From the Fontainebleau Market to My Garden (and my belly)

After my first visit to the open air (and slightly covered by a very 70's industrial dome-like thing) market at Fontainebleau I am ashamed to think I've been living here since September and have never been. It was charming; it was full of beautifully arranged fruits & vegetables; it was even friendly. Seriously, people think it's a myth that people get nicer the further you radiate from Paris' epicenter. It isn't.

Marché Forain, Fontainebleau, behind the church Fridays & Sundays



I went to the market because Madame Mimi and a few of her friends are going to spend the day today planting various varieties of tomatoes, peppers (including cayenne for future kimchee making), the herbs coriander and rosemary, and sunflowers. In all I bought about 19 little baby plants, all for around 23,00 euros.

I used to tend a little vegetable garden as a girl (at the tender baby vegetable age of 5), but have since completely forgotten anything I might have then known. I remember planting little seeds in rows and the anticipation of looking for ripe vegetables. I remember harvesting cucumbers, peas, carrots, radishes, cabbage, and even watermelons from my little garden behind our house. I remember it as if from a dream because I have spent hundreds if not thousands trying to grow things in the apartments, lofts, and houses I have lived in. They all died. Orchids, cactuses...I have even killed lavendar. It grows like a weed in Provence all year long but I managed to kill it in under three weeks on my Paris balcony. The only plant I haven't killed is a Rose of Jericho because it can't be killed. It's like the Arnold Schwartzenegger of plants. It can live for up to 500 years in desert conditions with little water and no soil. It would outlast a Predator and has been around since before the time of Conan. The only thing is doesn't have that Arnold does (besides probably a lot of guns and bombs) is a t-shirt that says "I Was a Big Movie Star Who Became Governator of California and All I Got Was This Stupid T-shirt".

So ever optimistic and wanting to turn my garden into a paradise, I hitched a ride with my landlord and her kids to Fontainebleau, bought my plants, had a delicious café creme in the sunlight, and took a taxi home with a driver who I discovered hates my bitch of a neighbour as much as I do. No seriously she's a vapid cunt. If you need an example how about pestering a woman who had a husband so sick that he had to stay in hospital for months, has two kids, and a full-time job as a small business owner every day to chauffeur her ass around. If I had been that woman I would hit her with the very truck that did the chauffeur'ing and told the police that Americans don't understand that manual transmission cars roll back (or lunge forward when started in gear).

Last night I drew what I'd like my garden to look like for the summer. I'm going to extend the terrace a bit and put some really comfortable chairs and a low table on it, plant colourful flowers in the flower beds, and have a table for eating outside in the center of the garden between two of the three pine trees. I'm going to fill one of the flower beds with lavendar, coriander, rosemary, sage, basil, and mint, which I've also grown successfully (Once.) because my professional plant growing landlord-neighbour said all herbs grow best directly in the ground.

So that means today I'll be taking dirt from the forest and planting the first round of plants along with some friends who are visiting from Paris. It's a beautifully sunny day and I'm in the mood to get the BBQ going and eat some yummy food.

But for today the garden pretty much still looks like this:

Well minus the baggage.



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An Open Letter to Shondra Rhimes

Dear Ms. Rhimes,

I would just like to say first and foremost thank you. Thank you for making a show that has entertained me for the past six years. And thank you for spending the past year robbing me of my ability to control my gag reflex. There isn't a beer stein in Germany big enough to contain the amount of bleach I would need to get rid of the bad taste the last episode Grey's Anatomy has left in my mouth.

If we're going to be blunt here, I have had to be forgiving with this show in the past. For what you wonder? There was the whole Dr. Burke - Christina thing and then the Izzie seeing dead Denny thing. Those two really made me think about what other shows might be on at 8:00 pm  on a Thursday night. And what a good decision that was because I suddenly realised you were being bitch slapped in your time slot by shows like The Big Bang Theory and Community. Hey Sheldon's a doctor and I think Pierce dressed up as one for a Halloween episode. And thus Grey's Anatomy slipped further and further down in the order of shows I TiVo on Thursday and watch on Friday.

But ever since Meredith swapped out Adele's syringe for the drug trial you've been regulated to the spot behind CW's new show Nikita, which I pretty much only watch because as someone of partial Asian descent I think any show with an Asian/Asian-American actor deserves my support. Don't think my being half Korean didn't contribute to my decision to watch the amazing Korean American actress Sandra Oh do her thang.

