One Meatball No Farm … yet
Long story short, we wait for another phase two on another farm. I’m hopeful that this one will be ours, but I won’t believe it until I have the keys in hand. So in the meantime, while I’m not learning French or reading about chickens, cows and grass, I thought I’d share on of my favorite songs, One Meatball.
This song is a Campbell family favorite. We had a 78 record of the Andrew Sisters singing this bluesy song giving it that sassy sister spin. Though I enjoy that version, Dave Van Ronk did my favorite rendition on his album & The Tin Pan Bended & The Story Ended. He tells a humorous story about how this song came about (I won’t spoil it here). Here are the lyrics:
A little man walked up and down,
He found an eating place in town,
He looked the menu through and through,
To see what fifteen cents could do.
One meatball, one meatball,
He could afford but one meatball.
He told the waiter near at hand,
The simple dinner he had planned.
The guests were startled, one and all,
To hear that waiter loudly call,
“One meatball, one meatball?
Hey, this here gent wants one meatball.”
The little man felt ill at ease,
Said, “Some bread, sir, if you please.”
The waiter hollered down the hall,
“You gets no bread with one meatball.
“One meatball, one meatball,
Well, you gets no bread with one meatball.”
The little man felt very bad,
One meatball was all he had,
And in his dreams he hears that call,
“You gets no bread with one meatball.
“One meatball, one meatball,
Well, you gets no bread with one meatball.”
I’m not sure what draws me to this song and why I can’t sing it out loud without welling up with tears. I doubt it’s any deep meaning in this simple narrative. More likely, my love for this song is one of those things you remember as a child when things were simple and the word “meatball” was funny. Even better when your dad sings it after his famous rendition of Little Brown Jug as he puts you to bed. Other than the chorus, I didn’t know the lyrics until a few weeks ago. The story is timeless. My kids love songs about meatballs. We’ll be adding this to our list of songs to sing. I suppose when they grow up, they’ll look back fondly singing along with their dad that most satisfying lyric, “one meatball, you gets no bread with one … meatball.”
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Tags: family, meatball
Jean. Please step forward.
(actual photo from an online listing of a house for sale)
I’ve been looking for a house for no more than a year and one day. I say this as a year in France has come to an end as of yesterday. It’s been a gradual process. At first, I saw houses … perhaps it’s time for a quick aside on buying a house in France even though I’ve not purchased one yet. I say I saw houses and if you’re American, you think of an agent taking you around on weekends looking at all he houses s/he has lined up for you. She picks you up in a comfy S.U.V. with a smile holding a latte and a perky attitude as though we’re going to knock this out of the park. Kick some house hunting ass. But this is not the picture I will paint. The truth can be painfully realized (or realised for the British audience ) walking through a typical conversation had in French by my super French speaking husband and an agent that happens to have a house we’re interested in.
—–
Another beautiful Thursday morning in SouthWest France …
Brent: Hey! How are you? Great. I saw this house that you’re selling. Love to have a look.
Agent: Hello.
Brent: So … can I view it? How about this weekend? We’re flexible.
Agent: I need to call the sellers. I’ll call you back.
[ after a cheap Rhone, some amazing pork, a little cheese and Valentine yogurt we skip to Friday afternoon. Brent, understanding that 12-2 is lunchtime, calls the agent after lunch as he has yet to get back to us ]
Brent: Hey Madame! May I speak with Monsieur <insert agent name here>?
Madame: He’s not back from lunch [read as left for the day].
Brent: Oh. I want to see a house this weekend, can he get back to me?
Madame: He’ll be back in the office on Monday [read as Monday late afternoon]
Brent: uh. Okay.
—–
Et voila. Rinse and repeat. It is uncertain as to pin this crazy behavior (behaviour, love ya brits! mean it!) on The French or Southwest France or This Crazy Economy with Mortgages Going Bust and Buyers Few and Far Between, but DUDE, what’s a girl with money to buy a house gotta do around here to buy something!?
That said (hate that expression, promise never to use again), I’m glad it took so long because while I was trying to shove my Seattle living life into a quaint farmhouse in country France but with a better stove, I realized (sigh, realised … okay done with this cute tactic … bugger that) maybe I want something different. While waiting patiently for agents with houses to sell to get back to me, I figured out that what I really want is not the farmhouse, but the farm. And so after much searching, an offer has been made. A great farm that I want to buy. Sounds simple. Great. Cut to America where you say, “cool. I’ll take it.” And Ms. Perky gets all done-deal on you and you find yourself nose high in papers to sign with the whole weekend ahead of you. Wrong. There is no Ms. Perky. There is no done deal. You’ve entered phase two of buying a house in France, which throws you into the front row, sweating but excited while you await the Randy Jackson and fellow Dawgs of France to see if you’ve made to the next round. Three to six weeks of waiting while a technical committee decides if you buying that house is good for France. Wow. My project is good for France. Here’s to hoping that I remember all the lyrics and that adding another farmer to France is a good thing. And by definition, a YOUNG farmer at that!!! So we sit and wait while working on plan B.
