Sara in Le Petit Village

guest post: kisses and croissants

2013-05-21T10:00:00.002+02:00

We're on Dublin day five now and slowing down a bit (#notasyoungasweusedtobe). Two more days of getting my fill of my old town and then it's back to life in The LPV. While I sip my cuppa and contemplate what to do today (and how to get The Husband up and out of bed), I leave you with my new friend Patricia...

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Bonjour les amis! My name is Patricia. I blog over at Kisses and Croissants, a name I picked because, like Sara, I moved to France for love (hence the Kisses), and I'm obsessed with all French pastries, especially croissants. :) Sara asked me to guest post for her today while she's on vacation, and I was thrilled. She is one of my very favorite bloggers. Of course, you already know that she's awesome - that's why you're following her!

The Husband and me. Isn't he adorable?

Currently, I refer to the husband as Monsieur Right on the blog. This is because I tend to like nicknames that are ridiculously corny, and a lot of people can't stand when bloggers refer to their husbands as "The Hubby." Personally, I think it's kind of cute. But maybe that's because I jump at the chance to give him nicknames in English. We only speak French at home, and there is nothing cute sounding about the words "le mari" (the husband). That French word just sounds too girly, and I don't like calling him that.

I love reading other people's "How we met" stories, so today I'm sharing ours with you.

When I first came to France, I didn't know anyone. I showed up in the city all alone, 19 years old, with two suitcases and a bad accent. My French was terrible. That first week I headed over to church, hoping to meet a friendly face and that's where I saw my husband for the first time.

I remember thinking, "God, please let him be a regular here. He's SO beautiful!" To my delight, the next week he was there again. But he didn't have the courage to come talk to me, so he sent his brother to invite me to their mom's house for dinner, where we officially met for the first time. Now I know what you're thinking, love at first sight stories are cliche and a little too sickeningly sweet. But that's really how it happened.

That first night I met his whole family. Everyone was wonderfully kind. Or, at least I assume they were. I couldn't understand half of what they were saying, but everyone sure was smiling a lot. In France, we do the "bises" when we greet someone. These are little kisses that you give on the cheek, and the number that you're supposed to do changes by region. In my region it's two. When Monsieur Right leaned over to kiss my cheek, I about died of happiness. I totally had a fan girl moment. Please remember that I was 19 at the time and pretty naive when it came to romance. Getting to kiss a hot foreign guy on the cheek seemed like a pretty exciting custom to me.

It took us about six months to figure out that we liked each other and to actually start dating. Apparently, we both have a fear of rejection and suck at taking hints. To make a long story short, after doing the long distance thing while I finished my degree back in the states, Monsieur Right and I ended up getting married.

If you'd like, you can check out the rest of our love story here. I just want to give a big thank you to Sara for letting me taking over her blog for the day!

guest post: The Rich Life

2013-05-19T14:23:00.000+02:00

Bonjour tout le monde! Today I'm introducing you to my friend Adrienne. I'd love to give her the fantastic introduction that she deserves but nothing I could write today would do her justice... Mr. London and Toulon won the Heineken Cup championship last night here in Dublin (that means they're the rugby champions of Europe for those that don't know what the Heinken Cup is) and boy oh boy did we celebrate... like getting home after 5AM kind of celebrating. It's like zombie central around here. So please give Adrienne a warm Le Petit Village welcome (I'm going night night).

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Bonjour! My name is Adrienne and I write the blog, The Rich Life (on a budget). Sara Louise asked me to guest post for her while she is away. And I am honored to write in her absence.

I decided to tell you about how I contracted a Paris-ite several years ago, which led me to find Sara in Le Petit Village.

Like many people, I wanted to visit Paris since I was old enough to know what Paris was. I knew my life would be complete if I could just stand under the Eiffel Tower, a baguette in one hand, a wedge of brie in the other while wearing Breton stripes and a beret.

When I was 35, I asked my husband if he would take me to Paris for my 40th birthday, giving him plenty of time to prepare. Being the awesome man that he is, he didn’t disappoint and surprised me with two plane tickets and a week-long stay at a pied-a-terre in le Marais.

I fell hard for Paris, like a lovesick girl. I cried actual tears when I saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time, brought rocks and leaves that I found in parks and carried them home on the plane with me. I even kept the wrapper off the cheese we bought. That’s about the point where things got a little weird. I believe I caught what I call a ‘Paris-ite’, which I define as an unreasonable and intense obsession with all things French. ALL things French…even garbage.

When I returned home to California, my obsession didn’t lessen. Wanting to capture more of France, I spent untold hours scouring the web for anything and everything French. And that’s how I found Sara in Le Petit Village. I instantly adored her blog and thought to myself, If Sara, an American, can live in France, why can’t I?

I decided to learn French like Sara did and become fluent enough to teach English to the French. During the time it took to learn French here in California, I would convince my husband to move to France, bringing along my teenage stepdaughter, four dogs and a cat.

Pas de probleme! So what if my husband is not French like Sara’s and says Bonjour when he means Au Revoir. So what if he has a long and successful career in California as a firefighter! They have firefighters in France.

Convincing my husband to move was impossible. But I did manage to convince him to go back to Paris to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary.

When I returned from that trip I slowly started to realize some of my ideas might be just a tad extreme and an isty bit unrealistic. Eventually, I recognized that living in California’s wine country ain’t really so bad.

France will always be there, it’s just a really long and really expensive flight away.
While I still dream of living in a pied-a-terre in Paris or becoming Sara’s next door neighbor in The LPV for a month or two (don’t worry, I am not coming to the LPV anytime soon), I can appreciate France from afar.

On my next trip to Europe I hope to meet Sara, The Husband, and the whole cast of characters in The LPV. Hopefully I won’t pick up a LPVV - Le Petit Village Virus - while I’m there. I hear it makes people want to suddenly quit their jobs, move to the French countryside and become honey farmers.

guest post: Lost in Arles

2013-05-17T08:33:00.000+02:00

Dia Dhuit!

That's 'hi' in Gaelic. Yep, I'm in Ireland. Dublin to be exact. But honestly, I would never say hello like that. In Dublin, I say, "hiya".

Mrs. London, The Husband and I arrived yesterday and have settled into our Auntie's house. (Mr. London did as well but on a different plane, and we haven't seen him yet because he's busy preparing for Saturday's match. Mrs. London's brother and Mommy London arrive tonight, and Gatz gets in tomorrow.)

I've got a full day planned... shopping at Penney's, getting my haircut, lunch at Wagamamas followed by tapas tonight with Mrs. London and a friend (The Husband will be at the Amlin Cup Final watching Leinster take on Paris... and yes, The Husband is rooting for Leinster). So while I'm getting my Dublin on, I'll take you back to France with my friend Heather from Lost in Arles and her post about her love of the land near The LPV.

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"Well, it is up to you to choose", Remi, my companion, offered gallantly. The Easter Bullfights in Arles were fast approaching and so it was time to flee, to be anywhere but in the midst of the partying hoards that swallow our small town each spring. I had done my homework. We don’t travel as much as we used to, so I wanted to choose just right, certainly as we had gone through a stressful past few months and were in need of a dose of quiet. I had found an amazing cabanon, miniscule but beautifully placed on the Gardon River outside Uzes to the east. It was the definition of idyllic. I imagined dipping my toes in the cool water with a glass of rosé in hand as our two Goldens took their first swim of the year.

And yet…my thoughts kept returning to the Upper Luberon, the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence. We had gone twice in 2012, first as an escape for the September Bullfights (yes, thankfully they are only twice a year) but also a following visit just for the pleasure of digging in to what we had found.

