What?!?! Sun?

The clouds have parted. Its no warmer, but my room has a south facing window, and I swivel my bed around the floor and nap in the sun like a cat. I bought a little ivy thing for my room. The walls are very white, and greenery helps me out in multiple ways. Thought I was going to lose him for a while there as I was testing his toleration to sunlight, the heater, and water. But I see new leaves coming through. My roommate Maja is German, her husband lives in Silicon Valley (we have a mug from the Monterey Bay Aquarium), and she cleans like its her job. She's actually vacuuming as I type.
Once the days brightened, I wandered over to the Parc de Sceaux, a town sized park conveniently situated near my apartment. I've been back everyday since I ventured that way, and began jogging, mainly cause I was sticking out by not jogging. I remember when I was in Aix-en-Provence and people of all ages would cat call me when I jogged around my neighborhood. Now the French have seemed to embrace jogging, and quickly ramped it up to the level of what I refer to as rabid nerdiness, complete with coats with skin tight hoods like a bobsledder and belts that hold two tiny bottles of water on each hip to distribute the weight. There are heaps of tiny trails winding through Edward Scissorhands-precise foliage that circle the vast moat around the stately museum. Its very Versailles-y. There's a dog park, fountains, a running track, and lots of benches to make out on. I am very taken with the place.
It being Sunday, I walked into bourgeois Antony ( I was told that being south of Paris is the only direction you want to be. My roommate actually saw a child kidnapped off of the metro in the west), and went to the market. Its one of those rich towns with pristine sidewalks and well-dressed locals. I managed to dodge the FN people handing out flyers supporting the frightening presidential candidate Marine Le Pen. The sellers must have seen me coming, cause everyone seemed to shout the perfect thing I needed. I bought snooty cheese, corsican dried sausages, cherries, and gorgeous whole wheat baguettes. I passed on the blueberries. I have this recipe that keeps nagging me- baked crepes with ricotta, lemon zest and blueberries. Recipe websites do NOT make eating locally very easy.
Last night I went to a concert waaaay the hell and gone in the 20th with my friend Emily. It was at the Maroquiniere, and we saw the Tune-Yards. Its a band that started out in Northampton, MA. Emily went to Smith, and we've struck up a groovy friendship, so I met here there. The beer was shit, so I ordered plastic cups of red wine. GOOD red wine. There were two openers, one was a group of uncomfortable looking french boys, who sorta rocked it in front of images of 1980's screensavers. Violent Femmes came to mind. The other was quite a character. A single dude wearing parachute pants who clearly had some operatic training, making sounds to a kind of spooky rhythmic Asian chant that reminded me of certain Tool songs. He was dancing like a Balinese dancer, and his vocal range made me think of System of a Down's lead singer. And then came Merrill and her band. She was amazing. She loops herself on the drums and on a ukulele. She also has an impressive range, plus she's just cute to watch. She had a room full of French hipsters (shit, if that's not a double threat, I don't know what is), bouncing around the room. It was. Fan. Tas. Tic.

Food Porn

I like food. I like eating food, cooking food, shopping for food, talking about food, prepping food, growing food and catching food. While others shop for shoes, I browse fromageries and tryy to get in good with the local butcher. I'm with my people. I know this next statement will issue cries of dissent from Italian/Asian/latin food crazies, but I believe French cuisine is tops. Its difficult to ignore the root of so many culinary terms. Off the top of my head- Saute, Marinade, Souffle, Julienne, Braise, Flambe, Fondue, Meringue. Chicken Cordon Bleu comes from the french cooking school, Cordon Bleu- "Blue Ribbon". Don't worry, the french won't let the world forget this. While France suffers from some of the lowest recover numbers after the economic crash in Europe, the cafe's are packed, and they aren't cheap. Hence me taking on the setiments literally. While I love wine, the world inimidates me slightly. I move more fluidly with food. And so here I find myself, at the Place Madeleine, in search for something that surpasses simple nutrition and approaches religious fervor or orgasmic pleasure (please forgive the blasphemy).

First stop was at La Maison du Miel- The Honey House. The saccarine smell made me jittery. There were large vats of golden honey behind the cash register, with a tap at the bottom. One customer was getting what I hoped was a years supply, large bubbles moving lazily up from the tap. I saw honey from Canada and New Zealand, but finally settled on a box of five, each honey made in France, flavoured with various curiosities- Acacia, Rosemary, Chestnut, Rhododendron, and Lavander. God knows what I'm going to do with Rhododendron honey. I moved around the Place Madeleine past upper class brasseries and shops seling five items, immaculately dressed young women buying 200 euro sunglasses and 40 euro chocolates for Valentines day from bored shopkeepers. Each doorway had an armed security guard, including the deli and the dog clothing store. Carrying around my bag from the Maison du Miel gave me an unwarranted self of entitlement to be walking around in this neighborhood, and so I ducked into Les Truffes. Truffles look like small moist balls of dirt, and cost about 40 euros for one the size of my big toe. Crazy, I know, but the beauty of truffles is that they are so fragrant, similar to rose water or elderberries, you only nee a small shaving to flavour an entire dish of tagliatelle aux cepes or risotto aux morilles. I bought a small bottles of black truffle out, and the smell followed me around for the rest of the day, and that was off of trying about 1/8 of a teaspoon. My taste buds were bombarded greedily like pushy italians. I didn't even make it to Mariage Freres, with their wall sized display of bucket sized tea from around the world, and to the Maille house, France's largest mustard producing family. Next time.

