Place des Vosges is Paris’ oldest square. It was built for King Henri IV in the 1600’s and it is truly a beautiful place. The king’s residence was on one side, the queen’s on the other. The buildings are all covered with lovely pink brick and there are covered walkways all the way around. There is a park in the middle where duels were once fought and it is now a popular place to come and sit under a tree with your lunch if the day should be nice. On one side is the entry in the very beautiful Hotel de Sully, first the yard, then the house with the library having the original ceiling, then the entry courtyard leading out onto Rue de Rivoli.
On the other side is the former home of Victor Hugo who lived there from 1832 to 1848 which has been turned into a museum with free entry. It contains some of his former furniture including his bed and the desk he wrote all of those books on, such as les Miserables. He was wildly famous in his own time and I once saw some old photos of his funeral. His coffin was huge, covered in black under the Arch de Triumph and it was surrounded by thousands and thousands of people.

Here is a painting of Victor Hugo hanging in the museum.

What I especially liked was seeing the park of Place des Vosges from a window up above in the museum.

All of the Marais, of which Place des Vosges is found, if worth a visit from the Picasso Museum, the Jewish Quarter to the fabulous mansions left from times past when the Marais was the area to live in as it has once again become.

What We Eat

The French are known for what they eat, not only all of those rich sauces but things many Americans won’t eat due to that “yuck” factor. The list is fairly long containing such things as frog legs, snails, raw oysters and then many things we in the south call
“Innards”.
My mother who became very anemic when carrying me (she also says she almost died during her delivery making me feel guilty for many years) was told to eat calf liver at least once a week, liver being loaded with iron . My mother was the only one in the family who would eat it. It always smelled so wonderful to me as she fried it up with onions but every time I tried a taste I almost gagged. I just didn’t like the taste.
Forward many years and I was in France refusing offers of foie gros. It was goose or duck liver so it couldn’t be good. Then I ordered a salad and a slab of foie gros was put on the top of the lettuce. I took a small bite with a large bite of lettuce and discovered, to my surprise that I liked it. It didn’t have that really strong taste of beef liver but was sweet and creamy in texture. I never turn it down now. I try not to think of geese being force fed to the point of bursting as I eat it just as I have learned not to think of cattle or baby calves as I cut into a juicy steak.
I have gone on to try frog legs which are a little like chicken in taste but I keep picturing the whole frog while eating them and don’t eat them if I can avoid it. I will have a raw oyster or two at Christmas, a tradition in France, and I like that salty taste of the sea and have it with a slice of bread with butter and some nice white wine, but I can’t down a dozen like Maurice.
Sometimes something will be on the menu at a restaurant and I will ask Maurice what it is. He sort of pauses, trying to think what it is in English, and usually end up saying, “Parts”. I have come to learn that means “innards”, or parts of an animal that come from the interior. I’ve tried a few of these, usually a sausage type of food and at first they taste pretty good but then a taste slowly develops in my mouth like a barnyard smells. Hard to describe but it puts me off what I am eating and I have trouble finishing.
There are some foods that I don’t think I will ever try. Rabbit is one of those. It is probably because I never had it growing up and I can’t get past that Thumper image from Bambi. Maurice loves rabbit cooked in mustard. I suppose one of these days I might try a taste. I remember our neighbor had us over for drinks and one of the appetizers was quail eggs with a little sauce on top. I’d never had them before and was really afraid to put one in my mouth, afraid of the taste. I didn’t want to appear rude so I finally shoved the whole thing in my mouth and was surprised to find it tasted exactly like chicken eggs.
I don’t see myself ever trying horse meat either. It was very popular here in France through the years, especially during the war years when beef was hard to come by. It is still sold here and the shops have models of horse heads above the doors. The meat itself is very red and it looks low in fat. It has slowly died out of favor here but there was a resurgence in buying it during the mad cow scare. Maurice isn’t sure but he thinks he may have had some at some point as he was growing up. I just have that cultural thing and I am sure that I will never eat it. I used to ride one, maybe that’s why.
Sometimes when Maurice and I aren’t together, he will buy a calf’s brain to eat. This is truly disgusting to me. I try not to even look at it if he brings one home. They are very small, about the size of an apple and when Maurice fries it in butter, there isn’t a bad smell but I just don’t want to see it on his plate or watch him eat it.
It is amazing what cultures consider quite ordinary in their culture for consumption while the rest of the world would gag-such as eating dogs in China or monkey brains in Africa, not to mention various bugs. There are things Americans eat that the French look at with looks of disgust such as peanut butter or stuffing in turkeys, marshmallows on yams.
I did learn not to order anything with the word “tete” in a French restaurant as this means head. Maurice happily ate his-it came out in slices on his plate- but I happily had my roast chicken. I have crossed that cultural line a few footsteps here and there and I am trying things I had never even heard of before but there are some things that will remain in that strange realm of things the French eat.

