Petite Confessions by Vicki Lesage (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) đź“•
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- Author: Vicki Lesage
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Dental Work: We sign waiver after waiver, wondering just how dangerous this procedure is if it requires signing a form first. They ask all sorts of seemingly irrelevant medical information (why do they need to know if we have heart murmurs?). Then we get to the stack of insurance forms, which seems pointless to fill out since the lame dental insurance plan will barely cover the cost of a candy bar. Of course, eating too many candy bars is possibly what got us into this predicament in the first place.
9. Once Isn’t Enough
Paris: Strolling along the Seine at sunset, hand in hand with that special someone, we feel like we could do this forever. Spending a day at the Louvre, we realize we’ve only covered 1/30th of what we’d planned to see. Working our way through the glass display case at the boulangerie we notice we’ve only tried croissants and pains au chocolat and madeleines—we still need to taste éclairs and macarons and mille-feuilles. Feet worn out after a week of walking around the City of Light, we would gladly run a marathon if it meant we could stay an extra week. Somehow we’ll find the time and money to do so.
Dental Work: Rising from the dentist’s chair with a numb jaw, dried spit in the corners of our mouth, and drool running down our chin, the kind doctor informs us that he only got through half of the work today. We’ll have to come back for the crowns and a final polishing. Somehow we’ll find the time and money to do so.
10. It’s All Worth It in the End
Paris: Where else can we picnic in front of the Eiffel Tower, being treated to a sparkly light show on the hour every hour? Or view some of the world’s finest art? Or drink some of the best wine on the planet? Or walk from the Arc de Triomphe down the Champs Elysées, passing luxury stores like Louis Vuitton? Every street, every sight is like a scene in a movie. Flipping through our photo album after we return home (assuming we don’t make Paris our permanent home) we’ll be amazed that we actually saw and did all those things in person.
Dental Work: I’ve literally had people stop me on the street and say what a nice smile I have. Clearly I must like Paris if I’m smiling like an idiot while walking down its cobbled roads.
The Fluoride Treatment
Nothing like minty fresh breath to make you feel like you just came from the dentist!
1 oz. vodka
1 oz. blue curacao
3 oz. soda water
1 mint leaf
1. Pour vodka and blue curacao in a highball glass over ice.
2. Top with soda water.
3. Use a mint leaf for garnish, and to give you that dentist-clean feeling.
Makes 1 serving
18
Seven years of living in Paris had been filled with wine, cheese, and late nights that turned into early mornings. Hopping into a cab after the night’s partying had come to an end and the sun began to rise, I often didn’t know whether to greet the driver with “Bonsoir” or “Bonjour.” I lived city life to the fullest and never slowed down.
I could jet off to places like Marrakech or Ljubljana on a moment’s notice, leaving behind freshly watered plants in my small one-bedroom apartment in favor of sheep’s head stew and medieval castles. Adventure was just a heartbeat away.
The last few years have been a bit different. With two kids under two, the only thing in my life that hasn’t changed is the fact I still live in a small one-bedroom apartment. My family dines on vegetable puree and builds castles out of Legos. Adventure has taken a different form.
My childhood vacations included trips to Yellowstone and Disney World, typical American destinations. We saw herds of antelope and hugged Mickey Mouse. My French husband’s family ventured to Santa’s Village in Finland and the Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany, typical European destinations. They saw herds of reindeer and the castle from which the Disney castle took its inspiration. Mika and I want our children to experience the same diversity in their vacations.
That is, if we can ever get out the front door.
Shortly after Leo was born, we managed quick jaunts to London and Brussels. With only one kid in tow, it was doable. We even took several longer trips to the U.S. Now I’m happy to make it to the boulangerie and back, struggling to strap a squirmy Leo in his stroller while Stella snuggles in the baby carrier against my chest. Forget leaving the country—I’m lucky to leave my neighborhood.
Not that I’m complaining. My French-American children see amazing sights on their daily stroll to the park, sights I didn’t lay eyes on until my first international trip at age 19. What is magical to me—buildings older than my home country, iconic monuments, decadent cuisine—will be commonplace to them as they grow up alongside wonders like Notre-Dame and the Eiffel Tower. And eat croissants every day.
