I officially hate Blogger

What's with the random, crappy, UNFIXABLE insertion of dozens of empty lines?!!! ARGGGH!

And on the heels of that formatting rant, I've been experiencing a crisis of focus. Not sure I want to continue on a food-focused blog, and Blogger has obviously been causing me a bit of friction. (ahem)

Not sure what's next.

Fleeing deep fried shrimp on the gulf coast

Hubby's Texas project was done - FINALLY - and we needed a getaway. So we did what we'd talked about before we came to Odessa - drive to the coast and then follow the gulf to New Orleans.

We started in San Antonio, which is, surprisingly to us, one of the US's 10 largest cities. I'd heard about the Riverwalk and wanted to check it out. My beloved HEB is headquartered there, in the historic armoury buildings, which we passed as we walked below the gorgeous historic homes of the King William district on the Riverwalk's residential stretch. It was glorious to walk through green, beside water. We're not in wind-scorched Odessa anymore!

Just as wonderful was that we were in a foodie town. I had avidly scoped out Chowhound, Yelp, Texas Monthly, planning my marks, plotting my appetite, and scored two wonderful meals. Gwendolyn is a chef-driven, locavore-focused restaurant with a prixe fixe 3 or 5 course menu that changes daily. The space is small, perched at ground level above the riverwalk and getting there was our first emergence from the encompassing landscaped prettiness of the river. Wow, holy parking lot-and-rundown building wasteland above ground, Batman! Seek shelter in the restaurant, pronto.

Gwendlyn is refined clotted cream walls and dark wood, but we opted for the balcony suspended over the river. We had walked lots that day and were ready for the full menu. First up was a yummy little pot of polenta topped with caramelized onions. Right up Hubby's umami alley. Loved this restaurant's focus on 100 mile sourcing and French style 'presentation' of each course, although our extremely enthusiastic waiter was a tad over-involved; lengthy dish descriptions, lots of check backs, essays on the superlativeness of the chef/ingredients/philosophy. The sommelier and the chef both stopped by too. Yes, we are also food lovers but please - let us eat!

Then came a cold salt cod soup with tiny crackers. Also great. By that point Hubby and I were enjoying each other, dinner and the warm evening so much I forgot to take photos. This will be a theme. Me and cameras - not so sympatico. Trust me, as the vacation went on, there were plenty of agonized moments as I looked at an empty plate, or worse, a bill, and wailed "I forgot to take a picture!" (or even the camera) I'm all about the eating. But really, it was getting too dark for good photos anyway. Right? Right.

The next day we had a rainy day lunch amongst the trees at The Lodge. A rambling hundred year old house in the 'burbs, it has not had its character as a home removed; the bar is in the living room amongst the leather couches and we ate in an upper bedroom with lots of windows out to the trees. At lunch The Lodge is also a prix fixe menu, we both started with the butternut squash soup. Although not unique, it keeps showing up because it tastes so good. This was an excellent version. Look, I remembered to photograph it before I'd eaten it all!

Hubby had the roast beef sandwich with gorgeous rare roast sliced onto a crusty homemade roll, topped with potato salad with pasta salad on the side. In West Texas bread means soft and white, so the balance of loft and chew was really appreciated. I had the boneless pork chop with corn salsa and roasted potatoes and onions. Really good food. The Lodge has a cult dessert, their 'souffle' - a Nutella enriched chocolate cake with peanut butter mousse and caramel. Wow. Since Hubby doesn't like chocolate, I had it all to myself.

We then spent a week in Laguna Madre, just outside South Padre Island. The best food moment was an adequate meal in a 'fancy' restaurant on a deck just in time to see a most spectacular sunset. Frustratingly, everywhere we ate they served fish from distant oceans and sentenced the local gulf shrimp to the deep fryer. Just so spring-break, lowest-common-denominator sad.

On to an overnight in Galveston to give my aching butt a rest from all the driving. More of that misty coast, better food, great architecture and a long seawall to stroll. The best meal was at Stingaree Marina, an hour north of Galveston, where guys were pulling fish out of East Bay a few feet away while we ate absolutely delicious lump crab sauteed in butter with basil.

