After several castle tours and a few hours cramped into a compact European diesel with my in-laws, we decided to pull off the highway for a pit-stop. Tired and hungry, I can’t tell you how excited we were to finally get some…Flunch.
Huh.
Would that be short for “french lunch”? Or “fast lunch”? Or is it something akin to Brunch or Linner? I’m really scared that it’s more like a shart. Needless to say, we did not eat there.
Keeping it short and sweet here folks because it’s Christmas time. And because I’m 7 hours ahead of most of you, Père Noël comes here first. Ha ha! So here’s to hoping that we all find champagne in our stockings and European food processors under the tree!
No? That wasn’t on your list? Well, whatever else you wished for, I hope it comes true. Joyeux Noël á tous!
This is officially my 100th post – Cue the fireworks and free bottles of champagne! Yaaaahoooooooweeeee!
(I’m totally ignoring the fact that this being only my 100th post in about a year means I really need to try harder to post more often. But who wants to rain on their own champagne infused parade? Let’s just consider it New Year’s Resolved.)
Looking back through all my anecdotes and diatribes has made me realize just how much we’ve all learned over the past year. You readers are so totally prepared for life in France now! You’ve got Paris covered, no sweat. Why? Because I’ve shared all there is to know about dog poo covered sidewalks and how to call someone a “nice beetch.” You know all about hoo-ha molds, danger bees, and of course, baby jesus in velvet pants. You have been well versed in the many merits of champagne and pain au raisins for breakfast. And the looming danger of butter brain.
And let’s not forget the informative pieces on pictogram ovens, boob vocabulary and most importantly, sharts.
There have been bike trips and toenail clippings, giant vats of chocolate mousse and master bites. There were lessons on pre-pubescent pickpockets and avoiding Sephora at all costs. I’ve given you the lowdown on castle dwelling in the Loire, excessive wine sipping in Bordeaux, and tan seeking on the Cote d’Azur. I’ve shared the critical details of proper Oktoberfest attire. And just for your sake, I’ve repeatedly tasted and reported on eating oysters, rabbit, rare steaks, pigs feet, kilos of pizza, duck fat fried anything, beignets, baguettes, croissants, pâté, fois gras, pork belly, and cheese. Lots and lots of runny, dead-body-smelling cheese.
After all that, I’d be shocked – SHOCKED! – if you felt you needed a real travel guide to France. Fodors and Lonely Planet? Pshaw. They’ll just recommend a bunch of touristy restaurants and point you straight toward hell on earth, otherwise known as the Louvre. Me? I’ll show you how to get nice and tipsy at the perfect picnic, then make an ass out of yourself trying to speak french to the locals.
So yes. You’re welcome.
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Update: I’m back, I’m no longer jet-lagged, and I’m ready to write. So we’ll return to our regularly scheduled programming starting next week!
It’s my last weekend back home, and while I love love love being here with my fam and friends, I think it’s about time for me to be returning to the land of pain au raisins. For one, I really miss those pain au raisins. I also think Husband can only survive on cereal alone for so long. But mostly, I’m tired of having run-ins with the law. At this juncture I’ve received 2 parking tickets and an untold number of photo enforced speeding tickets. I’ve been pulled over once for disobeying a do not enter sign. And I’ve witnessed 2 car accidents. Drivers of the DC-MD-VA metropolitan area will most likely all sigh a breath of relief when my plane takes off. And I’ll feel so much safer when I’m back in Paris walking everywhere, with only the scourge of tiny pickpockets to deter my wanderings!
Also, I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled blogging next week. Get ready for the 100th post, it’s gonna be a doozy!
I’m feeling elderly today. A whopping 31 years old! How did that happen? I can only take solace in the fact that Husband will always be 2 years older than me. Which means I am married to an almost 33 year old. Gross. I guess I should at least be thankful that we’re spending our golden years in Paris together!
A few weeks before heading home for Turkey Day, I found myself sitting around a table discussing the very American holiday with several Frenchmen. They were asking all kinds of questions about what we ate, what was typical, did we really put marshmallows on vegetables, etc. I explained that every family had their own traditions, and then described ours: 10K race in the morning, turkey, bourbon, corn pudding, bourbon, pumpkin pie and more bourbon. (Much like champagne, we believe that bourbon just adds a little je ne sais quoi to any family celebration! As in, I don’t know what else would help us get through 18 hours of cooking and hosting!)
My dinner table companions then wanted to know more about the turkey. Isn’t it dry? they asked. Do you cook it like a chicken? they wondered. And then one older French man went on to describe his first and only Thanksgiving experience. With an air of disgust, he told us about a massive, freakish-looking bird slapped down on the table, with all kinds of mushy side dishes. Then everyone ate at warp speed without speaking, and promptly retired to the couch to snore.
“C’est pas cuisine. C’est nourriture” he triumphantly concluded.
It’s not cuisine. It’s food.
In case you’re wondering, that’s an insult. He basically said we’re celebrating over filler, that we’d eat a roasted shoe slathered in butter with the same gusto. That we have no taste.
So clearly I should have invited him to have a bite of this bird:
There it is folks, my prizewinning free range heritage turkey, brined in the most heavenly concoction of cider and orange peel and then roasted at high heat to rusty-golden perfection. It was absolutely the most juicy, delicious turkey I’ve eaten to date – truly a work of art, I’d say. Haute cuisine, even. Although he did look pretty damn funky when we picked him up. Long and lean, this bird was clearly a runner. And he may or may not have looked like a headless toddler when we put him in the roasting pan.
