The days shorten, the thermometer falls, winter approaches. Last week we exchanged the fading light of the Lyonnais autumn for the British version during a long weekend break. The occasion was a birthday celebration for the soggydiver (1st class, national instructor). Given the remoteness of the chosen location and associated lack of convenient flights, in the end we chose to extend the weekend with an initial stop over in Bexleyheath, which we reached via a half-empty British flag carrier flight to Heathrow and a hire car journey round the M25 in the pouring rain. The latter with a tea break in the middle to pick up keys from the mistress of the house at her workplace deep in Kent/Sussex border country.
In the event the keys went unused as our arrival at destination coincided with the return of the male half of the good Doctors C. No sooner had Madam returned with the two Jezlings in tow an hour or so later, than I sneaked away for an evening of guilty worship at the sacred ground. A lift to and from the train station, a 2-0 victory over the French champions and a 13th successive qualification for the knockout phases of the Champions League made missing out on beef stew for dinner and suffering the habitual British railway delays bearable. Tiredness was counterbalanced by loud snoring from both sides. La petite otherwise seemed to sleep well until the usual time, French time at least. She did allow us a fifteen minute lie-in though, before making the delighted discovery that her cot was right next to where her parents lay feigning sleep.
The part-time working mother had the next day off, so in the morning she took us to a garden centre where la petite had much fun in a small soft play area, pushed around a mini shopping trolley and said hello to three real-life Santa's reindeers. After the habitual post-lunch nap, we took her to the shopping centre for new shoes and new clothes - no VAT exemption on children's clothing in France. The mini-Jezoids returned soon afterwards and the house was filled with the sound of battling robots and more or less tuneful clarinet and tenor horn playing. Good old bangers and mash was on the menu for dinner before bed for the kids and champagne for the adults. Thence began a second night of sharing a bedroom with a toddler. This time the snoring wasn't as loud and the wakeup chorus from the cot was half an hour later at just before seven.
Faced by a six hour road trip, we said our goodbyes and took our leave of the former UKC postgraduates by ten on Friday morning. First two hour stint - smooth and quiet, with more gentle snoring from the child seat in the back. Following a Happy Eater lunch somewhere north of Peterborough, the second stretch was almost as smooth, though the chirping from the back grew gradually more plaintiff as the journey wore on. Coffee, apple juice and mince pie at Scotch Corner services brought temporary respite, but by the time we hit Tyneside car-seat stir craziness had well and truly set in, not helped by the total absence of direction signs for Alnmouth as soon as we got off the A1. A phone call to Dr Organiser soon set us on the right road though, and we arrived slightly the worse for wear at our impressive lodgings on the Northumberland coast less than 8 hours after setting off from Kent.
After our hosts we were the first to arrive, soon followed by the DenEboy who had undertaken the 6 hour drive on his own. Spaghetti Bolognese was on the dinner table for six before, later in the evening, numbers were completed by Crystal Tipps and the Caipirinha Kid, who more sensibly let the train take the strain of bearing not limes and cachaça but home-made Marmite sausages and bacon.
It was thus a late night for all, relatively speaking anyway, and therefore a late morning for most. Not surprisingly it was the couples without young children who had the longest lie-ins. La petite got us up closer to normal time, UK time, but only after a night of somewhat disturbed sleep. We managed to keep her amused for a couple of hours until brunch, a slap-up fry-up which was worth the wait. Replete with sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, beans, English muffins and Scottish tattie scones, we then all trooped out for a walk along the beach. It was a lovely stroll - the hazy sunshine and calm sea on a windless morning almost made it feel warm. La petite took a 15 minute power nap on papa's back and then enjoyed digging in the sand and flying between two adults.
Back at the ranch, the morning activity led to another 15 minute power nap, this time for the birthday girl, the smallest tummy in the party had a lunch-time snack and then we all piled into two cars for a trip into Alnwick. A meandering stroll round the town centre was followed by an obligatory visit to Barter Books. La petite famille restricted themselves to a browse in the children's section before heading back to base to try and fit in an afternoon nap. Meanwhile the rest kept calm and carried on browsing for another hour or so.
Chicken Fajitas were on the dinner menu that night, delicious they were too, prepared again by our generous birthday-celebrating host. The rigours of the weekend then gradually took their toll and, one by one, we drifted off to bed. The Cambsac boys were the last up, viewing Rolling Stones retrospectives and then football, though in the case of the DenEboy, up was a relative term. Somehow he woke up when the Canaries came on, then fell asleep straight afterwards when the last, read least eventful, match of the day was shown. Funnily enough the latter was what forced me to be the last man standing.
As the rain poured down outside, a rather restless night of toddler and parent sleep followed, but at least we were allowed a lie-in until almost eight. Brunch was as good as the previous morning, and then it was time for an hour or two of concerted tidying and cleaning before we all packed up and made our separate ways home. The end of a lovely two-day Northumberland break.
