Golden Apple

Paris gave the golden apple lovliest-goddess-prize to Aphrodite. Why? So he could marry the most beautiful woman in the world. Thus began the heartache of the Trojan war. *sighs deeply* I never understood it. I never understood the big deal of the golden apple until I experienced Pomme d'Or in Grand Pre, Nova Scotia.

We visited the gorgeous Grand Pre National Park which features a museum with mini-videos of various aspects of Acadian life: one of costumed people reaping hay with scythes and building a hay rack; one of women spinning; one of men weaving green branching through saplings to form a fishing weir. In that video, the Bay of Fundy tide floods and recedes (off camera), and you see the people return to the weir to pluck the fish, waist-high, from the woven pockets. We saw the commemorative church that has a series of murals (picture below) telling the story of the Acadian diaspora and where a cat named Evangeline comes in every morning to rest on a blue pillow.

                                                    Men are being forced on a boat while the
                                                    women and girls (and cat) are left behind.

Outside the church, a path leads you to a reconstruction of an Acadian house, its back windows opening down slope across the salt marshes to the bay. Out front door is a thriving kitchen garden and an apple orchard. It was a drizzly morning, no one was near-by. I know because I glanced around before plucking the low-hanging fruit, a small red apple. I have never tasted such an apple, sweet and tart at once, its sugar calling me back for one more bite.

The Acadians were French settlers, so naturally they brought grape vines with them. The vineyard of Grand Pre takes advantage of all the conditions that allow grapes, apples, all crops to flourish.

Close your eyes.  Picture the color gold, real gold. Now infuse it with sunshine, and, at the edges watch the gold fade to pure light. Pour it in a pretty wine glass. (If you really closed your eyes, you can open them now.  Hey! OPEN THEM!)

Put your nose in the glass and inhale just the faintest smell of crisp apples, sweet and tart at the same time.

Sip. You’re tasting sweet apples and tart, with an alcohol conveyance, sliding over your tongue to the back of your mouth and down with just a hint of sugar calling you back. That is Grand Pre’s golden dessert wine, Pomme d’Or, the Golden Apple.

Turns out there’s an old law. Don’t you hate those old laws? Canada passed this law in an agreement with the US to protect Americans from the sins of liquor during Prohibition. Now you can’t get a couple of bottles of Pomme d’Or (calling you back, calling you back) shipped to the States. What’s that, you say? Prohibition was done away with almost 100 years ago? And you think a government might have changed the law? *sigh*

On our last night in Nova Scotia, we ate a delectable dinner at Chives in Halifax. I concluded my meal not with chocolate cake, not with pie, but with a glass of Pomme d”Or. It was a perfect dessert all by itself (although it paired deliciously with a bite of Steve’s coffee ice cream with caramel sauce), and I’LL NEVER GET TO TASTE IT AGAIN! Is this the definition of pleasure and pain?

                                                   Evangeline on her pillow in the church.
                                              This is how I feel after a glass of Pomme d'Or.

                                            (My sister took this picture.  :)  )
(This will be my last post about Nova Scotia, cheer or sigh, depending on your reaction to that. Next post will be about Squirrel Splat - and that’s not a pot pie.)

Eating in Paradise

I never knew much about Acadia, Nova Scotia, no more than that Longfellow's mawkishly sentimental poem Evangeline was set there because it says so right in the poem.  And, to be honest, I never really read much of the poem.  While we were driving the Cabot Trail, I downloaded it (oh, I LOVE my Kindle) and figured I'd have it read by the time we got to Grand Pre where the Canadian National Park commemorates the forced evacuation of the Acadians.  (Lousiana - Acadians - cajins:  oh, I learned so much on this trip! But I'm not spoon-feeding you; go look it up yourself.) Who  isn't familiar with Evangeline’s opening lines:

     This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in
     garments green, indistinct in the twilight. . . .
Sounds familiar now, doesn't it?

     Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tandark with
     home-brewed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre. . . .
There are orchards and corn fields, flax grows and fish are plucked, chest high, from the fishing weir.
It all gains flavor (heh, heh) when you're reading it while breakfasting on Strawberry Croissant French toast at the English Garden B&B in Indian Brook.

When he sees her, Evangeline's true love Gabriel, "knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron." My heart beat pretty loudly at a little restaurant outside Halifax where I ate seafood chowder in a broth so clear that you can't imagine how it holds all the flavor.

In Acadia (originally a translation of Arcadia, meaning paradise),
     Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and
     purple amorphas. Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; Over them
    wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses. . . .

It must have been a magnificent countryside indeed that can still produce the dinner I had at the Blomidon Inn In Wolfeville:
     Lobster chowder with the meat of two lobster claws floating in cream.
     Halibut caught five minutes before being poached in lobster broth with more lumps of lobster dotting its
     skin.
     A waffle with a large (FINALLY, someone realizes the inportance of a serving of ice cream sizeable
     enough to have some with every bite of its accompanyment), drizzled with raspberry sauce and smeared
     with chocolate ganache.

I can shed a tear when I read,
     Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the
     lovers are sleeping.

     List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of
     the happy.
Mournful and happy.  *sigh*  I'll no longer be eating
sweet beet risoto (Restaurant Le Caveau at the Grand Pre wintery)
or
seafood fritters, crisp on the outside and meltingly delicious on the inside (same place)
or
lobster salad that must have contained an entire lobster on a fresh roll (Grand Banker in Lunenburg).

No more scallops sauted to a caramelized crunch (Anapolis Royal, little German restaurant, not the one by the amazing Historic Gardens, but the one waaay down the street).  Won't be able to sneak a sweet (oh, so sweet) apple off the tree at the National Park in Grand Pre. 
Who loves Acadia now, eh?

Betting Against the Rain

On Sunday, we are going to France. I know what you're thinking, but, look, someone has to do it. Steve and I are willing to take the bullet for the rest of you. I've finished the laundry from the shore and, in my mind's eye, I'm thinking about what to pack, what combinations will be most versatile, what clothes will wash out in the sink. I've decided on my long, felted sweater instead of a raincoat. It looks nice with a wider range of outfits, and I'll bring my broad-brimmed rain hat. I'll check the weather Saturday , and if the forecast is especially wet, I'll switch out, but mostly I'm betting against the rain.
It's a hardship tour, too. We spend a couple of days in Nice, bus over to Arles and cruise up the Rhone for a week, right through the wine districts. The cruise line brings chefs from the districts on board and features the local wines. Yeah, yeah, there are historic tours, too, but who are we kidding? When we're all as stuffed and happy as we can be, they bus us over to Paris for 24 hours.
Paris. The tours offered in Paris cover what we saw when we were there four years ago. That was on our "free" trip to Paris, compliments of Steve's emergency medical evacuation out of Moscow to have his gall bladder removed. On the direction that, when sufficiently recovered, it was good for him to get fresh air and exercise, we took a short excursion each day, metro-ing to sites in central Paris. Unfortunately, at that time, he couldn't walk enough to see Versailles. That is my goal this time.
As the best of good luck would have it, our very favorite patisserie (thanks to a recommendation from Steve's nurse – he's still a little in love with her) has a branch right on the grounds of Versailles. Lauderee, oh, my sweet Lauderee, of the pale green and pink china, napkins and boxes. How much dare I spend on macaroons? How many can I bring home without crushing the box? Without their going stale? What flavors will I enjoy this time? Raspberry, pistachio, lemon? (Remarkably, the chocolate aren't as good as some of the other flavors.) Dare we try Jasmine Mango, added in 2008? Should we deviate altogether and have a napoleon with our coffee?
I know for many people, Paris means fashion, Paris means art, Paris means love. For us, Paris means macaroons from Lauderee.  Without rain, please.