Also, just to overload you with posts for today, this song has been stuck in my head the whole time I've been reading Condillac's Traité des sensations:
No, just in case you're wondering, there's no connection to Condillac. But yes, just in case you were wondering, this is Johnny Depp's baby mama.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Ain't we cute?
A week ago, Tyson and I took engagement photos.
Now, before you get all up in arms, no, we are not getting married. Nothing of the sort.
Really what this comes down to is that Tyson trolls Craigslist for free things to do in Paris, and one day he discovered an ad looking for models for a photography workshop. Jay Reilly and Victor Sizemore, both California photographers, were organizing a Parisian photography workshop, and they were looking for a couple to take mock engagement photos, a woman in a wedding dress, and a couple in schmancy clothes (meaning wedding gear). Tyson and I served as the first in this list, and so a week ago, donning our "funky" clothes, we met up with Jay, Victor, and six other photographers (2 of whom shared my name, weirdly enough) to walk through Paris being posed, directed, and photographed incessantly. All of the participants were incredibly nice, and it was really fun to feel like a celebrity for a day, followed around by the flash bulbs of a horde of paparazzi.
Tyson and I, in return for our supreme modeling skills, will get copies of all of Jay and Victor's photos, but so far, we've just seen a few. They are included here for you guys to admire. I'm still not used to my über-short hair, so they were a bit of a shock to me, but as you can see Jay (who took these) really knows what he's doing. So if anyone's in the market for fancy pictures back in CA, I can say that Jay and Victor were both great to work with. And if, for some reason, you're in the market for photos in Lyon, here's the beautiful site of one of the other photographers on the shoot (the only one whose site I know).
Now, before you get all up in arms, no, we are not getting married. Nothing of the sort.
Really what this comes down to is that Tyson trolls Craigslist for free things to do in Paris, and one day he discovered an ad looking for models for a photography workshop. Jay Reilly and Victor Sizemore, both California photographers, were organizing a Parisian photography workshop, and they were looking for a couple to take mock engagement photos, a woman in a wedding dress, and a couple in schmancy clothes (meaning wedding gear). Tyson and I served as the first in this list, and so a week ago, donning our "funky" clothes, we met up with Jay, Victor, and six other photographers (2 of whom shared my name, weirdly enough) to walk through Paris being posed, directed, and photographed incessantly. All of the participants were incredibly nice, and it was really fun to feel like a celebrity for a day, followed around by the flash bulbs of a horde of paparazzi.
Tyson and I, in return for our supreme modeling skills, will get copies of all of Jay and Victor's photos, but so far, we've just seen a few. They are included here for you guys to admire. I'm still not used to my über-short hair, so they were a bit of a shock to me, but as you can see Jay (who took these) really knows what he's doing. So if anyone's in the market for fancy pictures back in CA, I can say that Jay and Victor were both great to work with. And if, for some reason, you're in the market for photos in Lyon, here's the beautiful site of one of the other photographers on the shoot (the only one whose site I know).
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Joy of Baking
I'm in a period of waiting. I'm waiting for my U of C stipend stub (so I can finish the ever-enlengthening process of opening a French bank account), I'm waiting for the Bibliothèque nationale to reopen from their vacation period (so I can finally get to work on the dissertation), and I'm waiting on a bunch of materials from professors for funding applications (so I can get money to continue living here next year). So amidst all this waiting, I decided to resume a passion of mine that has not been exercised for several weeks: baking.
As I envisioned myself baking up a storm in Paris, I'll admit that I had lofty images of rolling out lovely little gazelle horn pastries, trying my hand at brioche, and lovingly glazing a ginger fig cake. I imagined using the decadent French milk and butter to create little walnut-size balls of chouquette dough, watching them rise slowly in the oven, and then eating them while they're still warm and flaky. And I had images of doing this with sun streaming through my windows while I listened to French radio shows and drank a glass of wine. Perfect, n'est pas?
But I have realized that, while I am an excellent baker back in the United States, I haven't the foggiest what I am doing now that I'm transplanted in la belle France. For starters, the flour is different from ours. They are graded by number (45, 55, 65, etc.). Some include yeast or baking soda already. And some grocery stores don't even carry it. Couple this with the lack of baking powder, baking soda, brown sugar, and what I consider to be other key ingredients, and I have been a bit stuck. And for a city so filled with pastries, bread, and all kinds of delicious baked treats, there's not even a word in French for "to bake." Astounding.Oh, the meretriciousness of dreams.
