As I was leaving the bank yesterday, having barely managed to get what I had come for, I thought to myself, money is a strange thing in France (at least from the perspective of someone who didn't grow up here). And I mean that in several ways, but getting it and spending it especially.
So, first, a quick primer: euros come in every denomination you'd expect, and then some. There are coins in the denominations of 1-, 2-, 5-, 10-, 20- and 50-centimes, or cents. There are also 1€ and 2€ coins. Finally, there are bills in the denominations of 5€, 10€, 20€, 50€ (and although I've never seen them in real life), 100€, 200€ and 500€.
That all seems normal, but here's where things start to go awry: when you go to the ATM and get out 50 or more (which you might do most times you go to the ATM for reasons that will become apparent later in this post) you pretty much always get a 50€ bill for at least 50 euros of that. This might make you think that it's easy to break a 50 here. And that's where you would be soooooooorely mistaken.
David Sedaris says it much better in When you are Engulfed in Flames, so I'm not even going to try to be clever here, but basically, you're kind of expected to give exact change and use only small bills and coins. Merchants routinely ask you to use change, "Vous n'avez pas de monnaie?" ("you don't have any change?"), instead of what would seem to be a perfectly reasonable bill, like the last time we rented a car and I wanted to pay for the 17€ insurance using a 20€ note.
Where you're supposed to get these small bills and coins when the ATM routinely gives you 50s is not clear.
And it's not as easy as just using a carte bleu or debit/credit card instead of your large bill. A surprising number (again, I mean surprising to me) of merchants don't take cards. I find this so odd because France has been using the carte à puce or "smart card", since the early 90s and while I haven't been able to verify this, I think France has been using those portable card readers (like you now sometimes see in US restaurants) since then too. But, you frequently need to use cash so you make your large ATM withdrawls, and then you think of ways you can break that 50 ...
Or, there's what's behind door #3: you can write a personal check.
Yes, checks are widely accepted -- almost everywhere you can use cash. Even restaurants (and I'm not talking about ticket restaurant or chèque restaurant, which are a whole different thing) will accept a check from your checkbook.
But even le chèque is not foolproof. For several weeks this fall, I ran paid subjects in an ERP experiment and I am finishing up a second study (the reason I went to the bank yesterday). Basically the way it works is that my supervisor writes me a check and in a roundabout way, I pay subjects with this money.
Roundabout? Yes. For several reasons.
First, you can't cash a check in France, unless you're at your bank and you've written the check. (This is actually probably a good idea because the bank can verify how much money is in your checking account.) So, you can deposit the check that your supervisor gives you and then write a check for cash. Unless you didn't bring your checkbook with you because you were planning on cashing your supervisor's check. In that case, you have to go back to the bank the next day.
But it may not work then either.
There are two branches of my bank in Aix. One of them is open from 9h-12h15 and 13h35 - 18h, the other from 8h45 - 12h30 and 14h - 18h. Despite these opening hours, one has teller service only from 9h - 12h15, and the other one has teller service during its morning opening hours and until 16h45 in the afternoon. Of course these pieces of info are not posted, so when you arrive at 16h55, more than an hour before closing time, that's when you learn that you're out of luck. But, the nice person at the reception tells you that when the teller windows are open, you can get any denominations (coins or bills) that you want. Not that this helps you all that much when you have a subject at 9h the next morning and need to be at the hospital before the bank opens to set up the experiment.
So you go back the next day, after your subject, with your checkbook, during teller hours, ready to get your money. And they're out of it. Or at least they only have one 5€-note. Yes, just one 5€-note. That's it. Not only that, but they were only willing to part with ten euros worth of coins, in a 2€, 1€ and centimes combo.
What gives?
In some ways it's not bad, it's an excuse to buy a chocolat so you can get some change, and undoubtedly, sipping that chocolat will help you think of creative ways of breaking those 20s you had to get so that you can end up with some combination that totals 15€.
