The Madeleines Project

Housewarming Party!

2006-10-12T22:16:00.000+01:00

The Madeleines Project is finally settled in its new home.

The boxes have been unpacked (even the 'odd' ones with bits and bobs that did not belong anywhere else), the curtains have been hung and the kettle is on for some tea. If you would like to join us, please ring the bell, wipe your feet and come on in.

Madeleines in Progress

2006-08-29T13:46:00.000+01:00

I am currently working on a new design for this blog, as well as some new Madeleines. I have not abandonned the project mid-course (although I never did define an end, either). So please keep coming back!

For those of you who have not left comments yet, if you leave me an email address (write 'dot' and 'at' instead of '.' and '@' to avoid getting spam), I'll make sure to let you know when the new Madeleines New Look is up and running.

Meanwhile, thanks for your support so far!

Madeleine # 8: The Holy Trinity of the Maur

2006-07-03T22:51:00.000+01:00

Sand, Sun and Stars.
Camel, Dates & Lamb.

You would think that the Bedouin already had 2 holy trinities for surviving the Sahara. But within the first few hours you spend in these men's company, you discover that the holiest of holies, is the Mint Tea. And that teas come in three's, just like the 3 ages of life. The first one is weak in taste, but very sweet, like a childhood without worries and concerns. The second one is balanced in strength and sweetness, like a full grown man who knows that both maketh the man. And the third is strong and yet tempered by a memory of the sweetness that was, like old age full of the wisdom of many years.

Mohammed, our resident watchman in Nouakchott, was definitely a third glass of tea. To my 13 years, he was even a fourth or fifth. But having experienced the first and the second, he could recognise sweetness and strength, cruelty and weakness, when he saw them. And that may be how he one day saved our lives, for all we know. But more of that later.

Some of you may have tasted Moroccan mint tea, which to me tastes like somewhere between a 1st and a 2nd glass. But very few of you may know that the Mauritanians have a tea ceremony, maybe not as complex as the Japanese, but just as important. At all times of the day, wherever you are and no matter for how short or long, you will be offered - and expected to accept - the 3 glasses of mint tea. At sunset in the capital, Nouakchott, one can see small groups of men, lying around in the sand, chatting and drinking mint tea. It's the physicla embodiment of happiness.

I have to rely on observation and memory for the recipe, as neither my parents nor I ever learned the true ritual, so bear with me.

Green gunpowder tea
Fresh mint leaves (I have no idea how they manage to get that in the middle of the Sahara, but they do)
Sugar cone
Sugar 'axe' or 'hammer'
Teapot with small spout
Small tea glasses
Ability to squat on your haunches

Pour 2 tbsp of the green tea into the teapot, add a handful of mint leaves, and some sugar freshly hacked off the cone. Add boiling water. Stir with a spoon.
Now for the tricky part. A good mint tea is frothy. And the froth is obtained by pouring the scalding liquid from a great height into a small glass, then pouring the content of the glass back into the teapot and repeating. Over and over again.
There must be a magical formula which guarantees that all present get the right 1st, 2nd and 3rd glass experience, all with froth, but sadly, I do not know it. If anybody out there has it, please leave it as a comment. You will be rewarded with gazillions of happy orange Madeleine vibrations from me to you. And let's face it, you can NEVER have too many of those.

I have recently started drinking mint tea again, in the morning but also at work. We have a small stainless steel tea pot at the office and my co-workers think me slightly bonkers for pouring the sugar directly into it (and for all the other things I do in that kitchen). But you don't get the '3 life stages experience' if you don't have the sugar. And when I take that first, fragrant sip of each of the 3 stages - sorry glasses - I smile into the distance, sigh a wellbeing sigh and think of Mohammed. Sometimes I also think of the day he may very well have saved our lives.

It was in April 1989 and border skirmishes between Senegal and Mauritania escalated into full blown riots, where Mauritanians were killing anybody vaguely resembling a Senegalese (i.e. black) and the Senegalese were doing the same to anyone Bedouin-looking. Harrowing times which are best not described in all their horror here (I have been considering for a few weeks how to describe them and have decided not to), but best remembered by the acts of courage they also engendered.

The biggest act of courage was my Dad's. As UN Representative, he unilaterally decided to organise an air-bridge between Nouakchott and Dakar to evacuate the refugees from both sides. Meanwhile, the UN office was transformed into a make-shift refugee camp, where people who had lost everything waited to be the next to be sent to a country which was not even their own. But not before the Mauritanian authorities had stripped them of their papers and few remaining belongings, thus also stripping them of their identity at arrival.

As could be expected, my Dad was hardly flavour of the month and my teenage self stupidly resented not being able to have the freedom I had enjoyed until then, as I had to be accompanied everywhere, for fear of retribution. For several months we lived according to the UN Warning System, where Warning 3 meant ‘Stay at Home’ and were considering what we would pack into the single suitcase we knew we could take with us if the order was given to evacuate. We all 3 agreed that instead of a suitcase, we would save our beloved dog, Balder instead.

