Copper Bowls and History at E. Dehillerin

The day we visited E. Dehillerin was sunny and mild with a barely perceptible mist in the air. I was a bit apprehensive, having heard how snooty the sales staff could be. Would they turn their noses up at my Wisconsin-accented French?

Founded in 1820, E. Dehillerin wears the patina of its age well. It is everything it is reputed to be: Cluttered and cramped and a bit dusty.

No matter. Here is where the serious cook finds serious tools for the kitchen.

Dehillerin is best known for its copper and our mission was to buy a copper bowl for whipping egg whites.

Egg whites whipped in a copper bowl are more stable than those beaten in a glass bowl, thanks to copper ions, which migrate from the bowl to the egg whites. It will take longer, but the result is high-quality foam.

As we entered Dehillerin, we were met by Kim, a charming man of about 45 who knows his stuff and sells it. Our conversation was half in French and half in English, as it often is in France. We talked of Julia Child and chefs and the properties of copper. My husband, whose vocabulary grows with each trip, joined in.

We explored the basement, at Kim’s suggestion, and found all manner of kettles and pans and boilers and pots that would not fit in our suitcases. But, oh, how lovely they would be in my kitchen!

The basement is a place of mystery, with a blocked off set of stairs in one corner and a dark sub-basement crawl space filled with boxes. Descending the stairs, I felt as if I were moving down through time. Imagine the hundreds of chefs, long forgotten, who had done the same!

We followed our trip to Dehillerin with a visit to the park atop the former site of Les Halles., a hop on the westbound No. 69 bus, and a shopping spree on Rue Cler.

It was the perfect Paris day.

The trick to navigating E. Dehillerin, I believe, is to know what you want and to know something about the store and its specialties.

As we left, Kim predicted we would return. Of course we will. Always.

Banana Splits, Summer Holidays, Fireworks and the Dairy on the Corner

For a decade of my childhood – from age 4 to 14 – my parents lived in a Craftsman-style bungalow on our city’s wide Main Street.

It was a largely residential area filled with young families. My mother and the neighbor women exchanged recipes, gossiped over coffee, and packed picnic baskets and diaper bags to spend afternoons at the beach.

Our yard, the largest in the neighborhood and the most centrally located was a natural gathering place. We had a large swing set erected by Grandpa Harry, a good-sized wading pool, and a sandbox with a sunroof. There were lilac bushes to hide in and porches to hide under when the sun was too relentless.

And there was the dairy, just across Mrs. Anderson’s yard and 7th Street. For a nickel, you could get a single-dip cone; for eight cents you could buy a pint of orange drink.

The clanging of milk cans at delivery time woke us up in the morning. At night, we ran to the dairy to get a pistachio or chocolate cone before closing time. The dairy and the German family who ran it were mainstays in our little neighborhood.

In those days, a large and long Independence Day parade marched past our house and family and friends from all over town gathered on our porch and lawn. The backyard was deserted for the front. Ice cream cones or orange drink sustained us while we waited for the marching bands, horses and floats.

Later, after the fireworks, my father always demanded a banana split. Luckily, the dairy was open late that day and he’d send us over for a pint of this and a half-gallon of this and a gallon of that. We'd all indulge, and go to bed with sated stomachs.

(My husband, whose parents also served banana splits this time of year, believes the banana split-fireworks connection to be “a generational thing.”)

I always crave a banana split after summer fireworks (force of habit) but I rarely indulge.

This year, nothing – not even the thought of Evil Fat Content – could stop me. I could not wait until the pyrotechnics. On a vitamin run to Walgreen’s, I spied a small carton of house ice cream - "Banana Split" it was called - with banana flavor and bits of cherries and chocolate. The price was right and I did it. I bought it and fixed us a very small banana split.

I don’t feel the least bit guilty. It’s probably been 10 years since I had one.

What about you? Do you fix banana splits (or even crave them) this time of year? What other foods must you have during summer holidays?

Feeling Lucky at the Eiffel Tower

During our two short weeks in Paris, I was overwhelmed many times with a sense of good fortune.

As we toured Musee D’Orsay gazing at what surely must be the world’s most breath-taking collection of Art Nouveau furnishings or staring dreamily at a Monet or a Sisley or a Pisarro; as we sunned ourselves in the garden on the former site of Les Halles; as we walked along the Seine in the rain; and as we gazed up at the Eiffel Tower every day, I felt so incredibly lucky to be alive and in Paris.

On a previous trip to Paris, we made an obligatory stop at the Eiffel Tower, not expecting to be dazzled. This time we allowed ourselves to be unabashedly enchanted by the ironwork behemoth. On warm nights we would head over about 9:30 and settle down on a bench in a raised clearing just above the lagoon on the north side of the tower. The area is private and sheltered and when you breathe deeply you inhale the bosky aroma of the nearby gardens.

