French Faux Pas - an excerpt from a transitory life in rural France

The French language and I have been antagonists since our first introduction. I vandalised the language - according to my Father and teachers, and the language tortured me. Despite the many long hours I spent trying to make friends with The Language of Love, it was not to be , until I hit my mid-life crisis and spontaneously bought a house in France off the internet , in a region where English is infrequently spoken or understood.

With the aid of the Alliance Française, a truce with cette langue was conceded toute de suite and I recommenced French lessons in 2011.

Now I hold the dubious honour of taking the longest time of any Alliance Française student in Melbourne (or perhaps the world) to successfully complete Beginners Level French.  And it's not for lack of trying - it's just that my efforts have been sporadic and the hearing in my left ear has prematurely ceased.

There are words I can understand and spell, but not pronounce. Then there’re words I can pronounce and verbs I can conjugate, but fail to be able to put them into coherent sentences, unless I have preplanned and rehearsed what I want to say.  A killer for spontaneous conversation.  However, the greatest language mistakes I’ve made are with false friends – French words that look and sound like English words, but have a very different meaning.

A further barrier to my communication is the spit-fire speed at which the French speak and the plethora of silent letters that can make a sentence sound like one, very long, indistinguishable word. My comprehension, when it exists, lags at least few paragraphs behind the conversation making me look like a village idiot: my facial expression is blank as the flight or fight mechanism musters the energy needed to decipher what I'm hearing.  Definitely not a time to multitask.

Our first foray into a hardware store (un bricomarche) was met with puzzled looks when I asked the carefully rehearsed question "Est-que vous avez des planchers de chien s'il vous plait?"  Have you (floor) boards (made) of dog please? “Ahhh chêne – oui, oui “ was the relieved response of the shop assistant when I produced the piece of paper on which I had correctly written my question.

Excité(e) is a French word that I can pronounce clearly and confidently. In the past I’ve told quite a few French people (including officials) that I was très excitée to be in France, only to get a reaction which ranged from a smirk to a look of indignation. With such responses, a prudent person would have referred to their dictionary. Not me. 

It was the retort of our close French friend, Guillame, that finally goaded me into checking the translation of excitée. Unfortunately it remained in my oral French vocabulary for years 

One July morning, after a 6 am start in order to make as much possible progress with our renovating before the expected 40⁰ C heat arrived, a trip to the le bricomarché and le supermarché were necessary. As I was leaving My French Folly, clutching a shopping list, Guillame (artisan extraordinaire) appeared - just in time to advise me on what type and brand of wood preservative I should buy.

"Bonjour Guillame " I exclaimed, before kissing him on each cheek, “Je suis 

très excitée parce que tu es arrivé et je vais faire les courses . Quel préservatif, je dois acheter s'il vous plaît ?”

Loosely translated I said "Hello Guillame, I am sexually aroused because you had arrived and I'm going shopping. What type of condom do I need to buy please?"  

Note to self: excité = sexual excitement or arousal (not thrilled or excited); un préservatif = condom; chêne is not pronounced chien.

Autumn in France - a new experience

1 September. North-east France

From my bed, the morning sky is noticeably different – nature has removed the familiar, saturated hues from the sky. Dull, white and grey clouds fuse together to obliterate the insipid blue backdrop.  There’s a "nip in the air": a different coldness to that of a cool summer’s day. It appears that while I was sleeping, a deity has flicked the weather-switch from “l'été”  to “l'automne”. 

The hollow sounds of my foot steps on the stairs linger a little longer than usual as I descend the wooden 

spiral to commence my daily routine: open shutters; a cup of tea; bathroom rituals; boulangerie; a croissant and coffee on the terrace. 

But today I falter as the tatty, internal shutters of the sitting room are flung aside: familiar village roof tops are revealed, but strikingly with unfamiliar thin wisps of smoke hanging above their chimney stacks. No movement - just perfectly still. 

Something else is awry – the feathered acrobats that keep us entertained each morning and evening are missing. Squinting, I can just make out their motionless silhouettes across the valley – a row of small dots along the spine of the church roof. 

Opening the terrace door I investigate further: no familiar morning kiss from a timid dawn breeze.  The air is paralysed - devoid of any movement or sound; its chill has mingled with the herbaceous scents of damp foliage, proclaiming “summer’s over”.  I stand transfixed by the canvas before me. Such a dramatic change. So sudden. So unfamiliar. The motionless smoke continues to play statues. I stare, “perhaps I’ll catch it out?” I stare further.  No. 

Time stops. I feel at one with the world; utterly content; incredibly grateful.
..................my first autumn in France.

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Melbourne’s Autumn brings Back a French Summer

The start of autumn this week has seen the return of summer heat to Melbourne, with skies and light reminiscent of our summers in north-east France. A recent discussion during dinner had us recalling the first July we spent at our house in France - an unforgettable event.

