French Kitchen in America

Paris...Again

2012-01-08T13:39:00.001-06:00

We were planning a trip to the remote part of England from which my husband's grandfather immigrated. Everything seemed to complicated, no matter which route and options we explored.

Then, after a particularly spirit-breaking day, I dreamed of Paris. We were there in the sunshine, my husband and I, riding lightweight bicycles that made us feel as though we were flying. We sped from the Arc de Triumph to the Pantheon on what felt like gossamer wings. Then I awoke to a dark January morning.

When we gathered in our snuggery that night, I told my husband about the dream. "Let's do it," he said. "Let's just go to Paris again. It's easier. We know how to do it. We can stay on the Left Bank again."

And so we began dreaming again. And hoping. And feeling lighter.

There are still many unanswered questions in my life.

But I can dream of Paris. What a hold she has on us!

Life forces us into decisions and roles we sometimes abhor. Falling in love with a city gives us options. There is nothing to do but submit yourself to the lure of the city. Paris...

Merry Christmas, Friends

2011-12-23T21:17:00.000-06:00

Right up until the actual day of Christmas, I am pulled kicking and screaming into a season of great expectations.

I ignore them all. Christmas baking is a thing of the past, ever since I spent the run up to Christmas reading and grading exams. Some years - and this appears to be one of them - I don't even get a tree up. I tire of holiday music by Dec. 5 (save for the Celtic melodies that became so popular about 15 years ago).

But I do have lovely memories of Christmases past and some day when the year is not so fragmented and demanding, I will use them to craft new traditions.

The year about to end has been full of changes and challenges. I sought physical therapy for a rotator cuff injury and a bursa problem and discovered working out, the world of crunches and reps and - sometimes - sheer torture. I now spend more time at the gym than in the kitchen now.

But there is a distinct possibility a new recipe is about to debut. Stick around. And have a wonderful Christmas.

The tree is not mine, by the way, but one of those lovely memories.

A Turning Point: 9-11-2001

2011-09-09T20:41:00.000-05:00

I woke up cranky that morning, dissatisfied with everything in my life. I had to drag myself away from my coffee to get dressed and leave for work; I was late. A coworker nabbed me in front of the newspaper building. "A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center," she said.

I did not comprehend any of it as I made my way to the newsroom. The TV in the editor's office was on, and people were gathered around it. Within minutes the second plane hit its target; phone began to ring. The old wire machines would have been clacking and ringing away, but this was 2001, and Associated Press quietly moved its stories over the Internet.

It all happened so fast, one event after the other. We gathered and re-gathered in the editor's office, splitting the assignments. I called a former reporter we knew, a Congressional staffer, who spent a good 20 minutes on the phone with me so I could chronicle his exodus from Washington.

In between I called my mother: Yes, she'd heard from both my brothers, frequent travelers who were safe in Chicago and Los Angeles. Everyone did the same: Called family members. It was a symbolic circling of the wagons.

By noon the paper was on the street and we gathered in the editor's office for more assignments: I was to cover an ecumenical service that night in the park and gather reaction from area officials.

It was my day to teach journalism at our local university. I brought papers for all, and shared the morning's experiences and emotions with them. But mostly I let them talk: Many were exchange students in the United States for the first time. I left class as early as I could and raced back to the newsroom for more assignments.

When I returned home later that afternoon my husband and I watched television in silence. He surprised me when he offered to come to the candlelight memorial service with me. When we got there, I found most people did not want to talk, so I listened closely to the priest, minister and rabbi and once back in the newsroom, carved out an atmosphere piece. On the way home, I listened to Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings on the radio.

My job that day and in the days after was to bring the story home, interviewing people I knew in New York and Washington, working with another reporter to tell the stories of three young career girls living in Manhattan. I interviewed the sister of a fire-fighting family from New York, and covered regional efforts to collect items for Ground Zero cleanup crews.

For the first time in a long while I felt a sense of purpose in my work. I worked harder on my writing than ever before, finding ample feature stories to engage me in between routine assignments. My writing output in those days was tremendous, and my new, invigorated approach seemed to carry over into my teaching. I was always happy to be home in the evening, and I spent a good deal of time in the kitchen.

Although I did not realize it at the time, the events of 2001 changed me, even though I had no personal connections to them. But soon after that, I began living life more fully, enjoying myself more, indulging myself again. My husband and I began to travel more, and though we grouse about the new regulations and precautions, we have logged more miles since 2001 than in the decade before.

Making thoughtful and right decisions means more to me now. I take pride in taking the high road, and I strive to be honest and objective in all my dealings.

Perhaps this is just simple maturity. I've never really connected these changes to any single turning point.
Yet I know that I began the process of becoming a new person on Sept. 11, 2001.

Tapenade on Tapas Weekend

2011-08-03T17:48:00.013-05:00

A few years ago, my husband and I began what we called Finger Food Fridays, which soon morphed into Saturdays so I could spend some time in the kitchen.

It is a chance to eat some snack-y things like potato chips and nachos, along with healthier fare like raw vegetables and fresh fruit.

We're having a heatwave here in the Midwest. It's muggy and stifling and sweat rolls off your forehead when you do the simplest things like mince garlic or do laundry.

No one in their right mind would even cook on a grill. We declared a tapas weekend.

The word "tapas" got me thinking of tapenade. This provencal specialty gets its name not from olives as you might suspect, but from the Provençal word for capers, "tapenas." Some call tapenade the "black butter of Provence."

Apparently recipes differ from region to region. Some regions add cognac. Anchovies are a fairly typical ingredient, but I find that capers deliver enough salt for my palate.

I prefer my tapenade to be somewhat coarse, as opposed to finely ground, and I make it with about a cup of black olives, a third cup of green olives, a dash of lemon peel, some roasted garlic and a few capers. I sometimes forget to add a dash of olive oil, but that usually makes no difference.

It's the perfect taste for a hot weekend. I usually just serve it on toasted baguette, but it's too hot to toast anything this weekend. So we opted for fresh slice of French rolls. Leftovers were eaten the next day with sun-dried tomato crostini with artichoke and Parmesan topping. No wine, no alcohol of any sort. It's too hot for anything but iced tea and ice water, both with lemon.

Leftover tapenade can also be mixed into a green salad, a pasta dish, or into tuna or chicken sandwich spread.

The Farm Market: Weekend Stress Relief

2011-07-30T21:57:00.001-05:00

"Oh, lovely!" I exclaimed, digging in my purse for my camera as I encountered golden beets in a basket at today's little farm market on the bay.

Two women buying produce laughed. "She's not talking about us," they giggled to the vender.

"Me neither," said the vender, who was indeed quite lovely with a pleasant, slightly weathered face, strawberry blond hair tucked under a pink baseball cap and her change tucked into the pockets of a flowered apron.

The farm market has grown these past five summers, and I have come to know the vendors. This is not the market I visited when I began writing here in 2006, but a newer one across town. There is no CSA this year, sadly, and not all the produce is organic, but the market is back to a grassy spot near the marina, and the light is much better for photographing produce and flowers.

I envy these microbusiness owners for their independence, and I love how nicely they display their wares. They are primarily women with a keen sense of merchandising.

The half hour or so I spend at the market each weekend is as essential to my sanity as a bedside novel, an occasional massage, and regular hair trims.

Here are more images from today's market. Aren't the colors fabulous? The photos below look like painted postcards to me.

The Ever Changing Flavor of High Summer

2011-07-27T20:17:00.001-05:00

Each summer of our lives imparts its own flavor, especially as it recedes into memory.

There is a time in mid-July when summer is at its apogee, before cicadas and crickets make their end-of-season racket. Usually there is a day or two that set the tone for the entire three month period that begins, no matter what the lunar cycle dictates, on or about June 5 and ends on the very last day of August.

"It's all downhill after the Fourth of July," people in Wisconsin are fond of saying, and they may be spot on. But perhaps because I was a July baby, I think mid summer comes a bit farther into the month.

At any rate, the flavors that live on in my memory are usually captured around the middle of July: the balmy summer Nan, Candy, Sue and I rode our bikes to the beach daily, peddling through the old East Side and the little squatters' village to Seagull Point; the next summer when we rode those same bikes to the marina across town to watch boys and their sailboats. That was the summer I met the man I was to later marry.

There was also the summer I painted my bedroom, the summer I got my canopy bed, the summer I landed my first reporting job, the summer I moved to Madison. Iced tea, blueberries, bologna and cheese sandwiches and falafel are the respective flavors of those summers.

One summer in my early 20s I was between jobs, caught between yearning for a city that teamed with life and a village that brought me peace. That year I discovered a dusty little bookstore tucked between a TV repair shop and the back door of a beauty salon on a side street downtown. I recall buying a copy of "Diet for a Small Planet" and several packets of herb seeds. I planted the seeds in my parents yard: Dill, fennel and marjoram. It was the names that drew me, and in time the flavors.

Nothing draws me as fresh basil does. The basil in the photo above was purchased at a local farm market the summer I started this blog. That summer of discovery tasted so good!

High summer is slipping away, and soon we will hear the song of crickets and sense that subtle change in the sun's angle that spells August.

"July," I wrote in high school "is a sultry harlot doing her dance on the summer lawns, with ribbons unfurling and tambourines clacking against the heat of summer. I welcome her passing for the cooler tempers of August."

Not so much these days as the Julys grower fewer and fly by with such alacrity.

Grilled Mediterranean Salmon and a Salad of Leftovers

2011-07-03T16:30:00.000-05:00

When my brother and I were kids, we lived less than four blocks from school and thus were able to walk home for lunch.

In fall, we kicked our way through leaf piles that gathered in low places on sidewalks and drank in the smoky, apple-y aroma of the season. In winter we clambered atop snow banks and pretended to scale the Alps. In spring we were filled with the restless energy of kids who know vacation is drawing nearer.

We had an hour at noon, and the walk to school and back was 10 minutes either way. Our lunches at home - eaten to the drone of the local radio newscaster - consisted of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, hot dogs and beans, macaroni and cheese, an occasional casserole, and on Fridays, salmon from a can.

It was one of my least favorite lunches, always served with mashed potatoes, or peas or creamed corn. I thought it dull and tasteless, and probably, deep in my mind, I truly believed salmon came from a can.

It took decades for me to appreciate salmon, which with its distinct tangy taste is nonetheless extremely versatile though not the blank canvas that is chicken. It was only after I began eating lunches and dinners at good restaurants that I fully understood this fabulous fish. Being good for you was an added attraction.

It also took me years to fully grasp the male fascination in firing up a grill as soon as the weather hits 45 degrees. I've never been a huge beef eater so, well, it seemed like a big fuss about nothing.

Then, almost 22 years ago, I married a grill guy and suddenly building a fire and cooking something over it became a pleasant ritual. He was so enthusiastic about experimenting with marinades and seasonings that I got caught up in it. We've gone through a hibachi and a couple of Webers. I can't see investing in one of those fancy-schmancy gas grills, because I like all the trappings of a big old black Weber and its rituals.

Recently, I've been experimenting with grilling vegetables and fruit. A few years ago, I grilled peaches that were luscious but not photo worthy. This summer, I'm going to play around with vegetables wrapped in foil packets.

But I digress. Last night I made Grilled Mediterranean Salmon, using a recipe from the Mayo Clinic Website. (I should note that I always buy wild-caught.)

Fabulous! I used it in a salad along with olives, almonds and Asiago cheese for today's lunch.

What's your favorite way to eat salmon? What's the tastiest meal you've ever made on a grill?

Summer Change

2011-07-02T13:00:00.003-05:00

Finally it is summer after a long winter and a rainy spring.

I bought fresh garlic at the farm market today and will do something Mediterranean this long weekend. I bought fresh basil, too, and fresh mozzarella.

Insalata Caprese. Salad in the style of Capri.

As a teenager, I dreamed of spending my honeymoon in Capri. It was a jigsaw puzzle named "Marina Grande Capri" that fired my imagination as a child: Colorful buildings with arched balconies, low boats, azure sky and water. My father worked jigsaw puzzles during stressful times, and this was my favorite.

I bought a fresh bottle of olive oil and the best tomatoes I could find. There is no salad that tastes of summer as this one does. My metabolism no longer permits me to consume vast quantities of potato salad on long summer weekends.

This is only one of many changes in my life and yours since I began this blog six years ago in June. Its anniversary quietly came and went while life was occupying me.

Coasting along is no longer good enough. Change is coming. I just haven't figured it all out yet.

Of May and Mothers

2011-05-14T21:36:00.002-05:00

"Just stop the car for a minute so I can get a picture of the virgin," I begged my husband as our rented Mini Cooper hurtled down what was surely the wrong road away from Montcuq, southwest of Cahors.

There was road work everywhere - not unlike Wisconsin - and we had gotten lost. The tight little voice inside the Garmin (I swear it's Joan Holloway from Mad Men) was nearly shouting "Recalculating! Recalculating!" but I wanted to photograph this charming little village and the pristine statue of the Virgin Mary.

Like every little Catholic girl of my era, I was taught to revere her. Because my name is Mary Virginia, I truly believed for a time that we had a special bond. Perhaps for a time we did.

May when I was a child meant great ceremony at church, much singing, and dozens of little girls in white dresses - all to honor the memory of Mary.

It was, of course, my mother who took the care to make sure my dainty little white dresses were ironed and crisp, who plaited my hair and made sure the blue bows were fresh and perky. And then after raising two sons, she did the same things for my sister.

This week, my sister and I had the sad and bittersweet experience of placing our mother in assisted living. We looked at the best facilities in town, and finally settled on one near the hospital, in our own doctor's park neighborhood.

My mother has Alzheimers Disease, which I have learned in the past 18 months, is so commonplace that you can be in a business meeting of 10 people, each of whom have parents or grandparents with this slow, killing disease.

It has broken our hearts, even though we know this is best for her: That she is around people, has on-site care, healthy meals, gets her medication on time and has few opportunities for catastrophes, like falls, now that she is no longer so steady on her feet.

The confusion in her eyes grabs at our hearts. We want to hug her and hold her and we do. She is now so tiny and vulnerable, this woman who once strode down luncheon catwalks, modeling dresses and hats for women's clubs and Rotary wives; who gamely played in the backyard wading pool with the neighborhood kids, and who served potato chips and beer to their mothers at late-night gab fests in 1960.

She is safe now, if not from the ravages of age and disease, at least from some of the frightening possibilities that have kept P and I from sleeping nights this last year.

It is finally spring. Winter here in northern Wisconsin extended into April, and was followed by rain, rain and more rain.

The air is sweet. The forsythia blooms outside my dining room window and the flowering crab may well bloom by May 24, as it always does.

Life goes on.

A Kind and Gentle Memory in Cruel Times

2011-02-26T16:36:00.000-06:00

I often dream of Grandma Annie's house in Frenchtown, and I still drive past it when I need reassurance in these crazy times. My heart catches and I whisper that I miss her.

I miss her wisdom, which she probably never knew she possessed. She judged no one, understood boundaries, and knew her place in the world. She was light a light that we all rallied around in darkness.

Here she is with me. As she is now.

On Hiatus

2011-01-17T19:33:00.001-06:00

Like a lot of people who've been blogging for five or six years, I'm going on hiatus for a while.

While this blog provides release, not stress, I need to simplify.

I will return someday.

Snow like Cotton

2011-01-08T17:14:00.000-06:00

The snow fell like cotton early this morning and when I left the house for Saturday errands, the day was bright and pure.

January days have a clarity like no others in Northern Wisconsin. The sunlight reflects off the snow and brightens everything, showing only that which is necessary and true.

Today's light was not flat, but intense and sparkling.

Our moods are lighter today, and my husband and I joked while folding laundry. We are growing older together and taking pleasure in small everyday tasks. Our life together is simple and clear.