We’d wait and watch and gasp at 10 p.m. when the lights came on. The crowd gasped too and cheered or applauded and it was like fireworks on July 4.

It is Paris, the lady of many layers, flirting boldly with her admirers. Even the most world-weary traveler must surely turn into an bedazzled child when the tower flashes her lights.

I felt so lucky, even though I knew I'd made my own luck by stashing away every penny of my teaching earnings to make the trip. Still, I was blessed to have the opportunity.

To realize your good fortune is a heady feeling, as thrilling as the first sip of a new and complex wine or a meal al fresco on a balmy summer night.

And happiness, I am convinced, brings more happiness. Luck, I am certain, begets more luck.

The Eiffel Tower Bakery - One of the Best-Kept Secrets in Paris?

Grandma Annie was fond of bakeries and - as family legend goes - spent her first paycheck as a young dressmaker on sweets.

In her later years, she shopped at different bakeries - our town had nearly a dozen at one time - for different specialties, this one for its white bread, that one for its cakes, another for its pastries.

How she would have loved the choices in Paris. I imagine her, a small-town woman of French Canadian heritage, wild eyed and enthusiastic about Parisian offerings. I wish she could have seen Paris. I wonder if she ever dreamed about it. . .

We have sampled the goods at about 8 Parisian patisseries, and have always been satisfied.

But the croissants from F. Fegueux, the bakery less than a block north of the Eiffel Tower, have us craving more. They were soft and moist and flaky with a touch of sweetness on the top crust, equally good with ham and cheese, egg salad, or jams and jellies.

We scarfed them down too quickly to take photos. But we also loved the baguettes, and often split the three-Euro sandwhiche jambom for lunch.

The desserts were equally good, and I will share photos in future posts.

This place may be one of the best-kept secrets in Paris. Can you add another? Or share information about a good bakery in your town?

On the Road Again...in Cheesehead Country

OK, OK, I took so many food photos in Paris I just wanted to show them off. This one is from the fromagerie on Rue Cler.

I'm on a short break from blogging, headed for a conference in the heart of the state. There will be lots of cheddar around, and very little - if any - French cheese in sight.

See you Monday.

Where are you going this summer? Business or pleasure?

Strawberry Desserts and a One-Year Anniversary

Growing up, I often spent a week or two each summer with Grandma Annie. I was a morning person then, as I am now, and while my energy level was high after breakfast, it flagged after lunch.

Summer afternoons were long and languid. I would loll around the sunny living room while Annie would alternately watch soap operas, entertain her female friends, or chat on the phone. She, too, spent much of the afternoon recovering from the morning’s chores, although her knitting and mending were always close at hand.

Annie's conversations often involved food, more specifically, what was in season at local markets. In those days, local sources included about a dozen strawberry patches or “pick your own” strawberry farms.

Strawberries were a big deal. So was strawberry shortcake. Making it for dessert was a ritual for both Grandma Annie and her son-in-law, my father.

Now everyone has his or her own way of making strawberry shortcake. Some people must have fresh whipped cream and made-from-scratch angel-food or sponge cake. (My father liked his “cake” made with biscuit mix – this from a chef – gasp!)

Others don’t mind resorting to store-bought ingredients and pre-made whips from cans or cartons. I have a confession to make: A week or so I was charged with bringing the makings for strawberry shortcake to a girlfriends’ gathering. Jet lagged, I opted for the store-bought approach and nobody minded.

My husband prefers his strawberry shortcake with angel-food cake.

“Store-bought is fine,” he says. “I couldn’t tell the difference between sponge cake and angel-food cake, to tell you the truth. It’s not one of my priorities.”

I’ll eat strawberry shortcake when it is served to me, but I prefer my strawberries with only sour cream and brown sugar. I use a Splenda and brown sugar mix, which turns the sour cream into a carmel-y affair (see photo below). Sometimes I add blueberries, too.

The strawberry desserts above are from the window of a LeNotre near the Bastille. I thought a really scrumptious photo was in order, since today my blog celebrates one year of posts.

Yup, one year ago today on a Sunday afternoon, I sat down at my iMac to start “French Kitchen in America.”

I had no idea where I was going with it. I only knew that I wanted my journalism students to blog and in order to do that, I had to try it myself.

Here we are, 12 months and nearly 250 posts later. Thank you to all of you who visited and offered words of encouragement, especially last fall when the iMac was down for repairs for nearly three weeks and recently, when the daily grind has kept me from visiting your sites (one more week and life should be back to normal).

Roughing it: Sausage and Peppers and Paris (not that Paris)

I thought preparing meals without an oven would be a challenge. At home, many of our meals involve both our oven and our counter top convection oven. I roast vegetables, especially peppers, on an almost daily basis.

