Feeling saucy

I'm starting a sauce project. To become well versed in a variety of sauces, dressings, etc. Spring is here and with that, the start of vegetables that need to be sauced and dressed, right?

First up on the sauce project from Saveurs--

Mechouia with vegetables of the season (cabbage, navet (can't remember in English), beets)
2 T. olive oil
10 or so flat parsley sprigs
5 mint sprigs
1/2 thing of chives
5 sprigs of cilantro
a pinch of cumin
a pinch of paprika
a pinch of piment d'Espelette (I used a dried cayenne pepper)
2 garlic cloves
1 lemon for its zest
salt
Prepare the vinaigrette by mixing the garlic, a little zest, 2 T lemon juice, a little salt, the spices and olive oil. Chop the herbs finely. Mix chopped/sliced vegetables separately with a little sauce and with the herbs.

Chick pea salad with a mint dressing:
chickpeas
lemon juice
6 T olive oil
5 sprigs of mint
1/2 t cumin
2 green onions (I used leeks)
1/2 lemon confit (I omitted this)
salt, pepper

Mix the lemon juice and oil. Add the cumin, salt and pepper. Slice the green onions and mint. Cut the lemon confit into cubes. Put 'em all together with the chickpeas. Very fresh!

Got her!

For the past three nights I have woken up with mosquito bites on my face--my cheek, my forehead, and finally, my eyelid. Last night it came to a head though, as that mosquito woke me up at 4 in the morning with her whirring wings as she aimed for bite #4. As I lay waiting for her, hoping in vain that I would be able to swat her out of the air while quickly ducking under the covers, I wondered about her life that she had established here at 4 rue paul Bagnol with Cedric and I. Of course, I felt closer to her than Cedric because he managed to avoid her bites, so in some say, she and I were BFF, soul sisters. I wondered where she would go to lay her eggs. Knowing that mosquitos generally lay their eggs near water, I considered the toilet, the shower drain but decided that she probably went back outdoors. I was still pretty sure though that it was the SAME mosquito visiting me every night, like a stray dog, she had picked me for her blood meals that would so carefully nurture her young. One day, I found her in the refrigerator. Bizarrely, she was laying in the door next to the milk, certain death for a cold-blooded creature. I picked her out and proudly proclaimed to Cedric, I caught her! It's finally over! He was not moved by this moment and was even less impressed when she promptly flew out from my fingers, leaving behind one of her 6 thin legs. It was that very night that she haunted me, buzzing in my ear, was she angry at me? Doing it on purpose to wake me? Or did I just know subconsciously when I went to sleep that night that she was out there?
I finally made it to sleep again and awoke without any fresh red marks on my face. Then this afternoon, as I was shifting the hangers in my closet, I spotted her as she flew onto the back wall. So this was where she spent her day. Soaking in my smell, no doubt, the smell of CO2 and stinky feet that she and her kind love so much about us humans. I paused a moment before swatting her to think this. I was also considering whether I should go get a tissue to kill her. I decided to do it with my bare hands. That's the kind of battle this had been between she and I--mano-a- mano. It was surprisingly easy to kill her, she didn't move away. For a second, I really did think that she had given up and allowed herself to be caught. I noticed that her belly was not distended, the way it looks when a mosquito has recently taken a blood meal. I crushed her abdomen and found just a sticky red liquid, maybe the blood meal she had taken from my eyelid the day before. Either way, it was over. I kind of hoped that she had gotten an egg laying out of the deal. I don't know why, since I understand the destruction and despair that her sisters cause all over the world, to the poorest of countries. And personally, I thought I would go crazy if I couldn't get back to sleep with her constant patrolling around my face all night. Still, she was kind of cute, how she had taken to me, that little anthropogenic mosquito, now making her final final resting place in my kitchen garbage can.

Have you ever been in a Turkish prison?

