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.

  • yep, that's about it

    The weekend pretty much went down like this:

    Friday night I wanted pizza… and to any of you who read me way back when, you’re probably saying to yourself; no silly, pizza night in Le Petit Village is Tuesday night, everyone knows that. But what I haven’t told you, is our old pizza man gave up the pizza business to work in construction and we got a new pizza man, and he comes to Le Petit Village Friday nights, a much more pizza friendly night if you ask me.

    (And if you want to know how the old pizza guy is getting on in construciton, the answer is not well… he was using some sort of machine and somehow lost control of the thing and ended up slashing his face. Like bad. Like he’s lucky to have eyes and a face, and well even a head left for that matter. But what he does have now is one crazy scar running diagonally across his face. Guess he should have stuck with the pizza)

    So on Friday while I was pondering what to make for dinner, The Husband suggested we have a movie night, so pizza just seemed like the obvious choice, right? But lo and behold… no freaking pizza van. Because this is France and why would there possibly be something there that’s supposed to be there… no no no, that would be too conveniant.

    F R U S T R A T I O N

    And because we clearly don’t eat enough cheese here, Saturday night was a Fondue at The Croupier’s house; both plain and mushroom. Variety is the spice of life you know.

    On Sunday I desperately wanted a lazy, cozy, potter about the house kind of day (my favorite type if you want to know), but alas it wasn’t in the cards. As I chopped bok choy for the Singapore Chicken Fried Rice lunch I was making, The Husband was on the phone with Papa’s Wife. She was practically begging us to come over for lunch. You see, it’s been hunting season for the last few months here which means that Papa had pretty much been MIA leaving one, very lonely, Papa’s Wife. So the bok choy over here was put aside for asparagus risotto over there. It was pretty tasty though, and bonus… I managed to stuff myself with leftover Christmas sweets… Ferrero Rochers and Mon Chéris (I probably shouldn’t refer to this as a bonus).

    But since I was still all about being lazy and cozy, I put my jammies on for Sunday night at The Honey House where we were watching Clermont vs. Toulon rugby (they were nice jammies by the way). While The Husband and me are Clermont fans, pretty much everyone down here supports Toulon, but Clermont won anyway which meant that I got to gloat and do victory dances galore.

    And let me tell you something, 
    gloating victory dances in jammies, 
    are ever so much sweeter.
    bisou
      

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  • the raclette that almost wasn't

    {La Petite and her Tonton}

    Now I realize that the holidays have passed what with the Epiphany having gone and occurred and all, but I’m not about to let you get away with not hearing about my New Year’s Eve (although it wasn’t too exciting, so no need to hold on to your hats or anything).

    And surprise… we celebrated with cheese!

    (of course we did)

    Papa’s Wife was hosting a Raclette for the evening, but to make it extra special, she bought a proper Raclette machine (which I would love to call a doohickey, because it looked far more doohickey-like than machine-like, so doohickey it is), one where you actually scraped the melted bits off the cheese  instead of grilling slices (raclette does mean scape you know… sort of). And what with the large wheel of Saint-Nectaire The Husband and I brought back from Auvergne, we were good to go (or so we thought).

    It should be noted that while Saint-Nectaire is good in it’s natural, semi-soft state, melted, it’s a whole other ball game of deliciousness all together. I urge you to get yourself some Saint-Nectaire, and melt it immediately. Go now. I’ll be here when you get back.

    {doohickey}

    Now back to that Raclette doohickey… it wasn’t really working properly (because doohickeys rarely do). It was taking a bit too long to melt and then when there was finally enough melted to scrape off, one person would only get a teensy bit on their plate while nine other people looked on hungrily. We were pretty much entering a full on, five alarm, cheese emergency.

    But luckily, The Husband came to the rescue (you didn’t honestly think ol’ Food Whore would sit back and patiently wait for a tiny dollop of melted cheese did you?). He pulled out the ordinary Raclette grill, plopped it on the table next to the doohickey, plugged it in, and got it going, proper like.

    The Raclette doohickey was a wonderful idea though, and Papa’s Wife gets a gold star for trying to make an ordinary Raclette evening more special, but what wasn’t a wonderful idea however, was the playing of the dvd that she had made of the history of Brother-in-Law and Child Bride’s relationship and the birth of La Petite, while we ate. It was very sweet that she made it, but very long, so very long. And did the rest of us really need to sit there and watch it? Did we? I don’t think so.
    (FYI… the dvd began when the two first got together… it was Brother-in-Law’s 23rd birthday BBQ and Child Bride was 15½… I love how she mentioned the ½… like that made it OK).

