New Painting

Once or twice a year (depending on how long/busy our vacations are), my husband does a watercolor. This year he took two weeks off to relax and spend time with the kids and me. And paint a watercolor. And just for the record, artists are every bit as obsessed and grumpy about their work as writers are. (It's definitely different being on the other side. Now I'm the one rolling my eyes when I hear, "It's horrible. I wish I could start over." Etc.)

Here are some photos. Be warned the quality of my camera is very bad. The painting itself has much deeper colors and the images are much sharper. But here's Calvin's latest painting. It's from our trip to France and it's me visiting the Queen's Hamlet at Versailles.

  

Here is the sketch before the painting begins.

  

Half painted. The color in this photo is more accurate to the painting.

     

Completed. But awaiting a frame.

Paris Watercolor

When people visit our home for the first time, they often see all the watercolor paintings on the wall and they say to me, "Your paintings are so beautiful." And then, I have to say, "I didn't paint them." They blink and say, "Oh." Then I smile and say, "My husband Calvin painted them." The usual response at that point is a frown of disbelief until they squint and read Calvin's signature on the bottom.

I guess Cal doesn't quite seem the artist type. He's tall, broad and has a strong personality. He doesn't seem the type to hunch over a watercolor block with a tiny brush in his hand. But he is.

This December, we had a stay-cation and Cal painted me a watercolor of our trip to Paris. (I always hesitate to post photos of his watercolors because I have a cheap camera and richness of the colors and the details of painting don't come through. But I can't resist.)

So here is Rue Galande, Paris.

This is very near the apartment where we stayed
in the Latin Quarter.

 Here's a link to another of Calvin's watercolors.

French Food, Soup

Going to Paris was the trip of a life time. The art, the cathedrals, the gardens...and the food--it was amazing. Here are some of the places we ate.

 Ze Kitchen Galerie, a gastronomic experience where begin a foodie meant you were part of an exclusive club of true connoisseurs. Exotic food bliss, especially the sampler menu. The waiter asked, "Is there anything you won't eat?" We said, "No."

 Au Petit Sud Ouest, where I had truffles for the first time--never do you forget the first time you ate truffles.

Les Papilles, food the way it was meant to be eaten. Perfection.

Le Grand Vefour, history and Parisian cuisine in a palace. What more can you say?

Paris was a food delight. And I look back with pleasant memories. But I've been craving the soups. Badly. Americans don't do soups the French way. I can't think of how to describe it. French soups are a mix of the simplicity of childhood with the demands of an adult palate. So I've searched out recipes. I tried Epicurious. The carrot-ginger soup was good. But it tried too hard. It was too complex--the flavors warred with each other. They were overbearing. And then, I found a blog written by an American woman who married a Frenchman. And I found her recipe for La Puree.

I made it last night. Here are the vegetables simmering.

Below is the finished soup. (Leeks--the French believe leeks prevent cellulite, a big rutabaga, carrots, red peppers, zucchini, and salt.) I did make one change to the recipe. I added chicken bouillon because the soup tasted a little bland--probably because I didn't know how much a handful of salt was. And I served the soup with goat cheese sprinkled on top (Costco's Kirkland brand is really cheap) and a rustic rosemary/olive oil bread.

Even Matthew had a second bowl. And for one meal, I was back in Paris.

I know you're thinking "Where's the recipe?!" Here it is: A Lady In France

Paris Photos

I spend most of this past week at the hospital with a friend, so I'm playing "catch up with life" now.

And because I don't have time today to write a blog post, I'm posting a few "never-before-seen" photos from our Paris trip. I hope you enjoy them.

This is in the Petit Trianon at Versailles. The railing originally had Louis XIV in the medallions. Marie Antoinette had it replace with MA.

 This is a barometer/thermometer. The interesting thing is that the temperature is marked like this "St. Petersburg during the winter," etc.

Every member of our home is strictly forbidden from blowing dandelions. I, on the other had, blew one in Marie Antoinette's garden.

In a French cafe for a late dinner. And for reasons that I don't understand, it looks light outside. But it was at least 10 pm.

