Roadtrip: Alsace

Where can I begin? I can start at that little cafe. I had a little red pouch where I kept my written diary, something I've kept up since eleven - that is eleven years old. I was sitting there and writing in it about the last time I was exploring a town like this. Looking at the state of my hands. I spent some time in Germany, you see. A long lonely time. At the same time I was completely free. I had a job, a car and some money. I had nothing better to do than to spend my weekends just exploring with a map. After having spent a little time walking along the river that goes through the center of Strasbourg, I was in a cafe reminiscing about those days. You know, the days when there was nothing calling you but the draw of the next adventure. Nothing holding you but a quiet warm calling that is your own conscience or maybe your sister - it says: Try. Try hard, and travel as long and as far as you can. Now, while you can.

The Country House

Buying property in France takes ages. First you sign an agreement to buy, which sets the wheels in motion for the bureaucracy machine to regurgitate an avalanche of paperwork. This then takes several months to get in order. It takes time to get things in motion with the bank, meetings and discussions, the legal waiting periods, the required inspections, research by the notaire, and all of the little glitches along the way. When we bought the apartment here in Lyon, we signed the papers with our intention to buy in the month of June, and it wasn't until mid October that we finally had our meeting with the notaire. At this meeting, the entire history of the property is read aloud, everyone is satisfied that things are correct, and we sign the papers. They ceremoniously hand over the keys. It's a great moment! Immediately, you rush to the apartment and pop a bottle of champagne! Walking into our place in Lyon, empty and echoey, sunshine streaming in, was like a dream. It was one of those moments I'll remember forever.

Our visit with Francois and Philippe to their chalet last spring planted a seed that sprouted quickly in my mind. I was developing the idea of a little cottage in the golden hills near Lyon, definitely sticking with the idea of something in the Lyonnais region. Maybe something in the Bugey or among the ponds of the Dombes near Brest. Weekend poule au pot, mud boots, and an herb garden tucked between the grape vines came to mind. We don't really need much. A little square of land to get our hands in the mud, a place to walk and collect leaves in the autumn, a place to get away from the city.

After we had been searching for awhile, Loic was feeling lucky and turned his attention to the Alps. At first, the only places that seemed even close to our budget were either at very high altitudes, with no water or electricity and not accessible in winter (what's the point?), or were actually just ruins that needed complete rebuilds. But he was sure we'd find something. He did a lot of research on the regions. He got serious about one area, and we went there to look at one property that was within our budget. "It's probably got something seriously wrong with it", was how he began, but the more we looked, and the more we saw, the more we realized that this one particular place was exactly what we had been looking for.

Hiking nearby.

This one little converted stable, the first place we'd seen, kept calling our name, in its little hamlet tucked away in the Savoie, just north of the mountain range called the Belledonne. Before we even realized how perfect this little house was, we found ourselves tromping around the area every weekend. It is a part of the Alps that is close enough to Lyon for spontaneous trips, but in keeping with the quiet ways of the country. Hiking, taking picnics, checking out the commerce, trying out the cafes in the little towns, inspecting the the ski stations, considering the historic Roman baths of the area, looking at one house and then the next, even considering apartments, we just kept going back. We fell in love with the area's humble beauty and variety.



The area around one cute Alpine town with its butcher, baker, cobblestone, clock and church is central to a cluster of small neighboring hamlets. Fifteen minutes by car into the hills and it is as if you are stepping back in time. They still have their lavoirs (a place like a central running fountain where people wash their clothes) and spring fed water supply. The little hamlet where this house is located features lots of hobby gardeners, honey bee keepers, a cow, sheep and horse farm, and is a mix of year round and seasonal residents. There is a friendly sense of community. Best of all this little hamlet is not on the winding thoroughfare that connects the ski stations. Very little traffic aside from residents, but close to everything.



The house is old and stone, originally a stable, stacked up on three levels, and each floor is a room. The top two floors have the alpine ski lodge type wood work, installed at the original conversion in the 1980s. There's a big old wood stove in the kitchen, and this is the room where I am going to have the most fun, I think. The best thing is that the kitchen door opens up to big open pasture land. When I open the door and look outside, the expanse of nature, mountains and rolling grass covered hills - it's just breathtaking.

