Postcard from Paris #2

When we first got to Paris, we took a hop-on-hop-off tour of the Seine, and we passed this massive palatial building strangely called L’Hôtel National des Invalides. We were very confused. What kind of hotel has armed guards with machine guns patrolling its exterior?  And who names a hotel after sick people? And why does it look like a palace? So many questions, but we were jet lagged and Eiffel tower bound, so we forgot about Les Invalides. (You can read all the answers by clicking the Wiki link on the name). Then on Tuesday night Ed informed me we had invitations to a private reception at the confusing “hotel” we saw known as Les Invalides, which is actually the site of Napoleon’s tomb as well as three different museums. But the real selling point (aside from awesome food and wine) was “fanfare” by the regiment de cavalerie de la garde republicaine, otherwise known as French military officers riding giant horses while playing trumpets, trombones, drums and prancing in elaborately choreographed circles. It was jaw-droppingly spectacular, and I will never forget my front row view. It felt like such a brazenly Napoleonic display of French superiority and made me proud to be a wannabe-Frenchman!

Here lies Napoleon.

Despite my secret suspicion that I hail from French royalty, I finally got over myself and braved the Metro. It was actually quite easy and user-friendly, even with its massive maze of colors and numbers and connecting commuter trains and various you-can’t-get-there-from-here type scenarios. Okay, I will admit my iPhone’s Metro app helped me tremendously, but more due to the tiny map print’s assault on my aging eyes than the actual directional challenges. After all, I am a veteran of the Philadelphia public transportation system, and the Metro/RER is the Ritz compared to Philly’s SEPTA. That said, urine smells the same in every country, and it’s still not my favorite method of transportation. Alas, champagne taste, beer budget.

I learned each Metro stop has its own “charm,” and some are more charming than others. I think Palais Royal, the blingiest Metro entrance ever, is my favorite. It made me happy every time I saw it. (I should note the black background of my scarf is making me look “fluffier” than I actually am, but I couldn’t resist sharing this picture).

At least four people have told me to skip the Louvre and head to the Musée d’Orsay, and now I understand why! What a fabulous little museum with a very impressive collection. The layout is so smart and logical, and I was lucky to catch a special exhibit of Degas’ nudes.

After my morning of conquering the Metro, next big adventure was sitting down in a very French, not very touristy cafe and ordering a lovely lunch, only to discover that my American magnetic strip credit cards were not accepted for the 23 euro bill, and I only had 9 euros on me. Quelle horreur! I don’t even know how to say, “May I wash the dishes?” in French. Fortunately, I was permitted to run to the nearest ATM (I left my Kindle there as a goodwill gesture, though nobody required me to do so), and I came back with plenty of cash.

I would be horrified enough if that happened in the US, but Paris? Ack! Fortunately, the Parisians have been nothing but lovely to me — everyone from taxi drivers to Metro clerks to waiters to Ed’s French business associates. I have nothing but compliments for them, and I’m a bit puzzled as to why they seem to get such a tough rap in the tour guides as rude and unfriendly. Au contraire! I feel like I understand their demeanor quite well, as I am quiet and reserved towards strangers (sometimes incorrectly confused for snobbery or elitism) but I will gladly help anyone who is polite and asks for my help. By the end of my trip, five different people asked me for directions en francais; certainly the most flattering compliment ever was to be mistaken for a Parisian who knows her way around town. My French is not great at all, but I do try, and perhaps that is the difference among people who are finding them rude.

I must tend to my enfants now, but I promise there is much more to share later this week.

Postcard from Paris #1

I have found that it is the little things about Paris which have charmed me the most. We arrived and walked right to the massively overwhelming Louvre, where we saw countless Parisians and their little dogs on the beautiful grounds. Even the dogs have a delightful joie de vivre, frolicking in the shadow of the world’s greatest art collection with reckless abandon. I tend to keep a short leash on both my pets and my children, so I watched with wonder while a little Jack Russell terrier ran freely across acres of hundreds of people and their dogs, owner nowhere in sight and yet no doubt well cared for. He wound up at a fancy outdoor cafe near the pyramids, where a formidable older woman was dining with her dog, complete with a silver bowl of water on the ground. The Jack Russell waltzed right up and helped himself to the other dog’s water, and I shot the picture below. I don’t know why it made me so happy, but it did. It also made me question why I am so uptight. I would never allow my dog to do that, and yet is was such a joyful thing to watch. Maybe these Parisians are on to something.

