adventures in haute cuisine; or, i'll take the green beans, thanks.

I would like to submit a nominee for Creepiest Thing in the Whole Entire World: the whole, dead, skinless, earless, and footless hare that was, for an extended period of time, lying in a mixing bowl on the kitchen table in my host family's house.

Oh my god.

I found it at 11 o'clock in the morning, which is entirely too early for me to even be awake, much less confronted with the evidence that my host family is, if not entirely insane, marginally demented. I was getting out my cereal. The hare had other plans. I had to control my impulse to retch all over the floor. It was ... defrosting, while curled up like a baby, its little pawless arms drawn up to its skull, eyes shut. The ears themselves were gone, but there were still little ear holes in its head.

As I contemplated this thing (while also contemplating vegetarianism, my own mortality, and whether or not I would eat ever again), my host father came in the room. In a voice that could best be described as jolly, he said, "Oh, that's not for you! That's for us."

Yes. Yes, it had better be.

The hare remained in the mixing bowl on the kitchen table for a good two days, during which I was put on a forced crash diet, because I couldn't bear to get anywhere near it. I got my cereal box out of the cabinet by sneaking up on it and holding one hand between my eyes and the hare like blinders. I did not snack, because snacks were in the kitchen and so was the hare. Eventually it moved to a covered pot on the stove, or so Skye told me; I was not opening that thing up to verify. By the end of the second day, the hare had started to turn a little purply around the edges, and that had made me nervous enough.

Just when I thought they must have eaten it already and we were free of it, yet another mixing bowl appeared on the kitchen table. It was the hare, only the hare in a sort of shredded-pork-and-bones form. Its skull was still intact, but the rest of its body had turned into dark brown mush with ribs sticking up from it at random intervals. The head looked a bit like a pterodactyl.

Today it is gone. Yesterday the host family had a little lunch party, with two of their sons, a sister and a brother-in-law. I can only assume that the hare was meant as a delicacy for this Big Deal Party.

Ever since I got here my host mother has been trying to convince me to eat meat. She has just set her cause back about seventy-five years.

Also, recently I am sick. I have the plague. I blame this entirely on the hare.

Update: I FIND THAT THE HARE IS IN THE REFRIGERATOR. I SHALL NEVER BE FREE OF IT.

in which skye and i are accomplished chefs.

The other night, Skye and I made salmon. (It was good!) Mme de Lassagne came into the kitchen while we were getting stuff out to cook it, and asked what we were doing. Skye tried to answer, We're going to cook the salmon.

"Cook," in French, is either "faire cuire" or "cuisiner." Faire cuire probably would have been the right choice here -- "Nous allons faire cuire le saumon." Unfortunately, she got a little confused, and instead she said "cuillere." Which means "spoon": she said, "Nous allons cuillere le saumon." We're going to spoon the salmon.

When I told her later what she'd really said I was laughing so hard it took me a few minutes to be able to actually say the words.

adventures in boot-buying.

My new boots! This picture is so funny-looking, but you try taking a picture of your own shins.

I am nothing if not efficient. I went out at 12:30, visited four shoe stores (one of them twice), and at 1:30 had bought these. And they were only 69 euros! Cheapest boots in Paris. The salespeople did give me funny looks when I asked for size 41. Once, I tried on a pointy-toed pair, and the 41 was just not happening with that toe, so I asked if they had a 42, and the woman stared at me in shock for a moment before she said, Those do not exist. Those are very big.

Then at the store where I finally bought these, I tried on a suede pair. Generally, from what I've seen of French shoe stores, you try them on yourself -- meaning, they have all the boxes sitting out, and you just grab it. Some places do not work this way, but as a rule French shoe stores are much more self-service than American ones. Anyway, so I got out the size 41s. A saleswoman came over and looked over my shoulder and asked me, Are you sure those are the right size? Because a 41 is very. big.

Yes. Yes it is. And yes they are.

I also finally got my host family a present -- chocolate (free samples for me! It was delicious) and flowers. No, I am not creative. Sue me. The florist told me what kind of flowers they were, and it sounded like "camellia," but I looked that up on Wikipedia and they definitely are not camellias. I have absolutely no idea, but they're pretty. And they're in a pot with soil, so they'll probably live a while. Hope the de Lassagnes like flowers, because they're stuck with these.

in which i am proud of numerous things.

Permission arrives to post a picture of Cedric's present. I think it's amazing. I trust you will too.

It's a camera. A really cool camera. I'm sure it is completely out of commission, but it'll look pretty cool on a shelf, right? It was purchased at the Marche aux Puces with rather less haggling than was perhaps called for, but no, Cedric, I am not telling you how much your own present cost. When I bought it, the seller said it was from the thirties, and in "acceptable" condition (ha ha). I keep playing with it, because you can shut that front door and make it accordion up, and then you pop it open and it all expands. Like a pop-up book, only better (unless we're talking about, say, a Graceland Interactive Pop-Up Tour. For example).

Skye and I surrendered to the inevitable and went grocery shopping. This is rather more stress-inducing than it would seem to, oh, normal people; because we do not, in fact, know how to cook. Therefore, we do not know how to shop; and so I called Mom in a minor panic. She laughed at my pain, and then she gave me a list of staples that we should try to buy. Butter. Eggs. Bread. (It occurs to me now that we forgot the eggs.)

Anyway, we went to Franprix and tried our best. Grocery stores in France are smaller than would be in any way reasonable. Four aisles and frozen food on two walls, fruit on another. We succeeded in buying enough stuff for the week, if we stretch it, and we only spent 64 Euros. This is impressive, I'm telling you right now. And we cooked dinner, after a fashion: tuna salad, cheese and tomato melted on bread. Tuna melt. But awesome. In Skye I have found someone whose culinary goals mesh with mine (namely, do not starve).

I have also started drinking tea. No, I don't understand it either, but a chunk of sugar goes a long way toward making things palatable. Still, coffee remains in the realm of the undrinkable.

Also, I have no idea why the formatting in this post is so screwy. Blogger is really frustrating.