First, The Carnival of the Recipes is up at Boudicca's Voice. She did a great job organizing the NUMEROUS recipes that were submitted!
Second, but I'll be back to add this part, I have to tell you about the incredible lunch I ate today. It was a three-hour deal, I'll say that much. I also don't know if I'll be eating dinner this evening. Check back later for details of the menu.
UPDATE @ 19:45: Lunch menu follows...
Because I wish I had a USB port (or two or three, even!) in my skull. You know, so that I could plug my brain into the computer and transfer my thinks and thoughts without having to move my fingers. (Yeah, yeah, don't talk to me about audio blogs. I'm not ready for that yet).
Another thing I wish for is for my eye to be a digital camera/camcorder. Because sometimes I don't have my camera with me, and it is MUCH more subtle to wink at someone than whip out your appareil photo and point it at them.
Today I wanted to film the scene at the local town hall. I was there to get a new carte d'identité, which all denizens of France must carry on their person. I used to have a carte de résident, because I was a foreign resident. Now that I'm a naturalized French citizen (no souci! I'm still American), I really should have a French ID.
And there I was, being waited on by a young intern. She was having a little trouble filling out the form; she got my maiden name right, but for my married name printed in "Bernard," which is totally not my husband's last name, but rather his 2nd middle name. "Ça commence bien," I thought to myself. I corrected her on the name, and then on the spelling of my birthplace and middle name, as well as the spelling of my husband's birthplace.
It's not as if I was dictating this stuff to her. It was all written out there in front of her on the myriad official documents I had to produce.
While I was watching Mademoiselle fill out the form, I kept an eye on the other woman in the office. Her name is Lucette, and she has been working at the town hall for at least as long as I've lived here, which is 10 years. Lucette is a pleasant-looking woman whose face can ice up in about 10 nanoseconds. When I got there she was talking with a couple about a wedding, and I wasn't sure if it was personal business or not. After they left, and at a moment when my Mademoiselle had gone to look for something, I heard Lucette clear her throat. She made this rat-a-tat-tat sound. And she did it about three times. It took all of my willpower not to burst out laughing.
Mademoiselle came back. The phone rang, and Lucette said "Oh, don't worry, I'll get it," even though it was evident that Mlle. should have answered. I mean, she's the pee-on, she needs to answer the phone, right? But Lucette in all her benevolence could see that Mlle. was about to go into brain lock over my ID card form (and I'd also requested a passport, and to have my kids "attached," which meant MORE PAPERWORK). So Lucette answered the phone, and held the conversation for about five minutes. When she hung up, I could see the snarl she repressed as she made a comment about her interlocutor.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Mlle. was still printing my info in those little squares you get on official forms.
I'd already started thinking I'd blog about Lucette. But the clincher came when she picked up the phone, dialed, and started talking to what was obviously a friend.
"Do you want some tomatoes? We've got a monster that weighs over 900 grams. [pause] You know, for a salad for two people, it's just too much. [pause] Monsieur B. was telling me that he doesn't have tomatoes in his garden this year, he has monsters!" Wahwahwah, she laughed, like a Lily Tomlin or Carol Burnett character.
Sacré Lucette!
Welcome to the French civil service.
And I really wish I could have filmed the whole thing and posted it here.
So I mowed the lawn a few minutes ago. No major accomplishment, because our yard is tiny by American standards. The thing is, the mower is electric. As in, requires a cord.
The first time I saw a French person plug in a lawnmower my eyes probably popped out of my head. I immediately imagined a catastrophe, because hell, YOU MIGHT MOW OVER THE DAMN CORD!
Now that we are homeowners we have a mower, too. And it's electric, and we have a very long cord for it.
You get used to doing the Lawnmower Cord Waltz. Sometimes in the beginning you find yourself doing strange pirouettes while you push, and you hope the neighbors didn't notice you. Then you remember you're in France, and your garden is walled and hedged so that no one, NO ONE can look into your private sanctuary. So you relax and do another pirouette. Then you smile because you realize you can mow topless if you want.
