The Tomato Knife

The second part of this post is all about the minestrone soup I made after this Sunday’s farmers’ market.

First though, I want to tell you about last weekend and the “Journées européennes du patrimoine” (or, European Heritage Days). I had already re-scheduled (note RE-scheduled) an eye appointment for Saturday afternoon, and Sébastien was set to play two tennis games Sunday. Though we’d been talking about it for about a month (“Oh, yeah, can’t wait to see that!” and “I’m sure there’ll be a long line, but we could try anyway.”), neither of us had realized the heritage days were this particular weekend when making all our other plans. I wasn’t about to re-schedule my appointment yet again, and, well, when there’s a tennis game, there’s a tennis game. So, we sadly didn’t think we’d end up taking much advantage of the long-awaited festivities.

As luck would have it though, Saturday was our day, as the eye doctor (over near Rebublique in the 11^th) proved to be a fabulous way to start the weekend (believe that!). Not only did the doctor say my view had gotten better (I know, right?), we stumbled upon La maison des métallos (more or less, the “house of the metal workers”). Now a cultural center in the heart of a diverse Parisian neighborhood, this was once a factory where wind instruments were made (and apparently sought after by American jazz artists in the 1930s). Then, the building was bought by the “Union Fraternelle des Métallurgistes” – with an entire history that we learned all about on our tour (thanks to the heritage days!). Now I’m looking forward to attending some of the center’s community-oriented performances, debates….

Sunday, we (after how many years in Paris?) went to the Musée Chaillot (directly across from the Eiffel Tower and dedicated to “architecture et patrimoine”). We chose it thinking it wouldn’t take too long and was doable between tennis matches. Wrong! We spent about an hour and need to go back. We didn’t see everything, but what we did was pretty neat.

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Tags: carrots, events, noodles, soup, tomatoes, vegetables

It’s “la rentrée,” or French New Year, as I like to call it. The American term “back to school” is the closest translation I can find for the phenomenon that has been sweeping Paris for the past week. It’s a poor translation because “la rentrée” isn’t just for kids and college students; it’s for… well… everyone.

Our “new year” is off to a good start so far – back to work, back to sports, back to reading in the metro (I’m nearly finished with Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go and can’t wait to take the metro to dance class tonight to get back to reading it – that says something if I’m actually looking forward to taking the metro!)… back to cooking up storms in the kitchen, to Sunday farmers’ market, to fresh raw milk from the local cheese shop… yep, summer’s over… it’s back to daily life in Paris, including the customary new discoveries.

Yesterday, I was on my way home from work – and I was hungry (I feel like I’ve started many a mischievous story this way). I’ll cut to the chase: I fell in love with Paris in the “fall time” and street crepes all over again. Why? Under the late afternoon, fading sunlight of autumn, I had my first crepe smothered in Speculoos spread – wow! I have two favorite crepe stands in Paris (well, three – but the third is a whole category of its own, see below): the one on boulevard Montparnasse (north-side of the street, just before rue de Rennes) and the one on boulevard Saint Germain (north-east corner of the boulevard and rue Bonaparte).

I’d asked for a simple sugar crepe and watched as Mr. Crepe Man poured a ladle full of thick batter onto the pan. Then, my eyes began wandering as I waited. That’s when I spotted THE jar.

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Tags: everyday life, restaurants

Conversation between Sebastien and I upon arrival in Scotland a week ago:

It’s not raining.

S: Wow, this is great! We landed in Glasgow two hours ago and here we already are in Stirling!

J: Yeah, that was super fast. We got our bags, the car, went to the bathroom in, what, an hour tops?

S: Passport control, too.

J: I can’t believe how smooth is all was! The longest was just getting out of the city, you figuring out left-side driving.

S: We even got a phone card. So easy!

J: Good thing I had a few pounds saved from last year.

S: You’re the best!

J: You, too!

S: This is just all too easy. I feel like we’re in Meet the Fockers. You know, how it all starts out so well, and then…

J: Hey, take it back.

S: Hahaha….

J: Seriously, take it back!

S: Okay. Back. Hehehe. Meet the Fockers… England!

