Holy Mac-arons

I am that person who always looks at the dessert menu before choosing which entree I will order. 

I will balance a whole day of calories to fit in a special dessert. 

I eat chocolate, though not always dark and more rarely white, every day for medicinal purposes. 

While visiting my daughter, who is living in the City of Lights, last month, where she is operating under the auspices of being an au pair for an authentic French family, I signed up my sister and myself for a macaron baking class at Cook'n With Class, a cooking school in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. 

Forgive the length of that last sentence. I am still operating on a sugar high that two days of jet lag could not dissipate. 

My sister/travel pal and I were on an eight-day Paris/Amsterdam adventure. 

You might say we were once again living vicariously through my daughter, her favorite niece, and taking advantage of this student of the globe's language and orienteering skills. 

 This  was our third trip to see what the kid (also my missing in action IT girl) was up to. We had visited her in Spain when she was studying abroad two years ago and last year caught up with her while she was interning in Chile. 

My sister puts up with my snoring on these visits. And I try to navigate our travel plans around her low tolerance of museums. We love hop-on, hop-off tour buses to get an overview of our destinations. We rely on my daughter's recommendations and our concierge staff to not only take advantage of the obvious tourist attractions, but to go off the beaten path -- literally in Iguazu to see the waterfalls between Argentina and Brazil. 

I promise you loyal readers that trip was a blog unto itself and I shall sit and write it someday before the details become too fuzzy or exaggerated. 

Back to the macarons (I am spelling the cookie this way because it is the way our culinary instructor Briony Laberthonniere typed it in the note and recipe she sent after I graduated from the three-hour baking class). 
Macaroons ROONS in the states. Macarons RAHNS in France. There was no coconut in the French treat.

We booked the class when our trip to Normandy got cancelled and my sister dug her heals in when I suggested we check out another museum. I'd Googled the cooking classes for something to do between meals while my daughter was working. They also offered shopping with the chef outings that would then produce lunch and dinner gastro experiences.There are other baking classes in their catalogue.
My sister and I had spent the previous day marching up and down drizzly Montmartre on a very good "free city tour" and visiting the Mona Lisa with a few thousand fans. So I was looking for something a little more relaxing and different to polish off our Paris stay. 

We'd already tasted our way thru a few boulangerie and dessert menus.

So after lunch at the local boulangerie, near our boutique hotel, where we shared an amazing eclair, we waved goodbye to the daughter and taxied off to our baking adventure. 

The last time my sister and I baked together we were trying to save three batches of cookies for a cookie exchange she was going to. That year for a birthday present I sent her a proper dough stirring spoon, because her utensils literally don't cut it.
A champion brownie maker, pro bake sale mom and pie artisan I have plenty of utensils in my kitchen. At least I thought so until aproning-up for the macaron class and realizing we would be weighing ingredients for accuracy purpose and using professional sifters and strainers I don't have at home. I also don't keep almond flour handy in the pantry. Obstacles, obstacles, obstacles.
I was not intimidated by the project, despite the fact we would be measuring in liters not ounces. I wasn't even shaken by the fact the eggs had already been separating for days, awaiting our decision over whether we would make the meringue for the macarons the French way or the Italian way.
The five Americans registered for the class voted unanimously for the Italian way. This did not offend our instructor, a native Aussie, who had explained the different prep methods to get the perfect meringue for the task ahead.
I have been making my own very popular chocolate chip meringue cookies the French way, sprinkling in the sugar. The Italian way you liquefy the sugar before adding it to the peaks. By liquefying the sugar you have much more control.
I will not bore you with too many other details about the afternoon's baking. Even after we mastered the piping of the petite puffs and later the filling and coupling of the cushions, we were awed by the experience. Three different ganaches gave them their distinct tastes. The outer shell, had one taste but we made them in three different colors, brushing gold dust on the salted caramel filled pastries.
Each of us packed up a baker's dozen of the delights to take home. Orphans were taste tested by the class and I think we really surprised ourselves.
My sister's set made it safely back to Philadelphia. I shared my box with the concierge at my hotel, then sent the rest of my macarons home with my daughter to let the family she works for sample them.
How do you say thumbs up in French?
On the taxi ride back to our hotel, before meeting one of my daughter's friends for dinner and dessert (but of course), I figured out each macaron cost about $12. Yes, you could buy a dozen at Costco for under $9 for Mother's Day last week.
Trust me they do not taste the same. The experience, however, was priceless.
I am not claiming that our batches were as good as those you might purchase in Paris at Ladur'ee.
The experience, however, was priceless.

