From Robin Hood to Deep Dish Pizza to the highest bridge in the world and back again

And so we are off. I have finished my last day at work, no tears were shed, but I did get a nice bottle of champagne and a very heart-warming card signed by my colleagues. 4:45 am wake up call tomorrow. And by 2:30 the Frenchman and his new haircut will step foot on American soil for the first time.

New years eve in Millau, France and then back up to Paris for a few days of debauchery.

We're also taking a stow away... Tommy the Tiger has been put in our possession to help him start off his journey across the world and back. You can find out more about our travelling companion HERE

I will be updating the blog on my travels as often as possible.

Merry Chrimbo to all and to all a goodnight!

PS. We are in desperate need of the last five episodes of LOST from the first series. This is a matter of life and death. Please help our cause. And if anyone gives anything away about the second series I have ways of causing you severe physical pain. Happy Holidays!

My short lived career as a hairdresser

You may be asking yourself why I am crying. Why would a young, happy girl with her life in front of her, at this joyous christmas season just days before being whisked off with her boyfriend to spend snow filled holidays in Chicago have her big blue eyes full of tears?

Why? Because I did THIS to my boyfriend:



I told him I didn't want to cut his hair. I didn't want anything to do with his electric razor so close to his neck. That'll teach him to trust me again. Thankfully I was the only one crying, choking on my tears surround by piles of his hair on the bathroom floor saying " I broke your head, I broke your head". He however just laughed and said, "it's only hair". Poor thing is going to have to not only meet my friends for the first time, but bare the cold Chicago winter with a friggin' hole in his hair.


But seriously, I broke my boyfriend's head. I am officially this season's worst girlfriend ever.

Food glorious, Food

Fresh bounty from the local market. Half of which went rotten and we had to through away. I don't know weights and measurements, so I always end up unwittingly asking for too much - as in two kilos of potatoes for me and Stephane. We got spuds coming out of our ears.



Corned beef hash with poached egg. My first time eating corneed beef... tastes like cat food.



Bangers and Mash. We had this the other Sunday watching the Royal Variety Show - never felt so English in my life.




Cous Cous with roasted tomatoes and aubergines...I think. Actually, I don't even remember what I put in this, but it was good.



A dish I often fall back on: pasta with courgettes in a blue cheese sauce - usually I put shrimp with this.



And last but not least, my belated Thanksgiving day meal: Turkey and stuffing (good lord my stuffing was good), mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and gravy.

Birthday festivities

An affectionate Birthday boy. Sometimes it's a fine line between Gay and Continental European...



Showered with cards, free beer and, uh, a male clothing catalogue (like I said - it's a fine line)



Bob and I in deep English banter



And me and the Birthday boy - like a fine wine, I'm finding that Frenchmen get better with age.

Joyeux Anniversaire

In honour of my favorite Frenchman’s birthday:

What I love about Stephane

1. His childish smile
2. His intelligence
3. His ability to put everyone around him at ease
4. How he handles and diffuses all of my bad moods
5. His generosity with everything
6. His ridiculously thick French accent
7. His mushy hugs
8. How he talks to himself when he’s thinking
9. His soft mountain man beard
And the top reason I love Stephane is….
10. He loves me back

From Black Elvis to Baseball

I know, I've been terrible about writing lately, but in my defence I have the flu and I got fired. So there.
Ok, not really fired, but the extended contract that I was promised by my boss was taken away from me by a bigger boss. While up until Monday I have been turning down job opportunities, shortening vacations and spending as if I actually have a salary waiting for me in the new year.

But I shall not dwell - on to bigger and better things.

After the rather upsetting job news, I decided to meet up with the boyfriend in our pub despite my cough and cold. I knew going home to an empty unkempt studio would have been too much. So I had a few ciders and a few marlborough lights, and after Stephane let me sufficiently vent we decided to steer the conversation to happier things.

New Years Eve. We are invited to one of Stephane's friends house in Millau (where the darling Stephane is from). The theme is "Fan de.." (Fan of...). So we have to dress as something we are fans of. I quite like the idea of going as fans of Baseball. I would get to wear a flirty baseball uniform, complete with short skirt, and barely buttoned baseball jersey and I'd get to dress my Frenchman up in a baseball hat, which warms my heart just at the very though of his little framed bearded face. The only problem with this is that Stephane is not a fan of baseball. He's never been given the chance to be a fan, having never seen a game.

