Quotes

Dec 23, 2015

Collecting Crumbs: Crottin Repassé

THE STORY:

What would you pay to have a household chore become so enjoyable, your children actually beg to do it? I pay 8€, a bargain. And it's all because of the antique ramasse-miette ("crumb gatherer") that my friends have at their country home in Bretagne that we visit each summer.


Dec 15, 2015

I'll Be Your Eyes: Grand Volcanique

THE STORY:

I don't want to dwell on the terrorist attacks in Paris, but I can't help writing at least one more post on the subject. Specifically, I thought you might want to see some of the tributes laid down in front of the sites of the attacks and also in the nearby Place de la Republique -- a convenient, large plaza and a symbolic one; it's right there in the name.

 
 

Dec 9, 2015

Moving On. Moving In: Fine Fleur de Celles

THE STORY:

So what does Paris look like when you're no longer smack dab in the middle of DisneyParis on Ile Saint Louis? Well, it looks like actual Paris. Both the good and the bad -- shops, bus stops, metro stations, markets, but also homeless people and the occasional garbage pile. It took a while to get from point A to point B: the feast in Paris may be moveable, but it's a pain in the ass to find a place to move it to and a hassle to get it there.


Dec 1, 2015

Nice Knockers: Dome Nature

THE STORY:

One year, one psychologist appointment, one mammogram, one sonogram, one MRI, one genetic test, one genetic counselor meeting, and five doctors appointments later, I am finally given permission to do my second mastectomy in France. Considered purely preventative (in the sense that I am currently cancer-free), it took a lot of convincing the French powers that be that I am not insane, nor mutilating my body on a whim. Hallelujah!

 

Nov 24, 2015

Suspicious Fruit Sauce: Maigre du Nord

THE STORY:

Bruxelles is on lockdown, the streets of central Paris are certainly quieter than usual, and nearly every outing begs the question "Is our destination even going to be open? Is it safe? And how can we get there?" On Friday, a week after the Paris terrorist attacks, Pippa misses gymnastics because the metro line we want shuts down for a "colis suspect" ("suspicious package"). By the time we can re-orient, she'll get there too late. I write a note to her coach to explain but mis-type it as "coulis suspect" ("suspicious fruit sauce"). I plan to attribute it to auto-correct.

 

Nov 15, 2015

The Irony and the Tragedy: Pétafine

THE STORY:

Paris, peaceful. What is should look like. What it should feel like.


On Friday, the day of the attacks, I pass by this sign which reads, in translation, "We, French Muslims, against the terrorism of the UOIF" (which stands for Union des Organisations Islamiques de France). In the background is the Institute du Monde Arabe, the Institute of the Arab World, a very open and welcoming museum and center for learning in the 5th arrondissement, not too far from the Great Mosque, which saved hundreds of Jews in World War II.

Nov 10, 2015

Hundred Year Old Bread: Bonette

THE STORY:
 
I know, you're waiting to hear about where we've moved in Paris (and while we're at it: I know the formatting is off here, but I still barely have internet, so we'll all just have to suffer through it), but for now, you're getting a story about French bread. Traditional French bread. Really traditional French bread. Scattered throughout the countryside of France, you'll find a handful of truly old-style bread bakeries, with wooden ovens and a hundred years of soot on the walls. So I guess it's not the bread that's 100 years old (thank goodness, or it'd be mighty stale) but rather the method. 


Nov 4, 2015

Toto, We're Not in Kansas Anymore: Le Gratte-Cul

THE STORY:

If the 800 year old cathedrals, cobble-stoned streets, and bread bakers on every corner aren't enough to remind me, within the past 24 hours, several other things have really driven home the fact that I'm not in the US. One is this sign for the restaurant called, essentially, "The Happy Negro" with its picture of a happy black servant waiting on a very upper-crust white client.



