Kitty Chat

I’ve been invited to a cocktail party on Saturday…

Now normally, had this happened in the USA, I would be the one behind the bar, since I used to get quite a few jobs as a ‘Rent-a-Bartender’ when I was working at NECI. Fabulous part-time thing, really. The client paid you directly and you could take all the bumpf you needed from the school. I had my own ‘kit’ that I had sourced out and purchased myself that I brought with me, to insure I had what I needed, (and, most importantly, it was clean and in working order.) However, because of the connection with the school, for instance, when I did the private Kentucky Derby Party every year, it meant I could order fresh mint, lemons, oranges, etc wholesale, then just get the client to cover the bill directly with the school. You meet with the client beforehand, suggest to them what to buy in alcohol-wise, the school has already arranged any food they might need, and you just show up, set out the food, set up your bar and have fun!

Oh man! And the TIPS!!! If I remember correctly, we got $15-20 per hour with a minimum 3-hour contract, plus travel. But, I would make possibly five times or more than that in (undeclared) tips. Sweet. But… that’s the American mindset; you tip for good service as service people (still) get lower wages than minimum to account for the fact they receive gratuities. 10 percent is the service is adequate up to 20 percent (or more) if it’s outstanding.

Anyway, back to this Cocktail Party… I have absolutely NOTHING to wear.

Now, I am not declaring this as I stalk back-and-forth in front of my fabulously arranged wardrobe, gazing at my racks of silks, linens and rayon (dry-clean only) clothing; suits, dresses, skirts, blouses in different colour-ways, as my French-manicured piggies sink into the plush pile carpet.

No. I say this as I sit on the wooden floor in front of my one rather pathetic garment bag as I look over my lovely Liz Claiborne and etc silks, linens and rayon… all in a size much, much smaller than my current flesh will fit. (It’s true, I have dragged this ONE Blue Samsonite Garment bag with me everywhere since 1984 or so. OK, I dragged the navy ballistic cloth Tumi bags and the Grey Tapestry French ensemble, as well. If nothing else, I still have nice luggage.)

Yes, folks, time to come clean, Kitty got fat… again. OK, not AS fat as I WAS, but, I certainly packed on the pounds when my world fell apart and I stopped posting here on Kitty Chat. Kinda retreated into myself and, well, ok… I had a nervous breakdown.

I’m not saying this for sympathy, I’m just being straight and saying… I screwed up. I let events happening around me take over; I forgot I had a spine and should use it. I also didn’t know how cruel and despicable certain people can be to their fellow humans. Long story, and yes, I WILL get around to telling it, eventually. Just not now, I am too busy recuperating.

NEVERTHELESS... the HUGE point of all this fretting is… I can’t fit into anything anymore. And even though I HAVE lost 10kgs over the last month or so, it goes nowhere into getting me into that luscious peacock blue silk dress I love. Oh! Or alternatively... the daring, plunging neckline/cleavage (baby!) one that is in a turquoise silk that does stuff to my hair colour that should be outlawed it’s so damn sexy.

If I was the bloody bartender, I could wear my nice black raw silk slacks, that white silk blouse, my black ‘pinny’… and a bow tie. But, nooooo…. I need to wear a DRESS, something that will show my lumpy and distorted legs. I’ll have to go with long length so just my shoe-clad feet peep out. Whatever, I need to make a decision soon; I only have two days to figure it out.

I wish I had a burqa...

Yesterday was my partner Tebee’s birthday. I really wanted to take him out to lunch at the Auberge de Guerlédan, it’s one of our favourite spots and, frankly, affordable… but… not affordable enough this month, sooooo… I thought I would dig out a recipe I created for him when he first moved in with me in Cleg, way, way, back in September 2005, and for reasons unfathomable, hadn’t made since.

