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Santa's Little Helpers
{photo: courtesy of Kirsty} A few weeks ago, I met Kirsty (You Had Me at Bonjour, Kirsty) for dinner in Aix at a cozy place called, Hue Cocotte (we had let our husbands come along too and we all had a marvelous time… like a getting home at 2am kind of marvelous time). Well on that night, I saw Aix-en-Provence dressed up in it’s Christmas finest for the very first time. I was in awe, Aix certainly knows how to impress when it comes to putting on the dazzle. I knew that I would have to go back with my mother in tow.
Fast forward to last weekend when we were in Toulon… I was telling Mrs. London how Christmassy Aix was looking and wouldn’t it be lovely to stroll though the Christmas market, stopping for a Nutella crêpe or some mulled wine (them, not me, I don’t do mulled wine). And that’s when our holly, jolly, plan came together… we would meet in Aix one night during the week to take in some Christmas joy.
As for me, I couldn’t have been more excited with the plan, I’d be free to take my time admiring all of the Santons and holiday candy on display under the twinkling lights of Cours Mirabeau, without the dreaded huff and puff of The Husband because he would be distracted with Guinness and Mr. London in an Irish pub somewhere.
Well we weren’t counting on it being freaking freezing.
We met Mr & Mrs London at Le Belle Epoque for a drink, and since it was so warm inside, and so cold outside, we ended up staying put. Christmas market, what Christmas market? It was a holly, jolly, fail.
But besides still being able to see the festive lights from my warm spot inside, I was still able to partake in a little bit of Christmas magic involving a completely different holly, jolly, plan…
La Professeur (my good friend and French tutor) had contacted me awhile back, asking if I would be able to help her with a secret something that would spread some holiday cheer. Now, I’m all about the holiday cheer, so of course I told her to count me in. See, her husband is a life long Toulon fan, and La Professeur wanted to know if there was anyway I could get a rugby ball to Mr. London so he and maybe some other players could sign it for her husband for Christmas. The least I could do was try.
So last weekend I arrived in Toulon with a brand new ball, and handed it off to Mr. London. When that little Christmas angel gave it back to me there was barely a blank spot on it! He managed to get every player to sign it… everyone single one of them! I was so happy for La Professeur that I almost cried. The joy at her house on Christmas morning is going to be spectacular!
But here’s the thing… I don’t always have the fullest confidence in La Poste (for example; I’m waiting on a box that was sent from Dublin on the 13th, the last tracking notice has it leaving Heathrow early morning on the 14th… where is it La Poste, WHERE?!). And since La Professeur lives an hour and a half away from The LPV, but only thirty minutes from Aix, I called her up and said, “hey, do you want to meet in Aix, we’ll have a drink, you can meet my mom, and I’ll deliver the special holly, jolly package?” She thought that was a fantastic idea.
That’s when a small snag threatened to ruin her Christmas surprise… her husband decided that he wanted to go to Aix too. La Professeur was worried… would he somehow see the ball… would he figure it all out… would all of that plotting and planning be for nothing…. dun dun dun…
Pas de problème, I assured her. We’d meet first without her husband, she’d hide the ball in some shopping bags, and he would be none the wiser. So that’s what we did, and everything went off without a hitch, better even, because her husband wasn’t expecting the pre-Christmas surprise he got that evening…
There La Professeur’s husband was, sitting quietly, having a coffee, while we chattered all around him, when lo and behold, who should walk in but one of his rugby favorites, Mr. London! The look on his face was pure Christmas magic… like a kid on Christmas morning kind of Christmas magic. As far as Christmas cheer goes, it definitely beat strolling through the market freezing my tookus off. (And he hasn’t even seen the ball yet!)
{Santa’s Helpers} This year, I am officially one of Santa’s little helpers,well thanks to Mr. London anyway.
bisou
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Anatomy of a Christmas Tree
Now that you’ve seen Papa’s Crèche (but I have to confess, and as shocking as it may sound since you saw both a hunter and a fisherman hanging out in that thing, that you didn’t get to see all of it), lets take a closer look at mon petit sapin de Noël.
See how that Joyeux Noël hanging from the branches is blue and not red, or green. Well that’s because our tree is pretty much blinged out in blue and yellow gold, ASM Clermont’s colors. Now, whose idea might that have been… (I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Fifty so…. ). So yeah, with the exception of a few random ornaments, I have a tree dedicated to a rugby team. How very festive.
