du Jour

Non Buyers Remorse

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 05 Nov 2013 17:58:00 +0000

I work very hard at not collecting things. I just can't forget how much agony and time it took to rid myself of all my possesions and collections the first two times. I do not want to do it again nor do I want to leave this horrendous chore to my boys. That being said, I do LOVE a good vide grenier (village thrift sale) or brocante (thrift sale for older stuff). And if I do buy something, it's got to be something that I simply could not find in the United States or something I really, truly need. Like a drill. Or a vintage wool cape. Or a set of beautiful carved stone buttons. Or…okay, see the problem here? There are numerous other criteria including how willing I am to throw something away in order to make room for the new treasure or if I'm prepared to give it away as a gift.

During this last few months of visitors, my friends and I went to a rockin' vide grenier in the nearby village of Ventabren (I love this village mostly because the mayor is running the town from prison). I stood firm against the glassware, I turned away from the tools, I shied from that big, comfy chair that wouldn't have gone up my stairs anyway. And I continued to resist. Until I could no longer.

I love the old linens here in France. In days gone by, the trousseau of a newly married, young woman included numbers of linen or matise (linen and cotton) sheets, hand monogrammed with her new intitials and embellished with cutwork, embroidery and sometimes even lace. Some are very simple with very little sense of design or skill but most are a work of art. And there really is truly nothing more lovely than sleeping under a well washed, white linen sheet. Especially if it's beautiful and makes you feel like a princess.

As I passed table after table with an increasingly confident air of self discipline, I was stopped short by a sheet sitting on the top of a pile of linens. A sheet that not only was obviously 100% linen and had a great big monogram with flourishes, but it was edged across the top AND down the sides with a scalloped, handmade lace. Ooh la! I came to a screeching halt. I had to at least touch and admire, didn't I? And I got a story as well, which is my favorite part about buying these old things. Apparently this sheet was made for receiving visitors after a young woman has a child. It's made extra wide so it covers the bed all the way to the floor and and extra long so this beauty can be turned way back to perfectly frame the mother and child (perhaps French babies did not spit up). Anyway, I listened, oohed and ahhed, talked down the price, oohed and ahhed some more, and then did what I was getting so good at. Resisting. Yep, I walked away.

But later, I rejoined my friends and with a big, terminal case of non-buyers regret and I asked my friend Marcia to go back to that table and look at the sheet. Of course, I wanted her to ooh and ahh as well and assure me that I simply couldn't leave without it. We found the table again and I nearly jumped up and down when I saw it was still there. This would be mine. This would. Marcia's second opinion will give me no choice!

Marcia looked at it, reexamined it, and finally declared, "It says No."

"What?"

"The monogram spells No."

I looked at it again and sure enough she was right.

With my brow furrowed in thought, I touched the sheet again, ran the lace between my fingers, stepped back, re-approached and finally, regretfully turned to the vendor who was waiting for his sure-fire sale.

"I am so sorry sir, but these initials spell the word No, which is the same as Non in French. I am a single woman. I simply cannot, as a single woman, risk having a sheet on my bed that says No. I think it would be bad luck or bad karma and I need all the luck I can get in that particular arena."

The gentleman burst out laughing and said "That's too bad." I'm not sure what he thought was too bad; that he lost a sale, or that I openly admitted that my love life is so obviously pathetic that I'm resorting to some sort of magic in the hope that things will pick up.

Later, I showed the photo of the sheet to my friend Paulette. She said it looks like Ho. I don't think I'm really going for that either. However, the more I thought about it, I realized that if you're looking at the sheet while actually in the bed, viewing the monogram upside down, it says On.

Now I'm thinking I should have bought it.

PS. Regretfully, Provence Rugs is closing its virtual doors on December 20. Happily that means a 50% off savings for you! Check out the link on the side of my blog page. Think Christmas.

Ritual Rentrée Review

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Fri, 06 Sep 2013 10:33:00 +0000

Why is it that in spite of not having to run my life according to a school calendar for many years, there is still something about the first of September that changes life's rhythm? It's a bit like New Year's Day but more pronounced in so many ways. When September 1st arrives, all the things I've put off for the summer are all set before me in a row. It's time to get to get those tedious work projects done, get back to the gym, eat better and avoid all that Rosé! I want to do some sewing and make a new handbag. I've got to make some plum jam and must get the lavender hung in bags so it doesn't harvest itself all over the kitchen floor. I've got to get my two guest blogs written and geez, I have to write my own!

Yes the Rentrée, as it's called in France, has arrived. I've explained the rentrée before here, so I won't do it again. And here in the south of France it's a most exquisite time. It is true that the fingers of autumn are gently tugging on the dangling toes of summer but our days are still deliciously warm and our nights have cooled off so that sleeping is a dream. Unless you're under constant attack by killer bats which is, again, the case chez moi. But I'm not going to let this particular recurring nightmare interrupt my reverie. The temperature of the Mediterranean is perfect and the sea is clear and blue. The grapes are fat and purple and the afternoon light has taken on an intensity that is breathtaking. I am not exaggerating when I say that I sometimes have had to just stop my car while driving to admire the way the light enhances all the colors around me.

This year I was able to spend the entire summer in Provence. Some say the summer is too hot here in the south but I say, "Bring on the heat!" It allows us a certain a slowness of movement; an intentional laziness if you will, that is so delicious. It brings the fruits of summer to us like I've tasted nowhere else. My visitors are always remarking about the taste of the vegetables here, the sweetness of the fruit, the smell of the rosemary or lavender, which is released by the constant heat of the sun. Believe me, even my little sister, who detests melon, would be eating one Cavaillon melon each day if she knew what a REAL melon tastes like!

Between visitors and with visitors, I tried to take in all that I could, in spite of all that laziness. I've explored beautiful villages and contemplated expansive vistas...

I swam in Calanques and snorkeled with an Octopus at my favorite beach

(sorry, no photo of the octopus but man, was that cool!)

I've been to a country music fest and a Calisson festival

And the Transhumance.

At said country music festival I got this priceless shot while perusing the motorcycle line-up. ONLY in France!

Home shows

and light shows…

The Opera and a musical review on Cours Mirabeau…

The Tour de France and its subsequent, mind-boggling festival...

See that mobile in the background? That is, in fact, and orchestra of real people!

I ate like a queen.

Drank like a king.

The vines of Chateauneuf du Papes.

Yes, they grow in a "soil" of stones, which is what makes the wine so tongue tingling.

And tasted the most orgasmic mint ice cream in St. Remy. Seriously. I'm satiated! Who needs men with ice cream like that?

Brocantes and braderies…

And the daily life that is mine here in my hood…

the tango dancers who are, each Sunday night, at the Place Richelm

My terrace during the blue moon

the flower market down the street in a lavender explosion!

Yeah I know…my life is good, ya dah, ya dah, ya dah! But in whatever life, wherever it is, a little gratitude goes a long way toward making the next day even better. I'll be happy to do a little complaining as well, which I've done ad nauseum. But today, I'm still basking in the glow of a wonderful summer. As I prepare to get down to business!

Bonne Rentrée à tous,

Life is a Beach

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 13:40:00 +0000

I'm resting myself today after two days in a row at the beach. Yes, I know, EVERYONE is at the beach at this time of year in the south of France. But I've got a perfect spot that takes only a slight effort to reach but once there makes the effort so worthwhile. Though not perfectly private and not sandy, there are fewer people and the snorkling is great. Okay, it's not the Seychelles but relatively speaking, it's not bad. And there is just something so restorative about the sea. All it takes is a whif of salt water and I feel better.

To get to my favorite place (notice I'm not telling you where), I have to pass by the throng of plebeians on the regular beach (the poor sardines) and I can't help but make comparisons to beaches in the United States.

What you do see here is the usual stuff; families, singles, couples, lounging and swimming, enjoying their moments of sand, sea and sun. Of course, one of the differences is the preponderance of topless women and speedo clad men, but I've already talked about that here, and it's really just a given. But also what I note is that most women, no matter what their size, shape, or age, are wearing bikinis. I remember my first trip to the beach here in France. I was thinking I was all that because I was actually wearing a two piece. The bottoms were a little skirt and the top also had a skirt that covered up my stomach. Of course, I did not buy this little number in France. In fact, I've never seen one like it here. But my back was exposed and I really thought I was something. Within minutes after settling myself in I realized I looked more burka-clad than bikini-clad and some changes were in order. But where I come from, if you're not close to perfection, as in young, thin and no stretch marks, you wear a one piece. It's just expected. Here, after I got my game on and trepidatiously bought my first bikini in 30 years, I realized if they don't care, I certainly don't and it allows me to feel far less self-concious about my body. This is a very good thing. It's also far easier to go topless! I do notice however, that when I don said bikini while in the states, I revert back to shame. Very sad.

What you don't see are blankets laden with giant coolers containing a 24 pack of beer or bags of chips strewn around the claimed space. What? The beach with no beer…no salty snacks? Is this possible? Of course, people eat at the beach. They extract their sandwich, fruit or salad out of their tiny cooler at the appointed meal time, nibble away, and put everything back again after meal time. The french are sticklers for appointed meal times and they don't really snack, even at the beach. They may drink a beer or a glass of wine but I don't see it often. It's all so very civilized! And it might explain why there are more bikinis but that's another article.

I've staked my claim at my spot on mystery beach and my girls and I have vowed that we must go at least once a week until the season is thoroughly finished. In our bikinis and without the Doritos, damn it! It really doesn't get any better than this. We're lucky to live here and we know it.

I hope you are all having a wonderful summer.

Eau de Vie

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Mon, 08 Jul 2013 15:43:00 +0000

Last week I harvested my first cherry tomato of the season. And a gigantic, mini tomato it was! It took all of 15 seconds before this still warm beauty was sliding down my throat; a bit of its wayward juice dripping down my chin. It was really not the first. I’ve had others that had already ripened but they were rendered inedible because of some sort of blight which I’ve since discovered is due to lack of full and regular watering. Geez, water! Why didn’t I think of that?

