Peanut Butter Is A Many Splendored Thing

Family Update: The last few Weaver weeks haven’t been too busy - I've watched lots of basketball, Jeff has studied, I've beat Jeff in tennis (sorry..had to say it), and we hit the studio with the band to lay down tracks for our 2nd song. It's still got some tweaking to do, but we're pretty excited about it. I'll try to post a clip when one of the 2 is nailed down. No news of upcoming gigs as of now.

Tonight, I tended to a sick husband. To join his spirit’s solemnity in remembrance of his father’s death 12 years ago today, Jeff’s body took a day of rest. It started as a 103 degree fever and has declined in severity to a bad throat-ache and lots of soup and saltines. Two years into this marriage thing and only a few sicknesses later, I’m still learning whether I’m to coddle him like a mommy or just get the heck out of the way. I think a certain amount of coddling is called for (held in good balance with getting the heck out of the way).

Ode to Peanut Butter.
I started this post with a restaurant review, but I scrapped it because I got distracted trying to get peanut-butter from the roof of my mouth. Nothing says midnight like some toast smothered with peanut butter topped with raisins or dried cranberries. Mmm.

Peanut Butter is a national past time. It’s like baseball…without the steroids. Throughout the world there are wine connoisseurs, coffee snobs and cigar aficionados. I wouldn’t necessarily use any of the above adjectives to describe my relationship with peanut butter. However, based on our sheer consumption, both Jeff and I could use the less admired descriptor, peanut butter addict.

Tonight I indulged in Jif – straight-forward creamy style. While I like the notion of chunky, its just hard to spread and you end up eating lots more I think. For the value I find Jif creamy to be good, spreadable, and much nuttier tasting that generic versions of the same ilk. Hydrogenated oils and other odd additives aside, Jif Creamy is good eating.

The ultimate in my opinion is, Smuckers’ All Natural Creamy. You know the stuff with the big oil pool at the top when you open it. True, I have to work at a new jar with a knife for a good 5 minutes. Its a careful mixing process - combine the oil and peanuts while not spilling the fragrant peanut oil on myself and suddenly smelling like a Chic Fil A cook. I keep a jar of this golden splendor at work, which is probably feeds the habit to have it so handy..oh well. I must note that I have also tried generic brands of Natural Peanut Butter, Publix, Target, Kroger…none compare to Smuckers. The others get dry and crumbly at the bottom of the jar and don’t have the salty, yet nutty sweetness of the Smuckers. It is so rich in flavor in fact, that I probably use less of it than I would of conventional creamy PB.

I missed my Smuckers while in France last fall…but we were not totally deprived of our favorite food/condiment (?). Mississippi Belle Peanut Butter was one brand we discovered in France - the ONLY brand we found in France actually. Who knows how long it sat on the shelves of that Nantes supermarket before we stumbled upon it. After all, the notion of making a spread of cacahuetes is rather revolting to the French. Intestine sausages: A-okay. Peanut spread: Degoutant! Found snuggled in between locally grown honey and Nutella, Mississippi Belle was our comfort food. Great on left-over baguette for breakfast, as a dip for digestives (a favorite cookie of ours that we smuggled from the UK) or just plain by-the-spoonful eating.

Mississippi Belle peanut butter is imported to Europe – chalk up one for US food product exports! Chipping away at our whopping trade deficit one American in Paris at a time. I heard that to object US foreign policy decisions, the French were smearing the streets with Peanut Butter. Mmmm….foreign policy protests.. ;-)

And speaking of protests – check out CNN or the BBC coverage of the massive protests you may or may not have heard about in France. Unrest is alive in well in many French cities, including Nantes,where within the last few days around 40,000 students, teachers and workers have taken to the very streets we walked a few months ago. This is a very critical time for France.

In Closing...
Odd things that Peanut-butter addicts like us combine with peanut butter…

• Jeff – Cottage cheese, honey, peanut butter.
• Jeff ‘s family – Pizza, applesauce and PB
• Katie & Jeff – carrots dipped in PB, bananas n PB, apples n PB, celery w/ PB & raisins...
• Katie – Oatmeal with cream, strawberries, and PB

You may have some favorite brands, other nut spreads or odd combinations with Peanut Butter. Feel free to share.

Restaurant Review and Other Surprises

Once again, you may or may not have been wondering what I've been up to lately. Besides not blogging. Well, truth out...you may not have seen me on the Barbara Walter's special, but I have had a little side project going on.
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1801858/

Somehow between my Thunderbolt Kicks, Jeff and I managed to celebrate our 2 year anniversarry on March 6. It's been 2 amazing years of adventure, love, misunderstandings laughs and lots of Indian food.

Speaking of food...to celebrate our two years as Weavers, Jeff took me to a restaurant that I had heard good things about, but never tried. It turned out to be quite possibly the best meal I've ever had in Atlanta not cooked by my mom.

Rathbuns - American cuisine tucked away in a converted steel mill which lies in the heart of Atlanta's Urban renewal explosion. While countless mills and factories in the area have given way to lofts and condoes, so for the neighborhood's most valuable addition is the brainchild, and namesake of renowned Atlanta chef Kevin Rathbun. He has taken his Buckhead restaurant experience at spots like BluePointe and Nava, and added his own nouveau southern accent to create an outstanding melange of fresh, culinary interplay.

