French la Vie

A Peek of my Village

A daily view when I walk around my village.

at the base of Saint Baume.

The church is from the 11th century.

 

Winter Seat

 

"Art is never finished, only abandoned."

Leonardo de Vinci

What are You Doing this Weekend?

Happy Weekend.

XXX

The Game of Life

 

French Texture

 

French texture...

After thirty-five years, married to a Frenchman, having children, doing business, and living in France, I have lived longer in France than in my native homeland California by five years.

I could ask myself: "How does it feel from when I first arrived?"

"How many changes in both places have I seen?"

While the French hear my accent and continue to ask, "Where are you from? How long have you lived in France? Do you miss the USA? What country do you prefer?"

Or will it ever be that the place I have called home all these years allows me to say,

"This is my home. I am French with an American accent."

I wonder about my four grandparents, who left their homeland very early and lived in the USA for the rest of their lives. Did their accent separate them, marking them as outsiders in their new land?

 What makes us who we are?

How do those early years shape us beyond the later years of life? How do we measure home?

My Grandparents spoke to us with a thick accent, and now I talk to my Grandchildren with a thick accent.

 

  

 

 

If I had stayed in the USA, would I be any different than who I am today? My accent suggests not.

"Ah, you are an American. I thought you were English."

"Do you go back home often?"

"What do you miss most?"

"Is it difficult to be far away?"

"How did you come to live in France?"

"What do you do?"

Today, I was out walking when a woman in our village struck up a conversation with me. Eventually, she asked the standard questions I have heard since I arrived in France. But in the end, she threw me a curve ball that threw me into left field. She asked, "If your husband dies would you move back to the States?" You see, it is like an ex-pat is fair game to ask those deeply personal questions about what you are doing in their country and how much you like it. The journalist without a career comes out of them; their curiosity takes the reins leading them into a territory of conversation that they wouldn't strike up with someone who didn't have an accent.

My response was, "No, my home is here; why would I leave?"

For a moment, I was sure she would ask where I wanted to be buried.

Living in a foreign country is a constant bag of new tricks.

 

 

 

A Street in the Center of Marseille on a Winter Day

 

Blue skies like a top hat sitting on the buildings.

Unexpected, potted plants in plastic garbage pails lined the street. My cousin Judy would say that is a sign of a frustrated gardener wanting a yard in a limited space.

The sun glowed on the building, intensifying the golden patine.

I walked along smiling and chatting up anyone with who I could strike up a conversation... today I tested myself to see if my asthma was at bay as it appeared to be... And it was! 

Breathing is my new awareness. It seemed I could feel the air going all the way to the alveoli, or at least I imagined that. I thanked my entire body for the miracle it is for carrying me around, seeing, feeling, tasting, and being aware of how beautiful the gift of life is.

I was overjoyed, simply being on a random street in Marseille on a winter day.

 

Update: Asthma

At last, I feel better, the best I have felt since April. I went to the specialist, and the report was that I have asthma that is brought on by any respiratory infection. The type of asthma I have cannot be managed with Ventolin. Allergy tests were taken, and I did not respond positively to any of them, I am not allergic to dust, mites, grass, or danders… nor, is my asthma brought on by exercise. My blood work last week remains favorable. 

The pulmonologist (the head of the department in the leading hospital in Marseille) put me on a treatment called, Innovair. Since I started that treatment, I feel massively better. I still have some inflammation in my lungs, but it is clearing up and hasn’t caused me any trouble. I am heading in a good direction at last. Thank you for your prayers xxx

 

Guest Post: Christine at Studio 4

 

Last November, my blog was 18 years old. To celebrate that, I asked my readers to submit a Guest Post for my blog to celebrate our connectedness as a community through social media. 

I hope you will send me your story or a glimpse into your life. I know so many of you through the comment section and emails; I hope this will introduce you to one another. Thank you in advance for being part of French la Vie / Tongue in Cheek.

_______

 

Hello-Bonjour!

My name is Christine Dickinson. I am happy to introduce myself and my small business in Chico, California. A small town just 32 miles from Corey’s home town Willows, California.

 

       

 

I am a curator of various types of jewelry and decorative items. My career was in dentistry for 35-plus years. I do keep a hand in it still a bit. I am employed part-time at Far Northern Regional. A community program serving mentally challenged patients and their dental needs at our local Chico hospitals. I’m happy to participate in this community service utilizing my dental skills. With my hand skills and talent, I discovered my creative side and have enjoyed this new avenue of creating. Years of working with dental products, alginates, plasters, resins, etc., led me to experiment and create casted jewelry and decorative items. Also, hand and feet castings, teeth whitening trays, mouth guards, and nitegaurds locally at my Studio in Chico.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Christine molds children’s hands)

On my first visit to France, Corey introduced me to the Brocante, and I immediately loved everything, French. I found so many beautiful treasures. She helped me how to get these treasures back home! During that visit, I noticed Corey's necklace, a cluster of French religious medals. I was amazed to hear these were all little pieces of history made many years ago with various dates, each representing a special meaning. To know they all had a story of a pastime just fascinated me. I asked-

 

 

Corey, how could I find one of those necklaces for myself? She said easy… at the brocante! I became interested in these medals and started collecting them on other visits. I consider Corey my inspiration for creating these beautiful French medals. I am so grateful our paths have crossed.

