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When I was nineteen or twenty years old, I picked myself up and moved to France. Just for a little while. No matter how much deep down in my soul I knew I was meant to be a Parisian, I also knew that if I spent my time in Paris, that I would always be able to fall back on English and I would never become truly fluent, which was of course the goal. I found an immersion program where the daily classes were held in the cutest old schoolhouse in the center of town in the Loire Valley, and accommodations were with local families. So with very little French and only slightly more sense and money, off I went. After a wild weekend in Paris with my friend M who was studying there, which found us traipsing through the catacombs in the wee hours, I set off on the train to Amboise with only a name on a slip of paper — La Richardière — which I was assured would be enough for any taxi driver in the town to get me to my temporary home.
It was and so I arrived at La Richardière, a sprawling 18th century former fermette, where my host Mme de Cassin had downsized to from the chateau after her husband had passed and her children had grown. She took in students more for company than anything else, but not in a creepy weird way. We were an odd crew. A Swiss couple brushing up on their French in anticipation of a holiday, a Japanese woman learning French for work, 2 Dutch — an academic and a secretary, who were not there together, and B, who was a British make-up artist who needed to learn French quickly because she was due on a French film set in a month. The rule was all French, all of the time. Which we obeyed, until the very end of each day when B and I, who had adjoining rooms, would huddle upstairs on the landing and I would fill her in on all of the conversations that she hadn’t understood during dinner. I wasn’t entirely sure that anyone else in the house spoke any English at all.
La Richardière was far enough out of town that it was a hike, enough of our crew had cars that we were all able to pile in each morning and make it to class on time. On the way home, JP, the Dutch professor, and I would walk home, a few miles along the river and vineyards and over some hills. It was gorgeous and magical during the day, but foolhardy after dark, so our evenings were mostly spent at home, which turned out to be the best thing ever. Mme. de Cassin as it turned out was renowned for her cooking and the meals were epic, hours long and filled with wine and conversation. I started turning up in her kitchen when I got home in the afternoons, offering to help. At first she dismissed me totally and completely, but once I showed her I had some skill “for an Americaine” she started trusting me with small kitchen tasks: dicing the root vegetables, washing the lettuce, making the vinaigrette. It was here that I learned to appreciate chèvre, Chinons, Rosés and Chenin Blancs, and also how to butcher a duck and a rabbit. All skills that have served me well in life.
It was also the first time I had ever tried crème fraîche. My American instincts were to always reach for the pot of cream left on the counter and get it into the fridge. Bacteria. Germs. Food safety. But Mme. de Cassin would firmly slap my hand away. and once I realized what crème fraîche was —”C’est comme votre sour cream” she would explain with an expression that made it clear that it wasn’t really —and the really lovely things that it could do, I was hooked and asked her to teach me how to make it. She sighed at the ignorance of my entire nation and wiped her hands on her apron, before taking out a small crockery pot and pouring 1 cup of heavy cream into it and drizzling 2 tablespoons of buttermilk over the top and then mixing them together. “Laisser reposer” she said sternly, warning me to let it rest and keep my grubby Americaine paws off of it, as she loosely covered it and left it on the counter. She left it on the counter. Loosely covered. At room temperature. It was a very difficult thing for me to do, leaving that dairy product on the counter at room temperature overnight. But it was necessary. For crème fraîche to happen you have to let the buttermilk cultures work their thickening magic and that can only happen at room temperature. (It’s also apparently totally safe, a food science nerd explained it to me thusly: The bacteria in the milk converts the sugars —lactose— into lactic acid. This lactic acid lowers the pH of the cream/buttermilk combo which prevents the formation of any illness-causing germy things.) The next morning Mme. de Cassin took me by the hand and led me to the counter to see how gloriously it had thickened and then let me put it in the fridge, where it keeps for up to 2 weeks, if it lasts that long.
