Never in my life, despite years of swimming outdoors, in the rain, in the wind, in the morning fog in Southern California -- did I ever have an ear infection this bad.
One morning last week, just out of bed, a pain started in my left ear. I thought I had just slept on it funny. But I went to work and it would not go away. My French colleague told me to take an Ibuprofen and to go see a doctor as soon as possible. I laughed at the time, but took her advice later when the Ibuprofen wore off.
My doctor took a quick look and diagnosed it as an otite exterieur. She sent me away with Ibuprofen and ear drops that contained antibiotics and cortizone.
Next day, no change. I call her. The pain is pretty bad. Is it OK if I take Paracetamol in between doses of Ibuprofen? Oui. OK. Another day passes. The pain was not going away. I call her. You said on the prescription that I would only need 2 days of Ibuprofen. Now we're going onto 3 days. Faut etre patiente. OK. The weekend comes and goes. For me, it crawled by because I was houseridden and I was holding my ear most of the time. Sunday night rolls around. I stop taking the painkillers just to see how my ear is doing. It is hard not to grimace every 30 seconds. My son thinks I am dying and he says he wants to cry for me. I joke with him and he relaxes. But it is not really funny. I resolve to complain to my doctor next morning in the strongest French tones I can manage.
So she sent me to an ear-nose-throat specialist last Monday, who said I have an otite serreuse labyrinthine, or something to that effect. She seemed excited to have such an advanced case. Her excitement made me feel kind of useful, in a scientific kind of way. But then she gave me a hearing test and said I lost 60% of the hearing in my left ear. She did not seem terribly optimistic that I will get it back, or at least, not all of it. Super. I'm going to be partially deaf.
She gave me 6 different drugs to take and one nose-spray. Usually I am quite wary of pill-popping. But now that I'm a bit desperate, I've left all caution to the wind.
Speaking of wind. The French believe it's the wind that causes les otites. Our French granny Memere Monique believes kids get sick because of air circulating in one's home. She can often be heard saying, "Y'a un courant d'air!" (There is a wind tunnel!) and then off she scurries to shut all the doors. French moms cover their children's ears and necks like there are ghosts in the wind that could tear off their heads. I do not know if this wind theory is urban legend or if there is some truth in it. What is true is there are many winds here and particularly in our region, there is one that always seems to be blowing.
I have a colleague who comes from Morocco who lost 80% of his hearing (in one ear) due to an otite four years ago. That is crazy. He is a full-grown person, his only crime was not to wear a hat with earflaps. Us poor foreigners, we don't know about French winds. We come and settle in your beautiful country and think it's nice and warm, let's uncover our heads, and then it's all too horribly late.
Currently, I can hear my breathing. Like I'm scuba diving. I hear my ear pop a little when I swallow (an improvement). But when I talk, I hear my voice as an echo from the other side of a long, dark cave.
I have a followup appointment with the specialist next Monday. Let's hope...
We spent New Year's in Perpignan, where it got up to 18 C (65 F)
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Monday, 14 November 2011
Testing, testing... 1,2,3...
This is an attempt to write.
I haven’t written for years. I feel the muscles in my brain flail, the synapses firing without much response. A long, dull echo – nobody’s home.
Where have I been all this time? Moving to London, meeting my husband, getting married, changing jobs, getting pregnant, breastfeeding for eleven months, imagining our children growing up in London and getting depressed, moving to France, learning French, getting settled, making friends, moving again, getting pregnant again, breastfeeding again, and not wanting to work but finding a job. Now where? Making adjustments. I can be called responsible, I suppose, for a full-time, energetic family of four where I am supposed to be the wife/mother/lover/cook/cleaner.
Life has changed. I blinked, and here I am.
I still dream of New York, but from ten years ago. We danced swing until midnight at Windows of the World. Exhausted, taking off my shoes and wandering around the 107th floor. Finding a full-length window opening straight into the bright night sky and watching my toes only an inch away from the edge of that Tower. Then one day, we watched it fall. We cried together, over sushi, on Sept 14th. We heard people chanting to unnamed gods in Union Square Park. We tried to pray. I walked through the empty streets until my legs ached. The smoke cleared. Wall Street moved uptown. I made a deal with the bank, packed up my rabbit and left in December.
My dreams always take me to a suburb of Los Angeles, where there is a house on a street I once knew. Then I’m driving on a freeway that dumps me at the beach. It is blackest night, so I hear the waves but cannot see them. The sound is so close, I think I’ve driven into the water.
The tide pushes me, pulls me, and pushes me back. It is my little boy’s warm body climbing into bed with me, pushing and shoving so he can have some of the covers. He kisses my cheek and says “Maman.” His little hands find mine. My husband snores softly. It’s Saturday morning. We have nothing planned. Then the alarm goes off – our baby, with her lusty cry. I gather her up and make her milk, along with my morning tea. Yawning Hubbie kisses everyone and prepares breakfast. Mom calls and says she’s coming for Christmas. My son opens the shutters, and the sun comes streaming in.
I haven’t written for years. I feel the muscles in my brain flail, the synapses firing without much response. A long, dull echo – nobody’s home.
Where have I been all this time? Moving to London, meeting my husband, getting married, changing jobs, getting pregnant, breastfeeding for eleven months, imagining our children growing up in London and getting depressed, moving to France, learning French, getting settled, making friends, moving again, getting pregnant again, breastfeeding again, and not wanting to work but finding a job. Now where? Making adjustments. I can be called responsible, I suppose, for a full-time, energetic family of four where I am supposed to be the wife/mother/lover/cook/cleaner.
Life has changed. I blinked, and here I am.
I still dream of New York, but from ten years ago. We danced swing until midnight at Windows of the World. Exhausted, taking off my shoes and wandering around the 107th floor. Finding a full-length window opening straight into the bright night sky and watching my toes only an inch away from the edge of that Tower. Then one day, we watched it fall. We cried together, over sushi, on Sept 14th. We heard people chanting to unnamed gods in Union Square Park. We tried to pray. I walked through the empty streets until my legs ached. The smoke cleared. Wall Street moved uptown. I made a deal with the bank, packed up my rabbit and left in December.
My dreams always take me to a suburb of Los Angeles, where there is a house on a street I once knew. Then I’m driving on a freeway that dumps me at the beach. It is blackest night, so I hear the waves but cannot see them. The sound is so close, I think I’ve driven into the water.
The tide pushes me, pulls me, and pushes me back. It is my little boy’s warm body climbing into bed with me, pushing and shoving so he can have some of the covers. He kisses my cheek and says “Maman.” His little hands find mine. My husband snores softly. It’s Saturday morning. We have nothing planned. Then the alarm goes off – our baby, with her lusty cry. I gather her up and make her milk, along with my morning tea. Yawning Hubbie kisses everyone and prepares breakfast. Mom calls and says she’s coming for Christmas. My son opens the shutters, and the sun comes streaming in.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
The Quiche that Kicked my Butt, or Je Suis Une Quiche
Last month, to celebrate the change of season and all the nice produce that comes with it, I wanted to cook something supremely autumnal: le cèpe. A cèpe is a mushroom that reaches giant proportions in forests in France. As the French seem to love this mushroom, I thought it would be a good idea to cook some up for my inlaws, who were coming for the weekend to celebrate my mother-in-law's birthday.
So I went online to my favorite French recipe website and found a recipe for quiche aux cèpes. Perfect, I thought. A quiche. This will be easy peasey.
The recipe called for four big cèpes. Hubbie picked up some impressive ones from our local LeClerq supermarket. With a very serious expression he said, "Do you know how much they cost? [Dramatic pause.] Over six euros EACH." I stuck them in the fridge as he muttered, "It better be a good quiche."
The next morning, I started to prepare my ingredients. Suddenly, while watching me turning over the cèpes with a quizzical expression, Hubbie became filled with fear and told me to wait while he googled how to handle the mushroom.
How to handle the --? But it's a mushroom, for crying out loud! Okay okay, I'll wait until you find some guidelines.
Little did we know what a pandora's box that would open.
First of all, we should not have put the mushrooms in the fridge. Not sure why, but that's what several people said.