We also witnessed a police chase. On rollerblades. We saw three African street vendors with their massive displays of Eiffel tower key chains jingling behind them, followed by three rollerblade-clad police officers chasing them into traffic where the vendors deftly jumped the concrete barriers the police could not pass with their rollerblades. Maybe you had to be there, but it was one of those funny, “Did we just see that?” moments. When your life is very predictable and orderly, the colorful characters of a city are a pleasant treat.

I could dedicate a whole blog to French children’s fashion alone. I have never seen such well dressed children in my life. Hats, scarves, wee little hipster glasses — I can hardly stand the cuteness. It almost made me want to have another child so I could dress him properly this time around. If it was socially acceptable to take pictures of strangers’ children, I would have many examples to show you. This little girl walked past Ed while I was taking his picture, so I don’t feel so bad sharing it:

My sense of direction is very poor, but I am at least able to follow a simple grid-like map for dummies in cities like New York and Philadelphia — the the kind of map you get in third grade when you learn basic map reading skills. While these cities have tall buildings, they also have a lot of unique landmarks among their gridlike plan, so I can usually bumble my way through. Paris, on the other hand, has street after street of beautiful but similar style limestone buildings, plus the occasional palatial museum, peppered with restaurants, cafes and brasseries. In addition, optical stores are everywhere — eyeglasses are a huge accessory in Paris, and I quickly learned using an optical shop as a landmark was a very bad idea. The glorious maze of quaint side streets caused me to walk in circles for 45 minutes all the while being a mere two minutes from my intended destination. Embarrassing and sad. On the plus side, it’s also a bit magical. If you’re going to get lost anywhere, I highly suggest getting lost in Paris. Nestled between the alleys, I would stumble upon the classy French version of a strip mall (picture below) and it reminded me a bit of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe — a totally unexpected world.

Based on yesterday’s “adventure,” I was hesitant to set out on my own for Palais Garnier, but I had no choice. I didn’t come to Paris to sit in a hotel room. I realized my modern life is filled with very few challenges. And even though finding a giant opera house less than half a mile from my hotel is not exactly Amazing Race material, I felt proud of myself. I met up with a group from the highly recommended Paris Walks, and I was able to enjoy the rich history of THE opera house which inspired Phantom of the Opera even more.

One of the highlights of my trip (and probably my life) was attending a reception at the US Embassy and meeting Ambassador Charles Rivkin and his wife Susan Tolson. The embassy feels like a country estate right in the middle of busy Paris. The interior was opulent (what isn’t opulent in France?) but the grounds and the gardens surprised me the most. The wine ranked up there with the best I ever drank, and the appetizers were innovative and — of course — beautiful and très petite. More on the food and wine in later posts, I promise.

I don’t usually share too much about Ed’s work, as it’s his story to tell and not mine, but I will say that I am so proud of the work he and his colleagues do, and so humbled by the sacrifice made by our military. I was honored to be mingling with such a fine group of people and didn’t expect the evening to inspire feelings of patriotism. I was truly impressed with every person I met at the embassy and walked away feeling like our country is in very capable hands. I realize I don’t get out much, but one thing living in Chester County, Pennsylvania has taught me is the ability to tell the difference between genuinely impressive people and people who just try to impress you. I was in a room full of genuinely impressive people, and not one show-off in the bunch. Très refreshing!

I have blathered on long enough for one post. If you are still reading this, merci! I will probably file two more trip reports (more for my own decrepit memory than for any other reason, but I will try hard not to bore you).

See also: Postcard #2, Postcard#3, The Food Groups of Paris

She Went to Paris, Looking for Answers to Questions That Bothered Her So

With apologies to Mr. Jimmy Buffett.

Tomorrow I am leaving for Paris for ten days with Ed. We have both been to Paris separately, but never together. This trip is part business for Ed, all pleasure for me. Our hotel is walking distance to the Louvre, a stone’s throw from Opéra Garnier, and not too far from the Mothership. A thousand thank yous to my part-time boss, full-time friend who has outfitted me with a king’s ransom worth of Hermès from her private collection. It is not every day that a friend insist you borrow scarves, shawls and handbags which retail for more than your first car. Of all the things I will remember about this trip, I am sure my friend’s generosity will rank right up there.