Well, I have actually. You see my terrace is on the second floor of my apartment and it doesn’t have a water source. It does have a faucet and it would follow that there would be water in that faucet. Mais non! Apparently someone cut off the feed pipe during some work on the building a few years back. Brilliant. Thus, I’ve had to haul my water up these stairs at least 8 times a day. Double that if it's really hot and, well, I just get lazy.

I don’t mind going up and down..at least the first four times. It’s just that these stairs are slippery, the steps pitch slightly forward, and there is no railing. So it’s a question of odds, really. And I do not have one of those buttons to wear around my neck with which I can call someone nearby and feebly whisper “help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! ” Remember this?

So the project a couple of weeks ago, after realizing that it was not only me in danger, but my precious tomatoes as well, was to figure out how to solve this problem. There is a tiny sink in my upstairs bathroom that could work as a water source but I really don’t want a hose running through my bedroom. With my clumsiness, that’s another game of odds! But there is water in my kitchen. Aha! And the kitchen window is the story below the terrace. AHA!

I bought a length of hose, cute, curly, blue hose, and with the help of a friend, threw one end over the terrace wall as she caught the other end and pulled it in the window. And it was as I feared, they wouldn't connect.

Okay, off to the hardware store. I have no idea how to ask for an adapter that connects an outdoor hose to an indoor faucet, so I unscrewed the faucet and took it with me. Let there be no doubt.

With my faucet in hand and the word for adapter in my head...imagine this...it’s adapteur, (one of those great words that’s the same in english if you just add a little french accent to it), I found directions to the correct aisle. Where I found 21 different adapters that all looked exactly the same to me. An older couple was standing before them, trying to make their own selection, and I asked the gentleman what I should buy. He kindly began to help me as his wife disappeared and I had my hands full of little packages when she arrived back with a store clerk in tow. She whispered to me, "my husband thinks he knows what he's doing but he rarely does. I thought you'd be better off with an expert", and we shared a girl giggle. She knew her husband well because he did have it all wrong and in the end I walked out armed with my one little package.

So the hose is now hooked up. Okay, it's not so pretty on the outside but I don't have to look at it! And I consider it a lifeline, as in I have less chance of losing my life in a stairway accident now that I have it.

And the garden is looking lovely. Watered. Some things are just so simple in a roundabout sort of way! No more bottom rotten tomatoes and the rose bush, well, it should come back. The morning glories I planted a few weeks ago from seeds given to me from a parting friend, though not flowering yet, are threatening to cover the entire wall and I now have the opportunity to hose myself down when it just gets too hot. We are all happy and we are all still alive and flourishing.

And now that I have water, I think the next purchase will be a little, inflatable swimming pool. Pool party anyone?

July 4th Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Thu, 04 Jul 2013 12:36:00 +0000

I wrote this article on the 4th of July, 2009 during what was to be my first and last year in France and decided it was a good day to reprint it. It's amazing to me that this is my 5th Independence Day as a resident of France. Apparently the coffee klatch is not over! Today, we watched the 6th leg of the Tour de France depart from Aix en Provence and it's an exciting day. I thanked all the French people around me for organizing such a fun party just for us Americans. And tonight I'm making burgers on the grill for a few of us expats, who, though we've chosen to leave our country for various reasons, still consider her number one in our hearts. Happy Independence Day Americans. And as my cousin Joe reminded me, the French were instrumental in our victory so long ago. So it's my turn to say, thank you France.

I have spent many important days away from my home base. I have missed family birthdays, I have been absent for the birth of friends’ babies, and the funerals of loved ones. I have spent Christmas in the Caribbean, Easter in England, and Thanksgiving in Canada. Being away at such times is never easy.

But as I was contemplating what to do on Saturday, I realized that I have never in my entire life spent the 4^th of July outside of my own country. And when you’re not in the U.S. on this particular day, you really celebrate alone.

Generally on the 4^th of July, I spend the weekend with family at my mother’s cabin in Northern Wisconsin, or I spend it camping with close friends. Either way, it involves food, beverage, chatter, camaraderie, fireworks and a day off work. Not always however, has it involved much reflection. I mean, let’s face it. We all sometimes tend to take for granted what we have and how we came to get it.

So on this day, as I made an arrangement of white flowers in a blue Provencal pitcher and stuck my tiny American flag in it, I thought about my country, which I have chosen to leave for awhile, and what I love about it and what others love (or don’t love) about it.

The French love to TALK about everything and everywhere you go you hear them discussing politics, religion, art, music and philosophy. This is one of the things I find charming about them and also something I find very frustrating at times. However, the subject of my country has come up often and I am always curious to hear their thoughts even if I don’t agree with everything that is said. There is always value in discourse, isn’t there?

Of course there are criticisms of the U.S., some valid and some more a result of the caricature of the United States built on the back of American films, television and media coverage.

The general criticism of my country is its arrogance. The way America and Americans often seem to think that no matter where we are in the world, it belongs to us.

We are sometimes referred to (not kindly) as “les gendarmes du la monde” or policemen of the world.

They think we are a consuming monster much of the time (And we are. I am continually amazed by the way people here manage with tiny cars, smaller homes, less land, fewer belongings and clothes and how they have succeeded in incorporating so many energy saving tricks in their daily lives).

Some think we’re bossy, egotistical, warmongering and secluded and uninformed about the rest of the world.

All of these criticisms hold some grain of truth…some more than others (as do our criticisms of the French) but that’s not what I want to write about. That's another article. Today I want to think about what is loved about where I come from.

So what do they love about us? In fact, they love a lot of things, even if they don’t always admit it (a French friend of mine says they’re just jealous). They love our spirit and our exuberance and attitude that all things are possible. They are thankful for our strength (on D-Day a French friend called me just to say thank you) and they love our inventiveness and our entrepreneurship.

Another French friend of mine likened his country and the rest of Europe to “an elderly person”. I, in turn, compared my country to a teenager. Those of you who have had teenagers (at least teenage boys, which are my only experience) know of what I speak. They eat all the time, they take long, water and heat consuming showers, they sleep too long, stay up too late, they bounce off the walls and trip over their own feet. They are egocentric and not always very cognizant of how their actions affect others and what kind of havoc they can cause in their wake. They are always right. They have a short history and though on the verge of adulthood, they don’t always have the wisdom of years.

On the other hand, they are excited about something all the time, they are full of ideas and hope, they are sure they can accomplish all of their grandiose ideas, no matter how off the wall they might seem. No is not a word they seem to understand nor is “you can’t do that” or ” that’s not possible”. They are physically strong and are still not really sure of the best way to use that power. But they have faith that their future is promising and bright. They are both charming and hateful but completely lovable.

I have come from a country that is still experiencing its teens. With all the charms and foibles that accompany those burgeoning years. And right now I’m visiting an elderly neighbor. You know the one…. you love to visit her home and share coffee and a pastry. You chat and listen to the stories of days gone by and look at her collections of old, beautiful things. You love to hear about what she’s learned through the years and you hope to gain wisdom from her mistakes and her triumphs. You listen patiently (but you’re slightly annoyed) as she explains how things used to be and how uncultured today’s generation is. You agree in many ways but you also know that today’s generation has it’s own wonderful and unique qualities that you wouldn’t trade for anything. You nod your head and smile because she is delightful and wise in many ways, in spite of some of her exasperating opinions.

But sometimes, she just spends a lot of time complaining about almost everything, seems a little resigned to the way things have turned out and she talks a lot but doesn’t seem to get much done.

So I’m still having coffee at the neighbor’s. I’m having a lovely time and enjoying every minute of it and our conversation is not over yet. But the life that I know, back in the good, old US of A, is still the one I will return to…after the coffee klatch is over. And when that time comes, it will be good to be home.

Dommage

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 07:28:00 +0000

The visitor season has begun. And though it's not a long one this year, my visitors are arriving back to back. So in the few hours in between, I'm washing sheets, toilets and my hair (yes, in that order) and trying to put some order back into the refrigerator.

Last week, I picked up my friend Judy from the Marseille airport. I haven't been to Terminal One since last fall and this time I was greeted by a nasty surprise. Gone is the little coffee bistro where you could get yourself a tiny cup of coffee and perhaps a pastry. I don't even think they had sandwiches. Nonetheless, it was a typical cafe and well within the ambiance that should greet visitors as they arrive in France.

However, all that has changed. The bistro is gone and in its place they've built this.

And if you want a cup of coffee, you've now got this.

Both are a bad idea in my opinion and it never ceases to amaze me why nobody asks ME before they embark on projects such as this. This is like the 'malling of America' only worse. C'est tellement dommage. It's really too bad.

My friend and business partner, Libby, is on the train from Paris as I write this and I'll be picking her up at the TGV station in a few hours. I know they've been doing some work on the interior. I hope I'm not going to be greeted with any more horrible surprises.

Have a great week,

Close Just Ain't Good Enough

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 21 May 2013 11:49:00 +0000

"Oh my god, I think I called the mayor at prostitute this morning!"

These were the first words out of my friend Tenley's mouth when she came to visit the other day. Tenley used to be my neighbor here in Aix but last fall she moved up to a tiny village in the Luberon. And I'm not kidding when I say tiny. Four hundred people and not even a bakery. How does one live without a bakery, I ask?

Sorry, I digress. And in the first paragraph, no less. It's just that I get so upset about that bakery business!

Anyway, as she drove down here to Aix, she was ruminating over the conversation she'd had with Madame mayor that morning and it dawned on her what she may have said. But she isn't sure. And neither am I.

I'm just NEVER sure. I'm not afraid to talk and not afraid to try. Generally. But language screw-ups are part of daily life when you aren't a native speaker and are often just too funny. Certainly there are those times when you get the word completely wrong but usually it's words that are just...so...close. Like the time I was on a date and the monsieur pointed out to me, kindly I thought, that there was a little fleck of something just under my nose. I had a little scab there and I said brightly, "Oh don't worrry, it's just a booger". I used the word crotte (crotte de nez is a booger; crotte de chien is dog poop) instead of croute (scab). I didn't realized my mistake until I saw the look on his face which was something between dismay and disgust. Crotte….croute…close, but not close enough.

