Nutmeg in Paris celebrates its 100th post!

The apartment is all packed up and inspected, the bank account is closed, and the flight is checked in to. The only thing that isn’t ready is I. The thought of leaving makes me want to vomit. Is it because I love it here so much or is it facing the unknown (again)? Would anyone who lives in Paris like to harbor and employ an illegal immigrant? Know any Parisian men who want to marry an American woman who is a pretty good cook? Don’t make me leave!

The stress of leaving has left me with pretty much no appetite this week and I have consumed the majority of my calories in liquid form. Today it dawned on me that I need to get eating and how because butter and goose fat don’t grow on trees! I went out first thing and bought a pain au chocolat and a croissant beurre just to decide which one really was better once and for all. They both fill such different needs; the verdict is that you should eat both. Then for lunch I ate a very un-French chicken shawarma sandwich from the adorable Lebanese traiteur near school. It is the best, cheapest sandwich in the whole city and I downed it in about four bites. Three hours later, I still had harissa heartburn, but I pushed on! A box of a dozen winter macaroons from Pierre Hermes were hastily shared with Jen, but I didn’t let her have the pistachio ones because I am a pistachio fiend and she gets to stay here and eat those for another month. We both retched on the white truffle flavor- somehow the pastry genius managed to make butter cream taste like pork. Off to dinner with the de Brettevilles, the people who began my addiction to French food; the people who taught me that one puts one’s hunk of bread on the tablecloth but one gets a new knife, fork and plate for each course one eats; the people who loved to play “feed her this, an American will NEVER like this!” and lost every time.

So now Nutmeg in Paris must die. I will always be Nutmeg (just ask my mom), but I will no longer be in Paris and everyone hates a misnomer. I am kind of into this blogging thing however, and, despite the fact that no one is going to be interested in my search for a job in sunny and sexy Milwaukee, WI, I am going to continue under a new name. As soon as I have the domain name I’ll post it and you can read on to see how the mid-west pans out for a waterlogged cook longing for a pouliny de chèvre.

Since I started my own blog, I’ve begun to read many other people’s. Today on Kevin Smith’s blog (www.silentbobspeaks.com), he wrote about how he had been asked to make a celebrity playlist for iTunes. At the end of his entry, he encouraged his readers to make their own 10-song playlist. We all know how I love my iTunes, but I find that every part of our lives has it’s own playlist, and it is way too early in the game to make the “playlist of my life.” So here is my playlist from France (impossible to narrow it to 10), complete with long-winded descriptions.

1) “Body Movin’” Beastie Boys
This song was essential to getting me out of bed and getting me to my stage on time. Beasties are classic, and will always make people want to dance. And you have to love boys from Brooklyn who refer to their “rhymes” as being like Chateauneuf du Pape.

2) “Jerk It Out” Caesars
A tune that makes me want to move, this song ran through my head all the time at school, keeping me on task and on time.

3) “3x5” John Mayer
This song has always been one of my favorites, but it continually takes on new meaning. No one else can have my France, and my experience will never be meaningful to anyone else in the same way. There were so many moments when I wished different people had been with me, so they could experience what I was. And then I would remind myself to soak it all up for me. Also, I constantly wanted to play this song for the photo-obsessed Asians at school. Put the Cannon down for two seconds, already!

4) “Gone” Kelly Clarkson
Ah, yes, even Kelly can bust out some angry girl music, and this song was my break-up anthem from June to…um, still going. It’s good pavement-pounding music as well. I know the pizza men really appreciate it when I belt this one out at the top of my angry girl lungs.

5) “You Could Be Happy” Snow Patrol
A sappy, post-anger break-up song. The first time I heard it, I wondered if there was a wiretap on my Skype line, it is so close to my reality. It’s a very charming, gentle song to melt the heart and justify a good cry.

6) “I Will Follow You Into The Dark” Death Cab For Cutie
In August I had to go back to the US and have seven cavities filled because making and eating a lot of pastry is bad for your teeth. My dentist has a TV in the ceiling and you can put on headphones and watch cable as he pulls your mouth apart. I was channel surfing and I came upon this video on MTV. I never watch videos, but this song drew me in instantly with its dark sweetness. I had downloaded the whole album before the Novocain wore off. It is a great stare-off-in-space-on-public-transportation song.

