French-splaining American Thanksgiving

In November 2005, before I was reading news digitally, I cut out an article by a humor columnist from a prominent international newspaper. The subject was why Americans eat turkey for Thanksgiving.

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roast turkey or la dinde rôtie

In 1952, an earlier version of this article was published under the title “Explaining Thanksgiving to the French”. The back-story, prompting the reprint, was a woman in Maryland who bought an old, yellowed newspaper clipping at a garage sale. She paid $10 for it. Someone-in-the-know, at the Library of Congress, told her it was worth $80,000 as a collector’s item. It became art on the wall of her home.

We were living in Germany in 2005. I didn’t speak French then, but found the story quirky enough to save. I understand French better now, so the literal translations read even sillier.

For history buffs wishing to be enlightened without forking over $80,000, here is one version of why we eat turkey:

One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.

 Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims [Pèlerins] who fled from l’Angleterre to found a colony in the New World [le Nouveau Monde] where they could shoot Indians [les Peaux-Rouges] and eat turkey [dinde] to their heart’s content.

 They landed at a place called Plymouth [a famous voiture Américaine] in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower [or Fleur de Mai] in 1620. But while the Pèlerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pélerins and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pèlerins was when they taught them to grow corn [maïs]. The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pèlerins.

 In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pèlerins’ crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more maïs was raised by the Pèlerins than Pèlerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges…

 …And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes, and for the only time during the year eat better than the French do…1

Living overseas for 30 years, without extended family around, our Thanksgiving holidays have been celebrated rather differently. In early Taiwan years, there was an annual pig roast in Maddy and Cabby’s backyard, linen covered tables lit in candlelight, adults drinking wine and trading stories while children ran rampant until late at night.

Another year, we shared Thanksgiving with Chinese friends who delighted in the array of traditional-American-food-in-excess more than we did.

The year we became empty nesters, I said to my husband, “No more beige, brown and white food for Thanksgiving. Let’s check into a hotel and eat what we want.” So we did. Spicy Thai is what I remember.

After moving to Europe, with both children permanently in the U.S., we continued to lay low during this holiday-that-was-never-a-holiday in the country where we were living.

A couple of Novembers ago, we were invited to our friends’ Sally and John’s Paris apartment for Thanksgiving. It was an intimate group of eight, but international with one Spanish husband and one Italian boyfriend mixed among the Americans. We brought champagne,  red wine, and something green to offset the neutrals of what would undoubtedly be served. Thanksgiving food color is traditional.

But then–I was completely turned upside down by the holiday dinner we had been avoiding for at least 10 years. At John and Sally’s table there was color, there was taste, there was texture, and there was deliciousness in the one dish I detest the most–dressing.

Everyone in this family is creative. They are artists, film producers, film animators, screenwriters, painters, musicians, and, as it turns out, they are kitchen creative, too.

The dish I now call “John’s Best Original Made From Scratch Holiday Dressing” is far superior to the sage-y, soggy, overly bread-y brown mess I have skipped since childhood.

John’s dressing, rich with veggies, full of crunch, a hint of sweetness and tang, was the centerpiece to a remarkable meal in my favorite city where Thanksgiving is not celebrated.

Last year, when we were invited again, I asked to learn the family secret to the best dressing ever invented to be eaten with roast turkey on Thanksgiving. Like most naturally creative cooks, John uses no recipe. It varies from year to year, ingredients added or subtracted.

For the Benson/Bentley family legacy, as well as our own future holiday celebrations, here is, thankfully presented, the most delicious stuffing/dressing recipe you will ever enjoy eating. Second and third helpings, yes! Next day leftovers, if there happen to be any, yes!

There is room here for your own creativity too. Play with some of the spice amounts and optional ingredients.

À chacun son goût. To each his own taste. The essence of French-splanation.

_______________________________________________________

­1.   Story excerpt from International Herald Tribune, November 5, 2005

 

JOHN’S BEST ORIGINAL MADE FROM SCRATCH HOLIDAY DRESSING [serves 12]

Ingredients:

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  • 1 head celery, chopped
  • 4 onions, chopped
  • 6 large cloves garlic [or more], chopped
  • 2 red bell peppers, chopped
  • 2 yellow bell peppers, chopped
  • 2 green bell peppers, chopped
  • Button mushrooms, sliced
  • Fresh bread croutons–explained below
  • 2 apples, chopped
  • Greek Kalamata or Moroccan olives, pitted and chopped-optional
  • Tomato confit [or sun dried tomatoes, softened with just enough hot water], chopped–optional
  • 1/2 to 1 lb. good butter, melted–as much as you want
  • 1 bay leaf
  • 2 tsp. thyme
  • 4 tsp. sage, rosemary, oregano and tarragon [approximate]
  • Turkey, chicken or vegetable broth, 2/3-1 Cup*
  • Olive oil
  • Several Tbs to 1/4 cup Maple syrup**

*For turkey broth: boil/simmer neck and chopped gizzard in 2-3 cups water, lightly covered, for an hour. You want 2/3 to 1 cup of liquid to add per casserole dish. Okay to use chicken [or veggie broth] as substitute.

**John’s turkey preparation involves brining it beforehand. He likes using the salty drippings and basting liquid to add to the dressing. He uses maple syrup during basting to caramelize the skin and add sweetness. If you don’t use the drippings with syrup in them, then add syrup, as directed, at the end of preparation.

Preparation:

1. In a large pan, sauté red, yellow and green peppers in olive oil on medium to high heat, until they are slightly browned and softened. Add in onions and finally garlic. Add spices–2 tsp. thyme, 4 tsp. each sage, rosemary and oregano during sauté. [Quantities are suggestions because he doesn’t precisely measure.]

