Lapland, bits and bobs

vf en bas

We were in Finland for exactly 5 days, so how is it that I have a month’s worth of blog posts I share on the subject? I am thinking maybe I need to learn to edit a bit, so here is a collection of oh-so-amazing moments I had to share, but since they don’t involve the excitement and literary thrill that accompanies the potential loss of life in a renegade dog sled, I’m tossing them into a melt pot of moments.

Back to the dog sledding – Mr French LOVED it. But really, really got a thrill James Bond-ing it through extreme conditions. He loved it so much that we all went back and did it again, this time under even more extreme conditions as the snow blew in horizontally, creating a feel of total adventure.

And more snow mobiles – This had been my favorite activity of the trip so I was very luck that after our night chasing the Aura Borealis we had an afternoon trip that had been booked by our travel agent before our arrival. Only 8 hours separated the night ride from our day trip, so we felt kind of silly heading back up to the ski station and even considered canceling. That would have been a mistake, a very big mistake, as this was the most beautiful excursion of our entire trip. The clouds had cleared, and although the sun never rises, there is light. The trees were coated in powder sugar snow, particles of it blowing through the air sparkling like diamond dust against a pink tinted sky. Despite the cumbersome snow suits and roaring engines, I felt like a princess in a fairy tale.

Our ride followed the same trail as the night before, but this time, instead of amazing us with the Aura Borealis, Sami stunned us by pointing out the sunset and the sunrise. The sky was pink in and rosy to the east and orange and burning to the west, we were seeing both at the same time and it was quite literally breath taking.

Because the snow mobiling takes off from the ski station, this is also the day we got to explore Saari the grocery store, exercise out souvenir shopping demons and discover a gastro-pub.

The igloos – We were at this particularly hotel in this particular part of the of world because they had igloos where guests could stay the night. Unfortunately 2012 has been a particularly warm winter in Lapland, keeping temperatures well about the -15 mark and they need -20, or lower to build the advertised igloos, ice chapel and ice bar. Alot of people had booked these lodgings and had had to be housed else where throughout their stay. As fate would have it, I had balked at the idea of spending the night in my ski gear and gorging myself on chocolate as the hotel recommends to keep warm (weird but, true, I willing deprived myself of the perfect excuse

Checking out

to stuff my face with chocolate) and instead I had reserved a night in the fog-free glass igloos, hoping to increase our chances of seeing the Aura Borealis. It was a snow night, but sleeping under the winter sky in a comfortably heated room was a magical experience that we all adored, even with the Northern Lights out.

We adored everything about this trip; from the stoïc Laplanders to the extreme beauty of this remote outpost at the end of the world.

On était en Laponie pour cinq jours, mais je pourrais en parler tout le mois ! Je pense qu’il est temps de retourner à Paris, alors voici les restes qui sont trop importantes de laisser en Finland pour la prochaine bloggeuse de vous en parler.

Aux traîneaux de chiens : M. French a adoooooré. Il avait la sensation d’être James Bond à la chasse de M. Snow, alors on était obligé d’y retourner, mais cette fois-ci la neige soufflait à l’horizontal et c’était un autre style d’aventure. Moins vite et plus dans les elements. On a adoré quand même, mais franchement, je préfère le motoneige…

Motoneiges II : Comme j’ai adoré cette activité, j’étais contente que notre agent de voyage nous avait réservé un après midi en motoneige avant notre arrivée. Il n’y avait qu’un écart de 8 heures entre notre aventure Aurore Boréale et notre visite en “jour” alors on se sentait un peu ridicule et on avait joué avec l’idée d’annuler. Ç’aura été une grosse bêtise. C’était la plus belle journée de notre séjour. Les nuages étaient partis et si le soleil ne se lève jamais, il a quand même de la lumière. Les arbres étaient couverts de sucre poudré, des particules de neige flottaient dans l’air une vraie fantasie ; les paillettes dans l’air sur un fond de ciel rose. Malgré mon combi de ski à la bibendum, j’avais la sensation d’être une princesse dans un conte de fées.

