April Fish
I’m not a prankster: I can’t lie so I can’t pull any prank off with a straight face. And I’m not big on pinning paper fish on people’s backs either (or checking my own regularly).
So my contribution to April Fish is the list below, a compendium of amusing (and self-centered) ‘me’ facts – which may or may not be true. Pointless, but isn’t that what today is all about?
*I met Paul Keating – the Australian Prime Minister in office – when I was 12 years old, and asked him for an autograph.
*Despite being one of the stereotypical and quintessential French foods worldwide, I have never in my life eaten a single frog leg. I have however eaten one snail (just the one, that was enough). So that makes Christian a clear winner since he has eaten many more snails than I have.
*I was born at midnight sharp, so my father got to choose my birthday and the time on my birth certificate had to be doctored by two minutes.
*Instead of 32, I only have 24 teeth.
*My sister and I have a large freckle in the exact same spot (like the sisters in the Demoiselles de Rochefort).
*My great great grandmother Rosalie had a pet monkey.
Wishing you a good April Fish, and remember to watch your backs! (I just mean for paper fish – this is sounding a lot more sinister than I intended).
If you feel so inclined, please tell me something random about yourself. And yes, in the spirit of today you can punk me and make it a whopper (as long as you later reveal it wasn’t true – otherwise that’s just mean).
(Image is from here)
Un skonk de pew
My mother believes in age-specific child raising: when you hit a certain age and she deems you too old for something, you’re done.
She tried to steer me from Looney Tunes cartoons that – horror – I still enjoyed watching past the age of 12 (maybe I should have been a more sophisticated child in her mind and read the Economist instead?). With one exception: the marvellous, flamboyant and frisky Pepe le Pew. He made her laugh and we watched him together many times. She actually does a fantastic Pepe impression to boot.
So when I think of Pepe I am not only rolling around laughing at his accent, at the signs in the cartoons saying ‘Le’ everywhere, but I am also picturing my mother saying ‘Weeeere ah-re yoo peegeon?’. If you have never heard her say that, something in your life is missing. Honest.
(Image is from here – how could such a cute little creature have such an evil stink?)
PS: My sister just reminded me in a comment of this absolute classic, so for those of you who don’t read French here is the lowdown: mother goes to rubbish bins. Mother hears someone coming, mother thinks it’s my sister. Mother screams: ‘Weeeere ah-re yoo my leeetle peeeenk rah-beet??’. Mother comes face to face with neighbour. Is it more evil than Pepe’s stink to find deliciousness in her embarrassment?
What I’m sniffing today and why
I don’t eat sugar: I swore it off around my 18th birthday and I’ve pretty much stuck to that principle since. To be clear, refined sugar (in anything) – fruit and I, we’re all good. I know: why, right? Many reasons. That’s all you’re getting from me in terms of an explanation right before dinnertime.
But with all this in mind, in my pantry I still have a teeny packet of vanilla sugar. I have it for one reason only: my grandmother kept a huge jar of it and the smell of vanilla sugar is woven into many of my memories of her. Today I took the little packet out and sniffed it at length, repeatedly: it’s her birthday (she would have been 96). I miss her just that little bit less when I smell vanilla sugar (I said I didn’t eat sugar, I didn’t say I don’t like the smell!).
(Photo and how-to for making vanilla sugar from the amazing-looking Baking Bites).
On disinfectant
There have been many things to adapt to for me since moving from France to Australia, and this is the beginning of an attempt to explain.
Some things are strange when you live in a different country than your own. Like what people use to disinfect wounds. Or what they don’t use. And how they look at you when you ask for what they don’t use (but what is traditionally used in France).
Take the first time I asked for 70% alcohol in a pharmacy: I was looked at with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion. It turns out 70% (or 90%) alcohol cannot be gotten here.
I felt like saying ‘What lady, do you think I’m going to drink it?’, but I thought she might take this as an admission of guilt so I decided to keep my mouth shut*.
Except now, I have a contact: a French chemist who relates because she’s been given the same response (and look). We didn’t just bond over our nationality, but also our love for disinfecting wounds with virtually pure alcohol. And since she’s connected and she can get the stuff, she gave me a small bottle of it. Yay!!
I am almost looking forward to having a wound to disinfect… Take that Dettol.
*I really don’t drink it. I use it as a disinfectant.
