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let there be snow
After a winter that never really felt like winter, (as in we had a flittering of snowfall last month and other than late, crisp autumn like weather, which does not a winter make) the snow finally arrived and in the most surprising fashion… as in I had no idea it was coming.
We woke up Tuesday to a snow blanketed Le Petit Village and the flurries kept on coming, so there was really only one thing to do, grab Fifty, Honey Jr, and Honey’s Honey and head outside.
{Look Mom – I’m 4Wheelin!}
{freeeeeezing}
{my turn!}
{weeeeee!}
{happy puppy}
{sled time is cuddle time}Fifty told me later that it was his best day ever.bisou
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surprise… more cheese!
Guess what we did on Saturday? We ate cheese! Can you believe it?! Of course you can. I actually cannot. I mean, I hadn’t planned on it.
This is what went down… The Husband was going to spend Saturday morning over at Papa’s house helping him move some things, so I went along to see Papa’s Wife and visit my second favorite dog, Ruby (Ruby is looking very old lately and I’m a little worried…)
When we arrived I found a dining room table being prepared for a Raclette including the new Raclette doohicky Papa’s Wife had bought for New Years Eve.
A bit surprised, I turned to Papa’s Wife, “Are you having a Raclette?“
“Yes, isn’t that why you are here?”
Cue confusion all around.
Papa’s Wife was hosting a Raclette for lunch and Papa had forgotten to tell us.
Bad Papa.
Obviously it was fate that led me to the cheese.
Papa’s Wife’s sister and brother-in-law were joining us as well, making the total six which in my opinion is the perfect number for Raclette (although I have racletted with ten and that was OK and I’ve racletted with only me and The Husband and that was pretty good too so really any number is a good number).
And this time, unlike the New Years Eve time, the new Raclette doohicky actually worked. That thing was in overdrive, you couldn’t get a plate under the melting cheese fast enough (for the record the Husband’s plate was there the most, homeboy had eight potatoes covered in cheese… eight!).
Being in super-overdrive, the cheese caught on fire at one point. So it was like Raclette a la Flambé, which caused me to shout, “the cheese, the cheese, the cheese is on fire!” But I shouted this in English and everyone just stared at me.
Awkward.
Since it’s still January, and France, and you’re not allowed to get up from the table without dessert, there was a Gâteau des Rois, which I confess to normally not liking very much, I find them a bit dry and blah, but this one was à la chantilly, as in it had a thick, like two inches thick, layer of cream in the middle of it. I’m pretty sure that that two inches of chantilly has magically transferred from the cake to my thighs.
And my piece of cake had the little thingy inside (which is actually called, la fève), I’m not too sure what it was, it looked like a smiling bear with his arm around a mole in a chef’s hat (???). I wanted to take it home but Papa’s Wife’s sister took it home because supposedly a friend of hers collects the things.
I kinda think she might be the ‘friend’ but whatevers. -
impossibly glamorous
I’m feeling impossibly glamorous this morning. And before you get any ideas, it’s certainly not because I’m swanning around my petite bungalow in a feather boa and kitten heels swilling Champagne for my breakfast (although that does paint quite a picture of glamour doesn’t it?).But how fun would that be? Very Cristal Carrington if you ask me and I’m thinking that is exactly how I should spend my birthday morning next week, à la Dynasty.
But first, back to today.
It’s an impossibly glamorous morning because, Charles Ayres of the impossibly glamorous, Impossibly Glamorous, has interviewed me. You can read my interview here if you are so inclined. And if you are also so inclined, you should enter my giveaway to win some scrapbook software, perfect for capturing memories.
Even impossibly glamorous memories if you are so inclined.bisou -
giveaway: my memories scrapbook software
Here’s something you probably would have never guessed about me… I used to be very into scrap booking. There I said it. But this was back in the days of Elmer’s glue and scissors, before all this new fangled digital scrap booking came about. Sitting in my mother’s garage in Texas, are scrapbook upon scrapbook from my teens and early twenties of photos and tickets stubs and wonderful memories of my misspent youth (The Husband will probably never see these any of these… two words… pink hair). Now that I’m here in France, an old married lady with my very own furbaby, it’s time to start recording some new memories, but this time I’m stepping away from the glue and trying it digitally.
