Provence & The French Riviera

After a whirlwind of a week in Paris, my mother and I appreciated the more laidback lifestyle found in southern France. During the second half of our holiday, we traveled through Provence and the French Riviera—a  more colorful side to France. The first night away from Paris was spent in Arles, a small Provence town dotted with Roman archaeological sites and the birthplace of Van Gogh's many prized paintings. Though it was only a few hours away by train, Arles stood in stark contrast to Paris. Where the muted colors of Paris so beautifully matched the rain-streaked skies, the bright reds and blues of Arles complemented the warm sun and radiant demeanor of the residents. The streets of Arles were made for walking, as they meandered throughout the old city, encouraging pedestrians to stroll leisurely through the web of cobblestone paths.

It was an instantaneous love.

Where Paris had been difficult to love, Arles was effortless. My mother and I ate pear sorbet through the streets, wondering how many women had broken their ankles walking in heels on the rough stone paths. We dined with a guitar serenade in the most charming restaurant of the trip, enjoying pockets of warm goat cheese with olive tapenade. The rush of Paris had dissipated and the slow moving lifestyle of Provence had filled its place. Arles was the change of tune I needed. When the time came, it was difficult to leave. 

Aix-en-Provence was next on the list, a larger city than Arles, filled with restaurants and outdoor markets. We used it as a base to tour Cassis and the Luberon Villages of Lourmarin, Roussillon, and Gordes. Even though each town was a short drive from the next, each location was so vastly different in architecture and history. I found it astounding.

Roussillon was painted in reds and oranges, each building an homage to the rouged dirt beneath. The white cliffs of the small fishing town of Cassis contrasted against the brightly colored yellow and pink buildings. The tight-knit community of Lourmarin made me imagine a simpler time and place. Truthfully, all of these cities felt like a pull back into the past, a glimpse of life hundreds of years ago.

The last stop of the trip was in Nice. A sunny city on the Mediterranean, it was a lovely place to spend our last few days in France. We stayed with a friendly host who prepared fantastic breakfasts from fresh, local ingredients and helped us find our way around the city. Everything about Nice was pleasant, from the maze of small streets in Old Town to the Promenade des Anglais along the Mediterranean sea. Full of Italian pasta, we laid on the rocky beach, took a nap in the sun, and did plenty of people watching.

We found little to complain about, enjoying the slow speed life seemed to move at here.

From Nice, my mother and I took one last day trip to Villefranche-sur-Mer and Monaco before our trip came to a close. While Monaco was my least favorite stop of the trip—in part due to the industrialized look and feel and a case of low blood sugar—Villefranche-sur-Mer was one of the most treasured. The multicolored umbrellas lining the sandy beach made for a beautiful sight and an even better place to spend an afternoon. Looking back, the memory has a warm, fuzzy haze around the edges, a dreamy feel for a dreamy moment. 

Overall, the trip to France was a wonderful holiday. I loved getting to spend time with my mother, who was (and will always be) a great travel companion and friend. The pastries were rich and sweet, the sights were larger than life, and the people were friendly and kind.

Someday, someday, I'll come back and do it all again.

A Paris Holiday

Before I traveled to Paris, I was quietly forewarned by several friends; It's just a city, Kristin, where people live and people work. It is not a magical place. I just don't want you to get your hopes up. And I wondered, had I let my dreams of Paris get away from me?

Perhaps I had.

I fantasized of Paris for many years, labeling it as "the birthplace of pastry" in my mind. During graduate school, before I left for a career in butter and sugar, Paris was the starring subject of many a daydream. In the secrecy of my apartment,  I would spend my evenings devising my escape. My plan was to pursue pastries in Paris, spending my days in culinary school and my evenings drinking wine and dining on classically French food. I would find a tiny, but quaint apartment in the heart of the city, never more than a few blocks from fresh baguettes and good fromagerie. I had even chosen the Parisian culinary school I was going to attend, bookmarked on my browser for quick access. It was a perfect plan.

But, as most daydreams go, the fantasy never played out for a hundred little, legitimate reasons. Paris would have to wait.

Now, four years later, the wait was over.

My mother and I planned a mother-daughter trip to France. We chose to spend a week in Paris before working our way through Provence and down to the French Riviera. I pictured us bonding over pain au chocolat as we strolled down the Parisian streets.

Paris was, at the same time, both expected and unexpected. It was more beautiful than I had envisioned, each building a work of art and worthy of its own postcard. I pointed my camera upwards often, snapping photographs of the windows and balconies above. The scale of the historical sights took me off guard. Versailles was more opulent than I could have dreamed, though almost too much; I found it difficult to process the sheer volume of gold and marble. The Louvre was the largest building I had ever seen—nearly a mile in length alone. My mother and I would joke about it when walking past, using it as a reference to measure how much farther we had yet to go.