Some other ideas were tossed around, but none stuck.

Until I came up with a brilliant idea: We can get married and be... wait for it, wait for it...Fans of our Love.

He said only if we could get married in Las Vegas by a black Elvis.

So no wedding day yet. But if anyone has any cute ideas for our New Years Eve outfits, I'm all ears.

Here is a list of what Stephane and I are "fans of" collectively:

1. Elvis
2. Pasta
3. Paris
4. Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends
5. Lost
6. Blondie
7. Red wine
8. Drinking at our local
9. Johnny Cash
10. Pub quizzes

post # 374 that contains photos of me

I swear I think my eyes are getting bigger... maybe the bug eyed look will come into style soon.




Here I am with bangs. I actually just flipped my hair over to create fake bangs (aka fang bangs). I was thinking when my hair gets a bit longer to try getting real ones. What do you think? Does it make me look like a four year old? It does doesn't it. But a cute four year old, right?

Better than marmalade and logarithims combined

The great country of Scotland has brought us many wonderful things: the invention of the television, marmalade, the discovery of logarithms, and now, possibly their greatest invention ever, Franz Ferdinand.

A friend of mine, L., who is rock goddess supreme with her name on every guest list of all the most fabulous after parties of any decent rock show was gracious enough to give me her extra ticket to this night’s concert of Franz Ferdinand at the Ice Arena of Nottingham. Opening for them were The Rakes, and Editors.

I’ll fast forward to the good part. Franz Ferdinand are so solid, such pure rock. Incredible to think that they only have two albums out and yet their show already sounds like a greatest hits tour – every song is fucking brilliant and single worthy. They were non-stop. At one point three of them were all banging away on the drum set at once. My voice is shot, my body is covered in cold sweat, my feet are aching from constantly jumping up and down – all proof of an amazing show.



We unfortunately only heard the end of the last song by The Rakes, who are adorable, and had the entire crowd bouncing up and down like a spasmic snake. Just from that 30-second tease I heard, I already know I’m going to try to get tickets to their next gig. Editors, who although apparently much more hyped up than The Rakes were a disappointment. The musicians were fabulous, fast furious drum driven, solid guitar but the blandest singer you could imagine. It was like seeing a fabulous film with a terrible lead actor.
Here are the Editors, who stole my best photo of the night.

Oh, but Franz, sweet sweet Franz – may you have a long long success. May my progeny one day find my old and dusty MP3s of your first album lying in the attic, and say, “Mom – You listened to the Double F’s? I had no idea you were this cool when you were young. They rock.” Because this little lassie from Chicago sure as hell wants to hear more from you Glaswegian boys.

And if anyone can tell me how to transfer a movie from my Canon A60 to my iBook, you can delight in a little Franz performace for yourselves..

The ghost of Thanksgiving past

I never used to miss Thanksgiving when I lived in France. Which I think is mainly due to the fact that there was nothing over there to remind me of the holiday. French and American culture are so different, I would usually even forget Thanksgiving existed. But here… America and England are different, but no where near as different as France and America.

England is like Adam, and America the rib taken from him to grow in to a sprawling, massive version of Eve. Both cultures certainly share the same idea of comfort food. So as I walk around my local grocery store, I still see bloated turkey carcasses taking up room in the oversized fridges, there’s even Ocean Spray cranberry sauce in the canned food aisle, and I find myself missing home. Because it’s so close, but not quite.

Last night I got a bit teary eyed talking to Stephane about Thanksgiving. How difficult it was for me to be so far from home at this time. How Thanksgiving is more sacred than Christmas in America.

But then I remembered that my family has such a sporadic, non-traditional, un-warm fuzzy feeling inducing Thanksgivings that there really was nothing to be homesick for.

Here’s a list of some of the Thanksgivings my family has had:

The memorable one with just me, my mom and my little sister. We all had the flu, sick as dogs we were; sitting at a dinning room table so big it just drew more attention to the fact that we were few and we were sad. Food was pushed around plates. I think we eventually gave up and all went to bed.

