ballzzzz

In the midst of my seriously reflective entry last Thursday, I completely forgot to divulge the more lighthearted bits of my week. First off, I FINALLY got to try the restaurant in Chaumes-en-Brie. Okay, I should give the town more credit---there are actually three restaurants and a kebab place (yet no stop light….how French, more restos than stoplights per square mile). Michelin and Zagat are seriously missing out by not stopping through for some pizza.

But seriously, Bibione provided family entertainment on more than one level. First of all, the kids were super pumped about going out to dinner. Know what’s even funnier? They both wanted to order hamburgers from an Italian restaurant. I chuckled to myself thinking, “how American”…every little kid I know, no matter how delicious or exotic the kids menu cuisine may be, wants the hamburger or chicken nuggets. Fact of life.

Second of all, we got to witness some of Chaumes’ citizens at their finest. I’ll add as a disclaimer for Alain—who seemed slightly concerned about misrepresentation of the French—that the behavior we saw was very uncharacteristic of the French who normally comport themselves in a sophisticated manner. Anyways. We had just sat down to our table and ordered drinks when an older woman suddenly launched herself out of her chair and towards a table of kids who looked about 18. She was screaming and finger wagging up a storm. It seemed that this woman—who it turns out was veryyyyyyyy drunk—was determined to make a fool of herself. Apparently one of the kids had accidentally said tu instead of vous to her. I mean, what a French thing to fight about. In the French language, you address friends and family as tu (you) but strangers, elders, etc… as vous. If you ask me, it’s really weird and a little unnecessary (but then again I’m an American, what do I know about French language?). 90% of the time I don’t know when I should use tu versus vous, and then I’m stumped on when a vous becomes a tu and if people are offended if you tu them and if you should ask to “tu” or tutoie them (the verb that means to use “tu” with someone) . It’s enough to make me use tu with everyone and claim American ignorance.

So the woman was outraged. Her screaming escalated—and we weren’t exactly in a big place—causing the entire restaurant to stop eating and look. Even the men with this woman were gawking. She was unleashing the crazy, that’s for sure. It was all very Jerry Springer, and I felt like I should be chanting and fist-pumping in the background. The poor kids, at this point, were a little frightened that Cruella had’t just let it go; luckily the owner intervened and presumably banned them from Chaumes’ finest restaurant. The whole time Caroline and Alain were telling the kids not to stare while I remained mesmerized by the drama unfolding before me. If you know me, you know how much I like a good fight (ie Phi Delt Formal).

I made beer can chicken for my friends on Friday. It was an entirely European group so I witnessed varying levels of shocked and disturbed at the fact that I was shoving a can of beer in a chicken cavity and cooking it. However, when that bird came out all sizzly and delicious with the meat falling of the bone, I didn’t hear a peep! It was a thoroughly enjoyable night although as chef (or co-chef; I have to give a nod to my helpers) I managed to drink a little too much wine before the dinner had even started. C’est la vie, hein?

I’m registering for real French college today! Well I’m just auditing classes there (like I’d pay to voluntarily study and take tests….) so that I can go and learn and not have homework. It should be interesting because I hear the university system here is interesting to say the least. I’m sure interesting stories will ensue. Well, I hope.

And finally, I tried something really disgusting this weekend. Rognons blancs or white kidneys is what we called them due to their appearance but I prefer to call em as I see em, and these were no kidneys. These were BALLS. The junk of a calf. Horrifying? I had the benefit of knowing what it was before I tasted it but the rest of the family (aside from Alain who bought them) had to take a bite before he revealed what kind of “meat” it was. I felt a little like Andrew Zimmern/Anthony Bourdain—two of my idols—as I took my first bite. I tried to adopt their objective attitude as I bit in but the image of the bloody coucougnettes on the butcher’s paper kept coming back to me. The taste was almost nonexistent but the texture was…indescribable. Like butter and shallot flavored jello. I challenge you to top that….

Life's Finer Things

My aunt recently wrote a piece for a women’s blog discussing what she so appropriately coined the juicy/dry continuum. Let me elaborate. The idea is that in the world of women (sorry guys, bear with me for a second), each one of us falls somewhere in between juicy and dry. Those on the juicy end tend to be self-confident and proud, regardless of size, shape, color, etc… The women on the drier end of things are more timid and conservative in their behavior, body language, whatever.

