from Pierrerue: quiet

A one hour hike, a half-hour bus ride, a two hour local train, a three hour TGV (French bullet train), an hour bus ride, a ten minute car ride, a three hour Internet installation process. That was my Saturday. You guess which one from this list failed me.

You think it’s the Internet set up, right? No! I am on! Slow, but chuggin' away! Then was it the local buses? No! Like clockwork. Well then the hike. Walking for an hour from the Savoie restaurant-with-rooms to the bus stop, with my supremely heavy backpack, wheeling the suitcase up hills, down hills, around hills – foolish, yes? Maybe, but I managed (and saved Euros by avoiding monsieur le expensive taxi).

What failed was the TGV: the bullet train stopped in Montpellier and could not get itself going again. For hours. Oh, technology.

No matter, thanks to miracles and favors along the way, I made it to the village of Pierrerue – home for the next three weeks. I am living in a tiny apartment in an old stone corner of a long-gone castle courtyard.





Some enterprising soul ran wiring and plumbing in through the original walls. The place has two tiny windows, but if you take the trouble of walking over to one, the views are of the countryside. Like this:





Pierrerue is in the heart of the hilly wine making region of St Chinian. Pierrerue itself has maybe a dozen houses, a church, a rooster, and a bus stop. I understand a bus comes through once a day. Oh, and on weekdays, the bread man comes through the village. He rides down the street shouting his presence and people come out to buy their baguettes. The French cannot live without a fresh baguette daily.

I am a forty minute walk from the town of St. Chinian (downhill getting there, very uphill coming back). St. Chinian is not a tourist destination. It has no hotel that I'm aware of, no internet café. It is small. But it has one large tree shaded square, four bakeries, four restaurants and a grocery store. And a market twice a week.

I am where I want to be – in the deep French countryside. Happily, the rooster is a French rooster: he comes out on a fine evening looking and sounding great and then sleeps in the next day. Even the church bells are quiet this morning. It’s Sunday, a do not much of anything kind of a day.

from Le Bourget du Lac : in search of something

It became clear as anything that, in spite of my purchasing a year’s subscription to France’s Internet (no, I am not moving here; this was the shortest and cheapest way to link with the world from the apartment I am about to inhabit), I need more equipment to proceed. I need the special, ridiculously idiosyncratic French phone plug. Their sockets appear to be (sometimes) different from ours.

And so the day was allocated to a morning of work and an afternoon of bus travel to big Chambery (not that big by our standards, but certainly bigger than, say, Janesville) where I was to acquire a phone transformer-connector-whatever, words fail me as I continue my search for a more stable solution to my Internet problem.

I purchased the phone plug immediately, but I stayed in Chambery for a while. The town is enchanting.





The entire region of Savoie is France as you imagine France to be and Chambery is as you imagine a French town would be on a fantastically sunny Friday afternoon. People fit the stereotype here. Shops sell fantastic pastries, waiters stand around caressing their girlfriends and people in general do nothing, brilliantly.











I noticed that France has changed me. It is no longer even a question. I eat lunch here. I read the descriptions of their salades on posted menus and I rush to order one. Today, after great deliberation, I settled for the one with warm, toasted local chevre. I am in Savoie, damn it, I must do as the Savoieuse do (I’ll pass on kissing waiters; not that they don’t tempt, but there such a thing as trying too hard to fit in).





One thing has not changed though: my love of clothes shopping here. I find the stores in this country far too tempting for my own good. Maybe it has something to do with admiring the French sense of style. Maybe I have a hidden desire to be like them, to look, move, speak like them. They seemed to have mastered the art of presentation so well. In any event, when the stores start pulling up the shutters at three to reopen for an afternoon of business, it’s best that I leave town.

And so I head for the Tourist Office and pose what I think is a natural question:
Can you suggest a trip into the true Savoie countryside? Like I see in posters? You know, with fields and goats and spring flowers and stuff?
The woman behind the desk takes it in stride. She must be used to tourists asking ridiculous things. But there are limits to what they can offer us. I haven’t a car and it is getting late in the day. Their mind is probably already on where to eat le diner, not on where to seek out pastures and poppies.

Still, the French are resourceful. I am told to take a bus from the station to the village of Challes-les-Eaux. Not too far. From there I can walk into the vraie Savoie.