There were many Thanksgivings were we would go to the Ritz for their hotel feast buffet. This was a dressy affair, surrounded by other families who a) were wealthy enough to be able to eat there b) couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of preparing a home cooked meal and cleaning up afterward. I always enjoyed myself, but it felt hollow and very “un-American”.

Then there is the year when again, my mom, little sister and I found ourselves alone without invitations from anyone else to join them in Thanksgiving festivities. We went to see a double header at the cinema and had popcorn with a bunch of other people who were either foreigners, desperately wanted to see Tim Allen in The Santa Clause, or like us, had no place else better to go.

There is the time we flew to LA to do Thanksgiving with my Uncle. This was a lot of fun, but I still couldn’t get over having a “warm” Turkey Day - it just didn’t seem right to be playing touch football to help digest the massive amount of food my Uncle provided while wearing a short sleeved shirt.

There was also the time we went to a Mexican restaurant with my Mom and her Husbands’ funky wine friends who proceeded to drone on and on about wine the entire dinner. Once my sister and I realised that a full hour had gone by without either of us uttering a word or being spoken to, we ran off to the bathroom to dance in secret for a few minutes before quietly returning to the table. Ok. That was actually Easter, but it fit in with the others.

Anyways, my point is that I don’t have a family Thanksgiving tradition. I never grew up with a “every year for Thanksgiving we go over to Aunt Mabel’s house in Cleveland and she makes too much food, Grandpa falls asleep on the couch before even getting to the table, my mom and her sister get drunk on schnapps in the kitchen pretending to help Grandma with her gravy which no one likes because it is too lumpy but we’re not aloud to tell Grandma that” kind of a Thanksgiving.

I guess my family’s Thanksgiving tradition is simply making the most with what you got. Which is why I will be celebrating Thanksgiving on Sunday, but making a small Turkey, maybe some mashed potatoes and opening a jar of cranberry sauce. Perhaps I’ll rent something like “Home for the Holidays” and my French boyfriend and I will pick at my bird in our little studio in Nottingham in front of the telly. Works for me.

Love me. Love my Science.

The other night I found myself in the company of men, and only men. And not just men, but scientists. This often is the case with my soirees in Nottingham. Me and a bunch of scientists drinking beer. While I do occasionally have to silently sit through bouts of conversations discussing archaea and gene transference, I for the most part find this company of men entertaining and witty (and thanks to them I now know words like “archaea” and “gene transference”).

Last night one of the boys was discussing his girlfriend troubles and the fact that she complains that he is too involved with his work.

“That’s not fair,” responded Scientist # 1 who has a tattoo of a DNA strand on his upper arm “Love me. Love my Science”

Stephane then made a lighthearted comment about how I should adhere to this motto, implying that I was not supportive enough of his career.

I looked at him in shock.

I don’t love your Science? You think that I don’t love your Science?

I moved to the middle of nowhere, bumblefuck England for your Science. I left Paris for your Science. I sacrificed my career for your Science. Don’t tell me that I don’t love your Science.

Sweet Victory

We won the pub quiz. And by "we" I of course mean me, stephane and various others who contributed a hell of a lot more than us. And as always if I am ever writing on a Tuesday night, it means I am drunk. So I shall make this short and sweet before I make an ass out of myself. We WON!!! Oh lord, two alcohol related posts in a row. I'm a good girl, really. I'm sober 5 days out of 7. And for an "ex-bartender" living in a pub culture, binge drinking infused country, I say that's pretty damn good.

You know you have a drinking problem when...

....the Scottish bartendress compliments you by saying "Your a woman that knows how to drink" and that I could "probably drink all these lads under the table".

This post can also be known as The One My Mother Should Ignore.

Winter hat blues

I need a new winter hat. This Sherlock Holmes crap just ain't cutting it now that the wind is biting and the frost is abundant.

Dontcha wish your girlfriend made you midnight snacks with love letters like me? Dontcha...

