Face It: Paris Ate My Knitting

A friend once proposed a rival site to Facebook, called Face It. People would only post when they were having a bad day and wanted commiseration. No vacation photos or adorable kiddie antics allowed. Face It posts are written in that spirit. They are "complaining songs" to put it in the parlance of Winnie-the-Pooh.

"I can't really love Paris.  She's too expensive a mistress."  These were the words of our friend Justin, who works in France and occasionally visits the capital city. When I heard them, a big part of me agreed.  Yes, you do well to keep your heart aloof.  This city is too pretty, too popular, too expensive.

Living in the suburbs, we don't pay the exorbitant Paris housing prices, nor do we live on a daily  basis with the city's costly enticements. Our flirtation with Paris happens on weekend and holiday trips. During these outings, it's easy to feel like we are hemorrhaging money.  There's the train fare, the museum entrance, the carousel ride, the menu fixe lunch in the Latin quarter, the cafe gourmande that give us courage for the train ride home.  Sometimes, there's shopping--a beret, a children's book from the museum shop.  We don't stint on little purchases that make traveling more comfortable--after all, we won't be here much longer, and it's not often that we muster the energy to get ourselves into the city. These expenses are par for the course.

But Paris isn't only greedy for our money.  She also likes our stuff.  It seems like a rarity that we return home with all that we brought. We've lost umbrellas, sweaters, stainless steel water bottles and whole boxes of pastry. We once took a trip into the city to shop the seasonal sales.  We returned plus a stylish cardigan and blazer for Donnie and minus a smartphone.  The phone may have fallen out of my pocket, but more likely, it was helped out by some light-fingered denizen of the Paris underworld. Needless to say, Whatever we saved that day by buying clothing on sale was lost in the cost of replacing the phone.

For a while, the city seemed satiated. We had a few visits with no losses and I forgot her rumbling tummy.  But she was just between courses.

This time, she got my knitting--an aviatrix hat in Debbie Bliss merino wool.  It was a Christmas gift for Loulou, and one of my first forays into knitting from an actual pattern.  It took about a week of evenings to knit, but that doesn't count the small practice hat I knit in a coarser wool.  I sewed the button and wove in the ends, and the next day I foolishly--ever so foolishly--put it on Louisa's head for our outing to the Louvre.  We managed to hold onto it until the trip back. And then it was gone.

Luckily, there are a few photos of the hat.  They're not-so-great, but I'm thankful to have them.

Rest in peace, deep purple aviatrix hat!  I like to think you might survive to warm the head of a different toddler.  My misgiving heart tells a different story.  It sees legions of uncaring feet grinding your fibers into the urine-spattered asphalt of the Paris Underground.

Despite the loss of the hat, the outing was a success--our first time going inside the Louvre. On previous visits, the long security line always dissuaded us from entering.  We almost turned away this time as well, but two security guards waylaid us as we were casting about for a place to eat our lunch.  As it t turns out, if you have small children, they rush you to the front of the line!  So, if you're going to the Louvre, be sure to bring a kid or a convincing doll in a carrier.

We saw an exhibit of paintings from the last years of Raphael's life.  I often feel numbed and overwhelmed by art museums, but the focused nature of this exhibit made for a wonderful experience.  The Raphaels were truly great---they seem more real than real.

And as for the hat...I might say that the it was actually on the small side for Loulou, and during the short time she wore it, I fretted over its flaws and its prematurely fuzzy appearance.  I might philosophize that being lost is the most merciful fate possible for an early knitting project---the knitter must neither live with her mistakes nor admit defeat and unravel.

I might also say that losing the hat made the whole day more memorable, and thanks to its loss,  Raphael's luminous virgins are all the more deeply engraved in my mind.

Would this be superstition?  Sour grapes?  Positive reappraisal?

Regardless, it will be a while before I knit Louisa another hat.  And when I do, I won't allow her to wear it---at least, not to Paris.

