surprise... more cheese!

{raclette cheeeeeese}

Guess what we did on Saturday? We ate cheese! Can you believe it?! Of course you can. I actually cannot. I mean, I hadn't planned on it.

This is what went down... The Husband was going to spend Saturday morning over at Papa's house helping him move some things, so I went along to see Papa's Wife and visit my second favorite dog, Ruby (Ruby is looking very old lately and I'm a little worried...)

When we arrived I found a dining room table being prepared for a Raclette including the new Raclette doohicky Papa's Wife had bought for New Years Eve.

A bit surprised, I turned to Papa's Wife, "Are you having a Raclette?"

"Yes, isn't that why you are here?"

Cue confusion all around.

Papa's Wife was hosting a Raclette for lunch and Papa had forgotten to tell us.

Bad Papa.

Obviously it was fate that led me to the cheese.

Papa's Wife's sister and brother-in-law were joining us as well, making the total six which in my opinion is the perfect number for Raclette (although I have racletted with ten and that was OK and I've racletted with only me and The Husband and that was pretty good too so really any number is a good number).

And this time, unlike the New Years Eve time, the new Raclette doohicky actually worked. That thing was in overdrive, you couldn't get a plate under the melting cheese fast enough (for the record the Husband's plate was there the most, homeboy had eight potatoes covered in cheese... eight!).

Being in super-overdrive, the cheese caught on fire at one point. So it was like Raclette a la Flambé, which caused me to shout, "the cheese, the cheese, the cheese is on fire!" But I shouted this in English and everyone just stared at me.

Awkward.

I forgot my camera

Since it's still January, and France, and you're not allowed to get up from the table without dessert, there was a Gâteau des Rois, which I confess to normally not liking very much, I find them a bit dry and blah, but this one was à la chantilly, as in it had a thick, like two inches thick, layer of cream in the middle of it. I'm pretty sure that that two inches of chantilly has magically transferred from the cake to my thighs.

And my piece of cake had the little thingy inside (which is actually called, la fève),  I'm not too sure what it was, it looked like a smiling bear with his arm around a mole in a chef's hat (???). I wanted to take it home but Papa's Wife's sister took it home because supposedly a friend of hers collects the things.

I kinda think she might be the 'friend' but whatevers.

bisou

P.S. don't forget to enter my scrapbook software giveaway here 

impossibly glamorous

I'm feeling impossibly glamorous this morning. And before you get any ideas, it's certainly not because I'm swanning around my petite bungalow in a feather boa and kitten heels swilling Champagne for my breakfast (although that does paint quite a picture of glamour doesn't it?).

But how fun would that be? Very Cristal Carrington if you ask me and I'm thinking that is exactly how I should spend my birthday morning next week, à la Dynasty.

But first, back to today.

It's an impossibly glamorous morning because, Charles Ayres of the impossibly glamorous, Impossibly Glamorous, has interviewed me. You can read my interview here if you are so inclined. And if you are also so inclined, you should enter my giveaway to win some scrapbook software, perfect for capturing memories.

Even impossibly glamorous memories if you are so inclined.

bisou

giveaway: my memories scrapbook software

Here's something you probably would have never guessed about me... I used to be very into scrap booking. There I said it. But this was back in the days of Elmer's glue and scissors, before all this new fangled digital scrap booking came about. Sitting in my mother's garage in Texas, are scrapbook upon scrapbook from my teens and early twenties of photos and tickets stubs and wonderful memories of my misspent youth (The Husband will probably never see these any of these... two words... pink hair). Now that I'm here in France, an old married lady with my very own furbaby, it's time to start recording some new memories, but this time I'm stepping away from the glue and trying it digitally.

This is my (lame) attempt at digital scrap booking. In fairness, it was my very first time. I chose the baby girl memory layout because 1) Fifty is my child and 2) while he is not a girl, he really likes pink (but please don't tell him that I told you that, he would be sooooo embarrassed). But, even though mine is a C+ at best, I have a feeling that a lot of you reading this would definitely be gold star scrapbookers because hello... I've read your blogs, you pretty much have that whole, creative, artsy, etsy thing down, and My Memories wants one of you, to have your own scrapbook software for free. 

{all followers of this blog are eligible to enter... 

so if you're not a follower yet, 

go ahead and add your little head to that box up there on the right}

to enter:

1. visit my memories and let me know what your favorite digital paper pack or layout is

(that's it, just leave a comment letting me know and you're all set, 

but if you want more chances to win...)

