Really back home

We got back to Laval yesterday. And it's very nice to be home. In our home. Although I could use a friend like Lorraine to help me get it back (was it ever really?) in order.

August is always a strange month for me. It's summer, I know, but I'm all about fall and winter so I just sort of muddle through these hot months. And honestly, the new year starts for me in September, not January. Too many years of school, I suppose.

It's strange and not to be back here after being over there. And it was strange and not being over there after being over here. For ten years.

Like all of us, I am a stranger and not both here and there.

Honey, I'm home

Well, we're back.

And I drugged up on the flight back so I didn't even need to use a 'motion discomfort' bag.

I found a wallet on the first flight, big and fat and full of cash and cards and I of course gave it immediately to a flight attendant and hoped that the poor soul who left it would have the time to realize he had lost it before getting on another plane.

I didn't find much on the other flight, including sleep.

For future reference

A list of things not to do on vacation.

Throw up on the plane. (Me)

Get strep throat. (Husband)

Give strep throat to sister-in-law. (Husband again)

Get an ear infection. (Boy1)

Pick at cuticle on thumb until pussiness and swelling and pain take over. (Boy2)

Gain 6 pounds. (Me again)

Something's wrong

This tale also begins in France. One Christmas while visiting, my mother became ill. She had bronchitis and some other itis. I took her to see our family doctor. She paid 21 Euros for the office visit and 15 Euros for the prescribed medications - antibiotics and various symptom-relieving potions.

Now, a similar tale in Missouri.

Husband has come down with strep throat. (I know. Don't ask. I don't want to talk about it.)

We waited 2 hours this morning at a walk-in clinic. We were seen by a charming Nurse Practitioner, who confirmed the strep (but nicely suggested we decline the $40 strep test) and prescribed meds. We were charged $150 for the office visit with said practitioning person. And we paid $27 for the meds at Walmart.

Like I said.

Mes bijoux

I had a dream last night. I was living in a time where it was necessary to sew my family jewels into the fabric of my cloak while crossing into a foreign land. When I arrived at my destination, alone and weary, I took comfort in the fact that I had my jewels to help me start again. When I ripped the seams, I found only stones. River stones.

I had carried those jewels so far and they had felt so heavy, but worth their weight. You can imagine my deception.

So here's my question: Which river stone have you been carrying around convinced it was a diamond?

Nothing to say

No, really.

Several things are preventing me from blogging more. Change in routine, this ridiculous keyboard problem, and just generally not having anything interesting to say.

I usually live in a second language but right now I'm mostly living in my first language. So the blog title isn't inspiring me either.

I could talk about how great it is to see everyone. My family, of course, who brush off my antics and seem to love me anyway. My friends, some of whom I haven't seen for years and years but who still really seem like friends. And this place. This place where I grew up that is happiness and sadness and indifference all at once.

But all of that is obvious.

Too much of a good thing

This tale begins in France.


Just a few days before we left, we were invited to to a birthday lunch at a nice spot along the river. The food was traditional French and should've, could've been lovely. A nice cured duck breast salad to start, followed by duck confit and roasted potatoes. But the chef went absolutely crazy - and I'm not exaggerating - with the fresh herbs. S/he snipped and sprinkled them everywhere. On the plate rim, on the salad, on the duck, on the potatoes, on the camembert that followed. It was, as my niece would say, random. And while I consider fresh herbs to almost always be a plus, this was way over the top.

And sadly, so am I apparently. I've been banned from all drug and health food stores until we get back to France. Husband finds my kid-in-a-candy-shop frenzied shopping sprees in those places scary.

So here's my question: when are you over the top?

Several things.

1. The title box isn't working.

2. Flying sucks. In every possible way. It's an inhuman way to travel but everyone around me pretended like it wasn't. The 'motion discomfort' bags I filled tell another truth.

3. The Amercian keyboard is a more logical system. No one should have to shift to type a period. But my fingers have now completely forgotten said system. So it's taken me 20 minutes to type these few lines.

4. My country and friends and family have managed to go on living without me. Which is as it should be.

5. I feel like a foreigner here too. The short in coffee shops has become child's size and the tall is the new short. Has anything escaped supersizing?

Who woudda thought?

A.k.a. more allergy news.

