tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59332291420578456292024-03-19T10:26:43.551+01:00Encounters of the French KindThe French people are a unique kind, oh how I discovered! Either you love them or you hate them! Blissfully married to one and living in tranquility in Bel Air, Saint Maur, at the very heart of France. This blog expresses my experience, telling thoughts and my own shortcoming. A smooth start to a bumpy ride!Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-75672629865879175962010-02-16T01:10:00.007+01:002010-03-02T15:17:00.895+01:00Conquering new terriories... again!A bout of gale hit my area a couple of days ago. Although 40 or so lives were taken in France as a direct cause of the 150 kmph gusty winds. No casualties in Saint Maur and around, thank goodness. Just a few broken branches (large branches of our very mature pine trees) and a couple of displaced roof tiles! <br /><br />I'm now more motivated to type! So, here goes. During my now regular hiatus from blogging, ideas came pouring in my head about what to blog about. Due to my very short-term memory, I am slapping myself now for not jotting them down. But alas, fear not, I have purchased a beautiful handy notebook to never again miss those impromptu moments when subject matters seem to spring into life.<br /><br />What have I been doing since? I have been eBaying. I have been Amazon-ing. And most of all, I have been reading blogs about another country! We may indeed be making a move into a land far far away...<br /><br />Where do I start? An inter-web of reasons have brought us here to this beautiful quiet life. But that has always been the underlying predicament, it is quiet, for all its intent and purpose. Too quiet for our young minds. If I could take a little bit of Paris, a little bit of KL and a little bit of LA, arrange it around our current home, and then throw in some English and sprinkle it with more warm sunny days, life would be bliss here. But that's just isn't so and an interweb of reasons is slowly ejecting us away from here.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh52oDSkF6KB3MyyVOKjbUpPC_46BuI1XTs0SrccQBUXgjRJt0TUy-rRMRB8pJSVP2krISraH39eZY_5q4TlACgKWlJd1329Vo43YBIxo61tBJQq_a9rXyzjbGUnROBJadKABxNM20fiO0/s1600-h/AlBustanPalaceMuscatExterior_3790.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh52oDSkF6KB3MyyVOKjbUpPC_46BuI1XTs0SrccQBUXgjRJt0TUy-rRMRB8pJSVP2krISraH39eZY_5q4TlACgKWlJd1329Vo43YBIxo61tBJQq_a9rXyzjbGUnROBJadKABxNM20fiO0/s320/AlBustanPalaceMuscatExterior_3790.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443975444337650258" /></a><br /><br />About 2 months ago, my husband got struck with reality and concluded that the business is just ain't progressing at the speed he had hope it would, and went on a cyber-spree of job application across the globe. Since then, 3 looked very promising, out of which, one, from Abu Dhabi, gave a solid proposition. At the other end of the orient, namely Ho Chi Minh City was to be the jackpot should he be accepted. It is the first time he has ever put himself in the market and actually realise his market value (He has always insisted that his earnings is in the top 10% in France, even though I strongly feel that he is underpaid for his skills!)Hubby being the special man he is (oh, I love him enormously!), doesn't fancy these 2 and became strongly attracted to one being offered by a nobody, from a nobody firm, in what we thought to be a nobody country with a far from reasonable salary package. The country in question is Oman, and ever since this opportunity arised, we have been frantically researching literally everything about the place and its people. We were surprised and then the one week trip re-affirmed our amazement. It's nothing like the New York style cities of its neighbours. It is booming but town-planning are strongly controlled, resulting in beautiful structures respectful to the feel of the region - no building taller than 7-storeys, no v-shaped roof and colours, in harmony of the earth. Many aspects of its lifestyle conjures up life as I knew it back in KL. Fancy cars, fancy restaurants and fancy cafes. Ice-blended coffees aplenty! Which comes to the topic of weather. Right now it's about the end of their 'winter' season, which basically means that the daytime heat is bearable (we're still talking 30 degrees Celcius on average, less the humidity). The grind comes during their 'summer' (April - October) where temperatures soar ridiculously high (can be over 50 degrees!) and no one lingers around outside unncessarily. Goodbye to our habitual al-fresco lifestyle come the warm season in France... And back to living fully air-conditioned EVERYWHERE indoors, where stale air and germs go whoopeedoo. On the bright side, Muscat is by the sea, and we all know what sight and sound of gentle waves batting against sandy beaches does to our senses... Me like. Not only does proximity to the sea makes it alluring, two other aspects top my 'pro' list - they speak English over there and we will be able to afford a full-time maid!