Adventures in Toulouse

La petite maison dans la prairie

2010-12-20T18:32:00.003+01:00

Monsieur J and I have been playing what I've taken to calling "Little House on the Prairie." Why, you might ask? Because we've been sans hot water for 3 weeks. 21 days folks, 22 tomorrow.

To heck with sugarplums, I've been dreaming of a hot shower. Can you blame me?

But instead we've been reduced to boiling water in the kettle, pouring it into a bucket and "washing" in the shower. I use the term washing loosely, as I haven't felt especially clean lately.

The good news is, this is France. And somehow I still smell better than 90% of the other people on my bus. I tolerate other people's stinkiness on a daily basis, consider this my contribution...or better yet, my revenge.

With the exception of picking up a warm baguette, everything else takes longer in these parts.

Unfortunately this applies to things breaking in the rental apartment, which sets off a long chain of tedious tasks:

1. Call rental agency x however many times it takes them to realize there really is a problem

2. Rental agency realizes you are not making this up

3. Rental agency calls repair service

4. Wait several days for the repair service to call you

5. Schedule an appointment

6. Wait at least a week for said appointment to roll around

7. Arrange your schedule to be home for the appointment

8. Repair service investigates the problem and sends an estimate to rental agency

9. Agency contacts owner to see if he will agree to the repair

10. Continue waiting, as the owner avoids phone calls from the agency

11. Agency finally gets the owner's agreement and alerts repair service

12. Schedule a follow-up appointment with the repair service to actually fix the problem

13. Wait at least another week for said appointment

14. Arrange your schedule to be home for the 2 p.m. repair

15. Revel in your tenacity and take a hot shower.

We're at step 14 and if I'm not basking in a hot shower when I get home from work tomorrow night, then I'll be channeling George Costanza and his infamous line, "serentity now"!

Here's to returning to America for Christmas, cheers!

Salon des arts du feu

2010-11-14T12:09:00.007+01:00

A couple of weeks ago, Monsieur J and I spent a weekend at the farm -oh to get out of the city! Dominique suggested we head into Martres Tolosane on Sunday for the 10th annual sculpture, ceramics and glass-blowing craft fair.

We looked, but we didn't touch.

There were bowls, platters, mugs and tea cups, not to mention a hearty dose of creativity and fantaisie.

We even got to watch a demonstration on making ceramic rope coil urns, the ones that people like to put in their jardins around here.

Why French women don't get fat.

2010-10-24T12:42:00.003+02:00

I wish I could say I've read the book, but I haven't.

I wonder if there's a chapter devoted to strikes, la grève?

Thanks to the strikes these past few weeks, I have a better understanding of why French women don't run around on treadmills like hamsters.

Of course they don't. It costs money; it's certainly not dignified; but more importantly, when the angry mobs take to the streets, everyday life becomes a workout.

Take this past week, for example. The bus depot was blocked 4/5 mornings this week -thank goodness I can walk! Starting off your day with a 2.5 mile speed walk to work, now that will wake you up. Carpe diem.

My early morning walks have also helped me develop other skills such as: dog poo night vision, avoiding panicky French motorists who pull onto the sidewalk when they spy a service station with gasoline (a rarity these days) at the last minute, and keeping my distance from rebel high schoolers pushing trashcans to add to their barricades.

I wish I were joking, but I can't make this up.

Are you ever going to blog again?

2010-10-01T18:06:00.005+02:00

The answer is yes.

I've been quiet for a while, friends.

Probably because I believed it was too good to be true.

I have a job!

As a translator.

And guess what?

I love it!

I keep pinching myself, but after 3 weeks I think it just may be real.

You see, there's

an office
a desk
a full agenda
a boss
different projects every day
coworkers
a work email address
a lunch break
gel pens and highlighters galore
a computer
meetings

I would take pictures of it all, but then my French colleagues would REALLY think the American's weird. I'm doing my best to break them in gently...

No longer a lady of leisure, I now spend my days translating, re-reading, editing, doing quality controls, contacting clients, bouncing ideas around -it's FANTASTIC.

But since I have a history of landing jobs that don't work out thanks to crazy French bureaucracy, I only thought it appropriate to wait until payday so as not to jinx the whole affair. It's real.

Happy weekend to all!

Muti-function combinative torch mosquito swatter.

2010-09-01T11:32:00.003+02:00

This probably qualifies as the most bizarre, creative and entertaining wedding present that Monsieur J and I have received thus far.

Sent with love from friends in Italy, I think we're pretty lucky that French customs agents didn't intercept it. Careful inspection of the packaging yields no information regarding the company and only some rudimentary explanations concerning correct product usage, such as:

-----

1. Grip the handle, press the switch button to initiate power on the nets and light up the red indication lamp. Be sure to keep pressing the switch button while hitting bugs.

2. Never shall we get any shock or danger when we touch (not squeeze) the outer nets, so we can flap mosquito stopping on our skin with this safe swatter directly withou* shocks.

3. Once the mosquito get in touch with the swatter net, it certainly will not be able to escalpe*, it may be either drawn into the innernet or fastened by static force to the outer net, but when any part of its body approach* the inner net, it will eventually get shocks and zapped immediately.

*all misspellings are represented here as seen on the packaging

-----

There are also a few warnings, most notably the one that reads, "this swatter is not a toy for children." Indeed, this is not intended for children, but it's a heck of a lot of fun for adults!

We've been having cool nights here in Toulouse, which means our windows have been open. However, we live in the land-of-no-screens, where this means one thing: bugs.

Mosquitoes that buzz in your ear, flies that hover in the kitchen, gnats that flitter aimlessly around the livingroom, enough is enough!

Before we would rudimentarily hunt the offender, perhaps armed with a newspaper or just a bare hand. Now, Monsieur J and I delight in swatting bugs with our racquets. Successful zapping is hard to miss. There's the loud "crack!" and the sparks, sometimes deep blue ones.

Romantic, right?

Shepherd dwellings.

2010-08-30T09:51:00.015+02:00

Yesterday, Monsieur J and I set out for a hike in the Pyrénées. I'd picked this one out because of the orris -shepherds' dwellings used as early as the 1300s. Not only did we see the ruins, but cows and sheep galore -evidence that these mountain pastures are still alive and well.

We parked just above the lake at Soulcem and set out for the valley where we immediately saw not just one or two cabins, but several. A sign explained the complexity of the arrangements; the huts weren't used exclusively for shepherds, but for their flocks, milking, cheese production, etc...

We picnicked in the valley before climbing up to a little pond nestled in the mountains.

What do you miss?

2010-08-27T15:10:00.012+02:00

What do you miss the most about home?

It's the question I invariably get when people in France learn I'm going home. And it's a good one, even if it's not so much the things I miss, but the people -especially my family.

Of course I miss things like readily available ice, corn on the cob, crabcakes and cold beer. But I really miss the people and the time we share.

baking cupcakes.

celebrating birthdays.

being silly.

enjoying vacation.

building sandcastles.

Baby sea turtles.

2010-08-24T17:18:00.007+02:00

We had a great family beach trip -eleven people in one house!

One of the highlights was seeing three baby sea turtles emerge from the nest and make their way to sea. I'd seen a loggerhead lay her eggs when I was younger and I saw the lifecycle completed watching these little Kemp's Ridley (a rare find in NC) skibble into the Atlantic.

I went up the dune to check the nest around 9:30 that morning with my nieces Kate and Alice. We were about to turn around when I saw something that appeared to be moving in the sand. Under closer inspection, I realized it was a baby sea turtle!

The poor little guy was on his back, so I flipped him over while my mom called the phone number listed on the nest, aka Charlie the turtle man. There were about 8 of us watching as he crawled instictively toward the water -he knew exactly what to do!

By the time Charlie the turtle man arrived, our little friend had already made his way out to sea.

Charlie proceeded to dig up the rest of the nest, in case there were any stragglers. Judging from the tracks surrounding the nest, the other 102 turtles had hatched during the night.

He found two little turtles that were very sandy and slightly overwhelmed -by this point, around 25 people had gathered on the beach to watch their descent. But they made it!

Name change fail.

2010-08-16T19:58:00.009+02:00

My father in law always says that the worst any country has to offer can be found in its administrative offices. Truer words have never been spoken. After three years of dealing with French bureaucracy, I got a taste of America's today and here's the verdict: it's no better.

My parents had warned me not to go to the Social Security office in the city. Per usual, they were right. I did heed their advice to take a book, so I passed the time reading Water for Elephants, a very appropriate choice given my circus-like surroundings. I did my best to concentrate and only paused once to eavesdrop. I couldn't resist.

