A Finger in Every Pie

Tales of the Midwest

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.
In the middle of the pathway of life, I found myself in a dark wood, on a lost road. 

-Dante Alighieri, Il Inferno

Welcome to Steak 'n' Shake.  May I take your order? 

-Steak 'n' Shake website

Good readers, once again, it has not been my intention to abandon you.  But recent events (which, quite honestly, don't bear explanation) have been so completely overwhelming that I have had neither time, energy nor inclination for blogging -- and this in the sabbatical year when I was hoping to blog a great deal and do some other kinds of writing as well.  It should have been my year to just write my little heart out (and go to the gym, and help G with his business, and do a million other things that I don't seem to get to).  I think it suffices to say no more than that I've been having some personal problems which have required pretty much all my attention.

On top of this all-consuming difficulty, we have had a string of deaths.  There were three, so if life does operate by the venerable rule of threes, we should be all right for a while -- at least as far as that kind of loss (I have discovered, to my sorrow, that there are losses that cause you to feel as grief-stricken as an actual death, even if or perhaps particularly if the one you've lost is still walking the planet.  But at least in the latter case, the possibility of recovering from such a loss, and perhaps recovering the person you feel you've lost still exists...).   

A friend of a very close friend, whom we knew quite well, passed away suddenly at the New Year.  The cousin of an in-law, whom we didn't know at all, passed away, requiring the postponement of important business.  And G's gramma, who had been for some years in a nursing home, unable to recognize her near ones and dear ones, also passed away.  This too meant that much had to be postponed, as we had to fly out to Indiana for the funeral.

And rather than any of my other recent stories, that is the tale I will tell you here.

While searching for the cheapest possible plane tickets (yes, dear friends, we flew to Indianapolis via Atlanta, if that makes any sense), I realized that I was about to meet an entire, unknown branch of my new family.  G's dad's relatives, once from Indiana, now live in Tennessee and Kentucky and Minnesota, and were not able to make it to our family wedding party last May.  So I scurried around my closet searching for appropriate funeral clothes.

"Everything's hopelessly out of style," I moaned.

"Sweetheart."  G spoke firmly.  "We're going to Lebanon, Indiana.  There is nothing you could wear that wouldn't shout 'New Yorker' at everyone.  They will think everything you have is wonderful, and try to find out where they can get one." 

G had spoken to the heart of the issue.  We were going to the midwest.  He knows that I have a tendency to romanticize the heartland.  It's true, I do like to think of it as a place where rosy-cheeked farm wives bake fresh hot huckleberry pies while their husbands are out working the combine (not that I actually know what a combine is).  Every now and then, G gently tries to help me understand that the farms have been sold to big bizzness and the farm wives have ditched their hand-stitched aprons for the pastel poly pantsuits they wear on their shopping trips to WalMart. 

After a couple of grueling flights, a long wait for baggage, and confusion at the car rental counter, we arrived at the (dis)Comfort Inn at about 1:00 a.m.  Our travel odyssey was mitigated only slightly by the immediate presence of a Steak 'n' Shake right outside the airport.  G has long sworn that we would make our fortunes if only we could get hold of a franchise to open a Steak 'n' Shake in Times Square.  Sort of a cross between fast food and a diner, Steak 'n' Shake's steakburgers and milkshakes are actually made of real food, rather than polyvinyl chloride, and taste accordingly.  They also operate 24/7, which is all to explain why we were having milkshakes and fries (and in G's case, a steakburger) at midnight.  Because it was there.

Since there's no longer a family homestead in Indiana, our options for breakfast before a long morning of viewing, funeral service and unmet relatives were limited.  Sadly there were no farmwives anywhere offering to make us a hot homemade breakfast, so we were relegated to the tender mercies of Denny's, the threshold of which I've never  crossed before -- partly because I simply don't eat fast food and partly for political/historical reasons.  However, it was the closest option, and we were on a tight schedule.  I will never eat at Denny's again, that much I can tell you.  They may have come a long way toward eradicating the discriminatory policies that have plagued them for more than a decade, but there is simply no justification for a restaurant that encourages you to waste as much food as possible  -- whether the waste means leaving it on your plate or simply eating far, far more than you need. 

