26 juin 2005
Flunch** (French Lunch)
As promised, a glimpse into the French Sunday lunch. First off, despite the fact that they don’t use the Internet and therefore will never read this blog, I have to give a shout out to G’s grandmother and aunt, who have had us over for lunch nearly every day since I moved in with G at the end of April. It was not until today that I truly understood the work that goes into making a hearty lunch for (at least) four people.
The French déjeuner is the main meal of the day. Whereas we Americans tend to have a substantial breakfast, light lunch, and substantial dinner, their typical daily eating schedule goes like this:
• 8:00am (huit heures): Small breakfast (bread/pastry with butter and jam, coffee/tea/hot chocolate)
• 12:00pm (midi): Large lunch (l’entrée (usually a simple salad with a light vinaigrette or raw radishes served with bread, butter and salt), le plat (a meat of some sort served in its own juices and cooked vegetables on the side), du fromage (an assortment of cheeses of which you choose a few knifefuls and eat with bread), le dessert (usually during the week we just have some yogurt or fresh strawberries)
• 20:00pm (vingt heures): Light dinner (take out the entrée and the cheese plate from above).
Today’s lunch was pretty standard, save for a few family dramas that forced us to wait until after 1 pm to eat, and led to the clearing of one place from the dining room table (don’t ask, it’s better that way). In fact, it went amazingly well, considering the stress level during the meal preparation. We were supposed to wake up early to prepare the lunch with enough time to not get stressed out about it, but I had slept with my earplugs in and eye mask on, so I was dead to the world until about 10:15 am. We started preparing the tarte aux legumes (vegetable tart/quiche) first. We had decided on a pre-packaged crust, to “make things easier,” but when we put the crust in the pan and precooked it, it turned out that the crust was not big enough for the amount of filling that the recipe called for. Luckily, G’s mom came to the rescue by whipping up some dough at the last minute and we had a tart large enough to serve everyone multiple portions. I have to give a huge shout out to her, because she really saved the day. It’s too bad she didn’t stick around long enough to enjoy it (hence the aforementioned reference to “family dramas”). The rest of the meal basically prepared itself (that’s what happens when you have family who arrive early “without realizing it.” You have extra eyes scrutinizing your preparation techniques, but you have extra hands to help out, as well).
G’s grandmother, aunt, and uncle appeared to be impressed and sated, and that’s all I could have asked for. After plowing through the salad, tarte, bread (made by G’s mom), cheese, chocolate mousse (made by G’s mom) and tiramisu (made by G’s grandma & aunt), I realized that even the best of meals are difficult to prepare all alone. Even though we wanted to prepare the entire meal, from cutting the vegetables to doing the dishes, without the aid of anyone, and even though they rarely let us lift a finger when we eat chez them, we ended up accepting their help gladly, because we had bitten off more than we could have chewed. But in the end, what we chewed tasted pretty damn good.
**Flunch is the name of a chain of cafeteria-style restaurants in France. I love saying the word Flunch. Try it! Flunch Flunch Flunch!
The French déjeuner is the main meal of the day. Whereas we Americans tend to have a substantial breakfast, light lunch, and substantial dinner, their typical daily eating schedule goes like this:
• 8:00am (huit heures): Small breakfast (bread/pastry with butter and jam, coffee/tea/hot chocolate)
• 12:00pm (midi): Large lunch (l’entrée (usually a simple salad with a light vinaigrette or raw radishes served with bread, butter and salt), le plat (a meat of some sort served in its own juices and cooked vegetables on the side), du fromage (an assortment of cheeses of which you choose a few knifefuls and eat with bread), le dessert (usually during the week we just have some yogurt or fresh strawberries)
• 20:00pm (vingt heures): Light dinner (take out the entrée and the cheese plate from above).
Today’s lunch was pretty standard, save for a few family dramas that forced us to wait until after 1 pm to eat, and led to the clearing of one place from the dining room table (don’t ask, it’s better that way). In fact, it went amazingly well, considering the stress level during the meal preparation. We were supposed to wake up early to prepare the lunch with enough time to not get stressed out about it, but I had slept with my earplugs in and eye mask on, so I was dead to the world until about 10:15 am. We started preparing the tarte aux legumes (vegetable tart/quiche) first. We had decided on a pre-packaged crust, to “make things easier,” but when we put the crust in the pan and precooked it, it turned out that the crust was not big enough for the amount of filling that the recipe called for. Luckily, G’s mom came to the rescue by whipping up some dough at the last minute and we had a tart large enough to serve everyone multiple portions. I have to give a huge shout out to her, because she really saved the day. It’s too bad she didn’t stick around long enough to enjoy it (hence the aforementioned reference to “family dramas”). The rest of the meal basically prepared itself (that’s what happens when you have family who arrive early “without realizing it.” You have extra eyes scrutinizing your preparation techniques, but you have extra hands to help out, as well).
