The Pants

I leave for Switzerland tomorrow for my yearly brush with death. As I was watching television report about the avalanche that annihilated a ski station in the alps last weekend, did I worry about the possibility of this happening in at my final destination? Did I think that perhaps I should be going a little earlier in the season so as to avoid all that heavy, spring snow?

Absolutely not.  All I kept thinking was, "oh my god, I wonder if my ski pants will fit?". Yep, not worried about dyin'...just worried about looking good when I do!

Every year I go to visit my friend Swiss friend, Vreni, at her house in the breathtaking, eastern Swiss Alp ski station, Arosa. We laugh, talk in a bizarre mixture of 2 languages, eat, drink, and kick a little ass on the slopes. Okay, she kicks, I nudge. And each year, I have to borrow or rent all my gear. Not just boots and skis but clothing as well.  I've gotten by, but I feel a little bad each year as I don her son's pants, her husbands socks and her gloves and goggles.  I've now collected my very own jacket, long underwear and socks so I'm getting there. But last year, I happened to be there at the end of the season when....yippee...sale season was going on, and I bought a pair of ski pants.

Now I must tell you the price for these pants. I have to tell you because it's shameful. Shameful that a stupid pair of pants should cost as much as my car! They were 589 Swiss francs. Which translates to $645. Did you throw up a little in your mouth? Of course,  I didn't pay that. I got them for 75% off. But, this is still double what I would normally pay...so...these things better fit! And if they don't, I'm not going! The Pants have been sitting in the corner for two weeks, labels still attached,  staring at me with their accusing, expensive, slim fitting eyes. And I've been afraid to try them on. Yes, I'm afraid of a pair of pants. Not an avalanche....A PAIR OF PANTS!

Tuesday I took the plunge with 3 days left to cancel my trip if The Pants and I didn't agree with each other. For 2 weeks we had danced around each other, looking each other up and down. And finally, it was I that backed down and with a prodigious, pessimistic sigh, I stepped out of my skirt for the battle.

Zip, clip, score! SCORE!

So just as the almond trees blossoms are busting out in all their springtime glory, I'm off to avalanche country. Me and my very best friend...The Pants.

   

 

Home Is Where the Tarte Is

Easter isn't exactly the same and not always easy when you live far away from your family. If I were in Minnesota, I probably would have spent Easter Day at my sister's house with my boys, my family and friends. I would have made baskets for the boys (one is never too old for an Easter basket), we would have eaten ham and cheesey potatoes and then sat around a groaned about how full we are. In fact, because of the miracles of skype, late Easter Sunday I was able to join my mom, my sister and her family and friends as they were sitting outside enjoying the brand new spring (however, it snowed there last night) as they were groaning about how full they were. It was wonderful to be able to share it like that. And I talked to the boys, who both spent Easter at their respective girlfriends' homes and both seemed content and well-fed.

But holidays away from family are a little easier these days. With time, one finds people who become family and though they don't replace those who you can't be with, they're a hell of a good substitute. My Easter weekend began Thursday when I picked Claire up from the train station and turned over her precious car keys. We drove down to the Camargue to spend a couple of days with her mom (and my friend) Saro. Going to Saro's is a bit like going home for me. Not only do I arrive to a warm and inviting home and a good friendship, but the Carmargue is one of those places that feels strangely familiar to me. Perhaps you know the feeling...like I've lived there before.

My "job" was to feed Saro's retired, 35 year old horse and Pedro, her adorable donkey... after being shown the ropes, of course.

We ate, laughed, drank, and when we finally left the house to do a little shopping in the village, which is right on the sea, winter-like weather kicked in. It became cold, rainy, and windy and our shopping venture into town produced not much more than a bone-chilling cold, sand in our teeth and an urgent need to get back to the house, put on our woolies, and turn the heat on.

Saturday afternoon, Claire and I returned to Aix where I made my tarte au citron for Sunday's lunch at my friend, Holly's. Okay, it's not my tarte au citron...the recipe came from Sharon over at My French Country Home and you really need to try it. It's a perfect blend of sweet and sour, so simple to make and always a hit.

Sunday, I boarded the early bus to my friend Brigitte's in Rogne, carrying my tarte and a bottle of Rosé. (For some reason, I always seem to be traveling by bus with baked goods!)  Since it was a beautiful day and the only really nice one of the weekend, Brigitte and I freed her 1967 Triumph from it's parking space in the garage....

took off the roof, and headed out to traverse the Luberon Valley to Holly's house in Peypin d'Aigues. I wish I'd taken more photos because it was a beautiful drive, through all the suprisingly busy villages (I assumed they'd all be shut down tight for the holiday) and the lush green of the countryside. I was really wishing I had an elegant headscarf and a giant pair of sunglasses however!

Holly made us a superb lunch of smoked salmon, gnocchi and salad. We drank our share of champagne and Rosé on the sunny terrace and finished off with the lemon tarte.

Afterwards, we did the normal, holiday thing. We moved from chair to chair in a well-fed, semi-stupor, groaning and complaining about how full we were, and finally decided to walk off our meal with a tour  of Holly's village. The tour of tiny Peypin d'aigue, a village of no more than 400 people, one bar and no other commerce whatsoever, took all of 7 1/2 minutes at which point we were back on the couches...groaning.

