Cabbage Patched

I got four days in. Four glorious days of skiing in the Alps. I have no photos of us actually skiing but I have plenty of us "resting"!

 But I promise.... I've been on the hills. And having an absolute blast!

Things seem to be slowing down a little, however.

Wednesday, Thomas, the husband of my friend Vreni, took a digger. This guy is an excellent skier and fast....really fast. So when he fell, he fell hard. But he's also a relaxed skier so his injuries were minimal;  a big, fat bruise on his upper thigh and the same behind his knee. 

Later the same day I was following Roland (a friend of Thomas's) down a hill. One minute I was behind him, the next minute he was gone. Poof! Just like that. He was there and then he wasn't.  I skied to where I last saw him, peered down over the edge of the hill, and there he was... far below. Luckily not skewered on a rock, but struggling in a pile of snow nonetheless. As soon as I knew he was alright the laughter began. But as the day went on, we realized he wasn't okay and it looks like he's done some ligament damage to his knee. One down.

That night, Vreni began her ministrations. She ran to the grocery store (not the pharmacy) and returned with two heads of cabbage. She rolled them out flat and began applying them to the injuries. Yep, a cabbage patch. I'm watching all this, laughing, and looking up cabbage cures on the internet. Sure enough, cabbage is purported to have medicinal qualities that aid in the healing of swelling and bruising. I don't know if it works but  it's an excellent way to get men to remove their pants. 

Applying cabbage to a knee injury is a straight up process.

 Getting cabbage to adhere to a rear end is a little more problematic.

I was laughing too hard to get a clear photo of this last shot.

I shouldn't have laughed (when am I going to learn this?). Because yesterday after a LONG day of skiing, and getting battered by a couple of hills of hard snow, I returned home to nurse a nasty boot bruise and eventually a knee that has progressively stiffened and swelled. My knees suck...they always have... and I don't think I actually injured it. I think I just wore it out.

So last night I found myself rolling out cabbage and applying it to my bum knee and my bruised ankle. I woke up in the middle of the night in a bit of a sweat (because of the damned wool socks I had to wear to hold the cabbage), and I smelled like the first whiffs of vegetable soup. This morning I peeled the limp, green leaves from my various body parts, and voila, the ankle seemed as good as new. Not so for the knee however. Two down.

So now Roland and I are hanging around the house for the day. It's not bad. We've got a terrace with a couple of lounge chairs situated in full sun. We've got our books.  I have my computer. I've got this to look at.

And hopefully another cabbage patch tonight will allow me to get back on the slopes tomorrow. 

The Pants

I leave for Switzerland tomorrow for my yearly brush with death. As I was watching television report about the avalanche that annihilated a ski station in the alps last weekend, did I worry about the possibility of this happening in at my final destination? Did I think that perhaps I should be going a little earlier in the season so as to avoid all that heavy, spring snow?

Absolutely not.  All I kept thinking was, "oh my god, I wonder if my ski pants will fit?". Yep, not worried about dyin'...just worried about looking good when I do!

Every year I go to visit my friend Swiss friend, Vreni, at her house in the breathtaking, eastern Swiss Alp ski station, Arosa. We laugh, talk in a bizarre mixture of 2 languages, eat, drink, and kick a little ass on the slopes. Okay, she kicks, I nudge. And each year, I have to borrow or rent all my gear. Not just boots and skis but clothing as well.  I've gotten by, but I feel a little bad each year as I don her son's pants, her husbands socks and her gloves and goggles.  I've now collected my very own jacket, long underwear and socks so I'm getting there. But last year, I happened to be there at the end of the season when....yippee...sale season was going on, and I bought a pair of ski pants.

Now I must tell you the price for these pants. I have to tell you because it's shameful. Shameful that a stupid pair of pants should cost as much as my car! They were 589 Swiss francs. Which translates to $645. Did you throw up a little in your mouth? Of course,  I didn't pay that. I got them for 75% off. But, this is still double what I would normally pay...so...these things better fit! And if they don't, I'm not going! The Pants have been sitting in the corner for two weeks, labels still attached,  staring at me with their accusing, expensive, slim fitting eyes. And I've been afraid to try them on. Yes, I'm afraid of a pair of pants. Not an avalanche....A PAIR OF PANTS!

Tuesday I took the plunge with 3 days left to cancel my trip if The Pants and I didn't agree with each other. For 2 weeks we had danced around each other, looking each other up and down. And finally, it was I that backed down and with a prodigious, pessimistic sigh, I stepped out of my skirt for the battle.

Zip, clip, score! SCORE!

So just as the almond trees blossoms are busting out in all their springtime glory, I'm off to avalanche country. Me and my very best friend...The Pants.

