Peeps followup

Inquiring minds have been asking about Peeps. Did I actually eat them? What did I think? How would I describe them?

I did indeed try the Peeps, just after posting the last blog in fact. I slid my fingers under the plastic, breaking into it from the side, making sure to tilt the box so that the radiation-orange sugar spilled to the other side without escaping all over the floor. The plastic pulled back just enough to reach two fingers in, I went for a marshmallow chick. They looked far more menacing and surreal than I’d realized at first. Their beaks often curling strangely back under and little brown points for eyes started straight ahead despite literally being attached at the hip to one another. My thumb and index pinched together over one of the little orange creations and pulled him away from his friends, revealing a torn white patch on his side where he had moments before been cozied up to his neighbor. Then I took a bite, head first I think.

It was horrible.

I could feel my face scrunching up into a look of surprised horror. I knew they were not good, but I thought it would be in a “haha, they are so bad for me, but they are so bad they are good!” kind of way. No. Whatever dye they use to color the chicks in their strange neon colors cannot be made of anything that comes from nature. The taste is sweet but nothing from this world. The sugar crunches and the marshmallow dissolves at first bite and it is a most disturbing textual sensation of things in your teeth but also disappearing without any effort on your own part. For some reason, I finished that first Peep, then after cleansing my mouth with water, I, crazily, reached for another just to confirm that it really is as bad as it seemed. It was. More water and my chocolate Easter bunny lost his ears for the sake of my palate’s purity. The plastic was pulled back over the evilly glowing chicks and they were shoved into the cabinet, the door slammed after them.

To my shame, and great confusion, that was not the end of the Peeps. Perhaps if I had been sensible and just thrown the demonic things in the trash where they belong I would have been safe but that was not the case. For the next several days Peeps kept disappearing from the cabinet. One by one I’d pull them away from their friends, the marshmallow at their sides stretching then breaking free to be shoved in my guilty mouth. One by one till they were all gone, nothing left but the plastic, their little cardboard box and a bunch of disturbingly colored sugar. I was tempted to put them in the microwave, as I did with marshmallows as a child. I never did, but watched a friend sacrifice one of his pink chicks to the radiation and watched as it grew, expanding out from the exposed marshmallow on its sides, the rest held in check by the sugar crystals, to then deflate as soon as the power was off.

The Peep deflated and thankfully so has my fascination with the little creatures. Thank goodness, I’m home free, at least for another year.

Happy Easter

I sold my soul to the devil. Or rather, to the Easter Bunny. He held me up with colored eggs and promises of chocolate and I ran right out to fill my end of the bargain. I bought Peeps. Yes, Peeps, those neon colored sugar-marshmallow chicks that appear every year at Easter. For some strange reason, this year the sugary creations have been torturing me. They’ve been demanding that I follow the tradition of children all over America to consume these strange little creatures.

To be honest, I’ve yet to breach the package. It is slightly frightening. The weird orange color promises the inclusion of strange food coloring. The sliding swish of unnaturally colored sugar crystals falling from side to side across the plastic sounds oddly ominous. Yet I will eat them. Probably right after writing this. More proof that this world is a strange place, that we can be tempted by things we know, absolutely know, are bad for us. Even worse, we crave those terrible things, the overly processed foods, strangely colored, preserved and formed into unnatural shapes and flavors.



Fortunately for me, the Peeps appear just once a year. Once a year is not going to kill me. I’ll make myself feel better with some high quality chocolate from Chuao chocolatier in the form of a bunny (ears first, of course) knowing that even if it is not an apple at least there aren’t any unpronounceable mystery ingredients. Despite all this, and maybe because of it, I will enjoy my neon chicks and give the Easter Bunny his due.

Just a Thought

This is Just to Say
-William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


“If it ain’t a pleasure, it ain’t a poem.” William Carlos Williams made this declaration, and I have to agree. That pleasure is shared between poetry and eating. I love poetry and food interweaving such as in WCW’s poem I put above. Through his words you can almost taste the deliciously sweet and cold plums snuck from the icebox, your own mouth watering at the description.

A good poem leaves a mark, enriches the mind, makes you think and leaves a fizzy-effervescent pleasure running across the tongue as it is read out. It is complete, round and wholesome like whole-grain bread, fresh from the oven. There’s something to chew on, grains and seeds to crunch through, soft pillows and air pockets for breath. The crust may be hard but a slice of a knife or fingers twisting-tearing at the loaf/poem releases a fragrant cloud enveloping nose and mind. It settles into hair and clothes of waft out with a brush of the hand, repercussions clinging so poetry becomes bread and life and nourishing, and most importantly, a pleasure.

The Great Tablecloth

Pablo Neruda (translated by Alastair Reid)

When they were called to the table,
the tyrants came rushing
with their temporary ladies,
it was fine to watch the women pass
like wasps with big bosoms
followed by those pale
and unfortunate public tigers.

The peasant in the field ate
his poor quota of bread,
he was alone, it was late,
he was surrounded by wheat,
but he had no more bread,
he ate it with grim teeth,
looking at it with hard eyes.

