Food, Glorious Food

A typical sight in France

At a very cosy supper party last night, a friend was telling me that she had just come back from France, and went on to comment on how thin everyone is over there - especially the women.
Didn't I say the very same thing just a few months ago! 

There is nothing thin about me - well, apart from my bank balance that is - but nothing personally thin about me. And nor is there ever likely to be - I have just come in from a damp morning's work in the garden, utterly ravenous, and devoured I don't know how many rice cakes and cheese, closely followed by a large slice of the delicious chocolate cake that my friend Clare kindly sent yesterday.

Much to the In-Charge's disgust, I am very fond of rice cakes - especially with cheese. He often says: 'I don't know why you buy those, I've loads of that stuff in the workshop.' (He is, of course, referring to polystyrene insulation board.) My friend DodoWoman jokes of low-fat yoghurt: 'The more you eat, the thinner you get', and I guess rice cakes fall into the same category.
Although the trials on that one aren't too promising so far, despite forming the basis of my lunch, I haven't noticed any thin-ity creeping in.


Needless to say, it was at the chocolate cake stage that the extreme 'lightness of being' maintained by so many French women returned to my mind.
How is it possible to be thin in France (or anywhere else for that matter)?
Do the French not have eyes? Don't their mouths water? Do their tummies not rumble?
Are they boulangerie-d out, or are they just made of sterner stuff?

How can one resist?

I suppose, on reflection, I don't dive into a cake shop every time I go into my local town, but then (please forgive me, Irish cake shops) - there really is no comparison. NO comparison.

A pâtisserie in Paris

We sat at the high bar-style table in this very shop in Paris and had a quick bite one day. The In-Charge, as is his wont, chose some savoury item, and I ummed and aahhed and aahhed and ummed. The thing is, I tend to choose old favourites over and over again, instead of branching out and trying something new, and I was about to go for a tarte au citron when I surprised myself and - shunning strawberry, almond and chocolate confections - opted for the tarte à l'orange instead.

One mouthful convinced me that I had, in fact, died and gone to heaven. It was 'Tivine' as #1 Son used to say when he was tiny. Totally Tivine. I'd thought it might prove to be slightly artificial in flavour, or too sweet, or too something, but no, it was melting, smooth, tangy perfection. And had that particular pâtisserie been on our daily route, I would have found an excuse to go in every morning.

If I lived in Paris, I would get fatter and fatter no doubt learn to control myself. I would certainly have to plan my routes quite carefully in order to avoid such places of temptation. But that's just the problem - they are around every corner. Even the least promising of of streets will throw a chocolatier or boulangerie at you out of the blue.

Patrick Roger's wondrous chocolates

Innocently walking round the corner from Saint-Michel towards Odéon, we stumbled upon Patrick Roger, chocolatier extraordinaire, and stood staring, spellbound through the window. Or at least, I did. How could chocolates possibly be so beautiful? How could you bring yourself to eat them? I would just want to collect them - a different one each week, to keep in a gorgeous glass jar on the dresser.
I did - and do - wonder what they taste like. They look like splendiferous king-of-the-castle gobstoppers. Either that or Murano glass marbles. Alas, we didn't go in, so I shall never know.

Not everyone would find such things a temptation, I know.
My friends Sarah and DodoWoman don't have sweet teeth. But they are just as easily waylaid by other delights. They would, no doubt, have found their feet automatically turning left outside our apartment door every day, to visit the huitre-stall just a few feet round the corner. If there were just huitre-stalls everywhere, I would be mince, très mince indeed.

And I know for a fact that when Sarah or DodoWoman are in Paris, Italy, New York or even St George's Market in Belfast, just the sight of all this glory is enough to cartwheel both their brains and tastebuds through a kaleidoscope of cookery books, and they can't wait to rush home with newly-bought treasures and start cooking.

