Even though our tap water here in France is just as rigorously high quality as in Canada, we were informed at the Maternity ward in Beaune that to prepare bottles we should only use high quality mineral water to mix with the powder. Preferably Evian, bien sûr.

When Clémentine was suffering from un petit peu of constipation (sounds much more elegant when pronounced with a French accent) on her return from the hospital I called the sage-femme and asked her if there was anything I could do to help her digestion.

The answer was, of course, self-evident to any French female. You must vary your high-quality mineral waters to remedy any digestive upsets. So now Clémentine has a rotation of three different brands of mineral waters in her bottles, and her digestive tract se porte trés bien, merci!

Tomorrow I’ll get back to ongoing saga of the Beaune cellar renovations, including telling the tale of our unique light fixtures that were *ahem* “salvaged” thanks to another one of Franck’s projects.

Anyway, back to how to get the 1000 pound stone table top (otherwise known as “The Beast”) from the back of Mystery Man’s truck down the steep stone stairs and into the cellar to finish off our tasting table.

This, folks, is where Franck’s galvanizing personality comes in. When I look at the photos of PROJECT TABLETOP my first reaction is, who are these guys Franck is bossing around?

For instance, take this senior citizen who looks like he is about to have a coronary as he considers the prospect of helping take The Beast out of the back of the truck. I’ve never seen him before in my life.

Same goes for the guy in the striped Rugby shirt and the one with his back turned to the camera; I don’t know either of them from Job. The photos show that Franck managed to round up at least six men to help, and as far as I can tell, only three (the stonemason, the mystery man, and Franck) have a reason to be there.

However, I have lived long enough with Franck not to put it past him to rope in innocent bystanders. I strongly suspect that the other three men were probably taking a nice stroll down the rue Rousseau Deslandes, perhaps whistling in the wind or counting their centimes to see if they had enough to buy a baguette at the wonderful boulangerie at the end of our street, when they were unwittingly enlisted into PROJECT TABLETOP.

The lucky ones got to stay up top while the stone slab was slid down wooden planks into the cellar. And oh looky here! Franck has also talked his team into sliding down the extra stair step (needed after the excavation) while he was at it. I sometimes wonder if my dear husband didn’t invent the phrase “kill two birds with one stone” or perhaps more aptly “kill two innocent bystanders with one seriously heavy stone step”, but I digress…

Watch out below! Here comes the table top, and oui, a 1000 pound slab of stone is easily big enough to crush a man. Wanna bet that white haired guy is thinking I should have just eaten that stale bit of baguette I had at home…

And PROJECT TABLETOP is not finished yet. The Beast still has to be carried a few more metres over to the fabulous flower-pot table base.

How do you say “hernia” in French?

And move it just a leeeettttle bit this way. I can’t tell who this guy is from his shirt sleeves, but I’d wager good money that he wasn’t particularly popular at this juncture.

Because of his bad back my Dad was the official photographer of PROJECT TABLETOP. I haven’t asked him but I am thinking it must be sweat from all these manly men that makes those blurry spots on the pictures.

Ahhhhhhh…enfin! Finally the tasting table can be baptized. The innocent bystanders, relieved to have escaped unscathed except for a few sore muscles, may be starting to think, maybe I still don’t have my fresh baguette for lunch, but I wasn’t crushed and a fine glass of wine does make up for quite a bit…

And doesn’t the table look perfect now?

Besides, there’s something to be said for being involved in great artistic endeavors, a bit like the slaves felt as they laboured on the Pyramids in Egypt. You know, posterity and all that. And did I mention the good wine?

But sacré bleu, that was one heavy piece of stone…

Our friends Martial (who we’ve asked to be Clem’s godfather, incidentally) and Isabelle presented Clémentine with lots of lovely presents shortly after she was born, including her lovely soft dou-dou that as you can see below has already become a big favorite.

Here’s what it looked like by the end of that day – still a cellar, but with lots more head room to come down and have a comfortable tasting.

This morning I had gotten Charlotte and Camille dressed, coiffed, and equipped for school, given Clémentine her bottle and put her to sleep and I was finally ready for one of my favorite moments in the day, my long hot shower.

Franck, who had been lingering over breakfast, had the audacity to say he wanted to shave first before I steamed up the mirror. When I protested rather hotly he fixed me with a cheeky look.

“Tais-toi femme! If you are forgetting how wonderful I am you should go and read your blog from yesterday. I can do no wrong.”

Mon Dieu. I’ve created a latin lover / monster hybrid.

*****

In Praise of Tears – Part III

I asked Franck the other day if as a child he wore his heart on his sleeve, like Charlotte does. He said he was exactly like her, living completely emotionally in the moment. Although he no longer cries at the drop of a hat, he didn’t and still doesn’t see any point of being any other way.

I think if you asked most other French people how they are able to express their emotions so freely, they would be puzzled. From what I can tell they simply don’t see the point in repressing anything. Contrary to many Anglo-Saxons, emotions for them are simply things to be lived, not managed. I, on the other hand, was brought up in a society where showing emotions was generally viewed as a sign of weakness. However, I completely disagree with this now, and have come to view the Latin way of letting the tears flow as a sign of emotional strength.

The stark contrast in the emotional nature of my two oldest girls is a perfect case in point. Camille had a completely different way of reacting to my parents’ departure than Charlotte. She remained stoutly dry-eyed, and when I told her it was OK to cry if she felt like it she leapt around in her bed like a jumping jack and replied, “Oh, I’m not sad.”

“You’re not going to miss Nana and Grandpa?” I asked.

“I will, but I just don’t think about it.” Yes folks, I’m here to tell you that denial can begin as early as six years old.

I know for a fact that Camille adores my parents every bit as much as Charlotte, and that she is going to miss them terribly, yet she has somehow inherited my tendency to stuff everything down inside. However, it comes out, whether we like it or not.

And sure enough, it did come out the day after my parents left. She broke down in hot, gushing tears several times for things like not finding her favorite stuffy, me “pulling her hair” as I brushed it, and the fact that her favorite cartoon was over. She was tired and cranky and preoccupied, classic signs of the emotional hangover I have come to know so well. Charlotte, on the other hand, having gotten the tears out of her system the night before woke up bright eyed and ready to take on the world.

Over the months to come I’m hoping that being in France will help me teach Camille (and me) to cry more, not for Charlotte to cry less.

P.S. Have a look at Franck’s photo and then the photo of Clémentine below. The medical team in the OR all agreed she had a definite “aire de papa” when she was born and I think they were right on the money.