In the blue hour of eating,
the infinite hour of the roast,
the poet abandons his lyre,
take up his knife and fork,
puts his glass on the table,
and the fishermen attend
the little sea of the soup bowl.
Burning potatoes protest
among the tongues of oil.
The lamb is gold on its coals
and the onion undresses.
It is sad to eat in dinner clothes,
like eating in a coffin,
but eating in convents
is like eating underground.
Eating alone is a disappointment,
but not eating matters more,
is hollow and green, has thorns
like a chain of fish hooks
trailing from the heart,
clawing at your insides.

Hunger feels like pincers,
like the bite of crabs,
it burns, burns and has no fire.
Hunger is a cold fire.
Let us sit down soon to eat
with all those who haven't eaten;
let us spread great tablecloths,
put salt in the lakes of the world,
set up planetary bakeries,
tables with strawberries in snow,
and a plate like the moon itself
from which we can all eat.

For now I ask no more
than the justice of eating.

The Holy Trinity: Soup, Chili and Puree

It is supposedly winter, though you may not know it from the sunny California weather out here. But the nights are chilly and we are periodically pounded by bouts of rain that at least give us the vague impression that we have changed seasons.

Thus my body has taken on a love of cold-weather food. I’ve had cravings for the warming sensation of soups, perhaps a leftover from the wonderfully warming soups that my host mom would make.

So over this quarter I have hit pretty much each kind of soup that you might imagine. I was inspired by my host mother’s potato-leek soup into searching my favorite food blogs for a similar recipe. I stumbled upon that of David Lebowitz and after haphazardly cutting down the amounts (really does one person need to make 6-8 servings of soup) I had a lightly green puree to cozy up with. Ok, I will admit, with all my tinkering the recipe turned out rather bland, but with some generous shakes of the pepper shaker, a pinch of red pepper flakes and some croutons it wasn’t half bad. And as a bonus I got to use my favorite Christmas gift; my immersion blender.



My second craving was for a more standard soup. Actually, I wanted home-made chicken noodle soup, but I am still nervous around raw meat as a result of my stint as a vegetarian and thus I ended up with a vegetable soup. No recipe this time, it was a blending of my own imagination with a few ideas taken from about seven different recipes in the soup section of my Betty Crocker cookbook. This is essentially what I did: sauté up some onion, celery and carrots. Then add vegetable broth and various other cut up vegetables to the pot along with some fresh parsley, a bay leaf, some brown rice and beans; let cook for as long as you can last before hunger gets in the way. The only things I would recommend for this are to not use chickpeas as I did, some other bean would be far more interesting, and to only add things like bell peppers in the last few minutes so they don’t lose their crispness. And of course, salt and pepper to taste, lots of pepper if you are anything like me.


Last night got me to the most successful of my endeavors. I got over that horrible block I have of making things alone that I’m sued to making with my mom. I got the recipe for her vegetarian green chili, which in my family is more like a thick stew than the sauce you see in Mexican restaurants. I don’t know that I can reveal the family recipe but suffice to say that it does involve green chilies, jalapenos, diced tomatoes and fake ground beef which went unnoticed as an imposter. The spices you’ll have to work out yourself. It was quite a surprise that despite my nervousness the chili actually tasted just-like-mom-makes (sorry, Mom, I’ll try not to do so well next time! I’ll still make it with you.). It is always better with crème fraîche rather than sour cream, but after two grocery stores, there was no way that I was going to make a special trip to find it. My only regret is that there wasn’t much in the way of leftovers!

So, if the winter is getting you down, I think the best way to counter the blues (be it blue lips or just the midterm blues) it a nice warm bowl of soup.

Bread

I’ve realized that there are some things that I will cook by myself and others that require another person. Its not that they cannot be done alone or that I don’t know what I am doing but more that I associate that dish with other people and cannot conceive of making it on my own. There are always grand plans of making green chili or risotto churning in the back of the mind, but somehow it just never happens. I need that push of being home, fighting for control of the spatula with my mom and having my dad’s impressive appetite waiting for the creation.


So this weekend I have been home, babysitting Cocoa and Luna, our two dogs, and I of course came home with the big idea that I could get some baking done. Bread to be more specific. Like everyone else, I love bread. Really, is there anyone who when asked says, “oh no, I really just don’t care for bread.”? Nope, pretty sure that person doesn’t exist. There are many people who don’t like certain kinds of breads; white bread vs. wheat, baguette vs. country loaf, soft vs. crusty; but that’s certainly not the same thing as disliking bread entirely. Pretty sure there is some kind of bread in every culture in this world from the French baguette all the way to a Mexican tortilla, which probably explains the universal love for this simple staple of the human diet.


So a weekend at home by myself, with a large kitchen unencumbered by a roommate’s culinary creations and an oven that can be trusted seemed like a perfect opportunity. Yet somehow the hours slipped by and the allure of fresh, home-baked bread remained an imaginary ideal. Bread has settled itself in my mind as something that is done with other people. The hours spent waiting for the dough to rise seemed empty and lonely without someone to laugh and joke with.


