My cousin Shauna turned me on to this website, which sends a tasty daily snack of a newsletter that I really enjoy. It often whets my appetite for more, but mostly it's the perfect little nugget that gives your day a boost. Although it might just be a chick thing...
One of my recent favourites: http://bethree.com/2007/12/31/every-time-you-open-a-door-you-close-one/
Check it out!
09 January 2008
04 January 2008
After reading the following article
I might change the name of my blog to "A Migrant Worker Life"...
Meanwhile, an image from New Year's Day in the park that runs behind my house.
Happy 2008!!
23 December 2007
Signs that at 39, I’m still very immature
I could probably draw up a top 10 (or even top 20!) list of all the signs that show that I am still very immature for someone of such an advanced age, but this link right here probably sums them all up in a nutshell:
http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1719818773
Happy Holidays!!
http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1719818773
Happy Holidays!!
06 December 2007
04 December 2007
Book clubs: chic or clique?
My friend Amory has recently moved abroad, to southern Italy. In a savvy move to meet other expats, a rare breed in Puglia, she accepted an invitation to join a book club formed by local American wives. After attending one meeting, she was summarily informed that in fact, there had been a mistake and the club was actually “closed” and no longer accepting new members. Mind you, there’s only 5 people in this book club. What the f***?
This sort of childish behaviour really aggravates me. Obviously, these boring women who apparently never graduated out of junior high school social interaction and would probably fail miserably on “Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader?” were intimidated by Amory’s acute intelligence, comely youthfulness and general coolness. But to make things worse, Amory described the one meeting she attended. They talked a little about urinary tract infections but then concentrated on the book, with nothing stronger than coffee on offer. My mind was blown:
What’s the point of a book club if you don’t drink wine and talk about sex?
After 39 years of life, I am still frequently bewildered by the comportment of American adults.
Meanwhile, for all of you might not be in a book club, here’s what I’m recommending this week:
For reading in French: L’élégance du hérisson by Muriel Barbery. Sadly for the English-only crowd, this has not yet been translated, and that will be a daunting task to try to convey the brilliance, poetry and charm of this delightful, moving, beautiful, simultaneously funny and sad book. Muchas gracias to Lisa B for loaning it and recommending it to me. Barbery's first novel, La Gourmandise, which *has* been translated into 12 languages but not yet English as far as I can find on the web, is now on its way to me as I write thanks to Amazon.
For reading in English: Interpreter of maladies, stories by Jhumpa Lahiri. A collection of short stories that once I started, I couldn’t put down, staying up til 3 am to finish. I can’t recall if a short story has ever moved me to tears before, but one of her gems did. I can’t wait to buy her follow-up novel The Namesake.
This sort of childish behaviour really aggravates me. Obviously, these boring women who apparently never graduated out of junior high school social interaction and would probably fail miserably on “Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader?” were intimidated by Amory’s acute intelligence, comely youthfulness and general coolness. But to make things worse, Amory described the one meeting she attended. They talked a little about urinary tract infections but then concentrated on the book, with nothing stronger than coffee on offer. My mind was blown:
What’s the point of a book club if you don’t drink wine and talk about sex?
After 39 years of life, I am still frequently bewildered by the comportment of American adults.
Meanwhile, for all of you might not be in a book club, here’s what I’m recommending this week:
For reading in French: L’élégance du hérisson by Muriel Barbery. Sadly for the English-only crowd, this has not yet been translated, and that will be a daunting task to try to convey the brilliance, poetry and charm of this delightful, moving, beautiful, simultaneously funny and sad book. Muchas gracias to Lisa B for loaning it and recommending it to me. Barbery's first novel, La Gourmandise, which *has* been translated into 12 languages but not yet English as far as I can find on the web, is now on its way to me as I write thanks to Amazon.
For reading in English: Interpreter of maladies, stories by Jhumpa Lahiri. A collection of short stories that once I started, I couldn’t put down, staying up til 3 am to finish. I can’t recall if a short story has ever moved me to tears before, but one of her gems did. I can’t wait to buy her follow-up novel The Namesake.
25 October 2007
In my experience, children are a lot like cats. They are irresistibly drawn to people who are utterly allergic to them; they are wholly unpredictable, can smother you with boundless affection and then suddenly, inexplicably no longer be aware you exist. And of course, they are thoroughly lovable despite their flaws.