Okay, but really, the highlight of this trip was our next stop: The Big Easy. Hubby has been steadily taking me to places I've long dreamed about and thanks to Hotwire, we stayed downtown at the 4 1/2 star Le Pavillion Hotel with a rooftop pool and a 10pm pb&j buffet. First up on the must do list was Cafe du Monde. My kind of breakfast - fresh beignet and cafe au lait at noon.

I love that people dress up there! Odessa was not only full of cowboy boots, which was fine, but endless jeans and crappy tshirts no matter what the event. We booked at Emeril's that night and walked through the sultry evening to the busy, warm space. (LOVE bare shoulder nights!) Scallops on a menu are always a draw and these were eyes-rolled-back-in-head, slumped-in-chair good; I had to restrain Hubby from licking the fresh corn sauce off the plate they were perched on. He got disconcertingly focused on his beef two ways: filet, and short rib shepherd's pie and I went on to shrimp and grits. I mean, it's the South! Eat grits! Last call was the banana cream pie Emeril's is justly famous for. Enormous, it defeated me, but it was worth the fight.

We had several great lunches: an accidental stop when the target resto was closed where I had my first lip-smacking shrimp remolade. Coop's is locally top-rated for their fried chicken and served delicious jambalaya on the side, better by far than the jambalaya they demonstrated at The New Orleans School of Cooking but the story telling cook was so entertaining I would highly recommend spending a morning there.

Our last night in New Orleans was magic. I was wearing a swirly silk dress that was a match for the city. We started at the Royal Oyster bar for oysters, of course, chargrilled with garlic and butter. Hubby couldn't get enough so I hung back and let him finish them. Then on to Mr. B's for the best barbecue shrimp in town, where he did the same for me. The shrimp aren't cooked on the bbq and the sauce isn't a bbq sauce, rather there are a pile of giant, whole sea bugs, swimming in a gorgeous sauce, rich with butter and slightly spicy - it reminded me of a curry. Both dishes come with baguette to mop up the luxurious puddles, a most decadent progressive dinner. Sated, we walked to Frenchmen Street for some Mississipi blues in a bar with its doors wide open to the night. Under a pressed tin ceiling Hubby slow danced with me until our feet could take no more, and then we sat and hummed along. When we finally left, the lead singer thanked us for coming, looking so nice, and so we went back to our swanky room laughing.

I hope to see Nawlins again.

Harold's BBQ in Abilene

We met my cousins for lunch in Abilene, at a place they picked out of the phone book. Harold's is a classic Texas bbq joint; faded paint, clippings on the walls, everyone from blue haired grandmas to cool teens on the benches around the tables, all surrounded by the voluptuous smell of smoke.

We ordered up (brisket and ribs for me), found a table and dug in to the food and the conversation. Suddenly Harold stepped from behind the counter and told us he'd been singing all his life and that he'd been asked to sing for us. In a grand, vibrato baritone, he lit into..."How Great Thou Art". Three verses; then had the whole room join in for the chorus. And they did! Grandmas, biker guys, cool teens - everyone warbling along, "then sings my soul..."

The bbq was good but that moment - sharing the impromptu hymnsing with a group of strangers - was the most incredible thing about the meal. Check out the video of Harold leading everyone in singing "Amen":

roofless

(sorry about the erratic spacing, Blogger won't let me correct it) Hubby's work squeeze play is coming up in a week, so he finagled a couple of days so we could get out of Dodge before he disappears into the commissioning of his project. He won't be up for air for a couple of weeks.

We headed out to the iconic Rio Grande, with a two day guided paddle through the Santa Elena canyon ahead, with Big Bend River Tours. Given that it was going to average 32 C, the temperature seemed perfect for tenting - since heat is still a novelty to us Canadians.

Gear was a bit of a problem - Hubby's new Transitions glasses we'd delayed leaving town to pick up blew a nose piece after an hour on the road. The new glasses straps we'd bought so we didn't lose the new ones in the drink frayed almost immediately. And the hook on my swimsuit top snapped as I was getting dressed the first morning. Hubby managed to jury rig it together.

But whatever. We were exhilarated to be heading into elevation - the Chihuahuan desert has the Chisos mountains, which have the spectacular addition, along with the river, of - wait for it - trees! Hubby, we're not in Odessa anymore!

We met our guide and drove out through Big Bend National Park to our put in spot, right on the doorway of the canyon. Yucca was in bloom, the brush was leafing out, and the spectacular height of the 1500' canyon walls dwarfed us as we loaded the canoes.

