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We absolutely loved it! One of my favorite burgers I have ever made. And I have made LOTS of BURGERS.
Cook up 10 slices of thick smoked bacon. Crumble two of them, and reserve the rest. You will be using part of the Bleu cheese in your patties and the rest to top your burger.
Slice tomatoes, set aside. Combine the ground beef, bacon, egg, Bleu cheese, dry mustard and seasoned pepper in a bowl. It got plenty of saltiness from the cheese and bacon.
Evenly divide the meat, and form into 4 patties. Look at those chunks of bleu cheese! We set our grill to degrees, and they were cooked perfectly 9 minutes on each side.
While your burgers are on the grill, butter the insides of your buns and drop them into a skillet to toast them, like you would a grilled cheese.
In my opinion, it really makes the burgers taste so much better. We slathered on some mayo, then topped the burgers with the tomato slices, bacon and crumbled Bleu cheese.
The flavor was out of this world. Then ate half of mine, too! Girl Carnivore? A Simple Pantry? An Affair from the Heart? City Living Boston?
Cooking With Carlee? Convos with Karen? Daily Dish Recipes? Dance Around The Kitchen? Dixie Chik Cooks?
Dizzy Busy and Hungry? The approach is one that all of us can follow. Find good suppliers—downtown, in the next town, by mail order, or on the Web—get to know them, and stick by them.
You should always know the first name of the person you buy your meat from. Picard rarely offers beef in his restaurant, because he has yet to find a producer he trusts.
He now runs a restaurant just outside Paris that specializes in pork, but he is always home for the annual slaughtering and butchering of a pig in winter.
Although European Union regulations as well as the practices of modern hygiene prohibit butcher shops from killing anything on the premises—only certified slaughterhouses are authorized to kill an animal—the annual pig slaughter in a small hilltop village goes largely undetected.
The event gives Reynaud a chance to reminisce about a pig killing thirty-three years before, when, accompanying his grandfather to a local farm, he sat on the imitation leather seat of his truck and witnessed for the first time the festivities surrounding the event.
The temperature then, as now, was considerably below freezing. The only difference between the two occasions is in the beverage: eight glasses of wine for Reynaud today; two cups of hot chocolate for the seven-year-old, plus a late-morning snack of sliced bread with butter.
But the bounty of the pork preparations—from the blood sausages to the bellies—gives the book its structure.
In this respect, it is different from the Picard or the Fearnley-Whittingstall. It is a cookbook, showing you the five, or ten, or sometimes twenty recipes for each category of pig-slaughter preparation: autumn fruits apples, quinces, pears, and a splash of Calvados with your blood sausages, for instance, or in a tart made with fennel—ingredients that might still be available when your blood sausages have just been made.
But there are affinities among the three books. The way he addresses the issue of quality is remarkably understated and telling.
His book is written in the quiet confidence that you will be reading it only if you are interested not just in meat but in the whole animal it comes from.
About halfway through my reading, I stopped. The book had made me want to cook what it was describing.
What I then purchased—trotters, knuckles, a shank, the belly—now seems absurd. Ronnie can best be described as a pure American singer and songwriter whose music is a never ending story of life experiences that are not only his but many others as well.
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I only wish I had something profound and redeeming to say about all this, but I haven't. As a mother and a human being I just feel for Ruth Halimi.
Posted by Parisgirl at 11 comments:. Monday, 27 April iPhone, uPhone, noPhone. La Fille and I have been spending the holidays in the UK. Don't ask me how the thief performed this particularly nasty trick of spiriting away a day old phone inside a case, inside another case, inside a closed bag on the very day my new binding two-year contract came into effect, because I really have no idea.
I felt nothing. I should say that I've been lucky until now; I've never been a victim of a crime before unless you count being shot at while trying to report from warzones.
So I admit I was a bit shaken and emotional. Not hysterical after all it was "just a phone" as someone pointed out, but a bit spooked.
The reason for this wasn't just having the phone pinched - and knowing I would have to pay euros to replace it - but the fact that in the early hours of Sunday I found myself in a police station, not sure exactly where I was, without a map to find out, without a taxi rank in sight and without any means of finding out if the Frenchman and La Fille had got home safely or letting them know where I was and what was happening.
I found myself in the early hours of Sunday in a London police station talking to a young duty officer who quite clearly did not believe a word I was saying.
It wasn't that he told me he couldn't find any record on his computer of the crime report I'd already made by phone having been astonished to find that Richmond police station closes at 8.
It wasn't even that he told me there was no evidence of "theft" "the removal of something from someone with the intention of depriving them of it or use of it," as he pointed out.
It wasn't just that he was unsympathetic and suggested I'd mislaid the phone, but that he made judgments he had no right, in my opinion, to make.
What really shocked me were two comments he uttered during our exchange conducted in the station reception with him sitting about two feet behind a glass screen.
I am going to recount them as accurately as I remember given my state of distress and frustration at the time. At some point half way through our conversation at around 1am he made a remark about "alcohol on your breath".
Taken aback I said something like "I beg your pardon," and he repeated that he could smell alcohol on my breath. He knew I'd been at a party when my phone was stolen, I'd told him that, but I didn't deem it necessary to say I'd only been at it about an hour before it was nicked nor that I hadn't drunk anything since, a period of around four hours.
I mean, I wasn't rolling drunk so what business was it of his? Then he recounted a story of how someone had come in claiming to have been attacked and had their mobile stolen in the street by two "black men" his words not mine , when it turned out the phone had been at home all the time.
Frankly I couldn't see the relevance of either of these comments except to make a judgment about me and cast doubt on my claim. Everything I said, he shot down.
The phone, fully charged at the time, was redirecting to voicemail, I said, suggesting it had been turned off. I wrote down the letters and numbers on his shoulder tabs.
