Split (pea) personality

I feel like I’m developing a split personality: Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. I wouldn’t leave this bed if there was an atomic blast in my kitchen.

Yesterday I was so exhausted (3 ½ weeks till my due date) that I couldn’t even muster the will to hit the supermarket. So I found myself staring into the open refrigerator, surveying this week’s odds and ends.

When I first moved to Paris, G. would often find me meditating in front of the open fridge – contemplating world peace or choosing middle names for my unborn children. This studying of the culinary stockpile seems to be a uniquely American habit. The French never open the fridge in passing, just to check if everything’s still there. Personally, I draw comfort from it – like a king surveying his realm.

To combat the fatigue, I’ve been told I need more iron in my diet. So I went hunting for a bag of orange lentils I was sure I had stashed at the back of a cabinet some months ago. My thought was a cold lentil salad with a zingy orange-ginger vinaigrette, handfuls of chopped herbs and slices of white peach. (The purple-green Puy lentils, more common in France, just seemed too dark for a summer salad.) After unpacking half the kitchen, what I came up with were not orange lentils, but a bag of yellow split peas. That will have to do.

The split peas have been hiding up there for a while – I’m pretty sure I bought them after trip to Puglia, where we were served warm split pea puree drizzled with wonderful glass green olive oil and a grind of fresh pepper. Still hankering after a cold salad – I tried cooking the dried peas al dente, as I would the lentils – but a ½ hour later I ended up with a chalky, starchy mess. So I decided to boil on past defeat and transform my salad into the silky puree I’d eaten with such gusto in Italy.

When the peas were sweet and tender and the liquid almost absorbed, I got out the power tools. I’m deeply attached to my hand blender – a dainty equivalent to an obsession with chain saws. The orange-ginger vinaigrette was already made, so I dumped it in. The recipe’s necessary dose of olive oil would have some lively company.



The result was a warm, golden puree – with just enough citrus to deviate from the classic. I toasted some Pain Poliâne, slathered the bread, and chopped some dill. My tartines were still lacking a bit of sunshine, so I put a slice of white peach on top.

Lunch was delicious, but more effort than I’d anticipated. Time for a nap.

Yellow Spilt Pea Puree with Orange Ginger Vinaigrette

2 cups yellow split peas
6 cups cold water
3 tablespoons best extra virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice
3 teaspoons sherry vinegar
1 ½ teaspoons freshly grated ginger
Generous ¼ teaspoon coarse sea salt
Fresh chopped dill, to taste
½ white peach, thinly sliced
Thinly sliced sourdough bread, toasted

In a medium saucepan, combine peas and water. Bring to boil, lower the heat and simmer for 50 minutes to 1 hour, until most of the water is absorbed.

In a glass jar or airtight container, add the oil, orange juice, vinegar, ginger and salt. Give it a good shake to combine.

Stir the vinaigrette into the peas; puree with your hand blender (or in a regular blender).

Serve warm with an extra drizzle of olive oil, the chopped dill and a slice of white peach.

Serves 4 (light lunch) or 8-10 (hors d’oeuvre).

Little Bunny Foo Foo (with Pastis)

Don't be alarmed. I'm making rabbit for dinner.

For those of us raised on supermarket meat sold under saran wrap, I know the idea of eating a rabbit is the equivalent of carving up your Cabbage Patch doll. But once I got past the initial shock of the whole skinned carcasses in the window of my local butcher, I found rabbit creeping into my Paris kitchen on a regular basis. It has a subtle foresty taste and nice meaty texture - so much more enlivening than chicken.

Since we are the only people in Paris not on vacation this month - I decided I would bring a bit of vacation to dinner. I would cook the rabbit with Pastis - the most summer-ish of French aperitifs.

Pastis has a lovely licorice kick, so it seemed only natural, when choosing veggies, to pair it with fennel and the sweetest, narrowest carrots I could find.