Secondly, we should not have picked cèpes that have greenish spores. Looking under the caps of our four benign-looking cèpes, we saw two had greenish spores. Perhaps they turned green in the fridge, I suggested. Hubbie shrugged. At any rate, the spores need to be taken off before you cook the 'shrooms. This I did with no problem.
Thirdly, big cèpes are most always home to a few maggots. Maggots??? Yes, maggots. I shivered. Again proceeding as recommended, we wrapped the 'shrooms in cling film, turned them upside down and waited for the worms to come gasping out. We waited twenty minutes, and...
Nothing.
The pressure was mounting. What to do? ETA of the inlaws: one hour. Hubbie found additional advice, which we followed without reflection. We were asked to exhale into the plastic so as to reduce the breathable air for the worms. We waited another twenty minutes. About two nearly-strangled worms came wriggling out onto the plastic of one mushroom. No worms came out of the others.
What to do? I got a creeping suspicion there were more worms to be found. Putting on my sushi-chef/samurai/extremely anal attitude, I decided to go ahead and chop them up, examining each piece to annihilate each and every worm in my precious cèpes.
Gone was my ever optimistic, over-confident assumption that cèpes were as wonderfully tame as your friendly button mushrooms.
I worked on three mushrooms until they looked like they had been butchered by a madwoman. Finally, I sheathed my sword. Looking at the score, I had pried out about six worms from each cèpe. Yes, six! It's the stuff of nightmares, believe you me.
Then, I came to the last mushroom.
It looked like a white sponge. There were holes all over it. And now that I had three cèpes under my belt, I knew that did not bode well.
That is when it hit me. How far was I willing to go for taste? The Japanese risk their lives eating blowfish. Would I risk my life serving maggoty mushrooms to my mother-in-law?
I cut up the last mushroom, just as an experiment, without the slightest hope of it being edible. Of course, each hole in its white flesh meant that a worm had marked its path. It was infested. I shivered and started feeling itchy.
What could I do? I thanked heaven we had at least three good cèpes. The recipe then called for a few champignons de Paris (button mushrooms). Whew, I could relax.
Little did I know, my kitchen blunders had not ended there. The quiche was in the oven, but 45 minutes later at 200 C: Noooo! My $30 quiche is still liquid! What is going on?
In all my quiche-making, never had I come across a quiche that needed to be cooked at anything higher than 200 C. But this quiche, which contained plenty of water from the mushrooms, really did need to be cooked at 250! Rather than trust the writer of the recipe, I had automatically glossed over the 250 C and put the oven to 180 C.
I served the "quiche" to my inlaws and my husband said, "I told her to do an omelette aux cepes, but she wouldn't listen..." Thankfully, they have good senses of humor and stomachs of iron. Later, my mother-in-law magnanimously pointed out my fatal flaw: "It says 250 C."
Yes, I thought I had mastered the humble quiche. But instead I got a hefty serving of humble pie.
So I went online to my favorite French recipe website and found a recipe for quiche aux cèpes. Perfect, I thought. A quiche. This will be easy peasey.
The recipe called for four big cèpes. Hubbie picked up some impressive ones from our local LeClerq supermarket. With a very serious expression he said, "Do you know how much they cost? [Dramatic pause.] Over six euros EACH." I stuck them in the fridge as he muttered, "It better be a good quiche."
The next morning, I started to prepare my ingredients. Suddenly, while watching me turning over the cèpes with a quizzical expression, Hubbie became filled with fear and told me to wait while he googled how to handle the mushroom.
How to handle the --? But it's a mushroom, for crying out loud! Okay okay, I'll wait until you find some guidelines.
Little did we know what a pandora's box that would open.
First of all, we should not have put the mushrooms in the fridge. Not sure why, but that's what several people said.
Secondly, we should not have picked cèpes that have greenish spores. Looking under the caps of our four benign-looking cèpes, we saw two had greenish spores. Perhaps they turned green in the fridge, I suggested. Hubbie shrugged. At any rate, the spores need to be taken off before you cook the 'shrooms. This I did with no problem.
Thirdly, big cèpes are most always home to a few maggots. Maggots??? Yes, maggots. I shivered. Again proceeding as recommended, we wrapped the 'shrooms in cling film, turned them upside down and waited for the worms to come gasping out. We waited twenty minutes, and...
Nothing.
The pressure was mounting. What to do? ETA of the inlaws: one hour. Hubbie found additional advice, which we followed without reflection. We were asked to exhale into the plastic so as to reduce the breathable air for the worms. We waited another twenty minutes. About two nearly-strangled worms came wriggling out onto the plastic of one mushroom. No worms came out of the others.
What to do? I got a creeping suspicion there were more worms to be found. Putting on my sushi-chef/samurai/extremely anal attitude, I decided to go ahead and chop them up, examining each piece to annihilate each and every worm in my precious cèpes.
Gone was my ever optimistic, over-confident assumption that cèpes were as wonderfully tame as your friendly button mushrooms.
I worked on three mushrooms until they looked like they had been butchered by a madwoman. Finally, I sheathed my sword. Looking at the score, I had pried out about six worms from each cèpe. Yes, six! It's the stuff of nightmares, believe you me.
Then, I came to the last mushroom.
It looked like a white sponge. There were holes all over it. And now that I had three cèpes under my belt, I knew that did not bode well.
That is when it hit me. How far was I willing to go for taste? The Japanese risk their lives eating blowfish. Would I risk my life serving maggoty mushrooms to my mother-in-law?
I cut up the last mushroom, just as an experiment, without the slightest hope of it being edible. Of course, each hole in its white flesh meant that a worm had marked its path. It was infested. I shivered and started feeling itchy.
What could I do? I thanked heaven we had at least three good cèpes. The recipe then called for a few champignons de Paris (button mushrooms). Whew, I could relax.
Little did I know, my kitchen blunders had not ended there. The quiche was in the oven, but 45 minutes later at 200 C: Noooo! My $30 quiche is still liquid! What is going on?
In all my quiche-making, never had I come across a quiche that needed to be cooked at anything higher than 200 C. But this quiche, which contained plenty of water from the mushrooms, really did need to be cooked at 250! Rather than trust the writer of the recipe, I had automatically glossed over the 250 C and put the oven to 180 C.
I served the "quiche" to my inlaws and my husband said, "I told her to do an omelette aux cepes, but she wouldn't listen..." Thankfully, they have good senses of humor and stomachs of iron. Later, my mother-in-law magnanimously pointed out my fatal flaw: "It says 250 C."
Yes, I thought I had mastered the humble quiche. But instead I got a hefty serving of humble pie.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Crime and Punishment - Part II
Mom came to visit for two weeks and after she left, we took stock and realized Lulu was out of our control. He had basically treated his poor grandmother like his slave. On the last day, I spotted a wound in my mom's leg and asked her about it, and she said, "I didn't want to tell you. Lulu bit me the second day I was here." My reaction: WHAT??? Since when does Lulu bite people??? Did he learn that at school? Probably, blessed "education" system!!
After I calmed down, I told Mom that because she didn't tell us, we weren't able to teach Lulu biting was wrong, and she let him get away with it... and several other things, which made him think he could beat her up, which he had basically done the whole of her stay. I think the behavioral boundaries were all off because, as she only sees her grandson once every year or two, she wanted to keep the peace. Lulu had clearly taken advantage of her silence to misbehave anytime we weren't watching.
So yesterday when we came back from church and he refused to eat lunch, we relaunched the "naughty corner." We had discussed it a couple of times during the previous week and Hubbie had suggested we had used it too early, when Lulu was too little to understand. Now, especially as he loves to be the center of attention, we thought he might understand the concept. The punishment basically denies him any interaction with us and he is neither seen nor heard (this takes some acting skill).
So he sat in the corner just next to where we were eating. Should he be allowed to sit? Good question from Hubbie. Not sure what the answer is. However, whether sitting or standing, as we moved to the living room to watch Gaby playing in her Leapfrog DJ Station, he started turning around and moving away from that ninety-degree angle he was sequestered to.
Poker-faced, I walked over and turned him around and put him back in a sitting position in the corner. I didn't even look him in the face. As soon as I left, he went soft as an overcooked noodle and came creeping out. So I had to do this several times.