I looked at two back (and favorite) special issues of Martha with a pad of pink mini post-its in my hand.

Each time I found a recipe without eggs in it, I put a post it on the edge of page.

Voilà! Lots of pink.

I now have 15 eggless Martha cookie recipes.

Things are looking up.

And I'll be blogging from the fine state of Illinois tomorrow.

Adjusting to the egg allergy

Boy1 has been very good about dealing with the new allergy information.

I made crêpes the day after we found out. Not because I'm cruel but because I had made the batter before I knew. I was just going to let him have one last crêpe. But he said, "That's ok, I'll just have bread with nutella instead." How go-with-the-flow is that?

So tonight, at bedtime, he told me we should buy a kitty. I said no, because 3 out of the 4 of us are allergic to cats.

He smiled sadly and said, "Oh. Kitties have eggs in them too?"

You've got to be kidding me.

No, seriously.

We went to see the allergy doctor today. Just a check-up for Boy1 and me. We are both allergic to some pollens. And I wanted her to check on a few things for Boy2. It's hay fever season here and he's had a stuffy nose for a few weeks.

Well, the good news is that he isn't allergic to any pollens. The bad news is that he's allergic to dust mites, which is going to put a very big cramp in my housework style. But hey, that's life.

The other bad news is much more cramp inducing. He's allergic to EGGS. Why oh why oh why would the son of someone who loves to make meringues and crème brûlée be allergic to eggs?

So now you can all look forward to disgusting recipes with nasty egg substitute.

Bon frickin' appétit.

Voluntary Damnation

aka - I like Martha Stewart.

I really do. Maybe not her personally since I don't know her. But I like her magazines a lot. And her recipes. Thanks to Martha, I always save the leftover olive bread and chorizo baguette from fondue to use for croutons. And I never arrive at a dinner party without a delicious hostess gift to offer.

Anyway.

It was the Boys' school fair yesterday. They danced and sang and played games and won rinky-dink prizes and ate too much sugar. It was as it should be. I'm a pta member so I was supposed to have helped with a lot of things but I didn't have time for anything but work last week so I didn't do anything. To make up for it, I spend 8 hours in the kitchen on saturday making cookies. I made Martha's Outrageous Chocolate Cookies, Lemon Bars, Chocolate Meringues, and Chocolate Drizzled Spice Cookies.

They were all wonderful, as is usually the case with Martha's recipes. Although the meringues were not crispy enough - it was really humid on saturday and I should have left them in the oven longer. But that's not Martha's fault.

Anyway. Everyone loved the cookies. People tend to love the things I make in general. Not because they're amazing, but because they're different from what most people here make. A dozen people came up to me yesterday to gush about the lemon bars. "Just perfect." "Sublime." "Not too sweet and not too sour." "A se damner!" Which I'm translating as 'worth voluntary damnation'.

I'm thinking no lemon bar, even mine and Martha's is worth a trip to hell so next time I'll go heavy on the lemon or light on the sugar.

I'll post the recipes only if you take full responsibility for the souls of those you make them for.

Spooning

My computer life is falling apart. I haven't been responding to emails. Posting has been infrequent. I've started blogging about the metaphysical splits. Hmm.

Anyway. Gina's tagged me so I'm going to have to make up some interesting things to post tomorrow.

In the meantime.

The boys and I went to a farm to pick raspberries today. Pounds and pounds of them. Because they're so delicious. This weekend I'm going to make that chcolate crème brulée recipe again but with some raspberries mixed in.

For dessert tonight, we all, well, except Husband who has a serious mental block when it comes to eating fresh fruit (don't ask), ate a big bowl of raspberries with brown sugar and cream. When Boy1 had finished the berries, he picked the bowl up and started to drink the sugared cream. I said, "We don't drink cream."

He said, picking up his spoon, "Fine. I'll spoon it."

What do you say to that?

North Lost

I just read a book in French this week. Which I almost never do because it's just not as much fun. I read to escape and escaping has to happen in English in my version of the universe.

But this book was different. It was written by a Canadian woman, Nancy Houston, who's been living in France for the past 25 years.

The book is about being a foreigner and living in a second langauge. She doesn't call it that, but that's what it comes down to. She talks about losing the north, thus the title, Nord perdu.

