Le Petit: Less is More #1

Thank you mean, condescending, patronizing French person. Whenever someone says I can't do something, I tend to rise to the occasion. What a gift you just gave me.

Game on, bitch.

Namaste.

Merde! and Nimby-ism

Life is messy. It's full of chaos, complexities, contradictions, chewing gum on your ass, and dog shit on your shoes. There's nowhere in the world, where this is better illustrated than France.

There are three glaring contradictions about France: 1) a lot of French people have dogs, 2) French people are obsessed with cleanliness and order but won't clean up their dog's shit, and 3) at least on paper the French put emphasis on doing what's good for "the collective".

When I first visited France many years ago, it was nearly impossible to walk down the sidewalk and not step in dog shit. Apparently, the sheer volume and overall inconvenience began to affect the tourist industry enough that soon after Paris invested a small fortune in giant vacuum cleaners (with smiling cartoon dogs on the sides) that roll down the streets and boulevards sucking up the canine droppings. The next time I was in Paris, while far from pristine, there was indeed a noticeable difference in the amount of dog shit covering the streets and sidewalks.

However, that's Paris and I've learned that when someone is making a grand generalization about France, if you follow it up with "if by France you mean Paris", more often than not you would be correct. The rest of the country's sidewalks, for the most part, are still layered in dog shit.

And, I'll go a step further to clarify that even in Paris, once you step off the well worn pedestrian paths, there is a veritable mine field of fresh and dried dog shit in the playgrounds, parks, and along the rivers. If the giant shit vacuum can't reach it, it either decomposes or ends up on someones tread.

Coming from the SF Bay Area where not cleaning up after your dog in any public space could result in a $250 fine and a whole lot of hassle, it is ingrained in us to scoop the poop. We don't leave the house with Ti without being equipped with her leash and two sturdy (ideally biodegradable) bags. She does her business and we dutifully do ours - putting the bag on like a glove and scooping up the steamy pile, closing the bag and looking for the nearest trash can.

In the entire time I've been in France (a little over three months), I have been out with Ti at least twice/day and during that time have seen exactly two people clean up after their dogs. Let me add that even in the public green spaces in and around Paris that have been equipped with 1) signage encouraging people to scoop, 2) plenty of bags, and 3) conveniently located trash cans, people blatantly and un-apologetically stand there and watch their dogs shit and then move on. They don't even do the guilt-ridden-stealth-glance-over-the-shoulder move to see if anyone caught them. They literally give a shit and don't give a shit.

This is frustrating and reinforces so many stereotypes I don't even know where to begin.

And, if evidenced by what the state smoking ban has done to lower the number of smokers in this country, I would assume that until there is a legal mandate, no one is going to willingly change their behavior with regard to this particular issue.

Now, I can let go of my righteous indignation about it all, chalk it up as merely a silly Frenchism, watch my step and move on, until and unless this particular cultural difference gets real personal, like it just did...

The context: Until we sign our new apartment lease next week, we're currently living in a borrowed flat in a fairly nice suburb of Paris. The apartment is in a typical modern condo complex. The average age of the condo owners is probably 55. The apartment is on the fourth floor so every time Ti has to go out, we schlep up and down four flights. There are other dogs in the complex. For Ti's daily walks, we make sure to go outside of the complex, along the river, or to a public green space.

Last week Ti was sick; diarrhea, vomiting, excessive panting, lethargy, etc. After one particularly difficult and sleepless night, we decided to take her to the vet the next morning.

The vet's diagnosis was that Ti had worms and parasites. Really? What from? She had ingested too much particulate matter from other dogs' feces. Dog's familiarize themselves with their surroundings with their noses. Sometimes that means sticking their noses in gross places. Since those gross places exist EVERYWHERE it is nearly impossible to avoid. The vet went on to acknowledge that it's a well-known fact that in the US people clean up after their dogs, "but (chuckling) that doesn't happen here." No shit.

For the last week, my awesome Mexi-Cali girl has been loaded up on antibiotics and supplements. She's getting better; her energy level is improving.

This morning, on our way out, we found a note taped to the door. It was from the building manager reminding us that it is not appropriate to allow our dog to relieve herself on the complex property, in the grass, or near the flowers "for the health and well-being of the collective." It's true that a few times, when she was sick, she had urgent needs that had to be taken care of before we could get off the grounds, but we immediately cleaned up the evidence so as not to inconvenience anyone. Apparently, someone saw and for the sake of the "collective" turned us in.

I found this both absurd and amusing. The dog owners in the complex do not let their dogs relieve themselves on the property, but take them to the nearest public green space (which is equipped with bags and trash cans), let them shit anywhere they want and don't clean it up, resulting in my dog getting sick, having a few bad nights, and us getting the hand slap suggesting we're not doing our part for the collective?

Brilliant irony, you fucking self-righteous misanthropes.

NIMBY-ism is alive and well here in France and this whole socialism facade is crumbling as my rose colored sunglasses fall off my face into a steaming pile of French dog shit.

