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.

Eco-friendly France

Typically I struggle with the idea of eating rabbit, I can’t quite get over the fact that I love my friend’s pet rabbit, Penelope, and that I would someday like to have my very own bunny, cute and fluffy with long ears and a cotton-ball tail. But I have kept true to my decision to eat whatever is offered to me, no matter how frightening or saddening I might find it.
Over the weekend we were staying in Dordogne at a lodging place run by the church. The good sisters follow the rule of “waste not, want not.” Thus, they make their evening herbal tea from plants and herbs that they either find in the garden or that they collect when walking out in the countryside. So the first morning we were there, I was admiring the fog that had settled into the valley when my host father called me into the kitchen saying they needed help and to hurry. So I scurried into the kitchen in order to be confronted by the sight of a dead rabbit bleeding on the prep table in the kitchen. One of the sisters was prepping it so that we could eat it for dinner. Apparently she was left a note early that morning that the next meal was waiting out on the road. The poor rabbit had made an unfortunate choice when trying to cross the road and thus became meat for the pot. I got a front row seat at the spectacle of rabbit skinning, watching as the nun sliced around and up the legs to free the skin to be pulled off in one piece, revealing a broken front leg. As she did so I tried not to think and just listened as she explained what she was doing and added in an interesting anecdote.
Why do butchers leave the feet and head on a rabbit when they sell them at the market? It is in order to prove that they are indeed selling a rabbit and not a cat because apparently the two animals look the same without the head and feet.”
Apparently if you don’t know what you are eating, the taste is the same too. Who knew that cats taste somewhat gamey, as the rabbit did?
As difficult as it was to get over the idea that I was to eat road kill, I very much respect the fact that nothing is being wasted. In some ways you see this often in French cooking. Hard, old bread is used for making soups such as the famous French Onion Soup that you find in all the chic restaurants. The broth left over from a pot au feu is later used for a traditional soup to which vermicelli noodles are added. When we cut up vegetables for dinner, the left over ends are given to the family pet gerbil along with any boxes and cartons that are empty and will fit in his cage. My host mother considers it a great waste to throw out dried out bread or to feed it to the ducks at the park; if she doesn’t use the bread in soup she gives it to her father for his chickens. I wonder if the idea of the “lucky rabbit’s foot” came about because someone did not want to waste any part of the animal?

Medieval jardin potager (kitchen garden) in Dordogne

It is strange to remember that that my hippie-ecological side was slightly afraid to come to France thinking that they had no consciousness for the environment. But it is not so at all. We are very good here about putting things in the recycling bin or in the box outside the door for glass. I get scolded if I rinse something before putting it in the dishwasher or before putting it in the recycling bin because that is a waste of water. Actually, it is encouraged to not wash anything by hand since the dishwasher is very efficient both in the sense of water usage and in the sense that it cleans extremely well. They are very big on saving energy and I was given the “suggestion” to turn off my surge protector whenever I was not charging something because even a surge protector wastes energy with the current passing in and out of it. This advice was given along with the saying “il faut sauver les ours polairs.” In other words, we need to save the polar bears, and now every time I turn off my surge protector I think of polar bears.
Sure, the French do not embrace the idea of vegetarianism and they are still overenthusiastically feeding geese in order to get foie gras, but they are not unconscious of their impact on the world. They are more likely to eat local products, be it meat, poultry or cheese. A large portion of the French actually go to “le marché” (the equivalent to our farmer’s market) buying fruits, vegetables, meats and fish direct. If a fruit or vegetable is not in season, they probably will not buy it. Sure that means that my vegetable consumption is dropping as rapidly as the temperature, but at least fewer veggies are being shipped from all over the world which is rarely an efficient use of natural resources, namely oil. And then there is the key to the French staying thin despite being fearless in the face of butter: they walk! Or they take public transportation like the tram here in Bordeaux.
France: no longer just the gastronomic capital of the world, but now also eco-friendly!

foie gras anyone?

Europeans do it better

Europeans really know how to live. We are not just talking about the French here, but Europeans in general. On a quick weekend trip to Holland I was given a sneak-peak at what Europeans consider normal, but which seems fantastic by American standards.
Let’s start with the most basic, the airplane. Sure the seats have gotten closer together, the planes packed as full as possible, just as you might find on an American airline but there is a certain amount of service that is given that is nearly unheard of these days. The flight attendants are perfectly dressed, coiffed and even beautifully choreographed with their “in the case of an emergency” demonstration to the point where it practically becomes a dance. The announcements are given in two and sometimes three languages to accommodate all the different nationalities. Despite the fact that the flight between Bordeaux and Amsterdam is only an hour and a half, the passengers are not thrown a tiny packet of pretzels or peanuts as the flight attendants run down the length of the plane looking flustered and pressed for time. Instead, you are served neatly wrapped sandwiches, nothing fancy, but much more substantial and much more appetizing than stale pretzels. This is done calmly, and followed by the cart with the drinks, which they manage to have pass twice during the short flight, since they have the timing down to perfection and thus have no need to rush. Personally, I found this incredibly civilized and was extremely delighted on my flight home to even be given a delicious biscuit-cookie upon the second passing of the cart to go with the tea and coffee that was offered. Too often on a short flight in our good old U.S of A. you have to beg for anything to eat.
Once on the ground the civility of European culture is continued. I had the good fortune to experience an event which in the US warrants only a brief letter in the mail but which is celebrated in Europe with all the pomp and circumstance that it deserves: an achievement of a full professorship at a university. In general, Europeans give professors and teachers in general much more respect than we give ours. I don’t know if they are paid any better than our professors but at least they are given the respect that they deserve for years and years of work and learning. Unfortunately this means there is a certain amount of social distance between the pupil and the prof., as is immediately explained to us American students, the professor is NOT your friend. Yet this is not the point I am trying to make. My Dad’s friend had the fortune to achieve his full professorship and thus we went to attend the inauguration ceremony and the conference which was to follow celebrating the event.
At least in Holland, the inauguration ceremony for a professor involves dressing up nicely, in other words, there was not a pair of jeans in the room (take note fellow Californians: flip flops are not appropriate for all occasions, as much as we would like them to be so). The women wore dresses and heels and the men were in their suits and ties. The representatives of the university were in full scholarly regalia, velvet robes with colored bands and fringe around the sleeves, strange velvet caps with four corners and those who were still students (I assume) had black suits and those triangular necklace things in fabric with a medallion around their shoulders (I apologize I have no idea what the term is and don’t even know what to search for on the internet.). They all looked extremely official as they paraded down the hall, somewhat like what you might see in a wedding ceremony. Us Americans grouped in the corner were whispering to each other about how amazing this is, how special, and why don’t we do this? The man of the hour gave a lovely speech, in perfect English no less (the Dutch are universally bilingual and speak English as well if not better than we do) then he and his fellow scholars took another ceremonial walk down the aisle, exuding importance.
The ceremony was followed by a reception in the professor’s hall where they pass their thesis exam under the watchful painted eye of the Queen. We however spent our time chatting, looking at the paintings of professors gone by, congratulating the new prof and plowing through the large assortment of wines, beers, juices and hors d’oeuvres. Those of us considered special enough (or like me, accompanying someone special enough) were treated to an elegant dinner afterward. The dinner involved an amuse-bouche (a tiny serving of split pea soup and corned beef and cabbage, in honor of the regional cuisine I suppose), a delicate entrée of scallops and tempura shrimp, un plat de poisson (a white-fleshed fish crusted with poppy seeds and accompanied by artistic swirls of sauce), un plat de viande (a meat dish, in our case duck), dessert (a lovely mango tarte tatin) and to finish, various sugary bon-bons accompanying a petit café. The dishes were beautifully presented a served. My favorite touch was the sauce for the duck being served out of the copper pot in which it was cooked, which I felt gave an air of authenticity to the chic restaurant. By the time the café with its bon-bons arrived I felt ready to pop, but I did my duty as self-appointed culinary correspondent and tried them all, finding them to all be too sweet after the previous indulgences. The meal was accompanied by three different wines: a white which remained from the amuse-bouche until the duck arrived, then a red and then a dessert wine in a lovely amber color. Contrary to my usual preference for reds, I found the white to be the stand out. The dessert wine was far too syrupy for my taste, but I seem to find that I do not enjoy dessert wines. Yet in true European restraint and logic, the portions were not so large that I couldn’t properly walk to the taxi after the meal had ended and I did not feel the next day as if I could never eat again.
Now I cannot claim that I go to many conferences, but from what I have been told, this degree of quality is quite common in Europe but is quite rare in the United States. Perhaps this is a result of the strong hospitality industry in Europe which has many, many schools and involves quite a lot of training. Perhaps this is the result of thousands of years of tradition which we lack in the US and thus we choose a more business-like, efficient and less ceremonial path. Yet a little bit of the Old World charm and ceremony could really class up the country. Personally I would love to have more opportunities to break out my new LBD (little black dress) and les talons (heels). Sure I love my California casual life, the ability to wear flip flops every day, but sometimes it is nice to feel special, to have an event that makes someone else feel unique and celebrated. It is not necessarily that the Europeans do things better than we do, but they know how and when to add that extra something, remembering the little touches that so often get pushed to the side in favor of economy or efficiency. Personally I believe this is why they live longer than we do.

