parismarisamadonna

Paris is Burning – Ladyhawke 2009

I am two weeks late….but here for your weekend literary pleasure is a little ditty about the day that most of France spends standing over a BBQ somewhere in the south as the Tour de France commentators scream out orders from the telly while a tiny minority remain in Paris battling the increasingly prevalent American Tourists as an even tinier man stands on his Flamenco heels sans Carlita at the Place de La Concorde saluting men in the most feminine army uniforms seen outside the Vatican.

Or Bastille Day.

The 14^th of July 2011 marked 222 years since a bunch of greasy garlicky Gallic revolutionaries did the unthinkable and rebelled against their God-Given King (and his very fashionable if Austrian wife) and blew up a prison in the trendy and fashionable 4^th arrondissement of Paris. Presumably they went to the trouble of razing their king’s favourite prison to make way for a gay dance party 222 years later.

The 14^th July in Paris is a pretty calm affair. Sarko stands up (even though we all judge him to still be sitting down) to salute the soldiers mincing their way down the Champs Elysees followed by a fleet of scarily pointy phalluses guised as missile launchers while some very Top Gunny planes fly over La Tour and scare the pants off of anyone over 60 who can actually remember the German invasion. The whole thing has a very “Tom Cruise slash gay or maybe that is the same thing anyway” kind of feel about it.

The large majority of those clinging to the guard rails along the Champs are the immediate family of the visiting international soldiers taking photos of their dads/brothers/sons dancing semi-naked in the middle of the most famous street in Paris while wearing a grass skirt and poking out their tongues. In no way related to the gay references of the preceding paragraph, this year’s guests were from French Polynesia so we were treated to the unexpected spectacle of a version of the Haka played out if front of the trembling Sarko. A trembling Sarko who was no doubt wishing the Amazon Carlita and her expanding belly were present to protect him from any loud bangs should he blow over.

Barely anyone attends the parade itself because it starts at 9am on a public holiday. Anyone in Paris under 50 is sound asleep in front of their toilet (or if they were lucky, under a fireman) after spending the night at the annual Fireman’s Ball guzzling cheap Champagne with the pompiers. The Fireman’s Ball is a drink and fireman fuelled party that occurs on the eve of Bastille Day in fire stations across the country that is surely a more essential tradition for France to export than kissing people in greeting? 

It may also be because French people don’t care as much about being French as Americans care about being American, or Australians care about being Australian or any of the other new world nations care about being a new world nation. French people, in my experience of them, are not so proud of their national heritage since they kind of handed it over to the man with the little moustache and the big voice a few years back. There is a sense of nonchalance about their patrimony and everyone outside France seems more impressed with France than they are themselves.

Out in the New World, we are obliged to be proud, bang our drums and wave our flags to distinguish ourselves from Mother England and the assumption that we are a smaller lesser version of her greatness and by the way did I mention that AN AUSTRALIAN WON THE TOUR DE FRANCE! Not that I am a patriot, just proud it wasn’t a pom who took the title.

 
After the pansy parade and the hangover, everyone gets ready for the “fireworks!” The fireworks in inverted commas are more a homage to real fireworks. They have fire, they do work, there are some explosions, they are pretty good, but they are a reminder of fireworks, leaving you hungry for the real thing. 

The fireworks are launched from the Trocadero, across the river from the Eiffel Tower rather than launched off of the Eiffel Tower. I am told this is because it would be too hard to climb up and install them or find anyone qualified to do it or maybe no one really cares enough to try?

Diamonds and Pearls – Prince 1991

I had never been to the Netherlands, and now in one cold, grey and rainy day I have discovered three of this waterlogged nation’s most famous cities; Amsterdam, Delft and The Hague. A wholly unholy trinity that could be best described as Sex, Mud and Politics. 

Few people apart from themselves know that the Dutch discovered Australia. Over two hundred years ago, Van Diemen, who had obviously had an argument with his wife and wished to distance himself from her beyond the usual limit of the barn, set off from Holland to find the farthermost point he could attain in a wooden boat while wearing wooden shoes. He got there, he saw Tasmania^, and then distraught to discover it inhabited by small satanic marsupials that scream and inbred bogans with a penchant for flannelette shirts, he got back in his boat and went off to find something more interesting.

Indonesia.

