Potage aux fanes de radis.

Has anyone here ever heard of radish leaf soup? I put the title in French because it just sounds so much more appetizing to whisper, potage aux fanes de radis. Mmmm. Monsieur J's mom has been telling us how good this soup is for a while now. I finally motivated to make it yesterday.

I think that final dose of Préfecture rejection is what pushed me to seek solace in soup. I typically reconcile myself with France's ridiculous bureaucracy via my stomach; it's the best way I've found to negotiate the rocky path to forgiveness. A warm baguette can heal most wounds.

I wanted something simple, soothing and inexpensive. Being reminded of the fact that you won't be working for at least another month doesn't exactly inspire extravagance. With radishes coming in at 75 cents a bunch, radish leaf soup fit the bill.

Full disclosure: I was never a huge fan of the radish when I lived in the States. They always looked so sad and forlorn sitting virtually untouched on the salad bar. In France I go crazy for radishes, from the little skinny red ones to the big scary looking black ones. It also helps that the French tend to eat their radishes with plenty of bread and salted butter. Who wouldn't like that?

I didn't know you could eat the leaves, but you can. And for two apartment dwellers with no way to compost, I finally felt like I was doing my part by not throwing these leafy greens in the trash.


The soup is simple: 1 shallot, 4 small potatoes, 1 bunch well-rinsed radish leaves, juice of 1 lemon, water, salt and pepper to taste.

We topped the soup with fresh mint from the balcony and crème fraîche. Spring in a bowl.

Honeymoon's over.

Not to worry, we're still getting along.

I'm here to talk about two unlikely things: dish soap and vacation.

This week I realized that the dish soap we bought while honeymooning in the Pyrénées is down to the last squeeze.

I usually go for some sort of eco-friendly, sensitive skin product -you would too if you didn't have a dishwasher. But since we were in a ski resort town, Monsieur J just picked up a bottle of the cheapest stuff he could find. The man may be French, but he shares some key traits with the Schnell clan.


Not only was it bright blue, but it also had a strong cleanser smell to it. We used it to keep our kitchenette clean during our stay and packed it with us when it was time to go. Now, whenever I wash the dishes, the aroma reminds me of our time in the mountains. Simple, but strange.

And though my hands are happy to get back to the old standby, I think I'll secretly miss the soap that made dishwashing transport me to the Pyrénées. Who knew that something as basic as soap could evoke cross-country skiing, soaking in hot springs, fondue, tartiflette and cassoulet all in one?

Comfort.

When the Préfecture gives you lemons and you're not in the mood for lemonade, it is perfectly acceptable to seek comfort elsewhere. Some may be in need of retail therapy but my wallet and I opt for comfort food instead. I found mine in paupiettes de veau and a few other non-edible moments this weekend. The solution was three-part, actually: devise a plan of attack with the boss; forget about all things préfecture-related on the slopes; and comfort myself with a traditional Sunday lunch. As my sister likes to say, "do what works." This, my friends, did the trick.

Meeting with the boss on Friday was a step in the right direction. She still wants me to work for the company [yay!], and that alone is pretty incredible when you stop to think just how complicated this entire hiring process has been for all involved. [sigh]

Saturday I left my cares and worries in Toulouse and spent the day skiing at Piau-Engaly in the Pyrénées. Monsieur J's company had organized the excursion, and it was a fun day of snow and skiing for all involved, even if I don't have any pictures to prove it. Using the camera would've meant taking off my mittens and that wasn't going to happen!

Which brings us to Sunday. Sundays in France are unlike any other day of the week. They're designed for family, friends, a good meal, walks, cultural outings, parks, and other leisure activities. Sundays are not made for frantically running about in an effort to get a jump start on the week. Even if you wanted to cram your Sunday full of errands you'd be hard pressed to find a store that's open, though you can always do a load of laundry at home if that makes you feel better. But while Sundays may not be made for productivity as normally definied, Sunday mornings are a great time to go to the market and prepare for Sunday lunch. Mmmm, Sunday lunch!

At summer camp, we always ate the same thing for Sunday lunch: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, dinner rolls and dessert. So predictable, and yet so good. In the winter months here in France, one of my absolute favorite Sunday lunch options is paupiettes de veau.

I didn't know about these little treasures until a few months ago when Monsieur J and I were at the market and saw an unbelievably long line at the butcher shop. Certainly it must be good, otherwise all of these people would not be waiting in line for 30 minutes. We joined the queue, waited and watched the butcher deftly cutting slices of beef and veal, his wife ringing up the orders and giving tips on how to cook each item. When it was our turn, Monsieur J ordered two paupiettes, and Madame explained how to cook them. My "I'm-listening-to-you-very-intently-so-as-not-to-screw-this-up" face must've worried Madame on some level, and so she fished out a photocopy of the recipe just in case. Merci!

Paupiettes may take a little time to cook, but since the butcher prepares the meat, all you have to do is chop and partially cook the vegetables before adding the veal to the pot. A paupiette de veau is essentially a thin veal cutlet, filled with a ground veal and herb stuffing. The butcher places a lump of stuffing on the veal cutlet, then uses strips of fat and a length of butcher's twine to carefully wrap and bind each little parcel so it won't fall apart during the cooking process. Once you've finished cooking them, you simply remove the string and fat and serve the paupiettes with the chopped vegetables: potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, leeks and fennel in this case, though you can adapt the choice of vegetables as you'd like -it's fun to experiment. When cooked slowly on low heat for 35 minutes and finished for 10 minutes over medium, the paupiettes are slightly golden on the outside, tender, juicy and seasoned to perfection on the inside. What's not to like about that?