And then there was Paris..

So aside from all that tea business there is this matter of how I spent my time on my latest trip to Paris.
I had a whole list of things I wanted to do while I was there and aside from my trip to Mariage Frères, I didn't get a darn thing done. I made my way to L'As du Falafel and wouldn't you know they were closed for renovations for the week. I almost cried. Really. I know, a girl should not go to Paris with falafels on her mind but if you knew how good those things are you would completely understand.

In Paris, like everywhere, it's kind of hit and miss if you decide to just walk into some place you don't know and are hoping for a good meal. Unfortunately my friend Alisa and I, forced to abandon our falafel cravings, chose a serious miss. And although I did eat the potatoes off of the salad nicoise that I ordered, it wasn't at all worth speaking about.

Then there was an impromptu meet up at a cafe at about 4 in the afternoon* which did not end until midnight after much wine was consumed.
A girl cannot get things done when she just sits back and focuses on socializing.
But it's fun that way. And after living there for over a year and a half, it's just kind of how it seems to work out for me lately.

I came home, unloaded 120 pictures from my camera and people, I'm telling you, all of them are of friends, except for this shot up there of the drink of choice of those two that kept me so occupied* on friday afternoon. Oh and of course this guy who always seems to end up on my camera whenever I'm in Paris.


David: always fun at parties..


Then there was the party on Saturday night which my friend and I spent the whole day getting ready for: shopping for groceries, then lunching to recuperate from the shopping, then shopping some more. No there were no strippers at the party but there was a heck of a lot of food, wine, champagne, general chit chat and the obligatory 2 cheek kiss with everyone who comes through the door. A girl needs to keep her tic-tacs handy when she goes to Paris I tell you.
I did not climb into bed until almost 3am.

The next day, as you can imagine, was a total write off and then suddenly here I was back home again with nothing to show for it but some tea and the tail end of a 3 day hangover.

So this week the girl needs to detox. I bought some kale last night just for that purpose and promptly left it on the tube.
You see where my head is at.
This detoxing might take awhile.

___________
*Two of my favourite people, Melissa and her husband, were in town

Off to Paris. And sharing my tea love.

I can't seem to stay away from Paris for too long, so I am off to the city of lights for the rest of the week. The forecast seems to call for clear skies so I'm expecting to do a lot of wandering around. Nothing beats Paris in the Fall, partly because it gives you an excuse to bring all your girliest scarves, even if you are only staying for a few days.

This trip I seem to not be thinking all that much about the food. I'm really just looking forward to seeing friends, hanging out in cafes and just plain being there. And there is the small matter of my bachelorette party that must be seen to.

Yeah, you heard me.
Could it get any better?



**********
Tea Anyone?

You know how much I love my Mariage Frères tea. And I keep thinking that I would love to share it with some of you guys. I feel cheesy doing this as some sort of contest but I don't know how else to do it! So, here's what I'm thinking: leave me a comment if you are interested and I will put all the names (even if there are only 2 of you!) in a hat and draw for the person who I will send the tea to. When I get back I will announce the 'winner', who can email me with their mailing info. Sound good?

Green Tea Truffles from Sadaharu Aoki

Truffes ivoires au mâcha - Green tea, white chocolate ruffles from Sadaharu Aoki


I don't know if it's dedication or insanity that stopped me mid-truffle so I could take a picture. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that my bite marks have been captured forever and posted on my blog? Perhaps there is some dentist somewhere thinking to him or herself: "Hmm, I see a slight misalignment of the lower left lateral."

In any case, I said I would tell you about the truffles so here I am. And oy. They were good.
I bought these at Sadaharu Aoki, along with a few choice macarons while I was in Paris. I have this thing for green tea flavoured what-nots. These little bundles had a nice powdery outside, and a creamy/ganachy green tea filling enveloped in a thin layer of white chocolate. I would definitely buy these again but maybe one of my kind friends in Paris will see fit to send me some if I don't get back there anytime soon.

Also, there is something kind of girly about eating truffles that just makes you feel like someone should be pouring you champagne and admiring your shoes. In the case of this final truffle, I was wearing a pair of socks, with a glass of water at hand, and no one else was in the room. Not quite glamorous but it certainly didn't make the truffle taste any less divine.
I miss them already.
Thank god for the picture.


Patisserie Sadaharu Aoki
56 boulevard de Port Royal
Paris, 75005

On Paris. And being a bit yappy..

Poilane brioche, an Ispahan Macaron from Hermé,
Lucy the cat, and a home-cooked dinner chez Lebovitz

Alright, alright. Maybe you are all completely bored with me talking about Paris. We drank wine, we ate sweet stuff.. yada yada, right?

My mom always did tell me that I talk too much. Although she often uses the same out of date example to make her point: "There was this time when you were 4 and you sat in the back of the car and talked for 3 hours straight.."

I was 4.. Surely I've changed somewhat since then, no?
Perhaps not, because it appears I'm still talking.
And I will admit that Cindy and I sat in our pjs until noon almost every day that I was in Paris drinking coffee and yes.. talking..
Then, you put two talky girls in a kitchen with Lebovitz- a marathon talker himself, and boy, that is some kind of crazy evening.

When I returned G asked me the usual questions.
G: "Did you have fun?"
Me: "Yes. Very much so. "
G: "What did you do?"
Me: "Talked. Alot."

He nodded, I think with understanding and probably some relief that I got some of the talking out of my system.

So yes, I'm back. I got some nice things in Paris including some Ispahan jam and some matcha truffles which I will tell you about soon.
Because well, you know, I like to talk.

Two girls, a bottle of wine and a box of macarons..

You know what happened..
I'm still recovering.

Cindy and Michele do Paris...just like the old days..

On Monday I am on my way to Paris again for another week of fun. Cindy's in town so what better reason to go, huh? Well, that and the promise that I can go watch David "make tapenade".

But back to Cindy.

Remember when her and I were both living in Paris and then she left and I was sad?
Yeah me too.
Well she's back, just for July, and thus the reason for my trip.
We're going to take Paris by storm in our own low key sort of way.
And the first place we are planning to dine is a vietnamese restaurant called Le Bamboo.
I know, right?
But it's true.
Gimme some of that green papaya salad any day.
Other than that, a wine fueled picnic by the river and probably a lot of walking around.

You gotta love the Eurostar. I mean, sure it was sad when we moved away from Paris, but I feel like it's just a hop, skip and a jump away. Conceivably, I could take the train there in the morning, go out for lunch and be home in time for bed.
I probably would never do that, but knowing I could do it is kinda nice.

Anyway, I'll be back in 5 days. And when I return, if all goes well, Melissa will be coming through town and crashing at my place for a night.
I haven't seen her in forever either so giddy up.
It's going to be a good week.

See you when I get back!

And now I'm back..

Matcha green tea chocolate with black and white sesame seeds

After 5 days in Paris I need to recover a little bit. The wine, the food, the speaking French. It's hard work people.

I wasn't sure what to expect about going back. I had lived there for a year and a half and I wasn't sure if going back was going to make me a bit sad.
I mean, I wasn't going there as a tourist, I was going back to a place that I called home for 18 months, a place where I still have friends. Good friends.
And well, it's Paris for heaven's sake.

But when I got there, it kind of felt as though I'd never left. I sat in the back of the taxi on my way to my friend's house and everything looked the same, familiar. It still felt like my Paris.

I did all the things I intended--the Salon des Saveurs , a falafel at L'As du Falafel, a stop at Mariage Frères for some new tea. We had a homecooked mexican feast one night with one too many margaritas, and a schlep out in the rain in our heels another night for a fabulous dinner at Spring.

But the most perfect of all was spending one rainy day in my pj's on my friend's couch with endless cups of coffee, chatting about nothing in particular, in an apartment full of windows and a fabulous view of Paris from all directions.

My suitcase was a bit heavier when I left of course. I added three new teas to my overflowing collection, a bottle each of pistachio oil, pine nut oil and pumpkin seed oil, a jar of sundried cherry tomato paste from Italy, a bar of Sadaharu Aoki matcha green tea chocolate and some fresh Bouteillan olives from Provence.

It was a good trip.
I have to admit, I did feel a bit sad to leave, but Paris and I, we still have our thing.
And I'll be back there in July so I can't really complain, right?


Stuff and more stuff that I love..



*********************
Mille et Une Huiles
-these oils taste so true to their flavours they knock my socks off.

Spring
28, rue de la Tour d'Auvergne
75009 PARIS
T 01 45 96 05 72
m° Notre-Dame de Lorette

Cocoa muffins, an upcoming trip, and a vegan lunch

Cocoa muffins.

Where does the time go? It's been almost a week since I gloated about my recipe making accomplishments. I guess a girl can only gloat for so long before it starts to get a little excessive. And anyway, that braised chicken picture was starting to bore me. But I will say that I made my version of that recipe again last week, but I stewed some meatballs in the sauce, and man, that was some good stuff.

In the meantime I did make some really disappointing cocoa muffins last weekend. They had such potential--just look how they are bursting through at the tops. The taste, however, was about as boring as.. hmm... I'm trying to think of something really boring.. Let's just say it was as boring as boring is when you are really, really bored. A complete waste of 2/3rds of a cup of Valrhona cocoa powder. Adding insult to injury I had even used my madeleine pan for some of the batter which made the cutest little chocolatey madeleines. They did look cute in my garbage, but it was still quite heartbreaking.

In other exciting news, exactly one week from today this girl is going to be on a train to Paris.
I haven't decided which suitcase I'm going to bring yet because in Paris it's such a pain in the ass pushing your suitcase through the metro turnstiles. I know, you can get the attendant to open the gates at the side but sometimes it takes far too long to get their attention.
Ahh Paris.
How I missed you.
It's no coincidence that my trip coincides with the Salon des Saveurs, that mecca for gourmet food lovers that occurs twice a year in Paris. I never missed one while I lived there and I certainly don't intend to miss it now. My friend Alisa and I are experts at weaving our way around the French madames with their grocery trolleys and their "if it doesn't get out of the way, just run it over" attitudes. When the finest of French food products are at stake, all sense of order gets thrown out the window.

And people, you know I'm going to Mariage Frères. I stocked up before I moved, so it's not as if I'm running low, but I need my aromatherapy and there are always flavours that I have yet to try. I might even give that jaunty little tea boy that works in the shop in the 3rd a big old hug, just because I missed him and his cute little white outfit.

Alright, enough with the rambling. I should talk about something useful, like that nice little lunch I had recently at a place called Vitaorganic in Soho. It's vegan and organic and they seem to have this thing for raw and "gently cooked" foods to preserve the living enzymes.

For 4£ you can select 3 items from the many prepared dishes on display (behind glass of course).
I settled on a mixed plate with carrot and parsnip salad, a lentil salad and some lightly steamed broccoli. This maybe doesn't sound like the kind of lunch that gets your mouth watering, but it's right up my alley. And I'm neither vegan nor even vegetarian for that matter. But it's healthy and fresh and no matter what you pick you are doing your body good.

They also make fresh juices and smoothies to cure whatever ails you, such as the BlueBooster, which will apparently soothe and strengthen your throat.
You can either sit in and enjoy the general healthiness in the air or take your meal away. Oh, and you can get more or less than 3 items if you want, the price will vary accordingly. Makes sense, right?

Vitaorganic
74 Wardour St.
corner of Wardour and Meard Streets
Soho, London
W1F 0TE
Leicester Square Tube



Ok, I'm done rambling now..

Oswego Tea: the friend maker

I wondered when this day would come. For some reason when you start a blog, you don't really think about when you'll "finish" it. Then suddenly you find yourself updating less and less and dust begins to gather on your once shiny, new toy.

In April of 2005 while living in Heidelberg, Germany, Oswego Tea was born. I started snapping some really horrible pictures of some very questionable foods, (white radish soup? huh?) and telling odd little stories about myself. What was I thinking?
My parents, gotta love them, were my biggest and only fans.

And then one day, one fine and glorious day, someone left me a comment. And then more followed. I was hooked. Much to my surprise, some of these comments turned to emails and some fantastic friendships were formed, spanning several continents.

A few months later, G and I packed it up yet again and moved to Paris. The Paris contingent of bloggers welcomed me with open arms and I found myself with an instant group of fabulous friends.
I felt like a very lucky girl.

Now G and I are moving to London, and I hate to say it, I've decided to leave Oswego Tea behind.

But I admit that it is with some trepidation and a bottle of wine that I do so! As our move approaches a part of me doesn't want to let go. I mean, Oswego Tea is a friend maker! What ever will I do without it? Will I wallow in solitude? Friendless, with a supersized bag of shrimp cocktail flavoured crisps on my lap?

Maybe, but if I do, I know Melissa will be on a train from Edinburgh to come snap me out of it, Tara will be on the phone cheering me up with talk of recipes and sparkly things, and Cindy, in her usual display of comraderie will say "Aaww, let's eat chips together and get matching mumus!"
David would send me his homemade caramel corn (hint hint) and Alisa (the most famous non-blogger in Paris) would let me talk about Mariage Frères tea all day just to comfort me.

So I think all will be ok.

I have met so many people because of this blog--I can't even tell you how fabulous they all are.
And I have been equally inspired by so many bloggers out there whom I have never even had the chance to meet.
Who knows, I may pop my head in here every now and then but for now, life and an impending and slightly stressful move to London demand my full attention.

A heartfelt thank-you to all of you who have followed my blog and supported me with such enthusiasm through comments, emails and otherwise. It has been an absolute blast!

Home sweet..

We are back in Canada, where for the next 2 weeks I can say pecan like peecan, instead of puhcahn like my american friends in Paris tell me is the correct way to say it.
Peecan! peecan!
And I can say 'eh' if I want to without feeling self-conscious.
And I can say T-dot, and everyone here knows what I'm referring to.
And I can get a coffee in a paper cup and drink it as I walk down the street.
Oh the simple things.
I will write more soon... eh..

When it rains..

There are some days, weeks, even months, in your life when you wonder if anything exciting will ever happen to you. You start to feel like a total bore. But you settle into it--telling your friends about the latest movie you've seen with an enthusiasm that is meant to convey that the whole event was far more thrilling than it actually was.

And then one day you turn around and suddenly the shit has hit the fan and your life seems to have turned itself upside down and all you can think is: thank god I'm not wearing a skirt or you'd all be seeing my skivvies right now.
And so it goes.

Suddenly you are a girl with a litany of things to talk and/or complain about. Just don't get me started on people who don't understand the concept of stand right/walk left on escalators.

Let me summarize as briefly as possible the recent "excitement" in my life.

My camera broke.
I may be gluten intolerant.
And G and I are moving to London at the end of December.

This is where I need to take several deep breaths into a brown paper bag and beg you to send wine fast.

Ok, so the broken camera isn't life shattering. But it sure gets in the way of blogging. And the gluten intolerance thing, well a happy digestive system makes for a happy me. So I'll deal with it.
But oh my god, no more Paris? No more Mariage Frères tea at my disposal?

Are you sending the wine? Because I'm not joking. I could really use some.

When I say brrr I mean it..

I have come to realize lately when talking to my mom that my 3 years of living outside of Canada have really spoiled me. We are hitting 18c these days in Paris and I'm ready to get out the winter coat and wear my fuzziest sweaters. My mom tells me that in Toronto, it's only 5c, and people are still holding on to those last days of warmth, heading out of doors in nothing but a t-shirt-- a spring jacket at most.
Huh?
I blink my eyes once, then twice in disbelief.
"You're exaggerating, right mom?" I ask her.
"No. You would look silly here if you were wearing a winter coat right now."
This from a woman who has been known to wear turtlenecks in the summer and when confronted about it will wrap her arms around herself, lower her eyelids in a display of extreme happiness and say "Umm..I just love the warmth.."
So you see why I'm confused.

Have I been away from Canada for so long that the idea of a t-shirt and 5 degree weather seem like two concepts that should not be used in the same sentence? I mean, my hot water bottle is already my best friend, and I even wore a scarf while watching tv the other night. It was fuzzy and glamourous and new, sure, but it was still chilly in my apartment. So the wearing of the scarf was not only a private moment of fabulousness, it was also completely warranted.

In 2 weeks G and I are heading to Canada to attend 2 weddings. My mom has assured me that I will not need my winter coat during our stay.
Mom, I love you, and yes that Canadian blood still runs through my veins, but what strange madness is this?
My winter coat is coming with me. And a few scarves. A hat. And a pair of gloves.
I'll leave the boots in Paris, but only because you think I'll look silly.

A hoover man and a weekend getaway.

After a week and a half of a nasty head cold, I am finally back to my old self. Sort of.

While I was lost in my own misery, the city seems to have come alive again. Everyone is back from their vacations and suddenly there are line ups at the laundromat, the dry cleaners, and everywhere else in between. There is nothing worse than lugging all your clothes to the laundromat and having to drag them all back, still dirty.

Even the street cleaners are back in full gear. The other morning I spotted a fellow on a scooter, darting madly around the sidewalks, narrowly (but expertly) missing the pedestrians. It wasn't until he went by me a second time that I saw what he was up to.
He pulled up beside a pile of dog poop, and with a swift motion he whipped out the hose that was attached to the back of his scooter, and sucked up those droppings faster than I could say "Am I on candid camera?"

He did it with such moxy, such flair, I almost didn't believe it was real. I couldn't help but respect him, despite the oddball nature of his work--riding around town hoovering up poop.
And then, I was struck with the following thought:
Man, I'd hate to be the guy who has to clean out the little compartment at the back of the scooter..

But I ramble.
In exciting news, G and I are off to Lisbon, Portugal tomorrow for the weekend.
This will mark my first visit to Portugal. A week ago I didn't know a lick of Portuguese. But now of course, I know how to ask for 'the menu', 'a carafe of wine', 'a beer', and 'the bill'.
Not forgetting all the crucial niceties such as 'excuse me', 'no problem' and 'good morning, nice day for a bike ride, wouldn't you say?'
Not sure I'll get a chance to use that one, but you never know.

I'm already dreaming of the famous Pasteis, or as I have always called them "custard tarts".. Toronto has a good sized Portuguese community and it was never hard to find these around town. I have always loved them and it has been a long time since I've indulged. Now I'm heading to the mecca of custard tarts and I'll be damned if I miss out on the opportunity.

I'll probably be the one on the plane back to Paris with a whole suitcase full of them.
See you when I get back.

Garden of my dreams

I'm not the only one talking about him these days, but the stuff that comes out of Joel Thiébault's garden is worth mentioning over and over again.

A couple of weekends ago a friend and I decided to check out the President Wilson market in the 16th. We got up early that Saturday morning, met at the Alma-Marceau metro, and woke ourselves up over noisettes* at a table on the sidewalk, just down the block from where the market began.
The sky threatened rain, as it has done every day for the last couple of weeks. What can you do but constantly carry an umbrella and get on with your life?

The market was quiet-- it's August and many of the vendors spots stood empty. We wandered through rather nonchalantly until suddenly it was like the clouds parted and the sun shone down on this one booth, like a spotlight. From a short distance away I stood with my arm extended and my finger pointing.
"Look!"
Our feet propelled us forward in a hurry and our conversation turned into a jumbled flurry of "oh my god", "check this out", "what the heck is that" and a great many oohs and ahhs.
You may think I'm exaggerating, but my heart was a thumpin'.

Let me try to paint a visual picture for you.
Tomatoes, in all shades of red, orange, yellow and green.
Big bundles of yellow carrots, the dirt still clinging to them.
Golden beets resting plump and firm beside crisp bundles of swiss chard with stems of red or orange, or yellow.
Herbs piled so high, and smelling so fragrant--many of them I did not even recognize.
Not to mention the peppers, the eggplant, the leafy greens..

All of this, grown in a garden, just outside of Paris.
It doesn't get much better than that.

With our bags full of vegetables, suddenly the rest of the market held little interest. We both went back to our respective apartments, happy as clams, our minds racing with what we would do with our new treasures. I trudged happily through the metro with a big bundle of lemon verbena poking out of my bag, leaving a trail of lemony scent behind me.
I got home, laid my bounty on my counter and gazed at it with wonder and awe.
That week I ate like a queen.
My heart still thumps just thinking about it.
And yes, I will be going back.
Often.




President Wilson market
on President Wilson avenue between Alma-Marceau metro and Iéna metro
Wednesday and Saturday mornings.
Check Clotilde's post for further info on Joel Thiébault.

*noisette --an espresso with a shot of milk in it.

Not this again..

Bouddha Bleu tea, and my new Mariage Frères tea cup

It's been a while since I waxed poetic about Mariage Frères Teas. Which is probably not a bad thing, since you'd probably roll your eyes at me if I did. And to those of you who are sick of it already, I suggest you divert your eyes now.

The truth is, I haven't been drinking all that much tea lately, despite the fact that my tea cupboard (named so because it holds only tea and tea paraphenalia) is literally overflowing.
But summer killed the tea freak in me. It put my tea-freaky self in cement shoes and dropped me in the river to sleep with the fishes.

But August has been quite a surprise. In the blink of an eye we went from 2 weeks of sweat-drenched t-shirts to whipping out the socks and the long sleeves. It's been a bit of a slap in the face.
It took some time before I started to feel the itch, but suddenly that tea cupboard was open again, and there I was back to my old habit of sniffing and mulling over which flavour to select.