Pad

Living in Paris has been a dream of mine sine I was 16 and came with Mr. Harris and five french students for two weeks. I remember very clearly standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs Elysee. It was Tuesday, or something equally banal, late afternoon, and the cafe's were packed. Women were smoking over their chevre chaud salads, tiny dogs sleeping in their laps. Everyone seemed to be buying something crazy expensive, and couples were bickering and making out with equal passion. Cars circling the Arc glanced their headlights off the crumbling baroque and roccoco buildings, and, if my memory serves me (and not my uber romantic side) correctly, someone somewhere was playing an accordion. Not all of these things, sound necessarily like aspects of a city to get hooked on, but I was in it to win it.

Fast forward. Check this shit out. I just moved in with Maja, a 30 year old German chick, and her bomb ass apartment. We live in Antony (look it up). My metro stop is a block from my brand new building. Sure, there's no crown molding or vaulted ceilings, but there's also no mold or vaulted prices (see how I did that?) The balcony and my bedroom window are south facing, there's a bathtub, and oven, a dishwasher, and a washer. I'm not sure you realize what I just wrote. There's a bathtub, an oven, a dishwasher, and a washer. It's hard enough to get a window in Paris.

There's a giant park nearby, that I hear talk of people jogging, which I will definitely take part in when it's not stupid cold. Although I have to trek into the city for class for three more weeks, the Bedouk (my intern company) building is on the same clock as my apartment. I don't have to cross the street to get there. It takes more time in the two elevators than it does to walk between the buildings. What I'm trying to say is I'm close.

Wabbit

Begin your drooling. Last night I tried Lapin a la moutard- Rabbit with mustard sauce. Ok, I'm gonna break down this Thumper recipe, because anyone within chasing distance of one should give this a shot. (A friend of mine in the program, upon hearing I was planning to prepare this dish, asked me in all seriousness if the rabbit was dead yet. I think she's already been exposed to too many of my eating-abroad stories.) Rabbit is rampant in France, which totally makes sense, cause the French love their game. It usually comes as a whole rabbit, chopped up into proper serving portions. I thought they did this to calm the nerves of the squeamish or tender-hearted (neither of which I subscribe to), until I saw fully intact sheep brains. I browned the pieces quickly, hearing rabbit can be quite dry, and braised it in broth, white wine, butter, shallots, garlic and thyme. I reduced the braising liquid on the stove top, chucked in a few tables spoons of Dijon and stone ground mustard, served it with parsley and zucchini rice, and descended up on it with ravaging vigor. It was killer, it also made the kitchen smell nice. Not too gamey, which is good, because kangaroo never seemed to be cooked right, despite claims of it being delicious. I've rediscovered my affinity for quinoa tabbouleh, and have sights on lamb couscous, since I found dirt cheap ras al hanout at one of the many hallal butchers in Antony (Bless France's relative proximity to Northern Africa. )

Neige

I know, I'm supposed to be writing about le bilan de la colonisation francaise entre les annee 1830 et 1945. But there is something wildly entertaining going on outside and I can't help but turn away from my desk in my new apartment and cradle a cup of tea in my hands as I watch the French interact with snow. The night I moved in, I went out looking for a quick dinner, and it spat snow at me for about twenty minutes. Now, being a California girl, I'd of course rather be in the sun somewhere, but its gonna snow, it better friggin snow. None of this spitting shit. Years in Massachusetts made me appreciate the quietness of snow, the cleansing power, the stark colors, the communal inclination to go outside and act like a fool. I woke to the sound of someone scraping their car. I am now in my room, my window looking down onto the petit rue du nord, and have enjoyed watching the pristine sidewalks become speckled with footprints. Apparently, the plan for the day was for all fathers to come out with their little girls to take advantage of the first snow of the season. I didn't get the memo. The three mini cars parked out front of my building have been wiped clean of snow by tiny pink mittens and large black gloves, offering a respite from my paper every thirty minutes or so. Some father are showing their daughters the science of making a perfect snowball, who then carry the thing with wonder. Others simply pummel their little girls into giggling fits of oblivion.  I've got some perfect snow music on which seems to give a perfect soundtrack to the small balls of coats and hats that bumble around experimentally. I've got a recipe here also that provides distraction- Braised Rabbit with a Grainy Mustard Sauce. Perfect dinner for a winter day in the suburbs of Paris? Just maybe.

Weekend action

Despite being in Paris, I'm bored. Our classes are 3 1/2 hours long, and being very in style with the french education system, we don't ask questions, we just absorb as much as possible, given its THREE AND A HALF HOURS LONG.

Friday,  I invited some of the IFE clan over for a drink. One kid showed up with two huge backpacks, explaining that his homestay situation dissolved into a total shit show, and he was technically homeless for five days until he moved into his new apartment. I insisted he pass on a hostel ( I know all too well how those things operate), and crash on my spare bed. He slept on the Murphy bed in the living room until yesterday. He was a mix of Woody Allen and a Judd Apatow character. I miss his panicked rantings.

We went to a rugby game on Saturday at the Stade de France outside of the city. It was Toulouse against....stripey blue team. We never could find out, being too embarrassed to ask the rabid fans sitting around us. We pieced together the rules with help from my previous exposure to the game, but we mainly drank beer, talked about chicks and movies and ate hot dogs. Sorta like Giants games back home, except the hot dog was in a baguette.

Sunday, Adam slept all day like a 20 year old hungover college student, and I paid homage to the Eiffel Tower, my guilt of not visiting the symbol of France finally becoming unbearable, despite it peeking its cheeky little head between buildings at pleasantly unexpected moments. I walked home along the Seine, passing the Musee D'Orsay, Pont Neuf, Boulevard Saint Michel, Rue de Mouffetard, ending finally in my neighborhood, Chinatown, where the Chinese New Year was coming to a loud (fireworks) and smokey (again, fireworks) finale.

Adam left yesterday. He also left a bottle of gin and a box of cookies hidden in an empty cabinet in the bathroom. Did I say that I missed him yet? Oh well, new apartment tomorrow.