Bed Stories

Last week Reuben and I went for a little getaway in Door County. We badly needed it; our summer had been pretty awful. As well as our spring. And winter. Oh well. It happens. I am placing all my bets on 2011 to be the year of permanent, never-ending and glorious bliss.
Blindingly bright.
I already have my sunglasses on.Anyway - we made reservations in smaller hotels. Nothing fancy this time, just a bed and a shower, you know. Wooden cabins, outdated picture frames, quilts and lacy window treatments. Country-style. Cheesy much? Oh yeah!
Everything was good and well until we settled down for the night after a long day of riding in:
- the car for close to 6 hours
- a smelly ferry on a very choppy Lake Michigan
- and a couple of ancient bikes we used to tour the island (Washington) we were at. On. Whatever. We did in the wind and under the rain.that's what counts.

The bed was squeaky, very bouncy (powerful springs, lemme tell you!!) but also...............very small.
Full-sized small.
Bummer.So now for most of the world a full-sized bed is NOT small. It is just perfectly normal. And in any case, a big upgrade from one's twin from childhood. I happily shared one of these for years without questioning, feeling squeezed, uncomfortable or claustrophobic.
I never fell off of the boat either. Even by 'rocky' waters (insert stupid grin here).

But everything went awry 4 years ago when Reuben decided that he was tired to deal with dwarf-size furniture and pulled an American move on me.
He bought a KING size bed.
Oh boy. Oh man. Oh God.
That was the end of the world as I knew it.
At least it was not Californian.

The thing is just huge. HUGE. Ever heard of ménage à trois? I am sure this bed was created for that particular naughty purpose. I jokingly say to all my friends who are considering taking the ultimate step that going from queen to king is just asking for divorce. Seriously - how do you keep the intimacy alive when there is an ocean of pillows, cotton sheets or - way worse - fleece sheets (ahhhhhhhhhhh!!) between the two of you?!? Add to the equation a cat or two, a demanding dog and a wife who likes to sleep at the edge of the bed, and there you have it: a marriage in peril.
Just kidding kids.
Or am I?

At first I was not a big fan. I was cold, felt lonely and abandoned by my bed partner. I missed feeling his hairy legs on mine, his respiration on my neck and his vicious kicks in the middle of the night. But I quickly realized that it was indeed......nice. Incredibly so. I could almost sleep in a diagonal without bothering anyone. Sweee-eeet!
Our Ikea bed is not the best nor the most comfortable in the world but I grew really fond of it. It takes most of the room in a little chambre but what the hell?!? This is, after all, a BED-room. Right?
The only thing that still bothers me a lot about my XL-size bed, American fashion: the price tag of the sheets. But every luxury has its price.

So that night we laid down, turned off the lights and closed our eyes. Trying to get away from each other. Bodies way too close.
He got up - on my sleepy suggestion - in the middle of the night to go on the sofa.

That says it all.

I hope we'll never have to move back to Europe.
We'll be screwed. In the bad sense of the word.

No Pain, No Gain

I already talked about my coming to running: how it came as a surprise since I always dreaded it and therefore loathed it. How thanks to my friend Erin I got into it, signed up for 5Ks and decided to kick up a few notches. How I learned to enjoy it, excitement and soreness alike and how it allowed me to stay sane in moments of disarray.

Three days ago I ran my first half-marathon.
13.1 miles. 21.1 kilometers.I was exhilarating.
And painful. Of course. Actually much more than I had anticipated. I had gone through my summer training without noticeable trouble and was not prepared to have my lower back killing me (not so) softly the way it did on race day. It started almost right away, mile 2. I was 3 minutes under my 11:27/mile pace, my breathing was right, the weather was perfect and then I felt it: a dull ache in my loins worsened by every stump on the ground. I tried to change my form, straightened up, arched my back - to no avail.
I knew then that the 13 miles were going to be even longer than they already were.

But you know what? Despite the pain, the fatigue and the gradual disappointment that settled in when I found out that I wouldn't meet my goal time I enjoyed every single minute of it. OK, most of it...and now that my body has recovered I am looking forward to the next challenge. To next year. To - maybe - even a bigger challenge.

