Jennie Goutet's Blog: A Lady in France, page 33

When People Are Mean

I have a pretty even temper. I don’t scream at my kids – I teach or scold them instead. I don’t yell at my husband – I express how I’m feeling in a calm voice (a fact which I can’t take complete credit for – it’s my husband who provides a safe place for me to do this). And there’s not a whole lot that sets me off and gets me all riled up. Except … perhaps … injustice.

On an off day, I’ve made gestures at people who are driving (not that gesture, but still …).

I swore at an ice cream seller near the Eiffel Tower because he overcharged us (I was pregnant and slightly delirious and am still embarrassed about that.) And I’ve harassed people in India who worked for a travel company that cheated us out of $800, calling them again and again and asking them how they could sleep at night, living such dishonest lives (until my husband put his foot down and told me to let if go if I wanted to keep my soul). (He was right and I did let it go).

So all in all, a peaceful gal – with a few exceptions.

The last couple of weeks a few people have been less peaceful. In fact, some people have been kinda mean. This sort of treatment either makes me feel hurt and embarrassed – or mad, and wanting to justify myself and get revenge. Or I feel everything.

In the first incident, I was driving up to a roundabout (of which there are plenty in France). True, I was coming up to it faster than I should have, and the guy who was already in the (small) roundabout was hidden by trees so that I didn’t see him until the last minute. But I did see him and I was going to stop. He still honked at me and gave me a gesture of disdain. And I trembled the rest of the way to the swimming pool.

On a different day, we had a contractor over to give us an estimate on some work we need to do to our house, and this guy was shockingly rude. Granted, my husband bore the brunt of his impudence, but I wanted to jump over the couch to where he was sitting at the dining room table and give him a piece of my mind. I am not even sure he said hello before accosting us and telling us we basically knew nothing about construction, or proper procedure, or our own house, and he was not going to waste his time with us. We were still reeling hours later.

Another time, I was trying to help my husband park in a very tight spot in Paris and I was in the cycling path without really paying attention. I was just trying to help him get in quickly so as not to annoy the long line of cars who were waiting behind him as he manoeuvred. A guy yelled at me to move, and as he and his kids passed, he yelled again, “That’s what a cycling path is for – bicycles!”

And then I was walking my dog along the Seine where I crossed paths with a jogger and her dog. “Why does your dog have that collar?” she asked me. It was the kind of training collar with spikes on it, but it was not a choking collar. She continued. “It’s really bad for his trachea.”

“No it’s not,” I responded (not wanting to be defensive or start a war – just wanting to explain). But she cut me off. “It is! It is bad for his trachea. I’m a dog trainer. I know these things.”

I began to say, “Our trainer is the official trainer for police dogs in France and we trust him,” but she cut me off again. “Well if you’re not open for discussion there’s no point in continuing.” And she stalked off.

When Hunter ran up to her dog to play, she screamed at him, “Get out of here!”

My heart was beating very fast. Because she had just walked off, I didn’t get a chance to tell her how much we loved our dog, and that we double-checked with our vet that his trachea was okay (it is 100% completely fine because we don’t discipline him hard). I would have told her that he was very dominant and had bitten my children (and neighbour), and that we needed to have a firm, but loving hand with him. The alternative would have been to give him to the SPA, which is where he would remain because frankly no one wants to adopt this kind of dog. I mean, they’re beautiful, but they are so energetic and difficult to train. Hunter would just get put to sleep. That was the discourse that was running through my mind for two days after our encounter because I didn’t get to defend my case.

There is this scripture in 2 Samuel 16 that has made a big impression on me ever since I first read it almost two decades ago.

As King David approached Bahurim, a man from the same clan as Saul’s family came out from there. His name was Shimei son of Gera, and he cursed as he came out. He pelted David and all the king’s officials with stones, though all the troops and the special guard were on David’s right and left. As he cursed, Shimei said, ‘Get out, get out, you murderer, you scoundrel! The Lord has repaid you for all the blood you shed in the household of Saul, in whose place you have reigned. The Lord has given the kingdom into the hands of your son Absalom. You have come to ruin because you are a murderer!’

Then Abishai son of Zeruiah said to the king, ‘Why should this dead dog curse my lord the king? Let me go over and cut off his head.’

But the king said, ‘What does this have to do with you, you sons of Zeruiah? If he is cursing because the Lord said to him, “Curse David,” who can ask, “Why do you do this?”’

David then said to Abishai and all his officials, ‘My son, my own flesh and blood, is trying to kill me. How much more, then, this Benjaminite! Leave him alone; let him curse, for the Lord has told him to. It may be that the Lord will look upon my misery and restore to me his covenant blessing instead of his curse today.’

