Bebe Food

Last weekend Liam's family visited. It was a fun-filled three days of parks, drizzle, visits to Notre Dame complete with the "Who is God?" question, more drizzle, a tea party, and some nachos.

At one of our between-the-park-and-a-nap stops, we sat outside at Marche des Enfants Rouges, one of my favorite markets in the 3rd, to eat our lunch. Liam took off to get cous cous for everyone while I held it down with a middle eastern plate and 2 young ladies aged 5 and 3 eating dolma and hummus off of my fork.

Liam's sister pulled out the food for her youngest, a 9-month old that I lovingly refer to as Sweet Potato, and what was he having? Cous cous!

Later, a 5 year old and I played a game in the grocery store called, "If I were a baby, I would eat ..." which I created on the spot solely to memorize the fantastic array of foods for the bebe at the store.

The game went like this ...

If I were a baby, I would eat ....
duck and peas for lunch
ratatouille for dinner
creme caramel for dessert
more duck for lunch the next day ... and so on.

Canard avec petit pois for lunch? Who could say no?

Dejeuner

Last week, Sara visited us, and we were able to show off our now-nearly-honed Tour Guide skills. Early morning walks to Ile St Louis for a cafe creme with a view of Notre Dame, pictures on various ponts, and petit sacs of macarons at Pierre Herme to be consumed at Luxemborg Gardens. Following the sunny walk and garden tour, we decided to avoid a touristy haunt and thus, we ended up lunching at Bread and Roses - a British place that I had passed many times on my way to French class in the fall, but had heard wasn't that good. It proved us quite wrong.

I had the "Ploughman's Lunch" that you can see above. A fat old slice of cheddar with a beautifully soft piece of Irish soda bread and some water crackers. A little bit of 'pickle' it was called in French, but was more like chutney and some salade on the side. I decided that despite my aversion to cold lunches, this was the perfect dejeuner for me.

Lunch has been a weird experience for me now that I spend most of my time at home in the day.

I went through a short-lived "I can cook lunch every day!" phase. What followed was the "Bittman was right, baking an egg is the way to go!" ramekin phase. Finally, there's been the "Alice Waters says you don't even need to cook to eat well a perfect loaf of bread can be a great lunch!" phase.

Today, I had a pain aux cereales from the fabulous Veronique Mauclerc with some 48 month aged Gouda and a few lucques olives with some hot peppers. Yummy, but I will admit publicly - sometimes I think it would be nice to have Annie's mac and cheese and a Smart Dog for a "I was a child in 1982 who ate Kraft mac and cheese and hot dogs but now I'm grown and eat organic/vegetarian lunch."

That is a favorite dejeuner phase too.

Why I Should Stick to Buying Cheese

Setting: 5aSec, Rue Rivoli (dry cleaner's)
Time: 2:30pm
Major Players: A 'French-speaking' Fromagette and a kind cashier

[conversation translated into English for your reading pleasure]

C: Bonjour Madame!
F: Bonjour Madame!
C: Would you like to take a free card today to have a discount?
F: No thank you!
C: No, it's free, you just take a card for a discount.
F: No thank you Madame, it's good!
C: laughs
F: smiles 'knowingly' believing that she has not been scammed into some kind of 'membership card' to pay for a discount. C continues to laugh.
C: ringing up purchase. 8.60 please!
F: looking over at the cards and seeing that they're actually a free discount now that she has time to translate: March 1- 15 - Game Days! Free Discount up to 40%!. Hands cashier money.
C: I guess you had the correct change! another giggle
F: feeling stupid but not having enough French to say 'oops, can I grab one now?'. Yes!
C: They will be ready tomorrow!
F: I am in agreement! Thank you! Good bye!
C: smiling. perplexed? Good bye!

Grocery Store Maven Goes to Monoprix

Monoprix is like Trader Joe's meets Safeway. It has a small 'ethnic aisles' like the Shaw's of my college days, including one for Italian food. In another, you'll find coconut milk, tortillas, and peanut butter on the same two shelves.

