Traditions come and go. At least nowadays, as we’re all searching for something to hold on to that feels real and right, and of course authentically ‘us.’ It’s gotten to the point, at least with me, that if something should repeat within a period of 366 days, I’m willing to try the word out, see how it fits into the other bits and pieces that are slowly collapsing into what looks like the second half of my century. One such tradition—and at nearly twenty good repeats, I think I can call it that—is the first meal I cook whenever I arrive in Normandy.
It began some years ago, when I had the unexpected pleasure of staying with a university friend who had a small cottage dead smack in the middle of an apple orchard. He, I feel I must add this if only to underline the absoluteness of it, does not cook. He’s a cheese and charcuterie sort of guy (but a man of generally impeccable taste and breeding otherwise). However, he does like to eat, and so I arrived to face a kitchen sans, well everything (a dented aluminum pot was the only thing fire worthy that wasn’t full of holes; knives were simply ‘quelle horreur’). My solution then was to embrace place, necessity, and ease. The effect of that trip, and that meal, in addition to cementing my love of Normandy, was this tradition of first meal.
When we arrived a couple of months ago to finalize the purchase of La Bu, there was no question as to what we’d eat that first night—the lateness of the hour be damned. First up, apples, cored and quartered, into a pot with butter. While they are sautéing, separate pork sausages from one other, a quick rub down with salt, and into the pot with the apples and butter. Once everything is nicely caramelized, add a bottle of good cider. Let cook over low heat long enough so that the apples are soft, the sausages won’t kill you, and you’ve had bottle of wine (number of guests depending, more if necessary). On occasion, although not this time, I may also add some sauerkraut just for a little textural frisson (and to help cut the fat). Serve in great heaping piles in whatever crockery is handy, along with some bread, some mustard, and well on the side partially hidden so as not to be too seductive, a little calvados.
It truly is, despite its possibly deeply heretical combinations, the taste of Normandy for me. This time, it too, was the taste of home.
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