The offerings, both "small plates" and larger entrees are a creative blend of Asian, French, fresh, and tres fatty. But make no mistake, this is a restaurant in the heart of the new south. Sides like country ham grits, creamed corn with gouda and smoked mashed potatoes pay homage to Mr. Rathbun's roots. As did Jeff's entree - Seared Cod and sauteed shrimp over smoked mashed potatoes with slivered almonds and cranberries.

Now, you won't find many a gourmande making cod fancy, but this was an outstanding preparation of no-knife-needed fish, and some of the freshest tasting shrimp I've had in a while. My small plate sampling included Rathbun's signature dish, and his mama's recipe, of Eggplant fries dusted with powdered sugar, served with a brilliantly yin/yang side of tabasco and powdered sugar for dipping. While delighful and different, this was probably my least favorite of the plates. My lamb scaloppini was out of this world, its apricot sauce had fresh mint, bacon and little teaser cubes of goat gouda. Okay, combining the sharpness of chevre with the creamy comfort of gouda..I couldve eaten a block of JUST the cheese.

Perhaps the most surprisingly good small plate were the salmon tostadas. How can a smoked salmon taste THAT fresh - not overly salty, but perfectly smokey with a sunset pink hue that melted in my mouth. Each little chunk was served on a crispy cracker with a habanero creme fresh. An exciting kick on the back end of each bite. I should also note, that the pre-meal bread was the best I've ever had at a restaurant for pure freshness, unique herb flavors and salted-crust taste.

Dessert, briefly, because it was tiny, but just what our stuffed tummies needed - a banana peanut-butter creme pie. Seriously, had one of us happened to get a head-wound or have a digit cut off during dinner...we would have stayed for the pie... It's Jeff's favorite combination of flavors and I'm just a general sucker for sweet things. It was fabulous, and just the right size (they do "small plate" desserts too).

Final libation note: on our waiter's recommendation, we tested a Pinot Noir (2003 Porta, Bio Bio Valley) from surprising Chile and it was outstanding in value and taste. A classic burgundian bite that accompanied our diverse meal selections wonderfully.

Ambience: Very hip, but not pretentious. We saw all types there - business casual folks, hipster friends and elderly couples. High ceilings and textured brick walls make it less intimate than some other options, but we were successfully able to enjoy each other company and conversation... then the food came, all chatter ceased and for the next 30 minutes we gazed lovingly at the food before us and our empty forks... Visit Rathbun's.

Review over. Maybe more to come, if we can think of more anniversarry's to celebrate. Next big event - Jeff's graduation (finally!) from MBA academy. May 2.

Writing Again, at long last

We’re back. Well, that’s obvious. We left from France over a month ago. I’ve been in silent mourning since our departure, thus the promised postlude has been slow in coming. Truly, our return in December was overwhelming, busy, family-filled, wonderful, sad and suddenly we were right back where we’d left 4 ½ months prior. 8-lane highways, crowded malls, comfy bed (ah, yes, how I missed the comfy bed), TV watching, eating Mexican food, spending time with family and community.

The precarious mix of good and not-so-good things that fill our normal life took shape once again, and sometimes I forget I was able to step out of it for a season. The questions are waning- “how was it”, “how’s the adjustment”, “didn’t you miss America?” etc. I haven’t minded answering them. I think that the overwhelming experience of having to articulate our wonderful French season at a moment's notice, and to explain the inexplicable to someone’s inquisitive eyes has helped me to process. And that, my friends, must be why I haven’t written. I have needed no outlet here in my English-speaking world…there is community all around, and it is wonderful. Mais...ils me manque mes amis en France.

I had promised them that my first entry when we got back would be in French, just for them. Maybe that’s why I haven’t written. Alors, desolee mes amis. Bien que ma francais est mauvais. Vraiment c’est dificile a ecrire en France presque maitenent il y a plus d'un mois depuis nous avons parti. Me manque le fromage, le Centre Ville, les heurs paser dans LU…bien mangee et bien bu. Merci petit Jesus.:-)

Now, my world is occupied with real life. This American Life. I commute 20 minutes everyday in my car to work at National Allergy Supply. You can watch this clip to find out why I do some of what I do. Or googlestalk us and buy some allergy products. Tell ‘em Katie sent ya.

Jeff works HERE. He’s moved up in the Emory world and is still trying to figure it all out. He’s learning a lot, and finishing out his MBA studies this semester.

We both play in a band that is still nameless…but we’re whittling it down. Those of you in Atlanta are invited to come see us play on February 10th. It’s a church-basement gig, so I have to take out all the cuss words, but there will be tasty coffee, lots of weird people who I love, and a little bit of rock and roll. The fun commences around 8:30.

Before this starts feeling too much like a Christmas letter, I’ll just sign off with a Thank You - to all of you who form our community of friends and family. You made it much easier to come home. And...with a picture of Jeff and I with Otis, a dog that's not ours (long story).
More pics from our last few weeks in France to come.

Death By Sudoku

..ah, the good old days.



-Nantes, Dec. 13, 2005

Captions Welcome.

Christmastime In Nantes

I plan to make this entry shorter, with more small paragraphs, quotes and suspense. See, I didn’t get as many comments on my last entry, so I figured folks are holiday busy and need some classic short-attention-span reading.

"But Katie," you might be thinking, "will it still culminate with the heart stopping unveiling of your latest photographs from Nantes and elsewhere?"

"Mais oui!"

