boudin noir

My first morning on the farm, I moseyed on over to the charcuterie (the same general structure that houses some storage spaces, the patisserie, the boulangerie—really a huge wood-burning oven where they bake the bread, and the cheese cave). I was delighted to stumble upon Benedicte (married to the Pozzers’ middle-generation, Nicolas) getting ready to make what Daniel already tipped me off as the best boudin noir (blood sausage) in the region.

She had cooked (boiled) the heads, feet, lungs, and hearts, of the two pigs that had been slaughtered four days prior. Everything except the bones and the snouts got passed through the grinder. She fetched the bag of blood and added it to the mix, along with some onions, garlic, and seasoning, and mixed it all up. We sorted out the salted intestines (different pigs’) and started stuffing the casings. All this went back into the original cooking liquid for a few hours, just short of simmering. What came out was magic.

I ate the stuff for the next few days, a piece here and there for lunch—it really is the best I have had—it’s all the goodies that elevate it above the usual blood and fat mix. It’s a shame, but they stop slaughtering pigs during the summer: it gets too warm to properly handle the meat. This was sadly the last for the season, and the first of many reasons to come back.

drinking and driving

I landed in France an hour late. No worries: I still had no idea what train I’d be on. Border control and baggage claim were a breeze, my 28kg (60lbs) of baggage notwithstanding. I had cheese with me from New York. French cheese—silly to import back to France, but I knew it’d be a while til I saw some decent food. Short of decent bread, I made an attempt, and bought a few dinner rolls at one of the overpriced airport cafés. I got to the airport train station and did the obvious thing of using the automated machine to buy my ticket. Except for that machines in Europe (like the Europeans themselves) tend to hate Americans: it wouldn’t accept my cards. So I got in a long, sweaty line, waiting to talk to a real person. And thirty minutes (that could have been better spent washing up in the toilette) later, I had an expensive ticket to the middle of nowhere, SW France.

I ate my cheese, slept, and did what I could on my computer before my (and my computer’s) batteries ran out (gripe: thanks to installing Vista, my battery life was about a third of what it usually was—call me old fashioned, but I’ve gone back to XP). One transfer and seven hours later, I had arrived. There was no one awaiting me, even though I had called ahead to let them know when I’d be arriving. I did the embarrassing thing of walking up to a strange car, thinking that the lady was smiling at me, thinking that my ride had arrived. It wasn’t my ride.

Vincent Pozzer, of the middle generation (actually, I think there's a great grandchild out there), pulled up fifteen minutes later, helped me with my bags, and apologized for showing up late. We went through the usual pleasantries, and he pulled a cold, organic, Bavarian beer out of the glove box. We clinked the bottles and toasted to good health; he had already started on his own bottle. Things would be different out here in the country.

It was about 10pm when we arrived to the farm, “Crozefond,” and the sun would keep the sky lit until around 1130. I dropped off my bags in the caravane, a dusty, cobwebby old RV, where I’d be staying for the month. I met Claudette, better known as Mami (grandma), and Gilbert, aka Papi, whose name I didn’t even learn til days later. We ate dinner, together with their granddaughter Matilde, who’s one of the few not to live on the farm. I said my bonnes nuits, and headed to unpack my bags. It was only thanks to Mami’s flashlight that I was able to get anything done—there wasn’t any electricity feeding into my place until we ran the extension cord two days later. It was an inexplicably excellent evening in all, and I went to bed, unpacked, and with sweet dreams.

the big apple

A few (too many, as usual) words on New York, while the memory is still fresh stale in my mind. The week passed like a summer thunderstorm. As it approached, I was a bit apprehensive of being back in the city, perhaps nervous that I’d feel out of place, maybe just worried about how the reunions would go. I love thunderstorms, especially with empty hands and pockets, getting drenched with abandon. I got to see nearly everyone I have been close to in the city, and the mood had hardly changed. Sure, there are those who have drifted away, some seemingly for good. But I was truly thrilled with the way the whole trip went.

I got to meet my new roommates and sublettors, as I found them online while in Morocco, and never got to meet anyone beyond a few emails. Despite the fact that one’s a vegan, another a vegetarian, and a third will only go as far as fish, they’re really a great group of people, and I’m glad I have cool people taking care of the place while I’m gone. The two in my room even went to the hours-long task of scrubbing down the kitchen and getting rid of the remains of myriad poisoned mouse bodies.

