Thoughts on the 6 pieces of Secret Ingredients
In the piece Nor Censure nor Disdain, I could not help but notice the following line defining casseroles. According to the Larousse , it is "very popular in homes where there are no servants".
I was laughing out loud. The piece was written in 1968, but still, ...how many of your parents had servants back home during their childhood? Mine certainly had not. I guess the Larousse does not fear being made of fool of.
As far as the piece itself is concerned, MFK Fisher opens it by stating " Casseroles are, I think, an American phenomenon". I agree with the author. I do not remember ever having casseroles in France or in Italy.
The ideas that " rules can be learned by unskilled beginners" and that " one ingredient should dominate" reassure me. I can do this, it does not seem impossible. I promise, I'll try to make a casserole when I go back to France this summer! :)
PS: I really liked the sentence " I prefer to think of as my inventiveness rather than my lazy penury".
The piece An attempt to compile a short history of the Buffalo Chicken Wing made me realize that one can never be 100% sure about the exact invention date of a dish.
The Homesick Restaurant piece narrates the story of starting from scratch when you are in exile. It hints at political issues ( Castro in Cuba...). I liked the idea that people were able to find a new home while recreating a homey environment. A safe haven in Florida.
The magic Bagel underlines the story of a father who is missing her daughter. The quest for the perfect bagel around the US ( Kansas City, NYC, SF, LA) and the evolution of the bagel are just pretexts to write about a deeper meaning than the bagel. I thought this was nicely done.
The Secret Ingredient piece made me think about how much a meal can be controlled. Remember what the author said " She dictated everything but our actual digestion". How much can you control a meal? How do you control it ?
Finally, the Rat in my soup piece, I must say, took away my appetite. ( Yes, I know, what a silly to read this before going to lunch, right?) Well... what can I say ? This is for sure a totally different way of eating. It is new and unusual ( for me at least!). I link the part when the rat has to be chosen with what we said in class: Are you able to eat what you just killed? Or will you be able to eat something if you have to pick the dead animal first?
Honestly, I am not sure I'll be able to do this, especially if this is a rat. Life is made out of challenges, I am just not ready for this one ( at least yet!)
To be continued....
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Interesting article
Hello :)
I just came across this article from the Wall Street Journal.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204661604577186843056231170.html
What do you think ?
I just came across this article from the Wall Street Journal.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204661604577186843056231170.html
What do you think ?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
MEMOIR
Summer 1996.
I was a seven-year-old breezy, genial, greedy and, lively girl. My mum had brought my three-year-old brother and I to Italy for a summer vacation. My dad was not able to come with us because my mum told me that “somebody had to work.” We stayed at my grandparents' place. Since my grandfather left Italy and moved to France, it has been a family tradition to spend three months in Noci every year. Noci is a small Italian village about forty kilometers away from the Mediterranean cost. The name itself has always been funny to me because in English, "noci" means “nuts.”
I don't particularly remember what happened that summer in regards with my mom and brother, but I do remember the place, atmosphere, and flavors. I remember that the journey was long, about eighteen hours by car from Strasbourg. When I got out of the car, the first thing I noticed was the landscape. The sight of olive trees everywhere, the scent of fruit trees, the natural bright light from the sun, and the tiny roads are among some of the things I recall.
Summers in Noci, Bari are very hot. During the afternoon, the air would be so dry and hot that hidding in the vault is the only thing left to do. My grandma or one of my great aunts would be cooking and spending almost their whole time in the vault. The vault entrance is a fairly fresh big space, big enough to have twenty-five people sitting here during family reunions. The floor is a cold grey, the ceiling is white and one side of the wall is completely light brown. A window is on the left side of the entrance. You can also access the vault from within the house, using the imposing stairs. I never did this, probably because I was too afraid to get lost in this house. The three floors made out of marble were what I imagined a staircase of a deserted castle to look like.
