Cracking Walnuts

"I'm sorry, I just don't think cracking walnuts is a metaphor for anything."

Walnuts from the Perigord

Walnuts figure largely into the traditions of the Dordogne Region. Shells found at archeological sites show that humans have enjoyed the flavor and benefits of this hardy nut since early times. Oil pressed from walnuts was used in lamps.

At some point the walnut was a symbol of the union of marriage. Two complicated pieces joined at a delicate point.

During the Middle Ages physicians felt the walnut would relieve migraines because the inner nut so resembled the human brain.

With soil rich in calcium and a mild, humid climate this region is perfect for walnut production. Most homes have at least one tree, if one doesn’t have a tree you know where to walk along the farm roads and find windfalls in the ditches.

Machines have been created that can gather the nuts in the fall, but there is no replacement for the need to crack these meaty nuts by hand. Each person has their own technique, a quick punch of the hand, a tap with a hammer, nutcrackers like pinchers and the new fangled nutcrackers that are pretty much idiot proof. Guess which one we have. Whatever it takes to keep the meat in two neat pieces. 

There are many ways to appreciate this nut. Freshly cracked on a salad. As walnut oil, a taste of earth, smoke and other senses indescribable, pressed into an oil that is the Dordogne region version of Vermont Maple Syrup. And if you have made a good enough impression on a ‘local’, one might even be offered the elixir of life – a vin de noix, walnut wine. A concoction made with the entire green nut soaked in eau de vie (water of life)- moonshine! A taste of green, leaves, nutshells – every sip is savored and takes one back to the land –flavors that can only be produced by mother earth. And then there is a walnut cake.  A simple elegant way to end a hearty meal.

Walnut Cake

125 grams of chopped almonds

125 grams of chopped walnuts

125 grams of butter

300 grams of sugar

6 eggs

Separate the eggs. Reserve the whites.  Mix the yolks with the sugar.  Add the chopped nuts. Melt the butter, not too hot and mix in with nut mixture. Whip the egg whites until stiff and incorporate gently. Place into a pie shaped dish, buttered and floured. Bake at 225 Celsius for 30 minutes.

Decorate with walnut halves. Drizzle with chocolate if you like.

Friday's Petite Aquarelle Dordogne Region, France

Yellow Awning, Brantome Market
12" x 16"
$120 including shipping
Available at www.tomviethsketches.com

Rock Realty, The Dronne River Valley

"Don't worry - they're the last Neanderthal family."

Unheard Stories, Bourdeilles France

All buildings have unheard stories. In Bourdeilles these stories could be Renaissance  adventures, a Medieval tale, or even, in the case of one or two houses, the claims of Roman settlers.

 Sometime last fall I heard tell of an ancient abandoned place in the forest near by. With no leaves on the trees I spent the winter following every rabbit path that led into a hidden corner, but every trail narrowed to an end with no discovery.  Not even a rabbit. Then one day walking in the middle of our favorite valley Tom spied a window. A window floating in the bare tree branches. One step forward it was gone, one step back and it was gone. Look up at the wrong moment and there would be nothing. Maybe this was it!

After a few inquiries we were given directions to the entrance of a hidden path. A place we had passed many times.  The path made a straight line along the edge of the cliffs and then suddenly took a sharp left on the other side of a small hollow. Looking across the hollow we could again see an opening floating where there should be rock and brambles. Just before arriving at the now obvious entry there was a lovely terrace. Just the sort of space one would enjoy on a summer evening as the sun was setting. Then we entered the “building”.  

It was a cave.  More exact, it was an enhanced cave that had been carved into and added onto until it became a home. It is enchanting.

Nothing could have prepared us for the beautiful space. We were suspended over the valley floor in a rock room with a smooth mud floor, light pouring in from several sides. The scale and space were amazing and elegant. Here was a room that held bright sunshine on a cold winter day.  A fireplace finished the scene.  The mass of rock and hill and cliff wasn’t oppressive, it was oddly comforting.  One felt immediately safe and at ease.

This hole would probably  have been a grainary.

I’ve since asked several townspeople what is known about this nearby secret place. The only consistent theme is that it has been a hideaway. A hideaway during the wars of religion, a hideaway from the English invasions, a hideaway during the Nazi occupation, (one woman says she heard of dances held here on summer evenings during this time) a hideaway from teenager’s parents. A hideaway used for hundreds of years.

One’s imagination goes wild in a space like this. When did the first human find the cave? When did they begin to add cut stones and make it into a homey space? Was it actually a church at some point in time? Could a space like this ever be comfortable? When, when, when, did all of this start and when did it finally become abandoned? (There are still homes like this being lived in in this region.)

Oh to hear a story or two from this beautiful space. 

The cliffs are just below this table top field.