I love the city. Of course, I had no real responsibilities, no work, and no hardcore deadlines (the fee to change my flight date was somehow just $50), so a good time was to be expected. My friends who cook poked me, reminding me how hard it will be to come back to civilization and settle down. Another friend gave me a too-honest opinion of my blog (boring), which will hopefully keep me on my toes, and at least start categorizing posts as boring vs. exciting, etc…

I ate (this part is important) at Spicy+Tasty (Szechuan out in Flushing), Han Bat (Korean in k-town), Trestle (Swiss guy who’s doing really fun food in Chelsea), Resto (twice—Belgian beer/resto in Murray Hill), and in an unnamed Peruvian restaurant in Elmhurst (my part of queens), among others. All of the mentioned meals were awesome, and there are pictures in my album. The best meals, of course, were home cooked between Jasper, Kat, and I, dripping with sweat all the while, since both days we cooked were ridiculously hot/humid. Highlights included a pig head/foot terrine I made, Kat's strawberry tart-turned strawberries and cream, and pig skin tacos.

Moma had some awesome stuff going on, and I’m glad I made it before the exhibits closed (Comic Abstraction closed the next day). I paid full admission for 45 minutes to run through the museum before it closed, and I found it worth every penny. The Comic exhibit was a fun surprise I wasn’t expecting—I was supposedly here to just to see Richard Serra's mind-fing-blowing sculptures. Scurrying from floor to floor, the goofy smile on my face remained.

My visit was none too short or long. I made the best of it, and after an afternoon at Moma and catching up over a beer, I was back as my sweaty self, running to make it to the airport on time for my flight to France.

work and play

It was time to begin dismantling the old bathroom. Wallpaper first, then stripping the old glue off the walls, then finally the hardware—ripping out the sink and medicine cabinet. I spent about thirty seconds pondering my building manager’s suggestion to just paint the old wooden vanity, replace the sink, and call it new. The idea properly blown off, I got into the car and visited trusty IKEA for some new cabinetry. As I was about to swipe my MasterCard at the self-pay machine, I suddenly realized that I had no card to swipe. Fearing an empty-handed 45 minute trip back to Evanston, I narrowly avoided complete hysteria. So it was a relief to find my wallet in the car, the trip successful after all.

To celebrate the recent spate of successes I headed for dinner at Lula Café, a short hop away on the expressway. I walked through the throngs of hopeful diners waiting to be matched with tables, and was seated immediately (one of many advantages to dining alone). Having consulted about the menu with Shiri during the drive, I already knew what I’d be ordering. Along with a $1.75 bottle of PBR, I gave my order, substituting for the appetizer they were no longer serving. I read and waited, and was reminded of why Lula is one of my favorite Chicago restaurants: the service is young, professional, and friendly; their products are sourced at local farms, and are organic wherever possible; and most importantly, the food on their specials menu is always on. The highlight of the meal, pictured above, was pork shoulder, roasted and sliced thinly, over a basil pesto-laced ragout of beans, artichokes, favas, ramps, and chorizo.

Back at home, more fun with the construction. Not allowing myself any downtime, I put together the new cabinets before going to sleep. These small projects have a way of snowballing when you least expect them to. I had no such bad luck this time. Sure, a few tiles came loose, and the angle of the corner for the cabinet was a little bigger than a perfect 90 degrees, but these were all easy fixes. By Friday I was putting on finishing touches and shipping 400 pounds of boxed books and other goodies back home. To complete the evening, I headed for a sushi bar where I’ve come to befriend the chef, BK, proceeding to feast on fifteen or so courses of raw and cooked fish. I had promised Shiri some photos of the bean, so I obliged after dinner, and walked off some of the meal.

The bathroom was finished in time for a quick detour to Indianapolis, to visit whom other than EB and family, all helped by the prospect of seeing a huge part of Americana for the first time: the famed Indy 500. A craigslist ad found me someone with whom to split costs, so we arranged for an early Saturday departure, with confidence that most of the work in Evanston was done.

arrivals

My visit to Chicago entailed a few simple objectives. The timing was dictated by Will’s concert, the first night upon my arrival. Aside from that, the main point of the visit was to redo the bathroom and to find someone to rent the condo in Evanston for the next year. Without anybody to help me, or to keep me company, for that matter, it was a struggle to stay on-task. I have a serious affinity for procrastination, and Chicago is full of tempting tastes and sights.

After getting situated in Evanston, I headed downtown for the concert. The tickets put us in the fourth row, the best seats I’ve ever really had for a big show. The band was absolutely amazing—I can't say enough good things about the show, so I’ll leave it at that. After spending a few minutes backstage, we were off for a drink before I headed back home. All in all, a fantastic way to start the week.

