An American in Provence

Today I am going over to visit Alain's parents, Jacques and Josée for lunch. Alain is gone for a week for work. I proudly announced that I would bring a dessert. Jacques said "Oh no, don't worry, you don't have to..." which now that I think about it, could have been French for "Oh god please no spare us!!!!!!"
As the cooking urge doesn't strike me very often, when it does hit, I figure I just have to run with it because there is no tellng when it may come back again.

So I found a recipe off the internet for "The Best All-American Apple Pie Recipe". Okay, that will work. American apple pies are different than French ones because 1) they are covered with a top crust and 2) lots and lots of cinnamon, which the French seem to generally regard with suspicion and mistrust.
I went to the nearest Intermarché to find the ingredients for my apple pie. And promptly spent about half an hour gazing stupidly at the sugar/flour section. What the heck is Cornstarch in French? In fact, now that I think about it, what the heck is cornstarch? I could have asked someone for help, but wasn't sure exactly what to say. "You know, 'cornstarch'? 'Cornstarch'? Oh heck, I don't know how you call in French, it's uh, white, I think, and powdery... No, not flour!" After giving up baking powder and cornstarch as lost causes, I wandered over to the spice section in seach of nutmeg.
Oh drat, what is nutmeg? I was hoping it would be the same name. Don't know why I thought that. Conversation with myself..

Me: Self, what does nutmeg look like?
Self: I don't know, a sort-of brownish powdery thing right?
Me: Yeah, I guess you are right. It has been a really long time since we made an apple pie. What does nutmeg look like in it's natural state?
Self: Beats me. I figured it grew in those little spice bottles.
Me: Well, here is brownish nut thing. That could be it. What does a Meg look like?
Self: Don't know, but we especially should know this don't you think?!
Me: Well, considering we wouldn't know it by taste or smell, I think we should just give up.

Turns out, when I checked it out online later, the bottle I thought it was, mouscade, was right. Oh well.

So considering I had no idea whether the flour was pastry flour or bleached all-purpose flour, there was no way I was finding baking powder, cream cheese, or cider vinegar, I gave up the idea of making my own crust and decided to buy a ready-made. There are two kinds- feuillette (flaky) and brisée. No idea what brisée is, but knew I didn't want the flaky one, so I bought two of the brisée and hoped for the best. I was just hoping it wasn't some sort of pizza crust or the like.

Considered the rest of my recipe for the filling-
Raisins? Who the heck puts raisins in an apple pie? That is just plain un-American. Out with the raisins.
Lemon juice? No way.
Cornstarch? Nope, don't have that either.
Nutmeg? Nope.
Brown sugar? Well, the sugar has a hint of brown color, that will have to do.

Came home determined to find a different American Apple Pie recipe, one without the above ingredients.
Finally found one that sounded about my level, Easy Apple Pie. Yeah, here we go.

Get all prepared to start measuring things out and realize-
Hey wait a minute. This is an American recipe. Which means that all the measurements are in the wacked-out English system of which, I have no measuring cups or spoons. Darn. Hmm, well I can convert the measurements into metric.
Here all the recipes are given in weight and soup spoon/coffee spoon, which I hope are the rough equivalents of table and tea spoons.
So I convert the cups into mL but have only Alain's protein shaker thing that has the mL marked on the side.
" 'Between 1/3 and 2/3 of a cup of sugar'?! Oh thanks for being really precise there!!!"

So I set off, peeling and cutting my apples- one recipe said 6, other said 8, I bought seven, cut up five and needed about 3. Whenever peeling, cutting, and general cooking skills were being passed out, I must have missed them because by the fifth apple my hand was killing me and I was ready to chuck them all out the window.

So I finally get the sugary cinnamony nutmeg-less apple mixture into the two pie crusts in the teeny tiny pan, shove it into our toaster oven and wait. After about two minutes the crust is brown, by ten it is starting to burn. Drat. I think it is supposed to cook only from the bottom right? Well, not an option with our toaster oven. I just hope the bottom crust is cooked and not a gooey mess still.