Our Saturday night supper will be simple, too: Small tenderloins with herbs de Provence and mushrooms and a salad of lettuce, tomato and olives.

There is a contentment in January, and an optimism in the young year.

I hope this is true for you, too.

Spring in the Lot

2011-01-06T08:09:00.000-06:00

Just contemplating spring in France's Lot Valley, near Cahors. Where would you like to be today?

Kalyn's Pulled Chicken Salad with Green Olives and Celery

2011-01-03T18:02:00.023-06:00

The start of a new year holds more charm for me than the winter holidays.

I like starting over.

This year, I am once again trying my luck with the South Beach Diet, which in 2007 kept me from rolling into Paris and instead strolling about that magic city feeling, if not slender, at least not fat. And that's essential in a city where all women are apparently slim and beautiful. The men aren't bad either.

You may already know that the first two weeks of South Beach are bread, pasta, potato and beet, pea, corn and carrot free. It's no easy feat avoiding at least a taste of those foods, but I can do anything for two weeks, right?

Right, but the absence of carbs and sugar (especially fruit) can get a bit boring.

So I turn to Kalyn's Kitchen for assistance. And Kalyn never fails me.

A few days ago she provided a roundup of Phase One recipes, using the photo for this particular salad. My mouth started watering immediately, but our house was full of holiday treats and I am always meticulous about eating up what is on hand.

Besides, who wants to start a diet on Dec. 30 or 31? Only a seriously deranged person.

It should come as no surprise to Kalyn's fans that this salad was wonderful. I added lightly toasted almonds, but otherwise followed Kalyn's recipe to the letter. I used dehydrated green onions because I was unable to force myself to leave the house in frigid weather.

But oh, this was tasty! Preparing the salad got me through a rough spot and eating it was a treat.

I posted a new photo of myself above left - taken after a spa visit but before starting SBD - as a way of goading myself into weight loss. I was born with those cheeks, by the way.

The Color of the Sky; A New Kitchen Toy

2011-01-02T17:52:00.003-06:00

For as long as I can remember, I have tracked the color of the sky once winter solstice has passed.

I don't need to remind those of us in the Northern Hemisphere that the lighter the sky at, say, 4:30 p.m., the closer we are to spring.

(And I love spring more than any other season. No reason to list a litany of reasons. You know what I mean: buds, birdsong, the angle of the sun.)

Observing the sky at a given time helps me to remind myself that winter, which can be beastly here in Wisconsin, is a temporary condition.

I am pleased to report that the sky was still medium blue at 4:30 in Northern Wisconsin. As I looked out my window to check, a bird flew across the tree tops, heading south against the coming night perhaps: One of those small moments that never fails to enchant me.

While we wait for spring, we spend winter nights and weekends experimenting in the kitchen. Most of the experiments never make it to the pages of this blog, but they provide a welcome distraction from snow and cold.

Inevitably there is a Christmas gift from my husband that makes my kitchen time fun and sometimes challenging. I'm still experimenting with the mandoline he bought me a few years ago. My back and feet thank him daily for the chef's floor mat he bought me a bit more recently.

This year's gift may be less comforting to my back. The mortar and pestle is one I chose myself from a little shop in a neighboring city that sells books and finely-crafted furniture and other household or decorative items. As you can see from the photo, this is no ordinary mortar and pestle.

It's heavy, too, something I did not consider. I only looked at its aesthetics.

My husband jokes that it provided traction during the month it spent in the trunk of his car.

I swear it's a lethal weapon.

Looking Ahead and Behind

2010-12-31T20:20:00.000-06:00

I am always happy to see the year end, because I like new beginnings and I make New Year's Resolutions and generally keep them.

I am especially happy to see this one slip out the door (before I kick it out) and to get on with 2011. This year I have seen health and sickness in my family, triumph and tragedy in my community. I have weathered a few personal challenges, which have given my strength and wisdom. I have, sadly, not had much time to experiment in the kitchen.

To celebrate our 21st wedding anniversary, my husband and I slipped away to The Four Seasons Resort on Miscauno Island in Pembine, Wis., where my father began his career in the restaurant/resort business a few years after World War II. It's a 105-year-old establishment with a storied past that allegedly includes Al Capone. History is palpable in the resort, which includes two bars and a dining room, sweeping porches, a nine-hold golf course and much much more. The newer hotel, which is connected, is all suites, and my favorites offer whirlpool tubs. I feel at home here, in part because the new managers have been very hospitable, and in other part because the staff and guests here - back when it was a private club - gave me a start in life with a baby shower. My mother still has some of the gifts they gave me, saved for me.

For two days my husband and I had wonderful food, whirlpool baths, a powerful shower, a fireplace and for me, a day in the house spa. It was a wonderful way to end more than two decades of what has been a good marriage and begin a 22nd year together, which, because of my husband's brush with cancer in 2010, is more cherished than ever.

I am shamelessly putting in a plug for the Four Seasons, because it holds special memories for me, and for my parents. My little world up here on the Wisconsin-Michigan border holds many hidden gems and secrets. Everyday I experience and appreciate something new. I am blessed to be here, and congratulate myself for returning to it 17 years ago.

I wish you happiness and good health in 2011.

A Light in the Darkness

2010-12-23T18:59:00.002-06:00

Placing tea lights in my trio of Kosta Boda Snow Ball candles is a Christmas Eve tradition. It is these small rituals that help ground us. May the traditions in your life bring you joy during this season of darkness and illumination.

A Simple Winter Salad

2010-12-13T18:47:00.000-06:00

When I was single and living in a tiny studio apartment, on the day or night of the first snowfall I would slip a certain cassette into my boom box and revel in Bach's Brandenberg Concertos, perched on the arm of my sofa, looking out at the big old houses, apartment buildings and glass-windowed office buildings that lined the street and turned the corner toward the busy square, watching the snow swirl around in the wintry air.

As I sipped Irish coffee and nibbled on a raspberry-filled chocolate, I would imagine myself in some unnamed European city of the past where the sights and sounds and situations were more gracious than those of my contemporary world of student loans, lurching buses and an especially annoying boss named John.

My circumstances have changed and I rarely enjoy such contemplative moments now. I have replaced my solitary rituals with new ones that involve simple meals cooked for my husband and simple things we do together.

Wisconsin was hit with an frigid blast of snow from the north over the weekend. The winds howled high in the trees and when I stepped out on the side porch at 4 p.m. on Saturday, the air was clean smelling and the gray sky was slowly turning blue.

Late Sunday the sun made a valiant effort to slip through the cloud cover, infusing our newly white world with a pale golden tint. These are the moments I treasure most: Small gifts from the natural world.

It was our reward for clearing and shoveling and plowing. So was our dinner!

Lately my husband has been making a sort of Belgian pot roast using a rich, dark oatmeal stout, not unlike the one TerryB made to fend off the wintry chill that hit Chicago as well as Northeast Wisconsin. I have searched for a salad counterpoint, first trying cole slaw with a dash of green pepper, then remembering this simple salad, a version of which we first tasted at a chef's sampling dinner a few years ago.

Very simple! Slice an apple, preferably Granny Smith (or Red Delicious in winter), sprinkle with blue cheese and roasted walnuts. I added dried pomegranate and a simple off-the-shelf gluten-free dressing. (The chef whose fare we sampled made a dressing from cider vinegar with a dash of mustard, as I recall.)

This simple winter salad adds a touch of tangy, earthy elegance to the hearty, rustic meals we prefer in winter. I'd serve it with pork chops and chicken Normandy, too.

Next time I'll use cranberries instead of pomegranates. And I'll go back to Granny Smith, because of the tart contrast to the earthy cheese.

We are moving toward the darkest and longest days of the year. This salad feels right on the palate.

Chocolate Thoughts and Chocolate Times

2010-11-28T18:21:00.001-06:00

When I was much much younger, I imagined having a life that allowed me to linger in cafes over pots of chocolate.

The afternoons - as I imagined them - were dark and gray, but I would be protected from the elements inside a toasty little niche, reading a slender book of poetry and waiting - waiting for what? My tender imagination stopped there. I only knew that chocolate and dark days and romance belonged together.

My memorable moments in college often involved chocolate: The Thanksgiving afternoon I spent alone with Colette and a hastily-made chocolate souffle, the Christmas Eve a box of chocolate was delivered to my mother's house from a friend in Switzerland, the winter afternoon a friend and I shared a chocolate torte at the Ovens of Brittany on Monroe Street in Madison, the chocolate bars gobbled down between classes in place of real meals.

Sometimes I think it has been the idea of chocolate that matters as much as the smooth, dark taste of it. As I once sought a life of romance, so I now seek chocolate at certain moments. The fruit desserts I make at least 10 times a year - apple crisp or a blueberry pudding or a pear tart - will not do. Chocolate and only chocolate brightens a dark day.

For a time my little town had its own chocolate shop. A pair of artists opened a chocolaterie in a tiny building in the old downtown across the river. It thrived that winter, and then suddenly it was gone the next year. Now you can buy serviceable chocolate bars in supermarkets and drugstores from famous makers. It's not the same, though, is it?

Tell me your chocolate stories. The days are dark now, and short. It's chocolate time.

The Season of Gratitude

2010-11-21T15:24:00.001-06:00

If I leave the office on time, it is dusk when I arrive home. If I linger a few moments over an e-mail or take the time to tidy up my desk, it is the beautiful blue hour, l'heure bleu, which of course reminds me of Paris. I am grateful for this fleeting moment as the November night closes in.

This gray-and-gold month is a time suspended between the glories of autumn and the harsh winter, a prelude to a season of high expectations. But it brings with it - for many of us - a four-day weekend. Reason to be thankful indeed.

As I walk up my little hill I pass an old rose bush that offers this time of year the most glorious rose hips. This small magic welcomes me home.

I still have a pumpkin on the little red garden bench on my porch. I am happy this year to see that many porches still hold pumpkins. A small thing, but it prolongs the beauty and bounty of October and for that I am grateful, too.

I am thankful today that despite the gloom and damp of a Sunday afternoon, my husband's slow simmering pot roast is filling the house with the most delicious aroma.

And of course, the Badgers and Packers won and that, too, is cause for thanks.

May you have plenty of reasons large and small to be thankful this season.

Comfort Food, Comforting Places

2010-11-07T20:25:00.000-06:00

Along with concerns over the health of family members during the past 12 months, came some disturbing personal challenges.

No, I did not overcome an addiction (Do they even have 12-step program for Internet surfers?). Nor did I get myself arrested, lose something of value (a job or a friend or a loved one). No, nothing like that. Let's just say I ran across more than my share of people with issues who challenged me and created obstacles and unpleasant situations.

In other words, life was normal.

I found myself craving the little things that comfort me: Scented candles, naps on our cloud-soft sofa, mashed potatoes, rice, walks, books set in quiet villages and soft music. I've been spending a good deal of time on islands, at resorts, and at health-food stores.

Late Friday morning, I drove to Door County, Wisconsin's answer to Cape Cod and the coast of Maine. This time of year, the leaves are mostly on the ground - save for some stubborn oaks - and the lovely bones of this island-cum-peninsula are obvious. On a sunny way, this glorious spit of land jutting into Lake Michigan and Green Bay, these orchards, farms, fields, beaches and villages are awash with an amber glow. On such days, the sky is azure and the berry-yielding trees and bushes are crimson. Driving up hills and down lanes, one sees charms not evident in high summer or peak color season.

I spent no time in the kitchen this weekend, but instead took a few photos of the land and water I wanted to share with you.

Ancient Halloweens, Long Gone

2010-10-30T19:53:00.000-05:00

I am one of those adults who never outgrew Halloween.

No, I do not put orange lights on the shrubs in front of my house, nor do I decorate a Halloween tree. But I do enjoy the other rituals of autumn, such as hanging Indian corn from my doors and carving a pumpkin.

For several years running, I played a witch at a local historical museum's haunted house. I donned my black witch cape and peaked hat and leaned on a walking stick made for me by an acquaintance. The stick has an especially witchlike bent, said Ed, as he handed it to me.

Last year, both my husband and I had the flu, so we battened down the hatches and turned off the lights on Halloween night. There were moans, but they were our own and they were caused by aches and pains, no apparitions of unexplained noises.

Like most people, I have experienced a few unexplained things in my life time, but I'm not a huge believer in paranormal occurrences. I do, however, enjoy a good suspense novel, or spooky story. My father saw to that, what with his delight in late Friday-night movies and ghost stories.

But there have been little moments in my life that I like to remember come the end of October:

Walking home from classes at twilight and seeing lighted jack-o-lanterns in peoples' windows.
Driving down a country road on my way back to Madison one night - detoured by road work - passing a field of pumpkins and catching a bewitching whiff of the aroma.
Trying - with five other people - to hold a seance my freshman year of college.
Attending the famous State Street Halloween - now known as Freakfest - in Madison, Wis.
Encountering a self-described witch one night on - where else? - Broome Street.
Upon locking my front door one Friday night, finding a huge pumpkin under one of my ancient maple trees.

These are the magical little things that add enchantment to the dying year. Another is the aroma of pumpkin or squash baking in my oven on a dark night. That's how I chase demons away.

The Scene from the Kitchen Window

2010-10-23T20:27:00.002-05:00

After a spate of golden days with that lightness in the air that only comes in fall, our weekend has begun, cold and dreary. No matter: For the past three weeks, we have awakened to the sound of gunshots from the marshland to the west and fallen asleep to the honking of geese along the river to the north.

It is time to turn away from the glories of Indian Summer to the gray and gold days that make up November.

Since Labor Day, we have eaten our share of caramel apples, sharing them after the hearty dishes we prefer in the fall. There are pumpkins on the red bench near the side door, and a display of fall flowers and gourds in the garden. I look out at the horse barn and see a riot of color.

Every season brings its small moments of delight: Mine came on a quick trip to a resort, when the managers treated me to a sunset pontoon boat ride up and down a meandering river. The islands were reflected in clear water, looking as though they were suspended in liquid and air.

Then there were the simple, seasonal delights that have sustained me for more autumns than I care to reveal online.

I have driven down country roads on sunny days, past fields of haystacks and farmyard pumpkin stands. I have left work to the chatter of starlings in the ancient oak and maple trees in the park behind my office. I have returned home at dusk, walking up my little hill and breathing in the aroma of woodsmoke from my neighbor's fire.

My home has been a silent witness to 115 autumns now, and if I close my eyes and I can imagine the sounds and aromas of all the years that have passed: The clip clop of horses' hooves, the tinny horns of Model Ts, the rattle of souped up jalopies. The wine-rich smell of dying leaves, the crisp nose-tickling feeling on fall mornings as the season wanes - all these are a satisfying part and parcel of this lavish season.

The sun is angled now, and it washes the old buildings in our town with a coppery light. I love this time of year and hope that my work load lightens up so I can spend some time in the kitchen.

Bacon-Wrapped Baked Pears with Chevre and Walnuts for Two

2010-10-21T18:20:00.001-05:00

When my husband and I moved back to our home town 17 years ago, we found it difficult to dine out in the manner to which we had become accustomed living in larger cities.

Everything was fried! There were two restaurants in the traditional supper club style, both along the shore, and these we patronized. We'd sit at the bar sipping cocktails before dinner, and generally order steak or seafood. At one point, the restaurants switched owners, which turned out to be rather fun. The smaller of the two was purchased several times over, and finally closed about eight years ago.

In the interim, a casual French restaurant opened in an old mansion, followed by a French bistro, and a cafe near the harbor that served healthy fare. A supper club in a neighboring town modified its menu, and another shoreside family place became a bit more inventive with its fare. In the boom of the late 90s, several Chinese restaurants opened. More recently, we gained a genuine Mexican restaurant.

Today our community now has two "taste of" events, one in winter and one in spring. The choices are so broad that someone with a mild wheat allergy like me can eat quite well at these fundraisers.

