Say 'fromage'!!

Warning: this - is a posting on this type of 'food prepared from the pressed curd of milk, often seasoned and aged' (dry dictionary definition. My words would be more along the lines of:
'the best thing ever created by man since the beginning of times, so good in fact that it might be the only and ultimate evidence that there is a good-natured supreme being above us. And she is female'. But then again I am not paid to write entries in the American Heritage® Dictionary, or any other one for that matter...).

So....beware if you are lactose intolerant. Or if the faint stinkiness of aged cheddar is already too much to handle for you and make you faint in your slippers.

When I step back from my life and think a bit about what-the-hell-I-want-to-do-when-I-grow-up (which roughly happens 5.43 times a week), or when I am so jaded by our capitalistic society which merciless crushes every single one of us with the high heels of its Manolo Blahnik red patent leather stilettos (yeah, I fancy it as a bitchy high maintenance fashion victim) I jokingly say that I want to retreat somewhere wild and beautiful, herd goats and sheep and make cheese out of their milk.
Woodstock without the beads and the bell-bottom jeans.

And I have to say that, most often than not, it sounds damn tempting. And interesting. Appetizing. Drool-inducing. And probably too much to handle for someone who is on a good pace to lose a fraction of the pounds she gained over the last 3 years of couple food debauchery.
(The cover of the RedEye read a few months ago read: "My boyfriend makes me fat". I wanted to kiss that girl for sharing my misery.)

Truth is - I absolutely adore cheese. All of them. At all temperatures, with anything, any day of the year, any meal of the day. It took me a little while to become an addict but once I started there was no going back. I even learned to master - at the venerable age of 8 - the redoubtable Munster of my home region (which has nothing to do with its American homophone) by eating it while plugging my nose.
Patented technique that I would recommend to anyone planning a trip to the Vosges region in Northeastern France.

Anyway - cheese has been the longest love story of my life. Well - with chocolate and pasta. Imagine the desolation that washed over me the first time I stopped in front of the cheese aisle in a supermarket lost in the middle of the Connecticut forest. Big Y, Mansfield Road. My heart must have skipped a few beats, and color leave my face.
And I probably lost a few ounces of Frenchness.

"How can one rule a country that counts more than 360 cheeses?" the General de Gaulle supposedly said one day. I don't know, and I don't really care either. I just know that I was damn lucky to be born there, and have the privilege to discover one after the other. Comte, Morbier, Mont d'Or, Raclette, Gruyere, Emmenthal, Camembert, Pont L'Eveque, Epoisses, Bleu d'Auvergne, Livarot, Puant de Lille, Roquefort, Port-Salut, Crottin de Chavignolles, Cantal, Boursault and even the Babybel from my childhood....the days before I became serious....you know....blandness was all I could muster as a baby. I didn't come out of my crib armed with a piece of Stilton. Oh - and Reblochon!! How can I forget it!
The variety makes your head spin.

Again it's only over time - and once I started living in the US - that I expended my horizons. What need would I have had to explore over fields and turfs when my local cows, ewes and kids' moms were giving me all I needed, and even more? Here - I learned all about talaggio, manchego, Garrotxa, Gorgonzola, Humboldt Fog, Monterey and the Wisconsin producers. And to my chauvinistic surprise, I liked what I saw, smelled and tasted. I occasionally splurge on some big chunks of milky bacteria from home, for sure, but most of the time I am happy to trust a cheery (cheeky?!) cheese-monger and let him/her guide me through more wonders. I dream of a day where the FDA (no bird names here, I am trying to make friends) will lift its (umm, stupid, retarded and senseless, umm) ban on raw unpasteurized milk cheeses (under 60 days) because, guys, that IS the real deal. Since it has been in effect since 1949, I don't think it's going to happen tomorrow. But honestly. If you have ever tasted a raw milk brie, you know what I mean. This angel-breath you find in most supermarkets has nothing, NOTHING to do with it.
Sigh.

