No more time / desire to read everything that I blabber? Go directly to the recipe ghoriba (Moroccan buttons).
You know me or what?! I'm
Tit ', a very funny bird "migratory," you must admit, whose hobby in my spare time is to travel. Navigating the Web, I mean, because I am nothing less than a virtual traveler, a traveler without luggage , traveling to the confines of my couch where I am writing tonight wrapped in my plaid, the computer on the knees and feet up in front of a fireplace that warms the atmosphere. Yes, like me, it is hardly better: I am the undisputed king of pantouflardise and undeniable, as I claim loud and clear. Transhumance to the south each year as do my fellow zealots and plucked at the end of summer this southern promise of sun, blue skies and Petch color toast on the beach, believe me, it's not for me as soon as his mother shovel, I caulked in my little home with ziozios Oiselle and beautiful, I'm hiding behind my computer or my stove and am looking for recipes and cooking and I, as much possible, I cook and I travel without leaving my kitchen, that is to say that I travel to cooking, that is to say that I cook what the world has to offer.
kitchen I dream of faraway places, and I travel light, with almost nothing, especially not too tired for my grandpa pen am. I'm just two or three flavors that make the first spoonful I flew to the "earthly paradise", I just put two or three names most fabulous barbaric as each other carry me to the other side of the planet on which enchant heaven since I'm a kid, because even if I do not travel in fact, I always traveled: in the head or by proxy. Nothing fascinates me more than the travel of others. So for years I have worshiped at my bedside The Persian Letters, Robinson Crusoe or Gulliver's Travels The . However, my favorite travel stories I came from a source much more intimate because the journey is in part a family affair ...
Although French, born in France to French parents living in France in a small corner of Ile-de-France, I am still traveling through inheritance. From my father who is Breton, born in Britain of Breton parents, Peter and Josephine, themselves children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren Brittany, as far as I can remember, having left their deep countryside trying to find a better situation in Seine-et-Oise, like many other provinces have made after the war. In the early 90s, like his parents, my father will take the way back to be closer to his homeland and this is now my brother, my sister, their wife or partner , my nephews, my niece all live in Brittany (Nantes to round hats!). I'm the only one not to be the trip or just very stealthily. Traveler (and citizen of the world) by my mother, born in Kef, Tunisia, the union of a Flemish father, Leonard, born in Antwerp and French citizenship after the war and a Corsican mother, French, therefore, whatever in some say, Marie Toussaint, born in Algeria, raised in Tunisia, the daughter of a Blackfoot as they were called because they were born to the village, living there for generations, from father to son working in Forestry "French," my mother I said, their daughter, is French, is Belgian, is Corsican, has traveled the world on land, sea, air, with his (beautiful) Legionnaires' father, with his mother, his brothers, Kef Antananarivo, from Marseille to Paris, to Ghisoni Eaubonne, and now sits in Corsica up there, "the village" as they say, in a small square of green hillside surrounded Corsican pine and chestnut trees at the foot of generous Christe Eleison-(1260 m) and her older sister has -Kyrie Eleison Punta (1535 m) above the valley of Fium'orbu , which flows in the middle a chaos of rocks and earth which grow thick juniper, myrtle, myrtle, arbutus, rock rose and rosemary.
And then there are still here and there a little blood Walloon, Italian blood, blood Celtic wanders through my veins, there's blood of these immigrants Breton, Italian, Belgian and Corsican who crossed full of hope the ocean aboard the transatlantic uncomfortable you landed on Ellis Island, New York City, where we looked through every pore of your body exhausted after days of passage if you were fit for good or great American dream to return home. Thus, near Washington, Philadelphia or there, I have cousins in Belgium, never seen, never met, but who knows, I still say that some hearing would come down further south, the Corsicans, to join the cousins while immigrants in Caracas or in those waters, I know some in Miami, Florida and must have some very happy Breton in New York, I believe, unknown, never seen, never met, but who knows, the world is so small. So yes, go seek them, ask them the descendants of immigrants! They will tell you that we are cousins, distant cousins of course, but cousins nonetheless, fashionable peasant cousins such as "the cousin of my cousin my cousin's cousin is my cousin, my cousin, so we are also cousins. " So yes, no trace of immigrants in America (south), much less in Asia, I imagine someone leaving for Oceania, although Pepe Jean (Leonard) has done well when he was approached by the the world and whatever the world is so small, so small I tell you! Thus, I working for months with a distant cousin, a descendant of the brother of the grandfather of my grandmother, Mary, Corsican, and we knew nothing until breakfast the day of your arrival where you mentioned this "little village south of Corte where you came from, where you spent almost all your summers in the family home, the very one that adjoins the old brewery that was the joy of the village when I myself m skinning their knees on the pavement of the Neptune fountain in the torchlight parade, held each year at Assumption. If little else, I tell you, if my little world!
