Re-thinking the Regime

My latest attempt. . .

          Among the top secrets in my life (except it's not for those people who see me often or even from time to time) is the one about writing a lengthly proposal -- more that 100 pages -- and then a book. I've tried to think of a more delicate way to express the side effect, but why be coy? Book writing and all its attendant pre and post details is fattening. It is.

          I asked my great friend Betty Lou Phillips, who somehow manages to write a book every year, whether she finds this problem to be a common phenomenon. She told me she has gained five pounds with every book she has written. She immediately loses them however. I can attest to that.

          It must be hours of sitting on one's derriere while nibbling in front of the computer. Betty Lou suggested for any future books I may write to pop pumpkin seeds. Duly noted.

Seasonal bounty.

          As My-Reason-For-Living-In-France has noted on many occasions -- and I've come to accept the fact he probably has a point -- I'm an "excessive."

          I'm hesitating here about telling you the truth, but since we're among friends, I'll confess. In the long, drawn out process that went into writing my book -- about four years basically -- I've gained 30 pounds. There, I've said it. Fortunately, I'm not structurally delicate. I am, what one referred to back in Niagara Falls, NY, as "big boned" -- maybe a euphemism, but there you have it. I'm also a little over 5'10" tall. It sounds like I'm making excuses. . .well, OK, maybe I am. Add to the sitting on the derriere, the careless grazing and the fact that the pool where I had my exercise classes and faithfully did my 30-plus lengths almost every day, has been closed for renovation for two years. That counts. . .

       Also, and this makes me clutch, if by some miracle I do any television, cameras add 10 pounds! Terrifying.

More seasonal bounty, just add cherries, nectarines and peaches. I bought a basket exactly like this when Andrea and I went to Provence last month. Toting it about for my shopping makes me feel very French.

         I'm now trying to decide whether I feel better after getting the weight of this confession off my chest (too bad I can't get it off my thighs).  Not really. I feel more embarrassed to tell you the truth. But having fessed-up I can also tell you that I've started doing something about the problem.

         I'm combining lots of the tricks and techniques I learned from the experts I interviewed for my diet chapter and a few days ago I added a newly discovered trick to the mix. By some random stroke of luck I found Mark Bittman's book "VB6" which, translated, means Vegan before 6 p.m. He said he lost some 35 pounds using a diet of all vegan throughout the day with small amounts of animal protein for dinner, no matter what time one dines.

Grains and legumes,  'em

        Will this work? All I can say is, I hope so. The diet appeals to what I love to eat: fruit, vegetables, legumes and grains of all sorts and pretty much as much as we want to eat. As I write this I have pinto beans soaking in the kitchen.

        Bittman, whom you may know from his columns in the New York Times, tries to emphasize the health benefits of his regime to sort of downplay the weight loss "side-effects" but you and I know the real reason I bought the book. I consider the health benefits the side-effects.

       I'll keep you posted and also pass along bits of advice I learned from my experts over the next few months as I try to hit my goal. If you would like to join me I would be thrilled. What fun that would be.

       More good news, the pool re-opens next month and MRFLIF put air in the tires of my bicycle, so I'm off. . .   

A French Country Weekend

       

The evidence. 

          As I was sitting on my bed this morning, trying to decide if my next pedicure would be Essie's Madison Ave. or Revlon's Cherries in the Snow, I looked up and out the window and lo and behold (!) (I've always wanted to use that expression), sitting on one of the lower branches of one of our cherry trees was a big, fat crow with a cherry in his beak.

The thief.

        At first I was fascinated by him, then I quickly pulled myself together and realized action was required. I threw open the window, clapped my hands and suddenly the tree came alive with crows. They were hidden among the leaves, scores of them. The one I saw originally took his time to leisurely fly off, holding tight to the cherry.

Essie's "Madison Ave." from the spring 2013 collection.

Revlon's "Cherries In the Snow" -- more than 60-years-old.

        Right then I decided to go for Essie's new orange-y color. (Cherries In the Snow is on my toes now.)

        When I went out to investigate I found two cherries. The other cherry trees have a few, but mostly pits hanging from stems. I'd like to know how the birds do that. It must be an extremely delicate operation.

If we're really, really lucky maybe we'll have two cherries on each tree.  

       One year we put nets over all the fruit trees, but when I found a sweet little blue and yellow bird trapped inside I decided never again. I know people who hang CD's from the branches claiming that the moving mirror-like reflections frighten the birds. Others disagree. A friend told me about a man who puts an old portable radio in a tree tuned into a rock station. He claims it's the only solution.

