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...
We spent New Year's in Perpignan, where it got up to 18 C (65 F)
Sunday, 29 March 2009
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...
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...
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
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...
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...
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Ode to Quiche
One big change in my life since Hubbie has gone back to work is the increased importance of dejeuner (lunch). This is because he works only 15 minutes away by car, so a couple of times a week he comes home for lunch. He doesn't ask for much. I could put a tuna sandwich in front of him and he'd be happy. Yesterday all he had was bread and a tin of Saladiere, and he didn't complain. But today, I thought I would try my best to be a good wife. I thought, if he's coming home, he shouldn't just come home to canned fish. So I made a quiche.
Last weekend I bought a roll of ready-made pastry crust (the crust is brisée, not sure what you'd call it in English). It occurred to me the French traditionally made quiches to use up leftovers. What a great idea! I looked through my fridge and tried to match what I saw with one of the quiche recipes I had. Eggs, tick. Cream, tick. Then I thought, Hold on a sec. This is simple stuff. It's always the same basic things (eggs, cream, emmental cheese), just slightly different added bits.
I had a leek and lardons fumées (like little pieces of thick, smoked bacon). So why not? I fried up the 100 g lardons and then added the sliced leek (just the white part). I splashed a bit of water in it to keep the leek from getting crunchy (other recipes used stock, but I didn't have the time nor inclination). In a bowl I mixed together 4 eggs and 200 ml light cream and then 100-150 g grated emmental. I didn't mess with splitting yolks and whites. I didn't even use the scale to measure the emmental. Hey now, that's exciting! Then a dash of salt, pepper and ground nutmeg (or cayenne pepper, but my 21-month old doesn't like the kick).
Once the leek was soft, I added the lardons and leek into the wet mix. Some perfectionist's recipe tells you to "sprinkle" the lardons over the crust to make sure it gets evenly distributed. To that I say, What a waste of time!
I wanted to add a tin of button mushrooms but then I remembered who this was for, and he hates mushrooms. Anyone ever try putting canned mushrooms in a quiche? Was it good?
With well-clipped nails, it should only take at most 5 minutes to stretch the crust over the baking pan you're using and poke holes in the bottom with a fork. I had taken the dough out of the fridge well in advance, but it took way too long for me to press the dough into the ridges of the pan as I tried to avoid getting nail marks in the dough. Once that was done and the wet mix was in the crust, I realised I had turned on the oven way too late. Now I had to wait for the oven to heat all the way to 180 C. Fortunately, Hubbie arrived at 12:30 and not 12, and the quiche was ready at 12:40. Presented with a bit of salad, voila. And not only did he like it, but his finicky son did too. I think we'll be eating a lot of quiche for the next few weeks.
Last weekend I bought a roll of ready-made pastry crust (the crust is brisée, not sure what you'd call it in English). It occurred to me the French traditionally made quiches to use up leftovers. What a great idea! I looked through my fridge and tried to match what I saw with one of the quiche recipes I had. Eggs, tick. Cream, tick. Then I thought, Hold on a sec. This is simple stuff. It's always the same basic things (eggs, cream, emmental cheese), just slightly different added bits.
I had a leek and lardons fumées (like little pieces of thick, smoked bacon). So why not? I fried up the 100 g lardons and then added the sliced leek (just the white part). I splashed a bit of water in it to keep the leek from getting crunchy (other recipes used stock, but I didn't have the time nor inclination). In a bowl I mixed together 4 eggs and 200 ml light cream and then 100-150 g grated emmental. I didn't mess with splitting yolks and whites. I didn't even use the scale to measure the emmental. Hey now, that's exciting! Then a dash of salt, pepper and ground nutmeg (or cayenne pepper, but my 21-month old doesn't like the kick).
Once the leek was soft, I added the lardons and leek into the wet mix. Some perfectionist's recipe tells you to "sprinkle" the lardons over the crust to make sure it gets evenly distributed. To that I say, What a waste of time!
I wanted to add a tin of button mushrooms but then I remembered who this was for, and he hates mushrooms. Anyone ever try putting canned mushrooms in a quiche? Was it good?
With well-clipped nails, it should only take at most 5 minutes to stretch the crust over the baking pan you're using and poke holes in the bottom with a fork. I had taken the dough out of the fridge well in advance, but it took way too long for me to press the dough into the ridges of the pan as I tried to avoid getting nail marks in the dough. Once that was done and the wet mix was in the crust, I realised I had turned on the oven way too late. Now I had to wait for the oven to heat all the way to 180 C. Fortunately, Hubbie arrived at 12:30 and not 12, and the quiche was ready at 12:40. Presented with a bit of salad, voila. And not only did he like it, but his finicky son did too. I think we'll be eating a lot of quiche for the next few weeks.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
The wrong side of the tracks
From our living room window on the sixth floor, the windswept sky, a municipal sanitation warehouse and a freight train station take up most of our view. A long nondescript building which I assume functions as train storage or for fixing old trains, runs right to left and seems to divide the multiple lines of rail into two halves. At night, when the fog rolls in and the dim streetlights puncture the dark, we can sometimes see a pair of headlights raking the streets, someone undoubtedly in search of the type of female company that's for sale. Not far from the train tracks is a settlement of people who live on the streets, called in French, SDF (sans domicile-fixe). Many of these SDF, generally the ones who choose to live rough, have large scary dogs who look hungry enough to eat you if you pass too closely. It's said the SDF keep these dogs to deter police arrest, on account of a law stating a dog must be caught and cared for if its owner is arrested. I generally don't have an opinion about the homeless keeping dogs, except when I step in what they so generously leave behind on the pavements.
