Jennie Goutet's Blog: A Lady in France, page 35

In Brittany

Happy Bastille Day everyone! We’re going to the beach to see the fireworks tonight, although it’s going to be late. It stays light until nearly 11:00.

I’ve written about Bretagne before, but usually call it that rather than Brittany. But Brittany is the English word for Bretagne and this is also where Great Britain comes from – to distinguish it from Little Britain.

Brittany has a very anglo-celtic culture (as does Normandy where William the Conqueror came from England and took huge chunks of land for himself). There are also direct links to Cornwall and Wales. I thought I’d tell you a few things about this North-Western part of France.

The light in the morning is extraordinary.

These photos are enhanced, but they are still gorgeous naturally.

Hunter is a Brittany spaniel and he is so happy here.

Well, that might be because he can run to his heart’s content.

The trees are remarkable, as are the cliffs.

In Brittany, the houses are made of stone.

This stone, which is different from the reddish meulière of Paris.

Many of them have names. Flowering Woods.

Capricious.

Brittany has its own language, and some schools still teach in Breton. You see many signs in Breton like Ker (which means house) and Ty (which means little). But the universities have difficulty declaring an official Breton because they cannot agree on what that is.

In Brittany you go out in low tide and dig for clams, which you eat (crunchily) with pasta.

And in Brittany you drink coffee out of a bowl (that’s everywhere in France, really) and prepare your toast directly on the table (that’s everywhere too) which you eat with salted butter and honey.

There is a lot of wind in Brittany.

But there is also gorgeous sand and gorgeous water.

Cold water. The kids start like this

and end like this.

In sweaters.

Except for this dude – who can be one big goose pimple and he will still ask to go back in!

The beach is shallow, which means the tide can come in quickly - very quickly. At the Mont St Michel it sometimes comes in the speed of galloping horses.

The other day we went to a different beach than usual and the water was very shallow so we walked out into it. I could see that it was impossible to stay on the beach to watch the kids, so I went in the water with them. 8 kids and me. I was up to my waist in water and William was up to his chest.

Fortunately, my brother-in-law came in to help (Matthieu had the papers in his pocket and a strong aversion to cold water). Anyway, we were standing on a sandbar when the water started coming in fast and with a very strong current. Suddenly William was floating in the crook of my arms, and I was watching my children, nieces and nephews start to struggle against the current, the water up to their necks.

Not panicked, but still on full alert, I yelled to my brother-in-law to grab his son, who couldn’t go anywhere without help because he was too small and the water was rising. So he swam over to get him and pulled him and another niece along the sandbar to the side where the cliff was (and where it was still possible to walk back to the beach). Then he came to help me. With water up to my neck, I was backing up with William in the crook of my arm, a niece clinging to my elbow and Juliet holding on to her. And with my other hand I was pulling a nephew, and Gabriel was hanging on to his shoulder. My brother-in-law, having safely escorted two kids, swam back to help me just as Matthieu was rushing from the shore in the other direction. The two converged at once and grabbed kids, and I looked back and saw even my father-in-law in his Bermudas, ready to come in. Fortunately that was not necessary.

All of us made it back in time, laughing (nervously) about our adventure, and all was well again.

In Brittany, overall, life is pretty good.

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The Viscount – Chapter Three

Hi folks! I’m on vacation and don’t have much Internet over here. But I managed to pull off Chapter 3. If you’re new to the story, you can start here: On Chapter One.

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISON LAFFITTE

CHAPTER THREE

Chastity stood in the kitchen, completely white, gripping the telephone in her hand. There was a low, nervous laugh on the other end of the line. “You remember who I am, right?” he prompted when she didn’t answer.

“Why are you calling me after all this time?” she asked slowly. There was silence. He hoped, perhaps, that in that old way she had of filling the pauses in conversation, she would be the one to break the silence. She didn’t.

Finally he said, “I don’t know. When I moved to France it didn’t seem right not to get in touch once I knew you were living here.” He paused before adding, “I think I was wrong not to be involved with my son.”

“Even if you had agreed to be involved when I first told you about him, you sort of lost that opportunity for a relationship by getting thrown in prison.” Chastity spoke the words hastily, not caring how they sounded. “How long have you been out?”

“Six months,” he said, choosing to ignore the curtness in her voice. “I got out early on parole. Good behavior,” he added quickly.

When she didn’t say anything, he stumbled on. “Look Chastity, please forgive me. I treated you like dirt. I am not calling you because I think I deserve a chance. I’m calling you because – well, if there’s any way you think it will benefit Thomas . . .”

He stopped when he said his son’s name, and then continued in a lower voice. “I called your parents. They weren’t thrilled to hear from me, but they told me his name is Thomas.”

Continuing, he said, “If you think it will benefit Thomas to get to know me, I wanted to make myself available.” He rushed on. “But you call the shots. You’re the one that decides if we have a relationship, and what that relationship is. I’m just asking for a chance.”

Stalling for time, Chastity asked him, “Did my parents give you my phone number?”

“No way!” Marc answered with something close to a laugh. “I don’t think they were keen to have me in your life again.” He then added,“ And I wouldn’t blame them. It was Caroline who told me you had moved back to France and were working at l’Ermitage.”

What an idiot, Chastity thought, rolling her eyes. Didn’t it occur to her to ask me first before she passed on personal details to someone who was such a jerk to me? She wondered why she had bothered to keep in touch with someone with whom she barely had anything in common.

But in the end, she agreed to a meeting, completely unsure whether this was a good idea or not. Everything about this was unprecedented. Was it really better for her son to know his father (deadbeat though he was)? She reluctantly admitted to herself that part of her ‘yes’ had to do with her curiousity about what he looked like after eight years.

This conversation had taken place a week ago and Chastity could barely put it out of her mind. She considered stopping by Maude’s office in the Math department before picking her son up after class, but in the end decided to keep her own counsel. Instead she walked directly to where the other parents were waiting outside of the elementary school.

She counted herself blessed that her son was able to attend the same school where she worked, and felt that her life as a single mom had finally taken a direction for the better. At least she hoped that was the case.

Truthfully, even early on, things could have been worse. When she got pregnant at the age of eighteen, she could have been cast off and left to find whatever job she could manage without getting a secondary degree. But after her parents had overcome their initial shock, they agreed to raise her child while she attended university. She had already been accepted to Columbia on full scholarship, so apart from having to delay her start date by one year so that she could have the baby, she went ahead with the initial plan.

Marc Bastien had been the high school sweetheart. He came from a wealthy French expat family, and had everything going for him by which a high school girl could measure success. He was handsome, athletic, charming . . . He wasn’t the best of students, but even the teachers seemed to overlook that detail, seduced by his grinning charm.

Chastity, however, was a local resident coming from a family of modest means, and was firmly entrenched in the bottom rung of the social structure at school. So when Marc turned his attention to her – a bright student, but painfully shy – no one could seem to believe it, least of all her. Yet he didn’t seem to tire of her at all during their senior year. The other students were forced to accept her as well, and she found herself sitting at the coveted table at the senior dance.

After Marc took her virginity that summer, he quickly lost interest in her – so quickly, only a naïve teenage girl could think that it was because of something she had done wrong. And when she confronted him with her pregnancy, he told her to get an abortion, and graciously added that he would give her the means to pay for it.

“But . . . I thought you loved me,” she said, not even realizing in her shock just how desperate she sounded.