Stephane went out on a pub crawl not too long ago. I stayed home. Before going to bed, I made him a chicken and tomato sandwich with a baggie full of pretzels and left it in the fridge for him with a little note, knowing he would need something to soak up the alcohol when he eventually stumbled home.




Am I not the cutest girlfriend ever?

Saucy

Roast chicken? Check.

Quiche? Check.

Garlic pesto Pizza? Check.


These are all meals I can now make with my eyes blindfolded, (I know not an extensive list - but I've only just started learning how to cook). However until a week ago, I couldn't for the life of me make a decent sauce.

First try at a cream mushroom sauce ended up like this:



Lets just say I was a little over zealous with the flour for my roux.

Next attempt - a sauce au poivre for a nice rump steak, accompanied with roast potatoes and garlic spinach.



I did however buy some gravy from Marks & Spencer as back-up. The sauce caused some watery eyes as this time it was the pepper corn that felt my zeal. Nothing a little extra cream couldn't fix, and the sauce was a mild success.

Saturday my friend Rohan came over for dinner and then clubbing and I was finally able to make a perfect sauce.




Tuna steaks smothered in a tomato and caper sauce with a white wine cream base. Roasted eggplant, courgettes, and red pepper with plenty of garlic, and boiled new potatoes with rosemary.

Damn I'm good.

But if you want to see a real pro, go visit my friend Stacey's blog Just Braise She is my cooking mentor. From pork stuffed with chorizo to pumpkin cheese cake. You'll never need to buy another cook book again.

Getting the Boot

As my good friend Danielle already touched upon on her blog, it is very difficult for a woman with fuller calves to find a pair of boots that fit. Lord knows there are some sexy ass boots out there at the moment, and frankly I do not think that I should be left out simply because I have womanly, yet muscular calves (it would have been too easy for the gene fairies to have given me my mother's legs that go on forever - instead I get my Father's insanely defined rugby worthy lower half). I became determined to find my perfect pair of this season's latest boots. I started by ducking into swanky shoe stores on weekends, quickly grabbing a pair of boots in my size off the shelf, slipping off my own worn shoe and yanking on a dark knee-high alternative only to feel my face burn bright with embarrassment at the sound of the zipper getting stuck on my protruding calf muscle.

After various self-esteem killing tries over the past few weeks I finally came to the conclusion that my boots are unfortunately not residing in swanky shoe stores. Their half-way house is actually discount department stores, ones that sell Christmas decorations all year round, have an insanely large selection of bed slippers and are never without a plus size section. And so it came that I found myself on a Wednesday night after work basking in the sweltering heat and fluorescent lighting of a T.K. Maxx (for whatever reason, the J has been replaced by a K in the English version - now who's got their annoying theme song stuck in their heads).

I was a woman on a mission.

25 minutes into my shopping experience finds me with sweat trickling down my face into my collar and hobbling around the wide aisles with one shoe on and one shoe off (this was of course my “trying on” foot). Out of the perhaps 20 or so pairs of boots that I tried on, 2 fit. That is one, two. Out of what might have been a billion for all the effort I made. One pair that fit was a frumpy black snow boot. The other was a slouchy brown boot that fit like a glove.




Worth every cent of my Mother’s hard earned money and every bead of sweat shed.

Could you resist me?

My sad pouty face. Who could say no to this?

The beau is out on a pub crawl with his science buddies. I have just made a deliciously simple goat's cheese salad, poured myself a chilled glass of white wine and am settling in front of the telly to watch EastEnders. Pure Bliss.

Is this pomegranate half bad or half good?

Drunken Birthday post

Happy Birthday Danielle!!!! The 28th of October is my darling Danielle's birthday, and I have had a screwdriver too many in her honor. This is the girl that has gone through hell and back with me. We were randomly put together as college roommates and instantly clicked. Between bouts of Wicca, various therapists, townie republican boyfriends (I can never say sorry enough for draging you through the "relationship that never should have been"), fabulous wine and cheese parties, student films, trips to my family in France, cocktails on top of the Hancock, sucking on pickles, trapping giant rats, and sleepovers overlooking the statue of liberty...Danielle, I celebrate you.

Everyone stop by her blog and give her wet messy bloggy bithyday hugs. Because this chica deserves it. She's not just "cleavage to die for", she is intelligent, beautifull, caring, open, inquisitive, driven, creative, loyal, and above all my friend.