“Mummy… what is that you are making?” “It’s something special for dinner, baby, you’ll like it, you had it before.” “Is it with the octopus? I like the octopus thing, with the tenti… testic… te” “Tentacles, sweetie. No, no octopus this time, anyway, that’s called Cioppino, remember?” “Do we get a starter?” “Yes, love, go get me the little salad plates”

Then bigger kitten wonders what littler kitten is getting action with in the kitchen…

“Mum, what’s for start.. OH!! Andouille! Yummy! …and de Vire! I love that kind!” (Yes, my children CAN and DO differentiate about very odd food choices, seriously. You should hear them discuss cheese…)

Little kitten wrinkles her nose. “What’s the squiggly bits?” “That’s how Vire does it, sweetie, in Guémené the intestines are pulled inside each other so it makes concentric circles and then it’s boiled, baked, smoked, baked, smoked…etc until it’s done.” “Intestines?” she still queries. “Pig guts,” her sister helpfully explains.

“Hmmm… do I LIKE pig guts, Mummy?” “Well, you used to like Andouille, but, try it… if you don’t like it, someone else will eat it.” “Do I get cherry tomatoes?” “No, but there is cucumber and red pepper.”

This seems to assure her, but I see her sneak the jar of Maille cornichons from the fridge, just in case…

So, I’ll just describe this, since there is no real written recipe. First, thickly slice some brown mushrooms, if you can find them, or white Paris mushrooms if not. Place these in a non-stick skillet with a hunk of butter (NEVER margarine, ick, you know I hate margarine, horrid stuff, all that hydrogenated fat… but I digress.) Add some squished garlic and finely chopped fresh herbs, like parsley, thyme, marjoram. Cook then until all the water boils off and you are left with just the little mushrooms happily browning in the last vestiges of the butter. Then, add half a glass of white wine to deglaze the pan and scrape up the browned bits. Take off the heat and set aside.

Then, for each person, you take a skinless, boneless chicken breast, butterfly it open and then pound it into a vague square shape. First, smear roasted garlic butter all over the breast and lightly sprinkle with finely chopped fresh herbs (same mix as above for the mushrooms.)

At the bottom edge of the pounded breast, place a thin slice of Roti du Porc or Canadian Bacon, cut in pieces to fit. On top of that, place slices of half a ball of mozzarella ( leave some to go on top, in other words, each breast uses half a ball of mozza) then roll it up so the pork and mozza are enclosed inside.

Using thin strips of smoked streaky bacon, wrap around and around the roll so it is completely secure. I use three slices per breast/roll. You don’t HAVE to secure it with toothpicks, but, if you feel better, go right ahead.

Brown in a non-stick pan over medium heat. You don’t need to add more fat, since the streaky bacon should, in theory, have enough but if it’s looking dry, add a tiny dash of olive oil. Turn carefully so all sides brown, slightly. Continue to cook and gently turn until it looks evenly browned, this should take about 10-15 minutes or so, in total, and the mozzarella inside should be beginning to try to leak out. Make sure all sides of the chicken have turned opaque white, then push the rolls together, place the remains of the sliced mozzarella on top of each, then a generous dollop of crème fraîche down each on top of the cheese, THEN cover all this with the mushrooms. Cover tightly; turn heat to low and cook until the cheese melts, about another 5-8 minutes or so. It is done when it probes at 160°F or 72°C. The heat WILL continue to rise, slightly.

Now, I probe EVERYTHING to make sure it is thoroughly cooked and you should as well. OK, yes, you might NOT have an instant-read thermometer, well, go on Amazon dot com, or dot fr, or dot co.uk and BUY one. Seriously, it helps you both NOT undercook or overcook meats. Either are bad. One “can” make you sick, one is an insult to the animal that died to give you it’s tasty flesh to eat. If you don’t have a probe, then cut the fattest roll in half and LOOK to make sure. If it isn’t, then return all to the pan, cover and cook another few minutes.

To serve, you can either slice each one into slices and arrange in a semi-circle around one edge of a (warmed) plate or just plunk the whole thing down and let each person have at it with a steak knife. Serve with (real) mashed potatoes or sautés and some steamed broccoli (or asparagus, when it’s in season.)