The most recent entree to our eclectic assortment of restaurants is an Italian place downtown. We made reservations for my husband's birthday recently and ordered as an appetizer bacon wrapper pears stuffed with goat cheese. Wow!

Here is my version:

One Asian pear
Dash lemon juice
Tablespoon butter
Two tablespoons chevre
One tablespoon cream cheese
Two slices bacon, cooked
1/8 cup chopped walnuts, roasted
1/2 teaspoon brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon fleur de sel

Slice the pear down the middle to create two halves. Scoop out the inside to create a place for the cheese mixture. Drizzle with melted butter and lemon juice and stuff with cheese. Bake for about 20-30 minutes in 325 oven (check frequently; pear must be soft, not mushy).

Prepare the bacon as you usually do. I bake mine in the oven, but you could certainly prepare it in a frying pan. You may want to drain it on a paper towel.

Wrap the pear in bacon and sprinkle with roasted walnuts. Add a quick dash of fleur de sel and a larger dash of brown sugar.

It's great to have choices again. I still miss the days when it was possible to stumble upon a small eatery in an out-of-the way place. Quirky places are really my favorites.

Colors and Rituals, Parks and Seasons

2010-09-25T20:53:00.000-05:00

When my husband came home from the hospital, the day was cool with the first touches of autumn in the air. We sat for a while in our little snuggery, listening to the crickets outside the window. We have these little rituals, these quiet little ways of marking time and events.

That night we had our first caramel apples of the season. Each year, like Christmas decorations, they show up earlier in the grocery stores. We don't mind. Since then, we've probably consumed a dozen. I like mine in small doses, with some nuts or a sliver of cheddar as a counterpoint.

I've made my first apple crisp, and we've purchased apple cider from the farm stand. The smaller growers who sell at the farm market have had a tough season, but the larger farmers - the big three families with German names - offer everything imaginable.

I shop at both venues. My CSA box has been skimpy this year - lots of potatoes and greens but little else. Still my husband and I talked it over and decided we'd continue with the program next year. Lovely Lucy, the grower who started our CSA and by force of will, created a small farm market where there was none, deserves our support. She is strictly organic, tending to the same small farm she grew up on. She is married to D., one of the boys from my childhood "hood." It feels good to support her efforts.

Lucy shared with me some plans for an open market structure. She would like to see it in the park along the water, but probably faces an uphill struggle since the city demanded a fee for using the park this year, as I noted in an earlier post. I'll do what I can to be supportive; the park was a visible spot while the parking lot being used this year is off the beaten path, and sales are down, say the vendors.

Meanwhile, don't you love the colors in this photo, taken in Cahors in 2008?

Don't Move the Farm Market!

2010-06-30T17:08:00.001-05:00

When I returned to this lovely little corner of the Upper Midwest, there was only one local farm market, and it was held in a parking lot along the river. Ducks splashed nearby and geese honked overhead. It was a quiet corner near a busy intersection and if it was not as vibrant as the markets of Europe or the larger college towns that I love so much, it was still a nice little market with a strong sense of place.

Then the mayor had this not-so-bright idea to move it an empty lot off the beaten path. It bombed. A few years later, it moved again, this time to a designated spot with a silly, narrow "marketplace" which was really just a metal awning on posts. In time, the market grew again, but then one year the health department swooped in and closed the stall with the jams and the one with the pickles, and then one by one the growers died or retired or stopped coming to town.

About that time another market started up in another part of town along the bay and over a three-year period, that market grew until it became a small but vibrant venue for local growers, crafters and our small CSA effort.

But it was in a city park and this year, the city decided to charge anyone who wants to use the park for anything, more or less.

A generous businessman whose antique mall provided space for a winter farm market, offered an outdoor site for summer, but a behemoth of a building blocks the summer breeze off the bay.

I still go, of course, and I appreciate the alternate location. What if we had a market and there was no place to put it?

But I find I am cranky about this, and I find the change is hard to adjust too. I go, I chat with the vendors and I enjoy exploring the contents of my CSA box, but I want the bay back.

Maybe I am getting too old for changes like this.

Red Snapper with Citrus Sauce: Grill, Baby, Grill

2010-05-29T21:17:00.002-05:00

Spring in Wisconsin began in March this year, and the lilacs and flowering crab have already come and gone. The bridal wreath, which usually graces our lawn and the park across the street on the anniversary of D-Day, is falling petal by petal like so many white crosses on the green meadows of Normandy.

We bravely and confidently put our flowers and herbs out in early May and fired up the Weber grill weeks ago.

It took years, but I have come to understand the mystique of the grill (how do men figure this out first?). It's fire, primordial and even magical, a whiff of pungent aroma from applewood chips tossed on the coals.

It took three trips to the fish market this morning to buy red snapper. My husband tried on his 7 a.m. bagel run and I tried again at 8:45 a.m. on my way to the first outdoor farm market of the season.

"The truck isn't here yet," said the bespectacled woman behind the counter (who really knows her customer service). "But I'm getting red snapper."

Finally at 10:30 I nabbed a pound of it, just enough for two.

Late in the afternoon, with a crispy and mineral-y bottle of Alsatian Riesling well underway, I washed and dried the fish and rubbed it with Cyprus salt flakes and pepper. While my husband prepped the grill, I baked potatoes, roasted red peppers, and prepared the sauce: One tablespoon honey mustard, three tablespoons of honey, three tablespoons lemon juice, one tablespoon lime juice and two chopped-up slices each of lime and tangerine. I tasted the sauce adding a bit more of this and a bit more of that.

I carmelised a small, sweet onion in a dash of olive oil and tossed in the sauce, reducing it and then glazing the grilled fish before serving. The recipe was inspired by this one.

Tender. Sweet. Even a little nutty. And tangy from the sauce. We'll do it again, unless red snapper becomes a casualty of this heinous tragedy in the gulf.

Because of our warm spring, my CSA box was full today, with lettuce, kale, radishes, rhubarb and all manner of herbs. I bought organic eggs, too, but passed on the whitefish. Maybe next time.

Simple Easy Meals; Nostalgia for Simple, Easy Times

2010-04-27T19:41:00.000-05:00

I know. I know. I said I was going to find more time to cook.

I have been puttering in the kitchen a bit, but what I've been preparing is fast and mundane and not blog-worthy: Broccoli-cauliflower salads, tossed salads with whatever is on hand, roasted chicken with rice.

I sneaked home for lunch the other day and tossed some lettuce in a bowl, along with some thin slices of red onion, a doze grapes and a few mandarin orange segments.

Simple. Good. But maybe not blog worthy.

I have been spending a lot of time online, dreaming. Not only have I been yearning for travel, but I've been looking back to other times, simpler times. It seems to me that there are many, many signs that we are headed in the wrong direction on many levels. Way to much hatred and bitterness than is healthy for a country.

I've come to the conclusion that growing when I did was a good thing. From the comments I've read online, it seems a lot of us feel that way.

The photo was taken at the Village St. Paul in Paris. It was taken in spring and it looks springy.

My Kitchen Rituals: Freshly Grated Anything

2010-04-05T16:44:00.001-05:00

I am a pushover for freshly snipped herbs and freshly grated cheese or onion or nutmeg on whatever I am preparing.

There is a luxury to such things. And they are simple indulgences.

I was shopping in Cahors at a wonderful domicile shop called Choses et Autres, located at 77 Boulevard Leon Gambetta where I found this darling little dish-cum-grater called a rapé tout.

It does indeed grate just about everything, from onion to cheese to carrots.

When I use it, my kitchen is transported to the sunny southwest of France.

And that's a real luxury.

Joyeuses Pâques

2010-04-04T07:16:00.000-05:00

Peace to you in this season of renewal and light.

The Color of Saffron: Chicken-and-Apricot Tagine

2010-04-03T17:22:00.000-05:00

I realize I am fortunate to have the life I have: a sound marriage, a Victorian house on a hill, a garden, a challenging job, a still-healthy mother who is 86, good friends and fond memories. Especially in rocky times such as these.

But for the purposes of this blog, I sometimes wish my life were a bit less pedestrian. What if I lived in Morocco? Wintered in Antibes? Summered in the Hebrides? What if the food I prepared in my little kitchen were inspired by something other than the thought "I think it might be fun to make a tagine today."

Two weeks ago, I had that thought. You can prepare a tagine in many vessels. But I wanted a real one. I imagined my kitchen redolent with the spices of Northern Africa while meat and vegetables or dried fruit simmered in a clay pot with a tee-pee-like cover.

And so today that was how it was.

Usually around Easter my appetite demands spicier foods. This tagine recipe calls for turmeric and cinnamon and paprika, with saffron for a shot of brilliant color.

Saffron was not something I grew up with: Instead, I discovered it in a rice mix from a short-lived gourmet store in my hometown when I was in college (the first time, before my "gap" years). Only when I brought the mix home did my father tell me he always kept saffron on hand, but used it sparingly.

Saffron, derived from the crocus, seems like the perfect spice for spring. It supposedly has great medicinal properties, is thought to be cancer suppressing, and - they say - can be an antidepressant.

It is grown in the Mediterranean, including in parts of the Quercy, in the southwest of France, and I have seen it for sale there, and in the markets.

My tagine, which I slow cooked in my clay vessel, was passable for a first attempt. The chicken was tender, but not as moist as I expected, while the apricots melted in my mouth. I agree with some of the reviewers that the spices and garlic should be stepped up. I did not use cilantro this round, but I will try it again.

Spring Night in Paris

2010-04-02T18:20:00.002-05:00

Renting an apartment at the foot of the Eiffel Tower - or just about anywhere near a famous attraction in Paris - puts a carnival outside your window.

You can join in the revelry or simply watch the passing parade from your balcony.

On this particular spring night, we were jet lagged and chose the latter approach to savoring Paris at night.

We nibbled on crudités and sipped wine from Provence keeping the windows open to allow the street sound to waft up to our postage-stamp-sized living room.

For me - and I am glad my husband agrees - part of travel is not always being on the go but actually slowing down a bit.

Slow travel? Very slow travel.

I love the color contrasts and the angle of this photo.

Paris, May 2007

La Belle Bloggers

2010-03-31T19:34:00.000-05:00

Dear Christine at Christine Cooks tagged me for a Beautiful Blogger Award. I am flattered to be among the others she tagged. Wow. Good company, many of them among the first people I met in the food blogosphere in 2006.

Christine was the first person to tag me online and I felt I had arrived as a blogger. Thanks, Christine!

I must reveal 7 things about myself and then tag some other deserving bloggers.

Here are the seven things you probably have not guessed:

I was once a political and legal reporter for a daily newspaper. Then I switched to food writing. Big difference. Much more fun.

I am now the CEO of a regional organization. I enjoy my job, but it means many 12-hour work days. And no time for cooking.

I am terribly shy, but I enjoy public speaking.

I once spent a day with a member of the president's cabinet, fishing on a river.

I have been inside a famous Congressman's bedroom but not for any unseemly reason.

I once interviewed a famous senator in a dark alley. I mean really dark. And scary.

I would like to own a Yorkie named Gaston.

Enough about me.

Here's the really hard part: I have met so many delightful bloggers. How to keep the list manageable?

Here's my list:

Mary from Breadchick

Toni from Daily Bread Journal

Julie at Noshtalgia

Andrea at Under a Blue Moon

Cyn at Farm Girl Cyn

Joy at Savvy City Farmer

You all feel like old friends by now, and I mean that in a good way. I know I have been missing in action a lot lately, but if I can ever explain the reason here, you will understand.

The photograph was taken five years ago in France.

Two Seasons at Chez Bateaux

2010-03-30T07:58:00.003-05:00

I've been thinking of Chez Bateaux lately. That is not its real name, of course, but it is close enough. Our introduction came five years ago in the spring, early on a Friday afternoon. We'd taken the train from Paris, and were met at the gare in Cahors. Our driver took us up a steep gorge and then down into a valley of vineyards. The leaves on the trees were tender green. The trunks were covered with moss and lichen.

Our first two days at Chez Bateaux were water-colored and springlike, but the rest of the week was balmy, almost hot but never humid. Equidistant from the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, the air at Chez Bateaux was perfumed with sea breeze and juniper. We lived simply, making a trip to town in the morning and lolling by the by the pool in the afternoon. The breeze moaned low on the hillside and the calls of roosters and cuckoos rang out across the valley. Workers toiled in the vineyards, staking the vines.

We were charmed by the ancient villa, which turned its back on the nondescript little village - so unlike most French villages - to face the vineyards. The sense of holiday and whimsy inside the villa enchanted me. Yellow pottery, striped linens, the colors of the Midi, everywhere. The cozy country smell of a house that is closed up for part of the year. The owl that sang for us at dusk as we closed the shutters on the damp spring night.

For three years I dreamed of Chez Bateaux. We spent two weeks in Paris on a subsequent trip, but never left. Every time our walks or bus rides took us near Gare Austerlitz, I looked at it longingly. Oh, to be on a train headed south!

Finally we returned, this time as summer slowly slipped into fall. This time we arrived mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Chez Bateaux was drenched in golden sunlight, not the watery pastels of spring, but the robust amber of harvest time. We explored the house, touching familiar doors and counters. "This is different; no that has not changed," we said, deeply satisfied with our surroundings.

This time we spent two weeks there, watching the slow subtle change of season. The mornings were chilly but burnished with lambent light; the nights were still and black. Chez Bateaux was still charming, but familiar now, like an old friend bearing gifts from distant and exotic sources.

Before I left I hid something of mine on the property; a broken silver chain tucked into a niche. Some day perhaps it will be found. Meanwhile, a piece of me is always there.

It is doubtful we will return. It's time to explore other parts of France. I still want to visit Menton; the sight of the campanile of the Basilica of St. Michael never fails to draw me in.

Chez Bateaux for me exists in my memory.

Gluten-Free Eating on a Busy Schedule

2010-03-28T09:42:00.001-05:00

My weekdays are filled with business lunches and events and while I rather enjoy being on the go, it is extremely difficult to eat food that does not contain gluten. There are a couple of young chefs who seem to understand the challenge, and this is the lunch one of them prepared for me a few days ago when I met Holly and Andy for lunch at a local inn.

The inn was a private home built by a department store owner in 1910, and was converted to a bed-and-breakfast inn with a restaurant about 20 years ago. My neighbors owned it then, and built up a solid reputation for period elegance.

The inn changed hands a few times until it was purchased six years ago by a stylish couple who enjoy travel and cuisine. Today the sunny back room restaurant sports the colors of deep Provence. I can enjoy lunch looking over the back yard, where my mother picked lilies of the valley for her wedding bouquet.

Because this is my neighborhood restaurant, it is an easy place to turn to on a night when neither my husband nor I feel like cooking.

My community is blessed with many wonderful places to eat, from classic hamburger joints to fine dining experiences.

Another young chef is set to open an Italian restaurant later this year. When that opening takes place, I will report back. He has promised gluten-free pasta!

Join me on Facebook!

2010-03-22T19:51:00.003-05:00

I have finally succumbed to Facebook.

Last spring I started tweeting, which was sort of like writing haiku. I liked the challenge of fitting my thoughts into 140 characters.

Now I am on Facebook, looking for friends. You can find me as French Kitchen Mimi. I haven't mastered the art of creating a Facebook page yet, but I have become a fan of two of the bloggers listed to the left. Please send me an invitation. I will happily be your friend or fan. Whatever.

Find me on Facebook as French Kitchen Mimi. Read my tweets at http://twitter.com/MimifromFKIA.

Or just stay here and read me unabridged.

Pistachio Bread and a Recipe to Savor

2010-03-17T08:06:00.001-05:00

Because yesterday was a 12-hour day, I had neither the energy not the emotional wherewithal to prepare supper last night. I simply grabbed what was available: a hunk of cheese and another hunk of gluten-free Irish soda bread from the Silly Yak in Madison, Wis.