       My only solution will probably be cherries from the market this afternoon. At least the blossoms are spectacular for a couple of weeks.

What's Wrong with Nepotism?

The film. . .

            Since I'm not a politician or responsible for a major corporation or any life and death situations, well, then, I see nothing wrong with a little well considered nepotism.

           On that note, let me tell you about "Let Go"a film written and directed by my nephew, Brian Jett. It's what, I suppose, one refers to as an "Indie" film, but I'm not an expert on the gendre. What it reminds me of is a black comedy a la Robert Altman.

Alexandra Holden.

          The characters are joined by a common link, their probation officer. The major actors are ex-cons of various stripes. There is not a dangerous one in the bunch, but they are all intriguing and basically looking for fulfillment in love, some definition of happiness and contentment as in the appreciation of what one has or what one may have lost and can still -- perhaps -- resurrect.

          Then again, maybe letting go is the only way in or out of the dilemma.

Ed Asner.

Kevin Hart.

Gillian Jacobs.

          The ensemble acting is superb -- everything from a prickly, grouchy old robber played by Ed Asner to the gorgeous, manipulative flirt, Gillian Jacobs, who, to the chagrin (and fury) of her ex-fiance sold her engagement ring on e-Bay (she also has a thick dossier of other scams to her credit) and the former doctor, Kevin Hart, who embezzled millions from Blue Cross & Blue Shield and is required to find a job, any job, in order to stay out of prison. A wacky, hilarious employment agency worker, Alexandra Holden, finds him "fantastic" jobs as a hot dog in a bun and a voiturier, gaily pointing out that there is not a tremendous demand for an unlicensed  doctor with a criminal record.

David Denman.

          All the eccentric ex-cons swirl around and disturb the life of their parole officer, the pitch-perfect, melancholy, "empty vessel" David Denman.

         Have you ever noticed how strange it is to know a child from the moment he or she was born, sometimes it's even our own child (or a niece or nephew), and how absolutely amazing it is to see the adults they were destined to become? That's how I feel when I look at Brian's film. He was such a sweet baby and now he's a screen writer and director. Who could imagine such a thing? Magic.
   

Dream Job

The nine Greek Muses. Wouldn't it be divine to be a muse?

Ed. Note: Welcome to the musings of my great friend, D. A., of The Daily Plate of Crazy. She is, without question, one of the most talented writers in the blogosphere. She also has a brilliantly  fascinating mind that doesn't necessarily follow straight lines. She's too creative for the banal.

          Ah, the theme of reinvention. It’s a good one, and we can relate, though my preference is for the term evolution. Whatever you may call it, surely dreaming is part of the process - leaning back (or settling in), and letting loose your imagination, bearing your more brazen visionary self (who wants out), and picturing your life as you'd design it if you could.

For some of us, this includes contemplating all the elements of what might come up next - including your dream job – if you dared to create it. You’re never too old to dream, right? 

Recently, trying to refocus my goals and map out the next months, I took some time allowing my mind to wander – not forcing, not neatening, but permitting items to float in and out at will.

I thought it might be fun to share those day dreams, that exercise, those images - some serious and others silly, that remind me how I love to spend my time. And wouldn't it be lovely if someone actually paid for that?

Monsieur Louboutin's signature red-soled shoes.

The first visual I had? No surprise here. Monsieur Christian Louboutin’s personal muse! Eh oui, I could model his shoes. I would happily lend my tootsies to anything up to 4” in height, and proudly promenade in those stunningly soled treasures. Sadly - bonjour tristesse - M. Louboutin has yet to respond to my request for adoption that dates to a few years back. If he does not wish me to be an official member of the family, perhaps he would consider other options?

Might there be a French Shoe Board? You know. Like the Milk Board and the Cheese Board. No, not that kind of cheese board, offered to friends of an evening with a glorious selection of hard and soft delights for the palate. But some sort of National Council for Chaussure Arts. Wouldn't I make the ideal marketing manager? Or couldn't I at least tweet about feet? Offer Public Relations on High Heel Rotations? 

Another idea that popped into my head was more of a surprise, at least to me. It was a factor rather than a set of tasks, and while the wanderlust that was a huge part of my life from my teens through my thirties has since abated - practicalities of children and all that - the idea of being on the move again was present.

I attribute this to a recent trip to one of my favorite cities to see my son graduate from college - Boston. It's a gorgeous, bustling, and historic city. Not only did the change of scenery do me good, but when flights were cancelled and delays occurred, I found myself lodged for an extra night in a stunning suite, thanks to a kindly hotelier.

And who isn't perked up immeasurably by kindness - and beautiful design?

What has this to do with a dream job?

