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not just coffee

I'm getting ready soon -- today is my last day of work for the summer break -- to go back to the States for a month.

Ok, there are a lot of mixed feelings about this. But I just can't get the coffee thing out of my mind. They've really got it figured out here. It's sublime. It's dreamy. And I have an espresso machine that heats the milk and so on and so forth. You name it, it does it.

And someone asked me when I was at work yesterday, why it is that Americans drink their coffee the way they do? Why is it tasteless, so watery, so souless? I didn't have an answer. I started to give a Boston Tea Party lesson and then realized that I was talking about tea. Then I had to admit that I don't know.

Why, in the US, is it ok to drink coffee out of plastic, or, gasp, paper...like at Starbucks? Why is it preferable to drink liters and liters of it rather than a tasty, aroma-filled, non -bloating espresso?

So I'm preparing myself for the eventual loss of this very important part of my morning. And I would love to have an answer. Historically, how did it happen? Why is it that the rest of the world makes fun of American coffee because theirs is "normal"...

Weird.

just a poor imitation

Don't let Todd's musings about Quisp actually make you want to go buy the stuff. It's fair. Just fair. It's pretty much a poor imitation of Cap'n Crunch. And it just doesn't stand up in milk.

And although the box makes you feel all fuzzy and warm inside because it's retro and reminds some of their childhood, it's boring, frankly. Just a lame cartoon that's not even funny or engaging. No labyrinths or word jumbles, or riddles of any sort. It's disappointing.

In Todd's family they've always talked wistfully of Quisp, as though it were this childhood imaginary friend, this fantastic memory that created smiles all around, and I just couldn't join in because I had never eaten it. Well, now I have, and I'm no better for it. I'm officially part of the Quisp "club" if you will, and although I can't join in the reminiscing, I do know the taste. And it's lacking.

Just buy Cap'n Crunch.

The Cap'n is a much smarter dresser anyway...

just yucky fish soup in Marseille

This is Jenny.

We got back yesterday from our four-day International Teams European conference on a beach near Marseille in the south of France. It was fabulous. The weather wasn’t all that great. We had one nice day when the kids could actually swim in the Mediterranean. Just one. The other days the wind and rain were pretty wicked. The “mistral” wind, as it’s called down there, is amazingly strong!! I often wonder why they don’t try to power the whole region with electricity from wind power.

The rest, teaching, and worship was awesome. We got to meet a lot of the new faces at International Teams, a lot of new people taking jobs that directly affect who we answer to, new leaders in Europe and such. It was very useful and well done. The food wasn’t all that great though. I was discouraged for those who were discovering French cuisine for the first time, who had to go to the neighborhood pizza place because the bouillabaisse (fish soup – very yucky) left much to be desired!!! Not very kid friendly. Maddie was the only one who moaned and was dramatic about her general unhappiness at several of the meals. Ben and Livvie were real troopers.

The worst was the bouillabaisse. Maddie said it looked like someone was actually trying to make it look nasty. She said it looked like something cooked up for ogres. ... Chunks of ripped fish and sandy mussels, broken shrimps, just floating aimlessly in a glutinous mass.

She was careful to dirty her bowl with a spoonful of the mixture so as not to offend. She asked, “does it look like I ate some?” Yes, Maddie, it looks like you ate some. .....

The kids were constantly being watched in amazement by the other leaders, and I had tons of people come up to me and tell me how amazing and fascinating my children were. One colleague, Julie Soltis, a 60-something serving on a refugee team in Austria, took my hands, and looked deep into my eyes and said, “I want to tell you that you’ve done a great job. You’re raising up missionaries. You’re multiplying in ways you don’t realize. Your children are sisters and brothers and friends. You have something that’s very rare, and as a mother, I want to tell you that I’m proud of you. It hasn’t been easy for you, to be far from your own mother, and you’ve done a great job…”

I felt like she was speaking prophetically to me, and with the tears rolling down my cheeks, I let her speak to me. I let her minister to me. We cried for awhile and I thanked her for her gift to me.

just vomit and English

I think I am on the mend. I have had one sickness after another, and am starting to roll my eyes at myself. Colds, coughs, flus, blah blah blah. I've grown weary of my own stories and maladies. But I feel like I'm coming out of a sort of fog or something. I just hope Martin doesn't screw it all up for me.

just a hopeless Parisian I suppose (Jen)

This weekend I was invited, along with my friend Marie, to the 40th birthday party of a friend of ours, Max. The party was in a big cottage not far from Le Mans. Max is a cameraman for channel 3 TV in Paris. I think that's cool. Anyway, I always know that when I'm invited to these weekend extravaganzas, that I'm going to be sort of like a fish out of water.

