Tongue in Cheek

What are you Reading?

 

Old books covered in blue.

Missing pages, torn covers.

In French.

Old French at that.

I must confess I am not reading them word by word.

What are you reading?

 

 

Let's pretend I am reading this:

NO. 11

Collection General des Loix

Tome VI

1741 - 1753

 

 

An Impromptu Picnic

 

 

An impromptu picnic starts when one wants to nibble on something in between meals.

One opens the fridge, leans on the door, and scopes out the possibilities.

Instead of grabbing, and nibbling where one stands, the essences of an impromptu picnic is gathering the morsels of happiness, and going outside.

 

 

Spreading a cloth on the garden table, or on the lawn,

sitting down, soaking in the sun,

sipping the breeze and savoring serenity.

 

 

Which translates into bread, cheese, tomatoes, fresh fruit and a glass of wine. Oh yes, a chunk of chocolate is a welcoming finishing touch.

 

When is the last time you went on a picnic?

(Photos of my friend Linda from Willows's Nest who made an impromptu picnic for us to nibble on.)

 

The Perfect Shade of Grey

 

The perfect shade of grey? Is it a mixture of sand and twilight? Does it have a snippet of lamb's wool, and a dash of pepper? Grey, or the French grey that is tres vogue with many at the moment, or at least associated with French design, can have a touch of taupe, blue, or is it a hint of lavender. Grey is not grey without a storm... you know the color of the sky right before it opens up showing the array that Grey can be. And that is what makes Grey hard to define... the play of color just before it rains.

 

 

My friend Mimi has a love affair with the color grey. Her home in France is covered head to toe, ceiling to floor with hints of grey, mingling with grey, splashed with grey and then sits around in the shade of grey.

Even her clothes and dishes are greyish tones.

 

 

The Roman numerals on a grey painted clock.

 

 

Mimi dyes old linens and lace grey, and I am envious of the effect it adds. Soft and subtle, grey is in the middle of black and white. And as the clock above shows, a touch of grey makes black and white pop!

 

 

Layering textures.

Wood, fabric and ironstone.

Sounds like a treasure chest of goodness, real things, old things, touchable wonder.

 

 

 

 

 

One part of the beauty of old things were the details, details that were created to last and be passed down.

I wonder if way back then any person ever thought, "This soup tureen will be at a brocante in a hundred years from now and an American will buy it...."

 

 

 

"...and her friend will take photos of it and put it on her blog, making many others lick their lips!"

 

 

 

Silver domes. That counts for grey too.

Though I have told Mimi they don't go with anything in her house. That they are out of place. That shining stuff doesn't look right on her country French table with that grey crochet runner.

Don't you agree? Mimi thinks not. She thinks I am saying that the domes are ugly because I want her to give them to me.

Why would she ever think that???

 

 

 

Simply beautiful.

Oh a girl can dream, and ponder kidnapping.

 

 

 

 

 

..or take photos and find happiness in that.

 

 

 

Chez Mimi a perfect storm of brocante finds that I lick my lips over.

 

Monet Never Lingered Over His Food

(Photo of Monet's painting found here.)

 

Years ago (1999) early in the morning, after I had set up my wares to sell at the brocante market, I quickly took a tour to see what might be interesting to buy. Not faraway from my stand, in fact on the other side of the fountain, I saw a painting rolled out like a hallway rug. The painting was long and narrow depicting an 18th century child dressed in blue silk. In the painting the child was dancing before the court with his colorful tambourine.

Not having enough money, I asked the dealer if he might hold it for me, reassuring him that I would return as soon as I sold something from my stand. "I am just over there." I said as I pointed. He nodded his head.

 

(Photo found here.)

No sooner than you could lick a plate, a young American couple came up to my stand, they admired a large porcelain fruit bowl, and the service that went with it. When they asked about it I told them, Monet had painted the same pattern of dishes in his paintings. "Japon," is the name of the dish pattern. They were interested but wanted to look around some more. As soon as they put the bowl down, an antique dealer from Paris quickly picked it up. They stood there speechless unable to move. He asked about the fruit bowl. He held it is his hand studying it; looking at the marks underneath, checking out the details of the pattern, feeling its weight and then asked me how much. He walked away with the fruit bowl service, the same type of dishes Monet ate off everyday as well as depicted in his paintings. The American couple stood there, they sheepishly asked if I had anymore. No, is all I could give them.

