tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33339536047679777892024-02-21T08:56:47.628-08:00Cassoulet CaféCassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-51474788477513092752015-10-11T16:31:00.001-07:002015-10-11T16:46:12.895-07:00 Roseburg, Oregon <br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I woke up to several missed texts and messages coming in from Roseburg numbers. The one and only Roseburg, where I grew up and lived most of my life, until recently. As all of us locals know, "Roseburg" is not the answer we give when someone asks where we live or where we are from. "Oh, just a small town on Interstate 5, three hours south of Portland, or one hour south of Eugene", is what we all used to say to people when they asked where we were from. <i>That has changed.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The missed texts I received during the night were not making any sense to me that morning. Was I having a nightmare? Surely the texts didn't say "UCC" and "Mass shooting" in the same sentence? I immediately googled a major news network and saw the Breaking News. I turned on the local news and there was my hometown, thousands of miles across the ocean, making headline news here where I now live.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ever since I moved to Roseburg as a child, I would fantasize about getting out of it when I became an adult. However, my husband and I married there and started our family. Actually, we had our first dance as a married couple at Umpqua Community College, where our wedding reception was held. I gave birth to all three of our children in Roseburg and there we lived our Roseburg life. Raising kids in Roseburg meant summertime swimming lessons at the UCC pool, where I also learned to swim as a child---a right of passage for all kids in Douglas County. It meant my daughter's dance recitals at UCC's Jacoby Auditorium. It meant countless drives down Umpqua College Road, where my in-laws lived for several years, right across the parking lot from the Science Building and Snyder Hall. Many walks were taken on the pathways through the trees of the beautiful UCC campus, snapping photos of the kids running around, trying to convince us to let them play in the fountains. I think of all the weddings we attended over the years at UCC, the anniversary and graduation parties, even a funeral. Yes, the UCC was not only a Community College for higher learning, but a place any local could come take classes, see a theater production, host an event, swim, play tennis and even learn about wine. This is why the UCC is so close to the locals' hearts, we all have memories of something we've acheived or celebrated there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> After living overseas for nearly two years, this summer we went back to Roseburg to see our family and friends, to see <i>home</i>. We stayed the whole month of August. It was odd being back. It was weird that it <i>wasn't</i> weird.<i> Nothing in Roseburg changes</i>, I said again and again. We drove around, eating at our old favorite spots, doing drive-bys of all the houses we used to live in over the years. We did picnics at River Forks, wine tasting at the wineries, people watching at Walmart, and of course, craft beer drinking at the tap house. We posted gratuitous photos on Instagram and Facebook of life in Roseburg, Oregon so that our new friends from Down Under (where we live now) could see what we loved and hated about the town we came from.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One such post was something my husband thought his Aussie mates would get a kick out of, a photo of the gun display case at Fred Meyer. His caption went along the lines of, "I can buy a gun and a gallon of milk at the same time!" We posted pictures of "bottomless" fries at Red Robin. Both of these concepts, never ending fries and guns at the grocery store, was mind boggling for our foreign friends. And I found myself posting things like pine trees, which I always took for granted. I was posting from the Douglas County Fair, which I had always dreaded. I was seeing Roseburg from a totally different point of view <i>for the first time in my life</i> and I was embracing it! I could even smell the Douglas Fir, something I had never noticed in my 35 years of living in Roseburg. I noticed and appreciated how outgoing, chatty and friendly almost everyone is when you go anywhere in town. I had forgotten about those things. . Everything was so familiar and comfortable. I wasn't a foreigner in Roseburg. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But, as our month came to an end, the same ol' same ol' had set in. I felt content and ready to go back to our other life, on the other side of the planet, knowing everyone in Roseburg was saying goodbye to summer vacation and gearing up for the new school year. Yes, <i>the same ol' same ol' </i>as every other September I remember my entire life. Nothing changes in Roseburg, I said again. I cringed as I saw a few of the leaves starting to turn orange, the true sign that summer is nearly over. So, before we left, we did "one last" of everything: one last Oregon brew, one last lunch at our favorite restaurants, one last Costco trip, one last Dutch Bros coffee, one last look at Roseburg our hometown, where we were from. We even passed the UCC one last time on our way out of town...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">....One last time before Roseburg changed forever. Before it became infamous for the type of tragedy that just "doesn't happen in our town."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the past after such tragedies, we always asked, "What if it happened here, in Roseburg?" Each time we saw a mass school shooting, we imagined it happening in our sleepy little town. We sobbed and smothered our children with hugs and kisses the day those 20 first graders and their teachers were gunned down in cold blood at Sandy Hook Elementary. We all asked ourselves, <i>"What if it happened here?! What if it was my baby?!"</i> Lock down drills at the schools became normal, but we still cried thinking about our children even<i> having</i> to prepare for such violence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm filled with so many emotions as I now see my hometown splashed all over international news. Roseburg is mentioned <i>by name</i>. How can Roseburg be the town the world is watching and discussing and arguing about? Even celebrities are talking about Roseburg. As I see the reports and watch the faces of the locals on the TV, the terror and grief on their faces is unfamiliar to me, for the people of Roseburg. Aren't those people from Sandy Hook or Columbine or Aurora? Certainly these are not my old neighbors in Roseburg?! I can't recognize this massive suffering , the crowds and the vigils, the tears that I see on the news reports. Is that really happening back home?! I can't wrap my head around it. I see famous news anchors reporting from above Winchester Dam and the intersection I've passed through thousands of times in my life. From next to the Umpqua River, where everyone either fishes, floats the river or picnics all summer long. I can't fathom that they are actually <i>there</i>, reporting that something so hideous has taken place, <i>there</i>. I can't understand why they are there, in little old Roseburg, so boring and plain and small. The Roseburg that I said <i>never changes.</i></span><br />
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So here I sit, thousands of miles of ocean between me and Roseburg, feeling shocked and helpless. I <i>want</i> to help. I want to take the pain and grief away, erase the tragedy, everyone there does. But I <i>do</i> know why bad things happen to good people. I <i>do</i> know that it is going to be rectified. I <i>do</i> have hope. I <i>do</i> have comfort in my beliefs. I am not lost, just so very sad. Sad for the victims, sad for the families, sad for the survivors who will need so much comfort and help. And I am sad that I'm not there to help comfort the ones suffering in <i>my</i> hometown.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The reporters and the cameras will all be gone soon. Oh, yes, they'll come back every anniversary of the shootings. They'll make emotional tributes that will make everyone weep. They will reference it each and every time certain political issues come up. They'll talk about it when the next mass shooting happens. They wrap up their story in a nice little package, with a pretty little bow, by saying this tragedy has brought a beautiful town closer together as a community, as if they actually know us all intimately. And the truth is, when the reporters have all gone home, when the celebrities forget about it and Roseburg is left alone in the middle of Interstate-5, everyone in town will grieve....all over again. There is no red ribbon to wrap around a tragedy. <i> Everything is different now</i>. Everything has changed with the loss those nine innocent people. Nothing will ever be the same for any of the survivors. There will not be anything positive to gain from this brutal massacre, regardless of the beautiful things people did for one another in the wake of it. Because nine people are missing. And countless others are suffering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So for the record, I was wrong. Roseburg <i>did</i> change. Though it wasn't the kind of change I had ever hoped for. </span><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" style="background: transparent; border: none;" /></span></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Writing is how I work through emotions. My daughter writes too, but hers are lyrics. She knew one of the victims, Quinn Cooper, who she had Drama class with in High School. She wrote a tribute to the #UmpquaNine for their families and loved ones. I would love to share it with you now.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/awdjCy8eIww" width="560"></iframe>
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<br />Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-71299055332490677142011-11-29T22:15:00.000-08:002011-11-29T22:15:17.231-08:00Cockroach Chronicles: Part One<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxx67Uq33g03H1FPtASLaKQTh26hrhjXaq-kzRPh_ahnXmjDtbjh1DcjpreCNdGGTQ7tyrrYjGpibF4VlEvtYXAc7H6e2Eaac0kcYaGHl28ilrg5sGw7vkNgJNM9c9kOAM9lFi6AtZ2I/s1600-h/screamingwoman.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267095041487194162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxx67Uq33g03H1FPtASLaKQTh26hrhjXaq-kzRPh_ahnXmjDtbjh1DcjpreCNdGGTQ7tyrrYjGpibF4VlEvtYXAc7H6e2Eaac0kcYaGHl28ilrg5sGw7vkNgJNM9c9kOAM9lFi6AtZ2I/s320/screamingwoman.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 298px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 250px;" /></a><br />
<div>The paralyzing fear began in the summer of '87. There was an incident in my bedroom. This is when I found out....<em>they can fly. </em></div><br />
<div>It was a hot, humid Oregon summer. There was a somewhat smallish roach on my bedroom ceiling. I had a friend over to spend the night. We stared at it, planning its execution. As if it could read my mind, it decided to show me who owned the ceiling. It did not jump. It did not fall. It <em>flew </em>right at me. Screaming, I ran the direction I was facing...which required an Olympic hurdle over my foot board. I didn't quit make it. I landed on the floor, and the roach thought it best to land in my dark hair...eerily a perfect camo for the nasty little beast. Had I been blond, they could have gotten it out sooner. They could have seen it right away and flicked it off. But I am not blond (even though that was the summer of Sun-In), and that night commenced my fear, loathing and paranoia of these nasty, repulsive little monsters.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I generally only had to worry about them in the summer and eventually my parents pulled the juniper bushes from the front of the house, which were rumored to be attractive to roaches. These particular roaches were small, didn't invade cupboards, and just basically liked to fly around terrifying everyone. They liked to live outside. But things were about to take a turn for the worse.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I got married (no, <em>that</em> wasn't the turn for the worse), and we moved into a very cute, "retro" if you will, apartment complex. They were vintage 1940, in an older part of town. Moving day went fine...<em>but then the sun went down</em>. We turned on a movie, watched for a bit, and then I decided to go into the kitchen to get some ice cream. I flipped on the light and there were about 30 roaches, frozen-mid-scurry, all over the floor. In point two seconds, they were <em>just gone. </em>I screamed. </div><div></div><div>The next morning, as new brides do, I got up at the butt-crack of dawn to make Hubby his lunch to take to work. As we weren't yet unpacked, I had to go into the living room and dig through a big box to find the sandwich baggies. I was pre-Lasik, so I was blind as a bat. As I was diggin through the boxes, I felt something cold on the underside of my poor, poor bare foot. I said to myself, <em>"Gross! I hate when I drop lunch meat and step on it. Ewwww!"</em> So I started kicking my foot to get the meat off, because who wants to touch cold lunch meat on a foot? What fell off my naked foot wasn't turkey-colored. It was <em>black.</em> And the size of a date. But dates aren't allowed in my house (nas-<em>tay</em>). I didn't know what that black thing was because I didn't have my glasses on. I bent down within 3 inches of "It" so my nearly blind eyes could tell me what it was. As it started to come into focus, I saw that it was a big, black, fat roach! Not the little flying kind, the robust-crawled-up-from-the-sewer type. Big, slow and shiny. <em>(How do I type a retching noise?)</em></div><br />
<div></div><div>I screamed bloody murder, and started running in a manner quite reminiscent of Ferris Bueller's sister when she saw the principal at her doorstep. I ran straight into the bathroom, screaming and crying all the way, turned the water on to "scalding" and scalded my foot. After sufficiently sterilizing my flesh, I ran (screaming and crying still) into my room, jumped on my bed and curled up into a ball, and told my husband to call the landlord, we were moving!</div><br />
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<div><em><strong>Stay tuned for Part 2 ....</strong></em></div><br />
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<div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;" /></a> </div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-10985038412773700062011-11-18T16:27:00.000-08:002011-11-18T16:27:38.195-08:00To Welcome You (or Welcome Back) to Cassoulet CafeBelow was my very first story about France on Cassoulet Cafe Blog, a few years ago already! I'm going to recommence my blog with this post for those who are new here...Enjoy!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiGpgh9LVHpCsY8uepi2Pd1dfovHllT78JBp-1HdhEAbxtoaduLVXaLSZO9mPLYoIIou0TGSE0uaDGTTduWlClYMQXS_1Safisqq_XlU_ptbqVGMU7fhBnxFFTZ3kYjbmoJT6AOUWTBA/s1600-h/fam+paris.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126660589484644002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiGpgh9LVHpCsY8uepi2Pd1dfovHllT78JBp-1HdhEAbxtoaduLVXaLSZO9mPLYoIIou0TGSE0uaDGTTduWlClYMQXS_1Safisqq_XlU_ptbqVGMU7fhBnxFFTZ3kYjbmoJT6AOUWTBA/s320/fam+paris.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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<div>I have so many things to write about, analyze and discuss when it comes to France but I feel that I can't begin unless I get a relate our first days in France as expats.<br />
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I still can't believe I had convinced my husband to move to France, without him ever having been there even for a visit. Dreaming of something is one thing, but when it actually comes to fruition, worry plagues the fairytale in your mind and then gets replaced by nightmare scenarios. Mine was that Hubby would hate France and then hate <em>me</em>. So naturally, I wanted everything to be <em>parfait </em>when we arrived.<br />
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<div></div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126654834228467282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEtIvQNdvEBQF-5-0rvu_rql9bUHfAlGHO6LdBbtefCkPXcHvB3MNnG-SyFJ792fyojgXTTrtROAVeMJBoQsraLfJIRhjXqBsCoTNeLXFyx_26TPxlMDK6PquKzbmOkrr_ARuMIQOJJg/s320/100_1709.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /><br />