“We’re too young to settle down,” he said by way of an answer, as if that settled it all. He tried to present it as if they had a choice. But while he might have had one, she definitely did not – not any that she could consciously accept. As horrified as she was to see the plus sign on the pregnancy stick, she knew there was no way she could possibly get rid of the baby. She was positive her parents wouldn’t want her to either.

Chastity cried for weeks before summoning the courage to talk to her parents, who were already starting to suspect that something was seriously wrong. And later, when she saw how lovingly they stepped up to the challenge of caring for a baby when they could have started doing more things for themselves, she was more grateful to them than she had ever been.

Thomas spotted her in the crowd, and ran up to her, his backpack jostling on his back with each step. He was holding out a paper. “Mom, we got a ticket at school to go to the circus!” He looked up at her eagerly, the sun glinting off his light brown hair that was parted to one side in a way that looked so much like his father.

She remembered how the sting of Marc’s rejection faded away once her son was born, and how it was replaced with this intense love for the little creature she found cradled in her arms. Eventually she heard from Caroline that he had actually gone to prison after being caught with a significant amount of drugs. The drugs didn’t surprise her when she thought about the numerous times she saw him using casually. But that he had started selling it did surprise her. She had assumed that his family connections would preclude him from doing something so foolish. She tried to shake away her distractions and focus on  her son.

She looked at the piece of paper, smiling. “Honey, that’s not a ticket,” she said. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s just a flyer, but . . .” when she saw his face fall, “we might still be able to go.” She thought for a minute, and said, “It’s next weekend; I’ll have to see what we have planned.”

They started walking down the tree-lined street and he looked up at her doubtfully. “Maybe we could see if my father wants to go with us.” He spoke the words as if he were trying them out on his tongue.

She looked straight ahead and took a deep breath. “Yes, that might be a possibility,” she answered neutrally.

When she didn’t say anything more, he persisted, “Mom, why does he want to see me now? Why is he calling now after so many years?”

She looked down at him as they walked side by side, and after a brief hesitation, answered him honestly. “I think, at the beginning, he was just not interested in being a father. Maybe he thought he was too young.” She paused. “After that, he couldn’t see you because he was in prison.” She had never been one to hide anything from her son that she felt he had the right to know.

“My dad was in jail?” Thomas asked in shocked accents. “What did he do?”

“I’m not too sure,” she replied. “I think he was selling drugs.”

Thomas twisted his mouth as he thought. “What are drugs?” he finally asked, looking up at her.

She laughed. “Um . . . it’s like a medicine that you take; only instead of making you healthy again, it makes you sick. Drugs also make you act foolish when you take them. And- ” she added, “they’re against the law.”

Thomas, who had always been a precocious child, retorted, “Somebody would have to be an idiot to take drugs!”

“Yup,” his mom said, nodding her head adamantly.

Her son sighed tragically and shook his head. “My father is an idiot.”

Chastity let out a peal of laughter, that she quickly cut short. “Perhaps you are right, my dear,” she said carefully. “But everyone deserves the chance to be recognized for their goodness, and not their mistakes.”

Thomas chewed on this information for a bit before saying, “Well, whether or not he’s an idiot, he’s not much of a father. He could have written to me while he was in jail. I’m sure they have pens and paper there. And I would have sent him a drawing back.

“Yes, he could have,” she answered in perfect seriousness, hiding her smile. “Anyway, I think before doing something big together, like going to the circus, maybe we’ll meet him for hot chocolate first. What do you say to that?

“Okay,” her son said, sliding his hand into hers as they turned towards the entrance of their apartment building.

* * *

He was sure it was him. The gentleman leaning over the stone wall overlooking the Seine fit perfectly the description he’d been given. He had the dark wavy hair with a touch of grey, the Mediterranean skin color; and he was wearing a black leather jacket. And he was just standing there waiting. It couldn’t be anyone else.

Jean watched as the guy pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket. He could read the words FUMER TUE in large letters, even from across the street. Smoking Kills. The man tapped a cigarette out of the packet before tucking it back inside his jacket. Jean waited five more minutes before heading over.

He was nervous. This was not at all somebody you messed with – the guy radiated power. Even if his reputation hadn’t preceded him, every movement he made was decisive. He jogged across the street, dodging the last car before he reached the curb that was anticipating the light. Slightly out of breath – as much from nerves as from the light jog – he approached the wall at a respectful distance. He left enough space that he wouldn’t freak the guy out if he had misjudged who he was.

“Jean.” The guy turned and reached out his hand, his voice a confirmation rather than a question. They shook. “Let’s walk,” he said, jerking his head East towards the Notre Dame. They walked side by side.

“Are you clear on what Cyril told you – your end of the deal?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jean responded. Then he cleared his voice and continued in a deeper tone. “It’s perfectly clear. There shouldn’t be any problem.”

“I don’t want to rush this,” the man said. “I want every step in place before we proceed. And I don’t want you to deviate from the plan. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely,” Jean said, giving a firm nod. “That’s precisely how I operate. When I – ”

The man cut him off. “Good. I’m glad we’re clear on that. Take your time. Build the relationships slowly. It’s been sitting there for twenty-five years and it can wait a few more months. The important thing is that this time we pull it off without anyone getting caught. I’ll send word when I want an update.” The man looked at Jean and lifted his chin up as he said, “Are we clear?”

“Very clear,” he replied quietly. He watched as the man crossed the street without another word and disappeared in the crowd. Jean found himself alone, and a young couple approached him, gesturing with their camera that they wanted a photo together next to the Pont Neuf.

Jean forced himself to smile as he waited for them to pose, and felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal.

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The Viscount of Maison Laffitte – Ch 2

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISON LAFFITTE

CHAPTER TWO

(chapter one is here)

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Chateau of Maison Laffitte, and the small square window panes made a checkered pattern of sunlight on the wooden floor. It was a warm day for late October, and the crisp sound of birds chirping nearby intermingled with the muted squeals of children playing further away.

Le Viscomte Charles Jean-Anne de Chabot sat behind the Louis XIV desk, which was antique in structure but modern in disarray with cords and chargers strewn among the documents. Papers were stacked in what could roughly be called piles, and a steaming cup of espresso sat in the center of it all, yet untouched. The Viscount was leaning back against his padded, straight-backed chair, one leg crossed easily over the other. A tablet was perched on his lap and he idly flipped through yesterday’s news articles, raising his brows over the caption on one of the photos.

Glancing at his coffee, he picked up the sugar cube that was placed on the saucer. He dipped the end of it in his coffee and watched as the cube turned brown, before dropping it in and stirring it with the tiny sliver spoon. Then he drank the scalding liquid in one go. As soon as the porcelain cup clattered on the saucer, a door in the wall opened – one that was so discreet you wouldn’t notice it unless you knew to look for it.

Paltier came in wearing his usual black suit, and lifting the espresso cup from the desk, he stood to one side. He was the perfect butler – starched and upright, and with an appreciation for nobility and lineage that made it an honor for him to serve

He cleared his throat and spoke up. “I don’t imagine you want to be involved in this, but the tailleurs are here from Versailles to trim the trees and bushes. I put them in touch with Martin so he could direct them as needed.”

Jean Martin was the gardener who had been hired to manage the grounds; and although he was very good at caring for the plants and lawns, trimming the trees and bushes in the proper fashion for French gardens was not his specialty. The artisanal measuring techniques of old were now replaced with laser beams to achieve the perfect right angles, and there were companies that did just that.

“You’re right,” the Viscount responded. “I don’t need to be involved. The team from Versailles know what they’re doing. I won’t insult them by breathing down their necks.”