Running is freaking addictive.

It is hard to explain why because seen from the outside it looks nuts. Boring. Useless. At least it's what I used to think, and I am sure that most people out there would agree with me. Most sports have a purpose, points to score, an opponent to defeat, a task to accomplish. You have tools, partners, a coach, a program, a common goal.
Running is mainly a solitary activity. You don't need much to do it, and you certainly don't need anyone. It is you against a clock that you set however you want, a pair of shoes, your legs and your lungs. And no real direction.
It is simple and pure.


Sunday will forever remain in my memory as one of the very special days of my life. For many reasons.
Accomplishing a goal that you had fixed for yourself months in advance is in itself very satisfying. And I have to say that besides the mundanities of everyday life I hadn't achieved anything in quite a while. Quitting school a few months ago was liberating in many ways but irremediably deprived me from this sense of accomplishment that is so essential to one's life. Dedicating to this program 6 years of my life to the detriment of my physical health, sanity and self-esteem to get nothing concrete out of it wasn't particularly pleasant. It was - and some naught days, still is - painful. Maddening. Frustrating. Despite people's encouraging comments of: "You made the right decision". Other people's decisions are always much easier to validate, aren't they?
So crossing the finish line - ironically enough, just a couple of blocks away from campus - after months of hard dedication gave me an incredible rush of happiness. I raised my arms, yelled "We Did it!!" and would have been ready to hug the first random person to cross my path. Fortunately for both of us Reuben was just behind me; we kissed, exhausted but elated.

Doing this incredible journey with him was an incredible gift. I kept telling him he was crazy, insane, loco, fou, Сумасшедший, 狂人 and the biggest monkey to ever walk on Earth for wanting to run the race with me without proper training. But in reality I am damn impressed by my silly hubby. He did it. Out of love. To support me. He was initially supposed to run by my side the first 3-4 miles - the hardest for me. But he stayed the whole time. Encouraging me all the way. Pushing me. Handing me water and Gatorade. Telling me "you got this!" every time I needed to hear it.
That made all the difference in the world.

I was not alone in my journey. Fellow runners supported me all along; we shared training stories, exchanged tips and routes, suffered through the summer heat. And on Sunday I had 20,000 companions to carry me along the way. I never thought that I would enjoy running among other people, total strangers, the way I did. But for a couple of hours we were all mates. Breathing, sweating, and pounding the asphalt of Lake Shore Drive in unison.All embarked on that same adventure for different reasons and with different expectations, but all of us united by the same objective: cross the line.
And the spectators.
I never anticipated that. Hundreds of them, all along the way. We were all cheered on by families, children, cheerleaders, sign bearers, and rock bands. ROCK BANDS people. I felt like a star. "Did you know that you were my hero?" one sign read. My two favorite? "Run like an angry Kenyan" and "You are all very good at exercise",
LOL assured.
Emotion too.

When I stepped on the red line I had tears of joy in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed. Exhaustion, pride, happiness, disappointment and a little sadness to not have anyone there with us to share this special moment in our lives. I watched with envy other runners being greeted by family and loving friends. They were hugged and congratulated. Acknowledged. Some even had flowers.
We rested for a while on the grass of Jackson Park, stretching, smiling, taking a few pictures, still in awe of our accomplishment. Then we got up to walk back to the car parked on campus. People started to send us congratulation messages on our phones. But the most important ones were missing. My closest friends, my family. I took solace in thinking they didn't understand what that day meant to me. And welcomed all the others who did.
We celebrated with brunch in Wicker Park, and a festive dinner at one of the most wanted restaurants in town. A lot of pork was involved. Pints of beer as well.
When I went to bed that night my legs were not even sore anymore.

I am hungry for more. I heard that runners are kinda crazy like that.
I prefer saying: motivated.

Blog Shout Out: Et si on se promenait...à Paris!

This is my first time doing this.
People who know me will tell you that when I love, I love. For real. A lot. I came across this little gem of a blog on Twitter and fell head over heels for it.

This is amazing.