Glorious tomatoes

Every vegetable under the sun

More huitres - and allied fishy things

Charcuterie

For me, the orgasmic delight isn't in the thought of mouth-watering dishes to come, as it is for them. It's in the colour-fest here and now. I can't get enough of looking, and could happily walk around all day, just absorbing the complete palette such an array provides, the light, the shadows, the shapes, the contrasts. The food itself could be flowers, or yarn, or bolts of material - if the rainbow colour effect was there, I'd be perfectly happy. Take these, for example. They fulfil all my colour-desires, but arouse no hunger whatsoever, so I'm obviously not past redemption.

Meringues as only the French could make them

I suppose part of it is that, much as I like eating, I don't particularly enjoy cooking. Perhaps the deciding factor on whether I see food as actual feast or visual feast is when it's already done for you - no cooking required. And while I have lots of sweet teeth, I have a good few savoury ones as well. These, lovely as they are to behold, I - like Sarah and DodoWoman, would also stop and buy.

A rhapsody of olives

 Instant food.

And these.
In fact, I might linger in the vicinity of this stall until I'd finished eating my purchase, so that I could get some more. They are my absolute favourites.

 And these I would buy because they combine both kinds of feasting in one fell swoop.

But then it's back to the boulangerie stuff. More instant food?

I don't know what it is about bread. Perhaps it has something to do with being one of life's staples, but it's hard to walk past a shop full of fresh bread without diving in, even if you don't need any. It's about more than need, it's about comfort and stability and well being, about sharing with friends and family, about hospitality and food on the table. And of course 'bread' is a generic concept, embracing all other food.

And once you're inside the baker's shop, well there you are, back at square one.

I'm afraid thin isn't going to happen any time soon.
How do these French women do it?

(I suppose I could try burning my passport. It would be a start.)

To Market, To Market...Parisian Style

It is Sunday morning.
On Sunday morning in Paris you might, or you might not go to Mass, depending on your personal persuasion.
However, you will, most definitely, go to the market.
And why wouldn't you?
After all, food must be put on the table, on Sunday of all days.

The French do, of course, go to the market on other days of the week, it's not just a weekend treat.
The market is central to life in most European countries.

And naturally, when in Rome...or Paris...
Needless to say, markets was pretty high on our mutual list of 'Essential Paris'
Like most people, we are addicts. We spent hours wandering around in a daze.

Although I must confess, I didn't buy much food in the market.
I know, I know - 'What an eejit!' I hear you cry. 'How could you not?'

The trouble is, I never know where to begin.
We'd have ended up loading our baskets at every stall and staggering home with enough food to feed a small country.

I mean, where do you start?
Shall we just pig out on a multitudinous variety of breads for the day?

Or seafood.

Make seafood sandwiches? 

Seafood salads? 

But then, what about the charcuterie?

Or maybe it would be simpler to buy dinner ready made, and just choose some veg to go with it?
Or salad?

Or fruit?
Perhaps we should just stick to fruit today?

After all, cherries are my absolute, absolute favourite, and at home they each have names and are necessarily sold individually.

Decisions, decisions.
Why not have a few more nibbles while we make up our minds?

I expect other people are more decisive than I am. They'd head straight for their favourite stall and wham-bam, purchase made, lunch in the bag.
I'm not good at that kind of thing.
And anyway, it's not long before I'm pretty full from too much sampling.

My excuse is that I haven't been brought up the French way.
The French head to the market, view everything slightly cynically; poke, prod and finally shrug with Gallic finesse, point to something with a 'Well, I suppose it's better than nothing' expression, and then walk off smug in the certain knowledge that they have the best possible meal tucked in their basket. 

How very civilised the French are.

Mellow But Too Fruitful

Isn't is rather wonderful that most things mellow with age.
Even our irascible selves.
Even a vase of flowers.

It looks even prettier at the end of it's life than it did at the beginning.

The only thing that doesn't seem to mellow is my garden.

It is like a perpetually unruly toddler, filled with boundless energy and only waiting for my back to be turned to do exactly what it likes.

I am exhausted by my garden.

I love it, as presumably one loves one's toddler - however naughty. But it wipes me out.

After a month of ceaseless work, one tiny patch feels vaguely tamed - although once the rain returns even that will soon prove to have been an illusion.