When I moved to Paris, my mom wished me good luck in my new life, an entire world away. France was foreign to me, exotic. It’s the norm for my children. Will they decide one day to move to the U.S., viewing it as an adventure, like I did when I moved to France? Or will they seek out a country even more exotic? Will I wish them luck in their new life, or will I secretly wish they stay close to home? Will I be able to let them go as easily as my mom let me? Or was my mom only pretending to be OK with it because she knew it was what I wanted?
I have years to ponder/worry/agonize over this before the kids leave the nest. Until then, Mika and I plan to travel the world with our children, giving them a taste of what’s out there. Even if it means losing them to another country later on. It’s what I did, and what I would do again. I have to be prepared that will happen and I should be supportive when it does.
In the meantime, we’ll stick to the neighborhood park and the occasional trip to the world-renowned ice cream parlor down the street. There’s enough adventure in our own quartier, with its winding roads and ancient structures.
We feel right at home.
Find out how Vicki’s adventures in Paris began in Confessions of a Paris Party Girl!
Mixed Midori
When my kids finally leave the nest, I’ll be equal parts relieved (ah, peace and quiet!) and sad (my babies are all grown up!). But the familiarity of drinking my favorite cocktail should get me through.
1 oz. Midori
1 oz. raspberry vodka
2 oz. sour mix
2 oz. cranberry juice
1. Mix all ingredients in a martini shaker with ice.
2. Pour into a tumbler (including ice) and drink in that comfortable feeling!
Makes 1 serving
A Note from Vicki Lesage
Dear Reader,
Thanks for reading Petite Confessions! I know everyone’s busy these days, which is why I kept the stories and the book short. And bribed you with cocktail recipes. With any luck you’ve got a nice buzz going by now and think I’m a lot funnier than I really am.
I hope you enjoyed the book! If so, I’d love it if you left a review. For every review—even just a few sentences—I receive a cocktail. OK, not really. But customer reviews encourage readers to try out new books, which is arguably better. Depending on the cocktail.
If you’d like to see how my adventure in Paris began, check out Confessions of a Paris Party Girl! I also post updates on what I’m doing these days on my website and in my newsletters. I only send a few newsletters per year, and I send you a free ebook of Confessions & Cocktails when you sign up.
Thanks for reading!
Ă€ bientĂ´t,
Vicki
P.S. Read on for a sneak peek of Confessions of a Paris Party Girl…
An excerpt from Confessions of a Paris Party Girl:
Sarah’s Coming to Town
“I booked my flight!” my step-sister Sarah announced over the crackling long-distance line.
“Awesome! I can’t wait to show you around.”
Though I had only been living in the city a short while, I was getting used to my new life, picking up baguettes and passing centuries-old architecture. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of them—Paris is way too awesome for that—but you do reach a point where you go about your daily business without really noticing them. This became most evident on Sarah’s visit.
~~~~
Since my parents were divorced, Stephen and I spent our summers with our dad and step-family in sunny Florida. The five-bedroom house was bursting at the seams with our modern-day Brady Bunch of three boys and three girls. We got into all sorts of trouble in very short amounts of time.
Whenever one of the five other kids wanted something (ice cream, movie rentals, a new bike), they would send me to ask Dad because they said I was his favorite. Maybe I was, or maybe they just wanted me to do their dirty work for them. But in the end, it nearly always worked.
One summer when I was about 12, Sarah, 6 months my junior, decided we needed a pool. It took a little more asking than a trip to the ice cream parlor. “Pleeeeeeeeease, Dad? We promise to never ask for anything else ever again and to obey all your rules.”
“Here’s a rule: just play in the sprinklers. It’s the same thing.”
Was he kidding? I was going to have to approach this from a different angle. As a thermodynamics engineer, my dad would respond best to straightforward logic. “Dad, look. If you get a pool, we’ll swim in it every day and we won’t need any other entertainment. But if you don’t get us a pool then we’ll need to rent movies and go to the arcade and buy lots of other new stuff to be happy. If you think about it, we’re actually saving you money.”
“I’m not sure your math works out on that, honey.”
I looked back at the gang and shrugged my shoulders. Sarah made
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