a new website for an old friend

I finally have something to show for the website I created for my friend Madeleine Vedel. She was the angel that lured me over to Arles, France in the first place right after college. This updated website is for her business, which offers French cuisine cooking classes and personal guided tours of Provence.

(I highly recommend a December visit right before the holidays—you'll enjoy a veritable feast for the gourmand, with all the truffles, duck confit and Châteauneuf-du-Pape you can imagine. Oh, and did I mention King Cake? Plus trips to the chocolate maker, the bee keeper, the goat cheese maker, the baker and potter... ah, the list goes on. And they offer a lovely and affordable B&B in Arles where you can stay for a very good price at just a stone's throw away from the Arena.)

The site is a work in progress at this point. She and I are still ironing out some kinks. And Internet Explorer is treating me cruelly. But here's a screenshot of the new homepage. And here's the website.

I do hope you like it; I've been spending all my free minutes after midnight on this project!

le mistral

In Provence, there is a wind so fierce and cold and persistent. It barrels down from the North of France, through the Alps and down to the Rhone Valley, whipping up everything into a scene of chaos. Le Mistral blows for days under a clear and sunny sky. When you live there, you learn to tie things down. The spices at the market are covered up. Colorfully painted shutters enclose you indoors. If you go out, you learn to wear your hair tied back. You learn to wear your coat, even though looking through the window the sky appears sunny and warm.

There's another wind that blows less frequently. It is a softer, warmer, Southern wind that blows off the Mediterranean Sea, bringing with it a shower of African dust from the Saharan Dessert. It is called the Sirocco wind. It sifts a fine layer of sand over the landscape. It leaves an orange film on the cars. It collects in ochre swirls on the sidewalk. It leaves a pleasant grittiness in your eyes.

It was something like the Provencal wind that blew today in Charlotte, Vermont. It whipped across the autumn foliage, bending trees sideways. Beating the doors in rhythm. Yet the sun shone clear and brightly and serenely high above all the mayhem. Something about the ochre colors reminded me of the Sirocco wind from Northern Africa. But everything else about it was Le Mistral.

It blew for only a few hours. Then it subsided almost as suddenly as it began. And then, there was rain.

a whole pound of chocolate—or just one rich, sumptuous bite?

I couldn't help but be inspired when I read my sister Emma's contribution for Eat Peas this week. She's been thinking about this idea of extreme dieting and extreme obsessions all weekend. It's all very American she says—we do everything in extremes. We work hard, we play hard. We fixate on ideas to the point of being unyielding. That's the American way; that's how we get things done.

With the help of a little book and a big epiphany, Emma found her way back to moderation—and personal enjoyment. I was definitely inspired by her essay. I laughed out loud at parts; I felt a pang of recognition. Her situation resonates with many of us.

So how to stop with the obsessing? I think you'll find her solution both alluring—and doable. Oh, and you must read the book.

mushrooms come popping up

Every month, I receive a welcome missive from my good friend Madeleine Vedel. Together she and her husband Erick run a cooking school in Provence, France. It is there I stayed for several months after college, and the memories from that time run deep and vivid in my mind.

The most recent missive in my mailbox talked about mushrooms and reminded me of when we went mushroom hunting during a stay in the gorgeous lush hills of the Cévennes mountains in Southern France. I was very homesick at the time, and the green, rolling forests reminded me very much of my home in Vermont.

At the end of an adventurous treasure hunt, I had found a total of 3 large cèpes (also known as porcinis). A proud moment! We brought them by the local pharmacy (to check for poisonous varieties) and then whisked them home to cook up a fabulous supper.

And here is Madeleine's letter...





Photos: Penelope, Madeleine and friends mushroom hunting in the Cévennes in Southern France, 2002.

sunday drizzle & romance

Lately, for us, romance is relegated to the weekend. I'm okay with that. It means that we can devote hours of quality time together and not worry about work or deadlines, presentations or drama, sleep or alarm clocks. It's just us. And the cats. And friends. And brunch.

This weekend, after spending an indulgent (but deserved!) Saturday evening at the Bearded Frog in Shelburne--where the best dessert was a Tahitian vanilla bean parfait with honeydew purée--we woke up Sunday morning to find that the wind had shifted ever so slightly. It was decidedly fall. A chill had settled in the air, and it was raining.