"What about taking a stroll in Paris?" (rough translation of the title) is not really about the text content, rather minimalist (even though you can still find some very useful information in some entries). What makes it all are the PICTURES.

They are fabulous. Gorgeous. Fantastic.
And make you discover a secret, out of the beaten path Paris. Little alleys, small squares, hidden gardens and cours intérieures, shop windows, restaurants - this is all worth it, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Since all the pictures are copyright material, I cannot share any here with you but GO AND SEE THEM.
http://beegirl.squarespace.com/

Enjoy!

Restaurant Review: Brixie's, Brookfield, IL

OK. To qualify Brixie's of 'restaurant' is totally overkill. And people who know the place have probably chuckled.
It is not a restaurant.
Brixie's is a bar, pretty divey at that, that serves food. Bar food. Not gastro-pub fare, nothing elevated, elegant and refined. No. Bar Food. Fat, greasy, artery-clogging, heart-stopping, hip-fattening and fingers-dirtying.
YUM.
(At least they haven't put 'deep fried butter' on their menu yet; only in Texas. I really need to go and figure out for myself what's going on over there....there must be something in the water...)

From the outside, Brixie's look like a warehouse or a garage. Not very inviting. But don't be fooled and push the door: you'll be rewarded by the best beer selection around, nice and welcoming people, darts, pool and "The Hotter than Hell" burger that deserves by itself the trip to the 'burbs. And with them being open until 4am, there is really no reason for you not to go.

Review written on Yelp 8/25/2010:
"History of Brixie's, fine drinking establishment in the lovely town of Brookfield, IL - according to Mister Aurore L, former resident who used to haunt the locale on a regular basis between 1987 and 2005:

1 - in the beginning, the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
2 - the plot of land used to be a watering hole where bison came to quench their thirst by the thousands, even breaking the ice in the winter to achieve that purpose. 'Break ice' is actually the etymology of the name Brixie's (deformed and transformed over time. See rules of historic phonetics for more details)
3 - in 1934 a family of immigrants lost their construction business because of the economic crisis and decided to open a bar. They decided to call it Brixies to honor their past (brixies = brick + ksi - ksi being a pressure unit: kilo per square inch).
They heard later the rumors about the watering hole, and thought it was a very happy coincidence.
4 - in 1987, Mister Aurore L discovered the place. At the time it was licensed as a package goods store and had shelves and shelves of liquors and a tiny bar.
5 - M. A. L. became a regular, got drunk and sick for the first time within its walls and learned how to become a pool shark feared by the most ferocious players.
He will tell you of his exploits on occasions, when he's in the mood and doesn't feel too hungry.
(Tip: you can buy him off with fried chicken)
6 - M. A. L. took A. L. one night to meet his friends and when she wasn't impressed with it (she had some perception issues at the time), decided to cut all ties and vowed to never come back. He cried for days. Brixie's would have too - if it could have.
7 - A. L. made her debuts at the pool - under the patronage of the former hero of the place.
She totally flipped. That was a flop.

8 - M. A. L and A. L. went to Brixie's one night after hearing marvels about their burgers. They discovered much to their surprise that the place had had a face lift, and lost a couple of pool tables but had definitely gained a lot in the 'appeal' department.
Among its charms:
- a juke box
- two dartboards
- a super cool retro looking little booth in a corner
- 32 beers on tap
- more than 100 beer by the bottle!!!!!!
- late opening hours, we are talking about 4am during the weekend, 3am otherwise (kitchen hours differ)
- $8.50 for the Hotter Than Hell burger served on a pretzel bun with jalapeno slices (13 of them on mine), smoked gouda, chipotle aioli and a big, thick, juicy patty of meat. KRAZY DELISH. Perfectly cooked meat, pretzel bun - I am in paradise.
- $5.50 for make you own mac'n'cheese
- pretty dilapidated bathroom stalls - it's a must.Totally worth the trip kids.
Be a part of history, go to Brixie's!"

