Honeymoon's over.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!