It was annoying.
This is the reason we started slacking off on the "disinvolvement" punishment. It is tiring and time consuming. And poor Hubbie ended up having to do everything! I had also gotten to spend more time with Lulu while Mom was here, so it was no longer an issue of not having my attention.
Now I am wondering if a naughty bench would be a better method. Would he be more likely to stay on the naughty bench than in a corner, which is not delineated? A bench provides a clearer boundary than a corner -- he knows whether he is on or off the bench. It is not clear at what point one is in or out of a corner.
Another question is, how long should he stay in the naughter corner/bench? Five minutes? Ten? More or less as appropriate to the crime? Or at three years old, do they too easily forget the crime if left alone too long? And will the punishment itself start to fail if we leave him punished too long?
We will have to keep trying. I suppose consistency is key...
After I calmed down, I told Mom that because she didn't tell us, we weren't able to teach Lulu biting was wrong, and she let him get away with it... and several other things, which made him think he could beat her up, which he had basically done the whole of her stay. I think the behavioral boundaries were all off because, as she only sees her grandson once every year or two, she wanted to keep the peace. Lulu had clearly taken advantage of her silence to misbehave anytime we weren't watching.
So yesterday when we came back from church and he refused to eat lunch, we relaunched the "naughty corner." We had discussed it a couple of times during the previous week and Hubbie had suggested we had used it too early, when Lulu was too little to understand. Now, especially as he loves to be the center of attention, we thought he might understand the concept. The punishment basically denies him any interaction with us and he is neither seen nor heard (this takes some acting skill).
So he sat in the corner just next to where we were eating. Should he be allowed to sit? Good question from Hubbie. Not sure what the answer is. However, whether sitting or standing, as we moved to the living room to watch Gaby playing in her Leapfrog DJ Station, he started turning around and moving away from that ninety-degree angle he was sequestered to.
Poker-faced, I walked over and turned him around and put him back in a sitting position in the corner. I didn't even look him in the face. As soon as I left, he went soft as an overcooked noodle and came creeping out. So I had to do this several times.
It was annoying.
This is the reason we started slacking off on the "disinvolvement" punishment. It is tiring and time consuming. And poor Hubbie ended up having to do everything! I had also gotten to spend more time with Lulu while Mom was here, so it was no longer an issue of not having my attention.
Now I am wondering if a naughty bench would be a better method. Would he be more likely to stay on the naughty bench than in a corner, which is not delineated? A bench provides a clearer boundary than a corner -- he knows whether he is on or off the bench. It is not clear at what point one is in or out of a corner.
Another question is, how long should he stay in the naughter corner/bench? Five minutes? Ten? More or less as appropriate to the crime? Or at three years old, do they too easily forget the crime if left alone too long? And will the punishment itself start to fail if we leave him punished too long?
We will have to keep trying. I suppose consistency is key...
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Crime and Punishment
One of the hot issues in our household the last few months is how we should discipline our three-year-old son, Lulu. Overall he is a good kid, even adorable. He has a good sense of right and wrong and what's dangerous for him. He loves telling us to call the firemen when he thinks something has gone wrong ("apelle numero 18!"), and he is not shy in telling us when he thinks Mama and Papa have not been nice to each other. However, on any given day, he mocks us, he deliberately ignores our warnings and he laughs at our attempts to punish him.
Up till last week, we were at a total loss as to what to do. We had just tried the yellow card/red card punishment system (based on rugby sin bins) in which he gets sent to his room for a yellow card and he gets a spank on the bottom for a red card. That didn't really work because his behaviour following the punishment didn't improve -- he went right back to disobeying us. Before that, we had tried negative incentives, positive incentives, the naughty bed, the naughty corner and the naughty bench. We had also tried keeping him emprisoned in our arms for two minutes as a punishment (as he is so active and hates to sit down). What hadn't we tried?
I shared the problem two weeks ago with the women's bible study group I attend, and then Hubbie and I talked about it again last week when I broke down in tears. It became clear it was with me that he was especially naughty.
It wasn't that we didn't do things together. I went swimming with Lulu, just him and me, without Hubbie or Gaby. But at the end of that he acted up again. On several occasions I did creative activities with him whilst Gaby was sleeping. None of this seemed to help his behaviour improve.
Since he turned three, or possibly since his little sister arrived in June, he has been extremely disobedient. Yet he has not demonstrated any jealousy towards her; he is affectionate and protective. It is evident that the relationship between Lulu and me has changed, though.
That was when we thought, hold on, when he disobeys, he gets me to spend more time with him, to insist for the umpteenth time he do what he refuses to do, or to scold him for what he shouldn't do. To dress him because he suddenly goes limp. To help him use the toilet because otherwise he'll have an accident. To feed him because otherwise he won't eat. Even if I am angry with him, he wants that extra time with me. He wants me around him, even if it's negative. He wants me, he wants my time.
So clearly then, what is now the most effective punishment for his crimes? Ironically, I just needed to go limp and disappear, to remove myself from the situation completely, or to threaten to do so, in order for him to stop being so naughty. When Papa is around, I ask him to do what I would have done, and Lulu loses that time with me. When Papa isn't around, I use the threat of disinvolvement.
Poor Papa, at times, still needs to use the Papa Prison. His arms are a lot stronger now because of it.
For me, the "disinvolvement" is working. At least for now. The great thing is, Lulu grows so fast, he will outsmart us. So the punishment may not fit the crime come next week!
Up till last week, we were at a total loss as to what to do. We had just tried the yellow card/red card punishment system (based on rugby sin bins) in which he gets sent to his room for a yellow card and he gets a spank on the bottom for a red card. That didn't really work because his behaviour following the punishment didn't improve -- he went right back to disobeying us. Before that, we had tried negative incentives, positive incentives, the naughty bed, the naughty corner and the naughty bench. We had also tried keeping him emprisoned in our arms for two minutes as a punishment (as he is so active and hates to sit down). What hadn't we tried?
I shared the problem two weeks ago with the women's bible study group I attend, and then Hubbie and I talked about it again last week when I broke down in tears. It became clear it was with me that he was especially naughty.
It wasn't that we didn't do things together. I went swimming with Lulu, just him and me, without Hubbie or Gaby. But at the end of that he acted up again. On several occasions I did creative activities with him whilst Gaby was sleeping. None of this seemed to help his behaviour improve.
Since he turned three, or possibly since his little sister arrived in June, he has been extremely disobedient. Yet he has not demonstrated any jealousy towards her; he is affectionate and protective. It is evident that the relationship between Lulu and me has changed, though.
That was when we thought, hold on, when he disobeys, he gets me to spend more time with him, to insist for the umpteenth time he do what he refuses to do, or to scold him for what he shouldn't do. To dress him because he suddenly goes limp. To help him use the toilet because otherwise he'll have an accident. To feed him because otherwise he won't eat. Even if I am angry with him, he wants that extra time with me. He wants me around him, even if it's negative. He wants me, he wants my time.
So clearly then, what is now the most effective punishment for his crimes? Ironically, I just needed to go limp and disappear, to remove myself from the situation completely, or to threaten to do so, in order for him to stop being so naughty. When Papa is around, I ask him to do what I would have done, and Lulu loses that time with me. When Papa isn't around, I use the threat of disinvolvement.
Poor Papa, at times, still needs to use the Papa Prison. His arms are a lot stronger now because of it.
For me, the "disinvolvement" is working. At least for now. The great thing is, Lulu grows so fast, he will outsmart us. So the punishment may not fit the crime come next week!
Friday, 24 September 2010
...and back again
It has been over a year since my last blog. If you are reading this, THANK YOU for making the effort.
In a nutshell, here is what I can remember from the last year, in (nearly) chronological order:
- From Aug 2009 to May 2010, I worked in an office environment that gave me the opportunity to practice my French, to work with French people and even to make some friends
- We moved to a village just outside the city and are now in a 3-bedroom apt rather than a 1-bedroom apt
- I attended my first rugby game, and am now a fan! Hubbie goes regularly to watch matches live at the small stadium near our home.
- We had a baby girl in June (good reason for moving!)
