Those floors.

thoseFloors

I’ve heard that people like carpet in America. Are you kidding me? Carpet will soak up anything. And hide it forever. That all-night rager you threw back in 1995? Get out the black light, because that evening is still there in all of its bad-decision glory. Stick to wood. It’s honest.

Back when Gustave and I were shopping around for chateaus, I had a few requirements. Orange groves and at least ten bathrooms. Door knockers. Moss growing on the toilets, because what fun is brand new chateau? Only Kimye wants a new chateau and that duo represents everything that is wrong with America in one unfortunate word.

The other requirement was 200-year old wooden floors. Long, lovely planks of weathered perfection. But I’ve walked in a straight line for too many years of my life, so I cracked open the wine and asked Gustave to get creative. I wanted something with ATTITUDE. He brooded through most of it, but I must say, my stallion came through on this one. The lady of the manor is a happy girl.

xxx, mes fleurs.

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Fougasse.

fougasse

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.
M.

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  1. Linda said...

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

    April 8, 2014 at 7:16 pm

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Contemplation.

bathtub

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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