“I understand,” Paltier replied. “So that just leaves your visit with the stable manager this morning before your family arrives for lunch.”

The Viscount looked out the window thoughtfully, and mused aloud. “I wonder if we can keep the meeting at the stables to under an hour.”

He was not as passionate about riding and racing horses as his father had been, but out of respect for his legacy, he continued to oversee the management of the racetrack from a distance. He met with the stable manager out of necessity, and tried to get through the meetings with as little implication to himself as possible. Since the racetrack, along with all business dealings for the château, were under the aegis of Jean Lefevre, Paltier did not it was his place to reply.

When the Château of Maison Laffitte went up for private sale, after remaining a government-owned historical property for nearly a century, public outrage warred with people’s good sense. The government was burdened by the social charges it imposed upon itself and was no longer capable of maintaining some of the national monuments. Since the racetrack was linked to the château, and both were as costly as they were nearing bankruptcy, Maison Laffitte was one of the châteaux that was sacrificed to the stricter fiscal measures.

The Viscount at the time – his father – had pumped a large portion of his investment money into the racetrack, making it profitable once again. And he worked in accordance with the government agreement for historical monuments to restore the château to its former glory without deviating in furnishings from what was historically accurate. His untimely death transferred the property to his son’s hands, who was still in university at the time. And now the current Viscount handled the estate in the same way that he handled everything. Responsibly.

Noticing that his employer had gone back to reading the news, Paltier ventured, “May I ask what time lunch should be served?”

The Viscount looked up again and said, “My mother won’t arrive until 13:00, so we’ll eat shortly after that.” He smiled disarmingly by way of dismissing his butler, who had been in the family’s service since before the Viscount was born. Picking up on the clue, Paltier nodded his grey head somberly and left the room through the discreet passageway.

The château was big, and ever since the Viscount had taken up permanent residency there, he rarely ventured outside of his own “apartment” encompassing his bedroom, office and sitting room. He even ate his meals in the sitting room or the kitchen, unless there were guests. Some of the more severe critics wondered why the family had even bothered to purchase the château if they weren’t going to bring some life to it again. But the Viscount didn’t listen to the critics.

By the time it was one o’clock and the sounds of his mother’s arrival filtered through, the visit to the stables had been satisfactorily completed in record time, and his two sisters and the elder’s husband had already been sitting with him for a half-hour. His mother marched into the parlor where they  sat drinking an aperitif.

“Hello mother,” he said, rising to his feet and crossing the room to kiss her softly on each cheek. “I hope you didn’t hit too much traffic.”

“The péripherique was slow, as to be expected,” she answered regally, as she turned to receive the bises – the kisses on each cheek – from her other children. She glanced around the room and said, “Ah. I see you moved that Cézanne as I suggested.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked critically for a moment before adding, “It needs to be closer to this armchair, however, because otherwise it’s not centered between the windows.”

The Viscount sighed internally. He was respected in his field, and the owner of the nicest château on the outskirts of Paris, but his mother had the gift of making him feel like a little boy as soon as she entered the room. She turned stiffly in her cream-colored Chanel suit and saw a teenager lounging on the sofa by the window with his headphones on.

“Camille, aren’t you going to greet your grandmother?” she asked acerbically in a loud voice. Then turning to the Viscount, “We mustn’t allow adolescents to forget good manners. I would have thought you too well-raised to neglect something like that.”

The young man rose to his feet and slipped off his headphones before lumbering over to his grandmother and kissing her. “Bonjour Grand-mère.”

The Viscount’s mother turned back towards her son, her pale blue eyes boring into his. She didn’t even bother to lower her voice as she said, “I’ve told you this before, but he needs a woman in his life. A mother.”

With that she walked across the room to greet her daughters and son-in-law who were rising for that purpose; but before she kissed them, she turned back with an afterthought. “Just not that young actress of yours.”

“Well Mother,” the Viscount said quickly – though politely. “Shall we go to the table?”

Once everyone was seated and had been served the first course at the long oval table, the Viscount’s sister Adelaide, who was older by six years and his closest sibling in affection, leaned over to him with a twinkle in her eye. “And how is that actress of yours?” she asked with a grin. She poked her fork into the toast with melted chèvre and took a bite.

“You have salad in your teeth,” he replied.

She blushed a little, but – turning her face fully away from the other end of the table where her mother was sitting – grinned even wider, showing all of her teeth, which now had both salad and cheese in the crevices. “Do you think she will like me, Charles?” she asked mournfully with her mouth full.

“Please be serious.” The Viscount’s stony face was belied by a smile in his eyes.

“What are you talking about over there?” his mother asked.

Adelaide swallowed before answering. “I was asking Charles if he could look in on Sylvie at Cambridge when he goes to England next weekend.” Her daughter was in her first semester at university there.

“Why are you going to England?” His mother’s question resembled more of a command.

The Viscount shot a look at his sister before breaking off a piece of bread and answering nonchalantly, “Manon will begin filming in London. I plan on accompanying her just for the weekend.” He put the bread in his mouth.

His mother turned to her grandson. “And Camille, what will you do while your father is away?”

Camille looked uncomfortable as all eyes turned towards him. “I didn’t . . . I don’t know.” He scraped his fork against the plate, making everyone cringe.

The Viscount’s eldest sister, Eléonore, who was eight years his senior, answered peremptorily. “Camille, you will come and stay with me.

Camille looked a little alarmed until the Viscount rescued him. “Camille is perfectly fine here by himself. He’s fifteen years old and doesn’t need a babysitter. Paltier will be here if he needs anything, and besides -“ addressing his son directly, “you have plenty of homework to do, don’t you?”

If his son felt any relief at being saved, he didn’t to show it. He mumbled something incomprehensible and looked down at his plate, spared from further need to talk by Paltier bringing in the main course - roast pigeon and potatoes seasoned with thyme. Paltier filled each of the glasses half-way with red wine, beginning with the Viscount. For a time, there was no sound other than the clink of cutlery against china until the Viscount finally spoke up.

“The mayor has asked me to serve on his advisory board for the city.”

“It’s about time you got more involved in politics,” said Eléonore, whose husband was the campaign director for the UMP – the right wing political party in France.

“I’m not getting involved in politics,” the Viscount said firmly. “I’m more concerned with the affairs in this town – the preservation of the forest, for a start.”

“But I thought that was a given,” Adelaide said with a crinkle in her forehead. “I thought there were very strict laws concerning forest preservation, and that nothing could be built there.”

“There are,” the Viscount replied, taking a sip of his wine and then cutting the meat off the drumstick. The delicious brown sauce from the meat marred the pristine white of the china plate. “But there are many people who feel some of the forest could be sold off to build housing projects.

Everyone, except for Camille, who was still looking down at his plate, started talking animatedly. “I have never heard of anything like this,” his mother spluttered. “Is no property . . . no piece of history to remain sacred?”

“Many people felt the same way when my father bought the Château de Maison Laffitte,” the Viscount said wryly, in what was, perhaps, a spirit of mischief.

His mother turned to him. “I hope you do not regret that he did so,” she said in a dangerous tone.

“No mother,” he replied smoothly. “I am enough your son to recognize the value of heritage.”

His mother seemed appeased and picked up her fork again. But she remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the rest of the meal. Paltier brought in the cheese platter and everyone refused, except for the Viscount and his brother-in-law - the latter deciding to ignore his straining shirt buttons. However, everyone accepted the espresso at the end of the meal.

