Strawberries

It’s that time of year again.

Having given up the unequal struggle to find real cream in France, I have decided that mascarpone (albeit Italian)  is the best available substitute.

Have a great weekend!

Mayday, Mayday

I can’t believe it is already the 1st of May – surely I’ve only just put away the Christmas decorations.   It is a ferié (or public holiday) here in France so nobody will be working which seems ironic on a day called ‘ La ‘Fête du Travail’ but, there you go.  As it falls on a Tuesday, the schools and lots of public offices didn’t bother to open yesterday (Monday) –   they take the extra day as a ‘pont’ or bridge between.  A bit cheekyI suppose but then I’ve always thought it a bit strange that, in the U.K. for example, dates get moved around and tacked on to the beginning or end of a weekend for convenience.  Surely the 1st May should be commemorated on the 1st May regardless of whereabouts in the week it falls.  Anyway, in an uncharacteristic display of laissez faire about tax and paperwork, today is the only day in the year where the French allow anybody to set up stall and sell Lily of the Valley plants with impunity.

Remember the sewing machine cover I was making?  Well, here it finally is -If, like Mr. Tialys, you think my dog looks like a seal then please keep your comments to yourself!!  He didn’t and was sorry afterwards.

We undertook this rather challenging  project in my mini sewing group of 3 and this is Sandra’s house which fitted the hard cover of her machine perfectly so she left out the cardboard reinforcements and just pulled the fabric cover over the original rigid plastic one.

The vide grenier season is starting to pick up and, despite weather warnings last weekend, a big one took place in a nearby village.  Madamoiselle Tialys the elder had a stall and had been busy combing the house for modern junk to sell whilst I was busy buying antique and vintage  junk from other people to bring home again.  So, of course, the house never gets any emptier but, in my opinion anyway, it gets more interesting.

and the pièce de résistance………

isn’t it beautiful?

I was touched by the concern of my blogger friend Al (aka Houdini)  because I hadn’t posted for a while.  It’s the  cyber equivalent of a friendly neighbour coming round to see why you haven’t been taking in the milk  and newspapers and fearing that you might have tripped, hit your head and  be lying prone beneath a pile of cats and a german shepherd.  So,  thank you Al!

As I’ve talked about 1st May in France and my title for this post is two thirds of the traditional distress call, I was reminded that the use of ‘Mayday’ is said to originate from the French ‘M’aidez’ which, of course, means ‘help me’.  I had known that at one time but then forgotten – as I have forgotten so many bits of trivia – so, just in case you had too, it might come in useful at a pub quiz.

Skiing – What a Faff.

I’m typing this under the covers on a sunday morning. It is still very cold outside, the snow hasn’t completely melted yet and more is forecast for next week. The rest of the family have gone skiing.

What is it about skiing? I know it seems a shame when we live 20 minutes from the nearest ski station but I just don’t get it and, believe me, I’ve tried.

My main objection is that you have to spend the best part of the day in the cold dressed in layers of thin, clingy clothing and topped with puffy jackets and trousers which swish every time you move, only to start sweating profusely once you start doing anything but have nowhere to put all the excess garments.  And there is so much more…

Once dressed up in all these layers you, or worse one of the kids, decide you need to go to the loo so another 15 minutes pass while thermal underwear which feels like a fabric version of the iron maiden needs to be rolled down. If this isn’t done before leaving the house you will pay the penalty by having to use the public loos at the ski station where all your puffy squeaky gear will trail in the melted snow - I think that’s what it is - on the floor whilst you keep the growing queue waiting as you unpeel your undergarments.

Then the horrors of the drive up to the ski station must be endured. Where we live, if there’s been enough snow to enable the ski station to open, it generally renders the road up to it in such a state that no sane person would ever dream of driving on it voluntarily.  Halfway up, you have to get out of the car and get out the dreaded snow chains.  I usually manage to get one set on one side of the car and then the other one just won’t go on which might be because, by this time, your hands have ceased to function as it is impossible to attach snow chains whilst wearing ski gloves.

Looks Easy in the Picture Doesn't It?

The ski station itself is, thankfully, not full of ‘poseurs’ (as I call people that can ski) as it is relatively un-touristy – not being tricky enough for the really serious skiers- and frequented mainly by families and by locals still willing and able to pay the fees for playing about in the same snow which they have been complaining about and avoiding all week. 

My skiing being as it is, which isn’t much,  I am still susceptible to humiliation by everybody else from the age of 4 speeding past me whilst I curse and swear under my visible breath and try to adjust clips and zips and hold on to sticks with great big padded gloves on my hands.

I know that, when the family get home, their damp ski gear will be dumped downstairs in the storeroom – not to be touched until the next skiing trip when, mysteriously, the ritual search for the missing gloves/sunglasses/hats and ski passes will begin.  I will then be interrogated as to the whereabouts of all these missing articles as if I had been involved to any extent with any of it.

One of the great things about skiing, allegedly, is the après ski, where you sit around and drink mulled wine and eat warming dishes like tartiflette.  Well, I’ve invented my own version of this call ‘au lieu de ski’ * where I put another log on the fire, empty a bottle of wine into a saucepan, chuck a few spices in and read a good book.

Skiing! What a faff!

* Translation for those who don’t speak Franglais like what I do and haven’t got a dictionary to hand – ‘instead of skiing’.