Trop Gourmande

For the past couple weeks, I’ve been plowing my way through the classic Physiologie du Goût written by Brillat-Savarin sometime around the beginning of the 1800s. It has, of course, been taking me awhile since it’s in French, but since I’m a bit of an odd duck, I find it fun to read all his little anecdotes, stories, and analyses about food. Anyway, I thought that I would share a couple passages which caught my eye. I hope that my attempts at translation do not destroy too much of the meaning and enjoyment of Brillat-Savarin’s writing.

Méditation XI: De la Gourmandise. p. 141
“55_ I’ve investigated the dictionaries for the word “Gourmandise,” and I’ve yet to be satisfied with what I’ve found. The problem is a perpetual confusion between the word “gourmandise” properly said, with the word “gluttony” and the word “voracity” […]
“Definitions: Let us then define it ourselves.
“The ‘gourmandise’ is a passionate preference, reasonable and regular, for things that flatter the taste [buds].
“The ‘gourmandise’ is the enemy of excess; anyone who overeats or becomes drunk risks being punished or put under controls.
“The ‘gourmandise’ encompasses also the “friandise” which is nothing more than the same preference applied to dishes that are light, delicate, small in proportion, for jams, pastries, etc. This is a modification introduced in favor of women and men who resemble it. […]
“The moral of the story: it is an implicit resignation of the order given by the Creator, who gave us the need to eat in order to live, that we are thus invited (enticed?) by appetite, we are kept interested by the flavors and we are rewarded by the pleasure.”

p. 170
“73_ The difference between the pleasure of eating and the pleasure of the table (the pleasure of dining?) […]
“The pleasure of eating is the actual sensation and a direct need that is satisfied.
“The pleasure of the table is the thought-over sensation that is born of diverse circumstances of actions, places, things and people that accompany a meal.
“The pleasure of eating is something we share is common with animals; it does not address anything but hunger and what is required to satisfy that hunger.
“The pleasure of the table is particular to the human being; it assumes the preceding cares for the preparation of a meal, for the location and the assembling of the guests.
“The pleasure of eating demands/requires, not only hunger, but at very least an appetite; the pleasure of the table is more often independent of appetite or hunger.”

(entrance to "La Biche", a very chic baguette heaven)

I suppose these descriptions encompass what I am trying to experience during my stay in France. It is the exploration of all the pleasures of the table or of dining, not just the food which adorns the table but all that surrounds it. Trying to keep up with conversation with my host family, occasionally even telling my host father “Wait!, Stop!, let me speak!” since I haven’t quite developed the ability to talk at the same time as other people as is so common in France. I have come to love the French form of eating dinner which is focused on being “équilibré” or balanced, having the main dish, usually some sort of salad or vegetable (in which potatoes, rice and pastas are also included in the place of a legitimate vegetable), and either or both fromage (cheese) and dessert. In this family, desserts are typically the yaourt (yogurt) and maybe a bisquit, the closest thing the French come to cookies.
The meal is a progression, it is not simply one step, with everything piled on the plate, consumed as quickly as possible and then dumped in the dishwasher before moving on to other things. After dinner, I go one step further by taking my evening tea, just as I did in the States, and I ask if anyone else would like a “pisse-mémé,” literally a term for evening tea which means “something that makes a grandmother have to pea in the middle of the night.” Some times they accept and take a “tisane” or an infusion, an herbal tea or fruit tea. My host mother likes “fruits-rouge” and my host father likes something called “nuit calme” so that he can “sleep like a baby.” But the dinner meal itself is what we Americans might think of as a 1950s style family meal, with everyone around the table, the parents asking the kids what they did that day, listening to the descriptions of the dramas playing out between Anne-Sophie and Paul at school, remarking that the car needs to be washed, the garden neatened up or that they are going to be gone on such-and-such-day visiting family.
Often, one hears the French say that someone is “très/trop gourmande” implying that they eat too much of one thing or another. When my host father goes searching for the baguette and fromage, sampling each one in large portions, my host mother often remarks that he is “très gourmande.” This is what is described by our friend Brillat-Savarin in saying that being a gourmand is often confused with gluttony. It is, admittedly, a fine line to walk. When does one pass from eating for the pleasure of the savors and perhaps eating a lot because the flavors are so detailed and enjoyable, to simple gluttony, eating too much because, yes, it tastes good, but also because one doesn’t know when to stop. I try not to be too “gourmande” and simply enjoy what is given to me without excess, but it is often difficult, especially with sweets (perhaps that puts me more in the line of a “friandise”). But France has been a good teacher, I’ve lost much of my fear of eating that I held before. I would often deprive myself of things like butter saying “I don’t need it, olive oil works just as well, or toast is just as good with just honey or just jam, the butter is unnecessary.” But it was fear that maybe it was too unhealthy or fattening. Sure its not exactly healthy food but despite my repeated motto of “anything and everything within reason and moderation” I would cut myself off from many pleasures of eating. France is a good influence, a bit of cheese here, some baguette there, a dab of butter and a dessert if you want it is not the end of the world (or the end of your waistline).
Thus I raise my glass to Brillat-Savarin, the French and all those who know how to eat like gourmands and not gluttons, the enjoyment of food is the enjoyment of life and we are here to live it.

A Weekend in Paris

Last weekend was spent in Paris. I did not go for the Eiffel Tower or for the Louvre, in fact, though I saw both, I chose to skip those oh so typical attractions in favor of eating. Yes, I spent my weekend in Paris eating. Eating, and then walking up and down the Seine trying to burn off all that I ate so that I could eat again. Ok, so it wasn’t quite that food oriented but I must say that upon returning to Bordeaux I had a couple days where I generally lacked an appetite.
So what did I consume? Not all good food, unfortunately. I hit up a sandwicherie upon arrival since I felt like I could not go one more step without eating and so I settled for what I could find. But after spending much more time than any normal person would in the Opera Garnier then wandering over to the Église de la Madeleine and running into a crazy melee of people at the Tuileries anxious to catch a glimpse of their favorite designers and models exiting a fashion show, I felt that I needed to inaugurate my stay in Paris with a visit to one of the most famous salons de thé in Paris, Angelina. Angelina’s is always busy, always busting and always filled to the brim with both tourists and hard-core Parisians alike. Located on the Rue de Rivoli, across from the Tuileries it is bright and inviting with a constant background of teacups and chatting giving atmosphere to this Paris institution. Though I’m sure that their teas are of the highest quality and they surely serve a wonderful café I have tasted only one item, their Chocolat à l’Ancienne dit “L’Africain.” This glorious concoction has put them on the map. It has also nearly put me into a coma on nearly every visit to Paris.