7) “Fix You” Coldplay
Can Chris Martin fix me? Any time I was seriously sad or frustrated here (probably four times a week), this was the go-to lift me up song. The crank-up at the end will lift anyone’s mood. And so will the idea of Chris Martin guiding me home.

8) “Helicopter” The Feeling
This song propelled me (serious pun intended) along many a windy street, and don’t we all have a long list of ridiculous wishes for an easier day? Paris is not soft, and his longing for a softer world backed up by a hard-edged guitar talks to me.

9) “Sugar, We’re Going Down” Fall Out Boy
Because this song rocks. And because there were a lot of times at school, in my stage, and in my personal life where I was going down swinging, and it felt as though everyone I came into contact with had a loaded god complex.

10) “I Hate Everyone” Get Set Go
Every ex-pat in Paris needs to listen to this song every once and awhile as a musically extended middle finger to whomever is causing us angst at the moment (Noos, the EDF, little old ladies in the grocery store). The French will have a hard time understanding the very explicit lyrics, but the cheerful melody will keep them bobbing their heads in jolly enjoyment. Laugh at them.

11) “Elle m’a dit” Calli
Another fantastic break-up song, it’s fun to imagine the enormous bitch who could say these things and to then feel better about the person you just broke up with. Plus his ultra-nonchalant reaction at the end of the song is awesome.

12) “Nowhere Warm” Kate Havnevik
This delicate, ethereal yet somehow edgy song is hypnotic. It was a late-night metro favorite. It’s a little more “Euro” than the rest of my soundtrack.

13) “Caramel” Suzanne Vega
This song is very sexy to me. The music is very strong, yet the lyrics talk only of weakness and that juxtaposition works for me. For the whole last month of pastry, we only worked with caramel and I am cheesy enough to listen to a song because it is something I make.

14) “American Girls” Counting Crows
We are feathers and cream, coming to bed so edible. Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!

15) “La Femme Chocolat” Olivia Ruiz
After a year of eating fois gras, confit de canard, financier pistache, and baguette after baguette, I wish someone would take an axe to my hips. I love her gentle, feminine voice, and the fact that the lyrics are food-sex. Let’s face it: food-sex is the only action I see.

A small miracle has occurred: as of 1:34 p.m., I am 90% packed. All that remains is toiletries, electronics, and the random little bits of crap that are the bane of existence to all who pack. I am a professional procrastinator especially when it comes to packing. I have never vacated an apartment or a dorm room without rushing to put things in boxes up to the very last second before leaving for good. Also, I haven’t moved in six years without Tim’s help and his ability to pack is magical. In my last move, he got three-quarters of the contents of my apartment into the trunk of my car.

I packed early on purpose so that I can get my Paris on for the next two days. I feel cheated that I am leaving even though it was I who decided to cut out early. I just got used to being here and having “my” places. Plus, there are still things in Paris I haven’t visited yet:
• St. Sulpice
• L’orangerie
• Père Lachaise
• The vitrines de noël at the Grands Magasins

All that plus closing the cable account, the bank account, and the electric account…I guess I still am a procrastinator.

I went out seeking trouble last night. Sadly, I only managed to drink a lot with friends, one of whom has the all time worst fashion sense possible and never ceases to amaze and embarrass with the outfits she comes up with.

While I was waiting for her at a metro stop, and I caught a glimpse of an over-the-top drag queen out of the corner of my eye. As I did my double take I realized it was the friend I was waiting for! She had on a tall black and white felt hat (the kind one might wear to a wedding or to a state funeral), mid-thigh high black leather boots, a pink sequins tie, and a puffy fur coat. “We’re going to a pub,” I said, referring to my own beige trousers and black sweater. She just shrugged it off, but I had a hard time fighting my adolescent urge to hind behind my hands and shrink down in my chair all night.

