I have sworn off foie gras for the foreseeable future.

During yesterday’s afternoon walk through the muddy horse-pooped paths of the Geneva countryside, a vision came to me. Enough of the spaghetti bolognaise, the raclette, the Indonesian stir-fries, the pork chops and apple sauce. We were going to eat something unique and special; something I’d never tasted before; something of opulence and splendour.

We were going to sample that all-time French classic, Tournedos Rossini.

In my defence, I think the hallucination came from a touch of “cabin fever”–that well known Canadian wintertime medical event when prolonged isolation creates a feeling of claustrophobia, restlessness and paranoia. Anyway, the idea was not my fault.

To create a Tournedos Rossini, you first need a big fat chunk (800 grams) of beef fillet. The original recipe (created almost exactly 200 years ago by the famous French chef, Casmir Moissons, big friend of the foodie and opera-writer, Gioachino Rossini) called for a 8cm thick piece of tenderloin. Well, we had two rather thin slices of beef bought that morning from the supermarket over the French border. They would have to do.

Next ingredient was bread. No problem as there was a Grand Boule Campagnard resting in the breadbox. Then there was the 150 gm of foie gras. Also (Noël oblige) there was a perfect pack of two skinny rounds of duck liver only slightly out-of-date in the fridge.

Butter was required for all cooking stages (fortunately, there was an “action” at the Migros last week and I had four bricks.)  And to top it all off, 70 grams of thinly sliced Périgord black truffles were needed.  This final addition would have to wait until next time, as digging in the cold, dark, muddy garden was simply not an option. And it was agreed that the corner store probably didn’t carry them.

Unfortunately, there was the last-minute surprise discovery that a sauce espagnole demi-glace was required, as otherwise the whole concoction would be too “dry”. I don’t know how Casmir made his Madeira sauce, but I made mine with brandy and beef bouillon powder. (Tip: any good poutine gravy would work just fine.)

We started dinner with a simply boiled artichoke. This was to clean our livers and prepare them for what was going to happen to them next.

The cook retired to the kitchen and closed the door. Skillets and butter were distributed across the stove top, and the air turned blue.

As everything has to be warm and assembled at the last moment, there were a couple of glitches. One of the chunks of duck liver just disappeared, melting into mushy nothingness. The meat was a little tough (being only half a centimetre thick, rather than the recommended four.) But the bread and gravy were perfect.

For supper tonight I have a plastic box of vintage spaghetti sauce thawing out on the kitchen counter. It is a pre-cabin-fever creation dated October 30, 2020. There will be cheese on top.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because of Covid19 many golden opportunities will be lost forever. For example, I will never be able to show Valéry Giscard d’Estaing the way to the downstairs men’s toilet of the Uni II building ever again. This was a few decades back, and he was lost—wandering desperately in the concrete halls. Whimpering. I came to his rescue and I am sure he has thought of me fondly every day since then.

Well, until December 2^nd, when he died of complications from the virus.

This is the problem: selfish desires and greedy minds. Not only have we lost those serendipitous encounters, but also simple pleasures:  missing lunches with colleagues and friends; not seeing the family both here and in Canada. Instead, we are immersed in a world of face masks and hand-spray, repetitive meal planning, furtive shopping, and a general Sleeping Beauty/Rip Van Winkle desire to sleep until it’s all over.

Determined to come up with some positive aspects for the new corona virus world, we’ve all been thinking hard. The New York Times, for example, has introduced a full page of recipes every week. They are often ethnic, complicated and esoteric. Strangely, what they all have in common is kosher salt.

Learning Chinese, taking up the clarinet, or finally reading War and Peace are all noble projects. Somehow, there’s not enough time, and certainly not an aerosol of morale or a droplet of concentration. We are scattered.

Computers help, of course. I have learned how to produce a bar-code for the post office for every single package I send out of Switzerland. That is the extent of my new skills. Rather, it is what I have done away with that I consider to be my most precious accomplishments.

For example, I reached an ironing epiphany a week or two back. Back in the old days, shirts and skirts got ironed. In a blinding flash it came to me that this is a total waste of time.  Who sees? Who judges? Who cares? I have since been casting a critical eye on the actual laundry pile. Perhaps it, too, is extraneous to purpose.

