Last of the 2014 Greetings

I realized I've been remiss about updating this blog. In the last month plus, I was working on completing my Year in Fromage and also getting the surgery to take out the breast cancer and put in the new replacement. Christmas preparations apparently took up the whatever small bit of my brainpower remained, and so I haven't updated here in a while.

Click here for a little glimpse at our year in review, because I still don't have the brainpower to write something at the moment. We're too busy purging old stuff to make room for the new stuff, enjoying the new Christmas toys and books, and meeting up with friends to take a break from our vacation with a cup of tea.

Happy Holidays, and may 2015 bring you health & happiness!
Love,
Kazz

Getting Romantic in the City of Romance

I've been horrible -- horrible! -- about posting here, because it's been, well, quite a month. So I hope you've been keeping up over at A Year in Fromage. If not, here are two recent postings on love and romance (and dead fish) in Paris.

All you've ever wanted to know about the love locks popping up -- Whack-a-Mole-style - everywhere in Paris. And in the world.

And a wedding album like no other, mostly because it's a collection taken over the years from my local perspective. And also, because Anthony, the girls, and I just can't resist taking our own.

 

Princess of the Theater

If you haven't yet, you can read all about Gigi's professional theater debut (and about the origins of some French theater traditions) at the gorgeous Théâtre du Châtelet, which is itself something of a star in Paris. In an update since publishing the story at A Year in Fromage, she tells me, "It's surprising how many actors in the cast are gay." I find this very, very funny. And not surprising at all. But then again, she's ten, and it's her first theater experience.

In other entertaining King & I news, here's a hysterical clip from the Matrix of her castmate, star of the show, Lambert Wilson. So f***'in French:

My D-Day Hero

Why am I posting such an ugly picture of myself over at A Year in Fromage? It's a story that's well worth a little humble pie.

 

I've met a fair number of very (very) famous people in my time, and rarely have I been so star-struck, and never have I been so moved. It's the 70th anniversary of the Normandy Invasion:

 

 

For the full story, click here.

The Eurovision Factor

Drumroll please...It's time for the 59th annual Eurovision contest: the Europe-wide hunt for the best, newest, freshest, and undoubtedly cheesiest new song and performer from each country. We have Eurovision to thank (or blame) for ABBA (1974, Sweden, "Waterloo") and Céline Dion (1988, for the song "Ne Partez Pas Sans Moi", representing Switzerland despite being Canadian. I call shenanigans). It's like the Oscars, the X Factor, the Olympics, and the Miss America pageant all rolled together, with more fog machines and floor lighting and almost no commercial breaks (God, I love Europe sometimes!).

 

 

If you're feeling at all fabulous, festive, morbidly curious, or feel the need to see identical twins, dairy maidens, teeter totters, ice skating, Matlese country singers, and/or transvestites. you really need to see the videos and read the scoop at A Year in Fromage.

 

May Day!

It's May 1st, May Day, and that can only mean two things: 1) lilies of the valley, and 2) nearly everything is closed. OK, I exaggerate. A couple stores are actually open and do not have a sign in the door saying "specially closed on May 1st", but seemingly 99% of Paris is off-school, off-work, and off-duty -- except the people selling lilies of the valley on the streets.



If you want to know about one of the stinkiest cheeses known to mankind, or learn more about this holiday, and help me create the inevitable holiday to celebrate the official 35-hour work week here in France; or the 4-day school week; or the 6-weeks-on/ 2-weeks-off school schedule, check out A Year in Fromage.

Got Me Pegged

My friends and family have me pegged. Besides lots of electronic messages with birthday wishes, I received three physical cards in the mail. One of them:

For the other two cards, both my sister and one of my best friends picked out the same one:

 

Inside the card, the punch line reads, "Oh yeah...like if you had magic shoes, you'd go to Kansas."

 

Gold Mountain - New Meaning

Gold Mountain used to mean San Francisco to me. Now it means this delicious dinner. One of the nice things about doing A Year in Fromage is that once it comes up in conversation, nearly all of my French friends have something they are excited to share. My friend Claire, another gymnastics mom, assures me that I cannot write about cheese and become any sort of cheese expert without having a full Mont d'Or dinner. Who am I to argue?

 

She graciously invites me to her home in the Marais and serves not just the typical Mont d'Or winter dinner, but also a wine from her godparent's vineyard -- an AOC wine of the Jura called Arbois Cuvée Béthanie -- that is specially chosen to go with the cheesy meal. And this meal is cheesy, make no mistake, but not in the sense of tacky or gauche. It's an absolutely lovely tradition involving a melted, oozy, gooey winter cheese. To find out more, see A Year in Fromage.