In Need of Daily Bread

You know these questions that people inevitably ask you?!?
"When are you getting married?"
"Are you planning on getting a kid anytime soon?"
"How long before you decide to move on?"
blah-blah-blah..........I have a few of my own to deal with. Sweet, huh? And here they mainly have to do with my being French. Ohhhh....this accent. I can't quite pin it down....
Yeah. I am learning to be ok with it and accept it as a 'charming asset' of mine. After all it is So cuuuuuuuuuuuuuute. But then - once my country of origin is figured out - come the following duet, as exasperating as a solitary mosquito trapped in your bedroom on a hot summer night:
- what are the differences between France and the US?
- what do you miss from France?

Zen.
It's not a coincidence if I started yoga recently.
I have a lot to learn.

I am usually so annoyed by the first question that I want to scream. There is a silent nuclear explosion going on in my head every time I hear the words. You want to know? Jump on a transatlantic flight and see for yourself.
Just. Leave. Me. Alone.

As for the second one - that's easy. And I have to say that I were just a tad religious I would be pretty upset with you, peeps - because you are failing me as a Christian.

You - are not giving me my daily bread.
Therefore I am a lost soul.
Shame on you.

I miss BREAD. Good bread.
I used to live above a boulangerie.
A very nice one. A few steps above the ground, two nice windows filled with cake displays and other goodies, a wonderful aroma escaping from the wood-burning ovens in the basement. People were coming from all around the neighborhood to buy their award-winning bread.
They were closed on Sunday afternoons and Mondays.
I was inside every single other day of the week.

Because it's just what we do in France. We buy our baguette, pain de campagne or pain aux céréales daily. EVERY DAY. Rain or shine. Snow or hurricane.
Fresh. Crunchy. Moist. Odorous. Magic.
It is a ritual, a delightful one, a happy pause that doesn't belong to the long list of chores one has to accomplish during one's day. To me walking in and asking in a cheery voice: "Une baguette pas trop cuite, s'il vous plaît" was a definite highlight of my routine. I liked my baguette not over-cooked: the outside crust still has a very blond, soft yellow color, reminiscent of the wheat it is made of; the crunch is soft and delicate, and the crust slightly gives in without breaking.
Perfection to me.

So yes, the joy of using a serrated knife in the morning to cut and open your tartine, and then spreading a nice sweet butter from Normandy on its still slightly warm mie is unparalleled in my world.
But I haven't known such a feast in a very long time.
And you wonder why I am always in such a bad mood.

As heartbreaking as it is to admit - most French people buy nowadays their bread in supermarkets and desert their beloved bakeries. Cheaper, more convenient and sometimes even better quality. Shocking?!?!? Good bakers are like good husbands - hard to come by, and they would be a hot commodity on the market of 'wanted goods'. I was lucky but that type of love is not equally distributed among the population.

So massive production it is. If you cannot get quality, shoot for quantity.

But even in the most intimidating, 30,000 sq. ft. store where everything looks robotic, soulless and sterile - you will never, EVER find bread that can stays in the back of your dark cupboards for weeks on hand and still be 'good'. Let's say - consumable. Without one single speck of mold. No green to be seen on the horizon. Just.....slices of carbs.
Because this cannot be bread.



Yucky?!? Hell yeah.
But NA-TU-RAL. Just the way things should be.



Have you ever wondered how such a culinary prowess is possible?!? Seriously - this requires some sort of genius. A very twisted, devious, oblique type of genius sure, but genius all the same. I wouldn't know how to achieve such a result.

My guess? They - the wicked - load their loaves with sugar. How do you think diners can keep their ketchup bottles on tables for weeks?!?
Saccharin, fructose, corn syrup and sucrose are the A-Team of the American food industry.
Hallelujah.

Good bread around the 87th meridian (that would be Chicago) does exist. I saw it. And tasted it. But mainly in restaurants. When I come across such a miracle the following usually happens:
- I pinch myself really hard to check that I am not dreaming - you never know.
- you can then see frozen on my face the most stupid, idiotic smile you'll ever seen. Just enjoy live but no picture please. I do have some pride left in there.
- I empty the basket, ask a refill and butcher whatever spread comes with it.
- I sing the praise of the baker to the waiter/waitress and usually don't find anything more about him/her.
- I keep thinking about this moment of pure ecstasy for weeks.

