Friday, 25 December 2015

Oh, you are really spoiling us . . .





Following on from last post . . .


The mysterious allure of knobbly gold-chocolates

Perhaps it's the same elsewhere, but France's supermarket shoppers seem obsessed with Ferrero Rocher. We usually receive a box or two from Mark's piano students, but this year there were many boxes under the tree, including the most landfill-esque version we have yet seen: a giant, thick plastic cone, I suppose meant to resemble a diamond . . . this shouldn't be allowed under packaging laws - if any actually exist.

                                               

Amongst the many mysteries in the world sit questions surrounding F.Rocher: why do people buy them? They taste like . . .well, a blob of Nutella with sand in it. The actual nut is fine, but I'd rather just have a bag of hazelnuts and forget the sugar, gold foil and gleaming plastic.
It's kind of people to give Mark a present after a year of lessons, but why not other chocolates? Our biggest local supermarket had a chocolate section far bigger than the fruit and veg area; towering displays of everything from milk/dark selection boxes to chocolate covered hamsters, so why purchase F.R? Is it the marketing? the safety in buying something that is recognised/everyone will like (not); the price? - I had a look out of curiosity, and, nope, lots more quality-branded stuff at similar or cheaper - so . . . I think it must be a present list thing - check list: ah yes, fifteen presents to buy for not immediate friends or family, "grab fifteen boxes, Anton," done.
Other chocolates sitting about in the house call out: "Eat me . . . come on, you know you want to." But the Nutella blobs don't have this effect on me, or on other members of the family (maybe the dogs, but I haven't offered them any, hounds being allergic to choc apparently). Mark half-heartedly ate one or two, but the boxes were destined to stay un-opened/be re-gifted until we had an idea of creating a festive pud with them, as no-one had got round to making a more traditional one.

So: Ferrero Rocher red fruit and custard surprise.

Get a big bowl, put knobbly chocs and cream in and beat (I liked this bit) with something, put in glasses, add a layer of red fruits, a layer of crême anglaise and a blob of cream on top.

  

                             

Happy Christmas

                                     


                                  

Wednesday, 23 December 2015

Golden Brussel Sprout Award

For the most useless Christmas item of 2015, please give a big hand to the factory that produced . . . a silver plastic apple the size of an sumo-wrestling turkey.
Imagine having to open this in front of your family and look really pleased.

                                                          

Light and shadows

On my return from the rather grey UK, I was greatly relieved to find that the sun was still shining back home, although it has been a tad dry - not good for next years crops/garden etc.
The dogs sprang from the car on seeing the two neglected fields that we have adopted as their race track, and ran in a big grassy circle while we stood, revolving slowly, watching this wonderful sight.






A view of a brick-built folly with its 'rabbit ear' guardian cypress trees, winter vines, and mist in the Aude valley

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Edit number five


I was so sure last time that it was right . . . and then I got it back (Hoxton, edit 4) and discovered about seven pages worth of mistakes, typos, wrong names, and general story outline to be improved upon - Oh for an editor.
So, this is the new one and from a brief flip through it's looking good (no cover yet).

                                    

         Here are a few illustrations from the book which should be out early-ish in the New Year.

  

Monday, 14 December 2015

Dog rigueur

                           
                                                

What the best dressed hounds are wearing this season . . . 

Our rescue 'Galgos' in snuggly fleeces this morning as it was hovering around zero

The worst cup of tea . . . ever


                                                                       reconstruction



I love tea. Love it! But unfortunately due to a boring neuralgic pain-in-face thing, I can't drink too much of it due to the teoline or whatever is the caffeine equivalent (can't do coffee either).
It's become a treat, quite a highlight of the day (sad): the choosing of which time to take the glittering beverage, what to serve it with - obsessional even . . .
So, when, a day or two back, we were travelling to the coast, a salon du thé presented itself along the route, we decided to stop. Tea! and cake! so many to choose from, oh!
I opted for a cherry and peach fougasse slipper-like something, and Mark, a tarte au citron. We asked what teas they had. Actually, I only wanted builder's creosote, but felt I should honour the fact that they were a proper tea house.
She looked blank for a moment, stumped by the question, so we proceeded, "Deux thés au lait, s'il vous plaît."
We sat and nibbled cake and she placed two wrapped green tea bags on the table.
"Excusez-moi, madame, est-ce que vous avez du thé noir?"
"Non"
"Du Lipton's yellow label, peut-être?"
"Non, que du thé vert."
We nodded English-ley: "Lovely. Two teas with milk, alors, merci."
A teapot was placed in the microwave.
We nibbled more and looked around at the functional space: not the remotest nod to cosiness: no flowery china, flowers, table clothes, etc - strip lights, 80s formica, and a mean looking santa in the window.
The teapot having been hand-tested for luke-warmness, was placed placed on the table.
Ah, warm milk, authentically Indian... but no water.
Being British (and pathetic) we dunked the bags a bit. No tea colour came out, just a hint of piss colour. Mark braved a question.
"Do you think we could have some hot water?"
She stared at us as if we were insane: "Mais, - you said thé au lait, n'est-ce pas?"
"Yes, but you have to make it with hot water and then -"
"Ah, oui, vous avez raison - I forgot, my nephew usually makes it. He knows the method." She added as if tea with milk is a crucial part of a closely guarded chemical warfare secret .
She humphed and returned five minutes later to present us with a second teapot, half full of tepid water.
We made the best of it: pale jade-coloured liquid with slightly off, milk clumps. Actually we failed to make the best of it; ate the cakes and stood up to pay at the counter.
I was dreading the 'was everything alright' thing, but as we were not in the USA, this didn't occur.
I thought perhaps she might have, being slightly overwhelmed by our complex demands, and thus making a cochon's ear out of what should have been my highlight of the day, say, she wouldn't charge for the drinks, but she didn't, and she did - charge.
We left and stood for a moment, watching through the window as she cleared our table, slightly slopping the still-full cups of chilled green tea, and mentioned again the idea of doing our own tea salon/books/weird stuff, shop. Watch this space . . .

