Today was a very exciting day. I discovered Jim's British Market. While I have never understood people who go on holiday to a Greek island and seek out the obligatory ex-pat-run Olde English Pubbe or O'Doherty's Irish Bar - surely a large part of the point of going on holiday is to explore and enjoy a new culture, instead of resorting to watching the football on a giant TV screen in an unconvincing replica of a traditional British pub? - I am not on holiday. And besides, so far we have really been enjoying lapping up the French culture and, with the exception of some decaf teabags and Heinz baked beans that we brought out with us, I haven't missed many home comforts. Disregarding the frogs legs and the snails, the proliferation of tripe and the penchant for horse steak and veal, the French way of eating isn't really so different from our own.
But as Christmas approaches, I've noticed a few gaping holes. For a start, the French don't really do Plain Flour. They do flour for cakes, flour for brioche, flour for pastries, flour for quiches, flour for baguettes and flour for country bread, but they don't do plain old plain flour. Neither do they really do wholemeal flour, except in some of the bigger stores, and even then it's not always available. So when I made some shortbread the other night for the CERN Christmas Fair (yes, my WI halo continues to glow), using my foolproof Bero recipe (since you ask, it's 3oz sugar, 6oz butter, 9oz flour and just mix together until you can roll out then bake for 15-20 mins at 190oC) and just about the plainest of the flours I could find on the French shelves, it came out flaky. When I started moaning about this to another CERN wife the next day, she said: 'Ah, you need to go to Jim's British Market. He has everything.'
She wasn't wrong. I called in to the shop in St Genis this afternoon and came out a very happy lady. Not only did I get my plain flour, but I also got the ingredients for our Christmas cake. That's another thing about the French - they don't really use very much dried fruit in their cooking, so when it comes to buying raisins, sultanas and the like, they sell them in tiny little packages. It would take four of five of these tiny packages of raisins to make a decent Christmas cake, by which point the charming homemade aspect of the cake would start to be rather undermined by the sheer cost of it. Slice of extremely expensive dehydrated fruit mixed with incorrect flour anyone? But Jim had big bags of raisins, big bags of sultanas, big bags of currants and even - wait for this - tiny pots of mixed peel and glace cherries. The Christmas elves would be most pleased.
I had to restrain myself from going a bit mad in the shop to be honest. As well as the obvious items - Cadbury's chocolate, McVities biscuits, Hellmann's mayonnaise, wedges of cheddar and stilton - he also sells things like bacon (which the French don't eat - mon dieu!), suet, porridge oats, and proper British ales. Since I've been keeping down my caffeine intake while pregnant, I've been getting people visiting from the UK to ship in decaf teabags by the bucketload, but no more: Jim sells PG Tips Decaf. They also stock English greetings cards - which I think my family will be pleased to hear about, as I fear that the novelty of me sending French ones is starting to wear a little thin - and the cute tea shop attached to the shop sells cream teas, tea cakes and full English breakfasts. The only snag is that because all this produce is imported, the costs are at least double what they might be in the UK. So my bag of plain old plain flour came in at a whopping 4.50 euros - roughly four quid for one of the world's most staple food items. So I'm not sure that one big bag of raisins will work out much cheaper than several little French ones after all. If I happen to offer you a slice of Christmas cake in the coming months, please accept it and tell me how delicious it is: short of going to Fortnum and Mason's, it is probably the most expensive Christmas cake you'll ever eat.
Thursday 29 November 2012
Wednesday 14 November 2012
Buckley's Tourist Trails: Part one
We had our first visitor staying with us from Thursday to Tuesday, and on Friday we headed into Geneva so I could show her the sights. I'll be honest: I hadn't done my research. My few visits into the city so far have all ended in coffee shops, and we've been a bit lazy about seeing the sights since we moved here. Fortunately, we had a beautiful crisp winter's day, so the city did most of the work for me.
First up, we took a walk along the lake towards the Bain des Paquis, from where you get a beautiful view of the lake, the city and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. There were swans-a-swimming, boats-a-rocking and even a very brave swimmer who launched into the freezing cold lake in nothing but his speedos. A lovely cafe for that obligatory coffee stop completes the idyll. In the summer, I'm told the jetty is crowded with swimmers and bathers making the most of the crystal-clear water, and the rare chance to get something for free in Geneva.
From there we walked up to Geneva's old town, which surrounds the cathedral and overlooks the modern city below. Along the way, Nikki asked things like: 'What's that monument?' and 'Where's the famous jet d'Eau'?' To which I shrugged unhelpfully and sheepishly proffered my little Thomas Cook guidebook. (There isn't a Time Out guide to Geneva, for some inexplicable reason, and I can't help feeling that the Thomas Cook guidebook is a little biased - everything is wonderful, beautiful, amazing, with absolutely no hint that you'll have to pay a fortune to enjoy it all. The 'cheap' restaurants they recommend start from 50 CHF for a meal for one.) As it turned out, I wasn't being entirely thick: the jet d'Eau wasn't doing its thing that day, so it wasn't that I had entirely failed to see the 450-foot high fountain of water.
