23 February 2023
22 February 2023
Bugnes During Lent
Grabbing the plastic bag I had prepared the night before, I left early in the morning for my friend Annie's house. (Annie is my friend who is 89, though she says she is 90 because she is closer to 90 than 89.) Annie told me to come early and what to bring to make Bugnes. Bugnes, like oreillettes, are similar to beignets or dough-nuts, though without yeast or self-rising agents... other than eggs.
Annie is an excellent cook, as Sacha has reminded me many times over, "...People Annie's age know how to cook. Honestly, mom, they can take a plain head of lettuce, put it on a plate, and it tastes like a million bucks." After a conversation like that, I always feel reassured about my cooking skills. Once, he went on and on about how Annie's "green beans" were the best he had ever had. I asked him if they were so different from the ones I made. But before he could answer, I said, "...shhhhhh, forget about it; I don't want to know."
I put the plastic bag full of flour, sugar, eggs, and oil on Annie's table. She had her apron on and handed me one. Annie placed a big bowl on the table, opened the flour sack, pouring half of it into the mixing bowl. Quickly her hands moved at lightning speed as she whipped the other ingredients into the bowl.
Clearing my throat, I said, "Annie, Annie remember I want to LEARN how to make Bugnes. Can you tell me your recipe first?" She pointed, then wiggled her floured finger toward the kitchen drawer, "There! Over there... yes, that drawer, see it?"
Looking through her stack of neatly printed scratch pieces of paper, I found it.
- 500 grams of flour
- a Pinch of salt
- Two soup spoons of sugar
- Two soup spoons of rum
- Two eggs
- 100 ml of oil (and a bottle of oil for deep frying.)
- 50 ml of milk
Glancing at the list of ingredients and looking at what she was mixing in the bowl, I said, "Annie, it says here, Two soup spoons of sugar..." but before I could finish my sentence, she added, "Yes, I know, but my way is better."
Annie knew the recipe by heart... had twink-ed it by heart too, and knew it well. I grabbed a pen and started to scribble down what she was doing:
- Pour half a bag of flour into a large bowl
- a teaspoon of salt
- stir with a fork to blend.
- In a pan, melt 50 grams of butter, and add 100 ml of fresh cream, do not boil; melt slowly.
- Take it off the burner, add two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and pour it over the pan; if another spoonful is worth running over the spoon, that is okay too.
- Stir until creamy.
- Add two, or three, or four soup spoons of COGNAC (at this point, I said, "Hey Annie, that isn't Rum, it's Cognac. I thought at the bakery they used Orange blossom water?" Annie didn't even bat an eye. She kept at her task. She said between spoonfuls, "Orange water is cheaper than alcohol. That is why the bakery uses it. Cognac has better flavor than rum."
- Lick the spoon before putting it into the sink.
- Crack the two eggs into the flour. Stir it, then add the butter/cream sugar mixture into the bowl.
- Mix with a spoon and eventually use your hand to combine.
- Knead the mixture until it bounces back with elasticity.
- Form it into a ball.
- Let it set for two hours.
I kneaded the dough. While it was rising, she talked about what it was like living in France during WWII. I love her stories about her past. Two hours later, the dough was double in size.
Annie handed me an empty wine bottle. "Inventive rolling pin, isn't it?"
I rolled out the dough, as thin as paper.
Annie used to be a hatmaker with a good eye for detail. She sliced the rolled-out dough into a perfect rectangle. Then Annie cut long strips down the rectangle, two inches wide. She then cut each ribbon into diamond-like shapes and slit each diamond shape down the middle. (Why, oh why didn't I take my camera, it would have been so easy to show you instead of trying to describe it!) Then she tucked the top of the diamond into the slit and pulled it through.
Annie made four to my one. Then she stopped and said, "Okay, you need to learn; go ahead and do the rest." She watched me with an eagle eye. Letting me pretend I could do it as well as she did. Though after making several of them, I did get the swing of it.
We deep-fried the Bugnes (they fry quickly, several seconds on each side.) Then we let them drain on a paper towel and sprinkled powdered sugar.
Photos: Bugnes: A French classic during February. In memory of Annie I post this every year.
