12 July 2012

Paris: Three Waiters Waiting in Place Dauphine

My next food post will have to wait, because Mr. FKIA mistakenly tossed some of the fixings away.

These things happen. I was only mildly irritated. Life's too short to be upset about small things that can be fixed.

Some people do.

But patience is something I've learned.

I had to snap the photo above quickly because I was afraid one of the waiters would separate from the group. I like the symmetry of three (or five) of anything. It was taken on a lovely Sunday in May in Paris. The restaurant was about to open.

Last night we ate at a casual, family restaurant along the shore, and I had a pulled pork sandwich. It was wonderful! The pork was topped with coleslaw. I love coleslaw!

This recipe from Kalyn sounds wonderful, too! Note that it is made with a slow cooker, so patience is required. The guacamole serves the same purpose as the cole slaw. Different tastes, different textures alway appeal to me.

Here's another slow cooker recipe from Christine that looks appealing. In my book, Christine is the Queen of Taste Pairings.

09 July 2012

Grandma Annie's Kitchen Door

On warm summer days, Grandma Annie's kitchen was breezy and cool, thanks to a complex but purely accidental system of cross breezes from east and and west. The new exterior door that opened into the remodeled pantry and the adjacent "back bedroom" windows allowed the easterly breezes to enter the room while the lone kitchen window and the window and exterior door off the back hallway provided access for westerly winds.

Annie's house, which probably has it roots in 1863 when the neighborhood was developed, grew  higgledy-piggledy over the last decades of the 19th century, serving once as a general store with an owner's flat above and later, when Annie's father (known to longtime readers as Pépere) renovated the structure in 1930, a stately, two-flat house with little setback from Dunlap Avenue and Bellevue Street where they intersect in the heart of Frenchtown. Annie lived most of her adult life in the downstairs flat, but spent her childhood living upstairs.

The hallway that ran along one side of the downstairs flat included an exterior door that allowed us to enter and exit on Bellevue Street. The egg man and the man who sold peas and beans used this door. The hallway was cold and mostly unused in winter, except for vegetable storage. It connected Annie's heart-of-the-house kitchen with the back room, a sort of keeping room where my grandmother stored extra pots and pans in a large red bead-and-board cabinet, surely built by Pépere, as well as her sewing machine, her cheese box full of old recipes and her herb-drying rack.

The door between the kitchen and hallway was a heavy, 19th century model with two windows, painted a dark brown on one side and creamy white on the other. When the family who bought the house from my aunt nine years ago gutted the interior - bringing the structure into its third century and creating a comfortable one-family home - they gave the door to my sister. She uses it as garden art.

I think it looks charming in her garden, don't you? It's like having Grandma Annie with us.

Annie's sewing machine is now in my sister's living room, while Pépere's garden cabinet is part of mine. Once I've cleaned it out, I promise it will make its way into a post here.

In the upstairs flat, where my grandparents reared Annie and her siblings, Pépere built an early version of kitchen cabinet, with a flour or vegetable bin, utensil drawers and other conveniences that rival today's fashionable and efficient kitchens. I wish I had taken a photo of this kitchen before the house was sold.

No matter, for that kitchen lives on in my memories, too.

08 July 2012

A Taste of Catalonia: Escalivada

The heat spell broke Friday night with a mild thunderstorm and a refreshing rain, and Saturday we woke up to a rejuvenating coolness. Thankfully, the day was never hot enough to be uncomfortable, so we gathered in my sister's back yard in there heart of town for a girls' night. My brother, visiting from Illinois, left for his class reunion, but my brother-in-law gamely stuck around for a Catalan treat: Escalivada, prepared by Anna, the family's summer exchange student, a truly delightful and self possessed young lady.

We grownups sipped a plummy, jammy Michigan rose wine while Anna coated with olive oil and then roasted one very large eggplant and 4-5 red peppers - smaller, she note, than in her country - along with a huge, sweet onion wrapped in foil, carefully turning the vegetables for even cooking. Once the vegetables were thoroughly roasted, she allowed them to cool a bit before carefully peeling them.

Anna sliced tomatoes in half the long way while my brother-in-law toasted slices of bread on the grill. Once the bread was toasted, Anna instructed us to rub it with tomatoes, making sure to soak the bread with tomato juice. Next, we piled the bread high with the eggplant, which was almost a spread-like consistency, and then the peeled peppers. Next came onions, anchovies and a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese, plus a dash of sea salt.

The result was an open-faced sandwich. Here is a more detailed set of instructions, basically the same approach as Anna's. Read more here.

There are apparently other approaches, including using garlic instead of onion. We ate our escalivada with a refreshing green salad.

It reminded me so much of the ratatouille I will be making soon. The farm stands are up! Our warm spring has brought an early harvest.

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01 July 2012

A Simple Chèvre, Chive and Green Onion Dip

In the early years of our marriage, my husband and I braved the high-summer crowds to spend the Fourth of July holiday on Wisconsin's Door County Peninsula. With its harbor towns and fishing villages, farmlands and cherry orchards, Door County was and still is the perfect place for that uniquely American holiday.

We browsed the antique stores and quilt shops, buying fudge for dessert and carved shorebirds for our collection. In the evenings we'd drive up into the hills behind the quaint village of Ephraim, where the air was filled with woodsmoke and birdsong.