Silly me, it looks like I sold the bear's pelt before I had killed it (like that? it's the French equivalent of counting your chickens...). I thought I had all my subjects. And then we realized that we really did have two groups of learners ... and that meant getting more subjects to round out the groups. So yesterday, arriving at the bank only minutes after it had opened, I managed to get only three of the six 5€ bills I wanted. It's ok though, it's the weekend and we're in the middle of a cold snap. A chocolat will taste really good tomorrow.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Bom chika wah wah ...
It's time for a little food porn.
Chocolate mousse with its crème anglaise and confit de cédrat.
Ok, so this dessert I'm bragging on isn't entirely homemade. Actually, it's mostly store-bought. I'm using the soft lighting and artificial glow that Picasa have provided me to (almost) hide the traces of the plastic mold that this chocolate dessert came in. (Welcome to the Semi-homemade with Sandra Lee episode of Mas de Bonheur!)
What you should really be looking at, though, is what's on top of the purchased chocolate dessert and crème anglaise. That's homemade confit de cédrat, or citron marmalade.
Last year in Grasse, we saw a citron tree, but I had never seen a fully ripe citron, until James brought this one home from the market.
They're all weird and knobby on the outside, and pithy on the inside.
So what to make?
The tarte lady's fiadone seemed like too much of a challenge. And, besides, we also wanted to see what the citron was like on its own. So candied citron it was ... until I cooked it a little longer than I had planned to and it became citron marmalade.
Citron marmalade
1 citron
sugar
water
Juice the citron and set aside what little juice there is for later. The juice is pretty intense. It was a little like *really* acidic grapefruit juice ... or something that's gross and would make you stay away from citrons. (And you shouldn't do that, because the end result is really tasty.)
Using a sharp knife, remove the outside of the peel in long strips. Cut the swaths of peel lengthwise into narrow strips. Try to resist rubbing the zest all over yourself and save it for the marmalade. (It really does smell that good.) You should also resist eating the rind because in its unprepared form, it doesn't taste as good as it smells.
Actually, there isn't much point in giving a recipe here, because there isn't really one to give. It sort of makes itself.
But in case you're actually reading down to the bottom, basically, you make some candied citrus peel, but with a little less water than you might use if you wanted a syrup. I used something like a little teacup full of sugar to two teacups of water (a scant 1/2 c. to scant 1 c.?). Stir the sugar into water over low heat until it dissolves, then add the citron peel and simmer while your dinner finishes baking (20mn?) and then cools enough that you can eat it.
Then add the juice and let it simmer until you're ready for seconds, or until what's in the pot looks like marmalade. Remove from heat.
It smells unbelievable while it's simmering. Just stick your nose over the peel and it's like the best lem-apefr-ange you've ever smelled, with a little something different and special that isn't entirely unlike something that's in molasses.
It's good on bread or brioche, and especially good with chocolate in both its homemade and not-so-homemade incarnations.
Chocolate mousse with its crème anglaise and confit de cédrat.
Ok, so this dessert I'm bragging on isn't entirely homemade. Actually, it's mostly store-bought. I'm using the soft lighting and artificial glow that Picasa have provided me to (almost) hide the traces of the plastic mold that this chocolate dessert came in. (Welcome to the Semi-homemade with Sandra Lee episode of Mas de Bonheur!)
What you should really be looking at, though, is what's on top of the purchased chocolate dessert and crème anglaise. That's homemade confit de cédrat, or citron marmalade.
Last year in Grasse, we saw a citron tree, but I had never seen a fully ripe citron, until James brought this one home from the market.
They're all weird and knobby on the outside, and pithy on the inside.
So what to make?
The tarte lady's fiadone seemed like too much of a challenge. And, besides, we also wanted to see what the citron was like on its own. So candied citron it was ... until I cooked it a little longer than I had planned to and it became citron marmalade.
