The President's coming

Not the soon to be lame duck, the other one, the French one. He's coming to Laval this evening. How do I know? By keeping myself well-informed? Yeah, right. Reading the newspaper? Nope, can't find a good one. Watching the news? Nope, my television is dead. Seriously. So broken it's officially dead. I'm thrilled. The boys are beyond despondent. News on the internet? Nope, I use my computer time for much more frivolous things.

I know because mon quartier est bouclé. My neighborhood is nearly sealed off and it's overrun with stern looking CRS guys.

Don't ask me what he's doing here, I have no idea (see above paragraph).

I'll tell you tomorrow if I hear about it in a café. That's my real method of staying informed.

Temperance

There have been suggestions - recommendations that I need to cultivate some of that.

Like rising up out of the pit was before it, it's on my list of things to do.

These days, however, I'm cooking. Pastry cream for chocolate eclairs and mischief meringues and lemon buttermilk sorbet and chocolate sorbet and peaches with balsamic vinegar for rare duck breast.

La temperance will follow, washed down with champagne.

Seriously, don't people have better things to do?

So, I'm in Nantes. Briefly. For 24 hours. Mostly to drop Boy1 off at his grandparents' house. And also to buy a few things at Ikea for the redone kitchen (a bar stool, a basket and a thing I have no name for), for my bed (a surmatelas, whatever that is because it's firm which I love but it's still lacking give, which I don't), and for the office (a wheeled multi-drawer thing to put the printer on and a chair cushion because the chair is this weird weave thing that hurts the back of my thighs if I'm not dressed. Yes, gasp, I occasionally blog in my panties. Go ahead, friends and family, try to get that image out of your head.) And a mirror for the bathroom. And a small table for the phone in the dining room to replace the wrought iron thing I've been using that really belongs outside with plants on it. And that's it. I didn't get anything that wasn't on my list. And as everyone knows, that's a big deal at Ikea.

But what I don't get is why half of France was at the Nantes Ikea this afternoon. It's summer. It wasn't raining. It was a nice, sunny day, if slightly chilly for August. There was no sale, there was no reason. And yet, it was packed. It was a nightmare. Everyone with their yellow bags and their pushycart things. Except for me. I had a blue Ikea bag that I bought (60 cents) the last time I went to Ikea. WHICH SOMEONE STOLE FROM ME TODAY. Can you imagine? Can you imagine shopping at Ikea, picking out furniture or a new kitchen or whatever and actually being lame enough to steal a 60 cent bag?

I assure you, I'm not upset about the bag. I was over it as soon as I realized it had been stolen. Because really, I have a lot of big bags and the Ikea one is actually too big and I just put the mirror and the cushion in the basket and all the other stuff came in those flat boxes (some assembly required). So they actually did me a favor, getting rid of that useless bag for me.

L'état de l'attente

Waiting. The waiting state. As opposed to the desperate longing state. Maybe a bridge to a state of grace. We'll see.

I can't do yoga. I haven't really been able to do yoga for 2 weeks. I did something to my left wrist, funked it up a little, ignored it and did yoga anyway for a week. Bad idea. It moved beyond funky into not really utilisable. Which sucks because yoga's become something I love doing. So I'm forced to wait.

Oddly, or interestingly, enough, that's not the only thing I'm forced to wait for these days.

If I were a highly evolved person, I'd see the wisdom in all this waiting. I'd see the gift of clarity in all this limbo. Like Julie, I'd see that events and timing and plans are much more gracefully laid out when I'm not operating under the illusion that I'm the one eventing and timing and planning what will be my new world. I'd see that having to wait makes you take responsibility for what you get. That it makes sure you've got your eyes wide open so you see what you get when you get it. So you don't wake up in the middle of it and wonder where it came from.

How do you wait?

The plot thickens. Or thins. Or something like that.

Remember Mary Kleyweg? Remember all the posts I've written about her?

Well. Here's another.

Dear Witness Protection Management People,

Are you aware that Mary's apparently alive and back in Seattle and part of a writer's group? (That's just so Mary, isn't it?) Did you make sure all the bad guys were locked up or whatever before you let her resume her real identity?

Or is this all just an elaborate test to see if people are still interested?

Oh dear, I'm not being very discreet about all of this, am I?

Google her name and see for yourselves.

See? This is what happens to people who don't finish their therapy. They blog indiscreetly about things.

Yours truly,

Nicole

Hey Mary, if you ever google your own name and stumble upon this - I hope you're well. You were cool. I'm sure you still are. The next ladybug/rainbow/four leaf clover I see will be for you.