“It needs to smell herby-and good-as it is cooking!”–John

2. In another pan [flat-bottomed] melt a couple tablespoons of butter. Place sliced mushrooms flat in pan without overlapping. Sprinkle tarragon over it all for a light coating. Brown both sides on medium to high heat. Keep adding butter to the pan as mushrooms soak it up. Don’t skimp on butter. Mushrooms should still be firm on the inside.

3. Make croutons by cutting day old baguette into cubes. Sprinkle olive oil and rosemary over them and toss together. Place in oven on low temperature until browned or crispy.

“They should get oiled all around a bit, not soggy of course. Rosemary should be a light sprinkle.”–John

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cubed bread before oil/rosemary toss and crisping

4. Mix together all sautéed ingredients in a large bowl while still warm. Add prepared croutons.

5. Add remaining melted butter, at least 1/4 cup or 250 ml [melt more if you need it!]. Divide amounts evenly per casserole dish. Just pour it over and mix in. Use 1/2 bay leaf for each casserole.

6. Stir in broth, a little at a time until everything is mushy and moist, but not soggy.

“Croutons should not crumble into crumbs if smashed. You will probably use 1-2 C. of broth, based on crouton softness.”–John

7. Now add chopped celery, apple, seeded olives, and sundried tomatoes [or tomato confit]. These will add crunch, flavor, and a bit of tang.

8. Smell and taste. Perhaps add more butter or broth and drippings. Can also add sprig of fresh thyme or extra sage.

9. Stir in some maple syrup, a few tablespoons up to 1/4 cup per casserole.

10. Spread all ingredients into ovenproof dishes. Can place some inside turkey as stuffing. Grind black pepper over the top, if you think about it.

11. Bake uncovered 180 C. [350 F.] for about 1 hour. Halfway through, give it a stir to check for softness. If it’s too wet, stir again in 15 minutes to help with evaporation of broth. If still too moist after an hour, turn on broiler for a couple of minutes to brown and crisp the top. Watch carefully so it doesn’t burn!

“Ingredients are already cooked so baking is to evaporate the broth and crisp everything. A good dried out, browned, crispy top is unbeatable. I think it’s the butter.”–John Benson

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maybe the secret is in the butter, but it’s really much more than that…

Set a festive holiday dinner table. When seated among family and friends give thanks to everyone and everything for which you are grateful.

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Remember to raise a glass to those Peaux-Rouges and Pèlerins who started it all…

Joyeux Jour de Merci Donnant!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Other stories about Sally Bentley here: Foxglove and “Oreos” on the Camino and the Tennis/Hewitts [Maddy and Cabby] here: Transcendent Picnics

Bugling Elk and Sacred Spaces

Every part of the Earth is sacred to my people. 

Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, and the great eagle; these are our brothers.

We are part of the Earth and it is part of us.

–Chief Seattle, native American

 

It’s autumn now in northern Europe where I returned a week ago. The courtyard Virginia creeper vine is reddening more each day. Heavier bed linens are in place so the window can remain open for good sleeping. Scarves donned for outdoor wear. And rain.

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dining room window courtyard view, paris, france

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kitchen courtyard view, paris

Still, for the moment, I’m reminiscing about a longer than normal summer season in Colorado. Three months at “Camp Estes”–our hillside home with Front Range views and walk-in access to Rocky Mountain National Park.

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looking south, camp estes, long’s peak in background

What made it particularly special were the visitors, different from other summers. A toddler grand-daughter’s first time to roam rocky, hilly landscapes, a reunion of women from my high school graduating class, visual apparitions of campfire spirits after two years of “no-burn” ban, s’mores with dark European chocolate, and a herd of rutting elk who wandered in–and stayed.

These events fused with other things I love; wildflowers in profusion, mountain sunrise and sunsets, thunderstorms and rainbows, low hanging clouds clearing to snow on the high peaks, elk bugling in the change of season.

Returning to the mountains is particularly significant to me because of our overseas lifestyle. For twelve summers, during the years we lived in Taipei, Taiwan, I needed to come home and recalibrate. Living and breathing for a few months at a higher altitude with clear blue skies was so different from an Asian city constructed of concrete and the equivalent of subway tiles. The mountains gave us our “spiritual geography”, a term coined by Kathleen Norris in Dakota. It is the place we inhabit to find our best selves.

Joseph Campbell was of similar mindset when he talked of finding “sacred space”.

“A sacred space is any space that is set apart from the usual context of life. It has no function in the way of earning a living or a reputation…In your sacred space, things are working in terms of your dynamic–and not somebody else’s…You don’t really have a sacred space until you find somewhere to be…where joy comes from inside, not something external that puts joy into you, a place that lets you experience your own will and your own intention and your own wish…”

Your sacred space is where you find yourself again and again.

–J. Campbell

 

My sacred spaces begin in physical forms–a cabin in the Colorado mountains, a campfire ring, and a hidden destination called “Rock on the River” where I hike to heal or think.

There is a chameleon-like aspect to living the overseas lifestyle, between home in the U.S. and home overseas. In the Colorado mountains it’s possible to live every day in jeans and soft shirts, moccasins or cowgirl boots. I sip coffee on the front porch in sunshine or on a deck overlooking Long’s Peak and Rocky Mountain National Park. I go to bed after a campfire and awaken to the smell of smoke on my pillow.

Returning home to Paris, there is a seamless slide into the city version of myself. I sit in cafés watching people instead of coyotes, hawks, deer and elk. I happily adapt to the rhythms around me.