Cleaning and tidying the house also used to serve a social function: i.e., that your invited guests neither saw nor suspected your inner pig. I have found that if you have no guests, then your inner pig grows to wild boar proportions. The other day the postman cast a judgmental eye on my door mat which was covered with big, flat, dried mud flakes. I vacuumed it this morning.

And then there is hair. The colours! The highlights! The cuts! The styling! The expense! I last saw William back in January, between trips to Aqaba and Sri Lanka. He phoned me up the other day to ask if I had died of Covid.  I was ashamed I hadn’t, and promised to present myself to him in January.

I’m going back to lie on the couch. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Back in the day, a person would head out purposefully to go Christmas shopping.  Sometime at the beginning of December, either alone or with a friend, you would fill up your purse with real paper money and take the bus into town.

A pen-and-paper list would have been prepared, solid items envisaged, and the Geneva department stores, toy shops, and stationers would have been visited.  A corncob pipe from Davidoff’s. A Swiss art calendar from Brachard. A box of chocolate pavés from the Bonbonnière. And you would return home foot-sore and arm-weary with bags and boxes, and a true sense of possible future poverty and solid accomplishment.

For exotic items, you could visit the second hand book stores and the Saturday flea market and come up with almost-first editions, ancient engravings, or strange Japanese prints. Music stores had racks of song books and mountains of CD’s. People would help. You would buy piano-key socks.

If you had the stamina to make it all the way to Carouge, there were even more outlandish stores selling Indian ware, and small African sculptures. You could buy a wooden parrot or a bronze cow or hand-made jewelry–articles of great beauty and assured rarity.

Lacquered Chinese cabinets and old rattan baskets and Bohemian glass and Nepalese rabbit-fur shawls have all made their way into my house from the stalls of Geneva merchants.

One of my first adult Christmas-shopping days that I clearly remember was December 9, 1980. John Lennon had been assassinated the day before, and a buzz was in the air.

Since those days, trips away have usually replaced, and then delayed or advanced Christmas festivities. In some far-away corner of the earth you would buy a horse-hair Burmese bowl or a clay Colombian statue or a Chinese paint-brush. These would be gifts for others, and gifts for yourself. Things to take up space, gather dust, and sit still and silent around you. Things that you don’t even see anymore. Things that have become old invisible friends.

And today I’ve been at it again. Sadly no frivolous-frippery shops are open here in Geneva due to partial confinement, so I have had to resort to on-line services. It has been a solitary day of frustration and failure and mediocracy.

My favourite shop in England cannot deliver until mid-January due to having been moved to Tier 3 of covid19 lockdown. They explained that only 3 people can work in their warehouse due to new rules.

I contacted my bookstore in Paris, but it is closed as an international appeal has resulted in a tsunami of orders and they are drowning in success.

And I didn’t even bother seeing what has become of my Florentine art supplies shop. The man there has probably gone home and is hiding under his duvet.

However, I have managed local sourcing of many quite ordinary things and am moderately satisfied. Sadly, there have been no eureka moments.

Imagine no possessions. I wonder if you can.

The ghost of last week’s electrical inspection lady is still lingering, and I feel guilty every time I want to turn on my set of plastic pink flamingo dining room lights to give a certain cheerful ambiance in these dark and dreary days.

She came to help us save energy, as we are now proud suppliers to the cantonal hydro and water company – the SIG.  We produce energy from the sun using our new solar panels–for example, the device you’re reading this on might be partially powered by me—and anything we don’t use is bought by them (very cheap). Whenever we need energy (flamingo lights) and the sun is not shining (today) we buy some energy back (very expensive).  She came to help us in this process.

She changed tap filters with flair, adding “brise jet” bubbles to the water so we use less. Frequent toilet flushing is a no-no. All electronic household machines should be immediately changed to the new AAAA++++ category. She suggested gluing insulating panels to the ceiling of the basement. She didn’t say anything about the bomb shelter and flabbergasted silence met the dirt-floored wine cellar. She suggested hanging an anti-cold curtain going down the basement steps. She suggested buying an electric car to be able to charge its battery. She suggested replacing all doors and windows and blinds, and mentioned that adding an extra layer of insulation to the walls of the entire house would also help.

