It's Here!

For anyone (and it may not even be one) who was waiting for me to take up a Blog again, I have done it.

Visit my new life at www.nutmegreports.blogspot.com

Merci pour votre attention.

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.