Todd Coleman, Saveur.com

These are the pastries I was telling you about. Holy moly. Ben Mims tested these at least three or four times, and each time he tweaked the recipe, it got better. Editors would stand around the kitchen island moaning and picking at the Pyrex pan, then turning around and stuffing leftovers into Ziploc bags. One Sunday morning, after a week or two of breathing in the scent of orange zest, butter, and brown sugar at the office all week, I woke up with a really intense craving for the buns. But I was like, it’s crazy to make an entire 13×9 pan of buns because I know I will EAT THEM ALL. I better just go to the Doughnut Plant instead. So I did. And I bought four doughnuts. That’s right, FOUR DOUGHNUTS. And I ate them all. And I still wasn’t satisfied, so I went and begged Ben for the recipe so I could bake (and eat) a whole pan the following weekend anyway.

I could have saved my belly from four doughnuts, people. Do yourself a favor and just make these orange buns instead. And don’t be surprised if they become your next recipe obsession.

1. Bien Cuit‘s baguette has serious crunch and excellent salinity. Believe the hype.

2. It’s amazing how much soup you can make with bits and bobs from the fridge. I have the 8 qt. full of chunky kale kielbasa soup, the 5 qt. full of smooth butternut ginger cardamom soup.

3. I didn’t peel the carrots or the potatoes. The soup will be Sunday casual.

4. Rutabaga! Why don’t I cook you more often? I don’t know.

5. Tomorrow morning I get to have pastries I made from an upcoming SAVEUR recipe (OMG so good, just you wait).

6. I would make the most amazing wife to myself.

I had never really thought about visiting Africa. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but it just never occurred to me. I travel for food and I knew nothing about the food cultures of the entire continent, save some info on northern Africa. So when this opportunity to travel to South Africa for work came up, I was excited to go, but not that excited.

Maybe that’s why it completely blew my head open. Really. I came home and told Doug about my trip and I started to cry. I was at work this morning telling my co-worker about it and I started to cry. (And those of you who know me know that I am not the kind of person who cries at work.) I feel like my heart has been cracked open and scrambled — but in a magnificent way. And I’ve only just scratched the surface of the tiniest mote of Africa’s dust. I can’t wait to learn more and see more and visit more. It’s the birthplace of humanity, people!

There’s much to discuss overall because South Africa is a totally fascinating place with a still shocking recent history, a real masala of cultures, and a ringing energy. But I have to talk about the magic of the veld first.

I feel compelled to write about this right now because I never want to let this feeling go. My trip was filled with these vaporous, ephemeral moments that I knew could never be captured in photos. I knew all I could do was to take a long, strong hit off them, hold my breath, and try to make the memories seep into my bloodstream.

Kruger National Park and the Singita Game Reserves look the way Africa looks in the movies — Rumpelstiltskin-spun straw; arid, ruddy dirt; crooked, threadbare marula trees. The sunlight charges the dusty air with yellow gold in the late afternoon. Its rays turn into white gold as the sun begins to set in the late afternoon, casting long, silver-lined shadows on the grass. Then the last light of the day burnishes rose gold as a fuchsia sun sets the horizon on fire. The light is unreal.

And then the moon! The moon, which appears simultaneously in the sky with the sun only on full moon nights, pops up on the horizon as intense and bright as lava. As it crosses the night sky, it turns platinum white.

(I swear, below, that bright thing is the moon!)

I stayed in South Africa for ten days trying to inhale as much of the country as I could. During my final evening game drive at the Singita Sabi Sand Game Reserve, we had seen everything you could want to see: a pack of nine rhinoceroses placidly grazing new grass like paleolithic lawn mowers. A herd of cape buffalo 200 deep, their Gothic black valkyrie horns cutting through the sterling light. Lions lolling in an empty, sandy riverbed with dusty manes and full stomachs. Surprisingly stocky, placid giraffes. A sleek, calm leopard wearing a collar of spots around its neck, its tongue hanging limp in its panting mouth. A family of a dozen elephants, from a (relatively) tiny two-month-old calf drinking water between the legs of the clan matriarch to a young bull who stood right next to the vehicle for an eye- and nostril-ful of our Land Rover. Sometimes it was so quiet you could hear the buzzing of a single mosquito. Other times the cacophony could give a Lower East Side street a run for its money. I could never have imagined how much richer my life would be for having seen these things. There’s something so enchanting about hanging out with the animals and seeing them (almost) as they should always be. It isn’t just the peace of knowing that humans have given these animals a wild haven; it’s also the safe space that the animals grant to you as you observe them.

