French la Vie

A Place to Stay in Provence

A perfect bed and breakfast in the middle of a vineyard in Carpentras.

Chateau Cinq Cantons

I am with a client who is interested in antiques for her shop.

We stayed here, and it was almost too good to leave to go to the brocante.

Oh my gosh, what is happening to me!!

A Morning in Provence

Morning in my village:

The church bells ring—the night curtain lifts. The baker puts out his pain aux chocolate first, then the croissants, followed by the baguettes. Many sleepy-eyes walk over to buy one. The birds begin to sing. The commuters drop off their children and enter the Bouchon to the city; French Husband will race downstairs when the tea kettle whistles. A cup of Rooibos awaits me. The neighbor's cat sneaks across our courtyard. The last fig falls from the tree. All this I know to be true as I sit in humble gratitude. Amen.

What are your mornings like?

 

The Old Doll

How many hours spent playing, pretending, and being happy did this doll give?

How many times did the child's Mother pick up the little toys and put them away with care?

And now her life is scattered on a brocanteur's table for everyone to see—missing legs, no hair, and no two shoes alike. A collection of socks and glass eyes, an umbrella, a cash register, and some empty grocery boxes are all left.

The old doll that has endured many years waits for a new playmate to accept her on her terms. 

The White Lampshade

The problem with being spontaneous is that one jumps and then questions the cliff.
Being spontaneous has its advantages, though, at the moment, I cannot think of any that actually sound sane. Being this way means things don't always turn out, but the process is so intersting and sometimes regrettable. 

The bedroom is now green. I thought it was more of a muddy green, but it isn't. I am surprised Yann likes it; he doesn't like green. But he trusts my direction and doesn't see the errors along the way.
The lampshade was white until I painted it green. I had some green paint left over, so why not? I painted it at 11 p.m., so I didn't take a photo.

Tomorrow, if I don't like it, I might decoupage it. I might do it regardless. 

Do you find yourself in similar situations? I'd love to hear your stories.

 

 

The Renovation is Nearly All Done

Progress.

 

New sky light.

The bathroom angle is strange, but I wanted to show you the extremely high ceiling to paint. 

This bedroom is painted and skylight in place. But, now it is a holding area.

This bedroom is now moss green.

 

Finishing the interior walls for the skylight.

The work is completed. The rooms are almost ready paintings hung, bed made, furniture in place and a massive spring cleaning accomplished.

 

A Ladder in the kitchen and Olivia fixated on the song Mama Mia. Now, who taught her that?

 

Renovation was our Summer Holiday

 

Long story short, we had roof damage, which leaked into the rooms upstairs in our house. Leaked is a sweet little word when I want to say it was _hit show. The water damage was extensive in five rooms. We decided to open our wallets and fork over a truckload of money to redo our entire roof and the skylights, resurface the ceiling areas, and repaint four and a half rooms.

So fun!

We hired our favorite golden-hand man, Rene, and his wife, Laitica, to do the needed interior work and another young man, Clemence, a roofer, to do the exterior. 

When you redo a roof, you want to do it when you hope it won't rain. Summer was the planned moment: goodbye vacation, hello, sweltering summer on a roof and upstairs without air conditioning.

So fun.

Nobody barely complained.

My full admiration is theirs.

 

 

Everything was moved from one room to the next, covered, stored, pulled, cramped, and muscles and innovation to find places for a collector's stuff. Dusty, debris, decisions, and desperation were in the mix;

So fun!

Dust! My newest, not best, friend greeted me constantly. I wanted to slap it silly!

Thank goodness I like challenges. Thank goodness I had a mother who made work into a game.

I told Yann, "Let's see what we can do in an hour. Ready? If you take one room, you can have the first choice! Whoever finishes first has to buy the other an ice cream."

He said, "No. Not funny."

Changes and upheaval stress Yann.

 

 

Deconstruction construction.

There were ladders, buckets, dust, dust, dust, paint cans, wires, tools, and constant going up and down the two flights of stairs.

While this was taking place, Chelsea and her family moved in with us, and I planned for the four groups that were coming in the next five weeks. 

When it rains, it pours, but at least not in our house anymore.

 

A hodgepodge of everything all at once.

But it is done. The roof is in perfect condition, the scaffolding has been taken down, four rooms have been painted, and everything has been put back together except for Yann's office. He has piles of files and boxes strewn all over the kingdom.

I took a two-hour nap.

Fun.

I Asked Chat GBT ... and This is What it Said About my Blog

Chat GPT: I had to try it, I figured, since it scrapped everything on the internet: comments, memes, articles, messages, images, blogs... Hum, I have posted a blog every day since 2005. Maybe it knows something about my blog? So I asked ChatGBT,

"What is Corey Amaro's BLOG about?"

This is what it said,

"Corey Amaro is a writer, photographer, and the creative mind behind the popular blog "Tongue in Cheek" and its spin-off "French la Vie." Born and raised in California, Corey's love for France and its culture has shaped her artistic pursuits and her desire to share her experiences with others.

Corey's blog, French la Vie, offers a glimpse into her life in France, where she has lived for many years. Through her beautiful photography, heartfelt storytelling, and deep appreciation for French traditions, Corey captures the essence of French living and gives readers a window into the enchanting world she has made her home.

Known for her passion for antiques, flea markets, and all things vintage, Corey's blog reflects her keen eye for aesthetics and her love for the art of collecting. Her posts often showcase her unique finds, along with anecdotes and reflections, inviting readers to appreciate everyday life's beauty.

Corey's writing style is warm, genuine, and evocative, making her blog a beloved destination for those seeking inspiration, cultural insights, and a taste of the French way of life. Through her storytelling, Corey has created a virtual community of like-minded individuals who share her appreciation for the simple joys and timeless allure of France."

It's very flowery ChatGBT, and a bit scary, too.

 

Pigtails for Olivia

Olivia longs hair like her mommy so she can wear pony and pigtails.

Today, she wanted braids, so Chelsea obliged; the teeny tiny braids delighted the little heart.

Rebecca, a blog reader friend, wrote me on Facebook and said, Olivia is going to win the hong hair contest. She very well might.x   

 

Speak from the Heart

 

Speak from the Heart

Listen with the heart

 

What is Your Happy Place?

"Je Suis..."

In English, it means "I am."

Whenever I go to anything remotely like a brocante, I am instantly drawn into a world of irresistible allure - my whole body fizzes with excitement. 

A friend in my hometown in Willows described it as:

"It is like being junk drunk."

JUNK DRUNK

I am.

Whether I'm digging through a dusty box in the middle of nowhere, braving the elements such as covered in an attic's cobwebs, rain, cold, or sun hot as hell—call it my Vogue.

Most would say it was my happy place.

Since I do not drink "junk drunk," it is.

Once the Brocante Bug bites, there's no cure but to keep going back for more.

WWII LOVE LETTERS FOUND AT THE BROCANTE

WWII LOVE LETTERS FOUND AT THE BROCANTE

The other day at the brocante, I found a stack of letters written during World War Two (WWII) between a husband and his wife. At first, I was drawn to them because of how they were worn and stacked in perfect order. You might say the "art factor" attracted me. Then the dealer, seeing that I didn't get the letters' real significance, told me they were written during WWII.

 

 

I asked him how much he wanted for them.

He wanted half of France, or close to it; he wanted more than I wanted to pay.