Christmas in Nantes:

Christmas markets in Nantes, and more famously in Eastern France and Germany, are small wooden chalets where various artisans, gourmands and kitsch-pushers sell their wares. In the heart of Nantes, chestnuts roast on open fires, a carousel entertains small children, and a Pere Noel (Father Christmas) booth allows those with an American bent to get their pictures taken. All the while, the scent of vin chaud (hot spiced wine), hot chocolate and warming pretzels wafts through the chilly environs. And in the other Christmas Market square a few blocks away…more ugly jewelry, bad art and wind chimes. Oh, and a giant, steamy vat of Tartiflette – a tasty Savoie (French Alps region) treat of roasted potatoes, cream, Gruyere cheese and bits of smoked ham. Next-door, you can get a dessert Guafre (Belgian-style waffles) with your choice of chocolate, Nutella, caramel, or just plain sugar. But enough about food…

Christmas in Nantes…the streets are adorned with lights and many store windows with trimming. Music is piped through the busier-than-usual pedestrian streets. However, not the Christmas standards you may imagine, but rather a strange mélange of salsa, American pop and adult contemporary. I guess traditional Christmas music is bound to step on somebody’s toes? Oh well, it makes for a nice little soundtrack for shopping, but makes me itch for some Bing Crosby crooning.

There are some organ concerts and other sacred music events at local cathedrals. We visited the city’s main St. Pierre Cathedral last weekend. No Christmas carols, but we did witness the lighting of the third advent wreath candle, and as a bonus, the priest was a stunning likeness to St. Nick. Speaking of St. Nick, he is not Santa here. Santa is Pere Noel (father Christmas). St. Nicholas’ day has already been celebrated earlier this month. Our Romanian friend Daciana brought the class chocolates to commemorate the day. Also part of the French saintly celebration is the eating of the Galette des Rois (King Cake). Yes, the concept is similar to the Mardi-Gras season King Cakes…something is hidden in the innards of the confection and he (or she) who finds it is not only “King for a Day” but must also make the cake next year. Well, I was fortunate to ascend to Kingship last Friday evening.

"Oh...I think I've found it!" I cried when I spotted what I thought to be the traditional crèche (manger with baby Jesus) in my 2nd piece of Galette. I delicately picked the pieces of marzipan and pastry off the figurine to reveal...not the Christ child, but a tiny likeness of Bob l’Eponge…aka - Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Okay, first no Christmas music, now Jesus has been replaced by Sponge Bob? I almost makes me miss the uber-Christian cultured U.S. South. And it made us all laugh really hard.


Christmas in Nantes means some people get trees. In fact, I think my favorite moment from the last week was sitting on a comfy couch in the home of one of the French students, Thomas. His family welcomed us for a “Big French Meal” (to be referred to as BFM) last Sunday afternoon. (Pictured above at Chez Thomas, pictured center) Given that an imbalance of this blog’s words have been about food, I will sadly omit detailed explanations of each superb bite, but will only say….it was a gift to be in a loving, welcoming home… with a lighted, decorated Christmas tree. And in true Franco-American style, we even sang a few lines of "O Tennenbaum.

“So, are you happy to be returning home?” Many have asked us this question, and we Americans have asked one another. Honestly, the idea of leaving behind this ephemeral French life that we've enjoyed for four months - BFM’s, cheery well-walked streets, welcoming friends and countless other joys - is saddening to us. We anticipate the culture shock of being swept back into “real (American) life.” But of course, the treasure of family and friends awaits. And for that, I will continue to let my emotions wrestle. I may even cry as when we lift off from Nantes-Atlantique airport, as what was the unreal present becomes memory, and for how excited we will be to have our old bed back!



VIEW MORE NANTES SCENES AND OUR WEEKEND IN LILLE

Feast On This

1st: Apologies that my last (newest) entry actually appeared BELOW the previous entry…a snag of blogger. I had actually started them on the same day, and the order got caddywhompus. I.E. I actually went shopping before I got sick. And speaking of that, I'm doing much, much better.

And now...
I’ve felt frankly overwhelmed by cultural experience and opportunities to reflect and write about. Thus, I’ve put off this latest entry until it could be perfect, or reflect exactly what is marinating in my head. But it won’t.

However, speaking of marinating. I’m going to write about food again. There are countless things to cover…the great “Mexican Pizza” we’ve discovered at the local joint, the two entire rows devoted to yogurt and like products at the local grocery store, why vegetables here are so cheap and good here, but no one seems to eat them, etc. But rather than vent or brag about particulars of the local eating habits, I want to rave, and reflect on the act of eating, the art of the French meal, and what we can learn. Particularly in light of Thanksgiving and the current Christmas season which will provide us opportunities for feasting with friends and family. I hope we do it well.

Le jour de l'Action de Grace (Thanksgiving) came and went here in Nantes without much great fanfare. I heard echoes of certain restaurants or home gatherings that would feature turkey (or some sort of available fowl) and other fixins. Jeff and I had a good friend from Atlanta in town, and decided to spend the evening with her, being thankful for being in France by enjoying a long, delicious French meal. I had a sumptious Boeuf Bourguignon and in true Thanksgiving style, when I was sure my stomach could hold nothing else, I still topped it off with a warm apple dessert, a la mode. In this case, it was Tarte Tatin - a regional specialty.

But what has my mind really spinning about the joy of communal eating and gathering at a common table, is our trip to a friends hometown the weekend following Thanksgiving. The drive itself merits a tall tale as it involved a freak snowstorm, iced-over highways, roadside snowmen, strange foreigners (that’s us!...well, just Rocky) pushing cars up a slippery hill which evidently locals deemed impassable. Ultimately, the trip which should have gotten us to the warm fires of Sylvain Le Mauff’s home in L’Hermitage Lorge at 9pm, drug us in around 11:15.

