A Call to Arms

There has been an uproar among the masses (and when I say uproar, I mean nagging and when I say masses I mean two people) for me to return to the blogosphere. And here I am. I cannot make any promises to be diligent about this new task given my new found aversion to, well anything that occurs after 5pm. I also cannot make any promises of coherency (blame it on the decaf) or any semblance of consistent theme or, well, intellect, humor, or interesting content. I know, you’re brimming with excitement already, but hey, there’s a campain promise I can keep.

Really, the motivation to blahg is that my current relocation feels rather a lot like my term abroad. The South is full of foreign-ness, and possibly of a variety I was less prepared for than with Denmark. What can I say? I’m well versed in standoffishness, sarcasm and saying nothing. North Carolina, it might seem, is not. I’m attempting to assimilate, mostly by talking to strangers. I’m not sure how I feel about this incarnation, except that she is definitely not as cool as EuroJenny or as fun as Aunt Jenny.

The other major similarity between this and my life abroad is public transit. Duke thinks it’s okay to charge $96/month for reasonably close parking to my building, so I take a bus. Like in Scandinavia, I read on the bus during my commute, but very very unlike Denmark, there is no silence, no Stille Zoner. There are, however, unbearably cold and loud air conditioning, bus drivers who speak to you, and seats that force you into physical contact with the inevitably obese person sitting next to you. Thanks to the bus, however, I have gotten to know/experience/witness the gentleman who seems to also work from 8:30-5:00 and who calls himself “The King.”

The King is a tall, Southern gentleman, who shouts “Bus!” as soon as it becomes visible alerting the parking lot to rush forward and usually causing me to pour hot coffee into my lap. On board, His Majesty sits proudly on the broad silver “armrest” between the back seats, which puts him an extra 8 inches above the rest of us peasants. Every day, he (or should I say “He”) boards the bus from the middle door, but shouts his hellos to the bus drive, brushes the invisible dust off of his chosen seat, complaining about the servants forgetting to clean his throne. In Boston, this man would either be shot curious glances or, more likely, ignored, as one should never encourage the crazies. Here, though, the whole bus laughs and loves him. I laugh too, and blush when he calls me darling. Maybe I’ll be converted, yet.

Foie Gras de Canard Entier du Sud-Ouest, or, Why I Love the French

It all began about two months ago. It may seem over-dramatic to introduce anything other than chick-lit or a muder mystery this way, but if you understand the beauty of the duck, you'll know why. Jean-Michel, a post-doc working in my lab who we inexplicably call "Jim", walked in and proceeded to whine about his mother and how she sent these absurd care packages and how was one man supposed to eat so much foie gras by himself. He then went on to say, and believe you me, a small piece of me died at this moment, that he usually just threw most of it away. That right there may well be enough to justify the bastardization of his name. I may have gasped audibly or maybe he just noticed my face, because he said, "If any of you people would actually eat it I would give it to you, but I know you think it is disgusting." A few people made noises of disgust, but I think my very eloquent reply was more along the lines of "Uhhhhh....are you serious?" In any case, Jean-Michel promised to bring me a container of foie gras, imported directly from Paris to Geneva, NY. At this point, I'm nearly certain I wept tears of gratitude.

Time passed slowly, and each time I saw Jean-Michel empty handed a little bubble of loathing gurgled in my stomach which had not tasted such fatty luxury in nearly a year. After becoming more comfortable with him over the course of many a coffee break and game of MarioKart, I finally worked up the courage to remind dear old Jim of what bliss he had offered me. He exclaimed his usual mix of French and English cursing (this being the man whose license plate reads "MERDE")...likely something close to, "Ooh La Fuck!", a personal favorite of his isms. Two days later and I am handed a glass jar full of the good stuff. He looks me very sternly in the eye and says "Now this is the real thing, there will be chunks. Do not be afraid. You think you can handle it?" I gaped at it and him, barely managing to close my mouth enough to lavish him in thanks and praise. I did, however, thank him profusely. I kept my treasure next to me all day, not willing to take my eyes off of it. I brought it home and rushed into the kitchen.









Holding the foie gras in my hands, I tremble with anticipation. It takes a good 5 minutes of exertion to actually open this perfectly sealed jar. I open it, after much struggle, and marvel at the blend of liver and bright yellow fat. I spread the gooey amazing-ness onto the plainest cracker I can find and bite into it, allowing it to melt delightfully in my mouth. The real stuff, indeed, and I lust fully for my next encounter with it.