In honor of France's birthday

It's Bastille Day! Run amok in the streets! Storm the prisons! Behead the nobility! Tie tri-color balloons to your nether regions!

The star-crossed roomie and I are celebrating tonight wiz zuh steenky cheez and zuh wahn zat ees compleecated lahk a womun ov zee certayne ahj. But we can celebrate right this moment here in cyberspace with a selection of Frenchy blog posts I've freelanced for my friends at Go Green Travel Green. 

Your guide to mealtime in France: You know I was something of a gourmande last year. This post describes all my favorite dishes and desserts, with a special section on les apéros.

How to use the French train system (SNCF): We Americans who live in Fly-Over Land sadly have little occasion to discover what rail travel is all about.  I compiled an exhaustive list of tips on how to ride the French rails for choo choo novices, from how to get your ticket to where to put your luggage.

Paris museums off the beaten track: I ended up going to Paris eight times last year to meet up with various visitors, and I got real sick, real fast of going to the same durn places all the time. These museums are the ones to check out once you're all art-ed out.

Paris in a day: If you're only going to be in Gay Paree for a couple of days but want to stuff as much of it into your eyeballs as possible, read this guide (based on a real-life 25-hour visit).

In other news, I now officially have only three weeks left of funemployment before I rejoin Society as one of its Productive Members. I've learned to keep work and blogging separate so I won't publish the name of my soon-to-be employer here, but if you're curious you can send me an email.


I'm looking for ways to make a little extra dough betwixt now and then (gotta keep up that fromage habit somehow), so if you think you might like to pay me to freelance a bit for your site, let me know in the comments below.

Memories from a perfect French afternoon

I've been thinking a lot about my favorite memories of France. One afternoon that stands out is a Wednesday when the Dude and I accompanied our main meuf and mec Missy and Thomas to Cluny. We meandered along the streets in search of a good place for a nibble, but in true French fashion almost every place we tried was closed during that ambiguous time betwixt lunch and dinner.

Finally we found a charming hotel/restaurant that deigned to have us dine with them. Because it was between meal times we couldn't order from the menu, but the proprietor offered to whip up an hors d'oeuvres platter for us of charcuterie, cheese, and a puréed nomnom with some potato chips with which to scoop it up.  We sat in the courtyard, enjoying one of the first warm days we'd had that spring. Our departure from the little world we'd built for ourselves in the preceding months was inching close enough to make us appreciate our time together, but not so close as to make us too sad to enjoy each others' company.

This is what we drank:

This is what we ate:

 

And this is the Monsieur Fatty Fat Cat who was there:

 And this is what Monsieur Fatty Fat Cat ate:

Photos courtesy of Missy Rococo.

Passover Do-Over

I got back here to the good ol' USofA on Tuesday evening, and I've passed two sleepless nights and one foggy day wandering around Minnesota in a jet lag haze. I'm really hoping tonight's the night I can bed myself at a decent time and sleep in past 3 a.m.

Because, my dear dudes, I gots so much to do. Theknot.com tells me there are only 72 days left until the nups. That's two months and change to cross a gatrillion things off my to-do list. My task for myself at 2 a.m. was to goose my bare-bones registry with the result that my guests now have several outrageously expensive crystal bowls and frames (SO many frames) and brightly colored table runners to choose from. I also found a really cool sweater de-fuzzer and I was all, "YOINK."

My other big pre-Big Day task is to get back in fighting shape. Mama ate a lot of cheese in France-- in fact, my two most recent Monday evening meals were Repas de Frommage-- as well as pastries and baguettes and lord knows I drank wine like a fish (...a fish that drinks wine).

So I'm doing a Passover Do-Over. I was in Berlin during the week that celebrates the my fellow triblings' exodus from Egypt, and I wasn't about to abstain from beer or bratwurst during what may be my sole trip to Deutschland. But I feel I owe it to the Big Guy to atone for that, as well as all the traif I snarfed down during the past seven months. And what better way to France detox than to deny myself anything that contains flour?

Answer: there is no better way and this is the best idea ever. Remind me that I said that when I'm carb craving in three days' time.

PS: A blog reader recognized me in the airport in Iceland during my layover, which pretty much made my life and I can die happy now mercibeaucoup. Elizabeth, an English assistant in the region north of Paris and fellow Minnesotan, posts the most delectable pictures from her French life on her blog: http://merveilleuse-ily.blogspot.com/. Go check her out!

Perfect Berlin Day

A perfect day starts out with a balanced breakfast. We went to the café across the street from the palace we've been staying (thanks Jonathan!) and played the "I Have No Idea What This Means But I Hope It's Delicious" game when ordering from the menu. I got a plate with a hard-boiled egg, cheeses, meats, butter and amazing house-made marmalade, accompanied by a basket of baguettes and slices of hearty German bread. The Dude had the XL version, with smoked salmon, fruit slices and horseradish spread. This kept us full all the livelong day.

