Some of you may know I’m sort of anti-blog, but everyone can use a creative outlet sometimes.

The other day I was watching an episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (not by choice, I might add)  in which a chef taught the “straight guy” to first slice a living lobster’s head with a knife before pulling off its claws and throwing it in the boiling water. Apparently this is the more humane way to do it, even though the scene was grotesque.

This got me thinking about food and the pain some animals endure before we eat them. In France I thought a lot about foie gras. Basically, this is goose liver, and it’s made by force feeding geese to the point that their livers essentially explode. A friend of mine who studied in Avignon saw a live demonstration of this, and she now refuses to touch the stuff. She said the farmer grabbed the goose by the neck and manually shoved handfuls of corn down its throat while the bird flapped violently and choked and squawked.

Now, foie gras is delicious, but I could really take it or leave it. The French, however, are very passionate about it and strongly defend it whenever anyone criticizes the tradition (as many people and organizations do). I don’t have a strong opinion on it. I never sought to purchase this stuff voluntarily (it’s expensive!), but whenever I was invited to someone’s house in France and they offered it to me, I chose to accept it politely as opposed to refusing it on some moral ground. The same went for lamb, although I admit that bothered me more. And lobster, well–you have to admit it looks pitiful, the way a lobster’s tail writhes as you pry off its claws with its head split in half.

I think all I’m really saying is I wish we could give all these animals anesthesia before making them delicious entrees. We already put so many unnatural chemicals in them that I doubt it would have much more of an impact on our bodies. I also cannot believe I’ve sat here so long writing about this. Seriously. But it’s basically as much as I’d like to reveal about myself over the internet, which may mean blogs aren’t for me.

Anyone have any good lobster recipes?

Um, my new avatar is supposed to be of an otter, but I’m not sure it’s working properly. As an aside, though, the otter’s name really is Olive, and she lives at a zoo in Asheville. I visited the zoo with my mom when she went to do an interview for an article she wrote about red wolves–I need to find out which magazine it’s in, so everyone can go find it and read it! (I guess this is really the kind of thing people are supposed to put in blogs.)

Red wolves: NOT for dinner, as they are endangered.

Otter: It's what's for dinner.

“I don’t understand you and your friend when you talk, because you don’t speak American well.”

I have thought about this comment a lot. I have tried to put myself in this boy’s place.

If I was in America, and I couldn’t understand a French person speaking to his or her French friend, would I accuse that person of speaking bad French?

NO, beause that would be ASININE, because obviously the problem would be my French comprehension. People do, after all, tend to speak their own native languages well.

A very kind French friend of mind, seeing that I was upset, tried to comfort me by saying, “Oh Kristen, don’t worry. You speak very good American!”

Well, thanks, but…

…the truth is, as I’m sure this boy knew, is that he was not able to understand us when we spoke at an excitedly conversational pace, and he didn’t want to admit it. I know he meant no harm. But the comment just brought to mind some statements I’ve heard during my time in France regarding American English as opposed to British English.

As an American in France, you do develop a thick skin. But once in awhile, inevitably, you just get blindsided by something you can’t help but find too offensive to overlook. A French person once said to me that American English isn’t “real” or “true” English.

Outside of the US and Canada, I’ve not been to any other country where English is an official language, so I have relatively little experience with or knowledge of other kinds of the language. I don’t claim that American English is superior. There is a different accent, and of course there are differences in vocabulary. The English say “petrol,” Americans say “gas.” The English say “lorry,” American’s say “truck.” Whatever. As far as I know–and please, correct me if I’m wrong because I would sincerely like to know–the essence (French for “gas!”) is the same.

I guess the real difference is that American English comes from America, which is a place some French people don’t like.

Now, let’s get scholarly. In East of Eden, John Steinbeck wrote, “In the old lands they say of us that we go from barbarism to decadence without an intervening culture. Can it be that our critics have not the key or the language of our culture?”

The resentment other countries sometimes have towards America is understandable. And to a French person, infiltration of American pop culture–particularly through music, television, and cinema–must get bothersome. However, it’s popular. They like it. My students are obsessed with Prisonbreak. And I’ve seen them at McDonald’s, too. And it’s not just the youth–I have seen the French-est, beret-wearing, poodle-walking, cigarette-smoking people in McDonald’s. And I don’t really even eat there–I just walk past it every day, because it’s smack-dab in the middle of town. Which is the town’s choice, even. French towns can refuse to have a McDonald’s in their vicinity; my friends who work in the big-deal wine town of Beaune say it refuses to let one be built. Good for them. But my point is, McDonald’s wouldn’t be in my town if it didn’t have customers, and those customers are French.

One day, I asked my students, “Tell me about French culture! I want to learn. Who would you say is the most famous French actor?”

And you know what they said?

“Johnny Depp!”

I didn’t have the heart to break it to them that he isn’t French. Some of them honestly seemed not to know.

The lines are blurring. 300,000,000 people are speaking the “wrong” English. What is the world coming to?

I studied the “wrong” English for four years in college. And for twenty-three years I’ve been speaking “bad” American. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

And I’ve been in France seven months and still can’t find Budapest.

But, France:

quand-même.

This weekend I went to visit Pelham in Paris! April in Paris, when it doesn’t pleut, does live up to all the hype.

Pel and I had a good ol’ time–killed a bottle of wine on the Seine, hung out with her acting friends, and debated adopting a French bulldog.

Pelham’s cat, Pitchswitch, is going through that difficult adolescent phase. Her friend, Audrey, suggested physical punishment when he is bad. “You have to hit him, Pelham,” she said, “now, I don’t want him to die, but HIT HIM!” What Pelham does, instead, is shake a plastic bag over the cat’s head. He scrunches down, flattens his ears, looks annoyed, then continues with what he was doing.

Meet Weke:

Weke is, I must say, a taxidermical disappointment. I mean, he (she?) is surely quite well-preserved, but Pelham and I were both hoping that Weke would be a GIANT squid, as we were led to believe!

Maybe we are just not easily impressed, since we’re from AMERRRRCAH!

This animal is intimidating, maybe…if you’re SEA KELP!