Elephants at Sabi Sand from Ganda Suthivarakom on Vimeo.

My field guide, Marc Alkema (left), is an empathic, passionate veld dweller. He’s been a guide for 12 years; the David Attenborough narration was fantastic, of course, but so was the feeling of absolute security I felt with him, even around the big game. There are few pleasures greater than to be in the care of someone who knows and loves what they do. I can’t thank him enough for sharing his world with me.

You know what’s awesome? Being reminded that there are still plenty of things in this world that can move me to tears.

Have you heard of the African wild dog? They’re an endangered species; farmers shoot them because they fear for their livestock. They’re incredible predators with an 80% strike rate. They’re sometimes called “painted wolves” because of their distinct mottled markings. They trot with light feet and instead of barking, they communicate with this distinct, high-pitched wheeze.

This ostrich had the most amazing gait. It looked like a pinheaded model with long, knock-kneed gams with a voluminous, feathery bolero around its shoulders. She took one look at us, turned at the end of the catwalk, and sashayed away.

Hyenas — way more charming than they’re portrayed in popular culture. The cubs are super cute and puppy-like. Here, they’ve made a den in an old termite hill, the tops of which always point north, like a good cool-temp apartment.

Warthogs look like heshers with mullets and chops.

Did you know that leopards can carry twice their weight up into trees? Here, a leopard has pulled the body of an impala up, hanging its neck from the crook of this tree. Can you see it? They do this to keep their food from the hyenas (though sometimes lions scavenge their kills, too).

The moment that broke me happened night before I had to leave. We were driving back to the lodge when we came to a hill where a blubbery boysenberry hippo was enjoying his nightly meal, chomping on grass and paying no mind to the traffic jam he was causing. He finally mozied away and we crested the hill, driving down into the dry stone bed of a low stream. There were large, glass-like puddles of still water between wide, flat rocks. Marc cut the engine and Louis, our tracker, turned off the floodlight he had been using to sweep for nocturnal animals. The cool night air enveloped us, and without the sound of the Land Rover, the full-scale orchestra of bush sounds poured into our ears — the snorts and guttural, staccato woofs of the hippos; the low, wooded croak of toads; the high-stringed chirps of the huge katydid populace.

I turned to my left and saw what Marc knew was there – thousands of fireflies bobbing and sparkling, their phosphorescent tails glowing bluish-green at eye level. The insects’ spectacular light show blended seamlessly with the stars of the southern hemisphere — the southern cross and Scorpio and Aries and the pearly smear of the Milky Way twinkling all around us in an infinite curve. It was a moment of beauty I wanted to sear into my heart forever. I’ll never, ever forget it.

This experience made me grateful for those precious moments of splendor and reminded me how generous the world can be with them when you pay attention. I cried quite a bit that night and I cried again the morning I had to leave. On our way from the airport, the man in my shuttle with kind eyes tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I was moved to see you so touched by Africa. We all are. Is this your first time?” he asked.

I nodded sheepishly.

“Well,” he said, “I know it won’t be your last.”

Yesterday morning I woke up to WNYC and heard Evan Kleiman raving about a fresh blueberry pie recipe. 30 words, maybe 15 seconds, and then the segment was over.

But it stuck in my head. A pie with fresh, succulent blueberries! Not indigo glop! Perfect for this time of year when the farmers market is awash in plump, pincushion New Jersey bluebs.

I went to bed last night and had air conditioner noise-induced dreams about this pie. Fresh blueberry pie….fresh blueberries…in pie…plump and juicy…quit it with the pie and fucking go to sleep already…fresh blueberries….

So when I woke up, I knew I had one task for the day and one task only – find that recipe and make that pie.