Next stop was Tacheles, recommended by my friend Jessica. Originally built in 1907 as a department store in Berlin's Jewish quarter, it has since housed a Nazi prison, the Free German Trade Union Federation, and a movie theater. Shortly after the wall fell (and right before the building was scheduled to be demolished), an artists' initiative took over the building. It has since been used as an art center and night club.

According to their website:

In the course of changes since the wall came down, Tacheles has been confronted with the difficult challenge of remaining true to its roots and ideals without becoming too sentimental about the old squatter times.

The building was partially bombed during WWII and it's completely covered inside with graffiti. Each room features work from different artists-- collages, paintings, photography-- and there's a sculpture garden out back. I thought of many of my Portland buddies who would drool at such a gnarly artist collective.

Next was the Neue Synagogue down the street, which was way overpriced for the amount of information. We went to the German Historic Museum on Monday and paid 4E for three hours' worth of moseying through their gigantic exhibit, and we paid 3E50 for two small rooms of info at the synagogue. Lame.

We were totally parched by this point, so we stopped at a local watering hole for my new favorite refreshment: apfel schorle. It's like fizzy apple juice. So delish. As we were sitting outside the sky opened and started thunderbooming, so we were forced to move inside and do shots of jägermeister. Those are the rules.

When the rain let up an hour or so later, on the recommendation of my buddy Kathryn we headed down to Bernauer Strasse, which has a couple of museums dedicated to my favorite subject: The Berlin Wall. The first had videos of the history of the wall (which left a German woman in the row in front of us in tears) and an explanation of the death strip, the 100-meter zone between walls on the East and West sides filled with sensor-triggered barb wire, patrol dogs, beds of nails, trip wire, and of course lots of lots of soldiers ready to shoot at anything that moves.

There was a park adjacent to the museum that had some old pieces of the wall on display, as well as informational panels about what had happened. It also had photos of the 136 people killed as they tried to cross the wall.

We arrived at the second museum 15 minutes before closing, so we only had time to climb up to the observation deck to see a preserved section of what the death strip actually looked like.

Minutes after we left we got caught in another thunderboom, so we hopped the streetcar to the grocery store to buy the fixings for a big dinner for Jonathan and his roommates.

Today is our last day in Berlin, and I have the sads. I can definitely see why so many people love it here so much.

The NEW New Nutella

You guys. OMD, you guys. O.M.D. I have an announcement to make.

THERE IS SOMETHING BETTER THAN SPECULOOS.  IT IS CALLED CRUNCHY SPECULOOS. IT IS AMBROSIA MIXED WITH UMAMI MIXED WITH MANNA FROM HEAVEN WITH A HEAPING HELPING OF NOMNOM.

Since I first made my everlasting love for Speculoos known to the world, everyone I know who has been to Holland has been all, "Dude. Just you wait." I waited, dear readers. And this morning was the fated moment. It is everything I had dreamed of and more. The best way to describe it a paste made of graham crackers with little crunchy bits of graham cracker inside.

Crunchy Speculoos, Hagel Slag and Echte Luikse Siroop: all part of a balanced Dutch breakfast.

My major plan for this, my last day in Amsterdam, includes buying two, maybe three jars to take home. If you're lucky I'll give you a very small spoonful. 

My ghost had to write this post because I actually died of happy eating this.

You will get fat just looking at this

After another unbelievably scrumptious lunch chez mon patissier préféré (with courses of pâté en croûte; suprême de volaille with mushrooms, carrots and chicken quenelles; and a massive hunk of comté cheese), we were presented with this baba au rhum.

My stomach said, "There is not even a sliver of room in me." My head said, "If you eat something else you might actually explode and die." My heart said, "But it would be a happy death."

Try this; it's disgusting

I ride the bus to Charolles a few times a week to traîne with my main meuf Missy, and I often end up chatting with a philosphy professor from my lycée for the first part of the journey. This afternoon, after picking up a conversation we had started last week (yes, I still like grenouilles; no, I still have no interest  in trying boudin noir; eh, escargots are pas mal), he invited me to break off a small piece of a square of the hard black candy he had in his bag.

He told me it was mint- and  réglisse-flavored. He tried to explain to me what réglisse was, but I ended up with the impression that it's a cigarette-shaped plant that he thinks Americans eat in sandwiches. No matter; I would just have to try it.

Imagine licking the elbow of an infirm old man who goes nuts with his mint-scented arthritis cream.

After he saw my grimace he offered me a tissue so I could spit it out. "Yeah, I don't like it either," he said.

Lazy Sundays

Sundays can be the worst day of the week for a lonely American in small-town France. The few shops and bakeries that deign to open on the Day of Rest have all closed their doors by noon, so if you've slept in you're pretty much SOL. The situation can get pretty dire if you were frolicking all day on Saturday only to awake on Sunday and find you have nothing but condiments (and no baguette to put them on).  That is, of course, unless you're lucky enough to be invited to join a French family for their weekly ritual of a gigantic lunch and post-lunch relaxation.