I told him I did not read French very well and wanted them because they looked attractive, a conversational piece of art, a living coffee tabletop book, but letters instead. He shook his head, "You don't understand their worth."

"I'll give you five euros." I might as well have stabbed him in the heart; he looked so shocked. Then I mentioned that my son liked history and would read it to me, and I batted my eyes and said, "Pretty please with sugar on it." (Or at least that is what I thought I was saying in French, most likely, I said, "Please with sugar.")

Flirting works. Sorry, but it does. I got the letters for five Euros.

Later, while my friend Nathalie waited for me as I carried rolls of linen to the car, she started to read the letters. When I returned, she had tears in her eyes, "These letters are incredible; they are full of emotion."

At that point, I felt terrible that I had bartered for history with flirtation.

When I got home, I put the letters on the kitchen table.

 

The next day, after breakfast, French Husband and Sacha carefully opened the letters. The letters had a hypnotic power, and they read in complete silence. Every now and then, they would look up at each other, share a line or two, and then bury their heads back into a time long ago.

Annie, my ninety-year-old dear friend, has shared her stories of WWII with me. When she talks about her past, her eyes glaze over, and I see her go back to when she was a young girl by her parent's side.

Annie has shared that when the Americans arrived, they had "chewing gum" and "chocolate." The American soldiers gave it to the children.

Later, the troop heard that Annie's mother had the best homemade soup—soup made with vegetables from her garden. They traded chewing gum and chocolate for bowls of soup.

Most of Annie's stories are not as dark as those in the letters.

The letters are written from Lyon, where the war raged bitterly.

The letters always start with "My big love." Rarely do they mention any names instead they refer to people they know as "The one who worked at the bakery" or "The one who used to live underneath us." They never say the enemy's names for fear that the letters might be opened and used against them or, worse, destroyed.

 

The letters talk about how the enemy gathered the children, using them as human shields as they maneuvered from town to town, and how farms were ramshackle and burned to the ground. "The Wife" mentions how she felt safer *in the city, "...which is being bombed daily, than in the country."

*Her husband had taken his wife and child to the country assuming it was safer.

Later, she talks about a butter factory that was raided, and the butter burned—just to belittle, to taunt us in the face of slow starvation.

She goes on to mention a small village of thirty-five residents, where she had thought to live safely, though over half were murdered in one day.

"Whenever we hear a gunshot, we know someone is dying. Many are dying."

 

They write, in detail, often coded evidence of fear, anguish, and love for one another.

Sacha and French Husband read ever so slowly a few letters, often stopping... casting a distant look out the window in deep thought, then continuing without a word.

The handwriting is exceptionally small. French Husband told me that was because paper was scarce at the time, and posting a letter was expensive—in more ways than one.

Often, the letters were written on mixed-match pieces of scrap paper. Their need to "talk" to one another, to share what they were witnessing, to be present to each other through the details of how they were surviving. They found paper and a mail carrier out of their healing balm for one another.

I kept thinking how much they loved each other. Can you imagine walking to the post office or a drop-off zone to mail a letter in a war-torn zone? That is commitment.

"I do not know if I could have done that," I said to the men in my life who were engrossed in reading. French Husband looked up at me with sad eyes. I felt terrible that he looked at me like that, 

"Love motivates, but gee, so does fear!" I said in defense.

He looked up again, and then I realized he was listening to the voices in the letter and not me.

 

XOXO in French "Gros Bisous".

Sacha pointed to the curled-back envelope. "Look, Mom," he said. He knows I love the random, unplanned spirit of love moving in the unconscious hand of time.

Food for thought.
French Husband says he will read the letters slowly. He is methodical like that, and it teaches me to harbor my excitement and not open all the letters to pick them apart for a quick fix.

I hope to post as French Husband and Sacha read them to me. I wanted to read the last letter, but the two of them would not have it; I guess I am outnumbered and on the wrong side of the fence.

What side of the fence are you on?

 

Sidenote: In Palestine, there isn't any mail service. Plus, Israel will not allow the foreign press to enter. Their tragic news, painful messages, and horrific devastation are shared on the Internet through Instagram, TICTOC, Meta, and Snap, which has become their voice; I have been sharing their stories on my Instagram.

 

The other day at the brocante, I found a stack of letters written during World War Two (WWII) between a husband and his wife. At first, I was drawn to them because of how they were worn and stacked in perfect order. You might say the "art factor" attracted me. Then the dealer, seeing that I didn't get the letters' real significance, told me they were written during WWII.

 

 

I asked him how much he wanted for them.

He wanted half of France, or close to it; he wanted more than I wanted to pay.

I told him I did not read French very well and wanted them because they looked attractive, a conversational piece of art, a living coffee tabletop book, but letters instead. He shook his head, "You don't understand their worth."

"I'll give you five euros." I might as well have stabbed him in the heart; he looked so shocked. Then I mentioned that my son liked history and would read it to me, and I batted my eyes and said, "Pretty please with sugar on it." (Or at least that is what I thought I was saying in French, most likely, I said, "Please with sugar.")

Flirting works. Sorry, but it does. I got the letters for five Euros.

Later, while my friend Nathalie waited for me as I carried rolls of linen to the car, she started to read the letters. When I returned, she had tears in her eyes, "These letters are incredible; they are full of emotion."

At that point, I felt terrible that I had bartered for history with flirtation.

When I got home, I put the letters on the kitchen table.

 

The next day, after breakfast, French Husband and Sacha carefully opened the letters. The letters had a hypnotic power, and they read in complete silence. Every now and then, they would look up at each other, share a line or two, and then bury their heads back into a time long ago.

Annie, my ninety-year-old dear friend, has shared her stories of WWII with me. When she talks about her past, her eyes glaze over, and I see her go back to when she was a young girl by her parent's side.

Annie has shared that when the Americans arrived, they had "chewing gum" and "chocolate." The American soldiers gave it to the children.

Later, the troop heard that Annie's mother had the best homemade soup—soup made with vegetables from her garden. They traded chewing gum and chocolate for bowls of soup.

Most of Annie's stories are not as dark as those in the letters.

The letters are written from Lyon, where the war raged bitterly.

The letters always start with "My big love." Rarely do they mention any names instead they refer to people they know as "The one who worked at the bakery" or "The one who used to live underneath us." They never say the enemy's names for fear that the letters might be opened and used against them or, worse, destroyed.

 

The letters talk about how the enemy gathered the children, using them as human shields as they maneuvered from town to town, and how farms were ramshackle and burned to the ground. "The Wife" mentions how she felt safer *in the city, "...which is being bombed daily, than in the country."

*Her husband had taken his wife and child to the country assuming it was safer.

Later, she talks about a butter factory that was raided, and the butter burned—just to belittle, to taunt us in the face of slow starvation.

She goes on to mention a small village of thirty-five residents, where she had thought to live safely, though over half were murdered in one day.

"Whenever we hear a gunshot, we know someone is dying. Many are dying."

 

They write, in detail, often coded evidence of fear, anguish, and love for one another.

Sacha and French Husband read ever so slowly a few letters, often stopping... casting a distant look out the window in deep thought, then continuing without a word.

The handwriting is exceptionally small. French Husband told me that was because paper was scarce at the time, and posting a letter was expensive—in more ways than one.