For reasons altogether unfathomable to me, children have become drawn to me over the past 5 years. I cannot think of a single child below the age of 7 that I met in my recent past who didn’t immediately take to me. While completely bewildered and surprised by this, I am also very flattered and humbled. I have no explanation for this curious phenomenon. And I hope I’m not jinxing myself by speaking of it!
My latest fan is Clémence, 21 months, the daughter of my friends Stéphane and Delphine. They stopped by the house unexpectedly last weekend for a short visit (Stéphane’s family lives in nearby Cluny). Clémence was a hoot. And in one of those child/cat parallels, as soon as her dad wanted to take a photo of us together (she insisted the only suitable place for her to sit during the entire visit was right next to me) her finger was glued to her nose, much to her lovely parents’ chagrin. I of course found it hilarious and consider Clémence to be something of a kindred spirit.
Sadly in the photos her beautiful blue eyes came out demon-red and the red-eye reduction filter couldn’t do a lot to help. Still, I found them worth sharing for the laugh. Note that she is an ambidextrous picker!
For reasons altogether unfathomable to me, children have become drawn to me over the past 5 years. I cannot think of a single child below the age of 7 that I met in my recent past who didn’t immediately take to me. While completely bewildered and surprised by this, I am also very flattered and humbled. I have no explanation for this curious phenomenon. And I hope I’m not jinxing myself by speaking of it!
My latest fan is Clémence, 21 months, the daughter of my friends Stéphane and Delphine. They stopped by the house unexpectedly last weekend for a short visit (Stéphane’s family lives in nearby Cluny). Clémence was a hoot. And in one of those child/cat parallels, as soon as her dad wanted to take a photo of us together (she insisted the only suitable place for her to sit during the entire visit was right next to me) her finger was glued to her nose, much to her lovely parents’ chagrin. I of course found it hilarious and consider Clémence to be something of a kindred spirit.
Sadly in the photos her beautiful blue eyes came out demon-red and the red-eye reduction filter couldn’t do a lot to help. Still, I found them worth sharing for the laugh. Note that she is an ambidextrous picker!
19 October 2007
Falling
into a vibrant palette
of flaming reds, oranges and golds, the Charolais fields remain vibrant green
and the glorious sunshine against the robin’s egg-blue sky has a special autumn
glow that I’ve never seen anywhere else. I think it is safe to say that October
is my favourite time of year in the Saône et Loire .
It’s been a long time since I posted anything here, my absence stemming from a variety of reasons, mostly a lack of time and a sort of paralysis of the soul. After Sheba died, I went to the US for three weeks and avoided my grief by working tons, injecting money into the US GDP in shopping expeditions, and rafting down the Grand Canyon. Then I escorted my mom and soon-to-be-94 grandmother back to France for a two-week visit.
While we all about drove each other batty from a little too much family togetherness, I am so glad they came. Having them here kept me from lying around in bed all day, crying all the time over Sheba’s absence. This huge house seems barren and empty without him. So instead of mourning my devastating loss for days on end, immobilised by the pain, I was running around rearranging furniture, painting, sightseeing, shopping for the house, etc. There was no time for weeping, so I usually got some in at night when I went to bed. Every time I realise that I will never see him again, the pain is crippling. It still seems unreal to me. Thanks to all of you who have written with their condolences and support, which has been wonderful. And I want to extend special thanks to my mom and grandmother for putting up with my bouts of high tension, which they may or may not have realised stemmed from me trying to bottle up my grief, a task that often proved too much for me, with my sadness quickly erupting into anger.
Immediately after their departure, my friend Chris (aka CW) and his parents Lloyd and Carla came for a visit. Now that the house was in better shape thanks to all of Mom’s hard work, we were able to enjoy the fabulous weather and do some sightseeing, wine tasting and indulging in delicious meals – the best of Burgundy!
The heating system has been successfully installed and improvements are made to the house every week. I’m still taking reservations for this winter and have no plans for Christmas yet… If the insulation gets installed in time, I would love to have a huge New Year’s bash, so stay tuned…
Meanwhile, some photos to accompany the above text.
It’s been a long time since I posted anything here, my absence stemming from a variety of reasons, mostly a lack of time and a sort of paralysis of the soul. After Sheba died, I went to the US for three weeks and avoided my grief by working tons, injecting money into the US GDP in shopping expeditions, and rafting down the Grand Canyon. Then I escorted my mom and soon-to-be-94 grandmother back to France for a two-week visit.