At the height of the riots, my Dad had to leave my Mum and me alone, to go and make sure that all his UN staff were safe. Before leaving, he taught me how to fire a gun - a Magnum I think - so that at the age of 16 I could defend both of us. I remember standing on the first floor of our inner court, being shown how to load it and unlatch the safety mechanism, take aim. At the legs/feet, nothing more! We are peace-loving people. Perhaps it was my Dad's way to boost our sense of safety. Perhaps it was to make himself more confident that we could defend ourselves. Or perhaps he genuinely believed that I could do it.

In the end, Mohammed saved me from knowing if I have what it takes to fire a gun pointed at another human being. When rioters started amassing in front of our house one night, Mohammed climbed onto the gate and told them in no uncertain terms that the people living there were good people and to leave them alone. Or that's what he told us he had told them. Whatever he told them, it worked. And we are forever grateful for it. A month or so later, my Dad's contract was up and we left, virtually persona non grata.

Looking back at that period, that’s probably when I took my first steps from the 1st glass of mint tea towards the 2nd.

Madeleine # 7: In-Laws & The Food of Love

2006-06-19T20:15:00.000+01:00

Picture this: 2 days after we started 'dating', Husband-to-Be (H2B) thought it was 'safe' to bring me back to his place, which at the time was also his parents' home (he had just started work after finishing his studies), to pick up some things. I was not overly keen (read "Dead against") on meeting the family this early on, but he assured me that his parents were away all day and only his younger brother would be home.

H2B had warned me that they were very different, but it still gobsmacked me when I met him. Husband is taller than me (1,90 m), blonde, blue eyes - a true viking. Brother-in-Law to Be (BiL2B) is my height (1,75 m), and as dark as Husband is fair. It also gobsmacked me that he had a girl perched on his back, like a little monkey. Not a little girl, no, a fully grown one, who - I suspect - had fallen victim to his Seduction Dish.

BiL2B was understandably curious to see the Giraffe (aka ME), and we started chatting. One thing led to another and suddenly... the parents came through the door. To say that I was NOT ready for that would have been a contender for the understatement of the month.

Deep breath. And that was that. H2B's mum smelled like my own mum: Ysatis by Givenchy, and no-one could resist the infectious enthusiasm of his dad. My in-laws and I never looked back, and neither - fortunately- did Husband and I (otherwise, he probably wouldn't be Husband today, would he?). My mother-in-law-to-be (MiL2B) being as fabulously hospitable as my own mum, started putting on a lavish feast of 'just a few nibbles'. Now, THAT was the winner of "understatement of the month". I quickly learnt that in their home, that meant: smoked salmon, mortadella with home-dried tomatoes in olive oil, homemade liver paté, various saucissons, maybe a few herrings, some melon and prosciutto, lots and lots of cheeses and the infamous Mussel Salad. BiL2B proudly told me that the latter was his Food of Love. As in 'I prepare this, and the girl gets weak at the knees'.

The thing is, the dish looks as dull as dishwater, even when presented in my MiL2B's beautiful ceramics (which, by the way, are what each and every Madeleine is presented in on this blog, except for the Kim Chee, which is pictured in the bowl made with my own 2 clumsy hands). The ingredients list reads like a very uninspired shopping list, but the whole things just works. I’m not sure why BiL2B elected this as his Signature Luurve Dish, but I suspect it has something to do with: 1) you can always have the ingredients at hand, in your larder, in case of a Seduction Emergency and 2) it’s very easy and quick to make.

So here goes, Seduction Dish à la BiL2B:

1 can of drained mussels in brine
1 handful of garden peas (frozen, if you want the salad to cool
quickly, but definitely not canned – too mushy)
1 small onion, finely chopped
1/2 tsp curry powder (optional)
salt & lots of pepper
2 tbsp mayonnaise

Mix the 5 first ingredients well, before adding the mayonnaise. Leave to cool (or for the peas to defrost) and enjoy on a slice of nice crusty bread. You'll have
to trust BiL2B on this one, as I have never needed to seduce anyone since I met
Husband... Cheesy!

I made this last night for the 1st time. Normally Husband always prepares it.

Memories of countless meals at my parents-in-law flooded my senses. Meals and happy times. Meals and not-so-happy times. The Food of Love, indeed. When Husband had to work in Norway for 2 years and I was unemployed, my parents 'entrusted' me to their new friends, my in-laws. And I really needed their support to get me through those years. When my father-in-law so suddenly passed away, it was my turn to be there for my new family. My MiL2B and I supported each other through many months, spent in her ceramist workshop, where she taught me the rudiments of her craft and we enjoyed a few moments away from our darker thoughts, lost in the magic of creation, learning, coaching and friendship. I miss that today, as we live far away in London now, but I want both MiL and BiL to know that I am still always there if they need me.

Madeleine # 6: Meatballs & Angels

2006-06-09T22:19:00.000+01:00

Just the thought of certain smells and tastes make my mouth water. Literally. Garlic and onion frying. Ripped basil leaves. Ripe melon. Freshly baked bread. Rosemary. Coriander. Lime. So imagine the amount of drewling which goes on when I think about, prepare, smell and eat (in that order) something which incorporates fried onion & garlic, coriander and lime... These meatballs are a variation on a recurring theme. Recurring, because it seems I encounter them in different guises throughout my life.