On St. Patrick's Day, I try to find small ways to mark the Irish side of my ancestry, but the bread above is actually French; that is, the photo is from a street market in Cahors. Doesn't it look delectable?

Want a recipe that's Irish and healthy? Check out the colcannon at http://christinecooks.blogspot.com/2010/03/cauliflower-turnips-leeks-garlic-savoy.html. I can highly recommend the Irish soda bread at http://www.freshglutenfree.net/.

I am often inspired by Christine, and it was her redesign of her own blog that prompted me to get moving on this one.

Basil and Tomato Salad with Mozzarella Pearls

2010-03-15T21:42:00.000-05:00

It was nearly 60 degrees and sunny here in Northern Wisconsin today. This is a rarity, but no one is complaining. Many the years we've spent the Ides of March snowbound.

As I was filling the bird feeders outside my kitchen window, I noticed that my daylilies are coming up about 10 days earlier than usual. This seems to signal a long growing season. I sent my CSA check in today, so I am looking forward to a bountiful summer.

Lately I've seen birds flying to and fro with twigs in their beeks so I know it is nest-building time. I tacked a ball of cotton scraps on a post and hammered a wreath of feathers, straw, lint and little sticks on the old horse barn. The birds get the royal treatments in our yard.

The birds were singing this morning. I went to the bank on my lunch hour without a coat. I bought a darling little rain gauge at the feed store. I left work 20 minutes early.

It won't be long now until I'll be stocking up on herb and tomato plants for the container garden on my deck. I've been growing herbs since I was a teenager, when I stumbled upon a small basket of herb seed packets at a tiny out-of-the-way secondhand book and gift shop tucked behind another building on Billington Street idowntown. I knew then that I could not live happily without growing things. That summer I grew dill and anise and chives in my parents back yard. It was pure pleasure to catch a a whiff of the herby fragrance on breezy afternoons.

I was thinking herbs when I finally hit the kitchen tonight to make supper. A few days ago, I found these lovely little pearls of mozzarella and the Italian Market and then I rounded up these sweet little grape tomatoes. All I needed was a little fresh basil, which I did not have (the photo is from a few summers ago) so I used dried basil flakes with a dash of Penzeys California Pepper Blend.

So here's my version of Tomato-Mozzarella Salad with Basil:

1 bubble pack of mozzarella pearls
1 small can sliced black olives
1 cup grape tomatoes, halved
1 tablespoon red onions, chopped
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
dash fleur de sel
dash Penzeys California Pepper Blend
dried or fresh basil to taste

Toss ingredients and allow to sit for two hours before eating. Garnish with Asiago cheese and pine nuts.

To see Kalyn's take on this dish, click here: http://kalynskitchen.blogspot.com/2009/06/kalyns-kitchen-picks-bel-gioioso-fresh.html. To check out Penzeys, click here: http://www.penzeys.com/

To read more about basil, try this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basil.

Pass 500 Posts, Get New Template

2010-03-14T17:26:00.003-05:00

The last time I posted something, I noted that I had passed the 500-post mark. Do I really have that much to say? Apparently.

It was time for a new template. In my spare time this weekend, I have scoured the Internet for ideas and backgrounds, only to find today that Blogger actually has a new advanced template design system. So after much trial and error, I have found a look I can live with for another 3.5 years.

I started blogging when food blogs were hot and growing. But a year later, I took a new job that limited my time in the kitchen. Now, nearly three years into that job, it's time to start cooking again.

Just under a year ago, I learned what I had suspected off and on for several years: I have a wheat allergy. It was not difficult to eliminate most sources of wheat from my diet, but then I have not traveled to France in over a year, and I suspect it will be a true challenge on our next visit. Luckily - or unluckily - the earliest that visit is likely to occur is next fall, as my husband may be facing surgery later in the year. We'll see.

(The older I get, the more patient I become. Which is odd, because I have less time left to me.)

So I continue to eat low on the food chain, and follow a mix of the South Beach and Mediterranean diets. I have not had a major stomach flare up in a while, and I have more energy (except when I lose an hour of sleep because of springing forward.)

Tomorrow I will write out my check for this year's CSA bounty. Because it's been a mild couple of weeks here in Wisconsin, I can now walk outdoors daily.

I love spring. I've been eating a lot of seafood lately and many salads.

And the kitchen beckons. Life is good.

A Good Book on a Sunny Sunday

2010-03-07T14:33:00.004-06:00

Recovering from my third cold in a year, I am thinking that perhaps there is a message amidst the gravelly voice and sneezes: Slow down.

I have little control of my Monday-Friday life, but weekends are mine. On this weekend, I rested and read, fully engaged in a coming-of-age novel set in Ireland and England. The Irish can tell a story.

Some books are so good - but sadly, only a small "some" - that they command you to set everything else aside for a weekend. You delve into them with such fervor and also with a sense of calm, too, for they "gentle" you and draw you into another place. You feel quite happy to be curled up with them, while the laundry waits and the dishes remain undone.

Having written for a living (though perhaps not well, I have had flashes of what I thought might be brilliance), I am picky in my reading material. It is a rare book that gives me a feeling of contentment.

When I find such a book, I am simply happy to read. Those times are rare, and therefore, memorable.

When I was in college, I house sat and cat sat for a professor in a charming little 1920s-era neighborhood not far from campus. One Easter Sunday when the professor was away for a conference, I started such an engrossing book in the morning, and read most of the day, pausing only for a late afternoon bus trip to the campus Catholic center for Mass. The sense of well-being stayed with me all day, and was as much a result of a good book as it was to the service, held at sunset with lambent light firing the sanctuary.

We celebrate food, we celebrate the seasons and nature and the goodness of friends and neighbors. Why not celebrate a good story well told?

The photo was taken along the shore near the east end of town. It has been mild and sunny here, and only the ice, a remnant of our freeze-and-thaw winter, is left.

Is this relief or merely false spring?

Winter's Last Grasp?

2010-02-26T19:32:00.004-06:00

"This better be winter's last gasp," said my husband as we unloaded the minivan and hauled groceries up the hill, wind howling through our grove of cedar trees.

Actually, we've had a pretty fits-and-starts kind of winter. Lots of snow in December, a cold snap and thaw in January, and a pretty mild February. It could be worse, and it may well get worse. We've had nasty snow storms as late as April 8, and one year, we had snow on May 9. It was gone the next day. But still.

It's been an especially vexing week for me, with lots of late nights. I've spent time with people I like, and tangled with people I don't like and for good reason. How long does it take an adult to move on from a disappointment and not carry a grudge, hell bent on hurting or even destroying someone else? Sometimes I swear the world is full of sociopaths.

But I have the warmth of an old house on a hill, and a loving and supportive spouse. I have good friends. I have my books and my music. I have the birds in my backyard.

Lately I've been re-reading all the Mary Stewart favorites of my youth: Tightly woven tales of suspense written in an era where heroines were ladies and there was no gratuitous sex. Call me old fashioned. But I think the best way to spend a winter weekend is reading an old favorite.

What's your old favorite book?

Lenten Fare is My Favorite

2010-02-21T19:51:00.005-06:00

Growing up in the Craftsman bungalow on Main Street, I fell in love with shrimp and seafood in general. Cooked shrimp in a cold salad with eggs and peas, or French-fried shrimp at area supper clubs when my father took a busman's holiday to see what the competition was doing. We kids went along, and I always ordered shrimp.

It was a Friday night dish in Lent. At Friday noon, my brother Rob and I would walk the four short blocks home from Holy Savior School for fish sticks and french fries, or salmon and mashed potatoes, almost always served with peas, but sometimes creamed corn. Then we'd bundle up again and head back to school, walking atop the snow banks on Main Street.

If we were lucky, my parents would have a hankering for shrimp or lobster or even clam chowder on Friday night. The sea food festival in our kitchen made Lent worthwhile. Giving up candy was no problem.

The period from Valentine's Day to Easter is one I remember well. Even as a child, I detected a subtle change in the light outside after mid-February, and I felt the waning of winter. On mild Saturdays I'd head downtown to the public library and the melting snow would run across the sidewalk in dark little rivulets. Downtown was about a mile from our neighborhood, and by the time I got home late in the afternoon, loaded down with books, it was chilly again and I was happy to come into the warmth. Saturday night dinners were often baked beans or grilled cheese sandwiches, and evenings were spent in my room, curled up with my treasure trove of new books.

I often yearn for those simple meals and those simpler days, especially when life gets harried and stressful. I've never been a big meat eater, and simple, slightly offbeat meals have become my specialty.

Color in the Dead of Winter

2010-02-16T23:19:00.002-06:00

I understand the whole concept of Seasonal Affective Disorder. I don't much like dark days, except in early November when they are kind of a novelty after several seasons of brilliance.

But in mid-February, the is a subtle shift in the angle of the sun that is akin to the amber light of late autumn. It is at this time when I seek color.

I recently bought two coats at late-season prices. One is a pumpkin colored long coat, the other a spice-colored short coat. I keep flowers at my desk, and today was pleasantly surprised when a friend sent me cream roses with pink edges in a pink fluted bowl.

Tonight I went to a business event and marveled at the beauty of the display pictured above of nearly every fruit and vegetable available in the midwest.

How can anyone be unhappy when we live in a world of such beauty?

One of the Most Beautiful Villages in France

2010-02-07T12:56:00.002-06:00

Late summer in La Roque-Gageac. Deep winter where I live. Nuff said.

P.S. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Random Black and White Photos of Paris

2010-01-31T19:59:00.002-06:00

The top photo is a garden behind Musee Carnavalet. The middle photo is (I think) somewhere in the Latin Quarter while the bottom photo is my husband shooting the Opera Garnier. Can you tell what I am thinking of today?

Shutting out the Night

2010-01-16T22:04:00.011-06:00

Blissfully we are having a mild spell in Wisconsin. Still the blinds in our south- and east-facing windows are opened early in the day to welcome the warmth of the sun.

We close them again around 5 p.m. as the sky begins to darken, shutting out the winter night as best we can up here where Canada is just a few hours away.

Drawing the blinds against the darkness is nothing like the ritual of closing the shutters at dusk in rural France. There we shut out the silence as well as the darkness, as I have found there is nothing as still as evening deep in the French countryside, especially as the year wanes. In spring, we were serenaded by an owl each night, but we found fall to be quiet.

Now as night draws in, we draw in as well, dimming the lights that go at twilight, and hunkering down in the snuggery in the center of the house. Behind us, there is one small light on in the kitchen, where supper is silently cooking.

This weekend I made this recipe, using Forelle Pears, which offer a crisp texture that holds up through cooking. Forelles are lovely to look at, and just as lovely to eat: sweet and strong with no hint of that metallic taste that turned me off pears as a child.

Although Forelle pears sound French, they are actually German, and their name means "trout" in German. It seemed right to pair (pun intended) this dish with a late-harvest Riesling.

How Can You Be Homesick for a Foreign Country?

2010-01-10T21:27:00.007-06:00

Saturday was a magical day here, cold but full of small gifts. Sunshine and blue sky, the purchase of herbs at a winter farm market, a downy woodpecker in my cedar tree, a trio of pottery pieces at bargain prices at the antique shop, and a surprise gift in the mail.

Sunday was a day of dull gray sky and dissatisfaction. I found myself turning to photos of sunshine and southern France in my iPhoto files. I felt almost a physical craving to be there. Can you become homesick for a foreign country?

The photo above was taken on a sunny day in Caillac, on the north bank of the meandering Lot River. Isn't that a tidy looking building? Apparently is is a clinic for people with drinking problems.

I have long loved the sight of sun warming old red bricks. So of course I loved the sight of sun on terra cotta tiles along the road to Caillac. I would like to be those tiles, caressed by sun of the Midi-Pyrenees. It's not only cold here, but it just started to snow.

I recall being content making this salad dressing for our Sunday dinner. We spent the entire day lolling around the pool and patio, knowing we had two full weeks to explore the Lot Valley. Our dinner was chicken cooked with vegetables and wine wine of some sort. It was such a warm and pleasant day, much like the days of our first visit a few springs ago.

In winter I open the blinds early, light candles against the darkness and count the days until spring. The wait is a long one in Northern Wisconsin, and journeys through sunny photographs ease my mind and also fill me with discontent.

Fish on Fridays; Ice Fishing by the Dam

2010-01-08T18:50:00.005-06:00

In winter I get up and night and dress by yellow candlelight/in summer quite the other way/I have to go to bed by day. (Robert Louis Stevenson)

It's light at 4:30 p.m. now, and that adds to the cheerful feeling we all get as we head for home in deepest winter. Of course, not all offices close that early. Some of us leave for work before daylight and return home at dusk. Some of my days are like that. But never Friday, although by the time my husband and I finished our errands it was indeed inky black outside.

As we drove over the West Bridge to River's Bend Road, we saw a half dozen or so ice fisherman huddle around a trio of shanties just below the dam. This is a prime spot for fishing, just north of the old mill. It almost looked like fun. I could see the fishermen moving about, toasting their hands above small heaters outside the shanties.

But we had broiled cod and roasted potatoes from the deli inside our grocery bags, the perfect Friday night meal for any time of year. Sometimes humble meals that someone else made are just the ticket after a long and cold week.

It was really wonderful, flaky and white and not overly fishy. The potatoes were gently browned and just a bit salty.

Eating fish on Friday, of course, always makes me think of the years of my life when I could think of eating nothing else on the last school day before the weekend. Fish sticks and French fries at noon, or salmon and peas. Lobster and shrimp dinners when the family sampled other restaurants on my father's night off. (He ordered steak, of course, but this was before I learned to love a good filet.)

At the moment, I am contemplating integrating fish-only Fridays into my life again, not for any religious reasons, mind you, but because it just plain tastes good and is good for you. There is something comforting about small pleasure like this.

Here's one of my favorite old posts on fish.

Savoring a Fresh Start

2010-01-01T16:40:00.003-06:00

Yes, I make resolutions. I like fresh starts. And, once the celebratory noshing and imbibing are over, we have a perfect opportunity to start anew.

I won't bore you with the particulars, but of course, I resolve to eat better in 2010. I do this every year. One year I added more water to my diet. This year, I gave up most desserts, in part our of an allergic reaction to wheat, in part because for the most part desserts have lost their appeal. They will immediately regain their appeal the next time I visit Paris.

I have yet to find a way to give up potato chips. Why even try?

This is the year - 2010 is - that I eat lower on the food chain. I plan to eat more salads and more raw foods. Since I adore salads, that should be no problem.

This is also the year I take more time for myself. Allow me to explain: I simply find it hard to take a day off. I have to leave town to do so, and unless I am at least 150 miles from home, I am calling the office frequently.

This will be the year I will find time to savor more of those wonderful moments of enchantment. You know them when they happen: A flock of cedar waxwings in the flowering crab tree, an owl in the tree outside my window, a gaggle of geese along the shore or the pungent aroma of a smokehouse along a country road. I will stop and enjoy and breathe deeply of life.

I will start tomorrow morning with a visit to the winter farm market. I am on the lookout for herbs and whatever else might be on hand. More often than not, a visit to the farm market is sheer enchantment no matter what time of year.

The photo above was taken at the Saturday market in Cahors in September 2008. The morning was frosty, and as you can see the leaves had begun to fall.

What will you savor in 2010?

A New Year and a New Decade

2009-12-31T16:19:00.007-06:00

We rose early the other day to remove the snow that had fallen in a frenzy overnight. It is winter, the deepest kind of winter that we know here in Wisconsin. Surrounded by snow, we seldom venture forth except to go to work and purchase necessities.

Along with the snow came a spate of damp weather that exacerbated the muscle aches that accompany winter work, the repetitive motion of removing snow by hand (I have yet to see a snowblower that does porches and steps, but perhaps there is one somewhere) and the tense and ginger steps one takes by instinct on icy surfaces.

