La Honte in Le Havre

Picture this, my dear readers, blogging friends: a darkened room where only my boyfriend, his father and I sit staring intently at the television screen (OK, check that, apparently the boy was dozing off...), watching Trois Couleurs : Rouge (I'm on a Kieslowski kick, I know), lounging on red leather chairs that look like they've launched directly off the Star Trek Enterprise. We're nearing the end of the film, it's after midnight, and I'm getting pretty tired. We spent the day walking around "central" Le Havre, where my boy's father lives, visiting the local bookshop La Galerne, which I love (and of course purchasing two books while there; I'm incapable of leaving a bookshop without a new acquisition...), as well as making a short drive over to Honfleur for a brief visit. We had greasy Domino's pizza for dinner earlier in the evening, believe it or not (yep, that's right, here in France) -- none of those fancy meals for us; we were simply too lazy this time around, and I didn't have the necessary ingredients (or recipes for that matter) to throw anything culinarily appetizing together. And, under most circumstances, his father is pretty laid-back and cool about that kind of thing. He's not too exigeant. And, well, a little pizza every once in a while never hurt anyone, right? Um, yeah, right.

That is, unless you're ME. Wendy-dear, you ain't seen nothing yet! I think I've got you beat, I'm afraid. At least for recent hilarity. On an embarrassment scale of 1 to 10, 10 being I'm-going-to-crawl-in-a-hole-and-never climb-back-out-I-swear-I'm-so-humiliated, this is a swinging 11. When it comes to embarrassing experiences -- really humiliating ones -- I think I must be the queen! And what is it about this sort of thing happening when you least expect it? And what is it about our bodies being completely out of our own control -- betraying us at the most inopportune of moments?

Yes, that's right, somehow my body betrayed me in front of my boyfriend's father. Late at night, in front of an intense, psychological film. I honestly thought I was fine; I didn't even see it coming... But when do we ever in circumstances like this? All right, what I'm getting at, if you can't read between the lines -- and because you're going to MAKE me write it here, aren't you? As if I haven't humiliated myself ENOUGH?! -- is that I passed gas. And unfortunately was not able to disguise it by blaming it on my boyfriend or the dog. My boy's father doesn't have any household pets. To my chagrin.

Needless to say, after that most horrible of faux-pas on Saturday night, my own eyes bulging out of my head while I stared at the television screen for the remaining 15 minutes of Rouge, not daring to glance right or left or to take in any reactions, I swallowed my pride and slunk up to our room on the top floor and fell into bed. I won't say that I cried, necessarily, but I didn't have the most restful of nights. OK, OK -- I know you're going to tell me it's no big deal. But just keep in mind that up until now my boy's father has, in most cases, made it clear that he quite likes me, aside for my over-sensitive streak which flares up from time to time. I enjoy spending time with my boy and his father, and in spite of the blistering, painful pangs that resonate in his mother's absence since her passing, we usually get along really well and even have pretty stimulating conversations. He's always really lovely with me, he never makes me feel ill at ease, and he even gives my boy a hard time when he's not helpful or complimentary with regard to my cuisine -- or my attire. In a word, he's a sweetheart. And I seriously do not want him to think less of me or to wonder about how I was raised...

So this -- I mean, really! WHY in God's NAME did this have to happen?! Of course, we're all human, and I kept telling myself that over and over again in my head Saturday night into Sunday morning. And maybe, in a sense, it should put me more at ease, right? Like, now we can all just be ourselves, naturally. (Ha ha -- yeah, right!) Again, ironically enough, my boy didn't even hear this happen, he was so dead-to-the-world, so when I managed to recount the incident to him after waking up the next morning, he was of course falling all over himself laughing. And he couldn't help but comment: "I think I might have sort of heard you, but then I thought to myself that you couldn't have done that."

Alrighty then. Way to help me recover myself and my composure.

Going down to breakfast on Sunday was no easy task -- but he did try to put me at ease, and here's hoping that all's *ahem* nearly forgotten.

Since the weekend, we had my boy's father over for dinner at our place, and I tried to make up for my lack of poise and elegance by throwing together one of his family's favorite dishes, une pintade aux pommes et lardons, with strawberries for dessert. As daunting as it may sound, it's actually really easy to make -- you just cook the sliced apples over the stove in a large pan with some butter and cinnamon, rub some olive oil, salt and spices onto the pintade, then put the bird in a Dutch-oven type casserole (I actually use a Römertopf, in terra cotta -- a wonderful gift from my boy's mother) with the shallots and a wee bit of water at the bottom... I left it for about an hour at 200° Celsius, but it may need a wee bit longer; the bird didn't seem fully cooked, so I put it in for another 10 minutes or so. After it's finished cooking, you can sauté up the lardons in a pan, add these to the cooked apples, and serve. See, easy as (apple) pie! And a perfect balance of sucré-salé.

We cracked open the one bottle of Rioja wine we had brought back from Spain last March (we would have brought back more if it weren't for those damn new European liquid-on-plane regulations) and it was gone in no time, which made it clear that we had made a good choice, but definitely hadn't bought enough.

I think beau-père was suitably pleased. But as to recovering my dignity, the jury's still out on that one.

* Photo of Le Havre's Port de plaisance courtesy of Photos-de-villes.com.