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.