While the rabbit was on the stove, I was cutting the tags off of baby clothes, so I can start packing for the hospital. I'm beginning to notice a disturbing trend. When I laid the French items on top of the American ones my mother sent over, I found that the American clothes were about 2 inches wider- not longer, but wider - than their French counterparts. There's a book in here somewhere: French babies don't get fat.

The baby clothes discrepancy points to many others I've noticed during my pregnancy - particularly with regard to weight. The French books I've been given, including the official government handbook, recommend a weight gain of 1 kilo per month - that's 20-22 pounds. Meanwhile, the American books I've read, as well as the Web MD emails I'm receiving in my inbox every week, seem to think that 35 pounds is absolutely normal. Who is right? What is necessary?

I always said I wanted to be pregnant "like a French woman". It's phenomenal, You can't see anything from the back, and up front, they all look like they have a basketball tucked under their shirt. They wear tight little sweaters and low rise jeans that show off their bellies, and polished ballerina flats below their decidedly unswollen ankles.

Now, I'm hardly a French pixie. I come from hearty Russian peasant stock - i.e. what my grandma would politely call "buzooms" and hips designed to give birth in a field, digging potatoes. Yet, so far, I seem to be doing it the French way. Frankly, I can't imagine gaining any more. As it is, I'm running my hands over my stomach everyday, looking for the eject button. I'm carrying around the equivalent of a Butterball Turkey over here.

There is nothing inherently virtuous about French cuisine. To finish off the rabbit, I added a cup full of fresh peas, but I also added 1/4 cup of heavy cream. And while I'm sure there's no 'ideal weight' for a pregnant lady, I'm more and more convinced that my Parisian eating habits help keep things calmly (and deliciously) in line. I can't take any credit. If I was home in NY right now, I'm pretty sure I'd be eating Pillsbury vanilla frosting out of the can.

This is nurture, not nature, at work.

Rabbit with Pastis, Fennel and Fresh Peas

1 rabbit, with liver, cut into 8 pieces
2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons olive oil
Coarse sea salt

2 carrots, coarsely chopped
1 half bulb fennel, coarsely chopped

4-6 shallots, whole or, if large, halved
2 tablespoons Anisette or Pastis

1 cup dry white wine
4 small carrots, halved or quartered lenghtwise

1 additional bulb fennel, cut into large chunks

1/4 cup creme fraiche or heavy cream

1/2 teaspoon cornstarch

1 cup fresh peas

1 handful of chervil, chopped

In your largest frying pan or Dutch oven, heat 1 tablespoon butter and 1 tablespoon olive oil. Brown the rabbit well on all sides; sprinkle generously with coarse sea salt. Remove the rabbit to a plate. Add the additional tablespoon of butter and oil, saute the chopped carrots, fennel and shallots until softened and slightly golden - 5-6 minutes.

Add the rabbit back to the pan, deglaze with Pastis, let sizzle for a minute. Add white wine. Tuck the carrots and fennel in between the rabbit. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, cover and cook for 40-45 minutes, turning once at the 20 minute mark.

Remove the rabbit to a plate, cover with aluminum foil. Add cornstarch to the sauce - stir to dissolve fully. Add cream and bring to a boil; reduce the sauce for 5 minutes. Add the rabbit, peas and chevril to the pan; heat through.

Serve with wild rice.

Serves 4.

Last first dates and wild strawberry sorbet

On the balmy evening before Bastille Day, G. and I went down to the Ile Saint Louis for wild strawberry sorbet. The kids on our street had already acquired their firecrackers - and were squealing with delight as they set them off underneath our windows.

This feels like a special time. Without thinking, G. and I seem to be retracing our steps - visiting our old haunts, craving familiar tastes. We are doing a bit of reliving, turning back the clock to ten years ago, when G. walked me around Paris for the first time.

Our friends are away, our August vacation plans long canceled because of the arrival of the baby. So we are on our own again, like the bubble we lived in those first months together, before I could speak French, when we couldn't get ourselves out of bed before noon, and every tarte au citron and sprinkle of fleur de sel felt like a revelation.