    But because The Husband and me were tuckered out from a  L O N G  week in Auvergne (and possibly that  L O N G  tribute to Brother-in-Law), we called it a night early and headed home to ring in the New Year with Fifty.

    And I would love to tell you all about kisses and cuddles at midnight, and toasts with Champagne,

    but I can’t, because I fell asleep.

    bisou
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  • so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu

    (not to you and you and you… but to 2011)

    Because January is always the dullest of the dull (apologies to you Capricorns and early Aquarians) without much going on (except for this interview featuring me!) I’m taking a look back at what I got up to last year…

    {pinky & blue}

    January began in Dublin where thanks to my mother, I learned a great new word… aye a fuckenmuckennucken, before returning to a dull Le Petit Village. It was a gloomy enough month, but then I was shattered to find that almost all my china and Waterford crystal I had shipped over from Dublin had broken. But meeting two new friends, Pinky & Blue, helped to put a smile back on my face. When I wasn’t making friends with rubber duckies I was hanging out with Gypsies and discovering how very weird The Husband actually is (i.e.; not knowing who Oprah is and never ever having eaten a PB&J… told you…weird).

    {shotgun wedding}

    Still in full on winter boredom in February, we popped some chaussettes on Fifty in an attempt to entertain ourselves. That fun lasted all of a minute. Then it was my birthday and another round at turning 29. The Husband practiced his English with some wacky language lessons. But really, these were all things to occupy our time until the real wedding of the century (Will and Kate who?),  Le Petit Village’s very own Shotgun Wedding.

    {teaching a young dog new tricks}

    In March I tried to replace Galliano with my Project Runway skills but never heard back from Dior (shocking, right?). So instead of heading to Paris I went to Aix-en-Provence for the first blogapalooza. Then The Husband and I hit the road again to Lyon to celebrate our first year wedding anniversary, but then my father passed away and Lyon seemed like a dream that never happened. But I did learn about how much blog love is out there. Thanks guys.

    {feels like a lifetime ago}

    April was a strange month for me. I was here, but I wasn’t really here, if you get my drift. But eventually I came back around and was finally able to tell you all about my trip to Lyon and what I’d been up to (it wasn’t much). We went to Le Petit Village’s first BBQ of the year, which also happened to be the strangest one I had ever been to, and for the very first time, I heard The Husband utter my favorite word… numbnuts.

    {la Fête du Fromage}

    May kicked off with warm weather, sunshine, and a sunnier me thanks in part to the Royal Wedding (and maybe I did watch it while sipping tea and wearing a gown while Fifty walked around with a crown on his head) and the possibility that Fifty may or may not be a super secret canine assassin. When not being totally delusional, I was hanging out with my fellow Real Housewife of the South of France and making ouefs en cocotte in a poshy posh accent. Brother-in-Law dabbled in archaeology while he played in the medieval graveyard and we all overcheesed a bit at la Fête du Fromage.

    {The Husband’s birthday: Episode 2}

    June was a doozy… Brother-in-Law brought some kidneys and a heart to a BBQ (whatever happened to bringing some wine, or a six-pack) and we saw the spot where some monk killed himself hundreds of years ago when Becs visited Le Petit Village. The Parisian celebrated one year being the worst bartender of all time and we all celebrated The Husband’s birthday extravaganza with such an action packed weekend I had to post about it more than once like here, here, here, and here.

    {the long weekend}



    July in France means one thing (well it means one thing to me anyway) LES   SOLDES! So that meant a trip to Aix-en-Provence to see what the what was in Zara… and the what what was good. I did manage to stay out of the shops long enough for a BBQ at Honey Jr’s where he showed off his new girlfriend, Honey’s Honey. And then in an attempt to cheer up Fifty from his spiraling depression and jealousy, we headed up to French Mommy’s for a long weekend so he could be spoiled with extra cuddles.

    {when I should have been at home}



    In August it felt like we were here, there, and everywhere… first with a day in Avignon, and to Montpellier for a date with Aidan, and a weekend with my Texas family here in France, and then back to Avignon for a night out with the ladies. And it seemed like the whole world invaded Le Petit Village for a brocante, our first ever Brazil Day, and of course, the annual fête.