But my tree isn’t all blue and gold, I have a few Newbridge silver ornaments that have been gifted to me over the years. They’re my little bit of Ireland shimmering brightly from the tree (even if the silver clashes with all the gold a tad bit). And I have another piece of Ireland…
When my mother was moving back to Texas from Dublin, her sister-in-law gave her this angel and then not too long after, passed away. My mother thought I’d like the angel for me tree and brought it over for me, so now I feel like I have a real angel (thanks Auntie Kay and say hi to my daddy for me – I have this great image of them having pints together in heaven).
And I just realized that despite The Husband’s Clermont Rugby theme, I’ve got a whole lot of Ireland on there too… there’s the red Starbucks cup I bought in Dublin last year that’s been waiting patiently to be hung up (if I can’t get the real thing, I’ll take a mini ceramic one. I like to pretend it’s full of Gingerbread Latte).
Then of course there’s my favorite Christmas ornament (it may look like nothing more than a beer mat that I swiped from a pub in Dublin but it is oh so much more than that).Now would you look at that… even though my favorite ornament is an Irish ornament, it’s a rugby ornament too, which kind of goes hand in hand with The Husband’s theme so it all works out in the end. A bit of me, a bit of him and it’s all topped off by the sweetest, most golden angel of them all…
RoRo.bisou -
he sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake
I’m not talking about Santa, but man oh man, I wish I was. I’m talking about the guy that makes getting coal in your stocking look like a happy meal… the one, the only… Le Père Fouettard.Don’t know who he is? Pas de problème because I’m about to tell you. I learned about him three years ago right before my first French Christmas and just reading about him was enough to scare the bejeezus out of me. Since the countdown to Christmas is winding down, I thought now would be a good time to retell the tale of the man that shall not be named and give all of you fair warning… you’ve got six days to clean up your acts and be good for goodness sake! Originally posted 15th December 2009
. . . . . . . . . .OK, this is weird. I was doing a little reading about French Christmas traditions. Figure since I’m here, might as well find out the happenings of the holiday, French style. And there is no use asking The Boyfriend, he is useless at relaying this kind of information.
So, in France, Santa Clause is Père Noël, nothing strange there, but Père Noël has a partner, and it’s not Rudolph. It’s an evil man named…dun dun dun…. Le Père Fouettard.
{source} (I think the “dun dun dun” adds a nice dash of scary, don’t you?).
According to my sources (the ever reliable Wikipedia), Le Père Fouettard was a guy who kidnapped three little boys, robbed them, killed them, and then chopped them up and put them in a stew.
Holy Reindeer Droppings! How the Fudge does this guy end up having anything to do with Sugar Plums and Mistletoe? Apparently, Jolly Ol’ St. Nick some how discovered the crime (maybe when Le Père Fouettard’s name was flashing in red lights all over the naughty list) and magically resurrected the children (nice tie in to J.C. there with the resurrection – it is his birthday after all). Le Père Fouettard ends up feeling bad and becomes St. Nick’s partner and goes around with him on Christmas.
But get this, Le Père Fouettard doesn’t become all full of holiday cheer like Ebeneezer Scrooge did, he’s still sinister, so instead of handing out pressies, he punishes all the naughty children instead. Usually with a good old fashioned flogging.
Nothing says Christmas like a flogging.
Safe to say, I’m usually a well behaved girl, but after reading about you know who (don’t want to type his name again in case it has some sort of Beetlejuice effect) I’m going to be on my best behavior this holiday season.
Don’t want you know who coming to town.bisou -
simply too good to give it a name
Thank you to everyone who took the time to vote for me in the Expat Blog Awards. Thanks to you, Sara in Le Petit Village was awarded with the Bronze!
And thank you for reading and commenting. Each and everyone of you make me very happy indeed.(For a complete list of the winners, click here. They are all very talented bloggers and most definitely worth the read.)……….Oh boy oh boy oh boy, what a perfect weekend that was.
(I hope yours was good too because mine was almost as perfect as perfect can be.)
The perfect goodness started on Friday night when my mom made the most delicious salmon swimming in a creamy wine sauce that was pure heaven (having your mom cook for you is always such a treat), followed by the season finale of Downton (I’d seen it, my mom had seen it, but The Husband hadn’t seen it and am I really going to complain about watching that cutie Branson twice? No, the answer is no). And then after a night of sweet full belly dreams of English Manors, we woke up and hit the road to Toulon.
We arrived a little after lunchtime, and with the whole day stretching before us, our only plan was for a little R&R… Rugby and Raclette.