So David and his men continued along the road while Shimei was going along the hillside opposite him, cursing as he went and throwing stones at him and showering him with dirt. The king and all the people with him arrived at their destination exhausted. And there he refreshed himself. (vs 5-14)

Just to give a little background, the first king Israel had was Saul, but he did not obey God and was removed from the throne and replaced by David. (As in – David who killed Goliath). But this didn’t happen right away. There were actually decades when David was wandering in the desert, and hiding from Saul and his troops before he came into power.

When he finally did come into power, there were still those of Saul’s family who were unhappy with the turn of events. Now David was an unbelievably humble guy and close to God’s own heart, but he was a not-so-great father because he didn’t use authority over his sons. When he was ousted out of the kingdom by his own son, Absalom, it was the perfect chance for someone like Shimei to express his disgust.

When we’re being treated poorly by others, we measure whether we – at least in part – deserved the treatment we’re receiving. Or we measure if we were treated unfairly for no reason at all. And I have to admit, it’s more comfortable to assume we were completely innocent in the matter because then we can focus on justifying our position rather than how hurt we feel.

Going back to my situations, yes – I could have approached the roundabout more slowly so that I didn’t make the guy nervous that I was going to run into him. I could have paid attention to the fact that it was a cycling path. Or with the dog, I could have been there to listen and not blurt out a direct contradiction to what she just said. I could have been more humble.

And David … yes – he should have disciplined his sons so that one wouldn’t end up raping his half-sister, and another one stealing his kingdom out from under his nose.

Even so – did I deserve to be yelled at by the driver and the cyclist? Did my dog deserve for some lady to scream at him because she was mad at me?

And David … he was KING. No one deserves to have rocks and dirt showered on them while they are in a position of humiliation? But the king? Does God’s anointed deserve that?

What just boggles my mind is his response to the treatment: If he is cursing because the Lord said to him, “Curse David,” who can ask, “Why do you do this?”  and then again My son, my own flesh and blood, is trying to kill me. How much more, then, this Benjaminite! Leave him alone; let him curse, for the Lord has told him to. It may be that the Lord will look upon my misery and restore to me his covenant blessing instead of his curse today.

David was so confident in God’s love for him, he could handle whatever treatment, humiliation – meanness came his way. It takes a highly evolved person – a person confident in him or herself – to let things like nastiness slide. I am not naturally that person.

Or it takes a person who has utter faith that God is GOD and that He loves her (or him) and that he will vindicate her cause, and that – yes – he will discipline her if needed, but more reassuringly, will see her distress and repay her with good for the cursing she is receiving today. This is the kind of person who can handle insults without getting eaten up by them. This is the kind of person I want to be.

And this is what I remember when people are mean.

***

My friends, how do you handle it when people are rude to you?

Photo Credit: mandygodbehear / 123RF Banque d’images

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Parenting Advice

I hate reading books that give parenting advice. I never read the sleep training books, the baby sign language books – none of that. I think part of me thought that I had better things to do with my (now non-existent) free time. Another part of me thought that it was all rather natural. Love the kids, listen to them, set boundaries. Everything will fall into place.

So, if we’re being perfectly honest here, I only read Dr. Deborah Gilboa’s book, Get the Behavior You Want Without Being the Parent You Hate because she was my friend and I wanted to support her. Yup. That’s the truth.

I mean, it helped that Dr. G is very humble in real life. That’s the kind of person you want to get advice from, right? Someone who doesn’t think they know it all already? She has no problem saying, “I’m sorry. I misunderstood the situation” when someone is trying to get help but doesn’t feel like her advice took into account all the facts. She doesn’t try to ram her opinion down your throat, and often says when in an official role, “I am the expert for the four boys in my house; you are the expert of the children in yours.”

I was never going to be a mommy blogger (and I promise I’m not using that as a derogatory term). Parenting just isn’t my strength. I’m too laid back to cut lunch items into pieces to make cartoon characters. And I permit way too much TV so I can get some peace and quiet to work on (and surf) the Internet. I have been known more times than I like to admit to allow excess cookies at snack time, even when I know it means that half the dinner will be thrown into the garbage; and I just assume the kids have a handle on their own homework, and I get put out when there’s a last minute crisis for a history test that a certain young lady has known about for a week. All in all, I’m the non-parenting expert, and in general I’m okay with that.

So, imagine my surprise when I loved the book! I mean - I really loved reading it! It gave me solutions for things I had been subconsciously worrying about, but not really addressing.

- one child’s serious lack of self-esteem

- one child’s complete disorganisation

- one child’s disregard for cleanliness

It also gave me creative ideas for improving things I thought were fine. It inspired me to want more – to really maximise these formative years that we have with our children, to build a loving base with firm boundaries that will launch the children into adulthood under the best circumstances possible.

The book is divided into four sections: respect, responsibility, resilience, and actually making it happen – how to input the changes you seek. It’s super practical and easy to read. The chapters are short and can be read through, or earmarked for future use. You can jump around and focus on the issue you need now, and you can also get ahead of the game and problem solve before the problem even occurs.