But it is lighter at 4:30 p.m. than it was 10 days ago, and there is hope as we slide into the new decade that somehow this year will be better. (As a friend said of 2009 on Facebook, "Don't let the door hit you on the way out.")

My lovely little community has suffered unemployment as high as 13-14 percent and many people I know are without jobs. One friend lost her mother, another her husband. One friend suffered financial loss, another lost a job she loved and was good at. An elderly couple I know is struggling. I have seen and in fact experienced family disagreements and a pervasive bitterness that loss and anxiety breed.

On the plus side, I am aware of many many people who have given back this year, or perhaps paid forward. I have tried to be one of them. I have found that what you do, does indeed come back to you. Last spring, I gave money to a charitable cause and the next day, learned I had won the very same amount of money in a civic club raffle.

My strong belief that it is how you react to adversity that matters was proven true, again and again. A business acquaintance was forced to sell her family's company but did it with grace and optimism; she is much admired for this. Another woman lost her full-time job, but has found peace and happiness with two part-time jobs, one for a church, one for a non-profit group.

Out of economic challenge has come innovation. People are seeking new ways to make a living, sometimes to augment unemployment compensation. I think we will all benefit from this, as surely some of these tentative new businesses will take root and thrive. One man is selling hotdogs from a stand downtown; I have long wanted to see outdoor vendors in our charming downtown.

I spend a lot of time on line, and I've noticed that blogs and Web sites about frugal living abound; I will be adding some links soon. This year, I am mending an old but beloved coat and pondering making my own cleaning products.

What have you noticed in your community? What are your hopes and dreams for 2010?

Happy New Year, my friends.

Enter the Season

2009-12-20T09:53:00.003-06:00

I liked this photo so much, I wanted to include a version of it in my holiday greeting.

The run up to Christmas is here. This holiday means different things to different people. To me it is a season of introspection, followed by an opportunity for renewal. There is a spiritual element for me, but it may not align with the traditional notions. I believe the meaning behind the symbols of this season are what should resonate in hearts.

Generosity, humility, innocence, kindness are what we should carry with us as we move into the future, or the next phase.

May you enjoy good food, good people and good thoughts as you enter this season.

Apologies and a Big Storm

2009-12-13T19:01:00.003-06:00

I've been absent the past month, and for that I apologize profusely. But a lot has been happening.

For one thing, I learned I have a wheat issue, something I have suspected for a while. It's scary, and a little frustrating, but there is ample help online, including a number of highly-esteemed blogs. I've done some lurking lately. Of course, I've been craving Christmas cookies. Still, there are a lot of good things I can still eat.

Secondly, there have been some other issues to attend to that have taken up a considerable amount of time. This is the time of year for both events and conferences, and this fall I've been on the road a bit.

Finally, I needed a break. Just mentally and emotionally. I love this time of year, the angle of the sun that burnishes everything and the color of the sky at sunset.

I forgot to mention the storm. We had a little state of emergency the other day. This photo shows my house four days after the storm. Looks like a Christmas card, right?

More to come....

The Best of FKIA: Warm Brussels Sprout Salad for Thanksgiving Dinner

2009-11-14T15:50:00.005-06:00

I've never been a fan of green bean casserole at Thanksgiving, although for some reason unfathomable to me, it has become a seasonal classic. I'll pass on it this year and make the following dish, which I discovered two years ago.

I buy Brussels sprouts each week; along with broccoli and red pepper they are staples in my crisper. Shallots are also something I almost always keep on hand.

Warm Brussels Sprout and Shallot Salad with Pecans

16-20 large Brussels sprouts
3-4 large shallots
tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
tablespoon unsalted butter
dash freshly ground pepper
dash fleur de sel

Wash and trim Brussels sprouts, removing outer leaves and base. Cut into thin slices. Drizzle with olive oil, toss, and place in a skillet or sauté pan. Brown slightly over medium heat until sprouts are just a bit limp. Remove from pan and set aside, covering to keep warm. Peel and slice shallots; using the same pan, brown shallots slightly in butter. Add pecans. Toss shallots and pecans with Brussels sprouts, adding a dash of fleur de sel and pepper.

I served this with a warm bacon dressing. A cranberry vinaigrette would be nice, too, or a mustard-y oil and vinegar blend.

So tell me: What is your green vegetable this Thanksgiving?

Note: I forgot to add that portions of this post originally ran on Dec. 25, 2007.

Comfort Food For Dark Times

2009-11-12T19:59:00.003-06:00

It was three years ago that I learned my friend T. had cancer. She called me on a Saturday, as I was about to leave for a volunteer commitment.

I was, to use a word I learned from my friend F., gobsmacked. It made me teary all day, and when someone snapped at me at my volunteer job, I nearly burst into tears. You know that feel you have of tears welling up behind your eyes. It burns and you ache.

I will be quite honest with you, my dear friends. That is how I feel today. Sadly, many times we learn in life that opportunities turn out to be traps.

So allow me to rerun this post from Dec. 5, 2006:

"There is no escaping life's ups and downs. Sometimes after a day of bad news or unpleasant situations, it's good to come home and shut out the world and burrow under a warm quilt.

The best food for these occasions is something a bit homey and rustic, maybe made from odds and ends and whatever you have on hand.

This rustic tart is such a dish. You can make it with your favorite pie crust or even use a pre-made crust.

Rustic Walnut-Apple-Pear Tart

3/4 cup chopped walnuts
1/8 cup Splenda-brown sugar mix
2 tablespoons butter
2 large apples, peeled, cored and sliced
2 large pears, peeled, cored and sliced
1/2 cup sugar or fructose
1 1/2 teaspoons grated lemon peel
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
dash cinnamon
1 1/2 tablespoons butter

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Pat pie crust into tart pan, rolling back the edges and doubling before crimping.

Sauté chopped walnuts in brown sugar and butter. Pour into tart pan, spreading them onto the bottom of the crust in a layer.

Mix sugar, butter and spices in large bowl. Toss apple and pear slices in this mixture. When thoroughlyy coated, later the slices into tart, atop the walnuts. Drizzle remaining sugar and butter and spices on top. Bake for about 45-55 minutes, until crust browns and filling bubbles.

Serve with whipped cream or even yogurt or enjoy it plain. You could even top it with a strussal-type topping or one made of walnuts, sugar and butter.

It's gooey and a little chewy. The sweetness is tempered a bit by the lemon peel.

Note: I used the pears and apples I had on hand, but I recommend Golden Delicious apples and Bartlett pears. The dessert is very crumbly when cut — but it's supposed to be a casual dessert for, say, a weekend at home. So don't worry about impressing anyone, just enjoy it!"

T, by the way, is well again. I will have lunch with her tomorrow.

Squash and More Squash: What's Your Current Comfort Food?

2009-11-04T20:58:00.002-06:00

Today was one of those days of water-y light, of a pale sun slipping gamely though putty colored clouds. I took a later noon hour and picked up a wonderful chicken curry salad at the Italian Market. Chef V, about to open his own restaurant, knows my weaknesses and he lured me over to the deli counter. I succumbed.

Among my comfort foods are salmon, rice, eggplant, and squash.

What are yours just now? If you are like me - and I think you might be - they change with the season.

Roasting Squash on a Dark Night

2009-11-01T17:32:00.005-06:00

Gaining an hour of sleep on a weekend when you are flattened by the flu is a treat to be savored and appreciated.

The tradeoff is that darkness comes early. I stepped outside at dusk and was rewarded by the sharp, sweet aroma of woodsmoke and the bosky, earthy smell of fallen leaves.

In recent years, all my autumns have been enjoyed on the fly, a snatch here and a bit there. I try to make the most of those moments of enchantment that are best enjoyed when you have the time to enjoy them.

I'm not complaining. That's how it is. I am grateful for what I have.

But I do recall a time 14 years ago before I went back to work as someone's employee. I'd put my little public relations business on hold, and I had taken a break before I searched for a job. My days were spent raking leaves, walking along the river and through neighborhoods of stately old homes, and cooking and baking. I had time to shop for bargains, and we ate well: Stews and soups and stuffed pork chops and chicken Normandy.

I had time to savor it all, to drink in the wine-rich air of autumn and enjoy life. I prepared for Halloween, carving my little jack-o-lantern on a balmy afternoon, one eye on the clock so I would have it ready for the trick-or-treaters. The day ended with a drive around town with my neighbor, K., a Halloween lover who wanted company as she cruised the streets looking for elaborate Halloween displays.

The next two days were dark and gray and damp, and I stayed in my kitchen with pots of spicy apple tea. I'd brought my pumpkin inside, and kept its candle going for a day or two after the holiday, reluctant to let go of the season.

Snow came early that year, and so did bad news: My husband was laid off the week before Thanksgiving. Although he eventually went back to work and I found a job in the interim, it was a lean winter.

There was no discontent. We managed well, and although my job was two steps down the career ladder for me, I stayed for 10 years and began to love it and the people I worked with. Times are better now, and we are thankful for continued employment in this challenging year.

On these dark fall nights, I remain grateful and enjoy the produce of the season. Squash is simple. I roast it, and serve it with butter. Nothing could be easier or more comforting as we prepare for the coming winter.

Signs of Change: Flu Season

2009-10-30T12:25:00.002-05:00

It hit me early Thursday morning, that dry swollen feeling in the back of my throat. By noon I was experiencing a dry cough and by late afternoon, fatigue.

I knew it was inevitable. My husband has been home for three days. Local schools have experienced record absenteeism and have been closed for up to 3-4 days at a time. One of the local pharmacies had to close for nearly a day. The hospitals are full, and nearly everyone has experienced some form of this nasty disease (swine or otherwise). It seems early in the year for such an epidemic.

So I am home this afternoon. I have a candle burning and lights on to ward off the chill damp Friday. The sky is the color of a dingy rag, and most of the trees are bare, save for a few golden bursts here and there. I looked out the front door to see juncoes gathering on the front sidewalk, gray and white amidst crimson and rust fallen leaves.

"Welcome back," I said to them, and gently closed the heavy red door so they would not fly off. Time to buy winter bird seed, I guess. We do this at the old garden store and feed mill near the old depot. The mill is a gathering place for locals, of course, and a centerpiece in our old downtown.

Such traditions make me feel good and safe as winter approaches. I am a city girl at heart, and although I grew up in a small community, most of the year I would rather live amidst hustle and bustle and anonymity.

But not as autumn wanes. There is much comfort in the friendliness of small town life as cold weather approaches. The person you chat with at the feed mill may help push your car out of a snow drift come winter's blizzards.

When I am working in the kitchen, I am looking out over a small private backyard filled with other friends: Birds. Our winter residents are mostly juncoes, cardinals and chickadees with a smattering of house finches.

Feeding them is another comforting ritual for us. Having them so close by is almost like having guests at our kitchen table.

Caramel Apples and Saffron Leaves

2009-10-23T23:14:00.004-05:00

As the beauty of fall starts to wane (as it does, inevitably, especially when it rains as endlessly as it has for the past 24 hours), we must snatch moments of charm and enchantment when we can.

Thursday was dull and gray. I had a meeting across town in a conference room of a large private marina located on the river. I arrived late, and was forced to squeeze my car in a tight spot along the bank of a narrow inlet. Descending from my minivan, I was greeted by a chorus of quacks from a colony of ducks, some mallards, others black, and two the color of fresh butter.

I stood there for a bit, mesmerized. It is not unusual to find ducks in my neighborhood, or in other places, nor is it odd to find Canada Geese (in fact they live here year long). Sometimes swans make their home in the reeds along the riverbank at the end of our street. But I never tire of seeing them, and hearing them.

Inside the meeting, there were caramel apples, heavy with pecans, and coffee to revive us from our afternoon stupor. I had no choice but to sit in a corner at the table squeezed in between a man I know slightly and a woman who is my fifth cousin. Before me was a window and through it I could see saffron-colored leaves, a lovely and stark contrast to the pale gray sky.

For a brief moment I felt content, as though everything was aligned for my pleasure.

Small things, simple things. But lovely on a weekday afternoon.

A Walk in the Autumn

2009-10-18T18:07:00.006-05:00

I went into the office for a few hours this afternoon and when I left the air was scented with the wine-dark aroma of falling leaves. As I walked to the car, maple, oak and gingko leaves crunched beneath my feet. A flock of starlings chattered away as they do in fall, high up in the pine trees.

I inhaled. This is what I remember from seasons past.

This is it. High autumn.

These days I run too much to appreciate these moments. Instead they are stolen. There is a fugitive feeling to my enjoyment of such things these days.

That must change and change soon. I have always wanted to spend my fall weekends walking through leaves and for more than a few moments. Last year we had two entire weeks of such activities, and that's where the photo above comes from: A walk down a country lane in the hills above Cahors. I thought it had a witchy feel to it. Pure October.

I have wonderful memories of childhood, of walks home from school past the Craftsman houses that filled our little neighborhood. I took many of the same walks in graduate school, hiking through Vilas Park in Madison with a backpack full of notebooks.

Often there would be a bag of muffins from Ovens of Brittany in my backpack. In an ideal world I would come home to apple muffins or pumpkin bars daily!

Home is more attractive in cold weather. Especially if there's something tasty in the oven.

A Blustery Day

2009-10-11T21:19:00.002-05:00

From time to time I worry that this has become less a food blog and more a general blog.

I think I need a break from worrying about it.

This photo was taken on a blustery day about this time a year ago. It was taken on the way to a luncheon on board a ship. The food was comforting and hearty.

Yesterday was equally blustery here, and we had a tomato-y beef stew for supper, with a glass a California merlot with a lingering berry-like finish.

We hear gunshots in the morning and geese overhead all night long. I saw lots of turkeys and a few deer driving north last week.

Fall is good.

Farm Market Winding Down

2009-10-04T19:23:00.003-05:00

The days have been mostly blustery this week, and gone is the sweet sun of September.

The weather points to a dull and lingering fall. This week's farm box was noticeably lighter.

Food is always a great comfort. To that end, we've been eating lots of stir fries and ratatouilles. Lots of potatoes roasted with herbs and olive oil.

Sunday night supper is pork chops with applesauce. Sometimes nothing fancy will do. Simple is best.

How about you?

Paris on Lake Michigan

2009-09-30T19:32:00.003-05:00

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

2009-09-22T18:52:00.002-05:00

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...

2009-09-11T23:56:00.001-05:00

This week's CSA box, a day early.

Thank Goodness it's Thursday!

2009-09-10T18:43:00.005-05:00

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

2009-09-08T01:30:00.000-05:00

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

2009-09-06T14:24:00.007-05:00

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

2009-09-01T21:56:00.003-05:00

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!

A Passing to Mark

2009-08-26T20:13:00.001-05:00

This post is not about food. It's about the passing of Edward Kennedy.

In my political reporter days, I crossed paths with Sen. Kennedy. He was middle aged then but still handsome, with the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen. Certainly Irish eyes, they were a brilliant blue. He seemed a cautious man, a bit skittish perhaps. He had not yet grown into the old lion he will be remembered as in the hundreds of eulogies you can read online in the papers and on television.

I'm not writing about him as a politician, because we all know politics and food blogs do not mix.

But I do think his death - which yesterday seemed imminent, and thus comes as no real surprise - requires some remarks because this blog is and was intended to be as much about our culture and our world as it is about food. I cannot separate the two.

Whatever you think of the politics of the Kennedys, they have captured the imaginations of the world for decades because their saga is so bittersweet.

They loomed larger than life. A staunch Democrat (married to an Irish American), Grandma Annie took a keen interest in their lives. My parents, less politically inclined, were naturally excited when someone of their generation and religion was elected president.