In anticipation of our Thanksgiving feast tomorrow, I did the pre-cooking today. The cooking-part took about an hour. The shlepping-myself-around-Paris part took about four. I thought I’d be smart and go and pick up the turkey today since the guy said it would be ready on Saturday, but I could come get it Sunday. Guess what wasn’t ready on Saturday? Great, I braved the dreaded line 1 on a Saturday for nothing! So I continue running around to find items for stuffing and all the other fixins, and I have to go to three, count them, three butcher shops in my little old lady neighborhood before I find chicken livers. That may not seem strange or appealing to my American friends, but the French love their liver, and nothing makes a richer stuffing than a few livers- YUM! Anywho, once I got all the shit done already, I then had to truck it from Jen’s house to Brian’s. These are two apartments that are a hefty walking distance apart, with no good public transportation link. I have never been so grateful for my little old lady pull behind shopping tote, as I dragged sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, stuffing, and cranberry sauce across the city. Although at the time I was thinking, I am thankful I am going home soon to a place where the big-ass, fuel-guzzling, American auto reigns supreme. It would have made my day so much easier to have a fucking car!

Haircuts in a foreign country are scary. I have avoided it as long as I could, seeing as the last time I lived in France I went in and said, “Just the split ends,” and the woman hacked off my shoulder-length hair just above my earlobe. This year the big hair trend in Paris is this pseudo-mullet like Carol Brady circa the last season of the Brady Bunch, and I'm not havin’ it. I pledged that if someone even thought the word ”re-looking” during today’s trip to the coiffeuse, I was leaping out of the chair like Michael Jackson in Pepsi commercial (i.e. as though my hair were on fire).

But I had a great experience. I got the best highlights I’ve ever gotten from a technician who hates her life so deeply I felt it in every breath she exhaled (I approached her chair, and she yelled out, “Someone get me a god-damned coffee or I am going to faint!”). After that, the gayest man in all of Paris styled and then cut my hair, in that order. Just the split ends.

Again, I was a princess food-diva for a day and it didn’t include turkey or mashed potatoes. As a thank you for my work, Les Bouquinistes invited me (and a friend) to enjoy lunch on them. Feast we did: special amuse bouche, ventrèche du thon, raviolis, St. Pierre, crème de marrons, tendron de veau, and a trio of desserts (the cappuccino of exotic fruits, the fondant aux trios chocolates, and a cherry financier). They spared no expense in pairing each course with a beautiful wine. I am proud to say I did my stage at a very fine restaurant and eating there is truly a treat.

Yet I am left feeling low. A year ago I was really low, but I had a plan. I wish that my plan had extended beyond a year in France. Watching MTV with Jen today, yet another low point, it dawned on me that I am past the age where I am a candidate to be featured on an MTV reality show like Real World or Room Raiders. Obviously I have never aspired to subject myself to that fate, but if you're too old to be on Road Rules, then it is time to have your life figured out already, not to be going, “What the HELL am I going to do now?”

If I had been on Real World, at least I’d have the reunion specials to look forward to.

Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday, the one holiday we can really claim as our own. In honor of that fact, every time I am out of the country for Thanksgiving, I find someway to celebrate it, even if that means eating roasted chicken and canned corn in Spain. This year, I have put myself in charge of the meal for all my friends in Paris and we will be celebrating on Sunday since we are all restaurant people and that is everyone’s day off.

In order to make Turkey Day a reality, I sought out the American specialty stores in Paris: Thanksgiving Store (20 rue St. Paul, 75004, Métro St. Paul) and Real McCoy (194 rue Grenelle, 75007, Métro Ecole Militaire). These places have baking soda and brown sugar (hello, where was this shit last week) as well as Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese, which they happily sell for upwards of 5€ a box. But here is what astonished me the most: while I was in each store, a different, cute, American girl who was obviously studying abroad bounded in asked what the pumpkin pies were going for. Each store will gladly rob you, I mean, sell you a pie for over 25€ (I will make you one for 10€). These girls rightfully balked at the price, but when I politely suggested that they make their own, they looked at me like I had suggested they lead nuclear peace talks in North Korea. “How would I do that?” they asked. So here is my way to make pumpkin pie, the EASIEST thing to bake EVER.

