Wallowing vs. action

Wallowing usually wins that fight. At least for a while. Instead of complaining about my situation I know I should try and change it. Should do, but...
It takes me a few months or years or decades to get off my duff and do something but I get there eventually.

So thanks to the readers who tried to comfort me after my pity-party-post. I know I shouldn't reach out for sympathy like that but let's face it, there are times I'm just not so sunny. I suppose my blog often represents who I want to be. The sunnier moments where I'm enjoying life and reflecting and pausing. But there are a lot of gray days, too, which aren't always easy to get through. It helps to know I'm not the only one though. Thank you, blog community!

Perhaps I should take my cue from the French, who when they've had enough, just get out in the street and protest! That's what I call action, though I don't always approve of their methods or even the reasons they strike. This time it seems to be a doozy though. Case in point: I just went by the gas station only to find that there was no unleaded in the pump I was at. There was a fairly hefty line of cars for a Friday afternoon at 3. At the second station they had unleaded but again there was a longer wait than usual. I did have half a tank myself but I figure better be safe than sorry.

Why? Because some of the French refineries have been disrupted or stopped production.

Why? Because the French are mad as hell and aren't gonna take it anymore.

Ok, why are they mad again? Because the government had the gall to suggest increasing the retirement age. To age 62 according to this CNN report, but I've heard it could be higher. I like to tease my students and tell that in the US it's already much higher! And so this is the fourth time since school started that there has been a national strike day: trains, schools, etc. And now the refinery workers are participating. And the high schoolers are protesting, too, even though they're far from retirement age.

If I can't drive to work because of this thing (and therefore lose money), I think I'll go on strike myself! Wait, that doesn't make sense. Who cares, it's the French attitude.

Momma said there'd be days like these

Do you ever feel like you're stuck in the spin cycle of the wash? Being beaten up by that pair of sneakers in there, too? Sometimes you just can't win. Feeling like every little administrative gaffe at work is your fault, that your students aren't responding to you or aren't progressing quickly enough. And at home it seems like you and your husband aren't even speaking the same language. And I'm not talking about the language barrier. Yeah, I guess I've been having one of those days or weeks or two weeks. Now the baby is screaming in her crib 'cause her precious "Dou-dou" stuffed animal was left at the sitter's. Not to mention that she didn't get her normal nap as they had to go to the daycare for the monthly doctor's visit and she just couldn't make herself nap earlier than usual.

And to top it all off, most days lately (strangely not today), I start feeling bodily tired around 3:30 or 4 pm. Must be the change in seasons catching up with me.

So besides just hopping on a plane for home for an extended vacation in mid-October, I'm not sure what to do to get out of this funk. Suggestions welcome.

When life gives you pumpkins...

...make pumpkin pie. Four of them. And two pumpkin cakes. And there was still enough to fill three tupperware containers. It was a very big pumpkin. Check it out for yourself in these photos. Who doesn't love a good pumpkin photo? We think it was about 40 pounds. Remi kindly peeled, cut and supervised the cooking process and even helped me out a bit with the pie preparation.







For those wanting to make pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving, it's pretty easy. The prep is the longest part. Cut the pumpkin into slices and peel. Scoop out the seeds. We cook it in a pressure cooker in the steam basket. About 15 to 20 minutes when it's fully steaming or so that you can stick a knife through the pumpkin flesh easily. I mash the pumpkin a bit and drain off some of the excess water. Then you can use the traditional pumpkin pie recipes like this one. Instead of evaporated milk, I use crème liquide (20 cl). However you can get evaporated milk here (lait concentré). If your mom doesn't send you pumpkin pie spice from the US like mine, then just cinammon will do, or splurge and by all the individual spices.

I guess autumn brings out the baker in me. Gray days need a little sugary pick-me up. Juliette's getting into helping me stir the batter, a dangerous operation sometimes but I'm pleased to have my little baker girl beside me.

To read when you are 25

Dear Juliette,

By now you've heard the story about the time I accidentally locked you in the car about a million times. You probably used it as ammunition during those rebellious adolescent years (please tell me they weren't so bad!), as in, yeah, mom, remember when you locked me in the car, so please let me go out with my friends this Saturday?

But please know that I really am sorry it happened and of course I was worried about my little angel. To be fair, though, you did have your fair share of blame in the incident. If you hadn't pushed the lock button on the keys I'd let you hold (mistake!) as I strapped you in your car seat, then it wouldn't have happened. Then again, if I'd unlocked the car right away instead of throwing my keys on the seat before I closed the passgener door, it wouldn't have happened either. But that's why it's called an accident. And luckily for us it ended happily. But not without a little anxiety.