This past weekend, a team of masseuses and I volunteered our services at a charity regatta in Marseille. Beforehand, I was trying to describe our project to a friend. I explained that we would be massaging teams of…well, this is where it got tricky because I wanted to say 'teams of sailors' and the word for sail is voile. Instead, I said 'teams of voleurs'. WRONG! We were not going to massage teams of thieves. I corrected myself and said "teams of violeurs". WRONG again! Nor did we have any plans to massage teams of rapists. I never did arrive at the word I needed because it apparently doesn't exist. The word sailor does not even have the word "sail" in it! We eventually got to the point but not without a lot of both confusion and hilarity. Close but no cigar.

My friend Doreen and I were laughing about this story and she recounted her latest horror. She is German and is but is also considered fluent in both French and English. But fluency doesn't make her immune to these faux pas. She works for a distributor of grains, seeds and other health-foody sorts of things. She was speaking to a customer last week to tell him that his shipment would be late because they didn't have enough of the algae he needed in order to fill his order. She kindly assured him that it would only be a few days before the manufacturer could produce his full half-ton of fetuses and she would send them to him directly. Fucus...fetus....I mean they're almost the same, aren't they?

But often, it's not a question of getting the words wrong, it's simply a question of pronunciation. There are some words that sound so similar that I can't hear the difference much less pronounce it. Like the words dessous (underneath) and dessus (on top of). Opposite meanings but they sound exactly the same to me. It has something to do with the horrible "u" sound that we don't have in English. I've been tutored on this. I'm supposed to make the long e sound at the same time I'm forming my mouth into a tight "o" while sticking out my lips. Hey, you try that! Then pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.

Last year after going to see a movie, I announced to my friend that I had spent a half-an-hour in line just to get in. He looked at me with astonishment and asked me to repeat what I'd said. I said it again with authority. And then he began to laugh…and laugh….and I knew I'd done it again, whatever it was this time. My sentence was "j'ai passé un demi heure dans une queue". It seems to me this sentence is correct. But apparently what I really said was the word cul, which in common language means ass, and not the donkey kind. Yes, I know, they look completely different when written but they sound exactly the same to me. The second, however, involves the aforementioned convoluted mouth/lip formation. Which I obviously haven't yet mastered. This explains why the 3 elderly ladies at the end of the line that day did not respond well when I asked if they were the end of the ass.

The word queue can also mean tail, or dick. Cul can also mean porn or screwing, among other things. Both words, with all their meanings, are truly useful in conversation. But not in MY conversation. You will never, ever hear me mention my cat's tail and I now wait in a file d'attente.

We still don't know what Tenley actually said to the mayor but they're still talking so apparently either there was no insult, or people in her village are still talking to her just to see what she'll say next. My bets are on the latter.

P.S. I want to take this opportunity to wish my beautiful mother a very Happy Birthday. Je t'aime Maman. xo

Cubism

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 14 May 2013 08:58:00 +0000

The first time I saw a box of wine in France, I was shocked. SHOCKED!

Boxed wine in France? This is an aberration. It can't be true!

I was at a village picnic and I was told to go get myself a glass of wine at the beverage table set up in the field. This was my first summer here and certainly my first village picnic. You can probably imagine what my visions were, but just to make it clear, it involved buckets and buckets of chilling bottles of wine, refracting the rays of the late afternoon sunshine...blah...blah…blah.

Sort of like this.

Except it wasn't.

Instead, what I found on the long, plastic table were boxes of white, red and rosé, lined up like soldiers along the table's edge. The villagers, who obviously were not shocked about this outrageous oddity had brought pitchers along with their picnic and continuously passed by the table to fill and refill as the evening went on. If truth be told, the more I poured from our table's pitcher, the more I found the whole thing kind of charming. And the wine was actually good.

So yes, sorry to break it to you, but French people do drink boxed wine, or a cubi as they call it. To prove it, here's the aisle of Rosé at the supermarché. This being the beginning of Rosé season, they're well stocked.

Red and white fans have a pretty good selection as well.

Of course, these are generally not the high end varieties, but even our low and medium end can be pretty damned good. The advantages are, as with all boxed wine, it's cheaper, it lasts for 6 weeks, or so they tell me, and you can drink a glass or two at a time without losing the rest of the bottle. This is also hearsay, since I'll be damned if I'm going to ever let half a bottle go to waste

My last box sat on my kitchen counter for a day or two, but then I hid it from myself.

Too much of a good thing is, well, just too much. And this one turned out to be not so great. The giant Hyper U symbol on the side might have been my first clue! That is the negative side of boxed wine. If you don't like it ,you've got 3 to 5 litres to finish before you get to try something else.

But if you liked it, and after you've removed the bladder from the box and squeezed out every last drop (my friend Holly has experimented extensively with the bladder squeeze and says there is always another glass and 3/4 left in the bag) the effect can be rather tragic.

Isn't this just a sad photo?

Poor, broken down, shell of a bag.

Now if boxed wine isn't to your liking, we also have wine fill-in stations. I'm not kidding! Take your plastic 5 litre jug to the local wine co-op which you'll find in every other village, and they'll fill it up with their table wine variety in any color.

This has to be consumed or bottled pretty quickly since it won't last more than a day or two but it's great for a party and it amuses the hell out of my visitors.

My box of wine is gone, consumed during a long and very late table conversation which probably wouldn't have been nearly so long and late if I hadn't had that ginormous box of wine. I think for now, at least until visitor season starts in two weeks, I'll stick with bottles. It's safer.

Le Vent Rend Fou

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 17:47:00 +0000

Translation: The wind makes you crazy.

Here in Provence, we are treated periodically to the crazy wind that comes in from the north/northwest, called the Mistral. It can blow for one day or many and after several days of the constant onslaught, it just plain wears you out... or makes you nuts. After trying to navigate one particularly nasty mistral in Isle sur la Sorgue, I ended up with vertigo for several hours afterward and really thought I was going bonkers until someone assured me that this feeling is common. Local lore says that if the wind lasts for more than one day, it will last three. If it continues longer than three, it will last six. After that it's a nine-dayer. By the time we get to nine days, which I've never experienced, everyone in Provence would be completely off their rocker and the psych wards would be overflowing, I'm sure.

Here in Aix en Provence we are partially protected from the wind because we are situated in a valley. Don't get me wrong, we get the Mistral, but in Arles or Avignon, for instance, it can be far worse. If you're the economical type, there you can treat yourself to a free, full facial exfoliation simply by situating yourself properly during the mistral and its ensuing blowing sand.

The mistral wind has truly moulded the landscape of this region with its ferocity. In many places in Provence our trees grow at a slant because of the wind's force. Growers anchor their fruit trees on 3 sides to guard against toppling, and farmers plant rows of Cypress around their fields to protect against its violence. Traditional Provencal architecture has also taken the wind into account. Farm houses, particularly in the Camargue, are built facing south with very few or no windows on the north wall, and our bell towers are often fashioned out of lacy iron so the wind can blow through them rather than blow them over.

Yes, the Mistral can be a bad thing. In the summer when the landscape is hot and dry, it can pick up a spark and turn it into a ferocious and devastating fire in minutes. I was having dinner near Martigue one night last summer as one of these balls of fire roared past us. Everybody told me not to worry because the wind would move it south so fast it wouldn't touch us. They were right, it didn't, but an entire town that was unfortunate enough to be in its path had to be evacuated. And the Mistral can turn a perfectly warm, inviting Mediterranean sea into an ice bath overnight with no thought at all for anyone's weekend beach plans.

There are good things about the Mistral however. The mistral is precisely the reason that Provence is Provence. First and most importantly, it helps us grow great grapes! But also, this cold, dry wind generally blows away the clouds and clears the air giving us the exceptional Provençal light that so many painters have spent decades trying to capture on canvas. Though the winds generally come in winter or spring, on a hot summer day a mistral can drastically change the temperature and the humidity in all of 5 minutes. The first time I felt this I was sure I was going to see a major tornado blowing down the Cours Mirabeau (a natural thought from one born in "Tornado Alley") and I got out my video camera in anticipation.

And the Mistral brings gifts. I have received several pots, laundry baskets and mop buckets that have blown in from elsewhere, as well as some completely useless things like (ick) various and sundry socks and underwear.

Several weeks ago after a particularly maniacal three day mistral, I opened my terrace door and found this.

Yes, a another gift from the Wind Gods. The barbecue grill had blown in from somebody else's terrace and landed smack dab in the middle of my terrace, on its feet and in perfect working order (I did put the grill on straight for the photo). The mistral also brought a gift for Arthur-the-Cat. You can just see his ears peaking up from that cozy comforter that landed so conveniently on his chair and which he accepted as if it were his due. Of course Monsieur Mistral also brought all the other debris that is laying on the terrace and I'm finally getting around to cleaning it up today so I can do the planting.

I don't need this present since I already have a little one that is just the right size for me and my little terrace but I'm leaving it exactly where it landed, at least for a little while. I'm thinking that the next wind might drop a couple of steaks or some nice, fat sausages directly on the grill. Come to think of it, I'd better get the fire laid in advance for this great moment.

And if I'm really lucky, or unlucky depending on where I'm sitting at the time, this might blow in as well.

The guy above and behind me stores his bike on the roof. There is another one on the roof above that. If the Wind Gods stay with me, my terrace should be their direct target.

But now that I look at this photo, I realize that my neighbor's lush forest of pot plants has disappeared. Pouf! Gone with the wind. Well shitballs, I wonder who got those?