After lugging my increasingly large bulk up the hill to the old town, we stopped for more sustenance at one of the many cafes on the pretty leafy square. Although it is a beautiful part of the city, so different to the gleaming boutiques and grand hotels elsewhere, it takes all of five minutes to walk around the old town and unless you want to buy expensive art or equally expensive chocolate, there's not a lot to see beyond the main square.
After lunch we met up with another friend and popped into the cathedral. Very much like Durham Cathedral, although not nearly as big, it is quite a sparse and unadorned building, but the real intrigue lies below. Recent excavations revealed the remains of three - yes, three - former cathedrals buried beneath the current building, dating back as far as the Roman Empire. And what remains is remarkably intact: in this huge underground labyrinth you can still see the extraordinary mosaics covering the floor of the Bishop's reception room, see the buried skeleton of an Allobrogian chieftan, around whom the first churches were originally built, and clearly discern the different layers of building materials that were laid down as the buildings morphed over the centuries. The only disappointment for me was that they didn't actually explain why these former buildings were buried by the current one...
Sadly, the weather turned for the worse at the weekend, and non-stop torrential rain rather limited our tourist options, so on Saturday afternoon we went along to Carouge - a suburb of Geneva filled with independent craft shops and cute cafes. It used to belong to the King of Sardinia, and the Mediterranean feel survives in the colourful shop fronts and narrow streets. Although we were too late for the market which takes place every Saturday morning, we stopped at a patisserie (of course) for a late lunch and Andy made a bee-line for the only climbing shop in Geneva (until this point I expect you were wondering how I managed to drag him along).
Sunday took us to Luzern to hook up with an old school friend. Beneath the pouring rain and the mist, it was still clear that it's a stunningly beautiful place, although I'm afraid my photos don't do justice to it. Unlike Geneva where the mountains are visible in the distance, in Luzern the mountains tower over the town, and being in the German region of the country, the buildings are more reminiscent of the chocolate-box style towns in southern Germany than the grandiosity of the Genevan banking districts.
Thanks to the rain, we saw a lot more of the inside of cafes than we did of the town itself, but this did give me the chance to have a go at understanding the bizarre Swiss-German dialect they use here. As a semi-decent German speaker, I was looking forward to impressing Nikki with my multi-lingual skills, but I have to say I was flummoxed. They could understand me fine, but I haven't a clue what they were saying. It was unlike any kind of German I've ever heard before, and apparently it's only spoken and not written down. Nikki was seriously unimpressed with the fact that a single country - and not even a big one at that - should be so divided linguistically and culturally, and suggested that Switzerland should just give the French bit back to France, the German bit back to Germany and the Italian bit back to Italy. Surely a popular suggestion with the Swiss, no? It is a slightly bizarre set-up for a major European country, one in which you are driving along the motorway and the road exit signs change suddenly from 'Sortie' to 'Ausgang' without any warning. I'm told the Swiss call this dividing line the Röstigraben, which translates literally as the 'rösti ditch'. In other words, the Swiss divide their country according to the way they cook their potatoes. Seems like a sensible geographical policy to me.
First up, we took a walk along the lake towards the Bain des Paquis, from where you get a beautiful view of the lake, the city and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. There were swans-a-swimming, boats-a-rocking and even a very brave swimmer who launched into the freezing cold lake in nothing but his speedos. A lovely cafe for that obligatory coffee stop completes the idyll. In the summer, I'm told the jetty is crowded with swimmers and bathers making the most of the crystal-clear water, and the rare chance to get something for free in Geneva.
 |
| The harbour from the Bain des Paquis |
 |
| The lighthouse at the end of the jetty |
After lugging my increasingly large bulk up the hill to the old town, we stopped for more sustenance at one of the many cafes on the pretty leafy square. Although it is a beautiful part of the city, so different to the gleaming boutiques and grand hotels elsewhere, it takes all of five minutes to walk around the old town and unless you want to buy expensive art or equally expensive chocolate, there's not a lot to see beyond the main square.
After lunch we met up with another friend and popped into the cathedral. Very much like Durham Cathedral, although not nearly as big, it is quite a sparse and unadorned building, but the real intrigue lies below. Recent excavations revealed the remains of three - yes, three - former cathedrals buried beneath the current building, dating back as far as the Roman Empire. And what remains is remarkably intact: in this huge underground labyrinth you can still see the extraordinary mosaics covering the floor of the Bishop's reception room, see the buried skeleton of an Allobrogian chieftan, around whom the first churches were originally built, and clearly discern the different layers of building materials that were laid down as the buildings morphed over the centuries. The only disappointment for me was that they didn't actually explain why these former buildings were buried by the current one...
