Jar By Jar

The countdown is on!  Only two weeks until we leave our Dijon house.

Trevor has promised me that yesterday's once-again aggravating family trip to the grocery store by bus will be our last of that scale, and I, in turn, have promised to make do with whatever we have in the house when preparing meals.

Thus it is that today, along with a can of lentils, I personally finished our very first jar of mustard that we bought when we arrived.  It was Honey Dijon.  It's gone now...sniff.  I took a picture of it to mark the occasion.

These three were next: the salad dressing went bad even though it was in the fridge (no preservatives), so I had to dip the pickles in fig jam instead.

Cute little jars, eh?  This one went bad, too.  It was my favourite.  I was sad, again.

This stuff is good for everything: add a little to your boxed soup; pour it over spaghetti; cook your beef rounds in it.  And of course, it is really tasty when applied to actual ratatouille.  Trevor became quite good at that in our four months here.  :-)

Our lone hydrogenated vegetable oil product in all the time we have been here.  We have only found the all-natural just-peanuts style one time.  Too bad we didn't buy a dozen jars when we had the chance, because Skippy (albeit a welcome taste of home) is pretty disgusting.

More gourmet mustard to use on our.......

...frozen chicken nuggies!



This traditional desert is really good.  When someone else bakes it.

Check this post regularly to see which jar will be the next to go on our COUNTDOWN....TO....CANADA!!!!!!!

Finally, My Cake

I did it! I did it!  I did it!  Yeah, lo hicimos!  [that's Spanish for We did it!, but really it was just me, although I guess Trevor helped a little by suggesting I could use what we already had in the fridge, which I could, and did, and it worked].

So...did I go over the troll bridge and through the dancing forest to get to Chinchilla Mountain?  No! 

Did I rescue the red ring, teach the giant rocks to sing and turn winter into spring??  No!

While the above Dora adventures are indeed cause for celebration, what I accomplished was much more challenging: I actually baked a cake in France.

Cake mixes here are not like they are in the rest of the world.  There's no such thing as "add an egg and a cup of water and bake for 25 minutes," oh no siree!  They require lots of whipping, beatering, many eggs and this thing called CREAM. 

In a country that produces over 1000 different kinds of cheese, where housewives learn to make their own butter even if they don't live on a farm, and where people cram themselves into tiny, stacked houses in walled cities in order to leave rolling countryside free for grazing cows, it's no surprise that there are MANY different kinds of cream to choose from when baking a cake.  One must choose the correct consistency, keep it at the proper temperature and measure it in centilitres.  Yes...cl!

My first attempt flopped.  It was for Annabeth's birthday and it came out several centimetres lower  than the picture on the box.  (Now there's a good use for the prefix centi-).

Anyway, my cake was even more compact than the one Trevor had made for Annabeth the week prior.  His was about as high as a double-stacked box of chocolates.   Mine was more like a Frisbee.  His was at least somewhat edible, with its icing-from-a-bag.  Mine was the disgrace of our entire family for generations to come, according to our landlady.

But yesterday, in honour of a family tradition called Grandparents Day where we celebrate the birthdays of all our Grandmas and Grandpas and Nonas and Nonos all on the same day every November, I tackled that darn French cake mix, I beat the hell out of the right style, shape and colour of 20 cl of light cream, I added three eggs, I divided the batter into thirds and mixed cocoa into some of it until it was "sombre," I re-combined the thirds with appropriate swirling action and the addition of a spoonful of icing sugar from a tiny packet -- the only icing sugar I have ever seen in this country -- and set the still-mysterious convection oven knobs to 150C.  Forty-five minutes later....voila!

Actually, not quite voila.  The cake rose up like a pointy dome; gravity is not strong enough to pull French cake batter into an even consistency throughout the cake pan.  It was so high that the top started to burn around 35 minutes, and I had to take it out early. Then it dropped to about half its height. 

But still!  It turned out fluffy and light and tasty and I am very proud.

Good height

Just the tiniest dusting of icing sugar -- wouldn't want to spoil things by tasting too MUCH icing sugar

Appropriate swirl

One of the more than 1000 cheese produced in this country

 

Delicious cookies made of real ingredients, like CREAM...