Memories from childhood: shaking that coconut
Having grown up in different countries, Christian and I sometimes have no common childhood references (boo sad!). For example: Sesame Street means nothing to me*. It was on telly in France for a couple of years (translated to ’1, rue Sésame’) but no more by the time I was born. So when Christian says ‘I want-a to suck-a your blood!’ when he sees someone wearing a polo shirt with their collar up, I giggle (because I’m highly excitable and he uses a funny voice) but I also go ‘Whaaa?’.
And he is not familiar with the French institution that is ‘Cocoshaker’. Cocoshaker was on channel 2 at 8:30, and was part of my bedtime ritual when I was about 3 or 4. It is basically a tropical version of ‘spy vs. spy’: two creatures (a blue one and a pink one) vie for supremacy, which is achieved by climbing a palm tree and sitting atop holding position for as long as possible. The one still on the ground does everything in its power to unsit the one in the tree. And they don’t speak in intelligible words, but in a high pitched jibberish that makes me laugh so hard I’m in danger of snorting (if that sounds funny, you have seen nothing until you have heard my sister do an impression of it).
So while I try to show youtube videos of Cocoshaker to Christian, I am brushing up on my Sesame Street characters. And let me say, it is very surreal to have your husband explain to you who’s who in the cast of a colourful puppet show…
*But we had Fraggle Rock and the Muppets! Go figure…
Lamb chops
When I’ve had little sleep and an inverse amount of coffee, it does something to my head. Something delightful: it makes me remember hilarious things.
So today, I attempted to negotiate fits of laughter while trying to drive my car, and if I could help it still look dignified. The culprit is a memory taking me back 18 years ago (crikey!).
My family and I lived in Australia for about a year when I was 12. Being in a smallish Queensland town, we were the only French people there and the French teacher at our local high school thought she would take advantage of that. How? By asking my mother, brother and I to read out French words from children’s memory games into a tape recorder (to have good accurate pronunciation for various words on file, she explained).
One afternoon, we sat down and for a couple of hours we read words out in turn. Except, my mother wasn’t happy with the quality of the audio, or the quality of our performance. ’Louder children, we can’t hear anything you say when we play it back!’. So my brother and I tried to oblige, but Maman was still not happy. ’Here’ she said, ‘do it like this: LAAAAAMMMMBBBBBB CHHHOOOOPPPSSSSSS!!!!!’*. Lamb chops: forever in my mind associated with my mother, screaming the words ridiculously loud. And 18 years later, it still makes me laugh.
*If you are curious about what ‘lamb chops’ is in French, it is ‘côtelettes’.
Mon Papa à moi
When I miss my family I unintentionally take turns: I focus on someone specific and without even trying I am flooded by memories of all their little quirks and habits.
This morning, it’s my father’s turn. Exhibit A: he has a winter driving outfit which consists of a cap like this, gloves and a scarf. For the record he drives a little Twingo which I find irresistibly funny.
His idea of waking us up in the morning as children was to open the door and whistle the same tune played in army barracks at sunrise (the aptly named Réveille). To this day when I hear it, I always picture my father’s silhouette in the door and smile.
He makes really obvious and daggy jokes, over and over again. If you are looking for something he will say: ‘Whoever looks for something, finds it.’ (‘Qui cherche, trouve’). If he hears a few knocks in a row (say you’re using a a hammer), it’s ‘Come in!’. Every time.
He loves to go to the food market (right next to the town hall), and as it happened the market was on the day Christian and I got married. My father disappeared for 15 minutes, and when I asked him where he went he said: ‘I had to go tell the lady I buy my salads from you just got married.’ Cute.
And finally, and I don’t really know why, his name is Jacques and it cracks me up. And today, I really miss him.
(Hat is from here)
Chestnuts and my Maman
I was missing her today, and missing France. So I did something that always makes me feel closer to her: I bought some roasted chestnuts on the street. I had them with her for the first time one freezing night when I was 7 or 8 (we bought them Place des Chapeliers in my hometown and shared them). I always feel she is closer when I eat them. I can’t wait to share chestnuts with her again.
My little cuties
As much as I am irritated by people using French words for effect (read here about my full indignation), I am so endeared when anyone speaks French with me (whatever their knowledge of it). I was all excited when I found these two covers of a cheesy but catchy song I remember from my childhood. Midnight Juggernauts and Vampire Weekend, you little cuties you.
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