Joyeuses Pâques

The  familiar, rich tones of church bells,blanketing our village and scattering into the surrounding fields and forests, are absent today. It's disorientating as their recurring presence signposts every quarter hour of my life in France. However, come Easter Sunday, their comforting chimes will be restored once more.  

People respond when you tell them there is a great future in front of you, you can leave your past behind. Joel Osteen

The significance and traditions of this time of year very greatly around the world, but what cobbles them together, is an atmosphere of gratitude and renewal.

For me personally, it is a time to give thanks as well as a time of love, hope, and rebirth. The traditions that I observe at this time of year, both religious and non religious, help to anchor my life. 

Passover affirms the great truth that liberty is the inalienable right of every human being. Morris Joseph

Joyeuses Pâques

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A New Chapter Begins

A new chapter in our family history has just begun with the recent marriage of our daughter.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. 
Lao Tzu 

May God be with you and bless you.

May you see your children's children.

May you be poor in misfortunes and rich in blessings. 

May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.
An Irish Blessing

Joyeux Noël et une très bonne année 2015. 

Que cette année vous apporte, à vous et à votre famille, bonheur et prospérité.

Royal Arcade, Melbourne

Merry Christmas 

and 

best wishes for a peaceful, prosperous and happy 2015.

                                  

Domestic Therapy

Life is predictably capricious. No one is immune to its challenges and the odd 'left ball' it throws their way. How an individual responds to daily pressures and huge emotional upheavals is as individual as their fingerprint.  Meditation, prayer, exercise and even knitting have all been cited as therapeutic responses to stress.

After  the unexpected death of my father caused by a drunk driver, I have found the rhythmic nature of knitting woollen squares, calming. Like meditation, the movement of the needles focuses my mind, providing respite from unwelcome thoughts and emotions. Knitting also gives my agitated hands something to do and anchors me to a seat.

Rediscovering the benefits and joys of this craft has sent me foraging for old knitting patterns in the attic where I managed to locate an eclectic collection of instruction booklets. Some of them had been purchased during my early twenties when knitting was à la mode,  and others were inherited from my mother and great Aunt, who had impressive knitting skills, which  unfortunately weren't genetic.

One of the gems that has resurfaced may have practical appeal to a lover of tea, but I can't envisage any of its suggested products as items on my tea-tray!

Inherited knitting patterns from the early 20th century, offering some cosy
activities for a cold night.

Vale

Vale to my Father - a distinguished physician and scientist who had great compassion. I have learnt so much more about him from others since his passing, and also much about myself. 

Father was walking when stuck by a car, (driven by a very drunk 60 year old female driver) and sustained horrendous head injuries. I have had to find strength for my father, who was taken off life support almost 2 weeks ago and forgiveness for the drunk driver who took his life away when she swerved around a stationary car to hit him without braking. 

Father gave unconditionally to others - generous in spirit and humble by nature. He adored our mother who predeceased him, and gave his children a strong and loving family that will be sustained for generations to come.

Please to do not leave a comment. Instead take the time to focus on those you love. 

If the cap fits .........

Currently, I resemble a horse. 

Courtesy of  ehow.com

My smile reveals a mouth of very large (I would say “oversized”) teeth. Thank you father. When adult teeth superseded my juvenile teeth an overcrowding issue developed in my average sized mouth. So off I trotted with mother to the orthodontist, Mr. Chalmers – an elegant gentleman who always arrived at his consulting rooms clad in an immaculately cut dark suit, a bowler hat and very shiny shoes. Despite the weather, in his hand he carried a wooden handled, black umbrella in a jaunty, but dignified manner. Mr. Chalmer’s eyes shone when I first opened my mouth. 4 molar extractions were promptly ordered so my teeth could be correctly spaced using wire bands. The result? A smile full of very large, straight equine- looking teeth.

Note: Father has large teeth that sit perfectly in his large mouth.

