Tongue in Cheek

Welcome to Provence

Photo and text by Corey Amaro:

Provence is having a drink of Pastis in a small village, with cicadas clicking their heels in the background.

Provence is a red blanket of poppies with a child in the middle wearing a straw hat.

Provence is, without a doubt blue shutters and flowers on the windowsill.

Provence is small fishing villages nestled along the coast, a place to cast your dreams afloat.

Provence is a white bowl of fish soup with a sliced dried baguette, a head of garlic, grated cheese, and garlic mayonnaise. The soup should be called garlic soup.

Provence is double painted doorways....

and colorful facades with stripped awnings with a....

Fruit and vegetables stand underneath. Yes Provence is

the land of good and plenty.

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Today is my cousin Kathy's birthday. They went to St Tropez and I stayed home to bake a surprise birthday cake. But what was I thinking.... St. Tropez verses Birthday Cake?!? Truth be told I stayed back because I lost a tooth and have a dentist appointment: Oh the joy of growing old. Maybe I'll bake my tooth in the cake as a double whammy surprise.

The Golden Gift that has Landed on our Doorstep

My cousins, Gene and Kathy, are here from the States visiting us. We have had spent hours talking, laughing and eating, of course drinking and visiting this church, that monument and a million charming towns.

Gene is a handy man. Yes!! A genuine, golden hand, H-A-N-D-Y-M-A-N!! A gem, a treasure, the best thing that has ever landed on my doorstep. He knows how to do anything and everything. I am so tempted to give him a hammer, a drill, nails and whatever else he would need to fix the things that need fixin' and do the "Honey-dos" that I have been begging that Non-Handyman French Husband of mine.

Gene is all for doing whatever I want him to do.... but I feel so guilty, okay sort of guilty to take him up on it. I mean gee... this is the first trip to Europe and all, and there is so much to see and do rather than do miscellaneous jobs for me....

But he is twisting my arm, and well, my guilt is growing weaker and weaker.

And Kathy, she is easy going, loves to do what I love to do best...talk! We have shared story after story! I think I might have to lock them up in the amoire just to keep them here for myself.

Family from Willows, I am so happy I could cry. Especially on this day, to have family near, those who were so very close to my Father. Gene and Kathy have many stories about my Dad.... Today marks two years that my Dad died. Two years..... how can that be?

They are the golden gift that has landed on our doorstep... like little miracles of happiness unveiling themselves to remind us that we are loved and never alone.

Provence to Paris

The French countryside with the first kiss of spring.

I want this car! Will you please buy it for me?

... if you do I promise I will drive you from Provence to Paris, hitting every brocante in between (and bakery too.)

Later Note: The car is a "Deux Cheveaux" (Two Horses). Made during 1948 to 1990, the same shape and style.

They cost anywhere from 3000 (needs work) to 6000+ euro.

The Rose Cloud

Text and Photo by: Corey Amaro

I was stressing out about something, I don't remember what, something unimportant now but was sapping my energy then. I was frustrated, poor French Husband became my focal point, though he wasn't the reason for my attitude he certainly was getting my grief as I barked up his tree.

Then something in his eye calmed me. Thankfully some small goodness in me stopped and held his gaze. In that brief second I caught the lifeline back to the real shore of my being.

I asked for a hug. Sounds simple, sounds corny. But that hug soothed my rough edges, putting me back on track.

That is what I love about him he takes my thorns and allows me to bloom.

Orange Onion Salad Love Affair

Photo and text by: Corey Amaro

My friend Annie talked about a salad she had as if it were her new best friend. She described it in detail: the crunch of its voice, its tangy personality, its unexpected freshness and with curiosity, like one has when one is first in love: She wondered what other flavor it might have if mixed with an added ingredient.

Yesterday late afternoon French Husband, Chelsea and I stopped by Annie's to say hi. As we talked and drank our sparkling water with Pulco Annie jumped up with more energy than a five year old and said, "Corey I made the Orange Onion Salad, you gotta taste it!"

Now, that might not sound unusual... offering a taste of an Orange Onion Salad at five in the afternoon.... But let me tell you in France that is as rare as Martians coming over to visit. I knew at that moment that this salad had to have real pull on Annie's French heart strings.

Annie brought out the Orange Salad, handed me a spoon, not bothering to give me a plate. Love does that it makes you do things you would never think to do. I hesitated, doubting briefly the goodness of oranges with onions. The thought of it made me pucker my lips, though Annie's enthusiasm reassured me, I scooped a mouthful. The moment the Orange/Onion combo hit my taste buds I was smitten. "Who knew!" I exclaimed.

French Husband and Chelsea, as if I were Goldilocks, followed suit. We went home and made it for dinner.

Orange Onion Salad:

One large sweet white onion, thinly sliced. Marinate it with two or three tablespoons of olive oil, one or two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, Grey pepper with a hint of nutmeg. While this sets aside doing its thing,

Peel and skin, three large oranges peeled, then cut in thirds,

Mix the two together.

Serve as is, or over rice or on an avocado.

(My Friends over at Facebook: Clarice Fox-Hughes adds pistachios, and Mary Marsell-Farrell uses red onions, with raspberry vinaigrette instead.)

Have you had Orange Onion Salad or a variation of it?

In the Dog House, Eating Onions, while Cutting Hair.

Today I forgot to blog.
Literally.
I went to the brocante, found nothing.
Went to see Annie, with French Husband and Chelsea. She made a salad with white onions, oranges, balsamic, olive oil, with pepper and spices: Incredibly good.
Admired the roses that are at last blooming.
Came home to cut Chelsea's hair, we were talking about where she was going to sleep as I have invaded her room (Guests are in the other room....). Just then, instead of concerning myself further about an extra bed for my daughter, who will probably sleep in the bathtub as our couches are, as my children say, "Pretty but not practical, uncomfortable to sit on let alone sleep!" I said, "OH WOW!" Chelsea said, "Mom don't worry." And like the loving ding dong mother that I am, I blurted, "I forgot to write my blog today!"
Chelsea rolled her eyes.
I guess I am in the doghouse tonight... though we do not have a dog.

