My son, Sam, at three and a half, had these keys to a set of plastic handcuffs, and one morning he intentionally locked himself out of the house. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when I heard him stick his plastic keys into the doorknob and try to open the door. Then I heard him say, “Oh shit.” My whole face widened, like the guy in Edvard Munch’s Scream. After a moment I got up and opened the front door.

“Honey,” I said, “what’d you just say?”
“I said, ‘Oh, shit’” he said.
“But, honey, that’s a naughty word. Both of us have absolutely got to stop using it. Okay?”

He hung his head for a moment, nodded and said, “Okay, Mom.” Then he leaned forward and said confidently, “But I’ll tell you why I said ’shit.’” I said Okay, and he said, “Because of the fucking keys!”

(Anne Lamott)

So, it made me laugh when I came across this paragraph in David Lebovitz’s book The Sweet Life in Paris.

It’s considered terribly rude in France to ask someone you meet what they do for a living. I didn’t know that at first, and while at a party, I struck up a conversation with a man standing near me.
“So, what do you do?” I asked him
“What do I do?” he cried. “You Americans! It’s all about money! Why do you always ask what we do?” he huffed at me.

If you tune in to quiz shows in France, you’ll notice that the hosts would never be so impolite as to ask the contestants something so personal as their occupation. The questions are always about one’s region; they might discuss an Auvergnat blue cheese or light vin de Mâcon specific to that area, a local dish like choucroute if they’re from Alsace, or confit de canard if they’re Gascon.

I made sure not to apologize for it. This was a rule of mine.

I don’t believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. When one’s hostesse starts in with self-deprecations as “Oh, I don’t know how to cook…,” or “Poor little me…,” or “This may taste awful…,” it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that everything is delicious and fine, whether it is or not. Besides, such admissions only draw attention to one’s shortcomings (or self-perceived shortcomings), and make the other person think, “Yes, you’re right, this really is an awful meal!” Maybe the cat has fallen into the stew, or the lettuce has frozen, or the cake has collapsed – eh bien, tant pis!

Usually one’s cooking is better than one thinks it is. And if the food is truly vile, as my ersatz eggs Florentine surely were, then the cook must simply grit her teeth and bear it with a smile – and learn from her mistakes.

Jasmina, this one made me think of you!

…we looked at each other and repeated a favorite phrase from our diplomatic days: “Remember, ‘No one’s more important than people!’” In other words, friendship is the most important thing – not career or housework, or one’s fatigue – and it needs to be tended and nurtured.

The book ended with a characteristic flourish:

This is my invariable advice to people: Learn how to cook – try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless, and above all have fun!

Cooking inspiration at its best! Have a delicious day!

There is a memorial of Hollywood characters, then there is this quote on the screen, and among all the superficiality, Christian and I read it, and declare that it is indeed a lovely quote!

It’s not the load that breaks you down,
it’s the way you carry it.
Lorna Hooper

Have a lovely week!

We got a card in the mail, and Christian scratched it. We’d won something, a walkman, free nights at a hotel, a notebook, at very best, a car. I phoned the number and answered the skill testing question. The lady on the other end asked if I was familiar with Tri-Star and informed me I’d get my prize once I listened to a presentation, if that was ok. Fine. It seems like anyone I tell this story to already knows the punchline. They wanted to sell you a vaccum eh? Yeah, I got suckered into that once too. (Hi Cathy!) Heck, yesterday, I took out The Penguin Anthology of Canadian Humor and Ivan E. Coyote writes about that same incident. In his story, the character won steak knives.

Our sales person could not be turned away. After learning about the technology the patents and the materials, the salesperson would drop gems like: “Imagine all those dust mites eating your dead rotting skin”. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he made me realize that dust mites also create their own waste. Not only did I shiver at that mental picture of dust mites cavorting in our little square of carpet, I now had the unwelcome thought that our carpet fibres were full of dust mite excrement. Then there was the line I refused to answer:
“When you add water to dirt you get….”
(”Christian: you answer that…” Christian: “Hmmm? Uh. Mud.”)
“Yeah! Mud. And mud backwards is…”
Me: “Haha! Nice line!”
The salesperson played along. I get the feeling I am a puppet on a string. The puppeteer plows forward in his show. It’s smooth calculated and two and a half hours later comes the final reveal: the price. Christian and I had managed to whisper our bets to each other earlier, as he was pulling out the last accessory meant for carpeted stairs (which we don’t have). That was after he told us that the vacuum (as a name) was an oxymoron. He was selling a cleaning system. Unfortunately, in the phonebook, it was still listed under vacuums, “‘Cause people still need to find us…” Smile. I had half-worried that the vacuum would be so effective on our hardwood, it would remove the glue between the strips.

By the time he left it was 11 at night. We won two nights and three days free-stay at a hotel in one of 31 cities. I told Christian that if the vacuum were as good as the salesperson had said, we should use it to vacuum our clothes. Who knows what kind of dust mites live in our socks.

“Why does Tri-Star sell their product this way and not through retail?” I had asked.
“Because retail can’t give you these kind of demonstrations” the salesperson had answered after complimenting me on my good question. Translated it means retail couldn’t possibly keep you interested in a vacuum for three hours.

Marie-Hélène often sees me reading… On the couch, and in the kitchen, there are books everywhere. She even has her own library beside the dresser in her room. During the day, she’ll drag out a book, find an adult, and heave the book toward us, so we’ll read her a page or two. Even John is in on the game. Yesterday, she sat close to me on the couch, the Parent’s Guide to Sign Language in front of her nose, and Christian, looking out from the kitchen, burst out laughing. How could we blame the Victorians for thinking that children were miniature adults?

Little Peekaboo, you’re melting my heart! Your stops and starts are the rythm of my heart. How did you grow to take up so much space? Darling Chickadee, there’s so much to do and so much to see, and I love it when you reach for my hand… How can I resist your little blue eyes when you look at me and ask with little hands forming imperfect signs, for 1 more chocolate chip? Or a ride on the bike, outside, 8:30 in the morning? And those squeals of delight are just as cute as that look that doesn’t understand those explanations that distract your requests. Our porch is accumulating the perfect rocks you find on our excursions… Your shoes all dusty, your pants too. Little Peekaboo, Mama and Papa love you!

The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating — in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life. — Anne Morriss

From an interview over here. It should make you feel happy, like The Blind Side.

Unfortunately there comes to the majority of those of middle age an inelasticity not of the physical muscle and sinew alone but of mental fibre. Experience has its dangers: it may bring wisdom, but it may also bring stiffness and cause hardened deposits in the mind, and its resulting inelasticity is crippling.

Somewhat of a sidenote to the research of an essay on Big Bear, as Marie-Hélène sits, crawls and climbs all over the living room, strewn with toys. I love that she is so curious and adventurous and distracting. I’m figuratively on the edge of my seat as she grunts (little soft grunts) with the effort of pulling herself up, using the coffee table, then the windowsill, then my legs… Dear Internet, Please send bubble wrap.