The dedication to family life is one of the things I love most about France. The 35-hour work week and the two-hour lunch breaks might seem to us like evidence of laziness, but their purpose is to allow people more time with their families. And on Sundays, there's literally nothing to do but just enjoy each others' company. I hope you like each other!

The Dude and I spent a wonderful weekend with fellow Broad Abroad Emily and her charming French boyfriend Nicolas at his apartment in Chatillon-sur-Seine. After some strolling and museum-ing and lots and lots of cooking on Saturday, on Sunday we headed to Nicolas' family home in Froidvent. His parents Bruno and Françoise prepared a delightful "French tagine" of chicken, lamb and potatoes, followed by a cheese course (bien sûr) and a tarte tatin.

Our hosts Emily and Nicolas, the latter of whom admitted to washing his mouth out with chocolate after eating peanut butter.

After the meal we decided to "profiter" from the glorious weather and enjoy coffee and chocolates en plein air. No one was in a hurry to check things off their list or run their errands--they couldn't if they wanted to. We were content just to talk, inhale the scent of pear blossom, enjoy the breeze, and listen to the snores of Tao, the Jack Russell terrier.

*****

Tasty Sunday Lunch Recipe

Françoise started out our meal with a delicious and surprising avocado-cucumber-kiwi salad. I'm totally guessing on the proportions here, but I'm sure you can easily add a bit of this or that to get it tasting the way that pleases you.

-1 part cucumbers, diced
-1 part avocado, diced
-1 part kiwi, diced
-Mustard vinaigrette (1/4 cup white-wine vinegar, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/2 tsp Dijon mustard, 1/4 tsp black pepper, 3/4 cup oil... whisk together everything but the oil, then add the oil slowly until it emulsifies)


Combine cucumbers, avocado and kiwi into a bowl. Add enough vinaigrette to coat all ingredients. Toss gently. Refrigerate until served.

In defense of peanut butter

When you give a Frenchman something containing peanut butter, the reaction is almost always:

"You Americans! You Americans with your peanut butter! You LOVE your peanut butter!" (accompanied by a chuckle and a shaking of the head and a refusal of what you offered)

or, more commonly:

"I can't believe you just gave me something with peanut butter OMD I need to spit this out immediately before I get fat and DIE."

When you try to explain that peanut butter has lots of protein and can actually be pretty healthy, so long as it doesn't have too much sugar in it-- whoops, there they go racing to the kitchen to clean their mouths out with chocolate. 

In France, chocolate in all its forms is considered the main part of a balanced breakfast, preferably when coupled with butterific carbs. Chocolate bars inside a croissant (pain au chocolat). Chocolate-hazelnut spread on baguette (Nutella). A chocolate square imprinted with the image of a little schoolboy stuck to a buttery biscuit (les Petits Ecoliers). Chocolate shavings mixed in with your cereal (Fitness). Hot chocolate. Chocolate sprinkles. Chocolate brioche sandwich with Nutella and Petits Ecoliers and chocolate sprinkles, and hot chocolate to dip it in. N'importe de quoi. 

But peanut butter? (Insert image of hands flying away from one's butt and belly and cheeks ballooning to their largest size to indicate massive weight gain.)  

Non merci!

Fat Sunday

1. Foie Gras 2. "Lemon fish dream" 3. Garlicky fromage blanc 4. Dude's scared to stuff more food down his gullet, but will sacrifice for this pistachio soufflé

The Dude and I have been subsisting on mostly saucisson-et-fromage baguette sandwiches, cereal and questionable pasta salads whose recipes I "create" based on "inspiration," so I thought it was high time to introduce him to haute cuisine à la française. My Diggy buddies Suzanne and Christian were happy to aid me in this endeavor, and agreed to join us at Le Merle Blanc yesterday.

First there was an amuse-bouche of zucchini soup with a melty cheese making itself at home in the creamy depths. Then we had entrées of oeufs en meurette (eggs poached in red wine with lardons and mushrooms) and millefeuille croquant de rillettes de caille au foie gras (slices of quail foie gras in between crunchy crackers of puff pastry). Our main course was a faux filet de charolais (steak made from the local breed of cow) for me and filets de bar superposés en duxelles de champignons et beurre d'estragon (bass filet with mushrooms and tarragon butter) for The Dude.
 

Next was the cheese course. The Dude ordered himself a bowl of fromage blanc, a very fresh cheeese halfway between yogurt and cottage cheese, and he ate it à la bourguignon with salt, pepper and garlic. Ail ail ail! No smooches for you!

I chose the cheese plate, and was delighted when the proprietress wheeled over an entire cart of options. I went with reblechon, Saint Nectarin and a young chèvre, and opted for a dollop of fig jam on the side. If you've never tried this flavor combination, do yourself a favor and go immediately to the nearest grocery store and order up one log of chèvre and one jar of fig jam, stat. I'll leave you alone for the next two hours so you can nom this ambrosia in peace.