The north being our eternal point of reference. But I guess I don't really think of the north as a place so much as a pull. Which explains why sometimes I feel like I'm doing the metaphysical splits over the Atlantic Ocean.

So here's my question: what's your north?

Oh come on.

Seriously people. I post about a Mary search and I get 2 comments?

I'm hurt.

No, really.

Well, well, well.

And you all laughed at me.

You remember Mary Kleyweg. The now-famous disappeared therapist.

Well.

I stumbled upon something interesting amongst the sitemeter's statistics. A referral page. And upon said referral page was a search someone had done.

ON MARY KLEYWEG.

If you do a google search for Mary Kleyweg, a link to my blog comes up.

Said person clicked on the link and stayed on my blog for a while. And read lots pages.

Do you think it was Mary? Or perhaps another former "client" of Mary's doing a yearly check like I do?

Hmm.

Said person, if you're Mary, hi! I wish we could've said goodbye at least. Don't you think I've turned out ok and really sane sounding? If you're in Witness Protection, I totally get the disappearing thing and I hope they've got you set up with a nice life.

If you're not Mary, and she disappeared while you were under her care as well, know that you are not alone. We are siblings in the land of Marylessness.

Counting the hours

I got an offer for a huge promotion at one of my jobs this week. HUGE. It's a management position, I'd be in charge of all the teachers and administative nightmares. It's a full-time real job thingy.

I came home and told Husband about it. We both sighed. Because it would be great. He knows how much I'd like to things other than teach all the time. And of course the extra cash would be very welcome. And of course we both know I can't accept it. So we sighed again.

We said, in chorus, "On ne peut pas être deux à ne pas compter les heures."

Indeed. Both of us can't not count the hours. Of work. Not with kids. I know some people do but it's just not our thing. When he was a student, Husband worked in the day camps where kids go here when no one is home. And he doesn't want our kids there. And neither do I.

I see the kids who spend 10-11 hours a day at school. I see the little ones cry when it's Mama time at 4:30 and they've got two more hours to go before their Mama time. And when we invite one of the bigger ones over for lunch during the week, they're so grateful it makes my teeth hurt.

A friend who works in Human Resources at my other job suggested I ask for the sky, just for the heck of it. Which I'm planning on doing. 2 months off in the summer without pay (what's not to like there?), 50% of all other school vacations off (with pay) and the possibility of working from home for the other 50%.

I did try to milk the whole situation, mentioning to my other manager that I had been offered a big deal promotion. Scare her a little. Let her know I'm big promotion material.

What? I am. I'm just big promotion material on a school year schedule.

Oh yeah. Did I mention I need to finish everyday at 4:15 so I can pick the boys up from school?

I know, I know, they'd be lucky to have me.

I'm limping.

I turned on the radio this morning while driving and I heard the tail-end of an interview. The last sentence out of the interviewee's mouth were 'les béquilles de mon âme" - the crutches of my soul. Crutches as in things used to walk when leg is broken.

Soul crutches. Hmm.

I think mine used to be chocolate and coffee. And we know what has happened to those. The chocolate is done and the coffee is down to one a day which, let's face it, is so not doing the job.

So I think all the snot rivers and complaining and funking have all really just been an outward symptom of my inner crutchlessness.

Time to find a new crutch.

Any suggestions?

Let me introduce myself.

That's me, as seen by Boy1. It was one of my Mother's Day gifts. Which was yesterday here.

Along with the portrait, Boy1 made me a beautiful card with a letter inside. These were all school projects. The letter was written (therefore) in French, but I've provided a translation.

Mama,

Thank you for preparing my favorite food. Mama, when I cry and say I don't love you, it's not true. Mama, please don't talk to me for too long, thank you. Mama, you're beautiful with your brown hair and you are nice. Happy Mother's Day.


Of course I cried.

More bitchin'

It's a phase I'm in. Deal with it.

Boy1 has bronchitis and hay fever. Boy2 has bronchitis and an ear infection and probably hay fever. I have a new river of snot/cold/cough thing and hay fever.

Boy2 and I walked past a man recently. He was smoking. As we past each other, Boy2 said, "Actually, that man smells just like Papa." I had fun telling Husband that story.

Yes, I have a 3 1/2 year old who says 'actually' and 'as a matter of fact' several times a day. It's disturbing.