Oct 22, 2015

Adieu to our Home: Saint Leu

THE STORY:

Moving day turns out to be a pretty moving day for us. Just before we have to move out of our home for four years, on Ile St. Louis, we realize that Pippa no longer remembers our house in San Francisco, so this is literally the only home she knows. Needless to say, there are many tears as we leave. Thank goodness we're only leaving for the 5th arrondissement, and not leaving Paris altogether, or we'd be a complete mess. What's amazing is that for the entire week beforehand, it's as if our view is giving us the grandest, most loving send-off it can: gorgeous sunset after gorgeous sunset, with some fabulous night and day views thrown in for good measure.


Oct 7, 2015

Voodoo Medicine: Foujou

THE STORY:

Give me a placebo, a miracle lotion, or some snake oil, and I'll show you about 60 million French people that believe wholeheartedly in its healing powers. The feeling here is that if it fizzes, comes in a handy dispenser, tastes bad, tastes good, must be dissolved in water, must be eaten dry, gets rubbed in, or is shoved up the ass, then it must certainly work. No matter what the claim, the French buy in.


Oct 2, 2015

Brunner. It's a Thing: Brebiro

THE STORY:

I dub it "brunner". The French, however, call it "le brunch", even though they have no idea why they are calling it "le brunch" and do not actually understand that it's a combination of the words "breakfast" and "lunch". I have no idea why they are calling it "le brunch" either, for different reasons: in general, the restaurants start serving it after noon -- sometimes well after noon -- till almost dinner time. Therefore "brunner" (breakfast, lunch, dinner) it is.

Sep 27, 2015

Car-free and Care-free: Pavé Corrézien

THE STORY:

Touted as the first car-free day (journée sans voiture) in Paris, it's neither completely car-free, nor completely covering Paris. But it's a glorious Indian summer day with sunny blue skies, less air pollution than usual, huge line-ups for Velib' (city rental bikes), and everybody and their mother with the same idea: to ride up the Champs-Elysées. I'm one of those mothers.


Sep 22, 2015

The Most Dangerous Produce: Cru des Alpes

THE STORY:

You may look at this photo and see three delicious vegetables, but to the French, it's fraught with danger. Oh no! Peppers! Run for your lives! And don't even get me started on the cucumber skin.

 

Sep 15, 2015

Don't Tell My Mom: Chèvre des Alpes

THE STORY:

Do not read this post if you are afraid of heights, falling, rushing water, lightning, thunder, or being stuck in precarious places. Do not read this post if you get nervous by the thought of isolated places, children left alone, the opening set-up of horror films, going off-trail, lying, or cold water. And most of all do not tell my mother to read this post about a few days spent in the Parc National de Mercantour.


Sep 10, 2015

Arena Roamin': Ovalie Romarin

THE STORY:

When we were at Guédelon, the medieval castle being built in modern Burgundy, they told us that during a recent renovation, modern equipment reached many meters deep into the interior of some of the walls of the Roman Arena at Nîmes and discovered that the 2,000 year old mortar had still not quite dried. This is part of what allows the structure to withstand all the rigors of time, and also what draws me to the Nîmes Arena.


Sep 5, 2015

Flamingo/Flamenco (a.k.a. We're Melting): Bleu Fondant

THE STORY:

You know how some places just call to you, for no great reason? I've always wanted to see the Camargues, simply because the ingredient list of riz au lait (French rice pudding) includes
Camargues rice. When we spend a week this summer in Aix-en-Provence, I finally get my chance. It's an unusual spot in France, and besides the rice paddies, there are flamingos, bulls, bull-fights and flamenco-dancing (we're not too far from Spain, after all).


Bulls are big around here -- literally and figuratively. There are bull fights in the local arena advertised, but there is no chance we are going. Anthony and I saw a real bull fight about 15 years ago, and we found ourselves unapologetically rooting for the bull. The "fight" seems so unfair and cruel: a bunch of guys stabbing a bull to both enrage and weaken him, so that the matador can get flashy and kill him. I think if we had even suggested it, Gigi (our resident near-vegetarian for humanitarian reasons) would have disowned the whole family. There are bull testicles and bull steaks and bull sausages on the local menus, and we don't try those either. We don't even see any real bulls, since we spend our time by the beach, due to the scorching heat. I do take a photo of this bull sign, however, mostly because I love the name of one of the wines: "Vin de Merde" ("Shit Wine").


