A Taste of Heaven...

The first time I saw a macaron (that's macaron, not macaroon), I must say I wasn't exactly tempted by the silver-dollar-sized pink pastel flying saucer-esque cookie. I truly had no idea what pleasure hid amid the light ethereal almond cookie, what nirvana resided in the rich, creamy filling.  I walked by pyramids of these blissful burger-like pastries for months, unaware of the cookie-love they would awaken within me.

I have now made it my mission to share the gospel of macaron goodness with friends and family who come visit us in Paris. For among all the culinary temptations in this decadent city, this may very well be the most rewarding discovery. My brother and his girlfriend are currently visiting us and, I am happy to say, I have converted them.

The finest macarons in Paris hail from Pierre Herme, a luxurious pastry shop with several locations in Paris.  I have tasted other truly amazing macarons but those from Monsieur Herme are le nec plus ultra-- second to none.  Thursday, my brother, his girlfriend and I visited a Pierre Herme shop, purchased a sumptuous sampling, and returned home to stage a tasting.

Now, these little bites of blessedness are quite pricey and insanely flavorful. They are not to be simply eaten; they are to be carefully savored.  As we had just one of each type, I cut the cookies with surgical precision so that each of us could taste all of them.  There were a dozen distinctive flavors in all with poetic names like "Infiniment Vanille," "Magnifique," and "Imagine."

We tasted in unison, attempting to relish each subtle essence, discern each artful ingredient. "Imagine" seduced us with finely milled green tea exquisitely folded into its light, velvety cream and crispy black sesame flecking its biscuits. "Magnifique" introduced us to a whimsy of wasabi, lending a peppery echo under a wash of sweet strawberry cream. Still, my unexpected favorite was the "Pomme Verte & Angelique," a bright Granny-Smith-green cookie. It satisfied with an exotic orchestra of aroma and flavor: the enrapturing cream subtly accented with spice and fine bits of candied green apple. 

More than satisfying a sweet tooth or tiding over an appetite, celebrating good food with family and friends is one of life's indelible treasures. What fun to take a moment to indulge in something so lovely, so well crafted and so memorable.  Sometimes, it seems we are too busy consuming to truly taste, too busy searching to truly see, too busy holding to truly touch.  I resolve to include many more metaphorical macaron moments in my fleeting life: slow down, share, and savor.

Does Spring Cleaning Count as Marathon Training?

It most certainly should.


The amount of motivation and sheer stamina required to open a ten-year-old girl's closet-- brimming with naked barbies, tangled necklaces, sewing patterns, science projects, broken crayons, and random puzzle pieces-- and NOT promptly shut it and flee, is staggering.

Yes, I am giving myself credit. And, credit is due.

I should have escaped this morning into the bright sunshine and buoyant spring breeze in my new running shoes and freshly charged personal GPS. I should have locked the door on an apartment full of clutter, slipping the loose key discreetly into my clever running-shorts-key-pocket.  I could have run miles with the 80's rock group of  my choosing thumping in my earbuds and returned home feeling entirely justified to cook up that grilled ham and gouda sandwich I've been craving, complete with baby gerkins and a bag of chips.

But no.

I innocently walked into my daughter's room to return a stray sweater to her closet, surveyed the utter catastrophe before me, took a deep breath, and reached within.  Three hours and three garbage bags later, I have achieved a speckless room of Spartan standards. Somewhere between Hannah Montana and Harry Potter, Little Women and Littlest Pet Shop, order and serenity have been restored.

Of course, none of this conditions my lungs or improves my pace but, true guts and determination have been proven; I can achieve anything I set out to accomplish! Now, to confront the six-year-old's room....

