Crazy Sunday, Nothing Monday, Sick Tuesday

My friends :)






Me & the bonhomme de neige















Xmas tree at my friends' house


Eggplant Parmesean

After typing away Saturday morning/afternoon, I sauntered down to the kitchen and whipped up a beautiful eggplant parmesean complete with compté cheese, chopped mushrooms, sliced tomatoes, Ritz crackers, tomato sauce and seared eggplant slabs. After putting it all together, I decided I wasn't really hungry so I put it in the fridge to serve later for dinner.

Then I went off to do some shopping in town with my flat mates. We went back to the marché de Noël and hit up some of the stores in the centre ville (including my new favorite optician who gave me a free travel-sized bottle of contact solution for my journey home). I did almost all of my shopping, and even had time to stop by the market for some fresh fruit to last my final few days in M.

When I got home, I put the eggplant in the oven & had a nice dinner with my friends, then retreated to my room and played my guitar for probably about 2 hours. (I also discovered that my practice sessions echo throughout our linoleum household, and everyone hears everything -- must be fun for them when I get stuck on the Lynrd Skynrd "Sweet Home Alabama" riff and play it 50, 000 times). I was also embarrassed when I realized it, but no one seemed to mind. Anyway, it put me into the holiday spirit and made me TOTALLY excited that our friend Pierre was bringing his guitar to the party.

Unlike my posh flat mates, I did not don a fancy dress & beautiful boots for the grand celebration; I opted instead to keep my Salvation Army sweater & ancient jeans & EcoSneaks, grabbed my guitar and headed to the kitchen to pick up my banana bread.

Mid-cut I realized that this bread was made for me, and for no one else -- my brilliant idea of adding a fourth banana to the recipe (why? WHY?) was not so brilliant, in fact, and made my bread into "delicious banana purée" as Sylvain so tactifully described it later. So I went to the party with nothing to offer except the sweet sound of resonating strings, and a package of inexpensive Christmas bulbs for decorating our illicit tree.

Rachel & I decorated the tree first thing when we got there, after depositing our gifts for the "tirage aux sorts" underneath its spindly branches. And the fête began!

The boys made the vin chaud more like vin soupe, and it was literally undrinkable, unless you are habituated to drinking liquid fire. We all danced and ate and opened our presents, and then Pierre & I got out the guitars probably around 11 or so. We played for a good hour or hour and a half, and it was really fun! I need to learn the musical language here because we had a bit of a barrier as I was calling out "C!" and "G minor" and he was staring at me with the universally understood symbol for, "What?" Anyway, it was awesome, I was happy, and I have an official project to prepare a few songs for the soirée boeuf in the future! Yay!!

I had some big plans for Sunday but ended up not doing much at all. The interruption of my sleep pattern, plus the desperate feeling of impending sickness made me totally off-balance. I finished my Christmas cards, and then saw the craziest thing I've ever seen in France -- a truck with a bunch of trumpets on it, BLASTING music around town! I discovered it on my way over to Sylvain's, and then convinced him to go chase it down! We found it in the middle of the marché, and took a bunch of pictures in front of it. Then we went in search of Coke, a good French DVD, and came back here to watch what is, so far, my favorite film français of all-time. It's called, "Ensemble, c'est tout" and it has Audrey Tatou from "Le destin fabuleux d'Amélie Poulain" and "The DaVinci Code." It also convinced me that I am a film genius because I predicted much of what happened just based on the character's regards. (trop forte! haha)

Yesterday I woke up feeling a bit worse than I had felt on Sunday, but I managed to go to school regardless. I even dragged myself to the gym at night, and suffered for an hour leaping around like morons with my two gym-class heroines.

Last night I went to bed early, knowing today would be a long day. But I had a hard time sleeping at first, and then at 3 am I woke up covered in sweat, doubled over in pain. It was the second worst pain I have ever felt, an exact replica of the nightmare I experienced at my grandmother's house maybe 6 or 7 years ago when I passed out in her bathroom-- Revenge of my Ovaries Partie Deux.