The only ice-cream in Paris worth eating is made by Berthillon. In the true measure of French success, the original Maison Berthillon is closed from mid-July until the end of August - but they sell their wares to restaurants and tearooms throughout Paris, with a cluster of stands on the Ile Saint Louis, the tiny Island of aristocratic mansions and beamed ceilings in the middle of the Seine. We usually go to Pom' Cannelle, which has a strong selection of flavors and is as far as you can get from the tourists flowing out of Notre Dame. The ice-cream is dense and creamy - served in golf-ball sized scoops. You have to be a real purist to order a 'simple' (pronounced samp-le), I usually order a 'double' (doob-le). Menthe (fresh mint), Creole (Rum Raisin) and Nougat Miel (Honey-Nougat) are at the top of my list.


As good as the ice-cream is, it's the sorbets that are Berthillon's real stand-outs. Creature of habit that I am, I almost always order cacao amer - a bitter chocolate sorbet so dark it's closing in on black. My second scoop depends on mood and whimsy: poire (pear), melon, rhubarbe or framboise à la rose (raspberry with a hint of rose). But again, habit often sets in and I go back to my old favorite: fraise des bois (wild strawberry). These gem-like fruits are tiny strawberry grenades - releasing a tart, concentrated flavor that downgrades every other strawberry I've tasted to the level of Bubblicious.

We took our cones, wrapped in a single paper napkin, and walked down the narrow stone steps to the quai - just a few meters above the Seine. We stepped over boys with bongos, waved at the passing Bateaux Mouches. We sat down on the tip of island, our feet dangling over the water. This precious month before the baby is born feels like a 'last first date'. We will never again be entirely alone in the world.

There's a different kind of romance beginning. I know I've been younger, and lighter, and having to pee 26 times a day is no picnic - but I've never been happier.

A silent Saturday, some seaweed (and a hot bath)

Paris was deserted this morning. Not a person in sight, not a car on the street…the whole country is headed South to the sunshine – the radio just announced 600 kilometers of bumper to bumper traffic throughout France today. Paris is back to its usual gray, temperate self – which this pregnant lady appreciates!

I was enjoying the silence until I got to the door of our local boulangerie and found the sign above. They too are somewhere in the great national traffic jam. Thus we are doomed to eat mediocre croissants till the 2nd of August…sigh.

The Saturday market was equally devoid of shoppers, some regulars were already on holiday – their spots taken by knick-knack vendors.

Thank goodness there were still some fruits and vegetables in residence. I picked up some beefsteak tomatoes and sweetpeas, apricots and white nectarines. I shelled the peas at my desk, watching reruns of The West Wing - and there were a few escapees. I can't crouch down under the desk anymore, so G. went in (above and beyond the call of duty).

If we are dining a deux on Saturday evening, I often buy fish – today the fishmonger had some very shiny sea bass, and a summer rarity – salicorn, a crunchy, almost coral-like seaweed. Sautéed with a bit of garlic and some black pepper, it tastes like a beach holiday.

We spent a quiet afternoon looking at a book of baby names.

No, the pots you see above are not an early dinner – that’s G. (wherever did I find this man?) heating water for my bath. It’s getting downright 19th century around here. Our hot water heater has been out for 3 weeks. I’ll give you the very short version of my French customer service rant (no Paris blog would be complete without one). Suffice it to say that when the second repairman came in (we are now on #3), he looked at the heater, looked at me and said: “Il faut pas installer de la merde, Madame.” You shouldn’t have installed a piece of shit. As in so many customer service situations in France: when in doubt, blame the client.

I’ve been feeling the uncontrollable urge to clean – which, if the folklore is correct, means the baby will come within a few days. That would be 5 weeks early, and perfectly fine with me. I've also been practicing my "15 minute meals" - because as much as I love to putter around the kitchen, my time there is likely to be reduced in the coming months (I would hate to fall asleep standing up at the stove).

