A few nights ago I had a dream that Emilia and I flew to LA so that we could go to this cupcake shop. The cupcakes were gorgeous -- all covered with exotic flowers and such. So, in my dream, we bought five. And I actually thought to myself, 'How are we going to eat all of these before they go bad?' Anyway, we didn't dwell too much on that because we had to catch a plane back to Seattle before dada got home from work. I was trying to work out in my head how we could get around telling him we went to LA for the day, and that it only cost $123 for our tickets. But, in the manner of dreams, all of a sudden he was in the cab on the way back to the airport anyway, so it didn't really matter.
And then a week or so ago I dreamt about ice cream. We were on a bus and it crashed up on this sidewalk. While everyone was scrambling around, I looked out our window and saw the most beautiful ice cream shop. It was filled with these enormous tubs of ice cream, and the one I reallyreallyreally wanted was the blackberry gelato, with a layer of white chocolate gelato on top, and a layer of dark chocolate gelato on top of that. And then, going again with the theme, there were more of these amazing and gorgeous smelling flowers all over the top of it. Oh, and some coconut shavings, too.
I wonder why I am dreaming so much about desserts. It is not like I have been in deprivation mode. In the least. (Did I mention that I was trying to teach myself to make éclairs a few weeks ago, and managed to eat eight in three days? Meanwhile, I wish so much that we had some of those right now. All we've got are Christmas cut-out cookies -- not very tasty, if you want my opinion. I'm thinking of trying a different recipe next time round.) However, I've noticed that my jeans have been a bit, shall we say, snug these days. And I'm not just saying this because my mom took it upon herself to point it out, either. I'm saying it because, even though I don't exactly look enormous, I much prefer to wriggle freely from my clothes instead of feeling like a seam is going to burst open whenever I move. That feels most unpleasant, I must say.
And so, in an attempt not have to go out a buy the whole of jeans from Nordstrom (which are mostly that ghastly skinny sort anyway), I'm trying to whip myself into a bit of shape again. Nothing drastic, you know. Just little things like, trying to go running more than twice a year, for starters. Drinking more green tea -- really ought to invest in some other stuff because what I bought from Uwajimaya a month or so ago tastes exactly the way cow shit smells, er, I mean, nature smells. It's revolting. And lastly, eating more French food. Because everyone knows that the best way to make your jeans fit better is to eat more French food. (Karl Lagerfeld once said that there is nothing more dangerous in this world than sauces. He was speaking of French food and his own waistline, of course. But he must have been mistaken, right?)
I've been reading Julia Child's My Life in France, and it has made me want to start cooking all of her recipes again. But I found that other book, Julie and Julia, so off-putting that I didn't really know how to get back in the spirit. (The movie was magnificent, though.) Because, to be honest, I do the same thing that awful Julie Powell** does -- I often start at the beginning of a cookbook and check the recipes off as I go. And the first recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cooking is Potato and Leek Soup (Potage Parmentier). So, to quote the inimitable Mrs. Child: 'Balls!' I'm doing it anyway. And I hope to start slowly working my way through the book again.
And so, for dinner last night we had this marvelous soup. I've made it several times over the years and I am always surprised by its non-hearty-ness. It is, in essence, a simple and elegant, cloudy broth. That's why I served it with Dorie Greenspan's Swiss Chard pancakes, and my new favorite vegetable side dish: sautéed greenbeans, garlic, and chantrelle mushrooms. Mmmm. Michael, who always leans toward a heartier meal, kept exclaiming how good it was. Emilia ate all of her soup and green beans, but vowed she would not touch the pancakes or the mushrooms, no matter how much her life may depend upon it. Eh bien, what can you do sometimes?
**I know I sound mean and nasty about her, and I'm sorry to cause any offense. But her recent book Cleaving (of which I only read reviews) sounds so offensive that I can not give her much time.
Leek and Potato Soup, à la Julia Child
3 to 4 cups (or 1 pound) peeled potatoes, diced or sliced
3 cups (or 1 pound) thinly sliced leeks, including the tender green
2 quarts of water
1 tablespoon salt
4to 6 tablespoons heavy cream, or 2 to 3 tablespoons butter (I prefer the butter, myself.)
2 to 3 tablespoons chopped parsley or chives
In a large soup pot, bring the potatoes, leeks, and salt to a simmer. Keep the pot partially covered, and continue to simmer for 40 to 50 minutes. Mash the vegetables with a fork, or pass the soup through a food mill. (I opted to use my handy-dandy immersion blender.) Correct the seasoning. (I added at least another tablespoon of salt.)
Just before serving, stir in the cream or butter. Top each bowl with chopped herbs. Bon Appétit!
Side note: the soup is always better the next day. (Recipe from Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Alfred Knopf Publishing, 1961.)
Never once did I mention that the girls pants were tight. Over the years I have learned to never, ever mention the fit of anything around any of my daughters. If I mention that their pants are cute, somehow they think that I think that they are getting fat, or perhaps may have gained an ounce or two. So, no I did not say the author's pants were getting tight. I don't know how she gets that!
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