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.

  • pints, pints, and more pints

    {the perfect pint}

    Behold.. the most perfect pint in the history of pints.. poured at Mulligans (where my grandparents used to drink). This is where you get the best pint in Dublin. And if it’s the best pint in Dublin then it has to be the best pint in the world. So there you go.
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    The first night in Dublin (only an hour after arriving actually) I got the fish and chips I had been waiting eleven months for. Salty, vinegary, greasy perfection. That was followed by a few pints down at the local where The Husband felt it necessary to liberate a Guinness glass (or two…) to pack away in the suitcase.

    And besides all the contraband, I came back from Dublin with a nasty little cold. I guess all this sunny south of France living has made me too delicate for the damp Dublin weather. That, and it didn’t help that I found myself halfway into town one day and realized that I had completely forgotten my coat… in Dublin… in November. What to do but pop into Penneys for what is now my new favorite scarf (it’s a snood really). Blue and camel striped and I love it (and P.S…. how fun is the word, snood? Love it. I think I’m going to say it all day… snood, snood, snood).

    D I G R E S S I O N

    But The Husband and Gatz did manage to stay out of the pubs long enough for a little sightseeing like so…

    {Christ Church}
    {Trinity College}
    But really, it always came back to this…
    {Guinness factory}
    and this…
    {best friends forever}

    Saturday night we went out. And by out, I mean O U T. Like getting home at 3a.m. out. Cocktails at Koh, dinner at Yamamori, drinks at Octagon Bar, and Irish craic (that means hokey fun by the way) all over Temple Bar. 

    And do you want to know the best way to recover from a 3a.m. Temple Bar bedtime? Pints down the local on Sunday where I got to have what was probably my best pub experience ever… Downton Abbey was being shown instead of some lame football (soccer) match that I don’t care about. Downton Abbey! In the pub! On the telly! Clearly the only appropriate way to watch Dame Maggie Smith in all of her Countessy glory is with pints and packs of bacon fries.

    bisou
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  • Food Whore: The Origin

    You know how I’m always going on about The Husband’s insatiable appetite for food (usually for icky things like raw beef, tongue, and brains) and refer to him as Food Whore like here, here, here, and here? 
    Well, here’s my little food whore at the beginning…
    {evidential proof}
    … two years old, clutching a croissant in one hand and a linzer tart in the other with powdered sugar smeared all over his nose. Clearly, he was born this way.
    greedy, adorable, sweetness.
    bisou

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  • Versatile: Dublin

    Tomebug at The Tao of Me has passed on the Versatile Blogger award to me. Thanks Tomebug! And since I’m off to Dublin tomorrow with The Husband and Gatz (Gatz… that will be fun, I’m going to need one of those electric shock collars you put on the dog to keep them in the yard), and because the award is green, I’m dedicating it to the Fair City and the things I’m looking forward to doing while I’m there, like…

    1. Fish and chips. Friday night I’m all about fish and chips smothered in salt and vinegar followed by a couple of pints down at the pub (where I know I will succumb to a few packs of those horrible bacon fries. So wrong, but so delicious).

    2. A can of Club Orange. It’s like Orangina, but a tad bit sweeter, but nowhere near as sweet as Sunkist. It’s the nectar of my childhood (and for morning after pub nights when my tongue is bacon fry coated. So gross, but so true).

    3. Shopping at Penneys (aka Primark in the UK) for trendy bits and bobs that I don’t need. Penneys is like crack. It’s cheap and you can’t get enough (that was extremely politically incorrect, I apologise).

    4. Saturday night sushi with friends at Yamamori. I honestly don’t know which I’m looking forward to more, seeing my friends, or the sushi. It’s a tough call. (Hogwash! My friends win hands down. My sushi won’t talk to me in English like my friends will. Because that would be scary.)

    5. And using Gatz as my excuse, getting all touristy around the place. We’re hitting up Temple Bar post-sushi for Guinness and hokiness galore. I can almost hear the fiddles and flutes already.

    6. Starbucks. Duh. (and please, pretty please let the red holiday cups be out already).

    7. The feeling of being back in my city. Even though I am not a native Dubliner, it feels like mine. It’s where I came into my own and became me. It’s where I got to experience my single in the city years (every girl should get to have single in the city years). Those are the best. Not for dating anyone, but for dating yourself. It was a treat and now that I’m an old married lady without a city in sight, I am beyond grateful to have lived those years. Live a lot, learn a lot.

