Little Miss Awkward

I just can’t help it!!

Ermmm do I know you?

 I have to admit being a single girl, I am on the look-out (yes, yes, I know it never happens when you look for it). Well I wasn’t looking for it and it happened. Well not happened, happened but happenedish or might happen. Anyway explanation necessary methinks. [Aside:I have just polished off an Auchan version of pringles in a space of ten minutes and I wonder why the scales aren’t moving in the right direction]

Back at the ranch, arrived at my bus stop carrying my Mary Poppins bag (called that because it could fit a mercedes, swimming pool and has roomfor a pony), and spent a good five minutes trying to locate my mp3 player. Found it and spent another five minutes trying to detangle the headphones. A man at the bus stop I had not paid any attention to came up to me and said in French, “Are you going to turn that on so no one speaks to you?” [Aside: My french is getting so much better yay]. I smile and say no that it is just a habit I have when I commute. So to summarise this encounter, bus stop man is from Paris, doing a course, on his way back to Paris, enquires about my relationship status and invites me to visit Paris for the weekend. To summarise my response, I tell bus stop man that I am in a relationship and my boyfriend is around (big fat lie, as if I will go to Paris to visit a guy I met at a bus stop and talked to for ten minutes. I am hungry but I have not reached starvation point, if you know what I mean). I was rescued from this uncomfortable situation by the timely arrival of my bus.

Later that day on my way back to the office, as I exit the metro via the escalators, I realise I am being one of those annoying people who stands smack in the centre of the escalator, annoying that person who wants to walk up it. I am not usually this thoughtless but I was playing with my headphones again. So a guy nudges me and I turn to him and apologise letting him past. I reach the office, trying to retrieve the keys from the MP bag and  turn around to see the same elevator guy next to me. He tells me he sells womens clothes (nice and random conversation opener), I smile and say ‘good for you’ (thinking, ooookay weirdo). Summary of conversation, he lives in Italy, visiting his sister here, is half Italian, half Trinidadian, he enquires about my place of residence, and relationship status and he doesn’t carry a pen or a phone 😉

As you can probably deduce, I decided to give him my number because besides the weird ice breaker, it was quite a normal pleasant conversation and I thought I shouldn’t be soooo cautious all the time. Do something crazy and give a random stranger your phone number. As he didn’t have a pen and as I couldn’t be bothered rooting inside MP bag to get one, he memorised my number. One of my flatmates thinks he will remember it and the other thinks he will forget it. I am hinging my bets on the latter. I have had my number for over a year and I still don’t know it by heart, so what chance has he got. We shall see.

The thing is I am always wary of these sort of random encounters because call me weird but I think it IS weird when a man tries chatting you up within a space of seeing you for around five seconds. In my head, I think I bet he does it a lot. I imagine that the thought process for them is like fishing, cast your net wide enough your bound to catch something. Maybe I am being too harsh about this but last time this happened, it didn’t turn out well, remember Jean and the date.

I would be really interested to hear the weirdest and most random ways and places you have met people you have dated, or gone out with or even married.


May 28, 2008 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Music, Romance, Uncategorized, Work | Leave a comment

Nowt going on..

 Silence has descended upon this blog because there really is not much to write ‘home’ about.  So I shall just do a list as it is simpler and things are so humdrum, no explanation is needed as you will soon see.

The bad bits

  • Feeling a tard bit lonely here at the moment, and feeling like Johnny-no-mates and no one cares blah, blah, blah
  • Not too excited about my job but really don’t have a lot of options
  • Smoking way too much now
  • Spend wayyyyyyyyyyyy too much time on tinternet (Peter Kay fans, know that word is not a typo)
  • Really worrying about the future
  • My car’s exhaust is f*****

The good bits

  • I have bought tickets to go somewhere nice for my summer holidays
  • My car has been repaired by the nicest mechanic in the whole world, who didn’t seem to rip me off because I was a woman (I hope)
  • I DO have a job and I LIKE my boss
  • I have a ‘fairly’ comfortable place to live in
  • I have decided to start a bookclub (an idea inspired by Princesse Ecossaise)
  • Currently reading ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde, and loving it!

April 8, 2008 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Rant, Uncategorized, Work | 2 Comments

Roll on 2008..

wine.jpg I have not blogged recently because to be honest I have not really had a lot to blog about! I realised that it has been a year and a half since I started blogging and I have shocked myself because I typically start something and it doesn’t last very long. I get so bored so easily but having it going on this long feels like an achievement for me.