Often, the letters were written on mixed-match pieces of scrap paper. Their need to "talk" to one another, to share what they were witnessing, to be present to each other through the details of how they were surviving. They found paper and a mail carrier out of their healing balm for one another.

I kept thinking how much they loved each other. Can you imagine walking to the post office or a drop-off zone to mail a letter in a war-torn zone? That is commitment.

"I do not know if I could have done that," I said to the men in my life who were engrossed in reading. French Husband looked up at me with sad eyes. I felt terrible that he looked at me like that, 

"Love motivates, but gee, so does fear!" I said in defense.

He looked up again, and then I realized he was listening to the voices in the letter and not me.

 

XOXO in French "Gros Bisous".

Sacha pointed to the curled-back envelope. "Look, Mom," he said. He knows I love the random, unplanned spirit of love moving in the unconscious hand of time.

Food for thought.
French Husband says he will read the letters slowly. He is methodical like that, and it teaches me to harbor my excitement and not open all the letters to pick them apart for a quick fix.

I hope to post as French Husband and Sacha read them to me. I wanted to read the last letter, but the two of them would not have it; I guess I am outnumbered and on the wrong side of the fence.

What side of the fence are you on?

 

Sidenote: In Palestine, there isn't any mail service. Plus, Israel will not allow the foreign press to enter. Their tragic news, painful messages, and horrific devastation are shared on the Internet through Instagram, TICTOC, Meta, and Snap, which has become their voice; I have been sharing their stories on my Instagram.

 

The Gift of a Sweet Holiday

Our friends Arnelle and Roger have a home far off the main road, smack dab in the middle of Wonderland. Their centuries-old, glorious stone home is surrounded by nature, and if you cannot unwind there, you might as well kiss that idea goodbye. I took a two-hour nap—AFTER breakfast! Unheard of yet ever so divine.

On the last morning of our stay, I opened the kitchen window to let the day in and, without warning, watered the sill with the happiest tears. The way the sunlight came through the trees, the scent of figs, grapevines, and earth swirling around me, the crispness of the air filling my lungs, the last hoot of the night owl calling in the distance, reminding me summer is ending, gave me a feeling of well-being and gratitude for the generosity of our friends. 

 

You know when the window of life opens, giving you an unexpected glance at something indescribable beyond, and it seeps into you something needed but not known—something tangible in an intangible way.

 

That is how it felt that last morning, and it hasn't left me.

 

The gift of a sweet holiday.

 

Life is for Everyone

The photo is of Gaza. The young man who took this photo and his family have been forced to evacuate several times. His seventeen-year-old brother was shot through the tent that they were living in. He died in his brother’s arms. Every photo I saw of them showed joy in their eyes, even in the face of death and destruction. 

 

Follow him on Instagram m7md_vo

Summer’s Last Days

The last stalks of faded lavender carry their scent for us to remember when winter comes to greet us.

When was the last time you saw a spotted fritillary?

 

 

In their shy and tender way, Wisteria blossoms peek out to bid us a gentle «Au Revoir».

 

Inside these green olives, the liquid gold beckons to take the stage.

 

Ah, but to say goodbye to this haven of gratitude, this beauty of refreshing wonder, this pause to soak in loveliness…

Thank you, Summer. May we meet again x

Toothless Grin, Happy Birthday Maci

I was looking for something on my blog and stumbled upon this post, which is sixteen years old. Today is my niece Maci's 24th birthday. So, I thought it fitting to repost it:
Happy Birthday, Maci xx

 

                                

Maci, my niece, has something to share.

She is a bit shy, though her sparkling blue eyes do not portray her as shy—

well unless she has her eyes closed.
Come on, Maci, tell me your secret.

 

                              

                             

                         In French they would call her: Mignonne, or Coquine.

 

                            

 

One pearly white, one "dent de lait"! Maci grins, so the last remaining baby tooth can take center stage.

I ask, "Do you want to take a bite of an apple?" Maci giggles,

"Aunt Coco, if I take a bite of an apple, my tooth will fall out!"

 

                        

 

In that moment, I exclaimed, "Exactly! Don't you want the Tooth Fairy to come by?"

But before she could answer, I thought to myself, maybe she IS the tooth fairy!

----

(One day this little one will be losing teethies too.)

One of the many things I have enjoyed about blogging daily these 19 years is that it is like a scrapbook of my life. If I want to recall something, I can usually find it here, and sometimes, I stumble upon other memories that I do not recall, such as this Pearly Smile.

-----

(side note: I lost my "first tooth" by jumping on a bed I fell off. My two front teeth did not come back in for two years.)
How did you lose your first tooth?

 

 

Banana Pancakes

It all started because I had two very brown bananas and no eggs. I like a challenge, not physical challenges, but food challenges. What could I whip up for breakfast with those ingredients?

 I went online and wrote banana pancakes, no eggs, maybe vegan.  Voila, before I could blink my eye, these images appeared. My mouth watered. The images made me want to lick the screen, so for that reason alone, I had to recreate some of my own Banana pancakes.

 I mashed two bananas with a fork until smooth in a large mixing bowl. The temptation to add peanut butter and some kefir, blend it, and drink it was haunting, but I stayed focused, which is highly unusual for someone like me. Then, I added a cup of flour, baking powder, a tablespoon of sugar, some vanilla, and a heaping half of a cup of yogurt and mixed it until smooth. I let it set while I debated adding oil. Foregoing the oil, I melted butter in a skillet and spooned the banana mixture onto the hot skillet. I let them bubble on one side before flipping them over.

Let me say that dessert is a better description than pancakes for breakfast.

Dang, they were good!

Note: The batter made six cakes of deliciousness.

Chocolate would put them over the moon.

 

 

 

Family Snapshots

We Wanted to Be…

Passing the Afternoon in a Hammock

 

Sunday Reflection

 

 

 

 

 

How to Stop Temptation at the Brocante

 

When at the brocante, it can be overstimulating for the creative mind. Various things stimulate ideas; future projects take form just by seeing a speck of color or texture. Staying focused on what you are looking for can lead you blind to other possibilities. But then, it can also empty your pocketbook in a blink of an eye. What to do?

 

 

 

 

Enjoy the process, enjoy the temptations, take photos to recall the distraction, rob a bank, stay focused, hide the things you find so nobody else will find them but remember where you hid them, tell a friend they should buy it so you can see it at their house, go late so most of the stuff is gone, beg, barter and resist the temptation to steal, wear the darkest sunglasses you can find so you do not see a thing, take one step forward and two steps back, stick to your list, tie your hands behind you back…

 

 

 

The point is there will be temptations, which are the best part of going to a brocante! Otherwise, boredom would sink in and ruin the experience.

I doubt that could happen.

 

The Tale of the Tossed Salald

 

In French, lettuce is called "Salad" (pronounced: Salad).

And salad is called "Salade" in French too.

"Let us" talk about the classic salad in Provence.

After washing your salad, you leave the leaves alone. Please do not, and I repeat, do not cut them into bite-size pieces. Tear in half that is enough. Then, when you are at the table, watch everyone politely and perfectly fold their salad into bite-size pieces.

I honestly thought that was what the French liked to do: fold salad into little pillowcases. I was fascinated by their techniques and how they held their silverware. You see when you do not speak the language and must sit at the table for half a century, you notice such things.

For the dressing: Olive oil, vinegar, mustard, salt and pepper.

