L'Araignée

New discovery this weekend. L'araignée. A friend of ours announces at the table that she ate a bavette de l'araignée last week. Sounds pretty doesn't it? Translated - spider steak. Reality - the piece of meat that encompasses a cow's anus - the hole included. I didn't believe them when they said you get the hole too but look here!!! If you have an active imagination (like me) you can guess where it's situated. As my dear friend, Harry, would say, EEEEEWWWWWWWWW!

http://www.cuisine-campagne.com/index.php?2007/05/02/248-araignee-des-pres-et-sa-sauce-au-poivre-vert


http://partners.nytimes.com/library/dining/071200french-steak.html

Personal discoveries

I met this person in the metro last night. We spent all of 6 minutes talking but in the metro, at night, that's an eternity. I was just sitting there reading the Silmarillion when this lady approches me. She has an English accent and I assumed she was a tourist so I responded in English. She asked me how to get to Opera station. I indicated the most obvious route and she said the line is closed so I got up and showed her a map of all the lines and suggested line 3. She was very friendly and got me talking (not hard to do). She told me she lost her bag on the RER line A and was surprised that the station would be closed on a Sunday thereby prohibiting her from checking in to see if it had shown up. I explained that lost and found is in the bottom of the 15th district and only open on weekdays. She asked me about her chances of getting it back . . .. blah blah blah. You see, we really got to talking. I talked about my job, my family . . . . like a dimwit I even told her my name!! Then . . . then suddenly she asked me for money. I realized that for the last 5 minutes it was all an act. Worse yet, at that moment, I realized she was a HE. What I'm about to say may be strong but the emotion in me was overwhelming. I felt violated. Really icky. He never said or did anything to make me believe he was a woman. I just thought "she" was a very ugly woman. He was dressed rather neutrally. He did have a high pitched voice and feminine mannerisms. I was rather perplexed by my reaction. I thought about it all night and even this morning and I think I know why. When I thought he was a woman I felt no threat. In fact, I thought she was a foreigner like me. I spoke to her as I would a woman and most certainly NOT a man - especially a strange man. Because I was not on my guard, he was able to enter my comfort zone. The French get alot of hell for being unfriendly, cold, and rude; but, in their defense, there are so many scam artists and kook jobs running around this city that one has to protect oneself. In his favor, I have to say that he was very polite and probably a nice person and I think that is why my reaction to this experience bothers me. He's down on his luck and he thought that by becoming friendly with someone it would be easier to get a few coins. However, the bottom line is that I opened up and made myself vulnerable to a strange man in the Parisian metro. I think my reaction is the result of realizing at what point I could have put myself in danger if I'd stumbled onto someone dangerous. And believe you me! When you amass 12 million people in such a small area you're bound to have a few thousand bad apples. I'm going to have to work on my snooty-aloof-metro-profile. Sucks.

Baeckeoffe

I've invited our cousin, Francois, to lunch on Saturday. Understand the pressure. This man is an amazing cook. The last time I saw him, he made a blanquette de veau that would make you forget your mother. The time before we had a rabbit stew. He hand picked the rabbit hours before : ( Then I saw him pick the head out of the stew pot and proceed to eat EVERY last piece of flesh still sticking to it, brain, cheeks, tongue . . . . I was just thankful he'd done it after I had finished. Francois loves to press my buttons and I cringe every time he invites us over to eat. The last time I had him over for dinner I made a duck and olive stew. He kicked me out of the kitchen and it finished as a duck stew in a four spice cream sauce that was orgasmic! He is such connesieur that I cannot make "just anything" for this lunch. I mean, this is the man that has made me eat Chicken Testicle and Cock's comb soup, kidneys roasted on a flame, headcheese, and many other delicacies that I've chosen to forget because the memories give me dry heaves. So, what shall I concoct for dear Francois? Baeckoffe (it's Alsacian). It's REALLY REALLY REALLY good. It's a layered dish. You marinate all the meat in white wine for 24 hours. You slice 2 kg of potatoes and alot of onions. Then you make a layer of potatoes/onion, layer of pork, layer of P/O, layer of lamb, layer of P/O, layer of beef, layer of P/O. Pour the marinade over the top and let it cook on low heat for like 5 hours. Unfortunately for my "petite nature americaine" the pork meat consists of 2 pigs feet and two tails. It's seems it's these ingredients that make the sauce. I honestly didn't know where I'd find such delectables. Anyway, I went to my local outdoor market this morning and found a butcher that specialises in pork. What I wasn't expecting was the long line I had to wait in and especially the shopping lists of the people around me. EVERYBODY was buying pigs feet, muzzle, ears, tails, some shoulder every now and then. Alright, the feet I can understand, good sauce, and when the butcher struck 'em open and quatered them I could see some meat. Even on the tail there is some meat. BUT holy schmoley what's up with ears and muzzles? We're talking about skin and cartilage! I've been here almost 12 years and culture shock is still an everyday occurence.

