Rest day for little ones and me. And a lot of food.

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Let me introduce you to our apartment.

The first thing I noticed when we went in is that it is well stocked with Duplos, toy trucks, stuffed animals, and some kind of plastic fortifications-building set with little plastic soldiers. Also lots of board games and children's books (all French of course, but some of them recognizable). This was also the first thing our 3yo noticed. He has been happily playing with Duplos and toy trucks since we got here.

It has a washer and a dryer, plus a big folding drying rack, which is important because European clothes-dryer technology is apparently not very advanced. The first load of laundry I did (immediately after getting our suitcases containing something else we could wear while our traveling clothes washed), I ran through the dryer 3 times—the last time on the hottest and longest setting—and they still were damp to the touch. Finally I gave up, found a place in a corner of one bathroom to set up the drying rack, and hung them all up to finish the job.

I have a theory that Europeans believe strongly in the health effects, or possibly the environmental virtues, of airing out one's clothes such that they distrust a clothes dryer that would take the clothes all the way to dry without the vital final step of hanging them up for a couple of hours. That the sole virtue of the clothes dryer is its ability to speed up the process so that you can have a bit less of your floor space taken up by the folding rack should you wish to do more than one load of laundry in a day.

I completely made this theory up, but I like it, so I am going to quietly go with it until I am corrected by someone who knows better.

We have three bedrooms, plus a daybed couch in the living room, where our daughter has been authorized to decamp in the middle of the night in the event that her roomie and next-younger brother bothers her. There are a couple of trundles under some of the beds; we took one of the mattresses and put it on the floor in our room for the 3yo. There is a full bath off Mark's and my room, with a soaking tub and a rain shower; and two separate washrooms, one with a tiny handwashing sink and a toilet (also the stacked laundry machines) and one with a shower and a vanity sink (also just enough room to fit the drying rack).

The galley kitchen is tiny but serviceable with enough counter space to work. It has a dishwasher and a small fridge and an electric stovetop. No oven, but there is a combination microwave/convection oven thingy; it is capable of crisping a take-and-bake pizza. There is a nifty toaster with one wide slot and two little metal wings that rise up over the slot at the turn of a dial, which are apparently for warming a whole loaf, say a ciabatta or a small baguette, from the underside. There is a drip coffeemaker and a fondue pot and a raclette set.

I brought my own chef's knife, paring knife, and bread knife. This was the right decision. The bread knife here is okay, but the only other knives I can find are steak knives. I wonder if rental properties lose knives a lot. If Mark and I are going to travel more often, I may need a travel knife case.

There is a tiny balcony off the boys' room facing west, and a larger balcony off the great room facing east. Mark refuses to say "north" or "south" around here and only says "up valley" or "down valley," which works when I am dealing with Google Maps in the passenger seat if I can remember which way the river Arve runs. Still, it makes sense to get your bearings primarily by the landmarks that rise up impossibly close and tall on either side, every day stretching out the dawn, every day hastening the sunset, the first and last points glowing with the direct daylight.

Anyway, we can see the gondolas of the lift rising up out of town from our large balcony, and the spire at the top of the Aiguille de Midi, perfectly.

We have a long dining table with a mix of chairs and benches, a TV with a DVD player (there is a collection of DVDs; we brought our small collection of British Region 2 DVDs with us), and a fireplace we are not supposed to use, with a madonna-and-child hanging above it.

The apartment is more than halfway up the steep hill that leads from the town center to the base of the lift. By the time we have hiked with the groceries, we are always sweaty and hot. It is steep enough to make it bother your knees on the way down, at least if you are carrying a 3yo on your back.

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I let the kids sleep in and have a slow start, figuring that my biggest challenge would be passing the time. In late morning we walked to the grocery store. I promised them they could choose things for their lunches.

The 11yo was instructed to navigate to and from the store, because she has to prove she can do it reliably before we let her go by herself.

I bought coffee and milk and cream and vegetables and wine (Graves, just about my favorite white, €6) and pain complet. The 11yo chose sliced turkey and Lay's potato chips, "moutarde et pickles" flavor, and asked for a Coke, which I allowed. The 7yo chose a new kind of Babybel that was like string cheese coiled up in a little sealed cup, and juice. The 3yo asked for "salami" (rosette de porc). I also bought a couple of toy trucks and pens and a notepad. We piled it all into the backpacks and hiked back, the 11yo in the lead.

 

 

 

I made the kids' lunches, with buttered pain de mie and tiny yogurts.

 

My lunch was part of a leftover proscuitto sandwich and a salad of leftover greens and cubed cooked beets with vinaigrette.

Then we relaxed for a couple of hours. I read. The kids played with toys and read and watched a DVD. And then we cleaned up the lunch and swept up the toys, and went out again, this time for snack.

Goûter, I mean.

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I instructed the two older kids on how to order, and forbade them from ordering more than one flavor each. "You can get three macarons of one flavor, and then you can trade them with each other; I don't want to make her have to get you nine different kinds."

We looked in one shop, then the other, and examined the flavors. The 7yo is intrigued by the mysterious name "passionfruit" but afraid to commit to it in the presence of so many others. Café, "equatorial" (dark chocolate), noix de coco, framboise, myrtille, fraise, citron vert, vanille, chocolat-mangue.

Finally we went in, and I greeted the proprietaire. I nudged the 11yo, who recited: "Je voudrais trois macarons framboises." (Actually she said "frambois" but it was ok.) The woman smiled and took a silver tray and a pair of tongs and carefully picked out three brilliant pink macarons with deep-pink paste filling.

And the 7yo nervously followed: "Je voudrais…trois…" he paused, panicky, hyperventilating.

"Merci de votre patience," I said to the woman with the tongs and the silver tray.

"You can order in English," she said to him.

He exhaled with so much relief that he nearly fell over. "I would like to order three blueberry macarons, please," he said, and she nodded and began adding macarons to the tray.

"Et pour le petit, trois macarons 'tarte de citron,'" I added, "et trois petit sacs, s'il vous plaît, parce qu'il y a trois enfants."

Soon we had our three little sacks with three macarons each, and I set the 3yo down in the plaza where he could watch pigeons to his heart's content while eating.

 

 

 

 

I am more of a protein snack person myself. Behold, the magic that is the petit saucisson sec:

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For dinner I sautéed onions and lardons in olive oil…

…added cream…

…and stirred in cooked crozets, a local buckwheat-semolina pasta in a square shape.

For the salad: Chilled cooked broccoli florets and raw, thinly-sliced red peppers, mushrooms, and zucchini, in balsamic vinaigrette with grana padano cheese.

 

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Mark and the boys returned tired and happy. The 13yo went straight to bed, still jet-lagged and suffering a bit from the altitude and a blister. The 17yo was nothing but pleased (and hungry).

 

Good wine, good food, and a good rest.