Strong on Plow

The last day we were in Paris it felt like Fall. We had been having phenomenal weather - clear blue skies, sun and more sun, highs in the mid-eighties. But on that Sunday in Paris, the temperatures dipped, the characteristic Parisian rain started dripping, and the changing leaves on the Sycamore trees that line the grand boulevards started falling with a little more conviction. The Parisian girls busted out their tights and fall boots, the couples sitting shoulder to shoulder at Les Deux Magots and Le Cafe de Flores snuggled a little closer, and our dinner that evening went from heavy to heavier.

We embraced it though. We put on our jeans and the only sweaters that we brought with us. We bought umbrellas, and marched through everything from a drizzle to a downpour, loving that we had our own Rainy Day in Paris.  

While flying home I envisioned that we would still be summering this week - that Fall may have touched down in Paris, but we were far from it. Yesterday it flew in though, it must have gotten the next flight out. Seemingly overnight, a chill came to town, the morning sun got a little sleepier, the light in the evening on the River Walk became a little more radiant, Centennial Beach became a ghost town, and the food that I craved became a little warmer.

Last night I made Smitten Kitchen's creamy tomato soup with grilled cheese. It was the perfect antidote to our first Fall day in Naperville. I had made this recipe for the first time about a year ago - a day that had a similar first Fall chill in the air. It was a hit, and since then I have made the classic combination several other times.

Last night it tasted better than ever though. Without taking away from the integrity of Deb's wonderful recipe, I improvised a bit. I added sage from our garden when I was roasting the tomatoes.

I added a couple cloves of garlic. I cooked the grilled cheese a little slower and lower. I let the soup simmer longer. And I added a (little) more brandy.

It was delicious.

But this morning, I'm thinking it wasn't just the minor adjustments to the recipe that made it taste so good. Perhaps it was just because life tastes a little bit better right now.

I had the same feeling yesterday morning while rapidly folding laundry before heading off to work. All of a sudden the dreaded chore of laundry was fun, because it wasn't his laundry, and it wasn't my laundry, it was our laundry. And I liked seeing our clothes, neatly folded on the bed, together. Last night I realized I wasn't cooking dinner in Peter's house anymore, I was cooking dinner in our house. And serving it at our dinner table. On our plates. And it felt really, really good.

Influenced by Borat and his friend, Bro_Cal, Peter keeps calling me "my wife." (And occasionally, he'll tag on "strong on plow.") While I don't like the visual comparison between Borat's beefy wife and me, I do love being Peter's wife. And being strong on cooking, cleaning, and making my husband happy, makes me very, very happy.

Lo.

Back to life. Back to Reality.

We are back. Back to reality.

We were here.

And here.

And here.

Oh, and here.

That little woman in the background sent us this Tattinger champagne. She and her husband have been married for 48 years.

And now we are back here - our humble abode with red pots and copper pans calling out to be used again.

After just about 20 hours of travel, four movies, many plane snacks, a bad headache from the piercing noise coming from some malfunctioning part of the plane, and what I anticipate to be a couple of very charming, bad hair photos of us descending an escalator at O'Hare by SGS and Peggy O, we arrived back home, in Naperville. And shortly after we both crashed (hard). A bedtime of 7 PM was totally acceptable.

I've got to admit, it's a little hard to be back. To think that the two weeks that I had been so looking forward to for so long, are over. And that they nearly went by in the blink of an eye. I almost need Purvis' picture proof to know that what happened on September 3 was a reality. (Hint, hint, Purve...)

It's hard to be back in my little cube. It's hard to run around Naperville when I can think that just two days ago I was running from our beautiful hotel to the Eiffel Tower and back. And it's hard to go back to more normal food and wine and consumption.

No I can't have a glass of wine with lunch anymore. No, someone will not knock on my door this evening with a bottle of Deutz on ice and two champagne flutes.