Perils of the Gastronomy (3rd Installment)

One word: Bread

The average French person eats one baguette traditionnale/day. French law dictates that baguettes must be at least 80 cm in length and 5 - 6 cm in diameter. That, quite simply, is a lot of bread for a single person over the course of a week.

And of course, that's only the baguette consumption. There are plenty of other kinds of breads available at any one of the four bazillion boulangeries in the country: multi grain, whole wheat, unleavened, stale (just for soup croutons), round, square; pain de this, pain de that, etc. etc. It's astounding. They all taste the same, and different.

France (being a highly protectionist state) prides itself on producing all the wheat necessary for said bazillion boulangerie; no more, no less. In the countryside, whole families participate in the annual wheat harvest (whether they are wheat producers or not) partly for a bit of extra money, but mostly to fulfill their civic duty to their country. Wheat is as important to the French gastronomy and domestic economy as the vine, and to think otherwise is an insult and to not consume your minimum daily bread allotment is downright unpatriotic. A boulangere considers it a personal failure if they have bread left-over at the end of the day. (The politics of the baguette are fascinating and too multi-layered to get into here.)

Tradition dictates all in France gastronomy. No one questions whether or not that much bread is actually nourishing them or if they really need it. They just consume an heroic amount of bread because that's what they've done for generations. And this brings me to my theory (which admittedly may be one of the more ridiculous generalizations ever made, but hey, it's my blog) : I think France just may be one big gluten allergy.

Wheat, while a beautiful grain, is not for everyone. For example, one of the most obvious long-term results of an unchecked gluten allergy is osteoporosis. For all of the milk consumed out here in France's giant dairy barn, Normandy, I actually see of a lot people over 60 with the tell-tale signs of osteoporosis. (Our 85+ year old neighbor, Madame Hibou, is stooped over like a candy cane and always wonders why her back hurts, but I'll be damned if she doesn't make it to the boulangerie everyday.) Gluten intolerance can also result in irritability, depression, melancholy, and declined dental health. Uh, check, check, check AND check.

Now, I'm mostly just bringing this up because I'm realizing there are a lot of reasons why I'll never be French, and one of those is that I'll never, ever be able to eat that much bread. I don't think I have a serious gluten allergy, but I do know that when I consume too many crusty baguettes in a week my body responds fairly quickly and I know that if I don't back off, it won't be good.

In fact, upon arriving in France, Greg and I wanted to fit into this little town so badly we made our daily trip to the local boulangerie for the obligatory crusty baguette and other wheat laden goodies. Even after exercising all the numerous multi-uses for stale bread, half-eaten baguettes started to accumulate so quickly in our kitchen that it was ridiculous. We placed a moratorium on daily baguette purchases and just yesterday finally brought ourselves to dispose of the large bag of two-month old bread bits, admitting that despite best intentions, bread pudding just will not happen and another jar of bread crumbs is just not necessary.

I wholeheartedly apologize to all the wheat producers, millers, and bakers out there. I am yet another obnoxious immigrant with unreasonable body awareness issues and an innate desire to challenge tradition. Don't hate me. I have every intention to do my part by making up for it in wine consumption. Deal?

The First 100 Days II - Holidays w/the Beuthins

Lots of fun and also lots of consumption.

These are, indeed, chestnuts roasting over an open fire.










This is a fine xmas eve Bordeaux - a gift from Les Maugers.








Xmas morning petit dejeuner -sugar, sugar, and plus...

















The xmas dinner feast, six courses: apertif (including pheasant rillette), lentil soup, roasted duck stew, parsley mashed potatoes, chestnut stuffing, cauliflower souffle, frisee salad, cheese course, ....


and the traditional Buche de Noel, made to order by our local boulangerie/patisserie...


















followed by truffles made by our local chocolatier!

The First 100 Days I - Cold and Tired

The First 100 Days category will be brief photo installments showcasing bits and pieces of our new French life. At the completion of this era (on or around March 12), I will evaluate our performance and determine if the show should go on.

W/out further ado...
an illustration of the first few days tackling jetlag, six hours (or less) of daylight, and extremity numbing cold head-on:

Lighten Up, Frenchies!

I don't know if it's the crushing feeling of living in a place defined by thousands of years of history, accompanied by the heavy burden of their own self-importance in the world, but whatever it is and thus far to me, the French are utterly humorless and lacking in the "joie de vivre" department.
(And this is coming from someone who can, with complete self honesty, safely say that none of you, when you think of me let the words "funny" or "light-hearted", pop to mind.)

As I've reminded a few people, there are no famous French comedians (that I know of) and there is good reason for that - they anatomically lack a funny bone. (Perhaps something genetically irreversible happened during the Dark Ages. Je ne sais pas.) Ironically, one of the French words for actor or actress is "comedienne". Funny, I don't find Catherine Deneuve, Gerard Depardieu, or Belmondo to be comedic in the least.

When the French do make themselves or others chuckle (you'll never witness a full-on gut-grabbing, tear-jerking, nearly urinating, "Oh my god, I can't breathe", from-the-toes-laugh- fest coming from a French person), it's in that under-the-breath jab of sarcasm and/or cynical sort of way. And/or, it comes accompanied with a general complaint about something or somebody.