Despite our extreme tardiness, Sylvain’s family had let the set table sit for those 2 or so hours, and the feast commenced upon our arrival. Aperitif and snacks for an hour or so. Dinner served around 12:30, and we somehow managed room for dessert around 1:45. Come 2:30 or so, we realized we were quite tired. Spanish, Greeks…eat your heart out! (Well, actually the Spaniard and Greeks would have gone to the disco afterwards).

L’Hermitage Lorge is a lovely, quiet, Breton (in the Brittany province) town. I suppose viewing our little slideshow will do as much to describe our trip as my words could. BUT BEFORE YOU LOOK…You will notice a common theme in many pictures: food. The table of community, of feasting. Particularly in this weekend of being served as we were, of being in community with others, of paying no regard to time or calories, enjoying good food and wine, I am convinced again that sharing the table is in many ways a spiritual experience.

To Christians, this points to our celebration of the Eucharist, the Lord’s table where the community gathers, as Christ did with his disciples, to celebrate mystery, and to remember the Sacrifice which happened just a few hours after that first “last supper.” But as was discussed on a recent edition of Public Radio’s “Speaking of Faith”, Christ was just initiating a ritual that was already rich within Jewish and other mid-eastern cultures. In many religions and faiths, the act of sharing the table holds a significance that is easily taken for granted in our distraced, high-speed culture.

A Native American “Speaking of Faith” listener wrote in that “There is an ancient belief held by many First Nations people in which the act of taking and eating food is a kind of covenant between two beings.” Eating with one another is relational, and I have experienced this joy in France many times now. And for that, I am extremely thankful, and humbled.

And, in case you don’t visit the SOF website to read about this particular episode, I will highlight another important feast tradition: “in the earliest churches, which gathered in homes, the community meal was afterwards shared with outsiders and especially the poor. Communion was inextricably linked with service.” I hope that as Jeff and I have been served in the homes and apartments of our friends here in France, so we can give that gift to others, just as in bread and wine we recall sacrifice, and are spurred toward it at the grace-full table of Eucharist.

So now, take a peak at our Mobile Home table, Brittany Raclette communion (a little bread, plenty of wine), and other memorable experiences with friends. Hope to sup with many of you when we return…we’ll provide the table and the Pastis ;-).

PICTURES HERE!

The Maginot Fashion Line

Went to buy some clothes the other day. I was feeling confident that my body has become more trimly European – what with all this walking and smaller portions and fresh food. I paced the shiny halls of the local mall looking for a store to try my luck. I walzed into Zara, a European clothier with stylish duds for reasonable prices – they even list US sizes alongside the European ones for easy reference! I found a couple great deals and headed toward the fitting rooms.

Ah, the moment of truth arrived. Truth = French bodies are not like my body. I gingerly yanked a medium shirt over my un-exercised, but still-broad shoulders, and generous gene-pool bosom. Had I accidentally raided the Zara children’s section? This medium is not supposed to show my navel and the scoop neck is about to become a v-neck…

Hmph. Better luck with the sexy white jeans? Non. I couldn’t get their slimfit past my right thigh and teetered precariously in the tiny dressing room trying to remove the jeans without falling or ripping the tiny-T.

I breathed in, assuring myself that my brawny American “athletique chic” build doesn’t need these trendy teeny clothes anyway. However, upon further contemplation, I moved beyond my “proud to be from the land of Venus Williams and Mia Hamm” harrumph, and came up with another theory. Perhaps this is a subtle French revenge taken out on my Germanic body. “Those thick Prussian honches have no chance in our cute pedal-pushers and faux-fur boots!” Like a size 6 kick in my Wittgens shins. The Maginot Fashion line – and this one works! If I can ever peel these dang white jeans off, I’ll surely wave them in surrender.


And in an unrelated story - you can now look at a few photos from my parents visit a few weeks ago. Hope the link works this time... BRITTANY AND NANTES WITH THE FAM

Priceless, Coughless?

(Read $'s as Euros)
Doctor Visit - $20
Fever Reducer- $3.36
Cough Suppressant - $3.21
Throat Spray - $2.64
Ibuprofin $3.13
Anti-biotic - $27.76
Chance for foreigner to milk the nationalized health system….priceless


I went to France for four months and one souvenir I've picked up is this crappy cold-like thing which has manifest in everything from shivers to sweat-all-night fever to cough all night bronchial irritation...and now a very painful rib muscle strain from coughing – no fun. Early on, I decided to seek a professional. Both because French friends seemed to all ask if I had been to the doctor, and because I was advised by mom, amid the email version of motherly coddling and a chicken soup recipe, to “get thee to a doctor!” As a student at the University, I can see doctors here for free. Problem is that no one could see me for a week. Option 2, talk to your friends, and go to a local GP who will charge you $20 to hear about your symptoms, scribble a bunch of info on a piece of notebook paper, listen to your heartbeat, and scrawl off a prescription list of drugs to cover every possible malady within your maladies. I went with option 2 and got an appointment that very day.

Following the brief visit, my friend and I trapsed off to one of hundreds of well-marked pharmacies throughout the city. The pharmacies here don’t offer much in the way of easily-accessable (or recognizable) over-the-counter meds, but they all seem to have a large selection of homeopathic remedies. The friendly pharmacist quickly (and cheaply) filled my list of scrips and I left with a huge sac of medications…each with its own dosage, timing etc. By this time, though the cough lingered, I was starting to feel better already.

