Sunday, October 4, 2009
Weather check: a new season
I wore thongs on Friday, which was complete folly. I was pushing the limits of summer, desperately hoping September’s Indian summer would stretch into October. But the temperatures have barely ascended beyond the mid-60s so it’s time to give the fantasy up.
I know a lot of people love fall. It means hot tea and new cashmere sweaters; pumpkin soup and toasty fireplaces. But to me, it’s a slow descent into the bowels of winter. The only good thing it means is that I can close my bathroom window at night, giving me a better chance of sleeping through drunken thugs who yell and break bottles on my street corner at 3 a.m.
I know a lot of people love fall. It means hot tea and new cashmere sweaters; pumpkin soup and toasty fireplaces. But to me, it’s a slow descent into the bowels of winter. The only good thing it means is that I can close my bathroom window at night, giving me a better chance of sleeping through drunken thugs who yell and break bottles on my street corner at 3 a.m.
Saturday in the kitchen
I took another cooking class—this one a three-plus hour, three-course lunch menu at Olivier Berté’s Les Coulisses du Chef.
The kitchen was lovely and intimate, like being in someone’s home kitchen with the exposed pantries and windows overlooking the courtyard. When we arrived, the fresh ingredients were laid out on the island, but none of the prep work had been done. That was up to us.
Chef Olivier is a very sweet, gentle man who offered good tips on knife skills. It was all in French, but he was hands-on enough that I learned a trick or two—like the proper way to place my fingers so I don’t slice them off.
The first course was a beautiful parsnip, green apple and curry soup. It ended up being my favorite part of the meal.
Then came sole meunière—the dish that made Julia Child fall in love with French cuisine.
This was a real eye opener. We skinned, scaled, gutted, cleaned, prepped, cooked and filleted these big ole fish. I can’t ever imagine doing it at home—it was ridiculously messy and pretty gross too—but it was a great experience. And, of course, it yielded a tasty dish.
Dessert was simple: a “carpaccio” of figs and strawberries, which is really just a fancy name for finely sliced fruit with a glaze of egg whites, sugar, honey and lime.
We shared wine and coffee and lingered around the table like true Frenchies and were sent home with the aprons and recipes. So inspired was I last night, that I even made myself a proper dinner.
The kitchen was lovely and intimate, like being in someone’s home kitchen with the exposed pantries and windows overlooking the courtyard. When we arrived, the fresh ingredients were laid out on the island, but none of the prep work had been done. That was up to us.
Chef Olivier is a very sweet, gentle man who offered good tips on knife skills. It was all in French, but he was hands-on enough that I learned a trick or two—like the proper way to place my fingers so I don’t slice them off.
The first course was a beautiful parsnip, green apple and curry soup. It ended up being my favorite part of the meal.
Then came sole meunière—the dish that made Julia Child fall in love with French cuisine.
This was a real eye opener. We skinned, scaled, gutted, cleaned, prepped, cooked and filleted these big ole fish. I can’t ever imagine doing it at home—it was ridiculously messy and pretty gross too—but it was a great experience. And, of course, it yielded a tasty dish.
Dessert was simple: a “carpaccio” of figs and strawberries, which is really just a fancy name for finely sliced fruit with a glaze of egg whites, sugar, honey and lime.
We shared wine and coffee and lingered around the table like true Frenchies and were sent home with the aprons and recipes. So inspired was I last night, that I even made myself a proper dinner.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Playing hooky on myself
I really needed to write today. As I looked forward to the weekend, I was trying to figure out the best way to have a big swath of time for working on a new chapter and a couple articles. The intentions were there. But I didn’t write a lick.
I set the alarm to go to the gym and burn off some calories from the copious amounts of cheese I’ve been eating. I’ve been on a cheese tear. But I doubt my half-assed spree on the elliptical machine really did much to counteract all that high-fat, creamy deliciousness. Still, I wanted to feel at least a little sweat and burn before heading off to my three-hour cooking course.
The class I took was wonderful—fun, educating and relaxed. I made and ate my first sole meunière—pictures to follow. Class was supposed to end at 1:30 but we lingered until well after 2 and after that, I was supposed to come home and write. Instead I pretended I was sick.
As the hours wore on, I felt more and more tired, and I couldn’t find the motivation or energy to do a thing. I also started feeling sorry for myself—that I haven’t been on one date in nearly seven months and that I’m condemned to be alone for the rest of my life. But that’s another story. Between the fatigue and the pity party, I knew there was only one thing to do: park it on the couch. It was a shame to waste a beautiful day in Paris—I can’t remember the last time I was on the couch during daylight hours—but, thanks to the latest episodes of Glee that Mitchell sent (if you have not seen this show yet, you must! Amazing!) and a spot of chocolate, of course, I found myself cured of the blues.