****
Late yesterday afternoon we all went to Treasure Beach. The tide was way out, and as we walked down the cobblestone sea wall ramp, we saw "Ma chérie, je t'aime" etched on the sand below. It made me smile.
As you descend the ramp, to your right is the sharply sloped sea wall. No railing. I keep to the left because I don't feel like ending up on the beach before it's time. There's another sheer wall on the left, this time going up, which provides a barrier for the bike/walking path above.
After C. and I read the love message in the sand, we kept walking down the ramp. T. stayed behind with J., who was helping him decipher the letters in the message. When T. was done, and saw us three-quarters of the way down the ramp, he started running. I couldn't help it -- I had visions of him ending up like George Bush. But T. ran up the wall on the left, arced over and down onto the ramp, then down the sea wall to the beach. All in less than 10 seconds, and without a scrape, scratch, or bruise.
Remember being fearless when you were a kid?
I found a piece of pale purple glass. When I showed it to C., she blurted out "Oh, man!" just like Swiper on Dora the Explorer. Boy, was she jealous. Two seconds later, she shouted in triumph and picked up a prettier piece of glass in the same shade of purple. If she hadn't been standing in front of me, I would have found it.
I was happy that C. claimed it. I had no reason to complain, anyway. I'd already collected a large handful of lovely pieces.
As we walked back to the car, our calf muscles were burning. I think we must have walked at least 2 kilometers. It's hard to estimate. We were on the beach for about an hour, though, and we walked quite slowly.
The tide had come in enough to erase "Ma chérie, je t'aime." Gone from sight, but (I hope) not from the memory of the lover for whom it was destined.
I know I'll remember that sweet missive every time I go to Treasure Beach.
The other day we went to this little beach after school. You can only go at low tide because it's quickly engulfed as the tide rises. One time a few years ago I almost got caught there with T. Got the hem of my pants wet getting us back onto the dry part of the sea wall ramp. Since then I have learned to pay more attention to the tides.
When the tide is out, "Treasure Beach," as we've dubbed it, is full of, well, treasures. There are lots of banal shells, lots of plastic bits, but if you look closely you can find amazing things. About three or four years ago I discovered that Treasure Beach was a trove for sea glass.
I love sea glass. Most of what you find around here is beerbottle-green, but I didn't care when I started my collection. Then I found Treasure Beach, and my collection expanded rapidly. One day I found a sliver of polished blue glass there, and at that moment decided to become more discerning when choosing glass. (You see, each time you go to Treasure Beach, you could bring back jars full of sea glass of varying colors and quality).
No more Kronenbourg green for me. I wanted blue, white, pale green, yellow. And it had to be smooth. No rough edges. Once I found a tiny piece of red glass. And I made sure it was glass and not a piece of bike reflector.
We don't go to that beach very often anymore. My enthusiasm for collecting sea glass has waned a bit. But the other day at Treasure Beach my husband placed a piece of blue glass in my hand. I'd told myself I wouldn't look for any. That chunk of blue in my hand lit the spark, and my eyes scanned the sand for more jewels.
I ended up finding about three more blue pieces in different shades, as well as some clear glass. Here are a couple of photos I took of some of my prettiest pieces, old and new. They sit in a tiny jar on a shelf in the kitchen. But they really need to be in a window. (No sills on our windows, or else they'd be there already).
If you ever come to visit, I'll take you to Treasure Beach so that you can start your own sea glass collection.
Thinking: I am the World's Biggest Procrastinator.
Also Thinking: Right now it doesn't matter.
So today was a non-DIY day in this household. It still took us a long time to get out and about. The kids and I managed a quick shopping trip before lunch, then I had my delicious 90-minute nap. J had gone to work for a bit, so the kids were very sweet because they let me sleep. J called from work and said "Let's go somewhere when I get back". The kids and I bandied about a couple of ideas, and T came up with the idea of going to the Museum Of Natural History. By the time J got back it was 5:00, and the Museum was closed. So we all went for a walk at the sports complex near our house. The kids took their scooters, but the walk didn't last long: C's scooter lost a wheel and she banged a big sore scab on her knee. She and I came home and I cleaned up her boo-boo, and we went back to the stade. J and T were about to come home, so T gave C his scooter, and she and I went for a spin. She was feeling a little down, a little unlucky, so I suggested we go out. To town or to the store or something. After we got in the car, I asked if she would like to go to the gift shop at the Aquarium. (Free parking, less traffic, all good.) So we went, and spent a good half hour browsing. Talking about stuff. The place was packed.