Another Day, Another Dollar

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 12:10:00 +0000

It's been 3 weeks since I arrived back on my doorstep and its subsequent 4 flights of stairs here in Aix en Provence. Three weeks in which I've seemed to do nothing but sleep. Okay, the first week I had visitors so sleep wasn't an option but these last two I've been behaving like a teenager. Snooze till 11…3 hour nap….sleep till 9…2 hour nap. I've spent several full days enrobed in my deliciously enormous, Memorial High School Baseball hoodie and my plaid flannel pajama bottoms. No exit…no reason to. It's been lovely.

I meant to come home in January. But then this happened.

Yes, my sister and I bought another house. Isn't it cute?

As I've mentioned before, my biggest dilemma in France is that I don't have the right to work. I'm a resident yes, but I cannot work. The only way that I've found to solve this is to get hitched and…um…well…I've already done my time. I can receive the right to work (and pay taxes in France) in another year but truthfully, my chances of getting hired here are dismal to none. The French system of employment is pretty linear. Employers want a CV (resume) that shows your field of study and that you've worked in that field. And that's where they want you to stay. Not a lot of coloring outside of the lines here. And to top it off, they simply don't seem to hire older workers. There is a very high unemployment rate for those over 50 and it doesn't look to be changing soon. So, a middle-aged woman who speaks French like a child with a mid-western accent to boot, who has a television journalism degree but hasn't been on camera for 30 years, but who has done just about everything else and can handle just about every situation thrown at her, is not a good prospect. Tant pis pour eux! Too bad for them.

But this situation obviously poses some big ol' problems. I have to earn my money in the states, which in turn poses a problem since I'm not there. Most of the time. So this time home, as the last time, my sissie and I bought a house to redo and rent. In fact, since this is our second, we ended up forming a business and not only do I now know how to tile a bathroom, cut copper pipe, rip a board and install a ceiling, I also have to learn to be an accountant (what the hell is double-entry bookkeeping anyway?) and a business manager. Holy Heat Duct Batman, doesn't life just keep getting more interesting?

The sale was delayed and delayed and in the end we had 30 days to turn over the house before I had to leave. The day we signed the papers, we were at the house in our well-used work clothes (winter models this time) and back at it again. Twelve to fifteen hours a day we worked. On the days she had to work at the fire station, I joined her there in the evenings where she has cable, and we watched DIY television, which is how I learned to cut copper pipe, by the way! My work clothes left my body in a heap each night and were pulled back up again very early each morning. And we had a ball. Seriously.

I learned that 3 days without a toilet on-site is not a problem whatsoever.

This should say "pee bucket" but it was -15 degrees and the marker didn't want to work.

She learned that her new favorite tool is a grout mixer that attaches to the drill.

I learned that mine is a tile saw.

We learned that you can, in fact, tile over old mastic…no matter what anyone says. Is this not the most magnificent, though elementary, tile job you've ever seen?

We learned that the best way to order plumbing parts is to just take a picture of the damned thing before you go to the hardware store.

"I'll have one of these please!"

And this project brought home what we already knew. Your team is the most important thing!

So these are some of the before and afters.

I think we were destined to do this sort of work together. After all, we have matching roto zips!

On our last day, after we hung our sign and gotten ready for our party (of course we had a party there. Every house needs to be baptised!), we cracked a beer in the frozen garage and congratulated ourselves. And we both got all sad. Not because it was time for me to go but because this work is way too much fun and so rewarding. We not only were so much better at it this time, but we realized that the first house and our ability to work together was not a fluke. We're good at it!

We are "Sisters Saving Houses"

And we gotta get ourselves another one. Quick.

But first I've got to get out of my bathrobe and enjoy the life I'm working so hard to keep.

Happy Spring my friends,

Ice Cold

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 16:04:00 +0000

This week here in Minneapolis (yes, I'm STILL here) the temperature has descended to -17 F. (-23C) with windchills somewhere near -30 (-34C). I'd like to puff up my buffalo plaid bound chest, hook my thumbs under my red suspenders and boast that as a born and bred Minnesotan, this insanity doesn't affect me. You know, "awwwh, this is nothin'. You should a been here in '68. Now that was cold".

The fact is, it's colder than I can imagine anymore and I often wonder how people here can stand it. Especially when it continues for months on end. But I have to hand it to these people, they seem to find ways to enjoy this nasty, bitter, mind-numbing cold. In fact, many would describe it as crisp, refreshing, and mind-numbingly beautiful. It's a cup half full sort of thing. And, I'm serious, they really do take advantage of the season.

Minnesota is a state that boasts 11, 482 lakes (15,291 is the total if you add all the unnamed lakes). That makes for a lot of mosquitos in the summer and a lot of ice in the winter. We are literally surrounded. Even here in the city, there are lakes everywhere. And people use them. There's just nothing more fun than a vast, flat, slippery expanse where the wind blows like a buggar and there is no shelter from its assault. Doesn't that sound inviting?

Of course people skate and play hockey on the ice. That's just a given.

But there are all sorts of options for moving along the ice. You can two wheel across it

or choose the 4 wheel version if you prefer.

Three wheels work too when it's time to freeze the babies to sleep.

Snow Kiting gets you across with only one "wheel" and it looks like way too much fun.

I am going to do this one of these days...really!

A lake full of unending, frozen water makes for a great midnight walk under a full moon. The noises emanating from the shifting ice sound like the underwater cry of whales. It's both creepy and cool. While you're there, a little body curling is an option. If you don't know what curling is, you're obviously not from around these parts. Body curling is my family's version of this time-honored, northern game.

My mom resting after joining us in aforementioned sport. Who body curls at 75 anyway?

Midnight ice art is also amusing.

Afterwards, at about 1 am, you can build a fire and enjoy a cold beverage next to the eerily beautiful field of frozen water.

Ice fishing is a favorite pastime.

I have said I'd never do it. I was wrong, as I am about most things I've said I'd never do.

And some nuts even work on it.

My sister, the firefighter, doing ice rescue maneuvers. Because not all Minnesotans are smart enough to know when the ice is too thin to be enjoyed.

And then there's just the sheer beauty of it all.

The end of the day at the fishing shack. Sort of reminds me of the movie Grumpy Old Men.

Of course, it's not always below zero here. Yesterday it got to 10 degrees and my sister and I were remarking how warm it felt. Considering it was 20 degrees warmer than the day before, relatively speaking, it was warm! And this weekend it should get to 30 degrees. I heard the guy on the radio describe the coming warm front as "spring break"!

Minnesota is not the south of France but it certainly has it's own delights. I've got another project I'm working on here and must stay until the end of February. It will still be winter here at that point. But I'll get to return to Aix en Provence, just as the almond trees are beginning their bloom. And next year, the family has decided to spend Christmas in Jamaica. I'm game. I don't know how we'll manage to have any fun with no ice and all, but we'll manage.

Warm thoughts to all,

France Factor

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 02:58:00 +0000

They say the best way to kill a blog is to stop posting for awhile. I do this frequently. I'm truly surprised this puppy is not dead in the water and my New Year's resolution is to try to post more regularly while I'm traveling. And to get rid of belly fat.

However, my blog is supposed to be about my life in France. The ups and downs of my daily, normal life wouldn't be very interesting without the France Factor. I mean, writing about belly fat would just be a bummer unless it's been directly caused by an overabundance of French cheese and wine. The subject of shedding it is equally stale unless I'm consistently tempted by said items. And how do I write about France when I've been spending so much time in the United States lately?

So today, my France Factor is the book giveaway from my last post. Yes folks, we have a winner of Paulita Kincer's new book, The Summer of France. As usual, it was a secure drawing done with the utmost professionalism. . . .scraps of paper in a bowl on the patio.

And was overseen by the keen eye of Nelsen, my former canine whom I abandoned to my son when I moved to France four years ago (obviously he's still really troubled by my rejection).

The winner of Paulita's book is Jacqui from The French Village Diaries. Congratulations Jacqui. I know it was supposed to be a Christmas present but you'll now have to consider it your first read of the New Year. And those of you who didn't win it, thank you for reading and entering. Now, buy it!

I WILL write next week when I get back to Minnesota (I'm currently freezing my plump, after-Christmas-butt off in Mesa, Arizona where I'm visiting my son). After all, I only have two New Year's resolutions and this seems to be the easiest to accomplish. That belly fat issue is going to take some real work!

I wish all of you a New Year full of contentment, prosperity, love and rockin' attitude!

See you on the flip side of 2012.

The Summer of France Book Giveaway!

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 15:13:00 +0000

I got a lovely, little present the other day by way of my Kindle. My blogging buddy, author Paulita Kincer, sent me a copy of her new book as a thank you for having her daughter stay with me for a few days here in the south. So by the magic of 3G, whatever the hell that is, I had her novel in my grubby paws within minutes.

Which is exactly where it stayed until I was finished with it. Yep, I read the whole thing in one sitting, with little breaks to at least try to check off a few things on that nasty to-do list that's been plaguing me. Well, bless you Paulita, you took me away from all that. At least for a day.

Could a crackly phone call from France to Ohio save Fia Randolph’s jobless complications and family troubles? That’s what she hopes when her Uncle Martin asks Fia, her husband, and teenage twins to move to Provence and take over his bed and breakfast. She envisions long picturesque walks carrying crusty baguettes and bonding with the kids as they all learn French. But Fia didn’t bargain on the way Provence would tempt her teens and husband away from the family. Then Uncle Martin’s World War II secret wrenches her family further apart. Can Fia pull her family back together and help clear her uncle’s guilty conscience?

Paulita didn't ask me to mention her book on my blog. I approached her. Because the book is good; one of those novels that just take you away for awhile. And in this case, you get to take a little trip to my region of France. The story, about a woman pulling stakes and moving her family to Provence, had me at the first page and didn't disappoint me by wrapping it all up in a perfect, pretty package. The main character is likable, believable, flawed enough to make her real and took me in from the first page. I got what I needed from a great read; action, romance, mystery, broken promises, angst, humor, and joy. And I'm not telling you any more than that!

Paulita is offering an early Christmas present to some lucky soul by offering a book for give-away. Yippee! We've got a give-away! Kindle, Nook or paperback version, your choice.

