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Journal

Speaking of that little Eiffel Tower notebook, I recently rediscovered it while unpacking our new place. Like rereading any record of angstier years, I’ve needed to take a deep breath and forgive myself before looking back on my original thoughts on French guys and macarons. The shame! The SHAME! Although this is going to be either extremely entertaining or the most nauseating act of self indulgence ever, I thought I would share a few tantalizing and/or sickening reflections from my one-way flight to Paris and a live running commentary…

July 28th, 2008

“I’m ready to get this show on the road! Of course, I’m nervous. (translation: what do I need to do to get this plane to turn around?) There really is no rhyme or reason to this adventure (Except for exploiting my youthful metabolism with culinary explorations in gourmandise) . Instead of living vicariously through Audrey Hepburn or buying other people Eiffel Tower knickknacks inspired by dream-inducing cities, (By the way Carol, thanks for the journal!) I decided to do it for myself (Oh shit!). When I tell people about my adventure, I get squeals of jealous joy especially from those belonging to the female gender. (Some things haven’t changed) Much of these squeals of joy are followed with the assumption that I will marry a French dude and stay forever (Sweet foreshadowing, sweet irony). But all I can think about is how badly I want a Diet Coke right now (Baby child, how American you once were! Now I only drink red wine ’cause that’s far Frenchier). If only that punk-ass brainiac on Oprah didn’t have to drop the bomb about how unsanitary airplane ice cubes are. (Good news, I’m still cynical! And I still always regret watching Oprah) I don’t really know what to expect from this year. (Or four) I hope to learn French. (‘Voulez–vous coucher avec moi ce soir’ was not the best start) I hope to pick up journaling again. (ex: Dear Diary, let me tell you all about my first French French kiss. Cue in nausea.) Geez, I cannot even imagine blogging. I can only imagine the pressure! (4 watercolored posts a week? Are you crazy?) I worry enough that people don’t understand the irony of my Facebook profile, let alone my actual thoughts! (And we are vomiting) Excellent, just timed my nap perfectly to catch the beverage cart!”

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Pendaison de crémaillère

Voila! An illustrated taste of our new souped-up kitchen! And just a glimpse into our new pseudo-Scandanavian love nest. Since this is my first time living in an all-new place of my own, I have taken an obsessive-compulsive reacquaintance with cleaning. And the thought of packing all of Paris into our crib for a housewarming has me reaching for the Ajax. Nevertheless, the past week has been a marathon of calm, mini-housewarming events. Much to my chagrin, a housewarming does not translate directly to chauffage de maison. Instead it translates to pendaison de crémaillère. After grilling my husband about its origins since we packed our first cardboard box, I finally got an answer this evening. But like a lot of things in France, it goes way, way back in time. From what I can understand, pendaison de crémaillère is the hanging of the chain which holds a pot of soup over a fire. Straight up Medieval double, double toil and trouble! That sounds like a big old mess. I’d rather turn up the heat and call it a chauffage de maison.

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The Fête of the 14th

In celebration of the 14th of July, we attended an apero on the 6th floor of an architect friend’s place in Belleville. It was younger crowd than usual. And every single one of them was an architect. But I was feeling confident. My outfit was banging and I brought fleur de sel brownies which always gives me a leg up on friend making. In America at least.

It went on like any other apero. I bought myself some time at the buffet and put out my feelers, scanning the crowd for a little eye contact and resulting chitchat. No luck. Luckily, I became well-acquainted with a friendly couple named Tarama and Blini. But it was only a matter of time before the fireworks erupted far in the horizon. In the nick of time, “Firework”, Katy Perry’s fist-pumping anthem of self-esteem came on. Her Swedish songwriters sure tugged on my cold heartstrings as I watched the Eiffel Tower blowup in the distance. Come on Jessie, just “ignite the light and let it shine!” “Boom boom boom!” You too can be brighter than the “moon moon moon!” I said to myself as I mussed up a little courage to confront the second half of the soiree. I refilled my drink.

Seconds later, as the last firework fogged up the Parisian sky, Dionysis and the little-g party gods were with us as the whole flat erupted into a collective, full-throttle dance party. Damn, these architects could flail. They could even dance to Celine Dion. Somewhere between “No Diggity” and “Wannabe”, I became fast friends with a 20-year old Danish Erasmus student. She pulled me close as we were jumping around to House of Pain, “I have a question. How old are you?” “I’m 26.” ” You seem like you are finished with partying. Why aren’t you drinking?” At this point, I already drank a whole bottle of wine and dug deep into my 1990s subconscious to recite every word of Shaggy’s “Mr. Boombastic” by heart. How dare you tell me I’m not fun! Yes, Joni Mitchell and collecting digestive teas can lead to an equally interesting evening. But those things are reserved strictly for Sunday nights. Defeated, my husband and I returned home. As my hangover carries onto its second day, I accept the fact that my idea of fun™ is not exactly the same as it was when I first arrived in Paris 4 years ago. But Shaggy will be with me for life.

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McDo? McDon’t?

Greetings from the McDonald’s near our new place! Excuse a whiny American for a moment, but we still won’t have internet for two weeks. The horror! The HORROR! And my watercolors ran away with my sanity. It’s about to get real interesting here. But nothing pumps me up in the morning better than a McCappuccino and a hair whipping response to Carly Rae Jepsen. And that Bruno Mars sings with such conviction! I’m lovin’ iiii..nevermind.

Allez, must seize the day! Drawer organizers must be ordered and door handles must be handled.

Bonne journée!

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Notes on a move

We are finally moving into our new place today! Since we’ve been packing for nearly a month now, our life has been scattered into unfindable fragments. Note: food styling tweezers don’t do a thing for eyebrows. Anyway, the shell of our old apartment looks like a run down store-front art gallery in Belleville. Too bad we already ate all the canapés.

