Today, Katherine decided to go running with me. And she wanted to run the the Jardin des Tuileries. We walked there over the weekend and I thought it would make an interesting run. We started to run along the Seine but the hard irregular cobblestones soon were taking a toll on K's legs. So we took a quick exit onto the Pont des Arts [a walking bridge that crosses the Seine].
The interesting thing about this pont, is that it takes you right in front of the courtyard entrance to the Louvre. The courtyard entrance is basically an open air archway through the actual musuem. The courtyard is huge; surrounded on all four sides by the Louvre. In fact, you have to go through another open air archway to get out. But when you exit this second archway, there, in front of you, is the I.M. Pei glass pyramid. You either love it or you don't. I love it and apparently so does Dan Brown, most Parisians don't. After you run past the pyramid, you enter the beginning of the Jardin des Tuileries.
The soft, limestone pebbles that line all the garden pathways made a welcome and well appreciated running surface. Katherine's knees were already feeling the distance; this was her first run since her knees began hurting her. So we decided just to go it alone and meet up back at the fitness club. I started running up and down all the tree-lined paths that criss-cross the Tuilerie. I made a mental note to come running here in the deep summer. The tree-lined avenues were dark and cool. I didn't really need the shade today but in July and August, these paths will be a necessity.
It's amazing to run in a garden and nonchalantly pass 16th, 17th, and 18th century statues. Time just melts. I made it to the east of the garden and looked towards the southeast. There was the Tower. In front of me was the Obelisk of Luxor. And, in the distance, in line with the obelisk, was the Arc de Triomphe. And then it struck me.
For those of you familiar with DC and our balcony, this is the same sort of view that we see; the Lincoln memorial, the Washington monument, and the Capitol building. But then, I am architecturally-challenged. As I turned to begin my run back, there was Katherine. I unloaded my revelation to her. Whereupon, she quickly filled me in on the obvious.
It seems that Pierre Charles L'Enfant designed Paris or at least this section from the Louvre, the Tuileries, and on to the Arc. So when he designed DC, he decided to keep a good thing going. The Capitol building [the Louvre], the Washington monument [the Obelisk of Luxor], the Lincoln memorial [the Arc], and the Smithsonian museums and mall [the Jardin des Tuileries]....well, at least the streets, the Capitol bldg, the White House, and the foundation plans for the National Mall.
And if that is not entirely historically accurate, just remember that I am architecturally-challenged, but it sure made the rest of my run evaporate just thinking about the coincidences.
Friday, August 7, 2009
June 9, 2009 - I Joined A Pool
With much trepidation, I joined a pool and went swimming for the first time. During my many jogs, I've come across many pools that are run by the Mairie de Paris [the mayor's office] and several that are very close to our flat. I say, "with much trepidation," for several reasons. The first reason was, as you will all remember, that joining anything in France is an effort. I planned on this pool-joining to take at least a week. To my surprise, I asked for the 3 month membership, filled out the application, and gave them my VISA card. And, voilá, I was a member of the pool,
The second trepidation was clothing. Because I would pop into each pool and ask about joining and take a look at the facilities and notice the rules and regulations. The one rule that stopped me cold was the strict requirement to wear a speedo! And wear a speedo with a bathing cap.......
It's all about hygiene but you have to wonder. Here is a quote from a book I am reading to tune up my french:
SMELL - The French have a refined sense of smell, as evidenced by the vast number of delicately nuanced perfumes. Body odor is a sensitive subject between the French and Americans. What to Americans is "not dealing with body odor" maybe to the French "accepting the natural smells of the body."
And believe me, I come across quite a few "naturally smelling" French folks...... Anyway, moving along, I bought the dreaded speedo and bathing cap and it was off to the pool.
So joining the pool was surprisingly easy; nothing like getting a bank account or joining a health club. The real challenge is the swimming. The whole concept and organization of the pool is based, in my mind, on hygiene [what a surprise] and lack of coordination. First, you show your membership pass and receive a piece of paper. You walk up one flight of stairs and enter the "dressing area" that surrounds the pool below. The dressing area consists of little cabinettes all along the walls. Each cabinette has a little peep hole in it. You give your piece of paper to the attendant, you take off your outdoor shoes, and now you are allowed to find an empty cabinette.
