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Without the look, it does not interest

Early CPR, I barely six years. My mother has a colleague who has taken a liking to her and who cares to see it go off every morning from the hospital where they work. Then she brings the car regularly, and during one of these trips friendly, punctuated by radio news and strict arrest in a small bakery that was divine chopsticks, she referred to my mother's dance classes where was her daughter every Wednesday for a year. It was in a municipal school of classical dance, and my parents would certainly registration fees low.
My mother taught me the registration form, a simple yellow sheet, that would be my name. She bought me a small bag pink and green water, I adored. And then very soft slippers, a pair of tights. The blue tutu is the colleague who offered it to me.
Wednesday afternoon, I liked everything. The lockers in the locker room, the rustle of tulle, the voices of girls to infinity when they change, the ballroom, its wooden floors, mirrors, the bar, his dark piano. I loved the meticulous movement, grace, its agreement with mysterious music. I was just a little embarrassed because I saw my reflection in the large mirrors, black hair, slanted eyes, I felt a bit lonely. And then one day, there was a suit to try to show later this year. And I overheard the teacher say to the seamstress "There ought to be a little round" . And they handed me the white satin tutu, as if it was a privilege. And I never went back to dance class on Wednesday.
This may explain in part the internal shock I felt seeing tonight Tanzträume (Dancing Dreams) , the documentary on these youngsters who ride Kontakthof , the beautiful performance of Pina Bausch, who in 1978.
Secretly, without them being related to sadness, the tears flooded my face silently. I was moved by the beauty of steps and swaying, the joyful energy of youth, despite the doubts and anguish, by the character of Joy, which seems so fragile in her pink dress but the outlook does not disturb the opening night. The scene where she simpers maliciously with a friend, both in powdered gala dresses, is magnificent. I also liked the mad scene from boogie and all that detail the accuracy of the unexpected direction, the special way of stroking hair or slap one cheek. I already want to see him. ****



For those remaining girls private dance lessons (or not), those who love photography, the Scandinavian furniture of the 50s, painting Bone China Blue home Little Green , Christmas lights, photos of Godard's films, those of Patti Smith, linen tea towels stained, picnics solely on checkered tablecloths with lemonade and processing of standard furniture design object, it seems to me essential to get the faster the number one (is that like me you like to compile a number of magazines?) the pretty journal Knock-knock-knock!
In Rennes, it is in the window of The beautiful story (8, rue Saint Melaine) but, in memory of an applique flowers purchased this summer, I ordered mine from Mum , an adorable boutique Bordeaux demonic enough if you like pins in wood, fabric bags, boards clouds or vintage books ...


(I still have lots to tell but sometimes I hesitate, because I find I ramble serious. Fortunately, P. E. and his glasses, C. amid eucalyptus, in C. the same country, the Salle Pleyel E., V. as in Bloomsbury, on the other side C. Atlantic and the other G. know to be encouraging and caring. They shall thankfully! And then Mr. started a blog! Incredible!)

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Happiness bothers me now Chicken crystal-Sophie Brissaud

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the desert, I was crying with laughter, I even almost choke on my tea eternal. By sorting the many papers piled up for years in the plastic drawers of a cabinet made acceptable by disguising its anterior with a pretty fabric , I found a little story that I painstakingly wrote the I was seventeen years (yes, when one is not serious). It told the story of Antoine, who wanted to be a director but of necessity had forced him to be a teacher, of Frederick, who was internal medicine and who was destined to work in the humanitarian and Hannah (I really wanted the two "h"), a girl who was just incredibly beautiful, intelligent and funny. I was afraid of nothing and my text was interspersed with clips of songs to do with the plot, as an outline of the current blog. One does not remake. When the story begins, Anthony Frederick will look at the airport. This few days earlier had sent his friend he had three statuettes Malian named Intelligence, Power and Love. I still laugh.
(Yet, at the time, I was super proud of this fiction. I had sent a copy to another J. and E. In fact, I never knew what they had thought . It is probably best) ****