When I told Alain I was fixing an apple pie for his parents, he said
"Please try not to poison them. We might still need them..."
We shall see. Maybe I will buy some vanilla ice cream, cover the re-heated apple pie in that, and hope for the best.

On Friday, Alain had the day off from work for Bastille Day, France's National Holiday.
More information about Bastille Day here.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bastille

We first watched the parade along the Champs-Élysées of military equipment, the different armed forces (including the Ecole Polytechnique and the other military academies) several speeches, songs, flyover, etc. Why is it that every national parade in every single country must include firetrucks? Is it because they are red, shiny, and pretty and make a lot of noise?
That evening we went to the beach at Fos-Sur-Mer, where he used to be a lifeguard. We got there around 6, stayed for about an hour and a half. It was a great time to go because it was still warm but less crowded. The water was really warm, even by my standards, not just Mr Polar Bear Alain's. After that we ate at the Festine, (the summer boardwalk) and I had "real authentic" Mexican food.
Then we went to Salon (where our reception was) and watched the fireworks along with about 5000 other people I think. It was nice, I could almost believe that I was in the US on the 4th of July with certain differences- 1) No American flags, obviously. 2) Not even any French flags in sight- none on those little sticks, hanging from buildings, on gaudy t-shirts, nothing. 3) Only patriotic song I heard all day was the singing of the Marseillais during the parade on TV.
For an American, it seems that the French are a lot less patriotic. Of course, for the French, Americans are way too patriotic in a bad, nationalistic sense.

I have finally, after about a year of being here in France, started to drive. It is so much easier to let him drive, as he knows where to go and how to navigate the narrow streets, confusing signs, and round-abouts.

The major things that freak me out are a) the round-abouts and b) parallel parking. Oh yeah, and c) the kamikaze motocycle drivers.
Whenever we approach a round-about I start to get nervous, kind of like Le Bise (see the February 9th entry). Oh no, here it comes. What do I do? Do I stop or go? Oh god oh god oh god.
It doesn't help that my depth perception is terrible.

Parallel parking- considering how most Americans have done this about once in their life for the driver's license exam, it is quite difficult. Especially when trying to get into a space a foot longer than your car, half of your car up on the sidewalk.
Finally, the kamikaze motorcycle riders. Do they want to die? One must always watch out for them.

I asked Alain if when he was little, his parents ever took him for Sunday drives. What are those? You know, when your parents stuff you into the backseat of a stuffy car in order to drive around aimlessly for hours "looking at the scenery" but really just as an excuse to get you trapped where you can't runaway in order to talk? Nope. Hmm. Strange. Must be because of the price of gas.

We have a diesel car, which is cheaper gas-wise but takes some getting used to. There is also no gauge to tell you how fast the motor is running, you just have to "get a feel for it." Alain keeps reminding me that I have to shift. Shift! Shift!

It is strange because you get an entirely different feel of the countryside when you are driving the car versus when you are just a passenger. We were driving on some backroads the beginning of June and it was so nice seeing the countryside, the vines, the lavender, listening to the cicades chirping away.

Once I get my resident card (see "I love the Prefecture" entry) I can exchange my Virginia driver's license for a French one as France and certain US states have an agreement. Which is good because that means I don't have to take the driving school and exam here, which is time consuming and expensive.

I guess all in all, it isn't that different than driving in the US.

I recently went to an Opthamologist a few blocks away to get a new prescription. Also, I had to know what my eyesight was in meters, and I had no clue.
The first time I went, several weeks ago, I had a regular eye exam (quite an exercise in remembering the names of letters. F! No, E! I can see the letter, I just can't remember what it is called in French! Give me a minute!
He sent me home with a set of trial contacts, a bottle of solution, and some scary words sounding like Bifocals and muscular degeneration.
I came home, opened one of the contact lens packs, rinsed it off with the solution that he gave me (figuring it was a saline solution) and popped it into my eye.