- Lulu started school (ecole maternelle) and is enjoying it
Over the past few weeks, blog ideas have popped into my head quite effortlessly. Now all of a sudden something like stage-fright has taken hold and I can think of nothing to say. So, perhaps later today something will come to me. In the meantime I will work on putting up a new photo...
In a nutshell, here is what I can remember from the last year, in (nearly) chronological order:
- From Aug 2009 to May 2010, I worked in an office environment that gave me the opportunity to practice my French, to work with French people and even to make some friends
- We moved to a village just outside the city and are now in a 3-bedroom apt rather than a 1-bedroom apt
- I attended my first rugby game, and am now a fan! Hubbie goes regularly to watch matches live at the small stadium near our home.
- We had a baby girl in June (good reason for moving!)
- Lulu started school (ecole maternelle) and is enjoying it
Over the past few weeks, blog ideas have popped into my head quite effortlessly. Now all of a sudden something like stage-fright has taken hold and I can think of nothing to say. So, perhaps later today something will come to me. In the meantime I will work on putting up a new photo...
Friday, 24 July 2009
Employed!
In the last three weeks, there were three major job-related developments:
1)The interview I had earlier this month went well. I am to hear back from the school at the end of August; the headmistress/principal is away until then. During the interview she asked if I would also like to teach English to high schoolers. I said, "That doesn't scare me at all." Straight after, I had second thoughts.
2)The language institute that left me high and dry in January called me one evening and said, "Oh, it's us! Are you still looking for work?" (They trained me in January and then never called me back.)
3)A good friend contacted me saying there was a 6-month post opening up at her company to cover someone on maternity leave. It involves some administrative work and non-technical technical support.
This morning I signed a contract with... drum roll please... #3. (What can i say, it was the paid lunches.)
We have been a bit stretched financially since moving here, and this appears to be the breather we need. I am hoping and praying this was the right thing to do.
One concern we have is about our little boy being in daycare full-time at such a young age. Hubbie says everyone in France does it this way. It's true, there are really no stay-at-home moms in France, unlike the States or the UK. But Lulu is so tired when he comes home after 3 hours at the daycare center. I wonder if full-time daycare will make him grow old and jaded. He may end up feeling abandoned. We are trying to trust that the Lord will protect him and will help us help him adjust in every way we can.
1)The interview I had earlier this month went well. I am to hear back from the school at the end of August; the headmistress/principal is away until then. During the interview she asked if I would also like to teach English to high schoolers. I said, "That doesn't scare me at all." Straight after, I had second thoughts.
2)The language institute that left me high and dry in January called me one evening and said, "Oh, it's us! Are you still looking for work?" (They trained me in January and then never called me back.)
3)A good friend contacted me saying there was a 6-month post opening up at her company to cover someone on maternity leave. It involves some administrative work and non-technical technical support.
This morning I signed a contract with... drum roll please... #3. (What can i say, it was the paid lunches.)
We have been a bit stretched financially since moving here, and this appears to be the breather we need. I am hoping and praying this was the right thing to do.
One concern we have is about our little boy being in daycare full-time at such a young age. Hubbie says everyone in France does it this way. It's true, there are really no stay-at-home moms in France, unlike the States or the UK. But Lulu is so tired when he comes home after 3 hours at the daycare center. I wonder if full-time daycare will make him grow old and jaded. He may end up feeling abandoned. We are trying to trust that the Lord will protect him and will help us help him adjust in every way we can.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Jobhunt Update
I have an interview tomorrow at 11 AM to teach 5-year-olds. Please lift up a prayer...
Fortunately, the weather is cooler now so maybe I won't sweat too much tomorrow in my "business" clothes!
Fortunately, the weather is cooler now so maybe I won't sweat too much tomorrow in my "business" clothes!
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Weather forecast
Toulouse sits in a basin with little to no wind, and at 36° celsius (96.8° fahrenheit) today, I don't think it's comparable to 96.8° on a beach in California!
I'm going to call the headmistress of this school I mentioned, and I am sweating bullets.
I'm going to call the headmistress of this school I mentioned, and I am sweating bullets.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Bad news on the job front
I didn't get the job at the language institute, but at least they gave me feedback as to why they turned me down. The director said I needed some sort of training in education, such as the Teaching English as a Foreign Language or some other license for teaching adults. The funny thing was that she also said she might be able to hire me in September, independently of the additional training. So I question slightly how important the training is, as opposed to how much they actually have need of me. Perhaps like the other language institute, which went so far as to train me, they stockpile cv's for a rainy day. In other words if they don't have enough teachers one day, I might hear from them just so they don't have to refuse students.
Oh well.
There is a part of me that feels maybe I should stick to what I know. Maybe I should learn French to the degree I need to so that I can go back to work in an industry that better suits my experience.
There is still the other teaching position I've been recommended for, but now I'm not so sure I should bother. It involves teaching five-year-olds. I don't know a thing about how to teach English to a five year old. If they ask about experience, I can only stutter along in my bad French that I volunteered to tutor eight year olds for a season, nine years ago. Should I call the school anyway, and potentially make my friend look silly for recommending me? I think not. I'll let her know my doubts and see what she says.
Oh well.
There is a part of me that feels maybe I should stick to what I know. Maybe I should learn French to the degree I need to so that I can go back to work in an industry that better suits my experience.
There is still the other teaching position I've been recommended for, but now I'm not so sure I should bother. It involves teaching five-year-olds. I don't know a thing about how to teach English to a five year old. If they ask about experience, I can only stutter along in my bad French that I volunteered to tutor eight year olds for a season, nine years ago. Should I call the school anyway, and potentially make my friend look silly for recommending me? I think not. I'll let her know my doubts and see what she says.
Thursday, 4 June 2009
When it rains, it pours
Yesterday I received word from one of the many language institutes I applied to, asking for an interview. It's tomorrow morning. I am hoping the interview will be in English. What if it's not? Eeek! I should memorize some key phrases in French so I don't sound like a total idiot.
Oddly enough, just this morning I heard of another potential job. A friend who works 7 hours a week as an English teacher in primary school told me she is taking a very long holiday (did she actually say 7 months?) and wants to put me forward as her replacement. If all goes well at the interview, it would start in September.
Is God trying to tell me that the waiting time is over, and I'm now ready to go back to work? I don't know, but I will soon find about.
Oddly enough, just this morning I heard of another potential job. A friend who works 7 hours a week as an English teacher in primary school told me she is taking a very long holiday (did she actually say 7 months?) and wants to put me forward as her replacement. If all goes well at the interview, it would start in September.
Is God trying to tell me that the waiting time is over, and I'm now ready to go back to work? I don't know, but I will soon find about.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
"Chômage": Officially Unemployed
My husband always seems to need something in his life that causes him stress. One day it might be his health. Next day, the finances. Day after that, our two-year-old son's oddly concentric scribble patterns. One recurring stress is his job security. Sure, job security is a common worry because of the economic crisis. But it's all the more precarious since we've pulled up roots and moved to another country, using up most of our savings, and also since Hubbie pulled a career change out of his hat, in the middle of it all.
So in my effort to alleviate some of Hubbie's stress, or at least one of the excuses for it, and to offer a bit more financial security -- and let's face it, I have to go back to work eventually, as no one is going to pay me to write -- I resolved myself to finding a job. I started with English language institutes and universities. Then I tried Catholic schools. My lack of teaching experience/credentials wasn't helping. After a month or two of not-very-committed jobhunting, I also enrolled in the government unemployment program (aka the Pôle Emploi).
When I met another American woman who told me the Pôle Emploi gave her free French courses at a local university, I realized it would be a wonderful opportunity to fill in the gaps in my French (which were many) before I got back into the working world. I actually started to see the bright side in declaring myself unemployed.
After enrolling online, I received in the mail a convocation, or an appointment, at the Pôle Emploi. In preparation for the appointment, Hubbie ran through all the most horrible scenarios that could occur on that day, starting from a long wait to the arrogance stereotypically inherent to government workers, to blatant racism. So the big day came when I had to present myself. I did my hair and actually ironed a shirt for it. Hubbie dropped me off in front of the office on his way to work because it was in the middle of nowhere. Lulu in the meantime stayed with a neighbour.
