Adventures in Paris: Scent of a Woman

I have been jonesing for a real French fragrance.

Yes, I am well aware that my regular scents, Chanel No. 5, Coco by Chanel and 24 Faubourg by Hermes, are all French. However, beloved as these are, I can purchase them right here in the 'burg which somehow dilutes their French pedigree.

For years, I've harbored this vision of me sweeping grandly into the House of Guerlain's flagship boutique on the Champs-Elysees, whipping off my designer sunglasses, tossing my perfectly coiffed hair (I am always having a great hair and weight day in this fantasy) and imperiously gesturing at the "exclusive collection" house fragrances as wraiths in little black dresses scurry to accommodate. I exit the salon de parfum toting a beautifully wrapped package and trailing a distinctive Oriental spicy/floral/chypre cloud that leaves the hordes along the avenue swooning in olfactory ecstasy.

Other women do this all the time. Women like Madonna. And Princess Caroline of Monaco. Why can't I? I made up my mind that during this trip the fantasy would become reality.

And it did. Sort of.

I really hadn't planned to go into Guerlain the afternoon that I found myself at their threshold. The weather was unseasonably warm and humid with intermittent rain. I was wearing jeans. My makeup was gone, my only jewelry beads of perspiration. My reflection mirrored in the windows told me I was not having a good hair day. After four days of eating croissants, pommes frites, creme brulee and tarte tatin, I wasn't having a great weight day either. But with my Paris vacation more than half over, I knew that it was now or never. So I took a deep breath and forged ahead into the fragrant inner sanctum.

The sales associates were all chic in their little black dresses (at least that part of the fantasy came true). And they spoke perfect English. Thank goodness, for my French was not tripping off my tongue as mellifluously as I would have liked.

Stoppers were pulled out of bottles and dabbed onto my wrists. Atomizers were spritzed onto paper strips and waved beneath my nose. Top, middle and base notes were discussed with the seriousness of quantum physics. I found myself sagely tossing about words like "sillage" and "drydown."

And I left there with a bottle of Guerlain's exclusive Elixir Charnel Oriental Brulant housed in a gilded box wrapped in ribbon and scented tissue paper and tucked into an elegant Guerlain bag that drew lots of suitably envious glances on the metro.

And it only cost 170 euros (ouch). I'll leave it up to you to figure out the intricacies of the daily exchange rate and the duty free tax.

The day I returned, I test drove my new fragrance. As I turned away from my vanity, my persnickety orange cat Henry (aka Monsieur Henri, my personal stylist and beauty consultant) awoke from a nap on my bed. He blinked his topaz eyes, twitched his nose at the unfamiliar mixture of tonka bean, almond, vanilla, styrax and clementine. He jumped down and rubbed up against my leg purring approvingly. Figures he'd be the one to notice. That cat is so damn French.

Is this my favorite perfume ever? Actually, I still prefer Coco. And as much as the Elixir Charnel OB costs, that's a good thing. Let's face it; this was a once-in-a-lifetime splurge. Never going to become my signature.

But the Elixir Charnel OB is extremely wearable. It possesses a smoky, sexy, spicy, ambery yet subtle je ne sais quoi quality that is very French, yet somehow still me.

And you can't get that in Hattiesburg.

Adventures in Paris: I See Dead People

On previous visits to Paris, I'd paid homage to most of the major "must see" tourist sites. Eiffel Tower, check. Louvre, check. Musee d'Orsay, check. Versailles, check. Sacre Couer, check. Arc de Triomphe, double check ( even hauled my ass up the stairs to the top. IMO a waste of time. There are much better views from the steps of Sacre Couer and from the Pompidou Center).

But I had never set foot in the famous Pere Lachaise cemetery nor the Pantheon, the mausoleum that houses the remains of France's most honored men (and a few women). Since, we're getting close to my favorite holiday, Halloween, and I have a somewhat morbid streak, I figured it was time to do the crypt crawl.

Pere Lachaise is a large "city of the dead" as we call them in New Orleans with the rich, famous, infamous and not-at-all-famous thrown together for all eternity. The architecture alone is worth seeing as are the gloriously eccentric funerary mementoes on display.

Here you'll find, among others, the grave sites of French author Colette, Irish playwright Oscar Wilde (can't miss his tomb covered with an sphinx-ish sculpture and umpteen billion lipstick imprints) and American rock star/bad boy Jim Morrison. There are always a few faithful devotees hanging around the famous graves. Even the dead have their groupies.

The uber-dignified, yet still creepy, Pantheon originally was constructed as a church to St. Genevieve, but in the wake of the French Revolution, it was turned into secular meeting place/mausoleum dedicated to memorializing the intellectuals of France. Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Emile Zola, both Curies, Pierre and Marie, and Louis Braille are among those interred here. There's also a slew of Napoleon's generals. Apparently just being a FoN (Friend of Napoleon) imparted greatness by osmosis. Napoleon, by the way, is not interred here. He has his own monument/tomb over at Les Invalides. He would like that.

Impressive, but overall the Pantheon is a little cold and emotionless. But then again that should be expected from a monument to dead intellectuals.

I didn't include the underground Roman catacombs on my Paris "to do" list; seemed a little too goth, even for me, with all those skulls and bones right out in the open. I also tend to be claustrophobic. However, I was able to descend into the caves of Reims' famous champagne houses with no problems, so the catacombs remain a distinct possibility for another time.

Hey, I'll use any excuse to return to Paris.

Adventures in Paris: Les Halles is Foodie Heaven

For most women, the boutiques of the stylish Boulevard Champs-Elysees, Rue Montaigne and Rue St. Honore may be the ticket, but the neighborhood that makes my knees tremble is the gutsy, ballsy, decidedly blue collar Les Halles, the belly of Paris, once home to the famous markets of Paris Only vestiges remain, but what vestiges.

Here I ate lunch at Aux Tonneaux des Halles, a turn of the century bistro that serves up os de moelle (marrow bones) with ramekins of fleur de sel, huge workingman platters overflowing with perfectly cooked steaks or duck confit (best I've ever had), pommes frites or sauteed potatoes and fresh salad with perfect vinagerette. And wine. Unfiltered natural biodynamic wine that was nothing short of superb.

Just around the corner, there is G. Detou. If you love to cook, especially if you love to bake, you have to come here. After Monoprix, this is easily my favorite shopping destination in Paris. It's small than the average 7-11 and stocked from floor to ceiling with the most wonderful stuff. Exotic teas. Huge bricks of the finest chocolates (and also bags of chocolate chunks and cocoa powder), nuts in bulk, all kinds of flavored, colored and shaped sugars, flavored extracts, candied flower petals, dragees, exotic spices, Madagascar vanilla beans. Flavored oils. Mustards. Jarred
foie gras and pates. Tuna and sardines in prettily decorated tins. Iranian pistachios and saffron. And for the most part, everything is very reasonably priced.

"C'est comme Paradis!" I blurted out to the clearly amused proprieter as I looked around wide-eyed. He was only too happy to prove me right.

