- I believe in the magical powers of cheese.
- I believe a good night’s sleep trumps getting up early to exercise. But I also begrudgingly believe that one helps the other.
- I believe we all should listen more and assume less.
- I believe that bagpipes are the devil’s instrument. Much like country music.
- I believe in silliness.
- I passionately believe that every gun-related death is preventable and that more can and must be done to reduce gun violence. I believe Congress must pass the latest proposed bill on background checks.
- I believe that colors, flowers and Stevie Wonder can positively change your mood.
- I believe my son could be a future Conan O’Brien and my daughter may well become a tattooed drummer in an all-girl punk rock band — and that’s cool with me. I think.
- I believe in optimism and dancing; both are good for the soul.
- I believe I alone am responsible for my destiny and my happiness. (Cheese helps.)
- I believe Olivia Pope and I are BFFs. She just hasn’t realized it yet.
All posts in category cheese
Posted by samanthamcgarry on March 20, 2015
Much like me, my daughter loves logic. She likes it when everything follows its designated order and structure. So I find myself perpetually bewildered by her highly illogical picky eating habits which include:
- Only eating corn on the cob, never off the cob
- An aversion to most spherical fruits and vegetables including grapes, blueberries and cherry tomatoes
- “Dry” meatballs
- Orange cheese only in the form of a square, not in tube/string cheese shape
- A dislike for raspberries (seriously, how can anyone not love raspberries?)
- Only muffins that resemble store-made muffins (even though my home-made ones are so much better)
- Only chocolate sauce – never apple sauce or tomato sauce
- Peanut butter NO jelly
Now, I’m not a short-order chef when it comes to our family’s meals but I do try to accommodate her, when it makes sense and doesn’t require too much effort. After all this is the girl who is also a self-professed broccoli machine, loves meat/chicken/fish and drinks milk by the gallon.
But seriously, an aversion to spherical fruits and vegetables? That’s just weird.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on April 30, 2014
I have a French hangover. Not the head-splitting, stomach-lurching variety I’d experience on a relatively frequent basis while living in France in the late 90s, preceded by happy, fun evenings spent eating, drinking and partying in Grenoble with friends and colleagues.
(Incidentally, the only time I ever pigged out on McDonald’s in France was the afternoon after a big night out when a Diet Coke and Big Mac were the best way to assuage the effects of a hangover. I’d slink over the McD’s, eyes kept down, desperate not to bump into any of the players from the night before until suitably revived.)
No, this time, my French hangover is less physical and more metaphysical. Four brief days spent in Paris and Grenoble last week have rekindled the spark that originally drew me to the country and enticed me to stay for three years. Four days of speaking French has reinvigorated parts of my grey matter that have laid dormant while living here in the US. And, like a wheel that keeps spinning even after the initial surge of energy, it is still in motion, presenting me with words and phrases first in French, before the usual English. Making me stumble. Making me yearn to carry on speaking in French and to feed that still hungry part of me.
I was left wanting more. Four days is simply not enough time to pig out on all the croissants and cheese that I really want to eat. This visit briefly skimmed the highlights of Paris and flirted with the enormity of the Grenoble mountains.
Reconnecting with my French friends, in spite of the years, was a joy. Time does not appear to have made an imprint on their faces or characters, though everyone’s lives have propelled forward – spouses, families, new jobs, new homes.
They say the grass is always greener on the other side. While I love my life in Boston, a big chunk of me will always be entwined in France, its culture, landscape, music and the French language.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on May 15, 2013
I woke up super early this morning. Actually I was awakened by my five-year who was evidently dreaming about something that didn’t work out for her and was crying out “I want it my way,” in her sleep. Well, don’t we all, sweetheart? After that, I couldn’t get back to sleep, my mind racing through the never-ending to-do list. So up I got and went downstairs.
As my coffee was brewing, my eye was drawn to an avocado sitting alone on the windowsill, where we had placed it about five days earlier to catch the sun and ripen. I gave it a squeeze.
Tell me, what is better than a perfectly ripe avocado?
But then dilemma set in. What to do with this solo avocado in the next 24 hours before its splendid green turns to mushy brown?