Not a noise could be heard during the afternoon. Everybody was either sleeping or went to the beach for the day. One could access the vault by the lower level of the courtyard, but going to the vault from the oustide of the house was the entrance I found to be more fun. I would get aimlessly lost into the garden until I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Probably less than thirty minutes though, otherwise I am sure somebody would have come after me. We were in Italy after all.
My detour would begin on the first floor - I had no choice but to use the imposing stairs, my bedroom was on the second floor – Once there, I would go to the white brick terrace. Being outside did not bother me. I liked the blinding sun. Then, once outside, I would take the terrace stairs and go to the garden. There would be pink and red roses surrounding me. I am not sure whether those were roses, but they certainly looked like roses to me. I would smell them and then my attention quickly changed to my move toward my main interest in the garden, the fig tree. I would smell the figs and start picking them. I usually could not resist eating them right away. Further away was the kitchen garden, right after the cactuses. A million and one savors were awaiting me. Smells of tomato, pepper, and a plethora of other spices like basil, marjoram, and thyme lingered.
Right behind the kitchen garden was another part of my journey: the turtles. Ten turtles were living their lives in the garden. I would feed them salad leaves. I never had a pet before, so spending six weeks with the turtles was the closest that I came to having one of my own.
Finally, I would take the stairs to go down to the lower level courtyard. I was to the opposite side of the house now. In front of me was the vault cave. I would find my grandma in the kitchen inside the vault, cooking. Around dinner time, the vault would be full of people, friends, family who would stop by and taste the food that was being cooked. In the afternoon, I would be the only one in the corner of the kitchen, sitting on a chair, right before the table, looking at my grandma in silence. I would be watching the entire cooking experience without even being able to relate what it was like. I would be uplifted by the odors as she prepared a variety of food. My mind would get away from me as I got lost in the flavors. Then, the voice of my nonno speaking in Italian to my grandmother would bring me back to earth. When nonno entered the kitchen, it usually meant that it was time for dinner. I would be so focused on what my grandmother was doing that the meal would be prepared in what seemed like no time at all. Unlike the other kids my age who were probably thinking about candy and chocolate, I was fixated on the natural smells that lingered from her cooking.
I once saw an advertisement on the Italian TV about Toscany, and I thought to myself that it was probably the most wonderful place to me, though I had never been. My mind was without limits. I would then sometimes imagine myself cooking the most exquisite meal with selected fresh ingredients. The ingredients I imagined myself cooking with were normally ones I saw during the week while shopping or going to the market.
I recall one morning when I went to the food market with my nonno and the place was packed. People would be speaking really loudly in Italian and others were screaming. Italians do not have the same sound intensity as others nations, that was for sure. I couldn’t help but cover my ears when things became too loud. Despite the noise, the food market was an incredible place. There was such variety in what was there. There was a real sea market that had pesce for as far as the eye could see. Not only was there pesce, but all sorts of foods such as il pomodoro, la pera, la fragola, l'uva, la mela. In other parts of the market, there was il pane, il salame, il formaggio, le tagliatelle, and il gelato. (While I was there, I was able to speak in Italian, but unfortunately after my leaving, the language is hard to remember. Food words remained in my mind.) Then, just when I thought the experience was over, a whole new market was awaiting me only a few steps away. There would be not only food, but shoes, clothes, and sea supplies too. It was like a real bazaar. After a good two to three hours, depending on how many people you would run into during the journey, we would go back to the house, where my grandma would be waiting for us.
Looking back on that summer, it’s a real shame that I never asked my grandmother if I could cook with her. At the time, just being in her presence while she was cooking was enough. The kitchen was paradise for me. Not wanting to break the silence between my grandma and myself was partly to blame for me never asking. I was too afraid to disrupt her while she was doing what seemed to be a magically thing from my perspective. One thing she specifically made that I enjoyed was her tomato sauce. It is undoubtedly the most wonderful tomato sauce on the earth.
