French Kitchen in America

The Best of FKIA: Warm Brussels Sprout Salad for Thanksgiving Dinner

2009-11-14T15:50:00.005-06:00

I've never been a fan of green bean casserole at Thanksgiving, although for some reason unfathomable to me, it has become a seasonal classic. I'll pass on it this year and make the following dish, which I discovered two years ago.

I buy Brussels sprouts each week; along with broccoli and red pepper they are staples in my crisper. Shallots are also something I almost always keep on hand.

Warm Brussels Sprout and Shallot Salad with Pecans

16-20 large Brussels sprouts
3-4 large shallots
tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
tablespoon unsalted butter
dash freshly ground pepper
dash fleur de sel

Wash and trim Brussels sprouts, removing outer leaves and base. Cut into thin slices. Drizzle with olive oil, toss, and place in a skillet or sauté pan. Brown slightly over medium heat until sprouts are just a bit limp. Remove from pan and set aside, covering to keep warm. Peel and slice shallots; using the same pan, brown shallots slightly in butter. Add pecans. Toss shallots and pecans with Brussels sprouts, adding a dash of fleur de sel and pepper.

I served this with a warm bacon dressing. A cranberry vinaigrette would be nice, too, or a mustard-y oil and vinegar blend.

So tell me: What is your green vegetable this Thanksgiving?

Note: I forgot to add that portions of this post originally ran on Dec. 25, 2007.

Comfort Food For Dark Times

2009-11-12T19:59:00.003-06:00

It was three years ago that I learned my friend T. had cancer. She called me on a Saturday, as I was about to leave for a volunteer commitment.

I was, to use a word I learned from my friend F., gobsmacked. It made me teary all day, and when someone snapped at me at my volunteer job, I nearly burst into tears. You know that feel you have of tears welling up behind your eyes. It burns and you ache.

I will be quite honest with you, my dear friends. That is how I feel today. Sadly, many times we learn in life that opportunities turn out to be traps.

So allow me to rerun this post from Dec. 5, 2006:

"There is no escaping life's ups and downs. Sometimes after a day of bad news or unpleasant situations, it's good to come home and shut out the world and burrow under a warm quilt.

The best food for these occasions is something a bit homey and rustic, maybe made from odds and ends and whatever you have on hand.

This rustic tart is such a dish. You can make it with your favorite pie crust or even use a pre-made crust.

Rustic Walnut-Apple-Pear Tart

3/4 cup chopped walnuts
1/8 cup Splenda-brown sugar mix
2 tablespoons butter
2 large apples, peeled, cored and sliced
2 large pears, peeled, cored and sliced
1/2 cup sugar or fructose
1 1/2 teaspoons grated lemon peel
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
dash cinnamon
1 1/2 tablespoons butter

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Pat pie crust into tart pan, rolling back the edges and doubling before crimping.

Sauté chopped walnuts in brown sugar and butter. Pour into tart pan, spreading them onto the bottom of the crust in a layer.

Mix sugar, butter and spices in large bowl. Toss apple and pear slices in this mixture. When thoroughlyy coated, later the slices into tart, atop the walnuts. Drizzle remaining sugar and butter and spices on top. Bake for about 45-55 minutes, until crust browns and filling bubbles.

Serve with whipped cream or even yogurt or enjoy it plain. You could even top it with a strussal-type topping or one made of walnuts, sugar and butter.

It's gooey and a little chewy. The sweetness is tempered a bit by the lemon peel.

Note: I used the pears and apples I had on hand, but I recommend Golden Delicious apples and Bartlett pears. The dessert is very crumbly when cut — but it's supposed to be a casual dessert for, say, a weekend at home. So don't worry about impressing anyone, just enjoy it!"

T, by the way, is well again. I will have lunch with her tomorrow.

Squash and More Squash: What's Your Current Comfort Food?