The next day I showed the apartment a couple of times, and on just the second try, found a young man who fit the bill perfectly. I celebrated with dinner at my favorite local place that prides itself on local/seasonal/sustainable/organic products. Keeping with the trend of my week, my experience at Campagnola was perfect. I sat at the bar and greeted the other customer dining beside me. After ordering three small courses, the bartender (turned out to be the manager/partner) offered me a taste of tequila somebody had dropped off that day. When I accepted with the snobby condition that it be white tequila, the evening really took off running. My de facto dining companion lit up, impressed by my ordering what he ate, and our similar taste in tequila. They asked if I was in the food business, and so I explained my involvement, and eventually got into the story of the past months. The manager arranged for an extra course and, together with the portions I ordered, my stomach nearly ruptured by the end of the meal (much to the amusement of my new buddies). The food was great, as always, but this experience was particularly special. My week in the Midwest would remain highlighted.

when bad things happen to bad people

I, probably unlike most others, check my spam mailbox every now and then. Besides the occasional message from someone I know, I usually delete them all. These spammers get email addresses from websites where one might have inadvertently left one's address for the world to see. Or from those pesky chain letters that float around every so often (if you’re going to forward those to people, have the decency to bcc them so their address isn’t ripe for the picking).

So, I wonder, if I post Tracy’s latest message to me: “Hi, i am here sitting in the internet caffe. Found your email and decided to write. I am 25 y.o.girl. I have a picture if you want. No need to reply here as this is not may email. Write me at atracey2@springmessage.info,” will Tracy start getting spam too?

faggot and chips

The physical act of travelling seems to make time tick faster. After returning from a week of diving in Eilat (with a tan unlike anything since the bygone days of marching band rehearsals in high school), I was running. To find a place to sleep the night in London. To pack. To soak in whatever I might still have time for. I took a last walk around my aunt’s lovely garden, tasting an unfamiliar herb, eating something that I’ve only had off their tree—a cherry-sized bright red fruit, tart, sweet, and with a flavor (and shape) reminiscent of a bell pepper.

I hadn’t flown on a regular British Airways flight in years. Over half the plane was dedicated to first, business, and ‘economy plus.’ That left me in plain old economy, in the back, with a window seat that required significant contortion to get into and out of. Listen to me whining: ridiculous. It was just upon landing that the flight got weird. A born-and-bred Israeli was my buffer to the British Jewish woman who had apparently moved to Israel twenty-five years earlier. Approaching 50, she looked great for her age. Earlier, when food and drinks came around, I did the naïve thing of asking how much it would be for some wine. She had no such questions—she knew the alcohol was free, and had been sucking down nips of gin since we’d taken off. Then, as we taxied, she started her drunk ramblings. About how great Israel is, and how she’s a million percent behind it, but about how it does bad things, things that we didn’t want to know about. I was thankful to get left alone: the odd American out. I sympathized with some of her story, but could only take so much of her drunken cynicism, relieved when she finally got up to deplane.

The Israeli and I shared a cynical chuckle of our own, and 90 minutes later I was walking into the Anchor & Hope gastropub in London—the objective of tonight’s mission. It had been a couple of years since my last visit, and I was itching for some down-and-dirty English cuisine. The bartenders didn’t fail me. The duck consommé, though a bit peppery, was made all the better by the slice of foie gras terrine floating in it. The seppia I ate next was some of the best I’ve had—braised and rich (likewise for the “little gem” beans served with it), topped with a healthy dollop of green aïoli. The star of the meal—the reason I came here rather than some other fancier London bistro: the faggot. Uninhibited when it comes to food, when my charming waiter told me about the meatball of pork belly, liver, heart, and lungs (oh, and some minced onions), all wrapped in caul fat and braised in a white wine-based broth, well, I knew the faggot was my match. I only had eyes for the succulent ball of offal, and recruited Louise and Simon to help get rid of the evidence. We got to chatting about food and life and adventure—they were great conversation partners. I made haste for the last train to the airport and, once arrived, pondered on how to get to the hotel. I was fortunate to run into a young American couple in the same situation, and the three of us split a cab back toward the hotels near LHR. Well, not really: I didn’t have any currency they could use, so I mooched a ride—my visit was going like clockwork.

I slept four hours and got up to several different alarms, not wanting to miss my flight. After showering I got on the $8 shuttle that would take me the 2 miles to the airport. Not only did I have to wait for the shuttle, but then we made stops at several adjacent hotels, and stopped at terminals 1 and 2 before arriving at my destination. At that point, my plane was about 30 minutes short of taking off. As my bags were checked through already, I ran for the border, stripped of my ancient bottle of water along the way. The line looked long and slow, and I begged to be taken to the front—the guy told me I wouldn’t be long in line, that I should just wait. Fine. Five minutes later, and maybe three passengers had gone through my metal detector (I think I chose the wrong line). I asked another guy, and this time I got the royal treatment—a free cut to the front of line. Through customs, and even before my departure stamp was dry, I was running for the gate (a sign told me it was 20 minutes away). Entitled punk that I am, I found an electric cart parked on the way to the gate, and gave its driver my short of breath sob story. Sirens blaring (okay, more of a beeping than a siren), we raced (okay, it was more the speed of a good jog) to the gate, where I promptly hopped onto a moving plane (okay, it wasn’t moving just yet) [inhale], put my goofy eyeshades on, and went to sleep, engines blazing.