The bad seed that is Eve . . . .

When used correctly, and not as an evacuation of our own frustration, corporal punishment can work wonders. Case in point:
This morning Michel had to deliver a vergette. Sorry, I don't know the English word. A vergette is a very thin long piece of wood. It ressembles a linguini noodle but only longer . . like 4 feet longer. This particular vergette was made in 1907 and is just as fragile as a linguini noodle would be if it was 4 feet long. It is used to pull the mechanical parts of an organ when an organist pushes a key. Anyway, I digress. At the same time, Michel had to deliver Nicolas and his friend Claire (both three years old) to Claire's parents for the morning. The only option was to place the vergette between the two children, look them in the eye, and with a deep voice forbid any notion of touching, licking, hitting, fighting over the said vergette. He adjusted his rear view mirror to monitor the children. Claire felt the outreach of Satan take hold and, bless her little soul, she touched it. Michel reprimanded her and threatened a spanking the next time she did it. So much for Parenting 101 : only threaten that which you can back up. The sweet invitation to sin was far too enticing to resist and, once again, Claire touched the proscribed vergette. This time Dr. Spock responded by saying the "next time you touch that vergette I won't even say anything. It'll be an instant spanking." Total silence. Seemed to have worked. Then, he heard her small cartoon-like voice say to Nicolas, "Don't you want to touch it?" Nicolas immediately replied in the following manner (and I quote) :
Nicolas no touch vergette.
Nicolas touch vergette, Daddy mad.
Daddy mad, Nicolas spanking.
Nicolas spanking, Nicolas butt hurt really bad.
Nicolas cry and Claire too.
You'll have to excuse him. Linguistically, he's a little behind because he's bilingual.
By the way, I think his last spanking was in April 2007 and it was just one short quick slap on the butt. It stung him just enough so he wouldn't forget that he doesn't deliberately defy me with a stare-down.

Your Vote Counts

OK.
I've got this diary. I started it in December 1988. I was 17 and from what I can tell I was a total moron. I've always written diaries to evacuate frustration, or sadness, or anger, or just to record something really funny. Now I have this book that is chocked full of some of the most vulnerable moments in my life. At one level I can't stop laughing at how cheesy I was; and, at the same time, I'm engulfed with horror at the thought of my husband or son reading it. What do I do? I know the only way to have peace of mind is to destroy it. But it's a part of me. I don't have a good memory and when I read it it's as if I'm in those places again. I'm back in that same skin. I wrote so vividly (much to my shame) that I can almost see the actual people in front of me. I figure that I have three options :
Burn it
Rewrite it
Find a hole in the house somewhere.
You decide.

I'm not making this up

Nicolas went to a birthday party on Sunday afternoon and came home with a couple of party favors, one of which was an egg that we are to put in water for 48 hours and a little dinosaur will hatch. Brace yourself. My mother-in-law asked us if it was a good idea to get another pet with the cats.

I should have stayed in bed!

There are days . . . I'm surprised I survived. Take Monday. My kitchen is empty and I have both parents and the mother-in-law to feed. We all pile into the car to go grocery shopping and boom. It's dead. Engine won't turn over. We get home from shopping at the corner market. My mom asks for a fleece jacket. No problem. I go in my closet and boom, I find it's infested with moths. A couple hours later I take Nicolas to the park and boom, some kid's babysitter takes possession of Nicolas' only shovel. She really wouldn't give it back to me. As I sat fuming about it boom! some kids running with a bucket of very cold ice frigid water spill the bucket on me. I jump about 10 feet in the air; and, as I land ajacent to the pond which was my seat, a pigeon poops on my head. No kidding. Green gooey pigeon poop. That night, while walking back from a choir rehearsal I was very careful not to cross against any lights. I was sure I was marked for death. Nothing happened. I was genuinely amazed. Then, I turn on my cell phone the next morning to find out that the precedent evening, I'd forgotten another very important rehearsal with my tenors. Good times.