1. follow me on twitter

2. tweet the giveaway adding @SaraLouLePetit to your tweet

3. like me on facebook 

4. like my memories on facebook

Be sure to leave a separate comment for each entry.

Contest closes midnight Thursday 2nd February my time

(that's 6pm US east coast time)

bisou

the gorgonzola incident

{gorgonzola}

true story.

I heart gorgonzola, I heart it hard (p.s I love Italian wine too... don't tell Le Villagers that). And last Friday, while doing some grocery shopping with The Husband, I came across a scrumptious hunk of gorgonzola. I picked it up, looked at The Husband and declared,"I have the most perfect recipe to use this in!" He smiled at me like he always does when I make these grand culinary announcements and we continued along.

On our way home, I chattered all about the pasta I would make with the scrumptious gorgonzola, the very simple, yet very delicious pasta... linguine, spinach, gorgonzola, olive oil, and lemon (see, it really is that simple). I was quite pleased with myself and The Husband smiled at me some more.

The next day, I busied myself making the pasta for lunch. So happy that it was quick and I wouldn't be working away forever and I could return to my very important pinning and the Gilmore Girls episode I had waiting for me (I have recently started watching Gilmore Girls from the beginning... I have no idea what made me do this but now I can't stop even though Lorelai Gilmore just might be the most annoying television character of all time).

Lunchtime rolled around and we sat down to eat. Me smiling because I was so very chuffed with myself and my scrumptious gorgonzola pasta, The Husband smiling because he was about to eat (it doesn't take much... it really doesn't). But then The Husband took a bite and he wasn't smiling anymore. He actually made a yuck face (the only other time I've ever seen The Husband make a yuck face was the pulled pork sandwich debacle of 2011).

"What's wrong?" I asked, "Don't you like it?"

"I don't like gorgonzola."

Seriously.

There are no words.

bisou

P.S. My buddy Aidan is giving away a French cookbook over on her blog. I think you should go check it out here, and enter too. French cookbooks are swish. 

crêpes & rugby

{I forgot my camera}

The last time I watched Clermont play Ulster, I was in Bono's Octagon Bar in Dublin, sipping on a Grey Goose martini, with an afternoons worth of shopping bags scattered at my feet.

Last night, I watched the two square off again, but instead of snacking on vodka soaked olives, I had a plate of homemade crêpes courtesy of Papa's Wife stacked in front of me, and a bottle of Médoc to wash them down with.

And for the record, I have no idea which setting I prefer more... my inner city girl is all over the martini soaked bar scene, but my cozy side loved watching it at Papa's house with a sleeping Ruby cuddled up next to me. It's a bit like Sophie's Choice really.

But one thing I'm knowing for sure at the moment...

{ASM & Julien sitting in a tree...}

My heart belongs to these two. And it's OK, The Husband totally understands. That there on the right is Julien Pierre. He's as tall as a tree and I kind of want to climb him. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

And another thing I always know...

{heaven}

Just how I like my crêpe... I'm a Nutella girl. While The Husband may smear one crêpe with confiture de fraise, and then another with miel (that's strawberry jam and honey), before finally succumbing to the sweet charms of Nutella (and by the way, The Husband had four while I was still finishing one... oink oink), I go straight for the Nutella every time. And sometimes I'll throw a large dollop of Crème Chantilly on there for good measure. In for a penny, in for a pound I say.

And what about you?

Any thoughts on crêpes or rugby players? 

Indulge me please.

bisou
 

St. Sara

{Van Gogh liked Gypsies too}

Let's talk about Gypsies. They're so in these days what with My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding on television and the movie Knuckle (think Brad Pitt in Snatch but not nearly as cute), and even I've talked about them some like this time, and this one, and here too what with The Husband being in with them and all (but it has been awhile since I've talked about The Gypsy hasn't it? That's because he's had a baby, and it's a girl, little baby girl gypsy, so that's why all has been quiet on The Gypsy front).

The thing is, I've always felt an affinity for Gypsies. Maybe it's because my father used to tell me that he found me as a baby on the doorstop after a band of Gypsies had left me there, or it could be because I share my name Sara with St. Sara,  the patron saint of the Gypsies (or maybe the Gypsies had already named me that and my dad just went with it... Mom, now is the time to come clean).