So this is it... Happy Sunday, may it be memorable.

Later Note:

I managed to blog today, though late in the afternoon verses in the morning.

Do You Want to Fly Over Provence?

French Husband's bromance Philippe filmed their flight in Mosquito.

Who is who and what is what in the above sentence:

(Click on any of the following to find out.)

French Husband... you know him by now... did you know he is enrolled in Clown Classes?

Bromance.

Philippe.

Their flight in Mosquito.

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Later Note:

Yann's Bromance Philippe, made the video linking it on Facebook. I can only link it on my Facebook account as I do not know how to download it here. If you want to see it you have to Friend me. How fun is that?!

Where I Popped a Cork

Photo and Text by: Corey Amaro

So there I was pushing my cart at the grocery store when I bumped into an acquaintance.

She smiled, greeted me politely, asked about the children and then without pause or reflection, (certainly without reflection) added, "Corey, you have gained weight! You are looking rather plump."

I wanted to poke her eyes out, but instead I smiled, nodded and said, "Yes about five years ago, I gained weight. We haven't seen each other in a long time. How's your husband?"

Tossing her hair aside like a movie star or something (I think I was overly sensitive to detail at that moment, acting like I wasn't insulted, wishing the carrots were in my cart and not the chunks of cheese.) she continued on the same train of thought, "You better stop nibbling at the chocolate and bonbons!" then she laughed as if I thought that was funny.

My stinker mode kicked in... I wish I had taken the higher road, but damn there is a reason why it is less traveled! Instead of brushing her rude crumbs off I retorted, "Oh I don't eat chocolates. I drink wine. Alot of it to be exact. Every night. Yann loves the effect it has on me. The little fat he finds flattering at night, you know."

She stood there chic, classy and dumbfounded.

Then I said, "Ciao" and headed for the wine section though I felt as red as a beet.

Have you ever let someone get your goat?

Madame M. the Visit that Changed my Life

Photos and text by Corey Amaro

Madame M. came to my house when I was thirty four.

She did not bring a gift to my newborn baby, nor was she subtle, dare I say rude, as she entered in quickly, barely saying hello. Madame M. has lived with me since then.

Mixing Baby Blues and menopause is a cocktail few have tasted, but let me tell you it is one nasty drink. A lack of hormones can cause people to do drastic things... I did not shave my head, but when I see woman who do I wonder if they too tasted Madame B.B's underrated drink? Mix in Madame M. and it is psychedelic!

How was I to know, in Madame M.'s presences that I would not need a coat for the next five years. She gave new meaning to the word hot... and not in the way of sexy.

I had heard tales of Madame M. how she could slap you on the side of you head, cause your face to turn red, have you forget your name and make you feel unlike a natural woman. I was shocked to learn everything I had heard was true. Yes she was a head trip I wish I did not have to take. The journey was long, tedious and without a road map, or Estrogen as a friend I stumbled along the way. Thankfully French Husband stood by me, loving me while I wrestled with myself under the influence of Madame M.

When I was thirty four I had ovarian cancer (stage two) the chemotherapy rendered me menopausal. The doctors forgot to tell me about Madame M.'s visit. A few nights after my first chemotherapy I kicked the covers off, opened the window wide and swore to God the house was on fire. It took a few more nights of this routine before it dawned on me that I was experiences hot flashes.

Hot flashes were easy breezy compared to the other party favors Madame M. brought me. The worse trips I ever took with her were the ones where I felt I was literally going down the kitchen sink. Hard to explain to someone who hasn't had menopause... but Madame M. can make you think you are going crazy.

Eighteen years have passed since Madame M. came to live with me. I have several coats and wear them often...funny how she makes me feel cool.

Lately my women friends talk about menopause, it is natural they are fifty something. I look at them, smile, think back and count my lucky stars. Madame M. is a resident in my body, we live comfortably with one another, dare I say harmonious.
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Has Madame M. come to visit you?

Painting Paris

Photos and Text by: Corey Amaro

Painting Paris. Painting France. The vivid colors of day to day life mixed in with the fantasy and history. The stuff of dreams: Golden baguette, blue shutter, red checked cloth, a dab of red wine, a splash of the Mediterranean and a touch of Marie-Antoinette.

Where does your paint brush take you? Where does the color blend in, fade way, add texture, give highlight.... Does the line between dream and daily life blend? Or does it bring contrast?

Is life pale blue, with hints of green shoots?

Yesterday mine was grey with lightening... headaches are dark aren't they?

What would you add to your canvas?

Different scenes,

Old facade,

Open door,

New path,

Romance at twilight,

Soft shades of mystery?

What kind of artist are you? Do you sketch details out in your mind first? Or do you get in and get your hands dirty?

I tend to stare at the paper for a long time...blank allows pregnant thoughts to emerge, or if truth be told: Last minute is my best friend for motivation.

 

I find it funny how something can brew within without knowing, without direction, or plan. How the unconscious mingles with reality, sparks dreams, tugs at one's desire then seemingly effortless, as a whim, it appears and the scene is made whole.

Colorful life. Is the daily canvas lick-able, nourishing to your soul?

I wonder if ideas, thoughts, and even friend's and warrior's messages stack up in the back of our closet like clothes we hope to wear one day. I wonder what color they would create if I didn't clean them out from time to time.

Every moment creates a scene even if brief, a dab of color is a dab of color, each stroke lends to another.

 

Contemplating the next move. As the river runs by, and a bridge offers passage.