For Chinese New Year, a seasonal aisle was chock-full of Vietnamese rice paper rolls and nori and nothing discernably 'Chinese.'

Monoprix, being a French grocery, has an extraordinary yogurt aisle, butter collection and four grades of cheese: regular packaged, a gourmet package, a just-cut-from-across-the-way fromager package, and a fromager. These are in four different locations in the store.

Like Trader Joe's, Monoprix doesn't seem to have the same inventory each week. They also seem to add new sections frequently - this past week I saw an all-bio (organic) vegetable section with some of the saddest plastic-encased vegetables I've seen. The same refrigeration weirdness that has tofu underneath zucchini at Safeway has cranberries by prepared salads and a fancy citron yogurt that I like hidden next to pre-made sandwiches here in Paris.

This week I explored an aisle I'd never paid much attention to. I imagine it's the Cocktail Aisle (or apero for aperitif). I turned from picking up honey for my Cream of Wheat and saw the display small packages with yummy treats that seemed perfect for a PMS week. My favorites: cheese puffs in a small package so they don't get stale and Pringles-like paprika chips.

We don't have any plans with friends for an apero over here any time soon, but I figured it'd be good to be ready - and by ready, I mean to have sampled them before I put them out there for guests.

L'Arpege

With all apologies to Monsieur Passard, L'Arpege is decorated like a dentist's office (credit to his website for this photo). Warm and not too stuffy, but unlike the lovely squash you see here, we saw paintings and Mr. Passard's book translated into Japanese.

We sat at the table you see here and I'm regretful that I did not bring my camera - the dining room included a teenager wearing jeans, several large 35mm cameras and a couple that couldn't get enough of the sommelier (another picture taken) - and I was worried about what we wore and what we carried!

But I digress from the meal.

Liam and I both had the menu. Pas de viande! the waitress informed us, but she had just explained that one of the first courses included a foam of lardon, so perhaps this was 'without meat' the French way?

There was foam on everything, and this made me happy.

I fell first for a foamy oeuf flavored with sherry vinegar and maple syrup and tasted as amazing as it sounds terrible. A dish that followed that seemed to be buttery foam on potatoes was like the essence of dauphin - but this may be the fume of a good hunk of ham.

A slice of celeriac was covered in crispy chestnuts and black truffle - Liam did not like it - I thought it was a bit too salty. A final plate of roasted root vegetables - everything from slices of rutabaga to salsify to several colors of carrots all covered in, yes, saffron foam. There was an earlier beet dish which was one of the least sweet beets I have ever had.

Our main course was by far the best - a slice of abalone covered in another white foam, accompanied by onions caramelized in vanilla bean and an onion gratin that came to the table a few seconds later. I was nearly full at this point, but wiped every bit of foam off of that plate.

And while I was surely smitten with Liam for bringing me here for my 32nd birthday, I made a several-glasses-of-wine-later suggestion that if I am ever to leave him, it might be for the incredible wheel of salers that arrived on an oak bench with a 4 year aged comte, served only in L'Arpege (no where else in the city), and, I quote (this was in English so I know what I'm saying here) "raised as you would raise a child."

Needless to say, it was some of the best cheese I have ever had.

Dessert: a honeyed souffle with a 'heart of chocolate' was so light and deliciously honeyed without being too sweet and a plate of petits fours that ranged from fun (celeriac and beet macarons!) to classic (chocolate puff pastry).

Despite rain that started off the morning, there was sun streaming into our faces while we ate - some of the best ambiance you can hope for during a late-winter Paris lunch.

The Serendipity of Turmeric (and other rhizome tea tales)

It was a week of culinary serendipity.

One day I'm reading Madhur Jaffrey's top 100 of Saveur piece on fresh turmeric, a few days later I'm at Paris' Passage Brady in front of a bin of the stuff.