I admit that I was thinking back to the food. We love to cook and were blown away by the regions fine, fine ingredients—the pungent ooze of Banon cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, the free range lamb from the Pays de Sault and the tender porc de Mount Ventoux, lavender honey, the earthy Pays de Luberon red from the Sylla Co-operative in Apt. Did I mention that I am a bit of a sybarite? Guilty as charged.

But it was the lay of the land that forced my hand. There is an inherent peace in the rolling hills and an infinite variety in the trees that charm. Remi, who grew up in Grenoble, was happy to rediscover a smaller version of the mountains of his childhood while I was reassured by topography similar to our horse farm of my Ohio youth. What is it in that as we get older we want what we used to have? The comfort of the past with a dose of new was just what the doctor ordered.

And so we left the crowds behind and headed north. For there is relatively no one there. While the area that I love, around Simiane-la-Rotonde, is only a mile away from the border of the Luberon, it is a very different atmosphere. It is authentic, not trying to impress. Because it doesn’t have to. As we had on our previous trips, we drove and drove, exploring from the red rust dust of the Colorado Provençal to the zen garden stripes of sleeping lavender fields above Revest-du-Bion and the still powdered peaks of the Lure Mountain.

We hunted for cabanons to inhabit in our imaginations as we went but we knew it was a sign that this gorgeous land spoke to us. And that we would be heading back to the land near the LPV all too soon.

ciao ciao

2013-05-15T07:21:00.001+02:00

{La Petite teaching her Tonton}

++ I've not gone Italian on you, it just so happens that we say ciao in the south of France too. Papa says it, Honey's Honey says it, The Husband says it... we all say it. I guess it's because lots of people here are of Italian heritage (The Husband's grandmother was from Rome). Plus who doesn't like saying, 'ciao'? It's fun. And adding that extra 'ciao' gives it an extra something, something. Say, 'ciao', now say, 'ciao ciao.' See? Moving on.

++ Brother-in-Law got a brand new car; a Renault Clio, in powder blue with racing stripes on it and a big number 7 on the hood and the roof. It looks like Herbie the Love Bug, only French.

++ Brother-in-Law's psycho dog, Python (pronounced: Pe-than in French) has been temporarily living at Papa's house and terrorizing Papa's Wife's cat Rosa. Poor Rosa. And she should be frightened. Python has killed like thirteen chickens (that Brother-in-Law was raising) and countless cats. He's a freaking psychopath. I want to get him locked up with a Hannibal Lecter mask but one for a dog instead. He's a tiny, Jack Russell, serial killer and even though I'm not a fan, I feel bad for him. It's not his fault he's psychotic.

++ The Husband returned home from bee duty with only seven stings. Not bad at all, except one on his jaw made the right side of his face swell up like Popeye and the two in his belly button (two bees actually wiggled their way INSIDE his belly button) made his tummy stick out like he's three months pregnant. If I had to guess, I'd say it was Mr. London's baby.

++ Do you want to hear the sweetest thing? Fifty says goodnight to me every night. Every night, after I get into bed, Fifty comes upstairs, walks around to my side and rests his head on the bed for a couple of minutes. I pet him for a bit and then when I say, "goodnight Fifty, goodnight bébé chien", he turns around, and goes back downstairs. It's heart melting stuff.

++ Tomorrow morning The Husband, Mrs. London and I are flying to Dublin for the week. (We takeoff in about 27 hours!) While I'm off pub-crawling and catching up with family, Heather, Adrienne, Patricia, and Betsy, will be watching over this space and keeping you entertained with guest posts. I'm sure you will all be on your best behavior and make them feel very welcome, because Le Petit Village readers are the very best readers (please do not terrorize the substitute bloggers). Ciao Ciao!

Bisou!

mon parfait dimanche

2013-05-13T08:35:00.001+02:00

That means, 'my perfect Sunday', but technically I should have titled this post, 'mon parfaite dimanche de printemps', which means, 'my perfect spring Sunday', because this type of Sunday really only applies to Spring and Summer. If it was winter, then this would all be malarky.

When spring is in full swing in Le Petit Village, as in when we get all of those pesky April showers out of the way (I swear, April is ark building weather here), I like to get out and about on the weekends. The Husband not so much. It's not like he likes to spend sunny days huddled up in doors or anything, but for him, sitting outside on the terrace or going to a barbecue is enough for him. Me, I like to go out, out. And by out, out, I mean strolling through a market or having a coffee or apéro at a table outside a cafe.

Luckily, I had the perfect excuse to go to the market and to drag The Husband with me; our upcoming trip to Dublin (only three more days!) means I need to buy little presents to bring with me, and the market is the perfect place for that.

In the spirit of marital compromise, we breezed through the market fairly quickly, got the goods and left. Heck I was just happy to have gotten him there in the first place.

The next stage in my perfect spring Sunday, is to take an apéro outside somewhere. (Me saying, 'take an apéro' instead of 'have an apéro' is an example of how my English has altered since living in France. I also now say that Gregory 'does his sport' instead of 'works out'. I have a feeling that I'll have to start taking English lessons soon.) But in another moment of marital compromise, we had our apéro outside on our terrace instead of at a cafe (The Husband likes to keep the purse strings pulled tight). It was still lovely though. It's hard to complain about sipping a Martini Bianco in the Provencal sunshine even if it is on my own terrace. What I can complain about however is Gatz calling for the third time that day (barely noon and three phone calls... somebody needs a hobby).

Gatz's multiple phone calls aside, my perfect spring Sunday continued with lunch at Papa's house. I love having Sunday lunch over there, it beats spending my morning cooking. I show up with a bottle of wine, set the table, and voila. Easy peasy pudding pie.

After Sunday lunch, we rolled home with happy bellies full of poulet rôti romarin et citron and I got to have quiet time while The Husband and Fifty took a nap. For some strange reason I decided to use my quiet time to clean the kitchen. It felt like a good idea at the time but writing about it now I kind of feel like berating myself for being such a fool. Oh well, at least it was sparkling clean when I cooked dinner... seafood linguine and another bottle of Rosé because why not, it's Sunday, it's sunny out, and it's Provence. I'm pretty sure it's the law around these parts.

One episode of Grimm, and one of Nashville later it was a little after 9PM... just in time for us to curl up on the couch while The Husband watched Gladiator on the telly and I read my book (Winter of the World if you're interested) #maritalcompromise.

Bisou!

stung

2013-05-11T08:31:00.000+02:00

The Honeys produce over thirteen tons of honey a year. That's a whole lot of honey, especially when you consider that's there's only three of them harvesting it (Mr. & Mrs. Honey and Honey Jr... but soon Honey's Honey will join them), so it's no surprise that they need a little help from time to time, and that's where The Husband comes in.

Two nights a year, The Husband helps The Honeys move their hives from the outskirts of Marseille up to Grenoble, three hours north. They do this at night when the bees are supposed to be sleeping, but just because they are 'supposed to be' sleeping, doesn't mean they are, so the work and the journey aren't exactly sting proof.

(Getting stung doesn't bother Honey Jr.... being a fifth generation honey farmer, his body is practically immune. Bee stings to him are like mosquito bites to us, annoying, but not a big deal. I'm sure Professor X will be coming for him any day now. Poor Honey's Honey on the other hand, well she's still trying to build up her immunity. It's not always pretty.)

Last year after the second bee run, The Husband came home with twenty-one stings. (Apologies, I reported twenty-three on my Facebook page last night. And get this... somehow, he managed to escape with only three on the first run last year!) I asked him to keep track again this year for me, and as of 7:30AM, there had only been seven with only two hours left go.

