Life is a cakewalk

From Two much!

Some things in life are serious - not many, but some are. Take making cake. This is something that you'd better practice if you want to get it right. And mama knows that she had better get it right when the cake you are making is for my second birthday.

From Let them eat cake

So a week ago mama asked Inès and I to roll up our sleeves and help her prefect her cake-making skills - not that they need improving. We were extremely useful, especially on the quality control front. This meant that mama was much less nervous when the big day finally arrived.

From Two much!

The setting was perfect. Abuelita's house on a beautiful Indian summer day. Cool, sunny, September day. The kind of day that calls for... cake!

From Two much!

We had a boiled shrimp fest and about as rich a cake as is legally allowed in these parts of the world.

From Two much!

I must admit that getting older doesn't really bother me like it does some people. I'm over that. You know, life is short. Can't take it too seriously. Unless, of course, you're talking cake.

 

Anchors Aweigh!

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

It always been there, ever since I was born - nearly two years ago. It's a voice, like some distant siren, calling me, an incessant appeal to take to the water. On long summer days, I would stare across the pond at Ata's house, wondering what was on the other side. Of course, I could see the other side but that's beside the point. The waves called me : " Gongo, Gongo, Gongo..." I had to answer the call.

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

Papa already knows that Inès is going to be an ophthalmologist. But my career is still up in the air. Or at least, it was up in the air until Saturday when everything changed. I knew it the moment we stepped on the boat. Aye, I did!

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

I was sailing with the best. Patrick and Rory, half Scottish, half English. They ruled the seas for eons. They had the right accents. They talked to me of distant ports in distant lands. Rum and accordion music. I felt the boat dance with the waves, the storms bash the boat. The thrill of the open seas, well, river. Ahoy maytee, It's a sailors life for me.

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

After a soggy stop at Port Paris Plages we were ready to brave the gales once again. We did the usual sailing stuff like batten down the hatches and put all hands on deck, blah, blah, blah. That's beginner stuff to and old sea (river) dog like me. I might look into a second-hand pirate ship...

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

By the way, it was also the first time Inès took to the seas. She liked it too, but she's still going to be an ophthalmologist.

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

When it sizzles

From Everyday August

Cole Porter loved Paris in every season, which I can understand because of its location. Look on any map of the known universe and Paris is right at the center.

But despite loving paris in the winter (when it drizzles), I have a special place in my heart for the warmer months - few as they might be.  Each warm month has its own flavor. One with a very particular flavor, an acquired taste you might say, is August.

From Everyday August

In Paris, August is a good month for "socializing" 

Yeap, August is a special month. Stores close for the entire month - they leave little hand-written signs on the shutters wishing you a good summer. In France, the best ice cream actually shuts down production and takes vacation. Yeap, that must be pretty good for business. In August, the streets are empty. And because they're empty, the City of Paris digs them all up. The ones that don't get dug up become a beach, or are closed anyway. Why? The only people who really know are on vacation.



In August, people don't do much work, especially papa. This is an especially good point because we get to see even more of him - which is every child's dream (right up there with riding in Santa's sleigh).

From Everyday August

This August we actually came back to Paris. We have taken advantage of the hot lazy days to speed down the empty sidewalks in our tricycles. Of course, we visit Ata every chance we get. And if you think August is special in Paris, just wait 'till you see what it's like at the Chetif Moulin. This weekend, Clara and Robin came down, parents in tow.

We did the usual August stuff: not much. It's pretty much the same all over France. The roof is still unfinished. There are tools where the firewood should be. The grass is getting high. The garden needs weeding, and so on, and so on, and so on. August is not even a good month for complaining. In August, people forget scandals. They read. They forget what they just read. They drop diets. They drop names. They don't call home. In August, people ask themselves why they work in an office and decide that they are going to sail around the world, someday. Then they decide that they are going to lean to sail (which means that they will just have to buy that nice yellow "ciré jaune"). Oh yawn. It's August. Even the Loire River is lazy...

From Everyday August

Island mentality

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer

Forget the light houses. Forget the sun. Forget the sand and the sandcastles. Forget the waves and the crabs and the shells and the rocks. Forget the church bells. Forget the bicycles and the bicycle trails. Forget Céline's tomatoes and her zucchini and her strawberries and her potatoes. Forget le sel d'Isabelle. Forget le Trousse Chemise and les Anneries. Forget the big sky and the white clouds. Forget the groseille jelly and the back cherry jelly. Forget the Crocks. Forget the suncream and the antibiotic cream and the bo bos. Forget the green shutters. Forget the salad and the seaweed phobia. Forget Superga and the long sleeves. Forget the manège. Forget the floods and the broken levees. Forget jumping. Forget the hats and sunglasses. Forget the ipples and bininis. Forget Vauban. Forget the sailboats. Forget the weird oven. Forget the headwinds. Forget the markets.