G’s grandmother, aunt, and uncle appeared to be impressed and sated, and that’s all I could have asked for. After plowing through the salad, tarte, bread (made by G’s mom), cheese, chocolate mousse (made by G’s mom) and tiramisu (made by G’s grandma & aunt), I realized that even the best of meals are difficult to prepare all alone. Even though we wanted to prepare the entire meal, from cutting the vegetables to doing the dishes, without the aid of anyone, and even though they rarely let us lift a finger when we eat chez them, we ended up accepting their help gladly, because we had bitten off more than we could have chewed. But in the end, what we chewed tasted pretty damn good.
**Flunch is the name of a chain of cafeteria-style restaurants in France. I love saying the word Flunch. Try it! Flunch Flunch Flunch!
25 juin 2005
Snore
Okay, I've been pretty lame as a blogger lately and totally disrespectful to my loyal fans (all five of them). I can't say I'm going to redeem myself today, but tomorrow, I promise, a lengthy recount of my experiences with French lunches. Tomorrow, G. and I are endeavoring to prepare a lunch for the whole family. What's on the menu? So far: a mache salad with kiwi and clemintine tangerines; a vegetable tarte (kind of like a quiche but lighter); assorted cheeses and bread; chocolate mousse (made by G's maman); rosé from some region not too far from here but the name escapes me and I'm far too tired to go all the way to the kitchen to look at the label.
To tide you over, have a look at this. An intriguing/mildly humorous article on people who snore by a man who wrote a book about his life as a snorer.
To tide you over, have a look at this. An intriguing/mildly humorous article on people who snore by a man who wrote a book about his life as a snorer.
21 juin 2005
I'm Meeeeelting!
""It's hot. Damn hot! Real hot! Hottest things is my shorts. I could cook things in it. A little crotch pot cooking.' Well, can you tell me what it feels like? 'Fool, it's hot! I told you again! Were you born on the sun? It's damn hot! I saw... It's so damn hot, I saw little guys, their orange robes burst into flames. It's that hot! Do you know what I'm talking about?' What do you think it's going to be like tonight? 'It's gonna be hot and wet! That's nice if you're with a lady, but it ain't no good if you're in the jungle.' Thank you, Roosevelt."
Robin Williams as Adrian Cronauer and Roosevelt E. Roosevelt in Good Morning, Vietnam
We sleep with the windows open, no covers, no fans. I have a theory that the French don’t believe in the use of electric ventilation apparatus. I can deal with no air conditioning, no problem. But a fan is a must in the summer months, n’est-ce pas? Especially on those dead nights where it’s still 27 degrees Celsius (about 80 degrees F.) at 11 p.m. and you lie in your sweat-soaked bed, praying for even the smallest of breezes… Okay I’m exaggerating a tiny bit. It’s not been that hard to sleep, and I’m by no means wilting away. But most nights, I lay there, cursing la chaleur and wondering how it is that G. (along with most males I know) have the amazing ability to fall into a dead sleep in the most un-sleep-inducing situations.*
In other news, a few nights ago we saw Les Poupées Russes (the Russian Dolls). It’s the sequel to 2002’s L’Auberge Espagnole, both written and directed by Cédric Klapisch. The sequel rejoins four of the principal characters from the first film, now living in Paris and London, newly 30 years old and still figuring out how to be truly happy, fulfilled and loved in a world of convention and mediocrity. An enjoyable film, mainly because its principal actor, Romain Duris, is so interesting to watch. He’s not classically handsome, but there’s something about him that makes you want to know him. We also have the pleasure of watching Audrey Tautou, of Amélie fame, who’s given a meatier role this time around (as a young single mom, no less). I have to say, it’s not as unexpectedly delightful as the first one, but for a sequel, it’s no small feat. The film could easily stand on its own, as the story is virtually independent of the original, yet Klapsich reveals a complexity in his characters that he couldn’t quite reach the first time around. Don’t know when this one will be out in the States, but go see it if you like love stories that are both strikingly realistic and yet completely unimaginable at the same time.
*This does not include falling asleep in front of the TV, which I do pretty much every time I watch a DVD in the dark.
