Italian caffè is really quite bracing, but I was content to return to an apartment with a drip coffee maker that allowed me to fill a whole mug. Wednesday morning back in France was lovely.
Mark really, really wanted to do the
Via Corda Alpina before leaving. This is a part-hiking, part-climbing trail that would involve ropes, switching between climbing shoes and hiking shoes, and what Mark cheerfully described as “route-finding,” as the online descriptions of the trail are somewhat vague.
We debated, on our way back from Italy, whether I would come or whether the 17yo would. Someone had to stay with the little boys. I was torn: I love hiking and would gladly do more, but Mark was probably right that I would not enjoy having to hunt for cairns to be sure we were still on the trail. Also, the 3yo was clearly stressed, and I felt a pull to stay with him and help him have a refreshing recovery day.
In the end Mark took the 17yo and the 11yo. They left relatively early in the morning, after coffee, and headed to The Best Bakery In The World (TM) to buy breakfast and then sandwiches for their journey.
The 13yo stayed with me for his own rest day. I was glad because his babysitting would free me up to go into town myself.
Plan for the day: first the 13yo would get a chance to go into town with money for lunch and time to relax and shop. Then on his return I would take the 7yo to lunch and shopping for a toy and for an snack to eat later. In the afternoon I would go back into town by myself to buy food for dinner. The 3yo we would just let play, use the iPad, and nap. He needed a day off.
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While the 13yo was down in the town, I did laundry. We had still-damp clothes in a mesh bag, clothes I’d pulled off the Italian drying rack right before leaving the last apartment. There were clothes in shopping bags, clothes in piles on the floor, clean clothes in backpacks, clothes piled on chairs, all mixed up. And in a few days we would have to be organized enough to get everything on British Airways.
I made all the beds (except the teen boys’—I don’t do their laundry) to give me a place to put everything. And then I sorted. The damp stuff from the mesh bag went into the dryer in the hopes that it would wind up a bit less moist. Then I found the truly dirty items (visible smears) squirreled away in all the corners outside the teen boys’ room and put them in the wash. Then I started folding all the clean stuff I could find and putting it on the made beds.
Except the teen boys’ stuff, which I just tossed into their room for them to deal with, and shut the door.
By the time the 13yo had returned, I had made satisfying progress. I know there is an element of having to still do housework when I am ostensibly on vacation that is a bit bothersome. But honestly, I can only stand living surrounded by total chaos for so long. And it was truly pleasing to see my own clothes neatly refolded in an open suitcase, ready to wear.
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I told the 7yo he could pick anyplace in town for lunch, except McDonald’s.
“I want to have chicken nuggets.”
He has gamely tried many unfamiliar foods during our trip, and after a tiring day of travel I was inclined to help him find something familiar. But chicken nuggets are relatively uncommon here, so I cautioned him, “I am not sure we will find a place with chicken nuggets.”
“How about a hamburger with no bun and some fries?” (This child dislikes sandwiches of all kinds and always deconstructs them.)
I had seen “steack haché” on numerous menus in town, so I agreed: we would try to find nuggets, but he would accept the bunless hamburger.
But lo and behold, the first restaurant we looked at had a menu enfant featuring “Nuggetts et frites” along with a fruit-syrup drink and a boule de glace. Who was I to say no?
We sat outside in full sun as he wished, but the sun got in his eyes. I had sunglasses, so we switched places.
Normally I don’t enjoy sitting outside in the sun, but today it was just fine. It was cool, 45° F, but the sunshine was so warm that I took off my coat. I had a fine view of the mountains.
I ordered the kids’ menu for him, and for myself a crêpe stuffed with ham, cheese, cream, and mushrooms, with a perfect sunny-side-up egg on top. It came with a lovely green salad with rings of red onion and a cream dressing. I ordered a small bottle of Vittel mineral water (echoes of my high school French teacher in Paris; she always ordered Vittel, and that is the reason why I always do; I can get Evian or San Pellegrino at home after all). And asked for a café allongé to come at the same time as the child’s ice cream.
It was all very lovely until three bees came along, causing the 7yo to flee the table. He retreated to the next one over. The bees got his ice cream and what was left of his strawberry syrup drink.
I told him that he could stay there if he wanted, but I was sure the bees would not bother either of us since they were so busy with the ice cream, so I was going to finish my coffee and pay. And that
is what I did. I explained to the waitress, “Il a peur des abeilles,” and she said “Moi aussi” and did not seem to mind his cowering a table away.
The first order of business was macarons for snack. “You can have any flavors you want,” I told him, “but only two this time. Three is too many. They’re very rich.” He picked out passionfruit and lemon. “What kind do you think your little brother will want?”