(I think a rug will tie this room together)
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Tags: curtis family in france, family, farming, house buying
( photo by Brent Curtis )
I’ve never moved out of country before. For some, this is no big deal. For me, it’s a new adventure. The brie is always more ripe on the other side. You have grand ideas and hopes and new plans for your life “over there.” It’ll be different. It’ll be better. It’ll be fun and exciting. Then, when you get there you see what it’s really like. I can’t believe it’s been a year. When we headed out to France we said we’d rent for a year and figure out where to buy a house. So far, we’re still renting and not signed on a house. Though we’re excited about a house that will suit us to a tee. Nothing is set yet, but if it all works out, we can close this move-to-France chapter and begin our life as farmers.
But what the hell did I expect for a year in France and what actually happened? The biggest shortcoming I see is my French. You’d think that living a year in France would improve your French. Well let me say right here and now, if you have a Visa card, you do not need to learn French to live in France. My comprehension is impressive, buy my recall is atrocious. My lack of language is not mirrored my lack of motivation. I want to speak French. I want to speak French well. I hope to woo people with my cute outfits and fancy French so that they will buy my meat and proudly serve it in their restaurant. And so, I’ve taken a more guerilla approach to my studies because whatever it was I was doing before was not working. In the last two weeks, my approach has been working.
What else … I thought a year in France would be a long time. It’s not. I can’t imagine uprooting my family and moving them out here for only a year. If I moved back today, I’d spend most of my time recreating the things I love about France into my everyday life. This poses a huge problem living in America, as Americans are work-aholics. You see this most clearly in their inability to sit the fuck down for a minute and drink a coffee. In Southwest France, there are no to-go cups. No one walks around with a latte in hand on the way to work. They sit at the bar and knock back an espresso if in a hurry; otherwise they sit down at a table and enjoy a coffee. It doesn’t take long. In fact, I know I’ve waited in line in America for my to-go latte longer than it took me to sit down and have an espresso here in France. I do love America, but I wish they would take a minute to have a good lunch or drink a coffee. This spoken as a former latte lugging, commuting yuppie with too much pointless unread email who has decided to step into the 00’s and live life.
The internets reduce isolation. I’m connected to everyone. I’m sure that but a few years ago, I would be writing different words about my experience. The internet has had a HUGE impact on my feeling great about the big move. I talk weekly face to face(ish) with my Mom on Skype. I can read that a cat was stuck up a tree or that a strong wind is headed to Seattle in the morning headlines. Or that Riri wore (or dare I say whore) a crazy outfit to the Grammys. I can watch video of my friend’s dance performance. In some ways, being out here is no different than living in Seattle (except you can buy foie gras). I have a few friends that believe this is all a ruse. I’m still in Seattle, living in my crazy craftsman house pretending that I’ve actually taken the family to France. But I have. I did move. And everyday as I drive the winding road to e.leclerc. I think to myself, “holy shit. I love it here!” No joke. But please read that with “holy shit. I love it here” accompanied by Fun Radio playing Lady Gaga’s latest Poker Face moment. France is okay. I think I’ll stay some more.
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Tags: curtis family in france, family, move to france
The Kangaroos Aren’t Hungry
It only took the once. She asked in a kind, up-sell voice if we wanted the kangaroo food for a dollar. Having three kids, avoiding the “let’s all share” lesson, we quickly grabbed three bags. We saw the alligators (from America) the CUTE Koalas, the perky little Tasmanian devil and (at last) the petting kangaroo area. Pre-paid food in hand, we dashed over to delight and woo the ever-cuddly kangaroos. You could see it in their eyes before we arrived. They were full. Not interested. Seen it. Been there. Done with it. You’re just another crazy kid with puffed rice, so scram. Graciously we pet the two kangaroos who couldn’t be bothered to move, no doubt from food coma (the otheres were in the kangaroo rest zone off limits to visitors), and moved on to the hundred year old tortoise. I have been to the Central Coast Reptile Park before. Before the pre-pre-paid kangaroo food and the kangaroos were EVERYWHERE. They loved us. It was my favorite part of the park. And so now I know, that magic time is over. Cancelled by the grabbing of an extra buck on entrance. So when Kyralee asks you at the entrance of the animal park if you’d “loyk to boy sam kangarow food?” … keep your money because they won’t be eating. I’m sure this generalizes to all animal parks and customer feeding schemes.