The past always end up catching me but sometimes it's happy.
One day in early October, I received a message from S, who invited me to his thesis. It was strange, since I met S. four years ago when we were outside the Great kids, a pediatric internship that I loved it, probably one of my favorite hospital placements (in fact, the only one I liked). I still remember some patients. R. because he asked me to help him for a comment made to a poem by Baudelaire ("My child, my sister, / thinking of the sweetness / là-bas/vivre go together!") and A. because she did not want any more swallow anything and it was the first time I was confronted with that conundrum then.
S., meanwhile, had the kindness What have few medical students and I still remember that we exchanged confidences in the small dressing room at the time to put on our gowns. During his oral argument, I found calm and precise, I was really proud to know, and I know it will be a good doctor. I know little about his past but enough to be touched to see his family that day and his mother, delighted and excited.
was a great moment, and I needed to walk home from college that evening, the wind in their hair and cheeks. I took the longest way to keep this memory with me so happy, I was unable to board the subway and face looks unknown, who would not understand.
****
G. rushed home from work on a Tuesday evening, there was a meeting for "Heartbeats" at 20h and we rendezvous at the architectural wart what the multiplex Rennes. Unfortunately it happens that in this place vulgar and ugly, this film where you are greeted by columns of candy and promotions on the popcorn, that stuff where the girl who sells the tickets you requested "In OT, you go there anyway? " , well there is the movie you really want to see. Especially when you love someone else you recommend it to warm just out of his own session. I stamped with impatience.
So, although there is plenty of references very supported, I loved the vintage dresses, frothy milkshakes during the weekend in the countryside, the squares of white sugar and brown sugar in a checkerboard pattern in the box iron, we deplore the fact that there is more madeleines for tea time, the scene in front of the old typewriter, the tangerine sweater, letters exchanged and especially, of course, which incorporates Rimbaud's verse "That night ... you come back to the dazzling cafes, / You ask for beer or lemonade ..." , and someone I like a guest star ironic for the ultimate celebration.
(well, after I have a little depressed when I was reminded that Xavier Dolan was barely 21 years old)

**** Right now, it's a bit confusing, life's like this post, completely disjointed, and trying to cope. I try, when I cut the park of the hospital not always in a hurry under red trees, not to worry. Not to worry for the thesis that does not advance at all, not to worry for some patients who do not go well at all, not to worry because the friends are away, do not m make of it because there's always something wrong, but I know only too well that I can never stop worrying.
Except when I start a recipe Sophie Brissaud ! As I never tire or her pig sauce or plum his flan Kiri (I like it because it mastered the splits), it made me want to try her "Chicken Crystal .


The bird is immersed in a boiling broth flavorful (chili, onions, garlic, gingmenbre) is poached and covered for several hours, fire extinguished.
Finally, the texture of the flesh is very nice, soft and silky, subtly spiced. Broth on He is used to cook rice to accompany the chicken. I liked mixing the hot rice with minced chicken still warm, the salad very fresh, a little soy sauce and pepper. A good way to face on Sunday evening and his little cockroach usual.

Chicken crystal Sophie Brissaud
-a well-bred chicken
-50g ginger, peeled and sliced
-a bunch of spring onions
-three cloves of garlic, peeled peppers
-3 to 4 Whole-rock salt

-many peppercorns

Prepare the broth: In a casserole cast, together half the onions, half the ginger, garlic, pepper and salt in sufficient quantity to make it look a bit too much salt in enough water to submerge the chicken.
Insert the remaining ginger and scallions in chicken.
Bring the broth to a boil, place the chicken, cover the casserole. Wait for resumption of boiling (by ear), keep three minutes then stop the fire.
Let stand five hours.
At dinner time, take some broth to prepare a rice too good.
Before serving, allow the salad chopped, soy sauce and pepper.
For dessert, we went to the grocery store open until midnight to buy some chocolate biscuits. This time it was the Prince, because we like to soak in the milk cold. I handed the dishes overnight.

other chickens?
chicken with honey, lime and mango from my mom
The chicken coca chicken

drunken chicken-cinema
Fried Chicken (Japanese Tori No karaage)

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Tula Train: Journey to the End of fiction ...

"I wanted time to write a novel, a novel which I still have no idea. That's why I spend my time writing a few lines that mean nothing, in hopes of finding a canvas as possible, or at least take the rhythm of daily writing, alleged clerical discipline. ; '

Personal Photo

Train Tula, destination immediately designated hope of a linear narrative, with some stops perhaps we could imagine a trip without a hitch, the judgments announced in a routine punctuated by jolting regular sleepers on the track ... the novel by David Toscana risk confuse the reader placed on the wrong track with a title of an apparent simplicity. Tula, in fact, is the place where one starts and where it comes in a soft roundness and struck at once, the journey of the protagonist (one of them, rather) borrowing paths cross, sometimes straying the circumference of this circle which should bring it back to port. Yet the work of Mexican novelist, born in 1961 in Monterrey, readily distinguished by the subtlety of a structure that intertwines the plots, taking a subtly complex temporality, and sets nodes between the characters and different periods.

