Cooking in a Foreign Language

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.  How odd to celebrate that most American of holidays, (and my very favorite holiday) in a country for which it is just another day.  Naturally Thanksgiving thoughts turn to cooking, especially the traditional foods that evoke memories of Novembers past.

Turkey and the trimmings

The first challenge was to find the correct words in French for the ingredients I would need.  I have learned the hard way to check my dictionary before I set out for the market; it will save time and misunderstandings (like being shown a shower cap instead of a bicycle helmet) in the long run.  Thus armed, I set off for cranberries, ground cloves and the all-important turkey breast.  I had invited a couple of my neighbors here at 34 Rue du Pont Vieux for a sort of traditional American meal.

I was unsuccessful in finding either the cranberries (dried berries don't count) or the ground cloves (I found plenty of whole ones), but I knew I could count on Michel for the bird.  Apparently whole turkeys are rather rare here.  Maybe there are some in the frozen food sections of the bigger markets, but I didn't look there.  I stopped in and after a long consultation with not only my wonderful butcher, but his father, the retired butcher and several of the customers present, we decided that I would get a turkey thigh and a turkey breast. That would accommodate those who prefer light or dark meat. However the turkey breast is not what we find in the US...it looks like an over-sized boneless, skinless chicken breast.  

The filet, rolled, larded, and tied

When I stopped in on Thursday morning to pick it up (remember everything was open because Thanksgiving's NOT a holiday here), Michel had chosen a nice thigh (it weighed a kilo--2,2 pounds, so how big must the bird have been that produced it?) and we talked about the size of the filet--he told me I needed only a morceau--a piece.  He then asked if I wanted it prepared like a roast. I asked him, "Please," and he proceeded to stuff and wrap it with some fat strips and tie it.  It looked like a pork tenderloin.  So, my American Thanksgiving dinner centerpiece was une cuisse de dinde, and un filet de dinde.  Much to the delight of the customers there, we had an impromptu lesson in French-English--he had a customer who'd come in asking for turkey and Michel didn't know what he wanted.  Then I asked about the difference between un canard and une canette....and we talked about how to monitor my oven which cooks fast and hot.  It was a real community discussion and everyone there wanted to help the poor stupid American.  I loved it!

Cuisse de dinde and filet de dinde

Not only is the language for the ingredients different, but so are the quantities in any recipes--grams, or soup spoons... and so are the temperatures.  I am trying to get used to this oven, which of course is calibrated in Centigrade. 185 degrees without the convection feature is considerably cooler and slower than 185 degrees with upper and lower convection. So, after spending a huge chunk of change on the meat, I watched it like a hawk; I cooked the dark meat a little longer than the breast, and glory of glories, I found my meat thermometer!!  I was able to make sure it was all done and not overcooked.  You know how dry white meat turkey can get!

In the oven

I did not have all the fat and carb heavy side dishes--no mashed potatoes and gravy, no stuffing.  But some mashed yam studded with pecans and fresh asparagus rounded out the meal more than adequately.  I found a loaf of specialty bread, sort of like brioche, from my favorite baker that was every bit as tasty as dinner rolls.  Great red wine, apple crisp with chantilly (unsweetened whipped cream) coffee and interesting conversation rounded out the meal.  

I also brought out the good silver--I didn't pay to ship it here to have it sit forever in a drawer--and crystal candle holders.  My table was as lovely as I could make it without going out and buying items I really don't need and have no place to store.  

Setting the table

Now it's the morning after and I have cleared the carnage; the dishwasher is running, the baking pan is scrubbed clean, the leftovers have been resting overnight in the fridge waiting for lunch.  A cold turkey sandwich on buttered bread will complete the holiday feasting.  I may take a couple of turkey sandwiches to Michel and his crew.  What is Thanksgiving for if not for sharing our bounty and blessings?  

All in all, it wasn't exactly like a US Thanksgiving, but it was splendid.  Does it really matter what language we use to give thanks and live in gratitude?