What Feeds the Fire

Two weeks ago I received an award. Actually I received the same award from 2 different bloggers! I’ve gotten awards before and though I really do appreciate them,  a long time ago I declared this an award-free blog. Because it’s kind of a “blogger thing” and I write primarily for people who aren’t.  But since I got 2 last week, I decided to (sort of) play just because it might be fun.

The awards came from Lee over at Traveling Sardine Class and Renee at Writingfeemail. Please check out both of their sites. Lee and I have been blog friends for quite some time. Renee and I are new friends and I so much enjoy being a part of their lives. Thank you Renee and Lee.

I was the proud recipient of the Blog On Fire Award. All this means is that other writers like my work and that could not make me more proud. After receiving the award, I’m supposed to write 7 things about myself that you might not know. Geez, my life has become a bit of an open book in the last year and a half so what would anyone want to know? This ain’t easy. But here goes.

1. From the time I was a young child until I was a teenager, I had a reoccurring dream that involved a very large wolf who walked on two legs and splendidly dressed in a green Robin Hood style outfit. I spent the dreams running away from him, up and down and throughout a grand cathedral.  He looked an awful lot like this fellow, except he was enormous, and mean, and not a cartoon. The weird thing is, this Disney film came out long after the dream started and when I was 4 I had never even seen a Cathedral…so what the heck does that mean?

2. I think snakes are evil…and I often have dreams about falling into a deep, dark pit of writhing serpents. No more about dreams. Somebody may be able to interpret them and then I might have to accept some very harsh facts about myself. By the way, I have good dreams too. I just can't remember them.

3. When I was younger I was sure I was going to be hit by a truck (yeah, I know...a truck?) by the time I was 25. This didn’t consume me…it was just “a fact”. But I made a bucket list of all the things I wanted to do before this tragic moment…and did almost all of them. Except parachuting and hang gliding (although I did make my first jump at 49). On my 26^th birthday, my friend Mary turned to me and said, "congratulations".  “For what?”  “You’re not dead!”  Oh, yeah…that’s right.

4. When I was 18, I quit college and went to work for a big game outfitter in northern British Columbia as a trail cook. I didn't know what a big game outfitter was...I just wanted to live in the Rockies (one of the things on that list). I was deposited in the middle of the mountains, with a horse,  a bunch of cowboys and hunters, and no electricity or running water. At my interview I had told the boss that I knew how to cook. Of course, I had no idea. NONE! I learned very quickly (because the cowboys were hungry) how to bake bread in a tin, fire-heated oven, stuff moose heart, how to kill and skin a rabbit…or an elk, and that I do NOT LIKE brains and eggs or rocky mountain oysters. I also learned to make do with one bath every 2 months and do the laundry in a giant tub of water from the river, heated over the stove.  Oh yes, and to always take a pitcher of water to the outhouse in the summer. Life is more pleasant if you pour it down the hole first so as to clear out the blowflies. A blowfly-bombarded bottom is really an icky thing. These are things everyone should know, don’t you think?

5. I used to be 50 pounds heavier. But I'm not ready to talk about that.

6. I did go back to college and earned a degree in television journalism. Not because I wanted to be a journalist, but because I’d been there so damned long and all the credits I had already taken fit into the degree. I worked as a television reporter for a couple years. Until (among other things) I just could no longer stand sticking a camera in the faces of people in the midst of tragedy and ask them the stupid question, “how do you feel right now?” And writing to a 5^th grade level. And other assorted nonsense. But it was great training. For what, I don't know, but still... great training.

7. When I grow up I want to write a book…and be a singer. I can’t sing, but oh, wouldn’t it just feel so good to belt one out once in awhile? I might be able to write. But I just don’t know how to start the book. 

Now that I've filled you in on some of the inane details of my life, I'm supposed to pass this on to other bloggers. Which I'm not going to do (remember I said I was sort of playing). Not because I'm lazy, but because I can't pick. All the bloggers on my blogroll are there because like 'em.  As far as I'm concerned, they're all "on fire" and I hope that you will take the time to check them out. Yep...over there to the right....under "Places I snoop regularly".

Here's to a great week everyone!  

HTML Headaches

I've been meaning to write a blog. I really have had it on my list for days. And I will. I promise myself... I will. But right now I've got one hell of a headache.

I'm not kidding.....this is killing me!

I've been working on an awesome new project that I can't talk about just yet...but once again it's put me back into the world of websites and html code...a place I do not belong and a language I have no business even attempting. We already know my problems with French! But I shall persevere. I AM WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR and all that. This is not going to beat me...it's not going to beat me....its not going.....

