Pieces of spring…

I’m trying to work on my photography skills.  I don’t have the most advanced camera but it’s hard for me to pass up an opportunity to attempt what I think could be a nice photo.  In college, I was required to take a photography course.  At that time there were no digital camera so everything was like ‘in the olden days’ with manual focus and manual developing.  The teacher was eccentric and I’m not sure I learned much but I enjoyed the photo taking even if my results were often out of focus.  So here’s a selection of my recent attempts…  Okay, so they’re mostly kids.  My family will be happy with this post.

Too bad this wasn't in focus.

 

I love this tree for its purple blossoms and the scent the give off.  Unfortunately, it grows in area that is distracted by other, less attractive items – just behind the girl’s swing set which is how I came to notice the butterfly and before that, a hummingbird, tasting the flowers nectar, while watching Angeline play.  Behind the swing set is a wall on the other side of which is our chantier, or house in progress, at present piles of various size and quality of stone, a selection of wooden and metal beams, and stuff that I consider ready for the déchetterie.  This lovely tree provides a much needed source of beauty in the area. 

Catching butterfly's.

 

Auriane and a wild leek.

 

 

 

 

Filou.

 Filou is for sale if anyone is interested.  He’s really cute.  Perfect with the kids.  Angeline pulls him around by his leash and Auriane likes to carry him around but seems to always pick him up by his rear and under his neck.  I feel bad for the poor thing except that he is not so fond of Raphael and barks continuously when he is around. 

Must not forget Kitty.

C’est le carnaval…

This afternoon was warm and sunny for today’s carnaval.  A slight breeze drifted in from the south announcing possible rain for the weekend but no one was paying attention.  All revelers were riveted on the drum playing trapeze act in the Champs du Mars.   

 The brightly colored musicians pounded away as a large yellow crane spun them slowly in a circle over the crowd of amazed school children.    

   

The theme of this year’s carnaval was les Couleurs.   A parade of children from the three elementary school’s in town all joyfully dressed in their deguisements marched from their schools to the Mairie.     

 

  

Olivia’s class was ‘La Mer’, ‘Les Coquelicots’, L’Arc en Ciel’ et ‘Les Coeurs’. Olivia was the sea.

 

    

Auriane was a little painter.

Angeline chose her deguisement.

We stood around for 45 minutes listening to the three bands compete for attention.    

 

After a quick speech from the mayor which no one heard despite the blow horn, (No competing with a couple hundred kids.) the parade made its way to the Champs de Mars for the flying spectacle. 

Kid’s, teacher’s and mommy’s, are happily tired this evening after a successful Carnaval.

Disappearing acts…

Auriane learned how to ride a bike without training wheels this winter.  Her favorite biking path is down the driveway between the house and the caveau directly at a wall, at top speed.  A blue and pink princess helmet eliminated a touch of my fear.  That is, when it can be found.  Such is the case in the country, bike riding is part of a whole day of  adventures.  When the majority of your day is spent outside exploring, one moment you’re on a bike, the next you’re digging in the dirt, the next you’re climbing a tree, then back on the bike – the helmet comes off at some point during the exploring and is forgotten for the next bike ride.  Apart from the vision of her crashing head first into the wall, is that she hasn’t figured out how to use the breaks.  Her feet/shoes are the breaks.  As she nears this wall, feet come off the pedals and drag through the gravel and grass until she stops. 

Recently, she and Olivia have taken to greater adventures;  riding their bikes on ‘long haul’ journey’s beyond permitted bounds, ie:  outside the courtyard.  These journey’s  involve packing a backpack with necessities such as flip-flops, water, chalk, utensils and other kitchen items, lipstick swiped from my purse, and whatever else they deem necessary on any give adventure.  The problem is, the journey’s have turned into disappearing acts. 

Yesterday Raphael was helping me with lunch so that I could have a much needed rest.  As I drifted off to sleep, I heard Raphael call  ‘a table.’  Moments later I heard it again.  Then I heard him call out their names from two different locations.  My dream laden mind perked up to the events going on outside my window.  Soon after, I heard the door bang open down in my in-laws house and another call for Olivia.  Once more I heard him call out her name, this time from the direction of the cave.  I was fully awake by this point and listening attentively.  The winery door slammed shut and I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel parking lot as Raphael rushed out in his truck.  At this I jumped out of bed my fatigue replaced by anxious adrenaline.  I ran to the window and looked out just as Raphael pulled back in with both Olivia and Auriane in his truck.  They had taken their bikes out to the main road on an adventure.  Every adult in the house started in on them as they cowered against the wall like trapped mice. 