Citron marmalade
1 citron
sugar
water
Juice the citron and set aside what little juice there is for later. The juice is pretty intense. It was a little like *really* acidic grapefruit juice ... or something that's gross and would make you stay away from citrons. (And you shouldn't do that, because the end result is really tasty.)
Using a sharp knife, remove the outside of the peel in long strips. Cut the swaths of peel lengthwise into narrow strips. Try to resist rubbing the zest all over yourself and save it for the marmalade. (It really does smell that good.) You should also resist eating the rind because in its unprepared form, it doesn't taste as good as it smells.
Actually, there isn't much point in giving a recipe here, because there isn't really one to give. It sort of makes itself.
But in case you're actually reading down to the bottom, basically, you make some candied citrus peel, but with a little less water than you might use if you wanted a syrup. I used something like a little teacup full of sugar to two teacups of water (a scant 1/2 c. to scant 1 c.?). Stir the sugar into water over low heat until it dissolves, then add the citron peel and simmer while your dinner finishes baking (20mn?) and then cools enough that you can eat it.
Then add the juice and let it simmer until you're ready for seconds, or until what's in the pot looks like marmalade. Remove from heat.
It smells unbelievable while it's simmering. Just stick your nose over the peel and it's like the best lem-apefr-ange you've ever smelled, with a little something different and special that isn't entirely unlike something that's in molasses.
It's good on bread or brioche, and especially good with chocolate in both its homemade and not-so-homemade incarnations.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Mimosas
This lovely (grainy ... sorry!) little pom-pon is all over southern France between late January and early March. This year, thanks to the especially cold and long winter, it peaked in mid-to-late February. Now it's all but gone. Which means that we missed the Route du Mimosa! It also means we won't be able to get any more at the flower market, so it's a good thing James got these when he did.
But it also means that maybe it will actually start getting warm around here soon.
Monday, March 15, 2010
It's Pi(e) day again!
Yes, it is once again pi(e) day and I'm letting myself off the hook with an easy post. Yes, that's right, you guessed it: a food post.
This year, unlike last year, we have an oven. And this means that unlike last year, when we had to have makeshift pie, we can have a real homemade pie.
So apple frangipane it was!
Crust
200 g flour
40g powdered sugar
pinch of salt
100g butter (only a little cooler than room temp if you're doing this by hand)
1 egg, beaten
Whisk the flour, powdered sugar and salt together, then mix in the butter until your mixture looks sandy -- with maybe a few larger blobs of butter. At least this is what happens if you do this by hand because you have no pastry blender or food processor and the two knives cutting technique never worked for you. (And if you're lucky enough to have hands that are like blocks of ice, melting the butter isn't a problem.) Then drizzle the egg over the sandy dough and cut it into the dough with two knives (they do work well for this part).
Chill while you butter your pie pan.
Pour the dough into the pie pan and pat into place. (If you are unlucky enough to have uncharacteristically warm hands during this part of the pie-making, you will end up with a somewhat tougher crust than you'd like to have.) Prick all over with a fork and chill for 30-60mn.
Then bake blind (with rice, beans, weights) for 20mn at about 400F.
Filling
125g almond powder
125g powdered sugar
100g butter, very soft
1 egg, beaten
1 tsp. vanilla extract
2 Tbsp. Amandine (almond liqueur)
Whisk the almond powder and sugar together in a bowl. Add the butter and work it with a spatula until it's well mixed. Add in the egg, vanilla and liqueur, still with the spatula, and mix until it's pretty smooth and homogeneous. Spread into baked shell.
Topping
3 medium pie apples (like Chantecler, a really delicious hybrid of a Golden Delicious and a Reine Grise), sliced thin and tossed with lemon juice. (You will probably have extra, which you can put in a 2010-style 1980s chef salad with ham, Comté and some sort of crazy mesclun mix, instead of iceberg.)
Arrange the apples on top of the frangipane and bake for 30mn at about 400F.
Then eat, from crust to tip.
And make your wish on the last bite.
