A Step Closer to Provence

There is nothing I could say about France that hasn't been said a thousand times before and most likely much better then I could say it. France is something unto itself. I was lucky enough to visit Paris for a week last winter and it absolutely blew my mind. I am ashamed to admit it, but since then I've become somewhat of a Francophile, or at least, totally in love with the food. Which is not that hard to do, let's be honest.
Provence could not be farther away from Upstate New York. Fundamentally I suppose we both share the similar traits of vegetation and cows, but once you cut deeper then that, we have nothing in common. For a teenage girl in Rochester NY, being obsessed with the South of France and country European cusine is something that can very alienating and disheartening. I am constantly faced with "Provencal" salads at local resteraunts, mostly consisting of canned tuna smothered in a garlicky, gloopy sauce or "French" bread, really just a crustier version of the regular style. So I have decided that, if I can't go to Provence myself, I'll bring Provence home to my own kitchen.
Recently I've been reading, and digesting (literally! haha ok bad pun) a book by Georgeanne Brennan called A Pig In Provence, about the authors transplanting of her family from Southern California to a Provencal countryhouse in the 1970's. From a literary standpoint its not the most spectacular read, kinda boring and not that well written, but what makes it enjoyable is the descriptions of the French countryside thirty years ago and images of a food culture that has me full of nostalgia for something I never experienced. Do I dig her writing? Maybe. Am I totally jealous and inspired? Definately.
So a couple of nights ago I raided my fridge in a bought of culinary despiration. It hasn't been the best week over here in my house and nothing seems to relax the mind and body like making a good loaf of bread. I pulled up a random recipie for "Rustic Peasants Bread", a title I am always skeptical of, but decided to try anyways, and set about creating a true loaf of country bread. Whatever the hell that means.
After letting the sponge rise for about two hours and pummeling that poor lump of dough within an inch of its life, it was time to commence the baking. Now, in the past whenever we have made bread the crust has always been a problem. You know what I mean, no crust at all, or a full blown char-factory. So this time I decided to try steaming, a practice I have always heard about but never attempted. It worked wonders. The bread came out cooked perfectly, with a chewy dense middle and thick, toasty crust.
I had planned originally to do some sort of salad thing but was thwarted by our CSA farmers recent departure (oi veh!) so after some deliberating decided to just utilize our oven to its fullest potential. I slow roasted grape tomatoes with coarse sea salt and olive oil and broiled the hell out of some likewise prepared asperagus spears. A serious deficiency in my cooking skills was discovered when i relized I had no idea how to hardboil eggs. But with my mother shouted advice from the next room I managed to pull off a nice toss of roasted asperagus with boiled eggs and black olives. Very pretty I must say. The tomatoes went onto thick wedges of the fresh bread and after being topped with a lot of Manchego cheese, broiled as well. The result was a simple, extremely fresh tasting meal that recalled for us, all of the things we missed about never going to Provence. Ah well. Viva Upstate New York. Viva France.