If it were only Meredith being Meredith I could overlook it, but I've about had enough of your shoving your stance about gay marriage in my face in such a poor and ignorant fashion. I am pro gay EVERYTHING. To paraphrase another kickass Korean American actress and comedienne extraordinaire Margaret Cho, "I was a fag hag before I knew what a fag was". I want people who love each other to be able to get married. I want people who think this is wrong to be put in their place. After watching the scene with Callie and her mother in last night's episode it's obvious we don't want the same things for the LGBT community.

It was shoddy writing and a missed opportunity to have Callie be as bold as the character has been in the past. Instead of telling her mother she was a fucking nutjob and not letting it set her off her path, Callie retreated to her sofa and you sent in good ol' Bailey to clean up the mess you made.

Television in general does not only have to depict our everyday life, but it can, in its most inspirational forms inspire us to be greater than we thought we could be. It can when done properly and with great sublty free us from what we know to be our humdrum every day existence and to aspire to if not greatness than betterness and to dream of what life would be like if we were the best version of ourselves. What we would wear if we had Carrie Bradshaw's closet. What we would do if we could freeze time like Hiro. What date in time we would travel to in the Tardis. What equipment we would need to bounce a laser off the mirrors on the moon. What kind of plan we'd love to have come together if we hired Hannibal and his A-Team. How hard we'd laugh at one of Job's magic shows. That is the beauty of the relationship between the viewer and their favourite television shows.

But this relationship has soured Ms. Rhimes.  My ability to suspend belief has snapped like the Millenium Bridge in The Half Blood Prince. Even the Elder Wand couldn't cast a Reparo strong enough to keep me from demoting Grey's to the very bottom of the queue. You have essentially Adava Kedavra'd what was once a very good show as far as medical drama-comedies go. You weren't Scrubs, but you had your moments.

Is there hope? Could my love for Christina Yang as a character and my deep sense of racial identity somehow be your horcruxes? Abso-fucking-lutely. Sandra Oh is one, if not the, finest actors you have in your cast (Let's not forget the actress who plays Callie, the creepy guy who used to be on Ally McBeal, and the ginger guy from Trainspotting.) and if she were I don't know, say to get a better story line than being left at the altar by Burke, forced to save Derek's life at gunpoint,  or not suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that apparently only fishing with McDreamy could cure - maybe. And that's a big maybe.

My point is, in closing. Your show is starting to suck. Christina is the best character you have. Stop sucking so much. Please. I want to like your show again. But if you keep fucking Christina Yang like she's Cartman at a Best Buy I'm not going to watch your show again and just hope that one day Sandra Oh gets the role she fucking deserves.

Sincerely,

Me (Writing in my best Jeff Winger voice)

P.S. The only reason why I didn't mention how much you suck compared to Parks & Recreation was because it airs during Private Practice and that show this season merits another letter entirely.

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Songs for Writing - Don't Give Up

I like to listen to music when I write. For example when I was powering through my novel at over 2,000 words a day I listened religiously to The Kinks. I don't know why, but it worked.

So when I feel disheartened because I have the entire outline for my book in my Moleskin and still can't seem to start again, I search through my iTunes for a song that might help jump start me. The duet "Don't Give Up" with Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush has always been such a song for me. So much so in fact that I only realised as I started typing this post that it's actually a love song. Great.

Excuse me while I try to salvage what I thought was the original message of the song (to not give up on yourself as opposed to not giving up on "us") and this blog post...

No, there's no hope for it.

But is there hope for me?

All I've ever really wanted was to walk into a bookshop and see my book on the shelves. I used to walk into the Union Square Barnes and Noble to figure out who my books would be sandwiched between. Most likely they (I'm using the optimistic plural here) would be between Margaret Atwood's and Jane Austen's.

So what do you do when your lifelong dream seems like it may never happen? After years of everything good in your life coming from stringing sentences together as if the Cosmos itself was saying, "Hey Mimi*, you're supposed to be a writer" and you stupidly responding with "Sorry Cosmos but I'm going to play it safe and do other things before I get to the writing bit" and now that I'm finally ready for the destiny the cosmos had planned for me the Cosmos keeps sending all my calls directly to voice mail.

What exactly do you send the Cosmos to say sorry for ignoring all the opportunities thrown in your path? Beer of the month? A subscription to Maxim?