The dowager went to leave after the family had lingered over their coffee for over an hour. Walking down the large marble steps in the foyer, and allowing her son-in-law to open the heavy iron and glass door that led to the courtyard, she turned to her son to receive his kisses. Glancing beyond him to the park with its rows of trees, she placed her gloved hand on his arm and gave a small sigh. “The grounds have never looked as good as they did when Pierre was caring for them.”

“Yes,” he said smiling. “But your nostalgia has made you forget that Pierre took off one day without saying a word and we never saw him again. At least Martin is still here.”

“I was never more shocked in my life!” his mother answered vehemently, gripping his arm. “After twenty-two years of faithful service to go off without a word! He left the hedges half-trimmed!” She shook her head at such indolence, and in spite of her anger, suddenly seemed frailer than she usually did.

The Viscount stood there patiently for a moment with his mother’s hand on his arm, waiting for her to recover. Finally she shook it off and looked at him, saying with something akin to urgency in her voice, “See that you preserve the legacy of this place. It may not have been long in our family, but you owe it to the families that came before you, and you owe it to your son.

“I will, Maman,” the Viscount replied, leading her to the back seat of her chauffeured car. He helped her into it and then turned to kiss his sisters and take leave of his brother-in-law as they made their way to their own cars. As usual, there was little discussion between the men.

“Charles,” his brother-in-law said pompously, shaking his hand.

“Have a nice drive, Thierry,” he answered in return.

As the cars drove off, crunching in the gravel until they reached the broad street, which veered left, the Viscount stood on the stone steps, watching the iron gate close automatically behind them. He was plunged in thought, remembering the last time he saw Pierre on the ladder, trimming the hedges manually and pausing so the branches didn’t fall on the young Viscount and Miriam as they walked by.

Miriam! His childhood sweetheart and young bride, although that was the first day he had dared to hold her hand. And he had thought they were alone until they chanced on the row that Pierre was trimming. The gardener’s eyes had taken it all in at once – the hands pulling away quickly, the bright eyes and large smiles of young love. Normally he would have risked a wink at the Viscount, knowing what a big deal it was for him. But on that day the gardener was somber and unlike himself – as if there had been a foreboding that such happiness could not last.

The Viscount stood there for a minute, recalling Miriam’s brown eyes – the only thing he could remember clearly about her without looking at a photo. The grief he suffered was long gone, but there had never been any joy to take its place. Sometimes he wondered if he should be worried by that.

He turned to go inside and came up flush against the same set of eyes, causing his heart to skip a beat in surprise – a ghost rising from the past.

“Oh. Camille. You’re here.” He paused for a minute, searching for some way to connect with his son, and then said awkwardly, “Sorry to spring it on you that I’m away next weekend like that.”

“That’s fine,” his son said. He had the same dark wavy hair his father did, and a long lock of it hid the brown eyes, which differed from his mother’s only in that they didn’t sparkle or laugh, but rather turned downwards.

When his son didn’t say anything else, the Viscount recalled his conversation with the English teacher from the day before and felt a flash of irritation towards her. He had the urge to lean forward and sniff his son to see if he smelled like smoke or something else; but he resisted the urge.

“I met with your English teacher,” the Viscount said. Camille looked up, a little alarmed, but quickly covered it up with a neutral expression. He didn’t say anything that might ease the Viscount’s discomfort, so the father was forced to go on. “Is . . . uh, everything all right in school?

“Yes Papa, everything’s totally fine,” he immediately replied, obviously anxious to end the conversation.

The Viscount felt defeated. He really didn’t want to push the issue. He always thought that young men would come about if left to their own devices. At least he wanted to be left to his own devices and assumed everyone else felt the same way. He looked his son over for a minute before simply saying, “Make sure you do your homework for school tomorrow.”

“Oui, Papa,” Camille said, making his escape.

The Viscount stood on the steps surveying the beauty of his property, but trying to shake off the ghosts it held. To the left, the tailleurs were now working on the rows of trees closest to the edge of the park. One man was standing in the white metal bucket, which was lifted up by the arm of the small truck, and he sliced the side of the tree with his electric trimmer in a perfect line. There were shouts as the men below cleared the area of falling branches.

The Viscount stared for just a minute before turning and entering the marble foyer. His footsteps echoed as he walked up the empty staircase.

The post The Viscount of Maison Laffitte – Ch 2 appeared first on A Lady In France.

For the Lovers of Ballet

I love ballet. It’s so graceful. And I love that my daughter is way more graceful than I could ever be, even if it’s not her dream to be a professional dancer.

They put on this year’s dance performance, which is called “Un Spectacle,” and which is pronounced speck-tahk-le.

This is one of the rehearsals in the smaller (but nicer ) auditorium.

And this is the dress rehearsal, where I was behind the scenes.

Finally . . . the performance.

“J’ai le trac!” she says.

(I have stage fright).

The performance encompassed children of all ages, with two adults from a nearby conservatory to help out.

There was the lone high school student, who danced two solos and two pas de deux with the assistant partner – we are a pretty small city/town.

And all the other children together performed the four seasons.

Autumn.

Winter.

Snowflakes!!

(The lone boy)

And Spring!

Juliet! My Juliet!

I might have cried. Or cheered. Or both.

Oh yes, and Summer.

I was so, so proud of – not only my daughter – but the entire conservatory who worked so hard to pull this performance off.

We have some college students staying with us from our church in Atlanta. Juliet was so excited to have them come watch.

I can’t help getting teary. I love ballet!

And I love her.

The post For the Lovers of Ballet appeared first on A Lady In France.

Um. Chapter One?

So . . . uh . . . (laughs nervously). Here is Chapter One. All feedback appreciated. And I hope I can really see this through and not get tangled in the plot, taking a readership down with me. (I do have it mapped out but it’s never clear until it’s written). Anyway, here goes nothin!

The Viscount of Maison Laffitte
Chapter One

Chastity Whitmore stared in the mirror at her green eyes, lined with the bluish hue of the sleep-deprived. A move to France may have been good for her career, and even her morale, but it was doing a number on her level of stress. She grabbed her purse from the hook on the bathroom door and dried her hands in the cramped quarters, sending water all over the floor. Yanking the door open, she hurried out of the bathroom and around the corner leading to the stairs. The students who were making their way up the spiral staircase squeezed past her, talking and laughing, as she hugged the railing on her way down. She walked past the main entrance and through a set of doors, which led to the library and reception beyond.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked the director, as she poked her head into her office.

“Yes, come on in,” the director responded pleasantly. Elizabeth Moore was seated at her desk and had been staring at the computer screen, trying to figure out how to organize student-teaching meetings according to everyone’s schedule. Her youthful face, athletic figure and bright clothing were at odds with her white hair. And though she was approaching retirement, she had an energy that bordered on exuberance and challenged teachers half her age.

“I saw your e-mail about your meeting with Monsieur de Chabot and I wanted to talk to you about that. Have a seat. And – why don’t you close the door.” The voices in the part of the library that served as a study area right outside the director’s office were starting to increase in volume.

“Hey everyone – keep your voices down,” Chastity admonished, meeting some of their eyes, before shutting the door. She sat down facing Elizabeth, her eyes drawn towards the window behind her director, searching briefly for her son in the crowd of young children playing.

“So you’re meeting him to talk about Camille’s English grades, is that it?

“His grades, yes,” Chastity replied. “But also his work . . . ethic, I guess you’d call it. And the fact that his ability for critical analysis just isn’t up to par. He is several years behind in that. How did it get this far? How did he keep passing to the next level?” She asked this curiously without any criticism in her voice.

