Unlikely Diplomat

I have a great picture of my mom from her trip to Paris years and years ago: She’s sprawled on a rock somewhere in the city, smiling a big, broad smile, holding up a prized bottle of Pepto Bismol.

I realize now that mom was really on to something. Because this past weekend, on the day we’d splurged for a babysitter and booked a table at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon for a real-deal Michelin starred dining experience, I woke up with…well, let’s just call them tummy troubles.

I had been dreaming about the small plates of langoustine ravioli and seared lamb chops and truffled oeufs en cocotte that would soon find their way to my belly for months. And of course I was also looking forward to a night out with Husband – a chance to be our old Paris selves without worrying about strollers and nap times and another human being’s bodily functions.

But the seas were angry that day, my friends. It wasn’t quite a London situation, but I did spend a good part of the morning curled up in the fetal position, sipping ginger-ale. I wasn’t remotely hungry. And my dreams were limited to finding some of that chalky-sweet pink nectar of the gods, which is apparently banned in France.

(To which I say: Really? Of all the things you could withhold from the people of your country, you’re going to ban Pepto? In a place where people are regularly served intestines sautéed in butter and mounds of steak tartare, this seems especially cruel)

Husband said we could cancel and do it again another time. But I was not about to let a little gastrointestinal distress keep me from what promised to be one of the most fabulous dinners of my life and one of our last hurrahs in Paris. So I showered up, took one last swig of ginger-ale, and popped a couple Tums just in case.

And when I sat down at the bar and gazed into that Robuchon kitchen, brimming with savory sauces and sweet confections, I wasn’t sure I could do it. But then I saw a young chef vigorously stirring a pot of something, whisking in ladle after ladle of golden melted butter. He stopped to taste a spoonful of the creamy white concoction, added a pinch of sea salt, and then when back to whisking and ladling, whisking and ladling.

The woman sitting next to us must have seen me gaping in awe, because she leaned over and said,

“Mashed potatoes. They’re the only reason I come here.”

And right then and there I decided I owed it to my taste buds to persevere. So I gritted my teeth, forced down a slug of champagne, and ordered up a seafood carpaccio appetizer.

I think my mom would be proud.

This photo was taken at 8:03 this morning. I don’t know what’s more disturbing about it: how dark the sky is at that hour or the fact that I’d been up for 2 hours already before taking it.

So the crazy La Leche League lady who came over to when le bébé was first born recently sent a text to check in. I call her “crazy” because while she was indeed very helpful in terms of making me not cry every time I had to feed my child, she also felt strongly that I should continue to make my chest an all-you-can-eat buffet until le bébé reached the ripe old age of five.

What the what?!

Anyway, it was nice of her to check in. I replied that all was well and le bébé was getting nice and chubby. To which she replied, “Ah bien! Vous devez faire la crème!”

You must be making cream. My first thought was no, I’m actually making a sandwich right now, and what does that have to do with…Oh. I’d been hit with some good old creepy breast milk humor. Nice one La Leche League!

Although judging by the dimpled knees of my petite chou, she might be right:

This past weekend was absolutely perfect for apple picking. Blue skies, crisp air, golden sunlight that makes everything look ten times more pretty than it really is. So we decided to try our luck at Les Fermes de Gally – a lovely little spot about 20 miles outside of Paris that has orchards, veggie patches, flower gardens and more, all ripe for the picking.

The day had so much potential be idyllic: In theory we could just feed the baby, hop in the car, and be roaming the verdant French fields in less than 30 minutes. But in reality, we had to pull the car out of the garage 10 blocks away, get gas, spend 15 minutes trying to figure out the CD changer, and spend another 15 minutes trying to figure out the navigation system, only to realize that our destination wasn’t listed. Then we had to turn around, go back home, get google map directions, and start over. With a screaming bébé who was sick and tired of her car seat by that point.

Oh, and then there was the awesome traffic on the peripherique (the Paris beltway).

A good hour and a half later, we finally made it to the farm. Thankfully there was still sunlight. And plenty of wheelbarrows left for me to push around:

I have to say, I turn into a total nerd at places like this. I’m a free-loving hippy farm girl at heart I guess- and I love that beautiful farmland is just a stone’s throw from the big city here. I picked a few kilos of apples, then a few boxes of strawberries, then a handful of raspberries before Bébé started crying and Husband had to wave me back from the depths of the raspberry bushes.

We made a quick pit stop and once ma petite was fed, I went back out in search of green peppers, but came back with these instead:

I really wanted to keep going, but Husband refused to let me root around in the dirt for potatoes and carrots. So we bought some pre-harvested taters and a bottle of cider. And this delicious bounty only cost around 25 euros- très economique!

I could go back there every weekend to wander the fields. It makes me dream about having my own big old farm somewhere, or at least a big flower garden. But for now I’ll have to settle for a couple more months of Paris pavement. And start plotting a way to get Husband to go on a little farm vacation in the south of France before we leave…

When we first moved here, Husband and I went straight to Darty to buy ourselves a new European TV. If that sentence makes no sense to you, it’s OK — I’ll translate: Darty is the French equivalent of Best Buy. Here’s a tip: Don’t ever, EVER attempt to return something to Darty, unless you want to join lots of cranky old ladies quibbling over 30 centimes in the 7th circle of hell.

And we needed a whole new TV, because American TVs won’t work over here. I don’t know why they don’t work, but my guess is that Sony and Panasonic have formed a brilliant conspiracy to screw expats.