 

 

Garlic is "Ail" in French. Pronounced, "I". You can say, "Aie! Aie! Aie!" when you are hurt because "Aie" (pronounced "I" as well) also means "Ouch."

*Crush one garlic clove in the salad per two people, enough to hear them say, "Aie!" Can you guess if they mean ouch or too much garlic?

 

 

When I arrived in France, the salad was just green leaves with vinaigrette. Coming from California, I was desperate for a "salad mixte." At our first dinner party, I served a salad mixte with generous amounts of cherry tomatoes, avocados, mushrooms, raisins, garbanzo beans, feta cheese, roasted red peppers, and toasted walnuts, to name a few of the ingredients. The very first comment was, "C'est une salade Californienne, c'est original."  In France, the salad is served after the meal and before the cheese. I served the mixte salade first with cheese and RAISINS! Oh God, sweet and salty simultaneously, call the police.

I had it all wrong; "I was original," which was like saying, "How interesting" in the USA.

The next time they came over, I served a simple green salad with *garlic to spice up the after-dinner conversation.

The many faux pas could have taken me down. Instead, I was a brat and survived.

When I First Moved to France

 

When I first arrived in France, I thought French sounded like a bird song. After a week, it sounded like an orchestra, and I went into silent mode. Observation was highlighted, and I was overwhelmed.

I was utterly lost after a person would say, "Bonjour." I kicked myself for not trying harder in high school when I dropped out of French class. "Just think, if you had stuck with it, you would be chatting up everyone and at least getting directions."

When I was first married French Husband, we lived in Paris. A few years later, we moved with his business to Marseille, starting a new chapter in our lives.

The first things I noticed when we arrived in Marseille:

The smell of pine trees.

That woman's neckline dropped two inches. Cleavage was perfectly acceptable. I unbuttoned two buttons just to fit in with the scene. But I still didn't have any cleavage.

Thirdly, the Mistral (a strong cold wind, famous in the south of France) seemed to blow away the Parisian accent, which made the French I knew to disappear with the current as well. Imagine learning a language by sound in New York City and then moving to Mississippi. The accent threw me, and I thought I would lose it. 

 

 

Whenever anyone comes and stays with us, the questions mainly circle cultural differences.

Take cars; cars do not have the same meaning as in the USA. Having a nice car means you have a nice car. Status isn't attached to it as it seems in the States. Why have a big expensive car in France when you have to drive it and park it in teeny-tiny places?

Where are the buckets of ice cubes? Yeah, forget about it. Now, I wouldn't say I like ice-cold water. France has crept into me, and sometimes I doubt which is which.

Where are the toilets when you are out and about? If you are in a shopping center or at a gas station, which is not legal within the city limits, you are in luck; otherwise, forget about it or go into a McDonald's.

Why do the French drive like crazy people? Are they on a suicide mission? I haven't figured that out because I think they drive well.

Why do children seem so well-behaved? Because they are not catered to. It shocked me how French children have so many rules that parents "educate" their children to behave. I have seen plenty of children get spanked. Not me, not my friends, but I have seen it.

You guys eat so much; where are the overweight people? They walk, they don't snack, and they do not eat between meals. Period.

Why are there so many strikes? Because they protest for what they want and are usually listened to. 

What's health care like? Excellent. Hospitals and health care are not for profit; they are not fancy and not outrageously expensive, as in the United States.

 

 

Strawberries

3, 20 Euros a kilo.

Roughly:

A couple of dollars for 2.2 pounds.

But they come from Spain, and the cost of French-grown strawberries is double at least.

On the sign, it tells you where the product is from.

 

 

In the beginning, when speaking French was something I could not do,

yet needed desperately, I memorized the words I knew were French

And I tried to use them when I could...

A la carte,

Natural,

Avant-garde,

Belle,

Merci, 

Beaucoup,

Carte Blanche,

Deja-vu,

Faux pas,

Rendez-vous...

 

I was also told that nearly every French word that ends with 'TION" means the same thing in English as it did in French.

The trick was saying those words with the correct accent, which was tricky.

 

Super! is Super in French, too. Super became my best friend.

How are you? Super.

Do you like it? Super.

How is your meal? Super.

Did you have a good time? Super.

Isn't it beautiful? Super.

Would you like some more? Super.

Do you want to go to the brocante? Super.

 

That one word saved me more than prayer.

 

 

"Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas."

 

"It's just one step from the sublime to the ridiculous."

 Napoléon

 

I can say this in English, but it doesn't roll off my tongue in French.

 

 

 

Avoir le cafard literally means (to have the cockroach).

Translated, it means:

To be down in the dumps, to have the blues.

 

Passer le deuil means to grieve.

The first couple of years living in France were unlike "Emily in Paris"; it was a shocker to find adjusting to such a challenge. I often thought the Western world was more or less the same; how naive of me. If I were going to live in Ethiopia, I would expect a cultural difference, but not in France. I thought, how hard could it be? Not speaking French was a hurdle; my new French family was the opposite of mine back home. I was alone, and more than that, I wanted to understand what made the French tick differently than what I was used to. I read everything I could about French culture. I wanted to fit in. It took time, mainly because of language and a husband who didn't think it necessary to tell me "what to expect when you come to France."  In honesty, my insecurity bugged the crap out of me! I didn't feel myself, and that was scary.

 

 

Another little surprise when I arrived in France was how the hours were displayed.

One through twelve, such as:

1h00

4h00

10h00

And so, on and forth until noon, those are the morning hours. 

Then it goes:

13h00

16h00

22h00 and so on.

Forget  12 am or 12 pm.

And remember the h and not the :

----

And why do French numbers have to be so damn complicated? I would ask French Husband, why can't 97 be 97 and not four-twenties-ten-seven? Oh, those days of hanging up the phone and redialing to hear the same recorded message to get the phone message number straight.

---

When the internet came in 1993 or 1994, I discovered that the French keyboard was set up differently than the American keyboard, which nearly caused me to lose my marbles. 

---

When you count with your fingers, one starts with your thumb. So, if you go to the bakery and ask for one baguette with your pointer finger, you will most likely be asked if you want two baguettes.

---

The funny thing is that everyone wants to speak English with me.

__

When people come to live the rest of their lives in France and are not here on a holiday, I tell them the motto that I have come up with that describes the Frenchness in France:

Why be simple when you can be complicated?

 

 

Eclaboussure - French verb,

Means: Splash.

 

 

The perfect man.

I found mine, sometimes, other times... well, when you are married, perfection goes out the window, and realness, which is the true self, kicks in. That's perfect.

 

 

Avoir le démon de midi (To have the midday demon)

Means: To have a midlife crisis.

 

In the beginning (1988), I carried a French/English dictionary with me everywhere I went;

It was humbling.

Nowadays, the advantage of cell phones, wow, how easy it would have been. 

I bought sour milk instead of milk and flour instead of sugar, and I was thankful for the spices I could smell and open. It is a language I knew by heart.

 

 

 

Zut Alors! 

It is one of my Belle Mere/mother-in-law's favorite expressions.

And one that I first learned.

Means:

 Darn it!

That came in handy. 

 

 

 

The word

Ça va? 

It is a lifesaver. An entire conversation can be had with just those two little words.

 

Should I go on... please let me know what you think in the comment section.

How to Find Brocantes When in France

Where to go Antiquing in France

(This is A Repeated Post because it is that time of year again when I start receiving many emails asking me, "Antiquing in France."