I went back home for the Christmas holidays, and after two days of being home, I wanted to run back screaming to France. When you have lived away from home for a few years and you go home, through no fault of your own, you revert back to being a child again. It drove me crazy.

A new year always makes people feel the need to re-evaluate their lives, the past, the future etc. It is a good thing but with all new resolutions made, how many are actually achieved. This time last year, these were my resolutions and let’s just say they totally apply today, as none of them were achieved. I still have not shifted those pesky pounds, in fact I have added more pesky pounds (damn those French baguettes and cheeses), I am still impatient with my mother ( to be fair the Pope would be impatient with my mother). I should have known when I made that resolution that it was equivalent to saying ‘I shall become the President of Kazakstan’ in a year. I am still crappy with money even though I am making less of it, go figure. But I did sell my Nintendo DS. 

So this year not making any resolutions, as I think they are useless!! Why wait till the New Year to make changes. This year will be played by ear. Take it as it comes, ride the wave of life (cheesy) and see where I end up. To be honest last year was pretty good in my book, and if this year happens to be better, that will just be marvellous as far as I am concerned :0

Happy New Year everybody!!!

January 7, 2008 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, Family, France, Rant, Uncategorized, Work | 2 Comments

Step away from the boulangerie…

scales.jpg Like all best laid plans, my attempt at weight loss or any kind of health regime has fallen by the way side. If I knew what I know now, I would have really made a bigger effort before I came France, because now I am here it is like mission impossible to get rid of the excess poids. Okay it is not mission impossible but when you have zilch willpower (like me) it is double hard.

However I really have to knuckle down and do something because the scales are so going the wrong way. If I continue at this rate, they will have to ship me back home as cargo. I have been plodding along, being quite content and doing my own thing (and eating my way through the city) but the crunch came when I went to buy a pair of trousers. My arse looked like a couple of kilos of squashed grapes stuffed in two bags about to burst. I mean white trousers favour no one unless you are Kate Moss but this looked ridiculous.

Watching my flatmate’s eating habit is fascinating. Like most men I know, he has a healthy attitude to food (why aren’t women the same). He is like a kid, he loves his bowl of chocolate milk in the morning. I kid you not, he drinks hot chocolate milk from a bowl, and he is happy to go. I think it is a French thing.  He eats three meals a day and rarely snacks in between apart from when he wants an ice cream, he has it.  He is like a creature of habit, the way he always has his fruit compote and yogurt after dinner.

Now me on the other hand, I go for the listen-to-my-body approach. And my body says its’  hungry all the time 🙂 But I think I will be trying to adopt flatmate’s habit. He’s way of eating is just common sense and old fashioned really. Three square meals a day. 

ps: any tips will be greatly appreciated. Please don’t suggest jaw wiring because that is just silly 🙂

September 18, 2007 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Rant | 8 Comments

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September 4, 2007 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Music, Rant, Work | Enter your password to view comments.

Contrôle Technique

ct.jpg Bringing my car to France was not an intentional plan. I didn’t have time to sell it and there was no way I was going to sell it for pittance, just to get rid of it. I brought it along like the extra bit of underwear you pack for a weekend, just in case you need it. Apart from the fact that the French drive on the wrong side of the road, having the car has had it uses. But (there is always a But) after having been here for quite a few months, certain decisions had to be made. As the UK insurance only covers you for 90 days abroad, I really have no choice but to re-register the car in France. This is somewhat a big decision as it is a statement that says you are here to stay. I always had the intention of being in France a while but there have been times when things haven’t been going great and the possibility of running back home has crossed my mind. Anyway the car had to be re-registered.

Anyone who has had the pleasure of dealing with French bureaucracy knows what joy this can bring. Here it seems you can’t even get a monthly bus pass without providing 20 copies of your mother’s DNA results, with a declaration by her written in her own blood. Okay slight exaggeration here but only slight. For me to get the car registered, among other things I needed to get a ‘Controle Technique’. It is the same thing as an MOT. Or for none British readers it is an exam that your car has to pass to say it is in somewhat good nick. Anyone who has had an MOT done on their vehicle knows this means at least 30 minutes of dry mouth, sweaty palms, finger crossing, and excessive prayers (even Atheists). In the old days showing extra cleavage and donating a bottle of whisky to the mechanic used to help but now it is all computerised,  finger crossing and praying is the best bet.