 When our fear subsided, we explained he problem with them riding their bikes on this road.  It is the width of a single car, although it is a two-way road which winds and the curves have limited view. It’s travelled mostly by locals but the problem with this is that the locals are so used to the curves that they tend to drive too fast, Raphael included.   I can understand the appeal, however.  While we have sufficient space to ride a bike in our courtyard, it consists mostly of bumpy stone terraces, gravel and grass.  We’ve explained to the girls that while this nicely paved road is easier to navigate, (Imagine the speed the must get going down the slight slopes.  My heart shutters.)  it is very dangerous because the cars can’t see them and they drive too fast.  Then we reminded them that they can’t leave home without asking us.  I don’t think they got it.  Our property boarders both sides of the majority of the road.  To the girls, they are home. 

After sending to their room, I reminded Raphael of something he once told me.  At the same age of Auriane, he once spent an entire afternoon hiding in his room, ignoring the calls from his parents.  When they went to search for him in his room, he hid behind the door.  As the search made its way outside, he remained quiet, listening to their calls and only becoming scared when he no longer heard anything.  The search had extended beyond the house.  This lasted for three or four hours until they returned home to find him waiting for them.  His behind was quite sore for the next few days.  I wanted him to realize that, while dangerous and not permitted, the girls little adventure was nothing unusual.

Mad mornings

Carnival

 

I spent 20 minutes chasing a folded piece of paper around the parking lot of Carrefour this morning thanks to the wind.  It fell out of my pocket when I reached for my keys and fearing it might contain some important information, I hesitated only a moment before beginning the chase.  It blew under my car and as I reached for it, the wind took it across the grassy divider into the next lane and under another car, and so on.  Upon retrieval, I discovered it was a notice from the school reminding parents that the kids would celebrate Carnival on Friday and Angeline must be dressed in her déguisement at home.  This would be a hugely important notice if it had been stuck to my refrigerator door.  Lost in the depths of my coat pocket, it is useless and I’m likely to forget. 

Note:  Do not forget to dress Angeline in her costumer Friday morning. 

There are days when I wonder if my decision to have another child was wise.  These are the days when just getting the kids off to school, forget about on time, seems and insurmountable task – preparing breakfast, and a slice of brioche slapped with a layer of Nutella or a bowl of cereal hardly counts as preparing;  finding matching shoes, hats and often coats;  foraging through the cupboard for the goûtez.   It’s not so much performing these tasks as the constant pushing and arguing that come with them.  The never-ceasing argument over what to wear.  Who would’ve thought that begins at the age of two?  It’s the youngest two who give me the most problems in this area insisting on a dress or an outfit resembling a dress, like leggings and a long shirt, on a daily basis.  It must also be the proper color – blues, greens and basically anything other than pink or purple, will not do.  One girl must not be dressed ‘prettier’ than the other.  This is evaluated based on color, fullness of skirt or whether or not the dress boasts ruffles.  Oh, and “skirts do NOT count as a dress, Mommy.”  They put up less of a fight over shoes.  Although that might be because I hide their favorites – the ballerina’s, patent leather flats, and shiny summer sandals.  Auriane does have issues with comfort, however.  The line of her tights must fall precisely along the tip of her toes.  Her underwear must be roomy and yet not twist under those tights.  Turtlenecks must not be too tight, ie:  they must sag.  I have to admit, I had issues with tights when I was her age.  I hated how they would slip down between my legs and sag.  I used to wear a second pair of underwear on top to hold them up.  I had forgotten about this until Auriane’s issues.  

Hair brushing is a necessary evil and Monday mornings are the worst.  After a weekend when, in order to preserve the sanity of all involved, hair brushing is optional.  Olivia gives it a try when she’s in the mood.  This involves running a baby brush down each side of her heat the putting on a head band.  They’re allowed to choose their own clothes on the weekend as well provided they are weather appropriate.  If that means the orange fluorescent tights that they begged me for under a pink sundress, so be it.  Just as long as they don’t forget the red and white striped turtleneck underneath.  

 My girls are morning people, usually up and bothering my mother-in-law before Raphael and I stir.  One of the pluses of living with grandparents.  The girls are just not too fond of school, or at least, being rushed to go to school.  And so they drag, they daydream, they take ten minutes to put one leg through their underwear.  So I dress them.  One by one, even Olivia.  She’s the biggest daydreamer of the three and the only one who actually has to work in school so you can guess how much desire she has to go.   

