This past Sunday was Chandeleur in France. Translated as Candlemas, - a word I had never heard in English before -, it is a little-known ancient Christian celebration involving crêpes. And, originally, candles. Celebrated exactly forty days after Christmas, it commemorated the presentation of Jesus to the Temple and officially closed the Nativity holiday season. Much like Christmas, it also incorporated pagan elements over time, including the crêpes, whose shape and color were reminiscent of the sun, and announced the return of Spring after the dark and cold of Winter.
I did not know any of this until I started writing this post. And Chandeleur is not quite as popular in France as the ubiquitous “Galette des rois”, or King’ s Cake. But it was dutifully observed by my paternal grandmother – who, on the other hand, never served a single Galette, for reasons that remain mysterious to me and were quite frustrating at the time. Every year, however, on February 2nd-, or probably a couple of few weeks after that, given the traditional French school vacation calendar, - she would make crêpes for the family. Which it to say my grandfather, my parents, and myself. Like all celebrations I experienced as a child, it was a small, simple, and quiet one. Not at all the loud, messy and frankly exhausting dinners I can have at my house today, with my four children.
It wasn’t clear to anyone how that tradition came to be. My grandfather was an ardently secular schoolteacher, as was common in the Southwest area of France at the time, and while Christmas, as well as Easter, were celebrated without fail, they were virtually devoid of any religious meaning, and mostly an opportunity to eat. Which might well be the only reason why my grandmother made it a point to serve those crepes on February 2nd. Her motive didn’t matter to us at all, mind you, and we never thought of inquiring further. All we knew was that once a year, when we visited for February break, she dedicated an entire evening to crêpes. She didn’t make dinner that night, or even savory crêpes as a pretext to enjoy the sugary ones as dessert. The goal was just to eat as many sweet crêpes as our bellies would tolerate.
And for me, it was many. You see, those crêpes were the most delicious thing I had ever tasted, and that evening, my favorite one of the year. More so even than Christmas Eve, which always involved the much less exciting oysters and scallops, however good they may have been. Chandeleur, on the other hand, was pure indulgence and joy. I would invariably have three to four butter and sugar crêpes that night, followed by one, or two, or three? with Nutella. Yes, I know, it’s a lot. And I do remember not feeling wonderful afterwards. But it was all worth it. For those crêpes were the lightest, airiest and most flavorful I had ever tasted. And what’s more, year after year, they tasted exactly the same. There was never any surprise or disappointment of any kind. When you sat down at the round, 1970’s style Formica kitchen table that my grandfather would dutifully extend for the occasion, you knew exactly what you were in for. First would come the cloudy, pillow-like texture, that needed to be thoroughly enjoyed until the whole thing would melt in your mouth in a faint explosion of Grand Marnier. I know, I know, a “faint explosion” doesn’t make a lot of sense. But that is how I remember it, both subtle and ever present. It was the Grand Marnier that made these crepes what they were. And to this day, I cannot smell that orange-flavor liquor without being transported back to those days, that kitchen, my grandfather’s ugly, brown, hospital-style reclining chair, where he would do crossword puzzles from Sud Ouest or Le Canard Enchaîné while my grandmother was busily, but quietly, handling pots at the stove.
For some reason, however, until a few years ago, I never tried to replicate these crêpes at home, after my grandmother stopped making them and later passed away. When we went through her belongings, I kept her small, rectangular, leather-bound recipe binder, which was very much in the spirit of the 1970’s Formica kitchen. That binder, and a beautiful flower-shaped garnet ring, were the only things I wanted to keep from her. She had given me the ring already, an heirloom from her own grandmother. The binder, I snatched from the mahogany “secretaire” where it was kept religiously, alongside other household, budgeting binders and an orderly mix of Scotch tape, orange Fiskars scissors and paper clips. When my mother asked me what I wanted to take, I knew exactly where to look.
And strangely enough, when I decided to make those crêpes myself a few years ago, I was more enticed by the small, blue, handwritten recipe card contained in the binder, than by the recipe itself. I think part of me had always been afraid that my rendition of those crêpes would never measure up to my memories. Which is probably why, also, I never attempted the much more ambitious and labor-intensive paella that my maternal grandfather, born in Valencia, made every Sunday. And I was right about that. To this day, I haven’t been quite capable of recreating the magical texture that my grandmother achieved without thinking about it. It might all come down to the amount of water that needs to be added to the batter. Indeed, the recipe that she left us is rather imprecise on that point. The list of ingredients only involves 300 milliliters of milk. But further down the recipe says to “add the water”. As if we all know what this was referring to, when in fact, there is not previous mention of water on the card. And for some reason, the first time I made those crêpes and found myself rather bewildered, my daughter was enchanted by this detail. She couldn’t stop giggling and kept mentioning it as we were eating the crêpes. And to this day, when I say, towards the end of January, that it is almost time for Chandeleur, the first thing she will say is “Oh yes, the recipe that doesn’t say how much water to add”.
This year was no different, and even my 16-year-old son, this time, showed curiosity for the blue card and asked me if it was my handwriting on it. When I told him that it was my grandmother’s, he seemed genuinely moved and told me that I would need to pass this card down to the children and make a copy for him when he goes to college (which is in about eighteen months from now, but I am certainly not ready to talk, or even think, about this ghastly prospect).
I was more stirred by these words that I can say, and I remain in awe of the power of this simple blue card. I may never unlock the secret of my grandmother’s true recipe. The texture, again, was not quite perfect this year, although they did seem slightly lighter than last time. Heck, the kids each requested a crepe without Nutella. So, they must have been somewhat acceptable. But even if I never reach the batter Graal, the card, and the binder, will always be there, with the handwriting that never fails to bring tears to my eyes.
These crêpes demand a bit more work than the basic recipe you can find everywhere. They require beating egg whites and folding them into the flour, milk and water batter. Regarding the water, without any instructions on the card, I just followed the basic recipe, which always calls for as much liquid as flour. Meaning, I added 300 ml of it. But I’m not sure it’s quite enough. This year, I added a bit more milk, and it seemed to help a little, but it still was not the ethereal texture I have been after. The secret might lie in how stiff the egg whites are, or how much to fully dissolve them into the batter. I do not remember exactly how my grandmother did it. All I know is that we had to let the batter rest for one hour, or two, before adding the whites. And that these two hours were among the most exciting in my childhood’s simple life.
So, this recipe might need some tinkering until you reach the consistency you desire. But whatever you do, do not forget the Grand Marnier. If you use Rhum instead, I’m sure the crepes will be good, but they will not be those crepes.
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