Do you like the whole world is at the center of my life? Do you like travel accounted for us, as they have shaped us? If a child, I dreamed of adventure in shorts, my childhood was that: dreams of distant horizons with fabulous names, names of sun, desert or green hell, names and rain storms, names of rocks, abyss of evil, stone scrapie which is fun to believe that a strong blow to the kidney could be moving a few millimeters on its base. Names, those names I've heard so much, experienced so much sometimes they are etched in stone in my heart, and although I have not traveled the whole world to walk in the footsteps of my fathers, I know I've done some that land, that they are hopelessly parts of my emotional and sensory universe, especially by my mother who has suffered the influences of these distant lands into the kitchen that served us so simply.
My mother had lived in Madagascar? Never mind, she gorged and we gorged at the same time exotic fruit all the more strange than the others for me as a child. She had lived Tunisia, his family had traveled the Maghreb region for several decades? Not to worry, our newspaper was made couscous, tagines, of makroub, horns of gazelle, of halva and mint tea. She had inherited her father's taste of North moules frites and waffles, beer (which I always hated the smell, taste, oh the poor-little son!). She had inherited her mother's taste southernmost lonzu , the coppa , mountain cheese (Corsican) raw milk sheep (Corsican), canistrelli of white wine and anise seeds, chestnuts roasted over a wood fire, the pulenta di Castagni that was cut into thick slices and fry that were made in a few tablespoons of fat and that is accompanied with a fried egg and sausage figatellu (oh, the frugal meal!).
And my father? Do not think that my mother alone brought the taste of the world. In Breton pure strain, my father inherited the secrets of Breton cuisine of Argoat , kitchen land made mostly of potato (baked, preferably ... my preference), poultry farmer, good large fresh eggs, raw milk, creamy salted butter, buckwheat pancakes, of farz , breads and generous puffy, crunchy greens and from the country so close to Leon. And since the sea was not so far either, with far less development of roads and the advent of intensive fishing, he learned every day to cook fish and shellfish. To us mussels in white wine, clams, cockles, crabs, spiders, crabs. In our bar, gurnard, mackerel, monkfish, turbot. And with talent!
There. That's where I come from, I am making my kitchen today. You will understand, I hope. The world has always been my source of inspiration and energy. This applies to the kitchen, this applies to people around me or I meet. I'm curious about you, did you know? My curiosity is like a stomach that needs to be nourished: it is alongside you as I sated.
ghoriba
And to illustrate my point, here is a fine example of world cuisine: the ghoriba. The Maghreb pastry, of Moroccan origin, is a marvel to share at this time tea (mint). Its taste reminds almond macaroon willingly. However I tend to prefer ghoriba, hardier, more in line with my aspirations. In talking with my pastry maternal grandmother last summer, I remembered that she loved making this kind of sweetness: ghoriba, montécaos ... I copied the recipe as it is handwritten in his book thirty years old. The recipe is extremely simple to make. I modified the recipe by making a first half ghoriba traditional almond and a second half ghoriba pistachio.
Ingredients
3 beautiful eggs fresh farmer, 125 g of lightly roasted almonds, 125 g powder lightly roasted pistachios, 100 g of fine semolina durum wheat, 125 g of cane sugar, ½ teaspoon baking powder, 3 tablespoons orange flower water, sugar
Procedure Preheat oven to 175 ° C.
In a large bowl, beat eggs with sugar cane, until the mixture is pale and frothy. Gradually add yeast and flour. Divide the mixture into two halves in two separate bowls: in the first bowl, add the almond powder And in the second, add pistachio powder. Work the two preparations until the dough to expect. If it is too hard, add a little orange flower water.
Prepare one or two baking sheets lined with baking paper. Take large walnut and roll into dough balls. Flatten each ball slightly and place them on the plate or plates. Cook for 20 minutes. The ghoriba have stayed well clear, without any coloration. Remove from oven and let cool. Sprinkle or roll each cookie in icing sugar.
Note: The ghoriba will keep perfect 2-3 weeks in a box sealed, protected from light and moisture.
soon ... Finally, I hope! :)
PS: By completing this post, I suddenly remember that this dear Lilo had published a few years ago a documentary on the making of exciting ghoriba. He had me on the effect of Proust's madeleine ... I just immerse myself with delight and invites you to do the same. http://www.cuisine-campagne.com
