DIY

So the solution to the where to get the buche de noel turned out to be pretty simple. Do it yourself. A quick search of the intrawebs, a couple of hours to weed out the totally chocolate versions and, eh, voila! I made it myself.

You will just have to take my word that, though. I followed this recipe from the BBC website.

I had plenty of raspberries and should have used more in the filling. (Should have read that part a little closer!) But it was enjoyable and surprisingly easy. The roll is a meringue-sponge and not as fragile as I feared. The result was a real crowd-pleaser and very, very tasty. 

Next year I will experiment and try for something lighter. All that cream...but a happy alternative to pudding.

Paris swings

Earlier this year we spent three and a half glorious weeks in Paris. Just Paris. In March and early April the weather is cool - even the locals long-faced. Still, we spent a fair amount of time checking the playgrounds. One, because you can't spend all of your time at galleries and cafes (maybe not all), and two because the playgrounds of Paris can be fantastic. 

My good lady wife wrote this story about Paris playgrounds, published in The Age travel section. 

By the way, I am Paris dreaming again, thinking of winter time trip next time. So any advice, tips or information on traveling in France en hiver warmly welcome! 

Buche de Noel

One of the joys of Christmas in recent years has been Buche de Noel, the 'Christmas log'. 

Christmas pudding is never a bad thing, I love it of course, but the Buche de Noel is something else. Essentially a sponge-cream roll with chocolate and fruit you get all the calories and not so much the pudding's heft. It's light, it's sweet, it's creamy.

Anyway, such thoughts were in my mind today when I hopped into La Parisian Pates in Lygon Street. Would LaPP have B de N this Christmas? No, they haven't for the past couple of years. Though they are currently stocking up heavily for Noel.

So where to go? That's my project for the next month. Hunt the Buche de Noel. Game on.

The end of the affair

The Aviator's Wife is the first in Eric Rohmer's six-film Comedies and Proverbs series. I watched The Aviator's Wife over two nights while away on a tour of regional Victoria. It's the story of Francois' attempts to woo Anne, a woman five years his elder and of Anne's affair with Christian, an airline pilot. The film opens when Christian visits Anne's apartment early one morning to tell her that things must change as his wife is now moving to Paris. 

The story works as series of fragments, or fractions of the whole, you might say. When Francois follows Christian later that day to Parc Buttes Charmont and sees him lingering there with yet another woman, he assumes Christian to be having another affair. But who is this woman? Further, Francois is 'picked up' by a young woman who joins him in spying on the couple. What does she mean to Francois? Later when he mentions the girl to Anne, Anne all but encourages him to pursue her. 

Each character is unable or unwilling to see what desires others have. In Anne we have a complex, sometimes frustrating woman. Faced with the news from Christian she is clearly wounded, yet shows her defeat with flinty, brittle gestures. Not her for the amateur dramatics. Somehow her reticence rings truer. Yet she treats Francois rather offhandedly. (But he is young and might one day know better.) The story works almost as series of negations, or question marks. Scarcely anyone, it seems, is destined to get what they want.

Richard Brody in The New Yorker recently reviewed The Girl from the Monceau Bakery, a film Rohmer made twenty years earlier. He notes: "His plan is to frame chance as destiny - his great religious quasi-metaphysical theme - and his message, his career-long trope, is the deferral of pleasure in anticipation of true love." 

Chance plays its part in The Aviator's Wife, but not to the point of guiding destiny. The realities of other lives press a little closer here, but the deferral of pleasure is resonant and lasting. The conclusions are more open ended and the film all the more memorable for that. 

Eric Rohmer

When my tax return appeared in the mailbox a few weeks back I decided to spend some of it on a bunch of films. I have waited for the re-issue of Eric Rohmer's films, in the way that Louis Malle and Jean Luc Godard have enjoyed. Not to be, or at least, not yet.