<br /><br />Nevertheless, an unexpected feeling of sadness at the thought of leaving France and its many advantageous facets is quiet beguiling, if not strange. These years of abhorrence of anything French (that DOES sounds a bit harsh!) has finally reached its terminus. Patience and better understanding of La France and the very engine that drives her, has drawn me to appreciate it. <br /><br />France, my darling, you win, hands down, I have been seduced by you. I'm now terribly heavyhearted to eventually have to bid you <em>Adieu</em>.<br /><br />Although France will soon be miles away, encountering strange Frenchified phenomenons, I am certain, will STILL befall unto me! The recording shall thus continue!<br /><br />A plus!Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-3102385645567030842010-01-08T10:30:00.006+01:002010-01-08T12:03:27.677+01:00The Cold Freezes EverythingI ought to blog more often as I have so many things to share - about living in France, about being yet another Malaysian, but mostly being ME, infusing in a foreign culture and lifestyle. But the winter winds of the Indre Valley is numbing me to a halt. I feel like I'm semi-frozen, even in a panoply of woolies. The cold doesn't agree with me. I am tropical through and through.<br /><br />It has been over 3 months since I last made my measly effort to record my thoughts in cyberspace and I'm not too proud of my non-enthusiasism. I'm lazy and I lack motivation. Has this new life of sleepless nights (kids) and endless physical labour (expensive domestic help) and the feeling of entrapment (practically zero social life) taken a toll on me? Maybe.<br /><br />Almost all Malaysians with French partners (or other non-English speaking natives for that matter) who moved to their partners' country go through a "difficult" period at the beginning. Most, are smart enough to take the initiative to learn French immediately. As oppose to me. I have learnt from my time that this is absolutely CRUCIAL and the root to happiness when we arrive into France. It's the key to total immersion into their world. Without this proficiency in their language, you will not be able to enter into their society in contentment.<br /><br />This is what I lack and although it's never too late to learn, once children comes into the picture, your mobility becomes very much limited. So, for those who stumbled upon my blog, who are in fact 'newbies' to this Land of Frogs, hungry for the littlest of insight into this unique world of the French - my first advise to you is <strong>GO LEARN FRENCH PROPERLY!</strong> :) There is no way around this. It's now or never. Once you are equipped with this, I tell you, half of the battle is won.<br /><br />Back to the freeze. Oh yes indeed, it is COLD. Brrrr... I was mortified the other day when I saw an outside reading of -9C on our thermometer. These days, I dread at the thought of going out of the house. Sending and picking up my kids, included. I just want to stay indoors, snuggle up in a warm cover with my 2 hands clinching tightly on a hot cup of cocoa. The reality is that daily chores await and I don't have the luxury to do all that was mentioned. I hate putting piles of clothes on. It's weighty and restrict my movement. But I have no choice, if I wish to stay defrosted. Our house is maintained at 18C for 2 reasons. One, gas and electricity is expensive here (we have a huge space to heat), and two, my husband insists that this temperature is the healtiest to be in. (My parents used to turn the heat on to the max, probably more than 25C, in winter, when we used to live in Europe - I was always sleeveless and in shorts). 