But my money is on ten.

Bisou!

beached

2013-05-09T07:43:00.000+02:00

I've got nothing to blog about at the moment. Nothing. It's not like there isn't stuff going on here right now, there is. To be honest Le Petit Village can be a rather scandalous place and there's usually some liasons dangereuses or petits scandales going down but it's not stuff I can blog about per se no matter how interesting it is (if I ever get around to writing that book, I promise that all of the juicy bits will be in it).

And The Husband and I just had a nice extra long weekend down in Toulon and that was lovely but I didn't want to blog about it because my last post was about the the time we were there before that. But truthfully that's all that I've got for you guys at the moment.

I've discovered that the French Riviera is the perfect place to escape to when life isn't all that sunny. Some major stuff went down in The LPV the past couple of months that has thankfully now finished, but the ghosts of it still haunts us all (everyone is OK, everything is fine... I struggled with blogging about it for cathartic purposes, but The Husband asked me not too and I've respected his wishes... clearly there is a first time for everything).

So my cousin's house in the Côte d'Azur (my holiday home as I like to call it) became the perfect escape for us refugees from The LPV. And now you know that it wasn't only fun and rugby that was pushing us down south but that's all I'm going to say about that.

But please stay tuned. I promise that there's delightful snapshots of Le Petit Village life on the horizon just waiting to be recorded. A bientôt mes amies.

Bisou!

a last minute dash to the côte d'azur

2013-05-06T08:12:00.000+02:00

{Toulon & the Mediterranean}

I'm blogging about my last minute dash to the Côte d'Azur from the Côte d'Azur, but I'm not talking about this one, I'm talking about a trip a couple of weeks ago. And then maybe I'll tell you about this one, a couple of weeks from now (I seem to be running about two-three weeks behind at life at the moment...**just keep swimming**).

April in The LPV was a wet and miserable one so when The London's phoned on a Saturday morning and asked if we wanted to head south for some sunnier weather, it was hard to say no.

Bombing down the A51, we were trying to outrun the rain. The further south we got, the less rain clouds there were, and as we arrived, there wasn't a single drop left in the sky.... perfect for our Sunday barbecue plans, but first The Husband got to hangout with Mrs. London and I and see how we like to spend a Saturday evening when it's just us girls (Mr. London was working late in Grenoble and wouldn't arrive home until the wee hours).

That means a bucket of KFC and some Rosé (we're very classy) while we dish about EastEnders and the Real Housewives and try to find the weirdest thing to watch on television (this particular Saturday night included a bizarre docu-show called 'Monsters Inside Me' and Rocky IV). It's how we roll.

The next day The Husband got to shake off the girliness of the night before by cooking meat on a fire while Mrs. London and I continued doing what we do best...

(That bottle of Rosé there is from Cassis and oh my heavens it's delightful.)

Fifty enjoyed his dash down south as well. He likes cruising around town with Mr. London. Look at him up there, thinking he's too cool for school. But most of the time, he's with his cousin Napoleon (Fifty + Napoleon, The Husband + Mr. London, Mrs. London + me... everybody's happy).

{tuckered out}

Do you see that white furball sleeping next to Fifty? That's Napoleon (aka Naps, aka NaPoPo). Napoleon loves his cousin Fifty, but not as much as he loves to bully him. Notice how Fifty is sleeping on a bed that's too small for him... well that's because Naps had stolen his (he does that a lot) and because it was 10PM (Fifty's bedtime) Fifty was left with no choice but to curl up on Napoleon's bed to go to sleep. But then Naps, irritated that Fifty was no longer paying attention to him, picked up Fifty's bed with his mouth and thrashed it about a bit, only to discover that Fifty still wasn't paying him any mind. Eventually he gave up and did the most adorable thing I've ever seen... he got the bed in his mouth again, and dragged it back across the floor, dropped it next to Fifty, cuddled down and went to sleep next to his buddy... AWWWW...

Bisou!

alors

2013-05-03T07:25:00.000+02:00

++ It looks like those pesky April showers have given way to May flowers. After a month of mostly rainy days the weekend is forecast for sunny skies and 21°C/ 70°F (after we get past the 60% chance of rain today). It's perfectly delightful weather for barbecues and rugby which is fantastic because that's what we're doing this weekend. (Total shocker, right?!)

++ For May Day (Labor Day/ La Fête du Travail) my neighbor presented me with a potted lily-of-the-valley (the traditional May Day flower). It's decorating my windowsill next to the tiny rose bush she gave me a month ago. Since moving to France I've been very lucky in the neighbor department and that's something to be grateful for. There is nothing as horrible as having nasty neighbors.

++ Fifty has a bad case of doggie insomnia lately. The past two nights he's been awake pacing about and sticking his nose in my face while I'm sleeping. He's like, "Mom, whatya doing?" Waking up in the middle of the night with a dog face staring at you from six inches away is quite startling. Now, none of us are sleeping. I'm thinking of shooting him with a tranquilizer dart (I'm just kidding, I don't have any tranquilizer darts.... note to self... find and order tranquilizer darts).

++ In thirteen days I'll be hopping a flight from Marseille to Dublin. Yippee-ki-yay! I know I was there in February but that was such a wham bam thank you ma'am kind of trip, that it barely counts. This time, we're going for a week and I have so much planned that I know it's going to pass by in the blink of an eye but that's fine, because it will be an awesome blink.

++ Two days after we get back from Dublin, we'll be going to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer for the pilgrimage honoring Saint Sara, a.k.a. the Gypsy's pilgrimage. There are no words to describe how excited I am about this, it's like jumping up and down, piddling excited. I've been waiting for this for ages and now it's only three weeks away! I'm practically verklempt.

++ Last night I finished reading Fall of Giants. It's one of those times when finishing the book leaves you sad and a tad depressed. The next book in the series is out but I don't want to read it yet because the third and final book in the series isn't being released until sometime in 2014 and waiting a year between the second and third books sounds like torture. So in the meantime, I'm taking suggestions... feel free to leave one down there below in the section marked comments. S'il te plaît et merci.

Passe un bon week-end!

Bisou!

liebster

2013-05-01T08:17:00.000+02:00

The Liebster Award! You are finally mine! MUAH HA HA HA HA! (Thanks very much to The Nomad who kindly passed it on to me.) If you're familiar with the blogosphere than you know that an award like this come with rules and these are the Liebsters's:

1. Thank and link back to the blogger who presented you with the award.
2. List 11 random facts about yourself.
3. Answer the 11 questions you were asked.
4. Write 11 questions for your nominees.
5. Present/nominate a Liebster blog award to 3-5 other bloggers.

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11 Random Facts About Me (I feel like y'all know everything about me already)

1. have little feet and little toes, but they're kind of chubby. They're weird in a cute way but they look like they should be attached to another person instead of me.

2. My favorite sport is rugby followed by basketball and since I'm a Clermont rugby fan and a San Antonio Spurs fan, my year is going very well so far (keeping those fingers crossed).

3. I desperately want to lose three pounds but I don't like depriving myself of anything (what's the point of living if you can't eat butter?) so I'm trying to exercise more. As soon as it stops raining, I'll start jogging.

4. The very first time I ate a Chicken McNugget I was in Honolulu.

5. Chickens freak me out. Like not on my plate (except in France where sometimes they leave tiny bits of feathers attached to the wings and legs... WTF is that all about?!?!) but running around. Brother-in-Law bought a couple of chickens. I don't go over to his house anymore.

