Rabbit and Merguez Tagine

I have two tagines, those lovely Moroccan cooking dishes. The big one is a traditional cone-shaped one, made from glazed terra cotta. I bought it from a Moroccan shop in our town not long after we moved here. I fell in love with it when I first saw it--it’s old, a little wonky, a little chipped. It wasn’t new when I bought it. The shop owner tried to talk me out of that particular one, pointing out that there were new, colorful ones available. I can only use it for serving, not for cooking. It’s too big for my oven, and I can’t use it on the stovetop because the bottom’s not exactly flat. But I love it.

Lemon Curd

What's in a name? I mean, Shakespeare said it, didn't he? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. This is the kind of statement that makes me want to push the concept. I mean, what if we take a lovely rose and call it a booger. Will we want to stick our noses in it and breathe deeply? I'm not so sure.

Take lemon curd. I mean, let's face it: curd is not a pretty word. It brings up images of Miss Muffet and spiders. Altogether too icky a name for this lovely stuff. It's like somebody boogered my rose. I think we should call it something else. What, though? Lemon roses? Lemon velvet? No, that sounds like chewing tobacco. Lemon sauce? Too liquid. Lemon jam? Close, but how to distinguish it from marmalade?

FLASHBACK: The Best Laid Plans...(part 6)

Note: This is a continuing story. The previous parts can be found here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Twelve years ago yesterday something happened that changed our lives changed forever. At the time we had no idea the impact this event would have on our lives. It started out innocently enough: on a sunny January day Dan went for a ride on his new bike with some friends. I went to an acting class at the Shakespeare Theatre. On the way home, I kept trying to remember the words to a part that I was supposed to be learning for the class, and when I walked in the house the phone was ringing. I picked it up and someone said, “Hello, you don't know me, my name is Jamie Gardner”. (Telemarketing, I thought preparing to hang up.) “I'm calling to tell you that Dan has had an accident on his bike. But he's OK.” (Great, I thought, he's wrecked his new bike. I'm going to have to kick some butt.) “It looks like he's broken his leg. But he's OK.” (Probably can't kick butt while he's on crutches.) “The ambulance is here and they've stabilized him. He's OK.” (Oh.) “He's going to have to go to the hospital. He's OK”. By now I was beginning to realize that this wasn't a simple fall off a bike. In fact, it was the beginning of a year that was at the same time the most difficult and the most important in our lives together.

Oven Roasted Ribs

Someone recently remarked that we must only eat desserts at our house, judging by my blog. It’s not really true that we only eat desserts. It’s just that they’re so pretty! Really, don’t you think so? They’re like the cheerleaders of the table, jumping up and shouting “me! me! look at me!” “take MY picture!” Ahem. Maybe they don’t really do that--maybe it’s just me.

Crème Fraiche Verrines

I've written before about some of my language adventures at the supermarket in our town. I told you about the preservatives and the cuisses de canard. But I haven't yet told you about the incident of the crème fraiche. When we first moved here, I went to the supermarket one day looking for whipping cream. All I could find was crème fraiche. Everywhere I looked—crème fraiche. I didn't want thickened, cultured cream, I wanted whipping cream. And there was none to be seen. 

Merry Christmas!

In

this

season

of star light

and candle light

when hope lights up

all our lives, we gather to

decorate

a tree

Each ornament is a shining reminder that happiness comes one thought, one action, one day at a time.

Best wishes for happiness from our house to yours. 

.

Snow Days

We have about 30 cm / 12 inches of snow on the ground here. It has snowed 18 of the 20 days of December so far. Last night we had another 15 cm / 6 inches of fresh snow. For me, a child of warmer climes, snow equals playing hooky. Schools closed, an unplanned free day. There's a part of me that still wakes up hoping there will be new snow.