And isn't it a bit crazy that I've ended up in the South of France, the home of St. Sara? I think so too. The statue of St. Sara resides in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, and every year gypsies make a pilgrimage to it. I really want to go. That's it, I'm circling May 24th in my calendar so I can pilgrimage with my people.

And I'm going to let you in on a little secret... back at The Cousin's wedding (where there were Gypsies galore... they roll in packs you know), we were sitting in the church and The Husband pointed to a girl sitting in the row in front of us and told me that he almost married her.

HOLD UP. WHAT?

This is what went down...

It was about five years ago, and The Husband was staying with The Gypsy for a few days, they were having a drink when The Gypsy's father came up to The Husband and asked if they could talk. He took The Husband aside, told him that he was a good man, and would make a good husband, and to that effect, he knew of a nice young lady (gypsy lady) who needed one. The Husband thanked him for the offer of a bride but said no thank you. Luckily for me right.

So yeah, The Husband could have been the king of the gypsies.

And get this... because The Husband is super tight with them (obviously if they're throwing women at him), back when he moved to Dublin, he almost bought a caravan with them so he'd always have a place to stay back in France. Can you imagine?! I could have been Sara in Le Caravan instead of Sara in Le Petit Village.

Who would have thunk it? 

Not me.

Definitely not me.

bisou
 

let's pretend it's 2010

Alright kids, it's like this... I've got nothing. Seriously. Nothing going on here. I can neglect my blog, or we can travel back in time with an old post from the archives. So yeah, that's what we're going to do. We're going back two years... to a simpler time, a time when The Husband was The Boyfriend and Le Petit Village had been my home for only a few months.

Originally titled Should Have Bought the Dyson and posted on 27th January 2010
.....................................................................................................................

I wanted this...

{source}

I got this...

I begged for the Dyson but The Boyfriend wouldn't hear it;

"€3oo?! For a vacuum?"

"Yes, but it's worth it. They last forever and nothing cleans like a Dyson."

This is the conversation we had in July when I was visiting Le Petit Village before moving here. We were making a list of things that we needed to have when I arrived in September. It was a short list because I wanted us to buy most things together after I arrived (The Boyfriend needs to be supervised while shopping. He's been known to go rogue. One time he tried to buy a 3D Mohammad Ali poster for our living room). But there were somethings that couldn't wait, like a washer, dryer, and a vacuum.

The washer dryer, oh the washer dryer!

Our house does not have a place for both a washer and a dryer. If we had a back garden to hang the clothes out, I would be happy, drying the clothes and being kind to the environment at the same time. Fantastic! But we don't have a back garden. So as crappy as they can be sometimes, an all in one washer and dryer was required. I said this to The Boyfriend. Of course I got the normal male response,

"But they're so expensive".

Yes, they are about €150 more than a straight washer but what choice did we have? We need the washer dryer. I didn't want our house looking like an old Chinese Laundry with wet clothes drying over every radiator and chair.

He obviously didn't get the point and why would he? I'm the one that would be doing the laundry. And this is not a sexist Suzy Homemaker thing. I like doing the laundry. When I do the laundry I know that the clothes get washed and ironed, and then lovingly folded and put in their proper designated place in wardrobe, dresser, or closet.

The Boyfriend does not do laundry. Only when there is literally nothing else for him to wear and he can no longer locate a bed, chair or couch underneath dirty clothes. Then, he will find someone to do laundry for him.

Case in point - The Boyfriend was visiting me in Dublin. I met him at the airport and hugged him. At this point I noticed that his white shirt seemed a bit grey around the edges. The rest of the clothes he brought with him were also dirty. We had to go shopping for new clothes. Who packs dirty clothes? Now you know the answer.

A month before I moved here, The Boyfriend phoned me very pleased with himself,

"I got a washing machine."

"Oh, that's great" I was thrilled to be able to cross something off the list.

And then he said,"But where are you going to dry the clothes?"

Sometimes The Boyfriend's memory is not the best... rugby damage.

Huge sigh from my end. And then a few deep breaths. And then I used my colorful vocabulary reserved for special occasions.

So now when I do laundry, I have to hoof it to Boyfriend's Brother's house and hang the clothes on his line. This is a pain in my petunia.

And as far as the vacuum goes, needless to say I didn't get the Dyson. I arrived in September to a little red vacuum bought on sale for €40. And I got about €40 worth of cleaning out of it. It died this morning, only four months old, making the most pitiful sound on it's way out. I think I'm going to throw a party. Me, the little red vacuum, and a baseball bat. I have some emotions I would like to share with the little red vacuum.