6. I think The Husband is one of the most handsome men I have every seen in person. He really is very pretty.

7. But as handsome as he is, it amazes me how quickly he can mess up his outfit. He gets dressed to go out, looks beautiful and within two seconds looks like a hobo. I don't understand how everything gets so slouchy and wrinkly so quickly. I swear one night at a nightclub in Toulon, he morphed into Barney from The Simpsons right before my eyes.

8. I had a sister but she passed away (no need to be sad, it was a long, long time ago). I really wish she was still here. In fact, if I had one wish, I would wish that she was here. Sometimes I think a girl just needs a sister.

9. Luckily, I have three very close friends who have done an excellent job of filling a sister role.

10. I want to live in a city. Not in a suburb, or right outside, but IN a city. (Sorry Le Petit Village but you and your Provençal quaintness are currently boring me... YAWN)

11. I'm extremely proud of my mother for writing not one but two books (stay tuned for a giveaway). She also has a blog that you can check out here.

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1. What's the most surprising or coincidental thing to ever happen to you? There's been a lot... the mind boggles. Off the top of my head we'll go with this... Surprising... I live in a small village in the south of France. Coincidental... my cousin ended up living only two hours away. That s**t cray.

2. What book/movie/song or TV show do you hate that everyone else loves? It's not a new show but back in the days when Everyone Loves Raymond was on, I couldn't understand what was to love. His voice irked me.

3. I'm always looking for new authors so what's your favorite book or author? I'm a sucker for a big ol' historical fiction. My all time favorites are the Bronze Horseman series by Paulina Simmons, Edward Rutherford books, and the Outlander series by Diana Galbadon. But right now I'm reading Fall of Giants, the first book in the Century Trilogy by Ken Follett. I can't put it down. It's been amazing since the first page.

4. Do you want kids? Why or why not? Also, why did you have them early or wait to have kiddos later in life? I'm pleading the fifth on this one. There is too much going on in my head to answer it. Je suis desole.

5. If you could change one annoying habit about the person closest to you, what would it be? Only one?!?! I would change the annoying habit of pretending to listen to me when I know that he is only pretending to listen to me. And I'm sure you can all guess who 'he' is.

6. What's the most romantic event/moment you ever experienced? The one that is sticking out in my head the most took place about four years ago... The Husband was moving back to France from Dublin and was going to be spending the day packing. As it was a Sunday morning, I brought over breakfast fixings that I planned on cooking while he packed but when I got there he had a surprise for me... he knew that I was sad about him leaving, and stressed about what was going to happen to us, and that the thing I like the most when I'm stressed and/ or sad is a bubble bath, so he had scrubbed the bathroom (boys bathrooms can be so icky) and drawn me a bubble bath complete with aromatherapy candles. So I soaked while he packed and then his roommate cooked breakfast. It was only a little thing, but it was a really sweet little thing.

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing? Last night about 7PM. We were popping over to Papa's house for a drink and a chat and to see what they were going to be up to today (it's a holiday, La Fête du Travail).

8. If you are married, did you change your last name? Why or why not? If you're single/unmarried what your opinion on a last name change? Would you change your name or keep your name? I haven't changed my name. It's not any sort of feminist protest or anything, it's simply that I like my name. It's mine, who I am, and it's a connection to my deceased father that I'm not ready to cut. Plus, I was already in my 30s when I got married, so I had it for a long time and being named anything other than my name, sounds odd to me. I am a fan of the double barrel name though if you can pull it off.

9. What's your guilty pleasure of the moment? To curl up with a book and a glass of wine in a quiet house.

10. What prompted the biggest change in your life? Meeting The Husband. (In case you missed it, here's the story of how we met).

11. If you could have grown up in another culture which would it be? That's a tough one, I like being American, but maybe Australia because they all seem so chill down there, or maybe France so then I would already be fluent in the language and wouldn't even have to think about it anymore. Yeah, I'm going to go with French.

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I'm passing the Liebster on to these three bloggers: 1. Random Thoughts From Dublin, 2. Our House in Provence, 3. EE Bracken (I like to keep nepotism alive and kicking). And here's your questions Liebsters (some of which I'm stealing from The Nomad):

1. What movie or TV show do you hate that everyone else loves?
2. Where were you when you ate your first Chicken McNugget?
3. Who are you five dream dinner guests (alive or dead) and what would you cook them?
4. What is your favorite book or author?
5. What is your favorite tipple?
6. What's your middle name?
7. If you were given €4000 for a holiday, where would you go and what would you do?
8. What song do you hear, that when you hear it, takes you right back to your childhood/ teenage years?
9. What's your favorite sport and favorite team?
10. McDonald's or Burger King?
11. What is your favorite city in the world?

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Whew! That was a long one!

Are you still with me?

Bisou!

weekend

2013-04-29T08:36:00.000+02:00

Did you know that the French word for weekend is week-end? Yep... week-end. I guess throwing that dash in there makes it a bit more French like. Who knows. Either way, I had a très bon week-end. It started off the way all weekends should start... deliciously.

(Whenever I think about the word weekend, I think of the Dowager Countess asking, "Wha- what is a weekend?" It cracks me up every time! Downton Abbey fans, you know what I'm talking about.)

Friday night, my friend Martine (if you like Irish ladies, horses and food, then you'll love Martine and her blog) invited The Husband and I to the grand opening of an artisan ice cream shop a couple of villages over. And since saying no to free ice cream goes against the basic principles of humanity, we went.

It was packed... but I mean, c'mon... free ice cream, of course it was. Plus they had a band playing outside. I'm not sure if the music was Irish, Scottish, or Bretagne, or what it had to do with ice cream, but it was festive.

On Saturday The Husband and I hunkered down for the day and prepared ourselves for the second chapter in our Road To Dublin... the ASM Clermont vs. Munster match. It was stressful. The Husband watched while sitting in a ball on the floor (very similar to the fetal position) while I paced like a mad woman. Clermont won, we breathed a huge sigh of relief and went to sleep an hour later. Sure it was only 9PM on a Saturday night, but that shiz was exhausting.

One down and only one to go, on Sunday we went to Gatz's house for lunch and to watch Toulon play the Saracens.

{best seats in the house}

Honey's Honey came too sans Honey Jr... it's the beginning of bee season and Honey Jr is as busy as a... wait for it... BEE! (I'm cracking myself up over here). Fifty came too. And while the roast beef Gatz cooked held his attention, the match definitely did not.

He couldn't have been any less interested. After he got bored from being a nosy neighbor, he went to sleep and nothing could wake him, not even our cheering after Toulon won. That's right, they won. So it's ASM Clermont vs. RCT Toulon for the champions of Europe crown in Dublin in three weeks time. Brace yourselves Dublin... it's gonna be one crazy, French weekend. Or should I say, week-end.

Bisou!

The Road To Dublin

2013-04-26T14:54:00.000+02:00

The road to Dublin began with this pair of Nikes. Or rather, Mr. London's road to Dublin began with these Nikes, The Husband's and mine began with an Aer Lingus sale.

Let me back up... in three weeks time, The Husband, Mrs. London, Gatz (of course) and I are descending upon Dublin. We're there to catch up with family (I love how Gatz has wiggled his way in on this one) and to watch rugby. But we won't just be watching any rugby... we'll be watching the cream of the crop, the pièce de résistance... the Heineken Cup Final.

Two weeks ago, the quarter-finals took place... The Husband's favorite boys, ASM Clermont took on Montpellier (Clermont won) and the next day, Mr. London (in those Nikes) and the rest of RCT Toulon battled against Leicester. We watched it all from Toulon but first we had some family fun time...