Notre balade suivaient le même chemin que la veille, mais sur la colline, les Aurore Boréales étant un effet de nuit, ils n’étaient pas en éventualité, mais chose complètement inattendu, on témoignait le lever et le coucher du soleil simultané. Vers l’est, un ciel rosé et à l’ouest un ciel barbe à papa rose. Une vision époustouflante.

Les igloos – J’ai choisi notre hôtel parce qu’ils ont des igloos pour ceux qui voulaient une expérience originale. Malheureusement il a fait trop beau en 2012 et avec des températures au-dessus de -15 et plusieurs jours de -20 pour construire les igloos, chapelle de glace et bar de glace. Il y avait beaucoup de gens qui avaient réservé ces igloos et ils devaient être logé dans d’autre hôtels de la région. Heureusement pour nous, j’avais trop peur du froid et j’avais réservé une nuit dans les igloos chauffé avec des vitres antibrouillard dans l’espoir de voir des Aurore Boréale. Il neigeait, mais dormir sur la belle étoile en hiver dans une pièce bien au chaud est un moment magique qu’on a adoré.

En fait, on a tout adoré, de la disposition particulière des finlandais à la beauté extrème de cette endroit féerique au but du monde.

HOTEL / Kakslauttanen / Saariselka, FInland / +3358166671000 / http://www.kakslauttanen.fi/fr/

Thrilled to see the sun, at last. Enfin, le soleil !!!!

All hail the king

…the king’s cake, in any case, aka la galette des rois. For those of us not up on Catholic culture, the Epiphany is January 6 and it marks the 12 drummers a drummin’, as in the last day of Christmas, which is a pretty big deal in Catholic countries like France. To celebrate there is a cake made of flaky pastry crust and traditionally filled with frangipane, which is pastry chef lingo for an almond paste blend. These days chefs get creative making them with hazelnuts (Poilane), pistachios (Eric Kayser) and even chocolate (Jean Paul Hévin).

The cakes are good, although to be honest, I find them a bit dry and too buttery for my palette and I’d be rather slathering fat on my hips via a tangy tarte au citron or a simple chocolate, but this doesn’t stop me from gobbling them up the instant they hit the pastry counter every January. Being a Material Girl, I’m addicted to the tradition that comes with the cakes; each cake hides a fève (bean) and whoever gets the piece of cake with the “bean” is the king or queen for the day, in honor of Melchior, Balthazar and Caspar. The cakes are sold with a crown, sometimes two, so the king can choose his queen (or vice versa). If strutting around in the house wearing a crown and getting to boss my indolent teens around for a day was not tempting enough, the modern “bean” is usually a small porcelain model that people love to collect. It may be a character from Tintin, or a gorgeous pastry, it may be an Eiffel Tower, or a vintage coke bottle. Being a practical girl and not into things that attract dust, my very favorite fèves are the ones you can wear, so every year, as magazines and food bloggers scope out the best galette in Paris and debate the merits of the galettes sliding out of the ovens at Du Pain et Des Ideées v Jacques Genin, I’m pounding the sidewalk looking for the best fèves in town.

In years past, I cracked for the oak leaf crown porcelain rings at Polaine (2006) and the crown adorned pendants at the Bon Marché (2011). This year our first galette came from Mulot bakery, which a gold ring fèves that is fun to wear on the pinkie and this weekend, for the real Epiphany I plan on doing my shopping at Dalloyau, which is rumoured to have porcelain star pendants.

 

C’est la galette des rois. Chouette. Après 5 semaines à me gaver comme un oie (nous, les américains, on commence fin novembre avec Thanksgiving, puis c’est mon anniv, et Hanukkah, suivi par petite soirée pour décorer le sapin avec nos gosses…) nous voilà le 1e janvier, ma poche pleine de bonnes résolutions ; faire du sport, m’abstenir de l’alcool et perdre les 4 kilos que j’ai de trop… mais non, parce que, c’est la galette des rois !!!

