One Midtown Kitchen

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Opening Notes...
Thank you for your well-wishes, prayers, attendance, etc. re: the concert this past Tuesday. I think it went well for being my first solo gig since college. I'll try to keep you in the loop about future events.

The following is the restaurant review alluded to in my last post. It was originally written March 7th.
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Foreword:
I had one of those moments last night that you replay later (like..now) and think of all the cooler, more appropriate things you could have said and done.
It came to be so in this way...
Jeff and I celebrated 3 years of marriage yesterday. 3 years since our wedding celebration. This moment, 3 years ago I would have been having a room-service breakfast at the Georgian Terrace, lookingacross the small table at the greatest guy in the world. Three years later, I still think he's the greatest guy in the world.

We opted to commemorate this year's anniversary, like we like to commemorate just about anything, with a tasty meal out at one of Atlanta's array of interesting restaurants. (Remember my Rathbun's restaurant review from last year was also on the occasion of our anniversary). This year we decided to sample an establishment that has seen it's days of buzz and chatter die down, but by all accounts, still serves inventive, fresh cuisine at reasonable prices: One Midtown Kitchen. One, as I will affectionately name it, is the first child in a family of townie restaurants here. The second to open was Two Urban Licks (you'll find my Tworeview in the blog archives). And most recently Bob Amick has brought us Trois...a more, you guessed it, French interpretation on the hip concept. We've tried all three, and I most prefer One.


ONE MIDTOWN KITCHEN REVIEW:

One exudes the same sleek, trendy flair as it's siblings, and even Rathbun's (now our dining benchmark). It's first impressions, a neon-lighted purple facade and huge hammered steel door, can be intimidating. (The entry lacks only a velvet rope and it could pass for an see-and-be-seen LA Club.) But once inside the, er, velvet curtain, the place warms up and the open kitchen's pleasing aromas leave no doubt why you've come. We were immediately greeted by a friendly host, more local-theatre charisma than to-cool-for-school pretension often found at similar establishments. To further bolster my confidence that this would be a positive experience, joining us in front of the host pulpit also waiting for a table was one of my music icons. Casually clad in a striped button-up, worn jeans and Chuck-T sneakers, Emily Saliers of Indigo Girls fame was shown to a booth with two friends and I knew that One must be a good spot. Honestly, it's not unsurprising to see Emily out and about in Atlanta, and she is a restaurant proprietor /foodie herself. But to me, she is the musician who so often spoke to my soul when I was a teenager, and even now. And here she was, seated one table over, eating through a platter full of raw oysters. But enough stargazing, this evening was about Jeff and me, and the food. Neither of which disappointed.

The service was good, not memorable. Our waiter was efficient and friendly. As we deliberated a wine selection, he brought samples of 2 for us to try: a good move on his part as we ended up with the pricier French pinot over the also-tasty Chilean version. We're just suckers for the taste of French wine. The Roncier du Bourgogne was a good pairing for our selected dishes. Oaky with that old-world tingly character that was good to sip, but showed its life with the various foods we had.

The pre-meal bread selection rivalled Rathbun's in presentation and tastiness. Flavorful, thin breadsticks anchored the bread bouquet which also included delicately fried lavash (or something like that) and a gummy-crusted sourdough - all excellent, and embellished by the house condiment: chickpea spread, sans tahini (so it was not hummus), but with garlic, thyme, oil and a creamy texture. I like the inventive spreads touch, as Trois offered also. We split a house salad as we prepared our palates for the main event.

The dishes came beautifully presented, each with their own sized plate. Again, I must rave about any restaurant which takes care on its menu to think outside the "meat-and-3" box that caters to our American starch cravings by dully pairing (insert fancy-named protein here) with heaping mounds of rice or overly garlicked "smashed" potatoes. By contrast, One's menu items took account of tastes and textures, savory and sweet, and presented them in appropriate portions. Thus the foods' convergence on the plate was less like a well-balanced business meeting, and more like a dance.

The dance that Jeff (and I) enjoyed was a beautiful medium rare cut of salmon, bright, naturally pink and fleshy inside, milky pale pink on its seared exterior. It was topped with deep green swiss chard, plentifully buttered and flavorful. The attractive stack was then crowned with a crispy pancetta round and 2 deep-fried apple rings (think onion rings, but apple! Brilliant..and artery clogging). A cote, an apple-leek turnover that was to die for. Unbelievably rich, not overly sweet and a clever compliment to the other partners in the ensemble.

The group number that transpired on my long rectangle plate would make many a gourmande shudder, but I think it worked. The downbeat was a spicy melange of tender Tuscan white beans and chorizo sausage. I wondered whether the Spanish chorizo's flamenco kick would overpower the elegant seared scallops which sat innocently atop the mix. Sometimes, it did, and then I would alternate between bites of pure, melt-in-your mouth scallops, then fill the end of my fork with white beans and sausage. Once I'd scooped up the last bits of spicy sauce with that gummy bread, I wondered if I had room for dessert. In fact, I probably don't have room here in this post to describe our dessert, but I will try, ever so briefly because it was yet another movement in the symphony where the parts played so well together.

Again I was refreshed by the not-so-standard-fare dessert offerings. Each choice was simple in name, but complex in ingredients. We chose "Kit Kat Bar" which arrived on one of those same long plates, the eponymous Bar in the center atop an artful paintbrush stroke of dark chocolate. On either end of the presentation sat small scoops of house-made goodness: peanut sorbet and curry ice cream. The sorbet was light, not overly sweet, yet full of roasty peanut flavor that played wonderfully with the dense, layered Kit Kat-tasting stack in the center. But I think the dessert's highlight was the curry ice cream. As a fan most any curry-infused cuisine, I was anxious to try the tiny scoop and it didn't disappoint. "It tastes like soap!" I mused to Jeff, wide-eyed. "You mean, it tastes like soap smells" he clarified. Yes, it had a sweet, flowery taste and I wished there'd been more. But, by that point, I was so full the small scoop was just enough.

So, in all, I would mark One Midtown Kitchen among my favorite Atlanta restaurants. Maybe it's not quite Rathbun's but it was a delightful experience.

Oh, and about that moment I'm replaying, wishing I'd said something cooler....
I approached Ms. Saliers' table, apologized for interrupting and said "I just wanted to say 'Thank You.' I probably wouldn't be a musician today if it weren't for you." Which is entirely true. She then asked if I play around town, (insert a few more lines of banter here). She asked for my name, shook my hand, and introduced her sisters with whom she was dining. I then said something stupid like..."wow, you guys are a real talent pool...". Whaa? Anyway, my brush with local fame. Probably could've said everythng better, but I'm glad I at least got to say thanks.

..and Thank YOU for sticking it out through this review and story! Keep your thoughts, recommendations, etc. coming. I like them.

The Newest Weaver

Frankly, I've dreaded this first blog entry in months and months. Why? Well, la vie Weaver has been awash in changes and I just didn't feel like going into all of it. So, for the sake of brevity, and to not use up my verbiage capital on a pure "update" entry (there is, after all a restaurant review all ready for posting!), here is a bullet list of what's new. And accompanying pictures:

I quit my job at National Allergy Supply, Inc. (but will continue to do contract authorship of their monthly e-newsletters). Don't worry. I still believe in non-drug allergy, asthma and sinus products.

We have a new "child". Vital stats as follows:

**Name: Buckley (aka Buckles, Buckster, Buddy, Boy, Child, stinkin' dog)

**Age: 11 wks. (pictured w/ Jeff at 8 wks)

**Breed: Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier

**Key Features: Hypo-Allergenic (i.e...no dander or shedding!) and massive cute-ness

**Size: Increasing by the day. He'll be about 40 lbs

**Favorite Activities: Stealing shoes to chew on, chasing leaves, playing with my nephews, hiking...then sleeping.

**See some professional quality photos from Buckley's "photo shoot" HERE - courtesy Michael Shivers.

..and more news...

We're moving...into my sister's house (not with them...). It's next door.

Their fam (pictured here minus 1 boy, plus our dog) is moving away from our beloved neighborhood. I'll miss them so much. They'll miss Buckley.

We're planning on renting our house to our friends Rick & Kristen and their fam.

Coming soon: Dual housewarming blowout. Monitors work b/t the houses.

Jeff and I just celebrated our 3 yr anniversary last week...hence upcoming restaurant review.

And last...but still least:

I have a small gig next Tuesday. You're invited. I'm playing piano and singing Ming Dynasty songs. I don't really play piano well, so you should come, just for the spectacle.

That's us, in a nutshell.

Kiss and Makeup

I did something extra-ordinary last week. Perhaps it’s not extra-ordinary for most women of my age, but for me, purchasing makeup is very out of the norm. In fact, I can safely say that I’ve actually bought real makeup (face creams don’t count) about 2 times. And I usually only have bought it when the company of choice has a “bonus”. For those of you not in the know, that’s when company’s offer trial sizes of things that people don’t usually want in the big or little sizes. People that is, excluding me, because to me, anything is something and if it has color and some sort of application mechanism –i.e. a tube, a spongy q-tip… - then I’m game. And I’ll wear that little free gift eye-shadow for the next 10 years.

