Yesterday we had a wonderful lunch. Two of our dear childhood friends are visiting from the U.S. and I wanted to cook a lunch for all of us. My French love came from out of town and helped advise us in what order to drink our wines (a Very Important Decision). We bustled furniture around to make everyone fit around the table and put the wines out on the balcony to get nice and cold. It was so lovely to be surrounded by old friends, translating important English words like “heckin” and “potate” for our French visitor. This, in case you weren’t aware, is a heckin potate:
Whenever I find myself facing a multi-course meal, I find it’s best to combine the known and unknown– a couple of dishes that are tried and true, and then some that I’ve done a million times and know I won’t need to think too hard about. And to prepare as much in advance as possible. This is about how my brain works when I look at the menu I prepared. Continue reading Lighter Kefir Banana Bread
The lack of a real stack of fluffy pancakes in France is the lead cause of my dépaysement, my homesickness, my deep-seated unrootedness in this country. If only I could go out to almost any restaurant and receive the four-pancake-high tower of pure calories that I crave, slathered in butter and drowned in maple syrup, then– I could be truly happy.
Five years ago, at an appointed time and place, I met a stranger to collect something I knew nothing about. In his hands he carried a beat-up milk carton. “You’ll need this too,” he said casually, slipping an index card into my hands. And then he and his sports coat left.
I took the bus home with my old milk carton. I examined the neat notes on the index card. I got a metal mesh fry screen and cut out wonky circles, then fit them onto jam jars to create a screened top. I poured the contents of the old milk carton into a jar, poured in some fresh milk, and wondered what I was doing with my life, and when exactly I had agreed to become a parent.