The perfect weather for sitting at the bar at Leunig's and sharing a cheese plate. This is the ultimate romantic date in my mind. Sitting at the bar makes it feel spontaneous--like the time in Paris, when it started absolutely pouring and we popped into the nearest café for warmth, and café, of course. At Leunig's, we get nostalgic when we hear the French accordion music, when we watch the barista steaming espresso behind the bar, and when we see the shoppers walk by with damp umbrellas poised and prim. It's Paris all over again.

This time, we got a fresh chevre rolled in chives, a smoked gouda, and a goats milk brie. They served it to us with plump grapes and berries, homemade cheese crackers, preserved cherries. And, of course, sliced baguette.

After lunch, we went to see a fabulously funny Britcom at the Roxy called, Death at a Funeral. A must-see if you haven't yet, and a wonderful finish to a wonderful day.

goodbye lenin, hello to a new idealism

Growing up in the American school system in the wake of the Cold War, I learned one version of socialism and it went hand-in-hand with the one version of communism: that "evil" political system governed by tyrant dictators and characterized in distopian novels as societies blinded by propaganda and idealism.

Communism and socialism were bad words, evoking images of mass communes, loss of individual rights, and lack of personal drive or responsibility. They still do, I believe, to an extent. In fact, it wasn't until I traveled to France and lived there for a while that I realized that socialism is a veritable and genuine way to govern a people, with the people in mind. I think with awe and reverence to the country's health care and educational systems, to their social welfare and work standards, and to their simple, old-world style of pace and priority. Americans like to call this "work-life balance."

Once I was given a first-hand view of the inner workings, my opinion of socialism shifted from that of stark government control to one in which human welfare--rather than personal success--was given utmost precedence. Granted, the system has its flaws and disadvantages. But what government isn't tainted when humans play a part? Just look at the current state of the American political system to be reminded that no government is immune from tyranny and imperfection. And that line between imperfection and corruption is blurry.

I'm reminded of all this, because I watched Goodbye Lenin again last night and realized that it has got to be one of my favorite movies of all time. The movie takes place in East Berlin during the deterioration the Soviet occupation and, with it, the Berlin Wall. In it, a boy named Alex must protect his fragile mother from learning that her beloved East Germany is no longer as it was. As a result, the boy is given the rare opportunity to recreate events not as they actually were, but how his ideals would have them be. The movie gives viewers a real perspective into the socialist political system of that time--what went wrong, but also, what went right and how things could have ended up if all of the pieces were in place.

Isn't that the point of an ideal? To be unattainable, but also attractive so that we are driven to them, even if in vain.

I feel, lately, that human ideals have run amok. We're no longer focused on what might be, because we're dragged down by what can't be or by what isn't. Maybe it's because we've all decide--oh, educated, collective We--that ideals are no longer important. Sure there are general political ideals and religious ideals, but what about the ideals of the people? We're realists now. And we're running the country.

But what about romance? What about compassion and storytelling? These elements should hold a place in all of our hearts, be we capitalists or communists, Muslim or Christian, American or French.

And remember, there's room enough in this world for everyone to have their own little version. Heck, if the American history books can do it, why can't we? So if you haven't yet, watch this movie. And in particular, pay special attention to the ending. There's a lesson there for all of us--to be believers.

In Arles one night with Michael

I just found this journal entry I wrote while I was living as an Au Pair in Arles, France. I still have Michael's book. I wonder where he is now.

* * * * *

23 January, 2003

Micheal the classical guitar player was touring France with his instrument and long finger nails. While in Arles, he stayed in the only finished room in the attached house next door that would soon become the B & B. When I had had enough of the children and of surrogate parenting, I triumphantly took my wine glass in hand and went to seek him out.

He had not eaten dinner, so he took me to his favorite little Italian bistro where we shared a bottle of red and he lusted after his spaghetti and crème fresh dessert. We were eventually joined by Francois, a photographer who spent half his time in Arles, the other half in New York City, and skipping Paris altogether.

Michael started boasting of Francois’ 20-room mansion in the Roquette, while Francois himself didn’t think twice of hinting at his closeness with certain rich Americans who he photographs. Honestly, a part from his Alexander McQueen watch and his sea blue cashmere sweater, I found Francois to be uninteresting and tacky. He also had a nasty habit of flicking his tongue like a snake whenever he talked, therefore pronouncing the beginning of every word with a lispy "L" sound.

To add to an already awkward situation, Michael, excessively supportive in general, kept smiling at Francois and saying, "She’s so cool" every time I spoke.

