Tongue in Cheek

New Year's Eve

The end of the year. The last day of 2007. The eve of new beginning. What are your New Year promises? Is it fair of me to ask you since I do not know what mine will be!

Some of my New Year promises I have kept, though most were broken by the end of the week... The ones I did manage to keep have stayed with me. Well actually only one New Year promise has stayed with me... wearing a seat belt.

Let's make a toast to the New Year.

May our glasses never be empty.

May we know we are loved.

At the end of the day may our glass be full of hope.

May whatever comes our way lead us to be a better person.

Photos: From Melaine's party.

Living in a Monastery

When I was nineteen I went to live in a Benedictine Monastery in New Mexico. As the monastery was semi cloistered each community member was assigned a task to do when they arrived to help maintain the monastery and partake in community life.

The Abbot asked me if I knew how to cook. I lied and said yes.

You see right before he asked me if I liked to cook, he asked the other young woman who arrived at the same time as I did to the Abbey, what she like to do? The young woman replied that she liked to sing and play the guitar. The Abbot said she could play with the other musicians at the liturgy. Though the laundry room needed helpers, so when she wasn't playing during liturgy she could assist in the laundry room. He then looked at me.

Ironing and I were not the best of friends... I feared I would get stuck ironing. The Abbot didn't ask me want I liked to do...all he said was, "Do you like to cook?" I thought cooking was far better than being in the laundry room. My first sin at the monastery was I lied, "Yes, I love to cook."

The Abbot loved to eat meat...barely cooked meat at that. I was a vegetarian. When he showed me the kitchen I noticed three things: 1) There was a walk in cooler full of meat. 2) The only vegetables were canned. 3) The professionally equipped kitchen was on the top floor of the Abbey and overlooked the grounds.

The Abbot handed me a book titled, "Sugar Blues" and said, "No sugar is allowed, except for birthday cakes for the members of the community."

"No sugar?" I asked.

"No sugar." He said.

"Is honey or fructose, or natural sugar in fruit, consider sugar?" I asked.

He looked at me as if I was trying to be smart, though in the corner of his eye I saw a small twinkle, he said, "No white sugar."

I knew better, I don't know why I did, but I pushed it a bit further by asking, "Is brown sug....." But before I could utter the the ending to sugar, he gave a stern look and said, "No white or brown sugar."

I didn't dare ask about tofu.

I knew the Abbot and I were going to be the reason for many hours of prayers for patience.

One of the many pleasure of working in the kitchen in the Abbey was that I got to drive into Santa Fe once every two weeks to go grocery shopping. Most of the members in community never left the Abbey unless to visit home once a year, or for a doctor's appointment if needed.

On those outings I bought kitchen supplies that weren't delivered to the Abbey, and I was able to buy sugar if a cake needed to be baked. I loved when it was someone's birthday and I got to make a cake. Especially if they asked for Chocolate. If they didn't ask for Chocolate, I would ask them if they were trying to make me hate my job or just torture me for the fun of it? I told them that God smile when Chocolate was being used in our kitchen and that the angels would guide them from harm.

They usually let me have my way. I was after all the youngest in community, and they loved doing acts of Christian charity even if that meant, letting me make a chocolate cake for them on their birthday, even if they didn't like chocolate.

Actually Jack (a community member of the Abbey, and my superior in the kitchen) made the rare chocolate birthday cakes... I helped by licking the bowl and washing the pots and pans.

More stories of the monastery in the months to come.

Side notes: The nun in the photo is not me. Though it seems we had something in common.

The Hands of TIme

               

Photo: The hands of my nephews last summer.

The Lace Thing

               

Lace, that starts your hands to itch because you long to pick it up, and at the same time starts your heart a pumping to be creative. The sirens go off in your head, "I could add it to a sheet, or at the end of a towel, maybe add it to a tee-shirt..."

It is the type of lace that screams, "Create!" When I see lace I hear that message and instantly I want to scoop it up and take it home.

               

Though there is a twofold dilemma... I don't need anymore lace, and I rarely have the heart to cut it up! Most the time you need to cut it to for a project. Therefore it sits screaming at me and I stand starring at it. A love-hate relationship you might say. I just want to admire it, and it wants to be used.

               

Ah the lucky day when I find lace that is already put to use. Dyed and sewn. The creation complete.

               

The French antique markets are full of bits and pieces of hand made lace. It adds texture and tenderness to the objects it surrounds.

               

French hand made lace.