Except here, I was alone, and DYING, and sweating profusely, unable to leave the bathroom or do anything but cry, afraid that if I tried to get up off the floor, I would pass out and no one would find me (Mom was there last time). Luckily, I had some left-over pain & fever medecine and I took it and just waited. Eventually I could move, so I crawled back in bed with a washcloth and just waited for relief, or for sleep, whichever came first. Suddenly, I was sweating and FREEZING so I went in search of everything warm, piled on an extra blanket, and somehow, miraculously, finally fell back asleep.

Obviously, I wasn't going to school today after that... I don't know what I would do if it happened while I was teaching. So I slept until 11 and I'm going to go back to bed soon. My train leaves for Paris tonight at 6:30 so I can sleep for at least a few more hours before I have to double check my suitcase & get myself out of here.

I think this is going to be a very, very long journey home. All I want for Christmas is to calm my freaking ovaries DOWN so I can feel like a normal person again and not spend the 8 hour plane ride home in the bathroom.

Lazy Saturday

When I woke up yesterday morning and stumbled into the bathroom, I had a bit of a shock when I blearily looked in the mirror and realized that I had chopped off all my hair. The surprise was a hundred times better when I discovered that my morning routine has been significantly shortened. More sleep time! :) Yay!

The pumpkin pie Thursday was the best one I have ever made. Too bad the French people think it's really weird, and they don't allow themselves to like it. Tant pis pour eux. I think I might have perfected the art of making home-made pumpkin pie!

Yesterday night, after baking a loaf of heavenly-smelling banana bread, I met up with mes copains, and we all went out to a crêperie in town for dinner! It has brilliant fuschia and plumb walls with colorful abstract paintings -- seriously, the perfect décor for my taste :) And I indulged in perhaps the most delicious thing of all time -- raclette inside of a crepe! It was called "Alpage" and inside it had the raclette cheese, boiled potatoes, and then there was ham and sausage on the side to mix with it. The green salad and four pitchers of cidre made a fantastic 2-hour dining experience! They definitely know how to eat here in France.

We visited the marché de Noël and took pictures by the giant tree, drinking vin chaud, standing with a snowman! :) It really feels like Christmas!

Today I'm going to attempt an improvised eggplant parmesean, go in search of some last-minute gifts & necessities, try to clean my disaster of a room, and do a bit of DRIVING! I got to drive my friend's car yesterday and I didn't even stall!! Trop forte :)

Haha the taste of progress is so delightfuly exquisite. Happy Saturday, mes amis.

Bed-Side, Bad Side

I woke up this morning on the very, very wrong side of the bed.

It is rare, but it happens. And when it happens, it is bad.

This is the bad side of the story. But there is also a good side.

After a few hours of extra sleep, some laundry, some breakfast and the courage that only a good friend can give, I marched off to the hair dresser and chopped off my lovely locks.

It is drastic. It is DELIGHTFUL.

It reminds me that I am malleable. That I am changing, and not stagnant. That I am in charge sometimes. That I can be brave, and I take chances, that I am not living in "Repeat Mode" and I am definitely not living for anybody else but me.

It is a miraculous thing to experience again a reminder of how very alive I am today.

C'est moi, le chef

My friends, a change has occurred. A great, and obvious change: I have learned to LOVE to cook.

I love to plan what I will make; I love to spend time thinking about the intersection of flavors and textures, of compliments, and contrasts, of chemistry and artistry. I love to think about ingredients, and then go search for them, filling my reusable grocery bag with loads and loads of specific elements that seem so small when they stand alone, but will become something altogether different and better, Gestalt Theory in real and actual practice. I love the anticipation, the messy hands, the piles of dishes, the small talk on the cold tile, the oven warming the whole house, the feeling of comfort and drama and suspense.

It has reached such a limit that on Monday night at 9:00pm, after having completed a particularly arduous hour at the gym, having cleaned myself up and settled into comfy sweatpants, I decided to bake a pie.

I cut out the bad spots on the brilliant orange fruit, put the pieces into a giant boiling bath, and covered it with the upside-down frying pan. They boiled until 10:30 when I was too tired to wait anymore, and I left them to rest until the following day.

