Finally, a Holiday the French Celebrate

After a disappointing Halloween (Jason wouldn't even try on the catsuit I bought him...) and obviously nonexistent Thanksgiving in France, I was looking forward to Christmas! I had heard the French really know how to celebrate Christmas with true flair. So now I can attest that they do celebrate Noël, but I was surprised how different some of the traditions are here. For example, NO ONE decorates the outside of their houses with lights or anything, but at least the town squares are all decorated very beautifully. They also call Santa Claus Pere Noël, or “Father Christmas,” which we didn't quite understand until you see a common interpretation of his outfit. In some cases, he looks sort of like the Pope in long robes with a scepter and a big tall Catholic-looking hat (a "mitre"--thanks Wiki).

I noticed further differences when looking for Christmas decorations for the house. We packed very lightly, and I didn't bring ANY of my own own holiday decorations. We bought a small tree here, and we had the kids "help" decorate by printing out festive pictures for them to color, cut out and tape all over the house.  But some things needed to be searched for--like stockings. And tree skirts-- I'm sure I embarrassed myself plenty explaining to people that I wanted a skirt for my Christmas tree. They kept pointing to the women's clothing section. I couldn’t believe it as I went to store after store—they just didn’t really have any of these items. I finally found one style of stockings that I didn’t love, but it was better than nothing, so I bought three for the girls.

Do not be deceived! These stockings look a lot cuter than they actually are.  They are very cheaply made, but at least my girls finally got stockings to hang!

Apparently, the French do things more like the Dutch by putting empty shoes on the hearth rather than hanging stockings, and not even everyone here does that. When we explained to some of Jason’s coworkers about hanging stockings, they were so confused. They said, “You mean Father Christmas fills a tiny child’s sock for each of your young girls? Jason explained it wasn’t a real sock, and it was large and decorative and that it would hold quite a few things. Then they asked if we kept our kids up until midnight when Father Christmas came. Then WE were confused and asked, “You mean your kids stay awake and wait up for Santa? We tell ours to go to bed as quickly and as early as possible or Santa WON’T come.” They said that they either hire a Father Christmas to come and give presents to the kids or they take the kids outside and distract them somehow (usually looking up in the sky for unusual air traffic) while an accomplice puts the presents under the tree. When the kids come back inside the house, the person inside will say, “Oh you JUST missed Father Christmas. He was just here!" like he's the world's best reverse thief. He breaks in only to drop things off.  Then they open all the presents right then. In fact, one coworker told Jason she remembers one year as a little girl when her parents hired a Father Christmas who showed up completely drunk. She remembers smelling the strong alcohol on his breath, which is a different kind of heart-warming story. . .

We also noticed a big difference in what the French eat for dinner on Christmas Eve, which is when they have their biggest feast. In this region of Provence, they all have oysters for some reason as well as foie gras (goose liver paté). They also eat turkey with chestnuts, sometimes duck or goose, and lots of other fish and seafood. Around the grocery stores, while we couldn't find candy canes to save our freaking lives, we noticed that EVERYONE was buying these little cakes shaped like a wooden log called “Bûche de Noël.” We bought one because they looked good, but we didn’t realize the significance until we got home and did a little research. Apparently, these cakes represent Yule Logs (although we remained confused whether, in fact, we had succeeding in making the Yuletide gay).

The tradition comes from centuries ago when people lived much simpler lives. In those days, something like a well-stocked woodpile was the difference in surviving the winter or not. So when the days grew short and the night cold, just the ability to make a fire was cause for celebration. In France, a large log (many times a tree trunk) was chosen from the woodpile. It was decorated with ribbons and brought into the house with considerable fanfare - songs were sung and everyone enjoyed themselves. The log was placed ceremoniously on the hearth and blessed by the master of the house. This was all done on the 24th of December and the log was expected to burn until the first day of the New Year. So now, even though only some people still burn a Yule Log, everybody here eats Yule-log cake. These are beautiful works of art. Here are some examples, mostly in the "realistic" category:

Here is the buttercream log we bought, which fell into the "Pink & Cute" category. Classified as such due to the fact that it was pink, cute, and (BONUS) it featured a fake tiny mouse and a prop axe for "chopping" the cake. Jenica decided to eat all of her portion with the little axe.