1.

Where to go antiquing in France? If only I had a dime for every time someone asked me that question! I use an online site to find out about antique fairs in France. It is in French, and I will break it down for you today. Most French antique fairs happen on Saturday or Sunday. However, others do occur during the week as well.

I've included the link and how to understand it below.

First - Click on the link below:

ANTIQUING IN FRANCE

------------------------------------------------

2.

- On the "Where to go antiquing in France website," the first thing you need to do is click on the sign that says:

Calendrier des
Manifestations

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

3.

- When you click on it, it will open up and look like this:

Calendrier des
Manifestations
• Février
• Mars
• Avril
• Mois suivants

The first three words are MONTHS. They start with the present month. The last series of words says Moisn is the month you will be in France, or the month you want to go to Suivants, which means Following Months. Click oo antiquing in France.

------------------------------------------------

4.

Choisissez votre région

Clicking on the month (mois) will bring you to the page above. Next, click on the region of France where you will be and want to go antiquing.

Paris is in "Ile de France".

When you click on the region of your choice, a slew of towns and cities with fairs, brocantes, and antique markets will appear in order according to date. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

5.

An example of what that will look like is below:

 

DIMANCHE 20 FéVRIER  (Sunday 20 February )

04 (04)			CERESTE (entre Manosque et Apt) (Cereste town between Manosque and Apt)
			GRAND VIDE-GRENIERS BROCANTE - sur les Places di Village - 8h à 18h - Extérieur - Entrée gratuite 80 exp. (Professionnels + Particuliers + Habitants + Association) Tel : 04-92-76-66-55 - 06-79-83-12-55 ORG: "LIFRAT"

First, it will have a weekday. (I have listed each item in red alongside the French text so you can see where and understand the listing better.)

The area code number of each region of France, 04, is the area number of Cereste. Then, it will have the town or city's name, in this case, Celeste (when a town is two larger towns, it is between small, it often will say which ), which is between Manosque and Apt.

GRAND VIDE-GRENIERS BROCANTE  (Description of what type of antique market.) Large Garage Type like sale Grand Vide-Greniers Brocante means: Large Empty out the Attic Brocante (please do not let me explain that word, God I hope you know me by now.) - sur les Places de Village (Where it is located. Usually in the center of town, or large parking lot, or nearby field.) - 8h à 18h  (The time of the market. It always starts earlier then listed.) - Extérieur  (If it is outside or inside.) - Entrée gratuite (How much, if anything, it costs to enter.) 80 exp. (Professionnels + Particuliers + Habitants + Association (This part means: How many dealers are signed up, and what type of dealers will be at the fair. In this case, every type of dealer will be there, Professional, plus small weekend dealers and people from the town, since everybody is allowed to sell at a vide de greniers if it is in their hometown.) Tel: 04-92-76-66-55 - 06-79-83-12-55 (The phone number in case you need to call.) ORG: "LIFRAT" (The organizer of the fair.)

Candlesticks

Yesterday, I talked about the very old candlesticks. I was surprised to see that somebody actually want one. Please send me your email and I’ll give the details to you. Here’s my address.

[email protected]

Thank you!

 

Do You Want a Candlestick?

d

Do you want an antique candlestick not to light the way. But, just because just because? If so, let me know. I’m selling a few. Yes, they’re old. Yes, they’re peeling. Yes, they might not be practical. Well, actually, they’re not practical at all But, the  question is do you want a candlestick for no reason just because just because?

 

 

The Moving Van is Coming

 

And that is how it will be from this day forth.

The moving van from Paris will arrive tomorrow morning at 7:30 a.m. to deliver Chelsea's family's belongings. Most of their belonging will stay in storage. We managed to clean up the maisonette. How could such a little house be in so much need of TLC? We worked until 11 p.m. 

Thank you for your kind words and enthusiasm for seeing the renovation take shape. Chelsea will post about her home on my blog and her Instagram.

I'm off to bed because the two pickles will be bouncing on my bed to watch Tweety Bird bright and early..

Side note:

This afternoon Chelsea and Co. went out to lunch with Martin's brother. As soon as they left the house, a silence fell that was surprisingly welcomed. My gosh, do little people make noise.

It reminded me of when I returned to Marseille from Paris  (over three hours by train.) A woman sat behind me with her three-year-old grandchild. The little girl was nonstop talk, and the Grandmother was full of chatter, too. They talked about everything from stars in the sky and how her Grandfather was from Brazil to wishing she could have candy in all her pockets. Later, her Grandmother said it was time to take a nap, and the little girl obliged with a sigh. The Grandmother added wearily, "Please stop talking. I hope you won't talk in your sleep." At first, I was surprised that she said that, but then the little girl giggled, that cute little kid giggle. The Grandmother was in need of a break.

As soon as my family was out the door, I heard that Grandmother on the bus and fully understood the need for silence, even if for a moment. Little children, even when playing quietly, make noise. I wouldn't have it any other way, but am aware of how good quite can sound.

The Beginning of the New Home

Martin longed for his job to be transferred to Marseille, and his goal was finally achieved this year. Chelsea and Martin started looking for a home in the south of France. I asked them what was on their dream list for a home; it was at least ten pages long. In the same breath, they told me they had a few houses they would look at in the coming days. Time was of the essence, so I started to look for a home in our town that matched the ten-page list. My determination to find them a home was purely selfish. Since my only family in France is Yann, Chelsea, and Sacha (Sacha lives in Seattle, and Yann's family, of course, counts, but you know what I mean.) I thought this was my only chance to have them live next door or at least within walking distance.

A miracle of all miracles or luck would have it, or my determination paid off. I found a house that met their ten-page dream list, and they bought it. I still cannot believe it. Happiness knows no bounds. My beautiful daughter, my dear Martin, and the little Pickles will live here in our town. 

Next to their home is a maisonette, a small 450-square-foot house. Today, we refreshed it, as Chelsea and Martin will live there while their home is renovated. In the torturous heat, we scrubbed and painted. When they move into their home, we will renovate the maisonette and possibly rent or sell it. But that is for another day.

Chelsea wanted to test a terra cotta-colored wall before having a room in her home painted that color,

so she tested it in the maisonette.

It is the color she had at their wedding, which is very Provencal.

 

The maisonette is next door to their property. Their new home is much larger and sits on over an acre of land. There is no way I would want to take care of that much land. Luckily, they have a well, especially given that our town is under water restrictions and the sixteen historical fountains (from natural sources) are dry. That doesn't mean they will have a plush lawn and a manicured yard. 

 

You can see a peek of their home-to-be through the maisonette's kitchen window. 

While we painted, Olivia cooled off in the kitchen sink.

Oh, to be a child and do such things while eating a cookie.

 

 

Gabriel was fascinated by the tools; the air gun was a welcome relief as he blasted our backs.

He painted too. Well, if you have children, you know what that means.

 

Olivia was in her glory with a rare treat. She held a packet of chocolate cookies for dear life.

She has a sweet tooth, and she follows in the footsteps of my mother. Remember, my mother said one of her secrets to a long, happy life is to eat candy for breakfast and throughout the day.

 

Meanwhile, Yann played swords with stick with Gabriel in the empty dumpster.

Rene, who renovated our place in Cassis, will renovate their home.

 

Correction to Yesterday’s Post

This is Olivia’s yogurt cake.