As a member of the girls’ team (down with the dudes) I think this continuum is pretty accurate. We all know someone who knows how to flaunt it; she might not even be super model gorgeous but she knows how to light up a room with her personality and she isn’t afraid to let it all hang out (maybe even literally…).

Moving forward in this seemingly random voyage into my ridiculous thoughts. Placing myself on this continuum is no easy task. On one hand, I tend to be loud and goofy and don’t have much of a problem just being me. On the other hand, a part of me has always lived so drily. I have always been the one looking ravenously at the girl enjoying a full-fat mocha at Starbucks as I sip my coffee and Sweet-and-Low. I never wanted to get ice cream with my sisters in the summer because “I just didn’t need those extra calories”….and until a few months ago (with the exception of maybe some repressed childhood events) I had never eaten a fast food hamburger!!! It’s almost like treason, huh?

So where am I going with this? Living in France has completely evolved this dry side of me. Hopefully you all aren’t sitting there snickering and thinking “yea, we can tell by your facebook pictures that you’re living pretty juicily, lard ass”… ( I mean, I still make an effort to work out. An effort.) With the New Year and all that jazz, I have been trying to evaluate what I have learned so far and what else I want to get out of my time here. At first I was a little disappointed. I just kept thinking, “well, uh, I have learned French and the names of all the bars in the 5^th and well…that’s it”. After reading my aunt’s piece however, I began to realize that the lessons I will be able to take away from this experience translate to much more than just some skill I can write on my resume (or with which I can impress a French guy). Learning to be happy—what the French call être bien dans sa peau; literally to be good/feel good in one’s skin—with the person I am is a lesson whose benefits I will continue to reap for the rest of my life.

How did living as an au pair do such wonders you might (or might not) be asking yourself; well it sure as hell wasn’t those seemingly endless nights of being on the verge of tears while simultaneously cooking a French meal, teaching Eliott English and making sure Zoe didn’t overflow the bathtub that did it for me. There is something about the quality of life in France, however, that gives me a greater appreciation for living and therefore for myself. People here take time to savor (and of course I am generalizing, but for the most part it’s true) every little thing. When it’s sunny out, I notice that people take time out of their day to go sit in the park; no one in my house would ever think of scarfing a meal at the counter in record time; and, as you may very well know, the French allot a LOT of time for vacation. It’s the little things, but when they add up, they make quite a significant difference in the way one lives.

Take, for example, the issue that started this whole blog. After dinner this evening, I decided to make myself a hot chocolate using real creamy-delicious french dark chocolate. Yes, it was decadent. And perhaps a little overboard. As I sat in bed drinking my liquid heaven, I thought about the pre-Paris me. I literally would have thrown myself from a moving vehicle before drinking something so absurdly rich and caloric. At the same time though, pre-Paris me looked the same, weighed the same, and yet still spent so much time hating and depriving herself. I’m not sure what kind of miraculous transformation took place, but somewhere along the way, I started to relish in the fabulous things life had to offer (particularly those food related things as that is [disclaimer: fat kid comment ensues] one of my true passions) instead of making them forbidden. When I stopped criticizing myself and denying myself of the truly wonderful things life had to offer—food and otherwise—I learned to enjoy. Just be and live and really love.

So the moral of the story? If you’re ever in Paris and see some crazy curly-headed girl in line at Mcdonald’s, well you’re right, it probably is me. And I’m going to order a hamburger, bitches.

lackluster

For your viewing pleasure, the two cutest dogs ever to grace the planet. We're looking into cloning for the (sniff) unfortunate day when they pass. I'll drop a few grand for another Ruby.

Listen to the song D.A.N.C.E. by Justice. Move over Daft Punk, a new french duo full of electronica goodness has stolen my heart. While I'm on the topic, I also recommend Paris is Burning by Ladyhawke. Now keep in mind that my music suggestions probably won't please some (or even most) of my readers (i.e. grandma and grandpa, it's probably a safe bet to say you won't like Ladyhawke. Or Justice). But if you're looking for something new...well, there's my two centimes.