This hot chocolate is not your Swiss Miss with the mini marshmallows or even Garadelli hot chocolate mix; this is hot chocolate in the pure sense of the term, “hot” and “chocolate.” I’m pretty sure they simply melt down some chocolate, maybe add a bit of milk, and then pour the thick, creamy substance into a small, pretty pitcher and deliver it to the unsuspecting and/or anxiously waiting client. They serve it with a little cup filled with unsweetened whipped cream and a demi-pichet of water which is absolutely necessary. I made the mistake of decided to start things off with a bang and decided to order one of their gorgeous pastries along with the chocolat chaud, I chose the Paris-New York at the suggestion of my waitress. Next time I go to Paris, please, please, please, someone slap me upside the head if I try to order a pastry along with the intoxicatingly rich chocolat afriain, I nearly ended up in diabetic shock trying to make my way through them both. Eventually I abandoned the pastry, took a long break to make my way through three quarters of my pitcher of water, clearing my head before I felt that it might be possible to slowly finish the second half of my chocolat. That had to be accomplished in between sips of water and long pauses for people watching as best as I could from the back room that they placed me (perhaps they thought it looked unseemly for a girl to be there alone and thus had to keep me away from the sight of the other chocolate craving diners). But there was no way that I was going to abandon my glorious chocolate before it was finished, and finish it I did.


There was one thing that I learned on this weekend in Paris; it is that I should trust my instincts. I knew that I should go to Angelina’s, it was the proper start to my stay and made me incredibly happy, if slightly delirious. But, if a place looks too overcrowded with foreigners, has little flags and English translations on the menu, or makes you feel like you are settling, you should trust your gut and move on. What you get will probably be edible, but it probably won’t be a culinary epiphany either.

(my kind of tourist attraction)

On the other hand, there are one or two good tourist traps. I enjoyed a lovely crèpe Nutella on the Champs-Elysées; it was warm and freshly made right before my eyes so I didn’t mind looking like an outsider sitting on a bench next to other tourists and a man mixing various condiments: ketchup, salt, pepper, etc., in a water bottle, which made me feel rather guilty for having my chocolaty treat. I probably should have gone and bought him one too.
But one evening I found a glorious little restaurant, or rather chose randomly from the many restaurants that Clotilde lists on her site Chocolate and Zucchini, and had what was by far the best fish I’ve ever eaten in my life. Unfortunately I don’t know what kind of fish it was, but it was a white fish made with a pesto sauce and served with perfectly cooked haricots verts and petits pois (green beans and peas). I was incredibly happy, and there wasn’t any chocolate involved!
But the event that caused me to even visit Paris in the first place was the chance to take a cooking course. After much internet searching, ie going through the list of cooking courses in Paris on David Lebowitz’ delicious blog, I found something that fit me perfectly. “La Cucina di Terresa” is a cooking course, plus market visit, plus lovely conversation. Terresa, an American living in Paris for quite some time, met me at the Raspail organic open-air market where we went over the menu before making a beeline for the cheese stand. If anyone needs to be reminded that the French are not mean, rude or American-hating, all they need to do is visit this market. Everyone was incredibly nice, the produce looked absolutely glorious and the smells were delicious, to say the least. We were spoiled by the cheese maker who had us try many of his creations, each as delicious as the last. It is a good thing I don’t live in Paris since otherwise I would have bought out the market. We sorted through the produce, taking note of what was still in season, what is coming into season, who sells the best honey (I bought some miel de foret, the only thing I bought in Paris that could be taken home with me) and collected all the ingredients for our dejeuner. Then we took the Velib (the city bikes) back to Terresa’s apartment, which was glorious since I got to see Paris from a whole new perspective and also got to work up an appetite for cooking and eating.


At Terresa’s apartment we donned aprons, washed up and worked on my knife skills (Mom, I’ll be sharpening all the knives once I get home). As nibbles to keep us going while we cooked, we made oven-warmed and crisped radishes, and rice-flour crackers with goat cheese and jam. I learned to make dough for a tarte tatin de pommes, make homemade vegetable stock and the proper way to make risotto. We had a glorious salad with warm olives, greens, tomatoes, lemon zest, mint-infused olive oil, nuts and goat cheese. The wine complimenting the meal, a natural wine from the Domaine de Rancy, vin du pays 100% Carignan 2006, was perfect and was a unique twist to the risotto, since there are only about two vegetables with which you can make a red-wine risotto. Only the radicchio that we used and perhaps the haricots (the beans) that look splatter painted with bits of pink can be used in a risotto made with red wine since very few things can stand up to the intensity of the wine. I think that many people might find the radicchio to be a challenging vegetable to eat, its bitterness perhaps a deterrent but it was nicely complimented by the wine and the glorious creaminess of the risotto cooked “all’onda” which is a more liquidly form of risotto than the drier way of making risotto that I was familiar with. As we chatted through the repas, the risotto even improved, the flavors melding beautifully together. We finished our meal with and apple tarte tatin infused with the flavor of bay leaves and dolloped with crème fraîche. I apologize that I’m not giving away the recipes, but I think that if you want them, you should take Terresa’s course, though she will probably have you cook something else depending on the seasonality of vegetables, but if you ask nicely she might pass along the recipes of my meal, too. Not only is this course instructive (and vegetarian!), but Terresa is great conversation (in both French and English, so don’t worry I practiced my French too!), a warm and inviting host and has a cute, functional and very French kitchen, which means it is tiny, so do not be surprised. We passed far more than my allotted time chatting about the wine, about the food, possible variations, French culture, and many other subjects making the time fly by and I felt completely at ease and satisfied both intellectually and gastronomically.


Fortified by Terresa and my joint efforts in the kitchen I felt ready to take the final tourist plunge: les bateaux-mouches. I checked my pride at the dock and finally, after many years, saw Paris from the water. It was chilly and my camera battery died on me, but I was still glad that I had decided to do something different. I left Paris the next day, the rain that had been threatening all weekend finally coming down and telling me it was time to go back to the still-sunny Bordeaux and perhaps more sensible eating habits.

For those who are curious:

Le vin de repas: http://www.domaine-rancy.com/ vin du pays 100% carignan 2006
Terresa’s website : http://www.lacucinaditerresa.com/index.html

