As I’m writing this, there’s a brand-new jar of confiture de lait staring at me from across the table.

I’m opening the lid now- why not? Too curious to wait for the bread, I’m tasting the brown goo falling off the spoon- with my fingers, of course. Hmmm, not bad, not bad at all- sweet, and creamy. Not the same smooth texture as caramel, almost mealy- not in an old-rotten-apple kind of way, but in a this-actually-works kind of way. It’s sweet, very sweet. Maybe too sweet?

Now I’m eyeing the boring old peanut butter (the organic, no sugar kind that, at 5:00 on a Tuesday afternoon, just doesn’t cut it alone). Don’t know if this is allowed, but I’m spreading the purée de cacahuete over a torn-off piece of the baguette de campagne I just bought on my way home from work. And now a dab of this blissful “jam” (that isn’t jam at all). Wow! That’s good- might never stop.

I’m reading the jam jar now- goes on top of yogurt, bread, ice cream… This is a new find.

I’m looking on the Internet now…oh, I see. It’s like dulce de leche- it all makes sense.

This week I got to meet David Lebovitz and picked up a beautiful (and heavy) copy of his latest cookbook, Ready for Dessert.

Once a pastry chef at Alice Water’s Berkley-based restaurant, Chez Panisse, Lebovitz now lives in Paris. On his blog and in his books, he not only shares recipes, but also comical anecdotes about his everyday life in Paris- many of which the rest of us can identify with. My first glimpse into the chef/author’s world of witty sarcasm and goofy observations came as I was leafing through the introduction of an earlier book, The Sweet Life in Paris. Here, he describes the “exact” moment he “became Parisian.” This story alone is worth a trip to the bookstore, especially for we foreigners who will undoubtedly chuckle and say, “That’s so true!”

At the WHSmith-sponsored reading, Lebovitz kept joking about one of his recent blog posts and his misadventures at the grocery store. I, too, have grocery store stories, but more generally I seem to have plastic bag stories. This, in fact, is one of the five or so items I’ve cried over in France- well, it’s never really the bag itself, but the callous person behind the bag who is always the last straw in an already long line of straws. One of the bag stories put an end to my buying produce at the grocery store. The other story put an end to frequenting one of my favorite boulageries.

I don’t actually know what the real policy is because each grocery store employee seems to dictate their own rules. Until that day (incidentally, the same day Obama was sworn into the White House), no one had ever abided to the “all produce must be in a much-too-big plastic bag” mantra. In many European grocery stores, you must weigh your produce and stick the price on it before proceeding to the cash register. In some stores, there is someone who does this for you- usually they are friendly enough. The weighing process often involves a large plastic bag- which I never want (and, in my opinion, goes directly against the grocery stores’ marketing ads supporting sustainable development). Sometimes, there are small paper bags that you can use, but it seems I’m always having to ask for them. Thus, for thick-skinned, easily-portable items (such as a single lemon or three attached bananas), I’ll get them weighed without a bag. Usually, no one cares and I leave the store happily counting the lack of non-biodegradable items in my canvas shopping tote. One day, however, the antagonist of my story not only says (in a very unfriendly tone) that my lemon must be in a plastic bag, she refuses to give me a paper bag (stacked in a neat pile next to the scale)- even after I tried to explain why I didn’t want yet another plastic bag (that would be sealed with the price sticker and, once broken, not reusable). I went on about how it was the store’s policy to be sustainable. When people aren’t friendly, I don’t buy- unfortunate for me, because I couldn’t make lemon bars that day.

My other plastic bag story was at the bakery, about three years after moving to France. Had it been any old bakery, I might not have cared so much, but this was the very first bakery I had ever been to in France and, thus, it had quite a bit of sentimental value attached to it. I remember buying my first pain aux raisins from a cheerful, blonde girl with a bouncy ponytail. It was the most wonderful thing my twenty-something self had ever eaten. Throughout that entire first year I went there all the time. Thus, my deception when, years later, a grumpy woman refused to give me a plastic bag (the only reason I wanted one was because I had just bought two items, it was raining and I didn’t have any room in my book bag). Completely unprepared for the storm that was to hit me, I was paralyzed by the bark that informed me the bags were only for the sandwiches. I tried to insist, and was hoping the people in line behind me would support my cause, but all I ended up with was a pool full of water about to overflow from my eyes. I managed to get out of there before the tears really started flowing and my face turned all red.