The Rio Grande is such a storied river it was astonishing to see it more of a creek. Our trip, in fact, consisted of an easy 3 mile paddle upstream on flat, shallow water day one and an even easier paddle downstream the next day. Coming from the ferocious white water of the Rockies, this took a shift of expectation.

I was devastated by the beauty. The silence seeped into us and we spent whole hours without speaking, heads turned up towards the layered walls, the sudden caves, the light. Our guide found us a shady gravel ledge and set out a wide sandwich bar. I hadn't had Oreos for a decade but in this setting -ambrosia.

Slow paddling, interspersed with portages where we towed the canoe up brief, shallow riffles, sun, shade, birdsong - up the long nave of stone to the sandbar where we'd set up camp. Initially disappointed that I'd left our current books behind, Hubby took to the chairs our guide set up to 'canyon tv' and we spent the rest of the late afternoon watching the sun move up the walls, talking, sipping wine as we waited for supper to be ready. He forgot about the books immediately.

Can I tell you how much I was enjoying not having planned the food, prepped the food or having made the food?

We had bacon wrapped steaks cooked to order, baked potatoes with all the toppings, crisp salad with homemade dressing, spicy garlic toast...and chocolate cheesecake for dessert. Hubby loves cheesecake, but not chocolate, so I happily ate off the chocolate glaze while feeding him the vanilla cake.

Canyon tv had aerial divebombing by white throated swifts, followed even before sunset with fluttering bats in the lower, shadowed canyon. Next came the light show and we watched each star slip into the pale sky, eventually following satelites and shooting stars in our narrow strip of view.

My neck was defeated by all the craning, so by flashlight we went to our tent where we could continue the show all night, since the mesh window on the tent went from ankle height right over our heads to the other side. I woke in the night to a new noise, a scruffling close to the tent, and lay awake for a while, staring up at those brilliant stars, until I felt sure we would not be invaded.

Morning brought the scent of frying breakfast sausage. Coffee in hand, we watched the sun slide down the steep walls, eventually eating pancakes with berries and bananas, whip cream, sausage and orange juice. Did I mention we weren't even expected to wash dishes?

A leisurely pack up pace and then the downstream trip, with almost no towing, and when there was, Hubby let me stay in the canoe.

It was idyllic. Only the occasional sound of ripples. Rooms of light illuminating stands of grass and reed into brilliant colours. A few turtles. Hubby would kiss me when he came for the painter at the front of the canoe.

All too soon, the canyon gateway loomed and we were passing daytrippers, and then hikers. Their voices carried to us from half a mile and Eden faded away. After hauling gear at take out, our guide set up lunch, and we looked out over the river at the sheer cliffs we'd come through. Hubby hugged me. "Thank you baby. That was amazing."

In the land of Texas bbq...Korean bulgogi

Where's the beef? Well, lots of it is home on the Texas range. And millions of pounds of brisket, sausage and steak are grilled and barbecued each year, with long lines of Texans chowing down on well-prepared cow. Or eating it seasoned and spicy Mexican style.

But I've had a hankering for Asian food. So I took those beautiful ribeyes and sliced them thinly, sprinkling on the requested sugar and then after they'd glazed a little, put the marinade on and let that beef get savoury.

A quick toss in a hot pan and I served up with pickled red onions, sesame oil tossed bean sprouts and butter lettuce to wrap it in. Mmm...almost as good as being at Bow Bulgogi in Calgary.

a la francaise

Before leaving Calgary, I received a lovely gift from CC. Her husband is an excellent woodworker and he has been experimenting with creating french rolling pins. I've been working solely with a tiny 6" Indian style rolling pin - hey, maybe I can blame the flop pie on the pin! - so this was a welcome gift.

("Is that a man-beating stick?" Hubby asked when he saw it. I just smiled.)

Here are Hubby's hands, making graham crumbs for low-effort, high reward microwave cheesecake. The pin worked well, and with Hubby working well...why would the pin be used for anything but rolling?

Microwave cheesecake - fast, easy and truly effective at sweet tooth appeasement. It's elsewhere on the web but here it is for those of you not trolling for hot new recipes.
3 Tbsp butter, melted
1/2 cup graham cracker crumbs
1 Tbsp sugar
8 oz cream cheese, softened
1/3 cup sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla

Combine the graham crumbs with melted butter and the 1 Tbsp sugar. Divide the crumbs between 4 one cup ramekins or small canning jars and press into the bottom.