Courtesy of gypsy-willow.hubpages.com

I have spent the summer vacation (southern hemisphere) sorting through the attic where many treasures, references that aren’t being used, and photos have been hastily stored without a suitable filing system. Being very sentimental, I tend to hold onto items with history and often put smaller ones and professional notes in unlabelled boxes or files. Then there are the lovely old pieces of furniture that  have been stock-piling for the stone cottage we planned to build on our 12 acres in the countryside. However, after buying My French Folly the stone cottage idea is shelved. Consequently I have also been sorting through this beautiful furniture in order to sell it – unexpectedly time consuming. It was during a recent rummaging and organizing episode in the attic that I dislodged a hard-wood table that was precariously perched on top of boxes of files that sat on top of a much loved wooden box of Lego – kept for the hypothetical grandchildren. 
As the tower of goods toppled towards me, my arms haphazardly scrambled to halt the cascade of boxes and the bridge of my nose gallantly stopped the fall of the unusually heavy table. Much blood, pain and swelling of my nose at its point of contact with the table resulted. "Look on the bright side - now your glasses can't fall off and you can wear a pince-nez!" was optimistic Mr R's initial response my mishap.

So with a mouth full of large teeth and a recently acquired huge, red Roman nose, I resemble a horse. More specifically, when I smile I look like “Charlie” , the first horse I rode.  Just hope I don’t find chaff on my dinner plate tonight.

One accident (of birth) + one recent accident (physical) = one horse-faced me.

Courtesy of "Equine Dentist"

Historical or Hysterical?

A quick dash into the city by train, to one of my absolute favourite shops, Il Papiro, was undertaken last weekend to purchase some gifts for a friend’s significant birthday. 

On the return journey, just as the train was about to depart from the CBD, a quietly spoken family (father, mother and 2 young children) joined the empty carriage in 

Brighton Bathing boxes

which I was seated. The map in the mother’s hand and snippets of conversation suggested that they were country residents en route to see the Brighton bathing boxes. As the train made its way out of the CBD, the father confidently pointed out the city’s landmarks to his children. 

Along the train line, one can occasionally catch a glimpse of graffiti-art juxtaposed with what can only be described as ugly acts of vandalism executed with spray cans. “ Some of that graffiti is historical now”, proclaimed the father. “What’s historical? inquired his young son. “Well, it’s like when the Romans invaded bits of Europe”, explained the father in a less self-assured tone.

A 5 second silence followed, then a little voice said, “So when did the Romans come here?”  No reply. The conversation was skilfully diverted to the previous evening’s football game. As the train approached my station I stood at the door to hear a child inquiring, “Do we still have another holiday to go this year or is this the only one?”  The train door closed behind me. 

Next stop - Brighton Beach. 

Foreground: Brighton Beach bathing boxes. Background: Melbourne CBD

Undergarments

Currently, I seem to have the choice of one of only 2 undergarments.

Time to take stock and prioritize as the demands on my time compound. My French Folly has been an exercise in faith - some may even say stupidity - which has morphed into a nightmare. It's time to turn my back on "my corner of France" and get on with the more pressing demands that command my attention at work and on the family and friends front. I am reducing my time at the computer over the next few months, hoping that my chums in the blog world will understand my temporary blogging hiatus. I love to read your wonderful posts and get enormous pleasure from receiving your comments so please be patient and stay tuned.

Time for .....

Christmas is a time to focus on people, not on presents.

A time for giving thanks and for offering forgiveness. 

A time of love. 

A time to enjoy the sanctuary of old traditions and perhaps create some new ones.

A time  to celebrate a conglomeration of the ridiculous, bad taste, creativity and good design.

A time for laughter and joy. 

And for some, a time of fierce competition and one-upmanship ……….  so exhausting!

So what do you do if the Christmas spirit doesn’t grab you …….  you’ve burnt the turkey ……. forgotten to heat  the plumb pudding …….  you’re seated next to a dreaded in-law  …….  or just think it’s all bah and humbug?
Just go with the flow.

Courtesy of Oslo Davis & The Age

Enjoy the spirit of Christmas and the pleasure of others who are in the festive mood. There should be no “have to” or guilt at this time of year. 

I love Christmas …... for many reasons.

May the peace and joy of Christmas be with you and your family in 2012.
 

That's Life

There has been a general malaise on my blog due to the editorial censorship of Mr R. Posts have been written but decreed too serious or too humdrum - a reflection of the current state of proceedings.

The Block Arcade, Melbourne

Christmas preparations have been smooth and uneventful. All presents have been purchased, the family decorated the tree without debate and my contribution to the cooking of the Christmas feast is under control. 

