Diane's floating lotus flower of ideas

Took Ceba over to Marymoor park today for the 1st Annual Easter Egg Hunt for Dogs - proceeds to benefit Ginger's Pet Rescue - who matched us up with our little pal.

 

Empty eggs were hunted mostly by small kids who quickly gathered them up.  We managed to get one, which we exchanged for some dried chicken breast strips and an Easter Bunny dog cookie.

 

We adopted a puppy two weeks ago. And have had the flu since last weekend. This leaves little time to play, let alone write about the wonders of dog parenthood.  But I'll upload some pictures of our cute Ceba anyway. His name means "a dear to hold" in Tibetan.

 

I was thinking about this term today as an apt description for myself.  No surprise to anyone who knows me – I love food. Gary is well familiar with my hyperbolic bent:  whatever thing I’m eating at the moment is a likely candidate for being “The Best  <insert thing here> in the World!!!”  Particularly if it’s baba ganooj.

A friend asked me tonight why don’t I consider work as a food critic. I’ve realized in the last few days why not - I only want to share the joy of something I’ve discovered.  What joy would it bring me in life to tell you about a bad restaurant (unless it was a surreal travel experience such as “The Worst Meal in France”) and I still think you should go and try it – the food was good. It brings me joy to tell people about chewiest bread and the baker who bakes it, or the most succulent raspberries and the farmer who grows them. I love to be enthusiastic about the wonderful work that others do in food and wine. A friend told me she was going to seek out Tall Grass Bakery to try their fougasse from reading my blog posting that mentioned it.  It was the highlight of my week to think that someone might venture out into the world to try something at my description.

Definitely enthusiastic. So I did an internet search on the term “food enthusiast” to see if others characterized themselves this way.  I found a delightful blog entry by Lisa who calls herself that.  In addition to apparently sharing my love of things delicious, she so very well captured the socio-political aspects of local and organic agriculture that I resonate with very strongly.  So I’ll just keep this posting short and invite you to visit another food enthusiast's thoughts on the matter: http://www.pocketfarm.com/?p=451

I think about this question a lot in general. My thoughts were amplified recently by a talk I had the pleasure of hearing by Cecile Andrews at the Real Change breakfast. I took a class from Cecile when I first moved to Seattle nearly fifteen years ago called, “Finding Your Passion for Women.”  At the time I was twenty-three, was working as a catering baker, not caring much for the job. As a result of Cecile's class I identified that I wanted to be a travel writer and wax poetic about spices and cuisines of foreign lands. Today, not much has really changed about my “passion” including the fact that I’m not writing about exotic cuisine (for pay anyway). This blog will do for now :-)

                Cecile was big into the “Voluntary Simplicity” movement back then as she is now. And at the time, I found the idea nice, but not really applicable to me. It seemed to be about affluent, upper-middle-class people choosing to “drop out” and simplify their complex lives. Banish the day planners of the endlessly overscheduled. But my life was already simple (involuntarily?) – I didn’t make much money in those pre-college, pre-professional days and the complexity of my life was commensurate with my income – not very. Fifteen years and several degrees and jobs later, I am now the candidate for volunteering for simplicity. Or longing for it anyway.

                For many years my longing took the form of, “I need to quit my job, run off to India, live in a little village and buy eggplants and coconuts and spices (oh the spices!) at the local street market.” The other version was, “I need to run off to live in a Provence village where each week I will fill my basket with raspberries and goat cheese from the local street market.”  Pretty much every version of my longing took the form of “I need to run off to Never-never Land and shop at the local street market.” I idealized these far flung locales and the bounty I imagined overflowing in their markets. On my recent trip to France, peculiarly unable to intersect with any of the village markets on our cycling tour, I realized that I had actually already achieved my fantasy life. I live in a little village called “South Seattle” and I shop each week at my local Columbia City Farmers’ Market where, halleluiah, I can actually speak the language in order to say "hello" to my favorite farmers every week. I know some of the purveyors by name, all of my favorites by smile, and each week feel a part of a community - frequently running into friends and neighbors as I pile eggplants, raspberries, goat-cheese and chilies (alas no coconuts) into my bags.

