Stories

Many, many years ago there was an older man who came to our store pretty much weekly for about nine or ten years. He wasn't all that talkative, he came with a plan and left with all the things on his list and always 12 small white grapefruit. Not much conversation, not even any dialoge about the weather, even if it had rained every day in June. Things never changed. He always smelled of mothballs and pipe tobacco. Monk wore old Hathaway wool shirts, real cotton khaki trousers, leather and rubber L.L. Bean boots half laced up and we never saw him without a pipe in his mouth filled with unburned tobacco.  He drove a large old pale yellow Ford Squire station wagon that looked retired from his other home in Connecticut. He came on the same day every week at roughly the same time.

We never saw him with anyone, but some weeks his grocery basket was heavier than other weeks and he would be downright grouchy, usually around the beginning of August. We could tell by his cantankerous attitude that he had family coming to visit.  There is no stopping anyone from visiting friends or family in Maine the first couple weeks of August even if they aren't that fond of each other. My sister and I were sure to have the freshest grapefruit awaiting him because he wasn't shy about telling you the following week that "they were getting a little dry" and his tone could be quite unpleasant.

I never expected to visit Dijon. But on my first trip to France, I asked my Parisian friends for suggestions for where to go and they said Dijon and nearby Beaune, so off I went. The historic capital of Burgundy, Dijon is a dramatic looking city with lots to do and see. It has many museums, churches, medieval buildings with gargoyles and stunning geometrically patterned roofs of green, white, yellow, black and terra cotta ceramic tiles.

When most people think Dijon, they think mustard. But Dijon is in wine country, home of Coq au Vin, Boeuf Bourguinon and lots of other rich and rustic dishes including the classic preparation of Escargot in garlic, butter and parsley. In addition to Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Gamay and Aligoté, the region is also known for Cremant de Bourgogne and cassis. It's worth noting that you can get to Dijon in under 2 hours from Paris if you take the TGV.

In college, I discovered falafels.  I happen to be a lover of most things fried (unfortunately for me) and eating a falafel with tons of veggies and avocado makes devouring them a bit more acceptable. I was reading one of my favorite books; Dave Lieberman’s  the 10 things you need to eat, and I found his falafel recipe made with quinoa.

Dave taught me a thing or two about quinoa. Most recipes that I have read or even made suggests a 2 to 1 ratio when making most grains. However, up until acquiring Dave’s book, I was no good at making quinoa and basically, gave up. He has changed all of that. His tip: use 1 1/4 cups water to 1 cup quinoa. Genius!

I like to make a big batch of quinoa and keep it in the fridge. It lasts for about a week and it is a good, healthy option to have on hand. Not only do I make these amazing falafel balls, but I also love to make quinoa cakes (similar to a veggie patty) and quinoa breakfast cereal.

Did you ever think, when you were younger and the creaks of closing doors hadn’t yet become thunderous, that you and all of your friends were going to do great things?  Because now it seems like circumstance has threatened, in the friendships it didn’t destroy altogether,  that idea of mutually assured success.  Three years removed from the rapidly fading end of college, the majority of my peers sport psychic bruises gotten at the hands of a world we’ve learned isn’t vested in our personal triumph.  The few people who know what they want to do have discovered their chosen professions aren’t guided by the principles of meritocracy.  It’s ostensible chaos, and, after fifteen years of structured, teleological environments, it breeds doubt—doubt that like a giant black maw eats away at the confidence of those glowing assessments you made back in the ninth grade.  When the maw isn’t satisfied—its appetite is only whetted by the feast on your friends—the jaws of uncertainty turn inward and you begin questioning whether that secret self-conviction you’ve always harbored, the belief you would add to the world in a distinct and remarkable way, was ever really justified.

But there are methods for sating such an ugly beast.  I’ve discovered one is you feed it at the restaurant where my friend pulls from the oven pizzas that, prior to glorious consumable conception, spent thousands of hours parbaking in his head.