Upon meeting the first consultant, which was only after a 5-minute wait, I was told I could not claim unemployment benefits (ie., I didn't have the right to get government payments) because I had never worked in France. The man who was telling me this was young and appeared very bored. He made it clear that if I could find a job for EVEN ONE DAY in France, I could "touch" money from the state, as I was made redundant in another European Union country. I would have to work only one day in France to get paid a portion of what I was paid in England? Well that was still good news in my book. God bless la France! I envisioned a one-day assignment at my local 8A8 (like a Seven-11 in so-Cal, or a Costcutter in London) and smiled.
Then he sent me back to the waiting room and I waited another 5 minutes for the next consultant, who would deal with the jobhunt -- eg., which job I wanted, where and for what pay. It turned out to be a woman who liked to make jokes. The problem was, I understood all of her jokes, or at least I laughed at the right times, which made her think I had a satisfactory level of French. So all my hopes and dreams of getting a free French course out of the government were literally laughed out of the equation. I couldn't even object, because my French was not good enough to.
So she gave me another convocation to meet with a career counselor-type person. After two weeks (there are a lot of holidays in May) came the appointment. I put Lulu in the garderie, took the metro, crossed a cemetery and walked up a very steep hill until I found the shoddy gray apartment building, on the ground floor of which, between bushes of weeds, peeked the office of the career counselor. I wondered if it was worth putting on my high heels, which I had carried in my bag for the whole journey.
I did, and I opened the door and walked into a shoebox.
Thankfully, this career counselor saw right away that I understood nothing she was saying. Maybe my constant look of bewilderment helped. One thing I did understand: I had achieved a good level in my career and my French would hinder me from getting a comparable position, or anywhere near it -- is what I think she said. She emailed the person I spoke to at the Pôle Emploi, saying that I had not mastered the language and that I needed to be put on a course. She gave me the email address of the person I spoke to, and told me to chase her as soon as I got home. What a relief! I have a chance to get my French in order after all! I have not heard back from anyone yet. But I do have an email address, and if I have to, I will abuse it.
So in my effort to alleviate some of Hubbie's stress, or at least one of the excuses for it, and to offer a bit more financial security -- and let's face it, I have to go back to work eventually, as no one is going to pay me to write -- I resolved myself to finding a job. I started with English language institutes and universities. Then I tried Catholic schools. My lack of teaching experience/credentials wasn't helping. After a month or two of not-very-committed jobhunting, I also enrolled in the government unemployment program (aka the Pôle Emploi).
When I met another American woman who told me the Pôle Emploi gave her free French courses at a local university, I realized it would be a wonderful opportunity to fill in the gaps in my French (which were many) before I got back into the working world. I actually started to see the bright side in declaring myself unemployed.
After enrolling online, I received in the mail a convocation, or an appointment, at the Pôle Emploi. In preparation for the appointment, Hubbie ran through all the most horrible scenarios that could occur on that day, starting from a long wait to the arrogance stereotypically inherent to government workers, to blatant racism. So the big day came when I had to present myself. I did my hair and actually ironed a shirt for it. Hubbie dropped me off in front of the office on his way to work because it was in the middle of nowhere. Lulu in the meantime stayed with a neighbour.
Upon meeting the first consultant, which was only after a 5-minute wait, I was told I could not claim unemployment benefits (ie., I didn't have the right to get government payments) because I had never worked in France. The man who was telling me this was young and appeared very bored. He made it clear that if I could find a job for EVEN ONE DAY in France, I could "touch" money from the state, as I was made redundant in another European Union country. I would have to work only one day in France to get paid a portion of what I was paid in England? Well that was still good news in my book. God bless la France! I envisioned a one-day assignment at my local 8A8 (like a Seven-11 in so-Cal, or a Costcutter in London) and smiled.
Then he sent me back to the waiting room and I waited another 5 minutes for the next consultant, who would deal with the jobhunt -- eg., which job I wanted, where and for what pay. It turned out to be a woman who liked to make jokes. The problem was, I understood all of her jokes, or at least I laughed at the right times, which made her think I had a satisfactory level of French. So all my hopes and dreams of getting a free French course out of the government were literally laughed out of the equation. I couldn't even object, because my French was not good enough to.
So she gave me another convocation to meet with a career counselor-type person. After two weeks (there are a lot of holidays in May) came the appointment. I put Lulu in the garderie, took the metro, crossed a cemetery and walked up a very steep hill until I found the shoddy gray apartment building, on the ground floor of which, between bushes of weeds, peeked the office of the career counselor. I wondered if it was worth putting on my high heels, which I had carried in my bag for the whole journey.
I did, and I opened the door and walked into a shoebox.
Thankfully, this career counselor saw right away that I understood nothing she was saying. Maybe my constant look of bewilderment helped. One thing I did understand: I had achieved a good level in my career and my French would hinder me from getting a comparable position, or anywhere near it -- is what I think she said. She emailed the person I spoke to at the Pôle Emploi, saying that I had not mastered the language and that I needed to be put on a course. She gave me the email address of the person I spoke to, and told me to chase her as soon as I got home. What a relief! I have a chance to get my French in order after all! I have not heard back from anyone yet. But I do have an email address, and if I have to, I will abuse it.
Monday, 27 April 2009
If you're happy and you know it...
What is our 23-month old son Lulu doing these days?
Motor skills:
- he taught himself how to skip a couple months ago
- he likes to climb up and down the ladder at the playground, rather than go down the slide
- but he still loves the slide, which he calls "bagon" (short for toboggan). He should actually say Boggan for short, but early on I incorrectly taught it to him as "tobAgon".
- he dangles himself from any bar he can reach, and he swings like a monkey
- he tries to somersault but falls to the side
- we have started potty training (kaka only), because he can't enter preschool in September unless he is propre (clean)
Eccentricities:
- he likes to rub the nub in the middle of his upper lip, when he is thinking, daydreaming or falling asleep
- he often comes to me while I am cooking/washing up and tells me something in a strange gibberish-language, with few recognizable words, and laughs hysterically at what he said. It's hard not to laugh with him.
- he loves to pretend to make tea and coffee and make me "drink" it, and to cook, as he says, "poisson" (fish)
- he blows on his pretend food and drink before I taste it and says chaud (hot)
- while pretending to use the phone, he says the names of everyone in Hubbie's family, his favourite being Memere Monique
Food and Drink:
- Lulu still uses a sippy cup
- he likes his milk warm and his juice watered down
- his favourite food is poisson (fish), as cooked by his Papie Dèdè (grandpa)
- he loves kiwi fruit and strawberries, and in the winter he loved litchi but he struggled to digest them
- when he is tired, he is more likely to play with his food and put it in his hair. Hubbie and I have a drill now for when that happens: We pull his chair away from the table, I grab a hand, he grabs a hand, and we hope there are paper towels nearby.
- he reeeeeally likes Maman's moroccon tagine -- yay! (anytime he can eat what we're eating, it's a big win)
Sleep patterns:
- Lulu takes a two hour-nap after lunch
- he sleeps about 11 hours at night
- he likes to have his Lumilove Panda near him at night
- we play Bach concertos for him whenever he sleeps; but if he doesn't want it he says, "No tiano" (piano), in which case he gets soothing French comptines (like lullabies)
Motor skills:
- he taught himself how to skip a couple months ago
- he likes to climb up and down the ladder at the playground, rather than go down the slide
- but he still loves the slide, which he calls "bagon" (short for toboggan). He should actually say Boggan for short, but early on I incorrectly taught it to him as "tobAgon".
- he dangles himself from any bar he can reach, and he swings like a monkey
- he tries to somersault but falls to the side
- we have started potty training (kaka only), because he can't enter preschool in September unless he is propre (clean)
Eccentricities:
- he likes to rub the nub in the middle of his upper lip, when he is thinking, daydreaming or falling asleep
- he often comes to me while I am cooking/washing up and tells me something in a strange gibberish-language, with few recognizable words, and laughs hysterically at what he said. It's hard not to laugh with him.