Mountains are the constant that makes this work. Feeling small and insignificant amid the backdrop of a huge landscape clears my mind. I love the smell of rapidly changing weather, seeing wild animals roam without fences, poking campfires with a stick–sparking thoughts and creativity. I think of years of good fortune that lie ahead–sharing all of this with a generation of grandchildren.

Another way to tell the story is with pictures. Here is “Camp Estes”–summer 2017.

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“mexican hat” flowers are not native to our hillside. these germinated from seeds sowed over many years without luck. then, in 2005, a new cabin was built and out they popped from the regraded soil

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leila, at 15 months. free to discover and get dirty, to stumble and wobble on uneven terrain

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jet lag means early sunrises over long’s peak with coffee on the deck

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august sunset with first quarter moon rising

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avocado margaritas at ed’s cantina. for a full description to “get in here” as their motto invites, follow this link: Sipping Avocado Margs in Summer

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leila’s face after tasting sour. she actually loves sucking on fresh lime, stopping only when it gets to be too much.

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horse rides with “deedee” at the shaka shaka [baby Russian for playground]

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chalk art in perfect squat formation.

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early morning laughs with auntie “yaya”

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afternoon thunderstorm in sunshine

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produces perfect rainbows

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I bought a vintage necklace at an estate sale. three waterford crystal glasses were thrown in as freebies. must have overpaid for the necklace, but the result was ambient champagne sipping.

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fireside supper and girl chat with leila, deedee and yaya

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iowa high school girlfriends reunited this year in estes park, photo courtesy of betty cleffman hager

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girlfriend hike in rocky mountain national park, courtesy of betty cleffman hager

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on mountain trails with big views, photo courtesy of debbie windus

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marking time with an “old time” photo shoot

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capturing beauty in rocky mountain national park, photo by debbie windus

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september light, rocky mountain national park, photo by debbie windus

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closeup of chief seattle’s “shining pine needles”, photo by mary beckey kelly

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mountain lavender at camp estes, photo by debbie windus

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girlfriend entertaining–snacks followed by dinner, photo by debbie windus

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preparing coals for making s’mores. fire ring built in 1991 has mostly remained in the same configuration. I might have re-arranged it a “few times”, but no one can tell except me. one day a landscaper called it a “spiritual circle” and I quit messing with it.

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lineup of s’more ingredients: grahams, marsh mellows, European chocolate–choice of plain, with sea salt or caramel and sea salt, whisky and wine optional.

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Recipe: toast marsh mellows over red hot campfire coals. [or char them black in the flames if you like.] place on chocolate lined graham crackers.

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smush together. enjoy the sticky sweetness with adult beverage of choice. [red wine or single malt whisky in this scenario.]

Campfire at Wendy's with Joyce and Dave

hair and clothes must smell like smoke before leaving fire, from barb barton minquet

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summer becomes fall with elk rut. 6:30 AM reveilles outside bedroom window the last week of vacation.

CLICK HERE for 30 second video taken from our front porch of big bull daddy re-claiming the harem after three younger males tried to take over. A thin adolescent response from the young bull who ran away.

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herding on south side of camp estes

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the long view

 

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baby elk cuteness

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and baby leila cuteness

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nature’s symmetry

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outside looking in

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low hanging clouds and yellowing aspens

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next day skies with high country snow

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spirit of the flame

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incarnates into spirit of the double horse head

It seems appropriate to end with fire. It’s my symbolic totem, along with the wolf, but that’s another story, another time.

For those who dropped in this summer and those who stayed awhile, for those who loved being there and those who will return to the mountains; share the memories.

And finally, to Leila: I hope the wide and wild natural world will always be part of your adventure, that you will be nurtured by its’ rhythms and beauty, and know that nature exists to support all of her creatures. You are now part of the earth and it is part of you.

 

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The wind will blow freshness into you, and cares will drop away like leaves of Autumn.

–John Muir

 

 

Max and the Beanstalks

Our friend, Max, has spent a lot of time with his hands in the dirt. That is, when he wasn’t a student athlete, coach, husband, father, and Athletic Director for two universities in the mid-western United States. Since retiring [as AD] from Kansas State University, Max keeps an active hand as consultant and mentor to athletes, coaches and directors. He is a man who is wired to pay it forward by giving back to his profession as well as devoting boundless time and energy to his family and friend relationships.

Max also likes to get his hands a little dirty–by tending the soil.

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the hands of max

He grew up in Troy, Ohio in a family of three boys. Every spring his parents planted a large “truck garden” outside of town. A truck garden is larger than a backyard or “kitchen” garden. A pick-up truck is often used to haul things back and forth to the plotted site. His parents worked the fertile Ohio soil without motorized equipment, using only hand tools. Each summer they grew the fruit and vegetables their growing family would eat for a year.

From an early age, Max played alongside the garden patch as his parents worked. He learned the rituals of tilling, planting, weeding and harvesting. It became natural–this annual cycle of producing fresh food with your own hands. And feeding people you love from the harvest.

He carried the tradition into adulthood while raising a family and growing his career. Certain veggies are a mainstay. He always plants asparagus, beets, cucumber, green beans, leaf lettuce, onions, potatoes, spinach, tomatoes, and zucchini squash. He sometimes plants bell peppers, hot peppers, garlic, peas, or yellow squash.

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We are among the fortunate beneficiaries of the abundance that grows from Max’s hands and heart, in the friendship he shares with us. Visiting his home in Kansas or when he and his wife drive to our cabin in Colorado there is always a gift…fresh and delicious from the garden.

Two summers ago, Max brought something different. Green beans in a jar, packed in seasoned brine. It was a new thing–pickling the extra beans from a bountiful harvest.