The other day, I tried to make the aforementioned chouquettes, and instead of coming out like this:
they (or I should say it, since, after creating a rather runny dough, I decided to try to turn it into one giant Dutch-Baby-like piece of pastry) came out something like this (minus the rabbit, larger, and with more butter):
It tasted delicious, but let's just say that it wouldn't have won a beauty competition.
But I'm not easily thwarted, and I was still determined to pursue the art of baking. After searching high and low for baking soda (which I read somewhere was available in grocery stores here, but I am still uncertain as to which grocery stores this writer was referring, seeing as how I've visited no less than seven looking for it), I decided to visit a store highly recommended by a few pro bakers/ food bloggers whose blogs I read. The place is called G. Detou (a pun on the phrase, "j'ai de tout," or "I have everything"), and it's a place of marvels for all pro bakers. However, for this non-pro baker, who still doesn't quite know how to say all baking-related terms in French, the store proved to be a challenge. The prickly woman behind the counter stared me up and down unrelentingly as I eyed her wares (lovely Sicilian pistachios, 5-pound bars of chocolate, lovely jars of candied violets), and finally, I boosted my nerve to ask if they had any baking soda. Knowing this this was a store for pros, I assumed that they would sell it mostly in bulk, but by my reckoning, I would be more than happy to take a pound of the stuff since I was having such a hard time finding it elsewhere.
She eyed me, as always, warily. "Yes, by the kilo," she intoned, and before I can reply, she swooshes away to a back room, not very happily. I'll spare you (and myself) any continued tales of the awkwardness that ensued, but let's just say that thanks to nerves, the lack of baking goods in grocery stores, and this woman's prickly initiative, I have enough baking soda to bake a horse-sized cake or keep the fridge smelling fresh for the next 6 years.
I am now the proud owner of 2.2 pounds of sodium bicarbonate.
I didn't even attempt to ask about baking powder. I can make my own if I mix cream of tartar with my baking soda, but surprise, surprise, that's also not readily available here. I've read that one can ask for it at a pharmacy, which strikes me as odd, but I have not yet mustered my moxie to go asking for it. French pharmacies, thanks to a few strange experiences last summer, are another French locale that I find heart-stoppingly bristly, and I can't quite imagine what will happen when I go in asking for TartarCream (crème de tartre).
In better food-related news, I've made friends (to use the term loosely) with a few produce vendors at our market, a local Halal butcher, and an Indian grocer who sold me an armful of cheap spices, so all is not lost. I just haven't yet fulfilled my dream of sunshiney, wine-happy, apron-prancy baking. At least there's no shortage of butter here.
As I envisioned myself baking up a storm in Paris, I'll admit that I had lofty images of rolling out lovely little gazelle horn pastries, trying my hand at brioche, and lovingly glazing a ginger fig cake. I imagined using the decadent French milk and butter to create little walnut-size balls of chouquette dough, watching them rise slowly in the oven, and then eating them while they're still warm and flaky. And I had images of doing this with sun streaming through my windows while I listened to French radio shows and drank a glass of wine. Perfect, n'est pas?
But I have realized that, while I am an excellent baker back in the United States, I haven't the foggiest what I am doing now that I'm transplanted in la belle France. For starters, the flour is different from ours. They are graded by number (45, 55, 65, etc.). Some include yeast or baking soda already. And some grocery stores don't even carry it. Couple this with the lack of baking powder, baking soda, brown sugar, and what I consider to be other key ingredients, and I have been a bit stuck. And for a city so filled with pastries, bread, and all kinds of delicious baked treats, there's not even a word in French for "to bake." Astounding.Oh, the meretriciousness of dreams.
The other day, I tried to make the aforementioned chouquettes, and instead of coming out like this:
they (or I should say it, since, after creating a rather runny dough, I decided to try to turn it into one giant Dutch-Baby-like piece of pastry) came out something like this (minus the rabbit, larger, and with more butter):
It tasted delicious, but let's just say that it wouldn't have won a beauty competition.