This year, unlike last year, we have an oven. And this means that unlike last year, when we had to have makeshift pie, we can have a real homemade pie.
So apple frangipane it was!
Crust
200 g flour
40g powdered sugar
pinch of salt
100g butter (only a little cooler than room temp if you're doing this by hand)
1 egg, beaten
Whisk the flour, powdered sugar and salt together, then mix in the butter until your mixture looks sandy -- with maybe a few larger blobs of butter. At least this is what happens if you do this by hand because you have no pastry blender or food processor and the two knives cutting technique never worked for you. (And if you're lucky enough to have hands that are like blocks of ice, melting the butter isn't a problem.) Then drizzle the egg over the sandy dough and cut it into the dough with two knives (they do work well for this part).
Chill while you butter your pie pan.
Pour the dough into the pie pan and pat into place. (If you are unlucky enough to have uncharacteristically warm hands during this part of the pie-making, you will end up with a somewhat tougher crust than you'd like to have.) Prick all over with a fork and chill for 30-60mn.
Then bake blind (with rice, beans, weights) for 20mn at about 400F.
Filling
125g almond powder
125g powdered sugar
100g butter, very soft
1 egg, beaten
1 tsp. vanilla extract
2 Tbsp. Amandine (almond liqueur)
Whisk the almond powder and sugar together in a bowl. Add the butter and work it with a spatula until it's well mixed. Add in the egg, vanilla and liqueur, still with the spatula, and mix until it's pretty smooth and homogeneous. Spread into baked shell.
Topping
3 medium pie apples (like Chantecler, a really delicious hybrid of a Golden Delicious and a Reine Grise), sliced thin and tossed with lemon juice. (You will probably have extra, which you can put in a 2010-style 1980s chef salad with ham, Comté and some sort of crazy mesclun mix, instead of iceberg.)
Arrange the apples on top of the frangipane and bake for 30mn at about 400F.
Then eat, from crust to tip.
And make your wish on the last bite.
Almost the ides
Ok, so despite my best intentions, this blog really hasn't existed since I started working full time. And even a little bit before then. I haven't given up, and we haven't stopped doing things, it's just that blogging can take a lot of time. At least for me. But like the dissertation that you put off writing because it's just so big that it's easy to put off, eventually you do it.
Now, however, the question is raised: where do I (re)start?
At the beginning of the things I didn't post about, but for which we have many albums on picasa?
Or maybe the bigger, more interesting things first? If any of it's interesting to anyone.
I'm thinking that reverse chronological order might be the way to go because it's at least seasonal -- in the beginning, but of course less seasonal as you proceed. But then I can mix in new things too.
So anyway ...
Here comes a new post to celebrate an especially special holiday: pi(e) day!
Now, however, the question is raised: where do I (re)start?
At the beginning of the things I didn't post about, but for which we have many albums on picasa?
Or maybe the bigger, more interesting things first? If any of it's interesting to anyone.
I'm thinking that reverse chronological order might be the way to go because it's at least seasonal -- in the beginning, but of course less seasonal as you proceed. But then I can mix in new things too.
So anyway ...
Here comes a new post to celebrate an especially special holiday: pi(e) day!
Friday, February 5, 2010
An oven of one's own
There it is.
In this picture, it has a chicken and leek tart baking away in it.
Here, it just told James a really funny joke about the difference between swine flu and bird flu.
Here it's taking a breather after all the cooking it's done in the past month.
So how did we come by this beautiful oven and why hadn't we bought one before?
Well, in the old apartment, there actually wasn't room for one. Ok, so there was technically room for an oven in the apartment -- just not in the kitchen. We had been thinking about buying one for the new place, but then my supervisor beat us to it. If she thinks this will make me work hard for her, she's right. Unless I'm busy making things in the oven.
In this picture, it has a chicken and leek tart baking away in it.
Here, it just told James a really funny joke about the difference between swine flu and bird flu.
Here it's taking a breather after all the cooking it's done in the past month.