That Scampi Stuffed Yorkshire man James Cook would ultimately lay claim to the Great Southern Land. The English invaded and turned it into their island prison. More fool Mr Van Diemen who had to settle for sugar, the death sentence for cannabis importation‡ and Nasi Goreng while Cook got deadly spiders, deadly jellyfish and deadly snakes.

  The omnipresent Stag Do.

Given I do not partake of the two main services offered in Amsterdam, you will have to settle for my ramblings about canals, narrow buildings and paintings. But just one word.

That exemplary specimen of masculinity that woke up one day after a particularly harrowing argument with his wife and said, not only will I make it legal for women to sell their bodies for sex in an effort to earn a living in a patriarchal society that provides her with no viable alternative…but she should then subject herself to the humiliation of perching upon a bar stool, two stripes of fluorescent Lycra protecting her modesty, in a street level shop window, for the viewing pleasure and carnal delights of drunken tourists trundling by…on organised walking tours…should be hung in a town square gimp style so that we the apple-tempting women can laugh at the diminutive stature of his penis.

I will leave you to guess at my sentiments regarding Amsterdam’s most renowned tourist attraction. But rather than obsess over Girls with Pearl Necklaces, I was after a decidedly classier lass, she of the Pearl Earring.

Waking up at twenty to sparrow’s fart*, so I could catch a train to Delft, home of Johannes Vermeer# and his Girl with a Pearl, is never an easy start to a weekend morning. It is an even worse start when you arrive in the serene postcard perfect town of Delft and discover that the Girl, her Pearl, and all related items are in fact up the road next door to the International War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague.

Delft - minus Colin

As it was, I was in Delft, at least until I could figure out how to get out of there, so I made the best of it. And Delft, a beautiful town suspended between bridges and hovering upon canals is famous for only one thing apart from a smouldering Mr Darcy-esque Painter – blue and white pottery.

So let’s talk about the Pottery.

 

Nothing like repetition to drive home your point.

Is it handmade by golden haired virgins who eat truffles, abalone, oysters and saffron suspended with yellow diamond and platinum harnesses over beds lain with silk who use the hair of albino minks to paint crushed lapis lazuli upon ivory baked clay…? No it is a cup made of dirt mixed with water. Then why is it so damned expensive?

It is not a bionic ear, an aerospatial computer or an unbelievable thigh deflator, it is after all a milk jug or a plate or a dodgy bathroom tile depicting a boy pissing onto a sheep or some other such nothingness. So why is it worth it’s weight in uranium?

Spending almost as much on the stuff (I love you Motherbear) as I would have if I actually bought Johannes’ Bejewelled Girl, I left Delft, broken with disappointment and also just plain broke, in search of the Girl and just maybe, only because he would actually hurl his stunningly beautiful Italian wife into a canal and love me forever if only he met little old me, Mr Colin Firth himself. Or maybe not.

10 minutes and I was in The Hague.

  Beatrix' House

I have to imagine that Beatrix, the geriatric Queen of the Netherlands (not Beatrix ‘Peter Rabbit’ Potter) is as averse to having the netherlands of fluoro-backlit semi-clad Estonians thrust onto her retinas as I am, and that is why she chooses to reside in THE Hague. I have to imagine that Dutch politicians, when not engaged in the bloodsport that is extreme-right-fundamentalism would be too tempted by the semi-naked wonderland in Amsterdam and so they made THE Hague home to Dutch Parliament. I have to also imagine that when not burning alive or raping and pillaging the opposing tribe, that war criminals might too be overly desirous to take off the edge with a spliff, and so Goran and his mates are also sent to be tried in THE Hague.

Who cares!

THE Hague is so out of this world and from the pages of a Grimm Fairytale Bee-you-tee-ful that I am glad the Girl was not in Delft if only so I could wander the streets of this place so important it gets its own definite THE article. I am only sorry that the powers of God, Buddha and Zeus himself united to throw all the water on earth upon this picturesque place, as I happened to be partaking of said aimless wandering and so I took refuge in the Mauritshuis.

  Maurice's House

The Mauritshuis, or Mazza’s Joint for those of you who don’t read Dutch, is a tiny collection of Dutch artwork adorning the walls of a classical princely house in The Hague, home to the Paris Hilton of Flemish Portraits, Girl with the Pearl Earring, and several oeuvres from Holbein, Brueghel, Steen and the Mick Jagger of the Flemish School, Rembrandt. Whatever you like, I loved this little gallery. It was not too busy; you could actually see every single one of the paintings on the walls and there was just enough to see to make a visit worthwhile, while not being so overstuffed with Rockstars that you needed to lie down afterwards. Uffizi, Louvre, are you listening?

