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.

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.