From the beginning itself enters into a relationship between two characters belonging to different generations. This meeting is surprisingly ambiguous, based on an original lie. Juan Capistrano, an old recluse in a retirement home run by religious, and who is admired for his companions ... his ability to draw a line in her hair perfect, seems to put his life in a hopeless immobility. His only horizon opens onto the street in which, by the window, desperately trying to recognize Carmen, the woman he loved, in each pass. But if his body is numb, his mind is constantly traveling, haunted by the memory alive of a tormented existence. The past that holds this to be fixed on the blank page of a book. Thus he uses the other hero of the novel, Froylán Gomez a writer without a draft, has resigned from his employment to engage in the task of storytelling in the world without knowing what or where to start. The first lines of the novel the reader has learned the death of Froylan: it is a voice 'beyond the grave that rises timidly, taking over part of the narrative related to the era's most recent novel.

The meeting was orchestrated by the old man, to meet one who unknowingly about to fix this memory of wandering, had used subterfuge. This time, the convening Capistrano through a grand-son fantasy, tipping the story of a reflection on the links in the novel but also in our lives, unite the fiction and reality. By accepting this invitation, Froylan tacitly submits to what may be ahead as a game but the stakes are high: to make sense of this existence which, without this romantic setting abyss, could remain nebulous . The figure of the novelist splits: Capistrano, the original narrator, runs the risk of having transformed his story (or magnified) by Froylan, the unemployed engineer turned writer. Identities are blurred, masks overlap. Thus, a disaster born of intimate, her mother having been raped by an American vendor of mescal, Juan is entrusted to the care of Buenaventura others call the "Black". Mestizo by birth, it is transplanted into a family of heart he has no characteristics. Research - or rather the building - its identity is inevitable. It thus creates, to win the love of a girl his age, Carmen, a new character: it becomes Domenico, a man-child soldier without a battle (or almost), whose role in Mexican army is to carry bags of flour he imagines filled with ammunition. History of Domenico is a picaresque novel. Like Don Quixote, trying to win away his Dulcinea, Domenico tries unsuccessfully to multiply acts of bravery beyond his reach. The reunion, eleven years later, he is a failure that is not resolved. Carmen would have loved Juanito, she refuses to Domenico it does not agree to recognize. Thus, this wandering, these dangers, these adventures are meaningless.

The story of Capistrano, isolated by quotation marks, alternating in the novel with the narrative in first person supported by Froylan. In these short chapters integrate the passages in the third person, borne by an omniscient narrator giving us more objective elements related to the context: the expansion of the city of Tula, Domenico has abandoned the development of proposed railway that will link to Tampico Tula. The construction of the work and intersects the ages, levels of narrative, yet an astonishing rigor, it structures the reader's consideration. The intersection epochs allows us to witness the birth of fiction from what is presented as reality. Froylan, is the novelist, tried in fact to make sense of these disparate elements even in their chronology, enriching the disappointing reality of the contributions of fiction. However, the original story takes him to the point that he alters his daily fantasy born of the old man's words. The pages devoted to the early literary process is very enlightening in this regard.

"I still know very little about Juan Capistrano. Even if his story is still when his mother dies, I feel I have enough evidence to put me to write.

I decided to start with the rape of Fernanda. I locked myself in my office and, after two hours, I pieced together the facts from the time the girl continues to read poems to her uncle to the time she returns home, to except the moment when she is raped by an American. Thereupon I lost two or three hours, immersed in drafts and launched more or less specific to the wastebasket. "

However, the reader has already read this story, his focus is now on its genesis, guided by the views of the writer who is witness to his choices and hesitations. The story of Juan / Domenico doubles then a sort of "Diary of a writer" - to borrow a phrase from Dostoevsky. The development of fiction very different from the original story, and requires the reader to carry with him a critical eye. What the narrator retains elements it? Who does he choose to conceal? The selection is made by a concern to a particular value in this existence, however little trite, but that seems meaningless. However, in a subtle interweaving, this fiction is imbued as the imaginary Froylan combining his own life items not related by Capistrano, but added to his story which, inevitably, has some shortcomings (indeed, the it can not by itself describe the assault on his mother that he did unknown). The work then supposedly biographical feeds fantasies of the writer:

"Right in the chapter, my imagination has drowned in a lagoon white.