***

I have attached the link to the cooking school if you want to step up to the challenge. 

Join Cook'n With Class on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/facecwc for the latest news and Paris activities.

I am trying to upload the recipe and a troubleshooting file but I will need help from my IT Gal.

The rules have gone to the dogs for some people

Where to start?
Even the man who opened the door for the woman with the accessory dog knew it wouldn't sit right.
This was not Europe. Theirs was not a working dog.
"What will you do if they don't let you bring the dog in?" he asked as he opened the Starbucks' door, for her, the dog and the two children tagging along with them.
"I'll go outside,'' she said.
The rule follower in me couldn't believe what I was hearing, let alone watching, as I followed them inside for my caffeine fix.
She sat down at the table closest to the door as the man and the two children got in line for breakfast treats and beverages. I waited patiently behind them. 
Seething. 
I tried to reel it in. I could hear the voice of one of my closest friends telling me to ignore it. It was not hurting me. Looking around I could see other customers acknowledging the dog, ignoring the scenario.
Hey, it doesn't hurt me to watch infants put salt shakers in their mouths while their parents text and talk at a restaurant table, but I let the waitress know to remove the compromised condiment container before the next unsuspecting customer reaches for it.
I've mellowed, even though I have moved a few years closer to losing that filter we all try to engage until we get old enough to ignore it completely.
The old me, the me that got cursed out and was once told to mind her own business after suggesting a less-than-attentive dad have his toddler sit down in the grocery cart instead of allowing her to stand to reach something out of realistic grasp on an end stand, would have confronted dog-toting woman.
Time has taught me that people are crazy, so I really don't like to confront people unless I see someone in danger.
FYI, I have watched a child a few feet away tumble out of a grocery cart. It's not pretty.
The dog in the Starbucks on this subzero day was not really endangering anyone. I've seen children with drippy, glazed donut faces touching everything in sight, being more dangerous.
The owner was, however, breaking the law.
The woman made no attempt to really hide the dog under her arm. Not even when the manager, who had already had to ask someone to take their dog out earlier that day, went over to break it to her that dogs are not allowed inside unless they are working dogs.
The woman said she would go outside and wait in the car; the rest of her party was still waiting for its complicated drink/breakfast order to be complete.
But, she still sat and chatted with a person she knew, modeling behavior in front of the children.
 I was still waiting to get my coffee. I had opted for decaf.
As I was leaving and she was still talking to her friend, the dog gave me a look. It's beautiful face begging for sympathy.
Maybe he was a working dog after all.

Bucket list motivation

I was sad -- not surprised -- that David Letterman announced he will be retiring next year from hosting CBS's "Late Show."
Sad because David Letterman has been a constant in my TV-viewing life, since he was on in the mornings.
I used to wake up and eat breakfast while watching NBC's "The David Letterman Show" on my black and white portable TV, during my cub reporting days in Florida. 
Most people I know don't remember Dave used to be on in daylight.
Motivated by his humor and shtick I'd head to work with a smile on my face and some "Davisms" to share with my fellow newspaper co-workers.
I am not surprised that Dave is retiring. I know how hard it is to be funny. That's why you have not seen me crank out this blog on a consistent basis. It's hard to be funny, and I'm writing for a much less demanding audience.
Can you imagine having to come up with an entertaining "Top Ten List'' five days a week, let alone an entire hour each night of fun and crazy?
Dave's been pretty funny for more than three decades. He is the longest-serving late-night host in TV history.  Aside from quintuple bypass surgery, a writers' strike, and switching networks, Dave has not missed many days of work. 
 Thursday he told CBS president and CEO Les Moonves, his boss, he will retire sometime in 2015, when his contract is to expire.
The timing was good. He had outlasted Jay Leno, who left NBC's "Tonight Show," this year.
Dave, 66, has not yet been obliterated by the youthful Jimmy(s), Kimmel and now Fallon, in the current fight for the highly coveted late-night audience. But I have to admit, I have not watched as much Dave as I have Fallon in the past month. 
I will have to move attending a "Late Show" taping toward the top of my bucket list now that Dave has set a deadline. I can't tell you how many times I have looked on line to get tickets, and or dropped by the closed box office during trips to New York.
Even last summer I strolled under that iconic marquee at the Ed Sullivan Theater, and thought I would try again the next time.