When G tried to order just eggs, the waitress told him that not only were the hash browns free with the full breakfast, but that if he ordered just the eggs as a side, it would cost him 20 cents MORE than if he ordered the full breakfast.  When I tried to figure out how to order some eggs with just bacon OR sausage, rather than both, I discovered that it would cost $2.00 MORE than ordering one of their obscenely large breakfasts with several breakfast meats.  This bothered me so much that I haven't been able to let go of it.  This corporation is basically insisting, through economic persuasion, that people either overeat grossly or throw away food.  No, I will never eat there again, unless those policies change radically as well.

G was right about my fashion statement, of course.  I bonded with a cousin-in-law since we are both of the tribe of public educators.  I was very much in keeping with the clothing of the day, since all the women seemed to be wearing long black wool skirts.  My brocaded pashmina and my geode ring, however, came in for a great deal of admiration.

God was very much in attendance at Gramma's funeral service.  For an ethnically Jewish/pagan/agnostic/I'll- find-my-own-spirituality-somewhere-or-other-urbanite, I've attended a fair amount of church, including my own niece and nephew's recent baptism at Park Avenue's posh R.C. outpost, St. Ignatius Loyola.  But the services are always so ecumenical.  There's lots of stuff about love and all, but only infrequent, tasteful mentions of God.  Not so with the Presbyterian service in Lebanon.  There were plenty of direct Bible quotations, psalms, prayer, and exhortations to reflect upon your own relationship with God the Father.  It was kind of refreshing, actually. And it was truly an example of community in action.  Gramma had not lived in this town for more than four years, but she had a very nice turn-out.  People from the church and from other parts of the community remembered her and came to the service. 

Afterward, the good ladies of the church served lunch to the family and friends of the bereaved.  Again, something that someone like me only really knows from reading about it in books.  As I somehow or other knew and predicted to G, we were served that midwestern favorite, hotdish.  This particular exemplar included chicken, celery, rice, cheese, water chestnuts, and large quantities of canned cream soup.  The water chestnuts came in for much favorable commentary at the lunch table.  Later, in the car, G and I tried to deconstruct the dish a little more.  "I think it was mostly cream-of-something soup," I said.  "I think it was cream-of-cream soup," said G.  "It might have been cream-of-soup soup," I replied.  Finally we agreed that it had probably been cream-of-can soup.

But we were still in for the trip's culinary highlight -- something really and truly good.  For years, G had told me that one of the only things he really liked to eat in Indiana was the fried catfish at a place called Stookey's, in a town called Thorntown.  Since we had another night at the Comfort(less) Inn, with its excruciating excuse for beds, we needed a dinner option.  So, together with G's parents (all other family had left town already), we drove out to Thorntown, to see if the myth (for me) and the memory (for them) of the fried catfish held true.

Stookey's bills itself as "family dining", and this is very much the case.  A place of old-timey etched-logo windows and old-fashioned steakhouse seating, the waitresses check in with you every few minutes, and will not rest until they can refill your iced tea.

Salads and sides are pretty standard, although their vinegar-based coleslaw, which I did not try, is apparently famous.  So too their onion rings, of which we had an appetizer order.  Hot and crisp and homemade, they were some of the best I've had in recent memory. 

But what you come to Stookey's for is the catfish.  I was slightly taken aback to have a couple of entire fried fish, bones and tails and all, set down in front of me (above you can see G's plate of three fishies; mine was a two-plate).  I suppose I'm used to getting filets when I order fried fish.  G's mom coached me.  "You have to kind of scrape it from the backbone, and then turn it over."  This technique yielded mouthfuls of the sweetest meat and the crunchiest cornmeal breading I've ever tasted, and left neat skeletons on my plate.  Worth a trip to Indiana, hopefully for happier reasons than ours.

So -- home again, home again, more awful, turbulent, storm-tossed flights (I've told you before how much I hate Delta, haven't I?  And in addition to all their other sins, the only food they give you on the plane is the world's most miniscule, dollhouse-sized packet of approximately seven tiny, substandardly small peanuts.  It made me long for Jet Blue, and a packet of blue chips or Dorito mix).