Mommy London was in town. (That's Mrs. London's mother. She was married to my first cousin... so Mrs. London is my first cousin once removed... got it? Good.) So yeah, Mommy London was visiting and when we arrived at Chez London the BBQ was in full swing (full swing means two bottles of Rosé down).

It was the perfect family weekend (perfect in my book anyway), barbecue featuring Mr. London's finger-lickin-chicken, lots of chill time, shopping (we left the boys home for this one), picking out macarons at the pâtisserie, discovering the most delicious Chinese restaurant right around the corner, watching television (SkyTV I love you in all of your English glory), and finally hitting up the port for a pre-match lunch...

The port was PACKED. Leicester supporters sure do like to travel. But then again traveling to Toulon isn't the worst destination for a match... look at that bright blue sky! (I heart the South of France).

It was a nail biter... seriously, a down to the wire, heart thumping, nerve racking nail biter, but thanks in part to Jonny's golden foot... Toulon eeked out Leicester 21-15.

{celebrate}

Here's hoping that after this weekend's face-off against the Saracens, Mr. London will be one step closer to meeting us in Dublin.

(and ASM Clermont too!)

Bisou!

he's all grown up now

2013-04-24T07:24:00.003+02:00

It's funny how quickly things can change. Last year when Gatz turned thirty, not only was I was left in charge of organizing his birthday night out, but I ended up having to throw together a last minute birthday dinner party for him as well. But this year, my oh my how times have changed... Gatz is all grown up and doesn't need me anymore.

Gatz was hosting his birthday celebration on his own and invited us (us being The Husband, Honey Jr, Honey's Honey, a couple others, and me) to his place for drinks and nibbles. Honestly, I was skeptical and was picturing frozen pizzas cut up into small slices and bowls of potato chips. But instead of that bachelor pad nightmare, we arrived to a set and very grown-up table (proving that last year's Raclette soirée was not a fluke).

Not only was the table set, but it was topped with grown-up vegetable and charcuterie plates...

Which he served with grown-up bottles of wine...

And he had even baked a tarte aux épinards et chèvre (spinach and goat's cheese tart) which I failed to take a photo of because 1. I was too busy with that grown-up wine and 2. I was too busy being shocked. But I was shocked in the most delightful and proud way.

Joyeux anniversaire Gatz!

Bisou!

P.S. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm going to throw this out there... it has crossed my mind that Gatz could be improving his culinary and hosting skills in an effort to woo The Husband away from Mr. London (I wouldn't put it past him)... or worse yet... maybe even from me! I'll keep you posted.

A Tisket, A Tasket

2013-04-21T08:09:00.000+02:00

++ Last Saturday afternoon was spent having lunch in Aix-en-Provence on the first truly glorious spring day of the year. (First truly glorious spring days of the year should be celebrated, and it looked like everyone got that memo... Aix was packed! So packed, I couldn't even bring myself to go into Zara... that's how packed it was.) Not only was I happy with the cracking weather (24 ºC / 75ºF), but my Godfather and his wife were on holiday from Las Vegas, and since they happened to be in Aix and we happened to be in Aix, lunch seemed like the civilized thing to do. I hadn't seen my Godfather since I was about eight or maybe nine (that was a long, long, long time ago), but as soon as I was sat down next to him, it was like all those years hadn't happened. And there we were.

++ Busy as a bee is how I've been lately... the Wednesday before Good Friday it was dinner in Aix, on Good Friday we left for Easter in Auvergne, we returned on the Tuesday and then on the Friday it was down to Toulon, back up to The LPV late Sunday night, then next Saturday we were in Aix again (for that lunch above), we returned home with Mrs. London in tow who stayed for the weekend, and now here it is a week later and I'm blogging live from The London's kitchen in Toulon. (shhh... everyone is sleeping!)

++ And speaking of blogging... the last months of Google Reader are upon us and honestly, I'm a little worried. I'm scared that Google Reader is the way that you keep up with me and without it, I'll lose you. So just in case it is, please soothe my mind by taking note of these other ways to keep track of Le Petit Village happenings... I tweet my blog posts, so if you're on twitter you can find me there, and of course there is the Facebook page which gets updated, and I'm on Bloglovin too. That seems like the way most bloggers are going. I know I've been adding blogs I read on there left, right and center, so yeah, Bloglovin, check it out. (Oh, and Fifty wanted me to remind you that he has his very own Facebook page and he loves making new friends.)

++ Yesterday (before our last minute dash down to the Côte d'Azur), The Husband and I watched the Clermont vs. Toulouse rugby match. It was the 59th game in a row, that Clermont has won at home. 59! That's a big number and fantastic and all, but I think what is more important to note is that, that winning streak began in September 2009, which just happens to be when I moved to France. Coincidence? I doubt it (I'm a wee lucky charm).

++ I have some wonderful news to report... two new additions to The LPV family are on their way... Baby Cousin's girlfriend is expecting as well as The Husband's BFF and childhood sweetheart, The Croupier! Two new Le Petit Villagers due in November! Oh me oh my, time to bust out my knitting.

++ Speaking of Mother's... let's talk about Mother's day. I am so confused. Did you know that it is celebrated on a different day in the U.S., Ireland and France? (If you are new here you might not know why this matters, but if you read this post, you'll understand). In the U.S. it's on May 12th, Ireland, the 10th of March (oops... missed that one) and in France, the 26th of May. My confusion has led me to miss it for several years now and my poor mother has been Mother Day-less, so this past week I went ahead and shipped her present. It's late for Ireland, early for the U.S., and really early for France, but I'm making a decree... I declare that today, Sunday the 21st of April, is My Mother's Day. So that said...

Happy Mother's Day Eilo!

Bisou!

plan schman

2013-04-18T07:26:00.000+02:00

{fondue}

Sometimes we like to meet The Londons in Aix-en-Provence on a Wednesday night for a mid-week treat of the dinner variety. They travel an hour northwest, and us an hour south. It's the perfect meet in the middle.

Since we don't like to dilly-dally on these nights, we usually go straight to Bistro Romain where The Husband indulges in the all you can eat carpaccio he loves so much (while I sit back and watch the carnage). But this last time, he asked me if I'd find a new place for dinner (I guess he's trying to widen his horizons beyond raw beef). Planning happens to be my thing so I set to task, and found three places. Three because I figured I'd give them options (I'm a planner not a dictator... contrary to what you may have heard), and we'd hedge our bets on closings and full tables. I even wrote directions from the first restaurant to the second and then from the second choice to the third because if I had a motto, it'd be 'always be prepared'. So we had our plan.

Do you think The Husband stuck to the plan? (FORESHADOWING)

On the way to Aix, The Husband turned to me and said (very excitedly I might add), that he knew of THE BEST PIZZA place on Cours Mirabeau (Cours Mirabeau is like Aix's Champs-Élysées). I thought it was a bit curious that in all of my trips to Aix-en-Provence with The Husband, this was the first time I was hearing about this awesome pizza, but I was willing to forgo the planned restaurant choices and handwritten directions because if there is one thing that living in Le Petit Village has taught me, it's to be flexible (if you aren't flexible, France will make you flexible!). And as long as this pizzeria was nice enough inside and Mrs. London and I could sit back with a decent bottle of red, who was I to complain. "Of course it's nice" he assured me, "It's on Cours Mirabeau." Well alrighty then.

We met The Londons and popped into a bar for a quick apéro... "What will it be," I asked, "pizza or tapas or pasta?" (Tapas and pasta were the first two choices on the pre-planned restaurant list). The Londons gave a shoulder shrug while The Husband shouted, "I want sushi!"

WHAT?!?!

Where the hell-o-operator did sushi come from?!

