Holiday with Buttery, Cheesy and Stig
I took my 80 year-old Mother and two cousins to France for the week.Mom's been many times before, but she sort of turns off her power switch when she visits me in Europe - which is fine - except when she wants to decide what and when everyone does anything. She was even dictating when people go to bed and who uses which toilet first - you know that kind of Mom thing. Drives me crazy. But hey, all parents do stuff that drive their children mental.
Mom has a tendency to speak VERY loudly in restaurants in France. I cringe when she proclaims - in stereo sound no less - that she 'just LOVES watching French people eat, they REALLY love their food!'. This is usually when she thrusts her head over to the next table and inspects what the neighbours are eating, inches away from their plates with a huge smile.
But let's get real. Mom came to Normandy for one thing and one thing alone. Sorry Bunny Dog, it wasn't you and it certainly wasn't me. Mom came to visit so I would take her to Normandy and she could eat the best butter in the world - and a lot of it. Tubs of it in fact. She was so shiny after 24 hours of being in Normandy I had to wear shades. She smeared butter on top of butter on top of butter on her slices of baguette. Once she missed the bread and liberally buttered her thumb - I swear! She was unapologetic when she licked her fingers at the table. She slathered butter on her all butter croissants. I caught her sopping up the melted butter we had for our langoustines with great big hunks of soft French bread until they were golden yellow sponges dripping with her nectar of choice - butter. Buh ter. Buh Buh Butt ter.
Cousin Dorothy got hooked on the butter thing too. The beach house was like a butter crack den. But Dorothy developed a second addiction even more powerful. Cheese.
Never, ever, ever (not even Matt Blakey with a wheel of brie in book group) have I ever seen anyone put away so much cheese. She became a cheese snarfer of the highest order. And she ate every type of cheese out there. Even those cheeses that could get up and slap you they were so strong. Cheeses that make chopped liver and onions smell like roses. To her credit, Dorothy - who had never been to France or Europe for that matter - learned all of the famous cheeses and everything about them while here. She tried plate after plate of cheese, accepted samples at markets, shops and stores. She turned in to a fromagier. We suggested that she open a cheese shop when she retires from the California State Government. She should get vanity license plates that say 'Fromage' and drive around Sacramento.
My cousin Norio was great. He rode in the front seat down to Normandy. Mom and Dorothy and Bunny Dog in the back seat. Mom snoring away and Dorothy rummaging around for cheese and nibbles she had acquired on the transatlantic flight the night before, stashed in her ample purse. Norio stayed alert by and large - but I quickly learned that he couldn't read a map to save his life. He had issues with the north-south, east-west thing so I thought I shouldn't ask his opinion when I had to navigate around Amiens - a poorly signed section of the journey. Later in the week, he and Dorothy took the car off to explore the D-Day beaches and toot around - blissfully. Dorothy can read a map so it wasn't too bad, they only missed a couple major exits during the week. All part of the adventure.
The week was turning out to be crazy - my family were becoming round, cheesy butterballs and driving me nuts - the cousins were asking a million questions all day long: How do we get to Omaha beach?, Where can we buy cherries?, What is Calvados?, Where does the trash bin go?, How do I work the dishwasher?,
What's the rule for passing on a two lane highway in France?, Why are the cows whiter in France? What kind of shells are these? Is that a sailboat or a house in the middle of the sea?'(no joke)..What kind of meat is this anyway? What's the weather forecast? Are we there yet? And Mom deciding what we will have for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next 3 days at what times, all the while leaving loads of laundry in the hallway for me to do and announcing to everyone that it was her nap time. etc etc.
So, it was with a huge sigh of relief that a hot sexy man on a hot sexy Triumph motorcycle appeared at the gate in the pouring rain. He looked like the 'Stig' from Top Gear all kitted out in helmet and leathers, dark visor down. Mysterious and strong - Just the sight of him and my stomach was doing back flips with excitement. So hot. In fact, here's nothing sexier than a man when he dismounts from a bike after a journey and starts to take it all off. (Unless he's got a roasted chicken strapped to his chest - but hey, that would be gross).
So, I was going a bit nuts to say the least. He had a swagger in his reinforced kevlar suit with hard leather-covered patches in all the right places and superman speed racer boots. One super glove off, another super glove off, then the helmet. It was like watching strip tease at NASA. Once the helmet was off, I was ready to pounce. But you know what? Before he came near me, he smiled and bent down to say hello to Bunny Dog first because he knows dogs. A good 'Stig'.
Once the Stig got in to civilian clothes, he saved me from the insanity of family. After lazily sunning on the beach with me, walks and a few manly performances - My faith was restored in humanity.
A couple of days later, the 'Stig' suited up for the ride back to Cherbourg ferry to Portsmouth. I wanted to attach myself to a bungee cord at the back of his bike and be dragged away from the whining butter and cheese addicted family. As the last grumble of his Triumph faded in to the distance, I heard Mom's voice drifting out of the window asking 'Where's the butter?!'
posted by Brussels Confidential @ 9:48 AM
<< Home