One day I'm reading a blog about making ice cream with condensed milk and cursing the universe that I can't find it here. Several days later, Veronica tells me that she adds it to horchata and I need to scope out the part of the grocery store I'm not as familiar with - the unrefrigerated milk section.

And so, one serendipitous week and a few days later, I am the queen of rhizome teas.
After taking Katie and Veronica on a spice run to make homemade chai, I remembered Ginger Tea and with the canned milks find, fled home for a quick blended brew. It's deep with ginger and smoky with black tea and that earthy undertone of sweetened condensed milk and one of the best teas I know.

Today, I returned to my less familiar rhizome and peeled a knob to make sure it was the orange yellow finger-stainer that I thought it was. A faint Dr. Weil-said-that-Okinawans-live-to-be-100-because-they-drink-it-daily memory and several Internet searches later, I boiled it with a few cups of water and one cardamon pod. One cup later, I'm a fan.

2008 Food Intentions: Update

In my effort to keep my 2008 Food Intentions alive, I've decided to post updates. To date, I have

• roasted an entire fish (dourade), quite easily, stuffed with some fennel and lemon and the moral support of Liam (I am still a semi-recovering vegetarian who eats fish)
• added salade to our dinner with my homemade vinegar to no avail (we still eat it to eat it and not because we enjoy it).
• after a trip to Patrick Roger, I have inserted confiture into my day with little success, but might try this week with scones and pair those scones with a Chinese black after having a great one in Honfleur called gui hong.

Finally, you can see above a cheese course that I put together last week. Inspired by the ginger spread that Emily sent me back with me to Paris, I paired it with a pear and our new favorite: a 48 month-aged Gouda. Then, slightly inspired by reading an article in Saveur about how to pair ports, I got the idea of the sweetness of the gouda/ginger and the pear to pair with the bleu d'auvergne.

The pairings have made me happy for 3 days. Maybe 5.

Now, onto knowing more about my teas and picking up some salsify.

Honfleur Humor

I smiled at La Tarterie, as the husband of the chef in this tiny, butter-warmed restaurant said, oh, you speak English? You have a nice accent. I then said merci, and looked back out the sunny window over the harbor. As we awaited our homemade crepes, I saw on Liam's face that something was wrong.

L: You just told him you were British
LF: What? No, I said I speak English.
L: He said, are you British? Anglaise like British, not like anglais English
LF: Oh, whatever.
L: He said, you have a bit of an accent.
LF: Hmm. I thought he said I have a nice accent.
L: silence
LF: silence

and then the best crepes we ever had came. And so, even in Honfleur, which is like Saulsalito on a Sunday, lovely and peaceful and teeming with out-of-towners, I am unable to understand French. Even when the people are nicer.

Our weekend started with a scheduling glitch that had us in Le Havre for three hours before the bus to Honfleur. Le Havre is like the downtown of the city of my birth before renovation and if it were filled with only elderly women and young men of various backgrounds. There was a small market where an old man let his poorly rolled cigarette drop ash onto salsify and where women of all levels of crankiness lined up for scallops shucked on the spot. We admired the grime, returned to the train/bus station, and enjoyed a creme et croissant for 3.55 each and appreciated being out of the expensive city.


But when the bus arrived in cloudy Honfleur, we were happy to be greeted by a galichot ('not a pancake, not a blini'). Mine oozed with semi-salted Normandy butter and Liam's with anchovies, tomato and onion. I think this is where my French-confidence grew in Honfleur - out of a menu that translated chevre bouchette as "twig goat cheese."

The best translation though was one that took both of us to determine. After the lunch pictured above (I recommend the moules de creme), we stopped at a souvenir shop. I was cruising the boat-themed postcards while Liam focused on one that pictured a mussel on the half-shell, full on, and a french fry to the side. What it said, we discovered together (humor can stupefy even the Frenchest of Frenchmen): In Normandy, where there's a mussel. .. there's a fry. This was French that I could understand.

Un Piquito Note on Chipotle

The list of things that I didn't used to like include, in no particular order, olives, anchovies, roasted red peppers, chocolate desserts over other desserts, savory breakfasts, and chipotles.

