I just cannot even stand it.

Look who I got to hang out with all weekend! Five days of bliss, people. Pure bliss. She's 16 months old, and in her smiley/I love you phase...unless you wake her up from a nap in which case she, like me, becomes a vicious dragon lady.

Password = cutie pants
(in order to protect the little miss from complete randos of course).

Cutest baby on the planet, people. from satellitewalls on Vimeo.

Francegiving 2010: The Turkey's Revenge

Last week I asked my students if they knew what was happening in America this Thursday. Blank stares. It's a big holiday, I hinted. Nothing. It's a big holiday that happens in America but not France, I said. Eyes glazed over. "It's Thanksgiving!" I stage-whispered. A light bulb went on over some students' heads, who turned to explain it to their still-confused comrades. "C'est Noel pour les américaines," they said. "Tout le monde reçoit des cadeaux." (It's Christmas for Americans. Everyone gets presents.) Where they are getting this idea, I do not know.

My favorite muggle Missy and I decided it was high time to show the Frenchies what Thanksgiving was really about. We planned a grand feast, and invited all our Burgundian BFFs: Suzanne and Christian; Baptiste, Bonus Jonas, and their parents; and Thomas, an English teacher at Missy's school.

Decorating tools at our disposal: seven sheets of construction paper, one black gel ink pen, and a pair of children's left-handed scissors. All things considered, I think the turkey turned out pretty well, despite his unfortunate feet and lack of gobble.

Missy arrived on Saturday so we could start plotting the next day's feast. After getting the necessary preparations out of the way (a viewing of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, natch), we set out in the drizzle for LeClerc, a supermarket 30 minutes away, on foot. We spent more than an hour finding and considering the most succulent ingredients known to Digoin. Whole turkeys wouldn't be available until December for Christmas, so we had to make do with turkey legs. It was just as well, really, since the size of my oven is better suited for elves than human beings.

By the time we had finished amassing all our other ingredients (50 kilos' worth, give or take a few grams), it had begun to rain in earnest, and the prospect of lugging all our loot back to the lycée was thoroughly unappetizing. We resorted to accosting patrons leaving the building, pleading with them to take pity on our feeble selves and ferry us home. One kindly gentleman at last relented. I've said it before and I'll say it again: God bless Diggy and all her lovely, non-serial killer, ride-giving inhabitants.

Our table may have had mismatching plates and a rather ridiculous clementine pyramid as centerpiece, but at least it had what was really important: wine.

We got up early yesterday to gather a few remaining items (such as scissors and construction paper for decorations), and then set to work cooking. We had to get a bit creative, as my kitchen here isn't home to the luxurious gadgets I'm used to in the States. In lieu of a masher, we overboiled the potatoes and used a pair of forks to get our mashed potatoes nice and creamy. Since we didn't possess a roasting pan or even a baking dish, we had to divide our turkey legs among three metal pans and constantly rotate them through the two oven racks to ensure even cooking. We didn't have tongs to flip the turkey, so we made do with half a plastic salad tosser and a slotted spoon-type instrument. We didn't have a beautiful cornucopia for a centerpiece, so we made a tower of clementines.

Our guests started to arrive at the all-American dinner time of 6 p.m., and since I don't have a sitting room they were forced to congregate awkwardly in my entrance hall as Missy and I made the finishing touches. They brought me not one, not two, but three bottles of champagne, some homemade crème de cassis, a bottle of Burgundy, and luscious chocolates. Nom.

This little elf oven is where all the magic happened.

With the call of "A table!" we ushered our friends into the dining room, and urged them to serve themselves, American-style. There wasn't a whole lot of room on the tiny plates for anything but the massive turkey leg, meaning we had quite a bit of leftovers. Over the delicious pear cake that Thomas brought, we went around the room and said what we were thankful for. My French was at a dastardly level all evening due to my nerves (mainly fear that the turkey was undercooked and I was going to kill everyone with salmonella), and I was feeling a bit emotional after the Burgundy and the champagne, but I managed to make it through my thanks for my family, friends, the health of the same, having such wonderful faces around my table, and the opportunity to be in La Belle France. A bit more heartfelt than last year's thanks for indoor plumbing and the fact that I'm a vertebrate.

Suzanne was thankful for Facebook, which had brought us together. Bonus Jonas was thankful for his intelligence. Baptiste was shy and said his thanks in English so half the table wouldn't understand: "I am thankful to be feasting my first Thanksgiving, and I hope to feast Thanksgiving next year in the United States." 

Missy et moi, Francegiving hôtesses extraordinaires

And with that, Father Thanksgiving swooped through the water heater and showered us all with maize and French's onion topping.

PS: My Thanksgiving care package from the 'rents was held up at customs and thus is arriving today, a wee bit late for my feast. If anyone has any ideas of what, besides sauce, I can make with a gigantic bag of cranberries I'm all ears.

What I did on my Toussaint vacation

I had worked a full two days by myself, so clearly it was time for a vacation. Thankfully Mother France provided. Last week I got back from my week-long sojourn around the Southwest of France during our All Saints' vacation. Since getting back to work last Wednesday, I worked six whole days. Whew! Too much! Time for a break! Good thing tomorrow is Armistice Day and I can spend its entirety in bed if I so choose. I would remind you that even my full work weeks are only 12 hours long, but that would be cruel.

So how did I occupy myself whilst heffalumping and woozling around this great country, you ask? It's all documented on Francey Pants, with synopses of each post below:

I got sick and was very cold in Arles, but my travel buddy Kelly managed to find a very interesting advertisement from 1916 featuring colon cleansing WWI soldiers that helped me laugh all the misery away. I discovered speculoos, but wasn't able to taste it due to my cold. This led to a frantic search for the gingersnap paste once I regained my health.

On Tuesday I discovered just how many places there are to go in Arles, and had one of the best meals of my life with bull stew and foie gras salad. I got pummeled in Scrabble on the way to Dijon, where Kelly and I witnessed one of the most magical happenings of all time.

Day three brought my mandatory medical visit so the French government could be sure I wasn't a dirty American with lots of germs and TB. I got really attractive ID photos for my appointment, and tried to give my height in kilometers. That night we arrived in Grenoble, where hosts extraordinaire Gus and Line were waiting with a delicious meal. 

The next day in Grenoble had me jumping for joy, for the weather was amazing and the views magnifique. I found some of my robo-brethren at the Musée Dauphinois. I ran into some terrible frustrations attempting to get the ingredients for a bountiful feast for Gus and Line to thank them for being so cool, but all was well in the end.

Days five and six weren't quite as fun, with Lyon being a big ol jerk to us in nice restaurants, fast food joints, and movie theaters. Twas time to go home.

Ireland: Land of wind and cows.

I spent the last week with two high school friends in Ireland. We started in Dublin, then headed south to Kinsale, then west to Limerick. It was beautiful. Here are pics.