In Kenya, my mum bought a local cookbook with recipes from the little Swahili Island of Lamu. I don't know if she ever tried any of the other recipes, but the one I am about to describe is definitely the one which became a household fixture, and has stayed with me ever since. There was a terribly traumatic period when the cookbook went AWOL and both my mum and I had to improvise the dish. It was still good, but definitely not as SCHLURP as the real McCoy. Finally it was found, behind a cupboard, half eaten by something (best not imagine what), but THE recipe was intact and was duly copied by yours truly (notice the stains).

For the meatballs
500g mince meat (beef or lamb)
2 onions, finely chopped
1 garlic clove
1 tbsp fresh
ginger
4-6 fresh limes
salt & pepper

Pound garlic, ginger & pepper into a smooth paste w. the lime juice (ideally with pestle & mortar). Add salt. Mix paste with meat & onions. Shape into small balls (not TOO small), cover and leave in fridge to chill and to avoid that they disintegrate while cooking.

For the sauce
3 onions, sliced
2 cans of chopped tomatoes
tomato puree
cooking oil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1 tbsp fresh ginger, grated or finely chopped
1 chilli, finely chopped
1 tbsp fresh cardamom pods
1tbsp cumin seeds
big bunch of
fresh coriander (ideally with roots)
3-4 limes
salt & pepper

Fry cardamom and cumin to release flavour, then put to one side. Fry onions in oil. When nearly
cooked, add garlic & ginger. Fry for a minute, then add fried spices. Add chilli and chopped coriander roots. Add tomatoes and tomato puree. Cook slowly, while stirring on gentle heat. Add a little water if sauce is too thick.

Drop the meatballs in the sauce one at a time anf let it simmer (covered) over very low heat until ready (cooking time depends on the size of the meatballs). When ready, add juice from limes and lots of chopped coriander. Cover again and cook for 5 minutes, before serving with rice.

This is a guaranteed winner for any informal dinner. Even with people who are sick and tired of you.

When I lived in Geneva with my then boyfriend, his friends offered to help us move, before they realised that there was no lift and only very narrow and steep stairs up to our new home. The sofa-bed almost didn't make it, and our friendship was on decidely rocky ground, until - as promised - they tasted the meatballs my mum had so generously offered to cook to thank them for their hard work. Well, they are still friends with my ex-boyfriend, I believe...

Now to the many guises. During my studies, I did an internship in Rabat, Morocco and rented a flat from a colleague who was on holiday for the whole duration of my stay. The flat came fully furnished. And with Malika. Malika was the cleaner, who also cooked for the colleague who was a die-hard bachelor. But whereas he always wanted roast chicken, steak and fries, I convinced Malika to only cook Moroccan dishes for me. The sheer bliss of coming home every evening to one of her simple but fantastically tasty feasts! One evening I came home to find a traditional tagine on the stove, and when I lifted the lid, there they were, my Lamu meatballs! Granted, no lime, but the Malika magic had worked something else into them (I should have known, since Melika means Little Angel, and Malaika is a beautiful Swahili love song).

I tried to coax her recipes from her and although she was very willing to share them my Moroccan was just not good enough. It stretched to "hello", "goodbye" and "no, my dad will not sell me for 40 camels". Ok, the last one is a joke, as my Dad has actually never been offered as much as an old crippled camel or goat for my hand, in 10 years of living in Africa. I choose to put it down to the fact that I have dark hair and a dark complexion, which in North Africa helps me to look at least half-indigenous, unlike my blonde friends who could not walk down the street without being propositioned. I chose to be happy about the lack of proposals, instead of feeling like some women who are angry when builders whistle at them, but vexed when they don't!

The most recent encounter with a variation on this theme was during our honeymoon in Tanzania last year, to an island not far from Lamu actually, Mafia Island (no connection to Don Corleone whatsoever. Although I did try making them an offer they couldn't refuse...). The cooking at the little hotel was Swahili, just like on Lamu, and absolutely scrumptious. The starter for lunch was always a cold soup, and in the evening a warm one. They could have published a book of wonderful soup recipes! Anyway, one lunch, they served a cold tomato soup, seasoned with lots of lime and corianger! My meatballs without the meatballs! As it was in October, I haven't had a chance to make it myself here in London yet, but this week the weather has become very summer-y indeed and who knows if I won't rekindle a bit of our honeymoon spirit by offering Husband a little Madeleine...

Madeleine # 5: Baby Coq au Vin

2006-06-04T15:58:00.000+01:00

Blood, Sweat & Tears... Well, almost. Anyway: I DID IT!!!I DID IT!!!I DID IT!!!I DID IT!!! Yes, 4 times, since I managed to poach 4 eggs! I simply couldn't believe it. You want proof? Here you go:

But let's go back to the beginning, where I asked Baronne to ask her mum to supply the recipe for this finger-lickingly scrumptious recipe: Oeufs en Meurette. I have always called it a Baby Coq au Vin, since it is essentially a red wine sauce with bacon pieces. OK, no mushrooms, but I'm not a stickler for details, as you might have realised by now. And the Baby part? Well, an egg is a form of VERY young rooster, isn't it? Or could have been.