"Quel est le meilleur chocolate pour faire le chocolat chaud?" He whipped out a 1 kg bag of Valhrona Guanaja Mariage de grands crus 70%, little tabs of rich, dark chocolate to melt into milk or even to slip into croissant dough for pain au chocolat.

"Avez vous les lentilles du Puy?" I asked envisioning making that heavenly lentil salad from my October 2008 visit. Main bien sur. Did I want them in a tin or bag.

Flower essences? Rose. Lavande. Violette. Vertiver. One of each, please.

Candied violet and rose petals? Check.

Chestnut flour or Flour made from the lovely rose biscuits de Reims? Sure. I could also buy the fragile biscuits whole if I so desired.

G. Detou was actually the original owner, Gerard Detou, but pronounced in French it also is a play on words for "J'ai de tout" or "I have some of everything."

And they do. Or rather they did.

A fair amount of their merchandise came home with me.

The House Where the Black Cat Lives Goes to Paris

I'm back from Paris. And as always, it was an adventure. I am convinced, no matter how many times I go there will always be some new sight, taste, sound to delight.

Like Au Panetier, one of the oldest patisseries in Paris, where the buttery toothsome pastry is eclipsed only by the beautiful Belle Epoque decor. Check out the lovely tile work.
Like Bistro d'Henri on Rue Princesse in St. Germain. Tiny dining room, always full, always good. I went there for the name; I came back for the food.
Shopping in the covered Passage Vivienne with its lovely domed glass skylights and elaborate wall frescoes.



Walking across a bridge covered with locks, left by thousands of lovers as signs of eternal love. Only in Paris.

This beautiful fountain near St. Sulpice.


Gardens everywhere, including this lovely little gem in the courtyard of Musee Carnavelet.


Pig pastries! (This one's for you, Lou.)

A decked-out bridal car parked outside Gerald Mulot (the similarly gorgeously attired bridal party was chowing down inside).


And black cats everywhere, popping up in the most unexpected places, reminding me that as enchanting as Paris may be, I'll always have a reason to come home.

Shopping in Paris

More and more often lately, my thoughts turn to Paris. I'll be headed that way soon (my fourth visit if anyone is keeping track.)

Now you may wonder what there could possibly be left for me to see. Well, lots. I have reached that wonderful place in my relationship with Paris where I'm no longer the tourist running the frenetic race from the Tour Eiffel to Notre Dame from L'Arche de Triomphe to the Louvre.

Now I can enjoy Paris as the locals do, wandering the neighborhoods, revisiting familiar haunts, enjoying small-off-the-beaten track museums. And, of course, shopping.

Paris is a shopper's mecca. From les grandes magasins to the tiniest specialty boutiques to even the street markets, all the merchandise is arranged to entice.

I can't resist the vendors' entreaties to try les meilleures cerises dans la ville or that dab of cheese at the peak of ripeness. To enjoy a lick of the world's best ice cream scooped in the shape of a beautiful delicate rose . To spritz decadent parfum from a Baccarat crystal flacon onto a paper fan and waft it delicately under my nose. To enjoy the flutter of an ombre silk scarf against my neck as the vendeuse deftly knots it that inimitable way Parisiennes are born knowing. And they always wrap the packages so nicely, like a present just for you.

So what's on my Paris shopping list for this visit?

Food: bricks of Valhrona chocolate for baking and chocolat chaud. Madagascar vanilla beans in bulk. Candied violets. Essences of lavender, rose and violet. Mustard and honey -- the choices are dizzying for both. Green lentilles de Puy so hard to find over here.

Toiletries: The pharmacies and perfume boutiques are pure heaven for a girly girl like me. I love to stock up on the big cubes of Savon de Marseilles olive oil soap (great for the skin), and sachets in pretty silk embroidered packets.

This year I am determined to set foot into the grand parfums salons. Sure I can purchase a bottle of Shalimar or Chanel No. 5 here in Hattiesburg, but I can't recreate the experience of sniffing Narcisse Noir or N'Aimez que Moi at Turtlecreek Mall -- these are sold exclusively at the Caron boutiques. And, while at over $100 dollars a teaspoon, I can't justify bringing these home as souvenirs, I can allow myself a whiff there in the salon and bring home a slightly more affordable, if still decadent, swansdown peach powder puff or five precious bath beads.

Scarves: My Paris obsession. Hermes is not in the budget this year, but even the street scarves sold in the markets and the metro stations have a certain cachet when knotted just so.

And perhaps a serendipitous old treasure or two discovered at a street brocante.

Is shopping in Paris cheap? No it is not, but it is a heady, gracious and soul-satisfying experience rarely found anywhere else in the world.

And you can't put a price on that.

So what would you buy if you were going to Paris?

There's Something About Ernie

Like some people, certain cats are just blessed with charisma.

Ernie is one of those cats.

From the day that he showed up on my deck in Bay St. Louis, exactly six years ago yesterday, it was clear the tiny three-week-old grey and white tabby kitten with the big ears and enormous paws possessed personal magnetism in spades.

Immediately upon his arrival, he started charming the fur off the feral kitties that lived under my deck, working his way into their hearts (and their food bowls).

I thought he was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. Which is why I got concerned when I saw him trying to chat up the 'possum and raccoon that also helped themselves to the cat chow after darkness fell. In the wild, personality does not determine survival of fittest.

So I brought him inside to become part of my inside feline family.

Though Little Ernie was clearly delighted with his new family of five feline brothers and sisters, the feeling was not always mutual. His arrival in our lives coincided with the other cats' third birthday; a little brother was not on their birthday list.

Ernie was oblivious. For his first year in our family, Ernie, in true little brother fashion, padded around behind Henry wherever he went. He mimicked his mannerisms. Henry was not amused and frequently swatted the little guy sending him tumbling head over tail across the room. Ernie thought it was a cool game. He wanted to be Henry when he grew up.

Henry doesn't swat him around anymore now that Ernie is twice his size. He just hides from him. Ernie doesn't mind (I'm sure he's still oblivious).

And then there's Roxie. When she arrived, a skinny, frightened little feral, Ernie gallantly showed her the ropes, sharing his food bowl, protecting her from the others' malevolent glares, lovingly washing her gaunt little face with his big, pink tongue and heeding her piteous cries for company at all hours of the day and night. Theirs was -- and is -- one of the sweetest love stories I've ever witnessed.

When I fostered her three little grandchildren a year later, Ernie was their mentor and playmate. The slept in a pile, the kitttens happily snuggled against Ernie's growing girth. When awake they dueled, the kittens batting Ernie's huge paws with their tiny ones. One by one the kittens went off to new homes. When the last one left, Ernie wandered the house disconsolately for days. He missed his little buddies.

Just recently, three more kittens (Roxie's great grandchildren) joined our foster family. The semi-feral little moppets huddled wide-eyed in the training cage hissing in terror whenever one of the adult cats came sniffing their way. Then Ernie ambled by, belly a'swingin'.

