Tragedy Strikes Southern France

It is hard to explain how tragic this moment is.

This was my last jar. 

 Although I didn't actually lick it clean...I did use a rubber spatula to capture every last  bit.

I haven't been able to throw away the carcass. 

I'm still clinging to memories. 

(and there is a tiny bit of peanut butter still clinging to the jar!)

Perhaps it's time to move on?!?

Let's get serious

My mom skyped me yesterday (skype now being a verb in the same way that google has now become a verb) and the first thing she said to me is, “Where have you been?”

“What do you mean where have I been? Since I got back from Switzerland a week and a half ago, I’ve been here, Mom.”

“No, I mean you’ve been silent”.

“I have not. I talked to you several times last week.”

“But you haven’t written your blog. It’s like you’ve dropped off the face of the earth.”

I smiled to myself because I thought it was funny that my mom looks forward to reading my blog when she can simply talk to me any time she wants. And I put forward a few lame excuses like “I’ve just been so busy”, or “it’s been so beautiful here I haven’t wanted to spend my days indoors”.

But in fact, I finally had to admit that in light of all the horrible things going on in the world today, the little details of my life seemed  just…so….little. Inane, trivial, trifling…insignificant ( I know I’ve got a thesaurus on this computer…I’m sure I can find more adjectives!). I’ve written pages in my head as well as in my pocket notebook that is with me at every moment. But the words have remained lodged in gray matter or between two laminated cardboard covers where I felt they belonged.

While in Switzerland I heard (tardily) the news from Japan. I read a little about it but we didn’t have a television and, of course, I couldn’t understand Swiss-German commentary on the radio or read the newspapers. And I happily went on with my pleasures.

When I returned, however, I began watching the news. Incessantly. French, American and British troops begin their strikes in Libya. The Japanese people, devastated from their losses after the earthquake and tsunami and the entire world in danger from the nuclear power plant disaster. Syrians being murdered in the street because of their basic human need for freedom. And I have continued to stare at the television like a rubber-necker at a traffic accident.

My first year here in France, I was blissfully unaware of the goings-on in the world. I had no television and, of course, I couldn’t read the newspapers. I slept like a baby….for the first time in years. I haven’t slept so well in recent weeks. Don’t get me wrong, I am not, by nature, a worrier  (I have my friend Mary to do that for me). I have been blessed with an innate sense of optimism that I’m eternally thankful for.  But I’m beginning to think that The News is a sort of insidious culprit that plots to steal my sense of well-being.

My youngest son is a news hound. He reads 5 or 6 newspapers daily. He is so much fun to talk to. He knows about everything…technology, music, world events, history, art…and has very strong and fascinating opinions.  I always find myself wishing I were as well informed as he is. I would be so much more…interesting.

But at the same time, he often appears stressed. Sometimes when we’re discussing a political point or an environmental issue, he seems as if he’s fallen into a hole…despondent and without hope. I have actually said to him, “honey, you really need to stop reading so many newspapers”.

The question is, how does one establish some sort of equilibrium? What is my responsibility as a citizen of the world and what is my responsibility to myself and my personal psyche?

Bombs will continue to be dropped, innocents will go on suffering,  and we will persist in degrading our environment, whether I know about it immediately or not.  On the other hand, if all the world keeps its eyes open (including me), freedom might possibly be gained by hundreds of thousands of hopefuls in the middle-east and elsewhere, we might persist in finding a way for the suffering to nourish and heal themselves, and if we pay attention…really pay attention…we could find a way to exist on this planet without insisting that we destroy it in the process.

I don’t know what the answer is but as of today, as an experiment, I’m going on a mini-greve. The TV is off this morning. It’s going to stay off. My new strike from the news is going to mean I probably won’t be able to participate in meaty conversations about the current status of nuclear reactor #4, the question of where Gaddafi really is, why some dumb-ass French minister referred to the situation in Libya as a “crusade” (please, monsieur, think about the connotations of the word crusade for the Arab world), or the fascinating life of Elizabeth Taylor. It’s not that I don’t care about these things (this excludes the fascinating life of Elizabeth Taylor). And it’s not that I don’t have more than a little guilt about trying to surround myself with pretty flowers and soaring cherubs.