And no, with the Marathon to run in less than a month, I should not continue to coat my arteries in butter. I need those suckers to pump hard all 26.2 miles long on October 9. But, just like any other addiction, they key is to wane yourself away from the good stuff in small steps.

So last night, I made an attempt to keep us a little bit in France, and a little bit grounded back in our Naperville reality. Since we are on a spending freeze until all the champagne and small luxury hotel of the world debt is paid off, we are back to dining at home every evening, at our little B and B, which is one of the best parts about being home.

I hadn't cooked in almost two weeks, which for me is a very, very long time. I had been craving a morning of reading food blogs and new recipes. And I had been craving an evening of chopping, seasoning, and sauteing. After many hours of very early morning (7 PM bedtime means 4 AM wake-up) reading yesterday, I chose a cod recipe, with a spicy mussel aioli. 

I steamed the mussels in a 2007 Sancerre that we surprisingly had in the cellar, reserved the liquid, (and also reserved the rest of the bottle for dinner.)

Used some of the sel de poisson that I brought back from the Marche d'Antibes to season the fish and then browned it for about four minutes per side.

I brought the mussel liquid back to a boil, and added the aioli. When warm, I added the mussels, and then served the fish with the sauce, and little strips of a red bell pepper that I just roasted.

It was a nice little evening back on the ranch. And while it's hard to be off the Riviera, off the charming streets of Paris, out of the bistros, away from the ocean views. Going back is always a little easier when there is a great reality and a kitchen that's always cooking to look forward to.

Bon Appetit. 

Lo.

Postcards from Peter

There is a tradition of buying your groom-to-be or wife-to-be a little something before the wedding. Instead of that, we decided to pull our resources and buy each other a super dooper camera. It proved to be an excellent purchase and we took full advantage of it, from all different angles, in black, white and color, from Monte Carlo to the coast to Paris, all honeymoon long.

Although I attempted a photograph or two, Peter was the primary photographer, and I must say, he did an exceptional job capturing our vacances en France. In fact, I feel bad stealing his thunder anymore, so I've decided to turn this blog over to him. I let him pick his favorite photos and create the captions to match.

Without further ado, here's my first guest blogger, my one and only hubby, and his favorite postcard moments from our honeymoon. If you are left a little in the dark, or craving more, say so, and I promise he'll write again ; )

Oui oui Madame!

Lo was skeptical of my knife purchase at first, but it came in handy when she needed to cut the cheese.

Pardon???

Gastronomie...

Ski Nautique avec Fred.

Fred's Grandpa.

I hadn't taken a picture of this boat in a while.

Magnifique!

Gay Paris!

My wife!

Lo and Peter.

The Anniversary Party

My Mom just sent me an email - subject line: The party is over.
It read something like this. The wedding dress and my wedding clothes went to the cleaners. It's gray and dreary here to match. Mom.

That was a sad one. Because yes, it is sad that the big wedding fete is over. It was an amazing day and I will forever remember every last detail and every last face that made it so special. However, because it is over, that fact creates a new set of parties - anniversary parties. And if I have anything to do with it, the parties will be fabulous and they will never end. And my Mom will always be invited.

Tonight Peter and I celebrate our one week anniversary - and for the record books, I've made it further than Brittany Spears and Zza Zza Gabor. So we're having a party here in Gay Paris, and I'm extending a little virtual invitation to my Mom, as we toast with Deutz - - the same champagne that Peter bought me when we got engaged a little over a year ago. Happy Anniversary to us and many thanks to all those that made getting seven days in possible.

By the way, the past 24 hours have been glorious.

Dining a la plage. Fantastique!

Off to dinner at Cristine. Love you Mom.

Lo.

Les Beaux Artes

"With our being back in a nice villa on my beloved Riviera (between Cannes and Nice) I'm happier than I've been for years. It's one of those strange, precious and all too transitory moments when everything in one's life seems to be going well."
~ France Scott Fitzgerald - March 15, 1926

I am in the presence of greatness at this hotel. At least in the presence of a little plaque with an excerpted quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald's stay at le Belles Rives.