Want to see something incredible?!?!? Check out the cheese TABLE put up by Cibo Matto the latest Yelp Chicago Elite Event: now isn't that totally nuts?!
There was a stinky cheese on there that nobody liked but me...hehehe.... Kudos to the incredible team of the Wit Hotel and the Yelp CMs of Chicagoland!!!

If you are generally interested in cheese:
- this is a good start to know more about it: www.cheese.com/
- but be sure to also have a look at: http://www.cheesesociety.org/

If you live in Chicago and want to really experience cheese in all its glory, check out this places:
- http://zhmarketcafe.com
Located on 47th street this is a GEM. Sam, one of the owner, is simply wonderful and Alex, who works the cheese station more often that not, is a walking encyclopedia. They don't hesitate to make you taste everything, and the prices are good. GO.

- http://www.pastoralartisan.com
With three locations these guys know their cheese, and know them well. They are passionate with food and offer classes (around $45) to help you explore this fantastic universe. You can also buy their products on-line. Doesn't get any better than that.

- restaurants/bars that have a good cheese program and to which I like to give my business:
Rootstock, Bin 36, Bluebird, Eno and in Oak Park, IL, Marion Street Cheese Market.
Don't hesitate to add yours!!!

Tasty Pearls

You know these questions when you are setting up a profile.....supposedly to help people know you 'better' and make you sound interesting, exciting and worth 'befriending' or 'following': what is your favorite movie, the best book you ever read, your first concert, your ideal day off, are you tea or coffee, cats or dogs, would you rather be blind or deaf, be a deep sea diver or an astronaut, wear everyday a school uniform or a Halloween costume.
Or whatever else these Internet tortured minds can think of.

I hate those.
Because I hate choosing. Electing. Eliminating. Ranking. That's painful, unfair, and pretty much always inaccurate. What can I say? I am versatile. That keeps things interesting.
But the only dilemma I never had any problem solving was that one:
MY LAST MEAL ON EARTH.

Ok, yes, it is a bit depressing. But if you think of it as "what is the food I would choose above all others" as opposed to "I am going to die (or be cruelly devoided of my beloved digestive system by some alien experiment) and this is my last chance to eat" - suddenly it is not that bad but rather enjoyable. Nothing better than thinking about food.
Almost.

My answer - it hasn't changed in almost two years, and it most likely won't any time soon - is the following: oysters, mignonette, some French crusty bread, salty butter from Brittany and a glass of fruity Chardonnay.
Period.

I came to oysters pretty late. For the longest time the thought of eating something alive, and, let's face it, rather snotty looking was more than I could stomach. There was enough fish in the sea (and crabs, shrimp, prawns, lobsters) to satisfy my maritime cravings whenever they were striking. No disgusting sighting required, thankyouverymuch. And then one day, as I was having dinner in a quaint little restaurant inside the walled city of Saint Malo, I decided to give them a try. Just one. My Normand boyfriend was insistent, I didn't want to be stupid and stubborn so I gave in.
I drowned the thing in mignonette, which is the French staple condiment for oysters (basically made out of red wine vinegar, shallots and pepper), closed my eyes and opened my mouth.

And I heard the song of angels.

That was such a revelation that I couldn't believe it. Love at first bite.
I grabbed a second one from his plate, and ended up ordering a dozen of my new found stomach mates. I couldn't get enough.
That year, I indulged so often that I probably exploded my iodine levels.

On my 30th birthday, I was alone in Paris. A huge storm was rolling in. I walked to one of the best seafood restaurants of my former neighborhood, sat down in the deserted dining room and made myself the best gift I could think of at the time: unlimited oysters.
Best. Dinner. Ever.
What a fantastic way to enter a new decade.



Living in Chicago is a slow form of torture for me. I tried oysters in many different places, only to be disappointed each time. They are big, fat, tasteless, expensive. And served with cocktail sauce. Supreme sacrilege. It actually makes me angry. Really angry. But on a few occasions kumamoto babies crossed my path. Little treasures from the West Coast. Bearers of potential bliss.
Every time, every single time, it's a pure moment of elation. Always too short.

