Earth-smoke, Fumaria Tonic

Our garden has been colonised by the wild flower "Fumaria" (fumitory)  from the Latin "earth smoke", and in French fumeterre.  I think it is 'earth smoke' because it arises from the ground like a cloud of smoke and silently envelopes all the other plants, although it looks very lightweight fluffy and inoffensive, has no overt weapons...

Like smoke;  fumaria rising above a courgette plant and seeping through the holes of the trelis

 JC and I have come to take a benign view of the "weeds" which plant themselves in our garden, as they always bring some sort of medicinal property, and now we think of them as a gift rather than a nuisance (although consequently our garden is not suburban ship-shape).

Fumaria taking on fennel, a passion fruit and a few weeds

Cloud of fumaria

Billows of smokey fumaria

We made a herbal tea/decoction;    take a fistful, simmer for 5 minutes in water and drink.  It tastes HORRIBLE.  Then comes the rush, rrrrrrroawhrs!    It is good for yer liver and cleans out yer kidneys, aids digestion, prevents constipation, reduces inflammation and is best taken about now, in June, in flower, with every meal for about 10 days.

Fumaria decoction, golden yellow with a hint of green

Drink this and it'll make you say RRAAAOUW

Three School Tales

Story One
Yesterday some pupils in R's class dared to put their hands up and ask 'Sir, what is the point?' of some exercise or other, and the teacher, racking his brains, came up with:

"Le savoir c'est le pouvoir";  Knowledge is Power.  (You have to remember that education is one-pointed in France.  You aquire knowledge by being miserable over a long period of time but at the end of it you can become a Big Boss and enjoy using your power to make everyone under you miserable).

"Knowledge is Power?  Oh no it isn't!" said the class, enjoying the pantomime and employing delaying tactics.

"Well you tell me who there is in power who doesn't have knowledge?" replied the teacher.

Up creaks R's hand;

"Hollande, Sir!".

Even the teacher laughed apparently


(In a reference to a hostage situation in Algeria in January of this year, in which 10 Japanese people were killed, Hollande expressed  “the condolences of the French people to the Chinese people.”

The mistake was not corrected, and it could not have made his Japanese hosts happy to be mistaken for their most bitter rivals  International Times).

Story Two
Last week the traditional and strict French teacher (Known as Confucius in our family) introduced a radical liberal touchy-feely method into the class.  She asked each class member to mark the work of the person next door and add up the score.

The French Teacher "Madame Confucius"

Obviously in a school were all the pupils are treated like criminals, such laxity could only encourage an enterprising crime spree:  this was far too good an opportunity to miss, and 'everyone' (according to R, read quite a few people I suspect) set off on an unfair marking bonanza,  slashing their neighbours' scores by half.

R had the presence of mind to find the teacher's unaccustomed liberalism suspicious, especially as it was blatently obvious that 'everybody' was cheating so he decided to mark his neighbour's work fairly. (The boy is Cunning and a Born Survivor, although not yet Honorable).

The teacher waited until the moment she collected the tests to announce that she would be taking off minus 2 points for every incorrect mark given to one's dear neighbour.     R swears she was hiding a snigger behind her hand.  R's eyes glazed in ecstasy for several days afterwards, as he remembered the panic-stricken scramble to scribble out the wrong marks before the teacher took in the work...

Story Three
 "Today is National Music Day.  You must all Enjoy Yourselves' said the English teacher in a strong French accent.  She did not explain how this was to be achieved according to R.

'That's strange' I replied, 'Enjoying yourself has no place in the serious business of French education and is, au contraire, strongly discouraged'.

'It was a supply teacher, not the normal English teacher' said R, by way of explanation.

What  puzzles me is how is she going to ensure her instructions are carried out ?  Minus 20 points for being miserable, +10 for being happy I should imagine.

Recette pour Syrop de Fleures de Sureau

Cette année le Sureau règne!  Il doit aimer les nuages, le froid, le manque de soleil, la pluie, lui au moins!   Le sureau qui se plantait dans mon jardin à une multitude de fleures, assez pour moi et pour laisser des baies pour les oiseaux en automne.