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Admittedly, at first glance, these beans deserved some skepticism–pale and limp in liquid–I wasn’t sure whether I could even try them. That’s because I grew up in a household that served beans only from cans. At the family dinner table, my learned behavior was to move them as quickly as possible from mouth to paper napkin to garbage can.

Max’s proffered jars were placed in the cupboard and overlooked until later in the summer. I finally took one as a dinner hostess gift to a neighbor on our mountain hillside. She called me a few days later and RAVED about the pickled beans. She said they were BETTER than any other kind of pickle, especially for hamburgers. Did I have more jars to share?

Our daughter came to visit. She likes almost everything and is creative about ways to present food. I cracked open a jar of pickled beans and added them to a tray of small bites to have with drinks. At her suggestion, we placed them in icy martinis to sip on the shaded front porch.

I tried my own hand at pickling beans purchased from the local farmer’s market. It was a little trickier at the higher altitude of the Colorado Rockies, [see notes for high altitude processing at end] but they turned out fine. Now I’m hooked.

This summer I drove back for a lesson from the source–Max’s plot of land in the Manhattan, Kansas Community Garden. We rose early, Max, Lynn and I, to pick beans before heat, humidity, and biting insects overtook us.

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Max and his beanstalks

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morning produce

In the afternoon, we pickled our harvest from start to finish, ending the day with wine and unwind time–featuring, you guessed it, pickled beans.

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wine and unwind time starring beans, etc.

Our Latvian daughter-in-law comes from Russian heritage that pickles any and all kinds of vegetables. Current nutritional trends suggest that fermented or pickled food should be included daily in healthy diets. Preserving food this way is an easy activity to do at home. Everyone reaps benefits.

Pickled beans can be eaten as a low calorie snack or as a garnish to any food where pickles are used [Barbara’s hamburgers!]. They can be added to drinks such as Bloody Marys or vodka martinis. Let the beans stand as green centerpiece to a tray of rainbow colored hors d’oeuvres. They make a unique and perfect homemade gift to a friend, tied with a ribbon and a sprig of herbs.

Max–here’s to you. May you keep your hands in fertile soil and your beans in brine.

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max and lynn urick

MAX’S PICKLED GREEN BEANS–Makes 4 Pints

INGREDIENTS:

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green beans washed and sorted by size

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pickling salt, spices, vinegar, garlic, fresh dill

  • 2 pounds green beans–washed, trimmed and sorted by size
  • ½-1 tsp cayenne pepper [optional, if you like a bit of spice]
  • 4 heads fresh dill weed or 4 tsp dill seed
  • 4 cloves garlic, peeled
  • 2 ½ C. water
  • 2 ½ C. 5% white vinegar
  • ¼ C. pickling salt
  • 4 tsp pickling spices

METHOD:

  1. Sterilize pint sized canning jars and lids by boiling for a short time in a water bath. Place lids first in bottom of pot to keep jars off the bottom.
  2. Tightly pack same-sized beans, lengthwise, into sterilized jars, leaving ½ inch of headspace. [Stem end goes on top [Max style], unless you trim both ends of beans, which I like to do.]
  3. Make pickling solution by combining the vinegar, water, salt and pickling spices. Bring to a boil.
  4. Pour hot liquid over beans, leaving ½ inch headspace.
  5. Place one clove garlic, fresh dill weed or dill seed on top of beans before sealing lids. [Can also garnish with a strip of red bell pepper or red onion.]
  6. Remove air bubbles. Wipe jar rims. Adjust lids securely but not overly tight.
  7. Process in boiling water bath for 5 minutes. Water should cover jars by 1-2 inches.

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    water bath boil, cover jars by 1-2 inches

  8. Remove from water and set upright on countertop.

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    canning tongs to remove from preserving bath

  9. Each jar will have a small rounded dome in the center of the lid. After 15 minutes of cooling time, there is an audible “Ping” sound as the dome depresses and the jar becomes sealed.

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    domed jar in front, before “ping”, sealed jar behind, post-ping

  10. Let beans stand at room temperature for at least two weeks to allow flavors to develop. Refrigerate after opening.

VARIATIONS FOR HIGH ALTITUDE WATER BATH PROCESSING

If you are preserving at an altitude higher than 1000 feet above sea level, you need to adjust processing time as indicated in the chart below.

Altitude in Feet                    Processing Time [Increased by Minutes]

  • 1001-3000                                           +5 minutes
  • 3001-6000                                         +10 minutes
  • 6001-8000                                         +15 minutes
  • 8001-10,000                                       +20 minutes

After removing from water bath, leave undisturbed on countertop for 12-24 hours. Then check jar lids for sealing. They should not flex up and down when the center is pressed. If the lid does not seal in 24 hours, product can be immediately reprocessed or refrigerated.

Sunshine on the Back of Your Knees

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photo courtesy of patricia green-sotos in ubud, bali

It’s summer.

For some, this might involve a long trip across many time zones. Perhaps even to geography halfway around the world.

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Yellow Flower Cafe at sunset, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

Because of our overseas lifestyle, I have been flying internationally at least twice a year for the past 30 years. In the beginning, I ignored the concept of jet lag and let my body find its’ rhythm by doing a lot of sleeping. It was easy for me to fall asleep on planes. When the engines revved up into humming white noise, I closed the window shade and REM sleep took over. After reaching destination, I slept some more. Eventually day and night became right again.

Recently, I made a long distance excursion from Paris to SE Asia [Singapore and Bali] then back to Europe two weeks later. Sixteen hours of flight time each way mixed with six hours of time difference.

 

Numerous tips have been written about preventing or overcoming jet lag. Some of them are actually helpful.

Things such as a good night’s sleep before a long flight, super hydrating by consuming more water than you want, and avoiding too much alcohol or caffeine. Avoid flying with a hangover [a hydration no-no], and immediately adopt the day/night schedule of your destination geography are also good ones.