Time and again, Jasmine and I would have a conversation that would go like this:

Me: Mac and cheese is my favorite food, except for the two times I've food poisoned myself with it.

Jasmine: It's one of my favorites too! What do you think is the best recipe?

Me: My favorite is Martha Stewart's Macaroni and Cheese 101. Cheddar. Gruyere or Pecorino, and chunky bread crumb topping.

Jasmine: My favorite has chipotle in it.

Me: No offense, but ew. I hate chipotle.

Five months in Paris and a 5 euro can of chipotles later, I will admit that I'm hooked. It may be the Black Bean Chili I've made several times for American-yearning friends that has it's smoky goodness all in it, or it may be that Bittman taught me to mix up some yogurt with chipotle powder and lemon juice and call it a bean croquette dipping sauce, or it may be that like a small child, I finally just tasted it enough to appreciate it, but I'm hooked.

Two shout outs: to Jennifer for sending me a package a la americaine that included some powdered chipotle and to Tina who took a list of the things I missed here and included in her package, as you see above, two cans of chipotle. I have enough for a whole other year in Paris. Merci.

One Vegan, One Fromagette, 4 Cupcakes ....

Paris has many delights. None of them involve cupcakes. We can all list the many reasons that cupcakes trump eclairs and macarons and even a Paris Brest, but for me, the main attraction is the icing. And so, with four days in New York and endless opportunities, Emily and I tasted four different vanilla cupcakes.

Babycakes. I was intrigued by gluten-free, sugar-free, etc. cupcakes. Having spent weeks and months overthree years avoiding food allergens, I am all about a place where you can get your cupcake on without stomach pain. I'm generally glad that I'm not allergic to aforementioned goodies because although the texture of the vanilla cupcake was amazing for a vegan one, I was disappointed with the flavor. I think that the other flavors (lemon, carrot cake) would've been better, but when I asked for the best one, that's what she gave me (the service was not the best there). A for accessibility, C for flavor.

Crumb. Emily and I embarked on a Sunday of cupcake fervor that started at Crumb. We were initially drawn in by their warm, sweet, cup-cakey air but when we saw behind the glass mounds of candied cupcakes, we weren't so sure. (Service aside: the guy was so taken with Emily, he could barely take my order) We did not have any desire for Reese's or Oreo and were glad to stuff large puffs of vanilla cake and cream in our mouths. Until we both began to chew and felt that sickly tannin-y taste on the back of our teeth, like the cupcake was from Safeway, but cost 10x as much. We put the other half back in the bag and two blocks later we dropped it in the trash. C.

Buttercup. More optimistic a few blocks over, we were welcomed by friendly ladies and a more chill, small-town bakery vibe. Despite bowls of flourescent icing hanging out catching the breeze, it seemed like a nice place to be (we tried to sit, but there wasn't room). This vanilla beauty had blue icing, but tasted really great - nice fat crumb and that buttercream sweetness that keeps you from eating too much but also calls you back again and again. There was still a depth of flavor that Teacakes gets in their icing that was missing, so I gave it a B+. (Emily was happy to finish it .)

Magnolia. Hopes were as high as the line was long. I spilled a large bottle of Smartwater on the floor while I held our seats and then cleaned up an end of a table for us to spread out our cakes and 2008 goals only to relinquish it to a trio who discussed cancer tests. Emily returned with two beautiful cakes (pictured above) and two teas and yes, Magnolia was the best by far. The cake was vanilla-y and even though it's crumb was smaller, I preferred it as such (Emily preferred the larger crumb) and the frosting was as close to Teacakes as I have gotten: sweet, vanilla-tinged, and leaving you wanting more (although I actually couldn't finish it). Pink is from red and no it's not a natural color, but it appealed to my aesthetic more than blue. A-

Grilled Cheese and other NYC delights ...