Voici une recette pour un syrop de fleurs de sureau, c'est tres simple!

12 belles fleures bien ouvertes
3 citrons, jus et zeste (bio)
1.5 kg sucre
5 litre d'eau

Faire chauffer l'eau très doucement dans une grande casserole, juste assez pour faire fondre le sucre.  Une fois tiède, ajouter le jus et zeste de trois citrons.  Verifier que les fleures sont propres, et les tromper dans le liquide.  Couvrir et laisser au frais pendant 24 heures, et voila!  Une fois mis en bouteille le syrop se conserve dans le frigo, si dilue avec de l'eau pour un boisson refraichissante.  

Les fleures de Sureaus ont connues pour leurs proprietes medicinales, par exemple:  diuretique,  contres les rhumes, les grippes, l'arthrose, the rheumatisme...comme les fleures ne sont pas chauffées je dirais qu'elles gardent leur bienfaits.

Elderflower Cordial

There is a bumper crop of elder flower this year, obviously elder trees love rain, cold and absence of the Yellow Stuff (I believe it is called sun).

I cropped 12 ripe wide open flowers from the elder which planted itself  in our garden and which is now 20 feet high and has ended the career of my rotary washing line.  The tree had of plenty of flowers to spare, and will have plenty of berries for the birds in the late summer.

I dissolved 1.5 kg of sugar in 5 litres of water, put in zest and juice of 3 lemons  dunked in the flowers, and covered it and left it to infuse in a cool dark place.   Magic, 24 hours later, aromatic elderflower syrup!  If you dare leave it 2 or 3 days, it tastes even stronger.  R insisted that I filter it (ie sieve out the odd stray floret and the lemon zest), I bottled it and kept it in the fridge (it only lasted a week - because we drank it).  I've just made some more with double the sugar and lemons, and bottled in sterilised bottles, to see if it will keep out of the fridge...watch this space for news.***

Elerflower is perported to be helpful in the following conditions  rheumatism, arthritis, and gout; upper respiratory stuff (colds; the flu; sinusitis; tonsillitis, sore throat; chills; fevers) and if taken at the onset of chicken pox or measles it helps by increasing sweating and speeding up the healing process.  They also act as a diuretic which helps to rid the kidneys of toxins.  

Not sure what happens when mixed with sugar,  but as it hasn't been heated it may well retain some interesting properties.

Update:  the cordial ferments after a week or so, and tastes even better, but if left longer turns to vinegar.  So stored remaining bottles in fridge, but none left now, as very popular with family.  A friend of mine who also made elderflower cordial this year, suggests freezing ice cubes of it to add to drinks and desserts.  Otherwise you could heat it to boiling point and seal like jam, but would no longer retain same properties I guess.

*** Update  It certainly kept a few weeks out of the fridge with 3 kg sugar, but could not test any longer as we drank it all up and wished we had made more.  It is now May 2014 and the elder is flowering again, will make more batches and do more experiments.

Laperouse Birthday

We were sitting about where this photo was taken from, with window view onto the Seine

JC invited me to dine with him in Paris last night, to celebrate my 49th birthday.  He could not fail to remember to celebrate my birthday this year, after the very unfortunate scene which ensued in the face of his indifference last year...when he decided to program a reminder into his Blackberry one year in advance to ensure no repeat performance.

Anyway, moving swiftly along, the downside of this experience is:  take a chunk out of your savings and kiss it goodbye.  But the rest is all upside.

We went to Laperouse http://www.laperouse.com/ St Michel station on metro line 4, Quai des Grands Augustins, overlooking the road that goes along the Seine which is bordered on the other side by lovely golden sandstone buildings in the sunset under a marble clouded and blue sky.

JC told me that all the Michelin starred restaurants were booked at least one month in advance, and that this one was recommended by Michelin but did not have a star.  I was relieved about this as the food and service and surroundings were so excellent that I cannot imagine one, two or three stars better and I'm sure they would have been wasted on me.