And while my husband and I often tire of hearing about celebrities (can you imagine how we've loathed hearing about Michael Jackson all summer), we are pausing tonight to watch television tonight to remember Teddy. Bill Clinton and George Bush notwithstanding, he was the most famous person I've ever written about, a few steps above the high-flying attorney and the cabinet member.

The Kennedy brothers and their families shaped the views and ideals of an entire generation or two, in ways we recognize and in some we don't. Now the last of the triumvirate of our childhood is gone. There doesn't seem to be anyone in the next two generations of Kennedys to take their place.

Maybe we don't need any more Kennedys.

But clearly, we need something. And I don't think we've figured out what that is yet.

Note: The photo was taken around this time a few years back along the shores of a cove I love on the other side of town. I liked its brooding quality.

One-Dish Dinners as Nights Grow Colder

2009-08-25T19:57:00.007-05:00

Part of me longs to be a sophisticated woman of the world, but another part of me is rather proud of my humble roots in a community that is largely blue collar and prides itself on being down-to-earth. Dollar stores thrive here and so do restaurants that offer down-home cooking. Most people here would rather drink beer than wine. If you grew up here, chances are you grew up eating casseroles.

As the daughter of a chef, I grew up in both worlds. Some nights I'd come home to lobster and other nights, we'd scarf down casseroles. Some meals were elaborate affairs: Italian night, French night, Chinese night, even Titanic night. Picnics in winter, on the floor of the living room. Made-from-scratch pizza on Saturday nights, with leftover sloppy-joe meat on top.

My husband grew up eating casseroles and meat-and-potato meals. His mother worked as a bookkeeper, and the way he tells it, meals were easy to prepare and vegetable were from cans.

There's nothing we enjoy more than a meal in a really good restaurant, whether it's a fancy French place or a steakhouse. We like meals at home just as well, and more often than not in fall and winter, that means a one-dish meal. Our favorite is browned Italian sausage, often cut with ground chuck, stewed tomatoes, onions and roasted red peppers with some sort of pasta. There's usually a dash of thyme and a dash of herbes de Provence. The meal is often accompanied by an easy salad of mixed greens and a humble merlot.

When I was a kid, my mother made a ground-beef-and-potato casserole with cream of chicken soup and onions. I can't think of a better comfort food! I love this stuff.

We often need comfort as the summer makes its slow slide into fall. While I am usually content to be home at nights during the winter months, this time of year I don't look forward to the long dark time ahead. It's dark enough at 8 p.m. now. We turn the lights on early these days, and we are sleeping under comforters and quilts. I feel out of place wearing whites and linens.

I feel a craving for hearty dishes already. Think I'll make that casserole tomorrow.

What about you?

The Signs are Here

2009-08-15T18:25:00.003-05:00

There comes a day in August when you read the signs, the subtle little signs of a shift in seasons.

Today was the day. I sensed, rather than saw, a faint gold tinge in the landscape, and the bay gleamed like a thousand azure diamonds in the morning sun. I watched a trio of mallards float and dip their way across the cove. The traffic was heavy as my husband and I made our way to the farm market to buy onions, cucumbers, zucchini and summer squash.

The sunsets are saffron and misty. The crickets, slow to favor us with their song this year, are finally here.

I've been stocking up on wool and corduroy jackets in colors like burgundy, aubergine and pumpkin. The sales at the mall just now are incredible, and you can see the sunset there, unobstructed. The birds are flocking together on high wires, planning their trip south.

I love the smell of new school supplies, and although my student days are long past and I no longer teach at the university, I always make sure I buy a few new pens and highlighters and notebooks. Old habits die hard.

Labor Day Weekend is the real beginning of the year for most of us. For me it is a good time to make new plans, new resolutions.

Meanwhile, I continue to enjoy the best of summer food with samples of fall fare, too.

What are you up to?

The Lure of the Market

2009-08-10T18:45:00.003-05:00

Our big community festival wrapped up yesterday, and I although I am still sleep deprived and foot weary (I hawked ice cream one night and helped keep a parade on track the next morning), I am happy happy happy for it has passed for another year with no problems or incidents to fret over.

The festival is a lot of work for the staff and the volunteers. But the community loves it. It showcases our wonderful location on the Great Lakes, and our stunning municipal marina.

The event has its roots in the summer festivals of my childhood, the summers before I became restless with the wanderlust that would one day cause me to flee this little town.

One afternoon I was heading back to my car, which was parked several blocks from the festival grounds. As I neared the corner where I would turn, I saw a young girl, 8 or 9 maybe, on a bicycle. She stopped at the corner and looked wistfully toward the waterfront.

"Is it there?" she asked the man walking 14 paces in front of me. He did not reply.

"Is that the festival? Is it there?" she asked me. "My parents won't let me go. I want to see it."

She brought me back to the days I stood at the corner of Dunlap and Belleville streets in Frenchtown, looking down the street six blocks to Ogden School where my adored but older friend Natalie attended kindergarten. With other kids. While I was only four and still at home. Alone.

"Oh, but you can have as much fun at home than you can at the festival," I told her. "I'm there because it's work for me."

She seemed disappointed. She turned around and pedaled her bicycle back down the side street. I followed. She looked back at me and then turned to pedal on.

"Ah, she already has it," I thought to myself. She already had the restlessness that comes with summer, the same restlessness that caused me to pace and wring my hands at 15, trapped at home on summer nights when it seemed all the world was out cruising the streets. I was sure that something - or someone - was out there waiting for me.

The restlessness increased when there was, as my Grandma Annie, always said, "Big doings down at the shore."

I feel the same restlessness myself on farm market days. I must go to the market. In lean times, I might have only been able to purchases fresh garlic. Today, I can buy what I please.

But I must go. I look forward to the first market of the year, even with its scant merchandise.

I've never met a farm market I did not like.

This year, the markets in our area are a bit behind previous years. Saturday I bought broccoli, beets, beans, herbs, lettuce, onions, scallions and green pepper.

How is your market doing?

Noises at Night; Julie and Julia

2009-08-07T22:04:00.004-05:00

At night our neighborhood takes on a completely different persona.

It is no longer the leafy, hilly grid of late-19th century streets where people walk their dogs and their children, using the street, not the sidewalk as a walking path because not all the blocks have sidewalks. The mix of professors, teachers, bankers, laborers and health care workers who live in the houses here are sleeping (or like me, they are trying to).

But someone walks the streets dragging things around. And someone else yells things into a bullhorn.

The dragger first: For nearly a decade, on odd nights all year round, I hear the rattle of something that might be a wagon or cart being dragged or pulled down the street. It starts to the south and moves north toward the river. It is loud enough to wake me, and sometimes it takes a while for me to realize it is what I've come to think of as The Night Noise that has interrupted my precious sleep.

Someone is moving things at a time when they are likely to be unnoticed. Or, as I once suspected, perhaps someone is scavenging for things.

I cannot jump out of bed and rush to the window. Well, I could - were I lucid enough - but the cedar trees block my view. By the time I am awake enough to comprehend that The Night Noise is back, whatever is making the noise has traveled farther north and is out of view.

The Bullhorn is something else entirely. We have heard it all year round and at all times of evening or early morning. There was a time when I thought it was coming from a large mill located up the river, but the words projected by the bullhorn are not words that would be said over a public address system, if you get my drift.

I've asked neighbors about it. Apparently, my husband and I are the only ones who have heard it and it was only last year, or perhaps the summer before, when my husband finally heard The Bullhorn for himself.

Living as I once did in a series of urban apartments, I have heard many odd and alarming sounds at night. But these noises baffle me, and I won't be happy until I discover their source.

Tired as I am after a night of sleeplessness last night, I did see "Julie and Julia" tonight. It's been a long time since a movie has engaged me that much, even though I knew the outcome. See it, if you have not.

The photo is from May 2007: Rue de Monttessuy, 7th arr., Paris.

Bastille Day

2009-07-13T17:37:00.001-05:00

The Twists and Turns of Side Streets and Dark Alleys

2009-07-05T20:20:00.004-05:00

I have never stayed on the main road for too long. The little side streets, the tangents of life are too intriguing.

In my career I sidetracked for a long time, which ultimately helped put me on the main road again with more horsepower and sharper vision.

But sometimes there are places I'd rather not explore. Some of those places are dark lanes in old Cahors, just feet from the lively and friendly market place, which teems with life and flavor and the more guttural accent of the Midi Pyrenees. (Some friends had a close call near here a few years back. We are vigilant.)

So I took photographs instead, and found this one intriguing with its rosy hues.

Not much time to cook just now.

Happy Anniversary to FKIA

2009-06-14T09:56:00.004-05:00

My blogoversary quietly came and went while I was on the road.

I started this blog when I was teaching college freshmen and sophomores about newspaper reporting. Back in 2000, when I started teaching, our goal was to publish a campus newspaper. That was fine for 4-5 years, but then it was clear that (sadly) newspapers were being dragged kicking and screaming into another direction. To be sure, most newspapers had Web sites by the late 1990s. But few really took advantage of them, at least not the way they've had to in order to survive in the 21st century.

By 2005, I began to suspect that some dailies would become weeklies or Web-only papers. (That suspicion is now reality.) I thought blogging was an easy way to harness the power of the Internet and learn how to survive online. My first experience with blogging came in early 2002, when I played around with a site I called Blue Ginger. I ran out of things to say, and didn't stick with it. That was before I thought about sharing my passion for France and food. I was a much more reticent person seven years ago, I guess.

I've never run out of things to say here, although I have run out of time. Most of my posts in the past two years have not been recipe posts, but if you can bear it, I certainly can. I never intended for this blog to be a recipe blog, because I think food is more than ingredients and step-by-step instructions. I love recipe blogs, don't get me wrong. I just wanted my blog to be a conversation around a kitchen table that often involved food.

But not always.

During the past three years I have learned much from other bloggers. And I've made some friends.

That's the best part. As we say in Wisconsin, "You guys are the best."

To celebrate (albeit belatedly) my third anniversary as a blogger, I searched my iPhoto files for a photo that resonated with me this morning. The one I have chosen to share was taken on a misty September morning in the Lot Valley in the Quercy in the southwest of France. I hope you enjoy it.

Late Spring at the Farm Market

2009-06-06T16:53:00.005-05:00

I am off to Madison, but not long enough to shop at the legendary Dane County Farmers' Market.

We are fortunate enough to have two smaller markets in our own community. Between the two of them, on opposite ends of town, there are opportunities for fresh produce on Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. How much better can it get?

My CSA box included rhubarb, kale, herbs, radishes and lettuce today, along with some lovely flowers. Having a large suitcase to pack and a million things to do, I didn't linger as long as I would like to have lingered. But the 30 minutes or so I spent downtown were magical. It's cool here, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and water, as the market is near the shore. There was a fishing derby and a heritage fair, complete with re-enactors in period garb.

Our small community is truly blessed to have such riches!

Of course, I forgot my camera, so I will have to make do with the photo above, taken at the Cahors market on our last visit to France.

Cherries and Berries and Strawberry Wine

2009-05-16T16:23:00.007-05:00

I know. I know. I don't deserve any of you. I don't deserve to have anyone visit this place because I'm never around.

I'm sorry. I really am. The truth is, this may be my busiest time of year. I'm not complaining, but there were three 11-12 hours days this week. I am learning to relax a bit, and I am trying to make unwinding a priority. I'm Type O blood but I have a Type A approach to work. And I enjoy my job.

That's why we're taking off for a few days in the Door later this month.

The Door is Door County, Wisconsin's rocky arm of land jutting northeast into Lake Michigan. It is both peninsula and island and it is resplendent with cherry orchards and rock outcroppings and pristine villages of white and the aroma of woodsmoke and carpets of ladyslippers and trillium and oh, you must discover it for yourself.

Originally, it was more or less discovered by the French, who have a way of discovering stylish and tasteful things. Pierre-Esprit Radisson called it "a kingdom so delicious" and he wasn't talking about the legendary fish boils and cherry desserts.

For those of us who love the Door, a trip there is a pilgrimage of sorts, anticipated like a trip to Paris. The misty mornings, the sunny afternoons, the chilly nights. The quiet havens and the busy harbors. The plethora of restaurants from gastropub to fine dining to classic supper club. The galleries, tucked away in the woods, or in whitewashed cabins near beaches or docks. The potters, the jewelers, the weavers.

Meanwhile, we're getting ready for our first season as CSA customers. L, the coordinator promises rhubarb and herbs the first week. The gooseberries above are from L's garden, circa 2007.

And we are down to one bottle of wine, a potent bottle of strawberry elixir I fear will put hair on my chest. Must buy wine, or wake up very hirsute.

What are you up to?

Spring Chickens and Signs that Life is Good

2009-05-02T07:48:00.003-05:00

Every season has moments of enchantment that occur at when you least expect them.

Last night, I had to present an award at a spring banquet. While I knew I would be in good company, it was Friday and I was tired and I wasn't especially looking forward to a long night in a chair at a dinner table.

Fortunately for me, the dinner took place at an attractive venue with a view of sea grass and bay on one side and gently rolling hills on the other. My chair faced the bay and while I waited for my turn at the podium, I watched a pair of fishing boats trawl the bay in the sunset. The rays of the setting sun fired the boats and I was able to see that the fishermen were dragging nets. Somehow this fired my imagination, too. My body was inside but my spirit was out on the cool bay, feeling the wind in my hair.

When I finally got to the podium, I looked up in the other direction to see a perfect ball-of-orange sun setting in a deep-teal-and-indigo sky. I could barely concentrate on my lines, so brilliant was the sun.

I sat down at my table again. Now the boats were lighted by torches of some sort. I watched them drift out of sight when it grew dark and the event ended. I stepped outside to my car, surrounded by the welcome spring chorus of tree frogs and even loons and made the 11-mile trip into town.

Sometimes these small things make for a magical evening. It has happened time and time again in my life, and it always grounds me and gentles me after a period of stress.

On the way home, I notice more people on bicycles than I have in the past, something I suspect is spurred by the economy. I like that. We are embracing simpler things, out of necessity, perhaps, but perhaps we will carry these new habits forward into better times. A few weeks ago, amidst an April shower, I saw a man on a bike carrying a bouquet of spring flowers. I can only imagine the utter devotion that might inspire an older man to ride a bike to a flower shop or grocery store in the rain. Someone is very much loved, I hope.

We continue to find much to celebrate in this crazy world.

On Sunday I will roast chicken, rubbing it with herbs de Provence and surrounding it with whatever strikes my fancy. Usually it is onions, carrots and new potatoes coat in olive oil. The herb-y aroma will pervade my house.

The weekend. Life is good.

What about you? What signs have you read lately?

Le Brie En Rose: The Good Life in My Kitchen and Baked Brie with Cherries and Pecans

2009-04-28T19:43:00.009-05:00

I was attracted to this idea (a recipe contest using Brie cheese) because of my paternal grandmother's maiden name, La Brie. I thought I could come up with some cute approach.

But the truth is, if someone along the St. Lawrence River, circa 1700, had not begun calling a guy named Migneault by the name LaBrie, she might have been Laura Migneault. I suppose the moniker was a reflection of the Migneault's roots in Melun, a cheesemaking city south of Paris - an ancient version of Cheesehead (as we Badgers are often called). "Dit" names, as they are known to every genealogist with a French Canadian heritage, can also reflect an occupation. Perhaps I am descended from cheesemakers.

I was running out of cute when I realized I had to turn in my recipe and photo by tomorrow.

My first couple of ideas flopped. I was desperate. But not out of ideas. A few years ago, my husband and I caught Emeril Lagasse's baked brie show on the Food Network. We've been enjoying that treat ever since, usually around the holidays.