But we also do stir fry a lot, so I figured we'd be OK. I like to experiment with salads, so I knew we could always do the salad and baguette approach.

What I was not prepared for was how much a difference it makes to have really good and fresh ingredients.

Academically, I knew this of course. Meals I make during farm market season are always better than meals made with store-bought produce.

But French produce has an edge. A taste edge. Tomatoes have a bit more bite and peppers have, well, more peppery taste. I knew this already from previous shopping trips in France. But my taste buds had forgotten.

One of the first things we did was look for sausage. The first time I asked for saucission, which yielded some wonderful salami from Davoli Maison de Jambom. It was fabulous on a sandwich and equally delightful in a salad.

But it wasn't what I wanted so I tucked it into the little wheeled cart (hell going over those cobblestone) and tried again. This time I found chair de sausage, which is freshy ground sausage. We'd tasted this in Cahors a few years back and found it some much better than the Italian sausage we buy at home (and that is pretty good).

My husband asked for two kilograms, which as it turns out is enough to feed the entire 7th arrondissement, so we ate a lot of sausage-based meals. One of our favorites was a simple dish of sausages and peppers, with a bit of onion and garlic. Brown the sausage with garlic and a bit of olive oil, set it aside, and saute the peppers with onions. Combine all the ingredients and allow the flavors to marry over low heat. Serve with a fresh baguette and unsalted butter. We paired it with a light and fruity rose wine from Provence.

In France, I made do with one large skillet, two or three sauce pans, a souffle dish, one bread knife and some wooden spoons and spatulas. As a result, I am paring down my kitchen a bit, giving a set of mixing bowls and a few other odds and end to the Relay for Life rummage sale my dean sponsors every year.

Have you ever made do with only a few utensils? What did you make? How did you like it? Did roughing it change the way you prepared food in your own kitchen?

Seeking the Sun on Rue du Cherche Midi

I did not want to visit Rue du Cherche Midi in the rain.

Any street with a name that implies a yearning for the sunny south requires a visit when the sun is shining. Alas, it was rarely shining when we visited Paris.

So it was a cloudless day (and one of our last in Paris) when we strolled down this narrow street, which is quieter than I imagined. It was mid-afternoon and the market on nearby Boulevard Raspail had just closed.

I wanted to buy a loaf of the famous Poilane bread, but since it was nearly our last day in Paris, my French frugality gene got the better of me and I decided to wait until our next visit. We already had a fresh baguette waiting in our tiny kitchen and more shopping to do, so it seemed prudent.

But I did take a few photographs. I was enchanted with the boutiques along Cherche Midi; the clothing in the windows really spoke to me (and now I understand why the French use the term “faire du leche vitrine,” which means to lick the windows, for the process we call window shopping).

“I have to go lick the windows,” I told my husband when he sauntered on and I wanted to linger.

Pretty things in windows (which always include food in Paris) are the stuff of dreams. We cannot always afford them. But they give us something to yearn for.

Sometimes a taste (or a lick) offers more long-term satisfaction than a whole meal.

Note: I've heard several explanations for the charming name of this equally charming street. The one I like best is "seeking the mid-day sun." It is my understanding the street got its name from a sundial on a building there.

The School on Rue Buffon

This post has nothing to do with food but everything to do with feelings.

In Paris, you walk a lot. That does relate to food, because we found that you can eat almost anything you want and not gain weight if you walk. Paris, it turns out, is the most perfect kind of diet there is.

One of the streets we walked down a week or so ago was unpretentious Rue Buffon, which runs along the east side of the lovely Jardin des Plantes.

The sky was leaden that day and the light was that pale gray color that makes you think of a delicate watercolor painting of spring. It seemed to bounce off the gray and tan buildings of this humble little street.

Somehow I sensed a sadness on Rue Buffon. We began at the southern end and made our way north to the spot near Place Valhubert where you can catch the westbound No. 63 bus.

I took photos because the light intrigued me. So did the buildings, which seemed almost abandoned. When we came to a plaque on a school building, I stopped to read it.

And then I understood. The plaque honored the memories of Jewish school children who were sent to death camps. I need not say much here: You can certainly visualize the images that conjured up for me. I said a silent prayer for the children of Rue Buffon.

I will not forget them, those long-gone children. They have become for me an inextricable part of a layered and beautiful city where sunny days are like a carnival and where rainy days are melancholy.

Such richness Paris offers. I feel so lucky to have tasted those riches, both the happy and the sad.

Rhubarb Pie for a Rainy Day

It rained a lot in Paris and it has rained a lot since we’ve been home.

“Do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” Grandma Annie always asked on rainy days this time of year.