I love, love, LOVE oysters - and not only because they are rich in zinc, one of the minerals required for the production of testosterone (urban myth explained. Blink-blink). The intense ocean flavor that lingers in my mouth well after swallowing down the little mollusk just takes me straight up to heaven. Salty, briny, nutty, fresh and so intensely stimulating - they are the true pearls of the ocean.
I am pretty sure that God, wherever she lives, has her headquarters on the seashore by a big-ass oyster reef.
I would.


Links:
My favorite place to get oysters in the US: Hog Island Oysters Co. They have a bar in San Francisco (inside the Ferry building) and Napa, but visit their farms on Tomales Bay in Marshall, CA. You can even picnic there.
http://www.hogislandoysters.com

In Chicago:
- Pops For Champagne consistently serves the best kumamotos (when in season) and even provide mignonette. Great list of bubblies to wash them down.
http://www.popsforchampagne.com/

- the best oyster dish I have ever had was at Naha. Quilscene Oysters (from WA) served with a Pernod Sorbet, Creme Fraiche and Candied Citrus and Thyme. Heavenly.
http://www.naha-chicago.com/

Dirty Business

There are two magical letters in English.
And no, it's not AC (close enough, but not quite there), TP (useful but magical??!? Me thinks not), BP (they are more on the black magic side of things, excuse the pun - no harm intended), IQ (overrated), OK (or KO - according to your level of energy), HR (they are wicked), ET (alien, not magical) or IV (life saving maybe, but there is nothing magical about getting a needle in your arm, believe me).

Nope.
The magic comes from opposite sides of the alphabet.
W and D.
W/D.
Washer/Dryer.

Surprising?
You must be born in the USA just like Bruce then. Because for all of us French expats the laundry situation is a dire one.
Allow me to explain.

As long as I can remember, I had a washing machine in my house. No dryer, mind you but something mechanical and electricity-operated that allowed my mother to wash our clothes and all the linens. Never even questioned it. We had drying ropes above the bath tub like 3/4 of the population, and when we had the chance to have some sort of outdoor space (most of the time, a small size balcony) we would use a drying device called "Tancarville" - in reference to one of the biggest suspended bridge in the country and whose design is actually quite reminiscent of this architectural 'wonder':

The aesthetics is highly disputable, I allow you that one, but the convenience of not having to fold back every single piece of clothing hanging above the tub before taking your shower? Priceless, I am telling you.
(My mom finally gave in and bought a dryer a couple of years ago. Everything is getting lost.)

When I moved out of the house I didn't have a W/(D) at once. In fact with my boyfriend, we used to take our laundry to our respective parents during the weekend. Everybody was doing the same; no shame. We didn't think twice about it. We really felt like 'real' grown ups when we were able to buy our fist Arthur Martin/Electrolux machine. The bathroom had been waiting for it for years; everything was already in place. It was simply a matter of cash. And laziness? Sure, if it makes you happy. We enjoyed our new luxury, and gladly climbed all the way up to the ancient attic to use the drying lines, their white plastic coating slightly yellowed over time but sturdy and efficient all the same.

Then.....I moved to the US.
And fell in laundry hell.

At first it wasn't that bad. True, I had chosen a room blindly on the Internet, praying for the best, and getting (almost) the worst. Tom and Terry were a middle-aged, lower middle-class couple. The rest of their lives was nothing average though; heavy-weight, hoarders, borderline stalkers and perverts, they had never heard the words 'brooms' or 'vacuum' and their 75-pound dog shed happily all over the place. Sharing their house was no small feast. I cried nonstop on the night of my arrival. Then got slightly used to it. Surprisingly enough they had a decent laundry room; walking in there was to take a trip back to the early 70s, but everything worked alright. Most of all, it was there.

I hit the bottom the following year. Hard.
By the time I had moved into a small semi-detached cottage on Mansfield Road, Mansfield Center, CT. It was quaint with its blue wooden sideboards, its little porch, its long driveway and its 13 windows and 3 doors which transformed the whole thing in a 450 square foot icebox in the winter. Of course, it didn't have any WD. And living in the middle of the woods (albeit on a main road) I had to drive to clean my laundry.
Un-freaking-believable.

