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Authors: Georgeanne Brennan
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gallbladder. It’s full of bitterness and will spoil the liver if it gets on it.” The morning mist had begun to clear, and the sky showed pale blue as the men finished removing the innards.
I went back upstairs to help the women, and soon parts of the pig began arriving. The onion and blood mixture I had left behind was now snugly packed into casings, and the sausages had been pricked and were poaching in big pots of simmering water. “This one’s ready,” said Marie’s mother, called Mémé Schiffino by almost everyone, who was standing next to the poaching pots. “Take it away,” she directed, as she lifted a whole row of sausages out of the pot, where they had hung from strings tied to a willow branch balanced across the rim. Marie’s cousin, Bernadette,took the branch from Mémé Schiffino and fastened it onto rope strung around the perimeter of the kitchen. Soon the kitchen was festooned with dangling sausages, and the women were hard at work chopping meat and fat for
pâté
. Oliver was crying to be fed, so I simply watched the process while I nursed him. At the same time, potatoes were being boiled for lunch, and a loin, well rubbed with garlic and sage, the traditional seasonings for pork, was roasting in the oven. Just before noon we were done with the chopping, a pan was on the stove ready for frying up the boudin, a salad was made and sitting on the sideboard, the table was set, and I, for one, was exhausted.
The men started to come in, and Ethel and Aileen joined us. Oliver had contentedly gone back to sleep in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, at exactly noon, we were all sitting at the table as Marcel sliced the traditional cured sausage reserved from the previous year’s
fête du cochon.
Copious amounts of wine were poured and bread was passed while Marie tended to the boudin sizzling behind us on the stove top. Soon the table was laden with a heaping platter of the crispy, reddish brown
boudin,
bowls of mashed potatoes, and warm applesauce. Starving after our hard morning’s work, we quickly devoured the first course. Next came the roast, more vegetables, the salad, cheese, an apple tart that one of Marcel’s cousins had made, and, thank goodness, coffee. Then, it was back to work, with the men spending the rest of the afternoon butchering part of the pig and getting it ready for salting, and the women preparing
caillettes.
My first encounter with
caillettes
had been just outside Arles late one afternoon when I was a student in Aix-en-Provence. Donald and I were with two friends visiting from Germany. We were hungry, but it was too early for a restaurant and too late for a sandwich at a
café
. As we drove through a village, we spotted a
boucherie-charcuterie
and pulled up in front with the idea of buying a few slices of ham. Once inside, I spotted a tray of richly browned, ready-to-eat hamburger patties, which I thought looked absolutely delicious and quite substantial. I could hardly wait. I bought two, and once we were back in the car, I broke them in half and passed them out. What a shock! At first bite, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. They were dense, not crumbly like hamburger, with a strong liver taste and tiny squares of fat, all heavily seasoned with garlic. And there was a bit of something green as well.
I didn’t know then that I was sampling part of the culinary patrimony of Provence, one that goes back with certainty to the 1800s and perhaps, in an earlier version, to the 1600s. The rounds, about the size of a hamburger, but shaped more like a ball than a patty, are made from cubes of liver and fat, and occasionally spinach or chard, and then seasoned with salt, pepper, garlic, and spices. Sometimes the preparation is marinated in wine, and sometimes an egg is added. Each round, or
petit ballot,
is then topped with a sprig of sage; wrapped in a square of
crépine,
the lacy caul fat that covers the stomach; and baked for about half an hour in a medium-hot oven. Old recipes
I went back upstairs to help the women, and soon parts of the pig began arriving. The onion and blood mixture I had left behind was now snugly packed into casings, and the sausages had been pricked and were poaching in big pots of simmering water. “This one’s ready,” said Marie’s mother, called Mémé Schiffino by almost everyone, who was standing next to the poaching pots. “Take it away,” she directed, as she lifted a whole row of sausages out of the pot, where they had hung from strings tied to a willow branch balanced across the rim. Marie’s cousin, Bernadette,took the branch from Mémé Schiffino and fastened it onto rope strung around the perimeter of the kitchen. Soon the kitchen was festooned with dangling sausages, and the women were hard at work chopping meat and fat for
pâté
. Oliver was crying to be fed, so I simply watched the process while I nursed him. At the same time, potatoes were being boiled for lunch, and a loin, well rubbed with garlic and sage, the traditional seasonings for pork, was roasting in the oven. Just before noon we were done with the chopping, a pan was on the stove ready for frying up the boudin, a salad was made and sitting on the sideboard, the table was set, and I, for one, was exhausted.
The men started to come in, and Ethel and Aileen joined us. Oliver had contentedly gone back to sleep in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, at exactly noon, we were all sitting at the table as Marcel sliced the traditional cured sausage reserved from the previous year’s
fête du cochon.
Copious amounts of wine were poured and bread was passed while Marie tended to the boudin sizzling behind us on the stove top. Soon the table was laden with a heaping platter of the crispy, reddish brown
boudin,
bowls of mashed potatoes, and warm applesauce. Starving after our hard morning’s work, we quickly devoured the first course. Next came the roast, more vegetables, the salad, cheese, an apple tart that one of Marcel’s cousins had made, and, thank goodness, coffee. Then, it was back to work, with the men spending the rest of the afternoon butchering part of the pig and getting it ready for salting, and the women preparing
caillettes.
My first encounter with
caillettes
had been just outside Arles late one afternoon when I was a student in Aix-en-Provence. Donald and I were with two friends visiting from Germany. We were hungry, but it was too early for a restaurant and too late for a sandwich at a
café
. As we drove through a village, we spotted a
boucherie-charcuterie
and pulled up in front with the idea of buying a few slices of ham. Once inside, I spotted a tray of richly browned, ready-to-eat hamburger patties, which I thought looked absolutely delicious and quite substantial. I could hardly wait. I bought two, and once we were back in the car, I broke them in half and passed them out. What a shock! At first bite, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. They were dense, not crumbly like hamburger, with a strong liver taste and tiny squares of fat, all heavily seasoned with garlic. And there was a bit of something green as well.
I didn’t know then that I was sampling part of the culinary patrimony of Provence, one that goes back with certainty to the 1800s and perhaps, in an earlier version, to the 1600s. The rounds, about the size of a hamburger, but shaped more like a ball than a patty, are made from cubes of liver and fat, and occasionally spinach or chard, and then seasoned with salt, pepper, garlic, and spices. Sometimes the preparation is marinated in wine, and sometimes an egg is added. Each round, or
petit ballot,
is then topped with a sprig of sage; wrapped in a square of
crépine,
the lacy caul fat that covers the stomach; and baked for about half an hour in a medium-hot oven. Old recipes
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