My homesickness renders me more American than I had ever imagined and a cafe lunch of grilled cheese (cheddar) on rye with dill pickles and chips becomes homage to a life that I've missed. Ethiopian food exceeds my expectations with red lentils so spicy and distinct in their cinnamon flavor that Emily and I are in love with Zoma forever. An after dinner trip to a store called Organic Forever and my bag is filled with snacks of dried cranberry trail mix, small boxes of soy milk. fruit leathers, my dearly missed Barbara and her Shredded Spoonfuls, and Dr. Brommer's galore.

New York was a whirlwind of root beer and soy bacon cheeseburgers, of kukicha tea and endless cups of green carried down the street just because I could. Enormous Whole Foods and fingers trailing along the Dagoba bars for my two favorites knowing that these are nothing compared to what I can get in Paris, but buying Lavendar and Roseberry anyway. Tiny bagels with guar gum filled Philadelphia and a fat cinnamon-raisin one with a cup of Chai in a cafe that stinks of coffee beans and Sunday mornings and the Times in my hand and it could beat out a Sunday walking along the Seine.

And there was Mexican - huevos rancheros in the West Village at a tiny cafe that Sara seemed to pull out of pocket, enchiladas with mole and salsa verde after a basket of chips with salsa as orange as queso fundito if it were made of Velveeta and guacamole at our table. At Zabar's, I bypass refried beans to stick Vermont Cabot Cheddar and peanut butter in my bag.

I return with a larger suitcase after breaking the small one and filling my bags with more sweatshop filled clothing than I imagined from Old Navy and Urban Outfitters, no yoga mat, and piles of magazines. I have no idea how my job interview went, it was as rigorous as I could have imagined and tiring and led me to some of the best homemade mozzerella west of Italy, but I feel lucky to have gone and seen friends and embraced consumerism and follow election coverage in real time. I find out on Friday how it went.

New York here I come ....

List of things to get in New York:

• dried chiles for mole


• some jack/Asadero if I can sneak it in my bag


• chili pepper


• Trader Joe's snacks


• Dr. Brommer's soap free of all preservatives coating me in French cleanliness


• Tom's of Maine Peppermint Toothpaste


• generic Claritin, a fat bottle of Advil, and contact solution that doesn't cost $25


• yoga mat (not an 'exercise' mat 1" thick)


• clothes that were probably made in a sweatshop (children, I'm very, very sorry)


• upscale Mexican in the style of my most favorite Tacubaya (Berkeley)


• aged Vermont cheddar


• a cupcake


• a cup of tea with Emily, with Kristen, and with Sara


• a job?

NB: I am finally legal to visit France for a year! Last Friday we went to the prefecture to see if it were possible for me to travel to NY on my non-official carte de sejour and five minutes of a woman gossiping to Liam about how hard her job has gotten as a public servant since 1979 later and the laminated goodness which probably cost us, in total, close to $1000, was in my hands. Vive la France!

45 hours in Bucharest

Monica is the Romanian mother I never had. We arrived in Bucharest to a snack that was essentially what you see here - salade russe, roasted red peppers, smoky eggplant and onion, and a selection of cheeses - and that was just to hold us over until our dinner reservation.

Monica cooks the best food I've had in a long, long time. When I asked her, over a vegetable borscht (some kind of fermented base in there that makes it look like minestrone but taste like it could win a revolution against a communist regime...), what was Romanian and what wasn't, she looked at me a little crazy, kind of like - enjoy your food and stop asking questions, when meanwhile, I was scheming to figure out how I do research and make this stuff at home. I just don't have enough Balkanic Food knowledge to know exactly what to do to "put the fish eggs in a bowl, add some oil, and mix ..." (like aioli, but how many eggs?) or "put the mushrooms in a pot and boil.... mix cream and flour ... mix."

It's like saying French baguettes are just some flour, starter, water and let it rise before you bake it.