Sometimes all one can do is take a deep breath and take control. "You wanted pizza," I reminded him, "show us where the restaurant is and we'll follow you."

We walked a bit further down Cours Mirabeau and then The Husband stopped, looked up, and turned around in a circle. And then I saw him bring his hand up to his mouth and breath in "oh", which is never a good sign. "What?" I asked. He looked at me, "I forgot it's for takeaway pizza." Of course it is.

Now, do you think we went to one of the pre-designated restaurants on the list, or do you think we let The Husband follow his nose while we followed him? (If you are new here, you might not know the answer to this, but if this isn't your first visit to Le Petit Village than you definitely know the answer... we followed the nose.)

And that's how after ten minutes of wondering around in the rain, the nose led us to a fondue restaurant. It wasn't part of the plan, but I'm flexible like that.

Bisou!

The Husband Speaks

2013-04-16T08:02:00.000+02:00

It's happened guys. I actually got The Husband to sit down and answer all of your questions, and there wasn't a single huff and puff in the process. Color me shocked.

I'm telling you right now before you watch the video, I'm not in it. You'll hear me, but you won't see me. I had been spring cleaning all day, I was dirty, and my hair was piled into a messy top knot on top of my head (and not one of those perfectly styled messy top knots that bloggers love, it was more like a greasy ball of frizz stuck to the top of my head. It's not a good look). So yeah, I was steering clear of any cameras. And as for Fifty, well personally I thought he would have been keen to make his vlog debut, but during filming, he was sleeping, tuckered out from his weekend with his cousin, Napoleon.

Now to the main event... Ladies and Gentlemen... without further ado, I give you, The Husband...

bisou

The Bachelor: Special Edition Starring Fifty

2013-04-12T07:14:00.000+02:00

Look at these two gorgeous girls! That there in the front is Nina (she was born in the good ol' U.S.A. so I've got a bit of a sweet spot for her) and behind her, is her little sister Lily. A few weekends ago, they came to Le Petit Village for a date with Fifty (it was like one of those two on one dates on The Bachelor minus the bitchiness... actually, it was double the bitchiness if you know what I mean). But because neither of them have a drivers license, and walking from Salon-de-Provence to The LPV would take forever, they brought their parents with them, which was great because their mom just happens to be one of my favorite French people, La Professeur (you might remember her from this time or maybe that time).

And as if I wasn't already chuffed enough what with an afternoon with my friend La Professeur and all, she came baring gifts... Starbucks ready to brew packs. My dream finally came true... I was drinking Starbucks in The LPV. It's a pretty big deal.

I made Tex-Mex (La Professeur spent a stint in Austin so I thought she'd appreciate some guacamole and pico de gallo) and we watched a rugby match (of course we did). But mostly, we chaperoned the date, and tried to guess who Fifty would give the final rose to...

{a rare moment of calm}

{yes, Lily is wearing panties}

{first kiss}

{take 1,837,447}

It was a close one to call... when I saw Fifty and Lily kiss I thought she was a shoo-in for the final rose, but as the day went on, an initially shy Nina began to follow him around more and more staking her claim.

But then in a surprising move, that nobody somebody coming,

I got the final rose, because I'm his mommy,

and mommies give the best cuddles.

bisou

P.S. Interested in learning French in beautiful Provence with La Professeur? Click here to find out more.

P.P.S. Last and final chance to ask The Husband! Click here to leave a question to find out anything you'd like to know about the man behind the girl behind the blog.

P.P.P. S. If you'd like to be friends with Fifty on Facebook and follow along on more of his adventures, click here.

the anniversary present

2013-04-10T07:41:00.000+02:00

{babysitting at Papa's house}

Here's the thing about The Husband; he's wonderful. He's sweet and cuddly, caring, kind, huge-hearted and gorgeous. Children love him, dogs love him, and men and women love him, pretty much everybody loves him. But of course he's not perfect (not by a long shot) and today I'm going to tell you about a time he was really, really not perfect.

You know how my birthday was in February and I went to Dublin? Well that trip was kind of a birthday present, but kind of not. I actually needed to go there to take care of some stuff and it just happened to coincide with my birthday. But because a last minute plane ticket to Dublin is not cheap, I told The Husband that I was considering that my present, and not to even think about getting me anything else (The Husband can worry himself into quite a tizzy over presents... shopping for presents is his kryptonite).

When I returned from Dublin, The Husband started telling me all about some present that he had really wanted to get me, but he hadn't been able to find it anywhere. (How can you not find something, especially when there is this amazing contraption called 'the internet'? RE: KRYPTONITE) I told him not to worry about it, Dublin was more than enough, but out of curiosity, I asked what this elusive present was. He said, "you know, the thing for the foot that you put your foot in and it feels good with the water." HUH?!

And then I realized, he was talking about a foot spa. The present that The Husband had been searching all over for and was just dying to get me, was a plastic tub that I could fill with water and plug in. I smiled at him, as I do, and told him that that was a sweet thought, but not to worry about it, because I really didn't want a foot spa. "No?" he asked. "No" I replied. And so there wasn't any confusion, I told him that I was relieved he hadn't been able to find one, and I gave about a zillion reasons why I did not in fact want one and then named about a zillion things that I would prefer. (I find that in a language barrier relationship like ours, it's best to spell things out and make them as crystal clear as possible.)

Fast forward a month to our wedding anniversary.

Papa called, a package addressed to The Husband had been delivered to his house by accident. The Husband jumped up, shouted, "your present!" and then ran out the door (somebody found the internet). A few minutes later he returned with a large box. I eyed it suspiciously. There was something about the package that gave me an odd feeling, I couldn't put my finger on it, but I was sensing that there was something I most definitely did not like about it.

I looked at The Husband, as he stood there grinning ear to ear holding onto the box, and said, "there better not be a foot spa in that box". His smile fell. Disbelief whipped through me, "is there a foot spa in that box?!" And then he let out one of his little Gallic huff and puffs. HE GOT ME THE MOTHER TRUCKING FOOT SPA!

At least that's his mother's birthday present sorted.

bisou

P.S. If you would like to ask The Husband what was going through his sweet head when he bought the foot spa, or anything else for that matter,it's not too late. Click here, leave your question, and he'll answer it in his very own blog post (or vlog if I can figure it out).

en attendant le printemps.

2013-04-08T09:43:00.000+02:00

It's a cold and rainy day here in The LPV. April 8th already, yet it feels like November 8th. There is nothing spring-like about today at all. The birds are chirping, but I have a feeling it's more of complaining chirping than happy, chirpy chirping. So while the birds and I sit back and wait for spring, I'll leave you with this post about that very same thing. {originally posted April 3, 2011}

....................

The dichotomy of my life in Le Petit Village goes like this… you see I love it and hate it, but the things I love, and the things I hate are pretty much one in the same. (Let me preface this by saying that ‘love’ and ‘hate’ are very strong words but they sound better than ‘like’ and ‘dislike’ so I’m going with ‘love’ and ‘hate’). And because I’m thinking in opposite terms of love and hate, I’ll write in opposite terms of summer and winter, but I’m going to start with winter.

During the winter months, Le Petit Village and it’s 250 habitants practically hibernates. Many of the houses here are holiday homes that sit empty, shutters closed to the cold winds and snow, waiting for their Parisian and Belgian owners to come back and fill them. It can lend a bit of a ghost town vibe for the rest of us year-round inhabitants, and in those winter months, we tend to huddle close, so as to make us feel like we are not so alone in this wintry, mountain village.