The laundromat was by the UConn campus, located on the first floor of the tiny strip mall across the street from the local high school. It was small, smelly, Greek-owned and operated. Laundry days were by far the worse ever; sitting there for hours in the middle of the over-heated room among other jaded students and the couple of poor Puerto Rican families living in the area was the most depressing experience I had had to go through in my entire life. Then winter came. Connecticut had to live through 8 or 9 blizzards that year; that was brutal.
I will always remember the day where I parked the car in the mall, grabbed the laundry basket and the detergent in the trunk, braved the ice, the snow and the wind, half stumbled inside, filled in a couple of washers (one with whites, one with colors) - only to discover that the Purex that I kept stored in the cold pantry at home had frozen in the bottle.
I was so stunned that I burst out laughing.
The in-house distributor was empty.
I had to drive all the way back to Walmart to buy my fix. A 15-mile ordeal that took me way more than an hour, and probably killed a few hundreds of my brain synapses all at once.

Chicago treated me better. But not having to worry so much about getting to the premises themselves led me to question the efficiency of my new cleaning surroundings. 'Cause, you see, stains had the unfortunate tendency to - literally - stick around. No matter how fresh they were, no matter the detergent I used - the diagnostic was invariably the same: not. good. I first blamed it on the cleaning supplies (what can you really expect from something called "Purex"?!? Honestly? I just picture a whole mashed-potato mess, clumping and sticking all over my clothes and making everything much, much worse than before) before realizing that we basically used the same products back home, under different names (may I add here that our marketing firms are doing a significantly better job?!?).
I then came to realize that the machines themselves were the real culprits. I should have known right away. Most of them belong, style-wise, to my grandmother's basement (if she had had one). They are bulky, noisy, incredibly basic....should I go on?!? They just don't look efficient. See the difference for yourself:













on the left: French model "Le Linge"
on the right: American GE model

I think it's clear enough.

Next time I hear someone, even as a joke, asking: "Do you have computers in France?" I might just tell them that no, we don't but we have at least perfected The Art of Clean.
And that's plenty to be proud of.

PS - Moving out of our condo two months ago, needless to say that the in-unit W/D was a top requirement of mine. You live, you learn.

Hoppy bubbles

I was 27 and a few months when I lost my beer virginity.


It wasn't great. First times, you know... I do remember it clearly though: a Mexican restaurant in Evanston, an iced cold Corona, a wedge of lime, and a frosty glass. I gathered all my will, squeezed the citrus in the bottle, pushed it deep down the neck, grabbed the culprit and brought it to my anticipating (albeit slightly dreading) lips.
I took a gulp.
Closed my eyes.
Swallowed it.

Wow-wow-wow.
Stop.
I feel like I need to give a few precisions here.
I am no angel. No choir boy (if I could have been one) either. I was no adept of some obscure non-drinking club where I was supposed to save myself for "The One" (Ketel? Hanger? who knows?!?)
Nope.
None of that.
Being a French chick I was allowed to drink pretty much since kindergarten. And I am only slightly exaggerating; you will probably not be allowed to get totally inebriated in a bar or a nightclub when you are 15 (and even this is highly disputable point, and completely up to your garçon's sense of morality) but at the same time no-one will stop a 10-year old from buying beer, wine, vodka or moonshine liquor at the supermarket.
It's just how it is. And frankly it doesn't make things any worse.
No taboo. No thrills of the transgression. Ok, that's a little too simple but you get the gist.

But being a French chick precisely, I was destined to one libation of choice: wine. Cliché? Maybe. Yet true story, at least for me. I started my drinking career with reds, whites and blushes. And champagne. Bien sûr. It was a long education, very unsavory at first. But as years went by I learned to appreciate the grape juice for grown-ups that was being offered to me at family dinners. I started to request a little more than my usual glass-bottom. And then, ask for another glass.
And so on.