For further ease, each chapter is divided into age brackets that give practicals for the toddler, pre-schooler, age 5-7, 8-10 and 11-12. I found myself reading only the middle two age-brackets because that’s what concerns me now. And there will be plenty of time to focus on the tween needs in a year’s time.

Some of the areas I’m encouraged that my parenting has been right on track (despite a lack of getting advice) are:

- Our yes is yes and our no is no. And if a child ignores a threat, the discipline will be carried out (i.e. missing out on something they love).

- The kids know that the parents are boss in our house and the kids must show respect. (We also tell them that God is our boss and we parents are accountable too).

- We have semi-regular family meetings to assess where we’re at as a family.

Some of the changes we’ve recently made because of Doctor G’s book:

- Dividing the allowance so that the children learn to be more financially responsible. Starting this month, they will be paid just once a month and they will donate 10%, spend 30%, save 30% and invest 30%. Up until now, apart from a few donations, it’s all pretty much gone towards candy. Ahem.

- The kids have started asking “who wants water?” when they’re at the table and they want to get some for themselves.

Some of the things we plan to implement as a result of the book:

- Getting a better grip on the time spent on homework and practicing without complaining or arguing.

- Expecting more from them in helping out in the family.

- Finishing a job – seeing things through.

And I am particularly inspired by the section on resiliency. I’m learning a lot. For myself.

Anyway, if you’re a parent, buy the book. Do. It’s worth it. Available here.

And you can find Doctor G on YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and Google+.

(*All opinions are my own, of course, and were freely given)

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The Viscount – Chapter Seven

First time here? Why not start at Chapter One? Thanks for going on this adventure with me. I know for a fact I would never write a fictional novel if I didn’t have to be accountable and put chapters up on a regular basis. Here goes Chapter 7!

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISON LAFFITTE

CHAPTER SEVEN

Thomas tugged on Chastity’s hand, and then ran up the grassy steps ahead of her. Up and up without seeming to tire at all. Each small footstep spun off the old wooden beams that were pegged into the earth to make stairs.

Chastity made her way up more calmly – preserving her energy for the long climb. They were at Etretat – the beach in Normandy, famous for it’s cliffs with long arches carved out by centuries of water flowing through. She rounded the bend in the rustic staircase and saw her son sitting calmly on a boulder waiting for her. As soon as she appeared, he darted off again running up the hillside.

As she neared the top, she saw the edge of the cliff on her left. Walking parallel to it, she could make out the long grass growing right up to the very edge. Further along she saw bare rock with a glimpse of the ocean beyond that. The path was distant enough from the edge that she didn’t fear for Thomas’ safety.

On the right-hand side of the path was a small cliff where cows grazed. They were big, white, and wooly creatures. They grazed on grass that was long, lush, and bright green – almost silver in its shininess. Perhaps they needed that extra layer on their hide against the wind that must blow fiercely on the cliffs in the winter time. Even now, in early November, she and Thomas wore scarves and jackets zipped tightly to their necks.

The two of them reached the highest spot on this side of the cliff – the best view for the arch across the bay that Monet made famous. The one that looked like hands making an upside-down “okay” sign with the fingers pointing straight downward, and the first finger and thumb forming a round “o.” An upside down cone.

As they kept walking, another set of stairs appeared that wound down the other side of the cliff – this time with a railing. It led the way down until you reached a tiny pebbled beach that would disappear in high tide. She knew you could climb through tunnels there, carved out by the water, and listen to the echoes of other people walking through. But Chastity stayed at the top, her hands on Thomas’ shoulders, and both of them looking over the horizon into the soft autumn sun. The water crashed against the cliff below her, and the wind blew steadily against her face, filling her nostrils with cold air. A white seagull flew to a bare rock at the edge of the cliff and perched there, its profile visible as it surveyed the waters below.

This is my life!!!!! she wanted to shout in the joy of that moment – alive, with her beloved son, breathing in such age-old, glorious surroundings. And then later that night – in the hotel room, sitting next to her sleeping son and brushing a lock of hair off his forehead with her hand … this is my life, she thought again, quietly.

She got up and walked over to the little desk. They were staying in a Bed & Breakfast in Trouville, which was cheaper than Deauville, but not very far. Their room – papered in light, flowered wallpaper – was in the top floor with a sloped ceiling and dormer windows. A candle she had bought at a small boutique in Etretat caused flickering shadows to dance on the dimly-lit walls. She leaned her head in her hands and let out her breath.

I’m lonely, she thought, picking up her phone and turning it over in her hands. She had no one to call. It had never bothered her much that she never had anyone to rely on, apart from her parents; but here, with all this beauty around her, she found that she wanted to share it with someone who could appreciate it on her level.