Wine, the back side of a canvas and two boys in long aprons talk about the meaning of life and what girl they want to ask out.

A dab of

red

blue

and

two empty glasses.

 

Memories, moments, blending that is how it is, isn't it?

 

Waiting for someone to come, sit down, make the scene complete.



 

What color are you today?
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Later Notes:

I took the the photos above in Paris, at the Place du Tertre.

A Million Little Boxes for a Million Little Things

"Is it a snuff box... or for for smelling salts?" Marcie guessed.

Karinka thought it might be, "...a small container (which must have had at one time a stopper), for the ceremony to carry the water in with which a priest christens a baby... then afterward the mother has it for a perpetual keepsake in which she can keep a lock of her childs hair." Isn't that clever? Unfortunately, it isn't true.

Jackie, thought maybe a Chatalaine might have owed it. That is true enough, but not the full answer.

"Is it for sewing needles?" asked Merisi. It isn't, because needles are too long.

"Is it a carnet de ball?" Some of you guessed, though it doesn't open, nor can it hold paper.

Many of you asked, "Is it missing a stopper, or cork or pencil?" I think it is missing the cork.

"Is it a flask?" Questioned Elizabeth.

Other responses included: An inkwell (though inside it is not stained with ink) a flower holder, a toothpick holder, a Pez holder... and "Did it to hold perfume?" Alexis asked.

Laura from 52 flea was the first person to say it was a Match Safe, such as a "Vesta" but it is more than that.... Ana Maria described: "... a Vesta case (named after the goddess of the hearth). The matches were kept in the small container and one would strike them against the side. The lady of the house also kept one to light the hearth.

 

Though there isn't any grooves, to strike a match on the side. When I looked closer at it, it is rough feeling, and I assume the person who cleaned it rubbed the rough sandy part off.

THE RIGHT AND FULL ANSWER goes to:

Ed from Willows, gave a full description, "It's a Re-usable match or lighter. A metal stem with a wick would be in the hole. A flammable liquid would be kept inside and the wick would be kept wet. On the side, there is usually a flint in the grove. You would pull out the stem and strike it down the flint causing a spark. The spark would ignite the wick. After using the flame, you would blow it out and stick the stem back into the hole so the wick would soak up more liquid. I used to have a modern version of this when I was in Boy Scouts."

I took the silver thing over to my friend Annie's house, I wanted her opinion:

She said, "It is for cocaine..." (A few of you, such as "Weaverbec" thought the same thing,
Before she could finish her thought I teasingly said, "Annie how do you know about that?"
She rolled her eyes, and said, "I am ninety remember, I know a few things."
"Cocaine," I teased?
"No, I never tried it, but this looks like it would be quite handy to hold cocaine. Though it is missing a small stopper, and maybe on the side there use to be something to sniff with..."
Then she added, "It is for poison and the side part held a dropper.... you know poison comes in small packages. A little goes a long way."

I searched the internet and did not find anything remotely similar. Though many of you sent me links, showing lovely things, none were like the object I have.

Massilianana's creative guess takes home the creative prize her response was:

"Easy-peasy , this is a XIXth century COMPAGNON DE PROMENADE. It was used by elegant ladies who were going on a hike in the country.
The unusual side actually perfectly fits the top and finer part of the already fine and elegant ladies walking stick ( usually, if you are a lucky , you can find both items in the brocantes).
The purpose of the hole is the fill the silvery thingy with water(usually from any spring encountered) and when the ladies would pick some of those light, fine , lovely wild flowers that you find in the country, they would stick the flowers in so they would keep fresh until the ladies' return home.
As for the little loop, the ladies would use it to tie their hats' ribbons: they would put the stick into the ground , firmly , then hang the hat to the loop and off they'd go to bathe their feet in a tiny fresh stream , and then they would have picnic in the shade..."

Katy, your response was beautiful too. "A lovely little vessel to hold a dying person's last breath." Conny, had a similar idea, thinking "it might hold tears of a loved one."

Beachy you made me laugh when you said, "...the tiny hole on top was to store her perfume. She would sneak to her lover's door late at night, knock gently without saying a word... her lover would walk over to his side of the door... she would place a drop of her perfume into the door's keyhole and he would then take a sniff..." And Christina y. Ginsberg made me laugh too with, "A 19th century tic-tac dispenser...." Black Purl you too got my funny bone, "I think this beautiful object was a cruel device used by husbands whose wives like to go to the Brocante! I think it was used as a money box (a small slide is missing from the open side) and that hole was there to taunt the woman while she tried in vain to get the thing to open. She could *see* the money, but not get to it. Cruel husband..."

Thank you for your wonderful responses.

Mass

French Antique Guessing Game

It is always a kick when I find something at the brocante that I haven't a clue as to what it is. Yesterday I gotta kick. The brocante dealer told me what he thought it was... I was doubtful, turning the small object over, raising my eyebrows when he told me what he thought it was. Just as I was about to say, -Nah, that isn't right!- another dealer chimed in with his opinion which corresponding with what the first dealer said.

The nineteen century, silver object of curiosity is one inch and a half inch high, by an inch wide. It has a small opening, on top. It does not open up. It has an unusual side (as shown in the photo) and has a decorative motif on both sides. It has a loop on one side. The opening is not wide, and inside it is straight and narrow. There isn't a lid.

Then a third person came by, he disagreed with the dealers' description. At that point I asked how much and bought the odd curious thing. The dealer asked me what I was going to do with it... How does one say, "Blogging Guessing Game in French?"

The Guessing Game:

-Put you answer in the comment section. (If you do not know how to leave a comment you can send me an email, and I will add your comment.) The first person to answer correctly will win the silver antique curious thing.

-An antique medal will go to the winner of a creative response that suits my fancy.

-A third antique medal will go to the person who can find another the curious thing (like the one above) on the internet, you need to add the link to the comment section.