1 pre-made roll of pie dough
(in the US Pillsbury makes this already rolled out and ready to pop in the pan. It’s in a red box. In France, they make this same thing, it’s called pâte brisé in the refrigerated section at Monoprix or wherever. You can make your own crust really easily, but I am learning that not everyone has the same interest in baking as I have).
1 can (15oz) pumpkin purée (Real McCoy, not Thanksgiving sadly)
1 can (12 oz) evaporated milk (same)
3 eggs
1 cup packed brown sugar
½ tsp salt
1-2 tbs pumpkin pie spice (DO NOT skimp here- if you are able to order the pumpkin pie spice from the Spice House (www.thespicehouse.com) do it, they are the best. If not, use a quarter tsp of each ground clove, ginger, and nutmeg plus a full teaspoon cinnamon)

Blind bake the shell. That means put it in the pan and poke holes all around with a fork. Bake at 300-350 F until the shell is cooked but still really white. Let it cool. Mix together all the other stuff either in a mixer or with a whisk. Pour into the pre-baked shell and bake at 425 for 10 minutes and then reduce the oven to 350 and bake another 30-40 minutes until the middle is a little wobbly yet solid. If the edges of the crust start to burn, cover them with a little ring of foil.

Oh, you want that in metric? Since the #1 thing I look for in a man is the ability to do math, you ain’t getting’ those conversions from me, sugar.

Here are some random reflections on my second to last Tuesday in Paris.

1) The water is turned off in my building. In a very un-Parisian move, they had posted a warning about this a week ago, so I was well aware that it was going to happen. However, it is annoying nonetheless. I am pretty hung-over (and I expect to be acting like a college freshman for the next week and a half, so deal with it), and I really need to use the bathroom but, hey, no water. I had the foresight in my drunken state last night to fill my coffee pot so I would have coffee, but hang-over plus coffee plus no other water to drink or brush teeth with equals yuck-o.

2) I share a thin wall with a sad excuse for a pizza parlor. They make a lot of noise, and most of the sounds I don’t equate with pizza making. I mean, what machine does one use to make bad pizza that vibrates so violently that I feel it through the floor all the way to my kitchen? They are in full operation today, shouting at each other in not-French-or-Italian (what are they speaking?), and there is NO WATER. Gross, people, gross.

3) I have an ambitious list of Things I Must Accomplish Today that will most likely not be accomplished today because although unidentifiable ethnic groups can run pizza parlors without water, I am incapable of even going to the convenience store next door without brushing my teeth.

4) I applied for a long-term subbing position at a bilingual school in my neighborhood about a month ago, during a desperate attempt to get out of my stage and yet remain in Paris. They were uninterested in me, mostly because I technically don’t have work papers. They called me an hour ago, needing an emergency sub for two weeks. I said no because a) I don’t have a full two weeks left here and b) don’t suggest that I be around children when I am hung-over and un-bathed.

5) I saw Shortbus this weekend. P.S. It was a great movie story-wise, once you get over the fact that you are essentially watching a porno, sitting remarkably close to a strange French man who is wearing copious amounts of generic cologne. But here’s the real question: does Shortbus exist? If so, where and when can we go?

The French, although they may have found moments of the film funny, cannot fully appreciate Borat. Some of it was lost in the translation, but I don't think they understood how near he was to getting his ass beat (or worse) in a lot of situations. Plus, the French just aren't as sensitive about race and religion as Americans are (ahem, gross understatement). For the past two months, all I heard was people referring to the African men in our kitchen as "black mambaso" and chefs telling people who were working poorly that they were working comme un arabe.

Nice, huh?

Yeah, I'm back-dating my posts. What are you going to do about it?

Here’s a riddle for you: when is the Chef not the Chef?

Answer: Never.

Tonight was my last service ever as a stagiere. Alleluia. Anyway, my chef was all, “But you never made any American food for us!” Yeah right, I am pretty sure that it is illegal in France to fry chicken in a Guy Savoy kitchen. So I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough and brought it in to bake off for the staff meal as a goodbye present and as a way of saying thank you for putting up with my incompetent ass. The cookies were good, a little more puffy than normal because baking soda doesn’t exist in France and I had to use baking powder instead. As I took them out of the over and set them aside to cool, the chef came over and said, “Something is not right. What did you bake them at? 180? Drop the oven to 150. Where’s the dough?” and she ran off with it. She came back five minutes later and re-did a sheet. Her cookies were noticeably flatter and now had white chocolate mixed in. She had re-worked the dough with another 200g (!) of butter and some white chocolate. Then she was happy with the cookies.