I’ve been sitting on my derriere in one place for too long. A change of locale may not be out of the question, and this particular city is one I had ruled out long ago due to long winters and mega-mountains of snow. But perhaps I should be more open-minded about environments that suit - at least in my dreaming. Who would have dreamed I'd be staying in a suite for a night, mooning over every elegant detail and especially in love with the fireplace, the geometric fabrics, and my very own sliding door?

What else popped into my mind in this ongoing visioning exercise?

French patisserie and Belgian chocolate! Not the ordinary bakery or épicerie variety of either, but the specialized, sumptuous, seductive and seriously addictive crème-filled goodies of French folly and velveteen “pralines” of the sort I indulged in when I lived my more routinely European life. 

Might I find my way to an offbeat path of just desserts? Some facility to add pastry and cakes and other sweets to my dream endeavors? Do I simply want to eat as much as I want and whatever I want - without gaining a pound (or developing diabetes), or does this momentary revelation indicate the need to open a café lined with books (of course), decorated with designer shoes (naturellement), featuring specialty desserts and a spot suitable for gatherings of  writers and artists - or anyone who loves Prada, Vivier, Choo, and you-know-who-else?

Any angel investors in the crowd? I'll dig up the artists and poets, if a few others can provide the fondant and funding.

By the way, have you ever actually worked the job of your dreams? If you’re ready for a change, would you close your eyes and see what comes to mind?

Another thought that bubbled up was children, in keeping with a desire to give back. I admit there is an element of the ridiculous in any such consideration, with a touch of the sublime. After all, it's still quite recent that I was dragging through raising my sons on my own. Don’t get me wrong – I adore my kids – but the last two years before my younger headed to college about knocked the stuffing out of me. Perhaps this is why I feel a need to fill up on éclairs, palmiers, and pralines?

Yet despite the last years, I’m energized by four and five-year olds, and equally - (am I masochistic?) – by teenagers. They keep us young with their wonder, their creativity, their innate appreciation. They keep us grounded and remind us what is truly important. 

Might children or teens play into the job of my dreams?

As a writer - my passion since, well... always... perhaps my next undertaking should be a book on shoes? Or using these artful goodies-of-my-heart as a means to teach something? Life lessons encapsulated in a series of ballet flats and kitten heels and nose bleed platforms? Wait. Scratch the nose bleed platforms. You know I’m very picky about my pumps and peep-toes. I’ll take a graceful heel instead, from Kate Spade, from Stewart Weitzman, or the Maestro, Monsieur Louboutin.  

Incidentally, not long after this exercise, my 21-year old had a few suggestions. They incorporate writing and high school kids. Can I make something of that – with or without my fashion accessories, or bribing them with baguettes and bon-bons?

These days - yes, as I evolve again - I'm searching for my "place" in the scheme of things, a woman's place in a way, feeling all the confidence of my years and the constraining realities as well, still insistent on fighting the good fight and, where possible, eliminating obstacles. Not just for me, but in my own small way, through words, for all of us. 

What I do with this latest transitional state, and specifically with these daydreams, I’m not entirely sure. But the mélange of past, present, and imaginary options – however silly or whimsical – remind me who I am, what I love, and how much remains ahead – for those delectable and creative next chapters.

As for the mille feuilles and tartes aux pommes and chocolate so heavenly as to make the gods weep? Well, I suspect I would nibble up all the profits. Maybe I’d best reconsider writing that book on shoes after all…

And what about you? How do you picture your dream life and your dream job?

© D. A. Wolf

An All Time Favorite French Expression

            No doubt anyone who not only learns another language, but also is plunged into the culture of another country discovers certain words and sayings that are particularly appealing to our ears and our sensibilities.

           The way a thought is expressed can be fresh and new and sometimes funny. One of my favorite French expressions is: "Si elle n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer."

            "If she didn't exist, someone would have to invent her." If one is speaking about a man it would be: "S'il n'existait pas. . ."

          I don't know about you, but I know many, many people who, if they didn't exist my life would not be as rich.  I would have to invent them.

          Among my favorites, for various different reasons, are: Marie-Claire, our postal lady, who is a little bon-bon of non-stop chatter and joy; Laurent, our fish man, who always slips us a little extra something every week; Christine, our pharmacist and friend, who tells me the truth about every beauty product in her pharmacy (unlike the promises on the package and the advertising); Dr. Dal Corso, our veterinarian who makes house calls, he's handsome, gentle and very funny; our internist and friend, Pascal, who still makes house calls and refuses to write prescriptions for diet pills ("Eat apples," he says.), and many others.