 

   

 Please take a peek at my online site:

Studio4@studio4bijouxetplus.com

Merci Beaucoup,  

Christine Dickinson

 

A Dabbler and Scribbler

 

 

Thank you for your messages. They humble me. 

My blog is an assortment of whatever is rattling around me; often, it is a message to myself to be a better person.

If it brings you something positive, then that is a bonus.

I am not a Jack-of-all-trade and certainly a master of none. 

I dabble and scribble.

Your kind comments affirm that it is okay.

xxx

 

 

 

 

Gratitude

 

Thank you, little flowers under our feet, giving way without a cry as we pass by.

Thank you, fresh air fills our lungs, restoring us without our constant awareness.

Thank you, light that shows us today and guides us towards tomorrow.

Thank you, heart, for beating, for dancing within us, even when we do not hear your steady song.

Thank you, eyes that look beyond race, allowing us to see one another and show us that we belong together, not apart.

Thank you, arms, for wanting to hold the whole world.

Thank you for the word "sorry" and for giving us the courage to try again and again.

Thank you, faith, for picking us up, dusting us off, and kicking our butts in the right direction.

Thank you, blood, the invisible river that flows red in each of us, reminding us that when we bleed, we suffer.

Thank you, consciousness, for keeping us on track when the grass seems greener on the other side of the fence.

Thank you, little flowers that reach the sun after we walk by, scenting the days with a fragrance of peace.

Please feel free to add your thank you...

Together

Let us share what we have,

Let us trustingly lean into each other.

We are one into the other

intertwined.

 

 

Unearthed Discoveries

 

 

The French brocante offers more than old things from someone's attic and more than boxes of disheveled junk. The French brocante is not just a place to find unbeatable prices for disregarded items or the chance to find an unbelievable Picasso. It is a living museum with touch-able history where you can be the digger in the archaeological site and take your finds home.

At the brocante, French Husband and I met a dealer who collects Roman artifacts. The dealer has been collecting for years; he started selling not so long ago. His stand was full of rare, intriguing pieces, plus he freely shared his knowledge and stories. I became a sponge, soaking up every word. I must have asked two thousand questions that begun with: "What is this?"

 

 

 

Admittedly, I usually spend most of my time at the brocante looking for things that speak in muted colored romance, old things that have more than their fair share of age, brocante items that have little monetary value but rather tell a story, depict a feeling. I guess you could say I am a sucker for worn beauty.

Uneven certainty in worn items strikes a balance with me.

 

 

 

 

Old coins, especially Roman artifacts, the dealer at the brocante told me, are often found in domains where Roman roads traversed. He mentioned that when a field has been recently toiled, bits and pieces from the past are brought to the surface. Sometimes unscathed, often showing less their age but worn nevertheless, and more often than not fragmented, slivers, shards, and broken bits.

Driving home, I looked at the fields with new insight. Battles fought, lives lost, bits and pieces, stories, memories buried within, and crops reborn.

 

 

 

Maybe my new hunting ground should be in recently-toiled fields.

But, knowing me I would pick flowers instead.

The brocante offers plenty without trespassing.

 

 

 

 

 

The French brocante offers more than old things from someone's attic and more than boxes of disheveled junk. The French brocante is not just a place to find unbeatable prices for disregarded items or the chance to find an unbelievable Picasso. It is a living museum with touch-able history where you can be the digger in the archaeological site and take your finds home.

At the brocante, French Husband and I met a dealer who collects Roman artifacts. The dealer has been collecting for years; he started selling not so long ago. His stand was full of rare, intriguing pieces, plus he freely shared his knowledge and stories. I became a sponge, soaking up every word. I must have asked two thousand questions that begun with: "What is this?"

 

 

 

Admittedly, I usually spend most of my time at the brocante looking for things that speak in muted colored romance, old things that have more than their fair share of age, brocante items that have little monetary value but rather tell a story, depict a feeling. I guess you could say I am a sucker for worn beauty.

Uneven certainty in worn items strikes a balance with me.

 

 

 

 

Old coins, especially Roman artifacts, the dealer at the brocante told me, are often found in domains where Roman roads traversed. He mentioned that when a field has been recently toiled, bits and pieces from the past are brought to the surface. Sometimes unscathed, often showing less their age but worn nevertheless, and more often than not fragmented, slivers, shards, and broken bits.

Driving home, I looked at the fields with new insight. Battles fought, lives lost, bits and pieces, stories, memories buried within, and crops reborn.

 

 

 

Maybe my new hunting ground should be in recently-toiled fields.

But, knowing me I would pick flowers instead.

The brocante offers plenty without trespassing.

 

 

 

The Re-Telling of How Martin Became Mr. Espresso

                

In 2008, I wrote this post about my future son-in-law, Martin, and why I called him Mr. Espresso on my blog.

 

 

The Theme: A Mother/Daughter Moment Shared.

The Stage: Daughter's (Chelsea) studio.

First Scene: The Coffee Machine.

The daughter shows Mother, her new coffee maker. The mother does not like coffee but drinks it to be with her daughter, who does.

A conversation full and delicious.