In Paris there is a pharmacy on every block, denoted by ubiquitous green neon crosses. You can tell a lot about the neighborhood you’re in by what a particular pharmacy chooses to display. For example, in the chic neighborhoods like the St. Germain and Champs Elysées, they advertise beauty products and diet pills. In my neighborhood, there are a lot of orthopedic shoes and sitz baths.

The third Thursday of November is always the release of the Beaujolais Nouveau, a decidedly crappy wine, meant to be drunk quickly and in large quantities. It’s a big deal here, because it’s an opportunity for 1) bars and restaurants to up sell a lot of cheap product and 2) for consumers to declare open season for drunkenness. I left work in the 6th (beauty products and diet pills) and had a relatively quiet walk to the metro. The usual tourists and students were out, drinking late-night coffees or leaving the cinema. I went to meet up with friends for our taste of the B.N. in my neighborhood, and we were all a little concerned about where we were going to go, seeing that is was 11:30.

HA! I stepped out of the metro and I heard music in the distance. Hmmm? The café du coin with it’s zinc counter top and all had a band and clusters of purple balloons hung up like bunches of grapes! All the cafés and bistros within a ten minute walk of my apartment were like this, all filled with bands and neighborhood Frenchies in the 45+ age bracket who I thought couldn’t physically walk without their dog and pull-behind shopping tote. Jeremy said it reminded him of back home in Ohio. “They’re not hip or attractive, but they’re not letting that stop them from having a good time.” Vive le 15ieme!

When I gotta get it done, I get it done. Tonight, I sped through my work like a madwoman, dashed home in a fury, threw myself if the shower, did my hair and makeup, dressed up real pretty-like, and sat down in front of my computer at seven for a phone interview for a job that I really should have no problem getting. But the interview didn’t matter, because at eight I became a princess food-diva for a night.

I had dinner at Pierre Gagnaire.



Who wants to touch me?

For those of you who don’t know about him, Pierre Gagnaire’s three Michelin star restaurant was voted the third best restaurant in the world in 2006 by Restaurant magazine. He is famous for working ridiculously creative flavors and textures in his food. I will not bore you with a detailed essay on “What I ate at Pierre Gagnaire” because it would be a fucking long ass post and Leif told me that no one likes a blogger who goes on and on. We made a commitment when we ordered: we got the nine course tasting menu, which was actually eleven, because the dessert counted as one, but there were three courses of dessert. Yes, you read that right. Three courses of dessert, and each course had more than two desserts in it. I pretty much decided that if I died after that five-hour (yes, you read that right too) meal, I would be okay with that. Here are the most beautiful and amazing highlights of The Dinner of My Life:

1) The courses were perfectly portioned. Each course was between five to seven bites, which, considering the richness and overwhelming complexity of the food, was all that was needed to satisfy. None of us were full to the point of breaking until 3rd dessert course, which is perfect timing.
2) The plating was magical- totally mini works of art.
3) A sliver of marrow balanced on a crispy potato wafer perched atop potato ice cream over an avocado, cabbage and crab salad. And that was just the garnish to the most lucious slices of scallops (topped with a micro slice of smoked haddock and a sliver of turnip) I have ever had the pleasure of letting melt in my mouth. See photo.
4) 1992 Chateuneuf-du-Pape Blanc Vieux Télégraphe.
5) An oversized truffle with a mousse-like center, covered with a delicate milk-chocolate sauce on a coulis of arugula. Yes, you read that right. Arugula. And how did it taste? Delightful, small hint of cannabis, but more like green tea.

Maybe the cannabis is his secret, but I doubt it.

Finally, after almost two weeks of non-stop mise en place, I did lunch service today, hopping happily between plating entrées and desserts. As I was putting the finishing touches on a Cappuccino des fruits exotiques, the chef and pastry chef (aka itchy) were designing the plating for the new menu item, the millefeuille aux marrons. The chef reached for the powdered sugar shaker, and asked me, “You know what we call this? It’s a branlette.” I could tell he wanted a reaction, but I didn’t have one. “That says nothing to me chef,” I replied. He may have explained it to me in French or found a word in English, I have no idea. I couldn’t pay attention to the chef because Itchy was behind him acting it out for me, wildly making an exaggerated jerking off gesture, with facial expression and all.

Now that is one way to make vocabulary stick.

Note: this is the vulgar, slang word for such a device, as one might expect it to be. It is hard to picture a little French grandma wandering around the kitchen going, “Let's see, where did I put that wanker?”