This dish is kitten approved, by the way.

The following is a Blog post I wrote for Kitty Chat three years ago... I could not bring myself to post it before now, I felt so vulnerable. However, as I am now in a secure space, emotionally, and at peace with my past, I think I am finally ready to share this. There are others, as well, that have been written, and kept from the public eye... but let's start with this one first.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Trust Issues

Like most women who have done the dating thing, I have been the “dumpee” in more than one relationship. Usually by guys who have promised one thing and done something else. Now mind you, I have had good relationships as well, but only three or four Very Special Relationships stand out. And, sadly, neither of my marriages figure into that ‘Very Special Relationships’ count.

Understand, please, that I do not put 100% of the blame on the broad shoulders of the men from my past, it takes two to tango and I am just as much at fault. Yes, I have been the “dumper” as well, but I think I tend to become just a complete and total bitch in bad relationships and that ends up driving the man away, eventually. When I don’t feel completely secure, I can be incredibly needy and clingy and I oftentimes push people to the limit, perhaps to test them? Really all it does is drive them away, but I never seem to recognise that while it’s happening. Escalating Cyclical Problem, anyone? Yes, I see that now that said relationships are over, my problem has been seeing it while it’s happening.


Time for a Kitty Honesty and Reality Check, I think. Right, let’s be completely honest, shall we, Kitty? There has only been ONE extraordinary relationship in your entire mature life; the one with the man you thought was your soul mate, the man you thought was ‘The One’ to end any further searches into the dating Frog Pond. The one you drove away from you with your unreasonable demands, childish snits… and? What else, remember? You drove him away because you didn’t trust him; you didn’t trust what he said, you didn’t trust what he said was going on nor did you trust that he knew, bluntly, what was best for the both of you.

“Hello, my name is Kitty” (Hello, Kitty) “And I am a Non-Truster of Men, it’s been 38 years since my last successful Trust episode.” (Applause)


I have a problem with trusting men. There, I have admitted it. And I am finally ready to write about it, to finally discuss it. I have been mulling over this for several months (OK, years) and taking notes, yes, really that long. It has taken me that long to find, understand and accept the underlying cause of this issue I have with trust. It has caused me a lot of grief thinking about just why I do not trust men, why I can never seem to just take a ‘leap of faith’ and believe what is told me, believe that a guy is going to be straight with me. I never knew why until I worked back through events from my past and came to this one. So, I have made a breakthrough and I want to share it as I think I might have finally figured it out.


(Actually, this whole entire ‘thing’ was buried so deep, it took a series of hypnosis therapy sessions to unearth it…, which also dug up other, rather murky and sinister things from my childhood. However, I will just focus on this one part since it deals directly with men and trust.)

I have to go back a long time, to when I was about 10 or 11. There was one event from my childhood, that stands out, that started this ball rolling. It is very uncomfortable to think about, even now, to bring to the forefront of my consciousness. When it first came out, in hypnosis, it shook me to my core as I had completely forgotten it. Since those sessions back in 1986, I have pretty much suppressed this memory until very recently as it really bothered me to think about it. In fact, this keystone event would STILL be suppressed in all likelihood had I not stumbled, quite by accident, onto a 4-H Club website while looking at recipes from the Mid-West. Why am I suddenly gripped with fear? Why did my insides just go cold? I used to be in 4-H… Oooooh yeah, now I remember… Of course, in all frankness, it would be far easier just to let it stay lurking in the blackness of my consciousness. However, as I am trying to work through everything in my life that is self-destructive and holds me back, this needs to be brought out into the light, examined and reconciled. Although I do not feel to be in an entirely secure place at all times emotionally, I think I am far enough away from it now, at the ripe ‘ol age of nearly fifty, to examine it and work through it.