What was this antique silver curiosity used for?

You can guess more than once. The winners will be announced tomorrow around ten in the morning.

Happy guessing, and creative responses too.

A Revolution of Pleasure... Living in France

Photos and text by: Corey Amaro

There is more to going to the brocante than looking for antiques. I know many of you think  the only reason that I would leave a warm bed early on a Saturday morning, is to find some broken old things just for the heck of it.

Well, let me just say that is simply not true.

I like old broken things.... but I love how France grabs my hand and takes me deep within her, showing me the depths of her amazing soul.

Saturday morning, waking up before the church bell strikes six, putting on a pair of jeans, a sweater, wrapping a scarf around my neck, throw my purse over my shoulder, close the house door quietly and run towards the car... with the name of a small French village fair dancing in my head.

The tree lined road in France is one of the reasons I love to go to the brocante.

The nearby castle in the air is another reason, I shake me head, smile, count my lucky stars. I love the French brocante.

You see brocanting is more about finding what France has to offer, about learning how it lives, about the life I feel when I venture out into it.

Each moment, each day, each season... it is never the same, yet it is faithful to history, culture and of course, the beauty the eye absorbs to fed the heart.

Early Spring... the budding of the trees, the golden hue of the mustard seed.
In May: the red poppies,
followed by lavender...

Provence is color under a blue sky.




I cannot deny that the journey to the brocante is half the pleasure. But once I am in the middle of the brocante there is something that takes me deeper into the richness of France... the history, her story, the art work and lives life behind.

Today a pair of child's silk slippers walked up to me: I saw the little girl with a cream colored sash chase her dog through the kitchen. I heard her stop in her tracks when her mother grabbed her to kiss her forehead and put a croissant in her hand.







The road to the brocante it is never the same way twice. The seasons make sure of that. The old broken things tell me so, and the stories mingled between the two tell me today is a very good day.





The French Brocante stole my heart before I was born... maybe a mustard seed was buried under my pillow... I don't know but I think it is true.








Then, oh my, then there is the cafes lined up tempting me to go deeper... how can one little cake start such a revolution of pleasure. It is something I will never grow tired of....

Oh France how you seduce me. Loving you is just an easy thing to do.



 

Golden hue,
Red poppy crown,
Lavender fields with intoxicating perfume filling the air.
Pain au chocolat the early morning goddess, the red checked table cloth and the opening of the blue shutter.
Cheese and a crusty baguette..
Sipping Haut Medoc at a cafe,
Listening to the waiter's long white apron swish by,
The road to France goes straight to the heart of the matter.

Then the brocante... opens the door.

and I am home.

No Trains, No Planes can only mean one thing when you are stuck in France

My friend Mimi's overnight visit with us is going on a week and a half due to the train strike, a volcano erupting, which lead to the grounding of all planes. Poor Mimi is stuck in France!

This morning she asked me what we were going to do today?

H...E...L...L-OOOOOOOOOOOO?

I thought she knew me.
________________________________

If you had to be stuck somewhere where would it be?

Pig's Feet French Cheese leads to Kissing Toes

    

It wasn't what I expected, when he said he brought home a gift. The fridge reeked of stinky pig's feet, if you ever have lived in the country in the summer you know what I mean, especially if you are near a trough.

"You brought home cheese? Are you sure it is still good? Where did you buy it? How long did it sit in the car?" I quizzed that French Husband of mine who bought the cheese the other day when he was skiing in the Alps with Sacha.

Before I ever came to France, General de Gaulle famously remarked that it was impossible to govern a country with 365 different kinds of cheese. With that said I want you to know that some cheese shouldn't be called cheese... and some husbands should stick to skiing... I dared said that to that man of mine.

He gave me his famous imitation of a baby crying, he does that when he thinks he is wrong, and it always makes me laugh. As I laughed I thought why not cook the cheese, it might not be as bad as it smells.

I wrote on Facebook last night:

"Yann brought home a slab of cheese as stinky as 12 pig's feet on a hot day. Throwing it out was not a option. I baked it with potatoes, leeks, cloves of garlic, cream fraiche, and eggs, baked it in a tart. OH MY GOD it was so good I could kiss those piggy's toes, instead Yann said I had to kiss his... Not quite the same.... and well the results were far better."

Far better.

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Thank you for your responses yesterday, I love each and everyone of you tartelettes!!
My childhood friend Laurie wrote that she was a long banana with a pair of coconuts. That still has me laughing.
Your responses confirm to me that we could have been friends since birth! Thank you for confirming my belief that blogging connects the world, and twins separated at birth.

The Girl without the Pale Yellow Espadrilles

The face of time. Old photos. Stories told, untold, retold... then, now and over and over again. Our stories play out, we each have a part...

Digging at the brocante a small box of photos unearthed from a soap tin wrapped with a rubber band. Photos taken over a hundred years ago. Snapshots from the Canebiere, Marseilles.

Photo of a Mother and child: Marie-Francoise and bebe Mathilde.

 

Photo of a young girl: Helene.

Photo of a young man: Was he the father of Mathilde, or the husband of Marie-Francoise? Maybe he was Helene's brother Jean-Pierre? I don't know, only his name is written on the back.

Photo: Young man with a stiff collar and a tie named, Jacques.

Photo: A boy in a sailor outfit missing his white tie. Blue eyes, ruby lips, straight bangs... his name: Andre-Michel.

Do you know that most French names have a masculine and feminine pronunciation?

Carine's blouse has a monogram. Is she Jacques' sister? Are they facing opposite so that in a photo frame they would be facing one another?

Girlfriends. Lise and Cosette with a hint of a smile. Cosette is wearing a pinafore.

Photo: Was it a rough day? A serious occasion? Or just a bad photo? Marie-Louise doesn't say.

Old photos found in a soap tin.