Baronne & her mum gladly obliged, and since Tuesday I had been looking (and salivating) at the recipe, as well as dreading the whole egg poaching thing (as you might have realised by now). So Saturday morning came, and the moment of truth. First things first, we were off to buy great eggs. For once, we chose to forego our beloved Borough Market and opted instead for a walk in the nice weather to Marylebone High St and its fabulous Ginger Pig, where we also got some yummy smoked bacon for this Madeleine (and some garlic Toulouse sausages which are on the menu for tonight...)

150g smoked bacon (lardons)
1 chopped onion or large shallot
0,5 l good red wine ("the better the wine, the better the sauce")
1 bouquet garni (thyme from windowsill, bay leaves from Parents, parsley, tied together with string) - I did not have any string, so just threw it in
3 chopped garlic cloves (only 1 if using shallot) - I had no idea there was a shallot/garlic ratio
1 tbsp flour
2 tbsp butter
2 eggs per person
Optional: a large slice of toasted country bread per person
Gently fry the lardons with 1 tbsp butter until golden brown, then keep to one side. In the same pan, fry the onion in the bacon fat / butter until soft, then add the wine, 1 glass of water, the bouquet garni and the garlic. Leave it to simmer for 20 minutes, uncovered
Meanwhile, boil water with 2 tbsp vinegar. When the water boils, add the raw egg. This is where I tried all my previous 'tricks' and it seemed to work (hence the whisk on the photo). Break the egg into a glass, to make it easier to pour into the water. Once the water boils, use the whisk to create a whirlpool in the middle, which will help to coat the yolk in egg white, helping it along
with a spoon. Pour the egg in. Leave to boil for 2-3 minutes depending on how runny you like the yolk, take it out with a slotted spoon, and transfer to a dish lined with kitchen towel, to absorb the excess water. Cover with a bowl until ready to serve. Repeat as necessary.
Once the eggs are poached (I make it sound so easy, hihi), strain the sauce and pour back into the pan with the fried lardons. Then add the beurre manié (at this point, I had to ask google for help, since I didn't know my roux from my beurre manié - yes, that's also the English term for it). Bring gently to the boil, while stirring so the sauce thickens. Toast the bread, if necessary. Et
voilà: bon appétit!

And there they were. No, not the eggs. The memories, and my two silly teenage friends, Baronne & Loreal. We were 'Best Friends in the Whole Wide World' for one year, when we all lived in Nouakchott, at the tender ages of 15-16. Joined at the hip and terribly giggly, if I remember correctly. Giving each other silly nick-names, of which only "Baronne" seems to still stick. Always at one or the other's house, depending on 1) whether the parents were home and 2) if they were, then what was for dinner.

At Loreal's house, we would raid the cheese cupboard (in Mauritania, that's the equivalent of gold nuggets), at mine I can't remember what our preference was (can you enlighten me, girls?) and at Baronne's it was her mum's Oeufs en Meurette. A revelation to me and to Loreal, I believe, since we still wax lyrical about them today. We would spend hours, even days, chatting, listening to music and chatting some more. About boys, mainly, as is wont at that age... But also about our theatre debut, where we put on Moliere's 'Les Precieuses Ridicules' or Alfred de Musset's 'Une Nuit de Mai', where Loreal would recite and I would mime a wounded pelican behind her. Not my finest hour, I assure you... I remember our instructor telling her to be more like Sarah Bernhard... at 16! Once a week, we would go to the only entertainment available, a documentary at the French Cultural Institute, which was opposite Baronne's house. At the weekend, we would go to the deserted beach (or Desert Beach), since only a large sand dune separated the Sahara desert from the beach.

There were no mobiles, no texts, no PS2, no shopping, no clubbing, no iPods, no DVDs (we did have out-of-date French Top of the Pops, though...), no nail bars or hair designers (no sun screen either...), or whatever teenagers seem to be unable to live without today (do I sound like a Grumpy Old Lady yet?). And yet, we were happy as can be.

And then we lost touch, as often happens when you move to other countries, and you have new concerns (such as exams & studies) and new friends. Boyfriends. Suddenly, 15 years had gone by, and we did not know what had become of the others. We must have been longing for contact (or having an early mid-life crisis, like all other 30-something people), seeing as we all registered on Copains d'Avant (French Friends Re-United). And suddenly, there they were. One was married for the 2nd time with 3 kids, the other has a Partner and 2 kids. WOW! How can all that have happened while my back was turned? So for the past 6 months, we have been busy catching up via email, IM and blogs. And we are planning a reunion in the fall. In London, without husbands or kids. Bring on the giggles!

But this Madeleine does not end here. I had told my mum so much about this dish, that several years later, she finally indulged me. And although she is an amazing cook, her first foray into the world of Meurettes, ended in a GREEN disaster. To this day, we have no idea how that happened, but the 10 people who were the dinner guests that evening had some very funny faces on! It would be many years before any of us ventured as far as making this dish again. Years later I would be reminded of this, while watching Bridget Jones cook Blue Soup...

When I met Husband (who was Boyfriend, back then), and realised he had never been to France and was blissfully ignorant of its traditional culinary delights, I made it my mission to order it for him the 1st time we were in Paris together, in a little restaurant near St Sulpice. He was converted!

So the proof of the pudding, as they say here in Britain, lay in whether my Baby Coq au Vin passed the Husband test. What do you think?

Great minds think alike...

2006-05-31T12:32:00.000+01:00

... and fools never differ!