People tell me this town isn't what it used to be, that it's seen much better days and no one seems to care about it anymore. Now it is a haven for the SDF and other not-so-desirables. To me, it still has a beauty and a history asking to be explored...
People tell me this town isn't what it used to be, that it's seen much better days and no one seems to care about it anymore. Now it is a haven for the SDF and other not-so-desirables. To me, it still has a beauty and a history asking to be explored...
Thursday, 1 January 2009
Was yesterday 2008 or 2007?
I have never been a good time keeper. Deadlines, seasons and appointments either stress me out to no end or catch me off guard. As a native southern Californian, I grew up taking the seasons for granted. It was always warm, except for the mornings when a jacket would suffice. Living in New York came as a shock to say the least, with its freezing winters and summers so hot, the tires on my inline skates melted on the asphalt. I wasn't too successful in London either, though it should have been easier as it was winter all year round.
Living in France and being part of a French family seem to be helping me reform. The French are forcing me to be more in tune with time. Here, people like being constrained by time, seasons, etc. They know when different fruits, vegetables, cheeses and seafoods are in season. They look forward to eating the next season's harvest. I tried shopping for figs out of season, and it was not possible to find them because no one has imported fruit and veg. (There is produce from other EU states and countries under French possession, but that doesn't count.) No one was making a fuss about this, although in London there are always certain fruit and veg because everything is imported, and people would certainly kick up a stink about not having figs at their local Tesco.
The French keep such a rigorous watch on the time of day, as well. In my husband's family, they consider it impossible to have lunch if it does not start before 2 PM. As a result, they think eating breakfast anytime after 10 AM will spoil your lunch.
We rung in the new year last night with the family. We had a reveillon that lasted until 1:30 AM, starting with a raw oyster starter, a plate of escargots, a trou normand (apple sorbet with Calvados), a filet steak with dauphinoise potatoes, fromage and salad, and finally, dessert. Before the feast, we actually had a family discussion about what time aperitifs should be served in order for us to be finished around midnight. During the meal, my mother-in-law kept the time on her wristwatch so that we wouldn't miss the countdown to midnight.
I thought this was normal until I realised even when we hosted New Year's Eve dinners, we did not make a conscious effort to make it to midnight. It was rather nice to find we were 10 minutes to midnight when we had cleaned off our last bite of dinner!
In years past, I often made resolutions to improve my time management skills. Perhaps this year I can be more informed in my resolution-making, thanks to my French family:
Living in France and being part of a French family seem to be helping me reform. The French are forcing me to be more in tune with time. Here, people like being constrained by time, seasons, etc. They know when different fruits, vegetables, cheeses and seafoods are in season. They look forward to eating the next season's harvest. I tried shopping for figs out of season, and it was not possible to find them because no one has imported fruit and veg. (There is produce from other EU states and countries under French possession, but that doesn't count.) No one was making a fuss about this, although in London there are always certain fruit and veg because everything is imported, and people would certainly kick up a stink about not having figs at their local Tesco.
The French keep such a rigorous watch on the time of day, as well. In my husband's family, they consider it impossible to have lunch if it does not start before 2 PM. As a result, they think eating breakfast anytime after 10 AM will spoil your lunch.
We rung in the new year last night with the family. We had a reveillon that lasted until 1:30 AM, starting with a raw oyster starter, a plate of escargots, a trou normand (apple sorbet with Calvados), a filet steak with dauphinoise potatoes, fromage and salad, and finally, dessert. Before the feast, we actually had a family discussion about what time aperitifs should be served in order for us to be finished around midnight. During the meal, my mother-in-law kept the time on her wristwatch so that we wouldn't miss the countdown to midnight.
I thought this was normal until I realised even when we hosted New Year's Eve dinners, we did not make a conscious effort to make it to midnight. It was rather nice to find we were 10 minutes to midnight when we had cleaned off our last bite of dinner!
In years past, I often made resolutions to improve my time management skills. Perhaps this year I can be more informed in my resolution-making, thanks to my French family:
- I resolve to eat seasonally, to plan in advance for birthdays, holidays and special occasions, and to maintain regular contact with those I care about.
- I will try to busy my hands when it's light outside, to feel tired when it's dark.
- I will try to wear a watch at all times.
- I will try to use my organizer regularly.
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