It's Me, Sara Louise

It’s Me, Sara Louise

Hi! You might know me as C’est Moi, Sara Louise. Before that I was Sara in Le Petit Village. Now, It’s Me, Sara Louise. Hello again.

  • do over

    It’s Brocante Day here in The LPV which basically means that all hell is about to break loose. While us locals tend to go into hiding (or flee for our lives), our streets will be overrun by the 75s (Parisians) the 78s (almost Parisians), Belgians, Swiss and the Dutch, all scouring the stalls for flea market finds (it’s like a turf war).

    This year, we’ll be having lunch at Papa’s house, Gregory is cooking (Lord have mercy). But normally when it’s Brocante Day we like to get out of town.

    And with that, I bring you this trip down memory lane: (originally posted Aug. 4, 2010)

    {no parking}

    Sunday was the annual flea market in Le Petit Village. Stalls lined the streets and at 7am, on my walk with Fifty, I saw the first arrival of the Brocante lovers. 
    (A 7am Sunday arrival into Le Petit Village is hardcore, it’s not like Le Petit Village is ‘in the neighborhood’. We’re kind of hidden on top of a mountain, tucked out of the way of everything else, and not the least bit convenient. These people really must love their Brocante.)
    {lots and lots of cars}
    {lots and lots of people}
    By 10am, the village was packed. We knew that the only way to preserve our sanity was to get out of there. And wouldn’t you know it, there was a perfect place for Brother-in-Law, Honey Jr, The Husband and me to go…
    The Pastis party in Ongles. What’s that you say? Pastis party?! It’s crazy talk, I know.
    The Husband’s hetero-life-partner, Gatz, practically lives at the bar that was hosting the party, so he was pretty insistent that we go. Not like we needed much arm twisting.
    We arrived a little after noon. Gatz had been there for two hours marking his territory…
    {reserved for Gatz}
    The boy does love his Pastis. Look, I think he’s actually trying to hug it…
    {I heart Pastis}
    Being more of the sensible, mature types, Brother-in-Law, Honey Jr, The Husband, and me abandoned the crazy Pastis induced shenanigans inside the bar and headed to a table outside to sample the other Provencal delicacy on offer; aioli.
     
    This is a traditional, local dish of cod, green beans, cauliflower, carrots, and boiled eggs, topped off with aioli. I love aioli but if you eat it, don’t plan on any kissing or close contact with other human beings for a few days.
    And while we were enjoying our food (and warding off vampires with our breath) the crazy Pastis party people decided to form a conga line for our viewing pleasure…
     
    {feeling hot hot hot}
    When they were finished with the conga, they began to throw water on each other. Because that’s what you do after you’ve been drinking Pastis all morning. 
    Brother-in-Law and Honey Jr were not amused…
    But you know what is amusing?
     
    {Honey Jr and I like to dress alike}
    cotton candy.
    bisou

  • the summer fate date

    Weeks ago, Kirsty, Aidan and I decided that we needed to start planning our next date because the last time we were all together was April Fools Day and that was practically forever and a day ago, and with summer flying by the way it is, if we didn’t hurry up and do something, we’d miss it. 
    (if you want to read about that April’s Fools Day you can here and here) 
    Normally when we start sending these date planning emails, it takes quite a few back and forths trying to coordinate a date that works for everyone because as you can imagine, with three couples who are always traveling for work, racing bikes over French mountains, or sipping Rosé on the beach with rugby players, plus seven children, and two dogs, there is always something going on. But this time all of the stars aligned and it only took one email, and one date; Saturday the 28th of July. Clearly it was fate.
    And Saturday the 28th of July ended up being the perfect summer day at Kirsty’s house. It was a hot 33°C (96°F) but we all stayed cool… the kids splashing about in the pool and us sitting under the ceiling fan on the porch with our drinks and nibbles.
    (One of the kids… OK, I’ll spill… Aidan’s Littlest… came over and reached his little wet, pool water hand into the adult’s bowl of potato chips. Being the mature adult that I am, I walked over to the kid table to take some chips out of their bowl, but their potato chips were all wet and soggy. It was really gross.) 
    Not wanting to be left out of all of the cooling off fun, Clementine joined les enfants in the pool for a quick dip (easy choice because there was no way we were sharing any of our Champagne with her). 
    Having already gotten rid of les enfants and the dog, but still knowing that the only way we were going to get any real talking done (and be able to drink the Puech-Haut Rosé that Aidan bought without having to share), we needed to ditch the husbands too. We convinced them that they would have much more fun splashing about than hanging out on the patio with us boring girls (total dullsville we are). They bought it.  