          I have a few more expressions I'll share with you. There are a couple I really, really like but I'm "not allowed" to use them because My-Reason-For-Living-In-France tells me it's not proper for me to do so. I'll tell you about one I particularly like because of the sound of the words that make the action seem absolutely perfect. It's about slamming doors and you can almost hear the loud CLACK (!) from the words.

A French Country Weekend

Melisse, one variety of mint plants in our potager. A friend of mine told me it's an excellent weight-loss tool when brewed as a tea. I asked my pharmacist friend if that were true. She said if one considers "eliminating water" as "weight loss" then, yes, it does have a mild effect on the scale.

         The potager is planted. Not being a country girl, the planting of our pottage is one of the highlights of the year for me. It seems miraculous that I can walk out of the kitchen and pluck warm tomatoes off their branches, sprinkle fresh herbs on or in whatever I'm cooking and make my evening tea from my homegrown mint leaves.

I like to stand in my potage, pluck the cherry tomatoes off the vine and pop them in my mouth. 

          The peas and the haricots verts were planted this morning. Tomatoes -- all sorts of tomatoes --  were planted yesterday along with zucchini, cucumbers and celery.

French pharmacies sell melisse. It is a pleasant, effective  --  very gentle in my experience --  drainant.

          The herbs, basil, thyme, two sorts of parsley, tarragon, dill and two types of mint, went into the ground last weekend. I've already started making salads with tomatoes (not mine yet) and mozzarella featuring fresh basil from the garden and olive oil Andrea and I bought in St Remy. Lettuce plants are going in some time during the week and maybe another cherry tomato plant or two. I love cherry tomatoes.

Haricot vert plants, before. . .

Haricots verts, after. . . (We are a long way away from the final product.)

         This will be the first time for haricots verts and peas. I asked a friend if they required any special treatment. She said: "You plant them, you water them, you pick them, you cook them and you eat them."
       
          "Merci."

I'm not sure my friend was telling me the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I looked up "pea plants" on Google and it looks to me as if at some point they will need to be attached to the wooden (or metal) stick thingies. Peas in their pods appear to be too heavy to stand tall without human intervention.

         I'm not a huge, huge pea fan, but My-Reason-For-Living-In-France loves them. Maybe coming right out of my own garden will change my opinion.

News and Views

       

            It's been a while since we've delved into a pot pourri of this and that and as always I've been collecting tidbits in my "dossier" -- love that word, as if I'm a spy or something. As usual, I have no coherent thread to tie everything together seamlessly so I shall rely on subheads. Here we go. . .

Help Wanted (Desperately Needed): A Language Conundrum

British English or American English? That's the least of the problem.

         As you know, in order to spend concentrated time with French friends, I teach advanced English language classes. They are a great deal of fun for me and at the same time they help me improve my French. The other day I mentioned the mutual problem (s) they and I have with prepositions. Now I have a question for you. Perhaps one/some of you are grammar experts or better yet, English teachers.

          I do know my grammar, but don't know why. In other words, sometimes I cannot explain it which can be frustrating for my French students who never seem to forget their grammar.

           This is my latest problem: In an exercise we did in class, the sentence went something like this:
"Catherine Deneuve is considered -- choose one, 'to be' or 'as' -- a great actress."

           OK, I know it's "to be" the problem is I don't know why. Do you?

Strange, But Sort of Cute

These are not tennis balls. They are gum balls. 

          I trust these gum balls, sold at Colette, the painfully trendy boutique in Paris, are not furry the way they appear. The timing is perfect since Maria Sharapova is a finalist at the Roland Garros tennis tournament (the French Open). Tomorrow she will play against Serena Williams.

         Yesterday, after Serena won her semi-final match she gave an interview to French television and she spoke French (!). The crowd was pleased and amazed.

What Do You Think This Is?

          When I first saw it, I thought it was a vacuum cleaner, then I thought it was some tricked-out hair or skin or body steam machine. It is none of those things.

           It's an iron. But, as you can see it's clearly more than an iron. It appears to be a complete dry cleaning pressing machine of some sort. It won the Grand Prize for innovative design at the 2013 Paris Fair.
          It comes with lots of accessories, is called "Lift Pinky Pop" and is made by Lauraster. The price you may be wondering? A mere 499 Euros. Remember it's not just an iron, it is also all about design and that changes everything when you're toiling away, nest-ce pas?

Haven't We Been There & Done That?

Essie 10 Blanc.

Dior Blanc with attitude. It features a nacre white finish.

         If we can paint our fingernails black, gray, green or yellow, why not white? Right?

         That's the new message for summer we're being told.