These stunned, helpless moments don’t happen that often, but when they do- I wonder, “Was it my fault?” When I ask Sébastien (who in the evening can probably still see the blood simmering under my skin), he says, “No” and that “It’s not normal.” This is to say that even French people find this sort of behavior shocking and wonder where it comes from. Since neither of us are from a big city, we wonder if it’s that. Or maybe it’s the latitude and the lack of sunlight in winter that creates a handful of grumps. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s these few cranky people who give France a bad image. Think about it, if I came to Paris for a week-long vacation and encountered the woman at the bakery, I’d probably say “the French are rude,” too- something we know isn’t generally true.

Back to Lebovitz, go out and get his latest book if you’re up for baking (and stories). Also, if you’re interested in meeting him, he’ll be at Café Etienne Marcel on Friday, May 28^th. Check the WH Smith website for details.

I couldn’t pass this one up: a little jar of whole nutmeg seeds and a miniature grater.

Freshly ground nutmeg, I’ve just discovered, is simply stronger and much more aromatic than the pre-ground spice.

I found my little jar of noix de muscade in the spice section of the neighborhood grocery store and have been curious about it ever since. The nutmeg we traditionally use in cuisine (frequently used and highly regarded back in the Middle Ages by-the-way) is the ground seed of the (edible) fruit from the nutmeg tree. Another common spice, mace (macis, in French), comes from the same tree; it, in fact, is the dried red netting that covers the nutmeg seed.

In addition to being fun to grate, nutmeg gives a slightly sweet, rather nutty (surprise) flavor to dishes- I’ve used it in quiches and desserts, for example.

Happy grating.

]]> http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/05/freshly-grated-nutmeg-2/feed/ 0 http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/02/growing-wild-asparagus/ http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/02/growing-wild-asparagus/#comments Fri, 05 Feb 2010 20:58:46 +0000 Joy Anna Becvarik http://thetomatoknife.com/?p=1082 Spring has (literally) sprung early in our apartment this year.

Meet Fergie, the wild asparagus plant that has been mesmerizing us for a few weeks now.

I had a good laugh when I walked in the door from work one evening and saw Sébastien holding a small terracotta pot sporting the most awkward, scrawny, spiky reincarnation of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree I’d ever seen.  I quickly learned  that a friend had given us a wild asparagus plant.

Back then, there wasn’t much sign of life, just the four sprite, rather nervous-looking “trees”  that spread haughtily into the air.  Sébastien warned, though, that asparagus would soon start sprouting up from the soil.

Judging from our endless misadventures with orchids (which never seem to make it through winter with us), I wasn’t so sure we’d be able to grow asparagus- it’s supposed to be difficult (three years before a seed will give way to friendly green stalks).

Despite our mild lack of confidence, we watered Fergie (who was named instantly by the way) and… just like that, two little white creatures pushed their way through the dirt.  What got us most was the stunning rate one of these asparagus stalks grew- as though it inched up by the minute.

In just a couple weeks, the innocent newborn in the photo turned into a lanky thread that now measures 13 inches!

Since I’ve never grown asparagus, I’m kind of curious about the whole thing.  As far as I know, this veggie’s been around for a while- records take it back to Ancient Rome- as both a delicacy and a medicinal plant.  Also, asparagus, apparently (like French nouns), can be either male or female.  Wonder what this one is?

Some exotic spice, no?  The one that giddily finds its way into Indian and Thai cookbooks; the one I’d always ignored.  Until my most recent cooking adventure, I’d always skipped that part of the recipe, replacing the unknown with the familiar.  I only ever thought freshly squeezed lime juice could be my accomplice in Pad Thai crime.  I knew this friendly fruit could easily replace the so-called “tamarind,” and at least I knew where it came from and what tang it’d give my noodles.