Not quite the end of the travelling for us though. Wary of subjecting la petite to another six hours in the car, we chose to break our journey back to Heathrow with an overnight stop in a hotel in Robin Hood country. How right we were - la petite by this time had definitely decided she didn't much appreciate being strapped into a car seat. More rain and habitually heavy M1 traffic didn't make the journey easier, but we got there in one piece, had a quick dinner and then all settled down to sleep.
Tried to settle down to sleep anyway. Quality of sleep over five nights of sharing a bedroom with a toddler gradually deteriorated. Nonetheless we survived until first light, had breakfast and set off on the road south once more. The complaints from the back seat gradually quietened and were superseded by snoring during the final hour. We dropped off the hire car, checked in and were through departures a full 3 hours before our flight was due to depart. Which left plenty of time for a leisurely lunch and browse in the shops, but also left plenty of room for time to drag, particularly as the flight was delayed by half an hour. Back in Lyon, it was pouring with rain and the fridge and cupboards were bare. Welcome home.
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est food. Afficher tous les articles
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est food. Afficher tous les articles
29 novembre 2012
18 juillet 2012
British BBQ
The weekend past was taken up with a flying visit across the Channel, Cambridge the destination, a barbecue to celebrate the half-century of la petite beaucoup the prime reason. We left warm, 27C Lyon sunshine behind on Friday afternoon and arrived in Stansted four hours later and twelve degrees cooler. There was at least a glimpse of sunshine as we drove the hire car towards Cambridge, where the welcome was as warm as usual. And habitually convivial, which meant the grey skies that greeted us in the morning matched the grey fuzz clogging up my skull. It was as usual though la bienheureuse who dragged herself out of bed to deal with the chirping coming from the room across the landing at seven o'clock on the dot. Young children obviously automatically recognise time zones.
The clouds soon brought forth rain, rain and more rain. Not the ideal weather for a BBQ, but while our hosts toiled in the kitchen we made a quick trip to the local supermarket to restock on vital British supplies and then kept la petite amused indoors. And then, as if by prior arrangement, as the first guests started arriving in the late afternoon the rain stopped. And then, as if by miracle, as the JeB sausages, lamb and pork sizzled in the grill the sun came out and dried up all the rain. Well, enough of it to make sitting and consuming but a small proportion of the provided feast outside feasible. And a great time was had by all, particularly one particular toddler who had twenty odd adults and a dog to amuse and be amused by.
We spent the next day consuming barbecue leftovers, took la petite coquinette to the local park, and otherwise enjoyed a lazy Sunday afternoon chez des chers amis. The next morning our travel alarm was already in the process of adjusting for the trip home because she woke up half an hour before the traditional hour of seven. Which did at least mean we had an unrushed morning before we bade a fond farewell to the lady of the house and weekend, and set off homeward bound. Apart from longer than usual queues at the airport, we had a smooth trip and were back in warm, sunny Lyon soon after 5pm.
And there the pleasant weekend ended and a nightmare night started. The travel-weary toddler went to bed as usual but was awake 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep and woke up again 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep again and awoke 45 minutes later. Whereupon she refused to go back to sleep for the next four hours. When finally we did all get back to bed at about three in the morning, the little so-and-so allowed us five hours of uninterrupted rest. I use the word rest advisedly because sleep wasn't easy to come by…
And in the morning, when we were all finally up, the reason for her unrest became clear. A wretched cold, courtesy presumably of cold weather Blighty. Another interrupted night followed, albeit less dramatic, but our own little domestic drama was put into perspective by a real life drama we witnessed on our traditional afternoon outing to the playground yesterday. A group of passersby was gathered around a man lying flat on his back on the footpath along the river. The drama soon became a crisis as two of the helpers started administering artificial resuscitation, heart massage and all. Flashing lights heralded the arrival of the pompiers a few minutes later and they continued the resuscitation for a few minutes before putting the victim into a recovery position. Then a medical emergency team arrived, put on a BP cuff and put in a drip, which I took to mean the unfortunate fellow was alive.
And so la petite and I went home to resume our mundane routine of the mealtime and bedtime battles that have intensified since the return of le rhume...
The clouds soon brought forth rain, rain and more rain. Not the ideal weather for a BBQ, but while our hosts toiled in the kitchen we made a quick trip to the local supermarket to restock on vital British supplies and then kept la petite amused indoors. And then, as if by prior arrangement, as the first guests started arriving in the late afternoon the rain stopped. And then, as if by miracle, as the JeB sausages, lamb and pork sizzled in the grill the sun came out and dried up all the rain. Well, enough of it to make sitting and consuming but a small proportion of the provided feast outside feasible. And a great time was had by all, particularly one particular toddler who had twenty odd adults and a dog to amuse and be amused by.
We spent the next day consuming barbecue leftovers, took la petite coquinette to the local park, and otherwise enjoyed a lazy Sunday afternoon chez des chers amis. The next morning our travel alarm was already in the process of adjusting for the trip home because she woke up half an hour before the traditional hour of seven. Which did at least mean we had an unrushed morning before we bade a fond farewell to the lady of the house and weekend, and set off homeward bound. Apart from longer than usual queues at the airport, we had a smooth trip and were back in warm, sunny Lyon soon after 5pm.
