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.

  • My Petit Rant

    Living in Le Petit Village is great and once I get the whole language thing sorted I’m sure life will be just peachy, but there are a few things that have been niggling me that I just want to get off my chest…

    1. I can’t find dental floss. I have looked in four different grocery stores and no dental floss. Does the country not floss? The government health plan must have some special contingency for gum disease.
    Oh, and in case she’s not reading through the lines – Mom, please send dental floss.
    2. Victoria Silvstedt on the French version of Wheel of Fortune, La rue de la Fortune. This woman grates on my nerves in English, I really don’t need her in French. She should win the ‘I Crawled Up My Own A**’ award. Take a lesson Victoria, Vanna didn’t speak and neither should you.
    3. Flies. French flies. The problem with big beautiful windows with no screens is the flies. How am I suppose to get a little fresh air in the house without letting a colony of flies in? No, I don’t want any pets, thank you very much. I hadn’t realized I’d moved to Ethiopia.
    4. My closest Starbucks is approximately 100 miles away. I’m not joking. There are McDs and KFCs for as far as the eye can see but I have to go on a road trip to reach a Starbucks. Come on, don’t be afraid of a little Americanization now. Once you’ve gone Ronald McDonald, you can’t go back so can I have my grande skinny latte to go please.
    5. Samantha’s French voiceover on Le Sex in the City. Please stop, you’re ruining it.
    6. The Emmental cheese on my pizza (and on everything for that matter). Why is it there? In a nation of over 200 cheeses, if you don’t want to use Mozzarella as some anti-Italian statement, fine, but I’m sure you can make a better choice. Please try again.
    7. Tourists. The Le Petit Village Tourists. I thought that once summer was over they would disappear for another couple of seasons, but nope, they’re still here. I’ve got Belgians and Germans staring in my windows. This isn’t Colonial Williamsburg. Move along please.
    Thank you. I feel better. Now if you excuse me, I have tourists to shoo away and flies to kill.
    bisou
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  • Scaredy Cat Sara


    I’m a scaredy cat. I’m scared to walk out my front door into Le Petit Village at night. The same quaint and charming village which I love during the day, takes on a haunting quality in darkness. The only light comes from a few early 20th century lamps that hang high over the main street, casting an eerie glow through mist and highlighting the walls of the ancient village.

    It’s empty and quiet and at times I think I can feel the past walking along.
    The Boyfriend was arriving home late on pizza night. He phoned and asked if I would go to the van and order. What should have scared me was the prospect of using my amateur French on the pizza man, but nope it was the quiet darkness and shadows.
    So I said no, I’d wait for him to get home. But after a few minutes of berating myself, I decided to cowboy up and get over it.
    I changed my slippers for my converse, threw a scarf around my neck and stepped outside.
    It took just one glimpse down the dark small street and my heart was thumping and my stomach was in my throat. I did a quick turnaround and was back inside with the front door firmly shut. Feeling like a chicken I sat down and vowed I’d do it next week.
    I mean really, what’s the worst that could happen? I run into a ghost of a WWII German soldier that used to occupy Le Petit Village?
    Please! I’m an American. He’d be more scared of me.
    bisou
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  • Julia Child, I Need You

    Cooking in France for French people feels a little intimidating. Not for the Boyfriend because I’ve tasted his cooking and he lost the right to comment. Homeboy should NEVER be allowed near a stove or an oven, or even a microwave for that matter. Actually he shouldn’t even be allowed in a kitchen (he’s only in there to sneak cookies anyway).

    But I digress.
    We all grow up knowing that the French are culinarily (is that a word?) superior to everyone else. It’s just one of those things ingrained in your knowledge base like Henry the VIII had six wives and boys have cooties. And I’ve always thought of myself as a descent cook and I truly believe that now that I am not spending ten hours a day behind a desk and I have the time to explore the culinary arts, my inner Julia Child will come out to play. And like Ms. Child, I’ll be able to show the French what’s up. I’m not really there yet but I get to use the excuse that I’m still too busy getting the house sorted to really really cook. It’s not like I haven’t cooked, I have, and it’s been good, just not super-duper impressive.
    My daily meal planning usually goes like this:
    1. Look in the fridge. Must use whatever meat is closest to expiration. Or if there is an abundance of eggs, we’re having omelettes.
    2. Consult cookbooks and magazine recipe clippings for ideas using above meat.
    3. If I do not have enough of the ingredients to fulfill any cookbook or magazine recipe clippings, turn on laptop and google (that’s how I found the merguez sausage, corgette and pepper couscous recipe – but in fairness, I could have figured that one out on my own).
    The meals have always been cooked from scratch, tasted fine and looked presentable enough and the Boyfriend says how great each meal is but I can’t go by his word; he would eat cold ravioli out of a can and instant mashed potatoes. The Boyfriend is an eating machine.
    There’s been Shrimp Scampi over linguini. This was more time consuming than I had planned because when I bought the shrimp I hadn’t noticed that they still had their little heads attached. Removing those took awhile. There’s never a little guillotine around when you need one.
    Mushroom Risotto which I have to say has come out so well that I’ve made it twice.
    Spaghetti Carbonara, always easy and satisfying.
    And Steak with Roquefort Sauce and Frites. This one I was particularly pleased with because Honey Jr was our guest and he was full of compliments and I don’t think he would eat cold ravioli out of a can.
    But I don’t think I’m ready yet for the ultimate test; cooking for Papa’s wife. Now she is a good cook and the presentation is always perfect. I feel as if her final opinion of me is waiting to be weighed on my dinner party skills. Right now she likes me, and I would really like to keep it that way. I’ve told her that we will have her over for dinner as soon as I have the house sorted. But how long can I get away with that excuse? Four weeks and counting….
    bisou
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  • The Moonshiners