I googled “Evan Kleiman fresh blueberry pie” and found it: Dorothy’s Fresh Blueberry Pie from the blog Shockingly Delicious. And I’m telling you, it IS genius. You cook a little less than half the berries with some sugar and cornstarch, then you fold in bucketfuls of fresh blueberries and put the mixture into a blind-baked crust. Refrigerate for a few hours, then serve with a little whipped cream.

ZOMG SO GOOD. Huge hit at the barbecue I went to tonight.

This magical recipe solved my general problem with pies and cobblers in the summer, which are:

1. My kitchen is not air conditioned so I don’t want to have the oven on for an hour

and

2. It’s really hard to beat the texture and flavor of ripe, raw summer fruit. It’s one thing to make jams to preserve that flavor for the bland winter months, but it feels somehow audacious to think one can improve on the summer’s ripest fruit.

That’s why I love love love this recipe. It’s the best of both worlds – a tiny bit of cooking (blind baking the crust and making a sort of blueberry jam as a binder) and scads of juicy local blueberries, just as nature intended them to be enjoyed. The slices actually hold together much better than traditional goopy blueberry pie. It’s such a pleasure to take bite after bite of bursting, sweet-tart, raw blueberries which are slicked and sugared and spiced just enough to sex them up the tiniest bit. It’s like the difference between a little lip gloss and mascara vs. Glamour Shots spackling.

Also, it’s dead simple! Really, you must try it. Low LOE, high ROI. Thank you Dorothy Reinhold (and Evan Kleiman) for introducing me to my new summer standard.

A few notes:

• Get the best locally grown blueberries you can find. I got my fruit from the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket where pints were 2 for $7. I used about 6 pints for two pies. Rinse well and pick them over for stems and leaves.
• I used Smitten Kitchen’s all butter pie crust recipe (go easy on the water). Blind bake at 375 degrees with parchment and pie weights for 20 minutes, poke with a fork all over, then continue baking another 10 minutes without the parchment and pie weights.
• And if you, like me, don’t have room in your kitchen for a stainless steel counter, I have one of these nifty Roul’pats for easy rolling.

There’s a guy walking down 4th Ave. about 10 feet ahead of me. He turns around to look at me.

GUY: Excuse me. You’re gorgeous.

ME: [laughing] Thank you.

We walk about five more steps.

GUY: Can I give you my number?

ME: [laughing] No, thanks.

We walk two more steps.

GUY: Well, I had to ask.

We continue walking up 4th Ave., he about 15 paces ahead of me. He doesn’t turn.

We reach the end of the block. Dammit! Now I feel weird. I can’t decide if I should slow down or not.

I duck into the gas station to hide for a few minutes, wondering, am I being weird? Or is he being weird?

So who IS the weirdo here?

This is the remainder of The Best Canelé I Have Ever Had. It is the canelé that finally made me understand what the BFD with canelés is. The satisfying crunch of the fluted, caramelized edges is key—makes the contrast with the rummy clafoutis center that much better. It was crisp and brown on the outside, boozy and soft on the inside, kind of like me after my trip to France.

Here’s the thing—we got it at the Boulangerie Paul on rue de Buci. I know it’s a chain, and you don’t have to believe me on this, but I’m telling you, it was amazing. For the rest of the trip, we bought and ate canelés wherever we came across them and none lived up to the one pictured here. We even went to another Paul near our hotel and the canelé was just like all other canelés I’ve had, which is to say soft and boring and WTF? Makes me want to go to Bordeaux and root out the original.

I’ve heard there are good ones at Pierre Hermé, but I didn’t get over there this trip. Anyway, if you’re near rue de Buci, pick one up and tell me what you think, you lucky bastard.

Paul
17 and 21 rue de Buci
6th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 55 42 02 23

UPDATE: Look, an NYC canelé crawl! Looks like I have to make a trip to Balthazar, though that extra-dark Michael Allen one looks like the jam, too. This San Francisco canelé looks pretty amazing, too (via Chow).

Tags: Paris

I didn’t take any vacation in 2010. It’s true! I tried to, but then I had to come back to work to resolve some issues and then – poof! – 2010 was over.