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer

It's all about the ice cream and how much you can sucker papa into buying for you.

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer

"Papa, y où la big city?"

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer

Braving Bastille Day

From Return to the Aisne

Tu sais, there are perhaps a zillion and one reasons for living in France, but one of the main reasons that we forced papa to move to France is vacation. Not just that you are already in a vacation spot without even moving, but that you actually get vacation. Tu sais, a decent number of days off. Kind of like the Roman Empire just before the Germans showed up. You know, seven, eight, ten weeks - plus holidays.

From Return to the Aisne

In the summer, most normal people point the car south. This year, being a fairly unconventional group, we drove north to the Aisne to a huge cousin convention. For four days we prepared for that most bewildering of holidays, tu sais, the 14th of July. Tu sais?

From Return to the Aisne

The days were full. There were flat tires, ping pong tournaments, conjunctivitis, World Cup finals, Play Dough moustaches, potato picking, donkey feeding, roosters thieving, picnics, flowers floating down the lavoir, corn reaping, thunder storms, hot sun, fireworks, Champagne, Bambie terrine, five-star breakfast service, abandoned castles, swimming, appéros, bike riding, barbecues, and cousins, cousins, and more cousins. Wow! Tu sais, the people that stormed the Bastille must have been pretty angry. But with all these vacation days away from home I was wondering, who has time for a revolution? I mean, wouldn't it be better to be our working on your tan? Tu sais?

From Return to the Aisne

But I'm not one to complain. I suppose that all those people who wandered off to the 11th arrondissement with pitch forks in hand got us last Wedensday off. And that's great because as papa still complains that he doesn't have enough  days off. Tu sais, I think he's right.

From Return to the Aisne

Given that I'm still on vacation, I'll wonder off to the beach tomorrow and think about retirement.

From Return to the Aisne

So cool

From With Tess, under the sun

If you aren't familiar with the word canicule, and you want to be, you can do two things. You can buy a French-English dictionary or you can come to Paris this summer.

From With Tess, under the sun

Today was triple special. It's our first day of vacation, we went to the Jardin d'Acclimatation with Tess, and we got to see four parents wilt under the spell of the canicule. After a short Saturday morning drive through the Bois de Boulogne, papa eased the green machine into a nice parking spot. We were only about an hour late. They were waiting for us at the gate: Tess, Lorin, Edith, and Edith's belly.

From With Tess, under the sun

Papa held back his germ-phobia and let us play in the water park. That was so nice of him that we decided to return the favor and took him to see the animals and let him watch as we played in the park and sandbox. We also let him buy us ice cream.

From With Tess, under the sun

That right, summer vacation is off to a good start.

School's out!

From Year ends, summer begins

I made it. I finished petit section de maternelle. One whole year. That's about one-sixteenth of my pre-tertiary education! And I feel a whole lot smarter.

On Thursday, papa came to pick me up at school. It was all over. He was a little teary eyed but I explained that I wasn't leaving home for college just yet. That seemed to calm him down, a little anyway.

From Year ends, summer begins

Now it's officially summer. Long days, sand castles, sandals, and ice cream.

If you have nothing to contribute to the world at this moment, you can check out a few pictures of our parents' breakfast (really exciting stuff!), lunch at Arut and Solenne's, and other early-summer snaps here: Summer sun a go go

From Year ends, summer begins

Sad news report: Maylis is leaving ENC Blomet for a school in the 4th. Poor Gongo will not kick off his academic career with this talented maîtresse.

From Year ends, summer begins

Pool party!

From Fighting back the heat

It's hot outside. Real hot. Mirage hot. What do the people in the Berry do? Build a big bonfire. The biggest bonfire you've ever seen. I mean, this makes Buring Man look like a cub scout jamboree. I haven't quite finished my first year of school but I know that that type of behavior doesn't really compute. Besides, you don't really want to be too close when a bunch of Berrichons play with fire.

My little brother and I may not be from the Berry - origianlly, but we know what to do when it gets hot. Pool Party!

That's right, uncle Godefoy, aunt Barbara and cousins Hyppolite, Dimitri, and Calixte (the place cards at dinner looked great!) headed over for the first big summer bash at the Chetif Moulin. And what a bash it was. The boys swam while I waited inside cooling the popsicles. Then there were barbecues, badminton tournaments, and groseille picking! Papa nearly melted making the jelly.

There was the usual sprinkling of local wine, sampling of local cheese, and scraping of little knees. Make no mistake, summer is here!

I'll bet the pool parties in LA don't have anything on the ones here in the Berry. I don't know for sure, but I'll bet uncle Brady in North Hollywood does. He would have come but was too busy plugging his latest album "Year of the Pug", which is what I'm doing right now. Maybe he'll write a song about me.

 

MTV, eat your heart out!

From Fighting back the heat