Quoi? Kale??

 There's shocking news running around that the French don't know what kale is. It's surprising to those of us living across the Atlantic, those of us who can hardly remember a time where kale was not featured on every trendy restaurant's salad course, did not top all the superfood lists out there, and come served in  forms ranging from raw to fried to liquified. After all, how could French people possibly maintain their jealousy-inducing waistlines while entirely snubbing the virtues of this mighty green?

I find myself agreeing with Sanaë Lemoine, a French blogger living in the States: “Why would the French ever care about this large, coarse-leaved cabbage? They don’t need magical vegetables or superfoods. They already have a tradition of eating balanced meals. In a strange way, kale is superfluous.”

In fact, many of kale's cruciferous cousins have already earned their respect in the French kitchen : arugula is a most common salad green, broccoli is blended into many veloutés, turnips are not dismissed as war-time staple, and where would the French picnic be with radishes? Maybe kale is not such a big deal, because eating healthful veggies is nothing new.

Since this is currently the cause of much cognitive dissonance here in America, several "crusaders" have taken it upon themselves to introduce the French to the glory that is kale, as told by this New York Times article. Obviously France is not impervious to food trends or diets, so I suspect that kale will pick up a bit overseas - if only because it's the cool thing to eat in America. But at least I can rest assured that inaptly-named "French kale salads" won't be making appearances on small plate menus States-side anytime soon.

Paris Love

Photo courtesy of Whit & Delight

For the first time in my life, I've spent my summer looking at pictures of Paris rather than being there in person. Cry me a river, I know, but it still makes my heart pinch to think of all the cassis sorbet, open air markets and twilight walks I missed.

For more gorgeous photos of Paris, visit this Whit & Delight post.

Labor Day fail a.k.a taco night

The thought had crossed my mind that Labor Day might be cursed with bad weather, and yet I invited virtually every single New York friend who crossed my agitated path on Saturday night to a barbecue in my backyard. This made for an even more frustrating Monday morning when I looked out my window and checked my phone to see that thunderstorms were predicted with 80% likelihood all afternoon. So I cancelled the barbecue and conceded to spending a rainy afternoon indoors, consoled by the fact that at least now I had an excuse to have an Orange Is the New Black marathon. But then the rain stopped, and the sun came out. So in the end, the storm had lasted long enough to ruin my barbecue but not enough to excuse a lazy day. Not to mention it brought in humidity levels unlike any I've encountered since moving here.

There I was, sticky and whining , when I decided that the only acceptable remedy was to eat. Preferably with my hands, and putting to use the ton of avocados I had bought to ripen in time for the barbecue would be great. And then a voice inside my head told me to make tacos. So I set out with my roommates for the only outdoor exposure of the day to purchase the makings of a taco bar. On our list of taco accoutrements were: mushrooms rendered in garlic, sautéed peppers and onions, chicken, homemade guacamole, salsa, black beans, cheese and a whole jar of pickled jalapeños for me.

Maybe my Labor Day was not the fail I'm making it out to be, since in fact I didn't do the least bit of laboring. Except over a stove. But that's the good kind of labor.