My unplanned visit to THE Hague will certainly not be the last.

Someone Else's House

Back to the Dam, her girls without pearls, Heineken in Buckets, diamond factories and an explosion of red light sins for the senses, and don’t even get me started on the Cheese!

Do Good what?

Men Ogle - Women Jiggle

 

 

 

 

 

^ Van Diemen’s Land is the ancient name of Tasmania and in fact New Holland was the first name of Australia

‡Is the irony lost on every one but me that the most famous criminal in the prison of the former Dutch colony, Bali, is an Australian Beauty Therapist who stuffed Amsterdam’s finest flower, cannabis, into her Boogie-Board bag?

*For the French - Sparrow’s Fart is crude and disgusting Australian slang for ‘very early in the morning’

#Yes, I only care because Colin Firth played him in the movie. But Vermeer is also a master of light and shade upon canvas in the style of Caravaggio and Rafael, my favourite non-British bonnet-drama smouldering actor painters

Pride (in the name of love) – U2 1984

Hold onto your hotpants, I went to my first Pride. I’d been to Mardi Gras in Sydney dozens of times and glittered and sequined my straight-breeding self from one pink end of Oxford St to the other.  But I had never been to Pride, certainly not in Paris, certainly not where people are happy to frolic naked in the street.

  Is it a bird? Is it a Plane?

You see, I don’t really frolic. My thighs prevent me from rapid movement of any kind without the support of Nike running tights and Chinese binding underwear to truss the hams and ensure I don’t fall over or set off a fire alarm. If such thighs preclude frolicking they would naturally preclude anything that involves getting naked in public.

And thus begins my ode to people who are so confident and proud of what and who they are, that they can close down most of the Fourth Arrondissement and get naked listening to a middle-aged man-slash-woman on stage sing the wrong lyrics to Kylie.

The day after NY decided to let boys marry boys and girls marry girls and still reeling from the fact that I’ve got more chance of marrying scaled marine life than a human of either sex, Braveheart introduced me to his tribe’s festival…and I don’t mean that day where they don tartan skirts and hurl long poles at each other across a highland (all puns intended). He took me to Pride.

All hail the long tall round thing. 

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be obliged to announce to everyone you know that you are different, that part of you loves people who have the same parts as you, an act that will cast you forever as ‘out’. The worst thing I’ve ever had to do is come home from an ill-fated high school party after some ill-advised ouzo consumption followed by some ill-advised male interaction and show Motherbear my neck. A neck resembling Bella’s after Edward went all Toothsome and Twilight on her but the bruises faded, Motherbear’s anger waned, she moved on to Edward and the episode ended. Although it would wind up as only episode one in the ongoing saga that is ‘Stupid S**T MM does when she is the mistress of Bacchus’. 

I am different too, but only in that Gobby Chick with Fuzzy hair and googly eyes kind of way. I wish I had a street festival to celebrate this fact so I could dress up as Kate Bush or Susan Sarandon, and revel in my googly eyed and fuzzy hairedness. But I digress.

Most of my dearest friends are Fabulous. I have to wonder why?

Is it a shared enthusiasm for everything that Madonna, Kylie or Gaga ever did, does or might do? An infatuation with women that have more looks than Derek Zoolander? A passion for a boppy pop song with lyrics that don’t ask a lass ‘to put a ring on it’ but rather to Express Herself, Get Outta Her Way or be Born Her Way? In these past few months of self-analysis and solitary confinement, I have come to learn that there is more to it than a catchy tune and hotpants.

 

In the company of other women, women can be cruel and judgemental; the Sex and the City franchise knew it, branded it and transformed it into a modern Blahnik’d phenomenon. Somewhere there is a Sapphic idyll but it is not to be found among similar aged women in the same city who are on the hunt. Just like lionesses, they’ll scratch each other blind to score the perfect mate. Able to rely only on my wit, I am more acidic Miranda than cutesy Charlotte in the war of the Amazons and we all know she ended up with a fiscally deficient loser bartender.