“Green ones,” he decided, so I asked for one pistachio macaron, but I wasn’t sure it would be popular, so for the second one I asked for chocolate. Chocolate, too, for the 13yo, along with chocolate-orange. The seller, like the one from a few days ago, picked them out with silver tongs onto a silver tray, and carefully packed them one by one in tissue in a pale blue box, which he handed to my 7yo gravely. The 7yo took it with both hands and said “Merci.”
We wandered around looking at shops for a while, spent some time in a bookstore looking for things that might be fun for English-speaking children, and finally ended up at the supermarket, which has miscellaneous household goods on the lower level. He picked out a small LEGO kit for himself and a Playmobil Mini kit for the 3yo, and helped me select grape juice, square bread, wine, and milk. We packed these and the macarons into my two mesh shopping bags and each carried one home.
On the way we were amused to see a very Chamonix sight, a young boy on a skateboard being pulled along by a dog harnessed to him via a piece of retired climbing rope.
I stopped to take a picture with a beautiful backdrop on the pedestrian bridge. And then we hiked up the hill to the apartment.
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I came in, put away groceries, nursed the 3yo, and did another round of laundry folding. Then I turned my mind to dinner.
I had found a fondue set in a box on the top shelf in the apartment kitchen, and thought I might try my hand at a Fondue Savoyard. I mentally made a composite recipe from the three different recipes in my two local cookbooks: emmental, gruyère, Beaufort, comtè, about a kilogram in all; and most of a bottle of Apremont wine, with kirsch, garlic, pepper, and nutmeg. I headed out with a penciled list.
On the way I got an update text from Mark, who after some route-finding challenges had finally located the way down. The kids had had a great day out. He sent a picture.
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I continued on to the grocery store for my second round. The best thing about French grocery stores is the dairy aisle. Yes, there is also a cheese counter where you can have any of dozens of cheeses hand cut by weight; but I like to peruse the packaged section, where varieties of cheese that can only be found at specialty shops in Minneapolis are wrapped up as if they were Colby or Velveeta. Tomme de Savoie in a shrink-wrapped wedge; chèvre patties pre-breaded for you to fry up in a pan and nestle into your salad; slices of raclette the correct size to melt under the broiler in little pans.
And the yogurt! So many kinds of whole-milk yogurt, and related treats like fromage frais. I like it plain and tart, but there is also yogurt with apricot, or myrtilles, or blackcurrant, or chestnut, or acacia honey, and of course the ubiquitous hazelnut.
I bought my four French cheeses, plus some more Babybels, and found the wine, and after some hunting, the kirsch. A bag of salad greens, some garlic, sugar snap peas, and plums—Reine Claude greengages, velvety soft and no bigger than walnuts—and apples, Reine des Reinettes, “Queen of Pippins.”
Also three loaves of bread.
On my way up the hill.
Once home, and having heard that Mark was on his way back, I prepped the dinner. I tried to grate the Beaufort but it was too soft (sort of like Havarti in texture, but much more potent) so I cut it into thin lamellae.
My recipe:
- 1 clove garlic
- 225 g Beaufort sliced thin
- 420 g Comté, grated
- 200 g Emmental, grated
- 125 g Gruyère, grated
- About 2/3 of a bottle of Apremont (dry, minerally white wine)
- About 125 mL of kirsch
- Fresh-ground pepper and nutmeg to taste
- Cubes of stale white bread
Halve the garlic clove and rub the inside of the fondue pot all over, not leaving any fragments of garlic behind, In the fondue pot on the stovetop, heat the wine and kirsch with the pepper and nutmeg to a simmer. Gradually add the Beaufort, stirring with a wooden spoon, and then the other cheeses. Thin with more wine if necessary. When a smooth sauce is obtained, move the pot to the fondue base and serve with bread cubes.
Unfortunately, I lost track of the stuff and broke my emulsion, so instead of getting a smooth sauce I got a two-phase pot of flavorful broth and protein s
lurry.
Oh well. Instead of using fondue forks to dip bread in the pot, we divided slurry and broth into individual bowls and let the children put bread into it and eat the whole porridge with a spoon.
And you know what? The texture was all wrong, but it tasted amazing. Mark said it was the best fondue he’d had, and the 13yo said I had gotten the cheeses just right. So perhaps this is something I should add to my repertoire at home.
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Later I found in the 7yo’s room the notebook I had bought him in Italy. He had been using his seven-color gift shop pen to draw rockets.
I think he is pleased with these gifts.
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We finished the night with another run for ice cream. I had pear this time, and it was grainy and sweet like a ripe pear can be. The first few bites were too sweet, but it grew on me as I got into it.
And that was the end of that rest day.
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