One other thing we learned about the French Christmas Eve feast ("la gros souper") is the traditional 13 desserts following the meal to represent Christ and his twelve apostles (total number at the Last Supper). The desserts are unlike any American desserts, but I thought it was an interesting tradition. The bread in the background is one of the 13 desserts, and it "should always be torn and not cut to avoid bankruptcy."  I have no idea where that notion stems from, but it should be more fully explored by Circuit City, Blockbuster, and Lehman Brothers.

Here are my girls pictured on Christmas Eve.  Happy Holidays everyone!  Or I guess I should say "Bonnes Fetes!"

Proud to be a "Conservative" American

I have been questioning my former American way of life of late. Why, you ask? Because since mid-November we have basically been feeling like we must be the most wasteful family on the planet. Below you will find the water usage report for the six homes on our cul-de-sac. The numbers represent cubic meters of water used in a certain time period (I think it’s a quarterly report, but I could be mistaken). These are the actual numbers of water usage, and I have used the actual names of all home owners on the form I was given. I promise I am not making any of this up:
 Khil                   517
Ducrocq           335
Blanc                356
Lousse          2,093
Renot               134
Velasco            187

Would you like to know which home we live in? You guessed it—our landlord is named Monsieur Lousse, and my little American family of five apparently used about 6 times what the average other home used on my street.

Our landlord was understandably concerned. We had agreed on a certain monthly price for utilities. Our usage was so far above what he estimated we would use that he wanted to send us a bill for 4,000 Euros to make up the difference over the past few months (that’s almost $6,000), and that’s when WE became “understandably concerned.” We knew water was expensive in France, but with these rates, it would be cheaper to bathe in champagne.

I have to stop and defend myself a little here. I was raised to be conservative. Let me tell you, I was raised to conserve not only water but all utilities. All my life after a few minutes of water running to fill up the bathtub, there was always a brisk knock on the door, “Tiffany—that’s enough water now.” It was a cardinal sin in my family to leave the lights on when you left a room. You didn’t leave the water running when you brushed your teeth, and you most definitely did not shower longer than about 10 minutes tops. Ask anyone, my parents have energy efficient EVERYTHING, including fluorescent bulbs, extra attic insulation, their own 500-gallon propane tank they use for cooking, and they even have solar panels on their home. Though my parents are not politically liberal, you would think they were the biggest tree huggers their side of the Rockies, and I am including all residents of Oregon. Mostly my parents taught us to be careful with our usage of public utilities for the sake of conserving money and to promote self-sufficiency, and I appreciate every lesson I learned. As an adult I am anything but wasteful with my water usage, or so I thought. . .

Jason and I began to really fret over this issue. Why did we use so much more water than our neighbors? Everyone knows Europeans don’t bathe that much, right? I mean, that must be why they all have bidets. Also, I have three kids. That’s a lot based on European standards, and I probably do way more laundry than anyone else on my street. We also do one load of dishes every day! We probably flush the toilet too much too! Oh why do Americans have such big families and go to the bathroom so much?!? I told Jason I guess we were just going to have to limit our kids’ fluid intake, and start doing dishes by hand, but I’m not really willing to bathe less. Maybe my kids could go every three days instead of every other? But I had to ask myself, are MY OWN PERSONAL baths really worth $6,000.00?????

After a whole month went by, we finally realized maybe the problem wasn’t just us and our American consumption patterns. Maybe it was a bigger problem. Sure enough, after first locating and then checking the meter attached to the house, a thought dawned on us, “Hey, those little dials shouldn’t be spinning so fast when we aren’t even using any water!” So, according to the meter, we discovered there had to be a leak somewhere to the tune of about 1 cubic meter of water EVERY HOUR!! We immediately notified the landlord, who immediately sent someone over the check it out. Sure enough, the repairman located a leak on an external, underground pipe. By the very next day, it was completely fixed.