The director pressed her lips together as she thought about it. “He continued to scrape by,” she said. “We would help him whenever we could and he seemed to be on level, even if it was just barely so. And so he kept moving forward. But truth be told, we couldn’t go against the wishes of his father.”

Chastity frowned in confusion. “What were his wishes?” she asked.

“He refused to let him repeat a grade,” Elizabeth replied. “He said that he was trusting us – charging us to do whatever it took to help his son stay on level.”

“But . . . why does the father have the final say? There are tons of people on the waiting list for this school. I didn’t think we had the habit of catering to the parents – we’ve always advocated for what’s best regarding the child’s interest.”

“Ah.” The director smiled and nodded here head sagely, saying, “You don’t know who Monsieur de Chabot is.” And if she didn’t know her director better, she would say she was pausing for effect. “He owns the Château of Maison Laffitte.”

“Oh!” There was surprise in Chastity’s voice. But then she wrinkled her brows. “Still, we have other wealthy parents, so I don’t see why . . .” She let her voice trail away

“Because he donates a large amount of money to the school, without which we wouldn’t be able to do the necessary upkeep of the outlying buildings. He does this, in part, to help the town that he lives in. I think he considers it his civic duty. But I highly doubt he would continue to do so if we thwarted his wishes to the point of losing his son as a student.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but that just kind of irritates me,” Chastity said in something bordering shock. “He must be incredibly pompous to order people around that way. And to use his wealth and influence as a means to get what he wants without any regards for whether it’s best?” She felt breathless and wound up, which might have been the extra cup of coffee before her last class.

“You’ll see for yourself,” Elizabeth responded, smiling. “You may not be able to resist his charms. He’s quite persuasive when he wants to be and you often walk away, wondering how he got you to agree to the very thing you were certain you could not agree.”

Chastity sighed. “I highly doubt it. I’m very immune to . . . charm,” she finished dryly

“Well, just don’t say anything to set him off,” her director said. “We do need his monetary gifts.

Chastity rolled her eyes, but smiled as she picked up her bag. “I will do my best to behave.” Elizabeth smiled back at her warmly. They had established a mutually friendly - even affectionate – connection in the two short months since Chastity had joined the school.

Once back in her office, she was struck with the thought that she hadn’t told her director everything. But she didn’t have time to fill her in now. Only fifteen minutes remained before Mr de Chabot arrived. She selected a colored file from the stack sitting on top of the cabinets that lined the large windows. Her office was located in the corner of the building, so one wall of windows overlooked the tree-lined street, and the other overlooked the playground inside the schoolyard. She loved her new teaching environment that was so pretty and peaceful. Well - most of the time.

She sat at her desk and flipped through the papers until she came to the one she was looking for. It was a critical essay on Euripedes’ play Medea, and she read it once through, shaking her head slightly a couple of times. When she finished reading it, she said to herself out loud, “This is not anywhere near on-level. How can we let him bulldoze us . . .”

She picked up the pen and started scribbling in red, beginning with the first sentence. “There should be no first person in a critical essay. The beginning is too informal.” “Camille, you need to improve your writing. These words are too simple.” Towards the bottom of the second page, she wrote, “I’m not even sure you read the play!”

The essay was torturous to read. Not only was the ability to understand and analyze the literary work lacking, but there were sentence fragments and missed punctuation, elementary vocabulary. She sighed, and thought to herself, “And this is supposedly a group of the country’s brightest.”

Her phone rang earlier than she had expected, and it was the director. “Hi Chastity. Camille’s father is here to see you.”

“Okay thanks,” she replied. “I’ll be right down.”

Chastity slung her purse over her shoulder as she she shoved the student papers back in the file and put them on top of the filing cabinet. Reaching for the door handle, she pushed her glasses on top of her head and skipped down the few steps to the half-landing.

She was pretty, but never slowed down enough to look in the mirror, so the fact was lost on her. Her hair was reddish-auburn and reached the middle of her back in loose, curly ringlets, but she always wore it tied back. She had a slim frame, and her favorite colleague – the one who taught Math at the school – told her she dressed like a hippie. It was true her long, flowing skirts, and long shirts cinched at the waist with a wide belt, were not the height of French fashion.

But Chastity had had enough of trying to fit into the French culture. She was American, and grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where she attended the French private school there. The only daughter of middle-class, aspiring parents who owned a dry-cleaning business, she spent her whole childhood trying to be French and fit in to this illusive sub-culture of a posh Manhattan. But now she was done with that, including when it came to what she wore.

She clipped down the winding staircase, causing her chignon to come undone just enough to allow little wisps to frame her face. She was wearing an emerald green shirt, which brought out her eyes, but this was not by design; it was her last clean shirt.

She rounded the corner to the director’s office, and came up abruptly to a gentleman that had all the bearing of aristocracy. He was dressed in Italian shoes, khaki pants, a navy blazer with a little silk scarf tucked in its pocket, and his white button down shirt was open at the top. His hair had only a few strands of grey, but was otherwise thick with large curls that made him look boyish. That was the thing about him that struck her most of all.

She involuntarily stuck her chin out, along with her hand. “Bonjour Monsieur Chabot,” she said as she shook his.

“Monsieur de Chabot,” he answered, accenting the prefix which both denoted ancient nobility, and – in all fairness – was really part of his name.

“Monsieur de Chabot,” she conceded, although she had known perfectly well how to pronounce his name. She had just been flustered by the fact that he looked much younger than she had expected. And – if she were being perfectly honest with herself – more handsome. She turned to walk back up to her office. “If you’ll follow me?”

They walked silently up the stairs, single file, and although a friendlier parent might have complimented her on her excellent French, Camille’s father said nothing. They reached the top of the stairs, and Chastity said, “Right in here, please.”

She shut the door behind them and they both sat at the table in the middle of the office that served for parent-teacher meetings. Without preamble, Chastity began. “I’m sure you know why I’ve requested a meeting,” she said, looking at him inquisitively.

The Viscount crossed his legs and put one arm on the table. “I’ve no idea, other than your note, which said you wished to discuss my son’s English level.”

“It’s not so much his level in English,” she said, putting emphasis on the one word. “It’s his scholarly level as a whole that’s inferior.”

The Viscount didn’t say anything, but continued to stare at her.

She was irritated, rather than discomposed, and began again. “Have you been following his coursework? His grades on the papers he’s handing in?”

“My son is fifteen years old, and he doesn’t need me to stand over him to get his homework done. He’s been autonomous for a couple of years now, and his grades were not worrisome last year.”

Chastity thought that he was rather blind to think that his son’s grades were not in trouble if he kept getting called in for parent-teacher meetings. But she simply said, “Well something has changed since then. Camille doesn’t seem to grasp what the subject matter is about – if he even reads the material at all. On top of that, the papers he hands in are very shallow in scope, employing the most elementary language.”

“Well Mademoiselle, as you know, English is not his mother tongue.”

“Oh Monsieur, he speaks English well enough. It’s not the English that’s the problem. He seems to lack the ability to think critically and to analyze what he’s reading.” She hopped up and grabbed the papers that she had just been working on, and slapped the file on the table. She saw the Viscount jump slightly at her abruptness, which made her flush with embarrassment.

“Here, for instance,” she said, pointing with a delicate hand to a paragraph in his son’s scrawl. He talks about Creon being a god. But he’s not a god; he’s the king of Athens. Your son was not able to grasp such basic character description, which either means he did not read the play, or he did read it and was unable to process its meaning.”