Wedding Imperial, and its heavenly scent of chocolate and caramel, won me over on that first day. A cozy, rainy afternoon was made all that much better for it.
And then soon after, on an early morning, with a bit of a bedhead and very cold feet, Bouddha Bleu, a green tea with blue cornflowers, found its way into my tea cup.

The love affair has started all over again..

-----------
And because you know I had to buy the book that describes all their teas, I can tell you what MF has to say about these two lovelies.

Wedding Imperial
One sniff of this stuff and you will be hooked.

"A paean to love. This glamorous blend is steeped in the passion that weds the malty power of golden Assam tea leaves to the sweetness of notes of chocolate and caramel. Perfect clarity. Evidence of a peerless marriage. "

Bouddha Bleu

"For centuries, Buddhists in the Land of Free Men have perpetuated the custom of making special offerings of flowers, fruit and tea to monks. From this green tea, sprinkled with blue cornflowers, there rises a blend of fragrances recalling the ripe fruit on a tray laden with offerings. A tea steeped in spirituality."

**excerpts are from The French Art of Tea, available at Mariage Frères stores, in many languages, for approximately €12.

Let's be best friends..

And then one day I tried to make a movie..
What?
It's my first one..
Be nice.

Paris in August

My Frankenstein tomato: Expertly stitched by Mother Nature herself.

Sunday mornings are my favourite day of the week, and I like to move slowly. I usually get up early but there's something I like about puttering around the house without an agenda on Sundays while G sleeps in. If it's raining, so much the better. For whatever reason, this Sunday, I left G dozing in bed and headed to the Raspail market in the 6th. It's organic on Sundays and because it was after 9am, I was expecting it to be bustling. But then I remembered: it's August, and nothing is bustling in Paris right now. The city is, comparatively at least, a ghost town.

My concierge informed me that every apartment in my building but 2 is currently empty. It seems everyone in France has a summer house and they high tail it out of here as soon as they can.

Needless to say, it has been very, very quiet.

It is a great time to be in the city-- to watch it sleep, so to speak, and to experience it in this rare sense of calm. There are tourists, but not many. Many of the shops are closed and you may have to find a new bakery to keep you stocked with baguettes until yours reopens at the end of the month. Sometimes you find yourself cursing at the inconvenience, but then you quickly realize that this temporary silence is well worth it.

I took a long walk after I'd filled my bags with strange tomatoes at the market. I stopped at a health food store to replenish my bulghur supply, headed for the best baguette in Paris only to find that the bakery was closed, and then headed to Alléosse to gaze at their world of cheeses and marvel still at how at this time of year I can walk in there and find the store empty of customers. I said hello and took my sweet, sweet time.


Cheese from Alléosse
front: Cabris Gors (goat cheese)
middle: Manchego
back: Cheddar fermier

I finally had to call it quits when I could feel a blister forming on the bottom of my foot and my watch told me that I had been walking for over 2 hours. I came home, kicked off my shoes and promptly took a nap. It was not even 11:30am, and I still had the whole quiet day to kill.
Without a doubt, Paris in August is so much better than Paris in July..


Raspail Market
Boulevard Raspail between rue du Cherche-Midi and rue de Rennes
Metro: Rennes
Tuesday and Friday, 7 am to 2.30 pm
Sunday mornings--organic.

Re: your email

Dear Trailblazer,

I got your email this morning. It was so touching--you really showered me with compliments. I'm not saying this to be mean but are you sure you weren't drunk? I know how you like to get your groove on on Friday nights, and I'm thinking that might have affected the tone of your email. Which brings me to this : don't you dare jump on that one-piece shortset bandwagon. Where does Jessica Simpson get off wearing one in her new video when it's clear that she totally stole that whole disco thing from Madonna. If I ever catch you wearing some of those short shorts then I might have to stage an intervention. I had a blue velour one-piece when I was 7 and I think it should just remain in my memories.

But anyway, you said you liked my blog and that is music to my ears. You said you wished that I posted more often and that made me feel kind of bad so I decided to take a picture of my breakfast and post something just for you.

You said you don't remember me being a foodie when we used to hang out together in high school. Hello? We were both a pair of foodies, you and me.

Remember how much we loved dry toast and tomatoes? And they couldn't be just any tomatoes, they had to be the hardest, most unripe ones at the grocery store, picked way too early for their own good, not a single ounce of juice to be squeezed from them? Your brother used to say "Those aren't even tomatoes." and we used to think how uninformed he was because well, back then, anything an older brother said was bollocks anyway, right?

And don't you remember how we used to go out for dinner together every thursday night after hanging out with the skaters (sk8ters) in the Zellers parking lot? And we didn't just go to McDonald's or Burger King like all the other rednecks. Dude, we went to Swiss Chalet for a quarter chicken dinner with fries and sometimes, when we were feeling frou-frou, we had a baked potato instead.

Remember how I used to eat my alpha-ghetti one letter at a time? Remember how we hated those no-name cookies and gave them a really politically incorrect nickname just to express our dislike for anything that was not Nabisco? If that is not a foodie in the making then I don't know what is.

Anyway, the point is, your email sure was a breath of fresh air. Drunk or not. So I hope you like my berries up there, because I took that picture just for you so that you might wake up this Saturday morning and think to yourself, gee that Michèle sure is nice. Because I sure do think you're swell.

Ta ta and happy eating,
Michèle aka Chicken Legs.

P.S. And don't forget that awesome fruit salad you used to make with a wide variety of canned fruits.

July, you made it hard to like you.

It's been hot.
That's no newsflash, I know.
I spend most of my energy these days trying to think of ways not to expend energy. If I don't move, and the breeze of the fan is directed solely at me, then it's bliss. But once I blink, or scratch my arm, suddenly I break out in a sweat and my bliss turns to extreme grumpiness.
I sweat, people. But I don't like it.

So I'm sure I don't need to tell you that I'm not cooking much. You put anything in your mouth that is even remotely above lukewarm and that's it, you're done. You've turned into a grumpy, sweaty, eating machine and you have to jump in a cold shower just to recover from the meal.

So where does that leave me?
No cooking=no photos=no blogging.
Boo.

The big debate is trying to decide if you really should drink that refreshingly cool glass of white wine. Because deep down you know the alcohol, in the end, will probably warm you up. But just the idea of wine seems to take the pain away, doesn't it? You can forget for a moment that you are in the middle of a heat wave, in a country with no air conditioning, and that the Evian spray bottle you bought just to refresh your face every now and then is now being used on arms, legs, and torsos.

But today, oh joy, TODAY, it is comparatively cool and the chance of perspiration for today? I'd say we're down to at least 20%.
I know I may be pushing it, but I'm going for a hot cup of coffee today and brace yourself, I may even make some soup for dinner.

See you later July. And don't come back.
At least for another year or so.

If I had a ladder..

Today is Bastille Day in Paris, and I, like thousands of others, made my way to the Champs Elysées this morning to see the parade.
When I first took my camera out, instead of seeing something lovely through the viewfinder, I saw this on my screen instead:
"NO CARD PRESENT."

Merde! I had left my memory card at home.
I carefully tucked my camera back into my bag and hopped that no one noticed my stupidity.
I made a face to say "Bof, eets not worth takeeng a peecture of zis anyway.."


C'est dommage, I know. But not really. Since I took my sweet time arriving all I could see of the actual parade route was a sea of heads. Some were nice, some not so much. Either way, it's not what I was there for.

That called for a couple more Merdes.

I pushed my way (politely) through crowds to see if I could get a better view, but there was no luck to be had.

Instead, I could only look longingly up at the balconies that line that grand road and wonder at the people rich enough to have an apartment up there, and how they flaunted it by actually watching the parade from there while the rest of us little people stood on our tiptoes for an hour. By next year at this time, I pledged to myself, I would make a friend of one of those people, and ensure that I am invited to spend the morning watching the parade in full view from their lovely balcony. If any of you are reading this, Hi! I'm fun and nice! I'll make salad!

But I did manage to see the tops of various styles of hats as they marched along. And I was particularly excited to see the military trucks and tanks which sped surprisingly fast down the Champs Elysées (was there something better going on somewhere? what'd I miss? what'd I MISS?) and the fighter jets that flew above our heads in perfect formations.

It was very French.
I liked it.
I wanted to throw down my passports and trade them in for a French one right then and there.

Once I was safely out of the area, I stopped by a fromagerie and got myself some French cheese and a baguette, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

Next year though, next year...

Zuni's Orange-Currant Scones

Zuni Orange-Currant Scones. Not shy on the butter.

When I returned from my recent trip to Canada I expected that I would bring some things back with me. But in the end, the treasures that ended up in my suitcase weren't entirely what I had anticipated. I thought I would have a suitcase full of Triscuits and Smartfood, two things that I covet and miss on a regular basis.
But these suddenly were bumped in priority and were replaced with a strong desire for a big tub of all natural smooth peanut butter, and Bandaid brand bandaids.

Because, first of all, it's not easy to find all-natural peanut butter here, and when you do it's rather pricey. And secondly, will someone please tell me why French bandaids don't stick? Is my North American skin of such a different constitution that the chemical properties of the French bandaid glue don't adhere to me?

Then came the cookbooks. Our bags were already heavy so I knew I had to be selective. Without question, Zuni made the cut. I dug that poor old book out of a dusty box and now it sits, happily, in the full sunshine of my little French kitchen.

So last weekend, as I was pondering Zisou and the speed at which his head travels, I decided I would start the day with Zuni's Orange-Currant Scones.
The fact that the recipe instructions had a very low word count intrigued me right from the start.

To make a short story even shorter, I give you this raving review:
1. easy to make.
2. oh so very good.

With a scant 1/2 cup of sugar, they have the perfect hint of sweetness. The inside is moist (hello, half a pound of butter) and the top has a perfect crumbly texture.
You could change the Orange-Currant combo to anything really. And because they are low on the sweet factor, you could easily make them savoury, by leaving out the sugar and using say, Lemon Zest and Rosemary for example. Or put some cheese on the top before you bake them.
Oy.

And here's where I'm beginning to think that perhaps the last 11 months I've been in France is starting to influence me.
The recipe says you should get 12 scones out of the batter. I tried it with the first half of the batter, and the scones were oversized. No, oversized is what Michele after 6 months in Paris would call them. At 11 months in Paris, I may even go so far as to use the word grotesquely oversized. So I Frenchified them, and made them much, much smaller. Smaller=cuter=more scones.

Without further ado, I present to you:

Orange-Currant Scones from the Zuni Café Cookbook

3 cups all purpose flour (13.5 oz)
Scant 1/2 cup sugar
4 tsp baking powder
1/8 tsp salt
1/2 pound cold butter (approx 226g or 2 sticks for North Americans)
1/2 cup dried currants
1 tb orange zest
1 large egg
1/2 cup whole milk (I used 1% and still loved them)

Oven: 350F.
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Two if you have room in your oven for two.
Combine the dry ingredients in a large bowl and mix well.
Cut in butter until it is the size of small peas then add the currants and orange zest.

Whisk the egg and milk together. Add to the dry ingredients and mix and fold until the dough masses and the flour is absorbed.

Divide the dough in two and shape each into a ball. Pat each one into a 6 to 7 inch circle on a lightly floured surface. Roll to approximately 1 inch thick and cut into whatever size you want. The cookbook suggests 6 per circle, (cut like you would a round pizza). This method will produce very large scones. I cut mine into little squares and I probably got 3 times as many scones as the recipe indicates.

Bake until firm to the touch and slightly golden, about 25 to 30 minutes.

Fava, Green Bean and New Potato Salad

Fresh Fava Beans


All salads are not created equally.
It's simple logic, really.
Some you like.
And some you don't.

I've been eating a lot of salads lately with 3 particular ingredients that seem to keep making repeat appearances.

1. Fresh fava beans
I derive no end of pleasure from perfecting my pod extraction techniques. I am not shy to say that if there were championships in this, I might just bring home a trophy.
2. Green beans
This is due to the fact that I wasn't paying attention at the market when I asked for enough for two people and I was given what seemed like a truckload of beans. Who knew two people could eat a whole kilo of green beans?
3. New potatoes
Because they're new potatoes. Duh.

It all started on a strange sort of day. I had a brainstorm and decided to put all three together.
I know. I'm just that crazy.

As I served up the salad, I felt somewhat satisfied with myself. Only 0.98 kilos of green beans to go.. umm...

But I wasn't terribly daunted, because, well, that bottle of wine was already half empty.. The mass quantities of green beans that sat in my kitchen seemed more like the promise of good times than something to fret over.
What, you've never heard of a green bean party?

I'm happy to say, that sometimes, occassionally, yes--even once in a while, I throw something together and I like it. And no, it wasn't the wine talking..




Fava Bean, Green Bean and New Potato Salad
Make a vinaigrette with lemon juice and a light olive oil, a splash of white wine vinegar, and some sea salt to taste. Add a dash of Dijon mustard if you want a bit of zing.
Boil some new potatoes until tender, but not mushy. Drain and let cool. Cut in half if they are too big.
Blanch some green beans until tender. Drop into cold water to preserve the colour.
Remove the favas from their outer pods and the skin that covers each bean. (see below)
Toss all the vegetables together with the dressing and some chopped fresh dill.
Add some more sea salt to taste if necessary.
----------
I've recently been re-reading my Zuni Café cookbook in which Judy Rodgers suggests the following:
Use salted water when cooking potatoes to season them as they cook.
Remove the skins that surround fresh fava beans by hand, without blanching them. She suggests that blanching them, although it makes the skins come off easier, changes their texture.
It's up to you. Next time, I will try it Judy's way.

-----------
Related
The Zuni Café Cookbook

Ceasar Salad: The Keller way

Ceasar Salad, Keller style.


The French Laundry and I don't have much of a history together. I have never been to the restaurant and I bought the cookbook mainly because the cover looked pretty.
But my secret shame is that I have only made 2 of its recipes in all the time that it has graced my bookshelf. And those 2 both involved cheese and were about the easiest recipes that could be found within its pages.

But last week a friend of mine was coming over for dinner and suddenly I was feeling ambitious.

And so we come to "How to Impress 101":
Make a recipe in which layers are stacked.
It seems very difficult and somewhat frou-frou.
And you get extra points if it comes from the French Laundry.

I told my dinner guest of my plans. I didn't admit it at the time, but I was biting my knuckles a bit. This was Keller after all.

And yet, I reasoned it as much as I could.
"Most of the steps can be done in advance."
"I won't have much to do when my guest arrives."
"It's probably not as hard as it seems."

But little did I realize that it would take several hours of my time in advance, which I had left to that same day.

By the time my guest was due to arrive, all I wanted to do was crawl in bed, take a nap and order in a bucket of KFC. Except of course, this is France, and I would by shunned by my neighbours if I drowned out the smell of their madeleines with the smell of KFC.

Keller, you tuckered me out. But you sure make some great salad.


The Salad
I won't give you the exact recipe because it would take 3 pages just to write it out for you. You'll just have to buy the book or find a friend who will let you borrow it from them. But you can use the idea.

The Dressing
Keller's dressing is fantastic. The recipe makes way more than you will ever be able to eat in the 3 days that it will last in the fridge. Unless you have a really big Ceasar Salad party to use up the leftover dressing. The key to the flavour of this dressing is the addition of balsamic vinegar.

The Parmesan Custards
The parmesan custards are actually not that hard to make once you figure out that the recommended 250F to bake the custards is probably a typo and that's why after an hour the damn things still haven't set yet. I recommend 350F--then 30 minutes is exactly right. The custards are just a combination of milk, cream and parmesan.

The Parmesan Crisps
Make some parmesan crisps the same size as your ramekins by spreading some grated parmesan in a circle on a silpat sheet or parchment paper and baking at 350F for about 8 minutes until they turn a little golden. They will crisp once cooled. These can be done in advance and kept in an airtight container for a few days.

Putting it all together
First put some of the dressing on the plate.
Then a panfried crouton (a slice of baguette and some olive oil) goes on top of that.
Then the custard.
Then the parmesan crisp.
Then the salad which is lightly coated with some of the dressing.
And then a few shavings of parmesan to top it off.



The French Laundry Cookbook

Master of my artichoke

There are moments when you cook when your mind is focused on nothing but the task in front of you. An hour or two goes by and you finally lift your head up with the urge to say:
"Where am I? Hello? Is anybody here?"
Your brain just gets sucked into some vaccuum of concentration that starts from the moment you start prepping the food to the point where you finally sit back from the table and say:
"Damn. That was good."

You see, I'd never cooked an artichoke before. My recent decision to lose my artichoke virginity was partly inspired by Sam's attempt to dispel the myth of preparing artichokes for those of us who, namely me, have lived a life of artichoke avoidance.

So I took the first step and bought one. Then I found a simple recipe which would give me a cooked artichoke to pull the leaves from and dip. And you know I'm a fan of the dipping.
So I made the recipe without any major incidents. Then I sat down at the table and began to suck the tender yummy bit from one of the leaves.
"What about the rest of the leaf?" I said aloud to G, who was really not interested in the play by play of my artichoke. "They're still kind of tough."
"Just eat the tender bit." he said from the study without looking up from his computer.
"That's alot of work for just a nubbin's worth of goodness." I declared, while madly pulling, dipping and eating the leaves.


Artichoke leaves, with the good stuff sucked out.

Halfway through my feeding frenzy I felt inspired to take a picture. I ran to the kitchen, snapped a couple of my half eaten artichoke and ran back to the table, sat down and started eating again.
G paid me no mind.
I got up from the table and true to my dorky self, I said: "That was fun. I'm going to do that again really soon."
My glee was met with silence.
So I grabbed my phone and dialed my friend Alisa's number. Because I was pretty sure she would want to hear about my fun with the artichoke.
But she wasn't home.
And then like I'd just been pinched, there came that moment, as I tipped the leaves into the garbage I thought: "What the hell just happened?"
I conquered the artichoke. That's what.

Artichokes with Basil Mayonnaise from Epicurious.

Recipe Notes
Try substituting the mayonnaise for greek yogurt as I did. It's lighter and lower in fat if that is of any concern to you. You may not need as much lemon juice though since the yogurt is tangy.
The combination of basil and garlic went superbly with the artichoke.
I think one large artichoke per person is not unreasonable since the yummy bit on each leaf is tiny.
I will definitely make this again.
Even though I thought it was a lot of work at first, now that I've done it I realize it wasn't all that hard, and it was definitely worth it.

Not so extreme makeover

So I sat at my desk twirling my hair, staring at my little old blog and all I could think was: I'm bored.
And then I blew a bubble with my gum and popped it really loud to emphasize my boredom.
So bear with me while Oswego Tea tries on some new pants over the next few days.
Change is good.
Pop.

Sel de Guérande and my cupboard full of secrets

Sel de Guérande aux Algues

About a month ago, maybe more actually, I bought this salt at some exhibition on the east side of Paris. I was enthused when I saw it for two reasons:

Firstly, because its Sel de Guérande. Right from the salt marshes of Brittany.
Secondly, it was the salt that was used in those strange but yummy caramels I had bought way back when I first moved to Paris and experienced my first taste of salted butter caramels. I hadn't realized at the time that I had bought the algae version until I tasted them, but I was pleasantly surprised at how good they were.

So, I bought this salt (250g for less than 2 euros) and felt pretty satisfied that the collection of foods in my kitchen cupboard was starting to look pretty impressive. I don't even care that I'm the only one really impressed by it. I realize that everyone here probably has the same stuff in their cupboards as I do.

But time has been passing, and the salt has been sitting there, serving no other purpose but looking pretty. So one day a few weeks ago I finally opened it and stuck my nose in the bag. They aren't kidding about the algae thing. I was suddenly transported to a dirty beach, of which I remember many from my life in and around Toronto. If you are looking for a shopping cart to call your own you are sure to find one there. But when a smell transports you somewhere in memory, you hope for something a bit more pleasant.




Needless to say, I twist-tied that bag shut at mach speed and set it right back on the shelf-- label out so it could continue to impress me. But then the guilt began to set in again. Once the smell test has been done, a girl has to move on. Use or lose it as they say.

But a few weeks later, I still haven't tried it. Of course, as you can see by the label, they suggest using it in bouillons, on fish or on vegetables. Seems easy enough. But still, for some strange reason, I resist. And I know that when I finally do try it, I'll probably love it and I'll kick myself for being such a wimp.

But I had to come clean. I had to get this off my chest and tell you that sometimes I buy things and then I'm not as brave or experimental as I like to think I am. I hope you still respect me. I'm really not such a bad person. And if you are starting to doubt my character, remember that I do have a pretty impressive cupboard full of stuff. So there.


Sel de Guérande official website
Sel de Guérande at Amazon

April. Good times.

Life sure does get in the way sometimes.
There are times when you say that and then someone asks you:
"So what have you been up to then?"
And all you can say is:
"Well, not much really. But I've been busy."
And then you feel kind of silly because you realized that that excuse really sucked.

So here I am, ready to dish out my excuses, like some kind of heaping plate of spaghetti with meat sauce. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds yummy, doesn't it? And I do loves me some pasta bolognese.

