If there was ever something that could be said about me, I suppose, it's that I have a much broader global view of the world than the Freedom fries crowd. And with a little luck, so will Rory and Myer. So, although in the post prior to my quick sojourn in France I succumbed to Paris' being the fashion capital, I do not really subscribe to the notion that the French are snobs or rude to Americans, etc (to be a stereotype a thing has to be a widely held generalization that isn't true or is based on limited knowledge). In my experience, most people the world over generally hold little regard for America while extending a general warmth to Americans.* In fact, although it was a whirlwind business trip, my travel to Le Touquet in the north of the country was a treat and the people very friendly.
Most importantly, I now have a second favorite word: pamplemousse. That's grapefruit... and don't bother Googling it because there is a whole "nother" world out there, to use a Rory expression - you will stumble across an infertile Scottish woman in mid-life crisis, a Massachusetts kitchen store, a Michigan beauty store, the series of gastronomic mystery books by Michael Bond and several restaurants (including Las Vegas' most romantic restaurant, which I have never heard of). And being summer, this yummy cocktail recipe for pamplemousse.
I wish I knew the origin of pamplemousse. "Grapefruit" was coined by an English botanist in 1814 and the fruit was introduced from the Polynesian pomelo to the Americas in 1696 by the English sea captain Shaddock, according to my trusty Food Chronology (I love this book), but not until 1900 when "botanical development" (is that benign genetic modification?) makes the fruit sweeter does it become an important food in the U.S.
Rory certainly loves pamplemousse - he actually eats the flesh of this citrus instead of just sucking the juice like he does with oranges wedges. And oh what fun we have making orange smiles. As citrus fruits are potentially allergenic, Myer won't be getting his first taste until he turns one in a few months. Hmm... pamplemousse cupcakes perhaps?
And now I'm off to add a few items for pamplemousse vodka to this week's shopping list.
* I have come to realize that it's not the occasional stereotypical dumb Americans for whom I'm embarrassed and embarrassed by, it's just plain ignorant people who can't be bothered to try. I've been to Italy twice in my life, both times for more than two weeks. So suffice it to say that I've sampled more than my fair share of gelatto - I never noticed if there's a pamplemousse flavor, but I imagine it would be pretty good. As an addendum to my note about people in other countries extending a warmth to Americans (but not America), Matt and I lived a truly horrifying stereotypical moment in a wonderful Florentine gelateria four summers ago. I'm probably not going to do it justice, as I've most likely all but blocked it from memory, but picture a hot day and the cool, darkish pink and green interior of a small gelateria. The father (duly attired in white knee socks, shorts and straw hat I might add) of a family of rather fitness-challenged fellow countrymen must have been hallucinating that he was in Baskin Robbins:
"What's that one there?" (pause) "No, no. That one right here."
"Thees is stracciatella," says the woman behind the counter.
"So what is that?"
"Chocolate chip."
"Oh, it's choc-o-late chip? It's choc-o-late chip," turning to his daughter beside him, as if she may not have heard the woman herself. Then, "Hey, Martha!" shouting to wife outside, "They got choc-o-late chip!"
(another pause)
"Where's butterscotch?"
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