We went to the market there, and after scoping out piles of fresh horseradish next to pickled, and trios of hot peppers laid out on plywood across milk crates, we stepped into the cheese market: to my untrained eye it looked like 10 kinds of feta in a row sold by men in white coats wearing little felted black hats - but having tried these the day before I knew some where salty, others sweet, some stunk of barnyardy sheep goodness and others a crisp goat tang.

My most favorite was this dish that started with 7 kilos of fresh farm cheese (we went to another part of the city to pick it up from her friend) that Liam's dad whipped with some salt, and we then spread on toast. 120% fat cream cheese au naturel. Incredible.

While I work on Monica to open a restaurant (I thought Paris, New York or Oakland), I am on a search for how to do this at home. It might be dangerous - we eat enough here already!

Cookbooks Abroad

I paid to join the American Library in Paris this past fall, 60 euros with a 65 euro deposit, for 6 months because I wanted access to cookbooks. I miss my cookbook club. I love Madhur but needed more. My parents hadn't arrived from the US yet with Bittman's How To Cook Everything Vegetarian.

Yesterday, I picked up Joyce Goldstein's Taverna to join my cookbook club from afar, and for the second time, I saw that my cookbook was donated by Patrcia Wells. I then started down a curious path of neurosis - did Patricia Wells just donate all of her old cookbooks or did she hand pick these? The thing is, the Batali one that I picked up that was donated by her as well felt like at B-cookbook. No offense to these authors, but why are these the only cookbooks they have in the ALP and why are they all donated by Mdme Wells?

And why am I, owner of just two cookbooks here, complaining?

I'm not. Just wondering if she's going to clear her shelves off again before I leave Paris?

For some reason, they always give me hot peppers for free.

Empowered by the opportunity to choose my own onions

at a prior stand, I walked over and pinched a haricorts vert to see if it was fresh. When the vendor turned around and saw me, I quickly pulled my hand back. He laughed and encouraged me to touch, in fact, picked up a bean and held it out to me to squeeze. Before this story sounds too dirty, here's the rest, in French, translated here for your reading pleasure:

"You can touch!"

"It's good. It's OK. 500 grams please."

"500 grams. Of course."

"3 Tomatoes?"

"3 tomatoes? Sure - you can go choose them yourself over there."

"Yeah"

I return with 3 tomatoes and 3 slim, lime green hot peppers to roast for Turkish dinner I'm making tomorrow night.

"you have your tomatoes! and these peppers? They are spicy! "

"It's good"

""Ah, for you? They are a gift!""

(and in English) "Do you speak English?"

(Eng) "yes"

(Eng) " of course you do!"

"Thank you"

"1.80"

"It's good. Thank you."

(Eng) "thank you!"

C'est pas grave

That's how it is with the Army too - the European army? We talk first. The American army - just - pow!

It was at this point in the conversation where I began to wonder exactly if this man was a doctor. I was at the place that you go to when you need to have your lungs x-rayed to get your carte de sejour, the place you go to when you have everything: 275 euros in small fiscal stamps that you lick and adhere to a xeroxed paper, a US passport, Version II of a paper carte de sejour, and now, soon, x-ray of my lungs the size of an artist's canvas.

As I'm floundering for words that I don't know in French: breast, breast lump, lumpectomy, self-exam, needle aspiration, benign, two things are happening simultaneously - the doctor is getting incredibly animated and I'm slowly sinking into my seat remembering too late that another friend said to just answer straight up yes/no to these questions.

This doctor, or so I hoped, then began his theories for me.

The French? They would never take out a breast lump of an 18 year old. The Americans? Ready to cut and charge money.

The French? They would go in through ... (small circular motion here, over, you know ... my American prudishness is taking over but if you, dear reader, were in front of me, this would be a very entertaining part of the re-telling). The Americans? They leave a scar!

The French? Ready to talk on a battlefield. The Americans? Pow.

His ability to create a metaphor for each country's approach to war based on my story of a breast lumpectomy was slightly amazing.