While we all about drove each other batty from a little too much family togetherness, I am so glad they came. Having them here kept me from lying around in bed all day, crying all the time over Sheba’s absence. This huge house seems barren and empty without him. So instead of mourning my devastating loss for days on end, immobilised by the pain, I was running around rearranging furniture, painting, sightseeing, shopping for the house, etc. There was no time for weeping, so I usually got some in at night when I went to bed. Every time I realise that I will never see him again, the pain is crippling. It still seems unreal to me. Thanks to all of you who have written with their condolences and support, which has been wonderful. And I want to extend special thanks to my mom and grandmother for putting up with my bouts of high tension, which they may or may not have realised stemmed from me trying to bottle up my grief, a task that often proved too much for me, with my sadness quickly erupting into anger.
Immediately after their departure, my friend Chris (aka CW) and his parents Lloyd and Carla came for a visit. Now that the house was in better shape thanks to all of Mom’s hard work, we were able to enjoy the fabulous weather and do some sightseeing, wine tasting and indulging in delicious meals – the best of Burgundy!
The heating system has been successfully installed and improvements are made to the house every week. I’m still taking reservations for this winter and have no plans for Christmas yet… If the insulation gets installed in time, I would love to have a huge New Year’s bash, so stay tuned…
Meanwhile, some photos to accompany the above text.
Mom and me at her house in Scottsdale
Mom and Gramma at dinner our first night in Paris with Roland.
An image from Jan Brueghel the Elder's Chateau de Mariemont, which although in Belgium, looks exactly like some of the landscape around here. (Photo I took without flash in the Dijon museum)
CW, me, Carla and Lloyd at La Potence.
The church in Juliénas.
22 August 2007
21 August 2007
Autumn has arrived early this year, with cooler temperatures and soft rain falling on this late August day. Oddly, the sun is shining despite the nonstop rain. Somehow, this is appropriate.
A very kind young woman vet is on her way to my house to put Sheba to sleep.
For 17 years, he has been my closest companion, and the idea that he will no longer be accompanying the adventure of my life is unbearable to me.
His unique personality, amazing green eyes and bundle of warm love have gotten me through almost two full decades, pretty much my entire adult life. He has been a constant source of joy. Every day he has been waiting for me by the door when I come home, every night he has curled up beside me (or on me, depending on his mood). He is the smartest, most adorable, most affectionate and most beautiful cat I have ever known. To say I will miss him does not even come close to the truth.
My heart is breaking, a part of me is leaving forever.
My grief is boundless.
This is the worst day of my entire life.
A very kind young woman vet is on her way to my house to put Sheba to sleep.
For 17 years, he has been my closest companion, and the idea that he will no longer be accompanying the adventure of my life is unbearable to me.
His unique personality, amazing green eyes and bundle of warm love have gotten me through almost two full decades, pretty much my entire adult life. He has been a constant source of joy. Every day he has been waiting for me by the door when I come home, every night he has curled up beside me (or on me, depending on his mood). He is the smartest, most adorable, most affectionate and most beautiful cat I have ever known. To say I will miss him does not even come close to the truth.
My heart is breaking, a part of me is leaving forever.
My grief is boundless.
This is the worst day of my entire life.
08 August 2007
Told you so, told you so, told you told you told you so!
After years of my raving about these wines, finally some experts are also starting to see the light. Unfortunately, this probably means prices will go up!
http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/07/25/arts/trmacon.php?page=1
http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/07/25/arts/trmacon.php?page=1
06 August 2007
August already
Somehow summertime seems to speed by faster out here in the country, since there is always something to be done on the house and garden, in addition to a steady stream of houseguests and the usual July in-pour of work for me, and I can’t believe it’s already August. 
Right now I am drowning in fruit ‑ free «peche de vigne» (tiny red-fleshed peaches) and «reine-claude» (small, green plums that are very sweet!) for anyone who wants to come and pick them!! I can’t keep up. Even if I knew how to make jam or jelly and pies, there would still be too many, and since I don’t know how to make jam or jelly or pie, and don’t have the time to learn with my current workload, my garden overfloweth. I’ve even had the neighbours come and pick as much as they want (and was rewarded with a lovely reine-claude tarte in exchange!) and given some to my favourite local restaurant, but my fruit trees are like rabbits these days. The unfortunate aspect of this, besides my nagging guilt for wasting good food, is that the garden is buzzing with flies, wasps, ants and bees and other insects looking to benefit from all the spoilage, and walking through the grass is like trying to avoid land mines of rotting fruit instead of the pleasant, calming stroll it once was. There are obviously worse problems in the world, and really, I can’t complain. I’m so happy here that I’m seriously thinking about giving up the Paris apartment soon.
