Comfort me with apples

So the food adventures have been fairly lax recently, as I'm still working to get settled around here. Much to the relief of my mother, I'm cleaning out my childhood room for good, which involves serveral hours of reading your 4th book reports and 6th grade class president speech. Not exactly a recipe for productivity.

But, thanks to my mom, I did make apple turnovers the other night for her. The apples on our tree outside are a bit too tart for eating, but luckily at little baking and a little sugar does them good. The recipe also involves store bought puff pastry, which is super easy, though it did get a bit too warm so I kept blasting it in the freezer. Looks like I didn't stay away from butter pastry for very long...

Here's the recipe, from Barefoot Contessa. It's like a cheater version of apple pie and makes a nice dessert with ice cream, or nice breakfast, or both in my case.

The writing is going much slower than I thought, too. Writing 3 chapters seemed much more feasible before I did all the research. All this sitting lends itself well to baking or roasting, but considering baking is much cheaper than a leg of lamb, I'm going to stick with that. If anyone has good baking recipes, pass them on!

Blow torch

So, many people have asked me if the blog is over. And I think for now, I'm keeping it up. Sure, it won't be as rigorous or as glamorous as traveling through France. But I'd like to recreate a few recipes I encountered there, and along with a few other culinary adventures, we'll see how it goes.

There has been a long-standing debate in this household about getting a blowtorch for the kitchen. Last night, the need revealed itself again. I bought some Brown Turkey figs (mostly because all you usually see are Mission). Sure, it was hard to shop at Whole Foods after the Park Slope Food Co-op. I suffered down every aisle, thinking of the fresh, cheap produce in Brooklyn. I surpressed the urge to bag my own groceries at the check out. I better get to Berkeley Bowl quick.

So, for the figs, I looked at a French Laundry recipe for roasted figs. First, I didn't make my own vanilla-honey ice cream, as Mr. Keller instructed. And I didn't have any vanilla beans to roast them with. But with a little butter, sugar, and honey, they didn't come out too bad, with a little Straus famlily creamery ice cream on the side. But even at a high temp, little carmalization. That's where a blow torch would have been perfect. Nice crispy sugar on the outside. I'll have to keep convincing my little brother he needs one before college.

For dinner, I tried out the NY Times recipe for tacos - their shredded chicken. Ok, mostly it was an excuse to eat 4 avocados myself. Aside from being the easiest way to cook chicken ever, it wasn't that great. Left out the chili (for family members), so maybe that would have helped, but it didn't really have a kick. It was certainly moist, but when you're dealing with thigh meat, it's hard to go too wrong. Gotta go for the real stuff - stay tuned for the annual tour of Bay Area mexican food places.

Crepes in the Red, White and Blue

And all of a sudden, as with any trip, you're plunged right back into the reality you left behind. At first it all looks a little strange, the pizza and nacho-crazed, massive freeway-driving American culture. But after a day or so, it all comes back. The only thing that remains the same is American pop music, which was a continuous soundtrack no matter where I went. My room here is a massive collision of 3 different time periods - my life in California, the boxes of my New York life (still-packed up), and luggage from my trip. It's only now that I'm feeling the real pangs of missing New York, even though I'm excited to be here.

To ease the transition, my little brother, the resident crepemaker around here, made some for breakfast. He's pretty much good for constant crepe and chocolate chip cookie making at any given moment. The crepes were very good, and we ate them the way we were taught in my family, with a little suger, butter and lemon juice.

Here's the Sommer family recipe - which is slightly modified from an old cookbook we have and has stood the test of time. The key to crepes is getting the right temperature in the pan, using plenty of butter and having a little patience, since you're doing them one at a time.

Basic Crepes
4 eggs
1 cup flour
2 Tbsp sugar
1 cup milk
1/4 cup water
1 Tbsp melted butter
1 tsp vanilla

We use the blender usually, where you combine all the ingredients and blend for a minute, scraping down the sides if you need to. But you can also do it by hand, beating the eggs first, then adding a little flour and sugar, and milk and water alternately, until it's totally smooth.