One of my favorite authors is not the only artist who sought creative escape in the French Riviera; in the Nice to Antibes corridor alone, you will find national museums dedicated to Picasso, Matisse, Chagall, Leger, and Renoir - all of whom called the French Riviera somewhere in between an extended vacation or their home during their lifetime.

Yesterday, Peter and I toured le Musee de Picasso in Antibes. Le Musee houses many of the works that Picasso created during his two month stay in the Chateau Grimaldi along the ramparts of the old city. He was here during the early 1940's, right after completing his iconic masterpiece, Guernica - a graphic, bestial depiction of the Spanish Civil War. While here though, the eccentric, often tortured artist, depicted life on the sea. His sketches and final pieces are tranquil, peaceful, and a return to his neo-classical style, which so often emerged during pivotal, more placid points in his career. While here he also returned to a more timid, beautiful version of the female figure and visage. His wife at the time, Jacquelin, looks like a sea swept muse - a vivid contrast to the screaming, monstrous portrayals of another one of his wives, Olga. Picasso was obviously an artist in love, in harmony, and inspired during his etes en la sud de France.

Being here, following in the footsteps of master artists, writers and philosophers, who each have found solace in their sojourns to the Riviera, makes me think of the kind of art I could do if I stayed just a little longer.

I am an amateur artist at best - an amateur chef, pianist, dancer, singer, painter, ceramicist, dramatist and writer. I dabble, and although often proud of my creations, only my family and friends view them as masterpieces. Perhaps it's because I don't have the inspiration for truly original art. I have never been tortured, suffered the kind of war and misfortune that can spark artistic development, or had a bout of unrequited love. Perhaps its because I don't have the time - I don't have the hours in my day to transform my artistic pursuits from hobbies to professions. Or perhaps it's because I only get to spend a couple days on the French Riviera instead of months of years.

If I were here longer, I could be a better cook. I would go to the Marche Provencal tous les jours and I would cook with legumes, pommes de terres, et aubergines that were just picked from the heavenly farms along the inner Riviera. I would have my lamb chops cleavered by the butcher right in front of me. And I would serve Provencal Roses with an entre of saussicon au champignon et la fromage de Brebis.

Don't worry, Kristen, I passed on the dried fruit.

And my writing - oh how I could write better. No longer, confined to my cube at work, my little desk on West Street, or the local Starbuck's, I would have inspiration upon inspiration.  I would write about picnics a la parc that make even local Frenchies smile and say, "Bon Appetit!" I would write about magnificent runs along the coast line, where you don't just get a pep in your step from a fellow runner's nod, but from a fellow runner's euro short shorts and friendly, "bonjour!" I would write about my lover's day fare-ing la ski nautique. And how he smoked his little Frenchie cigarette with such savoir fare. I would write among swims in the Mediterranean. And sunset dinners.

The singing, dancing, and dramatic arts would follow suit, as I would have time to practice them all in the bars and discoteques of Juan les Pins. Sabbatical is what, 8 years away?

Although, relaxed and at ease in Antibes, the works that Picasso created here are not valued as highly as the ones he created in Paris and Spain - the ones he created out of desperation, confusion, turmoil, and his daily surroundings are the most prized possessions. Basically, the world that Picasso knew everyday, inspired his greatest works. He just had the vision to make disaster into beauty.

After our honeymoon, we'll by no means be going home to travesty or turmoil. And although the magic of the wedding and honeymoon are transitory, we'll continue to believe that life is going very well. I will be returning to the mundane, but like my favorite artists who have looked onto the sunsets of the French Riviera as I am now, I will not only see art here, but at home. And I will continue to build my amateur status and create art out of the interactions, scenes, and people of the Great Midwest.

It's dinner time. A tout a l'heure.

Lo.