    Bidawee

    Lacey in the City

    The Everyday Life of a Young American Girl in France

    You guys feeling versatile?

    bisou

    P.S. Welcome to the world Baby T! Texas Girl’s very own baby boy who came into the world yesterday at a whopping 9lb 4oz and 21 1/2 inches. Now that’s Texas sized! I love you both oodles and doodles and shnoodles. 

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  • boo-lated

    H A P P Y  H A L L O W E E N !

    Obviously, this message from Fifty is a little late thanks to a burnt out Mac charger. I was without my laptop for a few days, and when the new charger arrived a couple of days ago, Fifty was not in the mood for a fashion show. And of course on Halloween, when he had been in a fashion show kind of mood (or maybe had been carried away with the Spirit of the Great Pumpkin) and wore his BOO t-shirt all day, I like a very bad Mommy, didn’t snap a single picture. But I couldn’t not post this because what if next year he outgrows it? So here you go. Fifty in all of his Halloween glory courtesy of his Texan Chihuahua girlfriends, Molly & Sissy who were thoughtful enough to send the t-shirt it to him. Thanks Molly & Sissy and your accordion playing Mama.
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    And now, on another belated note, I’m going to answer those questions that you asked. (Bet you thought that I had forgotten all about them didn’t you? Well I didn’t.)

    Bourbon & Pearls: Who takes the bins out, you or hubs? 
    Both. We’re equal opportunity binners in my house (well except for Fifty, he doesn’t do anything. Lazy sod). But I usually end up taking the trash and The Husband takes the recycling. Not sure why it ends up working out that way but it does (And once again, Fifty does neither.)

    MademoisElla Coquine: Do you ever come to Paris? 
    No, I don’t. Can you believe it? I can’t. I mean I have been to Paris, but I haven’t in the past two years. The past two years being the time that I’ve lived here. And before I moved, I was convinced I would be TGVing myself all over France, and especially to Paris. But, I am planning on making it up there in the next year. Paris 2012, that’s my new motto.

    Mrs. Exeter: What do you find is the most annoying thing about living in France?
    Ay yai yai… where to start… well let’s see, I guess for me anyway, the most annoying thing is the total unpredictability. It’s like, “Hey honey, do you want to go out to eat tonight?”… “Sure, I’d love to.” And then you pull up to the restaurant and discover that it’s closed. Or you go to La Poste and they’ve decided to open thirty minutes late or close thirty minutes early. And stores closing from 12:30-2:00 for lunch. (I could go on and on and on…)

    Erin: And what do you love most about living in France? 
    (A nice way to balance out the above question I think, a bit of yin and yang if you will)
    All the wine and cheese.
    But since that would be cheating… I love being here for the adventure part of it. The once in a lifetime feeling that I get sometimes. As much as living in Le Petit Village is about as inconvenient as inconvenient can be, it is also stunningly beautiful. Most mornings Fifty and I jog as the sunrises over the Luberon, and the vista is amazing. Breathtaking even. And on occasion, hot air balloons can be seen floating off in the distance. HOT AIR BALLOONS! It’s amazing. And surreal. And fairytale like. And I’m really lucky.

    Amber H-B: Do you miss Texas food?
    Uh, yeah. I miss Tex-Mex something fierce. And BBQ. Like a nice piece of tender brisket drench in Rudy’s BBQ sauce… d r o o l. But luckily, I did recently purchase the Homesick Texan cookbook. That should help some (my waistline, not so much).

    Kara: Which local French wine would you recommend? 
    Hmmm… excellent question. But by local do you mean Le Petit Village… the Luberon… Provence? And keeping in mind that while I love wine, I am by no means an expert by any means. Not at all. So how about I just tell you some of my favorite French wines. And I’ll stick with red wines that are currently tickling my fancy….
    Brouilly, a Beaujolais, and Vacqueyras and Cairanne, both Côtes du Rhône wines.
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    And to all of you who took the time to vote for the ASPCA funding, 
    Fifty and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

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  • autumn swatting

    Isn’t this pretty? 
    The autumn sun shining on those woolly little angels. 
    I mean, isn’t it just so beautiful and quaint? 
    Yes, it is. 
    But the woolly ones come with lots of flies. 
    And when you live right next door, all this idyllic beauty can be quite irritating. 
    See, that’s my house they’re lollygagging in front of. 
    (at least the Nazi Ghost Zombies are being kept busy fly swatting as well)
    Plus, my morning wake up call comes from this guy every morning. 
    eeyore! eeyore!
    bisou

  • pain in the petunia

    I’m sitting here typying on Honey Jr’s laptop that likes to take a nap after every ten minutes (total without warning shutdown) while I hope and pray with my fingers and toes crossed that today will be the day that my new Mac charger will arrive in the post so I can return to my regularily scheduled life because life without your Mac when you live in the middle of back a** nowhere is no sort of life at all.