Late July: our first French Summer

Plaster dust, spider webs – old and new, airborne grime generated by decades of neglect, and reconstituted glue from soggy pieces of wallpaper, manage to amalgamate with perspiration generated by the summer heat, to form a sticky coating on our skin.

Empty glasses and water bottles litter the deep, buckled windowsill. Actions are laboured, but spurred on by the limited time available to renovate this minuscule room – a task that appeared to be straight forward and quick, but is now proving otherwise.

There is no movement in the village. Lunchtime has extended into a siesta as patches of bitumen on the road start to resemble tacky molasses. Charlie and Kenzo, our neighbour’s cats, lie splayed in the cool under the lone conifer that stands like a sentinel to the cluster of houses in our ancient ruelle (lane).

Unexpectedly the faint sounds of plodding hooves pierce the silence, echoing as they rise from the street that sits in the valley below. Inquisitively I poke my head out of the second storey window while straddling its sill – a precarious move.  Nothing new in the landscape to report.

As the sounds grow louder, the shouting of children becomes faintly audible. Peering left through the breaks in the tree-tops, I get a brief glimpse of the scene below just before a parade of tired, hot bodies becomes fully visible.

A young boy, perhaps 10 or 11 years old, leads a pony on a slackened reign. Like his 2 friends trailing him, he’s abandoned his saddle. A fourth pony, head drooping and strapped into a cart harness, slowly edges into the picture.

The poor animal is pulling a tatty canvas covered wagon, reminiscent of those of the Wild West, albeit smaller and in proportion to the creature’s size. 

My pity for this equine slave soon gives way to warm amusement as the rear of the cart and source of the high pitched voices, come into view. Pushing the wooden structure up the road’s steep incline, and almost parallel to the ground themselves, are 2 small lads, shirtless and gasping for breath amidst their encouraging shouts to their hoofed companion up front..........The doors to my childhood memories are prised gently open.

My husband now joins me at the window.  “How stupid to be riding in this heat, but what a great adventure” I mutter. “Oh to be young again.” “ But we are young, and a touch foolish – look what we’re doing!” he chortles as he deposits a sticky kiss on my damp, grime-encrusted face......

Life alters quickly when one’s perspective changes!

One clean and painted room - small, but mighty significant
for us.

New Year's Resolutions & Bad Habits

The promise of a new year is accompanied by self-reflection and much optimism.

In attempt to avoid letting myself down, I make only a few  simple resolutions. For me, success is a better motivator than failure.

Regrettably, the last 2 years have seen every resolution I've made fail – not healthy for one’s self-esteem. Consequently, my new year's resolution list has grown, out of necessity.  It involves both forming new habits and ridding myself of some recently acquired bad habits, and unfortunately I've developed quite a few of these over the last 18 months. ........ sleep deprivation, indulging in too much chocolate and French pastries, neglecting to exercise, allowing clutter to invade my study, abandoning the pursuits that make my heart sing ........the list goes on. 

One week of the New Year has now passed and I’m happy to report that I’m on track with my resolutions for 2015 ……….. just 51 weeks to go!

Wishing you every success in fulfilling your New Year's resolutions.

Can't help myself , bad habits

Well I'm running wild, lost control

And it's a shame to see

That a girl like me

Has got so many, bad habits

Well I'm off the rails

My resistence fails, tempations got

A hold on me

And I can't refuse

Because I always lose

Can't help myself

Bad habits

Well it just ain't right

That it's something I can't fight

I can't stop going out and having spending fun.......(Christmas sales can be a curse)

Well I tried to be good,

But I knew I never could

Cause i've got more bad habits than anyone

When I get the urge

I just got to splurge ....... (France, books, gardening and technology - if only I could master it)

I'm a slave to all my desires

Well I'm in a mess

Because i can't repress all of these

Bad habits

Can't help myself

Bad Habits

Well I'm running wild ....... (relatively speaking, for a Capricorn who likes being in control)

Lost control

And it's a shame to see

That a girl like me

Has so many bad habits

Well it just ain't right

It's something I can't fight

I can't stop going out being distracted and having fun

Well I tried to be good

But I knew I never could

Cause i've got more bad habits

Than anyone

When I get the urge

I just got to splurge

I'm a slave to all my desires .......(cheese, chocolate and champagne is on the desires list during the festive season)

Well I'm in a mess

Because i can't repress all of these

Bad habits

Realise Your French Dream- House for sale NOW SOLD

In the heart of France, midway between Paris and Zurich, within easy access to the rest of Europe is a "ready to move into holiday home in a glorious, rural location".  

If you are a lover of fine food, wine, sking, other outdoor pursuits, history or architecture, this region of France has it all on its door step. 

As well as the tiny asking price, 60 000 euros the current owners/ residents  are happy to act as your personal,  multi lingual (French, English and German) caretakers to watch over your French dream if required, and manage holiday lets if you want to make some money when it's not in use. 

On a personal note, during the last 12 months the vendors of this house have helped us turn our French nightmare back into our French dream. My French Folly is getting a new lease on life and starting to look loved.

Visit this website for further pictures and details. 