Mix the rest of the ingredients until smooth. Divide evenly into jars or ramekins.

Place in microwave for 2 minutes. The top of the cheesecake should appear dry when cooked. If it doesn't look quite done, microwave at 30 second intervals until the tops appear dry. Chill in the fridge 1 hour. Garnish with berries or fruit compote and serve.

Lime flavour option: omit the vanilla, add the zest of 1 lime and 2 Tbsp lime juice.

Once my mom comes next week, I'll ask her to make pie crust with me and we'll give the pin a trial of its true purpose, seeing if that silky finish lives up to its promise. (sorry, we ate the cheesecake before I remembered to take a picture. Not for the first time.)

My kingdom for a good fish counter...

...oh wait, I have one of those, because I have H-E-B. Great fish in West Texas! Who knew?!

Of course I've checked out the local grocery stores. My first few experiences, Albertsons and Walmart, were not great. Limp produce, limited selection: was not feeling the love. But then I heard about H-E-B, which I've been pronouncing 'heb'; the commercials clarify that it's really H E B, short for "Here, everything's better". Ohhh, hokeyness. But then guess what: it was a rose in the desert, a Texas/Mexico-based freshness-and-local-focused food emporium. It has no atmosphere - it's not Whole Foods pretty- but the meat, produce and fish is largely Texas sourced and has been brought in within 24 hours.

Plus they're making tortillas all day long. Fresh, warm tortillas! When I see the catfish at the seafood counter, it gets my juices going...fish tacos, anyone? Hubby loves fish tacos. And here I've been in the south for 3 weeks and haven't had catfish yet!! As in, I have never had catfish. This must be rectified.

The ahi tuna I bought for New Year's Eve was good - there it is, marinating in olive oil - as have been the gulf shrimp. I intend to thoroughly check out the rest of the options in the fish case.

Then there was Lamb's stone ground cornmeal from Converse, TX. Could there be simpler packaging? Made some good grits with it, tarted up with the last of the Tomme d'Savoie from Janice Beaton.

All in all, I'm very relieved. Good groceries are just down the street.

A shocking absence of big hair

Hubby and I headed south in December. Someone asked where in Texas we were moving and when I replied, "unfortunately it's 'ugly Texas'", her response was "Oh, you're moving to Midland!", and indeed we are.

Or actually Odessa, the twin city next door to Midland. Not for a long time, but hopefully a good time. I paid the import duty for myself at the border: $6 US to bring one of me in. (processing fee for my companion visa)

In preparation for leaving our condo to our friends T&K, who would happily be able to housesit for us, I made a list of possibly mysterious homemade items in the fridge: sundried tomato tapenade, pickled red onions, preserved lemons, 3 kinds of herb butters, wine vinegar in the making, plus glace fruit from Paris...what a food geek. Thankfully, T is a foodie like me and will likely actually use these things.

The morning we drove out was full of hoar frost through southern Alberta. I had calculated that since Manuel Latruwe bakery opened at 7:30am, we would be able to stop by for some pain au chocolate and a baguette - a real, delicious, crisp crust baguette to eat with cheese and smoked buffalo for lunch. It's a Janice Beaton bag full of cheese in the photo of the back of the SUV; I doubt there will be Beaufort in Odessa. And unfortunately, I'm very sure there will not be good baguette - or possibly ANY baguette in West Texas.

Hubby started drawling before we even hit the lone star state, and at the same stop in New Mexico I was ma'amed for the first time. We were definitely not in our Kansas, anymore.

The drive - besides being LONG - was uneventful for us, although we passed half a dozen semi's on their sides in the ditch, blown over from ferocious wind in the pass above Pueblo, Colorado.

The best meal of the trip was in Hereford, Texas - yes, many businesses were named 'Whiteface', and Hubby's cattle side enjoyed this immensely - where we ate at K-Bob's, having the steak, of course. I ordered green beans on the side, craving something vegetal: they came southernized, I think. I'm still learning about this but they were what I would normally say were overdone, except that they also were in a smoky kind of sauce, so I think it was planned. Unless they burned them to the bottom of the pan. I'll continue to research this and let you know.

