Friday Night Date~Table For One

Friday night has often been a special night for me, a night of dining, dancing and relaxing~with myself as the beloved focus of my attention. Eating the evening meal alone can be seen as a sad thing in American culture, an indication that one is unattractive to the opposite sex, a nuisance to ones friends, or even worse, a social pariah to ones family. In America, if one eats alone, particularly on a weekend evening, then the unlucky diner is to be pitied and heads shaken mournfully when discussing their plight. It is not so in France, and having grown up in a home with strong French roots, it was not so in our household. Once my sister and I were grown and left school behind, my parents assumed we would exercise the self-sufficiency we had been trained to value. There were no hovering visits or worried phone calls as to whether we were eating properly, or even if we were eating at all. My parents were certain that they had raised competent adults, full capable of shopping for and cooking a satisfying and tasty meal at the end of the work day.

Standing in my Mother's kitchen and watching her prepare food was one of my favorite things to do as a child. It was a daily event that was as natural to her as breathing and she rarely used written recipes for the foods that were part of her weekly repetoire. Small portions of roast meat or fish appeared on our plates several times during a week, along with ladles full of steaming, perfectly cooked vegetables and home made breads with lots of butter. From Friday to Sunday, the meals became more festive, with cooking shared by both my Mother and Father. My Father did not barbecue, a type of meal so foreign to our family's palette and a masculine affectation so amusing to my Father's sensibilities that I never even knew what 'grilled' tasted like until my twenties. On Sunday mornings, my Father would begin to create breakfast about 9:00 a.m, letting my Mother sleep and groom as long as she wished before greeting her romping children. As easily as my Mother allowed observation and participation in her daily meal preparation, my Father did not. Our home became his grand restaurant, and as its owner and Chef, he chose to keep his techniques and recipes a secret, allowing no one to enter the kitchen once his process began. Of only one thing could we be sure as we waited patiently for the food to be placed on the table~there would be several dishes, and each of them would be delicious. Having grown up on a farm, my Father's breakfasts always contained lots of eggs and cheese, pork and potatoes, peppers, tomatoes, onions, and herbs, combined into tasty forms, and served along with fresh fruits, breads, and milk. Once seated at the table, my Mother would turn her head ever so slightly, look up at him from under her lavish dark lashes and smile. Cooing contentedly, she would pick appreciatively at her plate, sliding the food around expertly so my Father would not notice how little she actually ate. My Father adored her and always pretended not to notice, and when he saw his daughters perform the same charming ritual with their plates, he simply winked and continued to eat.
My Mother's idea of breakfast, much like my own, was a huge mug of hot, dark sweetened liquid and a small roll and a yogurt or a bagel and thinly sliced cheese, thoughtfully swallowed and chewed over a couple of hours while reading mail or newspapers. My Father worked late several nights a week, so my sister and I supped early in the evening and were allowed to carry our plates to our rooms to read or outside into the garden if we wished to enjoy the night breezes. My Mother would wait to dine with my Father, and not long after I was tucked into my little bed with a kiss and a gentle pat, I would hear the sounds of their low, murmuring voices and soft laughter filtering through the cracks around my closed bedroom door, cherishing their private time as lovers do. On the rare occasion my Father had to go out of town, my Mother would follow the normal evening meal routine with her children and invariably choose to dine alone, seemingly with the same pleasure as she did when my Father was present. When arising in the morning, I would see her single wine glass, cutlery and dinner plate washed and dried in the dish rack near the sink, and a novel lying open on the kitchen table. She appeared rested and was smiling as she greeted me, ready to brush my hair and help me dress for school.

One of the wonderful recipes my Mother prepared for her evening of dining pleasure was a dish called Potatoes Dauphinois. Whenever my sister and I saw her come home from the market with a chunk of fresh Gruyere and a bottle of cream, we knew that her delicious potatoes were going to be on the menu that evening. The smell of the potatoes baking was so heady that my sister and I would find ourselves dancing around giddily while the pan cooked, waiting impatiently for the amazing taste of the steaming creamy layers of potatoes and cheese to fill our mouths. The crisp and slightly bitter green salad covered with chopped hard boiled egg and tomatoes my Mother served with them were the perfect pairing to our minds. I prepare these potatoes and a salad in my Mother's memory on many of my single celebratory Friday evenings and lift a glass to her photograph as I read my own spicy novel. Bon Appetit!

GRATIN DAUPHINOIS
3 Tbsp butter, melted
2 lbs baking potatoes (about 6 potatoes), peeled and cut into slices 1/8" inch thick
1 clove garlic, finely minced
1 cup shredded Gruyere or Swiss cheese
1 cup half-and-half or milk, heated but not boiled
1/2 tsp salt
1/8 tsp pepper

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Brush a 11" x 8" baking pan or gratin dish (with at least 2" depth on the sides) with 1 Tbsp of the melted butter. Layer half of the potatoes in the dish. Sprinkle with half of the remaining butter, half the garlic and salt and pepper, and half of the cheese. Repeat the layering. Pour the heated milk or cream over the top of the layered potatoes. Let stand for 2 minutes.
Place in the preheated oven for approximately 45 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the potatoes are tender. Serve immediately.