I was fifteen the first time I went to Europe. My single mother believed so strongly in the benefit of travel that she dipped into her hard-earned savings so that I could participate with my classmates. It was an amazing trip — Paris, Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, no drinking age, and minimal supervision. We flew over on Pan-Am, back when people still smoked on airplanes and wandered the aisles with full shampoo bottles in their oversized carry-ons large enough to fit a five year old child. I loved every single second of it, and I’m so grateful for the sacrifice my mother made to send me there.

Now once again, I could not be going without Mom. She will be staying in my house and watching my three kids and crazy dog for ten days, which is no small feat. Thanks, Mom! I wish you strength and a sense of humor, and please know that we realize this trip would be impossible without you. Thanks, too, for my wonderful Dad and his girlfriend, who are my designated relief pitchers as well as emergency back-up. I will sleep well knowing my kids are in such great hands.

When I was younger, there was no place I didn’t want to go. I had such a drive to connect with the rest of the world and so firmly believed the shift in perspective achieved through travel contributes to an understanding of what’s really important, what really threads together humanity. And then the years passed and I got more and more insulated in my safe little world. International travel — especially without my whole family in tow — seemed more scary, more of a hassle, more stress, less fun. There is still a part of me remaining who knows it’s a good thing to get away, but she’s buried deep.

And all of the answers and all of the questions
Locked in his attic one day
’cause he liked the quiet clean country livin’
And twenty more years slipped away

Jimmy Buffett, He Went to Paris

As I’ve told my friends, complaining about going to Paris is like complaining you’re too skinny to find a good pair of jeans. Not a lot of people are very sympathetic. And I’m not complaining, really. But I’m slightly worried and anxious about this trip, and I hate that I am. Travel is a leap of faith, especially for control freaks. However, I am determined to push through the fear and not let it stop me from doing something I really want to do. It’s what I would tell my children to do, and it’s what I need to do myself.

There are definitely two different people inhabiting me, and they frequently battle for dominance. Adventurous Me wants to travel the world and Safe Me wants to stay right where she is. Safe Me has been mostly winning the past twenty years and has developed into a bit of a hothouse orchid. She’s not that keen on leaving her perfectly controlled pristine environment and setting out for where Thar Be Dragons. But I realize that hothouse orchid is just a hop, skip and a jump away from agoraphobia, and I will not go there. I refuse. I am choosing Paris instead.

I can’t wait to share all of my adventures with you, culinary and otherwise. I am excited to stretch outside my comfort zone and return home to my loving family and friends with a fresh new perspective. And maybe a new scarf or two. Au revoir, mes amis. Je vous adore.

Never go on trips with someone you do not love. — Ernest Hemingway, A Movable Feast

Mom Mom Has a New Apron

We all know I love aprons, especially my Mom Mom’s apron, despite looking like a depression-era hausfrau whenever I wear it. Which is many times a week. But I also like other aprons, and I’m fortunate to have a couple of friends who sew.

My friend Ivy sent me this lovely apron recently. I love that it’s pretty but also a busy enough print that I won’t think twice about wiping my saucy, greasy hands on it. That’s the problem with a lot of my aprons — my mom instincts kick in and I don’t want to get them dirty! I have learned that dark or busy prints are very forgiving.

Ivy has some free time this summer and could possibly make you an apron, too. She is an honest woman who does high quality work at a fair price. If you’re interested in commissioning an apron of your very own, you can contact Ivy at Ivychilde@aol.com

Sriracha Popcorn

Popcorn is my perfect snack food — a crunchy, satisfying vehicle for butter and salt. When it comes to popcorn, I tend to shy away from the fancy, but every now and then I get a little crazy and try something new, like this sinfully delicious Cinnamon Bun Popcorn. I came across several recipes for Sriracha Popcorn yesterday, but many of them seemed too overpowering for my palate. In my opinion, sriracha is a stand-alone ingredient and really doesn’t need the enhancement of ranch flavoring or parmesan. But sriracha with simple butter and salt? Sign me up!