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Tags: australia, central coast, kangaroos, reptile park
It wasn’t said literally, but that was the facial expression. As I visited friends and family with many questions, the reactions seem to fall in three buckets. Those that are excited, those that believe we’re doomed for failure and those still struggling with the whole farmer thing as we appear to know nothing at all about the subject and they know more. I found myself repeating the phrase, “yes, I know … I know nothing about farming” and “I know, we’re crazy, but …” But really, what does it matter? There were also those who advised me to reread Charlotte’s Web. Now had I said that I’ve landed a job at a high tech company in Toulouse, the pay isn’t great, but the job looks fun. Those faces would have been supportive. Congratulatory. Excited that we landed so well after the big uproot. But then what would’ve been my adventure? A kiss good-bye to the family, an hour commute on the road one-way, meetings, valuable time spent arguing about nothing, moral events. Yes, I’m knocking the rat race. I like living life on the edge. I spent much of my life in the arts and almost equivalent time in high-tech start-ups which both satisfy that risky way of work. Nobody knows us, we are going to conquer the world, we have no money, but we’re going to make it big. What have we got to lose? Nothing if you’re in the arts. Quite a bit if you’re in a high-tech start-up. I see farming as the perfect blend of risky without a huge loss. A girl’s gotta eat don’t she? I need to buy a house. I need to eat. After that, what’s left? Some clothes I suppose. School is free and great. Healthcare is virtually free and great. Now I need to work on being a great (or okay) parent. I need to play with my children. I need to teach them to be considerate of others, to solve problems on their own, to drive themselves to accomplish what they want to be. The great appeal of this venture is that we can work at home with our children. At their age, they will LOVE the responsibility. I have to choose who gets to help with the dishes. The children absolutely thrive on adding value to the family. Sure the cynics will scoff at this as a phase or “wait ‘til they’re ten” … yadda yadda yadda. For the time being, they will love a role. They will love to own something. The thing that stood out most of all with my visit to my old digs was after the big look and the crazyness of me farming was out in the air and off the table, almost every single person reflected on some farming or farming-like experience they had in their life. It may have been tough or fun or maybe an interesting point in their life, but they shared it with me. I listened excitedly and attentively. How sweet is it that one can look back on their life and fondly reminisce the time they kept chickens? How cute the chickens were, but turned out chickens weren’t for them or more commonly, “what a great time that was.” What are people sharing now? That they watched every episode of Lost and it was great? That they finally got that home movie room completed? What part of the soul does this satisfy? What part of the community did this affect? Most of this type of stuff will be replaced by the newest, greatest home entertainment and hip-cool episode with the new Johnny Depp (he is hot, though!). I suppose what I discovered after leaving the dream was that what I’m intending to do strikes a chord with people. People who’ve never farmed a day in their life vehemently clarifying how absolutely hard this way of life is. You will never, EVER be able to leave! It’s ALL OVER FOR YOU if you choose this way of life. And here I sit, a prisoner in my house as my youngest takes her daily nap, which occurs everyday at the same time each day, everyday. And it’s not so bad. I get time to read. Time to write. Time to clean up and think. Seeing as I’ve never farmed before in my entire life, I have no idea. Maybe I’ll be a prisoner to the animals. Maybe I’ll never get to leave. Somehow, I doubt it or at the very least, I question it. I’ll never know unless I try. Then I too will have my stories that I reflect on fondly as my friend shares with me this crazy idea about quitting it all and starting a small farm. Oh maw gaw, I’ll say, I did that for a spell and it was the best time of my life …
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Tags: curtis family in france, family, farming, france, move to france
Knots Nuts
My husband bought a book on knots (expanded edition!). It’s written by this guy.
My son LOVES this book. I have nothing further, your honor.
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Tags: family, farming, knots
Vous Comprenez?