18C - me no like. Me from hot country! What do I do? I put on my warmest pants, throw on 3 layers of itchy woolen tops, put on my Merino wool-lined Emu boots on (yes, that Ugg boots competitor) and hey why not a hat too, since I'm about to climb the cold Hilamalayas. Err... no, you are still inside your house, dear. And off goes the abominable snowman, I mean snow woman, to do her mundane wifey, motherly, tasks... clean, clean, scrub, scrub, wash, wash, wash, store, store, chop, chop.. and round again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTwhc_emP_BD6-EBm9Fdj2upCDoBvPQ1ElQI84-3QLBZDJZ0A88gOIC9BCyaQCURxbMcWjP8HPoR7GfTRhY94p25HXAs_I-gGu3qeISaoEgQzdmTK_QvSilD8BI1g9exreJq_0ecOhpg/s1600-h/IMGP2117.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTwhc_emP_BD6-EBm9Fdj2upCDoBvPQ1ElQI84-3QLBZDJZ0A88gOIC9BCyaQCURxbMcWjP8HPoR7GfTRhY94p25HXAs_I-gGu3qeISaoEgQzdmTK_QvSilD8BI1g9exreJq_0ecOhpg/s320/IMGP2117.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424318909637475778" /></a><br /><br />Aaah.. at the end of the day... What's nicer than to de-stress in front of the fire place, prepared with love by hubby dearest... oh, wonderful flame, may you crackle and pop till my winter blues are burnt away..Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-7234127498376164282009-09-30T15:33:00.009+02:002009-09-30T15:59:29.741+02:00Neighbours Who Love To Give<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5H5POuqt_qzGfeYTyVjd5AsUxCAUtV5BCOk2kGQUCT_BnCfQrqSoh3GfstQ0KeSvXXHIWH9bnDw-DwcDO30C1VRNLppF7B2jhT2hH9weQ-WAgVmtqrThyW72ZCk5ZpF9AAGPFx-lTr8/s1600-h/IMGP2004.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5H5POuqt_qzGfeYTyVjd5AsUxCAUtV5BCOk2kGQUCT_BnCfQrqSoh3GfstQ0KeSvXXHIWH9bnDw-DwcDO30C1VRNLppF7B2jhT2hH9weQ-WAgVmtqrThyW72ZCk5ZpF9AAGPFx-lTr8/s320/IMGP2004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387259655067809954" /></a><br /><br />My house was apparently once a stable and a part of a bigger farm. The other buildings of this "farm" have long been divided into smaller lots, and the proprietors of these, make up my neighbours. We have since gotten to know around half of our neighbours, who are generally septuagenarian and my favourite one, our pal, Pierre, an octogenarian. He and his wife, Solange are just wonderful neighbours who like to give us things - mostly produce from their 3,500 metre squared garden chum orchard. They have been sending us basketful of tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, mirabelles, flowers and so on and so on. The other day, they brought over apples and again, tomatoes! Isn't that nice? Now, if I was still living in concrete Petaling Jaya, I would perhaps be getting less of such kindness from neighbours. That's the beauty of living in the countryside. An abundance of vegetation. A profusion of genorisity.<br /><br />In return of their kindness, I would add ample calories to their diet by baking them a cake or two!Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-54003319950908163402009-09-29T23:52:00.004+02:002009-09-30T00:39:09.699+02:00DIY or Bricolage in France<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Wx6sbEAS485ODGIVE6tURAcHEXnblClWBd_kTjj2WGhdZDtmvnkEopQE6zpxmnYMqHUsaFNtNMBr4PK1l0c5SVRJrSLWWCNwCRyOvSfW1cPwxcZI4GpoSgZzfP4-VphSLTiAN1komkQ/s1600-h/IMGP1924.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Wx6sbEAS485ODGIVE6tURAcHEXnblClWBd_kTjj2WGhdZDtmvnkEopQE6zpxmnYMqHUsaFNtNMBr4PK1l0c5SVRJrSLWWCNwCRyOvSfW1cPwxcZI4GpoSgZzfP4-VphSLTiAN1komkQ/s320/IMGP1924.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387011730999381762" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BaiBnMvJHYRPGoPEcGa-QoUWOaqrWcgbbMecE9p6DWpvs7YGoLsjeEQsZ0q8nLvcl912_CdajVZ80edx4n1GH-Orf0ZE_sDJVIDZWZdKFVCZ00WoHTd2xWyxTUJkjPYd-ZSx9uAlU-8/s1600-h/IMGP1920.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BaiBnMvJHYRPGoPEcGa-QoUWOaqrWcgbbMecE9p6DWpvs7YGoLsjeEQsZ0q8nLvcl912_CdajVZ80edx4n1GH-Orf0ZE_sDJVIDZWZdKFVCZ00WoHTd2xWyxTUJkjPYd-ZSx9uAlU-8/s320/IMGP1920.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387011720453603490" /></a><br />Service is expensive in France. Gone were the days when I used to call the family handyman to fix things in the house. Gone were the days when I would pay an affordable amount (even with my then measly salary), to paint, to assemble Ikea furniture, to get some minor plumbing or electricity job done. Over here, <em>you</em> 'get down' to it yourself!