“Mademoiselle, I’m not familiar with . . . “

“And here,” she went on, knowing that her desire to make a point with this pretentious gentleman was bordering on aggression. “He is simply unable to construct a good sentence. There are fragments, and misused words, and punctuation in the wrong place. This is not the work of even the most basic level in the school, and he’s in the higher levels. For his age, he should be producing something of much higher quality.”

She paused and looked at him, waiting for a response.

The Viscount took his arm off the table and folded his hands on his lap. Cocking his head to the side, he said, “I am still unclear what you would have me do.

Chastity was taken aback at this father’s indifference. “Why, help him with his homework!” she said. “Take an interest in what he’s reading, what he’s working on.” The Viscount continued to look at her steadily without saying anything.

“Hire someone if you have to!” she spluttered.

“Mademoiselle Whitmore, I will certainly talk to my son about his grades. But I will not start looking over his shoulder. I did not raise him that way, and he’s always been on level before. He doesn’t need a babysitter.”

Chastity chewed her lip, refraining from retorting that he was barely on level, and this was only through his father’s coercion and the gullible teachers’ taking on a burden that was supposed to be handled by him. She had some experience with “his type” before – someone who thought the world should be handed to him on a platter, and that the same should be done for his children as well, whether or not they had worked for it. She was familiar with his arrogance, but she still wanted to shake him.

After a pause, she looked at him and said, “There’s something else.”

“Go on.”

“For the past month or so, I’m not entirely sure whether your son has not been doing drugs.”

The Viscount looked surprised, and his gaze met hers directly – the first sign of possessing an emotion other than bored indifference. “My son doesn’t do drugs. Where would be get them? He doesn’t even smoke!”

Chastity tried unsuccessfully to refrain from sarcasm when she answered, “He smells like smoke every time he comes into class. And as far as drugs are concerned, unfortunately an area that is as wealthy as this one must be a prime target for those who sell them. From what I overhear of the student parties when they think I am not paying attention, someone is able to get drugs. That is a concern in and of itself. But when it starts to spill over into their school days, it is truly . . . worrisome,” she said, using his own word pointedly.

“What makes you so convinced Camille is using drugs?” the Viscount resumed in a voice that showed no indecision, as if nothing ever ruffled his calm. “You mentioned smoke, but that is not the same thing as drugs.”

“I can’t be sure. It’s true – I have no proof.” Chastity took a deep breath, knowing that this was a concession. But she felt  she was right in her gut and so she continued. “Sometimes I catch a whiff of something that doesn’t smell like nicotine. And it’s his behavior in the class. He seems mellow at times – very mellow. Almost comatose.”

“My son is reserved,” the Viscount came back at her, shrugging his shoulders, his eyebrow raised. “And as you said, you cannot be sure that the smoke is what you think it is – or even that it came from him!”

“Yes, but . . .” Chastity began, shaking her head at his obtuseness and laughing without humour.

But the Viscount stood up, ending the conversation precipitately. “I appreciate your concern for my son,” he said. “I will take into consideration everything you said, but I believe you are mistaken in the matter.”

He walked to the door before turning back towards Chastity, who was still seated with her mouth slightly open in surprise at his abrupt dismissal. “I wish you a good day, Mademoiselle.”

She watched him walk away, his head upright and his broad shoulders filling the small corridor. She stared at the empty space for a minute before closing her mouth.

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Goals, Vacations & Flowers

Are you going to BlogHer in San José this year? I am. And I would love to meet you if you’ll be there too. (I’ll be flying low under the radar).

I’m actually not sure if I’ll keep going after this year. It’s fun, mind you, but I wonder if the money wouldn’t be better spent going to a smaller conference. Actually, I’m not even sure if I have the funds to keep going anywhere at all. But in any case, I’m going to look at some of the niche conferences. You know, the ones that feature food and France and faith, or lack thereof.

Flowers. I bought a lot of flowers. Wanna see?

My husband built this wooden flower bed, and it was waiting to be filled with color. I thought this was the perfect place to put those red and yellow flowers I don’t want in my actual earth since I only like blues, purples and pinks. But red and yellow are cheerful too and I should not be discriminatory.

Hunter certainly is not.

I’m going to fill out those two empty spaces in the ground - the one between the two wooden flowerbeds over there, and also the nearer one between the flowerbed and sidewalk - with cala lilies and something shorter. Not sure what yet, but it will be a perennial so I can forget about it.

And then I planted other flowers in these pots over here to add more colour to our unfinished terrace.

Yellow and purple works together.

There’s a bare patch of rocky dirt next to the house and I’m going to plant the climbing passionflower that someone gave me for teaching their kid English. I’ll take a picture to let you see how it looks once it’s in.

In other perennial (and therefore less new) flower news, the hydrangeas are blooming.

And this one, which I bought at Ikea because I loved the colour - and which I learned would no longer bloom in the same colour once it was in the ground because of the (lack of?) nitrogen in our soil – surprised me by coming up blue anyway! I’m so happy.

The lavender is at its height of beauty, attracting butterflies and bees.

It’s all so pretty, made even more so when there’s no upkeep.

This week is my last week of classes. I usually throw a party, invite the parents and bake cupcakes. There are almost 40 students, and that’s a lot of extra work and a lot of extra dishes. But it’s worth it for the parents to see their kids’ progress. I’ll be so relieved to be done for the summer. I’m not all that crazy about teaching, and I asked God if I could just write full time. But we’re still broke so I think the answer is no.

So with the classes (nearly) over, and with my extra time before we leave for our annual two weeks in Brittany with the extended family (it’s fun – we all get along most of the time), I might even try a DIY craft project, like painting the bathroom furniture. I know! I’m as shocked as you are.

And I have to get writing. It has not been going well. I’m just pinning stuff and doing social media and shirking my responsibilities. I’m too brain-fried to be creative.

With that in mind, I’m going to ask for your indulgence on a little idea I have. Since I’ve not had the time or creativity to continue writing my fiction novel, I’d like to put the pressure on to get to work. I think I’m going to up the ante by posting a chapter a week again, just like I did with my memoir – with a bit less rigidity since it’s summer. It will force me to be more disciplined.

Plus instant gratification in the form of comments helps.

I’m shameless. I know.

I don’t know if I’ll finish, and I don’t know if I’ll get myself into a muddle because I’ve taken the wrong turn with the plot and need to backtrack. But I think it’s worth a try, and I’m going to post the first chapter next Thursday. Feel free to throw plot ideas my way!

And then I’ll probably get back to non-fiction, which fits much more comfortably.

So my goal this summer is to post fiction on my own blog; and I’m also going to be posting more recipes to Queen Latifah’s site, which means I need to do more recipes here. And somehow through it all, I need to rest my carpal tunnel-related problems again. I’m off to the physical therapist in ten minutes to see what miracles she can do to begin the healing.

Our living room window with the growing vines and the pretty reflection.

I can’t remember if I told you this (I hope not) but my book got an honourable mention in the New York Book Festival. That was a nice ego-booster. I submitted it to an embarrassing number of contests so we’ll see how it does overall.

In the meantime, I’m going to keep writing, keep recovering, keep cooking, keep relaxing (oh Lord, let that be the case), and keep sending snippets of news and photos. Our school lets out in two weeks. I hope you’re having a wonderfully happy summer so far. Mwah!

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A Fountain of Tears

Once upon a time, there were two couples that were friends - Lin & Barry and Mark & Diane. They were such good friends, they said that they would take care of each other’s children should anything happen to either couple. Mark and Diane left for South Africa eight years after the AIDS epidemic was understood and diagnosed because Mark was a doctor, and he wanted to see if he could help. He became the foremost champion for helping AIDS victims and their families, and for raising awareness of AIDS throughout Africa.