Moist and delicious lemon vanilla. 

A yogurt cake is easy to make, and fool proof.

Ask Olivia how many tastes she had.

 

Gabriel made the second yogurt cake. He packed his flour, added olive oil because there wasn’t enough sunflower oil, and used cocoa powder to make chocolate.

It was delicious too.

 

yesterday I forgot to say 

« 0ne pot of yogurt per recipe. »

 

 

 

The Best Well Known Cake in France

My niece Juliette was fourteen when she shared the French's most treasured secret cake recipe with me.  She asked me if I had some yogurt. Looking at her oddly, I wondered if we were making a classic French cake or if I had misunderstood. Misunderstanding, for me, was as common as breathing in those days.

I can still see her opening a yogurt pot, reassuring me that it would be the best cake ever. "All French people know how to make yogurt cake, Auntie," she said, "We learned this recipe in Maternelle (kindergarten)." With that note, I said aloud, "Are you sure it is not mud pie or patti cakes?" She waved her hand at me, not listening; instead, she measured everything with the tiny yogurt pot (jar) instead of a measuring cup.

Juliette poured one pot of yogurt (Not non-fat, less fat, or zero fat, but one pure creamy heaven yogurt, as most French people have in their fridge.) into a bowl. Then, with the same little yogurt pot, she measured:

-Three yogurt pots of flour,

-Two yogurt pots of sugar,

-1/2 a yogurt pot of sunflower oil,

1 pot of yogurt 

-Two eggs,

-A teaspoon and a half of baking soda,

-A teaspoon of vanilla,

-A pinch of salt,

-and the juice of one well-squeezed lemon.

 

It was that simple. Yet ever so remarkable. 

My niece was right. Every French person I know knows the Yogurt Cake recipe. It never fails at a birthday party or a gathering of French friends that a  Yogurt cake will be served, and someone will ask, "Is this the Yogurt Cake?" Then, a choir of chatter about that simple, delightful, entertaining French classic secret cake.

Yogurt Cake with apples,

Yogurt Cake with bananas,

Yogurt Cake with chocolate,

Yogurt Cake with roasted almonds...

The possibilities are endless.

The yogurt cake, dressed up or down, is good all around. 

So, ladies and gents, here's one of the French's most guarded secrets: the Yogurt Cake.

Added Notes:

Dear Readers,

Regarding the size of the yogurt pot:

"The best thing about it is that no matter what size yogurt container you use (5, 6, 8oz), it still comes out great because the ingredient portions are the same." Thank you, Nancy; that is the perfect answer.

 

Regarding Temperature:

 

200 Celsius, or 400 Fahrenheit, or 6 for Gas.

 

Regarding adding fruit, almonds, chocolate, etc:

 

Measure one yogurt pot per cake.

 

Regarding can the cake be double:

 

Yes.

 

Regarding can flavored yogurt be used:

 

Yesterday, I made a yogurt cake with coconut yogurt. I doubled the recipe, used a bundt pan, and added bananas (two yogurt pots) and toasted almonds (half a yogurt pot).

 

Regarding cooking time:

 

Eight-inch baking pan 20 to 25 minutes.

Bundt pan baking time 35 to 40 minutes (add tin foil to the top of the cake after 15 to 20 minutes)

 

Regarding do I want to print out/write a cookbook:

 

If you will be the editor, proofreader, taster, housekeeper, and hold my hand, why not?

 

Regarding the size of the pan:

 

I used a bundt pan (double recipe) and added a piece of tin foil to the top of the cake. You can use an 8-inch cake pan.

 

Paris by Night

A few photos of Paris from over the years,

and yet they could be from a hundred years ago, thirty years ago,

or from yesterday.

Paris's heartbeat rarely changes except for the clothes people wear, additions to new creations such as the pyramid nearly forty years ago, and the style of cars, to name a few.

 

 

 

 

 

The Olympic Flame

 

It is one of the most spectacular creations I have ever seen. It was magnified by its surroundings, evoking Jules Verne's passage from Around the World in 80 Days, 

" ...Anything one man can imagine, other men can make real..."

I felt like I had stepped back into the 1900s, as if I were at the Parisian World Fair,   one of the spectators standing in awe and filled with joy because of it.

...

 

If ever I had wanted to bring my "real camera and tripod," this would have been the moment. At least, with my iPhone, I could run around to different spots by the Louvre and take in the views it provided without having to haul my camera equipment around. I wish Sacha were here.

 

 

"Imagine! It's not a real fire burning in a cauldron. A flame without fuel ignites this hot-air balloon for the first time in the Olympic Games history. It's an illusion created by a cloud of mist and beams of light."

 

 

 

"Historians suggest the flame was born in a temple erected by the ancient Greeks to honor Hera, the powerful queen of the mythological gods. Her shrine stands in the home of the Olympic Games of antiquity, a cypress-shaded archaeological site in Olympia where the first recorded Games were held in 776 B.C."

 

 

The Olympic flame is meant as a powerful symbol of solidarity and resilience, transcends borders with its light, uniting people in celebration of the human spirit

As it is passed from one torchbearer to the next, the hope is that it will ignite a sense of kinship among nations.

 

• A 30-metre-high cauldron with a 7-metre-diameter ring of fire
• Every day during the Games, 10,000 people will be able to get up close to the Cauldron on the ground from 11 am to 7 pm.
• A flight more than 60 meters above the ground, from sunset until 2 am every night
• A 100% electric flame without fuel, thanks to EDF, made of water and light

Stationed in the Jardin des Tuileries, the cauldron was never seen before in the history of the Games. French designer Mathieu Lehanneur came up with a new-generation hot-air balloon with a ring of fire.

Positioned on the ground during the day, the Cauldron will take off into the Paris sky at sunset each evening until 2 a.m. From hundreds of meters away, light will be visible for all to see.

 

The journey from Greece to Paris.

"While modern Olympic Torches have typically burned propane, this latest version (built tougher, to allow a fifth as many torches to be used throughout the relay) burns low-carbon biogas, a symbolic transition showing the importance of sustainability throughout the games."

 

 

This show-stopper had to be in the picture, too.

 

 

If you would like more details about the flame tap, please find them here.

 

What a glorious summer evening it was.

Sacha’s Beard

 

 

Normandy Beaches are Endless

 

Normandy is where Yann's mom moved to be closer to her daughter. A seashell's throw from her new home is the coast with its endless miles of beach. It is absolutely my favorite place to walk.

On the beaches in Containville, the tide goes back far due to the area's large tidal range, which can be as far as the eye can see in some places. This significant tidal range creates expansive sandy beaches when the tide goes out and a vast, breathtaking expanse of sandy beaches when the tide ebbs, providing a wonderland of serenity.

Tides in Containville

 

 

The French Way

Finally, the summer heat has arrived in Provence, driving everyone inside or to the beach or pool.

Luckily, our Maison du village (house in the town) has stone walls over three feet thick. Our maison's wall butts up against the neighbor's maison's wall creating a six foot thick stone wall. Insulation at its finest: Cool interior in the summer, holds heat in during the winter.

Our home is a mere four hundred years old, and yes, old locks in France have keys like this. 