The daughter tells her Mother about how she received the coffee machine.

             

Second Scene: Conversation and Coffee

Daughter: Tells Mother how she got the coffee machine and about the friend who gave it to her: Daughter chatters about the coffee machine, then comes back to the original subject matter, "...Even though he doesn't drink coffee, he knows I do and thought I would enjoy it. Isn't that sweet?"

Mother: Zeros in on one word and one word only, "He." But replies, Yes, Sweet.

              

Scene Three:

Mother: Who is wide-eyed, curious, and with an agenda, wants to know more about that one word, "He."

Mother's First Line: "I'll have one spoon of sugar please, and (as the Mother stirs the sugar into her coffee) is the friend who gave you the coffee machine a Boyfriend, or just a boy who is a friend?"

Daughter: (Who drinks her coffee straight black) says a boy who is a friend.

Mother: Really?

             

Final Scene:

Daughter: Tells Mother that the boy and she are very best friends. How they study together. He helps her since he is brilliant in math, and she helps him with his English.

Daughter continues, voice softens: "One evening while we were doing homework," she tells her Mother, "We both looked up at the same time, our faces were this close (daughter puts her face right up to her Mother's face...Mother wants to grab her daughter and kiss her like a baby and never let her go... but Mother resists and tries not to cry.) we leaned into kiss but pulled back instantly."

Mother is surprised and gasps, "Why? Why didn't you kiss each other?"

Daughter: Explains to Mother that it would change everything and that they value their friendship too much to risk losing it over being boyfriend and girlfriend with each other.

Mother: Scratches head, though understands and drinks the coffee that isn't that bad after all.

  ...

Hence several years later, the two are still together. Mr.Espresso does not drink coffee. 

The Challenge of the Graceful Path

These trees leaned towards the river, with their roots woven into the soil. Many walked carefully along this narrow path for hundreds of years, not to hook their foot into the trees' roots. 

How often I stood there casting a stone into the river as a symbolic gesture of letting go, and at the same time, prayed that as I let go of whatever was bothering me, my roots would be like the tree's roots strong, steady, and secure. The imagery soothed in its lessons: Letting go, holding on, and like the river reaching out, a continuous circle of contradiction and connectedness. Not all at once, but it gave a passage for anyone who might need to sort their heart, mind, or deeper self if they stopped and contemplated on the imagery the trees gave.

As I mentioned earlier on my blog, nearly fifty of them were felled due to disease.

The path looks vastly different. One could say empty or an avenue for sunshine to fill the space.

Both are true.

Understanding and accepting something or someone rarely goes hand in hand.

But when it does, the path opens up gracefully.

What allows that challenging path to give way to grace?

 

 

 

 

 

Quinoa with Peppers

 

Quinoa small grains that look like seed pearls.

Saute the quinoa until golden brown, then add boiling water (two parts to one) and cover, allowing it time for it to become one.

Dice red, green, and yellow pepper and saute them with olive oil and garlic.

When the stiff peppers have surrendered to softness, add chopped almonds and saute until they change color.

In a blender, blend a clove of garlic, a handful of dried tomatoes, and parsley (or coriander). Add a small amount of olive oil to help it become creamy.

When the grains of quinoa are softened, toss the ingredients together with a fork, lightly fluff, then delicately mix the dried tomato cream, sauteed peppers, and almonds.

 

 

Serve at room temperature.

Grated Parmesan is welcomed.

A Beautiful Sunny Day in Cassis

 

The Columbian Salad

My friend, Laurie-Annya, introduced me to her friend Angela.

Both of them enjoy cooking, which is a big plus for me.

They came to my home with arms full of food. 

Come on in, sit down, and grab a fork.

You gotta try this salad.

Oh my yum is what it is.

Is this in your recipe collection?

 

Living in France

 

Bird song is what I thought the French language sounded like when I first arrived in France.

After a while, it just sounded difficult.

I was utterly lost after a person would say, "Bonjour."

When I was first married French Husband and I lived in Paris. A few years later, we moved with his business to Marseille.

The first few things I noticed when we arrived in Marseille:

The smell of pine trees.

That women's neckline dropped two inches. Cleavage was another fashion statement.

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.

 

Whenever anyone comes to France and stays with us, the questions mainly concern cultural differences.

Take cars; cars do not have the same meaning as they do in the USA. Having a nice car means you have a nice car. Status isn't attached to it as strongly as it is 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?

Where are the toilets when you are out and about? 

Why do people drive like crazy people? Are they on a suicide mission?

Why do children seem so well-behaved?

You guys eat so much; why aren't you fat?

Why are there so many strikes?

Wouldn't it be more profitable if bakeries had coffee too?

What's health care like?

 

 

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.

 

 

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

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

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

A la carte,

A la mode,

Au contraire,

Au natural,

Avant-garde,

Belle,

Merci, 

Beaucoup,

Carte Blanche,

Deja-vu,

Faux pas,

Rendez-vous,

 

And I was told that nearly every French word that ended with 'TION" is, in most cases, means the same thing in English as they did in French.

The trick was saying those words with the correct accent.

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.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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 to 12h00, are the morning hours until you reach midnight, 24h00 the evening hours.

13h00

16h00

22h00

Forget  12 am or 12 pm.