    We went to the house of the Honey Family, Chez Honey, for an afternoon coffee.


    Mr. & Mrs. Honey are both very friendly and inviting but have zero English, which is fine, I’m in their territory. But It’s the thick Southern French accents spoken a mile (sorry, a kilometer) a minute, and usually at the same time, that gets me. I do a lot of smiling and nodding at Chez Honey. Luckily, the smiling is easy because although they don’t speak English, they have international charm.

    I like going to Chez Honey. I never know what curious thing will be brought out for my amusement, whether it’s Mr. Honey’s toy chipmunk collection or a large plate of unpasteurized cheese (you’ll thank me for not going into the details of how that turned out). This time it was Mrs. Honey’s homemade     alcohol.

    And Mr. Honey got that twinkle in his eye that seems to mean one thing… uh-oh.

    What happened to the coffee???

    The first large bottle (like Champagne magnum big) had darkening leaves floating inside. This was the mint. Mrs. Honey explained how she leaves the bottle in a dark cupboard for six to eight weeks to let the fermenting process take hold. I opened the     bottle, ran it under my nose and inhaled deeply… WOWZA! Any stuffy nose I may have had was definitely taken care of and I’m sure any future winter colds are now null and void.

    And then another large bottle appeared. This one was the genipi alcohol.

    Where the mint had finished it’s fermentation and was ready to drink, the genipi was not. You’d think that would stop us from drinking it, it didn’t.

    We sat sipping from our emptied expresso cups. Very warm and herby. And I say warm because even though I was taking baby sips of an espresso cup amount, my whole being felt warm, like having a little furnace inside me, warm. Realizing the genipi could easily lead me down a dangerous path for a Sunday afternoon, I finished the bit in my cup and politely refused the refill, and the offer of whisky, wine and pastis.

    It’s 4pm on a Sunday for heavens sake!

    And I have stuff to do.

    So I went home, made myself a coffee, and googled ‘how to make homemade alcohol.’
    bisou
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  • My Martini Quest

    I’m having some cocktail hour translation issues.

    I would like a vodka martini, 007 style (yes, I know his was gin), as in shaken, not stirred, served in a chilled cocktail glass with an olive.
    The problem is that every time I order a vodka martini I get something quite different to what I think I am asking for. In the South of France, a ‘martini’ seems to mean ‘Martini Rossi’, that apéritif that gorgeous George Clooney used to push, not ‘martini’ as in the cool sophisticated cocktail. And even though Martini Rossi Bianco is a vermouth and a martini calls for vermouth, it comes out all wrong.
    Now I’m not saying that it’s terrible but a tumbler of half Martini Rossi and half vodka is some potent stuff and whenever I order it people stare at me with expressions of awe (maybe awe is not the correct description but they are definitely starting at me with expressions) and they do that gallic hand shake thing. The Boyfriend will simply say, “Elle est Irlandaise”, and people will nod understandingly at the obvious reason for my alcoholism. And then I drink it anyway (it wouldn’t be nice to waste it when there are thirsty people all over the world).

    So as today is Friday and another cocktail hour is quickly approaching I am on a quest, a quest to order a vodka martini and instead of looking like a lush, looking like the smooth 007 sophisticate that lurks inside me somewhere (deep deep down somewhere).
    P.S. anyone out there that can help with this is my new best friend, and I’m one cool sophisticated friend
    bisou
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  • The Mushroom Incident


    Let me start by saying that this should have been a much happier post.