<br /><br />When I was back home in Malaysia, I <em>never</em> did any work, except of course the work I have to do to earn money! I never did my own laundry, I didn't need to cook, I didn't need to make up my bed, I didn't need to iron clothes, do the dishes... <em>nada</em>! It helped that I was mostly living at my parents! Wati, our lovely maid, was my PA, butler <em>and</em> confidant! None of that here, mate. Unless you live-in the Elysée Palace or belong to the Rothchild family, no one really has a live in full-time helper. It would just cost too much for the average family, and plus, you would be entagled with strict employment laws left, right and centre! So, I say again, over here, <em>you</em> work your butt off for that job to be done or get things fixed.<br /><br />Since I arrived here, I have done all of the above <em>plus</em>... steam off stubborn wall paper from walls; used a fancy sanding machine to sand numerous things including again, walls, dressed in workman overalls, complete with goggles and mask; layer walls with an umpteenth number of paint coating; assemble numerous Ikea furniture and objects (yes, I did the impossible... ); helped to install clip-on wood flooring, use cement and special tools to fill-up holes and recently, gardening. And I mean getting on all fours to get rid of weeds! This list, I assure you, will not be exhaustive!<br /><br />For the most part though, it is my husband and his brico-savvy dad who does the more complex work, especially those requiring drilling. My father-in-law has paved tiles to the floor for his son at numerous location, he has changed door handles, fixed an old but trency-again toilet flushing system, and many other more difficult work requiring precision. My husband, on the other hand, has sawed-off doors, fixed our new locking system, the alarm system, changed water taps, install/remove big kitchen appliances, fix a malfunctioned washing machine and the list goes on...<br /><br />As you can see above, my FIL, Jean, who is reaching 75, but still fit as a fiddle, is in the midst of fixing our new gutters.<br /><br />This is the reason why DIY shops flourish alongside hypermarkets in France. In my considerably small region there are two giant names in DIY in France - Leroy Merlin and Mr. Bricolage, and I could name many many other shops found here which is related to DIY. Getting someone to do it is just too expensive. That's why the French don't have enormous shopping malls for people to kill time in! There are just so many things that have to be done yourself that will occupy your free time.<br /><br />Laying wood floors and removing wall papers and painting, just for the living room, would have costed us over 6000 euros, excluding any materials needed to be purchased. We saved that amount simply by reading the instructions included and doing it ourselves... and of course broke our backs in its course ;).Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-25270220790945268812009-09-29T23:15:00.004+02:002009-09-29T23:51:02.522+02:00Another Lovely Bouquet From My Son - from the Market<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yHd8g0XAv7f71WLs2Nqk_YsKvXFdgas23F4_Mke9zjCuKcGpQVVdmsCr0Lkbi6EH5H9_SXPiIbrXeO1DibtYMSk8uf5AY2okJWBHI5W9afoAS_SRuB4vBUdepNdplh7NJnaYNccglMM/s1600-h/IMGP1926.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yHd8g0XAv7f71WLs2Nqk_YsKvXFdgas23F4_Mke9zjCuKcGpQVVdmsCr0Lkbi6EH5H9_SXPiIbrXeO1DibtYMSk8uf5AY2okJWBHI5W9afoAS_SRuB4vBUdepNdplh7NJnaYNccglMM/s320/IMGP1926.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387001765710032178" /></a><br />In France, EVERYONE goes to the market (or what some people call Farmers' Market, and what we Malaysians call '<em>pasar tani</em>'). This entry was supposed to simply log my eldest son's weekly weekend gift for me which he choses at the market every Saturday morning with his papa. In fact, I should elaborate a little more about this French habit - taking a caddy or a woven basket to the fresh market whenever it's market day in their area!<br /><br />I dread having to wake up early to go get some fresh local produce at the market which for us is only available on Saturday mornings, 10 km away at Chateauroux centre. When I arrived in France 4 years ago, my husband would drag me to the market when it was 'market day' to buy some fruits and vegetables or even some meat or fish. At that time, I couldn't see the point of walking 20 minutes to reach our destination and then queue for miles to get all these stuff which would be easily available at a supermarket. Worst still, they tend to cost more, <em>and</em> you would have to queue more than once. You would buy kilos of food and would have to walk back with all the weight. Pointless. Or so I thought. Four years later, it all makes sense. Buy local. Buy organic and even better, buy from smaller farmers. It costs a little more but the resulting taste of these produce are worth every penny (oh, sorry, I'm in France, so, <em>centime</em>).