Why Paris Chic is Hazardous to Your Health

Friday night: high-heeled black boots, a couple glasses of red wine, and a narrow spiral staircase.  Needless to say, after leaving a lovely little cocktail party (feeling quite stylish and trés social) I did an unplanned acrobatic down several steep, sinuous stairs. My teetering talons were the obvious culprit, though the thick knee-high leather downgraded what would have been a full on right ankle twist to simply an awkward tweak. My ankle felt a bit over-wrenched as I walked home from Place de Victor Hugo, but the lingering glow of wine and good company dulled the tenderness and I assumed all would be fine.

I skipped running on Saturday and enjoyed the morning at the bustling President Wilson market, a few blocks from my apartment. My delicious purchases included a dozen beautiful Loire Valley apples, a paper bag full of earthy shiitakes, and a fresh hunk of ruby purple tuna that my husband would later sear for dinner.  It was a happy, lazy family day and I had all but forgotten my precarious post-party pirouette the night before.

Sunday morning brought blue skies and below-freezing temperatures. Waiting in vain for the day to warm up, I finally forced myself out the door around 3 o'clock. The streets were crowded and cold with a harsh wind gusting up from the river. I pulled my hands into my fleece sleeves and started an easy pace.

About a half of a mile into the run, my right shin cramped up into a numb brick and no amount of stretching seemed to unknot it. I retreated home, limping through a swarm of picture-snapping tourists. Damn those sassy leather boots!

Time for a soak in the tub and a slather of Tiger Balm. Perhaps a dose of yoga, a day of rest, and a commitment to sensible shoes will cure me... that and a glass of wine.

The Road More Traveled

The Paris sky has finally decided to shed its drab gray winter coat and allow the sun to shine down on the city. Winter has been cold and dark but the budding trees and singing birds give me great hope that a gentle Spring will soon take over.

I take a long, brisk walk from my apartment to Place de la Concorde this morning. It's a peaceful route along the Seine that leads me by ornate bridges, gilded palaces, and neatly clipped trees. The early sunlight drizzles gold on the rippling river, The Beatles chant Love in my ears, and my step is quick and light. 

I stop for a moment to snap a photo of my path, one that is traveled often and relished always—especially under a brilliant sky of blue.

At the Place de la Concorde, I notice a grand statue I have never noticed before, one representing the city of Bordeaux. I smile at the reaffirming thought of Bordeaux waiting for me at the end of my journey.

I Have 39 Years

It has been a tough week to start training.  My daughters, 6 and 10, have had a week off of school and it has more or less rained steadily.  Save a couple of play dates and soggy outings, we have spent a fair amount of time indoors reacquainting ourselves with old toys, making comic books, inventing contraptions with sticks and tape, and the like.  Needless to say, these activities have not included running.

This morning, a field of brilliant blue greeted me from between the rooflines.  It was sunny and clear and I was excited to get outside and run.  I chose a route around the Champ-de-Mars, the large park that stretches 780 meters behind the Eiffel Tower all the way to l'Ecole Militaire (the military school).  I say behind because I live near the Trocadero which overlooks the Eiffel Tower from the opposite side of the Seine.  My route would take me along side the great monument and through the long park, around the well-groomed rectangle and back again.

Of course, hoards of runners have the same plan with a morning like this.  It is a huge motivation to encounter countless runners, walkers, strutters, saunterers of various ages and ambitions.  As I run, tire, walk a bit, and run again, I come to think about where I am and who I am and how long I have been who I am.  I am 39, I think.  No, I have 39 years, I reconsider.

When first learning French, there are a few introductory phrases that quickly alert one to the fact that English cannot be word-for-word translated into proper French.  One of these phrases is, "Je m'appelle Christine." I call myself Christine, not, my name is Christine.  Another is, "J'ai trente-neuf ans." I have 39 years, not, I am 39 years.

I have 39 years.  I earned them all and they have all become part of me, the wear on my bones and the wrinkles on my skin, the miles on my soles and the memories in my heart.  39 years of opportunities seized and opportunities missed.  They are all mine to claim.