I am a fan of French buses. They are inexpensive, clean, comfortable, they run on schedule and the bus driver not only greets every passenger, but also bids him or her a cheerful au revoir and bonne journee at the end of the ride. And since passengers get off toward the rear, the bus is filled constantly with hearty back and forth wishes for pleasant afternoons and good days. It’s all rather reassuring and motivating. It makes you want to step down and try your hardest to indeed have the finest day possible.

In the village of Challes-les-Eaux I think I should solicit advice. True Savoie countryside doesn’t just throw itself at you, you have to state your claim and head up the proper paths. And so I seek out the tiny regional office of tourism. That this office is underused and overstaffed is possibly the understatement of the day. I would bet anything they had not had walk-in inquiries for weeks. Madame could hardly move herself from her comfy chair to the front desk. She was not used to dealing with, well, people.

But behind that tired from doing nothing countenance there was a person with knowledge. As I went into my pathetic I want to see poppies and cows and pastures and farms and true Savoie countryside little jingle she sat back and studied me in the way that one does when one is trying to determine if the person is serious.

You know, we have a flying school not too far. You could see a lot from up in a little plane… Can I direct you to it?
My God, no. I want to step on soil, smell the hay... Ultimately, we settled for something more down to the ground. She took out a map, worked her little highlighter all over it and directed me to exactly what I had been searching for. Something that fit my images of what Savoie countryside is all about: cows against the backdrop of the Alps. Beehives, poppies, fields of wheat. Poplars and blooming acacia. Windows with lace curtains and flowerboxes. If you look for it, you will find it.















Several bus rides and another hike later, I was back at my corner table at Atmospheres restaurant. Evening was setting in. The doors and windows were open so that the sweet fragrance of acacia blooms and roses from the outside came in to tangle with the savory kitchen smells. Alain outdid himself. I ordered from the standard menu: an appetizer, fish, meat, cheese and dessert, but Alain threw in extras. I ate and people watched for hours. It was a good thing fresh plates of food appeared on a regular basis or I would have dozed off in sheer contentment. Fresh country air, great food, Savoie wine, doing nothing. Mellows you out completely.

Just two photos, of two desserts – one blending basil with berries and the other blending a hot chocolate soufflé cake with a cold icecream on a stick. Perfection.

from le Bourget du Lac: choices

MORNING AND, AS IT TURNS OUT, AFTERNOON

Une petite promenade – that’s French for a little walk, no? I asked at the restaurant what my options were in the area. Everywhere I look I see beautiful hills, forests, mountains. Une petite promenade is definitely in order.

Delphine, the wife of the chef here at Atmospheres (the name of the restaurant above which I am sleeping these days), suggested the forest behind their little chalet. I found the path. Uphill, to be sure, but where there are mountains there will be inclines. Up I go.

It is clear that the French are better at marking trails than the Italians. It is also clear that I should have read something about the terrain, the gradations of difficulty, the options before me.

Ten minutes into the hike, my petite promenade turned nasty. You know you are in trouble when you grab for anything -- holly bushes, berry canes, anything, just to keep upright.

I felt defeated after the first hour. Still, there was only forest around me. Surely I should not turn back until I reach something. It would be a personal failing to kill myself for nothing, not even a view. Around me, there was forest. And more forest.

Yes, occasionally, glancing back I would see this:



looking up



to the side


And on the ground, every once in a while I would spot these:











Mostly, though, there were trees. And me, clinging to them.

Two hours into the ascent and I am at the stage of exhaustion where I am questioning everything about my life: why do I blog? Why am I doing this? Why did not bring water?
Because it was to be une petite promenade, I had neglected to take water or provisions of any sort.

I wondered how it was that the French managed these inclines. Of course, they are fanatics here when it comes to le sport. They bike on these roads, reaching the same elevation as I did (1200 m) without so much as a sigh. And then they crazily coast down again.





When I firmly believed that I could walk no more, that I would have to hitch a ride down some paved road, even if it meant sitting in the lap of a crazed cyclist, I came across the only other hikers on this mountain – a family, with two little girls, aged perhaps 5 and 8. They had parked their car halfway up the mountain (smart French -- why kill yourself early on) and were on the trail just ahead.





Two little girls, happy as anything, sauntering ahead, occasionally asking a parent for a square of chocolate.

