Tongue in Cheek

Happy Halloween! (The best time to be a kid!!)

Happy Halloween! This is me when I was two. My Mother loved to make Halloween costumes. I am so glad she put an undershirt underneath my bikini top.

Here I am a year later, trick or treat! I am dressed as an Indian maiden, the costume was made from a burlap sack. I grew up on a farm (see the cows in the background,)  feed sacks made great Halloween costumes.

Note my little hand sticking out, I am not posing. I remember this moment like yesterday... That costume itched! I stuck out my arm because my Mother told me not to scratch, but that costume was rough! Dig the moccasins?

This is me at three years of age, (the last Halloween photo of me and my Mother's Homemade Halloween costumes... I bet you thought you were going to see me in costumes from the age of two to fifty...sorry ghouls. Though  I wish I had a photo of when I was dressed as a lady bug at Twenty Eight! Or a photo of myself dressed like a mermaid and out of gas on the freeway at midnight.)

My Mother made matching Mr. and Mrs. Ghost costumes for me and my brother. My brother (Marty commentor name: Orama) is younger than me, my Mother wanted me to dress as the Mr. Ghost since I was taller. I threw a fit and refused to be the guy at Halloween.  My Mother was disappointed but agreed.

I love the eyebrows, don't you?

The Ball of Knots

               

Photo: An antique ball of rug string. Pieces of string tied together rolled around and around forming an uneven ball of knots.

The pain of seeing someone suffer. To see their life unravel, giving way to dark secrets that do not let go, but hang on and strangle their energy.

The dark night of the soul. The agony of standing by wanting to untangle their heart, wanting to be a guiding source that will lead them to healing, wholeness, to an untwisted path that is smooth, even and free. Though knowing they must find the courage to unwind, to look at the loose ends and to venture towards the broken thread.

The ball of knots, one after another, the long journey to the center... Keeping my hands open that they may hold on and find their way safely.

Friendship and the dishtowel

               

How to help a friend:

Look into their eyes.

Listen to their story.

Embrace their goodness.

Help them to wash their dirty dishes.

How do you help a friend when their heart is breaking?

Photo: Dishes on the counter waiting to be put away.

French Brocante

Feed your soul and your heart will rejoice.

French Tapestry and the Intersection

My friend deals with vintage fabrics: silks, cottons, printed linens, boutis, and tapestries. She piles them in heaps in the back of her van. She goes wherever there is an antique market; Avignon, Béziers, Lyon or Montpellier, once there she lets her long blond hair down, straightens her Chanel and steps out in high heels. Not the usual attire for those who sale at the fair, but then she is not the usual attire type of woman!

Her home reflects her personality, cushions are covered in antique toile de Jouey, silks are framed as artwork, rock crystals sconces, her furniture is all 18th-century- except her blue Smeg frig. In her bedroom, roses have climbed up the outside wall slipping through the window that cannot longer shut: The roses are like wallpaper.

In her hallway there is a tapestry. 

My Pretty Woman friend calls me. She says we must talk. Urgently! When I arrive she pulls me inside, as if life is close to death, telling me she has met a man. Her van had stalled in an intersection, he pulled up dashing in his sports car, "After he helped me... he asked me out. Of course I said yes, we are to go to dinner this evening... and I haven't anything to wear." I looked at her sideways, giving her a loud thought, "You have nothing to wear, you who wears Prada like I wear jeans;" She reinstated her need, "...nothing to wear and I MUST go to Christian Lacroix and pick up something smashing!"

I think to l myself, because she is already on the planet of "Hot-Date-Ville," he hasn't seen all your clothes, he only saw you in your van, what did you have on then: Your blond hair, mile long eyelashes and some one-two outfit, do you think he even remembers what you were wearing? Then it hits me like a champagne glass thrown at the mantle: my opinion is not what she is after.

"Corey," in her charming English accent she teases, "You've often admired my tapestry?"