One of the chefs came up to me today as I was cutting carrots into little rectangles and asked coyly, “Do you have un ami that bit your ear this weekend?”

“Non, chef,” I replied, a bit confused. Then I remembered a little while back to an evening when I burnt my ear with my hair straightener. Later, I went to check it out and discovered that the backside of my earlobe was one big, crusty, burn-scab. Yuck-O! No wonder these people hate me: who wants some nasty American with a scabby ear touching their food? Part of me wanted to run to the chef and say, “Chef! Remember four hours ago when you asked me about my ear? It was a lisse-cheveux, I swear!” And then the thinking part of my brain kicked in and made me realize that nothing would make me look more like an idiot than the truth.

Today is Armistice Day in France, which is a national holiday. Holidays here are scared-nothing shall be open, no one will work, and merriment will reign supreme. Or something like that. Unfortunately, I remembered that it was a holiday after leaping out of bed super early and readying myself at lightening speed to make it to the bank before noon. I had my coat on before I remembered what day it was. Poop.

However, it was not a holiday-as-usual in my neighborhood. As I was later walking along rue du Commerce, all the stores were open and filled with happy shoppers. An older woman was walking down the street in bewilderment and stopped me. “It’s all open?” she said, “Even the post office?” I replied that the post offices and banks (hurrumph) are closed, but, yes, everything else is indeed open. She slowly shook her head, as if to indicated that this was the ultimate sign that all has gone to hell in a hand-basket.

When the people I baby-sit for looked at me when I walked in their door and exclaimed, “Oh my, are you all right?” and then insisted on their return home that “But are you going to be okay, aren’t you? You seem really down, not yourself,“ I realized that the fact my stage is slowly sucking the life out of me has become evident to people I don’t know. I can no longer hide my misery. It is time to go home. I gave my notice today and next week Friday will be my last day. I am sure to be back in the US by December 1st.

Here’s the deal: is it going to be better there? Exhibit A is the e-mail my mother sent me yesterday:

You got the dearest mailing from Melanie asking you to save the date of June 9 for her wedding celebration. You can access additional wedding information at ______ so says the mailing. Lovely website- so excited for her!

*Translation: This could have been you if you hadn’t picked the Wrong One. Such a shame you’ll live with your father and mother until you die.

Also the Annual Fund letter from Middlebury. You gave (small amount) in’ 04 and (slightly larger amount) in’ 05. If I were you I'd go back to the (small amount) considering your income this year.

*Translation: Get a real job already and quit mucking around with this cooking crap.

I have agreed to baby-sit tomorrow night only because there is a small chance that I will get to meet Allie Lewis.

This means nothing to pretty much everyone else on Earth except me. You see, I am a Martha Stewart fan. Add the adjective “huge” in there. I think she is a brilliant businesswoman. I liked her version of the Apprentice better. I believe that she was wronged when she was sent to jail/camp cupcake. I adore all her publications. And that is where Allie Lewis comes in. She is the Senior Associate Food Editor for Martha Stewart’s Everyday Food magazine, the only Martha mag I actually had my own personal subscription to (until my last four issues were held up in the post-Katrina mail block of 2005). Anyway, she is also one of the hosts of the television show based on this magazine. You may be thinking, “I’ve never heard of this show,” and that is because I am the only American under the age of 75 who watches PBS. Allie is a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, too, and she is in town visiting friends. Friends that I sometimes baby-sit for and then abuse when PBS stars come to visit.

She was the only host of the show who didn’t send Tim to the moon. I enjoyed endlessly pissing him off by abusing his Tivo to record Everyday Food. In the end, he chose the Tivo over me, but I am pretty sure it recommends a food show or two now and then.

I have a very persistent itch on my left arm. If I have scabies, some punk-ass bitches are going down. The last thing I need right now is scabies.

Actually, that’s not true. What am I doing in the next two weeks that is so important I can’t stop and itch and cover myself in a tar-like remedy? I am tying up 20g portions of green beans in plastic wrap and cutting 60 kilos of shallots into various shapes and sizes, that’s what. And frankly, I don’t think I would mind at all to take a moment out of all that bliss to itch.