So how did we come by this beautiful oven and why hadn't we bought one before?
Well, in the old apartment, there actually wasn't room for one. Ok, so there was technically room for an oven in the apartment -- just not in the kitchen. We had been thinking about buying one for the new place, but then my supervisor beat us to it. If she thinks this will make me work hard for her, she's right. Unless I'm busy making things in the oven.
Le Mas de Bonheur has moved
Well we moved on over, moved on over,
To the ouest side.
To a 1-bedroom apartment on the first floor.
Oh oh we moved on down, moved on down,
To the first floor.
Now we finally got a washing machine of our oooooooowwn!
So as many of you already know, we moved. Back in mid-November.
It's been a busy time. Ahem.
Our new apartment, as the theme song homage (if you were able to stretch and shorten those syllables in new and creative ways) suggests, is on the west side of town. It's about a 10mn walk from the old place, which means I can't step out of our apartment and go to the market (or to the Cave), but it's better.
For one thing, it has a separate bedroom ... with a door ... and a condemned fireplace in marble (on the right in the foreground).
It also has a washing machine (on the right, next to the tiny, more typically-sized refrigerator), which also serves as a drying rack for the dishes.
And a nice breakfast table.
It has an attractive living room ... which you will see a picture of sometime soon.
With a really cool bird relief that is where the chandelier used to be when the living room and bedroom were just one large room.
It has a gigantic terrace. Which isn't quite as scenic as the old one, but it'll do.
Oh, and one of the best things is that it also now has an oven!
To the ouest side.
To a 1-bedroom apartment on the first floor.
Oh oh we moved on down, moved on down,
To the first floor.
Now we finally got a washing machine of our oooooooowwn!
So as many of you already know, we moved. Back in mid-November.
It's been a busy time. Ahem.
Our new apartment, as the theme song homage (if you were able to stretch and shorten those syllables in new and creative ways) suggests, is on the west side of town. It's about a 10mn walk from the old place, which means I can't step out of our apartment and go to the market (or to the Cave), but it's better.
For one thing, it has a separate bedroom ... with a door ... and a condemned fireplace in marble (on the right in the foreground).
It also has a washing machine (on the right, next to the tiny, more typically-sized refrigerator), which also serves as a drying rack for the dishes.
And a nice breakfast table.
It has an attractive living room ... which you will see a picture of sometime soon.
With a really cool bird relief that is where the chandelier used to be when the living room and bedroom were just one large room.
It has a gigantic terrace. Which isn't quite as scenic as the old one, but it'll do.
Oh, and one of the best things is that it also now has an oven!
Monday, January 11, 2010
Mirabelles in winter
In the dead of winter, when it's colder here than it's ever been ("ever" since we arrived in September, 2008), it's nice to think of warmer, sunnier times.
And since the last post (months ago ... this is what happens when you get a full-time job) was about mirabelles, here's a one about mirabelles in winter: clafoutis aux mirabelles ... surgelées ("frozen").
Clafoutis comes from Limousin (also famous for its cows, and Limoges porcelaine) and is traditionally made with unpitted cherries. In fact, if you make it with another fruit it's not technically a clafoutis but une flognarde.
The recipe I used was for a traditional clafoutis with fresh (not frozen) sweet cherries and it strongly advised against pitting those cherries because, it seems, it's the pits that give the clafoutis its distinctive aroma. I've actually never had a clafoutis that didn't have pitted cherries in it, so I can't say whether or not the claim is true. And I couldn't find any frozen unpitted cherries, so I figured I'd wait until cherry season to try it the traditional way.
Recipe (adapted from Cuisine et Vins de France)
1lb. frozen pitted mirabelles, thawed
scant 1/2 c. sugar + more to dust baking dish
4 eggs
scant 2/3 c. flour
scant 1/2 c. cream
1 1/2 c. milk
1 Tbsp. amandine liqueur (amaretto?)
butter
powdered sugar for dusting (if you have it)
Preheat the oven to 400 (wait, "what oven do you guys have?" you ask ... well, that's for another post). Whisk the eggs with the sugar until frothy. Add the flour, little-by-little, whisking constantly. Then add the cream and milk in a stream, still whisking constantly. Finally, add the liqueur.