In the Waiting Room

Are you a dentist looking for some art for your waiting room?  Do you want something memorable--not the visual muzak you see in most medical offices?  You want something challenging and intelligent that that will nonetheless give your patients a feeling a peace--something that prepares them for a positive dental experience.

Today we made our first visit to a dentist since coming to France, and the waiting room decor left such an impression that I thought I'd share---in case you plan to open your own practice (cough--cough--Peter Mc-cough-Pherson-cough).

What was so memorable?  There were framed photographs of dentists at work.  An obvious choice, right?  But if you're thinking of dentists à la Norman Rockwell, think again.  These were dentists in poor countries in Southeast Asisa.  Most of them appeared to be set up on the side of the road--their entire apparatus consisting of a chair, a table, and a drill mechanism built from bicycle parts.  More than one photo showed a dentist hovering over his patient's mouth, his own lips clenching a cigarette with about a quarter inch of ash hanging at its end.   One dentist stood grinning over a table topped with a few bottles (medicine, painkiller?) and a pile of pulled teeth (advertisement)?  Finally, there was a close-up shot of  a camel.  You might think, as I did, "ah, this is just a camel, included here for a bit more exotic color." But then your husband points out that the camel has a tooth that is growing horizontally out of it's mouth and there is a rope tied around the tooth--the photo shows an extraction in progress.

Imagine the effect these photos have on your patients.  The pictures are not intended to disgust--there's no blood or expressions of pain, but they reveal an uncomfortable truth.   For so many people, going to the dentist means that, at best, they walk away minus a troublesome tooth.  At worse...well, we won't go there.

You can imagine the contrast that these pictures create, when the doctor's door opens to reveal a sleek office painted a calming green.  Everything bespeaks cleanliness and hygiene---the doctor's spotless lab shirt, the seamless keyboard he uses to enter your information, the perfectly smooth, molded examination chair, the blinding beam of the LED head lamp.  All the cues that might excite a phobia have  become comforting signals of modernity.  Yes, having your teeth cleaned may make your eyes water, but you are in a nice, clean office and not sitting on the side of the road in Cambodia.  Your dentist is wearing latex gloves and the smell in your nostrils is from antiseptic and peppermint tooth polish and not from a cigarette dangling a foot above your nose.  You are not, like that poor camel, about to have your tooth yanked out with a rope.

Our appointments came to a satisfying conclusion.   Neither Don nor I had any cavities.  The aches we had been feeling in the weeks prior were just sensitivities due to tartar build up--or, was it  perhaps our subconscious goading us to get checked?  Since their cleaning, our teeth have felt much better, and, thanks to those photographs, we have a new appreciation for first world dentistry.

Quotable Maria

Doesn't Maria's determined, yet far-off expression remind you of a romantic poet?

   Check this out. 

 

A few memorable lines:

While using the creamer from her tea set to pour imaginary water over Louisa's head:
  "I am bath-tizing Weeza!"

During our afternoon snack, Maria sums up the perks of being older:
"Loulou eats paper and I eat cake"

After seeing that the toilet still looks rather dirty despite my efforts:
"Mommy, you need to try cleaning the toilet again."

Donnie's beard is a little on the long side:
"Daddy, your face needs a haircut."

Upon going into the bathroom:
 "Oh-my-gosh, it is tinksy in here!"

Though Maria's rearrangement of s diphthongs probably won't be with us much longer, "Tinksy" is on its way to being a permanent part of the family vocabulary. 

Let Them Eat Cake

Maria, playing with salt dough.  Her apron was a gift that Donnie bought during his trip to Assisi. He bought a matching one for me :)

Maria has a long-standing interest in cake. Not that she has eaten many cakes in her life (until recently). We think it began last summer when she saw an older neighbor girl making "cakes" in the sandbox by our building.  Whatever it was that sparked the interest, eating cake and making cake have been recurring subjects in Maria's imaginative play.  When my parents gave Donnie some Ideal Blox, for his birthday back in November, she commandeered them and made pyramid cakes. Later in the winter, she stripped off her legwarmers to make legwarmer cakes.  Our experiments with playdough and salt dough all led to more cakes.  Some kids makes cities.  Maria makes cakes.