She passed the phone back and forth from hand to hand as her thoughts turned to Marc. She remembered the way he stared at her on their last short outing – the baby steps in their relationship of two plus one. His eyes were interested as she spoke, and he looked at her the way he used to. He put his arm on the small of her back as they crossed the street together, Thomas on his scooter sailing across in a way she had told him countless times not to do. Marc’s touch distracted her, but it didn’t weaken her. She didn’t think she was ready to go back to that place. In fact, she wasn’t sure she ever would be.

She put the phone firmly down on the desk and touched the switch on the lamp cord. She continued to stare at her flickering reflection in the mirror for another minute before getting up, blowing out the candle, and going over to her bed.

* * *

The Viscount walked briskly down the broad sidewalk in the noonday sun. He was carrying a box of syringes his trainer had forgotten in the hotel as he made his way with sure steps towards the racetrack. There was a race going on, and the whole town was filled with spectators, trainers, and managers. He walked past a drum of roasting chestnuts, and was instantly transported to his childhood.

“Will I be able to ride in this race one day, Papa?” he had asked, looking up at the person he loved and trusted most in the world.

His dad was watching his groom handle the favored horse, his cigarette smoke curling around his dark sideburns. He was distracted by the mounting excitement, but he always had attention to give to his son.

“I’m afraid to break it to you, Charles, but you are likely to be too tall and heavy to race.” He watched his son’s shoulders droop, and he poked him, smiling. “It’s good to be tall, isn’t it?”

His son had continued to look downwards. “You can dance with any girl?” he nudged with a wink.

“It’s Dancer!” his younger self had called out, any pouting interrupted by his glee over getting such a close glimpse of the famed horse.

The Viscount could still see the way the horse rounded the track, always a head further than every other horse. His father had tried to buy him, but the owner refused to sell. So they were doomed to watch his success from a distance along with everyone else, and regret not owning such fine horseflesh.

His memories were interrupted by his cell phone pinging discreetly. He looked at it, and saw that it was a text from his manager. He stopped and pulled off to the side, responding that he was on his way. No sooner did he start walking again did his phone chime once more. He glanced at it and a brief smile flashed across his face.

He answered it. “Jef,”

“Charlie,” the voice answered back. “You weren’t there last night at the reunion. I didn’t call ahead of time because I was sure I’d see you there. Too good for your old friends, then?” The Viscount could hear the smile in his oldest friend’s voice.

“You forgot – I’m at the race.”

“Ah right. I did forget,” Jean-François said. “Good for you. You need more fun in your life. You work too hard.”

The Viscount gave a dry laugh. “Okay. If you can call this fun. Truthfully, it’s just another thing I have to do.”

“If that’s true, it’s too bad,” his friend answered. “You used to love racing before Miriam. But you can’t let all your hobbies go … ” His voice trailed away, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground.

There was a pause before the Viscount changed the subject. “Sorry I didn’t call. I meant to – I did want to see everyone. But I had back-to-back committee meetings before coming here.”

“How many committees are you on?” Jef asked, curiously.

“Outside of the hospital? Three,” the Viscount replied. “And that doesn’t include the racetrack.”

“And you’re still working part-time?” His friend’s voice let him know he thought he was crazy. Truthfully, he was starting to feel the strain.

“I consult more than anything. But basically – yeah, I still work part-time. Don’t worry. I’m fine,” he replied. “Look, I’ll call you when I get back and we’ll have an apéro together, okay?”

“Sounds good, sounds good,” Jef replied distractedly. “But before you go, um … just wanted to make sure you’re following the news and all? You know, current events, society pages?”

The Viscount felt a stab in his heart – annoyance? Pain? – but he put his friend out of his misery. “Yes, I saw about Manon, if that’s what you’re asking. She hasn’t called yet, but I’m sure she will eventually.”

“Okay, good. Good.” Jef seemed relieved that he didn’t have to be the one to break the news to his best friend that there were rumors about her and Michael Richards. “Okay, so then, ah … talk to you soon.”

“See ya.” The Viscount ended the call. He leaned against the iron bars of a gated property, ignoring the bustle around him. He was pretty anonymous here so most people left him alone – apart from the women who flirted with him wherever he went. The phone rang again. He was used to a lot of calls, but this was getting ridiculous. He was about to put the phone on mute until he saw who it was. He checked his watch, and then clicked the answer button.

“Allo?” his voice was sharp.

“Charles, chéri.” Manon’s voice was hopeful. “I hope this is not a bad time.”

“I’ve only a minute. I’m on my way to meet Grégoire to give him some medicine for the horses.”

“Okay, I won’t keep you.” Manon sounded breathless. “The thing is, I don’t know if you saw the pictures in the paper?”

The Viscount didn’t know how to reply so he gave a clipped, “oui.”

Manon rushed on. “I don’t want you to get any ideas. This was a scene from the movie that the journalists misinterpreted. There is nothing going on between us.” When he didn’t respond right away, she continued, “I hope you believe me.”

Finally, he replied. “You can do whatever you want with your life. Just don’t think I will sit here and wait.” He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth. He sounded like a teenager.