In the company of straight men, women compete or deplete. It is all about appearing as one should, demure, ladylike, giggly, all floral summer dress and Kate Middleton-y. Women with Phds who have launched rockets into space will happily titter inanely at some doofus’ joke if it means she is in with a shot at a Tiffany Princess Cut on Platinum and a Landrover with mini-me’s Amelia and Noah in the back seat Bugaboos.

In the company of the fabulous, there is no threat, there is no temptation and there is no competition. Instead there is laughter, integrity and brutal ‘yes it does make you look fat’ honesty. As I type, I am keenly aware this sounds as clichéd as Gossip Girl but it has proven true in my little life and there are a string of examples to prove it.

The first man I kissed in public was my co-star on a long distant stage in a long distant age and maybe even in a galaxy far, far away. He Seymour to my Audrey; I kissed him hard and fast to our drama teacher’s (little shop of) horror but only because I knew he would never kiss back. My first two boyfriends ended up Fabulous and another of the more recent was grinding behind my back though thankfully not while I was looking.#

Back in the land down under, Pauli Lupone is practising his Broadway Standards and chilling the Pinot in anticipation of my homecoming and a party that will be full of Gaiety, Glee and Gershwin. And here in Francalia, you’ve by now read about Louis XIV, the only man I know, not related to me who has slept in my house, seen me sweat on a treadmill or been admitted into my presence while I am wearing shorts (c.f. explanatory notes on thighs at the top of this page).

I wish Seymour, Louis, Braveheart and Pauli (and those other ones who were pretending) all the love and happiness that this world has to offer and I am proud to be their Megan Mulally. They have given me so much sympathy, so much of their time and all the while with the best soundtrack in the world!

 

 

♫ one man come in the name of love ♫ 

 

#I just read that back and seriously you must think I am blind, ignorant or stupid. Perhaps all three, or just the world’s most limited capacity to judge a Y chromosome since Elizabeth Taylor …although unlike she and Richard, the F-Word and I never actually got married once and certainly not twice

 

You’re My Best Friend – Queen 1976

She’ll hate this, but I have grown used to annoying her, so here goes. 

This song was released about 6 weeks after I was born. I can sing it from beginning to end, without missing a lyric because Motherbear loves Queen; more specifically she loved Freddy. Watching Freddy strut his fabulous white lycra’d self around a stage was a usual Saturday morning at our house. I remember her explaining what AIDS was when he died, which would turn into one of her many lectures about how there is nowt so queer as folk, people are different, and the fact that a man loves another man and loves lyrca more than a Prima Ballerina is not something to be afraid of.

…but spiders are.

Last week, Motherbear had a birthday; she shares hers with the Queen of Hearts herself, Diana. And just like Diana, she is a model of motherhood with an enthusiasm for Gay people and the monarchy, though rather more Henry VIII or Charles I than the current crop of sexually retarded blithering morons.

Maintaining the birthday tradition that I ‘beat’ the Smartarse, my brother, I was sure to ring her at exactly 6am AET, ensuring I would be the first person to sing (squeal) her Happy Birthday. I was also the first person to annoy her, which being the eldest of three, is something I am accustomed to.

  Artist's Impression #1

Sharing some odd, once every 50 year pattern of planets on our charts (the Art-sist-ologer informs me) we are close in personality. But even more than that I would add without hesitation that she is indeed my best friend.

Best friends share all kinds of things, and the basis of that rapport is usually similar tastes, similar likes and dislikes, shared passions.

She had me read Wuthering Heights for the first time when I was 12. This would lead to a life long passion for 19^th century literature with a shared enthusiasm for the Brontës and Jane Austen. We do both love a romantic hero and can easily chat for hours about which of the filmed versions of Darcy, (she the David Rintoul BBC version from the 80s, me Colin Firth) or Heathcliff (she Timothy Dalton from the 70s, me Laurence Olivier) we feel best represents our mind’s eye character from reading the books. She is much more of a fan of Dickens than I, favouring a story about the poor imp who comes good over significant adversity, I err more towards the romantic social dramas of Gaskell and Wharton. In summary, beyond a passion for reading, we both love a bodice-ripping bonnet drama.

In fact we both love movies in general.

