Empanadas (see other blog)

So, I want to take a second to "announce" the launch of my other blog. . . the one that's not just for fun. After I worked on a Spanish grammar textbook for kids last year, the publisher asked me to keep a blog with content related to the book, hispanophone culture, and language learning in general. If you're a language-minded person, or interested in classical education, stop on by and throw in your two cents.

Au Revoir Pudding, Bonjour Vacherin

Yesterday Mr. Walker finally came to fix the small freezer compartment of our fridge. Hooray! I’ll taste ice again! I’ll be able to buy prepackaged frozen foods again! And best of all, vacherin! Pudding, adieu.

Vacherin was one of the desserts presented to us at Madame le Consul’s dinner for American language assistants back in October. I’ve been craving it ever since. A sort of tart made of meringue, whipped cream, and berry sorbet, it’s light and delicious and wonderful. I would say that of all the French foods I have lusted after, vacherin takes the cake. The list of things I’ve eaten because they were sortof like vacherin and I thought they might take the edge of the craving is a rather long one (raspberry sugar-water. frozen raspberries. a wilted and unhappy raspberry charlotte). I’ve seen a store-brand boxed version of my darling taunting me from the frozen foods case of the Spar mini-market on the corner, but since first it wouldn’t have fit in our very frosty freezer, and then we had a completely frosted-full freezer that would accept nothing, buying a giant frozen cake was out of the question. We considered getting one when we had company to help us eat it quickly, but Spar closes at eight. We usually tell guests to come at 7:30, but dinner takes a bit longer to get on the table. What would become of a vacherin in the 45 minutes between leaving the store freezer case and arriving on our table? I shudder to think.

But, today, we had a completely empty freezer, big enough to fit the boxed vacherins I’ve been eying. Spar had none in stock, but that’s alright: it was the day of our Carrefour pilgrimage. Carrefour is about 30 minutes away, and Josh was sure that a frozen dessert wouldn't make it back in one piece, but I decided it was worth a try. However, when I got to the vacherin section . . . empty. I think the cases had malfunctioned and their contents had been tossed.

I almost accepted defeat, but was saved by vacherin flavored drumstick cones. Sitting near raspberry-peach, mint-chocolate, and chocolate pistachio, they called to me and I answered. (Okay, I’m getting ridiculous here, but I’m still on a sugar high.) We opened the box on the way home and Josh was right. . . Carrefour was too far away. They were never going to make it. I had to eat two.

They were worth every wave of sugar-induced nausea I experienced afterward. The top was raspberry sorbet (so light it was almost frothy) swirled with whipped cream and topped with meringue pieces. Underneath that was the traditional vanilla ice cream in a chocolate-lined cone, but this time with a core of raspberry sauce.

I am SO glad to have our freezer working again. . . even if nothing makes it home to reside there.  Tant pis!

By the way, in the grocery store I had another Marilyn Monroe spotting.  This time she was on a purse.

La Belle-Mère

Our noisy neighbors are playing a loud techno version of the "Imperial March" from Star Wars. I kindof want to go over and yell at them. Or join their party. Which to choose?

Anyway:
We're currently hosting a visit from our (my) "belle-mère," which means "beautiful mother" and is French for both mother-in-law and stepmother. It gets a little confusing when someone discusses both parties at the same time, but in general, it's a rather lovely way of putting it.

So, avec ma belle-mère and my belle-grandmother, it's a whirlwind of cafés, pastries, museums, and cute little shops. Fun to have them, and also to have the "home comforts" they brought in their suitcases. The peanut butter was almost immediately turned into the flourless peanut butter cookies from my new favorite reading material, the great foodie blog "Everybody Likes Sandwiches." The cookies made me late for school (I started making them at 7:50 as breakfast before an 8:00 am class) but were worth every peanut-buttery bite.

Donc, je vais dormir (off to bed) because these two "belle" ladies have worn me out. Too much sight seeing! Too many glasses of rosé! Bonne nuit!

Fun Chez Kraut

Julia: Here we are, on a Friday night, learning Old English . . . You sure know how to show a girl a good time.  

Josh: I'm letting you hold the computer.

Back to Winifred

I finished the book "Perfume from Provence" and want to apologize to Winifred for the insensitivity of my earlier critique.  After the last pages of the book, where she switches from describing the joys of watching peasants flirt with each other during olive harvest to confessing her loneliness after the death of her husband, I suddenly feel very protective of her.  And with that comes willingness to overlook her notions of Anglo-Saxon superiority.  But should it?  Should she be let off the hook for being insensitive in one area, just because she's suffered in a another?  Or should she still be harshly criticized for her un-p.c. views?  And does it even matter, since she's dead now?  

I'm going to go do laundry.

Books and Jackhammers

Right now I’m on winter break, not to be confused with Christmas break or spring break, each 2 weeks long. I took advantage of my free time yesterday to head down to the big public bibliothèque. Josh and I found a glass-encased silent reading room inside the library's spacious main hall. Perfect. After promising the room’s guardian that we were there to study and not to chat, we sat down at a massive old wooden table with a green leather top to get some work done.

We went to the library both for the study-inducing ambiance, and to get away from our neighbors, who are renovating their apartment. Apparently the instrument of choice for construction here is a jackhammer. Not so study-inducing.

While at the library, I picked up a book titled “Aix-en-Provence, hier & aujourd’hui,” yesterday and today. I love old photographs and many of the pictures in the book are from before the American Civil War. How cool! The old pictures were set alongside recent shots of the same places. When we got home, we plunked down on the couch right away and flipped the book open . . . only to discover that in spite of all the jackhammer noises we’ve been hearing, there were only a handful of pictures in which we could see any change from the 1850’s to the present. The only developments were that the roads are now paved and some shop signs are different.  

While in the library, I also swung by the English-language section and found a book called “Perfume from Provence,” written by an English noblewoman who moved here in the 1930’s to escape the collapsing British pound. It’s pretty much the same as reading a book by Peter Mayle, but the author is a little bit ethnocentric and classist. Sorry, Winifred, but your workmen can't possibly be "little more than children." She spends less time than Mayle does in detailing the horrors of having a house renovated in a land where people take two hour lunch breaks, but she complains a bit more. By the second chapter, while still really liking the book, I found myself wanting to say to her, “Stop complaining! You chose to live here! If you want telephone service, go back to Hertfordshire!”

It was a good lesson for me, since I spend a lot of time complaining and exasperated, and if I really don’t like it here, I could always go home. But we chose to move here and we’re glad of our choice. I was glad even this morning, as the next-door destruction (I mean construction) was again going full-swing, and this time, without announcing their intentions, they cut off our water.

Le Printemps est arrivé!

Spring is here! The thermometer hit 16 Celsius yesterday and a friend and I walked up to Cezanne’s atelier. By the time we reached the workshop on the steeeeeep hill north of the city, I was wearing a tee shirt. The birds were singin’ and the sky was blue. I waited by a rustling bush long enough to see a rouge gorge, the first French bird I’ve seen in person other than a pigeon or magpie (I saw, from a bus window, some kind of grand heron wading in a puddle a few weeks ago, but that doesn’t count).

Friday we also had evidence of spring. We went to a local park to enjoy the sunshine and there were daffodils and pansies in bloom. I retired my winter coat . . . hopefully it can stay out of commission for the rest of the year as it’s in dire need of a dry cleaning.

The park is a "jardin à la Française," classic French gardens in front of an old mini-chateau. Now the house is an art gallery, and the park is a great place to enjoy le soleil or a pain au chocolat.  These pictures are actually from a park visit in September--imagine pansies beside the walks now.