Strawberry Hazelnut Cream Tart
July 15, 2012 § 2 Comments
I’m sitting on the balcony of my hotel room in Paris, eight floors above the street, below, just steps away from the Saint Michel fountain, where crowds of tourists are still applauding two men performing some sort of bizarre sequence of body movements, which, in my opinion, hardly qualify as art or as acrobatic contortions. Horns are blaring, and I’m sure in some parts of the city — perhaps even a couple blocks away — parties are well under way for Bastille Day. I walked around about a four-block radius of my hotel and then retreated to my sanctuary of a hotel room.
Lately, I’ve been longing to be home, or at least somewhere I can call home for a couple of weeks, dreaming about having a kitchen again and starting each morning with a bowl of oatmeal with maple syrup and a cup of fresh coffee. Craving strange and random things that I certainly never thought would be at the top of my list — non-fat milk, whole grains, avocado, and curry. Homey, healthy, and flavors with a kick. Believe it or not, one cannot eat croissants forever, though I have certainly put it to the test.
Thankfully, it will be exactly one day until I have a kitchen again — though it still could not be farther from home —, as I have a growing list of desserts, and surprisingly savory dinner items, to make. In honor of this occasion, I thought I’d share something I made in the days leading up to this trip (read, almost two months ago). Fresh California strawberries sit atop a thick layer of vanilla pastry cream. The crust is crunchy, and just slightly overbaked to the point that it’s crystallized and caramelizing. Before filling the tart, I dipped a knife and a couple of spoons in a jar of hazelnut jam that my mom picked up at a local bakery, and spread the crust with nutty goodness. This tart disappeared in a flash, I think because it became of a favorite breakfast item of my dad’s.
Les Alpes — Le Alpi
July 10, 2012 § Leave a comment
It seems like so long ago that I was sitting outside in the middle of the Alps, eating dinner with my family, my brother and I passing goat cheese toasts over the table and poking at an eggy, over-cooked crème brulée. It seems like just yesterday that he was sitting in the back seat of the rental car complaining that he had seen enough cows, that they’re disgusting animals, that the lemon tart he was eating wasn’t as good as the ones I make, that next time, vacations should be max 2 weeks long. Now, I’m very much alone, sitting in a hotel room, windows wide open overlooking the rooftops around my building. If you just stretch your head out the window, you can see the briny, green river. Running alongside the river brings a variety of views, from picturesque old squares and cathedrals, cafés and sanwicheries, to construction sites, run-down car dealerships, and trailer parks, guarded by yippy, haggard dogs, barely tethered to the fence.
Back in the snow-dusted Alps, you could drive for miles without seeing a single house, and a village meant a cluster of buildings — perhaps six or seven — with one brasserie and, if you were lucky, a post office or pharmacy. Driving down into the valleys, we had to stop once or twice to let the cows cross the road and continue up the mountain to greener pastures. When we stopped at each cheese-making post, we might happen upon the occasional group of hikers, or a small family, with a naked toddler playing in the puddles of melted snow. The bright, crisp freshness of the mountains is now a stark contrast to the smell of seaweed stewing in the summer air.
With about a month to go, the desire to go home is popping up every so often, particularly when I’m waiting in the international terminal watching other flights board around me. When checking-in for my flight to Bordeaux in the Barcelona airport, the line of people checking-in for a United flight to New York tugged at my desire to return to North American breakfasts and dinner-sized salads. But on the plus side, being back in France, understanding everything that is going on around me for the first time in weeks, and restoring my faith in French friendliness, isn’t so bad either.
Barcelona, España
July 8, 2012 § 1 Comment
I am obsessed with the old yellowed buildings, gothic balconies and small alleyways of Barcelona, cut by the wide boulevards lined with palm trees and grassy areas. I am enthralled, and have managed to overcome my dislike of walking to wander about the city for entire days at a time. Hidden pockets of stores, bakeries and tapas joints, just off the main streets, but somehow secluded, guarded by the intricate maze of alleys, which act as fortifications against the throngs of tourists that pack the city center at all times of day.
