Give me a baguette

Hold the phone. Or the train. Or whatever you were about to get on: I just realized that I have only said a few words about my trip. A few, sweeping, vague words about my trip are hardly worth their weight. After all, it is Europe.

I meant to make grand statements about the places, the people, and the food. I even daydreamed about what I’d write, sitting idly on the trains, thinking up perfect sentences more thoughtful than the most condensed of poems. But all of those things have been done before, and dare I tread on the heels of great writers and big thinkers; I’ll just try to tell you what I found, simply, just like the food I loved.



I once read that in order to know about food, you must eat. It doesn’t take a scholar to make that deduction, but for a time I was convinced that reading would be my main course of action: I would stuff my head so full of braising techniques and pate recipes that it would be churning them out independent from my body. Turns out, that even when you’re in what I call the Depths of College Financial Despair (as I am, and I’m sure I’m not alone), you actually need to shell out for the eating, for the cooking, that really gives you what you look for in all the books. Once you resign yourself to this fact, your foodieness increases exponentially.

Thus, I decided it would be wise to go to Europe. (I wrote it off as a Food Expense.) So, as archaeologists have digs, we have wine tasting, market-grazing, and cheese-consuming – these are our field studies, our research. I was a diligent student. And, as these things go, I developed a thesis statement: that in France, where good food pours out onto the streets, it is wisest and most budget-friendly to sample the street food, the authentic holes in the walls, and of course, the boulangeries chiefly among others. It was in those places (or at them, rather, when their only venue was a street cart) where I found the most unfussy, simply prepared food France had to offer. There was no trying too hard, there was no white asparagus, and most of all, there was no pretense; it was just really, really good, painfully good. And cheap. No one can argue with cheap.



No, but really. I went out for some nice meals, and expensive ones to boot, and they were disappointing in comparison to what we ate for lunches or when we were just walking down the street. For example, I had the absolute best falafel of my life at a tiny place in the 6th arrondisment called L’As du Falafel. (The picture even makes my mouth water.) In Spain, the tapas were the main attraction: little, cheaply priced plates that are equitable to what the US calls “snacks,” only better. I ate calamari with lime in Barcelona that made me swoon.



So those are my grand statements that actually aren’t grand at all; they are a testament to simpler, more modest food. Of course, there undoubtedly are the more upscale places to eat in France, and if you can indulge frequently in those when you go, I’m sure you won’t be terribly disappointed. But the little places that hold the regional specialties should not be forgotten. Give me a baguette and a wheel of Crottin, and I’ll be happy.

Braving the cabbage patch

I never did like cabbage.

Until recently, it was the purple wormy thing stuck into pre-bagged salads to offer a shred of color, or else it was the equally wormy thing I used to pick out of everything it wandered its way into: carrot salads, green salads, the Portuguese stews my grandmother makes. Or, when I was very young, it was a place with a patch that cute dolls came from. As I have already explained, I was quite the picky eater as a child, but cabbage? I had put that in a whole other category of foods that made me shudder alongside steamed grape leaves from the back yard, say. (Yes, I was served that once, one fine evening my mother was feeling especially ambitious, but more resourceful.) The word even sounds a bit like garbage.

Needless to say, cabbage was very unwelcome on my plate for many years. I wasn’t even that excited about it yesterday, when my mom suggested some sort of Asian slaw recipe. I relented partly because it was her birthday and she could eat cabbage if she wanted to, and partly because it was slim pickings in the garden. So I agreed, bravely, and we set to making a side dish of carrots and cabbage.



It was fantastic. It was addictive even, so much so that I couldn’t stop taking a fork to it with the fridge door still ajar while it chilled. That, to me, is a mark of a great recipe. This probably isn’t news to anyone else, but bear with me while I proudly declare my own discovery: cabbage is really quite mild. Mild! Nothing to be afraid of at all, and certainly not wormy. When prepared raw, it seemed to more of a textural ingredient than a flavor one. It offered a satisfying crunch while taking on the flavor of the ingredients it was mixed with – in this case, a sweet-tart dressing of lime, ancho chile, and honey. This was a cool, crisp, summertime pile of vegetables, but better.

I’m even plotting my next slaw adventure, preferably for lunch, or maybe for dinner if I can wait long enough. Call me crazy, but I think I have a new obsession for julienned vegetables. Julienned cabbage, even. If you really can’t stop shuddering at the thought, I’ll forgive you this once, but I’ve found the key to coming around to cabbage is by pure force. So grab a bunch of the stuff and a knife, hand it to a loved one, close your eyes, and give it a try. You’ll like it, I promise.


Jicama Slaw with Lime –Ancho Dressing
(Adapted from Epicurious.com)

Note: I made all kinds of changes to this recipe. Namely, you’ll notice there is no Jicama, so it should perhaps be renamed to something more fitting. Kenzi’s Mom’s Birthday Slaw, maybe. I followed the dressing recipe exactly and it yielded more than we needed, but it would be great on a simple green salad, so we kept the leftovers. For the vegetables, I’ll just provide a list of ingredients and you can throw everything together accordingly, because that’s the best kid of recipe anyway.

