Vocab Friday: Stupide

Vocab Fridays!4 Comments

Our vocab lesson is going to be short and sweet today because I am not sure my brain can handle much else. Folks, I am really dumb these days. Case in point: I showed up for my Monday doctor’s appointment on Wednesday.

Even worse: A friend was arriving yesterday from Dubai at 7:30. So I woke up early, ate some breakfast, and waited for a text to say he landed safely. By 8:30 I still hadn’t heard anything and started getting worried. By 9 I was sending texts and emails saying things like “Where are you?! Are you alive?!” At 9:15 I decided to check the flights coming into Charles de Gaulle, and was shocked to see that there were no flights from Dubai arriving at 7:30am.

Even worser: Instead of immediately realizing that my friend meant 7:30 PM, I sat there for a moment thinking oh my god, he’s been kidnapped! Covert kidnap operation! There is no plane from Dubai!!!!

Kids, this is your brain on prenatal vitamins. Consider yourselves warned.

*      *      *

stupide

Pronunciation: stoo-peed

Definition: Dumb as a box of rocks. Silly as a billy goat. As in,

“I thought mommy brain happened after the kid popped out, but this fetus sure is making me stupide.”

The sweetness.

UncategorizedWrite a comment

Sometimes the French language is hard to understand. But do you know what’s even harder? French menus that have been translated into English.

I’m telling you: Don’t ever ask for the English menu. You’d have better luck pointing randomly at the French one and just hoping for the best. I’m not sure if it’s the wider range of unique French ingredients and preparations that throws them off, or the fact that the French are generally way more poetic in their descriptions, but I have seen some completely insane English explanations of dinner. I’ve more than once handed back a translated menu because it was indecipherable.

The one exception thus far being this menu, found at the snack bar at the top of Aiguille du Midi in Chamonix:

I can totally get on board with ordering a Sweetness. Perhaps a dough’nut, or a jame pankake with extra of wipped cream?

(Yes, I know that I myself routinely butcher the French language. Heck, I routinely butcher English! And I know that restaurants in America probably screw up French things on menus. But it just seems more egregious here. And more hilarious.)

 

 

 

Dog sledding: Hard, dangerous, and more poo breaks than you’d expect.

Uncategorized7 Comments

So after I posted that I’d be forgoing skiing in the Alps because of my preggo status and taking up dog sledding instead, several people commented that rigging myself up on a rickety sled pulled by several aggressive huskies might in fact be more dangerous than sailing down the slopes on a pair of skis.

And before I actually stood behind my own team of sled dogs, who could no doubt smell my fear and seemed to thrive on it, I would have said, “Don’t be ridiculous!”

I mean, the website promoted the excursion as family friendly! You could put your kid in the sled and drive them around! Besides, how dangerous does this guy look?

So when my friend Jess and I arrived at the base of Le Tour for our 15 minute dog sledding lesson and subsequent 45 minute sledding adventure, I didn’t think much could go wrong.

Then the guide came over to give us le briefing. It started out ok: Here’s the brake, here’s where you stand, etc. But quickly devolved into tips such as “Don’t EVER let your dogs pass another sled, they’ll fight and start biting each other” and “Don’t let go of your sled when you fall, just hang on and try to pull yourself up and run beside it for a while.”

I paused for a moment, wondering at the guide’s choice of English there. “When” you fall? What about “if” you fall? Was a face plow in the snow really as inevitable as he was making it sound?

“Yes. People fall all the time. A lot.”

Al-righty. He then instructed us to hop on and jam down the brakes as they geared up the dogs. Poor Jess was rigged up first, her lead dog howling and leaping vertically 5 feet in the air as the rest of us got ready. That’s when I started wondering if dog sledding wasn’t just the best worst idea I’d ever had.

Then my 3 dogs were latched on, and they started howling and barking and jerking my sled forward in fits of unbridled excitement. They were pumped. I was terrified. And then it was time to go. With a brisk Allez! from the guide the dogs snapped into line and we all launched forward in single file into the field ahead.

And for about 30 seconds it was absolutely exhilarating! We were flying over the snow, I was gripping on to the sled for dear life, and the dogs seemed to be having a blast.

Then they stopped. And took a poo.

I was not briefed on what to do during a dog poo break, so I waited patiently. Then the dogs finished their business and leapt forward without much warning. And for another few minutes it was extreme dog sled madness! Leaning into the turns! Wind whipping my face! White-knuckle grip on the sled!

And then we stopped for another poo break.