  Artist's Impression #2

I would not be able to put a figure to the number of movies we have seen together, but I do know that when I was still in Sydney, we saw almost every one of the Harry Potter movies and the more recent of the Star Wars films together at Gold Class. The trademark annoyance that I am, I like to ‘dissect’ a film at the end, that moment where you turn to person beside you and talk about what or who you liked best, the realism of the special effects, the prettiness of the costumes and you sit until the end of the credits to see in which castle the movie was shot and discuss whether or not you’ve been there. Taking her vengeance on me for being just such an annoyance, while I am ready to explode with excitement at Alan Rickman’s excellent portrayal of Severus Snape, she answers my quivering ‘what did you think of him mum???’ with a cool, ‘yeah, he was alright’. A coolness that hides her real sentiment designed only annoy me.

Balance, equilibrium and calm are not qualities we share.

Just like a best friend, she also offers lots of advice. Advice that is generally put forth in those succinct powerful phrases that mothers use frequently, that she no doubt heard from her mother, and that echo in my ears every time I try to dip my toes in the tempting pool of wrong. Some of her pearls of wisdom include… 

Don’t eat while you are walking down the street, it is common.

Don’t drink too much; you don’t want to be common.

Don’t talk too loud, you sound like a fishwife thus, common.

Don’t straighten your curly hair; it will make you look common.

Don’t wear chipped nail polish; it is common.

I don’t care what everyone else is doing, if everyone else were jumping off the Sydney Harbour Bridge would you want to do that too?

You aren’t a billboard, which is why you can’t have that (Sportsgirl or insert other brand name) T-shirt. It looks common.

You are better than (insert any man, woman or child whose done me wrong). Which has of course led to the mistaken conclusion that I am indeed a F**king Rockstar.

 

There is one I never really understood.

‘Mum, I thought you said I could have that (ice cream, dress, doll, etc)’

‘You know what Thought did? Stuck a feather in the ground and thought he’d grow a chook’

Still has me stumped as to what exactly the lesson is to be learned from this, none of us are gardeners, or poultry farmers, but hey, the woman has raised three very determined and enthusiastic individuals…let’s not get too picky.

  Artist's Impression #3

When not imparting granules of Socratic wisdom, she also taught me lots of valuable life skills.

The application of make-up, with your fingers so you don’t get splotches, crème base on the eyes so you don’t get creases and we both make that same carnival-game-oscillating -clown face when we apply mascara. While not a Michelin starred chef, she taught me to make curry, tacos, roast dinner and the perfect white sauce, which is now the basis of my Béchamel and Mornay. How to sew a button, hem trousers (Dad was rather short) and iron a shirt. The latter involves spraying clouds of that Ironing Aid Spray from one end of the room to the other with an occasional chance of it landing on the crumpled shirt creating an impromptu ice rink on the floor below.

In addition to these skills which are all required to be a perfect wife, she ensured she imparted that most valuable of lessons early and often.

You can be whatever you want to be, you are an individual, an education means you have a choice, and no matter what goes wrong, you can always come home.

 

Reflections – The Supremes 1967

Last week I had to stand up in front of a bunch of people and describe myself. Blah Blah Madonna, Blah Blah Australian, Blah Blah f**king Rockstar, the usual suspects all lined up as I presented a profile similar to that which one might include when starting a page for online dating, to a bunch of people who don’t think I am anywhere near as funny as I think I am (a recurring theme in my life). I also included in the hobbies section, loves writing like A A Gill. 

AA is one of my favourite writers, journalists and columnists for myriad reasons; most notably he is named after an institution that weans you off alcohol. Writing this blog, I refer to myself as MM, although inspired by him, it is nowhere near as funny or clever as AA being as it is only a shortened version of my name or if you prefer, MegaMouth. But I guess that is how it is with AA and I, he, leaps ahead, employing words no one has scribed on paper since Will Shakespeare shut up shop in the 1500’s, me always lagging behind with my excessively oestrogenic Helen Fielding-esque complaints about men and darkened singledom in the City of Lights. I first fell in love with the man behind the pen for his flagitious commentary early in his career as a restaurant critic; Gordon Ramsay is a ‘second-rate human being’. One of the better examples, so inflamed the delicate sensibilities of Vanity Fair’s American readership (evidently all dyed-in-the-wool loyalist diners at l’Ami Louis), that the letters of complaint published in the following issue far outnumbered the letters to the editor regarding the feature cover-page article.

Ergo, in the post-break-up-new-haircut-renewed-self spirit of trying out new things and in homage to AA, here is my first ever restaurant review.

Le Miroir is fast becoming my own personal dining room. Even though it is 2 blocks up the road, in an average week, I often eat there more often than I do in my own Ramsay inspired effing kitchen.