It was if a switch had been thrown. The three kittens rushed to the wall of the cage, mewing happily, three sets of paws stretched out eagerly, reaching for Ernie, batting at his tail, their own tails up and alert. And, as always, Ernie was happy to oblige.

It's the damnedest thing.

My House Overfloweth

The House Where the Black Cat Lives has always been pretty much at capacity, but for the past week or so we've been overrun with black cats.

Gizmo, now about six months old, has been caught and spayed. She now resides in my guest bedroom waiting for relocation into a new home. Although she retains some of the skittish mannerisms of a feral cat, she is a naturally affectionate kitten, given to spontaneous cuddles and outbursts of impromptu purring. She is well on her way to being someone's devoted companion.


Gizmo

Her mother, Funny Face, has finally been caught and spayed (the culmination of over a year's worth of effort). She remains in her old neighborhood, adopted as a yard cat. Another happy ending.

Three of the four kittens in her last litter were caught at one go and are now undergoing socialization in my guest bathroom as a prelude to being placed in new homes. They are about seven weeks old now -- a truly adorable age. All are black and white tuxedo kitties with white whiskers and longish hair. While they still hiss defensively when I pick them up unexpectedly, they grow friendlier every day, allowing me to cuddle them (kitten therapy is the best!) and tease them with the feather wand.

As you might guess, all this extra kitty love pretty much eats up all my spare time -- the time I used to use for eating, sleeping ... and blogging. So my apologies for having been away, but it's been for a good reason.

So .... anyone looking for a kitten? Call me!

The Cat Mobile

You can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive. Not so much the type of car -- mine's a fairly generic Toyota Camry -- but by what they keep in it.

You wouldn't need to be a super-sleuth to figure out I'm a cat mama.

I actually chose the Camry over the Corolla so that I would have ample floor and seat room for stacking all seven cats in their carriers for our annual vaccination vet runs, household moves and emergency hurricane evacuations (been there, done that).


Peek into my trunk. On any given day you'll spy cases of canned cat food, large bags of kibble, water bottles, paper plates, trash bags, economy-size boxes of kitty litter (hefting those in and out of the car comprises my weight-lifting regimen) and a few empty Pet Smart bags, receipts and coupons that I never get around to using.


Like any cat mama, and a former Girl Scout, I travel prepared for any possible feline emergency. The "passengers" in my formerly roomy back seat include a wire small animal trap along with some camoflauge blankets and towels and some heavy duty claw-proof gloves. You just never know when the opportunity to trap a feral will present itself.

I also cart around a plastic cat carrier in case a kitty requires transport to the emergency vet pronto.

Always mindful of public relations -- yep, it's what I do in my spare time as well as my professional life -- I keep a few info kits about living harmoniously with feral cats from Alley Cat Allies, to hand out along with garbage can bungee cords and cat repellent to address some of the more prevalent crises I deal with.

And in my glove compartment? A supersize cat hair remover roller for last minute cleanup, wipes (because accidents do happen) and car deoderant -- because, let's face it, cat food stinks.

OK, so now you know what's in my cat mobile. What can people tell about you from YOUR car?

The Baby Daddy

I’ve rarely met a cat, especially a black cat, that I didn’t like.

But I don’t really like this one.

He’s mean. Really mean.

He chased off my two sweet boys, Fergus and Tux.

He beats up on his woman, Peggy Sue’s beautiful girl Funny Face, she of the sapphire eyes and Himalayan coat.

He’s the baby daddy to her two half-grown kittens, Gizmo and Leona, and probably also fathered the litter she gave birth to some three weeks ago.

He abuses his kids, too.

Gizmo and Leona hide in the tall grass when he’s around and walk between my ankles for protection from him when I come to feed them.

I usually just refer to him as "The Baby Daddy," but lately, I’ve started calling him “Sid.”

When Sid first started hanging out at the colony, he was wearing a flea color, so he must have belonged to someone sometime. He’s since lost the collar and apparently his home, too.

Maybe he was abandoned by someone in the trailer park down the street from the colony.

I suspect Sid’s home, when he had one, was not happy. The wary way he circles me, his plaintive cries, hisses and growls, the obsessively jealous way he guards his food tell a story of starvation and abuse.

I used to chase him off, but he refused to go. So now I feed him, speak to him softly, and, when he is receptive, scratch his ears. Even bad cats need love.

Occasionally, he purrs. He sounds rusty, like the engine turning over in an infrequently driven car.

Maybe if he wasn’t fueled by so much baggage and testosterone, he wouldn’t be so doggone cranky.

I know how to fix the testosterone. If I can manage to trap him, a trip to the spay and neuter clinic will get rid of all that in about three months.

Getting rid of the rest of his baggage may take a little longer.

And I don't have longer. I have just found out that my darlings are in trouble. Big trouble.

The neighborhood association where my little family resides has some issues and wants to get rid of them. Apparently, the fact that there are crack houses and growing drug problems in this neighborhood is no big deal to "the association". But they are very concerned about getting rid of a few cats who are cared for and sleep all day

To most of you this may not seem like a big deal. It is to me. Huge.

My heart is breaking, my stomach is churning, my blood pressure is up so high, it's like tribal drums beating in my ears. I just got a new mattress set. But something tells me I'm not going to sleep tonight. Or any night until I can resolve this.

You see. I've cared for this colony, and its evolving membership, for going on four years now. That's longer than many significant relationships in my life.

I've helped trap, foster and find "forever" homes for eight of its kittens. I've spayed/neutered three adult members and adopted two of them myself. One sleeps in my bed; one in my garage.

I've fed them by flashlight in the dark. Through cold winters and hot summers, I've slipped flea medicine on their necks when they scratch and antibiotics into their food when they are injured.

I've run interference with the neighbors and supplied informative literature about feral cats along with bungee cords and Nature's Miracle to deal with the more common complaints.

I've smiled into faces I've wanted to slap. Listened patiently and with as much sympathy as I can muster to some pretty outrageous (and I'm pretty sure some bogus whining). I've resisted the urge to point out that the "cats" they describe getting into their trash sound more like raccoons and that trash bags placed on the curb without benefit of first being placed in a can with a secure lid are an open invitation to raccoons, dogs, possums, foxes and other wildlife, not just cats.

I don't see myself just walking away at this point as some of my "friends" have suggested I do (for shame!) My babies, even Sid, need me now more than ever. No one else is stepping up to the plate.

I'll make a last ditch attempt to educate the ignorant, trap/spay/neuter/relocate the innocent and get assistance from the uncommitted . But I feel I'm going it totally alone.

And that scares the hell out of me. For me. And especially for the kitties.

Most of all this makes me mad as hell.

They're God's creatures. Don't they deserve better?

Peggy Sue, Part Deux

When we last checked in, our heroine, Peggy Sue, was holed up in my bathroom cabinet, resolutely , yet politely, refusing to be tamed while awaiting her date with destiny – an appointment at the local spay and neuter clinic.

I never did tame her, but I did get her spayed.