That’s where my story starts, actually- with my trip to the Paris-based Asian grocery store, Tang Frère (*see note below), to buy the ingredients for one of my all-time favorites: homemade Pad Thai. There I was buying bean sprouts, leafy greens, hot chili sauce, carrots, rice noodles, lime- you name it- all those ingredients I usually buy to make my dish.  Yes, there I was, minding my business, when I looked up and saw a stack of bright red boxes marked “sweet tamarind.” Wow, I thought.  It really exists.  And it’s here in France, in front of me.  And, wow, it’s a… fruit?  That ‘s funny, whatever it is, it’s in a… it’s in a pod- a strange little four-inch brown pod. In my moment of folly, I didn’t know anything from anything, except that “tamarind paste” must come from this “tamarind” fruit.  Decided: If I was going to make Pad Thai, I was going to make it “the real way.”  My very spontaneous idea was first to make tamarind paste.

As I learned, tamarind is a fruit that grows on a tamarind tree. The outside, indeed, is a curvy, bumpy pod which is filled with large seeds, a fibrous spine and, of course, pulp. Normally, tamarind is fairly acidic, getting sweeter as it ripens.  The ripe pulp can be eaten just like that or, after being made into a paste, can be used in cooking.  Tamarind contributes to the sweet/sour taste in a variety of recipes; popular in India, it’s one of the main ingredients in chutney, for example.

Cracking open my first pod and tasting the pulp, I was reminded of a date- a similar chewy, sticky texture and a similar dark red/brown color.  Thus, my problem: I thought tamarind was supposed to be acidic.  This was quite sweet.

I forged on and tried using a few different (intuitive) methods of making my tamarind paste. I tried soaking the peeled whole in boiling water, then picking through the seeds and fibers and crushing the pulp through a sieve.  But, it was too liquid, tasted like water and was too sweet.  Then I tried again, with less water, at room temperature.  (I know, there was no “constant” in my experiment- very bad).  This time, my paste was too thick and still too sweet.  I reminded myself I had bought “sweet tamarind” from Thailand and began to wonder if maybe there were other kinds. Then I realized I had no idea what tamarind paste was supposed to taste like or what the consistency should be.

In short, I ended up resorting back to my lime for that evening’s Pad Thai.  I’m not finished with this one, though!  Next task: find some sample tamarind paste (apparently, it’s sold either as a block that has to be prepared or ready-made in a jar).  Then, back to the tamarind pods (once I figure out if I can find some sour ones!), finger smooshing and sieving.

Anyone know more about tamarind and making the paste from scratch?

*Tang Frère is an Asian grocery store not to be missed.  It has two locations in Paris: 168, Avenue de Choisy (13^th arrondissement, China Town) and 41, Rue Labrouste (15^th arrondissement).  Although both will entice you with an array of not-so-common products, the China Town location is the largest and most well-known.  Fresh tofu, rice paper wrappers for spring rolls, wasabi…

Some films just make you hungry.

I was absolutely starving after seeing Julie & Julia last Friday night. It’s always a bad idea to catch a 7:30 film without eating beforehand (especially when you had lunch at 11:30).  When it’s a film about cooking (and eating), it’s even worse.  Thanks to the hastily-purchased lemon tart we brought into the theater with us, Sébastien and I just made it through scene after scene of decadent-looking, eye-appealing French cuisine.

Why was it worth waiting until the recent French debut to see this film?  Post-movie snacking doesn’t get any better than when what’s on screen is what’s on the other side of theater doors.  In other words, a Parisian bistro with good wine and rich creamy sauce over salmon was most-certainly in order after watching Julia Child whip, chop and marvel over her creations.

This isn’t the only film that’s made my mouth water.  Here are a few other favorites, all with memorable cooking scenes:

Facing Windows (2003, in Italian), directed by Ferzan Ozpetek, is about much more than just cooking.  The pastry scenes, however, are beautifully shot and reveal how cooking (and life) isn’t just about mixing ingredients.  Post-film fare: chocolate pastries.

Like Water for Chocolate (1992, in Spanish), based on the must-read novel Como agua para chocolate by Laura Esquivel.  Most memorable kitchen scene: when Tita places half an onion on her head to keep from crying while chopping.  Post-film fare: chocolate mole sauce, a Mexican specialty.