As soon as The Boyfriend arrives home tonight as much as I try to hide it, I'm sure my face will be plastered with it's I told you so smirk.

Sidebar - I swear, I am not as high maintenance as I seem. I'm just a little anal, a tad controlling, with a healthy dash of OCD.

It's a soft and cuddly mix.

bisou

P.S. I did finally get my Dyson, and I named him Buddy. And of course I blogged about it. You can
read all about Buddy here

P.P.S Please check out my friend Barbara's blog post about Frederic and Mark's plight to stay together as a family in the US (and do me a solid and spread the word and/ or write a letter) 

the what what

{we're talking no cohesion whatsoever on this one... it's like anarchy}

+ Did you know that The Husband and I have been boycotting Le Petit Bar? Probably not, since I hadn't told you, but we are. It basically comes down to this... I'm tired of being treated badly and paying for it, it's that simple (I'm getting ornery in my old age). So we haven't been there since Halloween night (of course it's not that difficult to boycott something that's only open half the time... it was closed for three weeks over the holidays by the way... that was clever).

+ Honey Jr wants to do another fondue tonight. I'm thinking it might be time for an intervention (or would that be a cheeservention???). I know that there's not much that goes on here, especially in winter, but surely we have to come up with something to do that doesn't involve cheese (and I can't believe I said that... hold on a second yes, yes, a pig just flew by my window).

+ We watched Crazy Stupid Love the other night and The Husband pointed to Ryan Gosling and said that was how he wanted his hair... AWESOME... let me tell you something ladies, if your husband ever points to Ryan Gosling and says that he wants the same fill in the blank... you must encourage this at all costs.

{thank you Lord}

+ Confession... I kinda can't stop pinning. It's a pin pin pin world and I can't help myself. If you want to pin with me, feel free to do so here. I like the company. 

+ Last night I actually got my Friday night pizza... although not from the pizza van (of course not, turns out he's not coming back to Le Petit Village until Spring... thanks for ruining Friday nights pizza man), we had to drive to another village to pick it up, but it was Tartiflette, and delicious, and worth it (for those of you who don't know what Tartiflette pizza is... mozzarella, potatoes, lardons, Reblochon cheese, and crème fraîche).

+ Tonight I'm making steak haché oeuf à cheval, or en anglais, eggs on horseback. I'm not too sure why I decided to share this information with you, but there you go.

{which came first, the hamburger or the egg?}

+ The winter sales have started in France... go ahead and shout like Oprah...
L E S  S O L D E S ! I've already gotten The Husband two new pairs of shoes... now what to get me... 

I'm taking suggestions kids, 

what do you think?

bisou
 

Honey Jr saves the day

{fiddling with the thingy}

Last week the Mistral battered Provence something fierce. It always blows hard, but this was a different kettle of fish altogether... this mistral blew off roof tiles, howled down my chimney, and left a trembling Fifty in it's wake.

But the worst thing it did... it messed up the satellite thingy. The satellite thingy that gives me CNN and BBC. Not cool mistral.

There was only one way to fix it, someone would have to get up on the roof and fiddle with it. And that someone would have to be lil' Honey Jr because do we really want 100+ kg of The Husband clomping around on the roof? No, we don't (and it's not like Honey Jr had a choice, The Husband basically chucked him up there). But you know what? Lil' Honey Jr got the thingy fixed. I'm watching BBC world news as I type (it's so boring this morning... eurocrisis... blah blah blah... snore... I'm typing and sleeping, typing and sleeping).

But besides saving the satellite thingy, Honey Jr saved me and Fifty too...

A couple of weeks ago I was headed out for a morning jog (French women may not get fat but women who move here do, so jog I must). I decided to treat myself to a Fifty free jog so I kissed him goodbye and locked up. That's when I realized I didn't have a pocket for my key... where to put it, where to put it... oh, I'll put it on the tire of the car. Great idea... until I turned away and heard a clankety clank clank noise (clankety clank noises are rarely good).

There was a growing pit in my stomach as I approached the car. I reached for the key on the tire and felt nothing but rubber. And then I screamed my favorite French word.

I got down on the ground and felt all around... no key. I got under the car and felt all around... no key. I reach my hand into parts of the car under the car... no key. And again, I screamed my favorite French word while Fifty looked at me from the window.