But someday soon, there will be better news to report, lifewise as well as foodwise.  I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks, one of those numbers which is either the new twenty or the new thirty, can't decide which.  And G and I are going to throw me a splendid party, with the help of a most darling and beloved cousin who's loaning out her spacious and lovely home.  Maybe you'll help me figure out some of the delicious things I'm going to cook (hint -- I'm putting together a menu of lots of platters of tapas-style food, enough to constitute dinner, no need for main courses.  We've figured out wines, but I want a nice fun fruity cocktail to serve.  Any ideas for food or drink welcome).  I've got sweet friends who are also accomplished bakers/cooks offering to make cakes and other goodies.  And we've got a great music mix, so maybe we'll even have dancing.  Despite being at the midpoint of life, lost in a dark wood, we're going to have fun, dammit. 

 

 

 

On The Road Again

It's been a hectic week, and we're only two days into it.   G's music effects company released a new product; we've both had enough work and other commitments to keep us scrambling.  Over the weekend I baked cupcakes from a couple of recipes, one being Shuna's fantastic one for yellow cake.  I then brought them in to school so that the kids in my cooking class could make delicious frosting from scratch and thereby have a revelation about never using frosting from a can again, hopefully ruining Sandra Lee's career or at least her product endorsements. 

But the normal work week is already over for me; today I fly out for another conference, this one in Nashville.  I have an exciting task:  I'm co-facilitating a Writing Marathon for folks from any and all of our 180 member sites, along with my friend and colleague Richard, the Writing Marathon Guru of New Orleans Fame. 

November is the month of conferences and travel for me, at least for the last several years.  Last time I was in Nashville, 8 years ago, I stayed in the deeply frightening Opryland Hotel, the largest non-gambling hotel in the world.  There are five glass-covered lobbies.  A "river runs through" one of them, and you can take a "boat ride".  Every time we tried to get a taxi into town, we were told by the nice (read *Stepford*) people at the desk that there were 16 restaurants and lots of shops  right in the hotel -- no need for us to leave or go anywhere else. Ever.  A couple of years later I read Siri Hustvedt's vivid and gorgeous novel, What I Loved, and found an extremely threatening passage set in the endless hallways of this hotel.  I shuddered in recognition. 

This time I'm in a thankfully more pedestrian Marriott, but I will venture out, at least at night, in hopes of pan-fried chicken, biscuits, and maybe even barbecue.  Anyone have restaurant suggestions for Nashville? 

Bay Area Wannabe

The problem with going on a blogging hiatus is that the anecdotes and meals and treats start to accumulate until I can't bring myself to blog again, due to a frenzy of indecision about the next post.  That's how a supposedly short hiatus becomes an unintended silence of far too long.  We've been back from the Bay Area for a couple of seriously insane weeks.  It feels as if the moment we arrived back into New York, the portal to Hell yawned wide and swallowed us up, with an unending round of work and other obligations.   

All excuses aside, here's what I learned on my trip out West.  Don't let anyone fool you.  Those West Coast people have got it all over the East Coast in terms of the quality, freshness and sheer delectability of the food available to them.  The peaches and tomatoes taste like summer produce from an East Coast farmers' market -- times a zillion.   But how to take advantage of all this glory?  I figured the best way to conduct myself while I was there would be to pose as a Bay Area foodie.  After all, I had a wealth of great information from numerous local food blogs and their remarkable authors. 

