Breakfast of champions.

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It’s no secret that I love butter. Mostly in pastry form, but it’s also divine added to freshly popped pop corn or a plain old crusty end of baguette. I’ve been known to throw a few extra tablespoons into my chocolate chip cookie dough, just for good luck. A small pat smooshed with minced garlic does wonders for a simple slab of steak. I’ll admit that I’ve strongly considered eating it by the spoonful.

And here the butter is just quite simply otherworldly. Even the lowliest of supermarket brands somehow seems richer, more decadent than anything back home. Probably because it’s often sprinkled with chunks of sea salt or produced from a lone herd of cows somewhere on one specific mountainside eating a certain type of clover.

But while whatever they’re doing over here to their dairy products is magical, I also feel it’s a bit worrisome for my arteries. And my ass. So when opening a package du beurre yesterday I felt very reassured to find the following message on the back:

“BREAD AND BUTTER make up part of a recommended breakfast”

Well hot damn! The nutritionists themselves want me to eat butter every day. I can even throw in some fruit and another dairy product if I want to. And here I’ve been wasting valuable breakfast time on GoLean Crunch and oatmeal! From here on out it’s gonna be toast slathered with salty butter and strawberry jam.

I know what I am.

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Remember when I rocket-launched a six-pack of Orangina all over the grocery store floor? And then just a month or so later, when I accidentally spiked 3 bottles of Coca-cola at the register, sending shards of glass into other people’s shopping bags?

Well, as you might guess, all of the cash register ladies at my local FranPrix pretty much roll their eyes every time I walk through the door. Like here comes that dumb pregnant American who keeps breaking things. So yesterday when I waddled in and very delicately picked up a few bottles of sparkling water, I made sure to smile a lot and take extra care putting everything into my bag. In fact I was so focused on not causing another glass massacre that I left behind a shopping bag containing Husband’s newly polished dress shoes.

And when I realized this, oh, about 3 hours later, I panicked. I flew out of the apartment in yoga pants and flip flops (which, while fine everywhere else in the world, makes you look like a raving lunatic here), ran across the street, and burst through the automatic doors gasping j’ai perdu un sac en plastique avec des chaussures!

I lost a plastic bag with some shoes! Somebody help me!

But the entire line of patrons and my stone-faced cashier just stared in wonder tinged with disgust. So I repeated my plea to the cashier, explaining that I was there earlier and I think I left the bag and I’m sorry to bother you and…dear god just somebody say something.

Finally the cashier lady sighed and pulled out my bag from underneath the register. I said a sheepish merci and backed out the door. And as I walked home I decided that I would not be surprised if there’s a sign in the employee break room with my picture on it that says casse-pieds– pest, pain in the ass, or literally, foot-breaker.

Vocab Friday: Aiiieeeee!

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It’s a good thing my French teacher spent part of Tuesday discussing les interjections. You know, the French equivalent of those little exclamations and phrases you shout when you’re stuck in traffic or stub your toe or step in dog poo. Because when in France, you should be able to say WTF?! or UGH! or Geeeeeezus! so everyone can understand you.

Husband must have sensed that I needed practice with this new vocab, because promptly after dinner he stumbled across a video of a water birth, and suggested we watch it.

Of course, my first reaction was beurk! Gross. No thank you. I’ve seen the miracle of birth firsthand (thanks sis!) and that left me with enough graphic images to last a lifetime. But I was kind of interested in seeing what the heck a water birth was anyway, so we gathered ’round the computer and hit play.

The video followed a nurse who was having her 3rd child. She talked a little about the calming effects of the water and having good water birth experiences in the past. And indeed, when she arrived at the hospital in labor, she was kind of like bof! no big deal.

Then allez-hop! It was time to jump in the tub. There this woman sat in complete zen-like silence, waiting for the time to push. This seemed absolutely crazy to me. Ah la la, c’est pas possible! I shouted, to which Husband said chut! Be quiet! I can’t hear what the midwife is saying!

And then out of nowhere, with nothing more than a slight grimace and a barely audible ouf!, this lady gave (under water) birth to a human.

Ah la vache! C’est super cool!  exclaimed Husband, who turned to me with a big goofy grin on his face.

To which I replied Aiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee! and promptly burst into tears.

Zut, these hormones are out of control.