2009-11-04T20:58:00.002-06:00

Today was one of those days of water-y light, of a pale sun slipping gamely though putty colored clouds. I took a later noon hour and picked up a wonderful chicken curry salad at the Italian Market. Chef V, about to open his own restaurant, knows my weaknesses and he lured me over to the deli counter. I succumbed.

Among my comfort foods are salmon, rice, eggplant, and squash.

What are yours just now? If you are like me - and I think you might be - they change with the season.

Roasting Squash on a Dark Night

2009-11-01T17:32:00.005-06:00

Gaining an hour of sleep on a weekend when you are flattened by the flu is a treat to be savored and appreciated.

The tradeoff is that darkness comes early. I stepped outside at dusk and was rewarded by the sharp, sweet aroma of woodsmoke and the bosky, earthy smell of fallen leaves.

In recent years, all my autumns have been enjoyed on the fly, a snatch here and a bit there. I try to make the most of those moments of enchantment that are best enjoyed when you have the time to enjoy them.

I'm not complaining. That's how it is. I am grateful for what I have.

But I do recall a time 14 years ago before I went back to work as someone's employee. I'd put my little public relations business on hold, and I had taken a break before I searched for a job. My days were spent raking leaves, walking along the river and through neighborhoods of stately old homes, and cooking and baking. I had time to shop for bargains, and we ate well: Stews and soups and stuffed pork chops and chicken Normandy.

I had time to savor it all, to drink in the wine-rich air of autumn and enjoy life. I prepared for Halloween, carving my little jack-o-lantern on a balmy afternoon, one eye on the clock so I would have it ready for the trick-or-treaters. The day ended with a drive around town with my neighbor, K., a Halloween lover who wanted company as she cruised the streets looking for elaborate Halloween displays.

The next two days were dark and gray and damp, and I stayed in my kitchen with pots of spicy apple tea. I'd brought my pumpkin inside, and kept its candle going for a day or two after the holiday, reluctant to let go of the season.

Snow came early that year, and so did bad news: My husband was laid off the week before Thanksgiving. Although he eventually went back to work and I found a job in the interim, it was a lean winter.

There was no discontent. We managed well, and although my job was two steps down the career ladder for me, I stayed for 10 years and began to love it and the people I worked with. Times are better now, and we are thankful for continued employment in this challenging year.

On these dark fall nights, I remain grateful and enjoy the produce of the season. Squash is simple. I roast it, and serve it with butter. Nothing could be easier or more comforting as we prepare for the coming winter.

Signs of Change: Flu Season

2009-10-30T12:25:00.002-05:00

It hit me early Thursday morning, that dry swollen feeling in the back of my throat. By noon I was experiencing a dry cough and by late afternoon, fatigue.

I knew it was inevitable. My husband has been home for three days. Local schools have experienced record absenteeism and have been closed for up to 3-4 days at a time. One of the local pharmacies had to close for nearly a day. The hospitals are full, and nearly everyone has experienced some form of this nasty disease (swine or otherwise). It seems early in the year for such an epidemic.

So I am home this afternoon. I have a candle burning and lights on to ward off the chill damp Friday. The sky is the color of a dingy rag, and most of the trees are bare, save for a few golden bursts here and there. I looked out the front door to see juncoes gathering on the front sidewalk, gray and white amidst crimson and rust fallen leaves.

"Welcome back," I said to them, and gently closed the heavy red door so they would not fly off. Time to buy winter bird seed, I guess. We do this at the old garden store and feed mill near the old depot. The mill is a gathering place for locals, of course, and a centerpiece in our old downtown.

Such traditions make me feel good and safe as winter approaches. I am a city girl at heart, and although I grew up in a small community, most of the year I would rather live amidst hustle and bustle and anonymity.

But not as autumn wanes. There is much comfort in the friendliness of small town life as cold weather approaches. The person you chat with at the feed mill may help push your car out of a snow drift come winter's blizzards.