 

 

 

Eclaboussure - French verb,

Means: Splash.

 

 

The perfect man.

 

 

 

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

Means: To have a midlife crisis.

 

In the beginning, I took a dictionary with me everywhere I went; It was humbling.

Nowadays, the advantage of cell phones is.

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

 

 

 

Zut Alors! 

It is one of my French Husband's mother's favorite expressions and one that I first learned.

Means:

 Darn it!

 

 

The words:

Ça va? 

Are a lifesaver.

An entire conversation can be had with just those two little words.

 

 

That Age Thing

My passport soon will expire to renew it means amongst other things that I need two identical photos of myself.

I took some.

None of them were appealing.

A prune came to mind.

Gasped!

Wrinkles. Like a roadmap, or
lines best in read in a book. 

Eyebrows doing the tango.

I will stop there.

I know the reasons and sayings about beauty,

ageing gracefully and how beauty is what is inside...

I know, I get it, I trust it, nevertheless-

Putting wisdom, gratitude for life and grace aside.

It is freaky this age thing.

The inner and outer me are facing each other.

Challenging me to see beyond the older physical person I see in the photograph.

I did not know that I looked that old.

Okay, I did. But an up-close photo made me understand why some people do botox and cosmetic surgery.

 

Not my passport photo, blurred lines.

What Drives You Bonkers, Pet Peeves

 

Pet Peeves:

Over-cooked pasta.

A few things get my goat so to say, and when it comes to getting my goat "pet peeves" over-cooked pasta is one of them, and I am not Italian.

Cracking knuckles, God, I cannot stand that.

If you want to torture me just serve over-cooked pasta, crack your knuckles, play heavy metal music, seeing someone biting their nails, or eat something anything in front of me when I am not eating that chewing sound drives me mad (Misophonia).

No need to waterboard me, I would confess to anything after that in record speed.

What are some of your Pet Peeves?

Thirty-Five Years Ago

Dang, that is a long time, and still, my French is far from perfect, and I do not write it at all.

Thankfully, the language of love is perfect in its imperfection.

Last night while we were having dinner at home, a song came on the radio. It was a French song, one I had heard before but never paid attention to the words. French Husband, between mouthfuls of potatoes and Brussels sprouts, says, "Oh, you know this song? When it came out, I was probably six, seven or eight years old, and I loved it," a smile familiar to childhood came across his face, "You know, probably because of this song I met you." I stopped chewing my avocado orange peel salad and tried to catch the words of the happy tune going by, "What? Why?"

The song is about a young man who wants to leave everything, "throw away the keys" because since he was born, America calls him:

"Mes amis, je dois m'en aller
Je n'ai plus qu'à jeter mes clés
Car elle m'attend depuis que je suis né
L’Amérique..."

 

 

1988

 

"That song was on my lips, "L'Amérique..."

French Husband started singing with it, which helped me understand the words, and made my heart melt:

"... J'abandonne sur mon chemin
Tant de choses que j'aimais bien
Cela commence par un peu de chagrin
L’Amérique

L'Amérique, l'Amérique, je veux l'avoir et je l'aurai
L'Amérique, l'Amérique, si c'est un rêve, je le saurai
Tous les sifflets des trains, toutes les sirènes des bateaux
M'ont chanté cent fois la chanson de l'Eldorado
De l'Amérique

Mes amis, je vous dis adieu

Je devrais vous pleurer un peu
Pardonnez-moi si je n'ai dans mes yeux
Que l'Amérique

Je reviendrai je ne sais pas quand
Cousu d'or et brodé d'argent
Ou sans un sou, mais plus riche qu'avant
De l'Amérique

mais l'Amérique, l'Amérique, je veux l'avoir et je l'aurai
L'Amérique, l'Amérique, si c'est un rêve, je le saurai
Tous les sifflets des trains, toutes les sirènes des bateaux
M'ont chanté cent fois la chanson de l'Eldorado
De l'Amérique

L'Amérique, l'Amérique, si c'est un rêve, je rêverai
L'Amérique, l'Amérique, si c'est un rêve, je veux rêver."

Joe Dassin

(Click on the above to hear the song)

 

 

2015 photo via Alice

 

Now, if you translate the song word by word, not necessarily how it should be done, there is a verse that would say:

"Because she has been waiting for me since I was born... (North America)."

And that was a sweet Anniversary eve gift to receive.

 

Today marks 35 years. 

 

 

A Favorite Daily Routine

 

 

 

 

Setting the table has been something I have enjoyed doing since I was a little girl.

The fork is on the left, and the knife is to the right, with the cutting part of the blade towards the plate.

As I place the silverware alongside the plate, I imagine those who will sit around the table and dine.

They are hoping their stories will easily unfold like napkins, that their laughter will be tossed about like a green salad. I smile, anticipating stories that will be swallowed whole and digested later. (A dinner is a mixture of hot and cold, tender morsels, bites to chew, and just a hint of sweet and spicy.)

 

 

The meal is 

A sure thing in France.

The daily event.

The time is taken.

Dining in France is like breathing. 

A given.

They are rarely taken alone unless you are alone.

More often than not, sitting at a table, one does not grab a bite to eat on the go.