There will come a day, I know, when all this will end.  They’ll dress themselves, brush their own hair and teeth and ignore my lovingly prepared breakfast as they rush off to school.  I’ll be sad and think nostalgically back on the days when we both got excited to dress for school in a real fairy dress. 

Stand-by…

It seems we’ll be staying in the states a week longer than planned.  As a former flight attendant, I have the privilege of flying for free for a certain number of years.  A benefit I feel blessed to have as flying internationally with my ever-expanding family would be beyond our means.  However, we fly stand by and if any of you have ever flown stand by you know what the entails.  It just so happens that the flight on the day I planned to fly back is full.  In fact, the flights to Paris for the entire week are full. 

The continuation of flying privileges was offered to employees after September 11th to entice them to quit.  In this way the company could cut costs.  This buy out, as it was called, was proposed just after I married Raphael and shortly before I became pregnant with Olivia.  I couldn’t imagine a better deal coming my way at a time when I was in that euphoric state of new love and wondering how I would handle leaving for days each week.  And it’s been great.  Not only do I fly for free but Raphael and the girls do as well. 

In the early days it wasn’t difficult to get on flights.  Alone, I looked at it as an adventure of sorts and I was willing to fly to any city in Europe and worry about getting to the south of France upon arrival.  With each child it’s gotten progressively more difficult.  Our standard route is to take the train from Valence in the early morning to Charles de Gaulle, catch the plane to the states later that morning arriving in Pittsburgh in the evening.  In recent years Paris has become the most difficult European city to fly into.  These days there are almost never any seats on the plane.  

We’ve taken to creative traveling.  Our trip over spanned two days and took us on a three train ride to Germany, with a change in Paris.  After a short night in a hotel in Frankfurt, we caught the plane the following afternoon to the states.  This was actually one of the easier trips and still less expensive, if more tiring, than buying full fare tickets.  Last fall we drove half the night to Frankfurt, left the car for a week in a parking lot, and upon arriving in Philly, discovered there were no seats left on the flights to Pittsburgh so we were obligated to fly to NYC and catch a 10PM flight to Pittsburgh.  All this traveling with carting three cranky kids and one cranky pregnant lady.  Poor Raphael.  I sometimes wonder if it’s worth it.

I am returning to France next week sans Raphael who flew back 10 days ago.  The worst part of the trip back is the arrival.  In Paris I still need to get the train to the south but that is easy.   If I fly to another city it is a longer train ride, usually with one or more changes, or a flight to Lyon followed by a two hour car ride.  I just don’t feel up to it so I’m waiting another week when the flights to Paris look more appealing.  Olivia is missing school.  All of them are, but her class is the most important.  And I am missing Raphael and France.  Spring is arriving there and well, here, there’s still snow.

Keeping busy in the states

Our trip to the states is winding to an end along with the snow that dumped on the region when we arrived. 

 These visits seem to follow the same pattern each trip – minus the holiday visits which have their own obligations.  On weekends I scramble to visit everyone, both friends and family who are working during the week.  Monday through Friday, however, I struggle to find things to occupy the girls who after two or three days of freedom and ‘new’ toys, are bored and bouncing off the walls.

Vacationing in the states, for me, is in fact not so much a vacation.  I come to the states with a handful of good intentions, like New Year’s resolutions.  With none of the obligations that take up my time in France like school and activity taxiing, homework, meal cooking, and the endless cleaning that comes with a family of five and a bed and breakfast, I am under the illusion that for these few weeks, I will have time to relax.  In fact, without the regular routine of school, I have constant kid duty.  Those things I do almost daily in France that are organized into my ‘free’ time (school hours) like writing, blogging, exercising, and reading the bible, are almost impossible to squeeze into my days.  Not because I’m so busy.  Quite the opposite, as with the girls, during the weekdays I’m bored. 

I find myself in an unaccustomed situation which is familiar to most American stay at home mom’s – my children at home all day, every day.  I discover that when I try to exercise with three kids under 7 years old in the house, children who’ve been all but ignoring me most of the morning while I do dishes or laundry suddenly begin fighting or  ‘need’ things.  The same thing happens when I try to read or write.  As soon as I occupy myself in what appears to them to be an entertaining activity ‘things’ happen;  boo-boo’s, arguments, minor accidents like spills or broken toys.  My purse and make-up bag become community property, bathroom sinks become swimming pools for stuffed animals, Barbies, and grandma’s toothbrush.  I’ve spent many and afternoon fishing a Polly Pocket hat or shoe from the drain. 