I was in 4-H from the age of 9 until 11. 4-H is a bit like Girl Guides or Boy Scouts but it involves Agriculture or Home Economics, it’s a Youth Club, in other words. One of the things people could do is give Demonstrations from their Speciality Area. Mine was Food, Clothing and Rabbits. The first year I went into the competition, I did a Demonstration on ‘Caesar Salad’, explaining its history, describing how to make it and then demonstrating how to do it. I won first place at Local, won first at County, won first at Regional and then came in third at Statewide. I was ten.

The next year, because I had done so well, and completely on my own, they decided to give me a coach to see if I could win at State and go on to win Western Division and then possibly even National for my age group, which would be kudos for the club. I do not remember this coach’s name or what he looked like exactly, only that he was about 17-19 years old, possibly older. I can only recall a ‘sense’ of what he was like. I remember his car, a Corvette or Mustang, a sports car in other words. I remember he used to play ‘Cecilia’ a lot from Simon and Garfunkels’ ‘Bridge over Troubled Waters’ Album or maybe it was getting a lot of airtime on the radio, I can’t remember. I didn’t understand the reference in that song, ‘I got up to wash my face’… he used to overemphasise that bit of the song when it came on… I had no idea what it meant, but I did know that it made me feel uneasy. (I DO understand the reference now.) I also remember that he used to pick me up from my house in Covina and drive me to the County Demo practice, which was 30 or so minutes away from my house, we were in the car more than just a few minutes, in other words. At first, he was just nice, friendly and conversational, and then it progressed onto him holding my hand as we drove. This was exciting for me, I was just a kid and this teenager was interested enough in me to hold my hand!

After that, it got more serious. He started taking my hand and putting it on his thigh. Then he asked me to put my hand in his lap ‘to keep him warm’. I know now that he positioned himself so that I was putting my hand on his crotch. It was confusing for me and slightly scary as well but I didn’t understand about anything sexual, I had no idea there was an erect bit of anatomy under my hand. I had no idea I was, in effect, being molested, he just said it was our ‘special secret’ only we shared. You see, I was very naïve for a very long time. In addition, I was 11, it was 1969, and the world was a lot different than it is today.

Then it went to him touching me. He started with just ever-so-slightly brushing against my pre-pubescent breasts that were not even beginning to develop yet and then later, he began to touch me in between my thighs, up my skirt. I used to move his hand away but he would just laugh and either put it back up my skirt or put my hand on his crotch. I do remember feeling very uncomfortable, frightened and completely at odds as what to do. Being a Youth Leader, he was in a position of ‘trust’, wasn’t he? He was a friend of my Mom and Dad. He had been to our house before, he was my coach and in the 4-H Leadership. He was a ‘nice guy’, a person someone could trust, right? Certainly, he was there to chaperone me, to protect me and therefore would never dream of doing anything to harm me, right? What he was doing must be normal; I just had no experience with any boys whatsoever and certainly not with any adult men. So… why did I feel so bad when he touched me? Because it was wrong, of course, but I had no one to tell, no one to confide in about what was happening.

Looking back, I could have told anyone, anyone at all, but I didn’t have the ‘Communication Skills’ to express what was going on. Nor did I have the ‘People Skills’ to handle the situation. So, to protect myself, to be able to ‘deal’ with what was going on, I would shut down emotionally when he touched me or when he made me touch him. I disassociated myself from what was happening. This is something that has dogged me to this day, this emotional remoteness with men. I believe I can pinpoint it starting with him, this paedophile.

Later, as I entered into adult relationships, having a man touch me still felt wrong so I would go outside myself to be able to involve myself in the situation… which of course, did just the opposite. I still can never fully engage. Admittedly, I never really have tried… I am still too scared. I have never before faced up to what was holding me back. Well, now I have. I hope in future I will find a man who can inspire trust in me, who will accept that I have been damaged and respects me enough to help me build a mature adult trust bond with him. I think by facing this square in the face and understanding what is behind my reactions, is a major first step on the road to complete, what? Recovery? Oneness of Self? Certainly, it can only lead to better interactions with my partners in future.

