Organizing Ideas

How do you develop your ideas? Instead of a few extra sheets of paper in my filofax for those fleeting moments when ideas fly by and risk disappearing if they aren't plucked from the air, I made sure a while back to begin choosing sacs, or purses that are large enough to carry a clipboard.

You would be surprised at how stable and well balanced handwriting or even designs, plot diagrams, character sketches, landscapes, dishes, moments, wisps of perfumed steam rising from Italian meringue or flow charts can seem when sturdied by a clipboard on a moving bus, in the metro, while walking, riding, or sitting in a café among the people. These ideas can be systematically captured and squeezed from the smallest of moments if you get into the habit.

When affixed to a clipboard, a piece of paper can become the calm center of a vortex of all manner of observable movement and activity, inside the mind and out. It is then preserved as an object on its own, to be placed within the order chosen in the times when I am in that frame of mind for imposing order. In addition to free form feuilles, I have pads of many colors and special sheets with pre-set blanks for important information that I use for telephone conversations. I save these pages in sleeves in different binders once my inner administrator has deemed them significant.

I simply adore the sound of a good ball point scratching the single slice of paper and clicking on the board as I bring it down again to begin another word. Black flair pens make voluptuous lines. I love pencils just as well. Sharpened to a pinpoint for precise expression, ready to scratch the surface of anything, or rounded soft lead worn from the hum of flowing ideas, broad strokes in patterns and shapes filling a concept's shadow and light.

When ideas for projects are complete, having been successfully researched - when lists of recipes have been amassed, photographs pondered, telephone calls made, visits to pinpointed locations complete and thoughts put down, the varied singular handwritten sheets are already in their sleeves. I can flip over one and past the next as though I am separate from them, and view them with a different eye.

The sheets are insulated from me, from outside observers, my moods, the weather, coffee rings, events, gusts of wind and cleaning frenzies. I have the pleasure of organizing them, a luxury for me. Once they are clipped into the binders, I can let them go completely because I know they are safe there. I am ready to work, free from distraction, with the ability to use them as reference when needed.

Mara des Bois Economics

Mara des Bois are up by half a euro a barquette.

Sometimes when something first comes out, we're just dying to embrace everything it means to have that moment in the season arrive. We feel the sting in our pocketbook but it's bittersweet - we still fight to get some of the season's first pickings. Then time marches on. When more producers begin to come forth with more and what stood out as an exception becomes part of the background, competition begins and the prices come down again. This happened with the Cèpe mushrooms - the first ones were cher as all hell, and I paid willingly, with nearly a tear of joy in my eye.

There's a complex relationship between our hopes and memories and signs and signals of the cyclical nature of life as seen on the market table. These vendors of course know when we must have something at any price, and they have the priceless skill of stopping us in our tracks, bringing us back to the moment. We reinvent our limits. We think of the best way to use them. Or sometimes we soak in the view and continue walking, content to come back again when we have concluded between us that things have reached their just balance.

Lyon 1ere - Au Bon Temps

At the market this morning, Loic and I hit the volailler for some rabbit in addition to cruising the quai for the season's first Mara des Bois, organic lettuce, spinach, flowers, butter, a Rocamadour, some Bleu d'Auvergne, a Crottin de Condrieu, radishes, onions, oregano and thyme. The sage was in flower. Isn't it pretty?


After the market we were on the way to run another errand and took a little back street around the corner from Eglise St. Nizier. We passed this place where the menu looked straightforward and the prices correct and decided to go ahead and eat. The restaurant is called Au Bon Temps, next to the doll shop and across the street from the lingerie shop, a cute little bijou with 10 covers downstairs and 36 in two rooms upstairs, a place that used to be a wine bar. They changed owners this past winter, and boy we are lucky to have this new address in our neighborhood.


Chef Patrick Scalia, who cut his teeth at La Mere Brazier, Le Moulin de Mougins, and Le Theodore has brought his show from Le Comptoir in La Tour de Salvagny to town.

We just came in off the street, market haul in hand. They sat us with a smile even though we drifted in at the tail end of luncheon service, and served us with gracious aplomb. From the moment we were served the entrees it was clear we were in for a treat. Loic's generously sliced house smoked duck magret over lentils had the perfect whisper of smoke and I appreciated the care coming from the kitchen in the various citrus zests festively setting an elegant tone to my marinated salmon.


I loved my boeuf tartare (what can I say, I had a thing for raw today) which was judiciously seasoned with capers and pickles and served with ultra fresh mixed greens and dark balsamic vinaigrette with a side of gratin dauphinois with just the right touch of nutmeg in the sauce. Loic's double slice of veal roast was the real winner, a long slow roast that melted in the mouth and suprised us both with its honesty and gorgeous follow through to the jus. We oohed and ahed all the way through the course.

I can't stop thinking about the veal.

The total mind blower was the BABA AU RHUM. A picture's worth a thousand words.