Robin Williams as Adrian Cronauer and Roosevelt E. Roosevelt in Good Morning, Vietnam
We sleep with the windows open, no covers, no fans. I have a theory that the French don’t believe in the use of electric ventilation apparatus. I can deal with no air conditioning, no problem. But a fan is a must in the summer months, n’est-ce pas? Especially on those dead nights where it’s still 27 degrees Celsius (about 80 degrees F.) at 11 p.m. and you lie in your sweat-soaked bed, praying for even the smallest of breezes… Okay I’m exaggerating a tiny bit. It’s not been that hard to sleep, and I’m by no means wilting away. But most nights, I lay there, cursing la chaleur and wondering how it is that G. (along with most males I know) have the amazing ability to fall into a dead sleep in the most un-sleep-inducing situations.*
In other news, a few nights ago we saw Les Poupées Russes (the Russian Dolls). It’s the sequel to 2002’s L’Auberge Espagnole, both written and directed by Cédric Klapisch. The sequel rejoins four of the principal characters from the first film, now living in Paris and London, newly 30 years old and still figuring out how to be truly happy, fulfilled and loved in a world of convention and mediocrity. An enjoyable film, mainly because its principal actor, Romain Duris, is so interesting to watch. He’s not classically handsome, but there’s something about him that makes you want to know him. We also have the pleasure of watching Audrey Tautou, of Amélie fame, who’s given a meatier role this time around (as a young single mom, no less). I have to say, it’s not as unexpectedly delightful as the first one, but for a sequel, it’s no small feat. The film could easily stand on its own, as the story is virtually independent of the original, yet Klapsich reveals a complexity in his characters that he couldn’t quite reach the first time around. Don’t know when this one will be out in the States, but go see it if you like love stories that are both strikingly realistic and yet completely unimaginable at the same time.
*This does not include falling asleep in front of the TV, which I do pretty much every time I watch a DVD in the dark.
17 juin 2005
Nostalgia
Don't want to give free advertising to a certain multi-billion (trillion?) dollar fast food chain, but I was hit with a wave of nostalgia today and did a google search for a Micky D's advertising campaign from the 80's. Who remembers this? An advertising supplement put in newspapers in the form of a real record (LP). The point was to memorize the Schmickdonald's menu in the form of a catchy song (clever, huh?). I'm sure it drove parents crazy across the country.
16 juin 2005
Saliva
One of my favorite (albeit dorky) new things to do on the Internet is to hit the “Next Blog” button up on the top of blogger.com blogs and see what happens. It can be pretty entertaining, because essentially you’re saying to the Internet, “show me what you got. Send me to the ramblings of someone I’ve never met, will never meet, and whose personal thoughts I should not be privy to.” But lately I’ve been getting a whole lot of advertising sites that people use the blogger templates to create. At first I was annoyed by these uninvited ads, but I came upon one last night that made me laugh until I cried (http://wigs761resorces.blogspot.com/). Let me explain why, because, at first glance, a Web site about “saliva resources” would not seem too hilarious.
Someone, somewhere (someone named Webcorp, apparently), has created a template to be used with blogger sites which help people find out about a subject, product, or news story. But usually, because of the nature of templates, the phrasing of the ads makes little or no sense, as the person who created the site simply entered the name of a specific product or research topic or news story into the blank field of the template, and then let it be published without editing it. So what ensues, a lot of the time, is a blog like “saliva resources,” (actually entitled “WIGS786”) where you have entries like this:
Detailed information concerning thyroid saliva test wichita. saliva resources, full of thyroid saliva test wichita newsletters, articles, links and other thyroid saliva test wichita information - ALL FREE - in one easy to navigate site to save time and money.
and this one, which frankly still makes me tear up each time I think about it:
Detailed information concerning dog throwing up saliva. saliva resources, full of dog throwing up saliva newsletters, articles, links and other dog throwing up saliva information - ALL FREE - in one easy to navigate site to save time and money.
Dog throwing up saliva newsletters? Sign me up! Is the Internet really so diverse and detailed, and are peoples’ needs so evolved and specific that it’s possible to subscribe to a newsletter for my dog’s salivary gland disorder? I can’t believe that there is a community of people out there who have banded together in support of their pets’ dysfunctional vomit.
No. It’s got to be a front for something else. When you click on any of the links on the saliva resources page, they bring you to another chock-full-of-advertising site, with a mention of saliva in combination with another (possibly illegal?) subject, like downloading mp3’s. Perhaps this is a way of avoiding being punished for illegal downloads or something. I haven’t investigated enough to be sure. If you wish to enlighten me, please do. Or, if you are a subscriber to the Dog Throwing Up Saliva Newsletter, PLEASE contact me. I would really like to talk to you.