My friend Jenny and I had been talking about going to Paris and Provence pretty much since my first trip there in 2009, when I fell in love with the City of Light. So when we bought our tickets in the beginning of the year, the trip felt millennia away. But I put my nose to the grindstone, looked up for a second and – poof! – it was time to go!

My love for Paris has no context, really. I was never one of those English majors who wanted to chase Hemingway’s ghost through the Left Bank. Nor have I ever been an art nerd interested in dedicating long afternoons to the Centre Pompidou or the Louvre. I’m not a fashion fiend or a chef chaser.

I just really like soaking in the beauty of the place. I decided that for this trip, I didn’t need a fancy reservation or a firm itinerary; I just wanted to cycle around, pick up each scene between my index finger and thumb and gobble it up.

What’s so great about Paris? I think it’s the life I can imagine for myself when I look at all of these people. Parisians aren’t just gorgeous, they’re confident, assured about their beauty. I want to be them AND to be with them. My French is très mauvais, which means I really have no idea what goes on in their inner lives; maybe that’s why I can crush on them so hard. As I observe them, there’s a montage of Parisian scenes I sort of mentally deposit myself into.

*

I’m the French counter guy at the Rose Bakery. My accented English is close to impeccable because I practice every day with the American pastry chefs who man the ovens, baking coffee mug-sized muffins and gluten-free loaf cakes for the many tourists who have breakfast here. I scoop surprising sides like black sesame roasted potatoes and radish-cucumber salad into takeaway boxes for the locals at lunchtime. I’m having an affair with the wispy English rose of a waitress. I love her mascaraed eyes, her tiny waist, and the way she pronounces “assiettes des legumes” with a grass snake hiss.

*

I’m that teenage girl at the Tuileries straddling my boyfriend behind the hedges and making out. What do you mean, aren’t I embarrassed? OF COURSE I’m not embarrassed. What’s embarrassing about TRUE LOVE? I’m going to put our lock on the Pont des Arts and throw the key into the Seine. If anyone tries to cut our lock I’ll throw myself into the river, too. I MEAN IT.

*

I’m Auguste Rodin living in my big ass mansion with my big ass rose garden and my big ass hedges for my big ass statues. Ne me dérangez pas! Je pense.

*

I’m that young lady in the tulip skirt sitting at the bar by myself. I came to Marcel, a cafe on the most beautiful, dappled street tucked at the top of the Montmartre. The wooden cubbies on the wall are lined with cans of Heinz Baked Beans and Tabasco sauce for purchase; it’s like a little bit of Williamsburg in Paris. I cozied up to a plate of creamy moules with golden frites and a glass tumbler full of Eton mess, brimming with mara des bois. That cute waiter has asked me twice if I want a coffee. I wonder if my French is convincing enough for him to think I’m from here.

*

I’m that dazzling racehorse of a woman who joins her businessman companions halfway through their lunch at Marcel. I’m in my early forties; I’m sleeping with the older businessman, but I could nail the younger one with a single come hither look. No one has ever rocked a heathered V-neck and belted white jeans like I can. My tousled auburn bedhead is richly striated and subtle – sure, it’s my own hair color, artistically speaking. I’m as thin as a centime except for a few strategic slopes and valleys. Really, darlings, this is nothing; you should have seen me sunning in Saint-Tropez.

*

I’m in kitten heels, stripes, and Ray-Bans riding a Velib’ bike* to work in this glorious weather. My perma-pursed lips are a little orange-red heart punctuating every sentence and my wavy hair is perched in a haphazard pile atop my head. I’m going to pick up a baguette on the way home — any baguette from any corner shop — which will come in a 10″-sack that only protects half of the baton’s length from the elements, preserving the crackle-chew of its crust. I’ll also grab some dark and gamy raspberries from my favorite greengrocer. He’ll pack them neatly in a paper bag for me so they don’t fly around the bike’s wire basket.

*

I’m the Middle Eastern man steeping thé a la menthe in bulbous copper kettles all day, perfuming the air around the Canal St. Martin. I pour the sweetened, fragrant tea into little plastic cups and top with a teaspoonful of toasted almonds. Go ahead, take a delicate fleur d’oranger honeyed almond paste sweet, too. You know you want one. My fluffy Maltese sits by my stand and barks at my customers all day, but nobody takes her very seriously.