As an example of how welcomed we were in this restautant, I note that the chef graciously put my rabbit saddles in the fridge to keep them cool while we dined. Mark this address on your list for Lyon, folks.

AU BON TEMPS
2 rue Chavanne
69001 LYON
04 78 39 26 12

Childhood Memories and the Croque Monsieur

When does a simple grilled sandwich take on mythical status? Apparently when it is mentioned by Proust. David's search for the perfect Madeleine in Paris the other day had certain associations fresh in my mind, and when I found the croque monsieur press yesterday the simple pattern inside made me think that childhood gustatory memories a la Proust perhaps were the inspiration for the shape embedded into the press. But I may never be sure. I can't find the inventor of the Cuisor croque monsieur press or one of his or her progeny in order to ask. Perhaps we will never know.

The Cuisor works perfectly.

We do know that for nearly 100 years the croque monsieurs have been offered in cafes, and that just about every French child is served a croque monsieur at one time or another. Loic remembers many croque monsieurs of his youth, and tells me that they were kind of like what hamburgers and french fries are for kids these days. He says that fast food chains didn't come to France until he was in his teens, and before that time, it was a croque monsieur in a cafe that children begged for.

Keep it simple.

You can search for recipes for the croque monsieur and on the French recipe sites be rewarded with a plethora of combinations of things to be toasted between two buttery slices of bread, but in essence, the classic croque monsieur consists of sliced wheat bread, which is buttered on the outside and contains gruyere and thin sliced ham in the middle. Beauty in simplicity.

Now what about this mention of croque monsieurs by Proust? Apparently in 1919, Proust and his Grandmother are served a croque monsieur and eggs. There is no reference to the actual meal, just a mention that it was ordered for them. This is very significant to the history of the sandwich, non? Perhaps I should read it now that I am reading in French and see if I can find out what the hullabaloo is about.


I studied the French language once with a lovely Japanese girl named Akiko who was doing a graduate thesis on Proust's mention of food, and was here in France for a linguistic stage before going back to the Japanese university. I always admired her academic stick-to-it-iveness. She was very serious about her subject and I thought there was something about her that was very attractive, observant in a quiet and systematic kind of listening way. We got along quite well. There was everything to respect in her chosen vocation. If I called Akiko she could probably tell me more.

The sandwich was delicious. I can't wait to try out all the variations.

Lyon Fleamarket Find - a Christofle Presse à Canard

I could not believe my eyes.

There is a magic fleamarket in the suburb of Lyon. Did I tell you I once found a set of 10 antique linen napkins with our initials monogrammed on them for €1.50 each from a box seller on the field? I was sure it was the find of a lifetime. But no.

Since today was a holiday, we made plans to get up as if it was a work day and hit the Puces de Canal nice and early. Even though it was raining and miserable, we stuck to our guns and swung up to St. Juste to pick up Francine and Lucas. Raining and miserable are really good days at fleamarkets, in my opinion. They did not come out in pyjamas, as Francine promised. I told her our bargaining power is doubled when we are wearing pyjamas but I guess she didn’t believe me. As we rolled through the 6th arrondissement, it was as if we were floating through a ghost town. Unfortunately, this morning was not a big market day, as I hoped it would be. There were a couple of box sellers out under the awnings and about half the indoor stalls were open. We had coffee and croissants before hitting the warehouse.


My jaw hit the ground when I stumbled over this Christofle duck press with its matching tray and accoutrements. Its original home was at the Casino in Charbonnières-les-Bains. The lady selling it says that she has been discussing a sale but it is far from closed. If I had the cash I would have snatched it up right there, just for a chance to use it once and pass it on. They want about 6,000 Euros for the set. I was drooling as I described the process of pressing the duck and making the sauce to Loic. I wasn’t carrying my camera with me but Francine had hers and let me take a photo. This is a once in a lifetime fleamarket find. I can pretty much confirm that I will never see such an item again at the fleamarket. Sigh.

We rummaged through the boxes outside and although I felt slightly sick to my stomach having just come down from the duck press adrenaline rush, I did find a few things that appealed to me. (note prices are after bargaining)

20 escargot forks, each fork slightly different, €2 for the lot.

A set of Fondue Bourguignonne spears, €1.

A spoon. Free.

Two knives, good for picnics. Free.

A Presse Croque Monsieur instead of a Presse à Canard, €3.

Every time we use the presse croque monsieur,
I will think of finding that beautiful presse à canard.

Puces du Canal
1 rue du Canal
69100 Villeurbanne

To inquire about the duck press
A. Bernard Brocante
Allée D, Stand 21
+33 (0)6.19.66.48.69

Cigaline Strawberries

The photo simply does not do this berry justice.