Photo: Last century, a young woman: Estelle, with pale yellow espadrilles. Taken by her Father Henri one summer at the Vieux-Porte in Marseille.

Photo: This century, daughter Chelsea with a yellow purse. Taken by Mr. Espresso. last summer in Mexico.

Old photos capturing a brief moment in time to be replayed over and over again in another image in time.

Who are you, can you share your image in words?

Corey-
Round pear.
Blond hair covers grey,
52 though thought she was 53,
Never wears yellow,
Prefers black (It is a good thing she doesn't wear those colors together or she would be mistaken for a bumble bee.)
Oldest child, only daughter.

Use this example or your own:

Name:

Described as a fruit:
Hair color:
Real age and other:
Color you never wear:
Favorite color:

other:

When He Raises His Eyebrows

Sacha questions my style. He questions what I buy. Well not that he says it out loud on a daily base, but I know he does by how he looks me up and down with his eyes, and then raises his eyebrows. Though the other day he did said, "Mom, your necklace with that shirt has to go. It looks to dressy." And later he said, "Not those shoes again."

I guess having a teen age boy noticing what his mother wears should be a compliment in itself.

At least I want to believe it that way.

Brocanting Began with a Belly Flop

If there is anything that can make my heart beat like a passionate drum, it is going to the brocante. Anytime, anywhere, high end or low end, even in a dumpster. Even if it means driving five hours to the middle of nowhere, sleeping in the back seat, waking at five in the morning and walking around with a flashlight... Passionate is a minor way to describe my brocante bug.

The pleasure seeing someone unloading boxes from their van, seeing a snippet of something old calling my name, and then being the first one to ask the price. The icing on the cake is when the dealer doesn't know the value of the item, announces a price so cheap that I nearly pay for it without negotiating. That has happened on more then one occasion which makes drive five hours, sleep cramped in the back seat a small price to pay.

Living in France has many rewards, brocanting happens to be one of my favorites. (I can hear many of you saying, "No duh!") On any Sunday there are probably more than ten fairs in my area alone.

Often I wonder:

"How many buffets can a country have for sale?"

Twenty years ago when my Mother came from California to visit me in France, she had heard of my many escapades and was excited to see what it was all about. As soon as she was at the brocante the first words she uttered were,  "It is as if I have died, I am in Antique Heaven, my tongue is hanging out and I am tripping over it!" Her first concern wasn't how to barter in French, rather it was how was she going to to get it all back home?

A favorite brocante story of mine:

A crowd had quickly gathered around, people were shouting prices and flashing money, things were selling fast. It was one of those rare moments where it seemed a chateau had fallen from the sky, landing at our feet. Unfortunately, I was standing behind the scene. The van was on my left side, tons of boxes and baskets loaded with wonderful objects were in front of me, followed by the dealer and the crowd. Suddenly, my eye caught hold of an eighteen century, five arm candlestick.... I had never seen a candlestick like that before, and I knew it was something worth diving for, so I dove. Not a graceful dive but more like a jump-plop-flop dive. I grabbed the candlestick in a swoosh and held it up even though I was splattered on the ground.

With an ounce of embarrassment and a ton of pride I said, "Bonjour Monsieur," (The first rule of brocanting: Say hello, be polite before negotiating, even if you have bellied flopped in front of them.)

"Combien pour ça?" How much? Since, the dealer didn't see my jump-plop-flop, because I had dove from behind him, and due to the fact that there were nearly 100 people in front of him, he didn't seem to take notice that I was in his stand, or should I say in his wares. He was too busy to notice how crazy I was. The dealer flipped a hand and called out $15.  (Second rule: No matter what price has been announced ask for less.") I said, "$5?" He gave a quick nod as to say, "Done deal." The crowd gasped, I smiled as I held my trophy high.

(The candlestick was sold years ago... hence no photo. Though I wish I had a photo of me diving in his stand.)

La Modiste

"If you were at my table, I would have had to correct you far too often," quipped Annie.
"I am that bad?" I winked.
"Worse!" she added without a blink.

The provocation: My thread's knot was larger than a mustard seed. Or as Annie claimed, "The size of a grapefruit." She wasn't exaggerating as she snipped it off.

My thimble fits her finger perfectly. Though I never use it... It comes in handy when Annie sews our rips, tears, and buttons.

At fourteen Annie was a hat maker, 'La Modiste', by seventeen she was the head of a group of seamstress, sitting at the head of the table.

Annie told me that when she was seventeen her boss would take her out to lunch, afterwards they would walk around spying the new hat collections. "I would memorize the details of the new collections to recreate them back at the studio." She beamed with a renewed pride.

"I guess I would not be sitting at your table." I offered regretfully.

"No, but I am glad you are her now with your unused thimble." she winked.

I Remember You as Loving Me

Deep the joy of being together in one heart
and for me that’s just where it is.

All I ask of you is forever to remember me as loving you.
All I ask of you is forever to remember me as loving you.

As we make our way through all the joys and pain,
can we sense our younger, truer selves?

Someone will be calling you to be there for a while.
Can you hear the cry from deep within?

Laughter, joy and presence: the only gifts you are.
Have you time? I’d like to be with you.

Persons come into the fiber of our lives,
and then their shadow fades and disappears.

All I ask of you is forever to remember me as loving you.

.......

written by Gregory Norbert, Weston Priory.

 

Tomorrow will be a beautiful Day

Tomorrow would be my Father's 83rd birthday. The flood gate opens, though the memories rushing through are not of the last days of his life. Those last months of sadness, those haunting images, the raw feelings of grief have less power over me. Instead the healing water of time has rushed by (Time is an odd measurement isn't it? Fast - slow it counts differently depending on every second we are living it doesn't it?) carrying me to a new ground where signs of spring are evident... Life continues to continue, winter's barren branches will bear fruit.