But beer?!?!?!?
Hell no!!
Beer in my French world meant two things: Kanterbrau and Kronenbourg. Talk about choosing between two evils. I took a few sips in my time. From my dad's glass as a kid. From my friends' growing up. My requirement to date someone - to kiss someone - was : "No beer drinking". I was serious. One hoppy close encounter had left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Foul play. Never again.

Up until this day in March 2004. To my surprise I discovered that this not half as bad as I remembered. Second sip to confirm the first.
Yeah...
And just like that, the curse was lift.
A new world was opening up to me.

My friend Mary introduced me to the first brew I really liked: Blue Moon. We had gone to her place after class one day only to discover that she was out of wine. We braved the cold and gray Chicago night and walked to the neighboring liquor store to buy a six pack. My first one ever. We shared it. I got almost sick on my train ride back home, but I was hooked.

And then I met Robert. We exchanged - among other things - knowledge: my wine VS his beer. I quickly became a convert, a happy and eager one. I learned all about ales and lagers. The varieties. The malts. The wheats. Ohhhh...the wheat....The colors. The cloudiness. The draft methods. And the rich, infinite and delectable palette of tastes. Orange, cloves, vanilla, banana, leather, chocolate, coffee, tobacco........the whole universe can be contained in a mere 12-ounce vessel.

And how can words give justice to the supreme pleasure one knows after the first gulp (the French gorgée is so much more sensual; not as onomatopoeic as English, it smoothly rolls down in your throat. Beautiful.) of a fresh, iced cold beer on a hot summer day? This very first one; the one you anticipated feverishly during the few minutes it took the waiter (or your wife) to bring your order. You know this one. It's divine. You keep drinking, waiting for the magic to happen all over again, but it's gone. Read Philip Delerme about it - he's magnetic.


Of course the whole 'world in a glass' comment can be made about wine. Which has the distinct advantage of not making your stomach swell like you are expecting a set of triplets. Or a baby keg. Besides wine is refined, elegant, feminine in essence. Crimson, ruby, velvet, burgundy...it screams good-taste and aristocracy. Beer, on the other hand, is definitely working class. A frothy pint cannot compete with the fine crystal of a carafe. But despite its figure-unfriendly characteristics and its popular roots beer has a particular appeal to me that I cannot quite explain. The more I try to pin it down, the more elusive it gets.
A volatile quality.....
Could it be the magic of bubbles?
This light sparkle, the subtle but decisive dance on your tongue, distinct from any other effervescence, specific and unmistakable....allied to the rich and mealy mouthful that only truly belongs to the beer. The ambrosia of the gods, in all its wondrous honey color, was probably nothing else.

Too much talking, huh? you may be right. There is surely no better way to celebrate the marriage of hops and yeast than to wolf down pints after pints, leaving the words to philosophers.
But even thinkers are thirsty.

One last word:
If beer is your thing, two interesting websites for you:
- www.michiganmicrobrews.com - a great website "for Michigan Craft Beer Enthusiasts" (and others). You will find all about festivals, breweries, where to buy beers and homebrewing supplies, as well as employment opportunities.

- www.ratebeer.com - " the largest collection of beer reviews and used as an authoritative buying guide by consumers worldwide".

Cheers!
-

Restaurant Review: Cevapcici Chicago (no fixed location)

So....I thought about it long and hard and decided to include in here some of my favorite reviews written for Yelp (that you can follow 'live' here; I used a pseudo).
Why?!?!?

1. Because it's already done, and it makes the whole thing so much easier, doesn't it?!? (I am French after all and allegedly, partisane du moindre effort. The less I do, the better I feel. Have a look at the work regulations if you want to be enlighten, as well as incredibly envious).

2. Because this whole thing is supposed to be about food (and drinks, obviously. One cannot go without the other, or so I learned in the last few years). As a food lover I go out to eat a lot. Too much. Cannot stop. I also write about it (to prolong the pleasure?!?!? who knows?). Sometimes take pictures of it. Oh boy. I AM obsessed.