So leave a comment on my blog and your name will go in the hat. I'll throw it in again if you tweet the giveaway. I'll do it again if you mention it on your blog or link this post up to your facebook page. Please don't forget, if you do not have an email address associated with your comments, please leave me some way to get a hold of you. And in your comment, tell me what you did (as in social media) so I can keep adding your name.

If you're not the lucky winner, can enjoy Paulita's book by clicking here where you'll find all the links on her website. You've got all sorts of options, including Nook and Kindle version. Take a few moments away from the Christmas Crazies and go on an adventure in Provence. And congratulations to Paulita. This is a score!

I hope you all had warm and blessed Thanksgiving. All I can say is, thank god for elastic!

P.S. Provence Rugs is offering FREE SHIPPING until December 24! Shop early. Buy lots!

Fair Lay Vah Lees

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 09:49:00 +0000

I'm doing the last minute mad dash to get ready to go the United States for the holidays. I was hoping to be starting another home refurbishing project while there, but it looks like it's not to be. No worries. I'll just enjoy the holidays with my family and friends and try not to be too conspicious as I park myself at the home of this person or that during the 2 months. Most of my time is spent at my sister and brother-in-law's home. My poor brother-in-law. I am quite sure he didn't sign on to have a sister-in-law who visits twice a year and seems to stay…and stay….and stay!

As I was packing and cleaning yesterday, I found a little post-it note in the suitcase that I used for this same journey a year ago. I'm not sure why I saved it but it cracked me up when I found it.

At the time, while staying with my sis, I was expecting a call from France. From somebody who did not speak English. I needed to go out and knew I wouldn't be there to take the call. The idea of answering a phone call in French raises panic around those parts so I posted a note by the telephone to help out whomever should answer the phone.

Here's the note.

No this is not Hungarian, Sundanese or even Pig Latin. This is apparently my version of phonetic spelling.

In real French it would go like this:

Elle n'est pas ici en ce moment. Elle fait le shopping avec ses enfants. Elle va revenir vers cinque heure.

Translated this simply means:

"She isn't here at the moment. She's shopping with her kids. She'll be back around 5 o'clock".

It seemed so simple. In reality it was not and no usable information was passed between the two parties. I guess I need to work on my phonetic spelling.

This year, Jennie, I promise no phone calls and no home improvement projects. And Dan, I'll try to not hang my drying underwear all over the bathroom. And I will cook Thanksgiving dinner in its entirety (my first Thanksgiving home since 2008!).

Your sister ay tray um-pah-see-ahnt duh reh-veh-neer shay voo.

P.S. Provence Rugs will be offering free shipping from November 23rd until Christmas Day. Our new Brocante items will be on the site starting tomorrow. Yippee!

hint

Nouveaux Modele

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Thu, 15 Nov 2012 17:22:00 +0000

As in most cities, Aix en Provence has it's share of street beggars. Some who are most likely in a heap of merde and some who seem to be professional. I know this because I've seen them "come to work" in the morning in their brand new vans. There are those that sit every day looking almost theatrically downtrodden, complete with props and won't leave you alone for a second and those who will not look at you but simply hold a sign that explains their situation. Some greet you with a smile and a hello and then there are those certain homeless who prop themselves up against the side of a building with a bottle of cheap whiskey, a paper cup for their winnings and their 4 scruffy dogs. I give periodically but I simply can't everyday, nor do I want to. I don't have any particular criteria, but I prefer that somebody offers me something for my money. Because it falls within the definition of work!

So there's the guy who sits in the Passage Agard every day. He spends his days making ashtrays out of soda cans. Yeah, I know, not the epitome of chic but at least he's doing SOMETHING! I don't know why, but I just like the guy. He says hello to everyone with a lovely smile and he doesn't harangue them. Every day that I walk by, he beams at me, says hello, asks how I am and waves his hand over his wares, inviting me to once again participate in his project. Well, okay, he beams until I ask him how he is and then he remembers to frown and tell me things are not good and he needs to eat. He seems pretty well fed to me but I like him nonetheless.

I have bought several ashtrays from him in the past which might explain his affinity for me. I really don't have much use for them. I set them on the terrace where they are generally not seen and they just blow away. Which is fine. I also use them to store nuts and bolts and such and keep them in the cupboard, again, where they can't be seen.

Yesterday, I decided it was, again, time to contribute to the cause and stopped to check out the goods. I surveyed his colorful scrapheap and picked up the red and green one. I said, "this one is very Christmasy". His face broke into another enormous smile and he said excitedly, "Yes madame, that one is a new model!

So not wanting to be behind the times and sure that you want to get with the program as well, I'm hearby unveiling the nouveaux modele from the workshop-of-the-guy-in-the-passage.

We're taking Christmas orders now.

Something Old, Something New

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 13 Nov 2012 16:59:00 +0000

Once again, welcome to another self-promoting blog post of the shameless variety.

If you've ever clicked on the button over on the side of my blog, called Provence Rugs, you'll know that I have an Internet store that sells handmade rugs and accessories from the south of France.

Today we're announcing new products and hope you'll take the time to check them out. New in our line-up of cool, French stuff are table linens, as in

placemats….

napkins...

and tablecloths.

All featuring our beautiful, French cotton fabric and all (mostly) made in the U.S. of A.

My favorite feature in our new product selection is the Brocante. This is because this gives me a great excuse to scour the Brocante markets here in France. Okay, I do that anyway but this gives me an excuse to buy as much as I want! This month we're featuring vintage, linen dishtowels which are a hot item

and will probably be gone before I get back to the states in a week with a suitcase full of new treasures. Namely, luxurious linen, vintage monogrammed sheets. Here's a sneak peak. Drum roll please…...

I can't even tell you how hard it is for me to sell these new finds.

Please push that gigantic, yellow button over to the right of my blog and do a little window shopping. Or you can click here. Don't be afraid to buy…it's the giving season you know!

* * * * *

And while I'm self-promoting, I want to mention that someone has nominated me for the

ExpatsBlog.com Top blog award. I don't really know what that means, but if you like my blog (particularly on non shameless self-promotion days) and have a moment, head on over there and write something glowing about it. I would like that very much.

Okay. I think I'm done.

From here on out, I'll be back to my vie quotidienne.

I promise.

Thanks for hanging in there with me!

French Feline Affliction

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Wed, 07 Nov 2012 18:29:00 +0000

Meet Arthur the Cat.

He's chronically stressed.

I'm sure you can see how stressed he is.

Poor guy.

This is basically Arthur's life. He eats, he sleeps in the sun, he snuggles up next to me at night. And then he starts all over again.

Oh yeah, and he travels a lot.

And I travel a lot.

Which is apparently what is causing all this terrible stress.

When we were staying at the mansion at the end of the summer, Arthur saved me from 2 near-deadly bats attacks on 2 separate occasions. Simple as pie. I duck out while bat is flying around looking to kill me, I shut the door leaving Arthur to the wolves, and he apparently (though we shall never know because the door is shut) jumps up and grabs killer bat and brings him out to me within 1 minute, not quite dead. More as a squirmy, little, evil, present. You'd never know Arthur was a city cat. I was so proud.

But after "the bat incidents" I took Arthur to the vétérinaire because I figured I probably needed to bring him up to date on his shots. Bat rabies and all that. The vet took one look at him and announced that Arthur was stressed.

I said, "of course he his, I shoved him head first into his kitty carrier, descended 3 flights of stairs, walked half a mile to the parking garage, put him in the car, left him in the car while I stopped at the grocery, and then brought him here. He's not laying in the sun this afternoon. That's why he's stressed."

No, she said, look at his stomach and his butt. He doesn't have any hair. He's licking it off. Watch him. This is chronic stress. Has there been something stressful in his life lately?

To self: "Well, he's French. The French are more stressed and depressed than anybody in the world. I'm sure it's that French thing. You know, 35 hour work weeks, affordable health care, 8 plus weeks of vacation a year. French cats probably take on all that French stress."

To her: "Well yeah, but he's like that sometimes. He was partially plucked when I rescued him from the Cat Refuge. And he's always slightly bald after I've been away. Or when he has to go away. Or when the two of us go away together.

Have you been away much?

Let's see…this year? Ummmmnn…United States for a month, The Seychelles for 2 weeks, Switzerland for two weeks, England for a week, United States again for 7 weeks, Morocco for 4 days and, of course, several weekend trips. But he has really good babysitters. Lots and lots of really good babysitters. And he started obsessively bathing when we went to the mansion as well, and he was so content there.

"He's stressed. Cats are territorial and change is really hard on them."

Big bout of animal owner guilt. What have I done to this poor cat? Oh my, I'm going to have to find a better owner for him; one more deserving? I can't stand to do that. I need him. He needs me.

Then I looked down at Arthur, sitting on the floor of the clinic, eyes nodding in half-sleep, which is apparently the way he looks when he's stressed…and when he's not, and said out loud, "get over it".

Oops, did I say that? Yep, I did. Get over it, Arthur. You've got a great life, you've met lots of wonderful people who generally like you unless they hate cats or are allergic to them. You get fed the best food there is, you have your own cat terrace complete with wicker chair and cat cushion, and you rule over all the other roof cats on the block. You sleep under down comforters and on down pillows, you have a cache of kitty toys and occasionally bats to play with and you're the only cat I know that goes on vacation every year to live in an 18th century manor house with your own 300 year old kitty door. For god's sakes, we all refer to you as King Arthur. So…just…get…over it!

I talk a tough game, but in the end I spent more on that damned, stressed cat than I have this entire year on my own health care. We now have natural medicines to help him feel more comfortable and a lovely little kitty pheromone diffuser that not only cost me at the outset and every month thereafter, but also uses expensive electricity to release calming voodoo into the air wherever he may be staying or whenever he is stressed, which is, apparently, always.

As I exited with all my expensive, guilt induced medicines, I asked the vet if there was such a thing as a pheronome diffuser for people.

She said, "No, sadly not. Because French people could really use them."

ba dum bum!