*

I’m the bespectacled, scarf-wearing, bald hipster in for a late night dinner of dessert and Gauloises at Le Dauphin. Thank god for the small plates in this place; my gut wouldn’t be able to handle a whole meal next door at Le Chateaubriand. My blue chambray looks smashing against the cool gray marble of the Rem Koolhaus room. But those mirrors, those mirrors! Trop de la vérité, I tell you. Turn this room on its side, take 15 kilos off me, and it would be just like that summer I spent up my nose when I was 21. You know, if it weren’t so unfashionable to be this fat, I’d have that dreamy squid ink risotto, its hot ooze as black as my heart. As it is, I’ll content myself with a strawberry rhubarb crumble showered with elderflowers, or a bit of this cool frozen fermented milk with olive oil and thyme. Mademoiselle, another adorable bottle of the pink bulles, please.

*

I’m a teacher living on Rue des Rosiers in a rooftop apartment with a slanted ceiling and two balconies. Would you like to come over for some cold rosé? Ah, thank you for the beautiful gariguette strawberries. Let me spoon some crème fraîche into a bowl for dipping.

Let’s walk across the Pont Marie to Le Petit Pontoise. It’s hard to beat the sunset behind the tented fingers of Notre Dame. It’s late; I don’t think we’ll need a reservation. It’s a Monday night, and things are pretty quiet on the left bank. Look, a table out front for us! What beats a warm camembert with honey and almonds? Pass me those sweet, tawny crevettes and cool, tender haricots verts. Mmm…taste this velvety foie de veau and mashed potatoes! Let’s split a bottle of white burgundy and sip the final dregs of cornflower from May’s 23:00 sky.

***

Musée Rodin
79, rue de Varenne
7th Arrondissement
+33(0)1 44 18 61 10

Rose Bakery
30, rue Debelleyme
3rd Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 44 78 08 97
Closed Mondays

Marcel
1, villa Léandre
18th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 46 06 04 04

Le Dauphin
131, avenue Parmentier
11th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 55 28 78 88

Le Petit Pontoise
9, rue de Pontoise
5th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 43 29 25 20

Hotels in Paris can be tough. My last trip to Paris was spent in the dankest hostel with loud, messy college kids climbing up and down bunk beds with NBA player feet. For this trip, we spent most nights in the clean Hotel Turenne le Marais, which was fine except that the room was a shoebox, the two narrow beds about the size of electric guitar cases. On our last night, we stayed at the charming Hotel Jeanne d’Arc le Marais just around the corner, which was a touch quieter and roomier. It seems to be quite popular, so it can be hard to book a room, but I really enjoyed our brief stay there and recommend it.

Hotel Jeanne d’Arc le Marais
3, rue de Jarente
4th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 48 87 62 11

View Paris 2011 in a larger map

*You CAN rent Velib’ bikes with a chipless American credit card! The machines take American Express cards only (neither my Mastercard debit nor credit card worked). It costs 8 Euros for a 7-day membership and 29 Euros for a one-year membership (which is amazing). The stations are everywhere. Download the Velib’ app to find the bike station near you. In well-populated areas late at night, it can be hard to find an empty parking spot for the bike. Don’t fret, though—the next bike station is usually not more than a few blocks away. The bikeshare program makes so much sense in a dense city of Paris’s scale. I love that you can park a bike, walk a ways, then pick up a different bike wherever you want to. Drivers are quite aware of cyclists and people seem to follow the traffic rules (including stopping at red lights). One thing to know: while people love to ride their Velib’ bikes down the hill from Montmartre, not many people like to take the bikes up the hill TO Montmartre, which means there are lots of empty bike stations up there.

*

And I’ll tell you who I’m not — I’m not this lame-ass tourist couple sitting on the steps of the Sacré-CÅ“ur with interlocked arms reading aloud from a single copy of Le Petit Prince. Pardonnez moi, I just vommed all over them.

