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!

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.

Does it ever give thee pause, that men used to have a soul – not by hearsay alone, or as a figure of speech; but as a truth that they knew, and acted upon! Verily it was another world then… but yet it is a pity we have lost the tidings of our souls… we shall have to go in search of them again, or worse in all ways shall befall us. (Past and Present by Thomas Carlyle)