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<div>We decided to fly into Paris and then take a train a couple days later to our new home. We had two nights booked on <a href="http://www.ricksteves.com/plan/destinations/france/ruecler0208.htm">Rue Cler </a>in the 7ième arrondissement. For those not familiar with it because they haven't seen the PBS program that has made it famous, it is the stereotypical image we Americans have of Paris. A cobblestone street near the Eiffel Tower, lined with cafés, crêpe stands, flower and cheese shops, <em>boulangerie</em>, ....you get the idea. Top it off with a violinist on the corner playing classic French-film scores just for you, it all seems to be saying,<em> "You're dreams have come true! You've made it to paradise!"</em> It would seem.....</div></div><br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126662771328030386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYB_Gv90dKDuevg9aohIIIDEDLCpTcwosi2E7X85ruCh7F9LMCcZBwmyn8T3rrelnR1m4w3TtTRVv9vShXaomVDaWy_oNY_uEiaocduzij2YQNGrMvM8xs9Ej4nptJn5IuI7WbZkhyphenhyphenLA/s320/ruecler01.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /><br />
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...Until we actually <em>got</em> to Rue Cler, by way of Métro, pulling our 3 spring loaded suitcases containing all our possessions in the world (well, on this continent), two gigantic backpacks, and a small child. Lugging and tugging, <em>over the cobblestones. </em>After having pulled all of that up and down several flights of steps and platforms the previous hour. Using public transport is cheaper than a taxi ride from Charles De Gaulle airport, but leaning on the side of "nightmare scenarios".</div><br />
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When we entered our hotel lobby, just a few long, bumpy blocks from the beginning of Rue Cler, we were exhausted, moody and stinky. Suddenly, I realized just what I had brewed up and convinced my poor little family to do! I started to cry uncontrollably. What if this didn't work out? We were stuck anyway! It was a burden I didn't want anymore. </div><br />
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At that moment, an American family came into the lobby, exuberant from their morning of touring, and tried to befriend us. They told Hubby how wonderful Paris was and they were sad to be leaving the next day. I hated them. They got to leave! I was here stuck for the next who-knows-how-long not knowing how we would survive this situation. And this was only Hour One!</div><br />
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After I scared them off with my sobbing, my husband consoled me and said it would all be great, he loved it so far. Ok, tears dried up, our room was now ready, time to shower, sleep and get emotionally stable again. </div><br />
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But when I got into the tiny room, went to use the tiny bathroom and then saw the flushing mechanism on the foreign-looking toilet (for those who don't know, the flushers in France are usually buttons or pulling devices on the lid of the tank), I started to get hysterical again thinking about having to flush like this for the next year. <em>Ok, if you don't get the picture by now, I was completely irrational from sleep-deprivation, not making any sense, because back in The States I had raved to everyone about how cool French toilets were, because of their flushers! </em></div><br />
<div>After passing out and sleeping the rest of the afternoon, I awoke to Hubby saying he was going to go across the street to get some juice and snacks. He was eager to use his French independently. I was amazed but terrified he'd come back ticked off because someone was rude to him. I watched from the window above as he crossed the street and made a successful friendly purchase! He came back jazzed and ready to explore. </div><br />
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</div><div></div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126656444841203314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8dDkMkOTVvUMII_-s-7wQNUO-MtwswEkjVFF3AV27Y96eTkZb9xkXMtBcRVHbDMRjeGFemNMhiT3tmBxk_X2Myu5lb8TglpcmCuzQwTmqUrKUaOoef0vNR19zKmEwX-ShihafAUySA/s320/100_1694.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /><br />
<div>Late that night after soaking up the dazzling lights of <em>le Tour Eiffel</em>, we chose a <em>brasserie</em> near our hotel to eat <em>le diner</em> and suck down some <em>vin français</em>. Things were looking up. Of course wine will do that to you.</div><br />
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126656397596563042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_69rB6VsApi9GFSI7j4l3RMZjzknq0JAMQR6bO-lyT6IouKsB6jZZFPC7YLoLsAB-hnr5z2SlKFmUL8DzvlSAuBfhaZM1JdOiGJKFh6jsBELEieIiQI4dJbf79qcL5QKnff4Dmao1w/s320/100_1677.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /><br />
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<div>And then, the people at the table next to us seemed to be staring at us and with judgemental looks. I've been know to be paranoid about this, but I swear they were making a scene. It was a middle-age group of French men who were staring at us like we had just destroyed their evening. (Line from Shrek coming to mind: <em>"It's rude enough being alive when no one wants you...")</em> Anyhow, I was really uncomfortable and infuriated at the same time that they were gawking at us like we were barbarians. My anxiety peaked when I thought I heard the word <em>"américains"</em> in their conversation. Ok, now I had the proof! Turning to listen closer, I heard (in French), <em>"Oh, look at me, I am American, I need my ketchup!" </em>one said, and they all laughed hysterically in response. WHAT?! I didn't order ketchup. I hate ketchup. I kept listening, hearing stereotypical-American one-liners. It went on for several minutes. When they saw my expression, they laughed even harder. I wanted to leave, to check out of our hotel and hop the next flight back home. <em>I HATE FRANCE</em>, I screamed inside,<em> French people are so rude!</em></div><br />
<div><em>act </em>French!) and placed our order. The waiter, astonished that he was receiving the order in his tongue, smiled very lovingly as if to say <em>"You showed them!" </em>I'll never forget the shocked, open-mouth expressions of the men at the table next to us when they heard their language roll off my tongue, understanding now they I had heard it all. Sweet victory!</div><br />
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<div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126658824253085330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQGzn7e8yIeLgcot8kB1r5e7yUbrx_3kwWRwMedjuXjeIySqr-KP-kYqxipwAR72DkseSg8aJoRCKzEftiPtffdfAEu6YSp-jjP3JNsLjvgEV9_Rxxi0CAWzf3qWDus7sgWWP_KR3dQ/s320/100_1726.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /><br />
<div>It taught me a lesson as well. Don't be an Ugly American, even if someone is being an Ugly Frenchman.</div><br />
<div>Tomorrow I go on to Part Deux: <strong>The TGV Tragedy!</strong> Vomiting, tractors, accidents and more Frenchiness. Sure to appeal to all sorts.</div><br />
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<div>PS. <em>All photos on this post have been taken personally by moi, except the Rue Cler photo, because I did not have time to find mine today :)</em></div><br />
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<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" style="background: transparent; border: none;" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-27551050263905404242011-11-15T20:15:00.000-08:002011-11-15T23:29:58.686-08:00I'm Baaaaack!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbuqLPf6ehtuHik9PP2d7Y1fJQ0Cd7UehlilP6oADAtzp85qe0YxQgatt1pG_iHgLxR1n-M9cmZWv0XKat22q8OUWHcji4iKUf-Cjc2QG8B_6p7faJ-JZ1bood-v_UtYROT5JD72dDQ8/s1600/bons+amis+.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbuqLPf6ehtuHik9PP2d7Y1fJQ0Cd7UehlilP6oADAtzp85qe0YxQgatt1pG_iHgLxR1n-M9cmZWv0XKat22q8OUWHcji4iKUf-Cjc2QG8B_6p7faJ-JZ1bood-v_UtYROT5JD72dDQ8/s320/bons+amis+.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675490406708714130" /></a><br /><div>Bonjour! I am <i>baaaaaaaaaaaaack</i> .....from a two year hiatus...wow, the blogging world has changed so much, and yet, is still the comfortably the same. </div><div><br /></div><div>I see many of my old blogger friends are now <i>published authors</i>! I'm talking selling books on Amazon.com! (ie: <a href="http://lifejustkeepsgettingweirder.blogspot.com/">Anna Lefler of LJKGW</a>) Her hilarious book is called "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Chicktionary-line-Z-snap-words-should/dp/1440529841">The Chicktionary</a>"...I rediscovered her in the middle of a sleepless night and as I read her preview, I actually had to wake Hubby (wait, my bucksnorting had already awoken him) to read out words and definitions from her book but I was laughing to hard to spit them out. When I finally did, Hubby was laughing even harder than me. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.labeletterouge.com/">La Belette Rouge </a>has since come out of hiding and can now be known by her real name Tracey, and is published in big-time things like Huffington Post and actual magazines that you buy in the store! :) I'm so amazed and proud of them and happy to say that I "knew" them when they just started out!</div><div><br /></div><div>As for me, I've been holding myself up in that little restaurant in the Caribbean (pictured above). No really, I just took a much needed break from writing to take care of some family obligations. My family and I have gone through many changes over these two years of non-bloggin...I know, seriously, how can life go on when the blog is stopped somewhere in 2009? I've had some ups and downs, tears of joy and of sorrow, and some fabulous travels that made me think even beyond France. I have fresh perspective and am ready to blog some more funny, as well as more travel related posts! </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you'll rejoin me!</div><div><br /></div><div><i>A bientot...</i></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" style="border: none; background: transparent;" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-17194123889865258412009-12-31T20:00:00.000-08:002009-12-31T20:04:53.712-08:00Cassoulet's First Homemade Macarons!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMqua9VMmaKc0oAwR889qXG891RBFf5f1r0nqksxS-OWmNzLpiDRCukzKWwgl9IP2bW1RpBh2Y0Ho5u2TlOMCwtf34qXMZ4Cvf4aEqeKN6TK_5DpfxXs5WH4JeX27XQemAU_EELFlY-A/s1600-h/My+First+Macarons+013.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMqua9VMmaKc0oAwR889qXG891RBFf5f1r0nqksxS-OWmNzLpiDRCukzKWwgl9IP2bW1RpBh2Y0Ho5u2TlOMCwtf34qXMZ4Cvf4aEqeKN6TK_5DpfxXs5WH4JeX27XQemAU_EELFlY-A/s400/My+First+Macarons+013.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421617231451390834" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6YF4jSjRME2IaHHfzYRyrkVBCMQs6B0GM1MKbMUKfFf8Br5iq4EJublf0qF-sTKVt5z4rDJ1ShV6BgvriAOuUWTLm47j0HB_ee-yomampYH3u_-nQB84KhxReU5d3VUjMJVLii9QVQ/s1600-h/My+First+Macarons+004.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6YF4jSjRME2IaHHfzYRyrkVBCMQs6B0GM1MKbMUKfFf8Br5iq4EJublf0qF-sTKVt5z4rDJ1ShV6BgvriAOuUWTLm47j0HB_ee-yomampYH3u_-nQB84KhxReU5d3VUjMJVLii9QVQ/s400/My+First+Macarons+004.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421617223755320386" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOz5Dxea2zHKDFA32FPn9BQvFKnWpZ7jJazFY-gm1nfsVUl_EreLbs2TOrIFEsCHTpIc_EBNM5pq1XuSUwpvb__Ktb5pJqBKrqskyY3-YwCVCJIs9VghOhKlxoAOs4UoolKVYqPVJyA/s1600-h/My+First+Macarons+012.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOz5Dxea2zHKDFA32FPn9BQvFKnWpZ7jJazFY-gm1nfsVUl_EreLbs2TOrIFEsCHTpIc_EBNM5pq1XuSUwpvb__Ktb5pJqBKrqskyY3-YwCVCJIs9VghOhKlxoAOs4UoolKVYqPVJyA/s400/My+First+Macarons+012.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421617216165576194" /></a><br /><div>I'm in French Nostalgia mode, so I reopened my blog, and succeeded at my very first attempt to make La Duree style macarons today!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" style="border: none; background: transparent;" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-41249116033538468902009-01-23T00:00:00.000-08:002009-01-23T11:43:26.305-08:00Messed Up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZN-KmRdYKO0BLoG59TIMkTCDL28-nL4ixNk17rq11iLUSa-4_78Tw_HlWXvKj8Yvd3RTSoDcLaYEYrPQdq6ldX99SCUCNh6EIQsyzilFPIHti1UgfsWa_yVwlJkJAm7Vt40haNoNawY/s1600-h/Cottage+painting+full.jpg"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZN-KmRdYKO0BLoG59TIMkTCDL28-nL4ixNk17rq11iLUSa-4_78Tw_HlWXvKj8Yvd3RTSoDcLaYEYrPQdq6ldX99SCUCNh6EIQsyzilFPIHti1UgfsWa_yVwlJkJAm7Vt40haNoNawY/s320/Cottage+painting+full.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294547254883434370" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">You told me, because they told <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">you</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">You warned me, like they warned you.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">You did your best, unlike the rest</div><div style="text-align: center;">You used your talent, to release your stress</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">You drew your freedom, you drew your soul</div><div style="text-align: center;">You drew your dreams, for all to hold...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Until you could take them back for good</div><div style="text-align: center;">You painted the world you knew you'd have</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The one you left</div><div style="text-align: center;">The one you had.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">You slowly made your tiny hole</div><div style="text-align: center;">Into a home, instead of hell.</div><div style="text-align: center;">You brought it to us with your eyes and hand</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">You drew the only things you could see,</div><div style="text-align: center;">which wasn't much, to eyes that are free.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And when they ripped you away from security,</div><div style="text-align: center;">They said there was reason, "you're soon to be free"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">But instead of getting a reward</div><div style="text-align: center;">You were at the mercy of the new prison's "lord"</div><div style="text-align: center;">When he slammed his fist into your head,</div><div style="text-align: center;">you didn't know it was coming, you thought were dead</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The blows kept coming from all around</div><div style="text-align: center;">The darkness and pain kept you down</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When they were done, they told you to leave<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Or they would finish you, and leave you to bleed</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">They took your brush, they took your pen,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">they took your life, and hemmed you in.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And now all you want is to go home,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Where you belong, where you will be</div><div style="text-align: center;">When</div><div style="text-align: center;">You</div><div style="text-align: center;">Are </div><div style="text-align: center;">Finally</div><div style="text-align: center;">Free.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Oil painting by My Brother, 2008</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "></span></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" style="border: none; background: transparent;" /></a><br /></div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-26022790896789486972009-01-06T00:00:00.000-08:002009-01-06T00:00:02.734-08:00Coffee Talk...Revised<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRCmw5z55_LPxRd6jsJblu42XY-GZ0xCxENsCc2bpWlJaJh_mOSWEU4e-hXp-O4UrI8lUmxQWVGZuaHyex1yTbGunGFKSb85eads4fuXG22TNqFP-y0WBb60WaCW7zZRm7AKGRrKbfA/s1600-h/green+coffee.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132225191922553650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRCmw5z55_LPxRd6jsJblu42XY-GZ0xCxENsCc2bpWlJaJh_mOSWEU4e-hXp-O4UrI8lUmxQWVGZuaHyex1yTbGunGFKSb85eads4fuXG22TNqFP-y0WBb60WaCW7zZRm7AKGRrKbfA/s400/green+coffee.