Now she’s living in my garage. Sort of.

The original plan was to return her to her home turf and into the bosom of the colony she had helped found. However, the colony underwent a profound demographic shift during Peggy Sue’s tenure in my bathroom.

In a turn of events worthy of a tragedy by Shakespeare, a mean cuss of an abandoned black tom cat had moved in, chased off Peggy Sue’s two grown sons, beat up and impregnated her daughter and staked his claim to the old homestead with a series of well-aimed, pungent sprays.


Feral cats, territorial creatures that they are, don’t really cotton to relocation, but I didn’t see as how I or Peggy Sue had much of a choice.

So into my garage Peggy Sue went with her carrier lined with now-familiar towel, her litter box and her food and water bowls. After about a week, I cracked open the door remembering that cheesy poster so prevalent on dorm room walls during my long-ago youth, “If you love something set it free, if it comes back it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.”

The next day all that remained of Peggy Sue were a few tufts of grey fur clinging to her terry blankie.

For nearly a month, I left food for her every evening at dusk, humming a few bars of “Peggy Sue” in the direction of my neighbor’s bamboo privacy hedge across the alley way where I fancied a feline shadow lurked.

The kibble was always gone in the morning, but no further sign of Peggy Sue. One grey dawn, I did see one of the other neighborhood cats squeezing his growing belly under the garage door. Mystery solved. Looks like Peggy Sue wasn’t coming back. Still, perversely I continued to set out food and a few of the treats she had grown so fond of.

Last Friday I came home a little later than normal. A familiar head with a bobbed ear cautiously peered from under the garage door and up at me with wide-set peridot eyes. Peggy Sue? She mewed in the affirmative and ran to the privacy hedge, talking to me all the while.

She had plenty to say.

She looked well fed, healthy and relatively well-adjusted.

So, now she’s back -- if she, in fact, ever really went away. Does that mean, she’s mine? Not really. She never was, probably never will be. But we’re still talking, and we’ll always have “our song.”

So now you know why I’m less blue ‘bout Peggy, about Peggy Sue.

To Stroke or Not to Stroke, That Is The Question

Is your cat lovey-dovey one minute, and downright mean the next? I have often noted the differences in my cats' personalities. One of the major differences is their varying thresholds for affection -- both giving and receiving . How quickly those thresholds can change!

Koko is a love bug whose favorite activity in life is to be snuggled into the crook of my side or knees, kneading away and purring his funny little out-of-tune purr. That said, he has a very low tolerance for actually being picked up in my arms and carried around.

Henry is a "Don't call me, I'll call you" type. As I have said before, he is SUCH a guy. That said, when he wants attention, he wants my FULL attention and will go around poking me until I give it to him.

Ernie, Roxie and Nettie, on the other hand, love to be picked up. Ernie, bless his heart, is just too big for me to pick up too often. I can do anything to Roxie, including rubbing her face and sticking my fingers in her ears and she won't let out a squeak. Nettie loves to be held, but can get pissy if I try to put her down, rub her too hard or even rub her too often. She actually curls her upper lip at me when I give her the wrong kind of attention.

Sammy is an attention whore who meows and head butts until he gets my attention. But after about three strokes, he throws the personality switch and comes after me. I have little bruises from Sammy's love bites all up and down the underside of my arm.

CJ is undoubtedly the most distant of my cats. From the time she was a kitten, she has been a loner. She doesn't even seem to like her siblings, except for Sammy, with whom she has always had a weirdly close relationship. Days will go by without seeing her. The Recurring Gentleman Caller and I had been seeing each other for three months when he asked "Did you get a new cat?" while pointing to CJ who had surfaced for a drink of water. That said, on rare occasion, she will come up to me, head bent, and sit by my side patiently waiting for a stroke on the head.

Apparently, dual-personalities is a common trait among cats, and major headache for the people who love them. But according to this article, we shouldn't take it personally.

They're just being cats.

Gotta love 'em.

I'm a Winner!

Bonjour, y'all! Just found out I won this great little cookbook in a blogging giveaway over at "My French Corner."

I love food, I love to cook, I love France. Lately I haven't had time for much of any of it, so a 10-minute French cookbook sounds custom made for me. I can't wait to try it. And the period illustrations look too cute.

If you're a Francophile, pop on over to "My French Corner." It's an adorable (and very readable) blog about adding French touches to your everyday life. It's one of my faves.

Bon weekend (this has made mine!)

Eating My Way Through New Orleans: The Green Goddess and Boucherie

As my Blogger profile states, one of my life goals is to eat my way through the great restaurants of New Orleans. Here's hoping I live a reallllllyyyyy long time because this is turning out to be quite the project -- and one I relish completely.

Since starting the project, I've dined (in no particular order) at: Camellia Grill, Lola's, Cafe Degas, Elizabeth's, Emerils, Bayona, Praline Connection, the Upperline, Bacco, Ralph's on the Park, Luke, Britgsen's, Stanley's, La Petite Grocery, Lilette, Herbsaint, Mr. B's, and now The Green Goddess and Boucherie.

I have yet to eat at a bad restaurant. Yes, I like some places better than others (and sometimes it is just because I ordered the wrong dish or the restaurant was too crowded or someone obnoxious at the next table put a damper on the occasion).

Good food for me is good food. I'm not a snob about location, celebrity chefs or price point. However, I am discovering that my favorite places are a little off the beaten path (as in not necessarily in the Quarter), neighborhood gems that are somewhat upscale (but not intimidatingly so) with small, intimate dining rooms reminiscent of a bistro in Paris. Does this surprise anyone that knows me?

The Green Goddess, though in the Quarter, still earns points for being hard to find; it's located on Exchange Place, the charming alley way located between the Louisiana Supreme Court and the Monteleone Hotel. It's also extremely intimate; plan on sitting outside and waiting for a table no matter how early you get there. The list of speciality drinks is impressive as is the cheese list.

The food is inventive and pairs some unusual flavors -- a soup with a watermelon, ginger base topped with avocado and crab meat, for instance. Some pairings work more successfully than others. I was a little hampered because it was Good Friday, the one day a year when I am an observant Catholic (I know it makes no sense), so I limited my options to vegetarian/seafood, and as is always the case, the meaty dishes were what sounded, looked and smelled appealing. But still it was a fun, funky, yummy experience. The chef (and the menu) are totally different at lunch and dinner so I may have to go back at lunch sometime (and not during Lent).

It's a good thing I saved Boucherie for Saturday because the smell of their signature barbecue dishes would have driven me insane had I attempted to dine on Friday. Located in a tiny house in Riverbend, it scores for off the beaten path and intimate dining room. You HAVE to have reservations. There are only about 12 tables.

Their food, which is quite reasonably priced, is Southern with a twist. My dining companion and I decided to go with their better known dishes: boudin balls; collard greens with grit fries; ribs with fried shallots, brisket with Parmesan garlic fries and (drum roll, please) Krispy Kreme bread pudding. All were wonderful. The biggest surprise were the collards which had a tangy, yet smoky, flavor. We shared the bread pudding. Loved this place. Recommend it highly.