 

The bakeries and pastries shop gift wrap their goods. Each item bought, whether a baguette, pain au chocolate, or croissant, is wrapped in light paper, then the ends on the paper or twisted or, if you buy a cake or other pastries, the light paper is used but instead of the ends twisted they tie a box up with a ribbon or string. Then, you can carry the package of baked goods from the loop that the shopkeepers make when they tie up the packages.

 

 

Do what the French do in France: Your bread only goes on your plate if a small plate is offered. Otherwise, and in most cases, it goes on the table, in the left corner of your plate above the fork.

Also, instead of biting into a piece of bread, the French tear a piece into bitesize pieces and eat it that way. Otherwise, it is considered rude.

 

 

Tips for dining at a restaurant are included.

You do not need to leave a tip, but you can leave a coin to be friendly, and it is not considered rude if you do not.

 

Recently, at the brocante, a friend remarked how impressed she was by the variety of French linens and lace available. She asked if it was always like this or just the luck of the draw at this particular brocante.

I have said it many times, and I'll keep on saying it: If France took out the linen, lace, dishtowels, and bedsheets and spread them out one by one, they could cover all of France and have a massive slumber party.

Linens are plentiful.

Please let me know if you ever need a thousand old nightshirts, monogrammed bed sheets, dish towels, napkins, lace, nightgowns, pantaloons, or tablecloths, and I'll have them to you within a blink.

I would love to fulfill that bet as long as I didn't have to pay for it.

 

 

The French say babies come from cabbages, just like the Americans say babies come from the stork. When Chelsea was born, I said she was as big as a cabbage (ten pounds), and I wished the stork had delivered her to me.

 

In France, the French celebrate their 'name-day.' Every day of the year, a saint is remembered. If your name or middle name is the same as a saint (or a name that has something to do with a saint), then your family and friends give you a gift and say happy feast day. It is as if each French person has two birthdays. The word for the 'name-day' is: "Le jour de fête".

A list of saints' names for each day can be found here.

We do not do this in our Franco/American household, as I can barely keep track of the day of the week. Numbers and I are not dancing partners. Plus, Chelsea and Corey are not on the Saints Day list.

When I first arrived in France, I asked my French Husband if I could have October 2nd as my feast day. It is the feast day of the Guardian Angels, and I like angels. Corey was missing from the list. He said, "No, it doesn't work like this." That was the beginning of what I call my French Husband getting "French in my face."

 

Playing cards:

V (valet)

D (dame)

R (roi)

Instead of:

J

Q

K

And if that was not enough, the French keyboard is different from the American keyboard. For instance, the A is where the Q is.

It was those little things that tripped me.

 

 

 

Some Facts About France:

Their favorite sport is soccer, which is called football.

 Team sports are not played in school, nor are there cheerleaders or school proms.

Did you know that a French author penned Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty?

  The Eiffel Tower is as tall as a seventy-story building. Zane and Mat climbed to the top when they visited me years ago when I lived in Paris. I didn't climb to the top that day as I was seven months pregnant with the ten-building—my ten-pound cabbage.

Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa is owned by the French government and is said to be the most valuable painting in the world. It was bought by French King Francis I in 1519.

In France, the Mona Lisa is called La Joconde.

Did you know the Mona Lisa painting hung in King Francis I's bathroom?

Did you know that Mona Lisa has no eyebrows? The reason she does not is Leonardo forgot or ran out of paint. It is because it was fashionable in Florence to shave your eyebrows off. It wasn't due to overplucking them.

 

There are some 40,000 châteaux in France.

I want one.

 

 

 

Nîmes is the birthplace of blue jeans. Levi Strauss imported the famous fabric to California to make rugged work trousers for gold diggers. Denim is another way of saying “de Nîmes.”

 

 

The French consume wine with most meals. Soft drinks are not had with dinner.

 

 

 

The end..... unless you have something you want to know about France or the French. I'll try to answer your questions in the comment section.

The Girl and Her Lipstick

This little Pickle has a thing for lip balm

applies it generously

carries it to bed.

Chelsea said, “I am not even a girly girl,

I don’t even own lip balm.”

Children are their own sense of wonder.

 

(Lipstick is really lip balm)

The Olympic Flame to be Continued

 

 

The Olympic flame is in the Tuileries Garden by the Louvre in Paris. This evening, I walked to the other side of the river to witness the flame light up the evening sky. It was said to be around 9:30, after sunset. I went an hour early to secure the best spot. Several came to mind, and I wanted a photo with the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower in it simultaneously. The crowd was building. Usually, I avoid crowds and or have an exit plan. I am cautious like that. 

Around 10:30, the police said it would not go up for another hour or not at all. That is when the bubble I was in popped, and I noticed the lighting. I decided to go home and come back in a few days. The crowd was dense, and I had to say excuse me in ten different languages to get through. Please know I only speak two. The Eiffel Tower was glowing at the bridge, and I thought to take a photo, but spinkles warned me to move on. 

Within minutes, those sweet little sprinkles, after a blistering day, turned into an utter downpour.

Some of you might have dove into a cafe or bar; I hopped into a laundromat.

In Paris, it downpours for fifteen or twenty minutes, stops, takes a smoke, has a shot of coffee, and goes at it again. I know its trick, so the minute it stopped, I bee-lined home, caught a bus, and made it in time before the next downpour.

To see more photos, tap here

 

 

 

 

 

 

Colorful Cups of Cheer

What are your favorite drinks? They do not have to match the cups

What flavors do you prefer?

Some light-hearted text to read to lighten up the madness going around.

I prefer love, faith, hope, courage, and spoonfuls of forgiveness.

But, damn, I need more of it than those tiny cups.

Side Note: If you are in Paris a must stop is Mariage et Freres a fabulous place for tea lovers, since 1854. Since, I am allergic to caffine I drink Rooibos: "Traditionally called 'red tea' in the tea world, Rooibos doesn’t come from the Camellia Sinensis tea plant; rather, it is made from a bush known variously in Latin as Aspalathus Linearis a shrub grown in the highlands of South Africa.In fact, its name means ‘red bush’ in Afrikaans. The beverage has no stimulating effects, for it is absolutely free of theine and contains very little tannin. It is nevertheless very rich in vitamin C, mineral salts, and protein." My favorite being Rouge Autumn.

Another favorite off the beaten path is a delightful cafe called April in the 10eme inn Paris. In Chelsea's opinion the best coffee in Paris, and for me the best, and I mean best Golden Latte and fresh squeezed orange juice. Like Mariage et Freres there is a cafe on site. An extra plus is April also offers pastry classes.

 

 

 

Housekeeping

Friend: How do you keep your house so clean?

Me: By creating an obstacle illusion.

Friend: I can see that this is not an obstacle illusion. It is spotless.

Me: Seeing is believing, but touching is not.

Friend: You must spend hours cleaning every day.

 

 

Me: No, not even. One of my favorite tricks is to call a friend and tell her to come over in 45 minutes or so. Then, work like a wizard in the next 45 minutes—surface cleaning. 

My mother taught me a valuable lesson: "Follow through." Being disciplined about putting things away is already a big step in the right direction. Also, I don't mind cleaning. 

And you?

 

The Soul of a Stranger

 

 

In French they say:

Les Yeux sont le Miroir de l'Ame

***

As I looked admiringly through the shop window, I was captivated by a collection of dreams: a bit of gild, rust, religious artifacts, holders for candles soon to be lit, an angel hidden amongst the what-not, and a tiny oil painting of a guided journey. It was as if these objects were waiting for me, speaking part of my story.
The symbolism of the objects gathered there brings a smile to my heart. Stepping back, I was caught up in my thoughts in the middle of Rue de Paradis. It was as if I was peeking into the window of someone's soul, finding mementos of their past life, enchanted by how they had arranged the fragments of their journey and wondering where the story began.