I am going to have a lot of fun with this room.

The realization that this is actually happening was like getting hit on the head with a huge happiness mallet. Things move so slowly and carefully that you can't really say from one moment to the next that you are really becoming the owners.



My search for decor inspiration for this little Alpine getaway took me in a few different directions, but one theme stood out very clearly in my mind, and I was always drawn back to it. I'm not the kind of person to do this kind of thing all at once. Collecting tidbits and undertaking projects always has to be done carefully and with restraint. So over time you'll be able to see the details as they unfold.

We'll be closing on the house in a week or two, and I am very excited to roll up my sleeves and get started! People in France often give a name to their secondary residence, but we don't have one. We're just calling it "the country house" for now.

A French Truck Stop Experience

At the truck stop somewhere along a route nationale near Arles

It was such a great feeling to be rolling back into town after a brief trip down South. We had dinner on the way home at a truck stop, quite interesting. The first truck stop I ever ate in here in France was in the year 2001, and the only thing I remember about it was the incredible pyramid of house smoked beef jerkey and the white lace curtains. This place was different. The good ones are easy to spot with the classic rule. Tons of trucks, good truck stop.

First, we entered the dining room through a bar where men were all watching the television or playing billiards. I noticed that they were shadowing us with their eyes, we were a bit out of place but no one really minded. We were just something to look at. Loic gave me a look like he felt a little strange but I pressed on. (note: Loic read this and thinks it was the other way around! I'm willing to compromise and say it was a little bit of both. Here's to teamwork!)

In the dining room, one of the two servers abruptly stopped us and asked if we had our dinner tickets, available at the bar. Only once we had our tickets could we come and choose a seat. Not sure if there was a line or not because men were just kind of standing all over the place, we finally got the tickets without causing any problem by the old register and paid for our dinner in advance, 12 euros for buffet, main course, cheese, and dessert.

Once we were in the dining room, there was a buffet along one wall, with mayonnaise based salads, pulses, macaroni and cold cuts of about 12 different kinds. We served ourselves, and found a table. The server again abruptly steered us to a different table, telling us that the truckers would be arriving soon and that the early arrivals were to sit at the edges of the room. I almost resisted but something in her tone stopped me.

We noticed about halfway through our buffet course, as freshly showered truckers began to trickle in and seat themselves one next to the other, fitting themselves along the long communal tables in the dining room like sardines in into a can, that they were well versed in how things were supposed to go. They were also serving themselves pitchers of wine, red or rose, from the fountain at the end of the buffet. I called the server and asked if we had to buy a ticket for a pot of wine. "Serve yourself" she said, putting up her hand to stop me from asking any more questions, keeping her distance. So we did.

There were about 10 different dishes on the chalk board, all simple. Loic had the veal kidneys in red wine sauce and I had the chitterling sausage. Not the greatest in the world, but more than suitable for a multi-course meal with wine at this truck stop.

By the time the cheese platter loaded with generous wedges of 8 different kinds of cheese and a knife to carve at will began to circulate, the dining room was completely packed with truckers. I was the only woman dining there that evening. Loic had been reading some trivia handed out by the highway authority on our trip down the other day, and appropriately noted that there are about 65 woman truckers in France.

My neighbor had his dog with him, and they both greeted us. Discussion plucked from around us was murmured and rather limited - traffic jams, etc. There was a television in the corner that many of the truckers watched while eating. We kept to ourselves. After Loic finished his Ile Flottant and I enjoyed an extra glass of wine (it was actually quite good, and I enjoyed it, being the designated passenger), Loic opted for his coffee at one of the tables out by the car. The ride home went quickly and we were home soon enough!

Postcard: Mamie's Fête

Postcard: Brigitte's Kitchen

Postcard: Apéro et Digestif

Postcard: Sainte Marguerite

Postcard: Cote d'Azur

Grilled Sardines, a ritual.