“Yes, but you have to believe me. I’d never be unfaithful,” she said with a rising hysteria that the Viscount had no patience for. “I would be crazy to … I’m not about to start now,” she finished.

When he was silent, she added, “I’m supposed to come back in a month for the holiday break. Let’s just not make any decisions before then. Okay?”

The Viscount didn’t feel like committing, but he found himself saying, “Fine.” And then added, “I need to go. I have to meet Grégoire.”

“Alright, call me soon, okay?” Her voice was pleading. He had never heard her sound so desperate. After he ended the call, he shut the phone off completely. He didn’t want to be disturbed, and the only people who might need him were the ones he would be with. He couldn’t identify what he was feeling. She wasn’t anything more than a passing fling, but he hated looking foolish. He hated being betrayed, something he never had to worry about with Miriam.

The Viscount began walking again, this time more quickly, completely unaware that his usually controlled face was a perfect reflection of everything he was feeling.

* * *

“Mom! Mom!” Thomas yelled, laughing as he chased seagulls on the empty beach. She waved back at him, smiling broadly. Her sober reflections from last night were chased away by the fresh air and the sound of the waves. They had already explored the old Normandy hotel Deauville Barrière, looking at the photos of famous guests who had stayed there. Thomas was bored.

Now they were on the other side of the busy street, and she was standing on the sidewalk, watching him as he ran in circles. It was almost time for them to drive home, but she thought they might walk through the town center one more time and find a place that served sandwiches and a warm beverage. By the time she had convinced him to go, she was more than ready to get something warm in her.

They walked down the cobblestone street together that served as a pedestrian walkway, and her eyes looked longingly at the cozily-lit restaurants that lined it, but they were all too expensive. She had not chosen a cheap place to vacation.

Thomas’ steps started to flag, and his mood to sour, when she finally gave up on the idea that they would be able to sit somewhere nice. She spotted a sandwich shop that had a seated area indoors. “Do you want to eat a sandwich?”

Thomas’ eyes lit up and he nodded. They walked around the corner to where the entrance was, and that’s where she noticed the long line. “Honey,” she said. “We can get sandwiches here, but we cannot sit. There would be too long of a wait. Does that bother you?” It bothered her, and she could only imagine that his small body would be even more tired than hers.

But he answered gamely and they took their place in the line. Fifteen minutes later they left with their sandwiches and a bottle of water. At least they were grilled Panini sandwiches, which would feel warm going down.

“Look Mom,” Thomas said with his mouth full. “There are horses over there.” She looked where he was indicating. It was on the opposite end of where the car was parked, and she could feel a fatigue set in through to her bones.

“I see honey,” she said non-committally. Her son didn’t say anything else, but started to inch in that direction. She figured that they could turn down the next street without going too far out of their way, so she followed.

“Mom! It’s Mickey!” He pronounced it with a French accent. Meek-ay.

Suddenly she was confused. There was a Disney character here? He ran straight down the street without looking behind to see if his mother was following. She was grateful that it was a pedestrian area and she didn’t need to worry about cars. He ran straight up to a brown horse that was tied up on the side of the road and stopped in front of him.

Her heart beat a little faster at his proximity to such a massive beast, and she tried to speak calmly. “Tommy. Come here for a minute.” He was reaching up to touch the horse’s flank with the hand that wasn’t holding his sandwich.

“It’s Mickey, Mom,” he said, petting the horse softly. The horse turned his head from where he had been eating, and shook his head towards the young boy.

“It’s alright Miss,” said a gruff voice. “He doesn’t hurt anyone.” An older gentleman in work clothes came around from the other side of the horse where he had been hidden from view. He smiled at Thomas, “Hello young man.”

“This horse is enormous!” Chastity said smiling back at him. “You’re sure my son’s okay?”

“Aw, Mickey is as gentle as they come.”

“Mickey?” she exclaimed, turning towards Thomas. “How did you know his name?” She looked back at the gentleman in surprise.

“Oh, I see him walking past the playground all the time!” Thomas said, continuing to rub his hand along the horse’s side.

Chastity turned to the gentleman, her face covered in confusion. “Where does this horse come from? Who owns him?”

“This is the champion horse from the Viscount de Chabot. He took first place in the race today,” the gentleman said proudly. “He’s from Maison Laffitte, just outside of Paris.” Chastity felt faint. She looked down at her sandwich.

“Ah! There he is right there. I was expecting him.”

Chastity turned around, just as the Viscount strode up to the older gentleman. He barely glanced at her and his face looked thunderous.

“Grégoire, here are the syringes you needed. I have somewhere I need to be.” He handed a small case over to the older gentleman and walked off in the direction of the race track.

Chastity felt her face grow hot. She was sure he had seen her and that he wanted to humiliate her for daring to approach his world. He probably thought she was hanging around his horse just to talk to him or something. She looked at her son and tried to think of something to say.