                Cecile spoke last week about community. She talked about the “Slow” movement – the Slow Food movement, the Slow Cities movement, the ideas behind the all-around Slow movement and the obvious ties to Voluntary Simplicity: Living lives that are rich in human connections and the time required to foster them.  It was hearing Cecile’s articulation of these ideas a few weeks after my insights in France that helped me to see what had been at the root of my longing for idyllic village life - it was my craving for community. For human relationships. And in particular, human relationships in the context of food, my great love in this human incarnation.

                It’s so deeply pleasurable, this marketing. I must’ve I always sensed it would be so, long before Columbia City Farmer’s Market had come into existence. This week I had the pleasure of sharing the last market of the the season with dear friends visiting from Canada. Robert and Raju, themselves (mostly retired) farmers, and Sylvie adore their farmers market as much as I adore mine. When I told them a market visit was in the offing, they raced from the border to be sure to arrive in time. They thought mine was pretty darn nice, too. One of the highlights of my week was introducing my “favorite farmer” Wade to my “favorite farmer” Robert as we meandered among the stalls to provision our feast.  It’s all about human connections and of course good food. 

I only managed one posting while we were traveling. Been home a week and this is the first day I've had energy to attempt another.  We had a great trip.  So what do I write about?!? There was so much.

 

 

Basics: We were on a 9-day "Provence Gastronomic Cycling" tour with Breakaway Adventures/Headwater to celebrate our 10th anniversary followed by four days in Paris. This was an "independent" tour, meaning the local hosts, Phil & Lou, met us at the train station, took us to our first hotel, fit us on bikes and clarified the directions. Without crisis, we wouldn’t see them again until the return to the train station. As Phil put it, he spent his days "beavering around" moving luggage from hotel to hotel for us and all the walkers and cyclists who were en route along the itineraries. We weren't in sync with any other of the company's clients, so we were free to get independently lost through the vineyards of Provence.

 

 

Cycling in France: ROCKS!!! Having been a commute cyclist in Seattle (a supposedly bike-friendly city) for a few years, I quit after one too many close calls with vehicle drivers who were jerks (I'd use stronger language, but this is a family-friendly blog).  But in France, where 1/3 of the population has a bike, to a one every vehicle that passed us gave us a wide berth. I have never felt so safe on a bicycle. For the most part we cycled through paved back-country roads on which we didn't see many cars anyway, but when we did, they were scrupulous. 

 

This was not Tour de France level cycling, to be sure. Our itinerary (here) was structured to alternate cycle and rest days, with plenty of cycle and walking options on those "rest" days.  The cycle days ranged from 13 to 24 miles of fairly easy cycling.

 

 

Gastronomy: I was reading A Year In Provence while we were there. Peter Mayle describes one particularly large meal he could not finish and notes, "My wife hasn't been defeated by a menu yet." Unlike Mayle's wife, I was easily vanquished. This tour included four and five course meals every day. One would think all that cycling would create sufficient appetite. Hardly.

 

Apertifs offered (and usually taken) before every meal, and of course wine, always wine. We drank the local wines throughout our travels in Provence. Alcohol does stimulate the appetite. Maybe the problem was that I didn’t drink enough!

 

The first meal began, as they all did, with a little “mise en bouche” (literally “place in mouth”). This night was an array of three spreads – an olive, a bean, and ?? and some crostini. Delicious.

 

That didn’t count as a course. For entrée (first course) we selected a pumpkin veloté – a very thick, rich, creamy pumpkin soup with cepes mushrooms. We opted out of the foie gras that accompanied it. I didn’t finish it.

