Moustache Madness

Sadly, we just missed the European Beard and Moustache Championships, which were held on Sept 22 in the village of Wittersdorf, in Alsace, France. Here are some of the exquisite 104 beard and mustache entries.

photo from http://news.fr.msn.com/m6-actualite/insolite/insolite-le-championnat-deurope-de-barbe-et-moustache?page=7#image=1

If you're wondering about the preponderance of lederhosen, you should know that Wittersdorf is right near both the German and the Swiss borders. But there's at least one Napoleonesque outfit and tricorn in the mix.

This contest decided the European champions. With an even title that is shocking in its overt sexism, the "Just For Men 2012 [USA] National Beard and Moustache Championships" will be held on November 11 in Las Vegas. You may want to call over all your co-workers to check out their website (unless you have actual work to do, that is).

photo from: http://news.fr.msn.com/m6-actualite/insolite/insolite-le-championnat-deurope-de-barbe-et-moustache?page=7#image=5

And if you are in Vegas in November: get yourself some front row seats! If not, you will have to wait until the 2013 World Beard and Moustache Championships, which will be held November 2 in Leinfelden-Echterdingen, Germany. That event is being organized by the oddly English-and-French named German group "Beard and Culture Club Belle Moustache" which has the wonderful German-language slogan “Diese Baerte haben Kultur!” (“These beards have culture!”)

photo from: http://news.fr.msn.com/m6-actualite/insolite/insolite-le-championnat-deurope-de-barbe-et-moustache?page=7#image=3

I admit, this posting is not extremely informative about France, Paris, or our life here, but I simply could not resist. If we're still in Europe in Nov 2013, I think I know where I'll be....


 

More Than I Bargained For

I ask the woman at the counter for a little of this chocolate, a little of that, some milk with caramelized almonds, some dark with raspberry. It costs 5.5€ (about $7) per 100g. So when she is holding a few pieces, I ask her, "Is that 100g?" She makes a face and shakes her head in a gesture that means clearly and emphatically "Non!"


Buoyed by this promising prospect, I have her break off more and more of the bark till finally it seems like honestly, even if I'm not yet at 100g, we just don't need more chocolate than this in the house.

Then she weighs it, and it comes to about 35€ -- or $50. That's $50 worth of chocolate bark just to have a little nosh. Rather stunned, I ask, "But didn't you say it wasn't 100g?" And she replies, quite logically, I suppose, "It wasn't 100g. It was already much, much more."

So, the metric system. I guess I'm not quite there yet. On the plus side, I know what I'm going to have for my snack today.

 

 

 

By the Crack of Noon

Even in San Francisco, where many people run the famous Bay to Breakers race stoned, with a margarita in hand, and wearing an orange wig and a tutu, the racers still line up at the starting line by 8am. That means they're leaving the house around 7:15, and waking up even earlier than that to get ready -- whether "ready" means costumed, naked, drunk, high, or in proper running gear.

 

But here, on the night before Anthony is set to participate in the famous Paris to Versailles run, he stays up late and doesn't bother to set an alarm. On the morning of the race, he eats a small but leisurely breakfast and even takes a shower, prompting me to ask "Why?!" (His answer: "I like to start out fresh."). He takes the metro and gets to the start line at the Eiffel Tower in plenty of time for the crack of the gun at the crack of 10am.

He is pleased to report that he beats his goal time of 1:20 in the 16k race by over a minute, placing him in the top 20% of the ~21,200 runners.

  

On the backside of the race medal, which highlights the 100th year anniversary of the birth of famed black-and-white photographer Robert Doisneau, is a sentence that translates as:

1/100 here, 1/100 there, put together they would never make more than 1, 2, or 3 seconds pinched off of eternity.

So the award for Most Relaxed Approach to running races and Most Existential Artsy Medallions goes to....the French.

 

Happy 1970s Birthday!

Yes, that's seven bowls of different kinds of candy, and I guarantee you, not one of them is filled with organic, fair-trade, artisan bonbons. That's what we're dealing with here folks. These are birthday parties before the health-food craze, before the advent of $800 rental and entertainment fees, before party favors  became as nice as the gifts themselves. The only proof that this birthday party didn't happen in the 1970s, when I was this age, is that among the favorite party games is "Just Dance" on the Wii, whereas we used to just dance on the floor.