When they finally paused for a snack, I had to pass them. But two steps later, my sanity returned. I had been hiking up this damn mountain for more than three hours. There is no summit in sight. I am tired, hungry, thirsty and I haven’t a single square of chocolate in my pocket. Time to turn back.

In passing la famille, I was hailed over for a brief forest chat. And saints that they were, without question, without comment, they took out their huge bottle of mineral water and handed it to me. Politely, I only took ten sips.

They were used to the mountains, they told me. Their daughters often went climbing with them. They were here on holiday (it’s a national day of no work, perhaps the tenth one this month), doing what the French do best: taking time off. The usual question came forth – where am I from, Germany perhaps? Sigh… it is not the first time. For some reason I look German to the French. I rushed to correct them. Ah, an American. Hiking without water, without a bar of chocolate. Hmmm.

I was grateful I was not wearing my denim skirt.

Refreshed, I sauntered down and spent my last bits of energy in search of food and water down by the lake, in the little village of Le Bourget du Lac.

Unfortunately, I had come down too late. Restaurants were closed in their post-lunch rest period. Stores were shut tight. National day of rest means that people want to get down to the business of resting asap.

Still, I am in France. No one will ever starve in this country. In the next village (yes, another hour of walking) I found a tabac-newspaper-bar place that also had food.





It was off to the side of town and it had a smattering of locals, sipping their afternoon espresso or wine and it was happy to prepare a regional salad for me: the Salade Savoyarde. Magnificent! Lettuce, tomatoes, nuts, eggs, olives, gruyer cheese and freshly grilled tiny strips of bacon. Followed by fromage blanc with homemade fig jam. This late afternoon random meal was better than food served in heaven, of that I am sure.




After that, even the hike back to my restaurant-with-rooms seemed a breeze. Total amount of time spent on la petite promenade (including the half hour at the tabac-bar): eight hours.

EVENING

Alain and Delphine run the restaurant, Atmospheres, in the hills of the Savoie together. I can’t tell their age – they are younger than me, but then so is 75% of the world’s population. Last year, they converted the second floor of their chalet to four stunning little guest rooms. They live just above, on the third floor.





I traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles to stay here and to sample Alain’s food. I did not get his name off of some Michelin list of superstars. Instead, I have a treasured book that I randomly picked up on one of my previous trips to France and in it I have a listing of the author’s favorite country eating places. Hundreds of them, all around France.

Atmospheres is completely unpretentious (no one dresses up, there is no fine china or silver, they do not decant the red wines), but it is a serious eating place.

Watching the French select things from the menu is a story in itself. They take forever. They discuss the possibilities. They consult. I am on my third course and they still have their noses in the menu (which, btw, is always short, since freshness is de rigeur here).

As so often in these places, I opt for the tasting menu. There are no choices to be made: the chef presents, in this case, ten small courses that show off his talent.

I’ll say this much: of all the wonderful country restaurants in France, this is perhaps my all time favorite. Everything about it is stunning. I sit at my table looking out over the lake and mountains and I watch the two young waiters along with Delphine deftly attend to the needs of the diners at the ten tables and I think they have perfected it – the art of presenting food. There is no room for improvement.

Go ahead, travel here if you must. I admit, it is a rare find. The brand new rooms above the dining room sparkle, the bathrooms glisten, the price is geared to a French budget, not a foreign one (a room, a sumptuous breakfast for two, wont cross 100 Euros). But don’t tell your friends and neighbors. Atmospheres is a French gem. I don’t want to run into the likes of me (the foreign tourist) next time I’m here.



predinner nibbles



frothy carrot soup, young peas, onion broth with reblechon mousse



shrimp on artichoke and tomato confit



lake fish, diced peache, asparagus



foie gras, grapefruit sauce



veal on grilled polenta strips and mushrooms



Savoie cheeses



wrapped in mango



100 per cent chocolate



postdinner nibles

from Le Bourget du Lac: why here, why now...

I’m riding the train again – my second day of train travel. I feel myself to be completely immersed in the rail system of Europe. I paused only for an hour in Milan. I would have said that it was 59 minutes too long, it being Milan, but I did pull my suitcase around until I found a bakery and so yes, it was worth it, just for this:





I have a four hour segment now on a rapid train (TGV) through the Alps over to France. Why there? I am waiting for my apartment to become available (a three week rental, beginning Saturday) and I have three days to kill. Somewhere. I need peace and quiet – to take brisk walks and to get a huge amount of work done. A restaurant in a beautiful country setting, where the proprietor rents out a couple of rooms for people who eat too much and can’t move afterwards seems perfect.