I wonder how I would handle motherhood in the states with only one child in school full-time.  I am learing motherhood with a French attitude.  I remember the summer before Olivia was due to start school.  I worried that she was too young, just a baby at under three, to begin school.  Although that is the standard school age in France.  I was pregnant with Auriane at the time and she was due late September just a few short weeks after Olivia started her first year.  Would Olivia think I traded her in for a new baby?  Well, her rentree went incredibly well and it gave me time to adjust to a second child.  I adjusted so well that the next two began shortly after their 2nd birthdays. 

What do American mom’s do with their children all day until they are five years old?  In an effort to cut down on TV and movie watching while in the states (And they do much more here than in France.), I search for games and activities that diffuse their energy.  Thanks to the snow, they’ve spent time most days outside.  We read books and play games.  They’ve never been cleaner thanks to ridiculously long baths full of toys.  They color, play dress-up (In fact, they’re rarely dressed in street clothes so why do I pack so much?)  We’ve gone to museums and indoor play areas.  I’m exhausted.  But if I don’t keep them busy, they jump on the couch and run around in circles, literally.  And they fight.  Is this what all full-time mom’s go through?

My visits to the states are a nice break from the trials of life in France and I need these times to visit my family and friends, but by the time I return to France, I look forward to getting back to my routine of school runs, activities and cleaning.

In the snow

   

Backyard under snow

 

Icicles

 

After a week of uncertainty, we’ve successfully left France and arrived on the east coast  of the states.  So what happens to a guy from Provence when you drop him down between two blizzards with scattered snow showers in between?  (By scattered I mean snowing off and on each day.)   

First, you get the car stuck at the bottom of the two long hills that lead to your mother’s house, at dusk, requiring him to walk up those hills in heavy snow lugging multiple suitcases and bags.   

Then early, before 7 am early, the next morning you ask him to shovel out the driveway so mom can get the car out for work.  Oh yeah, and you ask him to do it again the following day and the day after.   

Shoveling snow

 

He’s loving it.  This afternoon as we left the grocery store, Raphael exclaimed that he felt like he was in the Alps, minus the majestic snow topped mountain peaks.    

The kids are loving it too.  Sled riding and snow man making fill the afternoons.  Olivia’s making and icicle collection.  Angeline’s slightly less enthusiastic.  Her first venture to the backyard ended with her getting stuck in waist deep snow unable to get up.  Olivia tried to help but Angeline being Angeline, just got angry at the snow and that was that for her.   

The best part about the change of scene for me is that it’ll be brief.  Unlike my friends and family who’ve been enduring the snow since January, I will happily return to Provence in a few weeks where spring will likely be arriving with the first blossoms on the fruit trees coming  in early March.  

Olivia and her snow man.

Crêpes for prosperity and happiness?

Waiting for crêpes at a crêpe stand on the streets of Montelimar.

 

February 2nd was not just the Day of the Sonogram.  In France, it is La Chandeleur, better known as Crêpe day.   (So I’m a little late with this post having been sidetracked last week by babies and dogs.) 

Before it became crêpe day, however, La Chandeleur was a Roman celebration during which the Romans walked the streets by night waving candles in honor fo their god Pan.  In the 3rd century the celebration was Christianized by Pope Gelase who organized candlelight processions of believers to the village church in celebration of Christ’s being presented in the temple 40 days after his birth.  Years later, the peasants got it into their head that if they didn’t make crêpes on the Chandeleur, all the wheat would go bad.  Thus, La Chandeleur became the day of making and eating crêpes and somewhere along the way the religious celebration of the day became lost.   

Crêpe making comes with its own superstitions and traditions.  The most important is the tradition of the golden coin.  This one was definitely one I had to try.  So for the afternoon gouter, the girls and I tried out the crêpe tossing tradition.  The first crêpe made on February 2 must be flipped holding the pan in the right hand while holding a golden coin in the left hand.  For lack of a golden coin, I held a gold colored 50 centime coin in my left hand so already I was one point down.  The next step was really the big issue.  If the flipper successfully lands the crêpe flat in the pan the person will have happiness until the following year.  Raphael wandered into the kitchen just as I was preparing for the toss and flip stage of the crêpe making.  Observing my lack of technique, he insisted he show me how to do it properly.  First you need to slip a spatula around the perimeter of the crêpe to loosen it.  As it fully cooks, the crêpe will loosen on its own and it’s ready to be flipped.  Raphael got it flat on the first try.  Then to show off he flipped it back.  What kind of luck does one get if the crêpe lands half over the side of the pan, sticks to the pan and when you try to remove it, rips in two?  It’s a good thing I don’t believe in superstition.  