À vrai dire, je ne suis pas fan de ce gâteau avec sa pâte feuilletée un peu trop sèche pour mon goût, mais je suis une accro confirmée des fèves. Surtout les fèves bijoux qu’on peut sortir de sa boîte à bijoux le 1 janvier et porter pendant toute le mois. Les fèves comme ma bague en porcelaine doré, decorée en couronne de feuille de chène (Poilane – 2006) ou le pendentif avec une couronne de princesse (La Grande Epicerie du Bon Marché – 2011).

Les autres, les foodies et les journalistes vous parleront de la meilleure galette de l’année. Ils pourront vous guider parmi le choix extraordinaire à Paris, vous expliquer la différence entre Du Pain et Des Ideées et Jacques Genin. Moi, j’en sais rien, pâte d’amande, blah, blah, blah, moi je passe mon temps a chercher mes fèves. Cette année j’ai entendu parlé d’un pendentif chez Dalloyau et on a déjà commencé avec la bague en métal doré de Gérard Mulot. Trop minou et ça va être encore plus mignon en pendentif sur un ruban de soie… Un bon début pour l’année 2013…

She aims, she shoots…. Goal???

In the anglo world we spend a lot of time thinking, talking and obsessing about our resolutions, but in my French life the subject rarely comes up. I’m not sure why that is, the concept definitely exists in French. Perhaps its that French discretion, or may be its the influence of Sartre’s Existentialism, or the ripple effect of all those gallic shrugs. I did receive one resolution tweet from a young entrepreneur thinking of opening the Resolution club de sport. The first two weeks of the year the space would be full of gym equipment, the remaining 50 weeks it would be a bar.

When I think about it, I don’t have resolutions this year, I have goals, and I started working to meet those goals throughout 2012, so 2013 promises to be a work in progress. One of my goals is to start writing in French, something I am really horrible at, and it gets even more complicated as I change my keyboard from qwerty to azerty on the mobile device du moment which does not seem to have a bilingual spellcheck, nor can it read minds. this could be a disaster.

Les anglos stressent à mort sur leurs bonnes résolutions. On en parle avant d’avoir terminé la bûche de Noël, qui n’est pas une bûche chez nous, mais un pie, même plusieurs avec le mincemeat de la tante Ruth et le Apple pie de grandmère.

Les deux femmes vous regardent avec l’oeil d’un aigle pour voir quel pie tu vas choisir, quelle femme tu préfères ; la tante qui t’a foutu la honte de ta vie chaque année quand tu ouvrais ses jolis paquets cadeaux, le papier couvert de santa et candy canes, et à l’intérieur les slips horribles, style vieille fille, fait maison dans d’un polyester qui gratte, ou la grandmère qui jetait le cadeau de tes rêves dans un sac en papier, mais cuisinait comme, comme… enfin, cuisinait pas, mais achetait ses pies industriels au supermarket du coin.

Pour leur distraire la famille aborde le sujet des résolutions. On veut tous perdre du poids et tiens, ce sera bien de commencer tout de suite, n’est-ce pas ? Les pies ont l’air délicieux, mais on ne peut vraiment pas, merci de votre générosité, mais les résolutions, vous comprenez….

En France on en parle moins. Je ne suis pas sûr pourquoi. C’est peut-être la discrétion française, ou l’influence de Sartre, ou bien les ondes de le haussement des épaules classique des Français. J’en sais rien, mais je sais que pour tous les tweets des résolutions que j´ai réçues cette année il n’y avait qu’un seule en français, celui d´un jeune entrepreneur qui souhaite ouvrir un club de sport, Résolution avec des machines de sport les 2 premières semaines de l’année et un bar en zinc pour les autres 50 semaines.