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I’ve already discussed <em><a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2007/10/cassoulet-today.html">cassoulet</a></em>, for the “cassoulet” component of <strong>Cassoulet Café</strong>. But we really haven’t discussed the <em>café</em> part of it, have we? Be it the drink or the place. I mean, I’ve touched upon it, put in plugs for French and Italian coffee brands, talked about going to cafes, but I think I’ve really hidden how much coffee rules my life. Oh, it started out innocent enough. Trying to drink coffee at home, as an adolescent trying to feel like an adult, ending up with a disproportionate amount of creamer to coffee, to disguise the coffee-ness so it would be acceptable to a youth’s palate. Then ditching it for a Dr. Pepper.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then <a href="http://www.coffee-mate.com/7Days/default.aspx?">Coffee-Mate </a>came out with Hazelnut creamer. That is when my true coffee addiction began. It camouflaged the Folgers oh-so-well!</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, as I started getting weary of all that non-dairy sweetness, we started to drink it black and a bit stronger. We moved on up to a metal can of...Yuban! But soon, we declared a ban on Yuban in our house, because we were finding ourselves in the midst of the Starbucks revolution and we adjusted accordingly. We thought that if we slurped down the burnt-tasting brew (and bonus points if we actually <em>liked it)</em>, then we were true coffee connoisseurs. And certainly buying the beans and grinding them ourselves confirmed it! No more canned grounds for us, we said.</div><div><br />But then when we moved to France we suddenly felt like Coffee Pre-Schoolers. The coffee there was so strong that it shocked our palates (and guts) the first few mornings and we soon realized we only needed one cup to get going, as opposed to our normal three. After moving back to the States, we continued to make strong puts-hair-on-your-chest java, much to the dismay of our occasional guests. And when friends or family came to visit from France, we’d make requests for loads of Lavazza and Carte Noire to be brought to us. </div><div><br />Then my coffee maker sizzled out. Being the Google Queen that I am (and really, who isn't nowadays?), I had to Google "coffeemakers" and read reviews on oodles of brands and models. As I pored over brewing devices, I came across a site about<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> home</span> roasting coffee beans. <em>Roasting my own coffee? Why would I want to complicate my life more than it already is by adding another step to my coffee drinking regimen?</em></div><br /><div>When FedEx came the next week to deliver my new coffee roaster, I was ecstatic but intimidated. Could someone like little ol’ me really take these green beans resembling lentils and actually come out with a product even close to Starbucks or Tully’s? I wasn’t so sure. </div><br /><div>Fast-forward two years. <em>We are officially coffee snobs.</em> After taking that first sip of home roasted brew, Hubby and I looked at each other and could only say “WOW.” No after taste, no burnt flavor, and do we detect…<em>chocolate</em> notes? As home roasters often do, we now refer to <em>that</em> chain as <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Char</span>bucks. Because, my dear friends, charred coffee water is not a sign of quality, nor does consuming it make one the ultimate coffee connoisseur. </div><div><br />I’ve also added a French Press (ok, I have three of them) to my coffeemaker collection. </div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132226587786924866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QHBDhbdW-T3BTRHm29Ngpd56uojaBMu3qXNPmZMBquwrzvxYauC8vWIJ_F0PBgvKodnFLS6PDmMX9-_FovdzUISoBpUD6dzUTgbt9Gxmo6r9Rb_aZQ_NRH1dWmqd6TRs0SieUL2Z7A/s400/french+press.jpg" border="0" />We serve up the best coffee in town, heck, in the state! and friends come from far and wide to enjoy a cuppa <em>Chez Nous </em>(at our house). <div><br />When my Best Expat Friend was packing to come visit from France, she called to tell me she received my shopping list, but said I forgot to include my normal order for the usual 10 bricks of Carte Noire coffee. <em>“Oh no,”</em> I told her. <em>“We don’t drink <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">that </span>stuff anymore. From now on, you’ll be taking </em>my <em>coffee back to France!” </em></div><em></em><div><em><br /></em></div>And she does.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Stay tuned, as I have some exciting things concerning coffee coming up!</span></span></div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-13988007888160140252009-01-04T02:37:00.000-08:002009-01-04T02:43:04.699-08:00Coffee, Please!<em>This is a rerun of an early Cassoulet Cafe post...enjoy!</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0oKWfvji9vSEf_4asSz0SVq7uWH53nNRFhdIj0Fm-IANgEv4YlHPEs3FCgUvGHKgX3R4EKAFNfaJidMUIDevojpfSaD34jPV2hrwUUYEmWUWeO_CmJhMrjl7ASsIjsLVPa7FI24DhSA/s1600-h/coffee_beans.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127388633685956354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 252px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 159px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="139" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0oKWfvji9vSEf_4asSz0SVq7uWH53nNRFhdIj0Fm-IANgEv4YlHPEs3FCgUvGHKgX3R4EKAFNfaJidMUIDevojpfSaD34jPV2hrwUUYEmWUWeO_CmJhMrjl7ASsIjsLVPa7FI24DhSA/s320/coffee_beans.jpg" width="252" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>Let's have a little coffee talk. So I'll wait right here while you go pour yourself a cup. If you're not into coffee, any other hot beverage of your choice will suffice. But as for me, I'll be drinking <em>un cafe'</em>.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127388637980923666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir5mdwqjsr9iRXTKOFCZKM0qh4SfWIlgl0typnLgQhkXwiQ9j78ZftK8HXzclRGozmJO4I3_AFERUpsrwERNAXFwsUe6fNWSIj_-WuQyyGoITMbiNxAvqgkuE6MOYAf8MaPN3qu7KTyg/s320/coffeecup.jpg" border="0" />When we think of coffee, we tend to think of it as the Starter Fluid of the day; a warm companion that we can snuggle up to in the mornings before we face our day. We even go to great lengths to get a paper cup of it later on, maybe placing a group order for a colleague to pick up on her way back from lunch. Each cup check marked in code only a barista (or experienced coffee go-fer) could decipher.<br /><br /><div></div><div>However, in France, things are different. Coffee isn't just the drink, it's the <em>activity</em>. It's the act of sitting down to relax and watch the world go by. Ordering a coffee in a cafe translates into renting your own little piece of <em>La Belle France</em> for as long as you wish to be there. What a bargain! Chairs are strategically placed facing the same direction, lookin' at <em>you</em> kid! If you ever got a complex while touring in France thinking people were staring at you, you were right, they are! But it's not considered ill-mannered<em>. C'est normale</em>, as the French say. It's what you do. People watch.</div><div> </div><div>So in order to rent yourself a slice of France, you just need to know how to order a coffee the way you like it. </div><div> </div><div></div><div>My husband was shocked the first time he got a coffee in Paris. He successfully utilized his French lessons to order his favorite hot beverage. But to his dismay the waiter set before him a saucer holding the smallest tea-party sized cup he ever saw, containing a shot of black tar, garnished with a paper-wrapped sugar cube and baby spoon to stir it with. So, as if it was a shot of tequila, he tipped his head back and took one small gulp and <em>voila!</em> It vanished!</div><br /><div>Then, he asked me, <em>"Honey, how do I say "refill" in French?" </em></div><br /><div>Now, at this point, anyone who is familiar with France is probably laughing right now. Everyone else, listen up! <em>Refills do not exist in France.</em> Unless you just want to order a whole new coffee and call it a refill to make yourself feel better. But it'll set ya back another 2 bucks or so.</div><br /><div>So on his next "refill" he decided to use the sugar cube. It was so cute, wrapped up in decorative paper as if it were the smallest present in the world. He unwrapped it, then carefully lowered it into the precious few ounces of black goo and stirred it with the tiny spoon. However, the amount of sugar was disproportionate to the amount of hot liquid (Cubes big, Coffee Small). So he was in a quandary. Does he order more coffee to dilute the sugar? Or suck down the sickening sweet concoction and say goodbye to coffee in France forever?</div><br /><div>Later, after learning there were indeed other ways to order coffee , he quickly honed his skills of ordering it with supplemental ingredients (milk or cream) to increase the volume, therefore extending his sipping pleasure. <em>Café creme, cafe au lait, s'il vous plait</em>. </div><br /><div>Something you never see in France is coffee<em> to go</em>. Oh sure, you'll see American tourists in Paris lining up at that certain international chain to get their fix, but the French will be the ones using the tables and drinking from ceramic. Yes, the word "<em>emporter</em>" does mean "to take out", but just because it exists and is even advertised doesn't mean it's the right thing to do when it comes to coffee. I should know. I tried it, twice.</div><br /><div>On a road trip from Paris to Brittany, we stopped at a little roadside cafe to counteract the drowsiness. When we walked in, we saw the sign <em>"Café à emporter"</em> behind the bar. I jabbed my husband and said, "Hey! Finally, a place that caters to American coffee drinkers!" So, in my best French I asked for 3 cups of coffee to <em>emporter</em>. The lady looked at me flatly and then said, <em>"Je comprends pas, Madame."</em> I pointed to the sign to explain, and she said, "Yes I understood, but <em>why</em> would you want it to go? Are you sure?" </div><br /><div>Then, a few days later on our way back to Paris one morning very early, we stopped at truck stop (no, i didn't know they existed in France either). It looked exactly like a 50's diner you'd encounter on road trip in the States. A long bar with bar stools loaded with big burly truck drivers. Surely, they would do coffee to-go for me here. As I confidently sauntered up to the bar, asked for <em>"Trois cafes à emporter</em>" (3 coffees to go) I heard all 10 truckers whip their heads in my direction and dead silence filled the place. The waitress stared at me. The truckers stared at me, holding their itty-bitty cups of coffee between their fat sausage-like fingers. At that moment, I realized that even big burly truck drivers prefer to drink their coffee <em>sur place</em> and out of a real cup.</div><br /><div>I got what I ordered, even if was handed to me in a thin plastic Dixie cup which burned all ten of my fingers. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127386572101654258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 110px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 142px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="166" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWEGQAFg1U6KfqRtcjLAvSenCwFgWn0YeAQb79AbPfKGiZ445E5SnfyGnkSznP-tvLIEMNX7x9q1boREsFU_d7H3wHYvzoiLxBbwc7zgtmcZjjM7D5agKN9E9hRyHGR0QkofFIyRgXg/s320/coffee+emporter.jpg" width="138" border="0" /><br /><div>So the moral of this coffee-flavored story is, when in France, drink coffee as the French. Relax, sit down, take in the sights and sounds around you. <em>This is why you came to France.</em> But under no circumstances, even if it is advertised, order <em>"Un café à emporter".</em></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div></div><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-77292178011742783392009-01-03T11:59:00.000-08:002009-01-08T07:37:22.923-08:00My Fear Came True...As you may remember, my brother was <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/10/french-toast.html">about to transfer </a>to a lower level prison, which was supposed to be a <em>good</em> thing. Well, in the California Department of Corrections, it seems that the MO is Opposite Day...every day! Of course, we knew that, which is why we have been on pins and needles for the last few months, just waiting for word of the impending transfer. He had been assured by his counselor that he wouldn't get sent to a dorm-type situation. In Opposite Land, this means that is <em>exactly</em> where he got sent.<br /><br />Have you seen those Lock Up shows on MSNBC or National Geographic, where they feature the dorms, ex-gyms used to house hundreds upon hundreds of inmates in triple and quadruple bunks, one foot apart from the next, with all races, gangs and affiliations under one roof, nowhere to hide, no walls, no dark corners...you catch my drift. An atom bomb ready to go off.<br /><br />Yesterday we received a call from my brother. Thirty minutes after he arrived at the new prison, he was jumped and beaten very badly by a gang of his own race. They didn't like the prison he came from. That was <em>all</em>. He thought his back was broken. They told him to leave. <em>LEAVE</em>. WTH? Basically, they weren't allowing him to be there and if he didn't "leave" they would kill him.<br /><br /><br />In prison, snitching is something you don't even consider doing. Even if you're hurt. The only thing he could think of was to tell the guards he was going to hurt himself. They immediately took him to a "crisis bed", which was a tiny linoleum cell, stripped him naked, gave him a mattress and two sheets. And there he was, <em>for 21 days</em>, until yesterday morning. They sent him to a mental hospital (because of the suicide threat) and he was able to call us.<br /><br /><br />I talked to him for two hours! He's ok, he got xrays, and is being taken care of now. I told him he did the right thing! After not knowing all these months, no phone calls or anything, this was such a roller coaster of emotions, I almost vomited.<br /><br /><br />We can actually call the day room and get him on the phone! It has never been like this these past 4 years. We've never had a way to contact him except by mail.<br /><br /><br />We have 14 months to go. I hope and pray that he can just stay where he is. We don't know at this point. But for now, life is good for him. He feels like he's in paradise, he said. They are treating him with dignity and he actually has a room to himself.<br /><br /><br />He didn't deserve all of this. Like he said to me yesterday, "I deserved something for what I did (bar fight), but I didn't deserve <em>this</em> much."<br /><br /><br />And so, <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/11/my-poem.html">I pull my poem out again</a>, and relive the feelings of seeing my baby brother in the fight for his life. I'm still so proud of him for making the life's changes he has in prison. He's a good person. I wish this was over <em>now</em>. And now, I get the privilege to call him as soon as I post this.<br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">*This is not him, this was his celly, he painted (oils).<br /></span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287167631551648530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 237px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJNpzm7N_2sU97MILwK55OoyHv_iVyKOqgv7vybo0BhHqWERkYzvA_ngvuxN72q2nd0QGS7fxx3Iw-FsVVLyMp8JdzFgv4j5XIANjkJTAK_3qBui8ai3kMLsBQR0b52V3mx8z8G3sHs4/s320/celly.jpg" border="0" /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-61406324753633428032008-12-11T00:01:00.000-08:002008-12-11T07:51:39.557-08:00I Receive the Craptastic Mom Award<p>Before I post <em>Arizona Part Two</em>, I have to tell about a frightening experience that occurred on Monday. I absolutely detest going shopping with the two younger kids, Spazzy The Toddler and my 6 year old. She's not called Spazzy for nothing, and anyone who has been shopping with a 6 year old boy knows that this is completely dangerous, nerve wracking and just a dumb thing to do. But the cupboards were bare from being gone on vacation and I <em>had</em> to bring the kids with me. We got a cart that looked exactly like this (but red).<br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278422787253721362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTAOh1ewJdjpdlhlhTGzwPYwhv6HSeo4KfBAkFF-oKlGLBIi6IceTey3Zti2yk4Um44ZlBIYCdvcpPjvtf10Xrsa0gEPIdP6u58arZZawyLljJnjYdiSt8iDzg2SkQNZaPp3Zb-ph-w/s320/race+car+cart.jpg" border="0" /><br />After a physically exhausting spree, we had a cart full of groceries and I happily paid for the them and started to leave, then realizing my 12 year old was sitting at a table in the deli section looking at hair style magazines. I cruised to the back of the store and found her. I did not leave the cart, I was still gripping the handlebar, but I just turned my head to the side to look at the hairstyle my daughter picked out. In a nanosecond, Spazzy stood up and fell backwards out of the cart and <em>slammed</em> the back of her head into the floor.