Helping my husband pack up his life, the only skeleton in his closet is his backbreaking collection of photo books. Needless to say, after a long winter and spring of hachis parmentier and projectfreetv, we definitely made up for lost cardio.

Despite a brutal cold and a metal pipe in the trachea, I am now relishing in the raspy voice of my dreams. If you don’t know me, I have a distinctively high voice. Like “I’m sorry, if your mother home?” kind of high. Let’s just say somewhere between boy soprano and Sarah Jessica Parker on helium. To finally have a voice deeper than my elementary English students is a thrill. But my voice is slowly creeping back. Bummer, no need for that vanity electrolarynx.

So, farewell the grimiest apartment I have ever know. You were also the happiest. You will not be missed, but you will be remembered.

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Canapé Raid

The only person who loves canapés more than me is my husband. Invite us to your parties! We will bring our own toothpicks! No chip left undipped! Last night in particular, after a long day of moving into our new place, we fortunately had an excuse to leave the sad, barren apartment we are still stuck living in. Like every other night in Paris, we were invited to a ‘cocktail’. And it was straight-up search and destroy. Fetching a glass of champagne at the door, I did the preliminary scope out before the tag team, “2 o’clock, foie gras pinwheels and hummus zucchini cups. 4 o’clock, jambon de parme carving station. Crudités, zero threat. Beware of 12 o’clock! Concorde grapes+unidentifiable white fish=most unfortunate.” But my partner in canape crime lost momentum; his pacing got slowed down by conversation. But I diligently treaded on, swerving through the partygoers to find what else lurked about. “Viens VIIIIIITE!” I jumped up and down, waving my coup de champ’ across the crowd. Jackpot! Thai gambas à la minute in T minus 2 minutes!

Three hours later, the jambon de parme specialist knew my name, where I was born, and had a running count of how many chicken curry crepe triangles I had manhandled. Gourmandise, the fine line of consumption between foodie and fatty, had been crossed. But a few toothpicks of port-macerated prunes and cantaloupe sent us sweetly on our way back to our empty home. I high-fived my hubby on our way out.

To be continued…

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A Sugar-Coated Milestone

I am happy to announce that today I reached a major milestone in my life in France. Sleepily ordering a pain au chocolat at the boulangerie this morning, the boulanger turned to me, looked me square in the eyes, and said, “Ca va?” She asked me how I was! And not in a “Damn, you look terrible! Are you still wearing your pyjama shirt?” kind of way either. France is not the kind of place where you hear “Hi, my name is Anne-Sophie. How may I serve thee today, chéri?”. It’s just not friendly. It’s just that no one cares about a stranger’s day. Only what they had for lunch. But 3 years, a lot of pocket change, and bi-daily trips later, we are now kabitzing! I need a friend like this. She answers all of my burning pastry questions. “What’s in the chocolate flan?” “It’s a flan, but with chocolate.” “How does the viennois au chocolat look when watercolored?” “I don’t know” “What’s the difference between brioche and pain au lait?” “Nothing.” It’s a shame we are moving away from my boulanger bff within the next few days. I should show my appreciation by baking her a cake. Hmmm, or maybe not.

Moving out, moving on.

We’ve set a date! The renovations are wrapping up in our new place. And we are set to move in next week. But sweet nostalgia is sinking in. I’ll miss our untamed little garden out back. The warm tradition at our local boulangerie. The peeling paint. And the curtains of cobwebs. The assortment of wildlife that creep into our bathroom. The defunct washing machine which serves as our only counter space. The scars on my shoulders reminding me of our ongoing war against bedbugs. The upstairs neighbors and their Saturday morning smooth jazz sessions. Wait a minute, let’s blow this joint!

99 problems but a zucchini ain’t one

Just like any other day, aside from the crisper drawer full of Kodak, the fridge is barren, except for a well-rounded collection of condiments with nothing to put them on. But regardless of what’s inside, there are always a few zucchini lurking about. They are sturdy, reliable, adaptable, and have already outlasted Kodak.

I never cared much for zucchini in my previous life, pre-France. Growing up in the Midwest, zucchini was yet another victim of the deep fryer. And in the summertime, my mom always thought buying a 5-pounder from the farmer’s market would satiate our annual zucchini consumption. But in reality, half went to a zucchini bread and the other half was lost to the fridge. Just like avocado chocolate mousse and peanut butter & banana sandwiches, zucchini bread was another cultural over-share with mon mari qui fume. But that’s ok. In France, zucchini always seems to be in season and the price is always in reason. Mixed with a little creme fraiche and sprinkled with cheese, it bakes up into a beautiful gratin. I usually slice it and sauté it over a medium heat in olive oil with a crushed garlic clove until it caramelizes on both sides.

Mixed with anchovies and pasta or made into an omelette, this super-simple preparation heightens the nuttiness of the zucchini in less than 5 minutes. Now, what to do with all those condiments?

Clouds over Saint-Mandé

The April showers turned into May showers. Come on June! Kick out the precipitation and bring in the picnics! But enough about the weather already.

I just committed the terrible sin of running errands in my nightdress. A real Franco no-no. In a culture which firmly separates the public from the private, flip-flops, pajama pants, and convenience clothes are only found behind locked doors. Needless to say, I did dress up my nightgown with a French touch, one of my husband’s v-neck sweaters. I’d like the think it was California casual with Midwestern roots. Anyway, the moment I left my flat (with all my Crocs and Snuggies padlocked behind me), I felt the first ray of premature summer sun hit my ankles. And so it begins…