***

Dave's body is not even room temperature (I hear the studio is kept at near-freezing) and people are talking about who will replace him. Since no one will ever really replace Dave, I hope TV execs at CBS will do something different and put a woman behind that late-night desk. Women, after all, make up more than half the audience. I hope they won't overlook Tina Fey and Jane Lynch.

I will take a pass, because it just is too hard to be funny all the time. 

Don't try to pass along that train pass

Tuesday my son stepped on the train and used my husband's monthly Metra pass to ride into the city without aggravation.
I can't say I have had the same luck.
Who would have thought a monthly Metra pass would not be gender neutral?
Who would have thought it mattered whether a male or female butt took up a seat?
In the words of one of my dear friends "why does it matter whose (expletive) butt is in the seat if you have a monthly pass?"
"You can't use this pass,'' the conductor informed me last month when I attempted to meet my husband in the city.
"What?" I said, a bit embarrassed to be called out in front of peers in the quiet car. "You are female and the pass is marked male.
"$6.25 please."
I scrambled for change in my wallet and a little dignity.
My husband, who drove into the loop that day so we could drive home together after dinner, had given me his pass to "use" his Metra seat.
A nouveau-commuter, he had not noticed the M and F boxes at the top of the monthly pass. The M had been marked, with an X, with a permanent marker. My husband also had not noticed --as did I -- or chose to ignore -- as did I -- that the pass is not transferable. 
Ten-day passes were always good for that purpose.
Unless you are a same-sex couple, or son of a father, or mother of a daughter, etc., a picky conductor is going to cramp your flexibility.
There is no photograph of the commuter or finger print to guarantee the monthly pass is not transferable. Just an M and a F and in this case a big X on the corner.
It does not matter how many times service is interrupted or discontinued due to weather during the ticket's tenure. It does not matter that you purchased ridership for 60-61 passages and you only really used 40 if you are consistently riding five times a week.
It did not matter that my husband did not ride into the loop the day he let me ride in.
It matters where the check is marked on the M or F space.
Of course if you purchase the monthly pass from a non-gender-discriminating machine instead of a ticket agent, or thru your company's Flex-Payroll program, it is not marked at all.
So earlier this month, with my husband's new unmarked-monthly pass in my pocket, I was going to attempt to use it and meet him in the loop.
I was surprised to see the same conductor approach me for my fare. I was afraid -- because I am a rule follower -- to hand her the unmarked pass. I was also afraid she would recognize me and confiscate my husband's $160 pass, or worse mark the F with permanent marker so he would have trouble using it the balance of the month. 
I had my unfair fare, ready, in my sweaty palm.
"$5.75" she said, not making eye contact.
"Oh?" I said, thinking last time the same train, same time cost me more.
"$5.75"
I did not know if she was pegging me for a senior fare or if I had just experienced one of the reasons the rail line, which is still WIFIless in 2014 (a whole other blog), is in financial distress.
INCONSISTENCY, not people riding on other people's monthly passes.
I justified my not arguing up the fare with her by justifying in my head that the seat I was sitting in had already been paid for.
More than once.

Just how cold is it?