The rugby kicked off with Toulouse vs. Ospreys (that to be honest, we didn’t pay much attention to, sorry Toulouse and Ospreys), warming us up for the match of the day… Clermont vs. Leinster… The Husband’s home team vs. mine. This match is always a big deal in our house but does tend to turn me into a bit of a schizo. Leinster is my team, the first team that I followed, so without question, they’re my boys. But as much as I fell in love with The Husband, I fell in love with ASM Clermont too… RoRo, Morgan, Cudmore, and Pierre all have a teeny piece of my heart so watching my old boys play against my new boys tears me up something fierce.
Well my new boys beat my old boys but that’s OK, since last year my old boys won the Heineken Cup (and kicked my new boys out during the semi-finals), so this year it’s my new boys’ turn.
Rugby over, it was time for the next perfect part of the day… Le Raclette. I was so excited, not only had my mother never had it, but Mr &Mrs London hadn’t either, and they were full of questions about how they should do it. Well that’s the marvelous thing about Raclette, there is no wrong way to do it. All that matters is you get that cheesy melted goodness on your plate and you’re good to go. Bon Appétit!
The perfect day of R&R was finished off with a round of Phase 10 (I lost) and then some Scatagories (I won).
P E R F E C T
The sun was shining and shimmering off the sea as we walked along the port of Toulon Sunday afternoon. Mr. London had already gone to the stadium to prepare for his match against Sale Sharks, while we passed the time with a long lunch. We didn’t have a reservation but somehow still ended up with the most perfect banquette in the packed restaurant, a nice big comfy round one. We settled in with our Rosé and got started on lunch and Mrs. London caught us up on the gossip…
One tidbit was the best, most salacious piece of gossip I’ve heard in ages. And as you know, The Husband loves a bit of scandal. I actually thought his head was going to burst right open he was smiling so wide as he leaned in to Mrs. London soaking up each and every word she uttered. It was that scandalous. (Unfortunately passing on this juicy piece of information wouldn’t be very ladylike of me, so my lips are sealed… but just trust me…. it was royally good. Did you catch that hint?).
And after the perfect lunch of moules marinière avec des frites, blinis au saumon fumé, salade césar au poulet, crème brûlée, café gourmand et Rosé (beaucoup) we walked across to Stade Mayol to watch Mr. London do his thing, and boy did he.
Toulon: 62
Sale: 0OUCH!
Not only was it perfect because one of Toulon’s nine tries belonged to Mr. London (my mother did tell him that morning that he would score one by the way), but he was named Man of the Match to boot. How’s that for perfect?
C’est parfait!bisou
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wrap it all up with a bow
++ Nicola from Growing Berries sent me this pillow. Isn’t it the cutest thing? The LPV has been immortalized in the coziest way. I love my Le Petit Village pillow!
++ My mother arrived safe and sound yesterday. I was too lazy to cook (plus I figured that after a flight from Texas to Chicago to Paris and the the TGV to Aix and the car ride to Le Petit Village, she’d be too tired to care) and since Thursday night is Pizza Night in The LPV, pizza it was! Total daughter fail I know, but I am planning on making up my laziness to her… with cheese.
++ On Saturday night we’re having a Raclette (tis the season you know). We’re going to Toulon to watch Mr. London play on Sunday, so we all thought, why not go on Saturday night and hang out? (Actually, this was totally Mr. London and The Husband’s idea, and in the interest of full disclosure, Mr. London really wanted us to come down today, but c’mon, I’ve got stuff to do for heavens sake). Not only will this be my mother’s first Raclette, but it’s Mr. & Mrs. London’s as well. I’m super duper excited. I love spreading the joy of cheese. I’m like the Ambassador of Cheese.
++ When The Husband and I first met, it was the beginning of the holiday season (28th November to be exact) and before going on dates, we would meet up in front of the large Christmas tree on O’Connell Street in Dublin and then stroll hand in hand under all the festive lights that were strung about the city. Because of this memory, Christmas lights make me feel all warm and fuzzy. Just felt like sharing I guess.
++ Remember how The Husband had never seen Harry Potter until a couple of months ago? Well the other night, we watched the second one, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (‘Harry Potter et la Chambre des Secrets’… that’s not too strange at all). I’m pretty sure we’ll be watching all of them over the holidays. Fine by me. Harry Potter is one of those things that feels Christmassy.
