Ghosts in Paris

It kept catching my eye as we sped by. A clean, prosperous beige hotel with grand windows and a tea room. Perhaps it was the tea room that caught my eye. One day, another day, "That looks like a nice place," I would comment as our cab darted off on another adventure. We were always passing, going somewhere else. but for whatever reason, that somewhere else seemed to be in line with the hotel.

My friend had gone off on a train to see a castle that stretched from one side of a river to the other. During WWII, if you could make it to one side, you were safe, as the other side came out in Free France.

She would be a bit late getting back to Paris, and would I just pick something near and quick for dinner?

That is how we came to dine at the Hotel Lutetia, a clean, prosperous beige hotel with a cafe that was black and white and just a bit deco. We talked about her visit to the castle and the stories she heard about WWII. But for some reason I was antsy. I couldn't seem to settle. I ordered veal, which I never eat because I grew up in Wisconsin and I know what they do to those poor calves. The party next to us was loud. The two teenage girls in the party were looking at me and giggling. I knew it was because I was fat and they were thin. I just knew it. The father of the party was a huge man with a red face. He was loud. The teenagers were giggling. I was getting crabby. They were speaking German. Loudly. I was feeling bad about the veal. So I mentally practiced what I would say if the teenagers made some hurtful crack to me.

I would say, "I can lose the weight, but you will always be German."

Now where did THAT come from? That was rude. That was way out of line. What in the world would make me think such horrid thoughts? I didn't know these people. I don't speak German, so I didn't really know what the teenagers were going on about. I was having a great vacation in Paris. My friend was a wonderful traveling pal. The cafe was just fine. It was a mystery.

And then, when I got home, I read somewhere that the Hotel Lutetia was the rendevous point for French Jews who had survived the camps and had returned to Paris. Their families came to the Lutetia to re-connect with them and take them home. Prior to that, it was one of the headquarter hotels for the German Army.

Maybe it was all just a coincidence.

Or maybe not. Maybe you can feel the sorrows in a place many years later. Maybe something does linger. If I do get back to Paris, I'll go to the Hotel Lutetia again and just sit quietly. I'll let you know what happens.

Comic Relief

The ability to laugh out loud is the sign of a great soul.
- Jean Cocteau.

Les Truffes de Provence

Toujours Provence. Encoure Provence. A Year in Provence. Provence A-Z. And more and more. Peter Mayle actually did receive an award from the French government for his books about Provence. For he did put the place on the map. For good or ill. Everyone has Provence-envy. Did you say you have a house in Provence? Shall we vacation in Provence? You need help bringing in the grapes in your vineyard in Provence?

Of all the tales from Monsieur Mayle, none are more intriguing that the ones about the truffles of Provence. Big, brown, smelly, lumpy hunks of pure gold. Not the white truffles of Italy, a few short miles away. Black gold. Candy in a bowl. For many years, the men of Provence used giant pigs to hunt the truffles. The pigs can smell them under the leaves and the dirt and the limbs. And these truffle pigs love truffles. The men had to be mighty fast to steal a truffle away from a ravenous, lustful, 2,000 pound behemouth. This picture is of a Provence cochon called Petite. Petite indeed.


Today, to save energy and a few torn ligaments, they use dogs. Truffle dogs. And now we know two animals that have exquisite taste. For there is nothing quite like a truffle. Except for a morel, that is.

So we dream of going to Provence. The fresh markets. The light. The clean air. The quite. The hundred year old farm houses. The characters. I hope, if I ever do actually get to Provence, I'm not disappointed. I hope it still looks just like this.

Truffles

This is a test.

Which is the truffle? Which is the morel?

Here's a hint: two are truffles.

Here's another hint: a morel looks like a johnson with a skin disease.

And you don't really need a translation of "johnson," now do you?

When I was a little girl growing up in Wisconsin, my mom would tell me all about morels, wild mushrooms that grew in very woodsy, leafy areas on farms. Her teacher friend had just such a farm. Dottie invited us out to look at what she found under some tress in the back forty. Morels! Mom exclaimed! I whooped! Dottie got two grocery bags. We filled them up. That night Mom grilled a sirloin strak and fried the morels in sweet butter. The steak was smothered in morels. I rarely remember such a good meal.

Forty years later Mom and I had just such a meal again. I ordered fresh morels from Dean and Deluca in New York City. Fifty dollars for a pound of morels! And it was worth every penny. That sirloin was smothered. We fond them again at the grocery store in the Stanford Shopping Center in Palo Alto, CA. We found a mushroom farm in Wisconsin that sells morels for only two week in May. We tried to grow our own in the basement. I bought Mom a bronze-cast morel from a Wisconsin artist.

I realized that this family eating adventure might not be a common one when a dear friend came to the house for dinner one spring evening. Again, we had scored some morels. Out came the grill. On went the sirloin. The morels sizzled in the butter. And Carolyn would have nothing to do with them. She pushed them off to the side of her plate quietly, not causing any trouble, but determinedly. She would not eat them. I thought this was Unamerican.