But for now, it’s going to have to be this way. And I will get back to writing my blog. While talking to my mom about this, she reminded me that in a world of bad news, there’s nothing wrong with a little humor. A break from the constant barrage of negative information that pummels us moment by moment is not necessarily a negation of the trials in the lives of others.  Light moments are essential when the weight of the world is slowing our steps and threatening to stop us in our tracks.

So I guess I’ll just continue doing what I do. As small and unimportant as it may be. And screw The News for the next….few weeks. Of course, just this moment, my New York Times headlines update came up on my email...and what did I do? Okay...I'm working on it. It will be interesting to see how I sleep in the next few weeks.

And it would also be interesting to know how you balance the weight of the world with your need for personal peace. Tell me.

La vie est dure!

I've gotta say, this skiing-in-the-Swiss-Alps thing is really a pain. It involves all sorts of difficult daily routines beginning with an hour and a half of skiing and then...breakfast and champagne on the terrace.

Where I am continually subjected to this view.

After breakfast, there's a little of this on the other terrace

I MUST sleep here...if not, I have to stare at this scene.

After a little repose, it's back to the slopes.

We do ski. Really. Here is proof. These are my feet. In ski boots.

Of course, I'm sitting in a snowbank here and there are no skiis attached to my boots. But really...we do ski!

But not without a few breaks to rest our weary...well, whatever happens to be weary at the moment.

Like here

And here...okay, same place, different day.

And then, we need to nourish ourselves. A little extra-charged cafe and pastry...

Maybe a brief moment to take in a high protein snack..... and a bottle of wine...

Then of course, late afternoon schnapps...like I've never seen schapps!

After a hard day of skiing there are numerous local medicines to kill the pain.

And then after all this strenuous activity, it's back to the house to change out of those oh, so sweaty clothes...and read a little.

Like I said, this is all really a big pain!

Cheese Louise...I'm off to Switzerland!

Tomorrow I leave for Switzerland for a two week ski vacation in the Alps. Man I love saying that! I think I'll say it again. Tomorrow I leave for Switzerland for a two week ski vacation in the Alps!!! Actually, I had the opportunity to say the same thing last year around this time, and tomorrow I'll be returning to visit my friend Vreni.


I will probably only actually ski four or five days...lift tickets are pricey. And if this week's "Power Pilates" class was any indication of my current physical condition, I'm in for deep doo-doo on the slopes. But I have several books in my suitcase and I know a great hotel in Arosa with heated, outdoor seating and giant fur blankets to cover my inert body. Après-ski can be enjoyed with or without actually skiing!


In celebration of my expedition to Switzerland, I'm going to share a couple of simple cheese recipes. Fondue, raclette and other alpine cheese meals are specialties of the northern regions of France and, of course, Switzerland. We're well past heavy cheese season here in Aix en Provence but there are mountains of snow in Arosa and I'll get to enjoy mountain cheeses until my pants pop.


The first is so simple. In fact, it's not even a recipe at all. It's merely a way to serve a wonderful, stinky, soft, cow's milk cheese called Vacherin Mont d'Or. This cheese is sold in a round spruce box and the packaging is said to give it some of it's flavor. It has an edible crust which is what makes it look so wonderful after it has been baked. And don't be afraid of the white fur that may be growing on the top...ashes, mold, fur, whatever...these are good things when it comes to cheese here in France.