On getting what you ask for

A few months ago during a hard week on a very hard day, I asked for some flowers. I was walking down the street and I asked, out loud, for some flowers. I wasn't talking to anyone, although to passers-by I must have looked like I was talking to myself. Anyway, I asked not for a little johnny-jump-up (although I love those) or a tea rose or cornflower on my path along my day. I asked for a huge on purpose bouquet of flowers, kind of like I might have asked for a rainbow from time to time. A huge bouquet of flowers out of nowhere to let me know that I would make it through that hard day during that hard week.

The day wore on, no deliveries to my door, no florists phoning me up to get directions to my house. At 10:30 that night, I checked my email. And I had one email with an attached file. It was a beautiful painting of a vase full of ranunculuses (ranunculi?) from a very unexpected source. I got my huge bouquet of flowers.

Last week, on an odd day during a very odd week, I asked for something else. A good luck something else. I was walking to lunch and I asked for a good luck something or other. A 4 leaf clover or a ladybug or unicorn or something like that. I haven't found a 4 leaf clover in over a decade and I never see ladybugs here. People who don't live in the city center tell me they have them but I haven't ever seen a ladybug in Laval. Of course, that evening, in my bathroom on the linen bag that I keep girl stuff in, I saw a ladybug. We chatted for a minute and then I brought her outside to the rosebush covered with aphids.

I don't even want to know

It's been an odd week.

First, there's been the whole no kid thing. Then there's been the whole restaurant thing. I swear, I've eaten at my house maybe twice this week. Well, aside from breakfast, which I always have at my house. Mostly white peaches because they're in season and they're amazing. 3 or so, peeled and sliced. Eaten with a coffee with a spoonful of ganache because white peaches prefer mochas to lattes. Who knew? Anyway, I keep running (gently) into various people I haven't seen in a while and they keep saying, 'Hey, let's have lunch/dinner,' and I follow.

Then there's the whole kitchen thing. A friend, and a new friend, and some friends of theirs are at my house right now, being whimsical fairy like and overwhelmingly generous and transforming my very sad kitchen into something bright and cheerful. I'm not even allowed to return home until 4:30 because apparently all that iridescent fairy magic would blind me - kind of like the eclipse - you can't look directly at it and all that.

And then there's the odd piece of advice from the oddest source. I informed someone of some recent changes in my life. Someone actually said, 'Nicole, keep a stiff upper lip.' Really, what else does one do with an upper lip?

And then there's the whole sweet thing. The universe is being very, very sweet to me this week. Not that it's usually mean but you know, sometimes lessons are given with shoves or pushes or elbows in the ribs. This week? Not at all. Starting with the mechanic and ending with the most hilarious scheduling comedy of errors (but not really, apparently) I've ever encountered, I've been taught things, brought around to truths with the gentleness of butterfly kisses and cool whispers.

Why? I don't know.

Also the way to do it

a.k.a. forces at work

Apparently I wasn't meant to go to Vannes this weekend.

That's right. No chocolats, no macarons. Which both seem ridiculous when you sit them next to the fact that I didn't get to see the boys and haven't seen them in 9 days. And won't for another 3. A weekend completely devoid of sweetness. Good thing I drank vats of champagne friday evening - I must have been cosmically aware that my sorrows would need to be glazed over. That said, the champagne would've been better saturday night because really, hangovers don't glaze much of anything.

Anyway.

It was 11 a.m. saturday morning. I had just left Laval and was headed for the highway. Then a weird red light (weird because I had never seen that light before) came on in my car. It wasn't for fuel levels or oil even. Just this really menacing red light. I pulled off and turned down a small, dusty country road. I turned on my hazards and popped the hood and tried to imagine what I could do with anything under that hood. Aside from check the oil, not much, it turns out. About 30 seconds later, a car drives by. The car stops, a young man gets out and says, "Ma'am, do you need some help?" I explain about the menacing red light and the mysterious universe under the hood. He goes back to his car and gets a BIG tool box. I ask him if he knows anything about cars. He says he's a mechanic. He does some stuff under the hood and then calls an auto supply shop and asks if they have a part and they do and then he drives me to get the part, which cost me 15€. Then we go back to the car and he changes the part (the temperature guage or something like that which indicates to the ventilator thing when the motor is too hot and it needs to turn on or something like that) and he says 'Have a nice day, Ma'am,' and goes on his way.

Despite the fact that it was fixed I still couldn't go, it had gotten way overheated. So I went back home and felt hungover and sorry for myself (those go REALLY well together).

I'm better now.

Off and running

First stop - the chateau for an evening of wine and Americans, both of which I will enjoy.