I set the alarm to go to the gym and burn off some calories from the copious amounts of cheese I’ve been eating. I’ve been on a cheese tear. But I doubt my half-assed spree on the elliptical machine really did much to counteract all that high-fat, creamy deliciousness. Still, I wanted to feel at least a little sweat and burn before heading off to my three-hour cooking course.
The class I took was wonderful—fun, educating and relaxed. I made and ate my first sole meunière—pictures to follow. Class was supposed to end at 1:30 but we lingered until well after 2 and after that, I was supposed to come home and write. Instead I pretended I was sick.
As the hours wore on, I felt more and more tired, and I couldn’t find the motivation or energy to do a thing. I also started feeling sorry for myself—that I haven’t been on one date in nearly seven months and that I’m condemned to be alone for the rest of my life. But that’s another story. Between the fatigue and the pity party, I knew there was only one thing to do: park it on the couch. It was a shame to waste a beautiful day in Paris—I can’t remember the last time I was on the couch during daylight hours—but, thanks to the latest episodes of Glee that Mitchell sent (if you have not seen this show yet, you must! Amazing!) and a spot of chocolate, of course, I found myself cured of the blues.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Hello, moon. Hello, dawn.
Another lovely evening, looking out my window towards the Pompidou.
And another morning when I should have been sleeping but was staring out the window instead.
And another morning when I should have been sleeping but was staring out the window instead.
French phrase of the day: J'ai une peche
Def: I have a peach.
Or, I feel peachy—I feel wonderful and life is delicious. Jo shared this one with me, and she certainly has good reason to feel like she has a peach. Go, Jo!
Or, I feel peachy—I feel wonderful and life is delicious. Jo shared this one with me, and she certainly has good reason to feel like she has a peach. Go, Jo!
Thursday night happy hour
Going out in the eighth arrondisement on a Thursday night is quite the thing.
A colleague organized after-work drinks and we were going to go down the street to a place called “Moods” on the Champs-Elysées. As we approached, we saw a line stretched across the wide sidewalk. It was a private happy hour party, something that the Frenchies save for Thursday nights. We had to find a plan B.
Naturally, everywhere on and around the Champs-Elysées caters to tourists. The place where we wound up, Bound on avenue Georges V, was no exception: A giant 80s-inspired space with black lacquered surfaces, giant glossy photos of models and lips, and cocktails for 16 euros. 16 euros! That’s five euros more than Experimental! And they were nowhere near as good.
But it was a nice night out. I’ve really been pushing myself to speak more French and immerse myself in the language. I can’t say much, but I can listen well. And I love that changeover when my thoughts switch to French. It was nice, too, to bond with a couple colleagues. No matter where you are, in any country or company, going drinking with your colleagues always makes people happy. (Unless your colleagues are just so horribly lame or awkward that there is no enjoyment to be derived from having cocktails together.)
After Bound, I met Michael at the Cha Cha Club, which is more my speed. I always love the DJs and the crowd: cool, without trying. But I think it’s just cool to me because it was actually cool years ago and is a little passé.
A colleague organized after-work drinks and we were going to go down the street to a place called “Moods” on the Champs-Elysées. As we approached, we saw a line stretched across the wide sidewalk. It was a private happy hour party, something that the Frenchies save for Thursday nights. We had to find a plan B.
Naturally, everywhere on and around the Champs-Elysées caters to tourists. The place where we wound up, Bound on avenue Georges V, was no exception: A giant 80s-inspired space with black lacquered surfaces, giant glossy photos of models and lips, and cocktails for 16 euros. 16 euros! That’s five euros more than Experimental! And they were nowhere near as good.
But it was a nice night out. I’ve really been pushing myself to speak more French and immerse myself in the language. I can’t say much, but I can listen well. And I love that changeover when my thoughts switch to French. It was nice, too, to bond with a couple colleagues. No matter where you are, in any country or company, going drinking with your colleagues always makes people happy. (Unless your colleagues are just so horribly lame or awkward that there is no enjoyment to be derived from having cocktails together.)
After Bound, I met Michael at the Cha Cha Club, which is more my speed. I always love the DJs and the crowd: cool, without trying. But I think it’s just cool to me because it was actually cool years ago and is a little passé.
To the vet's!
I’m generally pretty comfortable and confident living and traveling solo. But when I moved to Paris, I had a few fears:
• That I’d have a seizure somewhere out in the streets and be totally incommunicado when I came to beneath a crowd of stylish Frenchies and/or ambulance EMTs, muttering merde, merde.
• That I’d lose my fake teeth and walk around like a crazy gap-toothed lady.