    And there we sat, blissfully swilling sipping Rosé and quickly chattering away, trying to squeeze in as much as possible before one of the husbands or les enfants crept up on us needing something or other (they always need something).

    But then nighttime rolled around and with hungry bellies shouting to be fed, everyone got out of the pool and into their dry clothes. And for reasons that are beyond my comprehension, instead of walking the twenty steps to the bathroom, Gregory decided to get into his dry clothes in the kitchen and of course Kirsty walked in and busted him (it being her kitchen and all).

    No, that wasn’t awkward at all.

    bisou

    P.S. I promise you that if you invite us over, my husband will not get undressed in your kitchen – he’s had a stern talking to.  
    P.P.S. Guess who is celebrating their two year wedding anniversary? 
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  • le baptême

    {a fairy tale christening}

    I have failed you my friends. La Petite was christened and I was without a camera to capture all of The LPV goodness (and trust me, there was loads) so I will do my utmost to describe it as best as I can.

    By the way, me not having my camera can be blamed on wardrobe malfunctions… first Gregory’s and then mine; Gregory slipped his foot into his suede loafer and the stitching split like he was the Incredible Hulk or something. Monumental huffing and puffing ensued as I desperately attempted to safety pin it together without the pin showing. And all the while I was doing that, (with an Incredible Hulk huffing puffing monster freaking out about his shoe) I was frantically trying to find a bra that worked under my dress (the dress was a brilliant blue color, lined on the bottom, but ever so slightly sheer on top. I have know idea why I didn’t suss that out before the morning of the Christening, but I didn’t).

    So there I was, changing in and out of my dress over and over again, switching bras, and in between each change, running over to Gregory, trying to pin his shoe together. Add 30°C (90°F) and no AC and you get the drift. It was the opposite of calm.

    And now you know why I forgot my camera, but be happy in the knowledge that I eventually found an appropriate undergarment and was victorious over the safety pin and the shoe so Gregory did not go to the church looking like a hobo.

    But here’s the irony of the situation… even if I was wearing a bra that wasn’t quite right, and Gregory looked like a hobo due to a split seam in his suede loafer, we still would have been the most appropriately dressed pair there (besides Papa and Papa’s Wife, they both looked lovely). Some of the inappropriateness was G L O R I O U S.

    Child Bride’s grandmother (not the one who used to own the Epicerie, the other one) wore a blue t-shirt with silver stars on it and capri jeans… a t-shirt and jeans to her great-grandchild’s christening in a Catholic Church (at least she didn’t wear the leopard print fedora she wore to Child Bride’s wedding). However, Child Bride’s other grandmother (the one who did use to own the Epicerie) was wearing a beautiful white pantsuit, but she failed to actually go into the church. She and her sisters sat outside the bar across the square having coffee during the ceremony. Color me aghast.

    And then my favorite… Child Bride’s sixteen year old cousin walked into the church wearing a sheer black, strapless mini dress, with a neon green slip under it that matched her six inch neon green heels (that’s right… six inch). When I saw her I thought for a moment that I had been magically transported to either 1) a nightclub in Essex or 2) a Gypsy wedding. But no, I was in a Catholic Church and a sixteen year old girl had walked in like she was doing the walk of shame. Say it with me… G L O R I O U S.

    Clearly, my pearls were wasted on the day.

    But La Petite was too cute for words in her white Broderie Anglaise romper and little white Mary Janes. I just wanted to eat her up she was so cute, especially when she kept shouting; “NO NO NO” like a child possessed every time the priest tried to get near her, so naturally, I desperately wanted to shout, “Out Ye Devil!”. But I didn’t because that would have been inappropriate.