Having - by some thoughtless oversight on the part of my parents - only one pair of hands, the other 95% of the garden is, so far, untouched. But even now it is summoning up all its newly awakened zest for life, and is gathering strength to burst forth with whatever it feels like growing.

I wonder what it will produce as 'This Year's Weed - DaDah!'

Not verbena bonariensis or papaver orientalis, I don't suppose, and needless to say, yet again, I will not be consulted in any of its decisions.

It is at times like these that one needs comfort.

Like many people, I keep a pile of books beside my bed.
It tends to grow rather than diminish, as I am very bad at moving on the ones I have read - there is always some quote I'm intending to copu out, or else I simply forget to put them back on the shelf.
The In-Charge once asked, very politely (all things considered), if I could deal with the pile, as he hadn't been able to hoover on my side of the bed. As I redistributed them, I counted.
73 books. I was shocked, but also pleasantly surprised to know that 73 books could be accommodated in such a relatively small space.
It gave me hope for when we come to 'downsize'.

The pile of books is a great comfort.
There is always some treasure to soothe my troubled mind or drown my woes in balm.
And of course, I never put all the books back on the shelf. One or two have to stay within handy reach, and this is the one I am reaching for now.

As you can see, it is well-thumbed

It never fails to lift my spirits when the garden reminds me who's boss, or gets uppity.
Which is surprising really, as it is full of magnificent pictures of magnificent gardens where not a weed dare show its face.

Come here to me, as they say in Ireland, and I'll give you a few tasters - several from France and one from America:

Words (for once) fail me

I gave up longing for this when I learned how many hours of sunshine a day irises need to thrive

I want this house just as much as I'd like the garden, so let me know when you're moving out Michel

Perfection. And if anyone has an urn like this that they don't want anymore, please get in touch.

But it doesn't really matter that these gardens are perfect in every detail.
That they each have - no doubt - teams of devoted tenders who pick up every stray leaf and tenderly clip the box hedges before breakfast, lift the tulips after elevenses and sow more peas in the afternoon. That because there are no weeds, it only takes a stroll around at dusk, glass in hand, to check for unwelcome arrivals in any of the flowerbeds.

I suppose it is more about aspiration and inspiration.
About the triumph of imagination over reality.
It is about rekindling the essence of your passion.
And I guess it's cheaper to drown your woes in balm than in champagne.

So if there are any garden-lovers out there, hie thee hence to your local bookshop and order a copy.
Give yourself a well-earned break.

Fashion Designers' Gardens

by Francis Dorleans, photographs by Claire de Virieu
ISBN: 9 780304 354375
My copy published by Cassell & Co

Hooked

The CrochetQueen, having taught me the basics of her wondrous craft last week, afterwards sent me a link on facebook.
And then, at the market yesterday, I had coffee with a GrandeDame of the art, and we sat happily stitching together while she further instructed me. She too sent me away with a link in my ear.
I'm not at all sure that either of them have done me a favour.

For one thing, I have burnt my knitting needles.
Knitting?
Who wants to knit when there is crochet out there waiting to be knotted?

You see what I mean?

I am not an owl by nature, but long after the In-Charge had carried his bad back off to bed last night, I sat up perusing the crochet-idyll of cyberspace. I stayed up until the candles guttered in their sockets and my screen flickered with the effort of staying awake.

But oh joy, oh rapture, oh itchy fingers!
Here are some of the treasures I found.
I hope no one minds me sharing them with you. Who knows, it might inspire you all to go out there and buy a hook!

Totally thrilling

Much too good to eat

    

Right up my street

If I had these, I'd leave all my clothes in a heap on the floor so I could see the hangers

How pretty is that?

BUNTING! I knew bunting was just WAITING to be made

Bored with making cupcakes? Iam. Maybe I'll give these a try instead. The more you eat, the thinner you get

A touch of Morocco

And some of you may remember this beauty on my blog last year.
I wanted it very badly indeed.
(I still do.)

Well, for all you mad cyclists out there - how about this instead?