In my broken french I asked what to do and I thought that you had to look through the peep holes, find an empty cabinette, and wait for the attendent to open it up for you. I was quickly informed and forgiven by a good looking woman who was putting on her bikini in the cabinette that I was peeking into, that you are not supposed to peep through the holes. Rather you find a cabinette with the door open, use that one, and close it behind you as you leave to swim. It is when you return that you look through the peep hole to make sure it's yours [at least that's my story] and then stand in front of it until the attendant let's you in. Having found an empty cabinette, donning my speedo and cap, it was time for my swim.
Now the pool has an ingenious layout. You can only get to it by one stairway which is not the way you came in. You are forced to go through either the male or female shower area, take a shower, and then walk through a foot pool for one final cleaning. Except that the male shower was closed so I had to go through the female shower. No woman even blinked an eye as I came through and showered. I think it was the speedo.....they were impressed!?!?
So I now have a pool membership and a speedo......and I won't be taking any pictures at the pool, so don't ask.....
The second trepidation was clothing. Because I would pop into each pool and ask about joining and take a look at the facilities and notice the rules and regulations. The one rule that stopped me cold was the strict requirement to wear a speedo! And wear a speedo with a bathing cap.......
It's all about hygiene but you have to wonder. Here is a quote from a book I am reading to tune up my french:
SMELL - The French have a refined sense of smell, as evidenced by the vast number of delicately nuanced perfumes. Body odor is a sensitive subject between the French and Americans. What to Americans is "not dealing with body odor" maybe to the French "accepting the natural smells of the body."
And believe me, I come across quite a few "naturally smelling" French folks...... Anyway, moving along, I bought the dreaded speedo and bathing cap and it was off to the pool.
So joining the pool was surprisingly easy; nothing like getting a bank account or joining a health club. The real challenge is the swimming. The whole concept and organization of the pool is based, in my mind, on hygiene [what a surprise] and lack of coordination. First, you show your membership pass and receive a piece of paper. You walk up one flight of stairs and enter the "dressing area" that surrounds the pool below. The dressing area consists of little cabinettes all along the walls. Each cabinette has a little peep hole in it. You give your piece of paper to the attendant, you take off your outdoor shoes, and now you are allowed to find an empty cabinette.
In my broken french I asked what to do and I thought that you had to look through the peep holes, find an empty cabinette, and wait for the attendent to open it up for you. I was quickly informed and forgiven by a good looking woman who was putting on her bikini in the cabinette that I was peeking into, that you are not supposed to peep through the holes. Rather you find a cabinette with the door open, use that one, and close it behind you as you leave to swim. It is when you return that you look through the peep hole to make sure it's yours [at least that's my story] and then stand in front of it until the attendant let's you in. Having found an empty cabinette, donning my speedo and cap, it was time for my swim.
Now the pool has an ingenious layout. You can only get to it by one stairway which is not the way you came in. You are forced to go through either the male or female shower area, take a shower, and then walk through a foot pool for one final cleaning. Except that the male shower was closed so I had to go through the female shower. No woman even blinked an eye as I came through and showered. I think it was the speedo.....they were impressed!?!?
So I now have a pool membership and a speedo......and I won't be taking any pictures at the pool, so don't ask.....
June 7, 2009 Lassiez Faire
France is a Catholic country; about 85 percent to be exact. But from the sounds of the church bells, you'd think it was 100 percent. Those cute bells sounds that Katherine has made each of you listen to while talking on the phone are definitely alluring and quite different from the DC street sounds....except on Sunday.
Today, Sunday June 7th, at 10am, those cute bells sounds took on monstrous proportions; as if some maniacal Quasimodo on crystal meth was swinging on the bell chain to make sure that nobody would miss mass this morning. The problem is, the French seem to have that Adam Smith attitude towards religion. I can just see some guy waking up to the church bells and saying "It's time to go to church mon cheri." To which, mon cheri replies, "Let's just do it one more time". "But them we will be late for church my dear." "Please". "Okay, but let me call my wife to tell her that we will be a bit late."