We decide to see the flats by bike, which would be a great idea if it weren't over 90°F (roughly 34°C).


Still, it seems a better option than doing a jeep, horse, or boat tour of the area. On those, they might take you up through the waterways to see a bull round-up here in French cowboy country. It's the kind of place where you can buy a saddle for a souvenir.


But we like the bike option because it means we can stop wherever we want and hop in the water, whether it's a popular beach...


or not.



Pippa's so pink from heat, she's either about to pass out or spontaneously combust, so we don't even make it too far, but at least we get to see our flamingos!
 
 
Basically, when we are there, the Camargues is hotter than Hades, which really drives home why these southern Mediterranean cultures like their afternoon siestas. But we get to do something active and sporty, not just cultural, so Anthony's happy. I get to see pink flamingoes, so I'm happy. We don't go to a bull fight, so Gigi's happy. And we get to cool off in the ocean, so Pippa's happy.
 
THE CHEESE:
 
Bleu Fondant is a pasteurized cows' milk blue cheese, made by Carrefour, as they so proudly state on the packaging.


The name, which means "Melting Blue", or better yet (if less grammatically correct) "Melty Blue", has the classic blue mold streaks and speckles. It's also got the classic blue cheese tang, just less powerful and delicious than a high-end raw milk version. Still, it's creamy, as the packaging promises, and not bad tasting, especially if you just need some blue cheese sprinkled over your salad or your steak.


THE CONNECTION:

Because we're melting by the bright blue sea, why not a blue cheese for melting? Also, it's a cow cheese for bull country (I'm quite sure there are no flamingo cheeses).

Sep 1, 2015

Tropical Island Style, Up North: Fleur de Ré

THE STORY:

About the only island off the coast of France most people have ever heard of is Corsica. And a good number don't even know it's officially French, and no longer Italian. It turns out there are tons of tiny islands scattered just off the coast. Of these, the most famous and popular destination for French (and sometimes British) tourists is Ile de Ré just off of La Rochelle. Because it's so famous, it gets super crowded during every break, especially summer, and we've never been able to a) get around to making reservations on time and b) bring ourselves to face the crazy crowds.

 
On the non-holiday day in May we cross to Ile d'Oléron, to the south of Ile de Ré off closer to Rochefort, we easily drive over the bridge connecting it to the mainland. But we are told that in the summer, it might take an hour just to cross the bridge (ditto for Il de Ré's bridge), and then you're still stuck in the same traffic on the other side to get to your destination. That's what makes bikes so appealing. Once you're on the island, you can ride bikes through the salt marshes, to the beaches, around the port towns. But it's a big enough island, and easy enough to access if you time it right, that you might prefer a car.
 
 
  

Not so on Ile d'Yeu, where you can't ferry your car over, and wouldn't want to anyway, since the island is so small you can bike around it comfortably in a day, even with multiple, long stops. Off the coast of the Vendée, it feels like a real escape: the French word for it is "dépaysement" which I see translated as "disorienting" and "scenery", though it translates more literally as "change of country". In any event, all seem correct, as the scenery and feel are so different from mainland France, it actually feels disorienting, like you've literally changed countries. And latitudes. Except for the temperature of the water, I would swear I was in the tropics.

 
It's the kind of place where you don't even feel guilty that you're not having your kids wear bike helmets.
 

Even if you rent bikes for just one day and you want to bike around the whole island you've still got plenty of time for the beach, to visit the 16th century castle (cleverly called "Le Vieux Château", or "The Old Castle").


It's a pretty laid-back place, and we try (but fail) to imagine what it would be like to live out here. All year round.

 
Biking on Ile d'Yeu is a wonderful, perfect day, right up until the part where Pippa puts her rental bike key down on a towel in the sand without telling anybody, where it gets promptly and hopelessly lost. After much fruitless searching, Gigi races back to the ferry with our friends, and I wait with Pippa for the rental agency to send out a van. When it arrives, the driver has a new bike with him for Pippa, but I tell him we'll miss the ferry if we try to bike back, so he squishes both our bikes and us in the van, and we arrive at the rental return at the same time as the rest of our crew. With no time to spare, we run to the ferry and make it back to the mainland, and reality.