"I have become French," I say to myself as I set the table, "Or maybe I was always French? Nah, I was too picky of an eater to have been French."

 

 

 

 

 

 

After dinner routine:

Clear the table.

Put the dishes in soapy water.

Washed away the day as the flavor of it seeps in.

Stack the dishes in the drainer, drain the sink, wipe off the counters, and hang the towel.

Take one more bite, then put away any leftovers.

 

The joy of the everyday routine.

Which one is yours?

Moments Before

moments before

the last rays 

flickering through the bare branches

caressing the fallen leaves

creating shadows

twilight’s theatre

until tomorrow 

 

 

The Brocante Bug

How to recognize the brocante bug:

The person infected with the brocante bug usually is not in bed sleeping on a Saturday or Sunday morning.

Their homes have a certain look about them. 

A person who has the brocante bug usually stops the car if they see --

An old table leg, a patch of fabric, or worse, a peeling-paint-ruin-of-a-thing sticking out of a dumpster.

Usually, someone suffering from the brocante bug knows the only cure is to keep on antiquing, as there isn't a cure.

A person with the brocante bug prefers something old to something new. Unless it is food.

The brocante person often forgets how they look as they only have eyes for that old stuff.

The brocante bug is said not to be contagious... but a person who has the brocante bug badly knows that is not a fact to count on. For example, when you have the brocante bug badly, you know that if you take a friend to the brocante, they most likely will develop symptoms instantly, grabbing germs (pieces) that you would have gladly suffered with had they not been around.

A person with the brocante bug carries a big tattered-looking purse, if you dare call it that.

Instead of lipstick or perfume in their purse, they have loose change, a tape measure, and a flashlight.

Do you have symptoms of the brocante bug, or know of symptoms to be aware of?

An Angel

The Magic Wand

            

 

...of the things we call life,

of the moments we label divine,

of those beginnings and endings,

the ebb, the flow, the ache, the challenge.

Life doesn't stand still,

not even if you blink your eyes.

Instead, it grabs us. Can we feel it?

 Oh, glorious surprise, this glue of us that holds us,

giving us a daring ride in all these things.

 

An Incredibly Warm January Afternoon in Cassis

Getting the Pie

Via Instagram Nicolas G

New Year Dip in Cassis

 

 

 

To welcome the year, we decided we would dip into the sea, a renewal, a baptism, a fresh start...

Or, as my mother said, "Don't call me if you are sick tomorrow; you are crazy!

You are just starting to feel better, and then you do something like this!"

If the water had felt like ice, I would not have dared,

but it felt divine, and something in me knew it would revive me.

I don't know why but I felt I had to dip in. We stayed in the sea for a few minutes at most.

Refreshed, Reset, Ready.

and resting in between.

 

xxx

 

 

 

The Last Day of 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

`

 

 

 

Looking back on this year, I will remember being with my family, celebrating life,

creating memories, being happy, and watching Gabriel and Olivia's childhood go by one step at a time.

We celebrated our niece Juliette and Stephan's marriage in Normandy and my nephew Jack and Jordan's marriage in California.

These memories overshadow my illness that weaved through the months of these good moments. Looking back, I realize that I would barely feel well and jump into the next moment. Whether it was work, family events, being with the children, or whatever came my way. I didn't give myself time to recover fully. I guess I thought I was a teenager and invincible.

What I have learned what I am learning is that being strong means taking care of oneself and heed to rest.

Thank you, 2022 for a year full of memories with my family and friends. 

May peace, joy, love, and good health follow us into 2023.

 

 

Dutch Baby

 

The whopper Dutch Baby I have ever seen come out of my oven. The same recipe as usual, but it seemed it had a life of its own.

Three large eggs

1 tsp sugar

1/2 cup of milk (I used part coconut milk)

Two heaping Tbsp of flour

1/2 tsp vanilla powder

A pinch of baking soda,

Pinch of salt

2 tsp scoops of butter.

 

This recipe comes from someone (me) who makes up recipes and rarely follows them. With that said, here is what I did: 

Preheat the oven to 200/180C  convection. I put a round glass baking dish with the butter in the oven while I mix the ingredients. The butter melts.

I mix the ingredients by hand until smooth.

Take the hot baking dish out of the melted butter, then quickly pour in the mixture, and return it to the oven.

While the Dutch Baby is baking. Squeeze the juice of one lemon and zest the peel. 

Bake until puffed up, around 15-20 minutes.

When baked, add the lemon juice and zest on top, then sprinkle with powdered sugar.

That is more or less how I did it yesterday morning x

 

And this is how it turned out today.

I used coconut milk as I didn't have any milk. 

Again the ingredients and qualities are an estimate as I do not measure. It popped up again!

Every Little Piece Can Change the World

 

 

One little bit.

Yesterday, I went for a walk to the place where the locals play "pétanque," a Provence game of balls.

It was the first time since I left the hospital that I went outside, and the weather has been flawlessly, usually warm. 

I was in a terrible mood of self-pity and frustration. Not my best look. I wasn't aiming at gold stars. 

One of the players, I recognize many of the locals, though I am an invisible woman, that is another story soon to come, smiled and waved to me.

That little bit of kindness melted me.