The issue with this project is that once I find a restaurant I really like, I want to return to it all the time, which makes it hard to make progress on my "list." And, yes, this is a self-imposed rule which I means I can un-impose it at any time. As I did this morning when I returned to Elizabeth's for brunch. This was my third visit. But I can't resist their crabby eggs. Or their praline bacon. Or their best-I've-ever-had Bloody Mary's.

So what are the other places on my list? Well, the list keeps growing. It seems as soon as I cross one place off, I hear about someplace else I just HAVE to try. Sadly, a few places (Cafe Sbisa, Christians, Cuvee, Petunia's) shut their doors before I had the opportunity to try them. But here is "the list" as it stands as of today. Tomorrow, who knows ...

Coquette's
Domenica
Cochon
Bistro at Maison de Ville
Patois
August
Le Foret
Bistro Daisy
Three Muses
Feelings Cafe
MiLa
Matt and Naddie's
Gautreau's
Dante's Kitchen
Iris
Ste. Marie
Delmonico
La Provence (technically not in New Orleans, but it's been on the list a long, long time).

Anyone else have a recommendation, a review, an observation. Pile it on. I'll get to it eventually.

"Cats Are Like Me": Cats and Autism, Part II

Today is Autism Awareness Day and the beginning of Autism Awareness Month.

Long-time readers of this blog will remember that autism awareness was the subject of the very first post on The House Where the Black Cat Lives two (!) years ago.

I remain passionate about this topic, because like cat rescue and spaying and neutering, I know something about it. My 10-year-old niece lives with autism.

Increasingly, cats (and dogs and horses) are being used as therapy animals for children with autism. Today, I stumbled across this lovely story about how cats helped the author's son learn to communicate.

The part that made my eyes well up was when he said, "Cats are like me." I feel that way myself which makes me wonder if I, too, was touched, if ever so slightly, by the brush of autism.

Now if you read the story of the House Where The Black Cat Lives over on the right side of this page, you'll figure out that cats are unlikely to be my niece "N"'s therapy animal of choice. (Actual cats that is. She still loves drawing pictures of them.)

That said "cat" was among her early words, at a time when she was almost completely non-verbal. But that was before the infamous "black cat" incident. She is, however, fascinated by all things canine. And I have witnessed her blossom in the presence of a horse, grooming, mounting and riding it with a near-religious reverence.

N is coming to visit later in the month. Perhaps she and the cats will have a breakthrough. Perhaps not.

At the very least, I'll probably get a new drawing of the cats for my refrigerator.

Felony Laws for Animal Cruelty Needed in Mississippi NOW

Did you know that Mississippi is one of only four states in the Union where cruelty toward a cat or a dog is not considered a felony? *

Appalling isn't it? That's right, in this state, people have starved and/or beaten pets to death, poured hot grease on feral cats and doused dogs with lighter fluid and burned them alive and gotten off with a fine of $1,000 (or less) and/or a six month jail term -- which was usually commuted to community service-- for a misdemeanor. That is, if they were punished at all.

Never mind that animal cruelty is a predictor and indicator of violent crime, domestic abuse and child abuse.

It's not that the citizens of Mississippi don't care about animal cruelty. Time and again, stories of horrific cat and dog abuse make the news, and there is always an outcry for a felony law. Petitions circulate. Legislation is introduced. And then it hits a wall.

Why? Mostly because of powerful Mississippi Farm Bureau lobbyists. Mississippi Farm Bureau opposes tougher laws against aggravated, intentional cruelty to dogs and cats. They claim that a felony cruelty law protecting dogs and cats could somehow impact farming, but livestock are already protected by a first offense felony cruelty law.

Just this week, a conference committee report was released that will weaken current laws in regards to acts of simple animal cruelty.

But never say die. Earlier this month in New Jersey, the case of a starved, left-for- dead pit bull made national headlines and spawned "Patrick's Law," a huge grassroots effort to provide stiffer penalties for animal abusers. Patrick's Law is also shedding additional light -- and putting pressure-- on states, including Mississippi, where no felony laws exist.

Seize the moment. Our cats and dogs have no choice but to be silent. We can speak for them. Learn more about Mississippi's laws for animal cruelty and what you can do to help here now.

* The others are Idaho, North Dakota and South Dakota.

Black Cat Rescue

Did you know that black cats are only about half as likely to be adopted as other cats?

I didn't know that, either, until I visited the Black Cat Rescue (BCR) blog. I've lived with several black cats over the years, and I've always found them to be the sweetest and funniest of kitties. For more about BCR and the wonderful work they do to rescue and adopt out black cats, visit their blog or their page on Facebook. Sammy and Koko are fans.

A New Toy ...

.... inspires exultation - and envy - at The House Where the Black Cat Lives. Nettie revels in having the new mint-flavored chew toy all to herself - at least for the moment. It looks like Sammy's turn is coming sooner than she thinks.

My Creature Comforts

I love my creature comforts. Almost as much as I love my little creatures.

Sometimes between the 9-hour work days, the 2 1/2 hours round trip commutes, the chores and stresses of living in a multi-cat household, I just want to scream , "Calgon, take me away."

When the cats at The House Where The Black Cat Lives get bent out of shape, brushings, cat nip, a few treats and a nap in their favorite sunny spot always works wonders. When the resident cat mama needs little pampering, I can always count on these decadent little luxuries to whisk me a to a calmer place.


Bath and Boudoir

Candles: Tyler Candles' richly scented products come with atmospheric monikers like French Quarter, Cathedral (which no kidding smells like incense), Diva and High Maintenance. My favorite? Do you even have to ask? Paris, mais bien sur! I also love Trapp's heavenly orange vanilla scent. It belongs in the Scented Candle Hall of Fame.

Anything by Bath Junkie: You pick the product, the color and the scent at their bath boutiques. They do the rest, then wrap it in color-coordinated tissue paper. I just feel better walking out of that uber-Zen oasis of calm. with my little bag. Their sea-salt scrub is the best (I get it in Calming Lavendar). I also keep a couple of bottles of bubble bath in mock-Chanel No. 5 and Rose for long Sunday evening soaks. They recently added a 6 oz. size to their 4 oz. and 8 oz. line up.

Savon de Marseilles: Gargantuan cubes of unwrapped French-made soap made with olive oil are great for your skin and look tres francais piled up in a big clear glass jar in your bathroom. One cube lasts forever. I always bring these back as souvenirs when I go to France.

L'Occitane en Provence's Pearlescent Rose Body Creme: I love anything from this high-end bath shop, but this soft pink, rose-scented cream carries a little lagniappe: a pearlescent shimmer that leaves your skin glowing.