The couple sitting next to me were having a very heated discussion about the months of the year, or more specifically which comes first: July or August. He was convinced that July follows August, while she adamantly maintained that "it goes June, July, August -you's stupid!" This went on for quite a while.

I could have attempted to settle the dispute with my planner, but since I purchased it in France I can only imagine the chaos that juin, juillet, août might have caused when added to this equation. I shudder just to think...

There were also technical difficulties with the number system, so the clerks would call out "C202" in their wimpy little voices and then the security guard would bellow, "C202, C202, where's my C202?" The whole thing was like being at an auction sans items up for bid.

If no one responded, he would check outside to see if any of the smokers' held the ticket in question. And if he still hadn't found that ticket holder he would then proceed to knock impatiently on the bathroom door, shouting "C202 -you in there, C202? Hold on a sec' we got C202 here in the restroom!"

I wish I were making this up, but I'm not that creative.

Since my French marriage documents confused the heck out of everyone, even the supervisor and led to questions like, "why ain't this in English?" [Ummm, because they speak French in France.] I guess I'll have to try this dog and pony show again at Christmas, perhaps in Henrico County instead.

Wish me luck!

Adventures in Toulouse is paused for...

2010-08-06T12:44:00.002+02:00

Adventures in America!

I can't even begin to describe how wonderful it is to be home, to see friends and family and revel in all things American. Crunching on corn on the cob, hugging instead of kissing, enjoying the miracle that is air conditioning -does a body good!

Though I don't plan on blogging while I'm home, I will be taking pictures to share with all of you at some point. But now it's time to pack the car in preparation for the family beach trip. We may not all be arriving in the wood paneled Oldsmobile station wagon like we used to, but then again maybe that's for the best...

Happy Summer!

A splash of color.

2010-07-27T17:01:00.007+02:00

In our neighborhood, heavy trash pickup is on Friday. This means that one man's junk can turn into another man's treasure on Thursday evening. Typically, what people deem garbage around here is exactly that, trash. But sometimes you get lucky.

So far I've scavenged a drying rack, an assortment of hanging baskets for the balcony and an end table. My mother in law told me that rummaging through the garbage like this is très américain. But I could tell she meant it as a compliment!

At any rate, the base of the table we found was in decent shape. The top had visible water damage, but Monsieur J was able to pry it off and replace it. What to do? Mosaic.

Armed with an assortment of plates from the flea market, some glue, cement and varnish, what was once a poor pathetic end table destined for the trash is now enjoying a new life in our living room. Pas mal!

This just in.

2010-07-24T08:39:00.003+02:00

You don't have to be Julia Child to be tempted by the idea of culinary school or maybe just a cooking class in France. The country is synonymous with gastronomie, wouldn't it be cool to take a cooking class on your next trip?

Unfortunately, the rates for these classes aren't always reasonable and of course space is limited. What's a girl to do? In Toulouse I've lucked out; l'Office offers fairly priced classes in proximity to the city center. I especially love the express midi option, where you cook for 45 minutes and enjoy your creation with classmates.

The 15 euro fee includes the lesson, main meal, dessert, coffee or tea and a 2 euro supplement will get you a glass of wine. For the price, you'd have a hard time paying for a restaurant meal of similar quality -and can you really put a price on savoir faire?

But when Americans come to France, they go to Paris and it's a well known fact that everything is more expensive in Paris. What if you could sign up to take a cooking class for FREE?

The city of Paris, in conjunction with the Fédération Française de Cuisine Amateur, have organized a series of free cooking classes on a rotating basis around the city's markets.

The schedule of classes for the remainder of 2010 is as follows:

– Marché Mouton-Duvernet – Paris 14ème : Friday September 17
– Marché Ordener – Paris 18ème : Saturday September 18
– Marché Monge – Paris 5ème : Sunday September 26
– Marché Anvers – Paris 9ème : Friday October 1
– Marché Maison Blanche – Paris 13ème : Sunday October 3
– Marché Point du Jour – Paris 16ème : Thursday October 7
– Marché Villette – Paris 19ème : Saturday October 16

All you have to do is pick a market and register for the class online on the FFCA website. Since there aren't any classes going on at the moment (read: it's vacation) there are currently no prompts to register for classes. However, this should change as September approaches.

All classes start at 10 a.m. and a different neighborhood chef is designated to teach each one. The chef will help you select the best produce from the market and prepare the meal. At the end of the class, everyone gets a chance to taste the fruits of their labor. What's not to like?

Planning a trip to Paris this fall? Looking to branch out and try something new? Not willing to break the bank to learn how to cook? This could be a fun option. Even if your French is médiocre, you can probably get by.

Pay close attention to what everyone else is doing, especially the chef. Look for cognates: carrottes, concombre, tomate -as one of my favorite professors used to say in her thick Parisian accent, "French eeez eazy!" Most importantly, don't forget to smile. You never know who might take pity on you and offer to speak a little English...

Kouignettes.

2010-07-22T07:33:00.010+02:00

Lately, the blogosphere has been abuzz with kouign amann, the famous breton butter cake. I can understand the excitement. It's sweet, salty, caramalized goodness in layers that are almost impossible to recreate at home. Brittany produces hardly any cheese to speak of, but they are master butter makers, which gives you all the more reason to indulge. Let's face it, Cookie Monster and common sense deem this dessert a "sometimes" food.

Kouignettes, are essentially little baby kouign amann that make perfect individual servings -they almost look like roses. I love the concept behind these little treats, but don't be fooled by all of the different flavors on display. Stick to plain or caramel, no need for extras like rasperries, chocolate or pistachios.

After admiring paintings by Sérusier and Gauguin at the museum in Pont Aven (don't miss it!), we walked around the quaint village and couldn't help but duck into some of the more tempting pastry shops. La maison Larnicol was the perfect stop for kouignettes. We also couldn't resist Pont Aven's chocolate shop for millefeuille and lots of drooling over the cases of petits gâteaux.

How we managed to resist all of this, I have yet to fully understand. And in case you were wondering, that's a lime tart with vanilla bean on the right. Why didn't I taste you?

Goodbye Toulouse, Hello Brittany.

2010-07-09T11:37:00.014+02:00

The temperature was 100+ when I left Toulouse last week. We're talking HOT, so hot that most of what I packed in my suitcase (skirts and t-shirts) wasn't even weather appropriate for my destination: Brittany. In ten days we covered Moëlan-sur-Mer, Rennes and Saint-Malo with many day trips in between.

Though just a quick trip from Toulouse by plane, I might as well have been in another country. And don't tell the French this, but parts of Brittany feel a little bit like England. I gladly traded red tile and stucco for gray slate and granite, faded pastels for vibrant blues and greens, occitan for breton, cacti and succulents for thriving hydrangeas.

Cool mornings, intermittent sun and drizzly afternoons, fresh seafood, regular naps, reading, lots of walking, bike riding, boats, museum visits, lighthouses, apéritifs on the patio and just general relaxation. Oddly enough my bathing suit remained in the suitcase. Watching other people swim in the 62 degree water was enough for me!

Over the next few weeks, I'll continue to post about Brittany. There are buttery pastries to describe, a memorable Bastille Day celebration to recount and lots of pictures to share. Enjoy!

Where is Darwin?

2010-07-02T11:42:00.005+02:00

I think I might be evolving. Though I have yet to grow a beak or sprout gills, something has changed. You see, strange things happen to me on a regular basis here in France, much of it borders on the absurd. Nothing in America could have prepared me for this. But that's just the way it is.

When I find myself in these types of situations, I can never seem to think of the right thing to say en français. I wouldn't want to upset anyone and I've found that it's easier to just carry on about my business. The brilliant retort I could've used always comes to mind long after the episode is over.

But this week was different. Not only did I come up with something to say, it a. worked and b. came out of my mouth all by itself. Had I stopped to reflect, I never would have said what I did. I can only conclude that I must be adapting to my surroundings.

You see, I found myself at Carrefour to pick up a few things: chickpeas, radishes, lemon, shampoo -nothing too exciting or expensive. Since I knew that I wasn't doing a major grocery run I left the house with my reusable Ukrops bag and a 10 euro bill. I couldn't think of anything else I'd need.

After waiting my turn in the check-out line, the cashier scanned my items and announced the total: €7.88. Like any normal human in the midst of a monetary transaction, I extended the 10 euro bill to pay for my purchases. This is where the story takes a turn towards bizarre-o-land.

The cashier froze, looked at me like I was holding a smelly sneaker and told me, "but I don't have any change." Now you see, normal American me would have been shocked and bug-eyed. You can't really expect me to believe that a store the size of Target operates without any change, can you? Certainly there is €2.12 lurking around here somewhere, even if it's not in your cash register.