From Ankara Trip

One of the things that I was looking forward to, by living in southern France, was having a different sphere of travel, with the Mediterranean and the Middle East just a short flight away. Ankara, Turkey was my first trip outside of France since arriving here. I’d have to say the jury is still out, especially with regards to my digestive system. In terms of “cultural experiences” and “seeing the world”, yes, it was a successful trip, despite the case of “tourista” as they say in French, even though we were in Turkey, not as tourists, but attending a conference called EurBee, a forum for honey bee researchers of Europe. Unfortunately, no one told my stomach that we were still in Europe. Turkey, of course, has been making advances towards the Europe Union, who is still not sure if they want to be more than friends. Maybe because Turkey is a little bit European and a little bit Asian--although everyone is talking about Istanbul when they say that.
We were in Ankara, where the people looked much like the people on the streets of France, especially in southern France, but where a working knowledge of English was almost non-existent, once we left the conference center. It was the Germans who found their language to the lingua franca between people encountered on the street. When I delicately asked them where else in the world that happens to them, they unanimously replied, “nowhere!” Some Europeans would say (and were overheard to say in front of our taxi driver) that Turkey is not European, but regardless, I think they should be allowed to join. Of course, when it comes to inviting people, I’m of “the more the merrier” school Also, it’d be another country where we could use the euro.

From Ankara Trip

As I said, I was attending a conference, so I didn’t have a chance to explore the neighborhoods or even visit but one tourist site (Attaturk's heavily guarded Mausoleum). But I didn’t mind, because when I travel, whether I’m playing the tourist or not, I pay attention. I like to absorb the small differences and similarities of a new place. Like the sign in the bathroom at the airport asking people to please not wash their feet in the sink for their ablutions but to use the appropriate facilities. Those are my souvenirs, instead of a keychain, I suppose.

Another souvenir: discovering the real Turkish toilets. That’s what the French call them, but based on their prevalence in France, I was starting to wonder if the name was deserved. Everywhere I went I found normal toilets, until I strayed a bit, and found my first Turkish toilet in Turkey. So what do I mean by a Turkish toilet? The name refers to bathroom with a hole in the ground with raised areas for your feet, to facilitate squatting, I suppose. Sometimes there is even a “flush” but sometimes not. In the ones I used in Turkey, they had a DIY flush, which amounted to a plastic jug placed under a faucet.
In general, perhaps based on these bathroom-related experiences, my impression of Ankara was that they don’t greet a lot of outsiders. The city wasn’t at all done up for us. It was urban in an ugly way, just cement buildings and plastic signs. I’m not sure how to spell “Bail Bonds” in Turkish, but I was reminded of the streets of Patterson, NJ, where signs compete with each other for which one will be the largest and brightest, so that they end up making you look away. The high-rise apartments were so numerous that we wondered what all of these people were doing in Ankara and where were they? As we drove out of town we passed an immense development with rows of apartment buildings, as if they were expecting to annex a small city, replete with golf course and a fake lake. You could see how they had blasted the mountain to level the ground for them. All that remained of the former land was a lone mosque nestled between the construction sites. In a way, the landscape reminded me of an American city, maybe in the West, where the dense urban center abuts the rolling hills without much in-between. The only difference was that poking up out of the hillside were minarets instead of church steeples. As we rode the bus back to the airport, I played a game to find the minarets, since they were literally popping up before my eyes. I thought about Switzerland, and the campaign against minarets, in which the minaret was likened to a missile—very effective propaganda-- but ringing false as I looked out on the urban landscape of Ankara, where the minarets seemed to be the most humanizing and comforting aspect amongst the concrete blocks and bulldozed hilltops. I admit that this feeling was tinged by the excitement I get from new, foreign places, but it wasn’t the feeling of fear that some back in Europe like to play on.

From Ankara Trip

(Picture it) It’s the end of the trip, we were heading home to France after 3 days in Turkey and I am happy to find my first American newspaper since I moved to France 5 months earlier. Unfortunately, it’s USA Today. (Later, I will snag an International Herald Tribune from my colleague.) It is Friday, September 10, the day before 9/11. I am immediately greeted by a story about a preacher in Gainesville, Florida who has taken it upon himself to rile up the entire Muslim world by announcing that he will be burning the Koran, ‘in honor of’ September 11th. Fabulous, I think, what an a$@%H*le. Then I read further, that in response, the U.S. government has cautioned its citizens against traveling in Muslim countries and to avoid anti-American demonstrations. So that’s when I get kind of pissed; this twit in Florida has now endangered me, unbeknownst to both of us, because his delusions of grandeur have convinced him of his own bigoted tendencies. I think—-have you ever met a Muslim? Traveled to a foreign country? Seen how other people live? ((shit in their toilets?)) Because when you do, you see how similar we all are. I’m happy that I have the opportunity to experience other cultures (and complain about them) because in the end, I definitely recognize that no one religion or people is inherently evil and worthy of all of that kind of fear and hate. Nope. Not at all. But what you realize, when you have no common spoken language, is that we share the ability to communicate and express ourselves, because we’re all coming from the same place. But it also means, that when a guy threatens a gesture like that--people get mad,including me, as I sit in the airport, creating excuses in my head for Americans, in case I'm forced to comment on the issue (I wasn't asked).