The problem is I arrive on a day the restaurant is closed. Who knew. In anticipation of this, I used my pause in Milan not only to pig out on pastries, but to do shopping for dinner foods. Yes, this detour into Milan's food network did cause me to almost miss the train. Still, I had to carefully consider all my choices : bread and cheese, veggies, fruits and wine. It all added to a little under 5 Euros. You can imagine the quality of the wine – it comes in a box. The last time I drank boxed wine I was 22, a grad student and didn’t know any better. But popping a cork given that I misplaced my handy travel corkscrew seemed daunting and so I opted for a milk carton (with a nice and secure screw top) only without the milk. I’ll report on the quality of the wine later.

Or, I may not report anything. The restauranteur’s wife, with the promising name of Delphine (so French, no?) promised that there is Internet at their place, but I have heard that before and it is hardly ever true. Big hotels have Internet. Little restaurants in the middle of nowhere by a lake near the Alps do not.

UPDATE: Sure enough, the Internet here has been down for days. I am borrowing the restaurant phone line to dial up. Meaning, I am keeping the reservations from pouring in. I am such a difficult guest. But the setting, oh, the setting! Out on my little terrace, before me, the lake (France’s largest natural lake, I am told – but what does that even mean? I know they’re into organic everything here, but a lake?). If I turn sideways, I see this:



into the morning sun


The challenge will be not only to continue to raid their phone line for Internet access, but to get any work done given the sunny skies and countless opportunities for hikes.

Fortified by a breakfast of warm cakes and fresh berries, I think I'll start with a hike. To get my mind primed for work. Yeah, I need to get into the work groove. I'll find my groove up in the mountains. Off I go.

from Venice–Mestre: with guilt

I am a seven minute train ride away from Venice proper, I have a morning to kill before my train to Milan and yet I am avoiding Venice, as if she were some horrible irritant, someone you wish would not show up for a dinner date.

So what’s wrong with Venice? Or is it me?

It’s me. I adore Venice. I forgive her the crowds, the pigeons (and that’s saying a lot), I forgive her the junk stores. I just find her demanding and I am not willing at this moment to give all that she would demand of me: patience, money, attention – I haven’t any to spare.

I had stayed in Mestre once before. I was thirteen and my parents had wanted to see Venice. They thought, correctly, that it would be cheaper to stay in this industrial suburb. Our little hotel turned out to be mainly a house of ill-repute and we all got terrible rashes from what appeared to be an infestation of bedbugs. Three years later, still poor and still wanting to see Venice, we returned, this time to sleep in a tent on the beaches of the Lido. After that, my mother proclaimed that Venice wasn’t worth it. As usual, I disagreed.

And yet, here I am, minutes away and turning my back to her. The guilt, oh the guilt.

True, it is raining…

*****************

The train pulled in late from Zagreb last night. Mestre was, of course, somber and gloomy. It is to be expected. My hotel is decent – I chose it because it has a small garden. Really, no other reason. If you are going to stay in an inexpensive place in Mestre, you may as well look out on greenery.

One notable thing about it is that it is not especially close to the commercial hub of the city and so I settle on eating at the hotel restaurant. There aren’t many places in this country that will serve a bad bowl of pasta.

I enter the dining room and it is loud! No wonder – at one end some two dozen men are seated at a long table. They are not drunk, but they are happy. Boisterous. Animated.

My waiter apologizes for their noise, but I wave away his concerns. How could anyone complain about sharing a dining space with these guys – their love of the moment is so palpable! I ask what the occasion is and he tells me they are local taxi drivers. They come to his dining room once a year to eat dinner together.

It is late and the dining room is now empty except for the cab drivers, myself and, way across the room, a young family. She is calming a baby, he is making sure the son is eating properly.





The baby falls asleep and the father takes the son out for a while. I watch the mother. She is oblivious to the taxi drivers. Simply dressed, with a look of hard work about her, she is, I think, beautiful. Her dark hair spills on her back, her face has the look of shyness. She is lost, in her world, dreaming. What of?