In this small village, I've taken on the utterly obnoxious role of forcing people to offer up a smile. I make it my personal daily goal of working over at least one person to momentarily break through their self imposed morosity, make eye contact with me, and SMILE. Usually when I do this, they've caught me doing cartwheels or handstands on the football field and very likely I'm dressed like a California-hippie clown in my striped tights showing from under my yoga pants, a pair of goofy red flowered rainboots, a thick bright green fleece, and a Peruvian alpaca hat with tassels. (All the while Ti is hiding her head in embarrassment, pretending she doesn't know me.)

Sometimes I achieve my goal, sometimes I don't. But one thing is for sure, they know I'm not like them.

I've craved light-hearted giddiness and just plain silly banter so much, I've taken to listening to at least 1-2 episodes of The Bugle on my iPod daily. I even had a mildly PG-rated dream about John Oliver (sorry Greg), who I don't find attractive in the least, but who had me laughing so hard whilst sleeping, I woke myself and was still giggling.

I don't feel like psycho-analyzing the reason they are the way they are, but very often I just want to run down the street and scream, "Lighten the fuck up! You have an extraordinary quality of life. Enjoy it. For crying out loud, you invented the phrase "joie de vivre", whose pronounciation gets massacred the world over but everyone loves to use it in the spirit it was intended. You have no reason to be so bloody serious, dour, or cynical all the time. In the words of Woody Guthrie, go ahead and "...dance a goofy dance...". It'll feel good and I'll be sure to laugh at you AND with you.

Perils of the Gastronomy (2nd Installment)

Bottomless Bag of Turnips: BAMFs

It's Northern Europe in winter.
It's cold, dark, and heavy.
You know what these conditions are good for?
SHIT-ALL except for the over-zealous production of root vegetables, tubers, and nightshades. Potatoes, Carrots, Turnips, Parsnips, and Leeks, and...still more Potatoes, Carrots, Turnips...and so forth.

These vegetables are BAMFs. They can withstand bitter cold temps, frozen soil, screaming winds, snow, hail, sleet, rain, etc. and still survive to provide you with your daily supply of flavonoids, carbs, betacarotene, potassium.... They can be roasted, mashed, baked, fried, souped and pureed.

The BAMFs are grown in winter gardens all over this region where the even bigger BAMFs, the caretakers of these gardens, happily share their winter bounty with their ill-equipped, American city-slicker neighbors who are clearly struggling with the harsh realities of a true winter.

One BAMF in particular, our 91 year old neighbor - M. Millet - is most generous.
The first week we arrived, we found a small bag of turnips on our back porch. We were overjoyed by this simple gift and proceeded to enjoy a few of those turnips here and there, in their yummy cruciferousness. Not too many days had gone by before we found another bag of turnips, and this time a few parsnips, on our back porch...

Well, you see where this is going. We couldn't finish the previous bag before we received another, and another, and another... so the bag just kept growing as our creativity and desire for said winter veg began to wane.

Not being one to turn away seasonal, locally grown produce, given to us by the most adorable French farmer you've ever seen (who survived the occupation of his village and farm by the Nazis, raised 12 children, and produced more food for this country that I could in ten lifetimes), I think I've led him to believe that we're actually consuming the turnips and parsnips as fast as he is willing to give them to us. This is a tremendous lie as the bag sits in the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, staring at me whenever I open the door.

This is where the guilt sets in and also why these veggies are so completely BAD ASS - they don't spoil, thereby nagging at my inherently ingrained sense of frugality and responsibility (I was raised on a farm after all). They are genetically designed to live in cold, dark places all winter long. If I were so inclined, there are few places in a fucking frigid 800 year-old house where I could find to put them where they would begin to rot.

So, unlike the oh so lovely spring, summer, and fall produce which has a shelf-life of a week or two (occasionally giving me momentary guilt pangs for not prioritizing its use earlier ((instead of ordering that sushi, for example)), I can quietly utter, "in the compost bin ya go" and my conscience is numbed with the simple out-of-sight-out-of-mind delusion) these BAMFs haunt you.

Every time I open the fridge they're just staring at me as if to say, "Don't tell us you've exhausted your culinary capacity for what we got! It's only January 25. Bitch, you got two more long months and we ain't goin' away!" Or even more condescendingly, "Oh, who's the sanctimonious local, seasonal, organic hippie now? Spirit broken after a measly 7 weeks? Not so easy when you don't live in California, hmm?"

No, you won't win you arrogant French winter turnips. Your cold insides, dark souls, and thick skins will not break me! I have a will like iron. Just because occasionally (read: everyday) I crave an IV drip of SoCal clementines and...light, just a little bit of light and maybe even a touch of sunny warmth on my pallid skin - does NOT mean I'm weak.

Not scurvy, S.A.D, or excessive diarrhea from the over consumption of fibrous tubers will make me waste you and purchase those lovely, plump, brightly colored grapefruit from CA that I saw in the produce section of the Hypermarche. It won't happen.
(The clementines from Spain are a different story entirely.)

I will get through this winter with my health and spirit intact, having eaten every last one of you!