There is nothing so delightful as biting into a ripe, Turkish fig. Except, perhaps, the search for that perfect fig as you finger through a basket or a tray of delightfully chubby fruits, early on a damp, fall morning at an outdoor market in Paris. Though finding the perfect dozen figs may only take a few minutes, the romance of the fig continues through the rest of the day -- the first is a gift from the marchand, the second is savored more carefully as you walk home along the boulevard. For breakfast, fresh farm yogurt from Normandy, honey dripped from a sweating comb, a sprig of mint, and three figs sliced to reveal their sweet, pink flesh. Prociutto and figs with crisp arugula atop a fluffy baguette for midday lunch. The ripest figs of the lot for dinner, bursting with seeds and red sugary juice in puddles of thick balsamic vinegar. And just before sleep, you savour the last of the Turkish figs, squeezing the flesh through soft, purple skin, to lick every last taste off of your lips.
This is just one of my many memories of tasting while I lived in France. Now back at home in New York, I find myself scouring Whole Foods or Greenmarket for the best and freshest produce. Of course, nothing compares to what I found in the hexagon. But now that summer is here (which means a variety of things for me, as you soon will discover), I have ample time to make more ventures to Union Square to find the best that New York-area farms have to offer us cement-caged-cosmopolitans here in Manhattan. The first course begins...
So, welcome to my table and to my blog -- Goûter. I will taste, travel, and live, and keep you informed along the way. I hope that you, my audience, will do so too and send me your thoughts, your adventures, your recipes. This meal is for sharing -- for what good is cooking if you must eat your meal on your own?
Bon ap ~ Amanda.
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