What I am not quite so taken with is Spanish food, which is unfortunate, since that is the reason why I am here. I am simply failing to grasp the obsession with anchovies, why a perfectly good pepper has to be stuffed with some strange cream cheese in order to be served as a tapa, and why shrimps are cooked with delicate care, except with their shells on so that the diner can strip away all the oils and herbs, leaving nothing but a bare shrimp, with his intestines still intact. I know the latter is typical (and traditional) in many cultures, but I still just don’t get it, unless the satisfaction lies in your fingers smelling like shrimp for the remainder of the day. I have however, braved a sardine head, before eating the entire fried fish (yes I know they’re tiny, but eating a sardine is a big deal for me), pulling out the teeny skeleton as I went.
And, of course, I have managed to embrace several sweets, along with the architecture: donuts filled with dulce de leche or rolled in flaked coconut, and crispy, chewy churros, served alongside hot chocolate so thick it can be eaten like pudding — or simply used as a dipping sauce, as is traditional. Desserts so rich they ooze guilt and indulgence.
When I was not wandering aimlessly — I somehow managed to not go to the majority of the monuments, Gaudi houses and churches, mostly due to my impatience with waiting in long lines — I sat on the patio in the hostel, with 2 euro wine. And then, later on, laid by the rooftop pool of my hotel, taking in the sun and feeling the breeze from the sea drift over my face.
This and that, my away message
July 5, 2012 § 1 Comment
I’m in the process of booking a whirl-wind of complicated flight-train combo trips, overnight stops in random hostels, and 12+ hour-long days of travel. As much, my last day in Barcelona is being spent in the hotel lobby, having already walked to a food market this morning (which was, of course, closed), walked to a donut shop (which was, of course, closing in ten minutes, but I just managed to squeeze in), and locked myself out of my hotel room. So while I pull together a real post on Barcelona, I thought I’d leave you with a couple of snippets of travels that have previously gone unmentioned.
After my research in Maroilles went sort of awry, ending in a rather fruitless trip, we switched from the dingy, grimy motel room in the equally gray Maubeuge, to a small agritourisme in the area. While the rooms were huge, including both bath and shower, and refreshingly decorated, the highlight for me was the cute breakfast setup — all white napkins, crusty bread, flakey croissants, and several types of jam, served in little white ceramic pots. The tiny butter-dish even had a top, with equally tiny handle!
Later on, at a more upscale agritourismo outside of Modena, where the pool dropped off into the vineyards and hours could be spent dining on the patio overlooking the hills and valleys of the northern Italian countryside, we enjoyed tortelloni stuffed with spinach and local ricotta, an interesting pasta made with breadcrumbs and drenched with parmesan fondu before being topped with assertive black truffled shavings, stuffed omelettes and eggy, baked flan, and to finish, multiple rifts on vanilla-cream gelato, eaten with spoons of the house basalmico and tiny cups of espresso.
So there you go, some of the more beautiful moments of a trip that has often involved trudging through cow stalls, taking pictures of baby black pigs, and waking up at 6 a.m. in order to observe the entire cheese-making process (and that’s still hours later than the cheesemaker wakes up!). Ciao until next time!
Modena and the surrounding countryside
June 22, 2012 § 3 Comments
After a pretty stark experience in the countryside of the département du nord of France — dreary, wet weather and everywhere shuttered windows and closed storefronts, restaurants utterly abandoned, with only the lonely bar where one could down a petit café in the company of young boys and aging men playing fussball —, I have arrived in Italy. The greetings, the smiles, the helpful advice, all a breath of fresh air. The woman standing by the side of the road selling cartons of cherries and apricots who didn’t buy my “just smile and nod” approach to communication, but was happy to chatter away to me in Italian anyway. The girls who looked up how to say shoemaker on google translate in order to answer my questions about shoe sizes in their shop. The numerous cheesemakers who opened their doors and answered incessant questions about milk temperatures and their childhoods. The family of vinegar makers who took turns giving the full tour of their facilities, all the way up to the attic, where the young children’s “dowries” of vinegar kegs are kept. Everywhere smiles, even though my most commonly used phrase is “ho non capito,” I don’t understand. Everywhere, an earnest wine recommendation, a singing praise of the local ricotta, served in tortelli that night. Never a grumpy look, except perhaps from the strange guy who invited me for a pizza while I was out shopping one morning.
