Paris on Lake Michigan

I had forgotten how much I love downtown Chicago.

After all, it had been years. I've driven though and changed planes there, but it had been years since I'd truly been there. Once upon a time, it was a city I played in, tooling around town with S., my Winnetka friend, and spending afternoons at the Art Institute or in the park. He was a student at Northwestern then, and in those days I learned the drive between suburb and city by heart.

My husband has roots in Chicago as well, in the same North Shore suburbs. Chicago was the city he learned to love as a kid. After 20 years of marriage, this was our first stay together in Chicago.

Oh, sweet. it was sweet. Nothing can come between me and my Paris, but I found traces of Paris in Chicago. The cafés, mostly lined with broad planters, giving diners a bit of privacy. The tall, fashionably dressed women. The water taxis and excursion boats on the river. And finally, the parks and gardens.

This garden to the west of the old Water Tower reminded me of Paris, perhaps because it is across from a French restaurant I will certainly try on our next trip.

Our hotel was surrounded by steak houses, of course, and the aroma from 5 to 10 p.m. each night was tantalizing.

Having Chicago a half-day's drive away just might tide me over until Paris.

Mercue: Lights at Night across the Valley...Nine Coaches Waiting

There is nothing quieter than a dark night in deepest France. A year ago, we were there, our body clocks awry but our jet lag fading. We'd go to bed around midnight France time, and open the little casement windows in the upstairs bedroom just before retiring to let some fresh night air in.

It was not merely quiet. It was the absence of sound.

Across the valley we could see the lights of the chateau at Mercué. Surely at this magical place, nights were glamorous and celebratory, with the tinkling of glasses and heavy silver against china. And lights, always lights, as Very Important People arrived by Mercedes.

In my mind, I saw torches and was reminded of the bit of verse that winds its way though Mary Stewart's classic, "Nine Coaches Waiting." Something about "banquets abroad by torchlight...nine coaches waiting...hurry! hurry!"

I cannot identify the piece and I don't have the book at hand. Odd, the connections we make.

Ah France! So magical, whether you are in a chateau perched above the Lot River, a quiet farmhouse across the valley, or the Chateau Valmy in the Savoy.

The chateau at Mercué. Today that phrase conjures a feeling I cannot describe because it is a perception, not anything tangible. It is being there, feeling something, some essence of the lovely Lot Valley. Something there resonates with me.

That said, we are on our way to Chicago, more to relax than eat. I doubt we'll go to any chichi eateries. But I am bringing the camera.

One Picture is Worth...

This week's CSA box, a day early.

Thank Goodness it's Thursday!

Why is a week that starts with a holiday harder to muddle through than a regular, five-day week?

It's one of those riddles I have no answer to. I can only guess that it has something to do with our rhythms being interrupted.

I am very much a creature of habit. I like habits, daily rituals that I can wrap my hands around. I have found that mine last a season or so, and then I move on. The next season brings a new ritual and the season after that another.

I never really know what the season will bring.

Now is a time of transition. My CSA box is heavier and I have taken to photographing its contents. Maybe it's for a visual diary of farm box treasures.

For a better still life of farm market produce, click here.

Farm Market on the Bay

There is a barely perceptible mist rolling off the bay in the morning when the growers set up for business.

They drive their trucks onto the lawn, using the driveway north of the old bank building that has been turned into a medical office with a stunning loft apartment on the second floor.

On this green space was once a schooner dock and a sawmill. Then a few decades later there was a row of Queen Anne homes, the old Sommerville place, the quirky Patterson house and the graceful Adams home. In the 1930s, the houses came down and a classic pavilion went up. For the past 70 years, this park has been a place for concerts and rallies, for festivals and flea markets.

The farm market here is not just for growers. A young man sells fresh fish from the waters of the bay.

The market is also for anyone who makes things at home, and you can buy lovely boiled wool slippers in stunning colors like dusty chartreuse and rich magenta, as well as artisan soaps and braided trivets for your tea cups. I found a mottled gourd birdhouse there, and I always come home with plants.

The vendors are mostly women in their 40s and 50s and they are a friendly bunch. I've noticed they all try to display their wares in baskets with lovely hand crafted signs. Aesthetics and merchandising are the rule here.

Saturday I picked up my CSA box, and bought flowers for my mother and for myself: End of summer flowers in bright hues.

When I was a very small child, my parents rented a flat in one of the last two old houses here. We had a small but sunny yellow kitchen that smelled of cinnamon, and a TV room with a balcony overlooking the water. Downtown bustled then, and I can recall the smell of freshly ground coffee from the A&P and fresh popcorn from the drugstore across the street. Both are gone now, and trendy gift shops have taken their place.

But my little town has a farm market, two in fact.

I'll visit the other market soon.

What I Ate This Summer: Papaya, Shrimp, Potato Salad and Tenderloin

I am blessed to have a job I love. Two years into it, I am starting to settle into my new office and I feel comfortable out and about, making new contacts as well as decisions that shape the future of the company.

I look forward to going to work each day, and I am equally excited about coming home at night. But I am often too tired to cook, so meals have been a bit slap dash.

There were more than 200 photos in my little Nikon Cool Pix today and it took about 40 minutes to download them all.

The photo above is the papaya I bought during a heat spell. Now that is food porn! The photo below is how I served it: With cucumbers, cooked shrimp, green onions and a ready-made fig-curry dressing.

I grow herbs in pots on our deck, which faces the west and gets plenty of sun. It's easy to step outside and snip fresh herbs for whatever salad I am preparing. Potato salad is like chicken, a blank canvas that gets its personality from whatever you make it with, as long as you include potatoes. I have made potato salad with capers, bacon, ham, shrimp, radishes and - always - cucumbers.

Last night we ate out, celebrating the difficult installation of a new window in our laundry room/potting shed area. We both had tenderloin. It was heavenly. What a way to end summer!

A Sad and Lovely Time of Year

While many of us welcome the end of summer and the return to routine as we enjoy the excitement of football season, back to school activities and the bounty of autumn, there is still a sadness to this time of year.

It is especially poignant for me, as it has been nearly a year since our last visit to France. Last year we arrived well into La Rentrée, and the quieter season had fallen across France. We felt it as our train made its way towards the southwest. There was a note of sadness, an amber note to the light, like a fragrance note and only perceptible if you knew what to look for.

Certain bits and pieces of that trip continue to float through my consciousness at odd times. Our brief visit to Montcuq at midday sticks out in my mind, because the leaves on the chestnut trees had fallen, carpeting the promenade with brown. The chestnut tree in our yard is always the first to go in the fall. It was like home, but of course not like home. Crunch crunch crunch underfoot.

This row of cafe tables on the promenade made me sad. I could imagine that a mere three weeks earlier, the tables and chairs would have been filled with tourists and regulars, laughing quietly over a Ricard, whispering over wine or coffee.

Now, a year later back home there are patches of red and gold in the trees along the bay and along Riderman Road. School has started at some of our local schools. There are empty lifeguard stations at the beaches, and empty dinghies moored at docks. Caramel apples are offered for sale at the Italian market.

What a sad and lovely time to savor life!