Jet engines don’t make me automatically pass out anymore, so I think about my waking/sleeping hours on a plane differently now. I diligently perform ankle circles and spinal twists in my seat. I get up to walk or stand. I drink a lot of water and only one glass of wine with a meal. I nap rather than sleep for hours at a time. All are decent strategies for realigning my body clock for east to west or west to east travel. But they never quite accomplish the whole thing.

The girlfriend who travelled with me from Singapore to Bali for a yoga retreat shared two tips that were completely new to me. The first came from a limited study done in 1998. It was quirky enough that I wanted to believe it. The study concluded that jet lag could be eased by exposing the back of your knees to light, particularly sunlight, in the first days after travel.

An instant antidote I never knew! And perfectly timed as we had two recovery days in a Denpasar hotel with a pool before the retreat. We established a base of operation in poolside lounge chairs immediately after breakfast. If our knees overheated [front or back], we obligingly cooled them by sliding into the water. When boredom or cloud cover made it silly to continue this therapy, we went exploring.

 

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retreat location, ubud, bali, courtesy patricia green-sotos

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our room

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rice field from our porch

The second jet lag therapy was more scientific to my medically oriented mind. It was the result of a hormone study by my friend’s physician brother on human cortisol fluctuations.

When I emailed him after the trip, he replied, “Jet lag is hormone dislocation.” Translation: The normal body clock [circadian rhythm] gets out of whack when you change time zones.

“Your cortisol level surges each day at awakening. It is set to your biological clock and changes only reluctantly–about one hour per day per time zone. Hence the lag.”

At the opposite end of the day, when it’s time to go to bed, the brain produces melatonin and off to sleep we go. Cortisol levels rise again with the sun. The cycle continues.

Big time zone changes mixed with fluctuating biorhythms can play out quite dramatically in young children. Our son was six-years-old the first time we flew home to the U.S. after moving to Singapore. During an early dinner in his grandparents’ home, we watched his head suddenly sag forward and plop down in the center of his plate, sound asleep in mashed potatoes and gravy.

Dr. JW suggests: “The fix [to jet lag] is in replacing the hormone [cortisol] at the right time of day. Hydrocortisone is safe and effective when you take it at 7:00AM local time for just three days. You can’t do it everyday, just with international travel. Combine that with melatonin [3-10mg, over the counter] to get you to sleep and you get it both ways. Works like a charm.”

Take 20mg Hydrocortisone for three days only, at 0700 local time, for international travel.

You need a medical prescription for oral cortisone and it may be challenging to find a physician willing to write one for jet lag, even in a small, limited dose. You could try substantiating your request by what Dr. JW says: “Simple replacement dose is not the same as a treatment dose of prednisone which overpowers your own cortisol. It’s safe and effective.”

I have yet to use cortisone therapy for jet lag, but I hope to try it. In the meantime, I researched that back-of-the-knees-light-study from the ‘90s. It was debunked, not too long afterward, as nonsense.

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On a personal note, though, for the first week after returning from Bali, I took 45 minutes each afternoon to lie on the floor by my dining room window and expose the back of my knees to sunlight. At a time of day when I really needed a jet lagging nap, I found that sunny knee time seemed to warm up my brain and nourish it, too. I became more alert and avoided the nap.

Fact or fiction, back-of-the-knee sun works for me. It’s now on my list of travel “dos”.

Regardless of “dos and don’ts” for recalibrating your body clock, you can simply live out your lag. With time, day and night cycles eventually return to “normal” wherever you are.

Just try to avoid falling asleep at the dinner table. Or make sure your meal is finished before you do…

Bonnes vacances à tous!

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double tree pose

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ohm in flowers

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rice field yogi trees

 

 

Treize–A Baker’s Dozen, Paris

There is a story behind the phrase “13–a baker’s dozen”. In the days when bread was sold by weight, bakers regularly gave customers an extra +1, or 13 items, on every dozen sold. There were strict penalties if found guilty of shorting the customer. Since loaves easily varied in size and weight, they made a practice of “giving more”. Today, generous bakeries might offer a “freebie” as a courtesy for buying a dozen.

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laurel in the treize kitchen

Laurel Sanderson was a baker long before she decided to open a restaurant in the back of a Paris courtyard. She comes from a line of southern home cooks and bakers going back to her mother and grandmother in upper Charleston, South Carolina, USA.

At twenty years old, Laurel took off to learn French–in France. She immediately found other English-speaking friends doing the same thing. The combined excitement of new friendships and travel initially slowed the process of acquiring a second language.

After four years of polishing her French and having fun, she moved to Paris and began working in a bar off rue Mouffetard in the Latin Quarter. There, a group of same-age ex-pats from all over the world bonded in friendship. Most of them stayed on. They gravitated from those beginning days of tending bar to the grown up world of food and beverage distribution, management, organizational planning, and in Laurel’s case–a bakery.

Fast-forward another fifteen years–after starting a family and ending her bakery business partnership, Laurel discovered a former auto garage, at the far end of a centuries old cobblestoned courtyard, in the middle of Paris. She envisioned a new enterprise, all her own, and named it Treize…a baker’s dozen.

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For the first two years, after opening in January 2014, Laurel managed with irregular part time help that came and went. Finally, in February 2016, she asked a friend from those early bartending days to join her full time.

Kaysa von Sydow is Swedish. For many years, she owned a special events business with food and beverages. Now she runs the front-of-the-house at Treize, which highlights her engaging people skills along with creative coffee, tea, juices, and drinks. She brings the best of Swedish café culture [Fika]–savouring the moment, slowing down, making time every day for a break with coffee, tea, a baked good and [perhaps] some friendly gossip. She also sources the best products for variety and bio-freshness.

