Lavender in the Village Festival

So today was an event that we have been looking forward to for many weeks now: The Lavender in the Village Festival. We (John, my Mom and I) were volunteering for the Los Poblanos Organics tent selling produce, memberships, t-shirts etc. This is the program that we get our weekly box of fresh fruits and veggies through, I know I've mentioned it before. So when the opportunity came up to volunteer for them, we thought what we usually do when faced with such a decision- why not? We have been trying to fill our time with interesting events so that it goes by faster (7 1/2 weeks and counting!) but that's a different post altogether...

This festival is an annual event, all about the wonders of lavender (plus a few other fun things). There were a lot of interesting tents- lavender crafts, goat cheese, wildlife/bird rescue, yurt living, massage, henna, a beer garden and live music. We also played with, petted and oohd and ahhd over the most amazing, adorable 1-week-old baby goats.

We went an hour before our shift so that we could look around and participate in some of the festivities. Unfortunately we missed out on the free massages, but we did get to pick our own lavender and check out the yurt. For lunch we had bratwurst (made on the premises) with green chile relish. We sampled and bought red chile raspberry jam (unbelievable, tongue-tingling goodness) and lavender honey goat cheese. This was a "special edition" goat cheese, just for the festival. It's safe to say it is the most interesting, delicious goat cheese I have ever had. It was amazing to see little kids, adults, everyone go crazy over the organic fruits and vegetables. Organic does taste better, and it's great to see people being so enthusiastic about it.

We were working alongside of LPO interns all day, including one guy who is studying in Montreal. We mentioned to one of the other interns (who makes beautiful clay honey pots) that we were moving to Budapest but want to intern on the farm in the meantime. (Why not?) As we were leaving this intern said to us "Well, we'll see you on the farm, or if not- have fun in Budapest", which caused the Montreal guy to stop in his tracks, "Wait, what, Budapest? Are you guys Hungarian?" Us: "No but we speak a little" Him: "Oh well, Viszontlatasra!" Us: "...." We were so flabbergasted that we didn't even ask him why on earth he speaks Hungarian (he's from New Jersey) but it was a great/strange end to our day of hard work. Well- to reward you for reading this novel (is anyone still reading?) here's some visual aid:

Some of the beautiful produce we were peddling:


Yours truly, working the cash box!:


Outside of the yurt, plus a very nice solar oven:


Inside of the yurt:


Me, cutting lavender in the field:


My mom, winning over the crowd:


Lots of lavender hanging to dry:


Bunch of lavender:


John cutting himself some lavender:


John replenishing the carrot supply:


A beautiful crow:


Darling baby goat:

Have you ever heard of Scrapple?

Well, I hadn't either. But today at our local hangout, one of the waitresses brought back a bag of it from her trip to Pennsylvania. It caused quite a stir among the staff, and it wasn't long before a plate was brought out for us to try. Our waiter googled it and found this from Wikipedia:

"Scrapple (Pennsylvania Dutch) is traditionally a mush of pork scraps and trimmings combined with cornmeal and flour, often buckwheat flour, and spices. The mush is formed into a semi-solid congealed loaf, and slices of the scrapple are then panfried before serving. Scrapple is typically made of hog offal, such as the head, heart, liver, and other scraps, which are boiled with any bones attached (often the entire head?."

Congealed pork "mush" didn't really sound like anyone's idea of a good meal- the cooks brought out an old pan so as not to "scrapple-up" the restaurant's.

I must admit, the taste wasn't awful- it wasn't particularly good either - but the texture and the appearance was what really took the cake:



Somewhere between cat vomit and a smushed turd. I think I could learn to like it, if I could just blindfold myself while eating it.

Vizum and You're Going WHERE?