My tears welled up. That greeting overwhelmed me, giving me a pat on the back that I needed.

Did he know that? Nope, he was being kind. 

How often do we miss the opportunity for kindness? How often do I stumble in myself that I forget others?

A wave can change the world.

 

 

Blog Reader Judy's Singing Debut (Christmas Memories Shared)

A few days ago, I asked on my blog to share a Christmas memory of yours with me, had shared about my brother Zane’s mishap with the nativity.

This memory was from Judy:

 

MY SINGING DEBUT

 

The Christmas program at District 53 was the biggest event of the school year.  Two weeks before the program, the school board built a 2 x 12’s stage laid out on top of cement blocks.  The olive green army surplus curtains were strung across the small room on wires.  Our desks were shoved against the walls, and lessons were more or less suspended so that we could concentrate on the “big show.”

 

There would be a crowd—all the parents, a few older brothers, sisters, and 3 or 4 toddlers.  There would be some grandparents, too.  Santa Claus would appear at the end of the program and hand out bags of hard ribbon candy, nuts in the shell, candy canes, and an orange.  Of course, I knew it wasn’t Santa.  I had known them since 2^nd grade.  That was the year I realized that Santa was wearing Gordon Nelson’s shoes!

 

The atmosphere in that little one-roomed school was tingling with excitement.  While the little kids practiced their “pieces” and hand-motion songs, the older students brushed up their lines for the play.  We all sang Christmas carols together.  The highlight of the evening would, of course, be my duet,

Silent Night, sung with Eleanor Miller, Eleanor with white hair and white skin.  Eleanor, white from drinking milk and eating lard sandwiches on white bread.  Old white, boring, insipid Eleanor !!

 

On the afternoon of the Christmas program, we had our final rehearsal.  I sat through the “pieces,” acted my part in the play to perfection, and waited impatiently for the most important part of the program—my duet!  When the time finally came, Eleanor and I stepped onto the stage and stood with our hands cupped in front of us while the teacher played an introduction to “Silent Night.” Midway through the first verse, I was signing my lungs out, but Eleanor was fading out and began leaning against me.  I thought she must be awestruck by my lilting voice.  By the end of the first verse, she had quit singing and was leaning on me with all her weight.  I was incredibly annoyed and took a giant step backward.  Eleanor dropped over in a faint and hit her head on the edge of the stage.  She came to with a massive bump on her forehead, and Miss Light called her parents to come to pick her up.  I feigned concern, but all I could think of was, “I get to sing a solo; I get to sing a solo!”

 

That night I showed up in my new navy blue taffeta dress with the red and white candy-striped piping.  I loved the swishing sound the taffeta made when I walked.  I was also wearing suede slip-on shoes and, if that wasn’t cool enough, I also had on my first pair of hose.  They were seamless, and my mother and I didn’t even know such a thing until the Mode ‘O Day in Fremont clerk introduced us to them.  Of course, our country kids were out of the fashion loop.  Since the hose was seamless, how would the other District 53 kids know I was wearing them?  It would be a shame if they didn’t know about the latest thing in hosiery.  So, while we waited for the program to begin, I discreetly slipped my foot in and out of my shoe to emphasize not only the slip-on but the heel and toe of my seamless hose.

 

It was almost curtain time, and Eleanor hadn’t shown up.  I was very excited.  I was the District 53 fashion plate and about to make my singing debut.  I peeked through the stage curtains to watch our audience arrive.  The little school was packed. How thrilling—all those people assembled to hear my first solo!  I silently went over the words to the melody while I watched the people file in.  The Johnsons, the Dentons, the Nelsons, the Fleischmans and, oh no!  Oh no!  The Millers were there—with their white, with the purple knot on her head, daughter.

The Days After Christmas

Thank you Rebecca Carvin NYC , « Corey Amaro  when I saw this on your blog today, I thought "oh that's beautiful" and then, "oh that looks familiar"  I cannot even tell you how flattered and tickled I am that you shared this.  This poem has always spoken to me, and the photograph is from a visit we made to The Abbaye Notre-Dame de Lure from the 12 century. Located in Saint-Étienne-les-Orgues in the Alpes de Haute-Provence Department, it is one of the holiest places I have ever visited. »

 

 

Christmas Morning Photo

 

Merry Christmas Home at Last

 

We unwrapped the gifts. Gabriel was giddy and gladly helped each of us unwrap our gifts.

We keep the tradition that my family had growing up. After Christmas Eve dinner, we do the washing up and set the table for dessert. Then, we gather in the living room, and the youngest passes out the Christmas gifts. Since Olivia was asleep, Gabriel had the honor of passing out the gifts, and he was pleased. "G," he gleefully cheered when he saw a gift with his name.

We each open a gift, one after another. It takes time. Little Gabriel was patient, which amazed me. He was just as content to see what we had as he opened his gifts.

 

Admiring Grandpapa's gift.

 

 

Gabriel set the table, and I declared it a new tradition to set it together every year.

He put all sorts of things on the table, whatever he found pretty and pleasing, and I was okay with that.

 

Gabriel truffling other gifts under the Christmas tree to give to others.

 

 

 

Before dinner.

 

I sat and watched happily as Christmas unfolded without lighting a finger. 