Anyway, there was April. It came and went, leaving me with memories of a fun filled visit from my cousin Jenny, and a surprise proposal from my boyfriend. So while Jenny and I pranced around Paris, I basked in the glow and sparkle of the ring on my finger.

My herb guy at the market is going to be sorely disappointed, as he has already stated that one day he and I would be married. I think I caught his attention by buying 6 different bunches of fresh herbs in one shot.
"That's hot", he probably said to himself before he announced his intentions.
Who knew.

And the fun doesn't end there.

Tomorrow G and I leave for a swanky resort in the Caribbean, a destination which promises lots of sun and sand. Considering our fair complexions, it seems a highly unlikely vacation spot for us. But I'll be happily SPF'd, on the beach, whiling the hours away under an umbrella with a book (or many) and some sort of cheesy tropical drink in hand, whose name I will never remember but I'll keep telling the cabana boy that I want that pink one in the pineapple shell with that pretty flower sticking out the top. And the cabana boy will laugh and think how cute it is that I can never remember the name of the drink that I have already ordered 6 times that day, and he'll think to himself:
"Gee, that girl wears alot of sunscreen but she sure is charming."
And then he'll be blinded by the sparkle of the diamond on my new ring and he'll think:
"Oh, she's taken. That's hot."
And I'll be like: "Yeah. You know it. "

So there. Those are my excuses. The point of all of it is that I will be back in business soon. And hopefully I will have some swanky resort pictures to share with you when we get back next week.

See you then!

On being a dork. And eating a good salad.

Grilled Zucchini Salad with Feta and Mint

Do you ever reflect on your younger years and laugh at yourself for how much of a dork you were? Because I do. Often.
And I'm not even talking about my treasured FAME sweatsuit, or about my excessive baton twirling, or my Holly Hobbie lunchpail. Primary school was low on the dorkiness scale in comparison to high school. Because then, in my teenage years, my true status as a full-fledged dork was formed.

You see, I was the girl who convinced my friends to stand with me on the sidewalk in front of my house and point at the sky so that we could see how many passersby would look up. I was also the girl who got giddy over a contraption you could attach to your shoe to purposely make it squeak. But just the sound of it would make me laugh so hard that everybody knew it was me.
And I was the girl (along with an accomplice) who went into our high school late one evening and put nametags on consecutive lockers with such names as Curly, Moe, and of course Larry.
Ah, the good times.

And then there was food. I thought I was posh for bringing a pumpernickel bagel with ham and cheese to school for my lunch, until I realized that everyone thought I had put ham and cheese on a chocolate donut and suddenly my posh lunch was the source of much teasing.

There was a time when the concept of a salad without lettuce was an inconceivable and frankly ridiculous notion to me. I was such a princess that my first experience with a lettuce-free greek salad elicited the following response:
"That's not a salad, that's just a pile of vegetables."
And perhaps a wee "Pshaw." escaped my lips.
There is no doubt that I was a bit of a pain in the ass.
I won't even tell you the scorn I felt when I was first introduced to Pico de Gallo and it looked nothing like the salsa I was used to from a jar. "Puh-leaze." I think I said.

But, a girl gains a few years, lives a little, tastes a few more things, and with time vegetables aren't the thing your parents force you to eat but a new thing to discover and enjoy on your own terms. And here I am, still a bit of a dork, but alot more wise. And I sure do like my salads. With or without lettuce.




Grilled Zucchini salad with feta and mint

This really isn't a recipe, and I'm sure the combination won't appeal to everyone, but it works for me.
To serve myself I took one good-sized zucchini and sliced it down the middle to form 2 long halves. From each half I trimmed a little bit off the back so that it would lay flat on both sides. I brushed each slice on both sides with olive oil and grilled over high heat, just a few minutes per side so it was to the consistency that I liked it. Soft but not mushy, still holding a slight bite to it.

Then chop the grilled zucchini into bite sized pieces or chunks, however you like it. Toss with some olive oil, lemon juice and a bit of fresh garlic while still hot. Let it cool a bit so your feta doesn't melt all over it.
Top with chopped mint, feta, cracked black pepper and a pinch of sea salt. Add another squeeze of lemon juice if necessary.
Eat.



Tags:
Zucchini Salad
Zucchini Recipes

Spring. She is sprung.

Spring in Paris

Yesterday, a random "let's meet for an afternoon coffee" turned into an 8 hour walking tour of Paris with regular breaks at various cafes. My caffeine intake went through the roof, but damn, I sure got some good exercise. But the positive effects of those hours on our feet were quickly negated when the sun finally set and we decided it was time to switch from coffee to wine. But more caffeine would have kept me up all night, so I was really doing it with my health and well-being in mind. You see how I'm always taking care of myself.

The big excitement of the day was that I had my first celebrity-spotting experience. I won't deny that in these nearly 8 months that I've lived in Paris, I have wondered where the heck all the famous people are. Brangelina are photographed everywhere but I never seem to bump into them. If I did, I'm sure they'd want to take me out for a drink because I mean, you know, maybe they read Oswego Tea or something.

So anyway, there we were perched on a hard stool in a charming wine bar in the 5th, munching on a cheese plate, and right past the front window walks none other than Kristin Scott Thomas. It took all of .005 seconds for me to recognize her.
There was a subtle "Ah!" and a point and then "That's Kristin Scott Thomas." I tried my best to reel in my bug eyes.
Alisa, my wandering companion, nonchalantly informed me that KST actually lives in Paris.
I think she then flipped her hair to further accentuate the humdrum-ness of the sighting.
Well then.
But inside I was feeling pretty self-satisfied. Won't this make a great, albeit really short, story to tell my friends and family?
Then I realized that what it boils down to is this: "I saw Kristin Scott Thomas. The End. "
But still.
It's my story, and I'll tell it.

My legs were sore and aching when I got home so I took the hot water bottle to bed ignoring all warnings against doing so.. I woke up with 2 red patches on the back of my calves which screamed "You dork, you burnt yourself".

But it seemed a fitting end to an otherwise perfect day. Let me just say these 3 little words: Spring in Paris.. It doesn't get much better than that.

Been thinking about my doorbell..

Lemon Poppy Seed Cookies

Saturday started out in such a wholesome way. The sun was shining-- I took a leisurely trip to the store to get some sugar, and had a nice, slow morning of baking.
But Saturday ended with some high impact margaritas, three bottles of wine, some cognac, and a cat running around in circles doing its best to catch its own tail.
But thankfully, I had the cookies to prove that I had been somewhat productive that day. An evening of debauchery is allowed when you've spent the earlier hours baking sweet cookies for your friends, isn't it?
The problem is that Sunday morning I awoke with little room for any thoughts in my head. Every bit of my brainpower was consumed with the same 2 lines of a song that went over and over in my mind. It's a song that I normally like, but which this morning felt rather like a jackhammer working its way at my temples.

"I been thinkin' about my doorbell-- when you gonna ring it, when you gonna ring it?"

There are times when I think about my doorbell too, but this morning I definitely didn't want to be thinking about thinking about my doorbell.

So there I sat, curled up on the couch with that song in my head, staring blankly at random things in my living room, while G was finally pulling himself up to a sitting position in bed.
And, as often happens when a couple finds themselves in different rooms, curiosity inevitably overtakes one of you and leaves you wondering what the other person is doing in the other room that may be more exciting than what you are currently doing. So the following conversation occurred from across the hallway:

G: Whatcha doin?
M: Starin' at stuff. Whatchu doin'?
G: Sittin' up.

And so Sunday morning began.
I'm still not sure who was having more fun.



Cookie Talk
I ripped this recipe out of a Martha Stewart Living Magazine ages ago and have carried it around with me ever since. I have made these cookies a couple of times now and I like the subtle combination of lemon and poppy seeds, neither overwhelms the other. They're good tea time cookies if you're into that sort of thing.
They seemed to go over well last night too, with good reviews all around. And that was so not tea time.

Lemon Poppy Seed Cookies
(adapted from a recipe found in Martha Stewart Living Magazine)

1/4 cup fresh lemon juice (2 to 3 lemons)
3.5 teaspoons lemon zest
8 ounces unsalted butter
2 cups all-purpose flour (for French bakers, I used type 55 flour)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1.5 cups sugar
1 large egg
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 tablespoon poppy seeds, plus more for sprinkling

Preheat oven to 375F or 190C.
Bring lemon juice to a simmer in a saucepan until it is reduced by about half. Add half the butter until melted. Remove from heat.

Sift flour, baking powder and salt together in a bowl.

Cream remaining butter and 1 cup of sugar together.
Add egg and lemon/butter mixture. Mix with an electric beater until pale, only a couple of minutes.
Add vanilla and 2 teaspoons of the zest.
Add flour and poppy seeds. ***see important note below regarding the flour!

Stir together remaining 1/2 cup of sugar and lemon zest in a separate bowl.
Roll your cookie dough into small balls and toss or roll them gently in the lemon sugar.
Place on a non-stick baking sheet (or use parchment paper) a couple of inches apart and press down with the flat end of a glass dipped in the sugar mixture so it doesn't stick. (I didn't press down as much as I could have, it's entirely up to you how flat you want them)
Add a pinch of poppy seeds to the top of each. ( I press these down a bit too so they don't just roll off)
Martha recommends they are baked between 10 and 11 minutes, until browned around the edges. I like to undercook them a little so they are super soft and chewy, so I only baked mine for about 9 minutes.
Can be stored in an airtight container for up to a week.


Important note:
*I have only made this recipe with German and French flour. Each time I have had to add about 5 heaping tablespoons of extra flour because the dough was too sticky. But with that correction the cookies turn out wonderfully. Well I like them anyway..

Flour power and solid gold dancing.

Since my last post, I have made that feta dip about a thousand times, including three other versions from the same cookbook.
I've been gettin' my greek yogurt on, as they say.
Exciting for me, not so exciting for you.
But tomorrow, yes tomorrow, the baking shall commence.
I've got a date with my kitchen, and I'm going to wear my foxiest apron.
This is Paris people, of course they have foxy aprons. With underwire and lace and sparkly things.
No, I don't have one of those, but I could. And maybe one day I will.

In the meantime, perhaps this useless fact will entertain you:
When I was a kid I wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer.
My dream was shattered when the program ended. I was a shadow of my former self without that dream to hold onto.

Skinny Dipping

While we're on the topic of dips, let me just say that I am no lightweight dipper.
Truth be told, I am a downright scooper.
This is an inherited trait; I blame it on my genes.
Put my dad and I in a room with even a small bowl of tortilla chips, and the salsa jar had better be a large one.

And let it be said, it is not just my genes that have contributed to my scoopiness.
I come from Canada, a country that has proudly embraced the idea of serving dips with our pizza. And before your eyebrows disappear into your hairline, let me say that it is really, really good. Those little plastic containers of creamy mysteriousness have changed the way many of us eat pizza. The hardest part is deciding whether you want the Creamy Garlic flavour or Cheddar Jalapeno. And hold onto your hats, because the truth is, that if you're willing to shell out a few extra coins, you can actually get both.
Oh the joy.

But then again, there is the waistline to think about.

So when I found this recipe that would allow for guilt free scooping, I did a little dance and got down that very same night.

This is the easiest dip to make. It is simple, light and fresh in flavour. It is great as a dip on its own with veggies or pita bread, or as part of a greek-style meal with chicken, lamb or beef brochettes, and rice. Just make sure you like the yogurt you're using, since it acts as the base of the dip. (ok, that obvious piece of advice was really just for my mom. Love you mom!)

Feta Mash
Adapted from Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons by Diana Henry

75g (2.75 oz) feta cheese, crumbled
300g (10.5 oz) greek yogurt
45ml (3tbsp) olive oil
1 garlic clove, crushed
30ml (2 tbsp) dill, chopped
30ml (2 tbsp) mint, chopped

Mix the following ingredients together and serve.

Suggestions:
Crumble the feta as large or as small as you want.
Add more feta cheese if you want a lumpier dip.
Add some lemon zest for an extra bit of flavour.
Strain your yogurt in cheesecloth over a bowl if you want a thicker dip.
Omit the olive oil if you wish, for a slightly different texture.

Disclaimer:
I loved this dip, my boyfriend did not. If you aren't a fan of mint or dill, then this recipe is probably not for you.

Random Photo

From the 5th floor of the Pompidou Centre on a rainy day

Rearview

G and I are not strangers to a random Sunday drive. We've clocked many a kilometer exploring our surroundings through the windshield of a car.
But when it takes you through the mad and crazy roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs Elysées and past the Eiffel Tower before you finally decide to hop on the highway and head to Versailles for a couple of hours... well, it's hands down the best Sunday drive ever.

Which is a good thing, because the day before, we took that rental car and drove it to Ikea. And though we survived the trip, the assembly at home later that day nearly killed us.
Ikea is the ultimate relationship tester.
The furniture should come with a warning:
Do not assemble unless under the influence of alcohol.
Otherwise, you just might not survive it.



Tags

Paris
Eiffel Tower

The time for cookies is now.

Chocolate Chunk and Toffee Cookies

I made these and I ate some. And now there are 40 of them left, tempting me every minute of the day. Calling to me from the kitchen in a soft, chocolatey whisper.

I won't deny that I have opened that tin of cookies many times. I have put my nose all the way in and sucked all of that cookie smell right out of there with a deep, long breath. I hold it in for as long as I can and then finally walk away, until the next urge to smell them hits me.
Just eat one, you might be thinking.
Oh, but I have. One, and then some.
The time for cookies has arrived, several times.
What's a girl to do with 40 delicious cookies?
I'll tell you what.
Pack them up, take them to a friend's house and wave goodbye.
Parting is such sweet sorrow....
Until you get back home, find a new recipe, and start all over again.




These Chocolate Chunk and Toffee Cookies are from Williams-Sonoma.
I used a Lindt chocolate bar that is filled with crunchy caramel bits as my toffee portion of the recipe. Since they are basically just a chocolate chip cookie with a bit of flair, you can use anything you want to act as the toffee portion. The cookies came out moist and chewy, with brown-sugary sweetness. Just the way a chocolate chip cookie should be. The recipe made 48 cookies, based on the size that I made them.
For those in France, I used type 55 flour.



Tags
Cookies
Chocolate Chunk Cookies

I heart cheese and swanky olive oil

Coeur Cendré

You think I'm going to talk about cheese don't you. Well I would if I hadn't been so cocky as to walk out of the fromagerie knowing the name of the above cheese and nothing else. I thought the internet would help me out but it seems to be on the fritz. Someone forgot to index that wealth of information on Coeur Cendré cheese. Or perhaps I was just lazy and didn't look hard enough. But it looks pretty and it tasted nice. It was drier and crumblier than I expected but it had a nice flavour. If that doesn't send you running to your nearest cheese shop, well then, I perfectly understand.
Oh, and please note the free piece of hay that came with it.
Free stuff. That's right.
Thus ends the story of my new cheese. Sort of.

And so I move on to the olive oil.
This part of the story is motivated by my rather sad relationship with salads over the past few months. I shamefully admit that not one has graced my table in an embarrassingly long time. (Never fear mom, I'm still eating my veggies!)
Now let me just say that I, for the most part, do not spend lavishly when it comes to olive oil and balsamic vinegar. So I'm not telling you to spend lots of money, I'm just saying, well.. that I did.

Check out my brand new 20euro bottle of olive oil. A.O.C, cold pressed, made in Nyons, France. Accompanying this purchase was an equally expensive 12 year aged balsamic vinegar from Italy. I felt a bit naughty for having done so. But good naughty. I was going to spend a romantic evening with a salad and damn it, it was going to be great if I had anything to say about it.
Cue the Barry White.



I washed the greens, drizzled some of that swanky olive oil and balsamic vinegar on it, and added a sprinkle of fleur de sel (which sounds pretentious, but that's what its called so why fight it).
And then the cheese made its debut after a brief stint in a hot oven. I must say, that I gobbled that salad up faster than you can say a really long word.



Salad, it's just you and me baby. I'm back. And I'm never going to let you go again.

P. S. That's a dollop of fig jam at the side because nothin' says lovin' like fig jam and goat cheese.
P.P.S. The money I spent on that olive oil and vinegar was totally worth it.



Tags
Olive Oil France
Balsamic Vinegar
Coeur Cendré
Salad Ideas

For David, and it's not even his birthday

I must admit, memes give me the willies. They seem to me more like homework, and less like the fun you might hope them to be. So if anyone has tagged me for a meme recently and I have failed to follow through I apologize. I am a bad, bad person, with what I think is a severe allergic reaction to memes.

Case in point:
David recently tagged me for a meme, the topic of which I have no recollection and I rudely ignored it. But then we went out for wine and falafels together and I was pretty sure he had forgotten about the slight.

But I have now learned that Lebovitz doesn't forget, nor will he be ignored. The man has tagged me again for a different meme altogether. Alright David, you've won. You better read all of my answers too. I'm going to quiz you on them later, just to make sure.

So on to the meme. It appears to require me to list 4 things in 10 different questions, otherwise referred to as the 4 x 10. Let me point out that I do believe David changed it to the 4 x 9.
Was it strategy? Or bad math? I don't know, but I'm sticking with it.


Four Jobs I've Had:
1. my first job at age 13 was at the local steakhouse in the town where I grew up. It was there that I had my first real crush on a boy of 17, who wasn't shy to admit his desire to change his name to Blane. Andrew McCarthy, in Pretty in Pink, made this ok. But not really.
2. A salesgirl at the local department store at the age of 14, after the steakhouse closed down due to health violations or something. I worked the baby and the lingerie department, which was a pretty sassy job for a 14 year old.
3. A salesgirl yet again at an environmental shop during University.
4. Answering technical support phone calls until I almost pulled my hair out with how many problems were fixed by telling people to reboot their blasted computers. It was here that one of my customers instead of asking me how to fix his computer, asked me what, in fact, I was wearing.

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over:
1. Breakfast at Tiffany's. The first time I watched this involved mass quantities of wine and my very vivacious cousin Jenny. She is the cousin of all cousins and if I could have had a sister I would wish her to be exactly like my dear Jenny. Plus, anyone with a name ending in y is bound to be a fun person. Anyway, there was wine, and there was Audrey Hepburn. And there was me, and my cousin Jenny and the following conversation:
"What language is she speaking?"
"I'm not sure. But I can't understand a word she's saying."
"Me neither. But I thought this was supposed to be a great movie?"
"It is."
"Is there any more wine?"
So Jenny, in conclusion, it was the wine. I promise you. I've watched it many times since then and sober-- it's very funny. And perfectly intelligible.

2. Anything with Cary Grant
3. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
4. and yes, Fight Club. "I am Jack's medula oblongata."

Four Places I've Lived and a word or two to describe each:
1. Ottawa, Ontario --cold.
2. Washington, D.C --heavily armed
3. Sheffield, U.K --frosted tips
4. Heidelberg, Germany --big beer

Four TV Shows I Love:
1. Six Feet Under
2. The Office, British version. I'm not in any way suggesting the American version sucks, I just haven't seen it.
3. Little Britain
4. I can't think of a fourth one that thrills me as much as the above three.

Four Highly-Regarded and Recommended TV Shows That I've Never Watched:
1. West Wing
2. Desperate Housewives
3. Lost (Not for lack of wanting to, but for lack of actually appearing on any channels on my tv.)
4. The Nanny (as recently recommended by David, but which I probably never will watch because I would rather eat worms)

Four Places I've Vacationed:
When you are pale, and the sun is not your friend, these are the places you go:
1. Prague, Czech Republic --where meal = meat. And beer is cheaper than soda.


2. Paris, France -- but now I live here so that's not a particularly exciting answer.
3. Edinburgh, Scotland -- where I first made acquaintance over pints of Hoegaarden with Melissa.
4. San Francisco, CA -- where I unwittingly spent far too much time in the Tenderloin.

Four of My Favorite Dishes:
1. a good hearty bowl of chili, without corn. Don't get me started on random additions of corn.
2. spaghetti bolognese
3. parmesan risotto
4. sticky rice and nam jeun at The Queen Mother Café in Toronto.

Four Sites I Visit Daily:
1. David Lebovitz. Because man, that guy sure has a lot to say.
2. Pink is the new blog.. don't pretend you don't want to know what hijinks Paris or Britney have gotten themselves into.
3. The BBC weather page. Yes, I'm a dork. But I will never be caught without my umbrella. Except that one time, and had to scrunch myself in under someone else's. Sorry Alisa.
4. And boringly enough, BBC News.

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now:
1. in JA's kitchen giggling in the corner while she makes hand-rolled, cheese-covered green olives, which I at one time declared to be officially named "S(h)weaty balls". To which I would get the repeated response of "Shut up."
2. translating Breakfast at Tiffany's for my cousin Jenny while her dog barks at me when I forget to pet her (the dog that is).
3. hanging out with mom and dad and my brother's supersized brood of offspring--with whom I use the word "dude" alot just to be sure that they know that I'm a cool aunt.
4. and in fourth spot, but actually number one: at the movies with G with a bucket of greasy popcorn and a big old bag of peanut m&ms.. Naked. No just kidding about that. Just checking if you're still with me. We'd get arrested I'm sure. Or is that actually allowed in France?