For the Dressing:

½ c. fresh lime juice
2 tbs. rice vinegar
2 tbs. ancho chile powder
2 tbs. honey
½ c. mild vegetable oil, such as canola
Salt and pepper to taste

Whisk everything together but the oil in a bowl. After everything is combined, slowly whisk in the oil (in a thin stream) to emulsify. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

For the Slaw:

This is the fun part. Follow this exactly, or have a field day with mild vegetables you have in the fridge. Cucumbers would be great – I think I’ll try that next.

½ head napa cabbage, cored, shredded (the cabbage: carrot ratio should be roughly 1:1)
4ish carrots, coarsely grated
Handful of cilantro, chopped
A few scallions (green and white parts)
Small handful sesame seeds, toasted

Combine, toss, and coat well with the dressing.

I made a promise

If there is such a thing as a carb overdose, I’m sure I had it while in France.

I ate from the plentiful boulangeries as if I was preparing for a marathon, and I did it with a sense of determination. So I didn’t have 26.2 miles to run, but I did have a mission. I made a promise, people: to finally try the famous croissants of France. And once I had one, I obviously had to keep searching, just in case it wasn’t the best France had to offer. I wasn’t sure my croissant-tasting experience, nascent as it was, could bring you back a good report if I didn’t do some more research first. So I ate a lot of croissants, naturally.

I had to. It was all for you.

In fact, the first thing my friend and I did when we touched down in Paris was get croissants au chocolat. (I told you, I was determined.) We also did research with croissants buerre and Nutella (thanks to Katherin for the suggestion). The goddess of all croissants, though, was an almond one we found at Le Pain au Naturel the last day we were in Paris. To think, I almost missed it. Just buttery enough and still warm from the oven, it wasn’t overly sweet but still felt decadent. As Elise would say, it was simply divine*.




*I added the “simply” for dramatic effect and to feel a little bit like a sophisticated British woman making a fuss over tea and crumpets, but thanks Elise, for adding this word to my culinary vernacular.

One last note: It has come to my attention that I have made myself seem like I came back with a few extra pounds (seeing as though all I have talked about so far is stuffing my face, I know). I will tell all of you the same thing I said to this reader: I am blessed with a happy, working metabolism that seemed to understand perfectly that I was on vacation, and stepped up accordingly. Plus, I climbed up to a whole lot of chateaus. I believe wholeheartedly in moderation, and croissants for dinner when in Paris.

I'm back!

Well, I’m back. I’m exhausted, jetlagged; but I also still have a belly full of baguette, and I can finally call myself half-cultured.



If only I had the forethought to get the apartment all sparkly clean before I left, I wouldn’t have returned to formidable mountains of clothing. Then again, it feels nice to know that the backs of chairs, my chairs, are waiting to be covered in sweaters and towels, just because they can be: while living out of a suitcase was exhilarating, it certainly is no match for coming home (especially when that home has a kitchen).

I think that’s the thing I was missing while I was away: my kitchen, any kitchen. Other people miss the convenience of laundry machines while traveling, but I miss pots, pans, and an accessible stove. (Perhaps I’m not the perfect mascot for feminism?) Every farmer’s market we strolled through in old towns, along coastlines, and positioned quaintly next to age-old cathedrals, I longed to be able to take something home, a few eggplants and tomatoes, say, and try my hand at Nicoise Ratatouille. It was sad indeed, but I got over it. I quickly gave in to being spoiled by the regional food that others had prepared and the local wines they had produced.

And spoiled, I was. What is a girl to do when there happens to be the best crepe stand smack on the way home from a fancy, four course dinner? In all seriousness, she is to get one, slathered (in the best way) with Nutella and copious slices of banana, and enjoy. And then, if she really needs to justify, tell herself that she might only be in Paris this one time, that it would be a travesty to not try the local food, and that the full feeling she has (the one that makes her wish she wore looser clothes) is really just the feeling of Parisian tradition, taking over her body. That by doing this, she might even become French.



Unfortunately, I didn’t become French. (Come to think of it, I was probably closer to becoming an actual crepe.) Over two weeks and a day, I traveled wide-eyed around France, and even popped into Spain for a day or two at the tail end. And I came to realize and wholeheartedly appreciate the way they treat food. The way they respect it. Eating is considered a time of relaxation, of enjoyment, a slowed down version of even the slowest American meal. You’re not even allowed to get coffee to go: when we tried, we were handed espressos with makeshift tops, complete with straws stuck in the top. Hilarious, but also eye-opening. In a country where your coffee is to be enjoyed while sitting and your meals are to be taken seriously, I tried to absorb as much as I could in hopes of taking a little of that home with me. A little, but not the coffee bit. I’m sorry, I like my coffee made with water, and at times, I like it to go. Sorry, France.