I was waiting for a moment to turn the conversation, when Michael told me something that made me freeze:

"Arles is built on top of millions of dead people," he said. "Check out Les Alyschamps on the other side of town when you have a chance. You’ll find some of the old Roman sepulchers there and a lot of history. I have a book about it I can lend you. But you have to give it back."

Holy cow. No wonder everything feels so heavy in this town and people walk around like ghosts. I’d been feeling a strange, metaphysical entrapment since I set foot in this town. What if I never got out of there?

I got home that night and checked my email. My parents had written to me saying that they wanted me to come home early—months early—considering the imminence of war in the Middle East. I found myself shaking. Then I cried. In the dark. With the glare of the computer screen casting a cold blue veil on my face. I cried.

Suddenly, Francois’ lisp seemed not all that bad.

bug musings and art

I grew up learning to love bugs. This was never too difficult to do out in wild nature where the bugs roam free and happy. I’ll never forget the first time I heard a cicada chirping. I was living in Connecticut at the time. I thought I was hearing rambunctious crickets.

The little boy I took care of said all-knowingly, “Don’t you know what those are? They’re cicadas. Come here.”

He led me to a tree trunk where we found, clinging to the side of the bark, the delicate empty shell of a cicada nymph. It was over an inch long and looked like a giant translucent brown bumble-beetle (without wings). An exotic-looking creature, cicada nymphs will eventually moult and shed their skin before emerging as adults resplendently winged and ready to sing (well, the males anyways).

“I never knew we had these way up here,” I said in awe.

“Yeah, I know,” the boy replied. “And they get really loud too.” The novelty of those sacred creatures had certainly worn off on him long ago, but I was fascinated.

When I traveled to Provence several years later, I was again awakened to the cicada’s summer anthem. In that region of the world, cicada fields fill the air with sound all day under the hot sun, and louder still into the night under the high starry sky.

I have yet to see one in real life -- the closest I’ve been is in sound and the shorn remnants of a bodily outline those few summers ago.

Recently, I went to an art opening at Pursuit Gallery in downtown Burlington. The artist displaying her work was none other than my good friend Elisa Freeman. A grand theme of her work -- beautiful insects -- is interpreted very differently from my own nostalgic references.

Whereas my reference pertains almost entirely to bugs in their natural setting (and therefore content and somewhat sporadic), Elisa’s fabulous creatures are very much confined to physical interiors and patterned aesthetics such as boxes, lace, and printed wallpaper. In that kind of juxtaposition and structured setting, the bugs take on a very creepy undertone. It’s the difference between hearing a cicada sing his beautiful song from a field afar and finding the same cicada tickling across your wallpaper. The immediate sensation is one of invasion and fear.

But if you linger a little longer, and peer into the shadow box cases, the artwork begins to feel like a still-life display at the insectarium. You can find beauty in seeing those iridescent wings so up close and find comfort that its strange little legs are kept behind glass or pinned like a specimen to the wall. But then in that same comfort, there is also an underlying sadness that accompanies capture. You have to wonder how the little bugs feel landing in this unnatural space. How is their own comfort threatened? How does their fear manifest itself?

Like I said, I’ve learned to love bugs in their natural habitat. But seeing them in spaces other than their own (in my bed for instance) invokes a huge feeling of discomfort for me. It’s not just that I’m uncomfortable with the bug in my bed, but I also imagine that the bug itself is very uncomfortable too. And probably very frightened.

Perhaps that’s why the artwork sparks such emotion within me -- both good and bad. These are after all just paintings, not the real thing. I still haven’t seen a cicada up close in real life in nature or in captive, but Elisa’s intricate representations on printed wallpaper patterns make me feel as though I have. They conjure up memories and feelings. They cause me to reflect on my relationship with the microcosm right outside (and oftentimes inside) my doorstep and the larger pattern of life in this world. They also manage to fill in a small piece of my own nostalgia story.

Oh, and it's worth mentioning that Elisa's work depicts not only cicadas, but lots of other cool bugs and people creatures too. But for Col and me, it was the cicada piece. So we bought it.

Artwork shown by Elisa Freeman, www.elisafreemanart.com.

gentleman in stripes

I can't help but wonder why strange things always occur on my walks to and from the office. It's the magic of Maple Street at work here, I'm sure.