Away from home

I am still alive. I find myself in the U.K this week: a little bit of London and a little bit of Sheffield.
For the first time in more than 8 months I am back in an English speaking country. Despite the difference in accent, I can understand what people are saying. I can express myself with ease, I can joke, I can be charming, I can carry on a long conversation if I want to. Oh the joy. The relief!
And yes, I've already been to Starbucks for my grande soy latte.
I've had pub food and enjoyed the clean air of a non-smoking restaurant.
I drank beer at lunch on Monday. Something that would make a French woman shudder.

At the same time, I've made an ass of myself with my enthusiastic hellos when walking into a shop and have had to resist what is now the natural habit of calling everyone sir or madame.

Paris, you sure like your cigarettes, and I wish there was less dog poop on your sidewalks, but I think you've spoiled me forever.
I'll be back on Sunday. See you then.

Mariage Frères Tea. And then some.

Canister Love

When I last posted about Mariage Frères, I had just bought my first one.
The love affair continues.
I guess there are worse things to be obsessed with.
Oh, I know you're wondering if some of them aren't really all that good.
Well that's just crazy talk for skeptics and non-believers.
I just won't invite them to my next tea party.

-------------------------------
Tea Info
There are 3 Mariage Frères tea salons in Paris.

It's about half the price to buy the tea in the bags as it is in the canisters. The canisters are great, but it's harder on the pocketbook if you are obsessed like I am.

Across the street from the location in Le Marais, there is a second MF tea shop where you can sniff the teas at your leisure. You can also buy bags of tea already packaged on the shelves, as opposed to getting them packaged by the staff from bulk bins at the other locations. In other words, there is no fighting with other customers for the staff's attention. It's as self-serve as it gets.

Having tea at the salon may seem pricey to some. A pot of tea costs approximately 7 euros. But I have discovered that it provides about 6 cups of tea, so if there are 2 of you, its 3.50 each, for 3 cups of tea each, which is actually a great deal. And it is perfectly ok to just go for tea and nothing else.


It's possible that I may have a problem...


The servers provide you with a huge book filled with all the descriptions of the teas (available in many languages) so you can select one before ordering. Or sniff some in the shops attached to the salons to decide what you want to try before going in .

Word of warning: they charge 4 euros for a single madeleine. Ahem.

My current tea collection:
Boléro, Thé a L'Opéra, Vanille des Iles, Vanille Impériale, Bouddha Bleu, Thé des Impressionnistes, Sankar Bop, English Breakfast, Ruschka, and my absolute current favourite: Surabaya.

And I am a happy girl.
But I still want more. Is that wrong?


Tags:
Mariage Frères
Paris Tea
Paris

Sleeping late and sneaky tricks

Sweet Almond Financiers

"If you bake it, he will come."

These are words of infinite wisdom, although I'm not sure that anyone of infinite wisdom has actually said those words. Except for me. Just now. I've got wisdom, sure, but perhaps of the more finite variety.
But on a lazy sunday morning when you want to get your significant other to get out of bed there are 2 ways to do it which fosters joy and contentment in the household.
1. Bacon
2. Baking

No meat eating man will sleep through the smell of bacon frying nor will he be able to resist something sweet puffing up in the oven.

So perhaps now I have just revealed why I cook bacon for breakfast every Saturday morning.
I will admit that this act alone has improved my relationship with G in a way that cannot be measured. The man gets his bacon, and I get an early riser for a partner.
You may think: "What's the big deal? Sleep in a little."

If only it were that easy. I am officially allergic to sleeping in. Except for that one summer when I was twelve and I slept in every day until 2pm, stayed in my pajamas the rest of the afternoon reading the Sweet Valley High series and then happily climbed back into bed later that same night. That was the most forgettable summer I have ever spent.

This past weekend, long after the bacon was consumed there was napping. Plan A had already been executed. It was completely illogical to fry up more bacon. There was nothing to be done but resort to Plan B. The secret weapon: sugar, flour and eggs.

I decided to try this recipe for Sweet Almond Financiers. It had only 5 ingredients, and miracle of miracles, all 5 of them were in my kitchen at that very moment.
My first taste of financiers has only been in the last few months since living in Paris, so this was a big moment for me. I was assimilating, doing what the locals do (or what I imagine they do at least), and hoping the neighbours would be impressed by the sweet scent of homemade financiers drifting out into the hallway. Oh, I mean, I was hoping to wake up my boyfriend from his nap. I was only baking because I had to. I don't really enjoy it.
Right.


Sometimes I play with my food

So I baked. And then popped one swiftly into my mouth. It was moist and chewy with a subtle almond flavour, not overly sweet, with crispy, caramelized edges and a flaky top.
Unfortunately they were nothing like the financiers that I have tasted here which are more like mini muffin/sponge cake type things.
But I liked these alot. They were easy to make and got G up from the couch with a yawn, a stretch and a "What are you making?"
Mission accomplished.

The financiers consist of flour, icing sugar, almond flour (aka finely ground almonds), eggs and butter. This Williams-Sonoma recipe suggests using a 6-well silicon fluted tart mould. I used a lightly buttered non-stick, non-fluted, mini tart/muffin pan, which made 12 financiers.

Parties, leotards and celebratory tuna

Bouchons au Thon with kudos to Molly

One day a young couple moved into a Parisian apartment. It was spacious and pretty and they were happy. They bought some new furniture, they hung up some pictures and did their best to build a new home for themselves.
And then one night there was a party.
A loud one.
Fifteen pairs of feet stomping and dancing in the apartment above their heads.
The young couple grumbled a bit to themselves but they did not complain.
"We're hip, we're cool. We can handle a little noise."
When the next party occurred shortly thereafter, they stayed quiet again.
"Perhaps it's just the time of year?" they said to each other.
Then January came and another party, and another one after that, and even more followed still, one after the other. But still they did not complain. This took great strength, because this happy young couple was forced to listen to Madonna's new song "Hung Up" about 6 or 7 times per party.
"It's not such a bad song, is it?" she said to her boyfriend.
"No, I guess not."
"But I'm really starting to hate it, aren't you?"
And then the young couple discussed how unreal Madonna's leotarded bottom looks in that video. But that is neither here nor there.

Finally the girl could take it no more.
"I'm going to find the concierge!" she announced, because she loved gloating that she had a concierge. It sounded so much more frou-frou to say that than 'superintendent'.

"Please help us, we can't take it anymore!" she pleaded.
And the kind sir began to speak very, very rapidly in French. But from the look in his eye she could tell he was commiserating with her. Words flew out of his mouth and she understood some of them: no more parties, lots of complaints, next time he is calling the police. She didn't know they did that in France, but the girl was happy.

She thanked him and bid him adieu breathing a sigh of relief, and returned back to her pretty apartment and made Molly's Bouchons au Thon to celebrate. And they were great.



The bouchons

Ever since I first saw these on Molly's blog, I have wanted to try them. And they didn't disappoint. If you love tuna I think you will really love these. They are a simple combination of canned tuna, eggs, crème fraiche, onion, parsley, gruyère cheese, and tomato paste. You throw it all together and bake them in a muffin tin. It doesn't get much easier than that. They are creamy and deliciously tasty, and a fantastic change from however you might usually eat tuna.. which for me, as much as I love them, is usually a boring old tuna sandwich.
These are great as is, or with an extra dollop of crème fraiche on top and served with a salad.
Click here for Molly's Recipe

Notes:
-watery, mushy tuna can really ruin the texture of these. Find a good chunk light tuna and drain it well.
-try whipping the egg whites separately until stiff peaks form and fold it into the rest of the mixture to make the bouchons a bit airier and less dense.

Window shopping

I'm having a word with the bird. Don't bug me.

Cheerio dear friend and toodaloo

In the last days of 2005 I received an email from Cindy:
"Will you be my best friend between January 10 and 31st?"
I pondered the question and I wrote back:
"Sure, sounds great. Although I'm wondering if I shouldn't somehow be offended."
But her reasons were sound. She would not only be done culinary school but she would also be finally free of the innumerable houseguests she seemed to have for the whole of November and December which made her difficult to pin down. Now it was just her and Paris and I guess she thought the experience would be far more exciting if she added me to the mix before she finally left Paris for good on January 31st.

Well, it is now February 1st, and Cindy has packed her bags and returned to Chicago. And in her wake, I am left with these kind gifts: microwave popcorn, Campbell's soup, baking powder and other such interesting things that had taken residence in her kitchen cupboards these last few months.

This past weekend was her last so I stepped up to my role in my final days as her new best friend. Saturday night, she joined G and I at our place for a night of movie watching, which saw us go partway through 2 movies that bored us all before we finally settled on the thrilling action of a Vin Diesel flic. Cindy marvelled at the pretzels I had found and after eating one said:
"This is the first pretzel I have eaten in 6 months."
"Wow, that's a long time." I said.
"Sure is." She said.

On Sunday Cindy and I toured the Père Lachaise cemetery. We looked for Oscar Wilde but couldn't find him. But we did say hello to Jim Morrison and Balzac before we got too cold and had to high-tail it out of there.


At Père Lachaise cemetery

On Monday, Cindy and I met at Ladurée on the Champs Elysées for our final goodbye tea.
I ordered the Thé Royale aux Fruits and she ordered some sort of yummy tea whose name I can't remember.
Then she asked for a madeleine.
"We're out of madeleines." our server said.
"How about a financier?" I offered.
"We're out of those too."
"Cannelés?" I tried.
"Sorry. No cannelés either."
Nonetheless we enjoyed our tea and then Cindy showed the Ladurée crowd what it's all about:
In that posh tea room, with all the well-dressed French women, probably back from a shopping trip to the nearby Louis Vuitton, Cindy removed her sweater to reveal her green t-shirt with a picture of the state of Illinois on the front, and the caption "Come on Feel the IlliNOISE".
"I like your shirt." I said.
"Thanks." Cindy responded. "This tea is really good."
"Mine too."

And thus ends the story of Cindy and Michèle in Paris.
Aw Cindy, I'm going to miss you.

What a difference a year makes

At this time last year, G and I packed up 4 large suitcases and moved ourselves from a tiny apartment in Sheffield, UK:


The Botanical Gardens in Sheffield in winter


to a slightly bigger apartment in Heidelberg, Germany:


The Alte Brucke, (The Old Bridge) and the Castle


Six months after that we packed it all up again, said goodbye to our beloved sausages and sauerkraut and freshly baked german pretzels and now we find ourselves here:





Wow. Life is good.

When good things turn really bad

All the reds soup

Friday couldn't have started out better. A friend and I got ourselves all dressed up and headed for lunch at a popular restaurant here in Paris. We oohed, and we aahed, we ate like queens and soaked up the constant attention from the (as usual) all male serving staff. We got tipsy on some fine wine and three and a half hours later, finally giggled our way out of the restaurant, bellies full and entirely content.

And then there was the misery of saturday night, when my friend and I both found ourselves firmly implanted in our bathrooms, with no reprieve for about 8 or 9 hours. Oh the horror.
There are better ways to spend a weekend then suffering the effects of what I can only guess was food poisoning.

By mid-Sunday my body was so weary from the toll of the night before, every bone in my body ached and it was all I could do to stand up for more than 10 minutes at a time. Any thought of food made me cringe, but by this time, part of my stomach pains were mixed with hunger. Half a banana and a half cup of rice was about all I could manage all day.



And now, it's day three. I'm weary but on the road to recovery. All I can think about now is fresh fruit and vegetables, whole grains and legumes. I have a strong urge to get back to basics, to say no to heavy sauces and strange foods whose descriptions you have to ask 3 times just to understand what you are eating. I need a break from restaurants and bakeries, and any foods that are not prepared by me, with extreme caution, in my own home.

I found myself revisiting an old friend today at lunch-- a soup that I used to make regularly in my vegetarian days. I hadn't made it in about 5 years but there it was, dutifully copied onto my computer, just waiting to be rediscovered. And now that my body is ready to be fed again, I felt myself craving it. It's healthy and simple and right now, that's about all I need.

All the Reds Soup
(adapted from a book called the Ultimate Vegetarian which I can't find listed on Amazon, except for one by the same name which isn't the same book that I've got tucked away in storage.)

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 small red onion, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 14oz can chopped tomatoes
2 tablespoons basmati rice
1 14oz can kidney beans, drained and rinsed
4 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 tsp dried oregano
salt and pepper to taste
(optional toppings: chopped italian parsley, a bit of grated cheddar)

Put the oil in a pot over medium heat. Cook the onion and pepper until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook about 1 minute more. Add the rest of the ingredients and bring to a boil, then let simmer for about 15 minutes. Top with chopped parsley or a bit of grated cheddar if you wish.

Notes:
-A bad or bland stock will make or break any soup, so be sure to use a good one.
-The original recipe calls for a shot or two of Worcestershire sauce which I don't have, but it does add a nice touch if you should choose to use it.
-the grated cheddar is so not a European touch but it sure tastes good.



Vegetarian Soup
Kidney Bean Soup

Soup Recipes
Healthy Soup

Glamour shot

Arabesque macaron, apricoty and good

Hermé macaron hand-modelling at its finest. The 007-style leather gloves are a nice touch. Good wrist and palm angles, and an impressive 3 finger grasp of the upper macaron.
The grasp, in particular, demonstrates a steadfast commitment to ensuring the macaron does not end up on the sidewalk during the photo shoot.
Excellent work.
David, forget chocolate, I see a new career in your future.

There is no such thing as too much bacon

Pasta Carbonara

There is nothing to joke about when it comes to bacon.
Bacon is very serious business.
Let's start with this one simple and often forgotten fact: bacon = pork.

Shocking I know, but this is a truth that cannot be disputed or denied. There is something magical about bacon. It seems as though it is its own entity, its own food group. Perhaps even its own religion. (Zen Baconism?)

So it seems that today has been declared pork blogging Sunday, which is a sacred day for a bacon lover such as I am. I decided to go old school and indulge in an old favourite. When it comes to bacon, there is no need to complicate things. I mean who cares what you put under it, you're really only interested in the bacon anyway, right?
Don't deny it, you can't hide the bacon love.

Pasta Carbonara is very easy to make, and you can find recipes everywhere. More than likely, you already have your own favourite. This recipe uses raw egg yolks, which is of course not recommended for children or pregnant women. So JA, you big-bellied mama-to-be, never you mind about this pasta carbonara. Shoo!

Pasta Carbonara
This recipe makes enough carbonara sauce for 2 small portions or 1 large portion of pasta, depending on how saucy you like it. You can easily double the recipe if you want.

Tagliatelle (or linguine or any pasta you like for that matter) for one or two people.
2 egg yolks
1/2 cup of heavy cream
3/4 cup grated parmesan cheese
as much bacon or pancetta as you wish to have, a good handful of bits per person is how I like it
chopped parsley (optional)
additional grated parmesan
salt and pepper

Dice your bacon and cook according to desired crispness. (or dice after cooking if you prefer)
Drain on paper towel. Reserve the bacon grease.
Mix 2 egg yolks with 1/2 cup of heavy cream and 3/4 cup of grated parmesan cheese. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Cook your noodles and strain, reserving some of the starchy water.
Put the noodles back in your saucepan and add a teaspoon or two of the bacon grease to coat the noodles (this prevents the cream sauce from soaking right into the noodles).
Add your egg mixture to the noodles and combine well. If the sauce is too thick add a bit of your reserved starchy water. This is all dependent on how you like it.
Mix in your bacon bits right into the sauce and noodles or pile them on top as I did.
Serve it up in a bowl or two and sprinkle with additional parmesan, chopped parsley and freshly ground pepper to taste.

I ate this cookie..

almond & pistachio cookie from a random bakery in Paris


.. and then I found out that pretty doesn't always mean good.

Nice work on the checkerboard pattern though.
And extra points for the big old chocolate nubbin in the middle.
Next time, I think I'll just ask for the nubbin.

Escaping the cold at L'Ourcine

Warm inside L'Ourcine while the snow
falls fiercely

The day before New Year's Eve called for some serious eating. My friend Alisa and I decided to try L'Ourcine, a small french bistro which has been recommended by both Clotilde in her article in Budget Travel Magazine and Pim in her Cheap Eats Guide to Paris.

The day that I made the reservation the weather in Paris could not have been better. But when I stepped out of my apartment on December 30th to make my way to meet Alisa for our lunch, I was instantly pummeled with wind and snow.
And that made me very grumpy.

So there's me. A Canadian girl, who has spent her life trudging through snow, and cursing its ability to slow me down, trip me up, and give me endless number of bad hair days.

And then there's Alisa, the girl from L.A who has only seen the occassional snowfall since moving to Paris 3 years ago, and all she could say as our heads were bowed low and our hair was already caked with ice was:
"I love this! It's so pretty!"

Alisa, I love you, but did you notice how we looked by the time we arrived at L'Ourcine? Our pants were soaked, our fingers were numb, and our hair was a ratty, wet mess. There was nothing pretty about it. And by the time we left, who was complaining about her cold toes? It certainly wasn't me.

Thankfully the rest of Paris was smart enough not to venture out in that weather, and we found ourselves in a very empty restaurant.

The restaurant was cozy and the service was friendly and we ate fantastically well. By the time we left, I wasn't nearly as grumpy about the weather as I had been at first.


Topinambour mousse and
Bouillon de Poisson Roche avec crème (Cream of Rock Fish Soup)


If you care to read about the food

A 29€ fixed price lunch menu bought us a starter, an entrée and a dessert. We were given a complimentary "amuse-bouche" of Topinambour mousse upon our arrival. And my bouche was highly amused.
Topinambour, otherwise known as Jerusalem artichoke, is a vegetable that is new to me. And I now consider it the best thing since sliced bread. Sliced bread is highly overrated anyway. The crispy croutons on top were a delicious contrast. You can read Clotilde's description and see a picture of Topinambour here.

The fish soup that I ordered was without doubt the best soup that I have had to date.
"Oh my god." is what I said when I first tasted it. So I let Alisa try it.
"Oh my god." is what she said back.

After that, the rest was good, but there were no exclamations of joy this time.
My main of scallops with sauteed endives was very nice, if perhaps a little too buttery.
My dessert of a red-wine poached pear had a wonderful flavour but was served cold. And with the wind and snow blowing outside, I would have much preferred it warm. I think the flavours of the spices and the wine would have worked better had it been warmed.

I would definitely go back to L'Ourcine. It's a great little place with a good value and if you find those things on the menu that are the chef's speciality well, then: oh my god.

L'Ourcine
92 rue Broca
75013, Paris
01 47 07 13 65


Tags

Paris Bistro
Paris Restaurants

Topinambour Mousse

I was tempted

Les Mauvais Garcons (The Bad Boys)
41, rue des mauvais garcons, in the 4th.

With a name like that, how can you resist?
Well I did, because my heart was set on a falafel.
But one of these days, me and the Bad Boys are going to do lunch.
Grr.

It's 2006 and I am hard at work on my resolutions

Scallops with Rosemary Butter and Mash

It's that time of year when my head is filled with thoughts of New Year's resolutions.
Yes, I make them. Big, long lists of them.
I wouldn't be so bold as to list them all for you, unless you were having trouble sleeping lately and needed some help dozing off. But let me just say this: my 2006 culinary resolutions are numerous and frightening.
Ok, maybe frightening is the wrong word. But still.

If there's one thing I've learned in the short time that I have been living in France, it's that good things definitely do come in small packages. I find myself completely addicted to French bistros. With their little menus written on big old chalk boards, which is both charming and annoying at the same time. Sometimes the chalkboards they bring to your table fall over, or you can't read the fancy European handwriting. Sometimes you have to wait while another customer peruses the only chalkboard menu that is available.
The portions are civilized but the food is rich and full of flavour. Sometimes things are downright small, but they are always really pretty.

I love it so much I want to have my own French bistro chef to cook me lunch and dinner every day of the week. I would call him Jean-Pierre because that just seems fitting.
But Christmas came and went, and there was no French bistro chef under my tree (perhaps next year?) so a girl must make do.



I am just going to have to make my own food prettier until Jean-Pierre is officially under my employ. I mean, when it's pretty, it seems that much more satisfying. Nothing infuriated me more as a child than when my father would serve me dinner and my food would touch, especially if they were not of complimentary colours. Green beans did not look right if they touched the brown gravy. Come on Dad, gross.
Of course, my food is allowed to touch now that I'm older, but I still like pretty.

And so it was, that on a most recent of January days my very attractive (if I do say so myself) Scallops with Rosemary Butter and Mash was born.

I will admit, it's not a fancy recipe, but it tasted 10 times better just because it looked so darn good.

The Recipe that isn't really a recipe
(because really I just wanted to show you how pretty it looked)

I bought 4 scallops at the market and asked the man if I could have 2 shells to take home with me.
"Oui, bien sur." he said.
Later that day, I mashed some cooked, peeled potatoes and added some butter, cream, and a bit of salt. I didn't add any chopped fresh rosemary to the mash, but I wish I had. Next time I will.
I washed the shells and dried them.
I washed the scallops and dried them thoroughly on a paper towel.
I heated a pan over medium heat with some butter and olive oil and added some more chopped fresh rosemary. When the pan was hot I seared the scallops about 2 minutes on each side.
I served it with the mash in the shells as pictured above.
I breathed a sigh of appreciation and took some glamour shots.
And then I ate it.