    A post about delectable wild mushrooms and the beautiful gourmet meal I would cook using them. But I’m just not that girl and that’s just not me.
    And I will also say that this incident, that will henceforth be known as ‘The Mushroom Incident’ occurred over a week ago but I have had to let a little time pass before being able to write about it. Oh, and one last thing, please forgive me for any rambling that may follow, I’m still a little bit traumatized…

    It all started on a Sunday evening. We went to Papa’s house for a chat and drink (Provencal Rosé for me, Pastis for the Boyfriend). Papa had been very busy that day and he was quite chuffed with himself. Not only had he gone hunting and killed a wild boar (not with his bare hands – he’s not Super Papa) he had also done some mushroom foraging and had a large bucket of the biggest mushrooms I had ever seen. These things were like Alice In Wonderland mushrooms, you could picture little frogs relaxing underneath with a good book and a little martini.
    Seeing my excitement, Papa grabbed a bag and started stuffing mushrooms into it, all the while speaking rapidly in French giving me instructions for proper preparation and cooking with the Boyfriend translating over him. I nodded that I understood, smiled and said, “merci”.
    We headed home with the plan of having them for dinner the next night. The Boyfriend told me to leave them out, so I found a large bowl and left them on the counter.
    Now this is my mistake, I should have covered them. They’re mushrooms, not fruit.
    The next day I was getting excited, I was trolling the internet and reading my cookbooks looking for the perfect accompaniments for Papa’s wild mushrooms. Then the Boyfriend called. He said that he was still thinking about the merguez sausage and couscous I had cooked the night before and if there was any leftover, that’s what he would like for dinner. He assured me that the mushrooms would be fine to cook the next night, Tuesday.
    Now if you have read my older post entitled, ‘The Pizza Van’, you will know that Tuesday nights are Pizza Night in Le Petit Village and that very next Tuesday, my mushroom Tuesday turned out to be the night I learned about Pizza Tuesdays, so without expanding anymore, you know that I did not cook the mushrooms for dinner. However, a phone call to the Boyfriend’s Grand-mere did take place where she advised the Boyfriend to partially cook the mushrooms that evening, refrigerate them, and then finish cooking them on the Wednesday.
    Fine, I’ll enjoy my pizza and partially cook the mushrooms.
    Then my Boyfriend’s kindness intervened. “You’re tired, don’t cook them. Just put them in the refrigerator and cook them early tomorrow, they’ll be ok.” (not a direct quote but you get the gist).
    Happily and tiredly I agreed. The bowl of mushrooms went into the fridge and up the spiral stairs to bed we went.
    I should have listened to Grand-mere
    The next day after my coffee it was time to do some mushroom cooking. And then it happened…
    Opening the fridge I was greeted by the most disgusting sight someone could see. Not just any someone, but someone who had spent the last two weeks cleaning cleaning cleaning her (previous Boyfriend bachelor pad) home to make it feel comfortable enough for a girl to live in. That comfort that I had only just begun to feel was now stripped off me like a warm duvet on a cold, rainy Monday morning.
    Little maggots! Yes. Little recently hatched maggots were slithering up the back of my refrigerator. Freaking out, I slammed the door and phoned the Boyfriend at work. “Maggots!” I screamed. “What?” he asked. Terrible time for language difficulties. I grabbed my translation dictionary, trying again, “asticot!” The response I got was typical of a man who is not really paying attention and also not there to have to deal with it. “Oh”.
    Oh, ok, my problem I guess then.
    I hung up the phone took some deep breaths and went to work. Grabbing black plastic sacks I emptied every bit of the fridge; two dozen eggs, sandwich meats, fruit, vegetables, chorizo, my cheese box, butter… everything! And of course the mushrooms. The mushrooms that I had once loved but had now turned against me. Damn Judas mushrooms. The black sacs went out to the bins. It was now extermination time. I got a spray bottle of disinfectant and let my inner Terminator possess me. I sprayed until the inside of the fridge was coated with pink chemicals but there was no way I was cleaning up their little carcasses. The Boyfriend could do that when he got home.
    Payback for the unsympathetic, “oh”.
    I closed the door, washed my hands, took a shower, and went to bed with a book until the Boyfriend got home. Oh, and I also did what every other ‘woman’ my age does. I called my mother and cried.
    To finish up my re-telling of ‘The Mushroom Incident” this is what occurred when the Boyfriend got home:
    1. Upon opening the fridge he asked, “where is all the food?”. Seriously??!!
    2. He then put a glass of wine in my hand and ordered me to the couch (smart boy).
    3. He disposed of the little carcasses and washed the fridge with bleach and boiling water (as instructed by the internet).
    4. We went to Papa’s and ate some of that wild boar. Delicious!
    So that’s it. It’s been eight days since and honestly, every time I open my fridge I squint at the back wall. All ok so far. And on the bright side, now I have a super duper clean fridge.
    bisou
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  • My Humiliated Flowers


    I am a failure.