When I am working in the kitchen, I am looking out over a small private backyard filled with other friends: Birds. Our winter residents are mostly juncoes, cardinals and chickadees with a smattering of house finches.

Feeding them is another comforting ritual for us. Having them so close by is almost like having guests at our kitchen table.

Caramel Apples and Saffron Leaves

2009-10-23T23:14:00.004-05:00

As the beauty of fall starts to wane (as it does, inevitably, especially when it rains as endlessly as it has for the past 24 hours), we must snatch moments of charm and enchantment when we can.

Thursday was dull and gray. I had a meeting across town in a conference room of a large private marina located on the river. I arrived late, and was forced to squeeze my car in a tight spot along the bank of a narrow inlet. Descending from my minivan, I was greeted by a chorus of quacks from a colony of ducks, some mallards, others black, and two the color of fresh butter.

I stood there for a bit, mesmerized. It is not unusual to find ducks in my neighborhood, or in other places, nor is it odd to find Canada Geese (in fact they live here year long). Sometimes swans make their home in the reeds along the riverbank at the end of our street. But I never tire of seeing them, and hearing them.

Inside the meeting, there were caramel apples, heavy with pecans, and coffee to revive us from our afternoon stupor. I had no choice but to sit in a corner at the table squeezed in between a man I know slightly and a woman who is my fifth cousin. Before me was a window and through it I could see saffron-colored leaves, a lovely and stark contrast to the pale gray sky.

For a brief moment I felt content, as though everything was aligned for my pleasure.

Small things, simple things. But lovely on a weekday afternoon.

A Walk in the Autumn

2009-10-18T18:07:00.006-05:00

I went into the office for a few hours this afternoon and when I left the air was scented with the wine-dark aroma of falling leaves. As I walked to the car, maple, oak and gingko leaves crunched beneath my feet. A flock of starlings chattered away as they do in fall, high up in the pine trees.

I inhaled. This is what I remember from seasons past.

This is it. High autumn.

These days I run too much to appreciate these moments. Instead they are stolen. There is a fugitive feeling to my enjoyment of such things these days.

That must change and change soon. I have always wanted to spend my fall weekends walking through leaves and for more than a few moments. Last year we had two entire weeks of such activities, and that's where the photo above comes from: A walk down a country lane in the hills above Cahors. I thought it had a witchy feel to it. Pure October.

I have wonderful memories of childhood, of walks home from school past the Craftsman houses that filled our little neighborhood. I took many of the same walks in graduate school, hiking through Vilas Park in Madison with a backpack full of notebooks.

Often there would be a bag of muffins from Ovens of Brittany in my backpack. In an ideal world I would come home to apple muffins or pumpkin bars daily!

Home is more attractive in cold weather. Especially if there's something tasty in the oven.

A Blustery Day

2009-10-11T21:19:00.002-05:00

From time to time I worry that this has become less a food blog and more a general blog.

I think I need a break from worrying about it.

This photo was taken on a blustery day about this time a year ago. It was taken on the way to a luncheon on board a ship. The food was comforting and hearty.

Yesterday was equally blustery here, and we had a tomato-y beef stew for supper, with a glass a California merlot with a lingering berry-like finish.

We hear gunshots in the morning and geese overhead all night long. I saw lots of turkeys and a few deer driving north last week.

Fall is good.

Farm Market Winding Down

2009-10-04T19:23:00.003-05:00

The days have been mostly blustery this week, and gone is the sweet sun of September.

The weather points to a dull and lingering fall. This week's farm box was noticeably lighter.

Food is always a great comfort. To that end, we've been eating lots of stir fries and ratatouilles. Lots of potatoes roasted with herbs and olive oil.

Sunday night supper is pork chops with applesauce. Sometimes nothing fancy will do. Simple is best.

How about you?

Paris on Lake Michigan

2009-09-30T19:32:00.003-05:00

I had forgotten how much I love downtown Chicago.

