Italy. Stop it. Yes, you have focaccia, Leonardo and Michelangelo. You also have Fabio.

WE, on the other hand, have Monet, Sartre, and Olivier Martinez. We also have fougasse. Back when we all started experimenting with this stuff, you thought that jamming your thumbs into dough, over and over, was bellissimo. Well, guess what. We decided to sculpt ours into a cathedral. Plus, we added olives and cheese and I think that’s what you call pizza. So we invented that too. Am I being too aggressive here?

I’ve really never made fougasse until last week, because my children keep me busy with bathing and three-hour oboe concerts. I discovered that when you make it, you need to show the dough who is boss. You are in charge. This is easy for me, but it may not be for you, so take a shot of vodka and throw on the boxing gloves. Here is the recipe that will have your friends and neighbors over faster than you can say “but, wait. I really don’t like you that much.”

Bonsoir, mes fleurs.

  1. Linda said...

    Never heard of fougasse…….I thought you were mangling foie gras!

    April 8, 2014 at 7:16 pm




Bathtubs are necessary chateau accoutrements. I usually require claw feet, but when you’re bathing your bits amongst nature, the rules relax. THIS lovely spot is where I come to get clean after an exhausting day of flower arranging and dressing my dog like Michael Jackson. I hate to embarrass you, Michael, but Paris PAYS YOU to shove your dog into adorable, impractical doggie outfits. Last Saturday, a woman gave me three pairs of Givenchy platforms and a free meal at Pétrelle.

I guess I spend a lot of time scheming about ways to make my dog even more adorable, and it’s stressful. Gustave suggested an outdoor bathtub. He scoured Place de Verdun and found this beautiful basin. When I fill it with my soaking salts and gaze up at the stars, all worry just melts away. Except for the fact that dark energy is ripping the universe apart. Sorry, love. That shit is just too scary to release from my consciousness.

There’s a tiled breezeway that connects the outdoor salle de bain with the main house. We tore off the roof so nature could run wild, and let me tell you, it runs WILD. The cicadas serenade me to death. Sometimes Gustave joins me in the evenings. On Saturday nights, you can find six people in the thing and we just add more bubble bath so that everyone feels comfortable.

Must be off. Tarte aux Pommes needs primping and I need more free shoes.

Bisous, loves. xx


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These stairs.


Oh my GOD, this project was supposed to take a weekend. As in 48-hours. As in the same amount of time it takes me to go to the grocery store, shower, exfoliate, pluck and squeeze juice from forty oranges, blow dry, whip up duck l’orange for dinner, do twelve loads of laundry and read Proust to my kids. Twice.

I have a husband that has never used a sander and makes completely rash decisions, and love, you’re on the right track. It looks wonderful. That was a complete lie, and give me my GODDAMN staircase back.

I am truly in love with this staircase.  The newel post is a dream to stroke. Unfortunately it’s not as enchanting covered in Gustave’s blood and a million pieces of wood that are dying to embed themselves into my lovely size-four feet. At the top of that helix is the smoking room. Of COURSE I have a smoking room and stop judging. I’ve actually slid down the thing and let me tell you, it’s fast. Forget Disney World and come to my chateau.

Off to a pain aux chocolate party with the little ones. There won’t be a smudge, loves.



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