Le temporisateur (n.) One who waits for a more opportune time, putting something off until when conditions seem optimal. Dirty synonym: delusional procrastinator
WARNING: THIS IS A MONDO POST. UNREASONABLY MONDO.
There is a little white notebook where words flow like the wigs of Cher. I can write and write, lose track of time, forget myself and ooze words forever. On this blog though, it feels different. It feels more intimidating, so I procrastinate. Specifically with the blog, I begin a post and then find a fabulously ludicrous reason why the post would be of better quality if written tomorrow. Then tomorrow, the same thing happens, and the day after and after.
Soon I have a booty-load of days to write about, half of which I don’t remember and the other half of which I don’t give a hoot to share anymore. As the mountain of writeable moments became insurmountable, I realized something. There is no sense in waiting for the most opportune moment to write, or do anything in life for that matter (except waiting for a baby, maybe). There will always be a great reason to procrastinate, but there will also be the option to tell your inner procrastination temptress to go to hell.
Procrastinating is such a milktoast of a way to pass the time really, a sordid bugbear. Sometimes, oftentimes, just about anything sounds more appealing than writing on my blog, for example: going out for coffee, reading, walking, staring at buildings, rearranging my closet in ROYGBIV order, cleaning, writing postcards, googling European history, trying to learn French, watching French films, watching any films, watching Friends, making friends, eating anything, eating everything, etc.
So anyway, I don’t really know how to address the recent two month sabbatical from this blog, aside from just acknowledging it. Excuses are a bore. Plenty of things happened between this post and the last, many of which I regret not writing about. But alas! What fruit comes from regret? Let’s just say I became very good at asserting the best time to blog: tomorrow (which never comes). Now, I want to write about adventures with my sister, but not before I recap the holidays so the sabbatical must come to a conclusion. Here are a few peaches from my past two months:
Lundi, 29 Novembre
Made the kids and their mother a Thanksgiving-ish quasi-feast. It was quite stressful in the beginning, and I wondered to myself why the hell did I assign myself this extra task. But the food turned out fine and the kids loved going around the table announcing what they were grateful for. The final menu was:
- Thyme and honey-roasted carrots with shallots
- Maple sausage stuffing, utilizing the previous day’s stale baguette
- Cheesy spinach souffle
- Whipped potatoes
- Apple cinnamon crumble with vanilla ice cream
Mecredi, 9 Decembre
The annual winter concert at the girls’ École de Musique, entitled: Noël en Famille dans le Cadre de Rouen Givrée (Family Christmas through Frosted Rouen). A sibling variety show boasting antique beats from Brahms, Delerue, Vivaldi and Faillenot. One memorable act was a darling little boy with a turnip-shaped body blasting to Mars on a saxophone bigger than his torso, while his older sister played alongside on piano. But of course, the evening highlight was my gals. I’d already heard their show tune played a hundred times over; I heard it after school, at their mum’s, at their dad’s, in the lobby at their weekly lessons. Months back they begged me to let them buy this metronome app on my phone, one that flashes lights to the beat while tick-tocking (imagine if you will, two young blonde French children practicing classical odes on flute and cello to the beat of an iphone strobe light… and loving every minute of it). All those months of taking the bus and metro to the other side of the river, walking five blocks carrying a cello, negotiating practice time for TV/Nintendo/chocolate… Hundreds of ordinary minutes spent with those gals led up to this magnificent two minute concert that melted me into a thousand puddles. They played it perfectly, and I felt this new sensation of motherly love and happiness.
Samedi, 12 Decembre
Just after Thanksgiving, Père Noël (French santa) blew chunks all over Paris and made things merry as Burl Ives in claymation. I visited the major department stores’ Christmas window displays and inside decorum.
There were men standing amidst the bustling crowds, selling roasted chestnuts on metal pans perched upon small buckets of hot coals, all cradled within a shopping cart. I tried this street delicacy a few weekends later at Santa’s Village in Saint-Germain. Hot chestnuts are weird meaty little things! Have you ever had one?