Quand je pense à mes résolutions 2013, ce sont plutôt des objectifs, des objectifs que j’ai commencé en 2012 et que souhaits réaliser en 2013. Comme, par exemple, faire un vf de mon blog. Un projet ambitieux pour une californienne qui a rencontré cette langue de verbes irréguliers et le subjonctif a 14 ans et le clavier français a 40 avec un spellcheck qui ne semble pas être bilingue. À voir….

I’d love to hear from you…. what are your resolutions 2013?

Et vos bonnes résolutions 2013 ?

 

LEGALIZE GAY

Yes to marriage, non to homophobia

Howdy all! I’m away on holidays, so I have invited my favorite guest blogger, my very own M, a teen who has something to say to the world, to share with you…

Several weeks ago, upon exiting our house I got caught in the middle of a demonstration opposing gay marriage. Being forced to walk side by side with people fighting against gay rights made me sick. To make up for that terrible experience, today Sunday, December 16th, I joined some of my best friends and what felt like a million other French people to do what they do best: manifest!

Me 🙂

This was for something I strongly believe in; the right for same sex couples to marry and adopt. Because if you love someone, you should be allowed to marry them. Nothing else matters. Although it was scheduled to start at 2pm, my friends and I showed up at the meeting place, the Bastille, at 3pm and there was still an insane amount of people. The plan was to march through Paris, cross the Seine and make it all the way to the Luxembourg gardens.

When I was at the rue de Rivoli, not even halfway through, I learned that the people at the head of the protest had already arrived; we were about 60,000 strong! Everyone there had the most creative, personalized signs and the funnest part of the afternoon was reading them all. At one point I spotted an extra sign and asked if I could hold it up. They were happy to say yes; everyone was sharing. What warmed my heart the most was seeing young kids and toddlers, walking with their parents, proudly waving flags.

The crowd at teh Bastille

Reading the abundance of hand-made posters really showed you what kind of people were there, uniting forces. There were the obvious “Yes Yes Yes to gay marriage” but some got more original. For example one said “I’d rather have a pair of moms than a père de merde (crappy father). My favorite were a couple of older looking women proudly brandishing a sign saying that they were here to fight for their daughter’s rights. The way thousands of strangers could mix together, laughing and shouting, marching for what they believe in was a fabulous way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I am genuinely happy to have been able to participate. For the first time in a couple weeks there was sunshine all afternoon and it was a truly bright day.

Ready made!

Woot, woot! It’s Thanksgiving, MY holiday. I LOVE this feast because it includes everyone; Muslims, Jews, Hindi, and my personal favorite None of the Aboves, this is a festival for anyone who is thankful for all that they have in their lives, a great habit to start, because when faced with the most dire situations, gratitude can save us. And yes, I admit, I love this celebration because I’m a glutton.

I’ve lived out of the US for most of my adult life, and no matter where my wanderings take me, I always set aside this day to give a feast for family and friends, sharing the idea of thankfulness with the world. For the last ten years, I’ve been sharing from Paris.

This year was nearly a disaster. I was convinced that Thanksgiving was the last Thursday of the month, which is the 29th. Friends from Montréal will be in town and I was trying to get them all worked up for the big day when I got an email.

“We were just in Champlain, NY this weekend and all the posters mention Thanksgiving on the 22nd. Sorry, but it looks like your kitchen slaves will still be in Canada, ay?”

I went into utter panic. Not only would I be less two slaves, but I had to notify our guests that the date had changed and order the bird!!!!

The bird. The thing about Thanksgiving, is that it requires a turkey. Paris kitchens tend to be tiny, with tiny ovens. Not exactly the ideal conditions for cooking a big bird. My first year here I was desperate for a solution when I passed the Rotisserie stall at the Richard Lenoir Thursday market. A few dozen light bulbs went off in my head, making me dizzy, but also giving me an idea. Perhaps Mr Roti could roast my bird. A quick conversation later and I learned that not only would he be happy to do it, but he was already doing it for several other yankees. I ordered the bird, put down my deposit and I was set. He didn’t even ask for a birth certificate or a proof of domicile. It was so easy, it was almost like not being in Paris. I was thankful already!!!