My stomach was near to bursting, but luckily I left room in my right shoulder for dessert. I have been dreaming about their apple crumble in a bed of luscious caramel sauce since my first visit to Le Merle Blanc last December. And I'll probably be dreaming about it for the rest of my life. Because: OMD. YUM. Dude had a pistachio soufflé, and that was good too I suppose, but it was no apple crumble in a bed of luscious caramel sauce.

And what do you know, after all that I still had room in my left knee for Second Dessert. You kind of have to make these sorts of sacrifices when Grandpère (of ma famille française) decides to make a confection or two. 

On this blessed day, he created delicious strawberry tartelettes and les choux-- a cream puff with a circle of candied caramel on top.

It was a good thing ma famille had Contrex on hand. It's a special diet water that makes you have to make water a lot, if you know what I mean. If you don't, there's a helpful diagram on the label.

The best pizza ever in the world, Amen

Hey buddies. I'm coming at you from our hotel in Roma, where The Dude and I are killing an hour before our train ride to Firenze.

I know I've been ignoring you, as fellow Broad Abroad Emily kindly pointed out. The thing is, the week before The Dude got here I was forced to partake in any activity imaginable that would keep me from thinking, because thinking would make the time slow to an infuriating drip-drip-drip. That mostly meant watching an embarrassing number of episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Like, if I told you how many episodes I was watching you probably wouldn't believe me. Take whatever number you have in your head right now and add three.

So anyway. Rome. We got here on Sunday and we've been church-ing and ruin-ing and walking walking walking. One thing we haven't been doing a lot of, unfortunately, is eating that delicious Italian food we've heard so much about. We keep making really terrible restaurant decisions and paying way too much money for food that tastes like a step above Chef Boyardee. Plus they keep charging us outrageous prices for the bread on the table. Like 3€ per person!

But The Dude really hit on a goldmine in a restaurant we ate in near the Vatican. He ordered a pizza with dried beef, Parmesan and an herb translated into English as "rocket salad" (which I think might be arugula, but I like "rocket salad" better). It was so delicious and amazing and I kept requesting bite after bite of it. I've been on the hunt for such a pizza of my very own, and I finally found it last night in a restaurant called La Dolce Vita in the Piazza Navona. It wasn't quite as amazingly delicious as The Dude's, though, so I had no choice but to return to the Vatican today and the very same pizza as before.

So worth it.

Carrots for dinner

Dessiné par l'artiste Valentin

Sunday lunches in France are quite economical. I eat a tiny breakfast of tea and maybe a Speculoos cookie or two in anticipation. And afterward, I'm so painfully full that there's no need to eat dinner. Sometimes I skip breakfast the next day too because I'm still digesting.

After stuffing myself with course after course of the most delectable, gourmet food of my life at a New Year's Day feast chez ma famille française, I told them I was planning on eating nothing but a carrot for dinner. Today, budding 12-year-old artist Valentin drew a picture of me as a rabbit after another gigantic and delicious lunch of vegetables, chicken, crêpes and, euh, rabbit.

Très bien fait, non? Merci Valentin!

My next year's going to be total crêpe

Before we begin today, I need you to admire this insanely awesome sweatshirt I got in Paris at a store where everything was 10E or less:

The big print says, "South Dakota/ It's all yours/ School/ Master/ Scheludes" (yes, scheludes) and on the bottom left it says, "South Dakota Middle School." France, I love you so much sometimes it hurts.

OK. Back to our regularly scheduled programming. We learned on Monday that France doesn't celebrate Groundhog Day, but apparently the second of February plays host to its very own French fête. La Chandeleur has religious significance like pretty much every other holiday here, but secularly (and, more importantly), it's become the day of the crêpe.

Lore says you are supposed to flip your crêpes with a coin under your thumb, and if you're successful you'll be graced with prosperity for the rest of the year. Below is a photo essay of how my next 365 days are going to shape up:

That's right, my next year is going to be terrible and unprosperous because I can't flip a stinking crêpe. This one landed right-side up. Another legend says you're supposed to keep the first crêpe you make on the top of your armoire for the rest of the year, but I was so depressed at failing my flip that I had to eat my feelings.

Pillsbury Croissants and Their Impact on My Life

There were two staples at our dinner table when I was growing up: Dole Caesar salad in a bag and Pillsbury croissants in a tube. There are six people in my family and eight croissants in each tube. The only way I was going to get a second delicious, flaky croissant was to wolf down my dinner like a ravenous child-beast and pray that my three siblings were slightly less savage/grabby than I.

As a result, I grew habituated to stuffing food down my gullet at lightening speed.

Then I moved to France, and I was forced to eat in a way completely unnatural to me-- i.e. with my fork in my left hand, a knife in my right, and both hands on the table at all times. Every time I get too comfortable and revert to my preferred table manners (fork in my right hand, left hand in my lap), I need remind myself that everyone thinks I'm creepy when one hand is mysteriously below-decks.