The Mad Bird Lady

Do you remember when you were very young, there would always be a bit of an odd woman who lived in your street and would get a bit obsessed with feeding the wild birds.  According to my daughter, I have now become such a woman.  In this snow we are having at the moment, I get really stressed seeing all the birds frantically searching for food and even the birds that are usually ground feeders are desperate enough to come up on to the balcony to see if they can hold on to the fat ball feeder.  Usually I have the feeders hanging on my balcony, safe from the cats, but as there are so many birds at the moment, I have hung a couple in the tree in the front garden.  I’ve run out of containers so am having to improvise and turned to some of my, as yet unlisted, vintage stock.   A beautiful, enamelled vintage French ladle anyone…….

The White Stuff

The snow started falling yesterday afternoon and, to my amazement, the Madamoiselles Tialys were galvanised into action and went out and built a snowman.  Madamoiselle the Younger, to my certain knowledge, hasn’t emerged from her room at a weekend for at least 4 months so I was a little taken aback.

Being an old misery guts myself, I only emerged to take a couple of photos before going back in, pausing only to pick up another log for the fire.  I don’t like the snow – it makes life too difficult and a little bit scary if you’re in a car.  However, it does look beautiful so I ventured out again at sun up this morning with the camera and the dogs

I could almost hear the sighs of relief from the ski station as they have only had two pistes open so far this winter and they have never looked particularly inviting, seeming to consist mainly of mud and ice.

The snowmen were still there this morning but, as you can tell, the dogs didn’t think much of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

….and straight on for the Eiffel Tower

My daughter has started taking her driving lessons here in France and, to begin with, she must study the ‘code’.  I must have a look at it to see what it advises in this situation -

Can’t go wrong with that really.

This one might be a bit more problematic though

It is fun driving in France.  It is well known by all French drivers that there is a secret tax levied on using your indicators.  For each ‘blink’ of an indicator light, one euro is added to your bill.  However, on the extremely rare occasion where you feel compelled to signal your intention, one euro is refunded if you do it wrongly and one euro fifty if you do it wrongly on a roundabout.

I have also yet to work out how it is possible to have a mobile phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other whilst negotiating a turn – still, as I don’t have a licence to drive a lorry I suppose I’ll never find out.

When I Grow Up I Want To Be A Housesitter

My friend Maureen housesits for people when they go away.  She looks after the dogs or cats or chickens (whatever!) and makes sure the house stays ‘lived in’ and warm and safe.  She might even, if you are really lucky, cook a homemade meal for you on your return.

She has just been housesitting for some people near Montpellier and, as I’d never been to that area of France and it’s not too far from me, I decided to visit her there.  The house is, literally, in the middle of nowhere, and used to be a shepherd’s hut with the sheep living in what is now the living room and him living in what is now the master bedroom.

What a great job!  Trouble is you’d have to be able to leave your own life behind which is no good if you’ve got a partner, kids, dogs, cats and chickens of your own – still, when I grow up………..

I Don’t Give a Fig

Well, actually, I really, really want to give a fig – lots of them in fact.  I’ve got about 4 varieties of fig tree in the garden and, due to the early rain and late heat (probably) we are having a better than usual second crop.

Problem is nobody likes them but me, the chickens and one of the dogs.

The trouble is, I only like them fresh, so I don’t want to make jam or chutney or dry them.  Also, you have to pick them when they are completely ripe – I don’t believe they continue ripening once picked – so, to get them when they are really jammy inside, which is the only time they are worth eating in my opinion, you have to compete with the wasps, give up on the ones really high up and gorge yourself all at once.

I think Mr. T. took against them after a couple of summers ago when, on a very hot day, he pruned one of the trees not realising that the sap can be very harmful on the skin.  It was a day or so later that he began to itch on his upper arm and it really flared up.  He still has the scar.  We looked it up on the internet and there were some really scary photographs of a man in Greece who had pruned quite a few trees on a hot day and he was covered in scars.

Off to slice one or two up with some goats cheese for lunch.

Bryan Ferry and a Citadel – What’s Not to Like?

Off to see Bryan Ferry tonight in the beautiful city of Carcassonne.

Unfortunately, as seems to happen every year during the time that the Festivale is on, the weather is unpredictable.  This wouldn’t be so bad but the concert  is in the open-air.

Bryan (as I call him) will be alright as the stage is under cover so he will still look cool and like the style icon that he is.  Unfortunately, the rest of us will probably be huddled underneath unflattering hoods and, heaven forfend, cagoules like the ordinary mortals that we are. 

Still, it’s worth the risk I reckon.

THE NEXT DAY………

  one hour’s drive away from us and the city of Carcassonne was in beautiful sunshine.  So it was a great concert and Bryan didn’t have to see me in my cagoule.

The Green Muse

I’ve just spotted a way to lift me out of the creative ‘ennui’ that has beset me over the past couple of weeks (see here for reminder).

Apparently, last month, the French officially lifted the ban on Absinthe.  Now I can emulate those great artists of the past who were reputedly inspired by the mind altering effects of wormwood.  Look out for some amazing works of art from me – or you might just find me slumped, poetically, on a chaise-longue.

Of course, it’s always been possible to get Absinthe in France, under another name, but it just wouldn’t seem as naughty.  Right, I’m off to la cave to stock up and then I’ll get out my paints and easel. Prepare to be amazed.