I’m still working on my eyeshadow duo that I BOUGHT, about 10 years ago. Seriously, I know girlie magazines would tell me I’m THIS close to getting some sort of nasty eye disease, but I’m just too lazy and make-up averse to care. It’s not that I don’t like primping, or the way I look when I actually have a well-done dose of color enhancements on my face (like, on my wedding day), I just don’t care enough to really invest in it, AND, truth be told, I’m intimidated by the whole process.

See, much of my aversion to make-up stems from my distaste of shopping in general. My retail shopping regimen typically includes Target, REI, maybe DSW for shoes, but beyond that, I’m just plumb intimidated. Like the other day when I sauntered into Perimeter Mall (hardly one of Atlanta’s most uppity shopping spots). Be that as it may, I strolled through the glitz in my dowdy work clothes, end-of-day oily face and hair and way out of fashion glasses.

I did some positive self-talk and snuck into Sephora, a rather hip emporium for all things beauty. I felt immediately out of place, but trudged on through rows of pretty colors from brands that I know only vaguely by name. Like Urban Decay which seemed very hip and edgy with cool looking eye-shadow “books” that had a multitude of oddly-named shades to fit my rock star/allergen-avoidance persona. I stood perplexed, lining the top of my hand with metallic blue, soft green and gun-metal gray streaks of eye liner and shadow from various brands and eras. But my senses were too overloaded, and my mind just couldn’t get around what kind of margins these people must make on a teaspoon of compacted, colored powder. And I figured you just can’t worry about those things if you want to look pretty. Then I snuck back out, past the dark-haired lady in the black smock with racoonish eyes. What must she be thinking, I thought to myself. She must dream in beautiful, metallic hues.

When in times of great doubt and consternation, as I obviously was, one goes with what one knows. I got some of my first makeup from Clinique, probably mom got it for me because of its hypoallergenic qualities or something. So, from then on, I've always defaulted to Clinique with their neat-o slide charts to figure out your skin type and their yellow Dramatically Different moisturizer. I'm not convinced it's THAT dramatically different from something I'd get at CVS, but, it makes me feel better than those other ones. Then there's the squeaky clean white coats, maybe that's what lures me. The clean, crisp medicinal quality that says, "No monkey business, just giving you what you need to be a woman in today's culture. Not embellishment, just survival tools."

As I perused the eyeshadow and eyeliner colors I met the (yet again) overly black-lined eyes of the makeup sales associate. One look at her visage, like that of countless other makeup counter sales associates, made me again second-guess the whole beauty scene...why do so many of the "pros" seem to have unhealthy skin and bad makeup? (my own beauty-biz friends excluded) If only the average makeup sales girl could look more non-cakey natural and less Robert Smith in a lab coat with strong perfume. Nevertheless, my Clinique clerk was friendly enough. And I was desperate.


She kindly put big swipes of pressed powder on my porous cheeks to test colors as I said things like "low maintenance" and "doesn't look like I'm wearing makeup." While she didn't personally ascribe to the subtle method, she seemed to understand my plight. Once settled on a flesh-tone foundation powder, we headed toward the eye makeup. I then remembered how completely confusing current styles are. Just as I've been getting comfy with browns and bohemian earth tones, 80's blues and frosty greens are back with a vengeance, gracing the lids of skinny girls with long hair and thick pleated red leather waist belts. I'm not convinced it'll last, but I do have fond memories of my sister making me over with those very same colors when I was 8. I let the lab consultant follow my nostalgic gaze toward the frosty rainbow. However, she cautioned me that electric-youth blue would not suit me as much as a warmer green. Though it was safer than my original edgy intent, I believed the expert. Admittedly, with my earthy green eyeshadow duo in hand, I couldn't shake the voice of mom in my head explaining the she and I had the same Color Me Beautiful season meaning that blues work, but greens makes us look jaundiced. For most of my shopping life I've never bought green things because I fear looking jaundiced. But I got over the fear for a fleeting moment and bought the green shadow. Again, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I wore my purchases a few nights ago: the matte neutral powder is spot-on and from my vantage point the eyeshadow doesn't make me look like a sickly baby or like I've gotten into a bar fight. Phew...safe for another 6 years.

Anything you're unreasonably intimidated about shopping for?

On Curious Food Traditions

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!
One of the things that made our time in France last fall so wonderful was the wealth of new food experiences we had (like Jeff's chestnut creme Belgian waffle at right). Well, back here stateside, I’m stuck again with Chick-fil-a, China Inn and Tex-mex. While I’m quite fond of any of the above, they tend to blend into the humdrum of life.

Then arrive the holidays. That particular time of year when we gather with family, whether willingly or unwillingly, and somehow the nostalgia of it all seems to brush the rough edges a little smoother. And there is none so central to these holiday gatherings as food, and at no other time of year do more traditions make their way to the communal table. For example, my employer went all out for a traditional Thanksgiving meal (okay, well, it was a potluck. They bought us Turkey, I brought store-bought pecan pie). However, for Christmas, we had catered barbeque lunch. Call it bucking tradition, but who knows that for some of you, the smell of pulled pork and vinegar sauce means nothing less than Merry Christmas.

My family’s holiday table has never been too steeped in oddity, but we like tradition. Turkey for Thanksgiving, never anything made of sweet potatoes (to Jeff’s horror), and Sister Schubert’s yeast rolls. Christmas dinner tends to center around a pork roast or some sort of beef with a fancy name. I believe this year was “standing crown roast”. Methinks we should have all been seated in some royal hall, wearing pelts and fancy headgear lifting our goblets. Sadly, it was just my sister's kitchen table, though we did raise our goblets, er, glasses to Christ, since He is after all the reason we do celebratory things this time of year like indulging in crown roast and Sister Schubert’s yeast rolls (yes, we have them on Christmas too).

While I appreciate my family's traditions, one thing I love about being married to Jeff is the decidedly Amish-country bent that his family’s traditional meals have. Foods of which I could ne'er have dreamt have been gracing their holiday table for years. And now, I can freely say, I’d been missing out before I had them. Have you experienced home-made hamloaf? Think meatloaf, but with a sweet glaze and several lovely Mennonite women with head coverings joining you. Corn pudding is another Lancaster favorite. It joins the ranks with Himalayas Indian food as something Jeff and I will eat until we’re sick.

Then there are the food oddities that have nothing to do with Pennsylvania Dutch culture or the northeast, but are just Weaver. Jeff’s mum’s homemade pizza is always served with applesauce and peanut butter, unabashedly, as if these were natural pairings. Chicken Corn Soup is another favorite of mine, and in his family’s home, it’s always served with blueberry muffins. Logical, perhaps not. The warmth of tradition that makes all right in the world for an hour, absolutely.

We all have them, odd holiday meals that serve as benchmarks for us, funny dinner-table traditions that no one else could understand.

What are some of your family’s traditions or regional foods that may seem odd to us, but make you smile?

Almost Famous: The Music Addition

aaah, the simple days of 1 yr. ago.
No car, just legs. -->
Before my intended post...I'll fish for sympathy, or laughs, or both with a brief rundown of the Weavers' last 36 hours. We've, wrecked our new car rendering it undrive-able. Today we (read: I) got a ticket with the other car - illegal left turn. Immediately after, it got a flat tire. In short, the wreck was not our fault and nobody was hurt. Ticket, I deserved it. Tire, 2 plugs could not fix the gaping hole...only removing the darn tire from its frame and patching it from the inside could remedy the problem, for now. And, while I waited for the fix in the freezing cold, I thought again of those blissful days in France when we didn't have to deal with bloody cars. Done.


Now to Music


Some of my favorite family photos include one of my Uncle Henry at a young age hunched with full concentration over his shiny accordion. I don't recall if the moment was captured while the family was still in Germany, or if it was state-side. Regardless, this image was a telling sign of things to come for the Wittgens family. Many a Michigan family reunion has included Uncle Henry leading us through accordion sing-alongs. Seriously. And I love every minute of it.

A few years before my Oma died, we discovered a Mandolin hidden away in the corner of her tiny home, another hint at the music in our veins. My Uncle Jim used to serenade me with that WWI classic about studdering "K-k-k-katie, beautiful Katie."

And one of my greatest Grand Rapids family memories, and I think others would agree, is our trips to "Roaring Twenties", which later became "Good Time Charley's". The whole Wittgens clan would cram around a long table - kids at one end, adults at the other. We'd eat mediocre pizza and wait with bated breath for the main attraction. When that giant pipe organ would ascend from the musty floorboards like it had a thousand nights before, with all the fanfare of a head of state. Smoke, flashing lights and ooh's and aahs became accompanyment to the booming pipes of "Good Time Charley" serenading us during that magical rise from nowhere. As the night progressed we would sing along to old favorites, the adults would make their way to the small dance floor and surprise, or likely embarrass, us kids with their refined dance moves to some Sousa waltz.

I remember returning to Good Time Charley's some years later, and from the settling smoke of Charley's Pipes a karaoke set had arisen. Sad for Charley, but perfect for a few of us cousins who put together a parent-pleasing rendition of "My Boyfriends Back". Dubbed "the Wittgens Chicks" from then on, we cousins became the talk of the family for our musical antics. Now, many years removed from karaoke and those living room jam sessions on Aunt Betty's old Hammond organ, we're still making music.