There is one bar/ cafe/ restaurant here, and on those cold Friday nights, when the roads are too icy to navigate down the mountain, the same group of us descend upon it. It is always; my brother-in-law, his young wife, her parents, my next door neighbor/ husband’s best friend, my husband, father-in-law, a couple of local farmers, and me. We huddle around a kerosene heater set up in the middle of the room, chatting, and laughing, sharing plates of saucisson, homemade pâté, and bowls of olives. It feels much more like someone’s cozy living room than a bar.

Now for a city girl me, at times I’m screaming inside, yearning to put on my heels instead of winter muddy snow covered boots, and have a vodka martini in my hand instead of the hearty Leffe, while sitting back in a plush banquette in some decadent bar and not in this old bar, with chipped paint, mismatched furniture, and the same old handful of people every Friday night. But as much as I may want to be in that city bar, I’ve never felt as at home and comforted by the super luxe ‘it’ bar as I do on those dark winter nights surrounded by French villagers and wrapped in the warmth of the kerosene heater.

Then as the months pass, and the sun begins to rise earlier and earlier and shine warmer and brighter, Le Petit Village slowly awakens. And with the sun comes the tourists.

During those beautiful warmer months, when the lavender blooms, our winter population of 250, increases to 1000. Where normally I would go for long walks with my dog and not see a single soul, our tiny streets are buzzing with chatter and traffic and there are people everywhere. That same cozy winter bar becomes packed and any chance of finding a table or a bar stool is practically non-existent.

I complain about the tourists; how they take all the parking spaces in front of our homes, they peer in our windows, and buy up all the baguettes, but secretly I love them. I love that when they are here Le Petit Village is at it’s best and most welcoming. We have small festivals with bumper cars and fireworks, a circus, and parties, all to say, “Bienvenue! Aren’t we quaint and charming? Please come back soon, we love the company”, and everyday feels like a holiday, a snap shot into a Peter Mayle dream.

But just when I think I’m tired of the incessant early Sunday morning chatter of stranger’s voices outside my windows and fighting for my parking spot and my baguette, they are gone, and the cold and solitude comes back. Along with those wintry, kerosene cozy Friday nights. And we settle in and wait for spring.

bisou

Pâques en Auvergne

2013-04-05T07:33:00.000+02:00

This is Clermont-Ferrand. I took the photo from one of those rest stops designed for taking in the scenery. It's a very special spot for The Husband... years ago, The Husband's grandfather would drive him back to boarding school on Monday mornings, and they would always stop there and have pains au chocolat for breakfast. It's a sweet memory and he tells me the story every time we drive past it so I finally made him stop.

Clermont-Ferrand is smack dab in the middle of France in the Auvergne region, six hours north of Le Petit Village. It's where The Husband grew up and where his mother and grandmother live.

It's also where ASM Clermont Auvergne play so it's basically The Husband's spiritual home. The stadium happens to be next to the hospital where French Nana is recovering from surgery at the moment (she's OK, no need to worry). So it was awfully convenient... go see French Nana, pop over to le stade.

Behind the stadium is this Michelin tire museum (it actually says: Michelin Adventure, discover a world of novelties... now if that doesn't sound like a hoot hollering good time, I don't know what does!) You see, Clermont-Ferrand is the home of Michelin. Yep, the Michelin Man is from the same place as The Husband. They might have even gone to the same school. I'll have to check that out.

Besides visiting The Husband's spiritual home in the form of rugby stadium and tire museums, Auvergne is also the place where The Husband reverts back to his childhood and plays NBA Jam on his old Super Nintendo.

How ridiculous is that photo? But that's what he does every morning at his mom's house until she yells for him to come down for breakfast. It's like I'm Marty McFly and I've walked into 1995. I blame his mother, she's the one that has decided to leave his room exactly as it was when he left for boarding school when he was eleven (toy cars and stuffed animals included).

But her nostalgia does mean that I get to discover gems like this tray painted by The Husband when he was a little boy (I'm hoping he painted it when he was a little boy anyway... I'm actually not too sure, there's no date on it).

Auvergne is also a place where it snows on Easter. Now I know Easter was early this year but come on! The poor Easter Bunny must have been freezing. And who wants to go on a hunt for les oeufs de Pâques in the snow? I certainly don't. But what I certainly will do is dress Fifty up as the Easter Bunny.

Besides the Easter Bunny bringing chocolate in France, bells do as well. The story goes that on Good Friday, the church bells aren't only remaining silent in acknowledgement of the death of Jesus, but also because they aren't there. They've flown to Rome to see the Pope. And since you can never go on holiday without picking up a few pressies for those back home, the bells return on Easter morning with chocolates for the children. And that's why besides chocolate bunnies, you'll find a lot of chocolate bells too. Like this chocolate bell decorating our Easter cake.

There was also a baby chick wearing a bandanna and sunglasses decorating the cake. None of us could figure out what that was all about (the baby chick yes, the bandanna and sunglasses, no).

And that's my long weekend in Auvergne in an Easter eggshell. On Tuesday we left the cold behind as we drove farther and farther south, back to Provence and back into Spring. Except when we got here it was raining.

*insert frowny face*

bisou

P.S. Don't forget your homework from the other day 1. As of right this second, there is still 16 hours left to enter the giveaway and 2. If you've got a question for The Husband, now is the time to ask! Pop on over to this post and ask away!

you think you know ... but you have no idea

2013-04-03T07:54:00.001+02:00

{my Prince of Monaco}

Happy Wednesday after Easter y'all!

I know 'Wednesday after Easter' isn't a thing or anything, but it is today, and today is the Wednesday after Easter, so there you go.

We arrived home from Auvergne last night, after another too long drive. Today will be spent unpacking (we always come back with more stuff than we went go up there with because The Husband's mother has a bit of a shopping problem... as in she buys two of everything, and that second item has to go somewhere, so down to The LPV it goes, which is great, except then I get to try and find homes for all the stuff in a house that doesn't have a single closet), doing a massive amount of laundry, and ironing, in an attempt to put the house back together. And then on Friday, I get to pack all over again for a weekend in Toulon (Mr. London has a very important match to play, plus Mrs. London's mother is in town and I owe that lady a hug).

In the meantime, I have an idea for you guys (I got it from Betsy over at Betsy Transatlantically). Sometimes I get asked a bunch of questions about The Husband (especially after our backstories), so how would you like to know more about him, but from him? Like tidbits and answers from his own mouth, and not just me answering on his behalf? (Please say you would, because if you wouldn't, then this post is a big ol' flop and I should hang up my blogging hat and call it a day.)

You leave any question for The Husband you'd like, down there below in the comments, and he'll answer it in a blog post. And if I can convince him (and if I can figure out how to do it), he'll answer the questions in a vlog.

Oh, and while you're thinking up your questions, don't forget to enter my giveaway.

So that's your homework assignment for the day;

1. Leave a question for The Husband

2. Enter my giveaway

bisou

glamorous giveaway

2013-03-30T11:38:00.001+01:00

{best phone number ever}

Today I woke up in The Husband's old bedroom, with his old stuffed animals, six hours north of The LPV, in Auvergne. Auvergne isn't the most glamorous place in the world (especially not right this second as it's raining buckets), but it is a very beautiful and tranquil one (lots of lush green grass from all of that rain). But back in the day, it was super glamorous. French Nana's Bar, is located in the old Metropole Hotel, and like a hundred years ago or something, it was called Bar Chiquita, and an Egyptian Princess used to swan around sipping Champagne there. It was the epitome of glamour, but now, glamour gone. Now you can find me, glass of red wine in one hand, hunk of bleu d'Auvergne in the other, sitting in my muddy, rain soaked wellies with Fifty at my feet. See... glamour gone.