However, my newly evolved getting-used-to-France self, hardly reacted at all. Some part of me must have known that snapping, fussing or even just pointing out the sheer ridiculousness of the situation wouldn't get me anywhere. Instead, a voice I didn't even recognize took over. I may have flipped my hair in disinterest as I casually informed her, ce n'est pas mon problème.

Not exactly polite, but boy oh boy was it effective. This one little gem of a sentence got me everything I needed. Without hesitating, she opened a few rolls of coins and handed me my change. Really?

Of course I told Monsieur J about the newly assertive pseudo-French me that evening. He was both proud and incensed and can't wait for me to show him which cashier it was so he can try paying for a pack of gum with a fifty euro bill.

And another piece of the puzzle falls into place...

Pic Cagire.

2010-06-07T12:25:00.011+02:00

Last weekend, Monsieur J and I set out for the Pyrénées. After an hour and a half, we arrived at the parking lot for the hike we'd planned to go on: pic Cagire. The information we'd found on the internet warned that the hike was steep, but well worth it for the beautiful views.

I can now confirm that this is an accurate description, though we added a detour.

Unfortunately, we got a little confused by the signage and turned left. This path seemed to wind around the mountain rather than climb up it, ooops. We were a little disappointed but still had lovely views to enjoy and lots of wildlife to take in.

It wasn't until about 2 hours later that we ran into a race. We asked the organizers how to get to the top of the peak and they recommended we turn right and follow the "runners." They weren't actually running, but were muscly creatures moving at quite a clip as they had to pace themselves for the 48 kilometer trek covering three peaks that they had signed up for.

We followed them until we arrived at a refuge, a set of two cabins intended for shepherds and hikers. The runners may have continued on past this checkpoint, but we stopped for sandwiches, cherries and a much needed break.

We asked the man recording the runners' times at the checkpoint how to get from the refuge back to the parking lot. He was curious to know how we'd gotten this far. When we explained the path we'd taken he stared at us in disbelief and bellowing of laughter said, "you turned left out of the parking lot? Do you realize that you added an extra 9 kilometers to your hike?"

He kindly explained that if we continued to follow the runners up to the peak and then down the mountain we would eventually reach the parking lot. Whew. What he failed to mention is that you need to be part mountain goat to reach the top.

The difference in elevation between the parking lot and the summit is somewhere in the neighborhood of 3280 feet; there was still snow on the ground. Translation: this probably wasn't the best idea for our first hike of the season, but I don't regret it.

My legs may have been sore several days afterwards but it's pretty hard to beat a beautiful hike in the mountains.

Getting ambitious on the balcony.

2010-06-03T19:42:00.009+02:00

The balcony is like the rest of our apartment, which is to say it's petit.

You see, Monsieur J and I share a whopping 350 square feet of living space. Somehow it doesn't bother us. The good news is that barring a move to Hong Kong, Moscow, Paris or New York, we probably won't have to live anywhere smaller ever again. There's always a bright side!

What started as a small collection of plants on the balcony has morphed into some serious urban gardening over here on rue des fontaines. In addition to a thriving collection of cacti and succulents, we have a banana tree, an olive tree, a yucca, a lime tree, a grape vine, rosemary, basil and an overflowing pot of mint.

I'm here to confirm that we are officially reaching max capacity.

However, you may also remember a mention of tomato plants...

I think I told myself that cherry tomatoes would be smaller than regular tomatoes. Yes, this is true for the fruit, but not so much for the plants. They have gone from 6 inches to over 3 feet in three weeks. Fuzzy stems and yellow flowers are sprouting every which way, making it a real challenge to even access the other plants enough to water them. It's turning into a real jungle!

I'm hoping our harvest of delicious little cherry tomatoes will make this slightly crazy endeavor worth the effort. In the meantime, I love opening the door every morning to check and see what may have changed overnight. You'd be surprised at what can happen in the span of a few hours.

Today the banana tree presented a tightly coiled new leaf marked by a single drop of dew. A cactus that weathered an entire winter outside has recently revived itself and is now in bloom. Haricot vert is forever gravitating towards the sun; he just can't get enough.

Has anyone ever seen a plant like this before? We bought it at the market two years ago and I've never seen anything remotely similar since. We just call him green bean!

Potage aux fanes de radis.

2010-05-21T10:19:00.010+02:00

Has anyone here ever heard of radish leaf soup? I put the title in French because it just sounds so much more appetizing to whisper, potage aux fanes de radis. Mmmm. Monsieur J's mom has been telling us how good this soup is for a while now. I finally motivated to make it yesterday.

I think that final dose of Préfecture rejection is what pushed me to seek solace in soup. I typically reconcile myself with France's ridiculous bureaucracy via my stomach; it's the best way I've found to negotiate the rocky path to forgiveness. A warm baguette can heal most wounds.

I wanted something simple, soothing and inexpensive. Being reminded of the fact that you won't be working for at least another month doesn't exactly inspire extravagance. With radishes coming in at 75 cents a bunch, radish leaf soup fit the bill.

Full disclosure: I was never a huge fan of the radish when I lived in the States. They always looked so sad and forlorn sitting virtually untouched on the salad bar. In France I go crazy for radishes, from the little skinny red ones to the big scary looking black ones. It also helps that the French tend to eat their radishes with plenty of bread and salted butter. Who wouldn't like that?

I didn't know you could eat the leaves, but you can. And for two apartment dwellers with no way to compost, I finally felt like I was doing my part by not throwing these leafy greens in the trash.

The soup is simple: 1 shallot, 4 small potatoes, 1 bunch well-rinsed radish leaves, juice of 1 lemon, water, salt and pepper to taste.

We topped the soup with fresh mint from the balcony and crème fraîche. Spring in a bowl.

Their mistake, my life.

2010-05-15T17:37:00.011+02:00

Monsieur J and I came back from a lovely weekend in Royan on Saturday afternoon. But the weekend really proved to be a good one when he returned from the mailbox with a very important letter: a convocation from the Préfecture to pick up my new carte de séjour. It's finally ready!

Monday morning I scurried down to the Préfecture bright and early. I waited outside with the masses until the doors opened at 9:00. Nothing could have prepared me for the pushing and shoving that ensued. The hoardes had managed to break the ticket machine within 3 minutes.

This should have been an omen. I should have done an about face and returned home, tempting my chances another day. Instead I waited in the amoeba like blob of a non-line for almost 3 hours. Periodically the woman behind the glass window would emerge to distribute tickets by hand, risking life and limb while everyone fought to be "first". Incivility is an understatement.

The only ray of sunshine was that there was another American who I'd met back in August before my paperwork woes had been discovered. We had a good time commiserating and watching the international circus unfold before our very eyes. She confided that she no longer puts on makeup when she comes here because she inevitably ends up in tears. What is it with this place?

When it was my turn, I approached the counter nervously, my heart racing. I made sure to use my nicest Bonjour, Madame and hoped for the best. I delicately slid the letter I'd received, my passport, the expired carte de séjour and the still valid récépissé de demande de carte de séjour under the window. Within a few minutes she returned my passport, retained the letter and all other expired paperwork and had me sign to receive the new carte de séjour, the treasured green card equivalent.

Incredulous that this was finally happening after 10 months of seemingly endless waiting, I simply slipped the card in my pocket with the intention of exiting this hell hole as soon as humanly possible. However, an idea popped into my head: maybe you should check the card before you leave?

Check it I did, and to my dismay it was the wrong card, a mere duplicate of the same one I had before bearing no indication that I had married a French citizen. I think this is when I started visibly shaking. The other American, sensing my distress came over and started rubbing my back. True solidarity.

I returned to the counter and explained my dilemna to the employee. She took it upon herself to look up my file on her computer and actually admitted that her colleague had made a mistake, which is highly unusual. The French are almost always convinced that they're right, even when they're wrong; to do otherwise would be to admit defeat.

She explained that a new card would have to be made. Logically my next question was, "how long do you expect that to take"? One month. REALLY!?! Their administrative mistake, my time. Go figure.

Monsieur J came home for lunch to console me and devise a plan of attack. It's time to get to the bottom of this, even if it means lighting a fire under somebody's fanny.

His parents were livid and have since been an immense help in our letter writing campaign. His sister listened while I recounted my disastrous morning via skype. My family continues to be supportive as always. We are immensely thankful for family and friends.

Yesterday afternoon I channeled the spirit of a lawyer as I sat down to write a well-argued letter in my most perfect French to, get this, the ministre de l’immigration, de l’intégration, de l’identité nationale et du développement solidaire. Is that really all one title? For one person?

With the help of some of my favorite native speakers my work of art was ready to mail by mid-day; it will be interesting to see what, if anything, this yields.