   

 

Aix for the Maladroit

When I was 4 years old, I started taking ballet lessons. I think I was willing to do the endless relevés and pliés all year just because I was rewarded with a cute skirt and a pillbox hat for the year-end recital. After I graduated to crowns and tutus, I was permanently hooked. Or maybe I really loved ballet....I can't remember. During all those years of lessons and training, my mother always made sure to point out how graceful I was. She made me feel like a delicate flower. When I reached age 13 and had to continue my training in the big city, my mom drove the hour and a half to and from, every week. But only for a year.


Because during that year I realized she had been lying to me all that time! Maybe I should just call it positive reinforcement. Not only was I too tall, too big and too well-fed to be a ballerina, I was most definitely NOT graceful. Standing at that barre in the cavernous, ancient, technique room, trying to digest the ballet master's orders over the sounds of the pianist, and regarding my big-oaf self in the ever-present mirror, I realized this was never going to happen. I was not only the elephant in the room, I was the bull in the china shop.


The word for clumsy is maladroit in French, though the word is used in English as well. I'm one of those people who sprouts mysterious bruises, never even knowing where they came from. I trip on everything, drop, break shatter something daily; the kitchen is a disaster when I cook and I have a tendancy to run into doors (normally straight on the edge). It could be that I'm just trying to do several things at once....but the fact is, I shouldn't.

Now, I live in a city/country that is unkind to people of my kind. There are obstacles at every turn: deep, dark pits of danger in every quarter. I want to walk while looking up so I can find all the architectural lovelies that one can only see with their eyes toward the sky. I want to. But I shouldn't.


A normal street here, with its cobblestones and ancient oddities is tough enough.  There's that trough that runs down the middle which carries water to wherever it belongs. Step in this wrong, and there goes the ankle.

Every day after the market, the square is cleaned. What were these people thinking wall-to-walling the square with those slick stones? They did not have people like me in mind. Getting across this takes every bit of concentration I have. No reading and walking here.

This is the street that I take to the market each day. Rue Mignet is under construction but it is not closed off to pedestrians. It simply can't be. But it is not like a construction site in the United States with lawsuits lurking under every obstacle. It just is what it is....

 a minefield for the maladroit.

 And this is the corner I have to maneuver...at night.

The street will be beautiful when it's finished this spring. Aside from the major renovations happening underground, the surface is being painstakingly paved by hand. The masons use a string to keep their work level and even. I'm just telling you that I've come to know it as a tripwire.

I am continually wrenching my already car accident-injured back by stepping in holes and trying to catch myself before taking a digger. Recently however, all had been going well. Until last week.  I was leaving the perfectly safe, modern pharmacy. While reading my prescription that had just been filled, I came to the clear, sliding glass door that opens automatically. Except it didn't. And I didn't see it. I would say I was like a bird crashing into the living room window, except that description is too delicate. I was much more like the elephant...or the bull.  And I felt like the Roadrunner after he runs head-on into a rock, my body re...ver...ber...a...ting from the crash.  And to make it worse, there were plenty of witnesses. The impact was so loud, everybody on my side of the square caught a glimpse of large-animal-gone-mad. 

Today I'm making another appointment at the kiné, the man who has now become my savior. He should offer me a membership or a coupon book...you know, buy 10 sessions get 2 free.  But I keep thinking that perhaps if I just sport a tutu and a crown EVERYDAY, I'll believe, (like I used to) in my grace enough to save myself the pain...and the euros.

Have a great week, everyone!

dancer image courtesy of GraphicsFairy

To Die For...as in Potato Salad

When writing about my near-disastrous dinner party last week, I promised I would post the To-Die-For Potato Salad recipe.  My friend Eileen used that exact title when she sent me a copy of the recipe, scanned straight out of the cookbook. I'm sure it's a salad by another name but that just got changed! 


So here it is, folks. With, of course, my comments and photos  from this morning's market. By the way, this is not a French recipe. The French have potato salad but it's not made with a mayonnaise base. That is definitely American!

To-Die-For Potato Salad

1/2 lb. bacon, cut into 1/2 inch pieces (I used lardons since bacon is hard to come by here)
3 lbs. new potatoes
3 tsp. salt
6 hard-boiled eggs, sliced
1/2 chopped, green onions
1/2 C chopped dill pickles (for those of you in France, I've discovered that Cornichons Russe are pretty close)

1 1/2 tsp. celery seed (this I have never been able to find in France so I went without)
1/4 tsp. fresh ground pepper
1 tsp. garlic salt (I never use this. I used 2 cloves of fresh, minced garlic)
1 C. mayonnaise
1/4 C white wine vinegar (I only had red wine vinegar)
1/4 C. hot water
3 T. sugar (sucre poudre in France)
2 T. Dijon mustard


In a medium skillet, cook the bacon over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until crisp. Remove to paper towels; reserve 1/2 C. drippings and set aside. (I had probably not even half that and it was still great)


Scrub potatoes and place in a large saucepan. Cover with water, add 2 tsp. salt, and bring to a a boil. Lower heat and boil gently until tender when pierced with a fork, about 25 minutes, depending on the size. Drain, peel (I never peel potatoes mostly because the skins are so tender but also because this seems to freak the French out. They love to peel stuff), and cut into 1/2 inch cubes. Place in a large bowl;  add eggs, green onions, pickles, celery seed, 1 tsp. salt, pepper, garlic salt, bacon, and mayonnaise. Toss gently until combined. This can be refrigerated, covered, overnight.