Truly, the hero of the story is my friend Maiwenn. She is one of the French students in the program with Jeff at the University. She has already provided me with disinfectant and band-aids for an infected finger laceration. Then cough lozenges for my throat. I then thought I would push my luck by asking her to call the student health clinic…only to find they could not see me for a week. So she and her boyfriend Sylvain quickly called another doctor they know, and had me an appointment that afternoon. She picked me up, waited with me, helped communicate with the physician on my behalf, then accompanied me to the pharmacy pick up my goodies and drove my coughing self home. Incredible selflessness for which I am grateful.

Postscript: Neither Homoepathic nor "real" cough syrop have totally relieved my symptoms yet. Now 10 days from my initial shivers, I'm still dealing with head congestion and a cough, but its really only bad at night. I've also have taken matters into my own hands and picked up 2 more cough syrops from the pharmacy, and am nursing the final few Tylenol Cold & Flu tablets a friend had brought with him from the states. Main ailment now, painful lower rib cage - a residual from last weeks coughing fits I guess.

******************

Part 2
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!! I wish you all wonderful time with friends and family. There is much to be thankful for indeed. What will us Americanos be doing to celebrate? Well, thanks to my good friend Beth who sent us a halloween / thanksgiving care package, our little trailer is adorned with various Thanksgiving kitsch like decorative napkins, turkey votive candles and a big cardboard turkey. It's probably the closest we'll get to having turkey here though. Since we are oven-less, we may settle for a nice French dinner out of Coq au Vin with potatoes or something. But boy will I miss pumpkin pie.

Final Note: I've tried my darndest to fix some of the broken picture links. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. (And follow instructions from your more technically savvy friends.) So, try your luck again and I hope to have some ones up soon! Oh, and regarding my last post...I bought some clothes yesterday at Zara. Size Large. I've even found jeans (at another store), so all shopping hope is not lost.

Burning

Several of you have asked about the effect in Nantes of the worst civil unrest that France has seen in decades. Jeff or I have seen no burning or rioting here. But we have been admittedly sheltered during the past week as Jeff’s school vacation took us East to the French and Swiss alps. Very appropriate then that we should know nothing of unrest or violence in the world while hidden away in our little Swiss happiness account.

But now, after reviewing Le Figaro and cnn.com among others, I see that the violence is spreading, into towns we’ve visited, have friends in or plan to visit soon. In fact, here in Nantes, there have been about 60 cars torched, a primary school burned and mixed reports about a “cultural center in downtown” being effected. I recognize some of the neighborhoods mentioned, but none are within stones throw to where we spend most of our time. We are thankful that most of Nantes seems tranquil, and I hope and pray this finds peaceful ends soon. I hope to have more to write about these emeutes including student reactions and other feedback.


Speaking of burning…..(journal excerpt 11- 6-05)

Did you know that sunsets happen every night! As if amid our hussle and bussle, God stops us and says – “here, beauty, enjoy this gift for a few moments.”

Sure, there are rainy days, like yesterday in Lyon where nary a shaft of light was seen from the heavens – but those days make me appreciate big blue fluffy-cloud days like today even more.

Now 2 long traintrips, and 2 sunsets over French countryside. For this evening’s show, I crane my neck to peer over seats and foreheads to the windows opposite my row. My fellow travelers read magazines, fiddle with cellphones..unaffected. And soon, I feel silly for being so taken in, so I try to read, but its no use. The light draws my eyes, and I was to scream “Fire!” so people will look and see the awe-ful burning horizon.

We get it almost every night. This past week I have seen yellow change to pink, to purple to velvety blue over Loire Valley vineyards, alpine valleys and the majestic Mont Blanc. And still tonight in this boxcar…I must stop and stare.

I can’t claim to be well accomplished at the art of sucking the marrow out of life. For as hard as I may try, I wish I was more attuned to the nature, and people around me. But having this time, these 4 months in France to stop, look and wonder has been a blessing. I would dare say at times this leisure is a curse – like when I am on an Alps afternoon hike in which every angle offers stunning beauty. The beauty is rich, but I could never soak it in enough, never suck enough marrow from those mountain-air moments to adequately communicate the experience. Sometimes things are too wonderous to be readily explained. One must experience it.

What’s your favorite in-explicable wonder?

Check out some flimsy camera renderings of the scenes that recently left Jeff and me speechless. Notes: In lieu of of a lengthy travel journal about our time this past week, i've just let pictures talk with a few captions. Let me know if you want some more details or specifics! Also, you may be required to "sign in". Sorry, but I promise they won't e-stalk you, it just means you can view our pics.

Time is on my side

Who would have thought that with all this time on my hands, I'd be sitting here in a University cafe, hurrying to get this entry in. You see, with the advent of WiFi connection here on campus, now Jeff and I must share his laptop, and he has much work to get done these next few days. I too, have much work to do..namely, cleaning our Mobile Home because my parents are coming to visit this evening! I will try my best to cleanse the impression of squallor ;-).

Here is a weekend trip sandwich for your pleasure. First, we scurried off to visit the Chateaux country and had a beautiful weekend away. SEE PICTURES HERE.