    And that’s pretty much all I wanted to tell you about the day… La Petite’s soul is safe, Great-Grandmothers do not always know best, a little black dress is not always a classic, and sometimes at a Christening’s after-after party, this can happen…

    {you’re welcome}

    G L O R I O U S
    bisou

    P.S. Thank you Sarah B. for capturing Brother-in-Law in all of his glory
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  • the way we were

    {BFFs}
    ++ Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey came over for l’apéro Thursday evening. Fifty was so excited when I told him and as soon as he heard their car driving up, he started F R E A K I N G  out. His tail was moving so fast I thought he was going to take off. 
    ++ Last weekend, Sarah B. and her husband were visiting from London, I haven’t gotten around to posting about it yet but she has. If you would like to read about The LPV from someone who has visited and lived to tell the tale, you can do so here. 

    ++ I sent Gregory to pick up four items at the store. I wrote a list. I even wrote the list in French. One of the items on the list was ‘céleri’, which doesn’t take a linguistics expert to deduce is ‘celery’ in English. It’s even pronounced similar. Somehow he came home with a leek. One single leek. If someone could explain to me how that happened, I would really appreciate it.

    ++ I came across this article about Buffalo Soldiers on Slate the other day and got a little misty eyed. My grandmother’s grandfather was in the 9th cavalry and reading about it made my chest puff out a little so I knew that I had to share it with somebody. That somebody happens to be you.

    ++ Last night Papa and I shelled peas and drank Rosé. And let me tell you, shelling two kilos of peas, gives you lots of time to bond.

    ++ Today I’m off to a BBQ at Kirsty’s house. Aidan is coming too. It’s going to be great. Sunny 31°C (that’s 92!), sitting poolside sipping Rosé with nonstop English chatter… H E A V E N. At Aidan’s request, I’m making my macaroni salad (tastes like America) and Aidan is making some sort of blueberry dessert for us and brownies for the kids so they don’t get blueberries all over themselves. So then I told her to make enough brownies for Gregory too because I don’t want him covered in blueberries either (it would happen… trust me) but then we remembered that we can just throw him in the pool, so it will be OK. But I bet he eats both anyway.  

    bisou
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  • let the photos do the talking

    I’m all jumbled. Between the Brazil Day, Louisette’s 90th birthday, Suzy-Q being here, then Sarah from Texpats Abroad and her husband visiting, plus La Petite’s christening (all in the space of three weeks), I’m a little overwhelmed and don’t even know where to begin to tell you all about everything. So, I’m going to let some photos from the last few weeks do most of the talking, and give my tired wee brain a break.

    ++ See this bottle of Cairanne… this is the reason that I’m OK with Gatz being Gregory’s hetero life partner (Gregory is The Husband… remember?). He buys me really nice bottles of wine to keep me happy and the nagging at bay. He also bought me that extra large wine glass (plus five others). Gatz knows what mama likes. I opened that bottle up the night before Suzy-Q arrived (a treat during the calm before the storm).

    ++ And then the morning she arrived, I spotted this sign at Marseille airport. It looks like Santa Claus and the Baby Jesus are finally getting around to answering my prayers.Thanks guys.

    ++ We brought Suzy-Q straight to Avignon from the airport and straight into my second favorite wine bar (first favorite in Avignon though). Suzy-Q was a little concerned about drinking Rosé at 11a.m but I assured her it was OK; ‘when in Provence…‘
    (You are probably wondering what the above photo has to do with anything that I am talking about, well in July, the Avignon Theatre Festival is on, and performers walk around the city during the day advertising their shows. There you go.)

    ++ Because it wouldn’t be fair to bring Suzy-Q to my second favorite wine bar and not my first, we popped into le bar au vin for dinner the next night. That’s her having a chat with my buddy, The Sommelier.

    ++ Bright eyed and bushy tailed the next morning (well me anyway, poor Suzy-Q had to deal with a stalking Fifty all through the night… somebody had a little crush) we set out for Gordes and Roussillon.

    ++ As beautiful as Gordes is, and as amazing as Roussillon is, I was left with two regrets; 1) I didn’t steal the baby blue Vespa, and 2) I didn’t buy that bag. 
    ++ The view from Gordes is the only one I have found so far that rivals the view from The O.G. LPV (true story) but that door in Roussillon simply cannot be beat. Imagine walking through that every day. One would feel very grand indeed. 

    ++ On the left is the ochre colored church in Roussillon with French banners for La Fête Nationale, and on the right, there’s Suzy-Q and me, in front of the remains of the Renaissance castle in La Tour-d’Aigues. If you look closely you’ll see that I’m actually wearing a romper, which I have discovered is the absolute best way to beat the summer heat. The downside… I look like a large version of La Petite. 
    bisou
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  • agence tous risques

    Has anyone been watching the new Dallas?