This is my (lame) attempt at digital scrap booking. In fairness, it was my very first time. I chose the baby girl memory layout because 1) Fifty is my child and 2) while he is not a girl, he really likes pink (but please don’t tell him that I told you that, he would be sooooo embarrassed). But, even though mine is a C+ at best, I have a feeling that a lot of you reading this would definitely be gold star scrapbookers because hello… I’ve read your blogs, you pretty much have that whole, creative, artsy, etsy thing down, and My Memories wants one of you, to have your own scrapbook software for free.{all followers of this blog are eligible to enter…so if you’re not a follower yet,go ahead and add your little head to that box up there on the right}to enter:1. visit my memories and let me know what your favorite digital paper pack or layout is(that’s it, just leave a comment letting me know and you’re all set,but if you want more chances to win…)1. follow me on twitter2. tweet the giveaway adding @SaraLouLePetit to your tweet3. like me on facebook4. like my memories on facebookBe sure to leave a separate comment for each entry.Contest closes midnight Thursday 2nd February my time(that’s 6pm US east coast time)bisou -
the gorgonzola incident
true story.
I heart gorgonzola, I heart it hard (p.s I love Italian wine too… don’t tell Le Villagers that). And last Friday, while doing some grocery shopping with The Husband, I came across a scrumptious hunk of gorgonzola. I picked it up, looked at The Husband and declared,”I have the most perfect recipe to use this in!” He smiled at me like he always does when I make these grand culinary announcements and we continued along.
On our way home, I chattered all about the pasta I would make with the scrumptious gorgonzola, the very simple, yet very delicious pasta… linguine, spinach, gorgonzola, olive oil, and lemon (see, it really is that simple). I was quite pleased with myself and The Husband smiled at me some more.
The next day, I busied myself making the pasta for lunch. So happy that it was quick and I wouldn’t be working away forever and I could return to my very important pinning and the Gilmore Girls episode I had waiting for me (I have recently started watching Gilmore Girls from the beginning… I have no idea what made me do this but now I can’t stop even though Lorelai Gilmore just might be the most annoying television character of all time).
Lunchtime rolled around and we sat down to eat. Me smiling because I was so very chuffed with myself and my scrumptious gorgonzola pasta, The Husband smiling because he was about to eat (it doesn’t take much… it really doesn’t). But then The Husband took a bite and he wasn’t smiling anymore. He actually made a yuck face (the only other time I’ve ever seen The Husband make a yuck face was the pulled pork sandwich debacle of 2011).
“What’s wrong?” I asked, “Don’t you like it?“
“I don’t like gorgonzola.“
Seriously.There are no words.bisou
P.S. My buddy Aidan is giving away a French cookbook over on her blog. I think you should go check it out here, and enter too. French cookbooks are swish. -
crêpes & rugby
The last time I watched Clermont play Ulster, I was in Bono’s Octagon Bar in Dublin, sipping on a Grey Goose martini, with an afternoons worth of shopping bags scattered at my feet.
Last night, I watched the two square off again, but instead of snacking on vodka soaked olives, I had a plate of homemade crêpes courtesy of Papa’s Wife stacked in front of me, and a bottle of Médoc to wash them down with.
And for the record, I have no idea which setting I prefer more… my inner city girl is all over the martini soaked bar scene, but my cozy side loved watching it at Papa’s house with a sleeping Ruby cuddled up next to me. It’s a bit like Sophie’s Choice really.
But one thing I’m knowing for sure at the moment…
{ASM & Julien sitting in a tree…}My heart belongs to these two. And it’s OK, The Husband totally understands. That there on the right is Julien Pierre. He’s as tall as a tree and I kind of want to climb him. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
And another thing I always know…
Just how I like my crêpe… I’m a Nutella girl. While The Husband may smear one crêpe with confiture de fraise, and then another with miel (that’s strawberry jam and honey), before finally succumbing to the sweet charms of Nutella (and by the way, The Husband had four while I was still finishing one… oink oink), I go straight for the Nutella every time. And sometimes I’ll throw a large dollop of Crème Chantilly on there for good measure. In for a penny, in for a pound I say.And what about you?Any thoughts on crêpes or rugby players?Indulge me please.bisou -
St. Sara
Let’s talk about Gypsies. They’re so in these days what with My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding on television and the movie Knuckle (think Brad Pitt in Snatch but not nearly as cute), and even I’ve talked about them some like this time, and this one, and here too what with The Husband being in with them and all (but it has been awhile since I’ve talked about The Gypsy hasn’t it? That’s because he’s had a baby, and it’s a girl, little baby girl gypsy, so that’s why all has been quiet on The Gypsy front).
The thing is, I’ve always felt an affinity for Gypsies. Maybe it’s because my father used to tell me that he found me as a baby on the doorstop after a band of Gypsies had left me there, or it could be because I share my name Sara with St. Sara, the patron saint of the Gypsies (or maybe the Gypsies had already named me that and my dad just went with it… Mom, now is the time to come clean).
And isn’t it a bit crazy that I’ve ended up in the South of France, the home of St. Sara? I think so too. The statue of St. Sara resides in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, and every year gypsies make a pilgrimage to it. I really want to go. That’s it, I’m circling May 24th in my calendar so I can pilgrimage with my people.