So it was that in late May, while scouring the shelves of our lovely, but expensive local toy store for Maria's birthday gift, I latched onto this little set.   The set includes of three mini-discs stackers, where the discs represent cake layers. The child experiments with different ordering of the layers to come up with new confections. The layers are wood and felt, but the end results resemble the exquisite creations on display at the patisseries in town.  The set seemed a little pricey for a bit of play food, but I justified the expense, saying that not only would this be a beloved toy, but a souvenir of France.

The purchase was a good one.  Maria has enjoyed this toy and still comes to me, holding out one of her creations, "Mommy, a cake for you."

Maria's birthday cake set, along with play baked goods made from salt dough

In this way, Maria had been thinking of cake and building "cakes", but her interest in real baking took off during our visit to the US.  Maria and Muschi made muffins almost every morning, to the delight of all. And once we transferred over to the Sheehys, Maria "helped" Meme and Colleen in several baking projects.

Returning to France, we've been met with a series of unseasonably cold, wet days. Baking has turned out to be a great way of keeping Maria occupied and everyone in good spirits. We've made cookies. We've made several rounds of rhubarb cake.  One afternoon, we made salt dough and rounded out Maria's  inventory of play food by adding croissants, a baguette, a boule, and a number of brioche buns.  For me and my little toaster oven, this qualifies as a streak.

And then, last week, I began reading Bringing Up Bebe, a book that has been making the rounds in the Anglophone playgroup we attend.  Bringing Up Bebe explores the differences between French and Anglo-American parenting styles, and highlights the positive aspects of the French approach.  It was with  pleasure that I learned that family baking sessions are a weekly or bi-weekly ritual for French families.  The author sees baking as one of the ways French families encourage their children to develop patience and self control:

All this baking doesn't just make lot of cakes. It also teaches kids how to control themselves. With its orderly measuring and sequencing of ingredients, baking is a perfect lesson in patience. So is the fact that Franch families don't devour the cake as soon as it comes out of the oven, as I would do. They typically bake in the morning or early afternoon, then wait and eat the cake or muffins as a gouter --the French afternoon snack.

The gouter (pronounced "goo-tay") is a facet of French life that we'd already come to enjoy.   It's less of what we tend to think of as a snack--which in my mind has a rather informal connotation.  It's more of an established mini-meal, at least for children.  It's my understanding the gouter is when many of the luxuriant, flour-rich sweets come into play: cookies, cakes, crepes, chocolate-stuffed croissants, pastries, madelines, etc.   Boxes of cookies come printed with chirpy serving recommendations:  "four cookies + half a mango + a cup of milk = a balanced gouter!"

I love that in French eating culture has a special, ritualized place for this type foods, where they take center stage and are not tacked on the end of a complicated meal.  If the French are any indication, giving cake its due place on the weekly menu--if not daily menu--seems to encourage moderation.

So I'm delighted to find that Maria and I have happened upon a pastime that ties in with an aspect of French dining culture.  I'm looking forward to trying the carrot cake we baked yesterday during today's gouter.  Yes, it's lovely to eat cake.  Now the challenge is not over-doing it...

Maria enjoying her apricot and rhubarb yogurt cake

***

Pamela Druckerman writes that the first cake French children learn to bake is gateau au yaourt, or Yogurt cake.  Yogurt is added, then the empty yoghurt tub is used in lieu of a measuring cup.  The recipe is simple and forgiving--very nice for young children.  We've made it once, adding fresh apricots and chopped rhubarb to the basic batter.   

Gateau au Yaourt (Yogurt Cake) from Pamela Druckerman's Bringing Up Bebe

2 tubs plain whole-milk yogurt (the individual portion-sized tubs, about 175 g/ 6oz)
2 eggs
2 tubs sugar (or just one, depending on how sweet you like it)
1 tsp vanilla essence
just under 1 tub vegetable oil
4 tubs plain flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 190 degrees Celsius. Use vegetable oil to grease a 9-inch round pan (or a loaf tin).

