It's true that the French have a thing for singers in pain. But Americans aren't really all that different. They had Jacques Brel and Edith Piaf.
Bonus points are given if one is so triste that they commit suicide. Which makes Britney Spears ineligible, but we Americans do have Judy Garland.
Being French, naturally, Romain worships Judy Garland.
Yet another friend is moving back to the states (woosies!) and she had a going away party last night on one of the bridges over the Seine. Since I'd stashed a few clandestine bags of marshmallows, which were getting a little long in the tooth, I thought it time to use 'em or lose 'em. In fact, they were a prominent staple on my Too Good to Use shelf and they were just languishing there, waiting for the right moment to rip open that bag.
Romain was very surprised when I told him that you can't even buy a bag of marshmallows or a box of Rice Krispies in America without some version of this recipe appearing on it.
1. Sell Classeurs
The most prevalent fixture in every French home isn't the gleaming shelf of copper cookware, the bottles of medicaments crammed into every nook in the john, or their collection of books, which the French hold in the same reverence as Americans do their flat-screen televisions and their iPhones.
No, it's the shelf of classeurs, the sturdy, colorful cardboard folders to hold the massive, sprawling, spiraling out-of-control amount of paperwork your accumulate here, in the form of les dossiers, which are the two most important words in the French language.
You quickly learn to never, ever, ever, throw away even the tiniest, most insignificant piece of paper or receipt in France because invariably, six years later, someone will ask you to produce it. So it's imperative to save each and every scrap of paper and because of that, soon you'll find you've accumulated your very own stack or dossiers.
I know, because I have at least fifty. Or more filed away somewhere.
Even though I live in a small apartment, I'm not especially good at keeping it tidy. I'm fairly neat and organized, which is essential when living and working in the same space. But I'd rather spend my time baking brownies than scrubbing sinks, if you can believe it.
Jeanne is my housecleaner and she comes every other week. (Except during her eleven-week summer vacation.) The first time we met, she strode in the front door for her interview, and immediately said to me, "Je ne suis pas une voleuse, monsieur"—"I am not a thief."
I was sure she was telling the truth, since she was better dressed than I. She arrived wearing a silk scarf tied impeccably around her neck and strode through my door in elegant leather pumps. The flowery lilt of French perfume wafted towards me as she entered, and her hair was so neatly-coiffed and sprayed into place that a mistral, the violent wind that sweeps through Provence, wouldn't have been able to budge it.
Being from San Francisco, I did the brief Adam's-apple check and yes indeed, Jeanne was the real thing.
I recently read The Pedant in the Kitchen, which Michael Ruhlman also wrote up, and while I found it an enjoyable rant, one vexing thought that stuck in the author's craw was recipe instructions that call for "a handful" of something. He didn't know what that meant and wondered why recipes couldn't be more precise.
Writing a recipe that's acceptable to absolutely everyone can be daunting, if not impossible. The purpose of any recipe is the guide the cook through the process; too much explanation and overtly-long recipes turn readers off, while short recipes often get accused of not giving enough information. How much is enough, and how little is not enough?
I once saw a three page recipe for chocolate brownies from a famed pastry chef.
Today I had what I call a "Welcome To France" day.
That expression came about a couple of years ago, when a friend who lives in Switzerland came to run in the Paris marathon.
Except when he went to register, they told him he wasn't registered even though he had a letter from them saying that he had indeed registered. And he wasn't alone; there was a roomful of other people with letters being told they weren't registered either. Luckily, he was there with a friend who was a doctor.
It wasn't because people were fainting from having traveled halfway around the world and being told they couldn't run in a marathon they'd spent the last 6 months training for. The French friend intervened (the French are much better at yelling at bureaucrats that we Americans, who crumble surprisingly easy) everyone was told they could re-register. But everyone would need to magically produce a note from their doctor attesting to their fitness.
So even though our friend specializes in breast augmentations and botox injections, he sat down and signed everyone's paperwork.
When I went to meet my friend after the marathon, he was shaking uncontrollably; very, very cold and tired.
For the holidays this year, I decided to take up a friends offer to visit their family in Méribel, a village way high up in the French alps. As you can see, it's a spectacular place. And I'm not just talking 'gorgeous sunsets' or 'charmingly quaint' spectacular. I mean, Méribel was mind-blowingly, insanely hallucinante.