In a small saucepan, heat reserved 1/2 C bacon drippings, vinegar, hot water, sugar and mustard. Bring to a boil, whisking constantly, and boil for 2 minutes. Pour over salad; toss gently. Serve warm or at room temperature. If serving at room temperature, the salad may be refrigerated overnight. Bring to room temperature 1 hour before serving.


Garnish with eggs cut into slices or wedges, bacon and parsley, if desired.


Serves 8

So the big question is, why can't I find celery seed in France?  Especially with these spice markets to choose from everyday!

My translation would be graine de céleri but perhaps that's not correct. And supposedly they're grown in France. Anybody know the answer to this conundrum?

Bon Appétit and Bon Week-end!

Recipe from The Year Round Holiday Cookbook by Marlene Sorosky. The book is out of print.

Slumber Party

It's Monday and I'm tired. Yesterday I couldn't manage much more than a long sit in the square, drinking coffee in an attempt to fend off the nap that was threatening to take me over at any moment. I finally succumbed, walked home and tumbled into bed for an hour in spite of my 5 cups of espresso.

I'm not sick, I'm just recovering. Because I got to spend a portion of this weekend with 3 friends whom I had never met before...except through our blogs. Two Texans, Sara and Adrian and Kirsty, an Aussi, who live here in the south and who also blog about their lives as expats. If you read their blogs, you'll understand why we had so much fun! These women were a kick times 10.

I shouldn't be tired. We only had two things we HAD to do. The first was get to O'Shannon's pub so Sara could watch the first half of the Ireland/Italy rugby match. I don't know why it was specifically O'Shannon's but I led the group to what I thought was O'Shannon's.

 Except it was not.

Oh sorry. Oops. 

Now I know where it is. We can get there in a few minutes.

Oh geez!  That's not it either.  Who knew finding an Irish Pub in a French city could be so difficult? Or that we'd have so many to choose from. Sara said, "it's across from a fountain, just at the end of Cour Mirabeau and off to the right".  Oh yeah, I know where that is. I spent St. Patrick's Day there once. I forgot about that one. 

Strike out. 

It starts with an O. Doesn't that count?

No, she said, I think it's on the other end of Cours Mirabeau...to the right. At this point we'd covered most of the town but we schlepped to the other end of Cours Mirabeau, running the last few meters because  Adrian and Sara (who have both lived in Ireland) wanted to hear the national anthem. National anthems make them cry.

Score! 

We talked a blue streak ( in English....yeah!) through the first half of the game.  Sara, being a woman, was able to watch her game and talk trash with the rest of us AT THE SAME TIME. 

The only other thing we HAD to do was put down the wine bottles on the terrace in time to get to dinner. Which we managed because I'd already scoped this one out. Properly.

So here's the deal. These girls were rarin' to go at about 7 am the next day. AND they had to return to their families, husbands and dogs and hit the ground running. I didn't have to do anything. Except attempt to polish off the chocolate cupcakes. And sleep. Which, as I said, was all I could manage. Is this the difference between the being in your 30's/40's and surpassing age 50? I guess I could be depressed about that...except I'm still giggling thinking about all the funnies from the weekend. 

Thanks girls. Let's do it again soon. But give me a little time!

Cuisine Americaine- Part Two

The last line of my last post: "Even if I and my meal fall flat on our respective faces, this has got to be worth a laugh."


Did I really have to write that? Really? They say that putting things into words can be prophetic. Why didn't I just say, "the meal is going to be fabulous and we'll have lots of laughs."?

In fact, we did have lots of laughs. This was a good thing. But I think it was mainly because this is what I produced for the main course.

Yeppers, a 2 1/2 kilo, 30 Euro, rack of.....CHARCOAL! Looks like something that came out of the ruins of Pompeii, don't you think? I should have known better. Meat on a grill and Delana do not go hand in hand. There is not even a minor affinity. 

I had this whole thing under control. The meal was to be at a friend's house; a bachelor whom I was sure would not have kitchen full of cooking equipment, so I worked ahead. I made the potato salad and coleslaw the day before chez moi, where I do have great knives and a food processor. Besides, those things are always better given a day for all the ingredients to get used to each other a form a team. I mixed up the peanut butter and the chocolate cookie dough with my mixer. I made the BBQ sauce, bought the meat, loaded up my salads and dough and headed to his house Saturday afternoon. 