Anyway, we hauled this new TV 10 blocks home, hooked it up to cable and haven’t turned it on since. Mind you, we tried to sit down every night and watch French news, to better our minds. But I kept falling asleep face first in my plate and it turns out foie gras is not good for your complexion.

Then I tried to give some of the other channels a chance. But France seems to offer nothing other than:

1. News debate shows

2. CSI dubbed into French

3. Soccer

Sliiiiiiiim pickins. Although once I did find Eddie Murphy in The Golden Child dubbed into French (highly entertaining) and just last night I stumbled across an episode of Code Quantum (Scott Bakula en Francais anyone?)

Needless to say, we haven’t watched much TV over the past two years. Except now that I’m home most of the day with a baby attached to my boob, I find myself desperately reaching for the remote and hoping that something remotely good will be on one of the 3 sad English channels.

CNN International is good in the morning, but tends to run on a constant loop, so I’ve seen the same “African Voices” segment 30 times. And that Becky Anderson lady’s wardrobe sears my retinas with it’s garishness.

BBC News is very reliable. But so. Incredibly. Monotone. And Boring. They could use some of Becky’s outfits to liven things up a bit.

That leaves BBC Entertainment. Which sounds entertaining, right? And it would be, if they didn’t show Eastenders at least 4 times a day. I know it comes on 4 times a day because it’s right after The Weakest Link and my all time favorite, Doctors. Doctors is kind of like ER, but it all takes place in the fast-paced world of family medicine. At a clinic. In the suburbs!

So, to sum things up: I am totally justified in downloading all 7 seasons of Entourage and 3 seasons of 30 Rock from iTunes. And when Husband’s head explodes when he sees our credit card bill reflecting that TV spending spree, I would kindly ask you to point him to this blog post. Thank you.

This is what happens when you live in France and your baby sleeps 10 hours one night and zero hours the next: Pumped up on adrenaline from the wacky sleep schedule you take a walk through the market and decide to buy 2 kilos of fresh mussels. The guy looks at you funny when you ask for 2 kilos, but you just smile and repeat yourself. You pay and then he hands over more than 4 pounds of shellfish. And you don’t even know how to make mussels.

Back home you do a little google sleuthing and decide to steam your catch in Belgian beer with mushrooms, bacon and a whole lotta garlic. Oh, and about two tons of butter, just in case the bacon fat isn’t enough. And just for kicks, you decide to make homemade frites, because even though you hate Michael Chiarello his recipe looks just too good to pass up and it’s 7pm but it feels like midnight and your brain feels like maybe someone slipped something into your afternoon pain au raisins and you can’t stop yourself from zipping around the kitchen like a maniac because if you stop now you might implode from sheer exhaustion.

And then Husband comes home and tells you you’re nuts. And that he loves you even more than the day he married you.

When I first met Husband I thought he was the worst dancer I had ever seen. I mean, he didn’t leave me much choice, cornering me on the dance floor with hip thrusts and pumping fists. But just a couple years later, I realized I didn’t really want to dance with anyone else but him.

And I think that’s what love and marriage is all about: Find someone you can dance with– anytime, anywhere, with or without strict adherence to form or rhythm– and hold on to him for life. Because not only will that kind of union guarantee you a steady supply of laughter. It means you’ll be able to dance your way through whatever life throws at you, in sickness and in heath, in joy and in sadness, during cross-Atlantic moves and 3am diaper changes.

I love you Husband. Happy Anniversary!

I officially have less than 2 months left here in Paris. TWO MONTHS. Deux mois. C’est pas possible!

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was sulking about my language skills and dog-poo covered sidewalks? I swear it wasn’t so long ago that my wallet was stolen by a 4 foot tall pick-pocket. And didn’t my first test-guest arrive, like, last week?!

Oh how the time flies when you’re chugging champagne and building baby humans. (Not at the same time, of course)

I don’t know quite what to do with myself in these last glorious days. And they have been glorious – sunny and warm, with piercing blue skies and crisp fall breezes now and then. It’s enough to make me heartsick over the impending breakup, dreading the day that I will have to part with my pain au raisins and say au revoir to the rotisserie chicken seller down the street.

I’m hoping that the usual bleak winter grayness will show up on cue around November 1st, so I’ll be more motivated to leave. But until then, I’m asking you for help. I need a Paris bucket list, STAT. What should I do? What should I see? And most importantly, what should I eat? Live vicariously through me (and remember that I will have a bébé in tow). The countdown is on, people. Let’s profitez while we can!

So last week I was busy telling you how much of a loser I’ve become since parenthood struck. Or maybe my inner loserdom has just now come to fruition. Either way, I can only hope that someday things will turn around- that I’ll once again be able to get dressed before 3pm, and string together more than slightly coherent sentences (that aren’t about poop), and be able to sit around with my friends and have a beer without falling asleep thinking about it.

Right now these simple things seem like an unattainable dream. But the group of old folks above offers a glimmer of hope: These rockstars were out at 11am, dressed to the nines, not just sipping beers but PLAYING DRINKING GAMES. On a Monday.

So while I’m hiking up my mom jeans and plotting my next big outing to buy diapers, I will hold on to the image of Belgian octogenarians kickin it like nobody’s business. Because that means there’s hope for coolness again in my future…I just might have to wait 40 years or so to find it.