Okay, it's beaten me for today. But as Scarlett says, "Tomorrow's another day."

But before tomorrow comes, I am going to take 3 ibuprofen with a nice, chilled rosé chaser...and don't call me in the morning. I mean it! Something tells me you'd be sorry.

Dog Days??

It's August! How did that happen? And August, in France, is the month for vacation. As I've mentioned before, this is really NOT the month to try to head to the beach. And so I don't. But in my world, August means it's time for my mini-vacation as well. I don't go far...actually just a few blocks up the hill. My end-of-summer vacation (this is my 3rd year) involves relocating myself to "the mansion".

I house-sit for an lovely, older couple who head up to Brittany every year for a month or two. I believe this big, old house is 17th century with a remodeling done in the 18th century (but don't quote me on that). And I don't have the whole house, just a lovely little apartment at the top, with my very own...turret. My job is to keep the house looking lived in, harvest and eat the grapes and plums, and take care of the garden.

This year is the best year ever because Madame got me an internet key so it's not necessary to plod back to my apartment in town every day to do my work. Now, Arthur and I are settled into our new digs for the next month or two. We are happy campers...and I LOVE this kind of camping!

Our first night, Arthur couldn't sleep. He just didn't know what to do about all...those...delicious.... insects. In the morning, he went cat-batty when he heard mourning doves and numerous other birds as they welcomed us to our vacation home. We have neither of these things in town. Yesterday, I let him outside. The poor puss. He's a city cat. His tender paws have touched nothing but my terra cotta floors and the clay roof tiles of Aix en Provence. He gingerly explored this new thing called....dirt......and found himself a lovely perch on the old gate of the villa. He sharpened his claws on a real tree. He dutifully chased away all the neighbor cats as has now transformed himself into a bourgeois, summer-home-living, feline prince.


As the princess, I think it is my duty to show you around the old dump. It's a very simple apartment, but at the same time it's luminous, comfortable (aside from the mattress which could possibly also be 17th century), cool, and tranquil.

My teeny kitchen is charming. It has no less than I need...but certainly not more. My knives are going to have to make the trip up here.

I love the old cloth on the table, it's wounds and tears disguised by patches from another fabric.

The living room, with it's old....everything (aside from my speakers sitting on the table), just makes me feel all cozy.

The morning sun pours in the guest room...yeppers...I've got TWO bedrooms!

My bedroom is big and bright and I love laying on that bed and reading...aside from that little back problem the mattress is causing.

The view from my princess turret looks like this in the morning

And when you look down from that window, you'll find my stone-surrounded, private terrace.

My writing desk in my bedroom... just an oh-so-perfect spot. And sitting here, I just couldn't resist the urge to share my little vacation house with you.

It's not the Ritz, it's not high design. But there's something about it's relaxed antiquity that makes me feel at home. And by the way, Arthur has his own special feature. Long ago, in who knows what century, some other cat owner cut a little hole in the bathroom door so cat princes could access their boxes as well. Isn't that just nifty? 

I hope everyone is having a wonderful vacation..however large or small it may be.

The Boogey Man

My apartment here in Aix is really adorable and absolutely perfect for me...aside from some of the noises that emanate from the other apartments. 

My 638 square feet of personal space is cute....the entrance to my space is not. Like so many other other old buildings here in the central town, the entrance is horrible. Ugly...dirty...unpainted...scary.  I still remember this phenomenon being one of my first impressions here in Aix. And an ugly entrance is not a good first impression!

I don't know who is supposed to take care of it . Often there is a sydicat who is paid collectively by the owners each month to clean, change lightbulbs, repair anything that's broken and the like. We must not have one. I mean, how many years should one have to look at this on the way up to one's apartment?

When the lightbulbs burn out and nobody replaces them,  entering or leaving is like falling into a deep, dark pit of....I don't know....snakes? I always warn my visitors that they must pass through hell before they can arrive in heaven.

I'm not afraid here. It's a secure building and a safe neighborhood. I've never been afraid....until a couple of nights ago. I descended the stairs, struggling with two large bags of garbage that I set just outside the doorway each night for pickup. I made my way through the section of dark hallway, arrived at the door, set down my bags, opened the heavy port......and stopped short. My stomach dropped to my toes.


Just outside the door, backed up against the wall and clearly hiding, stood a motionless man... obviously waiting for someone to exit. It was apparent that he wasn't very clever because I could see the tips of his shoes.

Still, a stupid criminal is a dangerous criminal!  I stood still, scared to death and quickly weighed my options. I finally decided to exit fast and swinging, so I picked up those heavy bags again, flew out the door ready to smash the SOB's face with old wine bottles and vegetable peelings. I turned to face my would be attacker, bags flailing... and stopped short. After the brief moment it took to collect myself...I burst out laughing...at myself.