My Little Cabbage

If you ever need some terms of endearment with a French twist to call your honey, lovebug, or sweetie-pie....

I don't want to give you the same old list, including many I don't hear in use. So, click here to see the ones I actually hear on a day-to-day basis, especially from parents talking to their children. Let's face it, I'm at school drop-off/pick-up where people greet their kids far more than I'm at some seductively-lit hip restaurant/bar overhearing lovers murmuring sweet nothings.

 

Bubble Trouble

In case you were wondering, Bubble Tea -- those sweet Chinese tapioca drinks -- are taking over Paris, too. Well, anyplace there's Chinese food nearby and in many tourist spots where there's likely to be Chinese tourists. The girls love their Bubble Tea, as you can tell at the New Year's Parade in Paris' Chinatown. It was their favorite part of the event. In fact, they look like an ad for Bubble Tea. "Bubble Tea! It's Bubblicious!"

 

It's a packed crowd, but the girls are small enough to squeeze in at the front. I give Gigi the camera, and see whether she's inherited the Kodak gene. Turns out, she has! Here are some parts of the Chinese New Year's Parade that are colorful, and interesting. But not as great as Bubble Tea:

 

 

 

 

 

Gong Hey Fat Choy! Happy New Year! And may it be filled with bubbles.

 

 

 

Boom As We Speak

When I was in grade school, we went on field trips to the local historical reenactment village, one day each year. Once, we went to a pizza place owned by a classmate's father and were allowed to make our own pizzas. That is the extent of the field trips I remember. Gigi, meanwhile, is away for a week with her classmates in Valloire, France for the ultimate field trip -- a week of skiing in the Alps. As I write this, she's at her end-of-week "Boom" (that's a co-ed dance to you and me).

 

 

 

 above photos taken by chaperones on the ski trip

To continue reading, click here...

Cheesing It Up/ Hamming It Up

In case you haven't signed up yet for A Year in Fromage or haven't remembered to check it out lately, I just thought I'd give you some of the latest cheese highlights of my life. My life has become very, very cheesy indeed:

Where can you buy French cheese outside of France? I've researched some of the best spots in some of the big cities, but you all need to help each other out by adding on your own favorite cheese-store sources in the comments.

How can you be polite about your cheese course? Well, first of all, don't chew with your mouth open. But for more cheese-specific advice, check out the posting.

And what are the most beautiful cheeses in my opinion?

As for these "letters home" from my Family by the Seine, I just wanted to let you know that I've recently crossed over 30,000 views, which actually feels quite satisfying as I sit here typing and overlooking the gray river on a dreary, rainy day.

We are back, safely and happily, from a wonderful trip in Senegal. When we arrived home, my brother and sister-in-law were already installed in our apartment, and we're enjoying their visit quite a lot -- the only downside being that with my brother here, I find myself with very few leftovers to use for my lunch the next day. Except for cheese. Even my brother couldn't finish the massive cheese platter.

It may be a few weeks till I get to filter through the 2000 or so pictures I took in Africa and write up our adventure, but in the meantime, you can sign up at Family in Senegal so that you'll automatically receive the stories once they're posted. But here's a little teaser: Anthony and I were fully jealous of our own daughters, even as we were having the experience with them. We just kept saying to each other, "This is nothing like any New Year's Eve party I ever got to go to as a kid..."

 

 

A Year in Fromage

After almost two years of imagining, planning, procrastinating, and -- occasionally -- self-doubting, I have launched my one-year, daily writing project called A Year in Fromage, which looks at life in France, one stinky cheese at a time. Check it out! Sign up to follow it daily! Pass it on to your contacts who love cheese or France (or both)!

In fact, I'm two days into the cheese-a-day project by now. Only 363 more to go! If you've already tried to sign up for the e-mails but couldn't figure it out, I do want to tell you that I figured out (ha! of course Anthony figured out) the technical glitch on the site, and now you can, indeed, sign up to follow by e-mail. For today's post, enjoy both a story, and a cheese, that really stinks.

Loyal readers of this blog may recognize today's story, from one of my earliest days in France, but much of the material on that site will also be new. I'm trying to figure out how to reconcile the two blogs I've got going. This is what I've come up with for the moment:

I'm going to continue writing in this blog the stories and observations that are more personal. Also, I'll try to give you a nod over to the most recent all-new postings at A Year in Fromage. However, even for the re-purposed posts you may already have seen, they will have added cheese elements, so there's always something new there.