There was a point in my life when I was FLUENT in Spanish. More specifically, fluent in Spanish with the buying and selling of expensively priced costume jewelry. Oh how the mehee-canas loved me. Shortly after that, I moved up to the great northwest and lost all but those phrases exclaimed by my favorite mouse and yours, Señor Speedy Gonzales. El Gringo Pussygato, “¡Arriba, arriba, arriba, ándale, ándale, olé, olé, olé, ándale!” But, I was fluent. I used to be. Now, as I learn French the crazy roman idiosyncrasies that English left out as it evolved (linguists can splian I’m sure) comes naturally. Spanish and French structures are not all that different. Pero, Mais, But the verbs are far apart. For the first eight months, I’ve been slack on my French language study. There is too much sun, too many baguettes and too many types of cheese to distract one from learning zee language. But the farm looms. We are to hoping to direct our sales to that of restaurants and niche markets. Which means, I must learn French parfaitement … d’une forme parfaite! And so, I’ve been hardcore French study girl cranked to eleven rated XXX, 24/7 you-buy-it-we-pack-it, word. Which has been quickly improving even in the last five days. I used to be that smiling foreigner smiling in the corner smiling and saying, “it’s good! It’s good!” It’s AAAALLLLL good. When people would ask me if I understood what they were saying (vous comprenez?) I would nod and say, “it’s good.” This is no longer so. I now hear “vous comprenez” with confidence providing a firm retort of “oui!” Yes, I understand!! I do. I can give people things. I can say I’m doing fine. I can buy things. I can go places. She runs fast. They are tired. Really, I could go on and on. Faut que je m’arrête. Okay, so maybe I google translated that one, but I knew “but,” “must,” “stop,” and “I” … just not in that order. There will be a point in my life when I’m all Bjourn Identity, speaking French naturally, rolling off the tongue like bullshit at a status meeting. Today, on disc two of twelve with five or so episodes each I approach with enthusiam because this will grow our business. My superb French will help us kick arse with our superior products. I’m excited and motivated. Fuck yeah! Or whatever the French equivalent is for that…
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Tags: curtis family in france, france, language
Chariots A Fire
Mastering the French shopping cart is not for the weak minded. After sticking in your Euro to rent a chariot that is immediately refundable when you bring the thing back (a method that eliminates trolly litter in a car park), you are in control … or so you think. Each wheel moves independently. In America, the two back wheels are fixed while the front two are there for steering. The second you take hold of these French beasts, your inner geek screams “vector math” as do geeks within a two meter radius. “Don’t you know vector maths?” they’ll crow. Watching the chariots maneuver their way around e.leclerc (pronounce that sultry starting with a breathy ‘eh’) it’s like taking part in 2009 Nascar Sprint Cup championship mixed with driving in New York in the twenties. The chariots are on fire. They’re everywhere. Do we pass on the right? The left? What, you want to get to the yogurt? No one knows what’s going on. After a bit of sweat and groceries in hand (mmm a special on fois gras!), heading back to your car uphill is no laughing matter. Some push the car sideways with a half smoked fag out of the mouth. Others struggle to align the cart so that with a steady forceful push it arrives perfectly to the car. Some forget the cart entirely. Using the little hand held/rolly basket inside, dodging vehement chariots then carrying the stuff to the car thus shopping more frequently. Me? I park in direct line with the front door of the shop. Simple, easy, no stress. I pop on my sunnies (that’s sunglasses to the Americans) in the light-up-your-cigarette exit compartment and away I go. Up, Up UP to my car then returning to collect my Euro.
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Tags: d, france, shopping carts, travel
Les BON BON!!!
Moving out to France with the family also means leaving American holidays. A lot of holidays are celebrated around the world with slight variation and enthusiasm. Halloween, I assumed, would be tuned to day–of-the-dead rather than trick-or-treat. I wasn’t sure if the children of France dressed up in costume. So, I prepared my daughter as Halloween grew close, not to expect to dress up and go out trick-or-treating. Instead, we could have a little costume party and eat candy and cakes at home. But that was all before we received the note from her school about the Halloween Train. Which in my newbie French read, “A l’occasion de la fête d’Halloween. Les enfants … Invités … de bonbon … en petit train” and was signed, “Merci, La Sorcière.” For those following along in English, a local witch invited the children to wear a costume and ride a little train around the village for candy! Voila!