It's really hard for me to push chunks of food onto the back of my fork and then get said fork to my mouth without spilling things everywhere. Like couscous. Can I please get a pass on couscous so I can eat it the creepy American way, where my right hand shovels it into my mouth? Please?

Anyway, now I eat a lot more slowly.

The end.

My current fève collection stands at three

The Fête des Rois is a French celebration that merges two ancient traditions: the Roman Pagan celebration Les Saturnales and the Christian Feast of the Epiphany.

If you want more information about the historical significance of the celebration you can go here. But the most important thing you need to know is that there is a special frangipan-filled cake, La Galette des Rois, that is eaten throughout January. Inside this cake is a fève, which used to be a bean but is now usually a small figurine. If you get the slice of galette with the fève in it, you are crowned the king. In other words, this tradition is like a game. A game you can win. And I LOVE winning.

I went to Charolles to visit my besties last Thursday at the end of what the French would call a bad, dirty day. I broke the chain of my most precious necklace that I've worn every day for three years. I had one class that never showed up and I ended up waiting for them for an entire hour. Most tragically, I received the news that in three days I would have to temporarily leave my grand palace of a two-bedroom apartment and go back to the cell-- the tiny, cramped studio I lived in when I first moved here.

We got a galette at the local bakery and I made it abundantly clear to everyone that the only way my day would turn around was if I got the fève. After dinner, Thomas hid himself under the table (traditionally the job of the youngest in the room) and directed which slice should go to whom. This is done so the person cutting the cake doesn't intentionally give the slice with the fève in it to someone-- you can often feel it with your knife as you're cutting into a piece.

As Missy started eating her slice, she chomped down on something hard. Woe! It was the fève. I was devastated. But then, oh, but then, I chomped down on something hard too! There were two fèves, and one of them was mine! I won!

Bonus: When you win you get to wear a crown.

Fève count: 1

Two nights later Missy and I were at my buddy Suzanne's house for dinner. After a scrumptious meal of raclette (melted cheese atop potatoes and charcuterie), she busted out her own homemade galette. I again informed everyone of my burning desire to win, and tried to blast magic mind powers into Suzanne's daughter Elise as she covered her eyes and doled out the pieces.

Alas, the winning piece went to Elise's boyfriend. And the fève was a really excellent one too: Hermione Granger.

He insisted on giving me the fève, and I protested, saying he won it fair and square. He countered that he was the king, and the king could do what he wanted. As one of his loyal subjects I didn't deign to argue.

Fève count: 2

Suzanne then took out her extensive fève collection. She has one box for regular fèves (movie characters, a family of ducks, Vercingétorix), and one for those that are meant for a nativity scene (Jesus in a cradle, a donkey, the town lazy bones). She's been collecting them for awhile, so she has quite a few. I was in awe, and to use a new vocabulary word: "J'ai bavé d'envie." (I drooled of envy.)

Because she is one of the most generous souls known to man, Suzanne told Missy and me we could each have one of the fèves from her collection. Missy chose another Hermione, and I chose the town lazy bones because he's lying on a couch. I really miss couches.

Fève count: 3

Morocco Part 3: The Medina

The Fès medina, a 1200-year-old market, was my favorite part of the city. Thousands of tiny, winding paths are lined with stands heaped with scarves, pointed-toe slippers, hand-embroidered tablecloths and caftans if you go down one street; olives, nuts, dried fruit and spices if you go down another.

We went to the medina our first day in Fès, and I was extremely grateful to have our pack of strapping Moroccan men to guide us through the maze. We were so exhausted from (not) sleeping chez Charles de Gaulle the previous night that without them we likely would have gotten lost and trampled by the donkeys used for transport in the tight passages.

Fayçal seemed to know everyone in this city, and we stopped several times to greet various family members and friends. One of his cousins hopped the counter of his three-foot-wide caftan shop to lead us into the fez shop of another relative. Along with the city's eponymous tasseled caps, there were felt hats of all sorts of colors and styles. After making our purchases we headed upstairs to the factory, where we got to see the fezes being made in real time.

Emily and I returned to the Medina by ourselves a few days later, and the absence of our escorts was sorely felt. As an obvious Westerner, I felt like I had a bullseye on my face. "Coucou!" "Bonjour!" "Where you from, beautiful?" and, surprisingly: "Hola!" rang out from every corner as we sauntered along. "Not for buy, just for look!" they promised. "Where you from? America? New York City! I go there one day, Inch'Allah! Welcome to my country. Come inside. Very good price."

Once you showed the slightest interest in something you were doomed to at least five minutes of politely extricating yourself from the situation, so I tried to only stop when there was something I actually had intention of buying.