It was a relief to have used the last gas station bathroom. The sunset was spectacular but we really just wanted to get out of the truck and start making home out of our rented condo. The simple pasta I made that night wasn't fabulous, but it was real food and it tasted good. Plus, it had collard greens in it - collard greens! There they were, just sitting on the shelf in the produce section, along with mustard and turnip greens. I had to try them. The flavour is slightly bitter and although the leaf doesn't look or feel that dense, they take longer than expected to wilt in the pan. I'm looking forward to exploring the rest of the local grocery stores.

In the heat of the bite

Spurred by an invitation to an international potluck brunch, I dug out this recipe. Even those who resist Indian food - I'm looking at you, Dad! - seem to warm up to 'meatloaf'. I doubled the recipe so I would have extra to serve as the starter for a couple of suppers we're hosting this week and at each event, it's resulted in an empty plate and requests for the recipe.

So in the interest of great tasting food that a few smart purchases from Superstore makes so much easier, may I introduce Dam Ke Kebab, adapted from 'Classic Indian Cuisine'. Plus it sounds so fun to say, especially three times fast with a hint of an accent.

1 pound ground beef

1 tsp fresh, ground ginger (I use the bottled crushed ginger from SS)

3 cloves of crushed garlic

1 tsp dried chilies (or to taste)

2 tsps curry powder or garam masala

1/4 cup plain yogurt

1 Tbsp chopped fresh cilantro

1 tsp chili powder

2 eggs, lightly beaten

1 onion, sliced thin and fried until crisp (I use the crisp fried onions from the spice section in SS)

salt, at least a teaspoon or to taste

Juice of 1 lemon, divided in half

Mix everything together, with half of the lemon juice. Press into a greased 8x8" pan and brush with oil. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 20 minutes; then turn the oven down to 300 degrees for another 20 minutes, or until the meat has shrunk and turned slightly golden. Remove to a cutting board and drizzle with the second half of the lemon juice. Cut in small squares.

Serve with this Indianesque mint yogurt dip that I faked up.

1/2 cup plain yogurt

1 tsp mint chutney (I use Aki's brand from you-know-where)

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp sugar

The quantities are approximate - combine enough of each to make it taste good.

I'm Saltine, and I follow food fads

I succumbed to a novelty, and for our delayed Thanksgiving feast, made my family eat turducken. There. Admitting the problem is the first step, right?

It's ridiculous - a chicken, inside a duck, inside a turkey, all boneless, and in this case, stuffed with sausage. Tarbucket, turdbucken - I'm sure all the nicknames my family gave the beast were covering a deep unease but never let that stop you! It needed a honest try to know if it was frankenturkey or sliced bread's successor. After all, the juicy chicken, the rich duck, wrapped in the turkey - there's a lot of potential there.

The shape was impressively deceptive: aside from some fearful stitches on the side (look away, look away!) it was as smooth and shapely as any Butterball. The wings and drumsticks are still attached, so tucking it into my roaster, it was easy to believe that it was a regular turkey, although I don't usually sprinkle spicy-looking seasoning on mine.

Cooking is literally an all-day process - 6 hours at 220 degrees until the thermometer registered 165. The package gives a two hour window for completion - two hours! - which is insane, because who knows when to start the potatoes, how many appetizers will be required, how to coordinate all the sides when there's that much leeway. Indeed, climbing the last few degrees took a surprising amount of time.

Carving, however, is a cinch. Whack it in half, slice the halves. Even carving-impaired Hubby could do it.

The slices were heavy on turkey and sausage, light on chicken and duck. Flavour - hmmm - there was some, yup there really was - but wow, so not remarkable. The turkey tasted turkeyish, the sausage was a fine paste of acceptable edibility but no. Won't be going there again.

So thanks, turkducken, for your mad scientist hybridization that gave a enjoyable frisson of danger to our dinner - but we'll stick with the original.

Not your Chef Boyardee's ragu

I've been home more lately, with the weather cooling into a pleasant fall and time to let things simmer. Hubby gets a little woozy, anticipating the umami overload of slow braised food, and I love making food he enjoys.

Marcella Hazan came to mind, and her long cooked, Bolognese-style ragu, something I had never tried from 'The Classic Italian Cookbook', her treatise on the mama-made basics in the old style.