Bon Voyage!

So I was hoping to bring you a few more recipes before I left (namely, one with rhubarb, among other reasons because it's the season, and it's delicious), but with the whirlwind of packing and calling credit card companies and checking and rechecking flight numbers, I got caught up, and now, I leave tomorrow. Tomorrow. I haven't even left yet, and I'm already exhausted: I have little to say at this point, other than I hope all of the logistics go smoothly, and that I can bring all of you back some wonderful stories about food, and the pictures to go with them.



So, here's to sturdy planes, croissants, fair weather, and all the many unplanned adventures I may have. Well then, Bon Voyage, I guess, to me!

Foodies in a Foodie Store

I’m easy to shop for. Easy as pie. In fact, I’d love to get a pie as a gift; anything that has to do with food is right down my alley. That is why I love cooking stores, and that is also why I scored myself a modest Williams Sonoma gift card this past Christmas.*

Embarrassingly enough, it took me until just yesterday to use it. This, of course, is due to the massive headache of indecision I get every time I think about spending money in a cooking store, the kind that leaves you with a dull pain of frustration and excitement all at once, and that would land you, had you been a few years younger, sitting smack in the middle of the floor to escape your dilemma. Knowing that I’m not alone does help, if only marginally: I imagine I share this trait of mild insanity with all other foodies out there with slightly shallow pockets.

We’re like kids in a candy store. No, we’re worse. Kids in a candy store quickly reach sugar highs and stomach aches when they gorge themselves: their bodies send up little kid-sized red flags, telling them they’ve had to much. We, on the other hand, don’t have a physical reminder. In fact, it seems the only way to relieve the great headache of indecision is to spend more. We have only our own measly restraint, and that only goes so far. Or we have gift cards with limits on them.

And so yesterday, while I was searching the shelves for gadgets within my price range, I made a great leap in character and decided in favor of practicality. I really really wanted that ice-cream maker. Just as much as I wanted the pasta machine. And, every. Thing. Else. But, I pulled myself together and gathered a few things that would build my cookware arsenal, practically: I chose a French rolling pin (every household needs one of these) and a 10” steel for the fancy shmancy chef’s knife I had gotten for my birthday. Mission accomplished, for now; I still have $18 dollars left. I wonder what I’ll get next.

*Thank you, Nammie, for the wonderful gift.

Nothing Better

Sometimes there’s nothing better than throwing on some music and chopping up some vegetables. Cooking alongside music (that is just loud enough so you can still hear your pan crackling) is like the perfect date: lovely company that is always right on time, and never fails to disappoint. Depending on what you’re making, it might even be all dressed up for the evening.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Amy Millan lately. In my kitchen, she is the flavor of the week, and she goes particularly well with wild mushrooms. But lately, her whispery, ever so down-home-country voice has been making me desperate for something comforting. Like a cherry pie, or mashed potatoes, or the home cooked meal I had last night with my parents – because what could be more comforting than old-fashioned potato salad, grilled chicken, and being surrounded by the throes of your childhood? Not a whole lot.



In celebration of my Dad’s birthday and retirement (a smiling congratulations to him), I meandered the 20 minutes of winding, backwoods roads that lead to my parents home, where I grew up, and even though I don’t live there anymore, what I like to refer to as my home-home. My mom had planned for a summer meal just like what I was raised on: simple, unfussy, but better versions of old favorites than you could ever imagine. If there was ever a mother’s home cooking that make you reach for thirds and fourths, this is it. (Really, I’m still recovering.) My parents also have hearts bigger than most, and keep a house that is generally brimming with long, idiosyncratic stories and wonderfully awful puns. You should come over sometime, I’m sure they’d love to have you.



When I got there, there was already music playing in the kitchen, and, as moved by the atmosphere, I grabbed a knife and finished what residual vegetables needed to be chopped. Dinner was lovely, complete with a curled up lab at our feet, and as we talked, it felt just like the old days, only better, friendlier. (Consider this a formal apology for my various stages of teenage rebellion and a hearty thank you for such a saintly pardoning.)

Anyway, here comes the point where everyone is probably expecting a recipe, or two. I want to give them to you, I really do, but the problem is, my mother has yet to email them to me (curse the age of computers!). And in the interest of full disclosure, once I have them, I still may not give them to you. Wait, let me explain: I hope you’ll forgive me, but there are some recipes that are meant to stay in the family, to be passed down like little heirlooms, and by god, this potato salad is one of them. I may deliver on the chicken marinade front, though – that is still to be decided. I can’t help but daydream about the day I’m in my kitchen, all grown up, cooking with an old Amy Millan album on, when my daughter walks in for dinner. I’m going to want to tell her how to make this dish that my mother made before me, and that it exists only in our memories. And then in all likelihood, if she gets my genes, she’ll run and go publish it on her food blog, maybe. But that’ll be up to her.


*Thanks, mom, for being (unlike my lentil salad) very photogenic.