<br /><br />I am still not fully converted to market-going rituals, preferring to push the cart and march alley by alley at a hypermarket nearby, and not having to chat about nothings with those you bump into at <em>marché</em>. Although, now, I totally understand why the French gets excited over the trip to the market - old habits die hard, just like mine!Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-43597915685271967072009-09-25T15:00:00.005+02:002009-09-25T15:30:29.187+02:00Maggi Mee, Fresh Figs and Basil<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBFOABaxwnq2lnNUiu2rfjZbIyw90WcMADDbeWQoNpxuDY_StGsvzvTcImKER8Pg3n905gMEePdLTh-BEQlg_uyk9-_LwYXhI4gROiA1495D8GOEjCKCrspxYGQ897Q0vxGaQIWYe50hM/s1600-h/21+Sept+2009+001.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBFOABaxwnq2lnNUiu2rfjZbIyw90WcMADDbeWQoNpxuDY_StGsvzvTcImKER8Pg3n905gMEePdLTh-BEQlg_uyk9-_LwYXhI4gROiA1495D8GOEjCKCrspxYGQ897Q0vxGaQIWYe50hM/s320/21+Sept+2009+001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385392682044859714" /></a><br /><br />I was excited the other day when I stumbled upon packets of Maggi Mee at Auchan, another chain of hypermarket in France, just like Carrefour. I'd like to consider myself as the 'adaptable' woman, y'know, not always hung up over things I grew up with - things like maid service, teh tarik, and of course, the infamous Maggi Mee. We all know that it's not really good for you - after all its fast food. But who can fight the power of desire? And above all quick, light ready-in-2-minutes meal. Once in a while I would get my parents to send me a box of these bright yellow packets of flavoured noodles. And to my surprise, I discovered that you can even get Maggi Mee in Chateauroux, the city with that one Malaysian, yours truly here. I decided to sample one to check whether they taste as mind-boggling hot as the one I get delivered by post from Malaysia.<br /><br />Verdict: it's the same recipe! (too hot for what I was used to before)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-VHe-nLlZPurnTGHSJwQ5zynksuUyNni1P1i3qZWeH8InRThHLhegKXl4nN7UzCZFNGMgBzqn1h_JI3I2cylbhJ7-zU6Xnwp0F1oT2uxKdrsWD1-RL9HU4XeajQOWflvURci2hVxDL10/s1600-h/21+Sept+2009+003.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-VHe-nLlZPurnTGHSJwQ5zynksuUyNni1P1i3qZWeH8InRThHLhegKXl4nN7UzCZFNGMgBzqn1h_JI3I2cylbhJ7-zU6Xnwp0F1oT2uxKdrsWD1-RL9HU4XeajQOWflvURci2hVxDL10/s320/21+Sept+2009+003.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385394061932172434" /></a><br /><br />Before I discovered the practice of eating food during it's season, I never knew figs to be other than the ugly-looking dried version. Fresh figs are funny to eat and marvelous to look at. Last night, we had <em>figue au miel</em> for dessert.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETy91eJmXXaV9ErD2D_C6nCoLoGEYNlMs2h9YM-ykQyFgEMwtPMsZJUJb0pbS0yui3tbjR5kRtD0MMo4t9v6mI4m4OLYUfGTrFk2L5p0imNuhaIBVaTfVnKBC9y2fiTdZe4dmqXemJXs/s1600-h/IMGP1899.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETy91eJmXXaV9ErD2D_C6nCoLoGEYNlMs2h9YM-ykQyFgEMwtPMsZJUJb0pbS0yui3tbjR5kRtD0MMo4t9v6mI4m4OLYUfGTrFk2L5p0imNuhaIBVaTfVnKBC9y2fiTdZe4dmqXemJXs/s320/IMGP1899.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385395209336786418" /></a><br /><br />I love Basil. I love the plant. I love it's taste. And I love pesto. I thought that it deserves an inclusion in my blog entry today as I had purchased a pot to keep indoors this winter (if it survives). That's all.Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-17669313985581053872009-09-23T15:17:00.005+02:002009-09-23T15:21:09.213+02:00Bouquet from my son<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCvUmKsr0n54RiW1B0JCO5IAxJvL4q_XTVejG8ctz2mqDZg2JO-XWwdtWk6iQypOyIDA9ud7lFVvz665AaHcKAzDD_bOh63e4ijB8Ezi8Je-tqSnHNCnwI_QBg-JKTXr5zI6mSK4Do_k/s1600-h/21+Sept+2009+005.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCvUmKsr0n54RiW1B0JCO5IAxJvL4q_XTVejG8ctz2mqDZg2JO-XWwdtWk6iQypOyIDA9ud7lFVvz665AaHcKAzDD_bOh63e4ijB8Ezi8Je-tqSnHNCnwI_QBg-JKTXr5zI6mSK4Do_k/s320/21+Sept+2009+005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384651812498830338" /></a><br />Last Saturday morning, my eldest son, 3 years old, went to the farmer's market in town with his papa. He returned with a a big smile on his face and utter thrill to hand me over this beautiful bouquet of flowers.