Nobody calls it “America’s Invention to Destroy Sex” any longer.

Months before I got engaged, I heard Lin speak at a Women’s Day, which was held in Madison Square Garden in Manhattan, and it’s the only thing I remember about the entire day. She said that it’s one thing to share about what you’re going through when you’ve already gone through it – to share what you’ve learned, and how God has helped you through it. It’s quite another thing to share when you’re in the midst of the storm and you can’t see your way through.

Lin’s husband, Barry, had been diagnosed with brain cancer shortly after they were married, and he was given only a year to live. Through prayer and faith, he lasted fifteen more years, and in that time, they had three children together and started a ministry in the Caribbean. But on the day Lin shared, her husband was nearing the end. She described how she curled up on the floor of a public bathroom stall, weeping, and trying to get the courage to continue – to be there for her dying husband and three children. As I listened to her, I cried and cried. My own suffering was still so fresh.

Matthieu and I got married, and left for our year in Africa, where our work was overseen by Mark and his wife. The rest of the team met him, but his trips to Hargeisa never fell during our months there; and we only spoke to him on the phone, never in person. When we returned from Africa, we learned that Lin’s husband Barry had died.

A couple of years after that, we heard that Mark and Diane had returned to the States so that their children could finish high school and attend college. Right after their move back, Diane said she was feeling tired and was going to  go lie down. She went into her bedroom, suffered an aneurism, and never woke up from her nap.

This weekend I was plunged into the memories of Africa. This weekend I was a fountain of tears as I remembered our time there, and saw some of the walls around my heart crumble away. This weekend I was inspired to action once again.

Six years after Mark’s wife died, he and Lin got married to each other. And now they are taking care of each other’s kids (and grandkids) - together!

And this weekend they came to visit our church in Paris.

In Kenya. ten hours of braiding, done by 3 friends.

I was not able to hear Lin speak to the women on Saturday because I was teaching, but I had a good conversation with her after church on Sunday – one of those ‘chewy’ kinds of conversations, where you skip the small talk and get right to the heart of the matter.

Not only had Lin lost her husband all those years back - she also lost her job shortly after that. For one year, her suffering was so great, it was hard for her to leave her bed. And this was not even her first bout with suffering! Her parents were missionaries in the Dominican Republic where they were prisoners of war for three months. Lin saw a couple killed right before her eyes when she was nine years old.

She said that when you suffer, you can cut off the parts that hurt, the same way you would cut off a diseased limb. You cut it off to preserve yourself – to preserve your sanity. But when you do that, you’re also cutting off your possibilities for happiness. Yes, you feel less pain. But then you feel less overall.

Dry, hot, barren Djibouti.

On the other hand, when you embrace the suffering and really feel it, then you suck the marrow out of life. You live. You really live. This is a hard concept for an addict like me who would rather not feel anything uncomfortable.

The Rift Valley in Kenya.

Mark spoke at church yesterday, and shared news and pictures of what our donations are doing in Haiti and in the Ivory Coast, among other places. He went to the Ivory Coast during the civil war in 2011, when 3000 dead bodies lined the streets so that they were burning bodies on every street corner.

Our monetary help provided food, training, jobs for the members of our church there, so that they were in turn able to help other people.

The orphanage dormitories in Hargeisa.

He showed pictures of Haiti and the after-effects of mass devastation from the earthquakes. They built an entirely new community of 60 houses, including a school, a church and a clinic for the disciples there, so that they could in turn help other people. Mark is in his sixties (I think) and he has not stopped. He keeps going, keeps giving, keeps loving, keeps fighting.

Beautiful orphans in Hargeisa.

And I just want to weep that I’m not doing the same.

I know, I know. We’re not missionaries. My husband has a hectic job that involves long hours and travel. And he is doing good – bringing about good – through his job. Our children are our most precious charge, and one that God does not want us to neglect. We can do good right here in our own city.

The shoeboxes! The precious Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes that so many of you lovingly donate.

Since my people are crushed, I am crushed;
    I mourn, and horror grips me.
Is there no balm in Gilead?
    Is there no physician there?
Why then is there no healing
    for the wound of my people?
Oh, that my head were a spring of water
    and my eyes a fountain of tears!
I would weep day and night
    for the slain of my people.

(Jeremiah 8:21-9:1)

This was the scripture that Mark shared with us yesterday. God sees the pain of the homeless, the broken, the sick, the prisoners, the orphans. And he cares about their pain, weeping a fountain of tears.

But he works through us – through our love and good deeds. And that, in turn, is very healing for us. It says in Isaiah 58 that when you share your food with the hungry, and provide the poor wanderer with shelter – when you see the naked (and not close your eyes to his plight) but clothe him, and when you not turn away from your own flesh and blood . . . Then

Orphans eating with their hands in Hargeisa.

your light will break forth like the dawn,

    and your healing will quickly appear;

then your righteousness will go before you,

    and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;

    you will cry for help, and he will say: here am I.

The Lord will guide you always;

    he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land

    and will strengthen your frame.

You will be like a well-watered garden,

    like a spring whose waters never fail.

then you will find your joy in the Lord,

    and I will cause you to ride in triumph on the heights of the land

    and to feast on the inheritance of your father Jacob.’

For the mouth of the Lord has spoken.

When we give to others and ease their suffering, we find – in some sort of miraculous way – our own joy and healing.

Children waiting for their shoeboxes full of gifts.

After church, we went up to Mark and introduced ourselves, and his eyes lit up with recognition when he heard our names. He thanked us for our work there. But I said, “I miss Africa - I want to do more.“

One happy child with her treasure.

“You can!” he answers in that robust way of his, where laughter and energy are infused in every word.

“There is always so much to do.”

* * *

I didn’t intend to include a link for donations when I began this post, but if you are looking for something to do through financial donations or through volunteering, Hope worldwide is just one way you can help.

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Gluten-Free Flatbread Crackers

I have a recipe for delicious flatbread crackers that are naturally gluten-free. I got the idea from growing up watching my mom make Indian parathas, and then from making communion bread with my teammate Kara in East Africa, where matzoh crackers were decidedly not available.

So I still make them for when we have house church because I can’t eat gluten, and matzohs are still out. Everyone loves them so much, the remaining crackers disappear within minutes after the service is over. It tastes even better than if it were made with wheat. That’s how good it is.

I put a half-cup chickpea flour and a half-cup chestnut flour. This is naturally sweet so it makes the crackers taste good without adding any sugar. I put a teaspoon of large grain sea salt. It’s important that it’s large grain. And I put three tablespoons of olive oil.

The oil provides some moisture, and to get enough to form the dough into a ball, I usually hold the bowl next to the sink, and flick handfuls of water into the floury mixture until it looks right. But to be more precise, take a 1/4 cup of water and add it bit by bit until the dough is moist. You may not need it all.

I sprinkle the board with a regular GF flour mix, which is made of corn, rice, potato and xanthum gum.

And then I divide the dough in two and roll it out.

This is how thin it should be – thinness is important.

I heat some olive oil in a skillet until it’s almost smoking. (Iron skillet is best if you have one). And then I put the first flatbread in and turn the heat down to medium.

Flip it over when it’s done and make sure both sides are brown, and the cracker is fairly dry. It tastes better crunchy, rather than chewy.

And voila!

It’s good! Something about that sweet chestnut flour with the bits of sea salt you get in each bite.

Perfect for munching, and perfect for a gluten-free communion bread (with our alcohol-free red wine).