Mostly Marta (2001, in German), written and directed by Sandra Nettelbeck. The American film, No Reservations (2007), starring Catherine Zeta-Jones and Aaron Eckhart, was based on this charming screenplay about a woman chef who learns there is more to life (and to cooking) than work.  Post-film fare: Home-made pizza and tiramisu under a make-shift tent in the living room- you’ll understand if you rent the 2007 version.

Sabrina (1954), starring Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart and William Holden.  Okay, maybe the film isn’t really about cooking, but director Billy Wilder captures the all-time greatest cooking scene when Sabrina practices cracking eggs with one hand at a Parisian culinary school.  Post-film fare: I’d vote for a soufflé.

Anyone have other cooking films to add to the list?

]]> http://thetomatoknife.com/2009/09/filming-in-the-kitchen/feed/ 1 http://thetomatoknife.com/2009/09/julie-julia-coming-to-paris/ http://thetomatoknife.com/2009/09/julie-julia-coming-to-paris/#comments Sun, 13 Sep 2009 21:25:26 +0000 Joy Anna Becvarik http://thetomatoknife.com/?p=597 Nora Ephron’s most recent film Julie and Julia makes its Paris debut this Wednesday, September 16.

I’ve been anxiously awaiting its arrival since hearing about it from family and friends in the States.  Meryl Streep supposedly gives a brilliant rendition of the celebrated Julia Child. After all this waiting, and since I’ve always had a special admiration for the woman who brought French cuisine to America, I’ll be expecting one clever performance.  It can’t be easy to master the art of playing Julia Child.

The movie is based on two autobiographies: Julia Child’s My Life in France and Julie Powell’s Julie and Julia.  Of course I’ve read them both and, I must admit, got sucked in to each woman’s culinary adventures.  The discovery of French food (from tasting to recreating dishes in one’s own kitchen) is a subject I can certainly identify with.

A good friend of mine had given me Julie and Julia for my birthday (way too many months ago) and I finally got a chance to read it (thanks to a longer metro ride from our new apartment).  This is a friend who knows me well and with whom I’ve shared many cooking adventures (making beer-based fondue and vegetarian sushi- from scratch and in the same evening- surely counts as an adventure).  Thus, a book about a twenty-nine-year-old woman attempting to cook every one of the 524 recipes in Julia Child’s 1961 Mastering the Art of French Cooking (in a single year) was an appropriate gift.

Julia Child’s stories about how she first discovered France and French cuisine in My Life in France were a pleasure to read- simply for the similarities between Julia’s experiences and my own.  Here I am, living in Paris at the start of the 21^st century.  Unbeknown to me I’ve been exploring the same streets and “making regular trips” to the same cookware shops Julia Child did back in the 1950s!  The book, for example, describes my all time favorite spot, E. Dehillerin, just as I would describe it today: hanging copper pots, porcelain vessels, kitchen gadgets galore.  The rather magical culinary world that spellbound an American in Paris over fifty years ago still captivates one today.

My Life in France also mentions some of the challenges of life as a foreigner in France.  Even in post-war Paris, Julia Child observed an elegant city, full of well-dressed men and women and intellectuals ready to defend their points of view.  Believe me, Julia, no matter how tall or short you are, even today it’s easy to feel like a klutzy foreigner in Paris- and holding your own at a dinner debate- that’s tough!  She reminisces about how frustrating it was not to speak the language upon arrival and (this one’s especially for me) how difficult it was to pronounce any French word containing an “o” or a “u”!

Like Powell says in her book, none of us can actually claim Julia Child for ourselves- much as we’d like to.  She, however, is a woman who has had a lasting impression on me- and played quite a role in my passion for food, travel and living in France.  Julia Child may be famous for having brought French cuisine (and culture) into American households, but I’ll simply remember her for having brought it into ours.

Julia Child, for starters, was my first French teacher. Even before starting ballet lessons and learning such culinary words as sauté and fondu, I knew bon appétit. (Actually, for a while, I didn’t even know this was a French phrase, but thought it was invented by Julia Child herself).  When I learned it was French (a foreign language) a whole new admiration for the mesmerizing woman on television was born.

The first time I met Julia Child I was thirteen- and had put on a dress for the occasion.  She was giving a book signing at a local shop called “Cookworks” and my mom, brother, sister and I all gathered in line to meet her.  It was a warm, beautiful day and she was sitting behind a table, under an awning, just in front of the shop.  Looking back, the scene reminds me of a welcoming French terrace with tables sprawling out onto the sidewalk.