So, after a week at my darling friend Pat's house in Berkeley, we laid in supplies at my dear pal Betty's house in the Mission, where we parked ourselves for another week while she and her kids took over our New York digs.  There we grilled sausages and crepinettes from the Fatted Calf, just like Dr. Biggles.  I cooked Marin Sun Farms eggs for my breakfasts, as if I were Sam -- that is, when I wasn't having a Saturday morning Ferry Plaza Farmers' market Mexican breakfast with Sam at the Cocina Primavera stand justly lauded by Jeanne and by Brett.  I stopped by Poulet on an almost daily basis so we could keep sampling Shuna's desserts.  We went to Mitchell's over and over again.  G was torn between his Grasshopper Pie milkshake and one made with Kahlua Cream ice cream and oreos, but I simply couldn't figure out which coconut ice-cream I liked better, buko or macapuno -- just like Stephanie.  We went to Zuni Café for the roast chicken and bread salad (like Joy! -- and many another SF food lover) and to Tartine for sandwiches and pastry and to El Farolito at all hours (like Joy again)  and the El Tonayense truck for tacos and quesadillas.  We took a day excursion to Copia and ate a tasting menu at Redd (like Jen, and like Joy yet again).  We ate pupusas at La Santaneca and chaat from Vik's at least twice, and a had a stellar Thai dinner at Be My Guest with my cousin Matthew, who, having married into a Thai family, knows how to order much better than we do.  I had a gorgeous dinner prepared by my lovely friend Lea and her family in San Rafael.   We stopped at Rainbow Grocery for incidentals and I went to the Ferry Plaza Farmers' market three times within a single week.  And all the while I tried to pretend that I never had to go back to New York, to work, to produce that tries its best but just doesn't quite hit the ecstasy zone, even in summer.   

At some point I awoke to the reality that I would indeed have to return home, and so I worked hard to remember all the things I love to eat on the East Coast -- aged Cabot Vermont Cheddar cheese (which, incidentally, we saw on several West Coast menus); thick, dark, Grade B organic maple syrup; the many kinds of wonderful apples that will appear shortly in my local farmers' market.  I thought about smoked fish from Russ and Daughters and Zabar's, pastrami from Katz's,  Eli's bread, Shackburgers and cheese fries and frozen custard at Shake Shack, dinner and cocktails at the Bread Bar. 

Occasionally we did some things that weren't directly related to food, or at least to eating -- walking in the Marin headlands and the Presidio, talking to our dear family friend Steve at his stunningly beautiful store Dandelion, exploring new neighborhoods, spending a few days in Calistoga, taking long drives, hanging out, laughing, watching DVDs with friends.  We went to the Edible Schoolyard, where Pat's daughter goes to school, and I thought about what kind of school I might like to run if I ever decide to use the credentials I'm getting in the terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad administration program.

But I just couldn't leave all that good West Coast food there -- and so I've comforted myself with all of the delicious things we managed to bring home with us.  Despite the insanity that is our New York lives, I've been extending my vacation by continuing to pretend to be a Bay Area Foodie.  In addition to all the jarred and bottled and boxed foodstuffs pictured below, I carried home a variety of sausages from the Fatted Calf (frozen to survive the flight),  eight Blossom Bluff Orchards peaches (individually wrapped to avoid bruising), Acme bread, Tartine brownies and the Meyer lemons I stole from Pat's backyard in Berkeley.  Fortunately Homeland Security has not yet decided that peaches or sausages might contain explosives -- other than their incredible flavor, of course.  I was nervous before we got on our plane.  There was the case of wine we were putting in checked baggage, but all the food was coming with us in my carry-on.  "If they try to take my food from me, I'm not going to go easy," I warned G.  All came through without a hitch, however, and so the other night I was able to made G quesadillas for dinner, using Fatted Calf chorizo along with some pepper jack and cilantro.  They were very good, it's true -- but we missed washing them down with the bottled Mexican Cokes that we found at all the tacquerias in the Mission, made with real cane sugar instead of corn syrup, and tasting like Coke is actually supposed to taste. 

The delights pictured here are culled from a number of wonderful days.  The luscious Recchiuti chocolates come from one of the Ferry Plaza visits, of course.   Then there was our day at Bouchaine Vineyards (in the Carneros region of Napa) with their winemaker Michael Richmond, who also has his own label, Amethyst, that he grows "in his backyard," as he puts it.   G and I received what felt like a very preliminary taste of an education in California wines from Mike, who spent several hours giving us other tastes as well.  G lost count sometime around the point when Mike was siphoning us some sips from the twentieth barrel or so.  As our senses were heightened by taste after taste, Mike enlightened us about not only grapes and their harvest and fermentation, but barrels, their woods and degree of "toast" and the impact that all of these factors have on the resulting wines.  Needless to say, we've begun to appreciate wine in a whole different way these days.  And the bottles that we managed to get back on the plane (we did have to put them in checked baggage, very carefully packed) are all the more precious for our newfound knowledge. 

