Its a Wrap!
One month to the day. Can it be?! In lieu of all I’ve done since my return to California… yes I suppose it has been one month. Given this late hour, I’ll satisfy any curiosities about my recent travels with a roaring slide show – and in good time will caption these snapshots with stories from along the way.
The progression goes a little like this: final France roamings, backpacking on the Camino de Santiago, a weekend in Ireland, wwoofing in Norway, visits in NYC, road trip from Virginia to South Carolina (with mom and dad). In a few months I’m sure I’ll start missing Europe and begin yearning to stuff my backpack for another adventure, but just now it is such a pleasure to be in California… I am loving the heat and recalling how special it is to live in proximity to old friends (as if I ever forgot how wonderful that is).
Three cheers for sentimentality!
Flambée
Grace à my dear friend, Tamsen Wright, I have launched on a flambé-ing adventure. So far I’ve made three attempts: bread pudding w/ tequila –a failure (tequila was all we had!)–, poire flambée au rhum, and flambéd brownies with rum. As a non-pyro, lighting the first match was a slight terror but I could perhaps say ‘3rd time’s the charm’. Now I’ve got my eye on a recipe for ‘Tarte Flambée au Chocolat Noir et à la Banane’ and will let you know how that goes.
In the meantime, a quick recipe for the more modest poire (pear) flambée:
Ingredients (makes 2 sevings):
- 1 pear
- 1 tbsp lemon juice + 1 cup water
- 1/2 cup OJ
- 2 tbps brown sugar
- 1 tsp cinnamon
- a dash of nutmeg
- 2 tsp vanilla extract
- 1 tbsp butter
- 1/2 cup warm rum
Directions:
- Peal the pear and cut it in half lengthwise, scoop out the core
- Place both halves in a bowl w/ the lemon juice/water
- In a frying pan, melt the butter and place each pear half in the pan core side down
- Mix the cinnamon, brown sugar and nutmeg in a bowl and sprinkle/rub mixture over both pear halves
- Drizzle the vanilla over both halves, and then drizzle 1/4 cup of the OJ
- Increase heat to medium-high and cook for 5 minutes
- Add the vodka!
- Set the liquid on fire and swirl the liquid in the pan
- Allow the fire to burn for 3 minutes and then cover it to put it out
- Add the rest of the OJ and cook for five minutes and remove from heat
- Serve immediately, with ice cream if you like
Here’s a shot:
And here’s me cooking:
And on fire:
Catch up
A few-photos update of my October-January in France.
There have certainly been less blog entries this year, but I suppose that is because I’m quite into the rhythm of things. France does not feel like ‘home’ per se, but I do feel more at ease here… my Europe trip has been a bit less of an adventure this time around, and more like normal life. I’m doing most of the outs-and-abouts that I would do at home, with the new addition of rock climbing. And about rock climbing… I have a funny thing to mention. That is, I’m learning all kinds of new things, such as: comment faire des noeuds pour se descendre, comment monter en tete sur un devers, et qu’une vache sert bien pour grimper a l’exterieur. The funny part (to me at least) is that when I get back to the states I’ll have to relearn these terms. Its unlikely that a piece of rope used to secure you at the top of a cliff is called ‘a cow’ in english.