I still treasure the first words Julia Child spoke to me when I approached her table, handed her our brand-new copy of Cooking with Master Chefs and said hello:

“Are you a ballerina?”

Back then my hair was always, and I do mean always, pulled up in a ballerina bun- still, I couldn’t believe she knew!  I had already been impressed by the Julia Child I’d seen on television (her voice, her movements, her tipsy glass of wine), but this “real life” character was amazing.  It was all in how she had worded it.  She hadn’t asked if I danced or if I took dance lessons- she’d asked if I was a ballerina.  The verb “to be” took on a whole new meaning that day.

I nodded a very satisfied (and probably very smiley):

“Yes.”

…and proceeded to tell her that the book was for all four of us.  She kept chatting and was very kind, but I’ve never been able to remember what else she said- I was too impressed with her first line.

Along with many of the recipes in Cooking with Master Chefs, I would learn to make a lemon-almond tart.  Each time it was a huge project, but it became my signature dessert and I made it again and again throughout my teenage years.  Julia Child’s book still sits among the numerous cookbooks in my mom’s collection, but its pages are no longer crisp and new like on the day I first met Julia Child.  Now they bear remnants of flour, lemon, butter…there’s even a grain of rice…  I guess you could say it was our family version of the Velveteen Rabbit.  What really made it special, though, wasn’t that we were trying to cook or that we were trying to be little chefs- we simply cooked, we were.

I didn’t know I’d meet Julia Child again, nor did I expect to enroll in her alma mater.  Smith College was where I would meet her for the second time.  It must have been a good eight years later- I’d cut off my bun, been to France, tasted wine.  I remember her walking down Seeley hallway- surrounded by a merry little party of young women. She was slightly hunched forward and you could see her shoulder blades barely poking out from under her sweater.  For any other person, this may not have been the most elegant position, but Julia Child had such a presence and manner of being that she stood out as being right- and she made everything and everyone around her feel right. She talked casually with students (even attended classes) just as though she was one of us again- young and curious and a little giddy.  I wish I could remember what we talked about the second time- guess I was still too impressed with that ballerina line.

In other words, I have very high expectations for Wednesday.

I recently wrote about how I became a pescetarian.

I admit, going “pescetarian” has been quite an adventure, from buying fish and learning new vocabulary (in both French and English!), to properly cutting it in a restaurant and, of course, learning to cook fish myself.

The first time I cooked salmon it reminded me of what one might end up with if they were stranded on a desert island.  It was fresh, yet blackened and tough, as though I had prepared it over an open spit, after having rubbed two sticks together to get fire.  Worse, trying to make sure it was cooked enough, I had inadvertently broken my pavé into small (near bite-size) pieces while it was in the frying pan.  The skillet was hot, too hot, and the edges of my salmon were getting pretty crispy, while the inside was staying bright pink.  Instead of turning down the heat, my solution was to slaughter it.

I kind of enjoyed my fish that evening.  It, however, wasn’t so much my sorry attempt at cooking that got me.  It was realizing, just before taking my first bite, that I was about to eat fish, something I had consciously stayed away from for many years.  There I was, sitting alone at the table, in front of my “meal,” wondering if I should actually eat it.  On one hand, I was anxious to try the much-awaited, much-debated fish.  On the other, I couldn’t help thinking about how it had once been alive, with eyes and internal organs.  I suddenly felt guilty, a wave of ethics and morals crashing over me.  What was I doing?  I wasn’t really stranded on an island.  I didn’t need to eat this being, lying dead (and brutally butchered) on my plate.  I sat for a minute, thinking about where this fish might have come from, imagining it swimming blissfully in the sea.  I hadn’t been prepared for this feeling of culpability.  I forced myself to bitterly swallow these feelings and lifted a forkful to my mouth.  It would have been even worse to not eat the fish now that I had brought it to its current state.  And, if I didn’t like it, I’d never have to do it again.

The next time I had fish, I ordered it in a restaurant and what a difference that made.  Then, a few months later, Sébastien and I moved in together and he took over the fish cooking.  I did notice that eating fish made my energy level go up and I quickly started enjoying it- we’re a little spoiled here in France, especially along the coasts.