Or compromise. Have a rickshaw (probably safer on city streets than a bicycle, and there's room for the shopping too).

Small wonder I lay awake in the small hours wondering if I can spare the time to sleep at all?



Do you think, if I'd learned to crochet at a young age, my life might have taken a different course?

Well, be that as it may, I am well and truly hooked now, at any rate.

The photos on this post have come from:
For the Love of Crochet
Comunidade De Arte E Artesanato
Colorful Arts And Crafts
 

Or if you prefer pure art, have a look at Prudence Mapstone's website

Made in Heaven

It's been a bit of a mixed week.
Is it not ever thus?

For two days (over my birthday, inevitably) it rained as if the sky's heart was broken.

The scaffolding they erected to do some repairs to the bridge in the village nearly washed away. It turned into quite a spectator sport.

Apart from that, it has blazed with sunshine, although - lest we get carried away like the scaffolding - there has been the odd breeze snaking out of the north to keep us under control. Mostly though, it has been lovely, hot sunshine.


All good so far.

But then there was the Incident with my computer.
Let us not go into the gory details - you really don't want to know - suffice it to say every single - SINGLE - document of mine has gone. Probably forever. The computer is now in hospital, in the Recovery ward.
It's a bit like being burgled. I won't know what's missing until I come to need it.
The recovery process is also rather like the aftermath of a burglary.
Imagine finding the entire contents of a large filing cabinet hurled out onto the floor and swished about a good bit in some noxious substance. Half a page identifiable here, a paragraph there, maybe even a whole something or other amidst the mess, if you are lucky. But hard to know what any of it is...

I don't care much about the letters to the Passport Office, or articles that have long since been published in some magazine or newspaper, or the egg labels for the market. I can even - at a pinch - forgo the file of things I wanted to keep.
And I don't mind about most of my own work, because I have that backed up.
But I mind incredibly about the work of the last three weeks that for various reasons (all pathetic)  was NOT backed up.
How could I not have backed it up?
Does one learn NOTHING in this life?
There will be a prize for anyone in the Recovery Ward who manages to salvage some of those recent documents.

Enough of that!

I was just getting over the horrible shock of the Computer Incident when No 1 son's departure day arrived, after just over a week at home. Always a bad moment. Heaven to say hello - hideous to say goodbye.

At least I had other things to take my mind off his absence.
(No - not the computer! I am trying not to think about that.)
Last week someone from RTE rang. I have known her for a long time, and spoke to her last summer to try and beguile the TV station into coming to film the market for Irish Nationwide (arguably the most watched programme on Irish telly). I had told her too about Secret Gardens of Sligo of which I am also PRO. She was ringing to say they had decided to do a piece about SGS and could they film my garden, amongst others.

The vegetable garden with Model Dog supervising.

So the minute the In-Charge left for the airport with No 1 son, I rushed outside with an assortment of trowels and dogs and weeded frenetically until dusk. It was certainly outdoor weather - hot and wonderful - and as the fab French wwoofers had done such a great job, not an insuperable task, but even so, I could hardly stagger out of bed on Monday morning, and parts of me ache still!

The filming all went smoothly, and as we were still basking under azure skies, sunnily. Sadly it is a bit early in the summer for lots of things - most of the vegetables are only about an inch high - but that's the way it goes, and the flower garden, although battered by the recent rain, doesn't look too bad.

More of a potager than a vegetable garden

Today I have picked the first of our strawberries. Top Dog volunteered to help. He is very partial to strawberries, and sometimes picks his own, but knowing it is deeply impolite to do so, he usually refrains. Model Dog hadn't heard of strawberries before. She is very suspicious of food she doesn't recognise. She sucks and then spits out any pretend food we give her, and for the first week or two everything except dog biscuits came into this distasteful category. Now it is limited to carrots, bananas, broccoli and other obviously inedible substances like onions. 'Tiggers don't like those', she tells me.
Tiggers do like strawberries.
Now there's a surprise!
She very kindly offered to eat the ones that were a bit overripe or which the slugs or birds had got to first. Top Dog reminded her gently that he has first dibs, but they came to a most amicable agreement. Under Dog had one or two and then returned to the cool of the kitchen.

