Crepes, Christmas & Raclette

Oh, winter is here. Strangely, I don't feel as cold as the past years (perhaps its because we have upgraded our heaters) but l'hiver est la. This weekend was winter style eating weekend. We had, raclette for dinner yesterday and this evening we had crepes. Both a typical cold season food to normally enjoy amongst friends and family. Raclette is basically melted cheese eaten usually with boiled potatoes and some charcuteries (cooked, dried or smoked meats, usually thinly sliced). Although, usually it is only the special kinds of raclette cheeses that are used to be melted on a raclette machine. Basically, a device with about 6 individual heating plates placed at the centre of the table for the cheese melting. While you peel the skin off your boiled potatoes, the cheeses (which comes in a variety of flavours) are placed under the heating device. When it has melted, and just a little gratinee at the top but not burnt, you would scrape the lovely delect of yellow goo with a wooden scraper or bread (so as to not hurt the non-stick lining) and pour it on your potatoes. Mmm...at just the thought of that! The trick is to NOT drink any liquid when you are devouring these delicious mouthfuls as it may cause some stomach upset. But because they tend to be on the salty side, and too much salt equals thirst, you tend to take your chance and gallop down your drinks anyhow.

Mami Mimi's crepes this evening was just awesome (she's my mom-in-law, Grandma Mimi as how I like to refer her as). Mami Mimi, according to her son, can't really cook, as in, she's not much of a cook, but she ace at making crepes! Now, we all know what crepes are... pancakes! But not pancakes as we know it eaten by the Americans. The real French crepes are delicate, thin and light. And are wonderful eaten sucree (sweet) or sale (salty). Tonight we had it with cheese, mushroom and bechamel sauce, ingredients that were layed out on the table for the fun assembling process. For the sweet-toothed, and normaly left to the final few crepes to be eaten at the end after the savoury fillings, there were rhubarb-strawberry jam, fleur d'orangier (orange flower) honey and sugar.

We went to Botanic in the afternoon, about the only shop that is occasionally open on Sundays in France. Botanic is a popular chain store that is a jardenirie and animalerie. Basically, they are a shop that sells botanicals and pet animals. My husband LOVES this shop. It used to be his desired outing in weekends (less these days because of his increasing load of work). We have not been for ages but decided to go for our son's sake because their Chrismas decorations are out for sale. (My husband did not find the Xmas decos for sale at Ikea very impressive, in contrary to me who likes the modern and new, as opposed to him, liking the unique and artisanal). Christmas is after all, a month around the corner so it's time to bring out the sapin (Chrismas tree) and start hanging up those blinking Xmas lights and decos. Being brought up by parents who regard celebrating this or even mere acknowleging Christmas as blasphemous, I am of course, a little on the slow side to warm up to the idea of Christmas. After all, the French don't give a hoot about the religious association of this fete and merely celebrate it for celebration sake, as remnants of their religious days.

Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer, la la la la la la laaa....

The countdown begins!

Queueing in France

Firstly, let me tell you that I have decided to do away with the fancy attempt to be complicated and write in the third party!! It's more fun to write freely without all the folly! So, here we go...


Yesterday, I got excited with my darling's kind offer to drive me to Ikea (no, he doesn't like to go anywhere except sit and work in front of his laptop; and yes, I can't drive myself these days as I am unable to squeeze in between the driver's seat and steering wheel). Getting excited over a scandinavic furniture shop, you ask? I wander that myself sometimes! But shopping in a place where the prices don't strangle you at first glance and being in a familiar globalised environment eases my French claustrophobia just a little ;)! For the past couple of years, we had to settle on driving an hour to Lyon for its nearest outlet and stuff all our purchased loads in our little car. So, naturally, I am thrilled at having one finally opening in Grenoble itself!


Obviously, Saturday is not the best day to go to a popular shop, with all the weekend crownd heading towards the same direction. But we managed to find a parking spot nonetheless after a couple of rounds. The only thing I was worried about (as this 'outing' is one of those rare occasions that I get to do these days as a form of relaxation. Yes, you got it. Shopping equals relaxing for me!) was the masala-ed mackarels my hubby had pre-programmed in the oven to finish cooking at 12.00 noon... And what time is it at that point of arrival when I glanced at my watch? 11am! Shock, horror! Is my hubby crazy or what, to first, setting a limit to my shopping interlude, and secondly, to allow just a mere hour to do the Ikea tour in the 2nd largest Ikea in France, browse through products at my usual leisurely pace dreaming of our future living room and kitchen, QUEUE and drive the 20 mins, back home! By the way, just to add, my hubby turns to a monster if he doesn't feed his stomach at a specific time every meal time.


Oh well, too bad, because I wasn definitely not going to let a deadline to interrupt my pleasure! So, there I went, taking my sweet time to please my eyes and savour the clever ideas, while my hubby briskly walked forward as though there was a walk marathon record to break! As we reached the end of the shop, our greatest nightmare await us... the infamous French queue. Every counter had at least 10 agitated people waiting in line. Time is ticking, my hubby is getting nervous, as his planned timing will not be met with after all... So, he sweetly calls me, "Darling, I need you...". "Yes, love, I'm coming..." He points me out the many lanes with logos of a handicapped person and a pregnant woman. 'Femme Enceinte' (pregnant woman, yes, that is what I am). "Go in front," he tells me. "What? Pass everyone?!", I squirmed. Hmm. So, there I went zig zagging passed trolleys and looks of annoyance, fury and outrage. One lady gave me a bitchy look and even attempted to block my pathway to prevent me from passing her! My hubby explained that his wife is pregnant. She replied that she notices but gave an I couldn't-care-less-look. I got through anyway and reached the cashier. "Je peux passer?" (Can I pass?"), I asked the young chap, while pointing at my round tummy. He allowed me to, with an obvious nod, as expected, and stopped his cashing out for the lady I was about to piss off! She, at first, was confused and did not know what was going on, until she saw the obvious. She rolled her eyes and started mumbling in uncomprehensable French. I asked my hubby to follow suit and began myself to vocal MY annoyance, naturally in my preferred language, English.