I popped about half a cup of popcorn using oil, and then I melted 2 to 3 tablespoons of salted butter and mixed 1 tablespoon of sriracha into the melted butter. Pour over popcorn, add salt to taste, and voila! Popcorn with a nice little kick. Not much of a “recipe” as much as a fun variation of everyone’s favorite snack.

Arugula Salad with Lemon-Parmesan Dressing

We pulled up the last of the arugula crop last weekend, and I set out to find a light but kicky little dressing to compliment it. As usual, Bon Appetit didn’t let me down. This is a bright, versatile dressing that I will definitely be making again.

My cute green and white bowl (thank you for noticing) is from Target’s Privet House Collection.

Lemon-Parmesan Dressing, Bon Appetit, April 2009

Ingredients:

  • 1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
  • 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
  • 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
  • 1 teaspoon finely grated lemon peel
  • 4 cups (packed) baby arugula
  • 1 cup halved cherry tomatoes
Directions:

Blend first 4 ingredients in processor. Season dressing with salt and pepper. Transfer to bowl. Cover; chill up to 3 days.

Combine arugula and tomatoes in large bowl. Toss with enough dressing to coat.

Reflections of a Forced Family March

When I was five or six years old, I set out to climb Mount Monadnock with my father. After about an hour or so, I began the chorus of, “I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m tired, I’m bored,” but my father implored me to march on like a good little soldier. And as a good little soldier, march on I did, but not without complaining. Finally, he told me that a wonderful surprise would be at the top and I just had to push through and it would be worth it. That wasn’t specific enough for my liking; I wanted details. Surprise? What surprise? I don’t know what possessed him to tell me there was a McDonald’s on top of Mount Monadnock, but I had no reason not to believe him, being five and unfamiliar with the construction costs and franchise rules associated with operating a McDonald’s. And even though I was hungry and thirsty and tired, in 1973, McDonald’s was the best motivation a person could offer me to keep on trucking.

When we got to the top, I was not pleased. The McDonald’s, shockingly, was nowhere to be seen. “Hmm,” my father said, “Maybe they closed it? But would you LOOK at this amazing view? And I bet you are the youngest girl ever to climb Mount Monadnock. Isn’t that great?” “You LIED to me? THIS IS NOT FRENCH FRIES! I waaaaannnntttt fr-fr-fr-ench fr-fr-fr-iesssssss!!!!!” Thus began my complex relationship with both my father and hiking.

Ed is a hiker and a camper, and I’m not. In the name of love, I always participate, and over the years I’ve moved from extreme dislike to mild annoyance to reluctant tolerance. When formulating our Memorial Day plans, Ed wanted to do “something fun.” Something fun to me means enjoying a vodka tonic at our swim and tennis club while reuniting with friends we haven’t seen since last August. Something fun to Ed means hiking. When you have a husband who works really hard and always tries to make sure his family is happy and well cared for and who always puts his personal needs behind the family’s wants and needs, it’s really hard not to say yes when he wants to have some fun, even if his definition of fun is not quite the same as yours. Even if his definition of fun is 180 degrees away from yours. That is love.

We decided to drive just over an hour and hike the Appalachian Trail to a spot called the Pinnacle. At first I was down with it, having enjoyed Bill Bryson’s hilarious book about the Appalachian Trail, A Walk in the Woods. The Appalachian Trail is kind of bad-ass, and lord knows I try to be bad-ass. Ed described it as about four miles up, not overly steep, and an amazing view on the top. He kind of implied it would be mildly challenging, but no big deal.

I love the idea of hiking much more than actually hiking. Families who hike seem wholesome, healthy and loving. They seem like they monitor tv and computer time vigilantly and support public radio. They seem like good people one should admire. I want to be those people, but we’re not.

Not surprisingly, our sixteen year old was not that into it. However, the two younger boys were into it, and our six year old rescue dog Teddy was, too, even though he looks too pretty to endure what turned out to be a nine mile hike in 70% humidity. And we’ve already established my feelings. But four out of six enthusiastic participants seem like they would stack the deck in favor of success. We are a hiking family, I whispered to myself. We are a hiking family.