They say to chill it, but usually I'm too hungry to to that. It probably makes for better crepes though.

Pour a little batter into a medium hot skillet (a small one with butter already in it). Then, picking the pan up, tilt it around until a thin layer of batter covers the bottom. When you see a bit of color on the bottom of the crepe, flip it with a thin spatula or knife. If it sticks, you needed more butter. It happens pretty quick, and once you see a little color on the other side, it's ready to eat.

Scandanavia

Stockholm, like most of Scandanavia I assume, is very clean and pleasant. Big surprise - Sweden is a very blond country. Everyone is blond and tan, and if they're young they look like they just walked out of H&M (also from Sweden), which makes it feel like a bizarre offshoot of Southern California.

In Goteberg, we were in town at the same time as the European Championships for track and field - like a mini European Olympics. I'd been watching shotput trails on TV in France, and had no idea I'd be going to the city where it was held. The crowd was very international there, and everyone was very fit.

Swedish is one of the strangest languages out there. It took me about a day to get over the urge to speak french to people in public. We spent a day or so on the coast, in Smogen (Smurrrgen!), which has very rocky shores and really fresh seafood.

In Stockholm, we visited the Vasa museum, which houses the only surviving 17th century warship. It was salvaged from the bottom of the bay, after its horrific maiden voyage, where it sank 10 minutes after leaving port, with water rushing in its open gunports. However, thanks to the less salty conditions of the Baltic Sea, the ship was preserved and salvaged, and now is the most visited attraction in Stockholm. I feel heartened by it - in life it's the biggest mistakes and worst shipbuilders in Sweden that go on to greatness.

Flying back was also a bit of an ordeal - for security reasons. No one quite knew what was going on about luggage. We' called ahead, as obedient travellers, but of course what we heard on the phone was compleley different once we arrived at the airport. No carry on luggage was allowed for international flights, but they did give you clear plastic bags to carry things on with. There was no way I was parting with my research, so it took 3 plastic bags to fit it all in, with my laptop in one of them. People thought I was a little nuts taking all those bags through security. Also, the fleur de sel salt that I had in one of the bags (hello, it's fragile stuff) caused a bit of a stir at a checkpoint. I guess if you're carrying a big bag of clear white powdery stuff, it doesn't look very good...

And with that, it's back in the states...

Pickled Herring

So, I learned a lesson yesterday. It wasn't fun.

I arrived in Gothenberg, Sweden after flying through Copenhagen. Sure I wasn't feeling super after eating only a croissant and 2 swedish candy bars that day. But then the luggage belt in the baggage claim stops. Without me finding my bags. My bags with all my research and notes in them…

Don't worry, the major freak out didn't happen later, after dinner, when only one of my bags showed up at the hotel. The bag without the research in it. And then a bunch of Swedish people were telling me how weird it was for them to be separated.

Yep, i felt pretty stupid all night for putting six weeks worth of work into that suitcase, most of which isn't in my computer yet. I think I may have sworn faith to a number of religions during the night. But the next morning, my sturdy blue suitcase was waiting for me, with 20 pounds of paper inside. Sweet relief.

On a brighter note, I ate some really good pickled herring at dinner. We ordered this giant sampler thing with like 6 kinds of pickled herring, and it comes with Swedish cheese to eat it with, and boiled new potatoes. Very tasty.

More to come from the land of Vovlos...

Last Croissant

Last day in France! And last croissant of the quest. It rained as we came into Paris, somehow making the final day seem all the more dramatic. After six weeks of hanging in, it’s sad to think the experience is ending. Seeing so many new cities – the feeling of arriving, seeing the streets and houses, tasting the food, having crazy conversations with the people – as tiring as it’s been to cover cities, it’s exciting, and energizing. An addictive lifestyle. But a good reminder that there’s always so much more to discover if you seek it out, outside of your daily routine. And that most people are eager to help you when you’re out there, in unfamiliar territory.