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"

Season's Greetings

Merry Christmas and best wishes for a peaceful, prosperous and happy 2013.

                                                   

Nous vous souhaitons un Joyeux Noël et une très bonne année  

2013. Nous ésperons que vous passez d'excellentes fêtes de fin d'année .

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

Rillettes to Ring in the New Year

Plans to spend the last few days of 2011 at our country cottage were thwarted by the forecast of high temperatures, hoovering around 40 ⁰C, and hot northerly winds which carry allergens that have our eyes running, noses blocked and sinuses very painful despite taking antihistamines. Mr R is already suffering from hayfever, but it is always much worse north of the Great Dividing range where the cottage to situated. Our main purpose for visiting the cottage was to give it some much needed attention. After the recent wet Spring and summer rains, the grass and shrubbery around the house has gone berserk, hiding the house facade - so much so that our country neighbour contacted us to let us know about this uncharacteristic (for Summer) state of affairs. The weather forecast for next weekend suggests that the conditions will be far more conducive for working in the garden.

So here we sat, in Melbourne, on New Year's eve. It was only the day prior to this when I turned my mind to preparing and shopping for the event.  I had a desire to herald in 2012 eating rillettes and sipping champagne. There already was champagne in the fridge (rather a permanent fixture). However, I had to purchase the ingredients for the rillettes and cook it tout de suite so it had time to rest and infuse its delicate flavours throughout this piquant dish.


Scents and tastes can evoke strong memories. For many Francophiles, the perfume of summer lavender says "Provence" but not for me! This fragrance always reminds me of my grandparents and great aunts. Every time a  closet door was opened, a waft of lavender scent tickled my nose. So comforting.

Rillette on my tongue transposes me to lazy days in the Val de Loire, meandering down country roads, exploring chateaux, sitting in the garden shade, sipping wine, eating rillettes on delicious, fresh bread, whilst listening to the call of doves and watching the sun gradually fade, as if on its own giant  dimmer switch. Francophile heaven.

So to celebrate the promise of a new year - with a little bit France thrown in - here is my much used, pork rillettes  recipe.*  Easy to prepare and oh so miam, miam!          

Recipe: Pork Rillettes

Ingredients (metric measures)

• 750 g pork belly or neck with the rind and bones removed
• 150 g pork back fat (do not reduce the fat......time to forget the cholesterol and calories)
• 100 ml dry white wine (I prefer riesling)
• 3 lightly crushed juniper berries
• 1 teaspoon of sea salt
• 2 teaspoons of dried thyme
• half teaspoon of  ground nutmeg
• quarter teaspoon of allspice
• a pinch of ground cloves
• I large crushed garlic clove

This is best cooked in a heavy cast iron casserole dish such. I use  French enamelled one which is parfait.

Instructions

• Preheat the oven at 140 ⁰C = 275 ⁰F                    
• Cut the pork and the fat into short stripes and place them in the cast iron casserole dish.
• Mix all of the other ingredients with the pork.
• Seal the casserole dish with foil before placing the casserole lid on top of the foil.
• Bake for 4 hours by which time the meat should be soft and surrounded by fat.
• Place a sieve over a bowl, then tip the cooked contents of the casserole into the sieve.
• Shred the pork. (This may be done using 2 forks.)
• Season if necessary.
• Place the meat into a 3 cup terrine or casserole dish and let cool.
• Strain the hot fat through a very fine sieve or damp muslin.
• Pour the pork fat over the cold meat. If the fat has solidified, it will needed to be melted first.
• Cover and refrigerate for up to one week.
• Serve at room temperature ............Bon appétit! 

I raise my champagne glass to you for a healthy and happy 2012 ............ Santé


*FromThe Food of France, a Journey for Food Lovers.            

My summer holiday of F’ s: continued ….Part 6

Fotos (apologies - photographs)

A tin house: Alsace

Sadly very few photographs have been taken. Will I ever have time to master my camera? Due to the encouragement of friends and family, I have tentatively entered 3 items into the Linden Postcard Show competition. For me, photography is a very personal form of expression and communication, so I feel emotionally exposed having work publically displayed and assessed in this forum.

Flicks (cinema)

What is a holiday without the movies?

Skilful cinematography, wonderful script and superb acting characterised The King’s Speech  –  a movie that lives up to its accolades.

Tiles on the floor of a chateau

Heartbreaker indulged our love of French comedy. With Romain Duris in the lead role we were assured of a good laugh. A charming, farce that is well executed and even pleased the male members of the audience who initially felt dubious, due to the movie’s title.

Fun, Fantasy and Funky

Bonnieux- husband's fantasy?

I must concur with my husband who has observed that there hasn’t been enough fun and fantasy (what ever that means) in my holidays, and my recent haircut, at chez coiffeur, is definitely funky.

Finally........Focus

Writing these “F” blogs has been quite cathartic ………..I now have a clear vision on which to focus, so it is now back, with renewed vigour, to finish, forward, file and flick.