She finally suggested changing the whole front north-east wall and sent a 22-page report.

She also really didn’t like the reading light in the living room, and so this problem is what we have focused on. A new lightbulb has been ordered from Amazon which does not deliver most of its items to Switzerland. This sort of purchase involves going to ”tabac” kiosk in a French village north of the Swiss border to send back mistaken-goods packages, and going to a post office in a French town south of the border to retrieve possibly correct-goods packages. As you can only do this if you have a French return address, an unsuspecting ex-colleague is also involved in all the to-ing and fro-ing.

Yesterday was a return parcel day (chain saw blades to be exact) and tomorrow is pick-up day (new bulb) and so small touristic side-excursions are sometimes involved.

Yesterday there was a visit to the source of the Allondon River which comes out of a hole at the foot of the Jura and runs down into the Rhone River in the Geneva countryside. There were picnic tables in delightful clearings, and picturesque moss-covered ruins of old mills that used to produce hemp rope. Disused water channels and stone walls all attested to the use of water energy centuries ago.

The inspection lady gave us presents as she left – some dubious light bulbs and two thermometers. They are all safely stored in the kitchen drawer.

 

The mistake most people make is thinking that the house needs you there to look after it. This is not the case. A normally-constituted house or apartment can more or less look after itself–except for those rare events such as being hit by lightning,  the pipes freezing and bursting, or having a tree go through it or fall on top of it. For these extreme, dramatic events, it is important that you are there. Or not.

As weather and seismic activity are entirely beyond your control, you must never ever worry about them. Burglaries are also an ever-present mental danger and occasionally come true. They can be reduced by normal precautions such as locking all doors and windows.

Leaving is always hard to do, but there are a few simple, subtle tricks that can help to sooth your anguish, reduce your anxiety, and fool the burglar.

1. To clean or not to clean. I personally feel that a house feels better if it is not too clean. If you are to be away for a while, you will be surprised at all the help that spiders can bring. They kill a huge assortment of flies, bugs and other spiders, so there is no point in vacuuming for at least 3 weeks before your intended trip.
2. Never wash your windows just before leaving. This can lead to unpleasant surprises upon return which include smelly dead birds lying around that have flown into the sudden emptiness, or even broken panes of glass where someone has seen something inside worth stealing. Nor should windows be too filthy as this makes the place look abandoned and derelict. I would suggest washing windows about 6 months before your planned departure.
3. A kitchen, especially, should look lived-in. Remember to take out the garbage, and to get rid of all potatoes, but leave dishes on the draining board, and a couple of coffee cups on the counter. Put the kitchen light and the radio on and place half a bottle of wine on the table.
4. Leave certain things lying around outside. Along with a parked car (with licence plates) I find old plastic children’s’ toys lying around on the driveway give an impression of un-Swiss un-tidiness and possible household impoverishment. Muddy old boots in front of the door and a collection of animal skulls found in the woods also provide a superstitious, lugubrious air. Top this up with a half-filled dog bowl and leash and collar chains hanging beside the front door and the illusion of red-necked squalor is quite complete and utterly unappealing to any self-respecting Swiss burglar.

Yes, I know. There is the mail and the thousands of fliers that get pushed through the letter box, and to keep this mess to a minimum, you need a trustworthy and accommodating neighbour.

So grab your masks and your hand sanitizer and take a little trip to Away. Try not to worry, and Bon Voyage!

 

 

 

Well, as the Parisians run away to the Côte d’Azur, the Milanese take off to Tuscany, Norwegians scramble to their lake-side cottages (and then home again), and even the Queen of England has decamped to Windsor, all the rest of us are staying put.

In Switzerland, federal reasonableness prevails, and the lock-down against COVID-19 is filled with contradictions and complications – much like a Swiss watch. It is neither simple nor straightforward. Holding our breath, and not touching anything, we can go for a quick shop, visit a doctor (if we can find one), buy gas, go for a drive, or take a walk in the woods.

We are encouraged to wash our hands with soap while singing “Happy Birthday” in our heads (it takes 20 seconds.) The trains and buses are running, and hotels are open. I think we are discouraged from using both facilities. The postman delivers the papers and bills as usual.