Sandy gets a haircut, and they add CREAM conditioner

Prince Harry is soooo dreamy!  I mean CREAMY!

First frozen-milkfall.  Shawn and Annabeth build the Eiffel Tower with cheese.


THIS JUST IN: Need to make a gingerbread house before Don and Diannne arrive tomorrow.  Gingerbread kit from store has no icing.  Gives instructions how to make your own: "Get an adult's help to whip an egg white until it is stiff.  Then add icing sugar little by little, still whipping, with some cream, fresh from a cow, or some goat cheese.  Why not churn your own butter while you're at it.  What the-hell ever!  It's France." 

LA CORRIDA!

Because Sir Paul did not show up in Liverpool as (I had) planned on the day of my personal tour of historic Beatle-sites, our trip to the coliseum in Nimes in the south of France ranks as one of the most mind-blowing travel experiences I have ever had.

It began with a very long trip.

It is not supposed to be a very long trip from Soubes, where we were staying, to Nimes, the site of the best-kept Roman coliseum in all the world (Rome included), but there were some glitches along the way.

For example, our new friend, TomTom, pointed us in the wrong direction in order to avoid toll routes.  There is no way to avoid toll routes in France.  We ended up further south and had to spend even longer driving on the main highway, thus incurring an even greater fare. 

Also, there were bathrooms to try to find, then CLEAN bathrooms to try to find, then diapers to be changed in the backseat of the rental car because of the lack of clean bathrooms, and then more diapers to be changed five minutes later because Annabeth was so happy to finally have her wet diaper changed.

Once the kids fell asleep in the back, Trevor and I sought out a rest stop for coffee, as we’d been driving for a few (extra) hours.  We picked a large rest stop that advertised a bank machine on its signage, and I headed inside the store to check out the cappuccinos.

This is where I encountered the Russians.  I knew they were Russian because of their Made-in-China sweatshirts that said “Russia” – think about that one for a moment – and because they were REALLY BIG.  Also, they spoke Russian.  There were about six of them sitting around on a picnic table in front of the entrance to the store, being loud and looking big, sipping lattes from tiny cups (??) and generally eyeing up everyone who passed by.

I had on my Roots Canada hoodie, with the word “Canada” printed clearly on the front, in Canadian.  Their cryptic discussion grew louder as I approached.   I was scared, but I couldn’t resist:  “Ah ha ha!!!” I joined in jovially.  “St. Petersburg!...Stalin!...Nineteen seventy-two!”

At that, all sound stopped.  I winked, continued my little daydream in my head, and walked in to find there was no bank machine.

There was a sandwich-toasting machine and four coffee machines, but they were all cash-only, and we had no cash, and no sandwiches.  Alas, there were also no lids for the miniscule paper beverage cups, since the French don’t do ‘to go’, which is why everyone, including the Russians, truly were sitting around sipping lattes in the picnic shelter.

I was peeved that I couldn’t get any cash, so I used my card to buy a bag of Twix bars and some cheap candy in defiance of the French culture.  I tried to avoid Russian Girlfriend’s stares at the mirror in the ladies room, then left. 

Every rest stop thereafter also did not have cash machines.  And then we hit the pay stations for the toll road.

We handed Toll Booth Lady our MasterCard.  It didn’t work.  We handed her our Visa.  It didn’t work.  We tried the Loretta-only Mastercard; still nothing.  It wasn’t that our cards were denied, it was that their machines, contrary to everything everyone had told us, just didn’t accept foreign cards.

Ultimately, we brought out every secret, special, use-only-in-emergencies piece of plastic we could find, and none of them were admissible.  We explained how we couldn’t find a bank machine anywhere, even in places that advertised one.  Thankfully, Toll Booth Lady had some sound advice.  I’ll translate:

LADY: There’s a Totale gas station about 30 km north of here.  There is a bank machine there.

US: Thank you.

LADY: You can’t miss it.  It’s just 30km up the road.  Totale.

US: Great.

LADY: Do you understand?

US: Absolutely!  Totale gas station up the road, 30km, with a bank machine.  Thank you.  We’ll look for it.

LADY: I’m going to need some money now.

US: We don’t have any cash.

LADY: Those [eight] cards are all you have?  No cash?