Seriously, I wasn't prepared for the awesome beauty of it all. Although I haven't strapped on a pair of skis in over thirty years, there I stood, at the top of the mountain on my first day on skis in decades, ready to slide down.
Let me tell you—skiing isn't one of those things that you get more comfortable with as you get older. *sigh* Especially when you're with a group of skiers that include some crazy teenagers who, at the top of a particularly steep run, simply point their skis in the straight-down position, and shove off with their poles and a banchee-like "On y va, Daveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!"
And off they'd go...
Something around here stinks.
And it's not just my neighbor.
When I moved to Paris, I remember my first load of laundry that I proudly pulled out of my little machine tucked in the corner.
After I figured out the seven different dials and nine different buttons on the machine (actually, I've still only managed to figure out what about a third of them do), I remember extracting my clothes from the machine and hanging them all out to dry on my shiny new rack that took me a few hours to buy at the BHV. In Paris, few people have dryers since it's verboten to cut holes in buildings to vent to the outside. And even though each load of laundry takes me the better part of 3 days instead of...say, an hour...I'm happy to report I've reduced my carbon footprint.
And I've also reduced my productivity at doing anything else.
Who says New Yorkers are pushy?
Although I couldn't convince him to cut in line, watch me teach Adam Roberts how to Shop Like A Parisian in New York City.
(And yes, the camera does add 10 pounds...either that, or I seem to be sporting a Pinkberry-Belly.)
A French friend asked me recently, "David, do I look gay?"
Without a second of hesitation, I replied, "Yes, absolutely."
"Why?" he said.
"Well, for one thing," I told him, "You're French—which makes you suspect. Another is that you're wearing a pink polo shirt. You also answer your emails quickly and you spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about your hair."
"And you have a nice butt," I added for good measure, perhaps because he's a rugby player.
So how does one tell the difference between a man who's European or one who's gay?
What are the absolute last words you want to hear when invited to someone's home for a meal?
Well, how about...
"We had some fish that was about to go bad, so we're having it for dinner."
Welcome to my world. A world you thought was all baguettes and chocolate.
Well it now includes dubious fish too.
The rules for hygiene are a little different here than in America. I was pretty shocked to see on my trip to the US in June, little bottles of hand-sanitizer dangling from people's belts and fanny packs, as well as available in supermarkets with towelettes to wipe down the handles on shopping carts. But I'm equally shocked that people think it's okay to leave stock-based preparations on the counter for a day or so, then consume then. (They use stock in science labs to grow bacteria since it's such an inviting medium. Just so you know.)
Although Dorie Greenspan thinks we might need those little bottles of sanitizer around here pretty soon for Vélib' hands, after riding around town for a few weeks, I'm almost inclined to agree with her after riding around for the past few weeks.
Although I've been certified in food sanitation, sometimes I just need to suspend logic around here and just go with the flow. The fish, though, I pushed aside. I'm thrilled to be accepted by the locals, but let's not take this "I'm so French" thing too far...
Ah, la salade niçoise...
One of the classics of French cooking and one of my favorite things to dig into sitting on the terrace of a café, dreaming idling away the afternoon by the sparkling Mediterranean. But really, who wouldn't want to dig into a big, fresh salad bursting forth with the flavors of the sunny French Riviera, no matter where you live?
There's always much controversy about the salade niçoise regarding what's authentic and what's not.
Does one use fresh or canned tuna?
Is there a bed of lettuce underneath or does one leave it out?
Are there olives in it?
Boiled potatoes or rice?
Should it be mixed or composed?
And although I'm not convinced about artichokes, there's folks out there who swear by them.
I'm not really sure if there's a definitive answer as to what's correct.
But I'm pretty sure about one thing.
This ain't it...
First I came up with the title for this post, since I thought it would be a fun jeu de mots. But then I realized I had to figure out what the heck I was going write about. So I put on my long-neglected thinking cap, scrolled through the email addresses of my last few remaining friends, and scanned my agenda, desperately searching for inspiration.
Then it hit me.
And then I thought, "Hey, what don't I give Dorie Greenspan a call?"
Thankfully Madame Greenspan agreed to go along on this ruse with me so I could get this post up and running. But there was also the promise of something buttery and sweet, rubber-clad fish boys, just-roasted coffee, prowling through my favorite Arab épicerie with floor-to-ceiling dried fruits and nuts, and finishing it up with verrines at a trendy restaurant. How could she refuse?
