Juliette's Time Capsule- 25 months

Me at 25 months. Well, what to say? I'm a babbling blondie who gets into everything my mommy doesn't want me to. And speaking of her, I usually call her "mommy" but some days after being at the sitter's, it's more "maman" (the French way). Papa is papa and when he's not there I say "papa work". Catki is still Catki and most of the time I like to lay my head on his fur but not when he sits on my Hello Kitty chair. Then I get mad and say "No, Catki!" Or when he gets on the counter in the kitchen (all the time), I say, "Get down, Catki."

One of my favorite games lately is called "nap." I like to climb onto mommy and papa's bed by pulling out the under bed drawer to use as a step. I know to take my shoes off when I'm on the bed, so I say "Shoes" and mommy helps me get them off. Or if they're these white ones which I wish I could wear everyday, I can usually get them off myself. So to play "nap" you basically just roll around the bed and giggle and sometimes you pull the blanket or sheet over your head. Mommy loves to do that.



Other games I like to play are "coworing" (coloring) and it's a good thing grandma in the US got me washable crayons and markers, 'cause sometimes mommy gets a little agitated if I color on furniture or walls.

My favorite TV shows and movies: Wonder Pets and The Tigger Movie (on DVD), Elmo stuff (on Youtube) and Pocoyo (a Spanish-made computer-generated cartoon shown on French TV.) For Wonder Pets I like to sing along, and I can say "wonner pets", "teamwork" and "serious" (more like seewius) which are in the songs. Ming Ming the duck is my favorite.

As for food, I don't always want it when they want me to eat it. But I'm eating a bit better. Pasta is always nice. And ham. And chicken. Green beans, peas, tomatoes. Mom's chicken curry and rice is ok, too. Yogurts and applesauce and peaches and of course cookies and chocolate. Keep that chocolate coming. So good. When mommy goes to the bakery I always ask for "brehh" afterwards and she gives me a little piece. I also like pain au chocolat, and when they get those little sacks from the bakery, I know there's good stuff in them. (Mommy says: this video's long, but I'm still learning how to use my FlipVideo software and couldn't quite figure out how to cut it without deleting the file...)



Speaking of brehh, when we've got some dried pieces we feed the ducks. I love to go see them and if mom lets me, I get down and walk around a bit. Of course, I get angry when she wants me to get back in the stroller so sometimes she gives me a cookie and I go a bit more willingly.



My favorite books are the Wonder Pets in Italy, Panda Bear, Panda Bear, What do you see? and The Baby Colors book. I don't know my colors yet, but "yellow" is a nice word to say.

Soon I'll be the biggest kid at the sitter's, since Thibaud and Hugo are going to school. I'm not sure what that is, but there seems to be a lot of hubub about it. As for me, I won't go there till I'm three, mommy says. I think that's a long way away. So I'm fine doing my own thing till then.

Summer in bloom

Before launching into the theme of my post, thanks to all those who commented so kindly on my last post. I suppose I was really needing a bit of advice/sympathy, and it helped me to know I wasn't the only one feeling those pangs of homesickness and worry about the future. I guess there are just going to be moments when it's tough, and you try to refocus and find reasons to keep on going. And as I've read on some other expat blogs lately, focusing on your next trip home or good things and plans in your adopted country can help with that.

So way back when I mentioned doing some photo-themed posts. And as summer only has a month to go (and judging by today's weather, sort of ominous clouds, maybe it's over!), I better post now before the title is out of date. So here are some photos fleuries (flowery photographs) from my summer travels and from around my own town:



Roses in Etrétat, Normandy.



Geraniums in Honfleur, Normandy.



Hydrangeas in an overgrown garden in Le Crotoy, bay town of Picardie.



And growing in funny places in Dover.



Oh, and how'd a baby picture get in there? Oh, but there are flowers hanging over the rail! Taken in St. Valéry sur Somme.



One of the shady houses in my favorite courtyards in my own town.

Hopefully there will be some more sunny days before big bad autumn sets in so we can enjoy these flowers a bit longer. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may..."

Mixed emotions

We spent Thursday at Remi’s granddad’s place. Since his parents are on holiday and his granddad no longer drives, we try to make sure we have a meal with his him every week (salmon, rice and green beans this time). Plus Remi had some garden clean-up he wanted to do for him. So we made a day of it and brought Juliette along, too.



"Je suis au jardin." (I'm in the garden. Dédé's message to any who might come by while he's not inside.)

The weather was really lovely, except for a bit of a nip in the air in the morning. All the better to enjoy some of that country life. I do like letting Juliette get to move about more freely in her great-granddad’s courtyard and discover the joys of lady bugs crawling over her hand and saying “bye bye, chicken” to the errant hen that was in his garden. I get to enjoy the more simple pleasures of picking a few flowers to fill a glass for Dédé’s (that’s what Remi called him when he was little) table and collecting some windfall apples and plums from the trees on his property.



But these days in the country always lead to a bit of tension between Remi and me. He’d love for us to live out in the country, maybe even in the village where his granddad lives. I’m not totally against country living, but I just don’t want to have to drive an enormous amount to get to a decent job. And considering I’m only part-time at two jobs which sometimes equals full-time even in the bigger city where we live now, I don’t have very high hopes for the far out country. I’m not an adamant city mouse, but I did grow up in the very well-equipped suburbs of the biggest city in my state (Birmingham, Alabama), with over a million people in the metro area. Which has one of the finest medical centers in the country, I’d like to add. And now in my current city in France, I live within a five- to fifteen-minute walk from pharmacies, doctors and fairly well-stocked grocery stores. I adore not having to take my car to do some of these errands. But I know that the country can be peaceful on a fine summer’s day. I too would love a little garden patch to let my little one run around in.