Mr Grégoire seemed nonplussed. “Well, he usually has a bit more time to spare than that, but that’s him in any case.” Then he looked at Thomas. “So you know Mickey, do you? How so?”

“I go to l’Ermitage school and I see him walking by in the mornings,” Thomas said speaking clearly, and looking fully at the gentleman’s face. “He’s so much finer than the other horses.”

“Well, you seem to know a thing or two. You know the stable is right across the street?” Thomas nodded his head eagerly. “Why don’t you come by and say hello sometime.”

“That would be great!” he cried out with boyish enthusiasm. “I can- can’t I, Mom?” he asked.

Chastity was trembling, but she managed a smile. “That’s very kind of you, Monsieur,” she said, addressing the trainer. She turned to her son, “It’s time to say goodbye now. We need to go, okay, sweetie?”

Thomas patted the horse one last time, “Goodbye Mickey,” he said. “See you soon!”

“Au revoir, Monsieur.”

They started walking down the street and Chastity saw a trash can on the side of the road. She chucked her uneaten sandwich in it. No way, she thought. We will not be visiting your stable.

Ever.

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Evening Light in the Garden

Yesterday evening, the waning sunlight was so decadent in the garden, I had to run back inside to get my camera.

Summer is pretty much over, isn’t it?

And yet we’ve only had 5 red tomatoes all year.

The snails and slugs did a number on the entire garden.

I’m not sure these melons will ever ripen to where they need to be.

Meanwhile many things ripened too quickly.

But the roses have bloomed again -

adding their perfume to the medley of scents -

and the kiwi is climbing along the fence.

The wildflowers are still working their magic

and the planted flowers retain their vibrancy.

We can still have tea on the patio for a bit longer

and Hunter still runs free.

But there is definitely an end to the summer era

and school has begun.

And I just never get tired of all this bounty.

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The Original Quiche Recipe

The original quiche recipe comes from the Lorraine region of France near Germany. Its earliest appearance dates back to 1373, but it was without the addition of bacon, which is now considered a must. The word quiche is probably from the Alsacian word kuche, and the German word kuchen, which means cake. Since the department of Lorraine borders the French department of Alsace (and two other departments), as well as the countries Germany, Belgium, and Luxembourg, it is unsurprising that their cultures and languages would seep in.

Quiche first appeared in an official sense on the menu of Duc Charles III of Lorraine at the end of the 16th century. Although it is customary to put many variants in quiche – cheese (most commonly), tuna, vegetables, etc … a true quiche Lorraine will have a pâte brisé - which is like a regular pie crust - and not a flakier pastry crust, which you sometimes see. And it will be filled with eggs, sour cream (crème fraîche), bacon, pepper, and nutmeg. That’s it. The salt from the bacon is supposed to be enough to flavour the whole quiche, so not even the addition of salt is customary.

First, put the butter, flour and salt in the Cuisinart. Add an egg if you are using a gluten-free flour mix. Otherwise, you might need 1 or 2 Tablespoons of water. Roll the dough out, using plenty of flour to keep it from sticking. Transfer it to the pan.

Lightly fry some bacon, and drain the excess fat.

Layer the bacon over the crust.

Whisk the eggs, sour cream, nutmeg and pepper together

and pour it over the bacon.

Bake it for 20 minutes, turn the quiche to brown evenly, and add time if it needs more.

And then you have the perfect original Quiche Lorraine!

We had a contractor coming to give us an estimate on raising the roof to our tiny house. He couldn’t resist the delicious bacony scent so I gave him a piece. He declared it to be perfect, except that he would have had me add more nutmeg.

For the record, my husband does not agree. He thinks it’s perfect as is.

I translated the information and the recipe from this website.

A True Quiche Lorraine   Print Prep time 20 mins Cook time 30 mins Total time 50 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Main Dish Cuisine: French Serves: 8 Ingredients Crust: 1.5 cups flour 125 g cold, sweet butter (5oz) Just under 1 teaspoon large-grain sea salt 1 egg if using gluten)-free flour Interior: 4 eggs ¾ cup sour cream or crème fraîche 200 g bacon - about 20 slices ⅛-1/4 t white pepper ¼ t nutmeg Instructions Preheat the oven to 175°C if your oven is hot - otherwise 200°. (350°F) Put the butter, flour, salt and egg (optional) in the cuisinart and mix it until it forms a ball of dough. Roll the dough out, using plenty of extra flour so it doesn't stick. Place it in quiche pan. Lightly fry bacon, but don't let it get too brown. Drain the excess fat. Whisk 4 eggs, plus the sour cream and spices. Cover the dough with bacon and pour the egg mixture over the top. Bake 20 minutes, and then turn the quiche so it browns evenly. Add 5-10 more minutes, lowering the heat if you need to. It tastes best warm. 3.2.1311

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One Bad Apple

One bad apple spoils the whole bunch, right? Well, what if the whole bunch is already spoiled?