Stunned, I beg her not to sale her tapestry for a drive-by-date, "You'll regret it! You'll only wear the outfit once. Then it'll pile up with your other fashion plates. Just go to your closet, close your eyes dig around and pull something out, I am sure it will work." She is not convinced. Instead she slips the money for the tapestry into her Chanel bag.

I roll the tapestry and gently put it in the back seat of my car.

Several months later, my friend dines with us chez moi, at my house, with Mr. Sports car. He looks around admiring, he likes tongue-in-cheek-antiques, points to the tapestry and asks, "Corey, I love your tapestry. Don't you honey? Where did you find it?" I look at him him and laugh, "You won't believe this, it found me, the day you found Honey at an intersection..."

Note: This is a re post as I continue my Bed & Breakfast.

Matchmaker

               

I like to pretend I am a matchmaker. I like the idea of bringing two people together and having their hearts wake up in love.

               

I love the matchmaking process: The first thing I do is drop hints by sharing delicious details about one person to another. Then I like grabbing their hands and leading them to one another, slowly of course. OH I especially like preparing a meal and making sure they sit face to face by one another.

I love sharing secrets of seduction, I like to pretend I know what I am talking about.

               

"Just touch his foot gently with your foot under the table." I like to tell the Mademoiselles. I tell the Messieurs, "If she touches your foot under the table move your foot closer to hers, and caress it."

They laugh and call me wild, but they do it nevertheless. Seduction is the name of the game and it is fun to play. Don't you agree?

               

Which reminds me I need to fill my love potion bottles!

"Remember to wear perfume, and comment on his or hers, lean in to take another smell, try to guess what scent it is... say it smells sexy. Yes sexy!

               

The dinner party... tidbits to "grignoter" (nibble on,) the sideway glances, the refilling of the empty glass, the accidentally dropped spoon, the leaning over, the passing of the cream sauce, the asking if they want sugar in their tea. Oh those loaded sentences that mean less about serving food and more about serving suggestions.

Match maker who me? I hope my dream comes true!

Photos: Detail of romance feminine style.

Sexy video!

Cynthia's Cheesecake

               

I met Cynthia years ago in Paris. We were Americans living abroad, she had a bakery which was close to my apartment where she whipped up American favorites. Cynthia was a rising star in the pastry world and I was her official taster (well that is the title I would rather have than piglet. With the amount of desserts I ate in her shop, it is a wonder I didn't give birth to a cheesecake. Well actually Chelsea did weigh ten pounds at birth.)

               

Cynthia made her famous cheesecake the other night for dinner. It was a hit. Notes of chocolate and raspberry added to the flavor of the cheesecake. After all I wanted the guests to sing, and they certainly did sing praises to Cynthia.

               

French husband loves Cynthia's cakes and desserts. After eating his second piece of cheesecake he teasingly added, "The cheesecake has the taste of....." he looked up as if thinking what the missing flavor might be, and then looked at Cynthia and said, "...the taste of not enough." He had yet another piece.

               

The cheesecake is a top secret recipe, (though I have Cynthia's recipe but that is another story.) It is two layers, the crust is chocolate and it is laced with raspeberry and melted chocolate.

While Cynthia is staying with us I am in hog heaven.

Photos: Cynthia's Cheesecake.

Details of Dinner

               

Last night's dinner table. Place mats were made from vintage music paper, each guest had to sing a few lines in French of course. No I 'm just kidding, but the thought did cross my mind when I was setting the table. I like to amuse myself with such ideas.

               

Lea came to visit me and she created this inventive amuse bouche (little bites that delight before the meal begins) for the taster teaser before dinner:

One grape on a soup spoon

the grape is stuffed with blue cheese and walnut

drizzled with honey.

               

Chilled cucumber soup followed in tiny teacups. You would think with these small portions that we didn't eat much. Though one after another many small delicious bites became a feast. Do you want to see the dessert?

Photos: Of last nights dinner party. Which reminds me I have a stack of dishes to do downstairs! Dishwashers may apply.