Click here to wish a HAPPY BIRTHDAY to DANIELLE!

Why is it that whenever I reach for the milk in the fridge for my morning cereal I first reach for the chilled bottle of Absolut before realizing my mistake.

Homesick

I've never felt homesick until now: The Chicago White SOX are in the World Series and I am far away. In a land where not only is Baseball a joke, but the idea of one nation claiming their final matches of their "favorite pastime" as the WORLD series is more than laughable.

True, I am a cubs fan, but I am happy to see any team of Chicago rise to greatness.

All I have here is this



Neon lights on a carnival ride in the East Midlands of England....

How to score brownie points with me

Tell me my unstable nature and firey spirit reminds you of the young deciple Jen in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

The Lone American

On my bus home from work the English were the minority. The small cramped bus filled with different accents and languages. I heard Japanese, Indian, Spanish, an African language, and rising above the din of this multicultural scene were four very loud, very brass American accents.

To paraphrase David Sedaris, an American abroad will find no harsher critic than another American. Oh how true. Now that all the students are back, different languages and accents are heard all over Nottingham, which is great. Except for the Americans. Every time I hear a close cousin to my own voice coming out of some bland blond American mouth I cringe, my stomach turns.

It’s like they embody every ugly stereotype of someone from the U.S. of A. No, not just embody, embrace. It’s almost as if they are over here simply to perpetuate the rest of the worlds view of us as loud mouthed, gun chomping, idiots.

In France I never minded other Americans as much as I do here. In France I got to be superior. The Americans I met were all on vacation or studying abroad, where as I lived in Paris. They could never contain the respect and awe in their eyes when after asking me how long I was staying in Paris for, they heard my response: Indefinitely.

Sometimes the Americans I met could also fill in for a good cultural Americana refuelling. We’d drink screwdrivers together and talk about ALF and The Snorks, 7-11 slurpies and Cheetos. Those were good times. But in England I don’t need cultural refuelling. I have the Friends and Simpsons over here. I can eat Cheetos whenever I want.

But really the reason I recoil as the site and sound of my fellow countrymen is because I want to have a monopoly on the whole “obnoxious American in Nottingham” bit. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, and the way I see it, I got here first.

It will be my harsh accent they fall in love with, my loud laugh that can be heard above the din of the pub that they will seek out, it will be me and only me they come to to find out what America is really like.

Fellow Americans in Nottingham, you are doing it wrong. There should be charm in your brassiness, there should be wit in your blunt remarks, and there should be endearment to you gullible, honest nature. Step aside and let a professional take over. Because you are SO cramping my style.

You know what sign you don't want to see outside of your home?


Road closed due to Sewar work.


Mmmmm, tasty.

one last photo

There's two more photos that I forgot that are hanging in the gallery of la Lauren.




This photo doesn't do them justice. These photos are taken near Marseille. The lighting there is insanely perfect, like the sun is slowly caressing everything in its view with long languid brush strokes.

mi casa es su casa

Welcome to my humble home.



Here we have my wardrobe.


The "lounge".

And now my photo gallery - all taken by yours truly.



Here is our cat, Lechat. Who is currently living with the parent's-in-law in the south of France. Sometimes I'm jealous of my cat.



Grapes on a vine in a vineyard in California



My aunt, father and cousin (and aunt again) in France



Lechat again, along with a photo of what I think to be the windows of the Rodin museum in Paris.



Lemon's in my uncle's garden in L.A.



A chess board, moments before battle begins.

If you can't get your photos to an art gallery, bring the art gallery to your photos.

This is what happens when you mix cider and a digital camera

A night out at the pub after a day at the fair (Oh yeah, and there was a football game in there somewhere too...England vs Austria):



Here is Rohan and Stephane wearing Rohan's hat



This is me and the horse I won at Goose fair. I think we eventually settled on Diamond Blue Runner for his name.



Here we have John and Caine



And here is Ed and me.

Nothing terribly interesting, put I promised to post some photos until I found time to write.