Baked Mont d'Or

Take the cheese out of the fridge at least an hour before cooking it but leave it in its box. Some say you should wrap the box in tinfoil to prevent leaking. I forgot to do this and had no trouble with drips.  Dig a little hole in or score the top rind and, if you'd like, poke a couple cloves of garlic down into the cheese. Pour about 1/4 Cup (50 ml) of white Savoie wine over the top of the cheese, and pop it in the oven at 425 F (220 C). Bake it for about 20 minutes.

Serve this right in the box. Spoon it over small boiled potatoes or with thinly sliced meats. Traditionally it's also eaten with little cornichons and tiny, pickled onions. You can also treat it as a fondue and dip chunks of nice, crusty bread directly into this box of melted wonderful.

The second recipe is for tartiflette. This delectable dish uses ripe, Reblochon cheese, which is another northern cheese made from the milk of 3 different breeds of cow.

Tartiflette

You need:
     1 ripe Reblochon cheese (buy the good stuff with the fermier green
        stamp on top.
     4 pounds of potatoes (2 kilos)
     1/2 pound (200 grams) chopped bacon or lardons
     2 chopped onions
     8 oz. cream (250 ml)
     1/4 Cup Savoie white wine (200 ml)
     salt and pepper

Slice the potatoes after boiling them until they're just firm. (I don't peel them) Place them in a greased gratin dish. Saute the bacon and onions in a bit of oil over medium heat until golden. Add the wine and let this simmer until the wine is evaporated. Add the cream and salt and pepper to taste.


Mix the onion and bacon mixture with the potatoes. Be gentle.


Scrape the crust of the cheese wheel lightly with a fork. Cut it horizontally into two pieces and then in half. Put the cheese on top of the potatoes, crusts up, and bake at 350 F (180 C) for 30 minutes.


  

At this point I'm going to apologize once again for my horrific food photos and my obvious carelessness. If anybody has food photography pointers, I'm listening. (yes...obviously...clean all cream off sides of baking dish before proceeding to bake, burn and otherwise make this dish look....dirty!)

My fellow Americans.... there is one, small, teeny, weeny catch with these recipes. These are unpasteurized cheeses and have been forbidden in the U.S. since 2004. I believe some exporters are making them with pasteurized milk but I've heard the flavor is nowhere near as creamy and delicious. Read more about this American tragedy here...and then write your congressman! Or come to France and pick up your own! If any one of you is aware of a distributer of real, French, unpasteurized soft cheeses in the U.S.,  I would sure like to know about it. 

Bon Appetit!

I found these recipes in the AAGP (Anglo-American Group of Provence) newsletter last year. The article was written by Jennifer Dugdale, a woman who gives culinary tours here in Provence...in English. Check out her website here.

Old Enough to Know Better

The other day I was cleaning my very old bathroom door. I know it's old because it is put together with wooden dowels rather than nails (although I'm certain it was not originally a bathroom door and its paint has been stripped off). 

I was doing what every normal Minnesotan (land of the clean and home of the disinfected) would do. I was cleaning the dusty and dirty mouldings with a toothbrush. 

Then I had a go at my ancient shutters which I've been told are at least 300 years old.

Yep, a little elbow grease and I'll have this place looking like new. It's spring cleaning time!

Yesterday, I finally decided to buy a real piece of furniture...not just something I've found in the dumpster in order to make do. I absolutely must have some storage here and I hate things sitting out in the open collecting dust (back to that genetic Minnesota thing). I've searched everywhere for something small enough to fit up my winding stairs, practical enough to hold a bunch of junk my valuable, personal belongings, and since I'm going to actually pay for it, something great looking and well made.

I found this. I chose it because it's beautifully crafted (fairly new but with a very old door and hardware) and its builder had done such an excellent job of making the entire piece look old....as in slightly dirty and dusty.

I think I'll just stop there.  Does anybody else see the twisted irony in this situation?

Sometimes it's just good to take note of how ridiculous I can be. 

I do think though, that I'll consider retiring my toothbrush and find something better to do.