    {a day at the ranch}
    In the beginning of September, The Husband and I were still in Texas for the hottest summer in decades. We did our best to stay cool and take our minds off the heat with multiple trips to the Walmart,  being tourists, hanging out at the ranch, and some down home Texas goodness. And when we got back to Le Petit Village, we found out that our local hunters were hunting burglars (thanks in part to me deputizing Papa with a $5 Texas Ranger badge that I had bought him). 
    {happy accidents}



    October was a bittersweet month… my boyfriend Morgan Parra got kneed in the face by that porcupined haired Richie McCaw (and I know them are fighting words but you pick on my Morgan, I pick on you) when it all went Pete Tong, but we did have a few happy accidents and a glitzy trip to Cannes and Monaco.

    {autumn swatting}



    Since there was a zoo outside my house in November, we escaped to Dublin for some pints, pints, and more pints and when we came back, we celebrated a Franco-Texan Thanksgiving in Montpellier.

    {traffic}



    And in December we got stuck in traffic for the very first time in Le Petit Village, on our way to Avignon to say goodbye to a friend. And Le Petit Village failed at les fête des lumières. And that was that.

    There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall
    And the bells in the steeple too
    And up in the nursery an absurd little bird
    Is popping out to say “cuckoo”
    Cuckoo, cuckoo 2011!
    bisou




  • Vicky

    This is what The Husband said last night; “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Vicky died.“

    This is what I said;  “WHAT?!” and “How could you forget to tell me? When, and how?” Followed by; “I need to be alone now.“

    HOW COULD HE FORGET TO TELL ME?!

    So I sat in my living room alone, huffed and puffed a bit, and then cried.

    Apparently, Vicky got very ill sometime after Christmas and passed away. And even though she’s a dog, and not even my dog, I’m very sad, more sad than one should probably be about a dog that never belonged to her.

    But you see, when I first came to Le Petit Village on holiday, before moving here, and before Fifty was even a thought in my head or even born for that matter, I met Vicky. She belonged to Child Bride’s parents and roamed the village freely, greeting tourists and villagers alike, always looking for a pat on the head, or a treat.

    Of course I bonded with her immediately. I like dogs anyway, but we really bonded because Vicky didn’t judge me for not speaking French, or roll her eyes at my pronunciation, and she never laughed at my funny accent. So I found myself making friends with Vicky, petting, cooing, and avoiding eye contact with the people conversing around me. And when I moved here and brought home a three month old Fifty, she mothered him with me. She came for walks with him and nudged him along.

    I’ll miss her smush mush boxer face. I’ll miss how excited she’d be to see me and how she’d invite herself into the house (sometimes even opening the door herself), and watching her play with Fifty (even when they would cheat at rugby)

    And I’m really going to miss all the stalking (like this time, and this one too) because she was the sweetest stalker there ever was. 
    RIP Vicky

    you were a good dog

    bisou

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  • Noël

    I’ve learned something this past Christmas… you can throw around tinsel, hang stockings (which I personally monogrammed, thank you very much) pull Christmas Crackers and watch Elf until the cows come home (in French by the way which is not nearly as funny), but if people don’t have Christmas spirit, they don’t have it, so there you go. B L A H.

    But French Nana did love her Christmas stocking. Loved it. I actually think she preferred it to the Adrienne Vittadini shawl I gave her (note to self: next year ditch the designer knit wear and stick to Penney’s Christmas decor for French Nana).

    Did you know that I can play bilingual Scrabble? Well I can, and win. And win at Trivial Pursuit en français too. Clearly I am the smartest person in the world.

    Moving on.

    Fifty had a great holiday, even though I took every opportunity I could to humiliate him like so…

    When he wasn’t being humiliated in an elf hat (but really, doesn’t he look like he liked it a little? You can’t be that adorable and be miserable, you just can’t) he was being fed pretty much the exact same things I was… fois gras, escargot, smoked salmon, turkey, and potato dauphinoise. And it was all washed down with this bottle of Bordeaux as old as me…
    But none for Fifty, he’s not old enough yet.
    bisou
     
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  • mutual weirdness

    Bonjour tout le monde!

    Today I’m over here on my friend Alex’s blog, Mutual Weirdness. Alex is currently traipsing around Europe and if my memory serves correctly, today she’s actually in Dublin which is super cool, and a wonderful coincidink, because my guest post, is all about Dublin (OK, Christmas in Dublin, and Christmas was a few days ago, but amuse me and stay in the spirit, will you? Lovely).

