It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…
The Skippie Team (The Boyfriend, Fifty, and me) woke up to a snowy Sunday morning in Le Petit Village.
Monsieur Snowman blessed us with a full five centimeters. Not a huge amount, but after living in Dublin for six years (plenty of rain, no snow) and Texas before that, that five centimeters made me feel very Christmassy inside, like I had eggnog flowing in my veins.
And since I was feeling full of holiday cheer and Fifty’s petit paws had never touched snow before, we braved the cold and headed out for a little fun.
Fifty loved the snow. He frolicked in it. He ate it. He turned bits of it yellow. He would have been quite happy to stay out there all day but we were cold and hungry and had a lunch date to keep. Papa’s Wife had invited us over.
Love being invited for Sunday lunch. Food and wine for hours and somebody else does all the work.
The Skippie team put on our Sunday best (except Fifty, he wears his best fur everyday) and hopped in the car. The Boyfriend managed to suppress his inner boy racer as the Renault slowly made it’s way down the snowy mountain. Fifty and I were quite relieved to arrive safe and sound at Chez Papa.
Don’t you love the holiday season when you walk into some houses and they ooze holiday cheer? They just feel cozy and smell like Christmas. Well that’s how it felt walking into Papa’s house and any plans of an eat and run went out the window. No reason to rush back up that mountain.
Papa’s Wife showed off her Neapolitan creche and told me all about the little characters. But in French so I didn’t understand much.
Then we sat down for an aperitif of champagne, fois gras, olives, and mushrooms.
It was just the three of us. In true Provencal man fashion, Papa was doing what he does every Sunday…hunting. I guess even the snow doesn’t stop that tradition.
Aperitifs were followed by some pasta and little parcels of what I thought was beef. Looked like beef, tasted like beef. Nope. Bird. Some birds that Papa had killed on one of his Sunday excursions. Luckily the Boyfriend didn’t tell me what I was eating until we got home. Birds freak me out, and I don’t like the idea of one in my belly – and yes I eat chicken. Chicken is different. Don’t fly, not a bird.
But back to our lunch…
As we were finishing cheese and pastries, there was a knock on the door. Guess who… The Spaniard. Yes. The Boyfriend’s friend, The Spaniard, had found us at Papa’s house. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, The Boyfriend has some sort of low jack on him.
The Spaniard arrived just in time for the digestif.
I love French life… aperitif before you eat, wine during, and digestif after.
I was poured an innocent looking glass of this stuff…
Take a look at the label… do you see that 47% written on it? Well I didn’t until after I downed my drink. Let’s just say that the bird was digested, quickly, along with any other food that was in my body. All incinerated by this innocent looking stuff called Marc.
If I’m ever in need of getting ridiculously sloshed, like Las Vegas sloshed, I now know who to call, my friend Marc.
It was a wonderful Sunday… Fifty met Monsieur Snowman. I visited a Neapolitan village (sort of). We sipped some champagne. The Spaniard tracked us down. Clermont beat Leicester in rugby. And I have a new friend, named Marc.
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