 

For the plat (main course), all the choices seemed to be a selection of woodland creatures (credit to my friend Marc for raising my awareness of that Provencal phenomenon). I should have written them down, but I think there was pigeon and rabbit and other feathered and furry friends.  The waitress offered to have the chef make us omelets instead. Enormous, hangover-worthy omelets arrived.  I didn’t finish it.

 

Then it was the cheese course. We were able to help ourselves to an abundant cheese board. Our excited discussion about all of the tempting choices, and our whispered agreement to each take a small slice half of the options, then share, caught the attention of other restaurant patrons who laughed at us (I’m quite sure).

 

Cheese relished, completely stuffed, it was time for dessert. I had a rhubarb tart and Gary had a warmed cantaloupe tart. A little odd, but the pastry supporting his was tart divine. I didn’t finish mine, but did attempt to make a run on Gary’s.

 

I could hardly sleep on that engorged belly.

 

I had intentions to make notes of all we ate, but was overwhelmed (and battling a cold/sinus infection the whole time). I wasn't up to the task of journaling each meal, let alone eating them. Toward the end, I discovered that I could just ask for a "une salade verte" in place of some undoubtedly rich first course and a plate of vegetables for my main course. Always delicious and I avoided leaving the table feeling like the foie gras goose himself.

 

The best thing I ate in France:  Despite all of the gourmet menus of our tour, somehow the volume of the meals overwhelmed my ability to truly appreciate any one thing.  The ultimate treat for me of the whole trip was the fougasse from the boulangerie around the corner from our hotel in Paris. Tall Grass Organic Bakery in Seattle sells delicious fougasee at the local farmers markets. It’s a decoratively shaped bread containing cooked onions, herbs and Mediterranean olives.  But the fougasse in Paris was absolutely STUFFED with olives – choice of black, green or mixed. The fougasse we inhaled were more like collections of green olives glued together with dough. A much higher olive to bread ratio than that from Tall Grass. And if heaven in the mouth could be any better, one afternoon we found the fougasse mixture, shaped into a log shape with ementhaler cheese baked in.  To date, this may be the single most delicious thing I have ever eaten. We sat in our hotel room in Paris, drinking a bottle of wine we’d brought up from Cairanne and arguing over would get the last bite.

 

The worst meal in France: (see previous blog posting).

 

 

Paris:  How I do love Paris. It’s always a slight risk to share something you love with your beloved. What if he hated Paris? Maybe worse, what if Paris bored him? I had nothing to fear; the city worked it's charm on Gary, too. We stayed at a very inexpensive little family-run hotel at the base of Montmartre near Metro Abbesses. Our room was on the top (6^th) floor, up narrow flight of circular stairs. A toilet in the hall, and a coffin of a free-standing shower in our room.  I was worried Gary would detest my budget traveler’s choice after our 2-3 star hotels in Provence. But after he maneuvered our five suitcases up that stairwell (I was too sick for much exertion), the place grew on him. He even managed to get on friendly terms with the very dour hotelier.

 

We had three full days in Paris, and we spent the first two of them following walks recommended in our books. Being Gary’s first trip to Paris, of course we had to do some of the major sights as well. But one of the best aspects of our Paris stay was having our cafés and croissant (for Gary), and bread and butter (for me) in a little café near our hotel. By the fourth morning our waiter was brining us water unsolicited (must have figured out we were Americans who usually ask for water even though we never had). Normally when one orders bread and butter (a typical breakfast), the waiter brings bread and butter – and I would butter it myself. And being the health-conscious ninny that I am, I use the butter very sparingly. At this café, the waiter buttered the bread for me, with unbelievably delicious amounts of butter. I have never known such delight. That young man can butter my bread any time ;-)

 

 

Conclusion: We cycled, we ate, we drank. I took prolific quantities of over the counter medication to suppress my symptoms. And thanks be to the Goddess, despite all of the nasal nastiness, I didn’t lose my sense of taste or smell.  But pseudophedrine really impaired my ability to simultaneously drink and stay conscious, so I quit that nonsense quickly J.  Many things made the “We’ll do that when we return" list. It won’t be too long.