Right off the bat, I wanted to quit. Did I mention the humidity? We had hiked all of 500 feet by this point. Had I known that three hours later, we would be just arriving at the top, I would have run back to the car. It was steep and rocky and buggy and HOT, but I shut down my quitter voices, and onward I marched. I tried to summon my inner Dalai Lama and Deepak Chopra and focus on enjoying the journey. I kept shutting up the child inside me whining she was tired and thirsty and hot and bored and WHEN CAN THIS BE OVER? Had anyone honestly answered, “In five and half more hours,” I probably would have rolled into a fetal ball and cried. Instead, Ed just kept saying, “Not much longer.” They say you marry your father.

Oh, look, Mountain Laurel, the Pennsylvania state flower!

Enjoy the journey, enjoy the journey, enjoy the journey, dammit. God, this was hard. The kids were starting to bicker, Teddy looked like he was having a doggie stroke, and Ed and I were dangerously close to turning on each other. Why do people do this, again? When we finally got to the top, which admittedly was spectacular, I’m not going to lie — I immediately started wondering when we could start heading down so.this.could.be.over.

But then something happened. About halfway down, things started to change. Spending the ascent scattered and the descent jockeying for first position, the kids finally formed a group. Look, togetherness!

The boys stopped bickering and started laughing and joking. Ed talked to them about presidential history, basketball and baseball. I suggested that Andrew be a sportscaster, since he’s an excellent writer and a passionate sports fan, and he told me he would consider it once his professional sports career was over. Thunder rumbled in the distance and we descended in double time, all the while talking about what we would order for dinner. We were happy and tired. Is this what Outward Bound feels like?

44 Things I Have Learned

  1. People can change, but you can never make them change.
  2. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. — Dalai Lama
  3. Talk less, listen more.
  4. Luck favors the prepared, darling. –Edna Mode, The Incredibles
  5. Envy is a wasted emotion.
  6. Take time to write a Thank You note.
  7. No one will ever love you as much as your cat or dog.
  8. My friends are my estate. — Emily Dickinson
  9. You will never regret showing kindness to people.
  10. Honor your grandparents. Without them, there is no you.
  11. Volunteer at some point in your life.
  12. Share your favorite recipes.
  13. Establish routines and traditions within your own family, even if they’re silly and unconventional.
  14. Spend some time outside each day.
  15. Give people the benefit of the doubt, but when people show you who they are, believe them.
  16. Beware of shiny things with little substance.
  17. Beware of shiny people with little substance.
  18. Children need the most love when they’re the least lovable.
  19. Play the hand you’re dealt, and bloom where you’re planted.
  20. NPR makes you appear smarter than you actually are.
  21. Accept compliments graciously.
  22. Give compliments generously.
  23. Value your children beyond their God-given looks and smarts; focus on their character.
  24. It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. — J.K. Rowling
  25. If you’re having doubts about your engagement, it is neither normal, nor a promising sign.
  26. When you marry for money, you will work every day of your life.
  27. Tip generously, and never insult people who handle your food.
  28. Drink more water than you think you need.
  29. Don’t write any email while angry or intoxicated. Let it sit for a day.
  30. Bake cookies for your kids on the first day of school.
  31. Make the effort to stay in touch with old friends.
  32. Be patient with your parents.
  33. If you judge people, you have no time to love them. — Mother Teresa
  34. Sometimes it’s necessary to bite your tongue to keep the peace.
  35. Clean your house before going on vacation.
  36. Surround yourself with smart, positive, virtuous people, and you will grow.
  37. Never stop growing.
  38. True nobility isn’t about being better than someone else. It’s about being better than you used to be. — Wayne Dyer
  39. Try to step out of your comfort zone at least once a year.
  40. Avoid any diet plan which prohibits pizza.
  41. Good wine, good cheese, and fresh bread are the perfect ingredients for a Friday night.
  42. Take nothing and no one for granted.
  43. Everything changes. And that’s okay.
  44. A ship in port is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for. — Grace Murray Hopper

Well I know a woman with a collection of sticks
She could fight back the hundreds of voices she heard
And she could poke at the greed, she could fend off her need
And with anger she found she could pound every word.
But one voice got through, caught her up by surprise
It said, “Don’t hold us back, we’re the story you tell,”
And no sooner than spoken, a spell had been broken
And the voices before her were trumpets and tympani
Violins, basses and woodwinds and cellos, singing

“We’re so glad that you finally made it here
You thought nobody cared, but we did, we could tell
And now you’ll dance through the days while the orchestra plays
And oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh, you’re aging well.”