Before me...my dangerous, would-be attacker....turned out to be...in fact....

a pair of shoes, set in the proper spot for garbage pick-up. And very neatly set, I might add.

Royalty's Revenge

Yesterday was Bastille Day here in France. They don't call it Bastille Day. The call it quatorze julliet or La Fete Nationale. Nonetheless, the day would be similar to our 4th of July in the United States. It celebrates the storming of the Bastille and the ensuing overthrow of the monarchy. Okay, it was sort of a hijacked and botched attempt at democracy...but every country has to start somewhere! France still had to get through Napoleon a couple of times and another king or two. Nonetheless, it's a big deal and all over the country the day is celebrated with military parades, awesome fireworks displays and cultural events.

I've been to our fireworks event here in Aix before and it is superb. It's held at the Rotunde, the big fountain at the center of the city.  This magnificent display is coordinated with some morsel of inspiring classical music and the most awesome thing is, it's not performed in a stadium, seemingly miles away. Or an athletic field....or across the river. It's right in front of you... over you...smack dab in the middle of the city. No lawyers are waiting in the wings to sign up the injured. No police officers are barring entry any closer than 3 miles from the display.

Last year I attended the military parade in the afternoon. It was fun...interesting....and one military parade is usually enough for me, so I chose not to go this year.

But I'm not going to miss the fireworks. No siree! And...and....and...I read that there was to be a ball afterwards. At the Rotunde. Well just how cool is that? Especially considering that when I was home in May, my darling person-who-birthed-me-whom-I-promised-to-never-mention-in-a-blog-again gave me...yes folks...my life just keeps getting better every day...my very own......TIARA. Complete with pink feathers. She knows how much I've been missing one...mostly because I mention its absence every year on my birthday. And she knew how happy it would make me. And it DID! And now, it would be a perfect accessory for a Ball.

So last night, I donned my tiara, and everything pink to match, and my friend Tenley and I went to the fireworks. Amazingly we found a table at the outdoor cafe just next to the Rotunde. Amazingly, we got a drink. We watched the fountain as it was lit up for the pre-fireworks show and listened to the accompanying music (when we could actually hear it over the ghastly techno music that was playing at the cafe. Why didn't they turn it off?) We wondered just how dark it had to be before our real entertainment would begin. I marveled at how the crowd was just "not what it used to be"(makes me feel so settled to be able to say something like that). Eventually we got up to move closer and we were able to walk in right next to ...I mean within touching distance... of the fountain. We were just so....AMAZED.

Ditto for when the gentleman walking around the Rotunde informed us that, no...of course there would be no fireworks tonight. Because of the mistral. Our lovely mistral wind that had so kindly cooled down our city! We moaned, we groaned. Tenley protested, "but I've spent the entire evening hanging out with a woman wearing a pink, fuzzy crown!"

French shrug. "What can you do about the mistral?"

So there we were. All dressed up with no place to go.

We wandered down the Cours Mirabeau, teeming with people enjoying the cool, clear, night. We eventually found The Ball. It was a 12 piece band set up on a grand stage at the head of the Cours. They were performing disco...which I didn't even like when disco was king.  Some people were...LINE DANCING! There was not one single prince in sight and I was decidedly overdressed.

We listened for awhile because the band was good but eventually agreed to leave the ball before midnight. I did not want my precious crown to go poof! At least not before my next birthday.

Still it was a beautiful night with a just waning moon. And it was so nice to be out. And a little promenade while wearing a crown can never be a bad thing. Well, unless it's after the July 14, 1789 and your name is Louis XIV or Marie Antoinette.

Perhaps it's bad form to celebrate the demise of royalty with a crown. Perhaps that is why we never got our fireworks. Some sort of cosmic intervention. Frankly, I don't care. Marie Antoinette never said this...but I will....

Let them eat cake!

Conditioning Myself

I just returned from 10 days in Royan, France,  a seaside resort on the Atlantic coast....where the weather was good and the livin' was easy. By good weather I mean warm, sunny days and and cool nights with a delightful breeze (okay...often a wind). Actually, the nights were cold and we were obliged to wear jeans and sweaters after 5 or 6 pm. At first I wasn't so sure I liked all that chilliness. I happen to be one of those people that revels in sunshine and heat, given there was so little of it growing up in Minnesota.

As Brigitte and I drove the 7 1/2 hours back home to Aix on Friday, I watched the temperature on the car thermometer escalate and with each additional degree, I thought how nice it would be to be back home…in the south.