Cinderella graphic provided by The Graphics Fairy

Speaking of fesses

Okay....I'm done! Finished! I can't take it anymore! I think I have now qualified for the Bloggers Most Injured list. This is now how I pictured my name going down in infamy.

Last Wednesday, I decided it was high time to re-do my blog page. I had no particular ideas in mind and I began to play around. Trouble is...I pushed one of those damned wrong buttons and lost my old template. Thus, I was committed.

You need to understand, I'm a complete idiot at this stuff....html....code....design. I only know what I've had to learn so far...and since I haven't had to use this extensive knowledge for at least a year, it had flown from my brain like the french word for keyboard (I know it starts with the letter "c"), the password for my bank account, and the rules for every single card game I've ever been taught.

So...I sat in front of the damed computer, typing on that thing that starts with the letter "c", for 14 hours. Yeppers, 14 hours in my newly-made bathrobe, doing nothing but struggling with a dumb blog page.  I did finally eat something about 10 pm and at midnight I opened a bottle of wine. Which is probably why at 1:30 a.m., I closed up shop. Satisfied. At one point, late in the marathon, I thought I had sat on a pin, probably left behind in the bathrobe-that-had-the-day-before-been-a-sewing-project. I couldn't find it anywhere within the folds of my wonderful, new, fuzzy robe and so, continued on with my project.

The next day, I had a pain in the ass. Okay, actually two. The first was the fact that, by the light of day, I hated my new blog page. The second was, I had an actual pain in my ass. A big, excruciating pain in my hinder. Okay, it was really the top of the back of my thigh but these days the two seem to be one in the same. And when I sat down...well....that wasn't really possible!

During the course of the day, a little black and blue mark developed. I know this because I actually had to yank down my drawers and show my injury to a friend (this is, I'll have you know, downright degrading). She thought maybe it was an insect bite and we let it go at that.

It had improved...a little... by Friday but was still really painful. My friend Claire insisted I make a doctor's appointment for Saturday morning and I decided to placate her. Friday night I spoke with my mom and mentioned this little problem and by the time I was done with that conversation, I was sure I was in the midst of some sort of blood clot crisis and I skipped a party so as not to dislodge said clot and die of a pulmonary embolism (this is why one should never discuss minor health problems with one's mother).

I went to the doc on Saturday, downed my drawers again and said, "mes fesses sont mal. Je crois que c'est un probleme avec un vein. Comment vous les trouvez?" (I don't know if this is proper french....I never know. When I came home I ran that one through the translator and it came out, "My buttocks are evil. I think it's a problem with a vein. How do you find them"?). At which point he laughed and said in French, "now this is a special situation".

Yeah, really special. Hysterical.

After a little prodding and pain, he announced it was a broken surface vein and I had practically no chance of dying from it. He did however, tell me to get off my ass. Which I have been doing. Pretty much.

Today it's much better and I decided to re-do my re-do. I don't know if I'm satisfied. But I'm not going to sit here long enough to worry too much about it. However, I welcome any comments from ANYBODY who knows ANYTHING about this sort of thing.

And back to the subject of fesses. I still haven't gotten to to say "tu les trouves jolies mes fesses?"* which was the subject of a recent post and which I've since found out is a famous quote (here in France, anyway) by Brigitte Bardot in the 1956 movie And God Made Woman. I really had that line on my top ten list of things to accomplish in the near future. And I pictured the moment....oh yes....

`

But, sadly, my first fesses conversation did not go according to plan.

*roughly translated to "do you find my bottom pretty?"

Charm School

In a post this past fall, I mentioned that I was learning to charm and be charmed here in France. I suppose that seems like an odd thing to say, but the fact is, charm is a revered art form in French culture. I’m not sure if they look at is an art, but I have come to think of it that way.

The French have a certain something, I don’t know what it is, that is completely different from what I’m accustomed to. They are not afraid to turn on the charm. Not afraid to be laughed at by their peers because they said something slightly flowery and over the top. Not afraid to offend women by complimenting them or looking at them with admiration. Mostly because the women seem to expect it and practice the same captivating techniques on men. It’s normal and happens everywhere, including the workplace.

