ACIS and Paris 2016- Exceptional!

I've just returned from five glorious days in Paris.  Paris is quiet in January.  Not much English overheard in restaurants or cafés.  Chilly (a warmer way of saying cold) this time, but no rain and only about five flakes of snow one day.  I, along with the group pictured above, was a guest of ACIS, the company I use to plan my annual student trip.  Some years, it's a big blow-out.  This year, there were only about 35 of us in Paris (other groups were scattered around the globe), teachers who have trips planned for 2016.  A much more intimate group.  I came away with new friends from Georgia, California, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and even as close as Charlotte, just to mention a few.  The lovely Frenchie Lou was our Tour Manager.

She entertained us and kept us organized during the group activities, all of which are optional, by the way.  This year's choices were exceptional.  A walking tour of Montmartre, featuring Fred, a Parisian history teacher who was one of my guides last year.

Scenes from Montmartre--

On my list of important things to do was to find the home of Carole Fredericks and the plaque placed in her memory by the city of Paris.  I never knew Carole, but I had the pleasure of meeting her sister, Connie, and her husband Jim, at the home of my Frenchie friend, Olivier.

On the occasion of the 10th anniversary of her death in 2011

this plaque is placed by those dear 

to the American singer from Springfield, Massachusetts

Carole Fredericks

1952-2001

Choir member, collaborator and solo artist of popular French music

Fredericks Goldman Jones (1990-2000)

Les Enfoirés for Les Restos du Coeur (1992-2001)

Carole Fredericks lived in the 18th district of Paris for 22 years

for more than 10 years in this building until her death at the age of 49 June 7, 2001

She rests in the cemetery of Montmartre- 23rd division- avenue Carrière

I hope I did the translation justice, Connie.  Forgive me if I made mistakes. Les Enfoirés are a group of performers and musicians who raise money meals for Les Restaurants du Coeur, soup kitchens that provide food and hot meals for the homeless in France.  A friend gave me one of their CDs back in 2008, so I knew about the group before meeting Connie.

In the summer of 2012, with the help of My Favorite Parisien,

I found Carole's final resting place in Montmartre.

During this visit to Paris, we were also treated to a guided tour of the newly reopened and refurbished Rodin Museum.  Jennifer was with my group.

I am a huge fan of Auguste Rodin's work.  And since reading Heather Webb's book, Rodin's Lover, about Camille Claudel, a fan of her work as well.  Next time, I am at the museum I hope to see Heather's book for sale in the bookshop.

Rodin's bust of Victor Hugo--

The Kiss- Le baiser

A loving hand from The Kiss- How can so much emotion come through a piece of stone?

Rodin's plaster mask of Camille

Camille's tortured sculpture L'Âge mûr or La destinée -

http://www.musee-rodin.fr/en/home

I believe that Rodin loved Camille, but he eventually married Rose, his mistress before Camille. Camille was later institutionalized.  I picture Camille, on her knees, begging Rodin not to leave her.

And the most famous of his sculptures, sitting in the garden, Le Penseur.

While waiting in line for les toilettes, I looked out the window and got this shot of a couple of my travel mates-

Merci, M. Rodin, for making the world a more beautiful place for moi (et les autres, bien sûr).

No ACIS January trip for teachers would be complete without fabulous wining and dining.  We are treated as if we are royalty.  Seriously.

Our first night's cocktail party was aboard a boat parked in the Seine, under the watchful of eye of this beautiful bridge, Pont Alexandre III 

and La Tour Eiffel.  

We were treated to drinks and amuse-bouches (bite-sized appetizers to tickle your mouth) on the Bistrot Alexandre III.  The staff waited on us hand and foot, continually bringing around more delicious treats and refilling our glasses.

And oui, dessert was served.  Those lovely, colorful Parisian treats known as macarons, as well as chocolates.  They were prepared for us by Mori Yoshida, an acclaimed Japanese pâtissier and chocolatier.  I found the shop ofYoshida-san near the Invalides at 65, avenue de Breteuil, in the 7th arrondissement. Unfortunately, I had not done my homework or I would have known that the shop is closed on Mondays.  I will go back in March.  

I limited myself to two, strawberry and lime.  And one award-winning chocolat.

Our farewell meal was held at Bermuda Onion in the new Beaugrenelle shopping center.  Another delicious meal.  

Soupe de potimarron, butternut squash soup, with crème fraîche and foie gras-

 Chicken with mushrooms

Fromage, bien sûr

Dessert of mi-cuit au chocolat (chocolate lava/molten cake) also known as moelleux au chocolat

My favorite was the soup.  Last night, I emailed the restaurant to ask for the recipe.  All they can say is non or completely ignore me.  Right?  This morning, however, I had a very prompt reply from Iris.

My translations are in italics.

Bonjour Madame,

Ravie que le dîner vous ait plu!