US: No, that’s why we need a bank machine!

In the end she took our address and said she would mail us the bill for the fare.

Then it was on to Nimes!  And I hope you will continue to read this post, because it will be worth your effort, as it was ours in getting there.

Once in the city of Nimes, TomTom lead us down every one-way/no-way/all-way with cars parked in every direction street he/it could find.  We got the last parking spot in the whole town, began our walk to the coliseum, then turned the corner from our narrow street and BOOM!  There it was in front of us, materializing out of nowhere like so many historic European monuments do when the high stone houses block out your peripheral vision.

It was stunning, and almost completely intact.  There was a wonderful street fair going on, with vendors and food and souvenirs of the coliseum.  We didn’t stop to look; we wanted to see the coliseum before it closed.

It cost more than 40Euros just for the two adults.  “This better be impressive,” Trevor said after paying.  That was indeed quite expensive.

As soon as we entered, we were awestruck.  It was so big and so high; the stairs were so steep, and it just went round and round forever – a running little kid’s paradise. 

We were most amazed to find the coliseum filled with people, and we could feel the excitement in the air as though it were two thousand years ago at the heyday of this structure.  We approached an usher.  I had a brief conversation with him.  I’ll translate:

ME: Good evening, sir.  What’s going on here tonight?

USHER (Shooting a look to his colleague and pointing to some words on my ticket): La Corrida!

ME: Yes, I see that.  Is that an orchestra?

USHER (laughing with colleague): Madame, it is the bullfight….

LADY STANDING NEARBY WHO JUMPS IN ON THE CONVERSATION and provides a big long explanation: …to the death!

I was shocked, speechless.  I considered just exactly whose death might be taking place.  I told Trevor and STANDING LADY gave us the advice to “find a seat high up in the stands so that it will not be so emotional for your little boy.”  She suggested that Annabeth would not even know what was going on if we could climb high enough.  Then the usher checked our tickets and informed us that luckily we’d only paid for the cheap seats, and we’d have to hightail it to the very top anyway, as the show would begin in 15 minutes.

We decided to stay.  We hightailed it.  We climbed, and we climbed.  And we had a little talk with Shawn.   And if you ask him now about any of his favourite adventures on our trip thus far, chances are he’ll tuck his head down and charge right into your stomach.

VISIT TREVOR'S BLOG  FOR PHOTOS OF LA CORRIDA, SOUBES AND OUR WHOLE TRIP TO THE SOUTH OF FRANCE.  THEY ARE POSTED IN THE MONTH OF OCTOBER.

Incidentally, I have since read that the south of France is one of three places in the world that still allows such bullfighting.  Imagine all that had to take place in order for us to stumble upon it!

Breaking the Rules, Canadian-Style

This past weekend we went to Disneyland Paris.  We stayed at the Explorers Hotel, a partner hotel of Disneyland, but not an actual on-site hotel.  We encountered many French people, a very nice family from Scotland, and heard Spanish spoken frequently.  With the exception of seeing one man wearing a stars-and-stripes polo shirt during brunch on Sunday, we did not note anyone from North America.

We enjoyed the place, found it clean, etc.  In the pool there was a super fun-looking Aquaplay area plunked right into the shallow end, in the shape of a pirate ship.  It included water canons and squirt guns and a slide all its own, and up in the crow's nest of the ship sat a giant, bowl-shaped pirate's head that filled with water.  Every two minutes the water would tip and crash down upon the Aquaplay area.

A sign warned us that ages 0-6 were not allowed in Aquaplay.  There were two other waterslides in the deep (4ft.) end, but those were also restricted to kids over the age of 6.  Thus, for our kids, that left only the deep end as a place to play, with no pool noodles or rubber toys or anything.

I asked the man supervising entry to the pool about the logic of that, and when I didn't like the answer, I then asked the front desk for further clarification.  Could we, for example, be responsible for our own kids and take them personally into the Aquaplay area to have some fun?

Big discussions ensued; I won't bore you.  In the end, it was deemed to be our choice, but I was encouraged by staff to follow the rules for everyone's safety.  I returned to Trevor with the news, at which point he pointed out to me all the young kids running through the Aquaplay area unsupervised, all the boys climbing up the waterslide and log-jamming other kids as they tried to come down, and the many kids being encouraged by their parents to practice diving in the shallow end. 