<br /><p>It made a sickening sound that keeps echoing in my mind even two days later. I screamed, "Oh my God! Oh my God!" and picked her up while scores of shoppers froze in time and stared at the drama. A manager and a deli worker lady came rushing over. (They seem to be worried for two reasons; one, for Spazzy's pain, two, for a potential law suit). Crazy Deli Lady started shoving cookies into Spazzy face while she was screaming bloody murder. I told her no. Then she said, "Could I hold her?" I was floored. Yes, I know that she was just trying to be nice and helpful, but to a toddler who has just had a painful, scary experience (who already prefers mom over anyone when she's <em>not</em> hurt), being handed over to a stranger would be the last thing in the world that would help the situation. </p><p>Then Crazy Deli Lady brought over a soda. Of course Spazzy didn't want it, she was in too much pain. The 6 Year Old gleefully took it for her. The manager that happened to be standing by the olive bar when it happened, ran and got her a bag of ice. Strangers were still looking, and I am 99.9% sure that my butt crack was showing while I was sitting and rocking her trying to figure out what to do. <span style="font-size:85%;">(I happened to forget to put my belt on that day, and I had a muffin top going that I was trying to cover up with my sweater, but bending over in a panic to pick up and injured baby and rocking her with all your might doesn't leave any hands free to cover muffin top/butt crack.)</span> </p><p>I just wanted to be gone from there and take care of her without attention. Then she suddenly stopped crying, and started going to sleep. The Crazy Deli Lady said, "Oh don't let her go to sleep! That's bad!"<br />I held her while my 12 year old pushed the cart out the door for me. I flipped open my cell and called the doctor. The receptionist said to get her to the Urgent Care immediately and don't let her go to sleep. I was in full panic mode. I strapped her in the car seat and her eyes were open but fixed and she was quiet as a mouse. The kids and I were talking to her, trying to get her to stay awake. Hubby met me at Urgent Care and was already registering her when I got there. We were emphatic with the young twit behind the counter that the doctor needed to know immediately what happened, as there were about 50 people in the waiting room ahead of us and I wanted service immediately! </p><p>You know what she had the gall to say? "Well, is her head bleeding anywhere?" I wanted to reach out and grab her little lollipop head to get my point across. I said, "NO! But she fell from. The. Cart. On. To. The. Back. Of. Her. Skuuuuull! </p><p>Right then my cell rang and it was our family doctor. He asked several questions and then said it was a good thing it was on the back of her head, as opposed to the top or temple. He said it sounded like a concussion, and there was no reason to put her through a CT scan unless she vomits, starts acting bizarre, or I can't rouse her. </p><p>We exited the building and I ran directly into a cousin of B (who just died that day), and I couldn't even express my condolences to him about B, because I was so distraught about the injury. (We saw him last night and he said everyone in the waiting room was talking about us after we left.)<br />Finally, after about 25 minutes, Spazzy said her first words since the accident. She said, "Daddy, err kway-seeeee" ("Daddy, you're crazy" in Nacho Libre accent). We knew she was going to be ok then.<br />Moral of the story: Don't be an idiot mom like me who thought she was experienced enough not to need follow the safety rules, and that it would make too much of a scene to strap in a screaming toddler into the cart securely with the buckle. </p><p><br />I never thought I'd be <em>that</em> mom that should have watched this:<br /><br /><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qJHqpX0NfLU&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qJHqpX0NfLU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </p>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-53936326617340115682008-12-10T01:24:00.000-08:002008-12-10T10:14:13.095-08:00Arizona, Part 1<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNl-JgAJ-Dwrq9d-xiHAPw0BC2g9IPvwz3GFHNMmBoKfdq4B0xCjEc6VUh2LA8jXOheZGYiwrgWcCPZzyS9CNUNKmqfS0bjqHzvFFDsABZUicO4Y0_vPhkc5voOfjFWidDx7Wk5_ro4A/s1600-h/Scottsdale+Sedona+005.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278070887159178274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNl-JgAJ-Dwrq9d-xiHAPw0BC2g9IPvwz3GFHNMmBoKfdq4B0xCjEc6VUh2LA8jXOheZGYiwrgWcCPZzyS9CNUNKmqfS0bjqHzvFFDsABZUicO4Y0_vPhkc5voOfjFWidDx7Wk5_ro4A/s320/Scottsdale+Sedona+005.JPG" border="0" /></a> So we just got home Sunday night from a "vacation". Hubby had to go to Arizona for work, so we decided to extend it out so we had two weekends to do some touristy things. Our first mistake was flying Allegiant Air. Ok, so it wasn't a total mistake, I mean, who can deny a $29-each-way-flight? Well, there <em>were</em> some catches, like $30 per checked bag, and also that you are obliged to pick your seats for $16 per seat, per way. But we still got a great deal. Which sort of soothed the 2 hour delays going and coming. Sort of.<br /><br />While we were waiting to depart in the airport, Spazzy The Two Year Old caught an airport worker lady's attention. This lady was nice enough, first commenting on her terrible cough and making sure I gave her some meds for the flight. But then she started talking to Spazzy with the most annoying baby talk I think I've ever heard. I would be safe to say that it would be the kind of baby talk you would stop doing to a baby at, oh, 1 month old max. And she didn't get a clue that it was upsetting Spazzy (thus making life harder for <em>me). </em>And she didn't stop there. She said, <em>"Mom and Dad, can I sing her a little song?"</em> Being that I am usually only rude and confrontational with people in my head, with imaginary replies that I never act on, I nicely said <em>yes</em> to her request, though I was horrified that a stranger was going to sing in front of all these people waiting to get on the same plane as us. I <em>sooooo</em> hate having attention cast in our direction, I'm very self conscious and like to blend in, not stand out.</div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left">Well, Crazy Airport Lady's song started, and it was <em>baaaaaad</em>. The voice was bad. The song was nerdy and very newborn-babyish. And it required Spazzy to "wave bye byyyyye". But Spazzy hid under her Cookie Monster (her ugly blue blanket she calls Cookie Monster that is a permanent fixture around her body), <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278068907244309618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 164px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAl2MWB0AHeOsTynzXmbkIZ-gW0pKMO3czxRBnmKsruLJa44nHI8-CHZsfWX0I8X9dCBQICj92aA3pIuEup-sgJ1o4qehnzn2k3LMO8tOXOhzQjocqb2VaaXQQP2JXzXL0WRyaDiFXw/s200/cookie+monster+2.jpg" border="0" />and would have none of this interaction the lady so desperately wanted with her. She kept singing the last line over and over, for her to wave bye-byyyyyyye. Spazzy started screaming from under Cookie Monster. The lady still wouldn't get a clue. Finally, I said, "<em>You know, she doesn't feel good, she's been sick and she's a very shy girl."</em> The lady was perplexed that this song works with her grandchild, but not <em>my</em> child. Finally, she left....yes, singing. <em>"Bye byyyyyyyyye".</em> About 20 minutes later, I was strolling Spazzy through the airport for the 39th time that evening, and who should we run into but Crazy Airport Singer Lady! Spazzy screams at the sight of her and CASL starts singing <em>again</em>! I pushed the stroller faster trying to get out of there, this time not even acknowleging the CASL. </div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left">Finally, we were cleared to board the plane, after being in the airport for 4 hours. During the flight, Spazzy feel asleep (thankfully, because she thought it was fun to kick the seat in front of her), but <em>"because Allegiant Air is a Vegas-based airline, we are going to do a raffle to win prizes!"</em> screamed the over-zealous flight attendant on the blow-your-ears-out PA system. It was so loud, that I actually acted like a toddler myself and covered my ears and rolled my eyes and made gasping noises. After that was over, luckily Spazzy was still asleep, the toddler across the aisle from me started howling and pummeling his parents. They seemed to be clueless as to how to entertain him. Being more worried about my own discomfort if <em>my </em>toddler woke up, I started trying to entertain this child to get him to pipe down. It worked. But this wasn't me relaxing on the plane with a sleeping toddler. This was <em>work</em>. And I was doing his parents' work! Still, I was too terrified of Spazzy waking up to stop entertaining this boy. </div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left">Two hours later, we landed and made our way to the car rental line. It seems like we attract crazy people to talk to us. I don't know why. We don't stare, we don't call attention to ourselves, we don't even make eye contact. But somehow the only drunk woman in the tiny Mesa airport, who by the way dressed and looked like a man, complete with a Hooters baseball cap to to pull off the look, tried to befriend my husband in line. She was loud. She was opinionated. She dropped the F bomb in between each and every word. She had no sense of personal space. And did I mention she was <em>sloshed</em>? She was also named April. She really looked more like an Arnold to me.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">We eventually got our rental car, left April/Arnold in the dust, and added another loud-mouthed, opinionated traveler to our group of five. Her name was Fergie. Fergie Garmin....<em>give a give a give a give a Garrrrmin. </em>I shouldn't harp on Fergie, she did get us to Panda Express in a jiffy, Starbucks when we needed it, and most importantly she found an In n Out Burger! But she did try to kill us once. Driving up to the steep road to the Prescott Resort, she commanded us to take a right....<em>right off a cliff!</em> And once she was very emphatic that we had arrived at our destination, when it was just a empty lot in the desert with a lone saguaro cactus and <em>not </em>the steakhouse we thought we were going to. She also woke Spazzy up with her commands, or forgot to command us at all. We think Fergie is the great-grandmother of the Garmins. </div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left">To be continued....</div><div align="right"><br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278068906272575106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSASXG7E8cSrUqYfLZVA1wv3P-kIkE6LYasD8rcSvIPfryHvZFF8RdnYhZbaOVizWXTEFNPvvStw03ksq3-J1uqdKn13MXX5hL7PioP3VWolMMw6N8fpYlDk0Af0GWYYBBAGXN6_eTw/s200/Scottsdale+Sedona+110.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center">Fergie-licious<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </p>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-49604979118336323042008-12-08T09:01:00.000-08:002008-12-08T09:36:15.849-08:00Today I Grieve With and For His Family<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7XbAa_dte1BKsa6p4cPovb4JZIGwy_9DdQ5HwdNc1xn8vyiVjh63GeGn8BUe0SyU-pHxJKDlSueywgq0my13UnQPa3osEcOIsFiKyD90BHvi1LVKjeN8dSIbKt9te1aGDr9B15uLNv8/s1600-h/Scottsdale+Sedona+126.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277473528755615746" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7XbAa_dte1BKsa6p4cPovb4JZIGwy_9DdQ5HwdNc1xn8vyiVjh63GeGn8BUe0SyU-pHxJKDlSueywgq0my13UnQPa3osEcOIsFiKyD90BHvi1LVKjeN8dSIbKt9te1aGDr9B15uLNv8/s320/Scottsdale+Sedona+126.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><strong>This morning before the sun rose, </strong><a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/11/baby-sitting-job.html"><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">he died</span></em></strong></a><strong>.<br /></strong><br />I do not know the pain of losing a child, especially an only child, but I imagine it and it is too horrifying to comprehend. Today I grieve for his mother's loss, her unbearable pain and the awful days, months and years to come, facing each new day without him.<br /><br />I grieve for his grandparents, who face not only the death of their grandson, but also the grief of their own daughter.<br /><br />The only consolation this family has are the promises they believe and cling to, until they can see B again on a paradise earth....<br /><br /><br /><blockquote>(Romans 15:4) For all the things that were written aforetime were written for<br />our instruction, that through our endurance and through the comfort from the<br />Scriptures we might have hope.<br /><br />(Acts 24:15) and I have hope toward<br />God...that there is going to be a resurrection. . .<br /><br />(John 5:28-29) . .<br />.Do not marvel at this, because the hour is coming in which all those in the<br />memorial tombs will hear his voice and come out, those who did good things to a<br />resurrection of life. . .<br /><br />(Revelation 21:3-4) . . .And God himself will<br />be with them....And he will wipe out every tear from their eyes, and <em><strong>death will be no more</strong></em>, neither will mourning nor<br />outcry nor pain be anymore. The former things have passed away."<br /></blockquote><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-44963285216609422092008-11-26T00:00:00.000-08:002008-11-26T00:00:02.821-08:00I Think I Ate A.....(meow)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKQgi4hMD6sH-vPhUe6HFz6DhAAoTo1qnFo51wZmTTeN-ENamGFyh_bLAHX7sT-ULNfg32-g840XsIyQHtr3Cx02hOceMph3mhvV_ti-4m-wDcn5eln2XhuIdQftyEq1rx-3Z157-o6A/s1600-h/hacienda-interior_8482_r2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272822429891426882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKQgi4hMD6sH-vPhUe6HFz6DhAAoTo1qnFo51wZmTTeN-ENamGFyh_bLAHX7sT-ULNfg32-g840XsIyQHtr3Cx02hOceMph3mhvV_ti-4m-wDcn5eln2XhuIdQftyEq1rx-3Z157-o6A/s320/hacienda-interior_8482_r2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>So, we left off with the Cabo story yesterday. As I was saying, we were strolling down the street and decided to just wing it and find a restaurant on our own. As we were approaching the <a href="http://www.loscabosguide.com/dining/haciendadelcuervo.htm">Hacienda del Cuervo</a>, there was a lively mariachi band playing at the entrance to beckon us to come in. We hesitated, but after glancing at the daily special posted, we decided the price was great, the atmosphere looked great, and the band was great. How bad could it be? And we might have a new favorite restaurant logged in our travel memories.</div><div>We were quickly ushered through an open air courtyard and seated. There were about 30 tables and exactly three of them had customers seated; including us. We ordered the special right away (3 tacos, chicken, beef, fish and one beer: $5) and as we waited for them, I looked over to the nearest occupied table and the American couple seated was arguing with the server about his bill. Details are sketchy, but American couple was standing their ground, despite the 9 mafia-looking servers standing to the side, hands behind their backs, watching the patrons every move, and taking turns approaching the table to find out why they were being so "difficult". </div><br /><div>Suddenly, the happy, festive music stopped. I looked to the entrance of the courtyard where they had been playing, and realized, they weren't the Hacienda del Cuervo band; they were roving from one eatery to the next. For some reason, it gave me a crystal clear signal that things were not as they appeared on the other side of the courtyard gate.</div><br /><div>It was very quiet, and the two other tables of customers had very worried expressions. I looked at Hubby and said, "Let's get outta here. I have a creepy feeling." If it weren't for the beers we were drinking and the food we'd already ordered (oh, and a dozen mafioso looking dudes staring at us), we'd have bailed.