Saturday, 12 December 2015

The F.E.W

Proud Mum's club - we were all there last night at our sons' band, The F.E.W playing in a small but incredibly lively café in Fa (Aude).
Freddy, bass, Ezra (my son) drums, William, Guitar.

                                               

                       

                                          

                                                    

Friday, 11 December 2015

Cracked Eye

Great name - great publication.
In this busy world maybe we don't always have time to sit and read as much as we might like. Cracked Eye is an online publication specialising in short stories, short films, and my favourite way to take in some one else's imagination, audio stories.
The site is beautifully constructed and features some great illustrations too.

Paste in this link and enjoy . . .

https://crackedeye.com


                    

        Illustration by Leosaysays for my story The Hundred and Fifty-Eighth Book'

                                               

                                                      Illustration by Elly Strigner for 'Jenny' by Casey Miracle

     

      Illustration by Seth Insua for The Silences by Robert Rigby

Wednesday, 9 December 2015

Never work with animals or children

That's what photographers used to say when I was a stylist.
And it was true . . . The times I had stood in a studio waiting while a harassed mother tried to coax a toddler into sitting still for the required photo, or watching with suppressed laughter while someone chased a cat around the room after it had just been groomed for the millionth time ready for its fifteen seconds of fame as the star of Purry Chunks, or whatever the disgusting product might have been.
Baby clothes catalogues were probably the worst. We used to have about three babies in reserve as the time limit on prodding (however gently) an infant into the right pose was . . . short, to say the least before the 'whaaing' would set in.
These days photography for me tends to be snapping odd buildings, plants, etc, the family, and our dogs - usually difficult to capture as they move fast, unless asleep (dogs, not family). This moment though was an exception. 'Bali' had obviously seen a rabbit or other small beast and was 'frozen' giving me enough time to struggle the camera over thick coat, switch it on and snap just before she leapt.

                                   

Tuesday, 8 December 2015

French bureaucracy for dummies





There isn't one - a book, one of those friendly looking black and yellow titles on everything from car maintenance to taxidermy (possibly - I haven't checked).
But then I don't think anyone could write one on this subject as no one seems to know what is going on anyway.
Yesterday, I went down to our local social security system office where I sat next to a dying weeping fig for thirty minutes to then be told by a brisk woman who appeared to be aged about fourteen, that we had done it all wrong. It being something so mind-numbingly boring that I won't bother to describe the Kafka-esque mess up.
I went back home and we searched for the appropriate document, found it (possibly) and went back. After my second chat with the plant I saw a different woman, more sensibly aged and with a bright but actually welcoming manner.
She looked at the piece of paper and shook her head making those tsk tsk noises that French women in positions of (perceived) power are so good at.
"Mais non, Madame. This is not ze right one - you need the . . . " she then proceeded to tell me I needed the letter de radiation. This was alarming as I don't think we have ever agreed to being radiated. I also learned that the fourteen year old had given us the wrong forms and that I would have to fill out three more with exactly the same information on them.
I cycled home, made tea and looked up the word 'radiation'. It actually means finished, gone, kaput, which I though was résilliation. Still you learn something (many things) every day, nes pas?
We then both went down and sat in a queue after which we were told that it was still wrong and that we would have to make an appointment to have a longer chat, assuming another piece of paper would arrive from the company who should have sent it four months ago.
I cycled home and met 'The Bee Man' - lovely neighbour who, yes, keeps bees. I told him of my morning's waste of time to which he recounted similar stupidities involving bureaucracy with a final comment which I think I will write, print out and stick on our bureau wall.
'Ma chère madame, we are around 40 million French people and 39 and a half million don't know what is going on. You are not alone, you can be sure of that.'
I think I shall make our own copy of French Bureaucracy for Dummies. A blank interior with someone doing a Gallic shrug and the words 'Bon Chance.'

Saturday, 5 December 2015

Action dog - sofa slob

'Don't these dogs need a lot of exercise'?  said a fellow hound-walker the other day on observing the keen-ness in our two Galgo's (Spanish Greyhounds) strides.

They do - but preferably in the form of a rabid sprint round a field, after which they will happily amble home and collapse onto a sofa.
Long slower walks are good too, but watching them this morning I think I've got the formula right, for me too: brisk walk up a hill, let them off the leads and gawp in admiration as they blur past, tongues lolling; walk back, them to collapse, me to get on with some work feeling refreshed and a perhaps a little lighter of flab.
I'm not sure what you do if you live in a city with these dog-types - borrow a dog track?

                                        

                                        

Husband is similar although he does more sprinting (work) and less sofa-slobbing.