- he loves to pretend to make tea and coffee and make me "drink" it, and to cook, as he says, "poisson" (fish)
- he blows on his pretend food and drink before I taste it and says chaud (hot)
- while pretending to use the phone, he says the names of everyone in Hubbie's family, his favourite being Memere Monique
Food and Drink:
- Lulu still uses a sippy cup
- he likes his milk warm and his juice watered down
- his favourite food is poisson (fish), as cooked by his Papie Dèdè (grandpa)
- he loves kiwi fruit and strawberries, and in the winter he loved litchi but he struggled to digest them
- when he is tired, he is more likely to play with his food and put it in his hair. Hubbie and I have a drill now for when that happens: We pull his chair away from the table, I grab a hand, he grabs a hand, and we hope there are paper towels nearby.
- he reeeeeally likes Maman's moroccon tagine -- yay! (anytime he can eat what we're eating, it's a big win)
Sleep patterns:
- Lulu takes a two hour-nap after lunch
- he sleeps about 11 hours at night
- he likes to have his Lumilove Panda near him at night
- we play Bach concertos for him whenever he sleeps; but if he doesn't want it he says, "No tiano" (piano), in which case he gets soothing French comptines (like lullabies)
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Eating my words
A popular question I used to ask people was whether they lived to eat, or ate to live. Ie., is eating pleasurable for you? As a student, it was easy to answer that. If anyone else did the cooking (and of course, if it did not cost me much), eating was certainly pleasurable. Then as a young upwardly-mobile professional with expendable income, I found my answer becoming more and more a function of how good the chef was (because I always ate out or take-away or delivery). I still remember that era with fondness. My favourite delivery service in 2001 was Afghan House #5. Being single in New York and having neither the time nor inclination to cook, it was on my speed-dial. I comforted myself with the thought I might be keeping their business afloat (plausible, as this was just after 9/11).
After getting married to a Frenchman and having resolved to save money for the future, the question became a function of the taste-to-cost ratio. I have to admit, even if he had just thrown together what was left in the fridge, it seemed like everything Hubbie cooked turned out so very nice. After all, he was born and bred in la cuisine ! Okay okay, morelike in the same house as one. But me, on the other hand? In uni, I had been guilty of stealing my dorm-mates' food to survive because I (literally) couldn't cook to save my life. I was able to cook spaghetti bolognese, but you can't survive a semester on that. I was a one-dish wonder relying on students for food!
It's true, early in our marriage, I tried as much as possible not to cook. I tried to get Hubbie to cook all the meals because I hated cooking, and I hated what ended up on our plates when I was done.
It was only after I saw Hubbie cook a 4-course dinner for our friends, that cooking started to look interesting. And challenging. It looked so challenging that I swore I would never cook for guests. Especially not French guests.
You see, a 4-course meal takes a lot of preparation and timing. Two things I'm not good at. In the kitchen, Hubbie becomes a tornado (Tasmanian Devil-size), well before the guests arrive, and you don't want to get in his way. "What is he doing in there?" "Oh no, he's cursing at the sauce." It all appears to be going horribly wrong. But at the right time, out comes the steaming entrée, and it tastes divine. Then the main dish with a flourish, then the salad with a cheese platter, finally the pretty desserts in glass cups. And he still somehow finds time to follow the conversation and, well, to eat.
After the guests had gone home, Hubbie was typically pleased with his efforts and wanted me to critique his cooking. I marvel at his ability to watch the time and cook most things "live" during an evening. Cooking "live" means cooking the dish just before eating it, rather than simply re-heating something that he already cooked.
So I was inspired to learn, because I knew timing was not my thing and also to take some pressue off of Hubbie. What helped to a large degree were the British cooking shows on Saturday mornings. Yes, it's true! Through them I learned why some foods were better grilled than pan-fried, why you had to fold egg whites in rather than squash them in to a mixture, and just general basics. It was a brave new world of cooking that would bring me back to "live to eat" rather than "eat to live".
So I finally cooked for real French people a couple months ago. However, it was a bit of a cop-out because I cooked Moroccan food rather than anything close to French. I made a Harissa soup a la Nigella Lawson ahead of time and re-heated it for the starter. For the main, we had lamb tagine with apricots over couscous with an orange relish on the side. One of our guests brought a galette for dessert, to my relief, so it wasn't in fact a 4-course show, or even a 3-course one for that matter. But it was a start, and now I've had to eat my words.
After getting married to a Frenchman and having resolved to save money for the future, the question became a function of the taste-to-cost ratio. I have to admit, even if he had just thrown together what was left in the fridge, it seemed like everything Hubbie cooked turned out so very nice. After all, he was born and bred in la cuisine ! Okay okay, morelike in the same house as one. But me, on the other hand? In uni, I had been guilty of stealing my dorm-mates' food to survive because I (literally) couldn't cook to save my life. I was able to cook spaghetti bolognese, but you can't survive a semester on that. I was a one-dish wonder relying on students for food!
It's true, early in our marriage, I tried as much as possible not to cook. I tried to get Hubbie to cook all the meals because I hated cooking, and I hated what ended up on our plates when I was done.
It was only after I saw Hubbie cook a 4-course dinner for our friends, that cooking started to look interesting. And challenging. It looked so challenging that I swore I would never cook for guests. Especially not French guests.
You see, a 4-course meal takes a lot of preparation and timing. Two things I'm not good at. In the kitchen, Hubbie becomes a tornado (Tasmanian Devil-size), well before the guests arrive, and you don't want to get in his way. "What is he doing in there?" "Oh no, he's cursing at the sauce." It all appears to be going horribly wrong. But at the right time, out comes the steaming entrée, and it tastes divine. Then the main dish with a flourish, then the salad with a cheese platter, finally the pretty desserts in glass cups. And he still somehow finds time to follow the conversation and, well, to eat.
After the guests had gone home, Hubbie was typically pleased with his efforts and wanted me to critique his cooking. I marvel at his ability to watch the time and cook most things "live" during an evening. Cooking "live" means cooking the dish just before eating it, rather than simply re-heating something that he already cooked.
So I was inspired to learn, because I knew timing was not my thing and also to take some pressue off of Hubbie. What helped to a large degree were the British cooking shows on Saturday mornings. Yes, it's true! Through them I learned why some foods were better grilled than pan-fried, why you had to fold egg whites in rather than squash them in to a mixture, and just general basics. It was a brave new world of cooking that would bring me back to "live to eat" rather than "eat to live".
So I finally cooked for real French people a couple months ago. However, it was a bit of a cop-out because I cooked Moroccan food rather than anything close to French. I made a Harissa soup a la Nigella Lawson ahead of time and re-heated it for the starter. For the main, we had lamb tagine with apricots over couscous with an orange relish on the side. One of our guests brought a galette for dessert, to my relief, so it wasn't in fact a 4-course show, or even a 3-course one for that matter. But it was a start, and now I've had to eat my words.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Albi
Right, so I posted the photo of Albi and never got to relate the story that went with it.
A friend of mine from London came down for a weekend visit, earlier this month. I decided to made a steak tartar Friday night for all three of us. I got the beef from a trusted butcher, and I saw the machine it was minced in. It looked shiny and clean, and the beef came out smooth as butter. At our supermarket -- called Intermarché, a small one by comparison, with only 12 aisles rather than the 40-60 at Carrefour, Le Clercq or Auchan which tempt you to buy more than you should -- we bought the eggs, cornichons (mini piquant pickles), capers, yellow onion, parsley, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce and other sauces to mix into the steak tartar. I mixed the chopped cornichons, onion, parsley and capers into the steak tartar, then shaped them like a doughnut on each plate and sat an egg yolk in the middle of each. We ate all 600 g of the steak, which was an impressive amount in my opinion.
The next morning, I became violently ill and had to buy some Immodium. But my friend and my Hubbie were fine. So I ask, could it have been the beef? My friend said people's stomachs react differently to different foods. Okay, that makes sense. But to this extent? Everyone had their own egg yolk, so that was the one distinguishing factor amongst our individual plates. So I am convinced I had a bad egg. I usually have a stomach of iron (c'mon, you're talking to a sushi-loving Japanese here), so there must have been something terribly wrong with that egg.
Anyway, we drove to Albi that morning and I made it without having to stop for a toilet break. When we got there, the sun was shining. We found the historic centre and parked in a lot that looked out onto the Tarn river. We were surrounded by brick and timber buildings, some of which looked ready to fall down. To a native Californian who never knew buildings older than 40 years old existed, it was a beautiful sight.