Right now I am drowning in fruit ‑ free «peche de vigne» (tiny red-fleshed peaches) and «reine-claude» (small, green plums that are very sweet!) for anyone who wants to come and pick them!! I can’t keep up. Even if I knew how to make jam or jelly and pies, there would still be too many, and since I don’t know how to make jam or jelly or pie, and don’t have the time to learn with my current workload, my garden overfloweth. I’ve even had the neighbours come and pick as much as they want (and was rewarded with a lovely reine-claude tarte in exchange!) and given some to my favourite local restaurant, but my fruit trees are like rabbits these days. The unfortunate aspect of this, besides my nagging guilt for wasting good food, is that the garden is buzzing with flies, wasps, ants and bees and other insects looking to benefit from all the spoilage, and walking through the grass is like trying to avoid land mines of rotting fruit instead of the pleasant, calming stroll it once was. There are obviously worse problems in the world, and really, I can’t complain. I’m so happy here that I’m seriously thinking about giving up the Paris apartment soon. Very soon.
Meanwhile, some of the latest images from life in Cormatin.
Meanwhile, some of the latest images from life in Cormatin.
Someday surely we will have the technology to upload scents the way we do images and sounds, and then you will be able to drink in the amazing perfume of this rose, or the unmatchably beautiful smell of the freshly rolled haystacks… 
Until then, you can just click on the pics for a closer look.
11 July 2007
How does your garden grow?
The most obvious cultural difference between France and the US is the language, and within the language, expressions we use. Although sometimes expressions are surprisingly similar (we say “knock wood” for luck while the French say touch wood ("touche bois")) often they are quite different. Lately it’s been raining cats and dogs, but according to the French, those are ropes falling (“il pleut des cordes”). The expressions can also be a reflection of underlying mentality: Anglo-Saxon positivism is clear in “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” whereas the same Biblical phrase is transformed with a solid dose of French negativity (or in keeping with this entry’s title, contrariness!) into “don’t do to others what you don’t want them to do to you (“ne faites pas à autrui ce que vous ne voudriez pas qu'il vous fît”.)
An expression shared by both languages refers to gardening. In English, you have a “green thumb” although in French, it’s your whole hand that’s green (“la main verte”). I have always joked that I have a “black thumb” but now that I have such a fantastic garden, I hope that is about to change. Just this week I learned how to cut back my rose bushes (according to my gardener, Luis, below the dead blossom you find the first branch that has exactly 5 leaves and you cut just underneath it.) And tonight, I planted my first bushes ever: basil and cilantro. I had them in pots on the balcony but they weren’t doing so hot, so Luis* indicated a good piece of soil, in between the chives (which I didn’t even realize were there until Gardener showed me!) and one stretch of rose bushes, where they might do better. I was quite pleased with myself for digging the holes (I only accidentally killed one earthworm, mea culpa) and putting the herbs in the ground, covering them up with the displaced soil, and then giving them an initial round of water. There is something very fulfilling and life-embracing in such a simple act…
Cross your fingers (croiser les droigts, another identical expression!) that they survive.
*according to CW’s book on etiquette, I’m just supposed to call him “Gardener” but I prefer to switch back and forth.
Meanwhile, some shots to give you an idea of how my garden grows!
As a reminder, you can always click right on the photo to get a closer view !
An expression shared by both languages refers to gardening. In English, you have a “green thumb” although in French, it’s your whole hand that’s green (“la main verte”). I have always joked that I have a “black thumb” but now that I have such a fantastic garden, I hope that is about to change. Just this week I learned how to cut back my rose bushes (according to my gardener, Luis, below the dead blossom you find the first branch that has exactly 5 leaves and you cut just underneath it.) And tonight, I planted my first bushes ever: basil and cilantro. I had them in pots on the balcony but they weren’t doing so hot, so Luis* indicated a good piece of soil, in between the chives (which I didn’t even realize were there until Gardener showed me!) and one stretch of rose bushes, where they might do better. I was quite pleased with myself for digging the holes (I only accidentally killed one earthworm, mea culpa) and putting the herbs in the ground, covering them up with the displaced soil, and then giving them an initial round of water. There is something very fulfilling and life-embracing in such a simple act…
Cross your fingers (croiser les droigts, another identical expression!) that they survive.