In ancient Greece they worshipped their gods by animal sacrifice and offerings of wine and barley, which is nothing compared to the amount of sacrifice (non-animal) and offerings I've made in the past four years of trying to write. I sacrificed relationships, living in Paris, my job, and my sanity. Surely that should be enough to appease them?

I extended the lease on La Maisonette for another year yesterday. September is only four months away and it was obvious I needed to give myself more time. Maybe that's why I'm feeling like this today (not to mention the clock is ticking down to the arrival of the communists to the funhouse). I thought I'd have a novel finished up by now and I'd be querying agents. Just the other day I went into a printing store to find out how much it would cost to make up my manuscripts and realised there was no fucking point in taking up the man's time because I didn't even have a title page to make copies of yet!

So Cosmos, if this is really what you've intended for me I need a fucking sign. It doesn't have to be a billboard, but a sign none-the-fucking-less because now that I've disovered one of my favourite songs to motivate myself isn't about not giving up on yourself at all, well I've been listening to Ryan Adams' cover of "Wonderwall" over and over again and it's not exactly the most inspirational of songs.

Take pity on me Cosmos. I am fucking desperate.

*Madame Mimi's real name is not Mimi, it's a nickname Emmie gave me.

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Today's Daily Yumology - Terriyaki Chicken and Broccoli Rice Bowls

It has been a long standing FB tradition of mine to post what I'm cooking to torture my friends. Often times the torture gets so bad that they make the trek out to the forest to have some of my grub. It is sort of the point.

Now truth be told I am not a fan of recipes. I'm sort of a maverick (Is it okay to use this word yet or did Sarah Palin and John McCain kill it completely and forever?). I throw things together and keep a lot of spices handy. I have cooked certain dishes so many times that a recipe isn't needed or I don't need the actually recipe I just need to check to see if I have all the ingredients. But on a daily basis I am forced to concoct delicious meals because I can't even get pizza delivered to my door nevermind anything better than what the French call pizza!

But I don't go all out every day. For example yesterday I made gourmet meatloaf (it really was amazing) in single serving terrines with Creole style fried potatoes and a simple salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, and corn with a mild balsamic vinaigrette dressing. It was delicious, but exhausted from my efforts I went decidedly simpler today.

Tonight's Yummy is terriyaki chicken with broccoli and rice. See? Nothing fancy.

I made the terriyaki chicken with whole thighs I deboned and then pan-fried until the skin was a bit blackened and crisp. The terriyaki sauce was a mix of crushed garlic, ginger, soy sauce, sesame seed oil, and 2 T of sugar. I marinated the chicken about 1 hour before frying it and let it set on a pan to ooze out its juice before slicing it into strips (in the vein of magret de canard). Once sliced I quickly sauteed the chicken with pre-steamed broccoli (leave it a bit crisp). Once done I plated the chicken mixed with the broccoli and after adding 2T of water, boiled down the remaining marinade until it was thick enough to coat a wooden spoon.

I garnished my terriyaki chicken and broccoli with fresh green onions, the remaining marinade (containing all the deliciously fried up garlic and ginger that came off the chicken during frying), and sesame seeds.

Served with steaming hot cups of green tea and steamed perfumed rice it was eaten with relish in the garden while the set set dramatically in the west.

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Ding! Dong! Osama's dead!

So in the end Jack Bauer, and by Jack Bauer I mean the CIA has finally gotten Osama Bin Laden, which given the CIA and Bin Laden's history is basically the real life equivalent of Mr. Miyagi killing Daniel-san after giving him the skills to fight his way through three Karate Kids.

As someone who losts friends to the 9/11 bombings (and almost lost my then bf and had to evacuate my lab at school because of DARPA supercomputers), what I want more than knowing Osama Bin Laden is dead is something not even the CIA can give me - which is America back the way it was before the Bush Adminstration inflicted Americans with their own sort of Terrorism (known as the Department for Homeland Security), but unforunately unlike Windows life doesn't have a restore feature.

But what irks me the most is the statements being made by various news agencies (and even Obama himself) that this is supposed to give those of us who lost someone or were injured or killed in the aftermath of 9/11 closure because, according to the news agencies and the American government, Osama Bin Laden is seemingly solely responsible for the thousands of lives lost on both sides since 9/11.

Yes Bin Laden was a terrorist, but the American government decided how it would respond and it did so by starting a war in Iraq that we are still not out of and another new war in Afghanistan. The reaction of the American government put its citizens at risk on the battlefield and at home. It is now widely agreed that the war in Iraq was not only unneccessary because it had nothing to do with Bin Laden, but made the US government look like morons in the long run.