I called The Husband. Now I wasn't entirely sure how he would be able to help since he was nowhere near Le Petit Village, but it's just something you do, isn't? You call someone to make you feel better about your stupidity. But do you think he made me feel better? No he didn't. He panicked, got flustered, and yelled my favorite French word (The Husband is so not good in a crisis).

And Fifty continued to stare from the window.

There was one thing left to do... get Honey Jr.

I knocked on his door and told him of my stupidity. He slipped his espadrilles on, strolled over to the car as cool as cool could be, handed me the apple he had been munching on, slid under the car, felt around for a second (seriously, like a second!), said, "voila" and handed me the keys.

And then I said my favorite French word again, 

because I felt like an idiot.
 

yep, that's about it

The weekend pretty much went down like this:

Friday night I wanted pizza... and to any of you who read me way back when, you're probably saying to yourself; no silly, pizza night in Le Petit Village is Tuesday night, everyone knows that. But what I haven't told you, is our old pizza man gave up the pizza business to work in construction and we got a new pizza man, and he comes to Le Petit Village Friday nights, a much more pizza friendly night if you ask me.

(And if you want to know how the old pizza guy is getting on in construciton, the answer is not well... he was using some sort of machine and somehow lost control of the thing and ended up slashing his face. Like bad. Like he's lucky to have eyes and a face, and well even a head left for that matter. But what he does have now is one crazy scar running diagonally across his face. Guess he should have stuck with the pizza)

So on Friday while I was pondering what to make for dinner, The Husband suggested we have a movie night, so pizza just seemed like the obvious choice, right? But lo and behold... no freaking pizza van. Because this is France and why would there possibly be something there that's supposed to be there... no no no, that would be too conveniant.

F R U S T R A T I O N

And because we clearly don't eat enough cheese here, Saturday night was a Fondue at The Croupier's house; both plain and mushroom. Variety is the spice of life you know.

On Sunday I desperately wanted a lazy, cozy, potter about the house kind of day (my favorite type if you want to know), but alas it wasn't in the cards. As I chopped bok choy for the Singapore Chicken Fried Rice lunch I was making, The Husband was on the phone with Papa's Wife. She was practically begging us to come over for lunch. You see, it's been hunting season for the last few months here which means that Papa had pretty much been MIA leaving one, very lonely, Papa's Wife. So the bok choy over here was put aside for asparagus risotto over there. It was pretty tasty though, and bonus... I managed to stuff myself with leftover Christmas sweets... Ferrero Rochers and Mon Chéris (I probably shouldn't refer to this as a bonus).

But since I was still all about being lazy and cozy, I put my jammies on for Sunday night at The Honey House where we were watching Clermont vs. Toulon rugby (they were nice jammies by the way). While The Husband and me are Clermont fans, pretty much everyone down here supports Toulon, but Clermont won anyway which meant that I got to gloat and do victory dances galore.

And let me tell you something, 

gloating victory dances in jammies, 

are ever so much sweeter.

bisou
  

the raclette that almost wasn't

{La Petite and her Tonton}

Now I realize that the holidays have passed what with the Epiphany having gone and occurred and all, but I'm not about to let you get away with not hearing about my New Year's Eve (although it wasn't too exciting, so no need to hold on to your hats or anything).

And surprise... we celebrated with cheese!

(of course we did)

Papa's Wife was hosting a Raclette for the evening, but to make it extra special, she bought a proper Raclette machine (which I would love to call a doohickey, because it looked far more doohickey-like than machine-like, so doohickey it is), one where you actually scraped the melted bits off the cheese  instead of grilling slices (raclette does mean scape you know... sort of). And what with the large wheel of Saint-Nectaire The Husband and I brought back from Auvergne, we were good to go (or so we thought).

It should be noted that while Saint-Nectaire is good in it's natural, semi-soft state, melted, it's a whole other ball game of deliciousness all together. I urge you to get yourself some Saint-Nectaire, and melt it immediately. Go now. I'll be here when you get back.

{doohickey}

Now back to that Raclette doohickey... it wasn't really working properly (because doohickeys rarely do). It was taking a bit too long to melt and then when there was finally enough melted to scrape off, one person would only get a teensy bit on their plate while nine other people looked on hungrily. We were pretty much entering a full on, five alarm, cheese emergency.