I abandoned my dairy-free lifestyle in France, choosing my love of pastries over my personal comfort. I simply could not imagine not partaking in the croissants, rich cheeses, and thick gravies French cuisine had to offer. We ate heartily, adding appetizers and desserts to our evening meals and stopping for pastries whenever our ability to resist a patisserie's window display grew weak. The lamb was tender, the duck was sweet, and the baguettes disappeared quickly.

In those first few days, Paris was well on its way to charming me.

However, our holiday was not perfect. A cold front had blown in for the entire week of our stay, bringing March temperatures, gray skies, and rain by the hour. Each morning we bundled up in heavy layers and kept them on throughout the day, continuing to sightsee during the afternoon showers, hair wet and cameras damp. The sheer amount of people was also unexpected. I knew that July was the busiest month for tourism, but I still could not believe the amount of crowds we needed to fight to do anything. Waiting in lines for hours became commonplace; often the only register of time passing was the pain in my feet growing slowly unbearable from standing. We saw some of the most beautiful sights by peering around the heads of the people in front of us.

After a few more days had passed, I was not sure I was as charmed as I had been before.

Paris was, in a word, bittersweet. There were many things I did love about the city. There were also many things that I did not. One thing for certain, however, is that it was memorable.

While in Paris, I took two cooking classes, one on learning to cook a truly French meal and the other on mastering the French macaron (which I am so proud to have finally conquered). My mother and I got caught in a downpour in the gardens of Versailles, laughing because there was no cover, wringing the water out of our soaked clothes when we finally got indoors. We celebrated Bastille Day, the French Independence Day, by watching the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower. The combination of the symphony, the lights, and thousands of people singing the national anthem brought us both to tears.

Paris may not have been the city from my daydreams, but it was a beautiful, delicious city. 

Plum Almond Galette

It's been a week since I've returned from my holiday in France. I'm still sorting through the photographs, setting aside a picture here or there to share with you. The jet lag has passed and the normalcy of life is returning, piece by piece. I adore travel and the ability to explore the intricacies of different cultures that it affords. For this reason, I am a bit sad to come home when a trip ends. Though my own bed feels wonderful, I have a hard time letting go of the idea that rocky beaches of the French Riviera and the pastries of Paris are half a world away.

During the summer months, I have a tendency to go a bit overboard when in-season fruits and vegetables show up at the market. After the Midwest's endless winters, my eagerness appears in the form of an abundance of stone fruits and melons. With more plums than I could eat in a week on my kitchen counter, I needed to find a way to use them before they were forgotten in favor of other fruits.

And thus, this galette was born.

I often prefer galettes to pie. Galettes feel simpler to me, a natural extension of a Sunday afternoon or a weeknight dessert. They use a single round of pie dough instead of two, but still hold a wealth of fruit within the pleated walls. A pie is more fussy to me, time consuming and brought down by a certain pressure to make them appear perfect. There is no such thing as a perfect galette, as their nature is to appear freeform and rustic. It is this truth that appeals to me most, this lack of an ideal, as well as the ease in which they can be thrown together.

There is a time and a place for pie, certainly, but the galette is my everyday version of this pastry and therefore the type I am most likely to prepare when the fruit is generous.

This Plum Almond Galette is a sweet, flaky pastry with a bold fruit flavor. Plums are layered over the top of an almond base, which not only absorbs any stray plum juices, but provides a flavor foil against the bright plum. A few sprigs of thyme are scattered over the top, which lends the tart a subtle, complimentary flavor without standing out too boldly. This galette can be dressed up with whipped cream or ice cream or left plain and simple. Served warm or chilled, this is a wonderful way to use up any excess fruit in your kitchen.

One Year Ago: Cookie Dough Cake, Nutella Espresso Rolls, and Brownie Cookies
Two Years Ago: Cherry Cream Cheese Muffins, Blueberry Breakfast Quinoa, and Vegan Brownies
Three Years Ago: Chocolate Almond Oat Bars, Tropical Vacation Cocktail, and Portrait of a Town
Four Years Ago: Roasted Cherry Coconut Ice Cream

Plum Almond Galette

1/3 cup (38 grams) whole almonds
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
5 tablespoons granulated sugar, divided
Recipe for single crust pie dough 
3 large plums, pitted and sliced thinly
Milk or cream, for brushing
Fresh thyme (optional)

In a food processor, process the almonds, flour, and 3 tablespoons granulated sugar together until it resembles a coarse flour. Set aside.

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the pie dough to roughly a 14-inch circle. Spread the almond flour out evenly over the pie dough, leaving a 2-inch border around the outside. Place the sliced plums over the almond filling, arranging them in overlapping patterns. Fold up the pie dough over the filling, pleating the dough every two or so inches. Brush the visible pie dough with milk and sprinkle the remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar evenly over the dough and the filling. Arrange a few sprigs of fresh thyme over the top. Refrigerate for 20-30 minutes to firm up the crust.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (204 degrees C).

Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the plums have visibly softened. Cool slightly before serving. Serve with a topping of whipped cream or side of vanilla ice cream.