++ I can’t stop listening to French pop songs from the 60’s (like that Zou Bisou Bisou song that Megan sang on Mad Men) specifically Laisse Tomber Les Filles. I’m driving The Husband batty.
++ So now that we’ve passed 12/12/12, let me ask you a question, do you think the world is going to end on 21/12/12? Do you think anything will happen at all or do you think it will just be a day, like any other? (And yes, I wrote 21/12 and not 12/21 because I’m European like that.)
++ And one more thing… The 2012 Expats Blog Award will be announced tomorrow. With so many amazing expat in France bloggers out there, I barely stand a chance, but I thought I’d give it a go anyway, and maybe if I’m lucky, can end up in the top ten. If you would be so kind as to leave a little comment love (comments = votes), I would be ever so delighted. (To leave a comment you can either click here or on that blue button).
S’il vous plaît et merci.bisou -
Papa's Provençal Crèche
Big stuff is happening around here people, big stuff! My mother is arriving in Le Petit Village for the holidays tomorrow. T O M O R R O W !
Fifty and I have turned into headless chickens as we run around trying to get the house in order (the house is never quite clean enough for a visit from your mother).
So because I’m busy little bee, instead of my usual waffling on about Gatz, or hunting or whatever else is irritating me around here, today I thought I’d show you some festive photos of a traditional Provençal crèche and let that be that.
This one belongs to Papa’s Wife and is full of Santons (Santons are the ‘little saints’ that decorate a creche. They are a speciality of Provence. The first ones were created in Marseilles during the French Revolution. History lesson… BOOM!)
Since no Nativity scene would be complete without the little guy, here he is… the baby Jesus… with an angel flying above, his mom and dad, a little drummer boy, a couple more angels, a donkey, a cat, and I think some guy playing a violin (???). I’m not sure, there’s a whole lot going on there.
To the left is a moulin (perhaps used to produce wheat flour) with a few little bakers who are off to sell or make their bread (I’m not sure what they’re doing). The rocks there in front of the bakers, are part of the rock wall that Papa works on every year (and if you remember from a couple of years ago doesn’t let any of us touch).
Here’s another wall that Papa built. I think this one is supposed to be a bergerie (shepherds hut) since I’m pretty sure that the guy with the lamb on his shoulders is a shepherd, plus because of all the other sheep hanging about. And I think that might be a goat with the horns next to the lady.
And not only did Papa build a shepherd’s hut, but he made a river so that the little fisherman, has something to do, and the ducks have someplace to swim…
Next up is the Santon that I’m pretty sure is Papa’s favorite…
Yes, no crèche is complete, without a wee hunter. Obviously.
And if you’re wondering what the hunter is shooting at, well here they are…
Wild boars being chase by a hunting dog… in a crèche.Okidoki.bisou -
Mon Petit Sapin de Noël
This is my fourth Christmas as a Le Petit Villager. The fourth! Me, I can hardly believe it.
But even though it’s the fourth, it’s the first one that we’re staying put, and since we’re finally staying put for the holiday, we finally got a tree.
(My first year here we got Fifty instead of a tree and went to French Mommy’s in Auvergne, then the next year we went to Dublin, and last year we were back at French Mommy’s… again, no tree)
Since I have been beyond excited for my first Sapin de Noël, I have wanted to spread the Christmas joy. I want everyone to be swept away with the spirit of sparkly lights and shiny ornaments. And since everyone includes my husband’s husband, I had The Husband call Gatz to ask him if he would like to come over and help us decorate it;
The Husband: Come over on Saturday, we’re getting the Christmas tree and you can decorate it with us, it will be nice.
Gatz: But Toulon is playing on Saturday, we need to watch that.
The Husband: Oh you’re right. Well come over and watch the match and then we’ll decorate the tree.
Gatz: I don’t know. Maybe.Then a couple days later Gatz called The Husband;
Gatz: I’m making a Tartiflette for Saturday and we can have it after the match.
The Husband: So you’re bringing the Tartiflette to my house?
Gatz: No, we’re having it at my house after we watch the rugby.
The Husband: But I told you that me and Skippy are decorating the tree. Come over and bring the Tartiflette if you want to make one.
Gatz: {incomprehensible moaning and complaining}
On Friday, The Husband’s phone rang;
Gatz: So I’m getting ready to make the Tartiflette for tomorrow. What time are you coming over?
The Husband: There is something wrong in your head. We aren’t coming over. We want to decorate the Christmas tree tomorrow night. Are you coming over to watch the match or not?