I'm having issues today with energy. I mean big issues. Funny things happened to me this week and I can't even muster the enthusiasm to spin them into some sort of half-laughable anecdote. Let me just say this: I went for a quiet dinner with a friend and ended up following complete strangers in circles (for over thirty minutes) looking for some party thrown by people none of us really knew. Nevermind that it was like ten degrees outside and I thought I might freeze if I didn't a.) get in the heat of an apartment or b.)immediately imbibe something alcoholic. My rationale was that this ballsy, somewhat absurd move was in the spirit of making french friends (or french gropers as the case was with these saoul men).

So the party was fun, but my crowning moment of glory happened much later in the night (morning). Around 5:30 a.m. we decided that going home was in our best interests and I schlepped my way to the metro to head for the train station. Timing couldn't have been more perfect. I got there with just five minutes to spare (enough time to get a Kinder Bueno) and settled in for my forty minute train ride. I ate party of my candy bar and must have drifted to sleep. When I woke up, I was shocked that I had only slept as far as the Emerainville-Pontault-Conbault stop (which is the fifth stop of the ride; I am the tenth and final). As the train slowed to the stop, I heard the announcement "Ce train est en destination de Haussman-St. Lazare". Translation: this train is going to Paris. I sleepily laughed it off as a mistake but decided to check the time just in case. I blinked and rubbed my eyes to make sure I had read the time correctly. It was 7:30 a.m. I had been riding on the train since 5:50 a.m, over 1.5 hours!!!! APPARENTLY, I had fallen asleep, the train arrived at the terminus, I slept, no one woke me, the train left to go BACK to Paris, I still slept, and finally, FINALLLLLYYY woke up at 7:30. Well, I had to ride the rest of the way back to friggin' Paris and wait for the train to leave to once again take me back home.

I mean, I pride myself on being a light sleeper. This morning I heard the kids whispering in the kitchen and woke up....Needless to say, I am now very wary of train-sleeping. I dozed off while reading on the train today and set an alarm. Just in case.

And that's about it for fun/funny in my life. I'm sure some of you (mom) don't find that entertaining but I assure you there was no danger in the situation. I live in hicktown, FR and there are always guards on the train...guards that woke me on my second ride home to tell me to get my feet off the seat but conveniently failed to wake me when I arrived home. Sure France, SURE.

Well, have to transition from midday laziness to evening chore time. Joy. Somewhere along the way I have to find the energy to go out with friends tonight. Oh, life.

New Year's Resolution

I'm baaaccccckkkk. Well, actually I got back Sunday morning. But you know what I mean...back to chronicling my life. Welcome to 2010 everyone! Did that decade go fast or what? And we were worried about Y2K...psh. Let me propose a toast (it's only 3 pm here and yes I am holding a glass of wine)---may this year bring good health, much happiness and maybe even a little bit of crazy courage to do something "outside the box". I'm not necessarily suggesting that you up and move yourself to a small village in BFE, France....although if you have that urge, go for it! I just hope that in reading this blog that maybe some of you, even if it's just a few, have been or will be inspired to do something a little scary or uncomfortable or new, whether it's traveling abroad or moving out of the 'rents house or applying for that really hard-but-awesome job.

My own New Year's resolutions include 1) speaking more english to the kids. It's just too damn easy to scream at them in their own language; at least like that I know they understand me. 2) Make some french friends. I mean let's be honest here, it's not terribly hard to meet french men in Paris. But by friends I don't mean guys drunkenly drooling at some english-speaking girl. I mean real friends! I'm thinking about offering english lessons in Chaumes as a way of opening that door. Plus, I could always use the cash. Can I consider them friends if they're paying me? 3) Run a road race in Paris. Apparently, in the country where (kilo)meter is actually the measurement used for distance, there is no such thing as a 5k race. If we have them in the U.S. then why the hell do they not exist here? So it looks like I will be training for a 10k. Dear God....if you know me at all you know that a run more than 3 miles is liable to kill me. 4.)Find a french boyfriend. I feel like writing it is going to jinx me. And my nonexistent love life can't take that risk. Think striking it out counts as erasing it?