But of all the days that deserve at least one post of their own, the most memorable would be my afternoon with June Taylor, our own era's virtuoso of preserved fruit.  We were staying in Berkeley, as luck would have it, literally a block away from Ms. Taylor's Stillroom.  When I realized how close I was, I screwed my courage to the sticking-point and called.  I expected to talk with a receptionist, an assistant -- almost anyone except Ms. Taylor herself.  But it was she who answered the phone, and invited me to come for a visit that very afternoon.  When I got there, I saw that indeed there were no receptionists or in fact, anyone other than Ms. Taylor and a young woman, her one assistant.  Small is beautiful indeed at the Stillroom.  I sat on a high stool, drank a proffered cup of green tea, watched and listened.  Ms. Taylor made small batches of apricot sauce in huge pots, bottled them and talked to me of preserving and conserving in both the immediate moment and in the larger sense of what life brings us:  the web of relationships, passion, work, education, and history.  We spoke of the moments that children remember and carry inside always -- of mothers who make something delicious just for them.  We talked about connecting with farmers and other producers, so that the continuum of nourishment is human and not relegated to a factory production line.  We talked of our mutual sense of desire to share knowledge with others -- but to see also that they find their own sense of how to create what they like, rather than relying solely on someone else's expertise and taste; to see that these ways don't die out despite the forces in our world which seek relentlessly to industrialize those things which should still be done by hand. 

Our conversation began with the apricot sauce -- something that Ms. Taylor was inventing right there, right then, so as not to discard the excess of liquid produced by a particularly juicy harvest of apricots.  Almost everything can be used, she said.  And I heard the echo of my mother, and the resonance of my own upbringing -- the eggshell swiped clean with a finger so as not to waste any of the precious egg, the chicken carcass used for stock, the meat and vegetable juices saved to flavor soups, the re-used vanilla bean stuck in the the sugar jar.  So you see, my afternoon with Ms. Taylor wasn't just about jam (and indeed, as she herself will tell you, she doesn't make jam, but rather marmalades, fruit butters, and conserves).  My time with her was about preserving and conserving -- the preservation not only of the fruit but of artisanal ways with it; the conservation not only of foodstuffs, but of the land, the resources and the people who labor to produce them.   

June Taylor is the sort of person you want to learn from, you want to know, and you want to spend time with.  If and when I'm lucky enough to be in the Bay Area when Ms. Taylor is giving a class, I will run and not walk to sign up for that experience.  And we certainly plan to be spending more time in the Bay Area.  G loves it there, for many reasons more than just the tacos and the ice-cream.  I'm lucky enough to have great friends and good colleagues there.  So perhaps some day, perhaps in five years, or in ten, I'll be doing more than just pretending to be a Bay Area foodie. 

From Sleeping Lady

A few photos to show where I've been lucky enough to be spending time recently.  For the past few years, I've served on a national team of  educators.  Since we come from all over, our meetings take place in different parts of the country.   Here are some views of the glories of Washington State.

Driving through beautiful Wenatchee State Forest.

    This splendor awaited me each day last week, as I stepped outside my cabin...

...often on my way to a lovely dining room nestled by mountains, next to the gurgling Icicle River, with outdoor tables under huge old trees where kingfishers swoop, and woodpeckers and hummingbirds take their nourishment, too.

I've never had food served "cafeteria-style" that was as beautiful or delicious as this.  The resort's chef takes a great deal of pride in his meals, clearly. 

Some of our salads and other produce came from this organic garden.

My days were filled with thought-provoking work meetings and presentations, but I managed to get in some walks and even a much-needed massage.  I returned home very much aware of my great good fortune in being able to work with a group of inspiring colleagues in a such a glorious place.   Next year my term of service with this group will be over.  I'll very much miss the company and the talk, formal and informal, as well as the beauteous settings. 