I had no idea where we were going, but my personal pallette was perfectly in keeping
Darling who was I wearing?  Charity Shop Style:  Red silk scarf from brocante, viscose dress from Principles at Barnados, Cardi from M&S

Ladies at the door

The welcome was warm and comfortable, the decor matched mine (sort of greenery-yellowy faded arty aristocracy with splashes of red, both gold and silver why not,  and plenty of twinkle).  The restaurant was traditionally loved by artists and poets, the menu opened with a Beaudelaire poem about wine which was very encouraging on the subject.  We decided on a kir aperatif, with starter and main course and an option on the pud (taken up needless to say), with one glass each of good wine (me red with lamb, he white with fish).

The most excellent food imaginable was sourced, subjected to a secret and sweet alchemy of mixing and cooking, presented as art on the plate and poetry by the waiters.   The wine waiter knew the producers personally, and enjoyed sharing full-bodied descriptions.

Wine waiter on the right

La fleur  de courgette
Cuite moelleuse, mousseline de saumon et beignet croustillant au violet de roche, tomates séchées.

Le bar 
De petit chalut, rôti au citron bio, tombé d’épinard et pomme de terre croustillante à la réglisse.

La selle d’agneau 
Farci d’aubergine grillé et olive taggiasche, polenta croustillantes et caviar d’aubergine.

La fraise 
Au naturel, Gariguette et Marra des bois, coulis vanille de Bourbon, sorbet champagne Rosé.
with spun sugar wafers embedded with mint leaves
with 
Le soufflé Lapérouse depuis 100 ans 
au  praliné noisette, sauce caramel et épice, marmelade d’orange et sorbet orange sanguine.


An uplifting path to inner satiation, peace and good-will
At first bite and at every subsequent bite, the amuse bouches and the avant desserts included, the food made me close my eyes and melt into a particular kind of food-induced ecstasy which I can't quite explain, and which I can only describe as spiritual-emotional, an uplifting path to inner satiation and peace and goodwill.   And the same for each glass of character wine.   I think that taking time to appreciate the beauty and story of the food in combination with its incomparable quality induces a sort of heightened consciousness.

The portions were delicate, emphasis on satisfaction total of taste without overstuffing of the clientelle.  One really good glass of wine was the way to enjoy both food and wine to the full, without being too full or insufficiently conscious to appreciate the full benefits.

Simply perfect food, and simply perfect celebration of attaining a fruitful and generous refined age.

Even the RER engineering works plus work to rule which left us stranded at the wrong station, where by 11pm the taxis had all " gone home"  (very typical French suburbs, do not try to go out after work using public transport)  did not spoil it.    As we set off along a road devoid of street lighting and heavy on puddles,  I decided to hitch, and within minutes a very kind couple stopped and as luck would have it, were driving almost to our door.  This is Grace and I am in a state of it.

A Sunday in Paris

We venture into Paris each weekend, for the cultural edification of our English exchange student (otherwise we would be at home, doing the garden, decorating, continuing on our epic saga "Requesting Planning Permission for improving our Gate 3" writing letters of complaint and calling in guarantees on broken electrical goods etc).

Today We went to Saint-Paul "Marais" (marais means 'marsh, it was originally reclaimed marshland) on Metro 1, and walked to rue des Rosiers,  sat outside a baker/delicatessen in the SUN (a rare day) and ate savoury strudel (finely chopped courgettes, eggs and goats cheese with carraway seeds, according to my taste buds), aubergine caviar, vine leaves stuffed with rice, potato latke, cheesecake, apple and red fruit strudels, really really good.  (I deliberately miss the bit where R moaned vigorously about everything.  Continually.  Even though he was bought off with a can of coke).

Delicious fare...truly madly excellent food and service, loved it

We peered in the window of the Chocolatier Georges Larnicol  where you can buy chocolate red stiletto shoes filled with multi-coloured macaroons for 30 Euros.

Yes, it's all chocolate;  Chocolatier Georges Larnicol

So we went to Starbucks for coffee at Rs "request"  where he had a vanilla frappaccino without coffee and a dose of expresso to pour over the vanilla frappuccino but he changed his mind and didn't use the coffee, even though I had had to go through a Harry Met Sally salad routine to get it customised just how he thought he liked it.     Then he wanted to go home.  We forced him to walk with us to the Beaubourg, the moaning reached catastrophic levels and was accompanied by tears but I do not dwell on this.