Dinnertime was a sacred thing for my family, so the hours spent at the dinner table are memorable. My grandfather would always say “mangia, mangia!” ( “eat, eat” ) I also can’t forget that my family would always say “Julie, you’re so skinny! Don’t you eat in France?” Of course I was eating in France, just not the same quantity as they made me eat in Noci. In Italy, food IS life. They don’t eat for nutrition; they eat for comfort and leisure. Eating is seen as a relaxing activity that should be enjoyed and then followed by a nap, if you were eating lunch. Food serves as entertainment here. Italian people are able to spend hours and hours talking about food while eating. In Italy, food is the symbol of the entire nation. Praising food should actually become a national sport.
The fact that I remember more about the food that summer than any other part of vacation is interesting to me. It is no wonder I am addicted to food now as an adult. My entire childhood had been centered on my trips to Italy where I looked forward to the food-centered atmosphere with my grandparents. I close my eyes and I see pizza, calamari, panzarotti, ice cream, pasta, tomato sauce.... Food was cornu copia for me in Italy.
I was a seven-year-old breezy, genial, greedy and, lively girl. My mum had brought my three-year-old brother and I to Italy for a summer vacation. My dad was not able to come with us because my mum told me that “somebody had to work.” We stayed at my grandparents' place. Since my grandfather left Italy and moved to France, it has been a family tradition to spend three months in Noci every year. Noci is a small Italian village about forty kilometers away from the Mediterranean cost. The name itself has always been funny to me because in English, "noci" means “nuts.”
I don't particularly remember what happened that summer in regards with my mom and brother, but I do remember the place, atmosphere, and flavors. I remember that the journey was long, about eighteen hours by car from Strasbourg. When I got out of the car, the first thing I noticed was the landscape. The sight of olive trees everywhere, the scent of fruit trees, the natural bright light from the sun, and the tiny roads are among some of the things I recall.
Summers in Noci, Bari are very hot. During the afternoon, the air would be so dry and hot that hidding in the vault is the only thing left to do. My grandma or one of my great aunts would be cooking and spending almost their whole time in the vault. The vault entrance is a fairly fresh big space, big enough to have twenty-five people sitting here during family reunions. The floor is a cold grey, the ceiling is white and one side of the wall is completely light brown. A window is on the left side of the entrance. You can also access the vault from within the house, using the imposing stairs. I never did this, probably because I was too afraid to get lost in this house. The three floors made out of marble were what I imagined a staircase of a deserted castle to look like.
Not a noise could be heard during the afternoon. Everybody was either sleeping or went to the beach for the day. One could access the vault by the lower level of the courtyard, but going to the vault from the oustide of the house was the entrance I found to be more fun. I would get aimlessly lost into the garden until I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Probably less than thirty minutes though, otherwise I am sure somebody would have come after me. We were in Italy after all.
My detour would begin on the first floor - I had no choice but to use the imposing stairs, my bedroom was on the second floor – Once there, I would go to the white brick terrace. Being outside did not bother me. I liked the blinding sun. Then, once outside, I would take the terrace stairs and go to the garden. There would be pink and red roses surrounding me. I am not sure whether those were roses, but they certainly looked like roses to me. I would smell them and then my attention quickly changed to my move toward my main interest in the garden, the fig tree. I would smell the figs and start picking them. I usually could not resist eating them right away. Further away was the kitchen garden, right after the cactuses. A million and one savors were awaiting me. Smells of tomato, pepper, and a plethora of other spices like basil, marjoram, and thyme lingered.
Right behind the kitchen garden was another part of my journey: the turtles. Ten turtles were living their lives in the garden. I would feed them salad leaves. I never had a pet before, so spending six weeks with the turtles was the closest that I came to having one of my own.
Finally, I would take the stairs to go down to the lower level courtyard. I was to the opposite side of the house now. In front of me was the vault cave. I would find my grandma in the kitchen inside the vault, cooking. Around dinner time, the vault would be full of people, friends, family who would stop by and taste the food that was being cooked. In the afternoon, I would be the only one in the corner of the kitchen, sitting on a chair, right before the table, looking at my grandma in silence. I would be watching the entire cooking experience without even being able to relate what it was like. I would be uplifted by the odors as she prepared a variety of food. My mind would get away from me as I got lost in the flavors. Then, the voice of my nonno speaking in Italian to my grandmother would bring me back to earth. When nonno entered the kitchen, it usually meant that it was time for dinner. I would be so focused on what my grandmother was doing that the meal would be prepared in what seemed like no time at all. Unlike the other kids my age who were probably thinking about candy and chocolate, I was fixated on the natural smells that lingered from her cooking.