I figure I have two options – one involving my stomach and one involving my face.
First, the face. Winter is a bitch to my pathetic British skin. Put simply, my face is falling off, no matter how much water I drink, moisturizer I slather or how long the humidifier runs. I’m thinking this avocado could easily be mixed with some honey, oatmeal or yogurt to make an unctuous face mask that might salvage my skin. After all, it’s Friday and I’m working from home so there’s no-one to notice how strange I might look, sitting at my desk resembling a green monster. Fortunately, no Skype meetings today and hopefully no-one will FaceTime me!
But then again, there’s my tummy. All the different, glorious ways I could eat this delightful avocado! Maybe I could just slice it in half and drizzle it with the heavenly dark chocolate balsamic vinegar I recently bought? Or maybe I could squirt some lime on it and grill it, loaded with cheese (recipe here.) Or, or …
Happy Friday folks, hope there’s a perfectly ripe avocado in your future.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on March 1, 2013
Those that like anchovies and those that don’t. Which are you?
And while we are talking anchovies, I have to tell you that they are on my top ten of foods I love. What are the other nine, I hear you clamor? Well OK then, I’ll tell you.
- Cheese (any cheese, I mean it…. well, actually maybe not smoked cheeses.)
- Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut
- Pumpkin anything
- Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
- My Mum’s trifle
Truth is, though, I’ll eat pretty much anything. I love to eat. I cannot understand those people who don’t enjoy their food, who think of eating as a necessary duty. In fact, there are only 5 foods I won’t eat. What are they, you ask? A rather strange and eclectic list that includes:
- Aubergine (that’s eggplant for you American folks)
Posted by samanthamcgarry on November 12, 2012
J’ai envie d’entendre les voix de mes ami(e)s francais(es)
J’ai envie de voir, promener dans, et respirer les montaignes
J’ai envie de cueillir et sentir l’aroma des chanterelles
J’ai envie de gouter les croissants, recemment cuits au four
J’ai envie de boire du bon vin rouge dans un bistro ou bien dehors
J’ai envie de manger que du Saint Marcellin avec une baguette pour le diner
J’ai envie de voir les champs pleins de tournesols ou lavendres
J’ai envie de promener les grandes avenues de Paris, ainsi que les petites vieilles rues de la Marais
J’ai envie de faire les achats au marche, le dimanche matin
J’en ai marre de rever en francais; je veux y etre.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on November 8, 2012
February 2012 marks 12 years since I moved to America from Grenoble, France, a picturesque town surrounded by three masterful mountain ranges. Three hours by train from Paris, one hour by car from Lyon, two hours by car from Geneva and just shy of four hours to the Cote d’Azure, Grenoble was the perfect town in which to live “la vie francaise” from 1997-2000.
Those were three of the best years of my life. I find it hard to believe that I have lived in America now four times longer than I lived in Grenoble. Those three years were packed full of emotion, experiences, adventure and ambition. It was a small town life but it was big with fun and friendship.
Frequently, as I go about my day-to-day life here in the U.S., I get pangs for France. It’s more than just longing for times gone by, my “misspent youth”, memories of good times. It’s visceral. When I’m missing France, I’m missing:
- How my brain feels energized by speaking and thinking in French, my second language
- Amazement and gratitude for the multi-cultural friendships created and sustained
- Viewing the world through a European filter
- The powerful seductive smell of cheese shops and patisseries
- Discovering – and being completely swallowed up by – the voice, lyrics and harmonies of Francis Cabrel and Lara Fabian
- The serendipity of being introduced to works of author Paulo Coelho
- Experiencing the mountains, lakes and countryside in all their overwhelming raw beauty
- The cobblestone streets, the ever-flowing wine, the boutiques,
- Living within and among history and architecture
- Hunting for chanterelles and then making omelets with them
- The deep sleep that follows a day of skiing in the Alps and a cheese fondue
- Did I mention the ever-flowing wine?
The urge to go back, not just to visit but to stay, is powerful. Life in Grenoble made an indelible mark on my soul.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on February 8, 2012