Being charming is not the same thing as being a drageur or womanizer/skirt chaser/player. France has its share of schmucks as much as the next country. But this je ne sais quoi seems to be just a part of this world that I’m living in.  I’m not even sure how to explain it so I’ll give you some examples.

Last year a friend had a small party for me on my birthday. I wore a dress and my red high heels because I had NO crown to wear on this momentous occasion. I was sitting on a stool having a conversation with my friend Pierre when he began to shake his head and finally said, “C’est dommage”.

I asked him, "What is too bad?"

He said, “tu es éduqué à mort”. You are educated to death.

Of course, I didn’t know what the he was talking about and he explained that each time I laughed, I unconsciously pulled my skirt down over my knees.  And he thought that was just such an awful shame.

He wasn’t chatting me up.... or beginning one of THOSE uncomfortable conversations. He was just doing what Frenchmen do. No harm intended and certainly none taken.

Last fall I was at the market in Marseille with my sister. We hadn’t had sugar in at least an hour and we stopped by the table of a bisquit  (a sort of French cookie) vendor. I asked him a few questions about a certain treat that caught our eye and after his explanation we bought a couple.

As he was putting our caloric indulgence in a little bag, he said to me (all the following conversations were in French which is, of course, part of the charm), “You speak French very well and your accent is charming.”  Well we all know this isn’t true and I told him so, but he was not to be deterred.

He said,  “If you will permit me, I must tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes. Absolutely beautiful”.

I smiled (most likely batted my eyelashes) and thanked him for saying such a nice thing.

He said, “it may be nice but it’s also true”.

He then picked up two bisquits and put them in our bag. He said, “a gift from me. Bisquits made from the flower of the oranges, especially for the flowers (meaning us). Wow! I can’t say that I’ve ever been likened to a flower!

This past summer I got on the bus one day to be greeted by a smiling driver. I tried to run my ticket through the machine, but it wouldn’t take it. I smoothed it out and tried again. Finally the bus driver said, “slowly. Go very slowly. The machine is very romantic”. And then he beamed at me again.

I was walking home from the University recently and reading a brochure about a belly dancing class I wanted to take. I passed a table full of men gathered around an outdoor table and one of them said something to me. I looked up, apologized for not understanding (after all, I was walking, reading and most likely chewing gum…ALL at the same time!), told him I speak only a little French and if he talked VERY slowly, I MIGHT be able to understand. He repeated himself, slowly, and said, “if you continue to walk while you read you might just fall…. into my arms …and I would like that very much. When I laughed and smiled and told him that was a nice compliment, he asked if I might join him and his friends for champagne.  And when I (charmingly) turned him down, he smiled broadly and told me it was his loss and I was très charmant.

This must be something French, like understanding wine. Whatever it is, each time it happens, it just makes me feel good. Charm for charm’s sake is a good thing. And I’m practicing with all my might.

In October I was at the office of Securité Sociale, trying to figure out how I might be able to get health insurance now that I’m a student (after all, doesn’t college life involve at least one or two beer drinking accidents? I need to be prepared!).  When I was finished and trying to put my 17 different documents that I had needed back in some sort of order, I was chatting with an older gentleman who was also waiting. At the end of the conversation, he told me I was ravissante. I smiled broadly and said thank you and then came home and looked up what he had said because I had no idea (someday this problem is going to get me in a heap of trouble).  Now, he could have possibly said I’m a kidnapper…but he’s French…and I’m betting that he was telling me I was charming/ delightful or maybe even possibly ravishing…. or something like that. And that sure as hell made the trip to a French government office a little easier to take.

I wish everyone a Joyeuse St. Valentin. Did anything charming happen to you today?

The silhouette and more cool clip art from The Graphics Fairy