So, yes, I’m exonerated!! Even though our landlord is FURIOUS that the leak continued for a month after the initial report (whoops), and that now HE has to pay the extra water costs and not us (sucks to be him), I now know my parent’s conservation lessons were not for nothing! I am NOT a wasteful American, but an environmentally conscientious one. Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. Furthermore, the best thing about this story is that I don’t have to contemplate giving up bathing anymore.

Mamma Mia!

More musings and cultural observations from Jason:

One thing we noticed right away in the girls’ school was the gender count. There are 19 kids in Jenica and Jocelyn’s class, with 12 boys and 7 girls. Maisy’s class also has almost a 2:1 boy to girl ratio. Most of the boys come from French families and the girls more from the other countries, which raised the question: “Do people here put a higher emphasis on educating their sons at private schools rather than their daughters?” It sure seems that way, and there is no hiding the fact that a woman is praised here more for her looks and style than probably any other quality.


Then this weekend, we decided to try out a local pizza joint near our house called Riviera Pizza. It’s got a wood-fired pizza oven, which means that it opens for dinner around 6PM, but the oven doesn’t get hot enough to cook pizzas until around 7PM. The prices are reasonable, and the pizzas are made in the traditional Italian style: thin crust, only enough sauce to moisten the crust, and then authentic Italian toppings and spices. Good stuff.

Except for one little thing—the ridiculous pizza box artwork. Most of it is in black-and-white, except for the whole middle area which is in color. Furthermore, the pizza shown on the box is pretty small and seemingly disproportionately sized if the intent was to put the focus on the pizza part of the box’s function. Here’s a picture of the pizza box in question:

As my girls carried the box into the house, the conversation went like this:

Jason: “Girls, what do you think the name of this pizza lady is?”

Jenica: “My guess is Mrs. Pizza!”

Jocelyn: “My guess is Big Boobies!”

Maisy: “My guess is Mrs. Party!”

Jason (to himself): “I don’t see the difference between the last 2 responses.”

Jason: “Why is she holding the pizza like that?”

Jenica: “To make it look fancy.”

Jocelyn: “She has to hold very still because she has a chicken on her head.”

Maisy: “Chicken-head! Bock bock bock.”

Jason: “What are these other guys doing in the picture?”

Jenica: “This guy in the corner is stretching, but he’s hungry.”

Jocelyn: “These guys are playing instruments in a band.”

Maisy: “They are eating candy and stealing the pizza.”

This is not a custom-ordered box just for Riviera Pizza; but rather, a generic box that goes to many pizza joints around the area. With that many boxes in public circulation, many troubling questions remain in my mind:

1. How is she holding a hot pizza with her bare hands? Why isn’t there there a box on the box, or would that be too much?

2. What exactly IS she selling? A slice of what?

3. How is it that those 3 guys on the left are more interested in their lame, barefoot jam session than in good food and good company? I have my theories, but one of them has a telling East Village moustache that could explain much.

4. The Venetian mask and veil on her head is also unsettling—is she just making a pizza delivery for fun in between festivities? I suspect that there must be a pizza pimp somewhere in the vicinity.

5. The location and size of the pizza on this box sure makes it look secondary to everything else going on here. Even though it’s clearly identifiable as a pizza, how much was this artist paid for this piece? He obviously felt proud enough of the work to add his signature on the bottom right someday for the museum exhibition.

And finally, I now feel compelled to order bread sticks and other menu items just to examine and report on the box artwork. Stay tuned…

Tails from the Attic

Warning: this post could be perceived as disgusting, revolting, or potentially nauseating. We're talking worse than a Miley Cyrus video, so put your bowl of ice cream down for a minute. I still get the heebie jeebies when I think about it, and part of me can’t believe I am going to dedicate a blog post to it, but I just have to. It has been the source of MUCH mental and even physical discomfort to me for about two months, and that all ended today thanks to my amazingly brave super hero of a husband. So, with your curiosity now piqued, here goes: (*deep breath*).