Salade

I love salads. When I’m in the states, I tend to eat a lot of them, sometimes every day, which really, is not such a bad habit to have, even if it may seem a tad obsessive. Left to my own devices, I tend to put bits of every vegetable in the fridge right into the salad along with whatever leafy accompaniment I have on hand, usually baby spinach leaves. Then I debate over which salad dressing I’m in the mood for and what I actually have on hand. Some fresh ground pepper and I’m happy as a clam.
Now, the French do eat salads, and quite often a meal is begun with a salad course before moving on to the main dish. Yet their idea of what entails a salad is slightly different from my own heavy handed approach. For the most part, simplicity seems to rule. A salad could be just “salade” (i.e. lettuce which shares the name) or just beets, or just shredded carrots. Usually this has a bit of a quick vinaigrette mixed in, just some balsamic and olive oil. My French mom once went wild with a salad; she put in tomatoes and along with it some bits of cheese, plus the prerequisite vinaigrette.
I tend to get rather excited over the word salad even if its just one vegetable since sometimes that is the only vegetable I will see all day. I do not count potatoes as vegetables. Though I must admit, I was given a slightly skewed first impression of my host family’s eating habits when I first moved in. They wanted to make me feel special and really show me some very “French” meals, so lunches and dinners were heavily weighted towards meats and seafood. Now they have realized that they can put anything in front of me and I’ll eat it and it doesn’t have to be special or stereotypically French. Thus my introduction to cèpes and a couple other vegetable centered meals such as last night’s chou-fleur (cauliflower) and the previous night’s artichokes which gloriously littered our plates with tooth-scraped leaves.
Salads in restaurants have a tendency to be a bit more complicated, though not by much. There is the classic goat cheese salad. This involves taking a green salad, romaine lettuce, adding maybe some walnuts and grated carottes and then on the side including two triangles of toast with a warm round of goat cheese sitting on top. This is quite tasty and I’m really developing a liking for goat cheese. Another salad I had in a restaurant was what they called “une salade gourmande.” This included some very nice salad greens and sliced tomatoes along with seemingly every type of charcuterie known to mankind piled on top completely hiding the “salad” part of the salad. Though it certainly ranks as one of the meatiest salads I’ve ever had or, really, ever seen, it was pretty good. And it gave me a chance to try foie gras on the sly since it was included on a bit of toast in the same manner as the goat cheese.
But the most puzzling salads that I’ve found are those that are quite short on vegetables in general. Often they will take blé (wheat) or rice or couscous, mix in a few finely diced onions, carrots and maybe a few other things so tiny as to be unrecognizable, and pass it off as a salad. I am well aware that we have veggie-less salads in the states, for example fruit salad, pasta salad and jello salad (which completely baffle me, but that is a whole different subject), but the fact that you have to be very careful to read the ingredients of a salad before ordering to make sure there is salad involved takes some getting used to. I actually quite like the blé salads, they can be refreshing.
I looked up the definition of “salade” in Le Petit Larousse, a French dictionary which is not at all “petit” and after defining it as what we know as lettuce it listed this:

“Plat composé de feuilles de ces plantes, crues et assaisonnées. ”
Which roughly means: a dish composed of leaves of this plant (lettuce), raw and seasoned.

An interesting definition since salads very often do not contain lettuce at all, and with the rice and blé salads, they often need to be cooked first, even if they are served cold.
I also checked Word’s definition of salad and was met with several responses:

1. a cold dish consisting mainly of a mixture of raw vegetables, whole, sliced, chopped, or in pieces, usually served with a dressing for flavor. Many other ingredients may be incorporated into a salad, which can be served as a separate course or as an accompaniment to other food.
2. a cold dish consisting of a particular type of food such as a single vegetable or a selection of fruit, cut into pieces or slices, and served usually with a dressing
3. any leafy vegetable commonly used to make a green salad, typically the many types of lettuce, watercress, chicory, and endive
4. a confused or varied mixture

So I suppose maybe I am too strict with my idea of salads. As with everything else here, I am truly broadening my horizons. Though, still, I was inordinately excited when I ordered “une salade végétarienne” and received a plate twice the size of my head piled high with practically every vegetable that is in season here right now. Sometimes habits are hard to break.

crevettes and cèpes

The last few days have been met with some new adventures in my culinary world. Honestly I’ve been quite proud of my gustatory accomplishments, I was never an adventurous eater and was labeled “very picky” as a child. That was putting it mildly. But I made the resolution that I would try anything that was put in front of me during this lovely sejour in France. For the most part my resolution has yielded some pleasant surprises. Though not my favorites, I can now eat oysters on the half shell with no curling of the lip. It’s much better to just swallow them, rather than chewing, and a good dousing with lemon juice helps them to slide down nice and easy. The mussels cooked, au natural, with just some onion, parsley and a bit of water were quite good. Plus its rather fun to take the empty shell of an eaten mussel and use it, pinched between the index and thumb, to extract the other mussels from their shells. Everyone thinks that the French are terribly elegant and sophisticated, and thus that must translate to how they eat. In fact, though they are quite adept with the fork and the knife, the French are just as likely to abandon all silverware and go at things with their hands. Hence my lesson in the correct manner of eating mussels. In addition, meals are typically accompanied by bread, stereotypical, but stereotypes and clichés tend to have origins in reality. A slice is kept, not neatly on a separate plate or perched on the edge of the main plate, but plopped on the table, crumbs and all. But the best part about the bread is that it is perfectly acceptable and normal to use it to sop up all the juices and seasonings left on the plate after the meal has been finished. Or it can be used to push food onto a fork. I love to use my bread to pick up all the little bits that get left behind that I can never get with a fork but always seem to taste the best.

My host mother went to the market this weekend, not really anything out of the ordinary for the French but it resulted in two things: crevettes and cèpes. We began lunch with the crevettes, just simple shrimp, really there was nothing done to them at all. Perhaps this may seem rather unremarkable, but let me emphasize the fact that nothing was done to them. Ok, yes, they were cooked, but that’s it. The lovely little shrimp we were to enjoy at lunch got to keep their heads, shells and legs right to the table. Once again, my beautifully elegant French family set the table with all the accouterments: plates, cups, forks, knives, spoons and napkins, only to ignore the silverware and grab for the shrimp with their bare fingers. Soon there was a building pile of shrimp heads, legs and exoskeletons on my host father’s plate. He eagerly pulled off a head, briefly sucked on it to extract any morsel that might have been left inside, then efficiently removed the shell, legs and tail all at once to expose the tasty flesh. This was then dipped in the excellent mayonnaise which was made, much to my amazement, half and hour before with a few brief turns in the food processor of an egg, mustard and some oil. I glanced over at my host mom and saw that she was repeating the procedure, though without the head slurping and with far more decorum. (Not a surprise, she tends to tell him that he eats like a “cochon:” a pig.) After a few hesitations and after eating a few of the other offerings on the table, I decided that I couldn’t be a baby about things and should go ahead and try the shrimp. I grasped one, the long antennas trailing from the bowl and clumsily pulled off the head, putting it aside. Then, I tried to pull off the exoskeleton but discovered that for me, it only came off in little bits and that it took me quite awhile before I had a naked shrimp in my grasp. I politely asked for a bit of mayonnaise, which was given to me with the encouragement to take as much as I wanted, dipped my shrimp and bit into the newly exposed flesh. I’m not sure when I’d last had shrimp (there wasn’t a lot of opportunity for eating shrimp as a veggie, you remember, and before that I was firmly a hater of all seafood), but I was quite happy with what I discovered. Shrimp, especially covered in fresh mayonnaise, is much, much better than I remember. My guess is probably that it’s because they are actually fresh rather than the poor specimen usually found at the supermarket, headless, legless, and frozen of any fresh flavor that they might have ever contained.

After the dejeuner, my host mom started to prepare the cèpes, some enormous mushrooms that had to have been bigger than my head, which she had gotten that day at the market as well. I was under the impression that they were some sort of regional specialty which was in season, but an internet search revealed them to be a very mature variety of porcini. Unfortunately, once porcini, or cèpes, reach such maturity, they begin to have “petits vers” that start living in the gills. That would be worms for those of you non Francophiles. Teeny, tiny white worms that come out when you either put salt on the mushroom or cook it in the oven. The oven method works much better, but my host mom did not find that out until after she had cut up the mushrooms and thrown them in a saucepan with some oil and garlic and all the little vers started running for the exits with no place to go. Really I had pretty much accepted that there were going to be worms in my dinner of omelette aux cèpes, I couldn’t see them and passed it off as best as I could as a bit of added protein. I’d accepted it until my lovely host sister started picking through her cèpes asking, “is this a worm?” “is this one?” continually reminding me of the fact that I was eating wormy overly mature mushrooms. They are supposed to be a delicacy but even ignoring the worminess, they didn’t taste as good as the smelled, and really they smelled quite good with all the garlic and parsley. I finished my portion, slightly greenish in coloration from the wormy gills which were an interesting shade of “vert” and declined a second portion despite a deep love for both omelettes and mushrooms. (Interestingly, my host family made a big deal of saying how beautiful the mushrooms were, with green gills and slightly slimy caps: beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.) Dommage, too bad, but maybe next time there won’t be worms … or maybe we’ll buy different mushrooms. At least I tried it and finished it, right? I’ll give myself a pat on the back, even if no one else will.
But as it usually is in life, our little battles are often rewarded. The Sunday dessert this weekend was a lovely tarte aux framboises, seen at the top in all its glory. It was incredibly easy to make, just some pre-done "pates sable" (pie/tarte dough) baked up in the oven then filled with first a layer of crushed frozen raspberries, then a layer of nuttella and finally, decorated with beautiful circles of the same frozen framboises, uncrushed this time. Its as simple and as tasty as it looks and sounds. Bon Appetit!