After all, it had been years. I've driven though and changed planes there, but it had been years since I'd truly been there. Once upon a time, it was a city I played in, tooling around town with S., my Winnetka friend, and spending afternoons at the Art Institute or in the park. He was a student at Northwestern then, and in those days I learned the drive between suburb and city by heart.

My husband has roots in Chicago as well, in the same North Shore suburbs. Chicago was the city he learned to love as a kid. After 20 years of marriage, this was our first stay together in Chicago.

Oh, sweet. it was sweet. Nothing can come between me and my Paris, but I found traces of Paris in Chicago. The cafés, mostly lined with broad planters, giving diners a bit of privacy. The tall, fashionably dressed women. The water taxis and excursion boats on the river. And finally, the parks and gardens.

This garden to the west of the old Water Tower reminded me of Paris, perhaps because it is across from a French restaurant I will certainly try on our next trip.

Our hotel was surrounded by steak houses, of course, and the aroma from 5 to 10 p.m. each night was tantalizing.

Having Chicago a half-day's drive away just might tide me over until Paris.

Mercue: Lights at Night across the Valley...Nine Coaches Waiting

2009-09-22T18:52:00.002-05:00

There is nothing quieter than a dark night in deepest France. A year ago, we were there, our body clocks awry but our jet lag fading. We'd go to bed around midnight France time, and open the little casement windows in the upstairs bedroom just before retiring to let some fresh night air in.

It was not merely quiet. It was the absence of sound.

Across the valley we could see the lights of the chateau at Mercué. Surely at this magical place, nights were glamorous and celebratory, with the tinkling of glasses and heavy silver against china. And lights, always lights, as Very Important People arrived by Mercedes.

In my mind, I saw torches and was reminded of the bit of verse that winds its way though Mary Stewart's classic, "Nine Coaches Waiting." Something about "banquets abroad by torchlight...nine coaches waiting...hurry! hurry!"

I cannot identify the piece and I don't have the book at hand. Odd, the connections we make.

Ah France! So magical, whether you are in a chateau perched above the Lot River, a quiet farmhouse across the valley, or the Chateau Valmy in the Savoy.

The chateau at Mercué. Today that phrase conjures a feeling I cannot describe because it is a perception, not anything tangible. It is being there, feeling something, some essence of the lovely Lot Valley. Something there resonates with me.

That said, we are on our way to Chicago, more to relax than eat. I doubt we'll go to any chichi eateries. But I am bringing the camera.

One Picture is Worth...

2009-09-11T23:56:00.001-05:00

This week's CSA box, a day early.

Thank Goodness it's Thursday!

2009-09-10T18:43:00.005-05:00

Why is a week that starts with a holiday harder to muddle through than a regular, five-day week?

It's one of those riddles I have no answer to. I can only guess that it has something to do with our rhythms being interrupted.

I am very much a creature of habit. I like habits, daily rituals that I can wrap my hands around. I have found that mine last a season or so, and then I move on. The next season brings a new ritual and the season after that another.

I never really know what the season will bring.

Now is a time of transition. My CSA box is heavier and I have taken to photographing its contents. Maybe it's for a visual diary of farm box treasures.

For a better still life of farm market produce, click here.

Farm Market on the Bay

2009-09-08T01:30:00.000-05:00

There is a barely perceptible mist rolling off the bay in the morning when the growers set up for business.

They drive their trucks onto the lawn, using the driveway north of the old bank building that has been turned into a medical office with a stunning loft apartment on the second floor.

On this green space was once a schooner dock and a sawmill. Then a few decades later there was a row of Queen Anne homes, the old Sommerville place, the quirky Patterson house and the graceful Adams home. In the 1930s, the houses came down and a classic pavilion went up. For the past 70 years, this park has been a place for concerts and rallies, for festivals and flea markets.

The farm market here is not just for growers. A young man sells fresh fish from the waters of the bay.