Personally, I love dinner that stares back. Gutting my first fish was an initiation rite on par with losing my virginity – who knew there was such a dangerous, ravenous individual hiding behind the prim and proper Miss.

Whole fish doesn't sound like fast food, but it is. You put in the time later, boning at the table (better for digestion and conversation). I know most Americans don’t like to work for their food, but unpacking a whole fish is one of my favorite culinary activities. It looks so decedent on the plate – you feel you are playing a game (Operation comes to mind), rather than just eating a virtuous fillet. The protective skin makes quick methods like broiling a real option – there’s no risk of dry, charred flesh. The eyeball is basically like one of those Purdue self-timers – when it pops, chances are it’s done.

‘15 minute’ sea bass and salicorn for 2

2 whole sea bass (8-10 oz. each) rinsed and gutted
Extra virgin olive oil
Coarse sea salt
1 lemon, cut into wedges

Preheat the broiler. Place the fish on a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil. Drizzle with olive oil and add a pinch of salt. Broil five minutes on each side (not too, too close to the flame). Check whole fish the same way you would a fillet – it should be firm, opaque all the way through, and come easily off the bone. Serve whole with lemon wedges.

If you are not having the Queen of England over for dinner, you might include a poubelle de table – literally a ‘garbage plate’ for the bones. (I just push my fish skeleton to one side - because you never really know when the Queen of England is going to stop by for dinner…)

½ pound of salicorn, picked over for weeds
1 clove of wet garlic, sliced
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Freshly ground black pepper

Heat olive oil in a medium saucepan, add garlic and stir for 30 seconds. Add salicorn, sauté for 3-4 minutes, until heated through. Finish with a good grinding of black pepper. NO extra salt – the seaweed is plenty salty all on its own.

An almost ratatouille sandwich

I bought a whole bunch of summer vegetables a few days ago to make ratatouille – and never quite got around to it. So before the tomatoes go off and the eggplant gets mushy, I’ve decided to roast the whole lot.



I’m thinking roasted vegetable sandwiches for dinner. Why? Because I met a friend for coffee this morning not far from Du Pain et Des Idées, a wonderful (if pretentiously named) boulangerie on rue de Marseille, just off the Canal St Martin. It is run by former sales exec turned ardent baker, Christophe Vasseur. He gave up his blue suit and shiny shoes for an apron and an apprenticeship in 1999; in 2008 he received the prestigious Gault & Millau award for best boulanger in Paris. He makes a truly sublime, flatish, almost foccacia-like bread called Pain des Amis, which you can buy by in hunks or take home a whole gargantuan loaf. It has a tough medieval looking crust – like you could eat a pheasant off it – and the most perfect air pockets, not too large, not to small.




All I needed was a ball of buffalo mozzarella, easily acquired at the local Franprix supermarket. The line at the authentic Italian co-operative was just too long, even for the patient Parisienne I’ve become. I’ll take you there another day.

I have a good bottle of olive oil lying around – from February’s outing to the Salon d’Agriculture. (You can read about my first time with the cows on The Huffington Post). I like to toss my veggies with the oil by hand. I used to wash it off, but now I am conscious that all the expensive bath products I use contain the very same olive or almond oil I’m using in my kitchen – so I just rub it in. More effective than a bottle of moisturizer by the sink…

I’m fond of food that resembles an arts-and-crafts project – where you get points for prettiness as well as for taste.

It’s not hard to be painterly with layers of summer vegetables; the vivid green, flaming reds and oranges and deep royal purple are exactly the colors I would have chosen in finger-painting.



One question remains: will we eat our open-face sandwiches with our hands, à l’americaine, or with a knife and fork, like civilized French people?
G., gentleman that he is, immediately went for the knife and fork. I started out that way, but my roots soon got the better of me. About halfway through, I picked up the sandwich and took a big colorful bite, the garlicky tomato juice dripping down my fingers like a rare burger from a Jersey diner.