Sadly, the weather turned for the worse at the weekend, and non-stop torrential rain rather limited our tourist options, so on Saturday afternoon we went along to Carouge - a suburb of Geneva filled with independent craft shops and cute cafes. It used to belong to the King of Sardinia, and the Mediterranean feel survives in the colourful shop fronts and narrow streets. Although we were too late for the market which takes place every Saturday morning, we stopped at a patisserie (of course) for a late lunch and Andy made a bee-line for the only climbing shop in Geneva (until this point I expect you were wondering how I managed to drag him along).
Sunday took us to Luzern to hook up with an old school friend. Beneath the pouring rain and the mist, it was still clear that it's a stunningly beautiful place, although I'm afraid my photos don't do justice to it. Unlike Geneva where the mountains are visible in the distance, in Luzern the mountains tower over the town, and being in the German region of the country, the buildings are more reminiscent of the chocolate-box style towns in southern Germany than the grandiosity of the Genevan banking districts.
 |
| Looking across the lake as it cuts through Luzern |
Thanks to the rain, we saw a lot more of the inside of cafes than we did of the town itself, but this did give me the chance to have a go at understanding the bizarre Swiss-German dialect they use here. As a semi-decent German speaker, I was looking forward to impressing Nikki with my multi-lingual skills, but I have to say I was flummoxed. They could understand me fine, but I haven't a clue what they were saying. It was unlike any kind of German I've ever heard before, and apparently it's only spoken and not written down. Nikki was seriously unimpressed with the fact that a single country - and not even a big one at that - should be so divided linguistically and culturally, and suggested that Switzerland should just give the French bit back to France, the German bit back to Germany and the Italian bit back to Italy. Surely a popular suggestion with the Swiss, no? It is a slightly bizarre set-up for a major European country, one in which you are driving along the motorway and the road exit signs change suddenly from 'Sortie' to 'Ausgang' without any warning. I'm told the Swiss call this dividing line the Röstigraben, which translates literally as the 'rösti ditch'. In other words, the Swiss divide their country according to the way they cook their potatoes. Seems like a sensible geographical policy to me.
Wednesday 7 November 2012
Someone save me. I'm making bunting...
One of the things I was determined to do during my few months as a lady of leisure was to learn how to use my sewing machine. I've had it for four years now and, with the exception of one angry afternoon when I swore loudly at it while attempting to make a failed cushion cover, I've never used it. It was a second anniversary present from Andy. In case you're thinking that doesn't sound very romantic, and in fact suggests Andy was suggesting I should become more domesticated and regress to some kind of wartime ideal where I spend my evening darning his socks and mending his clothes, he bought it at my request.
We do the themed anniversary presents thing. Although it sounds a bit corny, it actually makes life more interesting and saves each of you having to think up something hugely romantic and meaningful every year. That said, I don't think we'll ever quite surpass our first anniversary, when we approached it with gusto. The theme for your first year is paper, so Andy bought me the complete 7 hardback volumes of the Oxford History of Western Music and I commissioned him a painting of Durham, the place we lived when we got married. Ah, very romantic I know. Things go downhill from here...
The second year the theme was cotton - I got the aforementioned sewing machine and Andy got... well, he got a power kite which may or may not have had some cotton involved in some of the stitching somewhere along the way. Year three was leather, but before your mind starts racing I'll tell you that I got a lovely leather bag which I still use every day and Andy got some kneepads to go with the aforementioned power kite (I've omitted to mention that the kite and the kneepads were actually bought at the same time, because it took us a whole year to get round to buying the 2nd anniversary present). Year four... Well, things start to get complicated around then because there are so many varied themes for anniversaries these days, that we started to pick and choose the ones that we liked. If you look up fourth anniversaries it says linen and silk, or fruit and flowers - or the 'modern option', electrical goods. Quite a wide choice. I would have asked for a fruit tree but I'd just bought myself some of these when we moved into our new house, so instead Andy bought me a little bay tree which sits outside the front of the house - you know the kind, with the little ball-shaped head that posh people have on either side of their giant porches (we don't have a giant porch). And Andy... well, I can't actually remember what I bought him that year (you can sense the enthusiasm in the idea fading can't you?). This year was our fifth anniversary for which the theme is wood. I bought Andy a big splitting axe. Because nothing says I love you like a giant axe. He actually hasn't bought me anything yet (our anniversary was in July), nor in fact have I had a birthday present either (except the two pairs of slippers - yes, really), but he owes me a carved wooden bowl.
