My Life in France: Ketchup, Creme Fraiche, and Lardons

I just finished reading Julia Child’s happy biography of her time in France, appropriately titled, “My Life in France.” I’d been inspired by the so-so movie, Julia & Julia (loved Meryl Streep, could do without the blogger from Queens; but then Laura says it’s just because I’m jealous; not so, say I, she’s just much less interesting than the gifted Meryl Streep playing as tremendous a character as Julia Child). I finished the book from the deck of our rented houseboat in the Marina, bittersweet to turn the last page. Needless to say, the book was an absolute gem and it reminded me of all the ways in which France opened me up to the world.

I wish I could say I had had the opportunity to explore the richness of French cuisine in the way Julia Child describes, but alas, I was a poor student; splurging was limited to a weekend trip to the colorful marche and a visit to the cheese counter. Still, my French roomate Daphne (who defies adjectives in her carefree, chaotic, anti-establishmentarian ways; Daphne, are you out there?) taught me how French students live on their limited budgets: pasta, lardons (kind of like bacon, chopped into half inch pieces, but much better), creme fraiche, and ketchup. We lived on the stuff and I never got tired of it.

In the (very humble) spirit of Julia Child, I’ll offer it here:
-Bring the water for pasta to a boil
-Meanwhile, cook up the lardons (cut up bacon with a pair of scissors since you can’t really get lardons in the US) in a pan till they brown slightly
-To the lardons add creme fraiche, salt and pepper and simmer on very low heat
-When the pasta is done, drain and throw in the pan with the frying bacon and creme fraiche.
-Add grated emmental cheese and a decent squeeze of ketchup and serve.

Still amazes me, the comforty-ness of this French comfort food.

Americans like Lena want healthcare reform.

Let's make this freakin' thing happen!

I went all Euro and got a little agitated. I’ve set up a new blog called isupporthealthcarereform. Will be taking photos and stories there.

In the meantime, send your photos to yestohealthcarereform@yahoo.com or post to your Facebook profile. Because it’s time to make healthcare affordable and manageable for all. (It’s too expensive not to!)

Europeans do it better: Healthcare.

I’ve had just about enough. I’ve watched the town halls, read the papers, watched in horror as this country has yet again engaged in self-hating warfare. Meanwhile we can’t afford our premiums, our deductibles are sky high, and many of us can’t leave jobs we hate because we’re stuck as the sole healthcare provider in the family. And, people who don’t need to die are dying because they didn’t get preventative care because they couldn’t afford it or had a preexisting condition, or because the healthcare system we have now doesn’t adequately provide basic primary care.

The story of a widow who lost her husband to cancer and painted their story on a mural hit me particularly hard. A story like this just would not happen in France or Germany. Would not happen.

Postcard from Paris

I received my first-ever guest blog. From my dear friend and sista, Lora Ostrow who is spending 10 days in Paris. She couldn’t have captured the spirit of this blog better:

So, i have experienced my first night of live jazz in monmartre. we were told to go to a cafe on Rue Lepic (where we are staying!)  that had a cave. I have never been into a cafe with a cave before and was curious. It turned out to be the most amazing live music venue i’ve ever been to, but probably tres normal for parisians. Not to mention the great jazz, mingling with the Anglophone pianist who asked me for my e-mail and a kiss “for inspiration”, and having some local Frenchies buy me a glass of wine.

saturday morning- at a cafe in monmartre. after all the sightseeing and the eiffel tower, montmartre still inspires the most musings in me.

Poem for the rooftops of Iran

This is the most moving video I have ever seen. I am humbled by its brutal, simple truth and the voice of this young woman, speaking a poem amidst fear and chaos and the sounds of her neighbors calling out from their rooftops.

Before I was who I am now … and emails from afar

I got this text message the other day:

“Debbie bailey from Nesiya? It’s Josh (nesiya 96) I would love to know what you’re up to.”

And so, like that, my old identity caught up with me. But what luck to have Josh, artist, free thinking-wheeling-drumming-theatre geek like me break the spell.

I sent him an email with my updates:

Como vivir sin aire?

 It’s the end of my first week home. It was as hard as it always is. The crude way to describe it is: “Back to reality.” But I hate that construction. Because it inherently means that to travel, to dream, to be free of work and bills that bind is to be “crazy” or that that cannot be reality. While some may have figured out how to do it, like a certain Gwen Bell I recently read about (and both passionately detest and simultaneously admire), I haven’t yet cracked the code on being able to live free, to be paid to write and travel, to live among the pajaros with my man, my most wonderful man who is also trying to find his way, and also far from me this night. 

My trip in 3 minutes