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.

  • The Last Saturday

    There was something sad about Saturday.

    Sure it was the weekend, but it heralded the beginning of the end of the holiday season. With New Years over and work looming on Monday, Saturday sort of felt just like a regular Saturday, but being the 2nd of January, I guess it was.

    We decided to take a little trip to Avignon because gee, I guess we just don’t go there enough.
    I was hoping for a vomit-free car ride so I begged the Boyfriend to leave Fifty at home. The Boyfriend and Fifty have grown very attached to each other. I love the little guy too, but sometimes, you have to cut the cord.

    We arranged a puppy play date with Fifty’s girlfriend Leah, the jack russell and got on the way.
    Leaving just before 11:30, I planned on arriving around 12:30 (because I am The Planner), just in time for a nice long lunch somewhere in the city. I was already mentally picturing my meal; maybe something light like a tomato and buffalo mozzarella salad followed by some seafood risotto, and of course, a glass of Rosé. Nice, light, and with nothing being deep fried, I could convince myself it was all very healthy.
    Naturally the Boyfriend had other thoughts…
    “We stop at my friends for a quick coffee on the way?”
    If you’ve read my posts before, you now know as well as I do that in Provence there is always someone to stop and see on the way anywhere. It’s all very exhausting.

    “What friend?”

    “You know, he was in the house with a few other friends one night.”
    Yes, that narrows it down.
    “Which one?”

    “You know, the Gypsy” (that’s not a nickname).
    So we stop at the Gypsy’s on the way to Avignon. I wanted to get in and get out. I had a glass of Rosé waiting for me somewhere. But the Gypsy put on the coffee and I went and sat on the couch. He had the TV on, and when I looked up, I saw the most surprising thing…. an NBA game! The Gypsy had been watching an NBA game! While the Boyfriend and the Gypsy gossiped (boys gossip too you know), I got to catch the last quarter and overtime of the Knicks/ Hawks game (obviously not live) and wondered why I didn’t have that channel. I was having so much fun (missing basketball as I do) that I was able to ignore the fact that I was drinking what may have been the worst cup of coffee ever. Seriously, the Gypsy really needs to take a class or get a girlfriend or something.
    It was now close to 1pm and I was hungry.
    “Where do you want to go to lunch?”

    “Not sure. I just want to see my Cousin first.”
    Yes, no trip to Avignon is complete without a visit to see the Cousin. But oh no, the Cousin wasn’t at home, bummer, guess that would mean that we could go to lunch. But wait,no. Since the Boyfriend and his cousins, brother and friends all have lo-jacks on each other, we found the Cousin having a coffee at his local bar.
    Salut. Bonne Année. Ça va? Yes, Christmas was lovely. A bientôt.
    That was more or less it in a nutshell except it seemed to take forever.
    2pm, starving and regretting skipping breakfast.
    “We go to lunch?” The Boyfriend finally on board with original plan.
    “Yes, at that McDonalds that’s right there.” I said goodbye to my Rosé and risotto and hello to a Big Mac and coke. That patience and restraint thing hasn’t kicked in yet.
    After a quick meal that I regretted even quicker, we finally headed into the city and to Baby Cousin’s clothing shop. Baby Cousin already is quite the little entrepreneur which is very impressive, because as the name implies, he’s the baby. We met up with N & Honey B there (this was not planned, once again, Re: lo-jack) and sat in the back and had some Moroccan tea.
    image: Google

    Baby Cousin told us that he had pots of it delivered all day long. Isn’t he the sophisticate?
    Did some looking around and decided to treat myself (aka let the Boyfriend treat me) to a new hat for walking Fifty on those bad hair mornings. It came with a hefty discount. Big props to Baby Cousin. He’s my favorite you know.
    Headed back to Le Petit Village and decided that since we didn’t get the nice lunch with the Rosé, it was only right that we go out for dinner. The Boyfriend suggested we pick up Chinese food, obviously missing the point of us ‘going out’.
    After sweetly explaining the differences of us going out for dinner, and picking up dinner, the Boyfriend agreed to take me out on a date. This was exciting. We hadn’t been out to dinner since we brought Fifty home.
    We decided on our favorite restaurant in St. Michel. Quick retouch of the makeup (mine, not the Boyfriend’s) and we were back out the door.
    And then big freaking bummer…
    The restaurant was closed!
    Sometimes they just do that here. You can find your épicerie, boulangerie, boucherie, or restaurant closed at any time, without any notice. That’s life in Le Petit Village for you.
    I immediately regretted not picking up that Chinese food.
    So what did you do last Saturday?
    bisou
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  • A Very Grown Up NYE

    New Years Eve at N & Honey B’s house in Avignon. N & Honey B are one of those fabulously grown up couples who make me feel like I am a teenager even though I’m a couple of years older than they are.

