Somehow, the stinky baby is seven ...

Max turned seven yesterday! (More on the dog later)

Birthday shenanigans

Busy week here at 44 Rue Beaumarchais. Especially today when, under the first sun in four days (it was 22º here today, people) we held Maxime’s seventh birthday party. Yes, that small, giggly, jelly donut of a child is somehow seven. We don’t know how it happened either.

Max had been counting the days to his birthday, and despite a late night last night, he all but erupted out of bed at 7:30 this morning, chanting that he was seven. (He later revised this to say he wasn’t going to be seven until 10 am, which is when he was born, but he was not willing to wait until 4pm to assert he was truly seven, which is what the time difference would demand, if he were going to be accurate and honest about it, which he wasn’t.)

Here I must pause briefly to go and get one of the ten leftover cupcakes Anne made today for the party, and of which a mystified and bemused French parent asked “Is this a Quebecois speciality?” It’s moments like this that still make me wonder who these people are. Who doesn’t know what the fuck a cupcake is?

That’s better. The last one with pink icing.

So after preparing for three straight days, nine of Maxie’s classmates showed up for four hours of sugar and games. The highlight was the chasse au trésor, which Anne and I cooked up yesterday and involved two teams with treasure maps. The maps lead to a clue and that clue lead to another, and so on. The best part was that each group was eventually lead to the freezer, where they found an icecube with a piece of paper frozen into it. When they put the cube into a handily available pan of boiling water, the paper turned out to be a web address, which lead one team here and the other team here. We had about as much fun as the kids, I think. Here's some video from the hunt.

Team one hunting a clue in the backyard



Team two finds their treasure!

Afterwards, many presents were opened and Max and Ben both complained their bellies hurt from eating too much sugar. But not for long. After most of the guests were gone, we sat around afterwards with Bérangere and her two guys, the irresistable Gaby, and his wonderful elder brother Axel, and drank beer and tossed a ball around.

Party Animals

Max opening his presents



The irresistable Gaby

The resistable Papa


Mama knows how to bring it

That lying dog

You don't want to know what's in those artichokes

Charlot (whom, after Jim Harrison saw a picture, said should be named Sky King) went to see his new vet for the first time yesterday. And there we learned that our sweet, playful puppy is a shameless liar. Shocking news: Charlot, who told us he was just over four months of age, is in fact probably six months of age. This owing to the tell-tale sign that he has lost a tooth, which only happens after five-and-a-half months. He might have been able to put that over us, poor trusting Canadians, but a French vet saw through his ruse right away. He's practically a teenager. So we’ve taken away his Oil of Olay. He also has an undescended testicle. If we do ever change his name, it'll probably be Uniball, the Sky King.

And worse, as it turns out, is that he smokes. How can we ever trust this animal again? At least he looks very French doing it, doesn't he?

"Why, hello dere, babydoll. Whaddya say you make us a coupla highballs, two for me and pour a sody-pop for yourself, and then we'll see what kinda fun we can have. But foist, I gotta get my whistle good and wet. Shake it, baby, I don't got all day."

A Great Deal of Eating

After a considerable period of social quiet, we sort of lost it this week and had dinner parties Monday and Wednesday, and a long, lovely tea on Tuesday. Monday night we at last connected the Canadian expat community, as we know it, by having dinner with Bob & Isabel, and Eitan, Denny, and their son Joseph. We made a full-blown Indian meal, which was transporting (we made our own ghee!), and more so because we drank a lot of excellent wine. Filet mignons drenched in a tamarind/sugar marinade came off the grill slightly caramelized and extraordinarily juicy. I would never consider marinating a filet, but a dear friend served this very dish to me in Toronto two weeks ago, and all I can say is that if there’s a way to improve a filet, it’s this way. (Screw bacon.) We also made our own paneer, a documentary on which follows immediately.

It was lovely to have some lengthy English conversation around our table, lovely to follow everything that was being said. Anne claims that even the wish for such a thing is holding me back from becoming a truly fluent French dude, but hell it was nice. Smart people, good food, a couple controversial opinions received in the spirit of inquiry: it was perfect.

Clockwise from top right: Saag paneer, tumeric new potatoes, basmati (covered) and a curry to go over the tamarind/demerara sugar-glazed filet mignon (not shown, sorry) ... yummmmmmm

So how to make paneer. We live in the heart of cheese culture, but my suspicion that the average French person doesn’t actually know the first thing about making cheese was confirmed this week when I tried, abortively, to find cheesecloth. Wine they can talk about endlessly, but I think that’s because it’s everywhere. The grapes, the men picking the grapes, the caves and cellars: everyone knows wine here because wine is everywhere they look. Cheese is not. Yes, it’s in the market and people know what they like, but the stages of its life are not omnipresent. If wine is in plain evidence, then cheese is a kind of culinary unconscious: created in the dark, through a process similar to wine’s, but shrouded in mystery. The average French person could not tell you the first thing about how cheese is made except that it involves milk.

Well, now I know more about making cheese than any of my neighbours, and I did it with a gallon of milk, a third a cup of vinegar, a dash of sugar, and medical gauze.

The finished paneer awaiting a delicious slathering of hot saag in its coconut curry sauce

Tuesday’s affair was simpler: just boiled water and some tea leaves. We had a visit from Charlot’s stepmum and -dad, Joanne & John, who will be taking the pup for a week starting Saturday when we go to the Canaries for a week. (We need a break from the south of France, you know.) Charlot was seeing his big sister Alba for the first time in over a month, but the two dogs immediately picked up where they left off. I think Charlot will have a quite wonderful week, although he was drenched in Alba’s spit by the time they left, so I hope Joanne and John will wring him out thoroughly before we pick him up next week.

And then Wednesday night, we made an incredible Poulet de Bresse dans deux vinaigres -- amazing dish. Our guests were Alex, Amy, and their young son Isaac. We used as well the risotto that had the leftover truffle sitting in it for a few weeks since we bought them: the rice was drunk on truffle odour and the risotto was delicious. Amy and Alex met in the States but now live in a very small town about an hour from us, in an ancient house that belongs to Alex’s parents. Isaac is five and cute as a button and the three boys get along terrifically.

So, what do you do after having guests three days in a row? Throw a party for eleven children. Now you know why we need to sit on a beach for a week.

We are definitely not in Kansas anymore

My fruit trees are blooming. White and pink and tiny sharp buds of green leaves. It’s February 21 and my baby is seven and I’m going to have apricots and peaches and plums on trees I pruned and watched over this year. Who knew.

Talk to you all after we get back from the Canaries.