And refuse she did not.
So off we went.
Our first stop last Tuesday was blé sucré, en route to the Marche d'Aligre.
One of the biggest cultural differences between the French and Americans is the acceptance of public nudity.
I don't think I need to tell you which side I'm on: I'm a big proponent of it.
As long is I get to keep my clothes on in public.
But for others? Allez-y, mes amis!
In spite of their alleged laissez-faire, free-wheelin' attitudes, San Franciscans are not quite the wild-and-crazy bunch you might think. Like...yes, you have the right to be nude, but I have the right not to see it. So as long as your right doesn't infringe on my right, then you have the right to do it. Of course if you want the right to do it, we can have a public referendum on it or introduce an initiative so the supervisors can debate and vote on it. The it becomes a question of: do we have the right to be nude and is that right greater than your right but do they have the right to tell me what to do either? And shouldn't my right to express myself be greater than your right not to have to look at me? Then it goes on to, well...what about all those naked dogs running around town? Do they have the right to be...etc...etc...
Oy.
Anyhow, on my trip back last month, I went to a yoga class.
In the communal changing area, I innocently slipped off my trousers and slid on my shorts. It wasn't a big deal and took me perhaps all of three quick seconds. I was wearing my euro-skivvies, which are about as modest as a Speedo, and you can't really see anything (because of the light, not for other reasons...) unless you're really, really trying to get a look. It was a simple, economical 'off-on' motion and if it excited anyone, I'd be very surprised. (Although I'm sure there are pictures floating around on the internet somewhere. Let me know if you find any.)
"Excuse me!" this woman huffs nearby. "You know, there's a changing area behind that curtain!"
I look around, and yes, there is an lonely, tiny curtained-off section in the corner. But yikes, I lived in San Francisco for almost twenty years and I've seen far, far greater displays of flesh on the streets (and on the streetcars) that I had shown in those few not-very-revealing moments. It wasn't like I was trying to put on a public show or anything and at my age, I can't believe anyone's actually looking either. I'm thrilled if they are—believe me.
But I was simply changing and it seemed fine, in a PG-13 kind of way. After all, we're all adults and there was nothing you can't see in a Beyoncé video on MTV (and if I have to hear her once more going on about how she's so 'conflicted' having this sexy imagine with her religious beliefs...I mean, it's not like she's being forced to wear those ugly outfits with her girl-things spilling out, is she?)
But let's contrast my San Francisco experience to that at my yoga class back in Paris.
Our communal changing room is about the size of a Hummer and we're packed in there tight, commes les anchois. I mean, when you pull up your trousers, your elbows are bound to bump someone where you don't intend to bump 'em. But what's even more shocking, if you're so inclined to be shocked, is that the women take everything off. All off. Everything. And yes, I mean, yes, everything.
One of my good friends, who's been living in Europe for the past eight years, announced the other day that he's probably moving back to the states.
Thinking about it, he probably...
...won't have to get all dressed up to go to the store to buy a hammer or a sponge or a pencil.
...won't have to wear clothing that actually fits.
...will have to learn the difference between 'relaxed' and 'casual' fit.
...won't have to talk about anything except real estate prices.
...won't have to worry about anything except the price of gas and Paris Hilton.
...won't have to wonder what all the fuss is about Eurovision.
...will get to shop on Sundays.
...will get to shop after 7pm.
...will get to shop 24/7.
...will have to get a prescription to get prescription drugs.
...will have to worry about getting arrested for mooning and being registered as a sex offender.
...will get to return absolutely anything, no matter what condition it's in, without a three hour discussion about it and several reams of paperwork to fill out.
...will get to have his medical decisions made by someone more knowledgeable than his doctor.
People often say I'm the luckiest person in the world for the kind of life they perceive that I lead. But I've found some folks who've got me beat, hands-down.
I'm back from my book tour, which was exhilarating but made me a tad homesick. Although really, if one thinks about it, how many times can one visit Target in a month? And don't even get me started on Walgreens...I mean, how much chapstick does a guy need? (Well, plenty, it seems...)
With my suitcases stuffed to the gills, my last weekend was spent in Seattle, Target-free, where I had lots and lots of good things to eat and drink, from sipping espresso with gal-pal Shauna, to get-together with a gaggle of food bloggers that was well-oiled by lots of good wine mixed with plates of the freshest food overlooking the water. There was time to catch up with new and old friends, unwind, and after a few glasses of wine, a bit of comparing notes was in order.