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beurk (berk): uggghhhh! or ewwwww!

bof (bof): huh! or pffft! Like you’re not impressed.

allez-hop (ah-ley op): alley oop! Used when an action starts.

ah la la (ah lah lah): oh my god/gosh!

chut (shoo): French equivalent of shhhhhh!

ouf (oof): Phew! Like when you’re done with something hard.

ah la vache (ah lah vahsh): holy cow!

aie (eye): similar to “oy vey” or “aye aye aye!”

zut (zoot): crap! or shoot!

Trussardi my pants.

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I walk by this sign nearly every day as I head toward the metro. And every time I see it, the same line of questioning goes through my head:

What the hell is Trussardi My Pants?

Are these two separate stores? Or one place with an absurd name?

Or is Trussardi used here as a verb, as in I’d really like you to trussardi my pants.

Or I just trussardied my pants.

One of these days I’m going to work up the courage to ring the doorbell and figure it out.

Vocab Friday: Frites

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So yesterday I told you about our Indonesian-Dutch waiter handing over with much glee his top two places to get fries in Amsterdam. Today I’m going to tell you about the ensuing quest for perfect frites.

But first things first: let’s talk about what exactly you consider a perfect french fry: Thick and hand cut? Thin and crisp? Perhaps the waffled version offered by Chick-fil-A? I myself like my fries fresh – none of this frozen, food coloring yellow crap. I want them to taste like potatoes, and maybe even have bits of skin left on. Then they should be fried to golden perfection, creating crisp edges that yield to delicate fluffy potato inside. They’ve got to be sturdy enough to hold a pile of ketchup or even a dousing of vinegar, but not so crunchy that they scrape the roof of your mouth and not so fat that they’re like swallowing a mouthful of boxed mashed potato mix. And they need to be salty.

Here in Paris, I’ve been disappointed by some pretty terrible specimens– sad, frostbitten yellow twigs that clearly came from Picard. Six years ago. And don’t get me started on the elusive duck fat french fries, which better be coming back this summer or I will personally start sending hate mail to chef Daniel Rose.

So I was pumped to get to Amsterdam and get some real, undeniably good fries. Which brings us back to the quest for frites and our waiter friend, who assured us that he personally taste tested french fry establishments on a regular basis, in addition to keeping up with the latest french fry blogs. Thus we knew we were in good (if not chubby) hands.

His first recommendation?  Vlaams FritesHuis, tucked away at Voetboogstraat 31, off of Heiligeweg (which apparently means “heavenly way”).

Heavenly indeed. The draw of the FritesHuis was supposedly the excellent potato flavor and extensive array of sauces on tap– everything from plain old ketchup to soy sauce mixed with mayo to satay peanut sauce. We opted for plain old ketchup:

The verdict? Pretty delicious, but not salty enough. And I was suspicious of the bright yellow coloring.

But don’t get me wrong– we forked that whole cone down in no time, and proceeded on our way to the next friteshuis. Well, first we actually walked around for a while to digest, then checked out of our hotel, then inexplicably stopped for lunch. Finally on our way to the train station we made it to Damrak 41, location of Manneken Pis, purveyor of purportedly awesome, crispier-style fries.

These were definitely crisper, crunchier, and much saltier. And no crazy sauce options to confuse you. Pretty damn good for what looked like a boardwalk chain. The verdict? I felt like my stomach was going to explode, but still wanted to cram these into my craw. That should tell you something (something like, I’m disgusting, I have a problem, I need to do more salad taste tests…)

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les frites

Pronunciation: ley freet

Definition: French fries! Duh. As in,

“Please baby jesus in velvet pants, give me the chance to savor those glorious duck fat frites at Spring!”

Deep thoughts (and a video!)

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I just watched this video on Dooce, and I was totally digging it right up until the very last frame. You know, the one with the crying newborn and the dead guy. Because at the first yelp of that little wiggling human my heart seized up and my breath shortened and all I could think was HOLY CRAP I AM BUILDING ONE OF THOSE RIGHT NOW. And it scared the shit out of me.

Which to me seems like a perfectly normal response. I mean, doesn’t every first time mother look down at her belly sometimes and think, hey, it would probably be a lot easier if a puppy came out of there. Or a unicorn. Or all those pain aux raisins I’ve been eating.

Except we all know the pain aux raisins have spread out over my derrière. And unicorns aren’t real. And there’s no way in hell I’m ever going to pick up dog poo off the sidewalk.

So baby human it is. Which I am genuinely excited about. It’s just that I have moments of total astonishment at what is about to happen here. We’re bringing a life into the world– a life that we need to, well, keep alive. And nurture. And cultivate.