At 8 am on Tuesday morning, I found them right where I had left them, obediently waiting in the red chili pot. I separated the skin from the flesh, filled a plastic container with pumpkin substance, and then went off to school.

A few hours later, with the help of an electric blender, the stringy pumpkin stuff became a sleek, pumpkin goo, ready to be spiced up and stirred around, then poured into a flakey home-made crust. That didn't happen until 7 pm, after I finished my afternoon of classes, and then it didn't go as smoothly as I was hoping. The crust was hard, and cold, and resistant to being rolled outo with my glass-bottle-rolling-pin. I gave up, and covered 7/8 of the pan, "on s'en fous de ça," leaving one corner crust-less, which I should not have done.

I mixed the ingredients, turning it into a beautiful autumn burnt orange, and poured it into the crust to bake and solidify, while I made game cards for my classes with my international roommates, awaiting the drawing for our "Secret Santa" matches.

The pie burned a little, but was mostly fine. The drawing resulted in an ironic happening, but I am not at liberty to say who I have.

Wednesday, I took the pie to school and the teachers ate it. The part with the crust was delicious, but the part without, disgusting. My favorite person of the day was Claire who said to me, "I have always hated pumpkin pie. I tried yours. And I still hate it," which made me think of the Meijer commercial with the little girl and the spinach. The honesty was beautiful. And she was the first one to say "thank you" for my efforts. :)

After coming home, I did some extraordinary recipe research and compiled an enormous grocery list. Armed with my 1,20 Euro bus fare, I got on the Bus and headed for Carrefour Market, the giant American-style grocery store on the edge of town. I found everything except cottage cheese, which I didn't think I would find, anyway. There was a good-looking grocer in the dairy aisle, so I decided to ask; it was a good decision.

I inquired if he knew where I could find it, showing him what I had written as I pronounced the words, "Fromage blanc à gros grains ou lait caillé." His face was covered with a mixture of shock and disgust. Apparently, he had not seen it and I would probably not find it anywhere. I said "Thank you, that's what I was thinking," and smiled at him, having already decided to use mozzarella, émmental, and parmiagiano-reggiano instead.

Cooking began at 6:30, when my friend's house was empty except for me and my giant grocery bag full of ingredients. I boiled the lasagna noodles, at the same time that I made the dough for the bread sticks, letting the yeast feed on the sugar, creating a grayish bubble bath beneath the striped kitchen towel that was covering the bowl. I mixed the cheeses, riccotta, mozzarella, and émmental, with the two eggs and the crushed Ritz crackers that I found in the snack aisle, miraculously. I peeled the eggplant, and cut it into thick slices, then sliced the button mushrooms and added flour to the dough.

By 9:30 the kitchen was toasty with the smell of butter, and garlic, and tomatoes and cheese. The table was set, the red wine opened, and the candles lit. My newest favorite thing -- cooking for friends, and then delighting in the payoff, an evening together, slowly savoring a home-made meal.

Sunday Recipe

How to make a Sunday:

Reserve a train ticket on Saturday night, after drinking half a bottle of wine. Fail to notice that the ticket must be collected before 6 am Sunday morning or else it will be invalidated.

Arrive at the train station 7 minutes before train is supposed to leave and attempt to collect your ticket. Panic a little when it is refused. Run to the counter, learn about your mistake and attempt to buy a new one... only to realize you can't remember the name of your destination. Attempt to call your farmer friend, who will not answer because he is sleeping. Increase the level of panic to add interest to the situation. Return to the man and ask him to help you. Tell him your final destination, explain that you know there are no trains that go so far but there is a station about 30 minutes from there, the train is scheduled to leave in 4 minutes, and you know the station begins with the letter P.

Succeed in collecting ticket. Run to train and leap into seat.

Ride tranquilly for 59 minutes and descend at a sleeping station in the middle of no where. Wait for your recently-awoken friend for 15 minutes, while listening to the sound of your stomache grumbling.

Upon your friend's arrival, make him feel guilty (just a little -- not too much). Visit a dark and empty cathedrale. Look at swans. Walk in the rain. Stop on a bridge. Take pictures of green eyes and fire hair. Quiet dimples. French things.

