Estelle's new Housecoat

Today's French lesson;
I learned that a "housecoat" (a word we all use in my family but perhaps is less common around the US?) is a 'robe de chambre", whereas a bathrobe is a "peignoir".
The learning never ends when you are a foreigner.
Now Estelle has a housecoat for the cooler months. It sports a monogram of "Becassine", this old cartoon character, I guess you would call her. She is from "Bretagne" (or Brittany) that part of France up in the north west, not far from Mont Saint Michel. She's like the TinTin for girls, in her own wierd way. This is her:

Buche de Noel

What ever is this strange thing in the photos below?


There is weakness, and then there is WEAKNESS.
Every day lately when I go into our bakery on the street level of the building, I've been mildly captivated by something new for me here in France - mini Buche de Noels. After 6 and a half years, I've seen most everything that the Nicois bakeries can throw at me. You name it, I've tried it. Orange-water flavored fougasse (what's all the hype about? I don't think it's anything special), Beaujolais Nouveau (yes, I mean the red wine) mixed with Lyonnais Sausage in a heavy bread (oh, don't knock it 'til you've tried it, my dear, for I have become a believer), and of course the Nicois speciality, swiss chard and pine-nut cake (again, judge not ye of little faith).
But for a week now, these mini-Buche de Noels have been drawing my attention. First it must be said that they are cute as the dickens, decorated with tiny little Santas sometimes, but always with these dollops of fresh hardened meringue to look like snowballs, and of course the piece de resistance is the little miniature gold saw decoration, all different kinds of saws, on each one. Unfortunately the photo above you can't really make out the saw.
Anyway, the first day I saw them I totally forget Estelle (who of course knows her way around the place like her own bedroom and thereby was happily behind the counter demanding in gibberish a breadstick from the owner who acquiesed as usual) and hunkered low over the display case, completely forgetting my manners and breathing right onto the glass as I inspected them all.
There is every sort you can imagine, the basics like Chocolat, Coffee, Mint, to Grand Marnier (this one has the most impressive golden saw), Praline, Almond, Nougat, and some ones I don't even know what the hell they are. Up to now, I have been able to resist because I was always in the frame of mind of "how could I even choose?" and "they're really just a tiny bit too generous for one person to go with your afternoon tea." For the past 6 months or so, once a week on average I allow myself a lemon meringue mini-tart, it's about 6 bites worth and it is oh-so-lovely. The alarming part is when the girl that works there says to me in the afternoon "and perhaps a little lemon meringue treat for Madame?" What is scarier: that she is calling me Madame, or that obviously I have a reputation for lemon meringue? Good lord, I'm becoming Amelia Bedilia.
After hearing about how I am "too" thin and that I should either put on some weight or buy new pants, I struck up this "I can eat whatever I want" attitude which I think is finally catching up with me as the jeans are no longer falling off. This corresponds with no longer breastfeeding for the past 3 1/2 months. Hence me saying "I don't need one of those little Buches, for heavens sake."
But TODAY, in I walk to get some bread and Deborah smiles at me and says "I've got a little something for you...." There, glowing up at me is a Mini Buche de Noel Citron Meringue. "I'm in". I said to her, and in 2 seconds she had it all wrapped up.
Readers, I must confess once back up in the apartment and all the groceries were put away, that I strapped Estelle into her activity chair, handed her a crayon and some paper, blocked her view of me, and settled down to what can only be described as the same feeling Edmond must have felt when the Snow Queen let him gorge himself on Turkish Delight in Narnia. Or Augustus Gloop drowning in pleasure in the chocolate river in Willy Wonka.
I was almost dizzy after. Thomas doesn't know, I destroyed all the evidence. Decadence and smooth silk rolling over your tastebuds. I'm in trouble for the next 3 days before I get on the plane Sunday morning because now that the seal has been broken it is all downhill from here. It is DOWNSTAIRS for the love of god. I can go in my PYJAMAS.
This reminds me that Carnival is not far away = "bugnes" season (see previous post called "Addictions" from March of this year).
Heavens.
While I'm busy spiralling into a pastry-sugar filled coma, this is what my family is up to: fun with a box:

Happy Birthday Heather

My niece Heather is turning 1 year old tomorrow (Wednesday). My nephew Jacob also has his birthday tomorrow. Our family is so big we have to start sharing birthdays.
She is darling. Here she is with her tree.

Here are her brothers with the snow outside her house. We are very jealous. We miss snow and the cold at Christmastime.


However, there are some advantages to a warmer weather climate. For example, here is what you CAN do when you live someplace WITHOUT snow:

Then there's the Grecian urn/Hermes the messenger pose:

And finally, old man on the couch look.