I once saw an advertisement on the Italian TV about Toscany, and I thought to myself that it was probably the most wonderful place to me, though I had never been. My mind was without limits. I would then sometimes imagine myself cooking the most exquisite meal with selected fresh ingredients. The ingredients I imagined myself cooking with were normally ones I saw during the week while shopping or going to the market.
I recall one morning when I went to the food market with my nonno and the place was packed. People would be speaking really loudly in Italian and others were screaming. Italians do not have the same sound intensity as others nations, that was for sure. I couldn’t help but cover my ears when things became too loud. Despite the noise, the food market was an incredible place. There was such variety in what was there. There was a real sea market that had pesce for as far as the eye could see. Not only was there pesce, but all sorts of foods such as il pomodoro, la pera, la fragola, l'uva, la mela. In other parts of the market, there was il pane, il salame, il formaggio, le tagliatelle, and il gelato. (While I was there, I was able to speak in Italian, but unfortunately after my leaving, the language is hard to remember. Food words remained in my mind.) Then, just when I thought the experience was over, a whole new market was awaiting me only a few steps away. There would be not only food, but shoes, clothes, and sea supplies too. It was like a real bazaar. After a good two to three hours, depending on how many people you would run into during the journey, we would go back to the house, where my grandma would be waiting for us.
Looking back on that summer, it’s a real shame that I never asked my grandmother if I could cook with her. At the time, just being in her presence while she was cooking was enough. The kitchen was paradise for me. Not wanting to break the silence between my grandma and myself was partly to blame for me never asking. I was too afraid to disrupt her while she was doing what seemed to be a magically thing from my perspective. One thing she specifically made that I enjoyed was her tomato sauce. It is undoubtedly the most wonderful tomato sauce on the earth.
Dinnertime was a sacred thing for my family, so the hours spent at the dinner table are memorable. My grandfather would always say “mangia, mangia!” ( “eat, eat” ) I also can’t forget that my family would always say “Julie, you’re so skinny! Don’t you eat in France?” Of course I was eating in France, just not the same quantity as they made me eat in Noci. In Italy, food IS life. They don’t eat for nutrition; they eat for comfort and leisure. Eating is seen as a relaxing activity that should be enjoyed and then followed by a nap, if you were eating lunch. Food serves as entertainment here. Italian people are able to spend hours and hours talking about food while eating. In Italy, food is the symbol of the entire nation. Praising food should actually become a national sport.
The fact that I remember more about the food that summer than any other part of vacation is interesting to me. It is no wonder I am addicted to food now as an adult. My entire childhood had been centered on my trips to Italy where I looked forward to the food-centered atmosphere with my grandparents. I close my eyes and I see pizza, calamari, panzarotti, ice cream, pasta, tomato sauce.... Food was cornu copia for me in Italy.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
A cook's tour - Anthony Bourdain PART 2
What can I say? I had a really hard time finishing the book. Yes,he is a NY chef. Yes, he is genuine, he is bold, he is transparent. The fact is that the book was too much transparent for me. For instance, I really did not need to know that he is smoking in his kitchen. ( I won't be talking about others things that horrified me!)
Bourdain says whatever he wants, whenever he wants and most of the time it appeared to be too much for me.
I actually can not decide whether I love the guy or I hate him. He's undoubtedly talented, however he can get out of line. Everytime I was (almost) enjoying my reading, Bourdain ends up swearing, or even worse.
BUT ... ( yes there is a but!)
I really enjoyed the chapter in Napa Valley. The French Laundry appeared as a haven for gourmets. More than 20 plates, around six and a half hour long. Paradise for me. For once in the chapter, I just ignored Bourdain's comments and I focused on the experience.