Saturday my husband wasn’t taking any chances. While I was out gallery hopping with two friends, he picked, cleaned and chopped several pounds of rhubarb from our two ancient rhubarb patches.

Sunday he made rhubarb pie, one of his favorites. And despite using a store-bought crust (horrors!), he managed to make the best rhubarb pie I’ve ever tasted.

“Not too tart, not too sweet,” we agreed as we eagerly dug into the pie about two hours after he removed it from the oven.

My husband does not follow a recipe.

“And I don’t measure,” he says. Ah, true cooking from the heart.

Rhubarb Pie

5 cups rhubarb, chopped into cubes
2 cups sugar
two eggs
pie crust, your own or pre-made

Place rhubarb in large bowl and pour sugar over it. Mix with spoon, cover and refrigerate for 24 hours.

Prepare pie crust and place in greased pan. Mix one whole egg and the yoke from a second with the rhubarb and pour into bottom crust. Top with second crust, venting it so stream can escape.

Place in pre-heated 400-degree oven, baking for about 40 minutes. After about 25 minutes, brush top with egg white and sprinkle with sugar, returning to oven. Allow pie to cool for 1-2 hours. Serve with French vanilla ice cream.

A Leisurely Meal Before an Open Window

It’s never easy to come home from vacation. You’ve got to readjust, unpack, collect accumulated mail, and settle into your old routine.

This time, our homecoming coincided with a visit from a friend now living across the country. She is staying with another friend, and last time we gathered for a casual supper at that friend’s house. Joining us were one husband and sister.

Sloppy Joes, cole slaw, potato chips and fruit and three different types of wine: Wonderful! It was accompanied by conversation, both light and substantive. We sat around the table for hours.

Weekends and vacations allow us to combine meals with long conversations. It my life anyway, it is often hard to find time to do this on weekdays.

In Paris, for two lovely weeks, my husband and I enjoyed leisurely lunches and dinners. Most of our meals were eaten at a small table in front of a window overlooking a busy street.

Since we were on the first floor (the second floor to Americans), we had an excellent view of traffic from eight restaurants, two bakeries, two delis, five shops and one large office building.

There were also several schools nearby and it was the time of year for field trips.

The passing parade provided plenty of fodder for conversation. By our third day in Paris, we started to recognize people. There goes the dapper man with a grey ponytail! Oh, look, it’s that cute little girl and her mother! Ooh, that guy drives a Land Rover!

We saw mothers and fathers walk their children to school, and watched business people ride bicycles or motorcycles to work.

We shamelessly peered across the street into office windows. One woman worked long into the night – did she have a deadline? Two men who shared an office seemed to enjoy working together – were they computer geeks as we suspected?

Our speculation and conversation were accompanied by salads and sandwiches, the latter often purchased for three euros from a nearby bakery and “doctored up” with lettuce, tomatoes, olives and cheese.

We sipped wine purchased from area shops, none of it costing more than six euros a bottle and much of it from Provence.
We savored these meals, enjoying a cool breeze on a sunny day and a myriad of street sounds. Though we logged dozens on miles on foot and took more than 50 bus rides, these meal times stand out for me.

For two weeks the people we watched were our friends and neighbors and we were their guests.

We found them hospitable indeed.

On Leaving Paris (and My Borrowed Kitchen There)

For the past week, every time I heard planes overhead in the afternoon, I would know someone was leaving Paris.

To be sure, they could have been arriving. But I know that there is a 2 p.m. flight to Detroit. It is the most convenient flight for me, for it will enable to me to make Green Bay before dark.

Leaving Paris. It is not easy to do, even if the security of routine and a good washing machine and dryer beckons. Leaving Paris can only be done with mixed feelings and regrets.

This time, it was hard to leave the quartier, where we'd made a few friends during our two-week stay. Establishing a daily round was something we set out to do and we stuck to it.

It was hard to leave my little white kitchen, which has taught me a valuable lesson: It is easy to make good food without a ton of equipment and appliances. (This will give me to courage to clean out my own cluttered space, donating duplicates to charity or selling them at yard sales or flea markets with my friend MM.)

I felt immediate peacce in that little kitchen and enjoyed preparing meals while listening to my neighbors' voices through the air shaft - they were doing the same - and the aromas or garlic and chicken soup wafted in.)

It has taught me a few more words and idioms in a language I studied for two semesters in high school and five in college but have not mastered. I was telling an older woman that although I'd studied the language, I had yet to master it. She looked at me reprovingly and said (I think), "You've had a long time to learn it."

Grammatical errors and pronouncuation mistakes present no roadblock to friendships in France. I was touched when a merchant gave me a kiss (two actually) when I told her were were leaving.

It's difficult to leave a city of so much richness on so many levels. It's good to be home though.

Now I will wait to see how Paris has changed me.