My final memory of Turkey was also in an airport, before the American newspapers and stories of "commemorations" of 9/11. The Ankara airport was modern and new and just like every other airport I’ve seen, except it seemed to be the quietest major airport ever designed. When you entered the door, you were immediately greeted by…a security checkpoint. Once your carry-on and checked luggage had been screened, you could check in. Of course, before heading to your gate, there was another security checkpoint, after which you entered a vast, bright waiting area that was completely deserted with only a few people shopping in duty free. We ran into one of our colleagues, looking to spend his last Turkish lira at a gift shop, but otherwise, no one. As we neared the gate, we saw two of our colleagues sitting behind a glass panel. When they saw us, they rushed over to the glass, pointing furiously at a box that one of them was holding. It was a box of Turkish delights, presumably that he had bought at the duty free shop. The other one reached in his bag and passed us something through the glass panels. It was a 20 euro bill. He wanted us to buy him a box, but it wasn’t until they pointed behind them that I realized why. They were basically prisoners at their own gate, for there at the entrance stood a third security checkpoint for us to pass. Apparently, our colleague had changed his mind regarding the Turkish delights after sitting there, coveting his boss’ box, confined to this glass-walled prison. We got him his own box, and one for ourselves too. Happy to learn that, like Turkish toilets, Turkish delights really do come from Turkey!

Sunday Drive Series: Part 3-- the beach!

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

We took a drive to the sea today, finally. To a town called Sainte Marie de la Mer (St. Marie of the Sea). It looks a lot like any mid-rate tourist-y town by the sea. I thought of my one trip to the Jersey Shore (pre-Snooky, circa 1999, thanks Tim!) or my multiple trips to Ft. Lauderdale (thanks ESA!). White-washed buildings and blue, blue sky. Overuse of nautically-themed decorations, especially considering that the city is mostly populated by families eating ice cream while they window shop and too-tanned women with saggy, leathery breasts walking around in bikini tops. Not a sailor in sight. There was even a tattoo parlor called American tattoo, in amongst the ice cream stands and Provence gift shops. So they knew what their gig was. Cedric said to me, this isn't exactly Nice. I thought, no, it ain't, but I still love soaking in the atmosphere. I knew the sea air was even affecting Cedric when he spoke wistfully about getting a boat one day. (I indulged him but didn't get my hopes up.)

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

While Ste. Marie de la Mer isn't Nice, it isn't New Jersey either. It's located in the Camargue, a region in southern France that is really just a swamp, that stinks in the summer, but a swamp with some history, like most of Europe. The Camargue is known for its bulls and horses. The men herd the bulls on horseback, which is nice because otherwise, they'd be standing in a swamp. Some of these bulls are made into saucisson and sold on the side of the road, and some probably make their way to bull-fighting arenas of southern France, like the one that you pass on the boardwalk of Ste. Marie sur la Mer. Not exactly whack-a-mole.

And while Ste. Marie de la Mer is the next best thing for all of the French vacationers who weren't invited to P. Diddy's yacht on the Riveria, its appeal as a destination originated probably more due to Ste. Marie than to la Mer. I learned that when, happily walking along the beach, Cedric made us visit the main plaza. We passed a large bocce ball competition, but that wasn't what he was after.

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

He wanted to see the main church. Inside there was a sanctuary with the usual candle lighting for 2 euros. In the corner was a 4 foot tall plaster statue of Sainte Marie, the patron saint of the gypsies and apparently, the granter of miracles. There were candles lit and thank you messages scrawled all over the cavernous ceiling. When we left the church, I was reminded that she was the patron saint of gypsies when one approached us and for some reason, Cedric stopped long enough to let her pin something on his backpack, for which she (of course) then wanted 5 euros.

When we were sitting at a cafe afterwards, I remarked to Cedric that I noticed a lot of developmentally disabled adults (with their families) in this town. I think I had seen about 3 families so far in just a few hours. He paused and said, that might be because of the church and its patron saint Marie. I think he paused instinctively, knowing that I would not like this fact. But with his good Catholic upbringing, he knows his stuff. He told me that going to Lourdes, a city whose entire economy is based on granting miracles (a miracle-based economy?), you see busloads of disabled people, whose families desperate, or may be just hopeful, think, why not?, as they pay 10 euros for a bottle of holy water. While I didn't like this scenario, a city peddling false hope to the sick and their families, it did explain some aberrations in our otherwise stereotypical trip to the beach.