In spite of the absurdity of it all, I enjoyed getting to use expressions like disfonctionnement, manque de professionalisme and conséquences désastreuses. And while it did pain me ever so slightly to edit out the phrase incompétence flagrante, it was probably for the best.

Honeymoon's over.

2010-05-12T10:25:00.013+02:00

Not to worry, we're still getting along.

I'm here to talk about two unlikely things: dish soap and vacation.

This week I realized that the dish soap we bought while honeymooning in the Pyrénées is down to the last squeeze.

I usually go for some sort of eco-friendly, sensitive skin product -you would too if you didn't have a dishwasher. But since we were in a ski resort town, Monsieur J just picked up a bottle of the cheapest stuff he could find. The man may be French, but he shares some key traits with the Schnell clan.

Not only was it bright blue, but it also had a strong cleanser smell to it. We used it to keep our kitchenette clean during our stay and packed it with us when it was time to go. Now, whenever I wash the dishes, the aroma reminds me of our time in the mountains. Simple, but strange.

And though my hands are happy to get back to the old standby, I think I'll secretly miss the soap that made dishwashing transport me to the Pyrénées. Who knew that something as basic as soap could evoke cross-country skiing, soaking in hot springs, fondue, tartiflette and cassoulet all in one?

Bon week-end.

2010-05-07T09:37:00.005+02:00

The weather has been playing nasty tricks on us in Toulouse these past couple of weeks. In late April, it was sunny with highs in the 90s. But since it was still April, everyone insisted on wearing sweaters and jackets as a matter of principle. I blame it all on that pesky proverb:

En avril, ne te découvre pas d'un fil. En mai, fais ce qu'il te plait.

loose translation: In April, keep covered. In May, do as you please.

I've mentioned before that the French dress according to season rather than according to the actual temperature. It's very peculiar. In April, Monsieur J and I have ridiculous conversations that go something like this:

J: You really should put on a sweater or at least bring a scarf.

A: You do realize it's 85 degrees outside in the shade.

J: Yes, but it's April. You don't want to catch a cold.

A: I think I'll be alright.

J: [dubious]

Needless to say, I was excited for May to arrive so that everyone could stop staring at me for wearing temperature appropriate clothing or suggesting that I wear three layers on a hot day.

And then May came, and guess what? I woke up and it was 45 degrees and raining. Surprise! But today I awoke to sun, blue skies and seasonal temperatures. I did a little weekend grocery shopping at the market and planted basil and cherry tomato plants for the balcony.

I think I'll be celebrating with a special apéritif tonight: kir à la violette. Cheers!

Lilies of the valley.

2010-05-03T08:37:00.009+02:00

This past Saturday was Labor Day in France and tradition has it that May 1st is the day to offer un brin de muguet, or a little bunch of lilies of the valley to your special someone.

Several years ago, I remember my mother delicately offering some dating advice. I think she was trying to communicate how you know if it's right, if he's really "the one." She didn't get very far though before she got flustered. I think the conversation ended somewhat abruptly with, "I don't know what to tell you, everything has changed."

And I can understand why she would feel that way in this crazy mixed up world where couples seemingly do what they want, when they want. But our conversation wasn't a total loss. In fact, it got me wondering: even if the rules have changed, How. Do. You. Know?

Two years ago on May 1st, Monsieur J picked out a little bouquet of muguet for me at the market. I was just happy to have flowers and to learn about a new tradition. That night he whispered to me, "you know, I've never bought lilies of the valley for anyone else before -I used to get them for my mom when I was little, but that's different. I thought you'd like them."

Château Cransac

2010-04-28T13:12:00.012+02:00

Remember that affordable wine I mentioned last time? It's called Fronton, and it's a favorite of mine. What makes this wine different from some of the others that grow in the area is the grape: négrette, or Pinot Saint-Georges I believe it's called in English. Originally from Cyprus, this dark-skinned variety has been adapted for cultivation in southwestern France for quite some time now. It has a very distinct flavor -think red fruit and spice. But since it can be somewhat of an acquired taste, a négrette blend will usually be more pleasing to the tastebuds.

The area is full of signs pointing to various vineyards proposing wine tastings and vente en direct, also known as the possibility of buying bottles directly from the property. Sign me up! I've had more than enough disappointment taking my chances on 4-5 euro bottles from Carrefour. See ya later supermarket sludge, I've got the good stuff.

On a whim we followed the signs to Château Cransac; Monsieur J and I had already tasted some of their wines in Toulouse and I think we secretly wanted more. We went inside and were promptly offered a tasting by a young saleslady who couldn't have been nicer. We tried three reds and somehow left with 20 bottles -ooops. Then again, the price was oh-so-right.

The good news is that the same can be true for you too. For my Richmond readers, J. Emerson carries an excellent bottle of Fronton that comes in at right under $10 a bottle; I believe they've added a rosé in addition to the traditional red. Fronton isn't very well known, even in France, which means you can usually find some good value bottles. And since it's a wine that pairs well with grilled meats, go ahead and try a glass the next time you grill out. The flavor alone may make you think you're in France, but it's so much cheaper than buying a plane ticket!

A walk in the Tarn

2010-04-27T11:36:00.017+02:00

Few people have ever heard of the Tarn, a corner of southwestern France that borders Toulouse. In addition to producing some great budget-friendly wines (more to come on that soon!), there are plenty of villages worth visiting and there's good hiking to be had too. Now that I think about it, "hiking" may be a bit of an exaggeration. Hiking is what we do in the Pyrénées; this was more of an extended stroll through the countryside.

Supposedly we were only 45 minutes away from Toulouse and yet I felt as if we'd teleported to someplace infinitely farther away. Move over motorcycles, noisy neighbors and early morning garbage pick up; it's time to make way for fresh air, wildflowers, weeds and rusting farm equipment.

We parked the car in Villemur-sur-Tarn and set off on foot from la Place du souvenir. Our destination: la Croix de Peyre. Once you reach this landmark, three possible routes are possible depending on how much time you plan to spend. I think we turned left at the cross, but I was more distracted by the beautiful surroundings and general sense of calm.

dandelions and buttercups

lilacs everywhere

fence and flowering redbud

little blue guys

thistle and clover

curious farm things

inviting garden gate

Did I mention how good it feels to take a break from city living?

Strawberries, a sure sign of spring.

2010-04-23T08:56:00.010+02:00

After a long winter of carrots, turnips, leeks and apples, I am beyond relieved to be seeing new produce items at the market these days. I couldn't take it anymore! Asparagus, artichokes, peas and strawberries are now front and center, silently beckoning their way into my shopping basket.

While I initially resisted the season's first strawberries (over-priced, under-ripe varieties from Spain), I now readily give in to gariguettes, agathe and mara des bois. Consider them the strawberry equivalent of heirloom tomatoes, it's a fair comparison. They may be small, but they are oh so sweet and deliver a super concentrated flavor.

Last night I was inspired to try an impromptu dessert: a not quite strawberry shortcake. There is no recipe; the oven is not involved; basic assembly is all that's required.

1. Crumble two butter cookies into the bottom of each ramekin. I used galettes St Michel, but Pepperidge Farm chessmen or even those ring-shaped butter cookies like we used to get for snack at Sunday school would do the trick.

2. Cover the cookie crumbs with a heaping spoonful of that plain Greek yogurt everyone's so crazy about these days.

3. Add fresh cut strawberries over the top. If your strawberries aren't especially sweet, you might consider sprinkling them with a little sugar to balance things out.

As you can see, there wasn't much left... Vive le printemps!

In search of okra.

2010-04-15T12:01:00.012+02:00

I'd been wanting to make a version of this gumbo for quite a while now; however, one gumbo essential was missing: okra. I've never seen it here. The French are so fond of their own food that it can be a real challenge to find foreign ingredients. You would die laughing if you saw what passes for the "international aisle" at my grocery store. It's pretty pathetic.

Since I can't get what I need at Carrefour, all the more reason to go on ethnic food expeditions in the St Cyprien neighborhood. Within walking distance of the apartment (and the city center) are lots of little boutiques advertising exotic products from Africa and the Caribbean, hair products and phone cards.

I'd seen the signs, but the odor of dried fish that emanates from these places had kept me out, until recently. Too bad there's no scratch-and-sniff function with the internet so I could recreate that for you... But if you can get past the stench, these boutiques carry not just okra but sweet potatoes, whole peanuts, black beans and black eyed peas. Jackpot!

Before I could set foot in one of these stores, I had to figure out how to say okra. Have you ever tried to describe okra in a foreign langauge to someone who's never eaten it before? I wouldn't recommend it.