So I fired off an order to amazon.uk. Voila, nine days later, The Eric Rohmner Collection. Eight films and the usual extras (short films, trailers and interview with the director). Six films are from the Comedies and Proverbs series, including The Green Ray, Pauline at the Beach, Full Moon in Paris and more. We jumped right in Love in the Afternoon (L'Amour L'Apres-midi). What needs to be said? The film is a typically wry yet surprisingly passionate portrayal of the life of a recently married man. Frederic is a busy young entrepreneur, but he has, shall we say, a rich and vivid inner life. His musings are made real with the re-appearance of Chloe, a young woman Frederic knew before he married.

And there are those incidental pleasures that Rohmer's films offer. The cat and mouse game between what is said and what is meant; the weave of the everyday and the philosophical, the absence of histrionics behind the camera (or in the editing suite). And then there is Paris. The streets of (I think) St Germain de Pres, the cafes, the stlyish offices where the secretaries hammer at typewriters...Made in 1972, the film glows with a look that sums up the period. We suspect the hand of Yves St Laurent. The clothes, in particular those of Chloe, are stunning.

So while I continue to savour this one, I look forward to six or seven more over the coming months.

Photobooth

So I am dope with a keyboard. 

But this afternoon I discovered Photo Booth. 

Ooh, hoo, Andy Warhol...

Elegant camping

We have just come back from a week in South Fremantle. We stayed at our favourite suburban eco-lodge, The Painted Fish. Currently owned by Tim and his wife Shani, it's a slice of old-school Fremantle in a town that is rapidly changing. I grew up around Fremantle and just south of there, so it is a place ripe with memory and association. This is the second time we have stayed at the Fish: finding accommodation in Fremantle is a fraught business. In May we looked far and wide (well, spent a couple of frustrating hours on line) before realising that, yes, we would be paying more to stay in Fremantle than we paid to stay in Paris. Yes, you read that right. 

Anyway, the upside of the Painted Fish comes with (sorry for this) actual frogs and is close to South Beach. The apartment runs on solar energy, has its own water tanks and the gardens are lush with green vegetables. Tim is a tireless worker and fixer-upper and the Fish is a monument to his labour. 

This is a pic of the studio where we stayed. The tree was a magnet for bees and the ponds are home to motorbike frogs, named for the loud but not unpleasant croaking they make in the night. Iris enjoyed riding her scooter by the beach, we walked a lot and ate perhaps a little too well.

South Fremantle is something of a refuge (albeit a pricey one) from the centre of town, which is fast becoming a shell of itself. I am reminded of Peter Carey's story about a town that built a replica of itself that became a tourist attraction, the residents ever after forced to perform their own lives for the amusement of American visitors. Fremantle feels in danger of becoming that kind of place. South Terrace, or the cappuccino strip,  is a long empty shell waiting for the tide of weekenders to fill the bars, cafes and pavements.  With fast swelling suburbs to the south and east, Fremantle becomes a default destination. There are few other choices it seems.

Our trip was something of a flying visit, mainly to catch up with family and friends. I did get to surf at Scarborough with Jim and marked my thirtieth anniversary by riding a single-fin! Jim recently became a father of a handsome boy who looks uncannily like his grandfather. 

We also saw Refat and Elmira Shakir-Aliev. Refat is a doctor of psychiatry but could just as well been a writer. But Uzbekistan in the 1950s was not a great time for writers or journalists. Refat told me a wonderful story about being at school when the teacher came in one morning sobbing with tears. What happened, he wondered? A student said that he saw the teacher hit on the head by a rock. Her tears continued. The class was mystified. The teacher raised her head from the desk and looked out at to the class. "Stalin is dead!" The whole class joined her in crying openly. 

Refat tells this story with not cynical laughter, but laughter of one who long since learned the truth. Elmira's family lost their small land holdings under collectivisation and fled to Uzbekistan. So there were few illusions about Stalin. It puts my own memories of childhood into some kind of perspective. For sure and certain.