Of course, I called your dad right away who hopped in his car to drive 30 minutes to the babysitter's house, where we were parked right in front. But as I wasn't 100% sure where the spare key was in the apartment, I couldn't tell him to look for it himself. I then called the insurance company, but of course my insurance papers were in the locked car. They were able to look up my policy but in fact we weren't covered for locksmith services. I guess my mind was sort of on slow-motion. I really didn't know what to do and in what order. I even tried to get you to stretch your little hand and open the passenger door lock, but it was too far. Then to do it with your foot. You'd already taken those little white shoes off, as you were so fond of doing, and you did put your foot where I asked you, smiling all the time. But pushing it up with your stockinged foot proved difficult. And you didn't seem to understand my interest in this new game. I even took my shoe off and tried to demonstrate what I wanted you to do on the other side of the car window, but to no avail. You did your best honey.

At least you weren't panicking in there, but this would have to happen on one of those rare Indian summer days where we'd gotten to the mid-70s and it was sunny. I started worrying about you getting warm in there as I had on my car ride home. But there were no windows open for you, of course. So let's say 30 minutes into this thing I decided to call a locksmith anyway. By the time papa would get there and I went back to the apartment it could be getting really too warm in there. Oh no, were you looking a bit listless, or just bored? Your cheeks were rather pink and your blond hair started sticking to your forehead because of the sweating. Yes, the locksmith was the right thing to do.

Of course, he got there two minutes after Remi arrived and I had already set off to the apartment for the spare keys, just in case. It would have to be rush hour and I was stuck in accordeon traffic getting back to our place. I ran up and found the keys in a flash, ran back down and drove back in more traffic. I didn't put the air on even though it was stuffy because I was thinking of you in that closed car. And praying that everything worked out ok.

When I got back to the sitter's all was well. I paid the locksmith thirty euros for his fine work and went into check on you inside the sitter's. You were bouncing around happily in the playpen with the younger baby. Cheeks still red but not in the least disturbed by your recent misadventure. Tata'd given you orange Fanta to cool you down, so maybe that's why you were hyper.

So once again, know how much you mean to me and that I really did (and do) try to do my best for you. And if you have a little one day and do something silly like me, I won't laugh at all.

Love, Mom

A month of Sundays

I've never quite known what to make of this expression. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? It depends on the Sunday, if you ask me. There are those Sundays where we have absolutely no agenda, Remi's not working, we sleep in as long as baby lets us. Those can be nice. There are those Sundays in spring when we spend all day at his parents' business/home so Juliette and I can see him. Tiring to be there all day and have my own stuff waiting for me at home. And in the "off season" like now, there are some Sundays where we spend at least part of the day with his family for a meal.

Last Sunday fell into that last category. And as we sat in his grandad's dining room turning on and off the light depending on the semi-gloomy weather outside, I realized that there are a lot of patterns in these Sunday gatherings. Of course, it's structured around the meal, which this time started with big shrimp as an appetizer. His grandad had asked me to chill the champagne or champagne-like sparkling wine before-hand. Remi's dad poured a tiny bit of blackberry liqueur into each glass to add the flavor while Remi kindly deshelled my shrimp. We clinked our glasses, each person clinking with the others individually, as is the French way. Juliette always joins in with her plastic sippy cup and wants to keep going long after we've finished.

The champagne must have been strong last week 'cause when I stood up to get something in the kitchen for Juju I could really feel the effects. It's funny how a little bubbly can really get your mind lolling and your mouth talking. Like a few weeks ago when his family started talking about how Ethnic Group A or B is always like that and they'll never change. My family-in-law can be very kind and intelligent, but we just don't see eye-to-eye on race relations. No amount of my playing the meek devil's advocate can change their minds. But the champagne made me speak a little more easily as I went on my spiel, which I really do believe: that you have to treat people as individuals and that just because a person is of a certain ethnic group, it doesn't mean they're thieves or wife-beaters or whatever. Not that I'm perfect myself or always open-minded and free of stereotypes. Champagne or not, it still fell on deaf ears, but at least I said it.

Once Juliette finished up her meal, stuff I'd prepared at home and some of the meat Remi's mom had cooked up, I put her to bed in Dédé's room. Out in the dining room the meal continued with pintade or guinea fowl. Basically like chicken but maybe a heartier taste. And mashed potatoes and spinach from their garden. If I'm not watching or my reflexes are dulled (see paragraph above re: champagne), I can't fight off Remi's huge servings on my plate. Which puts me in the embarassing situation of having to finish what he gave me (though sometimes I don't). So I plodded along with my honking portions, generally the last to finish anyway.

While eating my Popeye portion of spinach, I asked his mom how she'd prepared it. Ah, food, a much safer topic anyway. His mom is a pretty good cook and they've introduced me to some new foods like some vegetables called bettes (Swiss chard) and black radish (only black on the outside) and of course, the famous patty-pan squash.

And then it was the cheese course, where here again I was coaxed to eat big portions and had to fight off offers for second helpings. Then dessert, this time a pie made with applesauce filling. Here again we talked about how his mom had made it, by using a special presse-purée (apparently called a potato ricer) to smash the apples. The advantage of this being there's no need to peel the apples before-hand as the apparatus just smears the peel off and you can remove it.

