FOOD & RECIPES

What’s Ugly, Gnarled & Must Be Attacked With a Sharp Knife Or, Better Yet, a Hack Saw?

I’ve lived in France for nearly nine years, long enough that I sometimes forget certain things about my life back in the States — like why, since Little Debbies are so delicious, but unavailable here, didn’t I fully appreciate them when they filled Safeway shelves and were mine for the asking? Ditto Taco Bell’s crispy crunchy burrito thing.

Why didn’t I eat one every day?

On a more nutritious note, I can’t remember whether I ever saw celeriac in the States. Or, if I did see this lumpy beige rooty thing, was it called by another name?

Thinking that it might just be celery’s bulbous root, I Googled to make sure. Good thing I did. Celery and its root are not the same as Celeriac and its root.

Got that?

Celery is cultivated for stalks which, in my opinion, exist for the sole purpose of sticking one in a Bloody Mary. I guess dieters find them useful too.

Celeriac is cultivated strictly for its root which can be prepared in several different ways. More on that in a moment.

Here in France, celeriac shares space in the supermarket produce department with les navettes (turnips), les panais (parsnips), and les rutabagas (also called rutabagas in the States, but swedes in the UK. ) In the same neighbourhood, and a specialty of the Languedoc, where I live, is a strange black specimen called le navet de Pardailhan which you might guess is a turnip but is actually a rather long radish.

But back to celeriac. My first encounter occurred soon after I arrived in France. I was sitting in my neighbour Pauline’s kitchen watching her try to chop this very resistant brown lump of root into small pieces. Her French husband, Jean-Paul, loved celeriac mashed liked potatoes, then baked in the oven, she explained. He also liked them grated into a salad and fried like . . . well French fries.

As Pauline struggled, Jean-Paul arrived home from his job in the village wine cooperative. Black rubber workbooks, jeans, heavy navy sweater, and a day or two’s growth of beard. A quick glance at Pauline’s efforts, an exchange in French and he disappeared, returning moments later with a large and slightly rusty saw.

Rebecca rolled her eyes.

Jean-Paul shrugged, gave the saw a quick rinse in the sink, and set to work on the celeriac. Cigarette between his teeth, he hacked away, bits of vegetable flying everywhere.

Moments late et voila! The once resistant root, now tamed into a pile of small beige pieces was ready for the pot.

I didn’t stick around to taste the finished product but, I’ve cooked celeriac many times since then. Like cauliflower, it can be boiled and mashed into something that I can almost convince myself is a less caloric version of mashed potatoes.

And having saved on calories with that, I might indulge myself with a Little Debbie, if I could find one here in France.

Here’s a link to Nigel Slater’s baked celeriac recipe. The marmalade tart sounds good too.

Some other foody stories about my life in France

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