And I’m going to let you in on a little secret… back at The Cousin’s wedding (where there were Gypsies galore… they roll in packs you know), we were sitting in the church and The Husband pointed to a girl sitting in the row in front of us and told me that he almost married her.
HOLD UP. WHAT?
This is what went down…
It was about five years ago, and The Husband was staying with The Gypsy for a few days, they were having a drink when The Gypsy’s father came up to The Husband and asked if they could talk. He took The Husband aside, told him that he was a good man, and would make a good husband, and to that effect, he knew of a nice young lady (gypsy lady) who needed one. The Husband thanked him for the offer of a bride but said no thank you. Luckily for me right.
So yeah, The Husband could have been the king of the gypsies.
And get this… because The Husband is super tight with them (obviously if they’re throwing women at him), back when he moved to Dublin, he almost bought a caravan with them so he’d always have a place to stay back in France. Can you imagine?! I could have been Sara in Le Caravan instead of Sara in Le Petit Village.
Who would have thunk it?Not me.Definitely not me.bisou -
let's pretend it's 2010
Alright kids, it’s like this… I’ve got nothing. Seriously. Nothing going on here. I can neglect my blog, or we can travel back in time with an old post from the archives. So yeah, that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going back two years… to a simpler time, a time when The Husband was The Boyfriend and Le Petit Village had been my home for only a few months.Originally titled Should Have Bought the Dyson and posted on 27th January 2010
………………………………………………………………………………………………………I wanted this…
I got this…
I begged for the Dyson but The Boyfriend wouldn’t hear it;
“€3oo?! For a vacuum?”
“Yes, but it’s worth it. They last forever and nothing cleans like a Dyson.”
This is the conversation we had in July when I was visiting Le Petit Village before moving here. We were making a list of things that we needed to have when I arrived in September. It was a short list because I wanted us to buy most things together after I arrived (The Boyfriend needs to be supervised while shopping. He’s been known to go rogue. One time he tried to buy a 3D Mohammad Ali poster for our living room). But there were somethings that couldn’t wait, like a washer, dryer, and a vacuum.
The washer dryer, oh the washer dryer!
Our house does not have a place for both a washer and a dryer. If we had a back garden to hang the clothes out, I would be happy, drying the clothes and being kind to the environment at the same time. Fantastic! But we don’t have a back garden. So as crappy as they can be sometimes, an all in one washer and dryer was required. I said this to The Boyfriend. Of course I got the normal male response,
“But they’re so expensive”.
Yes, they are about €150 more than a straight washer but what choice did we have? We need the washer dryer. I didn’t want our house looking like an old Chinese Laundry with wet clothes drying over every radiator and chair.
He obviously didn’t get the point and why would he? I’m the one that would be doing the laundry. And this is not a sexist Suzy Homemaker thing. I like doing the laundry. When I do the laundry I know that the clothes get washed and ironed, and then lovingly folded and put in their proper designated place in wardrobe, dresser, or closet.
The Boyfriend does not do laundry. Only when there is literally nothing else for him to wear and he can no longer locate a bed, chair or couch underneath dirty clothes. Then, he will find someone to do laundry for him.
Case in point – The Boyfriend was visiting me in Dublin. I met him at the airport and hugged him. At this point I noticed that his white shirt seemed a bit grey around the edges. The rest of the clothes he brought with him were also dirty. We had to go shopping for new clothes. Who packs dirty clothes? Now you know the answer.
A month before I moved here, The Boyfriend phoned me very pleased with himself,
“I got a washing machine.”
“Oh, that’s great” I was thrilled to be able to cross something off the list.
And then he said,“But where are you going to dry the clothes?”
Sometimes The Boyfriend’s memory is not the best… rugby damage.
Huge sigh from my end. And then a few deep breaths. And then I used my colorful vocabulary reserved for special occasions.
So now when I do laundry, I have to hoof it to Boyfriend’s Brother’s house and hang the clothes on his line. This is a pain in my petunia.
And as far as the vacuum goes, needless to say I didn’t get the Dyson. I arrived in September to a little red vacuum bought on sale for €40. And I got about €40 worth of cleaning out of it. It died this morning, only four months old, making the most pitiful sound on it’s way out. I think I’m going to throw a party. Me, the little red vacuum, and a baseball bat. I have some emotions I would like to share with the little red vacuum.
As soon as The Boyfriend arrives home tonight as much as I try to hide it, I’m sure my face will be plastered with it’s I told you so smirk.
Sidebar – I swear, I am not as high maintenance as I seem. I’m just a little anal, a tad controlling, with a healthy dash of OCD.