We recently experienced a rodent problem “a la Ratatouille.” What I mean is this: we had rats in the attic. About 2 months ago as the weather started to turn, every night for about 5 nights straight I could hear a lot of activity in the attic right above the master bathroom. Activties best described as scampering, scratching, clawing, and even squeaking and breathing. I could hear the creature (or creatures) climb up the vines on the side of the house, then enter the attic. Being a light sleeper anyway, I lost loads of sleep, and I even started sleeping upstairs in the guest bedroom because I just couldn’t take the sounds and especially the knowledge of what was happening so close to where I sleep. (At 2 a.m. I was blaming Pixar for putting images into my head of the ceiling falling down and hundreds of rats pouring into the house.)

Furthermore, instead of nail-biting paranoia, I prefer to call it female intuition that I just had a feeling the rat was a female, and it was nesting and getting ready to have lots of babies. I. JUST. COULDN’T. HANDLE. IT.

Of course Jason wanted to set big rat traps after the first night of the noises, but he couldn’t find any. He even looked for mouse traps, but figured it would only maim them based on the large sounds we were hearing. So he bought rat poison. Lots and lots of rat poison. He mixed some with grated cheese, some with peanut butter, and he left some plain. He put piles of it in so many locations around the house, I was sure he was killing every woodland creature within a 50-mile radius! Fortunately, the nocturnal sounds ended. Unfortunately, the smell of rotting rodent began.


Because it was about two weeks after we thought we had eliminated the rodent problem, I didn’t put two and two together at first. I could smell something distinctly unpleasant coming from the bathroom from time to time, but I thought it was just due to old plumbing.  I describe the smell as sewer-like, and we kept the bathroom door closed at all times.  Then we got hit with a plague straight out of Genesis: flies, flies, and more flies. They were worse on warm days, but we have had lots of cold weather and rain, so it wasn’t every day. Since we are new to the area, we didn’t know if this number of flies was normal or not. I just thought they were getting in through doors left open. Except it's been so cold that we haven't been leaving doors or windows open, which means that they were somehow getting into the house another way. Finally, I asked Jason if he thought maybe the flies were attracted to something in the attic, and we both came to the realization that a rat could have ingested poison, then gone up to our attic and died. I still thought the odors we were experiencing were a separate issue (because the smell was more like sewage than decay). Then we had another week of cold weather and very few flies.


However, yesterday, I killed at least 35 flies by noon. Jason killed another 30 or so in the evening while I attended a Relief Society dinner. This was so beyond the numbers of flies we had ever had before, that we just knew there must be a dead rat (or something) in the attic.

This is 51 of the flies from yesterday, but we killed a lot more than this--all in one day!

So Today, Jason decided to finally do something about The Problem, since he couldn't handle the fact that even though he may have killed the rats with the poison, they were exacting their little revenge even in death. So he put on gloves, a headlamp, goggles, and got a ladder. I was terrified for him, but I thought he was the bravest man in the world. I even tried to talk him out of it, I was so worried for him.  The second he opened the trap door leading to the attic in the ceiling, the Bad Smell intensified. I almost screamed with the apprehension I was feeling that my husband was going to go up in the attic. You know, by himself! I didn’t have a mask with a HEPA filter for him to wear. I was sure he would get Salmonella or typhus or even The Plague from the fumes up there, so I made him wrap some gauze around his face just to be safe.

Jason, ready to go up into the attic with his empty bag

This is the attic access

Yep, there was a nest, and yep it had a large dead rat in it.

The dead rat is the gray mass in the upper left side of the picture

What we didn’t expect was that he would find not just the one, but FOUR dead rats up there. Two skeletons, and then two very meaty, decomposing specimens. He cleaned up as best he could, then brought a bag of his “findings” down the ladder. I couldn’t even compose myself I was so grossed out! As revolted as I was by the bag of “goodies,” I was very grateful. The Bad Smell from the bathroom went away immediately, and I noticed that Jason was acting like going up the attic to look for dead rats was actually kind of fun! I just don’t get that. I couldn’t have gone up there for all the money in the world.

The bag of "goodies."  The flower on the front is so ironic!  See the makeshift mask I made him wear?

Honestly, is there anything more gross than this?  These are large rats, not little field mice, and I was so disgusted they had been in my HOUSE!

Thank goodness for tough husbands. Although he did tell me that while the rats he cleaned up didn’t bother him, a live spider he saw up there did freak him out a little. Oh well, no one's perfect.