 

How's a San Franciscan to survive? Just fine, it turns out, and I'm pleased to report the girls don't even eat that much of the birthday candy. Gigi's birthday party is today and, after the smack-down I received from throwing last year's sleepover half-birthday party ("Really," you're saying at this point, "you just brought that one on yourself"), we've kept it a French-ish, simple afternoon affair. Last year, I felt the need to do something really big and American, but this year I've Frenchified. We have a backwards-themed party with five good friends. Gigi doesn't like cake, so we buy éclairs from the local pâtisserie, and I can't say I'm complaining about how easy that is. Naturally, because it's a topsy-turvy, backwards, upside-down party, they eat their non-cake under the table, before singing "Anniversaire Mauvaise (Birthday Un-happy)..."

 

I organize a treasure hunt -- making up French-language clues, if I can toot my own horn -- and also a very popular backwards-dressing, backwards-reading-of-tongue-twisters relay race that I base entirely on a birthday party my sister threw for me when I was about Gigi's age.

 

  

 

And here's the proof that this birthday party didn't happen in upstate New York, where I was living at this age. Just look at this setting for the relay race!

Though the backwards party may have been complete and total plagiarism on my part, it is very novel for the French guests, whose main birthday party theme is "sugar". The French parties my girls are invited to tend to be simple two hour affairs with cake, sodas, and lots of candy. There is absolutely no pretense at putting out apple slices and carrot sticks. Only I would do something that mortifying. The girls point that I am the ONLY parent who offers milk at a birthday party (but really, what else would go well with brownies or éclairs?). The French send the kids off with party favor bags of mostly -- you guessed it -- candy. The San Franciscan in me can't quite bring myself to send home the children with sugar, so our party favors are things like colorful pens/pencils, pretty notebooks, little bracelets, stickers, that sort of thing. The kids all seem to like it, and for some reason this does not embarrass my own children as much as does my tendency to offer people snacks of crudités and hummus.

Photos of the dreaded half-birthday sleepovers. Note: Wii dancing, brownies, children in the bed but not sleeping, and green vegetables on the dinner table (quelle horreur!).

 

By coincidence, the same day Gigi has her birthday party, Pippa is invited to a sleepover birthday party of a French-raised American friend, inspired by Pippa's half-birthday sleepover party last winter (because yes, I was stupid enough to do that twice). Even though I will pay the price tomorrow, when Pippa is a tired monster, I'm laughing now, because it's somebody else's headache tonight! I fear I will become a pariah for introducing the American-style slumber party to their little French school.

 

 

Life-changing, Mind-blowing...

Fill in the blank:

A: My husband is away on a business trip in China. I have encouraged him to have life-changing, mind-blowing ____________ while he's there.

B: And while the cat's away, the mouse will play, so I take the opportunity to have some life-changing, mind-blowing ___________ myself.

Answers to above:

A: dumplings
B: macarons

I have always claimed not to like macarons. It should be noted I don't like Oreos, either. Or whoopie pies. Or buttercream frosting, all of which I find cloying and gritty. But at a friend's house this week, she introduces me to Pierre Hermé macarons. And even though I've always said I'm not that kind of a person, I must admit I not only love it, I just cannot get enough. More! More! The "cookie" part has a pleasant crackle as you bite through it, and then a sticky chewiness that's just right. But it's the filling that makes the biggest difference to me: intensely flavored, creamy smooth, and not too sweet. The flavor tastes like real salted caramel, or real raspberry, or real (you get the idea) and not fake-frosting.

This picture, by the way, is not of Pierre Hermé but rather of the only other macarons I've ever tasted that I liked. And that's because I helped make them! My friendly neighbor Loredana, who has a baking degree from le Cordon Bleu, invited me to watch, learn, and "help". So some of that handiwork is mine. But given how much time, effort, and expense it takes to make them, I think I'll stick to buying them on special occasions at Pierre Hermé, and turning up my nose at them the rest of the time. Though I think now that I've crossed that threshold, I may re-try the famous Ladurée to see if I give them my stamp of approval as well.