As I'm away for a few days, celebrating Easter with my belle-mere, I thought I'd leave you with a giveaway!

YAY! A GIVEAWAY!

Charles Ayres of Impossibly Glamorous fame (you may recall him from this time when he interviewed me) has kindly given me a copy of his book, Impossibly Glamorous, so that I may pass on the glamour to you (actually he gave me two, one for me, and one for you... glamorous and generous, that's a winning combination).

{buy me}

Originally titled, L'Enfant Terrible (I always wanted to be referred to as L'Enfant Terrible but I don't think I could pull it off), Impossibly Glamorous is the story of Charles' life, and his journey from growing up in Kansas, to Japanese media darling. It makes for interesting and entertaining reading I assure you.

For your chance to win a copy of this impossibly glamorous tale, check out the Rafflecopter below. Contest closes next Saturday the 6th. May the glamorous force be with you.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

The Return of Honey Jr.

2013-03-28T08:30:00.001+01:00

{last summer}

Yesterday was Honey Jr's 30th birthday, and as such, I thought today was the perfect day for this post. (Obviously yesterday would have been more perfect, but I was busy yesterday. Oh and get this... La Poste managed to deliver the birthday card we sent Honey Jr, yesterday, like on his actual birthday. Gold star for you La Poste.)

I'm sure some of you may have been questioning the absence of Honey Jr lately, and I understand completely. The last time he was mentioned was Gatz's Raclette party in November. That's pure poppycock, I know. But here's the thing, the day after Gatz's Raclette, Honey Jr and Honey's Honey left for almost four weeks in Thailand, and when they returned, it was Christmas, and that's always hectic. January is for hibernating, and in February it was my birthday (which meant a weekend in Châteauneuf-du-Pape and Avignon) and I went to Dublin too, and then voila... it was March. Plus (and you're going to like this), Honey's Honey has been down south in Bee School. That's right... Bee School.

Anyway, we've all been busy but of course we've been in touch. So a couple of Saturday's ago, we met in the all new Le Petit Bar for a pre-lunch apéro. We were having so much fun catching up over our drinks, that Honey's Honey invited us around for lunch.

Honey Jr ordered a poulet rôti from Big Man (on the weekends, Le Petit Bar now sells rotisserie chickens... Big Man is pretty much the opposite of The Parisian and I love him for that), I popped into l'épicerie and grabbed a bottle of Rasteau, and with the bacon and leek pie (tarte aux poireaux et aux lardons) that Honey Jr had already made we were all set. (How great is it that Honey Jr bakes? I wish The Husband would bake. Actually, I take that back. I do not wish The Husband would bake. The mess would be too much for me to bare.)

It felt like old times and I was sad when we left. I was sad that when we walked out their door, we weren't walking through our old one, right next door, and we didn't share that wall anymore and the back garden that we had knocked the fence down of so we could all have one big shared one, instead of two separate little ones. I miss that. But as sad as I was, it was nothing compared to how sad Fifty was when when we got home and told him where we had been.

He didn't talk to us for the rest of the day.

bisou

pâté day

2013-03-26T07:30:00.000+01:00

Pâté making is one of those things I never thought I would do, like ever. Except maybe if I was enrolled in a cooking class or something with my girlfriends, but that would never happen because I'm not really a joiner. So before I moved to Le Petit Village, pâté was only something that I ate, not made. But since Papa and Brother-in-Law's are hunters, and something has to happen to the boar (le sanglier) after all of the good cuts of it are gone (waste not want not), pâté is the answer. It's the sanglier's final frontier if you will.

The last time I helped with the pâté was three years ago. I'm not sure where I was in 2011 and 2012, but this year we got roped in again, along with Brother-in-Law and Child Bride. It was an 'all hands on deck' kind of day (or more accurately, an 'all hands in the bucket of boar goo' kind of day).

Pâté making day happens on a Sunday. And since The Husband's Uncle and Aunt drive over from their home in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, we do the whole Sunday lunch thing as well. But this year, instead of doing the gooey, gross work before lunch, we did it after, which I preferred because pâté making doesn't leave me with the greatest of appetites, and since The Husband's Aunt had brought a huge pot of her bourride with her (bourride is a mouth wateringly delicious Mediterranean seafood stew), I wanted my appetite in tact. But after lunch it was time to pay for that scrumptious stew and get down to business.

I found that the more photos I took, the less involved in the actual work I had to be. Plus, with a documentary about The Dream Team on, that happened to be in English, I had another legitimate distraction. (Can we talk about the fact that the whole Dream Team thing seems like yesterday? When did 1992 become history? I swear 1992 was not that long ago. Also, Child Bride has no recollection of the Dream Team. Want to know why... because she was born in 1992. BORN! File that under things that freak me right out.)

bisou

The Village Idiot

2013-03-24T07:48:00.002+01:00

Hi.

Would you like to know how I know that I'm a moron and on the verge of being elected the Village Idiot? Like how I know for sure, for sure? Because these three things happened within the last forty-eight hours.

1. For my birthday, Papa's Wife gave me a pretty pyjama set and some cushiony Isotoner slippers. While I have yet to wear the pyjama set yet because it is more summer like and we're barely into spring, the slippers are getting worn to death (I can't help it, they're like pillows wrapped around my tootsies). Because of my non-stop slipper wearing, I thought it would be a good idea to go ahead and toss them in the washing machine, so I planned on throwing them in for a wash Friday morning with the bath mat (I like to plan these things), only I didn't. Instead, I ended up washing them in a load before. Fine, right? Wrong. Because somehow I had completely forgotten that I had already washed them and laid them out to dry.

So when I finally washed the bath mat and opened up the washing machine to pull it out, I expected to pull out my slippers too, but they weren't in there (of course they weren't in there), and that's when the biggest freak out in months occurred. You know how dryers like to steal a sock or two on occasion, well I became convinced that my washing machine ate my slippers. Like totally convinced. I kept sticking my head in it and looking around and marvelling at how such a thing could happen. I was on the verge of calling Papa to have him come over to take apart the washing machine and find not only my slippers, but everything else that has ever gone missing in my life. And that's when I glanced over to the clothes rack, and saw my slippers drying on top of it. Moron.

2. There's this whole brouhaha at the moment about Google dumping Google Reader. It's throwing us bloggers into quite the tizzy since Google Reader is how some people keep track of our blogs. One solution is to get the Google Readers on over to Bloglovin, so we're falling all over ourselves making sure that we're signed up and getting our Bloglovin buttons onto our sidebars. Well I've been signed up with Bloglovin for ages, like practically since I started this blog, but I never use it. So the other day, I clicked onto my Bloglovin account, copied the HTML code for the Bloglovin button, and added it to my sidebar. Only I didn't like how it looked. I decided to email my go-to blog design girl, Alyx, and ask her if she would mind whipping me up a button that looked like my other social media buttons. She replied that of course she could, and she would, but why would I want her to since I already have one. Yep, my Bloglovin button is over there on the right in between the feedburner and twitter buttons (feel free to click on it now, or any of the other buttons for that matter). That was embarrassing.

3. You know how Daylight Savings Time was two weeks ago in the U.S.? Well it wasn't here. Here it's next weekend (emphasis on the 'next'). Except somehow I got it into my head that it was this weekend (Mom - you can go ahead and take responsibility for your part in this). So last night before going to bed, I reminded The Husband that the clocks were going forward and went ahead and changed the time on my cell phone. And that's how I found myself typing away on my laptop at 6:30 on a Sunday morning, thinking that it was 7:30, and wondering why it was still so dark out.

Feel free to mock me in the comments, I can take it.

bisou