The nimble hands, the creative dancing hands! The needles that formed the heart song into reality. How could I dare cut into a piece? Like I said, lace and I we stand and stare at one another. I want to create something with it...but I cannot.

               

A box of lace temptation. How can I resist? Layers, depth, yards upon yards of someone's creation waiting to be put to use. To adorn, to add, to give texture, to unfold... how cruel it is to tempt me.

               

The lace thing, the pretty thing, the soft and sexy, the baby's gown, the young bride's veil, the pillowcase trim... the added flare to a package, the extraordinary ruffle, the collar, the bodice, the table runner...endless ideas haunt me.

               

The lace thing. It is hard to resist, don't you agree?

               

Doesn't it speak softly? Doesn't it remind you of a gentle moment lost in time? How can I cut into that tenderness? In the end I pass it on and am happier to know that someday someone will use it in a creation and it will be made complete because of it.

Photos: French lace awaiting creative endeavor!

Questions Answered

               

Since I am terribly behind on emails and responding to the comments you have left me I thought I would try to answer some of them today on my blog.

How did you meet your French husband?

One never knows when their life is going to take a different road. I met my French husband at a gay dance club in San Francisco, an unlikely place to meet a straight man I must admit.  I like to tell that story because at the time I was working for the Catholic church (another unusual place to meet a single man.) But as my friend Ellen often said,  "When you want to meet someone do the things you love and the people around you will most likely being do the same. You will have things in common."

Church and Gay dance clubs, now that is a mix bags of tricks. But God provides.

I went to a gay dance club (The I-Beam) because my fiance had died. I was broken. I loved to dance, and dancing was my therapy...and at a gay dance club I figured nobody there would be looking at a woman. I needed space to be alone amongst others. The I-Beam fit the bill.

French husband went to the I-Beam with a friend who told him: He had to see this club because people there loved to dance. Because it was so new, so hip! Because the I-BEAM was an institution in San Francisco a must see like the Golden Gate bridge. So he went. Saw me and asked me out.

When French husband asked me my name in his broken French accent, I looked at him as if he was a man from Mars...

What happened next is another story.

               

How did Victoria and Somerset find out about you?

Through my blog. They read it, liked what they saw and contacted me. When they wrote me I had to re-read the letter several times just to be sure I was reading it right. Then I started screaming! French husband thought something terrible had happened and came running downstairs. When I told him that the editors of Victoria and Somerset contacted me, he smiled a mile wide and went out bought me a new lens.

               

Are your Children more French or American?

Well if you ask Patti, Andy, Sam, Jack or Joe (the older nieces and nephews in America, Chelsea and Sacha's cousins,) they would say Chelsea and Sacha are French with an American twist.

Two examples:

The other day when Sacha was talking to his cousins on the phone I heard him say, "I have never played basketball...well you know other than throwing the ball in a hoop..."

When Chelsea's graduated from Lycee (French high school,) her classmates chipped in some money to buy some Champagne. Then in the class room with their teachers and the director of the school they toasted each other farewell.

               

What was it like to live in a monastery?

I was 19 years old when I went to live in a monastery in New Mexico. We prayed most of the day. As it was semi cloistered we didn't get out much. Other than praying each of us had tasks to do during the day. I worked in the kitchen and cut hair (and no I did not use a bowl!)

The daily life followed this pattern:

7:00 a.m. Morning Prayer

8:00 a.m. Breakfast

9:00 a.m. Private prayer

10:00 a.m. Activity tasks (I was in the kitchen, or cutting hair, or up to mischief.)

Noon - Lunch

3:15 p.m. Eucharist

5:30 p.m. Dinner

7:30 p.m. Vespers (community prayer)

8:30 pm Compline (evening prayer)

9:00 pm The Grand Silence.

Will you write more about your experience in the monastery? Yes, I will...promise. It was an amazing experience. Full of depth and full of humor too. The humor is the easy part to write about, though it would be unfair to share just that part. I am still thinking how to share this story on my blog.

               

Do you take the photos on your blog. Yes, I do.

What do you miss most about America? Other than my family and friends, I miss Mexican food, being understood in English, and the American attitude that if there is a will their is a way.

How is Shelley doing? Thank you for asking. I believe prayer and positive thought can send healing energy and gives courage. I appreciate the prayers and energy you send to her.

Shelley is on a breathing machine, she is having a hard time talking, she has an amazing amount of love and support around her from her family and friends. She can move one finger barely, though with that one finger she can access the Internet and she surfs all day long. Shelley loves your emails and comments, if she could she would write you all a mile long letter to thank each of you.