After several weeks of worrying, we got our visas today. I'm so happy to be in possession of our passports again, and they have just become all the more valuable. Having had my passport stolen in the past (which, 5 years later - a month ago - a detective found in a storage unit of a woman arrested for 200+ counts of identity theft) I am always slightly nervous about it- I protect it *slightly* neurotically. And now I have even more reason, due to this official-looking visa:



In other news, I've noticed a funny phenomenon lately. Whether due to not really caring, or faulty knowledge of geography - people can NOT for the life of them remember where it is that we are moving to. Today was a new one from my dentist: "So when are you going to... *looks confused* Belgium?" "Hungary, August 18th" (a date that I repeat what seems like 50 times a day.) We've also heard Turkey, Bucharest, Bulgaria, Bangkok and a myriad of other cities/countries starting with a "B" (i.e. Budapest). This usually happens when the news of our impending move is second-hand, but still, it never ceases to amuse me.

Breadzilla!! Or, Dear God! Did I Add Too Much Yeast?

After looking through the storage shed (see previous post on opening locks) and finding my journal from this past summer in Provence, I was reminded of something that I will never forget; eating goat cheese fougasse in an open-air market in Aix-en-Provence. I thought it would be nice to recreate this heavenly bread, and so the recipe search began. After many blog/recipe/cooking sites later, I determined that what we had was not fougasse. This was a soft, sweet bread, while fougasse is a hearth-style, crusty and savory bread.

I decided to improvise. Working in a French cafe for a year or so in early college left me with a keen taste of different french breads. I decided that the "fougasse" that we had had was more of a brioche, studded with chunks of creamy, stinky cheese. Coupled with a ripe, juicy peach? Dear God, the thought brings a tear to my eye.

Today I made braided brioche, with Roquefort cheese stuck in the cracks. It was fine at first, but the seemingly over-active yeast made me dub my creation "Breadzilla", as I had visions of the rising beast bursting from my oven onto the unsuspecting city below.

Regardless of how much it rose, it was unbelievable. Certainly different from what I remember tasting beneath the soleil Provencal (but really, could anything ever be that good again?) yet still delicious in its own right.

A truly gorgeous braided brioche, peppered with Roquefort, ready to rise for a second time:



And a shot from the oven monstrosity, ready to rise into oblivion:



And finally, the end product, barely able to squeeze onto a cookie sheet:



Bonus:

Aix market where said "fougasse" was bought and consumed:

The TB Test Saga

I have been trying to get a TB test since last Thursday. It really shouldn't be this hard. I called several weeks ago to schedule it and was given an appointment on Thursday evening. After having my blood pressure, weight, height and temperature taken (not to mention waiting in the waiting room for 20 minutes) I was told that I could not get the test since no one would be there to check it on Saturday. Ok, receptionist error I suppose. So the nurse told me to come back Friday morning and someone could read it on Monday. It was only later that night that I realized Monday was Memorial day so clearly no one would be there to read it then, either. So I went in on Friday morning and told them about this, and asked if I could come in on Tuesday instead. They were way more confused than the situation warranted and after much calling of the nurses and looking at the computer they realized yes, the nurse had indeed made a mistake.

So they scheduled me for today at 11.

After explaining to the once again very confused receptionist that they told me I only needed to see a nurse to administer the test, we waited. And waited some more. 11:30 rolled around and I decided it would be wise to check in at the front desk on the status of my nurse, in which I was told that they were all running 30 minutes behind schedule.

Finally I was called back after several more minutes and sat in triage while my nurse prepared the needle. She explained to me that there would be a "bubble" in my skin where all the fluid was. She couldn't get the needle in at first, and she asked me if I was alright. She got it in eventually and said "Ok, are you ready?" and I nodded and promptly felt a shower of cold liquid on my inner arm and an "Oops" from the nurse's mouth. She said the bubble had popped, and the liquid shot out the other side. Yum. So I held a cotton ball on my inner arm while she looked for another TB test, consulting another nurse on what gauge needle she should be using. All of this inspired much confidence in me, let me tell ya. So she preps my arm again and puts the needle in, and says in a sing-song voice, "Here comes the BUB-ble!" and I felt my skin expand. I looked over to see a giant fluid-filled pustule on my inner arm. "Huh", I managed to mutter. She assured me the bubble would go away in a matter of hours, so I made sure to take a picture as soon as I was done.

Behold, the bubble, the smaller, failed bubble and my strangely sparkly skin:



Fun stuff.