Gatz: {incomprehensible moaning} Tartiflette {incomprehensible moaning} my house {incomprehensible moaning} Tartiflette.
On Saturday morning the time had finally come. We were on our way to pick out our very first tree as a couple (a couple’s very first tree is a big, big deal people, especially when that couple has already been married for two years). And because we wanted to make sure we got the most perfect tree, we drove all the way to Carpentras, to Honey B’s wife’s jardinerie (you know Honey B, he’s Honey Jr’s big brother… you went to his wedding and his 30th birthday party).
And on the way, The Husband’s phone rang;
Gatz: I made the Tartiflette last night.
The Husband: OK, then bring it to my house, we’ll watch the match, decorate the tree, and eat the Tartiflette.
Gatz: But it’s too big to bring over, plus the roads are bad.
The Husband: The roads aren’t that bad, I’m almost to Carpentras and they’ve been fine.
Gatz: Still, I made the Tartiflette so you guys need to come over to my house if you want it.
The Husband: We’re not coming over.
Gatz: But then I’m going to be at home all by myself.
The Husband: You don’t have to be, you can come over to our house, and if the roads are bad, you can spend the night.
Gatz: {incomprehensible moaning} Tartiflette {incomprehensible moaning} my house {incomprehensible moaning} Tartiflette.
Immediately after arriving at le jardinerie, we spotted our tree. It’s vertically challenged, but perfect (since Fifty is scared of really tall people, I thought a really tall tree might not be the best idea).
And then later that afternoon, we watched the rugby and after Mr. London and Toulon won, we turned on the Christmas music and decorated our first tree.
As for Gatz and his Tartiflette, he ate it at home alone and has been pouting ever since. He’ll be pouting all week, but I don’t care, because I have the prettiest little tree in The LPV.
It smells like Christmas.bisou -
Fifty Has a Bad Mommy
I’m a bad Mommy.It’s true, a bad Mommy.
On Wednesday, while I was all busy writing about cheese and Gatz’s hosting skills, I should have been writing about something else, because when I finished, I logged onto Facebook and saw this post:
Three years ago today my mommy and daddy adopted me. I get all choked up just thinking about it, I love those guys. I love you guys too. Thank you for being my friends and making me feel loved every single day. I’d lick all of you if I could.That’s right, it was Fifty’s third anniversary and I had completely forgotten about it and he hadn’t. See, bad Mommy (and to add to the guilt he has his head snuggled across my feet keeping them warm right at this very second. He sure does know how to milk it).
So in honor of his adoption, I’m going to re-post the story of how Fifty escaped a life at the shelter and the name Nonos (Nonos is the name on his birth certificate. Sometimes I like to shout, ‘Nonos’ just for fun, and Fifty looks at me funny). Without further ado, I give you, Le Woof Woof
(ORIGINALLY POSTED 7TH DECEMBER, 2009)
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..Something happened on our way to pick out the Christmas Tree…
{call me Nonos} … we picked up this little guy instead.His name is Fifty, he’s three months old, and he snores. Loudly.And if you don’t take him for a walk IMMEDIATELY after drinking water, he piddles.And he likes to chew fingers.
{PUPPY BELLY!} But he’s adorable and gives sweet, sweet kisses so all that piddling and finger chewing is quickly forgiven.And he’s very smart.He already understands ‘NO‘ in two languages.bisouP.S. If you’d like to make Fifty’s day, you can become friends with him on Facebook. Just click here. Making friends is his favorite (except for his green ball) -
Raclette Season
Well it’s official, winter is here.OK, I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself, “now hold your horses Sara Louise, winter doesn’t start until December 21st” and you would be right, except in Le Petit Village (and the Southern Hemisphere of course). Here in The LPV winter starts when the Raclette starts and the first Raclette was Friday the 30th November, at Chez Gatz.
That’s right. I said Chez Gatz. He finally moved out of his grandparent’s house and into his very own apartment (they grow up so fast) and feeling like a grown up, decided he wanted to host an evening, and what better way to Christen one’s new home, then with melted, gooey cheese.
We (and that we includes Fifty) arrived just in time for l’apéro and my first surprise of the evening…
Gatz’s kitchen table was set with a table cloth and place mats. SAY WHAT NOW?!Who are you and what have you done with my husband’s husband???And then as if Fifty wasn’t already on cloud nine by just being invited, his first surprise of the evening occurred when Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey arrived. I thought my little furry homeboy was going to freak right the F out. The excitement was almost too much for him. And then he saw this plate of Charcuterie, and almost passed out.