Les Huîtres

This past weekend, our group took an excursion out to the Bassin d’Arachon, famous for the highest sand dune in Europe, beaches and also for their oysters. In true French form, the priority stop, the first one, was of course at the Maison d’Huîtres where we learned about the farming of oysters in the museum before moving on to an oyster restaurant for the dégustation (the tasting). The dune and the beach could wait.
At the museum we learned that the Bassin d’Arachon is an ideal spot for producing oysters. Unlike some places they grow them in mesh bags to protect them from predators whereas other producers grow the oysters just on the floor of the bay. Oysters can live at least 25 years, longer even I think though I don’t remember the exact number. We typically eat them when they are three years old. The oysters from the bay of Arachon taste different from those in the open ocean because of water salinity and other such things. From what I understood of the presentation given in French the Bassin is an estuary, giving very visible changes the depth of the water at low and high tide. Oysters have been eaten since prehistoric times. The Romans would eat anywhere between 100 and 150 oysters per person and the Greeks used the shells as voting papers. Louis XIV absolutely adored oysters and gave them their status as a delicacy. Don’t quote me on this but I think they said that his chef committed suicide or died because he was unable to serve oysters one night.
After our instruction on the production and life cycle (including reproduction, they switch gender back and forth, one year female, then next male, without consistancy) of the oysters, we walked around the boat landing to a tiny restaurant passing piles of empty shells, stacks of tiles and empty mesh bags giving the area an air of authenticity. Our group of Americans all crowded around picnic tables inside and outside and stared, both impatiently and warily, at the plates piled high with les huîtres crues, the raw oysters still on their shell. The salty water which probably came from the ocean still covered the oysters and the plate surrounding them, specially made with impressions around the circumference for the shells to rest in. A few slices of lemon were casually placed on top of the pile.
We were given our marching orders; one glass of wine and six oysters per person. If there is extra, it is to be passed to the next table. Afterward there will be meats, cheeses and a tarte. For the vegetarians (those who are not taking a break like I am), a cup of nuts was given in place of the oysters.
For such a small animal, oysters can be fairly intimidating, but we plunged in, most of us without too much cringing. After watching the first couple brave souls clumsily detach the oyster from its mooring on the shell, squirt them with lemon and swallow them down without any ill effects it was time for me to try. I had been pretty excited about the chance to taste them, but for some reason I was imagining something plump and white, and the thin, grey creature on the shell was less appetizing than I was expecting. Despite this I took my plastic fork and scraped the creature free and after pouring off a bit of the extra seawater that appeared I dumped it into my mouth, chewed a couple times and swallowed.
Those who said it tasted like ocean were dead on. It was as if a bit of ocean solidified into a slightly slippery/slimy chewy mass inside a shell. Now there is nothing wrong with the taste of the ocean, I’ve gotten a few mouthfuls in my time just messing around on the beach, but as a delicacy, I have not been completely sold. I tried one oyster on a piece of bread spread with butter as the guy across from me was doing, but the smooth butter just accentuated the slipperiness of the mollusk (it is a mollusk right?). Occasionally bits of grit and shell came with the flesh which added authenticity, but was not the most enjoyable thing texturally.
I did not finish my share of six but did make it through four without any gagging or choking. I was very proud of myself since I was once a very picky child who reacted badly to even a zucchini. My neighbor to my left took care of any extras that were left by me and others who were unconvinced of the greatness of the oyster. Not just finishing the extras on our table but collecting some from other tables who completely hated them and finishing off at least an entire plate by himself, probably eating a minimum of 25 oysters (at least he didn’t try and go for the gluttony of the Romans or we might have needed to find him a vomitorium). This is before the cheese and charcuteries (like deli meats) with bread, fresh tomatoes and fruit tarts for dessert. Others had friends take pictures and video clips of their oyster tasting, complete with the slurping and twisted faces pulled while swallowing. I opted out of the photo opportunity.
In typical fashion, the tarte aux pommes was my favorite though I enjoyed the tomatoes greatly, taking far more than my share. The crust of the tart was flaky and the apples were crisp yet flavorful. I could have eaten many more of them, going through tartes like some went through oysters.
But I can now say that I have tried les huîtres, I am not lacking in my adventurousness with food. I would be willing to try them again, perhaps cooked this time. Baked or cooked in butter or maybe fried. I mean, Julia Child always felt that everything is better with butter so it must be true, right? Although, I don’t know if frying oysters is ok, it might be too undignified for such a delicacy. Perhaps I need to try eating them in the manner of the French, as explained by my French instructor the next day. Instead of chewing them as Americans assume needs to be done, they are swallowed whole, straight from the shell. On ne sait jamais, you never know, maybe it is better that way. However now that oysters have been tried I think that I can move on through my list of very French foods. Snails seem like a good step after oysters. We’ll see what shows up on the menus.

again, pictures to follow once I have better access to the internet!

Les canelés bordelaise

Walking the rue Sainte Catharine or anywhere else in Bordeaux you will inevitably pass various patisseries displaying their wares in the window. Almost as inevitable, you will see caramel brown molded pastries. These are canelés, one of the specialties of the region. Unfortunately I do not know the history of these sweets, just that they are everywhere. We found them sold all over Saint Emelion when we spent a Saturday there and they are even sold from a cart on the pedestrian street of rue Sainte Catharine with the large sign behind it claiming that these are artisanal.
Since I am still a tourist here, not settled in with a host family and living in a sort of limbo between summer and the actual start of university courses, I went for the touristy little cart for my first taste of canelés. They are not large, just about as tall as a normal sized finger is long. Since there was no one to explain the proper way of eating it, I went straight in and took a bite from the top. Though baked and solid, the inside is like a very sturdy custard. Not so custardy that it would begin to ooze, firmer than most crème brulées, but not a bread-like pastry that one might expect from looking at the outside appearance.
The taste, I must admit, was not the explosion of excitement that I had been hoping for. Pleasant to be sure, it was sweet in a caramel way, with a hint of the rum that flavors it, but nothing too complex or different about it. Now I have quite a sweet tooth, which everyone here has quickly discovered, but despite being glad that I tried the canelés, I see no particular reason to search them out again. Bien sur, I would not refuse one if it was offered to me, but I think my waistline is safe from canelé gorging. Too bad I can’t say the same thing about the chocolatiers or the baguettes.