    I have. And watching that old rascal J.R. get up to his dirty tricks again, reminded me of a post I did awhile back comparing the American opening credits of Dallas (i.e.; the normal theme song) to the French version, which I think we can all agree is just plain wrong.

    So I started to think that it’s about time for another round of us vs. them, and with that lightbulb over the head moment, I bring you; The A-Team…. the U.S.A. version (re: normal) vs. the French version (re: weird)…

    um yeah… 
    I’m going to have to go with the original one.
    Bringing the current score to…
    France:1, USA: 2
    bisou

  • the cat is out of the bag

    ta da!

    The Husband’s name is Gregory (not the French version, Grégoire) and he’s a Cancer.
    He likes wrestling with Fifty, eating raw meat, sipping Rosé on the beach with Mr. London, and if he had been born a girl, he would have been named, Elodie, so I like to call him that from time to time even though he really doesn’t like it when I do (but I love it!).

    Since we’re here, and I’m outing my husband, I’ll tell you some other stuff about him; he’s a great babysitter, there isn’t a kid in the world who doesn’t love him (if you don’t believe me you can ask Aidan and Kirsty and they’ll tell you all about ‘The Manny‘). He insists on eating his cereal out of the beautiful chocolat chaud mugs that French Mommy gave us for Christmas (this drives me batty), and he  makes me ‘do the frog’ on a daily basis. (‘The Frog’ is when I jump off the last three steps of the stairs and he catches me. According to Gregory, I look like a frog when I do this, hence the name, ‘the frog’.)

    Why am I telling you this? I don’t know. I guess I kind of feel like maybe two and a half years of referring to my husband as The Husband, has kind of been wearing on me (I did ask his permission first). And I’m making his ‘coming out’ be in honor of my 600 followers (OK, it’s 599, but whatever… 599 people have felt compelled to click that blue box on the right and make my day and that’s something worth celebrating).

    So anyway, that’s all I wanted to tell you today.

    The Husband is named Gregory.

    And now you know.

    bisou

    P.S. Out of curiosity, what did you think The Husband’s name could have been? 
    P.P.S. Gregory might be a great babysitter, but check out who was watching over La Petite last year.  

  • prepare yourself, you know it's a must

    {La Petite taking her Tonton for a walk}

    Not wanting my memory and thus my blog post to go the way of Brazil Day, at Papa’s Wife’s mother’s 90th birthday lunch, I frantically scrawled bits of information on a red napkin, prompting The German to ask me if I was writing my memoirs, to which I replied, “oui” (or ja, or yes – we’re very multilingual around these parts) because after all, isn’t a blog a memoir just told in parts?

    Why yes, yes it is.

    And with that I bring you another part of my memoir…

    First off I’m going to let you in on a secret, Papa’s Wife’s mother’s name is Louisette. I’m telling you this for two reasons, 1) typing Papa’s Wife’s mother is a pain in the petunia and 2) Louisette is a lovely name and ever so close to Louise which makes me feel like Louisette and I are kindred spirits of sorts (just go with me on this one please).

    There were forty of us in the village salle de fête for Sunday lunch and it quickly became clear that we were the country cousins (we being; Brother-in-Law, Child Bride, The Husband, and me). The Parisians to our right had barely touched their bread basket (ours was empty), had barely sipped their wine (E M P T Y) and their paper tablecloth looked like no one was dining on it, while ours looked like a band of monkeys had been fed. We need an Emily Post intervention (or possibly, a few weeks in Paris).

    {All About Louisette}

    After lunch, there was a quiz all about Louisette. Two teams of three grandchildren were brought up on stage to answer questions about her in a game show format. It was awfully sweet because The Husband was chosen as one of the six, and since he is a ‘step-grandchild’ and there were actual grandchildren, grandchildren there, it gave me the warm and fuzzies, and I know it gave The Husband warm and fuzzies too (Louisette LOVES The Husband… I think he actually might be her favorite… shhh).