Four Hundred Seventy-Six Photos

Yesterday, I finished (sort of) editing photos from our trip to Paris. It seemed to take forever. Then, after I finished I discovered why. I have 476 photos. That is the curse of the digital age. And that number doesn't include the blurry ones or the ones where my eyes are closed, etc.

And the good/bad thing is that some of those photos were actually bad. But do to the wonders of modern computer programs, you can fix the bad photos. And I had several bad photos--due to 1. a cheap camera and 2. bad lighting--museums, cathedrals, etc., don't allow you to use flash. So when we got home, I downloaded the photo software, Lightbox (the free version of Sagelight).

Here are some results.

Here the lighting was so bad the ceiling looks dull. 

With the photo editor I was able to bring the photo in line with reality.

So what am I going to do with 476 photos? Clearly, I'm not going to print that many photos. I suppose I could put them on a disk and watch them on our television. We could torture our loved ones by making them sit through a presentation. My daughter, though she said it in kind words, basically told me that she'd be bored out of her skull if we made her sit through 476 photos. Hmm, a new parental threat, "Get those dishes done or you'll have to watch all of our Paris pictures, even the blurry ones. And remember how much I like ceiling vaulting--I got tons of ceiling pictures!"

The Queen's Hamlet

I love irony. But it’s rare to find poignant irony outside of books. I think because it’s easy to miss in real life—we tend to lack a certain detachment that you need in order to see irony.

However, sometimes it smacks you in the face. Especially when it’s in someone else’s life. Even more so when it’s in Marie Antoinette’s life.

When we visited Versailles, we took a hike to The Queen’s Hamlet. It’s in the far corner of the estate, but worth the walk. MA had a peasant village built to use both as an escape from the palace and as a party playground for her and her coterie of hangers-on.

She had a romantic view of peasant life. And so that’s what she got. The sheep and goats were perfumed. Marie Antoinette dressed as a milkmaid. Though an actual milkmaid did the real milking. I can’t help but wonder how history might have been different had she visited a real village and milked a real goat.

Here are some photos of the “hameau.”

Here's the famous Mill. You can't go inside, but that small water wheel couldn't generate much grinding power.

I grew up with relatives who had dairy farms. None of them had marble mosaic floors or fountains in the walls. 

The Hamlet was gorgeous. Totally pristine. So not a real working village.

This was the entrance to the "farm" part of the village. Apparently, there was a real farm a ways outside of the Hamlet that did provide food for the residents.

Here's where the perfumed sheep and goats roamed. Can't you just see MA and her ladies-in-waiting dressed as peasants, giving the sheep and goats hugs and kisses?


I wonder if they're hiring re-enactors. I'd love to get paid to be MA pretending to be a peasant.

N.B. In all fairness to MA, she did wise up and try to help the poor. But by then, it was too late.

Versailles Needs Feather Dusters

Years ago I did some research on Marie Antoinette, the French Revolution, the Reign of Terror, etc., for a novel I was working on. I never finished the novel (though I’d love to go back to it), but the history stayed with me.

So we couldn’t visit Paris without visiting Versailles. It was as amazing as you’d guess. I was disappointed in the fountains—none of them were running and the biggest of the fountains was being restored so it was a maze of construction and dirt.

But here is the Hall of Mirrors.

And a photo of the chapel, from the second story balcony.

And here is Marie Antoinette’s bedchamber.

This is the door she escaped through when the mobs came to Versailles. 

Apparently, the guards feared reprisals from the mobs and when they demanded entry to the palace grounds, the guards opened the gates.

Here’s her bed in Le Grand Trianon, a second smaller palace on the grounds of Versailles.

And here’s her bed in Le Petit Trianon. Apparently, Marie didn’t like the grandeur, pomp, and court intrigue of the main palace or even the much smaller Grand Trianon. So she spent most of her time living in Le Petit Trianon.

Yes, the bed is really tiny. You'd have to curl into a ball to sleep there.