So I have a weaknes for mushrooms. My good friend in Los Angeles added to my repetoire one evening when we ordered risotto with truffles in Beverly Hills. I had never had truffles. I was willing to try truffles. And then, oh my god, oh my god, they tasted like candy. I was eating a whole bowl full of candy. For the first time in my life, I would not share with others at the table. It was a magical experience, that bowl full of truffles.

So last April I find myself on the Place de la Madeleine in Paris, at Fauchon. There, right in the window, in the Fauchon black and white signature box, a big box, really big, was an entire box of morels. I thought I had come to the Place for chocolate. I was wrong. But, I looked longingly at the morels - and moved on. My American Exoress card breathed a sigh of relief.

So my friend and I are walking along, walking along, walking along and then - The House of Truflles. Right in front of us. Just past the House of Caviar. Truffles. And not the chocolate candy ones, either. The real thing. Lumpy disgusting-looking little pieces of coal worth more than your gold inlays. I turned to my friend. "I could buy a truffle," I said, the shock registering on my face. "I believe you could," she replied.

And that's how I came to make a gigantic bowl of risotto with truffles right in my own kitchen. "That's was rather tasty," my brother said, after polishing off a vegetable dish-sized serving. "Well, I hope you did enjoy it," I said, "since you'll probably never get it again."

But you never know. These mushroom stories just keep popping up in this family. When Mom died and I had a celebration of her life for her friends, Dottie showed up and told everyone the story about the morels under the tree. Maybe someday my friend will tell the story about the truffles on the Madeleine.

l'abondance

As Thanksgiving approaches, we think of all our blessings. It is a time here to celebrate our good fortune, our security, our cornucopia of food, shelter, light. We give thanks for our abundance. Even those of us with little.

Then there are the others. Those whose lives are defined by abundance. The wealthiest. The most regal. The ladies who lunch and the men who support them. What must it be like to live a life of abundance? What would happen to the you that you know if you were defined by the content of your closets instead of the content of your character? Would you survive?

Two case studies: both women who came to their jobs early in life - both women who lived apart from the world around them - both women with royal duties and royal responsibilities - both women who faced a crisis of the monarchy. How did they respond?

Marie Antoinette, the original "peel me a grape" gal, played shepardess at the Petit Trianon whie the French were starving. She ignored the warning signs and paid for it with her life. As Marie goes through a political make-over now, due to a book and a movie, and we learn that she never did really say "let them eat cake," we do need to remember that she was the original Valley Girl. She partied. She spent. She drank. She fooled around. She was only 14, for heaven's sake, when thrust by her mother, the Empress of Austria, into Louis XVI's cold and impotent bed. But still, even after24 years of French Royalty, she ignored the signs. Mothers from Paris stormed Versaille because their childen were starving. France was out of bread. And Marie just partied on. She ignored a crisis of the monarchy and did not survive. "Off with her head," they shouted.




Another royal, who also came to her job at a young age, is the current Queen Elizabeth, And here the lesson begins. She has always done her job. She meets her responsibilities. She doesn't spend lavishly or party-hardy. And when faced with a crisis of the monarchy, at the death of Princess Di, she did what she had to do - she met the people and read their stinging critiques, and made peace with them. The monarchy was saved and so was she.

What can we learn from this?

It's tough to be Queen?

Or better yet, when faced with your own responsibilities, meet them head-on. As Spike Lee said, "Do the right thing."

And save the pastries for later.

Shoes

Shopping should be an Olympic event. Women from all over the world could participate in different shopping events...Finding the Best Bargain, Speed and Acuracy, Resistance - the list continues...

My friend and I discovered that we would have been entered into two different shopping events.

I would enter and probably place in the Speed and Accuracy category. My philosophy is - if you see what you want, get it now because chances are you won't be back. So I easily found the things I wanted - quickly with no fuss. Chocolate bars at a number of places. Those little metal Eiffel Towers that I adore. A scarf, d'accord. Foie gras. Truffles. Herbs de Provence. Chevre and baguette. Nothing big. Just little things that make me happy.

My friend would enter and WIN in the Resistance category. She resisted most things. It was quite marvelous to watch. She would look at a biggger Eiffel Tower and put her hand to her forehead and say something like, "I think I'm just in the moment," and then move on. Jewelry. Clothes. Purses. She just moved on. She did get a lovely antique glass container, which will look lovely on her dresser. A few metal Eiffle Towers the last night near the Trocadero. Looking, looking, looking - but no buying. I began to despair.

But then, as I was relaxing in my room the last hour of the last day in Paris, the phone rang. My friend could not stand it anymore. She was going to get shoes.

She bought six pairs of shoes in the last hour of the last day in Paris.

Six.

I just love that story!!!

And God Bless her, she says every single pair fits. Vive la France!

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Your French Name is:

Bedelia Guerin

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