Change of Address, ATTACK

I think changing apartments is generally 457% more complicated in France than in the United States. For example: step 1, call the internet company and ask them to cancel our service. They're speaking too fast in too much French and insisting I tell them "why," so I hang up in fear and have TMI call back. We need to know our landline phone number; somehow our name and address aren't good enough to locate our account. We scramble around to find it on our old paperwork. Once the cancellation is finally agreed upon, we get to pay them a 45 euros cancellation fee. I was prepared to tell them to allait te faire foutre, but TMI insisted that was normal practice in these parts. Then, the internet doesn't actually stop until they mail you a shipping label, you find a box, and stuff all of your hardware (router, modem, etc.) into the box, and then WALK to the other side of town to one of their authorized drop off stations. woo! Setting up a new account in the new apartment was a similar process but in reverse- it also required a 10 day activation period. 

The electricity was arguably worse. After I had retured the apartment keys to the agency, it was discovered that to cut the electricity  I needed a number on an electric counter somewhere in the apartment. I walked to the agency, got the keys, got the number and walked back. Called the service provider. I needed TWO numbers. I HULK SMASHHED the phone and then walked BACK to the agency and repeated that last steps. 

The complications, mishaps, and cancellation fees were attacking from all sides. Now that it seems to be over, I'm sort of hiding out in the apartment and peering fearfully around the curtains, waiting for some other institution I forgot to deal with to AMBUSH. 

The Perfect Pumpkin Curry

Every week I receive a "panier bio," or,  a burlap sack of organic seasonal fruits and veggies. It's pretty cool. I've been getting a lot of pumpkin lately so my new favorite thing is to cut one in half, bake it, and use one part for a pumpkin bread and the other for a curry. The result is that my pumpkin bread still sucks but my pumpkin curry could slay an army. Oh so ono.

Okay so cutting to the chase:

a chunk of baked pumpkin

400 ml of coconut milk

250 g of white beans

2 baked, russet potatoes

1/2 cup raisins 

1/2 cup shredded purple cabbage

about 3 medium carrots, cut into curry sized pieces

1 medium onion

1 shallot

2 tbs olive oil

1/4 cup water

seasonings:

A LOT of curry powder, about 11/2 tbs, until broth is dark yellow

1 tsp cinnamon 

1/2 tsp coriander 

1 tsp crushed basil

1/2 paprika (mostly to give the curry a nice color)

salt and pepper to taste

Process:

Heat the olive oil in a large wok and then add onion, carrots, shallot, and purple cabbage. Saute until golden. Add coconut milk and spices and reduce heat. Cover and let simmer until carrot is soft when poked with a fork. Taste constantly and ad spices until the broth is to your liking! Add white beans and raisins. Cut your cooked potato and pumpkin into curry sized chunks and add to the pan. Cover and let simmer for about 20 minutes or until you can't stand the amazing smell anymore. Serve on jasmine rice. And save some for lunch tomorrow - it's even better the next day :)

Capacity for Placid Romance

There has indeed been a long hiatus. And I aint sayin' the drought is over, but all the same there is plenty to be said.

First, the bad news: Life is domestic and I'm fidel in a committed relationship.

..Coincidentally that also sums up the good news.

I'm back in France and, after two months apart while I pined in the Hawaiian islands, my French significant other and I have resettled into a normal sized apartment. (-At last casting away our tiny studio.) It is both very French and typically eccentric. Marble fireplace, high ceilings,  wrought iron watch-ma-callit on the terrace, window over the tub that looks into the kitchen, etc.

The first of December will be our 1 year and 6 month anniversary. We seem to be very in love and yet drama still befalls me. Night before last, we sat in a bar having drinks with a feared red head who, I know on good authority,  pursued and made out with my mate mere months before we met. She doesn't know that I know, but dang, I know. And I also know what it's like to be in her situation. It's sort of a sexy, dangerous situation and I don't like it. So let's get even more irrational: She's like, 4'11'', weird shaped, and way smarter than I am. I'm some times a model but mostly a retard. So I got drunk and ate French fries and convinced myself that she was hotter and more spectacular in every way so that when we got home later in the night I locked myself in the bathroom and cried over my piteous self doubt. Damn! I was reading yesterday about eremites and penitents who would go into the desert for 40 years to have a change of heart. If those guys started hating themselves or suffering self doubt, it was demonic possession. No question about it.

My apartment is nice but my capacity for placid romance is next to nothing.