Dessert is always the moment when Dédé trots out his famous joke as he looks at me and says, "Vous n'aimez pas ça?" (You don't like that?) For Dédé knows I have a sweet tooth. So now I've started saying the same thing to him, as he downs his pastries pretty rapidly, too. And you'd be surprised the types of jokes an 85-year-old is capable of telling in mixed company. I guess age is liberating or he's always been a bit naughty? There's the riddle about why the hair on your head gets white where elsewhere it might not? Something about color staying where there was pleasure. If you're blushing, imagine how I feel. I generally just smile weakly and pray he doesn't continue or ask me if I truly got it.

By this point we'd been sitting there for at least two hours and the digestion process started to get to me. I commanded my eyes to stay open so I wouldn't seem rude nodding off in my pie.

On to coffee, thankfully, but here I'm always left out. For the moment I'm not a coffee drinker, though I've started taking a bit of coffee milk when I must start at 8 during the week. Everytime Dédé asks if I want some and marvels that I don't drink the "only" caffeinated after-meal drink he could imagine. All in good fun, it is, but again, here his family will never understand that a nice cup of tea is lovely, too. They generally make some kind of "yuck" sound and matching expression when I say that tea is good. Or they think it's only for when you're sick. It's never stocked in their house but sometimes I bring my own tea bag so I'll feel like part of the hot beverage club.

And another Sunday came to a close, our bellies filled, family time duly respected, cooking traditions learned. Apparently his mom was listening attentively, because later in the week Remi came home with a brand new presse purée she'd picked up for me and some Swiss chard from the garden. Anybody got a good recipe for that?

Since we last spoke...

...I'd say there's not much news here. September is giving us one of those glorious blue sky days with the perfect warmth and sunshine. The type of day we were seriously lacking for most of August. Ironically it's the last day of summer and tomorrow's supposed to start getting rainy, as if on cue. I'm finding it harder to get up in the morning, as are my colleagues, and I'm convinced that the fact that the sun doesn't rise till 7:30 lately has something to do with it. Work's picking up, but still light enough to leave me some holes in my schedule. Each time I see a lovely afternoon I feel compelled to take Juliette out and take advantage of it. As if it could be our last lovely day for who knows how long.

Meanwhile Juliette's been her cute and sometimes exasperating self. Here she's posing quite nicely with a yellow flower. I bet nobody can guess what it is!

She's still very keen on Elmo but is polite enough to say "Elmo, please," when she wants me to go to the Sesame Street Channel on the Internet. BEP fans will enjoy this clip of Will.i.am singing with the Sesame Street gang. And I know mom will love this one of Jason Bateman explaining what comfort is. I have to say I enjoy watching old and new SS clips. They are really quite clever and it tickles me to death when Juliette starts talking back to the screen and repeating things.

Last week marked my eighth year anniversary of my arrival in France. Each year it gets a little scarier to realize how long I've been here. Especially if I think about all my friends back home who in general are in slightly more comfortable situations while I'm in the low-salary and not always foreigner-friendly country of France. But let's be positive (oh, I'll try)! In these last eight years I've:

*learned to drive a stick shift and learned the French driving code (phew!)
*learned to speak better French than the few phrases I knew back in 2002
*learned that French people have a strange way of telling you you're wrong and that you probably shouldn't take it too seriously or you'll be wounded every two minutes (still working on that)

But enough about me. I came across and old British women's magazine from 2003 and even though it's only seven years old, you'll find that the celebrities have gone through some major changes, too:

Ben Affleck and JLO were still a couple. Now he's with Jennifer Garner and has two kids.

Tom Cruise was still with Penelope Cruz and Nicole Kidman was still single after their divorce.

Winona Ryder had shown up in court in 2002 for shoplifting. Has anyone heard from her since?

Madonna was still married to Guy Ritchie and living in London.

Renée Zellweger had recently broken up with George Clooney and was with the White Stripes guy. Now apparently it's Bradley Cooper. People were already talking about her weight ups and way downs.

Britney Spears had just split with Justin Timberlake. No kids yet.

So there you go. You can always count on celebrities and their crazy lives to make your own feel a bit more sane.

Move over, Mariah

Here's the newest singing sensation from this side of the Atlantic. JuJu, the Franco-American toddler sings her medley of English and French nursery rhymes. But don't ask her to come back for an encore. She's got some coloring to do and she might make that whiny sound.



So did you catch those tunes? A little "Are you sleeping?" and "Bateau," a French one she learned at day care. She starts in on "Dansons la capucine" also there. Then "Twinkle, Twinkle", and "Itsy bitsy spider" which turns into "Tourner moulin", one where you also make some hand movements. These are the moments that make being a mom all worth-while!