Two years ago many of you told me that this would happen, that I would feel as if I was left standing at that marked moment and yet I would move forth.

Healing water

soaked through me

cleansed the sorrow

renewed my joy.

Tomorrow will be a joyful day.

Passionate Nut and a Place to Fall

Have you ever wanted to do something so badly that you are willing to risk everything to get it? Some call it passion, some call it crazy. I call it Passion Nut.

Sacha, my teenage son, has a Passion Nut in his heart, which makes me extra spiritual, praying constantly and asking God yet another thing, "Please protect Sacha."

Have you ever wanted something so badly that you do whatever you can to obtain it? Sacha has spent hours on his BMX bike. I have spent hours praying. His body has nicks to prove it and I have rouged knees.

Sacha's Passion Nut: Wanting to do a back-flip with his BMX.

"Dear God, why didn't you give me a son who had a Passion Nut for the cello?"

"Dear Coco, why didn't you marry a man who played the violin?"

"Dear G, why didn't you make my heart one that followed music instead of dirt? Dirt like in wild sports, you know what I mean.... outdoor extreme sports, you know with bikes, planes and ropes..."

"Dear C, you are who you are. Free Will Baby, you know."

"Yeah Yeah. Whatever. Protect Sacha please."

The other day Sacha went to the FOAM PITS. It is a place for BMX riders to practice jumps. Instead of falling on concrete the jumps are filled with foam; so when you land you are protected.

Wouldn't it be easier if our Passion Nuts had a soft place to fall? I know if the risk didn't involve pain or injury I might be braver to do daring things. Then again I doubt I have ever had a daring physical Passion Nut in my body. Emotional risks yes, physical risk no way. Nevertheless if our Passion Nuts had a soft place to land while trying... wouldn't that make trying less fearful?

Sacha went to the Foam Pit, his friend Nicolas took the slow motion video as a way to study his position and learn from his mistakes.

Dear God, May our Passionate Nut(s) have a place to experiment with soft landings, and a slow motion tape to go over showing us how to improve.

Brocanting in the Two Hundred Year Old House

My friend Mimi is back in France on a buying trip for her soon to be shop. We met on-line a few years ago. She has the brocante bug badly. Bad enough, that when she has vacation from her "real job" she comes to France to buy antiques.

Provence usually conjures up images of blue skies and a landscape that is saturated in famous light. But since Autumn it has been grey, raining, sometimes snowing, often cold and as of lately hailing. Though it hasn't stopped us from brocanting.

We went to a second hand store that had cleared out a two hundred year old house. Paradise! Of course every other brocanteur in the land seemed to know about it too. Nevertheless most everyone found something to take home. Though I wish I had been Mr. Lucky Man who got the 18th century pair of glazed Anduze urns... AND two lovely garden benches! Three beauties in a heart beat. Instantly I was in love with him... I wanted to ask him if he wanted to marry me, since he bought so many lovely things.... but then I came to senses. The brocante bug can lead one to many crazy thoughts.

Mimi and her Mother had to rent a truck to take their things back to the warehouse.
Mr. Lucky Man had a truck too, I so wanted to steal his keys.
Madame Pretty Face, another brocanteur at the Second hand Shop, swooped in before us buying the entire kitchen: I bet she doesn't even cook! I bet even though she is French she doesn't know what "herb de provence" is!

The Rat, (Yet another brocanteur who seems to be three steps ahead of me everywhere I go, as if she has a G.P.S. attached to my body!) as I call her, managed to sneak in before everyone with her beady eyes by batting them to the Second Hand Store Manager. She uses her femininity as a tool (I need that tool!!). She knows how to play her game. She sees the goldmine through a pinhole and knows how to get what she wants by those long eyelashes.

I swear God and I are having a talk, it will start with me asking him, "Why did you give me a double chin and a big nose?"

He'll probably say something along the lines like, "I gave you the brocante bug."

 

And I'll say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I've heard that line, it is like when my mother use to say, "But he is such a nice boy." In fact my brothers all four of them use to say, "When Mom says a girl is such a nice girl, it usually implies that she is not a looker." 

  

So God??? What do you say about The Rat huh? She has long eyelashes and the brocante bug?"

Anyway.... I really am lucky, I am! I am not complaining. Gee look I have the brocante bug, a double chin, a big nose, people who love me in spite of it all, and the courage not to steal the keys of Mr. Lucky Man, the grace not to poke Rat's eyes out, and friendship with Mimi and her mother who let me ride in their truck with my purchase in one hand.

 

 My singular purchase, from a shop that had an entire two hundred year old house available, in one hand. I am not complaining. But I am definitely buying fake eyelashes, and stealing keys the next time. 

The Girl with a Rose

 

A girl with a rose pinned to her hat.
My favorite postcard.
It is her eyes that take me in.
Who was she?
The postcard is French, though the image credit says the girl is English.
A signature is barely a clue.
Is she still alive?
Whatever became of the girl with the rose pinned to her hat?

At the brocante, at the same stand with the postcard, a few sheets were piled on the table.
Richly detailed monograms with handmade lace edges... I studied the intricacies, traced the monogram with my finger.
The dealer asked me, "Do you know why the bedsheets are elaborate?"
I understood that she wasn't asking me, rather it was a way to introduce me to something she knew.
I shook my head no.
She said, "Sheets like this were made for the birthing bed. It was part of a young woman's trousseau. Since birthing was at home, after the baby was born the bed was stripped clean. Then the lovely handiwork was spread out: Sheets with lace and large monograms, pillow shams to match... when the new mother and child received their guests in the bedroom, the bedsheets showed them off proudly.

I often wondered why these sorts of sheets seemed hardly worn, often in perfect condition... they were simply not used on a everyday base, they were used only for receiving guests into the bedroom.