Foot in Mouth

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 06 Nov 2012 15:00:00 +0000

I've eaten all sorts of things here in France that I would never touch when I lived in the states. I was never a particularly picky eater but I'm not really into raw anything for instance. But since my arrival here, I've eaten raw oysters, raw mussels, raw snails, raw beef, raw fish, all sorts of fish eggs, raw chicken eggs and raw sea urchins. (In case you're wondering, one uses malt vinegar on raw mussels and lemon juice on raw oysters.) Mind you, I have not said I like all these items but I have voluntarily put them in my mouth.

I've tried blood sausage, partaken in pigeon, I regularly eat lamb and duck which I just didn't care for all that much in the states, and I adore a good foie gras. I've explained before some of the odd (gross) stuff that people eat here in the south of France. And the anxiety is….okay, the dread is that I'll be actually expected to eat some of this stuff.

The moment of truth came last weekend. I was at a large dinner party, the sole American amidst a group of born and bred Marseillaise. All was going well. Too well. The hors d'oevres, though at times curious, were all things I've put in my mouth before. The champagne flowed and with it my ability to get along in conversation with very little trouble, in spite of some very thick Marseille accents. But there was a decidedly odd smell in the room. The smell of doom.

We were all seated and the hostess came to the table with a colossal caste iron pot, opened it up to serve and amidst all the oohs, ahs and ooh la las, my throat closed up as I recognized what was in the pot. It was the dreaded, disgusting, oh-my-I-could-never-in-my-life-eat-something-like-that, pieds et paquets (feet and packages)

I've explained these before but for a refresher, they are a mixture of sheep feet and little packages of sheep stomach (tripe) filled with some sort of stuffing which are cooked in a tomato based sauce. Here's a lovely, appetizing photo of these delicacies before they get to the pot.

What to do? The hostess saw the look on my face in spite of my best efforts to hide it. She said, "these are a little special. Would you like to try them? Otherwise, I can find something else". Eleven sets of eyes stared at me (maybe they weren't but it felt like it). My mind batted the options back and forth in rapid fire. Do I risk offending the hostess by refusing? That would put me in the weeny American category. Do I risk eating them and possibly vomiting at the table? George Bush, le père, vomited once while eating with the Japanese Prime Minister and his life went on. I could just go hide in the bathroom but I'd have to stay there a long time and french toilettes are so tiny. In the end, I really didn't feel there was a choice; I had to go down with the ship.

I said, "Of course, I'd love to try them. But not too much please. I ate too many hors d'oevres." She FILLED my plate and I grabbed several hunks of bread to help push them down and asked for more wine.

I took a tiny, delicate bite. Hey, not bad. I took another as somebody began to explain exactly what it was it that I was eating. The hostess stopped him and said "after...it's better to explain after". He didn't need to explain, I already knew. But in fact, I enjoyed them very much as long as I didn't think about what it was I was eating. I can't say the same for the feet, which are cooked long enough so that the hoofs and bones sort of congeal. Eew! The texture was ~~a little~~ far more than I could handle. I tried them but left the remainder on my plate and in order to make amends for my bad manners, I asked for seconds on the paquets and ate them with a certain theatrical gusto.

I believe I won some brownie points for my handling of the situation because afterwards a few people asked me what I really thought. When I explained that I honestly liked the paquets but simply could not handle the texture of the feet, several people agreed with me and said they skip them as well. Well, now you all tell me! It's just too much fun to mess with the American, isn't it? I was also informed that this dish can often be crucified if the cook doesn't know what she or he is doing and this particular hostess is know for her excellent pieds and paquets. So at least my baptism by fire was overseen by someone with experience in pyrotechnics.

I can assure you I won't be making this Provençal treat anytime soon chez moi but I consider it one more culinary adventure under my belt. And it didn't come back up! Yesterday at lunch I was served little, tiny octopuses on a salad. I don't know if they were cooked but they were marinated in something which turned them a sort of rosy red. I cautiously popped the whole thing in my mouth, head and all, clamped down and began to chew…and chew….and chew. After all that masticating with no perceived value for my palate, I'm now adding whole, marinated octopus to the list of things I don't need to eat again. This list includes congealed sheep feet and raw snails. Somewhere along the line, a girl's just gotta have limits.

I would love to hear what sorts of weird things you've eaten and if they were worth the effort.

P.S. To all my American friends, please don't neglect your voting privilege today. We can't ever take that for granted.

P.P.S. There's a sale going on over at Provence Rugs and new items coming in this week. Check it out!

The Moroccan Two-Step in Four-Four Time

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 14:13:00 +0000

Saturday night, after I dropped the last visitor off at the airport, I turned the sign on the door, so to speak. Despite the fact that I still seem to have a straggler on the couch, this guest house is "now closed for the season" and life will return to normal, whatever that is.

I always have mixed feelings about this moment of the year when there are no more expectations of friends coming to visit or new travels on the immediate horizon. It's exhausting but at the same time a grand gift to have a revolving door that deposits so many wonderful people in my foyer or sends me to so many fabulous places to visit them. However, this year I'm done. Worn out. Definitively finished. I've been drained…literally!

I've spent the last two weeks with my dear friends and fellow troublemakers from our London days.

One I've kept in contact with since that semester so long ago and another we reconnected with three years ago. The two have come here together for the past two years. This year however, we finally found the fourth member of our posse and we were all together for the first time in 20 years.

My grand idea for a little side trip this year was to jump on over to Morocco for 4 days so after a short 1 1/2 days in France we flew to our exotic destination. I'll write more about Morocco in a future post but I will tell you what we came home with from that trip.

Tourista (in French)…otherwise know as Montezuma's Revenge, Turkey Trots, Delhi Belly or you may fill in the blank here with whatever name you find amusing ___________. The fact is, it wasn't.

Two of us fell ill while in Morocco and our fear was that we wouldn't be able to get back, but a break in the action lasted just long enough to get back to France, where it started all over again in full force. So there we were, 4 women locked in my little apartment (thank god it has 2 toilets), no escape. Periodic sorties for more toilet paper and nourishment were all we could manage and by the end of their trip, my friends had managed to see:

1. A couple of streets in Aix en Provence
2. Fes, Morocco
3. The inside of my apartment with a special concentration on the bathrooms.

My poor girls. My poor stomach. This is a really SHITTY way to lose a couple of kilos. And one should never lose kilos on a trip to the south of France. I believe it's forbidden, actually.

So we talked, we laughed, we cried, we watched Gone With the Wind all the way through. We attempted meals. We gave up. We stepped over each other and on each other. We discussed our gastrointestinal systems to no end. Potty humor became our means of survival. We napped. We talked some more and laughed and cried all at the same time. And we had a wonderful time. Really.

My living room on a normal day

My living room after 4 days locked inside

My bedroom after the same 4 days of confinement

For all of us, new wrinkles and sags, creaks and aches have hitched a ride with the years, as have precious moments and beloved memories. Time has also brought with it unimaginable tragedy for one of our lives and deep sadness and loss for all of us in one form or another. Those things that were unthinkable in our youth and most definitely not in the in the plans we had for ourselves.

What amazed me is that in spite of it all, we are really all the same people that we were back in 1980. On the other hand, because of it all, we are not. Each of these wonderful women has taken what life has thrown directly in her gut with no gentleness whatsoever, and has produced something good and hopeful from the pain. It is for this that they are not the same women I knew then. They are better. I am so proud to know them and be a part of their lives. I hope they come back. I would really like for them to see more than this...

or this...

and most especially this!

Next year I think we'll go to St. Tropez!

God is in the details

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 11 Sep 2012 09:19:00 +0000

Last Friday, my friend Marcia sent me a message asking if I might meet her in Lourmarin the next morning for coffee, a gab session and perhaps to take in a bit of the Friday market. I did not have to fret as I've become accustomed, "geez, I wonder if there's a bus that goes there? I wonder when it leaves? I wonder when I'll be able to get back? I wonder if I have the energy for all that?" All I had to do was check my calendar (I do this on the off chance there might actually be something on it) and say "Yes!" Because I have a car.

Yep, last November, I got me a car! I wasn't sure I was ready for one nor did I really feel I could afford one. But I had been thinking about it. I was beginning to need to get places for the business and on my schedule, not the bus schedule. Then one day in November I received a notice in the mail informing me that my name had finally come to the top of the list for a parking space in Aix. A parking space in Aix! This is like being given an enormous black truffle…a pair of hot high heels that are actually comfortable…a menopause with all its perks and none of its side effects. I'm serious!

I had put my name on that list 2 years before in anticipation of perhaps, someday having a car. Actually, I had signed up for a parking garage a little closer to my apartment but in October, when I went to check my position on the list, I was told I would probably have to wait at least 5 more years. Magically, one month later I got said letter and though it's in a different garage, my spot is actually quite close...maybe only 5 or 6 blocks away. Of course, all I really won was the right to start paying for a parking spot, but this is not nothing. I was told to show up within 2 weeks with the registration for my car and proof of my address. This posed a teeny, weeny problem. I had no registration because I had no car.

Sometimes decisions just seem to be made for us! And thanks to a friend, I did find a car. And pretty quickly, I might add. When he asked what my budget was and I told him no more than 1000 euros his faced dropped and he gently said, "that's not very much, you know".

"Yes, I know but I can barely afford that so if I can't find one for that price, I'll let the parking space go."

He put out his feelers and bless his kind, french heart, he found me a car at a scrapyard owned by a friend of his. The car had been in a teeny accident but its repair costs surpassed its value so...I got myself a lovely, little white Ford Fiesta, wearing only 72,000 kilometres and a ~~dent~~ dimple on its right ~~fender~~ butt cheek. It passed inspection immediately after I drove it off the lot and I sailed down the freeway, hair blowing in the wind of the open windows, and feeling all grown-up again. And I payed only 700 euros. That's all! Even though freedom has a price, in this case it was a small one and well worth paying.