Apparently, my egg-centric (sic) Madeleine, has spurned interest hitherto unfathomed. Venerable egg-sperts (re-sic) have last week decided that... TA-DAAAA: THE EGG CAME FIRST

However, sorting out philosophical and biological questions is very well, but do they even know how to poach an egg? I rest my case. And I'm glad to say that I am using fewer egg-related puns than CNN journalists.

PS: thanks to Dad who always reads EVERYTHING in the news, for making me aware of this life-altering 'discovery'

Madeleine Challenge - Time for Gunfight @ Egg Corral

2006-05-30T12:32:00.000+01:00

Thank you to Baronne and her mum for getting the recipe to me over the long (but not long enough!) weekend. Not long enough, as time is always too short when Husband and I spend time in Auvergne with my parents, relaxing, BBQing and being spoilt as usual. So thank you to my parents as well, of course.

Now to amy part of the Challenge...

As I (briefly) mentioned in my previous post, I am terrified at the thought of poaching an egg. Those of you who know me might be surprised that I willingly volunteer information that I might be scared of anything at all, but there you are. And no, I don't fear fear itself. I have just never succeeded in poaching an egg. Ever. So the time has come. It's me or the egg! And I've got more hair, 2 arms and 2 legs, so I should stand a fair chance, don't you think?

I have tried the "leave the eggs out of the fridge 24 hours before" rule, the "create a whirlpool in the water before you crack the egg in" policy and even the "buy this stupid gadget and your eggs will be perfectly poached" scam. To no avail. So there is only one thing left to do this time: buy the freshest eggs around, but unfortunately, that means waiting for my weekly foodie fix at Borough Market. On Saturday. Which means 4 'sleeps' before attempting this daunting Madeleine. Did I hear someone say procrastination?

Meanwhile, I will be busy translating the recipe received and you could all maybe be so kind as to leave somme comments with fool-proof egg-poaching suggestion. 'Egg poaching for Dummies. " Or Dummy, in this case.

Madeleine Challenge: "Baronne, I need help!"

2006-05-26T11:57:00.000+01:00

For my next Madeleine, I need the help of my teenagehood friend, Baronne. Or more specifically, of her mum. At this stage, Loreal will know what I'm fishing for... Yep, you are right: I CRAVE the recipe for Oeufs en Meurette. I just have one overwhelming fear: it involved poaching an egg. YIKES!

This weekend I am going away, to visit my parents. And when I come back on Tuesday, I hope that Baronne will have convinced her mum to part with this delectable and mouth-watering traditional French recipe. Are you up to the challenge? If so, please send me an email with the recipe, so I can translate it and tell another Madeleine.

Madeleine # 4: Mechoui al Harissa

2006-05-21T18:34:00.000+01:00

Dedicated to my two loyal readers, Baronne & Loreal

This Madeleine has so many memories encoded in its DNA, that I really don't know where to start. It has been a staple of our family celebrations for almost as long as I can remember. So not knowing where to start, I did what every self-respecting independent woman of 30-something does. I called my mum.

It turns out that the 1st time she prepared this, was at the suggestion of my dad's boss in Burundi (who was from Madagascar). My dad's boss had a knack for inviting people to big bashes, and at the last moment something would "go wrong", so everyone would end up going to my parents' house and my mum would prepare a fantastic feast. Again.

For this 1st bash of the sort, my parents made one major mistake: they ordered the meat a bit too fresh. "Fresh", as in alive. With soft fur and a liking for eating out of your hand. Needless to say, the lamb - because that's what it was - did not end up on the roasting spit. It was our pet for the next 2 years, and even moved house with us.

So my mum ordered one of the lamb's less fortunate and especially less alive colleagues, and thus started our Mechoui tradition. For those of you who have been to French village fetes, or have travelled in North Africa, you will know this dish, and that's also why we call it a mechoui and use harissa. What the Malagasy term for it is, I have no clue, but I'm sure it tastes the same whatever you call it. A rose by any other name and all that.

Of course, I tend to avoid preparing a whole roast lamb in our 2 bedroom flat in central London (landlords are not as accomodating as they used to be...). But a smaller piece of the beast does the trick nicely as well.

So tonight, it's lamb shoulder al harissa (or any other chili + garlic + olive oil paste). You need enough harissa to cover the whole roast, including "crevasses".

So this morning I mixed the harissa with some more olive oil, then massaged it into the lamb shoulder (sore or not). I then popped it into a plastic bag and left it in the fridge. Don't worry, most of the 'hotness' will burn off during the roasting.
Today I am trying to slow-roast it, according to my
guru, Nigel Slater's recipe. That means roughly 1/2 hour per 1/4 kg, at 160 degrees.

First roast it in the oven as it is for 35 minutes. Then add some water, baste the meat as you add it, and return to oven for as long as it needs, basting every 20 mins. Roughly.
I usually prepare couscous to go with this, but I felt adventurous today, so I'm serving it with a cannellini and chick pea mash, seasoned with onion slices cooked in olive oil with cumin and hot paprika.

Since that first mechoui, many others have followed, prepared by us or not.