And there the pleasant weekend ended and a nightmare night started. The travel-weary toddler went to bed as usual but was awake 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep and woke up again 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep again and awoke 45 minutes later. Whereupon she refused to go back to sleep for the next four hours. When finally we did all get back to bed at about three in the morning, the little so-and-so allowed us five hours of uninterrupted rest. I use the word rest advisedly because sleep wasn't easy to come by…
And in the morning, when we were all finally up, the reason for her unrest became clear. A wretched cold, courtesy presumably of cold weather Blighty. Another interrupted night followed, albeit less dramatic, but our own little domestic drama was put into perspective by a real life drama we witnessed on our traditional afternoon outing to the playground yesterday. A group of passersby was gathered around a man lying flat on his back on the footpath along the river. The drama soon became a crisis as two of the helpers started administering artificial resuscitation, heart massage and all. Flashing lights heralded the arrival of the pompiers a few minutes later and they continued the resuscitation for a few minutes before putting the victim into a recovery position. Then a medical emergency team arrived, put on a BP cuff and put in a drip, which I took to mean the unfortunate fellow was alive.
And so la petite and I went home to resume our mundane routine of the mealtime and bedtime battles that have intensified since the return of le rhume...
09 février 2011
Waiting patiently
Seems like we've been at one hospital or another most of the week. Two hours up at the Croix Rousse this morning, learning about what's likely to happen when the big day finally arrives. Yesterday we were there for even longer - 3 hours in the morning, for the weekly checkup, then another hour in the afternoon for another scan. La bienheureuse's blood pressure is still on the high side, but the cause is still apparently in fine form. Estimated weight now 3.2kg and still growing. Doctor and midwife both suggested the sooner the big entrance the better…
Monday it was ma bien-aimée's turn lend support while I was poked and prodded. There follows a detailed description of exactly what undergoing a colonoscopy involves. The squeamish should look away now…
C-day minus 5
start low-fibre diet. No fruit and veg, no food with roughage for the next 5 day.
C-day minus 1
1900: ingest first dose of laxative; lemon-flavoured, reasonably palatable.
2000: enjoy last (supposedly light) supper - grilled chicken and mash. Overdo helping size somewhat to compensate for it being the only food for the next 24 hours.
2000 - bedtime: imbibe at least a litre and a half of clear fluid.
2200: first ominous rumblings within heard.
2230: visit toilet and experience something akin to an inverted version of a famous geyser in Yellowstone Park.
2230 onwards: Old Faithful erupts on average once every 66 minutes. I experience intervals more irregular but not much longer on average. Consistency of ejecta becomes more and more liquid. Manage to get some sleep in between trips to the toilet.
C-day
0700: ingest second dose of laxative.
0700 - 0930: imbibe at least a litre and a half of clear fluid.
1030: rear end eruptions finally cease.
1245: we arrive at the hospital and are directed to the 3rd floor where we wait 15 minutes before someone in the reception area deigns to see me. Short interview - told we're on the wrong floor.
1300: arrive in the correct reception area. Another wait in an orderly queue before admission formalities are swiftly carried out. Directed to another waiting area just across the corridor. There we wait, and wait. One by one, the other patients are taken away to their rooms, and then wheeled away to the operating theatre in turn. Finally, there's just me left. Last in the queue to have a camera inserted up my rear end, due to having gone to the wrong place to start with. Should have read the bumph properly and not relied on a witless ground floor receptionist.
1515: finally shown to my room, where ambivalence about the colour of my last squirt (yellow or brown? Wasn't sure how to say light brownish-yellow in French) results in me having to self-administer a small enema so that the nurse can verify the state of my excrement (yellow and entirely liquid, in case anyone is interested).
1545: wheeled away to the operating theatre by a chatty orderly. La bienheureuse finally leaves my side and goes to get something to eat and do a bit of shopping.
1600: anaesthetic (described as a strong sedative) sends me to sleep in seconds.
1640: wake up in the recovery room feeling fine apart from a grossly inflated abdomen. Nothing a bit of enthusiastic farting can't solve. And for once I didn't feel the need to apologise.
1700: duty anaesthetist deems vital signs sufficiently normal for me to be wheeled back to my own room. La bienheureuse returns a minute or two later.
1715: food! Only bread & cheese and a yoghurt, but it tastes lovely.
1730: doctor pays me a visit. Hallelujah! He's smiling. My colon is clear of polyps and he compliments me on its pre-operation cleanliness.
1830: I'm finally let out.
1930: home and enjoying my first full meal in 24 hours, and first fruit and veg in nearly a week.
C-day plus 2
first satisfactory bowel movement in 72 hours finally arrives. Only another 5 years before I have to go through it all again.
Monday it was ma bien-aimée's turn lend support while I was poked and prodded. There follows a detailed description of exactly what undergoing a colonoscopy involves. The squeamish should look away now…
C-day minus 5
start low-fibre diet. No fruit and veg, no food with roughage for the next 5 day.