3. Because people seem to like them: they got FUCed at lot. Vulgar? no way. Sibylline? a bit....in everyday language it means that these reviews were found Funny, Useful and Cool. FUC. And so I don't want to argue. I aim at being a crowd pleaser, and I go with the flow.

The last 'successful' one: "Cevapcici Chicago"
(FYI, ćevapčići are is a Balkan (here, Croatian) dish of grilled minced meat. It's made out of pork, beef and lamb, spices and other aromatics. It has the size and appearance of a sausage (without casing) and is usually served in a flat bread called lepinja, with chopped onions, sour cream and ajvar, a red pepper and eggplant relish. Heaven on a piece of bread...)
Here it is (with photo illustration, lucky you) :



"My husband, Mister Amélie L., has a couple of talents.
Arguably - that's why I married him, right? It's at least what every woman on the verge of walking down the aisle should think about: "What does he do well?!?!"

If it takes her more than 30 seconds to come up with something, my advice is to run away.

Mister L. is a good kisser.
He explains arcane banking secrets like no one else.
He knows how to grow a beard in 2 days tops.
He builds ponds in your garden like a pro.
He makes plants grow when I kill them.
He can tell a story in excruciating details, and make it last 2 hours if he wants to.
And above all - he can cook.

One of his specialties: lamb keftas.
So, so, so good. Our friends keep asking for the recipe, and it quickly became his signature dish - the one he rocks every summer on the charcoals all around the city (and beyond).

But our friend Phil has something on him.
Pork.
Do I need to say more?

The cevapcici are so delicious that - opportunity been given - I might trade men and meats and go with the cevap' instead of the kefta.

This is just ridiculous.

Such goodness shouldn't exist and be allowed to roam free on the city fests. This is serious business. Divorce inducing?

Croatia surely wins the sausage battle in my books.
But my Mister L. doesn't lose the war. Still love him bunch, as well as his grilling talents".

Daily Deal Chicago!!

August is the most important month of the year.
You want proof, huh?
Well, first of all - it has the unique privilege of counting 31 days even though it's preceded by another 31-day month. Check on your knuckles if you don't believe me. Or on your calendars.
It's all true.

Then, it's the peak of the summer. Ripe fruits, grilled meat, lazy afternoons on the beach, sun, beer gardens and mosquitoes are all there for your entertainment, and you know you love them. It's not even that different on the other side of the pond: replace the hamburgers by merguez (spicy lamb sausages), and beer, by pastis (anise alcoholic drink, aka as the French ouzo, raki or sambuca) and you have it. Even the mosquitoes are the same. Word.

And this year, on August 1st - Chicago will have the incredible privilege to welcome Daily Deal.
How do I know this?
Simply because I have been asked to let you know about it. Since I am nice and gracious I accepted; and oh - there was this little $25 gift card enticement that helped too....but shhhhh....

So here is the skinny on this new kid on the block:
- you'll buy vouchers on line to redeem them at all your local favorite haunts - bars, restaurants, stores, theaters, you name it. It changes every day. It's exciting every day. You'll want it every day.

- with Daily Deal, spending is saving. You are guaranteed to save at the very least 50% on your purchase. To make it clear - and if like me math is not your forte - you buy a deal for $50 = you can spend at least $100 at the business highlighted that day.
Too good to be true?!? Not on your life. That's the naked truth.

- of course you have already heard that song. There is more than one bird on this tree. Ok, yeah, you may be right. But with Daily Deal you are the master of your destiny (and who doesn't like feeling powerful?!?); whatever happens, you get your d-e-a-l. You don't have to care about the others: you buy, you own. No minimum, no quotas, no headache: freedom.
Cheers to that!!

The cherry on this already delicious cake: go to www.dailydealchicago.com today and before August 1st and you have a chance to win a $100 Apple Gift Card. Not quite enough for the iPhone4 but that's a start. Don't be too greedy, geez!!!