Bring on the bubbly

Oh I've been a lazy blogger this past week. You might think my lack of posts means that I'm jetsetting around Europe, or hanging out at all the coolest places to be in Paris. (I'll pretend like I know where those are). But the truth is, I received season one of Six Feet Under on DVD for Christmas and my boyfriend and I have been glued to our couch until we watched every. last. episode.

We are now frightened to buy season 2 because it might earn us official couch potato status. But what's a girl to do when the addiction has already set in?
I'll tell you.
She waits a week or two to recover and then buys herself season 2.
I'm already feeling twitchy.

Aside from that, I am eagerly anticipating our New Year's Eve festivities, which will start early on Saturday afternoon at a local wine bar. It won't take long for the giggling to set in. And it's amazing how much more charming I get when I'm tipsy. I seem to remember the most fascinating stories after just a couple of glasses of wine.
What?

Happy Holidays!

Santa has swivelly legs.
Where does he think he's gonna go?

It's Christmas in Paris this year for my boyfriend and I. So although we are far away from family and friends, I certainly don't expect you will feel sorry for me. The sun is shining and the weather, according to this Canadian girl, is quite balmy here in Paris. Good weather makes me very, very happy. Sorry mom, I'm not trying to rub it in.

Warmest holiday wishes to all of my family and friends back home and to all the new food loving friends I've made because of this blog!

Me, Bobby D, and my 10 favourite foods

Bobby D, always laughing at my jokes.

So it seems I have been asked by both Nerissa and Heather to list my 10 favourite foods.
And this is where we fade into the dream sequence, because dream sequences are much more fun than lists.
The following scenario is not entirely impossible.
Well, maybe it is..
But let's pretend just for a moment, shall we?

My closest friends would be invited to my apartment for a party. The event would be talked about for weeks in advance because not only does my apartment have its own indoor double-decker caroussel, but it also has its very own bowling alley. In Paris, we switch it up a bit and call it Pétanque because then it seems somehow much classier.
Bobby D would show up first, because that crazy guy just loves to be punctual. We'd sit around drinking amaretto sours and eating salted cashews until the rest of the guests arrived.
"Fashionably late?" we'd say, and we'd laugh because we both think that's really lame. Punctuality is where it's at.

Then Christopher Walken would show up and we'd tell him:
"Chris, big guy, even when you're smiling you kind of freak us out but we love you, come and have a drink with us. " And he'd spot the salted Triscuits topped with slices of dilled havarti cheese and he'd say: "Aww. Now. this.. I like. "

I would dazzle the boys with my wit and humour and tell them how when I was a teenager I thought that this was such a posh combination, and how I scoffed at the old marble-cheddar routine. And we would all laugh, and then we'd laugh some more when we realized that the front of Chris' shirt was all covered in cracker crumbs.

And then Cary Grant would arrive with a bottle of pink champagne. We'd all look at each other and think, man this is going to be one crazy night.
We'd sit ourselves down at the table and dig into our bowls of steaming basmati rice because John Heder said he would be late, and anyway, if we wanted him to perform the Napolean Dynamite dance for us there's no way he could do it on a full belly.

So finally John arrives and just as he is dazzling us with his dance moves, Ricky Gervais shows up and, without missing a beat, joins him. And then I'm pretty much done for because if you've ever seen Ricky dance, well, it's killer.

Finally, my butler ewok would enter with our main course. Come on, it's a dream sequence. If I can have Cary Grant at my dinner party, surely I'm allowed to have an ewok for a butler?
My guests would gasp at the pasta bolognese that is placed before them, with the freshest bread on the side to mop up the sauce.
And the only thing you would hear anyone say at this point is: "Can't talk--eatin'."
And then we'd look up to see who said that and we'd realize that Homer showed up after all.
"Good to see you old buddy" we'd say. "There's some Duff in the fridge".

Dessert would be a slice of ooey, gooey pecan pie with a side of bananas, sprinkled liberally with chocolate covered almonds. I would cut up everything really small because when things are small they look fancier right? And then the doorbell would ring and we'd think:
"Who the heck is that?"
And then in walks Parker Posey with a guilty look on her face, holding a bag of Smartfood, and we'd all yell "Parker!" because we realized that we had almost forgotten about her. She is really late, but she knows I love that yummy white cheddar popcorn, and I can never stay mad at her when he brings me Smartfood.

Just when the party is winding down the butler would announce a new arrival.
"Charles Bukowski is at the door, madame. Shall I let him in?"
"Is he drunk?" I'd ask.
"Yes, I believe so and it seems he has brought a large tub of chocolate ice cream with him."
We'd all look at each other with smiles on our faces.
"Ok then, show him in."

The End

Dear Santa

Chocolate Santa on rue Cler

Dear Santa Made of Chocolate,

I love you, even if you are sticking your tongue out at me, and your handlebar moustache isn't quite even. And yes, I love you even though I can't tell where your head ends and your body begins. But I like your pants, and your little beard. You kind of remind me of Humpty Dumpty. You know, before the accident.

But Santa, even if I did have the €295 I would need to take you home, I'm not sure I could bite into that big old adorable head of yours. So I'd be stuck with your chocolatey rotundness until you were nothing but a puddle on my kitchen counter.
At which point, your funeral might include a chocolate fondue party.

Love Michele

A butcher, a rooster, and an awkward moment

Coq au Vin

And then there was the time I decided to make Coq au Vin.

I picked out a fresh, plump chicken at the market and asked the butcher to cut it up for me because I was making Coq au Vin. I knew he would be charmed and impressed.
He told me that he had a coq if I wanted one.
A rather awkward pause followed.
Perhaps I'd been a bit too charming.
Finally I dared to look where this cheeky Frenchman was pointing.
And there it lay. A rooster, dead, in full form: head, eyes, wobbly red bits under its chin and on top of its head.
Oh. Right.
Coq=Rooster.
I quickly regained my composure and realized that to select the rooster would mean witnessing its decapitation. So, I politely declined, and urged him to proceed with the headless chicken I had already selected. But cock-a-doodle-do to you old boy, I thought. Or cocorico actually, since he was a French rooster, after all.

The making of the Coq au Vin began. Chopping, marinating, browning.
And then there was the part in the recipe where I had to add the cognac and light it on fire.
Yes, well.
Sometimes I forget about my own tendencies toward clumsiness.
But I do still have both my eyebrows and all of my eyelashes so have no fear.
The dish turned out wonderfully. There was endless dipping of bread into sauce, which had turned out rich and full of flavour, the addition of unsweetened cocoa powder adding to its deep, dark colour. The chicken was tender and falling off the bone.

I felt a little bit more French for having made this. I may even be ready to get myself a beret soon.

Coq au Vin
adapted from Saveur Cooks Authentic French, Chronicle Books 1999

1 roasting chicken, (up to 6 lbs) cut into pieces
2 large yellow onions, peeled and roughly chopped
2 large carrots, peeled and roughly chopped
3 large cloves of garlic, peeled and halved
bouquet garni consisting of 3 thyme sprigs, 3 parsley sprigs and 2 bay leaves tied in a bundle
1 bottle good rich burgundy wine, plus 375ml water (or 1.5 bottles wine)
1/4 cup vegetable or canola oil
2 tbsp flour
1/4 cup good cognac
1.5 tb unsweetened cocoa powder
6 oz salt pork, diced (you can buy thick slabs of it, or use pancetta in the same form)
3/4 lb button mushrooms, cleaned and stems trimmed

Put first 6 ingredients (up to and including wine and water) in a large bowl. The recipe recommends you cover and refrigerate for 24 hours. I only did it for 4 and it was still great. But perhaps its even better if you go the full 24.

Remove the chicken from the marinade (don't discard the marinade) and dry the pieces well with paper towels. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Heat oil in a heavy pan over medium high heat and brown the chicken on all sides. Do it in batches so as not to crowd the pan. Set the chicken aside when each piece is done browning.

Add flour to the pan and cook, stirring for about 2 minutes.
Return the chicken to the pan.
Remove the pan from the heat and add the cognac and light it with a match until the flame dies out. Keep the pot lid nearby to extinguish the flames if necessary.
Return pan to heat and add the reserved marinade back in and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce to low and simmer, partially covered about 1.5 hours, or until chicken is tender.

Remove chicken from pan again and strain the sauce through a sieve, discarding the solids. Return the sauce to the pan.
Put cocoa powder in a small bowl and whisk in 1/2 cup of the strained sauce until it is smooth. Stir it into the pan then reduce the sauce to about 4 cups, 15 to 20 minutes. Reduce heat to low and return chicken to pan.

In the meantime, saute the salt pork in a skillet over medium heat until crisp then remove from skillet, drain on paper towel, and add to chicken. Add mushrooms to the same skillet and saute until golden about 10 minutes. Drain and add mushrooms to chicken.Serve.

Recipe notes
-I omitted the mushrooms only because my boyfriend is not a fan of mushrooms. But the recipe would have been greatly enhanced by their addition. We were left with nothing but sauce and chicken which, although fantastic, could have benefitted from either mushrooms or carrots or even small new potatoes, to turn it into a well-rounded meal in itself.

-This recipe requires that you take the chicken out of the pan and put it back in over and over it seems. But in the end it makes sense. And it tastes really very good.

-If you are nervous about lighting the cognac or don't have any on hand, I think you would be ok to leave it out and just skip that part of the instructions.

Food therapy. The way the French might do it.

Harissa Marinated Lamb with Spiced Mash and
Cinnamon Onions

I freely admit that at times I have been known to seek solace for my miscellaneous woes at the bottom of a Lays' potato chip bag. The salty crunch echoes so loudly in my head that there is no room for negative thoughts. Anxiety and frustration go right out the window, if even only for a little while. You must admit, it's much cheaper than therapy and you don't have to make an appointment in advance.

In France, potato chips take up only a small amount of shelf-space at the grocery and convenience stores. The small supply seems to exist only for the cravings of expats and tourists. You quickly get the feeling that the French have more refined forms of "food" therapy.
Cat just died? A Madeleine or two might help.
Hydro is being cut off? A piece of Valrhona chocolate is sure to cheer you up.
Car won't start? A white truffle macaron from Pierre Hermé will take your mind off of it I'm sure.

You get my point.

Somehow it seems shameful to succumb to old (and unhealthy) habits when Paris has such fine foods to offer. When in Rome, as they say.




So, it's true, I've been feeling a little out of whack lately. And damn it, if the French didn't have me so brainwashed I would have marched right out to the corner store and bought myself a big old bag of potato chips, curled up on the couch and turned off the phone.

Instead, I took a deep breath, did my best to ignore the incessant yapping of the neighbour's 3-legged dog, poured myself a glass of port and got to work.

And I found my solace.
Oh yes I did.

In a plate of Harissa Marinated Lamb with Spiced Mash and Cinnamon Onions. And though, just hours before, I had been tempted to pack my bags and head back to Canada, I found myself taking the time to serve it up on a plate as fancily as I possibly could. (Ok, I'm no expert, but it wasn't a bad try was it?) And no, it's not a French recipe, but the point is, it's far more refined than my usual cure.

I felt better before I even sat down to eat it.
But I felt great once it was all in my belly.


Harissa Marinated Lamb with Spiced Mash and Cinnamon Onions
adapted from Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons by Diana Henry

(Harissa is a Tunisian spicy mixture of hot chilies, garlic, cumin, coriander, caraway and olive oil. You can make your own or just buy a jar of it at grocery stores carrying exotic products or a Middle Eastern grocery.)

For the Lamb
8 chunky lamb chops or 4 lamb steaks

For the Marinade
8 tbsp (120ml) olive oil
2.5 tbsp (37.5ml) harissa
3 garlic cloves, chopped
juice of 1/2 a lemon
a good handful of mint leaves, torn

Combine ingredients and coat lamb chops well. Cover and refrigerate 1.5 hours or up to overnight.
When your potatoes and onions are nearly ready, heat a griddle pan and cook the lamb on medium to high heat until desired doneness.

For the Mash
1lb potatoes, peeled
1lb 7oz parsnips, peeled and chopped
5 tbsp whipping cream
3.5oz butter
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
3/4 tsp cayenne
2 fl. oz milk

Boil potatoes and parsnips separately until soft. Drain but return the potatoes to low heat to dry them out a little if they are wet. Puree the parsnips with the cream and in another bowl mash the potatoes. Melt the butter in a saucepan and add the cinnamon and cayenne. Add the parsnip and potato and beat everything together. Warm the milk and add to the potato mix. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Leave lid on to keep warm if you are not serving immediately.

For the onions
2 onions, finely sliced
15g butter
1.5 tsp olive oil
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp harissa
a good squeeze of lemon juice
a small bunch of coriander, roughly chopped

Fry the onions in the butter and oil until golden, allowing the onions to brown slightly. Add the remaining ingredients, as well as salt and pepper to taste.

To Serve
Serve the lamb chops with warmed mash topped with the onions.

Harissa from Amazon

And thanks so much to Melissa for giving me this cookbook as a gift when she came to stay with me last weekend!

Traveler's Lunchbox comes to town

Yes it's true. Melissa took residence on my couch this past weekend. And when a friend comes to town and you've only got a few days together you make a plan and you execute it. When this friend is a fellow food blogger, you had better have a good appetite.

There was eating. And then there was eating again. And then we rested so that we could eat some more.

From a 3 star lunch at Pierre Gagnaire with Pim to walking down the street with a falafel in hand, there was no stopping us.

But now Melissa is back in Edinburgh and Pim's stay in Paris is at its end. I am left with a full belly and a weekend full of great memories.

And the best part is that I've met these two fabulous women all because of this silly blog. Who would have thought? But I feel like a very lucky girl.

So to Pim and Melissa: until we meet again my friends, I eagerly await your return!

The cleanest bird in Paris..

A brief, non-food related photographic intermission.
Unless, like my favourite Chicagoan Cindy, you are thinking that this pigeon looks good enough to eat.


A bird, watching me watching it taking a bath.


Even under the wings. Extra points for that.

Grilled Apples with Crème Anglaise

There are some things in life that you never forget. Your first kiss. Your first pet. Your first apartment. The first time you went to a party and drank too much Blue Curacao and came home late only to find your parents were still up and you hoped and prayed that they wouldn't notice. But your red eyes and your blue smurf tongue gave you away, and you were grounded.

Ah, memories.

There's the time you made your first Thanksgiving dinner. You cooked that bird with the giblet bag still inside but your dad helped you sneak it out before anyone noticed. It was a job well done, and you were so proud of yourself.

And then there's the first time you made your own crème anglaise.
That memory is so fresh in your mind it seems like it was yesterday.
Oh right, it was yesterday.
Why had I never made this before? Blame it on my previous lack of a sweet tooth.
But who knew crème anglaise was so easy to make? And tasty, don't forget tasty.



Grilled Apples with Crème Anglaise

Once I finished my first batch I couldn't stop myself. Like a woman possessed I experimented with various flavour combinations. I tried it plain with just vanilla, then adding a splash of Cognac and finally another batch with a splash of Port. I imagined infusing the cream (prior to adding it to the eggs) with rosemary, lavender, cinnamon, orange zest, and even my new Mariage Frères tea. There is going to be a alot of crème anglaise in my future.

My efforts were inspired by the recipe for Grilled Apples with Bourbon Crème Anglaise by Williams-Sonoma. It was a simple and very satisfying dessert that I will definitely make again.

Notes

The Crème Anglaise recipes I reviewed always contained eggs, sugar, vanilla and milk or cream.
I tried both the Williams-Sonoma recipe for crème anglaise as listed above, which uses both milk and cream, as well as Martha's recipe, which uses just milk. I preferred the cream version, as it had a thicker and richer consistency than Martha's. Sorry Martha.

After comparing these two recipes, I realized that Martha's is much easier to make so if you want to, you could just substitute cream for the milk in her recipe. And do whatever you want to flavour it.

I used a real vanilla bean instead of vanilla extract.

I also received a good tip from a friend of mine in Paris who says that the longer you cook the mixture, the thicker it will get. It also thickens further once it is chilled. You gotta love friends with good tips.

Mariage Frères Tea; I am officially converted.

Thé à L'Opéra, Mariages Frères

At any given time, since I left home at the age of 18, you could look into my cupboards and find a wide selection of tea. English Breakfast, Jasmine Green Tea, Peppermint, Chamomile. If you looked in my cupboard 2 years later, you would find the same boxes, still there, gathering dust. Even when I moved, which I have done alot, I felt compelled to take those boxes with me.

But every now and again I would go through a tea phase. In Sheffield, I had trouble sleeping, and so it was that I forced myself to drink Chamomile tea every night before bed. In Germany, I occassionally dealt with stomach aches and knowing that mint tea was good for digestion I ended each meal with a steamy cup. These phases never last very long and end up doing nothing but taking up valuable cupboard space. I can't even remember why I bought that Fennel Tea this past summer, but that first sip caused a full body shudder, and I never went back.

Then I moved to Paris, and for the last 2 months I have completely forgotten about tea altogether. I had heard about Mariage Frères, and the reviews had all been good. But I saw the stores, I saw the products and I saw the price. So I paid no mind. Until one day I was in a gift shop with a small Mariage Frères display. I was drawn to the sight of open canisters, inviting me to stick my nose in and take a nice big smell of the tea leaves themselves. My nose and I were ready to get down to the business of justifying our disdain for spending so much money on a wee bit of tea.



One sniff of Thé à L'Opéra and that was it, my disdain was out the window and this tea was coming home with me. Even if it didn't taste good, I would wrap it up in fabric and put it in my sock drawer, because it smelled so darn nice.

For someone who wasn't a regular tea drinker, spending 10 euros on a 100g canister was entirely against my natural instincts. But sometimes instincts are wrong, right? And though I'm giving a rave review, remember that I've only tried one flavour. But I've got seriously high hopes for the others. And you'd be surprised how far 100g can actually go.

So instead of having 10 random flavours of tea at a cost of 2 euros a box that I will never finish, I have one fantastic tea. And when I don't feel like drinking it I can still stick my nose in and enjoy a little bit of aromatherapy. And on top of that it comes in a really handsome canister. Enough said.

Thé à L'Opéra: The vert vanille aux fruits rouges
(Sweet Spices and Red Fruits Vanilla Green Tea).


Mariage Frères
30 rue du Bourg-Tibourg
Le Marais, Paris
75004

Sweet Saffron Pilaf made by a clumsy girl

Sweet Saffron Pilaf with Nuts and Currants
(except I didn't have any currants)

I'm sure that you already know that I am clumsy in the kitchen. But if I forgot to mention it before, it's probably because a can of beans fell out of the cupboard and onto my head and affected my short term memory. Even I consider it a miracle that I have made it this far without having sacrificed a single finger or toe. Blood has been shed, on an almost daily basis, but never so much as to require stitches. Although, I am way over my Bandaid budget for the month.

Aside from the physical dangers that I risk with my clumsiness, I make a bit of a mess when I cook and yes, even sometimes when I eat. If the person across from me finds a miscellaneous pea or two under their plate, it's most likely mine, and not theirs as I generally hope they will believe. My boyfriend however, knows better, and shakes his head at the messes I frequently make. And this is where I say:
"What?" and pretend as though I have no idea what he is shaking his head about.

So perhaps it wasn't a great idea when my boyfriend and I decided to buy a new couch and chose a white one. I've been known to sit on the couch with a drink, a snack, sure, even a 3 course meal. But now, with the gleaming white surface beneath me, it only makes me nervous. Those plastic couch covers that you thought were only used by women named Ethel who have plastered every surface of their living room with doilies, suddenly seem not so much weird, as very, very practical. Well, the doilies are weird, but the plastic? Thumbs up Ethel.

But since I've got another year or two before I'm that crazy, the plastic is out of the question. Even if it meant I could sit happily on my new couch with a big bowl of spaghetti on my lap.
It seems that now I'm just going to have to take precautions.

Things were looking good when I decided to make this Sweet Saffron Pilaf. Right up to the very last minute I had deemed it relatively couch-acceptable. And then I poured on the bright yellow saffron/milk mixture and it was all over. It sure looked pretty though.

Sweet Saffron Pilaf with Nuts and Currants
Suvir Saran and Stephanie Lyness, Indian Home Cooking
Clarkson Potter, 2004

For copyright reasons, I have only listed the ingredients, so you can decide if it's a recipe you might want to try. Click here to read the recipe instructions at Leite's Culinaria.

1 1/4 cups basmati rice
2 1/2 cups water
1/4 teaspoon saffron threads
1 tablespoon of milk or cream
1/4 cup ghee or canola oil (I used peanut oil and it was fine)
one 2 inch piece cinnamon stick
10 whole green cardamom pods
one inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and grated
1/4 cup dried currants
1/4 cup chopped blanched almonds
1/4 cup chopped shelled pistachios
2/3 cup sugar

About the rice
The rice is a very nice combination of flavours and smells great as it cooks. I would definitely make it again. If you want to break away from the standard white rice thing, which I rely on far too often, this is a good and somewhat exotic alternative. And you know, if you call it exotic, it just makes it seem that much better. Or is that just me?