And immediately screamed in pain. It was burning unbelievably. The eye's natural defense seems to be to close up as tight as possible and water like crazy so I had a heck of a time trying to get the Contact O' Fire out of my poor, red, squinty, watery eye. I finally managed to peel it out and rinsed out my eye with water and real saline solution as much as possible. I was supposed to go to class in half an hour but decided to skip it until my eye forgave me. I read the package of the solution- yep, just as I figured, for cleaning the lens, not rinsing. Ouch. Well, I learned my lesson about that one I guess- always double check medical stuff, especially in another language. Don't assume because it is in the same packaging and shape that it is the same stuff.

Yesterday I went back and had a follow up that was even more fun. It took about two and a half hours- they rechecked my prescription did some funny things with depth perception and stuff, though no bifocals thankfully, dilated my eyes (which I detest) and then the best part of all- he stuck a clear piece of plastic round and about two inches long directly onto my eyeball to see the insides or something.

I can just picture the scene now....
Doctor approaching patient's eyeball with a long sharp stick....
American Patient (in French): Ahh! What are you doing? Get that long pointy stick away from my eyeball!
Doctor (in French): Don't worry, it is part of the exam. I am going to take this long pointy stick and blah blah blah blah blah.
Patient (in French, panicking): What? I don't understand?!!!
Doctor (in French): There is nothing to be afraid of, it won't hurt a bit unless you blah blah blah blah blah. It is essential that you blah blah blah blah or else I will poke your eye out. Understand?
Patient (in French, hysterical by now): No! I don't understand! All I got was it is essential that I do something otherwise you will poke my eye out!
Doctor (in French, calmly, approaching closer): Yes, very good, now relax.
Patient (in French): Ahhh!! Nooo!!! Aaaaalllllaaaaiiiiinnnnnn!!!!!
(fade to black, curtain lowers)

Well, luckily I still have both eyes, and it was super fun stumbling home on a bright sunny day with my eyes dilated to let in as much light as possible and without my contacts. Miraculously managed to not step in any dog turds or get runover by a motorcycle. Thankfully, did not have to negociate the Metro. Apparently, I have to go back all of September, twice a week, to get my eyes Re-educated. I don't want my eyes to be re-educated. Granted, they didn't learn well the first time, but still. I don't look at myself every morning and think "Eyes, I have decided I am going to send you back for some higher education."

So, it's over. All in all, it ended better than everyone orginally hoped (say, a month ago), but not as well as they were wishing for in the past two weeks.
Alain and I watched the games here at home. It would have been nice to go to a stadium or outdoor showing of the match for the experience, but I was afraid it would turn violent afterwards, whatever the outcome. Why are these people breaking shop windows just to break shop windows?
The streets were quite empty last night. It was funny because most people had their windows open for air, and everytime one team scored you would hear collective screams or boos from the other buildings. Screams, yells, boos, singing, all that I can handle but the Help!-I'm-being-ax-murdered shriek from our downstairs neighbor started to wear thin on my nerves.
After the previous matches where France won, it was noisy here for at least a half an hour- horns honking, people yelling, firecrackers going off.
There was a funny commercial on the past couple of weeks. It starts out by showing an English supporter singing "allez les bleus", then two Swiss "ahhhh-lay lay blooooz" then finally a Spanard singing "allez les bleus" and crying. It turns out they are all hitch-hikers who needed a ride to Germany and a French person is driving the car. (so they have to sing "Allez les bleus" before they are allowed to ride in the car.)
Speaking of blues, why was Italy, a country normally know for it's Green, White, and Red flag wearing a blue uniform? I just don't get it. So you have the French fans dressed in blue and the Italian fans wearing blue. Oh well.
Next World Cup, I am counting on USA-France!
(photo courtesy of Fox Sports)