This is the tree that never gives good apples. We were warned when we bought the house that it wasn’t a good one. But this tree is so prolific, it’s easy to be fooled!

So my husband had the idea to make compote. Applesauce.

We got the whole family involved.

We put the apples in the big copper pot we use to make jam.

And we made compote.

And our kids won’t touch it.

I tried serving it with vanilla ice cream and whipped cream, but to no avail. And if I’m honest, I’ll admit that – even though the taste is not bad – it’s too pasty, and you can feel every spoonful making it’s way down the long tube to the stomach. Not exactly a recipe for success.

But I have to say that I love my husband’s motivation to try. He wants to use what we have, rather than letting it go to waste – try to live off the fat (fruit?) of the land.

My husband – he’s a good apple.

But occasionally I forget, and we fight. I wrote about one of our fights (which happened last week) at Laura’s blog Mommy Miracles. Will you go over there and read the story? And maybe say you can relate? I hope? I’m closing comments here but will respond to the comments there.

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Swiss Alps Life

Here are some interesting facts and photos about life in the Swiss Alps that I wanted to share with you.

The houses are made from wood because there are tons of pine trees.

The roof always overhangs quite a bit.

and there are often beautiful wooden details.

There are little spikes or beams on top to catch the snow, which helps to insulate the roof.

The dates are often displayed, depicting when the houses were built.

From what I can read, this one says, “With the help of God this house was built. Jean Moulin built the house for Master Vurted.

There are hikes indicated everywhere you want to go,

and getting to your chalet often means going up.

Many of the roads are closed in the winter so you have to get to your house by taking the ski-lift up, and skiing your way down, while  carrying your luggage. Sometimes it takes several trips.

You can make your way from one town to another via cable cars, ski lifts and skis.

There are nice restaurants stationed near the ski lifts, and with a little money, you’re all set for food and drink.

There are cows everywhere.

On every hillside. And you can hear their bells clanging wherever you go.

It’s pretty cold, even in the summer.

It didn’t deter these two from swimming …

but they were often the only ones in the pool.

You have to pay just under $3 for a garbage bag because the tax for waste removal is done by collecting money from the garbage bag sales. You can buy them in bulk at the supermarket, or one by one at the community house or tourist center. You also have to pay $40 in taxes to drive on the Swiss highways for a year. You buy it when you cross the border, and you get a sticker with a date to put on your windshield.

Sometimes it’s foggy in the Alps.

And sometimes it’s clear.

But the Swiss Alps are always incredible.

* * * * 

You have no idea of the noise level that is currently going on  in my house. I have so many ideas, I could write a post every single day if I had the time. But I can’t even hear myself think right now until the kids get back in school. So there will be no fiction chapter again this week. May next Tuesday get here quickly!

Thank you so much, everyone who took my survey. And for those of you that left comments as well, I really appreciated them. Let me give a virtual hug to the other Jennie, and tell you that it’s never too late for France.

Would you like to know the results? Here is what people come to A Lady in France for, in order of interest:

1. Personal & family News

2. (very close second) French lifestyle and tourism

3. Photos

4. (and very close afterwards) Recipes

5. (tied) Memoir and Vocabulary lessons

6. Everything

7. Faith posts

8. (very close afterwards) Vlogs

9. Fiction – chapter a week stories

If you haven’t taken the survey, and would still like to, it’s open-ended, so it’s not too late. I so appreciate your presence here.

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Rare Bird

Three years ago I had a surprise pregnancy. And almost exactly at the same time, Anna Donaldson lost her twelve-year old son in a flash flood in the DC area. I gained a son, and she lost one.

Anna Donaldson, author of Rare Bird

For the fifteen weeks until I miscarried, I followed her blog. And I cried along with her and all the other people who were there to support her whole family. As time passed, I made some tentative overtures, and we became friends.

It wasn’t my miscarriage that helped me to understand some of what she was experiencing. I had already experienced for myself what it felt like to grieve intensely in my early adulthood. And as traumatising as it was to lose a baby in the second term, I knew that it could never ever compare to what Anna was going through.

People sometimes say that flocking to blogs where someone is grieving is like rubber-necking. Crowds stop to gawk from the sidelines, relieved that the bad news is happening to someone else. I didn’t follow Anna’s blog before she lost Jack, but like so many others, I wasn’t there to gawk. I was there to grieve with her.

Sometimes … people just want to be present for the grieving, to cry with them. Sometimes we just want to walk with them wherever they are going, even when it’s not comfortable.

Anna and I met the following summer, and we’ve been regular correspondents ever since. And now - out of my love for her, her family, and her incredible boy Jack, I want to tell you a little about her book, Rare Bird, which will be available for sale on September 9th on Amazon. You don’t have to have suffered the same thing in order for this book to feel like a beacon of light.