Oh, and that life is going to come out of my hoo-hah.

And if that’s not enough to strike the occasional bout of exquisite panic into the hearts and minds of pregnant ladies everywhere, I don’t know what is.

Easter in Amsterdam.

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Ahhh Amsterdam. City of friendly Dutch people, quaint canals…and cannabis. Oh and sex workers. And lots of bars full of twenty-something backpackers.

At least that was my first impression after arriving at 11pm and dragging our suitcases and my pregnant belly through the rowdy Red Light district to our hotel. Dodging a broken beer glass, I shouted to Husband that perhaps Amsterdam might have been a better choice pre-bébé.

But by the light of morning, it became clear that Amsterdam is in fact a pregnant lady’s dream. Because any place geared toward accommodating every kind of food craving at any time of day is by definition a pregnant lady’s dream.

So after resting up on the quiet side of town, we headed to the Saturday morning market. But before we got there, we stopped for breakfast #1: a fresh apple pastry of some sort, warm from the oven.

After a stroll through one of the most beautiful farmer’s markets I’ve been to yet, we settled down at a corner cafe for breakfast #2: apple cake.

Then we walked towards the museum square and did the tourist thing, with about 3 million of our closest European friends. Thankfully my ginormous belly allowed us to skip the line at the Rijksmuseum. (I knew this bébé was good for something)

After an hour of culture, it was certainly time to eat again. And how could we pass up the Double Dutch Burger?

The burger was good, but not nearly as good as the dreamy looking Dutch twin brothers who sold it to us. Husband said that kind of Double Dutch wasn’t on the menu though.

The next day was filled with a trip to the Keukenhoff tulip garden, again with 3 million of our favorite tourist friends. It was kind of hell on earth until we found the bratwurst and Heineken stand.

After fighting the tulip loving hordes and taking a long nap, we set out for an authentic Dutch meal. Except no one could really tell us what that was. So we took our concierge’s advice and signed up for a seriously exotic Indonesian feast, complete with spicy honey roasted potatoes, Lemon grass lamb soup, and a plethora of meat skewers and sticky rice.

And somehow after all that, I still felt like the trip just wouldn’t be complete without real Amsterdam frites. In a cone. With some kind of mayonnaise/ketchup sauce on top. So we asked our waiter where to go the next day for the best fries in town. The look of sheer joy on his face told us we’d asked the right guy — he passed over his top two prized addresses like he was passing along the map to the holy grail. Which it kind of was (more on that later).

And now we’re back, eating lots of green salads and doing early morning yoga like responsible parents-to-be. And wondering how to explain to my doctor why I may have gained 10 pounds in one weekend.

Vocab Friday: Pâques

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Husband and I were recently discussing the future upbringing of le bébé when the topic of Easter came up. Even though we were both raised Catholic (and I somehow found myself at not one but two Jesuit institutions of higher learning, without even really knowing what a Jesuit was), we don’t celebrate any religious holidays by actually going to church. Or practice anything that might be considered a religion for that matter.

But we are sure glad the French people do! Because not only does that mean we get numerous obscure Catholic holidays off from work. It also means we get to profitez from the seriousness with which the French folks seem to take their Easter chocolate.

Now I was once a girl who could look upon a stack of Peeps, a few Cadbury eggs and a sad, foil wrapped milk chocolate bunny as a thing of true Easter beauty. But the Parisian chocolatiers have since showed me the error of my ways.

Look at that Easter bounty! I have to pass this window every time I leave my apartment. I’m scared you might find me one morning passed out inside, drooling chocolate amongst savagely half eaten bunny ears and truffles, like that guy in “Chocolat.” It’s that insane. And it’s not even one of the best ones I’ve seen.

I’m not totally up on my Pâques traditions, but I do know that the Easter Bunny n’existe pas ici. Nope. Those wonderful hand crafted chocolate works of art are delivered to good little boys and girls via a cloche volant. That’s a flying bell.

So a magical flying bell (or flock of them, I don’t know) drops those glorious treats from the sky, and somehow they don’t shatter on impact. Which is amazing, because if you look closely, they’re really more like intricate chocolate sculptures than mere candy.

As in the US, chocolate bunnies, chicks and eggs are very popular around this time. But the chocolatiers don’t stop there. It seems to be kind of a competition over who can make the coolest stuff out of chocolate. Dinosaurs, turtles, cows and other animals all make appearances. Fish (also known as the Poisson D’Avril) are really popular, as evidenced by that crazy flat looking sting ray thing, which I can only guess is a milk chocolate Dover sole.

