The owners of the houses on the left maintain the garden growing along the right; I much prefer this to the graffiti that typically sprouts up along next to trains. And check it:
Grapevines. Just in case you forgot you were in France. I wonder how much these grapes have to struggle?
Another sign of our contentment with village life, behold, our new Saturday morning ritual:
We take a stroll down this adorable little pedestrian street at the top of the hill, picking delectable fruit from stalls as we go (that we pay for, obviously- I've also seen Aladdin, and I don't want my hand cut off with a machete). There are plenty of adorable little stores in which to window shop, and even a liquor store that, much to AH's delight (and my personal torment) sells decent bourbon, along with excellent boulangeries, chocolate shops, an Alsacien charcuterie (think lots of sausage and flammenkeuche), and a fromager. It's a wonderful family atmosphere with people pushing strollers and walking dogs on leashes. And yeah, that's another thing: you can tell we're not in Paris anymore, Toto, because the dogs are, by and large, actual dogs, not the yippy, puntable monstrosities one sees in tiny little dogs sweaters everywhere in Paris. Just look at this fellow:
I'm pretty sure that someone could ride that creature into combat. But he was perfectly pleasant and receptive to snorgles, much to my utter delight.
After hitting the marche, AH and I stroll down a bit further...
Nope, not Versailles. This was taken in the beautiful Parc de Sceaux, which is a lot like Versailles except: 1) free, 2) a 10 minute walk as opposed to a 45 minute train ride away, and 3) not completely swarming with people. Seriously. Gorgeous fountains? Check. Chateau?
Affirmative. Grand canal?
Indeedily do. General green lushness as far as the eye can see?
Yuppers. I've even heard rumors of sheep. I'll investigate and report back, I promise. After all, there's nothing quite like a good, fluffy sheepy.
If we're going to eat lunch out, we typically eat at a little brasserie right across from the square from this adorable little church. The view is lovely, the food is tasty, and the waiters don't seem to mind the strange American lady who insists on ordering her food sans salade (doctor's orders, I swear!). And then we get to head back to my favorite part of Sceaux, our own humble abode:
This right here, my friends, is the site of the Hunger Games-induced stupor in which I've languished the last few days. Although I have occasionally made it out into the kitchen:
See that? COUNTER-SPACE! And a real oven! I swear, there's nothing quite as soothing to the soul as the sound of NPR and the freedom to dice vegetables in comfort and peace. Little FT is finally on a diet that contains a little more variety than pasta, risotto, stir-fry, and chili. She has rewarded me by attempting to break free of my womb via my ribcage. I fear that feeding her much better will lead to full-out mutiny. But never fear, AH's solution for Hulk-baby and cranky mama came in the best possible form:
Waffles with peach compote and vanilla ice-cream, peaches courtesy of the marche and ice-cream courtesy of the fact that we have a real freezer and not some BS little freezer drawer that mostly functions by eating all of the frozen vegetables I would put in there with all the best intentions.
Real cheese in the fridge, a bed that is holding together admirably, an AH that comes home and makes me dessert, and an FT that is starting to make her opinions known as often as possible. So far, life out in the country is pretty good...
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