So watch it out there, readers!
On this last day, a chocolate tasting was planned at Theo Chocolate, one of a handful of excellent small-scale chocolate makers in the United States. From the moment I walked in the unassuming front door on North Phinney Avenue, I knew this was going to be a heckuva lot of fun for me and the guests who stopped by to say hi and sample.
It was like a big party going on inside, with lots and lots of chocolate everywhere. I've never seen such happy, excited people. Now those people are living the sweet life. But can you blame them? Being surrounded by all this chocolate, I'd be the happiest fellow on the planet as well. And for one afternoon, I was.
As mentioned, Theo is one of the few chocolate-makers in the US, making chocolate from the beans to the bar. Using organic and Fair-Trade beans, batches of beans are roasted, ground, then shaped into tablets of chocolate, many of them 'origin' bars, highlighting the nuances of cacao beans from various parts of the world. But unlike some of the other chocolate-makers, they've got chocolatier Autumn Martin, who's crafting some of the finest chocolate confections I've ever tasted in my life.
Do you mind if I talk about the richest, purest flavors imaginable?
Okay, don't mind if I do.
With just two-and-a-half years of chocolate-making under her belt, Autumn's managed to hit just the right notes with every chocolate I tried.
There are two periods during the year when stores are allowed to have Les Soldes, or The Sales. They occur once in the winter, beginning shortly after New Years Day, while the summer soldes start in late June. Although Americans think its odd, the government's official explanation is that les soldes give stores a chance to blow-out all last seasons merchandise quickly by creating a little frenzy. But I think another reason is to give the little stores a break, since as we've seen in America, often the smaller merchants get squeezed out by the big guys offering lower prices on things by holding sales all the time.
So onward to the BHV. What is the BHV, you ask?
Imagine someone scouring the every corner of the world, looking for the least-helpful people on the planet. Then they hire them and put them in one enormous department store that's impossible to navigate but full of everything imaginable and necessary for daily life in Paris, so you really have no choice but to shop there.
And those are the people in charge of helping you.
And now, you get the idea of the BHV.
So today is the first day of les soldes and I would say to anyone who has fantasies that Parisians are polite, classy, and sophisticated, hasn't been elbowed out of the way in front of the bins at the BHV department store, strong-arming anyone who might get between them and something they want.
Or don't want.
It doesn't really matter.
And Parisians tend to go a little wild here, since in general, things like clothing and housewares are pretty expensive. I happened to be heading to the BHV this morning, since last night I switched on my desk lamp and blew out some fuses in my apartment. Although I was determined not to get involved in the hubbub, once inside I got caught up in the madness and thought, "Well, I guess I could use a new pair of jeans." Last week I discovered a bare spot forming in a place where not a lot of people get a close look at, thinking their days are numbered.
To make a long story short, I never made it to the hardware department, but instead got taken in by the stacks and stacks of jeans that were all 30% off. Since you can't get away with wearing American-style baggy-assed jeans in Paris, you need to wear pants that are well-fitted, snug-tight up against your rear end (no matter what you weigh.)
Our unless you're under the age of 21. Then you wear jeans hanging halfway down your butt, but only as long as you're wearing boxer shorts underneath rather than those Euro-sling undies and swimsuits that some men in my age (well above the age of 22) like to wear here.
Not finding what I liked, I left empty-handed. But with my adrenalin (or was it my morning cáfe au lait?) pumping, I raced to the Levi Store in the Bastille. Not quite busy yet (aha!, I beat those young folks wasting their lives away in school), the young salesmen were instantly drawn to me, amazed at the Levis that I was wearing, which were made with a special cut and fabric that I bought in San Francisco. So there I find mself, surrounded by handsome, unshaven, young French men, all oohing and aahing while staring at my butt and crotch, reaching over feeling the fabric, and closing in all around me. I don't know if it was me, or the summer heat has finally arrived once and for all, but it was surely getting much warmer in there. And naturally, I decided right away that I needed a new pair of Levis, and this was the place I must get them.
Helping me find a style I liked, one of the friendly young men, wearing a well-fitted t-shirt (was it Levis? If so, I want one too.) He kept calling me jeaune homme (young man), while asking me what I thought about the style that he was wearing by running his hands up and down his thighs to emphasize and make sure I understood how good they fit (yes, I did.) So he hands me a few pairs of the same jeans to try on, and transfixed, I head to the dressing room.