  Lunch for one; Tuna Tartare, Glass of Sancerre and an iPad

Owned by two very gourmandy-foody* types, Sebastien the chef from Orleans does not burn virgin witches but does have a dab hand for charring flesh, and the Matthieu the sommelier with the rather serendipitous surname of Buffet, hailing from the more pork and bacon corner of France that is the Savoy. Realising soon after they opened that the 40 seats they have to offer were simply not enough, they turned the bottle shop they own across the road into a sort of Enoteca where one can taste the wine before purchasing, drink it by the glass(es) before dinner across the road and also sample some of Sebastien’s smaller offerings. A sample plate of blood red sliced Iberica ham, fresh radishes with salted Isigny butter and a baked to order olive fougasses all grease the appetite before the formula 1 intestinal onslaught begins in the restaurant across the road.

Walking in, you are drawn to the enormous mirrors on the wall, providing the inspiration for the name, although they’ve told me the name was drawn from the reflected restaurant and bottle shop straddling the rue de Martyrs. The interior is reminiscent of the best Parisian bistros before they went all Designer Italian infra-red taps in the bathroom and stainless steel walls, floors, chairs, tables, flatware and waitstaff. There is an enveloping sense of warmth when you enter, evoked not only by the lingering aroma of roasting grasse de canard^. There is a central bar stocked full of Matthieu’s carefully selected French wines (he likes and is very well educated about our Southern stuff but claims it is too expensive to serve in a restaurant) and banquette seating clings to the walls with red leather arms embracing you as you enter the deceptively small space. I am still trying to work out where, and thus how, they cook?

The menu changes everyday, following the seasons but always sticking close to the French country-style origins of Sebastien who picked up a penchant for the waddling bird in the South West and Matthieu’s baconaphilia. You won’t find chilli or lemongrass on the menu but you will be tempted to see what he can do with a Beef Cheek, a Pig Foot or some other extremity of a beast as yet unexplored.

  Foie Gras and Rabbit Terrine, Quince Jam and homemade bread...YUM

Entrées usually involve some kind of seafood, petrified, stuffed or smoked duck and an array of charcuterie from the south and the Alps. The starring role goes to the Iberica Jamon, the leg of which is given pride of place on the bar, pointing it’s cloven hoofed way to the back of the restaurant. I enjoy staring at the hams of others rather than obsessing over the two I drag across the surface of this earth every single wobbly day, so I have been monitoring and it would appear that they shave a ham a week making for ever-fresh slices no matter when you choose to dine. 

The main courses carry on the ‘bits of meat you don’t usually eat’ theme, but always fresh, always the best and like Pageant Queens, glossed and trussed to their award winning potential with seasonal baby vegetables and a just made in the pan slick of a sauce that doesn’t hide the excellent quality of the meat.

I recently ate a lamb chop so juicy and delicate that it may just convert me to eating babies again. Once a pescatarian, I’ve since compromised by only eating red-blooded beasts that have at least attained Nintendo and acne puberty and are therefore annoying enough not to worry about carving a steak out of. For the littl’uns, lambs, calves etc, I still can’t bring myself to enjoy their garlicky, fatty goodness without imagining Fisher Price toys and nappies.

Lamb, Wine and that bread again...and yes, I always take a date for lunch.

It is safe to say that you could throw just about any cut, from any beast of any age at Sebastien and he would be able to highlight it’s succulence and glam up it’s brownness with a sauce that will take it from Made in China Primark across the road to luxurious Selfridges in just a demi-glazed jiffy.

I can’t talk about the dessert because as an enthusiastic formagophile, I’ve never ordered it. I could however write an ode to the cheese selection that would challenge Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner in number of stanzas and passionate retelling of story of interest only to the teller.

And so I’ll spare you the details, but here is a photo, and every single morsel, including the green stuff on the side and the homemade just sour enough quince jam is exceptional.

  Cheese, or substitute for Husband and Family; perfection however you look at it

As for AA, I just need to find my own ‘Blonde’ so I can brave the table-for-one dining alone doors of a restaurant with staff I don’t know …..and start my new career.

 

Bon Appetit!

 

 

 

*AA reanimates words no one has heard for centuries, I prefer to emulate JK Rowling and just make them up. She is a mazillionaire so that makes it OK. 

^Duck Fat sounds so much classier and infinitely skinnier in French