Took my car to the CT place, and was ushered into the waiting area. I brought along my book to keep me occupied, but deep down I knew not much reading would be done. My car is brought in and put on some contraption that seemed to make it breakdance and shimmy shake. Oh bugger, is it meant to shake so much? I catch the mechanic’s eye and I quickly look back down at my book. I feel like a child, who has just been caught watching daddy jumping on mummy when I was supposed to be downstairs playing with my Wii. The mechanic sticks something in somewhere and watches a computerised screen, he then calls mechanic 2 over and they both pay way too much attention to the screen. I literally have to use all the willpower I could muster to stop myself going over there to look at the screen too. What were they seeing? I want to know. I need to know. It is rude to talk about other people’s car when they can’t partake in the conversation. Mechanic checks the headlights. This I know can’t fail,  because I have lost a reasonable amount of weight running around to get them changed to comply with the regulations. Now if they fail, I am going to the nearest boulangerie and stuffing my face with the creamiest thing that I can get a hold of.

Then the car is moved to another thing that makes it dance even more, I think this time it was more a ballroom movement. One step, slide, two step slide, pause and slide. Mech gets under and flashes his light around my car. Oh please don’t let a gust of oil splash on his face, or something drop off and knock him down dead. I catch his eye again and quickly look back down at my book. The next moment, I hear what seems like a shower of nails. It is all over now. My mechanic has unwittingly provided inspiration for the writers of the next instalment of Final Destination as to grisly death possibilities. I close my book and get ready to gather my belongings and move on. But I act in haste. I still see flashing light, and mechanic appears to still be breathing. I look outside and realise the shower of nails is in fact heavy rain falling on a zinc ceiling. Thank f**k for that. I have never been so happy to see bad weather, as I was at that moment.

He walks over to me and gravely hands me my keys. Why has this happen to me? I have never failed an MOT before. Deep down I was cursing everything French. Even my beloved crepes with Nutella. He mutters something fast and grim in French. All I managed to gather was ‘tomber’, ‘rapid’, and ‘echappement’. Great, my exhaust was falling off quickly. Well thank you for nothing. He hands me a printed copy of something and I ask him if he knows a mechanic. He gives me card. I say “merci” and “au revoir”, as you do. I am still nice even when I am pissed off. I must remember they are only doing their job. Don’t shoot the messenger, shoot the car.

I walk over to my car and on my windscreen I notice a ‘CT’ sticker that other French drivers have. Holy shit, it passed!! It made it. My baby made it. How could I have doubted it? If there weren’t witnesses, I would have hugged it. This was passing MOT happiness with that little bit extra. This was passing the French MOT. I wanted to run back inside and plant a smacker on the mechanic, but I am guessing the heavily pregnant woman behind the desk wouldn’t appreciate it. Although I wasn’t too sure if the mechanic was the cause of her current condition, I was too distracted with the drama going around my car to reach a full conclusion about this. As I drove home, I really didn’t care about my tombering echappement. I would worry about that tomorrow. Today I will bask in this victory.

After a visit to the prefecture to get my vehicle re-registered, this victory was shortlived…….


August 2, 2007 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Rant | 6 Comments

Is there a Doctor in the house?

doc.jpg Being in a new country, means you not only wrestle with a new language but also with new styles and customs. Today I was hit with a medical – French style.

For my new job, I was told that I would have to see the company doctor for a compulsory medical. A medical for work? I thought how peculiar. It wasn’t like I was signing up for the army or anything were my physical fitness would be put through the ringer. This was in essence a desk bound job. Back home, the nearest I have come to a medical, was to state on my application form whether I had diabetes, blood pressure, or any other form of disabilities. At other times I have not even had to declare anything. So this for me was a new concept.

Last week, when I had told my colleagues about my impending French medical, they either smiled knowingly or gave me a look of pity. I was also pre-warned that I should wear my sensible, Bridget Jones style underwear. Oh dear, I am not liking the sound of this. My colleague declares she will be donning a crotch less knickers ensemble for her appointment. I can’t help but wonder if this would score brownie points with our French doctor. They do like their lingerie in this part of the world. At my allocated hour of doom, I sauntered over to the office of the ‘Medecin au Travail’. Noticed that the doctor was already in with someone, I decided to make use of the laydeez room and make sure no piece of under garment was stuck somewhere it shouldn’t have been.  I was quickly stopped by the lady who it transpired was the nurse and not the doc. She handed me a paper cup and more less told me to do my business in the cup. Great start!!