A few of them will remain as Golden Madeleines: seeing the whole butchered lamb hanging in the Mauritanian sun all day while we were busy riding camels and donkeys, then eating it at night with the bedouins. The liver - supreme delicacy - had been prepared in a hole in the sand, charred on the outside and raw on the inside and served to the honoured guests (yippeeh!); the jaws-with-teeth-with-grass-still-in-them were served to my mum and I; and my foolish grand-father needlessly bragged to the bedouins that in Saudi Arabia, he had eaten the eyes as well. The bedouins, being perfect hosts, obliged the excentric old man and gave him what he was so obviously craving. Not to be short-changed, they offered my dad the other one. An eye for an eye...

Although I must say that the bedouins make up for the lack of spice (not even salt!) by being the most elegant and generous hosts I have ever met: sitting on the floor, around the whole lamb (often stuffed with couscous), we would first wash our hands in the basin proferred by a slave (yes, that bit I could definitely have done without!), before being handed a pocket knife. We would then cut off pieces, but in true bedouin fashion, it is considered rude to cut off a piece for one self, so you would find a particularly nice morsel, cut it off and present it to the person you wished to honour. We have tried it at home, but it does get messy across the dining-room table!

Another memory is many an Easter celebration in Auvergne, where my mum and I would marinate the meat (it's best done with the hands, just make sure you don't have an itch anywhere before you begin the messy massaging!) before my dad would tend to it on the roasting spit, bought for the occasion.

One particular Easter stands out, when the weather was anything but spring-like, my fairly new boyfriend (and now husband) was there as well and it started snowing, so Dad + Boyfriend grabbed the lamb and ran for dear life, dropping the lamb half way, while my increasingly excentric grand-father was playing the tuba, sitting in a night-gown in the living room. Actually, that is a fairly typical family gathering, as far as we're concerned, so I'm not so sure why it stands out.

Probably because it was snowing at Easter...

Madeleine # 3: Susan's Boiled Peanuts

2006-05-16T21:25:00.000+01:00

Susan was our maid and my nanny when we lived in Kenya. She was from Uganda, but had fled Idi Amin's regime, like so many others. And like so many of her fellow country-men and women, she was very well educated. I owe her my first grasp of the English language, learnt listening to her stories and her commentary of the news when my parents were out in the evening. And the news was often fascinating, albeit heavily censored, as this was from 1980 to 1982 during the border dispute with Tanzania.

Susan came to us with her 2 children, one evening, looking for a job. Djungu, her eldest son, was the picture of a starving African child, with a bloated stomach and legs that could not carry him despite his 3 years of age. My dad gave him some UNICEF powder mixed with Fanta every day, and within 10 days, Djungu was running around like the rest of us. This was the ancestor of PlumpyNut, I guess. Which brings me to my third Madeleine. Susan's lovely hot, boiled peanuts. Plumpy Nuts, indeed!

Take as many peanuts in the shell as you wish to eat, put them in a pan of water with lots of salt and boil them for 2-3 hours, then leave them to cool slightly in the water.
Drain and serve with a nice beer (for the adults) or ... Fanta (for the kids).

I made some this evening, and the memories started to flood in, as I had hoped they would.

Eating ugali (maize meal) in Susan's hut. Not something I did alot, as I found it decidedly bland. But I loved when she cooked sukuma weeki, an indigenous type of spinach. Sometimes she would treat my parents and I to the best Ugandan food, but as I was only 8 years old, I did not think of taking notes of the recipe. But I do remember tilapia filets cooked with tomato in banana leaves and helping to knead chapatti bread (something to do with twisting it around my thumb, although I'm not sure why).

Susan also had a little girl. She must have had a proper name, but we all called her Shillingi - "Treasure" in Swahili -because it was derived from the local currency, the Shilling.

Thinking of Susan also reminds me of our house in Nairobi and how the black cotton soil in the garden would prevent the water, which was pouring down during the rainy season, from being absorbed by the earth. The whole garden was transformed into a slippery mud bath, which was hilarious to navigate bare-foot, while 'helping' my dad dig trenches to drain away the water.

Some less funny memories come back as well, uninvited. Hiding beneath the windows and crawling around the house, during the attempted coup in 1982 against the president Daniel arap Moi, who lived just around the corner. Just around the other corner was Nairobi's biggest slum, Kibera, where much of the unrest understandably was happening (for a glimpse of Kibera, I recommend watching the movie The Constant Gardener). This would be my first encounter with the violence and political turmoil of Africa, but by no means my last. How my parents succeeded in making me at the same time feel safe, while also explaining things so I could understand them, is still a wonder to me and something for which I thank them.

Madeleine # 2: Herb Water

2006-05-07T17:56:00.000+01:00

When my mum first discovered The Madeleines Project, she mused that the next Madeleine would be exactly what I had in mind: Herb Water. It sounds medicinal, and if you asked my grand-father, he thought it tasted like that as well, hence the nickname he awarded it. For some people, chicken soup is something to be ingested when sick; for my cousins and I, it meant HOLIDAYS!

Our grand-mother's ready-made chicken broth with meatballs and dumplings was proof that the holidays had started. And yes, you read correctly, it was ready-made (but not Campbell's, despite the photo), bought frozen and reheated. My paternal grand-mother cooked alot of things really well and especially enjoyed everything sweet, but somehow the biggest treat for her 3 grand-children was something she didn't make herself. Unfortunately, she is not around anymore, so I can ask her how it all started and why she didn't make it herself. All her 3 grand-children lived abroad: 1 in Africa and 2 in Austria. We would spend 1-2 weeks with our grand-parents during the summer, often without our parents. What a treat for all of us (and maybe for our parents as well?)