Her husband and son come back and she visibly shakes herself loose from her thoughts. She looks at me across the room. We smile the complicit smile passed between mothers the world over. You have beautiful children, it says. I know, is the response.

She whispers something to her boy. He turns around and looks at me. He asks his parents permission to leave the table. They nod. He pushes his chair, gets up and comes over. With a grin, he leans his elbows on my table.
My Italian permits me to find out that he is Matteo. He is all of five. Yes, they are here on vacation.

Permesso, let me light your candle. He takes mine and goes to the waiter. He asks for a light. The waiter obliges, the little candle picks up the flame, but on the walk over, it goes out again. Back goes Matteo, the waiter lights it again – as if there was nothing odd about a little boy looking to light the candle of a signora, sitting alone at a table, eating her pasta con frutti di mare.

The mother comes over now. Her smile increases her loveliness tenfold. Where am I from, she wants to know. America. Matteo, she is American! Does this have special meaning to a little boy? Do they talk about it? Do they have relatives there?

And you, I ask, where are you from? Calabria. Oh, the south! I love the south! I just was in Sicily.

It is late. The father has left with the baby and she now moves her boy toward the door. Matteo takes her hand. I wave to him, he waves back. The cab drivers are still eating, still laughing. I retreat to my room, upstairs, the one that overlooks a few green trees.



Mestre dinner

from Zagreb: departures

And so my adored Croats in my family (I’m a phony – I only hold on to a Croatian name) are returning home today. They take with them their laughter, companionship, irreverence, affection. How fair is that?

I can’t even think of being here without them and so I, too, am heading out. Back on the trains today, with a quick overnight in Italy and then, more trains tomorrow, putting me (I hope) in a little village by a lake in western France.

A special bow here, on Ocean to (my) daughters. Thank you. As always, you’re the very best. Even if you do insist on scaling mountains in flip flops, eating cherry strudel after every lunch and bringing a second copy of Zadie Smith’s newest book, just to show me that you read faster than I do.



one last aperitif: campari and soda with a shot of o.j.
...to the natural wonders of croatia




daughters

From Dubrovnik: a day of rest

A day of ice cream, pretty dresses and church for some, of kicking the ball around, of conversations.



hungry for a roll?




after a wedding




the reward for sitting still




women talk, cat sleeps




a boy, a ball, a message on the wall


A Sunday here should feel different than, say, a Sunday in Marsala or Zagreb. Dubrovnik is a tourist destination. Tourism does not rest on this day, it speeds up and explodes, only to recede again at dusk, as day trippers return to their buses, their ships, their more distant hotels. The city becomes quiet only then, much to the chagrin of the restauraneurs, who survey their empty tables and wonder why, somehow, they have missed out on the madness.

We succumb to the pressure to do not much of anything on this last full day in the city. Breakfast, outside again, on a windy but dappled by sunlight terrace, lasts almost two hours. A stroll through town and it is time to think about lunch (pizza, thin crust, delicate sauce, sizzling cheese. Delicious).

Cappuccino follows and then, of course, a siesta, because one little cappuccino is not going to fight off the overwhelming desire to rest in the afternoon. Out on the terrace. With something to read.

It had been determined early on that we should scale Dubrovnik’s wall just before it closes in the evening. Empty now, against a receding sun and very very beautiful.




one last look, toward the setting sun




the main street grows quieter


Then a double and very protracted Summer Festival aperitif and a walk to the designated favorite eating place, Mediterano.



tables hugging the cathedral wall


Mario is there – our waiter from earlier in the week. He is surprised to see us again.

The inevitable question is asked – where are we from? This always astonishes me, because I think, to these English speaking Croats, it must be so obvious. The big A, emblazoned on our foreheads.

But there is always the registered surprise when we respond with the A word.

So far! You have traveled so far to be here?

And even greater surprise that we should choose to do the entire family vacation in Dubrovnik, that we are not boat people, here for a day or two and on to the next port and the next; that instead, we are here and only here, this is it – designated UNESCO city, designated Camic vacation spot.

Are you the owner of this place, Mario?
No, my pal Marinko is. He is the cook. You have made his day by being here again. But you know, we work together. I do not work for him, we are friends. Only we are so new and we worry about how it will turn out.




the cook and the waiter


And what reassurance can I offer? None. Mario, Marinko, you have a winner here. Your seafood is so sublime that you should not worry! I will tell everyone to come and eat here. I will make you famous!