C-day minus 1
1900: ingest first dose of laxative; lemon-flavoured, reasonably palatable.
2000: enjoy last (supposedly light) supper - grilled chicken and mash. Overdo helping size somewhat to compensate for it being the only food for the next 24 hours.
2000 - bedtime: imbibe at least a litre and a half of clear fluid.
2200: first ominous rumblings within heard.
2230: visit toilet and experience something akin to an inverted version of a famous geyser in Yellowstone Park.
2230 onwards: Old Faithful erupts on average once every 66 minutes. I experience intervals more irregular but not much longer on average. Consistency of ejecta becomes more and more liquid. Manage to get some sleep in between trips to the toilet.
C-day
0700: ingest second dose of laxative.
0700 - 0930: imbibe at least a litre and a half of clear fluid.
1030: rear end eruptions finally cease.
1245: we arrive at the hospital and are directed to the 3rd floor where we wait 15 minutes before someone in the reception area deigns to see me. Short interview - told we're on the wrong floor.
1300: arrive in the correct reception area. Another wait in an orderly queue before admission formalities are swiftly carried out. Directed to another waiting area just across the corridor. There we wait, and wait. One by one, the other patients are taken away to their rooms, and then wheeled away to the operating theatre in turn. Finally, there's just me left. Last in the queue to have a camera inserted up my rear end, due to having gone to the wrong place to start with. Should have read the bumph properly and not relied on a witless ground floor receptionist.
1515: finally shown to my room, where ambivalence about the colour of my last squirt (yellow or brown? Wasn't sure how to say light brownish-yellow in French) results in me having to self-administer a small enema so that the nurse can verify the state of my excrement (yellow and entirely liquid, in case anyone is interested).
1545: wheeled away to the operating theatre by a chatty orderly. La bienheureuse finally leaves my side and goes to get something to eat and do a bit of shopping.
1600: anaesthetic (described as a strong sedative) sends me to sleep in seconds.
1640: wake up in the recovery room feeling fine apart from a grossly inflated abdomen. Nothing a bit of enthusiastic farting can't solve. And for once I didn't feel the need to apologise.
1700: duty anaesthetist deems vital signs sufficiently normal for me to be wheeled back to my own room. La bienheureuse returns a minute or two later.
1715: food! Only bread & cheese and a yoghurt, but it tastes lovely.
1730: doctor pays me a visit. Hallelujah! He's smiling. My colon is clear of polyps and he compliments me on its pre-operation cleanliness.
1830: I'm finally let out.
1930: home and enjoying my first full meal in 24 hours, and first fruit and veg in nearly a week.
C-day plus 2
first satisfactory bowel movement in 72 hours finally arrives. Only another 5 years before I have to go through it all again.
31 janvier 2011
Burning bus, blazing sun
The week before was one of anticipation - of the return of the annual ski trip, and the forthcoming life-changing arrival. The latter necessitated another antenatal session and a rendezvous with an anaesthetist. All seems to be proceeding fine, with the wriggling, kicking and hiccupping little bump full of life. A larger bump proved rather more problematic, with a search for a helmet to fit my abnormally-sized and shaped head ending empty-headed.
From Friday onwards, skiing dominated events. The annual trip to Meribel was reinstated after last year's short hiatus. With minor personnel changes it followed a time-honoured course established over previous years, and went something like this:
Saturday
Le grand frère arrives on an early flight, I pick him up from the airport and then force march him to Les Halles to purchase cheese provisions for the week. Boeuf Bourguignon prepared and put in the oven before sacrificing my internet-stream-side seat at the sacred ground to set off to the airport once more to collect the DenEboy. The men in red and white manage a comfortable win in my absence. Back home we all await the arrival of J&C. And wait, and wait. Lost in Lyon. Again. They eventually get here with the help of some real-time telephone guidance, and a predictably convivial evening follows. Main topic of conversation: girls' names. Strange but true.
Sunday
We're up by nine am, le père potentiel suffering the mild after-effects of champagne, Côtes du Rhône and dodgy whisky. Organiser and head chef are away by ten, leaving the rest of us to install roof box, load up and follow about an hour later. Hopes of getting in a half-day skiing are dashed by a malfunctioning entry keypad and a coach on fire. The former causes the vanguard to await the arrival of an electrician, who is held up along with the rest of us in a 10km traffic queue behind the burning bus between Albertville and Moutiers. After 90 minutes spent going nowhere, we eventually arrive in Meribel village sometime after 3pm. A relaxing afternoon follows, and in the evening the gastronomic festival kicks off with a special from le grand chef - salmon and horseradish hors d'oeuvres, courgette and parmesan soup, with baked salmon and creamed parsnip to follow. All washed down with champagne and an eminently palatable vin blanc de pays de Provence. Le grand chef introduces l'architecte to the Tourterelle digestif tradition - a few generous snifters of Cognac.
