catch of the day: the trail of crumbs

Once upon a time, when I was living in Paris, a friend came to visit who told me that "food was not important" to her.  This, dear reader, caused something of a conundrum (see: panic attack).  For I was (a) in Paris to study food culture, (b) Paris is one of the most important food cities in the world, (c) a good number of the things I like to do in Paris involve observing/smelling/tasting food and (d) even when not directly interacting with food, I literally cannot walk down the street in Paris without thinking about the best food-related activities in the neighborhood. In fact, when someone asks me for things to do in any city, my suggestions (if not directly food related) will always be followed by - "and if you should happen to be hungry, there is this great [ fill-in-the-foodie-blank ] right around the corner...".

It was soothing to me, at that time, to have all my fellow ex-pat and native French friends react to this story with "Quoi? She does not care about food?" - just as it is rather delightful for me to have discovered the like-minded Trail of Crumbs, a self-pronounced "gastro-travelogue".

As California ex-pats living in Paris, Adrian and Danielle's passion for travel is only matched by their passion for food.  After years of helping friends plan exciting food-friendly vacations, they launched this website as a way to chronicle their favorite bites along the way, and they will even go so far as to provide you with individualized gastro-travel plans.  I'm looking forward to checking out their Paris Guide myself.

To date, I'm most impressed with their window-box gardening, and I'm excited to see what comes next!

recipe revisited: rice pudding

I never was much of a sweets girl, until I moved to Paris.  During my year back in the states, I've slowly reverted back to my preference for the savory over the sweet - with a few exceptional cravings.  Dark chocolate, mascapone/cream cheese frosted cakes (see carrot, red velvet...), gelato and pudding can still get me every time.  And when it comes to pudding , rice pudding and I have had a long, loyal love affair.

But if my fondness for riz au lait was only intensified by my Parisian meals at the likes of chez l'Ami Jean - it did not reach it's pinnacle until I tasted black rice pudding as a random dessert special at the little-known Bao Noodles (one of my family's favorite no-reservation-required NYC restos).  Savory and sweet, this was a dessert that could easily double for breakfast (which is exactly my kind of dessert).  And when I finally came around to inventing my own healthy(er) recipe, you betcha that this warm dessert graced my breakfast table cold (and shockingly, was more delicious as a leftover).

Black rice pudding(dairy free, gluten free, refined sugar-free)

1 cup black rice (rinsed and soaked overnight) 4 cups liquid (I usually do a 1:1 or 2:1 ratio of non-dairy milk and water.  1:1 if sweetened, 2:1 if unsweetened.  Coconut milk works really nicely.) 3 dates, chopped into small pieces (Dates are a healthy(er) substitute to refined sugar) A splash of vanilla extract

1. Start by boiling your liquid.  I’d start 3.75 cups.  (You can add more water later)

2. While the liquid is boiling, re-rinse your soaked rice.  When liquid is near-boiling, grab a new pot.  Put the rice in this pot over a low flame, and add about half of your liquid.

3. As time goes on add the rest of the liquid gradually, and test for texture (should be a bit chewy, but not mushy, when done).

4. About 30-40 minutes into cooking, add a splash of vanilla extract and your chopped dates.

 Total cook time – about 45 minutes to an hour.

Traditional black rice pudding recipe Health benefits of black rice

ordinary pleasures: squeegee

I'm not sure what it is about a man with a squeegee.  There's just something about watching someone methodically smooth out or wipe off a surface that I find absolutely mesmerizing. It all started in Paris.  In the arched subway tunnels of the city of light, there are massive ads that follow the curve of the wall.  The men who preside over these oversize posters - advertising everything from grocery store discounts to an upcoming theatre performances - are like the oompa loompas of the métro.  Not because they are short or unattractive, but rather because they arrive in bright blue overalls, at unexpected times of the day, to complete a job you almost forgot existed.

Hanging a Parisian subway poster, curiously enough, does not involve the removing of the previous poster.  The new poster arrives, neatly divided into four-six sections, each of which is neatly folded in four.  The bright blue overalled "man of the hour" unfolds one of the four sections, lines it up with the edge of the poster's frame, and deftly smooths out the magically adhesive fabric, repeating this job three more times until the poster is complete.  I have, at times, missed a train on purpose to watch these men at work.  There is something so soothing, almost meditative, about the rhythm and precision of their work.  Perhaps it is just the quiet confidence of a job well done, a small glimpse of the many seemingly simple infastructures that keep our complex world afloat.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVEFVym8XB4 (Upon watching this film, I realized that my memory had omitted that the Parisian poster hangers work with brushes, not squeegees - but the movements are squeegee-like.)

The New York subway holds no such pleasure for me.  I've never seen anyone change out the small-scale advertisements on the subway cars (although I'd be interested to watch them complete one of the full-scale ad-makeovers on the 42nd street Shuttle), and larger advertisements do not hang on the stations' walls.  So far removed from my Parisian moments of squeegee meditation am I, that when I received an email this morning stating that a window washer would be paying my office a visit, I did not - at first- register that there would be a squeegee involved.

I have seen window washers in New York City before.  They are a daring breed, half-hanging out of skyscrapers (and often looking down).  I always fear they'll flinch when a car honks or a garbage truck goes rattling by.  But I've never had a window washer visit my own office or home.

The process is simple enough (with double-hung windows) and not as dangerous as I would have thought.  But the squeegee action is blissful.  Sudsy swirls drag across the window pane, followed by the clean sweep of a squeegee (led by the methodical snaps of a well-trained wrist).

The men who visited my office this morning, squeegees in tow, could never have anticipated the glee I felt while watching their masterful work.  And though they were here for mere minutes, they made my day (not to mention improved my view).

The only irony in this squeegee splendor is that I feel no such joy in manning the squeegee myself.  It is only watching the true experts, the unconscious rhythm derived from their repetitive gestures, that fills me with childish awe and wonder.