</div><br /><div>Then came the bizarro exchange. One of the waiters, very young, maybe 15ish, came to the table and Hubby asked him a question. Bizarro laughed really, really hard. Hubby laughed along with him, to sort of soften the awkwardness of what we thought was a language barrier. Bizarro's eyes suddenly turned e-<em>vil</em> and he mocked Hubby's laugh, as if Hubby had been firstly mocking <em>his</em> laugh. Un. comfortable. Bizarro walked away, El Ticked Off-o.</div><br /><div>Our food arrived and the presentation was actually good. There were three rolled tacos, stacked and garnished in such a way that would make Ramsay proud. Bizarro had a weird smirk on his face while he gave us our food, however. I tried to brush it off and chalk him up as "not right". Now, there were supposed to be three kinds of meat, chicken, fish and beef. The first one I took a bite of was stark white meat. I chewed, and chewed and chewed. The mafia was watching every bite we took<em>...(*imagine crickets chirping*)</em> More chewing, <em>no swallowing</em>. It was <em>not</em> fish. But it definitely <em>wasn't</em> chicken. Or even pork. I looked at Hubby. He was still chewing his first bite as well. We had panicked faces, but decided to try the next taco. I had to discreetly spit my food into my napkin. I just couldn't swallow it, it was like a tough piece of steak that just wouldn't go away.</div><br /><div>I bit into the next taco, and the meat was identical looking. I cut open the third taco. Identical stark white, stringy meat. We chugged our beers, and asked for the check. They totally overcharged us by double, but we were so uncomfortable and sick to our stomachs, that we just paid and left. The whole time, the servers and kitchen crew were standing on the stairs watching us. It was the craziest restaurant experience I've ever had, and I just had a terrible feeling I couldn't shake the rest of the trip.</div><br /><div>Later that night, we finally discussed it. It was like the experience was too hideous to talk about for several hours. We analyzed the white meat. We went over and over what meat it couldn't be, because of the missing obvious characteristics of poultry or fish. It was unidentifiable. There was no other meat like it that we've ever had.</div><div> </div><div>And that is when we decided, it was probably cat. </div><div> </div><div>PS. If you click on the link, you'll see the restaurant is now out of business. Hmmm...wonder why?</div><div> </div><div>PPS. Who here thinks I did eat a cat? Could anyone help soothe my soul by telling me another less repulsive possibility?</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-11159758894265002432008-11-25T00:00:00.000-08:002008-11-25T00:00:07.858-08:00Why I'm Cutting Down on Eating OutAt first thought, you may think this is going to be about the terrible economy, the rise in the cost of living, and maybe me giving you a few tips on how to stretch your budget. Nope, not a chance. I'm as baffled as you. No, this story is in the <em>gross</em> category, not economics. A couple Thursdays ago, I actually put the laptop down <em>*gasp*</em> and turned on the TV. As I was flipping the channels, I saw the previews for a show that was coming up next. It involved lots of screaming, an embarrassed fat guy, rotten food, and <em>cockroaches</em>. Setting: a Mexican restaurant in New York. <em>Behhhh</em>...I just <em>had</em> to watch it!<br /><br />For those who are addicted to this show like me, you know already which one I'm talking about. For those who don't, it is Kitchen Nightmares, with screaming-abusive-obscenities-F-bomb-dropping-chef-who-always-turns-nice-in-the-end Gordon Ramsay.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPKWFEBtOBQN6z8VzCamQZN-f9UgIsImcvVuNNanjsfbw_IJ0xHY6kNS7PUHQtCTm-TFj3Zzd9oxr9zbawDoLmYtJoSUxcUN9WViKWrl3mIHJfB7nu0PPJmV0EDuHvoZMQ7yQt5R80Q/s1600-h/Kitchen_Nighmares_1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272464651745157122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 254px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPKWFEBtOBQN6z8VzCamQZN-f9UgIsImcvVuNNanjsfbw_IJ0xHY6kNS7PUHQtCTm-TFj3Zzd9oxr9zbawDoLmYtJoSUxcUN9WViKWrl3mIHJfB7nu0PPJmV0EDuHvoZMQ7yQt5R80Q/s320/Kitchen_Nighmares_1.jpg" border="0" /></a>So, as I watched him go inspect the filthy kitchen and freak out when he found green chicken and garbage cans full of beans being served to the customer, I couldn't help but start mentally making note of all the restaurants in our town that were not dissimilar.<br /><br />I not only have a cockroach phobia, but I also have a phobia of dirty kitchens and dirty cooks preparing MY food. We've all heard and passed on the Urban Legends about dirty eateries....for example, the Taco Bell burrito that was filled with something brown, but those weren't beans! You know the stories.<br /><br />And I guess my phobia of restaurant filth not only goes back to my Super Hygienic OCD mother about cleanliness, but also my first job. People scoffed and laughed and made fun of me, but I truly believe that my super work ethic I've carried with me through each job was because of my first job.<br />McDonald's. And the McD's that I worked at was spotless. The managers were all Nazi SS guards, and believe you me, if there were no customers, you were not kickin' back sipping a Shamrock Shake, you were cleaning. And if it was already clean, too bad for you, you were cleaning it again. If something as small as a ketchup packet fell onto the floor, you <em>threw it away. </em>You did not under any circumstances put that thing back in the bin, or god forbid, into a sack of outgoing food.<br /><br />I never once saw a single vermin in that McDonald's. The only vermin there were the managers. And the grill cooks. Because I took my job so seriously, they kept me back on the grill for way too long. Don't the teenage girls usually get mainlined right to the till? I flipped burgers too well. I was stuck with zitty, perverted, nasty guys who thought they were so clever when they said my name and then shot their mayonnaise gun. I was ultra shy back then, a bit naive and didn't know anything about sexual harassment laws.<br /><br />These pervs are the reason I will order my burgers "without pickles" every time. When the Gestapo wasn't looking, these idiots would launch sliced pickles at each other's faces, pus filled zitty faces, rack up a point for every "stick", then peel it off their faces and put it on a burger going out.<br /><br />If I want to be technical, McDonald's wasn't actually my very first job. That would be the two days I worked at a disaster of a French restaurant, located in a strip mall, with a screaming owner that would make Chef Ramsay look like a little lamb. Again, I lasted two days. When a plate was coming back into the kitchen to be washed, the owner saw they didn't eat their tomato garnish he had made with his own hands. He screamed and yelled how idiotic those people were, grabbed the tomato off the dirty plate, stuck it on the next plate going out, and then hissed at me, "You didn't see that!!!!" I quit that night.<br /><br />And now after watching several episodes of Kitchen Nightmares, thanks to <a href="http://www.hulu.com/">http://www.hulu.com/</a> I can watch them as often as I want to, I have decided that as much as I love to go out to eat, I might have to scale back to just one. Our Greek restaurant, where the owner's kitchen is in plain view, and clean...and he's a friend. I've already had major reservations with two of our many Mexican restaurants, though we eat at them fairly often anyway. One of them is a family run business and Hubby and I went to school with the son, who is now the manager. We sort of feel obligated, plus they make the very best homemade flour tortillas in the world. The rest of the food is sub par. And it has the nickname "El Squirtos" by everyone in town, because most people leave with the Hershey's Squirts. But people still keep going there.<br /><br />The other Mexican restaurant in question is an overpriced, over popular place in town. I don't care for it at all, but 90% of the town does. It gives me the creeps, this place, and I have heard rumors of roaches and rancid chicken. They were confirmed last week. Our friends went in, sat down, ate some chips and when the waitress came over to take their order, the wife noticed a ROACH crawling up her leg! She screamed and the waitress beat it to death and then said with a snarl, "You brought a cockroach from your house! That is not from here!" My friends were not only insulted, they were disgusted and could not stay.<br /><br />I've had a nightmare eating experience in a Mexican restaurant...actually situated in Mexico. A few years ago Hubby and I went to Cabo for a few days. We'd eaten well, based on restaurant recommendations from a friend who lived there. But one day, we decided to wing it. And I don't mean <em>chicken</em> wings.<br /><br /><strong>To be continued....for now enjoy watching the grossest Kitchen Nightmare to date in Cassoulet's opinion....<br /></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><object height="296" width="512"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/NndgHNeUV1F8ondXMXUU2g"><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/NndgHNeUV1F8ondXMXUU2g" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="296"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-31066378881259287412008-11-24T00:00:00.000-08:002008-11-23T23:08:22.511-08:00Licorice The Mouse<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjMdhuN1mbSIj2nj8zpXTP19casKyq2cdpH2mBEbr6ZNnBfN_27-TUbRQs8mVoQZdXX18N5bpAZwqXyupYSjA6_vmXeoiug5EDrwhuU-YP2g7VnYhggEAX1zNKJM1jSYfoYX3BwK5fw/s1600-h/jerry+mouse.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272116578443455730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjMdhuN1mbSIj2nj8zpXTP19casKyq2cdpH2mBEbr6ZNnBfN_27-TUbRQs8mVoQZdXX18N5bpAZwqXyupYSjA6_vmXeoiug5EDrwhuU-YP2g7VnYhggEAX1zNKJM1jSYfoYX3BwK5fw/s320/jerry+mouse.png" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em><strong>Continued from this post </strong></em><a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/10/my-first-greek-lesson-of-mice-and-men.html"><em><strong>here</strong></em></a><em>. </em></div><br /><div>So the mouse in the cage did not look like our pet mouse Licorice. I screamed, and told Hubby that he just picked up a wild, disease-ridden rodent! Panicked expression on his face (he's a Germ-a-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">phobe</span>), he ran to the cage and insisted it was Licorice, but with a 'fro. It's true, Licorice had a new 'do. It was a 'fro. And a little lighter color, less charcoal grey, and more, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dust ball</span> grey. Like she'd been camping out in a dust bunny. Or got lit up by the pilot light in the furnace.</div><br /><div><br />So, she stayed there in her cage for a few more days; enough to fake us out that she'd stay. And then *poof* disappeared. There were mouse droppings all over the garage, showing us that she was definitely not changing her address. </div><br /><div><br />As I was leaving to take a walk last week, I saw the red carpet runner that I threw out in the garage after I destroyed it in the dryer, and not wanting the neighbors to think I was trashy (you know, the kind of neighbor with a mice breeding ground in their garage), I picked up the carpet and walked it over to the trash can that was about to be picked up by the garbage man. I almost made it, but I felt something lightly scurry across one of my hands. Having just written Cockroach Chronicles, I was a <em>tad</em> bit jumpy. </div><br /><div><br />I screamed hysterically (maybe more than a <em>tad bit</em>) and threw the carpet! Something leaped off my hand and made a muffled splatting sound on the driveway. I stopped screaming when I saw it was not the Cockroach Chronicles Revisited, but just Licorice. She had been living in the discarded rug and when I picked it up, she scurried out and jumped on my hand, then got flung off when I went crazy. </div><br /><div><br />I'm sure the neighbors got a laugh. I reached down and picked Licorice up and put her back in the cage and told Hubby that we have to take her to a field and let her go. No one pays attention to her, and I definitely don't want her getting the romantic attention from a wild mouse.</div><br /><div><br />This morning, we had to make a run to the dump. As we were loading up empty boxes, Hubby picked up the red rug. Out plopped Licorice, and because Hubby is skittish and has short-term memory, he jumped and yelled when she came out. That was enough to make my day right there!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So, as it stands, we still have the mouse. Any creative ideas about how to get rid of a pet mouse, <em>nicely?</em><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-58831732769938201682008-11-21T00:01:00.000-08:002009-01-21T15:32:32.415-08:00Once Upon A Time...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ij_Pbp54ZqaedlUWf_RunZZ4JDlqC04Y_9i-n1gsgUb5s6fAxdvkt1Q5kgFwhmtg5mdV83RqZcRwaKkOaLVZSMXnaMFH8Hx-cukH0hAkJf0x1JEG5BBZgZUUjK5X7rjjBDIdoRA2uQ/s1600-h/us+kids.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270958389659102402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 165px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 147px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ij_Pbp54ZqaedlUWf_RunZZ4JDlqC04Y_9i-n1gsgUb5s6fAxdvkt1Q5kgFwhmtg5mdV83RqZcRwaKkOaLVZSMXnaMFH8Hx-cukH0hAkJf0x1JEG5BBZgZUUjK5X7rjjBDIdoRA2uQ/s320/us+kids.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Once upon a time, there was a nice little family with 4 little kids. The mommy and daddy had had wacky/bad childhoods respectively, but they made a surprisingly normal life for their own children. The kind of life that they wished they'd had, but without spoiling them.<br /><br /><div><div>The kids were actually nice little children, with good manners in public usually. However, at home, they could be naughty. They tormented each other, fought with each other, and often made their mother cry because of it. The little kids had a love/hate relationship with each other. Probably like most siblings.</div><div><br /></div><div>The two older kids, Oldest Sister and Oldest Brother, would relentlissly tease Baby Brother. You see, the two oldest children had dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin and definitely looked like siblings. Even though they had the same two parents, Baby Brother was the opposite of them. He was blond haired, hazel eyed, and quite pudgy. He also developed a temper at 2 years of age, worsening as he got older. But Younger Brother was so cute when he was mad, the oldest children thought. It was entertaining for Sister and Brother to tease him.</div><div></div><div>At about age five, Baby Brother began developing annoying "quirks" and weird habits. He cleared his throat a million times each hour,resulting in being verbally assaulted by the others. He got angry a lot, and would turn himself into a little billy goat and ram his siblings with the top of his head. They would laugh, which would make Baby Brother even more angry. He would foam saliva at the mouth with frustration that they weren't taking his anger seriously. Brother and Sister laughed even harder. The mom and dad didn't think the teasing was funny nor acceptable.<br /></div><div></div><div>Soon, the older siblings came up with the brilliant fabrication that Baby Brother was adopted. This is what they told him when he was acting up or being extra annoying with his throat clearing or hand washing obsession. They would try to prove the Adoption Theory to him by saying, <em>"Look at ourrrrrr hair, it's brown, yourrrrrrs is blooooond. Look at ourrrrr eyes, they are browwwwwn, yours are haaaaaazel.</em>" and so on. They didn't perceive that instead of tears coming out, it was rage bottling up inside his little body. Their mother knew. She pulled him into her room, got out the special box of secret treasures, and showed him the photos of his very own birth to extinguish his fears.</div><div></div><div>Next time the Elder Siblings tried to say he was adopted, he replied with a "NanananaNAHnah...I have pictures of me coming out of mommy's tummy, so I know you're liars!" Lying was something Baby Brother detested. It was something he was compulsive about not doing. Even if it meant telling and retelling stories until he got each and every detail just perfect. Just so his conscience was clear that he didn't accidentally lie.