The Fine Art of the Adventure

30 septembre 2011

It’s almost incomprehensible to me that I’ve been here 6 (SIX!) weeks!  Holy crap has the time flown by!  It seems like just yesterday I was walking down the street while some girl was pooping on a tree, but that was already two weeks ago!  Today, to celebrate the end of September and the ballin’ (that’s awesome to you old fogies reading this) apples that are available at the open air market, I made an apple pie.  Okay, sometimes I get strange fixations and I find myself obsessing over.  (Case in point my current obsession to go to Morocco, which could end up with a) my death or b) an awesome weekend vacation.)  This week I decided I was going to make a pie, and I kept thinking about it, and decided that, since Friday is market day (so is Tuesday), and I have no classes, that Friday was going to be pie making day.  I looked all over the internet and read more pie recipes than I did reading for class.  Finally I gave up and called Nanny.  I figured if anyone could make pie making simple, she could.  Well, 5 calls later, I had a recipe.  Why five calls?  Well she assumed I was brighter than I actually am.  Common mistake.  While explaining how to make a crust, she said mix 1 cup of Crisco with 3 cups of flour.  I wrote it down just like that got the rest of the recipe.  As I was rereading the recipe later I couldn’t figure out how Crisco and flour made crust, so I called her back to see what held it all together.  “Well water, you fool.”  HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT!?  “I figured you were smart enough to put water in as well.”  Yeah, just call me the telepathic Emeril Legasse.  BAM!

Then I realized that Crisco was going to be a challenge to find in Paris.  I looked up French alternatives online and found some nasty looking stuff that made my host mother roll her eyes in disgust.  Well that was the end of that.  So, on the 90 degree day, I marched my fat ass over the American grocery store, about 40 minutes away.  By the end of the walk I was about dead, but I knew there was a pie at the end of this rainbow, so I kept on trucking.  6.5 Euros later (that’s $8.10), I had a little tub of Crisco and I was marching home.  I smartened up this time and took the metro, which may as well be the Parisian word for sauna.  

It wasn’t until I got home and was thoroughly drenched with sweat that I realized I was supposed to go to an art gallery opening about 2 minutes from the American grocery at the same time I was buying Crisco, but that’s another story.  A Sydney story, no less!

Fast forward about 15 hours and today, after a trip to the market for apples, and lots of other really good things, I set out to apple pie making.  I never considered that I’ve never made an apple pie in my life.  I’ve eaten plenty of apple pies, I’ve cut apples, I’ve put them in the sugar and cinnamon mixture before, but I’ve never done the entire thing.  (Sort of like when I told my host mother I could open an oyster - true statement.  I’m not great at it, and I prefer somebody in a black jacket, white shirt, tie and apron to do it for me, but I can manage.  Well that backfired when she came home with 39 oysters for me to open for appetizers one night.  You may start calling me “garçon” at the next cocktail party)  Back to apple pie: I sat down with my recette (French for recipe) and started making my very first pie crust - results, not too shabby, I have to say.  My host mother started peeling the apples, thank God, and I went to work sugaring and cinnamoning, something I can do like a pro.  Then I put it all together, marked it with a B, and put it in the oven for Baby and me.  Oh no, that’s something different, sorry.  Anyway, into the oven it went.

I waited, made us lunch, and after a while, when I decided it was done (I never asked how long I was supposed to cook the damned thing), I took it out.  Of course, I broke a chunk off the edge, but still I’m pretty proud.  We’ll see if it tastes decent tonight, or if it’s all a farce and tastes like all American crap.

In other topics, school is great, my life in Paris is awesome, and I’m loving it here.  I love the adventures I’m having (see earlier post beginning with ‘I’ve always thought weird shit happens to me’).  Last week, some of you may have noticed my facebook status about going on a whorehouse adventure.  Well, my host mother pointed out an article in the newspaper about some more famous whorehouses in Paris, including one with a completely red, ceramic façade.  Well, the thought of a red ceramic whorehouse seemed too good to ignore, so off I went, knowing that it has been closed since 1945, and whore houses are illegal in Paris.  I found the area, found the street, and finally found the building.  In typical Parisian style, I completely ignored everyone I passed and didn’t make eye contact.  Instead my eyes were fixated on the red ceramic beacon.  I arrived, turned, and faced this beacon of beauty, and took it all in for a minute.  Well, about as I was taking out my camera for a photo or seven, I realized I wasn’t alone.  My EWP (Extra-Whorish-Perception, a distant cousin of ESP) kicked in.  Oh no, I was being watched by at least 8 ladies of ill repute, and a handful were walking toward me, boobs out as though they were fish, served on a platter.  Stop for a minute and let that image sink in.

………………………

>>>>>>>>sunk in yet?<<<<<<<<<

Okay, let’s continue.  So, not being one for 60 year old boobs that are largely uncovered, or 60 year old stomachs that can hardly be covered, I booked it out of that street, hoping that I would reach reality at some point.  Reality was located, so I wandered a bit, thinking a lot about what I’d seen.  I decided I should go back to look at the “maison closée” once again, because I hardly got a glimpse of it head on.  I found the street again, looked down, and I can’t even think of a good way to describe it, but there were more hookers an whores than I’d ever seen in my life.  I mean WOW.  About six saw me looking down, rearranged the goods, gave me toothy (or toothless) smile of seduction, while a couple put ‘er in first and started waddling my way.  That was all it took for me to book it again.  So, my adventure to the whore house (again, closed since 1945) ended up proving one fact: Whorehouses may be illegal, but whores are definitely not.  

On a similar, but slightly more contemporary subject, I’d like to take a minute to talk about bras.  I’ll be honest and say that I don’t know much about bras and their lifting and separating qualities.  I know when somebody isn’t wearing a bra, and I know when somebody is relying on a bra to make up for a lack of boobs, but in general I plead the fifth on the topic of over the shoulder boulder holders.  One thing I thought was relatively simple fact was they are undergarments.  Isn’t the goal of a bra to not have it visible through a shirt?  Well, one thing I’ve noticed in my morning gawkings on the metro is that many females wear bras that are completely visible through their shirts.  At first I wasn’t sure what to think about this, so I took a few days to contemplate and observe.  (After all, much observation leads to more accurate conclusions.)  Well after a few days of research, and many visible bras, and a few nonexistent ones, I made my conclusion.  My grandfather used to say “It’s better to let people think you’re a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”  Well here’s my version, aimed at French females.  “It’s better to let people think that your boobs are naturally that perky and nice than to wear a black bra with cheetah spots under a white shirt and force us to realize that in reality they sag like a mofo.  

And with that je vous laisse partir.  Hopefully that image sinks in.  I’m going to go gawk at my pie a bit more.  

Peace, love and rock and roll,

Willie


PS -  I think the flickr is totally updated.  Not everything is labelled, and there are no plans to label everything, but c'est la vie.  


http://www.flickr.com/photos/dwg3