My cousin Andrea Wittgens may have missed out on that fateful karaoke night, and her career is the better for it: she just opened for Grammy-award winning artist Shawn Colvin a few week's ago! How cool is that. Andrea's a Seattle singer-songwriter who I daresay I look up to. She used to awe me with her acrobatic swan dives and flips from Aunt Betty's diving board, now its her voice and songwriting. Check out Andrea's web site and new EP, Alibi.

The Ming Dynasty is a little musical project that I've been working on with Jeff and some other friends. Now, we haven't opened for any Grammy nominees or anything, but we have ascended to MySpace-dom. I admit to being a rookie at this whole thing but if you want to listen to a few songs and be our "friend", come visit our MySpace page.

We've not played a show as a band in a long time, but Jeff and I did have a pretty cool "solo" gig a few weeks ago. We recently took a trip to Brazil to visit some friends and while there, we did an extremely "unplugged" performance of 2 Ming Dynasty tunes. Our audience was a group of youth, both middle-class and poor, orphaned teens, togther on a friday night in a run-down public school activity area in a Rio de Janeiro suburb. About 35 youth (a few future fans pictured below) listened, and sang along as we played through a couple of our songs. They may not have understood many of the words but they were incredibly appreciative and became quite a Ming Dynasty fanclub. One of the students' moms actually works for a Rio radio station (albeit an easy-listening station) and was a tad over-enthusiastic about the music, assuring us a radio-sponsored concert there should we return. We all had a good laugh about the whole thing.

What made this performance so special and unique was the kids and their enthusiasm for music. Knowing even small pieces of some of their heartbraking stories, we were so glad to bring song to those kids for a few minutes. Many of you have asked to see pics from our Brazil trip. I apologize that life has become quite full since our return and the media still sits on our camera.

Almost Famous

I don't know if I should take it as a sign that my musings are missed, or that my friends are just bored, but 2, count 'em, 2 folks commented to me this evening that I hadn't updated the blog in a while. It gave me a fleeting warm fuzzy feeling to know that they cared and were checking in. The fuzzies were quickly overshadowed by a brow-furrowing sadness that my life has become either too busy, or too boring to have anything to write about.

So, I scanned last last October's blogs, and decided we'd get in the 'ol way-back-machine for a few minutes and reminisce about 1 year ago.
I was resting up (it is 6 hours later in France, after all) after a misty, beautiful Friday drive from Nantes to the Normandy region. Perhaps we were in Bayeux, looking into small but brilliant Cathedral nooks like this:

A few hours from now, we would be waking from comfortable slumber (remember, any bed other than our thin, tiny trailer park bed was like heaven). Our day probably started with thick coffee with thick milk and some divine locally baked pastry - enough to fuel us up as we took to the beaches made famous by D-Day. The bright sunshine seemed to fade those ghosts of years past who took those shores like heroes. We just stood and contemplated the placid sea, thinking of those young people, not too different from us, who had been there over 60 years prior. .

But reminscing can only get you so far. Today is today, and while I often miss France desperately, back here at home we have friends, family, and well, a touch of fame to enjoy. Not only has bizarro Jeff Weaver helped pitch his Cardinals to the World Series (eh..see we didn't have October baseball's magic to enjoy last fall), but the REAL Jeff Weaver has a touch of fame as well, along with several of our other pals.

Backstory: Our community group from church did a volunteer project one saturday at Cafe 458. In short, they serve good, dignified meals to Atlanta's homeless community during the week, then raise funds on the weekends by serving good, dignified meals to whoever will pay for them to support the Cafe's mission. We all played wait staff and dish-washers for the day, and really enjoyed ourselves and the folks at Cafe 458. The spirit was captured wonderfully on film by patron (and fellow community-groupie) Michael Shivers. Some brass at Mastercard found these photos on his flickr.com page and bam! Moolah for Michael and 15 minutes for Jeff and some of our friends. Visit Priceless.com (quickly before some new do-gooders steal our thunder).

Coming Soon...."Almost Famous - The Music Addition"

A Cool Thing Happened

Did you know you can put my blog on RSS, direct to your desktop! That means every 4-5 weeks, when news breaks from Katie's Blogdom...you are the FIRST to know.

So, a cool thing happened, speaking of...someone actually checked into the blog UNPROVOKED by an email! Thanks Matt A for commenting on the Two Urban Licks Review (see Aug. 31 post below).

What I did on my holiday weekend -
The birthday lingered on with Salsa dancing at Havana Club on Friday night 'til about 2am. We got an early start on Saturday for Highlands, NC where we spent the weekend in the beautiful Appalachian mountains with my wonderful family. We picked some fresh blueberries from the backyard, read, played games, visited friends in Asheville and just enjoyed the time. 'Cause, you know, God lives there. We love it. Jeff and I took a hike on Labor day in and around Yellow Mountain. We even managed to avoid rattlesnakes this time (but not yellowjackets).

Representative Highlands picture below: "Outdoor Ken" Comes complete with hand-held GPS, quick-dry hiking clothes and Subaru Outback! (Euro-hip glasses sold seperately).

Two Urban Licks

AUG 31st.
I sat down a few days ago and penned a blog entry about “good things”. About how 2 of my friends, on of them particularly jobless got jobs. And how my friends’ baby just turned 1…. Her story is one of heartache that has ended in delight. But see, then one of my aforementioned jobless friends’ dad died. He lost his battle with AIDS last week, and she is devastated. And that job fell through. Now another friend is sitting beside her dad as cancer closes in, and there are others.

So, amid the mixed emotions, I suppose I’ll write a restaurant review. Certainly a few good things in the form of food and my husband have come along for me this week. We had a lovely birthday dinner out at a restaurant I’ve wanted to try: Two Urban Licks.

Upon opening, “Two” was the IT restaurant in Atlanta. Part of the now-booming downtown revival, just down the road from the Carter Center and MLK memorial, the folks of Two took an old garage / warehouse and converted into the hipster foodie hangout that needed months for weekend reservations early on.

It’s a hunt to find, but once there, and once having turned your car over to complimentary valet, the place oozes urban hip. Tall stainless steel doors bring you into a high-ceilinged, well, warehouse. Complete with steel grey curtains, candelabras climbing up the black walls and a trend-setting crowd around the bar, sipping mixed drinks listening to live jazz. Further into the space, the open kitchen is the centerpiece. Fires blaze while hurried men in white coats flip things, prep plates and look busy. It is anything but distracting though; rather, the stainless appliances and white-coats tend to meld into the modern, industrial décor.

The edginess of the black, gray and stainless steel is tempered by candlelight and the giant red silk chandeliers that cast a pleasant hue on diners. Then there’s the calm that comes from the art. On one of Two’s giant walls, an equally giant painting looks over the space and brings serenity. I’ll leave the painting for you to discover and get on to the meal.

If the review thus far sounds vaguely familiar – converted warehouse space, haven of the new urban hipster scene – you’re right, from the moment we entered it had the feel of Rathbun’s, which I’ve previously reviewed. Thus the bar was set, everything which followed our first steps inside Two Urban Licks had to be compared with Rathbun’s, whether we wanted to or not.

The service did not disappoint. Kerry was informative, seemed to enjoy his job, and had some good tips and descriptions as we sorted through an appropriate wine choice. More on that later.

Despite Jeff’s general aversion to tomatoes, it was my birthday and I wanted to try the recommended Two Salad – think Caprese with class. It was predictably scrumptious with vine-fresh tomatoes topped with fine Italian mozzarella and fresh basil. The three little pieces of art were then drizzled with olive oil. Jeff even ate one! I thought it was a tad salty, but Jeff disagreed. Regardless it was an exploration in local, fresh ingredients, so hard to come by in restaurants these days.

Ah, a brief bread mention…uninteresting to say the least. An apparent hoagie roll sliced then buttered with garlic and herbs, wrapped in paper. Not a far cry from any Italian restaurant’s opener, but very far from the wonderful artisan breads we enjoyed at Rathbuns.

But the bread is not the feature here. So, it was on to the meal. Two, like Rathbuns, crafts its menu around a New South type cuisine incorporating elements like grits, low-country shrimp and the like. But while Rathbun’s combined these things into fresh-tasting memorable dishes, we were less impressed with Two’s version. They arrived in boat-like oblong dishes, more hip, less artful than I would have expected. The first hint that maybe Two’s fancy comfort food concept is lost somewhere in the middle. And, as I told Jeff, no matter how gourmand you are, Fried fish and coleslaw is still fried fish and slaw. Granted, it was the best fried fish I’ve ever tasted, and probably the most intricate, flavorful slaw, it was still…well, you know, fried fish n slaw.

My scallops were seared beautifully, that succulent melt-in-your mouth quality that just comes from good scallops. I rarely eat them, but when I do, I savor every bite of those tasty medallions. These were dusted with something a little more fiery than I was expecting, which took a little from the scallops’ flavor and the wine. They rested, er, floated on smoked Gouda grits, which were richly delightful, but less than hearty. The smoked tomato puree on the side was a lovely addition and nice, inventive dip for the scallops.