Look for food, without success. Abandon hope for finding anything until 7 pm... because you're in France. And there are rules here.

Drive to a Buddhist temple. Walk in silence, listening to cables clinking against flagpoles, rainbow squares flapping in the crisp breeze, the crunch of gravel beneath wet sneakers. See a peacock, and take its picture. Talk about family names, the pronunciation of Harry Potter characters, the hope of one day being believers.

Drive to the ruins of a roman ampitheatre. Play human chess on the salmon garden squares at the basin like children. Stretch your legs. Laugh. Ignore the football players across the street, and instead watch the little girl in the knit pink hat standing alone in the grass.

Visit 3/4 of a crumbling rectangle. Take a picture with the sign that warns of danger, of the possibility of falling rock. Ignore it and read in two languages what the stones mean. What they used to be.

Drive for 20 minutes to follow the running route of your ambitious friend who trained "a little" and finished in 55 minutes, then couldn't walk for three days. Up a mountain, around a lake, to a towering stone cross with a view of the shivering city and its elegant cathedrale surrounded by pink, sparkling trees.

Cut down a Christmas tree and stuff it into the backseat. Make a promise to clean the car... someday. Delight in the smell of pine, and holiday, and happiness. Breathe deeply, and descend near the cathedrale.

Walk the insides and marvel at the efforts, at the age, at the symmetry. Think a prayer or two, the smell of wax, and cold air settling into your steady lungs like a ghost, like a cloud, like sleep.

Then fight the fatigue of white pavement lines against the 5pm darkness, and the hard edge of your tone, the biting sarcasm that feeds on your hunger, a genetic fault. Try to be nice. Laugh at your own faiblesse.

Drive to the home of 150 cows, 4 goats, 8 rabbits and 10 chickens. Fill your belly with a hot cup of peach tea, some home-made goat cheese and fresh bread, a portion of potatoes&eggs made with motherly love. Feel so much better, and say you're Sorry for being so ridiculous.

Don a bright blue suit, and a pair of pretty polka-dot boots. Follow your farmer friend into the barn, and listen to the symphony of moo's, hungry cows, waiting for farine. Feed them out of a small pot, like for noodles, one at a time while your friend feeds six times as fast. Say "Hello, mesdames" and "Bon appétit" as the farmers laugh and say, "You know, it's not necessary."

Meet his mother, a mini version of the same exact face but with glasses and darker hair. She is quiet, like he is, and laughs when you are awestruck by what is so ordinary to her. Learn about routine and history, visit the goats with her, listen to goat cheese instructions and summer time differences, watch him work for her while we stand stagnant, while the cows eat, while the night sky settles in for good.

Feed the baby cows, feel bad for the ones who feast on twice as much ("They don't have much longer") tell them, "Enjoy your food -- I'm not kidding. I'm sorry," and watch the roll of hay come out, the grande fourche separating clumps of it, learn the difference between le foin and la paille, (the f means "plus fort" so I can remember it next time) and do not help anymore, solely take photos. The shy farmer will turn away every time, but you pay attention. You will remember.

Take a visit to the rabbits, and touch the soft black one who is cuddling against the wall. Look at the chickens, then go have a cup of tea. Discuss the problem with Canadian cuisine, the beauty of Niagara, the difficulty of the décallage horaire when you come back. Wait until you are warm and tired, look in the freezer for an icy pig snout without any luck -- "I'll take a photograph if I can find it" -- and say goodnight.

Stay awake all the way home, take the tree out and put it into the vestiaire. Realize size is extremely relative in nature. Be afraid of the radiator; try to cut the bottom branches with kitchen scissors, with no luck. Figure out what to use as a base for the tree, settling on a cardboard box lined with a plastic bag full of tap water. Fear reasonably the possibility of the tree falling over, and the water spilling everywhere. (The recipe for Monday involves discovery of this exact phenomenon).

Eat spinache and saumon quiche. Feel happy and full, wash off the vache smell under hot water and peach soap, then fall into a beautiful sleep.