Other small islands in the area, off the western coast of the Vendée and Bretagne, in the Atlantic Ocean, include a bunch even the French have never heard of: Ile d'Aix, Ile de Noirmoutier, Hoedic, Ile d'Houat, Belle-Ile-en-Mer, Groix, Ile St.-Nicolas, and Ile-de-Sein (literally, Island-of-Breast) which, coincidentally not too far off the coast of Brest. At the northwestern tip of France, there's Ile de Béniguet, Ile de Morgol, Ile de Litiri (and the neighboring Petit Litiri), Ile de Quéménès, Lédénez Quéménès, Les Guiniman, Ile aux Chrétiens (Island of the Christians), Ile de Triélen, Ile Molène, Lédénez Vraz and Vihan, Iroise, Ouessant (which is big enough to have an airport), and as you round the corner, there are at least a hundred more just off the northern coast of Bretagne in the Channel.

Which brings me to Sark (called Sercq in French), not just a little island off the coast of France that you can bike around, but also a little country off the coast of France that you can only bike around. The whole nation is car-free, with horse-drawn carriages and just a few farm tractors to help tourists get their luggage uphill. Unless you like doing things the hard way, as we do, and you carry it uphill yourself. Or, more accurately, you have your daddy carry it up himself (I do, indeed, carry my own).

 
 
Sark, a country you've never heard of, has several claims to fame: It's the world's newest democracy, having changed over from a fiefdom -- think feudal system of Lords and serfs -- in 2008. (Just in case you're wondering, democracy is not necessarily all it's cracked up to be: they don't have enough money to offer free education, or in fact any education, to children past the 8th grade, around 13 years old. Those who can afford it go off to boarding school in England. Those who can't, and yes, there are some who can't, start working, with no high school education. In 2015. On a tiny island between England and France. Mind-boggling, isn't it?!).

 
It's also the world's first (and only, I believe) dark sky island nation -- meaning the entire nation has been certified as having so little light pollution at night, you can do astronomy with the naked eye. We go glamping (glamorous camping: it costs us a ridiculous 150€ to stay one night, with the tent and sleeping bags provided and set up for us) and get lucky with a clear night, so we are able to see an incredible amount of stars and even the Milky Way. Toto, we're not in Paris, anymore.

 
Since there are no cars on the island, the bike is king.

 
You can even bike to your own bachelorette party.
 

It's one of the only countries in the world where there are no cars allowed and where they still use horse-drawn carts. Needless to say this is one of the most charming aspects of being here.
 
 
The only place you can't bike is along the grève, the riverbank (from which comes the French word for a "strike", because it was the stevedores along the riverbank that went on strike). You have to either park (no locking necessary) or walk your bike across to the other tiny section of the figure-8 shaped island.
 

Sark has a population of just under 500 people, and there is only one bank in the nation, with the ATM locked inside it. Luckily, everybody on the island takes credit cards, because we are completely out of cash and here on a weekend.


You can ride around the entire country -- every bikeable road there is -- in just a couple hours at a leisurely pace, stopping for many photos. Though it's only a couple hour ferry ride from France, it's a world apart; in this case literally a dépaysement, change of country, as you need to cross national borders.


THE CHEESE: Fleur de Ré

Fleur de Ré is a raw goats' milk cheese made with salt gathered on Ile de Ré. The cheese comes from just across the bridge, on the mainland, in Deux-Sèvres.


The company that makes it, La Case Bleue, was founded in 1995, so it's a relatively recent cheese. However, the company founder Brigitte Viollet purposely based her creations on classic, high-quality local cheeses, made in the greatest of all goat cheese regions, Poitou-Charentes. Fleur de Ré, in the best local tradition, is a very mild, soft, and silky cheese with just a hint of salt, despite being named for salt.  


THE CONNECTION:

Named after France's most famous little north coast, pseudo-tropical, island, this is a heavenly little drop of a cheese.

These, on the other hand, are actually the fleurs (flowers) de Sark, but I'm sure Ile de Ré has similar botanical species.

 
 
  
  

 
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