Whether summer or winter, arriving at the farm involved some cast-in-stone rituals: the Danish flag would be waving (as opposed to the everyday pennant), celebrating that one or all of the grand-children was arriving; the fridge and freezer would be full of chicken soup, meatballs, dumplings, frozen red hot-dog sausages and hot-dog bread, as well as lots of cheese (courtesy of my grand-father working in the dairy industry), the pantry would be stocked with colourful sodas. In summer, in the little vegetable garden the rhubarb and strawberries were ready to be picked by greedy little fingers.

As I am writing this, 2 chicken carcasses are boiling away in a pot with some carrots, an onion with 4 cloves in it, a leek, some parsley and 2 celery sticks. Recreating industrial food is a tall order, and I don't think I'll come close to the REAL McCOY this time, but a project is a project is a project. I don't live in Denmark anymore, otherwise I would gladly have cheated and popped down to the supermarket to buy the whole thing. But then I would have had nothing to write about. And seeing the recipe for the dumplings in the quintessential Danish recipe book (thank you, Anja, for thinking that no married household should be without Froeken Jensens Kogebog), I feel quite sure that I'll have more than enough material for this posting. In theory, it goes like this:

75g butter
2 dl water
100 g flour
2 eggs
1 tsp salt
Bring the water to the boil with the butter, then add all the flour in at once. Whisk until it doesn't stick to the spoon or the pan anymore. If the batter is not smooth at this point, return on the heat for a moment. Then let it cool a little (can they make up their mind?) and add one whisked egg at a time, without letting the batter become too liquid (easy peasy...)
Season the batter with salt, form little tiny dumplings and cook them in boiling water. It's easiest to shape them with a pastry bag (please remember that I don't like anything sweet, and therefore have never used a pastry-anything. Ever. And don't own one), but a tea spoon will also do (pfew! I have one of those. Somewhere...). The water must not boil, and the dumplings
must be in a single layer. Then give them 3 quick 'up-boils' (VERY lose translation from Danish), while being held under water with a slotted spoon, and cold water is added between each up-boil. If the dumplings boil, they will become crumbly.

At this point, it is only fair to let you in on a secret: I have always hated the dumplings... The meat balls, yes, the dumplings, even non-crumbly and nearly-boiled 16 zillion times: NO! I don't even like them now, neither does my husband. So here is my dilemma: to dumpling or not to dumpling. I'm really struggling: in the name of authenticity, I feel that I should try 'dumpling' (being a well-mannered little girl, I ate them, but I never grew to like them) at least once in my lifetime. On the other hand, these are my memories, and am I really twisted enough to recreate even the bits that I never liked? Besides, I have just tasted my chicken broth and although it tastes lovely, it doesn't have any Madeleine-effect. So, I think I must admit defeat on this 2nd Madeleine.

Yes, maybe I am just a little bit lazy today, so in order for you to forgive me, I'll tell you what to do with the left-over Kim Chee UN Style, in case your taste buds are feeling a bit tender by now. And your social life is in tatters. Last night I tried adding some KCUNS to mashed sweet potatoes which I served with pork chops. Big success! I confess, I had KCUNS left-overs too. So now I know that it keeps at least 7 days in an air-tight container, even though we've had some every night for aperitif this week...

Sometimes nostalgia is maybe best left alone. Or maybe emulating grand-mothers is one thing, but emulating the food industry quite another. I won't attempt to make my own 'Chemical-Ali' red hot-dog sausages either, although there are PLENTY of good memories attached to them!

What I also remember now is why I came home from each and every holiday in Denmark with considerably more luggage, than what was in my suitcase... I sometimes think my parents could have saved the flight tickets and I could just have rolled all the way from Northern Denmark to somewhere around the Equator.

Teaser...

2006-05-04T13:37:00.000+01:00

Just thought I'd let you know that I am working on Madeleine # 2: Herb Water

Come rain or come shine, high tide or low, some things were always constant at my Danish grand-mother's...

Madeleine # 1: Kim Chee UN Style

2006-05-02T20:54:00.000+01:00

Hot, humid weather. Tropical rainstorms at 8 pm on the dot every evening. Burning feeling on the tongue. Breath to kill a rhino from 100 m. Cleared sinuses. Sunshine. Surprise treat... Yep, it's definitely my mum's infamous Kim Chee UN Style!

Now, don't think for a moment that I'm eating fermented Korean cabbage. I'm not disparaging it, I just haven't tried it - yet. And I doubt any Koreans (North or South of the 38th parallel) would call this stuff Kim Chee. That much they could probably agree on. The real one is prepared in a variety of ways, one of which is this.

But I'm digressing. The challenge of this first Madeleine is that - although I cook alot - I have actually never prepared KCUNS. It looks easy enough when my mum prepares it (as does most cooking), but would it be as easy to replicate? There's not even any heating involved, so I'm not sure it can actually be called cooking.