La Cocotte Minute - and an Answer to the Beluga Lentils Question

It hissed. It sputtered and spattered. It looked like a time bomb about to explode on the stove. My mother's pressure cooker was a real monster. It turned crisp tasty cabbage to a bitter mush in the blink of an eye.

For that reason, I loathed even the idea of pressure cooking, what a terrible waste of food, not to mention the mental energy spent on the raw fear itself! About 6 months ago during a visit to the horse farm in the Auvergne, Isabelle also lugged out another hissing ancient monster and blasted some potatoes to smithereens. This seems to be an international occupation, I noted. It looked like fun, actually. There must be some appeal to this cooking process, aside from saving time.

Recently at my favorite store, TATI, a French super closeout store kind of like Big Lots, except for the fact that they also specialize in wedding dresses, I again received a nudge from the pressure cooking god. I was patrolling as usual with Fran, and we came upon a beautiful towering pyramid of stacked pressure cookers on display.

"Look, Fran, they aren't monsters." I exclaimed, curiously drawn. Pretty colors, dials and switches, colorful photos of beautiful vegetables, easy clip action, and quotes from scientific studies proving that vegetables retain much more of their precious vitamins when steamed under pressure.

I was thoroughly seduced by this song and dance, and brought it up to Loic a few days later. He too had ominous frightening memories associated with the pressure cooker, and was lukewarm on the idea. Besides, it wasn't in the budget. I was thinking primarily of a batch of black beans I had simmered and simmered for ever and ever, wasting away in the heatwave. If I had had a pressure cooker, I wouldn't have had to wait for eternity, nor would I have heated the house like a furnace! Also there was that idea of stress free early suppers instead of midnight meals because of the brown rice situation. We talked about it again, and finally agreed. Yes to the pressure cooker.

I felt like a big spender at TATI getting my Cocotte! I had planned it like I had an appointment with myself. I purposefully went around the escalators up to the top floor of Printemps to revel satisfied in their sky high price before heading back to my favorite store. I had chosen the perfect stylish sack from my collection in the front hall closet in which to carry it home, and it peeked out of the top just enough to display that I had just stepped over the line to pressure cooking. So proud of my pressure cooker! Brimming with ideas too.

I stopped by the health food store to gather up some supplies for my first experiments. Instead of hauling my sack through the narrow aisles, I left it at the front of the shop, peering out at the people. "My new owner is not afraid!" it called to the patrons who furtively examined my purchase before continuing on in their meek health food directions. I was planting seeds. Planting seeds everywhere!

One such aforementioned experiment would involve the beluga lentils question. A problem unsolved. I love the whole idea of these little black lentils, but when you boil them for the alloted time, they always lose their rich dark color, fading to a tired grayish green. I wondered... What if pressure cooked?

Ah, the sleekness. My new pressure cooker doesn't seem like it will explode at all! It has a very nice design and easy to clip on top, featuring a nice satisfying even modulated hiss when it gets going. Everything is very clear. The instruction manual was straightforward and easy. The lentils went into the cocotte, with the water, and in 8 minutes, I had a large mixing bowl full of rich dark colored fully cooked beluga lentils.

I picked up a late summer pattypan, and sliced it into 8 large pieces. I aligned them like wedges of pie in the steamer basket, topped that with a link of fresh sausage, a sprig of rosemary, and two bay leaves. Steam time in the cocotte minute - 5 minutes. Dinner!

The rosemary flavor infused into the squash, and with a drizzle of olive oil, the result was so flavorful it got me dreaming of what to cook next. I think I have discovered the secret of Lacombe's stuffed rabbit, come to think of it. They must give it a blast in the pressure cooker surrounded with fresh herbs. This is an idea I must try.

When we make the rounds to visit family, I often carry my own knives: a cleaver, my beloved G2, and a simple Japanese vegetable knife. This frightens people that don't know me, and makes my loved ones laugh. I imagine now I'll also start carrying my cocotte minute on the road. They'll get used to it.