However, we must not congregate or socialise. Restaurants are closed. The occasional halloo over the bamboo thicket that separates us from the neighbours is about as gregarious as we can get.

Deprived of our chalets and shacks in the French Alps, we survive from meal to meal, wash our hands and clothes more often than usual, and eagerly answer the telephone as it seems that all the annoying call-centres have been abandoned. This means that the people at the other end of the line are medical secretaries cheerily announcing that they are closed and are eager to postpone the arranged colonoscopy or dental interventions.

We graciously agree.

The younger family members keep in touch, pleasantly offering shocking stories of friends stuck in Nepal or in quarantine in Ecuador. We hear from Canadian snow-birds in Mexico drinking “quarantinis” by the ocean and waiting for the last flight out. There are relatives who swear by watching non-stop TV, and friends who bemoan the pitfalls of distance teaching.

I, myself, have put on my new Sri Lanka lucky earrings, and taken up foraging in the safety of my own home.  I have barely scratched the surface, and already see that it is offering a bounteous harvest of useful items.

Hand sanitizer has been bought before most trips over the decades, not used, and brought back–Naples during a garbage strike, or Namibia where there is no water. All over the house I have come across little blue bottles, most of which are satisfactorily full.

Then there is the bar of super soap from Rhodes. It was bought a few years back at a sad roadside market at the top of a scraggy piney-forest mountain. The soap is brown and totally unappealing. Made of pine tar, it has both anti-bacterial and anti-fungal properties. Perfect.

The jackpot so far is a jumbo box of surgical face masks bought some years back for a cold-riddled trip to Japan.

So stay at home and take a look in the kitchen drawer—you know THAT one—and find a domestic diamond or two of your own.

 

 

Well, it started in November when the annual automobile tax bills rudely landed in the letterbox here in the Geneva countryside. The two cars, the vintage motorbike, and the trailer each got nailed, as usual…but this time there was a new additional twist. These four objects also needed individual pollution stickers to show the level of their physical filthiness and moral reprehensibility.

Each sticker is supposed to be purchased (5 Swiss francs), and they are colour-coded to show polluting emissions. The green sticker is the best and reserved for electric and hydrogen cars. Next in line is the purple ones for gas or hybrid cars. After that things descend into normal petrol or smelly diesel (yellow, orange, red and grey – much like judo belts) and it gets very very murky indeed in the world of Old Bangers.

All this extraneous and amusing paperwork was consigned to the end-of-the-year recycling basket and the affair was mentally classed as completely caduc–null and void. I mean, the trailer doesn’t even have an ENGINE and, frankly, I can’t see the reason for anyone pushing it into downtown Geneva on a smoggy day.

In all of Switzerland there is a long tradition of identifying the amusing Geneva political blooper called a Genferei. (http://www.genferei.org).  It is complex and multi-faceted concept concerning a Geneva government act or proposal that does not work out. The best ones have certain admirable qualities.

According to the official website, there are four sorts of Genferei:

• A plan that is accepted by all, but which falls apart on its own. This kind is very expensive.
• A plan that is blocked by sterile conflict.
• A plan that is never operational, but never goes away.
• A plan that is heavy with unforeseen consequences and extinguishes itself with either elegance or resentment. The artistic touch is crucial here.

From what I can see, sitting in front of my Geneva Car Circulation Permit and my explanatory letter from the Geneva government concerning the new pollution stickers, this anti-pollution plan meets ALL of the above criteria.

• The fine for either not buying the sticker or disobeying motoring restrictions on smoggy days will be 500 Swiss francs…but then if you haven’t bought one, you will have saved 5 francs, so it will be only 495 CHF.
• The plan is already at least temporarily blocked by the Swiss Touring Club.
• Legal experts (le Temps 31 January 2020) explain that there are already anti-pollution measures in place acceptable to the Swiss federal government, and Geneva does not need its own private personal ones.
• As to unforeseen consequences, maybe there will be a solidarity movement and we will all buy the green sticker as that one seems to offer the most freedom. This would also take the pressure off the pollution police.

Just as a matter of fact, the Geneva police department won the Genferei Prize in 2018.

The competition out there is crippling.