Tags: Paris

I like to think that my bicycle commute is the loveliest part of my day. And it can be, especially on a breezy, mid-70s day like today. However, it can also make me a cranky, clenched bitch.

New York pedestrians are an entitled lot, and much of my commute in either direction was spent accumulating and hocking my anger-lugeys at the dickveins blocking the bike lane. My epithet-hurling started out a little lame and rusty during the morning commute, but by the time I made my way down that particularly smegmatic 10pm stretch of 2nd Avenue from the itchy scrotum of Murray Hill to the bulging hemorrhoids of the Lower East Side, I was in excellent form. Of the people who crossed my bike path today, it would be really difficult for me to choose the one I liked the least, so I’ll start with the one I liked and let it all go downhill from there.

Location: Park Slope, 5th Ave., in front of The Gate.

Subject: A young man with two French bulldogs waiting for the walk signal to turn green. Once it does, he and the dogs begin to cross from west to east. The black bulldog trots happily alongside the young man. The white bulldog plods slowly behind, its stumpy little legs inching forward at a stately pace. Its walker patiently leads it towards the corner, never tugging.

Reaction: <3 <3 <3

Location: Jay Street near the courthouse

Subject: A man with a briefcase jaywalking in the middle of the street, nowhere near the crosswalk. He’s standing in the car lane, about to step into the bike lane as I approach. I put the brakes on. He pauses. Then he has the gall to say, “Make a decision,” while  standing in the middle of the fucking car lane.

My reaction: A very lame, “Y-Y-YOU make a decision!”

Location: The Manhattan Bridge

Subject: A Chinese guy* on a motorized bike ascending the Brooklyn side of the bridge at an excruciatingly slow pace, all while the motor is emitting its dying mosquito buzz as it struggles up the incline.

My reaction: I wait for a descending cyclist to pass, then I pass the old man. Then, because I am a slow rider, I hear the buzz chase me all the way to the top of the bridge. Mental note: must get in better shape and ride  faster if I can be tailgated by a mosquito.

Location: East Village, 1st Ave. and 10th St.

Subject: A young brunette woman standing on the inner edge of the bike lane while her leashed dog is squarely in the middle of the fucking bike lane.

My reaction: Ding-ding-ding-ding! rings my bell. “Your dog!” Ding-ding-ding! “BIKE LANE!” She finally pulls her dog up on the sidewalk, turning. I see that she is talking on her fucking cell phone. For the rest of the commute to work, I have a seething fantasy about telling her how much I would enjoy being there when her world crumbles after her dog gets run over by someone who rides faster than I do. What will she and her E.V. banker husband do when they no longer have a canine buffer to prop their empty sockless loafer lives up? How will she clean up the mess when her golden pup becomes another glob of viscera and fur, not unlike the TWO separate dead rats I’ve ridden around in the bike lane both Tuesday and today? (Any bets on how long I’ll see those rats on my commute, decomposing away?)

Location: In front of the Kips Bay Movie Theater, Kips Bay

Subject: A couple, he in a tucked-in polo shirt and khakis, she in a skirt. They are walking against traffic in the middle of the bike lane. They look like they’re on a date and about to see a movie. They seem kind of new to New York.

My reaction: “Get out of the  bike lane. Assholes!” They don’t react. I hope I’ve ruined the possibility of enjoying their movie as they think about their first time being called assholes in NYC. Mwahahahahahahaha!

Location: About 23rd and 2nd Ave.

Subject: A guy coasting slowly on his bike while another guy walks along the right side of the bike in tandem. It would be sort of romantic, except that there are several bikes behind the two. To pass, the bikes behind must ride in traffic and get back into the bike lane ahead of them.

My reaction: “Oh COME ON!”

Their reaction: “You come on!” Which I realize is what I did this morning. I hope his comeback feels equally lame.

Location: About 14th St. and 2nd Ave.

Subject: A Chinese guy* on a motorized bike. I must admit that I have a thing against motorized bicycles. Like, what, you’re too good to pedal like the rest of us? But I especially disliked this guy because, get this, he was riding SIDE SADDLE. Swear to god. Was the wittle seaty-weaty too hard for his wittle ballsy-wallsies?

My reaction: ??@#??