This year M Fontaine, my butcher on the rue de Sevres had agreed to spin my bird on his rotisserie, throwing in a delicious wild mushroom stuffing and roasted chestnuts to the bargain. I called in a desperate panic. His wife answered and assured me it was not too late to change the date. “What is your name again, Madame?” “Madame French,” I could hear him yelling at her in the background. I am not the only American who gets her bird from M Fontaine, but apparently I am the only one who would mis-order and call hysterically on a Sunday afternoon.

What else will be eating tonight? Mashed potatoes with about a litre of cream, Bordier butter and wild mushroom gravy, Green Giant canned corn, corn bread, my special cranberry sauce, green beans with pine nuts, and pumpkin pie with home made whipped cream. Bon Ap’ everyone. And remember to be thankful!!!

Its my treat

Halloween isn’t exactly a holiday in France, but this week I enjoyed a particularly mouthwatering treat, just the same. Mr French and I went to see Les Saveurs du Palais with Catherine Frot, a good film with some truly fantastic food porn. The movie is loosely based on the true (miss)adventures of a woman chef at the Elysée Palace. It seems that the president of the time, a certain Jacques, was not satisfied with having one head chef. he wanted two. One for official dinners and one for his private meals which created some jealousy and the film shows French male chauvinism at its finest. They say admitting a problem is the first step to solving it. One can only hope that this may be true in France…

After the movie we were hungry and following the film we’d just seen, good food was not going to cut it. We needed something beyond ordinary.

Mr French, being a resourceful guy, looked at his watched, noticed that it was a tad early (19h40) for dinner and suggested we check out Chicha and Simone’s Italian wine bar, Oenosteria.

I met Chicha and Simone when our children were in elementary school together and they owned a fabulous restaurant known for its carpaccio. Casa Bini is still known for their thinly sliced raw beef that draws the likes of Salma Hayek to their Tuscan haunt, but today they’ve added seafood to their expertise, hiring chefs from Southern Italy who are masters with all things fish. If that is not enough they return to their native Tuscany regularly to stock up on prime ingredients; artisanal cheeses, deli meats, olive oils and truffles.

Our children are now grown, and their restaurant kingdom has, too with Primo Piano at the Bon Marché (above the Grand Epicerie) and they chic-ly relaxed wine bar where we were headed, the Oenosteria.

With an open kitchen and fully stocked fridges, this is an Italian food lover’s delight. On the menu are sliced meat platters, cheese plates, seasonal salads and a few other treats like the porchetta with grilled porcini cap that Mr French ordered. The porchini was rich and meaty, while the porchetta was moist and had the lovely aroma of sage. Being true to my funghi leanings, I had the cèpes salad; a mountain of crispy, nutty raw cèpes slices served on a pillow of arugula. Parmesan coated the dish like tinsel on a Christmas tree and as it arrived at our table I was filled with childish glee.

The food was so good that it swept us away; we were on holiday in Italy, glasses around us clinking, hands flying in every direction, it was a delightful escape. It didn’t hurt that three of the 8 tables hosted Italians who were prattling away in the mother tongue. I was so swept away that I didn’t order their traditional tiramisu for dessert, but instead opted for their perfectly crisp, delicately flavored biscotti served with a glass of vino santo. Truly divine. Salute!!!

Casa Bini / 36 rue Grégoire de Tours, 6e / 01 46 34 05 60

Oenosteria / 40 rue Grégoire de Tours, 6e

Primo Piano / au Bon Marché, 1st floor

Manic Monday

As you’re reading this I am Chicago, visiting the eldest in her new digs at the University of Chicago. But last week was a rare, gloriously sunny day in Paris, so I decided to do the French thing and I went on strike. I was protesting the indoors and refused to go in any building until the sun had set. But it didn’t start out that way.