Emily, though, was the bartering queen. A trinket might be advertised as 80 dirham. Emily would offer 40, insisting that they had quoted her the tourist price. The vendor would clutch his heart and wonder aloud how he would feed his family, and then go down to 70. Emily would go up to 50, final offer. The vendor would dither and Emily would start to leave. "OK OK OK!" he would yell, with a hint of panic. Then he would turn to me, shaking his head. "Your friend is Berber."

And then they would offer us some mint tea.

Not everything in the medina was as deliciously fragrant as those heaps of spices and olives. There were also live chickens and cock-a-doodle-doo-ing roosters, along with the heads of various beasts strung up on butchers' hooks. If you're squeamish you're going to want to skip the next picture.

BRAINS! And lettuce over their tongues. I don't know about you, but that surely whet my appetite.

I like to show this picture to my students and tell them it's my new boyfriend. It takes them awhile to figure out it's a camel head, and then they laugh uproariously. OK, they only giggle a little bit. OK, three of them cracked a smile. But those three thought I was HILARIOUS.

If you're a long time Francey Pantser you know how much I love a good creepy mannequin, and Fès did not disappoint. It was like Christmas for creepy mannequin lovers (in fact, it was Christmas... for everyone). The problem with drawing attention to yourself by, say, taking a photo, however, is that you'll have shopkeepers descending on you like bees to honey. So I only got this excellent shot of the Child Barbie Shawl Revolution before running away.

Next time, next time. Inch'Allah.

Why you should always be nice to secretaries

Meet Sophie and Christianne, two of the coolest chicks Diggy Town has to offer. These fabulous ladies really take care of me. They're the ones who moved me into my palace from the cell when they learned I would be having guests. They're the ones who thought it imperative that I learned the wonders of French chocolates and promptly bought me a box. In short, they rock.

Whenever I try to thank them profusely for their generosity they say, "Bah, mais c'est normale!" 

When Christianne found out my cousin was going to be in town this week, she hatched a plan to make us real French crêpes ("Not zuh pan-cake!") one afternoon. She'd go home and make them during her lunch period, and then we would feast at precisely 16:00.

As toppings she brought Nutella, honey, and a homemade fig-almond jam. She also brought me marrons glacés (candied chestnuts) and speculoos cookies, which I plan to crumble into my speculoos paste to make chunky speculoos paste. I apologize if I just blew your mind. As we noshed on the excellent fare, she gave us advice on the best wines (Burgundy, of course) and a great Chinese buffet 45 km away. 

I translated their French for Kiki and her English for them, but they said they didn't need a translation for our grunts of satisfaction.

Thumbs up for crêpes!

This is why I'm fat

My cousin Kiki is currently visiting, and she's rekindled my desire to eat my way through this country. The girl is fearless, and as such in the last week we have sampled fare not for the faint of heart. (Literally. This food is so rich it would kill you if you had a faint heart.)

Without further ado, this is why I'm fat:

Lunch at Le Relais des Canalous, Digoin
Entrées: Tartine de chèvre chaud et pesto sur saladine, demi-douzaine d'escargots
Plats: Joue de boeuf confite à la Bourguignoone, Cuisses de grenouilles à la persillade
Fromage: Roblochon with mustard seed, Brie de Meaux, Stinky goat
Dessert: Profiteroles au chocolat, Tiramasu

A blizzard hit Digoin Thursday night, dumping a whole five inches on the town by the next morning. As a result, the buses weren't running, and I had only a handful of kids in each class. Kiki and I had hoped to go to Beaune that afternoon to sample some of their world-class vino, but the roads were impassable so we had to stay in Diggy instead.

In order to make the best of our predicament, I suggested we get Burgundized at a nice restaurant. Like a rockstar, Kiki was all about getting the fixed price menu with escargots and frogs' legs. Unlike the none-too-appetizing specimens I'd encountered in Paray-le-Monial a few months back, these were served piping hot and drowning in a delicious parsley-garlic-butter sauce.

The frogs' legs were pan-fried and looked like chicken wings. They were to be eaten by hand, and were, "so garlicky and good and delicious!" quoth Kiki. I sampled one, and was shocked by how many itty bitty bones there were to eat around. What do frogs need so many bones for, I ask you? There's a joke in here somewhere about "jumping your bones," but I'm carb crashing and can't find it.

No matter. My beef cheeks were unbelievably tender, and accompanied by crisp, thick frites and vegatables. Next up was the cheese course. I've been trying really hard to get excited about cheese despite my mild lactose intolerance. But sometimes stinky cheese is just stinky, with no redeeming qualities. There was a representative from this genus of fromage-dom on the plate, but there was also a lovely roblochon with a spicy mustard seed exterior that I got friendly with.

Dessert was to die for. My tiramasu was the lightest, creamiest slice of heaven on earth. The chocolate sauce on the profiteroles were sinful, dark, and daring. Clearly, I could write a romance novel about this.