C decided she wanted to buy a little glass turtle with part of her allowance and birthday money. Then we looked in another glass case, and I saw the mood rings. And I immediately decided I had to have one. And at 3.80, how could I not? In fact, we both got one. Mine's an oval shape and hers is a heart. We also picked up a little wooden tooth box for T, who lost his first baby one last night. After we left the Aquarium, C and I compared ring colors, and checked the little guide that came with the rings. It was chilly out, but our ring colors seemed to reflect our moods. Once we got in the car, they changed again. They were never yellow or black, which both mean anxious, nervous, or tired. C's got a bit green, which means unstressed. We compared some more as we picked up a few things at the store. Since we've been back at the house my mood ring hasn't budged one bit. It actually looks kind of cool, even if it looks like it's worth about 50 cents. I'm not going to tell you what color it is. Just know that it's good, very good.
And my daughter and I bonded. That's the best part.
Remember that scene in Poltergeist where little Carol Anne reemerges from the netherworld? And she's all covered in this gelatinous gook? That's all I could think of as I was spreading this cire colorante all over my bedroom walls. As it comes in contact with body heat it gets more and more liquid, so every once in a while I'd have to stick it in the fridge and do something else. By some serendipitous grace both the plaster and coloring lasted until the very last centimeter of wall. I ran out of both just as I was finishing up each stage of the redecoration. Even the sponge I was using got smaller and and smaller as the work went on. I cut it really close with the coloring stuff, though. I had to retrieve the other two containers of it from the garbage. And was sticking the raggedy bit of sponge in them, trying to get every last bit of that stuff. If it had been edible, I'd have been licking the pot and applying it to the walls that way. The area behind the door is a bit lighter than the rest of the walls due to my eking and squeaking out the last bit of cire. (Who cares? It's behind the door)!
Someone stole my new paintbrush, so I didn't do the second coat on the radiator pipes, but I did clean up my mess and move the furniture back into the room. Washed and hung the curtains. Stood back and admired my work.
Earlier today I'd planned on going out for a walk, but it's just not going to happen. Will take and post photos of the room later.
This morning I took my car to the Peugeot shop. My muffler was shot, and I went to have it replaced. My 306 is getting up there in years, so I'm no stranger to Peugeot Rapide. There's this one mechanic who kind of gets my blood pumping with his lanky build, ponytail over shaved hair, and one nicely crooked front tooth. I walked into the place, and this odor of sweat and man hit me full on. There was My Mechanic, in his blue jumpsuit, sleeves rolled up above his elbows, zipper undone enough so that I could see he wasn't wearing a t-shirt underneath. He wasn't alone, so it may not have been his armpits diffusing that sweet smell. Whatever! Why am I even telling you this? (Concentrate, Alison, concentrate).
MM did not take care of my car; another equally sexy young man did, and while I was waiting, I looked at the limited selection of reading material available to me: Peugeot Magazine. The French equivalent to TV Guide, dated November 2003. A word game magazine. I picked this one up, and flipped through its pages. Scattered here and there were little articles: 10 Potato Recipes. Which is better: raw or cooked vegetables? I kept flipping and ended up at the end. On the back cover was an ad for a dating service.
Usually I just bypass that type of ad, seeing as how I'm not in the singles game and all, but since I hadn't had the perspicacity to bring a book, I checked it out. There was a color photo of a lovely young couple looking happy on a beach somewhere. The text of the ad was blandly nice, full of hope and feel-good commentary. Then I got to the name of the dating service.
