To better understand what we are, we can not ignore those who have preceded us. I do not know why I find myself today in Paris, far from my ancestors was feeling stronger than ever and despite me calling the seasons.
Something in the air, and here I am in the woods, despairing of finding any mushroom this year ... not reassured the prospect of being the target of a hunter, (is it my fault that the most beautiful chestnut Yvelines is fenced hunting preserve?).
I tell myself every time it would be prudent to put a red parka and ostensibly whistling 'Biche oh my lamb! "Not to be mistaken for.
But I so love me melt silently to flush out a whole herd, as this magical day on the edge of the Desert de Retz.
Not the tail of a mushroom, Amanita let alone a poor or Russule.
But chestnuts superb, the chestnut is surely derived from grafted trees:
Chestnuts Cevennes saved my ancestors from starvation but now in the Paris region will pick them up, peel, cook and peel the second skin (by burning the fingers when they cool it becomes impossible) then patiently while cranking just move from Picard?
Why me? I do not know, something pushes me, or so my mother and inspires fun up there ...
And yet it is far from over, and this mash, I patiently cooking with brown sugar and vanilla, but much less sweet than the chestnut.
Then, small formality: a house sanded and salted butter and lemon peel, a layer of velvet rose hip jam (see post from last year), a bit of unsweetened whipped cream ...
... and finally, more pig, a little dark chocolate melted with a small shot of cream ...
says it all ...
