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Burgundy, France. The walled vegetable garden basks placidly in the sun, fruit trees in the background. Near the gate, neat beds of salad greens, leeks, garlic, shallots, tomatoes, and cabbages are already planted for the winter. A similar scene has unfolded for four centuries, for the garden is meticulously drawn on the property map dated 1751. In its day, it must have nourished 50 people or more, but today we are scarcely a dozen to enjoy its bounty.

In one corner, old Monsieur Milbert, eyes me warily – visitors mean disturbance. At 84, he is both gardener and guardian, his life revolving around the garden seven days a week in a style that has almost disappeared. To call him a peasant is not pejorative. For him it sums up a lifetime of knowledge, much of it instinctive, of the earth and what it grows. We’ve just passed June 25, the feast of St. John when villagers light bonfires to celebrate the start of harvest. “ Eau de St. Jean ôte le vin, et ne donne pas de pain. (Rain on St. John takes away wine and brings no bread)”, mutters Monsieur Milbert. Sure enough, it rained this year so the vendange does not promise well.

I’ve known this garden for more than 20 years and not one has been alike. Four years ago, the millennium, the fruit crop was astonishing with bushels of plums, pears, apples, and wild peaches, Monsieur Milbert’s specialty. He grows them from ungrafted cuttings, watering them devotedly in summer and feeding them with potash from his wood fire in the spring. They could never be a commercial crop as they produce fruit intermittently and are subject to blight, but the tiny, intensely perfumed fruit are memorable in my favorite crumble. For an approximation, look for homegrown peaches or apricots on roadside stands – blemishes are a good sign!

Peach or Apricot Crumble with Ginger: Heat oven to 375°F/190°C. Put ¾ cup cold butter, cut in pieces, in a processor with 2 cups flour. Work it to fine crumbs using the pulse button. Work in 2/3 cup sugar. Halve 2 lb fresh peaches or apricots (there’s no need to peel them) and discard pits. Slice large peaches. Stir in 3-4 tablespoons chopped candied ginger and spread fruit in a medium baking dish in a 1-inch layer. Cover with topping and bake in oven until the crumble is golden and fruit juice bubbles around edges, 40-50 minutes. Serves 6-8.

Since the millennium we’ve been less lucky with our fruit crop. Monsieur Milbert shakes his head as, each year, a late frost nips the blossom of infant apples and pears. Only the quince seems to survive as it blooms later than the other trees, producing craggy yellow fruit with characteristic velvety cheeks. You’ll find quince in farmers’ markets, an ancient, curious fruit that is coming back into fashion after a couple of centuries of neglect. When raw, quince is inedibly hard and acid, but if baked slowly in the oven the white flesh slowly turns a deep, glowing pink with a tang of lemon. Even after an hour or two, texture remains slightly crunchy, a delicious accompaniment to game, pork, and magret of duck.

Compote of Quince: Heat oven to 350°F/180°C. Put 1 cup sugar and 1 quart water in a casserole and bring slowly to a boil, stirring often, until sugar dissolves. Bring to a boil and simmer syrup 2 minutes. Rub fuzz off  4-6 quinces (about 3 lb) with a towel. Peel, quarter and core them, then cut each quarter in 2-3 chunks and drop at once into the syrup so they do not discolor. Add pared zest and juice of 1 lemon, cover casserole and cook in oven 1-2 hours until quince is tender and deep pink (cooking time varies very much with the fruit). It takes time for color to develop, so be patient; add more water of syrup evaporates too much. At end of cooking, it should be slightly thickened but still cover fruit. Serves 4.

I must look ahead, however. Winter will be here and we need more than jam to provide a summer memory. Homemade liqueurs are a local specialty and from Madame Milbert I’ve learned to use the garden raspberries and blackcurrants. Raspberries possess enough natural yeast to ferment simply with sugar to an astonishingly concentrated crimson pick-me-up.

Raspberry Liqueur: Pack 2 pounds raspberries (do not wash them) in a quart canning jar, layering them with an equal weight of sugar. Close jar loosely so air can escape and keep it in a cool place. Sugar and fruit will ferment and bubble; stir it once a week. After at least 6 months, or when bubbling stops, raspberry liqueur is ready to drink but it will mellow and improve on keeping. You can strain out raspberries and serve the liquid as a liqueur, or spoon liqueur and fruit over ice cream. Makes 1 quart liqueur.

My latest concoction, a coffee-spiked orange liqueur, has achieved popular acclaim. I cannot lay claim to growing oranges – we are too far north – but we have a postcard from the 1800s of citrus trees in tubs that were brought indoors in the winter. Quarante quatre takes its name from the 44 coffee beans and 44 sugar cubes that flavor it. After 44 days it is ready to drink, or it can be stored though that is rare in our household.

Orange Coffee Liqueur: Thoroughly wash a large orange. With a knitting needle or skewer, pierce the skin 44 times and insert a coffee bean in each hole, pushing it well into the flesh of the orange. Put the orange in a 2 quart preserving jar. Add 44 small sugar cubes and 1 quart vodka and clamp down lid. Shake jar every day for 44 days. Strain the liqueur through a coffee filter and funnel into a quart bottle. Makes 1 quart liqueur.

In our vegetable garden, sheltered by 7-foot walls, the temperature is up to 10°F higher than outside, and the topsoil accumulated over the centuries is twice as deep. Last year of searing heat could have been catastrophic but Monsieur Milbert was out morning and evening with the hose. As it was the raspberries withered and the giant apricot tree suddenly lost its leaves and expired in mid-season.

This year promises better, but who knows? Certainly not the French weather forecasters who do well if they are correct half of the time. Monsieur Milbert is more reliable: “Ah,” he says. “S’il pleut à la St-Benoît, Il pleuvra 37 jours plus tard. (If it rains on St. Benoît [July 11] it will rain for 37 days).” I’m crossing my fingers.
         

© 2004, Anne Willan. Distributed by Tribune Media Services International.

Anne Willan is the founder of the famous French cooking school, LaVarenne, and has also served as president of the International Association of Culinary Professionals. She is the author of over a dozen internationally published cookbooks, including her latest book, A Cook’s Book of Quick Fixes & Kitchen Tips ( John Wiley & Sons, September 2005).