Did the girl with the rose pinned to her hat fall in love... if these bedsheets were used for the birth occasion, were they also used or were others made for the marriage bed?

I imagine that years ago, under the linen sheet, she was with the man she loved. He held her through the night as their baby sucked from her breast. I wonder did she trace the monogram with her finger, then gently pull the lace trim around her baby's face?

Thank you for the stories you added yesterday. I appreciated everyone of them. Happy Anniversary Patt. I hope you man is feeling better Amanda, and what girl doesn't remember going to buy her first bra! If I hadn't picked the winners randomly I would have given the card to your daughter Alena.
The random winners of yesterday's offering of the nineteen century postcards are:

Marilyn: The Hair-do Maiden.

Holly Montford: The Pink Thing.

Elaine L.: The Easter Bunny Man

Paula: The Easter Egg with Ribbon.

Pam: The Backdrop.

Jen: The Easter Egg Bra

(Please send me your addresses by email.)

----------------------------------------------------

Later Note:

A blog reader of Tongue in Cheek wrote in the comment section:

"Dear Corey,

The lovely girl with the rose hat in your postcard was actually a young Gladys Cooper - a very famous English Edwardian actress. I've actually started to collect photo postcards of her, and I guess they were all the rage early in the 20th century. She actually had a long career, and had 3 children (2 girls and a boy). She is often pictured with the children in postcards - especially her eldest daughter, Joan. Joan appeared on stage as well, from a young age.

-Karen"

Thank you Karen!

The French Brocante: Canard Biberons and Another Giveaway

The French brocante offers more than old stuff and left over treasures. It is more than a pile of boxes filled with dusty books and chipped dishes. The French brocante is a museum where history, culture, and craftsmanship stack up hoping to be passed down to the next generation. The French brocante is where I learned to speak French, it is where I began to understand the French culture. Listening with one's eyes teaches, can give keys to the hidden past, taking you far into the future.

When and why to go to the French Brocante?

Saturday or Sunday morning always early...
discovering not only old things but as well the villages, the atmosphere, the music, the bakeries, the cafes... brocanting it about the experience, the moments rushing together weaving past to present.

French lessons at the brocante:

A painted zinc horse head. "Interesting," she was curious so she asked, "did it hang above a stable at a chateau? Was it the crown above the stall of a race horse? Was it a trophy?"

The brocanteur smiled at her hopeful imagination, and replied, "It use to hang above a butcher shop that sold horse meat."

"Horse meat?" The vegetarian swallowed heard.

"Yes, horse meat." He said without a wink.

The French brocante

Houses that have lived a couple of hundred years, containing old things, items gathered, cared for, repaired, stored and used from one family to the next. Never changing, always giving their best. Items that have been made to last and made for a purpose. Such as linens, tools, chairs, grain sacks, utensils, tables, buckets... Items too that were meant to entertain ones past time and help create coziness; toys, books, paint boxes, needles and bobbins, fabric, cards, games....

Then one day the family is no longer... the house is sold... the objects are sold from one dealer to another, to one client to another, to one country to another...

The objects become seeds scattering, hoping to be reborn and heard.

Hand made linens and lace, beautiful pieces created for special moments: Marriage, birth, communion...

French furniture handles and hinges.

A spool of pink cotton thread, as big as a puff of cotton candy, waiting by a fabric covered sewing box.

The French Brocante:

At the bottom of most boxes, trunks, and chest of drawers bits and pieces of papers that once had meaning, that were not thrown away, that some how survived the journey of time. That tangibly tell us bits and pieces of a life once lived... pages of books, torn letters, stamps with post marks, candy coupons, buttons, music sheets, photos, wine labels, thread and bingo cards...

The French Brocante, Tongue in Cheek Cheeky winners:

What the these things...

The first person to guess correctly and winner of a "Carnard Biberon is:

Nancy with her response:

"Although it looks just like a sauce/gravy boat, my guess is that it's an Invalid or Infant feeder. Also known as Pap Boats or Pap Feeders."

The winner of the Creative Answer, and the winner of a Carnard Biberon is:

DONNA with her response:

"Theses are little shoes for walking upon water. When the water gets too full it trickles out the toe! When you get to your destination, you hang them up to dry by the handles. Those French think of everything!"

The winner and first person to guess the name of this object is French is:

ANA MARIA with her response:

"I think they are adult invalid feeders (in France, usually called a " canard de malade ", because it is shaped like a duck). The ones used for children were also called "biberons"".

_______________________________________________________________

Thank you for playing and for giving your responses in the comment section. Will the above winners please send me your addresses so that I can send you your prizes.

(The Easter Bunny Man)

Also today I am giving away the nineteen century Easter postcards that I posted at Easter.

If you would like to have one of them please tell me a story about one of them. If you are not into story telling, that is okay too, just add your name to the comment section and tell me which one you would like.

I will randomly pick the winners tomorrow.

"The Pink Thing"

or

"The Easter Egg"

The Hair Do.

Or "The Backdrop", that I wish I could find at the brocante...

Or "The double DD Easter Egg Bra."

(The Easter Bunny Man)

Also today I am giving away the nineteen century Easter postcards that I posted at Easter.

If you would like to have one of them please tell me a story about one of them. If you are not into story telling, that is okay too, just add your name to the comment section and tell me which one you would like.

I will randomly pick the winners tomorrow.

"The Pink Thing"

or

"The Easter Egg"

The Hair Do.

Or "The Backdrop", that I wish I could find at the brocante...

Or "The double DD Easter Egg Bra."

Tongue in Cheek's Cheeky Guessing Game: What is that old object anyway?

As she didn't know what to wear, she wore nothing.

Just thought I'd share that with you to spark your imagination for the latest guessing game.

Do you know what these are?