As I finish my less than impressive 3.5 mile circuit,  the Tower at my back, Terrapin Station buzzing in my earphones and my calves taught and tired, I feel alive and grateful. I slow myself and my 39 years to a solid, steady walk and head for home.

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

Obviously, a runner's most vital tool is the proper pair of running shoes.  My only pair are getting quite old and have stomped quite a few miles.  Silly me, I assumed I could simply go online and re-order a pair of Asics GT-2110. But no. You see, since my last (apparently ancient) purchase, Asics has evolved this line: 2120, 2130, 2140.... Available to me now are the GT-2150s.  I've skipped over three generations -- practically the Rip Van Winkle of aspiring runners. 

How have I even been able to limp out the door without the DuoMax® Support System to enhance stability, Solyte® midsole material, ComforDry™ Sockliner, Space Trusstic System®, and Impact Guidance System (I.G.S.®) for gait enhancement? I have come to the sad conclusion that I am running on the shoe equivalent of an 8-track tape.

So, I'm back to square one and now attempting to evaluate my feet-- get in touch with my inner sole, if you will.  Am I supinated or overpronated? Am I neutral? Could I possibly need support? Or, might these unruly hooves actually require "motion control PLUS"? The running web sites out there tell me I need "an analysis" and I don't know whether to visit a Footlocker or sit on a psychotherapist's couch.

The quest is on for my perfect match.  In the meantime, I'll continue to don my vintage 2110s, clip on my "Walkman," and overpronate my way around Paris.

First Things First

Day one of official training and I accomplished three very important tasks:


1. Secured race-week accommodations in Pauillac: We will stay in the guest house of Chateau Malecot , a winery located just 2 km south of the start/finish line.


2. Ordered The Non-Runner's Marathon Trainer with the intent to follow it diligently. The first section of the book is aptly entitled "Making Your Own Reality."


3. Drank the first of my weekly dose of Medoc wine*, a 2005 Chateau Le Bourdieu --a very enjoyable wine, young and graceful with aromas of plum and tea leaves, easy tannins and a long finish.

I power-walked 4 kilometers to my monthly writers group (approximately a tenth of the distance I must ultimately accomplish).  The Paris sky was high and bright, and the walk was invigorating, save the occasional pauses for traffic lights, posing tourists and shuffling geriatric shoppers.

Oh, and I'm now posting my second blog entry.  Here's to training!

*I plan to discover a new Medoc wine each week, starting easy and working up to the full sprint of a Grand Cru Classe as a fine reward for my longer runs. [These will obviously come much later in the training process!]

On your mark, get set...

I've had false starts before.

I intended to start a blog once, twice... if not three times prior. 

I got screen fright.  I became way too self-conscious, felt way too egocentric to convert thought to key stroke, key stroke to posting. Many people do it. Heck, too many people do it. But what makes me capable of sustaining a diatribe in cyberspace with any level of poise and poignancy?

Beats me.

Here it is: I will be 40 years old on July 31. I have, thus far, lived a charmed life, filled with beautiful places, beloved people, and savored experiences. My one-ticket ride on this planet has afforded me some truly amazing opportunties and I am brimming with the desire to write about them.

Now living in Paris, France with my husband and two young daughters, I have committed myself to training for, and actually finishing, my very first marathon.  The Marathon du Medoc touts itself as the longest marathon in the world and I am officially registered with number 634.  It is run through the bucolic vineyards of Bordeaux and includes 8,500 costumed revelers running 42.195 kilometers, enjoying 25 stops at chateaux along the way to sample everything from foie gras to oysters on the halfshell-- complemented by fine Bordeaux wine, of course. This marriage of pure athletic stamina and pure unadulterated gastronomy compelled me to declare, "I'm doing it!" before I ever took the time to consider the hard work and soulful commitment involved in successfully preparing for such a task.

So, here I am, impulsively, unabashedly, starting my training and starting my blog.  Really starting it this time.

On your mark, get set, go.