My changes
-I omitted the black currants, because I could not find any.
-My basmati takes a ratio of equal parts rice to water, so I did not use the amount of water recommended in the recipe.
-The recipe instructs you to pound the 10 cardamom pods in a mortar and pestle so that the pods split open. But once the rice is cooked it does not instruct you to remove them. I'm not sure that biting into a cardamom pod or even a seed is going to be particularly appetizing to most people.
So next time I would be tempted to just throw them in whole to let them flavour the rice and remove them after the rice is cooked.

Dear Ladurée

Dear Ladurée,

It hurts me to write you this letter. Things started out so well between us. It was a gorgeous morning; the sun was shining and I was walking leisurely down the Champs Elysées with you as my destination. You looked so handsome from the outside, and you teased me with those little macaron trees and those pretty boxes in the window.


Ladurée on the Champs Elysées

You wowed me even more once I stepped inside, you looked rich and elegant, but there was something so warm and cozy about you. I wanted to snuggle right up and nuzzle your neck Ladurée, you were that irresistible. Your hostess led us up the stairs to a non-smoking room and it was filled with well-dressed Frenchmen. Ladurée, I thought, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Sure, they all left shortly after we arrived, but we didn't take it personally.


Just us in the empty room, after all the men left

Your menu arrived and my eyes grew wide at the temptations you were offering. But the truth was that we were there to eat the macarons, and not one was listed on the breakfast menu.
But don't fret! Our tall and lovely server accomodated our early morning whim and gave us an assortment of 4 to share between us, just as I'm sure you would have wanted her to do. And because we knew we would love it so, we ordered an Ispahan, a decadent dessert layered with raspberries and litchees and infused with the flavour of rose petals.

My thé à la vanille arrived and it tasted so nice. Though I will admit Ladurée that I was a little hurt by your decision to charge me €6.20 for the tea. But what is a few euros between friends, right?

And then Ladurée, something went wrong and I started to feel the heartwrenching sting of betrayal.

We tried your macarons. First lemon, then violet, then chocolate, and finally pistachio. I was confused. Where were the oohs, and why was there not one single aah? Where was that desire to eat in slow motion to savour every crumb? My heart sank. Something wasn't right, and I was sure it must have been me. Because you are you, and I, well I am just me. Never mind that my breakfast companion was feeling the same heartbreak as I was.


mini macarons

Our server then brought out your lovely Ispahan and it was as pretty as pretty could be. I knew everything would be right between us again. And I'm sorry if for a brief second I thought that the shade of pink you chose reminded me of that Barbie corvette I used to have when I was young. Because truly, it did look perfect, and the real rose petal was such a lovely and delicate touch.


Ispahan

And I'm sorry that I had to take my knife and cut through it's beauty, but we were sharing, it had to be done. But I don't know if you will be proud or ashamed that your beloved Ispahan fought me with every crumb of its being. It resisted, crumbling dry and lifeless into pieces, as though it was telling us that it had reached its prime of life a day, maybe two, before.
I hate to say it Ladurée, but we left most of that Ispahan in a crumbled heap on the plate.

So Ladurée, my darling, you can see why I am confused. It was our first date and I was sure that by the end of it I would declare my undying love for you. But instead, I returned home from our rendez-vous with nothing but a broken heart and a belly full of disappointment.

But I promise you, I will give you another chance. Because you make for some great eye candy and the handsome ones always get a second chance, right?

Ladurée
75 avenue des Champs Elysées
75008, Paris
(see website for other Paris locations)

Me and my Mulligatawny

Mulligatawny Soup

It seems as though I have television on the brain lately. But there is a valid reason. My boyfriend has just bought a big, shiny new one. Yes, you know where this is going.

My childhood is peppered with strange television memories. Saturday mornings started the same way each time: fighting with my brother over what cartoons to watch. His favourites inevitably involved superheroes saving the planet yet again, while he munched away on a bowl of honeycomb cereal. While I, with my much more girly honey nut cornflakes, insisted on the Muppet Babies. Somehow it seemed that my brother always won, and I would protest by standing in front of the television twirling my baton and practicing my marching band moves. Ok, maybe I only did that once. Usually I just sulked on the couch in defeat and watched whatever stupid cartoon he was watching.

So then I grew up. A little. It was an episode of Gimme a Break that first taught me that sometimes a girl can wear too much lip gloss. ("You look like you just ate a pork chop without using your hands"). When I was finally old enough to wear lip gloss it was clear that that episode had sealed my fate as the girl who always wears just the right amount of lip gloss.
Years later it was Frasier that first introduced me to the concept of a crème brulée torch, and I thought it was something so absurd that there was no way I would ever own one. (ok, I still don't but it's not because I don't want one).
And yes, it was Seinfeld and his soup nazi that put the word Mulligatawny into my vocabulary.

Though I'd never made it or even eaten it, Mulligatawny became the butt of jokes for years to come. The standard question of "What do you feel like eating?" still offers a comedic moment when answered with an overly enthusiastic "MULLIGATAWNY!"
Ok, maybe I'm the only who finds that funny, but I have always been easily amused.

I have no idea what possessed me after all these years to finally make Mulligatawny soup. Yes, perhaps it was the new TV. But now that I have made it, I feel as though I've just reclaimed my youth in some way; as though those Seinfeld episodes really weren't so long ago, and no, I'm not all that old. If ever I felt like snuggling up with my tv and telling it how much it means to me, that time is definitely now.


Mulligatawny Soup from Bon Appetit, September 2005
The soup was delicious. Me and my mulligatawny are going to be friends for years to come.

1/4 cup vegetable oil
3 cups chopped onion
5 garlic cloves, chopped
1.5 tablespoons garam masala
1.5 teaspoons ground coriander
1 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 bay leaves
2 cups dried red lentils
8 cups low-salt chicken broth (my note: or your salty broth if you prefer)
2 cups diced cooked chicken
1 cup canned unsweetened coconut milk
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 cups cooked basmati rice
lemon wedges

Heat vegetable oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add onions and cook until golden brown, stirring frequently, about 15 minutes. Add garlic and sauté 2 minutes. Add garam masala and next 4 ingredients; stir 1 minute. Add lentils; stir until coated. Add chicken broth. Bring soup to boil; reduce heat to medium and simmer until lentils are very tender, about 20 minutes. Discard bay leaves. Working in batches, puree soup in blender until smooth. Return to pot. Stir in chicken, coconut milk, and lemon juice. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Divide rice among bowls. Pour soup over. Garnish with lemon wedges; serve.


To my vegetarian friends, (Amylou? are you reading this?) let it be noted that even though I thought I was fully prepared, I was in fact out of chicken stock so I used vegetable stock and it tasted great even before adding the chicken. So you could easily make a chicken-free mulligatawny, which would really be more like a curried lentil soup, but with a more exciting and exotic and Seinfeldy name.

And the excitement doesn't stop there..
The soup itself is served in bowls over some cooked rice. If you are in the mood for more of a curry than a soup, use more rice. If you are in the mood for soupy, then add just a bit of rice. Each person can customize their own--and you know, on-the-spot soup customization options are hard to come by.

Maison du Chocolat.. because I haven't had any chocolate in a whole week.

Brésilien from Maison du Chocolat, with my fingerprint
on the side because I am clumsy.

Is it a good thing or a bad thing when you discover that there is a Maison du Chocolat within a 15 minute walk from your apartment? Does it mean anything when you find yourself trudging through the pouring rain, your hair all a-frizz, your pants soaking wet and dragging on the pavement, just to get yourself to said chocolate mecca? It can only be assumed that it means you are there to get your chocolate on, as they say. And so I did.


A girl's best friend. A box wrapped with a bow, and filled with chocolate.

The chocolate at Maison du Chocolat is, to state the obvious, lovely. But what I found rather distracting upon first entering the shop were the saleswomen. Firstly because there was at least 5 of them bustling about this tiny store, and secondly, because they were all identically dressed in brown tailored suits with fine orange piping along the lapels. Think Charlie's Angels meets Brownies. (You know, before you're old enough to be a Girl Scout they stick you in brown and orange and call you a Brownie?). At first it caught me off guard. My brain was distracted from the chocolate with the following series of thoughts:

"Ew. Brownie flashback." Followed by:
"Wait, that's kind of cool." And then:
"Hmm. Now I'm not sure. Is it retro-chic or is it just plain ugly?" Head tilted to help me think.
"Whoever designed those is either crazy or a genius. " Momentary pause, with furrowed brow.
"I'm stumped... Oh, are those truffles?" Chocolate wins again.


Marroni from Maison du Chocolat

It need not be said that the chocolate here is expensive, although the single serving cakes are a reasonable indulgence. You can buy yourself a little slice of magic for under 5 euros, depending on what you select. I choose the Brésilien- chocolate and coffee, and the Marroni- chocolate and chestnut at €4.60 each.
To share with my boyfriend, of course.
You do believe me, don't you?

The Optional Reading (Or me trying to describe how it tasted)

The Brésilien had a nice coffee flavour, not overwhelming, just perfect for me. The texture of the cake was dense and moist, luscious even. The cake itself struck me as being much less sweet than I expected. And then I realized how this works. The cake is a little light on the sweetness, while the ganache borders on too sweet. If each bite you take includes both, then Houston, we have harmony. I did like this one, and would buy it again. But of course I intend to make the rounds through a few more in their line before I start repeating. It's hard work, I know.

The Marroni did not excite me. The chestnut filling tasted as though it was doused in rum, and it became the dominant flavour. Unfortunately the ingredients are not listed on their website, so I can't confirm the inclusion of rum. (Nor could I confirm the spelling of the names) The chestnut layer was also a bit airier than the rest, which seemed not to work as nicely as the Brésilien did, which was fairly consistent in density throughout. I realize some people may like the inclusion of a fluffier layer, but I generally do not. The chocolate part of it was good, and the ganache as well, but I would not buy this one again.

These cakes are not nearly as big as they may appear in the pictures. Seen in person some might actually consider them small but in fact they are perfectly sized considering how rich and decadent they are.

Pa amb tomàquet, and learning some lessons from MacGuiver.

Tomato rubbed bread

Yes, I'm talking about Pa amb tomàquet. Unless you speak Catalan, you might find that a bit hard to say. And all it means is: tomato rubbed bread. It seems this is their invention, so let's give credit where credit is due. Thank you Catalan tomato rubbed bread inventors. You did some good work.

I know what you're probably thinking. You've heard of this before, like I had. Along with lots of oos and ahs about how wonderful it is. And maybe you thought it sounded good, but you never actually tried it. That was exactly my stance on tomato rubbed bread, until that fateful day. It seems so long ago now. I was just a shadow of myself then.
(Thanks to Rachael for giving me the push to finally try it!)

Cut to Tuesday, October 25, 2005. (ok, so maybe not so long ago)
I was making a quick milk run, as I sometimes do, and my eyes fell upon some sourdough bread that really knocked my socks off. This loaf was huge, and the slices were longer than my feet. (No, there was no side by side comparison done, but I know my feet, and they are. definitely. smaller.)


Max Poilâne Sourdough Bread, bigger than my feet

The problem was, I had no plan. And even though MacGuiver isn't on the air anymore, there have been some lessons learned and his wise teachings have firmly implanted themselves in my mind. Namely that you've got to have a plan or you better be good at improvising. Well, I can't make a parachute out of a gluestick, but I can sure take a slice of bread and rub some stuff on it to make it taste really good.
And that dear friends is how I came to know and love tomato rubbed bread.



Tomato Rubbed Bread
Take a slice of really exciting bread. Brush one side with olive oil. Grill it, oil side down.
When it's nice and crispy, rub the cut side of a garlic clove over it. (some say the garlic is optional but I think that's just crazy talk.)
Then do the same with the cut side of a tomato, to let some of the juices and pulp rub off onto the bread. (if your tomato is really juicy, take caution, you don't want to make your bread soggy.. Squeeze out some of the juice beforehand if you want.)
Sprinkle some Fleur de Sel (sea salt) on top, because everything is better with a little bit of sea salt.
Sounds suspiciously simple, and it is. But it is very, very good.


Max Poilâne is from the famous Poilâne family of bakers but went his own way and opened his own bakery. There are 3 Max Poilâne bakery locations in Paris, however he also supplies his products to many grocery stores in the area. Yes, I bought mine at the local Shopi, a Parisian mini-mart of sorts, because sometimes a girl just wants to get her bread nice and close to home.


Tags

Grilled Bread
Tomato Rubbed Bread
Paris Bread
Poilane Paris

Shakin' it.. Or making smoothies..

Fig and honey shake

Since moving to Paris, it has taken some serious effort on my part to ensure that my waistline does not suffer. They say that French women don't get fat, but you throw a Canadian girl in Paris, and she might do just that if she's not careful.

I am well aware that my early months of blogging are relatively sweet free. I have always proclaimed myself a salt-tooth, if there is such a thing. I would favour a second helping of my dinner rather than save room for dessert. This wasn't a difficult habit to get into, because my brother and my parents seemed to be of the same mind. Dessert only seemed to show up when guests were coming, or if there was a special occassion. On Father's Day my mom and I would make a trip to the local donut shop (yes, my fellow Canadians, of course it was Tim Horton's) for a sweet treat on my Dad's special day. On my birthday, I would get a chocolate croissant for breakfast. Aside from that, savoury foods dominated our cravings.

Now I find myself in Paris, where sweet pastries and chocolate tease me from every corner. And you might have noticed recently, that I'm beginning to succumb to the overwhelming temptations. My sweet tooth is beginning to peak out from the shadows, and make itself known. My suspicions were confirmed when I recently received an email from my mom, where after reading one of my chocolatey posts she wrote: "Stop eating all that sugar!".

Yes, mother, but it's so, so hard not to. I'm in Paris, and resistance truly is futile. And in my defense, I did go and buy myself a fancy pants electric toothbrush so that you wouldn't have to worry about what the sugar might do to my teeth.

But after a few weeks of sugar overload and a visit to an exhibition devoted completely to chocolate (was I dreaming?) it is time for me to get back to basics. Either that, or I'll have to start undoing the top button on my pants every time I sit down. Thanks to the purchase of a new Braun handblender (oh small appliances how I love thee) I can inject some sugar-free goodness into my life again. I'm sure my waistline will thank me. And my mom will sure be happy too.


Banana Cardamom Smoothie


These recipes are adapted from a cookbook called simply "Snacks and Drinks" by Michele Cranston that I picked up in Germany because it had pretty pictures and great ideas.

Fig and Honey Smoothie (pictured at top)
Wash and chop 2 ripe figs, add 1 teaspoon of honey (or to taste) and 125g of natural yogurt. Blend. You can add ice before blending if you want, and more or less yogurt depending how thick you like yours to be.
Sprinkle toasted slivered (and then crumbled) almonds on top if desired, or whatever nuts you might prefer.
Note: I used rosemary honey, since figs and rosemary are a lovely combination and I thoroughly enjoyed the result.

Banana Cardamom Smoothie
Blend together the seeds from a cardamom pod, 1 banana, 125 g of natural yogurt.
(add ice before blending if you want).

Note: if you crush the cardamom seeds the flavour may overwhelm the drink. But, in not crushing them you sometimes get a whole seed in your mouth. As long as you just swallow it, and avoid the temptation to bite into it, you'll be fine. I'm only saying this for people who find cardamom at times overwhelming. It's for your protection only.


Cardamom pods

Prunes. Enough said.

Lamb Tagine with Prunes

This has been a week of interesting firsts for me. On Monday I tasted my first macaron, and on Tuesday I bought my first bag of prunes ever. You may not think this is entirely exciting, and I'm sure my boyfriend would agree with you. I thank Mr. David Lebovitz for the latter of these two firsts, since he declared that this Thursday, October 27th, was officially Prune Blogging Thursday. Bold move on his part, don't you think?

I admit, I thought it was going to take some work to find an appealing recipe, but I quickly discovered that David isn't the only one who likes prunes. My grandmother likes them too.
No, but truthfully, there are a surprising number of prune-friendly recipes to be found.

Somehow (and I have long ago stopped trying to understand it) Martha exerted her domestic power over me and willed me to use one of her recipes. It's some sort of mind control thing that I am at times powerless to resist. But I couldn't help but think that if anyone knows prunes, it would have to be Martha. And so it was that I had Martha's Lamb Tagine with Prunes for dinner on Tuesday night.

I received a double dose of excitement when making this recipe, as it called for a tablespoon of Ras el Hanout. Had there been a cartoon bubble over my head when I read this, it would have contained a single question mark. I now know that Ras el Hanout is a Moroccan mix of spices, which seem to vary depending on who makes it. It was surprisingly easy to find -- mine contained a mixture of ground pepper, garlic, ginger, mustard, cinnamon, nutmeg, chili peppers, and cloves.

The tagine turned out well, and I was enthused about having tried not one, but two ingredients that had previously been absent from my pantry. That is until I looked at what was left of my dinner and realized that my plate was empty but for the many prunes that I had somehow managed to avoid with each bite of my tagine. The tagine was good, but the sweetness of the prunes overwhelmed it a bit in my opinion. By the second day, they had mellowed out quite a bit and had absorbed alot of flavour from the spices in the tagine.

So, my grand conclusion is this:
Day-one-tagine: good, but I had some prune-avoidance issues.
Day-two-tagine: pretty darn tasty, prunes and all.

The chickpeas were an element I would not do without. And please note, due to lack of availability, I omitted the butternut squash from the recipe, which I'm sure would have made a lovely addition. I served mine with couscous, Martha wrapped hers in Lavash bread.

You can find Martha's recipe for Lamb Tagine with Prunes here.

(please note the recipe fails to mention how much water to add. I added enough to cover the lamb by about an inch or so. You may want to add more if you want it saucier.)

So David, can I come over and try your macarons now?

A dreamy monday morning at the Salon du Chocolat..

Jean-Paul Hévin Macaron

Today was a big day for me. I tasted my first macaron. Ever. Many people talk about them, and generally rave about them, and the uber-talented even make their own, at home, in their free time. Since moving to Paris, I see them everywhere. It seems every bakery on every street corner makes their own version. I've been tempted, it's true, but something has always held me back. I knew that I didn't want just any macaron, I wanted one of the best.

Well, today was my lucky day.

This morning I headed off to meet some new friends at the Salon du Chocolat, a large chocolate trade show held every October in Paris. There I was, at the Jean-Paul Hévin booth, staring at what was judged this past June as the best macaron in Paris.

Now how could I pass that up? I watched as they carefully wrapped it up for me. And yes, dear friends, I waited until I could get home and take a picture before even taking a single bite. But as soon as my teeth sank into it, I had an uncontrollable urge to run back to the kitchen and take another picture for your viewing and drooling pleasure. Perhaps this is rather unsophisticated of me to say, but the inside tasted like the best chocolate brownie I have ever had. And however they get that crunchy bit on the top is beyond me, but it was heavenly. I want more..



The Salon du Chocolat was exciting to say the least. By the end of it, I was on quite a chocolate high; unnaturally giddy and carrying many more things than I realized I had purchased. When you're faced with some of the best chocolatiers in the world, you just have to let loose and sample everything that is offered to you.


Madame Setsuko Chocolatiers in action

A stop at Madame Setsuko found us gaping in amazement at the fine details being piped on each individual chocolate. A sample of their green tea ganache found its way into my mouth (how does that always happen?) and I was instantly in love. Although, I will say that it was a good thing we had arrived early, because by noon, you could barely get yourself near their booth at all to watch them in action.

Madame Setsuko Green Tea Ganache

Even the sandwiches contained chocolate. I feasted on the Foie Gras sandwich with Fig and Chocolate Chutney and it was delicious. The sweetness of the chutney was a nice compliment to the Foie Gras.


Foie gras and chocolate sandwiches

In the end, I came home with a lovely pile of stuff.

From Maison du Chocolat: a tablette of 100% cocoa, and chocolate covered almonds.
From Jean-Paul Hévin: a chocolate macaron and a tablette of milk chocolate with caramel
From Baillardran: two caneles, traditional and chocolate
From Madame Setsuko: green tea ganaches.
Oh and somehow a sample packet of Nestle Quik hot chocolate made its way into my bag too...

I will expand on some of these treasures as soon as my hands stop shaking from this sugar rush. I need to go lie down now..

Dark Chocolate Truffles with Fleur de Sel..

I would love to wax poetic about Chocolate Truffles, but really, what do I know about truffles except that they taste good? And anyway, all I really want to do is call my parents and my friends and tell them that I actually made my own. And gee, if I may say so, they look pretty darn charming, don't they? Gold sticker for me. Even if I have to give it to myself, it stills feels good.

Yesterday afternoon you would have found me in my kitchen, covered in chocolate (relatively speaking) making mad dashes to my computer to get various email opinions at each step along the way. Ok, maybe I overreacted a little but there was alot of chocolate at stake here.

I had made it through the recipe without incident, but in the end I didn't like the flavour. I had used good quality dark chocolate and cocoa powder, but to me these little darlings needed some serious sweetening up. I think my tastebuds are still adjusting to bitter chocolate. So, there was nothing left to do but to engage in some 'adaptive correction techniques'. Or "recipe fiddling" as it may be more commonly referred to. Something which I am generally nervous about when it comes to trying a recipe for the first time. But sometimes you've got to use some moxy to get the job done.

A mad dash back to the shop for some semisweet, and I was back in business. More melting, some truffle dunking and, in an unusual moment of whimsy, a sprinkling of Fleur de Sel (sea salt crystals). A few taste tests later, and I was not only done, but I was quite happy. I think I may have even turned the music up and danced a wee celebratory jig in my kitchen.