After that we did a short uphill jog (with me running behind the sled) to complete our first circuit. The guide made a brief assessment: All were alive and accounted for. So we took off again on a slightly more complicated route, down by the riverside and into some heavier snow.

That’s when I watched Jess take a flying Superman fall into a snowdrift. It looked bad. But did she let go of the sled? No! She dragged for a few feet, did some magical roll maneuver and jumped back up and onto the foot holds. It was awesome.

After a few more feet and another poo break, I heard an ominous AAIIIIEEEEEEE! behind me and shortly found another woman’s dog team panting next to mine, without a driver. I took the opportunity to stop, tell all the doggies to remain calm, and snap one of the only action photos of the day:

After the woman was yanked out of a snow bank and reunited with her sled, we took off for a few more laps through the countryside. There were several more tumbles and poo breaks, thankfully none of which involved me. And by the end, my dogs pretty much gave up trying to pull my pregnant ass up the last hill, so I had to run behind them, panting and sweating and dodging the piles of poo on the track.

But all in all, I would say dog sledding was a total success. My hidden talent maybe, since I didn’t fall once! And absolutely probably more dangerous than skiing. So I figure when I finally get around to making baby #2 someday, I’ll have to line up a trip to scale Everest or something.

Happy birthday Husband.

Uncategorized3 Comments

Husband turns thirty-something today. I say thirty-something because he’s feeling old (older than me!) and not spelling out the exact state of his aged-ness might soften the blow a bit. But just in case, I prepared him a chocolate peanut butter pie in which to drown all of his old-person sorrows.

And since his sorrows did indeed need drowning, and I can currently consume twice my body weight in food, we cut into that puppy last night. Sweet jesus in velvet pantalones. I think if I wasn’t married to my best friend in the whole wide world, I would have tried to elope with that peanut butter mousse. I mean, it’s made with with real Reeses peanut butter chips and about 4 gallons of fresh cream for cripes sake. At this stage in my life I’m not sure I need anything else.

But in the end I came to my senses. Because even though he clips his toenails in bed, Husband does wear plenty of funny outfits to make me laugh. He brings me pain au raisins when I need them most. And he doesn’t get mad when I ask to watch another episode of Law and Order. Husband makes me sane when things are crazy, happy when things are sad, and all lovey-dovey when he wears those tight French suit pants. So in my little slice of life, he’s pretty much the Master Bite.

 

Greetings from the Alps.

UncategorizedWrite a comment

Bonjour! Apologies for the radio silence dear readers, but I’ve been soaking in the sunshine at the base of Mont Blanc. Yes, it is sunnier and warmer in Chamonix than it is in Paris. I’m wearing sunblock. I might never leave.

Since I’m a lame pregnant lady, I can’t do much skiing. But I have enjoyed fondue and raclette, and a fair number of hot chocolates. Today I’m stepping it up a bit and going husky dog sledding – yep, you read that correctly, dog sledding. Where I stand on a sled and drive my own team of huskies.

So I might not be updating the blog much this week, but I promise to reward you with many amazing photos of me being dragged face first through the snow by large, wolf-life dogs. You’re welcome.

Vocab Friday: Un rêve

Vocab Fridays!Write a comment

Since I’ve been spending such a good deal of time lately complaining about the grocery stores here, I thought I’d take a minute and share my idea of the perfect food shopping experience, complements of the riverside Sunday market in Bordeaux:

1. Garlic shrimp grilled to oder. To fortify you before shopping.

2. Plenty of cheese and other farm fresh products.

3. A French Elvis impersonator, to keep you energized. Bonus if he can do the splits.

4. Post-checkout wine and raw oyster bar. Truly a thing of beauty.

*    *    *

un rêve

Pronunciation: uh rehv

Definition: A dream. As in,

“It’s mon rêve to someday find a beautiful outdoor market that also sells toilet paper.”

 

 

 

 

Cocottes and culottes.

Uncategorized3 Comments

It’s cold here in Paris. And I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in, oh, almost 3 weeks. I know I won’t garner much sympathy, what with a major blizzard slamming the midwest. And the fact that I am still in Paris. But it’s getting depressing around here! It’s endlessly gray and dismal, and they’ve taken down all the sparkling Christmas lights that made December somewhat bearable.

It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to hibernate, that pushes you into an unbreakable state of inertia. This past Saturday Husband and I slept unthinkably late, then rushed out to make the market before it closed. After an hour of fighting old ladies in the bread line, we returned with a full cart and promptly curled up on the couch for the remainder of the day.