*according to CW’s book on etiquette, I’m just supposed to call him “Gardener” but I prefer to switch back and forth.
Meanwhile, some shots to give you an idea of how my garden grows!
As a reminder, you can always click right on the photo to get a closer view !
04 July 2007
It's so rare that a news blurb makes me laugh...
but this one did, so I thought I'd share. My favorite bit is Stone's response.
Iran president rejects Oliver Stone documentary
Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has rejected a proposal by Oscar-winning movie director Oliver Stone (Born on the Fourth of July, Platoon) to make a film about him because Stone is part of the ''Great Satan'' cultural establishment, a semiofficial news agency reported.
''I have been called a lot of things, but never a Great Satan,'' Stone said in a statement. ''I wish the Iranian people well, and only hope their experience with an inept, rigid ideologue president goes better than ours.''
The term the ''Great Satan'' dates back to Iran's late leader, Ayatollah Khomeini, who first called the United States that after the 1979 Islamic Revolution overthrew the country's U.S.-supported shah. (AP)
Iran president rejects Oliver Stone documentary
Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has rejected a proposal by Oscar-winning movie director Oliver Stone (Born on the Fourth of July, Platoon) to make a film about him because Stone is part of the ''Great Satan'' cultural establishment, a semiofficial news agency reported.
''I have been called a lot of things, but never a Great Satan,'' Stone said in a statement. ''I wish the Iranian people well, and only hope their experience with an inept, rigid ideologue president goes better than ours.''
The term the ''Great Satan'' dates back to Iran's late leader, Ayatollah Khomeini, who first called the United States that after the 1979 Islamic Revolution overthrew the country's U.S.-supported shah. (AP)
28 June 2007
Back soon
Gentle readers,
Sorry for my extended absence but I have been busy entertaining houseguests and showing them around my beautiful region. Have you booked your weekend yet? The calendar is filling up fast!
At this point, I might be able to squeeze you in between Halloween and Thanksgiving...
I'm not kidding...
For entertainment, here is my horoscope today. I like it.
It's hard to turn down an offer now, for you can see so much potential wherever you look. A decaying pile of compost appears as soil for a beautiful garden. A relationship that is having problems can still show clear signs of hope. Undying optimism is your main strength, but temper it with enough reality to keep you on track.
Soon to come: a call for boycotting British Airways after their unbelievable incompentency at handling luggage (or should I say their great competency at losing luggage?)
Sorry for my extended absence but I have been busy entertaining houseguests and showing them around my beautiful region. Have you booked your weekend yet? The calendar is filling up fast!
At this point, I might be able to squeeze you in between Halloween and Thanksgiving...
I'm not kidding...
For entertainment, here is my horoscope today. I like it.
It's hard to turn down an offer now, for you can see so much potential wherever you look. A decaying pile of compost appears as soil for a beautiful garden. A relationship that is having problems can still show clear signs of hope. Undying optimism is your main strength, but temper it with enough reality to keep you on track.
Soon to come: a call for boycotting British Airways after their unbelievable incompentency at handling luggage (or should I say their great competency at losing luggage?)
28 May 2007
Why we love France
After what can only be politely termed as a rather hellish first few days in Europe for Mom and Roger, on Sunday we celebrated the arrival of half of their luggage and Mom’s recovery from food poisoning with a four-hour lunch at La Marande, a charming little restaurant just outside Montbellet, which is in between Tournus and Macon (get out your maps, people!)
We began with Kir Royal à la mûre (champagne with blackberry liqueur) and amuse-bouches (mouth entertainment, in this case, an avocado purée soaking in gazpacho dotted with diced cucumber) and went on to shredded crab over guacamole with a few saffron potato slices, accompanied by a local Macon Igé white for mom and me, while Roger opted for a red St Joseph. Mom and I continued on with a fabulous veal loin in a morel mushroom cream sauce (I had to get her a spoon so she could lick up every last drop) while Roger chose duck breast in a sweet pine sauce. He followed up with fromage blanc with cream and sugar, while Mom and I could not resist the temptations of the cheese platter. Gail discovered the delights of Reblochon and Brillat Savarin, but gave her rather masculine Comté to Roger. I selected an assortment of 5 different goat cheeses and a small piece of Reblochon, also one of my favourites. Amazingly, at this point our guts were not exploding, so we gladly dug into the almond-flour cookie flavoured with pistachio, topped with perfectly ripe fresh strawberries and just the right drizzle of dark chocolate, with a side of homemade vanilla ice cream that put Blue Bell to shame. Thankfully, Roger captured the moment here (that's a sugar-crusted rose petal on top of the ice cream).