I leave this lecturer ready to pick up my laminated carte de sejour, the item that will let me know I'm legit, only to stand there, talking to a guy 10 years younger than me wearing a soccer jersey that looks like he accidentally bleached over his heart while cleaning his socks. Only to listen to this guy tell me, in four more French sentences than I can understand, c'est pas grave ... and then something about the fabrication. It's not ready. Come back in two weeks. Or three. Well, just two. C'est pas grave (=not a big deal)

So here I am, thinking, c'est TRES grave! and hoping that next week they let me in and out of the US when I fly to NY and then leave to find at the fromager this teeny tiny chevre covered in rose and I thought, c'est pas grave, I'm here. I'm eating cheese. It will be fabricated. Until it is, it's a darn good story in person. I swear.

Comfort Food: another installment

Do my friends in the US think I walk around all day bopping from Louvre to Eiffel Tower to a hidden chocolatier and thus think I don't have time to talk/read email/receive postcards? Do our new friends here think it's weird that they said 8:30pm and we rolled in at 900 in what I originally intended an attempt to be cool but soon resulted in a late arrival? Will the sun ever rise in Paris before 11am? Is it always gray in Paris 93% of the day? Did the guy at the market take me in for another beating or did he really think that the browned, mushy, mealy, squishy apples were for eating?

I listened to This American Life's "Americans in Paris" show for the first time since I've been here, and couldn't help but relate (= cry, I'll admit it) at the part where Ira Glass is amazed that David Sedaris' day is determined by going places where he feels more or less humiliated.

Saying c'est moi at H&M when you've had to leave some items with the attendant, pointing at an envelope at the stationary store and stumbling through an ummm... oui oui when really you want to say oh, I just need an envelope for the big card, thanks, not the post cards, asking vous-acceptez les cheques de restaurant? at the Pompidou Cafe and then having the guy answer in English, all of this adds up to empathy Ira, empathy - maybe you should move here for a few months?

And so, when the neuroses take up more space in your brain than the part that's curious about the books of Paris or Courbet's history or Germany: The Dark Years, and you find yourself talking back to NPR hosts, it's time for some comfort food. Lately, as I sit in my apartment worrying more than a junior high student on the first day of school, doing my part time job and scheduling an afternoon of events that doesn't have me ping-ponging between feeling shitty and shittier, I bake myself up an egg.

Fresh, French farm egg. Covered in 'bloom.' Creme underneath, egg on top, parmigiano-reggiano to top it off, baked for 12 minutes (thank you, dear Bittman). Butter up some fresh baguette and scoop it up and remember this is probably the kind of thing your friends back home are jealous of to begin with.

DIY Spice Mixtures

I've been reading about bloggers make tea infusions and listening to cookbook authors chat about their quick chutneys so I found myself coming home from Velan weighed down with everything from amchoor to cinnamon to sumac and wondering what to do with it all and how I could be expanding the choices of my small-fridge French life.

Both of the cookbooks on my shelf offered lots of ideas. The amchoor in particular I picked up after reading Bittman rave about it one chaat masala addition after another. So that's what I made first (pictured far left) - a mixture that he assures me will do its duty on everything from paneer to pita to rice. Then, as I added to my list of spices to pick up when I'm in NY next month, I thought it best to make something from a different part of the world and whipped up a batch of heavy-on-the-chipotle chili powder. Both Bittman and Jaffrey extol the complexities of Za'atar, the Turkish mix of sumac, sesame and thyme that I think was on each of the puffed breads we had in Istanbul, so when I fill up my sesame stash, I will make this too.

I am limited here without my trusty spice grinder or mortar/pestle, but I do have the item you can see on the far right - a Turkish spice grinder. I admired one when we were at the Spice Market but left the idea alone since I felt so overwhelmed. Then, with 13 Turkish Lira burning holes in our pockets, we went to the Grand Bazaar of Ataturk Istanbul Airport and lo and behold, for 13 YTL, a gleaming spice grinder.

