Ode to Kouign Amman

I have a new favourite pastry in France. And it isn't really French. Well, not exactly. It's breton. 

You see, this past vacation - Easter break, although the "secular" French system isn't supposed to call it that - was filled with traveling. Not only did I go to Scotland, but on Easter weekend, one of my colleagues at Collège Albert Camus was so generous as to invite me with her to Brittany (Bretagne), where her boyfriend lives. Well, let's be honest, I did sort-of ask her, but I only asked for a ride to Brittany, for which I was prepared to pay gas charges. But instead, she told me, "Let's fill the car!" So I invited Rebekka, who invited her friend Natalie, and the four of us set off on Friday evening for the three hour-long drive to Quimper.

To say that C and J graciously hosted us would be an understatement. The first night, over a delicious meal, they announced that they wanted to introduce us to traditional dishes from Normandy and Brittany (C is normande; J, breton): rillettes maison, made by C's family; galettes; teurgoule; escalope de dinde à la crème; avec frites; tarte tatin... oh my goodness, I haven't eaten that well in months! 

La Teurgoule: the French version of rice pudding. This one was homemade by C with raw milk that she'd gotten from a  neighbour's farm, and slow-cooked all day long in the oven.

J made this tarte tatin from scratch, undoubtedly with the beurre salé (butter flecked with grainy sea salt crystals, of the flakey sel de guérande type) that Brittany is known for.

One of the two galettes we had for dinner: this one was a "complet": with ham and an egg. The second was "forestière", with wild mushrooms and gruyère cheese.

Escalope de dinde à la crème with home-made frites. The meat is turkey, with a cream sauce; the sauce is yellow thanks to turmeric. The fries were hand-cut and fried by J and C.

Mmm: turkey scallops, fries, and cider!

Every day, we visited amazing, beautiful sites around the rugged, wind-swept, seaside Brittany landscape. Every night, we stayed late around the table, talking and laughing and enjoying each others' company.

Prehistoric tomb

View from the Montagne St.-Michel, not to be confused with the Mont St.-Michel, which we visited at the end of the weekend.

Stained glass and the view from the Montagne St.-Michel

La Montagne St.-Michel, a tiny little church on a hill, with nothing along the landscape for miles.

Ruins of an abandoned village, dating at least from the 1500s and probably much earlier.

Glimpse of a field of canola flowers. These are all over Northern France right now, and they've painted the landscape in patchwork yellows!

Delicious pastries from Brittany: my favourite, kouign amman, is at the left. It's a buttery, salty, sweet, almond-flavoured piece of heaven. At the top is gateau breton, and at the bottom is far breton, with plums in it. The chocolate cake was a bonus. ;)

Morgat, a painted village on the breton coast

I'll let the pictures speak for themselves, because, in any case, to describe each of the wonderful places we visited would take too many words than most blog readers have the time for.

At the Presqu'île de Crozon

Ruins of a German war bunker, covered in graffiti

Brambles and dusk at the Presqu'île de Crozon

Field of tulips

La Pointe de la Torche

Concarneau, harbour

Fort village of Concarneau

Inside Mont St.-Michel

Abbaye du Mont St.-Michel (I've now seen it THREE times!!!)

Stained glass in Mont St.-Michel

So, in one weekend, a prehistoric tomb (La Maison des Fées); a village in ruins; a tiny chapel atop a windswept mountain (La Montagne St.-Michel); fields of canola and tulip; a pristine beach (La Pointe de la Torche); a painted seaside village (Morgat); a famous abbey atop a mount (Le Mont St.-Michel); a fortified village (Concarneau); tons of delicious food; and two wonderful hosts. I cannot thank them enough for such a glorious weekend. Although, I hope that the pancakes we made for them, complete with maple syrup that my boyfriend brought to France for me from Canada, were at least a small gesture of our gratitude. Certainly with that salted butter, they were divine! And since J had never had maple syrup, I left the rest for him. Of course, they're getting gifts from Scotland, too... ;)

Driving On The Left

Before we start anything, this post needs a soundtrack. Something like this. 

Or this.

 

 

Or, if you're very brave, this.

And don't forget, we're driving on the left. 

Which means: nothing is going to be the way you think it should be. 

And that's what makes it awesome.

We're in Inverness. Closer to the North Pole than I've ever been before. And we've gone out on a frigidly cold night in mid-April, with a goal: ________ like the Scottish. Just fill in the blank. What are the Scots known best for?

We'd driven all day to get here from Glasgow. Straight north, over a terrain of rolling green hills and majestic, snow-capped mountains. We'd seen more sheep in one day than I think either of us had seen in a lifetime... combined.

And now, here we were, in "Johnny Foxes", having our first round and partaking in typical Scottish merriment. When we had just walked in, Lilly took one look at the tiny dance floor in the center of the bar, then muttered, "It takes more than a few drinks for me to go anywhere near a dance floor." Ha.

This was the culmination of our trip. Within the preceding three days, I'd done a whirlwind tour of Edinburgh: learning about the history of this simultaneously regal and rugged city and all its ghastly secrets, climbing 250m to the top of  Arthur's Seat, and stopping in at the Writer's Museum to see one of the famous book sculptures and to learn about Robert Louis Stevenson, whose poetry my mother read to me as a child. Then I'd met up with Lilly, boarded a bus for Glasgow, and explored the gritty, modern city and its Brooklyn-esque corners with some tips and guidance from Finn's parents, who graciously housed us, fed us delicious food and port wine and scotch, and conversed with us up to the wee hours of the morning. Emphasis on the "wee".

But now, after a visit to Loch Ness, we found ourselves in this little bar in the frigid town of Inverness, laughing it up with random Scots. They just seemed to appear out of nowhere and strike up conversations, often buying whiskies for everyone in the meantime. Although I'm usually not much of a drinker, I wasn't passing up the opportunity to have scotch in Scotland.

It was somewhere in between landing in a foreign country where my native language was the official language, seeing everyone proudly sporting tartans, and having eggs for breakfast that I realized: it felt like joy was everywhere around me. The Scots, with their beautiful, sing-songy accents and simple, unwavering friendliness, were such a sharp contrast to where I've been living. I don't mean to knock France, because it is special and lovely in its own right, but I just couldn't believe how quickly I felt like part of Scotland. It was strange: I don't have an ounce of Scottish blood in me, but I felt like I had found my own people. All in the name of common language. It's fascinating, really.

Lilly was right. It took more than a few rounds. But then, at some point during the night, nice and warm in spite of the weather, as we stood calmly with our drinks, taking in the hopping bar, the band started playing The Killers. And something just exploded within me. It was time to dance.

All I can say is, I'm a rare combination: much more of a dancer than I am a drinker. And I hadn't danced since autumn. I will remember that night forever.

As for the trip to Scotland: idem. I'll remember it forever, too. What an amazing people, and what a bloody awesome place.

 

 

Lilly and I owe a thousand thanks to Finn's parents for their generosity and hospitality, and also for just being so much fun. We had a wonderful time, we cannot thank you enough for the lovely dinners and breakfasts and conversations, and we hope to see you both on our side of the Atlantic next time!