The Abominable Update

Barb the French Bean here. I wish you all a very belated Happy 2016, barring the recent passing of David Bowie, Alan Rickman and René Angelil.

As for my own life, university studies and work have kept me at bay in terms of blogging; I've only just come out of finishing my finals for Fall term.

Still, the end of my 2015 went swimmingly. I spent two weeks staying at a friend's house in Strasbourg, which gave me the opportunity to see its famous Christmas Market, visit the Alsace region, and to step into Basel, Switzerland and a couple of German border towns.

The tree in Place Kléber, Strasbourg

One of the many Christmas decorations for sale

Colmar- La Petite Venise

In Colmar- La Petite Venise

Basel, Switzerland- along the Rhine

The Basel town hall

The cathedral that overlooks the Rhine

Swiss public telephone booths look suspiciously like the TARDIS

I wish I were kidding: I went to Germany literally to buy sausages. Mmmmmm...

As of next Monday, I commence the second semester of the first year of the Masters program. I look forward to working on my thesis and keeping up with my Dutch lessons.

Oh, yes, I probably didn't mention that I am learning Dutch. To give you an idea of how hectic last semester was, the other courses that I took made Dutch the "easy" class. Now I'm going to keep learning the language for fun, even if it means dealing with the onvoltooid verleden tijd and figuring out which nouns are De- or Het-woorden.

(Dutch Pro tip: MAKE EVERYTHING PLURAL.)

Also, if any Nederlands speakers can give me a helping hand in terms of conversational practice, I would be FOREVER grateful for it. It's not exactly evident to learn this language while living in France...

Cheers,
Barb the French Bean

Sherlock-Style Hiatus

Hello.

After the riveting post about making Brioche from scratch, I practically disappeared from the blogosphere here at Two Beans Or Not Two Beans.

I just wanted to let you all know that I am not dead.

I am not dead and I will make an entrance sporting a fake drawn-on mustache and mimicking a cheesy French accent.

#FrenchBeanLives

To be honest, life has been rather unstable for me since the year began. I won't bore you with all of the details, but I will explain the few key points.

After much deliberation caused by several months of unemployment, I, with the help and advice of close friends and family, decided to apply for a Masters program in France. This meant needing to amass a deluge of paperwork, photocopies and translated legal documents as per French university requirements.

That's when things started to go awry: my laptop started malfunctioning in which it refused to open any of my files or let me use Microsoft programs, including Paint and Word. Moreover, the wi-fi connection went down in my building and the then current landlord was unable to do anything about it. Seeing as how the university applications (not to mention posting blogs) relied heavily on the use of Internet, I found myself scrambling all over Le Mans to leech off the wi-fi in local cafés, dragging the nearly-moribund laptop.

This meant that blogging took a backseat to my real life priorities.

Despite all odds, I was indeed accepted to my choice university. It was such a wave of relief to have gotten my acceptance letter in the mail back in June. However, this meant that I had to move once again...for the fourth time in six years.

I said good-bye to Le Mans and, after completing the visa and student paperwork, welcomed Angers into my life.

The famous Angevin castle 

Being accepted by l'Université d'Angers means that a certain aspect of my life has come full circle.

Back in 2008, while relishing the profound interest I have for the French language, I had contemplated in using my Alma Mater's study abroad program to do a summer semester of intensive French lessons in Angers. Except my university canceled the study abroad program for that very year. Dejected, I lamented not having been able to do my university coursework in France and in a city as lovely as Angers.

Now, several years on, I find myself in the odd situation of starting my Masters program there.

I'm absolutely petrified at the prospect of studying in France, yet for the first time in several months, I am hopeful that things are going to turn out just fine.

At least, things will turn out fine provided that I stay on top of the paperwork and photocopies...

Barb the French Bean

Adventures in Brioche-Makin' (with recipe)

In the hectic side project that is dealing with my life, I have temporarily forgotten to update my little corner of the Internet.

Today, with my apologies, I offer you all a glimpse of the activity that I have been working at for the past month or so: brioche baking.

The urge to make my own brioche started from mere curiosity. I wanted to embark on the journey of making this traditional French bread...and balked at the idea that the entire process would take around fourteen hours.

However, most of the time in question involved waiting for the dough to rise.

Making a brioche (without a machine, mind you) can at times be frustrating, especially when the result you envisioned is far from the reality.

I offer, as an example, photographic evidence of what I entitle Brioche #1.

I won't sugarcoat my actions: Brioche #1 was a failure from the very beginning. I had used too much liquid which gave the dough a very fluid consistency, even after having dumped extra flour on it.

According to some tips that I had read, the brioche dough needed to proof for approximately ten hours in the refrigerator. Since my fridge's capacity to chill items proves highly effective, I worried that the temperature would slow down the yeast. Despite my better knowledge, I covered the bowl with a damp towel and set it in the fridge.