And since we are talking social media, you can also follow them on Twitter and Facebook. Of course.

So yes....August is THE month.
Have I mentioned that it's also my birthday on the 17th?

Welcome to the Sweet Life!

When I am being asked to list my hobbies - in a job application, on a dating website, on my Facebook profile, or - shocking!!!! - by actual people living and moving in front of me - one thing always first come to mind: FOOD.
It's not eating.
Not cooking.
Because, clearly, that's not enough.

Food is a world in itself, a fabulous universe soliciting all senses, luring one after the other in a never-ending celebration combining life, fun, friends, emotions, pleasures and aesthetics. Sure, food IS eating, and cooking (in some cases) but it also means reading, watching, smelling, researching, writing, touching, dreaming, enjoying, sharing.
Food is life.
Food is MY life. Or one of the best parts of it.

I am - and unashamedly so - what French call a gourmande. Not a 'glutton'. Not a gourmet. Nor a gastronome. A gourmande. The English language doesn't have any room for the concept, and I keep lamenting upon this unfortunate state of things. Even though gourmandise is indeed one of the Seven Deadly Sins, the word has evolved and gone way beyond its religious roots. A gourmand is by no means a glutton. Fine - it can be on occasions. Sometimes. But most of the time a gourmand is much closer to the Epicurean than to the ogre. Gourmandise, in the French acceptation of the word, is a refined love of food. A gourmand cannot resist to the last slice of pie on the plate; (s)he has to taste the stew bubbling away on the stove, at the risk of burning him/herself; his/her favorite small pleasure is to study seasonal menus, marvel on the musicality of words, close his/her eyes and anticipate the marriage of flavors; the books on display on his/her living-room belong to the William Sonoma Collections; his/her spice rack takes up half of his/her kitchen cupboards; the other half is dedicated to fragrant boxes of teas and rice, decorated bottles of olive oil and seasoned vinegars, and mason jars of home-made jams, jellies and chutneys.

A gourmand is dedicated. Some, ill-advised, envious, sullen individuals would call them obsessive. And qualify their obsession as 'unhealthy'. They may be right, to some extent.

But this series of pauses that I want to offer couldn't be further from that. Each one of my 'pause gourmande' will be a sweet invitation to fantasy, best enjoyed on a comfortable sofa, a glass of wine in hand, a square of dark chocolate melting on the tongue, shoes kicked off, legs and head resting on a soft pillow.

Shall we begin?

In the Village

"Partir, c'est mourir un peu"
This saying is particularly dear to me. I have experienced its truth and wisdom so many times....leaving is dying a little bit indeed.
And this time was no different.

We had known for a while now that we had to leave our lovely soft loft in Hyde Park, acquired three years ago in this exhilarating feeling of pride of excitement that only belongs to first time home buyers. We spent days choosing the color of the walls - County Cork and Stadium Red - and long hours of intensive painting, precariously balanced on a always too short ladder. I was most of the time by myself, inhaling fumes, singing aloud, elated to at last cover the white that had been an irremovable part of my life for far too long.

We lived, laughed, loved, received my mom for two visits, welcomed a dog, a second cat and got married in that same place.
That was home.

But it was not meant to last. And there is no need to feel bad, have regrets or lament endlessly about the situation. Four walls, a couple of bedrooms and a nice kitchen are not enough to define one's living, and certainly not mine. I moved more times that I care to recall - the actual count amounts to 19 - and it has become a normal part of life. Not quite a routine, but quite close. Always on the search, always on the go.
The fact that, this time, was imposed on me for trivial financial reasons doesn't change anything to the game.

In April I only had one word on my mind: next.

A tad obsessive I spent hours hunting for the elusive 'perfect' place that would offer a dishwasher, a washer/dryer, central air, enough room to fit the knick-knacks amassed in five years of ups-and-downs, and enough flexibility to allow our three balls of fur to follow us on this new journey.
I had decided that I didn't want to settle; no 'just-to-get-by' place; no compromise.

I wanted a home to replace the one we were about to lose.