Very often, I fantasized about Patricia: I violated so wild, or I turn into a tough wrestler who tortures me until the unspeakable. I dream every detail: I hear her cries or mine, I see the blood, the bruises, links. But then, I do realize the bed is one thing, the blank page is another. "

David Toscana multiplies the points of intersection between the two levels of narration, with a rare understanding of the story: Capistrano also offers he to his biographer, the key figure in its history, Carmen, plunging it into a quest similar to his. If the old man finds his beloved in passing that none of the watches from his window, Froylan him, discovered her.

"Today I saw Carmen.

Carmen.

Carmen.

Carmen.

Carmen. "

The quest for love is replaced by a time the story of Capistrano. The novelist becomes the hero of a story not parallel but adjacent, which leads to different paths and yet close. The bond that develops between the unknown and it is fragile, hazardous, subject to difficulties beyond its control. Now he is able to organize the narrative, to subdue his will. And established the essential difference between fiction and reality. The writer-demiurge has little control over its own existence, indeed.

The first page of the novel has warned us: a life may hang. At the end, only remain the tapes recorded by Capistrano and drafts written by Froylan. Tampico Tula-line is finally opened, a metaphor for this story that combines the vagaries of these characters who, like us, unaware of their destiny. For us readers, the novel has a purpose and meaning, but those who have experienced these things paper, none had no conscience. This beautiful novel does not end, making life its omnipotence, thus setting the limits of literature predictable, the real him, could not be submitted ...

"I can go to Carmen's apartment knocking on his door until it opens me up to demolish it. "Carmen! Carmen, "I repeated. I take him by the waist to pull her body to all that is not me. I could also tell him that we expect Tula an unfinished life, a beautiful house overlooking the main square, a grand piano dusty certainly needs to be granted, a railway track to be completed and which still missing meters, meters and "

David Toscana, Train Tula , Zulma, 2010, translated by François-Michel Durazzo.

The author of this magnificent novel, David Toscana, is in France for a few more days. Here is the schedule scheduled meetings (until October 21, 2010)
And here a link to the chronic Edwood that m ' gave want to discover this beautiful book emergency.

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Jakob Wassermann, The storyteller: the words of the world's ills cons ...

"And the children grow up, his eyes deep

Without knowing they grow and die,

And all the men go their way" .

(Hugo Von Hoffmannstahl, Ballad of the outer life )

Jakob Wassermann is a storyteller. His works envelop, bewitch the reader who, thanks to them, found a little of that lost childhood, his novels lead us astray into a maze of intrigue, a "surprising ability of proliferation" in the words of Gabriel Marcel. confabulation , German Der Aufruhr um den Junker Ernst ( Insurrection to save the young squire Ernest), published by the remarkable editions of The Last Drop , is a beautiful book, unexpected, doubling from the past: in fact, published in Berlin in 1926, he had not yet been translated; second, its plot transports us into a Germany near and far at once, in Lower Franconia in the early seventeenth century. But if history accurately evoked, seems to be the pretext for this novel, she is a canvas on which an image is a subtle sign of this. The beautiful translation of Dina and Nathalie Regnier Sikiric Eberhardt (who had already offered a wonderful translation of Adalina Sylvio Huonder, by the same publisher) is inserted in the footsteps of Wassermann , whose language and shimmering abundant revives the distant past while we make it accessible and readable. Earlier this troubled seventeenth century in Germany where the Thirty Years War rages, a young boy, Ernest, found his mother missing for eight years, and who returns to his castle of Ehrenberg without being announced. The son grew up under the kind attention of servants, a teacher, a deaf servant, watched from afar by her uncle, Philip Adolphus, Bishop of Wurzburg. The child has an extraordinary gift, one to invent stories that fascinate his audience. This ability to arouse interest, give rise to the dream through the power of imagination lies at the center of this novel is both simple and subtle, which questions the reader about the power of literature.

