Kate Grace | French | Ōtepoti Dunedin

Looking back at the place of food in my childhood, I realise now that the table that accompanied my early years was a pretty fancy one. To many, it would sound more like a restaurant than a home table. 

My mother prepared all three meals per day; each of them was a complex  affair with several courses – she spent many hours in the kitchen. I think the kitchen was for her a place where she could turn her love for us into delectable food.

Whether for lunch or for dinner, there was always an entrée or two, a plat de résistance accompanied by légumes (green vegetables), a green salad with garlic vinaigrette, a plateau de fromages, and sometimes a dessert. The sweet end part of the meal was the optional bit. Not that I minded; I don’t have a sweet tooth. So, most often, the meal ended with cheese.

I am not sure people in France know much about baking. We usually leave this part to the baker. I don’t think I had ever eaten a home-made biscuit before coming to New Zealand.

When my mother made a dessert – which was mostly on Sundays or for special occasions – it was always with fruit. Home-made desserts were always fruity and simple. Always. I think they were a way to use what was available in the orchard.

One of the desserts that brings back forgotten flavours and smiles to me is the clafoutis. My mother made it in summer as it is traditionally made with cherries (the sour ones are really the chosen fruit for a clafoutis). Technically, it is a pancake dough poured onto fruit and baked in the oven.

But to me, the clafoutis is summer, and lazy days, and lemonade and sun, and red poppies, and the gorgeous scents of
overgrown gardens.