It's the same way in business. We joined a sports club. We signed all the papers and paid for the first month by credit card. But now we needed to give them a Euro bank account so that they could debit their monthly bill. "We don't have a bank account." "Okay, we'll give you 7 days to get one and in the meantime you can use our club".....so we're off to get a bank account.
Now, we enter our bank and ask to open an account. "Do you have an appointment?" "No, are you busy?" "No." "So can we open an account?" "Not without an appointment." "Okay, can we make an appointment for Now." "No." "When can we have an appointment?" "Tomorrow at 3." "With whom?" "With me." So to make a long story short, we show up at 3 the next day and open our account but........
This bank is a bank for current and former teachers. Thanks for telling us that yesterday. But wait, I was a university professor. Katherine was head of the university chemistry library. "Is that okay; can we open an account?" "Yes, but do you have any proof?" "What kind of proof, we're retired? Maybe we can get a letter from the University College London to verify our previous employment?" "Okay, bring that in." "But we won't be back in the UK for weeks." "No problem, just bring it in when you come back." "And we can have our bank account today." "Absolutely."
Now, back at the sports club, "Here's our bank account." "Great but you also need to give us a check for 2 months membership that we won't ever cash unless you stiff us." "But we don't have a checking account." So it's back to our bank who tells us that they are only a credit union and don't give checking accounts. Great so we go back to the sports club and they say, "Here are your permanent membership cards and I will ask the manager what we can do about you not having any check to give us."
So as of today, we do not have a checking account, we have not given anybody a check with 2 months membership, and it looks like we will never get any documentation that we ever taught at a university but we do have a bank account and a sports club membership.
My point about this rant is that the French believe in religion, documentation, procedures, sound business practices, etc. but in the end, if it gets in the way, laissez faire. And, uh oh, it must be time for the noon mass, Quasimodo is swinging from the bell rope again.....
Today, Sunday June 7th, at 10am, those cute bells sounds took on monstrous proportions; as if some maniacal Quasimodo on crystal meth was swinging on the bell chain to make sure that nobody would miss mass this morning. The problem is, the French seem to have that Adam Smith attitude towards religion. I can just see some guy waking up to the church bells and saying "It's time to go to church mon cheri." To which, mon cheri replies, "Let's just do it one more time". "But them we will be late for church my dear." "Please". "Okay, but let me call my wife to tell her that we will be a bit late."
It's the same way in business. We joined a sports club. We signed all the papers and paid for the first month by credit card. But now we needed to give them a Euro bank account so that they could debit their monthly bill. "We don't have a bank account." "Okay, we'll give you 7 days to get one and in the meantime you can use our club".....so we're off to get a bank account.
Now, we enter our bank and ask to open an account. "Do you have an appointment?" "No, are you busy?" "No." "So can we open an account?" "Not without an appointment." "Okay, can we make an appointment for Now." "No." "When can we have an appointment?" "Tomorrow at 3." "With whom?" "With me." So to make a long story short, we show up at 3 the next day and open our account but........
This bank is a bank for current and former teachers. Thanks for telling us that yesterday. But wait, I was a university professor. Katherine was head of the university chemistry library. "Is that okay; can we open an account?" "Yes, but do you have any proof?" "What kind of proof, we're retired? Maybe we can get a letter from the University College London to verify our previous employment?" "Okay, bring that in." "But we won't be back in the UK for weeks." "No problem, just bring it in when you come back." "And we can have our bank account today." "Absolutely."
Now, back at the sports club, "Here's our bank account." "Great but you also need to give us a check for 2 months membership that we won't ever cash unless you stiff us." "But we don't have a checking account." So it's back to our bank who tells us that they are only a credit union and don't give checking accounts. Great so we go back to the sports club and they say, "Here are your permanent membership cards and I will ask the manager what we can do about you not having any check to give us."
So as of today, we do not have a checking account, we have not given anybody a check with 2 months membership, and it looks like we will never get any documentation that we ever taught at a university but we do have a bank account and a sports club membership.
