{Cross-Posted at My Left Wing}
So, there I was, Saturday afternoon, standing on the corner of Haight and Fillmore waiting for the number 6 bus, with the treacly odor of dope wafting around me and thinking hard about cassoulet. Or, as my friend Julia would put it, cassoulet de porc et de mouton, AKA, baked beans with pork and lamb. Cassoulet sounds fancy, now doesn’t it? Elegant. But, really, it’s just French grub. It’s as much the food of grunts as gourmands. It’s baked beans with meat.
Big Fucking Deal.
Yet... What can I say? I find myself deliciously happy about spending the better part of the day, today, Labor Day, making cassoulet with Laurie. The procedure is rather lengthy and involved. First we will have to prepare the beans... Great Northern White Beans... through a combination of soaking and then boiling for awhile with salt pork. Then we will debone and dice up a couple of lamb shoulder blade chops, sear the meat, brown the bones, and braise it in a delirious mélange of tomato puree, dry white wine, brown stock, with mashed garlic, thyme and bay. We will then remove the lamb meat and bones from braising liquid and cook the beans in it for about an hour. We will then layer beans and then meat and then more beans and then some duck and pork sausage and then more beans and then some crispy smoked bacon and then a final layer of beans in a casserole to be baked.
And then? Voila! Cassoulet.
But who is responsible for this? I mean, just why do I remain obsessed with Julia Child, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, the Julie/Julia Project, and the disgusting likelihood of bone marrow in my future? Just yesterday evening I was pleasantly hanging out with Laurie when, for no good reason whatsoever, I leapt from the couch proclaiming, "mousse de chocolat!" I then darted out of our apartment and ran down the street to Felletti’s market. I purchased semi-sweet chocolate, a dozen eggs, and a pound of butter. I ran back home, stuck The French Chef DVD into the player and made chocolate mousse along with Julia. It came out terrific, although I almost blew it. You have to be careful that you do not scramble the eggs and when I combined the chocolate and butter mixture into the egg yolk and sugar mixture it was far too hot and for a moment the eggs seized up. For a second I thought I was doomed! But as I continued to fold the mixture into itself it seemed to relax and gain a creamy smoothness. I then folded in a meringue and chilled the magnificent mess for two hours.
Light, fluffy, creamy, chocolaty goodness.
Yum.
However, there is one place that I have no intention of going and that is... aspic. Mastering the Art of French Cooking contains a number of recipes that involve gelée , which is made with calves’ feet, such as Oeufs en gelée.... Oeufs en gelée?... yes, Oeufs en gelée, also known as chilled poached eggs in aspic. Can you imagine? I mean, does that not sound absolutely hideous? I suppose if you added tarragon it might be OK, but, really, why in the world would anyone eat chilled poached eggs in aspic?
What is this? 1961?
Anyway, this is what you do. You acquire a couple of calves’ feet (somewhere or other) which you then poach off for the gelatin that will leach into the water. After you’ve made your aspic, you add a little to ramekins, poach off your eggs and add one to each, then top off the eggs with more aspic and chill in the refrigerator until it becomes solid.
I guess if it’s done really well it would look like this:
You then take the ridiculous thing and throw it in the garbage, because who the hell would eat this stuff?
Oh, and btw, Julia Child was never a spy, although I imagine she enjoyed the rumor. No way. She was a secretary for the OSS. It was not as if during WWII, in between whipping up an incredible boeuf bourguignon, on one day, and an amazing Pâté en Croûte, on the next, she was chasing down German intelligence for the Resistence.
Not so much.