Late Bloomers

September is my favorite month at the market – everything seems to converge – peaches are still sun-warmed and juicy, tomatoes are at their round and ruby peak, and the marble-size mirabelle plums are making their first appearance – as are the Muscat grapes – so purple they are almost black – hanging in perfectly Dionysian bunches at the market stands.

I found another end of summer treat when Augustin and I made our first BabyBjorn outing to the Saturday market – I was just in time to catch the last zucchini flowers. I discovered these large, bright yellow blossoms the summer of my wedding – like so many sun-soaked things, we must have eaten them for the first time in Italy, stuffed with ricotta; then I came home to Paris and recreated something similar with local ingredients. I stuff my zucchini flowers with fresh goat cheese and a bit of chopped mint, then roll them in a slick of olive oil and bake them in a medium oven. No one would call the flavor of zucchini “intense”, but somehow the flowers retain all the garden-y aroma without releasing the water that often makes zucchini such a bland and troublesome ingredient.

Augustin was three weeks old on Friday, and people seem to be waiting for us to throw him out the window. Why do people take such pleasure in telling you their child horror stories? Before I got pregnant, young mothers came up to me at parties, and seeing I had no toddler on my hip, said sardonically: “Enjoy it while you can.” When I was pregnant, everyone said, “Enjoy yourself – you’ll never sleep or go to the movies again.” Now, when we say the first few weeks are going well, everyone comes back at us with “Enjoy it now, it gets much harder.”

Is this some kind of hazing ritual, like the mythical sorority sisters who circle your cellulite with a permanent marker? Do you have to be miserable to join the cult of parenthood? Non-parent friends seem equally mystified: “Aren’t you supposed to be tired?” Granted, G. goes back to work tomorrow – so I haven’t yet had the experience of going it alone. True, we’ve had fun feathering the nest together. So maybe I’ll be miserable tomorrow. I’ll get back to you.

Frankly, Mommyville thus far hasn’t been quite the ordeal I imagined it might be. As usual, in my overthinking way, the anticipation was more grueling that the reality could ever be. During my pregnancy, I was unsure about many things. Did I have the requisite patience, or selflessness, to be a good parent? How could I possibly love someone I’d never met? Until the moment he was born, there was part of me that was going through the motions – preparing a room for a very honored houseguest – albeit one who was likely to overstay his welcome by a good 18 years. But now that he’s here, it seems the most natural thing in the world. He’s mine. And it feels like he’s been here forever. It’s true what they say about the sour milky smell of his hair and the weight of tiny body, lost in sleep on my shoulder. Something is blooming.

Zucchini Flowers Stuffed with Goat Cheese and Fresh Mint

12 zucchini flowers
3 oz fresh goat cheese
1 egg
Salt and pepper to taste
2 packed teaspoons of chopped fresh mint
Extra virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 350˚

Lightly beat the egg, crumble in the goat cheese, mash together with a fork. Add salt, pepper and mint.

Stuff the flowers with a small amount of cheese mixture, no need to take out the stamen. Twist to close.

Cover a baking sheet with aluminum foil. Pour a small amount of olive oil onto the sheet and spread it around with your fingers. Roll the stuffed flowers through the oil until lightly coated.

Bake for 12-15 minutes until lightly browned and fragrant.

Serves 2 as an appetizer or part of a light dinner

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.