If you go back to the photo of the first bed, note the thick layer of dust on the bedspread--so thick you can't even see the pattern on the fabric. This is one of my few complaints about Paris. The museums and cathedrals have serious dust issues. Cal sneezed a lot. (I took allergy medicine.) I know the French have lots of work maintaining their historical artifacts, so I was thinking that I'd get together a group of dusting friends and we’d dust the museums, churches, etc. (My Dutch immigrant friends have all volunteered—they have a cultural aversion to dust, even a speck.) And the French government wouldn’t have to pay us, just buy us a plane ticket. They wouldn’t even have to get us a hotel room. We’d be happy to bunk out at Versailles.

Any other volunteers want to join us? 

Writer's Imagination Gone Crazy

When we were in Paris, we visited lots of cathedrals. My husband Cal knew about the architecture and explained it all to me. “This is Gothic—see the vaulting. This is late Gothic… This is Renaissance.” Interestingly, every church we visited had signs up warning us not to leave any bags unattended and telling us to notify someone immediately if we see an unattended bag. (It was just like the airport warnings.) So there must be some concern about terrorism in the old churches.

Neither Cal nor I gave the warnings a second thought. Until Sacre Coeur. We’d climbed all the stairs, toured the church, and were beginning to go down Montmarte, when a man nearly ran over us and another couple from behind. He jumped the fence, rustled around in the bushes, came back over the fence (without his huge bag!), and ran away.

Cal and I looked at each other. I said to the other couple, “Did he just hide his bag in the bushes and run away?” They nodded vigorously and said, “Yes.”

At that point, I wondered how long we had until the explosion. Clearly, it was a big bomb. Was there time to notify anyone? What would the blast radius be? Could we run fast enough?

Then, the other couple said, “That guy was an illegal souvenir vendor. The cops are cracking down and he doesn’t have a license. So he ditched his stuff and will come back to get it later when the cops are gone.”

Right. What can I say? Writer’s imagination gone crazy.

Here we are in front of Sacre Coeur.

Here are the stairs where the guy jumped the fence and hid his bag of souvenirs.

Sharing a kiss at Sacre Coeur. When Ariel saw this, she said, "After 25 years of marriage you guys can't kiss without smashing your noses?" In our defense--we were too busy trying to get the photo to worry about our noses.

Gargoyles and Me

I loved Notre Dame. It was stunning. I could include dozens of photos (don't worry I won't). But one of my favorite parts was climbing the stairs to the roof. The ancient stairs with grooves worn in the stone by thousands of feet over the nearly 1000 years the cathedral has existed. (I love heights, and we climbed up to the top of every monument we could. Cal deserves a medal because heights make him uncomfortable, but he went up every staircase with me--even the Eiffel Tower).

After the spiral stairs, I was with the gargoyles.

Yes, there is much Parisian gnashing of teeth about the tall black building ruining the skyline. I think the gargoyle and his ilk are patiently contemplating its destruction--they figure they've lasted nearly a millennium and they don't think the black tower will.

I brought home a small gargoyle who now watches over my desk and sticks out his tongue at me. I love it.

Really, I'm Not French

We are back from Paris (we had a marvelous time--even better than I'd hoped), and I thought I’d share some of the things that happened while we were there.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that the last six months I’ve been working on French to try and revive my 25+ year old language capability. So, I was nervous, but good to go.

After we arrived in Paris at 6am, we left our luggage at our apartment (our official check-in was at 10am) and wandered the streets and markets. We found a patisserie and decided to buy a baguette, etc. In any case, the proprietress was obviously not in a mood to deal with tourists and I took too long explaining to Cal what the various pastry-like creations were.  She was impatient and rude. I was flustered.

So I made the decision that from then on, Cal could speak in English to everyone since they spoke English anyway. Then, we discovered unintended consequences.

We’d go to Metro information. Cal would ask for directions to the Metro headed toward Sevres-Babylone, Les Halles, St. Michel, etc. The person at the information booth would raise an eyebrow, literally turn a cold shoulder to Cal, and speak to me in rapid fire French. I would say, “Merci” or ask for clarification. As this happened over and over, I asked Calvin, “Why are they doing this?” Cal blinked and said, “Because you look just like them, so they assume you are Parisian.” I thought about it. Yeah, a lot of them did look like me. They had the same narrow build, same dark, straight hair, the same shadows under their eyes (which stubbornly resist makeup), and as Cal pointed out they dressed just like I did—in black with a scarf.