I've lived in an urban environment now for almost 10 years, and whenever I'm invited to get-togethers like this, I really feel a wimp. For 24 hours I tried not to be a wimp. First of all, everyone, upon arrival was oohing and aaahhing the "charming" little cottages we were to stay in. Ok, ok, the woods, the antique feeling of everything, the bonfire, the turn of the century wedding photos on the wall, the marble sinks and the amazingly picturesque countryside. Yeah, it was nice.

Upon arrival, I had a welcome committee of 8, yes count them 8 "frelons".. ......not sure of the spelling and not sure how to say it in English, due to the fact that I've never seen such incredible monsters. Like something out of the book of Revelation. Enormous bee-like creatures. All buzzing and droning around in my cozy little cottage room. I was then informed that they can be dangerous, even fatal, if one is allergic and if one is stung. Then I got to listen to all kinds of Ripley's Believe It or Not stories related to deaths and handicaps from frelons -- as a team of 6 men tried to rid my room of them.

There was also the fact that we had no running water or toilet anywhere nearby. It wasn't outside the cottage, but it was down two flights of steps and across the length of the building. Egads. Also, when I finally made it to bed I realized that the mattress was about as thick as a pancake, and it held me in a horizontal position just as well.

In the morning there was no more bread or coffee. Or anything for that matter. And I realized that I had been bitten by mosquitos on my head, the only thing poking out of the sleeping bag as I "slept", if that's what you want to call it.

As we packed our things and readied ourselves to leave this paradise, I saw that my purse had been neatly wrapped in a spider web during the night. Very weird and very Lord of the Rings-esque.

so we left this placed, called "La Daviere"........and I thanked God that I was leaving it and on my way back to my Paris. Behind me, I could hear the voices of all the others who were trying to figure out ways to eek out more time to stay SOMEHOW....I was hearing things like, "can your mom watch the kids for a few more hours? ......honey, we can eat on the way home that way we can stay longer.....oh, I guess all good things have to come to an end........blah blah blah blah blah.

And I'm thinking, thank you God that we also wake up from nightmares.

just a meatloaf if you ask me (Jen)

you know, I've lived here for almost 10 years now, and there are very few things left that make me feel like I'm in a culturally weird situation. But, um, there's one thing I just don't get. The other night I was out with some teacher friends at a cool restaurant in a cool arrondissement...enjoying each other's company and talking about the day. and so we all order. Goat cheese salads, veal, various pasta and legumes......and then it's my friend Philippe's turn. Steak tartare.

i froze. No, Philippe. Don't. You're sitting right in front of me. He laughs and says I'm showing my true American colors. Everyone has a laugh. When our serveur brought the food and I saw Philippe's steak tartare, it was my turn to laugh. Basically, it's my mom's meatloaf before it's cooked. an artistically sculpted mound of raw hamburger with a raw egg on top. Voila. Oh, c'est bon everyone is protesting -- trying to convince me that I really have missed out on the whole raw egg, raw hamburger scene.

So then I tell them that not only is it nasty to look at, but it must be unhealthy. Must be. Raw eggs? Salmonella!!! Raw hamburger? Probably a myriad of diseases. Gotta be. Then again, French people live long lives and I've never heard of anyone dying of eating steak tartare. There are no warnings on any menu in any restaurant that I've ever been to -- in all of Paris.

How do you live, Philippe asks me. You've not lived, he says, until you've had steak tartare.

Non merci I tell him.

someone once told me (Jen)

An Algerian friend once told me that Paris is like a woman. Sometimes you are totally in love. Can't get enough. Everything about her is exciting and charming and unique. And then sometimes you can't stand her. Monotonous and banal. Draining. Lifeless. I feel the same way, except I don't compare paris to a woman, maybe because I am one. Not to my husband either, because, well, that comparison just doesn't ring true with me. But to a new bag, or a new outfit that you've been drooling over for weeks, and then you finally get it. It's yours and it's a part of you now. And you're so excited to have it and you feel so special and chosen and sort of, like you could meet any social challenge with that thing. And then after awhile you start to become bored and you see the thread starting to pull in certain areas, and the color just isn't what it was. The leather wears in ways you wish it wouldn't. It's not the same. More bland and predictable.

Paris is like that. Sometimes. So's my faith. Sometimes.