Yup....not easy to be me.

All hope is not lost though. Since I am not planning on going back to France and since I need good bread in my life to be consistently happy I decided to track my carbs bliss high and low and relentlessly. Lucky for me someone decided to make my life easy; Vincent Colombet French (ha! who would have thought?!?!), already owns a whimsically-named catering business (Cook au Vin) and is all set to open - ready?!?!?! - a bakery in Logan Square at the end of the summer.
Its name?!?
La Boulangerie.
He is even going to set up a Bread Delivery system on his bike. You can get fresh bread to your door twice a week.
And no, this is not a dream.La dolce vita.
Pane, amore e fantasia (Bread, love and dreams. A Italian romantic comedy from the 1950s with Gina. And next on your Netflix list).
I wouldn't be married already I would totally ask his hand.

We have come to full circle.
Stay tuned, and don't forget - always stay gourmands!

You Don't Choose Your Family....But You Love It Anyway

I am not gonna lie: every time I am being asked if I miss my family back home, I have the immediate tendency to say: NO.
A big, fat, emphatic no.
Probably shocking to a lot of my interlocutors.

The run down?
My parents are divorced since I am 6, I haven't talked to my father since December 1999 (that was still last millenium!) and my relationship with my mom has always been....stormy. My younger brother grew up without me. My grandparents are all deceased and uncles, aunts, cousins and company have never fully been in the picture.
Not really Seven Heaven, Full House or Cosby Show material.
Our family is definitely not modeled on the Ingalls whom I wanted to adopt as a little girl. Who cared if they were semi-fictional, American and long-time dead.

I am fine with it. No need to be sorry, hand me a handkerchief, or revise your will. I am 34, had plenty of time to get over it and decided a long time ago that family is really an open concept anyway.

Then I met my husband. And discovered that the whole family idea was damn itching all of a sudden. I was given, right there and then, a second chance. A possibility to forge ties and create bonds that would possibly last a lifetime. Something almost as strong as blood.
For better or for worse, as the line goes.
(How can anyone in their right mind agree to swear by it?!? The worse you imagine at the time, standing in the transept in your beautiful white dress, holding hands and ready to party cannot be that bad....)

I quickly realized though - as I had during my previous romantic relationships - that you might choose the one, and feel sure about it, happy, fulfilled and all - you still don't choose the family he comes with.
Or his past.
Even though I was elated to discover my beloved had two sisters and still married parents, I still had to pass the test. Always dreadful, right, but made even worse by the existence of a previous wife that didn't score very high on anyone's tablets. I was petrified on my way to the Thanksgiving dinner where I was supposed to meet them all while gracefully wolfing down turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple pie.
Talk about an impossible mission.
I quickly conquered the parents - who apparently whispered to him in the semi-secret of the kitchen "She is a winner!!" - but never really managed to break through the thick (protective?) shell of the sisters. Too old, too foreign, not cool enough, not good enough - I never really understood what was lacking.
It just didn't happen.
And despite me trying, there was nothing I could do to change things.
This time I was not that fine with it.
But still had to make do.

In-laws probably shouldn't function as a 'family substitute' but in a case like mine, with a biological family far and estranged, I had hoped it would.
And it does.
Just not in the ideal, rainbow, flower and TV-show way I had dreamed about. Which is just as good because in the end, it's real and that what matters.

Sunday night.
As I am typing this, R. is at his parents' house in the suburbs. He won't come back tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. His family - our family - is on crisis. Sickness gave us a nasty blow.
It hurts.
More than I would ever thought.
It hurts to see them suffer and be powerless. It hurts to think of what is going to inevitably happen. It hurts to see my love struggle with his emotions and try to keep strong because everyone else is falling apart. It hurts to not be able to help.
And ultimately it hurts to know that soon enough my new found family - imperfect, dysfunctional, flawed and fragile but MY family - will not be the same ever again. It is a dull, haunting, almost surreal feeling that lingers in the living room where the dog sleeps on the red pillow of the sofa, softly snoring and oblivious to the world.

