It's Me, Sara Louise

The above needs to be sung while doing jazz hands, with your head shaking, eyes closed, and letting your hips have a little spazz attack. I’d show you a how to video but that would be embarrassing.

The Skippie Team loves pizza night. Not so much Fifty, because he doesn’t get any but the rest of us (me and The Boyfriend) loves it.

Living in a metropolitan city before, I took for granted all the restaurants and food deliveries I had at my disposal. Between lunch breaks from work and random night outs, I spent a hefty chunk of my paycheck for someone else to prepare my meals. Life here is very different.

Le Petit Village has one bistro, where we have never eaten a meal. During the summer we’d sit outside for a drink or an ice cream but at night the Belgian and German tourists would descend and take up all the tables. And the owner seems to like it that way. He moved here from Paris two years ago and he doesn’t seem very ‘locals’ friendly. One day The Boyfriend stopped by and wanted a bowl of ice cream, the bistro man told him to go away, he was too busy. Not smart. Especially since the last owner wasn’t very locals friendly either. The story goes…

The previous owner and his wife moved to Le Petit Village from up North. On their bistro’s first weekend open some local hunters came in wanting a few glasses of Pastis (Provencal hunters drink Pastis like water. That scares the hell out of me. They’re heavily armed and drunk). The owner refused to serve them, he said he didn’t want dirty hunters in his bar. A few weeks later the owner’s car had been burnt out and the bistro had been set fire to. I’m not saying there’s a connection but I’m real friendly to all the local villagers.

Anyhoo, I heard the new bistro owner is looking to sell and move back to Paris.

Back to my love of pizza night (Pizza Night, Pizza Night, oh how I love Pizza Night!)

Our closest restaurant other than the bistro where we don’t eat is over twenty minutes away (and with snow and ice, almost an hour). No deliveries, no fast food, no delis. If you’re hungry, your making the food yourself. Except for Tuesdays.

Tuesday nights, the pizza man comes to Le Petit Village and parks his van in front of Le Petit Notre Dame. For one evening a week, I get to pretend that I don’t live in a teeny village with 250 other arsonists… oops… I meant people.

Allow me to share my joy with you. Feel free to sing the pizza night anthem as you peruse…

P.S.

The Spaniard showed up just in time for pizza night.

Supposedly he was just driving by and happened to hear The Boyfriend’s voice while he was ordering at the pizza van. Yeah right (RE: lo-jack).

He said he’d be back next Tuesday. Yippee.