<br /><br />Merci, mon cherie. T'est mon petit chouchou!Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-48448612996607226612009-09-23T15:00:00.003+02:002009-09-23T15:17:26.187+02:00Hari RayaHari Raya Aidilfitri of 2009 fell last Sunday, the 20th of September. This is the 4th Raya in a row that I am away from my Malaysian family.<br /><br />A typical Raya day in Malaysia would start with the women busy preparing the Raya spread beginning almost right after the last break-fasting session, or else, soon after midnight. Although most of the dry food would have been prepared much earlier - like cookies and long-preserving fruit cakes, the night before Raya, mothers and their daughters would run around the kitchen making sure tomorrow's table layout would be filled with delicious dishes. The morning of Raya itself, the men in the family would head to the nearest mosque to make their Raya prayers, returning home to a family, all dressed up from head to toe with new clothing and shoes. Those days, my mother would even change all the curtains and all the cushion covers with new fabrics. The excitement would continue with the entire family being seated at the dining table to gobble up all those long-awaited festive plates. Although it is just breakfast, we would eat as though it is a full lunch or dinner! Soon after, the more senior of the family would sit themselves on a chair or sofa, awaiting the younger ones to come on their knees to ask for forgiveness for any previous year's wrong-doing directly involving that person! The best bit would be the cash money, in the form of Ang-Pow, which would be handed out to the young children of the family. The day would then continue with visits from friends, relatives and even neighbours of various background and religion where the food would continuely be served, with upbeat festive music blasting in the background!<br /><br />Hari Raya for me in France for the last 4 years have just been ordinary days. One day when I have the courage and better kitchen skills, I will brave myself to prepare edible Raya dishes to my French family and friends.Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-48542695098513968772009-09-23T13:24:00.006+02:002009-09-23T15:00:45.059+02:00May My Tok Rest In Peace...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZkT7FgZZHl1Wm4R4BEjpmhuM29hxUYOMj1E2MXm4cH1e4Fcfag7Tx4eDS53Q7newQURuYBPMlgVlj1kKl1HhIQ0bVJDLj6KBDJnHvozb90tYvDbda6OVNQqzd5FNSSy8JbrBOu3fxKk/s1600-h/Perak+Trip+2007+032.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZkT7FgZZHl1Wm4R4BEjpmhuM29hxUYOMj1E2MXm4cH1e4Fcfag7Tx4eDS53Q7newQURuYBPMlgVlj1kKl1HhIQ0bVJDLj6KBDJnHvozb90tYvDbda6OVNQqzd5FNSSy8JbrBOu3fxKk/s320/Perak+Trip+2007+032.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384644616844617538" /></a><br />My grandpa, Tok, was born on the 17th of May, they year 1921. I didn't even know that he was also a Taurus, born on the same month as me - until I was told of his birth date on the day he died. There were a lot of things that I didn't know, and still don't know about my Tok. Fond memories of him still floats lovingly within my thoughts and the best quality about him remains - he was a gentle, kind man who spoke English very well. I didn't remember my childhood with grandparents who smothered over me. I didn't remember a grandpa who would take me fishing or play kite. I do remember a grandpa who was soft spoken, and spoke caringly about how to lead one's life. There were many laughs, but as it was such a long time ago, the subject-matters are blurry. I do remember being extremely sad when it was time to return home from our many visits to my kampung, Kuala Kangsar.<br /><br />Tok lead a simple but complicated life. He had always been overshadowed by my late grandma who came from an aristocratic background. They married the usual way, by arrangement by both families. He had worked as a health officer for the district and this was reflected obviously by his image - he always wore clean, crisply ironed short-sleeved clear-coloured chemises and grey pantalons, his black hair with not a trace of grey, would be neatly sleeked back with Brylcreem, his secret to healthy hair.