During my sejour in Bordeaux, my host dad and I would bake up a loaf occasionally. The bread coming out as a dense country loaf bursting with seeds and always on the edge of being too yeasty since he always wanted it to be lighter and bigger, not realizing that he’d need a different recipe and probably more time to let it rise. Upon my return, my dad and I finally made good on our plans to bake together. When my parents were first married my dad would bake bread often, but with the passing of years and the busyness of work the baking turned into a lovely memory. However, after persistent begging and a need for bonding time after four months of separation, we made it happen.


We went on a mad baking storm Christmas day, with frantic trips to find a grocery store that was open and not sold out of yeast, cutting down recipes to make up for the fact that none could be found and then deciding to make extra bread when more yeast appeared from swirling black hole of the pantry. The entire afternoon and evening were spent mixing, kneading, finding an excellent use for the poor, ignored warming oven (as a warm, dry place to let the dough rise) and much impatient waiting as the breads rose, then were punched down, only to rise again, be punched, formed and risen again before even making it into the oven.


It was truly delightful, a pleasure for all the senses, and a wonderful time for just spending an afternoon with my dad. We both enjoyed being dusted with flour and mixing the dough with our fingers. And of course, the best was when the loaves finally came out of the oven, smelling like heaven and bursting steam with the first cut of the bread knife. Spread with butter which instantly melted into the white flesh of the slice there was a moment nearing perfect ecstasy eating those fresh, warm bites of our creation. Thus, no bread was baked despite the best of intentions, but I can always hope for more bonding time to come.

Thanksgiving in France

Thanksgiving, a day for being home with family, eating ridiculous amounts of food and being thankful for what we have. I am very thankful for my experience here in France. I’ve successfully eaten my way through my sejour, gleaning a much broader French vocabulary and comfort with the language and the people. I’ve made my way through some truly amazing French culture, movies, books, classes and a bit of travel. And its not quite over yet!
Last night, the other California students and I were invited to a Thanksgiving dinner put on by our program along with the Association Bordeaux-USA and the consulate. It was held in a collège or junior high school, which caused some fear on my part with visions of cafeteria food and strange ladies in hairnets dolling out the day’s mystery meat on plastic trays. Unfortunately we were in the cafeteria and there cooks were wearing hairnets and white lab coats, but there were tablecloths, real silverware and we were served the meal at the table.
However, the idea of a traditional thanksgiving has not quite been perfected yet, despite our program’s long experience with Americans.
The meal began with mingling and aperitifs. We got to see our fellow students, most of who had disappeared into Bordeaux seemingly without a trace, and see how people have changed. There were many looking very French with new clothes and (for the girls) and newfound ability to wear heels. A few people were looking thinner, a few a bit plumper from the amazing French food. One guy is growing a moustache and had curled it up at the ends for the occasion.
We sat down for our meal, the Americans clustering together in groups, and the French in their groups. An undrinkable red wine was on the table, and in true college student fashion, my table-mates attacked the bottle without restraint. It is at this point that the “traditional” dinner was to begin.

First course: a salad. Seems normal, right? Not necessarily when there are crevettes (shrimp) with their heads and exoskeletons still attached sitting on the plate along with the carrots, cucumber and one leaf of lettuce.


Second course: the main dish with turkey, stuffing, potatoes, Brussels sprouts and cranberry sauce. This at least seemed slightly normal; sure the turkey was rather dry, as were the 3 tiny potatoes and no gravy in sight to cover it up, and the stuffing just wasn’t “like mama used to make” but at least they had the components right. It’s not like there aren’t many families in the States who badly cook their bird or who pull out an old family recipe for stuffing that makes you wonder if there is any history of mental illness in the family. That’s part of the charm of the holiday season.

Third course: a small bowl with a wedge of cheese artistically placed on a leaf of lettuce. Last time I checked, there was no cheese course at thanksgiving, but hey, “when in Rome” (or France, rather) ….

the french would be lost without the cheese course

Fourth and final course: a proudly presented pumpkin pie. We each receive our plate, confused. What is it? Looking around the room all the Americans have a strange look on their face, ranging from a hopeful puzzlement to near horror. It’s not the right color or texture, and what are those bits in the filling? Nuts? One of our program directors asks us plein d’espoir (full of hope), “Is this right? We try every year to make a traditional American pumpkin pie but it’s never quite right, did we get it right this year?” Unfortunately, no. And unfortunately many plates went back to the kitchen barely touched. (to be fair, it wasn't terrible, it just wasn't what we were expecting)

this is not pumpkin pie

Despite the deviations from what we might consider a normal Thanksgiving dinner, it was good to touch base with other people in the program, compare notes on our “French Experience.” It was an excellent validation that I’ve been doing things right and that it seems as if my sejour has been a greater success than many of my compatriots. For that, and for French pastries, I am truly thankful.