Monday
The newcomers are scared into rising early by alcohol-fuelled talk of hitting the slopes at nine - a ploy by the old hands, which ensures croissants on the breakfast table by the time the majority make an eventual appearance. We're all finally sitting on the first lift by ten. A gentle morning skiing en masse follows - Jerusalem, Choucas and Le Grand Duc (scene of the first wipeout of the week - honours to le grand frère). Expensive pizzas for lunch in the Chaudanne, after which les skieuses head off for their first Super Suzie session of the week, leaving les garçons to sample the snow and the Combe de Saulire in Courchevel. Meanwhile la femme enceinte has been neglecting the strict observation of restful confinement by baking the traditional gâteaux choco-banane for our return and cooking lovely lamb tajine for dinner, complemented by un bon Côtes du Rhône and a sampling of the generous cheese board.
Tuesday
Early rising for those keen to improve their skiing, somewhat later start for the more lackadaisical. The latter find good snow on the red fox, but that one final run turns to near disaster, with a tumble and a dislocated shoulder for the le grand gooner. Fortunately he manages to pop it quickly back in, and soldiers manfully on through the pain for the rest of the week. We head over to Courchevel and meet up with les filles post lesson at 1650. Lunch taken and it's back onto the gentle 1650 pistes before those pesky Marmottes do their best to disrupt the journey home. Meanwhile la bienheureuse has been taking some exercise of her own at the swimming pool. For dinner la petite chefeuse rustles up tasty sausage casserole, champagne and Coteaux de Tricastin are quickly knocked back and then les gooners head to the pub to catch the second half of a famous semi-final comeback. Return to Wembley at last.
Wednesday
No pedagogic delights for les filles today, so it's a mass outing to the slopes below Dents de Burgin, where everybody practises their squidgy chocolate toes and squat-loo turns. Then all back to the chalet to give la future maman some company at lunch. And that's it for the day for some, the lure of sunshine on the front terrace proving stronger than artificial snow. Ma bien-aimée accompanies la grosse tête into Meribel in search once more of an oversized helmet, while the rest of the boys hit the slopes once more. Protection for an abnormal brain found at last. While le grand chef cooks up an old favourite for dinner, the remaining old rockers head to the packed pub to enjoy a brief Bring Your Sisters session. Back at the dinner table, venison stew is savoured with another old favourite, a veille vignes Vacqueyras from Le Couroulu.
Thursday
Morning lessons once more, the eager beavers are up and out early for their rendezvous with Super Suzie. The laggards follow some time later and head to Les Menuires and La Masse to find the best snow of the week and lunch in the company of sundry like-minded personnes agées. The Tourterelle tyros are on cuisine duty in the evening and after la belle Debutante whips up a rich fruitcake while the stone man rustles up a corking Coq au Vin, complemented by un jolie Petit Chablis. They then introduce the rest of us to a frustrating after dinner game: Newmarket. Just like betting on horse racing: all luck and no skill. At least, smartyboots claims that as the reason for ending up bankrupt while smartyskis and la petite beaucoup walk away with the biggest pots of pasta.
Friday
Gruelling all-dayer for the Suzie pupils. The boys are bemused to discover that the sun has disappeared but, undeterred, head for the crowded heights of Val Thorens and la Cime de Caron. Nice, breezy run down, but once is deemed enough for the day, and we all do our bit by accompanying a troupe of mini-skiers on a lift on the way home. At Mont de la Chambre we go our separate ways; le grand chef goes off towards Les Menuires to practise his counter-rotation; the tired architect heads for home; the DenE and BJ boys attack lunch and then Mont Vallon before one quick run down Combe Saulire to say they'd skied 3 valleys in a day. Meanwhile la bienheureuse treats herself to a facial before purchasing provisions and preparing fantastic fruit salad. The newly helmeted chef allows his brother to perform the potato peeling donkey work, leaving only the easy job of putting together the traditional tartiflette. Côtes du Rhône, Vacqueyras and Cognac finish the evening off nicely for most, though les debutants and the DenEboy still have enough energy for a quick pub sortie, quick being the operative word. Seems Bring Your Sisters' late evening set caters more for the younger crowd: stripteases and ankle-deep broken glass de rigueur.
Saturday
Last day, let's all ski together. All apart from l'expert, who tires of waiting for the rest of us to get moving and heads for his own favourite black runs. The less ambitious go up Col de la Loze, down into La Tania, back up and down into 1850. Then lunch at the Courchneige, well worth the hour spent searching for it. In the afternoon a final foray into 1650 before heading home without the DenEboy ever catching us up. Leftover venison, sausages and tartiflette for dinner. Tasty as ever, and the final bottles of champagne and Coteaux de Tricastin polished off too. Wine quantity perfectly judged, wine quality judged perfect.