Lets start at the very bottom of the strawberry totem pole. I am not talking about the hard bred belly-ache berries meant to be bounced around on the back of a flatbed truck thousands of miles from a desert based hydroponic irrigated tent city where they have been coaxed from lonely ne’er-a-honey-bee-touched individual stems suspended above vats of chemical gels. I understand that these berries are indeed fake, they don’t taste real, they have that hairy 5 o’clock shadowed incredible hulk look to them and can crunch like Cortland apples when we attempt to bite them. We’ve all seen them, been mesmerized and horrified by the sheer plastic existence of their glorious buxom audaciousness. The strawberries one commonly finds available in the middle of February displayed next to cans of reddi whip, for instance. They look like Alice Cooper’s tongue. These are big and bad at the market, and have been, since, voila, February. They sprouted into importing warehouse-monger’s tables like a bad fungus at that time and now are bigger and redder than ever.

Then we have a pretty flowery kind of fungus that sprouts on old walls and makes us feel nostalgic, the proliferated profitable Provencal variety that is yes a certified variety, but which, while perhaps once indeed a very nice berry, have been watered down and bred together and sorted and sifted and had their seasons pushed to just about the limit of their existence. Those precious precocious fully market-maximized French ones, also most likely never having touched soil although their ancestors from the 70s were soil-touchers. They are presented alongside the rest with the hyped pretentious ceremony of the Boujolais Nouveau. I know you have seen them: Gariguette otherwise known as those supposedly coming from the Garrigue. Although sometimes you do come across a juicy tasty basket here and there, in the product we see here in the valley, the quality control is just too thin and the temptation just too great through the vast logistic channels that bring them from the nether-regions for us to be able to rely on them as real berries anymore. Maybe at the source, at one time, but not here, not now.

Then there are the real strawberries. The ones you have to look for and sometimes you don’t find. The ones that tickle your nose with a teasing promise of fidelity, forming questions in your mind - should I trust again this time, can I trust again? Will these berries deliver? The ones that are soft and won’t last but a couple of days from the day you get them. Will we pay for some hype or will I be transported back to that oblong room with the frumpy firm semi-double bed as only the Russians can imagine to be good for two people in St. Petersburg, where Loic left me to dwell alone with that little sack of forest berries that the lady had brought to the market in a cup and was doling out with a soup spoon? The ones that I tasted, reclined, twisted my torso just so, and fed to myself one after the other from that crinkly paper in the lace filtered twilight, lost in Russian fairytales? Will I ever experience that flavor, that moment, again?

So what is the precocious variety I succumbed to last weekend here in Lyon? It’s only one more of those incredibly tender, wild, snatched from the edge of the forest-floor tasting berries that I raise my right hand and I hereby certify and swear on my gourmandise, are real. The Cigaline.

Good and real, and close if not as good as the Mara des Bois that I wrote about in their season last summer. We bought a half pound, not knowing how good they were, but having a suspicion that they might prove their mettle due to their shape and color and smell. Knowing the vendor as a producer, and not having seen this variety anywhere else, I was drawn to buy them – why the heck not?

Bref – I brought them out and unceremoniously put the basket on the table between us, with a passing thought about how many fruits I should be eating. A dutiful thought. Loic likes a bowl of water on the table in which he can rinse the berries. It’s a French thing. We picked them up by their green stems and bit them off at the base.

How extraordinary, I thought. They veer quite close, in fact. This afternoon I look at the plaster moulding and shadows of the flowers coming in from the walls, watching them move, thinking of how Cezanne painted his walls grey, and colors and contrast, and I think perhaps this berry has earned its mettle. Yes, better than the rest. Like strawberries should taste. Give me another. Give me more. And we continued like that until, voila, they were gone.

Postcard from Lyon

The Best Bordeaux I've had in a long while

When we went to grill some merguez at the chateau, Seb went rooting in the cave and brought out a bottle of the wine from his stock that they served at the wedding. I was swept away on a magic velvet carpet tasting this wine. I almost cried when they lamented only having 60 bottles of this lovely Bordeaux left. It was good at the wedding and amazing now. Maybe the company had something to do with it. Maybe the weather on that balmy spring day, the dappled sunlight under the arches along the arcade where we had lunch. Maybe it was the lawn chairs which we set up in a circle in a sunny spot near where the forest begins and where we all fell asleep, listening to the towering elms. Having the right cave has a whole lot to do with how a wine ages. I understand why some people invest so much in ensuring that the conditions for aging their wines are just right. Aude and Seb received various greats from historic millésimes from elder uncles on Seb's side as wedding gifts. I can only imagine what they have in store for the special occasions that they'll celebrate in the years to come.

Aillée, fresh garlic shoots

Aillée in Lyon, or aillette as it is sometimes called in other parts of France, is the sprouted young spring primeur version of the heads of garlic that we see preserved throughout the year. Coming out now in Lyon, it is edible from the green shoots to the bulb, and it has a wonderful flavor, milder and sweeter than mature older garlic. The man who grew this aillée likes his minced in fromage blanc with a touch of salt at the end of a meal. I like mine sliced thin in salads, sauteed with whatever's in the pan, and also replacing the leek in my old kitchen notebook favorite Petite Tarte aux Poireaux, extending its season from winter into spring. If you see this at the market, don't pass it up!