But luckily, The Husband came to the rescue (you didn't honestly think ol' Food Whore would sit back and patiently wait for a tiny dollop of melted cheese did you?). He pulled out the ordinary Raclette grill, plopped it on the table next to the doohickey, plugged it in, and got it going, proper like.

The Raclette doohickey was a wonderful idea though, and Papa's Wife gets a gold star for trying to make an ordinary Raclette evening more special, but what wasn't a wonderful idea however, was the playing of the dvd that she had made of the history of Brother-in-Law and Child Bride's relationship and the birth of La Petite, while we ate. It was very sweet that she made it, but very long, so very long. And did the rest of us really need to sit there and watch it? Did we? I don't think so.
(FYI... the dvd began when the two first got together... it was Brother-in-Law's 23rd birthday BBQ and Child Bride was 15½... I love how she mentioned the ½... like that made it OK).

But because The Husband and me were tuckered out from a  L O N G  week in Auvergne (and possibly that  L O N G  tribute to Brother-in-Law), we called it a night early and headed home to ring in the New Year with Fifty.

And I would love to tell you all about kisses and cuddles at midnight, and toasts with Champagne,

but I can't, because I fell asleep.

bisou

so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu

(not to you and you and you... but to 2011)

Because January is always the dullest of the dull (apologies to you Capricorns and early Aquarians) without much going on (except for this interview featuring me!) I'm taking a look back at what I got up to last year...

{pinky & blue}

January began in Dublin where thanks to my mother, I learned a great new word... aye a fuckenmuckennucken, before returning to a dull Le Petit Village. It was a gloomy enough month, but then I was shattered to find that almost all my china and Waterford crystal I had shipped over from Dublin had broken. But meeting two new friends, Pinky & Blue, helped to put a smile back on my face. When I wasn't making friends with rubber duckies I was hanging out with Gypsies and discovering how very weird The Husband actually is (i.e.; not knowing who Oprah is and never ever having eaten a PB&J... told you...weird).

{shotgun wedding}

Still in full on winter boredom in February, we popped some chaussettes on Fifty in an attempt to entertain ourselves. That fun lasted all of a minute. Then it was my birthday and another round at turning 29. The Husband practiced his English with some wacky language lessons. But really, these were all things to occupy our time until the real wedding of the century (Will and Kate who?),  Le Petit Village's very own Shotgun Wedding.

{teaching a young dog new tricks}

In March I tried to replace Galliano with my Project Runway skills but never heard back from Dior (shocking, right?). So instead of heading to Paris I went to Aix-en-Provence for the first blogapalooza. Then The Husband and I hit the road again to Lyon to celebrate our first year wedding anniversary, but then my father passed away and Lyon seemed like a dream that never happened. But I did learn about how much blog love is out there. Thanks guys.

{feels like a lifetime ago}

April was a strange month for me. I was here, but I wasn't really here, if you get my drift. But eventually I came back around and was finally able to tell you all about my trip to Lyon and what I'd been up to (it wasn't much). We went to Le Petit Village's first BBQ of the year, which also happened to be the strangest one I had ever been to, and for the very first time, I heard The Husband utter my favorite word... numbnuts.

{la Fête du Fromage}

May kicked off with warm weather, sunshine, and a sunnier me thanks in part to the Royal Wedding (and maybe I did watch it while sipping tea and wearing a gown while Fifty walked around with a crown on his head) and the possibility that Fifty may or may not be a super secret canine assassin. When not being totally delusional, I was hanging out with my fellow Real Housewife of the South of France and making ouefs en cocotte in a poshy posh accent. Brother-in-Law dabbled in archaeology while he played in the medieval graveyard and we all overcheesed a bit at la Fête du Fromage.

{The Husband's birthday: Episode 2}

June was a doozy... Brother-in-Law brought some kidneys and a heart to a BBQ (whatever happened to bringing some wine, or a six-pack) and we saw the spot where some monk killed himself hundreds of years ago when Becs visited Le Petit Village. The Parisian celebrated one year being the worst bartender of all time and we all celebrated The Husband's birthday extravaganza with such an action packed weekend I had to post about it more than once like here, here, here, and here.

{the long weekend}

July in France means one thing (well it means one thing to me anyway) LES   SOLDES! So that meant a trip to Aix-en-Provence to see what the what was in Zara... and the what what was good. I did manage to stay out of the shops long enough for a BBQ at Honey Jr's where he showed off his new girlfriend, Honey's Honey. And then in an attempt to cheer up Fifty from his spiraling depression and jealousy, we headed up to French Mommy's for a long weekend so he could be spoiled with extra cuddles.