Lady Primose Dusting Silk: Want to feel super-pampered? Spend a weekend at Monmouth Plantation in Natchez, Miss. Walk around the romantic grounds, dine in the 1818 restaurant, and enjoy being waited on hand and foot. After your shower, take their pretty cut glass bath shaker and idly drift some of this wonderful silky powder along your collarbones and decolletage wondering why you can't do this at home. You can. They just happen to sell the shakers and powder in their gift shop -- if they happen to have it in stock. "We seem to sell a lot of this," the clerk apologized after vainly searching the stock room . No problem. You can buy online. http://www.ladyprimrose.com/

The Kitchen

Oh, who are we kidding, it's not like you want to cook at moments like these, but never discount the mood-lifting power of a spoon dipped in a jar of something gooey. Or a yummy little bon bon popped right from the package into your mouth.

Nutella and Biscoff spreads: Nothing wrong with the tried and true spoon-in-the -ice cream tub or peanut butter jar, but now that I'm a big girl, I dip my spoon in something a little more decadent like Nutella or, my newest passion, Biscoff spread, which is made from those Biscoff cookies Delta serves in flight if you're lucky. Biscoff spread is the same thing as the Specaloos spread so beloved by American expats living in Europe. Over here, you have to order it online which gets pricey what with the shipping. So if you're going to France or Belgium any time soon, head to a local grocery and stock up. And bring back a jar or two for me

Chocolate: I will not turn my nose up at any chocolate, but Trader Joe's carries a dizzying variety of wonderful dark chocolate-- coated marshmallows (heaven in their sipping chocolate), pretzel bark, cocoa dusted almonds or my favorite: dark chocolate, pistachio toffee clusters.

Tea: Jolly Old England's best, P.G. tips is my everyday tea of choice, but lately I am also addicted to Trader Joe's vanilla cinnamon tea which my sister sent me in my Christmas package. We don't have a Trader Joe's here, so she periodically sends me Trader Joe's care packages. Is she a great sis or what?

And for the rest of my senses ...

Cashmere: Sweater, socks and a wonderful red shawl I bought in Venice cocoon me in softness (all best accompanied by a purring kitty or three or seven).

Movies: They have to be pretty, romantic and make me cry or laugh. Period pieces preferred. Gloomy Sunday, The Wings of the Dove, The Last Time I Saw Paris, even the Aristocats will do.

Music: Something kind of jazzy. Billie Holliday, Dinah Washington, Sarah Vaughan, and my favorite New Orleans chanteuse Linnzi Zaorski.

So, what picks you up when you're down.? I'm always on the lookout for a new source of cheap endorphins! As long as it's legal that is...

Sex and the Single Cat Mama, Part II

Early on in this blog, I documented the trials and tribulations of dating as a single cat mama. The video below, "Single White Feline," encapsulates it perfectly.

I think my Recurring Gentleman Caller (RGC) would agree that this has been pretty much his experience -- times seven.

His stuff has been shed on, slept on, walked on, clawed on, peed on, and puked on.

He has had his dinner time, leisure time, work time, sports time, sleep time and romantic time interrupted by the calls of feline nature.

And still he stays put.

I keep hoping that he and the cats will grow on each other. As it is they manage to co-exist. And that is enough. I realize that I have found that rare, one-in-a-million guy.

I think the cats recognize it, too, or they wouldn't still be trying to get rid of him.

Now watch the video. Bat Sh** Crazy. I love it.




Video via BBC Comedy

How Do They Do That?

Like Superman, Koko scaled this door in a single leap. I've seen this a million times -- and it never fails to amaze me.

10 Smart Products People Buy for Their Cats

Photo: Sammy loves his kitty chaise; he just wishes he had a bigger one.

In May 2009, I wrote a blog post entitled, "Useless Stuff People Buy for Their Cats." Since then, the market has been flooded with a plethora of new, useless cat merchandise (Look for "Useless Stuff II" coming here soon). However, there are also some wonderful products that enrich my cats' lives and mine, too. Here are my Top 10 favorites:

• Drinkwell water fountains. Cats normally don't drink a lot of water. But cats with Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disorder need plenty of it to flush out bacteria that can lead to infections and life-threatening urinary tract blockages. Two of my FLUTD cats just will not drink out of a bowl. Their favorite "fountain" -- the drippy faucet in my bathtub-- was not good for my pipes or for my water bill. (After the plumber left, Henry sat in the tub for hours just staring at the faucet and willing it to start dripping again.). Drinkwell's basic model fountain with adjustable water flow is well-priced, dishwasher safe and easy to assemble and disassemble. The splashing noise is kind of soothing. I think of this as what HGTV calls a "water feature" for my home.
  


• Corrugated Cat Chaises. These ecologically friendly, corrugated cardboard cat beds/ scratching posts are just a riff on the scratchers that have been available for years. Cats adore the chaises for snuggling and napping as well as scratching. Sprinkling the chaises with the little packets of catnip included in the package makes it a double happy. I have a cat chaise in every room in my house, and flip them over when one side gets worn out. We are not as thrilled with the emery board version which is supposed to wear down kitties' sharp claws. My cats rub their faces against anything with cat nip on it. Ouch!
  
  
• Prescription Heartworm/Flea Drops. Cats hate the smell, but not as badly as they hate flea collars, dips, shampoos, and powders. Advantage Multi or Revolution prescription strength flea meds also offer protection against ticks and heartworms. Get a vet-recommended product appropriate to your cat's weight and age. Be leery of over the counter drops. They are less expensive and also less effective; some have nasty side effects. Do indoors cats need flea/heartworm prevention? Absolutely! Fleas can travel into the house on your clothes and can also come in through cracks in the foundation, floorboards and plumbing. My vet says many cases of feline heartworms he sees are in indoor cats.
  


• Urine marker removers. Almost every cat is going to miss the litter box at one time or another. You won't be able to miss the unmistakable lingering odor, especially in humid weather. There are a lot of "stink remover" products; some stink worse than the cat urine does. The best ones contain enzymes that attack and break down the organic matter in the urine or spray making it less pungent and less likely to reactivate. Now I should warn you these products remove odors well enough to fool your nose, but not always your cats' more sensitive sniffers. Cats will often re-mark a treated area. Invest in the economy size and treat affected areas frequently until the cat loses interest. and you can no longer smell it. Nature's Miracle, Simple Solutions and Anti Icky-Poo (dumb name, smart product) are some of the better brands out there.
  


• Cat nip mist. Most of my cats adore cat nip, but the dried herb loses its potency over time, and it makes a mess. Who wants to be sweeping that stuff up all day long when you can mist a spray infused with cat nip on kitty chaises (see above) and pet toys with the same desired result: kitty bliss.
  


• Fat Cat brand cat toys. Most pretty little cat toys disintegrate after five minutes in my household. Fat Cat products are durable, witty, and fun (cats love that crackly noise inside not to mention the cat nip). Most can even hold up to a run through the washing machine. Spritz them them with cat nip spray afterwards, and they are as good as new. For best results, don't buy the toys with attached feathers, ribbons and doo-dads; they just don't hold up as well.
  