Designer fountains, Beaubourg  

Impromtu amphitheatre in the Place Georges Pompidou

There we watched someone doing football dancing and in the impromptu amphitheatre in front of the Centre George Pompidou we sat on the sloping cobbles which had been sun-warmed and watched an etremely talented and well-built clown do a sketch where he pretended to be a director shooting a scene from a film, using volunteers from the audience.

After this R and B went home and JC and S and I walked on and shopped in a discount book shop (2 Euros for a book on Provençale Cooking which included 2 recipes for blette, the largely inedible swiss chard which is one of the only things that grows really well in our garden), paused at the Parc de la Tour St Jacques, a starting place for the Perilinage de St Jacques de St Compostelle (St James of Compostella to us), and on past the flower market lit up with strings of orchids of every colour and pattern,

Strings of orchids at the Marche aux Fleurs

past Notre Dame, paused at the Square Jean XXIII where  a jazz band performing on the bandstand  had a look at the bridge with lots of padlocks attached (Pont de l'Archevêché)  and onto the Pont St Louis where we paused to admire more street performers, and once on the Isle Saint Louis where we had the best ice cream in France (and I contend, the world) at Bertillon.

Verily the best ice cream in France (if not the world?)

 I had one ball of caramel and ginger, and one of banana.  And then we admired all the buildings and the wonderful roof profiles, and the bridges and bought a 2nd hand book from one of the dark green wooden boxes attached to the railings, and then, we went home.

Strange Doctor Encounters

I have a strange karmic relationship with the medical profession, and I seemed to have passed it on to my son by proxy.  Whenever I'm ill, by the time I've finally and begrudgingly hauled myself to the Quack's (having put on make-up and dressed carefully so as not to look ill) I'm already feeling better, and by the end of the consultation I can't remember why I went in the first place and pause to place the prescription in the bin on the way out.

Following an illness where he had 38 degrees of fever for one day, B still had a slight sore throat 2 weeks later and complained of being tired.   I peered down his throat with a bicycle lamp and was horrified to see horrible bulging red lumps the size and shape of neurofen caplets coating the back of his throat.  For three days I insisted he gargle with cider vinegar, spray propolis at the back of this throat, take 500mg vitamin C and Vitamin D, drink Kombucha suck echinacea and grapefruit seed oil pastilles at all times in between,  but on the 3rd day the blobs were as bad as ever and I realised I would have to take B to meet our Doctor, 'Mad Dog' Bastille, because if it was untreated strep throat all sorts of complications might set in.

'Mad Dog' Bastille works from home, his deaf tom-cat sleeps on the windowsill inside the front door and sometimes does the rounds in the waiting room, and his wife shouts 'Bonjour' from the kitchen and sometimes interrupts consultations for domestic reasons.  The chemist tells me 'he is at least 14 years past retirement' and sends her antiquated prescriptions,  but I like him and choose him above so called competent modern doctors who are not deaf and forgetful.  He never remembers my name, or anything about my past (something which I appreciate) he has large comforting ears, a benign sense of humour, always has a tale to tell and his latest theory to share.  I always feel better once I've seen him, and often leave with tears of laughter streaming down my face.

While I parked the car B went in and by the time I got to the consultation room, he was Cured.  'Tell all your friends to come and see Dr Bastille' said Dr Bastille as he wheezed his way back to his chair,  'Instant cure guaranteed!".    I huffed and puffed and disbelieved this so much that Dr B passed me his lamp (one designed for peering in ears) and invited me to look for myself.  Apart from a few red marks, everything had disappeared.  We had a good laugh about this and he said he would write a prescription for a swab and analysis to reassure the mother, suggested that the battery of alternative products may have provoked an allergy, refused to believe that the blobs were there before the products, and moved on to his favourite subjects of conversation;  his eccentric and successful family members, the Revolution (disgraceful) the British Royal Family (hurrah), what B's ambitions were for the future and anything else that sprang to mind until I had to put a halt to it all to go and collect our  English exchange student from school.