Dinner at Le Merle Blanc, Digoin
Entrées: Filets de bar superposés en duxelles de champignons et escargots, Oeufs en meurette à la bourguignonne
Plats: Canard confit avec purée de pommes de terre, Faux-filet de charolais et sa garniture
Fromage: Fromage blanc
Dessert: Ile flottante avec pralines rosés, Crumble aux pommes et aux noix en caramel laitier
Wine: Domaine Michel-Andreotti Montagny 2009 1er Cru Chardonnay de Bourgogne, Michel Sarrazin 2008 Givry Sous La Roche

Suzanne picked us up on Thursday night and took us back to her house, where Christian had been watching their two grandchildren. The boy approached me and looked like he wanted to tell me a secret so I knelt down. He planted a quick kiss on my cheek, and then went up to Kiki to do the same. The 4-year-old girl was next, and removed her pacifier to give me a bisou. It was the cutest thing, possibly ever.

We braved the icy roads and went to Le Merle Blanc, which Suzanne had deemed the best quality food for the price in all of Digoin. After our meal I'm inclined to agree. My entrée was delicious skewers of mushrooms and escargots on toasts, with a gratinéed cheese topping. Kiki sampled the local specialty oeufs en meurettes, eggs in a red wine sauce with lardons. She said it's the best thing she's eaten in France so far (she's had Ladurée macarons, so that's really saying something).

The next course brought me deliciously rich duck confit, made from the same beast used to produce foie gras. The creamy mashed potatoes made the perfect complement. Kiki's Charolais steak (another local specialty) had a chunk of herb butter melting on top, and was flanked by chestnuts and cabbage. She was already getting incredibly full, and could only finish about half of what was on her plate. France, please get doggy bags already.

She was the only one with a cheese course ,and had to really psych herself up to be able to stand even a spoonful on such a full belly. But, like I said, she's a rockstar. She liberally sprinkled sugar on her fromage blanc-- very fresh cheese that almost has a yogurt consistency. Christian informed us that he prefers to eat it with salt, pepper, and garlic.

All the while, we were downing the excellent Burgundy wines that Christian had selected-- a very floral red from Givry and an impeccable Chardonnay from Saint Vallerin. Myam.

I must admit, I was more enamored with Kiki's dessert than my own. She got an apple cobbler in a divine caramel sauce. I was lucky enough to get a bite, and had to restrain myself from grabbing the rest and running away to savor it in private. I had wanted to try the Ile Flottante, meringue in an anise-flavored English cream. It was alright, but not really my bag.


Chez Couch Surfing Host, Strasbourg
Entrée: Sauerkraut topped with sliced magrette (smoked duck breast)
Plat: Chicken sausage, andouille (blood) sausage, apple sauce, chestnuts
Dessert: Tarte flambée

We arrived in Strasbourg on Friday afternoon for a weekend of Christmas marketing. After dropping our stuff off at our host's apartment, we braved the frigid temperatures to go back in the city and enjoy the lights, gift displays, and vin chaud. We were pretty frozen solid by the time we returned a few hours later, and we were more than ready for some hearty Alsatian fare.

Both Kiki and I adore sauerkraut, and were delighted by the flavor combination of the pungent cabbage with the flavorful duck. She was brave enough to try the blood sausage, but I opted instead for the infinitely more Kosher chicken. The healthy portions of chestnuts and homemade apple sauce left me full to bursting, but I of course squeezed in a slice of pie.

So when they have to roll me down the aisle at my nups, you'll know why.






*One more food-related revelation from the weekend: hot orange juice with honey. Try it. You're welcome.*

Francegiving 2010: The Turkey's Revenge

Last week I asked my students if they knew what was happening in America this Thursday. Blank stares. It's a big holiday, I hinted. Nothing. It's a big holiday that happens in America but not France, I said. Eyes glazed over. "It's Thanksgiving!" I stage-whispered. A light bulb went on over some students' heads, who turned to explain it to their still-confused comrades. "C'est Noel pour les américaines," they said. "Tout le monde reçoit des cadeaux." (It's Christmas for Americans. Everyone gets presents.) Where they are getting this idea, I do not know.

My favorite muggle Missy and I decided it was high time to show the Frenchies what Thanksgiving was really about. We planned a grand feast, and invited all our Burgundian BFFs: Suzanne and Christian; Baptiste, Bonus Jonas, and their parents; and Thomas, an English teacher at Missy's school.

Decorating tools at our disposal: seven sheets of construction paper, one black gel ink pen, and a pair of children's left-handed scissors. All things considered, I think the turkey turned out pretty well, despite his unfortunate feet and lack of gobble.

Missy arrived on Saturday so we could start plotting the next day's feast. After getting the necessary preparations out of the way (a viewing of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, natch), we set out in the drizzle for LeClerc, a supermarket 30 minutes away, on foot. We spent more than an hour finding and considering the most succulent ingredients known to Digoin. Whole turkeys wouldn't be available until December for Christmas, so we had to make do with turkey legs. It was just as well, really, since the size of my oven is better suited for elves than human beings.