Drastic measures were in order to break the winter spell. We needed dinner. We needed warmth. We needed comfortability. So we snagged some good friends and met at a little place in the 7th called Les Cocottes. It’s a bistro run by chef Christian Constant that specializes in…wait for it…food cooked in Staub cocottes. And if a sizzling cocotte full of French comfort food can’t cure the bleak doldrums of January, I don’t know what can.

It was absolutely packed, even at 7:30, which isn’t even dinner time in France. But a just few apéritifs later we had a cozy table and 4 adorable miniature cocottes in front of us. Mine was filled with the most unbelievable langoustine ravioli in a velvety pink broth, steaming with hearty goodness. Upon the first bite I felt moved to stand up on my chair shout to the world C’est comme un petit Jesus en culottes de velours!

Except that I’ve recently been informed that it’s not cool to say that anymore. Friends back home actually broke it out at Epcot Center France, and so impressed the staff that they were crowned King and Queen (still wondering if they meant figuratively or literally). Then the waitress promptly informed them zat nobody says zat anymore een Frrrench.

Ouch.

So I’ve been running around promoting the colloquial slang equivalent of “Groovy!” and “That’s the bee’s knees!” But you know what? I don’t care. It’s still hilarious. In English or French. So that Epcot waitress can stuff it in her velvet pantalones.

Vocab Friday: Snack steaks.

Uncategorized, Vocab Fridays!6 Comments

A day in the life of a newly pregnant me:

Get up early to do new years resolution yoga.

Stop halfway through to eat an orange.

Lie prone on the couch for a while.

Eat breakfast #1.

Eat breakfast #2.

Shower, feel refreshed, make a to-do list.

Finish first item on the list then promptly fall asleep for an hour.

For a while there, le bébé was sucking the life force out of me at an alarming pace. My kind sister, herself a mother of 4 darling life-force-suckers, assured me that the epic fatigue is something that should continue for the next 20 years or so. My dad said for the rest of my life.

Thanks guys.

Well these days life is much better. The only problem I face is code red hunger attacks, which you think wouldn’t be such a problem in France. You know, land of all things buttery and good. But the fierceness with which my body is now demanding sustenance is otherworldly. It scares me. Me! The lady with standard faim de loup!

I’m almost getting to the point where I’m tired of eating. Someone please fly over here and slap me because never in my life did I think I’d ever say those words. I am hungry all the time. And most desperately hungry when all the cafes and shops seem to be closed in the afternoon. I find myself half conscious, stalking through grocery store aisles like Frankenstein on a serious binge, clearing entire shelves of food into my cart. Which explains why I currently have cottage cheese, butternut squash, Cap N Crunch and sardines in my kitchen.

Husband, desperate to stave off the panicked delirium of code red hunger, actually suggested that I cook up a bunch of steaks every week and just keep them in the fridge to nibble on.

And this is what my life has come to people: Snack steaks.

But you know what’s worse than sinking to the base level of snack steak? NOT BEING ABLE TO EAT STEAK.

Yeah, Ok, I can eat steak. It just has to be cooked into oblivion, which for me totally defeats the purpose of butchering the cow. Steak, especially a nice entrecôte or filet, should be juicy and rare. Just a few degrees past moo. In other words, delicious.

I get it. Blasting a fine piece of meat into charred, well-done land cooks out all of the toxoplasmosis germs. Which is critically important here, since it seems to run rampant among the French population. I’m guessing thanks in part to a national fetish for steak tartare. With a raw egg on top.

But let’s be real. Well done is no way to eat steak, at least in my book. And especially not in France. Make the mistake of ordering it here and you will be served a plate of shoe leather with a side of snide remarks. Make the mistake of ordering with an American accent and failing to specify the cuisson, and you will automatically also get something inedible.

So, no snack steaks for me. I’ll have to stick to eggs and pain au raisins. And peanuts. And pickles. And apples with peanut butter. And frites! I can definitely eat the frites.

*     *     *

Should you find yourselves in Paris, about to order une belle pièce de boeuf, here’s a handy guide to how things are cooked. I’ve found that the scale of doneness in France can be slightly off from American standards — hence “medium” here is often a little more rare than U.S. medium.

bleu – (bleuh) Seared on the outside, cold and raw in the middle. Unless you like meat that’s barely grazed the frying pan, I wouldn’t order this.

saignant – (sang-yant) Very rare to rare. Or quite literally, bloody. Usually what I go for.