I was perhaps most pleased with the wine, a California Pinot from Russian River Valley. It had a beautiful complexity that, surprisingly for a Pinot, was great for sipping, but of course, paired well our food. Especially the Caprese salad.

In all, we really enjoyed our time there, the space was amazing, and the food was great. But... it just didn’t have the Wow factor that Rathbun’s did, where every bite seemed perfect and where any conversation took back seat to the food.

P.S. If you're not so much into restaurant stuff, at least go see Little Miss Sunshine. Great performances and quirky characters brilliantly craft potentially sad situations into humourous ones...I laughed hard.

It's Atlanta!

Can you believe it's already 10 years since the '96 Atlanta Olympics?

You probably have some memories of that year. It was a major event in the lives of Atlantans. This was made strikingly clear to me the other day when, in a conversation with Jeff, I jokingly said, ”To Dee City of….Ahtlahnta” in a very Juan Antonio Samaranch accented voice. Jeff is not an Atlanta native, thus he had no idea what I was referencing, as many of you may not. I was imitating that famous early-morning announcement by the IOC President that our city had captured the dream. My school parking lot rang out with honking horns that morning and the city was abuzz for the day, weeks, and years leading up to our chance to welcome the world.

Maybe you didn’t live here, but us Atlantans remember eerily empty rush-hours, United Nations-like representation on Marta trains, the world’s news teams camped out in our city and a corporate “Olympic city” like none the world had seen. It’s like the Fortune100 threw up in downtown, giant chunks of glitzy, neon, Olympic marketing.

Now, I'll admit I was in collusion with this, some would say, uglier side of the Olympic memory. I volunteered at “Nike Park,” a multi-level homage to the goddess herself. The goddess wears expensive tennis shoes and makes lots of money convincing everyone else they should too. I won’t lie to you, my Swoosh summer was exciting: ushering people to one of various interactive stations where they could hop next to a regulation beach volleyball net or line up in track pose next to a cardboard cut-out of…gold-shoes guy…ah yes, Michael Johnson.

I got a neat outfit – a pair of Nike Ked-like sneakers, blue Nike shorts and a couple T-shirts which had “96” and a swoosh emblazoned on them. Rumor has it that in the Olympic memorabilia frenzy one of my co-laborers was offered $500 for the shirt off his back. I said at the time that had it been me I don’t think I’dve sold it. I’m stupid. I also probably thought I'd need that commemorative BellSouth Olympic pin someday. In all, my Nike park experience was a good one. I got to be downtown in the mix, see some celebs and attend the memorable post-bomb re-opening of Centennial Park.

My Nike gig came about as part of my participation in missions organization YWAM's olympic outreach. YWAM worked closely with olympic organizers to provide volunteers at all levels of all ages. So when I wasn’t directing people toward those misting “cooling stations”, I was going to worship services with a thousand other YWAM volunteers, playing hackey-sack and sleeping on a gym floor for 3 weeks with 250 crazy teenagers like me. We shared about 10 showers between us all. To avoid cold water and long waits, I developed a routine of waking up at 4am to shower, then returning to the “comfort” of my spot on the floor for another few hours. I ate lots of peanut butter and jelly that summer.

Its amazing to think that us YWAM kids were just 250 of thousands, tens of thousands of people young and old who flooded our city to work, volunteer, preach, sell stuff, you name it…all to be a part of this global event. We were a community in glorious struggle for 3 hot July weeks. God was very good to us and to our city.

What are some of your recollections or leftover memorabilia from that summer, just 10 summers ago?

Final World Cup Thoughts

7-9-06
I feel rather exhausted at the moment. I’ve just finished mopping up the last of my “breakfast for dinner” scrambled eggs and toast. Sure, I awoke at 7:45 this morning after a late night, sang in two church services, and just a few short hours ago my house bustled with the excited faces of American soccer fans. Those who came into this World Cup adventure swearing that they wouldn’t care, then finding themselves swept up. That made me happy. But I didn’t know I would be so exhausted and sad when it all ended.


As anyone at our little Championship gathering can attest, the Weaver allegiances were unmistakable: A giant blue hydrangea with a hangtag reading “Allez Les Bleus” adorned my front door. My table spread with all things red, white and blue to support… France of course. There was Parisian kitch (from Target no less), blueberries, cherries, and the requisite baguette, butter and camembert. Sadly, the $10 Champagne still rests comfortably on my fridge’s top shelf. There was no need for uncorking or celebration this afternoon.

Sure, I am sad that France lost, but sadder still at the surprising exit of Zinedine Zidane, who had fast become my tournament hero. The 34 year old star returning to the game, as beautiful as ever, exchanging handshakes and hugs with opposing players, rarely feigning fouls (“diving”) during games. His playing is beauty and Zidane seemed to me a class act. Which is why his senseless head-butt to the chest of an opposing player, resulting in his ejection was so frustrating. Even had France won, what a blemish to endure. French papers reported the stunned disappointment of French fans, packed onto the Champs Elysees, unable to relive the glory of ‘98.

I hope they don’t blame “Zizou” for the loss, Italy played outstanding defense and deserved to win. But I’m still sad to say bye to Zidane that way, and equally as unready to say goodbye to this quadrennial funfest of international togetherness. To flag-waving Germans who finally feel safe to rally around their country again. To Ivory Coast players whose World Cup presence halted civil war. To the mediocre American broadcast team on ESPN and ABC who tried their darndest to get all of us ignorant gringos to like soccer. To my lovely, non-sporty mum screaming at the TV and talking footie like she’s been watching it for years. To now-empty pubs, and streets and city-squares that hosted millions of fans of all colors, sizes, economic backgrounds all there together to watch, dream and soak in every moment of one of the globe’s great equalizers: sport.

Thanks for enduring the soccer craze. I’ll get back to restaurant reviews and travelogues soon enough. Allez Les Braves.

Copa Mundial

sorry for your team...(5th of World (FIFA) that is a
big mistake...)

bisous de france

i write you later after we win the world cup
-Matthieu B., in an email to me

As predicted by some of our French friends, the US is down and out of this World Cup, in no small thanks to their inability to create offense. So now my sights turn to the remaining teams. It seems that nearly each country gives me a reason to root for them. Here are some of my favorites (In no particular order)…

Germany – This is an easy one. My people. I am a Wittgens, the child of a German immigrant. Before his family fled the Russian occupation, then emigrated to the US, my dad spent his youth in East(ern) Germany playing fussball in the streets and rooting on Borussia Dortmund. Surely the host nation has my Deutschland heart. I think... They sure looked brilliant against Sweden, I would not be unhappy if they took it all this year.

France – Mon pays deuxieme. You don’t spend 4 months in, amidst, around a country like France and not love it, at least not if you’re Jeff and Katie Weaver. We watched Ligue 1 matches with friends, saw the national rugby team play live, drank Pastis, and trash-talked about soccer. As Matthieu kindly pointed out, our team didn’t live up to the hype, mais franchement...neither have les bleus so far. I still have to root for them though, at least their rouge, blanc et bleu made the 2nd round.

To have France pitted against Spain (Tuesday afternoon) is a difficult quandary. Spain is like my forbidden fruit. The one nation in Europe that most intrigues me, and the only mainland nation where I can speak the native tongue, yet I’ve never been there. I have good friends from Spain and I really love Manchego cheese. But I must raise a glass of Bordeaux rather than Tempranillo for this confrontation.

England – Another of football’s alleged superpowers who have looked less than stellar this tournament. From a pure aesthetic standpoint, the boys in red and white have possibly the best looking team on the pitch, and a charming feature film named after one of their stars. I’ve lived in England for a spell, watched many a Hyde Park pick-up game, and even taken in a Tottenham match at Whiteheart Lane. I know how much pride the English have for their footie. Take it from our favorite ex-pat in London (check out his Blackgate Blog!). I'm sure there will be utter devastation (and lots of drinking) the day England loses.

Speaking of drinking... The keeper on my recreational team is English. He showed up for our game the other night after 5 hrs and even more pints at the pub watching his boys battle. Best part is, he kept an amazing game for us, helping us win. Gotta love the English.



Switzerland – Perhaps Jeff's and my favorite country in Europe. God lives in those mountains (right Michael S.?!). I’ve had some of my most memorable experiences in Switzerland, as has Jeff. The
vistas,
cheeses, chalets, they all seem near heaven to me. I don’t think the Swiss have a yodler's chance to win the Cup (don't know what that means but it's got a nice ring); however, for their next match vs. Ukraine, I'll pick chocolate over borscht. Allez les Suisses.

Brazil – They epitomize the beautiful game. The yellow clad artists show gamesmanship and skill unlike other teams. And their team is favored to win this thing again. The culture of Brazil intrigues me: soccer and samba, carnivale and caparinhas, and on and on. I was a Latin-American studies minor in college, but never visited Brazil or learned Portuguese. I’ve heard that if you visit, you’ll never want to leave. I have friends from Brazil, and friends living in Brazil (more on them later...we hope to visit this fall.) I even have a small Brazilian flag. I need an excuse to wave it some more, so I’ll pick them to move on, probably to the finals.