 

(Photos of little romantic sweet things I have found at the brocante)

 

 

Racing over to the other side of the fountain with money in my hand, I was giddy! It didn't matter that I had under-sold the fruit bowl set, no it didn't matter..... One must do what one must do....

"Re-Bonjour Monsieur. I have the money!" I waved it in the air. He didn't react the way I expected instead he puckered up his lips and blew out, a typical expression in the south of France. He said he had sold the painting...even though I had given my word to return, even though he had promise to hold it, even though I was just, "over there!"

To say I was disappointed is an understatement.

The money in my hand was not as valuable as what I had sold. I had under sold something to have something I desired more, and lost both.

 

 
(Photo: I took of Monet's signature on one of his works of art.)

 

"Monet never lingered over his food. He didn't want to waist one moment eating when the light of day was his to paint. Monet ate quickly, he even gave told his family never to pass around the dishes twice, especially when his American step-son-in-law, Theodore Earl Butler, was lunching with them, because his slow eating habits drove Monet crazy."

 

Notes regarding the dishes I had:

A Creil & Montereau transfer-printed Japonisme 'Claude Monet Giverny' dinner service

CIRCA 1880, BLUE CREIL MONTEREAU CARTOUCHE MARK, FURTHER WITH DEPOSE AND JAPON, VARIOUS IMPRESSED NUMERALS

 

__________________________

Thanks again for your wonderful tales regarding house keys! The random winner of the key is

Paulita! Please send me your address (Leigh too!) so I can send you your gift.

Thank you !

The Key

 

Yesterday's comments regarding Bicycle Stories, were amazing. One memory after another: Banana seats, training wheels, brakes, skid marks, accidents, while noting where you learned to ride, the color of bike, who taught you and where you fell... I think the average age for learning how to ride amongst us was five. Though I was nearly nine.

Each comment conjures up images, touches memories that are dormant, brings a connection... I learned how to ride a bicycle at my Uncle Phil's and Aunt Sara's old house. My brothers, mother, and cousins, Sheba and FrancaBolla were there too. I remember Uncle Phil telling me what to do as he gave the bicycle a push and away I went. I still can feel the sense of freedom, the wings at my feet and the Weeping Willow branches across my face as I rode under them.

Your comments, your stories, your added notes makes blogging worth it for me, and for many others who read my blog. Gee, look at my brother Mathew, he responded to many of you in the comment section. I think he is a closet blogger and probably has the brocante bug too.

The random winner of the little bicycle is Leigh from New Zealand.... her comment concluded by saying: "...Keep on peddling through the tough times."

 

 

I am giving another old thing away:

1. Because I like you,

2. Because I enjoy your stories,

3. Because the re opening of my online French Brocante shop has me digging and going through every little thing in my cupboards...

and because I have a ton of keys.

 

 

 

If you would like to have an old key

please leave a comment regarding a story about a house key.

When I first moved away from home, a home that never locked its doors, I often forgot my house key. As I lived with an older woman, one who was OCD, I often waited for her to return to get back into the house. Her OCD could not comprehend how I could be as forgetful as I was. We were polar opposites... I was neat, tidy, and spontaneous to a fault. She was neat and extra tidy to a fault, and spontaneous knew no bone in her body.

 

One day while waiting for her to return so I could go back into the house, I noticed the cat going in and out of the cat door. As I was in a hurry, and didn't want to look like a ding dong again, a thought occurred to me, "Maybe I could squeeze through that cat door opening? I looked at my hips, and thought why not try.

I was nearly inside when I heard my OCD room-mate pull into the driveway. Quickly, I pushed onward hoping to get inside before she saw me.

She found me, with no key and stuck in her cat door.

Shortly after I moved out... after replacing the cat door that kinda got damaged.

 

_______________________

 

Thank you for all your comments and stories, I appreciated every one of them!

Giveaway

 

 

Okay so you liked the little turn of the century toy bikes as much as I did.

They were cute weren't they! They certainly added a bit of humor to French Husband's Tour de France faux pas!

I am giving the one above away. If you would like a chance at having it you need to leave a comment in the comment section below.

Tell me how you learned how to ride a bike? Or a bicycle story.

I'll randomly pick a winner tomorrow.

Meanwhile I am setting up shop and packing items purchased, thanks again for supporting my Brocante Bug.