My point about this rant is that the French believe in religion, documentation, procedures, sound business practices, etc. but in the end, if it gets in the way, laissez faire. And, uh oh, it must be time for the noon mass, Quasimodo is swinging from the bell rope again.....
May 28, 2009 – The Marriott Rive Gauche Run
I got up a little later than usual so I started my morning run around 11. Katherine wanted me to check out the distance and the neighborhood of the Marriott Rive Gauche [just in case some of you decided to use it while visiting us]. I decided to run north on Blvd St. Michel towards the Jardin de Luxembourg. I even decided to run through the Jardin even though it deviated me ever so slightly from an absolutely direct course.
As I entered the Jardin, it was quite empty; very few runners, one or two couples, and what looked to me, a few people taking a short cut to work. It was like a morgue. It was so quiet even I noticed how loud my footsteps were as they were making that sandpaper sound as my sneakers slide over the calcareous pebbles and dirt that comprise most of the Jardin's footpaths. But I was quickly through the park and back onto the Paris streets.
The problem I had was that even though I knew where I was going, having stayed at the hotel several times in recent years, and having looked at a map, the streets have a curious habit of converging into large intersections. Not just a simple two street convergence but what seems to me, a mini L'Etoile intersection. Regardless, I continued.
I'd like to say I got lost but how can I say that when getting lost in Paris means seeing even more of the quaint neighborhoods, local bakeries and butchers, and, of course, the local restaurants that haven't seen an American since WW II. But my "job" was to check out the distance so I had to find the hotel. I won't brag about how long I ran but I will say that I did find the hotel. So on my return run, I would make no mistakes and really estimate the distance and time to walk from our place to the hotel.
The return run was easy. I mean, I had been over every street in the neighborhood just trying to find the place. Rue St. Jacques to Port Royal to the Jardin; about 10 minutes of easy walking. But entering the Jardin, what a transformation. It must have been lunch hour now and every school in the neighborhood must have let their students out. And every student must have come to the Jardin for lunch. Students from every grade and parents walking those children too young to go to school through the park. Let's just say that I couldn't hear my footsteps even if my ear was on the ground!
After leaving the Jardin, it's all downhill, literally. I was back in our apartment in less than 10 minutes. So I estimate that the Hotel to our apartment is about a 20-30 minute journey through some really lovely Paris neighborhoods. Now that might be too much for some of you to consider since you will need to do it several times a day [or take a bus or train but that is the making of another blog]. But don't despair, Katherine is scouting out boutique hotels within footsteps of our flat. She has several already and several others on her interview list.
As I entered the Jardin, it was quite empty; very few runners, one or two couples, and what looked to me, a few people taking a short cut to work. It was like a morgue. It was so quiet even I noticed how loud my footsteps were as they were making that sandpaper sound as my sneakers slide over the calcareous pebbles and dirt that comprise most of the Jardin's footpaths. But I was quickly through the park and back onto the Paris streets.
The problem I had was that even though I knew where I was going, having stayed at the hotel several times in recent years, and having looked at a map, the streets have a curious habit of converging into large intersections. Not just a simple two street convergence but what seems to me, a mini L'Etoile intersection. Regardless, I continued.
I'd like to say I got lost but how can I say that when getting lost in Paris means seeing even more of the quaint neighborhoods, local bakeries and butchers, and, of course, the local restaurants that haven't seen an American since WW II. But my "job" was to check out the distance so I had to find the hotel. I won't brag about how long I ran but I will say that I did find the hotel. So on my return run, I would make no mistakes and really estimate the distance and time to walk from our place to the hotel.
The return run was easy. I mean, I had been over every street in the neighborhood just trying to find the place. Rue St. Jacques to Port Royal to the Jardin; about 10 minutes of easy walking. But entering the Jardin, what a transformation. It must have been lunch hour now and every school in the neighborhood must have let their students out. And every student must have come to the Jardin for lunch. Students from every grade and parents walking those children too young to go to school through the park. Let's just say that I couldn't hear my footsteps even if my ear was on the ground!