Logically enough, I start by a phone call to the Recipe-Owner, to know what I need to buy on my way home from the office. Tonight is KCUNS night!

Then, standing in front of my beloved Magimix food processor, I stack all the ingredients, in the quantities I think they should be in. Phone / Reality check to mum. Nope, MUCH less of that and HEAPS more of that. And that one, just at the end, to taste. And the last one you can leave out. Sometimes. That's about as precise as it gets. So, let's get started:

2 medium carrots, peeled
equivalent weight of raw white cabbage (or other
crunchy, non-coloured cabbage)
1 medium green pepper, deseeded
juice from 1/2 lemon
3 garlic cloves, peeled
3 anchovy filets (tinned)
1,5 tbsp tomato puree
harissa or other chilli paste
dark soy sauce (to taste)
mild oil (sunflower or peanut)
Bread, thinly sliced, toasted
crisp
Put all the ingredients down to (but not including) soy sauce in a food
processor and WHIIIZZZZ! You can't whizz it too much, so take a few more
WHIZZZES for the road.

Taste. It needs to be so hot you think it's too hot, but it actually isn't (bearing in mind you'll have to eat in just like that, on bread). If it's not there yet, add some more chilli. Then pour in some soy sauce while it's whizzing. You are aiming for the consistency of tapenade (olive dip), so if it's too coarse, add some oil.
At this point, taste again. Which I did. And it was lacking a certain je ne sais quoi. Re-dial mum. Try to describe the taste by phone. Hear my dad in the background saying to leave the ingredients to settle for a while. This from a man who hardly knows where the kitchen is! But, as with Caesar, I must credit him with the final touch.
When I spread it onto the toasted bread 15 minutes later, it's all coming back to me. After-school treats (I have never liked sweet things, not even as a kid), then summer holidays as an adult, at my parents' home in Auvergne. Seeing my mum appearing with a tray, a stack of toasts, some knifes and cold white wine or beer. And a cheeky grin.

Back to the recipe. Pour into a nice bowl, and serve with the toasted bread. To
people you know REALLY well. Who have no dinner plans for the next week or so. Or need to be around other people. In the foreseable future.

I know you can keep it in an air-tight container in the fridge, but I don't know how long. We've never managed to have it around for more than 2 days, tempting us every time we open the fridge.

At this point, I know you are scrolling down to see if I ever explain where this malodorous things comes from, and why I call it like that. Gotcha!

Between the ages of 10 and 12, I lived with my parents in Burundi. My dad worked for the UN (see, we're getting there!). We were fortunate enough to be there during one of this beautiful country's peaceful periods. There had been ethnic genocide in the past, and there would be again soon. So this particular childhood memory does not lead to international politics. I can't promise that it will always be so. But that, as they say, is another blog entirely.

One of our neighbours was an Egyptian lady, Samira, whose husband also worked for the UN. This is as far back as we can go, recipe-wise. We don't know where she got it from. But she passed it on to my Danish-French mum and her best friend, the American ambassador's wife, who was Vietnamese. My mum's memories of KCUNS is of eating it with her friend Tuy Camh, after playing tennis. As if being physically active in 40C and 80% humidity was not enough to make you sweatty and hot, they had to add chilli and garlic! Together, I suspect they made a version of their own, which is the one passed on to yours truly.

I can't guarantee tropical showers and exotic memories, but I would still suggest that you give KCUNS a try anyway. Bon apétit!

2006-05-01T19:22:00.000+01:00

Welcome to the Madeleines Project!

No, my name is not Madeleine. The Madeleine in this blog is a cake, a small shell-shaped French cake eaten at tea-time or 'Quatre heures' when children come home from school (I don't know if French children still come home from school at 4 pm, but bear with me). In my case, I used to eat them with my grand-father on road trips. And road-trips since then are incomplete without them.

So is this a blog about tea cakes? No, far from it. The Madeleine in the title is someone else's: Marcel Proust's, to be precise. And they are in plural. In 'A la recherche du temps perdu', the main character experiences reliving childhood memories, by biting into a madeleine cake. Long forgotten, but cherished memories.

And this is where the 'project' part comes into play: my ambition is to take you on a trip down my very own sensory and gastronomical memory lane. Around every twist and turn. And dead end. Up the hill to gaze over yet another forgotten landscape. Round the bend for a new surprise, unearthed as I was looking for something else entirely. Will you join me? Still not sure? I guess you want to know where we are going... Well, I'm afraid I simply cannot say. We will go to exotic and far-away countries, as that is where I have lived. But our trip will also take us to colder climes and maybe even to countries I have yet to visit. I think it sounds exciting! Still not enough to entice you? You want hard facts...

Let me see... It's a bit like the chicken and the egg, I think. I will probably start with one dish, tell you of what it reminds me, and try to recreate the exact taste. Most probably with some help from friends and family, if they happen to be the owners of the recipe. If not, I will have to put my trust in my tastebuds and my culinary skills. And Google. And my mum. One recipe might trigger more taste memories, or I'll have to wait (and you along with me) until the next epiphany.

I'll give it a try, and I really think you should too. Who knows, you might even pick up a tasty recipe along the way...

1st stop on the Madeleines Express is: "Kim-Chee UN Style". So now you know what I will be up to in my kitchen until the next posting.