Generously butter a ceramic baking dish (this is what the recipe says ... nothing about size ... mine is about 11 in. across and 1 1/2 in. high, and there was actually too much batter, but then I had extra large eggs) and dust the bottom and sides with sugar.
Arrange the mirabelle halves in the bottom of the dish and gently pour the batter over them so as not to displace the fruit. Bake in the oven for 30 to 35 minutes, until the clafoutis is golden. Dust with powdered sugar and serve hot or warm.
And since the last post (months ago ... this is what happens when you get a full-time job) was about mirabelles, here's a one about mirabelles in winter: clafoutis aux mirabelles ... surgelées ("frozen").
Clafoutis comes from Limousin (also famous for its cows, and Limoges porcelaine) and is traditionally made with unpitted cherries. In fact, if you make it with another fruit it's not technically a clafoutis but une flognarde.
The recipe I used was for a traditional clafoutis with fresh (not frozen) sweet cherries and it strongly advised against pitting those cherries because, it seems, it's the pits that give the clafoutis its distinctive aroma. I've actually never had a clafoutis that didn't have pitted cherries in it, so I can't say whether or not the claim is true. And I couldn't find any frozen unpitted cherries, so I figured I'd wait until cherry season to try it the traditional way.
Recipe (adapted from Cuisine et Vins de France)
1lb. frozen pitted mirabelles, thawed
scant 1/2 c. sugar + more to dust baking dish
4 eggs
scant 2/3 c. flour
scant 1/2 c. cream
1 1/2 c. milk
1 Tbsp. amandine liqueur (amaretto?)
butter
powdered sugar for dusting (if you have it)
Preheat the oven to 400 (wait, "what oven do you guys have?" you ask ... well, that's for another post). Whisk the eggs with the sugar until frothy. Add the flour, little-by-little, whisking constantly. Then add the cream and milk in a stream, still whisking constantly. Finally, add the liqueur.
Generously butter a ceramic baking dish (this is what the recipe says ... nothing about size ... mine is about 11 in. across and 1 1/2 in. high, and there was actually too much batter, but then I had extra large eggs) and dust the bottom and sides with sugar.
Arrange the mirabelle halves in the bottom of the dish and gently pour the batter over them so as not to displace the fruit. Bake in the oven for 30 to 35 minutes, until the clafoutis is golden. Dust with powdered sugar and serve hot or warm.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Mirabelles
A mirabelle is a delicious little plum that is about the size of a quarter in diameter. Sometimes, although these don't, they have a red blush.
Lorraine is the region of France best known for its mirabelles, especially the cities of Metz and Nancy, which both have their own varietals ... and festivals celebrating the mirabelle (Metz even has a Miss Mirabelle!). In fact, the "Mirabelle of Lorraine" has something called an Indication Géographique Protégée which says that only mirabelles grown in a specified list of cities, towns and villages can be called Mirabelles of Lorraine (kind of like the AOC label on wine, but with seemingly fewer restrictions). The list of towns in the "appelation" is determined by, among other factors, historical references dating from the 16th century about the place of the mirabelle in literature and in texts on local gastronomy.
They ripen in August and are still quite tasty in early September, although I haven't seen any in the markets for a couple of weeks now. They are extremely flavorful. Put that colander of mirabelles on the table next to you and you will smell apple-vanilla-plummy goodness without even sticking your nose down next to the fruit. They're unbelievable.
The one area where they don't excel, at least not the ones we have tried, is in texture: they're often a little mealy (for me). But you don't notice that at all when they're made into the jam. I guess technically what James made is a compote because it's just cooked down mirabelles, lemon juice and a little sugar, but we eat it like jam. And by "like jam" I mean out of the reused Bonne Maman jar, by the heaping spoonful.