Communion bread should be salty, don’t you think?

After all - are we not the salt of the earth? ;-)

 

Gluten-Free Flatbread Crackers   Print Prep time 5 mins Cook time 5 mins Total time 10 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Appetizer Serves: 2 Ingredients ½ cup chickpea flour ½ cup chestnut flour 1 teaspoon sea salt 3 tablespoons olive oil up to ¼ cup water Instructions Mix the ingredients and knead the dough. Heat the skillet with some olive oil until hot. Roll the dough out thinly. Cook the dough until it's lightly browned on both sides and dry. It tastes better when it's not moist. 3.2.1311

 

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Surrender

I am exhausted today. We have students staying with us for a few weeks from our church in Atlanta, and one of them is waiting for her lost luggage to be delivered to our house. Since I’m the French-speaking contact, I got a call last night around 9 PM saying that they would deliver the luggage between 10 and midnight. I kind of balked a bit, but they promised to be there closer to ten.

At midnight I called and they told me they’d contact the driver to see where he was and that I should call back in a bit. At 12:15 they told me he would arrive in “une petite heure” – an hour or so. So I said no. I don’t want luggage delivered in the middle of the night. They promised to call the driver and let him know, but it was still after 1 before I could fall asleep.

At 1:46 AM my phone rang. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes!”

Can you believe that? Doesn’t that just beggar belief? Of course I told him no you will not. I will not have luggage delivered to my house at 2 AM. On top of everything else, my husband is out of town - though that has nothing to do with the absurdity of their idea of customer service.

I was so looking forward to taking a nap today. It was all I could think about. I planned on napping after I brought my son to have lunch at McDonalds, just the two of us. (We’re trying to start spending individual time with each of our kids). While there, I got a call from the service, saying they would like to come this afternoon. I gave them an availability between 2 and 4, at which time I needed to pick up my kids from school. I was hoping they’d come closer to 2 so that I could nap.

It’s nearly 4:00 and they are still not here.

My irritation over this inane behaviour is one thing. But because I’m so exhausted I have really overdone it on eating today.  I had been avoiding sweets and coffee for weeks, but I had it ALL today. And I had McDonalds. Really, I don’t think I ate a single healthy thing all day.

I think it didn’t help that - despite the healthy changes I’ve been implementing for weeks now – I haven’t really lost all that much weight. I mean, very little weight. My metabolism sucks. And it didn’t get me motivated to keep going. Now, of course I will get a good night’s sleep, and pick back up again tomorrow because what choice do I have?

But this pulling up of my bootstraps to exercise or lose weight, only to fall down before I can see any kind of results has been my status quo for thirteen years. Nearly as long as I’ve been married. It doesn’t help that I’ve been on anti-depressants for twenty years, which both slow the metabolism and give strong cravings for sugary carbs. It doesn’t help that any muscle tone I once had from swimming and running is completely gone; and every time I try to change that - past injuries, fatigue, the busyness of being a WAHM mom, injuries from excess weight . . . the dog . . . make it easier to allow a few days to go by before trying again. Or before even beginning in the first place.

So year after year go by, and my habits remain unchanged.

I think the problem is that I haven’t surrendered to my reality. I haven’t surrendered to the fact that I am 44 years old, am overweight with little muscle tone, and have the metabolism of an eighty-year old. That last one is sort of an estimate.

I still think I should be able to eat whatever I want. And although I’ve always struggled a little bit with weight, it was always a ten – maybe 20 – pound difference, and the smallest effort on my part (stop eating entire boxes of cookies) would show results almost immediately. That is most decidedly no longer the case. And I don’t want to have to change my life . . . forever. It seems so black and white and sort of empty.

I hate making my weight-loss efforts public. For one thing, I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep doing it long-term and I’m afraid of looking foolish. For another thing, I love to cook, and eat, and host, and spoil people with food. I love to introduce new foods to people, and make the most mouth-watering dishes my guests have ever tasted.

That usually involves cream.

Probably the hardest part of it all is convincing myself that there is a better way to fill the emptiness inside . . . when the thing that is empty is not my stomach - but my heart. Yeah that. I haven’t surrendered to the fact that it could even be possible.

So what about you. Is there anything you haven’t surrendered to? Or if you did have something, and you faced it squarely, how did you go about it?

Also, any tips for improving metabolism after forty?

 

If you’re wondering about the luggage, I got a call at 4 PM on the dot.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes!”

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A Family Post

I have a faith post and a food post that I want to do, but there’s enough family news (and more) to make it a priority.

Juliet got bangs.

She’s quickly leaving the baby girl years

and is heading into the murky waters of the pre-teen.

Send chocolate.

William is looking forward to finishing with maternal school and heading into CP (the 1st grade equivalent).

It also means he will be able to do soccer like his big brother.

I usually teach on Saturday mornings so I can’t go to the games.

But I’m so glad we could finally go and watch him play.

Since he won’t read this until he’s older - if then - I can say in confidence (between you and me) that he’s not a strong soccer player.

But he loves it and he gives his whole heart. And what is more honourable than that?

Hunter.

This dog.

He looks so innocent, but he bit our neighbour without warning and drew blood. I’ve been sick about it today, but they were very gracious. I’m going to bring them a card and cookies and we will make sure it never happens again. Juliet was walking him, but from now on, only we will walk him and he will be on a tight leash the whole time. I’m pretty sure he was afraid of the hedge trimmer the neighbour was using. We’re also going to get advice from three dog experts before we rashly give him away.

Gabriel does usually hold the trumpet correctly.

Gabriel, while not super strong at soccer, is amazingly good at trumpet. In France you have to go before a jury each year to pass to the next level in the conservatories. He got the highest mark, with a special mention from the judges. And it’s true his sound was so sweet and pure. And he had the hiccups when he took the exam! I was so proud.

In other family news, I’m enforcing 15 minute reading sessions daily. I brought a wicker basket upstairs for that purpose so they would have a good choice every time they sit down to read. They do seem to be reading more.

Our garden is green and sweet-smelling right now. I took these at night, so here is the light through the kiwi

and the fence with kiwi growing up and hazelnut leaves hanging down.

Here are the hazelnuts

and the peaches.

and the weaker apricot tree, which has never successfully brought apricots to maturity. They always fall out of the tree. I notice that a lot of the branches are dead and the leaves curled inwards. I’ll see if a radical trim will do the trick.

I think this is Rose of Sharon, which immediately makes me think of Grapes of Wrath, and Roseasharn, who breastfed an old man.

A neighbour gave it to us and it just blossoms all summer.

The most beautiful blooms!

Over here, this moss-covered weed-fest looks amazing now. I covered it with tarp, and then covered that with bark. I poked holes to let the geraniums through

and behind it the lavender is really thriving, despite the fact that it doesn’t get all that much sun.

I love the purple against the white lavender.

I do plan on planting bright red and yellow annuals in a wooden box my husband built for me, but for the moment I am really a fan of blue, pink and white flowers. These are the petunias I planted near the studio, whose shutters will one day be painted bright blue.

Oh yes, and there are the bright orange nasturtiums that pop up on their own each year. I kind of like those too. I like how they close up each night and open again each morning.

Those will stay . . . and that’s about it for news.

Wait! That’s not true. Our area got hard-hit with a hail storm last night. Here is one of the bigger ones we found after it was safe to go out.

Tonight it’s supposed to be a more severe storm with even bigger hail and for a longer time. It’s a good thing I took pictures of my garden

because I don’t expect to see it in such good shape again this year.

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