I looked up at the signboard above me and said cooly, "If THEY don't like it, then why do they have such a privilige?...," talking to my husband, of course. APPARENTLY, this wondrous woman, enthusiastically responded, IN ENGLISH. "It is not because we are French! You have an option and you insisted and we let you passed," she uttered as-a-matter-of-fact-of. Bitch! What she REALLY meant to say was that, there was a choice for me NOT to insist as there is really nothing 'wrong' with me, or rather, I wasn't exactly in a state of desperation that REQUIRED an urgency to exit quickly. And what she really REALLY wanted to say was that I did not exactly look fatigued by my pregnancy and nor was I going to labour, so why did I need to annoy everyone in line and inisists on my so called prviliged priority? Super bitch! My hubby then gave HIS piece of mind, "Heck, I don't even understand my own people!" clearly stupefied by the individualistic behaviour of his fellow countrymen... I then looked at the selfish French ass of a woman to address her directly what I was about to say and said, "In MY country we don't even have such a thing. So, no one complaints and you just suffer (meaning people like me)." That's true, correct me if I'm wrong but back home in Malaysia, there are no, or at least not many, public priviliges like this, especially for the expectant but I'm pretty sure that people would let or even OFFER a queueing pregnant lady through, WITHOUT the need of a directive. That's just the way we are. That's just our culture, to sympathise and to help. Not in France, my dear!

So, back to the incident. She apparently stopped there. I guess she realised that she better not fight with a PREGNANT ASIAN lady (ie for fear of mendling with issues of racism AND bullying the 'weak'!).

After we post-mortemed the incident, on our way back home, it finally hit me why they were doubly pissed off! Not that I am defending them here... But perhaps, and maybe perhaps, IF I had politely asked each and everyone whether I could pass them (rather than barging through), then maybe just maybe, their reaction would have been less hostile? Nah... The French are just damned selfish people! Unless you are about to die or in my case, my water broke PLUS severe labour contractions began, and I was rolling on the floor, maybe they might let me beat the queue! Oh, but don't count on a smile to come with that!

Mr. & Mrs. T then reached home, ate their delicious baked masala mackerels and happily lived ever after.

Bash-free day

Ok, today they won't be any French bashing! Today has been a rather good day. Why? Rescue arrived! Two 73 year olds arrived from Chateauroux to stand by for the D Day. Bless their souls... They have just arrived from a 10-day vacay on the apparently beautiful Ile de la Reunion, a Golden wedding anniversary gift from their only child, and 2 days later they drove 6 hours to be here. Nowhere can you find parents-in-law so lovely, so kind, so sincere, so simple-hearted. But Sha has not reciprocated as much as she should. And we all know why... Oh but today, is a positive day! So, no complaints!



They brought back plenty of gifts, and most of them were for their only daughter-in-law! A bunchful of artisinal goods, a bunchful of fresh local produce. Now what should she buy them this Christmas?...



The French Reunion Island, as we call it in English is located in the Indian Ocean, nearby Madagascar and Mauritius. And as it's neighbouring islands, La Reunion has Asiatic influences through its olden days' immigrants. Spices added to dishes, like their 'Carry', which is in effect curry, their 'masale', which is masala as we know it and'achar', same thing. It's a sub-tropical island which means it is the ideal temperature! Not too hot and never cold.

One fine day, a sure destination!

Her Big Belly

As she sits on her lazy chair, fully inclined, tummy protuding, less than a month to go before the Big Day arrives... Eight months pregnant with her second son. She looks through the big glass doors, over the balcony, a breathtaking view of the viridian green river Isere. Yellow orange tones of the soon falling leaves of trees edging the riviere reflects on the calm water. She ponders about what will be, what has been and what is.

She's not going to fill her first input with telling thoughts of how she finds certain behaviours, reactions and non-reactions appallingly culture clashing. After all, she is a Malaysian Malay coming from a strangely semi-conservative family. Breaking away from a three decade bubble was a daring move, but the challenge was entering into another extreme. The French extreme. So, what's wrong with them? Nothing. They are what they are. They do what they have always been doing. So, what is she not happy with when everyone else in the world worships them? We will soon discover in the following days, the following blog pages...

In the meantime, today is about combatting stress. She seeks the calm, the quiet, the serenity. Having a 14 month old son screaming in her ears throughout the day does not help in her quest for peace. Being heavy and fatigued by the extra weight does not make it any better. Living in a country that she uncommonly regards as being "hostile" makes it even worst. How can the word hostile be used to describe a people, a country that everyone seems to envy? Well, this IS how she feels. Unwelcomed. Could it be that it is because she came from a former English colony? Could it be because she does not have the command of the only language used in this country (French)? Could it be because she is stubborn by nature? Could it be because she herself has lost her strong cultural roots? Could it be because she is afraid? Could it be because she has only known France in a pregnancy-induced hormonally imbalanced state?

As the mental battle between love and hate consumes her, time continues to tick and every minute of struggle is sadly lost to oblivion instead of savouring the positive many.

Her big belly continues to grow. Her confidence diminishing. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.