Monsieur J put on his listening face, as I rambled on about some UFO vegetable that "kind of looks like a jalapeno except it's not spicy. It's fuzzy on the outside and has a slimy texture to it and goes in gumbo. Did you ever eat gumbo when you were in Louisiana?"

He had no idea what I was talking about. Oh well, it comes with the territory.

If you're ever in Toulouse for more than just a day or two, consider crossing le pont neuf and venturing over to the other side of the Garonne. It's a great way to get a feel for every day living and yet there's still a fair amount to see and do. Between the various ethnic markets, the main covered market, the jardin Raymond VI and the musée des Abattoirs, you could easily make a morning of it!

A few of my favorite things.

2010-04-13T09:43:00.016+02:00

Toulouse has great markets but the Sunday market at St Aubin is probably my favorite. Whether you're looking for local produce, smelly cheese, socks, ceramic cookware, flowers, live chickens and rabbits, empanadas, olives, mattresses, jewelry, wine, spices or buttons, St Aubin is the place to be.

The mix of people is equally as eclectic, drawing parents with strollers, hippies, the elderly and the homeless alike. As the weather starts to warm up, there tends to be live music and what the French would describe as a general bonne ambiance. There's even a grandfatherly type who plays his violin and lets the children join in on drums and xylophones and whatever else they can find. It's enough to make you appreciate that the local supermarkets are closed on Sunday; there's just no comparison!

But since every day can't be Sunday, I'm off to our nearest neighborhood market at St Cyprien in search of trout, asparagus, new potatoes and the makings for fruit salad. I'll have to post about this little gem sometime soon, as it has its own appeal!

Conflicted.

2010-04-08T15:02:00.007+02:00

My father-in-law once asked me if I cook French meals or American ones. Good question. I'm pretty sure I told him that I cooked all sorts of things, which is a. true and b. probably code for "American."

It's the truth, I love making things like pasta, fajitas, chicken pot pie, brunswick stew, big salads, sesame noodles, etc...

But at the same time, it's not like I don't know how to cook French food, because I do, or at least I think I do. And I know we eat it, because we live here afterall. But maybe it's time to expand my repertoire?

With plenty of time on my hands, I've made it a point to start reading Ginette Mathiot's classic: Je sais cuisiner. The cookbook came out in English earlier this year, under the title I know how to cook, though I've heard it doesn't hold quite the same appeal as the original and that the conversions can be a tad confusing.

Now don't panic, I'm not going to start some Julie and Julia spinoff. I have no desire to attempt a lot of the recipes: stuffed veal heart, anyone? Non merci. But there's a lot to be learned about cooking methods, balancing menus and preparing inexpensive meals -not to mention that the book has opened my eyes to recipes and ingredients I never knew existed.

So far I've mastered the crêpe recipe, first things first.

Next up? I'm thinking something with peas, artichokes, or asparagus.

Spring has sprung!

Progress.

2010-03-25T12:09:00.005+01:00

We're just back from a successful visit to the Préfecture, happy as can be that they decided to accept all of our documentation.

I think the woman could tell that a. Monsieur J really is French and that b. we really are married. She even changed the name on my temporary paperwork to "Ann Schnell Cliquet" and it says that I'm "married". This really is progress!

She kindly refused my carefully typed out declaration of non-polygamy (that her colleague insisted I absolutely had to fill out on March 1st). Victory! And she even made comments about "when you'll receive your card..." Say what? You mean, I'm going to get a card? Yesssss!

I'll believe it when I see it, but for the moment we're happy to celebrate with some Vietnamese takeout! Happy Thursday!

How to prove you're really French.

2010-03-24T13:20:00.005+01:00

So tomorrow we return to the Préfecture to prove that a. we really are married and that b. Monsieur J really is French. Which brings me to the question, how can you tell if someone is French?

My friend K and I did a lot of thinking about this, we've come up with the following:

1. The fruit test: If Monsieur J and I are both given apples, he will deftly peel, slice and eat the fruit, whereas I am inclined to just bite right in. Being American, I am likely to cut off a finger peeling anything without a vegetable peeler.

2. The driving test: For him, driving is like over-caffeinated bumper cars, honking and insulting are encouraged. I prefer to take my time, letting pedestrians cross the street, etc... to the dismay of all French motorists behind me.

3. The bus test: Waiting at a bus stop is not enough here, you must signal to the driver that you would like for him to stop. The French have a subtle yet effective way of doing this, Monsieur J is a pro. Meanwhile, yours truly always ends up frantically waving to the driver, which is just so not cool, or French.

4. The footwear test: French women can walk for miles in high heeled shoes and somehow they appear graceful and never seem to trip on the cobblestones. I still have blisters from wearing flats a month ago. Guess who's not French?

5. The temperature test: The French dress according to the season, not necessarily according to the daily forecast. This means that if it's an unseasonally warm day in March (75 degrees) the French will still bundle up in sweaters, coats and scarves. This probably explains why I get weird looks for walking around in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt, silly me.

I guess the only alternative would be to sweat my brains out, which could actually help me pass the smell test around here.

I think I'll pass!

Good deed.

2010-03-18T10:52:00.003+01:00

By now you should be able to tell from my descriptions of the Préfecture that this place is worthy of a special place in Dante's inferno.

Nasty bureaucrats, screaming babies, impatient everyone -boredom and frustration reign supreme. Suffice it to say that such conditions don't bring out the best in people. Line fights regularly break out, everyone is generally on edge. Without fail someone decides to change their cellphone ringtone by testing all possible rings for everyone to hear. It really is unbearable.

On March 1st, when Monsieur J and I decided to take a break from the madness by going to a bookstore, he (being new to this) was worried that our number would be called and we would miss our turn. I suggested that he take another ticket, which would give us at least 20 minutes.

Well, after the bookstore outing there were still 38 people ahead of us. So much for that second ticket. Monsieur J went to run some other errands, and I found a seat and did some reading.

I couldn't help but notice the woman sitting next to me and her adorable little boy, who I guessed to be about 4. He wasn't whining, was spinning in circles and playing with a scrap of paper he'd found on the floor. Sometimes he would smile at me and I would smile right back.

I also couldn't help but notice the ticket she clutched in her hand, 50 numbers worse than mine. Ouch. Twelve tickets processed per hour with 88 people in front of you? This was not looking good. And while Junior was keeping it together for the moment, surely he couldn't do this all day.

And that's when it hit me. We had a second ticket, and it would improve her wait by about 4 hours. Now the only question, was how? I didn't want this to result in a line fight. I've seen them before and trust me, you don't want to involve yourself, much less provoke one.

I got up to stretch my legs and stood by the ticket machine. The little boy came up and gave me a shy smile and with that I slipped him the ticket and asked, "tu peux donner ça à ta maman"?

He toddled over and handed it to her, she looked at me questioningly as she unfolded it, and then her eyes looked as if they might bug out of her head. We couldn't say anything to each other without causing a riot, but the looks of gratitude and understanding we exchanged said it all.

Laissez-moi vous expliquer.

2010-03-16T09:24:00.007+01:00

You know you're in big trouble whenever a French bureaucrat says this to you. This particular form of "let me explain" is not meant to be helpful, but rather to establish who is in charge: them, never anyone else.

On Monday, March 1, Monsieur J and I went to the préfecture together with our passports and our newly delivered livret de famille, a booklet that proves you're married and where your children's names will one day be inscribed. Evidently this was all we'd need to obtain my green card equivalent. Ha!

Now keep in mind that I'd gone to the préfecture several weeks prior to find out what was expected of me given that I would be marrying a French citizen. I asked all the right questions: is there a dossier I need to complete? What documents are required? Do I need to schedule an appointment? Non non non, just come with your husband, your IDs and the livret de famille.

Per usual, I got all of the wrong answers.

When we arrived, there were 50 people ahead of us in line. The last equation I ever understood in math class went something like this: distance equals rate times time. 50 people = 12 people x 60 minutes, or a roughly 4 hour wait. Super. We promptly abandonned ship and found a bookstore nearby where we bought road maps of the Pyrénées, guidebooks and a few postcards to send to my nieces and nephews. Anything to distract. As predicted, in our hour away only 12 names had been called. What can I say? I spend a lot of time here, I know the drill.

When it was our turn to approach the troll at the counter, I had everything ready. We briefly explained the circumstances; she asked for my papers; I forked them over. She then asked Monsieur J for his ID and he slipped his passport across the desk. This is where things got ugly. Then there was a rapid fire exchange between them en français that went something like this:

Troll: This is NOT a valid form of photo identification!

Monsieur J: Is this a joke?

Troll: I do not appreciate your tone of voice!

Monsieur J: No really, I honestly thought you were kidding. It's a passport ma'am...

Troll: And let me remind you that there are fake passports out there!