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kaysa and laurel, chez treize

Laurel now focuses on lighting up the kitchen space, as well as the whole restaurant, with whatever she is doing: cooking, baking or treating customers as life-long friends.

Why did a southern girl from South Carolina open a miniscule resto in a space that evolved from a storage workshop for antiques, to a jeweler’s workshop, to a hair salon, to a mechanic’s garage? When asked how she made the switch from full time baking to chef she replies, “It was actually pretty easy. People want pastry, but people need food.”

There’s more to it than that, of course. She missed the tastes and recipes from her southern American roots. She wasn’t planning to return to Charleston because “home” was now Paris, with a husband and children. So she created her own style of southern comfort cooking and opened it to the public.

When you push open the many-paned glass door at Treize, it’s like walking into a favorite friend’s quirky kitchen and dining room combined. It’s highly organized with floor to ceiling storage, but overflowing with jars and baskets and tins and spices, hanging cast iron and copper pots, piles of fruits, vegetables and herbs. Even the windowpane grills hold ripening avocadoes. There are flea market finds decorating out-of-reach shelves; vintage muffin tins, dough cutters, cake pans, antique copper or enamel cafetières. There is a gargoyle. And cookbooks tucked in everywhere.

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a place for everything and everything in some place

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carrot cake under glass, a basket of biscuits, ginger root, & a gargoyle!

On the largest wooden table, there is a seasonal flower arrangement next to a stacked pile of “Garden and Gun” magazines. [Laurel’s favorite periodical, from Charleston, y’all.] In the corner by the door, birch tree trunks support curling dried vines that snake upward toward the skylight. Vines decorated seasonally, of course. An antique glass chandelier hangs from the pressed tin ceiling. On one wall is a black and white mural of a little girl swinging meditatively into the air. Opposite, a chalkboard sign reads “In Buttermilk Biscuits We Trust” along with the recipe for this daily served bread.

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winter vines in twinkly lights, snowflakes, & pages from a french novel

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springtime in greenery and birdhouses

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southern biscuits, y’all

It’s an eclectic use of very small space. Vintage, antique-y, industrial-ish, chic/messy/favorite auntie décor are all terms that describe Treize. Your senses respond instinctively to the all-embracing ambience. Capturing any empty stool or chair, you melt into the friendliness AND the delicious food smells. It is the sanctuary you were dreaming to find–an escape in an accelerated world.

The kitchen is an incredibly small working space, but open to everything. As soon as anyone enters, Laurel and/or Kaysa look up with huge smiles and say, “Heeeeyyyyy, how are you? Come on in!” If they know your name, you are greeted with bisous [xx] too. By now, they know practically everyone who walks in, from around the globe.

The recipes change by the day and the season. Menus are based on traditional family recipes that Laurel grew up eating. Some are inspired from The Southern Cookbook. All have been updated and improved with Laurel’s creativity and by sourcing 100% bio ingredients. Top-notch staples of butter, flour, cream, sugar, seasonal fruits and veggies are easily found in Paris. They make everything taste better.

Everyday, Laurel bakes light-as-a-feather, melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk biscuits. [More than 40,000 since Treize opened!] Everyday, there is a three-tiered butter-cream-frosted carrot cake under glass. Laurel’s carrot cake is inspired. It is her own particular version. People come in just because they have heard about it. They return because they are hooked by everything else about Treize, too.

Laurel generally arrives first, very early in the morning. This is her quiet time to bake–biscuits, cakes [one or two in addition to carrot cake], and small pastries for savory tarts. Kaysa arrives next, soon followed by the current prep-cooks, Sam and Anne. Alam arrives last, but stays well past closing to finish cleaning and setting up for the next day. He moves quietly and knowingly in the back of the kitchen. By late afternoon, he nudges Laurel out to sit down for a moment.

After hours of multi-tasking: chatting up customers, overseeing and doing preps, sorting out Kaysa’s orders over the din of customers, unceasing chopping, cooking, baking– finally, it’s late afternoon and a special time to be at Treize. A bottle of wine is often opened and glasses poured. There may be time for more in-depth conversation while sitting on high stools around a tall table peeling oranges and lemons for the next day’s juices. It’s my favorite time to be there. I join in and the prep work goes faster.

I’ve spent many hours at Treize since stumbling into this hidden gem of a courtyard three years ago. I have taken friends or out-of-town guests or my family. I especially love going alone. In this coziest of environments, I find my better self.

There are stories about other people who find Treize, too. A family of five from Luxembourg was visiting Paris. They were looking for food after normal restaurant hours on a frigid wintery day. No place would serve them. They staggered into Treize–cold, tired and famished. Arms readily opened to hold the baby while mom ate her meal. The other children were nourished. Everyone was nurtured. They return every year.

A honeymooning couple scanned a fashion blogger’s website where Treize was mentioned and happily lingered over lunch and several rounds of beverages. A weekly table of mothers and babies has been coming in since before the babies were born. “Paris by Mouth” [restaurant review website] rents the large table several times a week to end their tourist walking tours with wine and cheese. A stream of regulars working in the area, bring in their own plates or coffee cups to be filled and taken back to work. A professional chess player, who summers every year in Paris, eats there weekly, if not more. A newcomer, curious about what he saw at the end of an ambient courtyard, walks in and claims his new favourite place in Paris. People find Treize. And they return.