Ten hours later, the dough had hardened and the stiff towel formed a statue making an interesting cloth interpretation of a small table.

After waiting four extra hours for the dough to de-frost, it became runny once again, albeit in double of its original volume.

When I finally deemed the dough ready for shaping (after fourteen hours), I greased a pan with a knob of unsalted butter and divided the dough. As I found the braided technique too daunting for the first try, I thought that I would instead make five pull-apart briochins. I covered the pan with some aluminum foil and nestled it into the mini counter-top oven that has the bad habit of burning everything.

I started out with this:

If you look closely, the dough's appearance is not at all smooth...

Three hours later: more rising and covered in an egg wash

...And ended up with this.

I only *wish* that I could have had a photo of the look of disappointment on my face when I saw this brioche come out of the oven.

C'est la vie.

However, this failure did not deter me from trying again. I made Brioches #2 (success), #3 (nice form, but the dough was too hard), #4 (pretty good), and finally #5 (success).

I am glad to say that with Brioche #5's achievement, I feel confident enough to post a lesson on how to try to make your own brioche at home. 

A fair warning: I have the horrible tendency to eyeball the ingredients. I also learned how to make the brioche using grams and Celsius; sorry about that, fellow Imperial-unit users. 

Brioche- no machine required

Ingredients

200 grams of wheat flour
2 eggs
75 to 85-ish grams of softened salted butter
30 mL-ish of warm milk
2 teaspoons of cassonade (brown/turbinado sugar)
1 sachet/5 grams of brioche yeast (regular dry yeast works as well, but the taste will change)
Some salt to taste (but not too much since the butter already contains salt)

Egg wash + Pan
1 egg yolk
A splash of milk
Some extra butter to grease the pan

Utensils
Large bowl
Wooden spoon
Fork
Damp towel
Pan
Basting brush
A firm grasp of sanity
Killer flexor and extensor muscles
Time

Steps 
1. Divide the butter into little squares. I do this first to allow for the butter to soften.

2. In a bowl, mix the dry ingredients.

3. Add the warm milk and stir with a fork. The milk shouldn't be too hot; otherwise, it might kill the yeast.

4. Add eggs and mix with a wooden spoon.

The mixture will look very sticky at this point. If it looks/feels TOO dry, don't be afraid to add just a smidgen of milk.

5. Incorporate the butter into the dough in three parts. Use a fork to crush the butter.

6. Try to mix dough with a wooden spoon.

7. Give up and use hands. Thus commences the battle with the sticky dough to make it do what you want.

8. After a while, the dough will start form stringy strands but still remain horribly sticky. Keep battling.

9. Get a stiff pain in your lower arm. Shake arm for a few seconds before you resume the battle to mix the enemy.

10. Eventually, you'll notice that the strands will look more like a homogeneous mass as they start to cling to each other to form a ball. The dough will start sticking less and less to the surface you are working on (and your hands).

11. Knead dough and form it into a ball that has a slight even sheen from the glistening mixture of butter and wheat.

Kinda like this (this picture of Brioche #2 will have to serve as a substitute as I hadn't thought of taking a picture of Brioche #5 during this step)

12. Cover the bowl with a damp (not dripping) towel and place it near a heat source/in a room with no drafts.

13. Allow for 7 to 10 hours for the dough to proof. Yes. Really.

14. After the 7 to 10 hours have passed, dump the risen dough onto a surface and flatten it.

15. Divide the flattened dough into three segments

16. Roll each segment into a long tube.

 17. Align the three tubes to braid them.

18. Braid as if it were soft, stretchy hair.

 19. Transfer the braided dough to the buttered pan.

That's what I get for having a small pan that fits into the mini counter-top oven...

 20. Cover the pan with a damp towel and let the bread rise for three more hours.

Yes. REALLY.

Be patient.

21. Once it has risen, cover it with the egg wash using a basting brush.

22. Bake at 200 degrees Celsius for 40 minutes. 

(For those of you using a mini counter-top oven like me, cover the bread with some aluminum foil and uncover during the last ten minutes to allow the bread to brown.)

23. Allow the bread to cool off for two hours before nomming.

24. Nom.


Barb the French Bean

Reflections on Yesterday

First of all, I wish you a belated Bonne Année to everyone.

Yesterday, the headquarters of the controversial Charlie Hebdo newspaper faced an attack which resulted in the deaths of twelve people, including four of the magazine's cartoonists.

It took me nearly half a day to piece together that information before coming to the realization of what had happened.

I received the news, shortly before lunchtime, that a police officer in Paris had been shot. I wasn't entirely apathetic to the event, but I needed to have my lunch and be on my way to meet someone in town. Moreover, coming from a cultural background saturated in gun violence, the knowledge of yet another attack didn't really surprise me anymore.

I had my lunch, drank my coffee, brushed my teeth, and went to town.