*And it’s always a Chinese guy. What’s with the motorized bikes and the Chinese? Is there some secret underground bike shop in Chinatown where you can get a little jet pack for your two-wheeler?

AAAARRRRGGGH! I’m going to France on Sunday! AAAAAAAARRRRRGHGHHHGasdlf jalsdkfj!

I can’t believe it’s already here. I’ve been planning this trip for ages. Now that I’m only two days away, the Dominican lunch counter beef stew I had for dinner refuses to yield to my digestive system. Despite my bust of a trip across Gotland, the idea of a bike tour still thrills me. This time, my very fit pal Jenny is coming along to shame me when my doughy ass meets a hill. We’ll be going to Paris, then taking a train to Avignon and doing a self-guided tour there. (It’s the same trip that was written up in the NYT a few years ago.)

I bought a book that assured me I could learn French in 15 minutes a day. It looked pretty good; alas, I only looked at it once. And I don’t even remember what I learned.

My iPhone is dead so I think I will go without it which I’m kind of psyched about, though I realize it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have working GPS. This means no tweeting, which I also think will be good for me. Perhaps I will get better at forming thoughts with fully-enunciated words and proper serial commas. Also, I will be relying on the old point-and-shoot for pics. It’ll be old-school EDOW up in dis bizzzz.

How do I pack for 4 days in Paris (Posh Spice) and 4 days cycling in Provence (Sporty Spice)?? How do I leave enough room for the edible souvenirs I will bring back? Should I bring my pannier or leave it? Will the bike I rent even have a rack??

The weather is in the mid-70s in Paris. It’s in the low 80s in Avignon. I just bought three pairs of pants with elastic waistbands. BRING ON LE BEURRE.

I have no restaurant reservations anywhere and I am not eating anywhere fancy (except maybe Chateaubriand if we can get a 10pm table).

GAHHH! France!

According to the automatically created related posts link on my previous post, I have lost my keys before. And now that I think of it, I think I’ve lost my keys three times in my life so far. That’s one time per decade, which is not a bad average (though I didn’t start using keys until I was into my second decade, but whatever).

I have also had key miracles, as I did using a skeleton key from Brooklyn to open a Copenhagen bathroom door that had been shut by the wind.

This story begins, as all my stories do, with a quest involving food. I am en route to a friend’s house for fastelavnsboller, the Danish version of semlor, pre-Lent. I’m making very good time on my bike when I think, hey, why don’t I stop to pick up some coffee beans for the week at REDACTED? All seems copacetic. I leave the cafe with my beans and walk towards my bike, where I see that another girl is locking her bike up to the bike rack.

GIRL: Am I in your way?

ME: No, it’s alright, I’ll just go around to the other side.

I walk around to the curb side of the bike rack and reach into my vest pocket to pull my keys out. (You see where this is going.) I feel metal against my fingers, but then the keys slip out of my grasp and — jingle! klang! plop! — they fall down the metal grate of a sewer drain. A douchebag who happens to observe the entire thing sings, “OHHHHHH!” in the falling tone of an anvil drop. The girl I had valiantly stepped around freezes in guilty horror. I start laughing. I mean, what the what?

I squat and peer down into the sewer grate. It’s the kind where there’s a 3-foot wide by 6-inch tall opening along the curb, but the hole in the ground is covered by a grate that is bolted down well with slots that are barely two inches wide — big enough for my keys to fall through but not big enough for my arm to fit. It’s probably five feet from the grate to the pool of mucky, standing water at the bottom. D-bag, probably feeling repentant for laughing at my misfortune, comes over.

DBAG: You could totally get down there.

ME: No, I couldn’t!

DBAG: Yeah you could.

He reaches into his pocket for a lighter, sparks it up and puts his hand into the grate.

DBAG: Yeah, you totally could. Good luck.

The bike girl asks if I want her to stay, but I tell her I’m fine. I still have my wallet and my phone, it’s a sunny day, and I still have half an hour before I’ll be late for Danish buns. I think, this is just a problem, and solving problems is what I do best! I can do this! I never felt so good, I never felt so strong, nothing can stop us now! I am going to straight up MacGyver this shit!

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