OK people of France, we can all agree on your many superior aspects: You have foie gras and the Musee D’Orsay, chateaux and miles of pristine vineyards. You’ve got croissants and pain au raisins. You’ve got a clear champagne monopoly. You’ve got Paris, with perfectly charming little ramshackle streets and gloriously grand boulevards alike. You’ve got the cafe scene covered. All of your female inhabitants are skinny and smell nice. The views are rarely ugly and even your endlessly oppressive gray skies are fabulous in some indescribable way.
But you know what you don’t got?
Turkey. Corn pudding. Stuffing. Sweet potatoes. And pumpkin pie. For breakfast.
Oh, and my family and friends.
So there.
This past Thursday I went with my French class to see a French film. In French. With no subtitles. It was called Potiche, which I learned is a flower vase, but also means something like trophy wife or wall flower.
Don’t worry, I didn’t figure that one out on my own. If it weren’t for the contraband English version plot-summary that circulated amongst the students beforehand, I would have been utterly and completely lost. And probably asleep.
But since I had some context to work with, I actually found the movie pretty funny. It was full of sex jokes, cigarettes and one enormously grotesque Gerard Depardieu, so you know, just a typical French cinema experience. But the best part actually came after the film was over, when we were all standing outside the cinema underneath the promotional poster. It featured all the characters with different funny nicknames taped to their foreheads, like “mama’s boy” and “communist.” And then there was this one:
That one stumped us. So we asked our teacher to explain.
“Chipie? Eets like a beetch, but, you know, a nice one.”
We did not know. We asked her to please elaborate.
“You know, a nice beetch.”
Confused, we pushed further. Apparently it does really mean “b*tch,” but in a friendly way. Or perhaps more like a troublemaker. She explained it’s not a bad word. I explained that any kind of “b*tch” in english is necessarily a pretty bad word. And we left it at that.
So if anyone out there can more fully explain the nuances of chipie, I’d sure be glad to hear it. In the meantime, I’m leavin on a jet plane tomorrow, and may not be fully blog-tastic over the next week. So basically, peace out chipies!
Have you ever dropped an entire 6 pack of glass Orangina bottles in the middle of the grocery store isle? In France? Well just in case your answer is no, let me explain how it goes:
You see the woman in front of you taking her time, perusing every possible beverage option while blocking the aisle with her cart. She finally picks Orangina, and carelessly drops one of the glass bottles on the floor. It doesn’t shatter, but starts fizzing madly and making a small mess. She walks away like nothing happened.
You become incensed. How could someone just drop a bottle and leave it there?! At least alert the clerk! My god. Who are these people?!? you think to yourself smugly as you also reach for another 6 pack of Orangina from the top shelf. And just as you gingerly slide it off into the air, the bottom drops out and 6 highly carbonated glass bottles go crashing to the floor, spewing orange soda and shards of glass into the air like miniature spinning Orangina rockets.
You shriek. The woman from before pops her head back around the aisle and says, “Oh! I just dropped a little one.” Thank you madame. Thank you. You stand there for a moment wondering if you should help clean up, or pay, or something. Then you decide it’s best to just get the hell out of there.
And if your morning goes anything like mine, you’ll arrive at your doorstep, sticky and sulking, to a friendly gardienne waving some important mail in your face. It will be an envelope stamped with the official Republique Francais symbol. And when you open it, it will be a speeding ticket. From one of the 3 times total you’ve ever driven here.
I think the gods are telling me it’s time to get outta here for a while, no?
In t-minus 2 days I will be home. Did you hear that? In two days! I’ll be home! Well, not in my home home, because that’s rented out. And not in my dad’s home, because I haven’t lived there since 2000 during the Summer of Hell, which was a black period in my life not fit for print descriptions (love you more dad!). But I will be back in my sister’s house, with my own room and 3 nieces and 1 nephew just down the hall. I plan on waking up at the crack of dawn and bursting into their bedrooms shouting WAKE UP! WAKE UP! IT’S TIME TO PLAY! because that’s what they did to me when I lived with them in college. After the Summer of Hell which shall not be mentioned again.
In these last few hours of Parisian grayness, when I’m not busy scheming ways to pester my family members, I am spending a good deal of time dreaming about what I am going to eat. I’m not even talking about Thanksgiving food here. I just want a toasted bagel people. A toasted bagel with cream cheese. Or a toasted bagel with egg and cheese. Ohhhhhh egg and cheese breakfast sandwich, have I missed you so! Your absence on the international morning scene is heartbreaking.
Or how about pizza? Pizza that doesn’t have goat cheese or salmon on it? That would be marvelous. I am also sleep-salivating over spicy Mexican food – fajitas, guacamole, salsa that’s not from a jar that says Tostitos. A big, gooey, heart-attack inducing plate of nachos. Oh god yes. That’s what I need.
I also have a very bizarre craving for Chinese food. Authentic Bethesda-style Chinese food that probably tastes nothing like real food from China. Yes. Ummm-hmmmm. Gimme somma that.
And since it will be Thanksgiving, I’m going to go ahead and allow room for turkey sandwiches. With pickles and plain old yellow mustard that doesn’t burn out your sinuses after one bite. Also pumpkin pie. Loads and loads of pumpkin pie.
I know it sounds sad. Here I am, living in the food capital of the world. French cuisine actually just got classified as a UNESCO Intangible World Heritage, and all I want is a good old American cornucopia of crap. I should be ashamed.
But I swear to jesus in velvet pants, if someone takes me to Whole Foods I will cry tears of joy.
Unlikely Diplomat 