Since we're in France, there's no need to be shy and he pops right in soon afterwards and starts surveying the fit by yanking and patting and making sure all button-fly's buttons were laying properly, exclaiming how well they fit. Yes, they're supposed to be that tight, he told me. And for additional emphasis, in case I didn't quite get it (yes, I did) he makes doubly-sure with his hands that I know there's little room in there for anything besides maybe a Euro-sling, and perhaps a few centimes or fuses (...fuses? What fuses?...) But certainly not much else.
Soon all the other boys, er, I mean jeaunes homes, came by and made sure I'm getting properly fitted, admiring my choice in jeans. When I questioned whether I might need a larger size, one turned to show me how his fit him, sliding precariously down his backside, and he asked me if I wanted to same. (Yes, I did.)
But instead I went home with the jeans I had on, at 20% off, back to my darker apartment, thinking I'll go back first thing tomorrow and get fuses.
But perhaps if the BHV took a cue from Levis and hired a few of these helpful young men as salespeople, customers like me might leave their store happily with something more than just a fuse in their pocket.
Levis
47, Faubourg St. Antoine
Tél: 01 44 87 03 06
"You're going to flip out."
That was the message I got from a representative and friend from KitchenAid when he found out I was finally going to visit their factory. It was a visit I've been waiting years to make.
I'd been meaning to visit the KitchenAid factory ever they brought up the idea to me a few years ago, asking me to give a baking demonstration there as well. I can't imagine life without my KitchenAid mixer and most other bakers I know feel the same way (and I love seeing how things are made, anything. I just find it fascinating, no matter what I'm watching being put-together.)
And if you have a KitchenAid mixer, you know what I'm talking about. It's without a doubt the one essential tool that most home bakers can't live without. The mixer we used at Chez Panisse was a solid performer after twenty years of hard restaurant use (it outlasted me!) and my personal mixer has been in service for well over 15 years. When I began doing baking demonstrations over a decade ago, I was so enthusiastic that I reached my arms around the one that I was using and gave it a big, generous hug.
Word of that hug reached KitchenAid headquarters and ever since then, I've been lucky to get to know many of the terrific folks who work for KitchenAid, both in the United States and Europe. And when they heard I was heading to the US this month, we worked in a date to visit their factory for a private look at how the mixers are put together. They gave me special permission to take photographs so much of what you'll see here was generously allowed by KitchenAid.
A visit to the factory begins with a viewing of some of the classic stand mixers. The first produced was the Model H, introduced in 1919 and sold until 1927. It weighed a hefty 60-pounds and stores were so skeptical of its saleability that it was lugged door-to-door by housewives, hoping to convince other homemakers of its value.
The price? The Model H sold back then for $199 which is the equivalent today of about $1400.
Over the next several decades the designs changed to reflect the times, with my favorite being this one, totally streamlined with swoops and curvilinear lines, suggesting speed and industrialism. Someday I hope this one is re-issued as a Special-Edition, since I think it's the most beautiful of all the models ever produced.
Others models were made of materials strong enough to withstand the rugged KitchenAid motor within.
There were contemporary mixers on display too, including custom models made to commemorate certain events, including this one. One hundred of them were made and donated as thank-you gestures to the New York City Fire Departments for their efforts and heroism after September 11th.
Another 100 were made later and sold on eBay, with the proceeds going to 9/11 charities.
I learned that KitchenAid is the only company in America which still makes counter top appliances in the United States. All others brands are made overseas, although a few select KitchenAid appliances like the heavy-duty Pro-Line Espresso Maker (which I seriously envy) is made in Italy. Each and every KitchenAid appliance manufactured out of the United States is taken out of the box, vigorously-tested, then re-sealed before it's ready for sale.
The first thing that I saw when I entered the factory are the newest models and colored mixers lined up, practically floor-to-ceiling! They ranged in hues like sunny Meyer Lemon, Martha Green (named after...), Caviar (black with silver flecks), a cheerful Green Apple, Olive, and colorfully-red Bing Cherry.
If I didn't already own several mixers, I would have tried to sneak out the brilliant-yellow Meyer Lemon model under my jacket, although it's being considered for retirement. New colors are constantly introduced, then retired, sop that new ones can be added. So if you ever see a color that you like, get it while it's hot. One enduring color that's been offered for years, with a new expanded product line, is the pink mixer, with 10% from the sale of each going to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. There's no plans to retire that one, and in fact, they've added other products in that color range.