Second stop - Vannes for the weekend to see the boys, who are away for two weeks (!!). While I am there I will most definitely toss my wishes into the sea (gulf actually) for safe keeping, and I will also buy some chocolats and macarons at Guerlais et Chartier (25, place des Lices in Vannes) because they're honestly some of the best I've ever had. But I won't buy very many because...I'm reasonable? No, they're just expensive. When you walk into the shop, you feel like you're walking into a very posh jewelry store - it's got that hushed and precious feeling to it. And actually, the chocolates and macarons are displayed like jewels. And for a moment, while you're eating them, you think they are jewels. The macaron au caramel au beurre salé tastes like melted gold should taste. And the dark chocolate with mint ganache tastes like a chocolate-covered liquid diamond would taste. Oh and the coulis de framboise like a mouthful of puréed rubies.

I'll stop here.

The way to do it

I'm back at the chateau for a few days.

I had a project today - help my friend clean out and organize her dressing room, which was kind of a mess.

I decided the best way to handle it was to take everything out and go through it before putting back the selected items. But that's not really the important part. The most important part was having the right tools. Boxes? Bags? No. Nothing like that. It was coffee and then alcohol and then sugar. So the morning's efforts were sustained by coffees, the afternoons's by a trip to the French version of Goodwill where I found two beautiful chairs for 20€, the evening's by many glasses of champagne, and the late evening's by a big bowl of the sorbets I made for the occasion -chocolate and coconut - becaue one is just not enough.

Cleaning should always be this fun.

How I know I'm in my 30's

I don't go bar hopping. I go chateau hopping.

Yesterday I went to dinner at one chateau and slept at another. Both with four turrets.

I also drank cognac. It wasn't the first time but it had been a long time and I had forgotten how much it tastes like what I've always imagined caramel colored lighter fluid would taste like.

My ideas about cognac may have something to do with why I don't have my very own chateau.

When dogs don't make cats

When you have kids, you hope for the best, obviously. You hope they'll inherit your good traits, physical or otherwise, certainly none of your bad ones.

Never in a million years would I have wanted for Boy1 to be as hypersensitive as me. And I never would've wished for Boy2 to be as literal as me. I was just kind of hoping they'd both get good grades in school and like math.

But, as the saying goes, les chiens ne font pas les chats.

On the upside, they both like math. Their favorite 'game' to play is math flash cards.

I cannot imagine what kind of mother would convince her kids that math flash cards were a game.

Or that playing that game in said mother's favorite café every morning is a normal school vacation activity.

Prise de la Bastille et ma prise de tête

It's a holiday weekend here. Today's Bastille Day. I'll be going to a party at a chateau this evening and I won't have to cook any food all day. Life's interesting that way sometimes.

My brain-searing headache is back, which is why I've been posting so little. But I'm planning on giving my headache the silent treatment, hopefully that'll do the trick. Why the headache? The jaw. No, not from talking too much. Probably from not talking enough. Or not about the right things. Or something like that.

Let them make cake

Don't ask me what happened last week, I'm not really sure. It was the last week of school for the boys and I had a lot of work hours (I've got another Quality guy - and you know what that means) and chocolate covered toffee to make for 10 (teachers and assistants) at the boys' school and I don't even remember what else.

So, to celebrate the start of summer vacation and as part of our mini 4th of July party (just me and the boys and a batch of fried chicken [homemade]), the boys each baked and decorated a cake. And, as usual, the were totally moderate when it came to the decorations. I made chocolate frosting, which the applied liberally. Then they wanted to color something so I made a batch of buttercream frosting and they colored it and piped it on. And then, of course, sprinkling things was absolutely necessary. So they sprinkled.


And topped it all off with a strawberry.

Actually, when you think about it, everything should be topped off with a strawberry.

Out of control

Today was the braderie in Laval. It's like a big sidewalk sale, shops bring out stuff they haven't been able to sell since 1994 and try to talk someone into thinking it's a bargin. I saw some clothes that, if you'd just buy them now and wait 20 years, would look fabulous as vintage pieces. But for now they just look very early 90's. Anyway, I didn't have the boys this morning so I was out on the streets looking for the rare find at 8:30. What I really wanted was clothes or shoes. What I was determined not to buy was kitchen equipment. What I ended up buying was kitchen equipment.

A pretty red ceramic fluted tart pan to replace the one I broke last week. Funny story. I was doing too many things at once. Boy1 was in the kitchen doing his homework so I was listening to him read. Boy2 and I were playing catch, he was in the hall that leads to the kitchen. I was making swedish meatballs (so fluffy!) and had just baked an apple and salted butter caramel tart. I took the tart out of the oven and put it on one of the gas burners. Which should've been off because I'd finished making the caramel 5 minutes before. But wasn't because when I took the caramel off the burner to add the butter and the cream, I forgot to turn it off. So, five minutes later I heard a crack and smelled burning and discovered I had ruined a beautiful tart and broken a tart pan.