"I want to create figures whose soul is the instrument of the purest and most sensitive of the game of destiny," writes Wassermann (quoted by Maurice Betz in his preface to Dietrich Oberlin , Editions Oswald, 1980). These disparate figures are illuminating on the relationship that man has the world of sense and language. Ernest Gold, the hero of the plot, appears to as both an antithesis and a replica of Caspar Hauser, a young man's private words, that captures the language and the ability to connect a hard struggle, but in a hopeless battle. Ernest, as Caspar, remained silent (until the age of six years). But in contrast to his mysterious brother, he charms his audience with his ability to create stories. It fantasize but do not lie, because nobody there spoke of him. His word console makes you forget all the sorrows. Thus, by storyteller he returns to his mother, unable, she gestures to find a mother to a son she had almost forgotten

"(...) he crouched on the floor beside her and calmly looked up at her eyes as big and as brown as chestnuts. He repeated: "Dry your tears. Crying makes old and ugly, and you're young and beautiful. If you dry your tears, I'll tell you a story ... Listen, I'll tell you a story ... "

relationship to the mother is reversed. Storyteller - storyteller is one who can dry the tears, divert attention from the sorrow, like a parent would with his child. Ernest, this very young man, carries his stories by real power over all beings, but he still uses it wisely. But the adults around him are unable or harmful. In the distance, outside his charmed circle of the floor, takes his uncle, bishop obsessed with the idea of evil that would extend its grip on the world, and tirelessly worked to hunt down heretics and witches. The man seemed untouchable, incapable of emotion, locked up in this madness and mysticism fueled by probing Gropp insidious advice of the father, his eminence grise, a Jesuit insensitive and cruel. But Ernest, for his fables, allows him to find the humanity buried deep inside him, timidly at first, but for the boy to feel a deep love and exclusive. He looked asleep, not daring to reveal his condition to light - indeed, no light penetrates this episcopal palace dark, humid and impenetrable. The affection he feels for his nephew can prove to others, but it is intense and intoxicating

"He came quietly and leaned over him to better contemplate the beautiful face that made him so strange sleep. But what was it that moved and burned in him? There is a curiosity that oscillates between heaven and hell, who sleep on the other is the secret of secrets. One for whom the body of man is the abode of the demons believe that is where you can watch the best and when fighting with the sweetness of a strange feeling, he hopes that daemons will desert the place of sin he eagerly scrutinizes. His curiosity is well justified and he has the right to tolerate his heart beat joyfully. It seemed so strange to this man of seventy years to feel attracted to another human being, of longing that is full of wonderful, imagine the blood flowing through these veins, the invoice members this body, to want to touch the bright skin, remember the smile curve these fresh lips like an almond soaked in warm milk. There was a being, and opposite him the world with all its treasures. That being single was more than the world; desire and direction remained fixed on him. "

Altdorfer View of Danube from Regensburg

Through his tales, Ernest shows men that they are capable of loving. This seems paradoxical because the universe is that of dreams, imagination: indeed, the bishop, looking to sleep, trying to capture a little of that magic that makes the humanity of an exemption that around him happiness and affection. The storyteller is a dreamer who offers his dreams, he book its nothing personal, evokes no experience. He dispenses with generosity to the world, without distinction, throwing her beautiful stories in the face of the whole universe, animals, trees, mountains, stars ... For him, there is no distinction between inert and living: he "[ready] life to everything. Apples in the barn, the signet ring on his finger, the soap bubbles that [hang] the straw to the eaves dripping, the spinning wheel as a ladle. " One form of pantheism unconscious and spontaneous, which defines its report the world is to be loved by him. This attitude contrasts with the climate of suspicion and fear that reigns in Lower Franconia at that time. The bishop and his damned soul, the Jesuit, waging a witch hunt without a thank you, decimating a fragile population, subject to the influence of religion, as a prey to many superstitions. Men, women, kids, nobody is safe from this madness that mature neighbors in distrust, provoking denunciations, in a stinking atmosphere by the smoke from the numerous pyres. Thinking impress his nephew, the bishop lists all those he sent to die in a week, and the names follow one another in a menacing sequence that mixes old and nine year olds. "I think it is wrong to die by fire," replied Ernest, in a gentle first movement of revolt - because he never departed from this sweetness that captivates her listeners. But the disagreement expressed to him a sealed fate funeral. He joined the forces of magic and the devil in the eyes of the uncle blinded by a religious fury. Indeed, this period need scapegoats, and all disasters, drought, destruction, is attributed to witchcraft and servants the devil, whose presence haunts the man of God.