The last few days have been filled with pizza, shoe shopping, and tours and interviews at local cheese, prosciutto and balsamico producers. Each one is a slightly different facility, each with its quirks, but all with quality products, clearly cared for by the passion of the workers, sometimes only 2 or 3 in number. We’ve twirled and twisted on old country roads, never going through a day without asking for directions; wandered through an all-night festival outside our hotel that we somehow never knew was taking place until we were walking right through it; suffered through the scorching heat, without a gelateria in sight. But now, sitting in a roadside motel room in Spilamberto, with its incredible, natural and organic gelateria within walking distance, prepping to take-on la notte bianca, we are slowly reaching the end of Modena. Just a few days left to go.
Strasbourg, Munster and Cologne
June 12, 2012 § 2 Comments
Gentle beams of yellow light interlope on the dark room from the windows by my bed. Outside the translucent curtains, the sounds of laughter, high heels clicking on the cobblestone and waiters pouring the final glass of wine. Occasionally, the waft of a light cigarette floats through the open window from the walkway below. It’s the middle of the night, but Strasbourg isn’t sleepy. And neither am I. (Written about a week ago, when I was jet-lagged, heavy-headed, sitting in a dark hotel room waiting for the sunrise.)
The sun did rise, and my brother and I took a walk along in river in Strasbourg, stopping in at a boulangerie on the way back at exactly six a.m. Unfortunately, we never saw the sunrise because the sky was shrouded in clouds. Still the cobblestone streets were peaceful, mostly deserted save for the few men setting up white tents for the market in an old square and the street-cleaning trunks making their way down the larger roads.
From there, onwards to the mountainous region of Alsace and the Vosges. We twisted around the slopes and mountain passes, passing ski lifts running without snow on the ground, green pastures, studded with wildflowers, on which vosgienne cows — known for their black and white coloring, their delicate faces, a cow species renowned for its beauty (who knew that existed?) — grazed before being called into the barn to be milked. We descended on foot into cool caves, where rounds of cheese, tinged pink of the outside, age for several weeks.
Our final stop was Cologne for the weekend, where we rode bikes along the river (I only crashed once!) and ate “the best” gelato in town. In the backyard, breakfasts of croissants, fresh strawberry jam and steaming, milky coffee. In the evening, crowds of people looking up at the big TV screen displaying the soccer game for what must have been thousands of people. In the early morning, with the birds chirping and the rabbits scampering across the grass, walking home from the club.
Welcome to Euro, take three.
Summer Dreamin’
May 22, 2012 § Leave a comment
The fluffy tops of the white clouds outside my window are gently dusted in pale, yellow light. Soon, the light will fade and the sky will transform into a dusty blue, underneath a strip of hazy orange — the sunset — and dots of human lights will begin to emerge underneath us. Crammed into an airplane seat, next to a guy who continuously asks to have his plastic cup — with straw — refilled and flinches every time I move, I’m suffering from a raging sunburn, pouring through summer magazines packed with riffs on tacos with mango-avocado salsa, and struggling to hold back to tears watching Channing Tatum recover his marriage with a girl who’s permanently lost her memory. The Newark airport was swimming with activity and aggressively impatient people today, likely due to the 100-person long lines at every point of the check-in-security-boarding process. Luckily I have a Priority Access card to flash around the minute a line forms, and have made great use of UPS’ shipping abilities for all my extra clothes (please don’t inquire after the number of boxes). Then, once we were finally boarded, we sat for two hours because our pilot was missing in action.