The market is also for anyone who makes things at home, and you can buy lovely boiled wool slippers in stunning colors like dusty chartreuse and rich magenta, as well as artisan soaps and braided trivets for your tea cups. I found a mottled gourd birdhouse there, and I always come home with plants.

The vendors are mostly women in their 40s and 50s and they are a friendly bunch. I've noticed they all try to display their wares in baskets with lovely hand crafted signs. Aesthetics and merchandising are the rule here.

Saturday I picked up my CSA box, and bought flowers for my mother and for myself: End of summer flowers in bright hues.

When I was a very small child, my parents rented a flat in one of the last two old houses here. We had a small but sunny yellow kitchen that smelled of cinnamon, and a TV room with a balcony overlooking the water. Downtown bustled then, and I can recall the smell of freshly ground coffee from the A&P and fresh popcorn from the drugstore across the street. Both are gone now, and trendy gift shops have taken their place.

But my little town has a farm market, two in fact.

I'll visit the other market soon.

What I Ate This Summer: Papaya, Shrimp, Potato Salad and Tenderloin

2009-09-06T14:24:00.007-05:00

I am blessed to have a job I love. Two years into it, I am starting to settle into my new office and I feel comfortable out and about, making new contacts as well as decisions that shape the future of the company.

I look forward to going to work each day, and I am equally excited about coming home at night. But I am often too tired to cook, so meals have been a bit slap dash.

There were more than 200 photos in my little Nikon Cool Pix today and it took about 40 minutes to download them all.

The photo above is the papaya I bought during a heat spell. Now that is food porn! The photo below is how I served it: With cucumbers, cooked shrimp, green onions and a ready-made fig-curry dressing.

I grow herbs in pots on our deck, which faces the west and gets plenty of sun. It's easy to step outside and snip fresh herbs for whatever salad I am preparing. Potato salad is like chicken, a blank canvas that gets its personality from whatever you make it with, as long as you include potatoes. I have made potato salad with capers, bacon, ham, shrimp, radishes and - always - cucumbers.

Last night we ate out, celebrating the difficult installation of a new window in our laundry room/potting shed area. We both had tenderloin. It was heavenly. What a way to end summer!

A Sad and Lovely Time of Year

2009-09-01T21:56:00.003-05:00

While many of us welcome the end of summer and the return to routine as we enjoy the excitement of football season, back to school activities and the bounty of autumn, there is still a sadness to this time of year.

It is especially poignant for me, as it has been nearly a year since our last visit to France. Last year we arrived well into La Rentrée, and the quieter season had fallen across France. We felt it as our train made its way towards the southwest. There was a note of sadness, an amber note to the light, like a fragrance note and only perceptible if you knew what to look for.

Certain bits and pieces of that trip continue to float through my consciousness at odd times. Our brief visit to Montcuq at midday sticks out in my mind, because the leaves on the chestnut trees had fallen, carpeting the promenade with brown. The chestnut tree in our yard is always the first to go in the fall. It was like home, but of course not like home. Crunch crunch crunch underfoot.

This row of cafe tables on the promenade made me sad. I could imagine that a mere three weeks earlier, the tables and chairs would have been filled with tourists and regulars, laughing quietly over a Ricard, whispering over wine or coffee.

Now, a year later back home there are patches of red and gold in the trees along the bay and along Riderman Road. School has started at some of our local schools. There are empty lifeguard stations at the beaches, and empty dinghies moored at docks. Caramel apples are offered for sale at the Italian market.

What a sad and lovely time to savor life!

A Passing to Mark

2009-08-26T20:13:00.001-05:00

This post is not about food. It's about the passing of Edward Kennedy.

In my political reporter days, I crossed paths with Sen. Kennedy. He was middle aged then but still handsome, with the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen. Certainly Irish eyes, they were a brilliant blue. He seemed a cautious man, a bit skittish perhaps. He had not yet grown into the old lion he will be remembered as in the hundreds of eulogies you can read online in the papers and on television.

I'm not writing about him as a politician, because we all know politics and food blogs do not mix.