As I hiked home from the bus station Sunday night, my ever-present bag holding the empty tarte pan and a bottle of Sirop Châtaigne (chestnut syrup that is really good in a sparkling white) that I bought from Holly's next door neighbor (after I found him surveying the Triumph and complaining that somebody had parked that car like a Parisienne...taking up two spots) , I returned home to start my skype/ telephone Easter.

I had a fabulous easter weekend. No it wasn't with family...and come to think of it, the boys would have probably spent Easter with their girlfriends' families anyway, but I got to spend it with some of the family  I've created in my new home. How wonderful to have both.

 

Cuckoo’s Nest

I'm nesting again...my roost is considerably smaller than it used to be but I’m nesting nevertheless. Spring is doing it’s best to arrive. And each year, when it appears, so does some inherent, primitive genetic memory that drives me to these sorts of activities. And what are the two things one must do in the spring? The answer is obvious. On rainy days, the basement and the linen closets get cleaned. On nice days, the garden is prepared for the glories of summer. 

Last weekend it rained so I tackled the basement. This was an epic task at my home in Wisconsin. Mostly because I am a walking, living, breathing antonym to the word “neat”. And also because my basement was like many Midwestern basements...big. Cleaning my “basement” now, in my little 400-year-old apartment in France, involves lifting up the bamboo rug in my kitchen, removing the piece of plywood that is the “basement ceiling”, climbing into the 3x3x3 foot hole in the floor that constitutes my cellar and emptying it of several years worth of somebody elses's dried up paint, a few terra cotta pots and several moth eaten rugs. That’s it! C’est tout! All I really needed to do was find was a little space to stash a suitcase or two since I have no closets (thus there is no need to clean them). Mission accomplished in less than 1 hour. Whew, that was exhausting…this calls for a glass of wine and a little relaxation! 

As much as I love living in the heart of the city, it does have it's drawbacks, the most dire is the lack of green space. I'm accustomed to a yard. You know what I’m talking about! Big enough to handle a neighborhood touch football match or a game of fetch with the dog. And though I don't miss mowing or raking, I miss getting my hands dirty in the soil, the smell of worms after a rain, watching tiny shoots grow into a lush community of green, firing up the barbeque and the smell of the roasting meat, and lounging with a cup of coffee or glass of wine (this wine thing seems to be a pattern) and surveying my kingdom. 

My "kingdom" these days is a 9x9 terrace overlooking a terracotta-tinted canopy of rooftops, with chimney and TV antenna emergents scattered about. Not my former empire, but I've decided to establish rule nonetheless. So Saturday, with all my extra time after cleaning the basement, I went to the store and bought a few more pots, soil, plants and a big umbrella to protect me from the unrelenting summer sun. As has always been my habit when it comes to gardening, I went overboard. But really, how bad can that be aside from an unplanned dent in my wallet!

I spent the next day removing all the old wires and lines that crisscrossed my terrace, planting, rearranging, trying to follow the parasol assembly directions in French and generally having a wonderful time. And it took one, itty bitty portion of an afternoon. I can now sit on my terrace, wine in hand (oops….this may be a problem!)  and when the sun actually shines (it’s been a rotten spring), it releases the heady scent of jasmine, rosemary, thyme, lavender, basil and mint. In a few short months my tomatoes will be begging me to eat them.

The pièce de résistance is my little green barbeque grill. It’s kind of a useless thing actually. It doesn’t even have any ventilation (I have to provide that with my lungs) but I have managed to cook some kebabs and a couple of hamburgers. And it was cheap. But it’s the jewel in my “garden” and makes it feel like home. Last night, I lit some candles, put my feet up, and purred.

Now that everything’s ready, it’s time to have a party to celebrate all that is spring. It’s to be an American party complete with beer, Johnsonville Brats (yes, I actually found some), hamburgers, ketchup, potato salad and chips, with a little dip made with Velveeta cheese thrown in for true authenticity (my friend just received some in a package from the states). The guests will be both American and French but we all generally speak in French.  One American friend responded to the invitation by saying, “It’s an American BBQ…let’s make a rule that EVERYONE has to speak English, and let’s drink beers and enjoy watching them squirm with the language challenges for a change”!

That made me laugh but I know it won’t go that way. We will speak French and I’ll be the one squirming as usual. And if it rains, we won’t have the option of playing pool in the basement. But everyone can gather under the umbrella in shifts and watch me, the human bellows, try to keep the fire going! All in all, it sounds like a delightful evening and a worthy inauguration of spring, don’t you think? And I deserve it after all this strenuous work!

Bon Printemps!

Spring is Nature's way of saying "Let's Party"

I remember distinctly a moment when I was around 11 years old. May was moving into its second half and suddenly I realized the trees were sporting their fully grown leaves, the earth was soft and the grass was green....and I had missed the transition. We had gone from winter to nearly summer and I hadn't bothered to take notice. I hadn't taken the time to breath in the arrival of the scented air or notice the tiny, lime green leaves as they unfurled.  The memory is seared in my mind because I felt so sad. And I promised myself then that I would never forget to notice again.

Sunday afternoon I went to the park and I'm so glad I did. Because spring is coming....it really is. I didn't expect it so soon....but I have the proof.

For those of you still buried under snow, I apologize. I'm really not trying to rub in in. I just wanted to remind you to keep your eyes open. It won't be long now!

By the way, the title is Robin William's quote, not mine. I wish I'd said it first!