— Dar Williams, You’re Aging Well

Radish Salad

Today we harvested the first crop of radishes from our garden. I think I was about 30 years old before I could say I liked radishes, so if they’re not your thing right now, maybe they will appeal to you at some point in the future.They are so vibrant and beautiful that every year I find myself photographing them just for fun. But they are not just pretty to look at — radishes are filled with vitamin C, as well a group of compounds called isothiocyanates, which are shown to be effective against some types of cancer cells.

This is a very diet-friendly recipe, but don’t let that put you off! Even if I wasn’t watching my weight, this dressing would appeal to me. And added bonus? It’s from The New York Times.
Radish Salad by Mark Bittman, The New York Times
Ingredients
  • About 12 radishes, thinly sliced
  • 1 tablespoon salt
  • 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
  • 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
  • 1 tablespoon orange juice
  • Ground Urfa or other mild chilies to taste (optional)
  • 2 tablespoons chopped mint or cilantro

Method

  • 1. Combine radishes with salt, and cover with water in a bowl. Let sit 15 minutes. Drain, and rinse. Meanwhile, stir together the pepper and fruit juices.
  • 2. Toss radishes with dressing and chilies. Taste. Add more salt, pepper or lime juice as needed. Garnish with herb, and serve.

The Devolution of My Coffee Consumption

When I was young and poor and beautiful, many moons ago, coffee played a major role in my daily life. I cared so much about it and elevated it to the highest status, right up there with shelter, good health, true love and a great handbag. Even though I was living with my mother, taking a bus and the Market-Frankford El into work, and earning less than $16,000 a year, I still wouldn’t dream of degrading myself by consuming the free coffee served in my office kitchen. I may have been poor, but I wasn’t a philistine.

Back in the day, we would all line up obediently like good little soldiers at Au Bon Pain every morning, ordering our caffe au laits and lattes. This was pre-Starbucks and Panera, of course. Au Bon Pain was the original aspirational coffee shop.

As I clawed my way up the corporate ladder (hear that, kids? graduating college in 1990 wasn’t a picnic in the job market either; I started at the bottom-of-the-bottom), both my coffee taste and consumption level seemed to grow proportionately. From Au Bon Pain, I moved to independent coffee shops, then to Dean and Deluca, then to this hot new company from Seattle called Starbucks, and finally to coffee purchased directly from Hawaii and shipped to me for $35 a pound. Yes, I was that person.

At the height of my addiction, I was probably drinking half a pot a day. It didn’t sound like that much back then, because like any proper addict, I comforted myself by knowing people who were worse off. I had plenty of friends who were just getting warmed up at half a pot.

I am not sure when things started to change. It was gradual, that much I know. Once I stopped working professionally, I still drank coffee, but as a nursing mother, not very much of it. Certainly not half a pot! We would buy bags of Starbucks, whatever variety struck our fancy on any given week (but never flavored), and I’m pretty sure one week I found a good sale on a different brand. That was the beginning of the end. I started to question the wisdom of spending so much money on coffee when, let’s face it, I really only wanted the caffeine.

My descent probably went something like this: Hawaiian Kona, Local Roaster, Starbucks, Green Mountain, Dunkin’ Donuts, Eight O’Clock, Wegmans Store Brand, Folgers and/or Maxwell House. But wait, it gets even worse! Last month I stumbled upon a small jar of Maxwell House instant coffee in my pantry, probably left over from some fancy-pants recipe of mine. Does anyone under the age of 70 admit to drinking instant coffee? But I decided to give it a try, and guess what? It was perfectly fine, as caffeine delivery systems go.

Just when I thought I couldn’t fall any lower, yesterday I was in the coffee aisle and right next to the Maxwell House instant, I saw the store brand instant for sixty whole cents less a jar and thought, “Sure, why not? Maxwell House, ha! Who do I think I am, Oprah?” I’m pretty sure the only place left to go at this point is a caffeine pill. Generic, of course.