Sunday
The Cambridge flyers are up and away by six am, so quietly that no-one hears them go. Le grand chef et la petite organisateuse are next to head home, leaving le grand frère and the mogul-lover to hit the slopes for a farewell morning's skiing, while the bump and old bighead enjoy a pleasant walk up through the ice, snow and trees to the altiport. We take the lift back down, a novel experience for both of us, and then eat lunch at the Lodge while watching the Gunners struggle to shake off the tenacious Terriers. All's well that ends well, the 5th round beckons, the boys return, and the four of us pile into la veille voiture for the trip home. Tired but satisfied, we reach Lyon at 5.30 and collapse into bed not long afterwards. Another terrific Tourterelle trip comes to an end…
From Friday onwards, skiing dominated events. The annual trip to Meribel was reinstated after last year's short hiatus. With minor personnel changes it followed a time-honoured course established over previous years, and went something like this:
Saturday
Le grand frère arrives on an early flight, I pick him up from the airport and then force march him to Les Halles to purchase cheese provisions for the week. Boeuf Bourguignon prepared and put in the oven before sacrificing my internet-stream-side seat at the sacred ground to set off to the airport once more to collect the DenEboy. The men in red and white manage a comfortable win in my absence. Back home we all await the arrival of J&C. And wait, and wait. Lost in Lyon. Again. They eventually get here with the help of some real-time telephone guidance, and a predictably convivial evening follows. Main topic of conversation: girls' names. Strange but true.
We're up by nine am, le père potentiel suffering the mild after-effects of champagne, Côtes du Rhône and dodgy whisky. Organiser and head chef are away by ten, leaving the rest of us to install roof box, load up and follow about an hour later. Hopes of getting in a half-day skiing are dashed by a malfunctioning entry keypad and a coach on fire. The former causes the vanguard to await the arrival of an electrician, who is held up along with the rest of us in a 10km traffic queue behind the burning bus between Albertville and Moutiers. After 90 minutes spent going nowhere, we eventually arrive in Meribel village sometime after 3pm. A relaxing afternoon follows, and in the evening the gastronomic festival kicks off with a special from le grand chef - salmon and horseradish hors d'oeuvres, courgette and parmesan soup, with baked salmon and creamed parsnip to follow. All washed down with champagne and an eminently palatable vin blanc de pays de Provence. Le grand chef introduces l'architecte to the Tourterelle digestif tradition - a few generous snifters of Cognac.
Monday
The newcomers are scared into rising early by alcohol-fuelled talk of hitting the slopes at nine - a ploy by the old hands, which ensures croissants on the breakfast table by the time the majority make an eventual appearance. We're all finally sitting on the first lift by ten. A gentle morning skiing en masse follows - Jerusalem, Choucas and Le Grand Duc (scene of the first wipeout of the week - honours to le grand frère). Expensive pizzas for lunch in the Chaudanne, after which les skieuses head off for their first Super Suzie session of the week, leaving les garçons to sample the snow and the Combe de Saulire in Courchevel. Meanwhile la femme enceinte has been neglecting the strict observation of restful confinement by baking the traditional gâteaux choco-banane for our return and cooking lovely lamb tajine for dinner, complemented by un bon Côtes du Rhône and a sampling of the generous cheese board.
Early rising for those keen to improve their skiing, somewhat later start for the more lackadaisical. The latter find good snow on the red fox, but that one final run turns to near disaster, with a tumble and a dislocated shoulder for the le grand gooner. Fortunately he manages to pop it quickly back in, and soldiers manfully on through the pain for the rest of the week. We head over to Courchevel and meet up with les filles post lesson at 1650. Lunch taken and it's back onto the gentle 1650 pistes before those pesky Marmottes do their best to disrupt the journey home. Meanwhile la bienheureuse has been taking some exercise of her own at the swimming pool. For dinner la petite chefeuse rustles up tasty sausage casserole, champagne and Coteaux de Tricastin are quickly knocked back and then les gooners head to the pub to catch the second half of a famous semi-final comeback. Return to Wembley at last.
Wednesday
No pedagogic delights for les filles today, so it's a mass outing to the slopes below Dents de Burgin, where everybody practises their squidgy chocolate toes and squat-loo turns. Then all back to the chalet to give la future maman some company at lunch. And that's it for the day for some, the lure of sunshine on the front terrace proving stronger than artificial snow. Ma bien-aimée accompanies la grosse tête into Meribel in search once more of an oversized helmet, while the rest of the boys hit the slopes once more. Protection for an abnormal brain found at last. While le grand chef cooks up an old favourite for dinner, the remaining old rockers head to the packed pub to enjoy a brief Bring Your Sisters session. Back at the dinner table, venison stew is savoured with another old favourite, a veille vignes Vacqueyras from Le Couroulu.
Morning lessons once more, the eager beavers are up and out early for their rendezvous with Super Suzie. The laggards follow some time later and head to Les Menuires and La Masse to find the best snow of the week and lunch in the company of sundry like-minded personnes agées. The Tourterelle tyros are on cuisine duty in the evening and after la belle Debutante whips up a rich fruitcake while the stone man rustles up a corking Coq au Vin, complemented by un jolie Petit Chablis. They then introduce the rest of us to a frustrating after dinner game: Newmarket. Just like betting on horse racing: all luck and no skill. At least, smartyboots claims that as the reason for ending up bankrupt while smartyskis and la petite beaucoup walk away with the biggest pots of pasta.