</div><div><br /></div><div>But there were many good times too. Baby Brother was fun when it was just one on one. He had the best sense of humor and was always making the others laugh. He was funny, he was sensitive and he was creative. He always had a soft spot in his heart for the underdogs in the world, as well as for babies...prompted by the birth of Youngest Sister, when Baby Brother was 5 years old. He often worried about people biting Baby Sister's fingers off. Could it really be done? He asked The Mom 99 times each day. Oh, <em>he</em> would never have dreamed of doing it, he was just worried it could happen. Maybe? Possibly? What if? He lost sleep over things like these.</div><div> </div><div></div><div>Even though there was fighting and teasing, Baby Brother and Oldest Sister ended up having a very close relationship, even though they did fight more than the other siblings did.</div><div><br /></div><div>In time, the Siblings grew up as all children do, and Oldest Sister got married. Then Older Brother left home. Then Oldest Sister had her first baby. Baby Brother and Baby Niece developed a bond from the night she was born that grew and grew. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's change Baby Brother's name to Younger Brother. Time passed, and Younger Brother left home and discovered the party life. But Younger Brother had previous issues. He was often depressed. He often had panic attacks. We realized his quirks and obsessions actually had a name. OCD. And his OCD was out of control often. So, Younger Brother decided that he felt better when he was drinking alcohol. But that brought only problems.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Younger Brother would come Home to visit, he never drank. He was too worried about making sure Niece and Nephew were safe <em>at all times</em>. He played with them. He drew with them. He did Mad Libs with them, with gratuitous use of the word "poop" and its synonyms, resulting in hysterical laughter and pure joy for the Niece and Nephew. Oldest Sister trusted him completely with her children, for he would have fought to the death to protect his flesh and blood. He adored them, and they him.<br /><br />When he left, it was always with tears and promises and plans. But, when he returned home, he always turned back to the party life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Younger Brother was always disposed to anger, so when he drank, he liked to fight. Usually there were lots of other inebriated "boys" who thought this was good sport as well. And thus started the ritual of barbaric fun, so glorified by mainstream entertainment today.</div><div></div><div>Oldest Sister was always worried. Oldest Sister wondered if her teasing the many years before somehow turned Younger Brother's anger on. Oldest Sister wondered if she bears the responsibility for his outcome.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day, Oldest Sister received a phone call. Her cousin was shot dead at a party the night before. <em>Younger Brother was always with Cousin</em>. In fact, he had previously saved Cousin's very life in a bar fight Cousin started, and Younger Brother went to jail for kicking the man who had Cousin in a choke-hold. Younger Brother stopped drinking after this, didn't stay in jail and cleaned up his act. He knew that drinking was only creating problems.</div><div><br /></div><div>One night, he got a call from Cousin begging him to come to The Fateful Party. Younger Brother refused repeatedly saying he didn't want to go, because there would be alcohol and he didn't want to be tempted.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cousin went without him. As the party was ending, he was shot at point blank range in the stomach with a shotgun, trigger pulled by the host of the party (a life long "friend") for reasons we'll never know. Oldest Sister, Siblings and Mom and Dad knew there was another death besides Cousin, pending notification of next of kin. The Family had no news from Younger Brother. <em>For two days</em>. Oldest Sister was sure he was laying in the morgue, with a tag on his toe reading John Doe. For two days, Family agonized. Younger Brother's phone was ringing unanswered. His cell phone was going immediately to voicemail. Oldest Sister decided that she now knew what it was like to lose a sibling.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then Oldest Sister's phone rang...and on the other end was quiet sobbing, if it can be described as such. It was Younger Brother. He was not ok. He felt he should have been there to save Cousin...again. He drove to the scene of the crime the day after it happened, and saw the bloodflow down the driveway. <em>He was not ok.</em></div><div><br /></div><div>Oldest Sister got on a plane and went to Younger Brother, 1000 miles away. She saw his eyes. And knew change for the worse was imminent. Survivor's guilt is something that can morph into something very hideous and self-destructive. Younger Brother didn't talk for hours. And then, he said to Oldest Sister, <em>"All I want is what you have. A good marriage mate who is also your best friend, and kids. I want that for myself."</em></div><div><br /></div><div>Several months went by after Oldest Sister went home. One day, Younger Brother called and said him and Girlfriend were just minutes from Home. It was a surprise visit! The Family had 7 short but almost perfect days together. Photos were taken, moods were good, spirits were lifted...until it was time for them to leave. Girlfriend sparked a fight with Younger Brother, and he vowed to make her go the 1000 miles back home without him. He told Oldest Sister that he knew what he wanted, and it was to stay here with The Family and watch Niece and Nephew grow up. </div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270890855783863746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 184px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspEAFu8qCZAzk1vqOiRWgJy0l7ycYWEZ-65x1aFvE30FN6IFxP5AYgkPmqaGsIe-gw8nR5NhWpiiqpV1khAHDlc6VIXM5JBPUTbBMy7oSxUfHtNm5ndJhzrAnVyvGeQqnYPDpR2LJfg/s200/Jody+and+kids.jpg" border="0" /> Oldest Sister begged and pleaded for him to just go back with Girlfriend, then he could pack his stuff and come back the right way, without making her drive 1000 unfamiliar miles alone, crying and heartbroken. Oldest Sister regrets this conversation.<br /><br /><div>Because soon after they left, an Old Friend of Youngest Brother called Oldest Sister and said he would be in town and could he have his phone number to say "hey"? She gave it to him. She regrets answering this phone call.</div><br /><div>A week passes with no word from Youngest Brother. Old Friend's father calls Dad and says, <em>"My son is in jail. He was with your son. Do you know where your son is?"</em></div><br /><div>Frantic calls are made. Details are sketchy. Bar, drinking, fighting, arrests. Phone calls go unanswered. Oldest Sister Googles the County Jail. Inputs Younger Brother's name. And The Family's world flips upside down. <em>Just like that</em>. </div><br /><div>Younger Brother finally calls The Mom a few days later, crying. Blaming himself for Cousin's death, he had started drinking again. He went to a local bar with Old Friend that night. Joined in a fight in the parking lot. Cops came, everyone ran, except Old Friend and Younger Brother. He's crying, and of all the things he could say, he sobbed and said, <em>"I'm so ashamed. I can't believe I'm going to miss Niece and Nephew growing up."</em></div><br /><div>Oldest Sister doesn't appreciate Blame Games, or Playing the Martyr, but she does feel that she could have done things differently for a better outcome and a better childhood for her brother. She knows the teasing and her impatience of his "quirks" didn't help him at all. Oldest Sister knows Youngest Brother best. And this is what gives Oldest Sister the power, endurance and courage to be there for him and to support him through his consequences for using alcohol and fighting to try and get rid of his demons. For she knows what his potential is. </div><br /><div>The Family is all Younger Brother has left now. The "friends" all disappeared. The Girlfriend bailed. No one was left except The Family. It's a good family, and Younger Brother writes and tells them this in each letter he composes. He knows what he lost. He won't lose it again. </div><br /><div>I know what his potential is. Because he is my baby brother.</div><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270956560698073058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 167px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAMCiZayLBy3-EUSywWL3D5GjdSLWMNqiwfpw_t_9LjI2XTHIKlSGy8v4rnHMYDSDVaUN8bTfESviBxyruGN7SBcL5T7G1OcOLj2mjRryqkenPo96yWmxvvdcE6YLZZrxe_8V5Btgcg/s200/jody+self+portrait+2.jpg" border="0" /> </div><div>Oil, Self portrait of Younger Brother, by Younger Brother, 2008.<br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </div></div></div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-78659531825776973102008-11-16T15:55:00.000-08:002008-11-19T01:04:27.613-08:00My First Blogging Award Ever!<blockquote><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fZPEhzBE0dYRuxDyCNcdbRiQvLNjK8bGq5_TwLuk_NjPNAQRPdVHngJICh7AIWllmXsYLlNu-oJAIaqdWBF_cHivV3KkTDhyphenhyphen9pmC44bg7X7GNcKliDAIIdrs2Db1TnO9JsZu7AcLmw/s1600-h/superior-scribbler-award.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fZPEhzBE0dYRuxDyCNcdbRiQvLNjK8bGq5_TwLuk_NjPNAQRPdVHngJICh7AIWllmXsYLlNu-oJAIaqdWBF_cHivV3KkTDhyphenhyphen9pmC44bg7X7GNcKliDAIIdrs2Db1TnO9JsZu7AcLmw/s1600-h/superior-scribbler-award.jpg"></blockquote></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269409952655468386" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 144px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fZPEhzBE0dYRuxDyCNcdbRiQvLNjK8bGq5_TwLuk_NjPNAQRPdVHngJICh7AIWllmXsYLlNu-oJAIaqdWBF_cHivV3KkTDhyphenhyphen9pmC44bg7X7GNcKliDAIIdrs2Db1TnO9JsZu7AcLmw/s400/superior-scribbler-award.jpg" border="0" /> What a Superior Day! Wow, I needed it. I received this award for Superior Scribbling skills (aka: my blog) full of <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2007/10/part-two-train-incident.html">French-y-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">fied</span> </a>drama, <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/11/why-i-hate-wal-mart.html">complaints</a>, reflections, <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2007/11/my-grandparents-started-it.html">memories</a>, obsessions, humor, <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2007/10/un-caf-sil-vous-plat.html">food/drink </a>and utter <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-didnt-want-to-be-pet-drama-blogger.html">gross-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ness</span></a>. I received this award from a weasel....no, <em>The Weasel, The Red One Herself,<a href="http://labeletterouge.blogspot.com/"> </a></em><a href="http://labeletterouge.blogspot.com/">La <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Belette</span> Rouge</a>.<br /><br /><ol><li>So, I now have to follow as well as post The Award Rules. </li></ol><ul><li>Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Bloggy</span> Friends. </li><li>Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award. </li><li>Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to <a style="FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://scholastic-scribe.blogspot.com/2008/10/200-this-blings-for-you.html">This Post</a>, which explains The Award. </li><li>Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Linky</span> List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor! </li><li>Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.</li></ul><p>So, drum roll please, I am awarding this to these Five Fabulously <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Scribbly</span> Blogs (in random order):</p><ol><li><a href="http://notsosahm.wordpress.com/">Not So Stay At Home Mom</a> This woman's blog caught my attention recently, because she has <a href="http://notsosahm.wordpress.com/2008/02/04/day-1-we-have-one-of-those-kids/">"one of <em>those</em> kids</a>". As I was reading, I sort of got dizzy and faint and thought maybe she might have kidnapped "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Spazzy</span>", my two year old daughter, for her tales seemed eerily similar to ours. Quick check into the bathroom revealed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Spazzy</span> had not been nabbed, for she had opened the linen closet and scaled the shelves to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">tippy</span> top where all the Poison-Control-Should-Be-Called-Soon items were hiding. Oh, weren't we supposed to <em>not</em> be talking about me right now? Anyhow, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">NotSoSAHM</span> has one of <em>those</em> kids, and when I saw the photo of her daughter, I officially blacked out for .12 seconds because she not only <em>acts</em> like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Spazzy</span>, but could <em>be her twin separated at birth</em> (if I'd have actually been pregnant with twins, and one was ripped away from the hospital room in the night, and shipped to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">NotSoSAHM</span>). <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Spazzy's</span> Twin, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Ashlyn</span>, also <a href="http://notsosahm.wordpress.com/2008/06/07/this-is-ashlyndont-tell-mommy/">Scribbles on her mommy's blog, and is a must read.</a></li><li><a href="http://debbiedoesdrivel.blogspot.com/">Debbie Does Drivel </a>cracks me up. She lives in Maine (ME) which is where my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Grampa</span> was from. And she is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">freakin</span>' hilarious without even trying, it seems. (Duh CC, she's a Humor Blogger...they don't receive that designation for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">nuttin</span>') Her post <a href="http://debbiedoesdrivel.blogspot.com/2008/10/creature-from-garage-loft.html">The Creature From the Garage Loft </a>made me laugh so hard it inspired writing about my own pet drama.</li><li><a href="http://completelyalienne.blogspot.com/">Completely <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Alienne</span> </a>is a new blogger with superior scribbling. She's had a terrible tragedy and is trying to cope and continue living, while raising teen daughters Lenin and Attila (names have been changed to protect the innocent mom). <em>This woman is strong.</em> </li><li><a href="http://thepreppyprincess.wordpress.com/">The Preppy Princess </a>not only is a very thorough Scribbler, she gives us eye candy to go with it. We love her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">multiple</span> viewpoints (or is that personalities?) blog and we love her comments on our blog. We love how she says "we" and "our" and we want her/them to have this award for her pretty, preppy, pink and very conversational web log.</li><li><a href="http://whatfrenchdream.blogspot.com/">What French Dream? (or Living the Dream...not!) </a>hits close to my heart. As my readers may or may not know, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Cassoulet</span> Cafe started as an ex expat in France blog, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">dishin</span>' about all the good and crappy things about France. Speaking of crap, the first post I read on What French Dream? was <a href="http://whatfrenchdream.blogspot.com/2008/10/un-histoire-anonyme.html">this post about French toilets</a>. It's hilarious and it's all true! She also took my challenge on Cockroach <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Chronicles</span> by posting her <a href="http://whatfrenchdream.blogspot.com/2008/11/slugs-and-snails-and-nasty-wiggly.html">own nasty bug experience</a>. <a href="http://whatfrenchdream.blogspot.com/2008/11/sacr-bleu-le-couscous-qui-sexplose.html">Exploding couscous </a>is also on the menu.</li></ol><p></p><blockquote></blockquote><p><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </p>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-71745525008243756862008-11-13T09:59:00.000-08:002008-11-18T23:33:42.805-08:00Still Life (Still Alive)<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKy6S208bEP5KNfdkW1Ph8KqLnLPTQWtFQvgIaHwyjmd1wuTUemJObuHWPN5fJFEkIApVhOjRIauYaq4CNAk7BoStTTH-C93zN6GzY68-RFMzama84jGXzCx6U_0kK9mJeBz58xA1Myg/s1600-h/jody+still+life.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268204590830424658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKy6S208bEP5KNfdkW1Ph8KqLnLPTQWtFQvgIaHwyjmd1wuTUemJObuHWPN5fJFEkIApVhOjRIauYaq4CNAk7BoStTTH-C93zN6GzY68-RFMzama84jGXzCx6U_0kK9mJeBz58xA1Myg/s400/jody+still+life.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><strong> <span style="font-size:85%;">"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time."