But I'm not easily thwarted, and I was still determined to pursue the art of baking. After searching high and low for baking soda (which I read somewhere was available in grocery stores here, but I am still uncertain as to which grocery stores this writer was referring, seeing as how I've visited no less than seven looking for it), I decided to visit a store highly recommended by a few pro bakers/ food bloggers whose blogs I read. The place is called G. Detou (a pun on the phrase, "j'ai de tout," or "I have everything"), and it's a place of marvels for all pro bakers. However, for this non-pro baker, who still doesn't quite know how to say all baking-related terms in French, the store proved to be a challenge. The prickly woman behind the counter stared me up and down unrelentingly as I eyed her wares (lovely Sicilian pistachios, 5-pound bars of chocolate, lovely jars of candied violets), and finally, I boosted my nerve to ask if they had any baking soda. Knowing this this was a store for pros, I assumed that they would sell it mostly in bulk, but by my reckoning, I would be more than happy to take a pound of the stuff since I was having such a hard time finding it elsewhere.
She eyed me, as always, warily. "Yes, by the kilo," she intoned, and before I can reply, she swooshes away to a back room, not very happily. I'll spare you (and myself) any continued tales of the awkwardness that ensued, but let's just say that thanks to nerves, the lack of baking goods in grocery stores, and this woman's prickly initiative, I have enough baking soda to bake a horse-sized cake or keep the fridge smelling fresh for the next 6 years.
I am now the proud owner of 2.2 pounds of sodium bicarbonate.
I didn't even attempt to ask about baking powder. I can make my own if I mix cream of tartar with my baking soda, but surprise, surprise, that's also not readily available here. I've read that one can ask for it at a pharmacy, which strikes me as odd, but I have not yet mustered my moxie to go asking for it. French pharmacies, thanks to a few strange experiences last summer, are another French locale that I find heart-stoppingly bristly, and I can't quite imagine what will happen when I go in asking for TartarCream (crème de tartre).
In better food-related news, I've made friends (to use the term loosely) with a few produce vendors at our market, a local Halal butcher, and an Indian grocer who sold me an armful of cheap spices, so all is not lost. I just haven't yet fulfilled my dream of sunshiney, wine-happy, apron-prancy baking. At least there's no shortage of butter here.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Now, THIS is how to celebrate!
Today Tyson passed his dissertation proposal hearing, so I'm officially living with a man well on his way to being a bonafide Ph.D.!
In light of this fact, we decided to take a night out and go to the cute little restaurant on a corner near our house that we've been eying. It's called Les Artistes, and there are literally 4 tables there, one of which, if you are lucky enough to get it, you have to share with an overweening fern. It's one of those classic French places where there isn't a printed menu (everything is scrawled on a chalkboard that the proprietor proudly carries from table to table when the occasion arises), and good, classic homecooked food that, when it runs out, is out for the night.
It was a splurge for us, but for 30 euros apiece, we had wine and the most delicious three-course meal that I've had in a very long time. Without the appetizers and/or dessert (and yes Tyson, I know that "or" is technically inclusive), it would have been highly reasonable. Excellent French food in great quantity, with wine, mind you, for around 16 euros per person. But anyhow, we went whole hog, and here's the deal:
Carolyn -
Round 1) Zucchini gazpacho with fennel, cantaloupe, green apples, and hot sauce (sounds disgusting, I know, but I even hate cantaloupe, and I was all over this business; the sweet and savory were perfectly blended, and it had just enough punch to be interesting)
Round 2) Columbo de cabri (Indian-creole goat), coconut milk rice, veggies, and a potato in an unknown but highly awesome sauce
Round 3) Fig cake (with cinnamon, ginger, and lime) and 2 sauces (cream and raspberry)
Tyson -
Round 1) Zucchini gazpacho
Round 2) Chicken with garlic, olives, lime, and almonds, coconut milk rice, veggies, potato with aforementioned awesomesauce
Round 3) Chocolate marquise (a frozen, cold, chopped, delicious chocolate concoction involving wine somehow) and cream
And the night ended with complementary doses of homemade liquor, which came out of a huge glass jug filled with clear liquid and obviously alcohol-saturated fruit. Damn fine stuff.