The following week provided its own adventure in Nantes as I worked toward my goal of: Being Able to Use the Gym. Oh the story is long and Kafka-esque but the clif notes...
To use gym must have MEdical Certificat. For medical certificate (i thought), you need social security card (which i've already paid for but am still unregistered). For social security card, I need proof of residence, a bank account and a birth certificate. Birth certificate must be translated. To find a translator I must go to the Town Hall. Town hall man #1 gets help from town hall man #2 (neither of whom speak any English). Town hall men 1 and 2 wait in line on my behalf for town hall woman #3. Town hall woman #3 prints me 5 pages of maps and names of translators - no "American" translators in Nantes. Only "Anglais" (c'mon, its just for words like "date of birth" is there really American vernacular that somebody from teh UK wouldn't know?). Town Hall woman #3 also recommends a visit to the office of Foreign Affairs (provides another map) where they may speak English and be able to help with the fact that I don't even have my Birth certificate or a copy there-of in France. I leave town hall, trying to hold in my laughter.

Long story much shorter...went to doc without social security card, was no problem. Quit my pursuit of foreign affairs officials, translators, etc. ...still haven't used the gym.

Part 2 of Weekend trip Sandwich - Normandy beaches, Caen War Museum, Bayeaux cathedral and tapestry....SEE PHOTOS HERE.

Music is Transport

(intro paragraphs omitted for brevity's sake..when i can figure out how to upload them i might, depending on how transparent I'm feeling...)

Perhaps not so dramatic, but more comfortable a scene was set. Jeff and I strolled through the sunsoaked Park du Proce’, one of many in Nantes, but I would say the most beautiful. The pleasant weather had coaxed out hundreds of others – the young and old kicked soccer balls around, elderly couples walked arm in arm, families tried to keep up with delighted children. And there, amid a scene already draped in happiness, I heard a familiar sound which made me utter to Jeff – “I think I am in heaven”. Mountain music…bluegrass perhaps, English lyrics. Bam: transported to an Appalachian cabin afternoon. The sweet familiar sounds of the mandolin and fiddle took an entirely French Sunday afternoon and positioned it in front of rolling Southeastern hills…and it made my barefeet happy.

To take a peek at some more scenes from Park De Proce, view our short LA VIE EN NANTES PHOTO ALBUM.*

Memory is a beautiful thing - during portions of ma vie it has served as a respite, others as a cave that trapped me so I couldn’t move beyond, or see the beauty of today. I would hazard to say that for me, nothing brings memory to life more than notes played, sung…I have written many times about transport via music. For me, here in this strange land, I am only headphones away from being in the lyrical arms of Jeff Buckley or within the masterful touch of Sasha’s 1’s and 2’s… Such artists take me from France to a time when I was 21 lying on the dirty floor of my apartment clearing my head of Business Finance, refilling it with artistry, and maybe thoughts of some boy. Or I am in a crowded smoky club in Athens…tired feet, ears strained to the point of pain, but..it hurts so good.

And perhaps in times apart from here, I will hear Damien Rice sing “..can’t take my eyes off you..” and think of watching the movie Closer in French…befuzzled by the still-strange language, but amused at the people around me in that stuffy classroom that I have been lucky enough to pass time with for 4 months. Or I’ll hear Moby’s 18 album and smile that people likened my husband to the weasely music genius…so I created background music to a soiree at a friend’s flat…cheese, bread, sausage, wine, and good conversation ensued, it is a pleasant memory. I thank God for music from hillside churches, to smoky clubs, to my soul.

You can shop for music later, but first, view some photos from a similar party, and some other social events involving our new friends here...visit LA VIE SOCIAL PHOTO ALBUM.*

*As always, I recommend "View Slideshow" option so you can read our informative, witty captions :-).*

- Special Thanks to Matt Elliot whose recent post on a similar theme inspired some of these musings.

So this guy walks into heaven…

Funny thing, the world is fairly small here in Nantes, and even smaller when you speak English. We’ve got a “local” where some Englishmen hang out, and non-Englishmen as well. It's John McByrnes Pub, an Irish themed place complete with Premier League Football on weekends and Celtic music Sunday nights. The other night we were “having a craic” (the Irish phrase for “a good time”, not to be confused with “having crack” of the same pronunciation but NOT necessarily equating to “a good time” in American English). So this guy walks into the bar… The bloke, a New Zealander with a guitar, starts strumming a few sing alongs...and alas, in a few brief moments, we are 3 Americans, chumming with our English mate Simon, ordering Belgian Beers from a Juan our Columbian bartender, joining a Kiwi crooner in a rousing rendition of La Bamba...en español of course. I think this is what Heaven will be like.

London, Definitely Not France

I’m starting to see France as the middle ground between Britain and Spain, a middle ground that I enjoy. While visiting Britain these past few days, Jeff and I definitely felt a little closer to home. There was the obvious language similarity of course, but many other things: slightly more efficient business practices, a greater technological saavyness, and of course, the fashion of ordering food in restaurants. The French schedule and habit of meals remains to us a code uncracked – after nearly a month, we still find ourselves negociating the territory between bar, brasserie, café, restaurant, creperie...who serves food? When? Do I order at the bar? Is service included? One conclusion - people are skinny in France because they obviously never eat at any of the above listed - only drink. However, in Britian, there is the trusty pub whose Pubgrub menu, scribbled on a chalkboard above the bar, will gladly offer patrons Bangers and Mash, Shepherds Pie and greasy “chips” at any time your belly should desire. In Britain, businesses stay open during lunch, which in France is a delightful, yet unproductive 2 hour break. Some UK businesses even open Sundays and Mondays... (Note: having made these observations, I also recognize that London is a booming international metropolis, Nantes is not. Perhaps some of these things would be different in "small town UK".)