Food is not about restaurants or plates, nonetheless, I'm still marveling about the French Laundry, where eating is just like in France.
It is a relaxing, enjoyed and sacred experience. One do not rush ( remember, over 6 hours long!), one slowly eat and appreciate the food with friends or family. Just like in France.
People have a hard time believing that on a regular day, the average French takes between 1 to 2 hours to have lunch. On Sundays, 3 hours is the average time for lunch.
I wish I could to this at the caf', not eat - because let's be honest, there is not a lot of things eatable there -, but just to share a meal with friends without being rushed. I feel like running everyday in the US. People don't take the time here, they are always in a hurry, there have always somewhere to go.
Folks, take the time to truly experience this. Take the time to enjoy time.
So, here is my idea : How about a school trip in the French Laundry in Napa Valley ? :D
Bourdain says whatever he wants, whenever he wants and most of the time it appeared to be too much for me.
I actually can not decide whether I love the guy or I hate him. He's undoubtedly talented, however he can get out of line. Everytime I was (almost) enjoying my reading, Bourdain ends up swearing, or even worse.
BUT ... ( yes there is a but!)
I really enjoyed the chapter in Napa Valley. The French Laundry appeared as a haven for gourmets. More than 20 plates, around six and a half hour long. Paradise for me. For once in the chapter, I just ignored Bourdain's comments and I focused on the experience.
Food is not about restaurants or plates, nonetheless, I'm still marveling about the French Laundry, where eating is just like in France.
It is a relaxing, enjoyed and sacred experience. One do not rush ( remember, over 6 hours long!), one slowly eat and appreciate the food with friends or family. Just like in France.
People have a hard time believing that on a regular day, the average French takes between 1 to 2 hours to have lunch. On Sundays, 3 hours is the average time for lunch.
I wish I could to this at the caf', not eat - because let's be honest, there is not a lot of things eatable there -, but just to share a meal with friends without being rushed. I feel like running everyday in the US. People don't take the time here, they are always in a hurry, there have always somewhere to go.
Folks, take the time to truly experience this. Take the time to enjoy time.
So, here is my idea : How about a school trip in the French Laundry in Napa Valley ? :D
Monday, January 16, 2012
A cook's tour - Anthony Bourdain
A cook's tour from Anthony Bourdain narrates the author's quest for culinary perfection and "magic"(p.8)
"Having the best time in the world" (p.1), he's indeed "looking for the perfect meal" (p.6)
His descriptions of the meals are full of details and taste. Bourdain isn't experiencing food of each
country as a foreigner, he is experiencing food and life as a real inhabitant.
I really liked the chapter " Back to the Beach", which goes further that food. It is about family.
I therefore chose to dwell on Bourdain's trip with his brother back in France. To me, Bourdain's quest here is one of lost memories of childhood He wants to recapture " the good memories of [their] summers in France" (P.30), " reexperience the France of [their] youth". Bourdain seemed thrilled at first : "We could do whatever we wanted. We were free to act like children again. It was the perfect meal and the perfect place, I thought, to look for the perfect meal", he writes p.31.
However, by tasting the food, Bourdain realises that nothing is the same anymore. The perfect meal is no longer here. He finally confesses that " the shop smelled just as it had twenty-eight years ago, but something was missing".(P. 35)
Bourdain underlines here what we've been talking all along in class last week. What makes a perfect dinner? Once again, food is not everything. It is ( a great!) part of what makes a perfect dinner, however, the atmosphere, your personnal mood, the people surrounding you are to be taken into account. One can have the exact same food as 28 years ago, which taste exactly the same as 28 years ago, one may still lack something and therefore the meal won't be the same.
Bourdain kept these memories from France from the perception of a child. Childhood can not be recaptured by going to the same place and eating the same food. "I began to feel damaged.Broken." writes the author.(P.36)
Time had elapsed and Bourdain acknowledges this , writting "We were grown ups now: a respected currency analyst and a best-selling author". (P.31) It took him the entire trip to finally realize what was missing in France : his father.