On this particular evening, as I was passing by the glass blowing studio on the corner of Church Street, a strange-looking man I've never seen before appeared out of nowhere. He was dressed in a full 3-piece pinstriped suit. He was wearing a Derby bowler hat and shiny wing-tipped shoes. As he walked towards me, the gentleman's classic strut reminded me of eras past. He seemed friendly enough, yet a strange and chalky pallor glossed his face. Was he a ghost?

We were close enough to touch, when suddenly, he tipped his hat and said to me, "Bonsoir," with every bit of gentlemanly zeal that he could muster.

I was taken very much aback and immediately repaid his greeting with a terse, "Bonsoir," then shuffled away as quickly as I could.

The bonhomme was decidedly not a Frenchman. I could tell by his flat American accent. So, why then, did he feel the need to say "Good Evening" to me in that language, if at all? Stranger still, why did I respond--in French?

As a woman, I've been told never to respond to strange men in the street (let alone play into their language games!). I've been warned of the possible dangers that might ensue. Still, as a human, the very idea of ignoring a friendly greeting runs counter to all my intuition and sense of neighborliness. And anyone who knows me knows that I'm a zealous Francophile--I can't resist the romance.

Now my curiosity is piqued. Who was that mysterious man and how does he know so much, unknowingly, about me?

art nouveau/new art

It’s impossible to go to Paris these days without being barraged with Art Nouveau imagery—from Hector Guimard’s serpentine metro stops and brasserie décor to the infamous Chat Noir trinkets and Moulin Rouge dancers that saturate the touristy knick knack shops by Montmartre and the Eiffel Tower.

Art form reduced to pure commodity. Fittingly, I should say, for that was always the intention of the original artwork, at least in regards to the printed posters: to advertise products and businesses.

Grecian-style ladies float effortlessly—and toplessly—atop bicycles and champagne bottles. They smoke cigarettes rolled in rice paper. They turn green with Absinthe. They glow in the limelight. Full drama, full sexuality; they demonstrate that “sex selled” just as much a hundred years ago as it does today.

The artwork and line is stunning, but printed on coasters, mugs, thimbles, key chains, cigarette lighters, cheap trinkets and other mass merchandise, the glossy prints from eras past feel somewhat seedy and underwhelming.

Still, fascinated by anything French and burlesque, my sister Emma (a.k.a. Allestine, the Parisian cabaret dancer) and I were thrilled to learn that some of these very posters—these “affiches illustrées”—are on display at the Firehouse Gallery for five days only. Quick for an art show, but a lifetime compared to the 10 second web clips of today’s advertising media.

We went today during lunch and were thoroughly impressed. The saturation of color and lithe womanly figures on the life-sized prints were anything but cheap or commodity. They reflected a soulful shadow—a base brothel nature juxtaposed with feminine purity and angelic compositions. Great irony; great inspiration. Just in time for the vaudeville season.

And speaking of new art, my friend Elisa has an art show opening this Friday at the Pursuit Galllery in downtown Burlington. It's an art-filled week!

good year

Over the New Years' holiday, Col and I spent a week in Paris. We were exiting the metro one day, when we saw a very old Chinese man attempting to haul a very large suitcase up the stairs. He was struggling and appeared to be out of sorts.

We walked up to him and asked if he needed help. But he didn't speak French very well. He just nodded with a kind smile and pointed to the luggage. Col and I went on either side and lifted the luggage easily up and above to street level. When we mounted the lengthy stairwell, the man turned to us and said the only thing in French it seemed he knew to say: "Bonne Année," which means good year. The man said it over and over. Even as he was walking away down the rain-glistening sidewalk, he turned and waved and yelled, "Bonne Année!" And we said it back. Even though it wasn't January 1st.

That's what you say in France when you want to wish someone Happy New Year. But you don't just say it on the day. You say it for the weeks leading up to the day and for weeks afterwards. Bonne Année. Two simple words, which translate literally to good year, are packed with so much meaning, hope, and good will. The distinction is slight, but the implication huge when you consider that one wish (happy new year) speaks to a single event, while the latter (good year) applies to every single day of the year. Every day is a new day, after all.

Good year leaves the door of well-intention wide open to all sorts of emotions, promise, resolutions, and all kinds of years: there's the calendar year, of course. But there's also the fiscal year (good budget!), the year of vintage (good wine! good health!), the school year (good luck!), and the birthday (good for you!).