    So since I can’t really post (because I can already hear this half dead laptop making the pre-shutdown whirring noises), I bring you this old post, from exactly two years ago, when I wasn’t with a broken Mac charger, waiting on a new one, and had sometime for Some Serious Thoughts…
    (originally posted 2nd November 2009)

    I’m seriously thinking about decoupage. I like to think about doing things but I rarely do them. I’m more of a planner than a doer. Ok, so I did move to France and I am writing this blog, but decoupage? Could I be a decoupager? It is French. And Marie Antoinette dabbled in a little decoupage. Maybe if she had kept her nose in the decoupage, she could have kept her head. Just a thought.

    I’m also seriously thinking about getting involved in local politics. Like being the Mayor of Le Petit Village. Can I do that? Would my EUness be enough or would I have to be fully French?

    Must google later and find out.

    I seriously think they need me. The current Mayor is a Communist representing the local Communist Party. Not that there is anything wrong with Communism. If that’s your bag then go right ahead, it’s a free village (isn’t it???). But all I’m saying is that although it’s a beautiful thought, it never really works out that way and all your left with is a tyrannical dictator, drab clothing, and a bowl of gruel.

    And get this… the other political party in Le Petit Village is Fascism! I’m not making this stuff up! We’ve got the Communist Party and the Fascist Party! Who decides to be a Fascist in 2009? It’s like someone just woke up angry one morning, “Mommy, when I grow up, I want to be a Fascist… AND THEN EVERYONE WILL SUFFER!!! May I have my juice box now?”

    In a village of 260 people, I think they need another option other than Mussolini or Marx. They need a softer, cuddlier option. That will be my campaign slogan… Vote for Sara Louise, the soft and cuddly candidate. I would guarantee carmel apples, fondue parties, story time, and outlaw drab clothing. We would have merry-go-rounds, and hayrides and eat chocolate brownies for breakfast. And all the shutters will be painted pink, because I said so. I promise that there will be benevolence in my dictatorship.

    Hugs for everybody!

    So to sum up; I’m seriously thinking about decoupage and I’m seriously thinking about becoming a dictator…
     
     oops, I mean getting involved in local politics.

    bisou
    

  • If I ask nicely…

    … do you think you could do something for me?

    I know it’s cheeky to ask, but I also know how sweet, kind, and giving all of you are.

    (was that laying it on too thick?)

    You see, there are some friends of Fifty’s that need your help. And I’d really like it if you could help me, help them.

    The Citizens For Animal Protection in Houston is in the running for some funding, $100,000 of funding, and I’d really like to fund them.

    If you click on this link right here, then click on the voting button on the top of the page (which looks just like the banner at the top of this post) and then select TX – Citizen’s for Animal Protection, then that’s that. You’ve helped me to help them and that makes this guy…

    {I’m a lap dog}

    … really really happy, and all of his friends too.
    bisou
    P.S.  I know this was a cheeky post, and has absolutely nothing to do with Le Petit Village, so I’ll make a deal with you… if you take a minute out of your day to vote for  TX – Citizen’s for Animal Protection, you can ask me any question you want, and I’ll answer it in a post (and I promise to be at least 99% truthful).