This is the review I posted on GoodReads:

There are almost no words to describe how much this book moved me. If you have suffered grief and want to see how to reach the other side of the chasm, 

or if you have faith, and you want to see how it can survive the worst nightmare a parent can undergo, 

or if you’re a mom, and you worry that your heart won’t survive the knowledge of just how fragile our power is to protect our children . . . then this book is for you. 

Yes, it’s hard to read about something so tragic it can leave you sobbing until you can’t breathe. But Anna writes about it in a way that is both heart-rending and practical. Her voice is both raw – a heart that beats, visible and throbbing with pain – and it is real, so that you find yourself nodding your head, laughing in teary sympathy, as life carries on in the big ways and the small.

Rare Bird lives up to its name. It is unquestionably about the loss of Anna’s son, Jack, who is like no other boy. But it is also about a unique love that extends beyond the grave – a rare love that reaches its tendrils down from heaven and envelops those who are still on this side.

 

The picture we have of Jack on our refrigerator.

And if you want to hear from Anna yourself, she introduces her book in this beautiful video clip:

There’s something else I want to add to this post, which is very much related to the topic at hand. Many of you know I lost my brother to suicide twenty years ago. The day after Anna’s book on grief and hope comes out - on September 10th – it is World Suicide Prevention Day 2014, an initiative that is called “One World Connected.”

Here in Paris, SOS Help (the button below and on my sidebar) will gather with fellow organizations at the “village associative” to raise awareness at the market in Place Baudoyer.

Here are the details:

September 10, 11am – 5pm

Place Baudoyer

75004 Paris

Then, on Sunday, October 12 SOS Help will be holding their annual autumn book sale. Paperbacks are 1€, hard covers 2€. There will be books in every category including general fiction, young adult and children’s books. This is a great opportunity to find reasonably priced English books and meet others in the English-speaking community. Book donations are also accepted the day of the sale.

Details:

October 12, 12 pm – 4 pm

Orrick Law Offices

31, avenue Pierre 1er de Serbie

75016 Paris

More detailed information can be found on the events page of the website. And if you are in Paris and are struggling, please call! You can get through. Details are below, and – as always – on the sidebar of my blog.

Don’t forget to pre-order Rare Bird on Amazon, and here (raises glass) is to beacons of light.

Always.

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Why do you read A Lady in France?

Halloo everyone! I’ll get to that title in a minute and explain what I mean. But first I thought I’d let you know that we’re still in Switzerland; and as such, I’m not going to be ready this week with Chapter Seven of the fictional novel The Viscount of Maison Laffitte. It hurts my shoulders and hands too much to type (the table is too high) and I don’t have enough quiet time to think about WHAT to write since we’re in a small chalet.

So I’m just going to enjoy the view

and the kids

We ran into Juliet with her pre-teen peeps. She’s not too cool to know us yet.

and the husband

This was not easy. William was NOT reassured.

as I ought.

As I try to figure out my direction for the new year – and end the sinking feeling I have that I’m just spinning my wheels for nothing – will you kindly take this survey that I created?

I’m not sure the results will be visible to everyone. But if they aren’t I’ll let you know what it says.

Create your free online surveys with SurveyMonkey , the world’s leading questionnaire tool.

And for those of you who are still here, in spite of long periods where I don’t return comments or visits – or engage properly the way a blogger should because I’m overwhelmed (or neurotic) - thank you. I really appreciate you.

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Switzerland is Ridiculously Beautiful

We arrived at our chalet in Les Diablerets, Switzerland – near the town of Aigle, which is also the name of a company that makes good cold and wet weather gear. It took us about 8 hours to drive from Paris, including stops (but not lunch, which we ate in the car). We drove by such breathtaking sites as Mont Blanc set against Lake Lémans – the sun gleaming on the water, but the mountain shrouded in mist.

This was the welcome present that greeted us when we entered the chalet – Villars chocolate – and wine (which we gave to friends since we don’t drink).

And this was the welcome present we got from our window.

A double rainbow.

We go to sleep under the mountains.

We wake up under the mountains.

We play under the mountains.

We ride up into the mountains.

I pretend I’m not afraid and I sing.

We ride to the top.

And then we eat a picnic lunch there.

At night we fall asleep to the sound of bells.

Our balcony has a bell … and ALL the cows wear bells.

(And there are many cows – all over the mountains).

We breathe fresh, cool air. And we drink icy sweet water.

We drop Juliet off for pre-teen camp at a place nearby.

It’s a yearly camp with the sisters churches in Paris, Brussels, Geneva, Lyon, Amsterdam, Milan, Martinique and Guadeloupe, and there’s another camp for the teens.

It’s FUN! They learn about God and they make friends with people from different places, different cultures, different languages.

They have a big soccer field with a view on the mountains, and there is even a huge teepee where they can gather around a bonfire even when it rains!

I can’t believe the sights that greet my eyes here – everywhere I turn.

La Suisse is ridiculously beautiful.

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