So with all this in mind, Husband and I thought long and hard and decided that wherever we are in the world, and whatever we believe at the time, our little bébé will most definitely be getting an Easter basket. Preferably delivered direct from France by flying bells.

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Pâques

Pronunciation: Pahk

Definition: Easter

La Cloche Volant

Pronunciation: lah clohsh voh-lahnt

Definition: The Flying Bell. France’s answer to the Easter Bunny

Le Poisson d’Avril

Pronunciation: luh pwah-ssohn dahvreel

Definition: Literally, the April Fish. Not technically an Easter thing, these start showing up on April Fool’s Day, when kids try to stick paper fish to people’s backs without them knowing.

Seating hierarchy in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

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Parisians take their sunshine and relaxation verrrry seriously. At the first sign of glorious springtime weather they come out in full force to lounge, picnic, and lounge some more. Every square inch (or should I say meter) of every park is packed, and those folks won’t hesitate to pull up a chair or a blanket right next to you (or heck, just sit right on your blanket) if that seems like prime real estate.

And who can blame them? If you’re going to be lounging, you want the best spot. And the best seat. And what the common American tourist might not know is that not all seats in the Jardin du Luxembourg were born equal.

No sir. There’s a strict hierarchy out there, and if you’re not quick, you’ll end up perched uncomfortably on the stairs avoiding eye contact with the park guards instead of basking smugly in a recliner.

Thankfully, I’m here to educate you on your seating options, if you should ever find yourself strolling through the 6th on a sunny day. Your best approach is to make a few laps, scoping out your options and jumping on the best available chaise. If it’s a particularly crowded day or you’re just unlucky, you might get stuck with the lowliest of seats:

The Bench

Found mostly under the shady, treelined sides of the park, the benches are a last resort. You’re either too far away from prime people watching, bombarded by noise from the playground or tennis courts, or under serious threat from the pigeons up above.

If you feel like fighting your way through crowds of Science Po students talking philosphy, the next step up is:

The Lawn

This small landing strip of grass down the center of the park is actually the only place you can sit on the ground. It’s sunny and bright, but super crowded. And there’s no back support.

If that doesn’t sound appealing, walk towards the fountains and see if you can score a:

Green Chair (without arms)

These sleek metal beauties are scattered throughout the park, but you’ll find the highest concentration of them right at the main fountain’s edge. There’s no arm support, but this is a huge step up from benches and grass.

But don’t stop there, keep looking for a:

Green Chair (with arms)

Just when you thought your green chair (without arms) was the pinnacle of comfort, you spy the couple next to you relaxing with arm rests. And they’re using the armless version for a mere footrest.

So you get one, and feel like you’ve just conquered the world. Except once you’re happily ensconced with your arm rests right by the fountain, you’ll notice that true nirvana still awaits in the form of a:

Reclining Green Chair With Arms

Never mind if there are twenty loud, smoking teenagers eating MacDo next to you. This is the be all end all of park seating. Old ladies have been known to drag one of these puppies to a corner of sunshine, strip to near-skivvies, and hunker down until sunset. And I highly advise that you do the same. Except for the skivvies part, of course.

I can’t stop thinking about poussettes.

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That sounds really dirty, doesn’t it?

Well, it’s not. It’s just sad. I’ve been inexcusably bad at updating the old blog and teaching you vocab over the past 2 weeks, and I have nothing to blame other than uncharacteristically spectacular weather and a complete obsession with baby strollers.

Now, I hate the fact that my existence has been overtaken by poussette-mania. I wanted to be able to nonchalantly pick out the first thing on wheels that came my way. But there are so many choices! And so many factors to consider! Like will it fit in my elevator? (Nope.) Does it have a bassinet attachment so le bébé can sleep in it? (Maybe.) Will it cost more than a used car? (Probably.)

And if I ever want to leave my apartment again, it will have to be a sturdy cobblestone-proof version that’s still light enough to haul up 3 flights of stairs and maneuver on the bus. Bright colors might also make it easier for strangers to spot me stranded at the top of the metro stairs, waiting for help carrying that sucker down to the platform.

So I’ve thrown all former coolness and street cred to the wind, and devoted disgusting amounts of time to stroller gazing. I hate myself. Bébé, you better be reallllly cute or funny or something to make it all worth it.