If there is one thing people in the Chicagoland area can agree on, it is that we are sick of the weather.
Sick of the snow. 
Sick of the ice.
Sick of the slush.
Sick of the snow blower and shovel.
Sick of the slush freezing into more ice.
Sick of the salt-shortage stories.
Sick of the record-breaking snowfalls and temperatures.
Winter is not one category that I care to win a competition in.
Those of you hoping we will soon surpass the third snowiest winter statistics, get a hold of yourselves.
Watch what you wish for.
For those of you keeping track of our record-setting sub-zero days, knock it off.
Isn't one sub-zero day enough?
The only upside to the cold side of Chicago, is that crime drops.
Remember when the weather was on the 8s on the Weather Channel and at the 18-minute mark of the local news?
Now it is the lead, it is the center, it is the topic that makes the sports crew cram results into agate-sized air time.
Weather is breaking news. Something I don't understand since the TV stations forecast the impending storms for days before it becomes breaking news.
When we moved here 17 years ago from Florida, people thought we were crazy. My husband's former employer thought I was joking when I asked for a team of huskies and a full-length fur coat as part of our relocation package. After this gray, cold, snowy winter I am beginning to believe I am going crazy.
Life goes on in Chicagoland when it is winter. People here don't clear off the grocery store shelves for a two-day event like they do on the East Coast. Here they shovel paths to their barbecue grills.
While growing up in Philadelphia, schools closed on the first inch or two in a forecast (maybe because we walked to and from school back then). Our local schools here have closed a record four times this year. My friend Lynne in Virginia said her daughter has had more snow days since she moved there than Lynne, a native Chicagoan, had in her entire life.
Virginians, like Pennsylvanians, run to get bread and milk in the house just in case the weather would strand them.
My mom, before moving into assisted living and then passing away a year ago, was one of the worst offenders of that panic purchasing. She didn't even drink milk, but would have my sister or someone else rushing out, to make sure she had milk in the house.
You do not want milk, or a ton of other perishable provisions, in the house if you are going to lose power for a few days. My sister just found that out when she was plunged into polar darkness for nearly a week in her suburban Philly home.
Another perk of living in the Chicagoland area is you can keep your groceries in the car for hours while driving around or even days if the power goes out. Don't try that in Orlando. Even in winter (it was going to be 85 degrees there today).
While the weather here is killing the retail economy, travel agents are all a flutter. Despite our major airport canceling 7.5 percent of its flights this winter, people are getting out of Dodge. Why they have come back is beyond me.
My husband and I will make another attempt to visit friends in Arizona later this month. Our first plan to escape the weather here for a weekend, was foiled three weeks ago by a plane cancellation. I had the optimistic pedicure and everything packed when the flight notice came in that afternoon. Ironically, not a flake or flurry going on here or in Scottsdale that day. But the weather around the rest of the country mucked up our departure.
The airline called it an equipment problem. Maybe the equipment was snowed in on the East Coast and the aircraft could not get into Chicago.
Guaranteed blizzard later this month when we attempt to escape for Scottsdale II.
My friends in Florida, who have done periodic health checks on us this winter without making jokes about the weather, have offered to host us. We just have not been able to get there.
One of my dear friends asked what I've been doing to stay sane. I recently traded my Sebring Convertible for a new SUV so we can get over the end of the driveway, where the snowplows sock you in.
Even when it is cold and gray you have to get out of your house for fresh air. Sometimes I go out to get the mail. I have been going to the fitness center and Starbucks.
I drink a lot of coffee (decaf because my eyes have been twitching), I watch too much TV. I read, I nap, I snack, I have become a house cat. Sometimes I write.
Today my friend D and I went for a reflexology massages. Her birthday gift to me. It was a good way to get the circulation going and got me away from the house. I don't think I would have enjoyed the outing if I had been sweaty. It was a good plan to go on a day when you were numb walking into the business.
Yesterday, while eating fantastic charred grilled cheese sandwiches (just like the ones I make at home) and homemade soup (is there a better winter lunch?), at my friend Sarah's house, we made an executive decision to get out of her house, pick up our friend Joan, and go to the movies.
Twisted: Went to see a sing-along version of "Frozen." Just wasn't cold enough outside.
We were the only three people in the theater. We watched most of the credits before forcing ourselves to go back outside to the car.
Breaking news: It may hit 40 degrees here tomorrow.
Sad news: It could snow again Saturday.