**Too much information time** I came out with a nice warm cup of ‘d’eau de sugar007’ and didn’t know how I was supposed to present it to her. Is there such a thing as urine sample etiquette? Do I leave it by the bathroom sink? Or hand it to her like some sort of sacrificial offering. Luckily she took it from me and did what she had to do. She then ushered me into a room, where I was asked all the usual stuff about family medical history etc. However this process was not too straight forward as she was French, and spoke no word of English. But for the most part I got through it but I have a feeling I might have inadvertently told her I was a junkie from the way I was illustrating that I have had a some vaccinations. Oh well, hoping the urine sample, might clear up that misunderstanding. The hearing test was quite comical because it was those contraptions where you have headphones on and pressed a buzzer whenever a sound was heard through them. The thing was I heard the nurse’s hand banging against whatever instrument she used to produce sound in my ear. So even if I didn’t hear anything, I knew from the banging noise behind me that she had pressed her bit, so then I would press mine. Oh what fun.

This whole thing was just the foreplay to the main event. I was then ushered into another room. Waiting for me was a woman in her 50s who had arms that would make Madonna cry with envy. When she was not putting innocent employees through their paces, I imagine she was doing the same to her Pilates mat. She had the body of an athlete and the face of a granny. After a short run down of my eyes and hearing tests, she points to a door and says something in French. I look at her with my, me-no-speaky-no-French face. She repeats herself this time, I catch the word ‘vetements’ in the middle of it all. Oh this was THE moment. I was to go in and take my clothes off and return.

I walk into the room all pumped like a soldier going to war and come out like a soldier returning defeated (with just underwear). I have seen those French films with these willowy young females who would happily fleet around the house bra-less, wearing thongs, and eating toast while having a conversation about politics with the guy who has come to deliver the mail or fix the washing machine, I for one am not one of those.

She points to the weighing scales and sits behind her desk with pen in hand. I jump on the scales (fully aware of what it would say) and she asks me to tell her what it says. I really couldn’t think of what the number was in French and this was kilograms, therefore the figures were higher. Like with most brits, I am more familiar with weight measurements in stones and ounces. I ask her to come over and have a look. She point blank refused and told me to read it out aloud to her. WTF??? I think this was some sort of psychology on her part to make me ‘realise’ that I was overweight by saying it out loud. This technique might work on the French but it sure as hell does nothing for me, all it did was just get me annoyed at having to rack my brain to remember the number in French. Anyway you have to give her props for being original.

**More too much information** That was not the end. I had to lie down on the doctor’s chair, remove the bra and have her feel my breasts. Then used a mallet to hit my legs, to check out my reflexes and at what point it seemed she was touching my feet as though she was taking their temperature. Now that was a new one on me. All in all I knew what she would say. I am pretty healthy but need to lose some weight. I could have told her that. Some colleagues have told me they have been told they have crooked spines (oh dear) and other such random diagnosis.

All in all, despite seeming a bit OTT for a temporary desk job, there is something to be said for a free health check including a breast examination in a work place. Although this seems more of an exercise in covering the company’s back but the employees have nothing to loose by it.

On the way out of work, I see the doc and I cringe, she smiles. All ends well!!

July 17, 2007 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Rant | 5 Comments

Before and After

dinner-party.jpg This week seems to be the week of dinner parties. True to her word Jacques and Gille’s mum had me over for dinner. Now this was the perfect example of how people make a dinner party look effortless. As arranged, arrived at J & G’s appartment with a bottle of wine. I am no wine connoisseur, I like to drink the stuff, I know I like the taste of some and not others but I couldn’t tell you the difference between a Merlot and a Chiraz. So when buying wine for other people, my main barometer is price. I don’t go for the cheap range or the expensive range but I try to find a happy (price) medium. However I soon found out that I should have taken more care with my choice of wine.

Mum looked utterly relaxed, sat down for a while and chatted with me about my job, my plans e.t.c We were awaiting another guest, an ex colleague of hers.  German Man (45) arrives soon after with two bottles of wine. His bottles looked the business, as though he really evaluated his choices. He walks in the appartment, and loudly admires the impressive views from the rather plush top floor appartment. He then proceeds to ask Mum and Dad how much it had cost them, in a roundabout way. You don’t do that in my book, unless it is people you really know well. He then spends the next 15 minutes trying to sound out their personal wealth.