We walked up the steep path toward the massive cathedral and spent an hour in the Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, just next door. I found Toulouse-Lautrec's posters of can-can girls and circus acts comforting somehow, like they were old friends. Then it occurred to me it's because it's this style that is used on the walls and matchboxes of Café Lalo in New York, where I spent many happy hours eating obscenely large desserts with good friends.
Then we wandered around and found the town's market, which was by far the cleanest one I've ever seen. There was stainless steel everywhere, and metal grates on the floor. I felt like I was in a Carrefour-pretending-to-be-a-market market. Nevertheless, you had your butchers, bakers, cheese-makers, green grocers and Chinese food stall all there, side by side. Amidst the hustle and bustle of town regulars and tourists, shouting kids and vendors, it still had its rustic appeal.
Around the tabacs, posters advertised Albi's bid to be deemed a Unesco World Heritage site. Old Frenchmen lounged nearby, smoking pipes and drinking their aperitifs, and I imagined (as I don't understand French very well,) that they were proud of their town and discussing their chances. Judging by the views, the ambience and the glorious crumbling buildings around town, I would give it my vote, even if it lacks public toilets...
A friend of mine from London came down for a weekend visit, earlier this month. I decided to made a steak tartar Friday night for all three of us. I got the beef from a trusted butcher, and I saw the machine it was minced in. It looked shiny and clean, and the beef came out smooth as butter. At our supermarket -- called Intermarché, a small one by comparison, with only 12 aisles rather than the 40-60 at Carrefour, Le Clercq or Auchan which tempt you to buy more than you should -- we bought the eggs, cornichons (mini piquant pickles), capers, yellow onion, parsley, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce and other sauces to mix into the steak tartar. I mixed the chopped cornichons, onion, parsley and capers into the steak tartar, then shaped them like a doughnut on each plate and sat an egg yolk in the middle of each. We ate all 600 g of the steak, which was an impressive amount in my opinion.
The next morning, I became violently ill and had to buy some Immodium. But my friend and my Hubbie were fine. So I ask, could it have been the beef? My friend said people's stomachs react differently to different foods. Okay, that makes sense. But to this extent? Everyone had their own egg yolk, so that was the one distinguishing factor amongst our individual plates. So I am convinced I had a bad egg. I usually have a stomach of iron (c'mon, you're talking to a sushi-loving Japanese here), so there must have been something terribly wrong with that egg.
Anyway, we drove to Albi that morning and I made it without having to stop for a toilet break. When we got there, the sun was shining. We found the historic centre and parked in a lot that looked out onto the Tarn river. We were surrounded by brick and timber buildings, some of which looked ready to fall down. To a native Californian who never knew buildings older than 40 years old existed, it was a beautiful sight.
We walked up the steep path toward the massive cathedral and spent an hour in the Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, just next door. I found Toulouse-Lautrec's posters of can-can girls and circus acts comforting somehow, like they were old friends. Then it occurred to me it's because it's this style that is used on the walls and matchboxes of Café Lalo in New York, where I spent many happy hours eating obscenely large desserts with good friends.
Then we wandered around and found the town's market, which was by far the cleanest one I've ever seen. There was stainless steel everywhere, and metal grates on the floor. I felt like I was in a Carrefour-pretending-to-be-a-market market. Nevertheless, you had your butchers, bakers, cheese-makers, green grocers and Chinese food stall all there, side by side. Amidst the hustle and bustle of town regulars and tourists, shouting kids and vendors, it still had its rustic appeal.
Around the tabacs, posters advertised Albi's bid to be deemed a Unesco World Heritage site. Old Frenchmen lounged nearby, smoking pipes and drinking their aperitifs, and I imagined (as I don't understand French very well,) that they were proud of their town and discussing their chances. Judging by the views, the ambience and the glorious crumbling buildings around town, I would give it my vote, even if it lacks public toilets...
Roasted red pepper quiche
Back to my discoveries in quiche-making...
A few days ago I made a quiche using 100 g lardons (thick bacon chunks), 150 g grated emmental cheese, 3 eggs, 200 ml light cream, 1 pinch of cayenne pepper and 1 roasted red pepper cut into strips and arranged on top to look nice. Also, of course, salt and pepper.
The taste was okay, but the quiche was not its fluffy self. Is that because I cracked the eggs into a bowl that already had the cream in it, rather than into an empty bowl? Maybe the eggs need to be on their own to be beaten well enough, to get air into them so that the quiche rises as it cooks. I will let you know the next time I try...
A few days ago I made a quiche using 100 g lardons (thick bacon chunks), 150 g grated emmental cheese, 3 eggs, 200 ml light cream, 1 pinch of cayenne pepper and 1 roasted red pepper cut into strips and arranged on top to look nice. Also, of course, salt and pepper.
The taste was okay, but the quiche was not its fluffy self. Is that because I cracked the eggs into a bowl that already had the cream in it, rather than into an empty bowl? Maybe the eggs need to be on their own to be beaten well enough, to get air into them so that the quiche rises as it cooks. I will let you know the next time I try...
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
He's just a guest
This morning I met with Nelly, who is trying to improve her English, in a café in a place (pronounced "plahss") populated by small gift shops, generations-old merceries and tea salons. We spoke for the first hour in English, then for my sake, in French.
One of the many things we spoke of was her daughter's upcoming wedding and how a former next-door neighbour called her recently, not to congratulate her, but to ask how she would cope once her daugher moved out of the house. To this ex-neighbour, the wedding was more a cause of grief than of celebration.
"The woman has two grown-up children living at home, one of them is 28 years old," said my English student/French teacher, shaking her head. "We don't get along very well for several reasons, one of which being, she never learned Dolto."
Who? Who is Dolto and what did he say? It turns out Francoise Dolto was a (female) French psychoanalyst who specialised in children and changed the way doctors and the public alike regarded children. From what Nelly said, Dolto suggested at the time (1940s) that children should be treated by parents as guests. As GUESTS? As guests. Wow. That is revolutionary.
But maybe it isn't.
My mom would laugh. She is Japanese and learned her parenting from Confucian/Buddhist/Shintoist parents who expected their children to, for all intents and purposes, worship them. She comes from a country where people used to, and still do in some parts, have 3 generations in one household and hold ancestor worship rituals. I grew up with the feeling I owed her a terribly large amount of money for raising me. Maybe this would be common sense to her. "Of course you owe me," I can imagine her saying. "You were just a guest, after all."
It is a scary thing raising a kid. I can attest to that. Whatever I say and do, I know I'm having an impact on my son. It is a massive responsibility that occasionally gives me nightmares. But it's true that someday, he will leave. He will make his own home. He will (hopefully) have his own family. Is this "treat him like a guest" mentality more for my own protection when he leaves, or more for his own protection, so that I don't guilt-trip him when he does? My mom seems to have gotten it right on the one hand, but on the other, maybe didn't do so well, because the guilt-trip lasted such a loooong time. Or, if one gets it perfectly right, will it allow one's child to become more his own person, somehow?
More food for thought.
Sorry folks, but I have half-baked this blog entry and hope to return to Dolto later...
One of the many things we spoke of was her daughter's upcoming wedding and how a former next-door neighbour called her recently, not to congratulate her, but to ask how she would cope once her daugher moved out of the house. To this ex-neighbour, the wedding was more a cause of grief than of celebration.
"The woman has two grown-up children living at home, one of them is 28 years old," said my English student/French teacher, shaking her head. "We don't get along very well for several reasons, one of which being, she never learned Dolto."
Who? Who is Dolto and what did he say? It turns out Francoise Dolto was a (female) French psychoanalyst who specialised in children and changed the way doctors and the public alike regarded children. From what Nelly said, Dolto suggested at the time (1940s) that children should be treated by parents as guests. As GUESTS? As guests. Wow. That is revolutionary.
But maybe it isn't.