The French are pretty weird. Some of them really get up in arms about the use of English words in everyday language. When I got here in the early 90s, the Minister of Culture, Jacques Toubon, put into place a law that would forbid English words wherever there was a French equivalent. Marketing was supposed to become mercatique. Walkman became baladeur. Jacques Toubon was mocked as Jack Allgood. But then there are these aberrations, these English words totally twisted and rent of their original grammatical structure. For example, where you might go running or jogging, the French are going to faire un footing. You go to the salon to get a new do, and after the coiffeur cuts your hair, he or she does un brushing. You just have to stop cringing and get used to it.
OK, so there I was in the waiting area of Peugeot reading this ad, and I noticed the name of the dating service: CUM. I kid you not. (Excuse me while I vomit). "CUM has brought together numerous couples during its 17 years in business. But no one will ever know how many because all exchanges via our service are private."
Hellloooo? CUM? WTF? The photo in the ad conveys love and happiness, and the name of the service reeks of porn. I can't help wondering what the French Minister of Companies Requesting The Use Of Cheesy Foreign Words As Names was thinking when he approved this one.
The worst thing is that the folks using this dating service are most likely blissfully oblivious to cum's connotations. And that's what's got me laughing my ass off. As well as cringing.
So we'd gone to visit A and A for the weekend, and were to eat dinner with Ema (only one m) and our friend Christophe. Anne and I ran different errands during the afternoon, and got back from our last one at about 7 o'clock. We walked into the kitchen and there sat Ema, looking absolutely fabulous, and drinking a beer with our husbands. Two more beers were pulled out of the fridge, and Anne and I settled around the table. Ema had come to tell us that she couldn't stay for dinner, but she didn't leave until after 10 o'clock.
I'd heard quite a bit about this woman, and was immediately attracted to her: she manages to radiate beauty and audacity and a certain je m'en foutisme, and is funny as hell. Oh, and she does belch out loud.
Late the next morning, due to some small town Sturm und Drang, Ema stopped by. I'll spare you the nasty details. It was decided that we women would go out for a drink that evening, to a pub owned by an English couple. Then Ema got down to business and did our makeup. I was all into the idea of being girly. When it was my turn, she asked me to take off my glasses, rubbed her thumb over my cheekbone, and hunkered down to look into my eyes. That's when I felt the worst pain I'd experienced since I got my tattoo.
If you know me, you know I'm pretty low maintenance. A swipe of lip balm, a flick of mascara and I'm out the door. So I'd never even imagined that Ema might decide to fucking PLUCK my eyebrows. How -- why? -- do women do this? And why had I never done it? It did make my eyes stand out more from behind my sexy teacher's glasses. I felt as if I'd been initiated into a club, and started talking about how I could get my brows waxed when I got my legs waxed, and blee blee blah blah. (Honest. I really said "Blee blee" and "blah blah." And I looked pretty damn hot when Ema got done with me). There might just be something to being high-maintenance. See below.
I volunteered to drive to the pub, which was about 10 miles away via a curvy, bumpy, narrow road. The three of us settled in at a table, and soon one of the owners came to say hello. The pub has been open a year, and Anne and I asked Dave where he and his wife Helen were from. When he replied Sheffield, we both yelped with laughter; we both have a Sheffield connection. I said, "I used to live in Crookes." and he said "Oh yeah, ever been to the Grindstone?"
OMG, the Grindstone? How many pints of lager did I drink in that place?
He called Helen over and we talked about spots we knew in Sheffield. Helen is my age; Dave is 47, and they moved over here about 18 months ago and opened this pub. I sat there and admired them for their lifestyle choice. It takes a lot to give up your job -- your life -- and move to another country. But they looked so very happy.
I may have drunk many pints of lager in the Grindstone, but since I was driving I only had two beers at the pub. When we got back to Anne's place, I sucked down a few glasses of rosé (the olives we were eating were too salty, yeah, that's it). We ate dinner after midnight and went to bed at two. Anne and her kids came back here with us, so we extended the weekend another day.
Bacchanalia, maybe not. A fun weekend, yes. In spite of having my eyebrows torn out.
Feeling: Motivated to work on my bedroom.
Feeling Guilty: Because I've been working on this blog entry for over an hour instead of helping my kids do a puzzle.