Friday
Gruelling all-dayer for the Suzie pupils. The boys are bemused to discover that the sun has disappeared but, undeterred, head for the crowded heights of Val Thorens and la Cime de Caron. Nice, breezy run down, but once is deemed enough for the day, and we all do our bit by accompanying a troupe of mini-skiers on a lift on the way home. At Mont de la Chambre we go our separate ways; le grand chef goes off towards Les Menuires to practise his counter-rotation; the tired architect heads for home; the DenE and BJ boys attack lunch and then Mont Vallon before one quick run down Combe Saulire to say they'd skied 3 valleys in a day. Meanwhile la bienheureuse treats herself to a facial before purchasing provisions and preparing fantastic fruit salad. The newly helmeted chef allows his brother to perform the potato peeling donkey work, leaving only the easy job of putting together the traditional tartiflette. Côtes du Rhône, Vacqueyras and Cognac finish the evening off nicely for most, though les debutants and the DenEboy still have enough energy for a quick pub sortie, quick being the operative word. Seems Bring Your Sisters' late evening set caters more for the younger crowd: stripteases and ankle-deep broken glass de rigueur.
Saturday
Last day, let's all ski together. All apart from l'expert, who tires of waiting for the rest of us to get moving and heads for his own favourite black runs. The less ambitious go up Col de la Loze, down into La Tania, back up and down into 1850. Then lunch at the Courchneige, well worth the hour spent searching for it. In the afternoon a final foray into 1650 before heading home without the DenEboy ever catching us up. Leftover venison, sausages and tartiflette for dinner. Tasty as ever, and the final bottles of champagne and Coteaux de Tricastin polished off too. Wine quantity perfectly judged, wine quality judged perfect.
The Cambridge flyers are up and away by six am, so quietly that no-one hears them go. Le grand chef et la petite organisateuse are next to head home, leaving le grand frère and the mogul-lover to hit the slopes for a farewell morning's skiing, while the bump and old bighead enjoy a pleasant walk up through the ice, snow and trees to the altiport. We take the lift back down, a novel experience for both of us, and then eat lunch at the Lodge while watching the Gunners struggle to shake off the tenacious Terriers. All's well that ends well, the 5th round beckons, the boys return, and the four of us pile into la veille voiture for the trip home. Tired but satisfied, we reach Lyon at 5.30 and collapse into bed not long afterwards. Another terrific Tourterelle trip comes to an end…
28 décembre 2010
Festive excess
Christmas morning dawned cold, dark and white: about 2cm of snow on the ground. Excuse to stay in the warm and devote the day to cooking and overeating. La petite oie was stuffed at both ends (forcemeat, apple & prunes), and by mid afternoon so were we: prawn & salmon, roast goose & stuffing, braised red cabbage, roast potato & parsnip, plum pudding. And a bit of wine & bubbly: zero to fourteen percent. A magnetic game attracted amusement and repelled logic.
Boxing Sunday, a gesture towards working off some of the excess was shortened by the biting Mistral, blowing down the Rhône valley. Wind chill turned -2 into -10 and encouraged an about turn a couple of bridges downstream. Back in the warm we feasted on leftovers. Monday, la bienheureuse passed on her cold, and took la belle-mère to get some more exercise by shopping in the warm of an indoor arcade, leaving me to welcome a plumber grumpy about doing a job for a third of his initial quote. Took him three hours too. Ho ho ho.
Meanwhile I nursed le rhume to full fury and fretted over the evening angst to come. The closure of the Wallace for the holidays prompted a late attempt to gain permission to watch the match chez the absent voisins whose key we possess. Permission only arrived after the event, but all was right on the night: sufficient internet streams found to witness most of the triumph against the blue enemy.
This morning, the alarm rudely interrupted a succession of lie-ins. Monthly checkup number eight beckoned. Sixty minutes after the appointed hour, the wise woman finally checked la bienheureuse and bump, pronounced all well apart from slightly elevated blood pressure, and frowned sternly when a skiing holiday a month before term was mentioned. She didn't say no, though…
Boxing Sunday, a gesture towards working off some of the excess was shortened by the biting Mistral, blowing down the Rhône valley. Wind chill turned -2 into -10 and encouraged an about turn a couple of bridges downstream. Back in the warm we feasted on leftovers. Monday, la bienheureuse passed on her cold, and took la belle-mère to get some more exercise by shopping in the warm of an indoor arcade, leaving me to welcome a plumber grumpy about doing a job for a third of his initial quote. Took him three hours too. Ho ho ho.
Meanwhile I nursed le rhume to full fury and fretted over the evening angst to come. The closure of the Wallace for the holidays prompted a late attempt to gain permission to watch the match chez the absent voisins whose key we possess. Permission only arrived after the event, but all was right on the night: sufficient internet streams found to witness most of the triumph against the blue enemy.