on flying

Lucid dreaming has been a recurring topic for me in years past. For those in need of a definition, imagine suddenly snapping to and realizing you are in the middle of a dream—not waking up, just becoming cognizant of the dream state. Worlds of possibilities arise. Safely rehearse pickup lines on imaginary bar goers, fearless of real rejection. The Porsche you’ve been coveting is in your garage, and it’s time for its afternoon drive. With the mere thought, pick up and fly, superman-style. There are websites dedicated to helping people dream lucidly. In years past, I’ve tried to go down that road. First step is to train yourself to wake up post dream state and take notes. I got that far, but have not yet followed through—google the topic to learn more for yourself.

See, a lot of what attracted me to dreaming lucidly was the notion of being able to fly, fearlessly, naked if that’s on my agenda. The website teaches a few techniques, among them flapping your arms like a chicken or taking a deep breath and simply lifting off the ground. Irrespective of dreaming, I’ve been flying recently. Well, sort of. Done properly (which the past week of awesome classes and practice has allowed me), scuba diving is flying, underwater. And so  here I am, in this underwater world, floating higher on inhalation (not that kind of high, and not that kind of inhalation, though the nitrogen in your air will get you high if you dive deep enough), descending a bit on empty lungs. I still hope to start flying in my dreams.

home away from home

Ah: the feeling of being back in a familiar place after months away. While hardly my home away from home (I’ve probably spent less than 6 months out here in my entire 28 years of existence), I have my aunts and uncles and cousins—people I do feel at home with. Continuing the trend as I’ve moved eastward through the past month, I’ve been getting more vegetables in my diet, beginning most mornings with the local traditional salad (small-chopped tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, peppers, lemon juice, olive oil) and avocadoes from my uncle’s tree. As of late my breath has taken on raunchy notes despite my diligent oral hygiene—due in large to a daily diet of garlicky “salads” such as hummus and various plays on eggplant themes. Still, I press forward in my never-ending quest for perfect dishes. Such as the hummus by “Gingi” (“redhead,” in this  case used as a nickname), a kibbutz-dwelling religious man making a daily batch of hummus and falafel, selling it by the plateful to hungry lunchers, closing up shop as his mise-en-place is 86ed. Dr. Shakshuka's shakshuka (a fresh tomatoey ragout on which eggs are poached) wasn't bad either.

An early heat wave has been gripping most of the country, making for a sticky and drippy visit, though only to the betterment of the fruit. I’ve made the best of the local strawberries, eating them as nature intended—by the bowlful. The kumquats we sought and paid so dearly for at Craigie Street Bistrot drop to the ground by the treeful, their trees unable to convince my aunt and uncle to make use of their amazing fruit. A tropical orange fruit here called Shesek has  followed me from Morocco, except for that instead of paying for them here, I get to liberate them from friends’ trees, as they head in a similar direction as the doomed kumquats (down). Anat’s dog, between being tortured by the neighbor’s puppy wolf dog, wolfed down (yeah: heh heh) the few fruit we didn’t see fit for our own consumption.

And then there’s that which universally makes family family. The bickering. The shouting. Arguing with my uncle about the near and dear topic of global warming—him adamantly taking Michael Crighton’s fictional preposterous stance we humans had nothing to do with this latest cycle.

Warm spring afternoons and evenings spent dining in the garden...in the end feeling oddly at home.

obnoxious europeans?

Okay, another preachy rant.

I’ll be the first to bitch and moan about annoying locals while traveling. Sure, while travelling one is sure to run into scam artists and sleazebags, but the overarching generalizations I hear while travelling continue to amaze, dumbfound, and annoy me. I tell people I was in Germany, and they respond with whatever generalization they’ve decided applies to all its people. Some seem to assume I’ve had an awful time based on where I was. My experiences have been nothing short of amazing, though. In France, the supposed French snobs were nothing short of friendly. In Switzerland, the supposed stiff-necked Swiss at times almost smothered me with help and literally took me into their homes. In Germany, the supposed loud-mouthed fascists afforded me an absolutely amazing week of adventure and good times.

These generalizations should stay in the press and in off-color jokes. They shouldn’t make or break a vacation, and I just want to go on record to preach say that I certainly won’t let them dictate my travels.