Each KitchenAid mixer takes about one-day to assemble. The actual building of the mixer is done in several stages: The engines are assembled and installed in the cast-metal housing by one team, the parts are heavily oiled (using three-times the amount of lubrication required for a lifetime of use), then sealed tight by another group, then the mixers are tested in another area, replicating 30 years of normal home use. Once they pass inspection, they're packaged up and ready to be shipped off.
Each person in the factory makes an average of 92 standing mixers per day, with 22 people working on the line at any given time. Christmas starts in June at KitchenAid, when temporary workers are hired to assemble mixers to meet the upcoming holiday demand.
I left my resumé.
One of the newest improvements to the KitchenAid standing mixer is their sturdiest whip yet. Unlike the dough hook and paddle attachments, the whip has several different parts affixed together, making it the part that takes the most abuse (sometimes I think I know exactly how it feels.) I watched how each individual whip was spun around while a woman patiently threaded each wire, interlacing them and securing them to the core.
The happiest folks in the factory are not on the floor, but in a special, plusher chamber. These are the "call girls", as they're known. These happy cookers spend their days servicing clients, tirelessly, one right after the other. They're the on-site customer service team, helping customers seeking advice about their appliances. Although the main call center is elsewhere (in Michigan), KitchenAid likes some of their customer service workers to remain in the factory, keeping them in touch with the manufacturing process, so they can respond to requests quickly and accurately.
So when you call KitchenAid, you can ask to speak to someone in the factory in Greenville. You'll get connected to one of the highly-knowledgable service team members there (...and tell them I sent you...they're not likely to forget me!)
Is your mixer making a funny sound?
Hold the phone to the machine while it's operating and they can diagnose it for you.
Wondering how you can raise the bowl so that the whip reaches the absolute bottom of it?
There's a tiny screw located underneath the mixer head that you can turn counterclockwise (on the K5) that'll do the trick. I've been using my KitchenAid mixer for years and never knew that.
Of course if I had read the instructions...and we all read instruction manuals, don't we?
Just a short ride away is the KitchenAid Experience, an interactive center where everything that KitchenAid makes is available to try out and play around with.
There's also a teaching kitchen with demonstrations throughout the day. I did one, making all sorts of chocolate treats for guests, including chewy Chocolate Financiers, Rocky Road with Homemade Marshmallows, Peanuts, and Cocoa Nibs, and Double Chocolate Ice Cream with Stracciatella, using the brand-new ice cream attachment, which works with all KitchenAid standing mixers.
Each and every appliance is available on the floor to play around with and bargain-hunters should descend to the lower-level, a room packed floor-to-ceiling with factory refurbished mixers and blenders.
When a KitchenAid product is returned to a store, it's sent back to the factory. The box is opened, the appliance removed and thoroughly inspected and tested. Then it's re-sealed and offered for sale at a substantial discount: Each appliance meets the same rigorous standards as a spanking-new model.
I saw hyper-powerful 6-quart KitchenAid mixers available for slightly more than $200 and chrome blenders being sold for less than half the retail price. And there was lots and lots of mixers and other appliances in colors that had been retired or in various experimental finishes that you won't find anywhere else.
If you can't make it to the KitchenAid Experience, you can shop find your own bargain on a reconditioned model at Amazon.
Big thanks to the staff at KitchenAid for taking the time to show my everything, as I poked through boxes and rifled through bins of parts. They answered all my questions and I'll never rev up my KitchenAid standing mixer again without thinking of what went into it before it became a fixture in my kitchen and my life.
You can find amazing bargains on reconditioned KitchenAid appliances at Amazon, such as powerful K5 mixers for only $129, and gorgeous chrome-plated blenders for only $39, which will save you hundreds of dollars.
The KitchenAid Experience is located in Greenville, Ohio, about 45 minutes from Dayton and 2 hours from Cinncinati.
The KitchenAid Experience
423 South Broadway
Greenville, Ohio
Tel: 1-888-886-8318
Factory Tours of KitchenAid
1701 KitchenAid Way
Greenville, Ohio
Tours given Monday through Friday, at 10am and 1pm (subject to change, so call ahead.)
St. Clair Place (excellent Bed & Breakfast in town)
224 E. Third Street
Greenville, Ohio
Email: stclairplace@earthlink.net
By David Lebovitz
I think that I shall never see,
A Powerball™ as lovely as ici.