View from our apartment window to the street below.

This is the apartment across the street-you can see the snow falling.

About two weeks ago it was beautiful not only in Paris but all of France. There were blue skies, sunshine and temperatures in the 70’s then, bam, all of Europe was hit with a major cold front. We are lucky if it gets into the 40’s during the day. The skies had been without a cloud which means the nights get really cold and I knew, should we get clouds that it would lead to snow. And I was right. There are now big, fat flakes floating down from the sky. Ordinarily, I would get outside to get some photos but because it is Saturday and early in the day, I know it will all be a big mess as kids get in it and play. Plus, it is really cold out there and I don’t have any boots good for the snow. Maurice keeps saying, “Snow, in November”, with wonder in his voice, which means that it is unusual. Actually, snow in Paris is fairly rare. Since I have been here it has snowed maybe once each year. The snow resorts are happy of course as they are starting to get badly needed snow. There is lots of spring skiing here as I guess snow isn’t good until then on the whole. So, we bundle up and find things to do that don’t require many trips outside. It is chilly going to markets to buy fruit and vegetables and I’m glad I’m not one of the sellers having to stand outside all morning in the cold. They are all covered, however, so that helps. I think I will make myself a nice, hot cup of tea.

….but American women living in Paris do, at least this American woman. I’ve had a few of those slim French women over for meals before and they really watched what they ate. I was eating twice as much, having the cheese, drinking double the wine and eating dessert. They have just a little of everything, no cheese, sometimes no salad, and a sliver of the dessert.
My weight has been going up the scale since I moved here. I find it hard to pass up cheese or wine and if something tastes good, I have trouble stopping with just a little taste. Maurice and I used to drink a lot more wine and have a large lunch and dinner but I had to stop that. I feel like I am passing Maurice in weight and, if he should try to carry me-not a likely occurence-I would, as he says, squash him like a crepe.
The French, of course, believe you shouldn’t starve yourself and go on crazy diets. You should enjoy life. Once, when complaining about how tight my jeans had become, Maurice said( sweet man), “Why don’t you just buy larger jeans?” Isn’t that great? My ex used to tell me to never get fat because he couldn’t stand it.
I do walk more here in Paris but I think I need to start doing marathons if I’m going to get back down to my old svelt self. I have strong legs, but get above my thighs and it isn’t a pretty picture. And, now, here is Thanksgiving. I just baked my pumpkin pie, have a stuffing mix ready to fix, turkey, potatoes to cook and mash. Sigh. Won’t be loosing any weight tomorrow.