I didn't have ground beef but I did have a small pot roast that I diced, along with onion, celery and carrot, and began my all day sojourn. First the onion is sweated in a heavy Dutch oven , then the other veggies are added: but briefly, no caramelization, usually the initial objective in cooking.

Then the beef went in, cooked just until it was no longer raw looking. The wine came next; it was simmered away. Milk was evaporated off too. Finally, the tomatoes went into the pot and the heat was turned back until it only bubbled occasionally - a long, lazy afternoon transforming basic, even boring components - not an herb added! - to something utterly beyond, releasing a slow whisp of fragrance that slowly filled the kitchen, the apartment, the hallway...and brought home my Hubby and his big hug. I think the hug was because he loves me, not just because I feed him. :-)

I cooked some polenta and we ate it covered in the ragu, an earthy, gorgeous sauce. At the first forkful, it was clear that adding cheese was gilding the lily. Sensational.

The next time I made it, I used lean ground beef, doubled the recipe - anything that takes most of a day to make should be produced in bulk - and served it up over spaghetti, not bothering with parmesan. A bowl full of richly flavoured comfort... and there's another one waiting in the freezer whenever I want it. (big smile)

Fraise et Tomate

One of the lovely dinners we had in Paris was at Maceo, which was celebrating high July with a summer prixe fixe menu of strawberries and tomatoes. Chef Thierry Bourbonnais' focus on fresh and seasonal could not have come through more clearly, with luscious strawberries in every market and the first tomatoes ripe.

We started with a cold soup with the scent of berries and a delicate tomato flavour and revelled in the spacious room of pale wood. I loved being there in the pretty dress I had bought in London, earlier in our trip. Princess time!

Then we were served shrimp with berry-dyed alfalfa piled in a rosy heap with shreds of preserved lemon. With this pink swirl, it seemed perfect to be drinking the recommended rosé. Maceo is a sister restaurant to the famous Willy's Wine Bar and it's omnivorously wineophile owner, Mark Williamson, and the sommelier at Maceo did indeed seem to know his stuff. The menus on the website are a free mental vacation: http://www.maceorestaurant.com/

Our entree was lamb loin with the fat cap well crisped, served over roasted tomato slices with a pile of tiny sauteed mushrooms. Pure umami on a fork; this was Hubby's favourite course. Evening was falling, the breeze through the open window was cooler, we were enjoying ourselves and our dinner.

Always happy to eat dessert, I was excited at the plating of this one: wee dehydrated strawberries were scattered around a collar of nut tuile, which held tiny fresh berries. A quenelle of tangy creme fraiche ice cream lay along side. Too full for more dinner, I nevertheless demolished it.

We tumbled out onto the street after our leisurely meal and happily made our way to the Opera subway station, along with a strong minority of other well-dressed people - tourists, most likely, since Parisians flee the city in the summer. We were enjoying being alive and well-fed on a beautiful July evening in the City of Lights. Hubby kissed me on the platform; we laughed like we had a secret.

Flop pie

Mmmm...peaches. My second favourite fruit.

While on vacation, I had read Jeffrey Steingarten's 'The Man Who Ate Everything' and was inspired by his obsessive, perfectionist research to make traditional pie crust again. I've been using Edna Staebler's 'speedy pat-in pie crust' for a long time and although there's no top crust, a great streusel topping compensates in ways that mean no one notices the non-traditional bottom. My brother, in fact, believes it's the real thing. People don't make real pie crust much any more and it's been so long since they've tasted it that even those exposed to my mother's superior pies have apparently forgotten the unbearable lightness of crust. Great fruit and ice cream compensate for a lot.

Oh, but the crust. As much as I love peaches, and find them superlative in pie, great pie means great crust. Thinking of that lardy, flaky, tender pastry makes my mouth water, so maybe it's time to make my own again.

Steingarten consults - a soft word for the kind of obsessive pastry stalking he pursues with singleminded focus in person, via phone and fax - with Marion Cunningham, author of the Fannie Farmer Baking Book. After weeks of making pie he comes up with what he thinks is the definitive version - simple enough for an amateur, delicious enough for a gourmand.

Okay, I'm in.