This feeling of peering into the soul of a stranger is not unlike the experience of meeting someone for the first time. We look into their eyes, seeing a soul longing to be discovered and loved. 

And sometimes our hands intertwine, and we follow.

 

Update on Mohammed

Today, Mohammed wrote on his Facebook page.

(tap here to follow him)

“My mind is about to explode, and my heart is bursting with sadness and pain. I forgot myself and my pain. I never stop thinking about my grandfather, the patient man who forbade sadness. My grandmother, the struggling woman from her youth who contributed to my upbringing and whom I called "Mama" in my childhood, lost four of her children, three to this war. And seven of her grandchildren, my oldest brother’s son, 16 this spring. Her phone said her first words: "Rest in peace, sister, your mother and your uncle, the gentle ones are gone." My uncle Zaher is considered a patient who lost his three children and his wife. And Abraham, my cousin, the child who lost his mother, father, and brothers, and life will meet him alone without a tender embrace to caress him or a brother to tighten his bone with him.

 

Inside me, there is a great pain that cannot be erased by an earthquake that switches the earth above the ground and not a nuclear bomb that erases all who contributed to our bloodbath.

Oh my God! Only you can crush this halal virus from existence. Only Allah has the power to avenge.”

Martyrdom of my uncle Awad, my aunt Latifa, her husband Haitham, her two children Muhammad Ahmed, my uncle Zaher's wife, his three children Amona, Rahaf, and Youssef

May Allah reward us for our sick

 

Oh God, tie our hearts together.”

….

If you want to help Mobammed financially or send him a card or gift, please let me know, and his family and I will send you his information.

Sweet Dreams Wiggleworms

One of the advantages of living close to your parents is that

you can go out, spend the night away,

 

Trusting, umm, knowing your children

are sleeping sideways in your parent’s bed,

kicking and wiggling.

Sweet dreams are not assured.

PS

If only I had a camera to show the rollercoaster movement throughout the night.

Wiggleworms! 

 

Mother Nature

a black violet carpenter bee

Gabriel found it and sensed it was injured somewhere but we didn’t know where. I found a reed and he carried it to a shady moist area.

The cycle of life through the eyes of a child.

Dancing in the Park

 

 

 

Give Peace a Chance

 

Is our Silence

We must speak up for those who cannot.

 

A Day in Provence

You know you are in Provence when you see red-tiled roofs, lavender fields, sunflowers with poppies waving their last farewell, bouillabaisse sharing hints of garlic and saffron, served first with a Pastis, painted shutters in almond green and sky blue, and faded sunshine (if there is such a season in Provence!), Autumn-colored pottery, goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, and the palest rose wine…

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To see the sweet, funny video of Gabriel and Olivia, head over to my Facebook and tap here.

Winnie Pig

(photo via cutGuinea Pig by Guinea Dad)

 

 

 

My friend Erika told Yann, 

"You will be our guinea pig." 

 

Yann, with a perplexed look on his face, quipped,

"So, what's this about a Winnie Pig?"

Erika and I could not hold back our laughter, thinking he was teasing.

Then realized he was serious.

We explained Winnie Pig, which is a cochon d'Inde in French.

 

 

 

Yann curiously asked if Winnipeg was the same as Winnie Pig.

He was seriously asking.

….. 

I make thousands of errors in French daily and probably in my last breath I will utter something ridiculously misconstrued. I am not making fun of Yann's French; his grammar is flawless. But these moments are worth remembering.

 

Objects that Speak

The items we hold on to may not always be the most valuable, but they hold a special place in our hearts. I have my dad's old tee shirt, my children's baby teeth, a holy water font from my grandparents' bed, and Annie's beret... Each of these items is a thread in the fabric of our story, transporting me back in time.

I've got some decorative stuff in our house; as you know, I have this thing for the brocante, but they're not as important as the things that hold memories for me. Those are the ones I really care about. French Husband is far more sentimental than I am or ever will be. What is oddly funny is that I like a home to feel inviting, curious, engaging, and well put together, but I can sell off stuff and replace it and do it again with little bother, whereas French Husband could live in a house with a cardboard boxes for a dresser, an air matttess, sleeping bag, some kitchen stuff, and a fold up table and not be bothered: Camping Style. Yet, at the same time, he wants whatever I bring into our home to stay and appreciates it. We all have our comfort level and things that add meaning or symbolic meaning, right?

And then there's the stuff in the back of our closets or under our beds, like books, souvenirs, a box of seashells collected on the last vacation, craft products, or a pile of clothes because we might need them someday. That's French Husband! He keeps boxes from appliances, and broken items.

The same applies to 'tag-on' memories, especially the ones that weigh us down. They cling to our minds like barnacles, cluttering our hearts and hindering our ability to let go and move on.

French Husband is the master of not letting things tag on; he can let go of stuff like that from the instant it is said or done. He doesn't get caught up in the tangle of emotion or other people's opinions. He amazes me with his brilliance in letting go and letting be. On the other hand, I need to process it verbally, re-soak it up like a sponge, and do it again. I do get there eventually.

We hold on to things, thoughts, dreams, paths... the things we keep might not be the most valuable, yet they speak to us of something. We just need to let go of the stuff that doesn't matter and sit close to whatever helps us be well.
Letting go and moving on can be like untangling a knot. It's a journey that we all embark on, and it's not always easy, is it?

Me, Myself, and I

 

"What they call you is one thing,

What you answer to is something else."

 

This part of a poem by Lucille Cliffton struck me—it went right on in and brought a moist feeling to my eyes. I know, I know, and I am rock-solid, certain you know, too, that it does not matter what labels others try to stick on you; ultimately, our own response and self-definition truly matter.
What I know for certain, too - is that what others say about me sticks to me like a post-it.
Does that mean I believe it? Does it mean I haven't embraced the freedom to be who I am without shaking off the post-its? Or does it mean sticks, stones, and words can hurt if thrown at the bull's eye of my being? Does it mean I take thoughts to heart?
What I do know is that those few lines of Lucille Cliffton shifted me, and I like that feeling.
Isn't it beautiful when the ripple of goodness reaches our shore, wetting our feet and causing us to jump in clothes and all?

The Name Game

Leonie is an old French name that is regaining popularity. It means "Lioness." Our friend's son recently named their newborn daughter Leonie, and in France, the second syllable is more pronounced.

Jennifer is Jen NI fer

French Names all you need to Know

 

 

 

When you want to say your name in French, you can say:

Je m'appelle… (my name is) + your name.

 

 

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" is a popular adage from William Shakespeare's play Romeo and Juliet, in which Juliet seems to argue that it does not matter that Romeo is from her family's rival house of Montague. The reference is used to state that the names of things do not affect what they really are. This formulation is, however, a paraphrase of Shakespeare's actual language. Juliet compares Romeo to a rose saying that if he were not named Romeo he would still be handsome and be Juliet's love. This states that if he were not Romeo, then he would not be a Montague and she would be able to marry him without hindrances." From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

 

 

 

I hear you call my name and it feels like home.