(-Thomas Merton)</span></strong></em><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>We received a very special delivery the other day. <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/10/french-toast.html">Since my brother is being transferred to another prison,</a> he was required to send home most of his possessions. This means his artwork, supplies and art books. This is bitter sweet, because it means his masterpieces, which were a virtual window to the outside world, are now here with us. Sweet for <em>us </em>to be able to have in our possession. Bitter that <em>he</em> doesn't have them anymore.<br /><br />When we opened the boxes and looked through his hundreds of doodles, sketches and practice pieces, I felt as if he was home. I didn't feel so far away. There was something on the bottom of the box, a rolled up piece of canvas. I pulled the canvas scroll out, seeing my brother's name and compulsory inmate number written on it. It tied by a string. I untied and unrolled it, and when I saw what it contained, my heart skipped a beat and I gasped. It was his paint brush holder, with all his brushes.<br /><br />Maybe it's because the only things previously allowed to make it out of his cell are paintings and letters, or maybe it's because I knew what these brushes have created in his hand. But, to behold his brushes made tears well up.<br /><br />It was as if I was seeing <em>his very hands</em>. These brushes have created his expressions and feelings for four years now. These brushes have been the key to his very survival and his literal life line. They have created his virtual escape of the six-by-nine foot concrete box he lives in with another person. They've created his portal to exotic places and back home to people he loves.<br /><br />As most prisoners do, they learn to make something from nothing. My brother often put in orders for art supplies, paid for them, and never received them. His brushes were getting worn down. His solution: grow his hair out to harvest and make "new" brushes with. (He also convinced an inmate who had a pet gopher that died, to let him get some hairs from him for his brush before the burial. ) These are the brushes I beheld.<br /><br />The still life that he did is something I cannot quit staring at. I've never really been into still life art before, though I do appreciate it. But, this is captivating me.<br /><br />What do <em>you</em> see?<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">PS. Sorry for the poor quality photo I took of his painting.</span><br /></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a></div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-2232091597917131572008-11-11T23:11:00.000-08:002008-11-18T23:33:42.806-08:00A Baby Sitting Job<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCc-oc2mkxSsR80WE5ZsHG2-sCbTWbjP8ZIa8OOQPOpu6mKy7ytRECrw_Ib2L8LJ_tsZY0I0TkJlpD5BGF2P96A03RZO0QdnYCoEDmN7MHypkqPTl9_hzL6MYrfwGhSLBJGNI80lgQYw/s1600-h/deep.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267682903764499010" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 279px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 331px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCc-oc2mkxSsR80WE5ZsHG2-sCbTWbjP8ZIa8OOQPOpu6mKy7ytRECrw_Ib2L8LJ_tsZY0I0TkJlpD5BGF2P96A03RZO0QdnYCoEDmN7MHypkqPTl9_hzL6MYrfwGhSLBJGNI80lgQYw/s400/deep.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I had lots of baby sitting jobs as a teenager. Some of them were tolerable and two in particular were downright disturbing. But the most important baby sitting job I had was also the most <em>fun</em>, and the one that taught me and touches me the most. The one I'll never forget.<br /><br />For me, most good things seem to happen in summer, my favorite season. This was no exception. My summer job was to baby sit "B". I knew his family well, and I was so excited that they actually trusted me enough to care for him during the work day. I began when he was 3 years old. I was not only thrilled to have a job, but I actually liked B! Besides being cute, he was also...quirky. I happen to love quirky kids.<br /><br />When I would get to his apartment, his mom always ran down the usual list of things that made him crazy-hyper that were forbidden: <em>sugar</em>. I would laugh and assure her I remembered. She would tell me this for <em>my </em>own protection. As I had a long day ahead of me, she warned me how hard my job would get if I gave in.<br /><br />When she would leave, we would turn the TV on. But not to Barney or The Smurfs. These were the days when MTV actually played music videos, and B seemed to know the words to every single hit. My favorite was watching him perform "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard. He was my little 3 year old entertainment.<br /><br />After we did that, I would usually sit in the recliner with him to "read" his favorite book. Which was not actually reading, but a game we played. The book was My Book of Bible Stories, and his mom read them so often to him (you know how kids are) and he listened to the stories on tape so often, that he literally had memorized the entire book, Adam to Armageddon. So I would say, "Ok B, tell me Story number 66" and he would start to recite. I would follow along in the book to see if he got it right. He did. Every single time. Over 100 stories and he knew them all before he could even read a word.<br /><br />This book also had vivid illustrations. One time B's mom had taken him to the store. When they got to the cash register, she said the cashier had tons of makeup and jewelry on, with very long red nails. She was trying to engage B in conversation, but B was having none of it. When the lady wouldn't give up, he finally said, "Wady, you wook wike Jezebel!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" His mom was mortified, but then admitted to me, "Well, she <em>did</em> look like her.... <em>sigh...</em>"<br /><br />Summertime is hot and calls for cold drinks. What better to battle humidity with than a Slurpee from? 7-11 happened to be near B's house. So, I suggested that we take a walk down there. When we got there, I told B we were going to get Slurpees. <em>"What's that?"</em> I got one for him and let him taste. His eyes grew huge at the first taste of the sweet, cold, <em>sugar-laden</em> drink. It was <em>soooo </em>good! We slowly walked home, slurping all the way. Every 1 or 2 minutes, B would say, <em>"What is this thing called again? A slimy?"</em> "No B, it's a Slurrrrrpee." No matter how many millions of times I told him that summer, he always forgot and called it a Slimy. <em>"Are we getting Slimies today?"</em> "No, B, you had one yesterday and went crazy-hyper. Your mom's gonna kill me."<br /><br />So, we'd curl up in the recliner with a book, and B would start rubbing my elbow. This little boy <em>loved</em> skin. He especially loved to rub people's elbows with the palm of his little hand. He rubbed ever so softly, in a circle, smiling up at me every now and then. We would tell stories and play games. I thought he was the cutest little boy in the world. </div><div><br />As it does, time passes. <em>Quickly.</em> B was older, about 9, and I didn't need to babysit him anymore and besides, I was in a flurry of wedding plans. I remember being told that B asked his mom if he could come with her to my bridal shower. I was honored! Maybe he did still love his baby sitter after all. During the gift opening, he sat in the front row with the little girls to watch the gifts being opened. All the little girls were killing each other over who was going to pass the next present to me. Not B. He sat there with a sly little grin on his face, watching, and I felt so proud that he was secure enough to ignore the fact that he was the only boy there.<br /><br />A few days later, his aunt told me that B said, <em>"Wow, now I know why people go to bridal showers! They get to see down the bride's shirt every time she bends over to pick up a present."<br /></em><br />More years pass. B grew up. B is 24 years old now and married. Nine months ago, they had their first baby. I could not imagine B being old enough to be a daddy, because to me he is still a hyper, Slimy Slurping, precocious little 4 year old. Though I can totally imagine him being a daddy. And a darn good one. Rubbing those little baby elbows, toes, head. A great dad.</div><div></div><div>Three days after he first laid eyes on his new baby daughter, he received a call from his doctor. He was dying. A newly discovered, rare form of kidney cancer with no successful treatments.<br /></div><div>Four months of painful surgery, recovery and backfiring experimental medication....and in July he was given 2 weeks more to live. <em>But he is still here,</em> albeit ravaged with tumors in every part of his young, but failing body.<br /><br />The only thing I could do was write to him. I did. I told him how much those summer days meant to me, in charge of him. How he made me laugh, and how those memories have always been precious to me. I told him that in life, there are people who touch us profoundly, yet we sometimes let them slip away and it becomes months then years that we haven't talked to them. But that doesn't mean that we don't still love those people. That we don't still think about them each and every day. I told him he was one of those people in my life. </div><div></div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-17263875044138734722008-11-10T23:45:00.000-08:002008-11-18T23:34:34.674-08:00Cockroach Chronicles: Part Two (Ewww!)So I didn't creep you out enough <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/11/cockroach-chronicles-part-one.html">yesterday</a>. You're back for more! It's like sniffing a sponge over and over. Or smelling sour milk repeatedly. You just have to go back and make sure it is as bad as you thought it was the first time.<br /><br />Have you ever stepped on a roach barefoot? More specifically, a roach on carpet, while in your half asleep 2am stupor trying to make it to the toilet? Roaches are cold. For three long years I flipped on the bright hallway light to make sure there were no roaches dying on the path to the toilet. I would say 50 percent of the time, there was one there acting as a road block.<br /><br />But that pales in comparison to what happened next.<br /><br />We made plans to go hike a water fall with friends. We got ready and went to pick them up. We made the hour drive to the falls, got out and began the hike. It took about 45 minutes to get to the falls. In all, from the time I put my shoes on earlier that day, until I reached the waterfall, it was 4 hours.<br /><br />I hate wrinkles in my socks. I kept feeling like there was a wrinkle in the heel of my sock. I pulled and pulled but there was no possible way it was a wrinkle. I thought maybe it was a tiny little twig or piece of straw that wedged its way in there. I suffered through, trying to ignore it, like my mom always told me when I had sock-wrinkle phobia as a child. When we got to the top of the trail, I'd had enough. I took my shoe off to see what was causing me the discomfort.<br />Do you see where I'm going with this???<br /><br />It was a big, fat, juicy cockroach! I started hopping backwards on one foot, with my hands over my ears, shrieking like a crazy girl. My shrieks turned into howls and tears and actual retching. My husband and our two friends thought I was having some kind of a seizure. Everyone at the previously peaceful falls watched in horror. I was convulsing and managed to spit out, "R-r-r-r- <em>(retch)</em> ROACH. ROACH. SHOE." <em>(retch again)</em>. My husband and his friend ran over to the shoe, kicked out the roach, and grabbed some rocks and started stoning it to death. I will never, <em>EVER</em> forget how many direct hits it took until it finally died.<br /><br />The creepiest thing is that it was trapped under my heel for four hours, and it was still alive. <span style="font-size:85%;">(Now is not the time to tell me that horrid story about how roaches live for a week with their heads cut off. I already <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">YouTubed</span> it. I cannot discuss.)</span><br /><br />I ripped the contaminated sock off, refused to put my shoe back on, and hobbled the rest of the way back to the car.<br /><br />And if you mention "sock", <em>chances are.....I have a roach story to go with it</em>. Fast forward a few years. Parent's house again. Put on a fresh pair of socks to wear around their house (no shoes rule). Something was tickling my pinkie toe. I screamed and said it felt like a fly was in my sock! My sister said, <em>"With your luck, it's probably not a fly, but a roach."</em> I ripped that sock off and there was a baby roach that was cut in half but still alive. <em>Cut in half by my pinkie toenail.</em> And did I mention, <em>still alive?!</em> And you know I don't have to actually type the word 'screaming' for you to visualize me now.<br /><br />So the last roach story of Cockroach Chronicles: Part Two, happened again on a summer's evening at my parents' house. We were coming to get the kids after an evening of house hunting without them. My son was a whiny baby, and he was crying and looking out the living room window as we pulled up. I got out of the car, walked up and rapped on the window and make funny faces at him to make him laugh. I swatted away some mosquitoes and moths that were <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hangin</span>' out near the porch light.<br /><br />I walked in the door. I felt something run across my face and down my neck. I didn't need to let me imagination run, because my sister's eyes were as giant as saucers, mouth wide open, no sound coming out, staring at me. I did the Roach Run (again visualize Jennifer Grey in Ferris <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Bueller's</span> Day Off), slapping my face and screaming at the top of my lungs. I slapped that foul beast off my face, it slid across the kitchen floor, looked at me (it's true!) and ran back into the living room.<br /><br />What is it with me and the bug I fear the most? I can honestly say I have never eaten one on accident, and if I did, you better believe you'd never see another blog post again. I'd be gone. Dead, that is. I know I'd have a heart attack. And if my children ever ate one, well, I'd have to get new ones. Not really. But I might not look at them the same again.<br /><br />And why are there so many stories about roaches entering body <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">orifices</span> at night? Ears, noses, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">blehhhh</span>,...and even stories of them eating eye lases and toenails. I. Have. To. Stop. This. Post. Now. For. Sanity's. Sake.<br />Enjoy:<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3lv8pq77Qas&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3lv8pq77Qas&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-63369557416818975822008-11-10T08:25:00.000-08:002011-11-29T22:14:15.510-08:00Cockroach Chronicles: Part One<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxx67Uq33g03H1FPtASLaKQTh26hrhjXaq-kzRPh_ahnXmjDtbjh1DcjpreCNdGGTQ7tyrrYjGpibF4VlEvtYXAc7H6e2Eaac0kcYaGHl28ilrg5sGw7vkNgJNM9c9kOAM9lFi6AtZ2I/s1600-h/screamingwoman.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267095041487194162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxx67Uq33g03H1FPtASLaKQTh26hrhjXaq-kzRPh_ahnXmjDtbjh1DcjpreCNdGGTQ7tyrrYjGpibF4VlEvtYXAc7H6e2Eaac0kcYaGHl28ilrg5sGw7vkNgJNM9c9kOAM9lFi6AtZ2I/s320/screamingwoman.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 298px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 250px;" /></a><br />
<div>The paralyzing fear began in the summer of '87. There was an incident in my bedroom. This is when I found out....<em>they can fly. </em></div><br />
