomme, or some other equally difficult to pass up boulangerie offering. Depending on where we are in the world, a steaming basket of dim-sum, a hot bowl of noodles, or maybe (considering what went on the night before) it's a large batch of menudo that's needed.

 One cold morning at the end of October, Katie surprised me with a "special breakfast", so named for a tradition by our sister-in-law Sarah signifying a change from the norm for her brood of three little one's. In this case it was to mark another year of my life, and thus I was treated to veal sausage with morrel mushrooms we'd bought the day before from a very good charcutier in Cognac set upon a bed of braised escarole, the last of our dear neighbor Suzanne's grape tomatoes which Kate had roasted, all topped with a poached egg (kindly contributed from Suzanne's chickens). Some tartine to soak up the bright golden, runny yolk, and I was set. Sitting by a popping fire, there was little else needed to make me happier.

 By mid-morning the sun had well warmed the yard, and it was time to get busy pruning the roses,  cleaning flower beds, and cropping down the lavender. The sound of a tractor making it's way up from the village gave me reason to pause, as it's customary to give a wave to any friend/neighbor who passes. The sight of Monsieur Ives, a remorque brimming in log cut oak, was a welcome sight. With unseasonably cold weather expected for the coming week along with guest arrivals, we'd made a request of the village's go to guy for firewood. Charming and vibrant at 70-something, he'd suggested a "step" (about a cord) of old wood for the Fall, and a couple more of younger to cure for next Spring. He and I made short work of it, stacking the lengths at a fevered pace, me determined to not to be outdone by Ives who worked comme vingt ans (as if still twenty!); a country phrase that never fails to make me smile. The only regret was that it was no where near the noon church bells, and thus difficult to justify a pre-lunch Ricard. He announced one more delivery promised before the mid-day break, and straddled the purring '64 tractor, offering me an approving nod to it's American make. With that he was gone, and I reached for the shears. (Recipes on request.)

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com