Note:

Toy bicycle is made of metal (above) and was part of a set much like 'toy soldier's. Toy soldiers are easier to find. The toy bicycle is nearly a hundred years old. It has been around the block a few times, a well loved little toy. This one is wearing the 'treasured' Green Jersey.

 

 

Because the French Brocante was not where it said it was going to be....A Tour de France Story in Honor of my Brother Mathew

I went over to Annie's yesterday afternoon, she was sitting in her easy chair watching the Tour de France. I pulled up a chair and sat along side of her. The sound of the TV was turned down, she asked me if I minded, I shrugged that it didn't matter.

 

 

Every now and then a sub title would cross the screen, though what we commented about was where the riders were riding, "... There's the obelisk at the Place de la Concorde.... Oh, look there's the flag of Joan of Arc... Don't the Tuileries look as beautiful above as they do below... Ah the Louvre..." and so on and so forth. In the course of the conversation Annie mentioned that she had been to Paris only once, when she was twenty-five.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We watched the race, not knowing who was winning, or who was wearing the Yellow Jersey, or a thing about the stories that had unfolded during the Tour, though it didn't matter. The Tour is the Tour, and the riders have the same edge, the same rhythm, the same desire...  it is after all a national icon... it is the Tour de France: To ride long, hard, alone and yet not alone, to push forward no matter what, to ride, breath, and see France as it races through your veins.

 

 

"From Paris to the blue waves of the Mediterranean, from Marseille to Bordeaux, passing along the roseate and dreaming roads sleeping under the sun, across the calm of the fields of the Vendée, following the Loire, which flows on still and silent, our men are going to race madly, unflaggingly...." Desgranges wrote.

 

 

 

 

 

Annie and I sat watching the silent screen, we listened to the adrenalin pumping and the biker's wheels on the cobble stones, we sat at the edge of our seats, to the final lap as they came up the Champs-Elysees. Just then French Husband walked in, we barely looked up. Politely, Annie said, "Bonjour Yann, the end of the race is near, take a chair."

 

 

 

 

 

He did, and asked, "What happened to the sound?"

We didn't take our eye off the Tour, the riders started to sprint, their feet pumping with glorious force that their bikes swayed powerfully from left to right. The finish line was in sight, we could taste victory and then the TV went blank.

 

 

Annie and I looked at each other, then at French Husband who had the TV control in his hand. He wasn't even looking at the TV, instead he held the foreign object taping buttons uttering,

"Where's the sound?" He asked, as I threw eye darts the size of bicycle wheels at him.

 

 

And there you have it a Tour de France story that will not go down in the history books, nevertheless I will never forget, and my brother Mathew has his wish come true:

A story about the Tour de France on my blog instead of my adventures about yesterday's lack of a brocante.

 

 

(Photo of Desgranges)

Note:

We do not have a TV chez nous, never had. We made that decision when our children were born, hoping that without a TV it would encourage them to "speak" in English if there wasn't a French TV speaking at them.

Hence, we are unable to use a TV control properly.

Sunday Brocante

   

 

Thank you for the overwhelming response to the re opening of my online French Brocante shop.

I will be adding more French brocante items later tomorrow afternoon (24th of July), and throughout the week.

Just between you and me, I think you have the Brocante Bug badly... You do know there isn't a cure, don't you?

 

Photo: An 18th century wine glass, (Note that the base of the glass is larger than the rim, that is one classic detail of 18th century glasses.) I found it years ago at a dusty hole in the wall shop in Aix en Provence. It cost the price of Coca Cola. Hard to believe that 18th century glasses can be found. Usually, one glass costs more than a dinner at the Jules Verne restaurant on top of the Eiffel Tower.

 

 

 

 

My friend's daughter Natacha (18) is staying with us for a few weeks. Last night she said she loved our house, and asked the history of a few things. Of course she scored big points in my book, I told her that my children wished our house was more practical, ".... you know Mom, it would be great if there were chairs in our house that were actually comfortable, and mirrors you could actually see in...."

 

 

In defense, Sacha chimed-in that one of his favorite things in our house was the Apollo bust.

I asked Natacha if she would like to go antiquing with me this weekend, she nearly jumped out of her skin saying, "Yes!"

Dang, maybe my friend and I got our babies mixed up in childbirth? Chelsea and Sacha would rather have their skin pulled off rather than go to the brocante.