J: Scotland.

S: Same thing.

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Tags: scotland, travel

If I were a sheep, I would live in Scotland. I say this because Sebastien and I have just spent five days exploring the Scottish Highlands and it was quite obvious that the sheep rule. They dominate the landscape. Happy (and oblivious) as can be, they spend the entire day grazing on the open fields. They’re surrounded by green grass and green grass… and green grass. The sheep are quite a site perched up on cliffs and, in some areas (like the Isle of Skye), the most defiant stand out in the middle of the road. They don’t even think about budging for we silly visitors. Power to the sheep. The Highlands are their land.

The landscape in the Highlands is impressive – more so than I ever would have thought. Lochs, mountains, ocean inlets, hills, cliffs, fields… the setting took us far away from our city life in Paris. I was in admiration about how untouched and well-preserved this part of Scotland was. Nearly every house is a bed and breakfast, so we could tell tourism is important, but of all the places we’ve been, this was the most remote. We stayed to the western side and when we were out hiking, it often felt like we were the only humans in all of Scotland!

We started our journey in the Cairngorms National Park and were based in Kingussie (which we’d recommend over Aviemore, the main town twenty-minutes to the north). Then we moved on through the Five Sisters and toward Kyle of Lochalsh. From our base near Dornie, we were easily able to explore this area and the Isle of Skye. On our way to Glasgow, we drove through Glen Coe – and wished we had more time to stay there!  In addition to the fabulous hiking (usually under raincoats) and the incredible scenery, some highlights of our trip were:

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Tags: castles, restaurants, scotland, travel

Whenever we have a picnic, I make tabouli salad. Each time it turns out a little different (depending on what ingredients I throw in). This particular recipe (featuring fresh bell peppers) is one of my favorites and probably the one I make the most often.

The red and yellow organic bell peppers that I buy at our nearest farmer’s market have just been so good lately. I haven’t even wanted to cook them. They have their own sweet flavor and can easily be eaten raw.

I’m also on a parsley kick and find that a tabouli dominated by it (rather than by grains) is much better. I used to put in a lot of bulgur and only a little parsley – lately, I’ve been doing the exact opposite, and only putting in a small portion of grains. That’s the great thing about making tabouli – you choose the ratios. In this version, the dominant tastes are parsley, bell peppers and lemon – lots of lemon.

I’ve also been playing with the type of grain I put in. My favorite so far is a combination of both bulgur and quinoa. Straight bulgur, I’ve decided, makes the salad too heavy for summer picnics.

These ingredients are just to give you a rough idea. I don’t actually follow them, but let the salad tell me what it wants!

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Tags: salads

When we first arrived in Paris, Sébastien and I stayed clear of Mexican restaurants. Coming from Santa Fe, I felt there was something infinitely wrong about eating “Mexican” in France. I’d grown up on the real stuff – the thick, hot, decadent sauces that make up traditional Northern New Mexican cuisine. Mexican without fresh Hatch Green Chili, homemade sopapillas (too hot to touch when they arrive at the table) and good old pinto beans was simply inconceivable.

One day, we were roped in. Friends had invited us to join them at “Fajitas” (a Mexican restaurant near the Seine) – and we agreed. Walking down rue Dauphine (I like to imagine I was wearing chaps, cowgirl boots and a lasso flung over my  right shoulder), I felt like an outlaw. No, worse. I felt ike a traitor.

“I can’t believe I’m about to eat ‘Mexican’ in Paris.” My fingers danced in the air around the word “Mexican.”

I decided I’d think of it as something else – like soy milk is to milk, carob to chocolate, margarine to butter. No, they aren’t as good and, no, they’re not substitutes (in my book). They’re something else completely – just like so-called Mexican in Paris.

Or so I thought.

Five years later, we’re still eating at Fajitas, as well as at a handful of other Mexican/Latin American restaurants we’ve discovered on our own. I have to admit, they’re not so bad and do a pretty good job at satisfying my cravings for rice and beans. Granted, Parisian Mexican will never be like home (especially in the sauce and spice department), but you can’t have it all (not all at once, at least).

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Tags: restaurants