Saturday Night Fever

Yesterday, Saturday, was a day of productive domesticity. You know - cleaning, sorting, ironing, knitting, berating kids ... By mid-afternoon, it was obvious that the best solution for Saturday night fare was not a fancy new meal but an old favourite. We ate roast chicken, with a variation on Eton Mess for dessert. It was just about perfect.

Today we had people for lunch - work friends of Spouse, plus their wives and small children. I have to admit I was nervous. I'm not adept at small talk. Fortunately they were all lovely people, only one child threw up, and everyone ate their food. In my world, if you eat what I feed you, you are automatically promoted to 'people I like'. We had beef, feta and olive pie with salad and bread, with lattaiolo (baked custard) and red wine poached pears for dessert.

Tomorrow, unfortunately, is Deadline Week Monday.

The French Connection

I'm sure I'm not alone in, just occasionally, getting tired of the deification of French women. Apparently they know the secrets to everything - how to stay thin, how to be sexy, how to be chic, how to throw dinner parties, how to have joie de vivre. How to be Real Women, in fact. It seems to be an entire industry these days. (Ooh, an industry dedicated to making women feel inadequate so they spend money on stuff - who'd have thunk it?)

I know two French women - one quite well, the other to say hello to. The latter looks very 'French' - she is always impeccable, usually in jeans and a blazer, always flat shoes, usually a scarf, a well-cut coat in winter. Perhaps you could read it as 'je ne sais quoi', but she rarely smiles and never initiates conversation. She lives in a house that looks like a bomb went off. The former is an op shop (thrift store) dresser, who sometimes looks fabulous and often looks quite, to steal a word from the Kids, 'random'. She certainly has confidence, which is cool; but she also told me once that she only showers once a week (in this climate, that is not water-wise, it's vile), she doesn't like to cook and can't abide most French food. She does indeed walk everywhere, never having got a driver's licence. And she is a terrifyingly good housekeeper (apart from the cooking).

Anyway, my point (do I have one?) is that bundling all French women into a chic cliche does a disservice not just to those of us unfortunate enough not to have been born French, but also to those who are French and, god forbid, don't fit the mold. Not all Californian women are leggy blondes; not all Australian women are beach bunnies; not all Italian women are Sophia Loren. And we should celebrate that.