Then, Cal said, “You are now the official talker. I’m kind of tired of getting the you-loathsome-American,-why-are-you-foisting-yourself-on-us-and-not-allowing-your-wife-to-speak-to-us look.” I had to admit that was the look he was getting.

So I began talking. People were very nice and helpful. Though occasionally when I spoke I got the you-are-the-confirmation-of-my-beliefs-that-emigration-is-evil-as-it-turns-French-speakers-into-language-barbarians. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t my fault as my French ancestors left 400 years ago for the Netherlands.

Sometimes, people gave me an incredulous look and said, “You speek Ing-gleese?” Even when we were leaving France yesterday, an inspector looked at my American passport and spoke to me in machine gun French. I wasn’t sure whether she said, “So you have decided to leave your mother country? Or, has any terrorist given you a package to take on board the aircraft?” Since the answer and its implication were clearly important, I said, “Uh…” Finally, she switched to English and I was allowed to leave the country.

Yesterday, I streamed an episode of Grimm and a character was speaking French. I whispered to Cal, “His accent isn’t very good.” Yep, Paris rubbed off on me.

This was our first day when we went shopping.

The RER train on the way to Versailles.

Eating With Victor Hugo

Cal and I went to a restaurant called Le Grand Vefour to celebrate our anniversary. The food was fantastic and the ambiance amazing. Le Grand Vefour has been a restaurant since 1784. It was a hot spot for writers, politicians, and those spreading sedition (obviously not mutually exclusive categories). Napoleon, Sartre, et al. had their own tables. We ate at Victor Hugo's table. Napoleon had a different table.

Some Pictures of Paris

As you know, we're in Paris. We're having a wonderful time!

Hopefully, I'll be posting again the middle of next week, but here are some photos in the meantime.

Cal and I in the gardens at Versailles.

One of the rooms in Versailles.

Notre Dame with my friend the gargoyle.

Shakespeare and Company bookstore, right around the corner from our apartment.

Paris, Day One

We are on our way to Paris…I can’t believe I’ve written that and that the words are true. 

Cal’s been planning it for over a year—you can check out his hard work in the photo below. He’s read every guidebook there is—note the three guidebooks. And see those notecards? Each day’s plans are written on individual notecards, that way the days can be shuffled if there’s inclement weather. Beside the itinerary, each notecard includes directions via walking or the Metro. (Or train stops if we decide against the Metro.) And alternate routes—you know, in case there’s a traffic jam or a strike or a zombie apocalypse and the road to the Louvre is blocked with dead bodies.

Notice the maps. One is covered in a plastic sheath—in case it rains. The other has each day’s route mapped out in red pencil. Possible lunch and dinner restaurants, which have been thoroughly vetted  are marked as well. (The red folder contains prices, menus and reviews of each restaurant, café, and market.) Can you say obsessive?

Not included in the photo is Cal’s MP3 player, which has MP3 audio files that narrate each of the Paris sightseeing walks we go on. We’re bringing along an audio splitter and two sets of earbuds. So we’ll be walking the streets of Paris holding hands, listening to an audio. And, you know, if one of us comes home with a leg in a cast, it’ll be because we didn’t hear the honking taxi. But hey, it’ll be romantic.

Everything's Funny at 5 AM

At 5 am, our alarm went off. I wished I could turn it off. But Cal and I are getting up early as part of my I-don’t-want-to-get-a-migraine-in-Paris plan. I get migraines from flashing lights (read movie theaters and television), weird barometric pressure changes, and sleep disturbances. Since Paris is a six hour time difference and we’re arriving in Paris at midnight our time—6 am Paris time, I’m guessing my body will register that as a sleep cycle disturbance.

So the alarm went off. Normally, classical music plays since the clock radio is set to the classical station. (I know, very old tech. I’ve had this clock since high school.) And we hear Bach, Mozart, et al. But at 5 am things are different. 5 am is opera hour.