Au Revoir Barry

Barry Manilow is the nickname I gave to Robert, our next door neighbor, almost 2 years ago when we moved into this apartment. I first met him when, at 5 months pregnant, I spent 10 minutes fighting with the 3 locks and keys, trying to get myself into the apartment, swearing profusely as I really needed the toilet, as you do when you are pregnant. I called him Barry because he had a haircut that was "dated", as you might say, and because in the first week after moving in I could hear him strumming a guitar through the open window and crooning away to ballads from the 80's. In the nice weather (most of the year here in Nice!) he pulls a big armchair out on his balcony and reads the newspaper in the setting sun, looking out a the little slice of sea we can see from our building.
That day of the key-battle, Barry popped his head out of his apartment and said, in his unmistakeable Niçois accent, "Can I help?", and within a minute all was well.
I baked him a peach cobbler for thanks. He had never heard of peach cobbler and had a lot to say about it!
We have shared tools, anecdotes, cookies, tips, and many other things in two years. I've scolded him for smoking his atrocious cigars in the elevator. We've hung out on our balconies discussing my dying plants and his passion for fishing and swimming several kilometers every day in the sea. In the beginning I could hardly understand him half the time, his Nicois accent is so thick! And he has funny expressions that only true Nicois people do - like starting almost all his sentences with "Dites" and then saying whatever he wants to say - sort of like saying "Say,...." in English.
If I leave my hall light on, he knocks on my door and says "Julie, are you are Thomas made of money? Can I send you my electricity bill too?" and then chuckles away to himself. He invites us in at regular intervals to show us his progress as he has been painstakingly renovated every last inch of his apartment which he inherited from his grandmother. We discuss his artwork. He adopted a table I was going to throw out and the next thing I know it's in his entryway, all spiffed up.
Barry is a widower, his wife died young and tragically when his children were very young, and now at 54 he is in half-retirement, enjoying living in this one bedroom apartment next door to us.
Imagine our shock when Thomas saw 2 strange men burrowing around in Barry's storage closet on our shared private landing and found out they were his son and son-in-law, and that Barry/Robert had dropped dead of a heart attack the other night.
Now his sad adult-aged children are outside my door, both of them the spitting image of him, overwhelmed with responsibilities and decisions and turning around and around in his apartment, not knowing how or where to begin, Christmas lights blinking around them.
I kept saying to them "But I JUST saw him." "Us too", they murmured. He was in great health, his daughter said.
Proof that life is short.
Here's to Barry Manilow. I hope he is dancing the Copa Cabana with his wife somewhere up above.

"Why, Thank you...."

One of the goals of this blog is to illustrate life as a foreigner in France. Today's experience warrants mention.
Off we go to Holiday Party #3 of the weekend this afternoon, at the home of our "nounou", or the nanny/day-care provider who takes care of Estelle two mornings and one day per week. I had made sugar cookies, rolled, cut out with cute American cookie cutters, decorated with red and green colored frosting, etc, carefully layered in Tupperware with waxed paper, done early enough that the frosting had hardened and wasn't sticking to anything. Accompagnied by a lovely bottle of white dessert wine left over from Estelle's baptism (thank you to my in-laws!), well, we were feeling QUITE armed for the occasion. Friday afternoon I had discreetly handed our nounou a photo Christmas card of Estelle (very uncommmon in France and thus a big hit) along with a gift card to the French equivalent of Macy's, Galleries Lafayette. She was very pleased and appreciative.
In short, despite Estelle's recent illness, and my own, I had gotten my act together, done the cards, given the gift, baked the cookies, put on my flashing tree pin, my red pants, my green shirt, my dark lipstick, Thomas shaved, and off we went for an afternoon of champagne and eating Buche de Noel feeling like a little family and VERY glamourous with Estelle in a Prada holiday dress.
There were 4 other children who either are presently or formerly cared for by nounou Kathy, their parents, as well as Kathy and her husband Francois' 3 children. So we were numerous.
My cookies were lovingly placed on a beautiful Limoges platter and handed around the table amidst much reaction and interest as what we take for granted as a decorated holiday cookie is unknown here. Corks popped, flutes foamed with the bubbly, I smugly noticed no one else had brought anything to share and I felt oh-so-in-control.
And then.....
One of the other mother's, who I barely know as Estelle is not even half-time at this joint, reaches across the table and hands Estelle a large wrapped box with her name on it. "Happy Holidays!" croons this stranger as she settles this large box in my and Estelle's lap. You could have knocked me over with a pin. I stammered to say something and then, WHAM, Mother-I-Don't-Even-Know-Her-Name-Number-Two slides an huge squishy wrapped thing over to me and in mounting panic I see "For Estelle, Love Marie" written on it. "Happy New Year!" She beams at us. Thomas is two seats away from me, on the "men's" side of the seating, engrossed in some ridiculous conversation about plumbing. I turn my head and try to give frantic looks but he is clearly captivated by Marie's Dad talking about corrosion or something so I turn back to try and think what to say when... oh no, the Italian woman who is the mother of Carlo pulls brightly-wrapped-box number 3 out of a bag and hollers something at me in Italian and adds to the pile this gift that says "For Esther, from Carlo" She then begins to profusely apologize that she thought Estelle's name was Esther, and it's because Carlo pronounces it with his little Italian accent so she misunderstood my daughter's name. I am totally speechless, saying something assinine like "well, we were going to name her Esther, you know, I love Esther Williams, do you know her, the old star, the swimmer?"
Who the hell knows what I said to that poor woman, babbling on about Esther Williams and Ziegfield follies, jumping between French and English and Italian. Then Kathy herself produces Unexpected Gift Number Quatre for my daughter and I gripped my champagne flute even more tightly. "Um, I am so sorry, but you know, we didn't bring anything for the other children. I didn't know, I'm so sorry, I only brought the cookies...." Suddenly my cookies look pink and not red, the shapes are totally unrecognizable under the frosting, in fact, I now wonder if they don't look a little like pastel Easter Eggs.
Is it the champagne, or is my face red hot with embarrassment? Thomas doesn't even know that I am slowing sinking into despair as he is now subject to a tirade about Sarkozy and the immigration laws.
In the end, I said "Sorry" in about 14 different stupid ways, followed by dumb disclaimers like "You know I'm a foreigner" (like that's not obvious) or equally ridiculous "oh what a wonderful French custom I didn't know about yet" or then "Thomas is French, he should have told me" when I started to grasp at straws. Of course they were all incredibly gracious and all responded with "don't you give it another thought" or "it doesn't matter" or even worse "your cookies are delicous".
Groan.
Kathy's husband took pity on me and refilled my champagne twice during this moment which felt sort of like a public stoning except I inadvertently was the one throwing the stones at myself.
Lordy. The capper was when Kathy went and dug out an enormous handled shopping bag to use to cart all Estelle's ill-earned loot home in.
Note to self- when you go to a "Gouter de Noel" with kids, bring a gift for every damn kid in the place. Period. Forget the cookies.