  
• Cat calmant. Many cat owners sing the praises of Feliway pheromone spray and room diffuser for calming aggressive and territorial behavior in multi-cat homes. I'm not one of them. It's expensive as hell, and my cats fought and sprayed just as much with it as without. On the other hand, a few drops of homeopathic Calm Down ($9.99 a bottle at Pet Smart) in their drinking water or food does seem to settle them down a little but not to the point where they are zombies. There are no chemicals in it; it's made from all natural flower extracts. Is it just the power of suggestion? Don't know, but I sure like the price! Unfortunately, it looks like this brand has been discontinued at Pet Smart and at some online suppliers like Amazon.
  


• Furminator cat brushes. We are approaching the time of year, when everything in the house, including me, wears a fine down of cat hair. Those info-mercials don't lie: This is the best cat brush in the world for removing undercoat hair. You may be shocked the first time you use it and see just how much hair comes off your cat. Don't be scared; you won't wind up with hairless cats like Rachel's Mrs. Whiskerson on Friends.
  
  
• Pet hair rollers. I have one of these in every room of my house, my car, my office and my purse. All rollers are not created equally. My favorites are the Evercare which are high-quality, thicker and stickier than most and therefore pick up more hair per swipe so you don't use as much. The runner up is the classic 3M by Scotch which also comes in nice, thick rolls in a variety of sizes. Downside: Sometimes the layers stick to each other and don't peel away evenly. Budget rollers, available at discount stores, cost about a third of the price of the name brands, but also tend to be poorly made (the tape roll comes off the roller when you try to get a good grip on it) with fewer -- and thinner -- sheets and less "stickiness" so you will go through them faster thereby eating up any cost savings.



• Environmentally friendly clumping cat litter. The first "natural" cat litters were horribly expensive, hard to find, and, with limited clumping ability, not very scoopable. Choices have multiplied and improved over the last couple of years. Now your kitty can go green in litter made from unscented pine, corn, wheat and recycled newspaper. Prices have come down as well although most are still a few dollars more than regular clumping clay litter. I'm still seeking the "perfect" litter, but I have found some brands that I -- and more importantly the cats -- like including Exquisicat corn-based clumping litter carried by Pet Smart and the multi-cat version of Swheat litter. I'm also very fond of Dr. Ellsey's cat attract products though they are not all natural and very expensive. After one try, I took a pass on the recycled newspaper and pine pellets. My cats hate the feel of them underfoot, and they are not scoopable. The clumping version of Feline Pine (which is actually made from the guar bean) is very soft and the cats seem to like that, but it tracks badly and larger clumps disintegrate during scooping .

Is there a product that makes your life with cats easier? Please share in the comments section. Here at The House Where the Black Cat Lives, we're all about making life with cats as pleasant as possible.

It's Spay and Neuter Reminder Time!

Henry and Roxie (right) urge you to spay and neuter your pets. Henry can't remember a time when he wasn't neutered. Roxie, a former stray, produced countless litters of kittens before being trapped and spayed in 2007. Ever since then she's been living uterus-free and loving it at The House Where The Black Cat Lives.

Now that Spay and Neuter Month is half over, and with peak kitten season looming I would like to put in my annual plug for spaying and neutering your pets (and ferals).

If you need motivation, grab any reason you like from this article at About.com Cats or from this old blog post of mine. There are only a few things in life I get REAAAAAALLLLY passionate about. This is one of them.

Since November 2009 the Pine Belt Region of Mississippi has been fortunate to have the services of a Spay and Neuter Clinic, a state of the art modern facility offering reasonably priced spay and neuter services. The clinic is affiliated with the Southern Pines Animal Shelter. They are also in the process of trying to open a Pet Food Bank.

I recently availed myself of their services for spaying one my feral colony members, Peggy Sue, and was quite impressed. I'll definitely be bringing in the rest of the colony members when I can trap them.

If you are lucky enough to live in this region, or in another area with a similar clinic, here are some thoughts to remember:

1. Low cost spay and neuter clinics operate on a shoestring off grants and donations and volunteer labor. They discount their services as much as they can to make the services affordable. However, when the grant and donation money and the volunteers run low, some services may be discontinued or operating hours cut back temporarily. For example, our Spay and Neuter Clinic will be closed until Feb. 28 to train new volunteers. Always call ahead to make an appointment and inquire about current availability of services and prices.

2. Ask about special discounts. Grants often make it possible for clinics to discount their already low prices for specific animal groups like large dogs, small dogs, green and orange striped and polka dot cats (just checking to see if you were still with me) or breeds as well as residents of specific cities or countries. These may not be available all the time, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

3. Ask about the clinic's policy regarding ferals. Most spay and neuter clinics are very flexible in working with managers of feral colonies. However, if you will be bringing in a feral, make sure the entire staff knows about this well in advance. You don't want anyone getting hurt unnecessarily. Some clinics require ferals be conveyed in humane traps, others have staff that can handle them in conventional pet carriers. The day I brought in Peggy Sue (in a carrier), it so happened that the volunteers with experience handling ferals were away on training. Fortunately, Dr. White handled the situation herself, and all was well.

4. Be nice to the staff. Some spay and neuter facilities, like the one in Hattiesburg, employ a full-time vet; others depend on vets volunteering their spare time away from their own businesses. Almost all the rest of the staff are volunteers. They aren't getting paid for this, and most are getting on the job training as they go so be understanding of minor inconveniences and communications snafus. Remember you are all there for the same reason: Because you love animals and you want to control overpopulation and reduce the amount of animal euthanasia.

5. Observe the clinic's drop off and pick up times and pre- and post- op instructions. These are not unreasonable demands. Many of these are required by law. And remember it's for the good of your animals.

6. If you can afford it, make a donation. Low cost spay and neuter clinics are intended to help out low-income pet owners who would not be able to afford the services otherwise, but because these facilities are also devoted to animal population control, they rarely turn anyone away regardless of income, especially people who are feral colony managers or involved in animal rescue. If you can afford to pay more than the list price, please consider making a donation. The clinic personnel appreciate it, you'll be helping out someone else who really needs it and it's good karma. The donation I made when I got Peggy Sue fixed will fund the spaying of another female cat, and thereby spare her the ordeal of repeated pregnancies and the Pine Belt of scores of unwanted kittens.

7. Shop at a spay and neuter clinic thrift shop. If you're a flea market junkie like me, you can get your old junk fix and support low cost spay and neuter services all at one go. Our Spay and Neuter Clinic's booth is conveniently located in an antique mall right next door to the clinic.

Spooning

Roxie and Ernie, the resident lovebirds at The House Where The Black Cat Lives, enjoyed this weekend's warmer weather, but took advantage of the cooler evening temps for a snuggle with their favorite Valentine. Ain't love grand?

My Style Muse

My chic mother in classic streamlined spring/summer style: Simple light-colored belted linen dress with slip-on huraches, accented with eye-catching earrings.

Even before I became a Francophile, I sought a signature style. My aesthetic has always been very French. People noticed that even when I was in my teens. At the time I assumed it was because I was tall, brunette and dabbed Chanel No. 5 on my wrists every now and again. I realize now there was way more to it. It was in my genes and in the air I breathed.