And after countless emails, phone calls, last minute cancellation and visits - I found it.
I loved it right away.
Home at fist sight.

42 days in, and I realize that I have never felt any better in a place. True, I now have to climb three flights of stairs, park my car on the street and make do with an AC daily defeated by the scorching hot Chicago summer. Sure, the new dishwasher fits about a third of the dirty plates, silverware, pots and glasses than the previous one, and I quit doing sets of jumping jacks, running in circles after the dog as well as improvising stumping dance movements to accompany my favorite commercials out of respect for my downstairs neighbors.

But I gained so much more.
A large, open deck where I grow my own herbs and salsa vegetables.
A palpable place in this city life that I yearned for since I moved out from downtown five years ago.
A partaking in a lively neighborhood that I slowly get to know a bit more with every passing day, along with its people, tree-lined streets, parks, landmarks and rituals. A vibrant diversity that I only associated with my old 'hood and that I am so thankful to find here, patiently waiting for my unveiling.

But first and above all this move - that made me die inside a little bit more than usual - has brought me a serenity and a sense of fulfillment that took me by surprise. I certainly didn't expect to feel happy so fast, without even trying. You are supposed to work on these things, right? And keep trying hard at it. It usually just doesn't fall on your lap, or tout rôti dans le bec (already roasted in your mouth...hehehe...my likey).
Wrong.
It does.
And it does every SINGLE time.

I am lucky to not have to slave every day at work from 9 to 5. At least, despite the lack of regular income, I take it as a privilege. And this summer, being able for the first time to focus on the little things of life and not on the coming along of my dissertation, care-free, I just enjoy. Feel. Watch. Think. Socialize.

How to explain that I owe it all to the Village? I can't. But I know that its magic worked on me, and that it's now only up to me to keep its spell alive.

The old saying is all wrong. Leaving is, in fact, being born again.

Daily Deal: Sweet Home Chicago

August is the most important month of the year.
You want proof, huh?
Well, first of all - it has the unique privilege of counting 31 days even though it's preceded by another 31-day month. Check on your knuckles if you don't believe me. Or on your calendars.
It's all true.

Then, it's the peak of the summer. Ripe fruits, grilled meat, lazy afternoons on the beach, sun, beer gardens and mosquitoes are all there for your entertainment, and you know you love them. It's not even that different on the other side of the pond: replace the hamburgers by merguez (spicy lamb sausages), and beer, by pastis (anise alcoholic drink, aka as the French ouzo, raki or sambuca) and you have it. Even the mosquitoes are the same. Word.

And this year, on August 1st - Chicago will have the incredible privilege to welcome Daily Deal.
How do I know this?
Simply because I have been asked to let you know about it. Since I am nice and gracious I accepted; and oh - there was this little $25 gift card enticement that helped too....but shhhhh....

So here is the skinny on this new kid on the block:
- you'll buy vouchers on line to redeem them at all your local favorite haunts - bars, restaurants, stores, theaters, you name it. It changes every day. It's exciting every day. You'll want it every day.

- with Daily Deal, spending is saving. You are guaranteed to save at the very least 50% on your purchase. To make it clear - and if like me math is not your forte - you buy a deal for $50 = you can spend at least $100 at the business highlighted that day.
Too good to be true?!? Not on your life. That's the naked truth.

- of course you have already heard that song. There is more than one bird on this tree. Ok, yeah, you may be right. But with Daily Deal you are the master of your destiny (and who doesn't like feeling powerful?!?); whatever happens, you get your d-e-a-l. You don't have to care about the others: you buy, you own. No minimum, no quotas, no headache: freedom.
Cheers to that!!

The cherry on this already delicious cake: go to www.dailydealchicago.com today and before August 1st and you have a chance to win a $100 Apple Gift Card. Not quite enough for the iPhone4 but that's a start. Don't be too greedy, geez!!!

And since we are talking social media, you can also follow them on Twitter and Facebook. Of course.

So yes....August is THE month.
Have I mentioned that it's also my birthday on the 17th?