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As I was sitting in the nail salon today waiting for my appointment, I treated myself to a little bit of Allure. Now, I’m embarrassed enough as it is buying Cosmo and Marie Claire… Allure is something I allow exclusively at hair salons and at the beach, where my friend buys it. As I was flipping through this particular issue with Britney Spears crawling at me through the cover as if she were going to eat me, I came across a spread about several women who had signed on to Allure’s food and exercise regimen for a year. This being month seven, the magazine was starting to advertise ways of keeping off the weight in the long term, which brings me to the relation this whole story has to my food blog: there, in black and white print, Allure had confirmed my worst fear: to keep weight off, one must stop watching the food network, stop reading food magazines, and basically, stop loving food.

As someone who has been struggling with body images my whole life, on and off of Weight Watchers for nearly four years, I nearly cried there in the nail salon. Cancel my Gourmet subscription? Stop throwing dinner parties? Abandon my dear blog? For the sake of my size six jeans… I suppose…

And then, the roar of the hair dryer blasted me back into the real world. I closed the magazine and stared back at Britney. I was taking advice from a beauty magazine? Me? The girl who spent several years of high school with peroxide-orange hair covered with a Yankees beanie and didn’t abandon her army coat until well into the spring? Besides… I knew that Allure’s allegations were completely unfounded: just look at Jen and Annie, my fellow bloggers. They have a healthy love of food and a healthy attitude towards it.

And then I took a look at myself: completely obsessed with vegetables, I have known to eat bagged salad directly out of the plastic, for want of another method (see evidence of my friend Katie doing exactly that as we backpacked through western France this summer). I am constantly trying to find ways to cut the calories of the French peasant food I love, so that I can enjoy cassoulet, despite the fact that I don’t work eight hour days in the fields. I force entire boxes of clementines upon people “so you don’t die of scurvy.” Sure, all obsessions are a little unhealthy, but how was my obsession with fresh ingredients and gorgeous plating going to make me less healthy than someone who lives out of their freezer on jalapeño poppers and microwave mac ‘n cheese?

I abandoned Allure then and there. I’ll stick to my Bon Appetit, thank you very much, and the next time I have a desperate desire to read my horoscope, I’ll do it from the safety of the pages of Cosmo… at least they give me recipes.

Remember my sad attempt at recreating my brother’s pizza? Well, as I was reading Brilynn’s post over at Jumbo Empanada’s about what real food was, I started thinking about what real food meant to me. While I found her insights that all food is real food interesting, in the end, I had to disagree. Yes, I suppose anything you put in your mouth, chew, swallow, and digest can be considered food, but real food is something more. Real food is something with more sustinence, something that provides more nourishment than calories alone. Real food is about feelings and family. Which brings me to the pizza.

I created pizza in my kitchen a few months ago to try to replicate this pizza, but this is the real thing. My brother at the pizza oven, wielding his pizza paddles, my mother and aunt in the kitchen, assembling pizzas from fresh ingredients, and me, barefoot, running back and forth from the kitchen through the rain with raw pizzas to deliver to my brother, who had created a shelter for himself under an umbrella propped up next to the oven, and back with the freshly cooked ones, cheese still bubbling on top, to be quickly sliced into little pieces and devoured steaming, burning tongues and fingers.

Mac and I didn’t get any until the last pizzas were coming out of the oven. I had to steal a few pieces and carry them out, tossing them back and forth between my hands. The crust was chewy and delicious, nearly burned on the edges, just like we like it. The pepperoni was under the cheese so that it didn’t burn, a trick we’ve picked up after years of experimenting. The sauce was homemade, tasting of the last fresh tomatoes of summer. I’m sure some restaurant pizzas are better, more symmetrical, with higher quality ingredients, but I wouldn’t trade this one for anything.

My brother’s pizza is and always will be my favorite. It reminds me of my childhood, which I suddenly felt was ending this June upon turning 20. It reminds me of my family, who I miss more and more the farther I chase my dreams in Europe. It reminds me of summers running barefoot on the grass in the rain.

Generally, on the 4th of July, my entire family gets dressed in red, white, and blue, grills hot dogs and hamburgers outside and, along with corn on the cob, watermelon, and potato salad, we celebrate our country’s birthday outdoors on the grass, shortly followed by fireworks sponsored by the Westhampton Beach Country Club.

This year, however, I was in Barcelona, at the end of a month-long backpacking trip. I know, who wants to feel sorry for the girl who just spent six months in Europe? Well… you should. My friend Katie and I were with our Scottish friend and my Canadian boyfriend, neither of whom seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. Katie and I made an important decision… we were all going to wear red, white, and blue that day, and we were all going to go to the Hard Rock Café for cheeseburgers and Bud.

I know… cheeseburgers in Barcelona. But what do you want from us? We’re American. Katie and I even sang the American national anthem with Whitney Houston.

Our friends were not impressed.

