Boniato Pie

Yesterday I made a feeble attempt to celebrate Thanksgiving in Paris.

Not being much of a meat eater, I wasn't about to tackle turkey or stuffing - but I did find myself feeling nostalgic for sweet potatoes and marshmallows come lunchtime. Unfortunately, other than carrots, there is a dearth of beta-carotene rich vegetables in France: no sweet potatoes, no cans of Libby's pumpkin puree. Quite honestly, I thought things were hopeless - until strolling through Tang Frères Asian supermarket, I spied a bin of starchy tubers labeled "patates douces".

Sweet potatoes! They looked a little unusual, rougher and darker skinned than typical American sweet potatoes. I should have been suspicious, but joy overwhelmed by judgement. I brought the tubers home, popped them in the combination microwave/oven, and roasted them for about an hour. I started preparing the crust, crumbling cinnamon cookies and melting butter.

I cannot describe my dismay when, peeling the potatoes, I discovered their flesh to be white. White! Not that appealing orange-hued, vitamin-rich texture that I love and had been joyfully anticipating. Unfazed, I began mixing in minute quantities of beet juice (don't ask me why I had this in my fridge - but yes, it is a well known "natural" food colorant). The puree started to more closely resemble the reddish shade I desired.

I added all the cream, sugar, eggs and spices that the recipe called for, but still it was lacking. The white sweet potatoes were starchier and less sweet than the one's for which my recipe is meant. So I added extra egg yolks - beautiful, bright-orange, omega-3-rich yolks from free-ranging french chickens. This helped the color a bit. More maple syrup, for sweetness and color. More cinnamon, for flavor and color. More beet juice, for color (fortunately, teaspoon-size quantities were effective at changing the color without altering the flavor. Still, my batter lacked a little umph. I looked around the kitchen, desperate at this point. Bourbon? Why not. Apple cider vinegar? That'll add some zing. Miraculously, it began to actually taste good.

I popped the pie into the tiny oven - hopeful, but with low expectations. After 50 minutes it was done, perhaps even over-baked (I still haven't gotten that Fahrenheit to Celsius conversion thing down pat), and somewhat resembled a sweet potato pie.


I tried to wait until after dinner, but couldn't go on and serve that pie to someone else without knowing that it was okay. I cut myself a slice. It was different. A thicker texture than pumpkin or sweet potato pie, more cake-like than custard, but yet nice. I may have managed to salvage the pastry disaster, but I wouldn't try and make it again.

I think that the tubers I picked up at the grocery store were of a variety called "boniato", "tropical sweet potato", or "Cuban sweet potato". According to the Cook's Thesaurus, these white-fleshed tubers are less sweet and less moist than typical sweet potatoes. Yep. So, add it to the list of reasons why I'll never want to settle-down in Paris... lack of American sweet potatoes. Those Franciliens don't know what they're missing.

Welcome home

This morning I returned to Paris after a three-week, whirlwind tour of US medical school admissions offices. Stumbling off the plane at 6:45 am (my body utterly convinced that it was shortly after midnight), I queued up to go through customs and started assembling my papers.

Having moved to Paris in mid-August, I have yet to receive my one-year carte de séjour (isn't French bureaucracy wonderful?!). Lacking this document, I have to show my original visa - which expired in October, my temporary "visa to return to France", and a very official-looking récipisse (complete with ID photo and watermark) which shows that I am in the process of trying to obtain my carte de séjour.

When my turn came, I stepped up to the counter, thrust my papers towards the custom officer, and with a cheerful "Bonjour!" began to explain my situation. "Ne vous inquietez pas," he said calmly, amused by my concern. Handing me my stamped passport, he shook his head and smiled: "Ah, vous êtes charmante".
Welcome back to France, where no romantic come-on goes unsaid.

My adopted city then greeted me in characteristic fashion with a railroad strike. Line RER B, the commuter rail that crosses Paris north-to-south and connects Charles de Gaulle/Roissy airport to the city's mass transit was not running. This happens about once a month. Fortunately, the strike only affects the central part of the line (all stops between Gare du Nord and Denfert Rochereau). I was able to take the train from the airport to Gare du Nord and then transfer to metro line 5, which terminates (after about 12 painfully-slow stops) not too far from my house.

Trying to make my way through Gare du Nord with my luggage, I got stuck in a mob pushing me towards the metro entrance. Not having had a chance to recharge my metro pass, I tried to piggy-back through the gate on the person in front of me. This is illegal, and sure enough the sliding doors closed on me and my luggage. I was trapped, unable to move either forward or backward. After some confusion, the woman behind me swiped her monthly pass and the doors opened, allowing me to pass through.