Halloween at last arrived after many demands from the children for it to come early. Lucy, Otto and Clementine got in costume and we were off to see what this train business was all about. The train was a white, tractor sort of thing pulling three covered carts. There were piles of balloons to be blown up along with pumpkin streamers and hanging plastic decoration. Parents brought cakes and juice. After the train was decorated, we got on our way to yell at the village to come out and give us candy. The train would stop at each house, the children would chant from the train at the top of their lungs, “LES BONBON!!!! LES BONBON!!!” (Actually, they never really stopped yelling LES BONBON and after a couple hours on a train with forty or so chanting goblins and witches, I can still hear it ringing in my ear.) At last, a person emerged from their home bearing a bag of candy and sometimes juice for the train to take with them. After a large cheer, we’d move along circling around the village finally ending up at the village hall. The whole experience was joyous and energetic. Kids ran around, yelled and screamed eating cake and candy. The event was spectacular, but it wasn’t until it was all over that I realized that it was actually magical. This Halloween party never had a committee. No one was in charge of decorating the train. No spreadsheet was used to figure out who brought what. No flurry of email passed through the PTA inbox with progress and concerns. The Witch told us where to be and what to wear letting the rest unfold naturally. Everyone arrived. The train got decorated. The cakes were brought. Fun was had by all. Further, the trick-or-treat experience was turned into a community event. Bags upon bags of candy were collected and then mixed and bundled for the children to take home after the party. My American children were boggled. They’re used to hitting the streets on their own, everyone out for themselves not knowing many of the neighbors. Complaining that so-and-so got a Mars bar while they only got a bag of gummy bears. On the train, each child left happily with the big bag of mixed candy. And the villagers got one visit by all the children who cheered at them. I left having chatted with all the parents, the kids played with all their buddies we all cleaned up and enjoyed the rest of the evening. What I enjoyed was the community.
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Tags: community, family, france, halloween
(photo courtesy of Kevin Grealish)
She was a beautiful yellow. Speed Yellow they called it. So beautiful, I felt compelled to strip to my underwear and take a picture with her (sorry, a collection for the husband and not for public viewing). I LOVED that car. I still do as I know where she lives. I keep tabs on her. But, as in every romantic comedy, I needed to let her go with hopes she’ll realize I was actually more than a friend and the best lover she’d ever find. Perhaps near the end, we’ll meet again only with a different VIN number and year (I’m thinking turbo). What I need right now is not a hot, fast sports car, I’m in need of a tractor. Something not too fancy that will get the job done. I’m still working out what job needs to get done. It could be food for cattle. It could be a garlic field. Whatever it is, I’m excited. Farming is not something I imagined myself doing. I scream at the sight of spiders, I run when snakes are present, I can barely keep my basil alive. I’ve never owned a houseplant that made it past a week. I will not do anything dirty without proper gloves. Yet, I see farming as a challenge. The great unknown. Who will buy my sweet red roses, two blooms for a penny. Who am I to think I can take on forty or so hectares of land and turn a profit? How do I turn on a tractor? How do I turn on a cow? I haven’t a clue, but that is the thrill of it. I can get a gaggle of geeks to churn out software in my sleep. There’s no challenge in that. Getting three pigs from one paddock to the next? Now that’s tough. Farming is archaic. We yuppies are so removed from where food comes from. Why reduce my earning potential to do hard manual labor without much room for vacation? What about my bonus? I’m still working out the answer to that one. It makes no sense, but it feels right. I’m very particular with where food comes from. I sing Old McDonald Had A Farm with my children and I’ve only seen in the flesh half the animals listed in the song in the last year. I am thirty-seven and I touched a chicken for the first time last June. The broody bitch was sitting on my eggs. I showed her. Old McDonald was more appropriate when I sang the version that included new granite bench tops and a new media room. Ee-eye-ee-eye ooooh. And in that house he had a new Viking range, ee-eye-ee-eye oooh. And the farming is only half of it. I’m really excited to figure out, in French, how to get people to buy my superior chook. My happy pig.. My pasteurized veal. Yes, the baby cow with the moist eyes. That cow. How will I sell it? It had a great life. Pastured with various grass species that I grew with my husband. How much will you pay for that? We don’t know. At the price of surrendering my sweet, beautiful Speed Yellow Porsche, I’m first in line to find out. I gave it all up. After a few alterations of the standard, blue (with seven fun prints) French lady smock, I await the first harrow of one of the many fields I will help tend. Which comes first, the tractor or the land ….
(photo CURTISy of Brent Curtis)
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Tags: farming, france, move to france
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Recent Entries
- One Meatball No Farm … yet
- Jean. Please step forward.
- It’s coming up to a year in France and it wasn’t all Peter Mayle like.
- The Kangaroos Aren’t Hungry
- Why are you throwing your life away!?
- Knots Nuts
- Vous Comprenez?
- Chariots A Fire
- Les BON BON!!!
- Trading in the Porsche for a Tractor
- Doing It Rodin Style