    So check it out and tell me what you think…

    would you like to spend Christmas in Dublin?
    bisou
      

  • joyeuses fêtes

    Well kids it’s that time of the year again… that most wonderful time…

    Fifty has been cleaned, the presents wrapped, Christmas cookies made, and five hours of Sherlock Holmes audiobooks downloaded for the car. We’re all set to hit the road and head six hours north to beautiful, wintry, Auvergne, and Christmas at French Mommy’s (while visions of frog legs danced in their heads…).

    Holiday wishes and kisses,

    from all of us here in Le Petit Village,

    to all of you!

    sugarplum bisous

    P.S. I believe in Christmas miracles, and sometimes they come in the form of a banana split. God bless us everyone!

  • The Dark Side of Noël

    Here were are again, another year gone and Christmas is only a few days away… that means, it’s time to dust off my old post about the scariness that is Le Père Fouettard, and reveal the sinister side of Christmas in France…

    (originally titled Nothing Says Christmas Like a Flogging and 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.
    Anyhoo…
    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 – 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, 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

  • le toilettage de chiens & a winner

    The winner of Dog Trots Globe (as picked by random.org) is No.18 Teresa at The Dog Lived (and so will I). Congratulations Teresa!
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………………
    And in other dog related news… we took Fifty to the dog spa over the weekend. He is now sparkling clean and all set for Christmas. The woman who washed him thinks he is part Labrador. Huh. Interesting. And as she brushed him, she said that she had never seen a dog shed so much.

    Uh, yeah. 
    Tell me and my vacuum something we don’t know.
    bisou
     

  • my favorite Christmas ornament…

    … (besides my ceramic, miniature red Starbucks cup) is this Guinness t-shirt beermat and I’m going to tell you why… it commemorates one of my favorite weekends of all time.

    It started on a Friday. I had taken a half day at work and as I left, I picked up some lunch and headed over to see The Husband. You see, back then, The Husband was only The Boyfriend and even though he lived in Dublin, he had just returned from six weeks in France. Being newly together you can only imagine how sucky those six weeks were.
    Points of Greatness to note…. 1. half-days off on Friday are awesomesauce. 2. I had gotten my boyfriend back. Oh and 3. (which I failed to mention above) I had gotten my hair beautifully blow dried right after work but before picking up lunch, so I had perfect shiny, bouncy, swinging hair (helps to increase the fabulousity of any weekend).

    Afternoon of cuddles and flirting by hair flipping over, I headed off to meet Bibbie for a drink at La Cave. Bibbie is my Scottish cousin who I had shared an apartment with for a couple of years. We also worked together, hung out together, and shared a brain because when you are together with someone as much as we were, that happens – I MISS YOU BIBBIE – . But she had moved back to Scotland leaving me a sad little half-brained person. On this weekend, the weekend of optimum greatness, she had returned for a visit and carafes of wine at our favorite French wine bar in Dublin.
    Points of Greatness to note…1. My Bibbie was visiting and 2. we shared some wine at my absolute favorite place to drink wine. Enough said.

    We pulled ourselves away from La Cave because we had to go and meet some people for dinner… including Disco Gayle. That’s right, you read that correctly, Disco Gayle from Texas was in Dublin too. (I told you, it was a pretty monumental weekend). Not only were we meeting Disco Gayle, The Husband and a bunch of other people (who I will not mention individually for the sake of brevity), but we were eating at Jade, my favorite/ the best Chinese food in Dublin.
    Points of Greatness to note… 1. Disco Gayle was in Dublin (Disco Gayle’s motto is: Has Passport. Will Travel). 2. Disco Gayle, Bibbie, The Husband, and me all together in the same place at the same time and 3. eating at Jade, which has since closed… we can blame the economic downturn on that one or we can blame it on the fact that Bibbie and I stopped eating there five times a week. Who knows.

    On Friday nights, dinner should always be followed by dancing, so naturally, that’s what we did. And we did it at Sin è. Sin è was the best place for dancing away Friday nights on the Northside. The best. But guess what… it’s also now closed. That damn recession.
    Point of Greatness…1. Dancing at Sin è… may it now rest in peace.

    And now to the crux of the weekend, the pinnacle, the pièce de résistance if you will; Saturday evening was Ireland’s final match in the 2009 Rugby Six Nations. It was against Wales and Ireland was one win away from winning the whole kit and kaboodle, the Grand Slam. All pubs in Dublin were packed, but there we were, me and three of my favorite people, in a pub, together, with prime seats in perfect viewing of the match on the television. Score.

    And Ireland won (point of greatness obviously).

    It was pandemonium.

    I grabbed the beer mat and shoved it in my pocket.

    And that my friends is the story of my favorite ornament. 
    bisou
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