 

 

Merry Christmas Day!

In France, Christmas continues until Epiphany. So our decorations stay up until then.

How is your day?

What are some of your traditions?

xxx

 

 

 

 

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve.

Home.

Gabriel set the table.

Martin and Chelsea prepared dinner.

Yann entertained the baby.

I sat by the table admiring how beautiful Christmas unfolded.

Not as I imagined it a month ago, but it surpassed my expectations and the gift I gathered « let go and let be. »

Merry Christmas one of shared joy and peace!

Thank you for your messages, comments, emails, cards, prayers and steadfast friendship. I have to rest before feeling better but the steps are in the right place. 

Spiritual Love

My grandmother Amaro said to the five-year-old me while we were sitting in her car that spiritual love was stronger than physical love. She told me this because I had asked her if she died, how would I know that she was by me if I couldn’t see her? This was also around the time when her husband, my grandfather, died. I was at a threshold seeing both sides for the first time and trying to understand what it meant. My Grandmother did not silence me by changing the subject or making light of it. Gabriel and I have shared moments speaking in simplicity about: death, dying, God, and heaven. His questions are direct, “Does it hurt? Where do we go when we die? ...” These snippets of conversations with Gabriel remind me of my conversations with my “Vavie,” the tender, honest curiosity of children’s first peek into the complexity of life and death. For me, these steps are a hopeful glimpse into faith and spirituality with the basis that love is the root of which everything becomes.

My being in the hospital when Gabriel (and family) were at our home awaiting Christmas had compounded these thoughts. None of this is harmful, nor a depressing, morbid conversation. It is part of life’s incredible journey: Seed, root, sprout, blossom, wilt, and return home.

The other day at the breakfast table Gabriel looked up sincerely to Yann, Chelsea, Martin, and baby Olivia expressing with emotion,

"I miss Vavie.

I want to give her  A L L  the love I have in my body!

But don’t worry, mommy, my heart holds more to give to you too.”

Love is endless when we let it be.

I feel his love from miles away.

Hopefully, today I can go home.

 

There is a common practice amongst smokers in France.

As soon as they walk outside they light up.

Inhale as their life depends on it.

When every tobacco leaf is burned they deposed their cigarette where they stand.

Disgusting.

Today, I walked outside to see an ashtray at my feet.

Dear Smoker,

Second hand smoke kills.

Please smoke away from the front door.

Thank you,

 

Be the Wings

Be the wings.

 

 

Provencal Christmas Tradition

Sainte Barbe and the Christmas Wheat

Repost from year's ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On December 4th, the feast of Sainte Barbe, the first Provençal Christmas tradition, takes place in France.

 

 

Growing wheat.  

 

 

First, you find a plate or jar that is waterproof, to place your wheat grains to grow. Then you moisten cotton on the bottom of your container. Next, you thickly scatter grains of wheat on the moistened cotton. I have heard you can use moss to spread your grains, which seems tres chic! I have traditionally used cotton. Every other day you will need to moisten the grains until you see they're full-grown. Also, the grains need to be by indirect light. 

 

 

 

The outcome of the wheat is said to be a symbol of the harvest to come. If the grains germinate and sprout beautifully, it is said that the harvest will be bountiful. If the grain shoots are immature and yellow, poor crops are predicted. If nothing happens...well, maybe you overwatered it or didn't have it close to a light source, or your grains were old. Nevertheless, it isn't a good sign as far as symbols are concerned. It is also said that the growth of the shoots predicts your good fortune for the year to come.

 

 

The sprouting wheat grains are used to decorate the table at Christmas or the creche (nativity scene.) You can see plates of growing wheat in shops, homes, and schools; everyone has a mini wheat field growing, even the post office.

 

 

Annie use to takes hers and plants it in a nearby wheat field; she said that it was also part of the tradition.

The 20th

Girl Dancing for her teddy bear, Paris, 1961. Photograph by Philippe le Tellier

 

Today I was to have a long-awaited rendezvous with a reputed pulmonologist in Marseille. Forty-eight hours ago, I had an acute asthmatic attack and had to go to the nearest emergency room. Unfortunately, I had to forego my rendezvous with the pulmonologist as I have been in the hospital, but not the one where he works. Hopefully, I’ll have some answers and set up another date … but it seems like it’ll take some time …also to understand what type of asthma I have, what triggers it, and the severity it brings. In the meantime, I am sitting in a hospital bed with oxygen by an open window which feels like a gentle caress throughout the day and night.

To think that 33 years ago, I was in a hospital giving birth to a beautiful nine-plus pound baby girl. Remembering that moment and living all these years with shared love makes today's trial easier.

I will be okay.

Becoming Kinder a Rebellious Act Sometimes

Via Brad Montague

 

Christmas Lights in Paris and Reusable Source

 

Christmas lights sparkling outside our window in Paris. This year in many cities around France, Christmas decorations are at a minimum due to the threat of electricity shortage and to protect our planet from overconsumption of disposable products. Usually, the Christmas lights extend all along our street and stay lit throughout the evening, but this year, the Christmad lights are only at the base of our apartment, on the corner, and stay lit for a few hours.