Thankful This Thanksgiving

I currently live in a country where Thanksgiving is not celebrated or recognized in any way.  There are no pilgrim figurines in the stores, no cornucopias, and definitely no Butterball turkeys.  I was worried that, like Halloween, it would make me homesick for America and miss my family even more than I already do.  However, this was most of the most memorable Thanksgivings I have ever had, and I enjoyed the whole week tremendously.  I’m sure that it had everything to do with the fact that my friend Cherae Ecalono came to visit. 

Many of you who read this blog know Cherae and what a wonderful person she is, which is why we have remained friends for so long, but did you realize I have known her almost half my life? It surprises me how fast the time has gone, but she has been my best friend for 18 years. She really is my “Gale” if you’ll forgive me for an Oprah reference, and I cannot tell you the gratitude I feel to have her as a part of my life. Before I forget, I must thank her husband Chris for not just allowing her to visit, but for encouraging and supporting the visit as well (it may even have been HIS idea if I remember right!) Not all husbands would allow their wife to travel almost 6,000 miles away during precious vacation time, let alone during such a family-centered holiday like Thanksgiving. Cherae also had her birthday while she was here, and I also thank her three boys for being willing to share their Mom with me and my family. My husband made many sacrifices as well for me to have this time with Cherae, and both husbands have earned some serious “wife credit.”

Though I can’t possibly do this visit justice with a blog post and a few pictures, here are some of the most memorable things of the week in no particular order:


1. Hitting a dog. Not a lot to tell here, but yes, I hit my first animal ever in my life with Cherae in my car. I'm pretty sure it was okay since I wasn't going very fast and it ran away and gave me an angry look. But it freaked me out, and I definitely screamed on impact. In my defense, this dog was running right down the center of the road, and when I swerved to miss him, he also veered the same direction, so impact was unavoidable.


2. Jason’s traffic violation. This was an insane experience. All the kids, Jason, Cherae and I were suddenly pulled over by the French police (Gendarmerie). This cop was super unfriendly, told Jason he hadn’t stopped at a stop sign, and that he must now pay 90 Euros due immediately. Jason asked if he could just be billed in the mail since he didn’t have cash on him, and the policeman said, “No, you are a foreigner. You pay now. There is an ATM up the hill. I will wait with your family while you go take out some cash.” No joke. Jason did as he was told. I guess I will also mention Jason has had three expensive speeding tickets in the last few weeks, and the tickets were all given electronically through the mail with no cop involved at all. The French have cameras all over, and when you speed in certain areas, you get a ticket in the mail a few days later. I don’t fault him at all—it could easily have been me. He was only going 7 km an hour over the speed limit (that’s only about 4 miles/hour over). It’s just another way for the government to get money if you ask me, but we are learning where these cameras are the hard way (remember we pay lots of "stupid tax" in France).


3. Rum Crepe at Eze. Eze is this really cool, old Medieval village high up in the cliffs near Monaco. While we were sight-seeing, we decided to get some authentic French crêpes at a little café. We ordered two, one with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce and whip cream (which the menu kept translating as “wipecream” much to our amusement), and the other was my choice, a rum flambé crêpe. Sure enough this crêpe came out on fire, which was very cool. It had warm chocolate sauce and banana inside, and looked delicious. I took one bite, and realized a potential violation of the Word of Wisdom in about 16 different ways! The strong taste of the rum was overpowering, and apparently the crêpe was drenched in it. The rum burned all the way down, and there was a very unpleasant, strong alcohol aftertaste, which was terrible. Cherae took one bite, hated it as well, and we both thought it was pretty funny I had unknowingly ordered something so "exotique." At least we liked the one she ordered.

This is Cherae in front of Eze, the village on the hill behind her

All the doors in this village, like the one behind me, were only about 4 or 5 feet tall.  Medieval Europeans must have been teeny!

4.   Thanksgiving meal with some French twists.  Cherae brought me all kinds of things from the States that I can’t get here, like French fried onions for the green bean casserole, and canned pumpkin for a pie, which I never even ended up making until after she left.  Our feast turned out pretty well, even though it was a little unconventional.  For example, I cooked our turkey (just two turkey breasts) in a crock pot with butter and herbs de Provence.  It was tender and delicious though.  We had some French cheese (Brie) with our cheeseball and crackers, and then had French tarts for dessert instead of pies.  I think it’s ridiculous that I cooked for at least 5 hours when my kids barely touched their dinner, but oh well.  At least the adults liked it.