Concernant la soupe de potimarron ou butternut voici les consignes du chef:

-Faire cuire au beurre une tombée de poireaux et d’oignons  cook a small amount of leeks and onions in butter

-Y rajouter le potimarron épluché avec de la crème fraîche add the peeled butternut squash with the crème fraîche

-Râper de la noix de muscade  grate some nutmeg

-Mixer le tout!  blend it all together -in a regular blender or with an immersion blender

Et bonne dégustation!  Happy tasting!

Bien à vous,

Iris

I promptly emailed back to thank her and added that Bermuda Onion is an interesting name for a restaurant in Paris, to which she replied that the former owner owned a small island in the Bermuda Triangle.  Perhaps he is the former owner because he disappeared?  On ne sait jamais.

Silly me, I didn't bring home a little tin of foie gras.  I just wasn't thinking, was I?  I do have a butternut squash on my counter.  And some butter in the refrigerator and nutmeg in the cupboard.  No crème fraîche, but when the ice melts and I get out to the store, I will make Bermuda Onion's version of the soup.  Sans foie gras... unless I manage to find some.  D'Artagnan sells it, I believe.  I know that the recipe from the chef will drive crazy people who need exact amounts so I googled.  The closest I came is from The Food Network.  It uses bacon on top instead of foie gras.

Roasted Butternut Squash Soup with Crème Fraîche

1 large butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cut into 1-inch cubes

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 cup minced shallots (see Cook's Note)
4 cups low-sodium chicken or vegetable broth
4 thick-cut strips bacon, sliced crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup creme fraiche for serving

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Place the squash on a rimmed baking sheet, drizzle over the melted butter, season with salt and pepper and toss to combine. Spread out in a single layer on the baking sheet, allowing space in between the cubes when possible. Roast until tender and lightly browned on the bottom, about 25 minutes.

Heat the oil in a stockpot over medium heat. Add the shallots and saute until the shallots have softened and turned a light golden brown, about 10 minutes. Add the broth and bring to a simmer.

Meanwhile, if using bacon, heat a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat and add the bacon pieces. Saute until they are cooked and crisp, then transfer them with a slotted spoon to some paper towels to drain.

Add the cooked butternut squash to the simmering broth. Working in batches, puree the soup in a blender or food processor (alternately you can run the mixture through a food mill, which offers a great kind of nubby texture, or puree right in the pot with an immersion blender). Return the pureed soup to the pot. Taste and adjust the seasoning.

Add the cream and heat just until warmed through. Place the creme fraiche in a small bowl and stir with a fork make it very soft and creamy. Ladle the soup into bowls, swirl in a tablespoon of the creme fraiche, and sprinkle with some crisped bacon, if using.

Recipe courtesy of Katie Workman

So, there you have it.  Well, part of it anyway.  There was much walking, roaming, getting lost, eating, drinking, and looking on my own.  More about that in the next blog post.

Many thanks-- mille fois merci-- to ACIS for such an exceptional trip.  I felt pampered and spoiled, a rare feeling for most teachers.  We deserve and need these few days to ourselves.  My student trips are awesome and I love them, but to be in Paris not counting heads nor on duty 24/7, and worrying only about myself is a luxury.  

From Peter Jones, the head of ACIS, to Heidi and Jill in Boston who help me with all the little details and who always answer my emails promptly, to Claire and Isabelle in the Paris office who make all my arrangements and whom I look forward to seeing every January, to Lou, Thierry, Fred, Jennifer and all the other amazing tour managers and local guides, to James and Arianna from the Boston office who were with us this past weekend, to, finally, all of the teachers out there who, like me, love traveling with their students and showing them a whole new world of sights, sounds, smells, and tastes-- thank you from the bottom of my jet lagged, but very satisfied, heart.

I would also like to express my gratitude to my middle school director and head of school who allow me to do this, knowing that this kind of exceptional experience does indeed make me a better teacher, to my colleagues and friends for their support, encouragement, and comments on my Facebook posts, to my students for behaving while I am away, making me proud, and asking to see my endless supply of photos of food and the Eiffel Tower, and to the Ex-Ex for knowing how much my soul needs a Paris/France fix as often as possible.  Je vous aime tous.

Bon appétit and keep traveling, mes amis.   I will pack my bag again in March to head back across the ocean with my students!

Fall of Poppies cover reveal

As all of my readers know, I LOVE to read.  I would read all day and/or all night if I could get away with it.  I am thrilled to be included in a new book's cover reveal!  All because of my friendship with Heather Webb.  So, here you go.

Want a quick taste of what's coming?  Of course you do!

Excerpt from “Hour of the Bells”

A short story included in Fall of Poppies

Beatrix whisked around the showroom, feather duster in hand. Not a speck of dirt could remain or Joseph would be disappointed. The hour struck noon. A chorus of clocks whirred, their birds popping out from hiding to announce midday. Maidens twirled in their frocks with braids down their backs, woodcutters clacked their axes against pine, and the odd sawmill wheel spun in tune to the melody of a nursery rhyme. Two dozen cuckoos warbled and dinged, each crafted with loving detail by the same pair of hands—those with thick fingers and a steady grip.