The base chocolate truffle recipe that I used was from Nigel Slater's Real Food which consists of only 3 ingredients. Chocolate, whipping cream and cocoa powder. I then took my own liberties and coated them with melted semisweet chocolate (52% cocoa) and sprinkled a bit of fleur de sel on top for the finishing touch. The salt adds a wonderful contrast. They wouldn't be half as good without it.

Dark Chocolate Truffles with Fleur de Sel (adapted from Nigel's Chocolate Truffles)
450g fine chocolate (I used 70% cocoa)
275ml whipping cream
cocoa powder for dusting (I used Van Houton)
approximately 400 g semisweet chocolate
fleur de sel

Chop the chocolate finely into gravel sized bits. If they are of equal size they will melt better.

Put the chopped chocolate in a warm heat proof bowl. Bring the cream to the boil in a small pan. Just as it reaches the boiling point, remove from the heat and pour slowly into the chocolate, beating gently with a wooden spoon.

The chocolate should all melt into a thick, glossy, dark-brown cream. If there are lumps left then you will have to put the bowl over a pan of hot, almost simmering water until they melt. Take care not to overheat it or it will separate and curdle.

Place the basin of chocolate in the fridge to stiffen. Depending on the temperature inside your fridge, the mixture will need about an hour to thicken. (It should not set solid although if it does, just melt it over hot water and refrigerate again). If you want thick, solid, luxurious truffles, leave mix as is. If you want softer, lighter ones then beat the mix with an electric whisk for a minute or so until it starts to change colour. It will become paler and fill with air. Overwhipping will curdle the truffle mixture.

Using two teaspoons, scoop out balls of truffle and drop them into the cocoa powder. The size is a matter of choice. Roll the truffles in the cocoa, then leave them in a cool place for an hour to set.

My addition
I tempered* some semisweet (52% cocoa) chocolate and dunked each truffle in it and placed it on a baking sheet covered in parchment (or wax paper is fine). I sprinkled each with a pinch of Fleur de Sel (sea salt crystals) and left them to cool. And voilà.

And here I am still grinning with self-satisfaction. So, who wants to come over and eat them all up with me?

*(Ok truthfully I just melted in a double boiler, stirred it with a wooden spoon as it melted, then let it cool a bit and then melted and stirred it some more. It seems to have worked. The chocolate may not be as shiny as it could be but I'm satisfied for my first effort..)

Finally settling down..

Random cafe picture, before the rush..

It seems that my life consists mostly of moving. There are always at least 2 suitcases laying about unemptied; filled with bruised books, forgotten socks, and pants that are so Spring 2004. But they just keep following us around, from one place to the next.

Well, I'm happy to announce that we have found ourselves a permanent apartment and now it looks like we are here to stay for a couple of years at least. Ah, Paris, I'm all yours baby.

Sure, the apartment is unfurnished, and no, we don't currently have any furniture to put in it, but I'll gladly sleep on the floor in my own place, than sleep on someone else's bed in a pre-furnished apartment that never really feels like home. A maddening trip to Ikea this weekend resulted in us at least having a furnished kitchen. A good start, right?

Maybe I won't feel so enthused in a week or so when my back decides to punish me for sleeping on the floor while we await the delivery of our mattress. But until then, all is right in my little world.

So, please excuse the lack of posting. It has been a busy journey getting this apartment and setting up what seems like hundreds of utilities, which is not so easy in one's second language. Sometimes I just say "oui" and hope that they think I know what they're talking about. It seems to be working so far.

In any case, I'll get to the posting shortly, I promise. And make note that there is some intriguing business about a Prune Blogging Thursday on October 27th. Perhaps you're wrinkling your nose about prunes, but hey, challenge yourself!

The Medicis Fountain again, because I love it so..

Even the ducks like Eric Kayser breads..

Eric Kayser Bakery

I recently made my way to the Eric Kayser Bakery on Rue Monge. It was weeks ago that Aude left a comment for me and suggested I try Kayser's Pain aux Figues. It had been on my mind ever since, so this visit was long overdue. It was a gorgeous walk from my apartment, but then again, anytime I have to cross the river I always feel an extra bit of a spring in my step. The things I pass by just to get to my intended destination are hugely distracting, and it often leaves me wondering how I will ever get to explore this whole city. If, in fact, that is even remotely possible.


Pain aux Figues

So I happily ordered my Pain aux Figues, and with my bag in hand, wondered where I should wander next. The sun was shining, there was a slight breeze, it was a perfect fall morning, and all I wanted was to be outside. I decided to head towards the Luxembourg Gardens, a perfect spot for a stroll. I sat myself down at one of my favourite places, the Medicis fountain, which was built in the 1630's.



There was one lone duck swimming around in the water and there I was with a bag full of some fine, fine bread. How could I resist? She came right over and stared up at me and then opened her beak as if to say "Come on, just one little taste?".
It had been a very long time since I had fed a duck. Or any bird for that matter. I'm usually highly against it for some self-righteous reason that I seemed to have forgotten on this particular day. But the air was quiet and peaceful and it just seemed like the right thing to do.



As soon as she heard the crinkling of the bag, I swear her neck extended, like a dog who stands up on his hind legs and leans on you to get closer to what is in your hands. She's clearly done this before. But it was still awfully cute. And I will say, that that little duck of mine was truly spoiled. This was no wonderbread lunch she was having, she was dining on some fine, fig filled bread.
As you can see by the picture above of the bread, it was somewhat ravaged by the time I got it home. My duck friend and I showed no mercy. The bread was delicious, with moist figs scattered throughout and a nice crunchy outer crust.

Well the little gal and I had to part ways at some point so I wandered through the treed area of the gardens and was astounded at how beautiful it looked at this time of year. Leaves scattered about, people sitting quietly, reading, drawing or gazing out at the view around them, it was absolutely picture perfect.






Leaves piling up at the Luxembourg Gardens

And yes, there was even some Tai Chi..



And a big thanks to Aude for suggesting the bread!

Eric Kayser
8, rue Monge
75005

Salted butter caramels with a twist...

Caramels aux Algues au Beurre Salé

The heat is on in my apartment, my winter coat is making its debut in Paris, and hot bubble baths are becoming a nightly indulgence just so I can warm my feet up. But I'm not complaining. I love my winter coat and I do some of my best reading in a hot bubble bath. And aside from that, I can't help but smile at the thought that I've just witnessed a changing of the seasons in Paris. From the hot days of summer to the cool, overcast days of fall, it's really starting to sink in that I live here. And yes, I like it. I like it alot. And here is but one more reason why.

Just yesterday I spotted a bag of salted butter caramels. Yes, it's true, my first bag ever. Molly would be pleased with my find, I'm sure, as she has declared these one of her favourite indulgences.

But what I discovered when I returned home was that I hadn't just purchased a bag of salted butter caramels. In fact, I was now the proud and slightly confused owner of Salted Butter Caramels with Algae. (Caramels aux Algues au Beurre Salé)

Algae?

Yes, algae. The ingredient list read as follows:
Sugar. Glucose syrup. Milk powder. Salted butter. Salt. Seaweed. Nori.



I'm sure you are asking, as I did, who would ever think to put seaweed and nori in a caramel?
Well it seems the French would, especially those who live by the sea.

These caramels are made by La Maison D'Armorine which is based out of Quiberon, a small town in the province of Brittany (known as Bretagne in French), right on the western coast of France. Quiberon is known for its fishing and in particular its sardines, and was declared a "Ville Gourmande" in 1999.

Sel de Guérande is the salt that is found in the salted butter used in the caramels. It is a name I have seen frequently since moving to Paris. I now know that this popular brand of salt, is completely natural, unrefined, unwashed seasalt containing no additives. It is low in sodium and high in mineral content. The 2000 hectares of Guérande saltworks in Brittany are said to be a supreme example of some of the most ecologically sound land development.

I declare these salt and algae spiked caramels delicious. They were wonderfully chewy, sweet but not overly so, and the seaweed added a subtle earthy contrast to the sweetness. I think I will now be on a mission to scout the city for different makers of salted caramels to see how they compare.

Just don't ask me how many I have left. I'd probably blush.

Curing a cold with wild mushroom soup

Wild Mushroom Soup

A couple of weeks ago I caught a rather nasty cold. With my boyfriend away on business, there I was, in our apartment, sick and alone. And well, just a little bit grumpy.

There are certain things that I crave when I'm sick. First and foremost, I crave dry toast and flat gingerale, a combination that my mother used to feed my brother and I when we were sick as children. No, it wasn't particularly tasty but it was much better than that cough syrup that sent us running to hide under the bed.

Of course, having our mother serve the dry toast and gingerale to us in bed was part of the cure. But with my mother an ocean away in Canada, the idea of it had lost much of its appeal.

My fallback feel-good-food, since I first left home at the age of 18, has always been a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup. I'm a woman of refined tastes, clearly. And I will even go so far as to admit that I usually just made it with water, instead of milk, as was instructed on the label.
Here's where I pause for you to say "EW" and then wonder why I would do such a thing.
Well, let's just say its another one of my strange quirks. I like to pretend that it's charming. But let's move on.

I'm sure there is a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup somewhere in Paris, but with my head and chest congested and the rest of me wanting to remain firmly planted in bed, I certainly did not want to have to go looking for it. So the days passed, my health improved, but I still had mushroom soup on the brain.



Trips to the market did nothing to curb my craving, as mushrooms of all kinds spilled from the vendors stalls. I'd never made my own mushroom soup before, and there was a little devil on my shoulder telling me to just give it a go. Nowadays, I have 2 names for this little devil that urges me to be more adventurous with my cooking, and to step out of my well-established box. Sometimes, this little devil that whispers in my ear goes by the name of Tara, and at other times, Melissa.

I found a recipe from my old standby, Williams-Sonoma, that seemed relatively easy. I came home with more mushrooms that day than I had ever bought at one time in my whole entire life. It was a little bit frightening, I admit. But the soup turned out wonderfully and I think that my Campbell's cravings may just be a thing of the past.

The base of this recipe is made with button mushrooms, so don't be fooled by the picture above. It's really nothing more than a gratuitous mushroom shot. These ones, which are called Girolles, a type of Chanterelle, were sauteed and added in afterwards, but they could just as easily be replaced with your own favourite wild mushroom or left out altogether. (at which point you would have to, in good conscience, rename it simply "Mushroom Soup")

Click here to see the recipe for:
Williams-Sonoma Wild Mushroom Soup

For the love of chocolate..

Patrick Roger milk chocolate almond bar

I was recently tagged for a second meme by Beth from Zen Foodism, which asks us to select our most wine friendly meal of the last 30 days. My general theory is that there is no meal that is not in some way enhanced by a glass of wine. Yes, even if its hot dogs with twinkies on the side. But for the sake of the meme, I put my thinking cap on and one thing in particular kept coming to mind.

My friends, it is no secret I am a girl with rather simple tastes. And I beg to differ with anyone who tries to convince me that a chocolate bar is not a meal in itself. If its big and delicious, and you eat the whole thing in one shot, well, it kind of is.

And I will not argue that this Patrick Roger milk chocolate almond bar could not be enjoyed entirely on its own. But, if you're going to indulge, why not go all the way.

This past week, I made my way into the Patrick Roger boutique for my first time, with a man who definitely knows his chocolate. When he tells you that this is some of his favourite chocolate, you don't take that information lightly. You pull out your wallet and you get down to the business of selecting. As if the recommendation isn't enough, the packaging is very reminiscent of the Tiffany's blue, a colour that is hard for any girl to resist.

I carried that chocolate around with me all afternoon, pretending not to notice it but truthfully, I could think of nothing else. When I got home, I told myself I would open it just enough to take some pictures. I carefully unwrapped it and one glimpse at those perfectly shaped almonds and I was done for. There was no holding back, nor was there even time to open a bottle of wine. But had I had the foresight, and the willpower, I would have. I guess I'll just have to go back and get another one and stop for some wine along the way.



Patrick Roger
108 boulevard St-Germain
75006 Paris

Random memes and the meaning of life..

At Richard Lenoir Market in the 11th arrondissement

Well I've been tagged for 2 memes over the past few days so I better get to down to business. I'll post the second one shortly. The meme that Clare has tagged me with is to select the 5th sentence from your 23rd post and ponder its meaning.
My 23rd post is found way back in May, when I was still living in Heidelberg, Germany and grumbling about the rainy weather.
My 5th sentence reads:

The problem is, everything is closed on Sundays, so if you have no food in the fridge on Saturday, you have little choice but to brave the weather.

Now to ponder its meaning. I'm sure there is a clue to the meaning of life hidden somewhere amongst those words, but it may take a great philosopher to decipher it, and I am no such philosopher. Now that I have moved from Heidelberg to Paris, I no longer face the problem of having nowhere to buy food on Sundays. So if its raining on a Saturday, I could, if I wanted to, not leave the apartment at all, and just stay on my couch all day feeling contentedly lazy. In fact, in Paris, I'm blessed with a rather large street market on Sundays just a short walk from my apartment. Aside from that, I live in Le Marais, which is bustling with open shops even on Sundays.
Ok, so now I understand what that sentence really means. Michele is really, really happy to be in Paris.

More fruit and melty cheese...

Beurre Hardy Pear (French butter pear)

That time of year is arriving that reminds me most of home. My niece and nephews are back in school, and the busy apple season is getting into full gear at my brother's orchard. I remember long days spent helping out in their bakery, when I would return home, exhausted, with the sweet smell of sugar and vanilla oozing out of every pore of my body.
Now, far away from home, I can't help but notice the bounty of apples and pears that are making their arrival at the markets. What I would give to wake up just one early morning and find myself at the orchard, walking across the dewy grass to pick a few apples, with the dogs running about, the chickens clucking, and my niece and nephews getting into mischief as usual.
Since the orchard came into our lives, I have a new appreciation for the simple beauty of an apple or a pear. Crisp, and sweet, dangling from the trees, there isn't a more beautiful offering.

With my feet moving at a slow and homesick pace at the market, the desire for comfort food motivated my every purchase.

But then again, I'm in Paris.
So it had to have a little bit of oomph.



Behold the Pear and Brie Croque Monsieur.
A cure for homesickness? Well maybe not. But it sure took my mind off of my troubles for a bit. Part of the fun was in finding a new pear at the market that I had never heard of before. It is called a Beurre Hardy, which is an heirloom pear that is otherwise known as a French Butter Pear. Even though at first glance its skin seems rather dull with its mossy-green colour, it is quite pretty, and the ones I purchased had a close to perfect robust pear shape. Ok, maybe I'm being a bit of a geek about it but remember, I'm homesick. In any case, it was delicious. Juicy and sweet, I gobbled one up as soon as I got home.
As for the brie? Well, just look at that picture at the bottom, where it is just bulging out from under its rind. Enough said.

The Pear and Brie Croque Monsieur, inspired entirely by Williams Sonoma.
(which is really just a pear and brie grilled sandwich if you don't have the proper equipment.. but it sure sounds better the Williams-Sonoma way)

Take a pear, rinse it, slice it up. (I left the skin on).
Saute the slices in a pan in a bit of butter until slightly softened.
Spread butter on one side of 2 slices of bread.
On the un-buttered side, place the sauteed pears and some slices of brie.
Top with the second slice of bread, buttered side up.
Fry in a grill pan or fry pan until browned to your liking, and the cheese is melted.
Don't stop to take pictures, just eat it.


Brie de Meaux from La Ferme de la Brie
(at Richard Lenoir Market in the 11th)

Rinquinquin. Chasing the blues away with a peach aperitif..

Rinquinquin, Peach aperitif

On a small shelf, in a small store, (which I have frequented before for its various olive and olive related products) a label with more i's and n's than I'm used to jumped out at me. Among the bottles of Pastis and Absynthe, there stood proudly a small 100ml (10cl) bottle of Rinquinquin. It's as spritely a name as I have ever heard. If you pronounce it as the French do, "Rahn-kahn-kahn", you may want to put a little Eartha Kitt into it and roll that r with just a little more emphasis than usual.

I have learned by now that French shopkeepers don't like to have their products handled. You might receive a loud S'il vous plait! if you choose to ignore this rule. The words may come at you firmly and indiscreetly, leaving you feeling like a child who has just been scolded for stealing one too many cookies from the cookie jar. It hasn't happened to me yet, but I have been witness to it. And sometimes, it's not pretty.

With this in mind, I carefully tilted the bottle of Rinquinquin so that I could read its fine print.
I knew immediately that this bottle was coming home with me.
Oh, and of course its matching glasses.
I mean, of course, right?

Rinquinquin is an aperitif made with white wine, alcohol, and infusions of peach tree leaves, peaches and sugar. That was as much as I needed to read to make my decision to buy it. When I got home, the internet enlightened me further.

The word Rinquinquin is said to come from the Provencal word 'requinquilhar', which means "to cheer up". This insinuates that when you are feeling blue, the cure is close at hand.
Now, I will definitely drink to that.




Rinquinquin is recommended to be taken chilled, straight up, or with a splash of cold water, and with or without ice cubes depending on your preference. But, because I was too impatient to allow fridge time, and I'm not organized enough to have ice cubes in my freezer box, I poured it out, still warm, into my new glass and enjoyed it thoroughly. It's pure peach flavour did not overwhelm, it was in fact, extremely refreshing. All I can think of is how great it's going to taste in the middle of winter when fresh peaches are just a distant memory.

According to the website for the makers of the Henri Bardouin Rinquinquin, the peaches are harvested only when they are ripe. Several varieties of peaches are used including Cardinal, Coronet and Junegold peaches. The leaves are picked during the month of September, and the maceration period lasts 6 months to a year. Henri Bardouin also makes Pastis, and it is apparently more popular in France than the Pernod or Ricard brands.

With my new drink in hand, and its matching glass, I feel very put together. As you can see, I have completely embraced the French trend of having matching glasses for every brand of drink from Orangina to Perrier, from Pastis to Rinquinquin. Since Rinquinquin will now be a regular on my grocery list, the glasses are a completely justified purchase. Really, they are.

Rinquinquin purchased at:
A L'Olivier
23, rue de Rivoli
Paris, 75003
€4.20 for 100ml. But a little goes a long way.

It is especially recommended with foie gras, and as an additional flavouring with fruit salads.

Fourteen figs are better than one..

Fig and Goat cheese toasts with rosemary honey

When you take a trip to a market with a friend, you find yourself a bit distracted. Purchases are made in between bursts of conversation, and waiting for service at a busy produce stand doesn't phase you at all. Even if the service does at times seem suspiciously slow. Because you've got things to talk about and time to spare. By the time you get home, you find yourself standing in your kitchen, with bags and bags of stuff, and you can't for the life of you remember what you actually bought. As you start to unload, it kind of feels like Christmas.
"Aahh. I forgot about those. " Or:
"Wow, did I really buy this many mushrooms?"

So you stand back from the counter and survey your bounty. There's been alot of talk about figs lately, so you're not surprised when you realize that you've bought ALOT of them. That bundle that you bought for a mere 2 euros doesn't look like it wants to wait any longer. It wants to be eaten. Now.



So you rummage through your new groceries and pull out that pain aux céréales that came highly recommended. You slice it up and slather one side with butter. You place a few slices on a hot grill pan until they are toasty and crisp. While you are waiting, you eat the crusty end that you cut off and think wow, now that is some good bread.
You spread a generous layer of that soft goat's cheese (chèvre frais) you bought, and top it with some slices of those luscious figs. They are so ripe they refuse to let you pick them up with your fingers. You have to slide a knife underneath the slices to prevent them from falling apart.

But something is missing, it's not quite finished yet. Then you remember that rosemary honey (Miel de Romarin) you bought at L'Épicerie a couple of weeks ago on one of your many walks over the river to Île St-Louis. You drizzle it over the top of the figs and with a satisfied grin on your face, you know that your work is now done.


Miel de Romarin from L'Épicerie

You sit yourself down at the table and enjoy every bite. Then you realize you only used one fig to make this lunch of yours, you still have about 13 more to go. The fun has only just started.


L'Épicerie
51, rue St-Louis-en-L'Île
75004
an excellent shop with a wide range of honeys and mustards.

Marshmallows revisited..

Gimauves à l'ancienne, Old-fashioned marshmallows

If there is one thing that I associate with the many campfires of my childhood, it is roasting marshmallows. My brother and I would search the surrounding woods for just the right stick, long enough to keep ourselves comfortably back from the flames, and straight enough to appeal to our need to have a more perfect stick than the other. If he happened to find a good one while I was still searching, it was not unusual for me to sulk.

I was a fussy child when it came to my marshmallows, I wanted the big ones and I wanted them to be white. When it came to roasting, I aimed for an even browning. This required a slow and steady rotation, with a certain level of concentration that I often lacked. If I became tired or distracted, it would, to my horror, erupt in flames. There was no hiding my disappointment, as I passed the rejected marshmallow to my brother, who would gobble it up eagerly. I would then have to thread a new one onto my stick and begin the process all over again. Inevitably, he would end up with twice as many in his belly by the end of the night as I did. More sulking would ensue.