Ok, not really. I just wanted to grab your attention. This morning I got an e-mail from my best friend from high school (Hi, D!). She was responding to my blog, and mentioned Bill Bryson's book "I'm a Stranger Here Myself," which she'd read and enjoyed. That got me thinking about an essay I wrote about 4 years ago, so I dug it up and here it is for your reading pleasure. Or not.
Recently some friends came to stay with us. Sophie is French and Christopher is English; they live in England with their 4 year-old twins, Charlotte and Elodie. Chris and I have an affinity based on our common language, so we are always glad to see each other. I don't mean that that is all we have in common, but we feel this sort of mutual relief that we can speak English together.
But there's English and English. A typical conversation between Chris and me goes something like this: "The washing up? Oh, you want to do the dishes!" Or, "Don't you have an ansafone?" "No, I unhooked the answering machine one day and I just never plugged it back in." Chris did the hoovering for me one day (and as I write this Word keeps trying to turn hoovering into hovering. Guess Bill Gates hasn't been to England much).
Avid reader that I am, I was pleased when Chris offered me a book. Just so happens that it was written by an American, Bill Bryson, but lo and behold, it was written for a British audience. Apparently the Brits love Bryson; he even lived 20 years in their country. I like him too -- I've read 3 or 4 of his books and enjoyed all of them. This book was no exception: called Notes from a Big Country, it recounts Bryson's experiences as an expat coming back to live in his native country. I can relate; every time I return to Pennsylvania I am a little more French in my way of seeing things.
The difference between Bill Bryson and me (aside from published books and several million dollars) is that he used to live in a country where the people speak the same language we Americans do. You know, English. I now live in France where people speak, well, French. The point is, it's not as if Bryson had to learn a foreign language when he moved abroad.
But after reading Notes from a Big Country, I began to reflect on the English language. When I was in college I spent 6 months in Sheffield, England, where (to my amusement) I discovered that fanny and spunk were naughty words. Over there, if it's raining, the weather is crap, not crappy. Something I would call cutesy would be twee in England. An English muffin is actually a crumpet. Who knew?
I began to wonder if Notes had been published in the States. And if it had, was it the same book? In its original version, Notes has a chapter called "Dumb and Dumber," about the dumbing down of America. I quote:
Still, there is a kind of emptiness of thought at large these days that is hard to overlook. The phenomenon is now widely known as the Dumbing Down of America.I first noticed it myself a few months ago when I was watching something called the Weather Channel on TV and the meteorologist said "And in Albany today they had 12 inches of snow," then brightly added, "That's about a foot."
No, actually that is a foot, you poor, sad imbecile.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't for a moment think that Americans are inherently more stupid or brain-dead than anyone else. It's just that they are routinely provided with conditions that spare them the need to think, and so they have got out of the habit.
Reading this chapter made me wonder if all the Briticisms (like have got instead of have gotten) would be modified so that Americans could understand them without too much effort. Be honest, can you understand the following sentences from the end of Bryson's chapter entitled "Junk Food Heaven"?
And then, feeling peckish, I went off to the larder to see if I couldn't find a nice plain piece of Ryvita and maybe a stick of celery.(Word is having trouble again). I got myself an American version of Notes from a Big Country. It's called I'm a Stranger Here Myself - Notes on Returning to America After 20 Years Away. Not much is changed. Bryson did away with certain explanations that are not necessary for the American reader. He kept his use of have got and come a cropper, an expression that Chris had to explain to me. (It means something like "the worst thing that could happen to you at that particular moment").
But the end of "Junk Food Heaven" reads "And then, feeling hungry, I went off to the pantry to see if I couldn't find a nice plain piece of Swedish crispbread and maybe a stick of celery."
And the "Dumb and Dumber" chapter is nowhere in sight.
AKB, September 2000
THINKING: I need to get out and walk today.
LOVING: The sunshine streaming through the back door.
HATING: The feeling that I've drunk too much coffee already.
PET PEEVE: The trouble I'm having adjusting fonts and sizes in this stupid entry.
DON'T: Even think about telling me that there's a "UK English" option in Word's spellcheck. I know that.
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