    They have a grown up house, perfectly designed and decorated. Everything bought with careful consideration, no random scattered purchases like I would make in a haste because of lacking a gene called patience (example – I needed a soap dish for the bathroom, I knew what type I should buy but couldn’t find it so the other day I came home with a plastic transparent orange soap dish. Who has a transparent orange soap dish? Well apparently I do. N & Honey B would never have a transparent orange soap dish. New Years resolution – must show patience and restraint.)
    Back to New Years…
    Because N & Honey B are a fabulously grown up couple, well mostly N, Honey B is a boy so he is as grown up as can be expected (oh – and Honey B is a Honey, he is the older brother of Honey Jr.) they weren’t just having a big crazy party, they were hosting a small, intimate, New Years dinner party for M and her fiance, the Boyfriend, and me. Oh and Honey Jr too, he got to be the seventh wheel.
    It would be a very elegant soiree. I saw it as an opportunity to break out my city clothes. An elegant soiree on New Years Eve definitely called for my black leather leggings and some serious stilettos. This made me very happy indeed, the Boyfriend not so much. He can get a little talibanish when it comes to my wardrobe. But I’m an American, so I don’t let the Taliban stand in my way.
    We arrived just before 9 and N greeted us at the door looking stunning and sophisticated in that way that only French woman can, all in black of course. N also has very sophisticated hair, a shiny long black bob with perfect bangs. Grown up hair that my unruly curls will never let me have.
    Putting aside my hair envy… we had Champagne and pain surprise (obviously a French holiday staple) and chatted about our Christmases. All very civilized.
    We moved into the dining room and our Champagne was replaced with this…
    And dinner started with smoked salmon, and Fois Gras topped with truffles…
    Followed by roast turkey, potatoes dauphinoise, and some of that marron stuff I don’t like (mine went right onto the Boyfriend’s plate). And then of course a cheese plate, and for dessert, chocolate gateau and nougat ice cream.
    We were stuffed and heading into a food coma when we noticed it was almost midnight. We stayed sitting at the table, continuing our grown up conversation and waited for the countdown…
    …MIDNIGHT!
    And then something happened…
    I don’t know who started it or how it began or where all the marbles came from, but somehow I found myself smack dab in the middle of a marble fight. All sense of grown-upness had been abandoned and we were running around the perfect table in the perfect dining room in the perfect grown up house chasing each other throwing marbles.
    Honey Jr and M’s fiance in marble battle mode
    I guess we can only keep up the grown up facade for so long…

    Honey Jr
    Honey Jr and friend

    yours truly
    Happy New Years from Le Petit Village
    bisou
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  • Holiday Highlights