By the time we had finished amassing all our other ingredients (50 kilos' worth, give or take a few grams), it had begun to rain in earnest, and the prospect of lugging all our loot back to the lycée was thoroughly unappetizing. We resorted to accosting patrons leaving the building, pleading with them to take pity on our feeble selves and ferry us home. One kindly gentleman at last relented. I've said it before and I'll say it again: God bless Diggy and all her lovely, non-serial killer, ride-giving inhabitants.

Our table may have had mismatching plates and a rather ridiculous clementine pyramid as centerpiece, but at least it had what was really important: wine.

We got up early yesterday to gather a few remaining items (such as scissors and construction paper for decorations), and then set to work cooking. We had to get a bit creative, as my kitchen here isn't home to the luxurious gadgets I'm used to in the States. In lieu of a masher, we overboiled the potatoes and used a pair of forks to get our mashed potatoes nice and creamy. Since we didn't possess a roasting pan or even a baking dish, we had to divide our turkey legs among three metal pans and constantly rotate them through the two oven racks to ensure even cooking. We didn't have tongs to flip the turkey, so we made do with half a plastic salad tosser and a slotted spoon-type instrument. We didn't have a beautiful cornucopia for a centerpiece, so we made a tower of clementines.

Our guests started to arrive at the all-American dinner time of 6 p.m., and since I don't have a sitting room they were forced to congregate awkwardly in my entrance hall as Missy and I made the finishing touches. They brought me not one, not two, but three bottles of champagne, some homemade crème de cassis, a bottle of Burgundy, and luscious chocolates. Nom.

This little elf oven is where all the magic happened.

With the call of "A table!" we ushered our friends into the dining room, and urged them to serve themselves, American-style. There wasn't a whole lot of room on the tiny plates for anything but the massive turkey leg, meaning we had quite a bit of leftovers. Over the delicious pear cake that Thomas brought, we went around the room and said what we were thankful for. My French was at a dastardly level all evening due to my nerves (mainly fear that the turkey was undercooked and I was going to kill everyone with salmonella), and I was feeling a bit emotional after the Burgundy and the champagne, but I managed to make it through my thanks for my family, friends, the health of the same, having such wonderful faces around my table, and the opportunity to be in La Belle France. A bit more heartfelt than last year's thanks for indoor plumbing and the fact that I'm a vertebrate.

Suzanne was thankful for Facebook, which had brought us together. Bonus Jonas was thankful for his intelligence. Baptiste was shy and said his thanks in English so half the table wouldn't understand: "I am thankful to be feasting my first Thanksgiving, and I hope to feast Thanksgiving next year in the United States." 

Missy et moi, Francegiving hôtesses extraordinaires

And with that, Father Thanksgiving swooped through the water heater and showered us all with maize and French's onion topping.

PS: My Thanksgiving care package from the 'rents was held up at customs and thus is arriving today, a wee bit late for my feast. If anyone has any ideas of what, besides sauce, I can make with a gigantic bag of cranberries I'm all ears.

Le Beaujolais Nouveau Est Arrivé!

I know, I know exactly what you're thinking. "Another post about wine? What are you, some kind of lush?" To that I say: touché.

Today was the release of the Beaujolais Nouveau, a wine in its tender infancy of but six weeks in the bottle. My Diggy BFF Suzanne called me up and asked if I wanted to go to a soirée with her to celebrate, and eat some pot au feu while we were at it. "You're going to think all we do in France is eat and drink wine!" she said. To that I say: "Et...bon?"

The Beaujolais herself, fresh outta the cave.

Suzanne and Christian's English friends Bryan and Pita came round to pick me up, and Christian explained that the whole Beaujolais phenomenon has become a commercialized tourist trap to get foreigners, particularly the English, to buy this très young wine. Bryan told me there are races in England to see who can get their hands on the very first bottle.

We arrived at the restaurant and met two of S and C's other Diggy buddies, and cracked open a brand spanking new bottle toute de suite. Apparently the bouquet contained aromas of cherries and bananas, but my palate is so undeveloped I resort to making nonsense comments like, "This wine is sly, but witty," or "It tastes awkward and menacing."

Pot au feu, containing boeuf, carrots, potatoes, leeks, and love.

Next came the pot au feu, a beef (kind of but not really) stew served with the carrots, leeks, and potatoes it was cooked with. We passed around Dijon mustard and a very coarse seat salt to sprinkle on top. It was the perfect hearty meal for this chilly November day, and accompanied the wine quite well. (I suppose I should say the wine was a good accompaniment to the meal rather than vice versa, but today was all about the Beaujolais. Plus I'm a lush. Shhh.)

That big bowl in the center contains a heaping pile of calves' femurs, prized for their creamy marrow innards.

 Then our waitress came out with a rare treat: a big steaming bowl of cow femurs, the marrow inside just waiting to be spread upon a slice of baguette. When in France, right? So I dug in and spread a gelatinous, greasy spoonful onto my bread. Mmmm... offal.