Anyway, back to the sewing machine. Mum bought me two beginners books on how to use my sewing machine for my birthday (for some reason all my birthday presents seem to have come in twos this year), and on Sunday I set about making friends with it. I was very diligent and sat down reading through the introductory chapters about finding the right space, setting up your machine, getting the right equipment etc etc... After an hour or so I had managed to thread the machine and sew a few straight lines without any swearing. Not a bad effort.
I had the idea that because we can't decorate the baby's room in the house we're renting here, I would make some bunting to hang up and make the room more colourful. So I found a kit online from a great website called Clothkits, who make all sorts of easy-to-make kits for clothes, toys, dolls etc. It was actually surprisingly difficult to find bunting kits online which were suitable for a baby's room but which were not either pink or blue. Since we don't know what we're having, and in any case I object to the pink and blue thing, I chose a really brightly-coloured kit, which I must admit turned out to be a bit brighter than even I had intended when it arrived. I had also assumed all the triangles would be cut out for me and I would literally just have to sew them on to the line and hey presto: bunting. But in the event it was more work than that, but also more rewarding as a result. The fabric arrived in long strips which I had to measure and cut up into triangles.
Then you have to pin the triangles together, sew them up inside-out, turn them out the right way and press them, before you can attach them all to the bias binding and finally have some bunting. It took me a fair few hours' work but I'm really chuffed with the result, given that before I started I didn't know my bobbin from my feed dogs. And it turns out that actually the sewing is the quick and easy part - it's the measuring, cutting and pinning bits that take some time and care to get right. It takes a bit of patience, and I don't have much of that, but I'm inspired to try something a bit trickier next time, maybe even some curtains... I wonder if the baby will appreciate the effort?
We do the themed anniversary presents thing. Although it sounds a bit corny, it actually makes life more interesting and saves each of you having to think up something hugely romantic and meaningful every year. That said, I don't think we'll ever quite surpass our first anniversary, when we approached it with gusto. The theme for your first year is paper, so Andy bought me the complete 7 hardback volumes of the Oxford History of Western Music and I commissioned him a painting of Durham, the place we lived when we got married. Ah, very romantic I know. Things go downhill from here...
The second year the theme was cotton - I got the aforementioned sewing machine and Andy got... well, he got a power kite which may or may not have had some cotton involved in some of the stitching somewhere along the way. Year three was leather, but before your mind starts racing I'll tell you that I got a lovely leather bag which I still use every day and Andy got some kneepads to go with the aforementioned power kite (I've omitted to mention that the kite and the kneepads were actually bought at the same time, because it took us a whole year to get round to buying the 2nd anniversary present). Year four... Well, things start to get complicated around then because there are so many varied themes for anniversaries these days, that we started to pick and choose the ones that we liked. If you look up fourth anniversaries it says linen and silk, or fruit and flowers - or the 'modern option', electrical goods. Quite a wide choice. I would have asked for a fruit tree but I'd just bought myself some of these when we moved into our new house, so instead Andy bought me a little bay tree which sits outside the front of the house - you know the kind, with the little ball-shaped head that posh people have on either side of their giant porches (we don't have a giant porch). And Andy... well, I can't actually remember what I bought him that year (you can sense the enthusiasm in the idea fading can't you?). This year was our fifth anniversary for which the theme is wood. I bought Andy a big splitting axe. Because nothing says I love you like a giant axe. He actually hasn't bought me anything yet (our anniversary was in July), nor in fact have I had a birthday present either (except the two pairs of slippers - yes, really), but he owes me a carved wooden bowl.
Anyway, back to the sewing machine. Mum bought me two beginners books on how to use my sewing machine for my birthday (for some reason all my birthday presents seem to have come in twos this year), and on Sunday I set about making friends with it. I was very diligent and sat down reading through the introductory chapters about finding the right space, setting up your machine, getting the right equipment etc etc... After an hour or so I had managed to thread the machine and sew a few straight lines without any swearing. Not a bad effort.
I had the idea that because we can't decorate the baby's room in the house we're renting here, I would make some bunting to hang up and make the room more colourful. So I found a kit online from a great website called Clothkits, who make all sorts of easy-to-make kits for clothes, toys, dolls etc. It was actually surprisingly difficult to find bunting kits online which were suitable for a baby's room but which were not either pink or blue. Since we don't know what we're having, and in any case I object to the pink and blue thing, I chose a really brightly-coloured kit, which I must admit turned out to be a bit brighter than even I had intended when it arrived. I had also assumed all the triangles would be cut out for me and I would literally just have to sew them on to the line and hey presto: bunting. But in the event it was more work than that, but also more rewarding as a result. The fabric arrived in long strips which I had to measure and cut up into triangles.
 |
| From long strips of material... |
 |
| ...to nice neat triangles, pinned ready for sewing... |
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| ...with a little 'help' from Bella |
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