    La Bourboule… try and say it I dare you!
    It feels funny and makes your lips and tongue do something pretty strange, something American mouths are not used to doing. French mouths have no problem, they have rather talented lips and tongues.
    But I digress, La Bourboule (I just wanted to type it again because every time I do, I say it, and then I laugh, and then the Boyfriend laughs, and Fifty gets excited so it’s a fun time for the Skippie Team).
    Back to business – La Bourboule (hee hee) in the Auvergne region is where French Mommy lives and that’s where we drove six hours to spend Christmas.
    Because the holidays have already come and gone and I’m a bad blogger who hasn’t been keeping up to date, I’m just going to run through some highlights of my first French holiday. I’ll do my best to remember, there was of course the usual merriment…
    Christmas Eve on the road at 11:15 stopped at Papa’s to deliver bonbons. Still haven’t seen postman to give him his or collect any of my missing post… thoroughly convinced at this point that he hates me and is avoiding me but convinced Christmas bonbons will change all that.
    (Update – have since given Postman bonbons, he said I was very nice, I have had one package delivered but still have six to go!)
    Less than a half hour after leaving Papa’s and Fifty threw up twice. I guess he likes the topsy turvy mountainside even less than I do. He looked queasy until we got on the motorway outside of Avignon. Not a good look on a puppy.
    Arrived at 6pm, much quicker than the back roads as I suspected, although the Boyfriend still disputes this.
    It took French Mommy and French Nana awhile to warm to Fifty. They kept eyeing him waiting for him to chew something or get something dirty. Uncle G liked him right away. I like Uncle G.
    Aperitif time before dinner, we had Champagne and pain surprise. I’ve never seen pain surprise before. It’s a loaf of bread, made into about four different type of small triangle sandwiches and put back together. I was too busy sipping and eating so I forgot to take a picture, but thanks to google…
    Image: Google
    I realized that in French Mommy’s house, Christmas Eve is the big night and we would be exchanging presents. I was happy to unwrap gifts but sad that nothing exciting would be happening Christmas morning. At least the Boyfriend and I are still waiting on our internet presents that we ordered. Something to look forward to after the holidays.
    For dinner Uncle G opened a bottle of Bordeaux from his cellar, 1985, almost as old as the Boyfriend. I knew I liked Uncle G.
    Dinner had the required Fois Gras and escargot. Fois Gras is so important to the French at Christmas that almost every news segment I saw in the week leading up to the holidays had a bit about Fois Gras production, purchasing, and consumption. They take their food very seriously.
    After, we had smoked salmon, roast chicken, and marron (like a chestnut and sauteed – I’m not a fan). All followed of course by cheese, cheese, and more cheese, and a cake, shaped like a yuletide log called, Buche de Noel. Once again I was too busy stuffing my face to take a photo…
    Image: Google
    We woke up early on Christmas morning and I was sad that I had no more presents to unwrap, but I happily thought about staying the day on the couch by the fire watching holiday movies on television, even if they were in French. But nope, that was not to be. Uncle G wanted to take the Boyfriend and I for a drive farther up into the mountains. He seemed very excited about this. The Boyfriend and I not so much. One of the reasons I love the Boyfriend is that he is the same as me, we don’t walk, hike, or drive unless we have a destination. That’s for the Belgian and German tourists, not for us. But in the spirit of Christmas, we abandoned our comfy clothes and couch and ventured out into the cold…
    Looks freezing doesn’t it? That’s because it was!
    The next and last day in La Bourboule (haven’t gotten to say it for awhile) we took Fifty to the park and the Skippie Team had a grand old time…
    I rediscovered the joys of a slide…
    But was sad that the big slides were closed. I guess without proper supervision some kid might hurt themselves. Stupid kids, ruining my fun. But then I found this thing and got on…
    I’m a little too big but I wouldn’t let that stop me. And no reason for Fifty not to have a little fun too…
    I’d show you the photos of the Boyfriend on the swing but I’d get in trouble.
    And after the park we went to French Nana’s bar where Fifty earned his keep…
    That was pretty much my Christmas holiday in La Bourboule (hee hee).
    Next up, a very grown up New Year’s Eve…
    bisou
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  • Fondue… Gooey Christmas Goodness

    Before we left Le Petit Village to celebrate Christmas with French Mommy and French Nana, we had to have a little party with our Le Petit Village posse. And Honey Jr kindly offered to throw one.
    A fondue party!
    I love fondue!
    What’s not to love about pots of melted cheese that you dip bread into? Nothing! It’s gooey goodness.
    Pre-dinner drinks were held at M’s house where I stared enviously at her Christmas tree and swore that I would never go another year without one. Doesn’t matter how much tinsel you throw around, no tree, no fun.
    Everybody was there; V, Honey Jr, Bubble, the Boyfriend’s Brother, The Boyfriend, and me. We drank muscat wine before popping open the first of many (too many) bottles of champagne.
    And after awhile of being merry, when we started to feel hungry, we remembered that we had someplace else to be, and, someplace with food. We stepped out into the rain and walked over to Honey Jr’s. Monsieur Snowman had abandoned us leaving us with buckets of winter rain. Not very festive.
    I popped into chez moi for some Christmas cds despite protests from the boys. The girls agreed that a little Rat Pack Christmas music was in order. For some reason, the boys wanted to listen to house. Who listens to house music at a fondue party two days before Christmas? Stupid boys do, that’s who.
    Well I don’t listen to stupid boys.
    Walked up three slippery flights of stairs to Honey Jr’s pad and cursed my stilettos. V and M were sporting comfy wintery boots, perfect for Le Petit Village they informed me. Yeah well, that’s not how I roll.
    I’ll tell you how I do roll though.. in a waddle after too much of this deliciousness…
    Two pots full of hot, gooey cheese. One with mushrooms, and both spiked with white wine.
    We ate and ate and ate. Oh, and drank some too.
    After a few hours of merriment, stuffed to the gills with gooey cheese, champagne, and brandy (something had to burn through all that cheese) I headed to bed to dream of Christmas at French Mommy’s house.
    And on that Eve of Christmas Eve, warm and tucked in bed, I felt very thankful for one thing; Honey Jr living right across the street.
    Not too far to waddle at all.
    bisou
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  • Spreading Holiday Cheer

    Tis the season to spread holiday cheer and for my part, spreading holiday cheer means candy.