After carefully reading the 8 pages of directions - not including the 6 pages on fruit fillings - and working my way through the process with strict obedience to detail - I had a non functional crust. As in, too dry, falling apart, with no structural integrity. I know to adjust baking recipes for the dry conditions in Calgary - flour is absent humidity here - but it can be hard to know how far to go - and clearly I had not gone far enough, even though I went to Steingarten's max. I wet a tea towel and spread it over my rolled dough, leaving it long enough for moisture to absorb into the crumbly crust, and managed, with the help of a scrubbed binder cover, and despite gritted teeth, to lower the two crusts into position around a peach filling.

But the proof's in the pudding, right? Unfortunately, post bake, despite an adequately browned top, the pebbly appearance turned out to continue on to the mouth feel. Can I tell you how disappointing it is to be all set up for pie nirvana and find inadequacy?

Hubby and guests - sharply warned that this was flop pie, and I didn't want to hear anything but happy comments - dutifully nod with appreciation. Okay, so it was willingingly finished in short order, but that just goes to my point about people no longer remembering good crust.

Perfect pie - still AWOL.

Bakery Breakfasts, 7th arrondissement

We never set up the dining table for breakfast in Paris. Instead, Hubby would hike the 6 flights down to our local bakery (how I love that man!) and climb back up with a bag full of my requests. He would make dark, strong coffee, I'd prep some fruit and we'd read and nibble and sip and enjoy the morning on the couch. Sunday every day!

I love pain de chocolat, and ate a good many of these, but I had an exhuberant fling with the chausson aux pomme, a flaky pastry filled with tangy apple puree. I wish it could have been a lifetime relationship, but I haven't found a Calgary version. For breakfast with fresh cherries - sublime.

Sometimes Hubby brought a goat cheese and tomato tart, which we would share, and he would have a croissant as well, and I would have pain de chocolat, each of us hoarding our favourite. There were no offers to share.

Strawberries were in season, tiny, thin-skinned, juicy and voluptuously fragrant strawberries. Strawberries like I remember eating from the garden, and finding no where else in my adulthood of hard, pink, scentless blobs from Safeway. Why does Europe still have devastatingly good strawberries while we eat tasteless styrofoam? There should be an inquiry. It's a national scandal, but most of us have forgotten what we're missing and don't complain. Well I'm complaining now. I'm mad at North American strawberries and I don't know if there's anything they can do to make it up to me - short of giving up their hard-hearted ways and becoming real strawberries again.

I topped the lightly sugared berries with a healthy dollop of creme fraiche - just to round out our food groups - and gloated that such a thing was available at the corner store.

If I could eat breakfast like this everyday, I'd stop skipping it. I'd become a devoted, enthusiastic, evangelistic breakfast eater. All hail the continental breakfast! Okay, maybe especially when eaten on the Continent.

Days of wine and cheeses

We've been home a month, but in that time we've recreated our recurrent Paris picnics several times, enjoying wonderful cheeses, baguette and wine, often a Sancerre or Muscadet, for dinner.

There were at least 4 cheese shops within three blocks of the apartment we rented, including the famous Cantin cheese dynasty, now headed by daughter Marie Anne, one of the few companies in Paris which ages cheese in their own cave to the perfection their trained noses detect. http://www.cantin.fr/

I was a little intimidated by the store: instead of the cheerful profusion in other local cheese shops, each cheese was displayed on a separate stand in the temperature controlled room, like a Cartier jewel without the glass. Uniformed staff reverently cut each piece and wrapped it in Cantin labeled paper once they deciphered an approximation of what I was asking for, my French being non-existent. I found it hard to limit my selections; after all they had four kinds of Comte, my favourite gruyere. I only bought two, along with that king of cheese, Beaufort; a stinky Brie de Meaux; and two goat cheeses, young and old. The bill: high for France but better than Calgary.

Fresh chevre, however, was not sold at Cantin - it was available at every corner grocery store, along with creme frais, Brittany butter and lardons. Avec moi! (fake French expletive) What a country!

We were lovingly savouring the last of the Beaufort on the Chunnel train to London a week later. It will be months before Beaufort is available in Calgary, which we looked forward to across the coming cold of autumn with a rueful toast.

The moveable feast to be found in the other local cheese shops looked like this:

Amongst a long list of things I hope to return to Paris for, a far more thorough exploration of local cheese is one of them. Until then, I will keep my tastebuds trained and happy with locally found Piave, Vigneron, Chevre Noir and Vintage Gouda, ready for the next visit, deo volente.