Kiwi Summer Quotes

There was a bustle of people in the street as I made my way to La Bonbonnière, which is, quite simply, the most beautiful candy store in the world. The best thing about La Bonbonnière is that it's all windows. Before I even walk through the door I am greeted by a fuzzy three-foot-high statue of a polar bear trying to dip his paws into a copper cauldron filled with marrons glacés--- whole candied chestnuts. Each one was meticulously wrapped in gold foil, a miniature gift in and of itself. If nothing else, Christmas in Provence reminds you of a time when sugar was a luxury as fine and rare as silk. Back to my assignment: I needed two kinds of nougat: white soft nougat made with honey, almonds, and fluffy egg whites (the angel's part) and hard dark nougat--- more like honey almond brittle--- for the devil. Where are the calissons d'Aix? There they are, hiding behind the cash register, small ovals of almond paste covered with fondant icing. Traditional calissons are flavored with essence of bitter almond, but I couldn't resist some of the more exotic variations: rose, lemon verbena, and génépi, an astringent mountain herb. Though I love the tender chew of nougat and the pliant sweetness of marzipan, my favorite of the Provençal Christmas treats is the mendiant--- a small disk of dark or milk chocolate topped with dried fruit and nuts representing four religious orders: raisins for the Dominicans, hazelnuts for the Augustinians, dried figs for the Franciscans, and almonds for the Carmelites. When Alexandre is a bit older, I think we'll make these together. They seem like an ideal family project--- essentially puddles of melted chocolate with fruit and nut toppings. See, as soon as you say "puddles of melted chocolate," everyone's on board. Though fruits confits--- candied fruit--- are not, strictly speaking, part of les trieze desserts, I can't resist. I think of them as the crown jewels of French confiserie, and Apt is the world capital of production. Dipped in sugar syrup, the fruits become almost translucent; whole pears, apricots, and strawberries glow from within like the gems in a pirate's treasure chest. Slices of kiwi, melon, and angelica catch the light like the panes of a stained-glass window. All the dazzling tastes of a Provençal summer, frozen in time.

Artichokes Avocados Bean sprouts Beans, green Bok choy Broccoli Brussels sprouts Cabbage, green Celery Cucumbers with skin Grapes, green Green peas Kiwi, green Leafy greens Lettuce Limes Melons, honeydew Okra Olives, green Peppers, green Snow peas Watercress Zucchini with skin Red Beets Blood oranges Cabbage, red Cherries Cranberries (fresh or frozen without sugar) Grapefruit, pink or red Grapes, red Onions, red Peppers, red Plums, red Pomegranates Radicchio Radishes Raspberries, red Rhubarb Rooibos tea Strawberries Tomatoes Watermelons Blue/Purple/Black Aronia berries (grown throughout North America and Europe) Black currants Black mulberries Blackberries Blueberries Boysenberries Dates Eggplants Elderberries Figs, purple Grapes, black or purple Huckleberries Kale, purple Marionberries Olives, black Plums, black Prunes Purple heirloom carrots Purple yams or potatoes (remember these are starchy—and these must be pigmented all the way through in order to count in this category) Raisins Raspberries, black Yellow/Orange Apricots Cantaloupe Carrots Ginger root Grapefruit, yellow Kiwi, golden Lemon Mangoes Muskmelons Nectarines Oranges Papayas Peaches Peppers, orange and yellow Persimmons Pineapples Pumpkins Squash, summer and winter Starfruit Sweet potatoes and yams Tangerines Turmeric root

Walking up the tree-lined boulevard toward the center always brings out my inner Igor. I often run into Wincing Evan, so called because of the flinch—bordering on a Tourette’s-like seizure—he goes into whenever he spots Dev and me approaching. Head down, he’ll actually scamper across the street to avoid saying hello. In some ways, Evan is a figure of the type I aspire to cut. He translates (let’s say) Gogol. He publishes in The New York Review of Books and abroad. Unlike the blocky Boston bankers who abound in Harvard Square, he cruises in for Parents’ Day wearing a fluid flannel coat with French tailoring, for he and his professor wife (a comp-lit professor whose easy red-lipped smile could’ve sold lipstick) summer overseas often enough to use summer as a verb. Their immaculately turned-out son—Jonathan, age under four years—has shining hair and a good start on French and German. He’s a chess player with a princely manner. I swear if his voice were a little deeper, he could join the diplomatic corps. I once saw Dev, whose sandwich that day was, as most days, a peon’s peanut butter and jelly, try to urge Jonathan into swapping lunches. Young Jonathan peeled back one corner of his seven-grain bread carefully enough not to break the crust. Dev peered in. Jonathan said, Mine is brie and kiwi fruit.