At 5 am, some throaty German woman (it was German not Italian) greeted me. She sang this minor, discordant music. I wanted to turn it off, but then I’d never have gotten up. It was painful. Finally, Cal began to translate.

Cal (in a mournful voice): Oh, I am so sad. You uncaring dirtbag. Why, oh why, did you leave me? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I am so very, very sad.

Cal’s voice took on an edge, mimicking the singer’s: I am angry. I didn’t deserve this. I will burn down your house.

At this point, I begin to giggle. After all, everything’s funny at 5 am.

The singer’s voice turns nasty. Cal’s translates: Not only will I burn your house down. I will kill you. Yes, that’s what I will do.

The song ends. The announcer comes on and says, “That was composer (some obscure German name) and his composition “Princess Lullaby.”

That was a German lullaby? Hmm. You know, that explains a lot.

Public domain art, courtesy of Wikimedia.

Yuck.

This morning I went to get our dog Jezebel and give her breakfast. (She sleeps in the boys’ bedroom.) When I opened the door, I was assaulted by a horrid smell—though “horrid” barely scratches the surface of humidity + closed doors + really sick dog. I have no doubt Jez tried to wake the boys up when she knew she was getting sick. But they’re 16 and 18—and nothing wakes them. I’m convinced a mariachi band playing in the center of their room wouldn’t cause them to twitch. I’ve even found my 18 year old sitting up sound asleep because he was reading when he fell asleep and didn’t move during the intervening 8 hours.

In any case, even though my eyes were watering, I saw well enough to notice that Jez greeted me with her I’m-so-ashamed-I-wish-I-could-fix-this sad Labrador retriever eyes. I wished she could too. But she couldn’t. So I turned to the next best thing. My husband.

It was 6 am and he was already working at his desk, but I said, “Uh, the dog puked and had diarrhea during the night…” Cal stood up, gathered a trash bag, paper towels, and cleaned the floor. Then, he mopped it with bleach and soapy water. And me? Wimp that I am…I held the flashlight—though turning on the light probably would not have woken the boys from late adolescence-induced slumber—because, you know, I had to try to “help.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, Cal is working hard to get serious “good husband” points before we go to Paris. And he did. I told him so.

I’ve always said I’d rather have a husband who’d clean up vomit without complaining than one who’d make big romantic gestures. Apparently, I got both. Hmm…I wonder if he’s up for defrosting the freezer on his day-off. That’s the next nasty chore on my to-do list.

No photos today because…well, yuck.

I'm Not Buying Leather

Photo by Benh, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

One week from today.

It’s finally here. One week from today, my husband Calvin and I will be flying to Paris to celebrate our 25^th wedding anniversary. Cal announced the trip to me as my Christmas gift (you can read the whole story here).

My job since December has been to re-learn French. At one point in my life, I was fluent-ish. But after 25 years of non-use, I could conjugate non-irregular verbs, but not much more. So I found an online French program. Last week, I completed the course. However, my concern is that instead of making me fluent, it’s made me dangerous. I know just enough to get totally lost/confused/insulting.

In the back of my head are the stories my friends have told me. A friend who gave a lecture in theology and used the wrong noun gender and ended up speaking about pantyhose (though that was Spanish). Or the friend who was explaining when she and her husband were going to have children—let’s just say that what was supposed to be a matter-of-fact answer ended up being a bit too intimate. Or the friend who was trying to explain that her children were twins and ended up telling someone she had two chicken eggs (that was in Japanese). Or even the friend of mine who grew up speaking French and English and sometimes gets the words “tong” and “thong” confused. She always gets nervous when serving salad to guests. And I make my own mistakes, my husband tells me that I still misuse some English prepositions—Dutch has some prepositions that are the same in sound, but they don’t mean the same thing in English.