Quickly, quickly - let's make a crumble

I also picked some rhubarb.
If - by some massive oversight - you have never tasted rhubarb and strawberries together, lose no more time.
It is a marriage made in heaven.

As the In-Charge's computer is also going into hospital, I may not be back for some time - it depends on whether my own daily companion can be made to see reason.

In the meantime, please lend me your moral support by visiting Writing From The Edge's Facebook page, and clicking LIKE!

The Property Tax is a Riot

After we'd looked at what the Market had to offer yesterday, some friends and I sat in its nicely old-fashioned cafe and had a cuppa, and the talk, as so often nowadays, turned to the situation in Ireland. Someone mentioned the new property tax.

The Market has lots of good things on offer. Like these...

Now I should explain that we have no council charges, domestic rates, property taxes or whatever they are called in other parts of the world. I have even heard it said that 'rates' is a swear word in Ireland, a hark-back to the bad old days of the British. Fair enough.

I have even heard it said that 'promises were made' that such an evil would never be re-introduced.

Hmm.

(Perhaps it was a Government that made that promise. Enough said.)

and these...

The new Property Tax is going to be a hundred euros per household.
Well - this year, anyway.
Once they have managed to make the country swallow the idea that rates (that old swear word) are indeed on the annual menu, then I suppose the sky's the limit. 

I guess you may all be gasping with amazement that we don't have a local taxes of some kind, but we're not getting away Scot free. Ireland is an expensive place to live, everything seems to be loaded, one way or another and we have a high rate of VAT, high road tax, income tax, some people pay water rates (soon everyone will pay water rates) and so it goes on... And if you want your rubbish collected (what else can you do with it in a country where bonfires are illegal?) you pay a private company...

Back at the table yesterday, someone voiced the opinion that the new tax was illegal. Someone else said you couldn't be forced to register for it. Only one person said they didn't mind paying, as the government needs the money - how else can it claw back the gazillions Ireland owes?
Another person said 'But it's not my debt!'

I'd have to agree with that one.

and these...

We then got on to discussing all the side issues - corruption, the lack of justice being meted out to the wankers, sorry - bankers who caused all the problems in the first place, the bonuses still being paid by the banking sector 'so that we can continue to attract the right kind of employees'.
Yeah. Right.
That really worked last time.



And the fact that the Irish secretly admire a chancer, someone who flouts the system and gets away with it. Lots of 'chancers' in positions of authority here.
It comes, one person said, from all the years of trying to get one over on the British.
Very true. But as she pointed out, now they are getting one over on themselves.
Not such a result perhaps.

and these soaps...

We discussed the current gloom and doom in the country and the sorry fact that the economy is flatter than last weeks pancakes.

It was what we didn't discuss that I found myself thinking about afterwards.
We didn't discuss standing up and shouting about it.
Or marching, or fighting back.
Or even having a jolly good riot. Riots seem popular in other places.
Riots, it seems to me, come about when people don't think they are being heard.
But you have to say something for there to be any chance of being heard.
Is anyone in Ireland shouting?

For shouting to be effective, it needs to start somewhere and grow.
Maybe the Property Tax would be a good starting point.
Why it needs to be levied in the first place.
We've all given up dreaming that with all the bank debt ladled onto Everyman's shoulders, there would be some kind of moratorium on mortgages, but at the very least everyone who pays the Property Tax ought to get the same amount knocked off their mortgage bill.
That's something else we could shout about.

We refilled our cups and the chat moved on to other things.

not to mention these samosas and goat's cheese tartlets...

And now I am wondering. Is it just my perception, or is that the problem?
In Ireland we love sitting around a table with a cuppa, chewing the fat.
We can do that for an Olympic Gold.
We're not given to shouting enough.
And I can't see a riot taking place.
Shame.

So I guess we're all just going to pay.
And pay.
And pay.

and locally made cards and crafts....  It's a very good Market!