Climbing aside, I miss you guys! I’m going to whirlwind around for another few months and come home. The lineup: drive across France, hop over to Andalusia (Carnivale!), finish up my work contract (mid April), visit a friend in Italy, backpack in the Pyrenées (chemin de compostelle), WWOOF in Scandinavia, family reunion of sorts in North Carolina. After all this I think I’ll like to stay put for a bit. I have nice tranquil thoughts of working the crush season in the SLO area or in Napa. On verra…
Rebonjour La France
You can ‘re’ just about anything in French, and so here I am, ‘re’ saying hello to Brest, its inhabitants and environs. Teaching goes well and project ‘cheese tasting’ has commenced. A few guys at the climbing gym made me a list:
- Beaufort
- St Nectaire
- Comté
- Neufchatel
- Tomme de Savoie
- Mimolette
- Rocamadour
- Reblochon
- Munster
- Époisses
- Boursin … and it goes on
A few photos for you:
Visiting Huelgoat forest with the wwoofers
French strikers walking past my house
Yes, I suppose that the striking is worthy of mentioning. The French. love. to strike. even on foul weather days. The spirit of the city has been one of a perpetual snow day (if you don’t mind substituting fall leaves in the place snow)… school and work repeatedly cancelled, buses on hold, kids making mischief about town. Some examples of the latter: when riding to school the other day, my bus was forced to the side of the road to allow my high schoolers to pass by as they marched to city hall, and on two occasions last week students at my school barred the entry and camped out around a bonfire out front. Its quite funny actually, except that its been going on for so-ooo long. And what is it all about? I’m sure I don’t understand everything, but it seems to me the French don’t want to have to wait to retire until 62 (right now the age minimum is 60). We shall see.
In other news, Morgaine (American roommate) and I are trying to wise up Nicolas (French roommate) to the ways of fish taco Tuesday and jack o’lanterns. Behold!
Halloween and Picasso Cat
Fish taco Tuesday chez nous
Morocco
“To visit Morocco is still like turning the pages of some illuminated Persian manuscript all embroidered with bright shapes and subtle lines.” -Edith Warton, In Morocco
Its awfully difficult to offer a summary of such a visit. Morocco is one of those places I find hard to do justice. Perhaps just a snapshot?
I feel a bit as though I fell into the Medina at Fes. We passed through the blue gate and chanced upon a path which slopes ever downward. Memories of endless shops and stalls, spices, tapestries, slabs of meat, fancy slippers. Rain began to fall in streams and we found ourselves in a hole-in-the-wall café, sheltered from the hardest rain I have ever seen. Cloaked men clustered around us and we spent a happy moment waiting and watching the downpour. Gradually, the sound of drip drip drip was replaced by the clangs of metal on metal. Donkeys resumed their passage, as did we, now rested and faced with the idea of finding our way.
I suppose we did find our way, my friends and I- because here I sit writing to you from a farm. Ferme de la Guillote, a place where I thin out les pommes, prune les vignes, and pick les ceries. Life here moves at a tranquil pace… things seem so still after Morocco.
French things that are French
Fries, braid, bread, doors, bulldog, twist, kiss, manicure, dip sandwich, hens, onion soup, toast, dressing, horn, vanilla, ‘s fried onions.
Only a handful of these things, apparently, are truly French. And after six months here I can definitively say that perhaps four or five make the cut. French bread, at least, is quite French. French toast is French, but in France is called ‘pain perdu’ (lost bread). French fries are definitely not french, although they are eaten here now.
That’s a little window one among a number of reflections I’ve been having as my time here comes to a close. After all this time I have only one day of teaching to go (three weeks from now!) In a way, I’ve been what one might call ‘the first year teacher’. To be sure, I’ve come to a lot of conclusions. A few of which are: its better not to plan all of my lessons in the bus on the way to school, multimedia in the classroom is surprisingly important, I shouldn’t let myself be incredulous when students are not informed about a certain matter. This last one comes from a time when I was lecturing on racism in the US and I came to my section about 9/11 and subsequent racism against people of middle eastern decent. I wrote ‘9/11’ on the board and asked something in the vein of ‘why would 9/11 have sparked this kind of racism?’ only to be confronted with a very unusual silence. ‘9/11… you know what I’m talking about right?’ I could feel myself getting all hot and bothered… could they really be so uninformed?! Alas, it was I who had made the error. I came to my senses and wrote ’11/9′ next to the ‘9/11’ and saw quite a different reaction, a room filling with ‘Ahhh’s and ‘Oui’s. Even though this is not an instance of ‘mal education’ I still found a lesson therein. Forgive a bit of sentimentality, but I’ve come to the opinion that it doesn’t serve to react in horror when I find my students to be in the dark (when they hadn’t known about Haiti, for example). If they aren’t learning about such things at home, school is a wonderful place for that to happen.