It started with me heading to the ‘burbs to hear a talk with the author of “Inside Apple”. I don’t really know the outskirts of Paris, so I was relying on my iPhone which got me helplessly lost. How ironic is that??, My maps app got me lost, so I missed a lecture on Apple!!!  Following the map had taken me through some creepy underpasses near the periph’ so going back I decided I’d walk towards the center of town and cross over ‘somewhere else’. A set of big, wide cement staircases led between some office buildings towards the center of town.

I started climbing up through this wide open space when I surprised 2 men in their city worker uniforms who were clearly NOT working for the city at that moment. They were working on each other. One guy was on his knees, the other had his pants wide open. I didn’t really want to see more so I sped on up, only to find myself in the middle of an isolated forest. It was a dead end.

I headed back down, coughing loudly and stomping my feet and somewhat relieved to see one of the guys coming back up the stairs towards me. But kind of freaked out, too. Booking back down, I was thrilled when I reached the creepy underpasses and even happier when I got to the nice, open bridge that crosses the périphérique. Bright sunshin with barges and rowing teams passing below, things were looking brighter when I heard the clash of metal and screeching brakes and turned just in time to see a car come careenin directly towards me, on the sidewalk, stopping just 6 cm from my knee cap!!

I was having a bad day, and it was only 11am. Since most fatal accidents happen within the home, I decided to grab my laptop and head next door to the corner café where I could enjoy the UVs and prevent anymore mischief from coming my way.

French food for real folk

Its mushroom season, and I am a girl with a thing for fungi. Truffles, chanterelles, morels, girolles, it all make my head go into a spin and my mouth start watering. Right now the markets have baskets over flowing with cèpes, the large fat mushrooms (sometimes crawling with worms) that look something like a porcini and are simply heavenly.

Sunday Mr French went out for a baguette for our lunch and came back with an entire kilo of the little beasties for our dinner. I was over the moon, not only would be I be having one of my favorite treats, but I would be offer dinner duty. I knew this because I have been banned from being anywhere near the spore bearing plants and an open flame. Something about my energy instantly turns them into a rubber mush, disappointing everyone, especially me. Mr French has tried to teach me how to prepare them, but I simply can not seem to learn. And maybe I don’t want to, because it is kind of nice being served your favorite dish from time to time.

This week I was granted kitchen access on the condition the camera stay in my hands at all times and I touch nothing related to food. So this is how you prepare a poêlée de cèpes bourgignon. The bourgignon part is important, because that means you get to serve it with wine. Carefully select a kilo of the beauties (any ‘shroom will do, doesn’t really have to be cèpes). Wash them lightly and brush off the dirt. If they’re large, cut them in 1/4. Then dice up an onion, 2 cloves of garlic and a bunch of flat leafed celery. Sautée the onion and garlic in a pan until almost golden. Set aside.

 

In another pan, sautée the mushrooms at high heat. This is important because they give off a ton of water. In fact, that is where I ruin the dish. I forget to drain the pan from time to time, removing any excess liquid. If you do this into a small bowl you can then save the ‘shroom juice for a risotto some other night. But if that’s complicated, but be sure to drain regularly. Just as the mushrooms look done, toss them in the pan with the onion and garlic. Heat through and sprinkle with the parsley.

If you’ve been very good all week, get your self a lovely automn fruit tart to finish your feast. Apples are in season, pears, too, but we went for figs this week…

 

Language lessons

Last night, shortly before falling asleep, I found myself feeling rather uncomfortable. And it just got worse and worse. It was the itchy, burning kind of discomfort that girls rarely talk about, and if they do its in hushed whispers hoping for some girl friendly advice. A situation that makes you wish for a litre of cranberry juice and has you getting out of bed, getting dressed and running (literally) to the late-night pharmacy that is just a short 2 kilometers away, in the pouring rain.

As I slipped my feet into my forest green Hunter boots that do NOT match my purple rain coat, or my shiny red rain hat, I remembered the last time I had to make a similar run. 12 years ago. I had not yet immigrated to France, but was here on a vacation, sharing a Flathotel with my two girls, their Dad and his Mom.