On another note, here is a video of Estelle from this morning, before her mother brought shame on the family's good name later in the day.

The Gang

Praise to the Lord, Estelle is healthy again. In celebration, we attended two Christmas events today. One with our friends, and one with Estelle's. Here are a few shots and a video of the more interesting of the 2 get-togethers:

Alessandro, Lucille, Thomas, Estelle and Elliot. Missing were Pauline (though her mom was there!), and of course Maxence, prisoner to Paris.

40°C

We're still ill over here. Now it's poor little Estelle with a fever and all that goes with it. The Doctor saw us today and gave me all kinds of potions to get her back on the mend. I don't know what 40 degrees celcius is in Farenheit, but when you feel it on your baby's face in the middle of the night, it is H-O-T.
Here's a little movie of her in one of her better moments this afternoon.

Taking Precautions

Well, the facts are this: I'm still recovering from my sinus infection and bronchitis, but the real reason why I can't get to my blog with photos from Morocco is this:
My husband.
When we left on Nov 24th, he took his usual close-up-the-fort measures, which includes shutting all the shutters, turning off the main water in-flow, as well as shutting off the gaz. All smart ideas. He also usually unplugs all the electrical things for the TV, computer, stereo, etc. This time, he decided to just save himself the trouble and flip the main breaker off. Not a smart idea.
This means that on Dec 3rd, 10 full days later, we entered the apt, tired, sick and hungry and landed in what I like to now call "Fermented-used-to-be-frozen-and-now-has-been-locked-up-in-your-beautiful-brand-new-Samsung-fridge meat-land."
You get the idea. It wasn't pretty, and it sure wasn't fun for the nose, neither.
We are still recovering. Pitched everything in the freezer and the fridge into multiple garbage bags wearing bandanas around our faces, with Estelle scrunching up her nose and saying "Hmm? Hmm? Hm?" A scrubbing and heaving and de-odorizing 3-days later, it now just sort of smells lightly like the bottom of the school cafeteria garbage pail.
Thomas, note-to-self: don't do that again, it may be grounds for legal action by your wife.

The Vegetable Peddler

Alive and well in Nice after Marrakesh (I'm spelling this the French way, have no idea how it must be spelled in English?)
More on Morocco later.
I'm on death's door with a sinus/bronchial infection which I picked up in north Africa it seems. So here's a little video something for Estelle's grandmother over in America until I get back on my feet and post some trip photos. Note that this video is a good 3 weeks old.
Estelle, needless to say, was thrilled to see us. She is stuck on us like a fly on flypaper now. Every time we leave the room she hollers. Must be afraid we are going to jump ship on her again!

Riding on the Marrakesh Express

Don't you know, we are?

have been in the land of couscous for a week and heading back to France, and Estelle, today.
Stay tuned in a few days for photos and commentary.
And thank god I didn't end up like Kate Blanchette in "Babel", which I had the misfortune to see a few weeks before coming here....