This bothered me.  "The only difference between us and them," I concluded to Trevor, "is that Canadians ask if they can break the rules."

For some pictures of our fun weekend, please link to Trevor's site at odettembainfrance@blogspot.fr 

A Sunday in the Park

Yesterday, Sunday, we arrived at our nearby park by bus, after our first trip to the cinema.  We had watched "Planes" all in French.  Shawn and Annabeth had both had their names drawn to win swag -- Annabeth didn't even notice and Shawn wanted to know why his wasn't a t-shirt like his sister's -- and the kids had enjoyed the visuals, even though they only picked up a few words.

Anyway, when we got off the bus, we saw the parking lot at the park was FULL of cars.  There were people everywhere: joggers, bike riders, walkers, kids riding scooters, mommies pushing strollers.  There were visible crowds down near the playground section, and the carrousel ride in front of the park was full.

"I think they have a special, new carrousel inside the park," Trevor suggested.  We had seen some merry-go-round style equipment being hauled toward the park a few days before, and there was a fancy Dora/Disney-painted trailor set up nearby.

We investigated.  Lots of people, crowds everywhere.  Rosalies (four-person covered bicycles for rent in the park) going by in all directions.  But nothing special going on.

Just a typical family-day Sunday in a typical French city.  Que c'est joli!

Open Shawn's blog to see some photos of our park.  

We'll be sure to post some pix of our family on the Rosalie once we download them.

Tell Me Why, I Don't Like Thursdays

Thursday used to be the best day of my week. 

In university I rarely scheduled classes on Fridays, and even when I did, my roommates didn't, so you can imagine that Thursday nights were always loaded with activities that did not require anyone to be up first thing the next morning.  (Like grocery shopping and going to step class, in case my mom is reading this.)

When I worked in Toronto one summer we played baseball on Centre Island every Wednesday after work, so Thursdays were days of much camaraderie, jesting and winking nods about how much double-cheese-triple-hot-pepper pizza we'd all eaten after the game the evening before. 

Back in Windsor in the early part of the millennium, I discovered ultimate Frisbee.  I can't remember what night we always played, but no matter -- Thursday was either the day after our battles of blood, sweat and beers, or the prelude to pick-up hockey on Friday nights.

Nope, never a dull moment on Thursdays.

Life is slower here in Dijon, and of course we have young kids.  And Thursday has become a very deflating day when I must face a long and sad stretch of time before the next garbage pickup.

You see, on Sunday nights Shawn puts out the garbage; on Mondays the truck picks up, arriving while we are having breakfast.  We wave and say bonjour, and the men in bright green say bonjour back to us.  Everyone smiles and is happy.

On Tuesday nights Shawn puts out the recycling, and on Wednesdays during breakfast the same truck -- you heard me, the SAME truck with the same green men!  -- picks up the cans and paper and cardboard (but not glass), and we say our good mornings and everyone is as pleasant as can be.

Wednesday nights Shawn once again puts out the garbage, for there is collection twice a week, and Thursdays during breakfast we talk to the garbage men again.  By this time of the week we are giddy with delight, the kids and I are, and the men are laughing before they even reach our dining room window.

Ah!  That's it!  It's the windows.  It's these great big windows we have here in Dijon, with no screens: we just stick our heads right out into our narrow street and watch the truck approach at top speed.  Then we quickly stick our heads back in as the large, white camion deschets ROARS within six inches of our lives.

At first I was shy about standing at the window with Shawn, video camera at the ready.  I received stares.  Did the men wonder why the hell I was racing to capture them on film every other day?

Once I brought Annabeth into the action, however, the men seemed to understand that it was all just fun for my kids, and they quickly warmed up to us and our weird tourist habits.  They talk to Shawn in French and he talks back, and they play coucou, c'est moi with Annabeth as I hold her up and parade her from one window to the next, following them and bidding them adieu and wishing them a good day and-

-Good God, what the hell is wrong with me????

Oh yeah, now I remember.  Sigh.  It's a Thursday.

[stay tuned for photos of this and other wonders of our tiny street]