About a year ago, I decided I’d give cooking fish another try.  The advantages of not knowing too much about fish are: 1. I learn something new every time I step into the kitchen and… 2. There’s lots of room for creativity.

Because I was a strict vegetarian for so many years, I can’t bring myself to ignorantly buy, cook and eat fish.  I’m constantly reminding myself why and how I’m doing it.  I’m curious, for example, about which fish are in season, which are good choices health-wise and whether “organic” or “non-organic” is better…  Before lifting my fork, I also like to say, “Thanks, Fish.”

I’ll definitely be sharing more fish stories, as well as some of my favorite new recipes- now that I’m improving!

The much-awaited kitchen countertop!

Side note: as we were setting it up, someone (I promised Sébastien I wouldn’t mention any names) accidentally burnt a hole through the instructions (yes, right through the middle where the words and diagrams are).  Result: a bit of intuitive creativity was needed- combined with a morning of hammering, this was the recipe for success.  Since then, however, we’ve been using the “grown-up”-safety lock on the new stove.

Other moving updates: last week I finished cleaning the “heating system” in the bedroom.  There are three (or remnants of three) different heating devices in this room: an old fireplace (boarded up, but still sporting a bit of 1930s soot), an old (dusty) gas radiator just in front of the fireplace, and a modern electric heater attached to the wall next to its two predecessors.  We can’t use the first two, but since they’re there, I figured I might as well make them look pretty.

Back to the kitchen.  We’re still missing some shelves, but other than that it’s up and in running order!  We’ve already begun cooking up a storm- check back for upcoming recipes…

There’s a chocolate dessert in France called a mi-cuit, which literally means “half-cooked.”

When you cut into the small round cake, it oozes with dark, rich chocolate. Mi-cuit is also the nickname I’ve given our new kitchen. That doesn’t mean it’s oozing with warm dessert- far from it. In fact, for the last couple weeks the kitchen has been slowly on its way to becoming functional. This morning, it just passed the halfway mark.

Who said moving was easy? Our last two apartments in Paris were furnished. Translation: the electricity and kitchen appliances had already become friends before we’d moved in. When we stepped into our new apartment, it was a sleeping slate- waiting for us to wake it up. Wednesday morning, we arrived nice and early (side note: we’re still sleeping and cooking in our old apartment) to wait for the delivery of the much-awaited stove and washing machine (second side note: there is still no telephone and neither of us- yes we’re proud of it- have cell phones). We were pleasantly surprised to see that the hot water was finally working and that the interphone had been fixed (with both our names, spelled correctly!). To make a long morning short, the stove arrived (with Sébastien gallantly waiting out on the sidewalk because the delivery men didn’t have the building code and, like I said, we had no telephone). It, however, clashed with the electricity; there was a melodious pop (and a spark) and we had to wait until this morning for another electrician to come. The washing machine never came. We did get a lot of cleaning done though. I scraped paint spots off the old marble fireplace in what I’ve claimed as “mon bureau et yoga room”- shh… Sébastien doesn’t know about this claim yet… He scrubbed the very dirty windows. We both re-measured for the cupboard shelves and changed a few doorknobs- until we discovered the screws were too short for most of the doors.

Wednesday morning we thought we might be able to have our first official meal in our new place that very evening. Hours later we realized it would have to wait.

I trekked back over to the apartment this morning and after some more waiting and some more scrubbing, the electrician arrived- semi-armed to tackle the problem. He worked, left, came back, worked some more, didn’t seem to understand why the delivery men hadn’t been able to plug in the stove on Wednesday, left again, verified something and then left for good- the stove, believe it or not, was (and still is) in working order!

So, moving isn’t easy and the kitchen still has a ways to go: countertop, shelves (yeah, that’s a whole other story) and deciphering how the stove works. I figure that getting it hooked up was the biggest problem though, so this puts us into the final stage of creating a kitchen from scratch. At least I’ve been learning a lot of vocabulary in this venture. Like, interrupteur (light switch), couteau à platre (puddy knife) and papier de verre (sandpaper). They could be useful terms, couldn’t they?