With our espressos, we finished off with some home-made chocolate, candied apricot and a sugar-coated Marc de Bourgogne bomb, literally an explosion of liqueur wrapped in sugar.
Here we are at our arrival at 12:15, several pounds lighter than our departure at 4:00 pm.
We did not mind that, for the first time since their arrival, the weather was not perfect. We stopped off on the way home to admire the Roman church in Uchizy and the cold front on the horizon.
Remember, you can always click directly on the photos for a close-up and improved view. A description of the aforementioned hellish first few days to follow, once our digestion is complete.
We began with Kir Royal à la mûre (champagne with blackberry liqueur) and amuse-bouches (mouth entertainment, in this case, an avocado purée soaking in gazpacho dotted with diced cucumber) and went on to shredded crab over guacamole with a few saffron potato slices, accompanied by a local Macon Igé white for mom and me, while Roger opted for a red St Joseph. Mom and I continued on with a fabulous veal loin in a morel mushroom cream sauce (I had to get her a spoon so she could lick up every last drop) while Roger chose duck breast in a sweet pine sauce. He followed up with fromage blanc with cream and sugar, while Mom and I could not resist the temptations of the cheese platter. Gail discovered the delights of Reblochon and Brillat Savarin, but gave her rather masculine Comté to Roger. I selected an assortment of 5 different goat cheeses and a small piece of Reblochon, also one of my favourites. Amazingly, at this point our guts were not exploding, so we gladly dug into the almond-flour cookie flavoured with pistachio, topped with perfectly ripe fresh strawberries and just the right drizzle of dark chocolate, with a side of homemade vanilla ice cream that put Blue Bell to shame. Thankfully, Roger captured the moment here (that's a sugar-crusted rose petal on top of the ice cream).
With our espressos, we finished off with some home-made chocolate, candied apricot and a sugar-coated Marc de Bourgogne bomb, literally an explosion of liqueur wrapped in sugar.
Here we are at our arrival at 12:15, several pounds lighter than our departure at 4:00 pm.
We did not mind that, for the first time since their arrival, the weather was not perfect. We stopped off on the way home to admire the Roman church in Uchizy and the cold front on the horizon.
Remember, you can always click directly on the photos for a close-up and improved view. A description of the aforementioned hellish first few days to follow, once our digestion is complete.
15 May 2007
Everything's coming up roses
I wish that I had a voice like Ethel Merman and could belt it out from my terrace to the probable horror and dismay of my neighbours… You know, her revered performance from Gypsy, which you can find here: http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=11:0ifwxqw5ldhe~T3
(just select “Everything’s coming up roses” then you can let it rip and continue reading at the same time!)
Indeed, Sheba and I are now enjoying a beautiful canopy of roses that are perfuming my office today (see close-up), and more are on the way elsewhere in the garden.
I currently have numerous blog texts in mind:
The Madame Butterfly Manifesto inspired by my unforgettable visit to the Dijon opera this past Sunday and the heart-wrenching lead performance by Marie-Paule Dotti, with a fantastic seat enjoyed for free thanks to my friend, opera singer Eric Demarteau;
The Quest for the Perfect Paris Brest (it’s a pastry, people, so get your mind out of the gutter!) most of the detailed research for which, hélas, was lost when my old laptop died, although it is still visible on my hips and thighs…
A worshipful tribute to food writer Jeffrey Steingarten and an equally reverential homage to Down With Love…
But unfortunately, due to the colossal amounts of the estimates mentioned in Size Does Matter, I’m having to work my poor fingers to the bone right now instead of regaling you with attempts at wit, irony or even accolades.
In the immortal words of Arnold S, however: I’ll be back.
04 May 2007
Un gars et une fille, the update
On my old posting about this perfect mise en bouche of a show, I provided a link to see one episode. Unfortunately, that video has been pulled.
The good news is that you can go to this site and see NUMEROUS episodes!!