Monsieur J: umm, ok?

She then proceeded to present us with a dossier to fill out, a laundry list of documents we would need to present in original and photocopied format on the day of our appointment on March 25th. Is it just me, or did I already ask about all of this circa late January only to get a completely different answer? In retrospect, make that a non-answer.

At least now Monsieur J understands why I have to curl up in the fetal position after dealing with these people. I'm not an emotional midget, it's just the rampant incompetence, I promise!

In the meantime, I'm still incredulous that a passport is considered the ultimate form of photo ID in every country except France. Typical.

I'm baaaaack!

2010-03-12T09:31:00.014+01:00

After a busy two weeks of wedding celebrations, a trip to the Pyrénées and another trip to Paris, I'm finally back in Toulouse, back to my computer and back to the blog. How good it feels to be home! Where to begin? Since so many of you couldn't be here with us in Toulouse on the 27th, I should probably recap the weekend, and what a weekend it was!

Mom, dad and Betsy arrived late Thursday afternoon and I couldn't have been happier to see them! The fact that they even got here was pretty incredible given the travel circumstances and it was just such a treat that they were able to come. We took the shuttle bus to the bed and breakfast where they were staying and Monsieur J took the car, since golf clubs are more than awkward to lug around on public transportation.

Chez Tatin, we found both sets of Cliquets and had happy introductions followed by a marvelous surprise: beautiful flowers and champagne! How great to know that friends from home were thinking of us! It may or may not have brought tears to a few eyes...

We took advantage of what was left of daylight to do a quick walking tour of Toulouse. The sky was blue and I think the Schnell clan was ready to stretch their legs after hours of being stuck in planes, trains and automobiles.

Dinner that night was at le Barbu, the owner has a beard. We had an earlier reservation for Schnells and Cliquets, followed by a later one for friends and late-arriving out of town guests. All were seated at one long table, which allowed for everyone to meet, greet and eat.

Michel set the tone for the weekend when he arrived, declaring je suis déshydraté! Betsy loved this opportunity to use her French and would continue to announce j'ai soif for the rest of the weekend whenever her glass needed refilling. A match made in heaven, these two!

Saturday morning was cloudy but not too chilly and everyone gathered around 10am for the ceremony at city hall. We took the metro into town dressed to the nines and carrying a bouquet and two centerpieces for the lunch table, quite a sight! I briefly considered wearing Betsy's veil but it made me look like a conehead so I opted for a more natural look instead. We took some pictures downstairs, made the trek upstairs to the infamous salle des illustres and took our places for the ceremony.

I should probably add that I was fully prepared for something dull, super official and lead by a grumpy old Frenchman with the idea being to get all of the couples present married ASAP. It's good to prepare for the worst, as it allows you to be pleasantly surprised and rarely disappointed. The woman who married us, Madame Jardin-Ladam could not have been more personable. She was smiling, eager to meet our families and even allowed me to translate her welcome announcement to the American contingency. She really helped to make it a very memorable ceremony!

We took more pictures afterwards, had coffee at a nearby café before lunch and somehow managed to feast for about 3 hours. I'm sure James still has fanny fatigue!

We met for a champagne toast around 6:30pm at the bed and breakfast before heading to dinner at Bois et Charbon, one of my favorite restaurants in Toulouse. The festivities continued until late into the night!

Whenever I think of the weekend, I think of all of the laughing, smiling and love that surrounded us. I'm just so glad that everyone got to be together in Toulouse for the big day!

Strikes, affecting more than just H&H Bagels.

2010-02-25T10:56:00.004+01:00

The idea of a strike is laughable in America. If you won't do your job, we will find someone to replace you. Problem solved. Actually, the word strike used to make me think of Kramer and his one-man picket line in front of H&H bagels. The Human Fund. Two Face. Festivus. Those were the good 'ol days. Now, the mere mention of the word grève makes my left eye start twitching, things can get downright messy. How messy, you might ask? Let me count the ways:

Try two weeks sans garbage collection in Marseille, in the dead of summer. Stinky Marinky. Or how about refusing to stock ATM's with cash? Money, who needs that? Chaotic train service rife with cancellations and delays? Been there, done that. Opération escargot? That's when the truck drivers park their 18 wheelers in snail shell formation around the beltlines in major cities. This makes getting anywhere a real challenge. No metro, tram, or buses for days on end all because of a mouvement social? It happens all of the time. Strike-related fuel shortages? There's currently no diesel fuel left in all of Toulouse. Thanks Clio, I've never been happier that you take unleaded. Universities barricaded by tables, chairs and any other moveable obstructions for weeks and months? Par for the course. I've even seen 5 year-olds take to the streets with their parents and teachers over the closing of an école maternelle. They start 'em early in these parts.

Which brings us to today, less than 48 hours before the wedding and the air traffic controllers are still on strike. I wish I knew why. Probably because they work 100 days per year and earn six-figure salaries, paid in euros. I will be hosting no pity parties any time soon.

What does this mean for us? Monsieur J's parents may have to drive or take the train, a 12-hour adventure from Brittany. Their local airport is, get this: CLOSED. For real. Other guests leaving out of Paris-Orly have a fifty percent chance of their flight taking off. As for my parents, I can only hope their flight will not be cancelled. At least they're flying through London, so James can charm the British Airways staff en anglais if need be. So there you have it, we may be 17 for the festivities or we may be 8, only time will tell!

Not-so-friendly skies.

2010-02-22T13:04:00.008+01:00

So I was perusing the online news this morning, and what catches my eye? A headline about upcoming airline strikes. That'll get your attention 5 days before a semi-destination wedding.

Now we all know the French go on strike at the drop of a béret; this is nothing new. But things have been pretty calm over here lately. I knew that some teachers in the suburbs of Paris had been striking as a means of protesting violence in schools and I'd heard rumblings about worker discontent at a Total refinery in Dunkirk, but nothing major. The post office, public transit and mammoth public sector have all been more or less rocking along, until today.

It sounds like the ringleader of this mess is our German friend, Lufthansa. Air France is to join the cause tomorrow, followed shortly by British Airways. The worst part is that it sounds like the air traffic controllers are striking too, damn them. I should probably add that 6/8 out-of-town guests are flying Air France and my parents and sister are flying British Airways, meaning that as many as 9 guests could potentially be affected. Not good.

But what can you do? Hope. Pray. Cross fingers. I guess that's about it. But as my mom likes to remind me, "travel is an adventure." Like it or not, this is shaping up to be quite the adventure.

Do you think if I give them some macarons they'll go back to work?

Here's what makes me happy.

2010-02-20T18:44:00.008+01:00

Everything is planned and we are officially ready for next weekend! Friends and family will be there to support us on the big day, and it's going to be a FUN weekend. I have a dress, Monsieur J has a suit and the wedding bands will be ready for pick up on Tuesday. We certainly won't go hungry this weekend, as dinner reservations have been made for Friday night-Sunday lunch. The flowers will be ready for pick up on Saturday morning and we have the official convocation form from city hall to prove that we really are supposed to get married on February 27th at 10:30 a.m. It wouldn't be a real French wedding without some sort of paperwork, right? We've even found a studio to rent in the Pyrenees for an impromptu winter honeymoon!

And to celebrate the planning of our nuptials in a mere two weeks, a special Sunday treat was in order today: macarons. The best French cookies EVER. The bakery nearest chez nous is crazy good, and these little pillows of sugary deliciousness are no exception. Choosing from their many cookie/filling combinations is anything but easy: ginger-honey, pistachio-cherry, violet-blackcurrant, chocolate-caramel, nougat-orange blossom, lavender, coconut-mango, vanilla and rose-lychee, YUM. Unfortunately these little guys are fragile and don't travel well, so you'll have to come see me in Toulouse to get your hands on some!

Café culture.

2010-02-18T09:52:00.011+01:00

Here I am, just back from a quick trip to Montpellier. It was great seeing friends and hanging out at some of my favorite cafés, using the weather as an excuse to drink inordinate amounts of tea and coffee. The only downside? Au bonheur des tartes, my absolute favorite lunch spot was closed for vacation. Foiled. All the more reason to return, right? Maybe I can time a trip this spring when asparagus is in season so I can eat their velouté d'asperges aux zestes de citron, yum.

Lucky for me, Café Latitude was open, which made for a great break from the drizzly weather. I sprung for a pot of green tea and settled in with a book, March by Geraldine Brooks. If you're into historical fiction, I'd highly recommend it! There's just something indulgent about taking a break in the afternoon, reading and watching other customers come and go. My friend A put me on to this café, she has great taste. It doesn't hurt that the place is run by two George Clooney look-alike twins either. The chairs are also super comfortable, which can make it hard to leave. Oddly enough, for a French café, Latitude maintains a cozy coffee shop feel, almost like you'd find in Asheville, NC. And though I opted for tea this visit, their café au lait is not to be missed.