This day with Dédé scratched at another little situation, too. Though I enjoy spending time with his family, I often get a pinch of regret that I can’t spend as much time with my own. There I was making a meal for Remi’s granddad, listening to his old stories (the ones he’s repeated already, but I listen to politely anyway). And I was wishing I could spend as much time with my grandma back home, turning 79 this Wednesday (early birthday shout-out!). When I told this to Remi the next day, he said “sorry” in such a sincere way that it made me feel even sadder.

Is this what an expat’s life must be? To be thousands of miles away from the people you grew up with and only see them once a year, maybe twice if you’re lucky and finances permit? I knew it would be tough when I made the decision to come here eight years ago. But it’s still tough, sometimes bearable, sometimes not so much. And until I win the lottery and can travel back at my leisure, I don’t see how I can make it much better. Though I made the choice to be here, I am forever divided. On sunny summer days when we’re exploring lovely seaside towns or historic villages, I can be distracted; I can say I’m having fun. But I’m always thinking about writing the folks back home about it. It might seem silly to say I’m homesick after so long in France, but so it is. And no amount of medical research has found a cure for this “sickness” yet.

If any other expats, or those a bit far-out from their families in their own country, have some insight on this, I’m all ears.

And the winner is...

Well, the first three responses were quite right. Yes, Crystal, it is a gourd. Yes, mom, a type of squash. But Jennet has amazed me with her squash knowledge: the exact name is a patty-pan according to my online dictionary. It has a milder taste than zucchini and is nice served cold or room temperature in a vinaigrette (must be peeled and cooked, I should mention!). Remi's parents grow it in their garden.

As you can tell by my blogging frequency, I've got a bit more time on my hands lately. With an amazing two hours and 15 minutes of lessons this week, I guess I'm goofing off more often. If only I were paid for it...

Animal, vegetable or mineral?

A virtual prize to the first person who can give me the correct name of this thing.

Adventures with Charlotte

I tried to cross off things on my to do list. I sort of organized the bookshelf (the messiest parts are better). I sort of organized the closet (again, the most urgent areas). And sort of put photos in albums (just didn't finish). And I sort of made a charlotte aux fraises, the French style strawberry shortcake. This being the Lazy Girl's Blog, I took the easy route and found a self-proclaimed easy recipe on the Internet. Instead of messing with the gelatine leaves and such, I tried this recipe which calls for plain yogurt (actually fromage frais, but plain yogurt would do it, too). I was petrified I wouldn't be able to get the thing out of the pan afterwards, but as you'll see below, it worked out ok. However, the lady fingers were a bit soggy from the yogurt seeping into them, so any ideas on how to avoid that would be helpful.

Here's a journey in pictures with the instructions as well for those willing to try.

1. Dip lady fingers (if they're the hard kind at least) into a bowl of milk that you've sweetened to taste. Dip quickly then start placing in your casserole dish which you've lined with aluminum foil (my dish is about 4 inches tall/10cm, but you could go a bit higher).



2. Now add sugar to taste to your fromage frais or plain yogurt. It calls for one kilogram which is a bit more than 35 ounces. You could also use vanilla which is already sweetened or why not strawberry, too. Put a layer of the yogurt in your casserole. Followed by a layer of sliced strawberries. Continue the layers. If your dish is big enough you can put a second layer of lady fingers in the middle.



3. Finish with a layer of lady fingers. Cover with a plate or alumnium foil and refrigerate over night or at least all day.



4. When ready to serve, put plate over the dish so that it will be on the flat side to receive the charlotte. Holding plate and dish together, turn it all over and set it down on the counter. Carefully remove casserole dish and then foil. And hopefully it will all stick together and look something like this.



Garnish with strawberries or whipped cream. Hmm, I just had an idea. Instead of yogurt, why not try whipped cream for the layers. Less soggy perhaps?



I want to try a real charlotte recipe soon. Or a tiramisu with rasberries. I'll keep you posted.

Culinary racism: it could happen to you!

I accused my husband of being a culinary racist the other day. This was after I asked him, carefully concealing my enthusiasm/pride, if he'd enjoyed our meal. The one I'd (lovingly) prepared for him while making sure our beloved two-year-old didn't stick her fingers in sockets etc. It wasn't haute cuisine, but it was a nice mix of tasty food and I'd made an effort.

His reply, "Yes, it was simple, but good."

Ouch. This is not exactly a compliment coming from a French person. This is like telling your kindergartener that the drawing of rainbows and stick figures is no Da Vinci, but it's coming along.

Luckily I've been in France long enough, and around my husband long enough, I might add, that I don't burst into tears at these double-edged sword type "compliments". But it bugged me. And as we were drifting off to sleep that night I continued asking him about it. Not in a confrontational way (for once) but repeating neutrally that I'd taken the time to prepare this meal for him.

I even tried the "I-statements". As in, "I feel like you're making fun of me a bit when you say that." He swore he wasn't. I think the French food snob, er, I mean, expert in him couldn't help but comment on the complexity, or lack thereof, of the meal. I suppose it's genetic.

On the other hand, he can be downright territorial about the American desserts I make. He nearly pouted when I made chocolate chip cookies for his birthday when one of his friends was also there to sample them. Less for Remi, of course. And when I recently made madeleines, those delicate French scallop shaped cakes, he said, yes, but it's a French dessert. Since when am I not allowed to make French desserts?

Next time I'll just make hotdogs and brownies and maybe everybody will be happy.