When I got home a few hours later, I slowly began to discover the extent of that violent attack.

My recollections transported me to a time in September when I was a fourteen-year-old high school student sitting in the middle of her second period science class. The vice principal's voice echoed on the intercom and, in a couple of succinct lines, revealed the tragedy that had occurred that morning in our country. The confusion numbed me. Logic put forth a shield of disbelief. In the hours that followed, my teenager self would have to accept the reality.

I also remember the global outpouring of condolences. To mark the solidarity, France's leader famously quipped "Today, we are all Americans."

Yesterday, I didn't have a high school principal break the news to me. It happened via Facebook. Amid the barrage of links to news reports and of the video recorded of the attack, the all-too-familiar coping mechanism of outright denial disappeared instantaneously.

This had happened in my second home.

I couldn't remain alone. I needed to be around others. I walked to the centre-ville. In Le Mans, Place de la République became the gathering point for mourning. A sea of huddled dark coats surrounded by metal barricades greeted my eyes. So many people had come out on this cold winter's night.

I then went to a friend's house to have dinner. The television reports shared intermittent images of candlelit vigils being held all over France coupled with the harrowing scenes of people fleeing death. I couldn't help but remember how the news back in September 2001 played back in a similar fashion.

Coming home once again, I discovered that people had rallied under the phrase "Je suis Charlie." I am Charlie.

I likened it to "Today, we are all Americans." I found it strange how people had chosen to identify as being Charlie rather than French. Why not state the nationality?

I began to wonder what "Je suis Charlie" could mean. Yes, it could mean respecting those who were lost at the Charlie Hebdo headquarters.

It could mean defending the freedom of speech for which the cartoonists had been slain. Freedom of speech knows no cultural borders or boundaries and, in an ideal world, remains protected.

I myself may not have agreed with the manner in which the cartoonists chose to express themselves. I found their humor, while undeniably witty, to be far too crass, even offensive, for my enjoyment. But even in my disagreement, I recognize that the actions taken to silence them should not have occurred.

The French are always ready to give their unabashed opinions and be vocal about the things that matter. Even if the goal is to start a conversation, they will tell you what they think whether you like it or not.

They are, after all, Franks.

In the wake of the heinous attack, I see a manifested threat to liberty. The liberté drenched in the blood of  the slain. We won't stand for that.

Today, we are all Charlie. Let us not forget it.

-Barb the French Bean

Punishment for the Perpetually Late: The Red Light

I've got a confession to make: I have a problem with being on time. In previous posts, I have hinted at my tendency of never being prompt, but I have downplayed how chronic my condition is.

Ever since I was a child and well into my adulthood, this self-imposed burden has at times rendered me a pariah among my punctual acquaintances. While they often assure me that arriving a few minutes late is no big deal, I know that in my heart of hearts, as they stare at me with their critical eyes, they lie.

You would think the solutions to this tardiness would be simple. "Get a watch!" a member from the invisible audience suggests.

But I've already got one.

"Set the alarm for an earlier time than the actual designated time!" shouts another as a helpful proposal.

Nope. Doesn't work. On the contrary, it's worse! Knowing about the extra time will further perpetuate the lackadaisical response on taking my sweet time.

"Well, then," the frustrated audience member exclaims though gritted teeth, "why don't you simply stop being so lazy, get off your butt and just GO?"

You are asking me to demonstrate non-existent motivation. Fat chance.

At this point, the audience gives up on this hopeless situation of expecting me to arrive on time and instead decides to claim that I am simply "fashionably late."

But there is no reprieve for the perpetually late. Trying to fight against what comes naturally to us is futile.

Yet despite our stolid nature at habitually disrespecting opening and closing hours and respecting appointments, people can witness some rare occasions in which we make the effort to arrive on time by leaving our homes early.

When those infrequent moments happen, an unfortunate circumstance will occur that impedes our otherwise timely arrival. It discourages us from ever trying to be prompt again.

However, I do not believe that these circumstances are purely coincidental.

Call it what you want: atonement, comeuppance, karma, just desserts, sweet vengeance. These earthly punishments are manifested in a variety of forms.

Today, I shall cover the first form, which involves facing a delay while waiting for a pedestrian crosswalk light to change.

Inevitably, on the one day you find yourself speeding to an appointment as fast as your legs can carry you, heart pounding furiously in your chest and your lungs strained to their full capacity, there will be a red light that brings you to a halt.

To make matters worse, the nefarious soul who was in charge of programming the light has deemed that said light will display the crimson feature for an indefinite period.

An entire lifetime can pass before your eyes as you wait for the little strutting green man to flash into view.

By the time the light changes to green, you'll have aged to the point in which your hypothetical future grandkids will need to assist you in crossing the street.

Realistically, this situation would never happen in France for the French are avid jaywalkers.

Barb the French Bean