  • it's all gone pete tong

    What a weekend. 
    I’d call it one big fail but I enjoyed it too much. 
    Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey came over for dinner Friday night and I totally flubbed it. I was cooking this delicious (downright scrumptious really) recipe; Pan Roasted Chicken with Lemon Garlic & Herbs, and it called for shallots, but I didn’t have shallots. No biggie, I’d just use a little onion and garlic instead, but this time, the regular old onion was too strong for the ginger… eeew… my delicious pan roasted chicken with lemon garlic & herbs ended up tasting like bitter chicken with lemon and bitterness. 
    fail.
    (And here’s a question… why do I choke when it comes to cooking for other people? Especially when cooking for French people. Because you just know they think that I can’t cook because I’m an American, not that I can’t cook because I flubbed the whole shallot thing. Either way, fail). 
    And then Saturday was supposed to be Princess Day. You see, sometimes The Husband will make these grand declarations like; “Skippie, this weekend you are a princess and I want you to rest and I will do everything.” A beautiful idea in theory, but a total disaster in reality. Kind of like communism. It never really goes off like that… he runs around doing things for me, which is fantastic, but 1. I have to get up and show him where things are and how to do things, and then 2. he creates a glorious mess that I get to clean up. Did you know The Husband can make a mess while cleaning? Well he can. 
    Part of my Princess Day was The Husband making Chicken Fried Steak for dinner (Chicken Fried Steak makes my heart sing a little… ♫ the stars at night are big and bright ♫… ). Fantastic. Except how come I ended up making the mashed potatoes, the cream gravy, and doing everything for the steaks except beating eggs in a bowl and mixing flour in another? Me standing in the kitchen dredging steaks in egg and flour and then frying them as I watch The Husband and Honey Jr playing rugby outside my window doesn’t make me feel very princess like. 
    fail. 
    But we did get to watch Lonesome Dove on TV while we ate our chicken fried steaks. And it was in French. And let me tell you, Tommy Lee Jones in French is pretty darn weird. 
    You know what else is pretty darn weird… Fifty getting a package in the post, addressed to him. Why does my dog get post? Who does he think he is, Snoopy?! And on Princess Day. My dog high jacked my Princess Day. 
    fail.
    (The package was a gift from his Texan Chihuahua girlfriends, Molly & Sissy. Fifty will be showing it off in another post coming soon…)   
    {Morgan & Sara sitting in a tree…}
    But you know what wasn’t a fail? The French Rugby team. They may have lost, but personally, I’d rather lose like that than win like that. For me, they played like kings and they are champions. 
    bisou
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  • toddler bar fights and other such things

    This photo has nothing to do with anything whatsoever.
    I put a hairband on Fifty, and I took a photo. 
    A couple of days later, I found the remains of my hairband. 
    Fifty had killed it. 
    Lesson learned. 

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    How does one tell the tale of a toddler bar fight? How could I possibly give the spectacle the proper prose for you to see it the way I did? I’m pretty sure it’s impossible, and from now on, I will do my best to film life here in Le Petit Village at all times, because clearly I need to.

    Let’s see… it was a Friday night at Le Petit Bar, all the usual suspects were there along with two little girls, each about twenty months (that’s a total guesstimate), each blonde, one sweet, and one not so sweet (so basically, Sweet and Sour). Everything was fine until there was a dispute over a doll (isn’t that always the way), and then Sour shoved Sweet into a table leg and proceeded to go all Mike Tyson on her.

    The Parisian broke it up.

    You know, a typical Friday night at Le Petit Bar.

    I guess you had to be there. But trust me, it has to be one of the strangest things I have ever seen… why… because two toddlers got into a physical altercation over a doll… in a bar.

    And here’s a fun Le Petit Village fact… In the past two years, five babies have been born in Le Petit Village (it’s a baby boom… really), and all have been girls. Maybe it’s something in the water. Personally, I blame Chernobyl.  

    bisou

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  • all the glitz

    I heart the Côte d’Azur, I heart it hard. Because I love that I get in a car, drive only two hours from Le Petit Village (OK, maybe 2 and a half hours) and be in Cannes, a place that is like, the complete opposite of Le Petit Village. It’s all sunshine beaches, sparkling Mediterranean sea, and glitz (plus, my friend, Bec, lives there). I could happily watch an afternoon go by at one of the little beach side restaurants, sipping Rosé and slurping on oysters.

    H E A V E N

    Now I’m not knocking Le Petit Village, not at all. Le Petit Village is quintessentially Haute Provence, it’s the Luberon, it’s all medieval, gorgeous vistas, and lavender. It’s a hilly heaven and without a doubt the most beautiful place I have ever lived, but sometimes, a girl needs a little glitz.

    Glitz like giant patriotic bonbons…

    Random, yes, but still glitzy.

    And you want to know where else is glitzy? 
    Monaco.
    Monaco, the principality of glamour and sad princesses, where The Husband always asks me if I’ve brought my ‘papers’ with me. My ‘papers’? What is he, the gestapo? (He’s scared I’m going to get thrown into jail in Monaco and not have any ID on me. Hogwash. What could I possibly do in Monaco to get thrown in jail? Bec, don’t answer that. But I bet the jails in Monaco are glorious and as posh as they come).
    I mean look at that yacht. It doesn’t get much glitzier than that yacht. And check this out… it was flying a Texas Longhorn flag. Seriously. So of course I wanted to run on board and shout, “HI Y’ALL!” but The Husband begged me not to.
    And here’s a glitzy seagull…

    You know how I know that he’s a glitzy seagull? Because he’s a Monaco seagull. 
    And are you ready for this… 

    Monaco’s own Le Petit Bar. 
    Where I bet they never run out of Champagne. 
    bisou
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