    But not just any candy, Baileys Truffles candy.
    Nothing can spread holiday cheer faster than Baileys and my heavy hand.
    Candy for all my favorite Le Petit Villagers; the Honey’s, Papa and his Wife, Boyfriend’s Brother, and the postman. Maybe after the Baileys he’ll cough up the rest of my Christmas cards.
    Not too shabby.
    After about the fifteenth one, they started to look ok. But without little gift bags or boxes I’ve had to resort to cling film with bows.
    One of the problems of living in a foreign country is trying to figure out where to go for what. In Texas I’d know right where to go for packaging, not a clue here and the Boyfriend didn’t share the same sense of urgency.
    So I’m left with cling film.
    And I’m not one of those crafty girls whose been playing with puff paint and bedazzlers since they were teens, I can’t get all MacGuyver with some cling film and make it look pretty. It still looks like cling film.
    And being dropped into a clingfilm satchel, has made my candies look like special presents from Fifty.
    C’est la vie! As long as no one tries to light them on fire.
    bisou
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  • My Winter Nemesis

    There is one day of the year that is my nemesis; the 21st of December. And in true nemesis style my feelings are mixed, I loathe it and yet try to see the good in it. Me being the nice superhero to my evil winter nemesis. I know that it can’t be all bad. It probably just had a horrible childhood and was misunderstood. It is the shortest day of the year after all. That can’t be good for one’s self esteem.

    But this year my nemesis really tested me. Falling on a Monday is hitting below the belt. And the pretty morning flurries that fell turned into rain by afternoon. Big fat heavy rain drops that soaked me each time I took out Fifty. Four times in just under four hours last night, I’m not kidding. The puppy really likes to pee.
    Oh how I hated my nemesis yesterday. In true winter fashion, it was dark all day. The shutters stayed closed and the lights left on. I went about my business counting off each hour until they passed and the day would be over. And waited for my winter nemesis to be gone for another year.
    When meeting my nemesis, I try to focus on the positive; the uphill battle to winter is over. It’s all downhill to spring. Sure we have to go through the cold misery of January and February but at least the days slowly begin to get longer. Each one stretching a bit more than the next. And before you know it, we’ll slide into flip flops and tank tops. No more slushy entryway and muddy puppy prints. There will be brighter evenings to take the creepy edge off the medieval village. The lavender will spurt all over Provence again and I’ll be enjoying a bowl of ice cream outside shooing away tourists.
    sunnier times
    I miss those tourists.
    bisou

  • Two Cards and An Ornament

    Chez moi is the lamest Christmas house on the block. Seriously, the decorations (or lack thereof) are pathetic.

    This year we got Fifty instead of a tree. And I’m very thankful for my little buddy but we can’t decorate Fifty. He’s just not down with the gold garland necklace.
    Where the tree would have stood, we now have a Christmas wall. It was a brilliant idea. The plan was to take all of our Christmas cards and put them in the shape of a tree and top it off with our beautiful new ornament. Our very first one.
    (Big kiss to C, MUAH!)
    No reason to go all out since we will be spending the holidays in Auvergne with French Mommy anyway.
    But the brilliant card tree was foiled because we’ve only received two Christmas cards (the horror!). It looks far to pathetic to photograph. Trust me.
    I’m convinced that the postman is holding out on me and one day very soon I will be flooded with cards from far and wide (I will not abandon hope).
    But for the moment, we pretty much have bubkis.
    Two cards and an ornament.
    The Christmas spirit has left me.
    Quick fill me with holiday cheer (please)…
    bisou
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  • All I Want For Christmas Is For It To Stop Snowing