I was SO under control. I baked the cookies, set the table, and made the guacamole. The guacamole was a challenge (and proof that it had been a good idea to make things ahead at my house) because all I could find was a cutting board the size of my palm and a knife that served only to rip the onions and tomatoes.

My idea of grilling the meat was met with protests as in "are you kidding? Grill the meat outside? We're going to freeze to death!" My response was,  "hey, man up!  I'm from Minnesota. We grill outside all year. Do you want an authentic American meal or what? Don't be such a pansy. It's 40 degrees outside...practically springtime!" This was said in French, of course, and I don't know the words for man up...or pansy,  but the monsieur got the idea. But we decided to do it just before the guests arrived so we could warm up before they got there.

This did not go well. It was dark. The grease from the pre-baked ribs caused flames. A lot of them. It took me so long to spit out the word vaporisateur (spray bottle) that by the time the first guests rolled in, I was removing a charred carcass from the grill. And laughing my fool head off. I don't know why I found it so damned funny. I was on the precipice of disaster. As this first guest kindly took the pan of ruins from me to carry it inside, I told him that McDonald's is also American and what did he think about hamburgers? He carried the meat to the sink, and bless his heart, starting scraping the charcoal from the rack of ribs.

I, in turn, placed a pink pepto bismol tablet at each place setting. They went very well with the tablecloth. 

Then we re-covered the recovering ribs with BBQ sauce and popped them in the oven.

In the end, the meal was delicious. I served everything American-style, all at once,  and the French guests ate everything in courses....salads first. (I didn't try to stop them. You can only take this American meal thing so far) Then we started in on the ribs. And they were wonderful! I was speechless.

The guacamole (served with an excellent champagne which always helps) was depleted. They loved the salads, especially the potato salad which I will share the recipe for next week. They thought the meat was excellent with the slightly sweet sauce and there was not a morsel remaining at the finish of the meal. The cookies, as always, were a hit but it surprised me how much they liked the peanut butter version. French people DO NOT LIKE peanut butter.

Four hours at the table and a looming presidential election here in France brought on the usual political discussions and, as usual, I worried that somebody would be killed. I worked hard to try to keep up but between the Marseille accents, the topic, and the rapid-fire discourse, I got lost.  I sat back, had another glass of kick-ass French wine, and checked out. My job was done.

And by the way, nobody ate the pepto bismol!

Cuisine Americaine??

I've been asked to cook an American meal for French friends. I'm terrified. I mean, I've lived alone for the past 5 years and practically alone for the 5 years before that. I'm not sure I even remember how to cook! And I don't have all my wonderful, top-of-the-line cooking equipment surrounding me and ....and....and...

Okay, I can do this. I know I can. So then comes the problem of what to cook that is all-American. This poses some serious dilemmas. I actually asked this question on facebook last night and got all sorts of suggestions ranging from hot dogs and hamburgers and fries to meat loaf and pot roast and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. The problem is, I am having a difficult time finding something that would be truly American.


We're all immigrants...mutts (save the native American population) and our traditional foods all seem to come from somewhere else.  Pot roast is basically French Pot au Feu. Hot dogs are originally German. French fries are Belgian.  Beef stroganoff was a suggestion but that is Russian. I thought meatloaf might be a nice idea but it comes from Germany and Belgium. A grilled ribeye steak could work, but I think our meat here in no way compares to steak back home and besides, I have yet to master barbecuing any type of meat (see more about that here). Tater tot hot dish came up as well but if I remember correctly, that's made with creme of something soup and we don't have that here in France. And I just CAN'T do that. Nor can I subject the French to the world's greatest hangover food, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese...even though I have 3 boxes stashed just in case!


For dessert I thought of my old staple, carrot cake. This is Swedish.  Perhaps Apple Crisp...but this is more or less British Apple Crumble. I could try apple pie but I know it would be too sweet for them. Bread pudding maybe? Nope, seems every country has that! Jello? Oh god, no! And besides, I can't get that here either.


You see my problem?


So this is what I've come up with:

                                                 

Grilled Barbecue pork ribs with a nice, slightly piquant BBQ sauce (the French have very sensitive taste buds). Barbecue and BBQ sauce seems to be  genuinely red, white and blue.

Potato Salad and/ or coleslaw (neither are really American but we've put our own, unique spin on them)

Garlic bread with lots of butter. Nobody puts butter on their bread here except if it's for breakfast.

Chocolate chip/peanut butter cookies, although I reserve the right to sic 'em with apple pie and ice cream.

My last problem is an entrée (appetizer). Anybody have any suggestions? I'm thinking nacho chips and guacamole. Did you know the avocado originates in the Americas?


I will take photos of the grand event and comments from my French guinea pigs. Even if I and my meal fall flat on our respective faces, this has got to be worth a laugh. Doesn't it???????