• That I’d have some sort of apartment catastrophe: a break-in, flood, fire… or just get locked out and have no one to call.
• Or that Milo would be stricken with some illness and I wouldn’t be able to find a vet or communicate my crazy cat’s woes.
A couple of these are warranted: Thanks to ‘abnormal brainwave activity’ and the loss of two front teeth in a bizarre accident in Ramallah (seriously), I always have those first two fears lurking in the back of my mind.
And the apartment and cat things are just from feeling more vulnerable in a city and home that’s not my own. Back in New York, Amee was my emergency contact, and she had a set of keys to my apartment. So did my doormen and super. And I had a roster of doctors, a dentist and veterinarian whom I knew and trusted. I knew I always had back-up, come fire, flood or medical mishap.
Lucky for me, the first fear that’s actually been realized here in Paris had to do with Milo. (I’m horrible.) When I came back from New York, I noticed a few clumps of fur around the apartment—like, major clumps. It was bizarre. And a little gross. The next day I came home from work, there was more fur. And then more and more and more. My cat has suddenly taken to ripping out giant tufts of his fur, and it’s absolutely disconcerting.
I Googled “cat pulling out hair like crazy” to find some likely causes, of which there are several. It could be an allergy—to something in the air or food. It could be a parasite, mites or fleas (ew, I hope not). Or it could be stress—a cat with ocd. Wtf.
Admittedly, I kept putting off finding a vet. I did some Google searches and asking around, which didn’t yield the magical “bilingual vet in the second arrondisement” results that I was hoping for. I didn’t know what to do. But then a lovely colleague who has a couple cats jumped in and found the name of a vet right in my neighborhood. I walked in one morning—so much easier for me to speak face-to-face than try to communicate over the phone—and explained that my French was horrible but my cat was even worse and I needed their help. Two days later, I had Milo on the examination table, with the vet and her assistant explaining to me in Franglais all the different possibilities that I had found online. But their disposition and medicine-dispensing capabilities made me feel so much better.
It will be a process of elimination, figuring out why Milo is pulling out his fur. But at least I have some professional guidance and meds to make it more pleasant for mon cher pussycat. And at least I’ve confronted one of my fears and it’s not as bad as I originally thought it would be.
• That I’d have a seizure somewhere out in the streets and be totally incommunicado when I came to beneath a crowd of stylish Frenchies and/or ambulance EMTs, muttering merde, merde.
• That I’d lose my fake teeth and walk around like a crazy gap-toothed lady.
• That I’d have some sort of apartment catastrophe: a break-in, flood, fire… or just get locked out and have no one to call.
• Or that Milo would be stricken with some illness and I wouldn’t be able to find a vet or communicate my crazy cat’s woes.
A couple of these are warranted: Thanks to ‘abnormal brainwave activity’ and the loss of two front teeth in a bizarre accident in Ramallah (seriously), I always have those first two fears lurking in the back of my mind.
And the apartment and cat things are just from feeling more vulnerable in a city and home that’s not my own. Back in New York, Amee was my emergency contact, and she had a set of keys to my apartment. So did my doormen and super. And I had a roster of doctors, a dentist and veterinarian whom I knew and trusted. I knew I always had back-up, come fire, flood or medical mishap.
Lucky for me, the first fear that’s actually been realized here in Paris had to do with Milo. (I’m horrible.) When I came back from New York, I noticed a few clumps of fur around the apartment—like, major clumps. It was bizarre. And a little gross. The next day I came home from work, there was more fur. And then more and more and more. My cat has suddenly taken to ripping out giant tufts of his fur, and it’s absolutely disconcerting.
I Googled “cat pulling out hair like crazy” to find some likely causes, of which there are several. It could be an allergy—to something in the air or food. It could be a parasite, mites or fleas (ew, I hope not). Or it could be stress—a cat with ocd. Wtf.
Admittedly, I kept putting off finding a vet. I did some Google searches and asking around, which didn’t yield the magical “bilingual vet in the second arrondisement” results that I was hoping for. I didn’t know what to do. But then a lovely colleague who has a couple cats jumped in and found the name of a vet right in my neighborhood. I walked in one morning—so much easier for me to speak face-to-face than try to communicate over the phone—and explained that my French was horrible but my cat was even worse and I needed their help. Two days later, I had Milo on the examination table, with the vet and her assistant explaining to me in Franglais all the different possibilities that I had found online. But their disposition and medicine-dispensing capabilities made me feel so much better.
It will be a process of elimination, figuring out why Milo is pulling out his fur. But at least I have some professional guidance and meds to make it more pleasant for mon cher pussycat. And at least I’ve confronted one of my fears and it’s not as bad as I originally thought it would be.
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