With that said, major brands such as Louis Vuitton, Prada, Chanel, Christian Dior…, Their Christmas decorations are massive and stunning, as always. Nevertheless beautiful as ever they are disappointingly wasteful.
Writing this reminds me of something Chelsea told me, “…Here I am not using straws, reusing my bags, limiting buying products that are in plastic, looking at secondhand before buying clothing… meanwhile, some celebrities are wondering what color of private jet they should fly?”

We can only control our actions and hope they will bring a better outcome for everyone. Mayors and government officials in France are heeding to the call of mindfulness towards reusable products.

So there are fewer Christmas decorations this year, reminding me to be careful of what I use and have the advantages to use. Also, to appreciate the fewer decorations in town and hope they will be reused instead of discarded.

I must admit I love the festive atmosphere that decorations bring, Though, I also understand the need for redirection, Change, opens the doors to new ideas, new ways, and mindful appreciation. Instead of disposable, the call for reusable and natural decor is welcomed.

Another significant change in France is that some name brand shops will take back clothes from their brand and resell them as vintage. The major department stores have complete sections of secondhand clothing, it is a very welcome change. Secondhand stores for clothing are popping up especially in Paris.

Maybe, Martin will take a peek? Wink!

For Courage For Peace

 

 

Sacha was asked and worked pro bono with a team to bring awareness to the plight ongoing in Iran.

Mahsa is the first Iranian stuntwoman, and stood on this plane during the film.

To see the film and more click here.

 

https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cl9Njr9j961/?igshid=MDJmNzVkMjY=

Two parts.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CmQPdJ_jCZe/?igshid=MDJmNzVkMjY=

A Collection

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A collection seems to catch attention more a than a single piece.

or at least it brings us in to look.

As a buyer, an entire collection saves time and energy if the price is right.

A grouping of things catches the eye, not to say that a single piece doesn't, though when a collection is at hand it beckons you to see what you can find.

Photos from the Brocante in Lyon.

I didn't buy anything above but I found plenty nevertheless.

Dear Santa Letter From Gabriel

 

Dear Santa,

I would like 

A construction truck

Construction work clothes 

A remote control car 

and nothing else.

Please!!!

We are going to have apples, bananas, and crackers. And carrots for the reindeer. 

And that is all.

 

Please no hugs.

We will be sleeping upstairs.

You can come in through the living room door.

Do you speak French?

 

Thank you, Santa. 

 

Also, you can give toys to Olivia, you know.

But I do not know what.

Merry Christmas.

 

Gabriel 

(dictated by Chelsea. Note some words are in English. Translated by me.)

P.S.

When I questioned Gabriel about the construction truck I learned that he wants a real one, the kind he sees on the streets.

Oh boy!

 

 

 

 

Kindred Spirit in a Shoe Shop

Walking to the bus stop, I noticed An old fashion shoe shop that was closing. In the window, I saw the shoe holders from the 1920s and wondered if those would be for sale, too, considering everything in the shop had to go. I hesitated but pushed myself through the door to ask if they were for sale.

The owner, an older man, said he was closing the shop because he was retiring; he was 75 years old. I asked him if he wanted to sell the shoe holders in the window. He told me they were in bronze from the 1920s; he asked me how many I wanted. I said as many as he would like to sell; and that it depended on the price. We struck a deal, and he put them in two bags, hundreds of them that weighed more than an elephant and a rhinoceros combined. Thankfully I had my suitcase with me, and I stuffed them inside.

I continue to the bus stop. But before I left, I wished him much happiness in the next chapter of his life, and I told him it was a pleasure to meet him. With tears in his eyes, he thanked me.

Isn’t it funny how I went in hoping to buy some of those shoe holders and instead had one of those brief, rare encounters where you meet someone and have an unexplainable meeting of the soul?

The Depot Vente and My Son-in-Law

 

 

A Depot Vente is a Consignment shop in English; do you buy second-hand clothing? I do, especially antique clothing.

Years ago, fifteen years ago, already that long ago, when Chelsea first met Martin, and I called him Mr. Espresso because he bought Chelsea a coffee machine for Christmas, Martin begrudgingly went to a consignment shop with us in California.

When entering the shop, I told Chelsea and Sacha they could buy whatever they wanted because that day, everything was 75 percent off. Off they raced, buying whatever caught their eye. Martin smirked, “I don’t like wearing other people’s clothing.” I nodded to say I understood and darted to see what I could find. About an hour later, we met at the check-out counter. Chelsea and Sacha put their few things in my cart, and Martin sheepishly said, “I found some stuff too.” I was pleasantly surprised, “Put it in my cart, my treat.” When he put his discoveries in my cart, I turned around quickly, laughing, barely able to utter, “What the hell, Martin? You gotta be kidding me!” He wasn’t embarrassed nor apologetic; instead, he justified, “These are Ralph Lauren’s; you know how much these cost new, don’t you? And look, they seem brand new. Maybe the person died before wearing them?”

Several pairs of plaid boxer shorts went on to my cart. 

“You won’t wear someone’s second-hand sweater, but their underwear isn’t a problem?”

“Well, I am going to wash them of course.”

The French they say are complicated, and Martin was the poster boy that day.

(P.S. regarding the photo above- I bought the 19th century scarf and regret I didn't buy the outfit.

 

Tell the World