There are 365 different birthday years. Mine happens to be today. I have a feeling it's going to be a good year. And I feel inclined to thank the old Chinese man for starting me off on the right foot. Merci Monsieur. Bonne Année!

the handmade touch

There's always a hint of nostalgia in handmade things. Probably because it reminds us of the way things were. It also makes us feel like we're part of a community. These days supermarkets--the opposite of handmade and community--allow us to live our lives virtually disconnected from our neighbors. Think about how you feel when you buy a loaf of bread from the supermarket. Most of the time, that experience has nothing to do with the bread itself. Or the baker. You're probably buying a whole cart-full of other things while you're at it. Because the bread is in a plastic bag, you can't even smell it before you bring it home. And you certainly can't chat with the person who made it.

In Paris, there's a baker on practically every street corner. You can smell fresh bread as you walk down the street in the morning. They make fresh batches every day and when you go in to buy your daily bread, you buy the bread from the baker who made it. He or she recognizes you and remembers that you like 2 baguettes and one madeleine.

Handmade preserves community. The community in turn has a responsibility to preserve the handmade.

Col and I walked into the village baker this morning. The warm sweet, yeasty smell imbued our senses. How delicious. David makes the most wonderful croissants this side of the Atlantic at his small bakery Panadero. And I've had my fair share. We ordered two almond croissants for breakfast and then decided to get a crusty French batard for tomorrow's Easter lunch. It was so fresh. But we explained to David's partner that we wouldn't be eating it until tomorrow.

She shared her bready expertise. She told us how to nurture the $3 loaf so that it would be the best that it could be for our meal.

"If you like it crusty, then keep it in this paper bag," she explained. "But if you like the crust soft, you can keep it in this plastic bag and it will soften up over night. Here, I'll give you both so that you can choose." She stuffed a little plastic bag in with the bread loaf.

"Oh," she proclaimed in afterthought as we were walking out the door, "If you keep it in the plastic bag and then decide you want it crusty afterall, then you can just throw it in the oven. It will be delicious."

"We know it will be!" we chimed on our way out.

"Have a really great day," she said.

Imagine. Isn't that the kind of experience you want when you buy your bread?

There's always a hint of nostalgia in handmade things. That's because we tend to guard the handmade experiences in our memory. These are good experiences to remember.

Later on, I had another handmade experience as I walked into Speeder & Earl's coffee shop to grab Col and I some double lattes with maple syrup. My sister Hannah used to work in this coffee shop. The experience is never quite as good since she left town, but we still like the coffee once in a while. I went up to the counter and placed my order. As I waited for the milk to froth, I glanced down at the glass cookie jar. That's when I saw it: a handwritten sign that said "cappuccino biscotti." It was Hannah's handwriting--there was no mistaking the curly lettering. I just couldn't help but smile. Hannah's not there anymore, but her handmade touch remains and added sweetness to my day. It was a very private experience for me--nobody else knew how I was feeling at that moment, or why.

That's because handmade experiences are very personal. That's why we find nostalgia in them. That's why they build community. It's our duty--and indeed our enjoyment--to preserve and guard these handmade touches with our life.

I caught a cloud

I caught a cloud one day.
I jumped that cloud and rode it far away.

Rode over the Atlantic, over Greenland
Where the air passed my skin like musical notes and where
Night awoke its deep purple stance.

I caught a cloud and rode it all the way to France.
I saw musicians from the Nile, Gypsy guitar players, and
Arab merchants.

I tasted duck carpaccio drizzled in olive oil, fresh goat cheese, eleven varieties of honey, ripened figs plucked right from the tree.

I soaked myself in the Moroccan tiled hamman, perspiration falling from my skin like rain.
I drank the mint tea to rain the water back inside of me.

I met a woman with crystal eyes--
she spoke my fortune on saturated breath.
I let out a sigh of relief. Now I can take my leave.

I said goodbye to the olive leaf, to my new found friends, said Au Revoir to the cicadas chirping on the sun-dried plain.

When I returned home everything remained
Quite unchanged
Still sitting in the normal place.

But the cloud and I shall never be the same.

sparkle tower

Here's a little clip from our recent trip to Paris. At nighttime, every hour on the hour, the Eiffel Tower sparkle—albeit sideways—just like fairy dust...

how much wine does it take

to make me fluent in French again? More than I thought it would seem, as I tried to converse with my friend Marie last night, and clenched up at the first sound of accent égu. I swear that didn't happen in Paris. Just asked Col, I was a veritable francophone. Still, being able to order un café hardly signifies a handle of the language. Sure, I can understand and speak it. But can I really express myself? Will I be misunderstood?