Dimanche, 13 Decembre
Strolled one bigass Christmas market. Just near my flat is Le Marché et Village de Noël des Champs-Élysées, with over 180 little white bungalows selling everything from world-class cheese to plastic junk like 3D engraved portraits that sit on a battery-operated spinning LED pedestal*. Being France and all, anything with cheese was wonderful. Cheese is like a renaissance food here, eaten alone or accompanying, flavored sweet or savory, cold and hard or warm and melty. One tent was using Bavarian pretzels as blank canvases on which to exhibit their cheese. Bravo France, bravo.
This was no ordinary Christmas market, it’s a bizarre bazar that sees 15 million visitors each year. It was jam-packed with children raging on sugar highs and adults who were three sheets to the mulled wine wind. Literally every block** sold vin brûlée. Betwist were elves hawking hand-whittled German toys, Bavarian pretzels, cured boar meat, Russian stacking dolls, Lord of the Rings condoms, airbrushed T-shirts. There was an oyster bar, champagne bar, tea room, wine tent, rum hut, espresso cafe, enchanted forest, carnival rides, freaky human and animal statues, fair games galore*** PLUS MORE.
After I walked the whole thing, I zoomed over to the Hungarian tent for a breath of fresh boiled-cabbage air. The army of pork knuckles dangling by threads under the Hungarian tent peaked my curiosity. I asked woman behind the counter if they served knuckle sandwiches. Unamused, she asked if I wanted a shot of peach Pálinka. So then, fruit brandy is the Hungarian knuckle sandwich, or the “don’t-waste-my-time-just-buy-something” sandwich. I tried a similar fruit (plum) aperitif in Bratislava, but this was peach so I agreed and paid.
When hungry, aperitifs have a way of reminding you of the hollowness in your stomach. So I promptly decided on the Transylvanian cabbage roll, a burrito size/shaped pork meatball swaddled in a salt and pepper’d cabbage leaf, laid on a mountain of silky sauerkraut, drizzled with crème fraîche. One highlight of this shindig were the sauce udders dangling from the bungalow ceilings. Many sauce options: andalouse, curry ketchup, sauce blanche, creme fraîche, spicy dijon, tzatzíki, garlic aioli, pickle relish mayo, etc.
Samadi, 20 Decembre
Caught the 6:00am train from Rouen to Paris. Flew from Paris CDG to London Heathrow. The Duty-Free shop at Heathrow is quite nice, and very giving during the holidays. I had a few hours to kill before my flight to LA so I sampled scotch for breakfast, got a free facial at the La Mer counter, and debated the new cinnamon vanilla Bailey’s with some Australians. I bought some English candy for my brothers, scotch for my beau, gin for his brother, and a vintage car magazine for their father. Later that afternoon I flew to Los Angeles to be reunited with my beatnik sweet-tart, Owen (hereinafter referred to as Telford).
Mardi, 23 Decembre
Epic non-denominational “festivus for the rest of us” holiday soirée at the legendary Altadena Alehouse. I had the privilege of seeing one of the greatest women on earth at the party, Rubi (and her hunka hunka burnin’ love, Jeffrey).
Mecredi, 24 Decembre
Telford and I caught the late morning train from Union Station to Old Town San Diego, where my dad, grandfather and brother picked us up. We went back to the house for my family’s annual “seven seas” Christmas Eve dinner, a Sicilian tradition. Crab, mussels, shrimp cocktail, octopus salad and of course the Hawk family’s famous albacore dip. Ahhh, good to be home!
Jeudi, 25 Decembre
Christmas morning pancake breakfast, as per usual in the Hawkins’ household. It felt nice to be surrounded by my warm loving family after five months living alone in an unfamiliar country. So nice to see my brothers too. They grow and change so much every time I see them. We sat and marinated in one another’s company all morning. In the afternoon, my gram n’ gramp dropped Telford and I off at Balboa Park. Tel sat on a bench across from the Japanese tea gardens and I laid down with my head in his lap. We baked in the winter sun for 15 minutes waiting for the Prado to open it’s merry doors for lunch. As it turned out, only a fixed menu was being served for Christmas Day, so we opted for mimosas and mules at the Prado’s bar. Shortly after, we caught the afternoon train back to Union Station and Ubered home to prepare for an intimate Christmas soirée. Tel’s brother Gareth cooked up a celestial curry, and a flange of boys played computer games in the livingroom. I played records and layed in a puddle of newly minted fox terrier puppies living in Telford’s bedroom.