Yes, I brought my mother-in-law with us on holiday. And she wasn’t the most discrete lady on the planet, so 12 years ago, as I got dressed (with a bit more color coordination, I’m sure) for a midnight medical run, I did not really care to discuss with her what was going on down there, despite the fact that she was French and I needed a little vocabulary lesson.  Logic told me that if I could survive malaria, a week in hospital, and an emergency med-ivac in Africa, I could definitely handle a pharmacy run in a big, modern city like Paris.

The little angel on my shoulder must have already been asleep for the evening because she did NOT lean over and whisper into my ear something like, “yes, but English is the official language in E Africa, chérie.”

This pharmacy was also a short 2 kilometre jaunt, and I walked in ready for meds. As luck would have it, the pharmacist was a man. Not overly prudish, I started explaining my symptoms as he just stood there, shaking his head non. Like a sailor manning the sails, I tried another tact, and another. Getting more descriptive and more inventive in about what was goung on. Finally, we got somewhere and he gave me the fungicide I was hoping for. I thanked him and told him the term we use in English, for future reference. His face distorted in disgusted.

Vraiement? That is what you call it? But that is so disgusting!”

“Sabine, Sabine,” he called his assistant in from the back to share the revelation.

“Ach,” she exclaimed, equally revolted, “but zat is vat we use to make bread.’ We eat bread, that is just so gross.”

Really? REALLY? They were busy chatting away while I was in physical discomfort? I mean, maybe they had a point, but I didn’t really care. So I put my francs on the counter, grabbed my meds and started to storm out the door. Just as the glass doors slid open I turned to ask the French term for my own future reference. He replied with yet another gaellic shrug and the comment, “beh, champignons*.”

*Mushrooms, because apparently we eat yeast, but we don’t eat mushrooms !?!

French Food for real folk

Always on the look out for new food to prepare, I jumped at the opportunity to learn a new recipe when the Chief Parisienne suggested we prepare dinner together. Her family has a home in the South of France, so I was not surprised when she declared that we’d be making ratatouille, although I was surprised that she makes it without tomatoes.

At the market we purchased

2 red peppers, 1 green pepper

1 eggplant

4 zucchini (marrow)

1 onion

We already had Herbes de provence and garlic at home.

In the kitchen we opened a bottle of Sancerre and drank to our health. Then we minced about 1/3 of the head of garlic and diced all of the veggies into small cubes. The pieces were about the size of a fingertip and she kept reminding me to make them smaller, but be safe with that knife and don’t add the fingertips themselves!

 

In a spaghetti pot (Parisiennes have tiny kitchens and make do with whatever pot is on hand, at home I use a large frying pan), the CP sautéed the onion and garlic over med-high heat, adding a pinch of salt. When the alliums were soft and transparent she added the eggplant. About 5 minutes later the rest went in, including a pinch of herbs with a few turns of the pepper mill. In another 5 minutes we turned the flame down to low and headed into the living room for a second glass of wine.

Every now and again, the CP would return to the kitchen and stir things up. At some point, without telling me, she added a cube of sugar.

I took my hot veggies home in a tupperware, grilled a few lamb chops and got to bask in the title Kitchen Goddess for the rest of the week. The following week they were all clamouring for more. I set to work, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the right taste, which is when I remembered that the CP had disappeared into the kitchen on more than one occasion. So I made a brief phone call, and sure enough, we’d forgotten to mention the sugar. One cube later, and it was perfect!

This dish takes longer to prepare than most meals I make, but even the gourmet pre-made versions are about 50% fat. Double batches are easy to cook and it freezes well, so it is worth the effort.

VARIATION: Heat the ratatouille up in a large skillet. Crack two eggs over the simmering vegetables and let them cook through. YUM!

DESSERT Bonne Maman Lemon sorbet from Picard

 

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