Ugly Food

Not every meal that I deem photo worthy and blog mentionable actually ends up on my blog. Unfortunately the tastiness of a meal is not in direct proportion to its photographic qualities. But then I thought, who cares? Just because the food is "ugly" doesn't mean it doesn't deserve a shiny spot on my website. So without further ado, I give you the Ugly Food:



This is by far the best omelette I have ever tasted and I am astounded that it was actually made by yours truly. Simple cheddar and tomatoes. Unfortunately this photo looks more like a lesson in primary colors than a culinary delight.


This dish was inspired by a friend I met in Paris who is now also living in Nottingham. Chicken breasts stuffed with spinach and brie wrapped in bacon. It was delicious, but looks more like something you'd find in the garbage after a human autopsy.

Close your eyes and enjoy.

Bare with me

I've just started a new job, so please bare with me while I find my rhythm with working and blogging.

I am LOVING the ideas for the poem, please continue!!!

I promise to write more soon, but it is late as I have just come back from the pub quiz (which we WON! for only the second time! I'm elated! Is that sad?)

Here is a photo to bide the time:



This is me at the Goose Fair of Nottingham, an over 700 year old fair that I will be writing more about and will be showing many more pictures. I've got a bit of a "fish head" going on there, but it was because Stephane had just called my name, I turned around, and he took the picture. This is my "Yes? You asked for moi?" face.

I'll do my best to post at least a photo a day while I find time to properly write.

uncompleted poetry

Doing a a little house cleaning, and I have come across various little scraps of paper, often writen on the back of grocery receipts of ideas for stories, poetry, etc. that I've hastily jotted down and then strewn around my cluttered appartment only to be found months later.

Well I came across one that I wrote during a lagging moment at one of my old jobs. Who knows where it was inspired from, but I would love to have you (yes, you dear readers) help me finish it.

I think my idea was to have a poem that had each line starting with a letter of the alphabet (in order) that also used aliteration pertaining to an animal or being of some sort.

I didn't get very far:

Aching angels
Bruised baboons
Cracked coyotes clawing at the moon
Disabled deamons

Hmmm, I don't think it was a very "happy" time at work for me then. But if anyone cares to add on, I quite like the original premise I came up (yes I did just compliment myself - someone has to).

So please, join me in a little weekend creativity. And whoever finds a line for the letter X gets a gold star!

P.S Happy Birthday OT!!!

Absence makes you miss stuff

I miss Paris, I miss Chicago, I miss Marseille and Vence, I miss my childhood in San Louis Obispo. I miss my loft in the East Village I'll have in 4 years, I miss the house with a pool and my three kids in Montpellier I'll have in 10. I miss my retirement home in Barcelona I'll have in 45 years. I miss my Mom's retirement home in Greece she'll have in 25. I miss my little sister's future mountain side home in Nepal. I miss you.

Inspired by Danielle

French Living

I went to France for two hours last night and didn't even leave Nottingham. We went to dinner with six of our friends to a lovely restaurant called French Living. As soon as we walked down the blue painted metal staircase I was flooded with the smell of France. As Proust can attest, there is nothing like the sense of smell to bring back vivid memories, and for the next two hours of lingering over an honestly prepared three course meal, speaking French with the staff (everyone who works there is French), having a never empty glass of wine, and cheeky conversation with our English friends, I felt like I was back on rue Mouffetard in Paris, having dinner at one of our favorite musty French restaurants that is always filled with more anglophone tourists than real Frogs. I turned to Stephane mid-meal and we both joined in a collective sigh of "ahh, Home".

You can check out the restaurant Here

For those of you interested, I had the Crottin Chaud for a starter (warm goat's cheese salad). The salad was delicious and almost as good as the best Crottin Chaud in the world, but that title is still held by my friend J.C (that's Jean-Claude, not Jesus Christ). My main course was Chevreuil aux Myrtilles (venison with a blueberry sauce). This was accompanied by a gratin dauphinois and some of the best cooked vegetables I have ever tasted. The venison was succulent and perfectly cooked, just the right amount of pink. Small cheese platter and salad along with an espresso finished me off.

I haven't eaten so decadently in a while and I was thankfull for having gone to the gym a few hours before to make room for all that food.