I, of course, can say none of this. We talk about the fish of the Adriatic, about the difference between octopus, squid and calamari, we drink the Dalmatian wine, we thank them profoundly and we leave.

From Dubrovnik: opinions vary

A planned day trip to the islands morphed into a hop over the border to Bosnia, which in the end turned into not Bosnia at all, but a long trip down south to Montenegro. Or, more accurately, Serbia-Montenegro, since they are now one, at least until the referendum today, when Montenegrins are voting (one hopes with ballots only; the European press is watching for signs of violence) on whether they are to become a separate nation-state. It’s going to be a close one.

My mistake was to ask for advice. Croats have opinions and they have this tendency to not budge. Ask for a table in the sun and you will get one in the shade with an explanation of why it is better there. If you persist with your request, they will persist with theirs and in the end, guess who will outlast the other?

When the seas became rough on Saturday, we gave up on the islands idea. A village in Bosnia seemed intriguing.

Not to the hotel desk clerk, whom I asked for advice on how to get there.

Don’t take the bus. Unreliable. Don’t go there anyway. There is nothing there!

Before the conversation ended he had connected me with his friend Veljko, who drives a car and takes people places and knows Montenegro very well.

Their coast is beautiful, Veljko tells me. But they don’t like to work. The joke is, if a Montenegrin is getting up, it must be noon! Without Dubrovnik sending them a few tourists, they would have nothing. I don’t know how they will manage as a separate nation. But we get along with them. We share the sea, we speak the same language. Still, they are poor. You will see.

And we do see. You cross the complicated border and you notice the potholes. You notice other things as well: little commerce, simple homes, simple lives.









But it is better here, in Montenegro, than in Bosnia. In Bosnia, there are no street signs, no traffic lights. You come to a sign saying “Atena 900 km” and that will be it. There will not be another sign.

He takes us to Budva, halfway down the Montenegrin coast. I do not think any overseas travelers come to Budva.
But Serbs come here! It is their playground!

A walled town, washed by the waves of the Adriatic, it is, like Dubrovnik (though a miniature version of it), a UNESCO protected site.












I remind Veljko that, sadly, UNESCO’s designation did nothing to protect Dubrovnik during the siege.

Yes, my family’s house was hit seven times, but Dubrovnik houses are solid!
How did you manage all those months, without food?
My mother stocked up when she sensed that war was coming. We had some supplies reach us once a week. But it was dangerous to go get them. If you stood in line, you were a visible target for the Serbs.

Do Croats get along with the Serbs now?
Mostly. The bad guys, Slobodan Milosevic (nc: himself a Montenegrin Serb), they’re gone. It was crazy then! My brother was in the Yugoslav army when the war started. So they asked him to shoot his own people! He left for Germany and never came back.

And you stayed in Dubrovnik?
Yes, I am starting my own touring business next year.
(I am guessing he plans to put Montenegro on the tourist map.)
I have a wife, a little girl. Her name is Ira.
Is that a popular name here?
Actually, in Dubrovnik, they like to name girls Dube, short for Dubrovka and boys Vlaho, after the patron saint.
(I suppose I might feel the same fierce loyalty to my home town had it experienced all that Dubrovnik did.)
My mother worked in tourism before she retired. You know, there used to be 55 hotels in the Dubrovnik area before the war. Now 35 have reopened. It is still slow.

We drive further south, along the coastal road to Sventi Stefan, another tiny former fishing village, walled, jutting out into the sea.








leading up to Sveti Stefan




village close-up



Sveti Stefan close-up


We pass olive trees on steep mountain terraces.
Do you make olive oil here?
Yes and in Croatia too! My father-in-law makes olive oil. I will bring you some to the hotel before you leave.

And there lies that Croat hidden friendliness. You look at a face and you think: serious, reserved. And yet, by the time you finish the day, they are telling you about family squabbles and life’s dreams.


The trip south messed with our regular afternoon eating habits and so we targeted this evening for a great big Adriatic indulgence. You could not ask for better seafood. You really could not.



asparagus, mussels, olive oil



grilled octopus salad with warm chicory



risotto with shrimp and zucchini



crispy sea bass with capers and candied lemon



pear, calvados and amaretto souffle and rum raisin ice cream