    My balcony flowers are on the verge of death.
    Maybe it’s the season, or that they were left alone in the Boyfriend’s care for too long, or maybe it’s just me. Either way, compared to these green French woman and their indestructible beautiful balcony flowers, I am a failure.

    Sitting in the kitchen, I saw two old women walk by my window. They stopped right outside and pointed at my sick flower bed. Even though I couldn’t hear them through the glass (and wouldn’t have been able to understand them if I had), I know they were mocking my flowers.
    I would rather have no flowers than humiliated ones.
    I think it might be time to put them out of their misery (the flowers, not the old women… but hmmm….).
    I will try again in the spring. Maybe by then I will have grown a French green thumb and I’ll make sure my flowers kick those old ladies flowers all over the village.

    bisou

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  • He Makes Me Happy


    It’s been 24 days since moving to Le Petit Village.

    For the most part, I have been very happy.
    At times ridiculously overwhelmed, emotional, confused, and homesick, but still happy.
    While I’m trying to settle in, get my bearings, and struggling to learn French, my happiness can mostly be attributed to one thing, the sweet, supportive, loving Boyfriend.
    In honor of him, and all the ways he continues to make me smile, I am dedicating today’s post to the Boyfriend, and my favorite five reasons I am loving him this week:

    1. I walked into the living room and found him sitting in front of the television, with a bowl of frosted flakes watching the Smurfs.
    2. When he could have been sleeping late on Sunday morning, he took me to the English bookstore in Banon and bought the new Dan Brown book for me.
    3. He asked me to spot him while he was lifting weights (a ridiculously bad idea that went terribly wrong but I’m very flattered that he thinks I’m that strong).
    4. Even though he got home from work late last night, he insisted on doing the dinner dishes, saying that I do too much, and sent me to the couch with a glass of wine. When I said thank you, he said. “It’s normal.”
    5. He laughs when I do my Skippie dance

    Je t’aime pour toujours bebe

    bisou
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  • Confessions of a Grocery Shopaholic

    It’s sad to admit, but sometimes I enjoy grocery shopping, like really enjoy it.

    Give me a nice, clean, big, modern grocery store, and an uncrowded, off-peak time and I’m happy as a clam wondering up and down each aisle slowly perusing and comparing.
    Since moving to Le Petit Village, I’ve not ventured out on my own to the nearest big town. But even though I am not ready to take on the small French country roads driving solo, I would still like to take on the big grocery store.
    The problem is the Boyfriend.
    While he has many fantastic qualities, patience, is not one of them. And to top it off, like any true red-blooded male, he abhors shopping, well shopping for anything non-electrical or tool related.
    I’ve been to the grocery store twice in the last two weeks but have yet to enjoy it because the Boyfriend walks along side me, letting out long loud sighs, and huffing and puffing every couple of minutes. I give up, throwing the must have essentials into the cart, and off we go.
    This time, I was prepared and had a plan. We would have lunch in the cafe next to the store and I would leave him there with the Sports page.
    All I asked for was thirty minutes. He had thirty minutes to relax with the Sports page and a bowl of ice cream, and I had thirty minutes to cover the store and familiarize myself with it’s contents.
    List in hand, I grabbed a cart and bolted. I would start from the far right hand side of the store first, and then head left, weaving up and down each aisle. There were no kitchen appliances or gardening products on the list but that didn’t mean I’d deprive myself of a trip up and down those aisles.
    As I made my way further into the store, I was really enjoying myself (sad, I know). Something that we needed would be put in the cart, and the pink hi-lighter would strike it off the list.
    Happily, I checked my watch, ten minutes gone, twenty minutes of grocery shopping fun left.
    And then I spotted him.
    The Boyfriend had left his ice cream and was walking the aisles looking for me. I quickly ducked and ran, but like a homing pigeon, he found me.
    He smiled and grabbed the cart.
    This time there was no huffing and puffing and almost everything was crossed off the list.
    The Boyfriend may hate shopping, but he loves me.
    bisou
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  • Holy Goat!

    Why did the goat cross the road?

    I don’t have a clue but it’s the oddest thing to see on a Saturday night.
    Driving to another village for dinner with friends, we came upon a dog and a goat walking together down the road. The Boyfriend hopped out of the car trying to scare them off. Instead, the two ran up to him ready to play. Not wanting a repeat of last week’s unfortunate bunny incident, the Boyfriend walked into the village with the goat and dog tagging along and us driving slowly behind.
    My Boyfriend, the goat herder.
    bisou
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