Australia – The Socceroos have a cute name. Their fans boo like our US fans (all the others’ whistle when their angry). Or maybe their just yelling “kangaROOOO”. (I apologize for those who’ve heard that “joke” already from me.) The Aussie’s have played with such grit and excitement that they’ve probably converted longtime cricket and rugby fans into soccer crazies. Plus, who understands that Australian rules football anyway? I’ve got friends (okay, and an old flame) who’re Oz, and they love their country and will be feverishly rooting on their boys to victory at some ungodly hour in the streets of Sydney. While I love Gelato as much as the next person, I'd love to see Vegemite nation triumph in the upcoming Aussie-Italy clash (Monday).

And a word on Ghana – The Black Stars knocked out my US team. However, as I stood kavetsching with friends about our missed chances, I realized that whatever doom or frustration I've felt is SO far eclipsed by the sheer joy in the entire nation of Ghana, it makes it easier to take. My highschool biology teacher was from Ghana. A friend and co-worker once lived in Ghana. Plus, I'm a sucker for the underdog. All said, I think their next opponent (Brazil) is just too good.


So, there is my culinary, cultural, and virtually un-strategic reasons for picking favorites.

And finally..for a TRUE insider view and wonderful commentary on the world cup proceedings, and Europe in general, visit Andrew and Donna Helms' blog. They're back home stateside now, but their fan-hood and fun euro experiences make great blogging. (I should know, Weaver blog has gone way downhill since we left inspiring France).

So who are you pulling for?

World Cup

Jeff and I just returned from 4 days of vacation at Amelia Island, courtesy of Emory. Jeff actually had to work the mornings, but in the afternoons we were able to do fun things like play tennis, read by the pool and throw frisbee on the beach. (And stroll lovely canopied paths like that pictured at right). Mind you, any of the aforementioned activities required fierce fueling up with electrolytes, or just plain water since the heat and humidity were pretty intense. Oh well, what better place to be in such conditions than by the pool with an ocean breeze (or on a breeze-less tennis court? ...we're crazy like that).

Speaking of tennis...I found that in lieu of reading celebrity gossip magazines by the crowded pool, I preferred to hunker away most mornings in the hotel room, enjoying sports heaven. I tell you, I had French Open finals to watch, and World Cup matches from 9-3 everyday and no other real obligations...my kind of vacation. I'm not like most other girls with this sports fascination, and I'm okay with that. But, so I don't sound like too much of a vacation spoiler, I did sit by the pool and read through one whole celebrity gossip magazine and sip a pink frosty drink while a guy played Jimmy Buffett covers in the background. In my other free time, I preferred to join with the world in watching the greatest game, with rapt attention.

Sadly, our US team's much anticipated opener vs. Czech Republic didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I had a dream last night that we'd gotten the game time wrong so we couldn't get to the pub in time. I had a hard time falling back asleep. I'm pretty excited about this World Cup thing. As exhibit B - Jeff and I skipped work today to join some friends at a pub and watch the match. Despite the loss, I was glad to have done it.

Hey, if we can't live in France anymore...at least we can act like Europeans!


Allez les Bleus (pour mes amis Francais!)
& Go USA.



"Don't blame the sweet and tender hooligan..."

Peanut Butter Is A Many Splendored Thing

Family Update: The last few Weaver weeks haven’t been too busy - I've watched lots of basketball, Jeff has studied, I've beat Jeff in tennis (sorry..had to say it), and we hit the studio with the band to lay down tracks for our 2nd song. It's still got some tweaking to do, but we're pretty excited about it. I'll try to post a clip when one of the 2 is nailed down. No news of upcoming gigs as of now.

Tonight, I tended to a sick husband. To join his spirit’s solemnity in remembrance of his father’s death 12 years ago today, Jeff’s body took a day of rest. It started as a 103 degree fever and has declined in severity to a bad throat-ache and lots of soup and saltines. Two years into this marriage thing and only a few sicknesses later, I’m still learning whether I’m to coddle him like a mommy or just get the heck out of the way. I think a certain amount of coddling is called for (held in good balance with getting the heck out of the way).

Ode to Peanut Butter.
I started this post with a restaurant review, but I scrapped it because I got distracted trying to get peanut-butter from the roof of my mouth. Nothing says midnight like some toast smothered with peanut butter topped with raisins or dried cranberries. Mmm.

Peanut Butter is a national past time. It’s like baseball…without the steroids. Throughout the world there are wine connoisseurs, coffee snobs and cigar aficionados. I wouldn’t necessarily use any of the above adjectives to describe my relationship with peanut butter. However, based on our sheer consumption, both Jeff and I could use the less admired descriptor, peanut butter addict.

Tonight I indulged in Jif – straight-forward creamy style. While I like the notion of chunky, its just hard to spread and you end up eating lots more I think. For the value I find Jif creamy to be good, spreadable, and much nuttier tasting that generic versions of the same ilk. Hydrogenated oils and other odd additives aside, Jif Creamy is good eating.

The ultimate in my opinion is, Smuckers’ All Natural Creamy. You know the stuff with the big oil pool at the top when you open it. True, I have to work at a new jar with a knife for a good 5 minutes. Its a careful mixing process - combine the oil and peanuts while not spilling the fragrant peanut oil on myself and suddenly smelling like a Chic Fil A cook. I keep a jar of this golden splendor at work, which is probably feeds the habit to have it so handy..oh well. I must note that I have also tried generic brands of Natural Peanut Butter, Publix, Target, Kroger…none compare to Smuckers. The others get dry and crumbly at the bottom of the jar and don’t have the salty, yet nutty sweetness of the Smuckers. It is so rich in flavor in fact, that I probably use less of it than I would of conventional creamy PB.

I missed my Smuckers while in France last fall…but we were not totally deprived of our favorite food/condiment (?). Mississippi Belle Peanut Butter was one brand we discovered in France - the ONLY brand we found in France actually. Who knows how long it sat on the shelves of that Nantes supermarket before we stumbled upon it. After all, the notion of making a spread of cacahuetes is rather revolting to the French. Intestine sausages: A-okay. Peanut spread: Degoutant! Found snuggled in between locally grown honey and Nutella, Mississippi Belle was our comfort food. Great on left-over baguette for breakfast, as a dip for digestives (a favorite cookie of ours that we smuggled from the UK) or just plain by-the-spoonful eating.

Mississippi Belle peanut butter is imported to Europe – chalk up one for US food product exports! Chipping away at our whopping trade deficit one American in Paris at a time. I heard that to object US foreign policy decisions, the French were smearing the streets with Peanut Butter. Mmmm….foreign policy protests.. ;-)

And speaking of protests – check out CNN or the BBC coverage of the massive protests you may or may not have heard about in France. Unrest is alive in well in many French cities, including Nantes,where within the last few days around 40,000 students, teachers and workers have taken to the very streets we walked a few months ago. This is a very critical time for France.

In Closing...
Odd things that Peanut-butter addicts like us combine with peanut butter…

• Jeff – Cottage cheese, honey, peanut butter.
• Jeff ‘s family – Pizza, applesauce and PB
• Katie & Jeff – carrots dipped in PB, bananas n PB, apples n PB, celery w/ PB & raisins...
• Katie – Oatmeal with cream, strawberries, and PB

You may have some favorite brands, other nut spreads or odd combinations with Peanut Butter. Feel free to share.

Restaurant Review and Other Surprises

Once again, you may or may not have been wondering what I've been up to lately. Besides not blogging. Well, truth out...you may not have seen me on the Barbara Walter's special, but I have had a little side project going on.
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1801858/

Somehow between my Thunderbolt Kicks, Jeff and I managed to celebrate our 2 year anniversarry on March 6. It's been 2 amazing years of adventure, love, misunderstandings laughs and lots of Indian food.

Speaking of food...to celebrate our two years as Weavers, Jeff took me to a restaurant that I had heard good things about, but never tried. It turned out to be quite possibly the best meal I've ever had in Atlanta not cooked by my mom.

Rathbuns - American cuisine tucked away in a converted steel mill which lies in the heart of Atlanta's Urban renewal explosion. While countless mills and factories in the area have given way to lofts and condoes, so for the neighborhood's most valuable addition is the brainchild, and namesake of renowned Atlanta chef Kevin Rathbun. He has taken his Buckhead restaurant experience at spots like BluePointe and Nava, and added his own nouveau southern accent to create an outstanding melange of fresh, culinary interplay.

The offerings, both "small plates" and larger entrees are a creative blend of Asian, French, fresh, and tres fatty. But make no mistake, this is a restaurant in the heart of the new south. Sides like country ham grits, creamed corn with gouda and smoked mashed potatoes pay homage to Mr. Rathbun's roots. As did Jeff's entree - Seared Cod and sauteed shrimp over smoked mashed potatoes with slivered almonds and cranberries.

Now, you won't find many a gourmande making cod fancy, but this was an outstanding preparation of no-knife-needed fish, and some of the freshest tasting shrimp I've had in a while. My small plate sampling included Rathbun's signature dish, and his mama's recipe, of Eggplant fries dusted with powdered sugar, served with a brilliantly yin/yang side of tabasco and powdered sugar for dipping. While delighful and different, this was probably my least favorite of the plates. My lamb scaloppini was out of this world, its apricot sauce had fresh mint, bacon and little teaser cubes of goat gouda. Okay, combining the sharpness of chevre with the creamy comfort of gouda..I couldve eaten a block of JUST the cheese.