pictures to come once I have better access to the internet

A fish with the head on

It’s been a year since last eating meat. I was perfectly happy as a veg, feeling healthy and maybe even a bit self righteous and superior. But now I’m in Bordeaux, France and I had to say “au revoir” to my dietary choices. France is not a country that accommodates a vegetarian lifestyle. Their meals tend toward carbs and meats with very few vegetables or fruits. Of course, despite this regime they remain slim and svelte and generally gorgeous. Perhaps they know something we don’t. That secret is learning how to “be” rather than “do” which is terribly difficult for Americans. Hence their prevalent café culture where you can sit for hours over a tiny espresso and people watch.
As for the food, there is a reason that one of the main gastronomic capitals of the world is in France. A meal is not something to rush through, its not fueling or a method of survival. Instead it is a way of life, to be eaten over several hours accompanied with good conversation and slowly sipped glasses of wine.
Yesterday a friend and I chose to slow down and skip the cheap (but tasty) sandwich for dinner and actually go to a brasserie to sit down and eat. We ordered a demi-picher of vin rouge which was brought along with some tasty olives to tide us over until our order was ready. The olives with their tangy oily surface brought out the flavor in our red wine for a very enjoyable flavor experience.
The menu was a challenge, our French skills still in the baby stage, yet we managed to choose and order. My friend chose the “comfit de canard” (duck) and I chose from the list of “poissons” (fish). My taste of the duck was rich and with a well rounded flavor that filled the mouth and felt smooth on the tongue. At first that one taste made my own meal choice seem like it was perhaps a mistake.
The fish (an unknown variety of which I cannot even remember the name) was cooked in the style “Espagnol.” The plate set down was beautifully arranged with a neatly molded pile of rice above a full fish: head, tail, skin, bones and eyes. It looked to be pan fried with garlic, bell peppers and olive oil covering the body. The first tiny bite required delicate removal of translucent fish bones from my mouth and was bursting with fishiness. The best I can say is that I did not gag, nor did I give up. Nor did I covet my dinner partner’s duck, at least not too much or for too long. With each bite the fishy flavor dissipated and was replaced by a taste of white flesh resplendent in olive oil. My palate fared better when taking a bit of bell pepper along with the bit of cream white flesh or padding the flavor with the perfectly cooked white rice. After consuming most of the flesh of the fish I was remarking, “I ate fish and I liked it!” with an overzealous sense of awe. I felt perhaps I should try the cheek or the eye since those are the foodies prized portions but I simply was not ready for that. Maybe next time, though it might require more wine before that is possible. I’m still getting used to taking bites that have been carefully removed of bones before entering the mouth.
For now it is enough that I have gone from a meatless diet to eating a fish, head still attached, when I hadn’t liked seafood or fish even when I was still eating meat before. My palate and my stomach are being taken for quite the ride. Thanks to French waiters they are given plenty of time to rest and recover while waiting for l’addition (the check) and sipping the remaining wine. They are also being rewarded with baguettes and dark chocolate from a gorgeous little chocolatrie on the Rue Sainte Cathrine, the longest pedestrian street in all of France.

Welcome to a vegetarian’s exploration of food in France in all its fleshy varieties.

A few words on oatmeal

I eat oatmeal for breakfast almost every day. So does my Dad, and so did my Grandma, it seems to be a family habit. Dad eats it in the morning to “fuel up,” zapping it in the microwave plain with just water, although occasionally he’ll remember to throw in a few raisins to make things exciting. Grammy Bev did the same thing. For them, oatmeal is about the fiber and about the stick-with-you energy it gives.
Oatmeal is a slightly different endeavor for me. Sure, I insist on using the old fashioned rolled oats like Dad since it’s healthier for me, but I cannot stand to make it the same way. I make my old fashioned oats the old fashioned way: in a pot. Strange concept, I know, in a world of fast or instant meals and high tech devices like microwaves. Yet it tastes better that way. The oats keep more of their texture. It also helps that I use milk instead of water. There are very few things blander than plain oatmeal made with water. Not just bland, but mushy, the oats unable to stay in oat form, instead disintegrating into a grayish mass in the bowl.
The great thing about oatmeal is that you can do whatever you like to it. It can be sweet from adding brown sugar or honey. It can have texture by adding dried fruits, fresh fruits, nuts and pretty much anything that sounds good. One of my favorite ways to make it is with cranberries, bits of candied ginger and a splash of vanilla extract. It’s also tasty to throw in cranberries and a spoonful of apricot preserves; the oatmeal turns out wonderfully creamy. I’ve not tried it yet, but it seems like oatmeal could easily become a savory dish, adding veggies and some spices. But probably my favorite way to prepare oatmeal is with lots of cinnamon, a bit of nutmeg and a very generous handful of raisins for sweetness. Its simple, it’s easy and there is no reason to mess it up with a microwave.

Recipe for oatmeal:

2 parts milk (or water for those of you who love blandness) to 1 part old fashioned rolled oats.
(I tend to go rather heavy on the liquid side)

Dump it all in a pan along with any dried fruit, spices, sweeteners, etc. that you want to add in. Putting in the dried fruit like raisins in during cooking causes them to warm and plump up for even better flavor. Turn on the heat and cook, stirring often, until it reaches the consistency that you like. Grab a spoon and go at it!

*oatmeal picture borrowed from Google Images

The County Fair

The fair, you know it has arrived the instant you catch a whiff of the fry oil and wood smoke. For most people this odor evokes memories of childhood and a sense of anticipation for all the rides, events, concerts and yes, food that is soon to be enjoyed. However, for me, this odor connects to nothing but a job. That’s right, I work at the fair and no I’m not a carnie, I just work the fine arts exhibit for a month and I do not travel around the state. Nevertheless I come home each day with a trail of wood smoke and grease following and clinging to my hair and clothes. It is not exactly a job perk.
It is the second year for me to be working at the fair and despite the sugary and fried temptations surrounding me, I have tried very few items. The thought of the fry grease is a huge deterrent for me and the clingy wood smoke is so chokingly overwhelming that it’s hard to get close enough to the food vendors to buy anything. Not to mention the fact that everything is vastly overpriced and less than vegetarian friendly. Yet the fair does offer some interesting items which seem to draw the crowds and the curious. There are always the old favorites; the grilled corn, the funnel cakes, giant turkey legs, fries, hot dogs, cotton candy and ice creams can be found everywhere. Yet the food does not stop there. Last year the big deal was the macaroni and cheese on a stick (fried of course) and the fried Twinkies and Oreos at Chicken Charlie’s are always a hit. To be honest I’ve only tried the fried Oreos and was less than impressed. The cookie basically turns to mush inside the fried batter and, of course, I managed to accidentally inhale the powdered sugar they put on top.
The new items for this year are the “Zucchini Weeni” and the “Kookie Cookie.” The first is a zucchini that has been hollowed out with a hot dog put inside then deep fried. The latter is a mind boggling creating which frankly turns my stomach. It involves taking a fried chicken patty and making a sandwich (seems safe enough, right?), but the “bun” is made of two oatmeal raisin cookies and it is spread with cream cheese and strawberry jam. Just pause and think about that for a second… am I alone in being totally baffled by this combination? Other delights of the fair include chocolate covered bacon (it must be a salty-sweet sort of thing), Bar-B-Que Spaghetti, a sandwich with pasta inside (the Marinara Pasta Pocket or Mac and Cheese Pasta Pocket) and fried S’mores. The fair seems out to make even seemingly healthy items unhealthy by frying any vegetable that crosses its path, including fried zucchini and fried green beans. There are also the items that seem unlikely to hold up under the pressures of frying without falling apart, like fried bread pudding and fried Mexican ice cream, yet they manage to make it work.
That is one thing that I have to say about the people who own these food booths. Not only are they cranking out tons of food in kitchens that are not permanent and can usually be pulled by trailers, but they make time to be creative with food. The fair creates a unique venue where people are willing to try something new and experiment with their food. There is a mentality of “it’s only once a year we might as well go all out.” So this once a year splurge means that people are willing to dive into the fried goods and the bizarre concoctions. Maybe this is not haut cuisine with trained chefs bending the rules of gastronomy but it is innovative and people seem to love it. It’s the one time where it is okay to have fun and play with your food.
Personally I’m a bit too uptight to enjoy the fair fodder. I do mean to give the artichoke sandwich from Roxy’s a try this year, its one of the few healthy and vegetarian items to be found and it is supposed to be quite good. Plus the fresh squeezed lemonade always looks tasty and so do the ice cream cones (and who doesn’t love ice cream?). I absolutely love Orange Julius though my wallet squeaks in protest any time I get near a booth so I haven’t really indulged. In a hopeful note, the fair is offering a sort of farmer’s market where you can get fresh produce which is a nice alternative (it helps that the fair is sponsored by Albertson’s this year). Basically, I was going to rant about the disgusting things offered at the fair and vent a little about how much I hate fried food and the smell of the fair and I did that. Yet, I have to admit that it is not all bad. It is a fun place for food which all bets are off and most people’s taste buds are ready and willing to experiment. So yeah, maybe I should ease up on it a bit, but I draw the line at fried things that should not be fried.