At the other end of the equation is Spain, which I have unfortunately never visited (a major element on the proverbial "to do" list). I have heard, however, that they would put France to shame in the funky scheduling game. No breakfast, big lunch, siesta, back to work until 8pm, come home, dinner at 10:30, discoteque at 1:30, earliest, home about 6am. I think I’m thankful for France, for being relaxed enough to offer a lengthy lunch break, and no-work Sundays to stroll with the family. That said, I haven’t quite figured out how their economy will survive. Not just for the reasons listed here, but perhaps that is a discussion for another day. Until then, I can get used to late dining, lengthy mid-day breaks, and Sunday strolls. You keep working your 60-hour weeks America.

Click here for some pics from our trip to London – it was mostly a social call to spend time with our good friends Rudy and Susan Reudelhuber, and their new Baby Thad. It was incredibly refreshing to be with old friends, in a home (it even had forgotten luxuries like soft carpet, an oven, sofas, consistent internet and a big TV!!!…) we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Many thanks for their hospitality. (No pictures of either Rudy or the Reudelhuber pug, Claussen made it into our pics...We plan to meet up with them again later this fall, so more to come.)

Autumn In Paris

Pictures from Paris!
Okay, i still havent quite figured out how to upload images directly onto the blog, but here's a link to the full photo gallery from our Recent Paris Excursion - a brief 2 hour highspeed trainride.

PARIS PICTURES

Making Land O Lakes (or equivalent French butter behemouth) Proud

Butter: I must be eating a whopping ton of it. It has never been a condiment that I use much of, and in fact, for the sake of my heart and my waistline, I try to avoid it. I prefer “huile d’olive” (olive oil) which is used some here, but butter rules all. There is no real way to judge how much butter I am intaking: I enjoy at least 1 pastry per day, a good croissant or pain au chocolat (croissant with chocolate chunks baked into it) is a perfect accompaniment to morning cafe. Plus lunch and dinner provide their own buttery additions: Speedy sandwicheries are the order of the day for lunch around here. Baguettes filled with things like chicken and lettuce with hard boiled egg (poulet, oeuf et salade) or tuna, tomato and goat cheese (thon, tomate et chevre). And on many of these – a healthy spread of butter. Sidenote: another surprise is the absolutely inhumane proportions of mayonaise which some of these perfectly good and fresh sandwiches are laced with. While recently eating a Poulet et Salade I had to develop a routine of squeezing as I could of my sandwich’s mayo to the front of the baguette, then expelling the large white glop with a flick of the wrist. Eating on the go without napkins or utensils left me no other choice than to litter Nantes sidewalks with tablespoons of mayonaisse. But back to butter.

On another recent lunch occasion in Paris, Jeff and I grabbed an overpriced sandwich and Orangina (my favorite global softdrink) for take-away, we found a shady spot to picnic on in the sprawling park between the Louvre and the start of the Champs Elysees. I bit into the goat cheese, walnut, tomato sandwich to find there was also a healthy coating of butter on one side of the baguette. As if I haven’t already been getting 4 peoples daily saturated fat allotments with pure cheese consumption here in France, I now have butter to add flavor and calories to my sandwiches as well! It was a good sandwich. Our meal that evening was supherb as well, boeuf bourgingon – fall off the bone beef simmered in a wine (and doubtless butter) sauce, served with herbed, butterey potatoes. Ah, French cuisine.

The buttery litany is not out of frustration. I dare not challenge ceturies of famed French cuisine methodology. And in fact, I am joyful that the “healthy food” questions burden me little. Besides, is there anything healthier than locally grown produce, un-steroided chicken, and freshly baked (no preservatives or hydrogenated oils) pastries? I am health conscious, but the food here has given me the freedom to enjoy its richness in moderation, then walk it off. I have only gone running 2 times, and done no other supplemental cardiovascular exercise (though I’m hoping to get some soccer in this week). The workout is in the walking -I wish I had a pedometer to guage the number of miles I have traversed. For example, this past weekend in Paris (i know...I just HAD to say it), we strolled from the Pantheon to Eiffel; Odeon Theatre to St Chapelle to the Louvre; Louvre down the Champs Elysees up to the Arc De Triomphe, etc…. Bring on the buttery croissants and afternoon Glace (ice cream). I’ll soak my feet and enjoy another round tomorrow morning.

Coming Soon in this Cuisine Series: Why it would suck to be Vegan in France, A trip to the French “Super Target”, and Okay, Maybe the French Aren't so Healthy After All.

Apology, Pictures

I apologize for the angry tone of my last post. I thought to remove it, but then decided, "no, this is a good snapshot into some of the way we've felt during certain times here". Obviously its posting fine: for a moment there, i was just, as our host professor here, Msr. Benoit Journe says "how do you say...ah...furious?".

Okay, so they are not viewable from here, but if you have a few moments you can view photos from our time so far, including Jeff as trailer trash, Benoit's sweet family, and some pics from one of our weekend trips. Some have captions, others have comments. It will help you know what you're looking at.
http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=r9bt6tt.3wpg56np&x=1&y=cef35f

test message

why must everything be difficult!! publish please

My first French entry (not in French)!