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il y a d’or a la fin de la cour

The success of Treize is not hard to understand. But there are subtle, even humble, layers mixed into the daily joy of achievement. For Laurel, Treize is not about her or what she has built. It is about the connectedness created with everyone who walks in the door. It’s a throw back to an environment beautifully crafted twenty years ago in a bar off rue Mouffetard, where customers became friends. Sharing back-stories and experiences, staying in touch with each other’s lives, supporting one another through thick and thin. Both Laurel and Kaysa are masters of weaving friendship into work they love.

The essence of Treize, the thing that lingers, is this–no matter the time of day or the moment in the week or whatever else is going on in the world, when you push open the door, you always feel glad to be exactly there. It’s about broad smiles and sparkling eyes.  It’s about lighthearted banter between co-workers doing what they love to do. It’s about warm greetings to everyone, every single time. It’s the kind of place where you want to know their names and their stories. And they want to know yours, too.

There is a feeling of receiving something “more” each time you go. And that’s because the heart of Treize is not simply a baker’s dozen, it’s a baker’s soul…

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the smile that lights up a kitchen and a restaurant

TREIZE, 13–A Baker’s Dozen. 16, rue des Saints Pères, Paris 75007 FRANCE

American southern inspired menu. Hours: 10AM-6PM. Breakfast served from 10-12:00 noon. Lunch is from noon to 4PM. From 4-6:00PM, cakes, coffee, tea, wine, and drinks are served. Saturday–brunch is served all day. Sunday and Monday are days of rest. Evenings are for special catered events. No reservations.

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Full Statement: we believe food should be made by people [not machines], that animals deserve decent lives & farmers deserve to make a decent living. we hope you think so, too..

Wendy Hack #2: Relishing the Radish

It’s time to introduce a new hack, as in a shortcut or tip. Consider the radish–eaten in a certain way, as a starter course, particularly at lunchtime. [see previous hack here: Wendy Hack #1: Making Perfect Rice]

Shortly after moving to Paris we were invited to a long Sunday lunch, “style familial”, [family style] in the apartment of my husband’s administrative assistant. Traditional to such gatherings, there was a mixture of ages from toddlers to grandparents around the large dining table. There was a casual centerpiece of low flowers, printed cloth napkins and tablecloth, baskets of chewy baguette slices, small dishes of butter, and, of course, there was wine.

The unexpected was that a small plate of elongated red radishes with short green stems was already at each place setting. Also on the plate was a little pyramid of sea salt. After sitting down, our hostess said, “I will show you one way to eat radishes in France.”

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She picked up a radish in one hand and a butter knife with the other. She smeared good French butter on the surface and, with her fingers, sprinkled sea salt over it all. She bit into the radish down to the stem.

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That was the first course of our first French family lunch.

Recently, a former Paris friend [who is American] was back for a visit and came to lunch “chez moi”. I planned to serve a small casserole of “Latvian Lasagna” that I had already made. [More on this counterintuitive recipe in a future story.] I wanted a different kind of starter than plain old green salad. Early spring radish season was in full swing so that became the plan.

The great thing about French radishes is that they have no harsh “bite” or spicy bitterness to them. Sometimes radishes in the U.S. seem to leave a coating on your tongue that takes forever to wear off. The French ones are simply a beautiful mouthful of sweetness,  crunch and moisture. Combined with creamy butter from those Norman-grass-eating cows and salt crystals from the sea, a single red radish becomes the perfect trilogy of taste and surprising satisfaction.

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My friend delighted over the surprisingly subtle combination of butter and radishes. She had forgotten how refreshing they were to eat. And how easy to prepare.

Another way to serve radishes is with homemade guacamole–simply mashed avocado, minced red onion, salt, pepper, and lime juice. Step by step recipe here: Sipping Avocado Margs in Summer

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radishes and guacamole with other tasty things for a wine and unwind party

Buttered radishes would be an inspired idea to try anywhere else in the world–outside of France. You can’t call something so well known here as “inspired”, unless you are a foreigner. So, wherever you are, tantalize your guests’ taste buds in an unexpected way, wow them with a “new” starter combination, and save yourself the effort of making a whole salad. But if you do serve salad, remember to make your own vinaigrette, as told here: Babies and Rice So Very Nice

Happy Mothers’ Day and tell Mom to eat her radishes!

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french radishes in farmer’s market, laguna beach, california

Cocoa Cake With My Curry, Please

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It is almost impossible for the average person to prepare authentic Indian curry. That is, unless you were born into the culture. Or, if you grew up in India as did my American friend, Patricia.

On the other hand, you can learn to love to eat curry anywhere in the world at any stage in life. “Curry Love” began in our family when we moved to Singapore 30 years ago, in 1987. This is also where I met Patricia. It was our first overseas living experience. We left Denver, Colorado with two young children in tow for an out-of-country family adventure.

Patricia was born in a high ceilinged colonial bedroom in a remote village in central India. Two generations before, her grandfather built the hospital there. Infrastructure was limited because it was a tribal area, but the local people had medical care. A generation later, her father returned to India as a Village Extension Worker with a specialty in agriculture. His job was to bring clean water, air, and other forms of conservation [soil, sewage] to rural India. He moved his young family to a different village with a local population of 500. This is where Patricia and her siblings grew up.

From the age of five, each child in their family was sent to Woodstock, a boarding school, since 1854, in the foothills of the Himalayas. It took three days and three nights on a third class Indian train to get there. One carriage held all the students rounded up going to Woodstock, with many stops and re-hooking to different trains along the way.

Patricia graduated at eighteen and moved to the United States for the first time. At the University of Iowa she double majored in East Asian Languages and Literature [Japanese was her language] and Archeology. Four years later, she went back to earn a bachelor’s degree in Nursing [BSN]. She received her ESL degree in Singapore after moving there with her teaching husband and young family. When they returned to the U.S. after six years in Singapore, she worked as a neonatal ICU nurse for 25+ years. Now she teaches yoga, with a 500-hour teacher’s certification. Oh, and Patricia speaks fluent Hindi too.