What about baked dip? I scrounged around the cupboard and found dried cherries, a staple, and a bag of pecans. Here's what I came up with:

Baked Brie Dip with Dried Cherries and Pecans

1 package Ile de France Brie Cheese, trimmed and cubed
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon brown sugar
dash fleur de sel
1/3 cup chopped pecans
2 teaspoons dried cherries

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Melt butter in small saucepan over low heat. Add chunks of brie and stir until melted and blended. Stir in brown sugar and fleur de sel, gradually adding pecans and cherries. Place in a small ramekin and bake for 20-30 minutes. Remove from the oven and allow to cool for about 10 minutes.

The result is a slightly sweet cheesy spread for crackers with the merest hint of salt. I tried it with Triscuits and French bread, and preferred the crackers, although my husband thought a less salty cracker would be best.

I'm tasting this on thin slices of whole wheat beer bread, slightly toasted.

NoteIn the interests of transparency, I must disclose that I was invited to join this contest. The cheese was provided by Ile de France. I have no hopes of winning, but it was fun!

Food for Thought: Left Bank or Right Bank?

2009-04-15T20:01:00.007-05:00

My friend Frank the Francophile, an irreverent Irishman, keeps me supplied with travel stories about France I might have missed (and usually have). He has a master's degree in French, and takes great pleasure in correcting me. He enjoys it so much, I am sure he was a Parisian shopkeeper in a past life.

Anyway, Frank pointed me to a copy of this story, which compares the right and left banks of Paris. Thank goodness this is not something we have to choose between. I mean, even if you were lucky enough to live in Paris, you could live on one bank and hang out on another.

Each visitor to Paris finds his or her own city; Paris, after all, is a highly individualized experience. But I am curious are you right bank or left bank?

On our first visit, we took a liking to the area sandwiched between Avenue Rapp and Avenue de la Bourdonnais, literally at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Eventually, we rented a small flat there and enjoyed the daily round first hand, not merely as flaneurs. We even made friends with the lovely lady at Magda Traiteur. I feel very comfortable here.

I am quite enamored with the neighborhood near St. Sulpice, and would like to rent a flat there some day. I was not enchanted with Montparnasse, and found more smokers there than any other area in Paris. Really.

I like the warren of streets in the Latin Quartier, just north of the Pantheon. Something draws me there. My husband likes Tolbiac, and I would like to spend some time in the 14th someday.

I love the Left Bank.

But, oh, my passion for the grittiness of Rue St. Antoine (and Rue de Rivoli, for that matter) is well documented here. I found beauty at the Jardin des Halles, perhaps sensing the spirits of the vendors of the old marketplace. My husband likes the raw energy of Rue de la Roquette; I have to agree. Last fall, we spent a fair amount of time - just off the plane and without our bearings - wandering around the area just north of the Bastille. I really like that quartier, too.

We visit Village St. Paul again and again and we especially love the staff at The Red Wheelbarrow bookshop. We enjoy our fellow customers, too.

A few years ago, our Paris shuttle driver took us on streets we'd never visited just north of the Champs Elysees. It felt elegant to me.

We once made brief foray into Auteuil, which I once read was the part of Paris most like Provence. Must try that out soon.

I love the Right Bank.

Did I mention the islands?

What about you? Come lurkers and Francophiles and tell me what part of Paris - which bank or which island - resonates with you?

Paques

2009-04-12T10:21:00.006-05:00

Someday I will spend an Easter in Paris. I have come close, usually arriving several weeks later (but recently enough to see the Paques banner still mounted above the door of St. Paul St. Louis on Rue St. Antoine.)

Someday I will spend more than two weeks there. I can think of nothing I would like to do more than attend a church service in Paris, eat a lazy noon meal and walk it off around the Cluny.

Someday.

The photo above was taken in 2007. The day was glorious when we arrived at the museum but pouring rain as we walked back to the 7th along the Seine.

I woke up this morning to find a basket filled with rose-scented soaps and a candle on my back porch. It was not from my husband, but from the Lapin de Paques, who knows where to find me. I fixed my husband a basket of poissin d'Avril and a lapin du chocolat.

Postscript:We treated ourselves to a Champagne brunch at the restaurant of the woman who owns the villa you have come to know as Chez Bateau. She is a woman of style and determination. The menu: Leg of lamb, encrusted in pepper and spices and served with a mint-apple chutney. Rolls of thinly sliced salmon with capers. Braised fennel with red onions. Orzo with artichokes. Eggs Benedict. Scrambled eggs. Crispy bacon slices. Thinly sliced potatoes with onions. Salad. Green beans with almonds. Deviled eggs slashed with a thin chive.

And later: Pain au chocolate. Thick chewy cookies. Chocolate ganache in a pastry shell. The best creme brulée I have ever had, bar none. Fresh melons and berries.

Fish Fries, Fishing, Sea Food and Markets in Paris

2009-04-10T19:45:00.006-05:00

Spring is finally upon us. I think I said that a month ago. This time I mean it. About a week ago I began drooling over photographs and memories of Paris in April.

So I knew it was spring. Besides, it's Easter weekend, and that generally signals winter's certain departure. Yes, even the year spring was late (April 28) and we woke up to a thin cover of snow. Yup, even then.

For me, the first balmy days are usually accompanied by a fierce desire for sea food or fish. Here in Catholic Wisconsin, Friday fish fries are hugely popular all year round. Each restaurant has a slightly different take, but most serve fried fish with French fries, cole slaw, baked beans and rye bread.

When I was a child, it was hard to find certain types of fish or sea food in our area, but with a father in the restaurant business, that was no problem at our house. I never knew what I would come home to on Fridays: Lobster boiling or clams steaming. At noon, we had fish sticks and French fries with green peas.

I love the open-air fish markets of Paris, the gritty, briny bins of muscles or clams that make me want to cook them up with some garlicky white sauce and a bottle of well-matched white wine. But I am just as happy scarfing down a fish fry at the local family restaurant with its glorious view of the water, the brownish seagrasses glinting golden in the setting sun, and the string of glittering lights from across the bay.

And so I did tonight, and then we drove home along the river where hundreds of fishermen (and women) lined the shore or stood in shallow water in pursuit of smelt or sturgeon or whatever fish are running right now. I felt a little frisson of delight to see dozens of men in waders near the old scaling gap, and thought of my Irish great grandfather, a scaler in the lumber days, a lithe brown-haired man with nine lives. I saw bonfires lining the shores of the islands, and sensed the carnival atmosphere. It was almost like the old days, when smelt ran by the thousands and there really was a carnival with a smelt queen and smelt wrestling.

And then I remembered that some of the fishermen might be fishing out of necessity, not out of love for the sport, or for the damp spring night setting in on the eve of a holiday weekend, a spiritual holiday, but a time for family and celebrating just the same. I felt a bit sad, but not for long. We are blessed to have the river and the bay and the lovely night.

I hope you are blessed on this weekend.

No More Winter!

2009-03-30T21:25:00.003-05:00

Just when we think winter has lost its icy grip, it comes back in a sneak attack.

There's nothing sneaky about the snow and sleet we are due to get tomorrow, though. We are prepared for it. Meanwhile, I've been stocking up on spring jackets in pinks and yellows and scarfs in flighty floral patterns.

I crave spring.

The photo above is deceiving. It was late September near Montcuq, when we took a detour and ended up on a little road along the causses. This charming scene, a bit out of focus, captured me.

I hope you like it.

Spring

2009-03-21T21:30:00.007-05:00

Spring has arrived earlier than last year here in Wisconsin, but later than the year before and the year before that.

Nonetheless, we are grateful that most of the snow is gone, thanks to a run of 45-to-60 degree days and a fair amount of sunshine. I love the washed-with-sunlight look of late March and early April. But the landscape is still gray and tan and colorless, as the rains have not yet turned the lawns to green and there are still patches of blackened snow along the curbs and in low shady places behind the horse barn.

I cannot help but recall that six months ago, I was languishing by the side of a pool in the southwest of France, sipping Malbec and breathing deeply of the country air, midway between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. The wind rumbles low along the causses and ripples through the fir trees and through the rows of vines in the vineyards.

The photo above was taken that very day on the terrace of the house we rented, known here as Chez Bateau.

A Sunday in France is a day to be celebrated.

So is a Sunday in spring. How will you celebrate?

Dom Perignon for Hard Times?

2009-03-08T16:28:00.007-05:00

Although wine and scotch are fairly routine at our house, we are by no means heavy or even moderate drinkers. One or two meals a week might be accompanied by wine; tipples of scotch or some other mood-altering libation are relegated to the end of Bad Days.

As I have noted here before, I was given watered down wine as a child and taught that one glass per meal was enough. This was coming from Grandma Annie, whose mother (known here and in the family as Mémere) made her own wine. I've marveled at that, and wondered what kind she made. When I was a child, our neighbors asked if the could pick our dandelions and then a while later presented us with a bottle of dandelion wine, which as I recall was not bad. But what did I know as a kid?

Recently a friend gave me a bottle of homemade strawberry wine, which I am told is extremely potent. Save that for a Really Bad Day.

(I have never considered brewing my own anything. I was shocked recently to learn from my mother than Grandma Annie and a friend once hatched a plan to make bathtub gin in a washing machine. No one can recall if the gin ever got made. The best laid plans...).

I do enjoy buying wine, and even vodka once in a while. It's especially satisfying to purchase a bottle at a good price by auction, and that's how I came by the bottle of Dom Perignon and the two bottles of Champagne that grace my larder.

I'm saving them for a Really Good Day. You could argue, I suppose, that I have recently missed any number of Big Events, including the winter holidays and Valentines Day and before that, Election Day, and maybe even Inauguration Day.

But none of those events felt The Time to Open the Dom. I've been feeling a little guilty about having it in my possession.

What to do?

Should I hoard it a while longer or pop it open?

I'm thinking maybe Easter...

Petite Filets Rubbed with Scotch and Cracked Pepper

2009-02-22T09:03:00.002-06:00

Even in tough times, food is not something I scrimp on.

I feel not the least bit of guilt buying petite filets once or twice a month. The largest supermarket in my town is undergoing a renovation, and adding new and better products. I've been able to find choice cuts of meat more often.

For the second time this month, we've had steak rubbed with cracked pepper.

"Try rubbing it with Scotch," my single-malt loving husband suggested. He's fond of Lagavulin, a peaty, smoky libation our friend R., a bon vivant and raconteur of the first order, introduced us to a decade ago.

And so I did, allowing the meat to marinate in the Scotch for an hour or so. Then I massaged in a commercial cracked pepper rub and broiled the meat on a bed of herbs, turning over frequently.

I served this very tender meat on a bed of oven roasted vegetables: Potatoes, onions, carrots, red pepper and Brussels sprouts.

Everything melted in our mouths. The buttery syrah we drank was a fine choice.

You can scrimp all you want in tough times. But you must continue to pump money into local businesses. And you must eat.

Reflections on the Season and the Windows of Paris

2009-02-21T13:25:00.007-06:00

We are as good as snow bound today. After a month of cold alternating with cold weather, winter returned as if to punish us for wanting spring. The thaw we enjoyed earlier this month was enough to summon the morning doves and cardinals back to our yard, and we awoke to birdsong. I fill the feeders daily now.

I want to get out and walk and take deep breaths to savor the earthiness of March and April. I'm thinking about my garden, and socking away my small change for new plants. The sooner spring arrives, the better.

We will not go to Paris this year. There are projects around the house and yard. It has always been my plan to turn the horse barn into a studio for my husband, so he will have space for his art work. This would make it necessary to build a garden folly, or a potting shed, or even a little tool shed for the lawn mower and the rakes. One step at a time. But I like the idea of giving work to some local builders or craftsmen.

As always on weekends, my thoughts turn to Paris, and walking there, and how it will never cease to thrill me to walk those pretty and sometimes gritty streets and passages.

The photo above was taken on Rue St. Antoine. The handsome, prematurely gray man reflected in the window is my husband.

The second photo was taken in the Village St. Paul, a few blocks away.

My kitchen beckons. I've splurged on a petit filet for Saturday night.

Baked Pears with Calvados and Mascarpone Cheese

2009-02-15T21:06:00.007-06:00

For Grandma Annie, a fresh, juicy pear was the ultimate treat.

It took me rather a long time to appreciate pears. I found the taste a bit metallic and far too subtle on my young palate. Give me an orange instead, later an apple. That was then.

I was an adult before I began to savor the pear, which I now realize is a more sophisticated cousin of the apple.

A few months ago, as we settled into autumn in the southwest of France, I bought two bottles of cider, pear and apple. Pear was sweet and light, while the apple was vinegar-y and heavy to my American-bred palate. I tossed it out.

Baked Pear with Calvados and Mascarpone Cheese

Two Red Bartlett pears
1/4 cup Calvados
2 teaspoons butter
2 teaspoons brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

For the cheese topping
1/3 cup mascarpone cheese
dash vanilla extract
pinch sugar
2 tablespoons roasted walnuts

Halve the pears, cutting from the top down, and hollow out the center. A grapefruit spoon or a sturdy melon baller is perfect for this task. Set aside.

Melt butter and sugar, add the Calvados and a pinch of cinnamon. Pour over the pears and allow them to absorb the liquid for about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, pre-heat oven to 375. Place the pears cut side up in a buttered baking dish. Drizzle the remaining liquid over the pears, allowing it to pool in the center of the pear halves. Bake for 30-40 minutes until pears are softer, but still firm.

While pears are baking, blend mascarpone with vanilla and sugar.

Remove pears from oven. Allow to cool for 10 minutes. Stuff center of pears with mascarpone cheese. Top with roasted walnuts.

The taste is subtle, the sensation on the tongue is crisp, creamy and crunchy.

Paris, je t'aime

2009-02-13T18:26:00.006-06:00

When it's winter in my world, I remember a certain spring day in Paris.
The ache I feel for the beauty of Paris is palpable.
There is beauty everywhere, in the elaborate and in the simple.
The simple act of serving dessert is performed beautifully.

Ah, Paris! Will you be my Valentine?

A Humble Little Cafe

2009-02-05T19:54:00.009-06:00

I want to own a humble little restaurant. A café, really, with only a few tables and a small menu. Unpretentious, with a daily special and a friendly waiter.

There was such a café in our town once, owned by a local foodie who grew up in the restaurant business. There were probably five tables inside, and a small terrace in back, overlooking the water. it changed hands a couple of times. One owner put two tables on the street and three more on the terrace.

One day my husband and I, waiting on a Friday afternoon for our friends at the bookstore, bought lemonades near closing time. We went out into the terrace, and much to our surprise, watched the owner as he locked the door. No matter, the tiny terrace was open on the water side and we simply made our way down to the path along the shore. We found this all very charming and a bit amusing.

(The photo above is not a café, but a table outside an antique store in St. Paul Village in the Marais. This seems to be common in the village, which I imagine to be its own little community.)

I want to own a place that makes customers feel they are treating themselves while spending very little money. It can be done.

In these bad times, we can't give up on the good ones. We need them. My community has seen many layoffs recently; some are temporary. Some may not be. The number now is likely to be in the hundreds. I don't know for sure.

What I do know is that we still need sustenance. And sometimes we don't feel like cooking. So we need an affordable treat. That is getting harder to find.

Our spirits need sustenance, too. That can mean many different things. It certainly can mean a good meal in a humble little café.

What do you think?

Roasted Asparagus and Red Pepper Salad with Chevre and Bacon

2009-02-01T21:07:00.006-06:00

"Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without" and "Shop locally - check your pantry" are two phrases I've been hearing a lot of lately.

Except for the doing without, I'm pretty good at being frugal. If someone would have told me even a few years ago that the penurious years of college and the early stages of my career would train me for the rest of my life, I might have been shocked. But I'm closer to retirement than college now, and I'm wondering just what the future holds. We're lucky for now. For now.

So I continue to save scraps of this and that for future soups and stews. My freezer is filled with odds and ends, that make for some pretty interesting and sometimes inspired meal pairings.