I parked the car in my new parking garage immediately and a week later when I went to retrieve it, I'd forgotten exactly where I'd left it. I had to search 3 floors of cars before I found it and this was still not a simple task. You see, it seems that 3/4 of the people in France have an affinity for little white cars. This is what I faced when I went looking for it. And that was only the first floor!

To solve this problem, and because I tend to give human qualities to my cars, I had to give it a name. And there was really no question what it would be. Thor. There's a long story behind the name, but the fact is, I had a bumper sticker with this name on it and I needed some way to identify the car. This works like a charm....unless I back into the spot and then I'm back to finding my proverbial white needle in the parking haystack. The added bonus is, Thor is a word that French people cannot pronounce. It's simply not possible. I sort of like that.

Thor drinks gasoline, not diesel ,which is not a good thing since diesel is much cheaper here. He's also very thirsty for some reason. There is not one automatic thing on him, nor air conditioning and I discovered on my way to Marcia's, after I filled up precious and, until then, unused Starbucks mug with coffee, that he has no cup holders (not unusual here if you can possibly imagine!). So I held the mug between my legs while I shifted up and down the mountain roads. My tan skirt became a very sexy leopard print by the time I arrived.

Despite his imperfections, Thor is a god. A god of freedom. He's loyal. When I came back from 2 months in the states and once again did my three floor tour to find him, he started up with nary a complaint. He's discreet: with all the other little white cars, nobody notices him. He fits in almost anywhere: I've learned to park him like a french car in any teeny crack or crevice barely big enough to hold him. He's the right age: old enough to be comfortable in his somewhat damaged skin but not old enough to be falling apart. Honestly, I was just about to start talking about holding on to his stick shift but that suddenly seemed very weird! We'll…just…let…that…go.

We don't go out often together, but when we do, I become a goddess.

The word for car in french is voiture. This word is feminine, which means I should refer to my car as a she. But he's Thor, a god, and I refer to him as he. I'm constantly being corrected on this but I owe him his dues, don't you think? I don't understand why the french language does not allow me this right and I'm sticking to my guns.

Thor and I are going on a wine tour with friends tomorrow and to Cassis with the same friends on Friday. He's just too awesome not to share.

Now if I ever meet the Thor in the picture above, I am really going to have a story to tell!

He Who Hesitates...Still Has To Do It Eventually

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 11:21:00 +0000

It seems to me the time has come to get back into the swing of things. I apologize for my absence. I went on a vacation to the United States that turned out to be not much of a vacation. I've been napping (okay...and socializing) ever since!

I'm supposed to want to go back home when the time comes. But this time I didn't. I hate to even admit that but I knew there were things to get done there that I simply did not want to do. And the moment had arrived whether I welcomed it or not.

Three and a half years ago I got on a plane for Provence with the idea that I would stay for one year, immerse myself in the culture, learn to speak perfect, accent-free French, then refreshed and invigorated and far more cultured, I would return to the midwest to open a new apartment, find a new job, and recommence my life.

That was the idea. Really it was! But Provence has a way of growing on you. It is warm and seductive and its deep, ancient roots have a way of infiltrating the body and mind until you have no more willpower to move on. At least that's what happened to me!

Before I left the midwest in January 2009 I sold most of my belongings, which was a gargantuan task considering I had lived in a 4 bedroom, 4 bathroom house whose kitchen was the about the size of my current apartment. I pared it all down to those things…those most precious things…that I would need to start over in a little apartment. I put them in a storage unit so I could collect them upon my triumphant return. But that didn't happen and those things have weighed heavily on me ever since. What to do with them? Will I ever return? How can I possibly get rid of them? Should I have them shipped here? Of course I'll return.! But when will that happen? Maybe I won't.

So, those most precious things sat. They sat in the warehouse and they sat heavily on my heart; they somehow became a gigantic pit for me to curl up in, crushed by their weight but at the same time, unwilling to dig myself out.

This trip was the time to do it again. Dump it. Climb out. Sprout another set of wings (don't dragon flies have two sets of wings?) After all, they are just things!

And I am proud to say that with the help of the most amazing friends and family, within 4 days of my return I had moved out of the storage unit and cancelled the lease, sold or redistributed my stuff and moved the leftovers to my mom's basement (now there's a nightmare for a 75 year-old-woman…her 53 year-old- daughter moving back in!). It was hard. Really hard. But after the grand task was finished, I felt light again. Free. And I have no regrets.

Then I had to help son number 2 move his life to Arizona. Well, he did all the work, I just had to kiss him and his lovely girlfriend goodbye. But with his departure came another change. No longer was I to have my pod all gathered together in the place I return to once or twice a year. And I felt his fear of change as well. He had arrived at the moment that one says goodbye to youth and the job of moving forward into the adult world is imminent. Unavoidable. Scary and exciting all at the same time. His changes for sure, but changes for me as well. I didn't want it to happen…I resisted as one tends to do with change.

The last grand item on my list of things to do, was to figure out how to make a living. I do not have the right to work in France and although I've been able to earn a little here and a little there, it was time to face the fact that I really do need to plan for my future. Otherwise, I'm going to end up one of those crazy, old cat ladies whose remains are found a month after her death from starvation in her cheap, tiny, sleeping room, devoured by her starving animals.

So I bought a house. Yeppers, I bought a house with my sister, extended my ticket for three weeks and went to work remodeling to prepare it for renters. Of course, all good things come to those who work for them. And man, oh man, did we work! Ten to fifteen hours per day, every single day. I now have a personal relationship with the greeter at the Home Depot store in Richfield, Minnesota and I don't care if I EVER see black mold again in my life.

I'm a tiny bit proud of myself for accomplishing all that I set out to do, even though I was reticent. You'd think I would be accustomed to change at this point. But it is always hard, no matter how much of it one has had to do in the past. And, in fact, I really had a blast this summer. Hard work is good for the soul, change is NOT horrible and I feel stronger and better because of it all.

However, all work and no play is always a bad recipe and I really hate to screw up a recipe. So play I did.

A camping trip with the girls.

It started out well....

but sort of flopped on the finish!

A weekend at the cabin with family.

Lots of eating, drinking and laughing with old friends...

and a most beautiful wedding.

No trip to Minneapolis would be complete without an evening out on the Pedal Pub!

And I even got to do a few motherly duties...a haircut which obviously hasn't been done for awhile!

My extended stay in the states caused me to consider whether or not I might want to return soon. I became accustomed to running around like a crazy woman, eating while running around like a crazy woman, drinking gigantic cups of coffee while driving, speaking English and actually being able to be slightly amusing. It's a temptation...until I remember the price of health insurance!

So I'm back in Provence, babysitting the mansion as I do every year. It is amazing how quickly I can re-adapt to the slow, summer days in Provence, long late meals around a table with friends, and an afternoon sieste with the shutters closed against the afternoon heat.

It's always good to be home...wherever it is this week! And it's good to be back here, my friends.

Have a wonderful week.

P.S. There's still time to enter the Provence Rugs giveaway over at My French Country Home. Hurry! Run!

Pork Shoulders and Butts

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 18:21:00 +0000

I've said it before and I'll say it again. One of my favorite things about living in France is the food. I love being able to buy fresh vegetables easily and eat them according to the season. I relish the simplicity of the food and people's respect for it and it's origins. I adore eating dishes in which I can taste each delicious ingredient. Today I ate a salad with fresh ingredients from the market down the street. Yesterday I made a leek quiche because leeks are plentiful right now. The day before I invented a simple dessert with the last of this year's strawberries. Of course, this can be done in the states, but truly, it is just so much easier here and much more a part of the culture.

That being said, I have publicly admitted before, and will again, that I love Spam. It's a treat I eat once or twice a year and I always have a can in reserve for the necessary moment. I don't know where I learned to love this canned, gelatin-entombed, square block of pork shoulder and sodium nitrate. Perhaps when I worked as a trail cook in Canada where I would serve Spam when we hadn't found anything to shoot for dinner that day. Or maybe it's because I grew up about 1/2 hour away from the Hormel factory in Austin, Minnesota where it's made. The reason for my amour is shrouded in jelly and mystery.

In my humble opinion, Spam can only be prepared ONE way; sliced, fried until crispy, and served on soft white bread with yellow mustard. It is not the same on a baguette with dijon mustard. I know this, because I've tried it (yes, people bring me Spam here in France). Okay, and maybe it can be served with eggs.

Most likely because I've mentioned this before on this blog, an ad popped up on google page advertising a recipe for Spam Casserole. My curiosity took me to a page called Recipe Source where I found the following recipe.

Title: FRENCH FRY SPAM CASSEROLE
  Categories: Main dish
       Yield: 8 servings
  
       1 pk Frozen french fry potatoes,
            -thawed (20 oz)
       2 c  Shredded Cheddar cheese
       2 c  Sour cream
       1 cn Condensed cream of chicken
            -soup (10 3/4 oz)
       1 cn SPAM Luncheon Meat, cubed
            -(12 oz)
     1/2 c  Chopped red bell pepper
     1/2 c  Chopped green onion
     1/2 c  Finely crushed corn flakes
  
   Heat oven to 350'F. In large bowl, combine potatoes, cheese, sour
   cream, and soup. Stir in SPAM, bell pepper, and green onion. Spoon
   into 13x9″ baking dish. Sprinkle with crushed flakes. Bake 30-40
   minutes or until thoroughly heated.

Am I all wrong or did just reading this make you want to evacuate the contents of your stomach? Did it make the buttons pop on your skirt or the seam in your jeans split open? Do people REALLY eat this? Seriously, cheese AND sour cream AND cream-of-anything-soup? I just did a calorie count per serving and it was 597 calories and 46 grams of fat, providing you really divide this into 8 servings. And most Americans don't.

I'm not dissing one of my favorite treats. I really wanted to be the Spam Queen at one time until I found out the expiration date for this honor was a much younger age than I was imprinted with at the time. And I do have a full set of jewelry that my auntie made me out of Spam cans. And an alarm clock. And a toy Spam race car. And a tee-shirt. And framed old Spam advertising. And...