<br /><br />His simplicity took a complex turn when he reached his senior age. He married a relative, years younger than him, which was obviously arranged by the more senior members of the family. A daughter resulted in this union, my half-aunty, whom I have never met till this day. This polygamous marriage had strong objections by his first family. But no one dared to ask him, what REALLY jolted him to make such a drastic decision - disappointing and above all hurting his first wife, my grandmother? My grandma had always called him "heart" (pronounced "haad"). But unfortunately, we assume, that was the extend of their loving expression of each other. Poor communication, lack of expressiveness, and limitive culture and religion prevented a healthy, thriving marital relationship.<br /><br />That was the fate of my grandparents. Silence almost killed everything.<br /><br />I loved my grandpa and grandma. But until now, I wish I had a more re-active grandparents.<br /><br />The last time I saw them was in 2007.<br /><br />May they rest in peace.<br /><br />Below is where they used to live and the recurrent house in most of my dreams.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbEGRPDLYxX8UY7ql43aVnWoV74tG_316l0emNWIePS5hbSerOE3sp_g3dAzA8TZL85UoJQPJaN2XFDnfklz8KZPbQi0cYDhLnczkctf_flAE7oNzvwq5JBqLqDrXq2H47BWWPvqGlvU/s1600-h/JeanTherin+Photos+Card+I+101.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbEGRPDLYxX8UY7ql43aVnWoV74tG_316l0emNWIePS5hbSerOE3sp_g3dAzA8TZL85UoJQPJaN2XFDnfklz8KZPbQi0cYDhLnczkctf_flAE7oNzvwq5JBqLqDrXq2H47BWWPvqGlvU/s320/JeanTherin+Photos+Card+I+101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384646696766456674" /></a>Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-11053421180568240252009-09-15T15:47:00.002+02:002009-09-15T16:06:18.825+02:00The Right Kind of AwkwardI don't know what to title my post today, so I decided to use my favourite phrase of the day which I heard from Lily Allen in the car, while driving to Carrefour after dropping of the kids at their schools.<br /><br />The Chilli Con Carne of last night was surprisingly delicious but unfortunately it was a total failure with the kids (sigh). It went straight into the tupperware last night and into the fridge. That will make our dinner for tonight. I am back to square one. Still bewildered about what to cook for the kids (sigh again).<br /><br />On a happier note, my cousin's daughter (what would she be? My second niece?) who is married to a Norwegian and lives in Oslo, emailed me good news by telling me that they may have found my long lost Norwegian friend, Monica Ehly Lovald. There is a street address and a phone number which I will try and call when I have some clear time.<br /><br />Monica was my best friend when we were in secondary school in Brussels. The quirky and the shy, that was us, I guess. Although we were friends for a number of years until I lost touch with her when our families moved away from Belgium, I never knew much about her family, except that she had a younger brother named Lars and a mother who was Canadian. When I googled her recently, to my surprise, I discovered that her father was an important person. He was an Ambassador to the UN and a Special Envoy for Financing for Development for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Wow. Well, I hope that it was her father, because when I image-googled him, he resembled so much my friend.<br /><br />I was quite a glutton today for lunch. Perhaps because I was alone, which means no-holds-barred! I had a crispy Tandoori Chicken sandwich, a couple of Financier and a Choux Chantilly! Just for the record ;) ...Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-87508050862408967092009-09-14T12:15:00.005+02:002009-09-15T07:50:13.048+02:00Tonight I Make Chilli Con Carne for the KidsToday I am in a total state of blur-ness... the issue today is what to feed the kids for dinner. As Rayan, now 3 and Adam, nearly 2, reach the age of choosy-ness, I am becoming more and more challenged with their wants and don't-wants. Feeding them for dinner has never been an issue, until recently. Before, it was all about, getting whatever vegetables available in the fridge and steaming and blending them with my trusted "bledicook". The result has always looked like something coming out of a sick dog's mouth, but my sons had been loving every single spoon of 'em! PLUS, they were healthy! Extremely low in salt and nearly no unhealthy fats in every serving. Wonderul mom. Now, mom, or Maman as I am called (still strange to my ears), is not so wonderful anymore. Dinner time is beginning to be harder. One now knows how to say, it's not good (Ce n'est pas bon..) and the other just pushes his plate and frantically moves his hands in a "no no" manner.