 

So antiquing we are gonna go.

If you came to France what would you want to do?

 

 

Blogging the Key to the World

 

A constant flow of friends, family and guests have poured through our house since my return from the States. It has been one conversation, activity and meal after another. Most of the time I do not know if I am coming or going: Rarely do I sit still, accept to blog, and then my fingers do the walking.

Since I was a baby, or at least six years old, it has been like this: A house full of people. My parent's home was Grand Central Station due to the fact that both my parents came from large families, and our home was the closet to town.... plus my mom baked up a wonderful storm, and my dad had a barn full of motor-bikes... but mainly because their hearts and arms were open.

 

 

I love how all the people who have been here at the moment have gone with the flow. They didn't know each other, I barely knew them for that matter, and yet we have been taking it in stride, welcoming each other, saying goodbye to each other and welcoming new comers right and left.

Cindy, Jordan and Jackie (Jackie being the youngest (9) guest) are from Las Vegas, they did a house exchange with local friends of ours. Denise and Vlad are from Canada (They have a home in France too), and Ladelle from Manhattan Beach both who I met through blogging. Newlyweds: Chap and Ashely from Arkansas, Chap's mother Robin reads my blog. Natacha (the daughter of an old friend of mine), who I hadn't seen since she and Sacha painted each other with finger polish when they were four years old, is from Seattle....

Am I missing anyone?

 

 

Summer brings a flood of company, family, friends... the long evenings filled with the summer light, the scent of lavender, where Provence is at its best... it has been wonderful experience having our home open to a mix people of different ages, backgrounds, and expectations.

I have been the cook, the forgetful photographer, and the master of musical beds...

I must say I am starting to dream of sleep... But that must wait as their is a wedding to think about, antique dealer friends from Marburger  coming over, and Julie's baby to meet, that makes the idea of sleeping walking sound feasible.

Over all I think I have met nearly a hundred people (in person) since I started blogging in 2005.

 

 

Hanging Out with Marie Antoinette

My 101 year old friend Mr. H. paints, everyday.

He is a tall, elegant, an aristocratic man who paints abstracts--

Cubes, figures without facial expressions, and one eyed boomerangs

in vivid color.

 

His paintings are his hobby, his story, his adventure.

He never sells his paintings.

One day I invited a friend to visit my artist friend. Though the two of them live in two different worlds--

A young man from America vs. a older man from Europe,

Antique dealer vs. modern artist,

Coca-Cola with a twist of lemon vs. Red wine vintage 1989—

They clicked instantly.

We were standing in Mr. H's studio amongst his hundred one eyed boomerang/abstract paintings that seem to salute us. Neither of my friends spoke the other's language so I elected to translate. Their conversation was full of art, culture, history and design. I was happily going along with the flow of their discussion when suddenly I heard my voice saying “…He said he would love to own one of your paintings, have you ever thought about selling any of them?” --Wait what are you saying-- I turned to my friend and whispered, as if I was interrupting their conversation, “You cannot ask to buy his paintings we are here to VISIT remember?” At the same time my ears heard Mr. H. say in French, “Well, if you want to buy some of my paintings I suppose I could sell you a few?” -Wait what am I hearing-!

I turned to my artist friend and blurted, “I thought you told me that selling your paintings would be like selling your family! What has gotten into you?”

I was in the middle of my own muddle. Baffled by the change of events.

Later we drove off with fifty or sixty paintings in the backseat .

Anything is possible. Life is full of surprises.

My French artist friend sold his one eyed boomerangs abstracts... his family,

to an American antique dealer who proudly hung them next to his Maire Antoinettes.

 

 

 

 

A few weeks later a package came in the mail addressed to me. It was hard and flat. Opening it I discovered a painting of many short brush strokes in thick bright colors. Towards the center there were blotches of red brush strokes surrounded by greens and yellows. I held it out and looked at it, then I placed it on the mantle and stepped back, slowly I walked clear across the room to admire it.

On the backside of the painting a small one word note was attached, it read, “Bouquet.” Ah ha! A bouquet of flowers. As if my mind became a camera lens focusing instantly on the perfectly painted petals.

Life is how you see it. (Or paint it, or hear it or speak it... or translate it.)

___________________________

 

Note:

Re Opening Tongue in Cheek Antiques tonight at six in the evening.