After leaving the Jardin, it's all downhill, literally. I was back in our apartment in less than 10 minutes. So I estimate that the Hotel to our apartment is about a 20-30 minute journey through some really lovely Paris neighborhoods. Now that might be too much for some of you to consider since you will need to do it several times a day [or take a bus or train but that is the making of another blog]. But don't despair, Katherine is scouting out boutique hotels within footsteps of our flat. She has several already and several others on her interview list.
May 20, 2009 – The Weather
I don't complain about the weather. After traveling extensively in the States and abroad, there really isn't any point. This missive isn't a complaint; it's merely an observation. I've been jogging about one week in Paris and, now, about four days in Glasgow. There really isn't much difference. I have five VISTA weather widgets on my computer home screen; one for East Northport, Toledo, DC, Paris, and Glasgow. There's really nothing unusual about the widgets except that I see them every time I go back to my home screen. And what I've noticed is that Paris and Glasgow have the same temperature, more or less. They even seem to have the same precipitation. So why do I notice the weather here in Glasgow more than Paris?
I did some research. Paris and Glasgow have about the same amount of rain and days of sunshine. They have the same temperature....so far. So why am I more cold running in Glasgow than Paris?
I noticed the kerbs in Glasgow [aka, in the States, sidewalks]. They're made of macadam...an asphalt invented by the Scot James McAdam. The funny thing about the kerbs in Glasgow is that as soon as the Council decides to resurface them, within 24 hours, some utility company or phone company or cable company decides they need to dig a new trench in the new macadam. And the telecommunication companies are the worst. Their cables run the length of the kerb, for blocks and blocks. One, two, and sometimes three cable canals running parallel to each other for miles.
Interestingly, the mosaic of patch work macadam makes for a fun run.....who dug this hole?....who routed out this cable channel? But it's more interesting when it rains because all these patches cause myriad puddles....something that runners try to avoid. So now I'm thinking, it's the same temp as Paris yet I feel colder. Why?
Well Paris has the same macadam for some of their kerbs. Except that when it rains in Paris, it pours and then it stops. It dries out and the patch work disappears or at least the puddles do. And so, apparently does the humidity. Now, in Glasgow, when it rains, it's like a moderate spring rain. Small, fine, droplets that cover everything and everyone. You do need a brolly. But when it stops raining, well, that's a bit harder to discern.
Often, not raining means, I can't see the rain. In fact, I like it when it's 'not raining'. It's like a very fine mist. You can hardly see the rain but in the myriad puddles on the kerbs you can see the indelible ripples from the rain drops in the puddles. And that's the answer.
In Paris, it actually dries out between the rains. The puddles disappear and the humidity goes away. In Glasgow, the puddles rarely go away and the humidity never goes away. Sixty degrees, light wind, no humidity almost seems balmy. The same in Glasgow with 100 percent humidity seems downright cold.
But this is not a complaint about the weather. What's the point? It's six o'clock now and I think it's not raining. But who cares? It's six o'clock and the pubs are open. Cheers.
I did some research. Paris and Glasgow have about the same amount of rain and days of sunshine. They have the same temperature....so far. So why am I more cold running in Glasgow than Paris?
I noticed the kerbs in Glasgow [aka, in the States, sidewalks]. They're made of macadam...an asphalt invented by the Scot James McAdam. The funny thing about the kerbs in Glasgow is that as soon as the Council decides to resurface them, within 24 hours, some utility company or phone company or cable company decides they need to dig a new trench in the new macadam. And the telecommunication companies are the worst. Their cables run the length of the kerb, for blocks and blocks. One, two, and sometimes three cable canals running parallel to each other for miles.
Interestingly, the mosaic of patch work macadam makes for a fun run.....who dug this hole?....who routed out this cable channel? But it's more interesting when it rains because all these patches cause myriad puddles....something that runners try to avoid. So now I'm thinking, it's the same temp as Paris yet I feel colder. Why?
Well Paris has the same macadam for some of their kerbs. Except that when it rains in Paris, it pours and then it stops. It dries out and the patch work disappears or at least the puddles do. And so, apparently does the humidity. Now, in Glasgow, when it rains, it's like a moderate spring rain. Small, fine, droplets that cover everything and everyone. You do need a brolly. But when it stops raining, well, that's a bit harder to discern.