But I do think his death - which yesterday seemed imminent, and thus comes as no real surprise - requires some remarks because this blog is and was intended to be as much about our culture and our world as it is about food. I cannot separate the two.

Whatever you think of the politics of the Kennedys, they have captured the imaginations of the world for decades because their saga is so bittersweet.

They loomed larger than life. A staunch Democrat (married to an Irish American), Grandma Annie took a keen interest in their lives. My parents, less politically inclined, were naturally excited when someone of their generation and religion was elected president.

And while my husband and I often tire of hearing about celebrities (can you imagine how we've loathed hearing about Michael Jackson all summer), we are pausing tonight to watch television tonight to remember Teddy. Bill Clinton and George Bush notwithstanding, he was the most famous person I've ever written about, a few steps above the high-flying attorney and the cabinet member.

The Kennedy brothers and their families shaped the views and ideals of an entire generation or two, in ways we recognize and in some we don't. Now the last of the triumvirate of our childhood is gone. There doesn't seem to be anyone in the next two generations of Kennedys to take their place.

Maybe we don't need any more Kennedys.

But clearly, we need something. And I don't think we've figured out what that is yet.

Note: The photo was taken around this time a few years back along the shores of a cove I love on the other side of town. I liked its brooding quality.

One-Dish Dinners as Nights Grow Colder

2009-08-25T19:57:00.007-05:00

Part of me longs to be a sophisticated woman of the world, but another part of me is rather proud of my humble roots in a community that is largely blue collar and prides itself on being down-to-earth. Dollar stores thrive here and so do restaurants that offer down-home cooking. Most people here would rather drink beer than wine. If you grew up here, chances are you grew up eating casseroles.

As the daughter of a chef, I grew up in both worlds. Some nights I'd come home to lobster and other nights, we'd scarf down casseroles. Some meals were elaborate affairs: Italian night, French night, Chinese night, even Titanic night. Picnics in winter, on the floor of the living room. Made-from-scratch pizza on Saturday nights, with leftover sloppy-joe meat on top.

My husband grew up eating casseroles and meat-and-potato meals. His mother worked as a bookkeeper, and the way he tells it, meals were easy to prepare and vegetable were from cans.

There's nothing we enjoy more than a meal in a really good restaurant, whether it's a fancy French place or a steakhouse. We like meals at home just as well, and more often than not in fall and winter, that means a one-dish meal. Our favorite is browned Italian sausage, often cut with ground chuck, stewed tomatoes, onions and roasted red peppers with some sort of pasta. There's usually a dash of thyme and a dash of herbes de Provence. The meal is often accompanied by an easy salad of mixed greens and a humble merlot.

When I was a kid, my mother made a ground-beef-and-potato casserole with cream of chicken soup and onions. I can't think of a better comfort food! I love this stuff.

We often need comfort as the summer makes its slow slide into fall. While I am usually content to be home at nights during the winter months, this time of year I don't look forward to the long dark time ahead. It's dark enough at 8 p.m. now. We turn the lights on early these days, and we are sleeping under comforters and quilts. I feel out of place wearing whites and linens.

I feel a craving for hearty dishes already. Think I'll make that casserole tomorrow.

What about you?

The Signs are Here

2009-08-15T18:25:00.003-05:00

There comes a day in August when you read the signs, the subtle little signs of a shift in seasons.

Today was the day. I sensed, rather than saw, a faint gold tinge in the landscape, and the bay gleamed like a thousand azure diamonds in the morning sun. I watched a trio of mallards float and dip their way across the cove. The traffic was heavy as my husband and I made our way to the farm market to buy onions, cucumbers, zucchini and summer squash.

The sunsets are saffron and misty. The crickets, slow to favor us with their song this year, are finally here.

I've been stocking up on wool and corduroy jackets in colors like burgundy, aubergine and pumpkin. The sales at the mall just now are incredible, and you can see the sunset there, unobstructed. The birds are flocking together on high wires, planning their trip south.

