Nathalie Bouffe

O Glorious Procrastination!

Well, I'm getting there, but my concentration is failing me bit by bit, and I've devolved into a metaphorical equivalent of an amputee crawling on stubs towards the holy grail, only......forty more pages away!

On a positive note, I am getting to know my new computer better.  Can you tell "Photo Booth" is my new favorite program??  Hey, I'm all by myself here, sometimes a girl needs to have a little fun. 

Favorite paragaph written today:
It’s hard to imagine today’s European nations as anything but—though the seemingly inflexible boundaries we take for granted have been mutable for centuries.  Monpellier, for instance, belonged at one time to the kings of Aragon, which is logical considering its proximity to Spain.  Want a lesson in complicated family dynamics?  Pay close attention: Marie of Montpellier (1182-1213) was all set to inherit the lordship after her father, William VIII died, but the first man she married, Raymond of Marseille, died too quickly.  She then married Bernard IV of Comminges, but he had two other living wives, so that got annulled lickety-split.  In the meantime, her half-brother had taken control of Montpellier, but Marie wouldn’t have that, so she married Peter II of Aragon, which gave her the “Lady of Montpellier” title back—although it made Monpellier Aragonian.  But once married, Peter tried to divorce her (in order to marry the Queen of Jerusalem) and still keep Montpellier for himself.  It didn’t work, and eventually Marie’s son by Peter inherited Montpellier—and Aragon.  Yeah, and you thought your family fights were hard-scrabble?
[more glossed-over history that takes us into the twentieth century]
Oh, P.S., Montpellier is twinned with Louisville, Heidelberg and Chengdu.  God, we love Wikipedia.

I really hope that last sentence makes it past my editors. 

Monkey Gland tagged me for a meme I like but that sort of procrastination is taking it a little too far.  I think I'm best off limiting myself to taking bored and stupid pictures of myself. 

wee hours

It's countdown time for MTV France, and I am scrambling to finish.   I managed to get on French time again during my brief gallivant to the Cote d'Azur, but once back in Annecy, my body switched right back to what it likes best: living by night. 

These days, I wake up at around five p.m., do about ten pathetic minutes of yoga, and pussyfoot around, checking emails and cleaning the house, until to my surprise, darkness has fallen.  Even though I've continued sitting at my laptop for the next few hours, it isn't really until about one a.m. that I start getting serious, and I don't hit my stride until three or so.  The moon sets over the mountains across the lake at around four, and I'm on roll until about eight, when I take a break to wander into the village for some fresh baguettes, still warm, which I slather with nutella and devour (this is, without a doubt, the absolute nexus of my day).  Then, ravaged, I go to bed, but the caffeination and focus has gotten me so worked up that it takes me an hour or two to fall asleep, the refrain from the last song I was listening to repeating itself irrepressibly in my head.  Thank God for my UK Vanity Fair subscription, which now gets forwarded here.  I'm a long way from Dominick Dunne, but he's the only companion for yonks.  It's a matter of hours, I think, before I start talking to myself like a crazy lady.

American Update

Forgive me for being such a fair-weather blogger, but every sentence I am capable of stringing together this summer belongs to MTV France, a circumstance unlikely to change until the beginning of September, unless I get my hands on some really strong alpine crack (anyone have a reputable source?).  But I still feel compelled to make a few comments about my recent dip back into the American food panorama, where I found the water warm, lightly salted, and very, very appealing.

Wild Peaches

1
When the world turns completely upside down
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town,
You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.