Someone, somewhere (someone named Webcorp, apparently), has created a template to be used with blogger sites which help people find out about a subject, product, or news story. But usually, because of the nature of templates, the phrasing of the ads makes little or no sense, as the person who created the site simply entered the name of a specific product or research topic or news story into the blank field of the template, and then let it be published without editing it. So what ensues, a lot of the time, is a blog like “saliva resources,” (actually entitled “WIGS786”) where you have entries like this:
Detailed information concerning thyroid saliva test wichita. saliva resources, full of thyroid saliva test wichita newsletters, articles, links and other thyroid saliva test wichita information - ALL FREE - in one easy to navigate site to save time and money.
and this one, which frankly still makes me tear up each time I think about it:
Detailed information concerning dog throwing up saliva. saliva resources, full of dog throwing up saliva newsletters, articles, links and other dog throwing up saliva information - ALL FREE - in one easy to navigate site to save time and money.
Dog throwing up saliva newsletters? Sign me up! Is the Internet really so diverse and detailed, and are peoples’ needs so evolved and specific that it’s possible to subscribe to a newsletter for my dog’s salivary gland disorder? I can’t believe that there is a community of people out there who have banded together in support of their pets’ dysfunctional vomit.
No. It’s got to be a front for something else. When you click on any of the links on the saliva resources page, they bring you to another chock-full-of-advertising site, with a mention of saliva in combination with another (possibly illegal?) subject, like downloading mp3’s. Perhaps this is a way of avoiding being punished for illegal downloads or something. I haven’t investigated enough to be sure. If you wish to enlighten me, please do. Or, if you are a subscriber to the Dog Throwing Up Saliva Newsletter, PLEASE contact me. I would really like to talk to you.
15 juin 2005
Sox Woes
At the heart of the Sox's troubled wooing of Chicago lies a conundrum worthy of Yogi Berra: They haven't been good enough to win, and they haven't been bad enough to tap into baseball's romance with hapless losers. Erik Ahlberg, Wall St. Journal
Apparently the Chicago White Sox just can't “get it up” (excuse the expression) like their cross town rivals, the Cubs. I have to admit, I'd choose Wrigley over the U.S. Cellular Field any day. I mean, c'mon, The U.S. Cellular Field? It sounds like a biological weapons testing ground. I understand that both Wrigley and the USCF, if I may call it that, are named after the corporations that own them. However, the U.S. Cellular Field just doesn't have a catchy “ring” to it (haha get it? “Ring???”) like Wrigley Field does. And while we're comparing teams, let's not ignore the mascots. Oh wait, there is no comparison. Who wouldn't choose a cuddly little cubby bear over a smelly old sports sock? Come to think of it, neither one seems to evoke images of strong grown men swinging bats and sliding into the dirt, but I digress...I'm trying to say that when rooting for a Chicago baseball team, the Cubs win my favor, hands down.
My team comparisons may seem a little bit less-than-credible, seeing as I don't actually know much of the teams' overall stats or individual player skills, but as my family will attest to, I don't go to Wrigley for the game. I go for the food--the overpriced steamed hot dogs and unshelled salty peanuts; the chocolate malt cups with wooden stick-spoons; the Old Style Beer. I go for Wrigley, for the same cliché reasons that everyone likes Wrigley-the ivy colored walls; the history; yada yada yada. It's not that I don't care about the game, or that I don't understand the game-I do. But if I were going to choose a baseball team based on the sheer abilities of the players, I'd probably be a fair weather-fan and wouldn't give a damn about the ivy.
Apparently the Chicago White Sox just can't “get it up” (excuse the expression) like their cross town rivals, the Cubs. I have to admit, I'd choose Wrigley over the U.S. Cellular Field any day. I mean, c'mon, The U.S. Cellular Field? It sounds like a biological weapons testing ground. I understand that both Wrigley and the USCF, if I may call it that, are named after the corporations that own them. However, the U.S. Cellular Field just doesn't have a catchy “ring” to it (haha get it? “Ring???”) like Wrigley Field does. And while we're comparing teams, let's not ignore the mascots. Oh wait, there is no comparison. Who wouldn't choose a cuddly little cubby bear over a smelly old sports sock? Come to think of it, neither one seems to evoke images of strong grown men swinging bats and sliding into the dirt, but I digress...I'm trying to say that when rooting for a Chicago baseball team, the Cubs win my favor, hands down.
My team comparisons may seem a little bit less-than-credible, seeing as I don't actually know much of the teams' overall stats or individual player skills, but as my family will attest to, I don't go to Wrigley for the game. I go for the food--the overpriced steamed hot dogs and unshelled salty peanuts; the chocolate malt cups with wooden stick-spoons; the Old Style Beer. I go for Wrigley, for the same cliché reasons that everyone likes Wrigley-the ivy colored walls; the history; yada yada yada. It's not that I don't care about the game, or that I don't understand the game-I do. But if I were going to choose a baseball team based on the sheer abilities of the players, I'd probably be a fair weather-fan and wouldn't give a damn about the ivy.