So now I have faced this, I have examined and thought through this, and in doing so, I think I have finally come to terms with this event and can, at last put this regrettable bit of my childhood behind me. I found by going through this process, it has lead me to consider and reconsider other things about myself as I have mulled this over and over, like some huge Kitty Venn Diagram. (But heh, that is what this whole Blog is about, n’est-ce pas?) AND while going through the above, I have come to the realisation that I can point to this unfortunate series of events from my childhood probably instigating the problem with me not being able to have a normal female sexual response. However, I will discuss that in another Blog.


Oh, and I came in second at County so never had to see him again. I dropped out of 4-H shortly after that. I completely lost interest, see?

Well, here we are, still here, still in France, still single, still with my kittens... just with (nearly) five years experience.

Happy Fourth Kitty Chat anniversary, to me!

Is this thing on?

First off.. I did not write that piece, ''Apples and Wine.'' It was sent to me from a male friend who thought I would see the humour in it, living in a wine and apple-producing region, as I do. He sent it when I had just had a severe blow to my ego, having been dumped, and I mean from on high, by a love-interest. (NOT my husband, remember, I left him...ok?) I appreciated the sweet thought, because at the time, Christmas 2004 or so... my head really WAS all about, "Men are shit."

I stumbled across this much later in one of my laptop's folders so thought I would try posting it. It was already written, it was humourous enough and I figured a friend of mine in Florida would appreciate it having just gone through a nasty break-up... (yes, she did.) I actually found at the time I posted this, (and still do find) the piece both equally offensive and amusing... because, honestly, if one WAS to switch the genders in the piece, how amusing would it then be?

So I posted it and have I left it up because it has generated a lot of dialogue, e-mail and comments.

On the one hand, I get people who call me a 'man-hater', a 'radical feminist hell-bent on the destruction of men and masculinity in the 21st Century for my own misanthropic, and possibly lesbian, goals that I am sure to pass on to my daughters.'

I can just see the foam and spit fly from the impassioned writer's mouth when I read things like that... honestly!

I also get women... and men... who see the humour in the piece, it generates a smile, maybe a chuckle, then they move on.

You know that saying that you can prove or disprove anything with exactly the same data? That it is all in the presentation, how you choose to focus, colour it... how you can fit what you have to the hypothesis? What is your ultimate goal? Nip and tuck to fit.

(Maybe why the Bible gets such a bad rap; you can use that to both prove and disprove just about anything.)

Well, so how it is with this silly piece. I actually had a person on a Forum point to the ''Apples and Wine'' posting to ''Prove'' what a horrid and despicable person I most obviously am at heart.

Come on...

However, as I said to someone else... you have every right to think the way you to choose to do so, that is your right as a human being. That is not 'permission', that is just acknowledgment of this basic, human right, the right of Free Will. Furthermore, your opinion of me is really, frankly, none of MY business. It will not change the way I prepare dinner tonight, nor the way I brush my hair, nor the way I enjoy the sunshine on my face.

People's opinions about me are pretty unimportant, especially people I will never, ever interact with, nor meet, in real life.

Anonymous posters on some internet forum are completely insignificant. I had to remind myself of that fact, as I felt under attack by this bully.

So, remember gang, don't take stuff to heart when people are deliberately nasty. It just might be they have PMS, had a fight with their loved one, got dumped on at work, or just generally had a bad life experience... and, for whatever reason, they are taking it out on YOU.

...or he really COULD be a fat, virgin, 30-something, acne-ridden, anti-social geek in his parent's basement...

I will leave you to guess what I counsider most likely. :-)

(...and I only refer to YOU, AdmV, with that comment... no one else. I LIKE men. However, especially after your attacks on me , I don't consider you worthy to be called a man, frankly. Worm, yes. Man... no way, not by a LONG shot.)

Apples and Wine

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree. Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing. They just have to wait for the right person to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.


Now Men.... Men are like a fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

....pause

I love wine... but, if it was up to me... I would take the grapes by themselves anyday.