This morning, the alarm rudely interrupted a succession of lie-ins. Monthly checkup number eight beckoned. Sixty minutes after the appointed hour, the wise woman finally checked la bienheureuse and bump, pronounced all well apart from slightly elevated blood pressure, and frowned sternly when a skiing holiday a month before term was mentioned. She didn't say no, though…
18 février 2008
An eminently forgettable weekend
The least said about Saturday the better. Went to the pub for a simulcast of OL's game at Le Mans and that FA cup tie at Old Twafford, then went out for a meal afterwards and did our best to anaesthatise the pain, emotional and physical. The latter in the case of la bienheureuse, who somehow damaged her back on Thursday/Friday and spent the whole weekend barely able to walk. Though today she's flown off to Germany again, so it's slowly improving...
The evening did at least have the benefit of allowing us to discover a new restaurant, Le Baronn, next door to a favourite, La Table de ma Grande Mère, which we couldn't get in because it was fully booked, as ever.
The evening did at least have the benefit of allowing us to discover a new restaurant, Le Baronn, next door to a favourite, La Table de ma Grande Mère, which we couldn't get in because it was fully booked, as ever.
03 décembre 2007
Tiring business, eating and entertaining...
We seem to have spent most of the weekend eating. Dinner out on Friday evening at Le Cazenove, courtesy of our guest, the lovely Ms M. Champagne & wine, five courses, someone else paying: what better way to spend an evening? Well, perhaps Saturday evening topped it. Dinner in, cooked by la divine bienheureuse, naturally even more delicious, champagne, wine, and six courses, depending on how you counted. With enough left over to save me cooking for a couple of days...
Sunday was recovery day. We left our guest to walk around Lyon on her own, saying her goodbyes. Gracious hosts to the last we were too lazy to even accompany her to the bus station. I summoned the energy to go and watch OL last night, but la bienheureuse, with another two day trip to Germany starting today, chose an early bedtime instead. I did dither for a moment myself, but was glad I went. 5 goals and a bit of a pre-match birthday party for the Bad Gones supporters all contributed to a very enjoyable match.
Sunday was recovery day. We left our guest to walk around Lyon on her own, saying her goodbyes. Gracious hosts to the last we were too lazy to even accompany her to the bus station. I summoned the energy to go and watch OL last night, but la bienheureuse, with another two day trip to Germany starting today, chose an early bedtime instead. I did dither for a moment myself, but was glad I went. 5 goals and a bit of a pre-match birthday party for the Bad Gones supporters all contributed to a very enjoyable match.
30 novembre 2007
A gourmand weekend, the patter of tiny feet
Feels like the festive season has already started, the over-eating side anyway. We currently have a house guest (actually probably two, but more of that later). Ms M is back in Lyon to finalize the sale of her flat, and is taking us out to a rather nice restaurant tonight to say thanks for the minor chore of occasionally going over to check it was ok during the year it has lain empty. And also for selling a couple of appliances on ebay for her. Then Saturday will be dinner chez nous with her and perhaps a couple of others. Pre-christmas dietary regime starts on Sunday. Maybe.
Last week while la bienheureuse was in allemagne, I spent an entertaining evening with another guest. An uninvited one. There I was sitting watching the football when out of the corner of my eye I saw something whiz across the floor. The shadow of the grim reaper? Nope, much smaller than that. Closer investigation eventually revealed a mouse. Un tout petit souris, about the size of my thumb.
Elusive little pest. I spent the next two hours moving furniture, on hands and knees trying to find and corner him. Sans succès. I only managed to set eyes on him twice more, once when I found him behind the settee, and once more after giving up on catching him, when he scooted under the table. I swear the little b*gger gave a little skip as he ran.
"Nyah, catch me if you can!"
Thought I had him cornered then, but could I find any trace of him again? Nope. Nor have I seen any sign of him since. Disappeared from whence he came? Or still cocking a snook at me from his hideout? I know what I think...
Meanwhile, elsewhere in France people fret about social unrest, the state of the economy, low purchasing power, etc, etc. And Monsieur Le Président is making an effort to be seen to be taking things in hand...
Last week while la bienheureuse was in allemagne, I spent an entertaining evening with another guest. An uninvited one. There I was sitting watching the football when out of the corner of my eye I saw something whiz across the floor. The shadow of the grim reaper? Nope, much smaller than that. Closer investigation eventually revealed a mouse. Un tout petit souris, about the size of my thumb.
Elusive little pest. I spent the next two hours moving furniture, on hands and knees trying to find and corner him. Sans succès. I only managed to set eyes on him twice more, once when I found him behind the settee, and once more after giving up on catching him, when he scooted under the table. I swear the little b*gger gave a little skip as he ran.
"Nyah, catch me if you can!"
Thought I had him cornered then, but could I find any trace of him again? Nope. Nor have I seen any sign of him since. Disappeared from whence he came? Or still cocking a snook at me from his hideout? I know what I think...
Meanwhile, elsewhere in France people fret about social unrest, the state of the economy, low purchasing power, etc, etc. And Monsieur Le Président is making an effort to be seen to be taking things in hand...
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