    Monsieur Snowman is vacationing in Le Petit Village.
    Last Sunday the weathermonsieur advised that we were in for a cold week. An icy wind was blowing in from Eastern Europe and with it snow. Thank you my former communist comrades.
    And oh how he was right. It’s freaking freezing. Like Russia cold.
    It’s beautiful and picturesque and I’m trying damn hard to appreciate it’s quaint Christmas charm but it’s hard to ignore the muddy slushy aftermath and the numb stumps that have replaced my fingers.
    My gloves seem to have met their kryptonite in this Eastern European wind and it’s time like these that I’m regretting Fifty and that damn schedule. Especially since Fifty has taken us off schedule to fuel his new snow habit.
    He loves it, can’t get enough. He’s addicted and he’s willing to lie for it. And I’m suffering.
    Fifty knows that if he wants to go outside he can sit by the door and the crazy schedule lady will take him, so now he figures that if he wants to play in the snow he just has to sit by the door and crazy schedule lady will take him out instead of risking an unscheduled accident.
    And that’s what he’s doing. He’s sitting by the door every hour on the hour.
    I’m not enjoying the snow as much as Fifty.
    All I want for Christmas is to feel my fingers again. And for it to stop snowing.
    bisou

  • Nothing Says Christmas Like A Flogging

    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 my favorite 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 Fouettar
    (sounds a bit scary doesn’t it, thought it needed that dun dun dun).
    image: Google
    According to my sources, the ever reliable Wikipedia (yeah right) Le Père Fouettar 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 Fouettar’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 Fouettar ends up feeling bad and becomes St. Nick’s partner and goes around with him on Christmas.
    But get this, Le Père Fouettar 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

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  • It's A Wonderful Sunday

    It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…
    The Skippie Team (The Boyfriend, Fifty, and me) woke up to a snowy Sunday morning in Le Petit Village.
    Monsieur Snowman blessed us with a full five centimeters. Not a huge amount, but after living in Dublin for six years (plenty of rain, no snow) and Texas before that, that five centimeters made me feel very Christmassy inside, like I had eggnog flowing in my veins.
    And since I was feeling full of holiday cheer and Fifty’s petit paws had never touched snow before, we braved the cold and headed out for a little fun.
    Fifty loved the snow. He frolicked in it. He ate it. He turned bits of it yellow. He would have been quite happy to stay out there all day but we were cold and hungry and had a lunch date to keep. Papa’s Wife had invited us over.
    Love being invited for Sunday lunch. Food and wine for hours and somebody else does all the work.
    The Skippie team put on our Sunday best (except Fifty, he wears his best fur everyday) and hopped in the car. The Boyfriend managed to suppress his inner boy racer as the Renault slowly made it’s way down the snowy mountain. Fifty and I were quite relieved to arrive safe and sound at Chez Papa.
    Don’t you love the holiday season when you walk into some houses and they ooze holiday cheer? They just feel cozy and smell like Christmas. Well that’s how it felt walking into Papa’s house and any plans of an eat and run went out the window. No reason to rush back up that mountain.
    Papa’s Wife showed off her Neapolitan creche and told me all about the little characters. But in French so I didn’t understand much.

    Then we sat down for an aperitif of champagne, fois gras, olives, and mushrooms.
    It was just the three of us. In true Provencal man fashion, Papa was doing what he does every Sunday…hunting. I guess even the snow doesn’t stop that tradition.
    Aperitifs were followed by some pasta and little parcels of what I thought was beef. Looked like beef, tasted like beef. Nope. Bird. Some birds that Papa had killed on one of his Sunday excursions. Luckily the Boyfriend didn’t tell me what I was eating until we got home. Birds freak me out, and I don’t like the idea of one in my belly – and yes I eat chicken. Chicken is different. Don’t fly, not a bird.
    But back to our lunch…
    As we were finishing cheese and pastries, there was a knock on the door. Guess who… The Spaniard. Yes. The Boyfriend’s friend, The Spaniard, had found us at Papa’s house. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, The Boyfriend has some sort of low jack on him.
    The Spaniard arrived just in time for the digestif.
    I love French life… aperitif before you eat, wine during, and digestif after.
    I was poured an innocent looking glass of this stuff…

    Take a look at the label… do you see that 47% written on it? Well I didn’t until after I downed my drink. Let’s just say that the bird was digested, quickly, along with any other food that was in my body. All incinerated by this innocent looking stuff called Marc.
    If I’m ever in need of getting ridiculously sloshed, like Las Vegas sloshed, I now know who to call, my friend Marc.
    It was a wonderful Sunday… Fifty met Monsieur Snowman. I visited a Neapolitan village (sort of). We sipped some champagne. The Spaniard tracked us down. Clermont beat Leicester in rugby. And I have a new friend, named Marc.
    bisou
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