The only adrenalin rushes I've had of late are when, white knuckled and teeth clenched, I've raced other cars for a rare, vacant parking space - with varying degrees of success. Respectable women and the lingering smell of burning rubber is not an association that one would usually make! ………But it is the silly season! 

For a bit of light relief from the pre Christmas preparations I suppose I could contemplate being naughty, which would please Mr. R and save Santa a trip……if only I had some energy left by the end of the day!

It seems that everyone is getting into tattoos......Not me!
Cartoon - courtesy of Oslo Davis & The Age

Bad Hair Days...Months...Years

Courtsey Google Images*

I am cursed with the family’s rogue genes. My siblings are all tall and handsome, and still draw admiring comments, despite their years. I am shorter, pale (à la Cate Blanchett) with unruly curls that tended to frizz with the onset of puberty and became drier and less predictable on reaching middle age. A theatrical agent could easily cast me in the role of one of the witches in Macbeth without the need for a hairstylist.
In the era of “product”, one would think that this sort of hair could be easily tamed. But unfortunately there is a scarcity of effective frizz-reducing treatments, and then when I do locate one, I develop an allergy after 6 to 8 weeks of applying it to my unruly crown. The result: presentable hair and a bright pink face, similar in appearance to one that is sunburnt…...or to that of an alcoholic.

For years I’ve longed for hair through which my beau could sensually run his fingers and seductively toss aside as he kissed me. Instead, there is a tangled mass of protein springs bobbing about on my skull through which fingers can't penetrate.

My search for a suitable hairdresser, shampoo and conditioner has been a life-long quest.

Before "zis hair cut"

In my very early teens, at an age of great sensitivity when straight hair and no bust was de rigour, the doyen of hairdressing in Melbourne loudly exclaimed that “ zis hair haz to come orf’ and gave me a number 2……decades before it was in vogue. I can still remember the warm tears streaming down my face and my throat tightening as my curls fell to the ground. I wanted to scream “stop” but I was too intimidated to utter the meekest whisper of protest.

After "zis hair cut"

A new hairdresser was sought and a new look obtained -  chemically straightened hair……..until the air was damp! Father, (who had never accepted the change in my hair  from the soft golden locks of childhood to a hormonally-driven frizzy mop), was happier with this new hairdo and consequently compared me with sheep less frequently. 
As I grew older and wiser I decided, despite the angst my hair had caused, I didn’t want potent, nasty chemicals regularly applied to my scalp.

Another hairdresser. A natural look. A success. Unfortunately for me, but more so for him, this talented and rather flamboyant hairdresser prematurely passed away.

Enter Anthony – a sensitive and colourful soul. On our first meeting, Anthony informed me that my hair was of a type that could never look sophisticated and the only acceptable alternative, in his professional opinion, would be funky. So funky I became with varying success. Anthony had relationship issues that used to affect his hands or eyesight, and on occasions, both.  His desperate solution to his growing  problems was to move interstate, which led me to Stephan in 4er Paris. For the first time my heart actually sang after a hair cut, but I was faced with a dilemma. I couldn’t wait 12 months for another cut in Paris.

Finally fate sent me Emma – an English hairdresser (in Australia) who followed Stephan’s cut…….and improved on it! Ce n’est pas possible? A good haircut has a transforming effect on one’s self esteem. It had taken decades, but I finally felt at ease with my appearance. I have accepted that my search for a suitable leave in hair conditioner will be life long…. as will my father’s occasional references to sheep …..….obviously funky ones which are bien dans leur peaux!

Post Script.

The husband has just read the above and wants a “right of reply”. He loves my pale skin, the doona that adorns my head and my height, and rather biasedly claims that I resembled Nicole Kidman in my younger years. Yes, my husband truly loves me ….. for me!