So perhaps this is the perfect time for scabies. No time like the present. Here’s hoping.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Can No Longer Be Left To My Own Devices:

10) Dropped iPod as exiting the metro car, had to depend on the kindness (and reproaching look) of strangers to pick it up.

9) Spent 5€ on financier pistache from Eric Kayser twice in four days.

8) Shower curtain fell (again). Failed to hang it back up (again).

7) Used “any ol’ light bulb” to replace the latest one that burnt out.

6) Compulsive need to finish any bottle of wine I see, regardless of how full it is, how much I have already consumed, or how long it has been open.

5) Dirty dishes in the sink outnumber the clean ones in the cupboard.

4) Belief that Febreeze accomplishes the same job as the washing machine.

3) Gave phone number, but not name, to random bartender.

2) Monthly iTunes expenditure equal to cable/internet bill.

1) Read very clear label “hand wash cold” on favorite white angora/wool turtleneck sweater after removing it from machine previously set to hot cycle.

A guy, two single gals, and many mango mojitos goes something like this:

Girl A: I think I need to buy some condoms.

Girl B: Really? It seems a little early in the evening.

Girl A: No, just to have in case. You know, if ever.

Girl B: You are aware that here you need to go to the pharmacy and ask for them and then be subjected to the judgment of the 90 year-old frog behind the counter.

Girl A: So?

Girl B: I’d rather die. Condoms are the boy’s job.

Girl A: [Boy], what brand do you recommend?

Boy: Huh?

Girl B: Brand doesn’t matter. In my limited experience, there’s not one that you pull out and the guy is like, 'Awesome! I can’t wait to put that on!'

Girl A (to boy): Seriously, what do you recommend?

Boy: Huh?

Girl B: She wants a condom that says, 'I am an intelligent, independent woman who wants to please you, but mostly just myself.'

Boy: She wants talking condoms? That’s awesome! Can you imagine ripping it open and hearing, (affects British accent) ‘Good Morning!’

Girl B (giggling, affects same accent): ‘Pardon me you two, it seems I have suffered a small tear.’

Girl A: Sigh

The landscape of my skin has changed dramatically in the last eleven months, mostly due to the work I am doing, but partially because I am co-ordinationally challenged. My father calls me spillerina. Most other people just laugh.

The fingernail on my left index finger will never be a normal thickness or color again, because this is the hand that holds the food one is cutting, and is the first body part to get in the way of the blade.

My right arm has two huge burn scars, and the underside of my left forearm has three of a surprisingly ugly nature, one just below the veins on my wrist which makes me feel compelled to justify myself to strangers as a cook, and not a suicidal, psycho-freak, cutter/burner.

The index finger on my right hand has a rad-ass callus, that is alternately open or a brown-ish lump. It is terribly manly, both a source of pride and awe as well as self-pity and shame.

Why are there scabs on my knuckles?

My nail beds are tinted with whatever color food product I happened to be working with last. Beets and purple carrots are good candidates for organic dye, if you ever become Amish.

My nails can never be long or pretty again. Length and polish are unhygienic and too girly. All signs of femininity must be left at the door.

There is a rough patch on my forehead from where I bumped into the salamander (aka broiler) and lightly burned myself on Tuesday. Luckily it was unnoticeable to everyone except me. Who puts something that hot up so high? Okay, I guess it’s not that high up to “normal” people. Randy Newman got to the French and now everyone is trying to do me in.

The newest injury to my list is probably my proudest. While straightening my hair, in a moment of incomparable genius, I clamped the plates of the flat iron over my earlobe instead of the selected strand of hair. Just about every woman out there has been the victim of a mother or a sister (or her own hand) wielding a curling iron, but a flat iron, with all of its protective, plastic covering, now that is an accomplishment.

If there is one French word I really don’t like, especially when it is used in reference to me, it is gourmand(e). Some of your Francophiles out there may say, oh, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. Here’s the definition I found:

1) Qui mange avec avidité et avec excès (one who eats with eagerness/greed and in excess).
2) Qui exige beaucoup (one who demands a lot)
3) Qui aime la bonne nourriture et qui sait l’apprécier (one who likes good food and who knows how to appreciate it)

Now the third definition isn’t so bad, but, hey, it’s the third meaning listed. When the word is used in the third sense, I feel like the French always let a little of the first two meanings eek in a little bit.