I once said I felt like I was working 4 full-time jobs: parent, travel agent, writer, and administrator of the small business I was running from afar in San Francisco. Well, that business -- a French-immersion preschool -- has since closed (to my great relief, frankly) and I'm now down to "just" 3 full time jobs. In reality, it means I actually get to spend much more time writing, which I love. I've had one piece and photography published in the Wall Street Journal and have just turned in another that will be published soon. I've been working on some creative projects, including A Year in Fromage. So, I hope you enjoy both blogs!

Chocolate Chip Champion

My friend Mei and I like to champion here in Paris (and abroad) that ugliest but perhaps most delicious of desserts: the American cookie.

The first year of gymnastics regionals, Gigi's team got 13th out of 13. The second year, when she came home with a 9th place, Anthony congratulated her enthusiastically...until she told him there had only been 9 teams. Well, much like this, I fancy myself quite a delicious cookie maker, but then I only have a couple really good non-French friends here, and the only other American's cookies I've tried are Mei's. And, objectively speaking, hers are better than mine. So there may only be two contestants, but I'm the Silver Medal Champion Cookie Maker of My Paris!

And my cookies do whoop the pants off any chocolate chip cookies I've tried that were made by any French person. I have to admit that the cookies I make here also whoop the pants off the cookies I make in San Francisco, and I've figured out the secret: I use all-American ingredients except the butter. French butter has less water in it, and is generally richer and more unctuous, and the cookies are all the better for it.

If you're wondering why there are so many cookies on my counters, and why some of them are upside down, there's a logical explanation for both. Gigi likes me to make her cookies for her class for her birthday. She's in a class of 29 kids, plus a teacher, and I feel like everybody should have at least a couple cookies. So you do the math: that makes a whole lot of cookies, which I must mix by hand -- no KitchenAid stand mixer. It's better than a gym workout for the upper arms, except that I eat more calories worth of raw dough than I burn.

And why upside down? Along with no stand mixer, I also don't have a cooling rack, and I've discovered that putting them bumpy side down allows them to cool without getting soggy, as the steam can find nooks and crannies through which to escape.

Sure, I could buy chocolate chip cookies. There is a cute little shop on our island called "Anne's" which sells single, regular-sized (say, 3" diameter) cookies for 2.7€ -- or about $3.50 -- each. Meanwhile, I can go to Thanksgiving (the store in the nearby Marais neighborhood, not the holiday) and find critically important ingredients for not too much money, including real light brown sugar for under 4€ and baking soda for just a couple more. Still infinitely cheaper than buying at Anne's, where we would need to take out a second mortgage in order to buy a couple dozen cookies.

 

The expensive ingredients are the real liquid vanilla and the chocolate chips, and I have cabinets full of both, thanks to a steady stream of visitors. However, I refuse to make chocolate chip cookies for any of my visitors from the States. I only make them for other ex-pats who need a taste of home and for French-people who, I must tell you, are completely won over by this ugly-but-delicious American dessert.

Coming Home

No, it's not what you're thinking. We're just back from a fall vacation to sunny Spain, and upon our arrival we see the obligatory airport sign that says "Bienvenue à Paris," but we think it should just say "Welcome Home." It certainly feels like we've come home, and I feel it more strongly than ever. Driving through the streets of Paris, it feels familiar, comfortable, and just as much like "home" as any place else to me. We've been here over two years, and I love all the things that have become a normal part of my life: the rippling waters of the Seine from my desk, our neighborhood markets, the view of Notre Dame, the leaves turning yellow along the quai, fresh croissants from the boulangerie, the walk to the metro stop through medieval streets, my dance class, tea with friends, and even -- slightly, affectionately -- the way our water heater occasionally conks out for no known reason while someone's in the middle of a shower (the sound of the scream sends us with matches to reignite the pilot light).

I have to say that I feel more at home in Paris than anyplace else I've ever lived, with the exception of San Francisco. Even having spent around six years in Tokyo in my twenties, I never felt like that was home in the same way. That's understandable, perhaps, given the linguistic, cultural, and racial barriers, and also because I was there when I was young and single. Here, I've got a real family life, and friends and community through schools, activities, work, and neighborhood.

Home is where the heart is, where the family is, and where the comfortable pillow is. Vacations to exotic places are wonderful, but it's also nice coming back to our simple ole' home by the Seine.

Worst Parent Ever (Me)

I just did the WORST PARENTING MOVE EVER -- crossed a street with the girls through (stopped) traffic and not at the cross walk -- and watched Pippa get hit by a motorcycle. Oh how I wish I were kidding. Before you panic, she is fine. Nothing broken. No permanent damage. She does have a little neck-ache, though.

