Lost in Provence

Skinny Jeans

Skinny jeans

As many of you are already aware, Johann and I go on a purifying, detoxifying, holiday fat-fighting diet every January. This year's diet has been vegan, which means absolutely no animal products of any kind; no meat, poultry, fish, eggs or dairy. Even staple breakfast food yogurt has been banned.

I was pretty happy with the results, until our La Redoute catalog arrived in the mail. La Redoute is the French equivalent of the Sears catalog. It has men's, women's and children's clothing, accessories, furniture, appliances, etc. I was flipping through it when I noticed something that I wished I had seen on January first, before I spent thirty days depriving myself of steak with creamy peppercorn sauce and a side of fries: skinny jeans. No, really. Jeans that MAKE YOU THINNER.

The text in the pink box above says, "The 'slimming' jeans, worn regularly, combat cellulite and guarantee a thinner, firmer silhouette in just 28 days!" The page goes on to say that the jeans have been infused with a solution made from green tea, red grapevines and peaches, micro-encapsulted within the fibers of the denim and proven to improve skintone and circulation, as well as reducing the appearance of cellulite and overall circumference of areas covered by the jeans, up to 20 washes. The jeans have been clinically tested, it says, and its makers guarantee a loss of .7 inches from each thigh. I don't know what "wear regularly" means to them, but I would be willing to sleep in them, even shower in them, if necessary.

Scented top

Could this possibly work? I could wear the jeans constantly during the prescribed timeframe and then, nearly an inch slimmer, buy a new pair in the next size down and start again! And I wouldn't have to deprive myself of food I love, like french fries. I could keep salt and ketchup packets in any one of the jeans's five pockets!

And just when I thought I had seen it all, I spotted the top on the opposite page, which comes in four colors and claims to hydrate the skin, while giving off the delicate scent of sweet almonds or roses (your choice). Drunk on possibility, I scanned the page to find out what the sunglasses and belt do, imagining shades that add points to your I.Q. and a belt that does your taxes. Disappointingly, the accessories pictured do not do anything special, other than make you look like the type of person who shops at Sears.

That said, though, I think I am going to give this outfit a try. I'll let you know how it goes. Even if the experiment is an utter failure, this company deserves my money just for trying. I mean, this is the type of revolutionary synthesis of science, fashion and entrepreneurial spirit that one wouldn't normally associate with the French. Jeans that make you skinny and a top that makes you smell like roses are just damn good ideas. Well done, France. You've impressed me. I take my pants off to you. 

 

The Italian Wedding

The Getaway Car

Saturday we had the honor of being guests at our good friends Erin and Francesco’s wedding. The morning of the wedding was cloudy and… Ciao! Ciao! Va bene? Si! Si! Ciao! Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yes. Cloudy and overcast.

 

We scrambled around the apartment getting ready, but ended up having plenty of time for a Champagne toast before Francesco’s friend arrived with the bridal car. No limos for these Europeans, but the tradition is still to show up in the coolest car possible, decked out in flowers, ribbons, and, in the case of this silvery-white 1972 convertible VW Bug, the Italian and U.S. flags.

 

Ciao! Ciao, bella! Si! Bellisima! Grazie! Ciao! Ciao!

 

The Bride and Groom

I seem to have gotten off track again. Oh, yes, driving to the wedding. The wedding was presided over by the mayor of the village of Morbello, which is way up in the mountains, so far up that by the time we reached it the sky was sunny and clear. The crowd, including a nervous but beaming Francesco, waited outside the town hall (municipio, in Italian) exchanging greetings, kissing each other on the cheek and lighting one another’s cigarettes.

 

When Erin’s car came up over the hill and down toward the guests (with the top down, of course), a hush fell over the crowd and all the cameras came out. Erin’s very handsome Italian driver jumped out to open the door for her, and her fiancé approached, presenting her with a kiss and her bouquet. Erin and Francesco proceeded into the building and up the stairs followed by the rest of us, who crowded into the little room where the ceremony was held.

 

Ciao! Ciao! Va bene? Bellisima, no? Si! Doppo, doppo! Ciao!

 

Whoops. Sorry about that.