But I must insist that Spam cannot be eaten in this manner. Spam is pure. It needs to be eaten in simplicity with respect for it's origins (see first paragraph)... whatever they are! (actually you can find out here plus a whole lot more). And none of this creamy, casserole business. After all, this fine food got an entire country through a world war.

This article is simply an expression of my outrage at such blasphemy. In fact, the folks at Hormel have no idea that I exist. But if they wanted to crown me The Sovereign of Spam...The Priestess of Pork...the President of Potted Meat Products...The Hormel Ambassador ~~to France~~, I would accept. Providing they gave me this to wear during my promotional trips. It would look great with my jewelry collection.

And I would travel the world promoting it's simplicity and handing out little Spam finger sandwiches. One can never be too old or too proud for a new career.

Travel Aid

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Thu, 24 May 2012 16:25:00 +0000

I'm leaving for the United States in three weeks. Three weeks! How did that come up so quickly? The process of list making has begun; what I need to take, what I MUST bring back.

So far my lists are still short. I have to take back cherry jam for my sister, fabric for Provence Rugs, and Camargue salt for a friend. My list of goodies to bring back to France includes shredded coconut (the carrot cake is nothing without it and I can't find it), my lightweight down blanket and my Huggable hangers (I know, sounds stupid but they rock and save so much space). This list gets smaller and smaller each visit to the states as I become more accustomed to what I used to consider the oddities of life here in France. I mean, no shredded coconut? Really? But on that list I also have many other things that my french friends want me to bring back from the states, either because they are so much cheaper or because they simply can't be found here. So far that list includes camera cases, language translator, jeans and eyelash stimulator. It will get longer before I leave, of that I am sure.

I'm lucky because I have so many visitors who are willing to bring me things I miss, another reason why my list is so small. But this week a few things came across my desk that seem to be ingenious ways to solve the want/need issue.

This site pleasebringme.com is a very basic site that allows you to ask travelers to bring you something from their country, or you can offer to schlepp something to someone in a country you're traveling to. You can specify what you would like in return, if anything. For instance, some people ask for a ride from the airport, some ask for a city tour and others ask for nothing. The site is very basic and not very easy to navigate but people seem to be using it. There is a guy in Sidney who is offering a tour of the city to anyone willing to bring him Monster Munch chips from England. Another guy in Brazil is offering $200 if you bring him a Macbook air.

A similar site, and the one I prefer, is called mmmule.com. They offer the same service but it's much easier to navigate and you are not only allowed to enter where you're going and where you're coming from, but you can filter the announcements by the reward offered and the items wanted. Pretty nifty. I've already replied to a guy in Minneapolis who would like someone to bring him a bottle of Suze and he responded by offering me a couple of drinks in his favorite bar or $20 plus the cost of the Suze. I'll decide when I see what he looks like! Another guy here in France is offering a tour of his city if you bring him comestible insects. Yeah, I had to look that one up too; he wants to eat them! I'm trying to determine where I can get edible insects in the states, if I can get them across the border and if I REALLY want a city tour given by a man who enjoys eating insects.

There is another, very cool facet to this site that I really love. It's called Angel Mule and this is a section of the site that is specifically for travelers willing to bring needed items to charity and humanitarian organizations around the world. Requests range from pencils and children's toys to clothing and paint for the school. Most of the requests come from countries in South America or Africa but often they proffer accommodations or language lessons in return. This seems to me to be an awesome way to do some interesting travel.

And speaking of interesting ways to travel, how about this site, Miss Travel? The following is an excerpt from their site:

Attractive Traveler: If you are a beautiful person who wants to travel for free, just signup as a "Attractive Traveler". Attractive Travelers are adventurous and open minded people who love to travel, but lacks the budget to do so. As such, you are looking to meet Generous members who are willing to pay for you to travel, or gift you frequent flyer miles which may be redeemed for free flights on all major airlines. Remember, as a Attractive Traveler, you get to use our website 100% Free.

Generous Traveler: If you are a generous sponsor, signup as a "Generous Traveler". Generous Travelers are generous members who are seeking to travel with a beautiful companion, and who are willing to pay for all travel expenses. Generous Travelers can use our website for free. Pay only when you decide to communicate with any Attractive Traveler.

Umm...umm...I guess it could work but can you say 'concubine'? Although I am waiting for someone to dare me to dare this...just to see how it works. On the other hand, I'm old, I have a baby belly and my boobs are very small and entirely natural (meaning they're closer to my belly button than my shoulders. I'm not sure I would qualify to go gallivanting with a ~~old~~ ~~fat~~ ~~rich~~ ~~sugar daddy~~ "Generous Traveler". I think I'll leave that research to somebody else. Any volunteers?

Blood Red

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Tue, 22 May 2012 09:13:00 +0000

If you were to visit my apartment at this moment you would most likely recoil in horror, possibly vomit, and then call the police. A massacre has obviously occurred and the victim did not go down without a fight. The evidence is everywhere...blood on the floor, the cupboards, the toaster, the stove, even the ceiling. The perp wore an apron during her bloody deed, the evidence of her crime permanently stained in it's fibers and the towels she used in an attempt to clean up the site still sit in a bloody heap on the floor. Then, obviously pleased (or shaken) by her villainy, this beast helped herself to 2 bottles of vodka, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of eau de vie, and a bottle of a very nice Côtes de Bourg, the empty bottles still sitting on the floor.

There seems to be no victim.

All that has been left behind is this tableau on the kitchen counter.

Yeah, we've already established that I'm a whirling dervish in the kitchen and nothing comes from my kitchen without the accompanying mayhem that I can't seem to avoid. It really does look as if a crime has been committed in my cuisine. That's because I spent this past rainy weekend trying to ~~eliminate~~ transform my freshly picked 18 1/2 pounds of cherries into....well, into cherry liqueur, alchohalised cherries, cherry preserves and a dismal attempt at clafoutis.

Thursday I was invited to my friend Saro's house to celebrate Claire's (my friend and her daughter) birthday. The event coincided with cherry picking time and Saro's trees were full.

I arrived with a giant, empty basket, mostly as a joke. I left with this.

Then began the messy (for me) job of what to do with all this delicious, exquisite fruit. I was suffering from a permanent stomachache from eating so many straight off the tree so I made a list of everything I wanted to make, bought all that was necessary to get the job done...including this fabulous device that pits cherries at the speed of light....and settled in for the weekend.

I started with Cherry Liqueur, recipe courtesy of my friend Marcia.

1 1/2 lbs red cherries, with pits,no stems

1 1/2-2 cups sugar, sweeten to taste

2 1/2 cups vodka

1 cup brandy

Mix vodka, brandy and sugar in a large glass measure or medium mixing bowl; stir well to dissolve. Cut each washed cherry slightly to open, leave in pits. Place cherries in two sterile, quart wide mouth jars or one larger aging container. Pour liquid mixture over cherries; stir and cap with tight lids. For the first two weeks, shake jars several times. Let age in a cool, dark place for at least 3 months for best flavor. Strain off liqueur through a wire mesh strainer and discard cherries. Re bottle as desired. Liqueur is ready in 3 months

Next, following the theme, which seems to be cherries AND alcohol, I made

Cerises à l'Eau de Vie

This recipe came from Monica...I adore the videos she makes with her grandson. And her hands.

They remind me of my grandmother's hands.

I can't wait to bite into one of these potent little morsels when they're ready...in about 6 months!

Still more cherries so I moved on to Cherry Preserves, thank you David Lebovitz, and since there was a little Brandy left over and since this was theme weekend, I added that to the jam.

I'm not even going to talk about the miserably failed clafoutis. Perhaps I should put in a call to Monica to learn how to REALLY make this traditional french dessert.

And then....and then...the cherries were all gone. How can this be? I still want to make Cherry Compote, Cherry Crumble, Pickled Cherries and more jam. None of which include alcohol, by the way. Luckily Saro called and said we have to come back. They've picked and eaten, picked and frozen, picked and given away, and the trees still have fruit to offer. So as soon as the rain lets up, I'm on my way back with my empty basket. And hopefully I'll get to spend another weekend in the kitchen. I'll try, I'll really try, to do it more neatly this time!

Mother's Duties

noreply@blogger.com (Delana@dujour) — Mon, 14 May 2012 15:10:00 +0000

Yesterday was Mother's Day in the U.S. I almost completely missed it because our Fête des Mères here in France is on May 25. Thus I didn't have the constant Hallmark barrage of reminders. Luckily I spoke with my sister earlier in the week and was set straight. Too late for a snail mail card but not too late for a video card and a phone call. But I could have missed it!

I told my Mommy that I love her and that I value all the love and support that she's given me throughout my lifetime. I did not tell her, and should have, that I realize what a lucky woman I am to have had such an idyllic childhood, a mother who always believed in my every quality even when it didn't exist, a mother who eventually accepted my weird needs to run off on adventures but whose resistance to those same adventures was only out of her concern for me. A mother who is still with me even if we are an ocean apart.

Yesterday was Mother's Day in the U.S. I, however, did NOT get a message from either of my boys. This is not acceptable; not to a woman who insists on wearing a tiara for every special occasion. This is also not their usual style so I'm not hot angry, just a wee bit surprised. I was thinking I would just let it go and their shame or realization would eventually rise to the surface. Then I decided this is not something one should let go. I'm their mother. It's my job to teach them good manners. To honor their elders, especially their mothers. To remember their responsibilities. So I've chosen to fulfill my motherly responsibilities it in a classic mother way.

Public Shame and Guilt.

So this morning, on each of their Facebook pages, I posted:

Dearest Mother, I just wanted to take the opportunity to tell you what a great mom you are. Happy Mother's Day. Colin/Ryan

(please feel free to copy and paste to your mother's page...since you forgot!)

And now I'm writing this blog post. I'm hoping I've done my job!

Happy Mother's Day (a day late) to all. And if you forgot, your mother still loves you. But call her right away. Public Shame and Guilt is far too easy...and far too much fun!