So some stats (for those of you who like them) – 14 train trips, 24 hotel rooms, an astronomical sum spent on bottled water and internet, 12 cities covered, 1 new suitcase needed for all the paper, and a lot of croissants. A lot.

And the last croissant, in the photo, I had the morning I flew to Sweden. The bottle of champagne was not for breakfast (I promise) but was for a celebratory toast the night before.

And while the physical croissants portion of the quest may be over, the spirit of croissant quest continues. Partially out of respect for a deep, unrelenting love for things produced with butter, and partly because everyday should be a croissant quest, an exploration of the wonderful things in the world, and the encounters they create.

One of the nice things about France is that you can’t eat a meal without someone wishing you “bon appetit.” Not just in restaurants, but also when I’d have a simple picnic on a park bench, people walking by would say “bon appetit”. Small children, old couples – it was amazing. A small, simple, touching thing, to wish someone a good meal.

And with that, I wish you all “bon appetit.”

Kouign Aman

Carnac is a beach town on the southern coast of Bretagne – and considering that’s now August, when 99% of the French go on vacation, it’s got a carnival atmosphere. The streets and beaches are jam packed, and so far it’s been the hardest city to cover hotels in. Hoteliers are swamped, and have been giving me attitude about my taking up their time.

Aside from the beaches, Carnac is also famous for its megaliths – stone henge-like rock arrangements, except there are over 4,000 of them, set up in long rows. They’re fenced off in the summer to protect them, too much foot traffic in past years has eroded the soil away. An inability to navigate the public transportation here (due to in equally to lack of planning on my part, and badly explained bus systems on theirs) has lead to a lot of walking. And after you’ve seen 20 minutes of megaliths, that’s pretty much good. Again, my stone age and archeological French vocabulary is also lacking.

The 2000 Guinness World record holder for number of ice cream flavors is also here. Igloo, as the shop is called, has 180 flavors and to come up that many, they really had to dig deep. Cucumber ice cream, gin ice cream, popcorn ice cream. The whiskey ice cream wasn’t bad. It takes about 15 minutes to order, because simply looking at the flavors takes that long.

There’s also a boulangerie with excellent kouign aman. It’s essentially the evil cousin of the croissant. It’s equally flaky and buttery, but denser and baked with sugar on top that melts in to sticky coating. I’ve developed a complete dependence on carbohydrates in the morning. And throughout the day. It’s not going to be pretty when I go off the pastry diet. Until then, you only live once, right? Plus, it’s for research purposes. I’m all for restraint, except in cases like this, and most other cases for that matter…

At the Manor

Finally, a welcome break. A place just outside of Quimper was nice enough to put us up for a night. And what a place it is. Getting there was one story, as I don't think anyone stays there without a rental car. We took the local bus system (no tourists in sight) for 15 kilometers, and then walked down a country road, rolling my massive paper-filled suitcase. After passing cow and corn fields, we actually found the right road. The property is called Manoir du Stang, it's a 16th century manor.

At first I felt badly, rolling up looking wilted and scrubby, but after the traditional cold french reception, the owner was incredibly nice. The house has been in his family for 8 generations, and unlike like a chateau (as he reminded me a few times), it was there for the agricultural estates, not for leisure. The property is beautiful and relaxing, and considering where you're staying, the prices are darn cheap. After seeing upwards of 60 hotels, I can safely say that the best deals are outside of town - the most interesting, most charming spots. I'm tempted to come back someday and do a trip with a car, driving from b&b to b&b. It's by far the best deal.