A veggie for meat eating*

Vegetarians are typically held under the stereotype of being hyper healthy and preachy. We are generally grouped with PETA members who splash red paint on the fur coats of the rich while yelling fanatically. However, not all of us believe the “meat is murder” mantra. Personally, I have no problem with meat eating, I simply chose not to myself.
Let’s think about this logically. Humans are omnivores. Sure there are lots of vegetarian and vegan articles out there claiming that human teeth are designed for eating veggies, but that is only partly true. Our teeth are able to process both veggies and meat. This is likely due to the fact that in the early days of evolution we had to make due with whatever we could shove in our mouths in order to survive. I don’t blame our ancestors for this, and neither should anyone else really. Humans are incredibly adaptive animals. Unlike other members of the animal kingdom we are not restricted in what we eat. We do not just eat meat and we do not just eat plants, we are neither leopard nor bunny. As explained somewhat in Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food, humans are able to survive off of incredibly varied diets. There are cultures that eat almost no plant material and there are others who survive almost exclusively on grains. Ironically it seems to be that our modern Western diet is the most harmful, but that is a different subject. Really, we are able to have any kind of diet we like, so long as it is executed sensibly. I’ve always believed in the philosophy of eating anything and everything in moderation, that includes meat.
It comes down to the fact that humans are animals and it is simply just part of the food chain for a predator to eat the flesh of its prey. No one can get angry at a bear for making a meal out of a rabbit or a squirrel (though many of us will squeak and moan about how sad it is for something cute and fuzzy to die). By feeding himself, the bear is assuring the success and balance of the ecosystem. For example, without that bear, the rabbit population might become extreme. When there are a lot of rabbits, there are a lot of mouths to feed and the plants get eaten down excessively instead of delicately because of hunger. When too many plants are eaten, there are not enough seeds left for the next year’s growth causing starvation to the rabbit population the next year, along with that of any other species who survives on a similar diet. Then those prey animals are not enough to satisfy their predators and the whole system goes out of balance. This is a very simplistic yet convoluted explanation of the food chain yet it must be acknowledged that humans do have a spot in this process. Our main problem is that we have messed with this food chain to the point of creating feed lots, mono-agriculture and other non-natural processes of providing ourselves with food.
What I am trying to get at is that I feel that no one should be prevented from eating meat, if that is what makes them happy, but we should be aware of where that food is coming from. The days of going out and hunting for food are long gone and are replaced by grocery stores filled with prepackaged and pre-proportioned food items. Even as vegetarians we are not necessarily involved in ethical ecological practices when it comes to our food. No, this is not here to tell anyone that they have to purchase only seasonal, organic, farm fresh produce. I’m just as guilty as the next person of wanting those bananas that have been trucked in from South America or buying apples year round and ignoring the proper season for fruit growing or snagging a dark chocolate Milky Way bar at the cash register. But I think it is great when people buy free range chickens and beef that never left its field for a feed lot. Getting produce from the farmer’s market is not only eco-friendly, but its fun! It’s also wonderful to check the labels on the food bought and try and get things with less than five ingredients, hopefully all of them pronounceable.
Sure, if I had the time, I would like to live like Barbara Kingsolver, on a farm, growing my own food and maybe even raising my own chickens and turkeys for the table. (As a side note, Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is a great read about her first full year growing and eating only home grown or local food.) But I admit, I would miss bananas and I most certainly could not give up chocolate despite the fact that it most certainly is not a local product. So, for the moment I am just sticking with being vegetarian. It is more a matter of health than of ethics, despite how this article is turning out to sound. I feel better, happier, and healthier when I am vegetarian. A year ago I realized that I didn’t really like chicken or beef; instead I liked the flavors put on them. It just didn’t seem worth it any more. Only after I became vegetarian did I discover all the ecological implication of eating or not eating meat. All that mattered was that the beef-y taste that got on my grilled Portobello from sharing the grill with steaks was unpleasant, to me. If the taste of flesh and blood appeals to you, more power to you. So here is my declaration from one vegetarian to the world, eat what you want, enjoy those burgers and bacon, just do me a favor and be aware of what you are eating, even if that does not change any of what you put in your mouth.

*note: I do not claim to be an expert in this subject and this little note does not cover all aspects of my beliefs or those of others. The facts given here may be incorrect, exaggerated or misinterpreted, for this I apologize. Feel free to let me know if there is anything to be corrected.

Here are a couple links to things I find interesting:

First, this was sent to me by a friend, it is a different way of looking at food and will make you think when you watch food tv. I'm just as guilty, if not more guilty, as the next person of watching stations like the food network and it is rather interesting to see what they are doing when they are filming, whether they know it or not.

http://www.barbaranitke.com/harpersmag.html

Next, this is a wonderful oven ratatouille from one of my favorite food blogs, Chocolate and Zucchini. I made this last night, with a couple changes, and it is so easy and tasty I can't imagine ever wanting to make ratatouille the slow, old fashioned way, one ingredient at a time. You have to have far more patience than I do to put up with that. This recipe really makes the house smell wonderful. It is well worth using the fresh herbs, it really enhances the flavor, but dried still works out okay. I have a ton of herbes de provence, a well intentioned, appreciated but rather overzealous gift, and love to have an excuse to use them.

http://chocolateandzucchini.com/archives/2005/04/ovenroasted_ratatouille.php

Flowers

With such pretty zucchini, who needs to plant flowers?

The lemon bars: No awards for looks, but they ended up being quite tasty.

Lemon Bars

You know what the best part is about baking? By the time the food is done, the kitchen is all clean. I love that. I hate having dishes sitting in the sink. However, the worst part about baking is the waiting. I'm a hoverer, the reason manufacturers install lights in ovens. Every couple minutes that switch is flipped and worried eyes peer in.
Is it doing anything? Is it doing too much? The recipe said to beat the filling till it was light and fluffy, what if wasn't fluffy enough?
Okay, so I'm a neurotic cook, at least I'll admit it. While cooking the spatula rarely leaves my hand and the oven light is never off. But at the same time, I do love it. I seem to thrive off the moderate panic that sets in any time a new recipe comes out. Its fun to put things in the oven and see what comes out. It is so cool and weird that something will go into this hot box and, without my intervention, turns into something tasty.
Right now I'm making lemon bars for dessert day in class tomorrow. It seemed like a good compromise since lemon meringue pie, one of my favorite desserts, does not travel well and the meringue weeps if you make it too far in advance. That good old Betty Crocker cookbook came out again (I swear I do have other cookbooks, too!) and the recipe seemed fairly do-able. My measuring technique, while fairly precise for a cook is a bit lax for a baker, but we can only hope the filling is forgiving. I've already made one mistake of melting the butter instead of softening it, so I put that in the freezer for awhile till it went to the right consistency. I'm still moderately worried about the "light and fluffy" part.
As I've been writing this, in an attempt to moderate my hovering, the lemon bars came out of the oven. The oven apparently runs super hot, which I've suspected for quite awhile, so they had to come out way early. Is is bad that the top is a pretty tan color? It won't matter too much since they'll get covered in a generous helping of powdered sugar, but its nerve wracking that people will be trying this tomorrow and who knows if it is right. I really like feeding people, however, I'd rather not poison them. But,hey, at least there was time to clean up the kitchen before it was done, at least that anxiety is out of the way.