Maisy, Jason, and Jocelyn on Thanksgiving Day

Cherae and my girls on Thanksgiving Day

Don't these tarts look delicious?  I would have felt too sad for pumpkin pie's self esteem to make it sit next to these beauties, so I made it several days after Thanksiving where it could be a superstar all on its own!

Here's our feast, and yes, I was a little tired after cooking for so long.

5. Going the wrong way home to France after a day trip to San Remo, Italy. After about 20 minutes of driving the wrong way, deeply engrossed in conversation, I suddenly said, “Shouldn’t the ocean be on the other side of us?” Cherae says, “Yeah, it should be.” So then we had to drive another 15 minutes to the nearest exit in order to turn around. We were half way to Genova! Whoops!


Cherae overlooking the Mediterranean Sea in San Remo, Italy

 6. Cherae teaching Jocelyn all about “sea glass." Every time we go to the beach, my kids search non-stop for all kinds of dirty, broken shells. Cherae showed them a new thing to look for, which is rarer and much harder to find (thank goodness). It’s “sea glass,” which is simply broken glass or pottery that has been sanded smooth by wave action and erosion. Very cool. Jocelyn found three pieces of it, and now asks to go to the beach every day to look for more.

Jason and Cherae on a beach in Mandelieu.  See the kids in the background searching for sea glass?

Too bad it was so cold at the beach!

Maisy and Cherae

 7. Jocelyn posing with child mannequins. While Jocelyn went to a clothing store with Cherae and me, she kept seeing these small mannequins, and then wanted her picture taken with each one. She was so funny about it, and these poses were completely her idea. She wasn't quite sure what to think when one of the hands fell off while she was holding it, though. 

8.   Tempura zucchini flowers.  For Cherae's birthday, Jason and I took her out to dinner. Jason chose the restaurant, since he eats out a lot more than I do, and he picked “La Petite Maison,” a Provencal French restaurant at one of the top 3 hotels on the famous croissette in Cannes. We had the place all to ourselves on a Saturday night by making a reservation at 7:30, which is laughably early by French standards. It was a very nice place, and I loved our meal, but especially the appetizers.  I am learning more and more what French food actually is, and what I have realized so far is that while it is definitely pretentious and expensive for my tastes, the French chefs go out  their way to make sure the food is very fresh, prepared with high-quality ingredients, and that it looks as good as it tastes.  I love the presentation and the creative ways they think of to serve food.   This time the show stoppers for me were these beautiful tempura zucchini flowers, and I could have eaten 20 of them.  Who knew you could make an orange zucchini flower into a delicious appetizer? 

They are hard to see, but the lightly crunchy zucchini flowers are on both the left and right side of the platter.

We took a walk along the coast after dinner, and this is Cherae on the steps of the red carpet (it's the building where the Cannes Film Festival takes place).

And here she is being silly in a "feed me grapes" pose.  French people were staring, and Cherae just didn't care!  Or maybe she was acting out a cinematic murder mystery?  I'm actually not sure.

Here we are in front of the hotel lobby of where we had dinner.

9. Cherae at Carrefour in Antibes. I will take everyone who ever comes to visit us here to the giant grocery store just for the experience. I usually complain about what the store doesn’t have, but Cherae helped me to appreciate what it does have. Here were some of her exclamations:

• “I love all this fresh produce. And look at the size of those leeks!”

• “Wow. Check out all these beautiful cheeses. We just have to get some Brie or Camembert to try!” (I had never bought either of those cheeses, but I have to admit they were delicious.)

• “You’re so lucky you can get pancetta and chorizo so easily!  I have to really hunt for it in Utah.”

10. And finally, I loved watching Cherae’s face every time she ate either a croissant or the amazing rich and creamy yogurt they have here.

Thanks for such a fun visit, Cherae. We already miss you and can't wait until you can come visit us again!