When it's the difference between having food or going hungry, finding directions or being lost, somehow we get by. But when it's a matter of putting oneself on display, and proclaiming, "this is what I can do!" (how do you say that in French?) somehow I think the extroverts have an advantage. Maybe it would help to drink French wine. Ours was from California.

paris: pictures

Here's a whole bunch of pictures from our fabulous New Year's vacation!

Paris New Years 2007

paris: food

We went to Paris with the mind and appetite of a true gourmand. Full appreciation for flavor and culture and atmosphere. Revisiting old flavors and discovering new ones. There wasn't much that we tasted that we didn't like, but here's a list of our favorites and where to find them in Paris.

1. baguette - any corner bakery in town. Some boulangeries also offer (or only offer) an artisinal baguette. These have a thicker crust and taste a little more hearty. Both versions are equally good.

2. fromage - Cheese. We loved the cantal from Fromagerie Quatre Hommes on rue de Sevres, where they carry fresh truffles in season. We also loved the beaufort from the local Shopi grocery store.

3. wine - any wine you drink in France is normally good. This time around, we were exploring the low-budget variety and were very pleased with the Nicolas brand of wines that run between 2 and 3 euro a bottle. You can find a number Nicolas wine stores around the city. In restaurants, we liked ordering wine "en picher" in a pitcher. Just for fun.

4. hot chocolate - you'll find the best you've ever had at Angelina on rue de Rivoli. At 6 euro a pop, it's pricey but worth it. They also offer Mont Blanc, a meringue topped with whipped cream and lovely chestnut cream. You might as well order both while you're there, but the Mont Blanc (named after a mountain in the alps) is very sweet.

5. creme brulee - any old cafe will do for this. But we especially liked the version at Cafe George V. It had mangoes in it and they caramelized the top right in front of you by pouring liquor on top and lighting it on fire. It was pricey, but large enough to share.

6. galette des rois - the only time you'll find this delicious almond pastey-tasty treat is during the holidays until January 6 (Epiphany). They sell it at the grocery stores, but you should really spring for a fresh-made one at a pastry shop. The galette des rois is a traditional food, in which a bean or porcelain figurine is baked right in. The person who gets the bean wears the crown. They'll give you a crown at the pastry shop.

7. croques - toast with cheese baked on top. The most common is croque monsieur with ham or croques madame with ham and egg. They have a delicious Croque Monsieur at Cafe Beaubourg. We liked the croques at Le Cafe, a tiny little cafe where they let you choose your own toppings. Try salmon with chevre (goat cheese) and honey drizzled on top. Yum!

8. cafe - you have a few options: cafe creme (same as cafe au lait), expres (espresso), allonge (american style), cappucino... we liked the plain espresso (that's what you get when you order "un cafe") with a little bit of sugar.

9. crepe - with nutella and banana or my favorite: lemon, butter, and sugar. You can find crepe stands all over the city. There are a few on Boulevard Montparnasse.

10. les huitres - oysters. We reallly liked the restaurant Le Petit Lutetia on rue de Sevres. A wonderful selection of oysters (you can get a tasting platter of four different kinds). They also have a delcious menu to follow. Try the Beaumes de Venise wine!

11. chevre chaud salade - one of my absolute favorites, it's a green salad tossed with dijon dressing with toast and baked goat cheese on top. Our favorite version was at Le Petit Lutetia on rue de Sevres.

first day back in paris

Thank you, my gracious city, for staying just the way I left you! We arrived in Paris on the 28th of December, just after Christmas. Our hotel, a fabulous little find on rue Mayet, was the perfect welcome with a colorful lobby and cozy little room with a view of Montparnasse.

A relaxing promenade around Saint Germain brought us to the typically Parisian Cafe Saint-Peres. It was cold, we were hungry. So we settled down to some warm and toasty croques (they would be the first of many) and coffee.

We were finally there, in Paris together.

paris flavors

We're going to Paris in three weeks. Just three weeks. And all I can think about are my tastebuds!

One of the first things I'm going to do when we touch ground is eat a King's Cake, a galette des rois. Maybe we'll eat one every day, as is the custom in France during the holidays. In fact, you can find them at every bakery, freshly made with almond paste and lots of butter, until Epiphany, which is January 6th. The twelfth day of Christmas. Each cake has a bean, or fèvre, so be careful not to break a tooth. But if you're lucky enough to receive the fèvre in your slice, then you get to wear a crown for the day. It's silly really. But a wonderful tradition. (I need to find a recipe for King's Cake... I can't believe we don't have it here! Especially so close to Quebec.)