Enjoy.
http://www.dailymotion.com/videos/relevance/search/Un+gars+et+une+fille/1
The good news is that you can go to this site and see NUMEROUS episodes!!
Enjoy.
http://www.dailymotion.com/videos/relevance/search/Un+gars+et+une+fille/1
01 May 2007
Size does matter
The other day on the phone with Emmanuelle (have you checked out her new blog yet? I’m so proud of my formerly computer-backward friend! bravo! see links on the left) I was bitching about the first estimate I received for work on the house when I had a huge revelation, so to speak.
The background: I need to have the attics insulated, because when the previous owners put on the new roof a few years ago, for some strange reason they didn’t insulate. So, the past couple of weeks have been a blur of various strange men coming into my house (spare me your droll remarks, s’il vous plaît), taking measurements, and then sending me exorbitant estimates for work that as far as I am concerned, they will never perform, given their inflated sums. A text on the sexism problem in France might be soon to follow…! But back to the big story:
Besides the insulation, central heat also needs to be installed, and some of the windows need to be changed. Out of these tasks, I do believe that putting in insulation is by far the easiest of the three. So when I got the estimate, for close to 7,000 euros*, I was blown away. 7,000 euros for basically unrolling fibreglass and stapling it to the rafters. What fool couldn’t do that? And what fool would pay that much money for such simple work?
But here’s the crux of the problem: they bill for this by square meter of course, counting the supply of insulation and the labour together. And I have 166 square meters of attic to insulate. This estimate is what finally drove home the realisation of the enormity of my abode (or should I say my folly?). The official living space according to French law is 220 square meters. This does *not* count the two attics, which are perfectly suitable for living space, once they are insulated and fixed up a bit (nor the three cellars, but they are only good for housing the water heater, garden equipment, firewood and hundreds of bottles of wine…). This means that I have purchased almost 400 square meters* to live in, by myself, with my cat.
Even by Texan standards (and we all know that everything is bigger in Texas ;) this is a ridiculously large house for one person and a very old and rather petit cat (runt is not in our Sheba vocabulary).
What are we possibly going to do with all this space? Fill it up with a herd of dromedaries? Put in an ice-skating rink? (I haven’t mentioned the downside to having a marble floor yet… let all upcoming visitors be warned: bring a sweater. Yes, even if you are coming in June.)
Stay tuned to find out.
*For the conversion phobic:
400 square meters = approximately 4,300 square feet
€7,000 is over $9,500
The background: I need to have the attics insulated, because when the previous owners put on the new roof a few years ago, for some strange reason they didn’t insulate. So, the past couple of weeks have been a blur of various strange men coming into my house (spare me your droll remarks, s’il vous plaît), taking measurements, and then sending me exorbitant estimates for work that as far as I am concerned, they will never perform, given their inflated sums. A text on the sexism problem in France might be soon to follow…! But back to the big story:
Besides the insulation, central heat also needs to be installed, and some of the windows need to be changed. Out of these tasks, I do believe that putting in insulation is by far the easiest of the three. So when I got the estimate, for close to 7,000 euros*, I was blown away. 7,000 euros for basically unrolling fibreglass and stapling it to the rafters. What fool couldn’t do that? And what fool would pay that much money for such simple work?
But here’s the crux of the problem: they bill for this by square meter of course, counting the supply of insulation and the labour together. And I have 166 square meters of attic to insulate. This estimate is what finally drove home the realisation of the enormity of my abode (or should I say my folly?). The official living space according to French law is 220 square meters. This does *not* count the two attics, which are perfectly suitable for living space, once they are insulated and fixed up a bit (nor the three cellars, but they are only good for housing the water heater, garden equipment, firewood and hundreds of bottles of wine…). This means that I have purchased almost 400 square meters* to live in, by myself, with my cat.
Even by Texan standards (and we all know that everything is bigger in Texas ;) this is a ridiculously large house for one person and a very old and rather petit cat (runt is not in our Sheba vocabulary).
What are we possibly going to do with all this space? Fill it up with a herd of dromedaries? Put in an ice-skating rink? (I haven’t mentioned the downside to having a marble floor yet… let all upcoming visitors be warned: bring a sweater. Yes, even if you are coming in June.)
Stay tuned to find out.
*For the conversion phobic:
400 square meters = approximately 4,300 square feet
€7,000 is over $9,500
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