The Artist and His Wife          Andrew Sibley

* If you are the owner of this Google Image, please contact me so you can be acknowledged. Thank you

Gâteau au Chocolat - Recipe with a Twist........gluten free

Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.  ~Voltaire

Cooking family meals was an expression of my mother’s love for her brood. Savouring it was our acknowledgement of her affection and efforts. As a child, cooking with mother was my way of spending exclusive time with her in a large, male dominated, family. And it provided first rights to licking out any bowls and spoons -  a right savagely guarded amongst 5 siblings. Whipping up a roux, making pastry, sweet, savoury or suet and baking blind was mastered before my age hit double digits. For me cooking is also a method of retreating from daily stressors. The tradition of cooking en masse continued with my daughter, but took a twist when she was diagnosed with celiac disease in her late teens. Cooking and my beloved Tante Marie now provide new challenges.
Subscribing to the notion that  Nine out of ten people like chocolate. The tenth person always lies. (John Q. Tullius), here is my gluten free version of a French chocolate gateau, or as my daughter calls it........

Miam Gâteau au Chocolat - gluten free....easy & delish

Ingredients
* 135g unsalted butter
* 3/4 (three-quarters) cup castor sugar
* 6 very large eggs, separated (if eggs are too small the cake will be dry)
* 150g grated good quality 85% dark chocolate (Lindt)
* 2 cups of home ground almond meal (process silvered almonds - bought almond meal is too dry)
* 1/3 (third) cup of dry rice crumbs (purchased in a packet at the supermarket) 
* pinch of salt added to the rice crumbs
* 1 tablespoon of dark rum
* additional 90g dark chocolate (for cake topping)
* additional 30g butter (for cake topping)

Method
* turn on the oven to moderate
* line a 20 cm round cake pan with greaseproof paper (pan must be at least 6 cm in depth)
* cream sugar and butter until light in colour and texture (an electric beater is best)
* add egg yolks one by one, beating well after each egg is added
   stir in the almond meal, rice crumbs and grated chocolate (a large bowl may need to be used)
* fold the chocolate-almond mixture though the egg whites in 3 lots
* carefully pour the mixture into the lined cake pan and bake in the moderate oven for 50   minutes (test the cake with a cake skewer before removing from the oven)
* let cake sit in the pan for at least 5 minutes before placing on a wire   rack to cool
* when cold remove the paper lining and spread with the topping
Topping
* melt the additional 90g chocolate and 30g butter in a bowl over hot water
* let the mixture cool to a spreading consistency before covering the top   of the cake.
Slice thinly and serve with cream if desired
Note: 
1. creaming of the butter and sugar is best done in a smaller bowl
2. the cake will be dry if you use smaller eggs and the quantity of the freshly ground almond meal is less than 2 full cups

The Good Life: Keeping Hens in the City

Some are born with a love of hens, some develop a love of hens and some just have hens thrust upon them.

My great grandfather was a poultry fancier. His love of hens was intertwined with his scholar’s fascination for genetics and his passion for fine tasting chicken and eggs. His knowledge of and love affair with poultry has been passed down through the generations as his descendents have continued to keep hens and quail.

The desire for organic produce resulted in our friends acquiring chickens which  kindled their love of hens. Then there are our neighbours who had 3 down-covered chicks thrust upon them after their child had hatched some eggs at school.

I need hens for stress release. For me, the rhythmic sound of cackling hens and collecting newly laid, warm eggs are therapeutic. .

So my Husband has had fowls forced upon him - on 2 occasions. Last weekend I purchased a pair of young Isa Brown birds, which should be laying within the month. A cheaper option to buying mature fowl, but not the preferred option for my Husband.

Their acquisition has heightened the tension in my household to such a level that the birds, yet to be named, now reside in my brother’s garden – a comfortable 10 kilometres away.

Recalling our last batch of egg layers which roamed the garden, was enough to raise my Husband’s blood pressure. Tractor cages were assembled, elaborate drinking contraptions erected and the repairs to our garden were never ending.

The final straw for my Husband was the birds’ untimely demise - a result of my wing clipping. The consulted manuals precisely described, and illustrated how to clip wing feathers – on one wing only.

My desire for symmetry resulted in my birds having both wings clipped. A mistake.

A  pair of clipped wings still enables a bird to become airborne, albeit quite low – but  enough to fly out of our yard (2 birds) and attempt to fly across our larger than average in-ground swimming pool. A reckless decision. The sight of 3 deceased fowl floating on the sparkling blue water and the need to extract another from the pool filter were enough to have my newly acquired Isa Brown hens banished.

Diminished stress for the Husband, heightened stress for me and one very happy brother who has inherited my grandfather’s fascination for “chooks”.