During school holidays, back in the village, Patricia and her local friends entertained themselves creatively. After collecting dried dung patties for fuel, they cooked rice and curry in primitive little outdoor picnics. Later, in university years, her older sister began the tradition of weekly family curry night.

Many curry-themed parties were enjoyed in their Ulu Pandan apartment. Sometimes we dressed in traditional garb purchased in “Little India”. Little India is also where we ate “banana leaf” curry, with our hands. The heady smell of open containers of Indian spices intermingled with the overpoweringly sweet fragrance of jasmine flowers woven daily into necklaces is an enduring memory of this part of Singapore.

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Patricia and Bart centre stage on curry night, circa 1988-89

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our try at authenticity, Indian style, 1988-89

In May 2015, Patricia came to visit us in Paris. Of course she wanted to set aside a day to cook curry in between sight seeing, yoga-posing photo ops, and eating delicious French things.

Fresh ingredients were purchased at the Indian grocery in the 10th Arrondissement. Green beans, tomatoes, eggplant, green chili, garlic, ginger root, potatoes, onions, spinach, and okra. [Also the location for the best Indian restaurants in Paris.]

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It takes many spices to cook proper curry. We accumulated black mustard seeds, yellow mustard seeds, sambar powder, garam masala, turmeric, coriander and cumin seeds, dessicated coconut, dried curry leaves, cumin powder, fenegreek, red pepper flakes, sea salt and black pepper.

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The menu was all vegetable curries, as those are our favorites, with fried pokora [an Indian fritter made with graham flour and veggies] and coriander chutney.

I busied myself taking photos of the beautiful array of ingredients and spices, in between some chopping prep work. When it was time to begin cooking, Patricia talked me through each step, one by one. Suddenly, I developed an uncontrollable urge to re-arrange my spice cabinet. Each spice purchased in a plastic bag from the grocer now needed its’ own tiny jar with homemade label taped on. Simultaneously, old spices on the shelf were carefully considered or weeded out. It was detail work I knew how to do.

Admittedly, I abandoned learning curry prep from the beginning. I simply could not focus on the endless micro-steps of ingredients and spices from start to finish. Apparently I can’t write them down coherently either. Rereading my notes, I see only a list of words. No amounts or explanations. I have not one clue how to cook any of the delicious dishes we enjoyed that day. The truth is, you have to feel it.

I wasn’t kidding when I said you had to be born into Indian cooking to do it justice.

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our parisian curry feast, sans pokora, consumed long before in the kitchen

From the opposite end of the food spectrum I learned to replicate a different Patricia recipe. In the Green family Singaporean kitchen you could always count on two things. One was about food and the other was about tropical living. Ever-present on the countertop was a dark cocoa chocolate sheet cake. Everyone was welcome to dig in, anytime. The second thing was the house gecko that lived under the refrigerator. He scurried out, usually under cover of darkness, to eat mosquitoes or ants, and certainly food crumbs off the floor. In the beginning he was small, perhaps two or three inches in body length. Over the next four years he grew substantially longer–and wider.

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One day, Pat came home and noticed that someone had left the lid off the chocolate cake. Not a good idea in a tropical climate. On closer inspection, she saw the gecko, now a robust eight inch-er, floundering on his back in the thick, gooey, chocolate icing. Unable to re-right himself, wiggling wildly, he was going nowhere.

She picked up the cake pan and ran outside. Using a spatula, the gecko was flipped onto the grass in the apartment common area. Fearing fire ants would attack his sugary skin, she carried out pitchers of water and tried to rinse off the chocolate-y coating. Then left him to his fate.

Back in the kitchen, a bit of icing scraped off, the surface re-smoothed and the cake pan recovered. That evening her husband said, “What happened to the cake? The icing is so thin.” In the end she told him because, after all, the gecko was part of the family.

Miraculously, that chocoholic gecko found his way back to the five-star-under-the-refrigerator hotel. He remained part of the household until they left Singapore.

Deliciously fragrant Indian curry, darkly moist chocolate cake, and a loyal lizard are one part of my memories from Singapore. Unexpected and offbeat combinations of people, places and food have richly colored our overseas life. Many of my most vivid remembrances started with friendships forged in exotic locations. We laughed and we learned, as we leaned toward each other. Luckily, we still do. This one’s for you, Patricia.

PATTY GREEN-SOTOS’ COCOA CHOCOLATE CAKE

Butter a 9×13 inch cake pan. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Ingredients and Preparation:

  • 1 ¾ C. flour
  • 2 C. sugar
  • ¾ C. cocoa [best quality cocoa recommended]
  • 1 ½ t. baking soda
  • 1 ½ t. baking powder
  • 1 t. salt
  • Combine all dry ingredients in a large bowl.
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 C. milk
  • ½ C. vegetable oil
  • 2 t. vanilla extract
  • Mix the wet ingredients into dry. Beat at medium speed for 2 minutes.
  • 1 C. boiling water
  • Add this last, stirring just until combined. Do not over-mix.

Bake 35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean.

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out of the oven, cool before frosting

Icing:

  • ½ C. butter
  • 2 C. powdered sugar
  • 4 T. cocoa
  • 3-4 T. milk or chocolate liqueur
  • Beat with mixer until light and fluffy. Spread over cooled cake and cover.

Enjoy while musing over the story of a Singaporean cake-loving gecko. Or go to Patricia’s “Gekko Yoga” website in Madison, Wisconsin.

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friends anywhere in the world–here in paris-may 2015