Sometimes, food is the best way to bring back memories (an opinion that the food novel for next month refutes… but we’ll get to that in September). Sure, the beer wasn’t as cold as American and the ranch dressing was more like mayo and spices, but the burgers were tasty, the company was good, and good old American Bob Dylan was hanging from the wall. What else could a girl ask for on vacation in Spain?

Siena… che città bella! Especially for food. Siena is in the heart of Tuscany, home of bistecca fiorentina, ribollita, papardelle al cinghiale, and of course, the famous Chianti. Siena is heaven for a foodie like me, and one would think that having spent five days there last month, I would have tons of tales for my readers of the gourmet meals I enjoyed.

Unfortunately, this is not the case. With temperatures of at least 35 degrees every day, the only food I could even consider consuming was ice cold melone straight from the ice box and of course gelato. Lots and lots of gelato. I got creative with flavors after awhile… after all, when you’re eating gelato two times a day, you need to try for a bit of variety. That left only one problem: the coffee factor.

As everyone who has ever met me knows, coffee is my way of life. I cannot exist without my morning coffee, my afternoon iced coffee, and my evening espresso. But even for me, 35 degrees is too hot for hot coffee or espresso, and iced coffee is nearly impossible to find outside the continental United States (I once had a waiter in Toronto stare blankly when I ordered iced coffee, and then watch in awe as I poured the hot coffee he brought me over the glass of ice I had requested). So what’s a girl to do?

The answer came in the form of a granita. Though I usually scoff at sugar in my coffee, turning to milk or nothing, this slightly sweet frozen beverage was welcome in the heat. I want to compare it to a frappuccino from Starbucks, but it seems sacrilegious to compare this Italian masterpiece, with real espresso coffee, to a mass-produced American conglomerate. At any rate, it became my new drug of choice… as you can see, I was double fisting them by the end of my stay there (though even I couldn’t muster the courage to actually order two… I just finished my friend’s.)

So now that I’m back in the swing of things, and I’m partway through the reformatting of the site (so exciting!), and even though next month is going to bring in the two new themes (a new novel filled with recipes and a seasonal food), I’ve decided to devote the rest of this month to last month, the month I spent in Paziols, in the south of France.

Paziols is about an hour from Perpignan, very close to the Spanish border. The town itself is tiny, barely warranting the small épicerie and café that serve as the town’s only establishments. However, what the town lacks in variety, it brings with its fresh produce, which brings me to the peaches.

Every Monday, the woman from the town hall who announced all events over the loudspeakers posted at the corner of the square would call out the arrival of the peach lady… but if you were still at home when you heard the announcement, good luck to you at getting any of the produce. This woman would arrive each week with her truck stuffed full of flats of peaches and apricots, as well as homemade jam… and while the goods were more expensive than their cousins sold at the épicerie, nearly the entire town lined up each week bright and early to purchase. When we finally got the hang of it and beat the crowds, lining up with the housewives at 7:30 am, we understood.

I may never look at a peach the same way again. These ones were perfectly soft and downy on the outside, with a goldenrod color throughout the sweet, soft flesh, and a perfect juiciness that sent us running to the porch to finish eating as we leaned over the street. The flavor was concentrated, pure, peachy goodness. We would buy dozens of them, and I would eat nothing but peaches on Monday and Tuesday, slicing them and covering them in fromage frais, the full-fat cousin of Greek yogurt with a slightly sour hint that is so popular eaten with brown sugar or honey.

Now, back in Long Island, my favorite summer fruit is leaving something to be desired, but if I close my eyes, I can almost taste it… I learned the way that peaches are supposed to taste this summer, and I don’t think I will ever think of them the same way.

6 months later, I’m back! It’s been forever, I know, and I’m not actually back for that long… I fell in love with France once again, and I’m finally realizing that lifelong dream that you never think will actually come true: I’m moving to Paris!

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be abandoning you, readers! On the contrary, my move has forced me to reconsider a lot of things, one of which is this blog. I’ve decided to come back, but with a severe revamp. The organization here is going to change, and it’s going to take a little while, so I hope you bear with me and get excited. I have some backlogged entries from France to post, but once I move to my new apartment in the 7eme (August 31st… I can’t wait!), I’m going to be getting rid of the old layout (no more Restaurant Mondays, etc… although I will be keeping Shout-Out Saturdays), but you can look forward to some new things here, including…

A seasonal local food or spice to be explored each month…
At least one restaurant review each month from my new home…
An in-depth exploration of all that Paris markets have to offer…
Reviews of wine…
Low Cal versions of French favourites (and high calorie deliciousness as well)…
Research on food traditions all over Europe, but especially in France…

Plus, I’ve decided to delve into my collection of food-based novels and memoirs, and I’m going to choose one to read each month and share some of its insights and recipes with you all!

So hang on while I reorganize here over the next few days… but stick around and see what’s coming up!