Albi

Right, so I posted the photo of Albi and never got to relate the story that went with it.

A friend of mine from London came down for a weekend visit, earlier this month. I decided to made a steak tartar Friday night for all three of us. I got the beef from a trusted butcher, and I saw the machine it was minced in. It looked shiny and clean, and the beef came out smooth as butter. At our supermarket -- called Intermarché, a small one by comparison, with only 12 aisles rather than the 40-60 at Carrefour, Le Clercq or Auchan which tempt you to buy more than you should -- we bought the eggs, cornichons (mini piquant pickles), capers, yellow onion, parsley, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce and other sauces to mix into the steak tartar. I mixed the chopped cornichons, onion, parsley and capers into the steak tartar, then shaped them like a doughnut on each plate and sat an egg yolk in the middle of each. We ate all 600 g of the steak, which was an impressive amount in my opinion.

The next morning, I became violently ill and had to buy some Immodium. But my friend and my Hubbie were fine. So I ask, could it have been the beef? My friend said people's stomachs react differently to different foods. Okay, that makes sense. But to this extent? Everyone had their own egg yolk, so that was the one distinguishing factor amongst our individual plates. So I am convinced I had a bad egg. I usually have a stomach of iron (c'mon, you're talking to a sushi-loving Japanese here), so there must have been something terribly wrong with that egg.

Anyway, we drove to Albi that morning and I made it without having to stop for a toilet break. When we got there, the sun was shining. We found the historic centre and parked in a lot that looked out onto the Tarn river. We were surrounded by brick and timber buildings, some of which looked ready to fall down. To a native Californian who never knew buildings older than 40 years old existed, it was a beautiful sight.

We walked up the steep path toward the massive cathedral and spent an hour in the Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, just next door. I found Toulouse-Lautrec's posters of can-can girls and circus acts comforting somehow, like they were old friends. Then it occurred to me it's because it's this style that is used on the walls and matchboxes of Café Lalo in New York, where I spent many happy hours eating obscenely large desserts with good friends.

Then we wandered around and found the town's market, which was by far the cleanest one I've ever seen. There was stainless steel everywhere, and metal grates on the floor. I felt like I was in a Carrefour-pretending-to-be-a-market market. Nevertheless, you had your butchers, bakers, cheese-makers, green grocers and Chinese food stall all there, side by side. Amidst the hustle and bustle of town regulars and tourists, shouting kids and vendors, it still had its rustic appeal.

Around the tabacs, posters advertised Albi's bid to be deemed a Unesco World Heritage site. Old Frenchmen lounged nearby, smoking pipes and drinking their aperitifs, and I imagined (as I don't understand French very well,) that they were proud of their town and discussing their chances. Judging by the views, the ambience and the glorious crumbling buildings around town, I would give it my vote, even if it lacks public toilets...

Roasted red pepper quiche

Back to my discoveries in quiche-making...

A few days ago I made a quiche using 100 g lardons (thick bacon chunks), 150 g grated emmental cheese, 3 eggs, 200 ml light cream, 1 pinch of cayenne pepper and 1 roasted red pepper cut into strips and arranged on top to look nice. Also, of course, salt and pepper.

The taste was okay, but the quiche was not its fluffy self. Is that because I cracked the eggs into a bowl that already had the cream in it, rather than into an empty bowl? Maybe the eggs need to be on their own to be beaten well enough, to get air into them so that the quiche rises as it cooks. I will let you know the next time I try...

He's just a guest

This morning I met with Nelly, who is trying to improve her English, in a café in a place (pronounced "plahss") populated by small gift shops, generations-old merceries and tea salons. We spoke for the first hour in English, then for my sake, in French.

One of the many things we spoke of was her daughter's upcoming wedding and how a former next-door neighbour called her recently, not to congratulate her, but to ask how she would cope once her daugher moved out of the house. To this ex-neighbour, the wedding was more a cause of grief than of celebration.

"The woman has two grown-up children living at home, one of them is 28 years old," said my English student/French teacher, shaking her head. "We don't get along very well for several reasons, one of which being, she never learned Dolto."

Who? Who is Dolto and what did he say? It turns out Francoise Dolto was a (female) French psychoanalyst who specialised in children and changed the way doctors and the public alike regarded children. From what Nelly said, Dolto suggested at the time (1940s) that children should be treated by parents as guests. As GUESTS? As guests. Wow. That is revolutionary.

But maybe it isn't.

My mom would laugh. She is Japanese and learned her parenting from Confucian/Buddhist/Shintoist parents who expected their children to, for all intents and purposes, worship them. She comes from a country where people used to, and still do in some parts, have 3 generations in one household and hold ancestor worship rituals. I grew up with the feeling I owed her a terribly large amount of money for raising me. Maybe this would be common sense to her. "Of course you owe me," I can imagine her saying. "You were just a guest, after all."

It is a scary thing raising a kid. I can attest to that. Whatever I say and do, I know I'm having an impact on my son. It is a massive responsibility that occasionally gives me nightmares. But it's true that someday, he will leave. He will make his own home. He will (hopefully) have his own family. Is this "treat him like a guest" mentality more for my own protection when he leaves, or more for his own protection, so that I don't guilt-trip him when he does? My mom seems to have gotten it right on the one hand, but on the other, maybe didn't do so well, because the guilt-trip lasted such a loooong time. Or, if one gets it perfectly right, will it allow one's child to become more his own person, somehow?

More food for thought.

Sorry folks, but I have half-baked this blog entry and hope to return to Dolto later...

We're here to stay!

What a relief and an answer to prayer: Hubbie got confirmed in his job last Thursday. That means the probationary period is over, and has also not been renewed -- whew! So we are officially permanent residents of this lovely, lively little town. I feel like we can now put down roots, start an herb garden, etc etc. Not really -- we would like to move to a bigger flat soon, and then we wouldn't be able to appreciate the herbs planted here. But I am SO looking forward to planting an herb garden, starting with flat-leaf parsley, basil and thyme...

On a side note, we had our first date night in years two Fridays ago. We went to a posh restaurant that seemed to only serve duck (a specialty of this region, but even so...), and then we went to the coolest bar I've been to in... a decade??? I felt well out of place in my uptight clothes and jewelry which I only wear on special occasions. We spent wayyyy too much money on the regional duck dishes and felt a bit silly about it. But the point is, we actually did it. It was the first time in years we were out, and we need more practice at it, but it's good to be reminded we are firstly a couple and secondly, parents.