And then I might take Col to one of my favorite cafés in the Marais, Au Petit Fer à Cheval. That means "horse shoe." We'll sit inside while the rain drizzles down the windows and drink espresso and café crème and read the French newspapers. Even though Col doesn't read French. We'll just do whatever.

We'll savor some Moroccan stew at 404. Some Lebanese fare at the street vendor near Les Halles. Then on to Angelina's, the elegant tea-room by the Tuilleries, famous for its Mont Blanc, chestnut cream piled on top of a merengue cookie, and rich African hot chocolate.

At some point, we'll be sure to taste a buttery Madeleine from my favorite boulangerie on rue Vavin. A hearty galette from the Marché Raspail on early Sunday morning. A croissant, a baguette, a bottle of wine in the Jardin du Luxembourg, my old stomping grounds. Quince jelly with some bon fromage! And even though it's slightly strange for me to say it, I can't help but crave the spicy saucissons that hang in the butcher shop. This time will be the time I finally try them.

Que je suis gourmande!

mille feuilles, a thousand leaves

One of my all-time favorite desserts is Mille Feuilles, sometimes also called Napoleon--a name attributed to both its Naples, Italy origin and the French emperor. But that name isn't quite as beautiful as its literal translation, which means "a thousand leaves." I first tasted this rich and creamy layered pastry while living in southern France a few years ago. After coming home, I wanted to recreate the wonderful sweet thing and share it with my friends and family. So, I convinced my friend Madeleine of Cuisine et Tradition cooking school in Arles, Provence to part with her beloved recipe. Each time I make it, the result is quite different and unique. It's the nature of the process and the soul that goes into it.

Ingredients:
3 sheets of puff pastry dough (two boxes of Pepperidge Farm puff pastry)
1 quart of fresh berries

For the cream:
3 egg yolks
4 tablespoons of sugar
2 tablespoons of flour
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla
2 cups whole milk
plus 1 pint whipping cream to be whipped separately and folded in to the pastry cream.
Powdered sugar for decoration

To make:
Defrost the pastry dough in the refrigerator overnight. When thaw, unfold and place on baking sheets with parchment baking paper below. Poke all over with a fork to prevent puffing and bake at 400C/200C for 10-15 minutes or till nicely browned and cooked through (check box for cooking instructions). Remove and let cool.

Meantime, start the pastry cream. Put the milk on to scald. In a mixer, place your egg yolks, sugar, flour and vanilla and beat well until lightened in color. Transfer the mixture to a double boiler, pour into it gently, whisking all the while, the hot milk. Put on the flame under the double boiler and continue whisking till the mixture has thickened well. Keep mixing for a minute or two after it thickens. The addition of flour will prevent it from curdling too quickly. Take the cream off the double boiler, place in a bowl with ice and water and continue whisking till cool. Place in the refrigerator till needed.

An hour or 2 before serving, whip the cream and fold into the chilled pastry cream. Take out your serving platter and place one sheet of the puff pastry on it. Spread half the cream on the pastry, sprinkle with berries and lay another layer of the pastry on top. Repeat. Top off with the last layer of pastry, sprinkle some berries on top and some powdered sugar. Chill briefly in the freezer to make slicing easier. Slice with a warmed knife in rectangles. Serve with extra berries on the side.

My favorite alternatives:
Instead of using berries, you can make a glaze for the top by combining Powdered Sugar and Grand Marnier (or other tasty liquor like Baronjager) on low heat. Once the sugar is dissolved in the liquid, spread the glaze on the top pastry layer. Then melt a bar of 70% Dark Chocolate (Lindt makes a nice one) and drizzle that on top of the glaze in a pretty pattern.

For more complex flavor, try infusing the milk with lavender flowers before you begin making the pastry cream. My local co-op carries lavender flowers (they must be food grade, not perfumed) in the bulk section next to the teas and spices. Before starting the pastry cream, heat the milk and about 1/4 c. fine lavender flowers over medium-low heat until warm. Remove from heat and let sit for about 10-20 minutes or until the milk has a lavender flavor, then strain and discard the flowers. Proceed with the recipe above.

Other flavors you might try: mint, orange zest, cardamom, vanilla, etc.