Beatrix paused in her cleaning. One clock chimed to its own rhythm, apart from the others.

She could turn them off—the tinkling melodies, the incessant clatter of pendulums, wheels, and cogs, with the levers located near the weights—just as their creator had done before bed each evening, but she could not bring herself to do the same. To silence their music was to silence him, her husband, Joseph. The Great War had already done that; ravaged his gentle nature, stolen his final breath, and silenced him forever.

In a rush, Beatrix scurried from one clock to the next, assessing which needed oiling. With the final stroke of twelve, she found the offending clock. Its walnut face, less ornate than the others, had been her favorite, always. A winter scene displayed a cluster of snow-topped evergreens; rabbits and fawns danced in the drifts when the music began, and a scarlet cardinal dipped its head and opened its beak to the beauty of the music. The animals’ simplicity appealed to her now more than ever. With care, she removed the weights and pendulum, and unscrewed the back of the clock. She was grateful she had watched her husband tend to them so often. She could still see Joseph, blue eyes peering over his spectacles, focused on a figurine as he painted detailing on the linden wood. His patient hands had caressed the figures lovingly, as he had caressed her.

The memory of him sliced her open. She laid her head on the table as black pain stole over her body, pooling in every hidden pocket and filling her up until she could scarcely breathe.

“Give it time,” her friend Adelaide had said, as she set a basket of jam and dried sausages on the table; treasures in these times of rations, yet meager condolence for what Beatrix had lost.

“Time?” Beatrix had laughed, a hollow sound, and moved to the window overlooking the grassy patch of yard. The Vosges mountains rose in the distance, lording over the line between France and Germany along the battle front. Time’s passage never escaped her—not for a moment. The clocks made sure of it. There weren’t enough minutes, enough hours, to erase her loss.

            As quickly as the grief came, it fled. Though always powerful, its timing perplexed her. Pain stole through the night, or erupted at unlikely moments, until she feared its onslaught the way others feared death. Death felt easier, somehow.

Beatrix raised her head and pushed herself up from the table to finish her task. Joseph would not want her to mourn, after two long years. He would want to see her strength, her resilience, especially for their son. She pretended Adrien was away at school, though he had enlisted, too. His enlistment had been her fault. A vision of her son cutting barbed wire, sleeping in trenches, and pointing a gun at another man reignited the pain and it began to pool again. She suppressed the horrid thoughts quickly, and locked them away in a corner of her mind.

With a light touch she cleaned the clock’s bellows and dials, and anointed its oil bath with a few glistening drops. Once satisfied with her work, she hung the clock in its rightful place above the phonograph, where a disk waited patiently on the spool. She spun the disk once and watched the printed words on its center blur. Adrien had played Quand Madelon over and over, belting out the patriotic lyrics in time with the music. To him, it was a show of his support for his country. To Beatrix it had been a siren, a warning her only son would soon join the fight. His father’s death was the final push he had needed. The lure of patrimoine, of country, throbbed inside of him as it did in other men. They talked of war as women spoke of tea sets and linens, yearned for it as women yearned for children. Now, the war had seduced her Adrien. She stopped the spinning disk and plucked it from its wheel, the urge to destroy it pulsing in her hands.

She must try to be more optimistic. Surely God would not take all she had left.

Reprinted Courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers

Curious now?  How do I pre-order it, you ask?

Fall of Poppies: Stories of Love and the Great War

by Heather Webb, Hazel Gaynor, Beatriz Williams, Jennifer Robson, Jessica Brockmole, Kate Kerrigan, Evangeline Holland, Lauren Willig, Marci Jefferson

William Morrow Trade Paperback; March 1, 2016; $14.99; ISBN: 9780062418548

Barnes & Noble / Amazon / IndieBound / Books-a-Million

Top voices in historical fiction deliver an intensely moving collection of short stories about loss, longing, and hope in the aftermath of World War I—featuring bestselling authors such as Hazel Gaynor, Jennifer Robson, Beatriz Williams, and Lauren Willig and edited by Heather Webb.

A squadron commander searches for meaning in the tattered photo of a girl he’s never met…

A Belgian rebel hides from the world, only to find herself nursing the enemy…

A young airman marries a stranger to save her honor—and prays to survive long enough to love her…The peace treaty signed on November 11, 1918, may herald the end of the Great War but for its survivors, the smoke is only beginning to clear. Picking up the pieces of shattered lives will take courage, resilience, and trust.

Within crumbled city walls and scarred souls, war’s echoes linger. But when the fighting ceases, renewal begins…and hope takes root in a fall of poppies.

Bon appétit, mes amis et mes amies.  Keep reading!!