My mom would laugh. She is Japanese and learned her parenting from Confucian/Buddhist/Shintoist parents who expected their children to, for all intents and purposes, worship them. She comes from a country where people used to, and still do in some parts, have 3 generations in one household and hold ancestor worship rituals. I grew up with the feeling I owed her a terribly large amount of money for raising me. Maybe this would be common sense to her. "Of course you owe me," I can imagine her saying. "You were just a guest, after all."
It is a scary thing raising a kid. I can attest to that. Whatever I say and do, I know I'm having an impact on my son. It is a massive responsibility that occasionally gives me nightmares. But it's true that someday, he will leave. He will make his own home. He will (hopefully) have his own family. Is this "treat him like a guest" mentality more for my own protection when he leaves, or more for his own protection, so that I don't guilt-trip him when he does? My mom seems to have gotten it right on the one hand, but on the other, maybe didn't do so well, because the guilt-trip lasted such a loooong time. Or, if one gets it perfectly right, will it allow one's child to become more his own person, somehow?
More food for thought.
Sorry folks, but I have half-baked this blog entry and hope to return to Dolto later...
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
We're here to stay!
What a relief and an answer to prayer: Hubbie got confirmed in his job last Thursday. That means the probationary period is over, and has also not been renewed -- whew! So we are officially permanent residents of this lovely, lively little town. I feel like we can now put down roots, start an herb garden, etc etc. Not really -- we would like to move to a bigger flat soon, and then we wouldn't be able to appreciate the herbs planted here. But I am SO looking forward to planting an herb garden, starting with flat-leaf parsley, basil and thyme...
On a side note, we had our first date night in years two Fridays ago. We went to a posh restaurant that seemed to only serve duck (a specialty of this region, but even so...), and then we went to the coolest bar I've been to in... a decade??? I felt well out of place in my uptight clothes and jewelry which I only wear on special occasions. We spent wayyyy too much money on the regional duck dishes and felt a bit silly about it. But the point is, we actually did it. It was the first time in years we were out, and we need more practice at it, but it's good to be reminded we are firstly a couple and secondly, parents.
On a side note, we had our first date night in years two Fridays ago. We went to a posh restaurant that seemed to only serve duck (a specialty of this region, but even so...), and then we went to the coolest bar I've been to in... a decade??? I felt well out of place in my uptight clothes and jewelry which I only wear on special occasions. We spent wayyyy too much money on the regional duck dishes and felt a bit silly about it. But the point is, we actually did it. It was the first time in years we were out, and we need more practice at it, but it's good to be reminded we are firstly a couple and secondly, parents.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Ode to Quiche
One big change in my life since Hubbie has gone back to work is the increased importance of dejeuner (lunch). This is because he works only 15 minutes away by car, so a couple of times a week he comes home for lunch. He doesn't ask for much. I could put a tuna sandwich in front of him and he'd be happy. Yesterday all he had was bread and a tin of Saladiere, and he didn't complain. But today, I thought I would try my best to be a good wife. I thought, if he's coming home, he shouldn't just come home to canned fish. So I made a quiche.
Last weekend I bought a roll of ready-made pastry crust (the crust is brisée, not sure what you'd call it in English). It occurred to me the French traditionally made quiches to use up leftovers. What a great idea! I looked through my fridge and tried to match what I saw with one of the quiche recipes I had. Eggs, tick. Cream, tick. Then I thought, Hold on a sec. This is simple stuff. It's always the same basic things (eggs, cream, emmental cheese), just slightly different added bits.
I had a leek and lardons fumées (like little pieces of thick, smoked bacon). So why not? I fried up the 100 g lardons and then added the sliced leek (just the white part). I splashed a bit of water in it to keep the leek from getting crunchy (other recipes used stock, but I didn't have the time nor inclination). In a bowl I mixed together 4 eggs and 200 ml light cream and then 100-150 g grated emmental. I didn't mess with splitting yolks and whites. I didn't even use the scale to measure the emmental. Hey now, that's exciting! Then a dash of salt, pepper and ground nutmeg (or cayenne pepper, but my 21-month old doesn't like the kick).
Once the leek was soft, I added the lardons and leek into the wet mix. Some perfectionist's recipe tells you to "sprinkle" the lardons over the crust to make sure it gets evenly distributed. To that I say, What a waste of time!
I wanted to add a tin of button mushrooms but then I remembered who this was for, and he hates mushrooms. Anyone ever try putting canned mushrooms in a quiche? Was it good?
With well-clipped nails, it should only take at most 5 minutes to stretch the crust over the baking pan you're using and poke holes in the bottom with a fork. I had taken the dough out of the fridge well in advance, but it took way too long for me to press the dough into the ridges of the pan as I tried to avoid getting nail marks in the dough. Once that was done and the wet mix was in the crust, I realised I had turned on the oven way too late. Now I had to wait for the oven to heat all the way to 180 C. Fortunately, Hubbie arrived at 12:30 and not 12, and the quiche was ready at 12:40. Presented with a bit of salad, voila. And not only did he like it, but his finicky son did too. I think we'll be eating a lot of quiche for the next few weeks.
Last weekend I bought a roll of ready-made pastry crust (the crust is brisée, not sure what you'd call it in English). It occurred to me the French traditionally made quiches to use up leftovers. What a great idea! I looked through my fridge and tried to match what I saw with one of the quiche recipes I had. Eggs, tick. Cream, tick. Then I thought, Hold on a sec. This is simple stuff. It's always the same basic things (eggs, cream, emmental cheese), just slightly different added bits.
I had a leek and lardons fumées (like little pieces of thick, smoked bacon). So why not? I fried up the 100 g lardons and then added the sliced leek (just the white part). I splashed a bit of water in it to keep the leek from getting crunchy (other recipes used stock, but I didn't have the time nor inclination). In a bowl I mixed together 4 eggs and 200 ml light cream and then 100-150 g grated emmental. I didn't mess with splitting yolks and whites. I didn't even use the scale to measure the emmental. Hey now, that's exciting! Then a dash of salt, pepper and ground nutmeg (or cayenne pepper, but my 21-month old doesn't like the kick).
Once the leek was soft, I added the lardons and leek into the wet mix. Some perfectionist's recipe tells you to "sprinkle" the lardons over the crust to make sure it gets evenly distributed. To that I say, What a waste of time!
I wanted to add a tin of button mushrooms but then I remembered who this was for, and he hates mushrooms. Anyone ever try putting canned mushrooms in a quiche? Was it good?
With well-clipped nails, it should only take at most 5 minutes to stretch the crust over the baking pan you're using and poke holes in the bottom with a fork. I had taken the dough out of the fridge well in advance, but it took way too long for me to press the dough into the ridges of the pan as I tried to avoid getting nail marks in the dough. Once that was done and the wet mix was in the crust, I realised I had turned on the oven way too late. Now I had to wait for the oven to heat all the way to 180 C. Fortunately, Hubbie arrived at 12:30 and not 12, and the quiche was ready at 12:40. Presented with a bit of salad, voila. And not only did he like it, but his finicky son did too. I think we'll be eating a lot of quiche for the next few weeks.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
The wrong side of the tracks
From our living room window on the sixth floor, the windswept sky, a municipal sanitation warehouse and a freight train station take up most of our view. A long nondescript building which I assume functions as train storage or for fixing old trains, runs right to left and seems to divide the multiple lines of rail into two halves. At night, when the fog rolls in and the dim streetlights puncture the dark, we can sometimes see a pair of headlights raking the streets, someone undoubtedly in search of the type of female company that's for sale. Not far from the train tracks is a settlement of people who live on the streets, called in French, SDF (sans domicile-fixe). Many of these SDF, generally the ones who choose to live rough, have large scary dogs who look hungry enough to eat you if you pass too closely. It's said the SDF keep these dogs to deter police arrest, on account of a law stating a dog must be caught and cared for if its owner is arrested. I generally don't have an opinion about the homeless keeping dogs, except when I step in what they so generously leave behind on the pavements.
People tell me this town isn't what it used to be, that it's seen much better days and no one seems to care about it anymore. Now it is a haven for the SDF and other not-so-desirables. To me, it still has a beauty and a history asking to be explored...
People tell me this town isn't what it used to be, that it's seen much better days and no one seems to care about it anymore. Now it is a haven for the SDF and other not-so-desirables. To me, it still has a beauty and a history asking to be explored...
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