I could probably do some better food writing, but I'm too blissfully happy and full to even think about selecting better adjectives than "awesome" or "yummerific." Let's just suffice it to say that I love France, and so does my stomach.
*Note: What I don't love about France is how freaking hard it is to get a bank account around here. You need a gas bill to a bank account and a bank account to get a gas bill. You need a rental slip to get a bank account, but to pay your rent you need a bank account. I think you get the idea. Recursivity to the max.
But on a happy note, FOOD! And pajama pants. Definitely time for the PJs.
In light of this fact, we decided to take a night out and go to the cute little restaurant on a corner near our house that we've been eying. It's called Les Artistes, and there are literally 4 tables there, one of which, if you are lucky enough to get it, you have to share with an overweening fern. It's one of those classic French places where there isn't a printed menu (everything is scrawled on a chalkboard that the proprietor proudly carries from table to table when the occasion arises), and good, classic homecooked food that, when it runs out, is out for the night.
It was a splurge for us, but for 30 euros apiece, we had wine and the most delicious three-course meal that I've had in a very long time. Without the appetizers and/or dessert (and yes Tyson, I know that "or" is technically inclusive), it would have been highly reasonable. Excellent French food in great quantity, with wine, mind you, for around 16 euros per person. But anyhow, we went whole hog, and here's the deal:
Carolyn -
Round 1) Zucchini gazpacho with fennel, cantaloupe, green apples, and hot sauce (sounds disgusting, I know, but I even hate cantaloupe, and I was all over this business; the sweet and savory were perfectly blended, and it had just enough punch to be interesting)
Round 2) Columbo de cabri (Indian-creole goat), coconut milk rice, veggies, and a potato in an unknown but highly awesome sauce
Round 3) Fig cake (with cinnamon, ginger, and lime) and 2 sauces (cream and raspberry)
Tyson -
Round 1) Zucchini gazpacho
Round 2) Chicken with garlic, olives, lime, and almonds, coconut milk rice, veggies, potato with aforementioned awesomesauce
Round 3) Chocolate marquise (a frozen, cold, chopped, delicious chocolate concoction involving wine somehow) and cream
And the night ended with complementary doses of homemade liquor, which came out of a huge glass jug filled with clear liquid and obviously alcohol-saturated fruit. Damn fine stuff.
I could probably do some better food writing, but I'm too blissfully happy and full to even think about selecting better adjectives than "awesome" or "yummerific." Let's just suffice it to say that I love France, and so does my stomach.
*Note: What I don't love about France is how freaking hard it is to get a bank account around here. You need a gas bill to a bank account and a bank account to get a gas bill. You need a rental slip to get a bank account, but to pay your rent you need a bank account. I think you get the idea. Recursivity to the max.
But on a happy note, FOOD! And pajama pants. Definitely time for the PJs.
Monday, September 7, 2009
SPQR SPQP[aris]!
Today I am victorious.
I successfully procured a French cell phone. Because their pay-as-you-go plans require frequent use, and I am as-of-yet unaware of anyone else with a French phone, I think that this will consist of sporadically texting myself little notes of encouragement (Aujourd'hui, vous sentez comme un fraîchement lavés rose. "Today, you smell like a freshly-washed rose." Votre voix chantée est plus beau que d'un troupeau de chèvres dans les Alpes suisses. "Your singing voice is more lovely than a herd of goats high in the Swiss Alps.")
I sent my Visa papers off via registered mail (not as easy as it sounds, considering the French postal system, which is quite efficient but thoroughly perplexing to a foreigner).
Tyson and I purchased a coffee pot for jus de chausette ("sock juice" - otherwise known as drip coffee, American-style).
AND least trying, but much more exciting, we discovered a Kashmiri restaurant near our house. It's cute looking, relatively inexpensive, and offers free delivery. They have pichets (oh, one day I will have to write a post dedicated to the miraculousness of the pichet - a jug of the house wine that is much cheaper than bottled wine and often just as good), and I'm eying all kinds of goodness, from dal bhaji to rogan josh to oh-so-delicious halwa. Now all I need is a place that serves Saturday morning poori.