One night we saw a group of people on a picnic, with tables set up in the sunken foundations of an old farmhouse. I was certain these were the descendants of the original homesteaders, returning to the daily seat to mark Independence Day.

My ancestors were not among the Scandinavians and Belgians who settled Door County; they were among the Irish and French Canadians who settled 17 miles across the Bay of Green Bay. But they too marked the Fourth of July with gatherings at the home of my grandmother in Frenchtown, which with its old barn, garden and ample yard, felt rural, even though it was a block from the neighborhood's commercial center.

Fourth of July at Grandma Annie's will always conjure memories of berry pies, fresh vegetables, grilled chicken and potato chips (all washed down with Coca Cola).

Potato chips are a family weakness. We love them. We love them plain and we love them with dip. So as you must know by now, I love experimenting with dip.

For this holiday's dip, I took a look in my refrigerator and another look in my garden. This is what I came up with:

Chèvre, Chive and Green Onion Dip

  • 1 four-ounce log of chevre, softened
  • 1/2 cup cream cheese, softened
  • 1 tablespoon mayonnaise
  • 3 green onions, chopped
  • 1 tablespoon chives, chopped
  • dash honey-dijon or grainy mustard (optional)
  • dash sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Blend the first three ingredients in a small bowl and allow to soften at room temperature. I used multiple blade herb scissors to chop the chives and the green portion of the onions. Have a bowl of chips at the ready so you can taste test as you go along. The mustard is purely a matter of taste. So are the seasonings. Allow the flavors to marry before serving.

The dip should be rustic - that is, coarse, not smooth. Serve it with fresh green pepper strips, cucumbers, carrots, radishes, bagel chips and of course, potato chips.

25 June 2012

Yes, We Went to Paris

Some of you may recall that last winter we abandoned planning a trip to my husband's family's hometown in Cornwall to return to Paris, following a dream I had that made waking up on a dark January morning nearly unbearable.

We traveled to Paris in May, landing on a warm and breezy Thursday. Our shuttle driver took us through St. Denis and Clichy, dropping off three other couples in various locations before bringing us to the Parc Saint-Severin near the Cluny in mid-afternoon. We loved our sixth-floor room with its tiny private deck. 

We ate at cafes in the Latin Quarter, buying provisions at FranPrix and Monoprix in between. The wheat roll above, presented on a tray that reflects the sunny Paris skies we enjoyed, was delicious. It's from Monoprix, as for some reason, there were no patisseries in our neighborhood, a rare occurrence in Paris.

We discovered some new neighborhoods (new to us), including Canal St. Martin and Place Dauphine and dawdled on St. Andre des Arts and Rue Dauphine. I shopped at Le Rouvray, the American quilt store on the Left Bank, buying fat quarters for L, my talented hair-stylist who is also an award-winning quilter.

We were in Paris the day Francois Hollande was sworn into office. For several days prior, we noticed huge police presence on Ile de la Cité and in Place Maubert. On the day he took over, the skies over Paris were filled with police helicopters.

I discovered a new scent, Bois Farine from L'Artsian Perfumeur, and ordered a bottle to mark my return to personal freedom in the fall. It smells like baking bread and peanut butter and dries down to a powdery sandalwood.

You can never get enough of Paris. It stays with you always, teasing you more on certain days and at certain times, but always with you, quietly.

12 March 2012

Weighing In, Paring Down

The kerfuffle over the Grand Forks, N.D., reporter who reviewed Olive Garden and then went viral got me thinking that it's been a while since I posted something here.

It reminded me of the time I held Biscuit Mix Baking Day after a snarky locovore made a snide comment about Rachael Ray using Bisquick. A whole lot of bloggers jumped on the bandwagon and we had a lot of fun with it. The recipes they contributed were great. I should point out that this experiment is marking an anniversary of sorts: It was five years ago this week.

Since that time, I have only used Bisquick or its clones once or twice, not because I've suddenly become a food snob, but because a whole lot of carbs have a way of wreaking havoc with my stomach (same with no-carb diets - obviously my digestive system likes balance as much as I do). I look and feel better when I limit carbs.

But I won't hesitate to use it if a recipe I want to try calls for it. Tonight, assembling some book bags to give to the Newspaper in Education book sale here, I (sadly) got rid of a few of those slender cookbooks you find at grocery store checkouts. These were recipes for muffins and items made with Bisquick. It's bittersweet, but I'm getting older and can't eat the way I could 25 years ago.

I've become a bit of a locovore myself in the past five years, joining CSA two years in a row and most summers, not missing a whole lot of farm markets. But I'll never be a snob, and I'll probably to continue to explore some new packaged food in stores. I'm addicted to certain things, like flavored cream cheeses and honey-dijon almonds and some of the interesting things they've been doing to Triscuits (a use for wheat I seem to tolerate well).

Time and space are at a premium these days. So I'm downsizing, looking for changes to make that take the stress from my life.

I've culled other cookbooks from my collection, jettisoning those that are too fancy-schmany or two focused on carbs or sugar. It's a good feeling, paring down. It's going to be an on-going chore for me over the next 2-3 years.

The photo above is from my local farm market CSA box. It's fun not knowing what your box will hold.

A little bit like taking a step towards a new life. You aren't sure what your future will hold.

Stay tuned.

08 January 2012


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...