<div>It was a hot, humid Oregon summer. There was a somewhat smallish roach on my bedroom ceiling. I had a friend over to spend the night. We stared at it, planning its execution. As if it could read my mind, it decided to show me who owned the ceiling. It did not jump. It did not fall. It <em>flew </em>right at me. Screaming, I ran the direction I was facing...which required an Olympic hurdle over my foot board. I didn't quit make it. I landed on the floor, and the roach thought it best to land in my dark hair...eerily a perfect camo for the nasty little beast. Had I been blond, they could have gotten it out sooner. They could have seen it right away and flicked it off. But I am not blond (even though that was the summer of Sun-In), and that night commenced my fear, loathing and paranoia of these nasty, repulsive little monsters.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I generally only had to worry about them in the summer and eventually my parents pulled the juniper bushes from the front of the house, which were rumored to be attractive to roaches. These particular roaches were small, didn't invade cupboards, and just basically liked to fly around terrifying everyone. They liked to live outside. But things were about to take a turn for the worse.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I got married (no, <em>that</em> wasn't the turn for the worse), and we moved into a very cute, "retro" if you will, apartment complex. They were vintage 1940, in an older part of town. Moving day went fine...<em>but then the sun went down</em>. We turned on a movie, watched for a bit, and then I decided to go into the kitchen to get some ice cream. I flipped on the light and there were about 30 roaches, frozen-mid-scurry, all over the floor. In point two seconds, they were <em>just gone. </em>I screamed. </div><div></div><div>The next morning, as new brides do, I got up at the butt-crack of dawn to make Hubby his lunch to take to work. As we weren't yet unpacked, I had to go into the living room and dig through a big box to find the sandwich baggies. I was pre-Lasik, so I was blind as a bat. As I was diggin through the boxes, I felt something cold on the underside of my poor, poor bare foot. I said to myself, <em>"Gross! I hate when I drop lunch meat and step on it. Ewwww!"</em> So I started kicking my foot to get the meat off, because who wants to touch cold lunch meat on a foot? What fell off my naked foot wasn't turkey-colored. It was <em>black.</em> And the size of a date. But dates aren't allowed in my house (nas-<em>tay</em>). I didn't know what that black thing was because I didn't have my glasses on. I bent down within 3 inches of "It" so my nearly blind eyes could tell me what it was. As it started to come into focus, I saw that it was a big, black, fat roach! Not the little flying kind, the robust-crawled-up-from-the-sewer type. Big, slow and shiny. <em>(How do I type a retching noise?)</em></div><br />
<div></div><div>I screamed bloody murder, and started running in a manner quite reminiscent of Ferris Bueller's sister when she saw the principal at her doorstep. I ran straight into the bathroom, screaming and crying all the way, turned the water on to "scalding" and scalded my foot. After sufficiently sterilizing my flesh, I ran (screaming and crying still) into my room, jumped on my bed and curled up into a ball, and told my husband to call the landlord, we were moving!</div><br />
<div></div><div></div><br />
<div><em><strong>Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow</strong></em>.</div><br />
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<div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;" /></a> </div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-6051159862181452842008-11-04T09:51:00.000-08:002008-11-18T23:34:34.676-08:00Why I Hate Wal-Mart<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJefrogM8aEaw92UsiLZIAi6BuCco8FRZ4NPyS7F1UZGjWg9GQ_T1r1DqXUHRHEgW10TpiXs0vhTuc_ABXXZQr8TFNDNHgBJqB57asJ27qHN95rlJVC8s23lCrqb2_AlcREKpZNscJzw/s1600-h/pj+shoppers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265583648842114386" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 285px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJefrogM8aEaw92UsiLZIAi6BuCco8FRZ4NPyS7F1UZGjWg9GQ_T1r1DqXUHRHEgW10TpiXs0vhTuc_ABXXZQr8TFNDNHgBJqB57asJ27qHN95rlJVC8s23lCrqb2_AlcREKpZNscJzw/s400/pj+shoppers.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Because our other Leap Pad pen cord was used as a leash to pull the Leap Pad around the house with, I was in the market for a new one. I found them very reasonable at <em>gasp!</em> Wal-Mart. I hate our Wal Mart. I hate it almost as much as I hate cockroaches. <span style="font-size:85%;">(And I do realize I didn't do the cockroach post, but I'm working on it.)</span> The price was $24.88. I was running so very late , so when it rang up at $34.88 I just paid and left with the intention of coming right back for a price adjustment.<br />When I went back, the WalMart drama began. I was behind a car in the parking lot that had its blinker on for 5 minutes waiting for this other car to back out. Frustrated that I chose this aisle <span style="font-size:85%;">(because my special talent is choosing the wrong lines everywhere I go! Oh, and also having tall people sit in front of me at the movies.</span>), I had no choice but to wait. But, in true Wal Mart fashion, trouble was brewing where parking spaces close to the front are concerned.<br /><br />Facing our direction was a Kia SUV that had just happened upon the scene and stopped to wait too, but illegally. He was not there first and he did not even have his blinker on. Could he be so rude as to whip in a take the spot of the rightful owner who was waiting an eternity with her butt blinking? YES, he was <em>that </em>rude! He practically flipped the Kia to get it into the spot before the legitimate lady had time to take her foot off the brake.<br /><br />It didn't end there. The lady actually pulled her car up behind the Kia and <em>jumped out</em> with a hot Mocha in her hand and started charging at the mullet-wearing Kia driver and his passengers. She was screaming and shaking the Mocha so hard I was a bit concerned she might scald her face. (Maybe it was assault with a deadly...or hot...weapon) She continued her banshee act, but Kia-driving-mullet-boy just <em>laughed at her</em>. Then she just got back in her car and went to find another spot.<br /><br /><em>PEOPLE!</em> (Well, people of my particular town) Do you not realize that we live in redneck-gun-toting territory? This is not LA, but many people here have visible rifles in their vehicles (just in case they see a deer I guess) and a portion of those people are a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. Albeit, most gun-toters don't drive Kia Sportages. But <em>whatev</em>er. <span style="font-size:78%;">(I'm didn't say I wasn't the Drama Queen.)<br /></span>Nerves shaken, I still proceeded into the Wal-Mart to get my ten bucks back. And, here's the main reason I hate our WM, everybody there was in their "best" pajamas. Hmmm...must be a special occasion. Oh yes, it was the day before Valentines Day. I love a Pajama Party, but with my close friends, not strangers in the Wal Mart. Even though people were shopping for their loved ones, these same people had them in tow and were screaming at these "loved ones", be it child or significant other, as if screaming loud and trashy is going to get the good attention. Those PJ wearin' screamers were buying cheap Sam's choice candy in mass quantities.. I can't take these people seriously; they were wearing the clothes they obviously slept in for the last week. Couldn't they at least upgrade to sweat pants?! I saw them in Woman's World for $2.88. The same price as the Sam's Choice chocolates. I also have seen reasonable prices on bras in Lingerie (if you could call WM undies "lingerie".) Bras are there to help us. Please use them, even under pajamas. If you can't put on a bra to go out in your PJ's, you shouldn't have freshly filled, polished and decorated acrylic fingernails. It sort of defeats the purpose when they are back dropped by dirty pajamas and grungy slippers.<br /><br />So, making my way to the customer service counter, I tell them they overcharged me $10. They send a girl to go all the way across the store and investigate. Too bad for me that she walked like she was heading to her own execution. I moved to the side and prepared to wait.<br /><br />You can't help but people watch when you are surrounded by the wierdest people grouped together in one shop-til-you-drop setting. I swear, in 20 minutes three guys came in to take jumbo size diaper packages back and get some money. They seriously all had mullets. They all wore plaid flannel shirts and black Levis. And all the diapers that came in were the same cheap White Cloud brand, with the packaging looking like it had been dragged through the yard by a Kia with a gun rack. I mean, they'd only be getting about $4 back! <em>Suspicious</em>.<br /><br />Finally, the slow clerk came back after 20 minutes and reported that all of the Leap Pads were indeed $24.99,<em> except for the one I chose</em>. What was the difference?! Electronically, not one thing. Features different? Nope, exactly the same. But the one I chose happened to be <em>green.</em> I sarcastically said, <em>"Isn't that funny, they're all that price, even the pink girly ones, but the green is $10.00 more. Goodbye!"</em><br /><br />I left fuming, vowing I' would <em>never</em> step foot back in that store again.<br /><br /><em>Until I remembered I have pictures waiting for me in Photo...... Oh yeah, and we don't have a Target.<br /></em><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-32478401176045399202008-11-03T07:28:00.000-08:002008-11-18T23:33:42.807-08:00My Poem<div align="center">Answering the ring<br />and<br />Hearing my brother’s shame<br />Telling me where he was<br />Having no explanation<br /><em>His Humiliation<br /></em><br />Seeing our mom suffer<br />She’s<br />Worrying about his new world<br /><em>Understanding he cannot say.<br /></em><br />Finding the strength to go to him,<br />and<br />Seeing him at last…<br />My eyes<br />Overflowing with tears of happiness,<br />but<br />Stinging in pain of truth.<br /><br /><em>His segregation<br /></em><br />Seeing my baby brother in prison blues<br />His clothes are<br />Shouting “PRISONER” in yellow for all to see<br />Forcing<br />Others to guess what he’s done<br />To deserve this appalling place.<br /><br />No one understands this boy<br />Except for us<br /><em>and especially me</em>.<br /><br />And then<br />Seeing his smile as his heart swells with pride<br />upon<br />Meeting his new baby niece<br />He’s<br />Noticing how much the kids have grown<br />Realizing it happened…<br /><em>without him.<br /></em><br />That yellow word on his pants should read instead,<br />“Uncle, Brother and Son”<br /><em>Please,</em><br />Even just <em>“Someone”<br /></em><br />We are<br />Visiting under their rules<br />Playing their game<br />Realizing his dignity is a luxury<br />that gets taken away,<br />Even in front of us.<br /><br />Hating the clock; it bears the news<br />Screaming all day long at me<br />Waiting to shatter our lives<br />at the end of this day<br /><br />And then<br />Hearing the words<br />We have to go<br />Forcing us to leave<br />Abandoning him<br />Saying good bye<br />is<br />Ripping my heart to shreds<br /><br />Seeing his face behind the bars<br />Hearing my daughter’s cries for him<br />but<br />Stifling my own<br /><em>Unsuccessfully<br /></em><br />Unable to survive this walk of shame<br />Down the steps<br />Away from him<br />On the Path to the Outside<br />Aching,<br />Because it’s where <em>he</em> wants to be.<br /><br />Trying to grasp that he can’t come home<br /><em>I am</em><br />Remembering when we were kids<br />Loving these memories<br />Because it’s all we have…for now<br />Visits like this will be erased<br /><em>Only when he is free</em>.<br /><br />Watching my own little boy<br />Knowing my parents watched theirs<br />Hurting because they cannot hold this one<br />Or make it all better<br /><em>This time</em><br /><br />Aching because I cannot remove the pain<br /><em>From anyone</em><br /><br />Understanding there is nothing we can do<br />Except pray<br /><em>And wait.<br /></em><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a> </div>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-83120720602923832952008-10-31T00:00:00.000-07:002008-11-18T23:34:34.677-08:00Blogging Can Be a Bio HazardI wasn't actually blogging when this all went down. I was <em>reading</em> blogs. I was sitting on the lid of the toilet while The Two Year Old was in the bathtub. I pulled the see thru-ish shower curtain closed so she couldn't wet the laptop with one of her crazy splashing episodes. In fact, she was being quite calm this time (which is always a bad sign). I was so mesmerized by the blog I was reading, that I didn't notice the scratchy/prickly feeling on my right arm. I did notice the Spazzy Two Year Old laughing hysterically, and I thought she was laughing because she was poking my arm with her toy shark.<br />As moms are talented at ignoring children, I ignored the scratchy poke for about a minute. When I finished reading the particular post, I looked to the right to see what the baby was poking me with.<br /><br />To my horror, it was this which made contact with my arm:<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263054882217032898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMOukiOBeWUcpMv3M972KNJy29ArVJCgeAKEyeF2xWvao2ij6rejPbZ67Pj7wOAhDj33rKTGR637nN1p6h9Dn4He43IwkqoLZxiFiTFNmaSOnaeJtMJxoWeY1ZaU21FdV38cEZP0AdDBI/s320/toilet+brush.jpg" border="0" /><br /><em>Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!</em> I screamed and leaped off the toilet, <em>almost</em> threw down the laptop, and grabbed that bio hazard away from her. She was laughing hysterically like a goon. I was saying words loudly like, <em>"Nasty! Icky! Blechy! Poopy! Disgusting!"</em> as I was looking for the holder to put it back. Where <em>was </em>the holder?! </p><br /><br /><p>I looked to the left of the toilet where I used to keep it (not now that I know it's within her reach when she's bathing.) It was nowhere to be found. She was shrieking with delight and splashing up a storm behind the shower curtain.<br /><em>Noooooo, she couldn't have!</em> I ripped back the curtain, only to see Spazzy bathing <em>with</em> the toilet brush holder, in bluish chunky-looking water.</p>Now in full fledged screaming mode, I yanked her out of the tub, pulled the plug and told her <em>she</em> was now the Bio hazard. I had to sterilize and sanitize myself, the baby and the tub.<br /><br />But before you think that is the grossest thing you've ever heard, let me relate a story to you that my friend in France told me.<br /><br />My friend babysat this girl who was at the time of the incident, 3 years old. Anyone who has been to France knows that each and every toilet in that country, in private homes or public toilets, has a toilet brush next to it in its holder and some cleaning agent.<br /><br />My friend was at a restaurant with the child (<span style="font-size:85%;">who, as a side point, had to be the ugliest child I ever did see, and ugly attitude to match</span>), who had to <em>faire pipi</em>. She took her potty, then as she was washing her own hands, turned to tell the child to <em>"come on",</em> only to see, <em>quel horreur!</em> that she had picked up the toilet brush <em>holder</em> and was gulping the last of the liquid it contained.<br /><br />As this horror story has never left the forefront of my mind after all these years, I have told it so many times that I just knew something nasty was going to make its way back to me in the form of a payback. (Probably a payback for saying what an ugly child she was).<br /><br /><br />So the moral of this story? When my child is in the tub, I shall refrain from bringing the laptop in. Blogging can be fun, but also can have some nasty consequences.<br /><br />I guess I shouldn't complain, after seeing this:<br /><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/P7Nl54Rby_4&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/P7Nl54Rby_4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10252740584385169518noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3333953604767977789.post-90802681096257805882008-10-30T09:28:00.000-07:002008-11-18T23:34:34.677-08:00Does He Realize I Just Spent 100 Clams to Save His Life?<em>Hey! What the?</em> As I'm sitting here in bed with the laptop trying to read morning blogs, <a href="http://cassouletcafe.blogspot.com/2008/10/funny-thing-happened-on-way-to-vet.html">Skeeter the Cat</a> just hopped up on me and started <em>kneading</em> my stomach! I may be mistaken, but I have only ever seen him knead <em>big fluffy things</em>; my down comforter and the squishy couch pillows.<br />Cats are evil.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/w0ffwDYo00Q&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/w0ffwDYo00Q&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: medium none; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54485/367/B09106F09B59CCC6AD808562C31569B4.png" /></a>Cassoulet Cafehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16306008423079535539noreply@blogger.com8