Hardship and the necessity of hope
My little family has been going through some tough times lately. Whilst I prefer to learn and change through curiosity and (hopefully not always brutal) introspection, at the moment I’m doing it through meditating on loss, hard choices, heart-melting unforgettable and unconditional love (with some sleepless nights thrown in).
I’ve learnt by now I am not a pessimist, and prefer hope over hopelessness. So I am going to put my optimism to good use and will write about things that make me happy. Starting now…
Proving Christian right, and how I can no longer watch my porridge cook
The light in our microwave seems to be temperamental. Which annoys me, since while I’m waiting for stuff to reach ideal temperature I sometimes get fixated and watch the tray turn around and around*.
When I first noticed the light went off, I tried something from my arsenal of fixes: opened and shut the door and jiggled it a few times. It didn’t work.
Christian observed: ‘What are you doing?’.
Me: ‘I jiggled the door. It’s one of my tactics when something doesn’t work.’
Christian: ‘What are the other tactics?’ (After 10 years he knows I can’t fix things – so you can understand his curiosity. Let’s also point out he dissed me on at least one occasion by boldly stating how French children can’t handle tools, so it’s no wonder I’m challenged in that area).
Me: ‘I’ve got three: jiggling and opening/closing door, restarting, jiggling the cord.’
Christian: ‘And if it still doesn’t work?’
Me: ‘Then I call ‘Chriiiiiiissss”.
I can tell you from experience that last one always works.
*In my defence, the microwave times itself in increments of 30 seconds only so you end up having to stay in front of it to spy on your food (or drink).
(Image from here)
Free Energy
How could you not love a song that says both ‘Bang’ and ‘Pop’? Immediately one after the other?
Sugar, coffee and making ducks
Last night I was lamenting the fact I have not drank any coffee for about 4 or 5 months. I love coffee – but it doesn’t love me back. Actually it pretty much hates me. Since this is clearly an abusive relationship it is logical for me to steer clear.
And as I was letting out a sad sigh imagining how much I would enjoy coffee at that very moment, the sigh became longer and more pronounced (probably audible in the Northern hemisphere by that point) when I thought of the delight that would also be making a duck in my coffee. I don’t know what the practice is called in other countries, but in France it is ‘Faire un canard‘ (don’t ask me: I just speak the language, I didn’t come up with it). And it’s as simple as taking a sugar cube, dipping it into coffee, and chomping on it.
The art of the perfect duck however not so simple: don’t dip in too long or the sugar cube will become saturated with coffee and begin to crumble – either in your cup, or even worse in your mouth when you are expecting a crisp chomp. Don’t dip in too little, or you won’t taste enough coffee and it will take a while to work your way through chewing a largish lump of dry sugar. This is speaking from years of practice: my parents let me make canards in their coffee as a child, long before I was allowed a cup all to myself.
Even though I swore off sugar more than a decade ago and I can’t handle coffee (you’re following right?), about now they both sound just like heaven. Especially if the sugar is shaped like a little ducky.
Sigh….
I found the little sugar ducky here. In case you want a box of 12, in which 11 are white sugar and 1 is raw.
4 and 30
I love maps (Michelin maps make my heart go boom and can entertain me for, well, hours. And yes, a good part of that time is spent trying to figure out how to fold them back up properly.)
I get even more excited when I see maps of a different kind, that organise information in a way you’ve most likely never seen before. These are maps of Paris and Melbourne, and they must have been as fastidious to draw up as they are amazing to look at.
Simply put, the maps are about photography: the blue points represent pictures taken by locals, the red points pictures taken by tourists, and the yellow points are the wild card (their takers couldn’t be put in either categories).
Eric Fischer, I applaud you.
Look at more cities in his Flickr set (he’s prolific!). You will also find out what 4 and 30 correspond to.
I want a wall of these. Bad. Maybe of cities Christian and I have been to and lived. I can see it. Brilliant.
(Via Far Out Brussel Sprout).
Technically, we’re both right
At least, that’s how I tried to paint the little exchange we had in the car the other night…
Me: Oh, look at the little buggers playing football in the cold!*
Christian: Soccer.
Me: Smart ass.
Christian: says nothing – grins.
Before taking sides, I urge you to consider how much more logical it is to call the game ‘football’: to paraphrase Eddie Izzard (I love Eddie Izzard), the ball does connect with your foot. One could even say it is the point of the game. Think about it.
*It was after dark, they were wearing shorts and t-shirts, and we’re in winter here.
(Image from here).
Memories from childhood: the blue-and-red-hatted, gibberish-speaking boy and girl
Chapi Chapo are cheeky little children living in a magical world of colourful shapes, getting up to various cute-as-pie giggly adventures.
They always feel like busting a move at the end of each episode, a mixture of leg-shaking ballet and tap (did I say cute-as-pie?).
I personally hold Chapi responsible for making me want long flowey blond hair as a child – and for my appreciation of large brimmed hats.
More Chapi Chapo adventures here.
Non monsieur!
If I got a dollar every time someone asked me to say ‘Non monsieur, I deed not no zat Petit Miam ‘as a lot more calceeum zan meelk’, well, I would be rich.
Le conundrum
Madame Little Brown Pen – Nichole – is tackling the question of stripes and their predictable association with French fashion.
I’ve wondered about this with some disbelief because I never knew. I thought my wearing of stripes might equal an obsession with straight lines (check), but a badge of nationality?
Add your two cents to the conversation here. Or just visit and look at gorgeous pictures. Or both.
(T-shirt from Monsieur T – but no longer available by the looks of it).
Remembrance of morons past: ‘Now, lift your leg!’
I was filling medical history papers yesterday and had to list all the operations I’ve ever had.
Every time I write ’1996: knee’ a flood of memories come back. All pretty much unpleasant. A lot surrounding my scalpel-happy surgeon.
That knee operation is probably the one time in my life when I was in the most physical pain, and it kept on giving: being attached to a bottle via my leg for 3 days, blood-thinning injections for 2 weeks (and those happen in your belly – and they’re bad!), crutches for 6 months.
So, what about lifting legs? Well, when I went back to my surgeon after a month, he took my leg (which had not bent in a month), and bent it. In less than 30 seconds. Aw aw aw aw AW – come on! And when it was bent over the edge of the table, he looked at me and said ‘Now, lift it back up’.
I tried – it didn’t work. So I looked down and I realised my leg looked different: as in, no longer with any muscles to lift itself with. A melted leg.
When I had figured it out, I looked back up at him: ‘You don’t have muscle anymore see! So you can’t lift it back up.’ He wasn’t sparing me the self-evident humour he was obviously sensing. And all this time I was barely managing not to pass out from the pain.
Lift my leg, right? Tell you what: he was lucky I couldn’t do it. Because I can’t think of anyone I wanted to kick in the face more than him. Then, and 13 years later – just as much.
(I posted this image before, here – but it’s prettier than an image of a splint. Or my scar for that matter!)
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