Movie Madness

I have seen every movie this year that has been nominated for a major Academy Award.
I dragged my husband to the animation short films yesterday at our local arts theater.
I made my friend go back there with me this morning to see the live action nominated short films.
I do not go to the movies as an excuse to eat fresh popcorn.
I go to the movies because I love the movies.
I got the movie-loving gene from my late mom.
I know I have passed it on to my daughter who, when in the same zip code as me on Christmas Day, shares in the tradition of a movie triple header and Chinese food. We deviated from that this year -- the Chinese food -- and are putting it back to committee for a vote next year.
So here are my selections, in the categories people care about -- my apologies to the documentaries and best foreign language films -- before the stars saunter down the Red Carpet and dear Ellen DeGeneres entertains us for three-plus hours.
The envelope please:
Animated feature film: Frozen
Best animated short: Room on The Broom - UK
Best live action short: Aquel No Era Yo (That Wasn't Me) -Espana
Best supporting actor: Jared Leto - Dallas Buyers Club
Best supporting actress: Lupita Nyong'o - 12 Years a Slave
Best actor: Leonardo DiCaprio - The Wolf of Wall Street
Best actress: Cate Blanchette - Blue Jasmine
Best director: Alfonso Cuaron - Gravity
Best picture: 12 Years a Slave
Off to make popcorn!!!

An Olympic Postpartum Posting

Is anyone else suffering from a post Winter Olympic Games hangover?
For more than a fortnight I have used my obsession for the games as an excuse for not sitting down to write this blog.
It was nice to be missed. My loyal readers at the fitness center and Starbucks, two of the few places I frequented during my personal DVRfest of winter sports, kept asking me why I wasn't updating the blog.
I won't miss living on the edge of spoiler alerts and early A.M. wake up calls to watch prelim events that really misled me as to the outcome of medal rounds. But I will miss the "live'' competition.
Have I mentioned I always wanted to report on an Olympics, before retiring from the newspaper business? Oh, yeah I think I did. 
I'm sure I will mention it again before I retire from this blog.
I need to get over it the way Shaun White (my wayward pretend professional snowboarding son) has gotten over not medaling at the Sochi experience.
My real son and I, avid X-Game followers, knew what tricks White honed on the half pipe before the sport took off in popularity and all the current medalists cut their teeth on White's tricks. 
Of course I would always tell my real son not to try any of the snowboarding or skateboarding tricks at home. I let him live vicariously through the gravity defying feats we watched on TV.
White, not my real son who is premed boy plodding through midterms in the South for another week, seemed to be back to normal on his visit with Jimmy Fallon this week on "The Tonight Show." 
I figured White, a two-time Olympic gold medalist, who holds the X-Games records for gold medals and highest overall medal count, would pick himself up. He was still thrilled - despite pulling out of one event due to course conditions and finishing off the medal stand in his favored event - to be at the Olympics and a member of the team. 
While I'm on White and the Olympics, I want to mention something my real son mentioned that he learned this semester in his Ancient Athletes history class. 
When the Olympics were first organized, they only gave out gold medals.
Don't go intimating that your local Olympians and national treasures are losers or disappointments because they came home with silver and bronze medals. For crying out loud, they got to go to the Olympics.
They still don't give participation trophies for going to the Olympic Games. You do, however, get a lot of clothing, photos and memories. And once you are an Olympic athlete, you are always an Olympic athlete.
In some sports the odds are stacked against the athletes because of scoring systems that no one really understands. Why does everyone always act so surprised when there is controversy in the skating competitions?
I was never going to let my children participate in sports where adults could subjectively mar them for life. In this house you raced against the clock, had to make the basket, had to hit the ball or the birdie. Okay, there were a few missed calls behind the plate and at the badminton boundary lines over the years, but we kept it in perspective that our children were not playing in the Olympics. The Olympics ARE NOT an easy level to advance to if you are an American playing badminton.
Going to the Olympics IS NOT an easy feat for any athlete to achieve. Although some of the Scandinavian and German families, who come back year after year, from much smaller countries, have figured something out.
Americans have figured out how to win lots of medals in non-traditional events -- especially ones we invent.
Speaking of the Wheaties "Breakfast of Champions" box, American gold medalists free-style snowboarder Sage Kotsenburg and alpine skier Mikaela Shiffren are on the 2014 boxes.
Shiffren, 18, became the youngest Olympian to ever win her event. Kostenburg won the first ever gold medal in men's snowboard slope style.
Despite their awesome achievements, I wondered if they would have been displaced if the men's and women's ice hockey teams had won gold medals?
Today I was picking up my husband's pants at the dry cleaners and saw Olympic hockey jerseys on the carousel. Hoping there was not a HIPA agreement on dry cleaning, I asked the woman behind the counter if they might belong to one of our hometown Olympic heroes, or her family members. Even after looking at the name on the tag she had no idea.
I'm moving on.