21 February 2023
Nature’s Frame
Green feast
iron heart
ivy growing abundantly
framing the door
as if to say,
»Looky here, take a photo of me! »
20 February 2023
Italy and the Journey
It has been a week since I came to Italy to help my friend Laurie (whom I met through blogging) navigate creating a pied-à-terre. My friend and her cousins bought a property divided into three apartments in the center of an old village between Rome and Naples. Though the apartment has been renovated, several changes and decisions exist mainly due to personal taste.
We walked through the four sunlit rooms and decided what each room should be:
Kitchen, bedroom, dining room, living room.
We made a checklist of things that needed to be done.
We looked at tiles, paint colors, and appliances.
We imagined the flow of those four rooms.
We talked to the team that will do the work.
We talked about the budget.
Currently, there are no photos to share or the village's name.
Though one day, when things are more settled, I will share.
The joy it is to dream up and create, the stress brought on by managing elements that go with the process, and the challenge of doing this in a foreign country.
No, I do not speak Italian, but my head is full of sounds not native to my inner voice.
Pasta has been on my plate more than once.
We drove to Naples with her cousin at the wheel. Beyond insane imagination and with Google map encouraging us, we drove through narrow streets. I prefer to call canyons and roads or riverbeds flowing with people who didn't blink an eye at our big car stuffed with five people. Laurie's cousin John drove down those impossible and most likely illegal city streets, saying, "I'm not comfortable." Meanwhile, I was amused by it in the back middle seat with the perfect unbelievable view of the road less traveled; by car.
...
We will return in Autumn, maybe sooner, to make the space a home.
19 February 2023
Italy
A few more days in Italy. So much more to say when time permits and the wifi works faster.
18 February 2023
Old Town
How many hilltop villages does it take before I stop gasping at the sight of them? How many villages have I said I could live here? How many empty old homes are there in the French and Italian countryside?
The dream is to breath life back into these places. To be able to wind them up like a music box and watch daily life return. Farmers, shopkeepers, cafes, cats in the windows, bicycles leaning against the wall, lace curtains billowing over a pot of red geraniums.
Instead my imagination toys with the possibility and admires the soul the still reaches out.
17 February 2023
A Child Knows What is Best?
Last week I was at the Park with this Cupcake. Was it cold? Yes! Why isn’t she wearing gloves? Well, if you have ever tried to put gloves on a child you know why.
16 February 2023
What Better Way to Visit a New Place
Italy -
In a tucked away place, far from the maddening crowd, down a long narrow road, snugged in the homeland of a friend’s family who has asked me to come to be a sounding board as she creates a vacation home, or as she calls it,
“A womb.”
The small town has opened its arms as if we have been friends for a thousand years. My friend Laurie has a way with people, a key to their hearts, or more so, a ribbon from hers to theirs, and I am included, which is such an extraordinary gift. Absolutely, Laurie never meets a stranger. I want to be more like her generous, open-hearted, and kind. Isn't it easy to walk alongside someone who shows you the sunshine throughout the day?
15 February 2023
An Early Evening Walk
The few trees that remain on the path by our home create a crown for the sun.
14 February 2023
The Book of Love - What is Your Love Language?
The word tablespoon is worn off my Mother's measuring spoons; this is another indicator of how much my Mother cooks. This love language of hers is shared homemade generosity and measured in heaps.
The tattered loved-worn cookbook is filled with tried and true recipes stuffed with sweet mementos, marriage announcements, prayer cards, thank-you notes, Valentine's poems that she penned to my Father, and newspaper clippings of this or that about the family. The cookbook diary and the recipes of our lives are mixed in between the pages that whip up memories of what we have done in the days and years past and what we dined on throughout our lives.
Opening the cookbook, I can smell the aroma of childhood birthday cakes and fried chicken picnics by the creek; I can see the hand that turned sorrow into joy and taste the events that have marked our days. We have the ingredients to make a feast with our lives and the choice to substitute spice for that which is bitter. I grew up on second-helpings of home cooking, believing every bite was good.
Photo: My Mother's 1950s cookbook.