But that’s not all.  The first crêpe is not to be eaten.  After a successful flip, the gold coin is rolled inside the crêpe and the entire family must somberly proceed to the master bedroom where the crêpe, with gold coin, is placed on the highest armoire until the following year.  The remains of the previous years’ crêpe, after the rodents and crawly bugs have had their share, are tossed in the garbage and the gold coin is given to the first poor person to pass through the door.  No matter how much the girls wanted to make this procession to my bedroom, I was not about to leave a piece of food on top of my dresser for a year, with or without gold coin.  It’s bad enough I periodically find various pieces of cookie and other undistinguishable food items in corners of rooms, under cushions, in shoes (don’t ask), a present from a child.   If all these rituals are followed, the family is guaranteed to have money all year long.      

Crêpes are not just a treat to be enjoyed on February 2nd.  In Paris, and other cities, Crêperies are like a crêpe café, small restaurants that specialize in, well, crêpes.  Salty crêpes are filled with egg, ham and cheese.  Sweet crêpes, the kind eaten on La Chandeleur, are filled with anything from simply sugar or jam to Grand Marnier and even maple sirup (although I haven’t yet found a really good maple sirop in France).  Here in the south, a popular filling is crème de chatagne, a rich chestnut cream often mixed with vanilla.  But by far the most popular filling is Nutella, a nutty chocolate spread.    

And so begins a month of crêpe eating.   

Pate a Crêpe   

About 2 cups flour (If the batter is too thick, add a tablespoon or two of water at the end)   

1 tsp salt   

1 Tbls vanilla extract and 2 Tbls sugar   

3 eggs   

2 cups milk (For a richer batter use 1 cup milk and 1 cup liquid cream.  For a lighter batter use 1 cup milk and 1 cup water.  But really, if you’re going to eat crêpes anyway, go for the richer batter.)   

1 Tbls melted butter   

1 Tbls oil (anything but olive)   

In the south, we also add a splash of orange flower water, eau de fleur d’orangier.   

Put all the dry ingredients in a mixing bowl.  Add the eggs and beat with a whisk.  Mix all the liquid ingredients (except the orange flower water) in a separate bowl.  Slowly whisk the liquid mixture into the dry mixture until it is smooth.      

Refrigerate the batter for at least one hour but the longer the better.  It will thicken up slightly.  This is a good time to d the orange flower water or rum or water if you prefer.   

Tips: 

While there are special crêpe pans, a skillet works perfectly.  Pour a little oil, about a tablespoon and a half to two into the pan and spread around the entire bottom with a paper towel.  This removes any extra oil.  Between each crêpe, rub the oily towel on the pan.  Make sure the pan is very hot before you begin making the crêpes.  Use a soup ladle to pour the batter into the pan then immediately twist the pan around until the batter covers the entire bottom.  It  might take one or two crêpes before you get the right amount to batter into the pan for the perfect thickness.    

Yum!

And the answer is…

Olivia and Auriane with a newborn Angeline in the family berceau.

 

So of course, the night before my 9:20 am sonogram, our youngest, Angeline, woke up at about 1:30 am sick.  She had already been coughing for about 20 minutes.  At least that’s how long I lay awake listening to her before I decided she wasn’t going to calm down on her own and I needed to give her some cough sirop.  I don’t believe cough medicine works but I knew I would hear about it if she kept coughing and I couldn’t say I treated her in any way.  I was right, she continued to cough for another 10 minutes.  I decided to sleep on the couch holding her in an upright position thinking it was the drainage of her cold while lying down that was making her cough.  I just finished getting the couch ready with a pillow and blankets when I heard it, the gagging reflex that was the sign of a child vomiting.  And sick two-year olds don’t really think about running to the toilet before they’re going to be sick.  I ran in, too late of course.  She was just gearing up for the second round and knowing I would never get her to the bathroom on time, I grabbed a pair of dirty pj’s lying beside the bed and held them under her chin.  Meanwhile, Auriane, with whom she shares a double bed, finally woke up.  I sent her to our bed with a still sleeping Raphael.  When the worst of it was over, I took her to our bathroom, got us both cleaned up and into our bed, making it four in the bed.  After a few more bouts with the toilet and one or two on a towel on our bed, I detoured to the ready couch and left the kids with Raphael.  So, after spending most of the night with Angeline and her gastro, a stomach virus, I wondered as I lay on the couch, would I get to the doctor in the morning for my appointment?    We made it with a much better Angeline along for the show.  And finally learned the highly anticipated words… 

  

It’s a girl! 