I love the smell of new school supplies, and although my student days are long past and I no longer teach at the university, I always make sure I buy a few new pens and highlighters and notebooks. Old habits die hard.

Labor Day Weekend is the real beginning of the year for most of us. For me it is a good time to make new plans, new resolutions.

Meanwhile, I continue to enjoy the best of summer food with samples of fall fare, too.

What are you up to?

The Lure of the Market

2009-08-10T18:45:00.003-05:00

Our big community festival wrapped up yesterday, and I although I am still sleep deprived and foot weary (I hawked ice cream one night and helped keep a parade on track the next morning), I am happy happy happy for it has passed for another year with no problems or incidents to fret over.

The festival is a lot of work for the staff and the volunteers. But the community loves it. It showcases our wonderful location on the Great Lakes, and our stunning municipal marina.

The event has its roots in the summer festivals of my childhood, the summers before I became restless with the wanderlust that would one day cause me to flee this little town.

One afternoon I was heading back to my car, which was parked several blocks from the festival grounds. As I neared the corner where I would turn, I saw a young girl, 8 or 9 maybe, on a bicycle. She stopped at the corner and looked wistfully toward the waterfront.

"Is it there?" she asked the man walking 14 paces in front of me. He did not reply.

"Is that the festival? Is it there?" she asked me. "My parents won't let me go. I want to see it."

She brought me back to the days I stood at the corner of Dunlap and Belleville streets in Frenchtown, looking down the street six blocks to Ogden School where my adored but older friend Natalie attended kindergarten. With other kids. While I was only four and still at home. Alone.

"Oh, but you can have as much fun at home than you can at the festival," I told her. "I'm there because it's work for me."

She seemed disappointed. She turned around and pedaled her bicycle back down the side street. I followed. She looked back at me and then turned to pedal on.

"Ah, she already has it," I thought to myself. She already had the restlessness that comes with summer, the same restlessness that caused me to pace and wring my hands at 15, trapped at home on summer nights when it seemed all the world was out cruising the streets. I was sure that something - or someone - was out there waiting for me.

The restlessness increased when there was, as my Grandma Annie, always said, "Big doings down at the shore."

I feel the same restlessness myself on farm market days. I must go to the market. In lean times, I might have only been able to purchases fresh garlic. Today, I can buy what I please.

But I must go. I look forward to the first market of the year, even with its scant merchandise.

I've never met a farm market I did not like.

This year, the markets in our area are a bit behind previous years. Saturday I bought broccoli, beets, beans, herbs, lettuce, onions, scallions and green pepper.

How is your market doing?

Noises at Night; Julie and Julia

2009-08-07T22:04:00.004-05:00

At night our neighborhood takes on a completely different persona.

It is no longer the leafy, hilly grid of late-19th century streets where people walk their dogs and their children, using the street, not the sidewalk as a walking path because not all the blocks have sidewalks. The mix of professors, teachers, bankers, laborers and health care workers who live in the houses here are sleeping (or like me, they are trying to).

But someone walks the streets dragging things around. And someone else yells things into a bullhorn.

The dragger first: For nearly a decade, on odd nights all year round, I hear the rattle of something that might be a wagon or cart being dragged or pulled down the street. It starts to the south and moves north toward the river. It is loud enough to wake me, and sometimes it takes a while for me to realize it is what I've come to think of as The Night Noise that has interrupted my precious sleep.

Someone is moving things at a time when they are likely to be unnoticed. Or, as I once suspected, perhaps someone is scavenging for things.

I cannot jump out of bed and rush to the window. Well, I could - were I lucid enough - but the cedar trees block my view. By the time I am awake enough to comprehend that The Night Noise is back, whatever is making the noise has traveled farther north and is out of view.

The Bullhorn is something else entirely. We have heard it all year round and at all times of evening or early morning. There was a time when I thought it was coming from a large mill located up the river, but the words projected by the bullhorn are not words that would be said over a public address system, if you get my drift.

