French la Vie

The Ace of Hearts

 

While standing at a rush hour street corner in Paris waiting for the light to turn green,  bicyclists ignored traffic signs, screeching mopeds played Russian roulette, and the coming and going of people with busy lives taking refuge with their headphones and sirens creating nervous tension; I could not be distracted.

Here and now is all I have. This moment. This minuscule larger-than-life moment. This fleeting sensation of life swirling and cement under my worn shoes. The stark winter trees against a brilliant blue sky. The homeless, the garbage truck, the graffiti, and Olivia in her stroller, soft skin and little finger pointing to the pigeons on the ground.

At that moment, a curtain pulled back to a stage of peace. There of all places, an ah-ha moment found me. Seconds later, the light turned green for me to join the movement.

The Ever Changing Light

Last night the sunset was spectacular. I was walking alongside the Tuileries Garden when this came to view. A surprise. I walked faster to catch the photo I wanted: The obelisk, the lion, and the Eiffel Tower at the place de la Concorde. Hundreds of people had the same idea. Squeezing past them, I walked out onto the street and stood on a roadblock; that is what a short person does when they want to see something. In the last photo, I could not capture the pink and lavender sky. The sky was as delicious as cotton candy, wrapped in sweet and delicate ribbons.

Place de la Concorde, Paris, This Evening

Walking around Paris this evening I was definitely one of the oldest. Funny, how realizations come to a person. It wasn’t as if I was thinking about age, or doing a survey on grey haired people, it seems life tapped me on the shoulder and grinned,

«Do you see what I see? »

« Yeah, and I feel good. »

 

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Five

Gosh that sounds significant.

So thankful to have my family surrounding me

happily

&

healthy.

Long may it last this greatest joy!

A Date with a Soccer Player

We spent the day together, just him and me.

We frolicked in the cold outside. Looking at birds in the trees, playing in the sandbox at the park, pretending to be dogs and cows, never kicking a ball, and then late in the afternoon sitting at the counter having hot chocolate at the nearby cafe.

 

Gabriel wore his soccer outfit with peach-colored leggings underneath with pink and yellow sneakers. Mix and match, with a pastel scarf tied around his neck and a grey stocking hat, pulled over his eyes. I don't know how he could see. Chelsea wasn't feeling well this day, so I think he dressed himself as a darling ragamuffin.

 

 

We went to the cafe to have a drink and waited for his dad to pick him up. Gabriel was timid to sit at the counter, I thought about putting him on my lap, but I was nervous about the hot chocolate spilling, so I stood by him instead. The melted chocolate was served in a cup, and a silver creamer had hot foamed milk to add. Gabriel did it himself and never spilled a drop. What charm.

When his dad arrived, we went to say our goodbyes. I bent down on my knees to hug Gabriel; seeing he was sad, I asked what the matter was. He said, holding back tears, "I love you and don't want you to go." He buried his head into my neck, and we held close.

And there, in the pathway to the cafe, with people coming and going, we shared a hug that lasted an eternity. I closed my eyes and soaked every bit of it in. 

 

 

Winter Views Around Paris

 

Winter views 

At the entrance of Luxembourg jardin.

 

 

One of many empty chairs at the park.

 

 

A street in Paris as I walk across the city to Chelsea’s place.

Our apartment is about five miles away. 
The metro takes about thirty minutes. 
A taxi ride about the same amount of time, and to walk it takes over an hour.

 

Place de la Concorde

 

 

 

 

« The Pont Neuf is the oldest standing bridge across the river Seine in Paris, France. It stands by the western point of the Île de la Cité, the island in the middle of the river that was, between 250 and 225 BC, the birthplace of Paris, then known as Lutetia and, during the medieval period, the heart of the city. »

 

 

Looking back over the Seine river towards the Sorbonne.

 

By the Bibliothèque Nationale de France - Richelieu

A smidgen of the Louvre’s facade.

 

From the top of the Ferris wheel.

 

Sunset over the Seine.

Red or Blue?

This randomly popped up on Facebook. 

The red pill is fascinating if I could go back in time, be aware that I am back in time, and the same people are in my life. But one choice leads to another, and having knowledge or awareness at six would certainly, bring me to another point. So, I suppose it is a question of happiness, and or if one would want to change their life, or have more time to hang out on earth.

And then there is 10 million dollars. Not shabby.

 

 

Rocking Out to the Wildest Evening Desiring Sleep

Some people are just rude.

Their rudeness cannot be overshadowed even when you are kind to them.

Maybe they do not seem rude to their friends, but most likely, their friends are rude too. Perhaps not one hundred percent rude, but any negative quality can stain the clearest of water.

The other night in Paris, the neighbor upstairs was away, and her son and his friends (who I had never met before) were having a party. The music was loud. Yann and I are known to be able to sleep anywhere and put up with a lot of muck before we crack. Last night was an actual test of our patience. At three in the morning, Yann knocked on their door to ask them to turn off the music. He was so polite. I thought that was why I married him. He keeps his cool; he isn't a macho man.

They obliged for fifteen minutes.

At four in the morning, Yann again knocked on their door, telling them loudly to turn off their music. This was the third time since I had known Yann that I heard him talk madly at someone. They couldn’t grasp the problem… why were we bothered,

«… it was Saturday night; I guess it makes it alright….»

At six in the morning, my thoughts were growing dark, like how this morning I was going to crank up polka music or play "some more of that funky music" … something that would have them begging us to stop; of course, we would leave our apartment for the day. But, Yann rationalized, « Corey, playing their game doesn’t make you better. » I gruntingly agreed,

«What! You mean I can’t get no satisfaction... »

As they were playing a hip version of "I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I will stay alive!”  I felt like dancing. Sometimes, well often, I wonder if I am dreaming because I have the weirdest thoughts. And more bizarre, the song " Only shooting stars break the mold" started playing in my head. How could I be thinking of dancing? Instead, We knocked on their door again… it didn’t change anything; it made it worse. They changed their style of music and blasted it to the beat of Acid Rock. Maybe, it was because I said,

« What part of turning your music off do you not understand? Are you stupid or drugged? »

Yes, I was mad. You might say I became a badass after a night of not dancing.

The beat goes on. It was ten in the morning; they started back up around one in the afternoon. Gabriel was having lunch with us and said, "Oh, Vavie, look, the chandelier is moving!" 

"Now, that is what I call a dance party!"

What would you have done?

I wanted to call the police, but my husband, wouldn't hear of it. I think he grew deaf overnight.

Today, Oh, how I wanted to knock on their door and sing at the top of my lungs, out of key, not on purpose,

"Don't you know I'm still standin' better than I ever did?
Lookin' like a true survivor, feelin' like a little kid
And I'm still standin' after all this time..."

 

 

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.