Free Picnic in Provence by Elizabeth Bard Page B

around her neck and sob with gratitude. Because the book was not published in French, and because talking about work in France is bad form in general, aside from the family drama, there had been little reaction on this side of the Atlantic. I was living parallel lives, one in which the book was an event to be celebrated, one in which it was barely acknowledged. I managed to clamp down my reaction to an acceptable European level. “ Merci, Marie. Ça me touche beaucoup . That really means a lot to me.”
      
    THERE IS NOTHING fundamentally graceful about a woman with a greasy oven mitt lugging forty pounds of lamb across a field. It’s more about tradition, tribal ritual. I was honored with the first piece of lamb crackling, burning-hot, slick and shiny like the leather on a fine first edition. I had to resist the urge to pick my entire meal off the spit with my bare hands. I sunk my teeth into the crispy fat. Take your diamonds, boys, just give me the skin.
    As the afternoon heat gave way to an early-evening breeze, Gwendal and I took Alexandre to the yellow cherry tree in the garden. I’m sure my father-in-law once ate cherries off this tree; he was tall enough to reach deep into the branches without a ladder. (We keep the photo we took that day on the mantel: Alexandre raised above Gwendal’s head, his chubby fingers grabbing at the leaves.)
    After the day’s feast, it seemed impossible that anyone would want dinner, yet somehow the spicy merguez on the grill lured everyone back to the tables. Marie had brought a case of melons with her across the Pyrenees. Alexandre didn’t seem to mind when the juice dripped past his elbows.
    I can’t say this méchoui went as late as the one I remembered, with wine and the lilting melodies of chansons réalistes stretching late into the night. The kids, the rare Brittany heat wave, and the good Bordeaux wore us out. We were moving in a few days. I went to bed thinking about the people and places we would miss, all the boxes left to pack. We slept like little lambs, and woke up—if you can believe it—hungry.
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A Recipe to Mark an Occasion
    Seven-Hour Lamb with North African Spices
    Gigot de Sept Heures aux Épices Orientales
    I admit it, it’s not every day that one roasts a whole lamb on a spit in the backyard. This recipe is a take on the slow-cooked gigot de sept heures, using the scents and spices—the inspiration—of Affif’s kitchen. Get out your grandest serving platter and make this with couscous for a big family dinner—or any occasion that requires a warm welcome and a flourish of presentation.
3 tablespoons olive oil
5-pound bone-in leg of lamb, shank bone trimmed (to fit your pot), meat
     tied with kitchen string
Freshly ground black pepper
1½ pounds onions, halved and sliced
2 teaspoons whole cumin seeds, crushed
1 tablespoon turmeric
1 cinnamon stick
2 large pinches of saffron threads or ¼ teaspoon ground saffron
2½ cups white or rosé wine
1½ cups water
2 branches of celery with leaves
1 14-ounce can of chickpeas, drained
5 small carrots, scrubbed and halved
2 zucchini, cut into 2-inch chunks
½ cup green olives with pits (about 12), rinsed
12 strips of preserved lemon rind, about ¼ inch wide and 1 inch long
Fresh coriander for garnish
    Preheat the oven to 300°F. Make sure your butcher has tied the meat with kitchen string, otherwise it will fall apart during the slow cooking.
    In your largest Dutch oven (I treated myself to a huge Le Creuset for this recipe), heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Brown the leg of lamb on all sides as best you can. If you are restrained by the size of your pot, ask your butcher for a deboned leg of lamb with the bones on the side, brown the bones with the meat, and add to the pot for flavor. (Deboned lamb will cook more quickly.)
    Remove the meat from the pot, season with black pepper, and set aside. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil to the pot. Add the onions and spices and sauté until