 

Bouquet from the Mayor's daughter

After a brief speech, in which the mayor lauded the virtues of Erin’s homeland, he expressed his appreciation that they would be making their home in Italy instead of moving to the States, which is the more common arrangement amongst international couples. The mayor’s daughter then read a little poem and presented the bride with a bouquet of flowers, which made everyone, even those who didn’t completely understand everything being said in Italian, a little misty. After the exchange of rings and kisses, it was back down the stairs, for a Champagne toast and the ceremonial tossing of rice, which the couple was picking out of their hair and clothing for the remainder of the day.

 

The Bride and Groom

Then a select few of us were invited to a very swish lunch at the posh Grand Hotel in Acqui Terme. What a lunch! If I hadn’t saved the menu, there’s no way I could have remembered all the courses. 1. Plate of proscuitto and other varieties of thinly sliced smoked meats. 2. Slice of smoked cod in citrus sauce garnished with sliced grapefruit. 3. Seafood salad featuring calamari, shrimp and baby octopus. 4. Mushroom torte with a creamy cheese sauce. 5. Artichoke risotto. 6. Gnocchi with shrimp and tomato sauce. 7. Thinly sliced roast beef with roasted potatoes and spinach. 8. The most delicious wedding cake I have ever had.

 

At this point, everyone needed a nap. Not just because of the quantity of food that was consumed, but also because most of us were a bit impaired from the evening before when family and close friends spent a very bacchanalian night out on the town. 

 

Cutting the cake

Ciao! Ciao, bella! Deliziosi, no? Molto bene! Si! Si! Basta, basta! Grazie mille!

 

Wow. There I go again. After a brief rest, it was time to party once more. Erin and Francesco rented a large and beautiful room at the Grand Hotel where there was a huge buffet, cocktails and champagne, and plenty of room for dancing. A few of the female guests made some timid attempts to get the dancing started, but it wasn’t until Francesco’s friend, nicknamed “Poupi,” got out on the dance floor that things really started to rock. Poupi was clearly a graduate of the Blues Brothers’ School of Dance, and I can only hope that someone got his wacky antics on video. The bar and the dance floor were hopping until around three in the morning, after which, even the most die-hard guests had to call it quits for the night.

 

Party at the Grand Hotel

I suppose I should explain about all these interruptions in Italian. It’s just that, after spending a week in Italy, I’ve become accustomed to being constantly distracted by Italians saying hello, kissing me on the cheek, offering me drinks, giving me gifts, telling me I look great or trying to talk me into eating more of whatever’s on the table. I’m weaning myself off their hospitality slowly, I guess. It’s not going to be easy.

 

Congratulazioni, Erin and Francesco!

 

 

 

The Wheat of Wrath

This year's wheat crop

Welcome to 2008! It's going to be a good year. Do you know how I can tell? It's the gardening we've been doing.

Every December 4th, on Saint Barbara's* feast day, Provençal families fill a low, flat dish with some cotton balls and a generous sprinkling of seeds. It's the custom to buy the seeds from organizations giving the proceeds to charity, thereby honoring Barbara's fabled dedication to helping the poor. If watered often and given enough sunlight, the seeds sprout into wheat, as seen in the picture at left. And the better your wheat grows, the better luck you'll have in the upcoming year. Sounds quaint and charming, right?

Here's the kicker. The downside to this little tradition is that they say if your wheat doesn't grow, or dies before the new year, a member of your family will also expire before the upcoming year comes to an end. Now call me crazy, but that's a lot of pressure to put on a little horticulture project, isn't it? Forget to water the thing for a couple of days and bye-bye great-uncle Walter.

Well, Mom, Dad, Julie, Dave, Jackson, Mary Lou, Aunt Linda, Uncle John, Cousin Becky, Grandpa... You can all breathe a sigh of relief. As you can see, we have a bumper crop this year. I hope you're not upset with me for risking your lives like this. After all, you know how hopeless I am with plants.

Whether it's over-watering, under-watering, too much sun, too little sun, leaving them outside on the windowsill during a frost or just forgetting they exist, my plants never seem to last long. I once had some pots of basil growing on the windowsill that I found smashed on the ground below one morning. Johann says the wind blew them there, but I know the truth. They saw the way things were headed and they jumped.

But by the grace of some kind of Christmas miracle, this year's wheat is thriving. So until next December, you guys can take it easy. Don't cancel your life insurance policy or anything, just rest assured that I'm doing everything I can over here to keep you healthy. That's all.

 

* Interested in the shocking and violent tale of Saint Barbara? Click here: Saint Barbara