Stories Collected

               

Stories collected, memories gathered, thoughts that keep me going on dark days. The patterns in the sky, the unfolding of hearts, life in the monastery and how I learned to pray while cooking. Stories of finding and keeping and losing and weeping, the struggle of having lived when death thought to call. Moments of living the words of a dream: Life continues to continue even when unseen. Memories of childhood and Portuguese donuts and saying the rosary with my cousins. Running in dry rice fields, cracking walnuts, riding motorcycles and walking down the lane. Marty, Mathew, Mark and Zane. The best deal I ever found in the shadiest puce was the rarest gem.

What words tumble from your heart and soul? What words tell your story?

Photo: A photo of me standing by the corner of an "once upon castle."

Photo credit: G. Hutter.

French Post Office

The cost of shipping 

Fourteen people waiting, only one line open. That was how the morning began at the post office. When my turn arrived, the postal worker looked at me, looked at the box, then looked back at me, this wasn't a good sign. Though I had carefully printed the address on the box, with a black tip marker, the red headed postal work wasn't impressed. "You must write the address on a sheet of white paper and attached it to the box." She said blankly. I asked her, "Do you have a piece of blank paper I could use, please?" The reply she gave me was a, "don't-bother-me," no. I glanced around, and found a stack of advertisements paper, blank on the back side and white. Happy day! I quickly printed out the address, then asked the postal worker if she had any tape, par chance? She looked at me like I was stepping on her nerves. One word is all she gave, "No."

On my tiptoes I peered into her cubicle, I spotted airmail tape. "How about that airmail tape?" She barely looked at me when she said, "Mais non, we do not use airmail tape for that...(she might as well have added dumb head.)

I walked to the local shop and bought some tape to fix my new white make shift address label. The clock overhead said, 11:45. I raced back to the post office before it closed.

Opening the post office door, I couldn't believe my luck, not a soul in the place, I smiled. The red head dropped her telephone, she barked, "*Merde *merde *merde! It is not possible, I am closing! You cannot do this at this time--- OUT! OUT! OUT!" I calmly pointed to the clock as my witness. She stomped her foot, took my box, and locked the door behind me.

The red head glanced at my box and snickered,"This box is going to the United States of America? This will cost you a fortune to mail. Are you sure you want to mail it?" I thought of saying, "It is cheaper then an airline ticket." Instead I shook my head yes.

I filled out the declaration (custom paper) she gave to me, then handed it back to her. Before my eyes she took the declaration, placed it on top of the box, over the address label I had created. Then she torn a sheet of wide clear plastic tape, and plastered it over the declaration form AND MY WHITE PAPER ADDRESS LABEL!

Taped it! Counting to ten is a lesson that has helped me stay calm many of times. She smiled with a twist of bitter lemon and laughed under her breath.

Then she took the box and put it on the scale to weigh. With a tilt of her head and music to her voice, I heard her say, "Too bad! Too bad! Your box weighs too much! Our scales are too small they only go to 250 grams, so you will have to go the butcher shop to have this package weighed, if you want to mail it that is?" I looked at her, blinked my eyes in disbelief and could only say, "What?" Then I started to count out loud..."One, two, three, four..."

At the butcher shop, with sides of beef, chickens plucked with their heads still attached, rabbits in full fur, and sausage strung like Christmas lights. I looked at the butcher, and before stating my weird and wacky history of how I came to be in his shop, I began by saying, " Excuse me, the reason I have never been in your shop before, is because I am a vegetarian..." He had a hearty laugh!

He took the box, "How much did Red Head say her scales went to?" Innocently I said, "250 grams." The butcher marked on the box:

"251 grams signed, Monsieur Butcher."

The box weighed at least five pounds. I looked at him as if he just gave me sliced ham. "This package is at least five pounds?" The butcher laughed, "Not by my scales."

At 3:00 pm I was first in line at the post office. Red Head unlocked the door. She smiled, "Oh you are here again. Is everything ready to go? Viola! C'est bon!" She didn't even flinch at 251 grams! What did she have for lunch?

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p.s.  Not all post clerks in France are like red head.

* Merde is a bad word in French.

Photos: Taken around a French village in the south of France.