I could lie and tell you I’m writing this from a hot, stuffy lab in the top floor of the “Faculte Economique” where the computers quiver and nearly shut off if anyone taps a lab table, and where it seems a slower connection than the dial up I had at home in 10th grade.
I was there this morning, But now I am typing on Jeff’s laptop on the front porch of our tiny Mobile home at Camping du Petit Port (see previous entry for an idea). I hope to have some pictures up soon of our little abode. It has its ups and downs. However, at the moment for me, it is up; it’s a beautiful clear evening, we’ve just-finished dinner – sautéed veggies with Provence olives from the market, couscous and the requisite baguette, local cheese, and local wine – and I can finally use an “American” keyboard. The ease of which my fingers glide across these keys is a beautiful thing compared with the backspace-heavy typing I do in the University lab. Several of you have probably received short, concise emails from me with many colons and other odd punctuation and letters that are in “the wrong place.”
I have an ongoing list of blog topics in my written journal because just a week here has produced many a thing to ponder. The problem is I haven’t much had time to do so, as the settling process is longer and more involved than I’d expected. Much of this may be due to the French University Beaurocracy (one of my potential vent..er..blog topics) and the ridiculous amount of time and and energy it has taken to get fairly simple things accomplished. Another large reason for the long-spent acclimation process is that we don’t speak the language. An outside, multi-lingual observer would no doubt find many of the conversations I have been engaged in quite amusing, such as this exerpt of me and the Dept of Law & Economics Administrative Secretary who processes enrollments:
“hello, we are students American we have papers..um..un grupo de..papers…white…from Mr. Agnes Plessis”(..she is actually a Mrs.)
“(long French response involving…I call…you pay…wait at office of Agnes….)”
“yes. How much we you pay? We have need pay social security?”
“(long French response..i get about 10% with a puzzled look on my face, say..’okay, je compre’…more French…another puzzled look…then “okay, I don’t understand”. Turn. Katie exits stage left.)
Apart from such encounters, we are having a great time. I feel no frustration toward folks here not speaking English, we are after all at a French University. I’m actually quite amused at the surprised looks we receive when telling people we are from “Etats Unis” (the U.S.). Nantes…not a tourist town.
Any advice on what French phrases I should go to work on learning this first month?

**post script...i'm posting this from the first computer I've found that's relatively fast and can take my USB storage device...yeehoo!

Our Home In France

Many have asked, and some have been answered that we will indeed be living in a trailer park in France. Here is a brief description from the "campground" website that has been brilliantly translated by Google for your reading enjoyment, and to get a taste of the upcoming Weaver Abode.

"With two steps of the centre town , the Camp-site of the Small Port accomodates the campers , but also the caravans and the motor homes within a green framework in the heart of the city.
24 mobile-homes (O' hara or Willerby-Abi) are also proposed with the hiring. All the hotel comfort combined with the charm of the sport
The camp-site of the Small Port, it is also an easy access to the relaxation and the leisures:"
http://www.nge-nantes.fr/camping00.php

And in another bit of humour, our trailer is called O'hara. I will thus ask all the residents to call me Miz Scarlett.

We leave Tuesday, our house looks as if every closet in the house vomited all over the floors...a colorful array of shoes, clothes, coats, adapters, books...and they must all fit in 2 suitcases. see ya.

New Orleans

The original Orleans is located in the northern Loire region of France, in the heart of chateaux country, and a few train stops from Nantes, where Jeff and I will be this fall. The chateaux were jewels in the French Bourgois crown, extravagant displays of brick and masonry, with sprawling gardens. I do look forward to visitng a few while we’re there, but my thoughts and eyes are heavy with thoughts of the New Orleans. The scenes you and I are seeing are a far cry from the chateaux playgrounds the French elite found around Orleans. We are seeing suffering on a magnitude we could not have imagined inside these borders, and those who cry for help, are the poor.

It seems so lopsided that when such a tragedy would befall our land of plenty, that those with the least would suffer most. Be it that they did not want to leave, or simply did not have the money, the desperation speaks of a lifetime of being underfed, underserviced and disappointed. As I laid in bed tonight and prayed for God knows what, I felt so helpless, and frustrated, in part by the thoughts that have crossed my mind in the past few days: “oh, we’re still rich America..this suffering doesn’t compare with decimated Sri Lankan villages”, “maybe if they would have left when they were told to this wouldn’t have happened”, “all the news shows people are the fantastic stories, the shock-value pictures, its not really as bad as the evening news makes it sound..”

Is my heart so hard? Sometimes it is. Even if those assumptions held a fraction of truth, there is still suffering happening that breaks the Creator’s heart. That people are hungry, children who should be playing and active are listless from lack of food, homes are decimated. This is no small thing. And as with any such disaster, I face the tension of not wanting to overwhelm myself with the unfolding drama, of choosing “lighter” programming so the images won’t stick in my head too long…how much should we, from afar, dive into this story?

My problem, and I think it is an American or even a Western problem, is that I don’t allow myself time to engage with this tragedy, to let the images, sound-bytes, testimonies, truly sink in. I thought tonight about my road-trip to New Orleans one sweltering weekend several springtimes ago. Our purpose was the famous Jazz-fest. However we also trod those famous New Orleans streets, had Beinets at Café DuMonde and window-shopped the works of local artists while live music lilted through the sticky air. I think about that kitsch shop we found on a quaint side street in the French quarter and wonder if looters have stolen the Jesus Action Figure we saw in the front window.

What do I expect as a Christian observing all of this? I expect there will be some that claim God’s wrath on riverboat gamblers or Mardi Gras lasciviousness. Some may experience crises of faith, wondering where God could be in this helplessness. I also expect and hope that there will be, and probably already are, thousands of churches, and relief agencies moblising to assist in the effort to do as Jesus instructed us: feed the poor, house the refugee, care for the widow. One such group is Mercy Works, headed by a friend, Debbie Lascelles. Her heart for mercy and service is contagious, and I hope to see her teams on the scene in New Orleans soon.