Kale thoughts

(photo of French kale farmer, Hermoine Boehrer, by Damien Lafargue for the New York Times)

It is the beginning of fall, which should trigger my harvesting of kale. Alas the canicule in July wiped me out except for a couple of surviving plants that are supplying my morning smoothie greens. So I am already thinking about next year, and how I am going to manage crops simultaneously in Paris and Burgundy. I will definitely be picking up some new seeds when I am in PDX

Three thoughts about kale:

1. Everyone asks me why the French don't grow kale. I just learned that it's a World War II thing. Which coincidentally, I have learned more about World War II in the past two years than in all 16 years of formal education. It's weird how much historical wars come up in conversation over here.

2. In this NY Times article about The Kale Project in Paris, I learned that you can deter kale eating insects by planting mustard and chervil around it. *makes mental note* I really like the idea of these textures together. Welcome to next year's balcony aesthetic.

3. Now that I have learned proper pasta making from Mama Gio I plan to bust out some kale raviolis, and maybe kale lasagna noodles.

I wish I still had my inherited gardner at La Bonne Etape.

Fluent

Fluent (Eng.)/ Fluent (Fr.) adjective: (of a person) able to express oneself easily and articulately.

The first question that people ask me about living in France is, "How long have you lived here?" My answer is a shameful 2.5 years. Shameful because of the answer to the natural follow up question.

"How is your French?"

Sigh.

I have a pretty extensive repository of French vocabulary words. But my verb conjugation and sentence composition is atrocious, and has led me to some very uncomfortable situations. Like the time I thought I was scheduling a time to test drive a used car that was for sale. Only to find out that I had inadvertently invited the car's owner to a Sunday afternoon orgy.

Marco says that I need to focus on learning a phrase a day. I think one per week is probably more like it. Regardless, I see his point. At least phrases will get me farther than an impressive vocabulary that resides solely in my back pocket, so to speak.

This excerpt from Me Talk Pretty One Day basically sums up my current situation.

“On my fifth trip to France I limited myself to the words and phrases that people actually use. From the dog owners I learned "Lie down," "Shut up," and "Who shit on this carpet?" The couple across the road taught me to ask questions correctly, and the grocer taught me to count. Things began to come together, and I went from speaking like an evil baby to speaking like a hillbilly. "Is thems the thoughts of cows?" I'd ask the butcher, pointing to the calves' brains displayed in the front window. "I want me some lamb chop with handles on 'em.”
― David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day

Extincteur

Extincteur(Fr. )/ extinguisher (Eng.) noun: a metal cylinder which contains water or chemicals at high pressure which can put out fires.

A few weeks ago, my friend's Bed and Breakfast (which is called a "gite" in French) caught fire. The cause? An old toaster oven turned itself on and the electrical wire set off sparks that wreaked total havoc and destroyed her kitchen and living room with fire damage.

(Photo by Thierry Drosson)

Not only do (did) I have a toaster oven at La Bonne Etape, but I also have two fireplaces that I know nothing about. It put the fear of fire in me, and therefore sent me straight to the BHV to but fire extinguishers. My intention was to buy one for every floor in my house, and maybe an extra one to hang in the bathroom as modern art, just like Patrick did in his Brussels penthouse.

There were so many options-- extincteurs for gas, grease, cars, etc. I decided I should buy the ones that covers ALL bases. It was 51 euros (!) so I only bought one.

I thought that I was finished with this adult errand until I turned the corner and saw that the options continued-- and because this is France after all, they were aesthetic options.

Yes, those are fire extincteurs that look like magnums of wine. But of course! How perfect for my house in the Burgundy wine country, non? They cost 101 euros. Sigh. Because I am an adult, I must prioritize that money towards Farrow & Ball paint.

And then, gasp, I came across these sexy little numbers. Have you ever seen anything so cheesy in your life? The shocking part was that there was a cluster of folks gathered around these little honies picking out their purchases. ("Ooh la la, rouge! Non, non. non, rose!") God, the French aren't nearly as stylish and discreet as they make themselves out to be.

I debated purchasing this for the boys. How could I resist an extincteur with a pug in a Blues Brother disguise? Again, 101 euros-- I passed. The boys can thank me later.

I made my way directly to the Caisse (register) before any other distractions took a piece of my bank account. And what do you think they put in my bag (besides the warranty paperwork for my extincteur)? You guessed it, ANOTHER breathalyzer test. 

Really?

What is going on? Why is it that every time I make a purchase at the hardware store, I am given a breathalyzer test? Is it me? Are they trying to tell me something? Or is this a real fear across Paris-- people doing at home DIY projects drunk? Dare I try and extinguish a fire after too many drinks. Yet, something tells me that is precisely when I may need to extinguish a fire.

Oh, France.

Belgium

I spent last weekend in Belgium. First in Brussels and then in the countryside of Bioul.

Across the street from the apartment in Brussels is this swimming center, or something like that.

I hesitated going away for the weekend in the midst of so much activity at the Burgundy house, as well as on the work front. My mom said, "Go no matter what." So I did. It ended up being a perfectly timed weekend of pure inspiration.

First it was the architecture, cleanliness and calm in Bruxelles that inspired me.

And then the inspiring countryside, with two days spent at this very special house.

The property was so large between the house and the chateau that you had to travel by quad or motorcycle. RDW and I tried to give it a go, resulting in my dismounting prematurely when the muddy terrain became treacherous.

Sculpture gardens in the front and back.

The front yard's circle sculpture perfectly framed the red tree.

The large sculpture to the right was inspired by a person standing on their head. I tried and tried to see that to no avail. My favorite was the one next to the pool on the left.

I had no idea that garden sculpture would become my next aching desire. I will put garden sculpture in the tickler file for now, right behind sandblasting beams, sealing floors, and grounding the electricity (just to name three immediate needs). But I digress.

On the way back to Brussels to catch the train, we stopped by the Brussels Design Fair.

I had no way of getting the chairs home on the train, which is the good news.

Thank God lights are easier to transport. This one is part of my monastery chic vision.

But this Great Gatsby piece may be throwing everything out of whack. I love it, but am on the fence about how Monastic (is that a word?) it really is. Although I panic-purchased it I'm gonna sit with this one a bit before forcing it into the aesthetic. Maybe it will go in Paris apartment.

And then I found my ideal country boots.

I had been on the fence until I spotted them in Brussels again. And bam! I must have them immediately.  God I love clarity.

Sitz bath

Everyday I find some bizarre object in my barn. Today's find is apparently called a Sitz bath, hip bath, hipster or cowboy bathtub depending who you talk to and which country you find it in. I thought it was just an odd shaped galvanized bucket, but my knowledgeable friend William informed me that it was a very old hip bath, meant to wash the nether regions of a person.  Hmmm... how very Deadwood (in France), I thought.

After doing a little googling, I found that these suckers are pretty sought after by antiquers. And there is also a forum of antiquing enthusiasts who like to tout the joys of sitting in a warm one of these in front of the fire-- with a good book and a glass of wine. Um, okay. 

I figured that I could eventually clean it off and use it as a planter for the garden, or maybe a way to store my firewood next to one of the fireplaces. Then today, I found a use for it that was also very practical, yet terrifying for the boys' pugs. Let's just say that it washed more than their nether regions. I have a feeling they won't be coming withing 10 feet of one of these ever again.