The first one who guesses correctly with a description and the name of this object will be the lucky winner. I will also pick one creative answer winner as well, and give a gift too. If you would like to play the guessing game, leave your answer, or creative response in the comment section. I will announce the winners tomorrow.

Could this be a clue?

Or is this a clue?
Test tube drinks....

Or does Lady Godiva hold the secret to the Guessing Game?

Happy Guessing.

_______________________

Later Note:

Many have guessed the answer, the first one who guessed will receive the Prize.

The creative answer is up for grabs, and another pot like above, will go to the lucky winner.

A third prize will go to the first one who can tell me the name in French.

The Happy Easter Egg Bra

Certainly if the Easter Bunny was a person he would look like this young man! Look at those sparkling eyes, soft hands, and, and, and... I don't know why but I think he looks like an Easter bunny don't you?

This little Pretty Pink Thing doubts my seriousness. Holding two rose wreaths close to her heart she prays, "God have Mercy on Corey for talking such foolishness on your feast day!"

Happy Easter in French: "Joyeuses Paques!"

How would you like to receive a Chocolate Easter Egg like this? I wonder if an easter shell like that can be found at the brocante?

I'll pray for it, "Hi God, I would like to find an Easter Egg like the one above at the brocante, please."

I can hear God now, "Don't you have better things to pray for?"

"Yes, Health, happiness, thanksgiving, a good dose of the brocante bug, and thank you in advance for finding the egg."

Do you remember Easter Bonnets?

I barely do... but I do remember the dresses.

If ever I had a bonnet like that (up above) I would remember it. Look at her hair! My mother use to spend hours doing my hair (everyday!) in fancy do-s. I drove me bonkers! I can tell you from experience this little girl had a mother just like my own. She has got some serious hair "do" going on!

"Oh -oh -oh, dear God, um...its me again, can you please forgo the last part of my prayer and instead add 'BACKDROP' thank you."
And because I am constantly praying, or talking, or complaining, and sometimes all at the same time, I am certain (s)he just shakes his head and says, "Yeah yeah yeah."

Well Dear God, at least I am not asking for an Easter Egg Bra... Though you are so funny you probably will put one in my path just so I can look up, laugh, remember you and give thanks....

"Joyeuses Paques!"

Do you know who brings the Easter eggs?

No not the woman with the funky hat! Gee whiz how could she, she doesn't have arms.

In France there is no such thing as the Easter Bunny. No bunny! Can you imagine Hallmark without a bunny? It sure burst my bubble when my children were little to find out such nonsense, "No bunny?" Culture shock set in. You see in France the bunny is just something my neighbors eat, in France it is the Church Bells that bring the Easter eggs. I love the tradition...the Church Bells spread the Easter eggs far and wide.

On Good Friday the Church Bells all over France stop ringing. Instead they take wing and fly to the Vatican to gather the Easter Eggs, then they return on Easter Sunday morning.

We live next door to a church, we hear the bells ring at least 372 times a day or more. You see, or I should say you hear the Church Bells ring every hour twice. For example if it is ten in the morning or in the evening, the church bells ring ten times once, then a few moments later they ring ten times again. They also ring twice every half hour. They ring sadly forty times for a funeral, joyfully around a hundred times for a wedding, and they ring a million times when there is Mass, which is everyday. The Church Bells are part of the texture of living in a French village.

Since yesterday it has been silent. Silence seems odd, not golden. Silence means that the spirit has left. I miss the bells: The constant reminder that the day is going by, that life is changing and transforming lives.

Tomorrow, Easter Morning, the Church Bells in France will ring endlessly. And as they ring the Eggs that they have gathered will be scattered across France to every hilltop village, garden, home, and bedside.

Maybe they scatter to the Easter Bunny too... at least that is what I told my children.

One Thing Does Lead to Another

Easter is about rebirth, newness, awakening to the reality of a new beginning. It is about forgiveness, hope, rising to the holiness of the moment.
Easter is about change, welcoming change.

Chelsea applied to two University exchange programs for next year and she was accepted to both.
Three months in San Francisco and four months in China.
The reality of change came knocking on my door when I read on her FACEBOOK account:
"Should I wear some flowers in my hair?"
Later she told me she hopes to continue with an internship in Asia as well.

At that moment something dawned on me:
Chelsea will not be in France for several months.
Sacha is thinking about doing a gap year in Willows.
Both our children could be away from home for a year.

Late last night, my newest habit, I woke up, and poked French Husband, "Are you awake?"

"You know, why are we staying in France if both our children will not be here?" I went on to say, "We could go stay with my Mother for several months..."

Easter... a new beginning. Seeds planted. Rebirth. Change....

Who knows what will September bring. Who knew that such wishful thinking might actually turn out to be a dream come true.

Talk about food for thought.

Talk about change.
Talk about little chicks hatching and spreading their wings.
Talk about Mother Hen all a flutter.
Talk about Rooster having something to crow about.

Love is never leaving the window Open, or is it?

Ping, ping, ping came the sound from outside late last night. I sat up in bed, poked French Husband, "It is raining cats and dogs, or is the sky falling? Listen to it coming down!"

The window was left open, a habit of mine when I go to bed, we both got up to look outside and if truth be known to see who would win.... window left open-- me, or window closed-- him.

"That's not rain, it is hail," he said. We both starred at the star-less sky and watched the ground turn white as snow. "Fallen stars," I thought out loud.

After an eternity we looked at each other, then at the window.... French Husband turned and walked to the bed. I shut the window, but not completely.

After twenty some years I think I got his number: Mr. Reverse Psychology is his name. If he had closed the window I would have balked and opened it. I am stubborn like that. So instead he does the opposite of what he wants, knowing I will succumb to my kinder sense and close it.... well half way at least.

50/50 works. Maybe in another twenty years I will learn to give two thousand percent.

But then again maybe love is letting go and letting be, open, closed and somewhere in between.