Perhaps the most surprisingly good small plate were the salmon tostadas. How can a smoked salmon taste THAT fresh - not overly salty, but perfectly smokey with a sunset pink hue that melted in my mouth. Each little chunk was served on a crispy cracker with a habanero creme fresh. An exciting kick on the back end of each bite. I should also note, that the pre-meal bread was the best I've ever had at a restaurant for pure freshness, unique herb flavors and salted-crust taste.

Dessert, briefly, because it was tiny, but just what our stuffed tummies needed - a banana peanut-butter creme pie. Seriously, had one of us happened to get a head-wound or have a digit cut off during dinner...we would have stayed for the pie... It's Jeff's favorite combination of flavors and I'm just a general sucker for sweet things. It was fabulous, and just the right size (they do "small plate" desserts too).

Final libation note: on our waiter's recommendation, we tested a Pinot Noir (2003 Porta, Bio Bio Valley) from surprising Chile and it was outstanding in value and taste. A classic burgundian bite that accompanied our diverse meal selections wonderfully.

Ambience: Very hip, but not pretentious. We saw all types there - business casual folks, hipster friends and elderly couples. High ceilings and textured brick walls make it less intimate than some other options, but we were successfully able to enjoy each other company and conversation... then the food came, all chatter ceased and for the next 30 minutes we gazed lovingly at the food before us and our empty forks... Visit Rathbun's.

Review over. Maybe more to come, if we can think of more anniversarry's to celebrate. Next big event - Jeff's graduation (finally!) from MBA academy. May 2.

Writing Again, at long last

We’re back. Well, that’s obvious. We left from France over a month ago. I’ve been in silent mourning since our departure, thus the promised postlude has been slow in coming. Truly, our return in December was overwhelming, busy, family-filled, wonderful, sad and suddenly we were right back where we’d left 4 ½ months prior. 8-lane highways, crowded malls, comfy bed (ah, yes, how I missed the comfy bed), TV watching, eating Mexican food, spending time with family and community.

The precarious mix of good and not-so-good things that fill our normal life took shape once again, and sometimes I forget I was able to step out of it for a season. The questions are waning- “how was it”, “how’s the adjustment”, “didn’t you miss America?” etc. I haven’t minded answering them. I think that the overwhelming experience of having to articulate our wonderful French season at a moment's notice, and to explain the inexplicable to someone’s inquisitive eyes has helped me to process. And that, my friends, must be why I haven’t written. I have needed no outlet here in my English-speaking world…there is community all around, and it is wonderful. Mais...ils me manque mes amis en France.

I had promised them that my first entry when we got back would be in French, just for them. Maybe that’s why I haven’t written. Alors, desolee mes amis. Bien que ma francais est mauvais. Vraiment c’est dificile a ecrire en France presque maitenent il y a plus d'un mois depuis nous avons parti. Me manque le fromage, le Centre Ville, les heurs paser dans LU…bien mangee et bien bu. Merci petit Jesus.:-)

Now, my world is occupied with real life. This American Life. I commute 20 minutes everyday in my car to work at National Allergy Supply. You can watch this clip to find out why I do some of what I do. Or googlestalk us and buy some allergy products. Tell ‘em Katie sent ya.

Jeff works HERE. He’s moved up in the Emory world and is still trying to figure it all out. He’s learning a lot, and finishing out his MBA studies this semester.

We both play in a band that is still nameless…but we’re whittling it down. Those of you in Atlanta are invited to come see us play on February 10th. It’s a church-basement gig, so I have to take out all the cuss words, but there will be tasty coffee, lots of weird people who I love, and a little bit of rock and roll. The fun commences around 8:30.

Before this starts feeling too much like a Christmas letter, I’ll just sign off with a Thank You - to all of you who form our community of friends and family. You made it much easier to come home. And...with a picture of Jeff and I with Otis, a dog that's not ours (long story).
More pics from our last few weeks in France to come.

Death By Sudoku

..ah, the good old days.



-Nantes, Dec. 13, 2005

Captions Welcome.

Christmastime In Nantes

I plan to make this entry shorter, with more small paragraphs, quotes and suspense. See, I didn’t get as many comments on my last entry, so I figured folks are holiday busy and need some classic short-attention-span reading.

"But Katie," you might be thinking, "will it still culminate with the heart stopping unveiling of your latest photographs from Nantes and elsewhere?"

"Mais oui!"

Christmas in Nantes:

Christmas markets in Nantes, and more famously in Eastern France and Germany, are small wooden chalets where various artisans, gourmands and kitsch-pushers sell their wares. In the heart of Nantes, chestnuts roast on open fires, a carousel entertains small children, and a Pere Noel (Father Christmas) booth allows those with an American bent to get their pictures taken. All the while, the scent of vin chaud (hot spiced wine), hot chocolate and warming pretzels wafts through the chilly environs. And in the other Christmas Market square a few blocks away…more ugly jewelry, bad art and wind chimes. Oh, and a giant, steamy vat of Tartiflette – a tasty Savoie (French Alps region) treat of roasted potatoes, cream, Gruyere cheese and bits of smoked ham. Next-door, you can get a dessert Guafre (Belgian-style waffles) with your choice of chocolate, Nutella, caramel, or just plain sugar. But enough about food…

Christmas in Nantes…the streets are adorned with lights and many store windows with trimming. Music is piped through the busier-than-usual pedestrian streets. However, not the Christmas standards you may imagine, but rather a strange mélange of salsa, American pop and adult contemporary. I guess traditional Christmas music is bound to step on somebody’s toes? Oh well, it makes for a nice little soundtrack for shopping, but makes me itch for some Bing Crosby crooning.

There are some organ concerts and other sacred music events at local cathedrals. We visited the city’s main St. Pierre Cathedral last weekend. No Christmas carols, but we did witness the lighting of the third advent wreath candle, and as a bonus, the priest was a stunning likeness to St. Nick. Speaking of St. Nick, he is not Santa here. Santa is Pere Noel (father Christmas). St. Nicholas’ day has already been celebrated earlier this month. Our Romanian friend Daciana brought the class chocolates to commemorate the day. Also part of the French saintly celebration is the eating of the Galette des Rois (King Cake). Yes, the concept is similar to the Mardi-Gras season King Cakes…something is hidden in the innards of the confection and he (or she) who finds it is not only “King for a Day” but must also make the cake next year. Well, I was fortunate to ascend to Kingship last Friday evening.

"Oh...I think I've found it!" I cried when I spotted what I thought to be the traditional crèche (manger with baby Jesus) in my 2nd piece of Galette. I delicately picked the pieces of marzipan and pastry off the figurine to reveal...not the Christ child, but a tiny likeness of Bob l’Eponge…aka - Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Okay, first no Christmas music, now Jesus has been replaced by Sponge Bob? I almost makes me miss the uber-Christian cultured U.S. South. And it made us all laugh really hard.


Christmas in Nantes means some people get trees. In fact, I think my favorite moment from the last week was sitting on a comfy couch in the home of one of the French students, Thomas. His family welcomed us for a “Big French Meal” (to be referred to as BFM) last Sunday afternoon. (Pictured above at Chez Thomas, pictured center) Given that an imbalance of this blog’s words have been about food, I will sadly omit detailed explanations of each superb bite, but will only say….it was a gift to be in a loving, welcoming home… with a lighted, decorated Christmas tree. And in true Franco-American style, we even sang a few lines of "O Tennenbaum.

“So, are you happy to be returning home?” Many have asked us this question, and we Americans have asked one another. Honestly, the idea of leaving behind this ephemeral French life that we've enjoyed for four months - BFM’s, cheery well-walked streets, welcoming friends and countless other joys - is saddening to us. We anticipate the culture shock of being swept back into “real (American) life.” But of course, the treasure of family and friends awaits. And for that, I will continue to let my emotions wrestle. I may even cry as when we lift off from Nantes-Atlantique airport, as what was the unreal present becomes memory, and for how excited we will be to have our old bed back!



VIEW MORE NANTES SCENES AND OUR WEEKEND IN LILLE

Feast On This

1st: Apologies that my last (newest) entry actually appeared BELOW the previous entry…a snag of blogger. I had actually started them on the same day, and the order got caddywhompus. I.E. I actually went shopping before I got sick. And speaking of that, I'm doing much, much better.

And now...
I’ve felt frankly overwhelmed by cultural experience and opportunities to reflect and write about. Thus, I’ve put off this latest entry until it could be perfect, or reflect exactly what is marinating in my head. But it won’t.

However, speaking of marinating. I’m going to write about food again. There are countless things to cover…the great “Mexican Pizza” we’ve discovered at the local joint, the two entire rows devoted to yogurt and like products at the local grocery store, why vegetables here are so cheap and good here, but no one seems to eat them, etc. But rather than vent or brag about particulars of the local eating habits, I want to rave, and reflect on the act of eating, the art of the French meal, and what we can learn. Particularly in light of Thanksgiving and the current Christmas season which will provide us opportunities for feasting with friends and family. I hope we do it well.