{when I should have been at home}

In August it felt like we were here, there, and everywhere... first with a day in Avignon, and to Montpellier for a date with Aidan, and a weekend with my Texas family here in France, and then back to Avignon for a night out with the ladies. And it seemed like the whole world invaded Le Petit Village for a brocante, our first ever Brazil Day, and of course, the annual fête.

{a day at the ranch}

In the beginning of September, The Husband and I were still in Texas for the hottest summer in decades. We did our best to stay cool and take our minds off the heat with multiple trips to the Walmart,  being tourists, hanging out at the ranch, and some down home Texas goodness. And when we got back to Le Petit Village, we found out that our local hunters were hunting burglars (thanks in part to me deputizing Papa with a $5 Texas Ranger badge that I had bought him). 

{happy accidents}

October was a bittersweet month... my boyfriend Morgan Parra got kneed in the face by that porcupined haired Richie McCaw (and I know them are fighting words but you pick on my Morgan, I pick on you) when it all went Pete Tong, but we did have a few happy accidents and a glitzy trip to Cannes and Monaco.

{autumn swatting}

Since there was a zoo outside my house in November, we escaped to Dublin for some pints, pints, and more pints and when we came back, we celebrated a Franco-Texan Thanksgiving in Montpellier.

{traffic}

And in December we got stuck in traffic for the very first time in Le Petit Village, on our way to Avignon to say goodbye to a friend. And Le Petit Village failed at les fête des lumières. And that was that.

There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall

And the bells in the steeple too

And up in the nursery an absurd little bird

Is popping out to say "cuckoo"

Cuckoo, cuckoo 2011!

bisou

Vicky

This is what The Husband said last night; "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Vicky died."

This is what I said;  "WHAT?!" and "How could you forget to tell me? When, and how?" Followed by; "I need to be alone now."

HOW COULD HE FORGET TO TELL ME?!

So I sat in my living room alone, huffed and puffed a bit, and then cried.

Apparently, Vicky got very ill sometime after Christmas and passed away. And even though she's a dog, and not even my dog, I'm very sad, more sad than one should probably be about a dog that never belonged to her.

But you see, when I first came to Le Petit Village on holiday, before moving here, and before Fifty was even a thought in my head or even born for that matter, I met Vicky. She belonged to Child Bride's parents and roamed the village freely, greeting tourists and villagers alike, always looking for a pat on the head, or a treat.

Of course I bonded with her immediately. I like dogs anyway, but we really bonded because Vicky didn't judge me for not speaking French, or roll her eyes at my pronunciation, and she never laughed at my funny accent. So I found myself making friends with Vicky, petting, cooing, and avoiding eye contact with the people conversing around me. And when I moved here and brought home a three month old Fifty, she mothered him with me. She came for walks with him and nudged him along.

I'll miss her smush mush boxer face. I'll miss how excited she'd be to see me and how she'd invite herself into the house (sometimes even opening the door herself), and watching her play with Fifty (even when they would cheat at rugby)

And I'm really going to miss all the stalking (like this time, and this one too) because she was the sweetest stalker there ever was. 

RIP Vicky

you were a good dog

bisou

Noël

I've learned something this past Christmas... you can throw around tinsel, hang stockings (which I personally monogrammed, thank you very much) pull Christmas Crackers and watch Elf until the cows come home (in French by the way which is not nearly as funny), but if people don't have Christmas spirit, they don't have it, so there you go. B L A H.

But French Nana did love her Christmas stocking. Loved it. I actually think she preferred it to the Adrienne Vittadini shawl I gave her (note to self: next year ditch the designer knit wear and stick to Penney's Christmas decor for French Nana).

Did you know that I can play bilingual Scrabble? Well I can, and win. And win at Trivial Pursuit en français too. Clearly I am the smartest person in the world.

Moving on.

Fifty had a great holiday, even though I took every opportunity I could to humiliate him like so...

When he wasn't being humiliated in an elf hat (but really, doesn't he look like he liked it a little? You can't be that adorable and be miserable, you just can't) he was being fed pretty much the exact same things I was... fois gras, escargot, smoked salmon, turkey, and potato dauphinoise. And it was all washed down with this bottle of Bordeaux as old as me...

But none for Fifty, he's not old enough yet.

bisou