I didn't have hopes for an airport purchase, and I didn't quite understand how it exactly worked (I was waiting for the whole coriander for the chaat masala to come out of the bottom like a pepper grinder, but this device only has one place to put it in and take it out), but it seems to be holding up just fine - not in a fine grinding sort of way, but in a great look-what-I-bought-on-vacation-that's-useful-way.

Now I just need to make some paneer, or pita, or just bake up a potato and transform it, this is the promise Bittman has made to us (vegetarians). I'll report.

Galette des Rois

I have been the king, nay, queen, three times in just as many days.

How can you not love a cake that is traditionally buttery, filled with frangipaine, and hiding the feve (literally bean, here, a charm that's in the cake), and comes with a paper crown classier than any BK biddy dare wear?

And for three days, I have gotten the feve, meaning, I get to parade around in the crown and fell a general sense of superiority.

I'm going to start a feve collection. Tres francais a friend says. Even though the Epiphany, the 12th Night has come and gone, I can eat this galette through the end of the month. Wish me almonds, and tell me to write down all my goals for 2008 while the future looks so golden.

Istanbul Food Tour: Snacks

Settling back into life in Paris, cakes to celebrate the Epiphany and the first day of winter sales in France all around, and I am still thinking about the snacks in Turkey.*

My Top 5 Turkish Snacks

5. Salep: If atole dropped the corn, procreated with cream of wheat, dabbled in a bit of horchata, and blended itself into silky latte smoothness, it would be salep. Named after the orchid root used to flavor it (the name is because it resembles fox testicles, check here if you want to know more), it's hot milk sweetened and mixed with this root powder and covered in cinnamon. If you're crossing the Gallatta Bridge and it's near-freezing out and wet, wet snow is covering your nearly impractical hat, it's the perfect thing to slurp on as you walk up the hill to Istikal Caddesi.

4. Simit: Like a bagel ring, but softer, and covered in sesame seeds that are toasty and yummy even if you hate sesame bagels. Sweetened with grape syrup. Sold in carts and on heads (why didn't I take a picture?) I like mine for breakfast with salty goat cheese and some halvah. And cay. (Thanks to Janet for sending me this picture!)

3. Cay: I have a certain reverence for tea-based cultures, and a certain disdain for those that aren't. While my ancestors quickly dumped the goods in the harbor, Turkish people have been drinking this stuff for centuries. I don't usually take sugar in my tea, but I did here. The cups can seduce you immediately and the stuff is so ubiquitous that you could leave Turkey a tea-drinker even if you didn't care for it upon arrival.

2. Lokum: Who didn't wonder about Turkish Delight after reading about it in the Narnia books? Who didn't immediately despise it after tasting it once, wrapped in aluminum, on the 1/8 of a shelf of British imports at their gourmet grocery? Who wouldn't then fall head-over-pistachios-in-love-with-it at Istanbul's spice bazaar?

1. Halvah: I have never liked halvah, even after reading a fascinating story once in the NY Times about eating it for Passover and there being, I don't know, I want to say one producer in all of NYC, or maybe even the US, but come on - halvah has never kept anyone from yearning for a chocolate bar.

Then I had the halvah at our breakfast buffet.

Like all things in this world, one goes to a country of origin and realizes "hey, there is more than one type of halvah!" The one pictured below to the right is probably at fault for the weight I gained in Istanbul - it crunched like a Butterfinger, called out to the smoky sesame-memory of all halvah that came before it, and ended with a blissfully light crunch of sweet and pistachio. The chocolate one didn't do it for me (on the left), but the other one? 8 pieces at Sunday's breakfast, and an actual sinking of disappointment the day before when there was none left. I might have to make a Parisian quest for it.

*It's a law here that they can only have sales twice a year when the government says - it's to make sure that small businesses don't get pushed out of business but mostly it looks like last year's stuff on racks and people bustling about like the Friday after Thanksgiving in the U.S. Since I still don't have my luggage, I bought myself another pair of boots today since 2/4 pairs of pants and my only boots are sitting in a luggage pile somewhere between here and Ataturk International Airport.