Often, not raining means, I can't see the rain. In fact, I like it when it's 'not raining'. It's like a very fine mist. You can hardly see the rain but in the myriad puddles on the kerbs you can see the indelible ripples from the rain drops in the puddles. And that's the answer.
In Paris, it actually dries out between the rains. The puddles disappear and the humidity goes away. In Glasgow, the puddles rarely go away and the humidity never goes away. Sixty degrees, light wind, no humidity almost seems balmy. The same in Glasgow with 100 percent humidity seems downright cold.
But this is not a complaint about the weather. What's the point? It's six o'clock now and I think it's not raining. But who cares? It's six o'clock and the pubs are open. Cheers.
May 13, 2009 - Getting Lost
I know we all hate getting lost....at least us men. But getting lost in Paris is a different thing.....or is it? It's been one week now, and we've crawled over most of our neighborhood. We've found the local shops for bread, meat, vegetables, dairy, and wine. The locals even know us and as much as we want to learn how to speak French, they want to speak English....so it is a learning experience for all of us. Ever go into a butcher's shop and try to figure out how to ask for bacon? Good thing we asked for stewing veal [in french of course]...because it seems that the French stew their veal with bacon also...except it's not called bacon but we all knew what we wanted. The butcher even told me how long to cook the veal [like I really needed his help....but appreciated the assistance]. Today, I bought some chopped meat, not exactly how you ask for it in France.
It got a little confusing. I was also buying lamb chops. The butcher wanted to cut off some of the length of the long bone. He wanted to know if I wanted the bones but I was also asking for chop meat....we almost got chopped bones. But we learned how to ask for chopped meat, and how to ask for slices of meat as well as chops of meat [a la lamb].
My point is, we know our neighborhood even though it's only been a week, so taking little zigs and zags should not present a problem. Today was one of those days where the French don't go to work....or at least the people in our local food shops. CLOSED. So we just made a right turn and walked south, away from the Seine. We made it to the pool that I will be swimming in later this week....at least I know we can find it again but then we made the turn onto Rue Mouffetarde.
Rue Mouffetarde is a street that the locals know. Many small markets. Wine, cheese, meat, fish, vegetables, flowers, hardware, clothes, and, of course, the myriad restaurants. Katherine had been reading up on this area so she knew some of the places we should walk by. I stopped at the first Asian market I saw and bought a samosa....hot and tangy and lovely. We meandered through more markets and I saw another Asian market. Bought two egg rolls except they weren't but what they were, were lovely, fresh, crisp shrimp and pork rolls.
Katherine found a hardware store [bricolage, en francais] and bought a bread basket and for me, a spatter screen...which I used later that evening to prepare the dinner. And then we made a turn to go home.....and got lost.
We got lost in an area of our neighborhood that we didn't even know existed. No tourists, lots of local shops, and lots of local restaurants. We passed a Chinese restaurant, packed with people for lunch. It's on our list for tomorrow. I don't want to cook tomorrow and their cooking looked just fine....or at least the people in the restaurant thought so.
It took us a while to make our back home. Somehow, it didn't make a difference that we were lost in our own neighborhood. We expect to get lost here often.......
It got a little confusing. I was also buying lamb chops. The butcher wanted to cut off some of the length of the long bone. He wanted to know if I wanted the bones but I was also asking for chop meat....we almost got chopped bones. But we learned how to ask for chopped meat, and how to ask for slices of meat as well as chops of meat [a la lamb].
My point is, we know our neighborhood even though it's only been a week, so taking little zigs and zags should not present a problem. Today was one of those days where the French don't go to work....or at least the people in our local food shops. CLOSED. So we just made a right turn and walked south, away from the Seine. We made it to the pool that I will be swimming in later this week....at least I know we can find it again but then we made the turn onto Rue Mouffetarde.
Rue Mouffetarde is a street that the locals know. Many small markets. Wine, cheese, meat, fish, vegetables, flowers, hardware, clothes, and, of course, the myriad restaurants. Katherine had been reading up on this area so she knew some of the places we should walk by. I stopped at the first Asian market I saw and bought a samosa....hot and tangy and lovely. We meandered through more markets and I saw another Asian market. Bought two egg rolls except they weren't but what they were, were lovely, fresh, crisp shrimp and pork rolls.