And yes, it is good to be back home... but I’m missing the cooler weather just a wee bit. It's only July and  we're only just dipping our toes into the caldron that should be at full boil in a few more weeks, but I still had to immediately flip back into summer in the city mode. Lifestyle accommodations seem to be essential in order to battle the heat here. Especially in the city where it is at least 5 degrees hotter than it is in the country.

The afternoon sieste was a tough thing to get used to at first. I mean who, besides young children take an afternoon nap? There are things that need to get done! My resistance to the idea was squashed my first summer here. As was my reluctance to close the shutters against the afternoon heat and live in afternoon darkness. I learned quickly that both are really matters of efficiency. Morning and evening are the times when things will have to get accomplished (which is why I'm writing at night). Unless one can find an air-conditioned store (and believe me they are not all temperature controlled) to do a little shopping therapy.

I’m also taking direction from my cat who seems to have shed 2 seasons worth of fur in every corner of the apartment while I was away. So after I climb all the stairs to get up to my apartment, my clothing is shed into a little pile at the top, to be picked up and put back on later when the sun has decided to be kinder. Luckily, I live in a completely private apartment. The guy across the street, who practices the same personal temperature control, does not.  Three cold showers per day seem to help as well (with the heat...not with the issue with the guy across the street) and if my hair is always wet, it’s like personal air conditioning.

I do have an air conditioner of sorts. On my terrace, I have a little door. The terrace, which is walled and private, is nice and warm in the winter and spring because it's so protected. In the summer it's an oven.  

But when I open that rickety little portal,  I get one kick ass breeze that flows across the terrace and into my bedroom.  It’s cheap to run but does eliminate that privacy thing a bit. What clever person thought of that?

Mid-afternoon yesterday as I was laying on my bed, soaking wet, naked, and trying to take advantage of the terrace breeze, I paged through the advertising flyers that had built up in my mailbox while I was gone. One caught my eye because it was advertising great prices on air conditioners…and I was just a tiny bit tempted. The last page nearly made up my mind for me. 

The sign says that says installation is included. If I should decide to buy one, do you supposed this lovely morsel (who obviously has no air conditioner of his own) would install it ...say...Friday night? Man, what a country!

Cherry, cherry

For a summer that seemed a little bleak, things have been shaping up quite nicely. I had zero plans coming back to France after my trip to the states. But I haven't seemed to stop since I got home. I spent last weekend in the Camargue with my friends and what seems to be my new family. I spent time at the beach and attended my first Course Carmagaise (a bullfight...more like bullplay, native to the Camargue, which does not involve killing the bull or hurting him in any way, although I do think he's got to be traumatized by the whole thing).

Tuesday night I went to my friend Lynn's for dinner. As usual, I was asked to bring dessert. I'm always happy to do this because I can't make desserts simply for myself and expect to stay away from them. But I see so many great recipes from fellow bloggers that I am dying to try and my friends know it.

 It's cherry time here and I just can't stop eating them. Numerous varieties which I never understand, but the venders always know which is the best fruit for my purposes. I saw this recipe on Sharon's site over at My French Country Home.  Yes, again. Sharon's going to be the death of me, I swear!  But this recipe, Cherry Clafoutis, is typically French and this was my opportunity.

As I said,  I love cherries. I just don't like anything...ANYTHING...made with them. Not ice cream, not yogurt, and especially not cherry pie. So I made this recipe with low expectations. In spite of the fact that is was just "good" for me, my French friends loved it, said it was honestly the best Clafoutis they've ever eaten and asked for the recipe. So if you like cherry stuff...try this. (by the way, when she says corn flour she means corn starch...oh yes, and don't bother pitting them...just warn people ahead of time)

So anticipating ONE MORE TIME boarding a bus with baked goods, I stopped at the culinary store. I asked the vender if he one of thoses boxes made to carry les tartes. He said, "you mean one of those round, plastic boxes with a handle?"

"Yes, yes...exactly!"

"Madame, this is a German idea...or perhaps American."

"What do you mean?"

"This is not in the spirit of the French. We make cakes....we eat cakes...but we DO NOT carry them around."

"Really?"

"No madame, when we are asked to dinner....we take flowers."

Well, I guess I've been told! You have to understand that this guy is a comedian and all the old ladies hang out at his store just to laugh with him. But still...I've been told!

And I don't care one single bit. Sharon and all the rest of you, keep bringing on those recipes. They rock! And I will continue to board buses with my cakes wrapped in Glad Press n Seal, squished at the bottom of my ever-present bag...

I'm off to Malta for the weekend. Have a great one whatever you are doing.