Le jour de l'Action de Grace (Thanksgiving) came and went here in Nantes without much great fanfare. I heard echoes of certain restaurants or home gatherings that would feature turkey (or some sort of available fowl) and other fixins. Jeff and I had a good friend from Atlanta in town, and decided to spend the evening with her, being thankful for being in France by enjoying a long, delicious French meal. I had a sumptious Boeuf Bourguignon and in true Thanksgiving style, when I was sure my stomach could hold nothing else, I still topped it off with a warm apple dessert, a la mode. In this case, it was Tarte Tatin - a regional specialty.

But what has my mind really spinning about the joy of communal eating and gathering at a common table, is our trip to a friends hometown the weekend following Thanksgiving. The drive itself merits a tall tale as it involved a freak snowstorm, iced-over highways, roadside snowmen, strange foreigners (that’s us!...well, just Rocky) pushing cars up a slippery hill which evidently locals deemed impassable. Ultimately, the trip which should have gotten us to the warm fires of Sylvain Le Mauff’s home in L’Hermitage Lorge at 9pm, drug us in around 11:15.

Despite our extreme tardiness, Sylvain’s family had let the set table sit for those 2 or so hours, and the feast commenced upon our arrival. Aperitif and snacks for an hour or so. Dinner served around 12:30, and we somehow managed room for dessert around 1:45. Come 2:30 or so, we realized we were quite tired. Spanish, Greeks…eat your heart out! (Well, actually the Spaniard and Greeks would have gone to the disco afterwards).

L’Hermitage Lorge is a lovely, quiet, Breton (in the Brittany province) town. I suppose viewing our little slideshow will do as much to describe our trip as my words could. BUT BEFORE YOU LOOK…You will notice a common theme in many pictures: food. The table of community, of feasting. Particularly in this weekend of being served as we were, of being in community with others, of paying no regard to time or calories, enjoying good food and wine, I am convinced again that sharing the table is in many ways a spiritual experience.

To Christians, this points to our celebration of the Eucharist, the Lord’s table where the community gathers, as Christ did with his disciples, to celebrate mystery, and to remember the Sacrifice which happened just a few hours after that first “last supper.” But as was discussed on a recent edition of Public Radio’s “Speaking of Faith”, Christ was just initiating a ritual that was already rich within Jewish and other mid-eastern cultures. In many religions and faiths, the act of sharing the table holds a significance that is easily taken for granted in our distraced, high-speed culture.

A Native American “Speaking of Faith” listener wrote in that “There is an ancient belief held by many First Nations people in which the act of taking and eating food is a kind of covenant between two beings.” Eating with one another is relational, and I have experienced this joy in France many times now. And for that, I am extremely thankful, and humbled.

And, in case you don’t visit the SOF website to read about this particular episode, I will highlight another important feast tradition: “in the earliest churches, which gathered in homes, the community meal was afterwards shared with outsiders and especially the poor. Communion was inextricably linked with service.” I hope that as Jeff and I have been served in the homes and apartments of our friends here in France, so we can give that gift to others, just as in bread and wine we recall sacrifice, and are spurred toward it at the grace-full table of Eucharist.

So now, take a peak at our Mobile Home table, Brittany Raclette communion (a little bread, plenty of wine), and other memorable experiences with friends. Hope to sup with many of you when we return…we’ll provide the table and the Pastis ;-).

PICTURES HERE!

The Maginot Fashion Line

Went to buy some clothes the other day. I was feeling confident that my body has become more trimly European – what with all this walking and smaller portions and fresh food. I paced the shiny halls of the local mall looking for a store to try my luck. I walzed into Zara, a European clothier with stylish duds for reasonable prices – they even list US sizes alongside the European ones for easy reference! I found a couple great deals and headed toward the fitting rooms.

Ah, the moment of truth arrived. Truth = French bodies are not like my body. I gingerly yanked a medium shirt over my un-exercised, but still-broad shoulders, and generous gene-pool bosom. Had I accidentally raided the Zara children’s section? This medium is not supposed to show my navel and the scoop neck is about to become a v-neck…

Hmph. Better luck with the sexy white jeans? Non. I couldn’t get their slimfit past my right thigh and teetered precariously in the tiny dressing room trying to remove the jeans without falling or ripping the tiny-T.

I breathed in, assuring myself that my brawny American “athletique chic” build doesn’t need these trendy teeny clothes anyway. However, upon further contemplation, I moved beyond my “proud to be from the land of Venus Williams and Mia Hamm” harrumph, and came up with another theory. Perhaps this is a subtle French revenge taken out on my Germanic body. “Those thick Prussian honches have no chance in our cute pedal-pushers and faux-fur boots!” Like a size 6 kick in my Wittgens shins. The Maginot Fashion line – and this one works! If I can ever peel these dang white jeans off, I’ll surely wave them in surrender.


And in an unrelated story - you can now look at a few photos from my parents visit a few weeks ago. Hope the link works this time... BRITTANY AND NANTES WITH THE FAM

Priceless, Coughless?

(Read $'s as Euros)
Doctor Visit - $20
Fever Reducer- $3.36
Cough Suppressant - $3.21
Throat Spray - $2.64
Ibuprofin $3.13
Anti-biotic - $27.76
Chance for foreigner to milk the nationalized health system….priceless


I went to France for four months and one souvenir I've picked up is this crappy cold-like thing which has manifest in everything from shivers to sweat-all-night fever to cough all night bronchial irritation...and now a very painful rib muscle strain from coughing – no fun. Early on, I decided to seek a professional. Both because French friends seemed to all ask if I had been to the doctor, and because I was advised by mom, amid the email version of motherly coddling and a chicken soup recipe, to “get thee to a doctor!” As a student at the University, I can see doctors here for free. Problem is that no one could see me for a week. Option 2, talk to your friends, and go to a local GP who will charge you $20 to hear about your symptoms, scribble a bunch of info on a piece of notebook paper, listen to your heartbeat, and scrawl off a prescription list of drugs to cover every possible malady within your maladies. I went with option 2 and got an appointment that very day.

Following the brief visit, my friend and I trapsed off to one of hundreds of well-marked pharmacies throughout the city. The pharmacies here don’t offer much in the way of easily-accessable (or recognizable) over-the-counter meds, but they all seem to have a large selection of homeopathic remedies. The friendly pharmacist quickly (and cheaply) filled my list of scrips and I left with a huge sac of medications…each with its own dosage, timing etc. By this time, though the cough lingered, I was starting to feel better already.

Truly, the hero of the story is my friend Maiwenn. She is one of the French students in the program with Jeff at the University. She has already provided me with disinfectant and band-aids for an infected finger laceration. Then cough lozenges for my throat. I then thought I would push my luck by asking her to call the student health clinic…only to find they could not see me for a week. So she and her boyfriend Sylvain quickly called another doctor they know, and had me an appointment that afternoon. She picked me up, waited with me, helped communicate with the physician on my behalf, then accompanied me to the pharmacy pick up my goodies and drove my coughing self home. Incredible selflessness for which I am grateful.

Postscript: Neither Homoepathic nor "real" cough syrop have totally relieved my symptoms yet. Now 10 days from my initial shivers, I'm still dealing with head congestion and a cough, but its really only bad at night. I've also have taken matters into my own hands and picked up 2 more cough syrops from the pharmacy, and am nursing the final few Tylenol Cold & Flu tablets a friend had brought with him from the states. Main ailment now, painful lower rib cage - a residual from last weeks coughing fits I guess.

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Part 2
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!! I wish you all wonderful time with friends and family. There is much to be thankful for indeed. What will us Americanos be doing to celebrate? Well, thanks to my good friend Beth who sent us a halloween / thanksgiving care package, our little trailer is adorned with various Thanksgiving kitsch like decorative napkins, turkey votive candles and a big cardboard turkey. It's probably the closest we'll get to having turkey here though. Since we are oven-less, we may settle for a nice French dinner out of Coq au Vin with potatoes or something. But boy will I miss pumpkin pie.

Final Note: I've tried my darndest to fix some of the broken picture links. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. (And follow instructions from your more technically savvy friends.) So, try your luck again and I hope to have some ones up soon! Oh, and regarding my last post...I bought some clothes yesterday at Zara. Size Large. I've even found jeans (at another store), so all shopping hope is not lost.

Burning

Several of you have asked about the effect in Nantes of the worst civil unrest that France has seen in decades. Jeff or I have seen no burning or rioting here. But we have been admittedly sheltered during the past week as Jeff’s school vacation took us East to the French and Swiss alps. Very appropriate then that we should know nothing of unrest or violence in the world while hidden away in our little Swiss happiness account.

But now, after reviewing Le Figaro and cnn.com among others, I see that the violence is spreading, into towns we’ve visited, have friends in or plan to visit soon. In fact, here in Nantes, there have been about 60 cars torched, a primary school burned and mixed reports about a “cultural center in downtown” being effected. I recognize some of the neighborhoods mentioned, but none are within stones throw to where we spend most of our time. We are thankful that most of Nantes seems tranquil, and I hope and pray this finds peaceful ends soon. I hope to have more to write about these emeutes including student reactions and other feedback.


