Gourmandise à la Cynthia

I was trying to explain Pan Catalán to Claire. I gave her the words I could and  drew in the air with my hands. We had just finished a plate of endive apiece, Claire and I. Her window was open behind her, blowing the shy perfume of rain-loosened soil into the kitchen. I drained my glass of wine. Claire refilled it automatically.

“Tiens,” she said, setting it by my plate. “Fin, c’est très à la mode, t’as remarqué?”

“Pas trop…mais j’imagine, ouais…”

We had been speaking about des gourmandises. Claire said that in the last few years it had become very popular in France to have a platter of little desserts with coffee.  I said I hadn’t noticed it especially, but could imagine that being the case.  Couldn’t you? Couldn’t you see someone taking an espresso after dinner, feeling the smoky bitterness wash away the velvety taste of wine and duck? Punctuating it with something sweet? Little tastes to stimulate the palate without detracting from the tranquillity of the café?

Of course you could.

I once had something like that back home. Vietnamese coffee with strawberries cooked in maple syrup, with little almond cakes, with candied pecans, with mixed raisins. I described it all to Claire, who sat attentively before me. I explained that the strawberries were the crowning glory, the pièce de résistance. They were sliced and cooked in maple syrup with hints of lemon zest and pepper, topped with mint. I had demanded the recipe.

“Recipe?” my friend said. “What recipe? There’s no recipe.” But she wrote down what was in it, explaining that no two batches came out the same.

“Strawberries, maple syrup (I’ve experimented with agave. Don’t you make the same mistake) lemon juice and/or zest (or any citrus, really. Sometimes I don’t bother at all), vanilla extract (not if you have that cheap Costco shit. No buts, Cynthia), pepper (non-negotiable!), and mint for garnish (or cinnamon, rosemary, lavender, or whatever the hell else. Add nuts and I’ll kill you, though).”

The corners of Claire’s mouth turned downwards and she tilted her head pensively. You know the look. It’s the universal gesture of “ah, okay, not bad.”

“ Bon, j’ai tous les ingrédients dans ma cuisine, ” and she stood with a grin. I blinked dumbly back at her. Claire started pulling things out of the cabinets: maple syrup, pepper, lemons…

“Allons-y, Cynthia.”

“Maintenant?”

“Oui!”

“Maintenant, maintenant ? “

“Ben, oui!” Claire laughed at my surprise.

So we did. We sliced the strawberries with little paring knives against our palms. Claire drowned them in maple syrup and soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of it. Sweet, tangy  warmth, mixing with the quiet smell of rain slipping in from outside.

“C’est fini?”

I shrugged. The bright crimson of the strawberries had faded somewhat, and the syrup was bubbling.

“Pourquoi pas?” I said. Grinning, Claire switched the stove off and ladled the fragrant mixture into the two bowls I handed her. I ate mine with yogurt (soy, don’t fret!) and she ate hers nature.

It was good. The lemon added acidity to cut through the heaviness of the maple syrup, and the strawberries retained their freshness. The pepper was the snap, the vanilla the muted note of class.

“C’est bon!” Claire exclaimed. “Sucré, mais pas trop. Le citron est parfait…pas trop lourd…pas du tout. ” So we finished our dessert, laughing at the spontaneity of it all, and talking politics. Claire took out an old yellow notebook book to show me. It was a recipe book she’s had for over fifty years, since she was a little girl. It was filled with recipes, but also doodles, diagrams and notes taken by Claire as a child, Claire as an adolescent, Claire as a young adult, the Claire I know today. You could see the handwriting change, become neat, then extravagant, then elegant, then simple and clean. She flipped to a blank page, and wrote:

Gourmandise à la Cynthia.

 

 

Vegan Update: On Being in an Abusive Relationship with Oreos

I always thought that being vegan meant that everything would be hunky-dory after a while. I thought I'd get a rocking bod, cravings would evaporate, and my skin would clear right up.

I mean, that's kind of what happened.

But there are cycles. As with anything, life happens and sometimes it's hard to eat right and get enough sleep and all that jazz. People don't seem to realize that vegan is not necessarily synonymous with healthy. To give some perspective, Oreos are vegan but eat a roll or two of those and tell me you don't vomit sludge.

It's been over a year now, and I've found that I get on streaks of good habits and streaks of not so good ones. When I'm good, I don't retain water, my abs are somewhat visible (depends on the lighting amirite), my skin is clear, and I don't crave anything. But when I don't make sure I'm sufficiently carbed up, when I eat too much baked goods and not enough veg, I feel humongous.

That's another thing: when you abstain from junk food for a while, the desire to eat it eventually goes away. But then your friend talks you into eating a donut and at first it tastes and feels foreign. It's not even good, all sugary and artificial tasting. But you keep chewing- God knows why, perhaps it's instinctual- and then you remember how you used to crave this stuff. And you crave it again.

That's where I'm at right now. For months I haven't had to fight myself, haven't had to clench my hands into fists whenever I passed a bakery. Now it's like I'm back to square one. And the worst part is, I know that if I have too much my skin will break out, and I'll feel sick and bloated for hours. Days, even.

I just wanted to share. Moral of the story? Beware of junk food...it's better not to cave at all, because it just leaves you wanting more. The industry actually formulates their nasty artery-clogging, diabetes-in-a-can, sugar-high junk to be addicting.