Let me catch you up on everything. I just got back from an absolutely wonderful trip back home to good old Floyds Knobs. Two weeks flew by, and before I knew it I was back at SDF waiting for my plane to take me to Paris. I relished in all things American...or to be more specific, all things home (mainly food-related, although sadly I did not eat at my beloved Taco Bell) including my favorite Louisville restaurant, Proof, dinner at the Grape Leaf, a delicious breakfast at A Nice Restaurant, lunch at El Nopal, and of course some lovely home-cooked meals chez Dresner. I got to be lazy as hell, re-watching Season 5 of The Office, more than one Law and Order:SVU marathon, The Hangover and Inglourious Basterds. After Christmas, my dad's side of the family came in town--twenty-four people in total stayed in my house--and we had a blast hanging out together. Like I said, I had a great time at home.

My voyage to the United States was unfortunately not as pleasant as my time there. Let me start from the beginning. I woke up at 7 am on Saturday (the 19th), just as excited as I could be, to find that my flight was three hours delayed. Never in my life has my flight been delayed that long. Thank you universe. A momentary bout of optimism inspired me to go to the airport anyways, and so I lugged my overweight suitcase to the train station to wait for my thirty minutes late train that would take me into Paris. Oh, and let me add this joyful tidbit. I fell down the train station's ice covered stairs for the second time in my life. My ass was not only sore but soaking wet and I literally thought my hands had frostbite. I must have looked like the most bitter and angry person alive. Sorry America for making you look bad.

After lugging my 60 pound suitcase--full of illegal and smelly french cheese--for at least an hour through the maze of train station and airport I finally arrived at the hour-long check-in line for my flight that left five hours later. Do I sound hateful? I was. Luckily I made some friends in line that made the wait much more bearable. Let's fastforward past all the check-in and security crap. I get to my gate, settle in, and see that there is a swarm of police men looking very serious at the gate next to me. Oh you know, someone left a potential bomb under a chair. And everyone was evacuated to my gate. It was so crowded that those with seats were like the chosen ones. I thought I was going to be stoned by jealous onlookers.

In the midst of that chaos (a girl actually cried) a sixteen year old boy decided to have some sort of absurd panic attack in the seat next to me. It all started in the duty-free store across from my gate. I noticed this kid hyperventilating and being a huge frickin' sissy. Well what do you know, his dad motions him to the chair next to me. The kids collapses in to it and his eyes roll into the back of his head. My eyes roll into the back of mine as well, not because I was having a twin seizure but because I can spot an A+ performance when I see one. This french stewardess catches wind of the seizure-faker (who, I might add, has been abandoned by his family and left alone in the seat next to me)and tries to rouse him from his tantrum. No response. When she gives him a swift smack (a firm pat maybe?) in the face (definitely not what you do to someone having a real seizure) he sits up. His dad returns from god-knows-where and whispers in french that the kid better cut that shit out. I nodded in agreement. If the plane had to suddenly make an unexpected landing because of Pierre's melodramatic bullshit, I was going to hurt someone. He spent the next three hours with the EMT's who concluded that absolutely nothing was wrong. DUH.

So as I mentioned, I smuggled about ten pounds of french cheese into the U.S. They age that stuff for months and even years. Translation: my suitcase smelled like a fart. Or in the words of Ron Burgundy, "like a turd covered in burnt hair" (ah, laughing at my own Anchorman reference. Pathetic). When I got to Chicago, I had to re-check-in because I missed my connecting flight and the guy wouldn't let me off the hook for my heavy suitcase. I silently pleaded with him not to make me open the stink box but he wouldn't budge. I slowly unzipped that festering coffin of fromage and turned around to watch the crowd's reaction. Everyone in line thought the person next to him/her had ripped a big one. People were looking around, plugging their noses, all disgusted at what they probably thought was the scent of someone's intestines. Nope. Just my french (and darn delicious) cheese.

And so now I am back in France. It's almost like I never left. The kids were pumped to see me, which was nice, and we got back into the groove of things very quickly. Monday night I went to Alain's parents' house for a big family dinner. It was so nice to hear all of the stupid family disputes and not feel obligated to take part! I slept til two on Tuesday (which naturally Alain couldn't resist commenting on. I mean I had jet lag, geeze!!!) and today hung out with the kids who don't have school on Wednesdays. I made them some kick-ass fondue for lunch and then turned them loose on the forbidden TV just because I was feeling wild. How nice it is to be back to my domestic french life.