Speaking of burning…..(journal excerpt 11- 6-05)

Did you know that sunsets happen every night! As if amid our hussle and bussle, God stops us and says – “here, beauty, enjoy this gift for a few moments.”

Sure, there are rainy days, like yesterday in Lyon where nary a shaft of light was seen from the heavens – but those days make me appreciate big blue fluffy-cloud days like today even more.

Now 2 long traintrips, and 2 sunsets over French countryside. For this evening’s show, I crane my neck to peer over seats and foreheads to the windows opposite my row. My fellow travelers read magazines, fiddle with cellphones..unaffected. And soon, I feel silly for being so taken in, so I try to read, but its no use. The light draws my eyes, and I was to scream “Fire!” so people will look and see the awe-ful burning horizon.

We get it almost every night. This past week I have seen yellow change to pink, to purple to velvety blue over Loire Valley vineyards, alpine valleys and the majestic Mont Blanc. And still tonight in this boxcar…I must stop and stare.

I can’t claim to be well accomplished at the art of sucking the marrow out of life. For as hard as I may try, I wish I was more attuned to the nature, and people around me. But having this time, these 4 months in France to stop, look and wonder has been a blessing. I would dare say at times this leisure is a curse – like when I am on an Alps afternoon hike in which every angle offers stunning beauty. The beauty is rich, but I could never soak it in enough, never suck enough marrow from those mountain-air moments to adequately communicate the experience. Sometimes things are too wonderous to be readily explained. One must experience it.

What’s your favorite in-explicable wonder?

Check out some flimsy camera renderings of the scenes that recently left Jeff and me speechless. Notes: In lieu of of a lengthy travel journal about our time this past week, i've just let pictures talk with a few captions. Let me know if you want some more details or specifics! Also, you may be required to "sign in". Sorry, but I promise they won't e-stalk you, it just means you can view our pics.

Time is on my side

Who would have thought that with all this time on my hands, I'd be sitting here in a University cafe, hurrying to get this entry in. You see, with the advent of WiFi connection here on campus, now Jeff and I must share his laptop, and he has much work to get done these next few days. I too, have much work to do..namely, cleaning our Mobile Home because my parents are coming to visit this evening! I will try my best to cleanse the impression of squallor ;-).

Here is a weekend trip sandwich for your pleasure. First, we scurried off to visit the Chateaux country and had a beautiful weekend away. SEE PICTURES HERE.

The following week provided its own adventure in Nantes as I worked toward my goal of: Being Able to Use the Gym. Oh the story is long and Kafka-esque but the clif notes...
To use gym must have MEdical Certificat. For medical certificate (i thought), you need social security card (which i've already paid for but am still unregistered). For social security card, I need proof of residence, a bank account and a birth certificate. Birth certificate must be translated. To find a translator I must go to the Town Hall. Town hall man #1 gets help from town hall man #2 (neither of whom speak any English). Town hall men 1 and 2 wait in line on my behalf for town hall woman #3. Town hall woman #3 prints me 5 pages of maps and names of translators - no "American" translators in Nantes. Only "Anglais" (c'mon, its just for words like "date of birth" is there really American vernacular that somebody from teh UK wouldn't know?). Town Hall woman #3 also recommends a visit to the office of Foreign Affairs (provides another map) where they may speak English and be able to help with the fact that I don't even have my Birth certificate or a copy there-of in France. I leave town hall, trying to hold in my laughter.

Long story much shorter...went to doc without social security card, was no problem. Quit my pursuit of foreign affairs officials, translators, etc. ...still haven't used the gym.

Part 2 of Weekend trip Sandwich - Normandy beaches, Caen War Museum, Bayeaux cathedral and tapestry....SEE PHOTOS HERE.

Music is Transport

(intro paragraphs omitted for brevity's sake..when i can figure out how to upload them i might, depending on how transparent I'm feeling...)

Perhaps not so dramatic, but more comfortable a scene was set. Jeff and I strolled through the sunsoaked Park du Proce’, one of many in Nantes, but I would say the most beautiful. The pleasant weather had coaxed out hundreds of others – the young and old kicked soccer balls around, elderly couples walked arm in arm, families tried to keep up with delighted children. And there, amid a scene already draped in happiness, I heard a familiar sound which made me utter to Jeff – “I think I am in heaven”. Mountain music…bluegrass perhaps, English lyrics. Bam: transported to an Appalachian cabin afternoon. The sweet familiar sounds of the mandolin and fiddle took an entirely French Sunday afternoon and positioned it in front of rolling Southeastern hills…and it made my barefeet happy.

To take a peek at some more scenes from Park De Proce, view our short LA VIE EN NANTES PHOTO ALBUM.*

Memory is a beautiful thing - during portions of ma vie it has served as a respite, others as a cave that trapped me so I couldn’t move beyond, or see the beauty of today. I would hazard to say that for me, nothing brings memory to life more than notes played, sung…I have written many times about transport via music. For me, here in this strange land, I am only headphones away from being in the lyrical arms of Jeff Buckley or within the masterful touch of Sasha’s 1’s and 2’s… Such artists take me from France to a time when I was 21 lying on the dirty floor of my apartment clearing my head of Business Finance, refilling it with artistry, and maybe thoughts of some boy. Or I am in a crowded smoky club in Athens…tired feet, ears strained to the point of pain, but..it hurts so good.

And perhaps in times apart from here, I will hear Damien Rice sing “..can’t take my eyes off you..” and think of watching the movie Closer in French…befuzzled by the still-strange language, but amused at the people around me in that stuffy classroom that I have been lucky enough to pass time with for 4 months. Or I’ll hear Moby’s 18 album and smile that people likened my husband to the weasely music genius…so I created background music to a soiree at a friend’s flat…cheese, bread, sausage, wine, and good conversation ensued, it is a pleasant memory. I thank God for music from hillside churches, to smoky clubs, to my soul.

You can shop for music later, but first, view some photos from a similar party, and some other social events involving our new friends here...visit LA VIE SOCIAL PHOTO ALBUM.*

*As always, I recommend "View Slideshow" option so you can read our informative, witty captions :-).*

- Special Thanks to Matt Elliot whose recent post on a similar theme inspired some of these musings.

So this guy walks into heaven…

Funny thing, the world is fairly small here in Nantes, and even smaller when you speak English. We’ve got a “local” where some Englishmen hang out, and non-Englishmen as well. It's John McByrnes Pub, an Irish themed place complete with Premier League Football on weekends and Celtic music Sunday nights. The other night we were “having a craic” (the Irish phrase for “a good time”, not to be confused with “having crack” of the same pronunciation but NOT necessarily equating to “a good time” in American English). So this guy walks into the bar… The bloke, a New Zealander with a guitar, starts strumming a few sing alongs...and alas, in a few brief moments, we are 3 Americans, chumming with our English mate Simon, ordering Belgian Beers from a Juan our Columbian bartender, joining a Kiwi crooner in a rousing rendition of La Bamba...en español of course. I think this is what Heaven will be like.

London, Definitely Not France

I’m starting to see France as the middle ground between Britain and Spain, a middle ground that I enjoy. While visiting Britain these past few days, Jeff and I definitely felt a little closer to home. There was the obvious language similarity of course, but many other things: slightly more efficient business practices, a greater technological saavyness, and of course, the fashion of ordering food in restaurants. The French schedule and habit of meals remains to us a code uncracked – after nearly a month, we still find ourselves negociating the territory between bar, brasserie, café, restaurant, creperie...who serves food? When? Do I order at the bar? Is service included? One conclusion - people are skinny in France because they obviously never eat at any of the above listed - only drink. However, in Britian, there is the trusty pub whose Pubgrub menu, scribbled on a chalkboard above the bar, will gladly offer patrons Bangers and Mash, Shepherds Pie and greasy “chips” at any time your belly should desire. In Britain, businesses stay open during lunch, which in France is a delightful, yet unproductive 2 hour break. Some UK businesses even open Sundays and Mondays... (Note: having made these observations, I also recognize that London is a booming international metropolis, Nantes is not. Perhaps some of these things would be different in "small town UK".)

At the other end of the equation is Spain, which I have unfortunately never visited (a major element on the proverbial "to do" list). I have heard, however, that they would put France to shame in the funky scheduling game. No breakfast, big lunch, siesta, back to work until 8pm, come home, dinner at 10:30, discoteque at 1:30, earliest, home about 6am. I think I’m thankful for France, for being relaxed enough to offer a lengthy lunch break, and no-work Sundays to stroll with the family. That said, I haven’t quite figured out how their economy will survive. Not just for the reasons listed here, but perhaps that is a discussion for another day. Until then, I can get used to late dining, lengthy mid-day breaks, and Sunday strolls. You keep working your 60-hour weeks America.

Click here for some pics from our trip to London – it was mostly a social call to spend time with our good friends Rudy and Susan Reudelhuber, and their new Baby Thad. It was incredibly refreshing to be with old friends, in a home (it even had forgotten luxuries like soft carpet, an oven, sofas, consistent internet and a big TV!!!…) we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Many thanks for their hospitality. (No pictures of either Rudy or the Reudelhuber pug, Claussen made it into our pics...We plan to meet up with them again later this fall, so more to come.)