à point – (ah pwehn) Usually medium rare, sometimes closer to medium. Expect a warm pink center.

bien cuit – (bee-ehn kwee) Here’s where things get funky. This means well done, but actually comes out more like medium or medium well. It’s often still slightly pink in the very center.

très bien cuit – (trey bee-ehn kwee) Ordering your meat très bien cuit will most likely result in something charred beyond recognition. So faire attention! Unless you like it that way. In which case I don’t know if we can be friends.

Spontaneous conception.

Uncategorized4 Comments

Last week Husband and I had to go in to the American Hospital for something called the One Day Test. Since I’ve never been preggo in America, I have no idea if the equivalent exists there. But here it’s a big deal. You go get blood work done, then get an echographie with a specialist that lasts for a good half an hour. If you’re lucky he doesn’t speak a lick of English and you spend the entire time wavering between absolute awe for the alien up on the big screen and absolute panic when you think the doctor says “See here? He’s got seven arms!”

Then you wait for 2-3 hours for your blood work results to come in. Why they make you wait rather than just come back the next day is totally beyond me, but hey, it’s France. Even when you’re sitting in the American Hospital.

So we waited. And waited. Long enough for me to have several code red hunger attacks and only a bag of peanut M&Ms to save the day. But finally the results came in and we were ushered into an office to go over them with a genetic specialist.

She was a lovely older blonde woman who mercifully spoke English, although with a very, very thick accent. That, on top of code red hunger, made it nearly impossible for me to understand anything she said. Which isn’t ideal when you’re there to figure out if your unborn bébé has wackadoo genetics or not.

The specialist first let us know that all the preliminary results pointed to an absolutely healthy child. Bon. But she still wanted to know a little about each of our family histories and such, just to rule out any risks. She proceeded to sketch out a family tree, and asked where my parents where from.

“Uh, America?” I replied.

Husband slapped his forehead. The specialist smiled politely.

“Oui, bien sur madame. But where do they come from before that? Where are your grandparents and great grandparents from?”

“Um, America. Maryland. They’ve been there a really long time.”

The specialist looked annoyed. I didn’t know what she wanted to hear. Husband was shooting me death stares.

“I mean, I think about 300 years ago some of them came over from England…or Scotland. And I think Poland. Oh! and my mom’s family is French! And German. And probably a few other things.”

That seemed to appease her. Husband, ever one to outdo me, simply said “Irish and Italian.” Showoff.

Moving on, the specialist peppered us with questions about illness, family members with rare diseases, our general health. I answered those well enough. But then she popped the big one.

“So, was it a spontaneous conception?”

I looked at Husband. Husband looked at me. His eyes said I’m not touching that one with a ten foot pole. So I asked for clarification.

“Spontaneous…like the Virgin Mary?”

The specialist blinked. Husband probably slapped his forehead again. I started to giggle.

“No madame. Was it spontaneous? Or did you have problems getting pregnant?”

About a thousand other inappropriate responses popped into my head, but I got her drift. So I kindly told her it was shockingly easy and left it at that. Le bébé got a clean bill of health. And I surely got the most hilarious genetic counseling session known to man.

Hello carrot cake.

Uncategorized3 Comments

Fresh off a lite lunch of roasted chicken and potatoes, Husband and I were strolling through Hemingway’s old neighborhood when we rounded the corner and came face to face with this:

Well, something like that. I was too busy smooshing my face up to the window of the fabulous Sugar Plum Cake Shop to take a picture of what I actually saw, which was triple decker carrot cake with satin cream cheese icing, perched on an antique cake stand amongst other homey American treats. And a long communal table, full of people nibbling and sipping tea.

So needless to say, I sprinted immediately to the counter and ordered up a slice of heaven. Husband got a Rice Krispie Treat. And while I was waiting, I saw these:

The dear American lady behind the counter told me in a sweet southern accent that they were Hello Hazels. But I know better. Those are Hello Dollys! Otherwise known as Jen’s Famous Crack Bars: Graham cracker crust, choco chips, butterscotch chips, and coconut, all drenched in sweetened condensed milk and baked to golden perfection. Except the Sugarplum people went and put nuts in there, and that just ruins it.

But that didn’t stop me from smiling a big old happy faced grin when I saw them. It was a little piece of home on a cold, gray Paris day. And the carrot cake? Obscenely good. Even though the French couple doing a wedding cake tasting across the table from us wrinkled their noses and refused to finish it. Silly Frenchies. I almost offered to finish it for them.