We spent my last day at Princeton on the Jersey Shore, at Pleasant Point. We didn’t make much use of the roller coasters, but we played an aggressive game of beach soccer and got rough-hosed by the chilly waves, which suck you under the surface for a couple of terrifying, brain-freezing seconds. As the day got windy, we sat in the sand playing cards and eating a pizza the size of a large beach ball. Fleeing the wind, we piled back into the cars and joined Jersey traffic on the way home.
The next day, I woke up on the other coast, to my brother getting ready for school, to the birds chirping in the backyard, to the sun shining through the skylights in the kitchen. Breakfast was scrambled eggs, with fresh tomatoes and guacamole on a tortilla, true California breakfast. With a side of milky black tea and my mom’s snickerdoodle cookies.
Strawberry fingers
May 17, 2012 § Leave a comment
The sun is finally shining consistently, and, despite being in the midst of finals and the frantic packing of my dorm room into boxes for the summer, all I can think about is swimming pools and carnivals. Which is great, because there’s a carnival with a slip n’ slide, dunk tank and ice cream sundae bar planned today on the lawn outside my dorm. I can’t wait.
We’ve been loading up on summer activities, despite the onslaught of schoolwork. The other day we went strawberry picking at the local orchard, gathered about 10 cartons of strawberries, many of which went into a delicious strawberry pie later that week (that, when the microwave disappeared the day we wanted to make chocolate covered strawberries). We played on the (stationary) tractor and pet the goats and delighted in a little childhood fun.
The trip had the feeling of bookending this year, which started with a trip to the orchards for apple picking in September. Some new faces, some old. This year has been somewhat of a roller coaster, but I’m grateful that these last couple of months have been mostly smooth sailing. Now all that’s left is a couple of days in the sun, a trip to UPS, one last exam, and a flight home. And hopefully, hopefully, a day at the Shore this weekend (fingers crossed).
The still-warm pie becomes a puddle of strawberry juice.
Full-brimmed hats and honey bees
May 7, 2012 § Leave a comment
This past week has been filled with party dresses, backwards walking (and stumbling), and chocolate chip cookies. It culminated yesterday with champagne, sun hats and an epic brunch in the backyard by the beach volleyball court — fajitas, almond croissants, blackberries, and mimosas. Some pushing and shoving in the crowds for Timeflies and Childish Gambino. Some cooling off in the fountain, and then a lazy night with lasagna and Game of Thrones.
And then, as if on cue, the sun is gone and I’m in the atrium library paging through Blood Meridian, looking for quotes demonstrating the relationship between horrific violence and humanity. I’m now settling into a routine of run, yoga — rediscovering weird twists that I thought were totally normal when I was 10-years-old —, lunch, library. It’s not so bad, but every time I sit down to write the 50 pages of required writing due next week, I start thinking about things I would rather be writing about. The lovely chocolate chip nuggets pictured below that may give my mom’s cookies a run for their money. The growing list of things I would love to be baking right now: coconut muffins, strawberry shortcake, peach pie. And then, on a rougher note, this weekend, I started thinking about how different things at school will be next year — and that’s going to take awhile to process.
Sunday Suppers
April 30, 2012 § Leave a comment
Once upon a time it was summer. We talked about going to the beach on the weekend, ate lunch (and dinner!) outside on the picnic tables and walked around in sundresses without a care in the world, or a jacket. And then as quickly as summer arrived, it went back into hiding and we were left with showers, rain boots and mud. April showers bring May flowers. What a ridiculous saying.
However, despite the schizophrenic spring we are experiencing, we’ve snuck in a few retreats, a couple of stolen Sunday suppers on the porch, nestled in the trees of a New Jersey forest (who knew they existed?). Lasagna, four kinds of homemade pizza, white wine and kettle corn. Salads piled high with cucumbers, walnuts and cranberries. Watermelon slices, German chocolate cake, and fresh whipped cream. And multiple blankets to face the cool breeze in the shade of early evening.
Soufflé Days 