Gently combine the yogurt, eggs, sugar, vanilla and oil. In a separate bowl, mix flour and baking powder. Add dry ingredients to wet ingreidents; mix gently until combined--don't over-mix!
You can add 2 tubs fozen berries, a tub of chocolate hcips, or any flavouring you like. Cook for 35 minutes, then 5 minutes more if it doesn't pass the knife test. It should be almost crispy on the outside, but springy on the inside. Let it cool. The cake is delicious served with tea and a dollop of creme fraiche.

Baby Neutral

This Thursday we have an 8:30 am appointment at the US embassy.  We hope that at the conclusion of the appointment, Louisa will be on her way to having a social security card,  a passport and a consular birth report--in other words, all the hologram and seal-bedecked documents necessary for a fabulous life as an American citizen.  Of course, there are a bunch of forms to be filled out for Thursday.  Donnie and I both need to be there with documents in hand--passports, expired passports, marriage certificate, etc.  The list is actually more reasonable than the requirements for most French administrative appointments.  We're also required to bring two American passport-size photos of Louisa.

When we needed passport photos for Maria, I stopped into a Kinko's, where they charged me $15 dollars for two photos of Maria looking like a chubby serial killer.  Yes, Kinko's can take a relatively skinny baby and make her look like a chubby serial killer.  For the pictures of Louisa, we decided to take our own, and crop them to the correct dimensions.

I thought I'd share a few of the photos from the shoot:

 

The photo must have "a neutral facial expression and both eyes open" and must be "taken in full-face view directly facing the camera."   Maybe Kinko's earned their money.  Baby neutral is not easy to catch.

Among dozens of images, one fit the bill.

 

We'll pick up the prints tomorrow.  Please say a little prayer that our appointment goes smoothly.  It should be routine, but I'm snake-bit after our round-trip to the airport.

Snail Hat or the Hat of Diplomacy

I majored in Anthropology and hope someday to put my training to use and write something insightful about French culture. Well, I'll work on that. In the meantime, I'll share this observation.

The French are not rude.

I was told with great earnestness that the French can be downright bellicose towards English-speakers. But I find that even when I (almost inevitably) fall into English, people are courteous and even warm.

Now I'm going to do something that's very "in" in Social Science, and explain why this observation can't be trusted as a general rule.  My grounds for lacking objectivity are quite tangible and boil down to this:

I walk around town with this person strapped to my chest.  Not only is it a baby, but it's a baby in a snail hat. Un petit escargot tres mignon!  Just try to be rude to someone wearing a baby in snail hat. I dare you!  Even cool and indifferent becomes a challenge when faced with a drooly smile and two pompoms.

It may just be that I'm a nursing mom high on oxytosin, but I think the baby-in-hat thing could bring about a new kind of diplomacy. International negotiations could begin with a presentation of representative infants wearing the cutest head gear their countries could devise. The attending politicians would have to greet the babies and say "isn't that adorable" before talks commenced.  It would have the salutatory effect of a.) putting everyone in a positive frame of mind, and b.) reminding officials of their duty to the next generation. Think about it...

The hat, by the way, was my second knitting project ever.  ("Aha," you say, "a crafting post cleverly disguised as cultural commentary!")  It actually was meant to be a hat for Maria, to go with the knitted collar I made her, but I misjudged the number of stitches and it turned out more Loulou-sized.  It's the simplest hat possible--you just need to know how to knit, purl, and make pompoms.  You can find directions here.

Truth be told, I got awfully impatient while making it and it came out too small even for Louisa. It wouldn't fit over her ears. Then my mom came to the rescue and crocheted the headband and the little ear flaps. A knitter I am not.

So if any of you real knitters know of a good beginner beginner project that I could move on to (maybe something a little more interesting) I'd love to hear about it. If it can further international relations, that would be a plus.