In The Snow

"He stood still, and loved it. Its beauty was paralyzing beyond all words, all experience, all dream."
    - Conrad Aiken, Silent Snow, Secret Snow

We've been snow-deprived this year.  Some perhaps congratulate themselves on having escaped a more bitter winter; we here at AFIEP have bemoaned the lack of snowy weekend walks, amazing icicle cascades on the rocks in the park and in the tunnels under Park Avenue, and a city that finally slows itself down under a rush of white.  We did have that so-called "biggest ever" snowstorm earlier this month, but it was gone so quickly.  It just didn't satisfy the yen we've had for frosted landscapes and crunch underneath our boots.    G has felt especially bereft of winter; you'd think a Baltimore boy would have a hankering for more heat, but it's just the opposite.  Although he loves Baltimore itself, he's a hardy specimen who has no affection for the balmy and sometimes sultry climate in which he was raised.  He craves the cold. 

So our recent vacation was a welcome antidote to the creeping suspicion that our winter is just a little too (globally) warm.   When friends and acquaintances heard that we were planning to spend a week shared between Montreal and Vermont, they all asked right away if we were going skiing.  Skiing certainly may have its joys, but we just wanted snow, cold, beautiful landscapes, hearty, wintry meals and the sense of being far away from NY.

Vermont was our stopover point to and and from Montreal.  We made our customary Central Vermont rounds, especially on our return journey -- pancake breakfasts at Eaton's Sugarhouse, a lovely dinner at Ariel's, a bit of shopping at the Baker's Store/King Arthur and the wonderful food co-op in Lebanon, New Hampshire.   

In Quebec, we were delighted by the snowy beauty of the landscape.  I looked at the good boots everyone was wearing, and noticed that no-one seemed particularly bothered by the cold.   "People adapt to conditions," G admonished me gently.  "It's not like NY, where snow throws everyone into a panic and shuts down the city."  G was in his element in Montreal -- so much so that we looked at the ads at realtors windows and marveled at the excellent prices for real estate and rentals.  "What about the plan to move to San Francisco?" I asked.  I guess that's our current criterion for a good vacation:  we have such an extraordinarily wonderful time that we fall in love with the place, and decide we want to live there. 

Montreal made some pretty compelling arguments for moving, I must say -- among them being the fact that we did not encounter a bad meal or even a mediocre snack while we were there.  It seems to be one of those cities where fresh, well-prepared food is simply the standard, even at a small nondescript place that one stops into by chance, for lunch or a "little something".   At one such place, G's request for a lemonade (in the middle of winter, no less) was met with a fresh-squeezed citron pressé, garnished with both lemon and lime slices.  In another, a tiny creperie, we were surprised by the good carrot-ginger soup as well as the delicious crepes.   The chill from a long walk from the Plateau district to Vieux Montreal had us wandering into a tiny, rustic chocolate shop, where the proprietor and I cobbled together enough Franglais between us to be mutually understood.  It was not the least bit posh, not at all like the gleaming minimalist chocolatiers in the Plateau.  The proprietor was an older woman who delighted in my poor French, assuring me that I had a lovely accent, and pressed sample after sample of her homemade chocolates upon me.  At one point she put her arm around my shoulders and declared "I like you," with a dear smile.  G's heart was won when she poured him a tall glass of what he declared to be one of the best hard ciders he'd ever had.  And my tiny cup of hot chocolate was aficionado stuff -- pure and intense, a chocolate hit for a serious dark chocolate lover. 

And our planned meals were excellent as well.  Montreal's winter dinner menus didn't seem to include much chicken or beef while we were there; they were weighted much more heavily toward pork, lamb, duck, lots of venison and other game.  This was an interesting and delicious change for us.   Friends and bloggers had recommended Au Pied de Cochon and L'Express, where our dinners certainly did not disappoint.  We had to try the smoked meat and fries at both Schwartz's and the Main (Schwartz's easily won that competition, as I had expected it would).  Another planned excursion came from a brief correspondence with  Marcy Goldman.  She had, with complete serendipity, sent me an email telling me how much she likes this site.  I happened to read her email while in Montreal, Ms. Goldman's own stomping grounds.   Quick quick quick I asked her for pastry recommendations, and she suggested that I try Au Kouign Amann.  Our bites there were ambrosial, all the way from the eponymous layered butter-and-caramel pastry to G's chausson au pommes, as well as the housemade dark chocolate truffles that I'm enjoying even as I write. 