    Around 3p.m., Louisette had had enough. She shouted “merci à tous“, stood up, and left (sometimes 90 year olds need a sieste you know), so we took that as our cue to head outside and play Pétanque. 
    {behold the expert concentration and skill}

    There were six teams of three playing tournament style. And even though Papa’s Wife’s brother, and her brother-in-law, let out a little huff and puff when they found out I was on their team, we won anyway because guess what… this Irish Texan New Yorker, can throw around the metal balls with the best of them. Ce n’est pas sorcier! (that means, it’s not rocket science).

    And that mes amies concludes part 455 of my memoir.

    So if I wrote an actual memoir, would you read it? 
    (more importantly, would you buy it?)

    bisou

    P.S. Two years ago we had another celebration in The LPV (we’re always celebrating something, aren’t we?!)
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  • itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikinis

    We didn’t actually wear itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikinis but that would have been fun. I also don’t know what that has to do with Brazil Day but it’s out there now, so there you go.

    Honey Jr’s and Brother-in-Law’s, Brazil Day, was held last week in a village even smaller than The LPV. It’s so small, it’s an itsy bitsy teenie weenie village (or The IBTWV as it should really be called).

    All throughout the day, funny things would happen, and I would laugh and say to myself, “oh man, that’s going to be so great to blog about” but even though I drank more Perrier than beer, I can’t remember. I’m going to blame that on the sun and my age. So since I can’t remember all of the funny bits, I’ll show you some photos and tell you any little tidbit that I can remember from the day. OK? Sorted.

    This is how it looked at 6:30 in the morning when Honey Jr and Brother-in-Law arrived to set up Brazil Day.
    And this is what it looked like only a few hours later…

    (Please note that I’m talking about only a few hours from 6:30am….  l’apéro can start mighty early here in the south of France.)
    If you look closely you can see me standing in the back there. I’m in the white top next to The Cousin in the blue shorts who was probably telling the same story for about the fifth time (The Cousin did not drink more Perrier than beer). 
    The sand didn’t turn your feet orange like it did last year, but it was so hot that that one guy insisted on playing in socks (I guess he has super sensitive tootsies, or maybe he has like, Hobbit feet or something and he didn’t want anyone to see them… we’ll never know). 
    See that hay around the sand? When The Husband was playing he tripped over it and fell right down on his bum-bum. It was priceless. But falling on his bum-bum did not prevent his team from winning the tournament (his team being him, Honey Jr, and The Croupier’s fiance). 
    Maybe The Husband’s team won because of his size advantage over the other players (see above), or maybe they won because not only was Honey Jr playing, but he was the Ref too… another mystery we’ll never solve I guess. 
    After the soccer (or, ‘le foot’ as it’s known around these parts), there was a volleyball tournament. 
    Child Bride and her sister Angel played (bickering the whole way through) as well as Honey’s Honey and Honey Jr who happened to win that tournament too.

    Hmmm…
    bisou
    P.S. This past Saturday was  La Fête Nationale (Bastille Day) here in France and while last year we celebrated it with a long weekend at French Mommy’s house, this year we went on a staycation with my friend, Suzy-Q. It was a doozy and I’m going to tell you all about it real soon, right after my couch-cation. 
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  • talk to you in awhile crocodile

    {photo: Honey’s Honey}

    FYI… I’m going to be missing for a few days, but it’s not like the last time when it was because something bad happened. This time it’s because something really good is happening… my friend, Suzy-Q, is visiting from London for a few days (well actually she’s coming from Dublin, even though she lives in London now, but she was back in Dublin for a few days, and Dublin is where she’s from and where we met, so she’s coming from Dublin/ London).

    We haven’t seen each other for almost three years, and in that three years, she moved to London (right after I moved to The LPV), I got married, and she got engaged, so we have a whole lot to catch up on in the next few days. Plus we need to visit Avignon, the Wine Bar (of course we do), the market in Apt, see Gordes and Roussillon, and drink our weight in Rosé, so I’m going to be pretty busy.

    But it’s a good busy.
    See you later alligator.
    bisou
    P.S.  This very weekend three years ago, I visited The LPV on holiday for the first time. My how time has flown! And just in case you feel like taking a trip down memory lane… two years ago I was writing rules for tourists, and last year, I introduced you to Honey’s Honey. Remember that?!
    P.P.S. The trip down memory lane was Ella Coquine’s idea. If you don’t know Ella, you really should. Off you go now to tales from the chambre donne. Tell Ella I sent you!