 

The motorcycle was going about 5-10mph between a row of stopped cars, and she mostly just bounced off the plastic on the side. She did not hit her head, and got up immediately, without a bruise on her body. It frankly seems less severe than the time she hurt her neck doing the vault at gymnastics, about a month ago. When distracted, she doesn't seem that bad off, but still, she does have a stiff neck. She is SO angry at me. And with good reason. Anthony and myself are so angry at me, too.

I am normally extremely safety conscious, so this was out of character and just beyond stupid. When it happened last night, I was somewhat numb, because the self-loathing that was completely flooding me was neutralized by the simultaneous relief and joy in seeing that she wasn't hurt in any major way. Around 5:30 this morning, however, what I mostly felt was the self-loathing.

We made it through last night. She woke up briefly a couple times because of her neck, so I'm the one who got the bad night sleep. Pretty hard to sleep like a baby when you almost got your own baby killed. Yikes. That means that today I am exhausted, and guilt-ridden, but also nearly ecstatic. Given my theory of alternate universes, I am so, so, so thrilled that I get to live in the universe where my daughter is in the next room singing, playing, laughing, and goofing off with a long-lost San Francisco friend. She's twisting and moving and not even thinking of her neck -- when I'm not around, that is. But I really can't begrudge my most dramatic child any amount of rubbing it in when I am around. Needless to say, I am in the doghouse, and she's a big fan of Daddy for the moment.

So since this isn't funny and doesn't do much to enlighten you about Paris (other than to warn you that this is a city where you really should cross with the light at the crosswalks!), why am I publicly shaming myself by telling you this story? A) to give you the news B) to serve as a cautionary tale, and C) because I know I fully deserve it.

 

First Rule of Book Club

Gigi and I have put together a book club with the girls from the Native English section in her grade. Of the thirteen girls, six come to the first organizational meeting. These are all theoretically native English speakers (though in truth, most are bilingual children who've grown up in France, and probably only Gigi would claim English as her first and strongest language), so it never occurs to me to put much of an explanation about what a book club is. Just another example of how very American I am.

Nearly everybody shows up with some books they like, that they could recommend and swap with each other, but I don't think any of them understood that a book club is a place where you discuss a book that you have all pre-read. What amuses/amazes me even more is that the parents themselves didn't understand the concept of a book club. Despite coming in blind, the first one was a raging success, and there are at least two new girls joining in for the first actual book discussion in about a month's time. It may have helped that one of the girls brought homemade cupcakes. The girls have picked from among their own favorites for their first few books:

  

 

My own San Francisco book club ladies and American friends and family (nearly all of whom have been in book clubs) will share in my amazement over the concept of not knowing what a book club is. There are many things that I am vaguely embarrassed to export to the rest of the world -- McDonald's, violent films, and Miley Cyrus spring to mind -- but I must say that if Gigi and I can introduce a bunch of her new friends and their families to the idea of book club, I'd be mighty proud.

You know a Paris Mom's book club (fewer cupcakes, more wine) can't be far behind....

 

Stay Away

Our second summer, our second trip to our friends in Bretagne. By now, it feels not only like a little slice of heaven, but a familiar one. I realize it also feels familiar because it reminds me in so many ways of the annual summer trips to my sister's house in coastal Maine. There are the rocky beaches with great tide-pooling, the coastal walks and bike rides, the fantasy mansions on the cliffs (let's just say I wouldn't sniff at the house all trimmed in white at left in the photo below).

 

 

 

 

Even beyond the excellent bakery breads and lack of blueberry/maple products, there are differences, of course. The little tents at Dinard look pure French, for example. And the Atlantic's noticeably warmer here than in Maine, as long as one is lucky enough to be here during a warm August. Last year we were in Bretagne in early July, and the water was so cold I only swam once -- and then simply because my friend Beatrice told me that was the only way I'd earn the right to be invited back. Well, this year, we are there in August, so I am able to swim every day; I practically feel like a native Breton.

 

And then there's the view out to the medieval walled cite of St. Malo, which doesn't exactly bring Maine to mind.

 

Also, instead of lobster, we have moules (muscles). But not actually ones that we find ourselves.

 

 

This year, in addition to seeing our good friends, and the beautiful coast, we also see a fox, right there next to the beach.

 

 

By the way, if you think it looks like we have nothing but gorgeous sun, blue skies, and warm summer weather, it is my obligation to tell you that it rains miserably and constantly the entire time we are here. I have promised our friends that we will do our part to keep the masses away by playing up the stereotype of the Breton weather. Somehow, we all manage to enjoy it anyway.