Unfortunately for Fifty, he got an unpleasant surprise when I told him that none of it was for him, but Tonton Gatz had a nice bowl of water if he was interested. (Have you ever seen a dog make a sad face? It’s heart breaking, I assure you).
Now a large platter of meat is all well and good, but a Raclette just isn’t a Raclette without the cheese…
{And on the 8th day, after a rest, God created cheese} BEHOLD! CHEESE!So we sat down and got to it.Boiled potatoes (skin left on) were plopped on top of the grill and the mini skillets were slid inside.
As this is my third Raclette Season, I have learned that not everyone Raclettes the same. For instance, Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey like to place the meat on top of the grill and cook it a bit, while The Husband and Gatz, don’t even bother. They simply pour the melted cheese directly on top of whatever is on their plates. I on the other hand, like to place a slice of meat under the cheese and then cook them both together. It’s what works for me. (When the cheese is melted all gooey on top of the meat, I take it out and pour it on top of a mashed up potato… it’s mmm mmm good.)Besides the set table, and perfectly plattered meats and cheeses, Gatz had another surprise up his sleeve… Champagne… which he decided to pour like he works on a cruise ship or something…
Surprisingly, he only spilled a sip.But since Champagne does not a digestif make, Gatz broke out the Disaronno and Grappa (he works in Italy a lot). I went with the Grappa and after a couple of sips, it was like all that cheese had never even happened.Digestif accomplished.
{Husband Approved} All in all, it was the perfect Winter kickoff and Gatz was the perfect host. Thumbs up Gatz.Color me surprised.bisou -
we have a winner and some other stuff
The winner of the Le Petit Village notecard giveaway is…… Milsters!Congratulations Milsters, send me your address and I’ll send a little piece of The LPV your way.+++++++++++++++++++++++++AND NOW FOR SOME OTHER STUFF+++++++++++++++++++++++++
{4} ++ Remember when I told you that I got The Husband hooked on The Real Housewives of New Jersey? Well I’ve outdone myself, now he’s hooked on Downton Abby too. I feel like the luckiest girl in the whole wide world. Every spare moment is spent cuddled up on the couch watching what’s going down in the Crowley house, which is just about perfect because cold, late autumn days are made for cuddling up on the couch.++ There’s something about Downton Abby that reminds me of Christmas, I’m not sure why, but it does. And more specifically, it reminds me of Christmas in Dublin. Whereas Thanksgiving finds me crying for the U.S., for me, Christmas is all about Dublin and with only 21 days to go until Santa’s arrival, I’m missing Dublin something fierce. I swear, it’s the most magical place to be at Christmastime (other than the North Pole of course, but who really wants to be at the North Pole at Christmastime, I bet it’s freaking freezing. I spent a Christmas in Bucharest once, and the was cold enough for me thank you very much). Long story short, I’m missing Dublin, and if you ever have the opportunity to spend Christmas there, I urge to, you won’t regret it, and that’s a Sara Louise promise.++ Do you see that fire hazard in that picture up there? Well besides The Husband’s malleable television habits, there’s another reason why I’m the luckiest girl in the world… the other day he came home from work early and busied himself upstairs in a very secretive manner. It turns out it was the fourth anniversary of the day we met (although I had completely forgotten) and he had lit all of those candles to surprise me. It was the sweetest fire hazard there ever was.
++ Do you watch Sons of Anarchy? If you don’t, you should. You so should. Honestly, I’m borderline obsessed, and that’s OK, I’ll admit that. Recently I came across this article in Rolling Stone about it… see, Sons of Anarchy is practically Shakespearean, totally highbrow.
++ At this very moment I am drinking the most perfect cup of tea (Barry’s of course). It’s so perfect I had to stop and tell you about it. I’m a firm believer in celebrating small victories and making a perfect cuppa qualifies.
++ My favorite new way to practice my French is by watching Le Juste Prix, it’s the French version of The Price is Right. I’m really, really good at it. Instead of being on during the daytime, it’s on at night, right before the news, and sometimes I watch it with Papa. We shout at the TV together. It’s a fun way to bond.
++ And now that I realize that this whole post is practically about television (minus a fire hazard and a cup of tea) I feel like I should take this time to mention that I am reading too… New York by Edward Rutherford if you’d like to know, but since my kindle is telling me that I’m at 59% I guess I’ll be finishing it soon.
So what are you reading?My goodreads wants to know.bisou
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It's Me, Sara Louise 