I've asked neighbors about it. Apparently, my husband and I are the only ones who have heard it and it was only last year, or perhaps the summer before, when my husband finally heard The Bullhorn for himself.

Living as I once did in a series of urban apartments, I have heard many odd and alarming sounds at night. But these noises baffle me, and I won't be happy until I discover their source.

Tired as I am after a night of sleeplessness last night, I did see "Julie and Julia" tonight. It's been a long time since a movie has engaged me that much, even though I knew the outcome. See it, if you have not.

The photo is from May 2007: Rue de Monttessuy, 7th arr., Paris.

Bastille Day

2009-07-13T17:37:00.001-05:00

The Twists and Turns of Side Streets and Dark Alleys

2009-07-05T20:20:00.004-05:00

I have never stayed on the main road for too long. The little side streets, the tangents of life are too intriguing.

In my career I sidetracked for a long time, which ultimately helped put me on the main road again with more horsepower and sharper vision.

But sometimes there are places I'd rather not explore. Some of those places are dark lanes in old Cahors, just feet from the lively and friendly market place, which teems with life and flavor and the more guttural accent of the Midi Pyrenees. (Some friends had a close call near here a few years back. We are vigilant.)

So I took photographs instead, and found this one intriguing with its rosy hues.

Not much time to cook just now.

Happy Anniversary to FKIA

2009-06-14T09:56:00.004-05:00

My blogoversary quietly came and went while I was on the road.

I started this blog when I was teaching college freshmen and sophomores about newspaper reporting. Back in 2000, when I started teaching, our goal was to publish a campus newspaper. That was fine for 4-5 years, but then it was clear that (sadly) newspapers were being dragged kicking and screaming into another direction. To be sure, most newspapers had Web sites by the late 1990s. But few really took advantage of them, at least not the way they've had to in order to survive in the 21st century.

By 2005, I began to suspect that some dailies would become weeklies or Web-only papers. (That suspicion is now reality.) I thought blogging was an easy way to harness the power of the Internet and learn how to survive online. My first experience with blogging came in early 2002, when I played around with a site I called Blue Ginger. I ran out of things to say, and didn't stick with it. That was before I thought about sharing my passion for France and food. I was a much more reticent person seven years ago, I guess.

I've never run out of things to say here, although I have run out of time. Most of my posts in the past two years have not been recipe posts, but if you can bear it, I certainly can. I never intended for this blog to be a recipe blog, because I think food is more than ingredients and step-by-step instructions. I love recipe blogs, don't get me wrong. I just wanted my blog to be a conversation around a kitchen table that often involved food.

But not always.

During the past three years I have learned much from other bloggers. And I've made some friends.

That's the best part. As we say in Wisconsin, "You guys are the best."

To celebrate (albeit belatedly) my third anniversary as a blogger, I searched my iPhoto files for a photo that resonated with me this morning. The one I have chosen to share was taken on a misty September morning in the Lot Valley in the Quercy in the southwest of France. I hope you enjoy it.

Late Spring at the Farm Market

2009-06-06T16:53:00.005-05:00

I am off to Madison, but not long enough to shop at the legendary Dane County Farmers' Market.

We are fortunate enough to have two smaller markets in our own community. Between the two of them, on opposite ends of town, there are opportunities for fresh produce on Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. How much better can it get?

My CSA box included rhubarb, kale, herbs, radishes and lettuce today, along with some lovely flowers. Having a large suitcase to pack and a million things to do, I didn't linger as long as I would like to have lingered. But the 30 minutes or so I spent downtown were magical. It's cool here, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and water, as the market is near the shore. There was a fishing derby and a heritage fair, complete with re-enactors in period garb.

Our small community is truly blessed to have such riches!

Of course, I forgot my camera, so I will have to make do with the photo above, taken at the Cahors market on our last visit to France.