It was a strange day indeed when I discovered "old-fashioned" marshmallows at La Grande Epicerie de Paris, a fantastic grocery store to which I have, by now, made many trips. Each time I go there are new discoveries to be made. Some of them thrill, while others bore. And some just refuse to stop nagging at my curiosity.

For weeks, I could not stop thinking about these marshmallows. At 7 euros for a bag of 20, I had, upon first seeing them, decided that I would never buy them. As much as their pretty pastel colours attracted my attention, I was not foolish enough to spend that kind of money on something so.. well, childish.. But each time I went to the store, those darn colours drew me in again. There I could be found, standing in front of the display, trying to convince myself that my disdain over the price was stronger than my desire to see what all the fuss was about. Each time, I would reach for the package, give it a slight squeeze, turn it over, until I would finally replace it to its spot on the shelf. I even emailed Tara to see what she thought of this strange new thing. How absurd! I wrote her. Who would you feed them to? Surely not your children at 7 euros a bag?

Still, I couldn't get them out of my head. I hadn't had a marshmallow in years, nor had I any cravings for marshmallows. So what was it?
I don't know.
But whatever it was, it was too powerful to resist.

One day I could fight it no longer. So, on my last trip, there I was at the checkout counter, with my fancy marshmallows in hand, wondering if the checkout man was going to laugh at me.
Ridiculous purchase? Maybe.
But I bet you're curious now too, aren't you?



Opening the bag was an exciting moment. Yes, I am easily amused. The fruity smell that drifted up to my nose told me we were off to a great start. I reached in and pulled them all out one by one, and admired their many colours. Each colour has its own flavour: lemon, mandarin, apricot, lime, orange flower, strawberry, raspberry, myrtle, coconut, vanilla and violet. Myrtle? I know, that's what I said too. (update: I have since discovered that myrtille, as it was listed on the label, means blueberry, not myrtle as I erroneously assumed. French is my second language after all.. )

The marshmallows are spongy, but with more fluff than the dense ones that I remember from my childhood. (Not to give the impression that I am a marshmallow connaisseur, if there is even such a thing). The outside texture is wrinkly, with a light dusting of cornflour on the outside, which gives a nice dry contrast to the moist sponge inside. The flavour is evident as soon as the marshmallow hits your tongue and intensifies once you bite into it, though the flavours are still subtle, and not overwhelming. I could feel the sugar dissolve on my tongue immediately, and it felt like some strange marshmallow/cotton candy hybrid. The coconut flavoured one is surprisingly at the top of my list so far. There are still about 15 more to go, but I will have to take it slow. I'm still getting over my chocolate overload from last week.

For such a seemingly frivolous purchase, I can finally conclude that I feel completely justified in this indulgence. Discovering a childhood food elevated to a new level, well, it's just cool. If only I had some licorice sticks, some cream soda, and a few of my favourite girl friends, I could have the best tea party ever.



L'Atelier des Douceurs
Le Pont-Quartier Tartary
07200 Aubenas

Available at La Grande Epicerie de Paris

A little wine, a lot of chocolate.. WBW13

Bourgogne Passetoutgrains and Chocolate Cheesecake
bites with a Chocolate Rosemary Ganache

When Clotilde announced the theme for this month's Wine Blogging Wednesday, my immediate thought was that there was no way I could participate. I moved to Paris 4 weeks ago and was dismayed to find that my apartment contained a stovetop, but no oven. No oven? That's right. No oven. That meant no more roasted chicken, no more roasted tomatoes, no crostini, no homemade pizzas and definitely no baking. I was ready to throw in the towel on food blogging.

As the WBW due date drew nearer I had resigned myself to the fact that I was just going to have to sit back and watch everybody else having all the fun. And then there was an email. Not just any email, but an email sent to a girl who knows what she's talking about when it comes to food, both savoury and sweet. I lamented, I complained. She read my tales of woe, but she knew that all was not lost just because I was ovenless.
And so began my no-bake-cheesecake experiment.

I browsed a number of recipes. A bit of tweaking, a dash of invention, (something I'm rarely comfortable with when it comes to desserts) and I ended up with these chocolatey little bundles. Chocolate cheesecake on top of a cookie base, covered with a chocolate rosemary ganache. And with G. away this week, there was nobody here to enjoy them but me. And perhaps that was a good thing. Because enjoy them I did.
The rosemary flavour in the ganache added a subtle and surprising mellowness. Next time I will steep the rosemary longer in the cream to allow the flavour to come through just a bit more.


Chocolate Cheesecake Bites with a Chocolate Rosemary Ganache

I popped the cork on my new wine, and there I was, chocolate and wine at hand, ready for an evening spent curled up on the couch with a good book.



The Wine
It is said that when pairing wine with chocolate, it is important to consider the cocoa content of the chocolate. The stronger the chocolate, the more full bodied the wine should be. A bittersweet chocolate would be complimented by a hearty Zinfandel. A Pinot Noir or Merlot is a good match for milk chocolates. At 52% cocoa content, the chocolate I chose fell into the semi-sweet category. It was not bitter enough for a Zinfandel, so I decided to try something from the Bourgogne region. A general rule is that the wine should be sweeter than the chocolate, so I thought perhaps I was playing it safe. Bourgogne Passetoutgrains are made with 2/3rds Gamay grapes, and only 1/3rd Pinot Noir grapes, although I did read that its possible that this ratio is not always adhered to. My particular bottle however, did indicate that this was in fact the ratio used. The Bourgogne Passetoutgrains appellation is relatively small so it is not as easy to find these wines as it is to find those of larger appellations.
Gamay grapes often have cherry and/or strawberry notes and are said to be good easy to drink table wines. It had a nice clear colour and a noticeable acidity which cut through the sweet richness of my dessert. It was an acceptable match with my chocolate, but not a particularly satisfying one.
I think I would try this wine again in another context to see how it fares. The back label recommends the wine with grilled meats and soft cheeses, such as Brie.


Bourgogne Passetoutgrains

Bourgogne Passetoutgrains
Maison Chandesais
Bourgogne, France
Grapes: 2/3rds Gamay, 1/3rd Pinot Noir
Mis en Bouteille
12% vol.
€3.15 for 375 mL bottle or approximately €6.00 for a 750ml bottle.

The Cheesecake
The cheesecake was an experiment of mine. I did not follow a specific recipe and only wanted to make as much as I could eat. A whole cake just wouldn't do when there was only me to eat it.
You can use your favourite cheesecake recipe to recreate the same thing.

100 g of cream cheese
1 heaping tablespoon of sugar
1 tablespoon of crème fraiche
approximately 3 oz of good quality chocolate, melted
Mix the first 3 ingredients together and then mix in the chocolate.

It turned out to be quite dense, almost like a thick mousse. I only added a tablespoon of sugar to 100g of cream cheese because I knew the chocolate would sweeten the mix. If you prefer something less dense, use whipped cream instead of the crème fraiche. Adjust amounts to your taste.

I scooped the mix onto the little cookies, smoothed it out as best I could, and after a cooling period in the refrigerator, covered each of them with the ganache.

Here is a link to Martha's No bake Chocolate Crust Cheesecake that you can use as a reference for an alternative cheesecake mixture, and also for a crust if you prefer that to using cookies.

The Chocolate Rosemary Ganache from www.mslo.com
Please note, that this amount of ganache is was way more than I needed, so keep that in mind when making your own. The instructions below are the method I used, click on link above to see Martha's full instructions.

Makes 1.5 cups
9 oz semisweet or bittersweet chocolate, chopped
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons fresh rosemary needles

Place chocolate in a medium heat-proof bowl. Warm cream with rosemary in small saucepan over low heat. Bring just to a boil. Strain cream over chocolate. Stir to melt all chocolate. Pour ganache over your cream cheese bites. Let cool in fridge or at room temperature.

The Cookies used for the base
Mère Poulard, Les Chocolatines du Mont Saint Michel
I would definitely buy these cookies again to use as my cheesecake base, but they were also equally delicious plain, straight out of the box. They were a thin cookie, the bottom of them showed that they were generously laced with tiny chocolate chips. The cookies had a very small crumb, crisp to bite into, but the rest was melt-in-your mouth. The only thing that comes to mind that is somewhat comparable in texture to the crumb of these cookies are the wafers on an oreo cookie.
I was happy to find that mine stayed crisp after a night in the refrigerator covered in my cream cheese mixture. Choosing these ones for my base had been a stroke of pure luck.


The Cookie Base

How I lost my mind in Paris..

My new Asterix PEZ dispenser

Paris is killing me. I assure you that I mean this in a good way. There are endless discoveries to be made and I am at a loss in deciding what to focus on. So for now, you'll have to bear with me while I give you a little bit of everything. I will expand on some of these finds in future posts, but for now I think this adequately reflects the state of mind I currently find myself in.

My day on Wednesday (or was it Tuesday?) started out fairly innocently. I should have been job searching, but it's hard to suppress my wanderlust. No, not just hard, impossible actually.

Avoiding that which I should have been doing, I decided to make a trip to the Galeries Lafayette, a large department store in Paris, to see what all the fuss is about. I admired its stunning stained glass and steel dome, and gaped at the purses, the shoes, the scarves, and the lingerie. Kudos to the French on the lingerie. They really know what they are doing. I left with a naughty little bundle.

I then moseyed (yes, the walk changed once that bundle was in my possession) over to their gourmet food shop. I was not as dazzled as I had been on my first trip to La Grande Epicerie de Paris. It has a very nice selection, but it was lacking a certain je ne sais quoi. Perhaps it was the low ceilings. A girl is more inspired to shop in a lofty space. Yes, I know that I'm already well on my way to becoming a spoiled brat.

I wandered the aisles and came upon a Hediard boutique franchise. Hediard is famous for its chocolate, so I bought a jar of jam. Figue de Provence, as a matter of fact. I felt as though I was defying the masses by not buying the chocolate and it made me feel good for a moment. I regretted it later.
(More jam tasting is required before I can provide a final verdict. It was runnier than I expected so I need time to adjust.)


Confiture Figue de Provence

As I made my way to the checkout, I was momentarily sidetracked by the sight of the Pain aux olives at the Eric Kayser bakery. I couldn't just leave it there, could I? (It more than lived up to my expectations, it was delicious. Just look at all those happy little olives in there. And happy olives make for a happy me.)


Pain aux olives

I hopped on the metro and headed across the river to St. Germain-des-Prés. It was hot and I was already sweaty and tired. I took a familiar walk down the Rue de Seine towards a shop named J.S.F.P Traiteur, that I am continually drawn to. I wandered in, feeling my stomach growl. I already knew that I liked their couscous and thought it would be so much easier to buy it again than to make something for myself for lunch. So, I asked for a small container, oh and one of those pretty little quiches on the side. I took the liberty of calling it my "emergency quiche". After all, there was no telling how hungry I'd be once I got home after all this walking around.


Couscous

Quiche à l'ognion

I headed back towards Notre Dame in the direction of home. Before crossing the river, I stepped into Shakespeare and Company, a rather well-known bookstore, run by an eccentric, 91 year old American fellow who I had seen on a previous day puttering around in front of the shop in his pyjamas, fretting about a missing ladder. The shops shelves are packed with books, new and used, there is not an empty space in the room. I couldn't resist buying a copy of A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway.
(The book was read front to back that very same night.)


Shakespeare and Company

I crossed over onto Ile de la Cité and found a bench for a much needed rest. Shopping is hard, hard work.


I continued back up to rue St. Antoine for the final leg of my journey home. Along the way I stumbled upon a shop called A L'Olivier that I hadn't noticed there before. After Melissa raved about her olive jam, I could not resist it when I spotted a jar of Olive and Fig Jam. Yes, I had conveniently put it out of my mind that I had just bought a jar of fig jam. But you can never have too much fig jam. Can you? All told, I walked happily out of there with a jar of Delice d'Artichauts, a jar of Confiture Olives et Figues and a bar of olive oil soap. By now I was close to home, so I didn't have far to carry the extra packages. See? I'm always thinking.



I passed by Paul, a bakery that has several locations in the city that seem to be always overflowing with people. I had a fleeting thought that it would be nice to pick something up for a late afternoon coffee break. I wandered in and bought 2 caneles. They were small and looked so very charming, and I had never had one before. So why not?
(From what I gather, a canele is a small cake invented in the last century by the sisters of the Sainte-Eulalie convent in Bordeaux. They are flavoured with rum and vanilla and baked until slightly caramelized. The inside of them was a surprise to me. Very moist and dense. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I will definitely purchase them again, although I will try a different bakery for the sake of comparison.)


Canele's from Paul Bakery

I was just about to cross the street when I decided to visit my local cheese shop, Fromager Pascal Trotte. I stepped in and admired the fresh, raw milk cheeses, many of which I had never even heard of before. I couldn't resist the cute little fig shaped one with its equally cute name, Figuette, and a much larger one called Merle de Blanc.
(Both turned out to be delicious. Merle de Blanc especially good for taking a big slice off and making a grilled goat cheese sandwich with tapenade or sun dried tomato pesto spread on the inside of the bread. )


Figuette and Merle Blanc goat cheeses

I realized, as my apartment building came into view, that I may have overdone it. I was never so sure of that as I was when I got home, unloaded my purchases, and discovered that I had completely forgotten all about the Asterix PEZ dispenser that I had also purchased that day.
And suddenly it was clear. I'm in Paris, and I have completely lost my mind.


Addresses are provided where a website could not be found

J.S.F.P Traiteur
8, rue de Buci, 75006
(they also make a great take home roasted rosemary chicken, which is a godsend for me, the girl who moved to Paris and discovered her apartment had a stovetop but no oven. The horror I tell you. The horror.)

Fromager, Affineur Pascal Trotte
97, rue St. Antoine, 75004

A L'Olivier
23, rue de Rivoli, 75004

I found my thrill..

my loot..

Friday morning started like every other day this past week. At 9:30am I stepped out of our apartment building and began the now familiar walk towards the river Seine. The sun was shining, but I had my umbrella with me just in case. I had gotten caught in two downpours the day before and I was determined that it would not happen to me again.


post rain

As I walked along the Quai de Bourbon, a riverside road on the north side of Ile St. Louis, I saw a man standing down by the water. I could faintly hear music coming from his direction. As I passed him from up on the street I could hear him playing a flute, and the happy Irish tune that drifted up to the road brought a smile to my face. Although I couldn't help but wonder if he was also nursing a few pints of Guinness down there. Either way I enjoyed the music as I wandered by.



I continued walking, all the while admiring the river and the weather, and I noticed that the leaves are already starting to fall in Paris. As I crossed over the bridge from Ile St. Louis towards Notre Dame on Ile de la Cite, I heard more music. An aged and bearded man was sitting on the bridge playing an accordion. These are the moments that a small town Canadian girl like me savours in a city such as Paris. I felt as though the moment could only have been made better if I had been wearing a beret. Or riding by on an old bicycle with a bundle of baguettes sticking out of a wicker basket on the front. If you come to Paris and see a goofy girl riding around like that, it's probably going to be me.



The crowds had already started to converge on Notre Dame, snapping photos and admiring the architecture. I zigzagged my way around them as best I could. After barely 2 weeks, I'm already starting to dodge them like an old pro. But my camera is a dead giveaway, there's no hiding the fact that I'm kind of new here.

When I finally arrived at my destination I was awestruck by the view. I stood frozen in one spot, my heart skipped a beat. My eyes could barely focus as they strained to absorb what they were seeing.

My friends, I was not at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Nor was I lingering at its base. I was not standing at the Arc de Triomphe looking down the length of the Champs Elysees. Nor was I pondering Mona Lisa's smile. The place I had found myself made my heart beat faster than any tourist attraction. I was at La Grande Epicerie de Paris. And I was sure that I would never want to leave.

Imagine, if you will, the grocery store of your dreams. And then force yourself to imagine something much, much better than that. Perhaps this is quite normal for Paris. Perhaps my feelings of awe and wonder would seem a tad exaggerated to some. But again, I'm just a small town Canadian girl who is easily excited.

With trembling hands I reached for a basket, my mind reeling at the discoveries that lay ahead of me. I strolled at a most leisurely pace, turning my head left and right, afraid to miss a single thing. I felt like a kid on my first day of school; overwhelmed and nervous, but ready for the adventure. I admired the preserves, jams and jellies, the oils and vinegars, pastas in shapes and colours that I had never seen before. Sea salts and spices, chocolates and teas, cheese, meat, freshly baked bread, foie gras.. it was all there. And the prepared foods left me feeling that I would never have to cook again. From couscous to quiches to terrines, I wanted to try it all. These foods were fine enough to serve to the queen, should she happen to drop in on you one day.

I came home with a comparatively boring bundle of stuff. But there is a reason for that. Is it because I'm insane? Well, possibly. But, the truth is that when I am overwhelmed with choices I have no greater fear than making the wrong one. I would hate to come home with the black and white bow tie pasta and then wish I had bought the pasta shaped like party hats with those pretty stripes in pale pink and yellow. So I tend to settle on something more mundane and familiar. Something that leaves no room for second thoughts. A girl can only handle so much excitement at once. But now that I've had a chance to absorb it all, I will enter prepared on my next trip. I know that I will again be dazzled, but this time I'll be ready for it. Whether it's party hats or bow ties, there will be some funky stuff in my basket next time. And I'll be sure to tell you all about it.

La Grande Epicerie de Paris
38, rue de Sevres
75007, Paris

The loot that I brought home with me (pictured at the top) consisted of Petit Ciabatta rolls, a Baguette Nordique, sundried tomato pesto, balsamic vinegar, Tomme d'Auvergnes and Saint Nectaire cheeses, curly (but safe and somewhat familiar) pasta, and I couldn't resist a wee pot of prepared Bearnaise sauce. Because you just never know when the queen might drop in.

P.S. My new computer, which originally promised a 2 to 3 day delivery time, finally arrived yesterday after almost 3 weeks. Oh happy day!

A week in Paris..

Tartelette Framboise

I am a list maker. There are countless lists that I maintain on an excel spreadsheet. Things to do today, things to do this week, things to achieve within the month, the year, my lifetime. I am constantly referring to them, making sure that I am on track, that no goal will go forgotten only to haunt me one day. And once an item makes its way onto my list(s) I become rather obsessed with completing the task. From washing the kitchen floor to my most lofty and challenging goals.
Number 5 on my list of things to achieve in my lifetime: live in Paris.
And here I am.

After 6 days in the city, my feet are sore and my legs suffer from a constant and dull ache, marks of my enthusiasm to discover this city that I now call home. From day one, my mind has been firmly focused on the fact that this time I'm not a tourist. I live here. This is my city now. And it is with this idea in mind that I have gone about familiarizing myself with my new neighbourhood and doing my best to blend in with the locals. I have walked and walked, and walked some more, some days with a destination in mind, other days wandering aimlessly, but always with a big smile on my face. (Ok, so maybe I did restrain the smile a little bit. I wouldn't want to reveal my true geekiness by walking around Paris smiling at myself, now would I? I'm working on my Parisian decorum, you see.)



watching the birds at the Luxembourg Gardens

On Wednesday I found myself at the Luxembourg Gardens, where I sat myself on a chair and watched the pigeons bathing in a puddle in front of me. I pulled out my trusty notebook, which follows me everywhere, and began to write. I couldn't help but think: "Hmm. Hemingway used to do this here too.." Although my pages were filled with nothing more than many variations of "Oh how I love Paris". But I'm sure that I can be forgiven for having a rather preoccupied mind lately.


Notre Dame

Wednesday was a rather hot and sunny day and after a time I headed back in the direction of home. I took a slow stroll past the Notre Dame Cathedral and through Ile St-Louis, where I found myself standing in front of Amorino; a small store specializing in Italian gelato that Clotilde had recently written a favourable review about. How could I resist? Did I not deserve this for all the blisters I have endured? Hard work deserves a fitting reward, and gelato suited me just fine. I ordered a cup with 2 flavours: Caffe and Creme Caramel and headed toward the river to enjoy the view as I savoured every creamy bite. I could have stood there forever, until I realized I was just a girl by a river, with an empty gelato cup in hand. A rather unfortunate state to find oneself in. I made a mental note to add the following to my list of things to achieve in 2005--try all flavours of Amorino gelato. Now this is a task that I will thoroughly enjoy. Look at me aiming high, a woman full of ambition.


an empty cup of gelato.. so very sad..


It has taken all my strength to resist coming home from my walks with a new dessert discovery each time. How can you not love a city where you can actually get a Creme Brulee to go? The Tartelette Framboise pictured at the top did somehow find itself in my hands. Funny how that happens, isn't it? Today I came home with some large and plump Saucisse de Toulouse from the local Butcher's. If they taste as good as they look I'll give you a full report next time.

So, as you can imagine, I find myself this past week in a bit of a daze. As soon as I can get this dreamy fog out of my brain and focus on the computer for more than 5 minutes at a time, I will fill you in. But I can barely be in our apartment for more than 30 minutes before my wanderlust is gnawing at me again to get myself back outside. In fact......

moving day!

Well today is moving day, a day which generally makes me agitated right from the moment I wake up but since I'm moving to Paris the agitation is replaced with pure elation. Pinch me, would you?
I will be posting next week as soon as I can.
Wish me luck!

Cheers,
Michele