14 juin 2005
man baby
"'Unlike William Windsor, the vast majority of 'adult babies' keep their fetish under wraps -- going only so far as to wear a diaper under their jeans or three-piece suits -- so they can function in the straight world. Windsor believes he's the only adult baby in the U.S. who sleeps, eats, pays bills, runs daily errands, shops at the grocery store, and occasionally drinks beer at a local tavern -- i.e., who lives this way -- 24/7, 365 days a year." (Phoenix New Times) Originally taken from The Obscure Store
Let your inner baby shine. That's what I say. Kudos, William Windsor, for having the balls to wear your diaper on your sleeve. Do man-babies actually use their diapers, or do they serve merely as accessories? Please say it's the latter. Please. In fact, now I take back what I said about Windsor. Keep your inner baby on the inside, man. Babies are cute when they're...babies. When they're little and cute and you can forgive the nasty diaper smell because the cuteness prevails. But Windsor, I am sorry to say, you have none of the redeeming qualities of a baby, if that wasn't clear.
P.S. I just actually read the article that I reference, and there is an entire section devoted to his diaper-training. EW.
Let your inner baby shine. That's what I say. Kudos, William Windsor, for having the balls to wear your diaper on your sleeve. Do man-babies actually use their diapers, or do they serve merely as accessories? Please say it's the latter. Please. In fact, now I take back what I said about Windsor. Keep your inner baby on the inside, man. Babies are cute when they're...babies. When they're little and cute and you can forgive the nasty diaper smell because the cuteness prevails. But Windsor, I am sorry to say, you have none of the redeeming qualities of a baby, if that wasn't clear.
P.S. I just actually read the article that I reference, and there is an entire section devoted to his diaper-training. EW.
La Ciotat
La Ciotat, Mediterranean. Sun, sea, sea "fruits." "Calanques." Mistral winds. Lavander. Soap. Petanque. Pastis. Jellyfish, sea urchins. Clams for 1 euro the kilo. Sand in the bed. Lunch in the garden. Climbing on the rocks. Snorkling in the sea. Topless (!) on the beach. Finishing a book (You Shall Know Our Velocity! by Dave Eggers) at long last. Sleeping in. Cooking live sea food.
02 juin 2005
Tadpoles
Observations from my journal today:
I'm at the lake with Gil--Lake Laffrey, about 25 km outside of Grenoble. The only clouds in the sky are in one wide and feathery strip, like a daytime Milky Way. The beach is made of pebbles and the water is shallow and full of inky black blind tadpoles. I've never seen so many tadpoles outside of a middle school science classroom. Swimming frantically, but aimlessly, they truly resemble sperm.
A few minutes ago, two svelte French girls arrived and set up their towels near us. One of them--the poutier and more svelte, and thus instantly hateable--started squealing in disgust and horror when she saw the tadpoles in the water. Wimp. Even more reason to hate her. Not that I'd actually hate someone for being pretty and tan and having perfect skin...
All around us, there are young men and women of Arab origins wearing flashy swimsuits--the women's are one size too small, the men's, one size too large--and talking on their cellphones.
There's approximately 1.5 people brave enough to be in the water (meaning: three people with half their bodies submerged) and everyone else is watching them. This is no Lake Michigan, where you get in the water as long as it's hot outside and there's no ice or dead fish floating in it.
I'm at the lake with Gil--Lake Laffrey, about 25 km outside of Grenoble. The only clouds in the sky are in one wide and feathery strip, like a daytime Milky Way. The beach is made of pebbles and the water is shallow and full of inky black blind tadpoles. I've never seen so many tadpoles outside of a middle school science classroom. Swimming frantically, but aimlessly, they truly resemble sperm.
A few minutes ago, two svelte French girls arrived and set up their towels near us. One of them--the poutier and more svelte, and thus instantly hateable--started squealing in disgust and horror when she saw the tadpoles in the water. Wimp. Even more reason to hate her. Not that I'd actually hate someone for being pretty and tan and having perfect skin...
All around us, there are young men and women of Arab origins wearing flashy swimsuits--the women's are one size too small, the men's, one size too large--and talking on their cellphones.
There's approximately 1.5 people brave enough to be in the water (meaning: three people with half their bodies submerged) and everyone else is watching them. This is no Lake Michigan, where you get in the water as long as it's hot outside and there's no ice or dead fish floating in it.