Finally on to the last town! It's a bit of a relief, and sad at the same time. This pace of this entire trip has been accelerated, super-condensed. It's disappointing sometimes to move on so quickly from a town, but while I'm there, I'm forced to talk to so many people, it's like I spent weeks there. That's been the best thing - while some people greet you with suspicion, saying that you're a journalist gives you a bit of a carte blanche. People accept that you need information, and are willing to open up more. In general, I tend to go for laidback vacations - the sit-back and take-it-all-in kind. It's been good for me to be forced to get in people's faces, to keep busting in doors when everyone is staring at me, to ask for people's time when I wouldn't normally.

On to the beach!

Crepes in Quimper

Scooted across Brittany to Quimper. So far, this is one strange town, completely over-run with tourists, but not that much to see. They have a nice cathedrale, a nice Musee de beaux-arts, and... pottery. Quimper is famous for la faience - a regional pottery with breton scenes painted on it. It seems like every English tourists with a love for precious things is in town right now. You can tour a factory, visit stores, visit the faience museum - just about anything to do with the pottery. The real stuff is expensive, but the knock-offs are everywhere. This is also the first town where people have responded in English right away, assuming that we don't understand french. After a few more responses from us in french, people seem happy to switch back, but it wasn't even like this in Paris. Just about the only thing to eat around here is crepes, with just about anything you can imagine inside. I'm verging on crepes overload. The cidre is still excellent though.

After this, it's one more city - Carnac, and that's it. It's always a bit sad when you can see the end of a trip coming, especially since I've been gone almost six weeks. The only good thing is that I won't be acquiring anymore paper. With something like 10 cities worth of brochures and information, I can barely lift my suitcase anymore. I would ship it back if it wasn't so expenive, so for now I'll bite the bullet and struggle through a few more train trips. Oh, and I'm going to Sweden for 5 days. Random, i know, but my family is there for vacation, and I'm meeting up for the end of their trip. Sorry for the lack of pictures (I left the cord in my suitcase), but I'll add them soon.

Pourquoi pas?

Walking around in St. Malo, I ran into this street sign, which translates to street of why not. It’s becoming a good motto for this trip in general. Which is probably why I'm working on the French 15 (cousin of the freshman 15). There's no shortage of regional baked goods around here. There's regional specialities, departmental specialities, town specialities, and maision specialities down to the individual bakery. Crazy apple fried things, plum custard-y things. That makes for a serious amount of eating. Here's a photo of more kouign-aman.

I've had some legitmately awful food so far. In Rennes, I ate mackeral on plain pasta - what the heck they were think i have no idea. But the night before, I ate at a place that was a dream come true - not expenisve but with tasty, simple food. I had a lamb stew with figs and almonds - so good. I wanted to tell them they're geniuses, but I didn't know how it would translate into french.

St. Malo has about a thousand moules and frites places. The oysters weren't bad, but not amazing. It's always a good warning sign when you only see tourists eating the local food. St. Malo does have some very good bars, suprisingly, probably due to the influx of Paris tourists in the summer.

Two of the main sites are located on islands just outside the walled city, which are unreachable during high tide but are connected by a land bridge during low tide. As if managing the hours of local tourist sites weren't hard enough, I'm now tuned in the tidal schedule to get the work done. On one of them, two young guides were giving the tours. Talking to them afterwards, they told us they get to live in the old fort on the island for the summer as part of their job. That's the fort at sunset, on the left. Pretty cool, also vaguely creepy.

Brittany's WWII history is also everywhere. Most of St. Malo was destroyed by the Americans, as it was one of the last strongholds of Germany during the war. I took a tour of German bunker that was built, along with kilometers of underground tunnels they dug out. It's probably the first time I've gotten a real sense of how dire things were in WWII, and what a task the Americans had landing here. I felt oddly patriotic, as they described how American troops took Brittany and Normandy by land, arriving in mined and bombed out cities the Germans would leave behind. What an incredible task it was.

One last stop at the butter store before leaving St. Malo. Here's a short poem I wrote about it - "Dear seaweed butter, I love you." I fasted from butter for (almost) a whole day for this last meal...