Best enjoyed if savored slowly, having marinated in the colors and the verbs. Pay attention to every flavor, every subtlety, every little piece of luck that seasons the life you lead at present.

Bon appétit.

Warm Wine, Ferris Wheel, Saturday

Clermont-Ferrand was like an ant colony yesterday. Except it was animated by santa-hat-wearing, shopping-bag-carrying people packed in thicker and thicker as the sun dropped down behind the mountains, and the town became a twinkling dream.

The ferris wheel "The WonderWheel" cost us 3,50 euros and looped around almost 10 times. The sapin de noel, standing as tall as the buildings lining the street, shrunk Charlie Brown sized below us as we rose and rose and rose, watching its gold, glittery Christmas glory remind the city that it's December.

We saw a fiddler on a roof, heel-clicking as a camera snapped away, bright fluorescent flashes against a shark blue sky. He danced above Clermont, unseen by the living streets, the foire du miel like a honey bee's heaven, dancing and leaping and laughing.

In the center of the market, we drank vin chaud spiced like richness and decadence, warm in our Dixie Cup holding hands, ate steaming churros trolled through lakes of Nutella after the man confirmed it: they're Spanish, yah, we're multicultural here, say it in German if you want.

The French man with the shamless scheme, standing in his portable wine caverne with everything but the mustache ("Zhis izzz strong and not afraid... like me") and his friend with the red beret. We were inside of an absurd cartoon, as he refilled the plastic goblets, "Taste the best one!" with abricot nectar and strawberry delight, mulberry fusion, an explosion of extended fruit.

What happened?

I left with two presents.

I received a present from the Post office, when I asked for stamps to the US of A, he said to me, "This is for when you open your mail," and gave me a pac-man shaped disc, with a razor where its mouth should be. "Merry Christmas," he said, and smiled. And my heart melted, as I walked away.

10 o'clock dinner was home-made salmon & spinach quiche, followed by oven-baked filets of fish with carrots and onions. One bottle of red wine and some left over Thanksgiving cranberry-orange sherbet perfected the balance of flavors, made even more perfect by the fact that my sole contribution was shredding the carrots (shred one, chomp one) and chopping the onions.

Today it is Sunday and, for the moment, is not rainy.

Today, I am going to visit a farm.

Voyage to Clermont-Ferrand!

In reflection, I realize that I really take myself too seriously sometimes. Haha and that poses a serious problem when you are trying to live your life in a second language. Mistakes, linguistic and cultural, are as guaranteed as taxes and eventual death. I thought I had learned to laugh when I wanted to cry... but apparently this past week, I forgot all of that.

Mais bref.

The scar on my hand is healing slowly, and I'm hoping it will find some motivation to speed up the process because I'm going to make pumpkin pies on Sunday and I am a little afraid of repeating the same mistakes as before. One pie is going to be for my dance class, because I love them and this upcoming class will be my last one before coming home (!!) and the other is for one of my schools, because I have to un-do the damage caused by their "Thanksgiving" at the cantine.

At class this week, we started learning the Cha-Cha. It's really strange because the counting in French seems different than the counts I learned on the cruise ship, with my dad, or in the ballroom class at school... haha but maybe it's because instead of "One, Two, Cha Cha Cha!" it's "Un Deux Cha Cha Cha." I totally love the Latin dances, though! I was really happy because we spent probably an hour doing the Salsa & Cha Cha. We learned a new spin for "Rock" (Swing) and I tried to help people with the Country dance, which seems impossibly hard for a few people.

The temptation to climb up on stage & grab a guitar is getting greater every week at the open mic night. I'm thinking maybe next week... but we'll see. I need more practice.

Today I'm going to Clermont-Ferrand with some of the other assistants! There is a Christmas market there, that is supposedly really cool & beautiful. Plus, I'm starting to get a bit antsy... I want to get out of town for a minute. Yay for a visit to the big city! :)

Last night, I stayed in with the girls and worked on my scarf while watching "Alfie" en français with a bowl of popcorn and a bunch of chocolate. I regret having sabotaged all that I have done for myself via the gym and dance classes... but it was delicious. So tant pis.

Happy Saturday, everyone!

*j