The plan tonight: sit along the Seine with some bottles of wine, chat, and people watch with a group of people from the H-France list (a listserve for people who study France). It's a beautiful sunny day with a gentle breeze. Perfect for a dress, some drinks, and some evening-time water-watching. And allow me to tell you how much I love the lack of open container laws here. At most, the police may ask you to but the bottles in a bag, but in general, no one minds drinking in public. It comes as no surprise that a country that has been imbibing the nectar of the gods for thousands of years would recognize that sometimes people just want to sit outside and enjoy the last few cool days of summer with a few plastic cups of vino.
I successfully procured a French cell phone. Because their pay-as-you-go plans require frequent use, and I am as-of-yet unaware of anyone else with a French phone, I think that this will consist of sporadically texting myself little notes of encouragement (Aujourd'hui, vous sentez comme un fraîchement lavés rose. "Today, you smell like a freshly-washed rose." Votre voix chantée est plus beau que d'un troupeau de chèvres dans les Alpes suisses. "Your singing voice is more lovely than a herd of goats high in the Swiss Alps.")
I sent my Visa papers off via registered mail (not as easy as it sounds, considering the French postal system, which is quite efficient but thoroughly perplexing to a foreigner).
Tyson and I purchased a coffee pot for jus de chausette ("sock juice" - otherwise known as drip coffee, American-style).
AND least trying, but much more exciting, we discovered a Kashmiri restaurant near our house. It's cute looking, relatively inexpensive, and offers free delivery. They have pichets (oh, one day I will have to write a post dedicated to the miraculousness of the pichet - a jug of the house wine that is much cheaper than bottled wine and often just as good), and I'm eying all kinds of goodness, from dal bhaji to rogan josh to oh-so-delicious halwa. Now all I need is a place that serves Saturday morning poori.
The plan tonight: sit along the Seine with some bottles of wine, chat, and people watch with a group of people from the H-France list (a listserve for people who study France). It's a beautiful sunny day with a gentle breeze. Perfect for a dress, some drinks, and some evening-time water-watching. And allow me to tell you how much I love the lack of open container laws here. At most, the police may ask you to but the bottles in a bag, but in general, no one minds drinking in public. It comes as no surprise that a country that has been imbibing the nectar of the gods for thousands of years would recognize that sometimes people just want to sit outside and enjoy the last few cool days of summer with a few plastic cups of vino.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Small, but important, pleasures
Let me just tell you what a joy it is, after stealing skimpy single-ply toilet paper from the Regenstein Library for a week prior to my departure, to encounter the lushness of bright pink three-ply here in Paris. Yes. You heard me. THREE-ply.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The USS-Enterprising Gourmand
It's officially my third day here in Paris, and thanks to jet-lag and the rigors of moving out of Chicago, I have only left my apartment for a grand total of an hour and a half. Today I made the rounds to the supermarket on the corner for milk, eggs, and a metric ton of powdered ginger (who doesn't need powdered ginger?!) and then, in the rain, to the Picard a couple of blocks away to stock up on all the frozen comestibles that I can muster. For those of you unfamiliar with the joys of Picard, it is a frozen food chain here in France. Now, one might be tempted to immediately write off all frozen foods as inherently soppy, disgusting, or bland, but somehow the French have channeled their scientific prowess into concocting the most delicious frozen foods known to man. You walk in, and the place is all white and chock- full of deep-freezes. Moseying down the aisle, one can select everything from frozen peas and frozen lasagna to frozen whole salmon with tarragon sauce baked in a crust with morel mushrooms and black truffle flecks or an entire leg of lamb encrusted with African spices, designed to go well with their frozen couscous vegetables. Seriously.
So in short, my small freezer is very full, I've already set into the delicious, belly-ache inducing, hurts so good French milk, and I'm going to have spinach and potato gratin with powdered ginger for dinner.
No, not actually. If the rain continues, I will probably go to the Las Vegas-esque pizzeria down the street that sparkles like a neon pink beacon at all hours. And if it ceases, well then...who can say?
So in short, my small freezer is very full, I've already set into the delicious, belly-ache inducing, hurts so good French milk, and I'm going to have spinach and potato gratin with powdered ginger for dinner.
No, not actually. If the rain continues, I will probably go to the Las Vegas-esque pizzeria down the street that sparkles like a neon pink beacon at all hours. And if it ceases, well then...who can say?
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