Is this normal?

2010-02-14T12:01:00.006+01:00

So it's snowing here again this morning, no real accumulation to speak of, just lots of pretty flakes falling from the sky. Monsieur J and I bundled up to go to the market and are now back to the warm apartment with supplies to make a big pot of pureed vegetable soup, yum.

As we were walking, I noticed something unusual: every third person was carrying an umbrella. Male, female, young and especially old were all proudly brandishing their parapluies.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think Americans do this. I know we put on hats, gloves and scarves, but do we break out the umbrella for a few flakes?

I told Monsieur J about my latest discovery as we scurried along. I'm sure he was less than fascinated by my chosen topic of conversation, but he is kind enough to entertain me.

Being French, Monsieur J claims this is a perfectly normal behavior. I think his explanation went something like this: "no one likes getting hit in the face with cold snowlakes; therefore, the best solution is to carry an umbrella. Now that you mention it, I wish we'd thought to bring one too."

I confessed that as an American, I would feel simply ridiculous carrying an umbrella in the snow. Is it just me? Or do you all secretly carry one in case of snow and I'm just late to get the memo?

Snow day.

2010-02-12T12:04:00.010+01:00

So I know all of you on the east coast have had more than enough snow to last you for years to come, but here in Toulouse an inch and a half is enough to slow down the whole city. No bus service means that Monsieur J is home for the day, an unexpected treat.

This morning we went to the covered market, Victor Hugo, for some indulgent grocery shopping. Three cheeses for a weekend raclette, charcuterie, potatoes, mushrooms, carrots and fresh sheets of LASAGNE.

True confession: I've never made homemade lasagne, probably because I rarely bother to buy fresh pasta and because I've always been too scared to boil large noodles. Cat's out of the bag.

But today I made Monsieur J inquire at one of the Italian stands, on the off-hand chance they might have sheets of lasagne behind the counter that they were not sharing in those display cases. As the daughter of James, I am a firm believer in the mantra, "it never hurts to ask."

No harm, indeed. We are now home with three sheets of fresh pasta and a fridge full of leftovers that I hope to combine into a real treat. You see, I love both varieties of lasagne. The cheesy, saucey, tomato-y kind and the lighter vegetarian-style ones. And yet, every time I sink my teeth into one or the other, something seems to be missing. I think I crave the best of both worlds: meat AND vegetable lasagne, what's a girl to do?

With an abundance of ragu sauce leftover from last night's dinner, a homemade rosemary artichoke spread, oven roasted tomatoes, arugula and goat cheese, I think today's freezing temperatures call for a culinary experiment: daring duo lasagne.

Here's the plan: a layer of meatsauce, a layer of artichoke and roasted tomatoes, a layer of arugula and goat cheese, and a final layer of meat sauce + parmesan. Doesn't that sound good? Or maybe it's just me... Then again, if I had room in the kitchen for this nifty jobber, maybe I wouldn't need to combine everything into one!

Breathing a sigh of restaurant relief.

2010-02-11T10:13:00.011+01:00

Once we found out that 15 people would be joining us to celebrate, my biggest concern was finding a restaurant that could accommodate all of us for lunch immediately following the ceremony. All sorts of pesky what-ifs were buzzing through my head: what if it's too last minute? What if we can't find a restaurant that has private rooms? What if all of the nice ones are already booked and we end up someplace shady?

However, I am sneaky and had been eyeing a restaurant called Les Copains d'Abord for a while now. Private rooms [check], tantalizing menu [check], not too far from the city center [check].

Monsieur J called on Tuesday because I loathe the telephone here. I know, it's been almost 3 years, but guess what? I still hate talking on the phone in French, especially with strangers. So there. But I digress. The owner confirmed that they had plenty of space and sent a menu for us to review. Well folks, the menu has just arrived and since I can't contain myself, I have to share:

cocktail

sparkling white wine with wild blackberry liqueur

appetizer

foie gras with Guerande salt and toasts

crawfish ravioli in foie gras sauce

sweetbreads with parsley, endive and pine nuts

main course

oven roasted sea bream with hazlenut pesto and rice

cassoulet with duck confit

lamb shank with seasonal vegetables

filet of beef topped with seared foie gras

dessert

candied chestnut soufflé

lemon meringue pie

custard with raspberries

coffee

I'd say it's a pretty traditional French menu with a solid dose of southwest flair, hence all of the duck products. And with three or four choices per course, everyone should be able to pick something that strikes their fancy. Of course no meal in France would be complete without wine, so there will be red and white available to pair with everyone's menu selections, à discrétion.

Who knew? I really can plan a wedding in 3 weeks!

A very Juanita wedding dress.

2010-02-08T17:39:00.006+01:00

I'm going to be honest; I really wasn't sure what dress shopping would yield over here. I mean, I know the French are skinny and fashionable, but they do casual chic more than formalwear. Would I be able to find a suitable dress to wear to my own wedding? I kept telling myself that it didn't have to be a traditional wedding gown, I was very open to the idea of colors and neutrals.

The quest for a dress began this morning at Galeries Lafayette, the major deptartment store in Toulouse and while this was a good idea in theory, I was quickly overwhelmed. No styles were jumping out at me, I tried on a few dresses but none were especially flattering -no lining, limited size selection, and poor color choices [teal and plum, beurk]. I look like an albino bunny rabbit in purple, in case any of you were wondering. Before I hit system overload, I made my way to the nearest exit.

I tend to have bad luck in department stores when I'm in the U.S. and do better in smaller boutiques. Less selection + more people to help clueless customers like me = a better bet. And as I left Galeries Lafayette, I saw what looked to be a cute store right across the street: Duchess. Hmmm, as my niece K used to say, "I not know this."

Of course I didn't know about this shop -I've been on self-imposed shopping restriction for almost 3 years! But in I went, and told the saleslady that I was looking for something to wear to a wedding, oooops I mean my wedding, at the end of the month. With this in mind, she easily picked three short dresses for me to try on. The first one was more of a light grey color with ruffles at the bottom and it made me look like an ostrich. The second one I tried was lacy and lovely but gapingly loose around the shoulders and too tight for my liking through the hips.

I saved my favorite for last, hoping hoping hoping that maybe, just maybe it would work. And you know what? It did! It's an off-white shift dress with a black band and bow to accent the waist with buttons in the back. Best of all, it has a matching off-white blazer that looks great with the dress and that will keep me from freezing in this February weather. Oooooh! Simple, classic, silk. Not too far off from what my mom had in mind, or at least I think that's what she was trying to convey to me over the phone.

I like that the dress/jacket combo is something I'll be able to wear again. I like that it will denote me as the bride without making me look like a fairytale princess and I like that the saleslady said it would look great with black ballet flats and pearls, two things I already own. I simply love when people tell me it's ok to wear flats. I might be marrying a Frenchman, but that doesn't mean I can walk on cobblestones in heels like all of these French women!

No bun in this oven.

2010-02-05T16:05:00.015+01:00

Great news! Monsieur J and I will be tying the knot 3 weeks from today. WOW! Can you believe it? Planning a wedding in just 3 weeks? This has the potential to become a new reality TV show if you ask me! And as the title of this post indicates, we're not getting married because of any buns in the proverbial oven. I promise. Instead we came to the realization that a work permit and residency card all rolled into one will be conferred upon yours truly once we get married, and probably not before. Since we were planning on getting married this summer anyway, why not move up the date? Being engaged is great, but not if it means not being able to work and not being able to stay in the country. It seemed like a no-brainer. In the meantime, that leaves 21 precious days to plan! One of my super-organized friends suggested making a to-do list, great idea K:

[X] find a dress pour moi

[X] find a suit for Monsieur J.

[X] arrange for a bouquet and corsage at the florist

[X] figure out exactly how many people are coming

[X] make lunch and/or dinner reservations accordingly

[X] make B&B reservations for out-of-town guests

[X] buy wedding bands

[X] his and hers haircuts

[X] book honeymoon in the Pyrénées

Am I forgetting anything?

It's hard to believe we have EVERYTHING checked off the list in eleven days!

I am just so happy to know that we will be husband and wife very, very soon. Woah, those words are going to take some serious getting used to!

PS- no decorations needed for the ceremony, thank you City Hall!

Comfort.

2010-02-01T10:00:00.016+01:00

When the Préfecture gives you lemons and you're not in the mood for lemonade, it is perfectly acceptable to seek comfort elsewhere. Some may be in need of retail therapy but my wallet and I opt for comfort food instead. I found mine in paupiettes de veau and a few other non-edible moments this weekend. The solution was three-part, actually: devise a plan of attack with the boss; forget about all things préfecture-related on the slopes; and comfort myself with a traditional Sunday lunch. As my sister likes to say, "do what works." This, my friends, did the trick.