On the boardwalk, we were caught behind a man with ankles so bloated that he was having trouble walking. From our table, I had seen a woman with no eyebrows and a cap that covered her bald head. Once I realized that not all of these tourists were here for the surf and sun, I started to see more and more chronically sick people. Two women with swollen ankles slowly limped by our table. It got to be that I wasn't sure if they were sick or if I was just creating maladies for them in my head.

It was the most judgmental bout of people watching that I've ever had. Searching for illness amongst the passers-by. And imagine if Cedric was wrong. That the miracle church was actually one town over. Then really it would have just been flocks of unsuspecting tourists trying to enjoy their vacation. But I think he was right, since it's in the name--Ste. Marie--the granter of miracles. In the end, we figured, even if people were trekking here from all over France for the tiniest possibility that their grown son would one day be "normal", at least they, along with Cedric and I, got a nice day at the beach.

Finding inspiration

It turns out the Festival was not so inspiring for my blog. I did find another woman who is blogging the Festival much better than I have been.
Avignon in Photos
I especially like her blog because she writes in French and English. I would like to do that someday, but for now, I'll stick to English.

Tonight I will finally go see a production, which seems like a huge accomplishment these days, because I often come home from work very tired, from the heat (no A/C in my office) and from the French language. I have been here 3 months now and I am not fluent. Surprised? I know. I'm not sure what I expect from myself, but some days I just wish that I didn't have to strain to understand a conversation or to ask for something to be done by one of the students.

The show is "Le Cabinet du docteur Caligari"; the summary says it is based on expressionist German (silent) film from the 20s. The title is in French, the theatre troupe is from England and it's based on a silent movie, so I have no idea what or if they'll be speaking. When I read the description: a student whose pleasant life is disrupted by "a mysterious doctor and his worrying sleepwalker" (worrying sleepwalker could also be "frightening nightwalker"), for some reason, to me, it sounded like a great time. I think only being able to express myself at the level of a 5 year old has left me feeling a little dark in my humor these days.

We call it magic water.

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

Antesite. It dubiously boasts the healthful properties of being "anti-inflammatory, healing, calming and soothing". Yes, both calming and soothing. I can attest to its soothing properties, 'cause after walking around town in the 90 degree heat, a glass of the stuff tastes like heaven. Which is why we call it magic water. It tastes like sweet licorice with a little bit of mint. The color varies between light yellow and dark tan, depending on how much you use. Perhaps that makes its claims all the more convincing, because who really buys that a bright pink liquid is gonna quench your thirst. Yeah, Antesite kicks Vitamin Water's ass any day.

From the files: Sunday drives

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

April 25, 2010
Today Cedric and I finally went on a tourist-y trip into the countryside. After finishing our chores, which included hanging the laundry out to dry (one of my favorite new things that I do in France), we headed east towards Soult (originally, I wrote west; for some reason, I reverse east and west in my mind when I’m talking about places in Europe).  Cedric chose the destination, since everything I suggested he considered too far away.  When we were 30 minutes out of town we came upon a Foire d’asperges (Asparagus Festival!) in a small town called Mormoiron. I made Cedric stop the car since we didn’t really have any plans in Soult anyway. We parked and walked up a long road, anticipating a festival that was all about asparagus.  Instead we came upon a flea market just like the one we had gone to that morning in Avignon. Next there were the carnival games and the accompanying smell of  cotton candy (barbe de papa).  After the carnival, there was another market, but more like the traditional Sunday markets in Provence, which combine the overpriced produce of the farmer’s market with the questionable provenance of goods sold by a guy from the back of his car; at this particular market, we found a man selling leather clogs next to a stand selling authentic Provence tapenade, next to a woman selling bras and very large panties (culottes).
Finally, we found the vendors of asparagus- large, gnobby finger-like asparagus spears-that were selling for 6 euros a bunch.  No one was selling deep-fried asparagus or other asparagus-themed products.  So, instead of asparagus, I bought an asparagus-shaped magnet from a woman with only a car, no stall, completely covered in magnets.  Festival of asparagus, they called it. But it was all a ruse...and I fell for it.