Fairing la Cuisine
Kill me now.
I spent the first few days trying to get past the fact that I have apparently chosen to live with a man who owns neither tin foil nor scissors, but the discovery that tin foil (along with plastic wrap and possibly Tupperware®) may not actually exist in France is something that will take much more getting used to. Apparently, they don't really do food-storage.
Or labor laws--this woman was on the fourth floor on a windy, rainy day:
You know what else the French don't do? Puff pastry.
You heard me.
See, I had dinner all planned out, because I'm kind of getting into this whole domestic thing (only worry if it lasts more than a week). I was going to make a version of the homemade pot pies I made in Washington Heights, which I imagined would be even more delicious with 1) forethought, and 2) fabulous French ingredients.
I searched every refrigerator and freezer case at least four times. No puff pastry (except for the kind with duck already in it), no ready-to-bake biscuits...nothing even close. And, apparently, somewhere along the way my entire self-worth had been staked on producing more than just a stew. I had the stupid Pyrex® baking dish (perfect size for two) in my grocery basket--I couldn't turn back now!
Finally, on the fifth pass, I came across the pie crusts. Even better: I came across four types of pie crust, including one labelled as "salée" (salted), and I refused to be deterred by such trivia as the picture of the apple tart on the front, or the fact that the French have not yet evolved to the crust-on-top phase of pie. Clearly, I have the vision that they lack, and I will be the one to use this salée crust for the purpose for which God intended it.
Damn, but it was a good stew. Chicken and vegetables, with red wine and veal stock ("fond de veau," my new favorite French phrase--it means "end of the calf" in much the same way that one might say "end of the hall"). Nice and thick, and seasoned perfectly. I poured it into the baking dish, and unrolled my crust on top. And nibbled a bit, of course, as I was cutting it down to size.
It was sweet.
It was really sweet.
It was my-mother-would-never-deign-to-bake-an-apple-tart-in-this sweet.
It was sweet in a way that was a million times more distressing than the way that it was dissolving rapidly into the stew. And I was too invested to just peel the thing off and throw it away--for added pressure, Nick had come home with no bread, possibly for the first time since he moved here.
Anyway.
Today I still have the bizarre taste of sugar and rosemary in the back of my throat, and I have decided that discretion is the better part of valor. I am strolling to the Eiffel Tower and taking a million pictures. I am dropping off Nick's watch at the horlogerie across the street, writing thank-you notes to the nice people who have sent cards (we feel that springing for international postage merits a written reply), and keeping my eyes peeled for tin foil.
And tortellini is fine for dinner, right?
I spent the first few days trying to get past the fact that I have apparently chosen to live with a man who owns neither tin foil nor scissors, but the discovery that tin foil (along with plastic wrap and possibly Tupperware®) may not actually exist in France is something that will take much more getting used to. Apparently, they don't really do food-storage.
Or labor laws--this woman was on the fourth floor on a windy, rainy day:
You know what else the French don't do? Puff pastry.
You heard me.
See, I had dinner all planned out, because I'm kind of getting into this whole domestic thing (only worry if it lasts more than a week). I was going to make a version of the homemade pot pies I made in Washington Heights, which I imagined would be even more delicious with 1) forethought, and 2) fabulous French ingredients.
I searched every refrigerator and freezer case at least four times. No puff pastry (except for the kind with duck already in it), no ready-to-bake biscuits...nothing even close. And, apparently, somewhere along the way my entire self-worth had been staked on producing more than just a stew. I had the stupid Pyrex® baking dish (perfect size for two) in my grocery basket--I couldn't turn back now!
Finally, on the fifth pass, I came across the pie crusts. Even better: I came across four types of pie crust, including one labelled as "salée" (salted), and I refused to be deterred by such trivia as the picture of the apple tart on the front, or the fact that the French have not yet evolved to the crust-on-top phase of pie. Clearly, I have the vision that they lack, and I will be the one to use this salée crust for the purpose for which God intended it.
Damn, but it was a good stew. Chicken and vegetables, with red wine and veal stock ("fond de veau," my new favorite French phrase--it means "end of the calf" in much the same way that one might say "end of the hall"). Nice and thick, and seasoned perfectly. I poured it into the baking dish, and unrolled my crust on top. And nibbled a bit, of course, as I was cutting it down to size.
It was sweet.
It was really sweet.
It was my-mother-would-never-deign-to-bake-an-apple-tart-in-this sweet.
It was sweet in a way that was a million times more distressing than the way that it was dissolving rapidly into the stew. And I was too invested to just peel the thing off and throw it away--for added pressure, Nick had come home with no bread, possibly for the first time since he moved here.
Anyway.
Today I still have the bizarre taste of sugar and rosemary in the back of my throat, and I have decided that discretion is the better part of valor. I am strolling to the Eiffel Tower and taking a million pictures. I am dropping off Nick's watch at the horlogerie across the street, writing thank-you notes to the nice people who have sent cards (we feel that springing for international postage merits a written reply), and keeping my eyes peeled for tin foil.
And tortellini is fine for dinner, right?
posted by Caroline | 3/07/2007 07:45:00 AM
7 Comments:
This afternoon, in the act of throwing away the vilest cheese I have ever smelled, I came across the pie crust packaging. Apparently it was "sablée" rather than "salée."
Since I have no clue what the hell "sablée" means, I looked it up. Apparently I made chicken stew with a shortbread crust last night.
Not having tin foil is starting to look like less and less of a personality flaw, you know?
Now I feel guilty about not sending a card ... I thought about it, does that count?
I just knew I should rephrase that--I mean that assorted grandparents and people had; I wasn't going for a generalized guilt trip! We don't come from a letter-writing generation, unless you count camp. Thinking about it totally counts.
Well, phew! I wrote you when you were at camp. So I feel like I'm off the hook. :D
yes, you should feel guilty...
Have YOU ever tried to go to the Post Office in New York, Nico?
Oh, my God. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
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