So, there is a thought for you. Today I’m packing bags and tomorrow hauling off to Morocco! We’ve done very little in the way of planning, but the itinerary is something like this: Fez, Chechauen, Marrakech, Essaouira. Looking forward to some good haggling, a bit of sun, and at last stepping foot on the African continent. And for those of you who don’t know yet, my little trip will be followed up by a few months of WWOOFing before I return back to the states.
PS… A few weeks ago I came across a really wonderful article on teaching. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/07/magazine/07Teachers-t.html?scp=1&sq=building%20a%20better%20teacher&st=cse
if anyone is interested.
I’m from Idaho
VS 
Last week I had the same conversation about 20 times. Its goes like this:
Me: Bonsoir, un demi Guinness s’il vous plait.
Stranger: Ah… vous etes Anglaise?
Me: Non, Americane.
Stranger: Oooh… you speak a very good French. What is your state?
Me: Je suis (still trying to speak french) de la Californie.
Stranger: Ahh… some very nice beeeeches la. Et Schwarzenegger.
And then we go on to talk about when I got to France, and how long I’m staying, and how I like it, and how the weather must be different here, and if I’m enjoying the French cuisine, and how every American eats fast food. All this has lead me to consider telling people I’m from a lesser known state like Idaho. No offense against the state, they produce wonderful potatoes… but the french don’t know that. If you tell folks you’re from Ohio or Minnesota there’s a better chance you’ll be allowed to go on with your life, and often, I’d prefer just that.
Most of the time I’m pleased to speak with people about all these things, but I’m sad to say that last week I discovered my limit. My friends and I were out and about quite a bit and I started to get the suspicion that I wouldn’t be able go anywhere without being obliged to respond to the same six questions. First at the bus stop, then in the bus with someone who overheard the bus stop conversation, at the grocery store, in the cafe (at which point the person invites his daughter to join us because ‘she speaks a very good english’), and without fail… in the bars. Who knew the French were so chatty?!
On a positive note, I spent a pleasant weekend at the Kerjean farm. At least there, I feel normal enough and very much at ease. I was able to put my glass-cutting skills to use, and also do a bit of goat milking, cheese making and stone-wall construction. We created a list comprising of events for the farm olympics. So far we have: hay bail climbing, dairy goat wrangling, wool spinning, and snail finding.
food practices à l’étranger
Not so long ago I read something in the vein of ‘expatriates make a number of compromises, but food practices are often maintained even when one has thoroughly adapted to the culture’. My commentary: this statement is true and not true (and not tautologous!) I did, after all just finish a dinner of garbanzo bean, leek and chestnut soup with a side salad. This all was followed up by one two many cookies (http://theppk.com/blog/2009/03/30/peanut-butter-pillows/). Normal enough, right?
But I’ve also been eating things like mushrooms. Bye bye texture issues. Just last week I bought a guide called ‘Quel est ce champignon?’ so as to pave the way to becoming a mycophile. I’m starting to think that la tarte is the world’s most perfect food. What’s more… as of recent I’ve reached a new level of contentment in eating just bread, jam and butter for breakfast. I’m shocked to realize that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve used a microwave. Also, France tells me I can still be a vegetarian if I eat fish… call me converted. And last, but not least, dinner time is 20:30ish, if not later… and it lasts twice as long.
More Wwoofing photos
As promised, here are some shots from my second wwoofing experience: Kerjean. Its a wonderful farm! Wonderful. And we’ve been trying to visit as often as we can. So far, I’ve been a few weekends and for a week during my last vacation. They have dairy goats (for cheese), sheep (for wool), a garden (fruit and nut trees, berry bushes, vegetable patch), and wheat fields (for bread). Each morning, one wakes and wanders over to the goat barn for some milking, and then the cheese making festivities begin. On fridays, everyone slaves in the kitchen all morning to the result of 4o loaves of bread, all baked in a wood stove.
Wwoofing photos
all from the first farm I visited (back in November).
bonjour shannon 