Katherine found a hardware store [bricolage, en francais] and bought a bread basket and for me, a spatter screen...which I used later that evening to prepare the dinner. And then we made a turn to go home.....and got lost.
We got lost in an area of our neighborhood that we didn't even know existed. No tourists, lots of local shops, and lots of local restaurants. We passed a Chinese restaurant, packed with people for lunch. It's on our list for tomorrow. I don't want to cook tomorrow and their cooking looked just fine....or at least the people in the restaurant thought so.
It took us a while to make our back home. Somehow, it didn't make a difference that we were lost in our own neighborhood. We expect to get lost here often.......
May 12, 2009 - Terroir or Not Terroir
I'm not a big believer in the variations of wine versus location....at least when the explanation is the terroir. I mean, how different can my lot of land be when your lot is adjacent to it? How different was the microclime as the say en francais? Sure, you may have a better wine master. And you might have been more selective in culling your grapes and choosing which grapes to squeeze. But really, my one square acre sharing an entire side with another acre, how different can my terroir be?
Well, I know I've only been in Paris less than one week and I have been to my local fruit and veg shop twice. I've cooked several meals using the fresh veggies that I've purchased from them.....so what can I say??? Let me explain. First, the vegetables looked weird. Potatoes and carrots that were still covered in dirt. Celery that had more leaves on top than celery on bottom [or at least it looked that way]. Tomatoes that were glowing and onions that screamed pungency. So what?
I made my first soup last night. It was a chicken soup. I used left over chicken from dinner and the bones and leftovers. I made it like I've made a hundred chicken soups. After boiling the bones, stripping off the meat, and adding a bouillon cube, it was time to add the veggies. I chopped the top of the celery off, diced a bunch of the leaves and threw them into the pot. Then I took a few stalks and chopped and threw them in. The onions didn't let me down....as my tears back up this statement. The carrots peeled just like carrots. But after a few hours of slow cooking, it was time to taste the concoction.
I can't describe it. We've all had chicken soup before but this was the first time that the vegetables screamed 'I am more important that the chicken!!!". We've never had carrots or celery that, in our taste world, now define what celery and carrots should....must taste like.
So does the terroir make a difference? I am still not sure about the wine but the French vegetables just blow the US veggies away [ organic et al] I know, it's just a chicken soup but we are sold on the French veggies. I made out first tuna fish salad....with diced celery....incroyable. Can't wait to make my first stew.
I know this blog is short and sweet and probably about nothing important. But you just have to eat the French veggies to understand the impact it made on Katherine and me.
Well, I know I've only been in Paris less than one week and I have been to my local fruit and veg shop twice. I've cooked several meals using the fresh veggies that I've purchased from them.....so what can I say??? Let me explain. First, the vegetables looked weird. Potatoes and carrots that were still covered in dirt. Celery that had more leaves on top than celery on bottom [or at least it looked that way]. Tomatoes that were glowing and onions that screamed pungency. So what?
I made my first soup last night. It was a chicken soup. I used left over chicken from dinner and the bones and leftovers. I made it like I've made a hundred chicken soups. After boiling the bones, stripping off the meat, and adding a bouillon cube, it was time to add the veggies. I chopped the top of the celery off, diced a bunch of the leaves and threw them into the pot. Then I took a few stalks and chopped and threw them in. The onions didn't let me down....as my tears back up this statement. The carrots peeled just like carrots. But after a few hours of slow cooking, it was time to taste the concoction.
I can't describe it. We've all had chicken soup before but this was the first time that the vegetables screamed 'I am more important that the chicken!!!". We've never had carrots or celery that, in our taste world, now define what celery and carrots should....must taste like.
So does the terroir make a difference? I am still not sure about the wine but the French vegetables just blow the US veggies away [ organic et al] I know, it's just a chicken soup but we are sold on the French veggies. I made out first tuna fish salad....with diced celery....incroyable. Can't wait to make my first stew.
I know this blog is short and sweet and probably about nothing important. But you just have to eat the French veggies to understand the impact it made on Katherine and me.
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