My first style muse and teacher was my mother. Mama was not French, never went to France and most assuredly never read "Entre Nous," the style bible cited by most American women with Francophile leanings. But like French women, she possessed in spades that je ne sais quoi quality that most American women find so elusive. She wasn't tall, but she wore clothes confidently. Having now observed many, many French women at close range, I can attest that style confidence is really the factor that sets "them" apart from "us."

My mother was not one to follow the herd. In an era when the preferred look was All-American Doris Day-ish snub-nosed blondes, my ethnic Croatian mother with her dark coloring and angular features didn't try to look cute or frou frou with ruffles and pastels. Nor did she go overtly sexy with cat-eye liner, cinched waists and plunging decolletage a la Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida (though with her great legs and generous bosom, she would have stopped traffic).



Lean, clean lines that made her look taller were her trademark. She preferred solid colors, but sometimes wore prints, like this blouse, in small doses.


Instead she adopted a look that was part gamine, part classic casual elegance that suited her perfectly. Cropped pants with espadrilles and cotton boat-neck sweaters. Simple Ts with flowing skirts and leather huraches or ballet flats. Tailored trousers (still a novelty in the ultra-conservative South) with slip on loafers and button front cardigans with collars and three-quarter length sleeves. A cropped Italian boy bob that played up her big dark eyes and incredible cheekbones. Max Factor's flattering Pink 'n Orange lipstick rather than Revlon's dramatic Love That Red.

She loved clean lines and solid colors (but not black which she felt turned her dark olive complexion muddy), and put them together in original pairings like blue or aqua with brown. She didn't want to overpower her slight frame, so she accessorized sparingly but dazzlingly. She might adorn the French cuffs of a simple blouse with exotic jade cuff links fashioned like the heads of Burmese dancers. A pair of sculptural gold earrings looked great with her short hair and the cream, brown and camel clothes she favored.


Collared cardigans like this one worn over simple Ts were favorites whether paired with trousers, skirts or cropped pants -- always with flats.

She invested in quality pieces and wore them a lifetime. I loved her chocolate-colored three-quarter length, shawl-collar walking coat in a wool, cashmere and reindeer hair blend. She -- and I -- wore that coat for nearly 50 years, and she was still receiving compliments on it the last day she wore it. Her go-to evening bag was a simple cream-colored, mesh metal bead clutch she bought in the 1950s -- a delightfully tactile little number that my sister and I loved to play with when we were kids.

And to the end of her days, she wore one signature fragrance: Toujours Moi by Corday.

As she grew older, she became less interested in dressing herself than in passing on her style wisdom to my sister and me. But she never lost interest in good style. She read fashion magazines and pored over the latest fall collections (like me she always like fall clothes the best) and singled out pieces she thought would suit us. She loved to visit the mall to observe what people were wearing so she could critique them to us sotto voice.

While Mama generally did not care for the way she looked in black, she did own a little black dress, worn here, with a flattering lace insert to keep the dark color away from her face. The simple lines are classic Mama.

Her lessons stuck. Though I've had my "what was I thinking" fashion moments (my 20s coincided with the 1980s), like my mom I prefer clean lines and solid colors and well-made pieces I can wear forever. I don't eschew trends, but, like her, I consider them carefully and adopt only those I feel suit me.

There are some individualistic differences in our styles. Since I have dark hair with a fair complexion, I prefer black and grey clothes and red lipstick (how very French of me) rather than the earthier tones she favored. I am tall, so I choose bolder scaled (but still classic) accessories. Unlike my mother, I am a cat mama so my clothes are often unintentionally accessorized with cat hair. For that reason, I keep lint rollers in every room of my house, my car, my office and my bag.

Mama even managed to look good in a bridesmaid's dress. Of course, she designed the dresses and picked the color schemes (mossy green here) for both of her sisters' weddings. My sister and I weren't the only ones who looked to her for style advice!

The biggest lesson I've learned from my mother is that I don't have to be a conventional beauty, have a certain weight or body type or be under 40 to look stylish -- and more importantly feel good -- in what I wear. It's an attitude as much as a look, and it's one I hope to continue to cultivate no matter how old, fat, flabby, wrinkly and /or stooped over I become.

Merci, Maman. Merci beaucoup.

Baby It's Cold Outside!

Brrrrrrrrr!! It's cold in the 'burg this morning. Koko thinks today is a good day to stay in and snuggle under the covers.

Stay warm -- wherever you are!

Winter Wallowing

My house in holiday dress. It's all gone now...


The holidays are over, and I finally got the Christmas decorations down. My mother's perennial excuse that the season isn't really over until after The Feast of the Epiphany expired last week. Well , I did leave a string of lights wound around my Eiffel Tower. Every time I plug those in, I'm instantly transported to Paris. Those are staying put.

... except for the Eiffel Tower lights (sorry about the blurry photo).

The house seems so naked now! What with the bare trees, dead grass and general blah-ness outside, it's all rather depressing.

But the post-holiday lull does bring with it the soul-soothing benefits of winter wallowing. And Lord knows, I do love a wallow.

I snuggle on the sofa in my cozy yellow and red family room, under a toasty throw, surrounded by purring kitties (Want to learn how to wallow? Observe a cat.) and watching old movies while sipping from a generous-sized mug of cinnamon vanilla tea or hot cocoa with chocolate-coated mint marshmallows melting inside. (Thank you, Kimmy!)

Everything I know about wallowing, I learned from my cats.

I flip through the new cookbooks I received for Christmas in search of wallow-worthy recipes.

Unlike holiday food --opulent, over the top and designed to impress -- wallow food is simple, homely, hearty fare meant to be enjoyed alone or shared en famille. That's another thing I love about mid-January: It's the least judgmental time of the year, completely lacking in pretension or pressure.

Sammy finds a private place amidst the pillows for his wallow time.


The other night I tossed a couple of cans of rinsed white cannellini beans with a pint of grape tomatoes, olive oil, chopped fresh oregano, thyme and rosemary, smashed garlic cloves, sea salt and freshly ground pepper, topped them chicken thighs, drizzled with more olive oil, sea salt and freshly ground pepper and baked for about 45 minutes. Voila --- wallow-worthy winter food just like I ate in Paris last winter.

I also baked a dense, moist chocolate orange loaf cake from Nigella Lawson's new cookbook (now there's a lady who makes wallowing look downright sexy). It was a lovely, lumpy, sunken in the middle, frosting-less cake perfect for nibbling.

Tonight I'm going to take the remnants of the show-stopping standing rib roast I served at Christmas out of the freezer and simmer it with onions, potatoes, carrots, celery, garlic, beef broth, red wine and baby pasta to make my grandmother's famous beef soup. If I work up enough energy (difficult to do when properly immersed in a state of wallowing), I will make up a mess of tomato and pork-simmered sauerkraut to serve alongside it.

Just thinking about it lifts my spirits.