This is the only chapter where Bourdain talks about his childhood and memories.
Everytime I go back to Italy or even to Dallas, I have the same meals at the same places, places I really like. And everytime, it is unique. We, as human being, are constantly evolving and growing. I realized not too long ago that nothing will ever be the same. My state of mind is different everytime. I'm no longer the same person that I was 15, 10, 5 or 1 year ago. It is impossible to recreate the exact same conditions of a meal. Time goes by, and that is something that will always be missing compared to the last time.
"Having the best time in the world" (p.1), he's indeed "looking for the perfect meal" (p.6)
His descriptions of the meals are full of details and taste. Bourdain isn't experiencing food of each
country as a foreigner, he is experiencing food and life as a real inhabitant.
I really liked the chapter " Back to the Beach", which goes further that food. It is about family.
I therefore chose to dwell on Bourdain's trip with his brother back in France. To me, Bourdain's quest here is one of lost memories of childhood He wants to recapture " the good memories of [their] summers in France" (P.30), " reexperience the France of [their] youth". Bourdain seemed thrilled at first : "We could do whatever we wanted. We were free to act like children again. It was the perfect meal and the perfect place, I thought, to look for the perfect meal", he writes p.31.
However, by tasting the food, Bourdain realises that nothing is the same anymore. The perfect meal is no longer here. He finally confesses that " the shop smelled just as it had twenty-eight years ago, but something was missing".(P. 35)
Bourdain underlines here what we've been talking all along in class last week. What makes a perfect dinner? Once again, food is not everything. It is ( a great!) part of what makes a perfect dinner, however, the atmosphere, your personnal mood, the people surrounding you are to be taken into account. One can have the exact same food as 28 years ago, which taste exactly the same as 28 years ago, one may still lack something and therefore the meal won't be the same.
Bourdain kept these memories from France from the perception of a child. Childhood can not be recaptured by going to the same place and eating the same food. "I began to feel damaged.Broken." writes the author.(P.36)
Time had elapsed and Bourdain acknowledges this , writting "We were grown ups now: a respected currency analyst and a best-selling author". (P.31) It took him the entire trip to finally realize what was missing in France : his father.
This is the only chapter where Bourdain talks about his childhood and memories.
Everytime I go back to Italy or even to Dallas, I have the same meals at the same places, places I really like. And everytime, it is unique. We, as human being, are constantly evolving and growing. I realized not too long ago that nothing will ever be the same. My state of mind is different everytime. I'm no longer the same person that I was 15, 10, 5 or 1 year ago. It is impossible to recreate the exact same conditions of a meal. Time goes by, and that is something that will always be missing compared to the last time.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Christmas Dinner in Strasbourg, France
Here is what a Christmas Dinner in Strasbourg looks like.
I thank my dear friend Yves for emailing me the pictures :)
The menu is in French!
- huîtres (as first course)
Foie gras (as second course)
Saumon fumé, truite fumée et rosbif (with salad)
Cheese plate
Bûches de Noël
Bredele (typical cookies from Alsace)
I thank my dear friend Yves for emailing me the pictures :)
The menu is in French!
Apéritif (with champagne)
- huîtres (as first course)
Foie gras (as second course)
Saumon fumé, truite fumée et rosbif (with salad)
Cheese plate
Bûches de Noël
Bredele (typical cookies from Alsace)
My Christmas meal...
Hello everybody! I'm currently looking at the 8 000 pictures I took during the break.
I decided to share with you the pictures of my Christmas meal !
Foie Gras
Vegetables and fish
Homard ! :)
Grand Marnier souffle ( you already saw the picture!)
And now, I'm starving again :D
I decided to share with you the pictures of my Christmas meal !
Foie Gras
Vegetables and fish
Homard ! :)
Grand Marnier souffle ( you already saw the picture!)
And now, I'm starving again :D
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Proust has madeleines, I have Grand Marnier soufflé...
Tonight, I'm craving Grand Marnier soufflé. (Picture taken in Dallas during the break.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)