In the meantime, Mum briefly leaves the room only to return with a tray of mixed apperitifs. She sits down and continues chatting, looking very serene. Dad is being the perfect host, pouring drinks and asking questions about me and German man. However German man is still switched in calculator mode. I am seriously disliking German man. He has strong air of twatness about him.  As the conversation flows with predominately German man talking and boring me shitless with talks about infrastructure of one thing or another, Mum leaves the room briefly and returns with a tray of steaming bowls which she sets on the dinner table. She ushers us over to the dining area. Dad pours some white wine (which was gorgeous) but German man refuses to drink anything but water. I really wish he would drink something alcoholic because it might help release that hot rod stuck up his arse. Mum serves a fish soup, stating that she hopes that fish is okay for us, as she knows some people might be vegetarian. This sets off German man into a rant about how he really gets annoyed with people who are veggie who go to dinner at someone’s home and refuses to eat meat. I am sorry but they can’t stop being veggie just to be polite. They obviously have their reasons for their choice in not eating meat. This I said in a more diplomatic, dinner-party-friendly way but I think he just ignored me. Mum leaves the room and comes back minutes later with the main dish. Not a sweat bead in sight.

German man proceeds to talk about his job, the incapability of Venezuelan’s to absorb information, the ugliness of Venezuela, and the stupidness of Americans. He didn’t stop there, he talked about why people don’t go in to a certain African country and ‘sort’ it out and make it civilised. I have a feeling his idea of ‘sorting’ it out requires a cattle prod and canes.  I took particular umbradge at this because he was talking about a country which my parents come from. Arsehole. Dad poured red wine to go with the main dish, which was 10 years old and came from his sanded floor cellar. Reason why I should have paid more attention to my wine choice.

German man works in the education system and complained about teachers being too individualistic, who aren’t motivated by financial rewards, like that is a bad thing!! At this point, I am just sitting back, guzzling all the wine coming my direction and just taking in the crap that comes out of his cake hole. He them proceeds to mention the problems he has with spoilt pupils in his school, who are from rich middle class backgrounds, products of “those” mixed marriages. Bloody hell, what am I sitting next to here? He proceeds to ask Dad if he is under or over 50. God, you couldn’t pay for this type of entertainment.  Mum gets up from table, clears dishes away while Dad brings out the cheeses and cuts the bread. Now serves the white wine because this goes with the cheese. White, red, purple I really don’t mind just keep it coming.

Mum and Dad were great hosts. Being attentive, explaining French jokes and things I didn’t get and more importantly keeping my glass topped up. Mum had dessert on the table before I could blink, still no sweat bead in sight. German man had to leave as he had something to do very early in the morning, which I hoped included losing his virginity- the Twat.

Overall it was a masterclass in making a dinner party go smoothly and of course who not to invite 🙂

July 10, 2007 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Rant, Work | 3 Comments

The Hostess Without The Mostest

cheese.jpg ***Warning – really long post*** I am not a natural entertainer. Hence why I rarely host a party, dinner or anything that requires me to be the one responsible. I envy those people that seem to have it down, they make it look effortless. However I could not avoid this dinner party. It was supposed to be a thank you to a couple of people who have been amazingly generous with their time and friendship since I arrived in France. They have done it for me on numerous occasions and I really wanted to do this for them.  But I was quickly reminded why I don’t do this often.

I decided to make a shepherd’s pie, as it was English, fairly economical to prepare and one of those things that after preparation, you could just stick it in the oven. (Thanks Despina for suggestion). Shepherd’s pie for non-English readers – think more savoury spaghetti bolognaise sauce with a mashed potato topping, baked in the oven and you pretty much have it. 

By the time I had peeled the potatoes, vegetables et al it became apparent that I was running out of time. But I was counting on my guests’ usual tardiness. I had planned to have the pie in the oven by the time they were due, so by the time they had apperitifs (nibbles), then it will be ready. Didn’t work out that way. At the time they were due to arrive my potatoes were still boiling, and I was still fiddling with the meat part. I forgot to get some tinned tomatoes, and it became a race against time to get ketchup into the mix before they arrived. There was no way in the world I could let these French people see me squirting ketchup into this dish. It just couldn’t happen. I will be a laughing stock. Managed to get the ketchup in on time and got rid of the evidence. So that was ready but the potatoes weren’t. I was getting pretty peeved and frazzled at this stage. It is not like I am boiling bricks.