Turkey-less in France

Of course, they have turkeys in France. I start seeing them in boucheries in November, many of them with the heads still attached to long necks and a fan of gray tail feathers arching over the prone body or hanging by their feet above a counter, the head drooping down on the streched out neck. I haven’t bought one in this state, but I assume they chop off the head and feet and pull out the tail feathers, if you desire. The turkeys look a little scrawny to me. You won’t see fat bodies looking plumb and juicy and, if like the Butterball Turkies I used to buy, injected under the skin with oil and probably given body enhancing hormones as it was growing, rather like many athletes wanting muscles fast in half the time.
I miss Butterball Turkeys. I never had a dry turkey baking them in my days back in the States. I loved cutting into the breast and seeing juices flow, even if those juices weren’t there naturally. I read an article recently about a French chef who wasn’t happy with turkey on the menu. He said for the turkey legs to be well done, the breast meat would end up dry so he cooked them separately chopping up the leg meat and incorporating it into a separate dish and then searing the breast before finishing cooking it on a rotisserie. He still wasn’t happy with it at the end. I guess turkey is the Mae West of fowl, a little too top heavy.
Last Christmas my son and his family were here and I decided to cook a turkey meal for them as this is the traditional time for turkey here in France. At Thanksgiving time there are fewer turkeys available and the butchers tell you that they aren’t very plump at this time of the year - that there is a better selection in December. When Maurice and I went to buy a turkey we had to preorder it a few days in advance as a large supply wasn’t kept where we shopped. They asked if we wanted it stuffed. “With what?” I asked Maurice. I didn’t think they would have the traditional Southern corn bread dressing that I was used to in the States. I was right. Due to a lack of communication, we ended up with some sort of meat stuffing that also had chestnuts in it. As soon as I brought the turkey out of the oven, I could tell by the odor that I wouldn’t like the taste of the stuffing, and I didn’t. It just didn’t have the taste I like with turkey. Maurice liked it but he was the only one.
There is a store here called Picard that sells only frozen food. It sounded rather strange to me and I wondered how it could stay in business but once I tasted their food, I understood. Everything was fabulous from the Coquilles St. Jacques to the Napoleons. You can even get frozen foie gros there and it tastes like you purchased it on a farm that day. Maurice decided to try their turkey and it came already stuffed with some sort of French dressing. I didn’t think I would like it, as there was meat of some kind incorporated into it, but it was really tasty with crunchy chestnuts and a little bread. I didn’t find any pumpkin pie at Picards, though. But there all sorts of wonderful holiday desserts to be had such as Busche Noel, a little roll of cake and chocolate frosting looking like a chocolate covered log and Galette de Roi, a pastry made with almond paste and a little figure of the Nativity baked inside. If you get the little figure in your piece of cake, you get to wear a crown and be King for a while.
I have tried to make my own cornbread so I could make a stuffing but the cornmeal is different than the brand I used to get and it came out tasting bitter. I assume, as is the case in many foods in America, the brand I used to get had some sugar in it. I like sweet corn bread, not bitter. So, I didn’t have my traditional stuffing that time. Now I go to a local shop here in Paris that sells food for Americans called Thanksgiving and buy either an American brand corn bread there, or just the good old Pettridge Farm Dressing mix. It’s not as good as home made dressing, but it tastes great to me.
Thanksgiving is an essential American holiday and such a time for family. The first year I was here in Paris, it was just Maurice and me and I roasted a chicken for the two of us. It was a good meal and all, but it just wasn’t the same without family around the table that was crowded with turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, string beans, sweet potatoes made even sweeter with brown sugar and marshmallows, cranberry jelly wiggling in its can shape, and rolls with butter. There wasn’t a football game going on in the background and I didn’t have pumpkin pie waiting in the kitchen. I had a faint tinge of melancholy that day.
Last Thanksgiving I once again found myself in Paris with no family but this time six friends and Maurice and I got together and shared Thanksgiving. A friend, even though a vegetarian, baked a turkey and made stuffing, and sweet potatoes with apples. I brought mashed potatoes and others brought string beans and wine. We had a great time stuffing ourselves. I’m sure Maurice must have sat there,as I have at many meals with French people,and wondered what in the world he was doing sitting with a bunch of Americans eating a Thanksgiving meal. I’m not even sure if he is aware of all that Thanksgiving is to us. But he seemed to have a good time and I know he loves the food served on this day. He can’t eat the sweet potatoes with marshmellows on top, though. They are too sweet for him.
Next year I want to be in America on Thanksgiving and have my children and grandchildren sitting at the same table as we dig into the moist turkey and talk and laugh and keep track of the Dallas Cowboys playing a football game in the background. I may have a small glass of eggnog before the meal, and I will surely have a slice a pumpkin pie afterwards even though I know I shouldn’t. I may live in Paris now, but some things I still have to experience back in the States.

I can’t take enough photos of red leaves, especially on the grape vines.
Sometimes I don’t feel like a “real” photographer because I am not doing “studies” of something and I don’t do haunting black and white photos. I can’t get away from color. I simply love it. Autumn is especially delicious in Provence with shades of gold everywhere and the sunlight is even golden, especially in the evenings as the sun sets.
I did take some photos in Paris up at Montmartre, all in black and white. Here is a sample:

It is ok-I like the shadows, but it doesn’t grab me like color. A neat quote by Cezanne, that master of color: At the very end of his life Cezanne wrote, “Long live those who have the love of color - true representatives of light and air.”

We leave today for Paris. I will keep the memory of this view near our village on a rainy, gray day in Paris.