Thanks for asking.

Up close, yet faraway at Christmas

               

The reflection in the Christmas ornament is of me with my new macro lens. French husband is standing over my shoulder smiling. He is giddy! But really I am the happier one because of the Christmas gift he gave me.

               

I called my family in California to wish them a Merry Christmas. It seems each year when I call them at Christmas my brother Mathew is helping my Mom mash the potatoes, (I must add, the best mashed potatoes in the world) and my Dad is saying, "Poor Corey all the way in France, not here with us." It seems that is when I call... right after he says that.

Nine hours time difference between France and California puts my family at the Christmas lunch table (2pm) when I am nearly ready for bed here in France (11pm.)

               

When I call home at Christmas the phone is passed around and I quickly say, "Merry Christmas" to each and every one. The phone is held to the ears of the little ones, sometimes they make a cooing sound, most the time I imagine they are trying to lick the phone as I talk to them in baby talk.

The last person I talked to this Christmas was my Godchild George. I asked him what he got from Santa? He giggled and told me he got a camera. I asked him if he would send me a photo, he agreed. I asked him if he could send me a photo of his big toe, not his little toe, but of his big toe. His laugh, his darling, childish laugh was pure music to my ears.

I felt right in the middle of love.

Baby Jesus

               

                         "...and a little child shall lead them." Isaiah 11:6

When I was fourteen my Mother had her fifth and last child, a boy that my Father named Zane.

My three other brothers and I were excited to tell Zane as he got older about Baby Jesus, and how Baby Jesus had everything to do with Christmas. Repeatedly telling him that when Christmas morning came he would be the one to put the "baby Jesus" in the manger.

Of course on Christmas morning we all jumped at of bed bright and early, what child doesn't who believes in Santa and celebrates Christmas? Zane seemed to be a bit lackadaisical about the whole thing, and that struck us as odd. But hey he was only a little tot so we figured he didn't really get it yet.

My brothers and I raced into the kitchen, each one of us wanted to be the first one to give baby Jesus to our baby brother Zane. But to our surprise we could not find it. We searched and searched for baby Jesus. Where had he gone? What happened? Hadn't we put him in the kitchen drawer? Who saw him last? After which seemed an eternity looking for the main nativity character, we noticed Zane crying. Gee, maybe he did get it after all. We felt badly for him, poor little guy. We told him not to cry that Jesus lives in our hearts and that the missing plastic baby Jesus was not the real thing, and that Christmas would go on.

Zane looked up to us with his big brown eyes and said, "I threw the baby Jesus in the fire. He was getting too much attention."

We were dumbfounded.

We have never let Zane forget his jealousy.

Merry Christmas dear family and friends.

The Gift Within Us

               

Untie the strings, pull back the cover, open your arms and see the gift of yourself.

May this Christmas we find the beauty of who we are and let it guide us.

Photo: Old lace sack containing angel prayer cards, the angel crosses her heart... knowing she must let go for love to flow.

Latest French Fashion

               

The other night Chelsea was talking about school and what she hopes to do when she graduates. Afterward as we walked back to Chelsea's studio, Sacha stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, something came over him, he mimicked while saying...

"You mean Chelsea you're going to put your hair in a chignon-

Sport small, square, black framed, glasses that will make your eyes look big- 

Wear a tailored, dark-navy, pin-stripped suit, with a skirt that will reduce the size of your steps-

Walk in black, high-heel, shoes that will clack-clack-clack when you walk...

You mean to tell me Chelsea you are going to carry a portfolio like a flirtatious fan?

A business woman who eats sushi and chit chats about tea in China?

Chelsea?!?"

Photo: A la Mode French vintage dress patterns for the chic Parisian woman.

Vegetable Soup

               

Vegetable soup:

One onion, two turnips, a bunch of carrots, two leeks, a few collard leaves, one potato, the heart of the celery, two cups of white wine (one to drink and one for the pot,) a few sage leaves...

Several different hunks of cheese.

Loaves of crusty bread.

Cold, cold, cold day outside.

A good book and a hand made blanket to wrap around your knees.

A roaring fire, music (not opera) and the twinkling of the Christmas tree's lights.

Lovely weekend.

Note:  As we do not have a TV (by choice) I have never watched Seinfield. Today while looking up "soup" on YOU TUBE I found this clip...Man, did I miss out of some good soup or what?

Seinfield's Soup!

MN sent me this clip: A French Seinfield: La Soupe aux Choux.