Tomatoes and pets

Tonight my host mom made this wonderfully light vegetable stew. I was so excited to eat something not loaded with carbs or cream, but I had barely gotten the tiny squares of green and red into my bowl (first sign of color in my diet in weeks!!) before I heard, "Wait! You can't eat it like that - here, put some butter in your soup."

It's official - even soup gets buttered in France. 

But this time I wasn't going to stand for it. "NON MERCI." I made an excuse about  my cholesterol being high (unfortunately not fictional) and got away with it.

Yesterday I bought cherry tomatoes at the supermarket near my homestay. Not wanting to offend my host mom, who prides herself on her cooking (which is very good by the way - just a little heavy on the beige), I hid them behind my books, praying they'd still be good the next morning without refrigeration. They were. Like a thief, I rinsed them off in the bathroom sink, dreaming of antioxidants and vitamins, then wrapped them in a piece of purloined foil and took them to school. You know you've hit a dietary low point when you've got a secret stash of vegetables lying around your room.

Seriously, how do French women stay so skinny? Eating disorders must be an epidemic here becuase you could not eat a normal amount and not expand/die from a heart attack at 30. Meals are interesting in France though - you'll never see someone eating a sandwich on the tram or while walking. Mealtimes are sacred and slow affairs, meant to be savored. Dining is an event, not a necessity for survival. In fact, almost the entire campus has no class from 12:30 to 1:30 - apparently the French can't imagine life without a lunch break. Unfortunately, this means monstrous lines at the cafeteria during lunch. I guess you can't have it all.

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One of the funniest things about my homestay is that I speak French to the animals - Bill (or Billou), the dog, Mausy the evil cat, and Mauschen the good cat have all been cooed over or chastised by me - en francais. I have yet to speak French to the poules (chickens), but I did get some shots of them today. Here are the non-human members of my family:

Billouuuuuu. He is the sweetest dog ever, though recently with the rain he's developed a, erm, odor. A strong one. He likes to sit right next to you during dinner, staring up and whining for the duration of the meal, occasionally pawing at your leg for attention. If you open a door he goes batshit insane wanting to go out. Close the door while he's outside and he goes batshit insane trying to get back in. In conclusion he is crazy, but I love him. He's an old dog with the soul of a puppy. I speak French to him a lot, but mostly to yell "Arrête!" (Stop that!)

Mauschen, the good cat. My host mom told me that Mauschen means little mouse, which doesn't make much sense but is still cute. He's not in the house as much, but when he is he never objects to petting. Likes to stake out the floor by the living room heater.

Mausy, the evil cat. Her name also means little mouse in German. She's not so much evil as bipolar - catch her at a bad moment and she'll launch at you with her teeth when you try to pet her. On a good day she'll plant herself on your lap and purr for hours. Both she and Bill sleep on my host mom's bed at night, it's precious. One time she came into my room and lay behind me on the bed without my noticing. I reached behind me to grab something from my coat without looking and ended up whacking her across the back. It freaked me the fuck out. I probably actually screamed. Since then we have kept a respectful distance from each other.

Chicken! I don't think they have names. Not yet, anyway. They're scared of me. And apparently eat out of frying pans.