Here's the recipe for Betty Crocker's lemon bars if you want to one-up me on actually following the directions:

1	cup Gold Medal® all-purpose flour
1/2	cup butter or margarine, softened
1/4	cup powdered sugar
1	cup granulated sugar
2	teaspoons grated lemon peel, if desired
2	tablespoons lemon juice
1/2	teaspoon baking powder
1/4	teaspoon salt
2	eggs
	Powdered sugar

1.	Heat oven to 350ºF.
2.	Mix flour, butter and powdered sugar. Press in ungreased square pan, 8x8x2 or 9x9x2 inches, building up 1/2-inch edges.
3.	Bake crust 20 minutes.
4.	Beat granulated sugar, lemon peel, lemon juice, baking powder, salt and eggs with electric mixer on high speed about 3 minutes or until light and fluffy. Pour over hot crust.
5.	Bake 25 to 30 minutes or until no indentation remains when touched lightly in center. Cool; dust with powdered sugar. Cut into about 1 1/2-inch squares.

Growing Things

I used to hate gardening, but I now find myself missing the brand-new planting beds I helped build at my parent’s house a few weeks ago. I get even more nostalgic over the big vegetable garden we had when I was a kid. So out on the patio of my cozy little apartment I now have pots of plants. It started last summer with pansies and snap dragons, a camellia and a couple other flowers whose names are not forgotten. But now that spring has come, so have the veggies. A couple of different tomato plants, sweet 100s and a general-variety tomato for pots are happily transforming little yellow flowers into cute little tomatoes. A couple of zucchini are soon going to take over the pot they share with some snap dragons. The lettuce plants are being babied indoors on the widow sill, their tiny delicate leaves bringing out a previously dormant maternal instinct of protection.
One of the tomatoes is starting to turn red, its one of the most exciting things of my life. I love tomatoes and generally feel that if a day passes without eating one in some form, then that day is wasted. But to eat one from my own patio, oh my gosh, it is going to be out of this world! This beats the organic tomatoes bought from the co-op any day. Hopefully the waiting will make them taste that much better. Its cliché, but my mouth is watering just thinking about it, and my stomach is growling too.
(Here is one of my enthusiastic zucchini plants, like I said, they are taking over their pot!)

While we are waiting for nature to do her work, I thought I’d share some facts about tomatoes. During a recent visit to the Huntington gardens, I discovered the recommendations of a man named Gerard on the virtues of plants. With some scrounging around the UC library system a copy of “Gerard’s Herball” was found and acquired. Gerard’s commentary on the “virtues” of plants tends to veer in the direction of how they affect the humors of the body and there has even been a mention of a “cold braine” once or twice, though I’m not sure what that means. This is what John Gerard, writing around 1597, had to say about the virtues of “apples of love,” the more poetic name of our beloved tomatoes;
“In Spaine and those hot Regions they use to eate the Apples prepared and boiled with pepper, salt, and oyle: but they yield very little nourishment to the body, and the same naught and corrupt.
“Likewise they doe eate the Apples with oile, vinegre and pepper mixed together for sauce to their meat, even as we in these cold countries doe Mustard.”
It seems like the English Elizabethan palate was not quite ready for tomatoes. Fortunately they gave grown in popularity and we now know the truth about tomatoes. They are fruits rather than vegetables, though apparently vegetable is just a culinary term and not a scientific one. They are rich in vitamins A, C and in fiber. Even better, lycopene an antioxidant which makes tomatoes red, may prevent cancer.
It is indeed interesting how our vision changes. The tomato has gone from yielding “very little nourishment” to providing lots of vitamins and being a great source of lycopene. Though really, I think that the nutrition is just a bonus to this fruit that acts like a vegetable. Those silly little fruits growing on a delicate vine yield so much taste, a little sweet and a little acidity, that they would be worth eating if they had the health benefits of a potato chip. I like mine in a salad or even better, I eat them plain. I know a lot of people put salt on them, but I like a bit of fresh ground black pepper. If I have cherry tomatoes around, which I usually do since they are my favorites, I’ll grab a few and pop them in my mouth, one at a time, like candy.
I’ve always loved tomatoes and now I love to grow them. I don’t begrudge the dirt under my fingernails though I do resent the occasional weed that pops up. Like a kid waiting for Christmas, I’m waiting for my tomatoes to ripen along with the zucchini and lettuce, and it’ll be better than any present, don’t you think?

Sweet Potatoes

The sweet potato, a root which most people probably think is rather unremarkable, is my new interest. My mom never cooked it so it remained a vague orange mystery; one which I’d never had any particular interest. I do know that it would appear baked underneath marshmallows at Thanksgiving. I just ate the gooey browned marshmallows since Mom said she didn’t really like sweet potato, and if Mom says it isn’t good, then clearly it can’t be good. One time, my grandma came to stay with me while my parents were out of town. She made a nice dinner with pork chops, broccoli made perfectly the way only she could do it, and finally with baked sweet potato. Unfortunately, I was only just peaking out of my picky stage. Despite the loads of butter she piled into the orange flesh, I didn’t like it. It was different, and I didn’t do different as yet.
But the other day in class, I was startled by the appearance of someone’s lunch of sweet potato and the amazing smell that it was giving off. I must confess, I did covet my neighbor’s lunch. Then I went out and bought a sweet potato. It was the most bizarre purchase of my life, one sweet potato and one tangelo (because, like my Dad, I cannot stand buying only one thing at the grocery store). I brought my dinner home and pulled down the trusty Betty Crocker cookbook. She told me to bake it for 40 to 60 minutes at 350 degrees. I followed the directions and soon caught a whiff or two of the scent which had so tempted me in class. Finally, I sat down to my dinner and cut into the potato. It was perfectly cooked, but I was confused, it wasn’t orange, instead more of an ivory color. I shrugged to myself and dug in anyway, it smelled right, though not quite as strong.
It was a bit disappointing. It smelled right, but the flavor just wasn’t as intense as I expected and seemed more like a potato that was kind of sweet than an entirely different species. It was good, baked exactly the right amount of time, the texture was good, but something wasn’t quite right. Yet that did not deter me. After my frustration with the first sweet potato, I did some pretty thorough internet searches on the topic, wondering if I had actually wanted a yam or if there was something else I needed to do. I learned that yams are often called sweet potatoes in the US despite being a completely different vegetable and that both yams and sweet potatoes can range in color from pale to deep orange, with the yam veering even into the purple color scheme. Newly educated, the next Sunday I bought a couple sweet potatoes from an elderly lady manning a card table at the farmers market. She did not look like she spoke English and the produce seemed like it might have come from her back yard, but hers were the best looking ones at the market, especially since it really is not sweet potato season. These looked like they would yield what I had learned from Wikipedia to be sweeter, more beta-carotene loaded orange flesh.
This time I got it right. Orangey-sweet flavorful sweet potato, hot from the oven, it turned out that the second time was the charm. I took a page from Grammy Bev’s book and added a bit of butter, but it would have been good without it. I could understand the reverence I heard in my Dad’s voice when I asked him about sweet potatoes. I could practically hear him drooling as he described how they were prepared when he was a kid,
“You take it and cut it in half and put it with the cut part up. You salt and pepper it then cover it with the little mini marshmallows and bake it. The marshmallows melt into the flesh until you wouldn’t even know they were there, and I guess you’d say they caramelize…”
Maybe soon I’ll experiment with mini marshmallows, or into various other recommendations I’ve been given, like mashed sweet potatoes with ice cream or dessert options. I’m also starting to eye the yams at the market, perhaps it is time to find out for myself the actual difference between a yam and a sweet potato.