13 February 2023
What Colors Do You Like to Wear?
Stepping back from wearing black was a challenge. Black is comfortable, it goes with any moment, dress up, dress to blend in, or disappear in the crowd. My wardrobe was 95 percent black. Nearly a year ago, I put my black-colored clothing aside. Thanks to Laurie-Annya Linfoot, who encouraged me, I dared to step out of my comfort zone and splash on color. Just to be clear, grey and navy are not black. I am not diving into the box of Crayola crayons, but orange and green are taking the lead in my wardrobe.
What color do you like to wear?
12 February 2023
Do They Listen? Do They Have Fun?
Sacha, Yann, and Fabrice (Sacha’s childhood friend) went skiing in Vars. Before they left, I, with a bit of anxiety, “Stay on course, please. No off-trail skiing, okay.” Yeah, that fell on deaf ears. (Photo by one of them - Sacha in his old purple and gold ski clothes, a nod to Willows honker.
11 February 2023
The Real Parisienne
The authentic Parisienne influencer.
Beret, scarf, espresso, sitting at a cafe at 2 pm,
those iconic chairs, table water and bistro glass, black coin purse on a bistro marble-top table with brass edging,
wrapped sugar cube, newspaper placed to the side,
not a pre-posed photo opt, genuine daily life.
The real deal, and maybe her name is Lucille.
10 February 2023
An Impromptu Photo-Opt
Close to our apartment in Paris is the small charming Place Flora Tristan. I was walking past it when a bright red Deudeuche (Citroën 2 CV) drove up and illegally parked. I was never so pleased about an illegally parked car because I knew that the red-door bakery facade was behind me; the driver left the engine running, which meant she wasn’t going to be long if I could quickly get to the opposite side of the Deudeuche, a sweet photo was waiting for me.
If ever I wanted to be wearing a black and white polka-dotted dress, green pumps, a straw hat, and carrying a massive bouquet of daisies, this would have been the day. Or maybe wearing jeans, a long-sleeved navy striped tee-shirt with a beret, I would have jumped into the photo.
09 February 2023
Heartfelt
May it never be emptied.
May it have room for more.
08 February 2023
❤️
Bringing love.
Giving love.
Responding with love.
Being love.
Learning the language of love.
Putting love in first.
If only that were true with my every action and word.
07 February 2023
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.
06 February 2023
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.
05 February 2023
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. »
04 February 2023
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!
03 February 2023
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.
02 February 2023
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.
01 February 2023
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.
31 January 2023
30 January 2023
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.
28 January 2023
Winter Seat
"Art is never finished, only abandoned."
Leonardo de Vinci
27 January 2023
What are You Doing this Weekend?
Happy Weekend.
XXX
26 January 2023
25 January 2023
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.
24 January 2023
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.
23 January 2023
22 January 2023
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-
Please take a peek at my online site:
Merci Beaucoup,
Christine Dickinson
21 January 2023
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
20 January 2023
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...
19 January 2023
Together
Let us share what we have,
Let us trustingly lean into each other.
We are one into the other
intertwined.
18 January 2023
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.
17 January 2023
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.
16 January 2023
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?
15 January 2023
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.
14 January 2023
13 January 2023
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?
12 January 2023
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.
11 January 2023
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.
10 January 2023
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?
09 January 2023
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
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."
(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.
08 January 2023
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?
07 January 2023
Moments Before
moments before
the last rays
flickering through the bare branches
caressing the fallen leaves
creating shadows
twilight’s theatre
until tomorrow
06 January 2023
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?
05 January 2023
04 January 2023
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.
This blog belongs to Corey Amaro. All personal writing and photography on French la Vie are copyright ©2005-2023 by Corey Amaro unless otherwise indicated. Material may not be duplicated, published, or re-written without permission.
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French La Vie started in 2005. I have the "Brocante Bug," which means antiquing is my cure; France can do me no wrong when it comes to treatment ° 35 years living in France with my French Husband, whom I met while dancing in San Francisco ° Two children, now in their early thirties, amour et joie ° Come join our journey either vicariously through my blog or on a French La Vie Week Retreat in Provence °