It’s a soft and cuddly mix.bisouP.S. I did finally get my Dyson, and I named him Buddy. And of course I blogged about it. You can
read all about Buddy hereP.P.S Please check out my friend Barbara’s blog post about Frederic and Mark’s plight to stay together as a family in the US (and do me a solid and spread the word and/ or write a letter)
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the what what
{we’re talking no cohesion whatsoever on this one… it’s like anarchy}+ Did you know that The Husband and I have been boycotting Le Petit Bar? Probably not, since I hadn’t told you, but we are. It basically comes down to this… I’m tired of being treated badly and paying for it, it’s that simple (I’m getting ornery in my old age). So we haven’t been there since Halloween night (of course it’s not that difficult to boycott something that’s only open half the time… it was closed for three weeks over the holidays by the way… that was clever).
+ Honey Jr wants to do another fondue tonight. I’m thinking it might be time for an intervention (or would that be a cheeservention???). I know that there’s not much that goes on here, especially in winter, but surely we have to come up with something to do that doesn’t involve cheese (and I can’t believe I said that… hold on a second yes, yes, a pig just flew by my window).
+ We watched Crazy Stupid Love the other night and The Husband pointed to Ryan Gosling and said that was how he wanted his hair… AWESOME… let me tell you something ladies, if your husband ever points to Ryan Gosling and says that he wants the same fill in the blank… you must encourage this at all costs.
+ Confession… I kinda can’t stop pinning. It’s a pin pin pin world and I can’t help myself. If you want to pin with me, feel free to do so here. I like the company.+ Last night I actually got my Friday night pizza… although not from the pizza van (of course not, turns out he’s not coming back to Le Petit Village until Spring… thanks for ruining Friday nights pizza man), we had to drive to another village to pick it up, but it was Tartiflette, and delicious, and worth it (for those of you who don’t know what Tartiflette pizza is… mozzarella, potatoes, lardons, Reblochon cheese, and crème fraîche).
+ Tonight I’m making steak haché oeuf à cheval, or en anglais, eggs on horseback. I’m not too sure why I decided to share this information with you, but there you go.
+ The winter sales have started in France… go ahead and shout like Oprah...
L E S S O L D E S ! I’ve already gotten The Husband two new pairs of shoes… now what to get me…I’m taking suggestions kids,what do you think?bisou
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Honey Jr saves the day
{fiddling with the thingy}Last week the Mistral battered Provence something fierce. It always blows hard, but this was a different kettle of fish altogether… this mistral blew off roof tiles, howled down my chimney, and left a trembling Fifty in it’s wake.
But the worst thing it did… it messed up the satellite thingy. The satellite thingy that gives me CNN and BBC. Not cool mistral.
There was only one way to fix it, someone would have to get up on the roof and fiddle with it. And that someone would have to be lil’ Honey Jr because do we really want 100+ kg of The Husband clomping around on the roof? No, we don’t (and it’s not like Honey Jr had a choice, The Husband basically chucked him up there). But you know what? Lil’ Honey Jr got the thingy fixed. I’m watching BBC world news as I type (it’s so boring this morning… eurocrisis… blah blah blah… snore… I’m typing and sleeping, typing and sleeping).
But besides saving the satellite thingy, Honey Jr saved me and Fifty too…
A couple of weeks ago I was headed out for a morning jog (French women may not get fat but women who move here do, so jog I must). I decided to treat myself to a Fifty free jog so I kissed him goodbye and locked up. That’s when I realized I didn’t have a pocket for my key… where to put it, where to put it… oh, I’ll put it on the tire of the car. Great idea… until I turned away and heard a clankety clank clank noise (clankety clank noises are rarely good).
There was a growing pit in my stomach as I approached the car. I reached for the key on the tire and felt nothing but rubber. And then I screamed my favorite French word.
I got down on the ground and felt all around… no key. I got under the car and felt all around… no key. I reach my hand into parts of the car under the car… no key. And again, I screamed my favorite French word while Fifty looked at me from the window.
I called The Husband. Now I wasn’t entirely sure how he would be able to help since he was nowhere near Le Petit Village, but it’s just something you do, isn’t? You call someone to make you feel better about your stupidity. But do you think he made me feel better? No he didn’t. He panicked, got flustered, and yelled my favorite French word (The Husband is so not good in a crisis).
And Fifty continued to stare from the window.
There was one thing left to do… get Honey Jr.
I knocked on his door and told him of my stupidity. He slipped his espadrilles on, strolled over to the car as cool as cool could be, handed me the apple he had been munching on, slid under the car, felt around for a second (seriously, like a second!), said, “voila” and handed me the keys.
And then I said my favorite French word again,because I felt like an idiot.
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It's Me, Sara Louise 