Dinner on our last evening at tiny La Colombe was perhaps my favorite meal of the trip.  Although it was a four-course table-d'hote meal, I ordered one of the a la carte appetizers, not realizing that I would still be served the requisite four courses.  But the meal was beautifully timed, and I was able to manage it all quite happily.  My special appetizer was the foie gras served with pain d'epices and a sauce described as being of honey and spices.  Not fond of sugary sauces, I worried that the preparation would weigh too heavily on the sweet side for me.  But the skill of the chef was evident from the first bite.  The foie gras itself had a crisp crust and a salt edge which balanced the subtle, not-overly sweet dish.  It was perhaps the best foie gras preparation I've ever had.  We then both had a light, peppery cauliflower soup, which was followed by a salad with some smoked mackerel for me, and wild boar terrine with apricots for G.  He's not a big eater of terrines and patés, but claimed that the wild boar gave him a positively Proustian moment by causing him to recall the liverwurst sandwiches of his childhood.  We forbore mentioning this to the chef.  I thought the terrine was delicious, as were our plats principaux.  G had a pork filet with parsnip purée which was quite good.  But I had the stand-out entree, a côte de cerf, which turned out to be a lusciously thick, tender,  rare and flavorful venison chop, served with an outstanding risotto of black rice.  Our pleasure was completed with a blueberry-almond cream tart and a luscious chocolate marquise.  The waiter must have relayed our praise to the chef, who nodded and smiled at us through the window of the open kitchen.  I had the idea that he didn't want to venture his English, much the same as I felt about my halting, translated-in-my-head French . 

The true stand-out of our vacation, however, was our marvelous hotel, Auberge de la Fontaine.     The Auberge is beautiful, facing the lovely Parc de la Fontaine.  It's also located in the Plateau district, where there are many contemporary and charming shops as well as what seems like most of the best restaurants.  All of the restaurants we chose from recommendations and reviews turned out to be within walking distance of our hotel. 

We were fortunate enough to have one of the inn's most charming rooms, spacious and attractive with a large terrace facing the park (the picture at the top of the post is the view from our terrace) -- not to speak of an in-room double Jacuzzi, quite welcome during the afternoons of days filled with long snowy and icy walks.  A good television (which helped us avail ourselves of both "South Park" and "Law and Order" in French) and an excellent sound system were among the accoutrements.  When we go back, which we undoubtedly will, we hope to have the same room in spring or summer whether, and enjoy the lovely terrace even more. 

Each morning we came downstairs to an abundant breakfast of freshly baked croissants and pains chocolats, fresh fruit sliced and in fruit salad, as well as to eat out of hand, cheeses, patés, yogurt, hard-cooked eggs, cereals, breads, and usually a specialty like sugar waffles or an egg-and-spinach dish as well as some homebaked carrot bread or date squares.  This far exceeded the meager offerings we've encountered at most mid-level B&Bs, which usually seem to broadcast that someone said to someone else "oh yeah, we have to put out breakfast for the guests" -- an afterthought at best.  The Auberge's policy is to keep an open kitchen downstairs, meaning that up until midnight you can help yourself to coffee, tea, and snacks: cookies, crackers, and the cheeses, patés, fruit, and baked goods left from breakfast, if you wish.  We didn't avail ourselves of this to any excessive degree, since we were eating copiously outside the hotel -- but it was delightful to be able make ourselves tea and have a tiny bite on a couple of occasions.   More than anything, we just liked the policy, which speaks to the friendly, open nature of the Auberge in general. 

G's feeling that we still hadn't had quite enough snow must have been heard by an unseen power from above.  As we made our way home from the second Vermont leg of our trip on Saturday, we ran into a major blizzard.  It was cold and crisp, mysterious and beautiful as only a drive in the whirling snowfall can be.  We didn't even mind that our progress was so slow -- until we were re-routed.   So many cars skidded and piled up all over I-91 (no fatalities, and no serious injuries either, fortunately) that we were sent south on Route 5, to rejoin I-91 quite a while later.   Sadly, by the time we hit Massachusetts, the snow was almost gone.