Almost ratatouille sandwiches for 2:

2 slices of focaccia (mine were about 6 inches square)
3 ripe tomatoes, cut into thirds
3 cloves of garlic, sliced
1 zucchini, thickly sliced
1 red pepper, sliced
1 orange or yellow pepper, sliced
1 small eggplant, whole
1 red onion, sliced
Extra virgin olive oil
Coarse sea salt
1 buffalo mozzarella, sliced

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Arrange the veggies on a large baking sheet lined with foil. Sprinkle the garlic on top of the tomatoes. Drizzle generously with olive, toss to coat. Bake for 45 minutes, until veggies are tender and beginning to caramelize. Remove from the oven and sprinkle with coarse sea salt. Slice the eggplant and drain slightly.

Layer the warm vegetables onto your bread: tomatoes and garlic on the bottom, then eggplant, zucchini, peppers, and finally red onion. Top with sliced mozzarella and a spoonful of olive oil from the pan.

Return to the oven for 10 minutes, plus a minute under the broiler (not too close to the heat) for a nice bubbly finish.

The world through rose-tinted champagne

I was awaked at 5:14 on Sunday morning (the morning of my 6th wedding anniversary) by a young women being murdered in our Parisian courtyard – except instead of screaming Nooooooooonnn, she was cooing: AH oui, ah oui, ah ouiii, at the top of her lungs. Paris is going through a bit of a heat wave at the moment, and since an air-conditioned apartment in the City of Light is as rare as a possum in pearls, everyone sleeps with their windows open. Naturally, you are sometimes awakened by a chorus of happy couples. What’s more, it’s contagious. Much like the cut-glass dish of Hersey’s Kisses on my grandmother’s coffee table – up till that moment, you didn't know you wanted one; but once you’ve spotted the shiny foil wrappers, thoughts form: “Why yes, don’t mind if I do.”

To escape the heat, G. and I went to see Ice Age 3 on Saturday night – large movie theatres being one of the only reliably air-conditioned spaces in all of Paris. Like Queen Latifah (in the guise of a foxy woolly mammoth) – I’m 8 ½ months pregnant at the moment. I went to my first pre-natal class this week, and learned that the delivery rooms of the Hôpital Franco-Britannique – where I am registered for the big event – are very much NOT air-conditioned (apparently, you can bring your own fan). All things considered, I’d rather give birth in a multiplex, watching the new Woody Allen movie “Whatever Works”.

To celebrate our anniversary G. and I went on picnic in the Buttes Chaumont in the 19th arrondissement, my favorite park in Paris. It was built up from the ruins of one of Napoleon III quarries – and following the picturesque fashion of German Romanticism, it sports a fake waterfall, a(n even faker) Grecian temple, and the requisite black swan. Aside from the theatrical setting, Les Buttes has another advantage over the more formal parks in Paris – you can sit on the grass. Don’t you dare try that in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

I’m not usually one to buy things strictly for the kitsch value, but in honor of the occasion I couldn’t pass up a tiny bottle of pink champagne: Moët & Chandon Rosé Impérial. The baby-to-be had a sip; may as well start them on the good stuff early…

Some of my pet foods are back at the market this month – including pêche plate – perfectly ripe white peaches that look like they’ve been squashed flat by a hippo. I looked them up on Wikipedia recently; they are originally from China – where the name translates to paradise peach. The English name – doughnut peach – lacks a certain poetry.

But the real reason to go on a picnic is Paris was concealed in a small square of red-checkered wax paper - rillettes de canard - shredded duck cooked in its own fat until it spreads like butter. Up to a certain point, the heat is quite friendly toward rillettes – to truly experience the taste and texture, it’s not the kind of thing you want to eat cold from the fridge.

After a nap and an article on the Iranian elections, the sky was just beginning to cloud over; we rolled up our old mustard-colored duvet cover to catch the bus for home.