The novel takes on a grim seriousness, especially since the reader can not forget what time it was written. Indeed, Jakob Wassermann, this dreamy hot, this storyteller injured, early awareness of the abuses that arise in the Weimar Republic where, now, emerging ideas foul. Any work of this author less well known than his famous contemporaries - and friends - Thomas Mann and Hoffmannstahl is haunted by recurring themes: the innocence, is fought and broken, the demon identified and pursued. His characters are part of a haphazard geography which resembles their own. Thus, Ernest traveling the same roads, walks the same forest, contemplating the same landscapes as its creator. But Wassermann, membership is not a place: thus, Ernest, unhappy in the palace of his uncle which he tries to escape at every opportunity, is locked in a dungeon, and, finally free, can not find the castle of his childhood that was burned. It is everywhere and nowhere, its real and imaginary territory being storytelling. It does not exist by itself, but this "dreaming" which led out of himself, but to others. There is none for others, being worth only by his stories:

"He never revealed something of himself, he never said how he felt or what he intended to do, he never showed sadness or worry. On his person, the radiant dreamy attitude of his soul was drawn up like a shiny fabric through which it was not receiving anything of his inner life. "

This impermeability in the world is surprising. It closes in on itself, and it is to flourish in the need to create a universe that does not betray but it can deliver to others. Perhaps it comes as the writer, Ernest constituting a mirror in which may reflect the author - Wassermann perhaps, but all the others. His place in the heart of the world is defined: it distracted, dreaming, transports, and he charms his audience or his readers, it is also dependent on them. Fable is beautiful, because ultimately, salvation comes from a child organized crusade to free him. It's a bit unlike the Pied Piper of Hamelin, where the artist uses his powers for revenge against a population that has not been well received. Ernest, he has wanted the property to its listeners, but he is saved by them through the most innocent of them: children, yet able to respond to rebel, to refuse to submit to fear. Thus, the novel ends on a light and joyful feeling. The hero has learned from his rescuers to reach this humanity he was approaching by the dream. The meeting with the Reverend Spee (also a Jesuit, whose Stephane Michaud, author of a remarkable preface explains that this is a historical figure, a Dominican opposed the witch trials) that enables them to understand the magic of words is not enough not:

"You're still a magician, squire?" The squire asked, with trembling lips: "It's magic, my father? "It could be the magic, Spee replied thoughtfully, but a sort of magic about which we can not play much in the malleus maleficorum. There are games magic, my child, and there is love from the spell that manages to deflect his true duty of the human spirit that it employs. And you want me to say what is the real duty? This, you see I am not able to tell you. In this respect, the doctrines are but wind, the floor of an instrument bell. It must be born of your own feelings, you know? "

Also, the storyteller, the storyteller, the writer occupy in the world a delicate one, between a desire to charm, to bring also to encourage the mental journey, but this process should also lead them to themselves, in accepting this fiction that comes so easily should also reflect the reality to which they belong and participate. Having recognized this need, Ernest, without giving up the imagination and storytelling, decides to live in the heart of the world, and informs children who have saved, and who are eager to hear it Again:

"I'll tell you a story, the story of Ernest damoiseau Ehrenberg. But not today, maybe in a year, two years maybe. Just have a little patience, I only ask this, just a little patience. "

Emil Orlik, Portrait of Jakob Wassermann (1899)

Jakob Wassermann, Confabulation , The Last Drop, October 2010 (translated by Dina Sikirica and Regnier Nathan Eberhardt, foreword by Stephen Michaud).

And a very nice article on this wonderful book here at the Taverne du Doge Loredan
Nikola defends heart Wassermann's novel about his audio blog Paludes

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Our love stories are the same-do you love bibimbab? -

I made a small cross on the plan already Stockholm tired easily find the place chosen by mutual agreement for dinner. There were only a few terse lines in his case in the travel guide and it seemed to be particularly auspicious. I put on some gray tights at the hotel before going out, because the nights were already cold. There was also a pink dress and blue ballerinas, as proven adored.
When traveling, it's G., because he has a strong sense of direction, which is responsible for systematically designated routes, even if I have learned over the years to read a map Road way expert. That evening, the trip was simple and followed a regular grid of streets quiet facades of brick colored or discreetly muted shades. There were antique shops, food kiosks with Thai noodles to take away in cardboard boxes, laundry rooms, a library of manga and the sign of green water that was photographed specifically YU love bibimbab . An idyllic place if we believed the posters in front, but all these promises of various and varied bibimbab were currently impossible to satisfy since the iron curtain was dropped and the weather then failed to return.
however long I remained obsessed with the mere mention of bibimbab, especially since I had long been in mourning since the Rennes Ninano , a super nice Korean restaurant run by a lovely lady who wore scarves on the skull, closed without warning one day to be replaced by something irrelevant. In Ninano , bibimbap was dolsot bibimbab, which means that rice, topped with its various vegetables, the egg yolk and its chili paste, served in a bowl was cast, the dolsot and it produced a pleasant crackling due to the rice sizzles when the nice server placed it on the table. I was so delighted to stir the contents of my bowl small wand expert then burn my lips with this tasty and spicy rice.
bibimbab best I have ever tasted, in good company moreover, is one of the cooks Kim In Strasbourg, had prepared a Friday in February, after days of snow. P., there is greeted with infinite kindness that we reserve the regulars who make you well.
There is no official recipe bibimbab because they depend directly the infinity of tastes and availability of the fridge. It is a warm and comforting dish, which is very nice to share the preparation with the person who will enjoy it with you. It is a comforting dish that can be enjoyed sitting cross-legged around the coffee table, with his favorite rods and a cold beer for those who love him.
I chose Saturday night to prepare it like this:

Bibimbab for two
-cooked rice in rice cooker
-a handful of blanched spinach
-three small carrots (from different color, because it looks cool) cut
julienne-sliced shiitakes
three large-small zucchini, cut into julienne
-250g of beef (the pear, parsley ...) and minced
marinade : a half-peeled red pear williams and grated, two cloves of crushed garlic, an inch of grated ginger, two stalks of spring onions split, three tablespoons of soy sauce, half a tablespoon of honey, a tablespoon of maple syrup, two tablespoons sesame oil and several turns of pepper and
serve : one egg per person, gochujang and sesame seeds.

the eve or morning for the evening, combine marinade ingredients and coat the strips of beef. Let stand.
In time, cook the vegetables separately and successively in a skillet with a little sesame oil (I've kept warm in small bowls and preheated covered with foil) and then sear the meat in same skillet. During q'elle cooked, preparing two fried eggs.
The preparation bowls (preheat them!) Distribute the rice in their background and have the most harmonious way possible vegetables and meat. Cover the bowl with the fried egg, place a teaspoon of chili paste and sprinkle with sesame seeds. It's ready!


When we arrived at the restaurant I had checked on the plan, the waitress had a green dress and a nice smile. At the table opposite, there was a boy, velvet pants ribbed, gray sweat shirt and long hair who was dining with her mother, a mother with a cardigan, glasses and a look a little sad. They seemed very well agree, they obviously had plenty to talk about. When we moved and he heard us discuss various, we hailed a "Hello" very sweet. This boy, although he had sent the waitress in Swedish, French, and was obviously quite happy we crossed there, Matkultur (the name of the restaurant and the food is very good). Throughout dinner, we looked furtively, and I dared not say anything either. And then they left, he said "Goodbye" but I knew that we never see him again precisely as in his eyes, silently I felt that we could hear.
Yesterday evening, before bibimbab, there was an event I was waiting impatiently for the meeting 19 hours of Little Tailor !
It turns out there ten days, the waning of a telephone conversation with E. who also returned from Italy, I learned that Laura had received Adler Louis Garrel in its early evening broadcast on France Culture. The first few minutes (it was super late, like 23 hours, G. was a rehearsal and I had not dined-fried rice with beef and spicy Chinese cabbage, as a premise of bibimbab), I I sent a message to P. with a link to the show as I found all this fascinating and appealing. I wanted to share my enthusiasm with it! (And a few days later, she wrote me "There is also an interview with Pascale Clark. Chic!) I liked because throughout the show there are film clips, as Male / Female , beloved voices like Jean-Pierre Léaud and Truffaut speaking full of nice comments Louis Garrel on his family, film and psychoanalysis. In
Little Tailor, we find all this, with ideas borrowed from Godard, Truffaut, and Dad also Desplechin. The film is like a dream, where Arthur keeps running in the streets of Paris (with a microphone in studio sewing Albert, workshop at the Odeon Theatre, Theatre hopes dashed), who made a dress for Julie-Marie he wants and fears at a time (I confess that I have found it absolutely despicable. Just the opposite of the wife of Albert who makes apple pies surprises).
Leaving the room almost empty, I told G. "It's weird I thought there would have been full of girls like me in the room, or at least young people, while everyone had a good thirty years older than us" and he said "Yes, finally good, you find that it is a film of young people? It's a bit dated anyway!" Yes, yes, but I dated this super think this is a fairly modern talk about complicated love that fade even before existed.