We're moving. You already knew that. But boy, after a week of packing, moving, scrubbing, sanding & staining--don't I wish I was in Paris at this moment! A true lune de miel, Ken & I revelled in a week's stay right off the Place des Vosges, Victor Hugo's old stomping grounds. (If you're looking for something charming & accessible in the Marais quarter please do let me know & I will gladly give you contact info.)
A surrealist's fantasy--eight dizzying, spindly staircase turns to our garret--but each time we turned (& turned, & turned) the key to the perfect Parisian apartment, we hardly wanted to leave. Indeed we found ourselves living with the illusion that this *was* our everyday life: wake, go get fresh baguette & espresso, have lunch, wander, have wine, have dinner, have wonder, walk more...
After a week of foie-gras, amongst the other riches of Gascogny (not to mention the infinite bistros of Paris,) our last night was spent in search of simpler comfort food & for Ken, that spells roast chicken aka Poulet Roti. Even though I don't love fowl as a rule, everytime I passed by one of these spit-roasted stands of little birds in France, I salivated profusely.
In Toulouse pour example, there was a distinct Morroccan flair to these southern rotisserie stands with a tangible savoury music emitted avec herbal fusions basted before the skin hit flame. In Paris, the buttery saffron glow of tenderly bustled birds hissing into leaves of foil leaves you nearly running for fork & knife. With either, you can hardly go wrong...
And so in a moment of simpicity on a weeklong rampage of gluttony, Ken & I decided to dine in: a very small convection oven allowed me to create a most decadent macaroni & cheese with all our illegal-to-export raw milk odds & ends and one very French chicken. After two weeks of glorious sun, the rain sheeted down the expansive windows of our perfect atelier forcing us to enjoy a marvellous parade of bursting umbrella tops, quick-pedalling bicycles, & high heels furiously clicking down the dampened streets to shelter under dry awnings. Ah, Paris................
Sounds heavenly! You've painted a beautiful picture with your words.
oh - and don't hate me, but I just tagged you for a meme...
(http://cookbook411.com/2006/02/27/a-meme-for-monday/)
Posted by: L | February 27, 2006 at 01:47 PM
those patés do tend to stretch your waistbands... and the miles of them to peruse in markets and super markets is a parisian stunner... still we're glad to hear the walkups still ensorcel the honeymooners - nesting is the natural state of lovers who understand that food and love making are simply parallel endeavors.
Between the ambience, history, noon concerts in churches, roving film crews, small galleries and the French penchant for fresh ingredients it's hard to imagine a better venue for coming together and getting down after a wedding.
Your passionate descriptions are equal to your pictures..
Keep it up... Ms. G
Posted by: Ms. G | March 02, 2006 at 05:28 PM
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