Finally I got home, found my roommates there to let me in (I had loaned one of them my keys during my absence). The apartment has been decorated in Obama victory photos cut-out from French and American news journals. On my phone there was a message from a French acquaintance, congratulating me on Obama's victory, "from the bottom of her heart". Not a bad welcome after all.

Chocolate Overload

Conversation that took place last night between me and one of my flatmates (translated from French):
"I want to go to the Salon de Chocolat tomorrow, to spoil myself (pour me gâter)"
He wrinkles his forehead in confusion. "se gâter?"
This is the verb used to describe a spoiled child (enfant gâté). I search my vocabulary for an alternative. "to indulge myself (pour m'indulger)?"
"To be indulgent means to be lenient when you're supposed to be punishing someone."
"Okay, so how do the French describe the act of giving one's self over to excessive pleasure?"
"Excessive pleasure? There is no such concept in France."

This cultural exchange was indeed confirmed by my experience today at the Salon de Chocolat. Filling an exposition hall at the Porte de Versailles, this collection of over 100 exhibitors was a stereotypically French spectacle of chocolate, alcohol and excess. For an entrance fee of 12 euros, I was admitted to a seemingly endless array of presenters, most of them providing free dégustations (tastings) of chocolate, truffles, nougat, pralines, marshmallows, macarons, pain aux épices, and other artisan confections. In the center of the hall, a stage with live music and dancers paid tribute to the cultures of South American countries from whence chocolate originates.

For two hours I reveled in the experience, savoring more unique transformations of chocolate and sugar than I had ever known existed. After about two hours I suddenly reached a saturation point, feeling repulsed by the mere idea of consuming more chocolate. The Parisians, on the other hand, were still going strong - pulsing in frenzied crowds around vendors who, since it was the salon's final day, were suddenly dropping their prices. One popular booth was selling foie gras-chocolate baguette sandwiches (seriously, people?). Another distributed cups of molten chocolate-passion fruit ganache.

The day's highlights were as follows: the aforementioned chocolate-passion fruit ganache, cannabis-flavored truffles, dark chocolate with star anise, pistachio-green tea nuggets, chocolate-olive oil-marzipan confections shaped like green olive leaves, an Italian muscat wine, and chocolate-covered raisins previously macerated in rum. Ouf.

Le Village des Pruniers

Yesterday afternoon I returned to Paris, having spent a week at Plum Village, Thich Nhat Hanh's Buddhist retreat in Southern France. Although I'm now rushing to get things ready for my return to the states (for medical school interviews), I have no regrets about my rather spontaneous decision to make this trip.

Le Village des Pruniers (a closer translation would be Plum Tree Village), is a peaceful Hamlet (4 peaceful Hamlets, actually) located about an hour southeast of Bordeaux, in a region known for its wine, plums, and sanglier (wild boar). The lower hamlet, where I stayed, is a group of old French farmhouses surrounded by fields of perfectly aligned plum trees, golden-leafed grape vines, and sunflowers withering in the autumn frost. It is distinguishable from neighboring farms due to the lotus pond, pagoda housing a huge bell, and the presence of several newly-constructed meditation halls.

From the beginning, it was clear to me that this is a magical place. Aside from the overwhelming sense of calm, I experienced many "Plum Village Moments"; like walking across the gravel parking lot on a cloudless day when suddenly the leaves behind me were stirred by a wind funnel - and lifted, levitated, circling fast, slow, then fast again in a dance that lasted about a minute. Or coming across two snails in the moonlight, crossing my path on my way home from evening meditation.

There were also several "...oh" moments that I am still trying to process, like when Brother Pháp Linh, the young, French-British monk with the languid brown eyes explained to me that he also, does not consider himself a "Buddhist". A monk, yes, but not a part of a religion. Or when Sister Khôi Ngyhiêm placed in my care a package to mail to her brother in the United States - a letter and some boxes of cookies, three euros to help pay for the shipping and a hopeful smile on her face. I remembered the times in high school and college that I put together similar packages for my brother, shipping them to Maine or smuggling them into Germany with that same hopeful sisterly love.

I return to Paris a little bewildered but with renewed confidence in the following facts about myself: 1) that I am a city person. 2) that I will someday be a mother and that it is a capacity in which I will thrive. 3) that I really do prefer vegetarian and even vegan food. 4) that I miss New England and may eventually return there to live and work. And 5) that I am so incredibly young. It's a long and exciting path that I have ahead of me.