Or you can do things the more traditional way and eat it on bread.
Lorraine is the region of France best known for its mirabelles, especially the cities of Metz and Nancy, which both have their own varietals ... and festivals celebrating the mirabelle (Metz even has a Miss Mirabelle!). In fact, the "Mirabelle of Lorraine" has something called an Indication Géographique Protégée which says that only mirabelles grown in a specified list of cities, towns and villages can be called Mirabelles of Lorraine (kind of like the AOC label on wine, but with seemingly fewer restrictions). The list of towns in the "appelation" is determined by, among other factors, historical references dating from the 16th century about the place of the mirabelle in literature and in texts on local gastronomy.
They ripen in August and are still quite tasty in early September, although I haven't seen any in the markets for a couple of weeks now. They are extremely flavorful. Put that colander of mirabelles on the table next to you and you will smell apple-vanilla-plummy goodness without even sticking your nose down next to the fruit. They're unbelievable.
The one area where they don't excel, at least not the ones we have tried, is in texture: they're often a little mealy (for me). But you don't notice that at all when they're made into the jam. I guess technically what James made is a compote because it's just cooked down mirabelles, lemon juice and a little sugar, but we eat it like jam. And by "like jam" I mean out of the reused Bonne Maman jar, by the heaping spoonful.
Or you can do things the more traditional way and eat it on bread.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Serving suggestions
There has always been a special place in my heart for the "serving suggestion" caption on food packaging. I mean, how else would I have known that I could eat my cereal with milk?
In France, the serving suggestion is taken to a whole 'nother level.
Here's one idée repas équilibré, or "an idea for a balanced meal", taken from a carton of gazpacho (yes, we buy it ... we don't have a blender):
Don't even think about having that meal with plain gouda instead of gouda with cumin, or with a baguette instead of bran bread!
Here's the way you might consider eating your blueberry yogurt:
Thanks, blueberry yogurt! I never would have thought of that!
And for the 6-10-year-old children who eat my Nutella, here's an idea for un goûter équilibré, or "a balanced afternoon snack", after a full day: a slice of bread with Nutella, a plain yogurt and a glass of orange juice.
But how much Nutella? How much orange juice? Not to worry, the fine print perpendicular to the rest of the label tells you that it's 30g of bread, 15g of Nutella, 125g of yogurt and 100ml of orange juice. Voilà!
I make fun, but this is a country whose ads for just about everything consumable (especially snacky things) include the phrases "for your health, avoid snacking/eating between meals" or "for your health, get some physical activity" or "for your health, eat at least five servings of fruits and vegetables per day".
And besides, gazpacho really is a fresh and tasty way to eat my vegetables!
In France, the serving suggestion is taken to a whole 'nother level.
Here's one idée repas équilibré, or "an idea for a balanced meal", taken from a carton of gazpacho (yes, we buy it ... we don't have a blender):
Don't even think about having that meal with plain gouda instead of gouda with cumin, or with a baguette instead of bran bread!
Here's the way you might consider eating your blueberry yogurt:
Thanks, blueberry yogurt! I never would have thought of that!
And for the 6-10-year-old children who eat my Nutella, here's an idea for un goûter équilibré, or "a balanced afternoon snack", after a full day: a slice of bread with Nutella, a plain yogurt and a glass of orange juice.
But how much Nutella? How much orange juice? Not to worry, the fine print perpendicular to the rest of the label tells you that it's 30g of bread, 15g of Nutella, 125g of yogurt and 100ml of orange juice. Voilà!
I make fun, but this is a country whose ads for just about everything consumable (especially snacky things) include the phrases "for your health, avoid snacking/eating between meals" or "for your health, get some physical activity" or "for your health, eat at least five servings of fruits and vegetables per day".
And besides, gazpacho really is a fresh and tasty way to eat my vegetables!
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