A steamed beet at Gare du Nord, Paris

Il fait 40 degrees la-non? Forty degrees Celcius, 100 degrees Farenheit? Only emergency lighting and oppressively hot, stagnant air. Periodically a train passes alongside, offering a scant breee. I'm taking deep breaths trying to still my heart which is slowly crawling its way up my throat. I calm down a bit. This is good as the lower adreneline levels cool me off slightly. I imagine rescue by means of one of the passing trains stopping and lettin us cliumb aboad. I envision the train rolling backwards to the nearest station. After a good 15 minutes the electricity comes on and along with it, the ventilation so not at least some hot air is circulatino in the car--a relief even if its the same temperature as before. We advance a few feet and stop. And again. And again. We roll backwards due to the incline of the track. There's no power at the main station but better yet, a train in front of us is disabled. I'm saying "oh for F*'s sake" but the Parisians really keep their cool. Amazing people, given the circumstances. I really just can't hold in the snide, sarcastic comments. There are people in the train who are texting their families (if they have a signal that is--this section of the tunnel is a long one, and it's a black hole, no bars on the phone; you can forget about 3G). People remark that they have kids at home, now alone waiting for their parents who are stuck on the train. Some tired commuters sleep like dogs in a hot car. But overall they're rather stoic about the situation. They, like I, know that trains run full out on this line, pulling up one directly behind another during rush hour; at times, it's certainly more than one train every two minutes as advertised. I pay about 90€ for a monthly train pass, and live 15 km outside of Paris--a steal, but in my opinion I get what I pay for. Can I please pay more? My hubby laughed at my idea to write a letter to the train company SNCF, offering to donate a couple hundred € in order to have A/C on the train--a totally preposterous idea to the French--paying more, that is. One hour after boarding the train at Luxumbourg, I stumble onto the platform at Gare du Nord to a crush of people trying to board the train, a steamed beet, and the same color. Normally it's a ten-minute trip. Sigh. For once, the fetid warm air of the ugliest station in Paris feels cool and inviting. None of the passengers are complaining; they are pressed together boarding the hell hole prison that i just spent a pretty panicked hour in: sardines in a metal tin, soon to be just a juicy too. I'm angry and exhausted, because I know that it's just the status quo. I trudge to my train and buy some ice cream on the walk home. That'll cool me off, I hope.

I get 25 minutes. That's right; less than half an hour all to myself. No duties chores responsibilities--other than cursory polite gestures to fellow commuters stuffed into this dingy sardine box that smells faintly of body order and expensive French perfume. I don’t have any dishes to clean, mail to open, coworkers looking over my shoulder at what’s on my screen. This is my time. So when you, my friend get on the train, understand that you are interrupting my 25 minutes. You are robbing me of precious restorative moments—a flash of inspiration before the subway doors slide shut, and it’s gone. I regroup. I peruse. I dream. I create. At least play an accordion, or do some chanson, mon gars, while I'm traversing the world’s most poetically charming river view available from a train seat. No boom box, je vous en prie. And can ya keep it to one musician per car, per ride? How much polite civility am I really required to dish out on a daily basis, when the music is as bad as a group Japanese tourists at a karyoke bar? You may very well be deserving of a Euro or vingt centimes for that jazzy tune sung so pretty with the backdrop of your tatty guitar, but right now I swear ta god if one more dude gets on the metro with a circa 1981 American boombox karaoke backup and a voice like Bob Dylan (present day), I'm gunna show the French the definition of going postal. Hmm…observing the reverse cultural definition would require me to throw myself in front of train—eew. I guess part of being a stranger in a strange land is to learn to muster the patience to handle a train ride of really bad karyoke.

Patates farcies à la viande et aux herbes- à al Janine

Patates farcies a la viande et aux herbes- à al Janine

This is a good way to use leftover meat—veal roast for this version.

4 big baking potatoes, 2 large tomatoes – cored so they can be filled
stuffing:
1 head kale
several cloves garlic
sml bunch green onions (thinly sliced)
3 slices of white bread (can use old dry bread) soaked in milk
1 bunch parsley
200 grams leftover meat (veal/pork roast, or fresh veal or pork)
heavy cream
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all of the above can be prepared by finely chopping in food processor

Boil salted water to cook the potatoes. Heat oven to 210 deg. C. Choose 4 big baking potatoes of similar size; you could also stuff big tomatoes. Peel potatoes and cut in two lengthwise. Boil 10 mins. Get a bowl of cold water ready for when the potatoes are done.

Prepare the stuffing. Sautee the kale in olive oil-sliced into fine strips with the tough white parts removed. Start on med-hi heat for 2 minutes, then on low heat for 5 minutes. When kale starts to soften, add 2 cloves diced garlic and green onions; cook 3-5 mins more till onions just soften. Take off the heat; now add the rest of the ingredients. You can add some cream, and salt and pepper to taste (nutmeg might be good too?)

Potatoes should be done now, plunge in cold water. Aim to hollow out a good-sized cavity in the potato—leaving the rest to make a “hat” that will top the stuffing. Stuff potatoes and tomatoes, put “hat” on top; place in pyrex baking dish. Bake for 10 mins, then add about 200mL of bouillon in bottom of dish. Bake 20-30 mins more, add more liquid if necessary. When taters are soft, it’s done.