A chocolate fondue set. Yes, I already have a full fondue set but it's way too big to use for chocolate unless I'm cooking for 8. This one is just perfect. It's red and has a little stainless steel candle holder thing and has matching picks. So I think all the chocolate bases have been covered.

For dessert tonight we had nectarines and pears and miniature butter cookies to dip into our all-spice chocolate fondue.

The only one in the house not happy about this purchase is the tablecloth.

What the....?

So, I was walking home from my favorite café a couple of days ago and this is what I saw.

First, a horse and buggy. Being driven (does one drive a horse and buggy?) down a small street a couple of blocks from mine by a very salt of the earth looking 70ish year old man. Not far from where I saw the nun coming out of the bar.

Two minutes later, a beautifully restored 68 VW Bettle, driven by a nun of indeterminate age. Like most nuns.

Two minutes later and now just a block from my house, a big black Hummer. Driven by a young, show-offy Italian (his look screamed Italy and his license plates confirmed it).

He bumped into 2 side view mirrors on his way down the street.

I'm not sure what any of that means, but I'm certain it's significant.

What's in your database?

Yesterday I spent the day teaching English to some people who work for a large company in the north of the department. In a town I'd never been to, never even heard of actually. I got the information on the class about a week ago, over the phone, but just the basics, names of the participants, levels, what they wanted to work on and where the company is located.

But all week long I haven't been able to remember the name of that town. In your native language you have a whole ocean of possible names of places. Like if I told you my grandmothers lived in Raeford and Astoria or that one of Beth's grandmother's lived in Rockford, these names would sound perfectly reasonable to you, even if you'd never heard of them before.

But in a foreign language, there's nothing for names to hook on to. Nothing that sounds kind of similar or that you heard someone mention 15 years ago.

So I spent the week calling that town, Gorron, everything that starts with G and ends with N. Goulon, Goudon, Goudron, Gordon, Gobon. The third one means blacktop or tar, which would be an unfortunate name for a town.

Now that I've been to Gorron, population 3000, and seen (only the outside) its bright pink tatoo shop, I'll never make that mistake again.

My new toy

Is a whipper. Or a siphon or whatever you call it.

You know, one of these things. Because you can never have too much nice kitchen equipment.

So far, I've only used it to make eggless chocolate mousse (basically just whole cream, cocoa, melted chocolate and sugar) and strawberry yogurt cream (whole cream, whole plain yogurt [I used sheep], strawberry purée and sugar).

It's all very fluffy and sweet and pretty. The chocolate mousse tastes very good on coffee. And fruit. And my index finger when I go to the fridge 'supposedly' to get something else, like water. The strawberry cream tastes good on those things too, except for the coffee, although I think it probably would. I just haven't tried it there.

I can apparently also make fruit espumas and avocado mousses and foie gras foams. If I can get beyond the chocolate mousse stage. Which is looking doubtful at this point.

Between the chocolate sorbet and the ganache and now the mousse, chocolate has become something of a theme lately. Wonder what that means?

Crise de foi? Or crise de foie?

On things predictable

Prévisible. Predictable. Although I kind of like the French word better - things which can be pre-seen as opposed to pre-said.

I was sitting in the dining room looking out the window and I saw a very large truck driving down my street. You know, my street, my little one way street that has parking spots on both sides running along the sidewalk, my little street that a fool driving a Hummer would have a very hard time getting down, my little street that ends at another even littler street that runs perpendicular to mine and is cobblestone. And the truck? It was one of the those big huge trucks 18 wheels or something like that.

So as I watched the truck drive down I thought, "I should really go out there and tell him to back up now, he'll never make it around the obligatory corner at the end of the street." But it was morning and I was lazy and I thought he'd probably dismiss me with a "I know what I'm doing lady," kind of thing so I just stayed put. And waited. And as pre-seen, a few minutes later, I heard the beep-beep-beep announcing his return, tail end first.

Question for the day: what is the difference between pre-seen and pre-said?

In your eyes

Un oeil, des yeux, un regard, un coup d'oeil. An eye, eyes, a look, a glance. Do not ask me why the plural of eye looks nothing like the singular, I have no idea. Some linguistic quirk that, no doubt, took root in logic a long time ago but is so far from home that now it just looks quirky.

I witnessed an interesting conversation about those things recently. A group of people talking about reading people and reading their eyes and things to be seen there. Boy2, as we know, keeps good things in his. Boy1, I would say, has a whole world in his. That group of people said a few things about mine but I think they were drunk on the nice weather.

So here's the question for the day: when we look in your eyes, what do we see?

In mine? Blue-green and some yellow flecks. That's it.