And then last night, it was olivia’s turn to be sick. 

A Winemakers Blessing

Sunday, we almost lost Angeline, for about five minutes.  Before I tell you the story, let me mention that this is the child I called chunk as an infant due to her roly-poly roundness. 

It was the celebration of St Vincent, the patron saint of all wine makers.  In our town this is a weekend event.  Representatives from the towns in Germany and Italy with which we are twin cities,  Jumelages,  make the trek to Bourg St Andeol to participate in the celebratory mass.   The guests of honor are the various commanderie’s, or brotherhoods represented in town;  of Cotes du Rhone, Olive farmers. 

They don their robes and funky hats and take their seats in the very first pews.  Shortly before the communion,  members from each commanderie makes his or her way to the rear of the church and chooses a basket, bushel or plate of various offerings to place at the foot of the altar.

This year we arrived at the mass on time, in fact, I should say this week.  We tend to get to the church just before communion.  Our early arrival, okay, we weren’t exactly on time but we arrived before the sermon, granted us a prime seat on the side aisle, right next to the rows of commanderie members, all of whom we know. 

When it was time for the procession to the altar, the two oldest girls were invited to carry a candle to place on the altar.  I remember as a child, participating in numerous activities that brought me to the front of the church;  children’s choir, youth service, Easter and Christmas pageants.  But in France, in this particular Diocese at least, there are not many church events which involve the kids, so anything they get asked to do, I encourage.  The active participation  makes church less of a boring hour sitting on a hard bench and being continuously hushed. 

After the service, our prime seating became a problem for a speedy departure, at least for the adults.  The brotherhoods, along with the local band, line up in the center aisle and make their way in a parade from the church to the apéritif , a 2 minute walk around to the end of the block and around the corner.  We got stuck behind the line up.  The kids however, slippery little girls that they are, darted and snaked their way between the lines out to the front of the church to watch the parade.  By the time I made my way out a side door, I found I was on the opposite side of the road from the girls.   I scanned the people and quickly spotted Olivia.  Soon after I saw Auriane, but no Angeline. 

The brotherhood’s, thinking of that first glass of Cotes du Rhone, were quickly lining up down the center of the road preparing to march off to the sound of the brass band.   Now this street, which curves around the side of the church, is one way and cobblestoned.  It is not a two lane main street blocked off with police escort so that hundreds of people can watch the parade.  But the 20 or so people milling about mingling with the parade waiting to follow behind to the apéro, managed to block my way and my view to the other side. 

“Olivia” I called waving to get her attention.  “Where’s Angeline?”  This elicited a shrug and a glance to either side.  I darted between the parade just as they began their march spotting my father-in-law nearby.  I asked if he’s seen her.  “Angeline?  She is outside?”  Yes, I nodded making my way to the small parking lot on the side of the church.  A quick look told me she wasn’t there.  At this point only about 5 minutes had passed since the girls snuck out of the church ahead of us and honestly, I really wasn’t worried.  Back on the main road, I fell in step with the parade, trying in vain to bypass the elderly women slowly making their way to the apéritif.  I reached the end of the road, rounded the corner and behold, Angeline, standing in front of our favorite bakery, watching the parade with her little red sac in one hand and three bags of bon bon’s in the other hand.  You see, Angeline know’s where to get the good stuff.  She apparently made her way out of  the church, decided she needed a snack, marched herself to the only bakery where she know’s exactly where to find the rack of candy, helped herself, and installed herself on a prime corner to watch the parade. 

Face red, more with embarrassment than worry, I whipped the still unopened bags of candy from her hand, snuck into the bakery with a howling Angeline behind, apologized to the woman behind the counter whom I see almost daily, replaced the bon bon’s and turned to leave.  Angeline and I did not see eye to eye as this action was met with little red sac and pacifier being hurled to the ground followed closely by her hat being ripped off her head launched at the feet of the entering customer.  Ten minutes after finally escaping the bakery with the kid and all her stuff, minus bon bon’s, I had to go back.  I forgot to buy bread!