I’ve been having quite a bit of fun at work this week, probably because I had Wednesday off. Last night during the service, neither chef was there, Jean-Pierre was in a particularly good mood, it was Georgio’s last night, and we only had about 50 covers. We were playing around. Medi messed up a ravioli order, and handed the whole thing (!) to me because I had never tasted it before. Super-yum. Then Johan had some extra risotto, so everyone had a bite. Jean-Pierre and Dewey came up with a new dessert and made everyone try that. I was having a lot of fun with our mini-food fest, until the other female intern, a ditsy, twenty-ish French girl looks at me and says, “Oohhh, you’re a gourmande.” I tried to ignore her and enjoy the fact that I was actually having fun during my stage, that I was feeling like I was accomplishing something, and that I was fitting in.

Today was more of the same conviviality, but with both chefs thrown in. French-girl intern and the fifteen-year-old intern had to make a dish for the staff as part of their schooling. The chefs were really into this, and were very good teachers. The dishes that the newbies were to make were very introductory, two dishes we did in the first few weeks at Le Cordon Bleu. French-girl was making a lot of novice mistakes (she didn’t season her meat before searing it, she crowded the pan, she didn’t let the oil get hot enough before adding the meat…). Later, she had me try her grulots onions that she had cooked glacées á brun. They were crunchy and they shouldn’t be. I was explaining this to her, but trying to be as positive and upbeat as I could. I told her that I couldn’t wait to eat her stuff, and that it smelled really good. She felt it necessary to say, “Wow, you are really gourmande.”

Like the little brother in a Christmas story, “Who’s mommy’s little piggy?”

Who’s our restaurant’s petite gourmande???

If I can’t be excited about food and eating tucked away in a dark basement kitchen, where can I be?

In the course of one day, from the 31st of October to the 1st of November, the weather has gone from balmy fall bliss to ice-palace cold.

What the hell?

A girl needs a period of adjustment, not just a brutal drop of temperature all in one night. My coat isn’t dry-cleaned! My heaters aren’t hooked up! I am going to freeze! Oh, but eet eezn’t zat cold, ma cherie….

True: I’ve spent the vast majority of my life living in winter wonderlands, places where on any given day in January or February, you can make your nostrils freeze together.

False: It takes many years for a person to adjust to and adapt to a tropical climate.

It took me all of about two seconds. My moving day to New Orleans was in the month of January and I was both shocked and thrilled that it was a whopping 85 degrees F (that’s a hot 30 degrees C) that day, necessitating shorts and t-shirts. I even loved the 100 degree summer days, complete with 99% humidity. Hell, I even took jobs that required me to work outside during those summer days. I was okay with the fact that my hair was to be wider than my shoulders under such conditions.

I vowed to never again live in a city that had winter.

Vows are made to be broken, but this one particularly hurts, and literally too: I forgot that being cold is actually painful. I wasn’t a fan of the canicule this summer (at least in New Orleans, air conditioning is a life-preserving necessity), but can we go back to that, please?

“Tu fais Halloween?” my chef asked after telling me to take the day off for Toussaint.

It seemed a weird way to ask, are you doing Halloween? Is Halloween something one does? It is mainly skipped over here: the French don’t get it at all as a holiday, and I don’t seem to be able to explain to them what there is to get. All the aspects of it are pretty disjointed and bizarre. In my eyes, Halloween is the most bastardized and commercialized holiday of them all, way more removed from its original roots than all the other bastardized and commercialized holidays out there. It never really was a big deal for me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been all about the candy, but I don’t enjoy being scared and I am terrible at costumes. I can never come up with a good one and I really don’t care to put in the effort, although that is not to say I don’t appreciate the people who do. Watching the costumes was one of my favorite parts of Mardi Gras day. But as with Mardi Gras, Halloween is all about the party for me. And that is how I “did” Halloween. I dressed up (i.e. I put on boots and five articles of jewelry, and that, for me, is a costume), and went to Brain’s house to “do” Halloween in the grand fashion of a Canadian frat boy.

The scariest aspect of Halloween in Paris was the ad in the Metro for Euro Disney’s Halloween celebration. The child pictured (shiver)…Jen’s new Spanish roommate said it best, “I see that ad! I look it and think, ‘Aie, ¡pobrecito!’ ”