Meeting with the boss on Friday was a step in the right direction. She still wants me to work for the company [yay!], and that alone is pretty incredible when you stop to think just how complicated this entire hiring process has been for all involved. [sigh]

Saturday I left my cares and worries in Toulouse and spent the day skiing at Piau-Engaly in the Pyrénées. Monsieur J's company had organized the excursion, and it was a fun day of snow and skiing for all involved, even if I don't have any pictures to prove it. Using the camera would've meant taking off my mittens and that wasn't going to happen!

Which brings us to Sunday. Sundays in France are unlike any other day of the week. They're designed for family, friends, a good meal, walks, cultural outings, parks, and other leisure activities. Sundays are not made for frantically running about in an effort to get a jump start on the week. Even if you wanted to cram your Sunday full of errands you'd be hard pressed to find a store that's open, though you can always do a load of laundry at home if that makes you feel better. But while Sundays may not be made for productivity as normally definied, Sunday mornings are a great time to go to the market and prepare for Sunday lunch. Mmmm, Sunday lunch!

At summer camp, we always ate the same thing for Sunday lunch: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, dinner rolls and dessert. So predictable, and yet so good. In the winter months here in France, one of my absolute favorite Sunday lunch options is paupiettes de veau.

I didn't know about these little treasures until a few months ago when Monsieur J and I were at the market and saw an unbelievably long line at the butcher shop. Certainly it must be good, otherwise all of these people would not be waiting in line for 30 minutes. We joined the queue, waited and watched the butcher deftly cutting slices of beef and veal, his wife ringing up the orders and giving tips on how to cook each item. When it was our turn, Monsieur J ordered two paupiettes, and Madame explained how to cook them. My "I'm-listening-to-you-very-intently-so-as-not-to-screw-this-up" face must've worried Madame on some level, and so she fished out a photocopy of the recipe just in case. Merci!

Paupiettes may take a little time to cook, but since the butcher prepares the meat, all you have to do is chop and partially cook the vegetables before adding the veal to the pot. A paupiette de veau is essentially a thin veal cutlet, filled with a ground veal and herb stuffing. The butcher places a lump of stuffing on the veal cutlet, then uses strips of fat and a length of butcher's twine to carefully wrap and bind each little parcel so it won't fall apart during the cooking process. Once you've finished cooking them, you simply remove the string and fat and serve the paupiettes with the chopped vegetables: potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, leeks and fennel in this case, though you can adapt the choice of vegetables as you'd like -it's fun to experiment. When cooked slowly on low heat for 35 minutes and finished for 10 minutes over medium, the paupiettes are slightly golden on the outside, tender, juicy and seasoned to perfection on the inside. What's not to like about that?

You've Got Mail.

2010-01-28T12:01:00.012+01:00

I wish I were writing about that cheesy romantic comedy starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, but alas, I'm not that lucky. Instead, I received a terrifying lettre recommandée aka certified mail from the Préfecture yesterday. For those of you who don't already know, the Préfecture is the official headquarters of all bureaucratic migraines, especially if you're not French and exponentially more so if you hail from a country outside of the E.U. It is a place that I will always associate with amoeba-esque lines, conflicting notions of personal space, monotone zombie personnel, incorrect information, B.O., and minimum 3 hour waits. This place is the bane of my French existence. In an effort to help you understand, I've provided a facetiously literal translation of a very nonsensical letter, in hopes that you too will feel my pain:

Miss,

By the file deposited at the Préfecture on the 29th of September 2009, you have sollicited a change of status in order to exercise a salaried activity.

Under the application of article R5221-17 of the labor code, in order to grant or refuse the work permit requested, the Prefect of the Department takes into consideration the following elements of appreciation notably:

- the situation of the job

- the adequateness between the qualification, the experience and the characteristics of the job to which the foreigner is applying

- the respect by the employer of the legislation relative to work and social protection,

The statistics of the Regional Direction of Labor and Employment and of Professional Training in the Midi-Pyrénées make to appear for the position "trainer", of 101 offers of which 8 are temporary contracts inferior to 1 month out of 402 requests.

And yet, the employer proposes a temporary contract for the duration of one year in addition to occasional overtime but does not indicate what type of mission this is about.

Moreover, the company has confirmed that upon signature of the contract only a temporary contract can be envisaged without further perspective in the coming weeks and without further information on the concluded market that would impose upon this organism of training a specific and occasional recruitment.

As a consequence, given the situation of the company and its way of using temporary contracts and in considering the situation of the position, your change of status is not conceivable. We invite you to approach yourself to the nearest Prefecture in order to submit a new dossier requesting a change of status within the next month.

I pray of you to accept, Miss, the expression of my distiniguished sentiments.

And I pray of you, M. le Préfet, well... nevermind.

Fortunately, my boss and I are going to sit down tomorrow to get to the bottom of this bureaucratic nightmare once and for all. And who knows, maybe she will understand the more sublte nuances of this communicative masterpiece better than I. At any rate, it's high time to figure out what sort of contract and additional information about my "mission" as a "trainer" will be needed to get this file approved before I turn into a pumpkin, I mean, an illegal alien. Now that I think about it, perhaps we should specify that I'm only certified for "foreign langauge training" lest the Prefet think I wish to exercise in the dog or potty training sectors, I would truly hate for there to be any confusion.

Mountain Magic.

2010-01-27T13:07:00.010+01:00

So I left out a major moment from the week at the farm, and it was the most memorable one too. Monsieur J proposed! In all honesty, we've gone about this whole idea of marriage in a very roundabout way, especially from an American's standpoint. In the U.S. there are fairly standard rules: boy meets girl; boy and girl fall in love; boy speaks to girl's father; boy buys ring; boy proposes; and wedding planning ensues.

In France, the path to marriage isn't quite so linear. As a result, we ended up taking a twisty windy bi-cultural approach to the whole affair. First we talked about it for a while, then we started mentioning it to our friends and family. We didn't waste too much time before gathering all of the necessary paperwork [birth certificates, sworn affidavits from the consulate to prove that I am a. single and b. not a polygamist, multiple forms of photo ID, etc...]. Somtime in early December he wrote a letter to my dad. Just before Christmas we picked out an engagement ring that Monsieur J was nice enough to let me wear to show friends and family at home before I left to go back to France. In mid-January we handed in the marriage file at city hall and only THEN, 5 days later did he pop the question and manage to surprise me at that! How?

Suffice it to say that when you're covered in mud, pig slop, and who knows what else, you don't necessarily expect your chéri to ask for your hand in marriage. And at the same time, watching the sun set behind the Pyrénées without a soul in sight, I couldn't possibly think of anything I'd prefer. It was pure magic -the setting, the weekend, the promise.

A week at the farm.

2010-01-26T14:34:00.018+01:00

WWOOFing was definitely one of my favorite highlights of 2009, and so it was a wonderful surprise to hear Dominique’s voice on the other end of the line, asking if I’d be available to house-sit, or make that farm-sit, for one week in January while they went on vacation. Yes! I arrived on Monday afternoon and we spent the day going over the morning and evening routine for both plants and animals –straw, hay, water and grain for the rabbits; the logistics of moving the sheep from pen to pasture and back again; protecting the various lettuce plants from frost and rain, etc… That night we made dinner and visited, and then on Tuesday morning off they went, leaving me to tend the farm, read, drink tea, go on walks, cook and keep the fire in the wood-burning stove going strong so as not to freeze, brrrrr!

Monsieur J joined me on Thursday night, which worked out well because he too loves the farm. Come to think of it, I think most people would love the farm, though it does challenge accepted standards of cleanliness. So then again maybe some people couldn’t handle la ferme after all. At any rate, we took advantage of the drizzly Saturday to explore Cyril’s workshop and decided to build a small bench. It will get painted one of these days, a deep pastel blue like so many of the shutters you see in the south of France; that’s what I have in mind. And while it might not be sturdy enough for the two of us to sit on, it should be able to support a few plants.

I had a bench almost like this that I used as a coffee table when I lived in North Carolina and now my mom has it on her porch in Virginia, which makes me happy to know that she is enjoying it. If I ever had the kind of money it would take to ship some furniture to France, this bench would be at the top of my wish list. But since that is completely impractical, why not make one? All it took was one idea, a sketch, a plan, and some sawing, sanding, and nailing. And though we are far from practiced carpenters, I think it's safe to say that this is something we would both enjoy doing again. In the meantime, I am quite happy with our new little bench!