Anthony, meanwhile, has been gorging on dumplings, every which way. He's had them fried, steamed, boiled, salty, porky, seafoody, sweet, soup-filled, custard-filled, and -- of course -- Shanghai style. He's had them for breakfast, he's had them for dinner, he's had them late into the night. And he threw in some noodles just to spice things up a bit. Oh, and he's had them spicy. Here's a picture of who my husband has been seeing a lot of during his week away from the old ball-and-chain:

But still, I am relieved to report that even after the most mind-blowing dumplings of his life, he comes back to me in the end. He arrives off the plane with a gift of...bean-paste mochi dumplings.

 

Surviving Patrimoine with Children

Last weekend: les Journées de Patrimoine. This weekend: la Fête des Jardins. And here is the lesson learned: Forget maximing visits. Forget mapping out the best routes. Each day we pick one big thing that seems as interactive and kid-friendly as possible, that happens to be within walking distance, and the rest of the day is education-free.

 

Our first patrimoine day, we visit the grounds of la Garde Républicaine (the Guard of the Republic), which just happens to be across a bridge from our island, towards the Bastille. At first, we walk into a museum of the history of the Guard's uniforms, and the girls give me the stink eye. But then we are allowed to wander off freely, by the outdoor track and into the stables, and I am forgiven. The highlight is petting the horses and feeding them sugar cubes.

 

 

 

 

Watching the dressage practice is also mesmerizing, and we all agree that it beats watching the official horse show at Versailles. The only thing that would have improved the dressage demonstration is if they had been wearing some of the fancy costumes we just found so boring.

 

 

 

 

We also see a horse being shod. (I tell this to a friend, who hears "horse being shot" and wonders how that could possibly be family-appropriate)

 

 

 

 

Then, after dropping the girls off, I go out by myself to see a local 16th century building, said to be the former residence of Marie Touchet. There is a long wait, a longer lecture that includes an even longer list of French royalty and their wives and mistresses, and then a tiny courtyard with very old colombage, mullion windows, and century-old shutters. Thank goodness the girls aren't with me.

 

 

The second day of patrimoine is the day we visit the college des Bernardins and see the beehives. But outside the building, they also have a demonstration of stone cutting. Using the same simple tools used throughout the ages, the girls chisel and saw away at limestone. This is their second time cutting stone, and each time they marvel at how Notre Dame -- and, frankly, the rest of medieval Paris -- could possibly have been built.
 

  

La Fête des Jardins -- a weekend where certain gardens have special activities and some normally hidden gardens are open to the public --  sees us at the Jadin du Clos des Blancs-Manteaux in the Marais, conveniently located near excellent take-out falafel. Once there, we spend a couple hours using recycled materials to make plant-holders. And we get to choose our own little plants. Pippa takes sage, Gigi takes mint, and I take a long creeper of purple green beans. Given my track record with plants, this shows great optimism on our part.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

French Kissing

Chers amis,

The art of French kissing -- the bise -- that is. No tongue is involved in this kind of French kissing, but rather the bise or bisou is the cheek-to-cheek kiss for greetings, and also a common sign-off on friendly letters (much like we would sign "Love,...." even it wasn't a love letter).  You can plant them firmly on the cheek, but for more casual acquaintances, often the lips are in the air, making a "mwa" sound, while the cheeks are pressed together.

The American in me finds it funny to see Anthony cheek-kissing people, but yes, even men do it. It also feels slightly odd to have 11-year old boys happily come up to kiss me hello, since I can hardly imagine American boys of that same age who would be half as willing to give out hugs to adults ("ugh, you're embarrassing me...").

But how many kisses? That is the question.

Below, my friend Christine greets her mom Liliane in Normandy. Christine is not, in fact, flipping me the bird (British style) but rather counting the number of bisous with which she greets her mother -- two in their case.

Christine's brother-in-law is from somewhere else and goes with three, and I have a couple friends who go with four. The minimum nearly everywhere in France is two, so basically you just go in for the one, two, then sit there bobbing like one of those colored-water woodpeckers till you figure out if you should keep on keepin' on, or if you're kissing is done.

photo from: http://www.gettyimages.fr/detail/photo/drinking-bird-toy-on-office-desktop-side-view-image-libre-de-droits/200354337-001

 

The best explanation I have seen for this -- by far -- comes with a color-coded map. No, this has nothing to do with recent elections in France (Sarkozy vs. Hollande). Check out http://bigthink.com/strange-maps/210-french-kissing-map for explanations of this:

 

 

 

Bisous,

Kazz