Sunday night, we had four red peppers and a bunch of asparagus in the crisper. We wanted a light meal. My husband was feeling flu-ish and I was sure I was next.

Roasted Asparagus and Red Pepper Salad with Chevre and Bacon

3-4 red peppers, washed and trimmed into strips.
10-15 asparagus spears, washed and trimmed
1-2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1-2 medium shallots, cut into thin slices
2 tablespoons chevre
1 tablespoon bacon bits

Pre heat oven to 425. Coat peppers and asparagus and roast them until they begin to turn brown along the edges. You may want to give the red peppers a 10-minute head start. While the vegetables are roasting, brown the shallots in olive oil in a small skillet until they turn transparent and golden. Once the vegetables are roasted, allow to cool for 3 minutes and layer them on a salad plate, sprinkling chevre and bacon bits. Season with fleur de sel and freshly ground pepper.

I added this dressing

This salad would be great with a sausage-based dish or with herbed chicken.

Chocolate-Brie-En-Croute with Walnuts

2009-01-31T20:42:00.013-06:00

Some tastes just work together. What ingredients should be paired with other ingredients may well be a matter of individual taste.

Maybe. For me there are some basic rules for pairings in a recipe.

(1) The flavors must have something in common.

(2) The flavors must balance each other.

(3) There must be a counterpoint, a foil.

Brie-en-crouté is a favorite dessert we tried a few years back when my husband's incessant channel surfing stopped for five minutes while Emeril Lagassé was kicking it up a notch. Emeril's version, which paired walnuts with brie and brown sugar in a pastry shell, sounded tasty. I flew to the computer to locate the site and printed out the recipe.

Brie is creamy and earthy and comforting. Bland with a tang. To my palate, a creamy chocolate with a hint of salt seemed a good match for it. See what you think:

Chocolate-Brie-En-Croute with Walnuts

1 package pre-made puff pastry or similar product, thawed
1 8-ounce round of brie cheese
1 large or 2-3 small piece quality chocolate pieces
1/4 cup chopped walnuts
egg wash
flour for dusting work surface

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Roll out the pastry on a floured surface to form a round shape, about the size of a pie crust. Place the round of brie in the middle of the circle. Press the chocolate down into the brie. Fold the puff pastry up so that it encloses the brie, smoothing down seams and trimming off excess dough. (Save the excess and use cookie cutters to create shapes for decoration.) Top with walnuts. Place ball of filled dough on a parchment lined baking sheet. Coat with egg wash. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until pastry turns golden brown.

My pastry was too cakey, not flaky enough. But the taste was heavenly. It would even better with homemade pastry dough, but my time in the kitchen is limited.

My chocolate was from Jean-Paul Hevin. Here's the story of how I obtained it on a rainy day in Paris. It was the last day of Fashion Week, but I looked like a drowned rat...

See Jean-Paul Hevin's official site here.

In Search of Freshness

2009-01-30T20:43:00.005-06:00

This week I met with L., a local organic grower who has brought community supported agriculture to our little town. I am excited that for the first time I will support CSA, getting a box of fresh produce every Saturday morning throughout the growing season.

The beauty of it is that I won't always know what the box will contain, and I will be forced to find new ways to prepare everthing from cabbage to kohlrabi.

How Grandma Annie would have loved this! There was nothing she liked better than pursuing fresh produce. As I've written many times before, Annie and her neighbors exchanged garden bounty and an "eggman" delivered eggs and the odd bushel of potatoes or beans on a weekly basis.

But Annie also loved finding new sources for fresh vegetables or berries, and when she learned of growers who sold from their tiny plots north of the city or even in the heart of town, she'd persuade one of her daughters to drive her there. Back 30, 40 or 50 years ago, it was not uncommon to find larger parcels of land that served as "farmettes" in the middle of residential neighborhoods. When the residents of those little farms had surplus, they'd advertise in the newspaper or through word of mouth (the latter being a very efficient and effective means of communication in our town). The surplus disappeared quickly and the small-plot farmers had extra money in their pockets.

I love to ride along on these excursions, for these little patches of agriculture in the city intrigued me. Weatherbeaten barns, old fences, rickety trellises and usually a prowling cat and friendly dog created a charming ambiance that I found enticing. Now these little farms are gone, and many of the vendors at our local farm markets are dying off. L. is part of a new breed of growers. I hope some of my restaurant owner friends will support L. and her colleagues. I suspect they will; the farm market is located in an area rapidly becoming our own "Restaurant Row."

Annie pursued bakeries with the same zeal she sought growers who offered quality fresh produce. On trips to the city - any city - Annie insisted on a bakery stop. I have found myself doing the same. Bakeries across Wisconsin offer everything from apple-raisin bread to German hard rolls. Annie loved them all.

So it was impossible for me not to think of her as my husband and I shopped the open market in Cahors a few months ago. Annie would have been in her element here! Familiar with the language, but unfamiliar with the accent, she would speak in her childhood tongue, perhaps halting at first. But her shy smile and warmth would draw the vendors and soon they'd be chatting away in French.

Oh, Grandma, I wish I could take you there!

French Dip (Not What You Were Expecting)

2009-01-28T18:54:00.012-06:00

I love potato chips and it should be obvious from the previous post that I love dip.

This passion has its roots in the Saturday nights of my childhood when my mother and her younger sister would open a bag of chips and dip them into a blend of cream cheese, onions and ketchup while sipping Coca Cola. I still love all these flavors.

To my palate, onions and cream cheese are essential. Fresh onions are best, but minced work, too.

Four years ago, my husband and I discovered Brett's Olive-Flavored potato chips on a trip to France. We never found them in the U.S.

In fact, we can't find them in France anymore. We've searched in vain for them. But along the way, we've sampled tomato-and-garlic, rotisseri chicken, and red-pepper chips. (Once you get the craving for potato chips, nothing else will do.)

All very interesting but no match for olive. (A few years ago I tried to duplicate the flavor at home. In fact, I tried it twice. Nice try.)

I have yet to find dip in France, although it must be there somewhere. Last trip, I made my own.

French Dip

3/4 creme fraiche
1/3 cup boursin with garlic and herbs (or Alouette or similar brand)
1 scant tablespoon mayonnaise
2 heaping teaspoons minced or chopped onions
dash pepper

I think I like this better than the ketchup version.

Katie Z., this one's for you!

Cheddar-Cheese-Beer Dip Just in Time for the Super Bowl

2009-01-26T18:06:00.007-06:00

Cheese and beer are two mainstays of the Wisconsin diet.

So it's no wonder that local grocery stores sell cheddar-and-beer dip for pretzels or potato chips this time of year. I succumbed to the lure of this deli delicacy at two different supermarkets. It was a hit.

I'd tasted it before at holiday potlucks, but since we rarely have beer in the house (my husband prefers scotch), I'd never actually made it.

So it was time to learn. Luckily, I had two cans of beer left from last summer's beer bread trials (more on this in the future).

Cheddar Cheese-Beer Dip

1 eight-ounce package cream cheese, softened to room temperature
1/2 cup cheddar cheese, grated
1/2 cup beer
1 teaspoon minced onions
dash garlic salt
dash paprika

Blend first three ingredients in bowl. Add onions and garlic salt (I have made this with one minced garlic clove) and blend again. Sprinkle top with paprika.

There are numerous variations to this. A teaspoon of mayo or ketchup adds an extra zing. A pinch of seasoning salt does, too. There's another version made with ranch dressing mix.

Since the holidays ended, we've gone back to our more conservative eating habits. On cold nights (there don't seem to be any other kind this time of year), we've been having popcorn, sometimes sprinkled with a bit of that garlic salt and even cheddar cheese.

A Few Tweaks

2009-01-25T08:34:00.005-06:00

It's time for a few tweaks.

For most of us, January is a time to begin again. Drink more water, eat healthy, make a few changes - those are my usual plans in January.

I am always slow to get started. Or, maybe it takes me a while to work up the courage. Last night I finally switched my template over the the "new" Blogger. I tried this once before and it was a disaster. I chickened out.

But I wanted to warn you: If you blog has been listed here, it will take a while to get it back on the site. I've started with the blogs that have been with me since 2006. I will be adding more as time permits, possibly later today.

And the radishes? Well, they've always been breakfast food in my family. The photo was taken at the market in Cahors.

My France Notebook: Apricot-Walnut French Toast and a Visit to Albas

2009-01-18T14:35:00.015-06:00

Growing up in Frenchtown (which felt like home to us in a way our neighborhood on the other side of town did not), we felt closest to our French roots on Sundays. Perhaps it was the crow of the neighbor's rooster at sunrise, or the chatter of old folks in French after mass, or the long family meal at midday, or the feeling of lassitude that came over us in the afternoon.

In France, I find that feeling again, in the quiet of a rural afternoon. Sundays are nearly always the time for a late breakfast, a brief nap and a drive in the country.

One sunny Sunday last September, we set out to follow the meandering River Lot as it made its lazy way west.

First we conquered Douelle with its narrow streets. We have experienced Douelle often enough to know that Sundays are quiet there and we don't have to hold our breaths or cross our fingers or pray that we do not meet any traffic from the opposite direction.

We breezed through and set out for a more open road that took us past prosperous vineyards. Here the land looked more like Wisconsin, save for the houses and barns. We wound our way through Luzech, charmed by the feel of it. The wine country is prosperous, and Luzech seemed so. We stopped along the river, and took pictures of two well-dressed children down at the river's edge.

It was Albas that caught my imagination, with its narrow winding streets and its welcoming view. The sight of a village clinging to a cliff above a river is not something I see in my everyday life. My husband stopped the car at a small lookout over the river so I could take the photo above.

Apricot-Walnut French Toast

6 slices apricot or cinnamon-raisin bread
3 eggs
1/4 cup cream or milk
tablespoon brown sugar
teaspoon vanilla extract
dash cinnamon
pinch salt

For the sauce:

1/2 cup apricot preserves
tablespoon melted butter
1/3 cup walnuts

Beat eggs, cream or milk, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon in large bowl. Soak bread until it is thoroughly moist, but not falling apart. Place in buttered skillet and brown.

While bread is turning golden brown, heat preserves in a small saucepan over a medium burner. Add butter and walnuts.

Remove bread from skillet and smother in apricot-walnut sauce. This is delicious when served with vanilla yogurt and apricot nectar.

Like any other French toast recipe, this one is a good way to use up bread that is growing stale. Since I cannot resist buying bread while in France, French toast or pain perdu is a pretty typical breakfast for us when we travel.

My France Notebook: A Visit to La-Roque-Gageac

2009-01-13T19:46:00.010-06:00

We are snuggled under down throws here in Northern Wisconsin tonight, waiting for The Big Chill of 2009, due later this week. They say it could reach a frigid 35 below.

We have mittens, gloves, scarves, Yak Trax, Cuddle Duds, Stormy Kroners, woolen balaclavas, leg warmers, long johns and flannel pajamas to keep us warm and safe no matter where we are and what we are doing. The larder is full, and I'll bake chicken tomorrow and try my hand at cabbage-and-sausage soup later this week. I still have some Calvados left. We are ready so Mother Nature, bring it on!

Would that we lived in a micro climate. La-Roque-Gageac, nestled under a cliff in the Dordogne, is such a place, by our experience about 10 degrees warmer than the surrounding area. While autumn was slowly coloring most of the Lot Valley, at the end of September to the north the Dordogne remained as green as mid-summer. Our trip up there, which involved a dizzying zig-zag drive past goose farms and through small crossroads, was like a trip into the recent past.

Because of the terrain, our 30-mile trip down and then up the mountain took more than an hour. It was after 2 p.m. by the time we finally found La-Roque-Gageac, after taking a wrong turn that sent us hurtling through corn fields toward a foie gras farm behind the cliffs. With help from the Garmin (is that woman inside dictatorial or what?), we crawled down a narrow back road and finally found ourselves there, under the cliffs at last, growing cranky in our search for a parking place.

La-Roque-Gageac was just as I imagined it would be, if a bit more tourist-y than I had hoped. We ordered cassis and mint-chocolate-chip ice cream cones and wandered the main street, a line of cafes and hotels and gift shops highlighting the patés and walnuts and confits of the Dordogne.

We found a place to sit and watch the excursion boat traffic on the river, shedding our jackets as we warmed ourselves in the sun. The boats are gabares, the traditional flat-bottomed boats of the Dordogne. We were tempted to take an excursion, but the trips seemed a bit long, and we'd only put enough euros in the meter for a 90-minute visit.

Inhabited since pre-historic times, La-Roque-Gageac lies under troglodytic forts, which you can visit (although we did not). About 50 years ago, portions of the cliff face fell, killing some village residents. Today, there are exotic gardens tucked away under the cliff, behind the face La-Roque shows visitors, and these intrigued me. Stairways climb up behind buildings to lovely secret places. This is after all, one of the "most beautiful villages" in France.

Too soon and we were on our way back into the green hills and the mountainsides, heading south this time forward into autumn. It seemed odd to drive north to experience a nearly-Mediterranean climate when to the south the days were crisp with the scent of woodsmoke in the air.

But there is always a surreal quality to our too-short time in France.

And always it is tinged with bittersweet.

A Chance for Authenticity?

2009-01-10T11:02:00.004-06:00

There was a time in the not-too-distant past when I would come home at night, bone-weary and mentally exhausted, to find a stack of newly-arrived magazines waiting for my perusal. Victoria, Country Living, Country Home and others were dubbed "lifestyle, shelter or women's magazines," but to me and I suspect many others (and not only women!) they offered escape, inspiration and relaxation.

A red barn surrounded by countryside, a basket of flowers, an old maple bed dressed in lace and soft comforters drew us into the photographs and sent us to attics or antique stores or sheds in search of the perfect props to create that magic in our own lives. Some of the magazines - like Country Living - were born of a renewed interest in our collective past, spurred by America's bicentennial in 1976. I've always been a history buff, a genealogist and a lover of antiques and casual style, so these publications were a boon to my imagination - and my stress level.

I learned yesterday that Country Home is folding. Last week, I read that Cottage Living, a relative newcomer, will stop publication. Victoria magazine, the gracious and genteel creation of a thoughtful editor named Nancy Lindemeyer, folded in 2003 (when I need it most!) and came back last year, a pale shadow of its former literary self, published by another company that just doesn't seem to understand that the presentation must come from broad base of cultural knowledge that perhaps can only be possible with an editorial staff of a certain age and education level.

What will I read at night?

Oh, we've got hundreds of books on our shelves and two lovely libraries to serve us. I've purchased dozens of lovely coffee table books over the years. But the experience of turning a new page to some unexpected loveliness will be gone. I will still have Country Living to sooth me, but that too is a mere copy of its cozy self, the self that it was when the late Jo Northrup wrote "Simple Country Pleasures" (shades of Gladys Taber and Faith Baldwin!) and Bo Niles was on the editorial staff. (Read the magazines long enough and the editors and writers become your friends.)

I'll get by.

I think there is an upside to this. These publications, lovely as the were in their heyday of about 15 years ago, are similar to the glossy, high-fashion mags in that they often create unrealistic expectations of what our lives and homes should be like. I like fresh flowers in my office, but I'm afraid that they only make an appearance in my home two or three times a year. And my kitchen cupboards are never tidy, nor are my countertops. My coffee table and some of the chairs in my dining room are piled high with - what else? - magazines.

Maybe without these pretty friends to page through, I can come up with some lifestyle ideas of my own. Maybe, just maybe, my home will begin to reflect me, not some style editor's idea of who I should be.

Now to be fair, these magazines and others like them are descriptive rather than prescriptive. But really, don't you think they raise the bar just a little too high for the average person? I think they might.

Still, I will miss them. And - perhaps perversely - I miss the person I was when they meant so much to me at the end of a bad day: Eager, bright-eyed and looking for new ideas.