I am ashamed to say that at one point I did say to the officious officer that I knew the Mayor of London which isn't strictly true though I do know several members of his close family but I was sorely provoked.
On the other hand, I did apologise for being somewhat emotional, an apology he didn't even acknowledge. In the end he flatly refused to make a crime report and gave me a grudgingly written Property Lost in Streets form on which his belief that I was a liar was evident.
Despite the property not being "lost" and certainly not "lost in streets", under 'Where Lost' he wrote: "Believed to be Later, the phone company took one look at this mealy-mouthed document and refused to put an international block on the phone meaning the thief is probably still wandering around making free use of my expensive property.
Thankfully, the female operators on the Metropolitan Police non-emergency line were less judgmental and considerably more helpful and, after hearing my tale of telephone woe, promised to send a crime report.
This is their number should you ever need them: 12 Look, I realise being the duty officer in a London police station on a Saturday night cannot be much fun and must involve fobbing off drunks and trying to spot fraudulent claims.
What I should have said was women of a certain age with energetic young children who get up early and who are on the last night of their holiday in London have better things to do in the early hours of the morning - like sleep - than hang around police stations trying to convince members of Her Majesty's police force that they are not simply a dozy cow but a genuine victim of crime.
Posted by Parisgirl at 13 comments:. Tuesday, 14 April The Rosbif and the Frogs. I am turning native. I ate frogs' legs yesterday.
This is the French experience, eh? Not much to it really, psychologically or physically unless you are a frog lover. Or a frog. You'd be hard pressed to get fat on them.
For the curious they taste like very tiny chicken legs, though the squeamish might be turned by the fact they are served in pairs still joined at the hip.
I worried that La Fille might be a little disturbed by the idea as her favourite series of books at the moment is Frog and Toad. I was ready to explain - though I'm not sure what or how - but there was no need.
She was so keen the Frenchman said: "Aha! You are half French after all", as if there might be some doubt about this. I was with French friends and the conversation turned to other national delicacies; it was admitted that the French do have some very dubious culinary habits.
For starters there's Tete de Veau , or indeed the process involved in the making of foie gras , which, is cruel even if the end product is delicious.
But there are lines to be drawn with my efforts to integrate. In this case I will make an exception to the rule, oft repeated to La Fille, that one should try something before deciding one doesn't like it.
I don't even want to know if I don't like snails. Thursday, 2 April The Ant, the Grasshopper and the Immigrant Cockroaches. France's political incorrectness can sometimes provoke quite sharp intakes of shocked breath.
Somehow I cannot see the Golliwog row happening in France. Then again I cannot see an English schoolteacher calling one of her pupils of African origin a "Little Monkey" as la Fille tells me her French teacher did the other day, and not being severely reprimanded for racism at worst and insensitivity at best.
It is true, political correctness can be taken too far, but where is the line to be drawn? I received the following email from one of the Frenchman's friends.
At the beginning I laughed. At the end I had stopped. The words: "a gang of immigrant cockroaches" made me feel distinctly uncomfortable even in the context of cultural parody in which all the characters are insects.
Thinking I might be overreacting - it has been known - or that I'd misread the nuance, I asked La Belle Belle Fille what she thought.
She declared it to be too close to the truth to be funny, but didn't seem particularly shocked. I asked an American friend what she thought. Like me, she laughed at the beginning.
At the end she said: "Noooo, that's awful. Here's the mail translated. THE STORY - ENGLISH VERSION The ant works hard all through the summer heatwave.
He builds a house and stocks up food for winter. The grasshopper thinks the ant is stupid. He laughs, dances and plays around. Winter comes. The ant is warm and well fed.
The grasshopper shivers with cold and has neither food nor shelter. He dies of cold. END OF STORY THE STORY - FRENCH VERSION The ant works hard all through the summer heatwave.
The grasshopper shivers with cold. He organises a press conference to demand why the ant has the right to be warm and well fed when others, less fortunate than him, are cold and hungry.
Television stations organise live shows showing the grasshopper shivering with cold and include video clips of the ant in his warm house with a table covered with food.
The French are shocked that in such a rich country, a poor grasshopper can be left to suffer while others have so much.
Anti-poverty organisations protest in front of the ant's house. Jounalists run interviews claiming the ant has become rich on the back of the grasshopper.
They call on the government to increase the ant's taxes so that he "pays a fair contribution". The unions, the Communist Party, the Revolutionary Communist League, the Gay and Lesbian Pride groups organise sit-ins and protests in front of the ant's house.
As a show of solidarity public servants decide to go on strike for 59 minutes every day for an indefinite period. A famous philosopher writes a book establishing links between the ant and the Nazi torturers at Auschwitz.
In response to opinion polls the government rushes through laws on economic equality and anti-discrimination.
The ant's taxes are increased and he is fined for not having employed the grasshopper as his assistant. The ant's house is requisitioned by the authorities because the ant doesn't have enough money to pay the fine and increased taxes.
The ant emigrates to Switzerland where he contributes to that country's economic wealth. A television report shows the grasshopper has now become fat.
He is in the process of eating what remains of the ant's food even though Spring is still a long way off. Gatherings of artists and left-wing writers are regularly held in the ant's house.
The singer Renaud composes a song: "Ant, beat it The government is blamed for not providing enough money for the work. An inquiry costing 10 million euros, is set up.
The grasshopper dies of an overdose. The ant's former house is squatted by a gang of immigrant cockroaches.
The cockroaches deal in drugs and terrorise the local community. The French government congratulates itself on the multicultural diversity of France.
END OF STORY. Wednesday, 25 March Crisis What Crisis? Episode 2. Interviews Fashion Beauty Wellness Everything Else Cult Favorites.
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