The buzzer rings. Shit they are ONLY ten minutes late and the potatoes aren’t even cooked yet alone mashed and ready for the oven. I let them in. I become very conscious that I am sweating like a pig in an abbatoir. Would you want to eat anything served by someone out of breath and dripping with sweat? It doesn’t help that it is a very hot day. Wipe my face quickly and open the door with an extra cheesy smile. We exchange pecks on the cheek, make small talk and usher them to the sitting area. One more guest due to arrive, so buys me more time. I lay out the apperitifs, and offer them a drink. Noticed that I had put the red wine in the fridge and not the Rose, and of course you don’t refrigerate red wine. It couldn’t get any worse, but oh it does. The wine refuses to be uncorked. Half the cork is in bits and there is this underlying fear that the rest of the cork will fall into the bottle with bits of wine cork. But luckily one guest had one of those swiss knife thingies with the cork and managed to prise the offending article open. Left them to make small talk, eat apperitifs and sip on cold red wine.

Unfortunately I have those kitchenette things were my every frantic movement was being watched by them. I felt my back was really sweaty and had to run to the bedroom just to check that my khaki pants didn’t have a big ass sweat stain on it. The last guest arrived earlier than expected. Bugger!! There was no way that I will have time to get this pie in the oven, as it would mean a 40 minute wait before dinner is served. So when asked what we were having for dinner, I proudly announced we would be having a traditional English dish of minced beef casserole served with mashed potatoes. I didn’t even have time to steam the vegetables.  Luckily for me they said it tasted very good, and they especially liked the way the carrots were so crunchy. Well that tends to happen when you undercook things.  As they ate, I just couldn’t relax. I was so paranoid. Do they really like it? Why did Guest B only have one serving? Why aren’t they drinking more alcohol? I need them to drink more because parties always seem much better when you are even slightly intoxicated. Did I clean the toilet properly? I hope no one asks to use the bathroom. The mint pineapple served with icecream went down well. I got extra brownie points when they heard I had actually cut the pineapple myself (cutting a pineapple is not that hard- surely?).

The pain was not over. The conversation was predominately in French which was the intention. They are doing their best to force me to listen and speak the language. And I love them for that.  I actually enjoyed the fact that there was some conversation going on but it was the  extremely long silences in between that caused me anxiety. Uncomfortable silences, with them looking at  imaginary paintings on the walls. It was the same look you have when the mad man comes on your train carriage, and you look everywhere but at him. The problem is that I don’t really know them so well to talk about things in depth and it is not due to the language barrier. In this part of France, you quickly realise that deep conversations are very rare to have with people that you don’t know that well. Back home I can meet a stranger in a pub, bus or anywhere and we can have a real deep conversation, where we put the world to rights. But here people seem more guarded, somewhat reserved especially with someone who they haven’t grown up with.

Luckily someone suggested that we go for a walk. I jumped at the opportunity. I thought they would head home straight after but nope. After a very short  walk around the town, they came back here and lounged reading English magazines. I guess I was relieved that they weren’t running away and were just happy to just chill. But I still couldn’t relax. After they left, I breathed the biggest sigh of relief, had a cigarette (first in six months). I was happy it was all over.  After hosting the dinner party from hell, I am glad I did it because it was my way of giving back but God I will not be doing that again in a hurry.

ps: I hope I haven’t given them food poisoning!!!

July 8, 2007 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Rant, Uncategorized | 7 Comments

The Domestic Naked Goddess Chef!

food2.jpg Need some help folks. Need ideas for things to serve to some new French friends coming for dinner. Looking for a dish that is economical, easy to prepare, and fool proof – more importantly wouldn’t confirm the stereotype of brits and bad cuisine. Have left it a bit last minute, so I am a bit desperate for suggestions. I have already worked out dessert. I will be serving pineapple carpuccio with a mint pesto. In case you are wondering what this is, I saw it on the menu of a French restaurant, and laughed myself silly. It is a blatant rip off from a Jamie Oliver recipe book. Or maybe Jaime stole it from some bar-cum-restaurant in France 🙂 The dessert is so simple it is ridiculous. All that is required is a whole pineapple cut into thin slivers. Then fresh mint and some sugar pounded in a pestle and mortar (hence the pesto). The key to the dessert is the presentation. Just lay the pineapple slivers on a large flat plate and sprinkle the ‘pesto’ around it. The coolness of the mint and the sweetness of the pineapple works beautifully.  Okay now it is your turn to provide me with a main course…please!!!

July 6, 2007 Posted by | Battle of the Bulge, Blogroll, France, Uncategorized | 5 Comments