The Tomato Knife

Spring has (literally) sprung early in our apartment this year.

Meet Fergie, the wild asparagus plant that has been mesmerizing us for a few weeks now.

I had a good laugh when I walked in the door from work one evening and saw Sébastien holding a small terracotta pot sporting the most awkward, scrawny, spiky reincarnation of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree I’d ever seen.  I quickly learned  that a friend had given us a wild asparagus plant.

Back then, there wasn’t much sign of life, just the four sprite, rather nervous-looking “trees”  that spread haughtily into the air.  Sébastien warned, though, that asparagus would soon start sprouting up from the soil.

Judging from our endless misadventures with orchids (which never seem to make it through winter with us), I wasn’t so sure we’d be able to grow asparagus- it’s supposed to be difficult (three years before a seed will give way to friendly green stalks).

Despite our mild lack of confidence, we watered Fergie (who was named instantly by the way) and… just like that, two little white creatures pushed their way through the dirt.  What got us most was the stunning rate one of these asparagus stalks grew- as though it inched up by the minute.

In just a couple weeks, the innocent newborn in the photo turned into a lanky thread that now measures 13 inches!

Since I’ve never grown asparagus, I’m kind of curious about the whole thing.  As far as I know, this veggie’s been around for a while- records take it back to Ancient Rome- as both a delicacy and a medicinal plant.  Also, asparagus, apparently (like French nouns), can be either male or female.  Wonder what this one is?

Tags: asparagus, kitchen, vegetables

You can’t have a blog on Paris without mentioning the infamous Préfecture de Police.

This is where one goes for a handful of administrative documents in France, and in a foreigner’s case, for your titre de séjour- the card that gives you permission to live in France and acts as your “identity card.”  Once you move to Paris the Préfecture kind of becomes part of your life- like the post office, the bank, the grocery store (okay, maybe we won’t go that far).  After a while you just kind of get to know it, and most expats seem to have a story to tell- from waiting in line to being sent back home to fetch a missing document, from misunderstandings with employees to just plain confusion.  Maybe I’ve just been lucky, or maybe I’m just strange, but I actually kind of like going to the Préfecture.

The old stately building in located right in the center of Paris, on Ile de la Cité.  I usually arrive by metro, anxiously poking my head out of ground to have a peek at the row of green huts lined up out in front.  These little shops are overflowing with all sorts of plants for sale- and many also display Christmas ornaments that are always fun to look at through the large glass windows.  Then I turn around and see the stately Préfecture- and my husband waiting patiently for me on a bench.

This afternoon, though, I decided to take the 72 bus which strides along the Seine and lets me out on the north side of the water, so that I have to cross over the Pont Notre Dame in order to get to the island.  This is my favorite part of the journey- crossing the bridge and looking out over the Seine toward the west.  No matter what time of year, or what time of day, the sky is always striking.  I’ve seen pale hazy pink, bright clear blue, and cold misty grey hovering above the rows of bridges.

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Tags: everyday life

I’m back!  Just walked in the door and haven’t even taken my shoes off- soon as I take them off there will be a million other things to do- laundry, dinner, grading, hanging up the toilet paper holder (that we finally bought after six months), hanging up the bathroom mirror (same thing), blowing my nose, checking my email, turning off the hallway light, reading today’s mail, turning on the heat- soon as I start doing all that, writing time will vanish, and next I know the morning alarm clock will be ringing again.  I’m cold, and my feet are tired, but I can’t stand the idea of letting another day get away.

There’s a little orange notebook that sits on my bedside table.  “Il faut vivre pour écrire, et non pas écrire pour vivre,” it says in bold letters.  I’ll translate this as: “One must live in order to write, not write in order to live.”  Let’s just say I’ve been taking 19^th century French writer Jules Renard’s advice a little too seriously lately.  Better to blame it on that than get into the holiday weather (and the cancelled planes that go with it), the week of no phone (or Internet), the new (painful) French word I most recently learned- lombalgie, or lumbago in English- more or less, lower back pain that gets you an arrêt de travail (a doctor’s note).  Yes, best to blame it on that advice, one of the reasons I “live” in France in the first place: the enjoyable moments you can have despite the cold dark days and the time that just keeps getting away from you, the savoir vivre that permeates through the air and attaches itself to us, despite all.  In short, 2010 has been off to a crazy and busy, but oddly agreeable start- full of “living” and all that word means.

Come to think about it, I don’t think the bathroom’s going to get in order tonight.  It’s already past seven- and it’s Saint Sébastien Day here in France- yes, I live in a country where my husband (like many people) has his own holiday- all the more reason to “live” some more and take a break from all those things we’re “supposed” to be doing.

Bonne fête (and Happy New Year, by the way).