There was no secret cave. Bin Laden (if we are to believe the government and the media) didn't die years ago. He wasn't in Iraq. He wasn't in Afghanistan. Yet it still took the government nearly 10 years to find Bin Laden in his luxurious mansion hideout located in a suburb just outside of Islamabad. Not that dissimilar to Bush sitting comfy in his mansion in Highland Park, is it?

So the only question that remains seems to be - with American's favourite scapegoat of the last 9.5 years buried at sea and Saddam gone - who will be the next face of Terror to keep Americans towing the line?

If you're read this Simon Cowell there could be a show in it somewhere. You could call it American Target. Think about it. Kim Jong Il is so fucking nuts he'd make for some brilliant reality television. Too bad ten years later we'd probably end up finding out that Kim doesn't even have enough nuclear material to generate electricity for the light in his shark aquarium (Fuck you Hans Blix!).

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À Rebours, J-K Huysmans

Originally published on an old blog of Madame Mimi's about Madame Mimi's little cottage in the forest that she calls La Maisonette des Mots because she, or rather I, am the sort that likes to name things.

Every once in awhile you open a book and it speaks to you in a way that seems to make you think it's come along for some express purpose. Such is the case when I began reading J-K Huysmans' "À Rebours", which translates to "Against Nature" or "Against the Grain".

My father used to say that he believed if people shut their mouths and opened a book, the world would be a much better place. He was constantly seeing parts of the world most people would chose to ignore. The bombings in Beirut; the fall of some dictator only to replaced by another; how much money there was to be made just across this border or that. He often came home visibly exhausted to shut himself away in his library.

"...whither he could fly for refuge from the incessant deluge of human folly."

For my father when he had little need for anything else besides a library, though he was a man of many passions. He judged people by their libraries. He considered a vast library full of unimportant books to be vulgar, but my own little bookshelf at age seven earned a short nod of approval. I suppose if I could ask him now my father would say something along the lines of a man only need own one book, as long as it's a great one.

In the past few days I have often thought about what my Papa might say now if he saw La Maisonette. I think he would understand the joy I feel in seeing all my books in one place and be happy I've decided to be serious about my life as a writer.

As for me, I wasn't sure until I read this passage:

"...He searched the outer suburbs of the capital and presently discovered a cottage for sale, above Fontenay-aux-Roses, in a remote spot, far from all neighbours, near the Fort. His dream was fulfilled; in this district, still unspoilt by intruders from Paris, he was secure against all harassment...

As he thought over the new existence he meant to make for himself, he experienced a lively sense of relief, seeing himself just far enough withdrawn for the flood of Paris activity not to touch his retreat, yet near enough for the proximity of the metropolis to add a spice to his solitariness. Indeed, in view of the well-known fact that for a man to find himself in a situation where it is impossible for him to visit a particular spot is of itself quite enough to fill him with an instant wish to go there, he was really guarding himself, by thus not entirely barring the road, from any craving to renew intercourse with the world or any regret for having abandoned it..."

In modern days it's impossible to maybe feel the same level of isolation that Huysmans felt at the idea of retreating into the suburbs of Paris. These days more people live outside of Paris (Paris and its region is referred to as L'ile de France) than in Paris itself. And Paris isn't that far away from the suburbs anymore thanks to the Metro or the local trains. From La Maisonette the train is a short walk or bus ride away and forty minutes later I can set my foot on the voies of Gare de Lyon.

Within minutes of reaching Gare de Lyon yesterday I realised that Paris doesn't miss me. She has kept going as pleased with herself as ever and perhaps a bit smug that I returned so quickly. I know she had a hand in the forty minutes of queue I endured to simply by a ticket to take the Metro and the torrential downpour I was subjected to whilst in suede shoes. And all because there are loose ends to be tied and things I left undone and the fact that everything I know happens to involve places or things or people in Paris.

I must see so and so. I must get kimchee. I want to have a really good cup of chocolat chaud at Angelina's. I want to stop by my favourite vintage store. I need a lamp for the house and maybe a few things to hang up photos...so as much as a squawk about the madness of it all - I know already I'll have to come back if not this week then the next.

But Huysmans would understand all too well my current predictament, "...purchases of all kinds still kept him perambulating the Paris streets, tramping the town from end to end..."

And there you have it.  The saddest reason of all to abandon my idyllic, fairytale came true, beautiful little cottage in the forest. SHOPPING.

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