Our dear Russian friends Stas and Sveta brought homemade soup with mushrooms from Moscow. I made a ghastly creme brûlée for dessert, but the kindred souls still ate it. We sat around for hours, laughing and talking, playing a card game the boys’ father taught them. ‘Twas really the most perfect Christmas a gal could wish for, complete with loving family, great friends, intercontinental food, newborn puppies and my welsh Yoko.
Lundi, 29 Decembre
Stas the Moscow-mushroom-soup overlord gave Tel and I a lift from Altadena to LAX. As we progressed to the baggage check, Jeff Goldblum almost broke my foot dropping his suitcase off a luggage cart. When we debarked the plane in Paris, there was ol’ Goldblum waiting in the passenger terminal in a tight little leather jacket and thick rimmed spectacles. He was on the same plane, dammit. We could have discussed Jurassic park over free economy champagne… Ah well, we’ll getcha next time G-blum.
Mardi, 30 Decembre
Telford and I scooted straight from the airport onto a train headed toward Champagne country, where his parents awaited us. We stopped at the Hemingway Cafe in Reims, before meeting Telly’s parents at an Indian food joint. After lunch we toured the champagne cellars of the Tattinger Champagne House. After the tour we sampled a few champagnes in the tasting room, and then caught a train to the small town of Epernay for some oysters and a slumber.
New Year’s Eve, 31 Decembre
Drove through the beautiful countryside between Champagne and Paris with Telly and his parents. I was filled to the brim with warm feelings of happiness and gratitude in the backseat of their little French rental car. As a solo traveler, I namely go by plane, train or bus. But the automobile is one of my favorite means of transportation. Between the ages of 16 and 24, I drove my two Hondas more than 50,000 miles. Up and down the Pacific west coast perhaps 25 times, and all over the American southwest. I was overjoyed to travel by car in France, even if it was only for an hour or two. We drove straight to Telford’s parents’ airbnb, just down the street from Le Bon Marché (speaking of which, I plan to go back there soon to see the current Ai Weiwei exposition).
We napped and showered and readied ourselves for the life-altering eight course meal of my wildest dreams at Philippe Excoffier’s bistro. His restaurant happens to be across the street from my flat in the 7th. And just who is Monsieur Excoffier? He was the executive chef at the US embassy in Paris, and an Iron Chef who battled Bobby Flay. The food was outrageous. A lobster avocado burger. A mushroom stuffed quail framed by a delicate ribbon of whipped potato. A flaming Grand Marnier ice cream soufflé with a sparkler jammed in the center. Somewhere in between was sweet squash bisque, green and purple salad, various cheeses, plus six bite-size nibbles of some heavenly curiosities (three before the food marathon and three after). I think I saw Jesus during the seventh course.
After what surely no meal in the world could ever top, there were three minutes until midnight. We ran to my favorite pub in the 7th, Ha’Penny Bridge Pub. Literally ran. My quail almost crawled it’s way back up on the post-feast jaunt. We made it to the pub just in time to clink champ flutes and share a midnight kiss. After midnight, the jazz clubs of the Latin Quarter beckoned us. Telford, his mother and I went to the “Temple of Swing since 1946” Le Caveau de la Huchette. We stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, having ourselves a jolly ol’ time together. A beautiful manner in which to ring in la nouvelle année, Paris style.
January Highlights
To be posted tomorrow, after a good long slumber. At least I got the blog-ball rolling again. Hip h0p hooraaay, hooo, haaay hooo0o!
*Not gonna lie, I was tempted to buy one of these 3D portraits. Could have been the most perfect prezzie for my sister! However because I couldn’t decide between Guy Fieri and 2007 B. Spears, the prezzie was was forgone.
**The Christmas village was so large that it had several blocks, like a neighborhood or… a village.
***One option for winners of the ring toss game? Magenta hookahs. That also sounds like a great stripper name.
Double Agent Archives 
Imagining you asking that woman if she serves knuckle sandwiches is the highlight of my year thus far. I love you! It sounds like you’ve been having a ball- so you’re totally excused for this hiatus. But I am glad you’re back to keeping us updated! 🙂
You are fucking brilliant.
Flow like the wigs of Cher……omg, chloe…hard belly laughs, thank you.