The rosy ball ensures success
Against my dishes, which entered a mess.
Inside the dishwasher, so full it is scary,
But I just press the button! Could I be more merry?
A sudsy froth, I'm sure it will yield,
Behind the closed door, its fate has been sealed.
An unequaled tablet, whose gift is released,
Round and round goes each cycle, until all has ceased.
Without it I know that my life would be worse,
Washing dishes by hand is indeed quite a curse.
A mess is made daily by fools just like me,
So I give thanks to Calgon, for they make what you see.
(...with apologies to Joyce Kilmer, 1886-1918)
Welcome To Prune Blogging Thursday!
I was, frankly, a bit surprised that anyone but me participated...but most of the prune-skeptics out there seem to have been won over. Participants were from all over the world: Italy, Estonia, France, Scotland, Spain, Germany, Canada, and the United States. Thanks to everyone for sending me your entries and I encourage readers out there to visit their web sites to read about their prune-alicious adventures.
In spite what I now see as a highly-organized, internationally-recognized conspiracy against prunes, here are entries from all over the world.
Hope you enjoy them as much as I did!
The divine Judy of Over a Tuscan Stove has a savory and amazing recipe for Cinghiale in Dolce Forte, adapted from an ancient recipe. Her wild boar stew has nice plump prunes...along with a suspicion of chocolate!
The zesty red-headed Laura of Cucina Testa Rossa began a torrid love affair with, what she writes, "the most expensive prunes in the world", the famed Stuffed Prunes from Agen. Then she went on to make a creamy Glace de Pruneaux d'Agen et Armagnac, Prune & Armagnac ice cream, making full use of her new ice cream freezer.
Fellow Parisian Christine who resides at Chez Christine presents a stunning Terrine de Canard aux Pruneaux et a l'Armagnac (Duck Terrine with Prunes and Armagnac) along with the recipe, which sounds worth tackling for the holidays.
Or perhaps she's taking orders?
Zorra, from Andalucia, Spain, made some fabulous tapas of Sherry-Soaked Prunes in Bacon, a variation of the delicious bacon-wrapped dates which I've had grilled and served in many tapas bars. I can't wait to try it with prunes and it's simple enough for anyone to make...no matter where you live.
My gal Alicat slinks in with two original tarts; Apricot & Prune Tart, and Dark Chocolate, Pecan, & Prune Tart. Both tarts look terrific and she and I did a mind-meld and were the only ones who combined chocolate with prunes in our desserts.
Peter at Tea Leaves found his own translation for pruneaux d'Agen. And even if a scholar of the French language might take exception to his method, his entry How To Eat Prunes had me eying my prized bottle of Armagnac in anticipation of making his boozy infusion.
I was almost afraid to open Lindy's post at Toast since it was titled "Nightingale with Prunes". But instead of something 'fowl', I found a delicate and delicious prune-presentation inspired by a recipe from pastry hero Pierre Hermé.
Pille, an Estonian living in Scotland, who's captivating blog presents an I Am So Good For You Prune Cake called hapukoorekook kuivatatud ploomidega, (although she slipped once and called it 'plum juice' when she meant 'prune juice'). In spite of the, er, high-fiber benefits of prunes, her recipe packs in some extra wheat bran!
My Amateur Gourmet Survivor, Melissa, survived her search for two prune recipes and discovered an Iranian Prune Stew and a 'Plumb' Cake that I could almost smell just looking at the pictures.
Merci Melissa!
Marc gave prunes, what he calls, "some X-appeal", and he re-created my pal and baking guru Nick Malgieri's X-Cookies, using a gift from his ex. Hmmm...he looks like he's become an X-pert in cookie-making.
Ulrike made a stunning Couscous Tabbouleh with Glazed Prunes, a trans-Atlantic combination of organic California Prunes cooked up in Germany. (Check out the swirly Apfelrezepte carving off to the side of the blog too!) Ulrike wasn't the only one who looked to the Middle East for inspiration...
Another Scottish import (seems like a trend, Scottish food bloggers!), Iain, presents a Beef in Beer with Guiness-Soaked Prunes that looks like just the thing for that blustery winter coming soon to Scotland.
Over in LA, Rachel makes one of my favorite snacks, Dried Plum Financiers and offers an explanation of their mysterious journey from 'prunes' to 'dried plums'.