Of course if I get really stymied in French, I can always say, “Parlez-vous anglais ou néerlandais?” On the other hand, the Dutch I speak is old almost Victorian—it uses thee and thou. (Dutch underwent some modernization in the ’70s, long after my mom and her parents emigrated.) So when I speak Dutch, everyone thinks I’m “so cute.” Not exactly what I’m going for, but communication is communication. And if worse comes to worst, I can always say, “Est-ce que c’est vrai cuir?” (Is this real leather?) Why a language program would bother to teach this is beyond me. I’ve never needed to ask this in English, so why in French? Then again, You’ve Got Mail taught me: “People do really stupid things in foreign countries…They buy leather jackets for much more than they're worth. But they don't fall in love with fascist dictators.” But I have no plans to buy a leather jacket or fall in love with a fascist dictator. 

BTW, Luke and Ariel graduated this Saturday. Here are some photos.

Here is my chemist and my mathematician.

Here are some of the 3000 graduates.

Even Rusty French Has Its Uses

I don’t plan on writing a lot of posts on the preparations for our trip to Paris (for those who missed the amazing trip to Paris news, click here). But since my husband had this week off, we spent time planning our trip.

My obligation between now and when we leave is to “brush up” on French. My husband knows that when I graduated from college I was fluent in French—the university I graduated from required all English majors to be fluent in a foreign language. Fluency in French meant I had to take literature classes where the texts were all French, the lectures were in French, and we had to write our papers in French. And yes, I did that. However, I did those that twenty-five years ago. Since then, I’ve only used French to explain to my kids what RSVP stands for. (Okay, I did teach high school French twenty years ago—but that was mostly forcing passé composé into unwilling minds.)

After twenty-five years, I don’t really remember much. I can read something aloud and it sounds well enough, but I have no idea what it means. At least, that’s what I thought until Cal began researching restaurants. The other day, he pulled up a website to show to me. It had all the appropriate stars, the prices were reasonable, and the ambiance was fantastic. So I clicked on the menu and read it.

Then, I said to Cal, “Uh, when you looked at this earlier, did you use Google Translate on this page?”

He said, “No. Why?”

I answered, “I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that this paragraph says that the specialty of the house is calf brain cooked in wine.”

We exchanged a glance and removed the restaurant from our “possibilities list.”

You know, my smattering of French may come in handy after all.

Be sure to check out the menu below. It's from 1870, and the dinner includes antelope, elephant, wolf, camel, bear, etc.  (Courtesy of  Wikimedia Commons) 

A Trip to Paris, Keeping the Secret

Years ago, my husband Calvin told me that we’d celebrate our 25^th wedding anniversary in Paris. Knowing our budget, I always laughed. I shouldn’t have. In June we’ll be celebrating our 25^th anniversary.

This Christmas, my Christmas gift came with a card (unusual). It said, “Merry Christmas/Happy Birthday/Happy 25^th Anniversary. And don’t worry, it’s already paid for.” (Yes, he knows me well.)

It turns out that Cal’s been saving for years. And we’ll be spending 7 days and 6 nights in Paris in a cute studio apartment in the Latin Quarter. (I cried when I opened the package.)

And Cal’s kept everything hidden from me. He called in help from the kids.

He told the kids to intercept the mail at all costs. And I thought they raced me to the mailbox for fun. Seriously, I’d be halfway to the mailbox when Matt/Jake would race past me. And on the days when they didn’t realize that I’d already gotten the mail, Jacob would say, “Mom, I think there’s a really important email that just came up on your computer. You need to check it right now.” He’d take the mail from me and sort through it. After checking my computer, I’d say, “The only thing I had was spam.” With a bill or brochure hidden under his shirt, Jake would shrug and say, “Oh well.”

Then, there was the checkbook. Cal didn’t want me to see any checks or fund transfers. So in the last couple of years, all the checks I needed to write were written and handed to me by Cal before I ever needed them. I knew he was efficient, but…

And his computer is a treasure trove of Paris sites, references, and price comparisons. But I never found that either. I hate his computer. It’s a hive of imps and has a weird keyboard that always misinterprets what I type.

So now I’m looking through the guidebooks and the places he’s planned for us to visit (we like the same things—art museums, gardens, architecture). And I discovered that the Shakespeare and Company bookstore is literally around the corner—a writer/reader’s nirvana. Squee!

Notre Dame gargoyle's view of Paris