This moment, this very minute - is bittersweet.

In the vast solitude of the apartment I am realizing that, for better or for worse, I love my - unique, irreplaceable - family.

Goofy picture of us - photoshopped by Bill(?) and taken

the day of Matt and Morgan's wedding almost four years ago

The Dinner Game

"Dinner for Schmucks" is apparently the hit comedy this summer.

Surprised?!?
I am.
And a little bit angry as well.

I just don't like remakes.
Especially when the original version is just fine, thankyouverymuch, I mean, merci beaucoup.I didn’t think that Le diner de cons could have made it onto the American big screen. It is an essential French comedy, heavily based on dialogue and play on words, defined by a confined, huis clos like atmosphere much closer to filmed theater than real cinema. Très français.

Apparently Steve Carell, jack of all comical trades, was fit for the role, and more French than I would have ever imagined.

In Le diner de cons the main event actually never happens. Watch the movie if you want to know why. I promise it is worth it, and yes, you can handle the subtitles. But still – dinner is at the center of things.

And this is what is interesting to moi, Amélie, "Pause gourmande" writer extraordinaire.

Dinner.

More specifically - dinner parties.

They are an endangered species. Dinner as a social activity is almost exclusively taken out, involves restaurant reservations, expensive drinks beforehand, the very limited intimacy of a public dining room, tax, tips and taxi fare.

Why?!?!?

I hosted my last real dinner, gourmet-style – the one that involves hours of thinking, browsing, prepping, cooking and a serious dosage of stressing out, cuts and minor burns – last April for a few friends. Cheese soufflé, canard à l’orange with a twist and a velvety red wine sauce, gratin dauphinois, bundles of haricots verts and an Apple tarte tatin. French and elegant. Add fresh bread, good wine and a couple of other sweet treats for coffee, and there you have it. Home entertaining at its best.

I had a blast, and everybody chimed in to say that we should definitely do this more often.

Meaning it, I believe.

I don’t know if the general disaffection for hosting dinner parties is an American phenomenon, or if it is a sign of our modern society obsessed with efficiency, time management and immediate satisfaction. In my early twenties, while I was still living in France I would go to friends’ houses on a regular basis for long nights of food, drinks, laughter, games and endless conversations. We were all broke, so we were not going out; restaurants were reserved for special occasions and were usually family affairs. Anyway - the world was ours. We would leave, exhausted and slightly inebriated in the wee morning hours. Sometimes even had breakfast together. I cherish these long-gone moments and fondly remember them as the best times of my life.

So allow me to be a little old-fashioned here. I truly think that we, as a society, could really do with a little more warmth, conviviality and generosity in our lives.

Let’s face it: we all need it.

These last ten years were filled with dinners as well, but of a total different kind. Potlucks and barbeques replaced the elaborate home-cooked meals I was previously used to. You still get together, have fun and a good time but in that new scenario, every single guest get involved in the process. The host is – literally – just hosting and therefore not slaving in the kitchen for hours. Nothing wrong with that. It's quick, cheap, simple and efficient.

In a word – modern.

This is all good and well. However there are few things I love more in life than getting everything ready for my guests. I get up early in the morning, make a mental list of the things that need to be done, drink coffee, smile, and get busy. Chopping vegetables, rolling pastry dough, searing meat, reducing sauces and whisking vinaigrettes, marinating, whipping, baking, sautéing, peeling, tasting. Such a feast for the senses.

The house comes alive. Your pets are begging for scraps and your partner digs his finger in the chocolate coulis, just to make sure. The music is on, you are singing along while checking the clock. The countertop is a mess, just like your face smudged with flour, fruit juice and pearls of sweat. You don’t even have to put on your best Julia Child’s apron and shoot for something incredibly fancy. Just make something yourself with your own hands. A lasagna. Your family ragout. Get involved. Be creative. Have fun. Forget just for once to ask your friends to bring an appetizer or a dessert. Buy your wine. Leave the barbeque for next week and get behind the stove. Set up a nice table with napkins, a table centerpiece and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Spend time, just a bit of money and give love.

It is so incredibly rewarding.