<br /><br />What do I make for these choosy kids of mine so that they will enjoy dinner time again? It's not helping that the Ecole Maternelle and the Creche is feeding them with Elysee-type food... starters, main, desserts, the works, all in 3-Michelin style cuisine. Now I am put in an uncomfy position of constantly being dumstruck when it comes to dinner time.<br /><br />So, what do I do, as what all pro-internet moms do? I googled "what to feed my 2 and 3 year olds"! Most of the top results were of American origin. As usual. I browse and I browse and finally gave in to all that's American. Forget boring steak hache and puree. Forget Mame's "soupe".<br /><br />Tonight, I will make from scratch, the famous, Chilli Con Carne!<br /><br />(Watch out kids, andle, andle, yariva, yariva...MeHico is here in France!)Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-85090042290109183702007-11-25T23:25:00.000+01:002007-11-26T00:29:27.513+01:00Crepes, Christmas & RacletteOh, winter is here. Strangely, I don't feel as cold as the past years (perhaps its because we have upgraded our heaters) but <em>l'hiver</em> <em>est la</em>. This weekend was winter style eating weekend. We had, <em>raclette</em> for dinner yesterday and this evening we had <em>crepes</em>. 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 <em>charcuteries </em>(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 <em>gratinee</em> 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.<br /><br />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 <em>sucree</em> (sweet) or <em>sale </em>(salty)<em>. </em>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, <em>fleur d'orangier </em>(orange flower) honey and sugar.<br /><br />We went to Botanic in the afternoon, about the only shop that is occasionally open on Sundays in France. <em>Botanic</em> is a popular chain store that is a <em>jardenirie </em>and <em>animalerie. </em>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 <em>sapin</em> (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.<br /><br /><em>Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer, la la la la la la laaa....</em><br /><br />The countdown begins!Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-59615420510662325822007-11-24T17:06:00.000+01:002007-11-25T23:22:20.437+01:00Queueing in FranceFirstly, 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...<br /><br /><br />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!<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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! <br /><br />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'!). <br /><p>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 <em>maybe </em>perhaps, IF I had <em>politely </em>asked each and everyone whether I could pass them (rather than barging through), then <em>maybe</em> 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,<em> maybe</em> they might let me beat the queue! Oh, but don't count on a smile to come with that!</p><p>Mr. & Mrs. T then reached home, ate their delicious baked masala mackerels and happily lived ever after.</p><p> </p><p><br /> </p>Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-14271037962384316832007-11-16T17:11:00.000+01:002007-11-22T19:10:40.706+01:00Bash-free dayOk, 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!<br /><br /><br /><br />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?...<br /><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />One fine day, a sure destination!Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5933229142057845629.post-88743794311841989542007-11-04T16:09:00.000+01:002007-11-05T14:46:45.237+01:00Her Big Belly<div align="left">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.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">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...</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">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?</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">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.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Her big belly continues to grow. Her confidence diminishing. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.</div>Didahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124633539191679363noreply@blogger.com1