Sarah Lou from Canada made a flaky Moroccan Basteeya Pie, which is one of my all-time favorite dishes; layers of filo dough brushed with butter then filled with shredded chicken, cinnamon, and a touch of sweetness.
Michele said I gave her the courage to tackle prunes in a Lamb Tagine with Prunes. While I appreciate her kinds words, I think comparing me to her grandmother in her post means I deserve some delicious gift, don't you?
Perhaps some salted-butter caramels Michele?
And Melissa said , "Okay, David, you've won. Then she came out with a lovely Whiskied Prune and Custard Tart that features a juicy prune filling spilling out from a flaky tart filling. She did mention she still felt unease when cooking with prunes (wait 'til tomorrow if you want to feel uneasy, Melissa...)
When I'm not using his blog for my socio-political rants, fish-headed Brett stewed up a lovely melagne of Masala Chai Poached Prunes which combines sublime Indian spices with smoky Assam tea, creating a nice warm bath for his prunes from Casa Gispert in Barcelona, one of my favorite food places in the world.
I will forgive Fatemeh for calling me neurotic (after all, Woody Allen's made a career out of it...why can't I?) Especially since she's driving me across the Bay Area soon in our pursuit of the best Chinese dim sum soon. So I was afraid she might make Prune dim sum, but instead found inspiration in a recipe from her childhood, which Prune Blogging Thursday happily rekindled: Toss Kabak, a savory Meat and Prune Stew with the addition of quince.
Molly of Orangette, I thought, would dip her prunes in delicious dark chocolate, but instead stewed up a storm with Stewed Prunes with Cinnamon and Citrus, which she's going to "stew us into submission" with. Glad she overcame her friend's giggling fits when she told them about prunes. I mean, when her friend gets old and wrinkly, I hope no one's giggling at her!
And a few late entries...
Cathy sent in her recipe and photos for Prune Bread from her blog at My Little Kitchen.
Spicy Prune Mole from Jocelyn at Brownie Points using Dagoba organic chocolate, which is one of my favorite chocolates.
Alanna from A Veggie Venture has a Prune Tsimmes.
And from Barrett at Too Many Chefs, Bleu Cheese, Prune, and Onion Tart, and from Meg, who actually loves prunes and is under 60 years old (it was our visit to the farm expo here in Paris that prompted prune-madness) and posted her idea of The Best Thing To Do With Prunes. Find out for yourself at Too Many Chefs.
And from Elizabeth, there an Icelandic Prune Layer Cake and a savory Chicken (or Lamb) Couscous with Prunes and Apricots from another part of the world. Prune lovers unite!
Ok...and finally...
Prune Blogging Thursday gave me the courage to perfect my recipe for making chocolate French-style Macarons with your choice of a creamy chocolate ganache filling, or an Armagnac-scented prune filling.
Whew!
Thanks again to everyone for participating in the first, the original, (and the only) Prune Blogging Thursday.
(PS: All my chocolate macarons are gone! They were quickly wiped out at my friend Heather's 30th birthday party this weekend. Thanks for asking.)
I've been thinking about this for quite a while, and figured I'd ask "Is it just me?...What would you do?"
Let's say you've been invited to someone's house for dinner. Yum.
You arrive and they're preparing the food. There's piles of fresh produce and meat on the counter, ready to be whipped up into something magical and tasty. Vibrant tomatoes, leafy greens, juicy meat ready to be roasted....hmmmm.
Can you practically taste it?
As you sip your glass of red wine, you watch and chat with your host as they prepare dinner.
They wash the raw chicken or pork under running water in the kitchen sink. Afterwards a quick wipe their hands (uh oh, you begin to think...no soap!...not to mention they're going to use that kitchen towel again and again and again...).
Then they fill the sink with water to wash the lettuce...without cleaning it out!
Ick!
Or what if they're making a salad, and take the knife they've just used to cut up the uncooked pork sausage?
Without wiping the knife, they begin slicing the cucumbers and tomatoes for the salad, tossing it all together, then triumphantly setting it down on the table.
I mean, Hello?
Since you're a extremely polite and gracious guest, like I am, (and believe me, no one's allergic to lettuce or cucumbers...so forget that one.)
I mean, it's not like you can just eat around the salmonella, can you?
...what do you do?
Trim cube of chocolate
Gush out liquid espresso!
Clever caffeine cloak
